Colorado Jim.

by George Goodchild.

CHAPTER I

A SON OF THE WEST

Out of the brooding darkness was born the first timid blush of the morn.

It sprang to life along the serried edge of the Medicine Bow, a broadening band of blood-red light. For one instant it seemed that some t.i.tan breath had blown at the source, darkening the red to purple; and then, with startling suddenness, the whole wide range flamed up. The full red rim of the sun smote aloft, sending the shades scuttling down the valleys, to vanish in thin air.

The man at the window of the Medicine Bow Hotel drew in his breath with a slight hissing sound, as the whole magnificent landscape sprang into dazzling light. It had always taken him like that. He remembered the day when, as a boy of seven, he had first seen the sun soar over the ridge, from the old "Prairie Schooner" encamped in "The Garden of the G.o.ds." No less wonderful was it now; for Jim Conlan, late owner of Topeka Mine, and almost millionaire, was but a magnified version of the boy of twenty-three years back. Time had brought its revenges, its rewards, its illusions; but the great winds, the everlasting hills, and the wild life of the West had combined in cementing the early resolutions and ideas.

He had won through by dint of muscle and hard thinking. He saw now that the secret of his success was determination. He had earned a reputation for never letting go anything to which he had put his hand. Men feared him, but loved him at the same time. He had proved himself to be a staunch friend but an implacable enemy. His six feet three inches of bone and sinew was usually sufficient to scare off any trouble-seekers. Colorado Jim, as they called him, was the product of primal Nature, unpolished, rough as the gaunt mountains of the Medicine Bow, and as inscrutable.

All through the short summer night he had sat at the window waiting for the dawn. The man who never let go had let go something this time, and that something was nothing less than his whole life. He never believed it would hurt him like it did. For the past three years he had been restless.

The soul and mind of him ached for expansion. The chief incentive to work had gone. He had more money than he could spend--in the West. Yonder was New York, Paris, London. Alluring visions of civilization flashed through his brain. What was the use of money if not to burn, and where in the whole of Colorado could one burn money and get full value?

The idea to sell out began to obsess him, and in the end he sold. Hating sentimentality and fearing any demonstration of such, he had packed up secretly and left the rough shack by the Topeka Mine for the comparatively Arcadian comforts of the hotel in the township ten miles back. In a few hours he would be on the train bound for the East--and the future.

Thorough in all things, he had packed his bags overnight, leaving but a few necessities such as razor and tooth-brush (recent acquisitions) to complete. He left the window now with a curious sigh, and gave a last pull on the strap of the largest bag with his big, muscular hands. Even now, with the ramshackle stage-coach almost at the door, he could not bring himself to believe that the old life was over and done with. What the devil was he up to, anyway, hiking around in creased trousers and black boots? Colorado Jim bound for Europe--London! It sounded impossibly fantastic. But there it was, written on the labels of his bags--"James Conlan, London, via New York." He tucked the rebellious collars of his soft blue shirt into his waistcoat, and pulled out an enormous watch.

"Rob ain't on time," he muttered; then, "Emily!"

A voice that sounded like the action of a saw in contact with a nail came from below.

"Yeah?"

"My bill--quick!"

"But you ain't had no breakfas' yet."

"Ain't takin' none. Come along right now and give a hand with these grips."

The owner of the voice, a shriveled-up, extremely untidy girl of about eighteen, with her hair in "crackers" and her eyes scarcely more than half open, entered the room, and stood gaping at him. She had gaped at him consistently for two whole days, and he didn't like it. He wasn't used to women--didn't understand them and didn't want to. He didn't even understand that the romantic Emily had fallen pa.s.sionately in love with him exactly forty seconds after her sleepy eyes had first beheld him.

"For G.o.d's sake don't stare at me! Take the grips, gal, take 'em. Not that one, it would dislocate your internals."

She dropped the big one like a hot brick and grabbed the two smaller ones.

At the door she found opportunity to scan him once more, and to murmur under her breath, "Lor', ain't he wonderful!" before her master came along and ended her rapturous soliloquies. He entered the room and nodded to Jim.

"So you're making out, Jim?"

"Looks like it."

"Wal, I'm sure sorry, and there ain't a guy in these parts who ain't sorry too."

Jim shrugged his big shoulders and jerked out his chin.

"Maybe there ain't one more sorry than yours truly."

"What!"

"Jest that."

"It's junk you're talking."

Jim smiled whimsically.

"Nope, it's G.o.d's truth. I didn't figure it all out till I came here. I wish I hadn't sold out. I guess I'm best fitted for running mines or herding cattle, Dan. And I'm leaving all the boys who know me for those who don't--and I don't git on with folks who don't know me. G.o.d knows what persuaded me to sell to that macaroni-eating swab. But it's done, and there ain't no manner of good wailing about it."

Dan laughed lugubriously.

"A man that can knock a million out of a mountain can git along most anywheres, I guess. Wish I had your chance."

"What'd you do?"

"I'd hitch up to some smart gal in New York or London and start a family."

Jim made a grimace.

"'Pears to me you ain't strong on originality. I'd rather run a cattle ranch--they don't talk back."

"Gosh! man, wimmen's all right if you know how to treat 'em. They're like bosses, they want careful breakin' in."

Jim shook his head. He remembered the time when a girl from down East, on a holiday tour, had looked over his mine. Her eloquent blue eyes had made him feel decidedly sheepish. Colorado Jim, who had tackled most of the bad men around Medicine Bow, and had tamed the wildest bronchos that ever roved prairie, was lamentably lacking where the fair s.e.x was concerned. He didn't know what to do, what to say, or how to say it.

"Dan," he said, "you hev to have a gift that way--an' I ain't got it."

"My lad, you've got a figure and a 'physog' that'll sure turn every gal's head that takes a slant at 'em."

"Let up!" growled Jim.

"It's honest truth, laddie. Gee! I gotta hankering for the bright lights myself. I lived in New York once. _Some_ village. And with a million in your wallet ... Ah!"

He gave a long sigh as he reflected upon the quant.i.ty of "bright lights" a million would purchase.

"I'd have three houses, a hundred suits, a footman with a powdered wig like I seen in the magazine pictures. I'd have a bath each night in eau-de-Cologne, and go to roost in real silk peejamas. I'd larn to dance, and have a valee to dress me and shave me...."

"Yep," mused Jim, "and then you'd wake up, Dan. Here, where's that bill?

You talk too much. What in h.e.l.l is that?"

A terrific hullabaloo came up from below. A roar of laughter and the babble of male voices was mixed with the rumble of wheels and the pistol-like crack of a whip.

"Looks like a celebration," said Dan.

Jim sauntered to the window. Underneath was Rob's coach, packed full of miners. They slid from the roof of the vehicle and from inside, and began to fire revolvers and dance around like n.i.g.g.e.rs. Then one of them saw Jim.