He had gone for some time in this manner, regretting the need of whacking the burro before him until the little beast would shake its long ears and break into a trot that lasted never more than half a minute. He had tied to the badly built pack the saddlebag which contained the treasure. It bumped and thumped along the side of the burro as the burden bearer humped to escape the blows of the man. But finally the burro would break again into the trot and go impatiently forward, shaking its head, its tiny, polished hoofs twinkling rapidly. If Wayland looked down at its feet, it always seemed to be going briskly, but the steps were very small.
He wondered how many tens of thousands of men had steered their course through this wilderness, sighting the landmarks through the long ears of burros. He was still wondering this when it occurred to him that the state of the treasure needed some examination. Suppose, for instance, that the robber had removed a portion of it— might not Rucker blame the loss on Wayland?
So Wayland walked up beside the burror, pulled the mouth of the saddlebag ajar, and looked inside it. He saw, within, the jumbled mass of the money, the little packages wedged together without any order, and some of the brown paper bands that secured the parcels had broken and lay loosely on top of the load. He smiled when he saw his own handwriting on one. “$250.” Fifty five-dollar bills in the bundle that wrapper had once surrounded.
Fifty fives. A good, tidy wad of money all in itself. How many months would a cow-puncher have to work in order to save that much clear? It suddenly seemed wonderful to Wayland that all the men of the world were not bandits. After all, is not our ordinary routine of living like that of a prison? Does not the demand of our labors make us retire early and rise early? Are we not subject to taskmasters? Do we not feel the whip if we do wrong?
All slaves, all prisoners, it seemed to Wayland, were the men of this world, of whom he was one. And was it not better to take the great chance in order to win a fortune at a stroke?
He had never thought about money except as a tool in the hands of an ambitious, industrious man. But in the burning heat of this valley he thought of it as leisure, infinite, Ufelong leisure. A man with plenty of money could sit at ease and watch the world go by. He could visit far lands. He could follow the sun and make winter into summer. He could be as free as a bird from toil and trouble. Above all, he could command his own destinies, and no other human could bid him come or go!
Suppose, then, that he should change his course, and go, not to Elkdale to make a return of the hard cash, but to the nearest railroad station to board a train for liberty?
He had been honest all the days of his life, but now temptation made his eyes shine and his heart jump. Afterward he remembered May Rucker and the ranch to which he had been invited. Within us there is a voice that must be obeyed. And he resolutely shook his head and fastened his mind on duty and the right.
Absently he picked from the top of the saddlebag the loose brown wrapper that had “$250” written on the top of it in his own hand.
He shoved the crinkling paper into his coat pocket and walked on, pulling up the mouth of the saddlebag again. The burro, as he fell behind, once more took a straight road up the bottom of the hot ravine.
Sweat was running off the beast, showing in little black streaks through the tough, mouse-colored hair. Sweat was running on the forehead and cheek of Wayland. The sun scorched his shoulders; it hammered on his back. In more than one way, he felt that he was going through a trial by fire.
Then, turning a sharp comer of the ravine, he was gladdened by the sound of running water. It made the burro quicken its steps, almost to a run. Furthermore, there was something for Wayland to see other than the little stream that worked its way with faint murmurs into a big pool. The additional scenery was a group of three men, and his heart sank as he recognized Bray, Lister, and Mantry.
Bray and Lister hardly mattered so much, but that beautiful, sleek wild cat, Joe Mantry—he was the danger spot in the picture.
It was Mantry who spotted him now and sang out:
“Well, upon my word, here’s honest Oliver, the cashier! What is he still doing on Iron Mountain?”
The three had been sitting on rocks near the pool, watching their horses drink. They stood up now, and looked gloomily at Wayland. For his own part, he waved at them and tried to be cheerful. It was far too late to try to retreat. The burro was already sticking its muzzle into the pool and switching its ridiculous tail with content as it started the water gurgling down its throat.
“Hello, boys,” said Wayland. “Didn’t expect to see you again to-day.”
Phil Bray began to make a cigarette, staring down at his work. Wayland took that for a bad sign. It was Dave Lister who said:
“We told you to get off Iron Mountain. You’re still here. What does that mean?”
“I’m off it—just about,” said Wayland pleasantly. “I made up my mind that I’d been a fool long enough. I was starting home.”
“What’s home to you?” snapped Mantry.
“Elkdale, of course,” answered Wayland.
“How come Elkdale?” asked Lister. “You ain’t welcome in that town, I’d say. Not more’n a snake. The Elkdale folks know that you stood by while their bank was robbed. Fellows like that would be apt to call you a yellow dog, Wayland. So how does it come that Elkdale is still your home town?”
“When you’ve been long enough in a place,” said Wayland, “it doesn’t matter much how people treat you. You always expect to get back on the top level again.”
“From newsboy to president,” remarked Mantry, sneering. “Patient, honest, humble—that’s what you are. Wayland.”
Oliver Wayland took no heed of the deliberate insult. He had something more than his own dignity in his thoughts and in his charge at this moment.
“You’re not heading back for Elkdale. You ain’t given up your job,” insisted Dave Lister.
“That’s what I’ve done, though. I’m not hunting for the stolen cash any more,” said Wayland.
“Then you’ve got it with you, is why,” announced Lister.
The guess shocked Wayland to the heart.
“Aw, shut up and quit joking, Dave,” said Mantry. “If he bumped into that hombre he’d get his heart ripped out of him.”
“These simple birds do a lot of funny things sometimes,” commented Dave Lister. “But how come that you didn’t get off the mountain when we told you to get. Wayland? That’s what we gotta talk about, I guess.”
“I’m about off it,” repeated Wayland. “Then I decided to quit the hunt, and I took a bee line for Elkdale.”
“Where does Elkdale he, Dave?” asked Mantry.
“Straight ahead,” said Lister. “He might be telling the truth. I dunno what else there is for him to tell. Listen, Phil, do we let him go through us again?”
Phil Bray jerked up his head and breathed out a cloud of smoke slowly.
“I don’t care,” he said. “I don’t care what you do with him.”
He turned his back and began to tighten the cinch of his horse, which he had loosened. Mantry and Lister exchanged gjances.
“Aw, what’s the use?” said Lister finally.
“Yeah, what’s the use?” agreed Mantry. “I’d sort of like to take a fall out of this big hunk. But what’s the use. Let him run?”
“Yeah, let him run.”
Mantry jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Wayland nodded. “Thanks, he said. “This is white of you fellows. You can depend on me not to blow any news about you.”
He walked on, pulling a bandanna from his coat pocket to wipe his face. And as he did so, a little piece of paper came out with the silk and dropped with a rustle to the ground.
He knew what it was—the bit of brown paper that he had placed in his pocket from the saddlebag, with the sum of money neatly inscribed on the top of it. He was minded to stoop and pick it up. On second thought he decided that this would attract too much attention to it. The wind, after all, would soon roll it out of the way.