Scipio was washing clothes down at the creek. So much had happened to him that day, so many and various had been the emotions through which he had passed, that there was only one thing left him to do. He must work. He dared not sit down and think. Hard physical labor was what he required. And the rubbing out of the children’s small clothes, and his own somewhat tattered garments, became a sort of soothing drug which quieted his troubled mind, and lulled his nerves into a temporary quiescence. The children were with him, playing unconcernedly upon the muddy banks of the creek, with all the usual childish zest for anything so deliciously enticing and soft as liquid river mud.

Vada had forgotten her journey of that morning, it had quite passed out of her little head in the usual way of such trifling unpleasantnesses which go so frequently to make up the tally of childhood’s days. Jamie had no understanding of it. His Vada was with him again, hectoring, guiding him as was her wont, and, in his babyish way, he was satisfied.

As for Scipio he gave no sign of anything. He was concentrating all his mental energies on the work in hand, thus endeavoring to shut out memory which possessed nothing but pain for him. Every now and then a quick, sidelong glance in the children’s direction kept him informed of their doings and safety, otherwise his eyes were rarely raised from the iron bath, filled to the brim with its frothing suds.

Striding down the slope from the hut where he had come in search of Scipio, this was the picture Wild Bill discovered. The little yellow-headed man was standing in the midst of a small clearing in the bushes, a clearing long since made for the purposes of his wife’s weekly wash. His back was turned, and his small figure was bowed over the tub in front of him. Every bush around him was decorated with clothes laid out on their leafy surfaces, where the sun could best operate its hygienic drying process. He saw the bobbing heads of the mudlarking children a few yards away where the low cut-bank hid their small bodies from view. And somehow an unusual pity stirred his hard, world-worn heart.

And yet no one could have called him a sentimental man. At least, no one who knew his method of life. How would it be possible to gild a man with humane leanings who would sit in to a game at poker, and, if chance came his way, take from any opponent his last cent of money, even if he knew that a wife and children could be reduced to starvation thereby? How could a kindliness of purpose be read into the acts of a man who would have no scruple in taking life, under provocation, without the least mercy or qualm of conscience? He displayed no tenderness, he hated what he considered such weakness. It was his studied practice to avoid showing consideration for others, and he would have bitterly resented those who considered him. He preferred that his attitude towards the world should be one of unyielding selfishness. Such was the game of life as he understood it.

Yes, honestly enough, he hated sentiment, and for this very reason he cursed himself bitterly that such a feeling as he now experienced should so disturb him. He hurried down the slope a shade quicker than there was any necessity for. And it was as though he were endeavoring to outstrip the feelings which pursued him.

Scipio heard him coming, and glanced round quickly. When he beheld his visitor he nodded a greeting and continued his work. In his heart was a curious feeling towards the gambler. He could not have described it. It was too complicated. He liked Wild Bill. He felt that for some indefinite reason he was his friend. Yet he resented him, too. He did not know he resented him. Only he felt that this man dominated him, and he was forced to obey him against his will. At sight of him his mind went back to the events of that morning. He thought of Bill’s promise, and a curious excitement stirred within him. He wondered now what this visit portended.

For once the gambler did not display his usual readiness. He did not speak for some moments, but took up a position whence he could see the children at their play, and best watch the little washerman, on whom he intended to thrust a proposition that had been revolving in his mind some time. He chewed his tobacco steadily, while his expression went through many changes. At last he drew his shaggy brows together and eyed his victim with shrewd suspicion.

“Say, you’re kind o’ smart, ain’t you?” he demanded harshly.

The other looked up with a start, and his mildly inquiring glance should have convinced the most skeptical to the contrary. But apparently it had no such effect on his visitor.

“I’d never ha’ tho’t it,” Bill went on coldly. “To look at you one ’ud sure think you was that simple a babby could fool you. Howsum,” he sighed, “I don’t guess you ken never rightly tell.”

A flush began to warm Scipio’s cheeks. He couldn’t understand. He wondered hard, vainly endeavoring to grasp wherein he had offended.

“I––I don’t get you,” he said, in a bewildered fashion, dropping the garment he was washing back into the soapsuds.

Bill’s expression underwent another change as he caught at the words.

“You don’t get me?” he said ironically. “You don’t get me?” Then he shrugged as though he was not angry, but merely deplored the other’s unsuspected cunning. “You can’t strike it rich an’ guess you’re goin’ to blind folks. I’d say it needs every sort of a man to do that around these parts.”

Scipio gasped. He had no other feeling than blank astonishment.

“I ain’t struck it rich,” he protested.

And his denial was received with a forced peal of laughter.

“Say, you’re a heap shrewd,” cried Bill, when his laugh had subsided. “I’d say you’re jest about slick. Gee! Wal, I can’t blame you any fer holdin’ your face shut. Ther’s a mint o’ dollars ken drop out of a feller’s mouth through an unnatteral openin’. Ef you’d got busy gassin’, it’s a million dollar bet all the folks around this lay-out ’ud be chasin’ you clear to death. Say, it’s right, though? There’s chunks of it stickin’ right out, fine, yaller, dandy gold. An’ the quartz bank cuttin’ down wider an’ wider?”

But Scipio shook his head. His bewilderment had gone, and in place of it was sad conviction.

“Not yet,” he said. “Not yet. I ain’t seen it, anyway. I sure think there’s gold in plenty on that claim. I know there is,” he added, with unusual force, his pulses beginning to quicken, and a sudden hope stirring. Bill’s accusation was aiding the effect. “But it ain’t on the surface. It sure ain’t.”

He stood wondering, all his washing forgotten in this newly raised hope so subtly stirred by the gambler. Had someone else discovered what he had missed for so long? He hadn’t been near his claim for some days. Had someone––?

“Who says about the gold?” he demanded, with sudden inspiration.

“The folks.”

The gambler passed the point without committing himself.

Scipio shook his head, puzzling. Something must surely have transpired, and yet––

“You got me beat, Bill. You have, sure.” The smile that accompanied his words was good to see. But somehow the gambler found the far horizon of more interest just then.

“You’re a wide one all right,” he said thoughtfully. “There’s no gettin’ upsides with you. Give me them quiet, simple sort o’ fellers every time. They got the gas machine beat so far you couldn’t locate him with a forty-foot microscope. Gee!” He chuckled, and turned again to contemplate his companion, much as he would a newly discovered wonder of the world.

But poor Scipio was really becoming distressed. He hoped, merely because the other forced him to hope, by his own evident sincerity. But the charge of shrewdness, of conspiring to keep a secret he had never possessed, worried him.

“I take my oath I don’t know a thing, Bill,” he declared earnestly. “I sure don’t. You’ve got to believe me, because I can’t say more. I seen my claim days back, an’ I hadn’t a color. I ain’t seen it since. That’s fact.”

It was strange to see how readily the disbelief died out of the other’s face. It was almost magical. It was as though his previous expression had been nothing but acting and his fresh attitude the result of studied preparation.

“Well, Zip,” he said seriously, almost dejectedly, “if you put it that way, I sure got to b’lieve you. But it’s queer. It sure is. There’s folks ready to swear ther’s rich gold on your claim, an’ I’ll tell you right here I come along to git in on it. Y’see, I’m a bizness man, an’ I don’t figger to git a crop o’ weeds growin’ around my feet. I sez to myself, I sez, directly I heerd tell, ‘Here’s Zip with an elegant patch o’ pay dirt, an’ here am I with a wad of bills handy, which I’d sure like to turn over some.’ Then I sez––I want you to understand jest how I thought––I sez,‘Mebbe I’ve kind o’ bin useful to Zip. Helped him out some, when he was fixed awkward.’ You see, it ain’t my way to do things for nothing. An’ I do allow I bin useful to you. Well, I thought o’ these things, so I come along right smart to get in on the plum. Sez I, ‘Zip, bein’ under obligation to me some, mebbe he’ll let me buy ha’f share in his claim,’ me handin’ him a thousand dollars. It ’ud be a spot cash deal, an’ me puttin’ in a feller to work––an’ see things right fer me––why, I guess there’d be no chance o’ you gettin’ gay––an’ fakin’ the output. See? I don’t guess you’re on the crook, but in bizness a feller don’t take chances. Y’see I’m pretty bright when it gits to bizness, an’, anyway, I don’t stand fer no play o’ that kind. Get me?”

The gambler’s manner was wholly severe as he explained his proposition, and impressed his views of business. Scipio listened without the slightest umbrage. He saw nothing wrong, nothing unfriendly in the precautions the other had intended to take. As a matter of fact, the one thing that concerned him was the disappointment he must cause him.

“There’s nothing like straight talk, Bill,” he said, cordially. “I allus like straight talk. You kind of know just where you are then. There’s not a doubt you’ve been real good to me,” he went on, with evident feeling, “and I’ll never be able to forget it––never. I tell you right here, if there was anything in the world I could do in return, I’d do it.”

He smiled quaintly and pushed his stubby fingers through his sparse hair in his most helpless manner.

“If there was gold on my claim, I’d let you in all you need, and I wouldn’t want your dollars. Dollars? No, Bill, I don’t want dollars for doing anything for you. I sure don’t. I mean that. Maybe you’ll understand, y’see I’m not a business man––never was.”

The gambler averted his eyes. He could not look into the other’s face so shining with honesty and gratitude.

“But there ain’t no gold found on that claim yet,” Scipio went on. “Leastways, not that I know of, so what’s the use deceivin’ you? An’ dollars, why, there’s no question of ’em between us. You can stand in ha’f my claim, Bill, an’ welcome, but you ain’t going to pay me dollars for gold that ain’t been found. Yes, you’re sure welcome to ha’f my claim, an’ you ken set a man working for you. I’ll not say but I’ll be glad of the help. But don’t make no mistake, gold ain’t been found, as far as I know, an’ there may be none there, so I’d be glad if you don’t risk a lot of dollars in the work.”

The gambler felt mean as he listened to the quiet words ringing with such simple honesty. Time and again his beady eyes lifted to the steady blue ones, only to drop quickly before their fearless sincerity. He stirred irritably, and a hot impatience with himself drove him so that the moment Scipio finished speaking he broke out at once.

“Here,” he cried, without the least gentleness, “you’re talkin’ a heap o’ foolishness. I’m a bizness man offerin’ a bizness proposition. I don’t want nuthin’ given. I’m out to make a deal. You say there’s no gold there. Wal, I say there sure is. That bein’ so I’d be a low down skunk takin’ ha’f your claim fer nix, jest because you guess you owe me things––which I ’low you sure do, speakin’ plain. I got a thousand dollars right here,”––he pulled out a packet of bills from his hip pocket, and held them up for the other’s inspection––“an’ them dollars says ther’s gold on your claim. An’ I’m yearnin’ to touch ha’f that gold. But I’m takin’ no chances. I want it all wrote down reg’lar so folks can’t say I sneaked around you, an’ got it for nix. Gee, I’d look mighty small if you turned around on me afterwards. No, sir, you don’t get me that way. I’m only soft around my teeth. If you’re the man I take you for, if you’re honest as you’re guessin’, if you feel you want to pay me fer anything I done for you, why, cut the gas an’ take my dollars’ an’ I’ll get the papers made out by a Spawn City lawyer. They’re all that crooked they couldn’t walk a chalk-line, but I guess they know how to bind a feller good an’ tight, an’ I’ll see they bind you up so ther’ won’t be no room for fool tricks. That’s bizness.”

Scipio shook his head. And Bill flushed angrily.

“It ain’t square,” the little man protested. “Maybe you’ll lose your money.”

“That’s up to me,” the gambler began fiercely. Then he checked himself, and suddenly became quite grieved. “Wal, Zip, I wouldn’t ha’ b’lieved it. I sure wouldn’t. But ther’––life’s jest self. It’s all self. You’re like all the rest. I’ve been chasin’ a patch o’ good pay dirt ever since I bin around Sufferin’ Creek, an’ it’s only now I’ve found one to suit me. I sure thought you’d let me in on it. I sure did. Howsum, you won’t. You want it all yourself. Wall, go ahead. An’ you needn’t worry about what I told you this morning. My word goes every time. This ain’t going to make no difference. I’m not goin’ to squeal on that jest because you won’t ’blige me.”

He made as though to return his dollars to his pocket. He had turned away, but his shrewd eyes held his companion in their focus. He saw the flush of shame on Scipio’s face. He saw him open his mouth to speak. Then he saw it shut as he left his tub and came towards him. Bill waited, his cunning telling him to keep up his pretense. Scipio did not pause till he laid a hand on his arm, and his mild eyes were looking up into his keen, hard face.

“Bill,” he said, “you can have ha’f my claim and––and I’ll take your dollars. I jest didn’t guess I was bein’ selfish about it––I didn’t, truth. I was thinkin’ o’ you. I was thinkin’ you might lose your bills. Y’see, I haven’t had the best of luck––I––”

But the gambler’s face was a study as he pushed his hand off and turned on him. There was a fine struggle going on in his manner between the harshness he wished to display and the glad triumph he really felt.

“Don’t slob,” he cried. “Here’s the bills. Stuff ’em right down in your dip. Ha’f that claim is mine, an’ I’ll have the papers wrote reg’lar. I didn’t think you was mean, an’ I’m glad you ain’t.”

Scipio took the money reluctantly enough, and pushed it into his pocket with a sigh. But Bill had had enough of the matter. He turned to go, moving hastily. Then, of a sudden, he remembered. Thrusting his hand into a side pocket of his jacket he produced a paper parcel.

“Say, Zip, I come nigh forgettin’,” he cried cheerfully. “The hash-slinger down at Minky’s ast me to hand you this. It’s for the kiddies. It’s candy. I’d say she’s sweet on your kiddies. She said I wasn’t to let you know she’d sent ’em. So you ken jest kep your face closed. So long.”

He hurried away like a man ashamed. Scipio had such a way of looking into his eyes. But once out of sight he slackened his pace. And presently a smile crept into his small eyes, that set them twinkling.

“Guess I’m every kind of a fule,” he muttered. “A thousand dollars! Gee! An’ ther’ ain’t gold within a mile of the doggone claim––’cep’ when Zip’s ther’,” he added thoughtfully.