the barroom at the miners' home might have been more crowded at some former period of its existence, but to have duplicated the two dozen faces and forms of the two dozen ten milers who were congregated there that beautiful autumn afternoon would have been a hopeless task.
ten mile gulch had turned out en masse, and those same ten milers were distinguished neither for their good looks, nor taste in dress, nor softness of heart or language, nor elegance of manners. further than that we do not care to go at present.
but there was one face and one form absent. no more would the genial atmosphere of that barroom respond to the heavings of his broad chest, no more would the dignified concoctor of rare and villainous drinks pass him the whisky-straight. alas! bill foster had passed in his checks, and gone the way of all ten milers.
and it was this fact that brought these diligent delvers after hidden treasure from their work, for bill had not gone in the ordinary way. at night he was in the full enjoyment of health and a game of poker; in the morning they found him just outside the domicile of jack borlan, with a small puncture near the heart to tell how it was done. such was life at ten mile gulch.
who made the puncture?
circumstances pointed to jack borlan, and they escorted him down to the settlement. he stood by the bar conversing with the dispenser of liquid lightning. two very calm-looking ten milers were within easy reach of mr. borlan; two more at the door, which was left temptingly open; two more at each window, and the remainder scattered about the room to suit themselves.
mr. bob watson was the only one calm enough to enjoy a seat, and he was whittling away at the pine bench with such energy that a stranger might have concluded that whittling was his best hold. not so, however; he whittled until he found a nail with the edge of his knife, and then varied his diversion by grasping the point of the blade between the thumb and first finger of his right hand, and throwing it at the left eye of a very flattering representation of yankee sullivan which graced the wall.
by a slight miscalculation of distance and elevation, the eye was unharmed, but the well-developed nose was more effectually ruined than its original ever was by the most scientific pugilist.
"well, gentlemen, what shall we do with the prisoner?" asks watson.
"we're waiting for you," said a tall ten miler, who had been a pleased witness of the knife-throwing and its results.
"well, you need not," retorted mr. watson, as he made a fling at yankee's other eye, and with very good success. "you know my sentiments, gentlemen. i was opposed to bringing the prisoner here. we might have fixed up the matter all at one time, and saved a heap of diggin'."
"it—might—have—done," said the tall miler, doubtfully; "but i wouldn't like to see the two together. it would spoil all my enjoyment of the occasion."
"bet yer ten to one ye don't swing him!" cried watson, springing to his feet with sudden inspiration, and mounting the bench he had been whittling. "twenty to one jack borlan don't choke this heat! who takes me? who? who?"
no one seemed disposed to take him.
"bosh! you ten milers are all babies. now, if this had happened up at quit claim, borlan would have had a beautiful tombstone over him long ago. what do you say, borlan?"
the prisoner, thus addressed, cut short some remark he was making, and turned to watson. "there have been cases where the prisoner had the benefit of a trial, mr. watson."
"which is so, mr. borlan. obliged to you fur reminding me. let's have one, gentlemen. i'll be prosecuting attorney, if no one objects; now, who'll defend the prisoner at the bar?"
"i'll make a feeble attempt that way," was the reply that came from the doorway. all eyes turned, and recognized tom ruger.
"this is betwixt us ten milers," said watson. "borlan is guilty, and we're bound to hang him before sundown; but we want to do the fair thing, and give him the benefit of a trial. who of you ten milers will defend him?"
"i told you i would defend mr. borlan," said tom ruger, as he removed his silk hat and wiped his broad forehead with the finest of silk handkerchiefs.
"i tell you we won't have any outsiders in this game," said watson.
"i really dislike to contradict you, mr. watson," remarked tom ruger, as he very carefully readjusted his hat. "very sorry, mr. watson, and i do hope you'll pardon me when i repeat that i will defend mr. borlan—with—my—life!"
this remark surprised no one more than jack borlan. he had never spoken to mr. ruger a dozen times in his life, and he could not account for such disinterestedness. however, there was not much time for conjecture, for mr. watson had taken offense.
"with your death, tom ruger, if you interfere!" cried watson, jumping down from his elevation.
it did look that way; but mr. ruger had not strolled up and down that auriferous coast without acquiring some knowledge of the usual means of defense in that sunny clime, as well as some practice. it was quite warm for a moment; then mr. borlan, believing it to be his duty, as client, to aid his counsel in the defense, went in gladly.
still it was quite warm; also somewhat smoky from the powder that had been burned; likewise noisy. not so noisy, however, that mr. borlan could not hear his counsel say:
"clear yourself, borlan! my horses are down at the ford!"
mr. borlan followed the advice of his counsel, and mr. ruger followed mr. borlan. the ten milers—some of them—followed both counsel and client.
it was neck and heels until the horses were reached. after that the pursuers were left at a great disadvantage.
"i'll have his heart!" ejaculated watson. which heart he meant we have no means of knowing. "give me a horse! quick!"
they brought a mule.
"wait here, every man of you!" watson shouted back over the shaved tail of his substitute for a horse. "i'll bring him back, dead or alive, or my name ain't watson!"
and over the way the stage had stopped, and fanny borlan had reached ten mile gulch at last.
