a little after sunrise, the next morning, mr. tom ruger might have been seen leisurely riding along the bridle-path between the mines and the settlement of ten mile gulch. he was headed toward the village, and was nine and three-quarter miles nearer to it than the mines. he had found another good cigar somewhere, and was humming the selfsame tune as on the previous afternoon; but the riderless horse was not with him.
as mr. ruger rode into the only street in the village, his approach was heralded, and the ten milers, who were waiting for watson's return, filed out of the miners' home, and took stations in the street.
mr. ruger took note of this demonstration, and, with a very business-like air, examined the contents of his holsters. he also noticed that patched noses and heads, and canes and crutches, were the predominating features in the group of ten milers, with an occasional closed eye and a bandaged hand to vary the monotony.
miss fanny borlan, from her window at the ten mile house, also noticed the dilapidated looks of the frequenters of the miners' home, and wondered if they kept a hospital there. then she saw mr. ruger, and bowed and smiled as he drew up at her window.
"so you arrived all safe, miss borlan? how do you like the place?"
"better than the inhabitants," she answered, with a glance over the way. "than those, i mean. is it a hospital?"
"for the present i believe it is."
"and will be for some time to come, if they all stay till they're cured. but have you seen jack?"
"yes—last evening. he was very sorry that he could not wait for you, but it may be as well, however. he has gone down to san francisco, and he will wait for you there. the stage leaves here in about two hours, and i advise you to take passage in it, if you are not too much fatigued."
"i'm not tired a bit, mr. kuger. i will go back. thank you for the trouble you have taken."
"no trouble, miss borlan. give my respects to jack, and tell him i will be down in a week or two. good-morning."
while talking, mr. ruger had about evenly divided his glances between the very beautiful face of fanny borlan and the somewhat expressive countenances of the ten milers. not that he found anything to admire in their damaged physiognomies, but he never wholly ignored the presence of any one.
"good-morning, gentlemen," he said, as he rode up in front of them.
"not to you, tom ruger," spoke a tall ten miler—the only one, by-the-way, who had come out of the previous day's trial unscathed. "not to you, tom ruger! where's borlan?"
"he's gone down the coast on business," said ruger, "and may not be back for several months."
"we'll not wait for him" was the miner's reply.
at the same time he drew a revolver.
"you had better wait," said ruger, also producing a revolver.
the ten miler paused, and looked around at his companions. they did not present a formidable array of fighting stock. in fact, they were the sorest-looking men that ten mile gulch ever saw; and as the unscathed surveyed them, he seemed to think he had better wait.
an invitation to wait.
"you had better wait," said ruger, also
producing a revolver.
"you'll wait for mr. borlan?" queried ruger.
"i reckon we'd better," answered the unscathed.
"and while you are waiting, you had better take a cursory glance at mr. watson," suggested ruger. "at the present time he is reposing in the shade of an acacia-bush, just back of the late lamented william foster's rural habitation. good-morning, gentlemen; and don't get impatient."
if mr. ruger had any fear of treachery, he did not exhibit it, for he never turned his head as he rode off toward the valley. nor was there any danger; for beneath his suggestions about mr. watson the unscathed had detected a thing or two.
"i'm glad we waited," he said. "i begin to see a thing or two. them as is able will follow me up the gulch."
about half a score went with him. mr. watson was still enjoying the shade of the acacia-bush. in fact, he couldn't get away, which mr. ruger well knew.
"it's all up with me, gulchers," whispered watson. "ruger was too many for me, and i ought to have known it. you'll find bill foster's dust in a flour-sack, in my cabin. my respects to borlan when you see him, and tell him i beg his pardon for discommoding him. give what dust is honestly mine to him. it's all i can do now. good-by, boys. i'm jest played out; but take my advice and never buck against tom ruger. he's too many for any dozen chaps on the coast. i knew 'twas all up with me the minute tom came in, for he can look right through a feller's heart. but never mind! it's too late to help it now. i staked everything i had against foster's pile, and i'm beat, beat, beat!"
these were the last words mr. bob watson ever spoke, as many a surviving ten miler will tell you, and they buried him in the spot where he died, without any beautiful stone to mark the place.
