PROLOGUE—HE RIDES BY NIGHT
It was three in the morning, but Geerusalem had not yet closed its eyes. There was too much undug gold in the hills; it was too handy—too easy come, easy go; the days, too short; the pleasures, too wanton, too alluring. The camp of Geerusalem promenaded, gambled, danced, fought, debauched the night away, waiting for to-morrow. Far out on desolate Soapweed Plains, rose the intermittent, yelping wail-bark of a coyote.
The back door of a little store that fronted on the main street opened cautiously. The interior of what was a kitchen was dark; the flower-garden yard into which it gave, was also dark. The shadowy form of a man emerged and halted; he peered carefully about through the gloom. A smaller figure followed, pausing on the threshold—a woman, her white apron and snowy hair quite visible. The man turned, took her in his arms impulsively, and held her close to his breast.
“Don’t you worry, ma. I’ll be droppin’ round again, two weeks from to-night—sure’s sic ’em!” he whispered, as he kissed her.
The woman wept softly. “Oh, Jerome, darling, why don’t you quit this awful thing?” she sobbed, clinging to him. “Don’t you know how my heart’s just breaking?”
“Too late, ma. I oughter’ve quit ’fore I begun. If I started quittin’ now, they wouldn’t let me, would they? But I’m tellin’ you; don’t think about me. They can’t ketch me. I’ve bin goin’ it three years, ain’t I? Well, then, when you see Tinnemaha Pete, tell him to leave you a chunk of that ore. An’ see that he don’t tell nobody about findin’ it. I figger it’s a bonanza. Mebby, that’ll mean better days. Well, we’ll see what’s doin’. Now, I’d better be scootin’, honey. An’ don’t you worry, see?” He kissed her again, tenderly, many times, breathing his last injunction into her ear.
A few seconds later he had slipped like a shadow across the yard and was stealing out of an alleyway between two adobe buildings, heading for the back street. That street was black, deserted, the nocturnal population of the camp confining itself to the bright lights and attractions that converted the one business thoroughfare into a brilliant avenue, noisy with ribald merrymaking and adventure.
Near by stood his horse. He reached it and, with a vigilant glance about, threw back one of the flaps of his saddlebags and plunged a rummaging hand inside. It came forth with a folded piece of wrapping paper and several nails he had placed there the day before.
With a reckless chuckle, he wound his bandanna around his face leaving only his eyes exposed; then he mounted and rode off to the next cross street, and thence to the brilliantly lighted hub of the town. The bulletin board of the Geerusalem Searchlight, an afternoon newspaper, loomed big and black on the edge of the sidewalk, in the full glare of window lights. It was one of those moments when the immediate vicinity was clear of promenaders.
Seeing this, the rider spurred over to the bulletin board, unfolded the sheet of wrapping paper, and nailed it on the black surface with the butt of his six-shooter. Then, he caracoled his horse about, fired a volley into the air and, throwing the whole strength of his lungs into a wild howl, waved his hat to a crowd of men standing before the Miners’ Hotel, and dashed away around the nearest street corner, bound for the lonely, trailless reaches of the Mohave Desert far to the south.
The horde of curious night revelers swarming to the spot, a few seconds later, read with varying degrees of emotion the rough printed notice on the bulletin board:
I bin lookin three year for Sheriff Warburton an cant find him. Ill give $5,000 to git akquainted with the county fameous detektive.
Your lovin bandit,
BILLY GEE.