Originally published in 1922 in Western Story Magazine
under the title of three who paid,
written under the pseudonym of George Owen Baxter,
and subsequently in book form under the title the
rangeland avenger in 1924.
1
Of the four men, Hal Sinclair was the vital spirit.
In the actual labor of mining, the mighty arms and
tireless back Of Quade had been a treasure. For
knowledge of camping, hunting, cooking, and all the
lore of the trail, Lowrie stood as a valuable resource;
and Sandersen was the dreamy, resolute spirit, who
had hoped for gold in those mountains until he came
to believe his hope. He had gathered these three
stalwarts to help him to his purpose, and if he lived
he would lead yet others to failure.
Hope never died in this tall, gaunt man, with a pale-blue
eye the color of the horizon dusted with the first
morning mist. He was the very spirit of lost
causes, full of apprehensions, foreboding, superstitions.
A hunch might make him journey five hundred miles;
a snort of his horse could make him give up the trail
and turn back.
But Hal Sinclair was the antidote for Sandersen.
He was still a boy at thirty—big, handsome,
thoughtless, with a heart as clean as new snow.
His throat was so parched by that day’s ride
that he dared not open his lips to sing, as he usually
did. He compromised by humming songs new and
old, and when his companions cursed his noise, he contented
himself with talking softly to his horse, amply rewarded
when the pony occasionally lifted a tired ear to the
familiar voice.
Failure and fear were the blight on the spirit of
the rest. They had found no gold worth looking
at twice, and, lingering too long in the search, they
had rashly turned back on a shortcut across the desert.
Two days before, the blow had fallen. They found
Sawyer’s water hole nearly dry, just a little
pool in the center, with caked, dead mud all around
it. They drained that water dry and struck on.
Since then the water famine had gained a hold on them;
another water hole had not a drop in it. Now
they could only aim at the cool, blue mockery of the
mountains before them, praying that the ponies would
last to the foothills.
Still Hal Sinclair could sing softly to his horse
and to himself; and, though his companions cursed
his singing, they blessed him for it in their hearts.
Otherwise the white, listening silence of the desert
would have crushed them; otherwise the lure of the
mountains would have maddened them and made them push
on until the horses would have died within five miles
of the labor; otherwise the pain in their slowly swelling
throats would have taken their reason. For thirst
in the desert carries the pangs of several deaths—death
from fire, suffocation, and insanity.
No wonder the three scowled at Hal Sinclair when he
drew his revolver.
