Timber-Wolf

Big Pine, tiny human outpost set well within the rim of the great southwestern wilderness country, was, like other aloof mountain settlements of its type, a place of infinite and monotonous quiet during most days of most years. Infrequently, however, for one reason or another, and at times seemingly for no reason whatever, came days of excitement. And, as those who knew the place said, when the denizens of Big Pine bestirred themselves into excitement they were never content until they skyrocketed into the seventh heaven of turbulence. The old-timers recalled how, back in '82, a dog fight in front of the Gallup House started a riot; in spite of the dictum that it takes only two dogs to make a fight, the two owners present entered with fine esprit into the thing, and before nightfall men were carrying sawed-off shotguns and some of the oldest and wisest citizens had dug themselves in as for a state of siege.

This latest furore in and about Big Pine, however, had for cause an incident which since time was young has electrified both more and less sedate communities. True, it had begun with a fight; men, not dogs; yet it was what chance spilled from the torn coat pocket of one of them that transmuted slumbrous quiet into pandemonium. It was fitting that the Gallup House, centre of local activities, was the scene of the affair.

A mongrel sort of a man, one Joe Nuñez, known by everybody as Mexicali Joe, came in and demanded corn whiskey and paid for it on the spot. That in itself was interesting; Joe seldom had money. For twenty years he had been content to have his wife support him while he combed the ridges, always prospecting, always begging grub-stakes, always spending the winters telling what he would do, come spring. To-night, looking tired and dirty, he was triumphant. He spent his silver dollars with a flourish, and an onlooker, laughing, announced that Joe must have stolen his wife's money. Joe resented the accusation with dignity; he knew what he knew; he wagged his head and stared insolently and tossed off his drink in solemn silence. Thereafter he dropped innuendoes while he had his second drink. The man, Barny McCuin, who had badgered him in the first place, carelessly called him a liar. Joe, who had accepted the familiar epithet a thousand times in his life, for once bridled up and spat back. From so small a matter grew the fight.

Onlookers laughed and were amused, taking no serious stock in the fracas because it appeared inevitable that in half a dozen minutes big Barny McCuin would have Mexicali Joe whimpering and apologetic. But it chanced that as Barny flung the smaller man about, the Mexican's coat pocket was torn and from it spilled a handful of raw gold. Men pounced upon the scattered bits of quartz, Barny among them; they caught it up and stared from one another to Joe, who became suddenly quiet and tense and alert.