Twisted Trails Read Online Free PDF Page A

death against liquor on the post. He has issued a written order, posted on the bulletin board, that liquor is prohibited on the post under penalty of imprisonment. Here, have a drink."
    Paul accepted the drink in the spirit in which it was offered.
    "How did you happen to arrive at this place, McCune?" Paul asked. "There's not much future in it, is there?"
    McCune smacked his lips over the strong liquor and put the bottle back in his bunk.
    "Let me tell you, lad," he replied: "today is yesterday's future. Beyond that a man can't tell. The future, the present and the past are all in every tick of the clock. A man can't put his finger on any of them. I went to California when the gold fever was on. I was young and tough enough to hold my own. Staked a good claim near what later became Columbia on the Stanislaus River. Didn't take me long to learn that me an' money wouldn't get along very good. Too much firewater, too many fights, an' the gold siftin' through my calloused fingers. I woke up disgusted one day and saw I was a fool. I had a neighbor in camp with a wife an' two kids. How they had the gall to go there I don't know. This neighbor didn't have any luck, so I up an' gave him my claim. Fiscoli was his name. He insisted I keep half the claim, but I told him it would only bring me grief. Fiscoli made good, bought land with his gold, and has a right nice place out there. They still write to me, an' I've got a home to go to when my soldierin' is done. That's more than I'd have if I'd kept the claim."
    Paul said, "That makes sense, I guess. It don't explain why you're here, though."
    "Army lad. I joined up durin' the war. Come under the major's command at the battle of Vicksburg." McCune added in a curiously plaintive voice, as though he were pleading for understanding, "He needs me—here I am."
    Paul didn't know what to answer, so he suggested they see if the hay was unloaded.
    Other freight wagons had come in with supplies from more distant places, their tall wheels grinding up the dust and fingering it into the air. The empty wagons lumbered about in the cramped space, heading out for open country.
    "Watch this, now," McCune told Paul, grinning.
    "Where?" Paul inquired.
    "That wagon that just unloaded, the one with the driver with the brush on his face."
    Paul watched the indicated wagon. He saw the big end gate swinging open, stay chains dragging on the ground. The big hooks on the ends of the chains bobbed and bit at the earth. The wagon, making an awkward turn, lumbered over a pile of rope. The searching hook of the dragging chain on the left of the wagon reached for and snagged a full coil of rope.
    "Once he got away with a bundle of shovels that way. I heard about it later, but it couldn't be proved, so I let it go. He's been trying ever since. Innocent as a babe, he drives on, hoping nobody will notice." McCune gave an infectious chuckle.
    The big wagon lumbered on through the gate, but suddenly the sentry shouted at the driver to stop, which he did. McCune barked at two men to go over and unhook the coil of rope from the chain, and while they did so, the bearded face of the freight hauler looked back ruefully.
    There was a general shouting back and forth of good-natured insults, as the driver accused them of robbing him.
    "When a man catches a fish on his hook, no man has a right to take it off!" the driver declared.
    The commotion could be heard all across the stockade, and it brought Major Hornaby to the door of his office. Picking up his wide-brimmed hat, he placed it on his head in precisely the right manner and marched across the compound. The sun flashed from the polished leather of his boots and belt. The creases in his trousers were knife-sharp. The expression on his long, aristocratic face was stern and uncompromising. His face was sharp-boned, but well proportioned, and he had that indefinable quality of a man of breeding.
    Sergeant McCune saluted the major perfunctorily, a salute which the major put to