“Night divine, O night of
love,
O smile on our enchantment;
Moon and stars keep watch above
This radiant night of love!”
She came to the end, riding up and down in an ecstatic series of “Ahs!” and as the song floated away into piano and pianissimo Denver braved the light to see her.
She was standing by the piano, swaying like a flower to the music; and a lamp behind made her face like a cameo, her hair like a mass of gold. That was all he saw in the swift, stolen moment before he retreated in a panic to his cave. It was she, the beautiful woman that the seeress had predicted, the one he should fall in love with! She had won his heart before he even saw her, but how could he hope to win her? She was a singer, an artist as Mother Trigedgo had said, and he was a hobo miner. He stood by his cavern looking down on the town and up at the moon and stars 87and the words of her song came back to his ears in a continual, haunting refrain.
“Ah! smile on our
enchantment,
Night of Love, O night of
love!
Ah, Ah! Ah, Ah! Ah, Ah! Ah, Ah!”
It floated away in a lilting diminuendo, a joyous, mocking refrain; and long after the night was quiet again the music still ran through his head. It possessed him, it broke his sleep, it followed him in dreams; and with it all went the vision of the singer, surrounded like St. Cecilia with a golden halo of light. He woke up at dawn with a fire in his brain, a tumult of unrest in his breast; and like a buck when he feels the first sting of a wound he turned his face towards the heights. The valley seemed to oppress him, to cabin him in; but up on the cliffs where the eagles soared there was space and the breath of free winds. He toiled up tirelessly, a fierce energy in his limbs, a mill-race of thoughts in his mind, and at last on the summit he turned and looked down on the house that sheltered his beloved.
She was the woman, he knew it, for his heart had told him long before he had thought of the prophecy; and now the choice between the gold and silver treasures seemed as nothing compared to winning her. Of all the admonitions which had been laid upon him by the words of the Cornish seeress, none seemed more onerous than this about the woman that he would love.
88“You will fall in love with a beautiful woman who is an artist,” Mother Trigedgo had written, “but beware how you reveal your affection or she will confer her hand upon another.”
On another! This woman, whom he had worshipped from the moment he had seen her, would flaunt him if he revealed his love! That was the thought which had tortured him and driven him to the heights, where he could wrestle with his problem alone. How could he meet her without her reading in his eyes the secret he must not reveal? And yet he was possessed with a mad desire to see her–to see her and hear her sing. All her scales and roulades, her runs and trills, had passed by him like so much smoke; but when the mood had come and she had sung her song-of-songs he had lost his heart to her instantly. But if, in her presence, he revealed this new love she would confer her hand upon another!
He stood on the edge of Apache Leap and gazed down at the valley below, then he looked far away where peak piled on peak and the desert sloped away to the horizon. It was hot, barren land, every ridge spiked with giant cactus, every gulch a bruising tangle of brush and rocks; but Pinal lay sleeping in the cool shadow of the Leap, and Drusilla slept there too. But who would think to look for her in a place like that, or for the treasures of silver and gold? The finger of destiny had pointed him plain, for he stood on the Place of Death. It was lifeless yet, save for the uneasy eagles who watched 89him from a splintered crag; and the clean, black shadow that lapped out over the plain held the woman and the treasures in its compass.
A sense of awe, of religious exaltation, came over Denver as he considered the prophecy, and from somewhere within him there came a new strength which stilled the fierce tumult in his breast. Since the stars had willed it that he should have this woman if he veiled his love from her eyes he would be brave then, and constant, and steel his boy’s heart to resist her matchless charms. He would watch over her from afar, feeding his love in secret, and when the time came he would reap his reward and the prophecy would be fulfilled. And while he stood aloof, stealing a glimpse of her at night or listening to the magic of her songs; he must win the two treasures, both the silver and the gold, to lay as an offering at her feet.
The shadow of the Leap drew back from the town, leaving the houses sun-struck and bare, and as his mind went back to the choice between the treasures he watched the moving objects below. He saw a steer wandering down the empty street, and Old Bunk going across to the store; and then in the walled garden that lay behind the house he beheld a woman’s form. It was draped in white and it moved about rhythmically, bending slowly from side to side; and then with the graceful ethereal lightness it leapt and whirled in a dance. In the profundity of the distance all was lost but the grace of it, the fairy-like flitting to and fro; 90and, as Denver watched, the tears leapt to his eyes at the thought of her perfect beauty.
She was a woman from another world, which a horny-handed miner could hardly hope to enter; yet if he won the two treasures, which would make them both rich, the doors would swing open before him. All it needed was a wise choice between the silver and the gold, and destiny would attend to the rest. Well–if he chose the gold he would offend her own father, who was urgently in need of funds; and if he chose the silver he would offend Bible-Back Murray, and Diffenderfer as well. He considered the two claims from every standpoint, looking hopefully about for some sign; and as he stepped to the edge and looked down into the depths, the male eagle left his crag.
Riding high on the wind which, striking against the face of the cliff, floated him up into the spaces above; he wheeled in a smooth circle, turning his head from side to side as he watched the invader of his eyrie. And at each turn of his head Denver caught the flash of gold, though he was loath to accept it as a sign. He waited, fighting against it, marshaling reasons to sustain him; and then, folding his wings, the eagle descended like a plummet, shooting past him with a shrill, defiant scream. Denver flinched and stepped back, then he leaned forward eagerly to watch where the bird’s flight would take him. No Roman legionary, going into unequal battle with his war eagle wheeling above its standard, ever watched its swift course with 91higher hopes or believed more fully in the omen. The eagle spread his wings and glided off to the west, flying low as he approached the plain; and as he passed over Pinal and the claim by Queen Creek, Denver laughed and slapped his leg.
“It’s a go!” he exulted, “the silver wins!”
And he bounded off down the trail.
A weight like that of Pelion and Ossa seemed lifted from Denver’s shoulders as he hurried down from Apache Leap and, with his wallet in his hip pocket, he strode straight to Bunker’s house. The eagle had chosen for him, and chosen right, and the last of his troubles was over. There was nothing to do now but buy the claim and make it into a mine–and that was the easiest thing he did. Pulling ground was his specialty–with a good man to help he could break his six feet a day–and now that the choice had been made between the treasures he was tingling to get to work.
“Here’s your money,” he said as soon as Bunker appeared, “and I’d like to order some powder and steel. Just write me out a quit-claim for that ground.”
“Well, well,” beamed Bunker pushing up his reading glasses and counting over the roll of bills, “this will make quite a stake for Drusilla. Come in, Mr. Russell, come in!”
He held the door open and Denver entered, blinking his eyes as he came in from the glare. The room was a large one, with a grand piano at one 93end and music and books strewn about; and as Bunker Hill shouted for his wife and daughter Denver stared about in astonishment. From the outside the house was like any other, except that it was covered with vines; but here within it was startling in its elegance, fitted up with every luxury. There was a fireplace with bronze andirons, massive furniture, expensive rugs; and the walls were lined with stands and book-shelves that overflowed with treasures.
“Oh Drusilla!” thundered Bunker and at last she came running, bounding in through the garden door. She was attired in a filmy robe, caught up for dancing, and her feet were in Grecian sandals; and at sight of Denver she drew back a step, then stood firm and glanced at her father.
“Here’s that five hundred dollars,” said Bunker briefly and put the roll in her hand.
“Oh–did you sell it?” she demanded in dismay “did you sell that Number One claim?”
“You bet I did,” answered her father grimly, “so take your money and beat it.”
“But I told you not to!” she went on reproachfully, ignoring Denver entirely. “I told you not to sell it!”
“That’s all right,” grumbled Bunker, “you’re going to get your chance, if it takes the last cow in the barn. I know you’ve got it in you to be a great singer–and this’ll take you back to New York.”
“Well, all right,” she responded tremulously, “I 94did want just one more chance. But if I don’t succeed I’m going to teach school and pay every dollar of this back.”
She turned and disappeared out the garden door and Bunker Hill reached for his hat.
“Come on over to the store,” he said and Denver followed in a daze. She was not like any woman he had ever dreamed of, nor was she the woman he had thought. In the night, when she was singing, she had seemed slender and ethereal with her swan’s neck and piled up hair; but now she was different, a glorious human animal, strong and supple yet with the lines of a girl. And her eyes were still the eyes of a child, big and round and innocently blue.
“Here comes the Professor,” muttered Bunker gloomily, as he unlocked the heavy door, “he’s hep, I reckon, the way he walks.”
The Professor was waddling with his queer, duck-like steps down the middle of the deserted street and every movement of his gunboat feet was eloquent of offended dignity.
“Vell,” he began as he burst into the store and stopped in front of Denver, “I vant an answer, right avay, on dat property I showed you the udder day. I joost got a letter from a chentleman in Moroni inquiring about an option on dat claim and─”
“You can give it to him,” cut in Denver, “I’ve just closed with Mr. Hill for that Number One claim up the crick.”
95“So!” exploded the Professor, “vell, I vish you vell of it!” And he flung violently out the door.
“Takes it hard,” observed Bunker, “never was a good loser. You want to watch out for him, now–he’s going over to report to Murray.”
“So that’s the combination,” nodded Denver. “I was over there yesterday and Murray knew all about me–gave me a tip not to buy this property.”
“Danged right he’s working for him,” returned Old Bunk grimly. “He runs to him with everything he hears. It’s a wonder I haven’t killed that little tub of wienies–he crabs every trade I start to make. What’s the matter with Old Bible-Back now?”
“Oh, nothing,” answered Denver, “but if it’s all the same to you I’d like to just locate that ground. Then I’ll do my discovery work and if there ever comes up a question I’ll have your quit-claim to boot.”
“Suit yourself,” growled Bunker, “but I want to tell you right now I’ve got a perfect title to that property. I’ve held it continuously for fifteen years and─”
“Give me a quit-claim then; because Murray questions your title and I don’t want to take any chances. He says you haven’t kept up your work.”
“He does, hey!” challenged Bunker thrusting out his jaw belligerently, “well, I’d like to see somebody jump me. I’m living on my property, and possessory title is the very best title there is. By grab, if I thought that Mormon-faced old devil was 96thinking of jumping my ground─” He went off into uneasy mutterings and wrote out the quit-claim absently; then they went up together and, after going over the lines, Denver relocated the mine and named it the Silver Treasure.
“Think you guessed right, do you?” inquired Bunker with a grin. “Well, I hope you make a million. And if you do you’ll never hear no kick from me–you’ve bought it and paid my price.”
“Fair enough!” exclaimed Denver and shook hands on the trade, after which he bought some second-hand tools and went to work on a trail. Not a hundred feet down-stream from where the vein cropped out, the main trail crossed to the east side of the creek, leaving the mine on the side of a steep hill. A few days’ work, while he was waiting for his powder, would clear out the worst of the cactus and catclaws and give him free access to his hole. Then he could clean out the open cut, set up a little forge and prepare for the driving of his tunnel. The sun was blazing hot, not a breath of wind was stirring and the sweat splashed the rocks as he toiled; but there was a song in Denver’s heart that made his labors light and he hummed the “Barcarolle” as he worked. She was scornful of him now and thought only of her music; but the time would come when she would know him as her equal, for a miner can be an artist, too. And at swinging a double-jack or driving uppers Denver Russell was as good as any man. He worked for the joy of it 97and took pride in his craft–and that marks the true artist everywhere.
Yet now that his sale had been consummated and he had the money he needed, Bunker Hill suddenly lost all interest in Denver and retired into his shell. He had invited Denver once to come down to his house and share the hospitality of his home; but, after Denver’s brusque, almost brutal refusal, Old Bunk had never been the same. He had shown Denver his claim and stated the price and told a few stories on the side, but he had shown in many ways that his pride had been hurt and that he did not fully approve. This was made the more evident by the careful way in which he avoided introducing his wife; and it became apparent beyond a doubt in that tense ecstatic minute when Drusilla had come in from the garden.
Then, if ever, was the moment when Denver should have been introduced; but Bunker had pointedly neglected the opportunity and left him still a stranger. And all as a reward for his foolish words and his refusal of well-meaning hospitality. Denver realized it now, but his pride was touched and he refrained from all further advances. If he was not good enough to know Old Bunker’s family he was not good enough to associate with him; and so for three days he lived without society, for the Professor, too, was estranged. He passed Denver now with eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing even to recognize his presence; and, cut off for the time 98from all human intercourse, Denver turned at last to his phonograph.
The stars had come out in the velvety black sky, the hot stillness of evening had come, and from the valley below no sound came up but the eerie, eh, eh, eh, of tree toads. They were sitting by the stream and in cracks among the rocks, puffing out their pouched throats like toy balloons and raising, a shrill, haunting chorus. Their thin voices intermingled in an insistent, unearthly refrain as if the spirits of the dead had come again to gibber by the pool. Even the scales and trills of Drusilla had ceased, so hot and close was the night.
Denver set up his phonograph with its scrollwork front and patent filing cases and looked over the records which he had bought at great expense while the other boys were buying jazz. He was proud of them all but the one he valued most he reserved for another time. It was the “Barcarolle” from “Les Contes D’ Hoffmann,” sung by Farrar and Scotti, and he put on instead a tenor solo that had cost him three dollars in Globe. Then a violin solo, “Tambourin Chinois,” by some man with a foreign name; and at last the record that he liked the best, the “Cradle Song,” by Schumann-Heink. And as he played it again he saw Drusilla come out and stand in the doorway, listening.
It was a beautiful song, very sweet, very tender, and sung with the feeling of an artist; yet something about it seemed to displease Drusilla, for she turned and went into the house. Perhaps, hearing 99the song, she was reminded of the singers, stepping forward in a blare of trumpets to meet the applause of vast audiences; or perhaps again she felt the difference between her efforts and theirs; but all the next day, when she should have been practicing, Drusilla was strangely silent. Denver paused in his work from time to time as he listened for the familiar roulades, then he swung his heavy sledge as if it were a feather-weight and beat out the measured song of steel on steel. He picked and shoveled, tearing down from above and building up the trail below; and as he worked he whistled the “Cradle Song,” which was running through his brain. But as he swung the sledge again he was conscious of a presence, of someone watching from the sycamores; and, glancing down quickly he surprised Drusilla, looking up from among the trees. She met his eyes frankly but he turned away, for he remembered what the seeress had told him. So he went about his work and when he looked again his lady of the sycamores had fled.
The stifling summer heat fetched up wind from the south and thundercaps crowned the high peaks; then the rain came slashing and struck up the dust before it lifted and went scurrying away. The lizards gasped for breath, Drusilla ceased to sing, all Pinal seemed to palpitate with heat; but through heat and rain one song kept on–Denver’s song of steel on steel. In the cool of his tunnel he drove up-holes and down, slugging manfully away until his round of holes was done and then shooting away the face. As the sun sank low he sat on the dump, sorting and sacking the best of his ore; and one evening as he worked Drusilla came by, walking slowly as if in deep thought.
He was down on his knees, a single-jack in his right hand a pile of quartzite at his left, and as she came to the forks he went on cracking rocks without so much as a stare. She glanced at him furtively, looked back towards the town, then turned off and came up his trail.
“Good evening,” she began and as he nodded silently she seemed at a loss for words. “–I just wanted to ask you,” she burst out hurriedly, “if 101you’d be willing to sell back the mine? I brought up the money with me.”
She drew out the sweaty roll of bills which he had paid to her father and as Denver looked up she held it out to him, then clutched it convulsively back.
“I don’t mean,” she explained, “that you have to take it. But I thought perhaps–oh, is it very rich? I’m sorry I let him sell it.”
“Why, no,” answered Denver with his slow, honest smile, while his heart beat like a trip-hammer in his breast, “it isn’t so awful rich. But I bought it, you know–well, I was sent here!”
“What, by Murray?” she cried aghast, “did he send you in to buy it?”
“Don’t you think it!” returned Denver. “I’m working for myself and–well, I don’t want to sell.”
“No, but listen,” she pleaded, her eyes beginning to fill, “I–I made a great mistake. This was father’s best claim, he shouldn’t have sold it; and so–won’t you sell it back?”
She smiled, and Denver reached out blindly to accept the money, but at a thought he drew back his hand.
“No!” he said, “I was sent, you know–a fortune-teller told me to dig here.”
“Oh, did he?” she exclaimed in great disappointment. “Won’t some other claim do just as well? No, I don’t mean that; but–tell me how it all came about.”
102“Well,” began Denver, avoiding her eyes; and then he rose up abruptly and brushed off the top of a powder-box. “Sit down,” he said, “I’d sure like to accommodate you, but here’s how I come to buy it. There’s a woman over in Globe–Mother Trigedgo is her name–and she saved the lives of a lot of us boys by predicting a cave in a mine. Well, she told my fortune and here’s what she said:
“You will soon make a journey to the west and there, within the shadow of a place of death, you will find two treasures, one of silver and the other of gold. Choose well between them and both shall be yours, but–well, I don’t need to tell you the rest. But this is my choice, see? And so, of course─”
“Oh, do you believe in those people?” she inquired incredulously, “I thought─”
“But not this one!” spoke up Denver stoutly, “I know that the most of them are fakes. But this Mother Trigedgo, she’s a regular seeress–and it’s all come true, every word! Apache Leap up there is the place of death. I came west after that fellow that robbed me; and this mine here and that gold prospect of the Professor’s are both in the shadow of the peaks!”
“But maybe you guessed wrong,” she cried, snatching at a straw. “Maybe this isn’t the one, after all. And if it isn’t, oh, won’t you let me buy it back for father? Because I’m not going to New York, after all.”
103“Well, what good would it do him?” burst out Denver vehemently. “He’s had it for fifteen years! If he thought so much of it why didn’t he work it a little and ship out a few sacks of ore?”
“He’s not a miner,” protested Drusilla weakly and Denver grunted contemptuously.
“No,” he said, “you told the truth that time–and that’s what the matter with the whole district. The ground is all held by lead-pencil work and nobody’s doing any digging. And now, when I come in and begin to find some ore, your old man wants his mining claim back.”
“He does not!” retorted Drusilla, “he doesn’t know I’m up here. But he hasn’t been the same since he sold his claim, and I want to buy it back. He sold it to get the money to send me to New York, and it was all an awful mistake. I can never become a great singer.”
“No?” inquired Denver, glad to change the subject, “I thought you were doing fine. That evening when you─”
“Well, so did I!” she broke in, “until you played all those records; and then it came over me I couldn’t sing like that if I tried a thousand years. I just haven’t got the temperament. Those continental people have something that we lack–they’re so Frenchy, so emotional, so full of fire! I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I just can’t do it–I just can’t interpret those parts!”
She stamped her foot and winked very fast and Denver forgot he was a stranger. He had heard 104her sing so often that he seemed to know her well, to have known her for years and years, and he ventured a comforting word.
“Oh well, you’re young yet,” he suggested shame-facedly, “perhaps it will come to you later.”
“No, it won’t!” she flared back, “I’ve got to give it up and go to teaching school!”
She stomped her foot more impatiently than ever and Denver went to cracking rocks.
“What do you think of that?” he inquired casually, handing over a chunk of ore; but she gazed at it uncomprehendingly.
“Isn’t there anything I can do?” she began at last, “that will make you change your mind? I might give you this much money now and then pay you more later, when I go to teaching school.”
“Well, what do you want it back for?” he demanded irritably, “it’s been lying here idle for years. I’d think you’d be glad to have somebody get hold of it that would do a little work.”
“I just want to give it back–and have it over with!” she exclaimed with an embittered smile. “I’ve practiced and I’ve practiced but it doesn’t do any good, and now I’m going to quit.”
“Oh, if that’s all,” jeered Denver, “I’ll locate another claim, and let you give that back. What good would it do him if you did give it back–he’d just sit in the shade and tell stories.”
“Don’t you talk that way about my father!” she exclaimed, “he’s the nicest, kindest man that ever lived! He’s not strong enough to work in this 105awful hot weather but he intended to open this up in the fall.”
“Well, it’s opened up already,” announced Denver grimly. “You just show him that piece of rock.”
“Oh, have you found something?” she cried snatching up the chunk of ore. “Why, this doesn’t look like silver!”
“No, it isn’t,” he said, and at the look in his eyes she leapt up and ran down the trail.
She came back immediately with her father and mother and, after a moment of pop-eyed staring, the Professor came waddling along behind.
“Where’d you get this?” called Bunker as he strode up the trail and Denver jerked his thumb towards the tunnel.
“At the breast,” he said. “Looks pretty good, don’t it? I thought it would run into copper!”
“Vot’s dat? Vot’s dat?” clamored the Professor from the fork of the trail and Bunker gave Denver the wink.
“Aw, that ain’t copper,” he declared, “it’s just this green hornblende. We have it around here everywhere.”
“All right”, answered Denver, “you can have it your own way–but I call it copper, myself.”
“Vot–copper?” demanded the Professor making a clutch at the specimen and examining it with his myopic eyes, and then he broke into a roar. “Vot–dat copper?” he cried, “you think dat is copper? Oh, 106ho, ho! Oh, vell! Dis is pretty rich. It is nutting but manganese!”
“That’s all right,” returned Denver, “you can think whatever you please; but I’ve worked underground in too many copper mines─”
“Where’d you get this?” broke in Bunker, giving Denver a dig, and as they went into the tunnel he whispered in his ear: “Keep it dark, or he’ll blab to Murray!”
“Well, let him blab,” answered Denver, “it’s nothing to me. But all the same, pardner,” he added sotto voce, “if I was in your place I wouldn’t bank too much on holding them claims with a lead-pencil.”
“I’m holding ’em with a six-shooter,” corrected Bunker, “and Murray or nobody else don’t dare to jump a claim. I’m known around these parts.”
“Suit yourself,” shrugged Denver as they came to the face, “I guess this ore won’t start no stampede. That seam in the hanging wall is where it comes in–I’m looking for the veins to come together.”
“Judas priest!” exclaimed Bunker jabbing his candlestick into the copper streak, “say, this is showing up good. And your silver vein is widening out, too. Nothing to it, boy; you’ve got a mine!”
“Not yet,” said Denver, “but wait till she dips. This is nothing but a blanket vein, so far; but if she dips and goes down then look out, old-timer, she’s liable to turn out a bonanza.”
107“Well, who’d a thought it,” murmured Old Bunk turning somberly away, “and I’ve been holding her for fifteen years!”
He led the way out, stooping down to avoid the roof; and outside the stoop still remained.
“Where’s the Professor?” he asked, suddenly looking about, “has he gone to tell Murray, already? Well, by grab then, he knew it was.”
“Oh, was it copper?” quavered Drusilla catching hold of his hand and looking up into his tired eyes, “and you sold it for five hundred dollars! But that’s all right,” she smiled, drawing his head down for a kiss. “I’ll just have to succeed now–and I’m going to!”
As the sun set that evening in a trailing blaze of glory Denver Russell came out and sat with bared arms, looking lazily down at the town. The news of his strike had roused them at last, these easy-going, do-nothing old-timers; and now, from an outcast, a crack-brained hobo miner, he was suddenly accepted as an equal. They spoke to him, they recognized him, they rushed up to his mine and stared at the ore he had dug; and even the Professor had purloined a specimen to take over and show to Murray. And all because, while the rest of them loafed, he had drifted in on his vein until he cut the stringer of copper. It was Swede luck again–the luck of that great people who invented the wheel-barrow, and taught the Irish to stand erect and run it.
Denver could smile a little, grimly, as he recalled Old Bunker’s stories and his fleering statement that a mule could work; but, now that he had struck copper at the breast of his tunnel, the mule was suddenly a gentleman. He was good enough to speak to, and for Bunker’s daughter to speak to, and for his wife to invite to supper; and all on 109account of a vein of copper that was scarcely two inches thick. It was rich and it widened out, instead of pinching off as a typical gash-vein would; and while it would take a fortune to develop it, it was copper, and copper was king. Silver and gold mines were nothing now, for silver was down and gold was losing its purchasing power; but the mining journals were full of articles about copper, and it had risen to thirty cents a pound.
Thirty cents, when a few years ago it had dropped as low as eleven! And it was still going up, for the munition factories were clamoring for it and the speculators were bidding up futures. Even Bible-Back Murray, who had a reputation as a pincher, had suddenly become prodigal with his money and was working day and night, trying to tap a hidden copper deposit. He had caught the contagion, the lure of tremendous profits, and he was risking his all on the venture. What would he have to say now if his diamond drill tapped nothing and a hobo struck it rich over at Queen Creek? Well, he could say what he pleased, for Denver was determined not to sell for a million dollars. He had come there with a purpose, in answer to a prophecy, and there yet remained to win the golden treasure and the beautiful woman who was an artist.
Every little thing was coming as the seeress had predicted–good Old Mother Trigedgo with her cards and astrology–and all that was necessary was to follow her advice and the beautiful Drusilla 110would be his. He must treat her at first like any young country girl, as if she had no beauty or charm; and then in some way, unrevealed as yet, he would win her love in return. He had schooled himself rigidly to resist her fascination, but when she had looked up at him with her beseeching blue eyes and asked him to sell back the mine, only a miracle of intercession had saved him from yielding and accepting back the five hundred dollars. He was like clay in her hands–her voice thrilled him, her eyes dazzled him, her smile made him forget everything else–yet just at the moment when he had reached out for the money the memory of the prophecy had come back to him. And so he had refused, turning a deaf ear to her entreaties, and scoffing at her easy-going father; and she had gone off down the trail without once looking back, promising Bunker she would become a great singer.
Denver smiled again dreamily as he dwelt upon her beauty, her hair like fine-spun gold, her eyes that mirrored every thought; and with it all, a something he could not name that made his heart leap and choke him. He could not speak when she first addressed him, his brain had gone into a whirl; and so he had sat there, like a great oaf of a miner, and refused to give her anything. It was rough, yet the Cornish seeress had required it; and doubtless, being a woman herself, she understood the feminine heart. At the end of his long reverie Denver sighed again, for the ways of astrologers were beyond him.
111In the morning he rose early, to muck out the rock and clear the tunnel for a new round of holes; and each time as he came out with a wheel-barrow full of waste he cocked his eye to the west. Bible-Back Murray would be coming over soon, if he was still at his camp around the hill. Yet the second day passed before he arrived, thundering in from the valley in his big, yellow car; and even then he made some purchases at the store before he came up to the mine.
“Good morning!” he hailed cheerily, “they tell me you’ve struck ore. Well, well; how does the vein show up?”
“’Bout the same,” mumbled Denver and glanced at him curiously. He had expected a little fireworks.
“About the same, eh?” repeated Murray, flicking his rebellious glass eye, which had a tendency to stare off to one side, “is this a sample of your ore? Well, I will say, it looks promising–would you mind if I go into the tunnel?”
“Nope,” returned Denver; and then, after a moment’s pause: “How’s that gun-man of yours getting along?”
“Oh, Dave? He’s all right. I’ll ask you over sometime and let you get better acquainted.”
“Never mind,” answered Denver, “I know him all I want to. And if I catch him on my ground I’ll sure make him jump–I don’t like the way he talked to me.”
“Well, he’s rough, but he’s good hearted,” 112observed Murray pacifically. “I’m sorry he spoke to you that way–shall we go in now and look at the vein?”
Denver grunted non-committally and led Murray into the tunnel, which had turned now to follow the ore. Whatever his game was it was too deep for Denver, so he looked on in watchful silence. Murray seemed well acquainted with mining–he looked at the foot-wall and hanging-wall and traced out the course of both veins; and then, without offering to take any samples, he turned and went out to the dump.
“Yes, very good,” he said, but without any enthusiasm, “it certainly looks very promising. Well, good day, Mr. Russell; much obliged.”
He started down the trail, leaving Denver staring, and then he turned hurriedly back.
“Oh, by the way,” he said, “I buy and sell ore. When you get enough sacked you might send it down by McGraw and I’ll give you a credit at the store.”
“Yes, all right,” assented Denver and stood looking after him till he cranked up and went roaring away. Not a word about the title, nothing said about his warning; and no mention made of his well-known ability to break any man in the county. The facts, apparently, were all that interested him then–but he might make an offer later. When the vein was opened up and he had made his first shipment, when it began to look like a mine! Denver 113went back to work and as he drove in day by day he was careful to save all the ore.
He hadn’t had it assayed, because assaying is expensive and his supplies had cost more than he expected, but from the size of the button when he made his rough fire-tests, he knew that it ran high in silver. Probably eight hundred ounces, besides the lead; and he had sorted out nearly a ton. About the time he was down to his bottom dollar he would ship and get another grub-stake. Then, when that was gone, if his vein opened up, he would ship to the smelter direct; but the first small shipment could be easier handled by a man who made it a business. Of course Murray would gouge him, and overcharge him on everything, but the main idea was to get Denver to start an account and take that much trade away from Hill. Denver figured it all out and then let it pass, for there were other things on his mind.
On the evening of his strike the house below had been silent; but early the next morning she had begun again, only this time she was not singing scales. It was grand opera now, in French and Italian; with brilliant runs and trills and high, sustained crescendos that seemed almost to demand applause; and high-pitched, agitato recitatives. She was running through the scores of the standard operas–“La Traviata,” “Il Trovatore,” “Martha”–but as the week wore along she stopped singing again and Denver saw her down among the sycamores. She paid no attention to him, wandering up 114and down the creek bed or sitting in gloomy silence by the pools; but at last as he stood at the mouth of his tunnel breaking ore with the great hammer he loved, she came out on the trail and gazed across at him wistfully, though he feigned not to notice her presence. He was young and vigorous, and the sledge hammer was his toy; and as Drusilla, when she was practicing, gloried in the range of her voice and her effortless bravuras and trills, so Denver, swinging his sledge, felt like Thor of old when he broke the rocks with his blows. Drusilla gazed at him and sighed and walked pensively past him, then returned and came back up his trail.
“Good evening,” she said and Denver greeted her with a smile for he saw that her mood was friendly. She had resented, at first, his brusque refusal and his rough, straight-out way of speaking; but she was lonely now, and he knew in his heart that all was not well with her singing.
“You like to work, don’t you?” she went on at last as he stood sweating and dumb in her presence, “don’t you ever get tired, or anything?”
“Not doing this,” he said, “I’m a driller, you know, and I like to keep my hand in. I compete in these rock-drilling contests.”
“Oh, yes, father was telling me,” she answered quickly. “That’s where you won all that money–the money to buy the mine.”
“Yes, and I’ve won other money before,” he boasted. “I won first place last year in the single-handed contest–but that’s too hard on your 115arm. You change about, you know, in the double-handed work–one strikes while the other turns–but in single jacking it’s just hammer, hammer, hammer, until your arm gets dead to the shoulder.”
“It must be nice,” she suggested with a half-concealed sigh, “to be able to make money so easily. Have you always been a miner?”
“No, I was raised on a ranch, up in Colorado–but there’s lots more money in mining. I don’t work by the day, I take contracts by the foot where there’s difficult or dangerous work. Sometimes I make forty dollars a day. There’s a knack about mining, like everything else–you’ve got to know just how to drive your holes in order to break the most ground–but give me a jack-hammer and enough men to muck out after me and I can sink from sixteen to twenty feet a day, depending on the rock. But here, of course, I’m working lone-handed and only make about three feet a day.”
“Oh,” she murmured with a mild show of interest and Denver picked up his hammer. Mother Trigedgo had warned him not to be too friendly, and now he was learning why. He set out a huge fragment that had been blasted from the face and swung his hammer again.
“Did you ever hear the ‘Anvil Chorus’?” she asked watching him curiously. “It’s in the second act of ‘Il Trovatore.’”
“Sure!” exclaimed Denver, “I heard Sousa’s band play it! I’ve got it on a record somewhere.”
“No, but in a real opera–you’d be fine for that 116part. They have a row of anvils around the back of the stage and as the chorus sing the gypsy blacksmiths beat out the time by striking with their hammers. Back in New York last year there was a perfectly huge man and he had a hammer as big as yours that he swung with both hands while he sang. You reminded me of him when I saw you working–don’t you get kind of lonely, sometimes?”
“Too busy,” replied Denver turning to pick up another rock, “don’t have time for anything like that.”
“Well, I wish I was that way,” she sighed after a silence and Denver smote ponderously at the rock.
“Why don’t you work?” he asked at last and Drusilla’s eyes flashed fire.
“I do!” she cried, “I work all the time! But that doesn’t do me any good. It’s all right, perhaps, if you’re just breaking rocks, or digging dirt in some mine; but I’m trying to become a singer and you can’t succeed that way–work will get you only so far!”
“’S that so!” murmured Denver, and at the unspoken challenge the brooding resentment of Drusilla burst forth.
“Yes, it is!” she exclaimed, “and, just because you’ve struck ore, that doesn’t prove that you’re right in everything. I’ve worked and I’ve worked, and that’s all the good it’s done me–I’m a failure, in spite of everything.”
117“Oh, I don’t know,” responded Denver with a superior smile, “you’ve still got your five hundred dollars. A man is never whipped till he thinks he’s whipped–why don’t you go back and take a run at it?”
“Oh, what’s the use of talking?” she cried jumping up, “when you don’t know a thing about it? I’ve tried and I’ve tried and the best I could ever do was to get a place in the chorus. And there you simply ruin your voice without even getting a chance of recognition. Oh, I get so exasperated to see those Europeans who are nothing but big, spoiled children go right into a try-out and take a part away from me that I know I can render perfectly. But that’s it, you see, they’re perfectly undisciplined, but they can throw themselves into the part; and the director just takes my name and address and says he’ll call me up if he needs me.”
Denver grunted and said nothing and as he swung his hammer again the leash to her passions gave way.
“Yes, and I hate you!” she burst out, “you’re so big and self-satisfied. But I guess if you were trying to break into grand opera you wouldn’t be quite so intolerant!”
“No?” commented Denver stopping to shift his grip and she stamped her foot in fury.
“No, you wouldn’t!” she cried half weeping with rage as she contemplated the wreck of her hopes, “don’t you know that Mary Garden and Schumann-Heink and Geraldine Farrar and all of them, that 118are now our greatest stars, had to starve and skimp and wait on the impresarios before they could get their chance? There’s a difference between digging a hole in the ground and moving a great audience to tears; so just because you happen to be succeeding right now, don’t think that you know it all!”
“All right,” agreed Denver, “I’ll try to remember that. And of course I’m nothing but a miner. But there’s one thing, and I know it, about all those great stars–they didn’t any of them quit. They might have been hungry and out of a job but they never quit, or they wouldn’t be where they are.”
“Oh, they didn’t, eh?” she mocked looking him over with slow scorn. “And I suppose that you never quit, either?”
“No, I never did,” answered Denver truthfully. “I’ve never laid down yet.”
“Well, you’re young yet,” she said mimicking his patronizing tones, “perhaps that will come to you later.”
She smiled with her teeth and stalked off down the trail, leaving Denver with something to think about.
Denver Russell was young, in more ways than one, but that did not prove he was wrong. Perhaps he was presumptuous in trying to tell an artist how to gain a foothold on the stage, but he was still convinced that, in grand opera as in mining, there was no big demand for a quitter. As for that swift, back stab, that veiled intimation that he might live to be a quitter himself, Denver resolved then and there not to quit working his mine until his last dollar was gone. And, while he was doing that, he wondered if Drusilla could boast as much of her music. Would she weaken again, as she had twice already, and declare that she was a miserable failure; or would she toil on, as he did, day by day, refusing to acknowledge she was whipped?
Denver returned to his cave in a defiant mood and put on a record by Schumann-Heink. There was one woman that he knew had fought her way through everything until she had obtained a great success. He had read in a magazine how she had been turned away by a director who had told her 120her voice was hopeless; and how later, after years of privation and suffering, she had come back to that same director and he had been forced to acknowledge her genius. And it was all there, in her voice, the sure strength that comes from striving, the sweetness that comes from suffering; and as Denver listened to her “Cradle Song” he remembered what he had read about her children. Every night, in those dark times when, deserted and alone, she sang in the chorus for her bread, she had been compelled for lack of a nursemaid to lock her children in her room; and evening after evening her mother’s heart was tormented by fears for their safety. What if the house should burn down and destroy them all? All the fear and love, all the anguished tenderness which had torn her heart through those years was written on the stippled disc, so deeply had it touched her life.
Denver put them all on, the best records he had by singers of world renown, and then at the end he put on the “Barcarolle,” the duet from the “Love Tales of Hoffmann.” For him, that was Drusilla’s song, the expression of her gayest, happiest self. Its lilt and flow recalled her to his thoughts like the embroidered motifs that Wagner used to anticipate the coming of his characters. It was a light song, in a way, not the greatest of music; but while she was singing it he had seen her for the first time and it had become the motif of her coming. When he heard it he saw a vision of a beautiful young girl, singing and swaying like a 121slender flower; and all about her was a golden radiance like the halo of St. Cecelia. And to him it was a prophecy of her ultimate success, for when she sung it she had won his heart. So he played it over and over, but when he had finished there was silence from the old town below.
Yet if Drusilla was silent it was not from despair for in the morning as Denver was mucking out his tunnel he heard her clear voice mount up like the light of some bird.
“Ah, Ah-h-h-h, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah.”
It was the old familiar exercise, rising an octave at the first bound and then fluttering down like some gorgeous butterfly of sound till it rested on the octave below. And at each renewed flight it began a note higher until it climbed at last to high C. Then it ran up in roulades and galloping bravuras, it trilled and sought out new flights; yet always with the pellucid tones of the flute, the sweet, virginal purity of a child. She was right–there was something missing, a something which she groped for and could not find, a something which the other singers had. Denver sensed the lack dimly but he could not define it, all he knew was that she left out herself. In the brief glimpse he had of her she had seemed torn by dark passions, which caused her at times to brood among the sycamores and again to seek a quarrel with him; yet all this youthful turbulence was left out of her singing–she had not learned to express her emotions.
Denver listened every morning as he came out of 122his dark hole, pushing the wheel-barrows of ore and waste before him, and then he bade farewell to sun, air and music and went into the close, dark tunnel. By the light of a single candle, thrust into its dagger-like miner’s candlestick and stabbed into some seam in the wall, he smashed and clacked away at his drill until the whole face was honeycombed with holes. At the top they slanted up, at the bottom down, to keep the bore broken clean; but along the sides and in the middle they followed no system, more than to adapt themselves to the formation. When his round of holes was drilled he cut his fuse and loaded each hole with its charge; after which with firm hands he ignited each split end and hurried out of the tunnel. There he sat down on a rock and listened to the shots; first the short holes in the center, to blow out the crown; then the side holes, breaking into the opening; and the top-holes, shooting the rock down from above; and then, last and most powerful, the deep bottom holes that threw the dirt back down the tunnel and left the face clear for more work.
As the poisonous smoke was drifting slowly out of the tunnel mouth Denver fired up his forge and re-sharpened his drills; and then, along towards evening, when the fumes had become diffused, he went in to see what he had uncovered. Sometimes the vein widened or developed rich lenses, and sometimes it pinched down until the walls enclosed nothing but a narrow streak of talc; but always it dipped down, and that was a good sign, a prophecy of the 123true fissure vein to come. The ore that he mined now was a mere excrescence of the great ore-body he hoped to find, but each day the blanket-vein turned and dipped on itself until at last it folded over and led down. In a huge mass of rocks, stuck together by crystals of silica and stained by the action of acids, the silver and copper came together and intermingled at the fissure vent which had produced them both. Denver stared at it through the powder smoke, then he grabbed up some samples and went to see Bunker Hill.
Not since that great day when Denver had struck the copper had Bunker shown any interest in the mine. He sat around the house listening to Drusilla while she practiced and opening the store for chance customers; but towards Denver he still maintained a grim-mouthed reserve, as if discouraging him from asking any favors. Perhaps the fact that Denver’s money was all gone had a more or less direct bearing on the case; but though he was living on the last of his provisions Denver had refrained from asking for credit. His last shipment of powder and blacksmith’s coal had cost twenty per cent more than he had figured and he had sent for a few more records; and after paying the two bills there was only some small change left in the wallet which had once bulged with greenbacks. But his pride was involved, for he had read Drusilla a lecture on the evils of being faint-hearted, so he had simply stopped buying at the little store and lived on what he had left. But now–well, with 124that fissure vein opened up and a solid body of ore in sight, he might reasonably demand the customary accommodations which all merchants accord to good customers.
“Well, I’ve struck it,” he said when he had Bunker in the store, “just take a look at that!”
He handed over a specimen that was heavy with copper and Bunker squinted down his eyes.
“Yes, looks good,” he observed and handed it somberly back.
“I’ve got four feet of it,” announced Denver gloating over the specimens, “and the vein has turned and gone down. What’s the chances for some grub now, on account? I’m going to ship that sacked ore.”
“Danged poor–with me,” answered Bunker with decision. “You’d better try your luck with Murray.”
“Oh, boosting for Murray, eh?” remarked Denver sarcastically. “Well, I may take you up on that, but it’s too far to walk now and I’ve been living on beans for a week. I guess I’m good for a few dollars’ worth.”
“Sure you’re good for it,” agreed Bunker, “but that ain’t the point. The question is–when will I get my money?”
“You’ll get it, by grab, as soon as I do,” returned Denver with considerable heat. “What’s the matter? Ain’t that ore shipment good enough security?”
“Well, maybe it is,” conceded Bunker, “but you’ll 125have a long wait for your money. And to tell you the truth, the way I’m fixed now, I can’t sell except for cash.”
“Oh! Cash, eh?” sneered Denver suddenly bristling with resentment. “It seems like I’ve heard that before. In fact, every time that I ask you for a favor you turn me down like a bum. I came through here, one time, so danged weak I could hardly crawl and you refused to even give me a meal; and now, when I’ve got a mine that’s worth millions, you’ve still got your hand out for the money.”
“Well, now don’t get excited,” spoke up Bunker pacifically, “you can have what grub you want. But I’m telling you the truth–those people down below won’t give me another dollar’s worth on tick. These are hard times, boy, the hardest I’ve ever seen, and if you’d offer me that mine back for five hundred cents I couldn’t raise the money. That shows how broke I am, and I’ve got a family to support.”
“Well, that’s different,” said Denver. “If you’re broke, that settles it. But I’ll tell you one thing, old-timer, you won’t be broke long. I’m going to open up a mine here that will beat the Lost Burro. I’ve got copper, and that beats ’em all.”
“Sure does,” agreed Bunker, “but it’s no good for shipping ore. It takes millions to open up a copper property.”
“Yes, and it brings back millions!” boasted Denver with a swagger. “I’m made, if I can only hold onto it. But I’ll tell you right now, if you 126want to hold your claims you’d better do a little assessment work. There’s going to be a rush, when this strike of mine gets out, that’ll make your ground worth millions.”
Old Bunk smiled indulgently and took a chew of tobacco and Denver came back to earth.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” proposed Denver after a silence, “I’ll take a contract to do your assessment work for ten dollars a claim, in trade. I’ll make an open cut that’s four by six by ten, and that’s held to be legal work anywhere. Come on now, I’m tired of beans.”
“Well, come down to supper,” replied Bunker at last, “and we’ll talk it over there.”
“No, I don’t want any supper,” returned Denver resentfully, “you’ve got enough hoboes to feed. You can give me an answer, right now.”
“All right–I won’t do it,” replied Bunker promptly and turned to go out the door; but it had opened behind them and Drusilla stood there smiling, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
“What are you two men quarreling about?” she demanded reprovingly, “we could hear you clear over to the house.”
“Well, I asked him over to supper,” began Bunker in a rage, “and─”
“That’s got nothing to do with it,” broke in Denver hotly, “I’m making him a business proposition. But he’s so danged bull-headed he’d rather kill some jumper than comply with the law as it stands. He’s been holding down these claims with a lead-pencil 127and a six-shooter just about as long as he can and─”
“Oh, have you made another strike?” asked Drusilla eagerly and when she heard the news she turned to her father with a sudden note of gladness in her voice. “Then you’ll have to do the work,” she said, “because I’ll never be happy till you do. Ever since you sold your claim I’ve been sorry for my selfishness but now I’m going to pay you back. I’m going to take my five hundred dollars and hire this assessment work done and then─”
“It won’t cost any five hundred,” put in Denver hastily. “I’m kinder short, right now, and I offered to do it for ten dollars a claim, in trade.”
“Ten dollars? Why, how can you do it for that? I thought the law required a ten foot hole, or the same amount of work in a tunnel.”
“Or an open cut,” hinted Denver. “Leave it to me–I can do it and make money, to boot.”
“Well, you’re hired, then!” cried Drusilla with a rush of enthusiasm, “but you have to go to work to-morrow.”
“Well–ll,” qualified Denver, “I wanted to look over my strike and finish sacking that ore. Wouldn’t the next day do just as well?”
“No, it wouldn’t,” she replied. “You can give me an answer, right now.”
“Well, I’ll go you!” said Denver and Old Bunker grunted and regarded them with a wry, knowing smile.
There was music that evening in the Bunker Hill mansion but Denver Russell sat sulking in his cave with no company but an inquisitive pack-rat. He regretted now his curt refusal to join the Hills at supper, for Drusilla was singing gloriously; but a man without pride is a despicable creature and Old Bunk had tried to insult him. So he went to bed and early in the morning, while the shadow of Apache Leap still lay like a blanket across the plain, he set out to fulfill his contract. Across one shoulder he hung a huge canteen of water, on the other a sack of powder and fuse; and, to top off his burden, he carried a long steel churn-drill and a spoon for scooping out the muck.
The discovery hole of Bunker’s Number Two claim was just up the creek from his own and, after looking it over, Denver climbed up the bank and measured off six feet from the edge. Then, raising the steel bar, he struck it into the ground, churning it rhythmically up and down; and as the hole rapidly deepened he spooned it out and poured in a little more water. It was the same uninteresting work that he had seen men do when they were 129digging a railroad cut; and the object was the same, to shoot down the dirt with the minimum of labor and powder. But with Denver it became a work of art, a test of his muscle and skill, and at each downward thrust he bent from the hips and struck with a deep-chested “Huh!”
An hour passed by, and half the length of the drill was buried at the end of the stroke; and then, as he paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes, Denver saw that his activities were being noted. Drusilla was looking on from the trail below, and apparently with the greatest interest. She was dressed in a corduroy suit, with a broad sombrero against the sun; and as she came up the slope she leapt from rock to rock in a heavy pair of boys’ high boots. There was nothing of the singer about her now, nor of the filmy-clad barefooted dancer; the jagged edge of old Pinal would permit of nothing so effeminate. Yet, over the rocks as on the smooth trails, she had a grace that was all her own, for those hillsides had been her home.
“Well, how’s the millionaire?” she inquired with a smile that made his fond heart miss a beat. “Is this the way you do it? Are you just going to drill one hole?”
“That’s the dope,” replied Denver, “sink it down ten feet and blow the whole bank off with one shot. It’s as easy as shooting fish.”
“Why, you’re down half-way, already!” she cried in amazement. “How long before you’ll be done?”
130“Oh, half an hour or so,” said Denver. “Want to wait and see the blast? I learned this system on the railroad.”
“You’ll be through, then, before noon!” she exclaimed. “You’re actually making money.”
“Well, a little,” admitted Denver, “but, of course, if you’re not satisfied─”
“Oh, I’m satisfied,” she protested, “I was only thinking–but then, it’s always that way. There are some people, of course, who can make money anywhere. How does it feel to be a millionaire?”
“Fine!” grinned Denver, chugging away with his drill, “this is the way they all got their start. The Armstrong method–and that’s where I shine; I can break more ground than any two men.”
“Well, I believe you can,” she responded frankly, “and I hope you have a great success. I didn’t like it very well when you called me a quitter, but I can see now what you meant. Did you ever study music at all?”
Denver stopped his steady churning to glance at her quickly and then he nodded his head.
“I played the violin, before I went to mining. Had to quit then–it stiffens up your fingers.”
“What a pity!” she cried. “But that explains about your records–I knew you’d heard good music somewhere.”
“Yes, and I’m going to hear more,” he answered impressively, “I’m not going to blow my money. I’m going back to New York, where all those singers live. The other boys can have the booze.”
131“Don’t you drink at all?” she questioned eagerly. “Don’t you even smoke? Well, I’m going right back and tell father. He told me that all miners spent their money in drinking–why wouldn’t you come over to supper?”
She shot the question at him in the quick way she had, but Denver did not answer it directly.
“Never mind,” he said, “but I will tell you one thing–I’m not a hobo miner.”
“No, I knew you weren’t,” she responded quickly. “Won’t you come over to supper to-night? I might sing for you,” she suggested demurely; but Denver shook his head.
“Nope,” he said, “your old man took me for a hobo and he can’t get the idea out of his head. What did he say when you gave me this job?”
“Well, he didn’t object; but I guess, if you don’t mind, we’ll only do three or four claims. He says I’ll need the money back East.”
“Yes, you will,” agreed Denver. “Five hundred isn’t much. If I was flush I’d do this for nothing.”
“Oh, no,” she protested, “I couldn’t allow that. But if there should be a rush, and father’s claims should be jumped─”
“You’d have the best of them, anyway. I wouldn’t tempt old Murray too far.”
“No,” she said, “and that reminds me–I hear that he’s made a strike. But say, here’s a good joke on the Professor. You know he thinks he’s a mining expert, and he’s been crazy to look at the 132diamond drill cores; and the other day the boss driller was over and he told me how he got rid of him. You know, in drilling down they run into cavities where the lime has been leached away, and in order to keep the bore intact they pour them full of cement. Well, when the Professor insisted upon seeing the core and wouldn’t take no for an answer, Mr. Menzger just gave him a section of concrete, where they’d bored through a filled-up hole. And Mr. Diffenderfer just looked so wise and examined it through his microscope, and then he said it was very good rock and an excellent indication of copper. Isn’t that just too rich for anything?”
“Yeh,” returned Denver with a thin-lipped smile. And then, before he thought how it sounded: “Say, who is this Mr. Menzger, anyway?”
“Oh, he’s a friend of ours,” she answered drooping her eyelashes coquettishly. “He gets lonely sometimes and comes down to hear me sing–he’s been in New York and everywhere.”
“Yes, he must be a funny guy,” observed Denver mirthlessly. “Any relation to that feller they call Dave?”
“Oh, Mr. Chatwourth? No, he’s from Kentucky–they say he’s the last of his family. All the others were killed in one of those mountain feuds–Mr. Menzger says he’s absolutely fearless.”
“Well, what did he leave home for, then?” inquired Denver arrogantly. “He don’t look very bad to me, I guess if he was fearless he’d be back in 133Kentucky, shooting it out with the rest of the bunch.”
“No, it seems that his father on his dying bed commanded him to leave the country, because there were too many of the others against him. But Mr. Menzger tells me he’s a professional killer, and that’s why Old Murray hired him. Do you think they would jump our claims?”
“They would if they struck copper,” replied Denver bluntly. “And old Murray warned me not to buy from your father–that shows he’s got his eye on your property. It’s a good thing we’re doing this work.”
“Weren’t you afraid, then?” she asked, putting the wonder-note into her voice and laying aside her frank manner, “weren’t you afraid to buy our claim? Or did you feel that you were guided to it, and all would be for the best?”
“That’s it!” exclaimed Denver suddenly putting down his drill to gaze into her innocent young eyes. “I was guided, and so I bought it anyhow.”
“Oh, I think it’s so romantic!” she murmured with a sigh, “won’t you tell me how it happened?”
And then Denver Russell, forgetting the seeress’ warning at the very moment he was discussing her, sat down on a rock and gave Drusilla the whole story of his search for the gold and silver treasures. But at the end–when she questioned him about the rest of the prophecy–he suddenly recalled Mother Trigedgo’s admonition: “Beware how you 134reveal your affection or she will confer her hand upon another.”
A shadow came into his blue eyes and his boyish enthusiasm was stilled; and Drusilla, who had been practicing her stage-learned wiles, suddenly found her technique at fault. She chattered on, trying subtly to ensnare him, but Denver’s heart was now of adamant and he failed to respond to her approaches. It was not too late yet to heed the words of the prophecy, and he drilled on in thoughtful silence.
“Don’t you get lonely?” she burst out at last, “living all by yourself in that cave? Why, even these old prospectors have to have some pardner–don’t you ever feel the need of a friend?”
There it was–he felt it coming–the appeal to be just friends. But another girl had tried it already, and he had learned about women from her.
“No,” he said shortly, “I don’t need no friends. Say, I’m going to load this hole now.”
“Well, go on!” she challenged, “I’m not afraid. I’ll stay here as long as you do.”
“All right,” he said lowering his powder down the hole and tamping it gently with a stick, “I see I can’t scare you.”
“Oh, you thought you could scare me!” she burst out mockingly, “I suppose you’re a great success with the girls.”
“Well,” he mocked back, “a good-looking fellow like me─” And then he paused and grinned slyly.
135“Oh, what’s the use!” she exclaimed, rising up in disgust, “I might as well quit, right now.”
“No, don’t go off mad!” he remonstrated gallantly. “Stay and see the big explosion.”
“I don’t care that for your explosion!” she answered pettishly and snapped her fingers in the air.
It was the particular gesture with which the coquettish Carmen was wont to dismiss her lovers; but as she strode down the hill Drusilla herself was heart-broken, for her coquetry had come to naught. This big Western boy, this unsophisticated miner, had sensed her wiles and turned them upon her–how then could she hope to succeed? If her eyes had no allure for a man like him, how could she hope to fascinate an audience? And Carmen and half the heroines of modern light opera were all of them incorrigible flirts. They flirted with servants, with barbers, with strolling actors, with their own and other women’s husbands; until the whole atmosphere fairly reeked of intrigue, of amours and coquettish escapades. To the dark-eyed Europeans these wiles were instinctive but with her they were an art, to be acquired laboriously as she had learned to dance and sing. But flirt she could not, for Denver Russell had flouted her, and now she had lost his respect.
A tear came to her eye, for she was beginning to like him, and he would think that she flirted with everyone; yet how was she to learn to succeed in her art if she had no experience with men? 136It was that, in fact, which her teacher had hinted at when he had told her to go out and live; but her heart was not in it, she took no pleasure in deceit–and yet she longed for success. She could sing the parts, she had learned her French and Italian and taken instruction in acting; but she lacked the verve, the passionate abandon, without which she could never succeed. Yet succeed she must, or break her father’s heart and make his great sacrifice a mockery. She turned and looked back at Denver Russell, and that night she sang–for him.
He was up there in his cave looking down indifferently, thinking himself immune to her charms; yet her pride demanded that she conquer him completely and bring him to her feet, a slave! She sang, attired in filmy garments, by the light of the big, glowing lamp; and as her voice took on a passionate tenderness, her mother looked up from her work. Then Bunker awoke from his gloomy thoughts and glanced across at his wife; and they sat there in silence while she sang on and on, the gayest, sweetest songs that she knew. But Drusilla’s eyes were fixed on the open doorway, on the darkness which lay beyond; and at last she saw him, a dim figure in the distance, a presence that moved and was gone. She paused and glided off into her song of songs, the “Barcarolle” from “Love Tales of Hoffman,” and as her voice floated out to him Denver rose up from his hiding and stepped boldly into the moonlight. He stood there like a 137hero in some Wagnerian opera, where men take the part of gods, and as she gazed the mockery went out of her song and she sang of love alone. Such a love as women know who love one man forever and hold all his love in return, yet the words were the same as those of false Giuletta when she fled with the perfidious Dapertutto.