The main street of Globe was swarming with men, from the court-house square down past the viaduct to where the Bohunks dwelt. And the men were all miners, deep-chested and square-shouldered, but white from working underground. They were gathered in knots before the soft-drink emporiums that before had all been saloons and as Denver rode in they shouted a hoarse welcome and followed on to Miners’ Hall. There the Committee of Arrangements was sitting in state but when Denver strode in a huge form bulked up before him and Slogger Meacham grinned at him evilly. Two months before, on the Fourth of July, they had been partners in the winning team; but now Meacham had taken on with a Cornishman from Miami and they counted the money as good as won.
“What are you doing here?” demanded the Slogger insolently, “do you think you’re going to compete?”
“Danged right I am, if the judges will let me,” answered Denver shoving resolutely past; and at sight of their lost champion the committee brightened 190up, though they glanced at each other anxiously. But what they wanted was a contest, something that would bring out the crowd and make the great day a success, and they waited upon Denver expectantly.
“Well, here’s where you get left then,” spoke up Meacham with a sneer, “the entries were closed at noon.”
“Oh, hell!” cursed Denver and was turning to go when the chairman called him back.
“Just a minute,” he said, “didn’t you send in your entry? I believe we’ve got it here, somewhere.” He began to fumble industriously through a pile of papers and Denver caught his breath. For a moment he had seen his dreams brought to nothing, his last chance at the prize-money gone; but at this tentative suggestion on the part of the chairman he suddenly took heart of grace. They wanted him to compete, it had been advertised in all the papers, and they were willing to meet him half-way. But Denver was no liar, he shook his head and sighed, then turned back at a sudden thought.
“Maybe Tom Owen made the entry?” he burst out eagerly, “he was over to see me, you know.”
“That was it!” exclaimed the chairman as if clutching at a straw, “say, where is that blank of theirs, Joe?”
“Search me,” answered Joe, “it’s around here, somewhere. Oh, I know!” And he went out into the back room. “Ain’t this it?” he inquired returning 191with a paper and the chairman snatched it away from him.
“Yes,” he said, “how’d it get out there? Well, no matter–that’s all right, Mr. Russell!”
“No it ain’t!” blurted out Meacham making a grab for the paper; but the chairman struck away his hand.
“You keep out of this!” he said. “What d’ye think you’re trying to do? You keep out or I’ll put you out!”
“It’s a flim-flam!” raged Meacham, “you’re trying to job me. He never made no entry.”
“I never claimed to,” retorted Denver boldly and Meacham turned on him, his pig eyes blazing with fury.
“I’ll fix you, for this!” he burst out hoarsely, “I’ll get you if I have to kill you. You robbed me once, but you won’t do it again; so I give you fair warning–pull out!”
“You robbed me!” came back Denver, “and these boys all know it. But I fought you fair for the whole danged roll─”
“You did naht!” howled Meacham, “you had a feller with ye─”
“Well, I’ll fight you right now, then,” volunteered Denver accommodatingly but the Slogger did not put up his hands.
“That’s all right,” he said backing sullenly away, “but remember what I told you–I’ll git ye!”
“You’ll git nothing!” returned Denver and laughed him out the door, though there were others 192who muttered warnings in his ears. Slogger Meacham was a fighter as well as a driller and his flight with the prize-money was not the first time that he had lapsed from the ways of strict rectitude. He had killed a man during the riots at Goldfield and had been involved in several ugly brawls; but his record as a bad man did not deter Denver from opposing him and he went out to hunt up Owen.
Tom Owen was a good man, and he was also a good driller, but there was one thing that Denver held against him–he had been a drinking man when Arizona was wet. And a man who has drunk, no matter when, is never quite the same in a contest. He has lost that narrow margin of vital force, those last few ounces of strength and stamina which win or lose at the finish. Yet even at that he was a better man than Meacham, who had laid down like a yellow dog. Denver remembered that too and when he found his man he told him they were due to win. Then he borrowed some drills and a pair of eight-pound hammers and they went through a try-out together. Owen was quick and strong, he made the changes like lightning and struck a heavy blow; but when it was over and he was rolling a cigarette Denver noticed that his hand was trembling. The strain of smashing blows had over-taxed his nerves, though they had worked but three or four minutes.
“Well, do the best you can,” said Denver at last, “and for cripes sake, keep away from this boot-leg.”
There was plenty of it in town on this festive 193occasion, a nerve-shattering mixture that came in from New Mexico and had a kick like a mule. It was circulating about in hip pockets and suit-cases and in automobiles with false-bottomed seats, and Denver knew too well from past experience what the temptation was likely to be; yet for all his admonitions when he met Owen in the morning he caught the bouquet of whisky. It was disguised with sen-sen and he pretended not to notice it but his hopes of first money began to wane. They went out again to the backyard of an old saloon where a great block of granite was embedded and while their admirers looked on they practiced their turn, for they had never worked together. A Cornish miner, a champion in his day, volunteered to be their coach and at each call of: “Change!” they shifted from drill to hammer without breaking the rhythm of their stroke.
“You’ll win, lads,” said the Cornishman, patting them affectionately on the back and Denver led them off for their rub-down.
The band began to play in the street below and the Miners’ Union marched past, after which they banked in about a huge block of granite and the drilling contests began. The drilling rock was placed on a platform of heavy timbers at the lower side of the court-house square, and the slope above it and the windows of all the buildings were crowded with shouting miners. First the men who were to compete in the single-jack contests mounted the platform one by one; and the sharp, peck, peck, 194of their hammers made music that the miners knew well. Then, as their holes were cleaned out and the depth of each measured, the first team of double-jackers climbed up to the platform amid the frantic plaudits of the crowd. The announcer introduced them, they laid out their drills and the hammer-man poised his double-jack; then at the word from the umpire they leapt into action, striking and turning like men gone mad.
There were five teams entered, of which Denver’s was the last, but when Meacham and his partner were announced as the next contestants his impatience would not brook further delay. With his own precious drills tied securely in a bundle and Owen and the coach behind him he fought his way to the base of the platform and sat down where he could watch every blow. They came on together, a team hard to match; Meacham stripped to the waist, his ponderous head thrust forward, the muscles swelling to great knots in his arms. His partner wore the heavy, yellow undershirt of a miner, his trousers draped low on his hips; and to hold them up he had a strand of black fuse twisted loosely in place of a belt. He was a hard, hairy man, with grim, deep-set eyes and a jaw that jutted out like a crag and as he raised his hammer to strike Denver saw that he was out to win.
“Go!” called the umpire and the hammer smote the drill-head till it made the blue granite smoke; and then for thirty seconds he flailed away while Slogger Meacham turned the short starter-drill.
195“Change!” called their coach and with a single swoop Meacham flung his drill back into the crowd and caught up his hammer to strike. His partner dropped his hammer and chucked in a fresh drill–smash, the hammer struck it into the rock–and so they turned and struck while the ramping miners below them looked on in envious amazement. As each drill was thrown out it was brought back from where it fell and examined by the quick-eyed coach, and as he called off the half minutes he announced their probable depth as indicated by the mud marks on the drills. Across the block from the two drillers knelt a man with a rubber tube who poured water into the churning hole; and at each blow of the hammer the gray mud leapt up, splashing turner and hammer-man alike.
At the end of five minutes they were down fifteen inches, at ten they still held their pace; but as Denver glanced doubtfully at his coach and Owen the sound of the drilling changed. There was a grating noise, a curse from the turner, and as he flung out the drill and thrust in another a murmur went up from the crowd. They had broken the bit from the brittle edge of their drill and the new drill was grinding away on the fragment, which dulled the keen edge of the steel. The quick ears of the miners could sense the different sound as the drill champed the fragment to pieces, and when the next change was made the mud-marks on the drill showed that over an inch had been lost. A team working at top speed averaged three inches to the 196minute, driving down through hard Gunnison granite; but Meacham and his partner had lost their fast start and they had yet four minutes to go. The tall Cornishman’s eyes gleamed–he struck harder than ever–but Meacham had begun to lose heart. The accident upset him, and the grate of the broken steel as the drill bit down on chance fragments; and as his coach urged him on he glanced up from his turning with a look that Denver knew well. It was the old pig-eyed glare, the look of unreasoning resentment, that he had seen on the Fourth of July.
“He’s quitting,” chuckled Owen when Meacham rose to strike; but when the hole was measured it came to forty-three and fifteen-sixteenths of an inch. The big Cornishman had done it in spite of his partner, he had refused to accept defeat; and now, with only two more teams to compete, they led by nearly an inch.
“You can beat it!” cried Denver’s coach, “I’ve done better than that myself! Forty-four! You can make forty-six!”
“I’m game,” answered Denver, “but it takes two to win. Do you think you can stick it out, Tom?”
“I’ll be up there, trying,” returned Owen grimly and Denver nodded to the coach.
The next team did no better, for it is a heart-breaking test and the sun was getting hot, and when Denver and Owen mounted up on the platform a hush fell upon the crowd. Denver Russell they knew, but Owen was a new man; and a drilling 197contest is won on pure nerve. Would he crack, like Meacham, as the end approached, or would he stand up to the punishment? They looked on in silence as Denver spread out his drills–a full twenty, oil-tempered, of the best Norway steel, each narrower by a hair than its predecessor. The starter was short and heavy, with an inch-and-a-quarter bit; and the last long drill had a seven-eighths bit, which would just cut a one-inch hole. They were the best that money could buy and a famous tool-sharpener in Miami had tempered their edges to perfection. Denver picked up his starter, all the officials left the platform, and Owen raised his hammer.
“Are the drillers ready?” challenged the umpire. “Then go!” he shouted, and the double-jack descended with a smash. For thirty seconds while the drill leapt and bounded, Denver held it firmly in its place, and at the call of “Change!” he chucked it over his shoulder and swung his own hammer in the air. Owen popped in a new drill, the hammer struck it squarely and the crowd set up a cheer. Denver was working hard, striking faster than his partner; and in every stroke there was a smashing enthusiasm, a romping joy in the work, that won the hearts of the miners. He was what they had been before drink and bad air had sapped the first freshness of their strength, or dust and hot stopes had broken their wind, or accidents had crippled them up–he was a miner, young and hardy, 198putting his body behind each blow yet striking like a tireless automaton.
“Change!” cried the coach, his voice ringing with pride; and as the drill came flying back he shouted out the depth which was better than three inches for the minute. At five minutes it was sixteen, at ten, thirty-three; but at eleven the pace slackened off and at twelve they had lost an inch. Tom Owen was weakening, in spite of his nerve, in spite of his dogged persistence; he struck the same, but his blows had lost their drive, the drill did not bite so deep. At every stroke, as Denver twisted the long drill loose and turned it by so much in the hole, he raised it up and struck it against the bottom, to add to the weight of the blows. The mud and muck from the hole splashed up into his face and painted his body a dull gray, but at thirteen minutes they had lost their lead and Tom Owen was striking wild. Then he missed the steel and a great voice rose up in mocking, stentorian laughter.
“Ho! Ho!” it roared, and Denver knew it well–it was Slogger Meacham, exulting.
“Here–you turn!” he said flinging out his drill, and as Owen sank down on his knees by the hole Denver caught up his double-jack and struck. For a half minute, a minute, he flailed away at the steel; while Owen, his shoulders heaving, turned the drill like clock-work and gasped to win back his strength.
199“Thirteen and a half!” announced the coach at last and then he shouted: “Change!”
“No–turn!” panted Denver, never missing a stroke; and Owen sank back to his place by the hole while the battery of blows kept on.
“Fourteen!” proclaimed the coach, “you’re about an inch behind. How about it–do you want to change?”
“No–turn!” choked Denver. “I’ll finish it–turn!” And as Owen straightened his back Denver struck like a mad-man while the sweat poured down in a shower. The official umpire leapt up on the platform to toll off the last sixty seconds, but the rise and fall of Denver’s body was faster by far than his count. A frenzy seemed to seize him as the half minute was called and Owen slipped in their last drill; and with hoarse, coughing grunts he smashed it deeper and deeper while the miners surged forward with a cheer.
“Fifty-eight–fifty-nine–sixty!” cried the umpire, slapping him sharply on the back to stop, and Denver fell like dead across the stone. His great strength had left him, completely, on the instant; and when he raised his head there was a grinning crowd around him as his coach was measuring the last drill.
“The poor, dom fool!” he exclaimed commiseratingly, “and to think of him wurruking like thot. He’s ahead by two inches and more.”
There was a celebration that day which warmed Denver’s heart and sent Slogger Meacham cursing out of the camp, but as soon as it was over and he had his prize money in his hand Denver remembered his unguarded claim. Bunker Hill was there, of course, but the spiteful Professor had heralded his pledge afar; and a man who has promised his wife not to fight is ill-fitted to herd a mine. No, the Silver Treasure lay open for Dave or Murray to jump, if they felt like contesting his claim; and, weak as he was, Denver took no rest until he was back where he could fight for his own. He rode in late and slept like the dead, but in the morning he was up and down at the store as soon as Old Bunk came out.
“I win!” he announced holding up the roll of bills, “first money–can you get me some powder?”
“W’y, you lucky fool!” exclaimed Bunker admiringly, “seems like nothing can keep you down. Sure I’ll get your powder, and just to show you what I can do–how’s that for a healthy little roll?” He drew out a roll of bills twice the size of Denver’s and fingered them over lovingly. “A thousand dollars,” he murmured, “for an option on half the 201 Lost Burro. A party came up yesterday and took one look at it and grabbed it right off the bat, and as soon as old Murray gets in to his ore they’re going to capitalize the Burro for a million. Fine name that, for stock-selling–known all over the world, in England, Paris and everywhere–but I made ’em come through with a thousand dollars cash, so Drusilla could have a good stake. She’s thinking of going East, soon.”
“’S that so?” said Denver, trying to take it all in, “are these parties going to do any work?”
“Well, that’s an unfair question, as Pecos Edwards used to say when they asked him if all Texans was cow-thieves; but you know how these promoters work. There’ll be lots of work done; but mostly by lawyers, and publicity men and such. There’s a whole lot of water in the workings of the Lost Burro that’ll have to be pumped out first, and then there’s a little job of timbering that’ll cost a world of money. No, I sold them that mine on the ore in your tunnel–I will say, it shows up splendid. If you’d’ve been here yesterday you might have made a deal that would─”
“Not on your life!” broke in Denver, “I don’t sell to anybody. But say, but what did they think of my mine?”
“Think!” exclaimed Bunker, “they stopped thinking right here, when I showed ’em that big vein of copper! They went crazy, just like lunatics; because it ain’t often, I’m telling you, that you find sixty-per-cent copper on the surface.”
202“Not in a fissure vein–no,” agreed Denver emphatically, “I wouldn’t sell out for a million. Did those promoters take away any samples?”
“Well, yes; a few,” responded Bunker apologetically, “I didn’t think you’d object.”
“Why, of course not,” answered Denver, “it’ll advertise the district and bring in some outside people. And now that I’ve got another stake I’m going to sack my ore and make a trial shipment to the smelter. But you bet your boots, after what Murray put over on me, I’m going to have some assaying done first.”
“Yes, and keep some samples,” advised Bunker wisely. “Keep a sample out of every bag.”
“I’ll just mix that ore up,” said Denver cautiously, “and cut it down, the way they do at the mill. Throw out every tenth shovel and mix ’em up again and then cut the pile down smaller until you’ve got a control, like the ore brokers take at the smelter. And then I’ll send a sample to the assayer–say, there’s Drusilla over there, trying to call you.”
“She’s trying to call you,” answered Bunker Hill shortly and went on into the store.
“Well, be sure and order that powder,” shouted Denver after him. “And say, I’ll want the rest of those ore-sacks.”
“All right,” replied Bunker and Denver turned to the house where Drusilla was waiting on the porch.
“Did you hear the news?” she asked dancing 203ecstatically to and fro; as if she were a Delilah, leading the Philistine maidens in the “Spring Song,” and he were another Samson. “I’m expecting to go East now, soon.”
“Good!” exclaimed Denver. “Well, I won’t see you much then–I’m going to work in the mine.”
“Yes, isn’t it grand?” she cried. “Everything is coming out fine–but you must come down to dinner to-night. I’m going to sing, just for you.”
“I’ll be there,” smiled Denver, and then he stopped. “But let’s not make it to-night,” he said, “I’m dead on my feet for sleep.”
“Well, sleep then,” she laughed, “and get rested from your contest–I’m awfully glad you won. And then─”
“Nope, can’t come to-night,” he answered soberly, “I want to get that ore sacked to-day. And I’m stiff as a strip of burnt raw-hide.”
“Well, to-morrow night,” she said, “unless you don’t want to come. But you’ll have to come soon or─”
“Oh, I want to come, all right,” interposed Denver hastily, “you know that, without telling. But my partner played out on me before the end of the contest and I had to finish the striking myself. And then I rode hard to get back here, before Dave or some gun-man jumped my claim.”
“Then to-morrow night,” she smiled, “but don’t you forget, because if you do I’ll never forgive you.”
She danced away into the house and Denver 204turned in his tracks and went to look over his ore-sacks. They were old and torn, what was left of a big lot that Bunker had got in a trade; but Denver picked out the best and wheeled them up to his dump, where his picked ore lay waiting for shipment. He had a big lot, much larger than he had thought, and it was just as it had been shot down from the breast. Some was silver-lead; and there was copper to boot, though that would hardly do to ship. Yet at thirty cents a pound copper was almost a precious metal, and a report from the smelter would be a check. He would know from that how the ore really ran and how much he would be penalized for the zinc. So he picked out the best of it and broke it up fine, for the rough chunks would not do to sack; and before he had more than got started with his sampling the sun had gone down behind the ridge. And he was tired–too tired to eat.
There was music that night at the big house below but Denver could not hold up his head. Nature had drugged him with sleep, like a romping child that takes no thought of its strength, and in the morning he woke up in a sort of stupor that could not be worked off. Yet he worked, worked hard, for McGraw had arrived and the ore must be loaded that day; so they threw in together, Denver sacking the heavy ore and McGraw wheeling it out to the wagon. They toiled on till dark, for McGraw started early and the work could not be put off till to-morrow; and when it was over Denver staggered 205up to his cave like an old and outworn man. He was reeking with sweat, his hands were like talons, the ore-dust had left his face gray; and all he thought of was sleep. For a moment he roused up, as if he remembered some new duty–something pleasant, yet involving further effort–and then his candle went out. He fell asleep in his chair and when he awoke it was only to stumble to his bed.
The sun was over the Leap when he opened his heavy eyes and gazed at the rude squalor of his cave. The dishes were unwashed, the floor was dirty, a long-tailed rat hung balanced on the table-edge–and he was tired, tired, tired. He heaved himself up and reached for the water-bucket but he had forgotten to fill it at the creek. Now he grabbed it up impatiently and started down the trail, every joint of his body protesting, and when he had climbed back he was weak from the effort–his bank account with Mother Nature was overdrawn. He was worn out, at last; and his poor, tired brain took no thought how to make up the deficit. All he wanted was rest, something to eat, a drink of water. A drink of water anyway, and sleep. He drank deep and bathed his face, then sank back on the bed and let the world whirl on.
It was late in the day when he awoke again and hunger was gnawing his vitals; but the slow stupor was gone, he was himself again and the cramps had gone out of his limbs. He rose up luxuriously and cut a can of tomatoes, drinking the juice and eating the fruit, and then he lit a fire and boiled 206some strong coffee and cooked up a great mess of food. There was two cans of corn and a can of corned beef, heated together in a swimming sea of bacon grease and eaten direct from the frying-pan. It went to the spot and his drooping shoulders straightened, the spring came back into his step; yet as he cleaned up the dishes and changed to decent clothes the weight of some duty seemed to haunt him. Was it McGraw? No, he had loaded the last sack and sent him on his way. It was Drusilla–she had been going to sing for him.
Denver stepped to the door and looked down at the house and his heart sank low at the thought. They had invited him to dinner and he had forgotten to come, he had gone home and fallen asleep. And no one had come to call him–or to inquire what had kept him away. A heavy guilt came over him as he gazed down at the house with its broad porch and trailing Virginia creepers, the Hills would take it very ill to have their invitation ignored. Old Bunk had told him the time before, when he had invited him in to dinner: “Now, for the last time, Denver─” and it would take more than mere words to ever mend that breach. Denver paced back and forth, undecided what to do, and at last he decided to do nothing. As the sun went down he ate another supper and drugged his sorrows with sleep.
The next morning he rose early and shaved and bathed and put on his last clean shirt, and then he walked down to the town; but the store was 207locked, there was no voices from the house, only a smoke from the kitchen stove. He went on to his mine and looked it over, and as he passed the Professor leered out at him; there was something that he knew, some bad news or spiteful gossip, for he found pleasure only in evil. Denver came back down the street, that was now as deserted as it had been before the stampede, and once more the Professor looked out.
“Vell,” he said, “so you haf lost your sveetheart!” And he chuckled and shut the door softly.
Denver stopped and stood staring, hardly crediting the news, yet conscious of the sinister exulting. The Professor was glad, therefore the news was bad; but what did he mean by those words? Had Drusilla gone away or had she thrown him over for neglecting to keep his engagement? She had probably spoken her mind as she watched for him at the doorway and the Professor had been out there, eavesdropping.
“What are you talking about?” he demanded at last but the Professor only tittered. Then he dropped the heavy bar across his door and Denver took the hint to move on. He went down past the house and looked it over hopefully, but as no one came out he pocketed his pride and knocked, like a hobo battering the door for a meal, Mrs. Hill came out slowly as if preoccupied with other things, but when he saw her eyes he knew she had been crying and that Drusilla had really gone.
“I’m sorry,” he began and then he stopped; there 208was nothing that he could say. “Has Drusilla gone?” he asked at length and Mrs. Hill answered him, almost kindly.
“Yes,” she said, “she was summoned by a telegram. Her father took her down this morning.”
He stood thinking a minute, then he shook his head regretfully and started off down the steps.
“She was sorry not to have seen you,” she added gently but Denver made no reply. He was weak again now and inadequate to life; he could only crawl back like some dumb, wounded animal, to the sheltering gloom of his cave. But as he sat there stolidly, now trying to make some plan, now endeavoring to become reconciled to his fate, a rage swept over him like a storm-wind that shakes a tree and he burst into gusty oaths. The fates had turned against him, his horoscope had come to nothing; he had followed the admonitions of Mother Trigedgo and this was the result of her advice. She had told him to beware how he revealed his affection, but nothing about what to do when he had fallen asleep while his beloved sang only for him.
He drew out the Oraculum, by which the Man of Destiny had ordered the least affairs of his life, and read down through the thirty-two questions. Only once on each day could he consult the mystic oracle, and once only in each month on the same subject, lest the fates be outworn by his insistence. At first it was Number Thirteen that appealed to his fancy:
“Will the FRIEND I most reckon upon prove 209faithful or TREACHEROUS?” But he knew without asking that, whatever her failings, Drusilla would never prove treacherous. No, since he had taken her for his friend he would never question her faithfulness; Number Twenty-six was more to his liking:
“Does the person whom I love, LOVE and regard me?”
He spread out a sheet of paper on his littered table and dashed off the five series of lines, and then he counted each carefully and made the dots at the end–two dots for the two lines that came even and one for those that came odd. The first two came odd, the next two even, the last one odd again; and under that symbol the Oraculum Key referred him to section B for his answer. He turned to the double pages with its answers, good and bad, and his brain whirled while he read these words:
“Thy heart of thy beloved yearneth toward thee.”
He closed the book religiously and put it away, and his heart for the moment was comforted.
Denver doubted it, himself, for human nature is much the same in man and woman and Drusilla had been sorely slighted; but the Oraculum had said that her heart was yearning towards him and the Book of Fate had always spoken true. Perhaps women were different, but if it had been done to him, he would have called down black curses instead. Yet women were different, one could never guess their moods, and perhaps Drusilla would forgive him. Not right away, of course, but after her blood had cooled and he had written a proper letter. He would let it go awhile, until he had framed up some excuse or decided to tell her the truth, and in the meantime there was plenty of work to do that would help him forget his sorrow. There was his mine, and McGraw had brought up some powder.
There was something in the air which seemed to whisper to Denver of portentous happenings to come, and as he was sharpening up his steel for a fresh assault upon the ore-body a big automobile came into town. It stopped and a big man wearing a California sombrero and a pair of six-buckle boots 211leapt out and led the way to the Lost Burro. Behind him followed three men attired as gentlemen miners and as Denver listened he could hear the big man as he recited the history of the mine. Undoubtedly it was the buyer of the Lost Burro Mine, with a party of “experts” and potential backers who had come up to look over the ground; yet something told Denver that there was more behind it all. He felt their eyes upon him. They spent a few minutes looking over the old workings, and then they came stringing up his trail.
“Good afternoon, sir,” hailed the promoter, “are you the owner of this property? Well, I’d like with your permission to show my friends some of your ore–why, what’s this, have you hauled it away?”
“Yes, I shipped it out yesterday,” answered Denver briefly and the big man glanced swiftly at his friends.
“Well, I’m Colonel Dodge–H. Parkinson Dodge–you may have heard the name. I’m your neighbor here on the south–we’ve taken over the Lost Burro property. Yes, glad to know you, Mr. Russell.” He shook hands and introduced his friends all around, after which he came to the point. “We’ve been looking at the Lost Burro and one of the gentlemen suggested that it might be well to enlarge our property. That would make it more attractive to worth-while buyers and at the same time prevent any future litigation in case our ore-bodies should join. You understand what I mean–there’s such a thing as apex decision and of 212course you hold the higher ground. Well, before we do any work or tie up our money we would like to know just exactly where we stand in relation to surrounding properties. What price do you put on your claim?”
“No price,” answered Denver. “I don’t want to sell. Are you thinking of opening up the Lost Burro?”
“That will all depend,” hinted the Colonel darkly, “upon the attitude of the people in the district. If we meet with encouragement we intend to form a company and spend hundreds of thousands of dollars; but if not, why we will charge up our option money to profit and loss and seek out a less backward community. What is your lowest price on your claim?”
“A million dollars–cash,” responded Denver cheerfully. “Now you come through and make me an offer.”
“Well,” began the Colonel, and then he stopped and glanced suggestively at the tunnel. “We’d like to look it over first.”
“Fair enough,” replied Denver and, giving each a candle, he led them into the tunnel. They looked the ore over, making indifferent comments and asking permission to take samples, and then Colonel Dodge took one of his experts aside and they conferred in muffled tones.
“Er–we’d rather not make an offer just now,” said the Colonel at last; and in a silent procession they returned to the daylight, leaving Denver to 213follow behind. The atmosphere of the group was now reeking with gloom but after a long conference the Colonel came back, summoning up the ghost of a smile. “Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Russell,” he began apologetically, “we saw some of your ore before we came up and we were all of us most enthusiastic. The copper in particular was very promising but the gentleman I was talking with is our consulting engineer and he advises me not to buy the property.”
“All right,” answered Denver, “you don’t have to buy it. I never saw one of these six-buckle men yet that wouldn’t knock a good claim.” He turned back angrily to his job of tool-sharpening and the Colonel followed after him solicitously.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” he said, “there’s nothing I’d like better than to buy in this neighboring property–if I could get it at a reasonable figure; but Mr. Shadd advises me that your ore lies in a gash-vein, which will undoubtedly pinch out at depth.”
“A gash-vein!” echoed Denver, “why the poor, ignorant fool–can’t you see that the vein is getting bigger? Well, how can it be a gash-vein when it’s between two good walls and increasing in width all the time? Your friend must think I’m a prospector.”
“Oh, no,” protested the Colonel smiling feebly at the joke, “but–well, he advises me not to buy. The fact that the ore is so rich on the surface is against its continuance at depth. All gash-veins, as 214you know, are very rich at the surface; so in this case the fact is against you. But I tell you what I will do–just to protect my other property and avoid any future complications–I’ll give you a thousand dollars for your claim.”
“Whooo!” jeered Denver, “I’ll get more than that for the ore I just sent to the smelter. No, I’m no thousand-dollar man, Mr. Dodge. I’ve got a fissure vein and it’s increasing at depth, so I guess I’ll just hold on a while. You wait till old Murray begins to ship!”
“Ah–er–well, I’ll give you fifteen hundred,” conceded the Colonel drawing out his check-book and pen. “That’s the best I can possibly do.”
“Well save your check then, because I’m a long ways from broke. What d’ye think of that for a roll?” Denver drew out his roll of prize money, with a hundred dollar bill on top, and flickered the edges of the twenties. “I guess I can wait a while,” he grinned. “Come around again, when I’m broke.”
“I’ll give you a thousand dollars down and nine thousand in six months,” burst out the Colonel with sudden vehemence. “Now it’s that or absolutely nothing. If you try to hold me up I’ll abandon my option and withdraw entirely from the district.”
“Sorry to lose you, old-timer,” returned Denver genially, “but I guess we can’t do business. Come around in about a month.”
A sudden flash came into the Colonel’s bold eyes and he opened his mouth to speak–then he paused and shut his mouth tight.
215“Not on your life, Mr. Russell,” he said with finality, “if I go I will not come back. Now give me your lowest cash price for the property. Will you accept ten thousand dollars?”
“No, I won’t,” answered Denver, “nor a hundred thousand, either. I’m a miner–I know what I’ve got.”
“Very well, Mr. Russell,” replied Colonel Dodge crisply and, bowing haughtily, he withdrew.
Denver looked after him laughing, but something about his stride suddenly wiped away the grin from Denver’s face–the Colonel was going somewhere. He was going with a purpose, and he walked like a man who was perfectly sure of his next move–like a man who has seen a snake in the road and turns back to cut a club. It was distinctly threatening and a light dawned on Denver when the automobile turned off towards Murray’s camp. That was it, he was an agent of Murray.
Denver sharpened up his steel and put in a round of holes but all that day and the next his uneasiness grew until he jumped at every sound. He felt the hostility of Colonel Dodge’s silence more than any that words could express; and when, on the second day, he saw Professor Diffenderfer approaching he stopped his work to watch him.
“Vell, how are you?” began the Professor, trying to warm up their ancient friendship; and then, seeing that Denver merely bristled the more, he cast off his cloak of well-wishing. “I vas yoost 216over to Murray’s camp,” he burst out vindictively, “and Dave said he vanted his gun.”
“Tell ’im to come over and get it,” suggested Denver and then he unbuckled his belt. “All right,” he said handing over the gun and cartridges, “here it is; I don’t need it, anyhow.” The Professor blinked and looked again, then reached out and took the belt doubtfully.
“Vot you mean?” he asked at last as his curiosity got the better of him, “have you got anudder gun somevhere? Dot Dave, he svears he vill kill you.”
“That’s all right,” replied Denver, “just give him his gun–I’ll take him on any day, with rocks.”
“How you mean ‘take him on?’” inquired the Professor all excitement but Denver waved him away.
“Go on now,” he said, “and give him his gun. I guess he’ll know what I mean.”
But if Chatwourth understood the hidden taunt he did not respond to the challenge and Denver’s mind reverted to H. Parkinson Dodge and his flattering offers for the mine. Ten thousand dollars cash, from a mining promoter, was indeed a princely sum; better by far than the offer of half a million shares that went with Bunker’s option. For stock is the sop that is thrown to poor miners in lieu of the good hard cash, but ten thousand dollars was a lot of money for a promoter to pay for a claim. It showed that there were others beside himself who believed in the value of his property, yet who this Colonel Dodge was or who were 217his backers was a question that only Bunker could answer. Denver waited in a sweat, now wondering if Bunker would speak to him, nor exulting in the offer for his mine; and when at last he saw Bunker Hill drive in he threw down his tools and hurried towards him.
But Bunker Hill was surly, he barely glanced at Denver and went on caring for his horses; and Denver did not crowd him. He waited, and at last Old Bunk looked up with jaw thrust grimly out.
“Well?” he said, and Denver forgot everything but the question that was on his tongue.
“Say,” he burst out, “who is this Colonel Dodge that came up and bought your mine? Is he working for Murray, or what?”
“Search me,” grumbled Bunker, “I got his thousand dollars, and that’s about all I know.”
“He was up here to see me the same day you left, with a whole load of six-buckle experts; and say, he offered me a check for ten thousand dollars if I’d sell him the Silver Treasure claim. And when I refused it he got into his machine and went right over to Murray’s. I’ll bet you you’re sold out to Bible-Back.”
“Well, he’s stuck then,” said Bunker. “I guess you haven’t heard the news–Murray’s closed down his camp for good.”
“He has!” exclaimed Denver, and then he laughed heartily. “He’s a foxy old dastard, isn’t he?”
“You said it,” returned Bunker. “Never did have 218any ore. Just pretended he had in order to sell stock and recoup what he’d lost on the drilling. They’re offering the stock for nothing.”
“Who’s offering it?” demanded Denver suddenly taking the matter seriously. “I’ll bet you it’s nothing but a fake!”
“All right,” shrugged Bunker, “but I met a bunch of miners and they were swapping stock for matches. Old Tom Buchanan down at Desert Wells won’t accept it at any price–that shows how much it’s a fake.”
“Aw, he pulled that once before,” answered Denver contemptuously, “but he don’t fool me again. Like as not he’s made a strike and is just shutting down so he can buy back the stock he sold.”
Bunker looked up and grunted, then gathered together his purchases and ambled off towards the house.
“That’s all you think about, ain’t it?” he said at parting. “I’ll mention it when I write to Drusilla.”
“Oh–oh, yes,” stammered Denver suddenly reminded of his dereliction, “say, how did she happen to go? And I want to get her address so I can explain how it happened–I wouldn’t have missed seeing her for anything!”
“No, of course not,” growled Bunker, “not for anything but your own interests. You can go to hell for your address.”
“Why, what do you mean?” demanded Denver; but as Bunker did not answer he fell back and let him go on.
There are some kinds of questions which require no answers and others which answer themselves. Denver had asked Bunker what he meant when he refused Drusilla’s address and intimated that he was unworthy of her friendship, but after a gloomy hour in the deepening twilight the question answered itself. Bunker had taken his daughter across the desert, on her way to the train and New York, and his curt remarks were but the reflex of her’s as she discussed Denver’s many transgressions. He thought more of mines and of his own selfish interests than he did of her and her art, and so she desired to hear no more of him or his protestations of innocence. That was what the words meant and as Denver thought them over he wondered if it was not true.
Drusilla had greeted him cordially when he had returned from Globe and had invited him to dinner that same night, but he had refused because he needed the sleep and begrudged the daylight to take it. And the next day he had worked even harder than before and had forgotten her invitation entirely. She was to sing just for him and, after 220the singing, she would have told him all her plans; and then perhaps they might have spoken of other things and parted as lovers should. But no, he had spoiled it by his senseless hurry in getting his ore off with McGraw; and now, with all the time in the world on his hands, the valley below was silent. Not a scale, not a trill, not a run or roulade; only silence and the frogs with their devilish insistence, their ceaseless eh, eh, eh. He rose up and heaved a stone into the creek-bed below, then went in and turned on his phonograph.
They were real people to him now, these great artists of the discs; Drusilla had described them as she listened to the records and even the places where they sang. She had pictured the mighty sweep of the Metropolitan with its horse-shoe of glittering boxes; the balconies above and the standing-room below where the poor art-students gathered to applaud; and he had said that when he was rich he would subscribe for a box and come there just to hear her sing. And now he was broke, and Drusilla was going East to run the perilous gauntlet of the tenors. He jerked up the stylus in the middle of a record and cursed his besotted industry. If he had let his ore go, and gone to see her like a gentleman, Drusilla might even now be his. She might have relented and given him a kiss–he cursed and stumbled blindly to bed.
In the morning he went to work in the close air of the tunnel, which sadly needed a fan, and then he hurled his hammer to the ground and felt 221his way out to daylight. What was the use of it all; where did it get him to, anyway; this ceaseless, grinding toil? Murray’s camp had shut down, the promoters had vanished, Pinal was deader than ever; he gathered up his tools and stored them in his cave, then sat down to write her a letter. Nothing less than the truth would win her back now and he confessed his shortcomings humbly; after which he told her that the town was too lonely and he was leaving, too. He sealed it in an envelope and addressed it with her name and when he was sure that Old Bunk was not looking he slipped in and gave it to her mother.
“I’m going away,” he said, “and I may not be back. Will you send that on to Drusilla?”
“Yes,” she smiled and hid it in her dress; but as he started for the door she stopped him.
“You might like to know,” she said, “that Drusilla has received an engagement. She is substitute soprano in a new Opera Company that is being organized to tour the big cities. I’m sorry you didn’t see her.”
“Yes,” answered Denver, “I’m sorry myself–but that never bought a man anything. Just send her the letter and–well, goodby.”
He blundered out the door and down the steps, and there stretched the road before him. In the evening he was as far as Whitlow’s Well and a great weight seemed lifted from his breast. He was free again, free to wander where he pleased, free to make friends with any that he met–for if the 222prophecy was not true in regard to his mine it was not true regarding his friends. And how could any woman, by cutting a pack of cards and consulting the signs of the zodiac, predict how a man would die? Denver made himself at home with a party of hobo miners who had come in from the railroad below, and that night they sat up late, cracking jokes and telling stories of every big camp in the West. It was the old life again, the life that he knew and loved, drifting on from camp to camp with every man his friend. Yet as he stretched out that night by the flickering fire he almost regretted the change. He was free from the great fear, free to make friends with whom he would; but, to win back the love of the beautiful young artist, he would have given up his freedom without a sigh.
His sleep that night was broken by strange dreams and by an automobile that went thundering by, and in the morning as they cooked a mulligan together he saw two great motor trucks go past. They were loaded with men and headed up the canyon and Denver began to look wild. A third machine appeared and he went out to flag it but the driver went by without stopping; and so did another, and another. He rushed after the next one and caught it on the hill but the men pushed him roughly from the running board. They were armed and he knew by their hard-bitten faces that it was another party of jumpers.
“Where are you going?” he yelled but they left him by the road without even a curse for an 223answer. Well, he knew then; they were going to Final, and Murray had fooled him again. Denver had suspected from the first that Murray’s shutdown was a ruse, to shake down the public for their stock; and now he knew it, and that if his mine was jumped again it would be held against all comers. Another automobile whirled by; and then came men that he knew, the miners who owned claims in the district.
“What’s the matter?” he called but they would not stop to talk, simply shouted and beckoned him on. Denver started, right then, without stopping for breakfast or to pick up his hobo’s pack; and soon he caught a ride with a party of prospectors whose claims he had once freed from jumpers.
“It’s a big strike!” they clamored, hauling him in and rushing on. “Old Murray struck copper in his tunnel! Rich? Hell, yes!” And they gave him all the details as the machine lurched along up the road.
Murray had struck another ore-body, entirely different from the first one–the copper had come out the drill-holes like pure metal–and then he had shut down and rushed the machine-men away before they could tell of the strike. But they had got loose down in Moroni and showed the drill-dust and every man that saw it had piled into his machine and joined the rush for Murray’s.
“Jumped again!” muttered Denver and when he arrived in Pinal he found his mine swarming with men. They had built a barricade and run a pipe 224line down the hill to pump up water from the creek, and when he appeared they ordered him off without showing so much as a head. And he went, for the swiftness of the change had confused him; he was whipped before he began. There was no use to fight or to put up a bluff, the men behind the wall were determined; and while, according to law, they held no title the law was far away. It was a weapon for rich men who could afford to pay the price; but how could he, a poor man, hope to win back his claim when it was held by Bible-Back Murray? He went down to the store, where the Miners’ Meeting was assembled, and beckoned Bunker aside.
“Mr. Hill,” he said, “you promised me one time to give me the loan of a gun. Well, now is the time I need it.”
“Nope,” warned Bunker, “you ain’t got a chance. Them fellers are just up here to get you.”
“Well, for self-defense!” protested Denver, “Dave sent word he’d kill me.”
“Keep away, then,” advised Bunker, “don’t give him no chance. But if them fellers should jump on you, just run to my house and I’ll slip you the old Injun-tamer.”
Denver went out on the street, now swarming with traffic, and looked up toward his mine; and as he gazed he walked up closer until he stopped at the fork of the trails. The men behind the wall were watching him grimly, without letting their faces be seen; but as he stood there looking they 225began to bandy jests and presently to taunt him openly. But Denver did not answer, for he divined their evil purpose, and at last he turned quietly away.
“Hey! Come back here!” roared a voice and Denver whirled in his tracks for he knew it was Slogger Meacham’s. He was standing there now, looking across the barricade, and as Denver met his gaze he laughed.
“Ho! Ho!” he rumbled folding his arms across his breast and thrusting out his huge black mustache. “Well, how do you feel about it now?”
“Never mind,” returned Denver and, leaving him gloating, he hurried away down the trail. Old Bunk was right, they had come there to get him, and there was no use playing into their hands; yet at thought of Slogger Meacham his hair began to bristle and he muttered half-formed threats. The Slogger had come to get him–and Dave Chatwourth was behind there, too–the whole district was dominated by their gang; but the times would change and with inrush of other men the jumpers would soon be out-numbered. It was better then to wait, to let the excitement die down and law and order return; and then, with a deputy sheriff at his back, he could eject them by due process of law. The claim was his, his papers were recorded and no lawyer could question their validity–no, the best thing was to let the jumpers rage, to say nothing and keep out of sight. That was all that he had to do.
226But to avoid them was not so easy, for as the day wore on and no attempt was made to oust them, the jumpers walked boldly into town. At first it was Chatwourth, to buy some tobacco and break in on the Miners’ Meeting; and then Slogger Meacham, a huge mountain of a man, came ambling down the street. He slouched down on the store platform and leered about him evilly, but Denver had retreated to his cave under the cliff and the Slogger returned to the mine. Then they came down in a body, Chatwourth and Meacham and all the jumpers; but though his mine was left open Denver refrained from going near it, for their purpose was becoming very plain. They were trying to inveigle him into openly opposing them, after which they would have a pretext for resorting to actual violence. But their plans went no further for he remained in retirement and the Miners’ Meeting adjourned. Soon the street was deserted, except for their own numbers, and they returned to the mine with shrill whoops.
From his lookout above Denver watched them with a smile, for his nerve had come back to him now. Now that Murray had made his strike, and increased the value of the Silver Treasure by a thousand per cent over night, Denver’s mind had swung back like a needle to the pole to his former belief in the prophecy. He had doubted it twice and renounced it twice, but each time as if by an act of Providence he was rebuked for his lack of faith. Now he knew it was so–that the mine 227 would be restored and that only his dearest friend could kill him. So he smiled almost pityingly at the loud-mouthed jumpers and went boldly down the trail.
The hush of evening was in the air when he knocked at Bunker Hill’s door and after a look about Old Bunk went back into the house and brought out a heavy pistol. It was an old-fashioned six-shooter of the Indian-tamer type–a single action, wooden-handled forty-five–and Bunker fingered it lovingly as he handed it over to Denver.
“For self-defense, understand,” he said beneath his breath, “and look out, that bunch is sure ranicky.”
“Much obliged,” responded Denver and tested the action before he slipped the gun in its belt. He was starting for his cave, when from his cabin up the street the Professor came out and beckoned him.
“What do you want?” called Denver; then, receiving no answer, he strode impatiently up the street.
“Come in,” urged the Professor touching his nose for secrecy, “come in, I vant to show you some-t’ing.”
“Well, show it to me here,” answered Denver but the Professor drew him inside the house.
“You look oudt vat you do,” he warned mysteriously, “dem joompers are liable to see you.”
“I should worry,” said Denver and, whipping out 228the gun, he made the motions of fanning the hammer.
“Now, now,” reproved Diffenderfer drawing back in a panic; and then he laughed, but nervously.
“Well, what do you want to show me?” demanded Denver bluntly. “Hurry up now–I hear somebody coming.”
“Oh, nutting–come again!” exclaimed the Professor apprehensively. “Come to-morrow–I show you everyt’ing!”
“You’ll show me now,” returned Denver imperturbably, “I’m not afraid of the whole danged bunch. Come on, what have you got–a bottle?”
“Yoost a piece of copper from Murray’s tunnel–Mein Gott, I hear dem boys coming!”
He sprang to the door and dropped the heavy bar but Denver struck it up and stepped out.
“What the hell are you trying to do?” he demanded suspiciously and the door slammed to behind him.
“Run! Run!” implored the Professor staring out through his peep-hole but Denver lolled negligently against the house. A crowd of men, headed by Slogger Meacham, were coming down the street; but it was not for him to fly. He had a gun now, as well as they, and his back was against the wall. They could pass by or stop, according to their liking; but the show-down had come, there and now.
They came on in a bunch down the middle of the street, ignoring his watchful glances; but as the rest 229trampled past Slogger Meacham turned his head and came to a bristling halt.
“Well,” he said, “out for a little airing?” And the jumpers swung in behind him.
“Yes,” answered Denver regarding him incuriously and the Slogger moved a step or two closer.
“You start anything around here,” he went on significantly, “and you’ll be airing the smoke out of your clothes. We got your number, see, and we’re here to put your light out if you start to make a peep.”
“Is that so?” observed Denver still standing at a crouch and one or two of the men walked off.
“Come on, boys,” they said but Meacham stood glowering and Chatwourth stepped out in front of him. “I hear,” he said to Denver, “that you’ve been making your brag that you kin whip me with a handful of stones.”
“Never mind, now,” replied Denver, “I’m not looking for trouble. You go on and leave me alone.”
“I’ll go when I damned please!” cried Chatwourth in a passion and as he advanced on Denver the crowd behind him suddenly gave a concerted shove. Denver saw the surge coming and stepped aside to avoid it, undetermined whether to strike out or shoot; but as he was slipping away Slogger Meacham made a rush and struck him a quick blow in the neck. He whirled and struck back at him, the air was full of fists and guns, swung like clubs to rap him on the head; and then he went down 230with Meacham on top of him and a crashing blow ringing in his ears. When he came to his senses he was stripped and mauled and battered, and a stranger stood over him with a gun.
“You’re my prisoner,” he said and Denver sat up startled.
“Why–what’s the matter?” he asked looking about at the crowd that had gathered on the scene of the fight, “what’s the matter with that jasper over there?”
“He’s dead–that’s all,” answered the officer laughing shortly, “you hit him over the head with this gun.”
“I did not!” burst out Denver, “I never even drew it. Say, who is that fellow, anyway?”
“Name was Meacham,” returned the officer, “come on.”
As he lay in his cell in the county jail at Moroni it was borne in upon Denver that he was caught in some great machine that ground out men as a mill grinds grain. It had laid a cold hand on him in the person of an officer of the law, it had inched him on further when a magistrate had examined him and Chatwourth and his jumpers had testified; and now, as he awaited his day in court, he wondered whither it was taking him. The magistrate had held him, the grand jury had indicted him–would the judge and jury find him guilty? And if so, would they send him to the Pen? His heart sank at that, for the name of “ex-convict” is something that cannot be laid. No matter what the crime or the circumstances of the trial, once a man is convicted and sent to prison that name can always be hurled at him–and Denver knew that he was not guilty.
He had no recollection of even drawing his gun, to say nothing of striking at Meacham; and yet Chatwourth and his gang would swear him into prison if something was not done to stop them. They had come before the magistrate all agreeing 232to the same story–that Denver had picked a fight with his old enemy, Meacham, and struck him over the head with his six-shooter. And then they showed Denver’s pistol; the one he had borrowed from Bunker, all gory with hair and blood. It was a frame-up and he knew it, for they had all been striking at him and one of them had probably hit Meacham; but how was he to prove to the satisfaction of the court that Murray’s hired gun-men were trying to hang him? His only possible witness was Professor Diffenderfer, and he would not testify to anything.
In his examination before the magistrate Denver had called upon the Professor to explain the cause of his being there; but Diffenderfer had protested that he had been hiding in his cabin and knew nothing whatever about the fight. Yet if the facts could be proved, Denver had not gone up the street to shoot it out with the jumpers; he had gone at the invitation of this same Professor Diffenderfer who now so carefully avoided his eye. He had been called to the Professor’s cabin to look at a specimen of the copper from Murray’s tunnel; but as Denver thought it over a shrewd suspicion came over him that he had been lured into a well-planned trap. They had never been over-friendly so why should this Dutchman, after opposing him at every turn, suddenly beckon him up the street and into his cabin just as Chatwourth and his gang came down? And why, if he was innocent of any share in the plot, did Diffenderfer refuse to testify to the facts? 233Denver ground his teeth at the thought of his own impotence, shut up there like a dog in the pound. He was helpless, and his lawyer would do nothing.
The first thing he had done when he was brought to Moroni was to hire a second-rate lawyer but, after getting his money, the gentleman had spent his time in preparing some windy brief. What Denver needed was some witnesses, to swear to his good character, and Diffenderfer to swear to the facts; and no points of law were going to make a difference as long as the truth was suppressed. Old Bunk alone stood by him, though he could do little besides testifying to his previous good character. Day after day Denver lay in jail and sweated, trying to find some possible way out; but not until the morning before his trial did he sense the real meaning of it all. Then a visitor was announced and when he came to the bars he found Bible-Back Murray awaiting him.
“Good morning, young man,” began Murray smiling grimly, “I was just passing by and I thought I’d drop in and talk over your case for a moment.”
“Yes?” said Denver looking out at him dubiously, and the great man smiled again. He was a great man, as Denver had discovered to his sorrow, for no one in the country dared oppose him.
“I regret very much,” went on Murray pompously, “to find you in this position, and if there’s anything I can do that is just and right I shall be glad to use my influence. We have, as you know, here in the State of Arizona one of the most 234enlightened governments in the country; and a word from me, if spoken in time, might possibly save you from conviction. Or, in case of conviction, our prison law is such that you might immediately be released under parole. But before I take any action─” he lowered his voice–“you might give me a quit-claim for that mine.”
“Oh” said Denver, and then it was that the great ray of light came over him. He could see it all now, from Murray’s first warning to this last bold demand for his mine; but two months in jail had broken his spirit and he hesitated to defy the county boss. His might be the hand that held Diffenderfer back, and it certainly was the one that paid Chatwourth; he controlled the county and, if what he said was true, had no small influence in the affairs of the state. And now he gave him the choice between going to prison or giving up the Silver Treasure.
“What is this?” inquired Denver, “a hold-up or a frame-up?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” answered Murray curtly, “but if you’re still in a mood for levity─” He turned away but as Denver did not stop him he returned of his own will to the bars.
“Now see here,” he said, “this has gone far enough, if you expect to keep out of prison. I came down here to befriend you and all I ask in return is a clear title to what is already mine. Perhaps you don’t realize the seriousness of your position, 235but I tell you right now that no power on earth can save you from certain conviction. The District Attorney has informed me that he has an airtight case against you but, rather than see your whole life ruined, I am giving you this one, last chance. You are young and headstrong, and hardly realized what you were doing; and so I say, why not acknowledge your mistake and begin life over again? I have nothing but the kindest feelings towards you, but I can’t allow my interests to be jeopardized. Think it over–can’t you see it’s for the best?”
“No, I can’t,” answered Denver, “because I never killed Meacham and I don t believe any jury will convict me. If they do, I’ll know who was behind it all and govern myself accordingly.”
“Just a slight correction,” put in Murray sarcastically, “you will not govern yourself at all. You will become a ward of the State of Arizona for the rest of your natural life.”
“Well, that’s all right then,” burst out Denver, wrathfully, “but I can tell you one thing–you won’t get no quit-claim for your mine. I’ll lay in jail and rot before I’ll come through with it, so you can go as far as you like. But if I ever get out─”
“That will do, young man,” said Murray stepping back, “I see you’re becoming abusive. Very well, let the law take its course.”
He straightened up his wry neck, put his glass eye into place and stalked angrily out of the jail; 236and in the hard week that followed Denver learned what he meant, for the wheels of the law began to grind. First the District Attorney, in making his charge, denounced him like a mad-man; then he brought on his witnesses, a solid phalanx, and put them through their parts; and every point of law that Denver’s attorney brought up he tore it to pieces in an instant. He knew more law in a minute than the lawyer would learn in a life-time, he could think circles around him and not try; and when Denver’s witnesses were placed on the stand he cross-examined them until he nullified their testimony. Even grim-eyed Bunker Hill, after testifying to Denver’s character, was compelled to admit that the first time he saw him he was engaged in a fight with Meacham. And so it went on until the jury filed back with a verdict of “Guilty of manslaughter.”
Thus the law took its course over the body and soul of what had once been a man; and when it was over Denver Russell was a Number with eighteen years before him. Eighteen years more or less, according to his conduct, for the laws of the State of Arizona imposed an indeterminate sentence which might be varied to fit any case. As Murray had intimated, under the new prison law a man could be paroled the day after he was sentenced, though he were in for ninety-nine years. That was the law, and it was just, for no court is infallible and injustice must be rectified somewhere. After the poor man and his poor lawyer had matched 237their puny wits against those of a fighting District Attorney then mercy must intervene in the name of society and equalize the sentence. For the District Attorney is hired by the county to send every man to prison, but no one is hired to defend the innocent or to balance the scales of justice.
Denver went to prison like any other prisoner, a rebel against society; but after a lonely day in his cell he rose up and looked about him. Here were men like himself–nay, old, hardened criminals–walking about in civilian clothes, and the gates opened up before them. They passed out of the walled yard and into the prison fields where there were cattle and growing crops; and they came back fresh and earthy, after hours of honest toil with no one to watch or guard them. It was the honor system which he had read about for years, but now he saw it working; and after a week he sent word to the Warden that he would give his word not to escape. That was all they asked of him, his word as a man; and a great hope came over him and soothed the deep wound that the merciless law had torn. He raised his head, that had been bowed on his breast, and the strength came back into his limbs; and when the Warden saw him with a sledge-hammer in his hands he smiled and sent him up to the road-camp.