NEW WESTERN TOWN is usually provided with a public square, and the business houses and shops are arranged along the four sides of it in sentinel-like position, the corner lots going at a premium, and where the most substantial buildings are erected. Waterville, however could not boast of a public square, but it had two iron bridges spanning the Thief River.
A large stone grist mill had been built on the side of the river opposite the town, and on the elevated ground beyond, it was said the State Agricultural College was to be built.
It was a favorite pastime with the real estate agents to sit on the depot platform, and while waiting for the incoming trains, to whittle pine sticks into shavings, telling of the different manufactories, state institutions, colleges and asylums, etc., that would be located in the near future at Waterville.
That evening after Vance had made his purchase of town lots he strolled away by himself across the great iron bridge, and gave himself up to meditation. Had he acted wisely? Would Waterville after all prove a “boom town” and his investment a losing one? Was Homer Winthrop, with his suave manners and great earnestness, which at times seemed to carry conviction to the hearts of all who heard him express himself, the noble specimen of manhood he appeared to be, or were his fascinations merely the arts of the ordinary skilled western boomer? Would the managing editor approve his action in purchasing lots in such a new and undeveloped place as Waterville?
It is a common experience with mankind, that after a doubtful transaction has been consummated, we can deliberate with far more intentness of thought than before the trade was made.
A peculiarity of a western town is its plentifulness of real estate agents, who seem to travel in swarms, and find an abiding place in the town that promises the greatest activity.
After a reaction sets in and hard times overtake them, this peculiar class usually pick up their “ink-horns” and fly, as from a pestilence.
Another peculiarity is, that if a trade is made with a “tender-foot” everyone in the village usually knows of it in a very few hours.
As Vance was returning from his walk he was met on the outskirts of the village by a number of this class of hangers-on, who make their living by selling town lots on commission. Each one was desirous of saying “just a word” to Vance in private.
The story of one was practically the story of all. They advised him to stop and think what he was losing by not buying more property in Waterville. One particularly long, lank individual, who wore a sombrero and high-topped boots, assured him that “the opportunity of a lifetime was at that very minute knocking at his door; it might never come again.”
“You might go away from Waterville,” said he, “and come back here in a few mouths’ time, and you’ll find the town lots I can sell you to-day for a mere song, going at ten times the price that you can buy them for now. My name is Steve Gibbons, and I presume I am doing the biggest real estate business in Waterville. I sell more lots than any other half dozen agents in town. You’ve made a great mistake, Mr. Gilder,” said he, “in buying of the Town Company. Of course, this is confidential, but if you had come to me instead of buying of Winthrop, I could have saved you big money.”
“What do you mean by ‘the company’.” asked Vance.
“Why, you see, the Waterville Town Company own mighty near all the property in town.
That man Winthrop is a member of the company. Now, while I have not as many lots for sale as the Town Company, my prices beat them all holler.”
“Do you think,” asked Vance, “that Mr. Winthrop charged me too much for my lots?”
“Think!” said Steve Gibbons, “think? why, pardner, all the agents in town are laughin’ about it; he took you in.”
Vance bit his lips, and mentally concluded to investigate very thoroughly before he quit Waterville.
“You see,” Gibbons went on, “all us fellers are down on the Town Company. We don’t like corporations, nohow; they don’t give us honorable-intentioned fellers a fair chance. We are the men that’s buildin’ up this here town—givin’ it the bone, and the sinew, and the standin’, so to speak. Don’t you see?”
“Yes,” said Vance, “I understand,” and begging to be excused, he turned and walked away from the “honorable-intentioned” Steve Gibbons, and soon after sought the privacy of his own room in the Ballard House.
Dick Ballard was a Grand Army man, and kept the only hotel of any importance in Waterville. The only thing first-class about it was the price for lodging. Immediately after the average traveler settled his bill at the Ballard, there was generally a half-distinct impression in his mind that he had been stopping at a first-class hotel, but the remembrance of three kinds of meat cooked in the same kettle was not easily forgotten.
As Vance sat in his room, in anything but a pleasant frame of mind, there came a gentle knock on his door. He quickly admitted his visitor, and found it was Dick Ballard, the proprietor.
“I reckon,” said he, as soon as he stepped in, “you’ll be one of us by and by. Bought property already, and a mighty good buy you’ve made of it, too. Oh, you know a good thing when you see it; you bet yer life you do.”
“Do you think,” said Vance, “the lots I purchased were reasonable at the price?”
“I should say so; yes, sir, mighty cheap. This here town is comin out of the kinks in fine shape. We’ll have a drum corps in our State militia before another year; you bet we will. I presume you know we have the finest drilled company at Waterville, outside the regular army, in the state?”
“I have been told,” said Vance, “that I paid too much for the property. I am more interested in learning the truth or untruth of the statement than I am about your militia company.”
“Who told you that:” asked Ballard, with indignation. As Vance did not answer, the hotel proprietor went on to say: “I’ll bet it was J. Arthur Boast. Now, look’ee here, Mr. Gilder, you can’t believe everything these fellers tell you.”
The truth of this remark pressed itself on Vance so forcibly, and his indignation getting the better of him, he turned upon Dick Ballard and said bitterly:
“Who in thunderation can I believe?”
“You can believe me, sir, and I’ll produce prima facie evidence of everything I say. This town is all right; your investment is a good one, and the man who says it is not is surely trying to stick his nose into other people’s business—but, say, hold on a minute,” said Ballard, as if he had forgotten something, “will you take a drink?” and he produced a bottle from his pocket.
“No, thank you,” said Vance.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I will,” said the landlord, as he proceeded to treat himself to a liberal portion of the contents of his bottle.
“Now,” said he, as he sat down smacking his lips, “everything I tell you is prima facie. I know how it is; some of these fellows have been trying to make you dissatisfied with your purchase. I am not selling town lots. My business is to run this hotel and see that everybody has a fair deal.”
“Who is the Town Company?” asked Vance.
“The Town Company, sir, consists of some of the most remarkable men in this country. They are strong men, brainy men; they are hustlers; and I,” said Ballard, rising to his feet, “I am their friend. This man, Homer Winthrop,” he went on, “carries more gray matter about on his brain than all the shark real estate agents in Waterville put together. He is one of the company, but you’ll see them all before long; and when you do, I know you’ll agree with me in saying they are the cleanest cut lot of men on the continent. Winthrop is a great man, but there are others in the company that are a mighty sight stronger than he is. They are all men of honor, and their integrity is prima facie.”
“Prima facie” seemed to be a favorite expression of Dick Ballard’s. After he had delivered himself in the strongest language at his command, he treated himself to another drink and retired.
Vance sat far into the night, looking out at his window into the mellow moonlight, listening to the ceaseless roar of the waters and the yelping coyotes in the distance, which were answered by half a dozen dogs in different parts of the town. At times he regretted his purchase, and again he felt it must, in the very nature of things, increase many times in value in a few years.
The moon came up the eastern sky, and seemed to hang in space like a ball of fire, beckoning him to return to his eastern home before disaster overtook him. The three great Tetons of the mountain range bearing their name stood out in bold relief, throwing long, menacing shadows directly towards him. The shimmering of the soft moonbeams glistened on the restless waters of the musical river, whose alluring song of promise and power was wafted to him on the night wind.
HE next morning Vance was rather late in rising. Soon after he had taken his seat at the breakfast table, he was joined by an individual small in stature but tastily dressed. His eyes were restless, and he seemed on the point of making an observation several times before he finally did so.
“Very pleasant morning,” said he, looking up at
Vance and then hastily glancing at the sunshine that streamed in at the window.
“Yes, delightful,” was Vance’s reply.
Presently the stranger observed: “Sunny days are the rule, cloudy days the exception, at Waterville. At least that’s my experience during a year’s sojourn among the good people of this village.” There was a quaking sound in the fellow’s voice that attracted Vance’s attention, because it was different from others more than because there was anything charming about it. Vance wondered if this individual was not also in the real estate business. It seemed as if every one with whom you come in contact was a real estate agent. He was on the point of asking him what line of business he was engaged in, when the fellow, looking up from his plate, said, “Real estate is my line. My office is just across the street; you can see my sign from the window.” Looking out at the window, Vance saw a large real estate sign, with gold letters on a black back-ground, bearing the name of “J. Arthur Boast.”
“You are Mr. Boast, I presume,” said Vance, turning from the window.
“J. Arthur Boast, at your service.”
Half an hour later Vance Gilder was seated in the real estate office of J. Arthur Boast, looking over his special bargain list; not with a view of buying, but rather to gain information.
Boast talked a great deal, and in his fawning, insinuating manner, advised Vance, without saying so in so many words, to keep his eyes open when dealing with the Town Company. After Vance had carefully scanned his list of town lots, he was better satisfied than ever with his purchases.
Taking a bottle from his desk, Boast held it up toward the sunlight, and asked Vance if he would have some “red liquor.” Vance declined with thanks. Boast walked back and forth with the bottle in his hand, and in a quaking voice, meant to be confidential, told Vance that he had got to quit drinking; that red liquor was getting an awful hold on him. He seemed to be desirous of giving the impression that he was a hard drinker. Finally he poured out some of the contents of the bottle into a glass, and drank it down at one swallow. Afterwards he seemed quite wretched and his eyes were filled with tears. Vance concluded, notwithstanding all he had said against himself, that J. Arthur Boast was not a drinking man.
“That liquor is all right,” said Boast; “a very superior article, but it is a little early in the day for me to commence. It always half strangles me in the morning.”
As Vance was seeking information from which he could draw his own conclusions, he gave Boast all the opportunities possible to express himself in regard to Waterville and its people.
The fellow said nothing positive, yet there was an evil vein of insinuation in all that he did say not only in regard to the Waterville Town Company and every other real estate agent, but also against everybody in the town generally. Vance very much disliked the fellow, and afterwards learned that he was universally disliked and shunned by everyone in Waterville.
Instead of returning to Butte City with Winthrop that afternoon, Vance remained in Waterville, and arranged to take the early stage next morning for Gold Bluff, which was located some sixty miles northwest of Waterville, in the Fish River Mining District. He arrived in that Idaho mining town late the following night, registered at the Bluff House, and after a late supper retired to his room for a much needed rest.
The next morning he found, on inquiry, that Ben Bonifield’s mine was located about half a mile from town upon the mountain side, and he at once started out in that direction, to see how the work on the shaft, bound for the 300 foot level, was progressing.
The town of Gold Bluff was cozily nestled in a little valley, with abrupt mountains lowering away to the sky on either side of it. The mountains were covered with spruce and pine and mountain poplars up to the snow line, above which the barren rocks rose majestically towards the heavens. A refreshing stream meandered its course through the town, on one side of which were stores and shops, and on the other residences. Vance noticed that some of them were of modern architecture and neatly painted, while others were primitive in the extreme—relics of early mining; days. The town was rather quaint and picturesque, and made more so by a profusion of shade trees.
“Good morning,” said Vance, as he came up to Ben Bonifield, who, in miner’s costume, was working vigorously away at the frame-work of the shaft over Gray Rocks. The old man looked up with an astonished air, and said:
“Good mawnin’, suh.” Then, recognizing his visitor, he threw down his hammer and gave Vance’s hand such a squeeze in his powerful grasp that it almost made him cry out with pain.
“Why, suh,” cried the old miner, “I am almost pa’alyzed to see yo’. I am indeed, suh. Mr. Gilder, I welcome yo’ suh, to Gold Bluff and to Gray Rocks. Here, suh, are our possessions,” waving his hand toward the shaft. “Immediately upon my return from the city, Mr. Gilder, we commenced work in earnest, suh, and befo’ many weeks, I am proud to say, suh, we will reach the 300 foot level and be ready to cross-cut into the vein, suh. Yo’ don’t know,” said the old miner, again taking Vance’s hand, “how proud I am—yes, proud, suh, proud to be honored with a visit from yo’, I very much desire that yo’ pu’son’lly inspect the mine; and there is no better time than the present.”
Vance entered heartily into the tour of inspection, and at the old miner’s invitation, went down in the bucket, where the miners were at work. The old gentleman kept him there until he had explained everything to the minutest detail, and when Vance at last reached the top of the shaft he felt he had a far better idea of sinking shafts on mines than ever before.
“Come,” said the old miner, “my Louise will be most delighted to see yo’, suh; she will indeed.” Then turning, he gave some instruction to his foreman, telling him he would not return that afternoon, and together the old gentleman and Vance walked down the mountain side to the village of Gold bluff.
The old miner’s residence was a modest one, situated well back from the street, near some huge boulders—a natural pyramid of rocks, while a beautiful little spring of water flowed from near its base. There was a very pretty yard in front, filled with growing evergreens and mountain ash.
“I planted these trees myself, suh,” said the old miner, “years ago. They remind me of my old Virginia home. I was the fust one to set out shade trees in Gold Bluff; yes, still, the fust one.”
As Vance entered the yard, he paused a moment to contemplate the beauty and home-like appearance of the yard, and Ben Bonifield’s home, with its wide porches in front literally covered with honeysuckles, ivy, and vining roses.
Vance found Louise dressed as a mountain maid, instead of the fashionable young lady who had called on him in his New York home. She was not such a woman as poets rave about, and yet, withal, there was a grace—a charm—about her, that commanded admiration. Her hair, in the sunlight, was like one beautiful sheen of gold, with little ringlets here and there; her complexion was pink and white, and when under deep excitement a ruddy glow would mantle her cheeks. Her nose, while well formed, neither large nor small, was quite ordinary. Her mouth was a perfect Cupid’s bow, with lips like two red cherries. As Vance conversed with her that afternoon, he forgot the hair, forgot the delicately formed, rosy lips, forgot even the glow of pink which came and went over her fair cheeks, in looking into her talking eyes—so clear, so blue, and yet to trustful; even forgot the long brown lashes that fringed them with gentle protection. Her eyes were the crowning feature of her expressive face, which may not have been a beautiful one in the parlance of fashion, yet it was one that a student of human nature would term a face of intelligence; and after all, to the cultured, is there aught more beautiful?
As Vance sat with the old miner and his daughter on the porch of their cozy dwelling that afternoon, he forgot time. The sun went down behind the western mountains, leaving the beauty of an afterglow reflected on the waters of the mountain brooklet. The moon that was climbing up over the eastern hills threw its rays aslant through the clinging roses that grew in profusion about the porch. A feeling of peace, and possibly a dangerous contentment, stole into his heart, and he murmured a thanksgiving to the fates. The unseen, potent force that binds us all, sooner or later, with a silken cord, was thonging him to a future destiny.
ROM Gold Bluff Vance sent to the Banner one of his strongest descriptive letters. The inspiration of the new west, with its gorges, mountains, beautiful valleys and gurgling streams abounding with trout, tinged its every sentence.
His vivacious style, which had won for him the place he occupied on the Banner, was reinforced with the new and intoxicating sights of the picturesque. For two weeks he did little else than tramp through valleys, following up mountain streams on fishing jaunts, and felt that he was “roughing it” in a most delightful fashion. One night, coming in from a long tramp far up in the mountains, he found a large bundle of mail awaiting him that had been forwarded from Butte Citv. Among his letters was one from the chief, which read as follows:
Banner Office,
New York City, July
Dear Sir:
Your letters to the Banner, in one sense of the word, are all and even more than I expected. They are giving excellent satisfaction. As yet you have expressed no decided opinion in regard to the desirability of Western investments.
My ideas are to educate our readers against unstable investments. Nine out of every ten of the mining shafts in Montana, in my judgment, have had more money put into them than ever has or ever will be taken out. You will also find many Western towns where they are selling lots at from one to two hundred dollars each, which, in reality, would be expensive property to own at the government price of $1.25 per acre. Of course, there are, perhaps, a few honorable exceptions.
To Vance Gilder, Esq.
Respectfully,
J. R. S., Chief.
When one is seeking an excuse for his convictions, especially if they are as strong as Vance’s had become in regard to Butte City and Waterville, the one little sentence, “Of course, there are, perhaps, a few honorable exceptions,” in the chief’s letter saves him a great deal of worry. Vance was too light hearted to be cast down by the half-criticism of the class of correspondence he was sending in.
He had an engagement that evening with Louise Bonifield and her father; indeed, his was a standing invitation at the Bonifields’, and almost every afternoon since his arrival at Gold Bluff found him at their mountain home.
As he started from the hotel he was accosted by a familiar voice: “Hello, pard; how d’ ye do?” and Steve Gibbons thrust out his long arm to shake Vance’s hand in western fashion. He still wore his sombrero and high-topped boots.
Vance assured Gibbons that he was delighted to see him.
“I knew you would be,” said Gibbons, “You see, I have given up the real estate t business clown at Waterville, and am turned stage driver. Of course, every man in this ‘ere country is lookin’ for promotion. I don’t reckon I’m any smarter than other people, but I’ve had my eye on this job for several months; but you can bet your life them other real estate agents didn’t know nothin’ about it. I tell you, pardner, it’s a mighty elevatin’ position to drive a six-horse team through these deep mountain gorges in all kinds of wind and weather. Had to give a mighty stout bond, too, for we handle all the express matter, and there’s a good deal of gold dust hauled down from this ‘ere camp.”
Vance was glad to meet anyone, however slight the acquaintance had been, and in the course of their conversation Steve Gibbons confessed to him that he was “givin’ it to him just a leetle” in regard to the town lots which Vance had purchased of the Town Company.
“You see,” said he, “the facts are, the Town Company of Waterville has made that ‘ere town, and are still makin’ it. It’s a mighty pert place, and is growin’ perter all the time.”
Vance mentally wondered if all the “honest intentioned” fellows of Waterville would talk in the same way about the Town Company if they were occupying positions where their interests were no longer adverse to the Company’s.
“Then you don’t think I paid too much for my lots?” asked Vance, looking up with a quizzical expression.
“No,” said Steve Gibbons, “them lots are all right, pardner, and will make you a barrel if you hold on to ‘em. They sold ‘em to you cheap enough. That was just a leetle competition talk I was givin’ you that night down at Waterville. Business is business, you know, when you are sellin’ town lots, and a man has got to talk for hisself. I really did want to sell you some lots, that’s a fact, ‘cause I wanted to rake in the commission; but it’s all over with now. I have throwed up the whole darned business of sellin’ lots since I was promoted. Old Dick Ballard,” said he, “is jest as prima facie as ever, and says his company is the finest drilled militia in the state. By the way,” he continued, “the Town Company has had a meetin’, and the people are feelin’ mighty good jess now’.”
“How’s that?” asked Vance.
“Oh,” replied Gibbons, “about once a month the Town Company have a meetin’, and pass resolutions, declar’ dividends and get up a new’ prospectus of different manufacturin’ enterprises that’s goin’ to be built thar; also, of colleges and state institutions that will be located at Waterville this comin’ year, and that always makes the people feel high-spirited for the next week or ten days, anyhow. Most of the people go on a spree after one o’ them encouragin’ meetin’s.”
“I presume,” said Vance, “that Homer Winthrop is one of the leading spirits of the Company.”
“He is one of the Company,” said Gibbons, as he filled his pipe and lit it, “but he lacks a good deal, I can tell you, of bein’ the biggest toad in the puddle. There’s old Colonel Alexander, he’s the fellow that lays out the plans on a gigantic scale. Then there’s General Ira House. I ‘spect he has the biggest reputation of any town boomer on the western half of the continent—I allow as what he has. And when you’re talkin’ about smart ones, you don’t want to forget B. Webster Legal; he’s the corporation attorney, and you can bet your last half dollar the company will never run agin’ any shoals as long as he stands at the wheel and writes up contracts. Oh, he’s a hummer, and no mistake.”
“It’s reported down thar’ that half a dozen different railroad companies are tryin’ mighty hard to get him for their attorney, but he saws, ‘Not much; I have cast my fortune with my friends and with Waterville, and I’ll stick by the enterprise as long as a town lot can be sold.’.rdquo;
“The Town Company is mighty cute,” he went on, “they never have any law suits, ‘cause their contracts are drawn up with knots tied knee deep all over the fellow they’re dealin’ with.”
It is probable that Steve Gibbons would have gone on indefinitely had not Vance begged to be excused, pleading a previous engagement. They bade each other good night, Gibbons starting for the stables to look after his horses, and Vance walked leisurely along toward the Bonifield’s home.
That afternoon Louise had accepted his invitation to go on a fishing jaunt some day during the week to a place called Silver Point Lake, some two miles away.
Her simplicity of manner and frankness, though possessing, withal, a demure humor, which was one of her charming characteristics, had greatly fascinated him.
They were standing on the cottage porch in the soft summer twilight, while a mountain breeze was tossing the ringlets of Louise’s hair about, as if coquetting with them. Vance was studying her face while she was looking far away toward the western mountains, where the sun had left a reddened glow on the sky, which, he said, was a promise of fair weather for the fishing excursion the next day. Presently, a creaky voice commenced calling:
“Louise! Louise! where is your par?” and before Vance’s fair companion could explain, a woman well advanced in years came out on the porch, and seemed surprised at seeing Vance, and eyed him critically.
“Aunt Sally,” said Louise, “this is Mr. Gilder, papa’s friend. Mr. Gilder, this is my Aunt Sally, father’s sister.”
Aunt Sally acknowledged the introduction with a stately bow. Her apparel was of the fashion of a quarter of a century ago.
“Am very glad to see you, suh,” she said, addressing Vance. “I understand you are interested with my brother in his mine. I can give you, Mr. Gilder, some very excellent advice; I can, indeed, suh, but I will defer it until some other time.” Then turning to Louise, she said, “Do you know where your par’s gone?”
“I do not,” replied Louise, sweetly, “I think he will be here in a few moments.”
“I just allow he’s grub-stakin’ some of them pesky prospectin’ miners again,” cried Aunt Sally. “Mr. Gilder,” she continued, “I have to watch over my brother very closely, I do, indeed, suh. He’s been plantin’ money all over these mountains for many years, but there’s no crop ever been harvested. I allow I’ll give him a piece of my mind when he comes home.” Saying this, she turned and disappeared into the house. Louise was evidently confused, and regretted her aunt’s words, while Vance was at a loss to understand the import of the spinster s remarks.
"I am very sorry, Mr. Gilder,” said Louise—and he noticed she was trembling like a frightened bird—“sorry that Aunt Sally should so far forget herself as to speak so before a stranger.”
Vance declared there was no reason for being disturbed, but Louise was not wholly reassured by his words. “I know papa will be very angry with Aunt Sally.”
“There surely is no cause for that,” replied Vance.
"You see,” said Louise, “mamma died when Virginia and I were little girls, and Aunt Sally has been a mother to us. Ever since papa commenced work on Gray Rocks she has continually opposed him. She says he will never find a dollar s worth of gold if he sinks his shaft a thousand feet. I sometimes think she has influenced sister Virgie. Sister is away from home now, teaching school at Waterville. I do not know whether papa is wrong or not, but if he is, then I am also, for I believe with all my heart that some time papa will find the wealth he has so persistently labored for so many years. And I sincerely hope,” she continued, laying her hand on Vance’s arm and looking pleadingly up into his face, “that you will not be influenced by anything that Aunt Sally may have said, will you?”
Vance was only human; he could not withstand such an appeal, If doubts had ever come to him, the trembling girl at his side, by her looks and words, had put them to flight. “No,” he replied, “my faith is as firm as the rocks in your father’s mine.”
MMEDIATELY after breakfast the following morning, Vance was waited upon by Col. Bonifield. The old miner bore a troubled expression on his face. Vance invited him to his room.
“Mr. Gilder,” said the old miner, as he raised himself to his full height, and with the dignity of a general addressed Vance: “I assure yo’, suh, I am greatly pained at the uncalled fo’ remarks which my sister made in yo’r presence last evening; I am indeed, suh.
“I assure you,” replied Vance, “there is no occasion to refer to the matter at all. I assured your daughter, and I now assure you, that I have every confidence in the mine, and will continue to have until you yourself have sufficient reason to shake your faith. I certainly cannot say more, and under the circumstances could not say less.”
“Mr. Gilder,” said the old miner, “yo’, suh, are a very honorable gentleman, and I am very proud of my partnership with yo’. I am indeed, suh. In regard to my sister—in her younger days, I assure yo’, she was one of the most rema’kable women of Virginia; yes, suh, a vehy rema’kable woman. She certainly has been a true sister to me, suh, and a faithful mother to my daughters, but in some way she disbelieves in Gray Rocks, and would yo’ believe it, suh, she has gone so far at times as to intimate that I am crazy as a March hare in regard to ever ‘strikin’ it rich’ on our minin’ property; yes, suh, she certainly has said some vehy bitter things against Gray Rocks, but fo’ all that, she is a vehy rema’kable woman, even to this day. Yes, suh, quite rema’kable.”
“I now have a matter, Mr. Gilder,” he continued, “of vehy great importance to discuss with yo.” Vance offered the old miner a cigar, which he accepted, and soon they were discussing the “important matter,” which of course referred to Gray Rocks.
“We are not far away, Mr. Gilder, from the 300 foot level. Our machinery and pumps, suh, have been workin’ rema’kably well. Two weeks mo’ and our shaft will be finished; yes, suh, finished. Then we will cross-cut, and my opinion is, it will be well fo’ yo’ to remain in Gold Bluff and be ready to send in yo’r resignation as cor’spondent of that New York paper; yes, suh that is my advice. It is only proper, suh, that yo’ should enjoy the riches that await yo’.”
“But supposing, Col. Bonifield,” said Vance, “supposing that you do not find any pay ore when you crosscut into the vein, as you say; in that event, I suppose you agree with me that it would be a pretty good idea for me to hold my position on the Banner?”
“Of cou’se, suh,” replied the old miner, “but there is but one chance in ten thousand that we won’t strike it. I admit of this one chance against us, suh, fo’ the sake of argument alone. Mr. Grim is now takin’ out of the Peacock some of the richest ore I ever saw in my life, he is indeed, suh—and his mine joins ours, as yo’ know, directly on the nawth.”
Vance was silent for a few moments, and then said: “In the event, Col. Bonifield, we do not strike it; what then? Will you be discouraged?”
“No, suh; if we fail at the 300 foot level, suh, and yo’ can furnish the money, we will start the next mornin’ fo’ the 400 foot level; but I assure yo’, suh, I have no idea yo ‘ll have to furnish any mo’ money. Gray Rocks is a sure winner; it is indeed, suh. The oldest miners in the camp say that if we stick to Gray Rocks it will be worth mo’ in five years than Rufus Grim’s Peacock mine. When I was yo’r age, Mr. Gilder,” he continued, blowing a cloud of smoke away out of the window toward Gray Rocks, “I could not have stuck to that property year after year as I have been doin’. Why suh, it took a quarter of a century’s experience fo’ me to learn that a rollin’ stone gathers no moss’. it did indeed, suh. Now I have observed the fellows that strike it, in nine cases out of ten, are the ones who follow up and hold on after they once strike a trail. Why, suh, if yo’ had seen the float rock that I found befo’ stakin’ out Gray Rocks, yo’ would know why I believe there is an entire hill full of wealth over yonder.”
While they were talking there came a gentle rap on the door. Vance called out for them to “come in. The door opened, and a boy sidled into the room with a letter in his hand and asked for Col. Bonifield.
“At yo’r service, suh,” said the old miner’ rising with much dignity. “Thank yo’, suh,” said he, taking the letter. The boy took himself off, closing the door behind him, while the colonel, adjusting his glasses, read aloud the address, “Miss Louise Bonifield.”
Dropping his glasses from his eyes, he placed the letter in his pocket and said: “Mr. Boast has evidently returned to Gold Bluff.”
“Mr. Boast, did you say?” asked Vance.
“Yes, suh, Mr. Boast—a young man in whom I have only the slightest confidence. His full name is J. Arthur Boast. His father, Colonel Boast, lives on a ranch about three miles from here.”
Vance could never explain why, but the unfavorable opinion he had formed of J. Arthur Boast while at Waterville was in the twinkling of an eye changed to hatred. Soon after, Colonel Bonifield took his departure, and Vance commenced preparing for his next day’s fishing-jaunt. His door had been left ajar, and presently he heard a squeaky, ill-omened voice that he well remembered.
“How do you do, Mr. Gilder?”
Vance turned and saw J. Arthur Boast standing at his door. “How do you do,” said Vance, rather abruptly.
“I did not expect to find you at Gold Bluff,” said Boast in an insinuating tone of voice.
“Why not?” said Vance; without deigning to look up.
“Oh, you eastern fellows, and newspaper men in particular, never stay very long in one place. So you’ve met my old mining friend, Colonel Bonifield?”
“Yes,” replied Vance.
“I presume you’ve met his daughter, Miss Louise?” As he made this remark he looked out of the corners of his restless eyes in a manner that was intended to be cunning Vance was full of resentment, and dared not trust himself to make and immediate reply. Presently Boast continued: “They are old friends, of mine; a most respectable family. I used to live in Gold Bluff; may live here again. One can’t say what may happen, you know.”