At last the trap laid for the public was sprung, and the public, as usual, was nipped. The success of the flotation was immediate, although applications did not come within a million of the sum asked for. After the flotation, Metcalfe’s manner changed perceptibly. Steele watched him as a cat watches a mouse, and saw that he was now perturbed and apparently dissatisfied.
“Why!” cried Steele to him, the morning after the figures were known to them, “you don’t seem nearly so happy as I expected. You surely did not look for the shares to be subscribed twice over?”
“No,” said Metcalfe gloomily, “but the amount that has been subscribed shows what vitality there was in the scheme.”
“Vitality!” cried Steele. “Bless my soul! you never doubted it, did you?”
“Oh, no, no,” said Metcalfe hastily. “No. I told you we were dead sure of a third, and the actual subscriptions have more than justified my forecast.”
“They have indeed!” cried Steele enthusiastically.
“I tell you what it is, Metcalfe, you’re one of the first financiers of this country.”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried Metcalfe, in no way cheered by the compliment.
“It isn’t nonsense,” said the genial Steele. “You’ve taken lessons from a first-rate master, for I look on Nicholson as one of the best men in the business.”
When John Steele had plumped a similar pointed remark at Nicholson, not the slightest change of expression had disturbed that individual’s calm visage. William Metcalfe kept his countenance under less perfect restraint. Steele’s smile was gentle and friendly, but his keen eyes missed no note of the other’s face. He watched a ruddy flush mount into his partner’s cheeks. He noticed the embarrassed hesitation that accompanied his utterance.
“Mr. Nicholson! Ah, yes, certainly, certainly. He’s not a friend of mine, of course, only a slight and recent acquaintance. Not the sort of man, Nicholson, to form friendships easily.”
“Really?” asked Steele. “I met him only once, but he seemed rather genial.”
“A great business man, a great business man,” hurriedly muttered Metcalfe, obviously trying to get himself under control once more, playing for time, and not quite knowing what he was saying.
“So I have been informed,” remarked Steele with easy carelessness. “One of the Amalgamated Soap group, I understand.”
“Quite so,” rejoined Metcalfe, his own man once more. “You see, Mr. Steele, I thought it would strengthen us tremendously if I could get a man like Nicholson to become interested in our project. The mere rumour that Amalgamated Soap was behind us would have been worth millions to us at the present juncture.”
“I quite agree with you, Metcalfe. Amalgamated Soap is a name to conjure with. The public worship success, and there you have success in its most highly developed form. Why didn’t you let me know? I might have been of some assistance to you.”
“Well, in the first place, I did not wish to mention so important a matter until I was sure of carrying it through. No use of giving promises that you cannot make good. In the second place, I was not aware that you knew Nicholson.”
“Oh, you were quite right; it was just a casual meeting, when we were introduced by a mutual friend. I don’t flatter myself that my views would have any influence upon a man of Nicholson’s standing in the financial world. But there is another part I don’t quite understand. I admit the value of Nicholson’s name to us, but why wasn’t his connection divulged in time to influence subscriptions?”
“You see, it was like this,” hesitated Metcalfe, for a liar must be a most agile person, and Steele’s questions had a fashion of touching the spot. “It was like this. I did not really conclude my arrangement with Nicholson until this morning. He’s a very difficult man to handle, and he knows as well as anyone his own value. I imagine he wished to see which way the cat was going to jump before he committed himself.”
“Well, Metcalfe, the cat has jumped entirely our way, even if the leap did not reach the furthest mark we staked out. The success of the subscriptions, then, induced Nicholson to join us?”
“Quite so, quite so, with the proviso that he is to have the vacant seat at the board, unless you have any objection.”
“Objection? Certainly not. I am highly delighted with our acquisition. Besides, the seat at the board is entirely in your gift. I have no right to object, even if I wished to do so.”
This was said with such an air of childlike simplicity that the perturbed Metcalfe, who seemingly still retained some remnants of conscience, showed confusion.
“True enough,” he murmured. “Still, I should not like to nominate anyone who might be personally distasteful to you.”
“I cannot imagine, Metcalfe, why you should suppose Nicholson could be distasteful to anyone. He is a tower of strength. I am overjoyed that you have induced him to join us.”
“I am very much relieved to hear you say so,” rejoined Metcalfe, who seemed bewildered at the turn things had taken.
The preliminary meetings of the company had all been held in Steele’s offices. This afternoon, however, the directors were to forgather at the board-room of the bank in which the deposits of the subscribers were lodged. Steele was thus to beard the lion in the lion’s own den, for he now no longer doubted that this bank was owned by Peter Berrington, Nicholson and their colleagues. The appointed hour was three o’clock, and John Steele arrived on the stroke, the last man to appear. Nicholson stood in the centre of the group. Metcalfe, who had quite recovered his composure, said with a fine air of good comradeship:
“I think you two gentlemen have met before, so a formal introduction is not necessary between Mr. Steele and Mr. Nicholson.”
“I had the somewhat chastened satisfaction of encountering Mr. Steele once under conditions I am not likely to forget,” said Nicholson quietly, with impressive geniality. “I count myself one of Mr. Steele’s numerous admirers.”
“It is kind of you to say that, Mr. Nicholson,” replied John, extending his hand, while that winning smile of his played about his lips. “On the occasion to which you refer, I was so unhappy as to be placed in opposition to Amalgamated Soap. I am the more gratified, therefore, to find myself in some measure a colleague of so distinguished a coterie, even if I am admitted into but an outer temple, as it were.”
“Your gratification, Mr. Steele, is as nothing compared to my own at seeing you here amongst us.”
John Steele bowed his acknowledgment. It was if the lion had begun by complimenting Daniel.
“Gentlemen, I think the hour has struck,” said the grave Farwell senior, taking his seat at the head of the long table.
The directors ranged themselves on either side, Nicholson at the right hand of the chairman, Metcalfe next him, and the younger Farwell the third on that side. Opposite Nicholson sat John Steele, and beside him his two nominees. Thus quietly the lines of battle were formed and to all outward appearance the meeting resembled a love-feast. Bunches of papers were heaped before the chairman, while writing-pads, pens and ink were placed in front of each director. Steele, assuming a negligent, unconcerned air that was admirably put on, wondered what particular battery Nicholson would unmask. The latter’s eyes were bent on his writing-pad, and he tried one nib after another, as if to find a pen to his satisfaction. The chairman, in droning voice, recited the history of the company up to its going before the public, read documents, and gave various figures which it might be supposed were familiar to all there assembled. There was silence around the table. Nicholson never looked up until the chairman announced the amount of public subscription.
“What’s that, Mr. Farwell?” he asked quietly, raising his head. “What are the figures?”
Farwell repeated them.
“And how much do you say is the authorised capital of the company?”
Farwell named the sum.
“Then we are a million short?”
“Nearly so, Mr. Nicholson.”
Nicholson’s face became set and stern. Slowly he turned towards Metcalfe on his right hand, whose eyes shifted uneasily from one to another without ever resting on John Steele.
“I understood, sir,” said Nicholson very slowly, as if weighing his words, “that all the money was in the bank?”
“I told you, sir,” replied the hesitating Metcalfe, “that there was in the bank all the capital we thought necessary.”
“Necessary?” echoed Nicholson, in cold, even tones. “We make a demand upon the public. We state that the value of our property is so much. The public responds by offering us a million less. Necessary? I have never yet had anything to do with a company whose capital was not over-subscribed. I have never yet sanctioned the sending out of letters of allotment unaccompanied by letters of regret.”
John Steele had difficulty in keeping the smile from his lips. The tones of righteous indignation were not in the least overdone. The expression of virtuous disapproval at being tricked, on the splendidly chiselled, clear-cut face, was marvellous in its reserve; in its hint of unlimited power behind. Steele felt, rather than saw, the uneasiness of the two colleagues by his side, who realised, without exactly understanding why, that things were going desperately wrong, like an engineer who sees an open bridge in front of him, and finds the brakes will not work.
“Admirably acted,” said Steele to himself. “We pay good money to visit the theatre, and yet there is such histrionic talent as this in the business world.”
Then aloud, in a voice mildly protesting, he said: “Nevertheless, Mr. Nicholson, the million shares left on our hands are quite marketable. We have ample capital to go on with, and Mr. Metcalfe will assure you that the factories themselves are all on a paying basis. You cannot surely mean that having arrived at this stage, we are not to proceed to allotment, Mr. Nicholson?”
“That is exactly what I do mean,” replied Nicholson, speaking as mildly as his opponent had done. “My colleagues would never consent to admit connection with a company formed in the circumstances now before us. Our duty to the public——”
“Mr. Nicholson, I quite appreciate your position, and that of your colleagues, Mr. Peter Berrington and the rest. The public would indeed be shocked to learn that Peter, one of our religious pillars, could be guilty of anything in the least oblique. As cleanliness is next to godliness, we are all aware that Amalgamated Soap stands close to the Pearly Gates, and the only thing we fear about Peter is that when he gets to heaven he shall find another saint of the same name there before him, which may lead to confusion of identity. I take it for granted, Mr. Nicholson, that you are about to move a resolution requiring all this money to be returned to the subscribers. If you will propose such a motion, I shall be very happy to second it.”
An electric silence fell on the group, the kind of silence which on a hot summer’s night precedes a clap of thunder. Nicholson drew a long breath and squared his shoulders. Metcalfe gazed in fascinated dismay at John Steele. Even the Farwells showed traces of human interest. Nicholson did not venture to challenge a vote. After a few moments of this embarrassing stillness he said gently:
“Perhaps Mr. John Steele has something else to propose?”
“No, I have not,” said Steele; “but with the chairman’s permission, there being no motion before the house, I should like to make a personal explanation which may save you future trouble.”
The chairman nodded permission, and Nicholson said:
“We shall be interested to hear anything you say, Mr. Steele.”
“To return the money is, of course, to wreck the company. Hitherto this company has been associated with the names of John Steele and William Metcalfe. Tomorrow the sensation of the daily journals all over the country will be the collapse of the big scheme which those two men undertook to float. Mr. William Metcalfe is unknown in Chicago; is but a stool-pigeon well paid for the part he has enacted, and he disappears from the scene. John Steele stands the brunt. All the funds he possesses are in Amalgamated Soap’s bank. His affairs are in the hands of Amalgamated Soap lawyers. One legal difficulty after another comes up; there is a long fight over the remains, and at last Amalgamated Soap steps in and sweeps up the débris. They are in possession of valuable property scattered throughout the West in the beet-sugar line; they announce their possession and the reconstruction of the company, and everything is beautiful, but John Steele is mangled in the collision, with no insurance, even for his relatives.
“When I learned the other week that Mr. Nicholson was interested in this company, I felt like the man who had gone down into a cave and unexpectedly clutched a huge bear at the black bottom of it. That man did not stop to question the intentions of the bear; he simply got out. I followed his example. In the wheat deal Mr. Nicholson knows of, I made several millions, and ever since then certain capitalists in this city have begged me if I fell in with a similar good thing not to hug it all to myself, but allow them to come in on the ground floor, and I promised to do so. The moment I knew Mr. Nicholson was to have something to do with the beet-sugar project, I went directly to these capitalists, pledged them to secrecy, guaranteed that Amalgamated Soap was head and shoulders in this deal, and that no less a person than Mr. Nicholson himself would assume charge of the company. Gentlemen, they bit instantly. I sold out my share to them for the money it had cost me, and fifty per cent, additional; and, furthermore, I got the cash. Now I shall read you a letter which will appear in the Chicago newspapers to-morrow morning.”
To the Editor:
Sir—The Consolidated Beet Sugar Company, with which my name has hitherto been associated, and which has been so splendidly supported by Western capital, as indicated by the subscriptions now in the bank, will hereafter be in charge of the eminent financiers associated with Amalgamated Soap. I am pleased to state that this will be almost entirely a Chicago enterprise, and that some of the best men in this city have bought out my interests therein. I have only to add that Mr. Nicholson himself is now a member of the board of directors, and nothing further need be said to assure all concerned of the immense prosperity which awaits this company, and the far-reaching advantages it will offer both to agriculture and manufacture in the West.
Yours sincerely,
John Steele.
“And now, gentlemen,” said Steele, as he folded up the copy of this letter and placed it in his inside pocket, “nothing remains for me to do but to resign my seat on the board, as I have no longer the slightest interest in this company. But before handing in my formal resignation, I shall be pleased to second any motion Mr. Nicholson cares to propose.”
“Mr. Chairman,” said Nicholson, quite unruffled, “I move we now proceed to allotment.”
“I have pleasure in seconding the motion,” said John Steele, rising, bowing to the company, and leaving the room.
SUGAR is a fattening product, and the Consolidated Beet Sugar Company waxed fat and prospered. Its shares stood high on the Stock Exchange, and the members of the syndicate to whom John Steele had sold his portion were exuberantly grateful to the young man for the opportunity he had given them. His reputation of possessing a keen financial brain was enhanced by the forming of this company; for it was supposed that it was he who had induced Amalgamated Soap to take it up. It was erroneously surmised that the great Peter Berrington and his colleagues had been so much impressed by Steele’s genius in the wheat deal, where he was opposed to them, that they now desired the co-operation of this rising young figure in the commercial world. No hint of the momentary death-struggle in the board-room of the bank had ever leaked out through the solid doors. Steele was now one of the men to be counted with in the large affairs of the Western metropolis. Everything he touched was successful. Personally he was liked, and great social success might have been his had he cared for society, which he did not. He was commonly rated as being worth anywhere from six to ten millions, and the world looked upon him as the most fortunate of men. It did him no harm to be thought to enjoy the backing of the powerful Peter Berrington, and probably not more than half-a-dozen men knew that such was far from being the case. He did not bask in Peter’s smile, but, on the contrary, shivered in his shadow.
The one man who had no delusions on the subject was John Steele himself. For the second time he had been entirely victorious over Nicholson and the gigantic coterie behind him; but this, strange as it may appear, gave him no satisfaction. If he had won the determined fight through his own superior skill, or because of some great display of mental power, he might have rested more at ease. Had that been the case, he would have awaited the next onslaught with more equanimity than he at present possessed; but he knew that his victory came to him through chance; chance multiplied again and again. It was chance that his partner had been out of his room when the messenger-boy brought the telegram. It was chance that Steele had opened the envelope. It was chance that he knew a man who could decode the cipher before it was too late for him to take action on the information it carried. After these three lucky throws of the dice, he admitted to himself that he had handled the situation with diplomatic success; but it disturbed him to remember that all his vigilance would have proved unavailing, had not pure luck stood his friend. Yet, after all, the initial mistake was Nicholson’s, who should not have sent a cipher telegram to the office of the man he intended to destroy. Nicholson presumably did not know that his agent was actually housed with Steele, and it was a mistake on Metcalfe’s part not to have furnished his chief with this information. But even putting the best face upon the matter, he could not conceal from himself the large part that luck had played in compassing his salvation.
This never-lifted shadow of the silent Peter Berrington began to produce its effect upon him. He became timourous—afraid to venture in any large concern. He knew he was wasting time in pottering with small affairs—street railways in outside towns, the installing of electric light here and there, and such enterprises, which furnished only a moderate revenue to an enterprising speculator. Time and again he refused chances involving large amounts which turned out tremendously lucrative to the promoters, but which he had been afraid to touch, fearing the grip of Peter Berrington’s unseen hand on his throat. He began to acquire the unexpected reputation of being an over-cautious capitalist, and finally well-known people, who formerly professed much admiration for him, ceased to come to his office with their schemes. Steele laughed uneasily to himself as he thought that Peter Berrington might perhaps accomplish his purpose by the gradual wearing down of his courage. Of course, the fact that a project became successful was no proof that the hand of Nicholson was not concealed somewhere within its intricacies to clutch at John Steele if he had become involved. He tried to shake off this depression, and once or twice plunged rather recklessly, only to become nervous before the climax arrived and sell out, sometimes at a small profit and sometimes at a loss.
At last he came to the conclusion that it was not Peter Berrington at all, or his shadow, that was affecting him, but the usual breakdown which afflicts strenuous business men in the stimulating atmosphere of a great American city.
“My nerve’s gone; that’s what’s the matter with me,” he said to himself. “I must go and rough it for a summer in the mountains, or else take a trip to some spa in Europe. If I keep on like this, I shall be utterly useless in a live city like Chicago.”
He consulted several of his friends—many of them, in fact—and told them he was feeling far from fit. His complaint was common enough, and every man to whom he spoke suggested a remedy. Some advised the plunging into dissipation at a fashionable health resort, and some recommended various medicinal springs in Europe which would work wonders; but the majority counselled him to take rod and gun, and get into the Rocky Mountains, camp out, and live like an Indian.
“Then,” they said jocularly, smiting him on the back, “you’ll be all right, and come back yearning for scalps on the Stock Exchange.”
The newspapers mentioned the fact that John Steele was going into the Rockies to hunt and fish and camp out for a month or more to recover tone.
It was at this interesting juncture that Alice Fuller called to see him. Now, John Steele was the most susceptible of men, and one reason he shunned society was because he knew he would surely fall a victim to the first designing pretty girl who laid a trap for him—if, indeed, pretty girls ever do lay traps for men said to possess from six to ten millions. His weakness in this line was exemplified by his impetuous proposal to Dorothy Slocum in the environs of Bunkerville, as has already been stated. But Alice Fuller was not the commonplace young person Dorothy Slocum had been. He often thought of his proposal to Dorothy with a shudder, and accounted it a narrow escape, which, indeed, it was not, for Dorothy was thoroughly devoted to her station-master, and never gave even a thought to Mr. John Steele of Chicago.
Alice Fuller was a blonde, and she brought in with her to the conventional private office of John Steele, with its extremely modern fittings of card indices, loose-leaf ledgers, and expanding office furniture, an air of breezy freshness that hinted of the mountainous West. Although dressed as any Chicago woman might be, there was, nevertheless, something about her costume which suggested the riding of mountain ponies and even the expert handling of a rifle.
The glory of a woman is her hair, and in truth Miss Fuller’s golden tresses were glorious enough; but her eyes were the most distinguished and captivating features of a face sufficiently beautiful to attract attention anywhere. They were of a deep, translucent blue, darkening now and then into violet, like a pair of those limpid mountain lakes in the Rockies whose depths are said to be unfathomable. It was impossible to look into those honest orbs without trusting the clear purity of the soul behind them, and Steele, whose nerves were unstrung, almost shivered with apprehension when they were turned full upon him.
“Lord save me!” he thought with a gasp. “If this girl wants to sell shares in the most bogus company afloat, I’m her victim. John Steele, if your bank account is to remain intact, now is the time to play St. Anthony.”
But aloud he said calmly enough: “Pray be seated, madam,” and she sank gracefully into a chair on the opposite side of the flat-topped desk behind which he was entrenched, although small protection the barricade afforded him against such artillery as a handsome young woman might bring to bear upon the position.
“It is so good of you to see me,” said the girl. “I have read much of you in the newspapers, and I know that your time is valuable, so I shall take up as little of it as may be necessary to explain my business.”
Somehow this remark, although only introductory sparring, disappointed young Mr. Steele. Nearly every stranger he met said the same thing in almost identical words. They all referred to his newspaper reputation, of which he was exceedingly tired, and nearly everyone spoke of the value of his time, promised not to encroach upon it, and then stayed for hours if they were permitted.
“My time is of little value at the present moment, Miss Fuller, because I am doing nothing. For some months past I have been rather out of health, and, in fact, within a few days I expect to leave Chicago.”
“Yes,” she rejoined, “I saw that also in the papers. I read that you intended to go West among the mountains. Is that true?”
“Such are my present intentions, but they are always liable to change. A man who is fighting his own nerves is rather capricious, you know.”
“Like a woman,” laughed Miss Alice. “Well, it is on account of the statement in the Press that I am here. I have been thinking of calling upon you for a long time, but it appears we have no mutual friends who could give me an introduction, and so, seeing you were about to leave the city, I said to myself: ‘It’s now or never.‘The reference to the mountains struck me as a lucky omen. You know we women are rather superstitious, Mr. Steele, and I think it was that even more than your impending departure which gave me courage to venture up here.”
“I am very glad you came,” said John Steele gallantly, “and I shall be more than pleased if there is anything I can do for you.”
“My father is the owner of a gold-mine in the Black Hills. Do you know anything of mines, Mr. Steele?”
John slowly shook his head. The mere mention of a gold-mine did something to clarify his brain from the glamour that was befogging it.
“I know nothing whatever about mines, Miss Fuller, excepting the fact that more gold has been sunk in goldmines than has ever been taken out of them.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear you say that,” replied the girl, with a slight tremor of apprehension in her voice, “and, furthermore, I do not in the least believe it to be true. Indeed, it cannot be true, because it is impossible to sink gold without first having mined it. Nothing can be more lucrative than a good gold-mine, for its product is one of the few things taken from the earth which do not fluctuate in value. With copper, or silver, or iron, you are dependent on the market; not so with gold.”
“You are a very eloquent advocate, Miss Fuller. Where is your father?”
The girl looked up quickly at this sudden change of subject, and once more John fell under the fascination of those enchanting eyes.
“My father? He is in Chicago.”
“Then, Miss Fuller, the best plan will be to have him call upon me, and we can discuss the mine together.”
“Alas!” said the young woman, with a mournful droop of the head, “if that had been possible, I should not have been here. My father at the present moment is very ill and quite unable to discuss business with anyone. You are going from the city to the mountains in search of health. He has come from the mountains to the city on the same quest. The gold-mine is at once our hope and our despair. If it can be properly worked, we are certain it will produce riches incalculable; but it takes money to make money, and my father knows no wealthy people nor does he possess the necessary capital for the preliminary outlay. We are somewhat like King Midas, in danger of starving with gold all around us.”
“Has the mine been opened, or is it only a prospective claim?”
“At the present moment there are from sixteen to twenty miners working upon it. The shaft, I believe, is something like a hundred feet deep, and one or two short galleries have been run. The ore assay is extremely rich; I have not the figures with me, but can easily bring them; and the reports are better and better as the miners proceed.”
“If that be the case, Miss Fuller, I see no reason why you should lack for capital.”
“There are a hundred reasons, but one is sufficient. Every capitalist shuns a gold-mine. They speak just as you spoke a moment ago. Then, you see, our lives having been spent in the West, we know very few Eastern people, and those few have no money. The great difficulty is not in proving the wealth of the mine, but in getting a capitalist to listen. If you promise to listen, I shall undertake to prove to you that this is one of the most valuable properties in the world.”
“Well, Miss Fuller, I am listening; but, as I told you, I know nothing whatever about gold-mines, and, indeed, am rather afraid of them. If the mine is producing ore in paying quantity, why does not your father have that ore crushed?—I suppose they could do that in the neighbourhood, or at Denver, or wherever the nearest mining town is—and with the product keep himself and pay his men?”
“That is exactly what he has done, Mr. Steele, and a ruinous thing it is to do. If it were not for that, we should have had to give up the struggle long ago. But there are no mines within miles of us, and we are two days and a half’s journey from the nearest railway. Ore is bulky and heavy, and the transport alone over those mountain roads, which are not roads at all, and scarcely even paths, is at once slow and expensive. Railway freight is high, and when the ore gets to the reducing-plant, we have to take exactly what is given us, because beggars cannot be choosers. We need machinery at the mouth of the pit, and whoever will furnish the money for that machinery is sure to reap a rich reward.”
“Nevertheless—” protested John, but the girl interrupted him, her eyes aglow with fervour.
“You promised to listen, you know. There is another point I wish to put before you. The ore is very rich, and if we ship much of it, there is bound to be inquiry as to where it came from. Now, my father has been able to stake out only a comparatively small claim. If once it becomes known where this ore originates, there will be the usual rush. The rush is ultimately inevitable in any case, but my father is anxious to be fully secure before it comes.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Miss Fuller,” said John in a burst of enthusiasm, “I’ll give you a thousand dollars; and if you make money out of your mine, you can repay me at your leisure.”
Alice Fuller slowly shook her golden head.
“I could not accept money in that way,” she said. “It is like the giving of charity when a pathetic tale is told. Besides, a thousand dollars would be of no particular use; it would not purchase the stamp-mills, or transport them to the mine. In two months, or three, we should be just where we are now, and the thousand dollars would be gone.”
“What is it, then, you wish me to do, Miss Fuller?”
“I wish our transaction to be upon a sane business basis, and I don’t want you to offer me a thousand dollars or twenty thousand dollars, or two hundred thousand dollars again.”
“I beg your pardon. I had no thought of charity or anything of the sort when I made my proposal.”
“I am sure you hadn’t,” said the girl, with a naïve confidence which Steele found very charming. “I’ll tell you what I wish to suggest. You are going to the mountains in any case. Very well, go to the Black Hills; there you will find the air pure and bracing; there are wild mountains and sparkling streams, and everything that a tired city man could desire. I want you to camp near our mine and investigate it thoroughly. If you are so satisfied with it as to justify the risk, I ask you to be prepared to buy a half share for three hundred thousand dollars.”
John Steele drew a long breath.
“My purpose in going to the mountains is to get away from business, and not to take upon myself a new anxiety; to fish and shoot, not to pore over gold-bearing ore.”
“Are you an enthusiastic sportsman, then?”
“Not at all. I was too busy when I was young to indulge in such recreation, and too poor. Since then I have become busier still.”
“And too rich?” suggested the girl, with a smile.
“A man is never too rich, I am afraid.”
“If you are not an enthusiastic sportsman, a week in the woods will prove more than enough for you. After that comes boredom, and a yearning for the ticker and the morning newspaper.”
“I more than half believe you’re right,” said Steele ruefully.
“Of course I am right. Now, if you camp out beside the mine, you have something to interest you. Don’t bother about it for the first week. There is plenty of shooting and fishing in the neighbourhood.”
“I hate to put two and a half days between me and a telegraph-wire.”
“Then you had better leave mountains alone and stay in Chicago.”
John laughed.
“You are a very clever young lady, Miss Fuller, and I wonder you haven’t made that gold-mine a success on your own.”
“I am doing it now,” she said with a flash almost of defiance from her eyes.
Again the young man laughed.
“Are you?” he asked. “You women have us at a disadvantage when you talk business, but I am going to get right down to plain facts, and speak to you as if you were your own brother. You won’t be offended?”
“Not in the least.”
“Very well. Do you know what a salted mine is?”
“Certainly. I thought you said you knew nothing of mines? A salted mine is one in which rich ore has been planted for the cheating of fools.”
“An admirable definition, Miss Fuller. Well, in the matter of mines I’m a fool, and a salted mine would take me in as a gold brick on State Street would delude an Illinois farmer.”
“Then induce an expert to go with you—a mining expert who knows pay ore when he sees it.”
“I am more distrustful of mining experts than of salted mines.”
The girl sighed.
“I suppose all faith has left Chicago?”
“It has—in gold-mines.”
“Now, Mr. Steele, I’ll talk to you as if you were your own sister. Have you ever done a stroke of useful toil since you were born?”
“Oh, yes; I worked on a railway.”
“Very well. Go to the Black Hills and take a miner’s outfit with you. Become for the time one of my father’s workmen—or, rather, boss of the gang, if you like. Go into that mine, and direct them where they are to run the next level, and follow that level for a month, working with the men and keeping clear of the blasts. After you have penetrated a month in any direction you please, take the ore from the last blast and have it assayed. A mine can’t be salted under those conditions. If that whole mountain is salted with gold, you’d better buy it.”
“No one can gainsay the honesty of that, Miss Fuller; but, to tell you the truth, I dread the two and a half days’ journey from the railway.”
“You don’t need to. I will be your guide.”
“What!” cried John, in amazement.
“I’ll take you from the railway to the Hard Luck mine. Will you go?” she demanded with a touch of defiance.
“Go!” he cried, discretion struggling with enthusiasm. “Of course I’ll go. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. But, then, on the other hand—you see—well—to speak quite frankly, for a young lady to—to, as one might say, journey across the plains——”
“Yes, I know, I know. You are talking now, not to my brother, as you remarked a while ago, but to my brother’s sister. All my life I have had not only to take care of myself, but of my father as well. This project is a matter of vital importance to me, and I cannot allow it to fail merely because the rules of society would frown on what I intend to do. I shall take with me my own tent, and an old man who was in my father’s employ long before I was born. This is a cold business deal, and no other consideration is going to enter into it. So let us brush aside every other consideration and come down to plain facts. You offered me a thousand dollars, and I refused it. If you will now give me the necessary money, which may be anything from two hundred dollars upwards, depending on what you want to take with you, I shall go at once to Pickaxe Gulch, which is the nearest railway station to the Hard Luck mine, and will collect what transport we need. There I shall await your coming. Do you intend to take any servants with you?”
“I shall be accompanied by Sam Jackson, a negro man, who is the best cook in this town.”
“Very well, you will need a horse for him, and one for yourself; I shall need two horses; that’s four. Then if you will give me an idea of the number of tents and boxes you require, I shall secure mules enough to carry them. We shall want two or three men to look after the mules, and you must give me a week at least to get this cavalcade together. Sometimes there are neither animals nor men at Pickaxe Gulch, but I intend to telegraph at once and secure whatever transport is available.”
John Steele smiled his appreciation of the capability displayed by the fearless young woman, opened his drawer, and took out a cheque-book.
“Shall we say five hundred dollars?” he asked, looking across the desk at her. “You must leave some money with your father, you know.”
“Five hundred will be ample,” she replied decidedly, and he wrote a cheque for that amount.
Later on in his life Steele remembered that demand for money with admiration. It was just one of those little points where a less subtle person than Miss Fuller would have made a mistake, deluded by success in getting him to promise to make the trip. But the young woman was evidently shrewd enough to know that after she left he would wonder, she having pleaded poverty, where the money came from to pay for so long a railway journey and at the same time provide for an ailing father at home. He always regarded that request for expenses as the climax of a well-thought-out plan.
WHEN John Steele stepped down from the sleeping-car in the early morning at Pickaxe Gulch, he found Alice Fuller the sole occupant of the platform. She welcomed him with the cordiality of good comradeship. Her costume differed rather strikingly from the apparel she wore in his office. She reminded him of one of those reckless female riders he had seen at Buffalo Bilks Wild West Show, and he was forced to confess that the outfit suited her to perfection. She was even more attractive than when he had first seen her, and he could hardly have believed that possible. Before he ventured to compliment the young woman on her appearance, she complimented him on his.
“You are already looking very much better than you did in the city.”
“Yes!” he cried jubilantly. “Your visit did me ever so much good; and, besides that, I am now out from under Peter’s shadow.”
“‘Peter’s shadow?’” she repeated. “What is that? The shadow of a mountain?”
“In a way, yes,” laughed Steele, “and a gold-producing mountain at that. I have been a rather anxious person these many months past; but now, whether it is the exhilaration of the air in the West, or the prospect”—he hesitated a moment, then continued—“of this journey, I am quite my own man once more.”
Without reply she led the way to the dusty road which ran between two rows of roughly built shanties.
“Did you breakfast on the train?” she asked.
“No.”
“I thought you might not have an opportunity to get anything to eat on the train, as it stops here so early, and I have ordered a meal for you at the one tavern in this place, which is far from being first-class. However, possibly, you can endure such a repast for once and then we will get on our way as soon as possible.”
“Oh, the cuisine of the West is no surprise to me,” said Steele. “I’ve had a good deal of experience with it in my time.”
They walked up the street together, the negro cook following and carrying Steele’s valise. At the tavern the caravan was collected, and more than ever the resemblance to the Wild West Show impressed itself upon the young man. The boxes had been sent on some days ahead, and were now securely fastened to the backs of the mules. Four saddle-horses were tied to the rude pillars of the verandah. Steele went inside the building and partook of the breakfast, such as it was, and ten minutes later the procession started north.
Their route lay across the plain, and during the forenoon the party traversed a road of sorts, reasonably well defined. In the horizon loomed low mountains, which did not seem perceptibly nearer when a halt was called by the side of a stream to prepare lunch. Steele was more accustomed to a street-car than to the back of a horse; but the way was level, and the horse developed none of those buck-jumping peculiarities which John, in his Eastern ignorance, had always associated with the steeds of the Far West. His business heretofore had never taken him away from a line of railway, and where it had been necessary to make a road journey, the jaunt was accomplished in some sort of vehicle. However, he soon became accustomed to his new method of locomotion and succeeded better than he had anticipated.
Alice Fuller proved a most expert horse-woman, and her superb attitude in the saddle still further enslaved this ardent young man, who began to think he had never really lived until now. He was rather disappointed, but rendered none the less eager, to find that he was not getting as much of her company as he had hoped. In the beginning they rode side by side in front of the cavalcade, to be out of the dust which the mule train raised. But every now and then she wheeled her horse round and allowed the procession to pass her, scanning each animal and its burden with the eye of an expert, seeing that everything was in order. When Steele expressed admiration of her capability, Miss Fuller told him she had many times been in full charge of a similar expedition going or coming from the mine; and once when he complained of lack of companionship, she informed him that success depended a great deal on the first few hours of the march, and it was her duty to see that none of the animals fell lame, and that no burden shifted, thus causing a mule to lag behind its fellows.
“To-morrow,” she said, “we shall be among the foothills, and even this afternoon we shall be free of the road and the dust. Then, if everything is going well, I may find plenty of time to talk to you, for I see you are anxious to learn more about the mine before you reach it.”
Steele threw a free-hearted laugh on the echoless air. Any little incident seemed now a fit subject for mirth. The clear atmosphere seemed as exhilarating as wine, and there was the further intoxicant of the girl’s alluring presence.
Lunch by the side of the stream more than made amends for the unattractive breakfast. The efficient Jackson had caused each of the numerous boxes to be numbered, and he began with Number One, which his master said was a very good thing to look after. He produced a portable stove, and a handful of coke performed miracles in the desert. It was soon evident that John Steele had no intention of starving while he wandered in the wilderness. He drew from its straw envelope a bottle of prime champagne, a drink which doubtless had never quenched thirst on that particular route before. Miss Fuller partook of the wine but sparingly, and lifted her glass when he proposed the toast of success to the expedition, thrilling him as she did so with those enthralling eyes of hers, and the young man began to wonder whether he actually saw heaven in their depths, or was looking at a desert mirage through an atmosphere of sparkling wine.
He persuaded her to linger after the cavalcade had moved on, saying they would overtake it at a gallop, and the young woman, with scarcely concealed reluctance, acquiesced. He threw himself full length at her feet and gazed up at her, while she watched, with the suggestion of a frown on her smooth brow, the procession lessening in the distance. He lit a cigarette, with her permission; and began the sort of conversation which a young man in the early stages of fascination is prone to indulge in. At first it seemed to him her thoughts were elsewhere, which was not in the least flattering to a person who was doing his best. On his chiding her for this, she drew a sharp breath and cast a glance upon him which he fancied was the reverse of friendly. It was veiled an instant after, and then, with something like a sigh, she appeared to accept the situation.