Silver and Gold: A Story of Luck and Love in a Western Mining Camp

THE HAND OF FATE

The swift hand of fate, which had hurled Denver from the heights into the depths of dark despair, suddenly snatched him up out of the abyss again and whisked him back to Globe. When he walked out of Moroni his mind was a blank, so overcome was his body with heat and toil and the astounding turns of his fortune; but at the next station below, as he was trying to steal a ride, a man had dropped off the train and dragged him, willy nilly, into his Pullman. It was a mining superintendent who had seen him in action when he was timbering the Last Chance stope, and in spite of his protests he paid his fare to Globe and put him to work down a shaft.

At the bottom of this shaft was millions of dollars worth of copper and level after level of expensive workings; and some great stirring of the earth was cutting it off, crushing the bottle off at the neck. Every night, every shift, the swelling ground moved in, breaking stulls and square-sets like tooth-picks; and now with solid steel and quick-setting concrete they were fighting for the life of the mine. It was a dangerous job, such as few men cared to tackle; but to Denver it was a relief, a return to his old life after the delirium of an ugly dream. Even yet he could not trace the flaw in his reasoning which had brought him to earth with such a thump; but he knew, in general, that his error was the common one of trying to run a mine on a shoestring. He had set up in business as a mining magnate on eight hundred dollars and his nerve, and Bible-Back Murray had busted him.

Upon that point, at least, Denver suffered no delusion; he knew that his downfall had been planned from the first and that he had bit like a sucker at the bait. Murray had dropped a few words and spit on the hook and Denver had shipped him his ore. The rest, of course, was like shooting fish in the Pan-handle–he had refused to buy the ore, leaving Denver belly-up, to float away with other human débris. But there was one thing yet that he could not understand–why had Murray closed down his own mine? That was pulling it pretty strong, just to freeze out a little prospector and rob him of a ton or two of ore; and yet Denver had proof that it was true. He had staked a hobo who had come over the trail and the hobo had told him what he knew. The diamond drill camp was closed down and all the men had left, but the guard was still herding the property. And the hobo had seen a girl at Pinal. She was easy to look at but hard to talk to, so he had passed and hit the trail for Globe.

Denver worked like a demon with a gang of Cousin Jacks, opposing the swelling ground with lengths of railroad steel and pouring in the concrete behind them; but all the time, by fits and snatches, the old memories would press in upon him. He would think of Mother Trigedgo and her glowing prophecies, which had turned out so wonderfully up to a certain point and then had as suddenly gone wrong; and then he would think of the beautiful artist with whom he was fated to fall in love, and how, even there, his destiny had worked against him and led him to sacrifice her love. For how could one hope to win the love of a woman if he denied her his friendship first? And yet, if he accepted her as his dearest friend, he would simply be inviting disaster.

It was all wrong, all foolish–he dismissed it from his mind as unworthy of a thinking man–yet the words of the prophecy popped up in his head like the memories of some evil dream. His hopes of sudden riches were blasted forever, he had given up the thought of Drusilla; but the one sinister line recurred to him constantly–“at the hands of your dearest friend.” Never before in his life had he been without a pardner, to share his ramblings and adventures, but now in that black hole with the steel rails coming down and death on every hand, superstition overmastered him and he rebuffed the hardy Cornishmen, refusing to take any man for his friend. Nor would he return to Mother Trigedgo’s boarding house, for her prophecies had ruined his life.

He worked on for a week, trying to set his mind at rest, and then a prompting came over him suddenly to go back and see Drusilla. If death must come, if some friend must kill him, in whose hands would he rather entrust his life than in those of the woman he loved? Perhaps it was all false, like the rest of the prophecy, the gold and silver treasures and the rest; and if he was brave he might win her at last and have her for more than a friend. But how could he face her, after all he had said, after boasting as he had of his fortune? And he had refused her friendship, when she had endeavored to comfort him and to exorcise this fear-devil that pursued him. He went back to work, determined to forget it all, but that evening he drew his time. It came to ninety dollars, for seven shifts and over-time, and they offered him double to stay; but the desire to see Drusilla had taken possession of him and he turned his face towards Pinal.

It was early in the morning when he rode out of Globe and took the trail over the divide; and as he spurred up a hill he overtook another horseman who looked back and grinned at him wisely.

“Going to the strike?” he asked and Denver’s heart leapt, though he kept his quirt and spurs working.

“What strike?” he said and the man burst into a laugh as if sensing a hidden jest.

“That’s all right,” he answered, “I guess you’re hep–they say it runs forty per cent copper.”

“How’d you hear about it?” inquired Denver, fishing cautiously for information. “Where you going–over to Pinal?”

“You’re whistling,” returned the man, quite off his guard. “Say, stake me a claim when you get there, if old Bible-Back hasn’t jumped them all.”

“Say, what are you talking about?” demanded Denver, suddenly reining in his horse. “Is Murray jumping claims?”

“Never mind!” replied the man, shutting up like a clam, and Denver spurred on and left him.

There was a strike then in Pinal, Old Murray had tapped the vein and it ran up to forty per cent copper! That would make the claim that Denver had abandoned the week before worth thousands and thousands of dollars. It would make him rich and Bunker Hill rich and–yes, it would prove the prophecy! He had chosen the silver treasure and the gold treasure had been added to it–for the copper ore which had come in later was almost the color of gold. As old Bunk had said, all these prophecies were symbolical, and he had done Mother Trigedgo an injustice. And there was one claim that he knew of–yes, and four others, too–that Murray would never jump. That was his own Silver Treasure and the four claims of Bunker’s that he had done the annual work on himself.

Denver’s heart leapt again as he raced his horse across the flats and led him scrambling with haste up the steep hills, and before the sun was three hours high he had plunged into the box canyon of Queen Creek. Here the trail wound in and out, crossing and recrossing the shrunken stream and mounting with painful zigzags over the points; but he rioted through it all, splashing the water out of the crossings as he hurried to claim his own. The box canyon grew deeper, the walls more precipitous, the creek bottom more dark and cavernous; until at last it opened out into broad flats and boulder patches, thickly covered with alders and ash trees. And then as he swung around the final, rocky point he saw his own claim in the distance. It was nothing but a hole in the side of the rocky hillside, a slide of gray waste down the slope; but to him it was a beacon to light his home-coming, a proof that some dreams do come true. He galloped down the trail where Drusilla and he had loitered and let out an exultant whoop.

But as Denver came opposite his mine a sinister thing happened–a head rose up against the black darkness of the tunnel and a man looked stealthily out. Then he drew back his head like some snake in a hole and Denver stopped and stared. A low wall of rocks had been built across the cut and the man was crouching behind it–Denver jogged down and turned up the trail. A glimpse at Pinal showed the streets full of automobiles and a huddle of men by the store door, and as he rode up towards his mine Bunker Hill came running out and beckoned him frantically back.

“Come back here!” he hollered and Denver turned and looked at him but kept on up the narrow trail. The mine was his, without a doubt, both by purchase and by assessment work done; and he had no fear of dispossession by a jumper who was so obviously in the wrong.

“Hello, there!” he hailed, reining in before the tunnel; and after a minute the man rose up with his pistol poised over his shoulder. It was Dave, Murray’s gun-man, and at sight of his enemy Denver was swept with a gust of passion. From the moment he had first met him, this narrow-eyed, sneering bad-man had roused all the hate that was in him; but now it had gone beyond instinct. He found him in adverse possession of his property and with a gun raised ready to shoot.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Denver insolently but Chatwourth did not move. He stood like a statue, his gun balanced in the air, a thin, evil smile on his lips, and Denver gave way to his fury. “You get out of there!” he ordered. “Get off my property! Get off or I’ll put you off!”

Chatwourth twirled his gun in a contemptuous gesture; and then, like a flash, he was shooting. He threw his shots low, between the legs of the horse, which reared and whirled in a panic; and with the bang of the heavy gun in his ears, Denver found himself headed down the trail. A high derisive yell, a whoop of hectoring laughter, followed after him as he galloped into the open; and he was fighting his horse in a cloud of dust when Bunker Hill and the crowd came up.

CHAPTER XIX

THE MAN-KILLER

“Did he hit ye?” yelled Bunker when Denver had conquered his pitching horse and set him back on his haunches. “Hell’s bells, boy, I told you to stay out of there!”

“Well, you lend me a gun!” shouted Denver in a fury, “and I’ll go back and shoot it out with that dastard! It’s him or me–that’s all!”

“Here’s a gun, pardner,” volunteered a long-bearded prospector handing up a six-shooter with tremulous eagerness; but Bunker Hill struck the long pistol away and took Denver’s horse by the bit.

“Not by a jugful, old-timer,” he said to the prospector. “Do you want to get the kid killed? Come on back to the meeting and we’ll frame up something on these jumpers that’ll make ’em hunt their holes. But this boy here is my friend, understand?”

He held the prancing horse, which had been spattered with glancing lead, until Denver swung down out of the saddle; and then, while the crowd followed along at their heels, he led the way back to the store.

“What’s going on here?” demanded Denver, looking about at the automobile and the men who had popped up like magic, “has Murray made a strike?”

“Danged right,” answered Bunker, “he made a strike last month–and now he has jumped all our claims. Or at least, it’s his men, because Dave there’s the leader; but Murray claims they’re working for themselves. He’s over at his camp with a big gang of miners, driving a tunnel in to tap the deposit–it run forty per cent pure copper.”

“Well, we’re made then,” exulted Denver, “if we can get back our claims. Come on, let’s run these jumpers off!”

“Yes, that’s what I said, a few hours ago,” grumbled Bunker biting savagely at his mustache, “and I never was so hacked in my life. We went up to this Dave and all pulled our guns and ordered him out of the district, and I’m a dadburned Mexican if he didn’t pull his gun and run the whole bunch of us away. He’s nervy, there’s no use talking; and I promised Mrs. Hill that I’d keep out of these shooting affrays. By grab, it was downright disgraceful!”

“That’s all right,” returned Denver, “he don’t look bad to me. You just lend me a gun and─”

“He’ll kill ye!” warned Bunker, “I know by his eye. He’s a killer if ever there was one. So don’t go up against him unless you mean business, because you can’t run no blazer on him!”

“Well–oh hell, then,” burst out Denver, “what’s the use of getting killed! Isn’t there anything else we can do? I don’t need to eject him because he’s got no title, anyway. How about these lead-pencil fellows that haven’t done their work for years?”

“That’s it,” explained Bunker, “we were having a meeting when we seen you horn in on Dave. These gentlemen are all men that have held their ground for years and it don’t seem right they should lose it. At the same time it’ll take something more than a slap on the wrist to make these blasted jumpers let go. They’ve staked all the good claims and are up doing the work on them and the question is–what can we do?”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” spoke up the old prospector vindictively as the crowd surged into the store, “I’ll get up on the Leap and shoot down on them jumpers until I chase the last one of ’em off. They can’t run no rannikaboo on me!”

He wagged his long beard and spat impressively but nobody paid any attention to him. They realized at last that they were up against gun-fighters–men picked for quick shooting and iron nerves and working under the orders of one man. That man was Dave Chatwourth, nominally dismissed by Murray but undoubtedly still in his pay, and until they could devise some plan to eliminate him it was useless to talk of violence. So they resumed their meeting and, as Denver owned a claim, he found himself included in the membership. It was a belated revival of the old-time Miners’ Meeting, at one time the supreme law in Western mining camps; and Bunker Hill, as Recorder of the district, presided from his perch on the counter.

From his seat in the corner Denver listened apathetically as the miners argued and wrangled, and the longer they talked the more it became apparent that nothing was going to be done. The encounter with Dave had cooled their courage, and more and more the sentiment began to lean towards an appeal to the power of the law. But then it came out that the law was an instrument which might operate as a two-edged sword; for possession, and diligence in working the claim, are the two big points in mining law and just at that moment a legal decision would be all in favor of the jumpers. And if Murray was behind them, as all the circumstances seemed to indicate, he would hire the most expensive lawyers in the country and fight the case to a finish. No, if anything was to be done they must find out some other way, or they would be playing right into his hands.

“I’ll tell you,” proposed Bunker as the talk swung back to action, “let’s go back unarmed and talk to Dave again and find out what he thinks he’s doing. He can’t hold Denver’s claim, and those claims of mine, because the work has just been done; and then, if we can talk him into vacating our ground, maybe these other jaspers will quit.”

“I’ll go you!” said Denver rising up impatiently, “and if he won’t vacate my claim I’ll try some other means and see if we can’t persuade him.”

“That’s the talk!” quavered the old prospector, slapping him heartily on the back. “Lord love you, boy, if I was your age I’d be right up in front there, shooting. Why, up in the Bradshaws in Seventy-three─”

“Never mind what you’d do if you had the nerve,” broke in Bunker Hill sarcastically. “Just because you’ve got a claim that you’d like to get back is no reason for stirring up trouble. No, I’m willing to go ahead and do all the talking; but I want you to understand–this is peaceable.”

“Well, all right,” agreed the miners and, laying aside their pistols, they started up the street for Denver’s mine; but as Bunker led off a voice called from the porch and his wife came hurrying after him. Behind her followed Drusilla, reluctantly at first; but as her father kept on, despite the entreaties of her mother, she ran up and caught him by the sleeve.

“No, don’t go, father!” she cried appealingly and as Bunker replied with an evasive laugh she turned her anger upon Denver.

“Why don’t you get back your own mine?” she demanded, “instead of dragging my father into it?”

“Never mind, now,” protested Bunker, “we ain’t going to have no trouble–we just want to have a friendly talk. This has nothing to do with Denver or his mine–all we want is a few words with Dave.”

“He’ll shoot you!” she insisted. “Oh, I just know something will happen. Well, all right, then; I’m going along too!”

“Why, sure,” smiled Bunker, “always glad to have company–but you’d better stay back with your mother.”