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

“Aw, that’s all right,” broke in Denver impatiently, “for cripe’s sake, give me a chance. I haven’t bought your mine nor Bunk’s mine either, and it don’t do any good to talk. I’m going to rake this country with a fine-tooth comb for claims that show silver and gold, and when I’ve seen ’em all I’ll buy or I won’t, so you might as well let me alone.”

“Very vell, sir,” began the Professor bristling with offended dignity and, seeing him prepared with a long-winded explanation, Denver turned up the hill and quit him. He clambered up to the rim, dripping with sweat at every step, and all that day, while the heat waves blazed and shimmered, he prospected the face of the rim-rock. The hot stones burned his hands, he fought his way through thorns and catclaws and climbed around yuccas and spiny cactus; but at the end of the long day, when he dragged back to camp, he had found nothing but barren holes. The country was pitted with open cuts and shallow prospect-holes, mostly dug to hold down worthless claims; and the second day and the third only served to raise his opinion of the claim that Bunker had showed him.

On the fourth day he went back to it and prospected it thoroughly and then he kept on around the shoulder of the hill and entered the country to the north. Here the sedimentary rim-rock lay open as a book and as he followed along its face he found hole after hole pecked into one copper-stained stratum. It was the same broad stratum of quartzite which, on coming to the creek, had dipped down into Bunker’s claim; and now Denver knew that others beside himself thought well of that mineral-bearing vein. For the country was staked out regularly and in each location monument there was the name Barney B. Murray.

The steady panting of a gas-engine from somewhere in the distance drew Denver on from point to point and at last, in the bottom of a deep-cleft canyon, he discovered the source of the sound. Huge dumps of white waste were spewed out along the hillside, there were houses, a big tent and criss-crossed trails; but the only sign of life was that chuh, chuh, of the engine and the explosive blap, blaps of an air compressor. It was Murray’s camp, and the engine and the compressor were driving his diamond drill.

Denver looked about carefully for some sign of the armed guard and then, not too noisily, he went down the trail and followed along up the gulch. The drill, which was concealed beneath the big, conical tent, was set up in the very notch of the canyon, where it cut through the formation of the rim-rock; and Denver was more than pleased to see that it was fairly on top of the green quartzite. He kept on steadily, still looking for the guard, his prospector’s pick well in front; and, just down the trail from the tented drill, he stopped and cracked a rock.

“Hey! Get off this ground!” shouted a voice from the tent and as Denver looked up a man stepped out with a rifle in his hand. “What are you doing around here?” he demanded angrily and, as Denver made no answer, another man stepped out from behind. Then with a word to the guard he came down the trail and Denver knew it was Murray himself.

He was a tall, bony man with a flowing black beard and, hunched up above his shoulders, was the rounded hump which had given him the name of “Bible-Back.” To counterbalance this curvature his head was craned back, giving him a bristling, aggressive air, and as he strode down towards Denver his long, gorilla arms, extended almost down to his knees.

“What are you doing here, young man?” he challenged harshly, “don’t you know that this ground is closed?”

“Why, no,” bluffed Denver, “you haven’t got any signs out. What’s all the excitement about?”

Bible-Back Murray paused and looked him over, and his prospector’s pick and ore-sack, and a glint came into one eye. The other eye remained fixed in a cold, rheumy stare, and Denver sensed that it was made of glass.

“Who are you working for?” rasped Murray and as he raised his voice the guard started down the dump.

“I’m not working for anybody,” answered Denver boldly, “I’m out prospecting along the edge of the rim.”

“Oh–prospecting,” said Murray suddenly moderating his voice; and then, as the guard stood watching them narrowly, he gave way to a fatherly smile. “Well, well,” he exclaimed, “it’s pretty hot for prospecting–you can’t see very well in this glare. Whereabouts have you made your camp?”

“Over on the crick,” answered Denver. “What have you got here, anyway? Is this that diamond drill?”

“Never mind, now!” put in the guard who, anticipating a call-down for his negligence, was in a distinctly hostile mood, “you know danged well it is!”

“Oh, I do, do I?” retorted Denver, “well, all right pardner, if you say so; but you don’t need to call me a liar!”

He returned the guard’s glare with an insulting sneer and Murray made haste to intercede.

“Now, now,” he said, “let’s not have any trouble. But of course you’ve no business on this ground.”

“That’s all right,” defended Denver, “that don’t give him a license to pull any ranicky stuff. I’m as peaceable as anybody, but you can tell your hired man he don’t look bad to me.”

“That will do, Dave,” nodded Murray and after another look at Denver, the guard turned back towards the tent.

“Judas priest,” observed Denver thrusting out his lip at the guard, “he’s a regular gun-fighting boy. You must have something pretty good hid away here somewhere, to call for a guard like that.”

“He’s a dangerous man,” replied Murray briefly, “I’d advise you not to rouse him. But what do you think of our district, Mister–er─”

“Russell,” said Denver promptly, “my name is Denver Russell. I just came over from Globe.”

“Glad to meet you,” answered Murray extending a hairy hand, “my name is B. B. Murray. I’m the owner of all this ground.”

“’S that so?” murmured Denver, “well don’t let me keep you.”

And he started off down the trail.

“Hey, wait a minute!” protested Murray, “you don’t need to go off mad. Sit down here in the shade–I want to have a talk with you.”

He stepped over to the shade of an abandoned cabin and Denver followed reluctantly. From the few leading questions which Mr. Murray had propounded he judged he was a hard man to evade; and, until he had got title to the claim on Queen Creek, it was advisable not to talk too much.

“So you’re just over from Globe, eh?” began Murray affably, “well, how are things over in that camp? Yes, I hear they are booming–were you working in the mines? What do you think of this country for copper?”

“It sure looks good!” pronounced Denver unctuously, “I never saw a place that looked better. All this gossan and porphyry, and that copper stain up there–and just look at that dacite cap!”

He waved his hand at the high cliff behind and Murray’s eye became beady and bright.

“Yes,” he said rubbing his horny hands together and gazing at Denver benevolently, “we think the indications are good–were you thinking of locating in these parts?”

“No, just going through,” answered Denver slowly. “I was camping by the crick and saw that copper-stain, so I thought I’d follow it up. How far are you down with your drill?”

“Quite a ways, quite a ways,” responded Murray evasively. “You don’t look like an ordinary prospector–who’d you say it was you were working for?”

Denver turned and looked at him, and grunted contemptuously.

“J. P. Morgan,” he said and after a silence Murray answered with a thin-lipped smile.

“That’s all right, that’s all right,” he said with a cackle. “No hard feeling–I just wanted to know. You’re an honest young man, but there are others who are not, and we naturally like to inquire. Are you staying with Mr. Hill?”

“Well, not so you’d notice it,” replied Denver brusquely. “I’m camped in that cave across the crick.”

“Oh, is that so?” purred Murray driving relentlessly on in his quest for information, “did he show you any of his claims?”

“He showed me one,” answered Denver and, try as he would, he could not keep his voice from changing.

“Oh, I see,” said Murray suddenly smiling triumphantly, “he showed you that claim by the creek.”

“That’s the one,” admitted Denver, “and it sure looked good. Have you got any interests over there?”

“Not at present,” returned Murray with a touch of asperity, “but let me tell you a little about that claim. You’re a stranger in these parts and it’s only fair to warn you that the assessment work has never been done. He has no title, according to law; so you can govern your actions accordingly.”

“You mean,” suggested Denver, “that all I have to do is to go in and jump the claim?”

“Hell–no!” exclaimed Bible-Back startled out of his piosity. “I mean that you had better not buy it.”

“Well, thanks,” drawled Denver, “this is danged considerate of you. Shall I tell him you’ll take it yourself?”

“Certainly not!” snapped back Murray, “I’ve enough claims, already. I’m just warning you for your own good.”

“Danged considerate,” repeated Denver with a sarcastic smile, “and now let me ask you something. Who told you I wanted to buy?”

“Never mind!” returned Murray, “I’ve warned you, and that is enough.”

“Well, all right,” agreed Denver, “but if you don’t want it yourself─”