24033	----	None 
21907	----	AN INVESTIGATION INTO THE NATURE OF BLACK PHTHISIS; OR ULCERATION INDUCED BY CARBONACEOUS ACCUMULATION IN THE LUNGS OF COAL MINERS, AND OTHER OPERATIVES. BY ARCHIBALD MAKELLAR, M.D., F.R.S.S.A., FELLOW OF THE ROYAL COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS OF EDINBURGH; MEMBER OF THE MEDICO-CHIRURGICAL SOCIETY, OF THE HARVEIAN SOCIETY, OF THE OBSTETRICAL SOCIETY, ETC. ETC., AND ONE OF THE PHYSICIANS TO THE NEW TOWN DISPENSARY OF EDINBURGH. REPRINTED FROM THE MONTHLY JOURNAL OF MEDICAL SCIENCE. EDINBURGH: SUTHERLAND & KNOX, 58 PRINCES STREET. 1846. ANDREW JACK, PRINTER, EDINBURGH. PREFACE. An abstract of the investigations into the nature of carbonaceous infiltration into the pulmonary tissues of coal miners, was read by Dr Makellar at a meeting of the Medico-Chirurgical Society of Edinburgh, Wednesday, 8th July, 1845, Dr Gairdner, President, in the Chair. Reference was made, in particular, to the East Lothian coal-miners. The carbonaceous disease described, was stated to be caused by the inhalation of substances floating in the atmosphere of the coal-pit, such as the products of the combustion of gunpowder, the smoke from the miner's lamp, and the other foreign matters with which the air of the mines is heavily charged, in consequence of their defective ventilation. In the mines in which gunpowder is used, the disease is most severe in its character, and most rapid in destroying the pulmonary tissue. The carbon in some cases is expectorated in considerable quantity for some time previous to death; in others, it is retained, and accumulates to a great extent in the lungs. As the disease advances, the action of the heart becomes feeble; and the appearance of the blood indicates a carbonaceous admixture. The carbonaceous deposit seems to supersede or supplant the formation of other morbid bodies in the substance of the lungs--such as tubercle; for in individuals belonging to families in which there exists an undoubted phthisical diathesis, tubercle is never found on dissection. The views expressed in this communication called forth the following remarks. PROFESSOR CHRISTISON called attention to the new and important fact, of the carbonaceous matter being found in the circulating mass. He attached great importance to Dr Makellar's researches. PROFESSOR ALLEN THOMSON remarked, that the presence of this carbonaceous matter in the blood, by no means proved, that it was formed in, or from the blood. DR HUGHES BENNETT said, that the antagonism of this carbonaceous disease to tubercle, was a fact of great interest and importance, especially in connection with two other recent observations; viz. 1st, That the depositions of carbon in the lungs of old people, (which French pathologists describe,) are not found associated with tubercle; and, 2d, That under the supposed cicatrices of pulmonary tubercular cavities, a layer of carbonaceous matter is commonly found. Dr Makellar's paper called forth some interesting observations from the President, Professor Simpson, and others. BLACK PHTHISIS, OR ULCERATION INDUCED BY CARBONACEOUS ACCUMULATION IN THE LUNGS OF COAL-MINERS Among the many diseases incident to the coal-miner, none come oftener under medical treatment, than affections of the respiratory and circulating organs. While the collier is subject--during his short but laborious life--to the other diseases which afflict the labouring classes in this country, such as inflammations, fevers, acute rheumatism, and the various eruptive diseases, he, at last, unavoidably, falls a victim to lesions within the cavity of the chest, arising from the nature of his employment. In the present communication, it is proposed to lay before the profession a series of remarks, which I have been enabled to put together, with a view to elucidate the cause and progress of that very peculiar pulmonary disease, incident to coal-miners, which I shall denominate BLACK PHTHISIS, or Ulceration induced by Carbonaceous Accumulation in the Lungs. The rise and progress of the malady may be thus sketched: A robust young man, engaged as a miner, after being for a short time so occupied, becomes affected with cough, inky expectoration, rapidly decreasing pulse, and general exhaustion. In the course of a few years, he sinks under the disease; and, on examination of the chest after death, the lungs are found excavated, and several of the cavities filled with a solid or fluid carbonaceous matter. During the last ten years, my attention has been much directed, in the course of my professional labours in the neighbourhood of the coal-mining district of Haddingtonshire, to the above phenomena in the pathology of the lungs, which have not hitherto been brought so fully before the profession, as their importance demands. The subject presents a very interesting field of investigation to the physiologist and pathologist. When we consider the difficulties which the medical man has to encounter, in prosecuting his researches in morbid anatomy in a mining district, it is sufficiently explained why the peculiarly diseased structures in the body of the coal-miner should have been left so long uninvestigated. Not many years ago, the obstacles in the way of _post mortem_ examinations among colliers were insurmountable, and consequently, till lately, few medical men could obtain permission to examine, after death, the morbid appearances within the chest of a collier. With the rapid advance in the general improvement which has been going on, the collier's position in society has become greatly elevated; and his deeply-rooted superstitious feelings have been, to a great extent, dissipated. Let us hope that the school-master will find his way into every collier's dwelling, enlightening his too long uncultivated mind; and that the foolish prejudices shall cease, which have been hitherto the barriers to _post-mortem_ examinations in his community. The only medical writers, as far as I am aware, who have brought this subject before the notice of the profession, are, Dr J. C. GREGORY, in the report of a case of peculiar black infiltration of the whole lungs, resembling "Melanosis," (_Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal_, No. cix., October 1831); Dr CARSEWELL, in an article on "Spurious Melanosis," (_Cyclopædia of Practical Medicine_, Vol. iii); Dr MARSHALL, in a paper in _The Lancet_ for 1836, entitled "Cases of Spurious Melanosis of the Lungs;" Dr WILLIAM THOMSON, now Professor of Medicine in the University of Glasgow, in two able essays (_Medico-Chirurgical Transactions of London_, Vols. xx. and xxi.), wherein he gives a number of very interesting cases, collected from various coal districts of Scotland, illustrating different forms of the disease; Dr PEARSON, in the _Philosophical Trans._ for 1813, on the "Inhalation of Carbon into the Pulmonary Air Cells;" and in a paper, by Dr GRAHAM, in vol. xlii. of the _Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal_. Recently, professional and other writers have directed attention to the influence of various occupations in the production of diseases of the chest. The pernicious employment of the needle-pointers, razor and knife-grinders of Sheffield, and other manufacturing towns in England,[1] have not only engaged the attention of the public at large, but science has been at work to ascertain, with as much accuracy as possible, the relative effects of the different avocations, on the constitutions of those occupied in these destructive employments. Researches of this nature tend much to the well-being of society, as they make us acquainted with the maladies and sufferings peculiar to certain classes of our fellow-men; and point out, also, the causes of their early decay, and premature death. The coal-miners--those in whose behalf I would now solicit the intervention of science--are most valuable in their place, and their exhausting labours promote, in no small degree, our domestic comforts. Some of the diseases of colliers have in past time been very much overlooked by the medical inquirer. There has been, within the last few years, a very searching investigation as to the employment of women and children in coal-mines; and by the laudable exertions of Lord Ashley--a nobleman whose name shall ever be honoured among miners, and by all who have the true interests of that community at heart--an Act of the Legislature has been passed, declaring it unlawful for any owner of any mine or colliery whatever, to allow any female to work therein; and also enacting, that no boy under the age of ten years can be employed in mines. It is to be regretted, however, that his Lordship did not embody in his measure, provisions enforcing the free ventilation of mines under government inspection; for nothing would tend more to improve the health of those employed in them. In the course of the inquiry, which formed the prelude and basis of Lord Ashley's Act, much valuable information regarding the diseases of colliers was elicited; and no one can peruse the voluminous parliamentary report pertaining to these investigations, without being struck with the very general prevalence of affections of the chest among miners. It is to be hoped, that the interesting facts in regard to disease, which this recent most necessary investigation has laid open, will be the means of directing the attention of scientific men to the subject, with a view to obviate, as far as human efforts can, the evils which have been exposed. It may at first appear difficult, to point out the means of removing effectually the causes of the pulmonary carbonaceous disease of miners, but, be the difficulties what they may, humanity encourages us to make the attempt. In the _first place_, let us endeavour to ascertain the cause, and _secondly_, to suggest means for the mitigation or prevention of this scourge. My present remarks do not refer to coal-miners in general, but to a district in Scotland, in the Lothians, east of the river Forth, where the labour is hard, and where its severity is in many cases increased by a want of proper attention to the economy of mining operations. These operations, as at present carried on, are extremely unwholesome, and productive of diseases which have a manifest tendency to shorten life. I draw the materials of my description from what I saw in a part of that district referred to, where the various cases, hereafter to be adduced, came under my medical treatment, and where I had the privilege of examining the morbid appearances after death. The locality[2] in which my observations were made, is that part of the Lothians, extending from south to north, stretching from the foot of the Lammermoors towards the sea-coast, including the coal-works of Preston-Hall, Huntlaw, Pencaitland, Tranent, and Blindwells. In this range of the coal-formation, the seam of coal is variable, but generally exceedingly thin, varying in thickness from eighteen inches, to three or four feet. It is with difficulty that mining operations can be prosecuted, from the extremely limited space in which the men have to move, and from the deficient ventilation. It appears, after thorough investigation, that in the majority of the coal mines above mentioned, ventilation is very much neglected, and that this neglect is partly caused, by the immunity of these mines from carburetted hydrogen gas, which exempts them from the danger of explosion. But though there be no explosive gas, there is generated, to a certain extent, in the more remote recesses of the pit, carbonic acid and other gases, producing the most injurious effects--impairing the constitution by slow degrees, and along with the more direct cause (the smoke from the lamp, candle, and the product of the combustion of gunpowder,) making progressive inroads on the health of the unfortunate miner. And how, I ask, can it be otherwise, in such circumstances? So long as it is possible for him to go on--so long as there is air enough to support the combustion of the lamp or candle, the labourer must proceed with his toil. I say, from there being no fire-damp, less attention is paid to ventilation, and it is a common occurrence with colliers in these localities, to be obliged to leave their work, from there not being a sufficiency of oxygen to keep their lights burning, and support respiration; and this temporary cessation of labour under such circumstances is regarded as a hardship by some proprietors, while the bodily sufferings of the miner, shut up and necessitated to labour in this situation, are little considered. After labouring beyond a given time in those confined situations, there is a much freer action of the respiratory apparatus, the oxygen is considerably exhausted, and to make up for this deficiency, the volume of air inspired, (impure though it be,) is much greater. Every now and then, there is a disposition to draw a deep breath, followed by a peculiar and gradual decrease of strength. Therefore, in these forcible expansions of the chest, it is to be expected that a considerable quantity of the floating carbon will be conveyed to the cellular tissue. The atmosphere of the coal mine at length becomes so vitiated, by the removal of the oxygen in breathing, and the substitution of carbonic acid, that the respiration becomes gradually more difficult, and the exhausted labourer has ultimately to retire from the pit, as there is no other mode by which the noxious air can be removed--owing to the underground apartments being so small--than by gradually allowing purer air to accumulate. The miner is thus enabled to return to his employment. It is about thirty years since miners in this district adopted the use of coarse linseed oil, instead of whale oil, to burn in their lamps; and it is very generally known, that the smoke from the former is immensely greater than that from the latter, and many old miners date the greater prevalence of black spit to the introduction of the _linseed_ oil. This change took place entirely on the score of economy. Any one can conceive how hurtful to the delicate tissues of the respiratory organs, must be an atmosphere thickened by such a sooty exhalation. It is now known, that this disease originates in two principal causes, viz., _First_, The inhalation of lamp smoke with the carbonic acid gas[3] generated in the pit, and that expired from the lungs; _Second_, Carbon, and the carburetted gases which float in the heated air after the ever-recurring explosions of gunpowder, which the occurrence of trap dykes renders necessary. To those acquainted with mining operations, an explanation of the coal and stone hewing process is unnecessary; but, for the sake of the uninitiated, I may be allowed to state, in explanation, that, previous to any coal hewing, it is needful to remove various strata of stone, to open up road-ways, and break down obstructing dykes, by the aid of gunpowder. All coal-miners are engaged exclusively with one or other kind of labour; that is either in removing stone or coal: and the peculiar disease to which each class is liable, varies considerably, according to the employment. For instance, the disease is more severe and more rapid in those who work in the stone, than in those engaged in what is strictly coal-mining, while, at the same time, both ultimately perish in consequence of it. The fact of the disease being more acute in stone-miners, I am disposed to attribute to the carbon and other products of the combustion of gunpowder, being more irritating and more destructive to the lungs. A very striking instance of this occurred, a few years ago, at the colliery of the Messrs Cadell of Tranent. A very extensive coal level was carried through their coal field, where a great number of young, vigorous men were employed at stone-mining, or blasting, as it is called, every one of whom died before reaching the age of thirty-five years. They used gunpowder in considerable quantity:--and all expectorated carbon. It was long a very general belief with medical writers, that the various forms of discoloration in the pulmonary tissue was induced by some peculiar change taking place in the economy or function of secretion, independently of any direct influence from without. They were, therefore, usually supposed to belong to the class of melanotic formations, from presenting, as their distinguishing feature, a greater or less degree of blackness. But, by recent investigations, it has been proved, that the infiltrated carbon found in the bodies of coal miners is not the result of any original disease, or change taking place within the system,[4] but is carbon, which has been conveyed into the minute pulmonary ramifications, in various forms, during respiration; and which, while lodged in these tissues, produces irritation, terminating in chronic ulcerative action of the parenchymatous substance. The very minute bronchial ramifications first become impacted with carbon, and consequently impervious to air; by gradual accumulation, this impacted mass assumes a rather consistent form, mechanically compressing and obliterating the air-cells, irritating the surrounding substance, and promoting the progressive extension of the morbid action, till the whole lobe is infiltrated with carbonaceous matter, which, sooner or later, ends in ulceration and general disorganisation of the part. It is evident, in tracing the disease through its various stages, up to that of disorganisation, that wherever there is an impacted mass in any part of the pulmonary structure, this is followed, sooner or later, by softening, from its irritating effects upon the tissues by which it is surrounded; and as this softening process advances, the innumerable sets of vessels[5] composing the dense network of capillaries are broken down, extending the cyst, so that, as the cysts enlarge, they gradually approximate to each other, till all at last become merged in one great cavity. The majority of colliers, soon after they engage in their mining operations, become afflicted with bronchial disease to a greater or less extent. Those who are hereditarily predisposed to pulmonary irritation, are, it is my decided belief, more liable to "black phthisis" than others; but I cannot suppose it possible, that any constitution, however robust and sound, could resist the morbid effects resulting from carbon deposited in the lungs. Tubercular phthisis is not at all prevalent in any collier community with which I am acquainted, only occasional cases occurring, and that amongst females. It is my impression, that a phthisical person, engaged in the operations of a coal-pit, similar to those in Haddingtonshire, would come under the influence of the carbonaceous disease, instead of the true phthisis; for, in all the _post-mortem_ examinations which I have conducted, connected with this pulmonary affection, I have never found tubercular deposit:--while other members of the same family, having a like predisposition, and who never entered a coal-pit, have died of phthisis. Can carbon inhaled destroy a tubercular formation? I never knew or heard of a case of black spit in a female collier, and this is accounted for by the circumstance, that the women, when permitted to labour, previous to the late prohibitory enactment, were only occupied as carriers; and from their movements towards the pit shaft, in transporting the coals, were enabled to inhale at intervals a purer atmosphere. The boys also, who were employed as carriers to the pit shaft, continued to labour with like impunity, from their occasional change of situation; but the miner, lying on his side in a confined, smoky recess, under ground, gasping for breath, proceeding with his exhausting labour, cannot fail, in his deep inspirations, to draw in the deleterious vapour, to the most minute ramifications of the pulmonary structure, and, as he daily repeats his employment, so does he daily add to the accumulation of that foreign matter which shall ultimately disorganize the respiratory apparatus. In the first stage of the affection, there is an incessant dry cough, particularly at night, and all the prominent symptoms of bronchitis are present. Indeed, from the time a man becomes a coal-digger, and inhales this noxious air,[6] there is ever after a manifest irritation in the lining membrane of the respiratory passages, which is apparent before carbon in any quantity can be supposed to be lodged in the lungs. The mucous membrane of the air passages, by its continually pouring out a viscid fluid, has the power of removing any foreign matter that may be lodged in them. Now, should this membrane, owing to previous irritation, lose to a certain degree this secretory power, then the foreign body adheres to it, and is retained, and this, I think, constitutes the preparatory stage of black deposit. In tracing the progress of the disease, it is my belief, that immediately after the carbon is established in the air-cells, the absorbents become actively engaged, and the glandular structure soon partakes of the foreign substance. One of the peculiar features, as we shall find, when we come to describe cases, is, that the secretory function is ever after so changed in its character, that the gland which formerly secreted mucus, to lubricate the passages, now performs the same service with muco-carbon, and continues to do so during the remainder of the patient's life--even, as I have often seen, long after he has desisted from the occupation of a coal-miner. In fact, it constitutes a striking peculiarity of this disease, that when the carbon is once conveyed into the cellular tissue of the lung, that organ commences the formation of carbon, thus increasing the amount originally deposited, as was strikingly exemplified in the case of Duncan and others, to be afterwards detailed. Duncan had not for fifteen years been engaged in mining operations, nor was there any possibility of his having inhaled more carbon: yet in him it was found to have increased to the greatest possible extent, leaving but a small portion of useful lung. I have been long impressed with the belief, that the carbon is contained in considerable quantity in the blood, particularly in the blood of those far advanced in the disease. This impression arises, not only from its dark and inky appearance, but from its sluggish flow, and non-stimulating effects on the heart and general system; and when we examine the morbid condition of the pulmonary structure,--ascertain the presence of carbon in the glandular system and minute lymphatic vessels of the lungs, and consider the relation existing between them and the circulating fluid, we cannot suppose it possible, that such a mass of foreign matter should be lodged in their parenchymatous substance without imparting a portion to the blood. I was never more struck with this, than in the case of Duncan, where the blood was more like thick brownish ink than vital fluid. No one who has witnessed the economy of these pits, can doubt the inhalation, to a great degree, of lamp and gunpowder smoke into the pulmonary tissue. What may be its chemical action there, is a question for us to attend to as we proceed. If it be considered an established fact, that carbon is inhaled, possessing all the chemical qualities of that substance found floating in the air of the coal-mine, and either expectorated from the lungs during life, or retained in those organs till after death, we cannot but conclude, that the black matter is the result of an external cause, and that that cause is the sooty matter. Another question arises here, in connection with this phenomenon, viz.--Does the carbon increase in the pulmonary tissues after the collier has relinquished the occupation of a miner, and when there can be no further inhalation, and if so, whence comes this increase? It must be admitted, judging from several of the cases which follow, that it does considerably augment. From this remarkable fact, does it not appear probable, that when carbon is once lodged in the pulmonary structure by inhalation, there is created by it a disposing affinity for the carbon in the blood, by which there is caused an increase in the deposit of carbon, without any more being inhaled. _Appearances on Dissection._ In classifying the morbid appearances observed in the pulmonary structure, I arrange them according to divisions corresponding to three stages of the disease. _First_, Where there exists extensive irritation of the mucous lining of the air passages; and the carbon being inhaled, is absorbed into the interlobular cellular substance, and minute glandular system, thereby impeding the necessary change upon the blood. _Secondly_, Where the irritative process, the result of this foreign matter in the lungs, has proceeded so far, as to produce a variety of small cysts, containing fluid and semi-fluid carbonaceous matter, following the course of the bronchial ramifications. _Thirdly_, Where the ulcerative process has advanced to such an extent, as to destroy the cellular texture, and produce extensive excavation of one or more lobes. _Stethoscopic Signs._--In the early stages, the sounds indicate a swollen state of the air-passages, and vary in character according to the part examined. The whistling and chirping sounds are loud and distinct in the large and small bronchial ramifications, and both from the absence of expectoration and the presence of the pulmonary bruit, the highly irritated state of the mucous linings is apparent. The affection ultimately assumes a chronic form, and continues present in the respirable portions of the organ during life. As the carbonaceous impaction advances, the sounds become exceedingly dull over the whole thoracic region, and in many of the cases no sound whatever can be distinguished. Where the lungs are cavernous, it is very easy to discover pectoriloquy, from the contrast to the general dulness, and when pleuritic and pericardial effusion advance much, it is difficult to ascertain the cardiac action. Such is a short account of the _Cause_, _Progress_, and _Morbid Appearances_ of this deadly malady, as they came under my notice. * * * * * From a variety of cases to which my attention was directed, I I have selected _ten_, with the _post-mortem_ appearances in nine of them. These cases extend over a period of eleven years, all of them exhibiting, with some slight variation, the same character of disease, and proceeding from the same cause--inhalation of carbonaceous matter. Some of the cases occurred as far back as the years 1833-34, while the last case came under my notice within these twelve months. Of the ten patients, six were engaged at one period with stone-mining, and four were entirely coal-miners; eight expectorated carbonaceous matter, and two did not show any indication of black infiltration from the sputum; six exhibited, on examination, most extensive excavations of the pulmonary structure; and three only general impaction of these tissues, with numerous small cysts containing black fluid; the body of the tenth, I regret to say, was not examined, owing to neglect in communicating in time the death of the patient, which took place a few weeks ago. These morbid appearances exhibit three stages of the disease in regular progression. The first is that where the carbon is confined to the interlobular cellular tissue, and minute air-cells, producing cough, dyspnoea, slight palpitation of the heart, and acceleration of pulse, while, at the same time, the patient continues able to prosecute his daily employment. The respiratory sounds, in this state of the chest, are loud and distinct. Such a condition of the pulmonary structure is often found on examination in the Carron _iron-moulder_, who has been killed by accident, or has died from some other disease, having been subjected in the course of his employment to the inhalation of carbonaceous particles. The second is that stage where the softening has commenced in the several impacted pulmonary lobular-formed small cysts throughout the substance of one or more lobes, the contents of which may either be expectorated or remain encysted, giving rise to most harassing cough, laborious breathing, and palpitations, dull resonance of chest, and obscure respiratory murmur. The third and last stage, is that in which the several cysts in one or more lobes have approximated each other, forming extensive excavations, the prominent symptoms of the disease becoming considerably aggravated, and the powers of the system sinking to the lowest degree of exhaustion. * * * * * CASE 1. George Davidson, collier from his youth. When I first saw him professionally, in May 1834, he was aged thirty-two. From his earliest years he was employed about the coal-works in Pencaitland parish, and when very young, he went down the pit to assist in conveying coals to the shaft, and ultimately became a coal-miner. For a considerable length of time, he enjoyed good health, having neither cough, nor any other affection. He was well-formed, and robust in constitution. A few months previous to my seeing him, he had taken to the employment of stone-mining in the pit at Huntlaw, where he was accustomed to labour, and soon after being so engaged, he began to complain of uneasiness in the chest, and troublesome short cough, quick pulse, especially at night and in the morning, for which he sought medical advice, and was treated for bronchial affection. He continued to prosecute the employment of stone-mining in this coal-pit so long as his strength would permit, which was a little more than two years, when (August 1836) he was entirely disabled, from general exhaustion. By this time his cough had much increased, and there was considerable dyspnoea, accompanied with sharp pain in the thoracic region, both in walking quickly, and when lying down. Pulse 80. He expectorated bloody tough mucus without any tinge of black matter. All remedial means were adopted with a view to the removal of the irritation of the chest, without producing any very decided effect. The thoracic pain was occasionally subdued, but the cough became incessant; loss of appetite, rapid emaciation, and cold nocturnal sweats, with slow weak pulse, supervened. After a severe fit of coughing, during one of his bad nights, the black expectoration made its appearance, in considerable quantity, by which his sufferings were for a few days alleviated, when the cough returned in the same degree of severity, and was again mitigated by the black sputa, which was expectorated without difficulty, and from this time (October 1836) there was no interruption to a free carbonaceous expectoration. In the early part of this man's illness, the stomach, the alimentary canal, biliary and urinary secretions, continued unimpaired; but as the cough advanced, gastric irritation, which was followed by vomiting during the paroxysms, annoyed him; and for the last eight months of his life, he suffered occasionally from severe attacks of gastrodynia, which, when present, had the effect of considerably modifying the thoracic irritation, and allaying the cough. There was nothing very remarkable in the character of the urine; the quantity voided was small, and very high coloured, with occasionally a lithic deposit. The fæces were natural, and smeared with dark blue mucus. On examining the chest with the stethoscope, the crepitant ronchus was heard in the upper part of each lung. There was general dulness throughout the lower part of both, with the exception of a small space at the inferior angle of the left scapula, where pectoriloquy was distinctly heard, from which was concluded the cavernous state of a portion of that lung. The heart's action was languid, and often intermitting, producing vertigo and occasional syncope. The pulse was gradually becoming slower; and at this time, (Nov. 1836,) it was _forty-three_ in the minute. I was informed by this man, that his chest affection first became manifest, after being engaged with a difficult job in a newly formed coal-pit at Huntlaw, where he had very little room to conduct his mining operations, which were carried on with the help of gunpowder, and where he experienced a sensation of suffocation from the confined nature of the pit,[7] which did not permit of the exit of the evolved carbon, and ever after, his cough and difficulty of breathing had been increasing rapidly. During the greater part of the period he was under my charge, he continued to expectorate black matter, of the consistency of treacle, mixed with mucus in considerable quantity, and I would suppose, taking the average of each week, that he expectorated from ten to twelve ounces daily of thick treacle-like matter. I had the curiosity, during my attendance on this patient, to separate the mucus from the carbon, by the simple process of diluting the sputa with water, and thereafter separating and drying the precipitated carbon. I was enabled by this means to procure about one and a-half drachms of a beautiful black powder daily, and in the course of a week, I had collected near to two ounces of the substance. This process I continued for some weeks, till such time as I had procured a sufficient stock of this remarkable product of the pulmonary structure, and I am certain that the same quantity, if not more, could have been obtained till his death, in Dec. 1836. It is undoubtedly a striking phenomenon, connected with the pathology of the chest, that the human lung can be converted into a manufactory of lamp black! Towards the close of this poor man's existence, the countenance and surface of the body assumed a leaden hue, from the very general venous congestion, and as his system became more exhausted, and he was about to sink in death, the gastric irritation and nocturnal cold sweats which had been long present with him considerably increased, along with a cough so severe as actually to produce vomiting of the black sputa. His tongue and fauces became so coated with the expectoration, that a stranger viewing the patient would have said that he was vomiting black paint.[8] This case resembled in many of its features, one of tubercular phthisis, more than is generally found in the disease before us, there being cough and expectoration, dyspnoea, sharp pain in the thoracic region, colliquative sweats,[9] and great emaciation, while at the same time, the pulse was slow and weak, not exceeding thirty-six in the minute for a week before death. No hectic heat of skin, but an extraordinary depression of the arterial action, arising evidently from the redundancy of carbon deposited in the pulmonary tissue, preventing the proper oxygenation of the blood circulating in the organs, and thereby producing a morbid effect on the whole system, which sufficiently explains the cachectic condition of the body. _Post-mortem examination, twenty-four hours after death._--In removing the anterior part of the thorax, the lungs appeared full and dilated, and of a very dark colour. Both lungs were strongly attached to the pleura costalis, and a very considerable effusion of straw-coloured fluid was found in both cavities of the chest. A few irregularly situated dark glandular bodies were observed on the surface of the costal pleura at each side of the sternum, and on the mediastinum. The lungs were removed with difficulty on account of the strongly adhesive bands attaching them to the ribs, and in handling them they conveyed the impression of partial solidity:--several projecting, irregular firm bodies, were felt immediately beneath the surface of the pleura, and there was also present emphysematous inflation of the margins of the upper lobes. In transecting the upper lobe of the left lung, it was found considerably hollowed out, (to the degree of holding a large orange,) and containing a small quantity of semi-fluid carbon, resembling thick blacking, with the superior divisions of the left bronchus opening abruptly into it. Many large blood-vessels crossed from one side of the cavity to the other, to which shreds of parenchymatous substance were attached. The inferior lobe was fully saturated with the thick black fluid, and it felt solid under the knife, and several small cysts containing the carbon in a more fluid state were dispersed throughout its substance, in which minute bronchial branches terminated, and by which this fluid was conveyed to the upper lobe, and thence to the trachea. In examining the right lung, the upper, and part of the middle lobe were pervious to air, and carried on, though defectively, the function of respiration, while the interlobular cellular tissue contained the infiltrated carbon. The inferior portion of the middle and almost the whole of the under lobe were densely impacted, so that on a small portion being detached, it sank in water. Both lungs represented, in fact, a mass of moist soot, and how almost any blood could be brought under the influence of the oxygen, and the vital principle be so long maintained in a state of such disorganization, is a question of difficult solution. In tracing the various divisions of the bronchi, particularly in the inferior lobes, some of the considerable branches were found completely plugged up with solid carbon; and in prosecuting the investigation still farther, with the aid of a powerful magnifier, the smaller twigs, with the more minute structure of cells, were ascertained to contain the same substance, forming the most perfect _racemes_, some of them extending to the surface of the lung, and to be felt through the pleura. The lining membrane of the permeable bronchial ramifications, when washed and freed from the black matter, exposed an irritated and softened mucous surface, which was easily torn from the cartilaginous laminæ. The interior of the trachea and its divisions gave evidence of chronic inflammatory action of long standing which extended from about midway between the thyroid cartilage and bifurcation to the root of the lungs. A considerable number of lymphatic glands, filled with--to all appearance--the carbon, were situated along the sides, and particularly at the back part of the trachea; which, from their size, must have interfered by pressure both with respiration and expectoration. The mucous membrane of the left bronchus in particular was much swollen and partially ulcerated towards the root of the lung. In examining the heart after its removal from the body, it was found peculiarly large and flabby, its cavities considerably distended, especially the right auricle and ventricle, while the valvular structure seemed natural. The pericardium contained about 10 ounces of straw-coloured fluid. After examining the organ particularly, I could discover nothing abnormal, but the enlarged and softened state alluded to. The liver was large and highly congested with dark thick blood, but otherwise it was healthy. The gall-bladder was empty, and the spleen large and congested. The stomach was smallish and empty. The mucous membrane was smeared with a blackish, tenacious fluid, which, upon removal, appeared to be a portion of the expectoration. The structure, as far as could be ascertained, was healthy. The small and great intestines contained fluid carbon (evidently swallowed), while no disease was manifest. The mesenteric glands were small and rather firm, but they contained no black matter; the mesentery was much congested with dark venous blood. The kidneys were apparently healthy, though soft. The bladder was small and contracted. The head was not examined, as I expected nothing but general congestion of the vessels. This case comes under the third division of the disease, where the lungs were cavernous, and where there was free expectoration of carbon. CASE 2. The following case is one of unsuspected carbonaceous accumulation in the lungs, the history of which proves the fact, that the disease, when once established in the pulmonary structure, continues to advance till it effects the destruction of the organs, although the patient has not been engaged in any mining operations for many years previous to his death. Robert Reid, aged forty-six at his death, had been a collier since his boyhood. He was a short, stout-made man, of very healthy constitution, and never knew what it was to have a cough. He spent the early part of his life at a coal-mine, near Glasgow (Airdrie), where he all along enjoyed good health. In 1829, he removed from Airdrie to the coal-work at Preston-Hall, Mid-Lothian, where he engaged in mining operations; and, from the time he made this change, he dated the affection of which he died, at the end of 1836. Two months after he removed to Preston-Hall colliery, he was seized with bronchial affection, giving rise to a tickling cough in the morning and when going to bed, accompanied by dyspnoea, with a quick pulse (90), and palpitation of the heart. In the first stage of the affection, he had no expectoration of consequence; but soon after, a little tough mucus was coughed up, and when it was difficult to expectorate, the sputum was occasionally tinged with blood. At this period, the appetite continued to be good, and the strength little impaired. During the day, he felt in his usual health; and, therefore, he continued in full employment. At the end of the four months (Jan. 1830), his cough had increased much, his palpitation of heart, dyspnoea, and bronchial irritation had become very oppressive, and general exhaustion had manifested itself. Recourse was had at this period of the affection to bleeding, blisters, and expectorants, which relieved him only temporarily, and while under this treatment, he--having a large family dependent on his exertions for their support--continued to struggle on at his daily vocation so long as he was able to handle the pick-axe. At the close of 1832, which completed three years of labour in this coal-mine, he was obliged to discontinue all work, and take refuge in medical treatment, with a severe cough, palpitation, annoying dyspnoea, small intermitting pulse, and sleepless nights. On inquiring as to his general habits and mode of life, I found that he had been all along a sober, regular-living man, that he never complained of ill health till he engaged in this coal-mine at Preston-Hall, where the work was difficult and the pit confined, he having only twenty-four inches of coal seam which obliged him to labour lying on his side or back.[10] He was also at this time occasionally engaged as a stone-miner, and was consequently subjected not only to the inhalation of the smoke of linseed oil, but to that of gunpowder. For his chest complaint at this stage, he underwent a variety of medical treatment, which produced mere palliation in his symptoms, and though breathing a pure atmosphere in a country situation, he experienced a most painful sensation of want of air, or, as he himself expressed it, "a feeling as if he did not get enough down." By this time the countenance had become livid, the lips and eyelids dark and congested. After undergoing medical treatment in the country, without much relief, he was removed to the Edinburgh Infirmary, in July 1833, in the hope of deriving benefit; but after being a patient in that hospital for some weeks, he returned home much worse. In addition to the aggravation of his other symptoms, there were present oedematous swelling of the extremities, which were generally cold and benumbed, gnawing pain in the right hypochondriac region, and almost total loss of appetite. On examining the right hypochondrium, which he described as swollen, there was evident indication of an enlarged liver, and he complained much of shooting pain in that region during a paroxysm of cough. Hitherto the functions of the stomach and bowels had remained unimpaired; but at this period, (September 1833,) the former became irritated, and the latter obstructed. Tonics and gentle purgatives were administered, and continued for a considerable time. The urinary secretion was all along scanty and high coloured; but, as the disease advanced, the quantity became exceedingly small, (almost none was voided for days together,) for which he was taking diuretics; and on examining it with the application of heat, I repeatedly found it coagulable. General anasarca was now rapidly increasing; and as the cellular effusion advanced, the breathing became more laborious. I understand, that at the commencement of this person's affection, the pulse was frequent, with some heat of skin at night, but from the time he became my patient, there was a tendency to languor in the circulation, and the _beat_ at the wrist, for some months previous to his death, was almost imperceptible. With a view to remove the enlargement of the liver, a slight mercurial course was proposed; but owing to debility, indicated at its commencement, it was discontinued, and no effect produced on the organ. All medical treatment having been given up, except mere palliatives, such as blisters and expectorants, this poor man lingered out a most miserable existence from his pectoral symptoms, and particularly from palpitation of heart. Expectoration continued the same, of tough, ropy mucus, small in quantity, and got up with difficulty from the air-passages. In repeated examinations with the stethoscope, there was considerable dulness over the whole thoracic region, no bruit whatever could be discovered in the left side of the chest, no cavernous indication, although that side of the thorax was fully developed. The mucous râle was heard very strong in the upper lobe of the right lung, and some little crepitation at the inferior angle of the scapula on the same side. The action of the heart under the stethoscope gave rather an uncertain indication as to the state of that organ, for though the sound was evidently communicated to the ear, as being transmitted through a fluid, and not the heart striking the ribs, still, from the very general dulness in the left side of the chest, it was exceedingly difficult to decide whether this obscurity arose from effusion into the pericardium, or from effusion into the cavity of the chest. There was one remarkable symptom manifested in this case,--that though the heart's action was to the observer feeble, the patient's sensations were as if the pulsation was very strong, and painfully difficult to bear, and this peculiar feeling to a great extent prevented him from sleeping. I cannot record this case without the painful recollection of this poor man's sufferings. For six months previous to his death, the dyspnoea and palpitation attendant upon his disease were of such a severe character, as to prevent him at any time lying down; and his sensations would not even permit his maintaining the sitting position, for he found it necessary to get upon his hands and knees, as the only posture affording any alleviation to his uneasiness. This peculiarity in the cardiac action was such, that, as he expressed it, "he lived in continual dread of death," and this being ever present to his mind, he was for weeks known almost never to close his eyes. He died exhausted, in November 1836; and there being doubts entertained regarding some of the symptoms of his disease, he requested that his body should be examined, which was done twenty-six hours after his death. _Post-mortem Examination._--The general anasarca gave the body a bulky appearance. On raising the sternum, the ribs seemed very firm and unyielding. The lungs were of a dark blue colour, and seemed at first appearance to fill completely both sides of the chest. Towards the sternal end of the ribs, on the left side, three or four of the substernal or mammary glands were found enlarged and filled with black fluid. The pleura pulmonalis had (where there wore no adhesions) interspersed over it patches of false exudation, _of a dark brown colour_. The lungs adhered extensively to the pleura costalis, and from the character of the adhesions, they were evidently of some years' standing. In both sides of the chest there was effusion to a considerable extent of a dark-coloured fluid, resembling porter in appearance. On removing the left lung, which was difficult, from the strong adhesive bands, it seemed, from its weight and softness, to contain a fluid; and on making a longitudinal section of both lobes, a large quantity of thick, black matter, similar to black paint, gushed from the opening, exposing an almost excavated interior of both lobes. The carbonaceous matter contained was in quantity about an English pint, and the lung, when emptied, became quite flaccid, and very light. The air-cells of this lung were entirely destroyed, or nearly so, and one of the divisions of the left bronchus opened abruptly into the cavity at the upper part. Both lobes were so completely adherent to each other, from inflammatory action, as to form a continuous sac, containing the above fluid. On examining the internal structure of the cavity, the parenchymatous substance which formed its walls presented a rugged and irregular appearance, resembling a sponge hollowed out, and infiltrated with black paint. At different points, the large pulmonary blood-vessels crossed the cavity in the form of cords, with portions of structure attached, and though these fragments had a black appearance, they exhibited, to a considerable extent, their original cellular structure when washed in water. The process of carbonaceous ulceration had proceeded so far in this lung, that at some points the pleura pulmonalis, which was much thickened, was left the sole medium between the contents of the sac and the cavity of the chest; while in other parts it was thick and spongy. On examining more minutely with the magnifier, open-mouthed bronchial twigs, and very small blood-vessels, were seen plugged up with solid and fluid carbon, and, from the appearance of the morbid structure, it was manifest, that the ulcerative process had effected a complete disorganization of the _bronchial_ tubes of every calibre, while the smaller _arterial_ vessels had alone suffered, leaving the larger ones entire.[11] Along the margin of the inferior lobe, indurated accumulations were felt through the pleura, and, on being laid open, they were ascertained to be impacted lobules, which resisted the knife. Previous to the division, both lungs weighed about six pounds. On examining the right lung, which seemed much similar in weight to the left, and on making a section throughout its three lobes, the morbid appearances varied in each. The upper lobe was infiltrated with carbon into the interlobular cellular tissue, leaving the bronchial ramifications respirable, and lubricated with frothy mucus. The middle lobe presented a solid appearance, and contained a mass of indurated black matter, of the size of a largish apple, and consistency of consolidated blacking. The surrounding parenchymatous substance was disorganized, and undergoing the process of softening. In dividing the indurated substance, its internal structure exhibited a variety of greyish lines, forming parallel and transverse ramifications, which resembled small check in appearance, and which, when more accurately examined, was ascertained to be the disorganised walls of the minute air-cells and cellular tissue. The inferior lobe presented a state of complete infiltration, with the air-cells generally entire, and on putting a piece of it into water, it showed its density by sinking. When we examine the morbid appearances in this case, and compare them with the symptoms--when we consider that nearly all the respiration carried on in this man's chest, was performed in the upper lobe of the right lung, we are not surprised at his sufferings, nor is there much difficulty in explaining the very painful dyspnoea, on his attempting the recumbent position; and as death was instantaneous, it was evident that the immediate cause was the bursting of the left pulmonary cyst into the corresponding bronchus; the fluid carbon thus finding its way to the trachea, produced suffocation. The liver was exceedingly large, projecting outwards and downwards from under the ribs, and pushing up the diaphragm. Its substance was soft, engorged with dark blood, and easily torn. There was no carbonaceous deposit throughout its structure, and its weight was upwards of twelve pounds. There was a considerable quantity of very dark bile in the gall-bladder. The heart was large, soft, and pale. There was considerable attenuation of the walls of both auricles and ventricles. The coronary veins were much distended with dark blood. The columnæ carneæ of the right ventricle were exceedingly slender and bloodless; the tricuspid valve was much thickened, and studded on both sides with small cartilaginous granules; the other cavities of this organ were apparently healthy, though thin in substance. The pericardium, which was rough, and much distended, exhibited a variety of false membrane on its internal surface, of a dark brown colour, and contained about eight ounces of dark fluid, similar to that found in the cavity of the pleura. In tracing the bronchi from the lungs to the bifurcation, the mucous membrane, which was smeared with fluid carbon, appeared much irritated, and considerably thickened, diminishing the diameter of these passages; and there were found externally at the root of the lungs, and around the bronchi, several large glands, containing a fluid to all appearance carbonaceous. The trachea showed a similar irritated condition with that of the bronchi. A little above the bifurcation, and at the back part of the trachea, a cluster of lymphatic glands were found, some of them the size of a horse bean, filled with carbon. _The spleen_ was very large, and much darker than usual, highly congested with venous blood, easily torn with the fingers, and weighed about three pounds. Kidneys small, pale, and soft; bladder small, and corrugated; large accumulation of light brown fluid into the cavity of the abdomen, to the extent of two Scotch pints. The viscera were much compressed from effusion. There was a rough brown exudation upon the surface of the peritoneum and intestines. The stomach was contracted to a small size. The mucous membrane was soft, pultaceous, and easily removed, tinged with dark green bile. The lymphatic glands along both curvatures were small and flaccid, and contained no black matter. The intestines appeared empty and contracted. The duodenum showed the same softened state of its mucous membrane as was exhibited by the stomach. The mesenteric glands were free from any disease. The head, on removing skull-cap, dura mater found natural; serous effusion to small extent under the arachnoid; very general congestion of the pia mater, giving both hemispheres of the brain a blackish appearance. The superior longitudinal sinus was filled with dark, inky-looking blood. In removing the pia mater, the convolutions of the brain were firm, and appeared natural. There was a light brown effusion into both lateral ventricles to the extent of about an ounce. Reid, when he first came to Preston-Hall, had inhaled the evolved smoke of the coal-mine, thereby laying a foundation of this infiltrated mass. It must be manifest to every one who follows out the history of this case, and attends to the morbid appearances found within the chest, that there was a progressive accumulation of carbonaceous matter going on in the substance of the lungs from the time the patient engaged in working this difficult seam of coal till his death. * * * * * CASE 3. D. S. was aged 39 years at his death, in August 1838. He had been engaged as a coal-miner so soon as he was able to undertake work. He was a tall, muscular man, and for a long time enjoyed excellent health. He first began mining operations at one of the Pencaitland collieries, and continued to labour there for many years. About six years before his death, he was induced by an increase of wages, to undertake stone-mining in the same pit; and soon after engaging in this employment, he began to be troubled with a slight cough, accompanied by dyspnoea, palpitation, and oppressive headach, which symptoms rapidly increased in severity. He declared that his cough and general ailments first showed themselves after labouring for a considerable time at stone-work, with the aid of gunpowder, in a situation where the air became so impure, both from defective ventilation and carbonaceous particles floating in it, as materially to affect the breathing. Although he repeatedly changed his place of labour from one coal-work to another more healthy in the same parish, he experienced no mitigation of his annoying cough. When I first saw this man for medical advice in July 1834, he had then been about two years engaged as a stone-miner, the bronchial irritation was very general throughout the chest, he had severe cough, hurried breathing, little or no expectoration, and on applying the ear to the thorax, the sibilant and sonorous bronchi were distinctly heard, which indicated a swollen and irritated condition of the mucous linings of the air-passages, and this irritation was also manifest in the mucous membrane of the nostrils, which was much swollen, acutely tender, and impeding considerably the passage of the air. The pulse was rather frequent, about 85 in the minute. There was present much heat of skin during the night, which subsided towards the morning. The remedial measures were blisters and expectorants, which relieved him considerably. The cough recurred in paroxysms, accompanied by severe headachs, with little frothy mucous expectoration, and there was occasionally observed a slight tinge of blood in the sputum. At this period, his appetite was good, and with the exception of his cough and difficulty of breathing at night and morning, he seemed usually very well. Though labouring under his disease, he continued at his employment of stone-mining, and would not be convinced of its injurious effects. _July 1835._ There was considerable increase of the palpitation when he attempted the recumbent position, or moved hurriedly. The remedies ultimately seemed to produce little effect. His general exhaustion advanced rapidly, and obliged him to relinquish all mining occupation. At the end of the summer of 1836, when I saw him more regularly, and was enabled to watch his symptoms with more attention, these having materially changed for the worse, percussion elicited dulness over the chest, with the exception of the upper part of both lungs, where the mucous râle was heard louder than usual. The heart's action was strong and irregular, particularly so for some time after a fit of coughing, when he suffered excessively from headach, succeeded by a tendency to drowsiness. The pulse was slow and languid, not exceeding 50 in the minute. His countenance had assumed a greyish inanimate aspect, his eyes became sunk, his robust frame bent and so emaciated from this peculiar disease, that though his age did not exceed 38 years, a stranger looking at him, supposed him to have attained the age of 70. No treatment seemed to have any effect in allaying the cough, nor was he permitted to lie down. From his feeling of dyspnoea and thoracic oppression, his nights were almost sleepless, his extremities oedematous, usually cold and bloodless. During the greater part of the time he was confined to the house, the bowels were constipated, requiring daily purgatives. The urinary secretion was small in quantity and high coloured, but in neither discharge was there any thing very unnatural. In this almost inanimate condition he lingered on, when about six months before his death, during a paroxysm of cough, he expectorated a mouthful of thick black matter, and continued so to do periodically, at intervals of about three weeks, seeming to experience relief after voiding the carbonaceous sputum. There was little change in the symptoms of this man till death. He took little or no food, from his appetite being almost entirely gone, and from gastric irritation being constantly present. His cough and dyspnoea continued severe, with drowsy headachs and difficulty in keeping the body warm. The arterial action was exceedingly low. The pulse was 40 in the minute, and difficult to discern. The strongest stimulant produced no increase of action, the sitting position was the only one in which he was at all easy, and in which he remained day and night till he ceased to live. _Post-mortem examination, twenty-four hours after death._--The body was much emaciated. The chest large, and integuments tightly drawn over it, the ribs unyielding. In removing the anterior part of the chest, the lungs adhered strongly to the ribs, and were covered very generally with patches of dark-red false membrane, corrugating the pleura. Each side of the thorax contained fully a pint of light-brown fluid. In removing the left lung, it felt firm and developed, and in dividing it throughout its lobes, a variety of small cavities and indurated masses of carbon were found to pervade its substance, exhibiting a sooty appearance, extending throughout the whole structure. The indurated nuclei were ascertained to be impacted lobules, and the small cavities were these disorganized and softened, and communicating with the bronchial tubes. Part of the upper, and the whole of the inferior lobe, were soaked with carbon, and felt indurated. The right lung was similarly disorganized with the left. The greater part of the superior lobe was permeable to air, and the interlobular tissue contained carbon, in small, hard granules. The middle and inferior lobes contained several hard, indurated bodies, progressing to a state of softening, and in separating a portion of the latter lobe, it was found to sink in water. There was emphysema of the margin of the inferior lobes. There appeared considerable irritation and softening of the mucous membrane of both bronchi, extending from the root of the lungs to beyond the bifurcation of the trachea. There were several enlarged bronchial glands at the apex of the lungs, containing black fluid. The pericardium contained about eight ounces of straw-coloured fluid. There was a light-brown exudation, extending over serous lamina of the pericardium and the surface of the heart. The heart was flaccid, the right auricle and ventricle were enlarged and attenuated, and both vena cava at their junction with the heart were much dilated, the valvular structure natural. The liver was large, soft, and easily torn. The abdominal viscera in general appeared healthy; slight effusion into the cavity of the peritoneum. In this case head not examined, but which no doubt would have shown marks of extensive congestion, as in other cases. The above case comes under the second division of this disease, where the irritative process resulting from the foreign body pervading the lungs, had advanced so far as to produce a variety of small cysts, and circumscribed, indurated masses, the former containing _fluid_, and the latter _solid_ carbon, and it is evident in tracing its progress, that there must have been a very rapid increase within the system in the carbon originally deposited in the pulmonary structure by inhalation. There was very limited black expectoration shortly before death, and this merely the contents of a few small cavities communicating with the bronchial ramifications, while both lungs were extensively infiltrated with that matter which, had the patient lived, would have produced general softening, and more extensive excavations by the coalition of the various indurated tubulæ. * * * * * CASE IV. J. T., aged 45 when he died, May 1837. He became a collier in early life, in the neighbourhood of Glasgow, and came, at the age of 22 years, to East Lothian, to engage in collier labour at Blind Wells, near Tranent. From his own account, he was rather of a delicate constitution, and ill-fitted for the work of a coal-pit, consequently, after labouring a few years, he was, at the age of 26,--owing to cough and difficulty of breathing,--obliged to relinquish the employment of a miner. He left East Lothian, and retired to the west of Scotland, where he became a country merchant, and continued so occupied for upwards of fifteen years. During that time, he was occasionally troubled, particularly in the morning, with his cough and hurried breathing, which was increasing in severity, but at no period had he expectorated black matter, nor was there any indication that his sufferings arose from carbonaceous disease. On account of becoming reduced in circumstances, he was under the necessity, though labouring under chest affection, of returning to his former employment of coal-mining at Blind Wells, at the age of 41, August 1834. He had not been long engaged as a miner, after his return to East Lothian, when his cough increased considerably, with laborious breathing, palpitations, and overpowering headach. Both now and formerly, he wrought solely as a coal-miner, and at no time of his life did he work as a _stone-miner_. Having a family to provide for, he struggled on laboriously under much suffering from his chest affection, till general exhaustion compelled him to leave off work, and seek regular medical advice, July 1836. From his statement regarding the cause of the disease, I was led to understand that his cough, which never left him from the time he was first seized, was induced, at an early period, by bad air generated in the coal-pit at Black Wells, from the work being ill ventilated, and from the general use of coarse linseed oil for the lamps. When I first saw this man professionally, he was labouring under general weakness; his pulse was not above 40 in the minute, small and thready. He suffered from drowsy headach, anorexia, cold and slightly oedematous limbs. He had incessant cough, with tough mucous expectoration. During a severe paroxysm, he vomited a mouthful of black paint-like fluid, followed by considerable relief, and ever after till his death, he continued to expectorate the same substance in great quantity, often to the extent of 15 oz. daily. In examining the chest with the ear, the sound, from the distinct pectoriloquy, indicated a cavernous state of both lungs; otherwise the bruit was obscure. The remedies were merely of a palliative character, knowing the patient to be rapidly sinking. In this exhausted state he remained for some months; his appetite was almost entirely gone; the oedema of limbs increasing. There was also a leaden hue over the surface of the body, which was constantly cold. At this stage, the quantity of urine voided was small and dark in colour. Bowels obstinate; occasional vomiting. The pulse ranged from 38 to 40. The lips and ears were livid, and his drowsiness became more overpowering as death approached. _Post-mortem examination._--The body was much emaciated; the ribs were prominent and unyielding. On removing the anterior part of the thorax, the lungs were found firmly adhering to the pleura costalis, and of a dark blue colour. There was an effusion to the extent of about sixteen ounces of light-brown fluid, found in the cavities of the pleura. The greater part of the effusion was into the left side. The lining membrane of the chest was almost wholly covered with false membrane of a dark brown colour. The right lung filled almost completely the right cavity of the thorax, while the left lung appeared much contracted, particularly towards the apex. The pleura of both lungs was much puckered, and interspersed with dark red patches around the adhesions. Three or four of the substernal glands were found considerably enlarged, and filled with black fluid, and a cluster of the anterior mediastinal and lymphatic glands contained fluid having the same appearance. The right lung appeared solid to the feel, when removed from the body. It was rough and irregular over its surface, from a variety of indurated substances projecting from beneath the pleura. In making a section of the whole lung, each lobe was almost completely saturated with thick inky fluid, and was observed to be here and there hard and granular, particularly in the course of the larger bronchi. Portions of this lung were pervious to air and emphysematous, but the greater part was disorganized, and contained carbonaceous matter in a solid and fluid state. The left lung was light and flaccid, when compared to the right. The upper lobe was extensively excavated. The parenchymatous substance was found ragged and unrespirable, and many large blood-vessels crossing from either side of the cavity, pervious to blood. With the aid of the magnifier, a variety of open-mouthed bronchial twigs and minute blood-vessels were visible, communicating with the cavity. The upper part of the inferior lobe was partially excavated, and containing about four ounces of fluid carbon. The lower margin of this lobe was firmly impacted. The mucous membrane of the trachea and bronchial divisions appeared, when washed and freed from the black matter, red and softened. The lining membrane of larynx was partially ulcerated, and the rima glottidis slightly oedematous. There were various small lymphatic glands on the back part of the trachea, which contained black fluid. The pericardium considerably distended, and contained nearly twelve ounces of light-brown fluid. Evident marks of inflammatory action were observed externally. On its internal surface it was thickly coated with false membrane of a brown colour. The heart was pale, soft, and attenuated. The right auricle was much dilated, and its walls exceedingly thin. There were no further morbid appearances. Head,--External congestion of an inky colour was found on the surface of the brain, which was to all appearance otherwise healthy. There was an effusion into both lateral ventricles. The abdominal viscera were natural. The liver was much larger than usual, soft, and highly congested with inky-coloured blood.[12] It is evident, from the symptoms and history of the above case, that the patient had contracted the disease of which he died at an early period of his life, and that during the fifteen years he refrained from mining operations, the pulmonary structure retained the carbon inhaled while labouring in the coal-pit, and this is one of the many cases which can be produced as examples of the fact that the foreign matter once deposited in that structure originates a process of accumulative impaction and ultimate softening of the organ, which is gradually carried on till it is entirely disorganized. This case comes under the third division of the morbid action, viz. where extensive excavation of the structure is produced. * * * * * CASE V. A. G., aged 52 at his death. He was a collier from his boyhood, and wrought during the greater part of his life at Penston colliery in the parish of Gladsmuir. He was a short-set robust man, and while labouring at Penston, he enjoyed usually good health, free from cough or any affection of the chest. When he had attained the age of 48 years, (1833), he removed from the Penston to the Pencaitland coal-work, and about six months after making this change, he began to experience a slight difficulty of breathing, accompanied by a troublesome cough and feverish nights. The pulse was 84. Various soothing remedies were administered, which relieved for a little the pectoral symptoms; and as he felt no decided physical debility, he continued as usual at underground work. In 1835 I saw him often, and found that his pulmonary symptoms were becoming more marked; his cough was excessively annoying in the morning and when going to bed; his expectoration was frothy mucus, with dyspepsia, palpitation, and occasional headach. The resonance of the chest on percussion was very slightly impaired, and the respiratory murmur was variable, being occasionally louder at one time than another, and often much obscured, from the mucous secretion. Labouring under this chest affection he still continued his daily employment till the spring of 1836, when he was entirely laid aside, being unable to go below ground, or to take the slightest fatigue, for the smallest exertion produced a fit of coughing; and during a paroxysm of this kind, he expectorated a few black sputa, which in a few days disappeared, and gave place to the usual frothy mucous expectoration. This bronchial discharge was accompanied by considerable relief to the cough and dyspnoea. By this time, (June 1836), on applying the ear to the chest, the resonance is dull, and respiratory murmur obscure. The action of the heart was slow when compared to its former state. The pulse not beyond 45 in the minute. By the end of this year he appeared in a half dead state,--but a mere shadow in regard to flesh. He was expectorating at intervals of some weeks, when the cough became more severe, a few carbonaceous sputa, and suffering severely from gastric irritation.[13] During the last week of his life, he expectorated considerable quantities of black fluid, and died exhausted, January 1837. _Post-mortem examination_, which was conducted hurriedly, exhibited extensive effusion into both sides of the chest. The adhesions of the pleura were strong, and evidently of long standing. There was very general carbonaceous infiltration throughout the lungs, without excavations to any extent. Various empty cysts, which could contain a hazel-nut, were found in the superior and middle lobe of the right, and throughout the whole of the left lung; in which bronchial twigs terminated. The pericardium was distended, with limpid effusion. The right side of the heart was dilated, and filled with dark treacly-looking blood; and when washed, it appeared pale and bloodless. Its walls were thin, various patches of brown exudation extending over both pleuræ. There were several enlarged lymphatic glands, found at the root of both lungs, filled with black fluid. In examining the head, the pia mater was found much congested; but there was no effusion discovered into any of the ventricles of the brain, nor any other indication of disease. In tracing the history of this patient, connected with the disease, it will be observed, that until he came to Pencaitland colliery, he had no symptom whatever of chest affection. Penston coal-work is exceedingly well ventilated, and the miners who labour there seldom, if ever, suffer from the black expectoration, owing to the evolved smoke of every kind being freely carried off from its underground works, while it is quite the contrary at Pencaitland, where many colliers, on leaving Penston, are seized with the disease. This case comes under the second division of the disease, where the irritative process, the result of the foreign matter in the lungs, has proceeded so far as to produce a variety of small cysts, containing fluid, or semi-fluid carbon, following the course of the bronchial ramifications. * * * * * CASE 6. D. L., aged twenty-six years at his death, in August 1837. He was the son of a collier, at Pencaitland, and engaged at an early age in putting the coals to his father; and when he was fit for full collier-work, in 1831, he was employed at the same coal-work. He was a tall, well-formed, robust young man, and not at all liable to chest affection. For some time he wrought, as a coal-hewer, but latterly was induced, (1834), for higher wages, to become a stone-miner in the same coal-pit, where gunpowder was used extensively in the operations. About six months after he commenced stone-mining, he became affected with a short tickling cough, expectoration of pearly tenacious phlegm, hurried breathing, tightness across the chest, frequent pulse (95), heat of skin during the night, and occasional throbbing in the head. Being young, and fearless of any danger from the occupation, although warned of the consequences, he continued to prosecute it, and twelve months (May 1835) after he first began, the cough had increased much in severity. The expectoration was diminished, and had become more difficult to void from the bronchi, and the breathing was more oppressive, accompanied by a painful tightness across the chest in the morning. The body was considerably reduced in bulk to what it previously had been. The pulse ranged from 80 to 90; the appetite was impaired, and there was in the morning a tendency to retching. The nocturnal heat of skin continued, without any moisture, though his body was drenched with a clammy sweat during the hours of labour. The respiratory murmur was harsh and extensive at the upper part of both lungs, while the sibilant ronchus was heard occasionally in the lower lobes. The heart's action was regular, but impulse strong, on applying the hand to the cardiac region. The remedies resorted to were blisters, bleeding (at an early stage), expectorants, and tonics, which, to a certain degree, relieved the more urgent symptoms. In October 1835, the disease having made rapid progress, all the symptoms had become more marked. The cough, from its frequency and severity, was extremely exhausting, and the expectoration had become more copious, and of a semi-black colour. The mucous râle was evident in the upper part of both lungs, while the inferior lobes were dull to the ear, and on percussion. The heart's action, at this stage, was less strong, but no peculiarity in its function could be discovered. The cardiac region exhibited every indication of effusion into the pericardium. His body was now considerably emaciated, and the anterior part of his chest was so much contracted, as to oblige him to stoop to a great degree. Under this load of disease, he continued his employment of a stone-miner, gradually losing flesh, with a rapidly increasing black expectoration; and having several dependant on his exertions, he resolved to work, while he could keep on foot, which he did till September of the following year, (1836) when his once powerful body was so reduced, from disease, and his cough so incessant, that he was unable to move or speak without great fatigue. He preferred the sitting position, as giving him most freedom in breathing. The pulse was rather slow and small; the heart's action languid, and there was an evident increase of dulness upon percussion over cardiac region. At this, the closing period of the disease, (November 1836) he first complained of drowsiness, accompanied by headach. The countenance was pallid; the eyes sunk and inanimate, and the body tending to be cold; the urinary secretion of a dark brown colour, and precipitates a dark deposit. The bowels were exceedingly obstinate, with little change in any of the symptoms; he lingered till January 1837. _Post-mortem examination._--The body was much emaciated. The thorax was large, and well arched. On removing the anterior part of the chest, the lungs appeared to be fully developed, and of a dark blue colour. There were several very slight adhesions between the pleuræ, and the effusion into both cavities was small in quantity. The pleura costalis was almost free from any exudation, but there were a variety of small patches of false membrane throughout the pleura pulmonalis. The left lung exhibited general carbonaceous infiltration. The upper lobe was partially excavated. The pulmonary structure, internally, was ragged and easily torn, and these cavities communicated with the bronchial divisions, the walls of which formed various septa. The inferior lobe was almost impervious to air. The minute bronchial ramifications and corresponding lobules were impacted with dense carbon. There were several clusters of small cysts throughout this lobe, containing carbon in a fluid state. A portion of this lobe sank in water from its density, and when squeezed with the hand, thick fluid carbon, containing hardened particles, could be expressed from it. The right lung was similar in external appearance to the left. The upper lobe was crepitant, though infiltrated with carbon into the interlobular cellular tissue. The air-cells were gorged with tenacious mucus. The middle lobe was partially excavated. The cellular tissue was considerably disorganized, and similar in diseased structure to the upper lobe of the left lung, with the exception of a portion affected by vascular emphysema. The inferior lobe was much condensed, and loaded with carbon of a very bright black. The mucous membrane of the bronchial tubes was thickened, and slightly ulcerated. Various lymphatic glands were found at the root of both lungs, containing black fluid. The pericardium was considerably distended from effusion of a straw-coloured fluid. The internal surface of the pericardium was rough, and both laminæ appeared thickened from inflammatory action. Effusion into cavity of chest to the extent of twelve ounces. The heart was natural in appearance, but thin in substance. The tricuspid and mitral valves were thickened, and exhibiting minute granulations on their surface. The right auricle and ventricle were dilated considerably. Aorta, and other vessels proceeding from heart, were natural. The stomach was small, and exceedingly spongy in its mucous lining. The intestines were healthy. The kidneys were small, and peculiarly yellow in the internal structure. The liver was large, and engorged with dark thick blood; several small carbonaceous cysts throughout its substance. The spleen was large, soft, and much congested. The mesenteric glands free from black matter. _Head._--The arachnoid thickened and opaque; there was very general congestion of pia mater with dark black blood, and when removed, convolutions studded over with innumerable dark points. The surface of the brain was apparently healthy, with an effusion of a light pink-like fluid into the lateral ventricles. The internal substance of the brain natural. This case is interesting, as showing the very rapid course, in some instances, of the disease to a fatal termination, and also how soon the strongest man can be brought under its destructive influence. This is the only case in which carbon was discovered in any of the other organs, as exhibited in the liver. The above case comes under the third division, showing extensive excavation of the pulmonary structure. CASE VII. James R. aged 54 at his death, 1836. He was a large muscular man, and wrought as a coal-miner in early life at Pencaitland, and, as far as could be ascertained, he had never been engaged at stone-mining. At the age of thirty he was obliged to desist work, on account of a difficulty in his breathing, which he considered to be asthma, and he was occupied above ground, as the engine-man, during the latter part of his life. The slightest exertion produced exhaustion and palpitation of the heart; his bowels were obstinate, and his urinary secretion small in quantity. His cough was particularly troublesome in the morning, and was relieved by a free expectoration of frothy mucus. In this condition he continued, with the cough gradually increasing, for nearly twenty years, as I understand, when he began to void black sputa, which daily augmented in quantity till his decease, August 1836. For some weeks previous to his death, his pulse had become slow and thready, 36 in the minute. The oedema of the upper and lower extremities was extensive; the dyspnoea increased considerably; the countenance was livid; and the body remarkably cold. Stimulants in considerable quantity were administered without the smallest effect. Drowsiness supervened; and he was for some days previous to dissolution in a torpid condition, while at the same time he was quite collected when roused. _Post-mortem examination._--On examining the body, the chest was large and well formed. The effusion into the cellular substance was very general. The cartilages of ribs were ossified, and both lungs were adhering strongly to the pleura costalis. There was large effusion into both cavities of the chest, to the extent of three English pints in whole. The pleura pulmonalis was much thickened and rough, with false membrane, and many patches of puckering. Several lymphatic glands in the anterior part of the mediastinum contained black fluid. The left lung was carbonaceous throughout its substance. The upper lobe partially excavated and ragged; the inferior lobe infiltrated and emphysematous. The right lung was of corresponding black appearance. The lower lobe had a firm and condensed feel, and when divided, exhibited a mass resembling indurated blacking. The middle lobe was in part permeable to air; and there were several small cysts containing liquid carbon, connected with minute bronchial ramifications. Various indurated knotty bodies were extended throughout its substance. In the upper lobe, the carbon was confined principally to the interlobular cellular tissue, and when pressed in the hand, gave out thick, black, frothy serum. The mucous membrane of bronchial divisions, when freed from the black matter, was swollen and eroded as far up as the bifurcation of the trachea. At several parts these passages were considerably contracted. The heart was enlarged, and dilated in all its cavities. The valves of the right and left ventricles wore thickened, from congestion of very minute veins, and were granular to the feel. The substance of the heart was soft. There were eight ounces of effusion into the pericardium, resembling that formed in the cavities of the thorax. The liver and the spleen were large; the former peculiarly yellow and oily. Several very large veins, containing inky-looking blood, were seen ramifying its substance. The spleen was very friable. The kidneys were small, and apparently healthy. Brain not examined. This case comes under the third division of the disease. R.'s case is peculiarly striking, from the length of time (twenty years or more) that the carbon was concealed within the pulmonary tissue, and also because he had never been engaged, as far as known, as a stone-miner; so that this case, along with others, illustrates the fact, that where the morbid action is the result of lamp smoke, from the combustion of coarse oil, and not gunpowder smoke, the disease is much slower in its progress, but ultimately fatal. * * * * * CASE VIII. R. D., aged 37, at his death, 1839. He was the brother of George Davidson, subject of the first case in this Essay. He began to labour as a miner, with his brother, in early life, at Pencaitland coal-work. He first began as a coal-miner, and after being so engaged for five or six years, he removed to Penston coal-work, which adjoins. He continued healthy for a considerable length of time, and at his brother's death, December 1836, he was free to all appearance from any affection of the chest. He returned, 1836, to Pencaitland coal-work, where he engaged as a stone-miner, knowing that such employment was destructive to life; and from that change he dated the commencement of his disease. Cough, palpitation, dyspnoea, headach, quick pulse (90 in the minute), made their appearance, soon after he began trap labour, and these symptoms gradually increased, till he was laid aside in the course of two years, (1838,) when he first expectorated black sputum.[14] As his exhaustion advanced, the carbonaceous expectoration became more copious, and he discharged from the lungs at an average twelve ounces of fluid, resembling liquid blacking, daily; and he died in a manner similar to his brother, Case No. 1. Some weeks previous to his death, his pulse rapidly sank to about 45 or 50, and became exceedingly feeble;--cold extremities, oedema of the legs and arms, lividity of lips, eyelids, and ears, preceding dissolution. _Post-mortem examination._--The chest was contracted; the ribs unyielding, with extensive adhesions of the pleuræ. Both lungs were of a dark-blue colour, much puckered from patches of false exudation. There was extensive effusion into both cavities of the chest; and the right lung showed carbonaceous infiltration throughout its whole extent. The superior lobe was excavated, so as to contain a small orange; and about six ounces of thick, black matter were found in it. The middle lobe was crepitant, though soaked with black fluid; several impacted lobules were scattered throughout its substance. The inferior lobe was indurated, resembling a piece of moist peat. The left lung was cavernous in both lobes, and the cysts were empty, the contents having been expectorated. A small portion of the upper lobe was pervious to air. There were several enlarged bronchial glands at the root of both lungs; and the tracheal glands contained black fluid. The liver was large, and its substance soft. _Head._--There was extensive congestion of the blood-vessels of the brain, with effusion into the lateral ventricles. The viscera of the abdomen were extensively congested, with slight effusion into the peritoneal cavity. It will be observed in referring to the history of this case, that till the time this man became a stone-miner, and carried on his operations with the aid of gunpowder, he had no symptom of the disease of which he died, and it is evident that the disease, if commenced at all, had made little or no progress till after his return from Penston colliery to Pencaitland, and after he had inhaled the residuum of gunpowder combustion, therefore the disorganization of the pulmonary structure was to all appearance effected between the summer of 1836 and December 1838, showing decidedly the very irritating character of gunpowder smoke upon the delicate tissue of the air-passages. CASE 9. J. D., aged 37, at his death, April 1844. He was a well formed man, with a fully developed chest. At so early an age as seven years, he engaged in the labour of the coal-pit at Preston-Hall, Mid-Lothian, and he continued to prosecute that employment for a period of 15 years, when he was obliged to relinquish the work on account of an affection of the chest, being, as he termed it, "touched in the breath." During the subsequent 15 years of his life, he had never once entered a coal-pit, nor had he any connexion with coal-works, but earned his bread by the trade of a travelling merchant. He had suffered much in his wanderings, from his breathing,[15] for more than two years continuously, while loss of appetite, and thoracic irritation, had rendered his physical frame as weak as that of a child. When I first saw this man, which was about a month before his death, he laboured under rending cough, with a scanty tough mucous expectoration--oppressive dyspnoea, ascites, general anasarca, occasional giddiness, and throbbing headach on motion, or on assuming the standing position. His countenance was of a light blue or slate colour, and his upper and lower extremities had much the same appearance. His lips, eyelids, ears, and nose, were swollen and livid, and his eye-balls effused, and apparently projecting from the sockets. His sight was impaired and hazy. There was continued feeling of cold, with occasional rigors, and difficulty in keeping the extremities warm. There was considerable exhaustion upon the slightest exertion. The half reclining posture was the only one in which he was comfortable. The pulse was exceedingly slow, not above 36 in the minute, it was small, and often imperceptible at the wrist. There was considerable weight and feeling of oppressive fulness in the region of the heart, which was dull on percussion. On applying the ear to the chest, little or no râle whatever was discernible, and the action of the heart was almost inaudible. He had a sensation as of great weight in the head, and difficulty in raising it. Ho suffered from restless nights, short hurried breathing, with a feeling and dread of suffocation, evident fulness and enlargement in the region of liver, and inability to turn to the right side. The urine was small in quantity, of a bluish colour, and coagulable, irritability of stomach, and the bowels were obstinate and difficult to move, even with drastic purgatives. The treatment was merely palliative, no stimulant seemed to have any effect in exciting the system. Ascites and general anasarca were considerable, giving the body a large appearance. For some days previous to his dissolution, there was increased lividity of countenance, and little or no action of heart. He had at no time expectorated carbon, even during many severe paroxysms of cough. Upon inquiry, I found that this man had been a companion in labour to R. R. (whose case No. 2, is fully reported,) at Preston-Hall colliery, and from the morbid appearances found in R.'s chest, and from the character of the coal-work in which both were engaged, I was induced to believe Duncan's to be a similar case. In ascertaining his early history, I found him to be a robust powerful man, though troubled with a cough and hurried breathing from his first becoming a collier, circumstances very usual with those who engage in difficult mining operations, and which they erroneously attribute to want of air, nothing more. _Post-mortem examination, twenty-four hours after death._--The body was much swollen from effusion. On removing the anterior part of the chest, both lungs were much compressed from an immense effusion of a light brown fluid into the cavities of the chest to the extent of a gallon. The lungs were of a deep black colour, and irregularly spotted with dark brown patches of exudation. There were considerable adhesions of the pleuræ, and marks of very general chronic inflammation and false membrane over the greater part of the pleura costalis. There were adhesions of the left lung to the pericardium, which was much thickened, and contained about 14 ounces of a turbid fluid. On removing the left lung, it seemed large, and felt partially consolidated, and on dividing it throughout both lobes, it contained a mass of semi-fluid carbon, of a bright black colour, similar to paint. In this lung, the air-cells were almost entirely disorganized, unfitting it for the function of respiration. The upper lobe was divided into a variety of cysts, filled with carbonaceous matter in a fluid state, into which many of the smaller bronchi opened, and through which various blood-vessels passed uninjured. The inferior lobe, when emptied of its contents, was so much excavated that the parenchymatous substance felt light and flaccid. On dividing the right lung[16] it exhibited a pure black mass, but not so fully disorganized as the left. Portions of each lobe were permeable to air, while other parts formed cysts, containing fluid and solid carbon, the inferior lobe showed an almost solid mass. The mucous membrane of the respiratory passages was inflamed and spongy throughout the divisions, the small ramifications were irritated and choked up with tough, frothy phlegm. There were several large bronchial glands at the root of the left lung. In tracing the divisions of the bronchi more minutely, from the root of the lungs into their substance, clusters of glands were observed filled with inky fluid, and narrowing considerably the air-passages, and in washing carefully a portion of the upper lobe of the right lung, and removing as far as possible the carbonaceous matter, several lymphatic glands were seen with the aid of the magnifier, imbedded in the interlobular cellular tissue, resembling small black beads. The tracheal glands when examined, contained black fluid, similar in appearance to what was found in the bronchial glands. The mucous membrane of the trachea was soft and irritated, smeared with tough bloody mucus, the lining membrane of the rima glottidis was thickened and slightly granular. The heart was much enlarged, and soft, with spots indicating chronic inflammatory action on and about the right auricle. Both auricle and ventricle on the left side of the heart contained a deep-dark blood. There were several large lymphatic glands imbedded around the great vessels proceeding from the base of the heart, containing black fluid, the other cavities appeared healthy, though attenuated in substance. The coronary veins were congested. None of the cervical glands contained black fluid, though several of them were enlarged. The cavity of the abdomen much distended from ascites; the contained fluid was to the extent of about six Scotch pints of a straw colour; the viscera much compressed, and matted together, with light brown exudation. The peritoneum was rough, and coated with the same exudation. The stomach and all the intestines correspondingly contracted; the mesentery appeared healthy; the liver was much enlarged, and darker than usual; the inferior lobe extending downwards, near to crest of ileum; the whole organ loaded with inky-coloured blood; the substance easily torn. The kidneys presented a natural appearance; the adipose substance in which they were imbedded was oedematous; the medullary substance of each presented a yellowish colour. _Head._--The integuments were oedematous. On exposing membranes, considerable effusion under arachnoid; very general venous congestion, extending over the convolutions, and to the base of the brain. Effusion into the lateral ventricles of a light yellow; the choroid plexuses thickened, and of a dark venous appearance; substance of brain firm and apparently healthy. From the history of this case, it will be found that D. had at no time shown any indication that carbon was infiltrated into the lungs. At an early age he came under the influence of the smoke of coarse linseed oil, and of gunpowder, while labouring in an unhealthy and ill-ventilated pit, which produced a cough common amongst colliers, who may be placed in similar circumstances; and it is evident, that during the last fifteen years of his life, the carbon--having previously taken up a lodgment in the pulmonary tissue--was gradually accumulating, and thereby producing painful dyspnoea, and the other formidable symptoms connected with the circulating organs, which followed as results, till it had almost entirely saturated the cellular structure, and rendered the lungs unfit for the functions of respiration, consequently impeding the necessary change, through the medium of that function upon the blood. There was a marked similarity in the morbid appearances between this case and that of Reid, (No. 2). They both wrought in the same pit at Preston-Hall, and were affected in a similar manner. Both had enlarged liver, and the left lung principally disorganised. Both had extensive anasarcous and other effusions, and both had coagulable urine. Neither expectorated black matter, and both died from the bursting of a carbonaceous cyst into the bronchi, producing suffocation. Duncan lived longer under the infiltration than Reid did; and this was no doubt owing to his being younger, and also his healthy occupation latterly. I have preserved a quantity of the contents of a cyst in the left lung of this patient, for chemical analysis; also a portion of the blood from the vena cava, and a little of the black fluid from the bronchial glands.[17] CASE 10. (The subject of the following case is still alive, 1845.) J. S., aged thirty-six. He was born of collier parents, in the parish of Pencaitland, and at as early an age as eight years, went under ground to assist his parents in the transmission of the coal, and when fit for work became a coal-hewer. From his infancy he was rather of a delicate constitution, with flat and contracted chest. When I first saw him, which was about eight years ago, (1837), he was in full employment as a coal-hewer, complaining of shooting pains through his chest, tickling cough in the morning, with scanty tough expectoration, and frequent palpitations. He was repeatedly under treatment for bronchial affection, which was usually relieved by expectorants, blisters, and _continued_ counter-irritants. Each attack of bronchitis was the result, as he expressed it, of "breathing bad air in the pit," in which he was obliged to relinquish labouring, as the lamp would not burn, from the state of the atmosphere. He never wrought at the stone-mining nor blasting. In examining the chest with the ear, at this stage of the affection, the mucous râle was distinctly heard, and exceedingly loud throughout the greater part of the chest. The heart's action was strong, but natural; pulse 70, full and bounding. About four years ago, he removed from Huntlaw to Blindwell, a coal-work towards the sea-coast, an extension of the same coal formation. At this time, 1841, he had very troublesome cough, particularly in bed, scanty frothy expectoration, annoying dyspnoea, preventing him taking sufficient nourishment, headach, obstinate bowels. He continued under all these ailments to labour with much difficulty, till the summer of 1843.[18] In reviewing the morbid appearances in the cases now detailed, it will be observed, that in the majority of them, the left lung exhibited the greater amount of diseased structure. This fact is particularly interesting, as in _tubercular_ phthisis, a similar predominance of disease is found on the left side. In almost all the cases, there was found very extensive effusion into the serous cavities, and particularly into those of the pleura and pericardium. Both pleuræ were much thickened, and all the marks of a long standing pleuritic and pericardial inflammatory action were seen. The substance of the heart, in all the cases, was soft and attenuated; the right auricle and ventricle were dilated; and there was thickening of several of the valves. The liver and spleen were usually large and congested. In all the cases, as the disease advanced, the pulse came down to a very unfrequent and thready beat. From the great extent of the venous congestion, the disease often assumed the aspect of asphyxia; and in some instances the colour of the patients resembled that of persons labouring under cyanosis. The lividity of countenance, and the other concomitant symptoms, which presented themselves, gave decided indications of the morbid effects of this extraneous body. It requires little explanation to show how such a diseased state of the pulmonary organs, as has been described, should produce such results, by impeding the necessary chemical change of the blood. Imperfect oxygenation of the blood, consequent on the altered pulmonary structure, must cause a general depression of all the vital organs. The excess of excrementitious matter in the circulation, must produce effusion of serum into the various cavities, and also into the cellular structure; and the appearances exhibited on the surface of the brain and its membranes, afford a full explanation of the sluggish inanimate condition of all the sufferers towards the close of their existence. From the cases above reported, it must be evident, that black phthisis is the result of foreign matter inhaled and retained within the pulmonary structure. It is a melancholy fact connected with mining occupations in the locality described, that few or none who engage in it, escape this remarkable disease. I have never known one collier in many hundreds, who, even in his usual health, was not, as he expressed it, more or less "touched in his breathing;" and after much experience in auscultation in such pulmonary affections, I am the more convinced that the dyspnoea from which they suffer, arises from impaction of the minute bronchial ramifications induced during their labour below ground, surrounded by an impure atmosphere. The East Lothian colliers, of all miners throughout the kingdom, are certainly most subject to this disease; and those at Pencaitland are so to a fearful extent. In the late inquiry for the Parliamentary report, such has been manifestly brought out, and I am quite able to corroborate the conclusions at which the commissioners have arrived. It has been supposed by many that this carbonaceous affection was caused by inhalation of coal-dust. Now, when it can be proved, that there is as much coal-dust at one coal-work as at another, the question comes to be, why should colliers, labouring at one coal-work, be subject to the disease; while those engaged at another, escape? For instance, there is as much coal-dust at Penston and Huntlaw, where there has never been black spit, as there is at Pencaitland, Preston-Hall, and Blindwells. I conclude, therefore, that this cannot be the cause, otherwise they should all be liable to the disease. Again, those who labour as coal-bankers at the mouth of the shaft, are obliged to inhale much coal-dust in shovelling and arranging the coal received from the pit, and have the sputum tinged to a certain extent by it--which resumes its natural appearance when the collier leaves the labour producing it. They are not subject to the miners' cough, nor is there carbonaceous infiltration found in the lungs of such labourers after death. The females and boys, when, as formerly, both were allowed to labour, could not fail to inhale much of the coal-dust in which they were generally enveloped in their daily occupation; but no carbonaceous deposit has ever been found in the pulmonary tissue of either the one or the other. There are very interesting facts connected with the history of this disease, showing the length of time which the carbon can be retained, brought out by two cases on record, the one published as formerly mentioned by Dr James Gregory, in the _Edinburgh Med. and Surg. Journal_ for 1831, denominated, "Spurious Melanosis;" the other, a case published by Dr William Thomson, (_Medico-Chirurgical Transactions of London_ for 1837), and which was reported to him by Dr Simpson, now Professor of Midwifery in Edinburgh. Dr Gregory's case is that of John Hogg, who had been in the army for more than twenty years, had seen much service as a soldier in America and the West Indies, and had served in Spain during the Peninsular war. On his return to his native country, he was engaged for a short time before his death as a collier at Dalkeith. I understand, upon inquiry, from those who were connected with Hogg, that he wrought in early life as a miner at Pencaitland coal-work, and was obliged, though a young man, to relinquish such employment on account of a chest affection, and exchange the pick for the musket. From the history of this case, and from the character of his occupation in early life, I apprehend that the carbonaceous deposit took place when he was first labouring as a miner at Pencaitland; and that he carried the foreign body in his lungs, throughout his campaigns. The case reported to Dr Thomson by Dr Simpson is that of a George Hogg, who lived at Collinshiel, near Bathgate. In early life, this man laboured at Pencaitland coal-work, where the greater number of the cases now under consideration occurred; and it is stated as a certainty, that he contracted the black phthisis while occupied in that district; for I find from those who knew him at an early period, that his breathing was much affected while at Pencaitland, and he was long supposed by his fellow-miners to have imbibed the disease,--indeed he removed from Pencaitland on account of it. The two Hoggs were relatives, and natives of East Lothian. It is evident, from several of the cases, that it is no uncommon feature of this affection for the carbon to remain concealed in the pulmonary tissue for very many years; and as both the Hoggs were miners at Pencaitland, I have not the smallest doubt that it was then and there that the disease had its origin; for I have never known a collier who was a stone-miner who did not ultimately die of the carbonaceous infiltration. Apart from colliers and coal-mines, as a proof that carbonaceous particles floating in the atmosphere are inhaled and lodged in the bronchial ramifications, I may state the following circumstance, which came under my own observation several years ago. After a gale of wind, which had continued for more than a week, off the coast of America, in the July of 1832, I was applied to for advice by several of the seamen, on account of a tickling cough, followed by a peculiarly dark blue expectoration, which I was told was almost general amongst the crew. I was certainly at a loss, and put to my shifts, to render a reason; but, upon investigating the matter further, I found that, during the gale, the chimney of the cook's apartment in the _'tween-decks_ was rendered inefficient, whereby the sleeping-berths were constantly filled with smoke. I found almost all the seamen, to the number of nearly a hundred, suffering considerably from cough, and expectorating an inky-coloured phlegm, which continued more or less for about a fortnight. I ordered soothing expectorants, and the dark sputa were profusely voided, and ultimately disappeared; but whether any of the carbon had made a permanent lodgment in the pulmonary tissue, is what I have never been able to ascertain. I am now convinced, in recalling this occurrence, that whatever be the situation, should carbon be floating in the air, it can be conveyed into the air-cells; and had these seamen been longer subjected to this foul atmosphere, a permanent lodgment of the carbon would undoubtedly have been the consequence, and the disease now under our consideration to a certainty produced. I further remember seeing, several years ago, a case of partially carbonized lungs in a person who had lived for a length of time in a smoky and confined room in Glasgow. The patient died of dropsy, consequent, no doubt, on the pulmonary affection; and on examining the chest, the upper lobe of both lungs, and the bronchial glands contained black matter, similar in appearance to that found in the colliers. While engaged in committing these remarks to paper, I have been led in my investigations to compare the various kinds of labour carried on in coal-pits with the underground operations of many of the railways now in progress throughout the kingdom; and being convinced of the very injurious effects produced upon miners while prosecuting these operations in confined situations where gunpowder is used, I shall be much surprised if the same results do not follow the hazardous undertakings connected with railway tunnelling, where gunpowder is had recourse to, and in the course of years find in our public hospitals cases of carbonaceous lung arising from this cause.[19] It is no uncommon occurrence, in examining the pulmonary structure of those who have resided in large and smoky towns, to find both the substance of the lungs and bronchial glands containing black matter; and this is the case especially with persons who, in such situations, have passed the prime of life. But few, though not living in crowded towns, have not, at some period of their life, come in contact with smoke, and been obliged to breathe it, minutely combined with the air. It is not, therefore, to be supposed improbable, that a portion of the infinitely small particles, thus suspended in the atmosphere, should effect a settlement in the more minute air-cells, and in course of time, be conveyed to the interlobular cellular tissue by the process of absorption, and thence to the bronchial glands. There are several cases on record, from amongst iron-moulders,[20] where the pulmonary structure has been found heavily charged with carbonaceous matter, from the inhalation of the charcoal used in their processes, and where, during life, there was a free black expectoration.[21] There is, then, little doubt that the bronchial glands, from their appearance in miners, moulders, and others, are the recipients of a portion of impurities which have been carried into the pulmonary structure by inhalation, and also those left after the process of oxygenation of the blood; and when it is fully ascertained, from the character of the atmosphere in the coal mine, that deleterious matter in this form must be conveyed to the air-cells during respiration, there is little difficulty in coming to the conclusion, that the black fluid found to such an extent in these glands in the collier and moulder, is similar to, and a part of, that discovered infiltrated into the substance of the lungs. If we trace the black matter in the lymphatic vessels, (which has been done), from the pulmonary organs to the bronchial, mediastinal, and thoracic glands, and from thence to the thoracic duct, we cannot but admit, that it does find its way into the venous system, and thereby contaminates the vital current.[22] Dr Pearson of London, in his very valuable paper, published in the Philosophical Transactions of 1813, on the coaly matter in the bronchial glands, was convinced beyond a doubt, that it was of foreign origin, and possessed the properties of carbon conveyed into the lungs from without. He, at that period, was not in possession of such facts as have been recently elicited on the subject of deleterious inhalation; but the very interesting materials which he brought to bear on his argument, have, I think, most satisfactorily proved the assertion which he makes, that "the lymphatics of the lungs absorb a variety of substances, especially this coaly matter, which they convey to the bronchial glands, and thus render them of a black or dark-blue colour." "The texture and proportion of the tinging matter of the glands was," he says, "different in different subjects, whether the lungs to which they belonged were in a healthy or diseased condition. In persons, from about 18 to 20 years of age, some of the bronchial glands contained no tinging black matter at all, but were of a reddish colour; others were streaked or partially black." Again, he says, "I think the charcoal in the pulmonary organs is introduced with the air in breathing. In the air it is suspended in invisible small particles, derived from the burning of coal, wood, and other inflammable materials in common life. It is admitted that the oxygen of atmospherical air passes through the pulmonary air-vesicles or cells into the system of blood-vessels, and it is not improbable, that through the same channel various matters contained in the air may be introduced. But it is highly reasonable to suppose, that the particles of charcoal should be retained in the minutest ramifications of the air-tubes, or even in the air-vesicles under various circumstances, to produce the coloured appearances on the surface, and in the substance of the lungs, as above described." "When I compare the black lines and black net-like figures, many of them pentagonal, on the surface of the lungs, with the plates of the lymphatic vessels by Cruikshank, Mascagni, and Fyffe, I found an exact resemblance." Dr Pearson, after various chemical experiments upon the bronchial glands with caustic potash, muriatic and nitric acid, says, "I conceive I am entitled to declare the black matter obtained from the bronchial glands, and from the lungs, to be animal-charcoal in the uncombined state, _i.e._ not existing as a constituent ingredient of organized animal solids or fluids." Dr Graham of London, in his paper on this subject, recorded in the 42d vol. of the _Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal_, gives the following opinion, as the result of a series of investigations, with the view of determining the nature of the disease in question. He says, I have had several opportunities of substantiating the carbonaceous matter in a state of extraordinary accumulation in black lungs supplied by my medical friends. The black powder, as derived from the lungs, (after an analysis,) is unquestionably charcoal, and the gaseous products from heated air, result from a little water and nitric acid being retained persistently by the charcoal, notwithstanding the repeated washing, but which re-acting on the charcoal at a high temperature, coming off in a state of decomposition. In regard to another analysis of a lung, he says, "The carbonaceous matter of the lung cannot therefore be supposed to be coal, altered by the different chemical processes to which it has been submitted in separating it from the animal matter. The carbonaceous matter of this lung, appears rather to be lamp black." From the whole results, I am disposed to draw the following conclusions:-- _1st_, The black matter found in the lungs is not a secretion, but comes from without. The _pigmentum nigrum_ of the ox I find to lose its colour entirely, and to leave only a quantity of white flocks, when rubbed in a mortar with chlorine water. Sepia, which is a preparation of the dark-coloured liquor of the cuttle fish, was also bleached by chlorine, but the black matter of the lungs was not destroyed or bleached in the slightest degree by chlorine, it even survived unimpaired the destruction of the lungs by putrefaction in air. _2d_, This foreign matter probably varies in composition in different lungs, but in the cases actually examined, it seems to be little else than lamp black or soot. It does not appear, as far as I can ascertain, that any of the Continental physiologists are familiar with the disease now under our consideration. Several of them, both ancient and modern, discovered black matter in the pulmonary tissues, but not connected with nor exhibiting the black phthisis. It is therefore unnecessary to refer to them in general. The following foreign authors entertain various opinions in regard to the dark appearances in the pulmonary tissue:-- Bichat supposes the black matter in the lungs "to be owing to small bronchial glands extending along the surface of the pleura." Breschet believes that it is formed by the blood exhaled into the cellular tissue, stating that its chemical composition leads him to that conclusion. Trousseau says that it is produced by a misdirection of the natural pigments of the body, resulting from age, climate, or disease. Andral says, that the black appearances are the result of secretion, and that it is more manifest as the individual advances in life. Heasinger's opinion is, that it is analogous to pigment, and therefore he agrees with Trousseau. Lænnec was doubtful as to the real origin of black pulmonary matter. He makes a distinction between melanotic and pulmonary matter. He found that the melanotic matter was composed almost entirely of albumen, while the black pulmonary matter found in the bronchial glands contains a great quantity of carbon and hydrogen, and also that these colouring matters have other distinguishing characters. The melanotic matter is easily effaced by washing, while the other is removed with difficulty. Lænnec further says, that he suspected that this pulmonary matter might arise, at least in part, from the smoke of lamps, and other combustible bodies which are used for heat and light; for some old men are to be met with whose lungs contain very little black matter, and whose bronchial glands are but partially tinged with this colour; and it has struck him that he observed this amongst villagers who had never been accustomed to watch.[23] Mons. Guillot, physician to the hospital for the aged at Paris, has undertaken a series of researches in regard to the black matter found in the lungs of old men of very considerable age. These investigations are published in the January, February, and March numbers of the _Archives Générales de Médecine_.[24] It is his belief that death in such cases is owing, in all appearance, more or less to a suppression of the circulation of air and blood by the black substance. His impression is, "that the carbon is not procured from without, but naturally deposited, as life advances, in the substance of the respiratory organs; and that this deposit of carbon causes death, by rendering the lungs irrespirable, while, at the same time, it has much influence in modifying the progress of _tubercular_ disease; so that, if the tubercular affection was not cured, its progress was so far checked, that life has been very long preserved." The black matter envelopes completely both the pulmonary tubercles which have undergone a transformation, and the caverns which no longer contain tuberculous matter. He, while regarding these as the results of black matter in the lungs, throws no light on the cause of the deposit of the particles of carbon within the lungs. Dr William Craig of Glasgow, in a letter to Mr Graham of London, published in the 42d vol. of the _Medical and Surgical Journal of Edinburgh_, states most interesting facts connected with this subject, particularly in regard to black matter found in the pulmonary structure of old people, which deserve considerable attention. He says--"I found that a black discoloration of the lungs was by no means a rare occurrence amongst those old people; and that it was impossible in many instances to decide, whether the black colour was owing to an increase of what is called the healthy black matter,--to a morbid secretion, or to a foreign substance being imbedded with the atmospheric air. After examining a considerable number of lungs, and finding that the division of the black matter into three kinds was not founded upon observation, and that the descriptions of them given by the best authorities were insufficient to enable us to distinguish them from one another, I begin to think, that in every instance in which black matter is found in the lungs, it ought to be considered morbid. If we examine the lungs at different stages of life, we find as a general rule that the quantity of black matter increases with age. In young children we find no traces of it, the lungs being of a reddish colour. At the age of ten years the black matter makes its appearance in the outer surface of the lungs, and in the interlobular spaces. At the age of thirty or forty, the lung presents a greyish or mottled appearance, and the bronchial glands contain more or less black matter. Between the age of seventy and a hundred, the lungs are generally infiltrated with fluid black matter, which can be expressed from the cut surfaces, and stain the hands black." "There are many circumstances which favour the accumulation of this black matter in the lungs; for instance, long-continued living in a smoky atmosphere, like that of this city, the inhalation of coal-dust, as in the case of colliers, or of charcoal-powder, as in the case of iron-founders. There can be no doubt that we inhale foreign substances along with the atmospheric air. "We find the mucus which has remained in the nostrils for some time to be of a dark colour, and if we examine it with a microscope, we find, that this is owing to the presence of small particles of dust or other foreign substances, which the air may have accidentally contained. The mucus first coughed up from the lungs in the morning, is of a dark colour from the same cause, and the facts now maintained prove, that foreign substances suspended in minute particles in the atmosphere, may be inhaled into the lungs. I believe in all the extreme cases which have occurred in colliers and moulders, that there must have existed some previous disease of the lungs which prevented the foreign matter from being thrown off." "According to the views which we have taken of the subject, there are only two ways by which black matters may be deposited in the lungs; first, by a morbid secretion; second, by a foreign substance inhaled with the atmosphere. The former is a rare disease, while the latter is very common. I am inclined to think that the true melanosis generally occurs in the form of rounded tumours, which, when cut in two, present a uniform black colour without any trace of air-cells, while in the spurious melanosis the deposition is general, and black matter flows freely out when the cut surfaces are pressed. At first the lung is crepitous, and swims in water; but as the black matter increases, it becomes solid, and, as in the case of colliers who die of this disease, resembles a piece of wet peat in point of consistence. It is only in the cases of colliers, moulders, or others who inhale great quantities of black matter, that the lungs are rendered perfectly solid." There is an exceedingly interesting and valuable paper, written by Dr Brockmann of Clausthal, upon the pulmonary diseases of a certain class of German miners,--supposed to be in the Hartz mountains,--in _Neumeister's Repertorium_ for December 1844, an abridged translation of which is to be found in the September number of the _Monthly Journal of Medical Science_. It is very evident that the disease there considered is produced by carbonaceous inhalation, and resembles in all its features the black phthisis so general amongst the colliers in Haddingtonshire. The morbid appearances described by Dr Brockmann are very similar to the first and second division of that disease, presenting a very general carbonaceous infiltration of the pulmonary tissues; but in none of the stages are there to be found the extensive excavations discovered in the lungs of the coal-miner. Dr Brockmann makes three divisions of the morbid appearances, "The essential (wesentliche), accidental (zufällige), and secondary. The first shows an entirely black (pechschwärze) colour of the lungs through its whole substance, enclosing not only the air, blood, and lymph vessels, but also the connecting cellular tissue, the nervous substance, pleuræ pulmonalis, and bronchial glands." In such a state, it is usual for the lung to remain perfectly normal, and to exhibit the greatest varieties. The accidental (zufällige) is evidently the disease in a more advanced form, corresponding in a great measure with the second stage of the morbid action, found in the pulmonary organ of the collier. It is to be regretted that no accurate description is given either of the character of the mine, or the nature of the employment in which the miners are engaged, whether they be coal, silver, or lead mines, and if they are in the habit of burning coarse lint-seed oil. There is a very striking similarity between what Dr Brockmann calls the secondary anatomical changes, and many of those exhibited in the collier; first, membranes; second, collections of fluid into the pleuræ and pericardium; third, the softened heart, and very general emaciation; fourth, the extensive venous congestion, with thick black blood. The liver is described by Dr Brockmann as being small:--in the collier it is usually puffy, and much congested. The symptoms do almost in all points accord with those presented in the collier, as will appear from the following quotation, from the paper. "In the first stage, there is no local, functional, or general feature by which we can ascertain that the disease has commenced; probability is all we can reach. In the second stage, the disease is more obvious. And, first, there is a change in the expression of countenance; to a fine blooming appearance, which perhaps the patient previously had, there has succeeded a dark yellowish cast,--a change which gradually spreads over the whole body. For some time the patient may have remarked a gradual loss of strength, and now he complains of want of appetite and disordered digestion, and more particularly of shooting pains in the back and muscles of the chest. Cough likewise supervenes, which may either be quite dry, or at most accompanied with a little pure mucus. There is also a greater or less degree of oppression, accompanied with palpitation of heart, not only after a severe fit of coughing, but after every exertion of the lungs. As yet no local deviation from the normal condition is seen on examination of the chest by percussion or auscultation." "The disease meanwhile passes into the third stage. The features of the patient now become more and more changed and deteriorated, and betray a deep melancholy. The colour of the face, which had been hitherto of an earthly hue, becomes blackish, as also the cornea, whereby the eye loses its lustre. The appearance of the patient becomes still more frightful from the great loss of flesh, and the dark skin hanging loose on his bones. The fat not only seems to have disappeared, but the muscular substance also--the whole frame being shrivelled. The patient complains of increasing weakness, diminished appetite, flying pains often concentrated at the pit of the stomach; and coughs much. The expectoration is for the most part difficult, and consists of masses of mucus, either greyish, or tending to a black colour. A black streak is frequently observed running through the whitish mucus; one half of it may be white, the other black, or occasional black points may be observed throughout the mass, and sometimes, though rarely, blood. Dyspnoea is usually connected with the cough. It now begins to tell upon the patient, and is so characteristic, that the disease has been named asthma metallicum. The disturbance of the digestive organs increases the disease,--the appetite is entirely lost,--the tongue is covered with a white fur--there is an oppression at the stomach after a full meal--frequent eructations, and a tendency to constipation. The distress of the patient becomes increased in consequence of the shooting pains in the muscular system." "In the fourth and last stage, all the external appearances indicate the near approach of dissolution,--the face and members become bloated, and the feet greatly swollen." "The dyspnoea meanwhile, from effusion into the chest and pericardium, becomes so severe, that the patient cannot maintain the horizontal position, the expectoration becomes copious, consisting of a black inky (dintenschwarze), or ash-coloured fluid, sometimes of mere masses of mucus streaked with black." "The disease is never accompanied with colliquative sweats or diarrhoea." I am sorry to find that there is no allusion whatever to the state of the pulse. Dr Brockmann, in his remarks on the essential nature of this pulmonary disease of miners, brought under his notice, seems to entertain the impression that along with the inhaled carbon, resulting from the combustion of gunpowder, there is also an organic pigment-deposit present in the pulmonary tissue, which he supposes must have been formed in the lungs. I have long entertained the belief, which I have stated in another part of this essay, that if the carbon is once conveyed into, and established in the parenchyma of the lungs, that organ commences the formation of carbon; thus increasing the amount originally deposited. Dr Brockmann sets forth, as grounds for this view, that "if the parenchyma of the lungs were filled with carbonaceous dust, their specific gravity ought to be increased; but this is not the case. A completely melanosed lung swims in water, both as a whole and when cut into parts." It is very evident from these remarks, that the author has not seen the disease as it is exhibited in the third division of morbid action in the collier, otherwise he would have both observed the lungs considerably augmented in weight, and also so densely impacted from the accumulation of carbon, as wholly to sink in water. See for instance case No. 2, where the lungs weighed about six pounds, and parts of the cellular tissue were so indurated, as to be cut with difficulty. In this case, the patient did not expectorate. Dr Brockmann, as he advances, puts a question here, which more fully shows that the disease under his consideration was of a mild character compared with that under our notice. "If," says he, "pulmonary melanosis arise entirely from inhalation of carbonaceous dust, why is it not observed in other workmen, who are as much, and even more, exposed to its influence, as for instance, smelters, or moulders, and colliers?" He says, further, "were the carbon inhaled in quantity sufficient to explain the black colour of the lungs, it ought also, from its mechanical irritation, to produce inflammation in the delicate mucous membrane of the organ, but there are no symptoms of this during life, nor any traces of it after death." An answer to these remarks will be most satisfactorily given by a reference to the published cases, where the disease is principally found amongst colliers and moulders, and where the pulmonary organs, particularly in the former, are found to undergo most fearful disorganization from the presence of carbon. It is very remarkable, that the author of these exceedingly interesting observations should never have found excavations of the parenchyma, when it is so general as the result of the same disease in this country, particularly in the locality to which I refer. Not knowing the character of the mine, it is impossible to judge; but I am disposed to conclude that there cannot be the same quantity of carbon floating in the atmosphere breathed by the German miner,--the disease resembles very much that milder form found in the iron moulder. With regard to the carbonaceous state of the blood, I am sorry that I have not yet completed my investigations on that subject. It is still my belief that the carbon being once inhaled, there is an affinity found for that in the circulating fluid, and from its not being consumed, owing to a deficiency of oxygen, there is a progressive increase going on. I am very much gratified to find that Dr Brockmann entertains a somewhat similar opinion in respect to the state of the blood. The effects of such a morbid structure upon the collier population in general is very marked. Previous to the late legislative act, the tender youth of both sexes were at an early age consigned to the coal pit, and obliged to labour beyond their feeble strength, in circumstances ill adapted to their years. Such early bodily exhaustion soon produced in them a pallid countenance, soft and relaxed muscular fibre, and predisposed much to disease as they advanced in life. The miner on this account was generally from his youth, thin; in fact, you never see a fat and healthy-looking collier, and, according to the advance of pulmonary disease, with them, so is the progress of emaciation. Such a state of body may well be looked for in miners, labouring as they do, from ten to twelve hours in the twenty-four under ground, breathing a heated and impure atmosphere, which with difficulty sustains life, and which is demonstrably calculated, from its deleterious qualities, to induce serious disease. The effects manifest in the parent descend, and visible in the youngest children; they are squalid and wretched-looking,--and how can such offspring be otherwise? They are exceedingly subject to all children's diseases, and peculiarly predisposed to pulmonary irritation of one kind or other. With regard to medical treatment, little can be done after the disease has passed its first stage. Early removal from the occupation, and proper attention to nutrition, alone seem to hold out the hope of prolonging the life of the patient; but if there be carbon lodged in the pulmonary tissues, there is a certainty of its sooner or later proving fatal. Attention to the state of the digestive organs, and using every means to remove the dyspeptic symptoms, which are prominently present throughout the various stages of this disease, are indispensably requisite; and, as to nutrition, the nature of the diet should be as generous as possible. Anodynes and expectorants are the only remedies which seem at all efficacious in allaying irritation. With a view to remove urgent symptoms, venesection has repeatedly been had recourse to, but in almost all instances I would say, with decidedly bad effects. Blood-letting does harm, producing general debility and rapid sinking.[25] With regard to the prevention of this disease, ventilation, as has been stated, is very much neglected in the pits now under consideration, where the various cases have occurred; and to that neglect I ascribe the prevalence of the malady. In those pits referred to, the workable apartments are so confined, and become after a time so destitute of oxygen, as, along with the smoke from lamps and gunpowder, to render the air unfit for healthy respiration. The only effectual remedy is a free admission of pure air, so applied as to remove the confined smoke. This remark both applies to coal and stone-mining. The introduction of some other mode of lighting such pits than by oil is required. I know several coal-pits where there is no carbonaceous disease, nor was it ever known; and on examination I find that there is and ever has been in them a free circulation of air. For example, the Penston coal-work, which joins Pencaitland, has ever been free from this disease; but many of the Penston colliers, on coming to work at Pencaitland, have been seized with, and died shortly after, of the black spit: for instance, G. case No. 5, and D. case No. 8, are such. How this is to be accomplished, is for the scientific man to say. With all due deference, I may be allowed to suggest various modes which might be adopted to free the underground atmosphere of the noxious ingredients. Could fresh air not be forced down by the power of the steam-engine, which is at every coal-pit? Could extensive fanners not be erected and propelled by the same machinery?[26] I am much surprised that no attempt has been made to light these pits with portable gas in some way or other. As far as I can understand, such an application of it would not be difficult. A small gasometer could be erected, and the necessary apparatus procured at little expense, and by such means, I would suppose, it could be carried to any part of the mines, which are not extensive. Many proprietors may grudge the expense involved in such improvements, and thus prove a barrier to these necessary alterations; but I would ask any candid and generous mind, what is expense when the object in view is the removal of a disease to which many human beings fall a sacrifice?[27] It must appear to every one that these collier diseases are crying evils, the preventive of which is based, as will be seen, on thorough ventilation; and in order to protect the miner, there should be a vigilant attention paid to the economy of underground works. No one need be surprised at the result of such a noxious atmosphere; and it becomes a duty with the government to protect these poor people by laws, and to adopt those measures which are best calculated to preserve their health; and should there arise difficulties of an insurmountable character in the ventilation of these pits, why continue the mining operation in such situations at such a sacrifice of human life?[28] * * * * * In the course of my investigations in regard to pulmonary carbonaceous infiltration, I was led to consider the circumstances of those engaged in other occupations than coal-mining. Any one who has carefully examined the structure of the human bronchial glands, at different epochs of life, must have been struck with their appearance in those who, from their vocation, are compelled to breathe a sooty atmosphere, or who have lived in ill ventilated dwellings. I am further convinced, from the results of my recent investigations, that the bronchial glands in such persons invariably contain carbonaceous matter which has been inhaled at some period of life. Having long entertained the belief that the lungs of chimney sweeps, for example, would, in all probability, be found to contain carbon, within the last few months two cases, of an exceedingly interesting character, connected with the present inquiry, have presented themselves,--the one of pulmonary disease, evidently resulting from the bronchial and lymphatic glands being impacted with inhaled carbon derived from soot,--the other a case of melanosis occurring in a young person. Though the two diseases differ materially, they have often been confounded with each other and assigned to the same cause. My object in here reporting a case of stratiform melanosis, in connection with a disease having an external origin, is to afford an illustration of the fact, that all black deposits found in the system are not carbon. There exists a marked chemical distinction between the melanotic and the carbonaceous matter; and the anatomical situation of the two is also different. CASE.--A chimney sweep, aged 50, of the name of Campbell, residing at Stockbridge. The short history of his case I procured from his friends, as I did not see him during his illness. He had been a soldier in early life, and had seen much foreign service. After he relinquished the army, he became a chimney sweep, in which capacity he was constantly engaged for nearly twenty years. He had had, for a considerable time, a troublesome cough with tough expectoration. He experienced a difficulty of breathing in making any exertion, and he had considerable oedema of the limbs. From these symptoms he believed that he was subject to _asthma_. He had only been confined to bed for two days previous to his death. _Post-mortem Appearances._--The body exhibited extensive anasarca; the thorax was well arched; the cartilages of the ribs were ossified. On removing the anterior part of the chest, the pleuræ were found to adhere strongly, and appeared rough and puckered from extensive exudation of a brown colour, which extended very generally over the serous membranes. Both cavities contained nearly three gallons of light brown fluid. The pericardium was considerably distended with a straw-coloured fluid, and several flakes of lymph floated throughout the effusion. Both auricles of the heart were enlarged, and distended with exceedingly dark blood. The walls of both ventricles were much thickened. The valvular structure of the auricles was congested and granular. The lungs were removed from the chest with difficulty, owing to the very general pleuritic adhesions. Both exhibited extensive emphysema. In dividing the lungs, and tracing the bronchial ramifications, each lobe was found to contain clusters of enlarged and indurated bronchial glands, impacted with thick black matter; and prosecuting the investigations, the minute lymphatic glands were observed clustered in a similar manner, and containing black fluid. In the substance of the upper lobe of both lungs, the bronchial glands were of a bright black colour; they were particularly large, and so numerous as to press considerably upon and obstruct several of the bronchial tubes. In fact the upper lobe of both lungs exhibited the plum-pudding structure. At the bifurcation and back part of the trachea, the bronchial glands were numerous, and of a deep black colour. A considerable mass of the glandular structure was removed for chemical and microscopic examination. The second case was that of a boy aged six years, who was under treatment for an affection of the heart and kidneys, and who died apparently from disease of these organs. He was, during his whole life, of a relaxed and weakly constitution, exceedingly sallow in the complexion, with a very deep blue tint of the sclerotic coat of the eye. In the course of the post-mortem examination, there was discovered, in the lower and lateral part of the right pleura, a cyst containing about an ounce of semi-fluid melanotic matter; and also the morbid secretion presented the stratified appearance described by Dr Carswell in his article upon Melanosis, extending over the inferior half of the costal pleura and the corresponding part of the diaphragm. It formed a distinct layer on the surface of the serous membrane, resembling ink or blacking, and could with difficulty be removed. The black deposit resembled much in appearance the foreign matter found in the pulmonary organs of the coal-miner, and therefore was submitted, as well as the bronchial glands in the other case, to chemical analysis, with the view of ascertaining if there existed any analogy in the component parts of each. Dr Douglas Maclagan submitted both these substances to the action of concentrated nitric acid, and the results were, that the glandular structure of the chimney sweep contained a very large proportion of carbon, while of the contents of the melanotic cyst, the same process did not leave a vestige of colouring matter,--evidently proving the distinction which exists between those two dark deposits, and making it sufficiently obvious, that melanotic matter is composed of the constituent elements of the blood, and has its origin within the body. There cannot remain a doubt as to the nature of the chimney sweeper's case; for, from the knowledge which we have of his occupation, and from the chemical properties manifest after investigation, I think I am entitled to declare the black matter obtained from the bronchial glands to be carbon inhaled with the air during his labour, and not existing as a constituent ingredient of organized solids or fluids. The microscopic examination showed the carbon most distinctly in a molecular form. It is my intention to return to this subject at a future time. NORTHUMBERLAND STREET, EDINBURGH, January 1846. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [1] Vide an admirable series of papers on this subject in the volume of this Journal for 1843, by Dr Calvert Holland. [2] About ten miles east from Edinburgh. [3] Generated from the decay of vegetable and other substances in the _formerly wrought_ pits, which communicate with those at present in use. [4] It is proved, from the difference in the chemical character possessed by the melanotic matter, as compared with the matter found in the lungs of miners. [5] It will be observed, that, though the small blood vessels are destroyed, no hemorrhage takes place, owing to the formation of a carbonaceous plug. [6] The air of the coal-pit is so charged with carbon as to prevent the collier from distinguishing his neighbour when at work. [7] Note from the evidence of a collier examined before the Government Commissioners in 1842, No. 147 of Report. "Colliers in this part of the country are subject to many oppressions; first, Black spit, which attacks the men as soon as they get the length of 30 years of age;" second, Note 150, "The want of proper ventilation in the pit is the chief cause, and no part requires more looking after than East Lothian," the men die off like rotten sheep. Note, 153, the witness, 32 years old, says, "I am unable to labour much now, as I am fashed with bad breathing--the air below is very bad, and till lately no ventilation existed." [8] The black sputum retains its colour after being submitted for some days to the action of nitric acid. [9] This is the only case in which I at any time observed colliquative sweats as a symptom of this disease. [10] To convey an impression of the nature of the labour in which the man was engaged I shall simply extract a few remarks from the evidence of the miners at this coal-work, taken by Mr Franks for the Government's Commissioners, Note 105. "At all times the air is foul, and the lamps never burn bright. The seam of coal is 24 inches, and the road only three feet high." Note 108--"Experienced colliers do not like the work, and many are touched in the breath." And in such a situation man is doomed to labour! Note 114--"Most of the men here are _fashed_ with _that trouble_; Foster, Miller, Blyth, and Aitken are all clean gone in the breath together. Colliers here drop down very soon." [11] It is evident in this disease that the bronchial ramifications are destroyed, while the arteries, with the exception of the minute twigs, are preserved. [12] One of the lungs (the left one) now described, I sent to Dr John Thomson, late Professor of Pathology, and will probably be found in his collection, which I understand is in the College of Surgeons. [13] After a free expectoration of black matter, there was an evident mitigation of all the pectoral symptoms, and as the carbon again accumulated in the lungs, the sufferings of the patient were very considerably increased. [14] This sputum was subjected to the action of nitric acid, which produced no effect upon its colour. [15] When pulmonary disorganization has proceeded far, from the presence of carbon, there is a languor in the vital action from defective oxygenation of the blood, which produces a gradual reduction in the temperature of the body, requiring double clothing, and even that addition is, with the aid of stimulants, not sufficient to keep the patient warm. [16] This lung is in the possession of Sir James Clark, of London. [17] The above substances were submitted separately to the action of nitric acid and caustic potash, and the result was that a large proportion of carbon was precipitated. [18] Since writing the above the patient has died; and I regret that, owing to neglect in communicating with me, I have been prevented examining the morbid appearances. [19] Several of the Pencaitland colliers are at present engaged in the tunnelling operations near to Edinburgh, connected with the North British Railway. [20] Dr Hamilton's of Falkirk paper in the Edin. Med. and Surgical Journal, Vol. xlii. [21] I have very lately, through the kindness of Mr Girdwood, surgeon at Falkirk, had an opportunity of examining two or three iron-moulders in that district. Both from the nature of the employment in those iron works, and the character which the pulmonary affection exhibits, the fact of inhalation is fully established. The moulder is at a certain stage of his labour enveloped in a cloud of finely-ground charcoal, a portion of which cannot fail to find its way to the lungs in breathing. He is subject to tickling cough, and as the disease advances, the respiratory sounds, which indicate considerable bronchial irritation, present themselves, and ultimately become dull, and in some parts obscure. Of the several cases which I saw with Mr Girdwood, one, who has not been labouring for some years as a moulder, occasionally expectorated black matter, and in the other two, there was general dullness of both lungs; and, I doubt not, impaction. [22] It has not been in my power hitherto to procure so satisfactory a chemical analysis of the blood as I would wish, but through the kind assistance of Dr Douglas Maclagan, who has undertaken to conduct the process, I expect very soon to be able to lay it before the profession. [23] I found little or no black matter in the lungs of farm servants, who are much in the open air. [24] _Vide_ MONTHLY JOURNAL for 1845, p. 702. [25] At any time when these colliers required venesection, particularly towards the last stage of the disease, the blood appeared peculiarly dark and treacle-like. [26] Could oxygen not be prepared and forced down? [27] I am happy to find that the attention of the noble proprietor of the Newbattle coal works is now directed to this subject. [28] I cannot pass from this subject without an observation on the beneficial results which have been the consequence of Lord Ashley's valuable colliery Act. The female Labourers, and particularly the unmarried, have improved not only in their appearance, but also in general physical development, since they have abandoned the unhealthy labour of the coal-mine. They are no longer the squalid, filthy, and ill-favoured race they formerly were. There is now exhibited on the face of the collier girl the bloom of health and cheerfulness; and when we descend to their domestic economy, there is observed a comfort in the management of their households, which formerly did not exist. Their children are now particularly cared for, both in health and when suffering from disease; and we must regard this early watching as an important step to the removal of that predisposition to pulmonary irritation, so general in the collier community. 
25809	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 25809-h.htm or 25809-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/5/8/0/25809/25809-h/25809-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/5/8/0/25809/25809-h.zip) THE MASCOT OF SWEET BRIAR GULCH by HENRY WALLACE PHILLIPS Author of Red Saunders Plain Mary Smith etc. With Illustrations by F. Graham Cootes New York Grosset & Dunlap Publishers Copyright 1908 The Bobbs-Merrill Company October THE MASCOT OF SWEET BRIAR GULCH THE MASCOT OF SWEET BRIAR GULCH The gulch ran in a trough of beauty to the foot of Jones's Hill, which rose in a sweeping curve into the clouds. Wild flowers, trees in profuse leaf, and mats of vines covered the scarred earth, and the sky was as limpid as spring water; the air carried a weight of heart-stirring odors, yet Jim Felton, sitting on the door-step of his cabin in the brilliant sunshine, was not a happy man. He looked at the hollow of the gulch and cursed it manfully and bitterly. The gold should be there--Jim had figured it all out. The old wash cut at right angles to the creek, and at the turn was where its freight of yellow metal should have been deposited, but when you got down to the bed-rock, the blasted stuff was either slanted so nothing could stay on it, or was rotten--crumbling in your fingers, and that kind of bed will hold nothing. Therefore Jim had sunk about fifty prospect holes; got colors under the grass-roots, as evidence that pay should be there--and nothing but ashy wash beneath it. When a man is alone, and thinks things are wrong, optimism comes down on the run, the shades of pessimism gather fast and furious--more especially if a man does his own cooking, and the raw material is limited, at that. The sun had not moved the shadows three inches before Jim had reached the conclusion that this world was all a practical joke, of so low an order that no sensible man would even laugh at it, and he drew a letter from his pocket in proof thereof. It was a thin letter, written on delicate paper in a delicate hand, and it showed much wear. He read for the thousandth time: Dearest Jim--And again I must say "no." Of course you will not understand, for which foolish reason I like you all the better, but you must try to take my point of view. You say that we can be married on nothing and take our chances. So we can, old simple-heart--but aren't those chances all against us? Would you like to be forced to work in some office for just enough to live on? You know you would not, and you know how you would suffer in such slavery. Nevertheless we can not live on air, and I doubt if I would stand transplanting to the wild life you love, better than you to a clerk's desk. You have that fancy which gilds the tin cans in the back yard; I have that unfortunate eye which would multiply their number by three, and their unsightliness by ten. I don't want riches, dear; I only want a modest assurance that I can have enough to live on. Really, is your way of doing a guarantee of even bread and butter? In the Garden of Eden you would be the most delightful of companions, but in this world as it is, you will not fight for your own. You would risk your life to save a dog, but you couldn't stay at a continued grind--I mean it would kill you, actually, physically, dead, dead--to save all of us. At first I thought that a fault in you, but now, being older, having compared you to other men, I see it is merely a missing faculty. I could stick to the desk, and would gladly, if you would let me, yet I could not even fancy behaving as you did at the factory fire, which is still the symbol in the town for manly courage and presence of mind. They talk now of the way you laughed and joked with those poor frightened girls (who had such good cause to be frightened) and brought them back to sanity with a jest. I feel that if I had the least atom of heroism in me I would marry you for that feat alone, and let cold facts go hang; but, ah, Jim! magnificent as you are on the grand occasions, they come but seldom, and in the meantime, Jim--I'll leave that to your own honesty. I'm plebeian, Jim, and you're a nobleman, with a beautiful but embarrassing disregard for vulgar necessities. However, I can say this for myself--for surely I may brag a little to my lover--I can try to match your splendid physical bravery by my own moral courage. You may rest your soul in peace on one point. If I am not for you, I'm for no man, no, not so much as a half-glance of the eye. I wouldn't hold myself a bit more straitly if I were your wife. You'll be angry at this letter. Well, I'll stand your anger. I have caused it, and I'll bear the blame. I know that we could not be happy without some visible means of support, yet I do not blame you in the least for thinking otherwise. Be as kind to me as you can, Jim, for I love you very much in my commonplace way. I'll admit, too, that I had rather have your fire than my refrigerator--oh, if you could only make some money--not a great deal, but enough for a little house of our own, and enough in the bank to buy groceries! With my best love, and an aching lump in my throat, Your mother, sister, and sweetheart, Anne. Jim dropped the letter, and his lips trembled a little. Parts of it touched him deeply, and he was the more enraged and hurt at the rest because of that. He could not call her mercenary. He knew better. More than one very comfortable income was at her disposal. Poor fellow! He could only grind his teeth and curse Sweet Briar gulch from the deepest pot-hole in the bed-rock to the top of its loftiest pine. He drew out her photograph, and obtained much sweet consolation by thinking how happy they two would be in Sweet Briar gulch together, even if there wasn't a cent of pay in the gravel. Sick of this ingenious torture, he lit his pipe and drew savagely upon it. With a mocking gurgle, about a dram of "slumgullion" passed into his mouth. It was the last touch. He spat out the biting, nauseating stuff, hurled the pipe upon the rocks and danced on it. And yet the colors frolicked in the gulch; the pines toned the air with healthy breath. From afar came the th-r-r-up! th-r-r-up! th-r-r-up of a galloping horse. It was Bud, the mail-carrier, coming, modestly and quietly, at a decent gait, down a trail where most would prefer to walk, and to "hang on" to something at that. At first Jim felt irritated by the interruption. He wanted to luxuriate in misery: still he was a vigorous, healthy man, and the cheery good-fellowship of Bud soon made away with that feeling. "Well, how they coming, Jimmy?" queried the young giant. "Hit her yet?" "Hit--well, much caloric,"--replied Jim. "I've begun to believe there ain't a durned thing here." "You're looking kind of owly, old man--what's up? Don't you feel well?" "Oh, Bud I I'm sick of everything this day--I don't believe in the constitution of the United States, including the thirteenth amendment, nor the ten commandments, nor the attraction of gravitation, nor anything else--it's all a damned lie." "No wonder you get like that, mousing around here without a chance to yappi with a feller critter. 'Nough to make you locoed. "Jump it for a spell. Go up town. Get loaded. Get horribly loaded. Break somebody's window, and tell the folks you're a Sweet Briar zephyr come to blow out their lights. Go ahead and do it. When your hair stops pulling you'll feel like a new man." Jim thought the advice sound, yet a strange feeling had developed in him, in his isolation; it was that the eye of Anne was always on him. He had fallen into a habit, which becomes a superstition when a man is alone, of acting as though she were there in person. However, he didn't feel called upon to offer Bud that explanation of his refusal. He conveyed the idea in one brief word. "Busted," said he. "Busted?" retorted Bud warmly. "Busted? Not much, you ain't busted whilst that little package is there, bet cher life! You call for what you want, and the cashier will make good." "Ah, Bud! How'll I ever pay you back? Keep it, man, keep it," replied Jim in a disheartened voice. "Say, you ain't got no call to worry about that part of it--there's where my troubles begin," returned Bud. "Now, you take these two bucks and jab 'em in your jeans--Go on, now! Do as I tell you, or damned if I don't lick you and make you take 'em! What's the good of money if it ain't to help a friend out with? I don't care who gets drunk on it, just so long as they have a good time. "Boy, you'll be sailing up the track regardless of orders, with your boiler full of suds, if you don't get out in the scramble for a while." "Lord! I'd like to see a railroad train! Haven't heard a whistle for two years! How far is it to the nearest station, Bud?" "Plattsburg--fifty mile--due south." "Christmas! Little far to walk." "Say, you take this horse, Jim,--go ahead! I can walk just as well as not, I'm getting too fat, anyhow. Go on, you take the horse and have a ride to Plattsburg!" "Yes, take the shirt off your back, and never mind if a bit of the skin goes with it. I'll see you far away first. Tell you what you could do for me, Buddy; the herd of burros is around now, if you'd round up one of them for me?" "Sure thing! You sit on the mail sack till I come back. There's a heap of registered stuff in it this trip. Oh say! What do you think? I was held up t'other side of the Bulldog. Bang! Zipp! says a little popper from the bushes. I climbed for them bushes, and out goes a beggar like a rabbit. I was after him like a coyote, bet cher life. Who do you suppose it was, Jim?" "Hang it, how should I know?" "That little down-east cuss with the crook in his back. He begged hard. Poor devil, he was up against the sandpaper side, all right. He heard from the postmaster that there was a lot of valuable mail going out, so he thought he'd make a try for it. Then what do you think he had the cold, cold nerve to do?" "Pass it up--'most anything, I reckon." "Worse'n that. Struck me for fifty!" "And got it." "Got it? No, not much he didn't, sonny! He drew just ten, and he was lucky to get that. I've done a favor or two for that feller, first and last, and to have him shoot at me made me sore--although he missed me by several locations, I'll say that for him--so I gave him the ten and told him I'd kick the hump on his back so high up on his shoulders he could wear it for a hat, if he ever shoved into my daylight again. And you never in your life saw a humpback make better time than he did. "Well here's for your jack-ass--which way's the herd?" "Right up over the hill." Jim sat patiently on the sack until Bud returned with the burro. "Here's your thoroughbred!" holloed Bud. "Get ap, there, Mary. Look at the knowing ears of him, will you? You bet cher life, you've got an animile there that'll go when he gets ready, and as fast as he pretty well damn pleases--nail him!" Jim tied a gunny sack on his noble mount, and the two rode on together to the fork in the trail. Jim tried to thank his friend, who knocked his hat over his eyes, and said, "Aw, write it down when you've got more time. Never see a feller in my life I cottoned to more'n you, Jim. First I thought you was too smooth for my kind of traveling, but later, I see it was only the grain of the wood. I believe in my friends, I do. Here we go hopping around this little world for a small time, and then that's done. S'pose you ain't got any real friends for the trip? Rotten, I say. You go ahead and rip Plattsburg up the back. Wisht I could be there with you. Don't you mind consequences. So long, old man! Hike! You beggar!" The buckskin pony was off with a snort and a splashing of gravel as the irons touched his sides, and Bud vanished down the road without a look behind him. The next day Jim was in Plattsburg. One does not know what an alluring quality, what a hazy enchantment can linger around even a small town, until an absence in a real wilderness has given man's work a new flavor. The people coming and going, the traffic of the stores, the dwellings with small cultivated plots around them warmed Jim like a fire. He had been very lonely, without knowing it. In the afternoon he went down to the depot to see the eastern train come in. Here again absence played a part, and restored the locomotive to its proper proportions of a miracle. As the engine glided in, shaking the ground beneath it, it seemed impossible to Jim that man really made it. What! Bend those mighty rods of steel to his will? Twist and shape those others? Cast those great drivers? And after, to drive the monster with a hand? He drew back as the buzzing engine passed him, with something like awe. Then the moving village came to a stop and the passengers sallied forth to test their legs, wearied with long sitting. There was humanity of all shades, from the haughty aristocrat of the Pullman, to the peasant of the immigrant car. Jim had a sense of pleasure in beholding well-dressed folk again; yet it was merely an æsthetic pleasure, for he found, when he began to speculate on the possibilities of the throng before him, that he was more interested in those whose all was staked on the trip, than in those to whom it was only an excursion. People of widely differing nationalities occupied the immigrant car. Jim wondered whether they would ever become Americans, according to his ideas of Americans, a people in which he had great pride and delight; and he shook his head doubtfully as he took them in. Suddenly a small boy darted out of a car; an exceedingly small boy, thin to emaciation, who made his way through the crowd with that sprawling, active, dancing manner peculiar to thin small boys and spiders. Jim half laughed at the little chap until he saw his face; then he realized at a glance that the matter was no laughing one for the boy. At the same time he saw the shocking thinness of the little face, made into a wolf's face by hunger; the mingled horror and desperation of the eyes; the big man would not have believed a child's face could express emotions of such magnitude. He was wonder-stricken at the sight, and felt an instinctive sympathy for the fugitive. It is a strange thing how fortune will sometimes guide with certainty, when reason shows no path. The boy came unerringly toward Jim; Jim had a sort of prophetic insight that he would. Back behind him the urchin ran. "Don't cher give me away, Mister!" he pleaded. Jim flapped a hand in answer. At the time he was leaning against a corner of the station; a little back of him was a small lean-to shed where various truck was stored. Out of the car came a burly brute of a man, who stared about him rapidly. "Dat's der ol' man," whispered the boy. "If he gits holt of me, there won't be a hull bone left in me body." The man walked up to the conductor and spoke to him. "Aggh!" said the boy. "Now dey'll get me sure--der jig is up--dey'll have der hull gang ertop o' me!" the voice trailed off into a strangled sob, and then continued in a fierce whisper: "Aggh! If I had me growth, I'd show 'em! I'd show 'em!" and then a burst of hair-raising profanity. The argument was growing loud between the man, who was urging something, and the conductor, who was declining; others were walking toward the moderate excitement. Jim wheeled and caught the boy in his arms. "Up you go!" he said, and tossed him on top of the shed. "Lie low behind the wood there, and you are all right." Then came the conductor's voice: "Say, my friend, if you think I'm going to hold my train while you hunt up a lost kid, there's something in you that don't work right! Why didn't you take care of him while you had him? Now you've got just four minutes by the watch; either hustle around and hunt, or drop off the train and hunt--what's that? Now don't you give me any slack, you black-muzzled tarrier, or I'll have the fear of God thrown into you too quick. Get out of here now! Get out of my way!" The man slouched off, and made a hasty search around the station. A woman's face--scarcely an improvement on the man's--leaned out of the car window and jeered at the hunter, who cursed her back savagely. The man walked up to Jim. "Say, did yer see a kid go by here, Mister?" With a shrug of his shoulders, Jim asked him that question in Mr. Ollendorf's French method, about the pink-and-green overcoat of the shoemaker's wife's sister. The man showered low abuse on what he supposed was a foreigner, until Jim's ribs rose with the desire to kill him. "Ayr, wot are yer wastin' time wid th' Dago fur?" called the woman. "Th' kid's on the roof!" Jim's heart almost stopped, so thoroughly had he identified himself with this quarrel. He made up his mind to fight for the boy, right or wrong. But he was saved the trouble. It was only a jest of the woman's, for she suddenly called, so earnestly that even Jim was fooled. "No he ain't neither; I see him! I see him! There he is." It was the perfection of acting, voice and gesture. The man ran out to see where she was pointing. "Where is he?" he asked, looking wildly around. "On top der flag-pole, like er monkey! You're it!" she cried, with a shriek of laughter at the black brows of her dupe. "I'll show yer der joke, when I git in dere!" he threatened. The woman leaned her chin on her hands and smiled. Jim never forgot the utter undauntedness, impudence and malice of that face. "Yer allus goin' to do sumpin', Pete!" she retorted. "Yer'll be a man yet." A more amiable man than "Pete" might have been provoked by such conduct. He strode forward with white-knuckled fists and a very unpleasant expression on his face. Several men started to interfere, but it wasn't necessary. The woman quietly looked at her bully, chewing a straw with the utmost nonchalance. "Give us a kiss," said she. The man's crest dropped. He said something in an undertone, and got on the car. Jim needed no further knowledge of this delightful couple to be thoroughly on the boy's side. It seemed to him that the man was quite capable of keeping a small animal at hand, for the fun of torturing it, and as for the woman--well, if there was her like in hell, Jim determined to be good for the rest of his days. "All aboard!" cried the conductor, and with a few mighty breaths the iron giant whisked its load out in the open again. "Stay where you are, son, till I see whether that fellow is playing a trick," said Jim, and not until he had looked under the platform, up and down the track, and in the waiting rooms, did he give the command, "Come down!" II The passenger agent saw the performance with astonishment. "So you had the boy tucked away all the time?" said he. "Just what kind of a game is this?" "Dunno," returned Jim. "Let the boy speak for himself. Now, young man, what's the matter?" The urchin stood before them, taking them in thoroughly with his sharp little eyes. More big men strolled up. As a particularly fine foil to the boy's diminutive form, Benny, the baggage smasher, whose overhanging shoulders testified whence came the power that had reduced many a proud Saratoga to elemental conditions, and "Happy Jack," the mammoth, soot-black, loose-jointed negro porter, placed themselves on either side of him. They made the boy look more like an insect than ever. "Wot's de matter?" he cried in a voice at once hoarse and shrill, with a cursing note in it, and accompanying the words with an extravagant, dramatic gesture of his skinny claw. "I'll tell yer wot's der matter--dey beat me--dey beat me bad. I don't ast youse to take me word fur it--look at me back--dat's all I ast yer--jes' look at dat!" He ripped the shirt from his shoulders. An angry growl went up from all those big-bearded men when they saw the horrible stripes and welts--raw, blue and swollen--on the poor little back. Happy Jack threw up both his gorilla arms. "Lord Jesus! Who done you like dat, boy?" he cried. "'F I got m' hookers on him, cuss me 'f I wudden' put bumps on him bigger'n yer hull body." "Now yer talkin'," shrieked the boy. He raised himself to the tips of his toes, bared his teeth to the gum, and with clutching talons, gripping at the air, yelled: "Aggh! If I had me growth! I'd bite his heart out! I'd tear his neck for 'im!" The men looked astounded on this mighty fury, pent in so small and miserable a cage. The voice had a peculiar alarming call to it, like the note of a fire-gong. Suddenly the boy's head dropped on the crook of his arm. "Treated me wuss'n a dog," he sobbed out. "Done me so it makes even dat nigger holler when he sees it." Happy Jack was taken aback. The other men smoothed down their faces forcibly. "Say, lil' boy, you think dat's a p'lite way to talk to people?" inquired Jack. The boy wiped his eyes on his sleeve and went over to him. "Say, don't yer holt nothin' ag'in me fur der word," said he. "Dey've got me looney--dat's wot--yer've used me liker fren'; and if it hoits yer, yer can kick me pants fur me, and I won't say nuthin'." "Well, there's two-pound-and-a-half of dead game sport for you, all right!" cried Benny. "Good eye, kid!" Happy Jack smiled a mollified smile eight inches wide. "You is all right, beau," said he. "An' as fur as my bein' a nigger's concerned, I'll admit my kerplection ain't light." He slapped his ham and brought down a foot on the platform. "Hyah, hyah!" he roared, "you bet dere ain't no dam' blond 'bout me!" The infectious darky laugh started the others off, and brought matters to a common-sense footing. The passenger agent took up the interrogation. Was the man the boy's real father? Answer: "How'd I know? Dat's der song he guv me." Were there any relatives? Friends? Answer: "Naw!" Well, what did the boy propose to do? Answer, digging his toes into the boards: "Didn't know--anyt'ing!" What was his name? "Jim." Jim what? "Didn't know. Sometimes der gun callt himself 'Darragh,' an' sometimes 'Mullen,' an' sometimes 'Smit.' Aggh! He callt himself the foist t'ing dat come to his tongue--he didn't have no real name." The agent talked to him a bit more, winding up by saying kindly: "You've had a pretty rough time of it, Jimmy, and we'd all like to give you a lift--now, just say what you'd like to do, and maybe we can fix it." "I'd like to go along wid dat feller, 'f he'll take me," replied the boy, tossing a thumb toward Jim Felton. There was a becoming access of shyness in his manner; moreover, Felton had an increased interest in him when he knew they bore the same name--a sort of kinship, as it were. "Well, it's up to you, Mister--" said the passenger agent, with a smile. "Felton," said Jim. "I'm in. I'll take the boy. Hard rustling down my way, but I guess we can make out somehow. Sure you want to go, kid?" "Yessir!" very heartily. "Done, then!" Happy Jack snatched off his uniform cap, spat on a bill, and flapped it into the bottom thereof. "Good-by, fren'!" said he. He shook the cap in front of the others. "Here's fur the lil' rooster; step up to the capen's office an' settle, gents!" he called. "'Member what de Bible says, 'Fool an' his money soon parted.' Come up! Come up!" They came up generously. "Stick a five in there for me, Bill," said Benny to the passenger agent, "I'm strapped." "How much you got, boy?" asked the agent, as Happy counted the money. "Fo'ty dollars, even money, Misto' Breckenridge." The agent was a bachelor with a fat salary. "Here, that makes it fifty," said he. He turned to Felton. "Now, what do you say if we go across the street and--er--discuss this matter a little further?" "Go you," replied Felton. "Now, Jimmy, you sit here for a moment. We're going on some business." The boy glanced at them sharply. "Youse fellers is goin' to get a drink," said he. Those big men put their hands on their sides and roared. "You'll find that kid worse than a wife, Felton!" said the agent. "No use of our being hypocrites to the little chap. I reckon he's seen worse things than the inside of a saloon. Come along, laddybuck." They lined up and partook. The agent told the story of the waif. "And we started him off with fifty, Mac," he said to the saloon-keeper. "Suppose you break away from some of your ill-gotten gains in the good cause." The saloon-keeper opened his cash drawer without words and slid over a five-dollar bill. He seemed very glad to part with it. "Confound it! Now we're upsticks again," said the agent. "Tell you what let's do. Here's ten of us. Each man put up a two, and we'll shake the dice to see who gives it to the kid--winner to set 'em up. That'll make seventy-five--a very respectable figure." They played a new interesting dice-game, in which the figure of a pig drawn in chalk upon the bar furnished the "lay-out." It is a game which increases in interest to the last throw. They stuck the saloon-keeper, and were gleeful. "We ought to name the boy," said Felton, under the inspiration of the second refreshment. "My name's Jim, and I want something else to call him by. I'll make him a present of my last name." "Gad, that's so!" replied the agent. "Call him Chescheela Jim," put in a cow-man. "That's Injun for 'little Jim.' 'Ches' ain't a bad nickname." "Mac, hand over one of those toy sample bottles of California fizz," said the agent. "We'll put this craft down the ways in shape." Felton broke the neck off the bottle with a tack-hammer and poured the wine on the boy's head. "I christen thee Chescheela James Felton--may you become a good seaworthy craft, and not fill your skin with this stuff when you grow up," said he dramatically. The small boy squinted up his eyes to keep the wine out; then he shook the liquid from his hair, looked up and grinned. "Youse fellers is reg'lar kids," said he. "Lord, that's a great boy!" said the agent. "He's the oldest man in the crowd. Say, let's give him a white man's start, beginning with a bath." The whole party went to the barbershop and made the darky proprietor dispense a bath and a hair-cut for nothing. "Shave, sir?" asked the latter, when the hair had been properly trimmed. "No," replied the youth. "I t'ink I'll let me whiskers grow. Dere's enuff wind in dis country ter keep der moths outen 'em." Then they raided the clothing store, and abused the Hebrew owner until he reduced the price. "Oof der lodt--everyding, shennelmun! Sigsdy ber zent. Dere's no broffit left--it doaned bay fur the freight." "Look here, Sol! Will you swear that on a piece of pork?" demanded the agent. The Hebrew moaned. "Doaned dalk to me!" he cried. "My heardt iss prooken!" Clean, trimmed and clothed, Chescheela James Felton was a different looking boy. Months only could take those animal lines out of his face, and fresh air and wholesome food fill out the hollows of the cheeks, but, all in all, he was not a bad-looking youngster. Jim Felton bought some supplies for his camp, and prepared to start for home that afternoon, as they could yet make fifteen miles before dark. The new friends of the morning saw them off with hearty good-bys. The boy quite unexpectedly thanked them for their treatment and the money. The poor little soul had heard few words of gratitude, and had less chance to employ them. His speech was curious, but the generous big men saw behind the words, and felt really touched by the old-child's attempt to express himself. The two Jims soon pushed on, through the rolling foot-hills near the town, into the broken country. The boy kept watching, watching, but said little, until at last they came to the stupendous cliffs of Paha-Sahpedon, overhanging the trail with dark majesty. Jim happened to glance at the boy, and saw him looking up, mouth and eyes wide open. "Say, Mister!" gasped Ches. "Who built them!" "Built?" repeated Jim, puzzled. Then he understood. "The hand of God, my boy," he replied. The urchin shivered. "I feel's if dey was comin' ertop o' me," he gasped. "Let's hook it outer here." Jim spanked the burro, and they flew out of the Paha-Sahpedon at a canter. They camped that night in the spruces of Silver Creek, in one of the prettiest little places that ever lay out of doors. As they prepared the supper and ate it, sharing plate, cup and spoon, the boy was fairly ecstatic. "Dis is der bulliest ol' time dat ever I had," said he. "I didn't know dere was places like dis 'tall, 'cept Cintral Park. Yer can run aroun' here all yer like, can't yer, Mister? Nobuddy'll stop yer?" "Not if you ran a thousand miles, Ches. This is the free land, boy. You can do what you like." Jim spoke with warmth, for, although he felt that the child could not understand, yet the love of the country swelled in him so hot that he could never speak of it carelessly. "Dat's prutty damn good," responded Ches. "It is," replied Jim. "Now, Ches, will you do something to oblige me?" "Sure!" "Well, then, don't swear. I don't like to hear boys swear." "I won't cuss another cuss, if I kin help it. Dey'll come out too quick for me sometimes, but I'll try to do dat, now." "Thank you. Now, let's get the stuff cleared up and roll in." In the middle of the night Jim heard a strange noise, a puzzling sound he could not trace. Becoming wider awake, it resolved itself into a stifled weeping. "Hello there, Ches! What's the matter?" he cried. The boy flung himself into Jim's arms with a cry. "Ar, I'm scart to deat'," said he. "Take holt uf me, Mister! Take holt uf me! Dere ain't anyt'ing but you and me here 'tall!" Jim gathered up the trembling figure. "Nothing will hurt you, Ches," he said. "You're safe here." "I wasn't t'inkin' of gettin' hurted," retorted the boy, with shaky indignation. "Did youse t'ink I'd weaken fur dat? Yer don't know me, den. Dat ain't bodderin' me--I've been hurted plenty. I'm just scart, dat's wat's der matter." "Well, now, you cuddle right up in my arms, like a little puppy dog, and you'll feel all right." "Say, you're prutty good stuff, Mister Felton," whimpered the little voice. "Dis is der bulliest time I ever had, even if I am scart." "I think you're a brave boy, Ches. Now go to sleep." A small hand reached timidly around until it found the man's and gave it an affectionate squeeze. "Good night, sir," said Ches. Jim lay awake, thinking dreamily, long after the boy's regular breathing showed that he was at peace again. The man felt a tenderness for the waif so abruptly put in his care that only a lonely man can feel. He speculated about the boy's future; he wondered what kind of a man he would make. Surely, with a foundation of such courage, the better part could be brought out. Then he wondered what Anne would say to the adoption, or rather what advice she would give, for he felt entirely sure of her broad humanity, outside of their one difference. He felt the need of her practical sense. Soon he had drifted into thinking of Anne entirely. Not bitterly now, but with a steady longing. The gray light of the waning moon, sifting through the boughs, was the true lumina for reverie. Why had he not answered her letter? Perhaps by this time-- What was that moving in the grass? He had noticed a sort of something before. He threw up his right hand in a threatening gesture, to frighten the intruder away. Instantly he got his answer, and an icy wind seemed to ruff his hair--that insistent, dry, shrilling sound that will make a man's blood turn cold if anything will--the whirring defiance of a rattlesnake! Jim thought quick and hard, with chills and fever coursing over him _ad libitum_. He did not want to waken and frighten the boy. He managed to slip his arm out without disturbing the sleeper. But now! There wasn't a club around except the short sticks of the fire. A two-foot stick is not the proper equipment for rattler hunting, except to those born with nerves so strong that they do not hesitate to catch Mr. Crotalus by the tail and snap his head off. Jim thought of the rope he had used for a cinch, and made for it with his eye on the snake, lest the latter should approach closer to the boy. With a deep thankfulness for the heft of the rope, he returned and struck with all the strength of his big body, and pounded away in a sort of crazy rage, although the first stroke had done the business. He snapped the sweat from his brow as he looked down at the still writhing reptile. "My God! What might have happened if the boy hadn't waked me?" he thought. The superstition of the miner rose in him rampant. "I believe that kid's going to bring me good luck," he said. "Darned if I don't. Well, I could stand some." He took up the body of the rattler on a stick and heaved it far away, then lit his pipe. "I don't think I care for any more sleep to-night," he laughed. "Like Ches, it ain't that anything will hurt me out here, but I'm everlastingly scared." He watched the night out, revelling in his enjoyment of the mystery of the coming morning, that phase of the day which never ceases to be unreal, and which calls out of the watcher sentiments and emotions he is a stranger to for the rest of the day. The sun hung on the sharp point of Old Dog-Tooth like a portent, before he woke the boy. Ches was all amazement for a second; then he gave a glad cry. "Gee! Yer still here, ain't yer? No pipe in dis." He looked all around him. "Say! Dis is a reg'lar teeayter uf er place, ain't it?" he remarked. "Dis is der scene where der villun almost gits der gent wid der sword, if der stage mannecher didn't send sumun ter help 'im out." Jim laughed at the sophisticated infant. "You don't believe in the theater much, then, Ches?" "Aggh!" replied Ches. "If it ain't seven it's 'leven on der stage--but it's mostly craps in der street." "Well, son, there are such points on the dice," admitted Jim. "But let's have something to eat and we'll feel better." Ches rustled around after sticks in his funny, angularly active style, singing a song the while from the gladness of his heart. It was a merry song, about mother slowly going down the hectic path of phthisis pulmonalis, and sister, who has--one is led to believe--taken to small bottles, small hours and undesirable companions, refusing to come home and lift the mortgage which is shortly to be foreclosed--all in the narrow confines of twenty-five verses. Jim listened to the inspiriting ditty in astonishment. "'Bird of the wilderness, blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!'" he quoted. "For Heaven's sake, child," he continued, in some irritation, "where did you learn that echo of the morgue?" "Don't you like 'er?" asked Ches, in his turn astonished at such a lack of taste. "W'y, dat's er gig in der city--everybuddy an' der ginnies wid der organs is givin' dat out all day long." "Well, let 'em," commanded Jim. "Don't introduce it to this part of the country. As you render it, through the nose, and with the wail at the end, it is a thing to make a strong man lie down and give up the ghost in sheer disgust. Ches, does it really make you feel good to sing it?" "Yessir--kinder," replied Ches hesitatingly. "Lord!" thought Jim. "What a life, to make a song like that a recreation!" Then aloud: "It's bad luck to sing before breakfast, Ches. I'll teach you a livelier song than that when we hit the trail again." So it came to pass that during the first miles of their day's journey the way was enlivened by the notes of _The Arkansas Traveler_, _Garry Owen_, _Where's My Linda-Cinda Gone?_, _Baltimore Girls_, and other songs of a lively character. Ches approved of these in moderation. Then Jim tried an experiment. With a serious face, but half an eye on the boy, he howled, moaned and grunted _The Cow-boy's Lament_, which still presents the insoluble problem of whether the words or the music are drearier. "OooooOOO!!! Pla-a-ay your fifes l-o-o-w-l-y, a-a-nd beee-eat your drums sl-o-o-o-wly, and play the dead m-a-arch as you carry me o-o-o-on!" mourned Jim. Ches was all attention. "For I'm o-o-o-nly a p-o-o-o-r cow-boy, and I know I've done w-r-o-o-o-o-o-ng!" wailed the singer, in conclusion. "How'd you like that, Ches?" "Say, dat's a ringer!" cried the boy enthusiastically. Jim sat him down by the roadside and laughed his fill. "I think you're hopeless," he gasped. The boy was hurt in a way he could not understand. Something pained him--a new sensation, of not being up to the requirements of another's view. His forced acute intelligence made a bull's-eye shot. "P'r'aps w'en I've got er chist and t'umpers on me like you, I'll like der udder kin' er song," he said. Jim looked at the pathetic little figure on the burro, and his conscience smote him. "That's right, boy," he replied very kindly. "I was only joking--ought not to be any ill feeling between friends over a joke, you know. Now, you sing ahead all you plenty please." "Don't say nuttin' more about it," replied Ches. "It's all square." A little farther on Jim noticed a piece of quartz outcrop with a metal stain on it. Now, a miner can no more pass such a thing than some others could refuse to pick up the pin shining at their feet, so he took a stone and hammered off a specimen for future reference. In the meantime Ches, on the burro, got around the turn of the trail. Suddenly the boy set up a shout of excitement. "Oh, Mister!" he yelled, with a string of profanity, his promise forgotten in his heat. "Come quick, an' look at der cat! Come quick, quick, quick! What a cat! You never see sich a cat!" Jim dashed forward. "Well, I should say cat!" he remarked, as he took in the situation. On a ledge about fifty feet above the road crouched a full-grown mountain lion, ears back, eyes furtively glimpsing every avenue of escape, yaggering at the intruders savagely. The small boy in Jim Felton rose on the instant. "Pelt him, Ches! Pelt him!" he cried, and let fly the rock in his hand by way of illustration. A wild animal seems to have little idea of a missile. The lion held his ground and let the stone strike him in the side. Then, with a screech like the vital principle of forty thousand tom-cat fights--a screech that left a sediment in the ear-drums of the listeners for the balance of the morning--he fairly flew up the straight side of the cliff, followed by a rain of projectiles. "Ches, we oughtn't to have done that," said Jim soberly. "If that fellow had been of another mind, he'd have made this the warmest day of our lives." "W'y! Will dey fight?" asked Ches, his eyes wide open. "They will that, son, sometimes," replied Jim. Then he launched into the tales of wild beast hunts, drifted from that to the romance of the gold field, the riches coming in a day--the whole glamour of it. Never did narrator have more attentive listener. There was a sort of white joy in the boy's face. "Oh, ain't I glad to git in dis!" he cried. "Here's just wot I been lookin' fur." Suddenly he struck Jim on the shoulder with a tightly clenched fist. "I made fur youse der first t'ing--didn't yer see me? I know me man all right. Der secont I put me peeps on yer I ses ter meself, 'Dat feller won't t'row yer down, Chimmy'--ain't I right, hey? Ain't I right, Mister?" Jim patted him on the back. "I think you're right, old man," he said. "I'll do anything I can for you." "Yer don't hafter tell me dat--I know it," replied the boy. A sudden sob gathered in his throat and choked him. "Yer don't know wot I been t'rough, Mister--it 'ud laid out many er big stiff ten times me size. I'd--don't youse laugh at me now, becus I'm only a kid--I'd give me heart's blood fur youse, s' help me, I would, now!" "Shake hands, pardner," said Jim, his own voice a trifle hoarse. "We'll do fine together--I know we will." III They crested the last sharp rise, and looked down upon the little cabin huddling in the spruces--an island of humanity in the beautiful sea of the wilderness. It seemed to Jim as if the small house brightened in appearance at the return of its soul; his heart in turn rose with a home feeling; his belief in the treasure which lay where the new channel cut across the old wash--that treasure which would make the world so different--came back to him like a renewed love. His hands ached for a grip on pick and shovel. His strong muscles twitched with eagerness to be at work again. Suddenly a ponderous and gross sound, out of all proportion to the size of its source, smashed the mountain silence into slivers. It was the burro's greeting to his companions, and the echoes fluttered it from cliff to cliff until it faded into the merest tint. "Kerissmus! How many of dem is dere?" asked Ches, astonished at the demonstration. At that instant the herd welcomed the returned one. The cañon was full of brays; colliding, rising, falling and swelling in a tumult of noise against which the dreadful shouting of the gods at the fall of Troy would have seemed as the wail of a kitten. "Say, I don't like dat!" said Ches. "What's loose?" Jim had watched the growing astonishment of the boy's face with suppressed emotion, but now he hugged himself and uproariously laughed his laugh out. "That, Ches," he replied, "is a matter of fifteen or twenty donkeys and an echo--did you think it was the end of the world?" "I t'ought it was gittin' on well past der middle, all right," retorted Ches. "What 'ud yer expeck of a man dat never heerd der like before?" "I knew what to expect. I never heard them either till I came out here. I was digging a hole up the side of that hill yonder, and had begun to feel that there was something behind me, and that it was almost time to go home, when old Jack, who has the voice of his family, poured out his soul about twenty rods away. I was half way home, Ches, before I got sand enough to go back and investigate. But now listen, and you'll hear something prettier than that." He put his fingers to his lips and whistled a bugle call. "I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up in the morning," sounded Jim. And back came the pretty reveille in a fabric of music, indescribably interwoven; sharp and staccato from the neighboring walls; the lightest of whispers from the distance, turning and twisting upon itself and starting afresh when all seemed still. "Say, dat _is_ prutty!" said Ches enthusiastically. "Hit her again!" "Young man, you can come up here whenever you feel like it in the future, but as for now, I'm for home and grub." "Dat ain't so bad, neither. Der animile's jumped me up an' down till I cud hold more'n a man. Dis spook's hang-out business won't quit, will it?" "No, sir; that's a fixture. Hang on tight now, and I'll race you to the cabin--one, two, three!" and away sprinted Jim down the hill trail, the burro lumbering after. "No fair! No fair!" yelled Ches. "Yer've got me skate doped! T'row us a tow!" Jim wheeled at the doorway and took in the excited, happy little figure bumping on the burro's back. For once in his life he had the satisfaction of an indisputable proof that he had done well. With a sudden access of affection he caught the boy in his arms and stood him on the ground. "Well, here's our home, Ches," he said. Home! The street Arab filled his puny chest, took a long, devouring look about him, and sought a definition of the word to make sound the lift of pride and hope that rose within him. "Yer mean nobuddy kin chase us out of dis?" "Nobody." "It's our'n!" the boy went on with curious vehemence. "Like dis here," snatching an old knife from his pocket and shaking it in his tight fist, "ter t'row away, ter sell, er ter keep, and nobuddy got nuttin' ter say about it?" "Just that, laddybuck. That and nothing else." "No more slinkin' an' snoopin' aroun' dodgin' der coppers; no more stallin' fer der push; no more dirt of no kind--say, I can't git dat jus' in a minute." He stood grappling with the new idea. In the search an old one came to the top. His face changed rapidly. The furtive, hunted look returned. In a tone, the odd quiet of which contrasted with the former heat, he spoke again. "Yer for _me_, now, ain't yer, Jim? If--if der Gun should happen ter come here, yer wouldn't t'row me down at dis stage of der game?" The big man answered him with an equal soberness. He thrust a hand before the boy's eyes--a splendid hand, massive and corded at the base, running out to long, shapely, intelligent fingers, and every line in it spoke of power. "Do you see that hand, Ches?" "Yessir." "If the 'Gun' shows his face where that hand can get a grip on him, it will do the business for him in one squeeze, and if the hand can't reach, there's a rifle inside that can. Now get that out of your mind once for all." "Well--" said the boy, "well--aw, I'll be damned, dat's all I kin say, Jim," and rushed into the house. The miner leaned back and laughed, and blew his nose; and laughed again and blew his nose again; then he wiped the dust out of his eyes, swore a few words himself, and followed the boy within. The next day Jim started on his work in earnest. Before, he had sunk a hole here or there in the broad smooth surface of the bar of gravel that he felt certain hid his bonanza. Now, he determined to begin at the creek bank and drift straight across the bar. That meant six hundred feet of tunnel at the best, unless fortune was much kinder than she had hinted at before--quite an undertaking for one man, considering the timbering and all. It must have been a miner who wrote, that hope springs eternal in the human breast. Surely in no place other than the mines is the fact so manifest. There was once a man seventy-three years old who was sinking through a cap of cement two hundred feet thick. The stuff was just this side of powderwork, barely to be loosened with a pick. The old man had to climb down sixty feet of ladder, fill his bucket, climb up again and dump it, and so on and so on and so on. Besides, he had to walk thirty miles and back again with his load, whenever he ran out of provisions. It had taken him a year to put his shaft down the sixty feet. There was one hundred and forty more to go, each foot getting harder, the Lord only knew what would be at the bottom when he got there; yet to sit in that old man's cabin for an hour was to obtain a complete exposition of the theory and practice of optimism. It is an unbelievable story and would be senseless, were it not entirely true. Beside that effort, Jim's task took on the tint of an avocation, but the man who runs six hundred feet of tunnel single-handed earns whatever may be at the end of it. The tunnel was the one thing that Ches abhorred in his new surroundings. Whether it was that it reminded him of the dingy holes of his city life, or whether it was a natural antipathy, Ches was one of those who can never enter a confined space without the sensation of smothering--at any rate, neither argument nor coaxing could get him to put a foot within its dark mouth. An old miner would have shared his feelings in this instance, for Jim, so thorough in some things, was a careless workman. Your old miner would have shaken his head at the weak caps and recklessly driven lagging; frames out of plumb and made of any stick that came to hand--more especially as they were to support loose dirt of the most treacherous sort. Ches worked outside, dumping the car that Jim had made of four tree sections for wheels, and sluice-box boards for sides. Jim, the ingenious, had rigged up a pulley system, whereby Ches could run the car out and in without interrupting the work on the face. It was hard labor for Ches at first, but he gritted his teeth and stuck it out manfully. "Bime-by," he would say to himself, "I'll have er muscle on me like Jim, an' den I'll yank dis cussed ol' car right out in der middle of der crik," and he examined the small bunch on his arm critically a dozen times every day. Meanwhile, his hero and idol was outdoing the human in his exertions. The effort he put forth would have killed an ordinary man. He fought the stubborn earth as though it were an enemy. Stripped to the waist, bent over in the low tunnel, hour after hour Jim plied the pick and shovel with the regularity and power of a machine. There was at once something fascinating and heroic in the rippling glide of the muscles over his broad back, and in the supple swing that sent the pick to join the packed dirt. It all looked so easy. It was as if the dirt were very soft, and not the striker very strong. Nevertheless, fourteen hours a day of this, varied occasionally by cutting timbers and carrying them by hand to the tunnel--some of them a weight enough for a horse, others not adequate, "just as they came" being careless Jim's motto--told even on his engines. They had a certain mark on the cañon side--a wild-cat's hole it was--and when the sun threw the shadow of the western wall upon the mark, the day's work was finished. Ches used to watch this with attention. "Yer move along all right till yer gits half way up, den yer jus' crawls, yer ol' beggar!" was his standing remark on the progress of the shadow. Still, he always gave good measurement. Toward the last of the month Jim grew an interest in their clock. "Where's the blame thing now, Ches?" would come hollowly out of the tunnel. "Three more cars away, Jim,--jus' tippin' the white rock." Then the cheery shout of "All over!" and the worker stepping out into the fresh air, soft and cool in the twilight, hooking the sweat from his forehead, and wishing that supper would cook itself. Sometimes the wild-cat looked down upon them from his eyrie. "Ches," said weary Jim, "if that lad thinks at all, he must think we're awful fools." "He wouldn't be so tur'ble off his guess, neider," replied the equally weary Ches. After supper, however, the world seemed different. There was Jones's Hill--(a man of large ideas, was Jones, to call that mass of rock a hill)--shining red-hot in the last light against a topaz or turquoise sky, and the gulch that ran up to it in a mystery of dark green gloom offering up an evening prayer of indescribable odors--those appeals to a life in former spheres which no other sense remembers; the ceaseless roar of the wind in the pines, so steady that it formed a background for other sounds almost as good as silence itself; the evening pipe, and the talk of what had been done and what was to be done--all these made amends. And then the sleeping--such sleeping! And waking up in the morning in the exact attitude one went to sleep the night before! Sleep that washed out all the former day's fatigue, and started them as eager as hounds for that of the new day. That is, within limits, for, when a man overworks as continually as Jim had done, no paradise sleep nor balsam air can turn him right perpetually. And for that reason the claim declared a holiday, consisting of a hunting trip. It was a curious hunting trip. Not one "bang!" went the clean and polished rifle. They stalked four deer, crawling on their bellies, quivering with the chase, rounding behind rocks. Then when the game was within range, up went the rifle, Jim squinted along the sights--then dropped it. "What's der matter?" whispered Ches. He had been waiting for a long time to hear the gun go off. "They seem to be having a pretty good time by themselves there, Ches." "Yes--dat's so--but I've heard deer-meat was good." Ches was disappointed at this manner of hunting. "So it is," replied Jim, "probably nobody has that notion stronger than the deer." He followed the four pretty animals below them with tense eyes. He loved to hunt but he hated to kill. "See here, boy," he said, sitting down and pulling off his boots, "I think I can show you some fun--do you notice they're feeding up to that nose of rock? Well I used to be rather quick on my feet once, and I think if I can slip down behind there without their winding me, if one gets close enough I can catch him with my hands--which is a trick I'd like muchly to accomplish. Now you sit here and watch, and for your life, don't make a move or sound! By Jiminy! if I could do that!" He trotted light-footed down the slope out of sight. The boy soon saw him reappear behind the sharp rock-wall that jutted out into the valley, rubbing crushed pine-needles upon himself with the idea of overpowering the human odor, although, whether effective in its purpose or not, it was not necessary--a strong up-wind from deer to man making it impossible that they could scent him. They waited and they waited, a big man crouched like a tiger below, and a highly excited small boy above, while the deer did every exasperating thing that animals could do. They started straight for the rock, grazing along, and then for no reason in the world beat back on their tracks, or turned to right or left. They even went so far as to lie down, chewing most contentedly. One hour went by--two--when suddenly the buck rose and walked straight up the cañon in a course that would take him within twenty feet of the rock. Jim heard him snort and prepared for action, laying hold of a corner of stone to get a spring from all-fours. The deer's shadow floated black on the grass before him, and Jim leaped--to the biggest surprise of his life, for instead of making the least effort to escape, the buck charged, and that with such sudden fury it was all the man could do to lay hold of him anywhere as they came to dirt together. The next ten seconds was delirium, each combatant doing something as quick as he could without any definite aim. Jim received a painful rake across the chest from the antlers, and a jab in the leg from the sharp hoofs, while the deer was the worse for several bangs over the head and an ear nearly pulled off, as they rolled over together. It came over Jim with the force of a revelation that he had got into a very different business from that which he had intended. Instead of the "timid deer" whose capture was the difficulty, he found himself engaged with a horned and hoofed demon, and the problem was how to get away. Meanwhile, Ches had legged it down the hill-side at his best speed, enthusiastically cheering what he supposed was a prearranged performance. Jim had promised him fun, and that whirling heap below supplied plenty of it. "Hooray!" yelled Ches. "Hooray! Hold him dere, Jim, till I get down!" Jim heard the shrill voice, as he succeeded, after a desperate effort, in getting an arm around the deer's neck, so that he could do something in the choking line, and he smiled grimly in the heat of battle. "All right, Ches!" he gasped. "Don't--hurry!" "Keep out of this!" he yelled a moment later as Ches burst out from the bushes. "You'll get killed!" But Ches was not to be denied. He danced around the pushing, tugging, straining storm-center, and the moment opportunity offered, slipped in and seized the buck by a hind leg. If he had touched an electric battery, the effect could not have been more instant. The deer fanned that muscular hind leg, with its boy attachment, at the rate of seven hundred strokes to the minute. Poor Ches' head was nearly snapped off his shoulders, and the breath was literally jerked out of his body, but he hung on, with all the strength that pulling the car had given him. It was not much help, but it was a diversion. Jim gulped a lungful of air, gathered his powers and came down with all his might. Slowly the stubborn neck, bent--so slowly that Jim feared he would give out before gaining the mastery. As it yielded, his leverage increased, and at last, exerting every ounce of strength that was in him, he downed the foe and held him there, his leg over the front legs whose armament he had felt before, and was not desirous of feeling again. But the deer gave up the struggle, and lay quiet, looking up with great pleading eyes. "Yes, you devil!" cried Jim, "you look meek enough now, but if you weren't a handful of hard luck ten seconds ago I never ran across one. You hurt, Ches?" "I got a lovely t'ump on me smeller, but I'm in it yet--do I let go or don't I?" "Not on your life--wait a moment!" He worked his weight over on the deer's body. "Now!" he said. "Quick! Jump loose!" Again the deer glanced up reproachfully, as though to say, "How suspicious you are!" The instant Ches jumped clear, so did Jim. They watched their late antagonist, who sprang to his feet and went off with frisky leaps, apparently as fresh as ever. Then they looked at each other. Ches was rubbing his stomach with his left hand, while he wiped the blood from his nose with the right. Jim's coat and trousers were torn; he had a deep scratch across his chest, a gouge in his leg, and he trembled from the exertion. "Well--Ches!" he panted, "we've--had--a--nice--rest--haven't we?" "Wouldn't it 'a' been tur'ble if yer hadn't caught him?" replied Ches. And then they simply whooped. A good incident is an opal among gems in a lonely life. You can turn it over and over and always get new colors. On the home trip, as Nimrod Jim stalked along with his follower trotting beside, they rehearsed every detail of the unexpected encounter. Jim crouched and leaped again, giving his sensations when the buck did likewise. Then he waited while Ches ran down a side hill and threw himself upon a sapling, which for the time was a deer's hind leg. They were just of an age--any one would have said so, on seeing them approach the cabin, arms flying, tongues wagging, bruised, tired and happy. "Jim," said a very sleepy little boy after supper, gorged like an anaconda, "yer don't see t'ings like dat in N'york--not much yer don't. If dat racket had come off in der Bowery, dere'd be head-lines--'dlines--on der extries--more'n a mile--" Jim picked him up and tucked him into his bunk. "More'n a mile long--g' nigh'," sighed Ches. Jim lit his pipe and went out for an evening smoke. It was some little time the next morning before he could realize what he was doing out there under the tree. He had been in some ways a graver man of late. What he had undertaken as an experiment, a generous impulse, had been turned into a lasting responsibility. IV On the second day after Ches' arrival, Bud had come through with the mail, and before leaving, drew Jim aside, out of the boy's hearing. "The little feller's yours agin all comers now, Jim," he said. "What's that?" asked Jim, surprised by the meaning in the tone. "He's _yours_," repeated Bud. "That sweet-scented blossom that called himself the boy's dad, filled his skin with red-eye farther up the line and settled the fuss he had with his dame." "Hurt her?" "Man!" said Bud slowly, "he used a knife a foot long--gave it to her a dozen times as hard as he could drive--what's your opinion?" "Lord Almighty! Did he get away? But no, of course he couldn't, being on the train--" "He didn't get away. The Con. wired the news to Kimballs. What was he to do when a small army of punchers boarded the train and took the prisoner? He couldn't do nothing, and he never loved that black-muzzled whelp from the time he sassed him in the depot. The punchers took our friend out and tried him." "Tried him?" "With a rope. In three minutes by; the watch he was found wanting--your boy now, Jim, as I was telling you. Going to say anything to him about it?" "Why," said Jim, bewildered, "why, I don't know, Bud--guess not, just yet, on general principles. What do you think?" "Think you're right," said Bud. "The poor little rooster couldn't help but feel glad to hear the news, but it would sound kind of awful to hear a kid like that say he was glad two people were killed. Better wait till he's been with you a while, Jim, and learned something different." Jim flushed at the implied compliment. "You're right, Bud, I will." "Great little papoose, ain't he?" said Bud, turning in his saddle before his starting rush. "Makings of a man there, all right. The boys in town are dead stuck on him. I'll have to give a complete history when I get back. I must get a gait on, or I'll have Uncle Sammy on my neck again--inspector started out with me this morning." "The devil he did!" cried Jim indignantly, well knowing the hardships and dangers of the big rider's route. "Oh, it's all right!" replied Bud with a wave of his hand. "Come out fine. When the lad first told me he'd been sent out to see why the mails was so late on this line, I told him I'd show him right on the spot, but he said there was no use getting hot about it, as he was only doing his duty, so I quieted down. "He was a decent sort of feller. I thought to myself before we got under way, 'Now, there won't nothing happen this day--everything'll go as smooth and slick as grease, and this feller will report that I'm sojering,' that's the way it usually works, you know. But this time I played in luck. "Two miles out of town we ran into a wild-eyed gang from somewhere, who was going to make us dance. We didn't dance, and I'll say for that inspector that he stood by me like a man, but he was awful sick at his stomach later on from the excitement. "Next thing, the bridge was down at Squaw Creek, and we swum her. He'd have gone down the flume, if I hadn't got hold of his bridle. 'Nice mail route, this,' says he, as he got ashore. 'Oh, you'd like it,' says I, 'if you got used to it.' I'd begun to wonder what was next myself. Ain't many people swimming Squaw Creek, as you perhaps know. "Well, next was about ten mile along, just before you come to the old Tin-cup Camp. We was passing the bluff there, and all of a sudden, rip, thump, biff! Down comes what looked like the whole side a-top of us. It weren't though. It was only a cinnamon had lost his balance, leaning over too far to see what we was. That bear landed right agin brother inspector's horse, and brother inspector's horse tried to climb a tree. Inspector himself fell a-top of the bear. I dassent shoot, for the devil himself couldn't have told which was inspector and which bear. Finally bear shakes himself loose and telescopes himself up the cañon, the worst scared animile in the country. 'If you'll ketch my horse, I'll amble back again,' says the inspector. 'I've investigated this route pretty thorough, and find it's just as you say. Lamp-posts'll do me all right for a while.' Come out fine, didn't it? "Whish there! Untie yourself, you yaller bone-heap!" And the mail was a quarter of a mile up the trail. Jim pondered the information concerning Ches carefully, only to adhere to his original determination. He could not see any way in which the boy would be benefited by hearing the news. Still, the miner hated anything that savored of concealment or deception. "I wish Anne was here to help me," he thought; "she'd know what to do." He sat long, looking down, his hands clasped about his knees, drinking with old Tantalus. But the reverie ended as it always did--in action. There was nothing for it but the claim. Success there meant success everywhere. It was the knowledge that Anne, the boy, and all he wished to do for both depended on the pay-streak which had urged him to such a fury of effort. His carelessness of his own life, that led him to slap his timbering up any way, was born of that same fury. And the consequences came like most consequences, without a moment's warning. It was a still and beautiful noon. Ches had pulled out the last car before dinner, and started for the cabin. A curious groaning and snapping from the tunnel halted him. It was the giving of the tortured timbers. On the heels of that came a dull, crushing roar. A blast of dust shot from the tunnel-mouth, like smoke from a cannon, preceded by a shock that nearly threw the boy off his feet. Then all was still again. The sun shone as brilliantly as before, blazing down upon the ghastly face of a little boy, who, after one heart-broken cry of "Jim! Oh, Jim's killed!" sank down upon the ground, chewing the fingers thrust in his mouth, that the pain might make the black wave keep its distance. For Ches knew that he was alone; that there was no human being within miles to help the man caught in the hand of that mischance but himself, so frantically willing, but so impotent. "I must git me wits tergedder--I must!" and down came the teeth with all the strength of the boy's jaw. "Oh, what will I do? What will I do?" The little head waved from side to side in its agony, and a sudden sob struck him in the throat. After that one small weakness rose Ches Felton, hero. To the mouth of the tunnel he went. Above the tumbled pile of dirt and timber ran a sort of passage, between it and the roof. A way along which a boy might crawl and find out if all the frames were down--to which the silence of the tunnel gave a bitter assent--or if by some most lucky chance one or two had held, and Jim be safe within. Ches climbed to the top and thrust his head into the gloom. "Jim!" he called, "Jim!" No answer. Before him lay the ruin of his pardner's work. It was over this that his path lay, as deadly dangerous a path as could be found. The slightest disturbing of the roof above might bring down a thousand tons of dirt upon the one who ventured, slowly and hideously to crush his life out, there in the dark, beyond sight and sound of the cheerful world without. With this knowledge before him, and his inborn fear of the dark hole, as daunting as the hand of death itself, he took his soul in his gripe, and wormed his way within. Sometimes his back grazed a stone in the roof, and the touch of white-hot iron could not have been so terrible; sometimes a falling stone near him would make his heart leap and stop as he waited for the hill above to follow. Foot by foot he made it, twisting around the end of a post, scooping out the dirt most cautiously where the hole was too small for even his slight body. Once the sharp end of a broken piece of lagging caught in his clothes, and he could go neither forward nor back. There, for a second, he broke down. Bracing up again, he managed somehow to get the old knife out of his pocket and cut himself free. He could see little. A gray spectral light filtered in here and there that defined nothing, even when his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. It was an endless journey. In places where the dirt closed in he would be a full minute progressing a foot, and a minute of such mortal terror as seldom falls to the lot of man of peace or soldier. But it ended. Suddenly the boy's outstretched hand encountered only emptiness below. That frame had held. He dove into the space head first, and landed on something soft and warm--the body of his pardner. He had found him. In a paroxysm of joy, he flung himself upon the motionless figure and cried his heart out. This, too, he soon conquered. Jim had just so much show--any delay might wipe it out. He searched the man's pockets until he found a match. By its light he saw the candle stuck into the post, and lit it. Then he knelt beside his pardner again. It was a curious picture within that gloomy chamber underground. The miner lying stark, stretched to his full great length, appearing enormous in the flickering candle-light, and the child, white-faced, big-eyed, but steady as a veteran, wiping the blood from the ragged cut in the man's head. Ches realized what had happened the instant before the calamity. Jim, startled by the noise of the yielding timbers, had made a rush, only to be struck down by the rock, that now lay within an inch of him; yet struck into safety for all that. Had he gone a yard farther, the life would have been smashed out of him instantly. But now, what? The flowing blood sent a sickening chill through the boy. Had he done this much only to be able to see his pardner die? He drove his teeth into his hand again at the thought. What was that? Was it a trick of the tunnel, his heart sounding in his own ears, or a rhythmic beat from outside? Hollow and dull fell that "clatter-clum-clatter-clum." "Bud!" screamed Ches, "T'ank God, dat's Bud!" After half a dozen efforts he climbed the dirt pile and went back through the treacherous holes. The rider came so fast! "Oh!" groaned the boy, "I'll never make it! Bud'll t'ink we're off somewheres an' pull on!--_Bud_! BUD!" he called at the top of his lungs; but the tunnel swallowed the little voice. Desperation made him entirely reckless. It was any way to get out before the mail-man was beyond call. Glairy with sweat, he pulled, tugged, squirmed and wriggled along, until a dirty, small bundle rolled down almost under the mail-rider's feet. "Whoa!" shouted Bud with an astonished oath. "What's the--why boy, what's the matter? Damn it! how you scart me!" One look at him froze the man; he said no more, but waited, watching the working face of the child, who was mastering himself once more, in order to tell a quick, straight story, that no time might be lost. "Der tunnel's fell in, Bud; Jim's in dere where der frame's held. He's livin' yet, but he's got a tur'ble cut in his head." The mail-rider drew out paper and tobacco, and rolled a cigarette. It was his method of biting his hand. He loved the man inside that dark blotch on the hill-side with an affection only known where men are few and strong. And because he loved him, Bud was going to keep his head cool and clear, to find the right thing to do and do it the right way. For all his calm outer man the mind within was whirling. He turned to the tense little face before him for help, and with an admiration that knew no bounds. "How far back?" he asked. "T'ree frames was held--dere was seven, ten foot apart--how much is dat?" "Forty feet--ten foot apart! No wonder! Oh, Jim! How could you have been so careless?" The boy's shoulders shook once. "He worked like er horse--now it's all gone an' he's in dere--" The face was contorted out of all humanity, but he held the tears back. Bud leaped from his horse. "Never you mind, Chessy lad!" he cried, hugging up the little figure, "we'll get him out of that, by God!--Could we haul him out the way you went?" "No, dere ain't room--an' if you touch dat roof hard--" he shuddered. Bud sucked in his breath. "If you weren't the sandy little man to try it!" he said. He stood a moment in silence going over it all. "Ches," he said, "there ain't any time to lose. If Jim's cut like that he may bleed to death in there when we could save him all right if we had him outside. "There's a party of miners down the road eight mile. They was having their grub as I went by. Chances are they'll be there yet. They've got four men and a team. I _could_ ride back, but I ought to be here working. Do you think you could stick on old Buck and ride there?" "I kin." "By God! I hate to do it--but there ain't any other way!" The big man ground his teeth together. "I hate to do it--damned if I'll do it!" Ches caught his hand. "I kin make it, Bud," he pleaded; "I cuddent do nothin' if I stayed here, an' you could do a heap. Put me up and let me try." "All right," said Bud. "The good Lord kept you from getting hurt in the tunnel, perhaps He'll see you through again. Shut your eyes and hold on tight when you strike the high places, and don't touch a rein--leave it all to old Buck." He stepped forward and caught the horse by the bit. "Buck!" he said, as though talking to a human being, "you and me have been through a heap together--don't fall down on me, now!--Take the kid safe, old boy!" He caught Ches up and threw him across the saddle. "You'll only have to tell 'em what's happened--the Lord send nothing happens to you! Good-by, you brave little devil--we'll win out yet. Go it, Buck!" And while one of Jim's friends plied pick and shovel like a mad man, the other was swaying on top of a galloping horse, gripping the pommel of the saddle with all the strength he had, and shutting his eyes when he came to the high places. Captain Hanrahan's party were miners of substance. They were working their way out to a new country to suit their inclinations. It had just been suggested that it was perhaps time to hit the trail again when the captain saw a figure on a horse flying athwart the mountain side--the regular road was bad enough, but Bud had short cuts of his own, and Buck followed his usual way. "Huh!" said the captain, "that man's drunk or crazy?" "Holy sufferin'!" gasped the man next him, as the yellow horse slipped on a turn and sent a shower of gravel a thousand feet below. "That was a near touch," as the horse caught himself and swept on. "Looks to me like a case of trouble, Cap," said a third speaker. "That ain't no man, anyhow--it's only a boy." "Horse running away with him, probably--his folks ought to be clubbed for letting him out on such an animal. Well, spread out, boys, and we'll catch him." But Buck stopped in two jumps, at Ches' command of "Whoa!" "Fren's!" cried the boy, "me pardner's caught in a tunnel dat caved in on him. Kin yer help us out? Three mile above Jones's Hill." He had not finished the sentence before two men sprang for the horses. The rest grabbed picks and shovels and hurled them into the wagon. "We'll be there, hell-a-whooping," said Captain Hanrahan. "T'anks!" replied Ches weakly, and then the world went out. The captain caught him as he fell. "Poor little cuss! He rid hard to help his pardner!" said the captain. "Hump yourselves, boys--all ready! Got the whisky, Pete? Picks enough? Stick the axes where they won't jump loose and cut a leg off some of us. Tie the horse behind--good animal, that. All right, let 'em go!" They went. Over stones and gulleys, the tools clanging and banging fit to leap from the wagon, the men clinging to the side-boards for dear life. Down hill-sides like the slant of a roof, the horses keeping out of the way of the wagon; up the other side with the reeking animals straining every fiber; over bridges that bent fearfully beneath the shock of their onset; swaying around curves with the wheels sluing and sparks flying, and over the level as though the devil himself were behind them. It was the record trip for eight miles in a wagon in that country. The driver stood up, a foot braced on either side, the reins thrown loose, the whip plied hard, and every urging that voice could give shrieked out by his powerful lungs. It was like the rush of a fire-engine, plus twice the speed, and twenty times the danger. Above the pounding of hoofs, the din of rattling metal, the crash, smash and roar of the wheels and the yells of the driver could be heard the man Pete, ex-cowpuncher, cheerfully singing, "Roll your tails, and roll 'em high, We'll all be angels by-and-by." Braced in the back corner sat Captain Hanrahan, his leg keeping some of the tools from going overboard, holding Ches in his arms. "Curse it all, Billy!" he screamed to the driver, "miss _some_ of them bumps, will you? I've got on a new pair of pants." "I'll take 'em clean off you the next time, Cap!" retorted the driver. They joked, which may seem heartless; but they risked their necks a hundred times, and that isn't very heartless. "That's the place, I reckon, Cap!" said the driver, pointing. "Somebody working there now!" "Give 'em a hoot!" replied the captain. Bud stepped out and held up his hand in answer to the yell. The wave of thanksgiving at the sight of this most efficient help took all the stiffness out of the knees of the mail-rider. The tears rolled down his face unnoticed. "You're welcome, boys," he cried, as the driver sawed the frenzied team to a standstill and the men sprang out. "Reckon we are," said the captain. "Now what's up?" "Is the boy hurt? Good God! He ain't hurt himself, has he?" "Naw; pore little cuss is used up, that's all. He'll be around all right in a minute. Now tell me, what's loose." Bud answered briefly, but completely. "Pete and Billy, get to cutting wood--the rest of you come here," commanded the captain. "You ain't going to stop to timber, are you?" asked Bud in an agony of haste. "I sure am," replied the captain. "All this trouble's come of carelessness. Now you just keep your clothes on, and let me run this thing. "We'll have your friend out in no time, and there won't be no more men stuck in there with a hill a-top of 'em in the doing of it. What you've done there is a help all right, but it might easy have meant that we'd had two men instead of one to hunt for." "You're dead right," said Bud. "Tell me what I'm to do." The captain took hold as only a man can who has the genius for it. He knew by long practice what size of a relief tunnel meant real speed of progress--the least dirt to be removed to make it possible that men could work to advantage. And his tunnel, safely rough-ceiled, went in at the rate of a foot a minute. When at last they pulled the insensible man out into the light of day, and found that while his wound, though severe, and if neglected mortal, was not likely to be dangerous with good attention, the captain said that he must be getting about his business. "Oh, stay a little longer, fellers, till he comes to," remonstrated Bud. "He'd like to have a chance to say 'Thank you.'" "Bugs!" replied the captain. "You tell him he owes us a drink, and as a particular favor to me, please not to put his frames over four foot apart in that ground. "We're likely to be back here shortly, anyhow, because I think your friend has got hold of the right idea from what you tell me of his plans; but it'll take more'n one man to really prospect it. If we don't hit it where we're going, we'll sure come back." "Well, boys, _I_ can thank you and I'm going to," said Bud. "That man is my friend, and if you hadn't come as you did--" "Say, let go," interrupted the captain. "You'd have done the same thing if you'd been us, wouldn't you?" "Yes," admitted Bud reluctantly. "And you wouldn't want to be thanked for it a white chip more'n we do," concluded the captain. "If there's any thanks coming it is to that little two-foot chunk of man yonder. Snaking over that fall was a thing to put a crimp in anybody. You was bound to help your pardner, wasn't you, son?" The boy looked up into the captain's eagle face. "I'd 'er got to Jim," he answered simply, "'f I'd had ter chew me way in like a rat." The captain stepped back and looked at him. "By the Lord!" he said slowly, "I believe you would!" A change came over the thin, arrogant face. He stooped suddenly, raised the boy and kissed him. "Now, get out o' this!" he roared at the driver, as he leaped into the wagon. They waved their hands as long as the miners were in sight, and stood staring until Pete's statement that they'd all be angels by-and-by was lost in the distance. "Pretty good folks when you're in trouble, ain't they, Ches?" said Bud. "What 'ud we have done, if dey hadn't come?--Ain't it 'mos' time Jim was moving, Bud?" "I'll give him another spoonful of whisky, but you can't expect him to start right up and hop around. He got an awful crack, boy." For all that, as the dose of strong liquor went down Jim's throat, he opened his eyes. "Hello, Bud! Hello, Ches!" he said wonderingly. "Have I been asleep?--Why, what the devil's the matter with my head?" he raised his hand to the spruce-gum bandage. "Phew! But I feel weak!" he sighed as his hand dropped. "Something's happened--what is it?" There, with a friend on each side holding a hand, they told him the story. It was a sacred reunion. The gratitude of the man saved, and the protestations of the others that they would have done all they did a thousand times again would only seem childish in repetition. They cried, too, which is excusable in a child, but not in two big men. Men don't cry. It is the monopoly of women. Nevertheless, Bud and Jim and Ches cried and swore, and shook hands and cried again until it was a pitiful thing to see. "Well," said Bud at last, "this makes you feel better, but it won't get the work done. I've got to go out and fix old Buck and get in some firewood." "Oh, I'll do that!" cried Jim, raising himself on his elbow. "You?" jeered Bud. "You look like it! Now, you lie right down there and get well--that's your play. It would make us feel as if we'd wasted our time if we had to turn to and bury you after all the trouble we've had. You're good for two weeks in that bunk, old horse." "Two weeks! I can't, Bud; I can't! I must get up before that!" "You lie down there--hear me?" "But I'll have to see to things around--you can't stay." "I stay right here till you're well." "But the mail?" "The devil take the mail--or anybody else that wants the job. Uncle Sammy won't hop on to my collar button, because of the fine send-off my friend the inspector'll give. And somebody will get orry-eyed up in town, and come down to find what's loose. He'll take the bags then. It's all settled." "But there are other things--" "Let 'em rest. Now I'm off to do the chores--oh, say, speaking of mail, here's a letter for you I forgot all about in the excitement--here you go. Come along, Ches, and help me carry wood." The miner looked at the letter in his hand, and a tinge of blood crept into his white cheeks, then ebbed, leaving them whiter than before. Suppose there were other men who wanted her; men with money, learning, wit and influence. Was this bitterest of blows to fall upon him when he was already down? He looked at his hands, green from loss of blood. "I tried," he muttered, "I tried." Still the very touch of the paper seemed to have something warm and heartening in it. It was from _her_, anyhow. With sudden strength he tore it open and read: Dearest, Dearest Jim--I yield the whole case. You are right. It is to my shame that clear-sightedness came from no source within me, but from a brave example set. My little cousin married the man she loved last week, and, of course, Miss Anne was a high functionary. Oh, what a stirring there was in me, Jim, watching them and thinking of you! They will be as poor as church mice, but they do not care, and theirs is the wise economy. Life is too short to waste, Jim, I see it now. I put it all in your hands, dearest; if you can not come to me, I shall come to you. I believe I'm only lukewarm by habit, not by nature. I wish I could tell you how sorry I am for the time I have squandered. I'll show you, that will be better. Any time, or any place and no conditions now, Jim. That's all, my dear brave lover. Good night. Your own, Anne. He was sitting bolt upright. Once more he devoured the letter. Then he sank back and closed his eyes. "Thank you, my darling, I can rest now," he said. The golden sunset light played in riotous joyousness on the cabin walls; the little creek laughed out loud; so did Ches and Bud, approaching the cabin. It was a beautiful and happy world. 
24161	----	None 
61353	----	SALINE SOLUTION BY KEITH LAUMER Blast you, Retief! Your violent ways are the disgrace of Earth's diplomatic corps--but your salty jokes are worse! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Consul-General Magnan gingerly fingered the heavily rubber-banded sheaf of dog-eared documents. "I haven't rushed into precipitate action on this claim, Retief," he said. "The Consulate has grave responsibilities here in the Belt. One must weigh all aspects of the situation, consider the ramifications. What consequences would arise from a grant of minerals rights on the planetoid to this claimant?" "The claim looked all right to me," Retief said. "Seventeen copies with attachments. Why not process it? You've had it on your desk for a week." Magnan's eyebrows went up. "You've a personal interest in this claim, Retief?" "Every day you wait is costing them money. That hulk they use for an ore-carrier is in a parking orbit piling up demurrage." "I see you've become emotionally involved in the affairs of a group of obscure miners. You haven't yet learned the true diplomat's happy faculty of non-identification with specifics--or should I say identification with non-specifics?" "They're not a wealthy outfit, you know. In fact, I understand this claim is their sole asset--unless you want to count the ore-carrier." "The Consulate is not concerned with the internal financial problems of the Sam's Last Chance Number Nine Mining Company." "Careful," Retief said. "You almost identified yourself with a specific that time." "Hardly, my dear Retief," Magnan said blandly. "The implication is mightier than the affidavit. You should study the records of the giants of galactic diplomacy: Crodfoller, Passwyn, Spradley, Nitworth, Sternwheeler, Rumpwhistle. The roll-call of those names rings like the majestic tread of ... of...." "Dinosaurs?" Retief suggested. "An apt simile," Magnan nodded. "Those mighty figures, those armored hides--" "Those tiny brains--" Magnan smiled sadly. "I see you're indulging your penchant for distorted facetiae. Perhaps one day you'll learn their true worth." "I already have my suspicions." The intercom chimed. Miss Gumble's features appeared on the desk screen. "Mr. Leatherwell to see you, Mr. Magnan. He has no appointment--" Magnan's eyebrows went up. "Send Mr. Leatherwell right in." He looked at Retief. "I had no idea Leatherwell was planning a call. I wonder what he's after?" Magnan looked anxious. "He's an important figure in Belt minerals circles. It's important to avoid arousing antagonism, while maintaining non-commitment. You may as well stay. You might pick up some valuable pointers technique-wise." * * * * * The door swung wide. Leatherwell strode into the room, his massive paunch buckled into fashionable vests of turquoise velvet and hung with the latest in fluorescent watch charms. He extended a large palm and pumped Magnan's flaccid arm vigorously. "Ah, there, Mr. Consul-General. Good of you to receive me." He wiped his hand absently on his thigh, eyeing Retief questioningly. "Mr. Retief, my Vice-Consul and Minerals Officer," Magnan said. "Do take a chair, Mr. Leatherwell. In what capacity can I serve today?" "I am here, gentlemen," Leatherwell said, putting an immense yellow briefcase on Magnan's desk and settling himself in a power rocker, "on behalf of my company, General Minerals. General Minerals has long been aware, gentlemen, of the austere conditions obtaining here in the Belt, to which public servants like yourselves are subjected." Leatherwell bobbed with the pitch of the rocker, smiling complacently at Magnan. "General Minerals is more than a great industrial combine. It is an organization with a heart." Leatherwell reached for his breast pocket, missed, tried again. "How do you turn this damned thing off?" he growled. Magnan half-rose, peering over Leatherwell's briefcase. "The switch just there--on the arm." The executive fumbled. There was a _click_, and the chair subsided with a sigh of compressed air. "That's better." Leatherwell drew out a long slip of blue paper. "To alleviate the boredom and brighten the lives of that hardy group of Terrestrials laboring here on Ceres to bring free enterprise to the Belt, General Minerals is presenting to the Consulate--on their behalf--one hundred thousand credits for the construction of a Joy Center, to be equipped with the latest and finest in recreational equipment, including a Gourmet Model C banquet synthesizer, a forty-foot sublimation chamber, a five thousand tape library--with a number of choice items unobtainable in Boston--a twenty-foot Tri-D tank and other amenities too numerous to mention." Leatherwell leaned back, beaming expectantly. "Why, Mr. Leatherwell. We're overwhelmed, of course." Magnan smiled dazedly past the briefcase. "But I wonder if it's quite proper...." "The gift is to the people, Mr. Consul. You merely accept on their behalf." "I wonder if General Minerals realizes that the hardy Terrestrials laboring on Ceres are limited to the Consular staff?" Retief said. "And the staff consists of Mr. Magnan, Miss Gumble and myself." "Mr. Leatherwell is hardly interested in these details, Retief," Magnan cut in. "A public-spirited offer indeed, sir. As Terrestrial Consul--and on behalf of all Terrestrials here in the Belt--I accept with a humble awareness of--" "Now, there was one other little matter." Leatherwell leaned forward to open the briefcase, glancing over Magnan's littered desktop. He extracted a bundle of papers, dropped them on the desk, then drew out a heavy document and passed it across to Magnan. "Just a routine claim. I'd like to see it rushed through, as we have in mind some loading operations in the vicinity next week." "Certainly Mr. Leatherwell." Magnan glanced at the papers, paused to read. He looked up. "Ah--" "Something the matter, Mr. Consul?" Leatherwell demanded. "It's just that--ah--I seem to recall--as a matter of fact...." Magnan looked at Retief. Retief took the papers, looked over the top sheet. "95739-A. Sorry, Mr. Leatherwell. General Minerals has been anticipated. We're processing a prior claim." "Prior claim?" Leatherwell barked. "You've issued the grant?" "Oh, no indeed, Mr. Leatherwell," Magnan replied quickly. "The claim hasn't yet been processed." "Then there's no difficulty," Leatherwell boomed. He glanced at his finger watch. "If you don't mind, I'll wait and take the grant along with me. I assume it will only take a minute or two to sign it and affix seals and so on?" "The other claim was filed a full week ago--" Retief started. "Bah!" Leatherwell waved a hand impatiently. "These details can be arranged." He fixed an eye on Magnan. "I'm sure all of us here understand that it's in the public interest that minerals properties go to responsible firms, with adequate capital for proper development." "Why, ah," Magnan said. "The Sam's Last Chance Number Nine Mining Company is a duly chartered firm. Their claim is valid." "I know that hole-in-corner concern," Leatherwell snapped. "Mere irresponsible opportunists. General Minerals has spent millions--millions, I say--of the stockholders' funds in minerals explorations. Are they to be balked in realizing a fair return on their investment because these ... these ... adventures have stumbled on a deposit? Not that the property is of any real value, of course," he added. "Quite an ordinary bit of rock. But General Minerals would find it convenient to consolidate its holdings." "There are plenty of other rocks floating around in the Belt. Why not--" "One moment, Retief," Magnan cut in. He looked across the desk at his junior with a severe expression. "As Consul-General, I'm quite capable of determining the relative merits of claims. As Mr. Leatherwell has pointed out, it's in the public interest to consider the question in depth." Leatherwell cleared his throat. "I might state at this time that General Minerals is prepared to be generous in dealing with these interlopers. I believe we would be prepared to go so far as to offer them free title to certain GM holdings in exchange for their release of any alleged rights to the property in question--merely to simplify matters, of course." "That seems more than fair to me," Magnan glowed. "The Sam's people have a clear priority," Retief said. "I logged the claim in last Friday." "They have far from a clear title." Leatherwell snapped. "And I can assure you GM will contest their claim, if need be, to the Supreme Court!" "Just what holdings did you have in mind offering them, Mr. Leatherwell?" Magnan asked nervously. Leatherwell reached into his briefcase and drew out a paper. "2645-P," he read. "A quite massive body. Crustal material, I imagine. It should satisfy these squatters' desire to own real estate in the Belt." "I'll make a note of that," Magnan said, reaching for a pad. "That's a Bona Fide offer, Mr. Leatherwell?" Retief asked. "Certainly!" "I'll record it as such," Magnan said, scribbling. "And who knows?" Leatherwell said. "It may turn out to contain some surprisingly rich finds." "And if they won't accept it?" Retief asked. "Then I daresay General Minerals will find a remedy in the courts, sir!" "Oh, I hardly think that will be necessary," Magnan said. "Then there's another routine matter," Leatherwell said. He passed a second document across to Magnan. "GM is requesting an injunction to restrain these same parties from aggravated trespass. I'd appreciate it if you'd push it through at once. There's a matter of a load of illegally obtained ore involved, as well." "Certainly Mr. Leatherwell. I'll see to it myself." "No need for that. The papers are all drawn up. Our legal department will vouch for their correctness. Just sign here." Leatherwell spread out the paper and handed Magnan a pen. "Wouldn't it be a good idea to read that over first?" Retief said. * * * * * Leatherwell frowned impatiently. "You'll have adequate time to familiarize yourself with the details later, Retief," Magnan snapped, taking the pen. "No need to waste Mr. Leatherwell's valuable time." He scratched a signature on the paper. Leatherwell rose, gathered up his papers from Magnan's desk, dumped them into the briefcase. "Riff-raff, of course. Their kind has no business in the Belt." Retief rose, crossed to the desk, and held out a hand. "I believe you gathered in an official document along with your own, Mr. Leatherwell. By error, of course." "What's that?" Leatherwell bridled. Retief smiled, waiting. Magnan opened his mouth. "It was under your papers, Mr. Leatherwell," Retief said. "It's the thick one, with the rubber bands." Leatherwell dug in his briefcase, produced the document. "Well, fancy finding this here," he growled. He shoved the papers into Retief's hand. "You're a very observant young fellow." He closed the briefcase with a snap. "I trust you'll have a bright future with the CDT." "Really, Retief," Magnan said reprovingly. "There was no need to trouble Mr. Leatherwell." Leatherwell directed a sharp look at Retief and a bland one at Magnan. "I trust you'll communicate the proposal to the interested parties. Inasmuch as time is of the essence of the GM position, our offer can only be held open until 0900 Greenwich, tomorrow. I'll call again at that time to finalize matters. I trust there'll be no impediment to a satisfactory settlement at that time. I should dislike to embark on lengthy litigation." Magnan hurried around his desk to open the door. He turned back to fix Retief with an exasperated frown. "A crass display of boorishness, Retief," he snapped. "You've embarrassed a most influential member of the business community--and for nothing more than a few miserable forms." "Those forms represent somebody's stake in what might be a valuable property." "They're mere paper until they've been processed!" "Still--" "My responsibility is to the Public interest--not to a fly-by-night group of prospectors." "They found it first." "Bah! A worthless rock. After Mr. Leatherwell's munificent gesture--" "Better rush his check through before he thinks it over and changes his mind." "Good heavens!" Magnan clutched the check, buzzed for Miss Gumble. She swept in, took Magnan's instructions and left. Retief waited while Magnan glanced over the injunction, then nodded. "Quite in order. A person called Sam Mancziewicz appears to be the principal. The address given is the Jolly Barge Hotel; that would be that converted derelict ship in orbit 6942, I assume?" Retief nodded. "That's what they call it." "As for the ore-carrier, I'd best impound it, pending the settlement of the matter." Magnan drew a form from a drawer, filled in blanks, shoved the paper across the desk. He turned and consulted a wall chart. "The hotel is nearby at the moment, as it happens. Take the Consulate dinghy. If you get out there right away, you'll catch them before the evening binge has developed fully." "I take it that's your diplomatic way of telling me that I'm now a process server." Retief took the papers and tucked them into an inside pocket. "One of the many functions a diplomat is called on to perform in a small consular post. Excellent experience. I needn't warn you to be circumspect. These miners are an unruly lot--especially when receiving bad news." "Aren't we all." Retief rose. "I don't suppose there's any prospect of your signing off that claim so that I can take a little good news along, too?" "None whatever," Magnan snapped. "They've been made a most generous offer. If that fails to satisfy them, they have recourse through the courts." "Fighting a suit like that costs money. The Sam's Last Chance Mining Company hasn't got any." "Need I remind you--" "I know. That's none of our concern." "On your way out," Magnan said as Retief turned to the door, "ask Miss Gumble to bring in the Gourmet catalog from the Commercial Library. I want to check on the specifications of the Model C Banquet synthesizer." An hour later, nine hundred miles from Ceres and fast approaching the Jolly Barge Hotel, Retief keyed the skiff's transmitter. "CDT 347-89 calling Navy FP-VO-6." "Navy VO-6 here, CDT," a prompt voice came back. A flickering image appeared on the small screen. "Oh, hi there, Mr. Retief. What brings you out in the cold night air?" "Hello, Henry. I'm estimating the Jolly Barge in ten minutes. It looks like a busy night ahead. I may be moving around a little. How about keeping an eye on me? I'll be carrying a personnel beacon. Monitor it, and if I switch it into high, come in fast. I can't afford to be held up. I've got a big meeting in the morning." "Sure thing, Mr. Retief. We'll keep an eye open." * * * * * Retief dropped a ten-credit note on the bar, accepted a glass and a squat bottle of black Marsberry brandy and turned to survey the low-ceilinged room, a former hydroponics deck now known as the Jungle Bar. Under the low ceiling, unpruned _Ipomoea batatas_ and _Lathyrus odoratus_ vines sprawled in a tangle that filtered the light of the S-spectrum glare panels to a muted green. A six-foot trideo screen, salvaged from the wreck of a Concordiat transport, blared taped music in the style of two centuries past. At the tables, heavy-shouldered men in bright-dyed suit liners played cards, clanked bottles and shouted. Carrying the bottle and glass, Retief moved across to an empty chair at one of the tables. "You gentlemen mind if I join you?" Five unshaven faces turned to study Retief's six foot three, his close cut black hair, his non-commital gray coverall, the scars on his knuckles. A redhead with a broken nose nodded. "Pull up a chair, stranger." "You workin' a claim, pardner?" "Just looking around." "Try a shot of this rock juice." "Don't do it, Mister. He makes it himself." "Best rock juice this side of Luna." "Say, feller--" "The name's Retief." "Retief, you ever play Drift?" "Can't say that I did." "Don't gamble with Sam, pardner. He's the local champ." "How do you play it?" The black-browed miner who had suggested the game rolled back his sleeve to reveal a sinewy forearm, put his elbow on the table. "You hook forefingers, and put a glass right up on top. The man that takes a swallow wins. If the drink spills, it's drinks for the house." "A man don't often win out-right," the redhead said cheerfully. "But it makes for plenty of drinkin'." Retief put his elbow on the table. "I'll give it a try." The two men hooked forefingers. The redhead poured a tumbler half full of rock juice, placed it atop the two fists. "Okay, boys. Go!" The man named Sam gritted his teeth; his biceps tensed, knuckles grew white. The glass trembled. Then it moved--toward Retief. Sam hunched his shoulders, straining. "That's the stuff, Mister!" "What's the matter, Sam? You tired?" The glass moved steadily closer to Retief's face. "A hundred the new man makes it!" "Watch Sam! Any minute now...." The glass slowed, paused. Retief's wrist twitched and the glass crashed to the table top. A shout went up. Sam leaned back with a sigh, massaging his hand. "That's some arm you got, Mister," he said. "If you hadn't jumped just then...." "I guess the drinks are on me," Retief said. * * * * * Two hours later Retief's Marsberry bottle stood empty on the table beside half a dozen others. "We were lucky," Sam Mancziewicz was saying. "You figure the original volume of the planet; say 245,000,000,000 cubic miles. The deBerry theory calls for a collapsed-crystal core no more than a mile in diameter. There's your odds." "And you believe you've found a fragment of this core?" "Damn right we have. Couple of million tons if it's an ounce. And at three credits a ton delivered at Port Syrtis, we're set for life. About time, too. Twenty years I've been in the Belt. Got two kids I haven't seen for five years. Things are going to be different now." "Hey, Sam; tone it down. You don't have to broadcast to every claim jumper in the Belt." "Our claim's on file at the Consulate," Sam said. "As soon as we get the grant--" "When's that gonna be? We been waitin' a week now." "I've never seen any collapsed-crystal metal," Retief said. "I'd like to take a look at it." "Sure. Come on, I'll run you over. It's about an hour's run. We'll take our skiff. You want to go along, Willy?" "I got a bottle to go," Willy said. "See you in the morning." The two men descended in the lift to the boat bay, suited up and strapped into the cramped boat. A bored attendant cycled the launch doors, levered the release that propelled the skiff out and clear of the Jolly Barge Hotel. Retief caught a glimpse of a tower of lights spinning majestically against the black of space as the drive hurled the tiny boat away. III Retief's feet sank ankle deep into the powdery surface that glinted like snow in the glare of the distant sun. "It's funny stuff," Sam's voice sounded in his ear. "Under a gee of gravity, you'd sink out of sight. The stuff cuts diamond like butter--but temperature changes break it down into a powder. A lot of it's used just like this, as an industrial abrasive. Easy to load, too. Just drop a suction line, put on ambient pressure and start pumping." "And this whole rock is made of the same material?" "Sure is. We ran plenty of test bores and a full schedule of soundings. I've got the reports back aboard _Gertie_--that's our lighter." "And you've already loaded a cargo here?" "Yep. We're running out of capital fast. I need to get that cargo to port in a hurry--before the outfit goes into involuntary bankruptcy. With this, that'd be a crime." "What do you know about General Minerals, Sam?" "You thinking of hiring on with them? Better read the fine print in your contract before you sign. Sneakiest bunch this side of a burglar's convention." "They own a chunk of rock known as 2645-P. Do you suppose we could find it?" "Oh, you're buying it, hey? Sure, we can find it. You damn sure want to look it over good if General Minerals is selling." Back aboard the skiff, Mancziewicz flipped the pages of the chart book, consulted a table. "Yep, she's not too far off. Let's go see what GM's trying to unload." * * * * * The skiff hovered two miles from the giant boulder known as 2645-P. Retief and Mancziewicz looked it over at high magnification. "It don't look like much, Retief," Sam said. "Let's go down and take a closer look." The boat dropped rapidly toward the scarred surface of the tiny world, a floating mountain, glaring black and white in the spotlight of the sun. Sam frowned at his instrument panel. "That's funny. My ion counter is revving up. Looks like a drive trail, not more than an hour or two old. Somebody's been here." The boat grounded. Retief and Sam got out. The stony surface was littered with rock fragments varying in size from pebbles to great slabs twenty feet long, tumbled in a loose bed of dust and sand. Retief pushed off gently, drifted up to a vantage point atop an upended wedge of rock. Sam joined him. "This is all igneous stuff," he said. "Not likely we'll find much here that would pay the freight to Syrtis--unless maybe you lucked onto some Bodean artifacts. They bring plenty." He flipped a binocular in place as he talked, scanned the riven landscape. "Hey!" he said. "Over there!" Retief followed Sam's pointing glove. He studied the dark patch against a smooth expanse of eroded rock. "A friend of mine came across a chunk of the old planetary surface two years ago," Sam said thoughtfully. "Had a tunnel in it that'd been used as a storage depot by the Bodeans. Took out over two ton of hardware. Course, nobody's discovered how the stuff works yet, but it brings top prices." "Looks like water erosion," Retief said. "Yep. This could be another piece of surface, all right. Could be a cave over there. The Bodeans liked caves, too. Must have been some war--but then, if it hadn't been, they wouldn't have tucked so much stuff away underground where it could weather the planetary breakup." They descended, crossed the jumbled rocks with light, thirty-foot leaps. "It's a cave, all right," Sam said, stooping to peer into the five-foot bore. Retief followed him inside. "Let's get some light in here." Mancziewicz flipped on a beam. It glinted back from dull polished surfaces of Bodean synthetic. Sam's low whistle sounded in Retief's headset. "That's funny," Retief said. "Funny, hell! It's hilarious. General Minerals trying to sell off a worthless rock to a tenderfoot--and it's loaded with Bodean artifacts. No telling how much is here; the tunnel seems to go quite a ways back." "That's not what I mean. Do you notice your suit warming up?" "Huh? Yeah, now that you mention it." Retief rapped with a gauntleted hand on the satiny black curve of the nearest Bodean artifact. It clunked dully through the suit "That's not metal," he said. "It's plastic." "There's something fishy here," Sam said. "This erosion; it looks more like a heat beam." "Sam," Retief said, turning, "it appears to me somebody has gone to a great deal of trouble to give a false impression here." * * * * * Sam snorted. "I told you they were a crafty bunch." He started out of the cave, then paused, went to one knee to study the floor. "But maybe they outsmarted themselves. Look here!" Retief looked. Sam's beam reflected from a fused surface of milky white, shot through with dirty yellow. He snapped a pointed instrument in place on his gauntlet, dug at one of the yellow streaks. It furrowed under the gouge, a particle adhering to the instrument. With his left hand, Mancziewicz opened a pouch clipped to his belt, carefully deposited the sample in a small orifice on the device in the pouch. He flipped a key, squinted at a dial. "Atomic weight 197.2," he said. Retief turned down the audio volume on his headset as Sam's laughter rang in his helmet. "Those clowns were out to stick you, Retief," he gasped, still chuckling. "They salted the rock with a cave full of Bodean artifacts--" "Fake Bodean artifacts," Retief put in. "They planed off the rock so it would look like an old beach, and then cut this cave with beamers. And they were boring through practically solid gold!" "As good as that?" Mancziewicz flashed the light around. "This stuff will assay out at a thousand credits a ton, easy. If the vein doesn't run to five thousand tons, the beers are on me." He snapped off the light. "Let's get moving, Retief. You want to sew this deal up before they get around to taking another look at it." Back in the boat, Retief and Mancziewicz opened their helmets. "This calls for a drink," Sam said, extracting a pressure flask from the map case. "This rock's worth as much as mine, maybe more. You hit it lucky, Retief. Congratulations." He thrust out a hand. "I'm afraid you've jumped to a couple of conclusions, Sam," Retief said. "I'm not out here to buy mining properties." "You're not--then why--but man! Even if you didn't figure on buying...." He trailed off as Retief shook his head, unzipped his suit to reach to an inside pocket, take out a packet of folded papers. "In my capacity as Terrestrial Vice-Consul, I'm serving you with an injunction restraining you from further exploitation of the body known as 95739-A." He handed a paper across to Sam. "I also have here an Order impounding the vessel _Gravel Gertie II_." Sam took the papers silently, sat looking at them. He looked up at Retief. "Funny. When you beat me at Drift and then threw the game so you wouldn't show me up in front of the boys, I figured you for a right guy. I've been spilling my heart out to you like you were my old grandma. An old-timer in the game like me." He dropped a hand, brought it up with a Browning 2mm pointed at Retief's chest. "I could shoot you and dump you here with a slab over you, toss these papers in the John and hightail it with the load...." "That wouldn't do you much good in the long run, Sam. Besides you're not a criminal or an idiot." * * * * * Sam chewed his lip. "My claim is on file in the Consulate, legal and proper. Maybe by now the grant's gone through." "Other people have their eye on your rock, Sam. Ever meet a fellow called Leatherwell?" "General Minerals, huh? They haven't got a leg to stand on." "The last time I saw your claim, it was still lying in the pending file. Just a bundle of paper until it's validated by the Consul. If Leatherwell contests it ... well, his lawyers are on annual retainer. How long could you keep the suit going, Sam?" Mancziewicz closed his helmet with a decisive snap, motioned to Retief to do the same. He opened the hatch, sat with the gun on Retief. "Get out, paper-pusher." His voice sounded thin in the headphones. "You'll get lonesome, maybe, but your suit will keep you alive a few days. I'll tip somebody off before you lose too much weight. I'm going back and see if I can't stir up a little action at the Consulate." Retief climbed out, walked off fifty yards. He watched as the skiff kicked off in a quickly dispersed cloud of dust, dwindled rapidly away to a bright speck that was lost against the stars. Then he extracted the locator beacon from the pocket of his suit and thumbed the control. Twenty minutes later, aboard Navy FP-VO-6, Retief pulled off his helmet. "Fast work, Henry. I've got a couple of calls to make. Put me through to your HQ, will you? I want a word with Commander Hayle." The young naval officer raised the HQ, handed the mike to Retief. "Vice-Consul Retief here, Commander. I'd like you to intercept a skiff, bound from my present position toward Ceres. There's a Mr. Mancziewicz aboard. He's armed, but not dangerous. Collect him and see that he's delivered to the Consulate at 0900 Greenwich tomorrow. "Next item: The Consulate has impounded an ore-carrier, _Gravel Gertie II_. It's in a parking orbit ten miles off Ceres. I want it taken in tow." Retief gave detailed instruction. Then he asked for a connection through the Navy switchboard to the Consulate. Magnan's voice answered. "Retief speaking, Mr. Consul. I have some news that I think will interest you--" "Where are you, Retief? What's wrong with the screen? Have you served the injunction?" "I'm aboard the Navy patrol vessel. I've been out looking over the situation, and I've made a surprising discovery. I don't think we're going to have any trouble with the Sam's people; they've looked over the body--2645-P--and it seems General Minerals has slipped up. There appears to be a highly valuable deposit there." "Oh? What sort of deposit?" "Mr. Mancziewicz mentioned collapsed crystal metal," Retief said. "Well, most interesting." Magnan's voice sounded thoughtful. "Just thought you'd like to know. This should simplify the meeting in the morning. "Yes," Magnan said. "Yes, indeed. I think this makes everything very simple...." * * * * * At 0845 Greenwich, Retief stepped into the outer office of the Consular suite. "... fantastic configuration," Leatherwell's bass voice rumbled, "covering literally acres. My xenogeologists are somewhat confused by the formations. They had only a few hours to examine the site; but it's clear from the extent of the surface indications that we have a very rich find here. Very rich indeed. Beside it, 95739-A dwindles into insignificance. Very fast thinking on your part, Mr. Consul, to bring the matter to my attention." "Not at all, Mr. Leatherwell. After all--" "Our tentative theory is that the basic crystal fragment encountered the core material at some time, and gathered it in. Since we had been working on--that is, had landed to take samples on the other side of the body, this anomalous deposit escaped our attention completely." Retief stepped into the room. "Good morning, gentlemen. Has Mr. Mancziewicz arrived?" "Mr. Mancziewicz is under restraint by the Navy. I've had a call that he'd be escorted here." "Arrested, eh?" Leatherwell nodded. "I told you these people were an irresponsible group. In a way it seems a pity to waste a piece of property like 95739-A on them." "I understood General Minerals was claiming that rock," Retief said, looking surprised. Leatherwell and Magnan exchanged glances. "Ah, GM has decided to drop all claim to the body," Leatherwell said. "As always, we wish to encourage enterprise on the part of the small operators. Let them keep the property. After all GM has other deposits well worth exploiting." He smiled complacently. "What about 2645-P? You've offered it to the Sam's group." "That offer is naturally withdrawn!" Leatherwell snapped. "I don't see how you can withdraw the offer," Retief said. "It's been officially recorded. It's a Bona Fide contract, binding on General Minerals, subject to--" "Out of the goodness of our corporate heart," Leatherwell roared, "we've offered to relinquish our legitimate, rightful claim to asteroid 2645-P. And you have the infernal gall to spout legal technicalities! I have half a mind to withdraw my offer to withdraw!" "Actually," Magnan put in, eyeing a corner of the room, "I'm not at all sure I could turn up the record of the offer of 2645-P. I noted it down on a bit of scratch paper--" "That's all right," Retief said, "I had my pocket recorder going. I sealed the record and deposited it in the Consular archives." There was a clatter of feet outside. Miss Gumble appeared on the desk screen. "There are a number of persons here--" she began. * * * * * The door banged open. Sam Mancziewicz stepped into the room, a sailor tugging at each arm. He shook them loose, stared around the room. His eyes lighted on Retief. "How did you get here...?" "Look here, Monkeywits or whatever your name is," Leatherwell began, popping out of his chair. Mancziewicz whirled, seized the stout executive by the shirt front and lifted him onto his tiptoes. "You double-barrelled copper-bottomed oak-lined son-of-a--" "Don't spoil him, Sam," Retief said casually. "He's here to sign off all rights--if any--to 95739-A. It's all yours--if you want it." Sam glared into Leatherwell's eyes. "That right?" he grated. Leatherwell bobbed his head, his chins compressed into bulging folds. "However," Retief went on, "I wasn't at all sure you'd still be agreeable, since he's made your company a binding offer of 2645-P in return for clear title to 95739-A." Mancziewicz looked across at Retief with narrowed eyes. He released Leatherwell, who slumped into his chair. Magnan darted around his desk to minister to the magnate. Behind them, Retief closed one eye in a broad wink at Mancziewicz. "... still, if Mr. Leatherwell will agree, in addition to guaranteeing your title to 95739-A, to purchase your output at four credits a ton, FOB his collection station--" Mancziewicz looked at Leatherwell. Leatherwell hesitated, then nodded. "Agreed," he croaked. "... and to open his commissary and postal facilities to all prospectors operating in the belt...." Leatherwell swallowed, eyes bulging, glanced at Mancziewicz's face. He nodded. "Agreed." "... then I think I'd sign an agreement releasing him from his offer." Mancziewicz looked at Magnan. "You're the Terrestrial Consul-General," he said. "Is that the straight goods?" Magnan nodded. "If Mr. Leatherwell agrees--" "He's already agreed," Retief said. "My pocket recorder, you know." "Put it in writing," Mancziewicz said. Magnan called in Miss Gumble. The others waited silently while Magnan dictated. He signed the paper with a flourish, passed it across to Mancziewicz. He read it, re-read it, then picked up the pen and signed. Magnan impressed the Consular seal on the paper. "Now the grant," Retief said. Magnan signed the claim, added a seal. Mancziewicz tucked the papers away in an inner pocket. He rose. "Well, gents, I guess maybe I had you figured wrong," he said. He looked at Retief. "Uh ... got time for a drink?" "I shouldn't drink during office hours," Retief said. He rose. "So I'll take the rest of the day off." * * * * * "I don't get it," Sam said signalling for refills. "What was the routine with the injunction--and impounding _Gertie_? You could have got hurt." "I don't think so," Retief said. "If you'd meant business with that Browning, you'd have flipped the safety off. As for the injunction--orders are orders." "I've been thinking," Sam said. "That gold deposit. It was a plant, too, wasn't it?" "I'm just a bureaucrat, Sam. What would I know about gold?" "A double-salting job," Sam said. "I was supposed to spot the phoney hardware--and then fall for the gold plant. When Leatherwell put his proposition to me, I'd grab it. The gold was worth plenty, I'd figure, and I couldn't afford a legal tangle with General Minerals. The lousy skunk! And you must have spotted it and put it up to him." The bar-tender leaned across to Retief. "Wanted on the phone." In the booth, Magnan's agitated face stared a Retief. "Retief, Mr. Leatherwell's in a towering rage! The deposit on 2645-P; it was merely a surface film, barely a few inches thick! The entire deposit wouldn't fill an ore-boat." A horrified expression dawned on Magnan's face. "Retief," he gasped, "what did you do with the impounded ore-carrier?" "Well, let me see," Retief said. "According to the Space Navigation Code, a body in orbit within twenty miles of any inhabited airless body constitutes a navigational hazard. Accordingly, I had it towed away." "And the cargo?" "Well, accelerating all that mass was an expensive business, so to save the taxpayer's credits, I had it dumped." "Where?" Magnan croaked. "On some unimportant asteroid--as specified by Regulations." He smiled blandly at Magnan. Magnan looked back numbly. "But you said--" "All I said was that there was what looked like a valuable deposit on 2645-P. It turned out to be a bogus gold mine that somebody had rigged up in a hurry. Curious, eh?" "But you told me--" "And you told Mr. Leatherwell. Indiscreet of you, Mr. Consul. That was a privileged communication; classified information, official use only." "You led me to believe there was collapsed crystal!" "I said Sam had mentioned it. He told me his asteroid was made of the stuff." Magnan swallowed hard, twice. "By the way," he said dully. "You were right about the check. Half an hour ago Mr. Leatherwell tried to stop payment. He was too late." "All in all, it's been a big day for Leatherwell," Retief said. "Anything else?" "I hope not," Magnan said. "I sincerely hope not." He leaned close to the screen. "You'll consider the entire affair as ... confidential? There's no point in unduly complicating relationships." "Have no fear, Mr. Consul," Retief said cheerfully. "You won't find me identifying with anything as specific as triple-salting an asteroid." Back at the table, Sam called for another bottle of rock juice. "That Drift's a pretty good game," Retief said. "But let me show you one I learned out on Yill...." [Transcriber's Note: No Section II heading in original text.] 
22669	----	file was produced from scans of public domain material produced by Microsoft for their Live Search Books site.) [Illustration: THE PACIFIC SERIES.] THE YOUNG MINER; OR, TOM NELSON IN CALIFORNIA. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR., AUTHOR OF "RAGGED DICK," "TATTERED TOM," "LUCK AND PLUCK," "BRAVE AND BOLD" SERIES, ETC., ETC. PHILADELPHIA: HENRY T. COATES & CO. FAMOUS ALGER BOOKS. * * * * * =RAGGED DICK SERIES=. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 6 vols. 12mo. Cloth. RAGGED DICK. FAME AND FORTUNE. MARK THE MATCH BOY. ROUGH AND READY. BEN THE LUGGAGE BOY. RUFUS AND ROSE. =TATTERED TOM SERIES=. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth. FIRST SERIES. TATTERED TOM. PAUL THE PEDDLER. PHIL THE FIDDLER. SLOW AND SURE. =TATTERED TOM SERIES=. 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth. SECOND SERIES. JULIUS. THE YOUNG OUTLAW. SAM'S CHANCE. THE TELEGRAPH BOY. =CAMPAIGN SERIES=. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 3 vols. FRANK'S CAMPAIGN. PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE. CHARLIE CODMAN'S CRUISE. =LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES=. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. 12mos. Cloth. FIRST SERIES. LUCK AND PLUCK. SINK OR SWIM. STRONG AND STEADY. STRIVE AND SUCCEED. =LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES=. 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth. SECOND SERIES. TRY AND TRUST. BOUND TO RISE. RISEN FROM THE RANKS. HERBERT CARTER'S LEGACY. =BRAVE AND BOLD SERIES=. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth. BRAVE AND BOLD. JACK'S WARD. SHIFTING FOR HIMSELF. WAIT AND HOPE. =PACIFIC SERIES=. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. 12mo. THE YOUNG ADVENTURER. THE YOUNG MINER. THE YOUNG EXPLORERS. BEN'S NUGGET. =ATLANTIC SERIES=. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. THE YOUNG CIRCUS RIDER. DO AND DARE. HECTOR'S INHERITANCE. HELPING HIMSELF. =WAY TO SUCCESS SERIES=. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth. BOB BURTON. THE STORE BOY. LUKE WALTON. STRUGGLING UPWARD. =NEW WORLD SERIES=. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth. DIGGING FOR GOLD. FACING THE WORLD. IN A NEW WORLD. =_Other Volumes in Preparation._= * * * * * COPYRIGHT BY A. K. LORING, 1879. To GENEVIEVE AND ANITA ALGER, This Volume IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. PREFACE. When "The Young Adventurer" was published, a year since, as the initial volume of The Pacific Series, it was announced that the second volume would be "The Young Pioneer." This has been changed to "The Young Miner," in order to avoid confusion with a book bearing a title somewhat similar to the one first proposed. Those who were interested in Tom Nelson's trip across the Plains will find in the present story a record of his adventures in the Land of Gold. Though his prosperity was chiefly due to his own energy and industry, it is also true that he was exceptionally lucky. Yet his good fortune has been far exceeded by that of numerous adventurous spirits in Colorado, within the last twelve months. Some measure of prosperity generally awaits the patient and energetic worker, and seldom comes to those who idly wait for something to turn up. NEW YORK, Oct. 1, 1879. THE YOUNG MINER; OR, TOM NELSON IN CALIFORNIA. CHAPTER I. THE GOLD-SEEKERS. A dozen men, provided with rockers, were busily engaged in gathering and washing dirt, mingled with gold-dust, on the banks of a small stream in California. It was in the early days, and this party was but one of hundreds who were scattered over the new Eldorado, seeking for the shining metal which throughout the civilized world exercises a sway potent and irresistible. I have said there were a dozen men, but this is a mistake. One of the party was a well-grown boy of sixteen, with a good-humored and even handsome face. He was something more than good-humored, however. There was an expression on his face which spoke of strength and resolution and patient endurance. The readers of "The Young Adventurer" will at once recognize in our young hero Tom Nelson, the oldest son of a poor New England farmer, who, finding no prospects at home, had joined the tide of emigrants pouring from all parts of the country to the land of which so many marvelous stories were told. Tom had come to work; and though he doubtless shared to some extent the extravagant anticipations of the great body of Eastern visitors who hoped to make a fortune in a year, he did not expect to succeed without hard toil. His companions belonged to the same party with whom he had crossed the plains, under the leadership of Phineas Fletcher, a broad-shouldered Illinois farmer, who had his family with him. Next to Tom was Donald Ferguson, a grave Scotchman, and Tom's special friend; a man of excellent principles, thoroughly reliable, and held in high respect by all though not possessed of popular manners. On the other side was Lawrence Peabody, a young Boston clerk, who had spent several years behind a dry-goods counter. He was soft and effeminate, with no talent for "roughing it," and wholly unfitted for the hard work which he had undertaken. He was deeply disappointed in his first work at gold-hunting, having come out with the vague idea that he should pick up a big nugget within a short time that would make his fortune and enable him to go home a rich man. The practical side of gold-seeking--this washing particles of dust from the dirt of the river-bed--was in the highest degree unsatisfactory and discouraging. He was not a bad fellow; and his companions, though they laughed at him, were well disposed towards him. Among the rest, mention may be made of John Miles, Henry Scott, and Chapman, owner of a refractory donkey named after King Solomon. Not far away from the river were the tents occupied by the miners. There was but one house, roughly built of logs. This was occupied by Captain Fletcher and his family. He had not had the trouble of building it, but had found it ready for occupation, having been constructed by a previous party who had wandered farther down the river in search of richer washings. In fact, it was this building which had decided our party to remain. "There isn't much difference in places," said Fletcher. "We may as well stay here." "Then why was it deserted?" suggested John Miles, dubiously. "That's rather against it, isn't it, captain?" "Not necessarily, Miles. You've been on berrying parties, haven't you, when at home?" "Many a time." "You've noticed that many of the pickers leave good places, just from love of novelty, and wander about the field, often faring worse than if they remained where they were?" "That's so, captain." "Then let us give this place a try. We'll make more working steady in a medium place than wandering here, there, and everywhere." So the whole party agreed to "give the place a try." There had been no brilliant success as yet, but fair luck. In six days Tom had washed out twenty-five dollars' worth of gold-dust, in spite of awkwardness and inexperience. Others had done better, but poor Lawrence Peabody had barely five dollars' worth to show. It must be said, however, that he had not averaged more than two or three hours of real labor in every twenty-four. He spent the rest of the time in wandering about aimlessly, or sitting down and watching the labors of his companions, while he enlivened them by pathetic lamentations over his unfortunate position, so far away from Boston and the refining influences of civilization. A little transcript of a conversation between Tom and himself will throw light upon the characters of both. "This is beastly work," sighed Peabody, resting from his by no means arduous labors, and looking over to Tom. "I tell you, it isn't fit for a gentleman." "It is rather hard to keep one's hands clean, Mr. Peabody," said Tom; "but you mustn't think of the present. Think of the time when you will go home, your pockets full of gold." "I don't see any prospect of it, Tom," sighed Peabody. "Here I've been hard at work for a week, and I haven't got over five dollars' worth of dust." "I have five times as much," said Tom. "Some people are lucky," said Peabody. "You haven't worked like Tom," said the Scotchman, plainly. "You haven't averaged over two hours a day, while Tom has worked eight or ten." "I have worked till my back was like to break," said the young man from Boston. "I am not accustomed to manual labor, Mr. Ferguson. My friend Tom has worked on a farm, while I have been engaged in mercantile pursuits. Oh, why did I leave Boston!" "I am sure I can't guess," said Ferguson, dryly. "I never expected anything like _this_." "What did you expect, if I may be so bold as to inquire?" "I thought I should find the gold in big nuggets worth thousands of dollars apiece. I was always reading in the papers about finding them. I think it's a great shame to deceive people by such stories. I don't believe there are any nuggets." "Oh, yes, there are; but they are few and far between," said Fletcher. "A neighbor of mine found one worth three thousand dollars. Altogether he brought home five thousand dollars, and invested it in a farm and saw-mill. He is doing a good business. When he came to California he had nothing." "That is what I should like, Captain Fletcher," said Tom. "If I could only manage to carry home five thousand dollars, I could make my father comfortable for life." "I shouldn't be satisfied with five thousand dollars," said Peabody, whose ideas were lofty. "How much would satisfy you?" "About fifty thousand," said the young Bostonian, his face lighting up at the thought of so large a sum. "And what would you do with it, if I may make so bold?" asked Ferguson. "I would buy a nice house at the South End, furnish it handsomely, and live in style." "I suppose you would marry?" suggested Tom, smiling. "I probably should," answered Peabody, gravely. "Perhaps you have the lady already selected." "I have." "Who is she?" asked John Mills. "Come, now, Peabody, don't be bashful." "It is the daughter of a Boston merchant." "Does the lady love you?" "We understand each other," answered Peabody, loftily. "She would marry me, poor as I am, but for her purse-proud, mercenary sire. It will be a happy day when, with my pockets full of gold, I enter his presence and claim his daughter's hand." "I wish you success, Mr. Peabody," said Tom. "I hope you have no rivals." "Yes, there is one." "Are you not afraid of him?" "Oh, no; he is a fellow of no style," said Peabody, drawing up his slender form, and looking as stylish as a very dirty shirt, muddy boots, and a soiled suit would allow. "I think I shall wait awhile before getting married," said Tom. "I am afraid I wouldn't stand any chance with an heiress, Mr. Peabody. Do you think I can ever be stylish?" The Bostonian understood Tom to be in earnest, and told him he thought in time, under proper training, he might become fairly stylish. The conversation was interrupted by the ringing of a bell from the log-house. Mrs. Fletcher, by an arrangement with the party, prepared their meals, and thus they fared better than most of the early pioneers. Their labor gave them a good appetite, and they were more solicitous about quantity than quality. Slow as he was at his work, there was no one who exhibited greater alacrity at meal-times, than Lawrence Peabody. At such times he was even cheerful. CHAPTER II. MISSOURI JACK. At the end of a month the settlement had considerably increased. A large party from Missouri went to work farther up stream, and a few stray emigrants also added themselves to the miners at River Bend, for this was the name selected by Captain Fletcher for the location. The new arrivals were a rougher and more disorderly class than Fletcher and his companions. Already there was a saloon, devoted to the double purpose of gambling and drinking; and the proprietor, Missouri Jack (no one knew his last name), was doing a thriving business. Indeed his income considerably exceeded that of any one in the settlement. Neither Tom nor any of his party contributed much to Missouri Jack's profits. In consequence, they had to bear the ill-will and sometimes open abuse of Jack and his friends. "Come in and take a drink, stranger," called out Jack, the day after the opening of the saloon, to Captain Fletcher. "No, thank you." "It shan't cost you a cent." "It would cost me my health," returned Fletcher. "Do you mean to say I sell bad whiskey?" demanded Jack, angrily, emphasizing the inquiry by an oath. "I don't know anything about it." "Then what _do_ you mean?" "I mean that all whiskey is bad for the health," replied Fletcher. "Oh, you're a temperance sneak!" exclaimed Missouri Jack, contemptuously. "I am a temperance man; you may leave out the other word," calmly answered Fletcher. "You're not a man!" exploded Jack. "A man that's afraid of whiskey is a--a--isn't half a man. He isn't fit to be a woman." "Have it as you like," said Fletcher, unruffled. "I shall not drink to please any man. I had a younger brother--a bright, promising young man poor Ben was--who drank himself to death. He'd have been alive now but for whiskey." "Oh, dry up your pious talk! You make me sick!" exclaimed Missouri Jack in deep disgust. Next he accosted John Miles, who curtly declined and received in return a volley of abuse. Now Miles was a powerful man, and not possessed of Fletcher's self-control. He paused, and surveyed Jack with a menacing look. "Look here, stranger," he said, sharply, "just have a care how you use that tongue of yours. This is a free country, and if I choose to decline your whiskey, there's no law against it that I know of." "You're a white-livered sneak!" Missouri Jack did not proceed with his remarks, for John Miles, seizing him by the shoulder, tripped him up, and strode away, leaving him prostrate, and pouring out a volley of curses. Being a bully, and cowardly as most bullies are, he did not pursue his broad-shouldered enemy, but vowed vengeance whenever a good opportunity came. In fact, the only one of the original miners who accepted Jack's invitation was Lawrence Peabody. "Step in, stranger, and have a drink!" said Jack, a little dubiously, having met with such poor luck heretofore. The young Bostonian paused. He was not a drinker at home, but in his discontent and disappointment he was tempted. "My dear sir, you are very polite," he said. "I hope you ain't one of them temperance sneaks," said Jack, his brow clouding in anticipation of a refusal. "I assure you I am not," Peabody hastened to say. "I have participated in convivial scenes more than once in Boston." "I don't understand college talk," said Jack; "but if you want a glass of prime whiskey, just say the word." "I don't care if I do," said Peabody, following his new friend into the saloon. The draught of prime whiskey scorched his throat as he swallowed it down, but it was followed by a sense of exhilaration, and Peabody's tongue was loosened. "You're a gentleman!" said Missouri Jack. "You ain't like them fellows you're with. They're sneaks." "Really, you compliment me, Mr.--, what may I call your name?" "Missouri Jack--that's the peg I hang on to." "My dear Mr. Jack, I am glad to know you. You are really quite an accession to our settlement." "Well, if I ain't, my saloon is. How you've managed to live so long without liquor beats me. Why, it ain't civilized." "It _was_ pretty dull," admitted Peabody. "No life, no amusement; for all the world like a parcel of Methodists. What luck have you met with, stranger?" "Beastly luck!" answered Peabody. "I tell you, Mr. Jack, California's a fraud. Many a time I've regretted leaving Boston, where I lived in style, and moved in the first circles, for such a place as this. Positively, Mr. Jack, I feel like a tramp, and I'm afraid I look like one. If my fashionable friends could see me now, they wouldn't know me." "I ain't got no fashionable friends, and I don't want any," growled Missouri Jack, spitting on the floor. "What I want is, to meet gentlemen that ain't afraid to drink like gentlemen. I say, stranger, you'd better leave them Methodist fellers, and join our gang." "Thank you, Mr. Jack, you're very kind, and I'll think of it," said Peabody, diplomatically. Though a little exhilarated, he was not quite blind to the character of the man with whom he was fraternizing, and had too much real refinement to enjoy his coarseness. "Have another drink!" "Thank you." Peabody drank again, this time with a friend of Jack's, a man of his own stripe, who straggled into the saloon. "Do you play euchre?" asked Jack, producing a dirty pack of cards. "I know little of it," said Peabody; "but I'll try a game." "Then you and me and Bill here will have a game." "All right," said Peabody, glad to while away the time. "What'll you put up on your game, stranger?" asked Bill. "You don't mean to play for money, do you?" asked Peabody, a little startled. "Sartain I do. What's the good of playin' for nothing?" So the young Bostonian, out of his modest pile was tempted to stake an ounce of gold-dust. Though his head was hardly in a condition to follow the game intelligently, he won, or at least Bill and Jack told him he had, and for the first time Lawrence felt the rapture of the successful gambler, as he gathered in his winnings. "He plays a steep game, Bill," said Jack. "Tip-top--A No. 1." "I believe I do play a pretty good game," said the flattered Peabody. "My friends in Boston used to say so." "You're hard to beat, and no mistake," said Bill. "Try another game." "I'm ready, gentlemen," said Peabody, with alacrity. "It's a great deal easier earning money this way," he reflected, regarding complacently the two ounces of dust which represented his winnings, "than washing dirt out of the river." And the poor dupe congratulated himself that a new way of securing the favors of fortune had been opened to him. The reader will easily guess that Lawrence Peabody did not win the next game, nor will he be surprised to hear that when he left the saloon his pockets were empty. "Better luck next time, stranger," said Jack, carelessly. "Take a drink before you go?" Peabody accepted the invitation, and soon after staggered into the tent occupied by Tom and his friend Ferguson. "What's the matter, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom. "Are you sick?" "Yes," answered Peabody, sinking to the floor. "Something's the matter with my head. I don't feel well." "Have you been to the saloon, Mr. Peabody?" asked Ferguson. "Yes," answered the Bostonian. "And while there you drank some of their vile whiskey, didn't you?" "I'm a free man, Mr. Ferguson. If I choose to drink, what--what business is it--yours?" "None, except as a friend I advise you not to go there again." Further inquiries elicited the facts about the gambling, and Ferguson and Tom seriously remonstrated with Peabody, who, however, insisted that Mr. Jack, as he called him, was a hospitable gentleman. The dust which Peabody had lost should have been paid to Capt. Fletcher, as his share of the expenses that same evening. Of course this was now impossible. Fletcher warned him that any subsequent failure from the same cause would be followed by an exclusion from his table. CHAPTER III. HOW TOM GOT ON. About this time Tom took account of stock. He had come out to California with the noble and praiseworthy purpose of earning money to help his father pay off the mortgage on his little farm. He was the more anxious to succeed, because two hundred dollars of the amount had been raised to defray his expenses across the continent. The mortgage, amounting now to twenty-two hundred dollars, was held by Squire Hudson, a wealthy resident of the same town, who hoped eventually to find an excuse for fore-closing the mortgage, and ejecting Mr. Nelson's family. He was actuated not alone by mercenary motives, but also to gratify an ancient grudge. In early life Mrs. Nelson, Tom's mother, had rejected the suit of the wealthy squire, and this insult, as he chose to characterize it, he had never forgotten or forgiven. Had Tom been aware of the Squire's feelings, towards his family, he never would have been willing to have the mortgage increased for his sake, much as he wished to go to California. But neither Tom nor his father dreamed of Squire Hudson's secret animosity, and regarded his willingness to advance the extra two hundred dollars as an evidence of friendship. But I have said that Tom took account of stock--in other words, ascertained how much he was worth. First, then, of the money borrowed for his trip--the original two hundred dollars--he had twenty-five dollars left over. Besides this sum, after paying all expenses, he had accumulated, by hard work and strict economy, fifty dollars' worth of gold-dust. "I wish father had this money," said Tom to his tent-mate, Ferguson. "I am afraid he stands in need of it." "There may be a way to send it to him, Tom." "I wish there were." "There's one of our party going to San Francisco next week. He can buy a draft there, and send it to your father." "Who is going?" asked Tom, eagerly. "John Miles. You can trust him with the money, Tom." "Of course I can. I'd trust John Miles with any sum." "Who's that taking liberties with my name?" asked a manly voice, and John Miles himself stepped into the tent, bending his head as he entered. "I hear you are going to San Francisco, John?" "Yes, I start next week." "Will you come back again?" "I intend to. I am going to prospect a little, and buy some things for myself and Captain Fletcher." "Will you do me a favor?" "Of course I will, if it isn't too large a one," answered Miles. Tom explained what he wished, and John Miles cordially assented. "You're a good boy, Tom," he said, "to think of your father so soon." "I feel anxious about him," said Tom. "He raised money to send me out here, and I don't want him to suffer for it." "That's the right way to feel, Tom. I wish I had a father and mother to look out for," said Miles, soberly, "but you're in better luck than I. Both died when I was a mere lad. How much do you want to send?" "Seventy-five dollars." "Have you saved up so much already?" asked Miles, in surprise. "Part of it I had left over when I got here." "Will you have any left?" "No." "Isn't it well to reserve a little, then?" "Oh, I shall have some more soon," answered Tom, sanguine, as most boys are. "Suppose you are sick?" "If he is sick he shall suffer for nothing," said the Scotchman. "While I have money, Tom shall not feel the want of it." "Thank you, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom, gratefully. "That old fellow has a heart, after all," thought Miles, who had been disposed to look upon Ferguson ever since their first acquaintance, as rather miserly. The Scotchman was certainly frugal, and counted his pennies carefully, but he was not mean, and had conceived a strong affection for his young companion, whom he regarded much as a son or a nephew. "Suppose you take the money now, John," said Tom. "Shall I scribble a receipt, Tom? I am afraid my writing materials have given out." "I don't want any receipt," said Tom; "I'll trust you without one." "Nevertheless, lad," said the cautious Scotchman, "it may be well--" "Yes, Tom, Mr. Ferguson is right. Of course I know that you trust me; but if anything should happen to me,--any accident, I mean,--the paper may be useful to you." "Just as you like, Mr. Miles, but I don't ask it, remember that." "Yes, I will remember it, and I don't mean to meet with any accident if I can help it. Mr. Ferguson, can you oblige me with a pipeful of tobacco? I'll join you in smoking." Smoking was the Scotchman's solitary extravagance, not a costly one, however, as he never smoked cigars, but indulged only in a democratic clay pipe. John Miles threw himself on the ground between Tom and his Scotch friend, and watched complacently the wreaths of smoke as they curled upwards. "Tom, you ought to smoke," he said. "You don't know how much enjoyment you lose." "Don't tempt the lad," said Ferguson. "It's a bad habit." "You smoke yourself." "That is true, but it isn't well for a growing boy. It can do him no good." "I smoked before I was as old as Tom." "So did I, but I wish I had not." "Well, perhaps you're right, but it's a comfort when a man's tired or out of spirits." "I am not troubled in that way," said Tom. "I mean with being out of spirits." "Youth is a hopeful age," said the Scotchman. "When we are young we are always hoping for something good to befall us." "And when one is older, how is it, Mr. Ferguson?" "We fear ill more than we hope for good," he replied. "Then I want to remain young as long as I can." "A good wish, Tom. Some men are always young in spirit; but those that have seen the evil there is in the world find it harder to be hopeful." "You speak as if you had had experience of the evil, Mr. Ferguson." "So I have," answered the Scotchman slowly. Then, after a pause, "I will tell you about it: it's no secret." "Not if it is going to pain you." "Oh, the pain is past. It's only a matter of money, and those wounds heal." "Only a matter of money!" said John Miles to himself. "I must have misjudged Ferguson. I thought money was all in all with him. I did not think he would speak so lightly of it." "When I was a young man," Ferguson began, "my father died, leaving me a thousand pounds, and a small annuity to my mother. With this money I felt rich, but I knew it would not support me, nor was I minded to be idle. So I began to look about me, to consider what business I had best go into, when a young man, about my own age, a clerk in a mercantile house, came to me and proposed a partnership. He was to put in five hundred pounds, and contribute his knowledge of business, which was greater than mine. He was a young man of good parts, and had a brisk, pleasant way with him, that made him a favorite in business circles. I thought it was a good chance, and, after taking a little time for thought, agreed to his proposal. So the firm of McIntire and Ferguson was formed. We went into business, and for a time all seemed to go well. As my partner chose to keep the books, I was not so clear as I wished to be about matters, but we seemed to be prospering. One morning, however, on coming to business, I found that my partner had disappeared, after possessing himself of all the money he could collect on the credit of the firm. Of course we were bankrupts, or rather I was, for he left me to bear the brunt of failure." "Have you ever seen him since, Mr. Ferguson?" "From that day to this--twenty years--I have never set eyes on Sandy McIntire." "It was a mean trick to serve you, Ferguson," said Miles. "Yes," said the Scotchman, soberly. "I minded the loss of money, but the loss of confidence was a sore thought too, after all the trust I had put in that man." Presently Miles rose to go. "I'll take care of your money, Tom," he said, "and do my best to get it safely to your father." "Thank you, John." As Miles left the tent, he did not observe a crouching figure on the other side of it. It was the figure of Bill Crane, a crony of Missouri Jack, in fact, the man who helped him to fleece poor Peabody of his scanty hoard. Bill looked after Miles enviously. "I wonder how much money he's got?" thought Bill. "I'd like some of it, for I'm bust. I must tell Jack. I don't dare to tackle him alone." CHAPTER IV. A FOILED ROBBER. In the grand rush to the newly discovered gold-fields all classes were represented. There were men of education, representatives of all the learned professions, men versed in business, and along with them adventurers and men of doubtful antecedents, graduates of prisons and penitentiaries. Bill Crane, introduced in the last chapter, belonged to the latter undesirable class. He had served a term at Sing-Sing as a housebreaker, and later another term in a Western penitentiary. He had come to California with a prejudice against honest labor, and a determination to make a living by the use of the peculiar talents on which he had hitherto relied. He had spent a week at River Bend, chiefly at the saloon of Missouri Jack, whom he found a congenial spirit, and had picked up a little money from flats like the young Bostonian; but, on the whole, he had found it an unprofitable field for the exercise of his special talents. "I must make a raise somehow," he bethought himself, "and then I'll make tracks for some other settlement." Precisely how to raise the fund of which he stood in need was difficult to decide. Moneyed men were not plenty at River Bend. Captain Fletcher and his party had been at work but a short time, and were not likely to have collected much. As we know, Bill Crane overheard a part of the closing conversation between Tom and John Miles. From this he learned that Miles, besides his own money, would be in charge of seventy-five dollars belonging to our young hero. It was not much, but it was something. "If the whole doesn't come to over two hundred dollars, I can make it do," thought Crane. "It will get me out of this beastly hole, and carry me to San Francisco." John Miles slept by himself under a small tent at the northern end of the small encampment. He looked like a man who ate well and slept well, and this would be favorable to Bill Crane, who proposed to effect the robbery in the night. He had half a mind to secure the aid of Missouri Jack, but then Jack would expect to go shares in the "plunder," and there was likely to be little enough for one. So Bill decided to make the attempt alone. In a small camp like that at River Bend, the movements and plans of each individual were generally known. So it was generally understood that John Miles intended to start on Thursday for the city. The previous evening he spent with Tom and Ferguson, with whom he was more intimate than any others of the party. He would not have been drawn to the Scotchman, but for his being Tom's room-mate. Through him he came to appreciate and respect the Scot's sterling virtues, and to overlook his dry, phlegmatic manner. "I hope you'll have good luck, Mr. Miles," said Tom. "Thank you, my boy." "I would join with my young friend Tom," said Ferguson, "if I were quite clear in my mind whether good luck is the right term to use." "Don't you think some men are luckier than others, Mr. Ferguson?" asked Tom. "Some men are more successful, doubtless; but what we call good luck, generally comes from greater industry, good judgment, and, above all, the prompt use of opportunities." "There is something in that," said Miles; "but when two men work side by side with equal industry, and one finds a nugget worth thousands of dollars, while the other plods along at a few dollars a day, isn't there some luck there?" "It may be so," said the Scotchman, cautiously, "but such cases are exceptional." "So one boy is born to an inheritance of wealth and another to an inheritance of hard work. Isn't there any luck there?" "The luck may be on the side of the poor boy," was the reply. "He is further removed from temptation." John Miles laughed. "Well, at any rate, it seems you believe in luck after all. I am sure you both wish me to be prosperous, whether you call it luck or by some other name. Tom, if I meet with any good opening that I think will suit you, I shall write you. You don't want to stay here, particularly?" "No; the place is not so pleasant since these new people have come here. Missouri Jack isn't a neighbor that I like." "He is exerting a bad influence," said Ferguson. "I am afraid Peabody visits him too often for his own good." "He ought to have stayed in Boston," said Miles. "He is not the man for such a life as ours. He is too delicate to work, or thinks he is, and I see no other reliable road to success." "I saw Peabody reeling out of the saloon this afternoon," said Tom. "I asked him if he considered it was 'high-toned' to drink in a saloon, as that is the word he is always using, but he said it didn't make much difference out here, where he wasn't known." "Peabody isn't overstocked with brains, though he does come from Boston," said Miles. Ten o'clock came, and Miles rose to go. "I must have a good night's rest," he said, "for to-morrow night must see me many miles on my road. Tom, I will attend to that commission of yours just as soon as I have the opportunity." "Thank you, Mr. Miles." John Miles walked slowly toward his tent. Arrived there, he threw himself down on his rude couch, and in less than fifteen minutes, he was sound asleep. He had done his usual day's work, and made some preparations for his journey besides, and these made slumber sweet and refreshing. Before settling himself for the night, however, Miles carefully deposited a bag of gold-dust under his head, wrapped up in an extra pair of pantaloons. Had he known that Bill Crane had formed a plan to rob him that very night, he would have taken extra precautions, but he was not inclined to be suspicious, or to anticipate danger. Perhaps an hour later, Tom, who found himself unusually restless, got up from his hard couch, leaving Ferguson fast asleep, and went out into the air, thinking that a walk would do him good and dispose him to sleep. The night was dark, but not wholly so. There was no moon, but a few stars were shining; and as his eyes became accustomed to the faint light, he could easily distinguish objects at the distance of a few rods. Tom's thoughts reverted to his humble home, more than three thousand miles away. Probably the fact that he had committed to John Miles a sum of money to send to his father, had turned his thoughts in that direction. "Father will be glad to get the seventy-five dollars," thought Tom, "and I am sure he will need it. I wish it could get there more quickly, but it is a long way off." Tom was not homesick, and was far from wishing himself back, with his object in coming yet unaccomplished, but it did occur to him, that he would like to see his father and mother, and brothers and sisters, if only for a few minutes. When he came out he had no particular direction in mind in which he wished to walk, but chance directed his steps toward the tent of his friend, John Miles. When he came near it, his attention was arrested by the sight of a crouching figure which appeared to be entering the tent. His first thought was, that Miles, like himself, had got up from his couch and was just returning. He was on the point of calling out "John," when a sudden doubt and suspicion silenced him.--"Might not it be a robber?" Tom was determined to find out. He crept nearer, so that he could have a clearer view of the figure. "It's Bill Crane!" he said to himself, with sudden recognition. "What's he up to?" Tom could guess. He didn't know the man's antecedents, but he had read his character aright. He was instantly on the alert. Crane evidently was on a thief's errand, and was likely to steal not only Miles's money but Tom's. Our hero was alive to the emergency, and resolved to foil him. He had his revolver with him; for in the unsettled state of society, with no one to enforce the laws, and indeed no laws to enforce, it was the custom for all men to go armed. Tom was not long left in doubt as to Crane's intentions. He saw him cautiously pulling at something in the tent, and felt sure that it was the bag of treasure. He decided that the time had come to act. "Put that back," he exclaimed in boyish, but clear, commanding tone. Bill Crane turned suddenly, panic-stricken. He saw Tom standing a few feet from him, with a revolver in his hand. All was not lost. He might, he thought, intimidate the boy. "Mind your business, you young cub," he growled. "What are you about?" demanded Tom. "I am going to sleep with Miles. He invited me. Does that satisfy you?" "No, it doesn't, for I know that it's a lie. You are here to rob him." "You'd better not insult me, boy, or I'll have your life." "Get up this instant and leave the tent, or I'll fire," said Tom, resolutely. "A young cub like you can't frighten me. That shooting-iron of yours isn't loaded," said Bill Crane, rather uneasily. "It'll be rather a bad thing for you to take the risk," said Tom, with a coolness that surprised himself, for the situation was a strange one for a boy brought up in a quiet New England farming town. "What do you want of me?" growled the desperado, uncomfortably, for he was satisfied that the weapon was loaded, and Tom looked as if he would shoot. "I want you to leave that tent at once," said Tom. "Suppose I don't." "Then I shall fire at you." "And be hung for attempted murder." "I think I could explain it," said our hero. "You know very well what will happen to you if you are caught." Bill Crane did know. Hanging was the penalty for theft in the early days of California, and he had no desire to swing from the branch of a tree. "You're a young fool!" he said roughly, as he rose from his stooping posture. "I wanted to ask Miles to do a little commission for me in Frisco. I had no thought of robbing him." "You can see him in the morning about it," said Tom, resolutely. "I'll be even with you for this," said the foiled thief, as he sullenly obeyed the boy, half-ashamed to do so. Tom went back to his tent, aroused Ferguson, and the two took turns in guarding the tent of Miles during the night. Tom did not wish to awaken him, for he needed rest on the eve of a long and fatiguing journey. CHAPTER V. MILES SETS OUT ON HIS JOURNEY. "When Miles woke up in the morning he found Tom beside him. "Hallo, Tom!" he said, in some surprise. "This is an early call." "I have been here half the night," said Tom, quietly. "How is that?" "I was afraid you would be robbed." "Did you have any particular reason for fearing it?" asked Miles, quickly. Thereupon Tom described his chance visit of the evening before, and what he saw. As might have been expected, John Miles was indignant. "The miserable sneak! I'd like to wring his neck," he exclaimed. "Did you say he had his hand upon the bag of gold-dust, Tom?" "Yes; I distinctly saw him attempting to draw it out from under your head." "If the boys knew of this, Crane's fate would be sealed. A thief in a mining camp has a short shrift." "You mean he would be hung?" asked Tom, in surprise. "Yes, he would grace a limb of yonder tree, and I am not sure but it would be the best way to dispose of him." Tom shuddered. "It would be a terrible fate," he said. "I should like to see him punished, but I don't want him hanged." "Then you will have to keep your mouth shut. Once let the boys get hold of what happened, and nothing will save him." "Then I shall keep it to myself." "I will see Crane, and let him understand that I am aware of the attempt he made," said Miles. After breakfast he came upon Crane within a few rods of Missouri Jack's saloon. "Look here, Bill Crane," said Miles, "I've got something to say to you." "What is it?" returned Crane, sullenly, looking ill at ease. "I understand you favored me with a visit, last night." "Who told you so?" "Tom Nelson." "The young cub had better mind his own business," growled Crane, in a menacing tone. "He did me a service in preventing your intended theft." "If he says I meant to rob you, he lies!" "Nevertheless, if he should make public what he saw, the boys would be likely to believe him rather than you," said Miles, significantly. "Is he going to tell?" asked Crane, nervously. "He has told me, but is not likely to speak of it to others, being unwilling that you should suffer the punishment you deserve." "He is very kind," sneered Bill Crane, but he felt very much relieved. "You probably owe your life to his kindness," said Miles, quietly. "He tells me you wish me to do something for you in Frisco." "I've changed my mind," said Crane, abruptly; "I may go there myself, soon." Miles smiled. "I thought it might be something urgent," he said, "since it led you to come to my tent at midnight." "I thought you would be starting away early this morning." "Well thought of, Bill Crane; but it is only fair to tell you that I don't believe a word you say. I have one thing to say to you before I go, and you had better bear it in mind. If you harm a hair of Tom Nelson's head, and I believe you quite capable of it, I will never rest till I have found you out and punished you for it." "I am not afraid of you, John Miles," retorted Crane, but he looked uncomfortable. "You will have cause to be, if you injure Tom." Miles walked off, leaving behind him a bitter enemy. "I _hate_ him--him and the boy too!" muttered Bill Crane. "If I dared, I would put my mark on him before he leaves the camp." But Crane did not dare. He knew that he was in a very critical position. His safety depended on the silence of two persons--one of whom would soon be gone. He was not aware that Ferguson also knew of his attempted crime, or the danger would have seemed greater. However much he thirsted for vengeance, it would not do to gratify it now. He must bide his time. Bill Crane was cunning as well as malignant. He decided to quiet Tom's suspicions if he could, and ensure his continued silence, by an affectation of friendliness. He waited till he saw our hero washing dust beyond earshot of any listeners, and strolled up to him. "How are you getting on, Tom?" he asked, with an appearance of friendliness. Tom looked up quickly. Considering all that had happened, he was somewhat struck by Crane's effrontery. "Fairly well," he answered coldly. "Shan't I relieve you a few minutes?" proposed Crane. "No, thank you." "It's pretty hard work, and don't pay as well as it might. I think California's a humbug, for my part." "Have you tried washing for gold?" asked Tom. "I haven't seen you at work." "Not here. I've tried it elsewhere, but it's slow." "Then, why do you stay here?" asked Tom, naturally. Crane shrugged his shoulders. "Because I haven't money to get away," he said. "I'm waiting for something to turn up. If I could only get to Frisco, I would go into some business. I would like to have gone with Miles." "Was that what you were going to propose to him, last night?" asked Tom, dryly. "Yes, I wanted to speak to him on that subject. I had a great mind to ask him to lend me a little money, and take me along with him. I would have arranged to pay him soon after we reached Frisco." Tom knew that the fellow was lying, and remained silent. "You made a little mistake about my intentions," continued Bill Crane, smoothly, "but perhaps it was natural under the circumstances." Tom thought it was, but still preserved silence, much to Crane's discomfiture. Bill Crane eyed him sharply, and saw his incredulity, but for that he cared little, if only he could secure his silence. "I think you will see that it isn't fair to me to speak of this matter," he continued. "I had made up my mind not to speak of it," said Tom. "I don't want to get you into trouble." "Good-morning, Mr. Crane," said Lawrence Peabody, who had just come up. "Good-morning, Peabody. I was watching our friend Tom. How are you getting on?" "I haven't done anything yet to-day. It's dirty work. I don't think it's fit for a gentleman; Tom, there, is used to work, and he don't mind." "Shall we go round to Jack's?" "All right!" And the two walked away together. "I am sorry Peabody doesn't keep better company," Tom said to himself. "Bill Crane won't do him any good." CHAPTER VI. ROBBED IN HIS SLEEP. Tom was right in concluding that Bill Crane's influence over Peabody was anything but good. The young Bostonian, however, was not long subjected to it. During the night following John Miles's departure, the little settlement at River Bend was called upon to deplore the loss of an eminent member. In brief, somewhere between midnight and dawn Mr. William Crane took his departure, without the ceremony of leave-taking. Had he gone alone no one perhaps would have felt any violent sorrow, but he took with him a horse belonging to Adam Dietrich, an industrious young German, who had only recently arrived. No one had seen the two go together, but it was only natural to suppose that Crane had spirited away the horse. Dietrich borrowed a horse, and, accompanied by a friend, set out in search of the thief, but returned at night unsuccessful. Had it been wet weather, it might have been possible to track the fugitive; but it was very dry, and the trail was soon lost. It was almost impossible to tell what direction Crane would choose, and continued pursuit would not pay, so Adam sadly returned to his work. Little doubt was entertained among the miners that Crane was responsible for the loss of the horse. Had he been caught, there would have been small chance for him, so generally was he pronounced guilty. A few of his companions, especially Missouri Jack, defended him. "Bill Crane wouldn't steal a horse any more than I would," said Jack; and there were those who agreed with him without acquitting Bill. "Bill ain't no saint, but he ain't a thief." Whether Jack believed what he said, admits of a doubt. Crane needed a different advocate to clear him from suspicion. It may as well be stated that Crane did steal the horse. He had a decided objection to walking as long as he could ride, and, having no animal of his own, annexed the property of his neighbor. He had two motives which influenced him to leave the settlement. First, he was in Tom's power, and he was by no means certain that our hero would keep silence touching his night-attempt at robbery. In the second place, he still coveted the bag of gold-dust which John Miles carried away with him. He had been prevented from taking it; but, as Miles was travelling alone, he foresaw a better chance of success if he should follow on his track. How or under what circumstances he should make the new attempt he left to be decided later. The first thing, obviously, was to overtake him. Crane experienced the same difficulty in tracking Miles that had led to the failure of his own pursuers. It was only on the fifth day, that, as he halted his steed on the hillside, and cast long glances about him, he caught sight, a mile away, of the object of his pursuit. He could not mistake the sturdy, broad-shouldered figure, and large, massive head. "That's Miles, sure enough!" he exclaimed, joyfully. "I thought I had missed him, but I'm in luck. That bag must be mine." The most direct course was to ride up in the fashion of a highwayman, and demand the bag. But Crane did not mean to proceed in this fashion. Physically, though not a weak man, he was not a match for Miles, and he knew it. Cunning must supply the place of strength. He knew that Miles was a sound sleeper, and could think of no better plan than repeating the visit he had made in camp. It was already late in the afternoon when he caught sight of the sturdy miner. It was his policy now to keep him in sight, but not to approach near enough for recognition. Once seen, Miles would be on his guard, and the game would be spoiled. Crane halted, therefore, and drew back within the shadow of the trees, henceforth advancing cautiously. John Miles did not once turn back. Had he done so, it is quite possible that he might have caught a glimpse of his pursuer. He had travelled since morning, and his faithful horse was beginning to show signs of fatigue. "You are tired, my poor Dick," he said kindly, stroking the horse. "You deserve supper and rest, and you shall have it." Dick appeared to understand what his rider said, for he gave a short neigh of satisfaction. John Miles looked around him. Just ahead was a large tree, under whose broad branches it would be pleasant to recline. Not far away was a slender mountain-stream trickling over the rocks. Nothing could have been better. Miles slid from his horse and made preparations to encamp for the night, first leading his faithful steed to the stream, where he quenched his thirst. Then he brought out his slender stock of provisions and partook of supper. "It's pleasant to rest after a long day's ride," soliloquized Miles. "I must have made forty miles to-day. I could easily have gone farther, had it been on the prairies at home, but these mountain-roads are hard upon man and beast." After supper Miles threw himself upon the ground, and his mind became busy with his plans and prospects. "I shall reach Frisco in three days, according to my calculations," he reflected; "and then, first of all, I must attend to Tom's commission. That's a good boy, Tom. I wish he were here with me to-night. Why didn't I urge him to come with me? He is not doing very well where he is, and there are plenty of chances for a smart boy in the city. If I find any opening for him, I will send for him. I don't know what gives me such an interest in that boy, but I'd sooner do him a good turn than any man I know. I hope that thief Crane won't play any trick upon him. If he does, I swear I'll get even with him." John Miles little suspected that he himself stood in more peril from the man he denounced than our hero. Had he known that Bill Crane was lurking in the vicinity, he would scarcely have courted slumber so fearlessly. Physical fatigue and the stillness of outward nature speedily brought on a feeling of drowsiness that was not long in bringing sleep. Twilight had hardly given place to night when our traveller had become "to dumb forgetfulness a prey." This was what Bill Crane had been waiting for. He rightly calculated that Miles would soon be asleep. He inferred this from his own feelings. He, too, had travelled many miles, and felt drowsy; but, with the object he had in view near accomplishment, he was able to resist the promptings of nature. Crane rode till he was but a few rods from Miles, then dismounted and tethered his horse. With stealthy step he approached the sleeper. With satisfaction he regarded the upturned face of the man whom, if waking, he would have feared, and noted his deep, regular breathing. "You wouldn't sleep so sound, John Miles," he said to himself, "if you knew I was standing over you. How easily I could put a bullet into you! But then I wouldn't have the satisfaction of anticipating your disappointment when you wake up and find your treasure gone! No, you may live. I have no use for your life, that is, if you don't wake up. In that case, I may have to kill you." The bag of gold-dust lay under the head of Miles. He knew of no better place for it, calculating that any attempt at removal would arouse him. So it might under ordinary circumstances, but unusual fatigue made him sleep like a log. Bill Crane kneeled down, and by delicate manipulation succeeded in drawing the bag from beneath the sleeper's head. Lest the removal of the pillow might awaken Miles, he replaced it by a coat, which he folded up so as to produce about the same elevation above the ground. The transfer was made, without in the least interfering with the slumbers of the tired traveller. Bill Crane rose to his feet, triumphant. Not only was he possessed of a sum of which he stood sorely in need, but he had the satisfaction of outwitting his adversary. Moreover, he had obtained Tom's money in addition, and thus revenged himself upon the boy who had once thwarted him. "Good-by, John Miles!" he said, lifting his hat mockingly. "Sorry to inconvenience you, but can't help it. A long sleep, and pleasant dreams!" Thus speaking, he turned away, unconscious that he had been observed by a third party. CHAPTER VII. THE HEATHEN CHINEE. This third party belonged to that peculiar race immortalized by Bret Harte. He was a heathen Chinee! His face was smooth and bland, and wore an expression of childlike innocence which was well calculated to deceive. Ah Sin possessed the usual craft of his countrymen, and understood very well how to advance his worldly fortunes. He belonged to the advance guard of immigrants from the Central Flowery Kingdom, and with a companion, Ah Jim, was engaged in mining in the immediate neighborhood. His gains had not been great thus far, but then his expenses had amounted to little or nothing. He and his friend had brought two bags of rice from San Francisco, and they were well satisfied with this solitary article of diet. Ah Sin, from a distance, had seen John Miles encamp for the night, and, impelled by curiosity or a more questionable motive, had approached to take a view of the stranger. Before reaching him he caught sight of Bill Crane, and his almond eyes straightway watched the movements of that gentleman, while he himself kept sufficiently in the background to escape observation. When he saw Crane stealthily remove the bag from under the sleeper's head, he became very much interested, and a bland smile overspread his face, while his cue vibrated gently with approval. "'Melican man very smart," he murmured to himself. "He steal his friend's money while he sleep." My readers are probably aware that our Mongolian visitors find a difficulty in pronouncing the letter _r_, and invariably replace it by _l_. "Suppose other 'Melican man wake up, he make a low," continued Ah Sin, softly. But the other 'Melican man did not wake up, and Bill Crane got away with his booty, as we already know. Cautiously the Chinaman followed him, and ascertained where he intended to pass the night. It was at a moderate distance from the cabin which the two Chinamen had selected for their mining camp. Bill Crane jumped from his horse, stretched his limbs, and gaped. "I'm powerful sleepy," he soliloquized. "I can't go any farther to-night. I don't like to rest so near Miles, but I can be on the road before he wakes up. I guess it will be safe enough." Crane, having made up his mind to rest, rolled himself up in his blanket, and stretched himself out, first tying his horse to a sapling. The place was retired, and he felt moderately confident that, even if he overslept himself, he would not be discovered. "I'd like to see Miles when he discovers his loss," he said to himself, smiling at the thought. "He'll be ready to tear his hair, and won't have the least idea how the gold-dust was spirited away. You excel me in brute strength, John Miles, but one thing I am pretty sure of, you haven't got my brains," and he complacently tapped his forehead. "There must be at least two hundred dollars' worth in that bag," he reflected. "It isn't a great haul, but it will do. It will last me some time, and perhaps start me in something in Frisco. Bill Crane, you've done a good stroke of business to-day. You are entitled to a good night's rest, and you shall have it." First, however, he concealed the bag. He did not think it safe to place it under his head as Miles had done. He scooped a hole in the earth near by, deposited the bag, replaced the dirt, and spread a few leaves over the top. "No one will think of searching there," thought Crane. "Even if Miles himself surprises me here, he won't suspect anything." Bill Crane felt that he was unusually sharp and crafty, and felt great contempt for the stupidity of the man whom he had overreached. The time was not far off when he had occasion to doubt whether he had not overrated his own artfulness. A pair of almond eyes, lighted up with mild wonder, followed closely all the movements of William Crane. When the bag was concealed, and Crane lay down to sleep, the Chinaman nodded blandly, and remarked softly, "All light! Me go find Ah Jim." Ah Sin had to walk but half a mile to find the partner of his toils. Ah Sin and Ah Jim, though not related to each other, were as like as two peas. The same smooth face, the same air of childlike confidence, the same almond eyes, a pigtail of the same length, a blouse and loose pants of the same coarse cloth, were characteristic of both. When the two met, they straightway plunged into a conversation in which Ah Sin had most to say. Ah Jim listened attentively, and was evidently well pleased with what his companion said. I am afraid my young friends are not well up in the Chinese tongue, and would not understand the conversation, however faithfully reported. They must infer what it was from what followed. The two Chinamen bent their steps towards the resting-place of Bill Crane. Ah Sin carried a bag of about the same size as the one Crane had stolen, which he carefully filled with sandy earth. With stealthy steps these two innocent heathen drew near the spot, and looked searchingly at the recumbent form of the eminent representative of American civilization. Ah Sin turned to Ah Jim with a pleased smile. "All light!" he said. "'Melican man asleep." A similar smile lighted up the face of Ah Jim. "'Melican man sleep sound," he said; "no wake up." Quite unaware of the honor done him by the special Chinese embassy which had taken this early opportunity to call upon him, Bill Crane slept on. There was a smile upon his upturned face as if he were dreaming of something pleasant. He should have been a prey to remorse, if his conscience had done its duty, but Bill's conscience had grown callous, and gave him very little trouble. It was only when he was found out that he became sensible of a kind of mental discomfort which came as near to remorse as he was capable of feeling. Reassured by the deep, regular breathing of the sleeper, Ah Sin and his friend proceeded to their work. The former drew a slender stiletto-like knife from a fan which protruded above the collar of his blouse, and, stooping down, began skilfully to remove the dirt which covered the bag of gold-dust. From time to time he stole a glance at the sleeper to mark the first indications of returning consciousness. It was well for Crane that his sleep continued. A Chinaman does not set a high value upon human life, and the long stiletto would have been plunged into the 'Melican man before he was well aware of what was going on. Bill Crane's good genius saved him from this sudden exit by continuing the profound slumber in which he was repairing the ravages of fatigue. The Chinamen therefore met with no interruption in their work. They drew out from its place of concealment the buried bag, and emptying the contents of their own poured into it the combined treasures of Miles and poor Tom. Then they filled the first bag with the worthless dust which they had brought with them, and carefully reburied it in the ground. They did their work so carefully and well that no one was likely to suspect that the bag had been tampered with. Having done their work, Ah Sin and his friend smiled upon each other in bland satisfaction, which was further expressed by a low guttural chuckle. "All light," said Ah Sin, with a nod. "All light," chimed in Ah Jim, nodding in return. A consciousness of lofty virtue could not have produced a happier expression upon any face than appeared on the mild countenance of the Chinamen. "'Melican man much supplised when he wake up," remarked Ah Jim. "Chinamen make much money," returned his friend. The two enterprising visitors returned to their quarters, and concealed their booty in a safe place. Then they too lay down and slept the sleep of confiding innocence. Bret Harte has not told us whether the heathen Chinee has a conscience; but if he has, neither Ah Sin nor Ah Jim experienced any inconvenience from its possession. Neither they nor Bill perhaps can fairly be taken as fair representatives of the different religious systems under which they were trained. Bill Crane could hardly claim any superiority over the heathen Chinee in point of honesty. CHAPTER VIII. BILL CRANE'S DISAGREEABLE DISCOVERY. It was five o'clock in the morning when Bill Crane opened his eyes. He felt refreshed by his night's sleep, yet under ordinary circumstances would have deferred getting up for at least an hour. But the consciousness that he had a treasure to guard, and the knowledge that he was at any moment liable to be called to account by the real owner, whose camp was scarcely more than a mile distant, aroused him to exertion. "I must get away while John Miles is still asleep," he bethought himself. "Let me get to Frisco first, and I can at once dispose of it, and he will never find me out." Crane did not wait to prepare breakfast. That he could take on the road an hour or two later, when he felt safe from interruption. He rose and shook himself. This was his scanty toilet. Next he must take the bag from its place of concealment, and then he could commence his journey. While uncovering the bag, Crane did not discover that it had been tampered with, partly because it was still there. It was natural to suppose that, if discovered by a third party, it would be carried away. He did not even open the bag, not thinking it necessary. "John Miles hasn't waked up yet," he said to himself with a smile. "When he does, there'll be some swearing, I'll be bound. You're a good boy, John Miles, but you ain't so smart as you think you are. I think I have got the start of you this time." Bill Crane rode off smiling. His course led him by the camp of the Chinamen. Early as it was they were astir. Ah Sin saw the rider, and at once recognized him as the man he had robbed. How could Crane know that those pleasant-faced barbarians had served him such a trick? "Hallo, Chinamen!" he said aloud. "Have they got out here already? I'll speak to them. Hallo, John!" he said, halting his horse, for even then every Chinaman was John. "How do, John?" replied Ah Sin, smiling blandly. "My name isn't John, but no matter. What are you two doing?" "Looking for gold," was the reply. "Do you find any?" "Velly little. Bad place." "Have you been in San Francisco?" "Yes, John." "Why didn't you stay there?" "Too many Chinamen--too little washee,--washee." "What have you got in the way of provisions? Mine are stale. I'd like to buy some of you." "We have got a little lice, John." "Got a little what? Oh, I know: you mean rice. Why don't you pronounce your English better?" "Because Chinamen not 'Melican men." "Then I suppose I may as well be moving on, as I can't get anything out of you. Oh, have you got any tea, John?" "Yes, John." "Got any made?" Ah Sin produced a cup, for he and his friend had just prepared their breakfast, and being warm, Bill Crane gulped it down with a relish. "After all, a man needs some warm drink in the morning," he said to himself. "How much to pay, John?" "Nothing, John. 'Melican man welcome." "John, you're a gentleman, or rather both of you are gentlemen, even if you are heathens. I'll remember you in my prayers." The eminent Christian, Bill Crane, rode off from the Chinese camp, calmly confident of his moral superiority to the two benighted heathen whom he left behind him. Whether he remembered his promise to intercede for them in prayer is a little doubtful, or would have been, if he had had occasion to pray himself. It is to be feared that prayer and William Crane had long been strangers. As Crane rode away, the two Chinamen exchanged glances. A gentle smile lighted up their yellow faces, and they were doubtless thinking of something pleasant. They exchanged a few guttural remarks which I should like to be able to translate, for they doubtless referred to Bill Crane, whom they had kindly supplied with a cup of tea gratis. Yet, perhaps, considering all things, it was the dearest cup of tea Crane had ever drank, since it was the only return he got for a bag of gold-dust worth over two hundred dollars. But there is an old saying, "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." Crane was just as happy as if the bag really contained gold-dust. But this happy ignorance was not to last long. After riding five or six miles our traveller thought he might venture to dismount for rest and refreshment. He selected as his breakfast-table the green sward beside a sparkling mountain streamlet. He dismounted, permitting his horse to graze while he took out the stale provisions which must constitute his morning meal. They were not very palatable, and Crane sighed for the breakfasts of old, the memory of which at this moment was very tantalizing. But he comforted himself with the thought that he had the means of making up for his enforced self-denial when he reached San Francisco. This naturally led him to open the bag, and feast his eyes over his easily obtained wealth. He untied the string, and with a smile of pleased anticipation peered at the contents. His face changed suddenly. Was he dreaming? In place of the shining dust, his eyes rested on--sand. He hastily thrust in his finger, and stirred the grains. But nothing else was to be discovered. The bag contained nothing but worthless sand. Crane stared at the deceptive bag in the most lugubrious astonishment. Surely the bag contained gold-dust when he concealed it. There could be no doubt on that point, for he had opened it and seen the contents for himself. But in that case, how could such a change have been effected in one night? It had not been touched; so, at any rate, he believed. He had found it in the morning in the exact spot where he had placed it overnight, and yet-- Bill Crane took another look at the contents of the bag, hoping that he had been deceived by some ocular delusion, but the second examination brought him no comfort. He sank back, feeling in a state of mental and bodily collapse. Never was poor thief so utterly bewildered as Bill Crane. He could almost believe that some magical transformation had been practiced at his expense. Was it possible, he thought, that John Miles, discovering his loss, had visited him, and played this trick upon him? He could not believe this. It was not in accordance with John's direct, straightforward nature. Instead of acting in this secret manner, he would have sternly charged Crane with the robbery, and punished him on the spot. Leaving him out of the account, then, the mystery deepened. It never occurred to Crane to suspect the Chinamen who had so hospitably furnished him with a cup of tea. Even if they had come into his mind, he would have been puzzled to account for their knowledge of his having the bag in his possession. Bill Crane was decidedly unhappy. His glowing anticipations of prosperity, based upon the capital contained in the bag, were rudely broken in upon, and the airy fabric of his hopes dashed to the ground. He felt that fortune had been unkind--that he was a deeply injured man. Had his claim to the stolen property been the best possible, he could not have felt the injustice of fate more keenly. "It's always the way!" he exclaimed in deep dejection. "I always was unlucky. Just as I thought I was on my feet again, this cursed gold-dust turns to sand. Here am I out in the wilderness without an ounce to my name. I don't know what to do. I'd give a good deal, if I had it, to find out what became of the gold-dust." As he spoke, Crane, in a fit of ill-temper, kicked the unlucky bag to a distance, and slowly and disconsolately mounting his horse, plodded on his way. All his cheerfulness was gone. It was some comfort, but still scant, to think that John Miles was as unlucky as himself. Both had become penniless tramps, and were alike the sport of Fortune. There was a difference in respect to their desert, however. John Miles may rightly claim the reader's sympathy, while Bill Crane must be considered to have met with a disaster which he richly deserved. CHAPTER IX. CLEANED OUT. John Miles slept long, and awoke feeling refreshed and cheerful. He had a healthy organization, and never failed to eat and sleep well. Like Crane, he had no toilet to make, but sprang to his feet already dressed. His first thought was naturally of his treasure. His heart gave a quick bound when he failed to discover it in the place where he remembered to have put it. In dismay he instituted a search, which, of course, proved unavailing. "Who could have taken it?" thought Miles, large drops of perspiration gathering upon his forehead. All about him was loneliness. He could see no signs of life. Yet the bag could not have gone away of itself. There was certainly human agency in the matter. Miles confessed to himself with sadness that he had been imprudent to leave the bag where it would naturally excite the cupidity of any passing adventurer. That it must have been taken by such a one seemed evident. In that case, the chance of recovering it seemed slender enough. Nevertheless, John Miles decided to make an effort, hopeless as it was, to discover the whereabouts of his lost property. "If it had been mine, I wouldn't have cared so much," he said to himself, with a sigh; "but poor Tom's money is gone too. I will make it up to him if I live, but I am afraid his father will be inconvenienced by the delay." Miles made preparations for his departure, and strode away, looking searchingly to the right and left in search of something that might throw light upon his loss. Presently he espied the two Chinamen. Could they have taken it? He would at any rate speak to them. "Good-morning, John," he said, when he came within hearing distance. Ah Sin bobbed his head, and repeated "Good-morning, John." "Do you live here?" "Yes, we washee-washee for gold." "Does anyone else live near by?" The two inclined their heads, and answered in the negative. "Have you seen anyone pass last night or this morning?" "Yes," answered Ah Sin. "'Melican man stay all nightee--over there. Chinaman give him a cup of tea this morning." "How long ago?" asked Miles, eagerly. "Two hours," answered Ah Jim. "In what direction did he go?" The two Chinamen readily told him. Miles decided to tell them of the loss of his bag of gold-dust. Possibly they could throw some light upon his loss. "Some one stole a small bag of dust from me last night," he said. "I suspect it was the man you describe. Did he appear to have any such article with him?" "Yes," answered Ah Sin, who, with natural cunning, saw that this information would divert suspicion from them. "It was so large," indicating the size with his hands. Of course his description was accurate, for he had very good reason to know the size of the bag. "He must have been the thief," said Miles, eagerly. "In what direction did you say he went?" Ah Sin pointed to the west. "I will follow him. It is on my way. If I catch the villain, it will be the worse for him." "He velly bad man," said Ah Sin, sympathizingly. "That's where you are right, my heathen friend. Well, good-morning, John. I am much obliged to you for your information." "Velly welcome, John." As John Miles rode away, Ah Sin turned to his friend Ah Jim, and remarked,-- "S'pose he catch him, he kill him." "All lightee!" returned Ah Jim. "He velly bad man, he thief." The two Chinamen exchanged glances. If they had been white men, there would have been a smile or a wink, but these children of Confucius looked so serenely virtuous, so innocent of guile, that the most experienced detective would have seen nothing in their faces indicating any guilty knowledge of the lost treasure. But, guileless as they seemed, they had proved more than a match for Bill Crane and his victim. * * * * * John Miles rode away with a faint hope that he might overtake the man, whoever he might be, who had stolen his precious bag. In due time he reached the spot where Crane had examined the bag, and on discovering its worthless contents, had thrown it away. The thief had not taken the trouble to empty it. When Miles saw it he hurried to it, hoping he might find some of the treasure inside. Of course he was disappointed, and at the same time bewildered. "This is certainly my bag," he said to himself. "Here are my initials, J. M. Then there are other marks well known to me. I could swear to it anywhere. But how does it happen that it is full of sand, and why has the thief thrown it away? That beats me!" Miles decided that for some reason unknown the thief had transferred its contents to some other bag--perhaps his own--and then had discarded the original one, in wanton humor filling it instead with sand. "He may have been afraid it would be found on him," thought Miles. "The marks on the bag would have been evidence enough to condemn him. By throwing away my bag he thinks himself safe." His solution of the puzzle was ingenious, but as we know he erred in two respects. Bill Crane had not filled the bag with sand and thrown it away from prudential considerations, nor had he profited by the theft he had committed. He had been as badly outwitted as his victim, and the profit had gone to the bland and obliging Chinamen, who had thus far escaped suspicion. John Miles slackened his rein, and thought seriously and sadly of the position to which he was reduced. What was he to do? He was, in the expressive language of the country, "cleaned out," and brought to a pass where he must begin life over again, with the disadvantage of being seventy-five dollars in debt, for he was resolved that Tom's loss should be paid back to the uttermost penny. Presently philosophy came to his aid. "It might have been worse," he reflected. "Two hundred dollars is too large a sum to lose, but it wont take long to make up if I have any sort of luck. I wish I were in San Francisco. It may trouble me to get there without means." When misfortune comes it is always best to look it manfully in the face, and not to shrink from or over estimate it. John Miles had a strong, healthy nature, with a good deal of confidence in his own resources, and in an hour or two he was again looking hopefully forward to the future. Not that he cherished a hope of recovering his lost money. There seemed to be no way of identifying it, even if he should track the thief. One ounce of gold-dust looks like another, and there is no way of distinguishing individual property in that form. John Miles pushed on slowly. About noon he found himself threading a narrow cañon, shaded by gigantic redwood tress, with steep, almost perpendicular sides, with here and there a narrow streamlet descending in a cascade, and lighting up the darkened scene with its silvery reflections. "This is a pretty spot, but it would be lonely to live here," thought Miles. "Yet," shading his eyes, "there seems to be a cabin of some sort. Is it possible that anybody lives in this cañon?" Ten minutes' ride brought him to a rude cabin, with a gigantic tree spreading at a great height protecting branches over it. That it was inhabited was clear, for in front of it stood a strongly built, robust woman, who seemed to be nearing forty. She bent a searching look upon the intruder, who bent his head courteously. "Good-morning, ma'am," said Miles. "Good-morning, stranger," was the reply. "Where might you be going?" "I am on my way to the city. Am I on the right track?" "I reckon so." "Do you live here--alone?" asked John Miles, in some curiosity. "It looks like it, doesn't it?" returned the woman. "I've been alone since my man pegged out." "Is that long?" "A matter of three weeks." "I sympathize with you," said Miles. "You must be very lonely." "Yes," said the widow. "Jim was good company, and I feel kind of lonesome without him, you better believe." "There isn't much sentiment there," thought Miles. "She doesn't appear to be heart-broken. Do you mean to stay here alone?" he inquired. "Are you not afraid?" "What's there to be afraid of?" "Some tramp or adventurer might attack and injure, or at least rob you." "Look here, stranger! do you see that?" and the woman produced a revolver. "Do you see that shooting-iron?" "It looks as if it might be a good one," said Miles, who began to think the woman better able to take care of herself than he had at first supposed. "You bet it is! I know how to use it, too. If one of them tramps gets in front of it, and sasses me, he'd better say his prayers mighty quick, for he'll need 'em. He needn't reckon much on my being a woman. I can shoot jest as true as my man could when he was alive." CHAPTER X. A CALIFORNIA WIDOW. John Miles eyed the woman curiously. There did not seem much that was feminine left in her. Life in the wilderness had made her as bold and self-reliant as a man. She was not compelled to plead for woman's rights. She resolutely took a man's rights, and was prepared to maintain them against all comers. "I rather think you can take care of yourself, ma'am," he said. "You can bet your bottom dollar on that, stranger," said the woman, cheerfully. "Brown--that's my husband--knew what I was. We was ekal partners--Brown and me--and he knew too much to tread on me." "I'm glad I wasn't Brown," thought John Miles. "When I marry, it'll be a woman, and not a man in petticoats." "If you're hungry, stranger," said the woman, "just jump off that horse of yours, and come in. I can give you a square meal, and I reckon you haven't had one lately." "You are right, Mrs. Brown," said Miles, dismounting with alacrity. "My provisions are dry and stale, and I shall enjoy a square meal amazingly. But I ought to tell you that last night I was robbed of a bag of gold-dust, and I have nothing to pay you." "Who asks for pay?" returned the woman. "I don't keep a hotel, but I'm tired of eating alone. I want to see how it seems to have a man setting opposite me agin. So come in, and I won't keep you waiting long." "Thank you, Mrs. Brown. If you don't mind, I'll light my pipe, and sit out here till I've had a smoke." "You can smoke inside if you want to. I always let Brown. It makes me feel better, now that he's pegged out, that I didn't deny him any of his little comforts." "Clearly Mrs. Brown was a considerate wife," thought Miles; "but she doesn't look like a woman to fall in love with." Tying his horse, he threw himself down on the grass, and enjoyed the luxury of a smoke while Mrs. Brown was heard bustling about inside, preparing the square meal which she had promised to her unexpected guest. Presently she reappeared. "The victuals is ready, if you are, stranger," she said. "I am ready, Mrs. Brown," said Miles, rising at once, and entering the cabin. The cabin was rough, and ill-adapted to a fastidious tenant, but it looked comfortable. What attracted Miles most, however, was a table set in the middle of the floor, covered with a substantial and appetizing meal. Mrs. Brown was a fair cook--perhaps her only feminine accomplishment. She placed Miles at the head of the table, and seated herself opposite him. She watched his attacks upon the fare she had provided with evident satisfaction. "I hope you like it," she said. "Mrs. Brown, I haven't tasted anything so good for a long time." She nodded, with a pleased look. "Brown allus liked my cookin," she said. "He had a good appetite most generally, and it was a pleasure to see him eat. It's kinder lonesome cookin' for yourself. Then, too, it takes away my appetite sittin' down alone to eat." "You must be very lonely, Mrs. Brown." "Yes, its lonesome like bein' a widder. I'm kinder used to seein' a man about the house." "So I suppose." "Be you a married man?" asked the lady, pointedly. "No, ma'am." "How old be you?" "Twenty-eight," answered Miles, rather amused. "Then you're old enough to get married?" "Oh yes, I am old enough." "Be you in love with any girl?" "The old woman's getting curious," thought Miles. "However, I don't mind gratifying her curiosity." "No, I'm not in love," he replied. Mrs. Brown eyed him thoughtfully. She seemed to be revolving some plan in her mind. "Take a good look at me, stranger," she said, bracing herself up, as if on exhibition. "Certainly," said John Miles, considerably astonished. "I want to ask you a few questions." "Go ahead, Mrs. Brown." "Am I hump-backed?" "Certainly not. Who said you were?" "Just attend to my questions, if you please, stranger. Am I squint-eyed?" "Mrs. Brown must be crazy," thought Miles. However, he answered in the negative. "Am I as homely as a hedge-fence?" pursued the widow. "Has anybody been calling you so? If so, tell me who it is." "Never you mind, stranger. Am I old and wrinkled?" "Certainly she's out of her mind," thought Miles. "I must humor her." "I think you are a very good-looking woman," he said, soothingly. "No, I'm not," said the strong-minded lady, "but at the same time I ain't a scarecrow." "Certainly not." "Don't talk too much, stranger. I expect you're surprised at my questions, but I'll come to the p'int at once. I'm tired of livin' here alone. I didn't think I'd miss Brown so much. He wasn't any great shakes of a man, but he was better than nothing. He was company for me, Brown was, in the long evenin's, and I miss him. I've made up my mind to take on somebody in his place, and I reckon I'd like to engage you, stranger. Will you marry me?" Mrs. Brown did not blush when she asked this extraordinary question. She was entirely self-possessed, and could not have been cooler, if she had been transacting an ordinary piece of business. John Miles had never before received a proposal of marriage. He felt as awkward and confused as a young girl, and began to hesitate and stammer. "Really, Mrs. Brown," he began, "you have taken me by surprise." "I expect I have," said the widow, "but I'll give you time to think it over. Brown left me I pretty comfortable, though I did more to get the property together than he. You wouldn't think it, perhaps, but I've got five thousand dollars in gold hid away somewheres near, and there's a claim not far away, that belongs to me, and will pay for workin'." "I am glad you are so well off, Mrs. Brown," said Miles. "If you marry me," continued the widow, "you can work that claim. You're a strong, able-bodied man, and a year from now, if you want to, we'll go to the city, and settle down. I'm older than you; but a matter of a few years don't make much difference. You were robbed, you told me?" "Yes, of all that I had." "How much was it?" "About two hundred dollars." "That ain't much." "It's a good deal when it's all you have," answered Miles. "If you marry me you won't miss it," said Mrs. Brown. "I won't give you my money right off, for you might run off with it, but at the end of the first year you shall have half of it. There's a parson a few miles up the cañon, at Dirt Hole, that will marry us any time we ride over. What do you say, stranger?" It was an embarrassing moment for John Miles. He had no desire to succeed the deceased Brown, notwithstanding the little property he had left behind him. Mrs. Brown did not in the least resemble the wife of whom he had sometimes dreamed. But how could he decline without exciting the resentment of that singular female? He bore in mind that Mrs. Brown carried a revolver, and she might take a notion to shoot him down. He must temporize. "Your proposal is a very kind and flattering one, Mrs. Brown, but I don't care to marry just at present. I want to go to the city and try my fortune. I've only lately arrived in California, and I am not ready to settle down yet." To his relief Mrs. Brown accepted his objection in good part. "No offence, stranger," she said. "I didn't know how you might feel about it. I've made you a fair offer." "Indeed you have. The time may come when I shall return, and--" "I won't promise to wait for you, stranger. Somebody else may happen along that'll take the situation." "It would be too much to expect you to wait for me, I admit." "All right, stranger. You've answered fair, and now we'll let the matter drop." When Miles left the cabin he carried with him an addition to his stock of provisions, for which he was indebted to Mrs. Brown's liberality. It was evident that she bore no malice, notwithstanding her suit had been rejected. CHAPTER XI. BILL CRANE'S GOOD LUCK. About an hour after John Miles rode away from the widow's door Mr. William Crane came in sight of the cabin. He had strayed from the direct course, and that had delayed him. Otherwise he would not have fallen behind Miles. Bill Crane was in rather a melancholy mood. He had not got over his disappointment of the morning. He was fagged out and hungry, and felt that luck was against him. When he saw the cabin, and the widow Brown sitting in the door-way, it instantly occurred to him that here was a chance to get a dinner. He had nothing to pay, to be sure, but he need say nothing about it till after the dinner was eaten. As he rode up, he removed his hat, and said, "Good-day, ma'am." Mrs. Brown scrutinized the new-comer with critical eyes. She decided that he was not as good-looking as John Miles. Indeed Bill Crane never could have been accounted handsome; but on this point the widow was not exacting. She was looking for somebody to fill the place of her lamented Brown, and relieve her loneliness, and it was Crane's eligibility in this respect that she was considering. Beauty was but skin deep, as Mrs. Brown was practical enough to admit, and she was not overstocked with that attractive quality herself. Though Crane did not know it, the resolute, middle-aged female, from whom he hoped to obtain a gratuitous dinner, was making up her mind to offer him the position of husband. "Good-day, stranger," she answered composedly. "Are you travelin' fur?" "I'm thinkin' of goin' to Frisco," he said, "but it's a long journey and I'm fagged out. If you have no objection, I'll stop at your place and see if I can rest a few minutes." "You can stop if you want to," she said. "I don't see much company, and I like to see a new face now and then." "So do I," said Crane, thinking a little flattery might help him; "especially when it's the face of a good-looking woman." "I ain't good-lookin' enough to hurt me," returned Mrs. Brown, with a frankness which rather disconcerted and puzzled Crane, "but I don't mind you callin' me so. If you are anyways hungry, I haven't cleared away the dinner, and--" "You are very kind," broke in Crane, eagerly; "I don't mind saying I am a little bit hungry." "All right, stranger. If you'll wait long enough for me to make some hot tea, and warm the victuals, you shall have a chance to judge of my cookin'." Bill Crane was quite elated. He decided that the widow would not ask him for payment, thus saving him from embarrassing excuses. In due time he was called in and seated in the chair not long since occupied by John Miles. "You're the second man that's dined with me to-day," said the widow. "And who was the first lucky man?" inquired Crane, suspecting at once that it might have been Miles. "I don't know his name, but he was a good-looking young man, who said he had had a bag of gold-dust stolen from him." "That's Miles," thought Crane; and he at once decided not to betray any knowledge of him. "He was in bad luck," said Bill. "Did he know who stole it?" "He didn't tell me. I don't think he knew." "That's well," thought Crane. "Did he say where he was going?" "To the city." "Do you live here all the year round, Mrs.----?" "My name's Brown, stranger." "All I can say is, that Brown is a lucky man. Another cup of tea if you please, Mrs. Brown." "You might not like to exchange places with him, for all his luck, stranger," remarked the widow. "Indeed I would," said Bill, with a languishing look. "He's six feet under ground!" explained Mrs. Brown, dryly. "Dead?" ejaculated Crane. "Yes; he's been dead these three weeks." "And you are a widow?" "That's so, stranger." "But you don't mean to stay a widow?" interrogated Crane. "Well, it is kinder lonesome. It seems natural like to have a man round." "I wonder if she's got any money," thought Crane. "I'll find out if I can." "Yes, Mrs. Brown, I feel for you," he said. "A woman can't struggle with the world as a man can." "I don't know about that, stranger. I can take care of myself, if that's what you mean." "But a woman needs a man to protect and work for her," insinuated Crane. "I don't need any one to protect me," said the widow; "and, as for support, I've got a matter of five thousand dollars laid by, and a good claim that'll pay for the workin'. I don't think I shall need to go to the poor-house yet awhile." Bill Crane's eyes sparkled. The widow Brown seemed wonderfully attractive in his eyes. He was willing to barter his young affections for five thousand dollars and a claim, even if the widow had been thrice as homely as she was. If he had known that Mrs. Brown was bent on marriage his way would have been clearer. His mind was made up. He would woo and win his fair hostess if he could. "When did Brown die?" he inquired. "Three weeks ago, stranger." "You must miss him." "Yes, he was a quiet man, Brown was. He never gave me any trouble, and it was natural to see him round." "You must not mourn for him too much, Mrs. Brown." "I shan't make a fool of myself," said the widow. "He's gone, and he won't come back. There's no use cryin'." "She's rather a queer specimen," thought Crane. "She hasn't broken her heart, it seems." "You ought to marry again," he said. "I mean to," said Mrs. Brown. "Well, that's frank," thought Crane. "There ain't any nonsense about her." "Your second husband will be a lucky man, Mrs. Brown." "Well, he'll have a good livin', and, if he treats me right, he'll get treated right too." "This is a cold world, Mrs. Brown. I've been drifting about till I'm tired. I'd like to settle down with a good wife." "If you want to take Brown's place, say so," remarked the widow, in a business-like tone. Bill Crane was staggered by the promptness with which his hint was taken, but did not hesitate to follow it up. "That's what I mean," he said. "What's your name, stranger?" "William Crane." "You haven't got another wife anywhere, have you?" "Of course not." "I've got to take your word for it, I s'pose. I guess I'll take the risk. I'll marry you if you say so." "How soon?" asked Crane, eagerly. "Well, there's a parson a few miles from here. We can ride right over and be back by sundown, if that will suit you." "A capital idea, Mrs. Brown. You won't be Brown long," he added, sportively. "How will you like to be called Mrs. Crane?" "One name will do as well as another," said the widow, philosophically. Crane wanted to make inquiries about the five thousand dollars and the claim; but he reflected that it might be inferred that his views were mercenary. It would be more politic to wait till after marriage. He did not understand the character of the woman he was going to marry. She understood very well that Crane was marrying her for her money; but she felt lonesome, and it suited her to have a husband, and she was willing to overlook such a trifle. The widow had a horse of her own. Directly after dinner it was harnessed, and the two rode over to Dirt Hole, a small mining settlement, where the Rev. Pelatiah Pond, a Methodist minister, united them in the bonds of matrimony. When Mr. and Mrs. Crane reached home, Bill ventured to inquire, "Have you got the money in the house, Mrs. Crane,--the five thousand dollars, I mean?" "It's put away in a safe place." "You'd better let me take care of it for you, my dear." "Not at present, Mr. Crane. A year from now I will let you have half of it, if you behave yourself." "As your husband, madam, I insist." "Stop right there, stranger--Mr. Crane, I mean," said the bride, decidedly. "Do you see that? and she whipped out a revolver. "Good gracious, Mrs. Crane! Do you want to murder me?" "No, I didn't marry you for that; but I want you to understand that the money is in my hands, and I don't allow any man to insist. I may let you have some of it when I get ready. Do you understand?" "I believe I do," murmured Crane. "I'm regularly taken in and done for," he reflected sadly. But directly after their return Mrs. Crane prepared a nice supper, and Crane, as he ate it, and smoked a pipe later, began to be reconciled to his new situation. CHAPTER XII. TOM RECEIVES NEWS FROM HOME. Meanwhile Tom, happily unconscious that the money entrusted to John Miles had been lost, continued to work diligently at his claim. His success varied from day to day; but, on the whole, he was gaining. He spent nothing except for absolute necessities, and in spite of all temptations he gave a wide berth to Missouri Jack's saloon. In this way he gained the ill-will of the saloon-keeper, who felt a certain portion of every miner's gains ought to find its way into his till. One evening Tom met the saloon-keeper when out walking. The latter had not at that time given up securing Tom's patronage. "Good-evening, young feller," said Jack. Tom answered the greeting politely. "Why don't you come round to the saloon evenings? We always have a jolly crowd there. After a hard day's work it'll do you good to take a social glass." "I would rather not drink, thank you," said Tom. "You ain't afraid of a little drink, I hope, are you?" "Yes, I would rather let it alone." "Oh, you're too good to live," said Jack, in deep disgust. "I hope not," answered Tom, smiling; "for I hope to live a good many years." That was the last attempt Missouri Jack made to secure Tom as a patron. Our hero spoke in so decided a tone that he understood the uselessness of the attempt. Two months passed, and Tom heard nothing from John Miles. He was not surprised or disquieted, for he knew that mails to the interior were very irregular, and, besides, Miles might not be fond of letter-writing. He took it for granted that the seventy-five dollars had been forwarded home, and were now in his father's hands. He had saved as much more, and would like to have sent that too, for its possession gave him anxiety; but there seemed to be no opportunity. About this time he received two letters. The first was from John Miles, written from San Francisco. After acquainting Tom with his loss of the bag of gold-dust, he proceeded:-- "I should not have cared so much, Tom, had the loss been mine only; but it was hard to think that I had lost your money too, and was unable to pay it back. I know, from what you said, that your father needed the money, and that the delay would put him to a good deal of inconvenience. You shall have it all back, Tom, every cent; but you will have to wait awhile. On reaching Frisco I got work, and soon saved up enough to pay the debt, when, as bad luck would have it, I fell sick, and before I got well all my money had been used up. Now I am well again, and at work, and if I have good luck will be able soon to send on the money to your father. I know you will understand the circumstances, and will excuse the delay. "The very day I discovered my loss I had a chance to marry a fortune. You will stare at that, and wonder how it happened. At a lonely cabin I made the acquaintance of a widow, who was looking out for a second husband. She was left with a comfortable property, which, with her hand, she was willing to bestow upon your friend; but she didn't tempt me much. I believe her fortune amounted to five thousand dollars and a claim. It would be a good chance for you, if you were old enough, Tom. "I don't know when this letter will reach you, for the country mails--at least to such out-of-the-way places as River Bend--go quite irregularly. However, I hope you will get it after a while, and won't be too much troubled about the money; if I live it shall be repaid." Tom showed this letter to Ferguson. "It's a pity, my lad, that the money was stolen," said the Scotchman; "but you'll get it again. John Miles is an honest man." "I am sure of that, Mr. Ferguson. I don't know that I ought to make him pay it back, though. It isn't his fault that it was lost." "That's true, my lad, and you might offer to share the loss with him, but I doubt if he would accept your offer. He will feel better to pay it all back." "At any rate I will write him, and make him the offer." "That's fair, Tom; but you'll see what he'll say." It may be stated here that Miles utterly declined to accept any abatement of the debt. "I ought to have taken better care of the money," he said. "It's my fault, and I shall pay it in full." The next letter was from home. Tom opened and read it eagerly. It was mainly from his father, but there was a note from each member of the family. His father wrote:-- MY DEAR TOM,--We are glad to hear that you have reached California after a wearisome journey, and are now at work. We have travelled so little that we can hardly realize that you are more than three thousand miles away from us, with so many mountains, plains, and valleys between. Of course you cannot tell us much in your letters of your various experiences. I wish we could have you with us this evening, and hear some of them from your own lips. I am anxious to hear that you are succeeding in the object of your journey, and that you will not find the stories of the rich gold fields greatly exaggerated. I do not myself believe all I hear, yet I think there must be gold enough to pay those who search for it diligently. You must remember, my dear boy, that hard work is better than luck, and more to be relied upon. Don't expect to make your fortune all at once by finding a big nugget, but work steadily, and you will meet with more or less success. If you succeed moderately, I shall be glad you went away, for here prospects are not very good. Our little farm seems to be less productive every year. The soil is not very good, as you know, and I cannot afford fertilizers. This year the crops were not as good as usual, and we have felt the decrease sensibly. If there were not a mortgage on the farm, I could get along very well, but the interest now amounts to one hundred and thirty-two dollars annually, and it is hard to get that amount together. Next month sixty-six dollars come due, and I don't know how I am to find the money. Squire Hudson could afford to wait; but I am afraid he won't. The older and richer he gets, the more grasping he becomes, I sometimes think. However, I don't want to borrow trouble. If it is absolutely necessary I can sell off one of the cows to raise the money, and before the year comes round I think you will be able to help me. Walter, though only twelve years old,--his thirteenth birthday comes next month,--helps me about the farm, and is very useful in doing chores. He likes farm-work, and will be ready to succeed me in time. As for Sarah, she is a good, sensible girl, and helps her mother in a good many ways. Though I am a poor man, and always expect to remain so, I feel that I am blessed in having good, industrious children, who promise to grow up and do me credit. I should not be willing to exchange one of my boys for Squire Hudson's son Sinclair. He is, to my mind, a very disagreeable boy, who makes himself ridiculous by the airs he puts on. I have seen him once or twice lately when he appeared to have been drinking; but I hope I am mistaken in this. He is an only son, and it would be a pity that he should go astray. Tom looked thoughtful after reading this letter. "Is it bad news, Tom, lad?" asked Ferguson. "Times are hard at home, Mr. Ferguson," answered Tom. "Father is very much in need of money. It would have been a great help to him if he had received that seventy-five dollars." "You have as much as that on hand now, Tom. If it isn't enough, I will lend you some." "Thank you, Mr. Ferguson. You are a good friend, and I wouldn't mind accepting your offer, if I needed it. But father won't need any more than I can send him. Only I don't know how to get it to him." "If you were in San Francisco, you would have no difficulty in sending the money." "No." "I've been thinking, Tom," said Ferguson, after a while, "that it might be a good plan for us to take a little vacation, and visit the city. We have been working steadily here over three months, and the change would do us good. Besides, we might on the way come across some better place. This isn't as good now as when we began to work it." "That is true," said Tom. "Suppose, then, we stay a week longer, sell out our claim if we can, and start in the direction of the city." "You and I?" "Yes; we shall be better off without company." "We had better not let Peabody know we are going, or he will want to accompany us." "I could almost be willing to take him, poor creature, to get him away from that Missouri Jack; but, as you say, he would not be a help to us." So it was decided that, in a few days, as soon as they were ready, Tom and Ferguson should leave River Bend. CHAPTER XIII. A SPECULATIVE INVESTMENT. It leaked out after a while that Tom and Ferguson were intending to leave River Bend, and considerable regret was expressed by the other members of the party. Tom was a general favorite. His youth and his obliging disposition made him liked by all except Missouri Jack and his set. It cannot be said that his Scotch friend was popular, but he was, at all events, highly respected as a man of high principle and rigid honesty. This was not the way the miners expressed it. They called him a "square" man, and that word expressed high moral praise. They all felt that Tom was going off in good company. Before they went, the two had a chance for a speculation. Two weeks before, a man came to River Bend, across the country, with a horse and wagon, the latter an old express wagon, which he had brought round the Horn from some one of the Eastern States. What had induced him to take so much trouble to convey such bulky articles was not quite clear. Now that he was a miner he had no use for them, and at River Bend they were not saleable. This man, Abner Kent, came to Ferguson's tent, where he and Tom were resting after the labors of the day. He was a tall man, with a shambling gait and an angular face. "Good-evening," he said. "If you ain't busy I'll sit down a few minutes." "We are glad to see you Mr. Kent," said Ferguson. "Tom and I were discussing our plans, but we've plenty of time for that. Come in. Here's a place for you." "I hear that you are going to leave us, you two?" "Yes, Tom has some business in San Francisco, and I want to see a little more of the country." "How are you going?" "We'll take the cars if we can find any," answered Tom. "If we can't we'll foot it." "That's what I came to see you about. You know I've got a horse and wagon." "Yes." "Why don't you buy it? You'll go easier and quicker." "We can't afford it," said Ferguson. "Poor men must walk." "You don't see the point. When you get through with the team, you can easily sell them for more than you gave. It will be a good speculation." "That will depend on how much we give," said the Scotchman, shrewdly. "To be sure, Mr. Ferguson. Now about that, I'll be easy. They ain't any good to me here. I'll take--let me see--four hundred dollars cash. You'll maybe double your money inside of a month." The team did seem cheap at this price, as prices of all articles in a new country are very much enhanced. "Tom and I will talk it over and let you know to-morrow morning," said Ferguson. "That's all right. It's a good chance for you." When Kent was gone Tom asked, "What do you think of his offer, Mr. Ferguson?" "I think it will be a good investment, Tom, and that we shall be less likely to be robbed than if we carried gold-dust with us. You know how John Miles got robbed." "I have only a hundred dollars," said Tom, doubtfully. "I have enough to add to it, but I think we can get the team cheaper. I don't want to beat the man down, but a bargain is a bargain, and we must look out for our own interest." "You know more about such things than I do, Mr. Ferguson; I will agree to anything you say." "Very well, my lad, I shall be sure to consult your interest as well as my own. It will be very comfortable for us to have a team of our own." "It will seem strange to me," said Tom, laughing. "What will they think at home when they hear that I have set up a carriage?" "They might think it imprudent to invest all you had in that way; but we'll make money out of it yet, or I am sorely mistaken." The next morning, while Tom and Ferguson were at work, Kent came up to them. "What have you decided about the team?" he asked. "We are not willing to pay four hundred dollars," said Ferguson. "That's a fair price." "It may be, but it will take all the money Tom and I can raise. You know it wouldn't be quite prudent for us to part with all our funds." "I will take a note for part of the money," said Kent. "That's very considerate of you, but scarcely prudent." "Then don't you want it at all?" asked Kent, disappointed. "Yes; we are prepared with an offer. We'll give you three hundred dollars." Kent shook his head. "That's too little," he said. Ferguson remained silent. He wished to give Kent time to reflect upon his offer. "Have you sold these claims of yours?" asked Kent, after a pause. "No." "Then add them to your offer, and I accept it." This proposal struck Ferguson favorably. They could not carry away their claims, and very possibly no other purchaser might offer, as, except as regards location, other places along the river-bank could be had without cost. "What do you say, Tom?" asked Ferguson. "I agree if you do, Mr. Ferguson." "Then it's a bargain, Mr. Kent. I hope it'll prove satisfactory to both of us." "I don't think you'll regret it. It's a good speculation." When the two friends had settled for their purchase, Tom paying one hundred and Ferguson two hundred dollars, our hero found himself left with twenty dollars, or its equivalent in gold-dust, while his companion had about one hundred and fifty left over. "We shall go off in style," said Tom; "riding in our own carriage. But there's one thing I have been thinking of. I want to send a hundred dollars home as soon as I get the chance. Suppose we can't sell the team?" "Have no fears about that, Tom. I'll lend you the money if that is the case; but, mark my word, we shan't have it left on our hands, of that you may be sure." The night before they were to start Lawrence Peabody dropped in. He was looking down in the mouth. "How does the world use you, Mr. Peabody?" inquired Tom. "Fortune is against me," said Peabody. "I'm tired of River Bend." Tom glanced at his companion. He could guess what was coming. "Won't you take me with you, Tom?" entreated the young Bostonian. "You must ask Mr. Ferguson. He is the head of our party." Peabody looked appealingly towards Ferguson, but the Scotchman shook his head. "You mustn't be offended, Mr. Peabody," he said, "when I tell you that you are responsible for your own bad luck. You have had just as good a chance as Tom or I." "Your claim was better." "There was no difference that I can see, except that we worked, and you didn't. You don't expect gold to come to you?" "You and Tom are more used to hard work than I," murmured Peabody. "If you did not feel able to work, you should not have come to California. A man must work harder here than at home, and then he stands a chance of succeeding better." "Then you won't take me?" asked Peabody, sadly. "Are you in debt to Captain Fletcher for board?" Peabody reluctantly admitted that he was, but had no idea how much he owed. "Fletcher tells me that he shall not trust you any longer." Lawrence Peabody looked frightened. "What shall I do?" he faltered. "I shall starve." "You can't blame the captain; he knows that you spend the little money you do earn at the saloon. But he will give you a chance. There is no one to wash clothes in the camp, and we have all observed that you keep yours looking well. If you will set up a laundry, you can make more money than in any other way." "But then I should be a common washer-woman," objected Peabody. "What would my friends in Boston say?" "They won't hear of it. Besides, a man can do here what he would not do at home." It may be stated here that Peabody, finding work absolutely needful, went into partnership with a Chinaman, who arrived at the camp a day or two later, and succeeded in making a fair living, which hitherto he had been unable to do. After he was employed, his visits to the saloon became less frequent. At times he was disturbed by the fear that his friends at home might learn the character of his employment; apart from this he found his new business, with the income it yielded, not distasteful. CHAPTER XIV. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. Having made all necessary preparations, Ferguson and Tom set out on their way. They took a course differing somewhat from that chosen by John Miles, one object being to survey the country, and find, if possible, a suitable place for continuing their search for gold. After their three months' steady work both of our travellers were prepared to enjoy the journey. Their road was difficult at times, from its steepness, and more than once they found it necessary, out of consideration for the horse, to get out and walk. But this only added to the romantic charm of the trip. "It's like a constant picnic," said Tom. "I should like to travel this way for a year, if I did not feel the need of working." "We might tire of it after a while," suggested Ferguson,--"in the rainy season, for example." "That would not be so pleasant, to be sure," Tom admitted. "Do you have such fine scenery in Scotland, Mr. Ferguson?" "Our mountains are not so high, my lad, nor our trees so gigantic; but it's the associations that make them interesting. Every hill has a legend connected with it, and our great novelist, Walter Scott, has invested them with a charm that draws pilgrims from all parts of the world to see them. Now this is a new country--beautiful, I grant, but without a history. Look around you, and you will see nothing to remind you of man. It is nature on a grand scale, I admit, but the soul is wanting." "I like mountains," said Tom, thoughtfully. "There is something grand about them." "There are some famous mountains in your native State, New Hampshire, are there not, Tom?" "Yes; but I have only seen them from a distance. They are not above thirty miles away from where I was born; but poor people don't travel in search of scenery, Mr. Ferguson." "No, my lad, and there's another thing I have noticed. We don't care much for the curiosities that are near us. The people about here, if there are any settled inhabitants, care nothing about the mountains, I doubt." "That is true. In our village at home there is an old man nearly eighty years old who has never visited the mountains, though he has lived near them all his life." "I can well believe it, my lad. But what is that?" The sound which elicited this exclamation was a loud "Hollo!" evidently proceeding from some one in their rear. Both Tom and the Scotchman turned, and their eyes rested on a horseman evidently spurring forward to overtake them. Tom, who was driving, reined in the horse, and brought him to a stop. The horseman was soon even with them. He was evidently a Yankee. All Yankees do not carry about with them an unmistakable certificate of their origin, but Ebenezer Onthank was a typical New Englander. His face was long and thin, his expression shrewd and good-natured, his limbs were long and ungainly. In later life, with the addition of forty or fifty pounds of flesh, he would be much improved in appearance. "Good-morning, gentlemen," said he. "It seems kinder good to see a human face again. It ain't very populous round here, is it?" "We haven't seen any large towns," said Tom, smiling. "Where are you steerin'?" inquired the Yankee. "I'm expectin' to fetch up at San Francisco some time, if I don't get lost in the woods." "That is our destination, my friend," returned Ferguson. "Would you mind my joining your party?" asked Onthank. "It's lonesome travelin' by one's self without a soul to speak to." "We shall be glad of your company," said the Scotchman, sincerely, for, though naturally cautious, he could not suspect the new-comer of anything which would make him an undesirable companion. "Perhaps you'd like to know who I am," said the new acquaintance. "My name is Ebenezer Onthank, from Green Mountain Mills, in Vermont. My father is deacon of the Baptist Church at home." "I suppose you will take his place when you get older," said Tom, gravely. "No, I guess not. I wonder what Susan Jones would say to my bein' a deacon!" and Ebenezer burst into a loud laugh. "Is Miss Jones a particular friend of yours?" asked Tom, slyly. "I should say she was. Why, I expect to marry her when I get home." "I congratulate you." "Don't be too fast. We ain't hitched yet. Say, boy, where do you come from?" "From Vernon, in New Hampshire." "You don't say! Why, that ain't more'n fifty miles from Green Mountain Mills; cu'rus we should meet so fur away from hum, ain't it? When did you start?" "Seven or eight months ago." "I've been in California six months. Does that gentleman come from your town?" "My friend," answered the Scotchman, not without a touch of pride, "I am not an American; I am from the Highlands of Scotland." "You be? Sho! Well, of course you can't help that." "Help it, sir? I am proud of hailing from the land of Scott and Burns." "Well, I guess it's a pretty nice sort of country," said Mr. Onthank, patronizingly. "I guess you'll like America best, though." "I am by no means sure of that, my friend," said Ferguson, a little nettled. "America's all very well, but--" "Why, you could put Scotland into its waist-coat pocket, and there'd be plenty of room left," said Ebenezer, energetically. "I admit that, as regards size, Scotland cannot compare with this country." "Say, have you got mountains as high as them, or trees as high as that?" pointing to a gigantic redwood. "No; but size is not everything." "That's so. Vermont is a little State, but she's smart, I tell you. But you haven't told me your names yet." "I am called Donald Ferguson, Mr. Onthank. My young friend here answers to the name of Thomas Nelson." "Commonly called Tom," added our hero, smiling. "Why, I've got a brother Tom," said Mr. Onthank. "Cu'rus, isn't it?" Considering that Tom is by no means an uncommon name, it could hardly be called very remarkable, but Tom politely assented. "Is he older than I am?" he inquired. "Yes, my brother Tom is twenty-one years old. I expect he voted at the last town-meeting. I'm four years older than Tom." "Have you been fortunate so far in California, Mr. Onthank?" "Can't say I have. I guess I've wandered round too much. Been a sort of rollin' stone; and my granny used to say that a rollin' stone gathers no moss. I've got about enough money to get me to San Francisco, and I own this animal; but I haven't made a fortune yet. What luck have you two had?" "Pretty fair, but it will take a good while to make our fortunes. We own this team, and that's about all we do own." "A sort of an express wagon, isn't it?" "Yes." "Ain't goin' into the express business, be you?" "Probably not. We bought it on speculation." "That reminds me of old Sam Bailey in our town. He was always tradin' horses. Sometimes he made money, and then again he didn't. How much did you give?" Tom told him. "That was a pretty stiff price, wasn't it?" "It would be considered so at home, but we hope to get a good deal more, when we come to sell it." Their new friend kept on with them, amusing them with his homely sayings, and original views of things. His conversation beguiled the tedium of the journey, so that all were surprised when the shadows deepened, and supper-time came. Selecting a favorable place they encamped for the night. CHAPTER XV. A GRIZZLY BEAR. Ebenezer Onthank was an early riser. He had been brought up on a farm, where, during a part of the year it was the custom for the "menfolks" to rise between four and five o'clock in the morning to begin the labors of the day. His old habit clung to him, and at five o'clock, when Tom and Ferguson were yet asleep, Mr. Onthank sprang from his leafy couch refreshed and vigorous. Seeing his companions yet sleeping, he concluded to take a walk. "It'll give me an appetite for breakfast," thought he, "and a chance to see something of the country." As to the appetite, Ebenezer was generally well provided. Indeed, latterly his appetite had exceeded his means of gratifying it, and more than once he had longed to be back at his old home in the Vermont farm-house, where the table was always generously, if not elegantly, furnished. If Ebenezer had a special weakness it was for doughnuts, which he called nut-cakes. "If I only had a few of marm's nut-cakes," he had said the night before to his new-found friends, "I'd be a happy man." "What are nut-cakes?" asked the Scotchman, puzzled. "Don't you know what nut-cakes are?" inquired Ebenezer, astonished at Ferguson's ignorance. "I never heard of them before," said Ferguson. "Well, I declare! I thought everybody knew what nut-cakes are," ejaculated the Yankee. "Don't you ever make 'em in Scotland?" "Not that I ever heard." "Then you don't know what is good. You know what they are, Tom?" "Oh, yes," said Tom, smiling. "We often have them at home. Perhaps Mr. Ferguson would understand better if he heard them called doughnuts or crullers." Thus defined Mr. Ferguson acknowledged that he had heard of them, and he thought he had once tasted one. Scotland, however, fell considerably in the estimation of Mr. Onthank, when he learned that his favorite article of food was almost unknown in that distant country. "You Scotchmen don't know what is good," he said. "If you ever come to Green Mountain Mills, I'll get marm to fry a batch of nut-cakes, and you'll say they're goloptious." This last word was not familiar to Ferguson, but the smack of the lips with which it was accompanied made it sufficiently intelligible. He assured Ebenezer politely that he hoped some day to accept his kind invitation. When Ebenezer left the camp he had no definite plan of exploration. Everything was alike new to him, and it mattered little in what direction his steps led him. It was a charming morning. The sun had risen, and hill and valley were glorified by its slanting rays. The air was bracing, and Ebenezer, though neither a poet nor a sentimentalist, felt his spirits rise, as with vigorous steps he strode on, letting his eyes wander at will over the landscape. "Looks kinder han'some," he said to himself. "I wish Susan Jones was with me now. Gals like to walk round and look at scenery, and pick flowers, and so on. As for me, a good field of corn suits me better than all the flowers in the world. They're only good to smell of; out here though I'd like a good 'claim' best. It seems cu'rus to think how much money you can get sometimes from a hole in the ground. Beats cornfields for profit, by a great sight, if you only get hold of the right place. I just wish I could find a big nugget, as big as my head. I guess it would make me the richest man in Green Mountain Mills. I'd be a bigger man than the old deacon. They'd be glad to make me selectman, and perhaps send me to Montpelier after a while to make laws. Well, there's no knowin' what may turn up. Why shouldn't I light on a nugget as well as the next man?" In this pleasant channel the thoughts of our Yankee adventurer were running as he strode over the uneven ground, with all the vigor gained by his hardy training. But his walk was destined to be interrupted in a decidedly unpleasant manner. All at once he became conscious of a huge object, scarcely thirty yards distant, whose attention he had already attracted. Mr. Onthank had been long enough in California to recognize in the huge, unwieldy figure--a grizzly bear! Ebenezer Onthank was no coward, but it must be admitted that when he saw the eyes of the grizzly fixed upon him he turned pale, and his limbs trembled. He had heard from fellow-miners stories of the great strength and ferocity of this most formidable beast. The grizzly bear shows no fear of man. He is always ready to make an attack, even when not stimulated by hunger. Even the lion is crafty and cunning, and likes to attack his enemy unawares; but the grizzly boldly advances to the attack without seeking to surprise his adversary. If out of humor it makes no account of odds, but will as readily attack a party as a single foe. Col. Albert S. Evans, the author of an interesting volume, containing sketches of life in California, says, "I am satisfied that an average grizzly could at any time whip the strongest African lion in a fair stand-up fight, while a full-grown bull is no more to him than a rat is to the largest house-cats." Twenty-five years ago the grizzly was to be found in various parts of California. As the State has become settled his haunts have become contracted, but even now, as the writer just quoted assures us, he is still found in great numbers in the Coast Range Mountains from San Diego to Del Norte. In describing Samson, a famous specimen once on exhibition in San Francisco, we are told that "his strength was that of an elephant, and his claws, eight inches in length, curved like a rainbow and sharp as a knife, would enable him to tear open anything made of flesh and blood as you or I would open a banana." Such was the new acquaintance who confronted Mr. Onthank, and barred his progress. "Jerusalem!" ejaculated the surprised and dismayed Yankee, and he instinctively felt for his rifle. But, alas! he had left it in the camp. It was thoughtless and imprudent to venture out unarmed; but the scene was so quiet and peaceful that no thought of danger had entered the mind of our unlucky friend. The bear sat upon his haunches, and stared at the intruder. Ebenezer, brought to a stand-still, returned his gaze. They were less than a hundred feet apart, and the situation was decidedly critical. "I guess he wants to chaw me up for his breakfast," thought Ebenezer, despairingly, "and I don't see what I can do to prevent it." The bear, however, seemed in no hurry to commence the attack. He surveyed our Yankee with dignified gravity, conscious that he had him at advantage. When Ebenezer felt for his rifle he uttered a low growl, being possibly aware of his purpose. Possibly he laughed in his sleeve (some of my young critics may suggest that bears have no sleeves) at his failure. Ebenezer looked about him despairingly. No man will surrender at discretion to a grizzly, for he can hope for no mercy. But what could be done? Once subjected to the terrible hug, and the life would be crushed out of him in less than a minute. "If Ferguson and Tom were only here!" thought poor Ebenezer. But the camp was at least two miles away, and his two companions, unconscious of his terrible peril, were calmly sleeping, and not likely to awaken till he was a crushed and bleeding corpse. In great crises the mind travels rapidly. I shall not attempt to record the thoughts that chased one another through the mind of the luckless adventurer. But they were by no means pleasant. "I shall never see Green Mountain Mills again," he thought, with an inward groan. "I shall never marry Susan Jones, or eat any of marm's nut-cakes. If I only had my rifle here, I'd make one effort for my life. I'd spoil the beauty of that ugly devil anyhow." Still, as if charmed, he stood staring open-eyed at the grizzly. Bruin, deciding that this had lasted long enough, began in a slow and dignified manner to approach the intruder upon his solitude. This broke the charm. With a wild shout Ebenezer Onthank took to his heels and flew over the ground at a rate of speed which Weston, the champion runner, would scarcely be able to equal. The grizzly accepted the challenge, and increased his own speed, developing an activity hardly to be expected of his huge and unwieldy form. It was man against beast, with the odds decidedly in the favor of the latter. CHAPTER XVI. UP A TREE. The race between the Yankee and the bear was an exciting one, to the former at least. He was fleet of foot, and in a hundred yards' dash would have won without great difficulty; but in wind and endurance the grizzly excelled him. So, as the race continued, Mr. Onthank, looking back from time to time, was painfully conscious that his enemy was gaining upon him. The perspiration came out upon his face in large drops, and he panted painfully. He felt that the chances were against him, and he could almost feel in advance the fatal hug which would slowly press the life out of him. As he felt his strength failing he looked around him despairingly. Just before him was a moderate-sized tree. Though he knew that bears can climb, he gathered his remaining strength, seized a low hanging branch, and swung himself up just in time to avoid his persistent foe, who was close upon his heels. He did not tarry where he was, but climbed higher up, until from a height of twenty feet he could look down upon the bear. Bruin looked up placidly, but did not begin to climb at once. Probably he was fatigued with his race. Moreover he knew that his intended victim could not get away. The latter was emphatically and literally "treed." The bear sat upon his haunches and complacently regarded the Yankee. Ebenezer Onthank made himself as comfortable as he could under the circumstances. He was by no means easy in mind, however. He was "holding the fort," it is true; but the enemy was in force outside, and evidently intended to remain. Worse still, he would probably after a while climb the tree, and this would bring matters to a crisis. "You pesky critter! Why don't you go along about your business?" exclaimed the unhappy adventurer, shaking his fist at the foe. Bruin deigned no reply, but continued to survey him with steady, unwinking eyes. "If I only had a gun, I'd pepper you," continued Ebenezer. "I should like to put a bullet into that impudent eye of yours." Though the bear had never received an English education, his instinct probably enabled him to understand the feelings of his intended victim, but he remained as placid as ever. So an hour passed. At the end of that time the situation remained unchanged. The unfortunate Yankee was getting hungry, as well as tired of his somewhat constrained position. Bears probably have more patience than the human family, for Bruin had scarcely moved, except occasionally to wag his great head. He felt that in the game that was being played it was his adversary's turn to make the next move. "I wish Tom and the Scotchman would find me out," thought Onthank. "What on earth makes them sleep so late?" he continued, irritably. "They must be naturally lazy." He may be excused for feeling irritated, though there was no particular reason to expect his two friends to curtail their hours of slumber because he had done so. But he was not in a position where it is easy to be reasonable, and in his situation every minute seemed to him as long as five. Meanwhile, in the camp, a mile away, Tom and Ferguson had awakened. "How did you sleep, Tom?" asked the Scotchman. "Tip-top. Did you rest well?" "I have a gift of sleep," replied Ferguson. "But where is our Yankee friend?" "I suppose he has taken an early walk," said Tom. "He will be back before long, I guess. We'd better not wait breakfast for him. I'm hungry for one." The two friends proceeded to break their fast, washing down the rather stale provisions with water from a spring near by. "I wish it were coffee," said Tom. "I'm tired of cold water." "Doubtless the coffee would be more gratifying to the palate, Tom; but it's likely the water is better for the health." "I suppose you would refuse a cup of hot coffee, Mr. Ferguson, if it were offered you," said Tom, smiling. "I don't say that, Tom. I would risk its effect upon my health for once. But, as we haven't got it, we may as well make the best of what we have." Soon after their simple meal, which did not consume much time, Tom suggested to his companion that they set out in search of Mr. Onthank. He did not suspect that their missing companion was in trouble, but he thought that it would be pleasant to take a walk. "You can go, if you like, Tom," said Ferguson, with characteristic caution. "I will remain behind to look after the camp." "All right, Mr. Ferguson. I'll soon be back." "Don't go too far away, my lad; and mind your bearings, so that you can find your way back." "Never fear, Mr. Ferguson. It wouldn't be very easy to be lost here. I'll keep my eyes open, and bring Mr. Onthank back with me if I see him anywhere." Ferguson sat down, and indulged himself in reading, probably for the hundredth time, Walter Scott's Marmion, of which he had a small pocket edition; while Tom went on his way. A fortunate chance directed our hero by an almost straight course to the very tree where Ebenezer Onthank was still perched with the grizzly standing guard beneath. From time to time he looked about him anxiously, in the hope of seeing the approach of one of his travelling companions. It was with a feeling of joy, not wholly unmingled with anxiety, that he descried Tom descending a hillock not many rods away. As yet it was evident that our hero had not caught sight of the bear and his prisoner. It was very necessary to put him on his guard. "Tom!" shouted Mr. Onthank, at the top of his voice. Tom heard the call in spite of the distance, and looked about him, but did not immediately catch sight of the speaker. It did not occur to him to look upwards. "Tom!" shouted the Yankee again. "Here I am. Look up in the tree." That time Tom's glance detected his companion, and, not yet having discovered the bear, he was led to wonder why Mr. Onthank had climbed the tree. As he was advancing incautiously, Onthank shouted again, "There's a cursed grizzly under the tree. Don't come too near." Tom saw the bear, and he paused suddenly. He was startled in truth, for he had been long enough in California to be aware that it was a dangerous beast. "Isn't Ferguson with you?" asked Onthank, anxiously, for he knew that a boy of sixteen, even if armed, was no match for the king of the California sierras. "No, he's behind in the camp," shouted Tom, in reply. By this time the bear became aware that there was a second intruder within his precincts. He turned his head deliberately and surveyed our hero. It is not within the range of the author to read the thoughts of a grizzly, but, from the indifference with which he turned away and resumed his watch, it may be inferred that he considered Tom too small game to merit his attention. This was rather satisfactory to our young hero, who was not ambitious to come in close quarters with so formidable an antagonist. Startled as he was, Tom maintained his ground. He wanted to help Onthank; but he did not know how to do it. "What can I do to help you, Mr. Onthank?" shouted Tom. "Blamed if I know," answered the Yankee, helplessly. "I wish Ferguson were here. It won't do for you to attack the beast single-handed." "Shall I go back for Ferguson?" asked Tom. "I don't know; how far away is the camp?" "It must be as much as a mile." "While you are away the brute may take it into his head to climb the tree, and then I am gone up." "Haven't you any weapon?" "No." "I'll fire at the bear if you say so." "It would be of no use. If you missed, or only grazed him, he would make for you." "I wish you had my rifle," said Tom. "So do I. I'd let him have it straight in the eye. Have you had breakfast?" "Yes." "I'm as hungry as a bear--as this bear who probably wants me for his breakfast. O Tom, if I was only back at Green Mountain Mills once more, I'd be content to live and die there, and all the gold in California wouldn't bring me out here again." Tom stood silent and perplexed. While he was considering whether he could do anything to help his friend, the bear slowly rose, approached the tree, and, grasping it between his paws, prepared to climb. He was evidently tired of waiting. "He's coming, Tom!" shouted Onthank. "O Lord, what shall I do?" CHAPTER XVII. AN EXCITING PURSUIT. Mr Onthank's reflections when the grizzly was slowly but steadily climbing the tree were by no means pleasant. "If he once grips me, I am gone," he said, despairingly. "Shall I shoot?" asked Tom, looking on in excitement. "You might hit me," said Ebenezer, who knew nothing of Tom's skill as a marksman. "No, I won't." "I think I'll swing off," said the Yankee, "and join you." Whether this was or was not a wise thing to do Tom did not feel qualified to decide. It was evident that Onthank must do something speedily, or he would be in the power of the bear. He waited nervously till Bruin was uncomfortably near, and then, seizing the branch with his hands, swung to the ground. The height was considerable, and the fall jarred him; but, quickly recovering himself, he ran towards Tom. "Now we must run for our lives, Tom," he said, suiting the action to the word. Tom fully understood the necessity, and followed suit, first hazarding a glance at the discomfited bear. When the grizzly witnessed the escape of his victim he showed no excitement, nor did he accelerate his motions. He began deliberately to back down the tree. This required some little time, which Tom and his friend made the most of. "Give me your rifle," said Onthank. "I'd rather keep it," said Tom. "I can make better use of it," said the Yankee. "I don't know about that," said Tom. "At any rate I will keep it." He felt that it was hardly reasonable to expect him, in the presence of such a danger, to give up his only instrument of defence. "You are only a boy," said his companion, discontented. "I can shoot," answered Tom, briefly. Onthank was not in general an unreasonable man, but danger makes men selfish. "Give it to me," he said, in a tone of authority, and he tried to wrest it from Tom's hands. "You shall not have it," exclaimed Tom, indignantly. "Take away your hand, or I'll shoot you!" Of course Tom was excited, and would not have carried out his threat, but he was fully resolved to stand up for his rights. Whether Ebenezer would have yielded the point, being stronger than Tom, is uncertain; but our hero shouted "Look out for the bear!" and the Yankee, in alarm, released his hold, and the two entered upon a race, in which the Yankee's superior length of limb enabled him to keep the first place. Bruin was now on terra firma, and was on his way, wagging his great head, developing an alarming rate of speed. Tom was somewhat hampered by the weapon which he carried, and he was getting out of breath. Onthank was three or four rods ahead of him. The situation had changed, and it was now Tom that was in the greater peril. "Don't give out, Tom!" called out Ebenezer, encouragingly. "I won't," gasped Tom, "if I can help it." "Is he gaining on us?" "Yes," returned our hero. "Then I'll try another tree," said Onthank, and he caught a branch, and clambered up into a tree quite similar to the other in which he had been besieged. Tom would gladly have followed his example, but the branch was too high for him to reach readily, and the grizzly was too near to give him adequate time. Poor boy! He began to despair, and was at an utter loss what to do. To face round and fire at the foe seemed about all that was left him, but he wanted to reserve his fire to the last. He caught sight of another tree, of a larger trunk than the one which Onthank had ascended, and ran towards it, pursued by the grizzly. Then commenced a dodging game, which seemed to afford but a brief respite from destruction. "This can't last long," thought poor Tom. "I suppose I must die." In that brief time of peril many thoughts passed through his mind. To die at his age would be sad enough; but the thought that his expedition would be a failure, only involving his father deeper in difficulty and debt chiefly troubled him. The mortgage would be foreclosed, and his father and whole family deprived of their humble home. Onthank watched the boy's peril, unable to give him assistance. To do him justice he almost forgot his own danger in the more apparent and immediate peril of his young companion. "Be careful!" he shouted, quite needlessly. "Don't let him grip you. Give it to him right in the eye." Tom was so absorbed, and his mind so painfully occupied by his efforts to keep out of his enemy's clutches, that he was not conscious of the warning. Active and alert as he was, the result was hardly a matter of doubt. He would tire sooner than the bear, and if he ran again he was sure to be overtaken. This, however, was what he did. Of course the grizzly instantly pursued him. Poor Tom breathed a prayer for help, though there seemed no chance of his prayer being answered; but sometimes God sends assistance when there seems no chance of escape. The galloping of a horse was heard. There was a whirling sound, and Bruin, already within two yards of Tom, was jerked back, and brought to a stand-still by a lasso which wound about his neck. A shout caused Tom suddenly to turn his head, and to his joy he saw a mounted Mexican _vaquero_, who had brought him timely relief. Bruin growled angrily on finding himself balked of his prey. He was not disposed to yield to his new antagonist. Rising and sitting on his haunches he began coolly to draw in the lasso, against the combined strength of man and horse. The muscular force of a big grizzly is simply enormous. Usually he is attacked from two sides, two lassos being thrown around him. For a single antagonist he is sometimes more than a match, as seemed likely in the present case. The _rieta_ being attached to the pommel of the saddle, of course the bear, in pulling as he did, hand over hand, steadily brought the _vaquero_ and his steed nearer. The horse, terrified, trembled in every limb, and tried to rear; but his strength was as nothing when opposed to the steady power of his massive antagonist. Relieved from the immediate attentions of the grizzly, Tom did not continue to run, but stood still, and, forgetting his own peril, remained an excited spectator of the struggle between the bear and the _vaquero_. The Mexican in an excited manner shouted to him to shoot. This brought Tom to a sense of his duty. A third person had been brought into danger by an effort to give him assistance, and he was too manly to leave him to his fate. He raised his rifle, and, taking quick aim, fired. Our young hero was of course inexperienced, and it was only by a piece of good fortune that his bullet inflicted a serious wound, striking the bear in the throat. The blood began to flow and the grizzly, growling fiercely, slackened his hold on the lasso. The _vaquero_ followed up Tom's shot by another, equally effective, and the powerful animal dropped to the ground, dangerous still if approached, but unfitted for pursuit. The _vaquero_ reined his horse back, and his dark face became illumined with a smile of satisfaction. "He will do no more harm," he said in good English, but with a foreign accent. "The danger is over." "Is the critter used up?" shouted Onthank, cautiously, from his elevated perch. "Is he defunct?" "He soon will be," answered Tom. "I guess it will be safe to come down." Ebenezer Onthank needed no second invitation. He "shinned" down the tree in a manner not unlike the grizzly, and approached the spot where the huge foe was lying, the life-blood flowing from his throat. "I'd like to kick you, you big brute!" said Mr. Onthank. The bear slowly turned upon him his glazing eyes, and they expressed so much ferocity that almost involuntarily the Yankee drew back. The bear partly raised himself, and tried to drag himself towards his adversaries; but the effort was vain. "He is one of the largest I have seen," said the _vaquero_. "See how strong he is!" "It was lucky for me that you came up," said Tom. "He was almost upon me." "I had about given you up, Tom," said Onthank, "and I thought my turn was coming next." "We are much indebted to you, sir," said Tom, gratefully, to the Mexican. "You have saved my life." The _vaquero_ courteously expressed his satisfaction, and, remounting his horse, resumed his journey. "I never want to see another grizzly," said Onthank. "This one is enough for me, darn his ugly pictur'!" "I quite agree with you, Mr. Onthank," said Tom. CHAPTER XVIII. TOM'S OLD HOME. Leaving Tom for a time, we will cross the continent, and, a little earlier in point of time, look in upon Mark Nelson and his family at their humble home in New Hampshire. For years Mr. Nelson had been struggling to provide a comfortable living for his wife and children. The struggle was not an easy one. His small farm was sterile, and yielded grudgingly its annual crops. Then the mortgage held by Squire Hudson imposed a burden of interest very hard to meet. Each half year sixty-six dollars must be raised somehow to satisfy the squire's demand. Though a rich man, with ready money in plenty, he never failed to call for his money on the very day it was due. Once or twice he had granted a delay of a day or two; but his manner was so unpleasant that the farmer, except from dire necessity, was hardly likely to ask a renewal of the favor. The six months immediately following Tom's departure from home were not favorable to his father. There was a drought of considerable duration, which made the crops smaller than usual, and thus materially decreased the farmer's income. When the semi-annual interest became due, with the most energetic effort Mark Nelson had got together but thirty-six dollars towards it, leaving a deficit of thirty dollars. "I feel anxious about to-morrow, Mary," he said, as the little family sat together the night before in the plain sitting-room. "I have never been so much behindhand before with the interest." "How much do you lack, Mark?" asked Mrs. Nelson. "Thirty dollars." "That is a good deal of money," said his wife, gravely. "Yes; I don't know where to raise it. If Squire Hudson were only a little considerate. But he isn't, and, even if he were, I am afraid there is no prospect of my raising the money at present." "You may get some money from Tom soon," suggested Sarah. "I can't rely upon that. Tom will doubtless send when he is able, for he understands my circumstances, and is a thoughtful boy; but it is going to take time for him to earn a surplus--enough to send on." "He may find a big nugget," said Walter, the second boy, who eagerly read the letters from California which from time to time appeared in the weekly paper. "He _may_, but the chances are against it." "I was reading in last week's paper about a man finding a nugget worth over two thousand dollars." "Such nuggets are as rare as large prizes in a lottery, I suspect," said Mark Nelson, who had a large share of plain common-sense. Walter looked rather disappointed, having made up his mind that Tom would certainly find a big lump of gold, and come home rich. "Don't you think Tom will find some gold?" he asked. "Yes, I have no doubt he will gather some gold-dust. I have no doubt, too, that he will earn more than he or I can do at home; but I haven't much faith in these extraordinary pieces of good luck." "Still, Tom _may_ find a nugget," persisted Walter. "Yes, he _may_, and I shall be very glad if he does; but we must not build too many air-castles on that chance." "I wish I could see the dear boy again," sighed his mother, looking up from the stocking she was laboriously darning. "So do I," said Walter. "He would have a lot to tell us." "California seems so far away," resumed Mrs. Nelson, "and he has no one there to look after him, and mend his clothes--" "And darn his stockings," said Walter, smiling. "If he walked all the way across the continent," said Sarah, "I don't believe he would have larger holes in his stockings than you have, Walter." "Oh, well, I exercise a good deal," said Walter. "Ask father if I don't." "Walter will be more successful as a farmer than as a scholar," said Mr. Nelson. "He helps me a good deal." "Tom was a good scholar," said Sarah, "and he was always ready to work too. Walter will never astonish or electrify the world by his learning." "I don't want to," said her brother. "It isn't in my line." "That's true enough." "Don't tease Walter," said Mrs. Nelson. "He helps your father a good deal, and he is not a dunce." "Thank you, mother, for taking my part. Sarah is going to be a strong-minded woman. I should not wonder if she came out as a lecturer on 'Woman's Rights' some time. I think I see her, with a pair of iron-bowed spectacles on her nose, and her back hair tied up in a big knot, flinging her arms about, and--" "That'll do, Walter," said Sarah. "It is an unusually powerful effort for you. I have no desire to lecture on 'Woman's Rights,' though I think they ought to have them all the same." "I guess you'll get yours. You'll make your husband stand round, if you ever get one." Sarah laughed good-naturedly, and retorted, "I shall pity your wife, if she has to darn your stockings." The next day about dinner-time Squire Hudson walked up to the front door, and knocked. His approach was witnessed, not without trepidation, for he was not an easy creditor. The squire looked about him searchingly as he entered. He suspected that the interest was not ready, and the farmer's grave face confirmed his suspicions. That he was glad of this of course Mark Nelson did not dream, for he was not aware of his creditor's deep-laid plans. "A fine day!" said the squire, with suavity. "I hope you are well, Mrs. Nelson." "Pretty well, thank you, sir." "Have you heard from Tom lately?" "Yes; he had just reached California." "Then of course he could not say anything of his prospects?" "It was too soon." "You must miss him a good deal--all of you." "I am thinking of him all the time," said Mrs. Nelson. "To be sure, that is natural in a mother. But if the boy does well, that will repay you hereafter." "If I only felt sure he would do well." "Oh, he is young and industrious. He will be sure to make his way. He'll like it too. Why, my Sinclair envies him the chance of leaving home. He wanted to go with him." "Sinclair would not like to go in the same way as Tom, with the prospect of having to work hard after he got there," said Mark Nelson. "To be sure not, neighbor Nelson. My boy has never been brought up to work. My circumstances--ahem!--have not made it necessary." "Sinclair is fortunate in having a rich father," said the farmer. "So I tell him," said the squire, complacently. "His fortune is already made." "What are you going to do with him, squire?" "Oh, I shall make a professional man of him,--a lawyer, most likely," said the rich man, complacently. "I can give him a suitable income till he gets into a paying practice." "That will be a good many years," thought Sarah, "unless Sinclair works harder than he has lately at school;" but the shrewd young lady kept this thought to herself. One by one wife and children left the room, for it was well understood that the squire came on business, and would be likely to desire a private interview with the farmer. They went into the kitchen, closing the door behind them, and awaited anxiously the result of the interview. "I do hope Squire Hudson will be considerate," said Mrs. Nelson, anxiously. "I am afraid he won't be, mother," said Sarah. "He is a hard man." "Sinclair puts on no end of airs," said Walter. "By the way he struts round you would think he owned the whole town. You had better set your cap for him, Sarah, for he will be rich some day." "I would rather be an old maid than marry him," said Sarah, decidedly. "Very likely your wish will be gratified," said her brother. Mrs. Nelson did not smile at this sally, for her mind was too full of anxiety. CHAPTER XIX. A MODERN SHYLOCK. "I believe your interest falls due to-day, Mr. Nelson," said the squire, when he found himself alone with his debtor. "Yes," answered the farmer, slowly. It was not very likely to slip his mind. "I suppose you have the money ready," continued the squire, who supposed no such thing. "I have a part of it ready," said Mark Nelson, with an effort. "A part," repeated his creditor, with a frown. "Yes; I can give you thirty-six dollars to-day." "_Only_ thirty-six dollars! The amount due is sixty-six." "I know it, Squire Hudson; but this has been a bad year for the farmers, as you probably know. Owing to the drought, my crops fell off at least one quarter." "I can't help that," said the squire, coldly. "If you will be a little patient," said Mr. Nelson, uneasily. "Neighbor Nelson," said his creditor, interrupting him, "I wish to ask you one question. When I lent you money on mortgage was there a stipulation that if there was a drought I was to wait for my just interest?" "No, Squire Hudson." "To be sure not; I would not of course lend you money on any such terms. It was understood that my interest was to be paid semi-annually,--was it not so?" "Yes, but--" "Wait a moment. You must certainly agree that I am entitled to prompt payment. A bargain is a bargain." "I don't dispute it, Squire Hudson, and I have tried to be ready for you; but in spite of all my efforts I am thirty dollars short." "Do you expect me to be content with this explanation?" "I think you are rather hard on me, squire. It isn't as if I had the money and objected to pay. I am a poor man, but no one ever lost a dollar by me; and I don't mean that any one shall, while I have my life and strength." "That's all very well, but it won't make up the thirty dollars in which you are delinquent." "What would you have me do? I cannot _make_ money." "I wouldn't give much for an investment when the interest is delayed. It is no longer worth its face. If any of my railroad bonds defer their usual interest they at once drop in value." "I know very little of railroad bonds, never having any money to invest in them; but I think my farm will be full security for all the money I owe you." "Suppose I should foreclose--you would consider it an unkind thing and a great hardship, wouldn't you?" "It would take away my means of supporting my family. I don't think you would go to extremes, for the sake of thirty dollars." "It isn't the amount of money, neighbor Nelson, that is to be considered. It is the principle that is involved." This is a very common pretext with men who have made up their minds to do a mean thing. Generally speaking it is false, and the money is the first consideration. "Will you give me two months to pay the balance of interest?" asked Mark Nelson. "What better prospect have you of being able to pay me then?" "As soon as Tom has any money to send, he will remit to me. I think it probable that I shall hear from him in the course of two months." "If that is your reliance," said the squire, shrugging his shoulders, "I am afraid you are leaning upon a broken reed. I know boys pretty well, and I fancy Tom will find a use for all the money he earns." "You don't know him, Squire Hudson. He is a very conscientious boy, and understands very well the sacrifice I made in raising money to send him to California. He is not very likely to forget that." "It seems to me that the sacrifice was mine," said the squire, with a half sneer. "If I remember rightly, I advanced the money which he took away with him." Mark Nelson flushed, and he answered warmly, "You did advance the money, Squire Hudson, but I gave you security for it." "And the very first interest that has come due you are not prepared to meet. You can't blame me for feeling a little doubt as to the wisdom of my advance." "Are you very much in need of the thirty dollars?" asked Mr. Nelson, nettled at the squire's tone. "What do you mean, sir?" "Is it subjecting you to any great inconvenience to wait a couple of months for it? That is what I mean." "My circumstances are not such," returned the squire, haughtily, "as to make me feel even the loss of thirty dollars." "I wish I could say the same, but I cannot. Since, then, it will occasion you no inconvenience, I ask you as a favor that you will let the balance rest for two months." Squire Hudson saw that he was cornered; but none the less was he disposed to yield the point. He even felt provoked with the farmer for having forced from him an acknowledgment that he did not need the money he so persistently demanded. "I told you before," he said, "that it was not the amount of money, but the principle, that I care for. You cannot have forgotten this." "I don't see how any principle is involved, Squire Hudson." "You look at the matter solely from a debtor's point of view. If you held the mortgage, instead of myself, you would change your view very quickly." "I don't think I should," said the farmer, slowly. "I would be considerate to a poor neighbor, even if it did inconvenience me a little." "The poor neighbor should not have borrowed money on which he was unable to pay interest," said Squire Hudson, severely. "How could I anticipate the drought that has diminished my crops?" said Mark Nelson, with spirit. "That is neither here nor there. You knew that the interest must be paid, drought or no drought, crop or no crop." "I cannot argue with you further, since you refuse to consider circumstances over which I have had no control. You refuse to grant me any delay?" "I do." "Since I have not the money to pay you, will you tell me what you require?" "How many cows do you keep?" "Three." "You can give me one of these, and I will consider it an equivalent for the thirty dollars." "Do you require this?" asked the farmer, uneasily. "Yes; unless you have some other satisfactory arrangement to propose." "I am afraid I have nothing else which you would regard as satisfactory. The loss of a cow will diminish my income. Instead of three, I ought to have four or five. I shouldn't like to be reduced to two." "Very likely not; but an honest man is willing to make a sacrifice in order to meet his just liabilities. Besides, you expect to have the money, you say, in a couple of months. When it has come, you may have your cow back, on paying two months' interest on the deferred payment. That is only fair." "Say no more, Squire Hudson," said the farmer. "I must, of course, consent to this arrangement since you insist upon it. How soon do you wish for the cow?" "You had better let your son Walter drive it over this afternoon." "He is losing no time," thought Mark Nelson, bitterly. "He does not even appear to be willing that I should have the benefit of this night's milking." "You may send me Whiteface," continued Squire Hudson, who knew that this was the most valuable of the three cows. "That is my best cow," protested the farmer "That makes little difference, as you expect to redeem it in two months." Mark Nelson was silent. He felt indignant with Squire Hudson for his cruel exaction; but he felt that he was in his power, and that he must submit to his exactions. "You will attend to this matter?" asked the squire, as he rose and prepared to go. "Yes," answered the farmer, coldly. When his creditor was gone he went into the kitchen and acquainted the family with what had passed. Great were the grief and indignation of the children, and Walter expressed a desire that Squire Hudson might lose all his property as a fitting reward for his meanness. "Heaven help me if I can't meet the next interest!" said Mark Nelson, later in the day, to his wife. "Don't be too much troubled about the future, Mark," said his wife, who was of a more hopeful temperament than her husband; "I am sure that you will get some help from Tom before six months are over." "I hope so," answered her husband; but for the rest of the day he was very grave. Walter drove over Whiteface, at his father's request; but he came near crying, stout boy as he was, at the loss of the faithful animal which his father had reared from a calf. CHAPTER XX. AT SACRAMENTO. After his escape from the grizzly Tom had no further adventures of an exciting character. One afternoon he and his companions arrived at Sacramento. It was but a small settlement, but was more town-like than any place they had yet seen in California. They drove to a two-story frame building, which was the chief hotel in the town. Taking the precaution to inquire the price of board and lodging, they were dismayed by the extravagance of the charges. Tom saw that his reserve fund of twenty dollars would scarcely last him forty-eight hours. "I can't stay here, Mr. Ferguson," he said. "I will take my chances and camp out, if necessary." "I agree with you, lad; I'm not inclined to waste my substance on luxurious living." "There won't be much luxurious living, I guess," said Ebenezer Onthank, who, with Yankee curiosity, had already visited the kitchen and obtained some idea of the fare to be expected. "I kin get better board at Green Mountain Mills for three dollars a week, and folks are darned glad to accommodate you for that price. These chaps seem to think and act as if we were made of money." "I wish some of your Green Mountain Mills boarding-houses were here," said Tom. "I could save plenty of money then." "Well, gentlemen, do you want to stay here?" inquired the landlord. "We'd like to, squire, but not bein' millionaires I guess we'll have to put it off till times are better." "Just as you say," said the landlord, indifferently. "There's others waiting for the only room I have empty." Then, noticing for the first time the express wagon which Tom had left outside, he asked, in a tone of interest, "Who owns that team?" "It belongs to this boy and myself," answered Ferguson. "Where did it come from?" "The States." "You don't want to sell, do you?" Tom was about to reply in the affirmative, but the Scot, more shrewd, answered indifferently, "We may sell it when we get to San Francisco." "I need just such a team as that," said the landlord, eagerly. "I'll give you a good price for it. You can go down the river to Frisco." "I suppose we might," said Ferguson, slowly, "if it was worth our while." "What'll you take, cash down?" inquired the landlord, earnestly. "Nay, my friend, I prefer to hear your views as to the price." "I will give you eight hundred dollars for the wagon." This was certainly an excellent profit, for but three hundred had been paid for horse and wagon. Tom's heart beat fast with excitement, for he remembered that one-third of the money would come to him. If it had depended upon him he would have clinched the bargain at once, but he wisely left the matter in the hands of his companion and partner. "That seems a fair offer," said Ferguson; "but I think we may as well wait till we reach San Francisco. Besides, we want to sell the horse, too." "I will give you a thousand dollars for the two," said the landlord. A man with his pantaloons tucked in his boots, a coarse woolen shirt, and a wide-brimmed sombrero, which overshadowed a face bearing a beard of a week's growth, was leaning against the door-post. "Landlord," said he, "I see your price, and I'll go two hundred better." Tom stared at the speaker in surprise. He looked like a man who would have found it hard to raise twelve dollars, yet he had made an offer of twelve hundred. Our hero did not learn till afterwards that the man had "struck it rich" at the mines, sold out his claim for ten thousand dollars, and for the time being was the lucky possessor of a large bank account. "Now, Tom Scott," expostulated the landlord, "this ain't fair. I want the wagon more'n you do, and you're a-raisin' the price on me." "How do you know that?" drawled Scott. "I've got a pile, and I mean to take it easy while it lasts. I'm going back to the mines like a gentleman, with my own team, you bet, if I've got money enough to buy one." The landlord was satisfied that, if he wanted the team, he must outbid his competitor, and advanced his offer to thirteen hundred dollars. But Tom Scott was not terrified. His money had come easily, and he would not let two or three hundred dollars stand in the way of his wishes. "I'll go fifteen," he drawled. The landlord shrugged his shoulders, and said, in a disappointed tone, "You'll have to take it, Scott. You've gone ahead of my pile." "Well, stranger, is it a bargain?" asked Scott. The Scotchman, though inwardly elated as well as astonished at the extraordinary offer he had received, answered quietly, "If my partner agrees." "I guess we'd better sell," said Tom, trying not to betray his inward satisfaction. "All right," said Scott, appearing to be well pleased. "You can have your money when you want it. If you are going to Frisco, I'll give you an order on my banker there." "Tom Scott's a square man, and his order will fetch the money," said the landlord, observing Ferguson's prudent hesitation. "That is satisfactory," replied Ferguson. In five minutes more the business was concluded, and Ferguson and Tom, longing to congratulate each other on their good fortune, walked off together. "We're in luck, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom. "I don't know whether I stand on my head or my heels. I never expected such a price." "Twelve hundred dollars is a great profit," said Ferguson. "I almost doubt whether we are justified in asking such an extortionate price of the poor man." "He is pleased with his bargain, and I don't think we need to trouble ourselves about that," answered Tom. "Besides, you know we can't compare prices with those at home." "No doubt there is reason in what you say, my lad; but it's not easy at first to make allowance for the difference." "That's so, Mr. Ferguson. When shall we go to San Francisco?" "We will go to-morrow, if we can. I suppose you will wish to send some money to your father." "Yes, I am in a hurry to send to him, for I am sure he needs it already. I can hardly realize that I am worth five hundred dollars." "Five hundred?" "Yes, I had a third share in the team." "That isn't my way of looking at it, Tom." "Is it possible Mr. Ferguson would cheat me out of my fair share?" thought Tom, but he only harbored the suspicion for an instant. He had seen too much of his friend to believe such a thing, and he quietly waited for an explanation. "I'll tell you how I propose that we divide it, Tom. First we'll take out the money each of us put in, one hundred for you and two hundred for me, and then we'll divide the profit equally." "But," protested Tom, "you are entitled to two-thirds." "Then I won't take it," said Ferguson, decidedly. "I only want half of the profit. That will give me eight hundred dollars, and that ought to satisfy me." "And I shall have seven hundred," said Tom, his eyes sparkling. "Precisely." "How kind you are, Mr. Ferguson!" exclaimed Tom, eagerly seizing the Scotchman's hand. "No, my lad; I am only just. I am glad to help a boy who is working for his father and family." "I shouldn't deserve to succeed if I didn't," said Tom, earnestly. "Always bear that in mind, my lad, and God will smile on your efforts, and raise you up friends." In spite of the high price, Tom and his partner felt justified now in stopping over night at the hotel where they had met with such a piece of good luck, and the next day started down the river for San Francisco. CHAPTER XXI. TOM BUYS A BUSINESS. It was an interesting moment for our two friends when they landed in San Francisco. The future Western metropolis was only a town of scattered wooden and adobe houses, with irregular streets and a general lack of uniformity in its buildings; but everybody seemed on the alert. The number of drones was wonderfully small; even the constitutionally lazy could not resist the golden incentives to labor. Money was looked upon with very different eyes there and at the East. No one took the trouble to dispute prices; and a man who landed with an article rare or desirable could often obtain twenty times its value. Within ten minutes of his arrival Tom witnessed a case of this kind. Just as he was entering Montgomery street he noticed a man--evidently a new-comer--with a fine bunch of pineapples in his hand. He had just arrived in the steamer Columbus, then anchored out in the stream. "I shouldn't mind having one of those pineapples," said Tom to Ferguson. "Doubtless they are high-priced, being a rarity," said the Scotchman. Just then a passer-by, attracted like Tom, and feeling a similar longing, stepped up to the new-comer. "Are those pineapples for sale?" he asked. "Yes, if you'll pay enough," was the half-jocular reply. "Name your price." "Ten dollars." "Here is your money;" and he put a gold piece into the hand of the astounded passenger, which represented ten times the sum he had paid for the fruit at San Blas. "That's a pretty steep price," said Tom, "for six pineapples." "It is very wasteful to spend such a sight of money to pamper the appetite," said the canny Scot. "Truly, a fool and his money are soon parted." He was destined to be still more surprised. The purchaser within five minutes transferred half his purchase to another for fifteen dollars. "Gold seems to be plenty here," said Tom. "I hope all provisions are not as high," said Ferguson, "or we shall soon have a chance to spend all we have." "Where shall we go first?" asked Tom. "We had better go to a public house, and secure a lodging," said Ferguson. "I wish I knew some one here to direct me." Scarcely had Tom uttered these words than he cried out in surprise, "Why, there's John Miles!" They were passing a little, unpainted, wooden building, of one and a half stories, used as a grocery. A German name was on the sign; but behind the rough counter stood the familiar form of John Miles. Tom dashed into the store, followed by his more dignified companion. "How are you, John?" he exclaimed. "Why, if it isn't Tom," returned Miles, his face showing the joy he felt. "And here's Mr. Ferguson, too." Then there ensued a hearty shaking of hands, followed by the question, "When did you get here?" "About twenty minutes ago." "And you came straight to me. That's good." "So it is; but it's an accident. We had no idea where you were. So you are a grocer, John. Is the place yours?" "If it is, then I've changed my name," said Miles, pointing to the sign bearing the name:-- JOHN SCHINKELWITZ. "The first name's right, at any rate," said Tom, laughing. "I suppose you are the clerk, then." "Yes." "How long have you been here?" "Four weeks." "Is it a good business?" "Very good. My Dutch friend pays me five dollars a day, and I sleep here." "Among the groceries?" "Yes; it saves me the expense of a bed outside, and that is a good deal. I haven't saved quite enough to pay you yet, Tom, but I can soon." "No hurry, John. I have been lucky since I saw you." "I am glad to hear it, Tom. Did the claim prove more productive?" "No; but I have been speculating. Guess how much money I have with me." "A hundred and fifty dollars." "More." "Two hundred." "More yet." "Not three hundred, Tom?" "I won't make you guess any more. I have seven hundred dollars. No wonder you look surprised. I'll tell you how I made it;" and Tom repeated the story of his purchase and its profitable sale. "I am not so much surprised now," said Miles, "for in this country a man will have what he takes a fancy to, no matter what it costs. I am glad the good luck came to you and Mr. Ferguson. I shouldn't mind having that amount of money myself." "What would you do with it?" "I would buy out my employer, and then I could make money fast." "Does he want to sell?" "Yes, he wants to go to the mines." "Would he sell for such a small sum?" "Yes; there isn't much of a stock, but we are constantly replenishing. I tell you what, Tom, _you_ buy him out, and I'll manage the business." "Are you in earnest, John?" "Certainly I am." "But I want to send some money home," objected Tom. "How much?" "A hundred dollars at least." "I'll lend you the hundred, my lad," said Ferguson, "and fifty more, and you can take your own money and buy the business. I don't favor acting hastily, in general, but I have faith in our friend here, and I am led to believe that the enterprise will be a profitable one." "You'll be my partner, Tom, and I'll give you a third of the profits without your doing a thing. If you work with me, you shall have as much more as will be satisfactory." "I would rather go back to the mines, John, and leave you to manage this business by yourself. A quarter of the profits will satisfy me." "No, it shall be a third. As you furnish the capital, that is only fair." "We may be counting our chickens too soon. Perhaps your Dutch friend, whose name I can't pronounce, won't sell." "Here he is to speak for himself." A short German, with a ponderous frame, and a broad, good-humored face, here entered the grocery, panting with the exertion of walking, and looked inquiringly at Tom and the Scotchman. "Herr Schinkelwitz, this is my friend, Tom Nelson," said Miles. "Glad to see you, mine vriend," said the German, addressing Ferguson. "No, that is Mr. Ferguson," said Miles, smiling. "I should have introduced him first." "Wie gehts, Herr Ferguson?" said the grocer. "You have one strange name." "Your name seems strange to me," said the Scotchman. "Oh, no; Schinkelwitz is a very common name. Most peoples admire my name." Tom was considerably amused, but Herr Schinkelwitz did not observe the smile which he could not repress. "I have told my friends you would like to sell out the business," said Miles. "Oh, ja, it is a good business, but my health is not good. I think it will be much better at the mines. You will do well to buy it yourself." "I would if I had money enough." "Ja, I must have the money, for I shall need it." "My friend here has money, and may buy of you," said Miles, indicating Tom. "What, the boy?" "Yes." "Where did he get so much money?" "At the mines." "Oh, ja, that is a good place to get gold. Well, my young vriend, I will sell cheap." It will not be necessary to enter into a detailed account of the negotiation. It is enough to say that for the sum of seven hundred dollars Herr Schinkelwitz made over the business to Herr Tom, as he called him, and our hero found himself penniless, but the owner of a grocery. In half an hour it was all completed. "Now, Tom, you are my boss," said Miles. "Shall I put your name outside?" "No, John, put your own. I am only a silent partner, you know." "I congratulate you, Tom," said Ferguson. "Here are two hundred dollars, for which you can give me your note." "Two hundred?" "Yes; you will need some yourself, besides what you send to your father." "Suppose I can't pay you back?" "Then I will levy on the grocery, my lad," said Ferguson. CHAPTER XXII. A GAMBLING-HOUSE. Having completed this important business arrangement, the two friends went out to explore the town. The limits were narrow compared with those of the flourishing city of the present day. Where the Palace and Grand hotels now stand was a sand-hill, and the bay encroached upon the business part of the city far more than now. Scarcely a stone's throw from the grocery, on Montgomery street, between California and Sacramento, was the office of Adams' Express, which advertised to forward gold-dust and packages by every steamer. "I will go in here, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom. "I shall not feel comfortable till I have started this money homeward. I am sure it will be wanted." "Right, my lad. We will attend to it, by all means." They entered the building,--a very humble one it would now be considered,--but they found other customers before them, and had to wait for their turn. "What can I do for you?" asked the clerk, in a quick, business-like tone. "I want to send home a hundred dollars," said Tom. "Give me the address." This was done, the money paid over, and a receipt returned in two minutes. "How long before my father will receive the money?" asked Tom. "The steamer starts in three days. About a month will be needed." Then Tom moved aside, and the next man took his place. "I am glad that is attended to," said Tom, relieved. "Now, Mr. Ferguson, I will go wherever you wish." "We had better secure a lodging," said the Scotchman. "When we are sure of a bed we can walk about at our leisure." Lodgings were to be had, but they were generally very dear. The first room looked at was five dollars per day, without board,--a price our friends were unwilling to pay. Finally they found a decent, though small room, with rather a narrow bed, which could be had for three fifths of that sum, and they engaged it. "We will have to go back to the mines soon," said Tom. "San Francisco is too expensive for us to live in." "You can afford it better than I, Tom," said his friend. "Why?" "Because you have a business that brings you in an income." "Oh, I forgot that," said our hero, smiling. "Things happen so fast here that I haven't got used to my new position. Do you think I invested my money wisely, Mr. Ferguson?" "Yes, my lad, since your agent is a trustworthy, honest man." "I am sure I can trust John Miles." "If I were not confident of it, also, I would not have encouraged you to take so important a step." "I think I won't write to father about it," said Tom, after a pause. "He might think I had acted foolishly, and become anxious. If I succeed, then I shall be glad to surprise him. I think I shall make money; but I don't want to count on it too much. I shall be ready to go back with you to the mines whenever you say the word." As they sauntered about, gazing curiously at the motley sights around them, they heard strains of music. It appeared to proceed from a large wooden building, with a jutting roof, under which, on benches, lounged a number of persons, some of them Mexicans, in their native costumes, smoking cigarettes. A large American flag was displayed over the door, and a crowd was constantly passing in and out. "Let us go in," said Tom. His companion making no objection, they entered. The first sight of the interior made clear the character of the place. There were numerous tables, spread with games,--faro, monte, and roulette,--each surrounded by an absorbed and interested group. "Easy come, easy go," was the rule with the early California pioneers, and the gaming-table enlisted in its service many men who would not have dreamed at home that they could ever be brought to tolerate such an instrument of evil. Tom was a country boy, and unsophisticated, but he could not help understanding the nature of the business which brought so many to the place. "I suppose they are gambling," he said. "Yes, poor, deluded creatures!" said the Scotchman, who had been brought up to an abhorrence of games of chance. "They are wasting their time and their substance, and foolishly laying up for themselves future misery." Had this remark been heard it would have excited indignation, and perhaps subjected the speaker to insult; but the players were too intent upon their varying chances to pay any attention to the remarks of by-standers. "I hope, Tom, you will never yield to the seductive lures of the gaming-table," continued Ferguson. "I don't think there is much danger," said Tom. "I have always been taught that gambling is wicked." "May you long feel so, my lad!" Tom did, however, watch the players with interest. He saw money lost and won, without understanding exactly how it was decided. From the game his attention was drawn to the gamesters. He was led to notice, particularly, a young man of prepossessing countenance, who was evidently profoundly excited. From time to time he drew out a roll of gold pieces, which he placed on a card, and invariably lost. He must have had a considerable sum; but, small or large, he was in ill-luck, and constantly lost. As he neared the end of his resources the feverish blush upon his handsome features was succeeded by a deep pallor, and there was no mistaking the expression of deep anguish and despair which announced that he had reached the end. Tom became painfully interested in the young man, and silently drew the attention of his companion to him. When the end came, and the victim, thoroughly "cleaned out," turned to go out, Tom said, in a low voice, "Let us follow him." Ferguson acquiesced. He, too, had become interested, and the young man's expression as he passed our two friends was so despairing that Ferguson felt some alarm as to the effect of his disappointment upon his mind. Once in the street, Ferguson and Tom followed the unfortunate young man into an obscure street, keeping up with difficulty, for his pace was rapid and excited. It proved to be a fortunate thing, for when he supposed himself free from observation the young man drew a pistol, and, with an incoherent exclamation, placed it in contact with his temple. Tom sprang forward, and so did the Scotchman; but the boy was the quicker and more agile, and dashed the pistol aside just in time to prevent a suicide. "Why did you do that?" asked the baffled would-be-suicide, gloomily, turning his gaze upon Tom. "I was afraid you were going to kill yourself." "So I was." "What could induce you to take such a rash step?" asked Ferguson. "I have been a reckless fool. I have lost all my money at the accursed gambling-table, and my life is not worth retaining." "It appears to me," said the Scotchman, quietly, "that you set too high a value upon money. You have certainly been very foolish to risk it at the gaming-table, and the loss will no doubt inconvenience you; but was your money all you had to live for?" The young man regarded Ferguson with some surprise; but his excitement was evidently abated. The quiet tone of the speaker had a favorable effect upon him. "I didn't think of it in that light," he admitted. "Have you no relatives to whom your life is of value?" "Yes," answered the young man. "I have a mother and sister." "Would not your death affect them more than the loss of money?" "Yes." "It seems to me that to take your life would be to treat them cruelly." The young man was evidently agitated by contending thoughts. "I suppose you are right," he said, slowly; "but let me tell you all, and you can judge me better: I arrived in California six months since. My home is in Ohio, not far from Cincinnati. I was fortunate enough to commence mining at a point on the western slope of the Sierra Nevada Mountains where I was almost alone. I 'struck it rich,' and two days since arrived in San Francisco with over two thousand dollars in gold-dust." "You were certainly in luck," said Ferguson, surprised. "I turned it into money, and, in strolling about the city, was lured into that accursed den. I looked on and was fascinated. I thought I would try my luck. I began with a small stake, and kept on till I had lost every dollar. In one hour the fruits of six months' labor are gone. Do you wonder that I am reduced to despair?" CHAPTER XXIII. A NEW SCHEME. "I see no cause for despair," replied Ferguson, in the same calm tone. "I have not a penny left out of the two thousand dollars I had only an hour since." "I understand all that." "I am a ruined man," said the young man, despondently. "I don't admit that. How old are you?" "Twenty-one." "You are well and strong, are you not?" "Oh, yes, I have nothing to complain of on that score." "Then it appears to me that your loss is not serious. Your capital still remains." "My capital?" repeated the young man. "Yes; your strong arms, your education, your capacity to labor." "But I shall have to begin over again." "Beginning over again at your age, when, possibly, fifty years of life lie before you, is not such a serious matter. Were I in your situation,--and I am twice as old as you,--I should not thing of despairing. Don't you think it would be rather foolish for two thousand dollars, which you have been only six months in accumulating, to throw away fifty years, and all that you can make in that time, thereby bringing a life-long grief to your mother and sister?" The calm, logical tone of the Scotchman had its effect. "I see that I was about to add to one piece of folly another far greater," said the young man. "I don't know who you are, sir, but I heartily thank you and your son for saving my life." "This is not my son, but my young friend, Thomas Nelson," said Ferguson. "I am not so fortunate as to have a son." "Well, God bless you both, and good-night!" "Excuse my persistency, but may I ask where you are going?" "I am not going to repeat my folly of just now, if that is what you mean." "I did not suspect you of that; but are you sure of a bed anywhere?" "No; I have no money to pay for one. I shall walk the streets, or possibly lie down in some quiet place. I was accustomed to roughing it at the mines, and can do it again if necessary." "Tom and I have a room in which you are welcome to find a shelter. I am sorry that our bed is too narrow to hold another." "Thank you. That will be better than to sleep in the streets. But are you not afraid to make me this offer?" "Why should I be?" "I might rob you during the night." "You might, but you don't look like one who would so reward confidence." "You are right. If you had fifty thousand dollars I would not touch a dollar of it. I will accept your offer. How can I repay you for your kindness?" "There may be a way. We will talk of that this evening." Nine o'clock found the three collected in the small room which had been hired by Ferguson for himself and Tom. "My friend," said Ferguson, "you told us that you found a favorable place for mining up in the Sierras." "Yes, I 'struck it rich.'" "I take it for granted that you did not exhaust the wealth of the place?" "Far from it. I only dipped into it. There is abundance left." "Is this place known to many?" "To only one, so far as I know. He and I worked independently, but were company for each other." "But what induced you to leave so rich a claim?" "I was tired of working, and wanted to come to the city for a change. You know what a change I have experienced here." "Why don't you go back and start anew in the place where you met with your former good fortune?" asked Ferguson. "Because I am penniless. I must find something to do here for a while. When I have got together a little fund, sufficient for the purpose, I will go back." "Would you go back now, if you had the chance?" "Would I? Certainly I would, for I could make money faster there than here." "Would you have any objection to let Tom and myself accompany you?" "Not the least. I should be glad of your company. There is gold enough for us all." "Then we will start to-morrow, that is, if you and Tom are willing." "I am ready," said Tom, promptly. "But I have nothing. I don't like to be an expense to you," objected the young man. "We will pay your expenses. We shall be more than recompensed by the richness of the mines. We might find something to do here, but both Tom and myself prefer the freedom of the mining camp, and, if the spot is as rich as you have led us to suspect, we shall make more money there." "Agreed!" said the young man, promptly. "Name the hour of starting, and rely upon me to be ready." Ferguson was evidently well pleased with this response. He felt that his new acquaintance would be so far away from the city, and would sooner retrieve his fortunes at the mines. He hoped, too, to find opportunity to strengthen his principles, and guard him against the temptations of the city when he should again visit it. Again, he had reason to think that the arrangement would benefit Tom and himself in a pecuniary way, and the Scotchman was by no means indifferent to that consideration; though, as we have seen, he did not unduly exalt the power or value of money. Tom, too, was pleased with the prospect. He was grateful and attached to Ferguson, whom he felt to be a true friend, but he was glad to have another companion nearer his own age. The young man was of a prepossessing exterior, and when he had shaken off his present disquietude looked as if he might be a cheerful and agreeable companion. "Since we are to live together, for a time at least, and become fellow-workers," said Ferguson, "we ought to know each other better. I will introduce myself first." Hereupon Ferguson gave a brief account of himself, which need not be repeated, and then called upon Tom, who followed his example. "Now it is my turn," said their new acquaintance. "You don't even know my name yet, though you have done me such an important service. I have already told you that I am from Ohio. My name is Richard Russell, though my friends generally call me Dick. My father, whom I had the misfortune to lose several years since, was at one time a member of Congress. He left a small property, the income of which is barely sufficient to provide my mother and sister with the comforts of life. I had a fair education, including enough Latin and Greek to fit me for entering college. My mother desired me to enter; but I knew that she could not keep me there without practicing pinching economy, and I secured a place with a small salary in a business house in Cincinnati. A year since, when the papers were full of the gold discoveries on this coast, I was seized, like so many others, with the golden fever, and arranged to start overland. It would have proved a wise step had I not been so rash a fool as to squander my earnings; for two thousand dollars in six months compare very favorably with twelve dollars a week, which I was earning at home. I might have gone home by the next steamer, and had money enough to carry me through a course of legal study, had I desired. I am out of patience with myself when I think of how I have thrown away my good fortune." "Don't think too much of the past, which cannot be recalled. Resolve not to repeat your folly, and all may yet be well." "I have fully resolved upon that," said Russell, earnestly. "Do you think you shall study law, if you are again fortunate, Mr. Russell?" asked Tom. "If you please don't call me Mr. Russell, unless you want me to call you Mr. Nelson. Call me Dick." "I will," said Tom, smiling, "for I am not ready to be called Mr. Nelson yet." "Now, to answer your question: if I can get two thousand dollars together again, I shall probably study law. Of course I don't mean to be a miner all my life any more than you. Now, Tom, what are your plans?" "I think I should like to be a lawyer, too, but I must earn more than two thousand dollars first." "Two thousand ought to be sufficient to educate you if you are economical." "It would be, but I want to pay off a mortgage on my father's farm before I begin to lay up money for myself." "You are a good fellow, Tom, and I wish you success." "Thank you, Dick. I will succeed if hard work can bring success." "Good-night to you both," said Ferguson. "I want to sleep well to prepare myself for starting to-morrow." In half an hour all three were sleeping soundly. CHAPTER XXIV. PREPARING FOR A NEW START. When Tom opened his eyes he did not at first remember where he was, but a glance at Dick Russell, his new acquaintance, stretched out on the floor and still sleeping, quickly recalled the important events of the day previous. Mr. Ferguson was already dressed. "Well, Tom, are you rested?" he asked. "Yes, Mr. Ferguson; I slept like a top. What time is it?" "It is seven o'clock. Our new friend is still asleep." "I suppose he was on his feet all day yesterday." "I don't know whether I ought to hurry you away from San Francisco so soon, Tom," said his Scotch friend. "We only arrived yesterday, and you have not had time to see the place, and enjoy yourself after your hard work at the mines." "I don't care for that, Mr. Ferguson. I am anxious to be at work again. I didn't come out here to enjoy myself, but to make money for my father." "You have succeeded pretty well thus far, Tom." "Yes; but I have made more by the sale of the team than by work at the mines." "True; but that is a legitimate transaction. If our friend here has reported correctly, we shall find mining more profitable in the place he mentions than at River Bend." "I have no objection to that, though I was satisfied with River Bend. Wouldn't it be splendid, Mr. Ferguson, if we could do as well in the next six months as he did?" "Making two thousand dollars each?" "Yes." "We may accomplish it; but it is best not to calculate upon it." "If I could only free the farm from that troublesome mortgage I should be proud and happy. It has worn upon father, as I could see, and he has been compelled to toil early and late to pay the interest, besides supporting us all." "How much is the mortgage, Tom?" "Twenty-two hundred dollars." "You have made a good beginning towards it already, Tom. You have seven hundred dollars invested in business." "But out of that I owe you a hundred and fifty, Mr. Ferguson." "Don't trouble yourself about that, Tom. Unless I should stand in great need of it, I will wait till you have paid off the mortgage before asking to have it repaid." "You are very kind, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom, gratefully. "A part of my seven hundred dollars rightfully belongs to you, for you owned two-thirds of the horse and wagon." "I couldn't have bought them without your help, Tom. So you see that you enabled me to make money. I am quite satisfied with an equal partnership." "And I am very well satisfied with my partner," said Tom, smiling. "Shall we wake up Russell?" "Yes, for we have much to do to-day." "John Miles will be surprised at my leaving the city so quick." "By the way, Tom, as he is to remain here, while you are out of the reach of post-offices, it may be well to ask your father to direct future letters to his care, and he can forward them as he has opportunity." "That is a good idea. I will write to-day so as to catch the next steamer, and I will also speak to John." Tom had to shake Dick Russell energetically before that young man opened his eyes. "What's the matter?" he ejaculated, drowsily. "Don't you want some breakfast?" asked Tom. "Oh, it's you, Tom! Yes, you have touched the right chord. I have a first-class appetite--and no money," he added, his face clouding. "Mr. Ferguson is treasurer," said Tom, lightly, wishing to divert Russell from the thoughts of his heavy loss, and the folly to which he owed it; "but we know very little of the city. Can you guide us to a good restaurant?" "To a good one, but not a cheap one. Everything is high here." "Then it is fortunate we are going to leave so soon." In a small restaurant, on Montgomery street, our three friends partook of a hearty breakfast. It might not have attracted an epicure, but neither of the three was fastidious; and, though the charge was five dollars, Ferguson, economical as he was, paid the bill cheerfully. It was the first "civilized" breakfast he had eaten for months, and it might be months before he would be able to partake of another as good. "I wish we could breakfast like this at the mines," said Tom. "So say I," chimed in Dick Russell; "but you know that the gold-hunter must sacrifice home comforts." "I shan't complain of that, if I can do as well as you did," said Tom. "I see no reason why you can't. There is plenty of gold there, and all that is needed is work and perseverance." "I am willing to contribute them," said Tom. "I mean to do my best to succeed." "None of us can do more, my lad," said Ferguson. "Let us hope that God will prosper our undertakings." "I say, I am glad I have met with you two," said Dick Russell. "You'll keep me on the right track; and, in spite of my past folly, I hope in time to win success." "I am glad to hear you speak so sensibly, my young friend," said the Scotchman, kindly. "It's a great deal better to put your back to the wheel once more, than to take the life God gave you." "Don't speak of that again, Mr. Ferguson," said Russell, shuddering. "I don't like to think of it." "He'll do," thought Ferguson, with satisfaction. "His mind is now in a healthy condition, and I have great hopes of him." The rest of the day was devoted to the purchase of supplies. Ferguson also bought a mule, in behalf of the party, which was of service in carrying a part of their burdens. It was not until afternoon that Tom found an opportunity to call on John Miles, and acquaint him with his almost immediate departure. "I am sorry you are going away so soon, Tom," said Miles. "I thought you would stay at least a week." "So I would if I were not so anxious to be at work once more. You know how my father is situated, John, for I have told you more than once." "Yes, Tom; but I see no reason why you should feel uneasy. With the help you are to send him, there will be no trouble about his paying his interest regularly." "I know that, John; but I shall feel uneasy until the mortgage is paid off, and he is out of Squire Hudson's power." "For how long a time has the farm your father owns been encumbered with this mortgage?" "For ten years, at least." "Is the mortgage for any specified term of years?" "I don't think so." "It merely runs from year to year then?" "I suppose so." "In that case this Squire Hudson could foreclose at any time, could he not?" "Yes," answered Tom, soberly. "Don't make yourself uneasy about it, however," said Miles, observing that Tom seemed apprehensive. "As your father's farm is not particularly valuable, there can be no danger of foreclosure. By the way, wouldn't you like to have me remit your father something next month out of the profits of the business?--I can charge it to your account." "I am glad you mentioned it, John. You may send him fifty or seventy-five dollars, if my share should amount to so much." "I will." "And I am going to have my home letters directed to your care. You can forward them to me whenever you have an opportunity." "I won't fail, Tom. If there is anything you need sent out to you, you have only to write me, and I will attend to your commissions." "It is very convenient to have an agent in the city," said John, smiling. "I shall feel much more comfortable out at the mines." "I wish you good luck, Tom; but remember, even if you don't succeed in your search for gold, I shall be making money for you here." "You make me feel quite like a capitalist, John." "I hope you may be one some day. Good-by!" They shook hands and parted. Before night-fall Tom had started on his new journey in quest of gold. CHAPTER XXV. WHITEFACE. Mark Nelson missed sorely the cow which he had been compelled to yield to the squire on account of default of interest. Whiteface was his best cow, and a great favorite with all the children. She gave nearly as much milk as the other two, and had been one of the main dependences of the family. It was worth considerably more than the thirty dollars for which the squire took it; but he insisted upon that and no other, and Whiteface had to go. Six months had passed, and there seemed to be very little chance of redeeming the lost cow. Squire Hudson had agreed to give her back on payment of the balance due, with accrued interest; but neither he nor Mark Nelson expected that such an offer would be made. "I was passing Squire Hudson's to-day, and saw poor Whiteface," said Walter, one evening. "I think she knew me, for when I called her she lowed back." "I wish we had her back," said Sarah. "It was heartless in the squire to take her. He had a dozen cows of his own." "He hasn't any heart," said Walter, "or, if he has, it must be pretty small." "We must not forget that he was entitled to some security for the balance of interest I owe him," said the farmer. "The cow was worth a good deal more than thirty dollars," said Sarah. "Yes, she was; but I am not sure whether I could have got any more money for her at a forced sale. Then you know the squire is pledged to give her back whenever I can pay him the thirty dollars, with interest." "I wish you could pay it now, father," said Walter. "So do I, my boy; but I cannot, unless your brother sends me some money." "It is three weeks since we have heard from Tom," said Mrs. Nelson, anxiously. "I am afraid he is sick." "Don't worry yourself with imaginary fears, Mary," said her husband. "Tom may be sick, of course; but he is strong and healthy, and we won't fear such a thing without some ground. Probably a letter is on the way from him now." "I hope he is making money," said Walter. "I wish I were with him." "I would never consent to have you go too," said Mrs. Nelson, hastily. "I don't think Walter seriously thinks of asking leave," said Mr. Nelson, smiling. "As he is only thirteen years old, I should be inclined to object myself. I must have him at home to help me with the farm." "I should be perfectly contented to stay at home if we had Whiteface back," said Walter. "I've a great mind to steal her out of the squire's yard. I bet she'd be glad to come." "Don't speak in that way, Walter," said his father. "I dislike to have you speak of stealing, even in fun." At this moment there was a knock at the front door. Farmer Nelson's house was an old-fashioned one, and not provided with a bell. "Go to the door, Sarah," said her father. Sarah obeyed. "Good-evening, Nahum," she said to the village expressman. "I've got a small package for your folks," said Nahum. "It's marked all over. Guess it came from Californy." "It must be from Tom," exclaimed Sarah, in delight. "That's what I thought," said the expressman, who knew everybody in the village, and could probably give a fairly correct list of their sisters, cousins, and aunts, with a fair guess at their worldly circumstances. "Is there anything to pay, Nahum?" "Only fifty cents,--the expressage from Boston. Never mind about it now, for I'm in a hurry. Your father can hand it to me next time he sees me." "O father, here's a package from Tom," said Sarah, hurrying into the room where they were all sitting. "Open it quick," said Walter. "See if there's any money in it." The cord was cut, and a small box was disclosed containing a hundred dollars in gold pieces and a line from Tom, stating that he was doing well, and that he hoped soon to send some more money. "A hundred dollars! What a lot of money!" exclaimed Walter, gazing on the little pile of coins as if fascinated. "I am so glad the dear boy is doing well," said Mrs. Nelson. "Now we can have Whiteface back, can't we, father?" asked Walter, joyfully. "Yes, Walter," said Mark Nelson, almost as excited as his son. "I will go over the first thing in the morning." "Can't we go over this evening?" asked Walter, impatiently. "No, it is dark, and Whiteface is stalled for the night." "You'll have seventy dollars left over, father, won't you?" "Yes; and that will provide for my next interest. I feel grateful and happy at Tom's success and his thoughtfulness." Could Tom have seen the effect of his remittance it would have made his heart glad, and he would have felt abundantly repaid for his labor and self-denial. CHAPTER XXVI. SQUIRE HUDSON'S DISAPPOINTMENT. If Whiteface was missed at her old home, she was scarcely less appreciated by her new possessor. On the very morning succeeding the day when Tom's remittance was received the squire remarked to his head workman, "Whiteface is an excellent cow, Abner." "Yes, squire, I calculate she's the best you've got." "I don't know but she is, Abner," said the squire, complacently. "I consider her worth at least fifty dollars." "So she is, every cent of it." "And she cost me only thirty," thought Squire Hudson, with a smile of content. He was a rich man, and abundantly able to pay his poor neighbor the full value of the cow; but somehow it never occurred to him to do it. He was not above taking an unfair advantage of a man who was unluckily in his power. Of course the squire knew that Farmer Nelson had a right to redeem the cow at the price agreed upon with interest; but he felt pretty safe on this point. The farmer was not very likely to have thirty dollars to spare, and as for a remittance from Tom the squire was pretty sure none would be received. "It'll be all the boy can do to take care of himself out there," he reflected, "let alone sending money home. He may send ten dollars or so some time; but it's very doubtful, very doubtful!" Squire Hudson turned to go back to the house when he saw the man of whom he had been thinking coming up the road. He stopped short, thinking the farmer might wish to speak to him. "Good-morning, Mr. Nelson," he said, pleasantly, for he was in good-humor. "Good-morning, squire." "Your Whiteface has got to feel quite at home in my barn-yard." "She is a good cow, Squire Hudson." "Yes, tolerable, tolerable." "She is worth more than the thirty dollars for which you took her." "Well, I don't know about that. Cows are pretty cheap nowadays." "I see how it is," thought the squire. "Nelson wants me to allow him more for the cow; but a bargain is a bargain, and I shan't do it." "I always valued her at a considerably higher price." "No doubt, no doubt. You raised her yourself, didn't you?" "Yes." "That makes a difference, of course. You attach a sentimental value to her; but that doesn't affect her real value. I really can't allow you any more for her." "I don't want you to, Squire Hudson." The squire looked astonished. "What is the man driving at?" he thought. "She may not be worth any more to you, and so you won't mind my taking her back." "Taking her back!" ejaculated the squire. "Certainly; it was agreed that I could redeem her at any time, by paying you the thirty dollars and interest." "Not after two months," said the squire, hastily. "It is not two months. It was only six weeks yesterday. The fact is, squire, I've come for Whiteface, and I've got the money for you." "Have you heard from Tom?" asked the squire, with a blank look of disappointment. "Yes; I heard from him yesterday." "And he sent you some money?" "Yes; he reports that he is doing well." "Did he send you thirty dollars?" "Rather more than that," said Mark Nelson, not caring to gratify the curiosity of his creditor. "I think you had better keep your money, and leave Whiteface with me," said Squire Hudson, after a pause. "I would rather not, squire. The fact is, Whiteface is a sort of pet at home, and we all want her back." Squire Hudson was disconcerted. He had not expected that Mr. Nelson would be able to redeem the cow, and he was reluctant to give her up. But there was no excuse for retaining her. His agreement stood in the way. "Neighbor Nelson," he said, after a pause, "I don't mind giving you five dollars over and above what you owe me for Whiteface. Come, that's a good offer." Mark Nelson shook his head. "She's worth more than that," he said. "But that's neither here nor there. I raised the animal, and it was sorely against my will that I parted with her six weeks ago. Now that I have the money to pay you I want her back." "I think you are standing in your own light, Mr. Nelson," said the squire. "I have taken a fancy to the cow, and am willing to pay more for her than she is worth. I will say ten dollars." Mark Nelson shook his head. "I'd rather have Whiteface than the money," he said. "If she comes into my possession again," said Squire Hudson, "I shall not be willing to grant you the privilege of redeeming her. It won't be many months before another payment becomes due." "I hope to be ready to meet it, squire," said the farmer, not appearing at all anxious. "He seems very independent," thought the squire, watching, moodily, the cow driven away by her former owner. "He may sing another tune on interest day. I wonder how much the boy sent home." Had he known that Mr. Nelson had in his pocket enough money to pay the whole of the next accruing interest, he would have felt more doubtful about recovering the cow which he now coveted more than ever. "Well, Abner, I've lost her," said the squire, hurrying to his assistant; "but she'll be back here some day, mark my words!" "I thought you bought her, squire," said Abner, in surprise. "Well, not exactly. I took her for a debt; but Nelson had the right of redeeming her, and he has done it. His boy sent him the money." "That Tom Nelson is a smart boy," said Abner, who, though in the squire's employ, was friendly to our hero. "Well, so-so," remarked the squire, indifferently. "I helped him to go to California; but I am not sure whether it was a wise step. I let my feelings get the better of my judgment." "Then it is the first time," was Abner's unspoken comment. "It may turn out for the best," he said aloud. "I doubt if I shall ever see my money again," said the squire; but he did not seem to take it to heart, judging from his manner and tone. "Didn't you have security for the loan?" asked Abner. "Well, ye-es," answered the squire, slowly; "but not very good. The farm was already mortgaged for its full value." "The squire is getting benevolent," thought Abner, "or he wants me to think so; but I'm inclined to think he has some object under it all. What is it?" A few weeks later Farmer Nelson's heart was gladdened by the receipt of another remittance this time sent by John Miles, out of the profit of the business in which Tom was his partner. The amount this time was seventy-five dollars. It made him feel quite rich. "Mary," he said, "we all need some new clothes, and I propose to use this money for that purpose. Now I want you to consider how we can spend it to the best advantage. To begin with, you must buy a new dress. You have long needed one." Mrs. Nelson demurred a little, but was forced to admit that the dress was needed. So the purchases were made at once. It is wonderful how far seventy-five dollars will go in an economical family of plain tastes. It was soon apparent to the neighbors that the Nelsons were exhibiting signs of prosperity. "It must be Tom," they decided. Efforts were made to ascertain just how much our hero had sent home; but on this point the Nelsons would not speak definitely. They reported in general terms that Tom was doing well. Of course Squire Hudson was not ignorant of the apparent improvement in the fortunes of his debtor. Strange to say, he seemed rather annoyed. He was pleased, however, by the outlay for dress. "They're getting extravagant, Abner," he said, cheerfully. "I thought Mark Nelson was a man of more sense. Because his son has sent home a little money, he must rig out the whole family in new clothes. 'A fool and his money are soon parted.'" "Mark Nelson is no fool," said Abner, stoutly. "He is in this instance," said the squire, sharply. "However, I don't object to it, if he likes to violate the rules of prudence. It strikes me, however, that it would be well for him to pay up the money I advanced for Tom's expenses, before buying new clothes wholesale." Abner repeated this to Mr. Nelson. The farmer answered quietly, "The squire is not wholly wrong. It is good doctrine to pay your debts before you spend money for what you don't need. In this case, however, we did need the clothes we bought. Now that we are provided, I hope, before very long, if Tom is prospered, to pay back the two hundred dollars the squire advanced for him." "I hope you will, I'm sure," said Abner. "That's a smart boy of yours, and I always said so." "He is a good boy, and I am sure he will do what is right." "He's a blamed sight better than the squire's boy. Sinclair is a stuck-up jackanapes, and it would do me good to kick him." "It might not do him any good." "I am not sure about that; I think he needs it." CHAPTER XXVII. THE NEW DIGGINGS. Meanwhile Tom and his party, pursuing their journey by easy stages, for they sensibly determined not to overtask their strength, reached at last the spot of which Russell had spoken. Ferguson and Tom soon found that he had not exaggerated. The new diggings were certainly far richer than those at River Bend. It was, in fact, the bed of a dead river upon which Russell had stumbled without knowing it. My readers are probably aware that in the beds of rivers or creeks the early miners found their first harvest of gold, and, that, where practicable, these were mined by turning the stream in the dry season, when the water was low. As it may not be so well understood what is meant by a dead river, I quote a passage from an article in the "Overland Monthly," as found in the pages of the "Pacific Coast Mining Review," for the year 1878-79:-- "A dead river is one which formerly existed, but exists no longer. In volcanic regions it sometimes happens that the liquid lava, seeking the lowest ground, fills up the beds of the rivers which die and are replaced by water-courses running in other channels and in different directions. These dead streams are so few, and of so little importance elsewhere, that, as yet, I believe, no class name has been given to them; but in California they are among the chief source of its mineral wealth, and among the most remarkable features of its geological formation. They take us back to a remote era, before the time of Rome, of Greece, or of Egypt; far back beyond the origin of history or tradition, before our coast had taken its present shapes; before Shasta, and Lassen, and Castle Peaks had poured out their lava floods; before the Sacramento river had its birth; and while, if not before, the mastodon, the elephant, the rhinoceros, the horse, the mammoth bull, the tapir, and the bison lived in the land. They are indeed among the most remarkable discoveries of the age, and among the greatest wonders of geology. They deserve some common name, and we have to choose between 'extinct' and 'dead.' We speak of 'extinct volcanoes,' and of 'dead languages,' and, as the latter is Saxon and short, we prefer it. They have been called 'old channels;' but this name does not convey the proper idea, since a channel is not necessarily a river, and an old channel is not necessarily a dead one. A dead river is a channel formerly occupied by a running stream, but now filled up with earthy or rocky matter, and is not to be confounded with a channel that is open and remains dry during the greater part of the year because of a lack of water, or that has been abandoned by the stream for a deeper channel elsewhere. A dry river-bed is not a dead river. "The dead rivers of California, so far as are known, are on the western slope of the Sierra Nevada, from five hundred to seven thousand feet above the level of the sea. They are all gold-yielding, and therefore they have been sought and examined. They have yielded probably _three hundred millions_ in all; they now produce perhaps eight million dollars annually. They are not less interesting to the miner than to the geologist, not less important to the statesman than to the antiquarian." At the risk of being considered tedious by some of my boy-readers, I will transcribe the writer's explanation of the existence of these dead rivers. For the reason we must go back to a remote geological epoch: "The main cause must have been the subsequent rise of the Sierra Nevada. Suppose that a range of mountains, seven thousand feet high, were upheaved thirty miles east of the Mississippi; that the bed of that stream were on the mountain side, three thousand feet above the sea, and that thirty miles west the country maintained its present level; the result would be that the present Mississippi would soon be a dead river; it would be cut across by streams running down the mountain side, and flowing into a new Mississippi, thirty miles or more west of the present one. We know that the Sierra Nevada has been upheaved; that a large stream ran on what is now the mountain side, and that it has been succeeded by a new river farther west, and we must infer that the death of the old and the birth of the new river were caused by the upheaval." Reference is here made to the Big Blue Lead, the largest dead river known in California, which has been traced for a distance of sixty-five miles, from Little Grizzly, in Sierra County, to Forest Hill, in Placer County. The original river, however, is thought to have run for many hundreds of miles. Eventually traces of its existence may be found elsewhere. It is not to be supposed that Tom and his friends knew anything about dead rivers, or troubled themselves as to how the rich deposits had been made, or how long they had been waiting discovery. They were chiefly engaged with more practical considerations. They found a rich harvest in the ravines, and they went to work energetically. The work was monotonous, and a detailed account of their progress would be tiresome. What we chiefly care about is results, and these may be gathered from a conversation which took place some five months later. Under a tent, at night-fall, reclined the three friends. They looked contented, and on good terms with the world; but, though prosperous, they certainly did not look it. In fact, they were all three exceedingly, almost disreputably, shabby. They looked more like tramps than respectable gold-miners. "Tom, you are looking very ragged," said Dick Russell, surveying our hero critically. "I know it, Dick. I feel as though I had just come out of a rag-bag. I can't say that you look much better, nor Ferguson either." "This rough work is hard on clothing," said Russell. "I wish there were a ready-made clothing store near by." "So do I. I would pay a high price for a good suit." "If our friends at home could see us, what would they think, eh, Tom?" "That we were candidates for the poor-house." "That's so. I've been into several poor-houses in the course of my life, but I never saw any of the inmates quite so poorly clad as we are." "You are right," said Ferguson; "but there are generally compensations. I was taking account of stock, and I estimate that I have from sixteen to eighteen hundred dollars' worth of gold-dust." "I have nearly as much," said Tom. "My pile won't vary far from Tom's," said Russell. "That is a pretty good showing for five months, my friend," said the Scotchman. "It will make up for the old clothes," said Tom. "I have been thinking," said Ferguson, "that we need a vacation. What do you say to starting next week for San Francisco?" "I agree," said Russell, promptly. "And I," said Tom. "I should like to see John Miles." "Very well. We will continue our work about a week longer, and then start." CHAPTER XXVIII. A RICH DEPOSIT. About the middle of the next forenoon Tom suddenly stopped work. "What's the matter, Tom? Are you tired?" "No, but I feel like exploring a little. Who goes with me?" "Not I," answered Ferguson. "Let well enough alone." "I'll go with you," said Russell. "I should like a holiday. Besides, we may discover something." "'A rolling stone gathers no moss,'" said Ferguson. "True, but there's another proverb: 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.' Tom and I will try a little play." The two friends sauntered away in an idle mood; yet, combining business with pleasure, they watched carefully the surface indications, ready to avail themselves of any that were favorable. "It's a strange life we are leading, Tom," said Russell. "It is free, and independent, and healthful; but I shouldn't like to live so all my life." "Nor I," answered Tom. "No amount of gold would repay me." "Because gold is only valuable for what it will bring. Here it brings nothing." "Except the hope of future ease and comfort," suggested Tom. "Of course; that is what we are working for. We have made a good beginning." "Yes, Dick. I have almost accomplished what I have had in view ever since I left home." "I know. You mean paying off your father's mortgage." "That's it. It amounts to twenty-two hundred dollars, and I have but a few hundred dollars more to earn. I would stay here a month or two longer, if my clothes would hold together; but I can't risk it." "You need rest, at any rate, Tom, leaving clothes out of the question." As he spoke, Tom, without special thought, drove his pick into the ground. It was a lucky inspiration. Some shining particles attracted the attention of Russell. "Tom," he exclaimed, in excitement, "do you see that, and that? I believe you've struck a bonanza." Upon that both set to work in earnest. A further investigation showed that Russell was right. Tom, by good luck, had chanced upon a deposit of far greater richness than any they had yet encountered. "If it holds out, our fortunes are made, Tom," said Russell. "Go and call Ferguson, and I will remain on guard till you come back." Tom stood not on the order of his going, but went at once. "What's the matter, Tom?" asked the Scotchman, as, panting and breathless, Tom stood before him. "Has anything happened to Russell?" "No; it's good news--splendid news, Mr. Ferguson. We've found a place ten times as rich as this. Come at once, and see." Ferguson made preparations to accompany Tom with what seemed to our hero to be provoking deliberation. In truth the Scotchman, with his national caution, was rather skeptical as to Tom's news, and did not suffer himself to become enthusiastic or excited. Tom had hard work to accommodate his impatient steps to the measured pace of his more sedate companion. When at length they reached the spot they found Russell no less impatient. "I thought you would never come," he said. "Tom wanted to fly," said Ferguson; "but I am too old for that. Now, what is it you have found?" When he was shown what had been discovered he admitted that it was very promising. "If it holds out, we shall be lucky," he said. "It _will_ hold out," said Russell, enthusiastically. "It isn't well to be too confident," said Ferguson, cautiously. "You are very cold-blooded, Mr. Ferguson," said Russell, impatiently. "Won't anything excite you?" "What good would it do to become excited?" returned the Scotchman. "I am as ready to test the matter as you are, and I shall rejoice if your sanguine expectations are realized. Do not expect too much, however, and you will guard against possible disappointment." But there was no disappointment awaiting them. They worked steadily for two weeks, with marvelous results. In this time they unearthed six thousand dollars' worth of gold, which by arrangement they divided equally between them; and still the gold deposit was far from being exhausted. At the end of the fortnight they were visited by a party of capitalists from San Francisco, who were out on an exploring expedition. They recognized the richness of the new discoveries, and after some negotiation offered the three friends ten thousand dollars for their claims. One consideration decided them to accept. It was absolutely necessary for them to go to the city for clothing and other articles, of which they stood in imperative need. They closed the bargain and started on their return. CHAPTER XXIX. BAD NEWS FROM HOME. Arriving in the city late in the afternoon, Tom went at once to see John Miles. When the latter caught sight of Tom, in his ragged attire, he came to the natural conclusion that our hero had met with hard luck. "Why, Tom, where did you spring from?" he exclaimed, grasping the hand of his young partner. "I am just in from the mines." "I suppose you are in want of money," said Miles, his voice betraying sympathy. Tom laughed. "How do you like my appearance, John?" he asked. "Never mind that, Tom. I see you have had a rough time; but I have been earning money for you." "Did you send money regularly to father?" "Yes; I have sent him three hundred dollars in all." "That's good," said Tom, in a tone of satisfaction. "That has made him easy. I suppose that took up about all I was entitled to?" "No; I have as much more to your credit. I am ready to pay it to you at once." "I see, John, you think I have not been doing well." "You don't look very prosperous, Tom, I must acknowledge." "Well, John, appearances are deceitful. I have been wonderfully lucky." "I am delighted to hear it, Tom," said Miles, cordially. "How much is it now?" "What do you say to a thousand dollars?" "Excellent." "Two thousand?" "You don't mean it!" "I won't keep you in suspense, John. I don't know exactly how much I've got, but it's over six thousand dollars!" John Miles stared at our hero in undisguised astonishment. "Are you sure you're quite right _here_?" he said, touching his forehead. "You haven't been sun-struck, have you?" "No, John, it's all as I tell you. Let me explain how my luck came." In a few sentences Tom made it clear to his partner that his luck was real. "As to the three hundred dollars due me from you, John," concluded Tom, "I make you a present of it." "But, Tom--" protested Miles. "Let it be so, and for the future you shall pay me my share. Have you any letters for me?" "I have three." "Give them to me, quick. I am hungry for news from home." Tom sat down on a keg, and fairly devoured the letters, two of which were from his father. One of these gave him much to think of. I will transcribe the passages which gave Tom most concern:-- "Yesterday I paid Squire Hudson his regular semi-annual interest, amounting to sixty-six dollars. Thanks to your liberal remittances, I had no difficulty in making the payment. Indeed, I had two hundred dollars left over. Imagine my dismay when the squire told me he had made up his mind to call in the mortgage, having another use for the money. "'But I can't pay it up,' said I. "'You ought to be able to obtain the money somewhere,' he returned. "'You are the only capitalist with whom I am acquainted,' said I. 'Since I have paid you the interest promptly, what more can you desire?' "He insisted that he needed the money. I offered to pay him the two hundred dollars which he had advanced for your journey. He seemed surprised, but repeated that he must have the whole. The upshot of it was that he gave me a formal notice of three months, as stipulated in the mortgage. At the end of that time, unless I am ready to pay the twenty-two hundred dollars, he will foreclose, and the old farm must be sold. Of course it will be sold much below its real value. Probably the squire will get it for the amount of the mortgage, and we shall be thrown upon the world, without a home. It seems hard, Tom, and very selfish; but might makes right, and Squire Hudson has the power on his side." In a postscript Mark Nelson added, "I understand that Squire Hudson has a connection, his wife's brother, for whom he wants the farm. That explains his resolute refusal to give me time to redeem it. Of course it is too early to decide upon any plans. I must hire some tenement to move into when I have to leave here. It will be hard upon us all to give up the old farm. Walter, who has a taste for farming, and whom I look to be my successor, feels very sad. Don't let this news depress you too much, Tom. We shall not suffer. Thanks to you, I have some money ahead, and we shall not lack for comfort." Tom looked up when he had finished reading the letter. "John," he said, quickly, "when does the next steamer start for New York?" "Day after to-morrow." "Where can I engage passage?" "Are you going home?" "Yes, John, it is absolutely necessary. Squire Hudson is about to foreclose the mortgage on my father's farm. I must be there to stop it." "Have you money enough?" "Three times over. He shall be defeated in his wicked purpose, or my name isn't Tom Nelson." Tom spoke in a quick, indignant tone, and his voice had a manly ring. "Wait, John, let me read you the letter." "The man's a mean rascal!" said Miles. "A rich man who will take advantage of a poor man's necessity to deprive him of his home deserves to be horsewhipped." "I shan't attempt that," said Tom, smiling; "but I will disappoint him. He little thinks I have it in my power to defeat his plans." That very evening Tom engaged passage to New York, and two days later he sailed out of the Golden Gate. "I don't know how long I shall be gone, John," he said. "You need send me no remittances, for I have money enough with me. You will hear from me as soon as I have reached home, and transacted my business with Squire Hudson." "You will come out here again, Tom, won't you?" "Yes, and before long. I have been so busily occupied making money that I have seen almost nothing of San Francisco." Tom did not journey alone. Ferguson, having thriven beyond his expectations, decided to sail to New York, and thence to Scotland, on a visit to his relatives, though he thought it probable he should come back within a year. Dick Russell also was now in a position to study law at home, and gave up the business of gold-mining forever. "I owe all my present prosperity to you two," he said. "But for you I should have blown my brains out five months since." "We owe our prosperity to you also," said Tom. "You guided us to the mines from which we gathered a golden harvest." "We have worked together, and been mutual helpers," said Ferguson. "God has favored us all, and to Him be the thanks!" CHAPTER XXX. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE AUCTION. It was a sad household, that of Mark Nelson, on the day preceding the departure from the farm. There was to be an auction the next day, at which the farm-stock and farm-implements were to be sold. It was well understood that Squire Hudson was to be the buyer of the farm, and as he was not likely to have any competitor there was little hope that it would fetch more than the amount of the mortgage. During the afternoon Mr. Nelson called on Squire Hudson to make the best terms he could at private sale. "The farm is worth at least a thousand dollars more than the mortgage, Squire Hudson," said the farmer. "It is worth what it will fetch, Mr. Nelson," said the squire. "Do you mean that an article always commands its full value at auction, Squire Hudson?" "Ahem! it brings its market value, Mr. Nelson." "Which may be far below its intrinsic value. Suppose a diamond worth ten thousand dollars were put up at auction in our village, do you consider that it would bring a fair price?" "Ahem! you are wandering from the subject. We are talking of farms, not diamonds." "As to the farm, then, you are likely to be the only bidder, unless you allow the mortgage to remain." "If I were inclined to do that I would not disturb you as long as you paid the interest promptly." "Then you decline to buy the farm at private sale?" "I do." "I don't think you will be any better off in the end, Squire Hudson, for oppressing a poor man, and robbing him of his little all," said Mark Nelson, bitterly. "You don't look at the matter from a business point of view," said the squire, coldly. "I am acting as any business man would under the circumstances." "I cannot believe you, sir. All business men are not so hard-hearted." "I really don't think there is any use in prolonging this interview," said Squire Hudson, stiffly. "I have resolved upon my course, in which I am perfectly justified, however you may choose to regard it." This removed the farmer's last hope, and he had only to look about for another home for his family. There was small choice of houses in the little farming town. In fact there was but one house,--a shabby, dilapidated building, a mile from the church and store. This, Mr. Nelson, having no choice, engaged for a period of three months. "It makes me homesick to think of going to live in that barn," said Sarah, as they were sitting together after supper. "It may not be so bad as you think for, Sarah," said her mother; but she secretly sympathized with her daughter. "I wish Squire Hudson had to live there himself," said Walter, in an angry outburst. Usually Walter was checked by his father when uttering such speeches; but to-night Mark Nelson took no notice of his son's angry remark. He felt that it would only be a righteous retribution upon the squire for his cold selfishness. While they were sitting in the plain room endeared to them by the association of years, a sound of wheels was heard, and the village stage stopped before the door. "Who can it be?" said Sarah, wonderingly. The whole family hurried to the window. What youthful, yet manly figure, was that actively descending from his perch beside the driver? "It's Tom!" exclaimed Mrs. Nelson. "Heaven be praised! It is my dear boy." Tom was almost suffocated by the embraces which he received on entering the house. "How you have grown, Tom!" said Sarah. "And how well you look!" "Thank you for the compliment," said Tom, laughing. "But I don't feel well." "What is the matter?" asked his mother, with maternal solicitude. "I am as hungry as a bear. Have you got anything to eat in the house?" This hint was enough. Fresh tea was made, and the wanderer was soon sitting before a bountiful supply of food, cooked in his mother's best style. "It seems good to be at home," said Tom, looking around him, his face beaming with happiness. "Did you get my letter, Tom, announcing the squire's intention to foreclose the mortgage?" asked his father, gravely. "Yes, father; is it really true?" "Yes; he will listen to no persuasions." "When does the sale take place?" "To-morrow." "I shall be present. Have you thought of any other house, father?" "The old Belcher house is the only one I can hire." "That is a poor place." "It must do for lack of a better." "I didn't think the squire would act so meanly. At any rate, father, I will see that you don't any of you suffer for lack of money." "Have you been doing well, Tom?" asked Walter. "Ask me to-morrow, Walter. To-night I want to hear all the news, and everything that has happened since I went away." CHAPTER XXXI. BIDDING FOR THE FARM. "I apprehend," said the squire to his brother-in-law the next morning, "that we shall get the farm at our own price." "I hope we shall, squire," said the poor relative, deferentially. "I suppose this man Nelson is sorry to part with it." "Of course; he charges me with meanness, oppressing the poor, and so on; but of course I don't mind that. It's a matter of business; as I told him." "To be sure." "I am not to be moved by sentimental considerations. Business is business; but he won't see it in that light." "You consider the farm worth considerable more than the amount of the mortgage, of course?" "It is worth four thousand dollars, in my opinion," said the squire, complacently. "If you get it for twenty-two hundred, it will be an excellent bargain." "Father," exclaimed Sinclair, entering the breakfast-room, rather hurriedly, "Tom Nelson has got home." "Where did you hear this, my son?" asked Squire Hudson, in surprise. "At the store. He got home by coach last evening." "Got discontented, I suppose," said the squire, in a tone of triumph. "I thought that was how it would turn out. He can't expect me to advance money to take him out there again." "I wish you would let me go," said Sinclair. "Some day I may take a trip out there with you, my son. Have you seen Thomas?" "No, he keeps mighty close. He hasn't even been round at the store." "He is ashamed to show himself, I suppose. He will have to work on the farm--on a farm again." "I suppose that will be a hard pill for him to swallow," said Sinclair. "No doubt. He is poor and proud, like his father before him. I am glad of one thing,--that I am sure of getting back the two hundred dollars I advanced for his journey. I wonder where he raised money to get back." * * * * * Though there were not likely to be any competitors for the farm, a considerable number gathered at the sale. There was a general feeling of sympathy for the Nelsons, but no one was able to express that sympathy in a tangible form, Squire Hudson cared little for the opinion of his neighbors. Some of them were in debt to him, and he looked down upon them with the arrogance of wealth. Tom received many friendly greetings. He was plainly dressed, quiet in his manner, and seemed to take matters very coolly. At length the farm was put up, the auctioneer naturally turning towards the squire, who responded pompously, "I bid twenty-two hundred dollars, the amount of the mortgage I hold upon the property." "Is there any other bid?" asked the auctioneer. "I bid twenty-five hundred dollars," said a clear, boyish voice. All were startled, and all eyes were turned upon Tom Nelson, who came slightly forward. "Twenty-five hundred!" repeated the auctioneer, hesitating whether he should receive the bid. "I protest against this outrage," exclaimed Squire Hudson, angrily. "The bid is ridiculous." "Why is my bid ridiculous, Squire Hudson?" asked Tom, calmly. "Because you haven't got the money. It is a transparent attempt to run up the price of the farm." "You know nothing of my circumstances, Squire Hudson," said Tom, independently. "I stand ready to pay the sum I bid, and, should you outbid me, I am ready to prove to any committee you may appoint, that I possess the money, or all my bids shall go for nothing, and you can have the farm at your first offer." "That is fair!" cried all. "This is all nonsense," said the squire. "Those of you who choose may believe this boy; I don't." "Going at twenty-five hundred!" said the auctioneer. "Twenty-five hundred and fifty!" said the squire, adding, "I make the bid on the terms proposed by the boy." "Twenty-eight hundred!" said Tom. "And fifty!" bid the squire. "Three thousand!" instantly came from Tom. No one was more surprised than Tom's own family at this unexpected scene. He had not dropped a hint as to his intentions, choosing to take all by surprise. Mark Nelson was perplexed. Though he had great confidence in Tom, he feared that he could not make good his bold bids. At length the farm was knocked down to our hero at three thousand five hundred dollars. "Now," said the squire, angrily, "I demand that this farce come to an end. I believe the bidding of this boy to be a premeditated swindle. If so, I will do my best to have him punished." "And I," said Tom, boldly, "have an equal right to demand that Squire Hudson submit proof that he is responsible for the amount of his offers." "Curse your impudence!" exclaimed the squire, foaming with rage. "But I waive that right," continued Tom, "and will ask Squire Hudson to name two gentlemen present to examine the proofs which I have to offer of my ability to back my bids." "I name Mr. Jones and Mr. Howe," said the squire, quickly, "and request them to act at once." "That is my desire," said Tom. In five minutes the committee reported that Tom had shown them bank-books, of two Boston banks, certifying that he held two thousand dollars on deposit in one, and four thousand in the other. "Is that satisfactory?" asked Tom, coolly. "No," shouted the squire; "I believe that the books are bogus." But the rest of those present entertained no doubts, and our hero was at once surrounded by admiring friends, who shook his hand till it fairly ached. "Squire Hudson, your mortgage shall be paid whenever you desire," said Tom. "Three cheers for Tom Nelson!" proposed some one, and the cheers were given with a will. During the confusion the squire and his brother-in-law slipped out of the house, thoroughly discomfited. CHAPTER XXXII. MANHOOD. If Squire Hudson was surprised at Tom's suddenly revealed wealth, Mr. Nelson was no less so. When Tom first commenced bidding his father feared that he was only trying to annoy the squire, or, perhaps, seeking to force him to pay a higher price for the farm. But when investigation revealed the fact of Tom's riches, and he saw the mountain of debt lifted from his little property, he was overjoyed and grateful. "I can't understand it, Tom," he said; "how could you possibly get possession of so much money?" "I have worked hard, father; but that won't explain it. I have been very lucky, and my good luck has enabled me to save the farm." "I think you will be easier with me than the squire, Tom," said his father, smiling. "I will make out a mortgage to you, since your money has been used to redeem the farm." "I shall have no claim on the farm," said Tom, "or if I have I give it to you. I have money enough for myself, and hope to earn a good deal more besides." "If that is the case, Tom, I will gladly accept your gift. It will be a great relief to think that I have no interest to pay. Now I shall be able to get along easily. I have over two hundred dollars on hand." "I want to make your life easier, hereafter, father. I think you need a larger income than the farm will yield you, and I will therefore send you a hundred dollars every quarter." "You are very generous, Tom; but I fear you will soon get rid of all your money at this rate." "I will explain my circumstances, father, and then you will think differently. I have a business in San Francisco which will yield me at least a thousand dollars a year, without my personal attention, and after paying the squire what is due him I shall have about four thousand dollars left. This I mean to invest securely in Boston." "I can hardly realize that you are so rich, Tom." "I can scarcely realize it myself, father. When I think of the change that fifteen months have made in my circumstances I consider myself the luckiest boy in the world, and have great cause for gratitude." It will be understood that, though Tom had bid thirty-five hundred dollars for the farm, all he was required to pay was the amount of the mortgage, the bid having been made in his father's interest. In a few days the business was completed, and Mr. Nelson found himself the owner of an unencumbered property. Tom remained a week longer in the village, and then started once more for California. His mother urged him to remain at home, now that he had so much money; but Tom reminded her that he was partner in a business in San Francisco, and that he needed to look after his interests there. John Miles might be sick, or die, and in that case he might meet with serious losses. Returning to San Francisco Tom became an active instead of a silent partner. The business was considerably enlarged, and became much more profitable. At the end of two years Tom sold out to his partner for several thousand dollars, and, entering an office, studied law, devoting a portion of his time to general study. At a comparatively early age he was admitted to the bar of his adopted city, and by degrees got into lucrative practice. He had become so much attached to California that he decided to make it his permanent home. Up among the New Hampshire hills his father still tills his little farm, but he no longer depends upon it for his entire living. Tom regularly sends the allowance he promised, and in addition his brothers are often the recipients of handsome gifts. Harry, developing a taste for study, was sent to Exeter Academy, from which in due course he was transferred to Harvard. He, too, was destined for the law, and when he had taken his legal degree joined Tom in California, and is now his partner. Other changes there are in the little village. Squire Hudson is dead, and Sinclair, making haste to sell the homestead, removed to New York, engaged in speculation, and lost everything. One day, shabbily dressed, he entered Tom's office in San Francisco, and asked for the loan of fifty dollars to enable him to reach the mines. Tom gave it, for old acquaintance' sake. It was not the last request for money made by Sinclair. Nothing has been heard of him for some years, and it is probable that a life which was of no service to any one is finished. He had the best start in life, but misused his advantages. Tom has worthily employed the talents committed to his charge, and is happy, honored, and prosperous. THE YOUNG EXPLORER; _or_, AMONG THE SIERRAS, will be the next volume. 
27918	----	The Mines and its Wonders, by W.H.G. Kingston. CHAPTER ONE. THE MINER'S DANGERS. A hum of human voices rose from a village in the centre of England, but they were those of women, girls, and children, the latter playing in the street, running, skipping, laughing, singing, and shouting in shrill tones, the former in their yards or in front of their dwellings, following such avocations as could be carried on out of doors on that warm summer evening. Not a man or lad, not even a boy above eight years old, was to be seen. On one side of the village far away could be distinguished green fields, picturesque hills, widespreading trees, and a sparkling stream flowing in their midst; on the other, nearer at hand, a dreary black region, the ground covered with calcined heaps, the roads composed of coal dust or ashes, and beyond, tall chimneys sending forth dense volumes of smoke, which, wreathing upwards, formed a dark canopy over the scene. Then there were large uncouth buildings, above which huge beams appeared, lifting alternately their ends with ceaseless motion, now up, now down, engaged evidently in some Titanic operation, while all the time proceeding from that direction were heard groans, and shrieks, and whistlings, and wailings, and the sound of rushing water, and the rattling and rumbling of tram or railway waggons rushing at rapid speed across the country, some loaded with huge lumps of glittering coal, others returning to be refilled at the pit's mouth. Those high buildings contained the steam-engines which worked the machinery employed in the coal mine; the tall chimneys carried up the smoke from the furnaces and produced the current of air which kept them blazing. The deafening noises came from cranks, pulleys, gins, whimsays, and other contrivances for lifting the coal from the bottom of the mine, pumping out the water, loading the waggons, ventilating the shafts and galleries, and for performing duties innumerable of various descriptions. As the evening drew on, the women retired into their cottages to prepare supper for their husbands and sons, whose return home they were now expecting. Already the corves which took them down to their work in the early morning must be on their way up to the surface, and it is time to have the savoury messes ready for dishing up. Abundance is on the board, for the miner's wages are sufficient to supply him with what would be luxuries to an ordinary labourer above ground; but were they far higher, could they repay him for a life of constant danger, of hard incessant toil, and the deprivation for more than half the year of a sight of the blue sky, the warming rays of the sun, and the pure air of heaven, except on the one blessed day of the week when he enjoys them with the rest of God's creatures? For months together he descends the shaft in the gloom of morning and does not return till darkness has again shrouded the earth. Many of the good wives had looked at their clocks to judge when to take off the bubbling saucepans from the blazing fires, when, to their dismay, they felt the earth tremble beneath their feet, while a dull rumbling sound like the discharge of musketry struck their ears, coming from the direction of the works. Pale with terror, they rushed out-of-doors to see a vast black mass of dust and smoke rising into the air and forming an inverted cone, beneath which, for an instant, could be distinguished shattered beams and planks, corves and pieces of machinery, which quickly fell again to the earth. The next instant a darkness, like that of early twilight, pervaded the atmosphere, and fine ashes, such as are ejected from a volcano, fell in a thick shower to the ground, which it covered to such a depth that the feet of the terror-stricken women left their imprints on it as they ran towards the scene of the catastrophe--some shrieking and lamenting, but, in most cases, the intensity of their alarm preventing them from giving utterance to their feelings. Among them a young woman, superior to the rest in appearance, went hurrying on towards the pit's mouth, her hand held by a little boy, who had evidently grasped it, refusing to be left behind, when startled by the explosion, she had quitted her cottage. Her fair hair, escaping from beneath her cap, streamed in the wind; her countenance exhibited the most intense anxiety. Her boy, among the oldest of those who had remained that morning in the village, was well able to comprehend what had occurred, yet he did not cry or shriek out, but did his utmost to keep pace with the woman's rapid steps. "Perhaps father and Mat had come up before the blast happened, mother," said the boy in a hopeful tone. "They would be stopping to see how things are going on, or maybe to help any poor fellows left in the pit." The woman answered only by a gasp. "Don't give way, mother dear," continued the boy. "We shall find them both well above ground, depend on't." Still the woman made no reply; her heart told her that her worst anticipations would be realised. She and the rest of the women from the village arrived in a short time at the pit's mouth, where, among the ruined buildings, the broken machinery, and the heaps of rubbish, they rushed frantically here and there seeking for the bread-winners of their families, many uttering piteous wails when they sought in vain for their loved ones; while others, when they were discovered, bursting into shrieks of hysterical laughter, as they flung their arms round the men's necks, led them off to their homes. Some of the miners had, it appeared, come up just before the explosion; but what was the fate of the rest, far beyond a hundred in number, still below? Some, it was surmised, might have escaped death, and many brave volunteers came forward ready to descend to their rescue. All was quiet--the shaft appeared to be free--a fresh corve or teek was procured--a rope attached to the gin, to the shaft of which a party of men putting their shoulders worked it with the strength of horses. The corve descended with its adventurous crew down the shaft. The young woman with the little boy had been among those who had sought in vain for a husband and son. "Have any of you seen John Gilbart and his boy Mat?" she asked of those who had come out of the pit and of others standing by. No one could give her any information about her husband, though one had replied that he had seen young Gilbart leaving the trap at which he had been stationed. Unlike the other women, on hearing this she uttered no cry, but stood speechless and trembling as near as she could venture to the pit's mouth, where she waited, with intense anxiety, the return of the corve to the surface. "Don't take on so, mother dear," said little Mark, who felt her hand trembling. "They say some may have escaped, and things may have been worse above than they were down at the bottom. Perhaps they threw themselves flat on their faces, and let the blast pass over them. I heard father say, only the other day, that was the best thing to do when fire-damp breaks out. He wouldn't have forgotten that, mother, would he?" "I pray Heaven that he did not," she answered in a scarcely audible voice. Minute after minute went by, while the brave explorers who had gone below were searching for their comrades. How that poor mother's heart ached as she thought of what had too probably happened to those she loved. Night had come on, but torches and lanterns and a blazing fire not far off lighted up the scene, casting a lurid glare on the dark figures of the men, the lighter-coloured dresses and pale faces of the women, and the surrounding ruins. At last the cry arose that the corve was ascending. The eager crowd pressing forward could with difficulty be restrained from impeding the men working at the gin. Then came the shout, "They're alive! they're alive!" and six dark figures stepped out on the ground. They were soon recognised by their wives or mothers, and hurriedly dragged off to their homes, while the rest of the women, bitterly disappointed, waited till the basket should again come to the surface. The same scene was again enacted, and the rescued now reported that there were more to follow, though how many they could not tell. Little Mark and his mother waited with trembling hearts. Those they longed to see had not appeared, and to their anxious inquiries no satisfactory reply was given. Neither John Gilbart nor his son had been seen. At length, another party came up from the depths, but this time there were five boys borne in the arms of stronger men. Alas! two were motionless--the arms and heads of the others drooped helplessly down. The poor mothers pressed forward--Mark and Mrs Gilbart among them. "That's Mat--that's Mat!" cried the child, as one of the first was placed on the ground. The mother, kneeling by the side of the boy, gazed into his face. Too truly she recognised her son, but no responsive glance came from his once bright eyes. "Oh, speak to me-- speak to me, Mat," she exclaimed. There was no reply. She took his hand, it was icy cold. Then she knew that her boy was dead. The doctor came. "I grieve for you, my poor woman; he is past recovery," he said, and went on to attend to others. Little Mark sat by his dead brother's side, gazing at him with awe. No one disturbed him. Mrs Gilbart waited on, hope not yet abandoned. More men came up, some fearfully injured. They reported that the rest were in the workings far away-- already the mine was on fire, the heat and smoke unbearable--that it was a miracle any had escaped, that all but themselves must have perished. Heartrending were the wailings and shrieks and moanings which arose at this announcement, confirmed by the viewer and overmen. Still many lingered on in the hopes that the corve might be again sent down, but the viewer forbade any to descend, as it must prove their destruction. At length some men came to carry young Gilbart's corpse to his mother's cottage. She and Mark followed with tottering steps. The sad truth had forced itself on her that she was a widow--the two bread-winners of her household gone. Still it was some poor consolation to have recovered the body of her son. Many had not that--they were destined never again to see those they loved. More explosions took place, and the report was spread that the whole mine was destroyed. This was, however, not the case. Science enabled the manager to triumph over the fiery element raging below. By completely closing the mouths of the shafts, the atmospheric air was excluded, and the flames extinguished. After nearly three months' labour, the mine was explored, and the bodies of the dead, scorched and dried to mummies, were recovered. None could be recognised, and they were buried in a common grave. Mrs Gilbart knew that her husband was among them. The pit was again opened. Fresh labourers arrived from other parts, and once more those dark galleries became the scene of active industry. The cottages were required by the fresh comers, and Mrs Gilbart, with her son and her little girl Mary, a year younger than Mark, would have been compelled to go forth houseless and penniless into the cold world, had not an uncle of her late husband, a hewer at a pit a few miles away, offered to receive her and her children into his house. She thankfully went, hoping to maintain herself and others by her needle. Simon Hayes had been a miner from his boyhood. Though there were some soft places in his heart, he was rough and untutored, and he had many of the faults common among men of his class. He had a wife much like himself in several respects, but he had no children. Though receiving good wages, he had saved nothing, having spent them extravagantly in obtaining luxuries for himself and his wife, for which they cared but little. By refraining from these, he was well able to feed these additional mouths, and for some time his wife made no complaint at his doing so. Still there was nothing saved up for a rainy day. Simon Hayes took mightily to little Mary. There was nothing he thought too good for her; but he showed no affection for Mark. He was a boy doomed to labour as he had been, and the only labour he could think of for him was down in the mine, first as a trapper, then as a putter, and finally as a hewer. Mrs Gilbart shuddered when he alluded to the subject. She had hoped to bring him up to some trade which he could follow above ground, though it would be several years before he would be old enough to be apprenticed. "But he is not very strong, and he is my only one, uncle, you know," she answered. "Let him go to school first. I have taught him what I could, but he will get on with his learning there faster than at home." "What's the use of learning to a miner?" exclaimed Simon with a gruff laugh. "However, you must have your way, Mary, and I don't mind paying for his schooling, though, look ye, if times get bad, he'll have to earn his bread like the rest of us." Mrs Gilbart thanked her uncle, hoping that the evil day was put off for a long time. Little Mark went to school, and being fond of his books, made rapid progress in reading and writing. He thus soon possessed himself of the key of knowledge. Little Mary was also sent to a girls' school, and being bright and intelligent, soon became a favourite pupil of the mistress. At length Mrs Hayes fell ill, and her niece's time was so fully occupied in attending on her, that she could gain nothing by her work. Then there was the doctor to pay. Simon also was laid up for some weeks from a severe bruise by a fall of coal. "I can't stand this no longer, niece," he said one day. "The next time I go down the pit I must take Mark with me." Mrs Gilbart begged hard that her boy might remain above ground. She would take him from school and try to get employment for him on a farm. Simon was obdurate; if she would not agree to his wishes she might leave his house. Her fears were all nonsense, the boy would do well enough in the pit, he would get tenpence a-day as a trapper--on a farm he couldn't get twopence. Without telling her what he was about to do, the first morning he returned to work he took Mark by the arm and led him along to the pit's mouth. He had brought a flannel suit. He made the boy put it on. "Now, Mark, we are going into the pit, and you'll do what I tell you when we get down," he said, as if it was a matter of course. "I've arranged with the manager to take you on from to-day as a trapper. Though you may not like it at first, you'll soon get accustomed to the work, and so let's have no nonsense. Here's the corve all ready to go down--come along." CHAPTER TWO. LEARNING TO WATCH. Simon, taking Mark by the hand, stepped on to an iron frame-work or cage, suspended over the pit's mouth. "Take hold of this bar and don't move as you value your life, boy," he said. Mark obeyed. Several other men and two boys stepped on to the cage, it began to descend. Though little Mark had been hearing of mines all his life, and felt no especial unwillingness, yet all seemed strange about him. It appeared to him by the dim light of the lamps which his uncle and the other men held in their hands, that the shafts were rushing upwards at a fearful rate, while the light of day, which he could still see above him, grew gradually less and less. A giddiness overtook him. He might have fallen, had not his uncle still held him by the shoulder. How long he had been descending he could not tell, when he found the cage come to a stand-still, and that he was down beneath the surface of the earth, a thousand feet or more. The rumbling of the trains of laden waggons coming to the shafts, the faint voices of the men in the distance, were the only sounds heard, while the lights which flitted here and there only served to make the long vaulted galleries appear more gloomy and dark. "Come along, Mark!" said his uncle, shouldering his pick and spade, and holding his lantern before him. As they stepped out of the cage, they found themselves in a gloomy vault, on one side of which a huge furnace was unceasingly roaring, while at the other were the stables in which a number of horses, mules, and donkeys were kept. Before them was the main gallery, about eight feet high and the same wide, arched over with bricks four thick, and extending three miles away from the mouth of the pit. Out of it for its whole length opened shorter galleries or side galleries where the coals were now being won. In all of them rails were laid down for the waggons to run on, and on each side were seams of coal, in some places narrow near the top, in others close to the ground, and in some there was coal from the top to the bottom. At the entrance of these side galleries were doors which had generally to be kept shut, and were only opened when the waggons, loaded with coal or returning empty, had to pass through. After Simon and Mark had proceeded a couple of miles along the main gallery, they stopped at one of these doors. "This is to be your post, Mark," said Simon. "When you hear the waggon coming, you are to open the door, and as soon as it is passed to shut it. Mind you don't go to sleep. You'll be in the dark, but that won't hurt you, and if you feel anything running by, you'll know it's only a rat. It won't touch you while you are awake. I began my life in this way, so must you. There, go and sit down in that hole cut out for you. When you hear the rolley coming, pull that rope, which will open the door. There, now, you know what to do. Take care that you do it," and Simon, leaving his nephew, proceeded on to the farther end of the working. He then commenced operations on a new cutting which the under-viewer had marked out for him in the side of the gallery. It was about three yards square, and was to be about four feet six inches back under the bed of coal, he began by hewing away about two feet six inches from the ground and working upwards, cutting out the coal with his pick, shovelling it into a large corve or basket which stood at hand ready for the reception of the lumps. At first the work was tolerably easy, as he could stand upright and swing his pick with all his force. As he got deeper and deeper into the bed, he had to fix a strut or post with a cross beam to support the weight of the roof, and he had to get the coal out by stooping down low or resting on his knees. Finally he had to work lying down on one elbow, swinging his pick over his head with the other arm in a way a miner alone could have used it. Occasionally the boy called the putter came by, shoving a rolley or little band-waggon before him. On to this the full corve was lifted and the empty one left in its place. Sometimes he proceeded by cutting a space on each side of the square bed of coal, from the roof to the floor. He then bored a hole in the middle of the block, into which he rammed a charge of gunpowder, and having lighted it by a slow match, retired to a distance. The powder exploding, shattered the whole mass, and it came tumbling down to the ground in fragments. This could only have been done where no foul air was present, otherwise the moment the lamp was opened there would have been a fearful explosion, and he, with many others, would perhaps have been killed. He laboured on incessantly until dinner time, when he and all the men in the working, including the putters, came out, and taking Mark with them, repaired to a central spot where there were casks of water, and seats, the only accommodation required by the rough miners. Here their dinners, which had been sent down during the morning, were eaten. "Well, how do you get on?" asked his uncle of Mark. "I kept awake, opened the door when the rolleys came by, and shut it again after they had passed!" answered Mark. "That's what I had to do!" said Simon. "I only wish that I had a candle, and had brought a book down to read. I should not have minded it much then, although it was a hard matter to keep awake!" "You were not afraid, then?" asked another man. "What was there to be afraid of?" asked Mark. "I heard noises, but I knew what they were, so I did not mind them!" "You'll do!" said his uncle in an approving tone. Mark ate his dinner, and then went back to his trap. He there sat all alone in the dark, anxiously waiting for "kenner" time. It came at last, and Mark heard the words "kenner, kenner," which had been shouted down the pit's mouth, passed along the galleries. It was the signal for the miners to knock off work, and return to the upper world. Mark, however, could not venture to move until his uncle came for him. He was very thankful when he saw the glimmer of a light along the gallery. Slowly it approached. It was carried by his uncle, who having closed the door, led him along through the main tunnel towards the shaft. Together they ascended, and returned home. Mrs Gilbart had been dreadfully alarmed at her son's absence, until told by a neighbour that she had seen him going along with his uncle towards the pit's mouth. A mother's eye alone could have recognised him, so greatly changed was he by the coal dust. She soon, however, got that washed off, and dressed him again in his clean clothes. He did not complain or ask his mother to keep him out of the mine, so, although still with an unwilling heart, she allowed his uncle to take him. The next Saturday he received five shillings, which was as much as she could make by stitching all day, and sometimes late into the night, by her needle. Simon was well pleased with Mark, and reported, after he had been some weeks at work, that no fault had ever been found with him. He was always awake, and ready to open and close his trap at the proper time. When a little bigger, he would become a "putter," and have the employment of rolling the waggons along the tramways. Coal mines, it should be understood, are worked in various ways, some in squares, or what is called the panel system. The main roads are like the frame of a window, the passages like the wood-work dividing the panes of glass, and the masses of coal which at first remain, may be represented by the panes themselves. After the various passages have been cut out, the masses are again cut into, pillars only remaining, each of which is about twelve feet by twenty-four feet in thickness. At length these pillars are removed, and props of wood placed instead, and thus the whole mine is worked out. There are miles and miles of passages in which tramways are laid down, leading to the shaft, up which the coal is raised. As the air in the mine has a tendency to get foul and close, it is necessary to send currents of wind into the passages to blow it away. The chief object is to make the wind come down one shaft, and then to bring it along through the passages, and so up by another shaft. If the wind which came down were allowed to wander about, it would produce no good effect. The traps or doors, such as the one at which Mark was stationed, are used to stop it from going through some passages and make it move along others until the bad air is blown out of them. To create a powerful current, a large furnace is placed at the bottom of one of the shafts, which is called the up-cast shaft, and the foul air is cast up it. Often, notwithstanding this, the heat below is very great, and the hewer working away with his heavy pick is bathed in perspiration. Where no bad gas is generated, open lights may be used, but this cannot often be done with safety, as fire-damp may at any moment rush out of a hole, and if set alight it would go off like gunpowder or gas from coal, killing everybody within its influence, and bringing down the tops and sides of the passages. In some mines where it is important to have ventilation, there are four shafts, two up and two down-cast. The latter, where the coals are drawn up to the surface, are in the lowest part of the mine, and all the passages are on a gentle ascent towards the furnace, so that the air down the shafts is drawn that way. The furnace consists of a number of iron bars placed horizontally across the end of a large brick arch, and the roof and sides are built of the best fired bricks. On the iron bars nearly a ton of coals is kept constantly burning and throws out a great heat, relays of men being employed in replenishing it. At the back of the furnace is a shaft to carry off the smoke. Thus the cool air circulates all over the mine. When a large supply of air is required in any particular part of the mine, the doors are closed at the entrance to the other parts, thus directing the current where it is most wanted. This current is so strong that on opening one of these doors, care is necessary in shutting it, as it would slam with a force sufficient to knock a man down. These and other arrangements, and the vast amount of machinery now employed, had not, however, been introduced when Mark Gilbart began life as a "trapper." The most dangerous operation is the opening of a new passage, from which foul air may suddenly escape and poison the miners inhaling it, or a stream of water may rush forth, rilling up the gallery, and drowning all within its reach. Numberless, indeed, are the dangers to which miners are exposed. Their condition is now improved, but they formerly worked eleven or twelve hours a-day, and occasionally even from thirteen to sixteen, far down in the depths of the earth, in a heavy and noxious atmosphere, in a half naked state and in unnatural positions, kneeling, stooping, lying upon their sides and backs, at any moment liable to the loss of life. The miner has not only to undergo bodily labour, but must exercise skill, patience, presence of mind, coolness, and thoughtfulness. Countless, also, are the dangers to which they are exposed. To accidents as they come down or go up the shafts by the breaking of ropes, or the giving way of machinery, from the falling in of the roof or walls, as also from accidents in blasting, from spontaneous combustion, from explosion of fire-damp, suffocation from choke-damp, and eruptions of water, and even quicksands. Sometimes floods or heavy rains find their way down unknown crevices into the pit, where the miner is working, and forming a rapid torrent, suddenly inundates the mine and sweeps all before it. Such was the life young Mark Gilbart was apparently doomed to lead. CHAPTER THREE. LEARNING TO WORK. We must proceed more rapidly than heretofore with Mark Gilbart's history. He did his duty as a trapper, never falling asleep, and always opening and shutting the trap at the proper moment. The rolley boys never complained of him, and as he was invariably in good humour, and stood their chaffing, he became a favourite. Often he had to go into the pit before daylight, and remain until ten o'clock at night with one candle to light him on his way to his trap, and another with which to return. As he always told his mother that he was happy, and he appeared to be in tolerable health, she became reconciled to his being thus employed, though she little dreamed of what he had really to go through. When he had shorter hours of work, he employed his time at home in reading and improving himself in writing. He had also a fancy for making models. He began by making one of the parts of the pit in which he worked. Then he tried his hand at making some of the simpler machinery of the pit. His uncle acknowledged that the rolleys, corves, picks, and spades were wonderfully exact,--indeed, was so well pleased that he allowed him a lantern and a supply of candles, so that instead of sitting in the dark, he could pass his time in reading and cutting out his models, the materials for which he carried down with him. So perfect were his models that they were readily purchased by visitors to the pit. His mother, on one occasion, taking some of them into a neighbouring town, sold specimens to tradesmen, who offered to buy as many as she could bring them of the same description. At length Mark became big enough to be a "putter," or rolley boy. He could no longer read or make models down in the pit, but he got better wages, shorter hours of work, and his health improved with the exercise. Being always wide-awake, he escaped the accidents from which so many of his companions suffered, which they called "laming." The injuries they received were from various causes, but generally from falling, when the rolley passed over their arms or legs, and broken limbs were the consequence. Some had lost one or more fingers or toes, others had received gashes in their faces, or arms, or legs, but they had seldom long been laid up, and had willingly again returned to their work. The term "putter," it should be understood, includes the specific distinction of the "headsman," "half-marrow," and "foal." The "headsman," taking the part of conductor, pushes behind. The "half-marrows" drag at the sides with ropes; while a "foal" precedes the train, also dragging by a rope. Mark, however, was not very long employed in this laborious task, for the overseer, hearing of his talent, appointed him to the duty of "crane-hoister." The term explains itself. He had to hook on the "corves," and keep an account by chalking on a board the number hoisted up. In this occupation he was able to gain a pound a week. Some part of this he laid by, and with the other he enabled his little sister to attend a respectable school in the neighbourhood, where she made great progress, and showed a considerable talent for music. Mark had by this time gained the esteem not only of his companions but of the under-viewers, and was favourably known to the viewer. On several occasions when his services had been required, he had accompanied one of the under-viewers on his visits through the mines. He thus traversed the main gallery, the side walks, and the old, or abandoned works. In the latter the roof was propped up by perpendicular posts and horizontal beams. In many places the beams were so bent by the weight of the superincumbent earth, that it appeared they must before long give way. In many places they had to creep on hands and knees to pass through the old workings, which opened into others farther on. As they made their way along, the under-viewer showed him a fault in the coal seam, and explained what it was. Coal seams generally run in a parallel position with the various other strata for a considerable distance, when, all at once, they abruptly terminate. This is marked as plainly as if a wall had been built up at the end of the seam. Thus, while on one side of the wall there is a thick seam of coal, on the other there is a mass of rock. This break or fault was caused at some remote period of the world's history by an internal convulsion. It is known, however, that the seam will again be found, either at a higher or lower level than the one first worked. To reach the seam a tunnel is driven right through the rock, when sooner or later the seam is discovered. In the present fault, a tunnel had been run through the solid rock for fifty feet in length; and they might afterwards have to follow up the seam, extending perhaps half-a-mile, or even a mile, for the whole of which length a gallery would have to be cut, from which, side workings would extend on either side. So accurately did Mark note all he saw, that on his return home he was able to draw out a plan of the mine, with which the under-viewer was so pleased, that he took it to the manager. "This boy deserves encouragement. We must see what can be done for him!" was the remark. Shortly after this, great improvements were introduced into the mine. Fresh shafts were sunk, for affording better ventilation, and for more rapidly getting the coal to the surface. Near them, engines of great power were placed to perform the various operations required. An endless wire rope was made to run from the shafts to the extreme end of the gallery, kept revolving by a steam-engine down in the mine. The man walking ahead of the leading waggon, to which is secured a pair of iron tongs, grips hold by them of this endless rope, which thus drags on his waggons without any labour on his part, towards the shaft, up which the coals are to be carried to the surface. The chief gallery was divided by a wall down the centre, with openings at intervals of twenty yards or so, to enable persons to pass through. There were also niches on either side, where he could stand while a train was passing. On one side of the gallery the full trains ran along on rails from the workings to the shaft; on the other side the empty waggons returned to the workings to be filled. For the purpose of better ventilating the mine, an enormous fan, forty feet in diameter, formed like the paddle-wheels of a steam-ship, and kept constantly revolving by steam-power, was placed over a shaft sunk for that sole object. The suction caused by the enormous paddles drew up all the foul air and noxious vapours from the whole of the mine, and at the same time drew in from another shaft, more than a mile distant, a current of fresh air, amounting from 70,000 to 80,000 feet per minute, thus doing the work of a furnace far more effectually, and at much less cost. Instead of the old corve or basket, an iron safety-cage had been introduced, sliding up and down on steel bars, resembling indeed a perpendicular rail-road. Wonderfully changed was the appearance of the mine itself. Mark, who had been employed above ground for some time, was astonished, on being lowered in the new safety-cage, to find himself on stepping out at the bottom in a spacious brick-arched vault, almost the size of a railway terminus, well lighted by large glass lamps suspended from the roof. The machinery, both steam and hydraulic, looked in the most perfect order; the steel parts of the engine shining like burnished silver. Trains of laden waggons were every now and then arriving. First of all was heard a distant rumbling, with the "whirr" of the iron rope far back in the darkness. The rumbling sound grew louder, and at last the train came in sight. A stalwart miner, with his lamp dimly twinkling slung at his waist, striding along holding in his left hand the iron tongs before mentioned, and having behind him a long train of waggons, gradually came into the light. On he went to the foot of the shaft. Here a strong iron cage appeared, having three floors, one above the other. In front of this was a stage, on to which the leading waggon was run. It was then lifted by hydraulic power, until a second stage appeared below it. On this another waggon was run, that again rose, until a third stage was level with the tramway--the three stages being now level with the three floors of the cage. At the same time three hydraulic rams or arms ran out from the side of the shaft and pushed the waggons into the cage, which immediately began ascending. It should have been said that three empty waggons had come down in the cage, and had in the first instance been withdrawn and placed on the return tramway. These were at once coupled together by men stationed there for the purpose, who had now to wait for the return of the cage with more empty waggons to be again filled with three others from the full train. The cage on reaching the summit of the shaft was unloaded much in the same fashion by hydraulic power. This operation was carried on with wonderful rapidity, so that the outputs, or amount of coal raised, averaged from 800 to 900 tons per day. More than a mile away from this main shaft was the engine-room which worked the endless rope. On a platform some distance above the ground sat the engineer, surrounded by a multitude of signals. In spite of the tremendous noise which prevented one person hearing what another said, the engineer attended to all his signals with the greatest accuracy, his complicated machinery in beautiful order, and appearing perfectly at his ease. Some idea may be formed of the vast amount of labour employed in this mine when it is understood that the working-faces, with gate-roads, main roads, air-ways, returns, engine-plains, self-acting and engine inclines, extended upwards of eleven miles, and with the addition of the old working roads, including those which were bricked up, the whole measured the enormous amount of twenty-two miles. All these passages were kept far better ventilated by the fan than they were by the furnace hitherto in use, while the pure air brought down, greatly contributed to the health of the miners. Mark had risen step by step. He was now able to take a house for his mother and Mary, although old Hayes and his wife were very unwilling to part with them. Mary had greatly improved in her music, of which she was passionately fond, but she had no piano on which to play at home. Mark, who had a holiday, hearing that an auction was to take place at the neighbouring town, at which a pianoforte was for sale, set off to attend it. There was some competition, but he had 20 pounds in his pocket, saved from his earnings, and it was finally knocked down to him at that price. With proud satisfaction he at once hired a spring cart, and set off with it for his home, where he had it placed while Mary was out with their mother. Her delight at seeing it equalled the pleasure with which he bestowed his gift. The fact was inserted in one of the local papers by the auctioneer who sold it, that the piano was purchased by the first 20 pounds saved out of the earnings of a collier boy, as a present to his sister. Unhappily, such instances are rare, for although many collier boys gained high wages, the money was too generally lavishly spent, without thought for the future. Of late years a considerable improvement has taken place among many mining populations, but even in former years it was possible for talent to force its way upwards. Who has not heard of George Stephenson, who began life trapper in a mine at six years of age, and rose to be a great engineer, father of Robert Stephenson, M.P., and engineer-in-chief of the North-Western Railway; of Dr Hutton, who was originally a hewer of coal in Old Long Benton Colliery; of Thomas Bewick, the celebrated wood-engraver; of Professor Hann, the mathematician, and of many others whose names are less known to fame, who have obtained respectable positions in society. Old Hayes had lately moved to another pit some distance from the one in which he had hitherto laboured, being tempted by higher wages, and Mark shortly afterwards was offered a situation as under-viewer in the same pit. It was worked on the old plan, but improvements were being carried out. Old Simon with four other men were coming along the main gallery, being the last of the miners who were leaving the pit for the night. The rest had already gained the foot of the shaft, when a rushing, roaring sound was heard followed by a tremendous blast of wind, which, almost took them off their feet. The cage was at the bottom of the shaft. They sprang into it, more than double the number it usually contained clinging on. Before they could give the signal to be drawn up, they saw a torrent of water surging on several feet in depth, rapidly filling the whole lower part of the mine. They were soon out of danger, but what had become of old Simon and his companions? Mark had come to the pit's mouth intending to descend and make his usual survey of the mine to see that all was right. He soon heard on inquiry of the supposed fate of old Simon and the rest. No one doubted that he had been overwhelmed by the raging waters, but that such was the case Mark was not thoroughly satisfied. "They may have escaped in one of the side workings, and if so they are still alive, although it may be a difficult matter to get them out," he remarked. He at once ordered the cage to be lowered, and with two men who volunteered to accompany him, descended in it. On getting near the bottom he discovered that although the water had filled the main tunnel to the roof, there was still a passage running away to the left on a higher level which was perfectly dry. They proceeded along it although his companions considered that a search in that direction was useless. "If the poor fellows were last seen in the main gallery, it seems impossible that they should have got up here," they remarked. They, however, went on and on, but no signs of human beings could be discovered. They were returning, and were once more approaching the shaft, when a dull sound was heard, as if some one was striking on a wall in the far distance. Mark placed his ear against the side from which the sound seemed to come, and he distinctly heard several blows given. The others did the same. "You are right, Gilbart, that comes from the side working nearest to us. The men must be there," exclaimed one of his companions. "We will reply to them," said Mark, and taking a pick he struck several heavy blows against the side of the gallery. They were replied to by the same number. "How is it that they can be there and not be drowned?" asked one of the men. "The water is prevented from rushing in by the pent-up air in the working," he answered. "How long it will be kept back I cannot say, but no time must be lost in hewing a way through to them. Come, lads, with God's help, we will save them," said Mark. "Keep picking away until I return," and he hastened to the shaft. Having an exact plan of the mine, he was able to determine at once the working in which old Simon and his companions were imprisoned. The distance, however, to the spot where he was convinced they must be was fearfully great, between eighty and ninety yards. It would take days to bore through. Would those they desired to save be able to exist so long? The attempt must be made. Volunteers were quickly obtained, and descending with a dozen skilful hewers, he commenced operations at the very spot where the sound of the blows had reached his ears. In a short time a gang of putters with a supply of rolleys came down to carry away the coal and earth and rock as it was hewn out, but five men could only labour at a time. They worked, therefore, in relays. Day and night they laboured on without cessation, except occasionally stopping to ascertain that their friends within were alive, when they were encouraged to proceed by invariably hearing the knocking which had at first attracted Mark's attention. He directed the course they were to pursue, never once ascending to the pit's mouth, but taking his food near the working, and sleeping in a blanket on the hard rock. Day after day and night after night they worked on. The knocking from within sounded louder. On the seventh day their leader, an old friend of Simon's, struck his pick into the rock before him, making a deep hole, through which there suddenly rushed out a stream of noxious gas, and he fell overcome. His comrades, seizing him by the arms, dragged him out, narrowly escaping themselves. Reaching the fresher air, he soon recovered, and undaunted exclaimed, "Let me go at it again, lads!" and leading the way, once more the bold miners recommenced operations. Still another day they worked on, and the partition which divided them from their friends was growing thinner and thinner. A second escape of gas once more compelled them to retreat, but as soon as it had dispersed, with the courage of heroes they again went at it. At length, on the tenth day since the water had rushed into the mine, but a thin wall remained between them and the imprisoned ones. They had now come to the most dangerous part of their undertaking, the moment they had broken away the wall, the compressed air would rush through the aperture, with a force far greater than the fiercest hurricane, and the water surging up might drown those within. Still, they knew they must risk it. "Now, lads, we'll do it," cried their old leader, and lifting his pick he struck a blow against the rock. As he withdrew it, the air rushing through extinguished the lights, and they were left to work in darkness. Notwithstanding this, in spite of the wind in his face, the old man worked on with thundering blows. Every moment he brought down masses of rock until he was convinced that he had made a hole large enough to creep through. "Where are you, lads?" he shouted. "Come on, come on!" Some faint voices replied, he and four others, clambering through the aperture, each lifted a man in his arms. They could hear the water rushing in close to them, but they hesitated not. Dragging out their friends, they staggered along the gallery they had just formed. They were met by Mark and a party of men carrying lanterns, and battling against the fierce blast which rushed through the passage. They were thus soon relieved of their burdens. Quickly reaching the main gallery, the doctor took the rescued men in hand, having a plentiful supply of food, medicine, and attendants ready. Though weak and almost exhausted, the five men in a few hours were sufficiently recovered to be conveyed up the shaft, where they were received by their relatives and friends, who long before had given up all hopes of ever again seeing them. It may be asked how were these men able to live so long during their imprisonment! Fortunately they had with them a small store of provisions, and knowing that it might be many days before they could be rescued, they at once put themselves on the very smallest allowance that would support life, at the same time the air, which as we have seen was so compressed by the force of the water, was capable of sustaining respiration for a much longer period than when of its ordinary density. There is a very great amount of vitality in the human frame, and where the wear and tear of active labour does not exist, man can live for a long period almost without solid food, especially if there be a plentiful supply of fresh water at hand. CHAPTER FOUR. THE MINES OF EUROPE. Mark Gilbart had never thrown a moment away. By study, perseverance, and strict integrity, and the exercise of the intelligence with which he was endowed, he had risen step by step to a far higher social position than he had before enjoyed. Though still young, he had become a mining engineer, and was greatly respected by all who knew him. He had the happiness of placing his mother and sister in a house of their own, without the necessity of labouring for their support. He was one day drawing plans in his study, when he received a note from a Mr Harvey, a gentleman of property, the owner of several mines, requesting him to call. Mr Harvey received him cordially. "I am about to ask you, Mr Gilbart, to accompany my son Frank on a tour of considerable extent, to visit some of the more important mines in Europe, and, if there is time, in other parts of the world, and he is anxious to have a practical man who will enable him to comprehend the different matters connected with them more clearly than he would be able to do by himself. I need not say that I am fully aware of the value of your time, and I therefore offer you such compensation as I hope you will consider sufficient." Mark gladly agreed to the proposal. Such a tour was above all things such as he desired, and which, indeed, he had himself contemplated taking at his own cost. Frank Harvey was an active, intelligent, young man, exactly the sort of companion Mark would have chosen. Having concluded all their arrangements, they lost no time in setting out. Having visited the English, Scotch, and Welsh coal districts, numbering in all about fifteen, they bent their steps--after seeing the iron and lead mines in the south of Scotland, and the north and centre of England--towards Cornwall, to explore its tin and copper mines; after which they intended to cross the Channel to visit the more remarkable ones of Europe. Their first halting-place was at Redruth, near which is the lofty hill called Cairn Brea, whence they obtained a view over an extensive mining district. The country around, covered in many places with enormous blocks of granite, looked barren and uninviting in the extreme, and no one would have supposed that any portion of the soil in sight was the richest in the whole of our island. Within a few miles of the spot where they stood were, however, numerous copper and tin mines, many of which had yielded a large profit to their owners. Among them was Dolcoath, one of the oldest copper mines in Cornwall, 300 fathoms in depth. Another, Eastpool, a tin and copper mine, from which ores to the amount of 130,000 pounds have been won, after an original outlay of only 640 pounds. From the former mine native silver, cobalt, and bismuth have also been obtained. The mineral deposits of Cornwall, it should be known, are found in granite and grey slate. Those of Derbyshire and the north of England--lead and iron--in the carboniferous system. The travellers visited these and several other mines, among them the Consolidated Copper Mines, situated in the parish of Gwennap, about three miles from Redruth. They extend along the brow of a range of steep hills, into which numerous shafts are sunk. The length of the whole of these shafts together, it is calculated, is more than twelve miles in perpendicular depth, and if to these are added the horizontal galleries, which perforate the hill in all directions, the extent of subterranean excavation is upwards of sixty miles. Eight steam-engines of the largest size, and thirty of smaller dimensions, are employed for drainage and other purposes, their ordinary working power being equal to 4000 horses, but when their full power is put on they almost equal that of 8000. To carry off the water from these mines, a tunnel, with numerous ramifications has been formed, measuring nearly thirty miles in length. One branch of this tunnel is upwards of five miles long, carried underground 400 feet beneath the surface, finding its outlet into the sea near Falmouth. A few years ago the number of tin mines worked in Cornwall amounted to 139, and to 26 in Devonshire; and about 20,000 persons were employed in them. Although the wages of the miners are much inferior to those of the pitmen in the northern coal-fields, yet they have advantages over their brethren, being exempted from many of the evils to which the northern miners are subjected. They have no fear of the fatal fire-damp or sudden explosions. Intellectually they are also superior, as they are mostly engaged in work requiring the exercise of mind. Their wages arise from contract, and depend greatly upon their skill and energy. They mostly have gardens, which they cultivate, and when near the coast they engage in the fisheries, thus increasing their incomes and varying their mode of life. After leaving Redruth the travellers proceeded over the wildest and most desolate of moorlands, with blocks of stone scattered about, towards the wonderful Botallack Mine, on the Cornish coast. No mine in the world is so singularly placed. Descending to the shore below, on looking upwards, the view appeared fearfully grand. In one part was a powerful steam-engine, which had to be lowered almost 200 feet down the cliffs. Here tall chimneys, pouring out dense volumes of smoke, were seen perched on the ledges of a tremendous precipice. Here and there also were the huts of the miners, disputing the ground with the wild sea-birds, while ladders of great length scaled the rocks in all directions, enabling them to ascend and descend to their work. In some parts were paths up which sure-footed mules, with riders on their backs, were trotting briskly along, where few people unaccustomed to dizzy heights would have wished to venture even on foot. As they had determined to visit the mine, they had to ascend to the top of the cliff and then once more to descend among the rugged rocks to a ledge about midway between the summit and the ocean, where a small building, occupied by the mining agent, marked the entrance. Hearing who they were, the agent at once undertook to guide them, and produced a couple of woollen mining dresses and two large felt hats. Each person having fastened four or five candles to his button hole, while he carried another in his hand, they began to descend through a trap-like entrance, by a series of ladders, which although strong enough in reality had a very rickety feeling. On reaching the foot of one ladder, they were conducted to the top of another, on to which they had to step, and thus descending ladder after ladder and passing ledge after ledge, they at length reached the bottom of the pit, where the end of a pump was seen drawing up the water from all parts of the mine. They then commenced their progress along one of the numberless galleries, which was so narrow that two persons could scarcely pass each other. Now having to step over rough stones and often close to the edges of fearful pits, now to bend low under masses of overhanging rock, and sometimes to find themselves crossing unknown abysses by shaky bridges of planks, while the damp air felt hot and sickly, making the candles burn dimly. Here miners were at work with pickaxes getting out the ore. Having thus gone over, through, and under all impediments, they were informed that they were 120 feet below the level of the sea vertically, and horizontally 480 feet below low-water mark. Boats might even then be passing over their heads. Human beings were working still lower down. On the roof, the strips of pure copper could be distinguished among the crevices of the rocks through which the salt water was seen percolating in an unpleasant abundance. In their eagerness to obtain the rich ore, the miners had worked upwards until they had got within five or six feet of the bottom of the ocean. There the metal was still clearly visible, but even the most hardy miners would scarcely have ventured on an attempt to win another grain from the rock overhead, lest the water should rush in and overwhelm them, and inundate the mine. Passing into a gallery where no one was at work, the travellers listened in perfect silence, and could hear the low murmur of the ocean rolling above their heads. "Oh, that is nothing now," said their guide. "When a storm is raging, I have heard the sound of the pebbles, which some large wave has carried outwards, bounding and rolling over the rocky bottom. On standing beneath the base of the cliff, where not more than nine feet of rock intervened between the sea and my head, the heavy roll of the large boulders, the ceaseless grinding of the pebbles, the fierce thunder of the billows with the crackling and boiling as they rebounded, produced an uproar such as those who heard it can never forget." For many years a blind man worked in the Botallack Mine, and supported a large family by his labour. So complete was his recollection of every turning and winding, that he became a guide to his fellow-labourers, when by any accident their lights were extinguished. He being afterwards cruelly discharged, engaged himself as an attendant to some bricklayers. While thus employed, with a hod of mortar on his back, he fell from a platform and was killed. There are several other mines similarly situated to that of the Botallack on the coast of Cornwall, where the works are carried far under the ocean. Among them are the Wheal Edward, the Levant, the Wheal Cock, and the Little Bounds. In the two latter, the miners have actually followed the ore upwards until the sea itself has been reached, but the openings formed were so small that they were able to exclude the water, by plugging them with wood and cement. On returning from the mine, the travellers, having doffed their miners' dresses, inspected the outward machinery employed in crushing the ore on the landing-place in the side of the cliff, and drawing it up the precipitous tram, which leads to the summit, where it is stamped and prepared for exportation. It is mostly carried to Swansea, which, in consequence of the abundance of fuel in the neighbourhood, owing to its nearness to the sea, to its canals and railroads, has, in the course of half-a-century, from a mere fishing village become a town containing fully 40,000 inhabitants. The Cornish mines are not the only ones which run under the sea. On the Irish and some parts of the English coasts there are several coal mines which are worked beneath the ocean bed to a great distance. Another remarkable mine, that of Huelwherry, existed for many years on the Cornish coast. A rocky spot at about 120 fathoms from the beach was left dry at low-water, on which small veins of tin ore were discovered crossing each other in every direction. Although the surface was covered for about ten months in the year, and had at spring-tides nineteen feet of water over it, while a heavy surf often broke on the shore, a poor miner, named Thomas Curtis, about a century ago determined to attempt winning the ore. The work could only be carried on during the short time the rock appeared above water. Three summers were spent in sinking the pump-shaft, which had every tide to be emptied of water. A frame of boards, raised to a sufficient height above the spring-tides, and rendered water-tight by pitch and oakum, was placed above the mouth of the shaft. Its sides were supported by stout props in an inclined direction. At the top of this wooden construction, which was twenty feet in height, a platform of boards was secured, on which a windlass was placed. The water was now pumped out of the mine and the machinery set to work; but the sea penetrated through the fissures of the rock, and greatly added to the labour of the workmen, while during the winter months, on account of the swell, it was impossible to convey the tin ore to the beach. Notwithstanding all these difficulties, the persevering projector was rewarded by obtaining many thousand pounds worth of tin. At length, during a gale, an American vessel broke from her moorings, and demolished the machinery by striking against the stage, when the water rushing in filled the mine. An attempt has been made of late years to again work the mine with improved machinery, but the venture not proving profitable it has been abandoned. The travellers also visited the curious Carclaze tin mine near the town of Saint Austell. It is a prodigious hollow or basin, nearly thirty fathoms in depth and a mile in circumference, and has the appearance of a natural crater rather than a hollow made by human hands. The sides are almost perpendicular, and a few footpaths alone lead down amid the rocks to the bottom. In every direction are seen the hollows made by the miners of ancient days, the white colour of the granite veined with the darker metalliferous streaks, and the curious shape of the rocks formed by the streams flowing down its sides, give it a remarkably picturesque appearance. The machinery used for crushing the rock is set in motion by these streams. On every side the men, women, and children employed on the works are seen moving about in all directions, like a busy colony of ants. The ore is obtained without much difficulty. A tunnel has been formed at the bottom of the mine through which the waters flow after they have performed their task, which also carries away the crushed granite, while the heavier metalliferous substances are precipitated into the troughs. Neither engine-house nor chimneys such as are seen in other mines are visible, while every detail of the work is exposed to view--indeed, the huge basin has the appearance of a mine completely turned inside out. There are two methods of smelting tin. By the most common, the ore, mixed with culm, is subjected to heat on the hearth of a reverberating furnace, when ordinary coal is employed. By the other method, the ore is fused in a blast furnace, when wood fuel or charcoal is used. The tin when smelted runs off from the furnace into an open receiver, from which it flows into a large vessel, where it is allowed to settle. After the scoriae have been skimmed off, the upper and purer portion of the mass is refined, and the lower part re-melted. CHAPTER FIVE. THE METALS FOUND IN MINES. The chief object of the travellers was to inquire into the mode in which mines in different countries are worked, the causes of accidents, and the best method of preventing them. Their knowledge was superior to that which most of our readers are likely to possess, and it will be necessary, in order to understand their proceedings, to glance at the mining districts of the world, and to describe some of the principal mines among them. No country possesses, within the same area, so large an amount of varied mineral wealth as Great Britain. Besides the seventeen coal districts of Great Britain, we find in Scotland numerous lead mines in the clay slate mountains on the borders of Lanarkshire and Dumfriesshire. In the north of England, with Alston Moor as the centre, along the borders of Northumberland, Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Durham, are extensive veins of lead. Cumberland, the north of Wales, and the Isle of Anglesey produce copper ore, as also mines of lead and magnesia, with many other metals,--zinc, arsenic, cobalt, and bismuth. Iron in large quantities is found in South Wales, South Staffordshire, and in the Scottish coal-fields, where the ironstone appears in abundance alternating with layers of coal and other strata, and is generally won from the same pit as that from which the coal is extracted. Besides coal, Ireland contains mines of copper and lead, found in the slate and limestone ranges, contiguous to the sea coast. Crossing from thence to Spain, we arrive in a country rich in mines, though, owing to its distracted state, for many years greatly neglected. Here lead is found in large quantities in the mountain chains. Quicksilver is abundant from extensive veins of cinnabar in the province of Mancha. In Galicia tin has been produced from very early times. Iron ore is very abundant, and silver mines, for many centuries abandoned, are now again being reworked. Gold was at one period discovered in large quantities, but is supposed to be almost exhausted. The most important coal-field of France is round Etienne, near Lyons. Mining operations are also carried on in Brittany and the Vosges. Although possessing less mineral wealth than England, the French were far in advance of us in regard to the management of their mines. Germany possessed the chief school for scientific mining. Its principal metalliferous sites are the Hartz Mountains, on the borders of Hanover and Prussia, and the Erzgebirge or Ore Mountains, which separate Saxony from Bohemia. They yield silver, copper, lead, iron, tin, and cobalt. The most prolific sites of the precious metals in Europe are possessed by Austria. The Styrian Alps furnish a vast amount of iron. The province of Carniola supplies quicksilver. Hungary and Transylvania, copper, lead, antimony, and iron. The most extensive works are found in the neighbourhood of the town of Cremnitz and Schemnitz. The veins in this region obtain the enormous dimensions of from 20 to 200 feet in width. The extensive forests of oak, pine, and beech which clothe the hills supply fuel for the numerous smelting works, while water, carefully collected into reservoirs, moves the required machinery. The whole of the drainage of the mines is collected in a receptacle 600 feet below the surface, from whence it is conveyed under a lofty mountain ridge by a magnificent gallery twelve miles in length. Norway and Sweden possess extensive mines of iron and copper, as also silver. The latter country furnishes the best iron in the world, and it is much used in England for the manufacture of steel. Passing eastward to Russia, we find the rich mines of the Ural Mountains, which divide Europe from Asia, and then on to the Altai chain on the southern frontier of Siberia, we meet with rich mines of gold and silver, and other valuable metals. On the European side of the Ural there is a deposit of copper sand-ore, extending over a district of 480 miles in length, by 280 in breadth. The mineral wealth of Asiatic Russia is far greater. It consists of copper ores; iron cropping out at the surface, gold and platinum. The Altai Mountains especially produce silver, and some gold, with lead and copper ores. The silver mines of this region were worked at a very early period, as is proved by the discovery of an excavation a thousand feet in length, from which a stone sphinx was dug up, corroborating a statement of Herodotus that the Scythians possessed mines of gold and silver, which, according to his account, were guarded by monsters and griffins. Baron Humboldt supposes that he referred to the bones of elephants, and other gigantic animals, discovered at the present day in the steppes between the Ural and Altai chains. Crossing the Atlantic to America, we find vast quantities of the precious metals in the mountains of the Brazils and along the whole range of the Andes. In the province of Minasgeraes, gold is obtained from subterranean excavations, as also by washing the surface soil, when diamonds are also found. Auriferous deposits exist in the deep valleys among the mountains of Chili, and in Peru and Bolivia are immense veins of silver ore. High up on the Andes are the mines of Pasco and Potosi; while in the same region, quicksilver, copper, lead, tin, and other metals have been discovered. The copper mines being nearest the sea, are generally worked, the ore being sent to Swansea. The lofty plateau of Mexico in North America has, from the first, been celebrated for its rich silver mines, of which there have altogether existed no less than three thousand, but the larger number of these have long been unworked. The gold mines of California and of Australia are too well known to require mention; but we must not forget the rock oil, concealed for ages in the North American continent. Both the United States and Canada now yield an abundant supply. The number of metals discovered beneath the surface, including the metallic basis of the earth and alkalies, amounts to forty-two, but metals, commonly so-called, number only twenty-nine. These are platinum, gold, tungsten, mercury, lead, palladium, silver, bismuth, uranium, vanadium, copper, cadmium, cobalt, arsenic, nickel, iron, molybdenum, tin, zinc, antimony, tellurium, manganese, tatiaum, chromium, columbium, rhodium, iridium, osmium, cerium. Many of these, however, are so rare, that as yet they are of no practical use. Gold has been known from the earliest ages, and is found in scales, threads, grains, and rolled masses, or nuggets, which latter have been discovered in California and Australia weighing from twenty to thirty pounds, but the largest of all met with was in Asia, on the southern side of the Urals. Large quantities of gold were discovered on a marshy plain which had been thoroughly turned over, when it was resolved to take down the buildings in which the gold was washed, and under the very corner of one of them a lump was found, weighing no less than ninety-six and a-half pounds troy, and valued at 4000 pounds. Gold has been found in Scotland, and in the county of Wicklow, Ireland, where about 10,000 pounds worth was picked up in the bed of a river by the inhabitants, before the Government became aware of its existence. Gold is so malleable that a single grain can be beaten out to form a gold leaf covering a surface of fifty-six square inches, and it is so ductile that the same quantity may be drawn into a wire 500 feet in length. Silver is found embedded in various rocks, where it occurs in veins, assuming arborescent or thread-like forms, and occasionally appearing in large masses. The largest mass found in Europe was brought from Kongsberg, in Norway, weighing upwards of 560 pounds, but another, won from the mines of Peru, was said to weigh 800 pounds. The celebrated mines of Potosi, 10,000 feet above the sea, were discovered in 1545 by an Indian who, when chasing a deer, laid hold of a shrub to assist in his ascent; it came up by the roots, to which he found attached a quantity of glittering particles, which he at once knew to be silver. Veins of silver have been discovered in England and Scotland, but generally mixed with lead. Iron, the most useful of all metals, is found in large quantities in England, in many parts of Europe, and the United States. At one time Sussex was full of iron mines, the furnaces being fed with charcoal, until so extensive was the destruction of the woods and forests that the Government interfered, and placed restrictions on the consumption of the timber. On the discovery of the present method of smelting with pit coal, the works, which at one time numbered 140 in Sussex alone, were abandoned, and hop-fields now cover the ground where furnaces once blazed. Copper ranks next to iron in utility. In Cornwall there are upwards of 100 copper mines. It derives its name from the island of Cyprus, where it was first obtained by the Greeks. It is employed pure for numerous purposes, and is also mixed with other metals to form bell metal, speculum metal, for optical purposes, and German silver. Lead occurs in veins most plentifully in mountain limestone districts, and usually contains some portion of silver. There are lead mines in various parts of England, as well as in Spain, Saxony, and in Bohemia, and some very rich lead mines have of late years been worked in the United States. Tin is found in Cornwall in larger quantities than in any other part of the world. It is generally discovered in the alluvial soil of low grounds, where it is known as stream tin, because it has been washed by the agency of water from the rocks in which it was originally embedded mixed with sand and gravel. Tin is also found in the island of Banca, in the Indian Archipelago, in Bohemia and Saxony, Chili and Mexico. Mercury is a rare metal. The richest mines are at Almaden, a small town of La Mancha, in Spain. It is also found in Austria, China, and Peru, and a few other places. It is sometimes found in globules, but it is generally procured from one of its ores, cinnabar, a sulphate of the metal, of a red colour, and indeed identical with the richly prepared paint vermilion. A thousand workmen are employed in the Spanish mines, above or under ground. It freezes at an exceedingly low temperature, and was found solid during midwinter by the traveller Pallas. Of the other metals, some used as medicines, or pigments, or to form alloys, we have not time now to speak. CHAPTER SIX. SALT AND QUICKSILVER MINES. The object of the travellers was not only to inspect coal mines, but to view the wonders of the subterranean world. It is impossible to do more than give a very brief account of the places they visited. They had found their way to the Carpathian Mountains, in order to visit the salt mines of Wieliczka, a small town to the south of Cracow. The valley in which the mine is situated is fruitful and picturesque. Descending by a staircase of thirty feet or so, through a bed of clay, they arrived at the commencement of the level galleries, which branch off in all directions. Overhead was a ceiling of solid salt, under foot a floor of salt, and on either side grey walls of salt, sparkling here and there with minute crystals. The guide led them on through a bewildering maze of galleries. Now they entered a grand hall, now descended by staircases to another series of vaulted chambers. On every side was solid salt, except where stout piers of hewn timber had been built up to support the roof, or wooden bridges had been thrown over some vast chasm. As they descended, the air became dry and agreeable, and the saline walls more pure and brilliant. One hall, 108 feet in length, resembled a Grecian theatre, the places where the blocks had been taken out in regular layers representing seats for the spectators. Here and there were gangs of workmen, some labouring at the solid floor, others trundling wheel-barrows full of cubes of salt. Soon after entering, they reached the chapel of Saint Anthony, excavated in the times of the Byzantines, supported by columns, with altar, crucifix, and life-size statues of saints. They appeared, from being coated with smoke, to be of black marble, but Mark, putting his tongue to the nose of one of the saints, discovered it to be of salt. Many of the saints, however, were disappearing before the damp, which enters in that higher region from the upper world. The heads of some, and the limbs of others had already fallen. The guide had come provided with some Bengal lights, one of which he kindled on the altar, bringing into light this strange temple; then, as the flame burnt out, the whole vanished as if by magic. Passing across a wooden bridge, resting on piers of salt, they entered a vast irregular vault in which were two obelisks of salt, to commemorate the visit of Francis the First and his empress. As they reached the floor, a boy ran along the bridge above with a burning Bengal light, which threw flashes of blue lustre on the obelisks, the scarred walls, the vast arches, the entrance to the deeper halls, and the lofty roof, fretted with the picks of the workmen. Another hall was entered, with cavernous tunnels at the farther end, passing through one of which, they embarked upon a lake in a heavy, square boat, and entered a gloomy passage, over the entrance to which was inscribed, in salt letters, "Good luck to you." Midway in the tunnel the halls at either end were suddenly illuminated, and a crash, as of a hundred cannon bellowing through the vaults, shook the air in such a way that the boat had not ceased to tremble when they landed in the farther hall. The noise was produced by a single gun. A tablet, on which was inscribed, "A hearty welcome," greeted them on landing. At a depth of 450 feet their journey ceased, although they were but half-way to the bottom. About 1500 men are employed in the mines, who labour only six hours at a time, and live in the upper world. The blocks are first marked out on the surface by a series of grooves. One side is then deepened to the required thickness, and wedges being inserted under the block it is soon split off. This salt bed occupies a space of 9000 feet in length and 4000 in width, and consists of five successive stages, separated from each other by intervening strata of from 100 to 150 feet in thickness, and reaching to the depth of 1500 feet. More than ten years ago a serious accident, which threatened the destruction of the mine, occurred. While boring, to obtain some potash salts, through an aquiferous stratum, a spring was tapped, which poured an immense quantity of water into the lower galleries. The inhabitants feared not only the ruin of the mine, but the falling in of their houses from the melting of the salt pillars; but fortunately the inundation was confined to the lower galleries, and a powerful steam-engine being set to work, the water was again pumped out, and the spring blocked up. However, so vast are the excavations that it would have taken many years to fill them. Contrasting with the bright glitter of the salt mines of Wieliczka are the gloomy slate quarries of Saint Peter's Mount, near Maestricht, in the Netherlands, the most extensive in the world. For centuries they have been worked, both for building and manuring, and probably benefiting the agriculturist more than the architect. In spring and summer the labourers occupy themselves in their fields above ground, and not until winter approaches do they begin to burrow in the entrails of the earth. The two travellers followed a trusty guide through those endless passages, which constantly crossed each other, either to the left hand or to the right. Darkness to be felt, silence profound, reigned everywhere, even the human voice seemed to die away without awakening an echo--the only sound to be heard being an occasional dropping of water from the roof into a small pool below. Suddenly the guide extinguished his torch, when, bold as they were, and well accustomed to subterranean regions, a sensation of awe crept over them. Their first impulse was to feel for the wall, for in vain their eyes sought a ray of light, as in vain, also, their ears listened for the slightest sound. Neither spoke for some minutes, and they experienced a sensation of relief when the guide relit his torch. Numbers of hapless beings have been lost in these trackless galleries, and here and there are inscriptions on the walls, notifying that a corpse was found on the ground below. One poor workman lost his way, and roamed about until his torch died out of his burnt fingers. The lamp of another was overturned, and he in vain endeavoured to find his way out of some remote gallery. A French geologist while exploring the quarry discovered a corpse shrivelled to a mummy, the hat lying close to his head, a rosary in his hand. It was conjectured to be the body of a workman who had died more than half-a-century before, the dry air and the absence of insects explaining the preservation of the corpse. Two centuries ago four Franciscan monks resolved to construct a chapel in honour of their tutelar saint. In order to be able to retrace their steps, they took with them a large ball of twine, leaving one end secured to a spot where people were constantly passing. Their twine unwound, they at length reached a vast hall, probably not visited for many ages. Near the entrance one of them drew a sketch of the convent, and wrote beneath it the date of their discovery. When about to return, what was their horror to find that their twine had snapped. They must have searched for it in vain, for never more did they return. At last the prior, alarmed at their absence, sent parties to explore the excavations, but so vast were they even then, that seven days elapsed before the corpses of the hapless friars were found, their faces downwards, and their hands folded as if in prayer. During the siege of Maestricht by the French Republic, a party of the besiegers occupied the quarries. The Austrians who garrisoned Fort Pierre at the back of the mountain, formed a plan to drive them out, and tunnelling made their way towards their enemies. Although they marched silently along, their torches betrayed them, and the besiegers pouring in a volley of musketry killed a large number, made prisoners of some, and drove the rest into the depths of the cavern. On the banks of the Nile are several prodigious stone quarries, from which the cities of ancient Egypt were built. Perhaps the largest is that of Haggar Silsibis. Here passages, broad as streets, with walls fifty or sixty feet high, now stretching straight forward, now curved, extend from the east bank of the river into the heart of the mountain, where halls have been hollowed out large enough to contain the Roman Colosseum, the rough hewn irregular roof resting upon immense square or many-sided pillars, some of which are eighty to a hundred feet in circumference. Here numerous blocks, already completely separated from the rock, appear ready to be transported; the labours of the quarry-men having suddenly been arrested by the invasion of the Conqueror, who overthrew the priests of Isis. One of the most curious quarries of ancient days is found near Syracuse. The greater portion is a hundred feet below the level of the earth, and of vast extent, the whole hewn out of rock as hard as marble, the blocks thus obtained being employed in building Syracuse. It is converted by the monks, who have a convent above it, into a garden--a romantic and beautiful spot, as no wind can touch it. It is filled with a variety of vines and shrubs and fruit trees, among which oranges, citrons, pomegranates, and figs grow luxuriantly, and obtain an unusual size. Sicily produces sulphur in large quantities--the chief sulphur pits being near Girgenti. Most of the inhabitants are employed in them, to the neglect of the rich soil of their island; they labour away in the most primitive manner, pickaxe and spade being the only implements employed. When a promising vein is struck, the miners set to work, and filling their baskets with the sulphur, carry it out and throw it into large heaps of a conical shape. These mounds are covered over with moist clay, some openings being left for the escape of smoke; the bottom is then ignited, and the matted sulphur flows out through grooves into pans, where it congeals in solid masses. The passages to the mines are so narrow, that persons can with difficulty pass each other; they then expand into high vaults, the roofs of which are ornamented with beautiful crystals of celestine and gypsum. On account of the excessive heat, the workmen labour in a nearly nude state, their dark brown skins sprinkled with light yellow sulphur dust, making them look savage and strange in the extreme. Towards the end of the last century, the sulphur mine of Sommatin caught fire, the conflagration causing the complete abandonment of the pit. For two years it raged, until the mountain, suddenly bursting asunder, a stream of molten sulphur gushed forth, and precipitated itself into the neighbouring river. The mass of sulphur, amounting to upwards of 40,000 tons, was thus obtained by the owners of the former pit, who had believed themselves ruined. There are sulphur mines in different parts of the world, the largest of which are in Japan, but too remote to be worked with advantage. Gypsum, or sulphate of lime, better known as Plaster of Paris, is found in prodigious quantities at Montmartre, close to that city; but as it can readily be worked without having recourse to subterranean excavation, it need not be mentioned further. When gypsum assumes an opaque, consistent, and semi-transparent form, it is known as Alabaster. The largest quarries are near Volterra, in Italy. Here the whole population have been employed for centuries, either in cutting it out of the mine, or in converting it into elegant forms of great variety, which are sent to all parts of the world. Great Britain possesses inexhaustible alabaster mines in the neighbourhood of Derby. Some is worked on the spot, but the finest blocks are sent to the studios of sculptors. Quicksilver, or mercury, is among the rarest of metals. The only two important mines in Europe are at Almaden, in Spain, and Idria, in Carniola. The former, situated on the Sierra Morena, was for many years farmed off to the Fuggers of Augsburg, but are now worked either by government or private companies. This was one of the most interesting spots visited by the two travellers. Entering a spacious tunnel, completely walled with solid masonry, they advanced into the very bosom of the mountain. Here galleries branch out in various directions, hewn in the slate forming the matrix of the vein. One of them leads to a vast circular hall, called the Boveda de Santa Clara. At one time a horse gin was employed in this hall for raising the ore, but at present this work is performed through a shaft descending to the lowest level of the mine. Convenient steps lead down from another gallery to the first working level, and thence the descent is by short ladders to deeper storeys. The galleries are of a sufficient height to allow a person to work upright. The upper ones are dry, but the lower are humid and damp, although the water is easily raised by hand-pumps from storey to storey into a large receiver, which is emptied by a steam-engine. So extremely rich are the veins, that although worked for many centuries, the mine has scarcely yet reached a depth of 1140 feet. The present quantity raised annually amounts to eighty-thousand hundredweight of pure mercury. The ore known as cinnabar is of a dark-red colour, and gives a beautiful appearance to the galleries. Sometimes when a hewer detaches a block of ore with his pick mass of quicksilver, the size of a pigeon's egg, rolls out, and leaping along the floor, divides into thousands of small drops. Owing to the imperfect apparatus with which the ore is sublimated, nearly one-half is lost. Formerly criminals only were employed in these mines. They were conducted at sunrise from prison by a subterranean passage into the mine, and compelled to toil on until the evening, when they were led back again to their dungeons. In a few years the greater number died, through inhaling the poisonous vapours of the mercury. Reduced to despair, a century and a-half ago, they set fire to the galleries, which, being then constructed of wood, were destroyed, and mining operations put a stop to for many years. Only free labourers are now employed, who are not allowed to work longer than six hours a-day. Most of these, however, die between the ages of thirty and forty, and those who exist longer are affected by palsy. The quicksilver mines of Idria were discovered upwards of three centuries ago by a peasant who had placed a tub under a spring issuing from the mountain side. On attempting to move it, he found it excessively heavy, and on examining the bottom he saw that it was partly full of a heavy liquid, shining like silver. Ignorant of the value of the substance, he had sense enough to take it to a goldsmith, without mentioning the place where he had found it. In course of time, however, a man named Anderlein, having bribed him, became master of the secret, and with several others began to work the mine. In the next century the Venetians drove out the Germans, but were finally compelled by the Emperor Maximilian to give it up, and he restored it to its rightful owners. The mine has since been worked by the State. Ingress to the mine can be obtained by descending a convenient flight of steps, with galleries running off here and there from landing-places, or by descending in a few minutes through a perpendicular shaft in one of the tubs by which the ore is raised. The galleries lead to the various storeys of the mine, the lowest of which is 145 fathoms beneath the surface. The vein itself descends to an unknown depth, and is horizontal, but its extent has not yet been measured. The ores being embedded in limestone of a loose nature, all the galleries had from the first to be supported by wooden props. The wood has, on several occasions caught fire, with disastrous results. Early in this century the labourers observed a thick smoke issuing from the deepest part of the mine. It rose higher and higher, spreading through the upper galleries, yet no fire was to be seen, nor sound of flames heard. Some of the workmen attempted to reach the scene of the fire, but were driven back by the dense and suffocating smoke, impregnated with vapours. Endeavours were made to smother the fire, but though the mine remained closed for five weeks, no sooner was it re-opened than the fire burst forth more furiously than at first. The howling of the flames ascending from the lowest depths of the pit awed the spectators, and the mercurial and sulphureous fumes arising from it threatened instant destruction to all who might approach. The director of the mine, as a last resource, came to the decision of flooding the works, and a river turned into the shaft ran down it for two days and three nights. At first no perceptible effect was produced, but on the second a terrific explosion shook the mountain as if an earthquake had taken place. The huts near the opening were blown to pieces, and even the stone houses on the slopes of the hill, fell with tremendous crashes. Water, however, gained the victory. Gradually the vapour dispersed, and after a few weeks the workmen were able to descend into the pit. They found, however, the galleries torn up, the vaulted roofs burst, and the stairs destroyed. It took two years to pump out the water, which, it is said, poisoned all the fish in the Idriza. High pay being offered to any who would venture in to collect the quicksilver, which had accumulated in considerable quantities, many, tempted by the bribe, made their way into the workings, but overcome by the mercurial vapours, several perished. The galleries have now been formed of stone, seven feet high and six feet broad, though some are still propped up with wood. They are of immense extent, amounting to no less than fifty miles. As late as 1846 another fire occurred in the wooden galleries, which was quenched by putting that part under water. The workmen labour in a tropical heat and an atmosphere full of deadly vapours. It is no wonder that a premature age overtakes many of them, and that young men are seen trembling in every limb, though it is said that those who survive their forty-fifth year may live on until they are sixty or seventy. To transport mercury, the greatest care is required. It is first packed in sacks of sheepskin, tanned with alum. The sack, being pressed and punched to ascertain if it is sound, is enclosed in a second skin. These are then placed in a small cask, and the cask again in a square box. Notwithstanding these precautions, as the sacks sometimes burst, the loss of the metal is great, and the mercury is now generally transported in large iron bottles, the stoppers being screwed down by means of a machine; in this condition, it is exported to England. CHAPTER SEVEN. STALACTITE AND ICE-CAVERNS. Numberless and varied are the cavernous regions below the earth, presenting the strangest and often awe-inspiring sights to the spectator. In some rivers flow hundreds of feet beneath the green fields and widespreading trees. Through the caverns of Adolsberg, Planina, and Upper Laibach flows a river known as the Poik, which then assumes other denominations, according to its locality. In some places it forms cataracts, leaping over the most picturesquely grouped rocks. In others it has forced a passage amid them, and then flows gently on. Our travellers resolved to undertake a voyage on the Poik, and embarked in a boat, their progress being stream upwards through the celebrated cave of Planina. They had to be cautious, for often the current ran with great rapidity, and to keep a watchful eye for rocks which lay hidden beneath the water. Rowing on for about 600 feet from the entrance of the cavern, at the end of a magnificent dome, they found that the river occupied the whole space. To this part persons on foot could proceed, as the ground on either side of the river was level. Now passing through a portal 48 feet high and about 24 broad, and as well proportioned as if cut out by the hand of man, their ears were saluted by the thundering roar of a distant cataract. As the archway widened, they suddenly emerged on a lake 250 feet in length and 150 broad, beyond which the cave divided into two arms, forming the channels of two streams, whose confluent waters formed the lake. The walls of the cavern on either side rose abruptly out of the water, with the exception of one small landing-place at the foot of a projecting ridge. Here and there hung masses of stalactite, resembling a petrified cascade, the rest of the rock being black and naked. So high was the vault that their torches could not pierce the gloom, the impressiveness of which was increased by the roar of a waterfall heard through the channel to the left. Hitherto their progress had been easy, but they now resolved to proceed up the left branch. They had frequently to get out of their boat, and wading, drag her over the shallows. The voyage terminated at the end of a small hall with a circular dome, the floor being a lake 180 feet in length, and from 40 to 45 feet in depth. In the roof appeared a chasm, sloping upwards through a small aperture, in which a violent current of air set in, almost extinguishing their torches. Beyond the mouth of the chasm another gallery opened out, into which the persevering travellers penetrated. Nothing could surpass the beauty of the spar crystals with which its walls were encrusted. At the entrance stood a white figure, which might easily be supposed to be an angel, guarding the entrance with a glittering sword, threatening all who should venture with profane hands into his sanctuary. Further on, projected in bold relief, was a colossal statue of a monarch, sceptre in hand. As they proceeded they passed groups of stalagmitic cones of all shapes and sizes. Some like the smallest icicles, others rising six feet in height from the ground, as thick as a human figure, the whole shining and glittering as the light of the torches fell upon them, and standing out in bold relief against the dark background formed by the brown wall of the cavern. Returning to the central hall, they made their way up the eastern branch, which is much larger than the one they had just visited, the main stream flowing through it. As they pulled up, the increasing roar of waters announced a large waterfall. They found that enormous masses of stone, falling from the roof, had narrowed the bed of the river to about fifteen feet, over which the water shot in a broad sheet, fully ten feet in height. The effect as it rushed over the jet-black rocks, casting up flakes of milky white foam, when illuminated by the torches, was very beautiful. Having hauled up the boat over the rugged mound, they again embarked, encountering a couple of reefs. They then proceeded on between steep walls with a free navigation, for upwards of four miles. In many places the roof was adorned with draperies formed of snow-white stalactites, but generally the black walls alone appeared. In some parts the roof descended so low that they were compelled to lie down, and shove the boat along by holding to the roof above their heads, until at length they found that they could proceed no further. Of the world beneath the surface some of the most beautiful scenes are presented by the ice-caves of France and Switzerland. One of the most curious is the glaciere "Grace Dieu," near Besancon. In the centre of the cave rose three stalagmites of ice. The central mass was 66.5 feet in circumference. Some distance above the ice-floor on the right was a small fir-tree, which had been fixed in the ground, and had become completely covered so that the tree itself had disappeared, its crystal incrustation showing every elegance of variety in form. From each twig of the different boughs, complicated groups of icicles streamed down. The mass to the left, however, was the grandest and most beautiful. It consisted of two vast heads, with several others of less height resembling a group of lions' heads bending down, richly decked with icy manes, huge masses measuring 76.5 feet in circumference. On looking at this column from the side opposite the entrance to the cave, so that it stood in the centre of the light pouring down in a long slope from the outer world, the transparency of the ice made the whole appear as if it were set in a frame of impalpable liquid blue, the effect of the light penetrating through the mass at its extreme edges. The Schafloch or Trou-aux-Moutons, a vast ice-cave on the Rothhorn, in the canton of Berne, is equally beautiful and curious. It takes its name from the fact that on the approach of a storm, the sheep and goats fly to it for shelter, although never going as far in as the place where the ice commences. The travellers entered the cave amid masses of loose stone, with which in a short time the ice was found to intermingle until it entirely hid the naked rock. They passed between two magnificent columns of ice which formed the portal to the fairy cavern. The floor, composed of ice, rose on either side to meet these columns in a graceful swelling curve, so that it appeared as if their bases expanded and met in the middle of the cave. They had now to make their way amidst stalagmites rising from the floor, met by stalactites descending from the roof. All the time as they twisted in and out among the glittering pillars of ice, endeavouring to do as little harm as possible, they were accompanied by an incessant fall of small portions, shivering and glittering on reaching the ground. Passing beyond the two columns, they saw before them a perfect sea of ice, which became broader and broader until they reached the edge of a magnificent ice-fall, smooth and unbroken, beyond which they were unable to penetrate. They afterwards visited another beautiful ice-cavern known as the glacier of Saint Sivres, into which a stream flows, becoming completely congealed. There are many other ice-caverns in Bohemia, Hungary, the Hartz Mountains, and in various parts of North America. One of them, however, surpassing in size the others, is the cave of Yermalik, in the province of Kondooz, in the centre of Asia. When Kondooz was invaded by the savage warrior Genghis Khan, 700 men with their wives and children took refuge in this cavern, and offered so brave a defence, that after attempting in vain to destroy them by fire, the barbarous invader built up the entrance with large blocks of stone, and left them to perish of hunger. Nearly forty years ago the cave was visited by two British officers, who had great difficulty in obtaining guides, as the natives believed the cave to be the abode of Satan. The entrance is about half-way up a hill, and about fifty feet in height, and about the same in breadth. Squeezing their way through a narrow passage between two rocks, probably the remains of Genghis Khan's fatal wall, they came to a drop of about sixteen feet. Down this, by means of ropes, they were lowered by two men, who remained to haul them up again. Passing through a narrow tunnel, over a floor of smooth ice, they reached a vast hall, damp and dripping, the light of their torches not enabling them to form any idea of its size. Here they discovered hundreds of skeletons, the victims of Genghis Khan's cruelty. Among them was one, evidently the skeleton of a mother, holding in its long arms the skeletons of two infants. The bodies of others had been preserved, and lay as they had fallen, shrivelled into mummies. After leaving this vast sepulchre, they proceeded through several low arches with smaller caverns, until they reached an enormous hall, in the centre of which was a prodigious mass of clear ice, in the form of a bee-hive, its dome-shaped top just touching the long icicles which depended from the jagged roof. A small opening led into the centre of this wonderful ice-heap, which was divided into several compartments, presenting numerous fantastic forms. In some the glittering icicles hung like curtains from the roof, in others the whole compartment was as smooth as glass. The prismatic colours which presented themselves as the torches flashed on the surface of the ice were beautifully brilliant. On every side they were surrounded by solid ice, and, scarcely able to keep their feet, they slid noiselessly over the glittering surface of the mysterious hall. The icicles having reached the floor of one of the largest of the compartments, had the appearance of pillars supporting the roof. In Italy and the South of France there are caverns with some distant aperture through which the wind enters, and being cooled in its subterraneous passage, sends forth a cold blast at the other end, such as the Aeolian Cavern, near Terni. It has been utilised by the proprietors of some of the neighbouring villages, who have conducted the cold air to their houses by means of leaden pipes, which on sultry summer days convey a pleasant coolness through plaster-of-paris masks, with wide distended mouths, fixed in the walls of the rooms. CHAPTER EIGHT. COPPER MINES. Next to England, Sweden is one of the chief copper-producing countries of Europe. The mine of Fahlun, in Dalecarlia, has been worked from times immemorial. In consequence of the careless way in which the excavations were propped up, in the year 1678 the surface of the ground fell in, forming a vast pit of above 180 feet in depth, 1200 feet long, and 600 feet broad, with precipitous and sometimes overhanging walls, so that the spectator appears to be standing on the brink of an enormous crater. The bottom is filled with masses of rubbish and the remnants of ancient shafts, and thick beams of wood are seen protruding in all directions. A broad and convenient wooden staircase has, however, been formed on the northern side of the pit, by which not only the miners, but even horses can descend to their work. Passing through the entrance, the mine gradually widens underground to a depth of 1062 feet. The chief mass of ore is 600 feet broad on its upper surface, greatly narrowing as it descends to a depth of 1200 feet. Round it are other similar deposits. As the copper pyrites are deposited generally on the circumference of the outer shell of these masses, which are of a very irregular outline, the mining operations are carried on in a perfect labyrinth of winding passages and galleries, situated at various depths, and supported either by pillars or walls. It at one time yielded 5000 tons of copper annually, but has of late years furnished no more than 600 tons. A romantic incident is connected with this mine. In the year 1719, while some miners were exploring an abandoned passage, they discovered a human body, preserved from corruption by the blue vitriol or sulphate of copper produced in the mine under the influence of the atmosphere and water. It was that of a handsome young man. On being brought to the surface, people from all directions flocked to see it, but nobody could recognise in its features a lost kinsman or friend. At length a woman, with tottering steps, upwards of eighty years of age, approached the corpse, when scarcely had she cast a glance at it than she uttered a piercing shriek, and exclaimed,--"It is he! It is Gustavus, for whom I have mourned so long, whom I accused of fickleness in deserting me." She had in truth recognised her affianced lover, who had mysteriously disappeared more than sixty years previously, but whose image she still bore in her memory. As he was not employed in the mines, no one thought of searching for him underground. The surface is traversed by various crevices, some leading to the workings underground; and probably Gustavus, prompted by curiosity, had looked down one of them, and had either, losing his balance, fallen in, or been precipitated by some jealous rival in the good graces of the once blooming girl, now a tottering old woman, weighed down with a double burden of infirmity and age. She probably forgot how years had passed away, as she gazed once more on the face of her youthful and handsome lover. Besides copper, Sweden produces iron of great excellence, won from its celebrated mines of Dannemora, and largely imported into England for the manufacture of steel. Leaving the university town of Upsala, and passing through a natural barrier of forests and lakes, in which lie the iron-works of Oesterby, the travellers reached the place in which the pit of Dannemora is situated; not a sign announced the vicinity of the mine, until they saw the machines for lifting the ore, and a few huts scattered about, when they found themselves standing on the brink of a vast pit or crater, whose black and precipitous walls fence an abyss of a mile in circumference, and a depth of 450 feet. Here and there in that cold region they perceived patches of perennial snow and along the black walls, the dark entrance to labyrinthine caves fringed with long stalactites of ice. In some of these hollows flames were seen creeping along the cliff as they issued from piles of fir wood to soften the hard rock, while on every part of the deep gulf human beings were at work, the clang of their hammers sounding like the clicking of numberless clocks, mingled with the creaking of machinery, which brings to the surface the casks of ore. At length a bell tolled, and men, women, and children were seen ascending in the tubs, some standing on the edges, holding on with perfect confidence to the rope by which they were hoisted up. Silence now reigned below, except when the voices of overseers were heard summoning those who had lagged behind, to ascend in haste. Scarcely had they reached the upper surface when a loud thundering roar was heard, which echoed through the cavern. The ground trembled as if convulsed by an earthquake, while black masses of smoke with pieces of stone or ore ascended from the gulf, and the crashing sound of falling masses rent from the mother earth was heard. When all the charges had exploded, the miners again descended to their work. Although it cannot be classed among the wonders of the subterranean world, the famous Erzgebirge or iron mountain in the Styrian Alps deserves mention. It rises to the height of 3000 feet, the whole being coated with a thin mantle of the richest ore. In all directions it is covered with machines of various forms, horizontal and vertical galleries, tunnels and roads, and represents, as it were, a mine turned inside out. The whole of the operations are exposed to view, like those in the Carclaze tin mine in Cornwall, only in the former the ore is conveyed by tram-roads, galleries, and shafts to the bottom of the mountain, where they all unite in one main shaft, from which a tramway runs to the smelting-ovens of Eisenerz and Vordernberg. Among the beautiful productions of nature, rock-crystal may be classed, known as the false topaz when yellow, the morion when black, and the smoky quartz when brown. The colourless kinds are often called Bristol or Irish diamonds, and the violet the amethyst. Some few years ago, a party of tourists, led by a guide, Peter Sulzer, set out from Guttannew, in Switzerland. When descending the mountain they reached a dark cavity, out of which they extracted some pieces of black rock-crystal with the handles of their Alpine stocks. The following year, Sulzer and his son, with a few companions, made an attempt to force their way into the cave, by widening the entrance with gunpowder. In spite of hail, rain, and bitter cold, they persevered, remaining during the night close to the cavern, in order to renew their labours the next morning. Having widened the entrance, they penetrated to a considerable depth into the mountain, through a large cave piled up with debris, in which were embedded large planes of jet-black morions. These beautiful crystals had grown originally from the sides or roof, and had either fallen from their own weight, or been shaken out by some convulsion of nature. Their toil was rewarded by upwards of a thousand large crystals, varying from fifty pounds to more than three hundredweight. Their expedition and its result becoming known, the whole population of Guttannew turned out with hammers, spades, and baskets, to carry off what they had left. As it was reported that the Government intended to interfere, they laboured night and day for a week, until, by the time the authorities arrived from Ijri, the whole had been removed. Some of the finest specimens are still to be seen in the museum at Berne. Amber, about which all sorts of fabulous stories have passed current, is found more frequently in the depths of the sea than in those of the earth. There can be no doubt that it is the product of several conifers, or cone-bearing trees, overwhelmed by the waves. Although the gum which exuded from them has remained concealed for ages, until washed up from the bottom of the ocean, flies and spiders, which must have been caught when it was in a semi-fluid state, have been found embedded in it. The insects now appear as perfect as they were thousands of years ago. The naturalist, Dr Berndt, has discovered 800 different species of insects in amber. The famed cavern in Kentucky is as well worthy of a visit as any subterranean region. Of late years an hotel has been built near the entrance, detracting from its once romantic appearance. Visitors first descend a well-like pit, into which a stream falls, by a flight of steps, and then passing under a high archway, proceed along a level road, to what are called the vats, where saltpetre was once manufactured. Their blazing torches, numerous as they may be, hardly light up the vast subterranean region. From the large hall they make their way through a low narrow passage, known as the "Vale of Humility," into another hall of enormous extent, the roof so lofty that the torches scarcely illuminate either the walls or roof. At their feet can be seen the glitter of water, extending far away into the interior, a bright stream flowing over a rocky bed into it. Moving on, they in a short time reach Echo River, on the shore of which a boat is found. When looking upwards, it appears as if a canopy of black clouds hung over their heads. On either side can be seen precipitous cliffs, rising apparently into the sky. Silence and darkness reign around, the smooth sluggish water alone reflecting the glare of the torches. The visitors are not disposed to utter a word, until the voice of one of the native guides suddenly bursts forth into a melancholy chant, which seems as if echoed by the spirit of his departed brethren. Now the notes rise, now they fall, as he gives them forth with the full force of his lungs, or warbles softly, finishing with a melancholy wail, which produces a most mournful effect. When a pistol is fired off, there comes a succession of crashing thundering sounds, echoed from every angle of this enormous vault; backwards and forwards they rush, roaring and reverberating from wall to wall with terrific crashes. The guides say it is perfectly safe at all times of the year to traverse the cavern, but there have been occasions when the waters, rising suddenly, have prevented the return of explorers. A way, however, was at length discovered through a narrow passage, the course evidently, at one time, of a stream, up which they can climb over the mud, and save themselves from being drowned or starved. This passage has appropriately been called "Purgatory." In one part the river expands into a lake, the gloomy effect of whose dark waters, lost in the darkness, is indescribable. Leaving Echo River, they enter another cavern, known as Cleveland Cabin--a fairy region. Above their heads, and on either side, the roof and walls are adorned with delicate flowers, of snowy whiteness, and domes, turrets, spires, shrubs, and trees, as well as with the forms of birds and beasts of all descriptions; indeed, figures of every shape which imagination, without any great exertion, can picture, appear around. The representations of some are so perfect, that it is difficult to believe that they have not been carved by the hand of man, and yet all of them have been produced by the dripping of water from the gypsum rock. The cavern is not destitute of inhabitants. Huge crickets and spiders of an almost white colour crawl along over the ground, and rats as big as leverets run by, exhibiting sharp teeth and long tails. Another cavern is called "Martha's Vineyard." It appears as if a vine had climbed up the sides and spread its branches over the roof, from which hang suspended what look like clusters of grapes, but all of the same stony nature. In another cave it seems to the visitor that he is standing in a wintry scene, ice above and ice on the ground, with here and there patches of snow, the appearance being caused by the excessive whiteness of the gypsum. Farther on, there is a beautiful grotto, called "Serena's Arbour," the walls of which are covered with a drapery resembling yellow satin, falling in graceful folds, while through it murmurs a rivulet, which makes its way to one of the many rivers running through the cavern. In another, on the torches being extinguished it appears as if stars innumerable were glittering in the sky. On a stone being thrown upwards, it quickly strikes the roof, and it is soon seen that these seeming stars are produced by pieces of mica embedded in the roof, on which the light of a lantern being thrown in a peculiar way is brightly reflected. Although the caverns seem to be of immense height, the ceiling in most parts is not more than thirty feet from the ground. In the centre of one cavern, a regular hill rises from the ground, with a stream running at its base. Several rivers are crossed in this vast cavern, one is called the Echo River, another the Styx, and a third the Lethe. They are inhabited by fish and crawfish, sightless and perfectly white. This vast cavern, the ramifications of which are said to measure nine miles, was not known to white men until 1802. For many years no one advanced beyond three miles from the entrance, further progress being stopped by a deep cavern called the "Bottomless Pit," 1000 feet deep. At length, however, a daring guide threw a ladder over it, and crossing by this means, he was able to explore six more miles of this subterranean region. A bridge has now been constructed by which people can pass over in perfect safety. It is said that no dog will willingly enter the cavern; indeed, few persons can pass along its passages without a sensation of awe, although with a guide it may be traversed without danger. CHAPTER NINE. SILVER MINES, ETCETERA. If a true history of the silver mines of South America were to be written it would reveal the cruel death of thousands and thousands of human beings, sacrificed to the lust of gain. High up among the Andes, surrounded by a succession of steep and naked rocks, is the town of Pasco, built above the mines, from which the inhabitants obtain their subsistence. The entrances to most of the mines are situated in the midst of the town. The irregular shafts descend directly down into the interior of the mountain, access being by a series of ladders often ill-constructed and rough, ropes and chains being employed to hoist up the ore. Frequently, the overseers having neglected to put up the necessary props, portions of the mines have broken in and destroyed many of the hapless workers. In one instance 300 perished at once by this means. In most of the mines the labourers, after getting out the ore, have to bring it to the surface in baskets on their backs, often from immense depths, and were it not for the sustaining coca leaf they would be unable to undergo such excessive toil. When rich veins are struck, the wages of the miners increase, but in most instances they spend them in drinking and debauchery, while the proprietors of the mines are almost equally uncivilised. Fourteen miles from the town of Caxamarca is an isolated mountain called the Cerro de San Fernando de Gualgayoc, traversed by numberless veins of silver. At its summit rise a number of pyramidal pinnacles. Its steep sides are pierced by several hundred galleries formed for the extraction of the ore, as well as by numerous natural openings, while in all directions are seen the huts of the labourers, sticking like the nests of birds, wherever a ledge has enabled them to be constructed. One of the richest silver mines of Peru is that of Salcedo, but nothing is now known of it except its tragical history. A Don Jose Salcedo, a Spaniard, without a maravedi in his pocket, made love to an Indian girl, whose mother promised to reveal to him a rich silver lode on condition that he married her daughter. Aided by his Indian relatives, with whom he lived on the most friendly terms, he obtained vast quantities of silver from the mine, the entrance to which was kept carefully concealed. His wealth excited the rapacity of the viceroy Count Lemos, who, to obtain possession of it, accused him of exciting the natives to rebellion, and cast him into prison. In vain Salcedo entreated that he might appeal to the mercy of the king, and promised to give the viceroy a bar of silver daily, from the time the ship left the port of Callao to her return from Europe, which would probably be upwards of a year; but the viceroy, instead of listening to the proposal of Salcedo, ordered him to be hung. No sooner was this known to the natives than they destroyed the works, and so carefully concealed the entrance, that even to the present day it is unknown. The tribes afterwards dispersed, and even cruel tortures could not induce them to reveal the secret. There can be no doubt that there are many rich lodes in existence worked by Indians, who, knowing that they will be compelled to labour for the benefit of their masters, carefully conceal them. In many of the mines of Peru, the natives having almost been exterminated, the proprietors endeavoured to kidnap the inhabitants of the Pacific to supply their places, but after several hundreds had been nefariously captured, the Governments of England and France interfered and put a stop to the practice. In another part of South America, near the town of Cumana, is a vast cavern in the Valley of Caripe, which was many years ago visited by Baron Humboldt, who found it inhabited by a remarkable species of nocturnal bird, called the guacharo. The mouth of the cavern is pierced in the side of the cliff looking towards the south, in the form of an arch, eighty feet wide and seventy-two in height. The summit of the cliff is covered with trees of gigantic size, and with shrubs and plants growing in all the luxuriance of a tropical vegetation, while a variety of creeping plants hang in elegant festoons before its entrance. Visitors can proceed for upwards of 430 feet without being compelled to light their torches. When the light of day begins to fail, the hoarse cries of the nocturnal birds are heard coming out of the dark recesses of the interior. The guacharo is of the size of the common fowl; its hooked bill is white, like that of the goat-sucker, and furnished at the base with stiff hairs, directed forwards. The plumage is of a sombre brownish grey, mixed with black stripes and large white spots. Their eyes are incapable of bearing the light of day, and their wings are disproportionately large, measuring no less than four and a-half feet from tip to tip. The birds quit the cavern only at nightfall, to feed on fruits. A most horrible noise is made by them in the dark recesses of the cavern, and the clamour increases as they are disturbed by the visitors advancing deeper into it with torches, and those nestling in the side avenues begin to utter their mournful cries. When the first sink into silence, it seems as if the more remote inhabitants were alternately complaining to each other of the intruders. The nests of these birds are fixed fifty or sixty feet from the ground, in funnel-shaped holes, with which the cavern roof is pierced like a sieve. Armed with poles, the natives once a year, about mid-summer, enter the cavern and knock down the young birds, while the old ones, with lamentable cries, hover over the heads of the robbers. The young which are taken are opened on the spot, when the peritonaeum is found loaded with fat, and a layer of substance reaches from the abdomen to the vent, forming a kind of cushion between the bird's legs. At this period, called by the Indians the oil harvest, huts are erected by them, with palm leaves, near the entrance. Here the fat of the young birds is melted in clay pots, over a brushwood fire; but although thousands are killed, not more than 160 jars of clear oil are obtained. A small river flows through the cavern, and the visitor is compelled, as he proceeds, to wade through water, not, however, more than two feet deep. From the entrance as far as 1458 feet the cavern maintains the same direction, width, and height, after which it loses its regularity, and its walls are covered with stalactites. The same bird has been found in the province of Bogota, and may probably be discovered in other caverns. Animal life exists in considerable quantities in many subterranean regions, such as beetles, eyeless spiders, scorpions, millipedes, and crustaceans. The most curious is the Proteus anguinus, which breathes at the same time through lungs and gills. It has a long eel-like body, with an elongated head, and four very short and thin legs. The skin is flesh-coloured, and so translucent that the liver and heart, which beat about fifty times a minute, can be seen distinctly beneath. Two little black spots, resembling eyes, lie buried under the skin, and are only partially developed. Weak as it appears, it glides rapidly through the water, when its four little legs remain motionless; it uses them, indeed, only for creeping, and then in a very imperfect manner. Seven distinct species of proteus have been discovered, six of which were found in the cavern of Carniola, besides crickets, spiders, and a few crustaceae. A peculiar blind rat is found in the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky. A blind fish swims in its rivers, and Professor Agassiz is of opinion that they, like all other blind animals of the cavern world, have at no time been connected with the world of light. Vegetable life also exists in caverns, but consists of such mushrooms or fungi which, shunning the light, love darkness and damp. For their existence, however, moisture and warmth of air is necessary, but they are invariably dependent on organic basis, and are commonly found germinating on pieces of wood, particularly in a state of decomposition. More than seventy subterranean fungi have been discovered, some remarkable for their size. A few years ago a fungus was found growing from the wood-work of a tunnel near Doncaster, which measured no less than fifteen feet in diameter. In the neighbourhood of Paris the cultivation of edible mushrooms is extensively carried on in the catacombs or caverns, seventy or eighty feet below the surface, where the temperature is uniform all the year round. In one of the caves of Mount Rouge there are no less than six or seven miles of mushroom bedding. Among the wonders of the subterranean world must be classed the bone caves of Europe and other parts of the world. In some caves in England, the bones of a prodigious bear have been found, and many hundreds of those of a hyena, considerably larger and more formidable than those existing in Africa. Besides the bear and hyena, upwards of a hundred species of extinct animals have been found in the ossiferous caves of Great Britain, among them being those of the elephant and a rhinoceros. Though in Europe bone caves contain the remains of animals very different from those now existing in the same regions, yet in the caves of Brazil extinct species of nearly all the territorial quadrupeds now inhabiting this region occur. The Australian caverns contain fossil bones of a large extinct kangaroo. In New Zealand the wingless apteryx is still found in the wilds, and the caves of that country show us that it was preceded by other wingless birds of gigantic stature; among them the moa, which, when alive, must have stood about thirteen or fourteen feet high. A complete leg of the bird has been discovered six feet in length, and portions of the eggs show that they had been about 6 or 7 inches diameter. CHAPTER TEN. ARRANGEMENTS OF THE MINES. In Germany mining operations are carried on in the most systematic manner. Miners are dressed as their ancestors were hundreds of years ago, and they cling pertinaciously to their ancient usages. In some workings prayers are offered up, led by the engineer, before the miners descend to their work, while they stand grouped round him at the opening of the mine, a custom which might well be adopted in our own country. The German miner retains also the superstitions of his forefathers, and still believes in the genii of the mines, named Nickel and Kobald, after whom he has called two metals, nickel and cobalt, originally discovered in the mines of Saxony. The Germans have introduced into their mines a regular military system, and the engineers, who are denominated captains, wear when in full dress a uniform of a very military appearance, set off by epaulets and gold embroidery. Not inferior to them, however, are the Cornish miners, their captains being those who have risen by their industry and intelligence from the lowest to the highest grades, although men of less education than their German brethren. The Spanish miners are a sober and frugal race, enjoying their cigarettes even while at work. On leaving the mine they put on their snuff-coloured cloaks and broad-brimmed sombreros. In the southern part of the Peninsula they wear grass sandals, cloaks of bright colours, and handkerchiefs bound round their heads. Leading lives of toil and hardship, their huts are wretched abodes built of stones and mud, their beds the ground, an iron or copper kettle hung from the roof above the fire in the centre of the cabin, a few wicker baskets, and a waterbottle of porous clay constitute their furniture. Still, the lot of the miner of the Sierra Morena is far superior to that of the miner of Almaden, who, poisoned by the noxious vapours of mercury, quickly succumbs, ere he has gained the prime of manhood. In South America the mining operations of the inhabitants somewhat resemble those of their Spanish ancestors, their habits and customs being imitated by the Indians, who have, however, to perform the harder part of the work. While Mexico and Peru were under the mother country, the Mita or law of compulsion existed, the Indians being forced to toil against their will in the mines, but since the emancipation of the colonies and the abolition of that nefarious law, they have returned to their agricultural pursuits, and are only occasionally found of their own free will labouring in the mines. Various modes are adopted for descending the mines. In some merely a single rope or chain with a loop at the end in which the miner places his foot is used, even when the depth is several hundred feet; in other mines baskets or tubs in which three or four men can stand are employed. While one of these is hauled up, another descends, and often fearful accidents have occurred by the tubs striking against each other, when their occupants have been thrown out. Occasionally the ropes and chains have given way, and the hapless miners have been dashed to pieces. Some few years ago, as the engineer and several men of the mine of Meons were descending standing in a tub, each with a lamp in one hand, and holding on to the chain above him with the other, a couple of tubs loaded with coal unhooked theirs, which fell to the bottom. Providentially they had not relaxed their grasp of the chain above their heads, and at once letting go their lamps and desperately seizing it with both hands, they continued their descent, though huge lumps of coal were falling out of the tubs above them. Wonderful to relate, they reached the bottom in safety. On another occasion, while the same engineer was ascending in a tub, it was upset in consequence of the engineman raising the rope too suddenly. The engineer hanging on by one leg, with his head downwards was hoisted a height of forty yards, before the alarm was given and he was lowered to the bottom. In the same mine, another engineer, while descending in a tub, had his clothes caught by a strut which projected from the side of the pit; he here hung suspended while his companions continued to descend, terrified for his safety and alarmed for their own, as should he fall, they expected to be crushed by his weight. In vain they shouted for assistance, the men at the top of the pit having gone out of hearing. Not until they reached the bottom could they send any aid to their companion. He in the meantime had been vainly endeavouring to find some support so as to relieve the strain on his torn garments, which threatened every instant to give way. After hanging thus for twenty minutes, he was at length set free, but no sooner was he received in the tub than he became insensible. A severe illness of long duration followed, but he ultimately recovered, though he ever afterwards preferred going down the ladders to descending in a tub. Anecdotes of the same description could be given without end. Most accidents of this character have ended fatally. To avoid them various inventions have been devised, one of which is known as the mounting machine, or man-engine. It consists of two parallel rods, furnished at equal distances with steps, while one is raised to a certain height the other is lowered to the same distance. While the movement of the crank is on its turning point, the miner passes from the step on which he is standing to the opposite step of the other. As they are constantly moving up and down, his next step is back again to the rod he had before left, which rising a few feet, he is able to step back to the other, just as it, having gone down, is once more ascending; and thus he reaches the top with little fatigue. Far superior to this mode of ascending or descending are the safety-cages introduced of late years, which have guides the whole length of the shaft, and bonnets or roofs to protect the heads of the men within. They are made with several stages, in which either the tubs or waggons can be placed, or where the miners can stand or sit. If a rope breaks, a spring placed above the cage and kept taut by the tension of the rope, is set free, and acts upon a double clutch made of the best tempered steel. This catch or wedge falls between the wooden guide and a part of the cage, and brings the latter immediately to a stand-still. By this means numberless accidents have been prevented. The man-engines which have been described are dangerous for novices, for should a person stop at the wrong time, he may be hurled to the bottom, or crushed at the return stroke. One of the most frequent accidents to which miners are exposed arises from an outbreak of fire-damp. To avoid this, various safety-lamps have been invented. The most celebrated is that known as Sir Humphrey Davy's lamp. The flame is enclosed in a fine wire gauze, through which, under ordinary circumstances, the gas cannot penetrate. There are other lamps in use constructed on the same principle, but superior in some respects. Too often, however, the miners open them at some fatal moment, or enter the mine, against orders, with naked candles. Still, by means of these lamps, when properly employed, many accidents have been prevented. Another invention exists by which a person can enter in the midst of impure air. The apparatus was devised by Monsieur Kouquayrol, a French engineer. It consists of a reservoir made of sheet iron, into which the air is forced, and, by an ingeniously contrived pump, is secured like a knapsack to a man's back, and the air is conveyed by means of a tube to the mouth of a nose, and thus into the lungs at the ordinary pressure, while a small external valve allows of the escape of the air after it has been respired. A still more simple apparatus has been invented by Monsieur Galibert. The system for condensing the pure air is more perfect, while the reservoir consists of a well-prepared goat-skin, which, when inflated, a man can with ease carry on his back. It is furnished with a similar contrivance to the former, a tube passing from the reservoir to the mouth, while the nostrils are compressed, the eyes and head are protected, so that provided with it, a person may exist for a quarter of an hour in the foulest atmosphere, or in the midst of dense smoke. Although the metal miner is subjected to fewer accidents than are his brethren working in coal mines, the atmosphere in the former is far more destructive to human life. In lead mines, the duration of life averages scarcely more than thirty-two years, and in those containing arsenical pyrites or quicksilver ores, the average is still lower. Before the use of gunpowder in underground operations, the rocks containing the ore were attacked with fire, indeed the practice is still retained in some countries. Huge wood fires are made up against the face of the rock, which becomes shattered and traversed by cracks, and when cooled, it is easily detached with a pick or fork. Of late years, however, machines have been devised for boring or breaking the rock. Some form a hole by the continuous motion of a rotating drill, others by means of intermittent blows. One of these rock-boring machines, manufactured by Messrs. Turner, of Ipswich, performs its work by a combination of both these operations. By the employment of these machines, the formation of the tunnel under Mount Cenis was greatly facilitated. An example has already been given of the way in which people have been saved from the effects of inundations in mines, others have been dug out when buried by the fall of roofs, but almost countless are the numbers who have perished from other causes, for if the first have destroyed their hundreds, the fire-damp in coal mines has proved the destruction of thousands. It was at one time considered right every night to provoke an explosion by lighting the fire-damp in order that the working stalls should be accessible next morning. The man who performed this dangerous operation wore a thick covering of wool or leather, his face was protected, and his head was covered by a hood like a monk's cowl. He crept along the ground, carrying in his hand a long pole with a light at the end of it. He was known in the English mines as the fireman, but in the French he was called either the cannonier, the monk, or the penitent, the latter name being given him from his dress resembling that of certain so-called religious orders in the Romish Church. Too frequently the hapless penitent was destroyed by the explosion he had provoked. Our two friends, however, might have written several large volumes had they given accounts of even a portion of the interesting matters concerning mines which they gathered up during their long and varied tour. Mark did not fail to benefit largely by the information he obtained, and he ultimately, with the numerous improvements he introduced, became the proprietor of two of the coal mines in which he had worked in his boyhood, while his young sister, on whom he had had the satisfaction of bestowing a high-class education, refined in mind and manners, became the wife of his friend and fellow-traveller. THE END. 
62171	----	OUT OF THIS WORLD By HENRY HASSE There was no escape but death from that fetid prison planet and its crazed, sadistic overseer. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] _When the Earth supply ship set down upon prison planet Number Seven last week, a curious state of affairs was found: the prisoners below mining the ore as usual, the overseer dead, and every indication of some stark drama having taken place. In the study of the overseer's house one man was found dead, apparently by his own hand, and beside him on the desk was a hastily scribbled document which is herewith published._ * * * * * We hated Marnick. Because he was an Earthman and because he laughed, we hated him. Awake and asleep, at our daily drudge of labor and in the throes of sluggish nightmare, with a fierce tenacity from the very depths of our souls--those of us who still had souls--we hated him. And there was not a man among us who had not sworn to kill him if given the chance, who did not dream of being _the one_. For we knew that some day it was going to happen. But when? It seemed impossible. Daily that is what I thought as I trudged wearily to my place in B-Tunnel two miles below. We were forty men against him, Martians and Earthmen alike. Once there had been Venusians here, too, but they died too easily, and now Venusian criminals were sent elsewhere. Forty against Marnick, but still he was Law here on the tiny barren satellite of Jupiter--the seventh or eighth in orbit, I have long since forgotten which. The Tri-Planet Federation had appointed him overseer, then had immediately forgotten him and us. Out of our way, you criminal scum! Out of the sight and memory of men! Thus it was. Yes, Marnick was law and lord and master of all he surveyed, and believe me he surveyed us well. He used to come down the central vertical shaft in his little case of special glassite, and hover there above us, watching; sometimes unbeknownst by us; and heaven help any worker who fell under his gaze, who he thought might be shirking. Marnick reserved a very special fate for shirkers, a certain torture, so I had heard. * * * * * Now all that I had heard came rushing back to flood my brain, as I stood tensely alert, listening to the raucous, inhuman laughter that surged down the central shaft to reach our ears. Again it came and yet again, rising to insane pitch. I rested my short-handled hand-pick against the little heap of radite ore. I wiped my sweated brow with fingers that burned and tingled from contact with the radite. I peered covertly around at the many tunnels converging into the central place, and saw the other workers, Martians, and Earthmen, cowering under that sound of laughter. I wondered if I looked to them as they looked to me. I knew I was afraid. That was Marnick's laughter, I had heard it before. His special torture was going on again. Would I be next? So far I had luckily escaped. I tried to straighten up into a semblance of courage, but again that shrieking laughter came drifting down to cower me. At the same time McGowan left his tunnel next to mine, and came strolling over to me. I was aghast. For any man to so much as leave his post, meant that he would receive the same punishment that some poor devil up there was now receiving. But McGowan always was a reckless one. Tall, brutish, dark and always scowling, a light of indomitable spirit shone perpetually out of his contrasting gray eyes. Those eyes were now hate-filled as he cocked his head and listened to that laughter. "If only he wouldn't laugh," McGowan said in a voice so calm that it was doubly terrible. "If only he would go ahead with his torture, and watch it if he wished. But to laugh! And to let us know that he laughs! That is the crowning touch. Some day, Reed, I swear to you--" "Yes, I know," I whispered fearfully. "Some day one of us is going to kill him. A favorite dream here." "Not someone, Reed. Me! That is a privilege I reserve. And I shall not kill him. At least not in the usual way. I have a very special revenge planned for Mr. Marnick." That was a story I had heard before, too; but now something in McGowan's voice caused me to look sharply up at him. And the hate that smouldered in those eyes was such as I cared not to look upon. I glanced quickly away, and then I heard a smooth familiar hum from the central shaft. I knew what it was. I swooped for my hand-pick and began to ply it industriously. "Quick, McGowan, get back to your work!" I whispered. "Marnick's coming down again!" I'm sure McGowan knew that as well as I did, but he simply stood there, gazing almost expectantly at the place where the shaft led up through the cave roof. "You damn fool!" I whispered, but there was a tight little smile on McGowan's lips as he stood there. The hum continued. Even as I continued to hack at the hard-grained rock I shot a sidelong glance up at the shaft. Marnick's vehicle appeared suddenly there, seemingly suspended in the air. It was simply a glassite-enclosed, rounded cage, large enough to contain Marnick and the two lumbering, Jovian brutes he kept always with him. A pale violet halo hovered around the entire structure. It hung there just below the cave roof. I could glimpse Marnick standing there erect, arms folded, peering haughtily down at us. Naturally a tall man, he always seemed taller and more forbidding in that posture. His hair was gray, but no grayer than his face; and against that grayness his eyes were dull black and quite expressionless, as if at one time he had seen some sight that had burned them out. But now his arms unfolded and he leaned tensely forward. His thin colorless lips twitched as if in disbelief. A second later his rasping voice went bounding about the walls: "You! Earthman, over there! Get back to your work!" He was speaking to McGowan and we all knew it. McGowan stood only a few feet from me, but I dared not even glance up at him now. I glimpsed him, however, bending down slowly, deliberately, and I saw his right hand seize a good-sized lump of radite ore from my pile. He straightened just as deliberately, turned to face Marnick and then said: "Go to hell!" With those words, McGowan drew back his hand and hurled the radite lump at Marnick's cage. * * * * * All of us in that moment paused to watch, and all of us were aghast at McGowan's futile bravado. We knew that not even an atom-blast, much less a lump of rock, could penetrate that mysterious force-barrier Marnick had erected around himself. That's what made the act so terrible, for McGowan knew it, too. And he wore a satisfied little smile as he did it. [Illustration: _Straight at the glittering machine McGowan hurled the heavy boulder._] The rock didn't come within a yard of Marnick's cage. It struck against the violet force-halo, bounded back and clattered to the floor. Marnick's lips split into what might have been a grin; he touched a button beside him and the cage dropped the rest of the way to the cave floor. Its door opened and the two Jovian brutes stepped quickly out. Grinning through thick, blubbery lips, with huge powerful hands reaching out, they strode purposefully toward McGowan. McGowan made no defensive gesture. He stood there still smiling a little, as though hugely satisfied with what he had done. The Jovians seized him ungently, hurried him back to the cage and into it. The door closed and the cage slowly began to rise. The Jovians released his arms then, and McGowan acted with customary deliberateness as his right fist lashed up and crashed into Marnick's mouth. Marnick staggered back, his face a gushing well of red; but with a seeming flick of the wrist his paralyzer tube was in his hand, its pale beam spurting out. McGowan sank down in a huddled little heap, but even so, his very attitude as he lay there unconscious seemed one of satisfaction. The cage rose swiftly up and out of sight. I didn't allow myself to think of the fate that would be McGowan's now. As we worked we listened again for the sound of Marnick's insane laughter. But it never came. He knew that we hated him, and he loved it. It was a sort of little game he played with us. He knew that we would be listening for his laughter now, so he chose not to let us hear it; to make us wonder. Psychologically it was much more terrible. That Marnick was a devil. * * * * * Four days later McGowan came back to us. Rumor among us had it that Marnick maintained special quarters up on the surface of this satellite, a stone house against the barren rock; and that in this house was a certain room into which Marnick thrust the men who displeased him. Beyond this even rumor failed to go, but we often hazarded guesses. The most prevalent guess was that Marnick released hordes of Callistan Gnishii into this room, then stood at a glass-paned door and shrieked with insane laughter at the antics of the unfortunate victims. The Gnishii are tiny little sharp-tipped devils, scarcely three inches in length. Hard-shelled, blazing red in color, they surely must be a spawn of hell; for they are quite harmless except when in the presence of human flesh, and then they seem to go wild. We guessed that Marnick might be employing these Gnishii, because several of his victims who came back to us had hundreds of fresh scars covering their legs from ankles to knees. But these men seemed to prefer not to speak of what they had undergone, and the rest of us weren't too anxious to know. So now, four days later, McGowan came back to us. He stumbled into our quarters along the murky tunnel just above the vein we were at present working. I rose up out of restless sleep and saw McGowan going along the tunnel to certain of the men, silently rousing them. Kueelo and V'Narik, both Martians, joined him; as well as Smith and Blakely and Wilkinson, Earthmen. These five, together with McGowan, had formed a special little cliche among themselves, and almost daily went off for a secret meeting somewhere during our sleep period. Innumerable times I had seen them do that, but I didn't much care, feeling that whatever they might be planning would be futile in the end. Now I rolled over in my bunk, turned my face to the stone wall and tried to get back to sleep; I needed much sleep in preparation for the morrow, because lately the radite emanations had been fast sapping my strength. Then, to my amazement, I felt a light hand on my shoulder and I knew it was McGowan. I heard his voice in my ear, scarcely a whisper: "Reed! You awake? Come on and go with us; we need you!" * * * * * They needed me! Wondering and doubting, I rose silently up and followed the six of them toward the dead end of the tunnel. Blakely carried an electric lantern, carefully shaded. A quarter of a mile further we came to the tunnel's end. There in the dim light I gazed around me at the worked-out rock. The radite vein here, I knew, had been exhausted years ago, even before I had come. As I stood apart, watching, the six of them seized upon a protruding rock and pushed with a certain unison that could only have come with long practice. The rock rolled smoothly away and revealed a ragged little ravine leading up and into the tunnel wall. We entered, and they pulled the huge rock back into place. We began to climb. The ravine was scarcely shoulder-width. A few minutes later, however, it widened out into a large, natural cave! Blakely placed the light in the center, and we sat in a circle around it. We could only see each other's faces dimly. The two Martians' were dark and leathery, with thick-lidded expressionless eyes. The three Earthmen appeared a little anxious as they glanced at McGowan. I knew what they were thinking, wondering; I was wondering myself. As though reading our thoughts McGowan said: "Yes, it--it was pretty terrible." But by the look in his eyes alone, dim as it was, we knew that was a masterpiece of understatement. "But that's beside the point," he went on. "Whatever I went through up there, it was worth it. And it had to be done. For your information, Reed"--he turned his head to look at me--"we're going to escape from these tunnels. Then we're going to kill Marnick. When that's accomplished, we'll think about escaping from this planet." "But--but how--" I stammered. "You know you can't possibly--" McGowan gestured impatiently. "I know everything you're going to say. We've gone over it thoroughly. Let's see, you've been here only two years, isn't it, Reed? And the average life here is five; and I have already been here seven. Yes, I've clung on here longer than most men do, knowing that some day my chance would come; and now it is near. For the moment we will not think of escape. If only I can succeed in getting rid of that monster up there, and doing it in my own special way, all this will have been worth while. Do you agree?" I most emphatically agreed, and said so. McGowan arose and led me to the other side of the cave. There I saw a small, dark opening, perhaps four feet in diameter. A tunnel! A man-made tunnel leading steeply upward through solid rock! "For about four years we've worked on this," McGowan said with a tinge of pride in his voice. "We've hacked our way inches at a time with whatever crude implements we could smuggle here. More than a mile of solid rock lies between us and the surface, and we've gone more than three-quarters of the way already." "But why didn't you let me in on this!" I gasped, a sudden surge of hope welling up in my throat so that I could hardly speak. I could hardly even think! My brain was churning crazily. To get out of these tunnels, to even glimpse a star again against the black night sky, or breathe fresh air once more--those were hopes that many of us had abandoned, as we gradually became living automatons and the radite ore took its insidious toll of us. McGowan looked at me steadily and answered my question: "Because we don't trust everyone. Marnick has certain methods up there of extracting information, and if ever--Well, anyway, you've been rather a baffling entity since you came here. You still are. Right now we don't know whether to trust you, but we have to because we need you." "But you can trust me!" I exclaimed in an excess of anxiety. "We need you," McGowan went on coldly, "because we understand you're something of an expert with directional beam finders. We suspected that Marnick might have a network of beams raying downward, to detect any such escape attempt as this. We had to make sure, and that's why I had to get to the surface, although it meant torture. And I did find out, never mind how. He has a battery of directional beams. They won't reach through rock very far, but we can't be too careful now that we're getting near the surface. So, Reed: do you think you could detect any such beams, before we break through into them?" "Yes, I'm sure I could," I answered, perhaps a little too eagerly. "Good. Then you're in with us to the finish." He turned to the others. "Wilkinson--I think it's your turn tonight? Reed here will go up with you. Incidentally, you might veer a few degrees to the right; as near as I could judge, we're coming a little too close to Marnick's quarters. And you, Reed, keep a sharp lookout for those beams." * * * * * I entered the dark little tunnel behind Wilkinson, and we began the climb. He carried the lantern. It was rather precarious. The tunnel, I judged, was on a forty-five-degree angle, but wisely they had leveled out little hand and foot holds, so that we could rest occasionally. Three-quarters of a mile, McGowan had said. It seemed more like five, but I didn't mind at all. All my weariness and sleepiness had left me now; every time I scraped a knee or elbow against the rock it was a pleasure, now that a new hope was born in me. At last we reached the top, and I cautioned Wilkinson to remain still while I tried to determine if any of the magnetic finder beams were near us. First I stripped myself to the waist, then pressed my body against the rock wall in various spots. Wilkinson watched the process curiously. "No," I told him at last. "I can't feel a thing yet. Probably we're still too far down." "How come you can feel those beams when other men can't?" Wilkinson asked. So I told him the story. "Years ago I worked in one of the electrical laboratories where these beams were being developed. One day I was accidentally locked in the testing room--a small chamber where the beams were projected upon metal plates to test their intensity. Luckily for me, the beams that day were of a very low intensity, or I wouldn't be here now. But the power kept increasing by slow degrees, until I could feel the vibration tearing through every fiber of my body. At last, and just in time, I managed to attract attention. I was violently ill for weeks. But after that, I seemed to be hyper-sensitive to such beams." Wilkinson continued digging at the rock with a small metal implement. Bit by bit the rock came out, in powdery dust and tiny chunks. I noticed that his hands were scarred and roughened from day after day of this work. "When we first began," he explained, "we made much faster progress. But now a man can't work more than two or three hours up here, for the air gets pretty stale. We take turns, of course, day after day. It's going to be pretty tough on you from now to the finish, because you'll have to be up here _every_ day for a couple of hours. We're counting on you." Yes, they were counting on me. Now for the first time I began to realize how much; and I began to doubt myself. I wasn't really sure that I could still detect those finder beams. It had been a long time since I had experienced it. Besides, the radite ore emanations had effected my body in that curious tingling way, just as it had every man here. So perhaps that would prevent--? I only knew that if we ever blundered into one of those directional finder beams, which McGowan said were raying down, it would instantly set off an alarm in Marnick's quarters. I tried not to imagine what would happen after that. In a sort of panic I pressed my sweating body against the rocky wall, but all I could feel was the familiar radite-tingling crawling through my skin. * * * * * So we worked day after day until they lengthened into weeks. My daily labor at the radite vein was almost a pleasure now as I anticipated the few hours of work that would come later in our secret tunnel. Daily I accompanied a different one of our group. I wanted to take my own turn at the digging, but McGowan wouldn't stand for this, preferring that I direct all my attention toward the detector beams. Weeks passed and still I detected no beams. Kueelo, I found, was sullen and silent. The other Martian, V'Narik, talked to me only on a few occasions. "I have a curious presentiment," he told me once, "that I shall never escape from here. You others, perhaps, but not me. I am with you on this only because there is nothing better to do. But if I can only reach the surface, and glimpse the stars once again--especially the redness of Mars--this will have been worth while." The Martians are a strange race. I never could understand them. I tried to cheer V'Narik, but he only shook his head solemnly. From the others I gradually learned much that I had often wondered about, especially concerning Marnick. "There are various stories about him," McGowan told me once. "The one I'm inclined to believe is that Marnick incurred his hatred of men long ago, during the early years of the Mars mines. He was one of the earliest pioneers there. He brought his wife and child from Earth. He struck a rich iridium vein and worked it slowly, alone. Then certain Earth corporations stepped in, as you know. They wanted Marnick to sell but he would not. He defied them to the end, which was foolish. Well, one day Marnick came back to his mine to find his wife dead, rayed mercilessly by a heat-gun, and his young son missing, probably lost in the Martian wastes." "You don't mean," I gasped, "that the Earth corporations would--" "Would do a thing like that? They would hire it done. That's the way they worked in the early days, they always got what they wanted, in one way or another. Well, Marnick must have sworn a terrible vengeance then. He fought them and plagued them, for years he pirated the spaceways until the Tri-Planet Patrol was formed and became too strong for him." I pondered this story. "So now," I mused, "he's come to this. As overseer of this penal planet, he must be--" "He is assuredly insane," McGowan finished for me. "But he is still vengeful. He was never certain whether they were Martians or Earthmen who killed his loved ones--those men hired by the Earth corporation. But ever since, I believe, Marnick has had a brooding hate for both races, especially the criminal element. That's why he's devised his tortures here. That's why he laughs as he indulges in his wholesale revenge. A sort of revenge by proxy, as it were." I was aghast as I glanced at McGowan, wondering just how close to the truth about Marnick he had come. McGowan's eyes were steel hard again with hate as he went on: "And that's why, Reed, we must put an end to Marnick's mad reign here. He was done a terrible injustice in the past, yes; but he's had his revenge many times over, on the unfortunate men who have passed through his hands. That's why I hate him, and that's why I shall have my own revenge, in my own way." McGowan's face was not a thing I liked to look upon, in that moment. * * * * * Then came the day when I felt the first detector beam. I had been wondering and doubting, but when it came it was unmistakable; a single sharp pain through every fiber of my body, like the exposed nerve of a tooth when it's unexpectedly touched; and then a strong, steady tingling utterly different from that of the radite ore. I was with Blakely at the time. He stopped his work instantly. "We'd better go down and get McGowan," he said. McGowan came back up with us. "What would you say, Reed? Think we're enough into that beam to have set off an alarm?" "How close would you say we are?" I asked. "According to my estimates, there must be at least another hundred yards of rock." "Then I'd say we're safe. We must be on the very fringe of this beam. But if it weren't for me--" "Yes, I know. But now your work's only beginning. We're going to have to cut parallel to the surface and get beyond range of the furthest beam before we can go up again." McGowan was right. And this took several more weeks. We were very impatient now, but he impressed upon us the need for extreme caution. At last, however, we reached a point where I was definitely sure we were beyond the range. It had been agony for me, that constant proximity to the beams that seemed to tear at my every nerve-center; but I endured it and said nothing. "This doesn't mean we're safe yet," McGowan cautioned us, when we began the vertical climb again. "To get near Marnick's house will be a problem in itself; he's sure to have it barricaded with beams, and we have to watch out for those two Jovian brutes of his." I wonder if it could have been quite by chance that we broke through the surface during McGowan's turn? He must have had our distance calculated to the very foot. I felt a sudden current of fresh night air that nearly overwhelmed me, and then I saw that he had broken through. We simply lay there for a long while, not speaking, breathing in that intoxicating air. I had never really known how I missed it until now; never had I known that the stars could be so close and so brilliant, until I glimpsed a handful of them through those few square inches of space. At last McGowan carefully plugged that opening with a few bits of rock. He turned to me and said: "We must wait 'til tomorrow; we will bring the others." It seemed to me that tomorrow would never come. At last, however, our next sleep period rolled around, and we met in our secret place. McGowan held a special, final little conclave. "There is something," he said, "that I have withheld from you until now. As you all undoubtedly know, we are not entirely abandoned here; that is to say, twice a year an official Earth ship sets down to leave supplies and take aboard the radite we have mined. And I know what most of you have been thinking: that if we can once reach the surface, and get Marnick out of the way, we can hide out until that Earth ship comes, then overpower the crew and escape." Murmurs of approval came from the six of us, especially from the group of Earthmen. "I'm sorry," McGowan went on, "but that's not the way the thing's going to work out." Sounds of discontent arose. "Because I have a better plan. The Earth ship won't arrive here for two more months. Its crew outnumbers us, and they are well armed. Therefore, we won't wait for it at all; instead we'll take Marnick's own ship. "Yes!" he exclaimed, smiling at the amazement on our faces, "he has a cruiser here. That's what I didn't want you to know until the last moment, for there is a difficulty. There are seven of us here, and the cruiser will accommodate only five at the most; it will take five across to Callisto, and there I can make connections that will mean safety for us." * * * * * We looked blankly around at each other, and no man knew what the other was thinking. McGowan smiled in a way I did not like, as if he somehow knew which five it would be. "Furthermore," he went on, "there will soon be eight of us. For now Elson's got to come along." "Elson!" exclaimed a chorus of voices, mine among them. "Yes." McGowan's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. "I haven't steered you wrong yet, have I? I've worked out this entire plan, so believe me when I say that Elson is very necessary to our endeavor." I thought of Elson, and wondered why he was necessary. He, to put it cruelly, was the least among us; the butt of all our jokes; for even hopeless men such as we must sometimes have amusement. Elson had been here probably as long as McGowan, but he had suffered much more. Elson always seemed to suffer Marnick's wrath when the latter couldn't decide upon a more suitable victim. Elson was twisted and misshapen now, the result of a fall through the shaft, so I had heard; and he was blank-eyed and feeble-witted. Now McGowan sent for him, and he came shuffling into our cave with a bewildered look. Tersely McGowan explained the situation. Elson smiled crookedly; he had always had a special fondness for McGowan, and obeyed him implicitly in everything. We began the climb. An hour later we stood panting but unbowed upon the surface, staring at stars most of us had not seen in years! We were eight men, determined, but armed only with the short metal hook we had used for digging out the rock. McGowan carried it. He gestured with it to the left, as he whispered: "This way. We must be about a mile from the ravine where Marnick's located. Stay in sight of each other now, and watch your step--no noise!" The terrain was rocky and rough; the horizon of the tiny planet seemed very near, and curved sharply down. The night was pitch black and boundless, with only the pinpoints of stars to guide us. Hours later, it seemed, we glimpsed another pinpoint of light that was not a star. It was too low against the blackness for that; we knew it was a light from Marnick's abode, at the entrance of a rocky little canyon perhaps a quarter of a mile away. We proceeded with infinite caution. Suddenly, I felt that awful agony through every nerve again, and I knew we had stumbled into more of Marnick's detector beams. This time we may have blundered far enough to set off an alarm, but I didn't especially care. I fell to the ground as the warning along my nerves persisted. For a minute I was almost violently ill. Luckily, the others stopped instantly. McGowan dragged me back and waited until I had recovered. "Our human beam detector. Lucky we've got you with us, Reed!" But there was no humor in his voice, in fact I caught a note of pity. I think he already realized, just as I was slowly beginning to-- But I shall not think of that. McGowan spoke a few words to Elson that we could not hear. Elson nodded obediently. We moved away at a sharp angle to the right, but now I noticed Elson did not accompany us. I was still dizzy and weak, but I clenched my teeth and determined to see this thing through to the finish. I guided us away from those beams. As near as I could determine, they rayed out in a sort of semi-circular barrier, invisible, of course. Carefully we skirted the edge of it, toward the far wall of the canyon that sheltered Marnick's house. How I stayed on my feet I cannot understand, for every step was an agony as the faintest out-reaches of those rays stabbed fiercely through me. The others, of course, felt nothing. "We've got to get past it," McGowan whispered tensely to me, "or we're finished!" I nodded curtly. I didn't know what McGowan had in mind, but I realized we had to get closer to Marnick's house. We came nearer and nearer to the canyon and then the power of the beams began to diminish. We pressed flat against the rocky walls and moved swiftly forward. Suddenly we were beyond the barrier. The squat stone dwelling was a bare fifty yards from us now, and we could see a little square of light from the side window. * * * * * We paused there in a huddled little group, wondering what McGowan's next move would be. Apparently he was waiting for something. And a second later we knew what it was, as a ringing alarm shattered the silence! I knew it must have been Elson out there who had set it off, according to McGowan's instructions. I glanced sharply at McGowan and he seemed satisfied, as he cautioned us to silence. Another square of light appeared and we glimpsed the tall form of Marnick in the open doorway. But he knew better than to remain there long against the light. He stepped quickly outside, but not before we glimpsed an atom-pistol in his hand. "This is it!" McGowan whispered. "I only wanted to get him outside." We moved silently across the space toward the side of the house that hid us from Marnick. There we could peer into the lighted window. I saw a large room quite like a library, and I was amazed at how richly it was furnished, with books and tables and tapestries and a fireplace at one end. It seemed utterly incongruous here on this dark, mad planet. But I didn't have much time to think about it. McGowan was fumbling at the window, and at last it swung silently open. "I've got to get hold of a weapon!" he whispered. "The rest of you wait here. I don't think Marnick will come around to this side, but keep a sharp lookout anyway." With that he climbed through the window and moved silently across the room. Anxiously, I watched him, expecting Marnick to return at any moment. McGowan searched the room thoroughly, opening drawers and tumbling books in disarray, but no weapon was forthcoming. He did find a small flashlight, however, and with it in hand he moved into another dark room leading off this one, there to continue his search. He was out of my sight now, but I glimpsed his light flashing around cautiously. The seconds seemed like eternities. I was so interested in watching the inside of the house that I had almost forgotten my companions behind me. Suddenly, I heard a muffled commotion near by, and whirled quickly around. The two Jovians had crept silently upon us out of the darkness; perhaps Marnick, as a cautionary measure, had sent them out to scout around the house. At any rate, there was a silent struggle of bodies behind me, and all I could distinguish clearly was one of the Jovians who had seized V'Narik's neck in his two powerful hands. Blakely was standing there with the heavy metal hook upraised, and it seemed to me that he hesitated about ten seconds too long before he brought it crashing down on the Jovian's skull. But by that time V'Narik was dead, and it suddenly dawned on me that Blakely's hesitation had been deliberate; and that left only seven of us instead of eight. The other Jovian was more than holding his own, and Blakely seemed content to watch. I seized the heavy bar from him and leaped into the mêlée, waiting for an opening. I brought the bar wildly down, and by pure luck it landed on the Jovian skull, crushing it like an eggshell. The others staggered weakly up. I leaped back to the window, for I thought surely Marnick must have returned; what I didn't realize then was that scarcely a minute had yet elapsed since the alarm had sounded. But McGowan had found his weapon. He held an atom-pistol in his hand as he crossed the lighted room to the window, and climbed back out to us. It was not until that moment that I had my curious foreboding. McGowan, if he had wanted to kill Marnick, could easily have crossed that room to the front door that was still open, and rayed Marnick down from behind. He wanted to kill Marnick all right, but in his own way. He had his own special revenge mapped out. I suddenly remembered that, and I knew that McGowan was going to carry it through. "So far so good," he murmured as he rejoined us. He weighed the atom-pistol familiarly in his hand. "Now, if only Elson out there comes through all right--Come on, let's see where Marnick is. Not too far from the house, I hope. And remember, all of you, this is strictly my party; so no interference." Those last words struck an ominous note in me, but I said nothing, nor did the others as we followed McGowan along to the far corner of the house. There we could see the long, dim rectangle of light from the room streaming out onto the barren rock. Marnick was not in sight but we knew he must be somewhere very near, waiting in the darkness, watching for whoever had set off that alarm. * * * * * Seemingly, for a long while we waited, but it couldn't have been more than a minute; we crowded close to each other, staring, trying to accustom our eyes to the night. Then McGowan pointed, and we saw a darker shape very near the house, and we knew it was Marnick, waiting. Again that curious feeling of impending drama overwhelmed me, and I wanted to act to prevent something, but I didn't know how--or what-- McGowan's gesture shifted imperiously, and we saw another vague blur of a figure out there and we knew it was Elson. McGowan, in that moment, reminded me of a stage director, proud of his work and trying to impress its subtleties upon us. My gaze went back to the slouching figure of Elson, and I realized he was moving toward us. Marnick saw him at the same time. Marnick straightened up, leaned tautly forward and seemed to be peering. Then Marnick's hated voice came stabbing through the darkness to us, but not directed at us: "I see you out there. Whoever you are, it was foolish of you to try to come near my house, for you have set off a detector beam. Stop immediately or I will blast you. I have an atom-pistol trained on you at this moment." For a single instant everything seemed to stand still. Elson stood still. McGowan, close beside me, caught his breath sharply in his throat. Then Elson moved forward again, and McGowan breathed a slow sigh of relief. "Good," he murmured in my ear, though I am sure he was not conscious that I was there. "I knew Elson would obey me. Elson obeys me in everything." And then: "Poor Elson." In that sudden moment I realized what was going to happen; I knew McGowan had planned this step by step from start to finish, and I knew _Elson was going to die_! I started forward with a cry in my throat, but McGowan's hand clamped roughly over my mouth and his fingers dug cruelly into my arm. I could see, though, and I saw Elson come forward in his slouching, ungainly gait, arms dangling at his side and an idiotic grin on his face. I heard Marnick's warning once more, and I saw the almost invisible beam of his atom-pistol slashing the darkness. I saw Elson stumble and plough forward on his face and lay still. And not until then did McGowan release me. But then it was too late. Elson was dead, and I heard a sound that was almost a chuckle deep in McGowan's throat. Then his voice slashed through the darkness and I realized that here was the acme of triumph in all his years of planning: "Drop your pistol, Marnick." Marnick whirled toward his voice and took a tense step toward us; but McGowan's pistol rayed across the rock and slashed dangerously near Marnick's feet. Marnick's pistol dropped from his fingers with a clanging sound. "That's better. You're a madman, Marnick, but not too mad to fail to realize when the game is over. I'm going to kill you, I want you to know that; and I want you to know who is speaking. This is McGowan. But before I kill you I want you to realize what you've done tonight. You've killed a man. Know who it is? Go take a look." Marnick stood there hesitant. I could almost picture the indecision on his face. But McGowan's pistol rayed again, very close to his feet, and Marnick stumbled out to where Elson lay. "Good," McGowan went on. "Now look at 'im. It's Elson, you see?" McGowan's voice seemed different now than I had ever heard it. It wasn't his voice at all. But it went on inexorably, and I felt chills chasing up and down my spine. "Do you know who Elson really is, Marnick? No, of course, you don't. I saw to that. He came to this prison planet about the same time I did. He was tall and straight and youthful then, but somehow you couldn't stand that; you made him your special victim, you tortured and maimed him and now you've killed him. Look very closely, Marnick. You still do not know? Then I suggest you turn him over--that's right. And I suggest you look very closely on the outer part of his left thigh. A curious blemish is there, an unmistakable birthmark. You realize now? Yes, I see that you do. "Your son, Marnick, never died on Mars. I was one of that party of men who--Well, I don't care to think about that now. The others left him there beside his mother, thinking him dead, but I knew better. I went back and took him, and kept him with me until he was sixteen, when we parted. Perhaps he inherited some of his criminal ways from his association with me. Anyway, when I was sentenced here, and he came a little later, I knew what I must do!" * * * * * It was a nightmare. I couldn't believe it. I glimpsed Marnick out there huddling over the body of the man he had just slain ... his own son ... and even at that distance and through that dimness there was something that made me feel sorry for him. He arose very slowly, turned to face McGowan and tried to speak something but could not. He took a few faltering steps in our direction and then McGowan rayed him down. There was still a satisfied little smile on McGowan's lips as he did it. I hated McGowan in that moment as much as I had ever hated Marnick, but I could do nothing, for my mind was a little numbed. "I waited seven years for that," McGowan said, and he breathed very deeply. Then he walked through us and strode back to where the two Jovians lay, and V'Narik. "V'Narik's dead," he said as if he'd just discovered it. "He always had a hunch he wouldn't get away from here, didn't he? But he got to see the stars and Mars again, just as he wanted to. And Elson's dead, of course. That still leaves six of us." He looked at me significantly. I knew what he meant. I had known all the time that I would never set foot on Earth again, and McGowan had known it, too. "Make it five," I said, "for I'm staying." The others didn't quite understand, and they didn't much care. They went rushing off to find Marnick's cruiser that would bear them safely to Callisto. McGowan stepped forward with that enigmatic smile on his lips, and seized my hand. "Thanks," he said simply. "Thanks for all you've done for us, and don't hate me too much." "Just go away," I said, "and leave me alone. I want to think. You might leave me that atom-pistol if you want to." It is a good thing they left as quickly as they did, or I would have killed McGowan. I watched their cruiser blast up and away into the dark void. I said I wanted to think, and I have thought. And whenever I remember that terrible revenge, I must decide that McGowan was the madman, not Marnick. Perhaps they were both mad. Anyway, it does not matter any more. I only know that I shall soon die; for my constant proximity to those detector beams in the past several weeks, in conjunction with these radite emanations, has produced a curious illness in me from which I know I should never recover. The symptoms become stronger hourly, and the agony is almost unbearable. Perhaps soon, if it continues, I shall-- But I must finish this document first. I have been writing it, here in Marnick's study, for the past twenty-four hours. I hope it will be found when the next Earth supply ship comes. I think it even likely that those other unfortunate men, in the tunnels below, will continue to work as usual until then, unknowing of what has taken place up here; for they have become automatons. I can only hope that this document will serve, in the future, to make the fate of such men a little less severe. Well, now I think it is finished. 
62915	----	And the Gods Laughed By FREDRIC BROWN Hank was spinning quite a space lie--something about earrings wearing their owners. The crew got a boot out of the yarn--until they got to thinking. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] You know how it is when you're with a work crew on one of the asteroids. You're there, stuck for the month you signed up for, with four other guys and nothing to do but talk. Space on the little tugs that you go in and return in, and live in while you're there, is at such a premium that there isn't room for a book or a magazine nor equipment for games. And you're out of radio range except for the usual once-a-terrestrial-day, system-wide newscasts. So talking is the only indoor sport you can go in for. Talking and listening. You've plenty of time for both because a work-day, in space-suits, is only four hours and that with four fifteen-minute back-to-the-ship rest periods, so you actually work only three hours and spend half that time getting in and out the airlock. But those are union rules, and no asteroid mining outfit tries to chisel on them. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that talk is cheap on one of those work crews. With most of the day to do nothing else, you listen to some real whoppers, stories that would make the old-time Liars Clubs back on earth seem like Sunday-school meetings. And if your mind runs that way, you've got plenty of time to think up some yourself. Charlie Dean was on our crew, and Charlie could tell some dillies. He'd been on Mars back in the old days when there was still trouble with the _bolies_, and when living on Mars was a lot like living on Earth back in the days of Indian fighting. The _bolies_ thought and fought a lot like Amerinds, even though they were quadrupeds that looked like alligators on stilts--if you can picture an alligator on stilts--and used blow-guns instead of bows and arrows. Or was it crossbows that the Amerinds used against the colonists? Anyway, Charlie's just finished a whopper that was really too good for the first tryout of the trip. We'd just landed, you see, and were resting up from doing nothing en route, and usually the yarns start off easy and believable and don't work up to real depth-of-space lying until along about the fourth week when everybody's bored stiff. "So we took this head _bolie_," Charlie was ending up, "and you know what kind of flappy little ears they've got, and we put a couple of zircon-studded earrings in its ears and let it go, and back it went to the others, and then darned if--" Well, I won't go on with Charlie's yarn, because it hasn't got anything to do with this story except that it brought earrings into the conversation. When Charlie'd finished, Zeb Werrah stood up and sniffed. "Air's getting kind of bad in here," he said. "Reckon I'll go out and get my first shift over with. Anybody want to come?" Ray went with him--our tug had equipment for only two men to work outside at a time--and the rest of us helped them into suits and out the lock, and then settled down for some more talk, there being nothing else to do. Zeb's remark about the air had been just a crack at Charlie's story, of course. "How'd you happen to have zircon earrings along?" Blake Powers asked Charlie, when things had quieted down again. Blake was skipper for the voyages, but now that we were anchored down on our asteroid, he was just one of the boys, until we took off again. "In with the slum for trading," Charlie said. "When you're going to any place in the system that might be inhabited and you don't know by what kind of critters, you take a little of almost everything. You never know what's going to strike the fancy of any civilized or semi-civilized race you might hit. "It might be mirrors--I've known dime-store mirrors to bring in twice their weight in radium salt--or it might be paper clips or harmonicas, or salted peanuts or plaster statuettes." He turned to me and said, "You know that, Hank. You've been on a 'first' trip or two. So have you, Blake." * * * * * Blake nodded. "I remember I was on the crew of the ship that landed first on Phobos. You know what the Phobonians turned out to be like, of course. They had about everything we had, and damned if we could do a lick of trading until the captain of our ship put something back in a box and happened to put a rubber band around the box. They went nuts; they'd never seen anything that had _elasticity_. Rubber or anything like it simply wasn't known on Phobos. We managed to find a few dozen rubber bands in the ship's office and practically bought out Phobos with them. "One of the crew was wearing old-fashioned suspenders with elastic in them, and he traded them for a bucket of Phobonian sele-stones. Had to hold up his pants with a piece of rope for the rest of the trip, but when he got back to Earth he was rich. Me, I was wearing a belt. I've worn suspenders ever since, but I never got back to Phobos. Not that it would matter if I did; Interplanet's doing a regular trade in rubber there now, and it's down to twenty credits a pound or thereabouts." Blake shook his head gloomily and then turned to me. He said, "Hank, what went on Ganymede? You were on that ship that went out there a few months ago, weren't you--the first one that got through? I've never read or heard much about that trip." "Me either," Charlie said. "Except that the Ganymedeans turned out to be humanoid beings about four feet tall and didn't wear a thing except earrings. Kind of immodest, wasn't it?" I grinned. "You wouldn't have thought so if you'd seen the Ganymedeans. With them, it didn't matter. Anyway, they didn't wear earrings." "You're crazy," Charlie said. "Sure, I know you were on that expedition and I wasn't, but you're still crazy, because I had a quick look at some of the pictures they brought back. The natives wore earrings." "No," I said. "Earrings wore _them_." Blake sighed deeply. "I knew it, I knew it," he said. "There was something wrong with this trip from the start. Charlie pops off the first day with a yarn that should have been worked up to gradually. And now you say--Or is there something wrong with my _sense of earring_?" I chuckled. "Not a thing, Skipper." Charlie said, "I've heard of men biting dogs, but earrings wearing people is a new one. Hank, I hate to say it--but just consider it said." Anyway, I had their attention. And now was as good a time as any. I said, "If you read about the trip, you know we left Earth about eight months ago, for a six-months' round trip. There were six of us in the M-94; me and two others made up the crew and there were three specialists to do the studying and exploring. Not the really top-flight specialists, though, because the trip was too risky to send them. That was the third ship to try for Ganymede and the other two had cracked up on outer Jovian satellites that the observatories hadn't spotted from Earth because they are too small to show up in the scopes at that distance. "When you get there you find there's practically an asteroid belt around Jupiter, most of them so black they don't reflect light to speak of and you can't see them till they hit you or you hit them. But most of them--" "Skip the satellites," Blake interrupted, "unless they wore earrings." "Or unless earrings wore _them_," said Charlie. "Neither," I admitted. "All right, so we were lucky and got through the belt. And landed. Like I said, there were six of us. Lecky, the biologist. Haynes geologist and mineralogist. And Hilda Race, who loved little flowers and was a botanist, egad! You'd have loved Hilda--at a distance. Somebody must have wanted to get rid of her, and sent her on that trip. She gushed; you know the type. "And then there was Art Willis and Dick Carney. They gave Dick skipper's rating for the trip; he knew enough astrogation to get us through. So Dick was skipper and Art and I were flunkies and gunmen. Our main job was to go along with the specialists whenever they left the ship and stand guard over them against whatever dangers might pop up." "And did anything pop?" Charlie demanded. "I'm coming to that," I told him. "We found Ganymede not so bad, as places go. Gravity low, of course, but you could get around easily and keep your balance once you got used to it. And the air was breathable for a couple of hours; after that you found yourself panting like a dog. "Lot of funny animals, but none of them were very dangerous. No reptilian life; all of it mammalian, but a funny kind of mammalian if you know what I mean." * * * * * Blake said, "I don't want to know what you mean. Get to the natives and the earrings." I said, "But of course with animals like that, you never _know_ whether they're dangerous until you've been around them for a while. You can't judge by size or looks. Like if you'd never seen a snake, you'd never guess that a little coral snake was dangerous, would you? And a Martian zeezee looks for all the world like an overgrown guinea-pig. But without a gun--or with one, for that matter--I'd rather face a grizzly bear or a--" "The earrings," said Blake. "You were talking about earrings." I said, "Oh, yes; earrings. Well, the natives wore them--for now, I'll put it that way, to make it easier to tell. One earring apiece, even though they had two ears. Gave them a sort of lopsided look, because they were pretty fair-sized earrings--like hoops of plain gold, two or three inches in diameter. "Anyway, the tribe we landed near wore them that way. We could see the village--a very primitive sort of place made of mud huts--from where we landed. We had a council of war and decided that three of us would stay in the ship and the other three go to the village. Lecky, the biologist, and Art Willis and I with guns. We didn't know what we might run into, see? And Lecky was chosen because he was pretty much of a linguist. He had a flair for languages and could talk them almost as soon as he heard them. * * * * * "They'd heard us land and a bunch of them--about forty, I guess--met us half-way between the ship and the village. And they were friendly. Funny people. Quiet and dignified and acting not at all like you'd expect savages to act toward people landing out of the sky. You know how most primitives react--either they practically worship you or else they try to kill you. "We went to the village with them--and there were about forty more of them there; they'd split forces just as we did, for the reception committee. Another sign of intelligence. They recognized Lecky as leader, and started jabbering to him in a lingo that sounded more like a pig grunting than a man talking. And pretty soon Lecky was making an experimental grunt or two in return. "Everything seemed on the up and up, and no danger. And they weren't paying much attention to Art and me, so we decided to wander off for a stroll around outside of the village to see what the country in general was like and whether there were any dangerous beasties or what-not. We didn't see any animals, but we did see another native. He acted different from the others--very different. He threw a spear at us and then ran. And it was Art who noticed that this native didn't wear an earring. "And then breathing began to get a bit hard for us--we'd been away from the ship over an hour--so we went back to the village to collect Lecky and take him to the ship. He was getting along so well that he hated to leave, but he was starting to pant, too, so we talked him into it. He was wearing one of the earrings, and said they'd given it to him as a present, and he'd made them a return present of a pocket slide-rule he happened to have with him. "'Why a slide-rule?' I asked him. 'Those things cost money and we've got plenty of junk that would make them happier.' "'That's what you think,' he said. 'They figured out how to multiply and divide with it almost as soon as I showed it to them. I showed them how to extract square roots, and I was starting on cube roots when you fellows came back.' "I whistled and took a close look to see if maybe he was kidding me. He didn't seem to be. But I noticed that he was walking strangely and--well, acting just a bit strangely, somehow, although I couldn't put my finger on what it was. I decided finally that he was just a bit over-excited. This was Lecky's first trip off Earth, so that was natural enough. "Inside the ship, as soon as Lecky got his breath back--the last hundred yards pretty well winded us--he started in to tell Haynes and Hilda Race about the Ganymedeans. Most of it was too technical for me, but I got that they had some strange contradictions in them. As far as their way of life was concerned, they were more primitive than Australian bushmen. But they had brains and a philosophy and a knowledge of mathematics and pure science. They'd told him some things about atomic structure that excited hell out of him. He was in a dither to get back to Earth where he could get at equipment to check some of those things. "And he said the earring was a sign of membership in the tribe--they'd acknowledged him as a friend and compatriot and what-not by giving it to him." Blake asked, "Was it gold?" "I'm coming to that," I told him. I was feeling cramped from sitting so long in one position on the bunk, and I stood up and stretched. There isn't much room to stretch in an asteroid tug and my hand hit against the pistol resting in the clips on the wall. I said, "What's the pistol for, Blake?" He shrugged. "Rules. Has to be one hand weapon on every space-craft. Heaven knows why, on an asteroid ship. Unless the council thinks some day an asteroid may get mad at us when we tow it out of orbit so it cracks up another. Say, did I ever tell you about the time we had a little twenty-ton rock in tow and--" "Shut up Blake," Charlie said. "He's just getting to those damn earrings." "Yeah, the earrings," I said. I took the pistol down from the wall and looked at it. It was an old-fashioned metal project weapon, twenty-shot, circa 2000. It was loaded and usable, but dirty. It hurts me to see a dirty gun. I went on talking, but I sat back down on the bunk, took an old handkerchief out of my duffle-box and started to clean and polish the hand-gun while I talked. I said, "He wouldn't let us take the earring off. Acted just a little funny about it when Haynes wanted to analyze the metal. Told Haynes he could get one of his own if he wanted to mess with it. And then he went back to rhapsodizing over the superior knowledge the Ganymedeans had shown. "Next day all of them wanted to go to the village, but we'd made the rule that not more than three of the six of us would be outside the ship at once, and they'd have to take turns. Since Lecky could talk their grunt-lingo, he and Hilda went first, and Art went along to guard them. Looked safe enough to work that proportion now--two scientists to one guard. Outside of that one native that had thrown a spear at Art and me, there hadn't been a sign of danger. And he'd looked like a half-wit and missed us by twenty feet anyway. We hadn't even bothered to shoot at him. "They were back, panting for breath, in less than two hours. Hilda Race's eyes were shining and she was wearing one of the rings in her left ear. She looked as proud as though it was a royal crown making her queen of Mars or something. She gushed about it, as soon as she got her wind back and stopped panting. "I went on the next trip, with Lecky and Haynes. "Haynes was kind of grumpy, for some reason, and said they weren't going to put one of those rings in his ear, even if he did want one for analysis. They could just hand it to him, or else. "Again nobody paid much attention to me after we got there, and I wandered around the village. I was on the outskirts of it when I heard a yell--and I ran back to the center of town but fast, because it sounded like Haynes. "There was a crowd around a spot in the middle of--well, call it the compound. Took me a minute to wedge my way through, scattering natives to all sides as I went. And when I got to the middle of things, Haynes was just getting up, and there was a big stain of red on the front of his white linen coat. "I grabbed him to help him up, and said, 'Haynes, what's the matter? You hurt?' "He shook his head slowly, as though he was kind of dazed, and then he said, 'I'm all right, Hank. I'm all right. I just stumbled and fell.' Then he saw me looking at that red stain, and smiled. I guess it was a smile, but it didn't look natural. He said, 'That's not blood, Hank. Some native red wine I happened to spill. Part of the ceremony.' * * * * * "I started to ask what ceremony, and then I saw he was wearing one of the gold earrings. I thought that was damn funny, but he started talking to Lecky, and he looked and acted all right--well, fairly all right. Lecky was telling him what a few of the grunts meant, and he acted awful interested--but somehow I got the idea he was pretending most of that interest so he wouldn't have to talk to me. He acted as though he was thinking hard, inside, and maybe he was making up a better story to cover that stain on his clothes and the fact that he'd changed his mind so quick about the earring. "I was getting the notion that something was rotten in the state of Ganymede, but I didn't know what. I decided to keep my yap shut and my eyes open till I found out. "I'd have plenty of time to study Haynes later, though, so I wandered off again to the edge of the village and just outside it. And it occurred to me that if there was anything I wasn't supposed to see, I might stand a better chance of seeing it if I got under cover. There were plenty of bushes around and I picked out a good clump of them and hid. From the way my lungs worked, I figured I had maybe a half hour before we'd have to start back for the ship. "And less than half that time had gone by before I saw something." I stopped talking to hold the pistol up to the light and squint through the barrel. It was getting pretty clean, but there were a couple of spots left up near the muzzle end. Blake said, "Let me guess. You saw a Martian traag-hound standing on his tail, singing Annie Laurie." "Worse than that," I said "I saw one of those Ganymede natives get his legs bit off. And it annoyed him." "It would annoy anyone," said Blake. "Even me, and I'm a pretty mild-tempered guy. What bit them off?" "I never found out," I told him. "It was something under water. There was a stream there, going by the village, and there must have been something like crocodiles in it. Two natives came out of the village and started to wade across the stream. About half-way over one of them gave a yelp and went down. "The other grabbed him and pulled him up on the other bank. And both his legs were gone just above the knees. "And the damnedest thing happened. The native with his legs off stood up on the stumps of them and started talking--or grunting--quite calmly to his companion, who grunted back. And if tone of voice meant anything, he was annoyed. Nothing more. He tried walking on the stumps of his legs, and found he couldn't go very fast. "And then he gave a gesture that looked for all the world like a shrug, and reached up and took off his earring and held it out to the other native. And then came the strangest part. "The other native took it--_and the very instant the ring left the hand of the first one_--the one with his legs off--_he fell down dead_. The other one picked up the corpse and threw it in the water, and went on. "And as soon as he was out of sight I went back to get Lecky and Haynes and take them to the ship. They were ready to leave when I got there. "I thought I was worried a bit, but I hadn't seen anything yet. Not till I started back to the ship with Lecky and Haynes. Haynes, first thing I noticed, had the stain gone from the front of his coat. Wine or--whatever it was--somebody'd managed to get it out for him, and the coat wasn't even wet. But it was torn, pierced. I hadn't noticed that before. But there was a place there that looked like a spear had gone through his coat. "And then he happened to get in front of me, and I saw that there was another tear or rip just like it _in back_ of his coat. Taken together, it was like somebody'd pushed a spear through him, from front to back. When he'd yelled. "But if a spear'd gone through him like that, then he was dead. And there he was walking ahead of me back to the ship. With one of those earrings in his left ear--and I couldn't help but remember about that native and the thing in the river. That native was sure enough dead, too, with his legs off like that, but he hadn't found it out until he'd handed that earring away. * * * * * "I can tell you I was plenty thoughtful that evening, watching everybody, and it seemed to me that they were all acting strange. Especially Hilda--you'd have to watch a hippopotamus acting kittenish to get an idea. Haynes and Lecky seemed thoughtful and subdued, like they were planning something, maybe. After a while Art came up from the glory hole and he was wearing one of those rings. "Gave me a kind of shiver to realize that--if what I was thinking could possibly be true--then there was only me and Dick left. And I'd better start comparing notes with Dick pretty soon. He was working on a report, but I knew pretty soon he'd make his routine inspection trip through the storerooms before turning in, and I'd corner him then. "Meanwhile, I watched the other four and I got surer and surer. And more and more scared. They were trying their darndest to act natural, but once in a while one of them would slip. For one thing, they'd _forget to talk_. I mean, one of them would turn to another as though he was saying something, but he wouldn't. And then, as though remembering, he'd start in the middle of it--like he'd been talking without words before, telepathically. "And pretty soon Dick gets up and goes out, and I followed him. We got to one of the side storerooms and I closed the door. 'Dick,' I asked, 'have you noticed it?' And he wanted to know what I was talking about. "So I told him. I said, 'Those four people out there--they _aren't the ones we started with_. What happened to Art and Hilda and Lecky and Haynes? What the hell goes on here? Haven't you noticed _anything_ out of the ordinary?' "And Dick sighed, kind of, and said, 'Well, it didn't work. We need more practice, then. Come on and we'll tell you all about it.' And he opened the door and held out his hand to me--and the sleeve of his shirt pulled back a little from the wrist and he was wearing one of those gold things, like the others, only he was wearing it as a bracelet instead of an earring. "I--well, I was too dumbfounded to say anything. I didn't take the hand he held out, but I followed him back into the main room. And then--while Lecky, who seemed to be the leader, I think--held a gun on me, they told me about it. "And it was even screwier, and worse, than I'd dare guess. "They didn't have any name for themselves, because they had no language--what you'd really call a spoken or written language--of their own. You see, they were telepathic, and you don't need a language for that. If you tried to translate their thought for themselves, the nearest word you could find for it would be "we"--the first person plural pronoun. Individually, they identified themselves to one another by numbers rather than names. "And just as they had no language of their own, they had no real bodies of their own, nor active minds of their own. They were parasitic in a sense that earthmen can't conceive. They were _entities_, apart from--Well, it's difficult to explain, but in a way they had no real existence when not attached to a body they could animate and _think with_. The easiest way to put it is that a detached--uh--_earring god_, which is what the Ganymedean natives called them--was asleep, dormant, ineffective. Had no power of thought or motion in itself." Charlie and Blake were looking bewildered. Charlie said, "You're trying to say, Hank, that when one of them came in contact with a person, they took over that person and ran him and thought with his mind but--uh--kept their own identity? And what happened to the person they took over?" I said, "As near as I could make out, he stayed there, too, as it were, but was dominated by the entity. I mean, there remained all his memories, and his individuality, but something else was in the driver's seat. Running him. Didn't matter whether he was alive or dead, either, as long as his body wasn't in too bad shape. Like Haynes--they'd had to kill him to put an earring on him. He was dead, in that if that ring was removed, he'd have fallen flat and never got up again, unless it was put back. "Like the native whose legs had been cut off. The entity running him had decided the body was no longer practicable for use, so he handed himself back to the other native, see? And they'd find another body in better shape for him to use. "They didn't tell me where they came from, except that it was outside the solar system, nor just how they got to Ganymede. Not by themselves, though, because they couldn't even exist by themselves. They must have got as far as Ganymede as parasites of visitors that had landed there at some time or other. Maybe millions of years ago. And they couldn't get off Ganymede, of course, till we landed there. Space travel hadn't developed on Ganymede--" * * * * * Charlie interrupted me again, "But if they were so smart, why didn't they develop it themselves?" "They couldn't," I told him. "They weren't any smarter than the minds they occupied. Well, a little smarter, in a way, because they could use those minds to their full capacity and people--Terrestrial or Ganymedean--don't do that. But even the full capacity of the mind of a Ganymedean savage wasn't sufficient to develop a space-ship. "But now they had _us_--I mean, they had Lecky and Haynes and Hilda and Art and Dick--and they had our space-ship, and they were going to Earth, because they knew all about it and about conditions there from our minds. They planned, simply, to take over Earth and--uh--_run_ it. They didn't explain the details of how they propagate, but I gathered that there wouldn't be any shortage of earrings to go around, on Earth. Earrings or bracelets or, however, they'd attach themselves. "Bracelets, probably, or arm or leg bands, because wearing earrings like that would be too conspicuous on Earth, and they'd have to work in secret for a while. Take over a few people at a time, without letting the others know what was going on. "And Lecky--or the thing that was running Lecky--told me they'd been using me as a guinea pig, that they could have put a ring on me, taken me over, at any time. But they wanted a check on how they were doing at imitating normal people. They wanted to know whether or not I got suspicious and guessed the truth. "So Dick--or the thing that was running him--had kept himself out of sight under Dick's sleeve, so if I got suspicious of the others, I'd talk it over with Dick--just as I really did do. And that let them know they needed a lot more practice animating those bodies before they took the ship back to Earth to start their campaign there. "And, well, that was the whole story and they told it to me to watch my reactions, as a normal human. And then Lecky took a ring out of his pocket and held it out toward me with one hand, keeping the pistol on me with the other hand. "He told me I might as well put it on because if I didn't, he could shoot me first and then put it on me--but that they greatly preferred to take over undamaged bodies and that it would be better for me, too, if I--that is, my body--didn't die first. "But naturally, I didn't see it that way. I pretended to reach out for the ring, hesitantly, but instead I batted the gun out of his hand, and made a dive for it as it hit the floor. "I got it, too, just as they all came for me. And I fired three shots into them before I saw that it wasn't even annoying them. Damn it, the only way you can stop a body animated by one of those rings is to make it fix it so it can't move, like cutting off the legs or something. A bullet in the heart doesn't worry it. "But I'd backed to the door and got out of it--out into the Ganymedean night, without even a coat on. It was colder than hell, too. And after I got out there, there just wasn't any place to go. Except back in the ship, and I wasn't going there. "They didn't come out after me--didn't bother to. They knew that within three hours--four at the outside--I'd be unconscious from insufficient oxygen. If the cold, or something else, didn't get me first. "Maybe there was some way out, but I didn't see one. I just sat down on a stone about a hundred yards from the ship and tried to think of something I could do. But--" * * * * * I didn't go anywhere with the "but--" and there was a moment's silence, and then Charlie said, "Well?" And Blake said, "What did you do?" "Nothing," I said. "I couldn't think of a thing to do. I just sat there." "Till morning?" "No. I lost consciousness before morning. I came to while it was still dark, in the ship." Blake was looking at me with a puzzled frown. He said, "The hell. You mean--" And then Charlie let out a sudden yip and dived head-first out of the bunk he'd been lying on, and grabbed the gun out of my hand. I'd just finished cleaning it and slipped the cartridge-clip back in. And then, with it in his hand, he stood there staring at me as though he'd never seen me before. Blake said, "Sit down, Charlie. Don't you know when you're being ribbed? But--uh--better keep the gun, just the same." Charlie kept the gun all right, and turned it around to point at me. He said, "I'm making a damn fool out of myself all right, but--Hank, _roll up your sleeves_." I grinned and stood up. I said, "Don't forget my ankles, too." But there was something dead serious in his face, and I didn't push him too far. Blake said, "He could even have it on him somewhere else, with adhesive tape. I mean on the million-to-one chance that he wasn't kidding...." Charlie nodded without turning to look at Blake. He said, "Hank, I hate to ask it, but--" I sighed, and then chuckled. I said, "Well, I was just going to take a shower anyway." It was hot in the ship, and I was wearing only shoes and a pair of coveralls. Paying no attention to Blake and Charlie, I slipped them off and stepped through the oilsilk curtains of the little shower cubicle. And turned on the water. Over the sound of the shower, I could hear Blake laughing and Charlie cursing softly to himself. And when I came out of the shower, drying myself, even Charlie was grinning. Blake said, "And I thought that yarn Charlie just told was a dilly. This trip is backwards; we'll end up having to tell each other the truth." There was a sharp rapping on the hull beside the airlock, and Charlie Dean went to open it. He growled, "If you tell Zeb and Ray what chumps you made out of us, I'll beat your damn ears in. You and your earring gods...." * * * * * Portion of telepathic report of No. 67843, on Asteroid J-864A to No. 5463, on Terra: "_As planned, I tested credulity of terrestrial minds by telling them the true story of what happened on Ganymede._ _Found them capable of acceptance thereof._ _This proves that our idea of embedding ourselves within the flesh of these terrestrial creatures was an excellent one and is essential to the success of our plan. True, this is less simple than our method on Ganymede, but we must continue to perform the operation upon each terrestrial being as we take him over. Bracelets or other appendages would arouse suspicion._ _There is no necessity in wasting a month here. I shall now take command of the ship and return. We will report no ore present here. The four of us who will animate the four terrestrials now aboard this ship will report to you on Terra...._" 
62186	----	SPACE OASIS By RAYMOND Z. GALLUN Space-weary rocketmen dreamed of an asteroid Earth. But power-mad Norman Haynes had other plans--and he spread his control lines in a doom-net for that oasis in space. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I found Nick Mavrocordatus scanning the bulletin board at the Haynes Shipping Office on Enterprize Asteroid, when I came back with a load of ore from the meteor swarms. He looked at me with that funny curve on his lips, that might have been called a smile, and said, "Hi, Chet," as casually as though we'd seen each other within the last twenty-four hours.... "Queer laws they got in the Space Code, eh? The one that insists on the posting of casualty lists, for instance. You'd think the Haynes Company would like to keep such things dark." I didn't say anything for a moment, as my eyes went down those narrow, typed columns on the bulletin board: Joe Tiffany--dead--space armor defect.... Hermann Schmidt and Lan Harool--missing--vicinity of Pallas.... Irvin Davidson--hospitalized--space blindness.... There was a score of names of men I didn't know, in that space-blindness column. And beneath, there was a much longer line of common Earth-born and Martian John-Henrys, with the laconic tag added at the top--_hospitalized_--_mental_. Ditto marks saved the trouble of retyping the tag itself, after each name. One name caught my eye. Ted Bradley was listed there. Ted Bradley from St. Louis, my and Nick Mavrocordatus' home town. It gave me a little jolt, and a momentary lump somewhere under my Adam's Apple. I knew the state Bradley would be in. Not a man any more--no longer keen and sure of himself. A year out here among the asteroids had changed all that forever. Shoving from one drifting, meteoric lump to another, in a tiny space boat. Chipping at those huge, grey masses with a test hammer that makes no sound in the voidal vacuum. Crawling over jagged surfaces, looking for ores of radium and tantalum and carium--stuff fabulously costly enough to be worth collecting, for shipment back to the industries of Earth, at fabulous freight rates, on rocket craft whose pay-load is so small, and where every gram of mass is at premium. No, Ted Bradley would never be himself again. Like so many others. It was an old story. The almost complete lack of gravity, out here among the asteroids, had disturbed his nerve-centers, while cosmic rays seeped through his leaded helmet, slowly damaging his brain. There was more to it than the airlessness, and absence of weight, and the cosmic rays. There was the utter silence, and the steady stars, and the blackness between them, and the blackness of the shadows, like the fangs of devils in the blazing sunshine. All of this was harder than the soul of any living being. And on top of all this, there was usually defeat and shattered hope. Not many futures were made among the asteroids by those who dug for their living. Prices of things brought from Earth in fragile, costly space craft were too high. Moments of freedom and company were too rare, and so, hard-won wealth ran like water. Ted Bradley was gone from us. Call him a corpse, really. In the hospital here on Enterprize, he was either a raving maniac, or else--almost worse--he was like a little child, crooning over the wonder of his fingers. It got me for a second. But then I shrugged. I'd been out here two years. An old timer. I knew how empires were built. I knew, better than most, how to get along out here. Be fatalistic and casual. Don't worry. Don't plan too much. That way I'd stayed right-side-up. I'd even had quite a lot of fun, being an adventurer, against that gigantic, awesome background of the void. I didn't consider my thoughts about Ted Bradley worth mentioning to Nick Mavrocordatus. He was probably thinking about Ted, too, and that was enough. "Come on, Nick," I said. "They've got my ore weighed and analyzed for content in the hopper rooms. I'm going into the pay-office and get my dough. Then we might shove off to the Iridium Circle, or some other joint, and have us a time, huh?" Nick laughed, then, good-naturedly, triumphantly. I gave him a sharp glance, noticing that under his faintly bitter air, there seemed to be something big. Some idea that gripped him, confused him, thrilled him. His small, knotty body was taut with it; his dark eyes, under the curly black hair that straggled down his forehead, glowed with a far-away look. Of course, he was still very young--only twenty-two, which to me, at twenty-five, with a six-months edge of asteroid-lore beyond his year and a half of experience, made me feel old and disillusioned and practical, by comparison. "All right, Chet," he said at last. "Let's get your money. Celebrations are in order--on me, though. But I guess we'd better soft-pedal them some. I've got a lot to tell you, and more to do." I didn't give his words proper attention, just then. I swaggered into the pay office, where a couple of stenogs clicked typewriters, and where Norman Haynes, acting head of the Haynes Shipping Company, sat at his desk, under the painted portrait of his uncle, that grizzled old veteran, Art Haynes, who had retired years ago, and who now lived on Earth. I knew old Art only by reputation. But that was enough to arouse my deep respect. Between nephew and uncle there was a difference as great as between night and day. The one, the founder, unafraid to dirty his hands and face death, and build for the future. Tough, yes, but square, and willing to pay bonuses to miners even while he'd been struggling to expand his company, and open up vast, new space trails. The other, an arm-chair director, holding on tight, now, to an asteroid empire, legally free of his control, but whose full resources came eventually into his hands at the expense of others, because he controlled the fragile, difficult supply lines. At sight of me, Norman Haynes arose from his chair. He was very tall, and he wore an immaculate business suit. He was smooth-shaven, with a neat haircut, in contrast to my shaggy locks and bristles. Across his face spread a smile of greeting as broad as it was false. "Well--Chet Wallace," he said. "You've done some marvelous meteor mining, this trip: Nineteen hundred dollars' worth of radium-actinium ore! Splendid! Maybe you'll do even better next time!" * * * * * Yeah! I'd seen and heard Norman Haynes act and talk like this before. He handed out the same line to all of the miners. To me it was forever irritating. Always I'd wanted to turn that long nose of his back against his right ear. He and his words were both phony. Always he used a condescending tone. And I felt that he was a bloodsucker. My anger was further increased, now, because of Ted Bradley. I guess I sneered. "Don't worry about those nineteen hundred dollars, Mr. Haynes," I said. "When I buy grub, and a few things I need, and have a little blow, you'll have the money all back." Beside the office railing there was a machine--a cigarette vendor. Into a roller system at its top, I inserted two five-dollar bills from my pay. There was a faint whir as the robot photographic apparatus checked the denominations of the notes, and proved their authenticity. Two packs of cigarettes slipped down into the receiver arrangement. "Five bucks apiece, Haynes," I said. "At a fair shipping rate, cigarettes brought out from Earth aren't worth much more than three bucks. But you're just a dirty chiseller, not satisfied with a fair profit. Costs here in the asteroids are naturally plenty steep; but you make a bad situation worse by charging at least twenty-five per-cent more than's reasonable! A Venutian stink-louse is more of a gentleman than you are, Haynes!" Oh, there was a Satanic satisfaction in feeling the snarl in my throat, and seeing Haynes' face go purplish red, and then white with surprise and fury. Some other space men had entered the pay office, and they hid their grins of pleasure behind calloused palms. First I thought Norman Haynes would swing at me. But he didn't. He lacked that kind of nerve. He began to sputter and curse under his breath, and I thought of a snake hissing. I felt the danger of it, though--danger that broods and plans, and doesn't come out into the open, but waits its chance to strike. Knowing that it was there, sizzling in Haynes' mind, gave me a thrill. Casually I tossed one of the packs of cigarettes to Nick Mavrocordatus, who had come with me into the pay office. He gave me a nudge, which meant we'd better scram. When we were out of the building, he held me off from going to any of the few tawdry saloons there under the small, glassed-in airdome of Enterprize City, the one shabby scrap of civilization and excuse for comfort. "No drinks now, Chet," Nick whispered. "Can't chance it. Got to keep on our toes. In one way I'm glad you talked down to that--whatever you want to call him. But you've made us the worst possible enemy we could have--now." I shrugged. "What were you gonna tell me before, Nick?" I demanded. "I gathered you had something plenty big in view." He answered me so abruptly that I didn't quite believe my ears at first. "Pa and Sis and Geedeh and I, have made good, Chet," he said. "We found--not just pickings--but a real fortune in ore, on planetoid 439. So rich is the deposit that we could buy our own smelting and purifying machinery, and hire ships under our own control, to take the refined metals back to Earth!" "You're kidding, Nick," I said amazedly. "Not a bit of it," he returned. * * * * * Then I was pumping his hand, congratulating him. Really good luck was a phenomenon among the asteroids. That friends of mine, among the thousands of hopeful ones that I didn't know, should grab the jack-pot, seemed almost impossible. "I suppose you'll all be leaving us soon," I told him. "Going back to Earth, living the lives of millionaires. I'm glad for you all, kid. Your Pa can raise his flowers and grapes, instead of starting up in the truck-garden business again. Your sis, Irene, can study her painting and her music, like she wants to." Anybody can see the way my thoughts were going just then. When you start out green for the Minor Planets, that's part of what's in your mind, first--get rich, come back to Earth. Nick sighed heavily as we walked along. That funny smile was on his lips again. He glanced around, and the emerald light of the illuminators was on his young face. Then he said, "I don't think it's quite safe to talk here, Chet. Better come to our old space jaloppy, the _Corfu_." The _Corfu_ was on the ways outside the dome. We put on space suits to reach it. Inside, the old crate smelled of cooking odors, some of them maybe accumulated over the eighteen months the Mavrocordatuses had been asteroid mining. Old ships are hard to ventilate, with their imperfect air-purifiers. The instruments in the control room, were battered and patched; and from the living quarters to the rear, issued a duet of snores--one throaty and rattly, Pa Mavrocordatus' beyond doubt; and the other an intermittent hiss, originating unquestionably in the dust-filtering hairs in the larynx of Geedeh, the little Martian scientist, whom Nick had befriended. "I can't figure you out, Nick," I said. "Rich, and not leaving this hell-hole of space. You're an idiot." "So are you, Chet," he returned knowingly. "In my place, you wouldn't go either--at least not without regrets. In spite of all hell, there's something big here in space that gets you. You feel like nothing, yourself. But you feel that you're part of something terribly huge and terribly important. You'd be happy on Earth for a week; then you'd begin to smother inside. The Minor Planets have become our home, Chet. It's too late to break the ties." Slowly it soaked into my mind that Nick was right. "Not to say anything bad against old Mother Earth, Chet," he continued. "Far from it! That's just what's needed out here--a little touch of our native scene. Growing things. A piece of blue sky, maybe. Enough gravity to make a man believe in solid ground again." Right then I began to smell Nick's plan, not only what it was, but all the impractical dreamer part of it. I began to grin, but there was a kind of sadness in me, too. "Sure! Sure, Nick!" I chided. "The idea's as old as the hills! Rejuvenate some asteroid. Bring in soil and water and air from Earth. Install a big gravity-generating unit. Ha! Have you any idea how many ships it would take to bring those thousands and thousands of tons of stuff out here--even to get started?" * * * * * I was talking loud. My voice was booming through the rusty hull of the _Corfu_, making ringing echoes. So just about as I finished, they were all around me. Pa Mavrocordatus, in pajamas and ragged dressing gown, his handle-bar moustaches bristling. Geedeh, the tiny Martian, draped in a checkered Earthly blanket, his great eyes blinking, and his tiny fingers, with fleshy knobs at their ends instead of nails, twiddling nervously near the center of his barrel-chest. And Irene, too, standing straight and defiant and little, in her blue smock. Irene hadn't been sleeping. Probably she'd been washing dishes, and straightening up the galley after supper. She still had a dish towel in her hands. Wealth hadn't altered the Mavrocordatus' mode of life, yet. Irene looked like a bold little kewpie, her dark head of tousled, curly hair, not up to my shoulder. She was exquisitely pretty; but now she was somewhat irritated. She shook a finger up at me, angrily. "You think Nick has a dumb idea, eh, Chet Wallace?" she accused. "That's only because you don't know what you're talking about! We won't have to bring a drop of water, or a molecule of air or soil, out from Earth! You ask Geedeh!" I turned toward the little Martian. The dark pupil-slits, and the yellow irises of his huge eyes, covered me. "Irene has spoken the truth, Chet," he told me in his slow, labored English. "The Asteroid Belt, the many hundreds of fragments that compose it, are the remains of a planet that exploded. So there is soil on many of the asteroids. Dried out--yes--after most of the water and air disappeared into space, following the catastrophe. But the soil can still be useful. And there is still water, not in free, liquid form, but combined in ancient rock strata; gypsum, especially. It is like on Mars, when the atmosphere began to get too thin for us to breathe, and the water very scarce on the dusty deserts." I said nothing, wished I had kept silent. "We roasted gypsum in atomic furnaces," Geedeh finished, "driving the water out as steam, and reclaiming it for our underground cities. The same can be done here among the Minor Planets. And since water is hydrogen dioxide, oxygen can be obtained from it, too, by electrolysis. Nitrogen and carbon dioxide, necessary to complete the new atmosphere, which will be prevented from leaking into space by the force of the artificial gravity, can be obtained from native nitrates, and other compounds. Only vital parts of the machinery need be brought out from Earth and Mars by rocket. The rest can be made here, from native materials." Geedeh's voice, as he spoke to me, was a soft, sibilant whisper, like the rustle of red dust in a cold, thin, Martian wind. "You bet," Pa Mavrocordatus enthused. "Nick's got a good idea. I'm gonna raise my flowers! I'm gonna raise tomatoes and cabbages and carrots, right here on one of them asteroids!" It struck me as funny--asteroids--cabbages! Nothing I could think of, could seem quite that far apart. Black, airless vacuum, rough rocks, and raw, spacial sunshine! And things from a truck garden! It didn't match. But then, Pa Mavrocordatus didn't match the asteroids either! He'd had a truck garden once, outside of St. Louis. And yet he was out here in space, and had been for a year and a half! Well, even if the idea _was_ practical, I thought first that they were still just dreaming--kidding themselves that it would be a cinch to accomplish. And not being able to fight through. Then I glanced back at Nick. That look on his face was there again. A strange mixture of confidence, worry, grimness, and vision. It came to me then that he was no kid at all. * * * * * "Let me in on the job?" I asked hopefully. "Sure!" Nick returned. "We wouldn't be telling you all this, if we didn't want you. That's why we came back to Enterprize--hoping to find you around some place." So I was in. Part of a wild scheme of progress--more thrilling and inspiring because it seemed so wild. An asteroid made into a tiny, artificial Earth! A boon to void-weary space men! A source of cheap food supplies, as well as a place to rest up. A new stage of colonization--empire building! And then I thought I heard a sound--a faint clinking outside of the hull of the _Corfu_. At once, I was alert--taut. Maybe half of my sudden worry was intuition, or a form of telepathy. When you've been out in deep space, a million miles away from any other living soul, you feel a vast, hollow loneliness, that perhaps is mostly the absence of human telepathy waves from other minds. But when you have people around you once more, your sixth sense seems keener for the period of lack. That was why I was sure of an eavesdropper, sensing his presence. With proper sub-microphonic equipment, a man outside a space ship can hear every word spoken inside. Nick felt it too. "But we'd better look and see," he whispered. "Norman Haynes keeps spies around. And he may have heard rumors. You can't keep a project like ours secret very long. It's too big." My pulses jumped with fear, as I piled into my space suit. But when Nick and I got through the airlock together, there was nobody in sight. Only some footprints in the faint rocket dust of the ways, covering our own footprints, where we'd passed before, coming to the _Corfu_. Our flashlights showed them plainly. "Having a rejuvenated asteroid in these parts, producing fresh food and so forth, would take a lot of trade away from the Haynes Shipping Company, wouldn't it?" I said when we were back in the cabin once more. "Norman Haynes wouldn't be practically boss of the Minor Planets anymore, would he? He wouldn't like that. He'll fight us." "We need you, Chet," Irene said, her eyes appealing. That was enough for me. "We'd better blast off right away," Nick added. "We're going to asteroid 487, Chet. Its new name is Paradise. It's the one we've picked." II Asteroid 487 was the usual thing. A torn, jagged, airless fragment. It was no paradise yet, unless it was a paradise of devils. Nick had a thousand men hired--space roustabouts, and a lot of mechanics and technicians, mostly fresh from Earth. Sure, it's hard handling a bunch like that, but there was nothing in this difficulty that we didn't know was part of the job. Some of our outfit gave us horse-laughs, but they worked. The pay was good. The ships came through with the packed loads of machinery. Atomic forges blazed, purifying native meteoric iron to complete the vast gravity-generating machine, sunk in a shaft at the center of the planetoid, ten miles down. Geedeh directed most of the work. Nick and I saw that orders were carried out, swearing, sweating, and making speeches intended to inspire. And then the trouble started. A rocket, bringing in food, and money to pay our crews, blew up in space, just as it was coming close. The light of the blast was blinding and awesome, making even the bright stars seem to vanish for a moment. Atomic rocket fuel going up. Gobs of molten metal dripped groundward, like real meteors heated in an atmosphere which still didn't exist. It could have been an accident. You can't always control titanic atomic power, and space ships fly to pieces quite frequently. But then I had a suspicion that maybe this wasn't an accident. Nick and I were in the open plain to see it happen. He'd just come from the airtight barracks we'd built. His face didn't change much behind the quartz crystal of his oxygen helmet--it only sobered a trifle. While the fiery wreckage of the rocket was still falling in shreds and fragments, he spoke, his voice clicking in my receptor phones: "Yeah, Chet.... And there's trouble on asteroid 439, too, where our mines are located. I just got the radio message, back at the office. Sabotage, and some men killed. It seems that some of the workmen are trying to break things up for us. Harley's in charge. I think he can handle matters--for a while." "I hope so," I answered fervently. "If the work only turns out right at this end. With that ship smashed, we'll be on short rations for a week. And we've lost some important machinery. The pay money's insured, but the men won't like the delay." I didn't expect much trouble from the crew--yet. It was Irene that really helped the most--mastered the situation. She'd taken over the management of the kitchens since the start of the work. But now she had an additional job. She talked to that rough crew of ours. "We're going to win, boys!" she told them. "We know what we've got to do: Our task is for the good of every one of us--and for many people yet to come!" Simple, straightforward, inspiring talk. Funny what men will do for a pretty girl--against hell itself. But that wasn't all of it. The paintings of hers, that she'd hung in our recreation room, showed what asteroid 487 _could_ be, when we were finished with it. Space men are the toughest kind of adventurers that ever lived. But adventurers are always optimists, sentimentalists, romanticists, no matter how hard the exterior. And space men, by the very nature of the appalling region to which they belong, believe in miracles. * * * * * They cheered the thought--most of those tough men. I cheered, too. But the miracle hadn't happened yet, and in the back of my mind, there was always the fear that it wouldn't happen. Those crags were still bleak and star-washed. Deader than any tomb! It wasn't an impossible wonder--technically--to change all this. But perhaps it was impossible, anyway--because of Norman Haynes! He was the only person who had the power and the reason to stop all that we were attempting. The sabotage and killings must be incited by him--certain members of our crews must be in his hire. Quite probably the rocket that had blown up had been secretly mined with explosive, under his orders, too. But there is nothing harder to fight than those subtle methods. We had no proof, and no easy means of getting it. We could only go on with our task. Geedeh and the rest of us worked hopefully. One segment of asteroid 487, had been part of the surface of that old world that had exploded. From here we spread the dry soil over the planetoid's jagged terrain, drawing it in atom trucks. More soil was brought in from other asteroids. The great rock-roasting furnaces were put up. Gypsum was heated in them, releasing its water in great clouds of steam, which the artificial gravity kept from drifting off into space. Some of the water, under electrolysis, yielded oxygen. Nitrogen came from nitrates. Our gravity machine needed readjustments now and then. To a large extent, the thousands of parts that composed it were electrical. Great coils converted magnetic force into gravitation. One ship reached us all right, bringing seeds and food. Another didn't. It blew up in space, the second to go. Then somebody tried to get Geedeh, the Martian, with a heat ray. Another food ship failed to arrive. Then Norman Haynes came to visit us. He landed before we had a chance to refuse to receive him. He had a body-guard of a dozen men. He was our enemy, but we couldn't prove it. He seemed to have forgotten the little brush between himself and me, at his office. "Splendid layout you've got, Wallace and Mavrocordatus!" he said to Nick and me, pronouncing Nick's name perfectly. He sounded very much like his usual self. "Of course there's bound to be difficulties. Trouble with crews, and so on. It's hard to get people to believe in a project as fantastic as this. I didn't quite believe in it, either, at first. But the facts are proved, now that the groundwork is laid. You'll need help, fellows. I can give it to you." He was smiling, but under the smile I could see a snaky smirk, which probably he didn't know showed. I felt fury rising inside me. He was trying to get control of our project, now that he saw for sure that it could amount to something. Competition he feared, but if he had control he could enforce his high prices, keep his empire, and expand his wealth by millions of dollars. His dirty work must have been partly an attempt to force the issue. "Thanks," Nick told him quietly. "But we prefer to do everything alone." Our visitor shrugged, standing there at the door of his space boat. "Okay," he breezed. "Get in touch with me, if you feel you need me!" Some hours later, a radiogram came through from Earth. "_Congratulations!_" it read. "_Stick to your guns! I like people with imagination. Maybe I'll be back in harness soon myself.--Art Haynes._" * * * * * "He's probably just being sarcastic," I said bitterly. "Old devil!" Pa Mavrocordatus growled. Two men were killed just thirty minutes after the message was received. A little thin-faced fellow named Sparr did it. But he got away in a space boat before we could catch him. A paid killer and trouble maker. The incident put our crew more on edge than before. A half dozen of the newcomers--mechanics from Earth--quit abruptly. Our food was almost gone. We got another shipload in, but the growing unrest didn't abate, though we kept on for another month. There was similar trouble on 439, where the Mavrocordatus money came from. But maybe we'd make the grade, anyway. We had a pretty dense atmosphere already, on Paradise Asteroid. The black sky had turned blue now. The ground was moist with water. Earthly buildings were going up. Pa Mavrocordatus had had seeds and small trees and things planted. It was that deceptive moment of success, before the real blow came. After sunset one night, I heard shots. I raced out of the barracks, Geedeh, Irene, and Pa Mavrocordatus following me. We all carried blast tubes. We found Nick in a gorge, his body half burned through, just above his right hip. But he was still alive. He had a blast tube in one hand. Two men lay on the rocks and earth in front of him, dead. Beside them, glinting in our flashlight beams, was an aluminum cylinder. "It's a bacteria culture container, Chet," Nick whispered. "They had me caught, and they bragged a little before I did some fast moving, and got one of their blast tubes. Venutian Black-Rot germs. They were going to dump them in the drinking water supply. They mentioned--Haynes...." Nick couldn't say much more than that. But he'd saved our lives. He died there in my arms, a hero to progress, a little breeze in the new atmosphere he'd helped to create rumpling his curly hair. He'd died for his dream of beauty and betterment. Poor little Irene couldn't even cry. Her face was white, and she was stricken mute. Her pa was shaken by great sobs, and he babbled threats. I told him to shut up. Geedeh cursed in his own language, his voice a soft, deadly hiss, his little fists clenching and unclenching. "Too bad Nick had to kill these men!" I growled. "We could have made 'em talk. We'd have evidence. The law would take care of Norman Haynes!" "But we ain't got nothing!" Pa Mavrocordatus groaned. "Nothing!" Geedeh's face was twisted into a Martian snarl of hate. Irene stared, as though she were somewhere far away. I tried putting my arm around her, to bring her back to us. It was a minute before she seemed to realize I was there. "Irene," I said. "I love you. We all love you. Buck up, kid. We can't quit now--ever! We'd be letting Nick down." She just nodded. She couldn't talk. * * * * * A couple of hours later I was meeting our workers in our office. Most of them tried to be decent about it. "We'd like to stick, Wallace. But how can we? Nothing to eat...." That was what most of them said, in one way or another. And how could I answer them? Some were not so regretful, of course. Some were downright ugly. A little crazy with space perhaps, or else hopped up with propaganda that secret agents in Haynes' hire had been spreading among them. "Why should we work for you anyway?" they snarled. "Even for good money, most of which we haven't collected? You're probably like what we're used to. Just fixing up another place here, to clip us in the end, charging us prices sky high. Your 'Paradise' is just a little fancier, that's all." So they turned away, and the exodus began. The freight ships blasted off, one by one, with loads of men. We couldn't stop them. And soon the silence closed in. We were left alone to bury Nick. The small sun was bright on the rough pinnacles, and their naked grey stone was bluely murky in the new air. There was a humid warmth of summer around us. Just then, I didn't even feel exactly angry, in the blackness of failure, Norman Haynes had won, so far. What would be his next step in completing our final defeat? I spent some time in the office, going over records. Presently Pa Mavrocordatus came rushing from the barracks. His whole fat body sagged, as he paused before me. His face was like paste. He didn't seem quite alive. "Irene," he croaked. "She's gone ... too...." I ran with him to her quarters. There was some disorder. A picture of her mother was tipped over on a little metal dressing table. A rug was rumpled, and there was some clothing scattered on the floor. That was all. Geedeh had entered her quarters, too. "Kidnapped," he hissed. What Haynes meant to accomplish by having his agents, carry off Irene, I couldn't imagine. The hate I felt blurred all but the thought of getting her back to safety. The urge was like a dagger-point, sharp and clear in the chaos of memories. I knew how much she meant to me now. "I need a rocket," I said quietly. "The fastest we've got. I want to radio the Space Patrol, too." "There are no ships left here," Geedeh returned. "The men took them all, except a little flier, which they meant us to have. But somebody has smashed it. Our big radio transmitter is smashed, also." A minute later I was clawing in the wreckage of tubes and wires, there in the radio room. The apparatus was completely beyond repair. For the time being we were helpless, stranded on our asteroid. For a moment I felt little shouts of madness shrieking in my brain. But Geedeh's stabbing glance warned me that this was not the way. I fought back, out of that flash of mania. "We'd better break out all of our weapons, Geedeh," I said. "Haynes has gone too deep to back out now. He's in danger of the Patrol if we talk, so he'll have to strike at us soon." Thus we prepared ourselves as well as we could, for attack. Geedeh, Pa Mavrocordatus, and I. We equipped ourselves with our best armament--atomic rifles. Pa Mavrocordatus had gotten over most of his confusion. He was still sick with grief, but necessity seemed to have steadied him. He clutched his rifle grimly as we took up positions behind rock masses at the edge of the landing field. III We waited silently. The asteroid turned on its axis. The brief night came. Then we saw the rockets approaching--flaming in on shreds of blue-white rocket fire. As the two ships slowed for a landing, the three of us discharged a volley. Our atomic bullets burst on impact, dazzling in the dark. The concussion was terrific. "Got one!" I heard Pa Mavrocordatus shout after a moment, his voice thin through the ringing in my ears. My dazzled eyes saw one ship lying on its side on the landing field, its meteor armor unpunctured by our small missiles, but with its landing rockets damaged. The other ship had grounded itself perfectly. We were ready to fire again, when the paralytic waves swept over us. I saw Geedeh half rise, doubling backward in a rigid spasm, his rifle flying wide. Then I knew no more, until I heard Norman Haynes speaking to us. We were bound firmly, and it was daylight again, and our captor and his score of henchmen were smirking. "I'm just trying to figure out how to make your deaths seem as accidental as possible," Haynes said, looking at me. "A couple of men of mine seem to have bungled a little business of bacteria. Maybe they blabbed before you fellows killed them. Now, of course, I can't take any chances. Too bad your reconditioned asteroid has to appear a failure for a while. But I can't let my taking over seem too obvious. Have to wait a while. I may be able to start up something here later, when people sort of forget." "What have you done with Irene?" I stormed blackly. Haynes' look was quizzical. "Why ask me?" he answered. "She probably ran off with one of your roustabouts. Or else they decided that she'd be nice company to have around, and made her go along." He laughed cynically. Maybe he was telling the truth about not knowing where Irene was. But if this was true, it didn't make me feel much better. If some of his gang, who'd been working with us, had kidnapped her, there was no telling how badly she'd fare. My fears showed on my face, and Norman Haynes seemed to enjoy them, though he was nervous, dangerously so. It was getting daylight again, now. He kept glancing at the sky, twiddling his soft hands. He didn't like physical danger. "Your gravity generator seems to be the answer to my prayers, Wallace," he informed me. "At full force it'll develop at least fifty Earth gravities, before breaking down and melting itself. We've inspected it. Power like that'll destroy all of you. It will look like an accident--a breakdown of the machinery." Though Pa Mavrocordatus kept cursing Haynes continuously, and Geedeh kept calling him names that no Earthman could have translated into our less vitriolic English, our captor paid them no attention. He kept directing his threats at me. That was how I knew he was still thinking of the time in his office at Enterprize, when I'd called him by his true colors. He still held that grudge, and he meant to pay me back with fifty gravities. Which means that every pound of Earth-weight would be increased to fifty pounds! In a grip like that a man as big as me would weigh a good four tons! That meant a heart stopped by the load of the blood it tried to pump, and tissues crushed by their own weight! Like being on the surface of some dead star of medium dimensions, where gravity is terrific! * * * * * At Haynes' order, six of his twenty henchmen picked up Geedeh and Pa and me. The whole bunch was an ugly looking lot, the scum of the space ports. Some of these men were commanded to stay on the surface of the planetoid, while we were carried to the elevator shed. In the cage we descended at dizzying speed to that vault at the center of 487 where the gravity machinery was housed in its crystal shell. At that depth, under the load of the column of air above, the atmospheric pressure was very high. One could not breathe comfortably in that stuffy medium. "Courage!" Geedeh gasped to Pa Mavrocordatus and me, while his great eyes kept roving around, looking for some chance that wasn't there. Haynes began to examine the machinery. He was smirking again. "Simple to do!" he said to his companions. "Set the robot control for gradually increasing power, so that we'll have time to get away. Break the manual controls, so that no readjustments can be made. You can cut our friends loose now, Zinder, so there won't be any ropes to show this was a put-up job. But keep your blasters on these men--all of you!" This was the end, all right. I was sure of it. I'd die without even knowing what had happened to Irene. Irene, whom I knew now that I loved.... We'd been freed of our bonds when the surface phone rang. The lookout party, whom Haynes had left above, was calling. Our captor snapped on the switch of the speaker. A voice boomed in that busy cavern of metal giants, green light, and glinting crystal: "Listen, Chief! There's a bunch of specks to the right of the sun. They're getting bigger fast. Must be a flock of space ships. Couldn't be any of yours. What'll we do?" I saw Haynes' weak features go sallow. Briefly my spirits rose. I couldn't imagine whom those ships could belong to. But they must be rescuers of some kind. They were coming to stop Norman Haynes' madness. But Haynes was clever, as he quickly proved. "Friends of Wallace here, I suppose. Maybe even Space Patrol boats," he said over his phone to the lookout party. "You'll all have to take a discomfort for a while. We'll use gravity on them, too! They'll never land successfully." Pa Mavrocordatus looked at me and Geedeh. "What's he mean--use gravity?" Geedeh was a bit quicker than I in giving the obvious answer. "Just as with us," he said. "Increase the output of the gravity generator here to a certain degree. From space, the increase will be practically unnoticeable. The rockets will try to land--but without taking into consideration the multiplied attractive force, they will crash!" "Many birds with one stone!" Haynes chuckled gleefully. "You will have a short reprieve, friends, while I take care of these intruders, whoever they are. I can't use too great a gravity on them at first. It might warn them, if they notice that their ships are accelerating too rapidly. They might as well be part of my 'accident', even if they do happen to be police. The Space Patrol has accidents now and then, just like anybody else!" Haynes started to work the manual controls of the generator. The area in which he and his several aides stood, was shielded against the greater attraction, having been thus arranged by us for testing purposes. The shrill hum of the machines grew louder. I felt the weight of my prone body increase suffocatingly. The heat increased too, as the great coils, gleaming in the glow of illuminators, gradually absorbed more power. And I knew that, out in space, those slender fingers of force were reaching and strengthening, invisible and treacherous. Our unknown friends were doomed. Not only were they doomed, but our whole idea was destined to failure. The dream that Nick had died for. The vast progress that it meant. Worlds out here--worlds with largely a self-sufficient production--real colonization. Fair play. Norman Haynes would resist all that, because progress would weaken his power here. He was master of the asteroids, because he was master of their imports and exports. And unless he could control the rejuvenated asteroids himself, they would never be. With him directing, they would not represent a real improvement--only another means of robbing from the colonists. And colonists weren't rich. I could see those same thoughts, that gouged savagely into my own brain, burning in Geedeh's cat eyes, where he sprawled near me. Being a Martian, born to a lesser gravity than the terrestrial, he was suffering more than I--physically. But perhaps my mental torture was worse. Geedeh was Irene's friend, but I loved her. She was gone--lost somewhere--maybe dead. That, for me, was the worst--much worse than that crushing weight. I couldn't let things remain the way they were! My seething fury and need lashed me on, even in my helplessness. God--what could I do? I tried to figure something out. Could I break the gravity machinery some way? Impossible, now, certainly! I tried to remember my high school physics. Principles that might be used to give warning signals, and so forth. And just what that awful gravity would do to things. Close to me was the base of the domelike crystal shell that covered the gravity generator. It wasn't a vital part, certainly, just stout quartz. But it was the only thing I could reach. As I lay there on the floor, I drew my foot back, doubling my knee. I stamped down against the quartz with all my strength. The first blow cracked it. The second drove my metal-shod boot-heel through with a crashing sound. A small hole, eighteen inches long, was made in the barrier. The sounds of the great machinery went on as before. The gravity kept slowly increasing. Geedeh, suffering more, now, looked at me puzzledly. Pa Mavrocordatus stared anxiously. And Norman Haynes at the surface phone laughed unpleasantly. "Cracking up, eh, Wallace?" he sneered. "I know who your would-be helpers on those space ships are, now. I suppose I should be surprised at their identities. They're calling to you. Want to listen? My men above have locked this surface phone to our ship radio." [Illustration: _"Cracking up, eh, Wallace?" Norman Haynes sneered._] He turned up the volume of the reproducer. Irene's voice was the first in the speaker. "Chet!" she was urging. "Chet Wallace! Pa! Geedeh! Do you hear me? I left 487 of my own free will. I couldn't waste time, going to the Space Patrol for help--they'd want proof, and that would take a while to present. So--there was only one person and I thought you'd mistrust him.... Why don't you answer? Or have you left 487 too? I'm turning the mike over to somebody else, now. I found him on Enterprize, just come from Earth, Mr. Arthur Haynes...." IV I gasped, listening to Irene. I didn't know what surprised and confused me most--her being alive and safe, or what she'd done about old Art Haynes. Could I trust old Art? I had no way of telling. Had Irene told him about his nephew, or had she kept silent? Did he know he was opposed to Norman Haynes, or did he think it was somebody else who had sabotaged the project? Where would his loyalties be, if he found out? It was a ticklish situation. As soon as Irene's ragged, excited breathing died away in the speaker, Norman Haynes took it upon himself to clarify his own stand, and my uncertainties. He looked at Geedeh and Pa and me, tense and suffering in the grip of the gravity, and tortured with doubt. "Uncle Art is an old fool," he said. "So he thinks he'll come back to the asteroids, and replace me in the business, does he? Well, he should have died long ago, and now is as good a time as any! He might as well be part of the accident, too, along with those space bums of yours. Nobody'll ever know!" It was tragic that old Art couldn't have heard that. But his nephew wasn't broadcasting. He was just listening quietly. And now his uncle's voice was coming through: "We're blasting in to land, Wallace, if you're listening. There won't be any more trouble, now. I'll see to that! We'll find out who's back of this sabotage. We'll put an end to it!" For me it was bitter, black irony--old Art proving himself our friend, now! He didn't know his enemy. He was nearly ninety--a grim old fighter, with real vision. Irene too, who meant everything to me. She didn't know that with the intensified gravity those incoming ships would be smashed and blazing! My mind was growing a bit dim in the strangling pressure of the artificial gravitation. Sweat was streaming from me in the smothering heat that added to the oppressiveness of the heavy air. Pa Mavrocordatus was groaning the name of his daughter. Geedeh's great eyes were fixed on me in helpless suffering. Through the shrill sounds of the engines I listened for more words from Irene and old Art. But none came. They must know their doom by now. They must be fighting savagely and hopelessly to get away. Still some distance from 487, they were already caught, deep in the web of invisible force. After some moments, I heard a distant crash, a roll of sound. What was it? A huge rocket, hitting the jagged crags above, at meteoric speed? Crumpling, destroying itself and those inside it? I thought my heart would burst with the added weight of my anxiety. The first crash was only the beginning. Others followed in quick succession--inexorably. And there was a faint, far-off roar, coming down from ten miles above. And that roar was the roar of titanic rain. Of floods of water coming down this shaft, where the gravity machine was! All the countless tons of water that we'd baked from ancient rocks, and which had been mostly suspended as vapor in our synthetic atmosphere, was condensing now, coming down in torrents! * * * * * Norman Haynes kept grinning satanically, while he and his aides attended to the gravity machine. Triumph showed in his eyes. But presently he began to look puzzled, as that soughing roar that accompanied the crashing din, increased. It was a little early for the space ships to be smashing up, anyway. I could feel a grim smile coming over my lips, against my will. Had my guesses and hopes, which had seemed so unsubstantial, been correct? Norman Haynes was glancing doubtfully at the reproducer. I could see that he was wondering why his surface watchers didn't communicate any more--and tell him what was happening up there on the crust of 487. I knew the answers, now! Geedeh did, too. The excitement of knowledge was in his withered, pain-wracked face. Those distant crashes were not what I'd feared they might be, but part of what I'd hoped for. They were gigantic thunder-claps--the noise of terrific lightning bolts! Norman Haynes had made a simple oversight in his plan to destroy those incoming space craft. There was a fearsome electrical storm going on above--one of inconceivable proportions--utterly beyond the Earthly! Doubtless all of Norman Haynes' surface watchers, up above, had been killed by that sudden deluge of electricity! The multiplied gravitation up there, had pinned them down, so that they could neither escape, nor warn their chief! Before Norman Haynes understood what was happening, foam-flecked muddy water was at the door of the machinery room, rushing and gurgling past the threshold! He and his helpers stared at it stupidly, and I laughed at them. "You didn't realize it, did you, Haynes?" I grunted. "You didn't realize that increased gravity would increase the weight of the atmosphere, as well as of everything else! And increased weight of the air, means increased atmospheric pressure, too, pushing molecules together, creating greater density. And what happens? Go back to your high school physics, Haynes! It's like when you store air in the tank of a compressor pump. The moisture in it liquifies. And in the case of an atmosphere as big as 487 has now, static electricity would be suddenly and violently condensed, besides." Norman Haynes stared at me, stunned with consternation. But his recovery was fairly prompt. His sudden sneer had a rattish desperation. "Hell," he said. "Just a thunder storm. A lot of rain. What of it? The gravity machine still works. The ships will still be destroyed." I knew that that was true--unless what I'd planned happened. Those rockets, manned by our old construction crew, and Irene, and old Art Haynes, had been too close to asteroid 487 for the last couple of minutes, to effect an escape, even if the sudden dark clouds had warned them that something dangerous was afoot. "Watch this--Haynes," Geedeh panted, and it was hard for the acting head of the Haynes Shipping Company to guess what the little Martian meant, at first. * * * * * Under the pull of that terrific gravity, the water was coming into that room like an avalanche. Geedeh and Pa and I were floundering in it feebly, held to the floor by that awful weight. I was sure we'd drown. But as we coughed and sputtered, the flood found its way through the hole I'd kicked, low down in the side of the crystal dome that covered that gigantic machinery. There was a flash of electrical flame, as the water interfered with the functioning of the apparatus. It was pandemonium, then. Every man for himself. Geedeh, the scientist, and I, who, under the force of grim need, had somehow contrived to plan this finale, had the advantage of knowledge. We'd figured out a little of what to do. The gravity winked off suddenly--reaching the low of practically nothing, here at the center of this tiny world, whose normal attraction, even at the surface, was very small. We struggled to our feet, in a muddy swirl that was now a yard in depth. But before we could take advantage of our sudden lightness, and leap clear, the gravity machines gave a last gasp of power, and we were pulled down again, smothering. Then, with a grating roar, the apparatus stopped. The bedlam ceased, except for a low whine of expanding atmosphere, and screams from Haynes and his men. Presently, I felt all hell stabbing through me. My ears rang as with the after effects of some colossal explosion. My whole body ached. I clutched at Geedeh, who seemed on the point of collapse. Pa Mavrocordatus managed to help me.... But strained by gravity vastly stronger than that of Mars, and now facing a circumstance even more dangerous, tough little Geedeh still had his wits, fortunately for us all. He pointed to an airtight crystal cage at one edge of the chamber. The cage was necessary in routine testing of the machinery here, which called for variations in the output of the gravity generators, and consequent great variations in air pressure. "Inside the cage--all of us!" Geedeh squeaked. "Quickly! Bends!..." Do you know what the air pressure is, at the bottom of a ten-mile shaft, even at normal Earth gravity? Yeah, something pretty high! Then you can imagine what it had just been like, here, at six or seven gravities! But when the generators had quit entirely, there had been that sudden loss of weight in the air, sudden expansion, thinning, loss of pressure! The three of us got inside the cage, and sealed the door. I spun valves. There was a hiss of entering atmosphere, and the pressure rose again, far above the norm of sea-level, on Earth. I felt better at once, but I knew it had been a close call. We looked out at Norman Haynes and his henchmen. They weren't drowning, now. Tottering, they stood with their heads well above the flood. It was something else that was killing them. Not suffocation, either. Their faces were bloated and congested in the glow of illuminators. Their bodies seemed to swell. Norman Haynes raised his blast tube, as did several of the others, trying to fire at the crystal shelter where we had taken refuge. Norman Haynes must have known his failure, then. Why had it happened. How we had won. It may be that he even realized some justice in his hideous punishment. He had tried to obstruct progress and fair play. The blast tube dropped from his fingers. He opened his mouth to shriek in his agony. But dark blood gushed forth, and, with his henchmen, he toppled back into the water. * * * * * "Bends!" Geedeh said again. "Haynes had a worse case of bends than any deep-sea diver ever experienced." The flood had almost stopped, now, outside the cage. We waited. Vengeance was complete. And it wasn't quite as satisfying as I might once have thought. Presently they were with us. Irene. And old Art--proving that the Haynes name was still great, even though one who bore it had soiled it some. We emerged from our sealed cage, after the pressure around us was gradually lowered to normal. "I didn't think it was Norman who was guilty," old Art breathed sadly when he spoke to us. "I knew he was high-handed, but I didn't realize it was as bad as it was. I guess Norman got what he deserved," he finished, and there were tears in his heavy voice. We went to the surface in the elevator. We needed space suits again, up there, with the air as expanded as it was. A lot of the atmosphere was leaking away from 487, being held down only by the tiny natural gravity. But there was nothing that couldn't be repaired and replaced. "We must have pumps rigged to draw the water out of the vault, so that we can dry and repair the gravity machinery, and start it again," Geedeh stated. We started again, almost as we had done at the first, for quite a bit of the air and water had been whisked into space. We lived in space-suits for days, rebuilding and repairing the damaged machinery. Then with the aid of Art Haynes, and with extended credit now that our plans were made fully known and approved, we imported machinery to pump the water from the vault. We hired specialists to come in, each of them with a trained crew of men to do the work that our old crews lacked the technical skill to do. Slowly, our planet of hope grew again, and there were bulletins sent through the asteroid belt that workers were wanted again on Paradise Asteroid. The specialists left, replaced by the crews that had worked on the asteroid before. With unlimited credit, our great freighting ships piled materials in regular formation, and the returning crews set their ships down on the landing fields, the men pouring eagerly forth, ready to set up the buildings that would be the nucleus of another Earth in space. With our old crews returned, it took about a hundred hours to accomplish this. Asteroid 487 was almost the same as before the final trouble with Norman Haynes, now, except that the air was a little thinner. But that could be quickly taken care of. Pa Mavrocordatus was working with his vineyards and trees, and his tomato and cabbage patches, again. The big trouble was all finished, now. The dream was coming true. A little Earth, fresh and green, for tired miners of the Path of Minor Planets. Space madness could never be so common now. And cheap, fresh products would be theirs. V Irene and I walked in the warm night. The crews were whooping it up in the lighted barracks. Somebody was playing a harmonica. The stars were brilliant, and there were a thousand things to think of. How we'd all struggled. How Nick Mavrocordatus, had dreamed and worked and died. How once the asteroids had been a planet, with almost human inhabitants, dreaming, planning, struggling, too. Their rock carvings were everywhere. "It's the beginning, Chet," Irene whispered. "Asteroid 487 is the first. But there'll be others--other small, beautiful, living planets. There's a lot of work to be done. And when it's all finished that will be almost unfortunate--too tame." I knew what she meant. She was pioneer stuff, just as all of us were. The greatness of life was in its battles. On and on, to vaster and vaster heights. That was what had driven us into the interplanetary void in the first place. I kissed her. "Don't worry, Honey," I said. "There's no end to it. No point of final stagnation. It goes on and on. There'll always be a frontier--something bigger to reach and conquer...." And we looked up in awe toward the infinite stars. 
21726	----	DEEP DOWN, A TALE OF THE CORNISH MINES, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. BEGINS THE STORY WITH A PECULIAR MEETING. Necessity is the mother of invention. This is undoubtedly true, but it is equally true that invention is not the only member of necessity's large family. Change of scene and circumstance are also among her children. It was necessity that gave birth to the resolve to travel to the end of the earth--of English earth at all events--in search of fortune, which swelled the bosom of yonder tall, well-favoured youth, who, seated uncomfortably on the top of that clumsy public conveyance, drives up Market-Jew Street in the ancient town of Penzance. Yes, necessity--stern necessity, as she is sometimes called--drove that youth into Cornwall, and thus was the originating cause of that wonderful series of events which ultimately led to his attaining--but hold! Let us begin at the beginning. It was a beautiful morning in June, in that period of the world's history which is ambiguously styled "Once-upon-a-time," when the "Kittereen"--the clumsy vehicle above referred to--rumbled up to the Star Inn and stopped there. The tall, well-favoured youth leapt at once to the ground, and entered the inn with the air of a man who owned at least the half of the county, although his much-worn grey shooting costume and single unpretentious portmanteau did not indicate either unusual wealth or exalted station. In an off-hand hearty way, he announced to landlord, waiters, chambermaids, and hangers-on, to all, indeed, who might choose to listen, that the weather was glorious, that coaches of all kinds, especially Kittereens, were detestable machines of torture, and that he meant to perform the remainder of his journey on foot. He inquired the way to the town of St. Just, ordered his luggage to be forwarded by coach or cart, and, with nothing but a stout oaken cudgel to encumber him, set out on his walk of about seven miles, with the determination of compensating himself for previous hours of forced inaction and constraint by ignoring roads and crossing the country like an Irish fox-hunter. Acting on the presumptuous belief that he could find his way to any part of the world with the smallest amount of direction, he naturally missed the right road at the outset, and instead of taking the road to St. Just, pursued that which leads to the Land's End. The youth, as we have observed, was well-favoured. Tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, and athletic, with an active step, erect gait, and clear laughing eye, he was one whom a recruiting-sergeant in the Guards would have looked upon with a covetous sigh. Smooth fair cheeks and chin told that boyhood was scarce out of sight behind, and an undeniable _some thing_ on the upper lip declared that manhood was not far in advance. Like most people in what may be termed an uncertain stage of existence, our hero exhibited a variety of apparent contradictions. His great size and muscular strength and deep bass voice were those of a man, while the smooth skin, the soft curling hair, and the rollicking gladsome look were all indicative of the boy. His countenance, too, might have perplexed a fortune-teller. Sometimes it was grave almost to sternness, at other times it sparkled with delight, exhibiting now an expression that would have befitted a sage on whose decisions hung the fate of kingdoms, and anon displaying a dash of mischief worthy of the wildest boy in a village school. Some of the youth's varied, not to say extravagant, actions and expressions, were perhaps due to the exhilarating brilliancy of the morning, or to the appearance of those splendid castles which his mind was actively engaged in building in the air. The country through which he travelled was at first varied with trees and bushes clothed in rich foliage; but soon its aspect changed, and ere long he pursued a path which led over a wide extent of wild moorland covered with purple heath and gorse in golden-yellow bloom. The ground, too, became so rough that the youth was fain to confine himself to the highroad; but being of an explorative disposition, he quickly diverged into the lanes, which in that part of Cornwall were, and still are, sufficiently serpentine and intricate to mislead a more experienced traveller. It soon began to dawn upon the youth's mind that he was wandering in a wrong direction, and when he suddenly discovered a solitary cottage on the right hand, which he had previously observed on the left, he made up his mind to sacrifice his independence and condescend to ask for guidance. Lightly leaping a wall with this intent, he crossed two fields, and stooped as he looked in at the low doorway of the cottage, from the interior of which there issued the loud cries of a child either in great pain or passion. A sturdy little boy seated on a stool, and roaring like a young bull, while an elderly woman tried to comfort him, was the sight which met his gaze. "Can you show me the road to St. Just?" inquired our adventurer. "St. Just, sur?" said the woman, stepping out in front of the door, "why, you're on the way to St. Buryan, sure. Ef you do keep on the right of the hill over theere, you'll see the St. Just road." A yell of unparalleled ferocity issued at this moment from the cottage, and it was found that the noisy urchin within, overcome by curiosity, had risen to ascertain who the stranger outside could be, and had been arrested by a pang of agony. "Aw dear, aw dear, my poor booy," exclaimed the woman, endeavouring gently to press the boy down again on the stool, amid furious roaring. "What's wrong with him?" asked our traveller, entering the apartment. "He's tumbled off the wall, dear booy, an' semen to me he's scat un shoulder very bad." "Let me have a look at him," said the youth, sitting down on the edge of a bed which stood at one end of the room, and drawing the child between his knees. "Come, little man, don't shout so loud; I'll put it all right for you. Let me feel your shoulder." To judge from the immediate result, the young man seemed to put it all wrong instead of "all right," for his somewhat rough manipulation of the boy's shoulder produced such a torrent of screams that the pitying woman had much ado to restrain herself from rushing to the rescue. "Ah!" exclaimed the youth in grey, releasing his victim; "I thought so; he has broken his collar-bone, my good woman; not a serious matter, by any means, but it will worry him for some time to come. Have you got anything to make a bandage of?" "Sur?" said the woman. "Have you a bit of rag--an old shirt or apron?--anything will do." The woman promptly produced a cotton shirt, which the youth tore up into long strips. Making a pad of one of these, he placed it under the boy's arm-pit despite of sobs and resistance. This pad acted as a fulcrum on which the arm rested as a lever. Pressing the elbow close to the boy's side he thus forced the shoulder outwards, and, with his left hand, set the bone with its two broken ends together. To secure it in this position he bound the arm pretty firmly to the boy's body, so that he could not move a muscle of the left arm or shoulder. "There," said the youth, assisting his patient to put on his shirt, "that will keep all straight. You must not on any account remove the bandage for some weeks." "How long, sur?" exclaimed the woman in surprise. "For some weeks; but that will depend on how the little fellow gets on. He may go about and use his right arm as he pleases, but no more climbing on walls for some time to come. Do you hear, little man?" The urchin, whose pain was somewhat relieved, and who had moderated down to an occasional deep sob, said "Iss." "You're a doctor, sur, I think?" said the woman. "Yes, I am; and I'll come to see you again, so be careful to attend to my directions. Good-morning." "Good mornin', sur, an' thank 'ee!" exclaimed the grateful dame as the youth left the house, and, leaping the low enclosure in front of it, sped over the moor in the direction which had been pointed out to him. His resolution to ignore roads cost our traveller more trouble than he had anticipated, for the moor was very rugged, the brambles vexatious, and the spines of the gorse uncommonly sharp. Impediments of every kind were more numerous than he had been accustomed to meet with even on the heath-clad hills of Scotland, with which--although "the land of the mountain and the flood" was not that of his birth--he had from childhood been familiar. After a good deal of vigorous leaping and resolute scrambling, he reached one of those peculiar Cornish lanes which are so deeply sunk in the ground, and edged with such high solid walls, that the wayfarer cannot in many places see the nature of the country through which he is passing. The point at which he reached the lane was so overgrown with gorse and brambles that it was necessary to search for a passage through them. This not being readily found, he gave way to the impetuosity of his disposition, stepped back a few paces, cleared the obstacles with a light bound, and alighted on the edge of the bank, which gave way under his weight, and he descended into the lane in a shower of stones and dust, landing on his feet more by chance than by dexterity. A shout of indignation greeted the traveller, and, turning abruptly round, he beheld a stout old gentleman stamping with rage, covered from head to foot with dust, and sputtering out epithets of opprobrium on the hapless wight who had thus unintentionally bespattered him. "Ugh! hah! you young jackanapes--you blind dumbledory--ugh! What mean you by galloping over the country thus like a wild ass--eh?" A fit of coughing here interrupted the choleric old gentleman, in the midst of which our hero, with much humility of demeanour, many apologies, and protestations of innocence of intention to injure, picked up the old gentleman's hat, assisted him to brush his clothes with a bunch of ferns, and in various other ways sought to pacify him. The old man grumbled a good deal at first, but was finally so far mollified as to say less testily, while he put on his hat, "I warrant me, young man, you are come on some wild-goose chase to this out-o'-the-way region of the land in search of the picturesque--eh?--a dauber on canvas?" "No, sir," replied the youth, "I profess not to wield the pencil or brush, although I admit to having made feeble efforts as an amateur. The scalpel is more to my taste, and my object in coming here is to visit a relative. I am on my way to St. Just; but, having wandered somewhat out of my road, have been obliged to strike into bypaths, as you see." "As I _see_, young man!--yes, and as I _feel_," replied the old gentleman, with some remains of asperity. "I have already expressed regret for the mischance that has befallen you," said the youth in grey somewhat sternly, for his impulsive spirit fired a little at the continued ill-humour of the old gentleman. "Perhaps you will return good for evil by pointing out the way to St. Just. May I venture to ask this favour of you?" "You may venture, and you _have_ ventured; and it is my belief, young man, that you'll venture many a thing before this world has done with you; however, as you are a stranger in these parts, and have expressed due penitence for your misdeed, though I more than half doubt your sincerity, I can do no less than point out the road to St. Just, whither I will accompany you at least part of the way; and, young sir, as you have taken pretty free liberty with _me_ this morning, may I take the liberty of asking _you_ the name of your relative in St. Just? I am well acquainted with most of the inhabitants of that town." "Certainly," replied the youth. "The gentleman whom I am going to visit is my uncle. His name is Donnithorne." "What! Tom Donnithorne?" exclaimed the old gentleman, in a tone of surprise, as he darted a keen glance from under his bushy eyebrows at his companion. "Hah! then from that fact I gather that you are Oliver Trembath, the young doctor whom he has been expecting the last day or two. H'm--so old Tom Donnithorne is your uncle, is he?" The youth in grey did not relish the free and easy, not to say patronising, tone of his companion, and felt inclined to give a sharp answer, but he restrained his feelings and replied,--"He is, and you are correct in your supposition regarding myself. Do you happen to know my uncle personally?" "Know him personally!" cried the old gentleman with a sardonic laugh; "Oh yes, I know him intimately--intimately; some people say he's a very good fellow." "I am glad to hear that, for to say truth--" He paused abruptly. "Ha! I suppose you were going to say that you have heard a different account of him--eh?" "Well, I _was_ going to observe," replied Oliver, with a laugh, "that my uncle is rather a wild man for his years--addicted to smuggling, I am told, and somewhat given to the bottle; but it is well known that tattlers give false reports, and I am delighted to hear that the old boy is not such a bad fellow after all." "Humph!" ejaculated the other. "Then you have never seen him, I suppose?" "No, never; although I am a Cornishman I have seen little of my native county, having left it when a little boy--before my uncle came to live in this part of the country." "H'm--well, young man, I would advise you to beware of that same uncle of yours." "How!" exclaimed the youth in surprise; "did you not tell me just now that he is a very good fellow?" "No, sir, I did not. I told you that _some_ people say he is a very good fellow, but for myself I think him an uncommonly bad man, a man who has done me great injury in his day--" "It grieves me to hear you say so," interrupted Oliver, whose ire was again roused by the tone and manner of his companion. "A decidedly bad man," continued the old gentleman, not noticing the interruption, "a thorough rascal, a smuggler, and a drunkard, and--" "Hold, sir!" cried the youth sternly, as he stopped and faced the old gentleman, "remember that you speak of my relative. Had you been a younger man, sir--" Again the youth paused abruptly. "Go on, sir," said the old gentleman ironically, "you would have pommelled me to a jelly with your cudgel, I suppose; is that it?--acting somewhat in the spirit of your kinsman, that same smuggling and tippling old scoundrel, who--" "Enough, sir," interrupted the young man angrily; "we part company here." So saying, he vaulted over the wall that separated the road from the moor, and hurried away. "Take the first turn to the left, and keep straight on, else you'll lose yourself aga-a-a-in," roared the old gentleman, "and my compliments to the rascally old smugg-le-e-r-r!" "The old scoundrel!" muttered the youth as he hurried away. "The young puppy!" growled the old gentleman as he jogged along. "Given to smuggling and the bottle indeed--humph! the excitable jackanapes! But I've given him a turn in the wrong direction that will cool his blood somewhat, and give me leisure to cool mine too, before we meet again." Here the old gentleman's red countenance relaxed into a broad grin, and he chuckled a good deal, in the midst of a running commentary on the conduct and appearance of his late companion, from the disjointed sentences of which it might have been gathered that although his introduction to the young doctor had been unfortunate, and the succeeding intercourse stormy, his opinion of him was not altogether unfavourable. CHAPTER TWO. SHOWS WHAT ASTONISHING RESULTS MAY FOLLOW FROM TAKING THE WRONG ROAD. Before Oliver Trembath had advanced half a mile on his path, he had cooled sufficiently to experience some regret at having been so quick to take offence at one who, being evidently an eccentric character, should not, he thought, have been broken with so summarily. Regrets, however, had come too late, so he endeavoured to shake off the disagreeable feelings that depressed him, and, the more effectually to accomplish this, burst forth into a bravura song with so much emphasis as utterly to drown, and no doubt to confound, two larks, which, up to that time, had been pouring their melodious souls out of their little bodies in the bright blue sky above. Presently he came to a part of the moor where two roads diverged--one to the right and the other to the left. Recalling the shout of advice which the old gentleman had given him in parting, he took that which led to the left, and was gratified, on gaining an eminence a short distance in advance, to see in the far distance a square turret, which he concluded was that of the church of St. Just. Keeping this turret in view, the youth stepped out so vigorously that he soon reached the small town that clustered round the church, and going up to the first man he met, said, "This is the town of St. Just, I suppose, is it not?" "No, et is'n; thee's come the wrang road, sur," replied the rustic. "This es Sennen church-town. St. Just es up over th' hill theere." Oliver Trembath's first feeling was one of surprise; this was followed by annoyance, which quickly degenerated into anger as it flashed into his mind that the old gentleman might possibly have led him wrong on purpose. "How far is it to St. Just?" he inquired. "'Bout six miles, sur." "Then I suppose I am not far from the Land's End?" said Oliver after a pause. "No, not fur," replied the man. "Et do lie straight before 'ee." Thanking the man, Oliver started off at a smart pace, resolving, before proceeding to St. Just, to visit this extreme western point of England-- a visit to which he had often looked forward with pleasant anticipation. During the last hour of his walk the sun had been obscured by clouds, but, just as he approached the cliffs, the clouds separated, and a golden flood rushed over the broad Atlantic, which now lay spread out before him in all its wide majesty as far as the eye could see. "A good omen!" cried the youth with a shout, as he hurried towards the shore, intending to fling off his garments and bathe in the mighty ocean, which, from the place where he first beheld it, appeared to be smooth and still as a mill-pond. But Oliver was compelled to restrain his ardour, for on nearing the sea he found that he stood on the summit of high cliffs, beyond which the Land's End stretched in a succession of broken masses of granite, so chafed and shattered by the action of the sea, and so curiously split, as to resemble basaltic columns. To reach the outermost of those weather-worn sentinels of Old England, required some caution on the part of our traveller, even although well used to scaling the rocky heights of Scottish mountains, and when he did at last plant his foot on the veritable Land's End, he found that it was a precipice apparently sixty feet high, which descended perpendicularly into deep water. His meditated bathe was therefore an impossibility, for those glassy undulations, which appeared so harmless at a distance, gathered slow and gradual height as they approached the land, and at last, assuming the form of majestic waves, flung themselves with a grand roar on the stern cliffs which they have battered so long in vain, and round which--always repulsed but never conquered--they seethed in milky foam. With glistening eye, and heaving breast, and mantling colour, the young doctor stood long and motionless on this extreme point of land--absorbed in admiration of the glorious scene before him. Often had he beheld the sea in the firths and estuaries of the North, but never till now had he conceived the grandeur of the great Atlantic. It seemed to him as if the waves of those inland seas, when tossed by wild storms, were but rough miniature copies of the huge billows which arose before him, without apparent cause, and, advancing without rush or agitation, fell successively with solemn roar at his feet, awakening irresistibly within him deep and new thoughts of the Almighty Creator of earth and sea. For many minutes he stood entranced, his mind wandering in a species of calm delight over the grand scene, but incapable of fixing itself definitely on any special feature--now sweeping out to where the Scilly Isles could be seen resting on the liquid horizon, anon following the flight of circling seagulls, or busy counting the innumerable ships and boats that rested on the sea, but ever and anon recurring, as if under the influence of fascination, to that rich turmoil of foam which boiled, leaped, and churned, around, beneath, and above the mighty breakers. Awaking at last from his trance, Oliver tore himself from the spot, and hastened away to seek the nearest strip of sand where he might throw off his clothes and plunge into the boiling surf. He proceeded in a southerly direction, impatiently expecting at every step to discover some spot suitable for his purpose, but he had taken a long and rapid walk before he found a break in those wild cliffs which afforded him the opportunity of descending to the water's edge. Here, on a narrow strip of sand, he undressed and leaped into the waves. Well was it for Oliver that day that he had been trained in all manly exercises, that his "wind" was good, that his muscles were hard, his nerves well strung, and, above all, that in earliest youth he had learned to swim. Misjudging, in his ignorance, the tremendous power of the surf into which he sprang, and daring to recklessness in the conscious possession of unusual strength and courage, he did not pause to look or consider, but at once struck out to sea. He was soon beyond the influence of the breaking waves, and for some time sported in the full enjoyment of the briny Atlantic waters. Then turning towards the shore he swam in and was speedily tossing among the breakers. As he neared the sandy beach and felt the full power of the water on his partially exhausted frame, he experienced a slight feeling of anxiety, for the thunder of each wave as it fell and rushed up before him in seething foam, seemed to indicate a degree of force which he had not realised in his first vigorous plunge into the sea. A moment more and a wave caught him in its curling crest, and swept him onwards. For the first time in his life, Oliver Trembath's massive strength was of no avail to him. He felt like a helpless infant. In another instant the breaker fell and swept him with irresistible violence up the beach amid a turmoil of hissing foam. No sooner did he touch the ground than he sprang to his feet, and staggered forward a few paces but the returning rush of water swept sand and stones from beneath his feet, carried his legs from under him, and hurled him back into the hollow of the succeeding wave, which again rolled him on the sand. Although somewhat stunned, Oliver did not lose consciousness or self-possession. He now fully realised the extreme danger of his position, and the thought flashed through his brain that, at the farthest, his fate must be decided in two or three minutes. Acting on a brave spirit, this thought nerved him to desperate effort. The instant he could plant his feet firmly he bounded forwards, and then, before the backward rush of water had gathered strength, fell on his knees, and dug his fingers and toes deep into the sand. Had the grasp been on something firm he could easily have held on, but the treacherous sand crumbled out of his grasp, and a second time he was carried back into the sea. The next time he was cast on the beach he felt that his strength was failing; he staggered forward as soon as he touched bottom, with all the energy of one who avails himself of his last chance, but the angry water was too strong for him. Feeling that he was being overpowered, he cast his arms up in the air, and gave utterance to a loud cry. It was not like a cry of despair, but sounded more like what one might suppose would be the shout of a brave soldier when compelled to give way-- fighting--before the might of overwhelming force. At that moment a hand caught the young man's wrist, and held it for a few seconds in a powerful grasp. The wave retreated, a staggering effort followed, and the next moment Oliver stood panting on the beach grasping the rough hand of his deliverer. "Semen to me you was pretty nigh gone, sur," said the man, who had come thus opportunely to the rescue, as he wrung the sea-water from his garments. He was a man of middle height, but of extremely powerful frame, and was habited in the garb of a fisherman. "Truly I had been gone altogether but for your timely assistance; may God reward you for it!" said Oliver earnestly. "Well, I don't think you would be so ready to thank me if you did knaw I had half made up my mind to lev 'ee go." Oliver looked at the man in some surprise, for he spoke gruffly, almost angrily, and was evidently in earnest. "You are jesting," said he incredulously. "Jestin'; no I ain't, maister. Do 'ee see the boat out over?" he said, pointing to a small craft full of men which was being rowed swiftly round a point not more than half a mile distant; "the villains are after me. They might as well have tried to kitch a cunger by the tail as nab Jim Cuttance in one of his dens, if he hadn't bin forced by the softness of his 'art to pull a young fool out o' the say. You'll have to help me to fight, lad, as I've saved your life. Come, follow me to the cave." "But--my clothes--" said Oliver, glancing round him in search of his garments. "They're all safe up here; come along, sur, an' look sharp." At any other time, and in other circumstances, Oliver Trembath's fiery spirit would have resented the tone and manner of this man's address, but the feeling that he owed his life to him, and that in some way he appeared to be the innocent cause of bringing misfortune on him, induced him to restrain his feelings and obey without question the mandate of his rescuer. Jim Cuttance led the way to a cave in the rugged cliffs, the low entrance to which was concealed by a huge mass of granite. The moment they entered several voices burst forth in abuse of the fisherman for his folly in exposing himself; but the latter only replied with a sarcastic laugh, and advised his comrades to get ready for action, for he had been seen by the enemy, who would be down on them directly. At the same time he pointed to Oliver's clothes, which lay in a recess in the side of the cavern. The youth dressed himself rapidly, and, while thus engaged, observed that there were five men in the cavern, besides his guide, with whom they retired into the farthest recess of the place, and entered into animated and apparently angry, though low-toned, conversation. At length their leader, for such he evidently was, swung away from them, exclaiming, with a laugh, "Well, well, he's a good recruit, and if he should peach on we--us can--" He concluded the sentence with a significant grunt. "Now, sur," he said, advancing with his comrade towards Oliver, who was completing his toilet, "they'll be here in ten minutes, an' it is expected that you will lend we a hand. Here's a weapon for you." So saying, he handed a large pistol to Oliver, who received it with some hesitation. "I trust that your cause is a good one," he said. "You cannot expect me to fight for you, even though I am indebted to you for my life, without knowing against whom I fight, and why." At this a tall thick-set man suddenly cocked his pistol, and uttering a fierce oath swore that if the stranger would not fight, he'd shoot him through the head. "Silence, Joe Tonkin!" cried Jim Cuttance, in a tone that at once subdued the man. Oliver, whose eyes had flashed like those of a tiger, drew himself up, and said--"Look at me, lads; I have no desire to boast of what I can or will do, but I assure you it would be as easy to turn back the rising tide as to force me to fight against my will--except, indeed, with yourselves. As I have said, I owe my life to your leader, and apparently have been the innocent means of drawing his enemies upon him. Gratitude tells me to help him if I can, and help him will if the cause be not a bad one." "Well spoken, sur," said the leader, with an approving nod; "see to the weapons, Maggot, and I'll explain it all to the gentleman." So saying, he too Oliver aside, told him hurriedly that the men who ere expected to attack them were fishermen belonging to a neighbouring cove, whose mackerel nets had been accidentally cut by his boat some weeks ago, and who were bent on revenge, not believing that the thing had been done by accident. "But surely you don't mean to use fire-arms against them in such a quarrel?" said Oliver. A sort of humorous smile crossed the swarthy countenance of the man as he replied-- "They will use pistols against we." "Be that as it may," said Oliver; "I will never consent to risk taking the life of a countryman in such a cause." "But you can't fight without a weapon," said the man; "and sure, if 'ee don't shut them they'll shut you." "No matter, I'll take my chance," said Oliver; "my good cudgel would have served me well enough, but it seems to have been swept away by the sea. Here, however, is a weapon that will suit me admirably," he added, picking up a heavy piece of driftwood that lay at his feet. "Well, if you scat their heads with that, they won't want powder and lead," observed the other with a grin, as he rose and returned to the entrance of the cave, where he warned his comrades to keep as quiet as mice. The boat which had caused so much angry discussion among the men of the cave had by this time neared the beach, and one of the crew stood up in the bow to guide her into the narrow cove, which formed but a slight protection, even in calm weather, against the violence of that surf which never ceases to grind at the hard rocks of West Cornwall. At length they effected a landing, and the crew, consisting of nine men armed with pistols and cutlasses, hurried up to the cliffs and searched for the entrance to the cavern. While the events which have been related were taking place, the shades of evening had been gradually creeping over land and sea, and the light was at that time scarcely sufficient to permit of things being distinguished clearly beyond a few yards. The men in the cavern hid themselves in the dark recesses on each side of the entrance, ready for the approaching struggle. Oliver crouched beside his rescuer with the piece of driftwood by his side. Turning suddenly to his companion, he said, in an almost inaudible whisper-- "Friend, it did not occur to me before, but the men we are about to fight with will recognise me again if we should ever chance to meet; could I not manage to disguise myself in some way?" "If you get shut," replied his companion in the same low tone, "it won't matter much; but see here--shut your eyes." Without further remark the man took a handful of wet earth and smeared it over Oliver's face, then, clapping his own "sou'-wester" on his head, he said, with a soft chuckle, "There, your own mother wouldn't knaw 'ee!" Just then footsteps were heard approaching, and the shadow of a man was seen to rest for a moment on the gravel without. The mouth of the cave was so well hidden, however, that he failed to observe it, and passed on, followed by several of his comrades. Suddenly one of them stopped and said-- "Hold on, lads, it can't be far off, I'm sartin' sure; I seed 'em disappear hereabouts." "You're right," cried Jim Cuttance, with a fierce roar, as he rushed from the cavern and fired full at the man who had spoken. The others followed, and a volley of shots succeeded, while shouts of defiance and anger burst forth on all sides. Oliver sprang out at the same moment with the leader, and rushed on one of the boat's crew with such violence that his foot slipped on a piece of seaweed and precipitated him to the ground at the man's feet; the other, having sprung forward to meet him was unable to check himself, tripped over his shoulders, and fell on the top of him. The man named Maggot, having been in full career close behind Oliver, tumbled over both, followed by another man named John Cock. The others, observing them down, rushed with a shout to the rescue, just as Oliver, making a superhuman effort, flung the two men off his back and leaped to his feet. Maggot and the boatman also sprang up, and the latter turned and made for the boat at full speed, seeing that his comrades, overcome by the suddenness of the onset, were in retreat, fighting as they went. All of them succeeded in getting into the boat unharmed, and were in the act of pushing off, when Jim Cuttance, burning with indignation, leaped into the water, grasped the bow of the boat, and was about to plunge his cutlass into the back of the man nearest him, when he was seized by a strong hand from behind and held back. Next moment the boat was beyond his reach. Turning round fiercely, the man saw that it was Oliver Trembath who had interfered. He uttered a terrible oath, and sprang on him like a tiger; Oliver stood firm, parried with the piece of driftwood the savage cut which was made at his head, and with his clenched left hand hit his opponent such a blow on the chest as laid him flat on the sand. The man sprang up in an instant, but instead of renewing the attack, to Oliver's surprise he came forward and held out his hand, which the youth was not unwilling to grasp. "Thank 'ee, sur," he said, somewhat sternly, "you've done me a sarvice; you've prevented me committin' two murders, an' taught me a lesson I never knaw'd afore--that Jim Cuttance an't invulnerable. I don't mind the blow, sur--not I. It wor gov'n in feer fight, an' I was wrang." "I'm glad to find that you view the matter in that light," said Oliver with a smile, "and, truly, the blow was given in self-defence by one who will never forget that he owes you his life." A groan here turned the attention of the party to one of their number who had seated himself on a rock during the foregoing dialogue. "What! not hurt, are 'ee, Dan?" said his leader, going towards him. To this Dan replied with another groan, and placed his hand on his hip. His comrades crowded round him, and, finding that he was wounded and suffering great pain, raised him in their arms and bore him into the cavern, where they laid him on the ground, and, lighting a candle, proceeded to examine him. "You had better let me look at him, lads," said Oliver, pushing the men gently aside, "I am a surgeon." They gave place at once, and Oliver soon found that the man had received a pistol-ball in his thigh. Fortunately it had been turned aside in its course, and lay only a little way beneath the skin, so that it was easily extracted by means of a penknife. "Now, friends," said Oliver, after completing the dressing of the wound, "before I met with you I had missed my way while travelling to St. Just. Will one of you direct me to the right road, and I shall bid you good-night, as I think you have no further need of my services." The men looked at their leader, whom they evidently expected to be their spokesman. "Well, sur, you have rendered we some help this hevenin', both in the way o' pickin' out the ball an' helpin' to break skulls as well as preventin' worse, so we can do no less than show 'ee the road; but hark 'ee, sur," here the man became very impressive, "ef you do chance to come across any of us in your travels, you had better not knaw us, 'xcept in an or'nary way, d'ye understand? an' us will do the same by thee." "Of course I will act as you wish," said Oliver with a smile, "although I do not see why we should be ashamed of this affair, seeing that we were the party attacked. There is only one person to whom I would wish to explain the reason of my not appearing sooner, because he will probably know of the arrival in Penzance this morning of the conveyance that brought me to Cornwall." "And who may that be?" demanded Jim Cuttance. "My uncle, Thomas Donnithorne of St. Just," said Oliver. "Whew!" whistled the fisherman in surprise, while all the others burst into a hearty fit of laughter. "Why do you laugh?" asked Oliver. "Oh, never mind, sur, it's all right," said the man with a chuckle. "Iss, you may tell Thomas Donnithorne; there won't be no harm in tellin' he--oh, dear no!" Again the men laughed loud and long, and Oliver felt his powers of forbearance giving way, when Cuttance said to him: "An' you may tell all his friends too, for they're the right sort. Come now, Maggot here will show 'ee the way up to St. Just." So saying, the stout fisherman conducted the young surgeon to the mouth of the cavern, and shaking hands with him left him to the guidance of the man named Maggot, who led him through several lanes, until he reached the highroad between Sennen church-town and St. Just. Here he paused; told his companion to proceed straight on for about four miles or so, when he would reach the town, and bade him good-night. "And mind 'ee, don't go off the road, sur," shouted Maggot, a few seconds after the young man had left him, "if 'ee don't want to fall down a shaft and scat your skull." Oliver, not having any desire to scat his skull, whatever that might be, assured the man that he would keep to the road carefully. The moon shone clear in a cloudless sky, covering the wide moor and the broad Atlantic with a flood of silver light, and rendering the road quite distinct, so that our traveller experienced no further difficulty in pursuing his way. He hurried forward at a rapid pace, yet could not resist the temptation to pause frequently and gaze in admiration on the scene of desolate grandeur around him. On such occasions he found it difficult to believe that the stirring events of the last few hours were real. Indeed, if it had not been that there were certain uneasy portions of his frame--the result of his recent encounter on the beach-- which afforded constant and convincing evidence that he was awake, he would have been tempted to believe that the adventures of that day were nothing more than a vivid dream. CHAPTER THREE. INTRODUCES A FEW MORE CHARACTERS AND HOMELY INCIDENTS. It was late when our hero entered the little town of St. Just, and inquired for the residence of his uncle, Thomas Donnithorne. He was directed to one of the most respectable of the group of old houses that stood close to the venerable parish church from which St. Just derives its title of "Church-town." He tapped at the door, which was opened by an elderly female. "Does Mr Thomas Donnithorne live here?" asked Oliver. "Iss, sur, he do," answered the woman; "walk in, sur." She ushered him into a small parlour, in which was seated a pretty, little, dark-eyed, rosy-cheeked girl, still in, or only just out of, her teens. Oliver was so taken aback by the unexpected sight that he stood gazing for a moment or two in rather stupid silence. "Your name is Oliver Trembath, I presume," said the girl, rising and laying down the piece of needlework with which she was occupied. "It is," replied Oliver, in some surprise, as he blundered out an apology for his rudeness. "Pray sit down, sir," said the girl; "we have been expecting you for some time, and my uncle told me to act the part of hostess till his return." "Your uncle!" exclaimed Oliver, whose self-possession, not to say impudence, returned immediately; "if Thomas Donnithorne be indeed your uncle, then, fair maid, you and I must needs be cousins, the which, I confess, fills me with satisfaction and also with somewhat of surprise, for up to this hour I have been ignorant of my good fortune in being related to so--so--" "I made a mistake, sir," said the girl, interrupting a speech which was evidently verging towards impropriety, "in calling Mr Donnithorne uncle to you, who are not aware, it seems, that I am only an adopted niece." "Not aware of it! Of course not," said Oliver, throwing himself into a large armchair, while his fair companion busied herself in spreading the board for a substantial meal. "I could not be aware of much that has occurred in this distant part of the kingdom, seeing that my worthy uncle has vouchsafed to write me only two letters in the course of my life; once, many years ago, to condole with me--in about ten lines, address and signature included--on the death of my dear mother; and once again to tell me he had procured an appointment for me as assistant-surgeon in the mining district of St. Just. He must have been equally uncommunicative to my mother, for she never mentioned your existence. However, since I have now made the agreeable discovery, I trust that you will dispense with ceremony, and allow me at once to call you cousin. By the way, you have not yet told me your name." The maiden, who was charmingly unsophisticated, replied that her name was Rose Ellis, and that she had no objection whatever to being called cousin without delay. "Well, cousin Rose," said Oliver, "if it be not prying into secrets, I should like to know how long it is since my uncle adopted you." "About nineteen years ago," replied Rose. "Oh!" said Oliver remonstratively, "before you were born? impossible!" Rose laughed--a short, clear, little laugh which she nipped in the bud abruptly, and replied-- "Well, it was only a short time after I was born. I was wrecked on this coast"--the expressive face here became very grave--"and all on board our ship perished except myself." Oliver saw at once that he had touched on a tender subject, and hastened to change it by asking a number of questions about his uncle, from which he gradually diverged to the recent events in his own history, which he began to relate with much animation. His companion was greatly interested and amused. She laughed often and heartily in a melodious undertone, and Oliver liked her laugh, for it was peculiar, and had the effect of displaying a double row of pretty little teeth, and of almost entirely shutting up her eyes. She seemed to enjoy a laugh so much that he exerted all his powers to tickle her risible faculties, and dwelt long and graphically on his meeting with the irascible old gentleman in the lane. He was still busy with this part of the discourse when a heavy step was heard outside. "There's my uncle," exclaimed Rose, springing up. A moment after the door opened, and in walked the identical irascible old gentleman himself! If a petrified impersonation of astonishment had been a possibility, Oliver Trembath would, on that occasion, have presented the phenomenon. He sat, or rather lay, extended for at least half a minute with his eyes wide and his mouth partly open, bereft alike of the powers of speech and motion. "Heyday, young man!" exclaimed the old gentleman, planting his sturdy frame in the middle of the floor as if he meant then and there to demand and exact an ample apology, or to inflict condign and terrible chastisement, for past misdeeds; "you appear to be making yourself quite at home--eh?" "My _dear_ sir!" exclaimed Oliver, leaping up with a look of dismay; "how can I express my--my--but is it, _can_ it be possible that you are Mr Donnithorne--m-my--uncle?" Oliver's expression, and the look of amazement on the countenance of Rose Ellis, who could not account for such a strange reception of her newly-found cousin, proved almost too much for the old gentleman, whose eyes had already begun to twinkle. "Ay, young man, I am Tom Donnithorne, your uncle, the vile, old, smuggling, brandy-loving rascal, who met his respectful nephew on the road to St. Just"--at this point Rose suddenly pressed her hand over her mouth, darted to her own apartment in a distant corner of the house, and there, seated on her little bed, went into what is not inaptly styled fits of laughter--"and who now," continued the old gentleman, relaxing into a genial smile, and grasping his nephew's hand, "welcomes Oliver Trembath to his house, with all his heart and soul; there, who will say after that, that old Donnithorne does not know how to return good for evil?" "But, my dear uncle," began Oliver, "allow me to explain--" "Now, now, look at that--kept me hours too late for supper already, and he's going to take up more time with explanations," cried the old gentleman, flinging himself on the chair from which Oliver had risen, and wiping his bald pate with a red silk handkerchief. "What can you explain, boy, except that you met an angry old fellow in a lane who called your uncle such hard names that you couldn't help giving him a bit of your mind--there, there, sit down, sit down.--Hallo!" he shouted, starting up impulsively and thrusting his head into the passage, "Rose, Rose, I say, where are you?--hallo!" "Coming, uncle--I'm here." The words came back like an echo, and in another minute Rose appeared with a much-flushed countenance. "Come along, lass, let's have supper without delay. Where is aunty? Rout her out, and tell that jade of a cook that if she don't dish up in five minutes I'll--I'll--. Well, Oliver, talking of explanations, how comes it that you are so late?" "Because I took the wrong road after leaving you in the lane," replied the youth, with a significant glance at his uncle, whose eyes were at the moment fixed gravely on the ground. "The wrong road--eh?" said Mr Donnithorne, looking up with a sly glance, and then laughing. "Well, well, it was only _quid pro quo_, boy; you put a good deal of unnecessary earth and stones over my head, so I thought it was but fair that I should put a good deal more of the same under your feet, besides giving you the advantage of seeing the Land's End, which, of course, every youth of intelligence must take a deep interest in beholding. But, sure, a walk thither, and thence to St. Just, could not have detained you so long?" "Truly no," replied Oliver; "I had a rencontre--a sort of adventure with fishermen, which--" "Fishermen!" exclaimed Mr Donnithorne in surprise; "are ye sure they were not smugglers--eh?" "They said they were fishermen, and they looked like such," replied Oliver; "but my adventure with them, whatever they were, was the cause of my detention, and I can only express my grief that the circumstance has incommoded your household, but, you see, it took some time to beat off the boat's crew, and then I had to examine a wound and extract--" "What say you, boy!" exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, frowning, "beat off a boat's crew--examine a wound! Why, Rose, Molly, come hither. Here we have a young gallant who hath begun life in the far west in good style; but hold, here comes my excellent friend Captain Dan, who is no friend to the smugglers; he is to sup with us to-night; so we will repress our curiosity till after supper. Let me introduce you, Oliver to my wife, your Aunt Molly, or, if you choose to be respectful, Aunt Mary." As he spoke, a fat, fair, motherly-looking lady of about five-and-forty entered the room, greeting her husband with a rebuke, and her nephew with a smile. "Never mind him, Oliver," said the good lady; "he is a vile old creature. I have heard all about your meeting with him this forenoon, and only wish I had been there to see it." "Listen to that now, Captain Dan," cried Mr Donnithorne, as the individual addressed entered the room; "my wife calls me--me, a staid, sober man of fifty-five--calls me a vile old creature. Is it not too bad? really one gets no credit nowadays for devoting oneself entirely to one's better half; but I forget: allow me to introduce you to my nephew, Oliver Trembath, just come from one of the Northern Universities to fight the smugglers of St. Just--of which more anon. Oliver, Captain Hoskin of Botallack, better known as Captain Dan. Now, sit down and let's have a bit of supper." With hospitable urgency Mr Donnithorne and his good dame pressed their guests to do justice to the fare set before them, and, during the course of the meal, the former kept up a running fire of question, comment, and reply on every conceivable subject, so that his auditors required to do little more than eat and listen. After supper, however, and when tumblers and glasses were being put down, he gave the others an opportunity of leading the conversation. "Now, Oliver," he said, "fill your glass and let us hear your adventures. What will you have--brandy, gin, or rum? My friend, Captain Dan here, is one of those remarkable men who don't drink anything stronger than ginger-beer. Of course you won't join _him_." "Thank you," said Oliver. "If you will allow me, I will join your good lady in a glass of wine. Permit me, Aunt Mary, to fill--" "No, I thank you, Oliver," said Mrs Donnithorne good-humouredly but firmly, "I side with Captain Dan; but I'll be glad to see you fill your own." "Ha!" exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, "Molly's sure to side with the opponent of her lawful lord, no matter who or what he be. Fill your own glass, boy, with what you like--cold water, an it please you--and let us drink the good old Cornish toast, `Fish, tin, and copper,' our three staples, Oliver--the bone, muscle, and fat of the county." "Fish, tin, and copper," echoed Captain Dan. "In good sooth," continued Mr Donnithorne, "I have often thought of turning teetotaller myself, but feared to do so lest my wife should take to drinking, just out of opposition. However, let that pass--and now, Oliver, open thy mouth, lad, and relate those surprising adventures of which you have given me a hint." "Indeed, uncle, I do not say they are very surprising, although, doubtless, somewhat new to one who has been bred, if not born, in comparatively quiet regions of the earth." Here Oliver related circumstantially to his wondering auditors the events which befell him after the time when he left his uncle in the lane--being interrupted only with an occasional exclamation--until he reached the part when he knocked down the man who had rescued him from the waves, when Mr Donnithorne interrupted him with an uncontrollable burst. "Ha!" shouted the old gentleman; "what! knocked down the man who saved your life, nephew? Fie, fie! But you have not told us his name yet. What was it?" "His comrades called him Jim, as I have said; and I think that he once referred to himself as Jim Cuttance, or something like that." "What say you, boy?" exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, pushing back his chair and gazing at his nephew in amazement. "Hast fought side by side with Jim Cuttance, and then knocked him down?" "Indeed I have," said Oliver, not quite sure whether his uncle regarded him as a hero or a fool. The roar of laughter which his answer drew from Captain Dan and his uncle did not tend to enlighten him much. "Oh! Oliver, Oliver," said the old gentleman, on recovering some degree of composure, "you should have lived in the days of good King Arthur, and been one of the Knights of the Round Table. Knocked down Jim Cuttance! What think'ee, Captain Dan?" "I think," said the captain, still chuckling quietly, "that the less our friend says about the matter the better for himself." "Why so?" inquired Oliver quickly. "Because," replied his uncle, with some return of gravity, "you have assisted one of the most notorious smugglers that ever lived, to fight his Majesty's coastguard--that's all. What say you, Molly--shall we convict Oliver on his own confession?" The good lady thus appealed to admitted that it was a serious matter, but urged that as Oliver did the thing in ignorance and out of gratitude, he ought to be forgiven. "_I_ think he ought to be forgiven for having knocked down Jim Cuttance," said Captain Dan. "Is he then so notorious?" asked Oliver. "Why, he is the most daring smuggler on the coast," replied Captain Dan, "and has given the preventive men more trouble than all the others put together. In fact, he is a man who deserves to be hanged, and will probably come to his proper end ere long, if not shot in a brawl beforehand." "I fear he stands some chance of it now," said Mr Donnithorne, with a sigh, "for he has been talking of erecting a battery near his den at Prussia Cove, and openly defying the Government men." "You seem to differ from Captain Dan, uncle, in reference to this man," said Oliver, with a smile. "Truly, I do, for although I condemn smuggling,--ahem!" (the old gentleman cast a peculiar glance at the captain), "I don't like to see a sturdy man hanged or shot--and Jim Cuttance is a stout fellow. I question much whether you could find his match, Captain Dan, amongst all your men?" "That I could, easily," said the captain with a quiet smile. "Pardon me, captain," said Oliver, "my uncle has not yet informed me on the point. May I ask what corps you belong to?" "To a sturdy corps of tough lads," answered the captain, with another of his quiet smiles--"men who have smelt powder, most of 'em, since they were little boys--live on the battlefield, I may say, almost night and day--spring more mines in a year than all the soldiers in the world put together--and shorten their lives by the stern labour they undergo; but they burn powder to raise, not to waste, metal. Their uniform is red, too, though not quite so red, nor yet so elegant, as that of the men in his Majesty's service. I am one of the underground captains, sir, of Botallack mine." Captain Dan's colour heightened a very little, and the tones of his voice became a little more powerful as he concluded this reply; but there was no other indication that the enthusiastic soul of one of the "captains" of the most celebrated mine in Cornwall was moved. Oliver felt, however, the contact with a kindred spirit, and, expressing much interest in the mines, proceeded to ask many questions of the captain, who, nothing loath, answered all his queries, and explained to him that he was one of the "captains," or "agents," whose duty it was to superintend the men and the works below the surface--hence the title of "underground;" while those who super-intended the works above ground were styled "grass, or surface captains." He also made an appointment to conduct the young doctor underground, and go over the mine with him at an early date. While the party in old Mr Donnithorne's dwelling were thus enjoying themselves, a great storm was gathering, and two events, very different from each other in character, were taking place--the one quiet, and apparently unimportant, the other tremendous and fatal--both bearing on and seriously influencing the subjects of our tale. CHAPTER FOUR. AT WORK UNDER THE SEA. Chip, chip, chip--down in the dusky mine! Oh, but the rock at which the miner chipped was hard, and the bit of rock on which he sat was hard, and the muscles with which he toiled were hard from prolonged labour; and the lot of the man seemed hard, as he sat there in the hot, heavy atmosphere, hour after hour, from morn till eve, with the sweat pouring down his brow and over his naked shoulders, toiling and moiling with hammer and chisel. But stout David Trevarrow did not think his lot peculiarly hard. His workshop was a low narrow tunnel deep down under the surface of the earth--ay, and deep under the bottom of the sea! His daily sun was a tallow candle, which rose regularly at seven in the morning and set at three in the afternoon. His atmosphere was sadly deficient in life-giving oxygen, and much vitiated by gunpowder smoke. His working costume consisted only of a pair of linen trousers; his colour from top to toe was red as brick-dust, owing to the iron ore around him; his food was a slice of bread, with, perchance, when he was unusually luxurious, the addition of a Cornish pasty; and his drink was water. To an inexperienced eye the man's work would have appeared not only hard but hopeless, for although his hammer was heavy, his arm strong, and his chisel sharp and tempered well, each blow produced an apparently insignificant effect on the flinty rock. Frequently a spark of fire was all that resulted from a blow, and seldom did more than a series of little chips fly off, although the man was of herculean mould, and worked "with a will," as was evident from the kind of gasp or stern expulsion of the breath with which each blow was accompanied. Unaided human strength he knew could not achieve much in such a process, so he directed his energies chiefly to the boring of blast-holes, and left it to the mighty power of gunpowder to do the hard work of rending the rich ore from the bowels of the unwilling earth. Yes, the work was very hard, probably the hardest that human muscles are ever called on to perform in this toiling world; but again we say that David Trevarrow did not think so, for he had been born to the work and bred to it, and was blissfully ignorant of work of a lighter kind, so that, although his brows frowned at the obstinate rock, his compressed lips smiled, for his thoughts were pleasant and far away. The unfettered mind was above ground roaming in fields of light, basking in sunshine, and holding converse with the birds, as he sat there chip, chip, chipping, down in the dusky mine. Stopping at last, the miner wiped his brow, and, rising, stood for a few moments silently regarding the result of his day's work. "Now, David," said he to himself, "the question is, what shall us do-- shall us keep on, or shall us knack?" He paused, as if unable to answer the question. After a time he muttered, "Keep on; it don't look promisin', sure 'nuff, an' it's poor pay; but it won't do to give in yet." Poor pay it was indeed, for the man's earnings during the past month had been barely ten shillings. But David Trevarrow had neither wife, child, nor mother to support, so he could afford to toil for poor pay, and, being of a remarkably hopeful and cheery disposition, he returned home that afternoon resolved to persevere in his unproductive toil, in the hope that at last he should discover a good "bunch of copper," or a "keenly lode of tin." David was what his friends and the world styled unfortunate. In early manhood he had been a somewhat wild and reckless fellow--a noted wrestler, and an adept in all manly sports and games. But a disappointment in love had taught him very bitterly that life is not all sunshine; and this, coupled with a physical injury which was the result of his own folly, crushed his spirit so much that his comrades believed him to be a "lost man." The injury referred to was the bursting of a blood-vessel in the lungs. It was, and still is, the custom of the youthful miners of Cornwall to test their strength by racing up the almost interminable ladders by which the mines are reached. This tremendous exertion after a day of severe toil affected them of course very severely, and in some cases seriously. Many an able-bodied man has by this means brought himself to a premature end. Among others, David Trevarrow excelled and suffered. No one could beat him in running up the ladders; but one day, on reaching the surface, blood issued from his mouth, and thenceforth his racing and wrestling days were ended, and his spirit was broken. A long illness succeeded. Then he began to mend. Slowly and by degrees his strength returned, but not his joyous spirit. Still it was some comfort to feel able for work again, and he "went underground" with some degree of his old vigour, though not with the light heart or light step of former days; but bad fortune seemed to follow him everywhere. When others among his comrades were fortunate in finding copper or tin, David was most unaccountably unsuccessful. Accidents, too, from falls and explosions, laid him up more than once, and he not only acquired the character of an unlucky man from his friends, but despite a naturally sanguine temperament, he began himself to believe that he was one of the unluckiest fellows in the world. About this time the followers of that noble Christian, John Wesley, began to make an impression on Cornwall, and to exert an influence which created a mighty change in the hearts and manners of the people, and the blessed effects of which are abundantly evident at the present day--to the rejoicing of every Christian soul. One of those ministers of our Lord happened to meet with David Trevarrow, and was the means of opening his eyes to many great and previously unknown truths. Among others, he convinced him that "God's ways are not as man's ways;" that He often, though not always, leads His people by thorny paths that they know not of, but does it in love and with His own glory in their happiness as the end in view; that the Lord Jesus Christ must be to a man "the chiefest among ten thousand, and altogether lovely," else He is to him nothing at all, and that he could be convinced of all these truths only by the Holy Spirit. It were vain to attempt to tell all that this good man said to the unhappy miner, but certain it is that from that time forth David became himself again--and yet not himself. The desire to wrestle and fight and race returned in a new form. He began to wrestle with principalities and powers, to fight the good fight of faith, and to run the race set before him in the gospel. The old hearty smile and laugh and cheery disposition also returned, and the hopeful spirit, and so much of the old robust health and strength, that it seemed as if none of the evil effects of the ruptured blood-vessel remained. So David Trevarrow went, as of old, daily to the mine. It is true that riches did not flow in upon him any faster than before, but he did not mind that much, for he had discovered another mine, in which he toiled at nights after the day's toil was over, and whence he extracted treasure of greater value than copper or tin, or even gold--treasure which he scattered in a Sabbath school with liberal hand, and found himself all the richer for his prodigality. Occasionally, after prolonged labour in confined and bad air, a faint trace of the old complaint showed itself when he reached the top of the ladders, but he was not now depressed by that circumstance as he used to be. He was past his prime at the period of which we write, and a confirmed bachelor. To return from this digression: David Trevarrow made up his mind, as we have said, to "go on," and, being a man of resolute purpose, he went on; seized his hammer and chisel, and continued perseveringly to smite the flinty rock, surrounded by thick darkness, which was not dispelled but only rendered visible by the feeble light of the tallow candle that flared at his side. Over his head rolled the billows of the Atlantic; the whistling wind howled among the wild cliffs of the Cornish coast, but they did not break the deep silence of the miner's place of midnight toil. Heaven's artillery was rending the sky, and causing the hearts of men to beat slow with awe. The great boulders ground the pebbles into sand as they crashed to and fro above him, but he heard them not--or if he did, the sound reached him as a deep-toned mysterious murmur, for, being in one of the low levels, with many fathoms of solid rock between him and the bottom of the superincumbent sea, he was beyond the reach of such disturbing influences, tremendous though they were. The miner was making a final effort at his unproductive piece of rock, and had prolonged his toil far into the night. Hour after hour he wrought almost without a moment's respite, save for the purpose, now and then, of trimming his candle. When his right arm grew tired, he passed the hammer swiftly to his left hand, and, turning the borer with his right, continued to work with renewed vigour. At last he paused, and looking over his shoulder called out--"Zackey, booy." The sound died away in a hollow echo through the retiring galleries of the mine, but there was no reply. "Zackey, booy, are 'ee slaipin'?" he repeated. A small reddish-coloured bundle, which lay in a recess close at hand, uncoiled itself like a hedgehog, and, yawning vociferously, sat up, revealing the fact that the bundle was a boy. "Ded 'ee call, uncle?" asked the boy in a sleepy tone. "Iss did I," said the man; "fetch me the powder an' fuse, my son." The lad rose, and, fetching out of a dark corner the articles required, assisted in charging the hole which his uncle had just finished boring. This was the last hole which the man intended to blast that night. For weeks past he had laboured day after day--sometimes, as on the present occasion, at night--and had removed many tons of rock, without procuring either tin or copper sufficient to repay him for his toil, so that he resolved to give it up and remove to a more hopeful part of the mine, or betake himself to another mine altogether. He had now bored his last hole, and was about to blast it. Applying his candle to the end of the fuse, he hastened along the level to a sufficient distance to afford security, warning his nephew as he passed. Zackey leaped up, and, scrambling over the debris with which the bottom of the level was covered, made good his retreat. About a minute they waited in expectancy. Suddenly there was a bright blinding flash, which lit up the rugged sides of the mine, and revealed its cavernous ramifications and black depths. This was accompanied by a dull smothered report and a crash of falling rock, together with a shower of debris. Instantly the whole place was in profound darkness. "Aw, booy," exclaimed the miner; "we was too near. It have knacked us in the dark." "So't have, uncle; I'll go an' search for the box." "Do, my son," said David. In those days lucifer matches had not been invented, and light had to be struck by means of flint, steel, and tinder. The process was tedious compared with the rapid action of congreves and vestas in the present day. The man chipped away for full three minutes before he succeeded in relighting his candle. This done, the rock was examined. "Bad still, Uncle David?" inquired the boy. "Iss, Zackey Maggot, so we'll knack'n, and try the higher mine to-morrow." Having come to this conclusion Uncle David threw down the mass of rock which he held in his brawny hands, and, picking up his implements, said, "Get the tools, booy, and lev us go to grass." Zackey, who had been in the mine all day, and was tired, tied his tools at each end of a rope, so that they might be slung over his shoulder and leave his hands free. Trevarrow treated his in the same way, and, removing his candle from the wall, fixed it on the front of his hat by the simple process of sticking thereto the lump of clay to which it was attached. Zackey having fixed his candle in the same manner, both of them put on their red-stained flannel shirts and linen coats, and traversed the level until they reached the bottom of the ladder-shaft. Here they paused for a few moments before commencing the long wearisome ascent of almost perpendicular ladders by which the miners descended to their work or returned "to grass," as they termed the act of returning to the surface. It cost them more than half an hour of steady climbing before they reached the upper part of the shaft and became aware that a storm was raging in the regions above. On emerging from the mouth of the shaft or "ladder road," man and boy were in a profuse perspiration, and the sharp gale warned them to hasten to the moor-house at full speed. Moor-houses were little buildings in which miners were wont to change their wet underground garments for dry clothes. Some of these used to be at a considerable distance from the shafts, and the men were often injured while going to them from the mine, by being exposed in an overheated state to cutting winds. Many a stout able-bodied miner has had a chill given him in this way which has resulted in premature death. Moor-houses have now been replaced by large drying-houses, near the mouths of shafts, where every convenience is provided for the men drying their wet garments and washing their persons on coming to the surface. Having changed their clothes, uncle and nephew hastened to St. Just, where they dwelt in the cottage of Maggot, the blacksmith. This man, who has already been introduced to the reader, was brother-in-law to David, and father to Zackey. When David Trevarrow entered his brother-in-law's cottage, and told him of his bad fortune, and of his resolution to try his luck next day in the higher mine, little did he imagine that his change of purpose was to be the first step in a succession of causes which were destined to result, at no very distant period, in great changes of fortune to some of his friends in St. Just, as well as to many others in the county. CHAPTER FIVE. DESCRIBES A WRECK AND SOME OF ITS CONSEQUENCES. While the miner had been pursuing his toilsome work in the solitude and silence of the level under the sea, as already described, a noble ship was leaping over the Atlantic waves--homeward bound--to Old England. She was an East-Indiaman, under close-reefed sails, and although she bent low before the gale so that the waves almost curled over her lee bulwarks, she rose buoyantly like a seagull, for she was a good ship, stout of plank and sound of timber, with sails and cordage to match. Naturally, in such a storm, those on board were anxious, for they knew that they were drawing near to land, and that "dear Old England" had an ugly seaboard in these parts--a coast not to be too closely hugged in what the captain styled "dirty weather, with a whole gale from the west'ard," so a good lookout was kept. Sharp eyes were in the foretop looking out for the guiding rays of the Long-ships lighthouse, which illumine that part of our rocky shores to warn the mariner of danger and direct him to a safe harbour. The captain stood on the "foge's'l" with stern gaze and compressed lip. The chart had been consulted, the bearings correctly noted, calculations made, and leeway allowed for. Everything in fact that could be done by a commander who knew his duty had been done for the safety of the ship--so would the captain have said probably, had he lived to be questioned as to the management of his vessel. But everything had _not_ been done. The lead, strange to say, had not been hove. It was ready to heave, but the order was delayed. Unaccountable fatality! The only safe guide that remained to the good ship on that wild night was held in abeyance. It was deemed unnecessary to heave it yet, or it was troublesome, and they would wait till nearer the land. No one now can tell the reasons that influenced the captain, but _the lead was not used_. Owing to similar delay or neglect, hundreds upon hundreds of ships have been lost, and thousands of human lives have been sacrificed! The ship passed like a dark phantom over the very head of the miner who was at work many fathoms below the bottom of the sea. "Land, ho!" came suddenly in a fierce, quick shout from the mast-head. "Starboard! starboard--hard!" cried the captain, as the roar of breakers ahead rose above the yelling of the storm. Before the order was obeyed or another word spoken the ship struck, and a shriek of human terror followed, as the foremast went by the board with a fearful crash. The waves burst over the stern, sweeping the decks fore and aft. Wave after wave lifted the great ship as though it had been a child's toy, and dashed her down upon the rocks. Her bottom was stove in, her planks and timbers were riven like matchwood. Far down below man was destroying the flinty rock, while overhead the rock was destroying the handiwork of man! But the destruction in the one case was slow, in the other swift. A desperate but futile effort was made by the crew to get out the boats, and the passengers, many of whom were women and children, rushed frantically from the cabin to the deck, and clung to anything they could lay hold of, until strength failed, and the waves tore them away. One man there was in the midst of all the terror-stricken crew who retained his self-possession in that dread hour. He was a tall, stern old man with silver locks--an Indian merchant, one who had spent his youth and manhood in the wealthy land collecting gold--"making a fortune," he was wont to say--and who was returning to his fatherland to spend it. He was a thinking and calculating man, and in the anticipation of some such catastrophe as had actually overtaken him, he had secured some of his most costly jewels in a linen belt. This belt, while others were rushing to the boats, the old man secured round his waist, and then sprang on deck, to be swept, with a dozen of his fellow-passengers, into the sea by the next wave that struck the doomed vessel. There was no one on that rugged coast to lend a helping hand. Lifeboats did not then, as now, nestle in little nooks on every part of our dangerous coasts. No eye was there to see nor ear to hear, when, twenty minutes after she struck, the East-Indiaman went to pieces, and those of her crew and passengers who had retained their hold of her uttered their last despairing cry, and their souls returned to God who gave them. It is a solemn thought that man may with such awful suddenness, and so unexpectedly, be summoned into the presence of his Maker. Thrice happy they who, when their hearts grow chill and their grasps relax as the last plank is rending, can say, "Neither death, nor life, nor any other creature, is able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord." The scene we have described was soon over, and the rich cargo of the East-Indiaman was cast upon the sea and strewn upon the shore, affording much work for many days to the coastguard, and greatly exciting the people of the district--most of whom appeared to entertain an earnest belief in the doctrine that everything cast by storms upon their coast ought to be considered public property. Portions of the wreck had the name "Trident" painted on them, and letters found in several chests which were washed ashore proved that the ship had sailed from Calcutta, and was bound for the port of London. One little boy alone escaped the waves. He was found in a crevice of the cliffs the following day, with just enough vitality left to give a few details of the wreck. Although all possible care was bestowed on him, he died before night. Thus sudden and complete was the end of as fine a ship as ever spread her canvas to the breeze. At night she had been full of life--full of wealth; in the morning she was gone--only a few bales and casks and broken spars to represent the wealth, and stiffened corpses to tell of the life departed. So she came and went, and in a short time all remnants of her were carried away. One morning, a few weeks after the night of the storm, Maggot the smith turned himself in his bed at an early hour, and, feeling disinclined to slumber, got up to look at the state of the weather. The sun was just rising, and there was an inviting look about the morning which induced the man to dress hastily and go out. Maggot was a powerfully-built man, rough in his outer aspect as well as in his inner man, but by no means what is usually termed a bad man, although, morally speaking, he could not claim to be considered a good one. In fact, he was a hearty, jolly, reckless fisherman, with warm feelings, enthusiastic temperament, and no principle; a man who, though very ready to do a kind act, had no particular objection to do one that was decidedly objectionable when it suited his purpose or served his present interest. He was regarded by his comrades as one of the greatest madcaps in the district. Old Maggot was, as we have said, a blacksmith to trade, but he had also been bred a miner, and was something of a fisherman as well, besides being (like most of his companions) an inveterate smuggler. He could turn his hand to almost anything, and was "everything by turns, but nothing long." Sauntering down to Priests Cove, on the south of Cape Cornwall, with his hands in his pockets and his sou'-wester stuck carelessly on his shaggy head, he fell in with a comrade, whom he hailed by the name of John Cock. This man was also a fisherman, _et cetera_, and the bosom friend and admirer of Maggot. "Where bound to this mornin', Jack?" inquired Maggot. "To fish," replied John. "I go with 'ee, booy," said Maggot. This was the extent of the conversation at that time. They were not communicative, but walked side by side in silence to the beach, where they launched their little boat and rowed out to sea. Presently John Cock looked over his shoulder and exclaimed--"Maggot, I see summat." "Do 'ee?" "Iss do I." "What do un look like?" "Like a dead corp." "Aw, my dear," said Maggot, "lev us keep away. It can do no good to we." Acting on this opinion the men rowed past the object that was floating on the sea, and soon after began to fish; but they had not fished long when the dead body, drifted probably by some cross-current, appeared close to them again. Seeing this they changed their position, but ere long the body again appeared. "P'raps," observed Maggot, "there's somethin' in its pockets." As the same idea had occurred to John Cock, the men resolved to examine the body, so they rowed up to it and found it to be that of an elderly man, much decomposed, and nearly naked. A very short examination sufficed to show that the pockets of such garments as were still upon it were empty, and the men were about to let it go again, when Maggot exclaimed-- "Hold fast, Jack, I see somethin' tied round the waist of he; a sort o' belt it do seem." The belt was quickly removed and the body released, when it sank with a heavy plunge, but ere long reappeared on the surface. The fishermen rowed a considerable distance away from it, and then shipped their oars and examined the belt, which was made of linen. Maggot sliced it up as he would have ripped up a fish, and laid bare, to the astonished gaze of himself and his friend, a number of glittering gems of various colours, neatly and firmly embedded in cotton, besides a variety of rings and small brooches set with precious stones. "Now, I tell 'ee," said Maggot, "'tis like as this here will make our fortin', or else git we into trouble." "Why, whatever shud we git into trouble 'bout it for?" said John Cock. "'Tis like as not they ain't real--only painted glass, scarce wuth the trouble o' car'in' ashore." "Hould thy tongue, thee g'eat chucklehead," replied Maggot; "a man wouldn't go for to tie such stuff round his waist to drown hisself with, I do know, if they worn't real. Lev us car' 'em to Maister Donnithorne." John Cock replied with a nod, and the two men, packing up the jewels, pulled in-shore as fast as possible. Hauling their boat beyond the reach of the surf, they hastened to St. Just, and requested a private audience of Mr Donnithorne. [See note 1.] That excellent gentleman was not unaccustomed to give private audiences to fishermen, and, as has been already hinted at the beginning of this tale, was reported to have private dealings with them also--of a very questionable nature. He received the two men, however, with the hearty air of a man who knows that the suspicions entertained of him by the calumnious world are false. "Well, Maggot," said Mr Donnithorne, "what is your business with me? You are not wont to be astir so early, if all be true that is reported of 'ee." "Plaise, sur," said Maggot, with a glance at Rose Ellis, who sat sewing near the window, "I'm come to talk 'bout private matters--if--" "Leave us, Rose dear, for a little," said the old gentleman. As soon as she was out of the room Maggot locked the door, a proceeding which surprised Mr Donnithorne not a little, but his surprise was much greater when the man drew a small parcel from the breast of his rough coat, and, unrolling it, displayed the glittering jewels of which he had so unexpectedly become possessed. "Where got you these?" inquired Mr Donnithorne, turning them over carefully. "Got 'em in the say--catched 'em, sure 'nough," said Maggot. "Not with a baited hook, I warrant," said the old gentleman. "Come, my son, let's hear all about it." Maggot explained how he had obtained the jewels, and then asked what they were worth. "I can't tell that," said Mr Donnithorne, shaking his head gravely. "Some of them are undoubtedly of value; the others, for all I know, may not be worth much." "Come now, sur," said Maggot, with a confidential leer, "it's not the fust time we have done a bit o' business. I 'spose I cud claim salvage on 'em?" "I don't know that," said the old gentleman; "you cannot tell whom they belonged to, and I suspect Government would claim them, if--But, by the way, I suppose you found no letters--nothing in the shape of writing on the body?" "Nothin' whatsomever." "Well, then, I fear that--" "Come now, sur," said Maggot boldly; "'spose you gives John and me ten pounds apaice an' kape 'em to yourself to make what 'ee can of 'em?" Mr Donnithorne shook his head and hesitated. Often before had he defrauded the revenue by knowingly purchasing smuggled brandy and tobacco, and by providing the funds to enable others to smuggle them; but then the morality of that day in regard to smuggling was very lax, and there were men who, although in all other matters truly honest and upright, could not be convinced of the sinfulness of smuggling, and smiled when they were charged with the practice, but who, nevertheless, would have scorned to steal or tell a downright lie. This, however, was a very different matter from smuggling. The old gentleman shrank from it at first, and could not meet the gaze of the smuggler with his usual bold frank look. But the temptation was great. The jewels he suspected were of immense value, and his heart readily replied to the objections raised by his conscience, that after all there was no one left to claim them, and he had a much better right to them, in equity if not in law, than Government; and as to the fellows who found them--why, the sum they asked would be a great and rich windfall to them, besides freeing them from all further trouble, as well as transferring any risk that might accrue from their shoulders to his own. While the old gentleman was reasoning thus with himself, Maggot stood anxiously watching his countenance and twisting the cloth that had enclosed the jewellery into a tight rope, as he shifted his position uneasily. At length old Mr Donnithorne said-- "Leave the jewels with me, and call again in an hour from this time. You shall then have my answer." Maggot and his friend consented to this delay, and left the room. No sooner were they gone than the old gentleman called his wife, who naturally exclaimed in great surprise on beholding the table covered with such costly trinkets-- "Where _ever_ did you get these, Tom?" Mr Donnithorne explained, and then asked what she thought of Maggot's proposal. "Refuse it," said she firmly. "But, my dear--" "Don't `but' about it, Tom. Whenever a man begins to `but' with sin, it is sure to butt him over on his back. Have nothing to do with it, _I_ say." "But, my dear, it is not dishonest--" "I don't know that," interrupted Mrs Donnithorne vigorously; "you think that smuggling is not dishonest, but I do, and so does the minister." "What care _I_ for the minister?" cried the old gentleman, losing his temper; "who made _him a_ judge of my doings?" "He is an expounder of God's Word," said Mrs Donnithorne firmly, "and holds that `Thou shalt not steal' is one of the Ten Commandments." "Well, well, he and I don't agree, that's all; besides, has he never expounded to you that obedience to your husband is a virtue? a commandment, I may say, which you are--" "Mr Donnithorne," said the lady with dignity, "I am here at your request, and am now complying with your wishes in giving my opinion." "There, there, Molly," said the subdued husband, giving his better half a kiss, "don't be so sharp. You ought to have been a lawyer with your powerful reasoning capacity. However, let me tell you that you don't understand these matters--" "Then why ask my advice, Tom?" "Why, woman, because an inexplicable fatality leads me to consult you, although I know well enough what the upshot will be. But I'm resolved to close with Maggot." "I knew you would," said Mrs Donnithorne quietly. The last remark was the turning-point. Had the good lady condescended to be _earnest_ in her entreaties that the bargain should not be concluded, it is highly probable her husband would have given in; but her last observation nettled him so much that he immediately hoisted a flag of defiance, nailed it to the mast, and went out in great indignation to search for Maggot. That individual was not far off. The bargain was completed, the jewels were locked up in one of the old gentleman's secret repositories, and the fishermen, with ten pounds apiece in their pockets, returned home. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. It may be well here to inform the reader that the finding of the jewels as here described, and the consequences which followed, are founded on fact. CHAPTER SIX. TREATS OF THE MINER'S COTTAGE, WORK, AND COSTUME. Maggot's home was a disordered one when he reached it, for his youngest baby, a fat little boy, had been seized with convulsions, and his wife and little daughter Grace, and son Zackey, and brother-in-law David Trevarrow, besides his next neighbour Mrs Penrose, with her sixteen children, were all in the room, doing their best by means of useless or hurtful applications, equally useless advice, and intolerable noise and confusion, to cure, if not to kill, the baby. Maggot's cottage was a poor one, his furniture was mean, and there was not much of it; nevertheless its inmates were proud of it, for they lived in comparative comfort there. Mrs Maggot was a kind-hearted, active woman, and her husband--despite his smuggling propensities--was an affectionate father. Usually the cottage was kept in a most orderly condition; but on the present occasion it was, as we have said, in a state of great confusion. "Fetch me a bit of rag, Grace," cried Mrs Maggot, just as her husband entered. "Here's a bit, old 'ooman," said Maggot, handing her the linen cloth in which the jewels had been wrapped up, and which he had unconsciously retained in his hands on quitting Mr Donnithorne--"Run, my dear man," he added, turning to John Cock, "an' fetch the noo doctor." John darted away, and in a quarter of an hour returned with Oliver Trembath, who found that the baby had weathered the storm by the force of its own constitution, despite the adverse influences that were around it. He therefore contented himself with clearing the place of intruders, and prescribing some simple medicine. "Are you going to work?" inquired Oliver of David Trevarrow, observing that the man was about to quit the cottage. "Iss, sur--to Botallack." "Then I will accompany you. Captain Dan is going to show me over part of the mine to-day. Good-morning, Mrs Maggot, and remember my directions if this should happen to the little fellow again." Leaving the cottage the two proceeded through the town to the north end of it, accompanied by Maggot, who said he was going to the forge to do a bit of work, and who parted from them at the outskirts of the town. "Times are bad with you at the mines just now, I find," said Oliver as they walked along. "Iss sur, they are," replied Trevarrow, in the quiet tone that was peculiar to him; "but, thank God, we do manage to live, though there are some of us with a lot o' child'n as finds it hard work. The Bal [The mine] ain't so good as she once was." "I suppose that you have frequent changes of fortune?" said Oliver. The miner admitted that this was the case, for that sometimes a man worked underground for several weeks without getting enough to keep his family, while at other times he might come on a bunch of copper or tin which would enable him to clear 50 pounds or more in a month. "If report says truly," observed Oliver, "you have hit upon a `keenly lode,' as you call it, not many days ago." "A do look very well now, sur," replied the miner, "but wan can never tell. I did work for weeks in the level under the say without success, so I guv it up an went to Wheal Hazard, and on the back o' the fifty-fathom level I did strike 'pon a small lode of tin 'bout so thick as my finger. It may get better, or it may take the bit in its teeth and disappear; we cannot tell." "Well, I wish you good luck," said Oliver; "and here comes Captain Dan, so I'll bid you good-morning." "Good-morning, sur," said the stout-limbed and stout-hearted man, with a smile and a nod, as he turned off towards the moor-house to put on his mining garments. Towards this house a number of men had been converging while Oliver and his companion approached it, and the former observed, that whatever colour the men might be on entering it, they invariably came out light red, like lobsters emerging from a boiling pot. In Botallack mine a large quantity of iron is mingled with the tin ore. This colours everything in and around the mine, including men's clothes, hands, and faces, with a light rusty-red. The streams, of course, are also coloured with it, and the various pits and ponds for collecting the fluid mud of tin ore seem as if filled with that nauseous compound known by the name of "Gregory's Mixture." In the moor-house there were rows of pegs with red garments hung thereon to dry, and there were numerous broad-shouldered men dressing and undressing--in every stage of the process; while in a corner two or three were washing their bodies in a tank of water. These last were men who had been at work all night, and were cleansing themselves before putting on what we may term their home-going clothes. The mining dress is a very simple, and often a very ragged affair. It consists of a flannel shirt, a pair of linen trousers, a short coat of the same, and a hat in the form of a stiff wide-awake, but made so thick as to serve the purpose of a helmet to guard the head from the rocks, etcetera. Clumsy ankle-boots complete the costume. As each man issued from the house, he went to a group of wooden chests which lay scattered about outside, and, opening his own, took from it a bag of powder, some blasting fuse, several iron tools, which he tied to a rope so as to be slung over his shoulder, a small wooden canteen of water, and a bunch of tallow candles. These last he fastened to a button on his breast, having previously affixed one of them to the front of his hat. Thus accoutred, they proceeded to a small platform close at hand, with a square hole in it, out of which protruded the head of a ladder. This was the "ladder road." Through the hole these red men descended one by one, chatting and laughing as they went, and disappeared, leaving the moor-house and all around it a place of solitude. Captain Dan now prepared to descend this ladder road with Oliver Trembath. CHAPTER SEVEN. TELLS OF THE GREAT MINE AND OF A ROYAL DIVE UNDER THE SEA. Botallack, to the dark depths of which we are now about to descend, is the most celebrated mine in the great mining county of Cornwall. It stands on the sea coast, a little more than a mile to the north of St. Just. The region around it is somewhat bleak and almost destitute of trees. In approaching it, the eyes of the traveller are presented with a view of engine-houses, and piles of stones and rubbish, in the midst of which stand a number of uncouth yet picturesque objects, composed of boards and timber, wheels, ropes, pulleys, chains, and suchlike gear. These last are the winding erections of the shafts which lead to the various mines, for the whole region is undermined, and Botallack is only one of several in St. Just parish. Wherever the eye turns, there, in the midst of green fields, where rocks and rocky fences abound, may be seen, rising prominently, the labouring arms, or "bobs," of the pump and skip engines, and the other machinery required in mining operations; while the ear is assailed by the perpetual clatter of the "stamps," or ore-crushing machines, which never cease their din, day or night, except on Sundays. Botallack, like all the other mines, has several "shafts" or entrances to the works below, such as Boscawen Shaft, Wheal Button, Wheal Hazard, Chicornish Shaft, Davis Shaft, Wheal Cock, etcetera, the most interesting of which are situated among the steep rugged cliffs that front and bid defiance to the utmost fury of the Atlantic Ocean. From whatever point viewed, the aspect of Botallack mine is grand in the extreme. On the rocky point that stretches out into the sea, engines with all their fantastic machinery and buildings have been erected. On the very summit of the cliff is seen a complication of timbers, wheels, and chains sharply defined against the sky, with apparently scarce any hold of the cliff, while down below, on rocky ledges and in black chasms, are other engines and beams and rods and wheels and chains, fastened and perched in fantastic forms in dangerous-looking places. Here, amid the most savage gorges of the sea and riven rocks--half clinging to the land, half suspended over the water--is perched the machinery of, and entrance to, the most singular shaft of the mine, named the "Boscawen Diagonal Shaft." This shaft descends under the sea at a steep incline. It is traversed, on rails, by an iron carriage called the "gig," which is lowered and drawn up by steam power. Starting as it does from an elevated position in the rocks that are close to the edge of the sea, and slanting down through the cape, _outward_ or seaward, this vehicle descends only a few fathoms when it is _under the ocean's bed_, and then its further course is far out and deep down--about two-thirds of a mile out, and full 245 fathoms down! The gig conveys the men to and from their work--the ore being drawn up by another iron carriage. There is (or rather there was, before the self-acting brake was added) danger attending the descent of this shaft, for the rope, although good and strong, is not immaculate, as was proved terribly in the year 1864--when it broke, and the gig flew down to the bottom like lightning, dashing itself to pieces, and instantly killing the nine unfortunate men who were descending at the time. Nevertheless, the Prince and Princess of Wales did not shrink from descending this deep burrow under the sea in the year 1865. It was a great day for St. Just and Botallack that 24th of July on which the royal visit was paid. Great were the expectation and preparation on all hands to give a hearty welcome to the royal pair. The ladies arrayed themselves in their best to do fitting honour to the Princess; the balmaidens donned their holiday-attire, and Johnny Fortnight [see note 1] took care, by supplying the poor mine-girls with the latest fashions, that their appearance should be, if we may be allowed the word, _splendiferous_! The volunteers, too, turned out in force, and no one, looking at their trim, soldierly aspect, could have believed them to be the same miners who were wont to emerge each evening through a hole in the earth, red as lobsters, wet, ragged, and befouled--in a word, surrounded by a halo of dishevelment, indicative of their rugged toils in the regions below. Everywhere the people turned out to line the roads, and worthily receive the expected visitors, and great was the cheering when they arrived, accompanied by the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland, the Earl of Mount Edgecumbe, Lady de Grey, Lord and Lady Vivian, General Knollys, and others, but louder still was the cheer when the Princess rode down the steep descent to the cliffs in a donkey-carriage. The Botallack cliffs themselves, however, were the central point, not only of the interest, but of the grandeur of the scene, for here were presented such a view and combination as are not often witnessed--nature in one of her wildest aspects, combined with innumerable multitudes of human beings swayed by one feeling of enthusiastic loyalty. Above, on every attainable point, projection, and eminence, men and women clustered like gay flies on the giant cliffs, leaving immense gaps here and there, where no foot might venture save that of a bird. Midway, on the face of the precipice, clung the great beams and supports of the Boscawen Diagonal Shaft, with the little gig perched on them and the royal party seated therein, facing the entrance to the black abyss--the Princess arrayed in a white flannel cloak trimmed with blue, and a straw hat with a blue ribbon round it, and the Prince clad in miner's costume. Underneath, a dizzy depth to gaze down, lay the rugged boulders of the shore, with the spray of the Atlantic springing over them. Deafening was the cheer when the gig at last entered the shaft and disappeared, and intense the anxiety of the vast multitude as they watched the descent--in imagination, of course, for nothing could be seen but the tight wire-rope uncoiling its endless length, and disappearing like a thin snake down the jaws of some awful sea-monster that had climbed so far up the cliffs to meet and devour it! Now they are at the shore; now passing under the sea; fairly under it by this time; a few minutes more and they have reached the spot where yonder seagull is now wheeling above the waves, wondering what new species of bird has taken possession of its native cliffs. Five minutes are passed--yet still descending rapidly! They must be half a mile out from the land now--half of a mile out on the first part of a submarine tunnel to America! "Old England is on the lee," but they are very much the reverse of afloat; solid rock is above, on either side and below--so close to them that the elbows must not be allowed to protrude over the edge of their car, nor the head be held too high. Here even royalty must stoop--not that we would be understood to imply that royalty cannot stoop elsewhere. Those who dwell in Highland cottages could contradict us if we did! Presently the rope "slows"--the lower depths are reached, and now for some time there is patient waiting, for it is understood that they are examining the "levels," where the stout men of Cornwall tear out the solid rock in quest of copper and tin. After a time the thin snake begins to ascend; they are coming up now, but not so fast as they went down. It is about ten minutes before the gig emerges from that black hole and bears the Prince and Princess once more into the light of day. Yes, it was a great day for Botallack, and it will dwell long in the memories of those who witnessed it--especially of that fortunate captain of the mine who had the honour of conducting the Princess on the occasion, and of whose enthusiasm in recalling the event, and in commenting on her intelligence and condescension, we can speak from personal observation. But, reader, you will say, What has all this to do with our story? Nothing--we admit it frankly--nothing whatever in a direct way; nevertheless, indirectly, the narrative may possibly arouse in you greater interest in the mine down which we are about to conduct you--not by the same route as that taken by the Prince and Princess (for the Boscawen Shaft did not exist at the period of our tale), but by one much more difficult and dangerous, as you shall see. Before we go, however, permit us to add to the offence of digression, by wandering still further out of our direct road. There are a few facts regarding Botallack and mining operations, without a knowledge of which you will be apt at times to misunderstand your position. Let us suppose that a mine has been already opened; that a "lode"--that is, a vein of quartz with metal in it--has been discovered cropping out of the earth, and that it has been dug down upon from above, and dug in upon from the sea-cliffs. A shaft has been sunk--in other words, a hole excavated--let us say, two or three hundred yards inland, to a depth of some forty or fifty fathoms,--near the sea-level. This shaft is perhaps nine feet by six wide. The lode, being a layer of quartz, sometimes slopes one way, sometimes another, and is occasionally perpendicular. It also varies in its run or direction a little here and there, like a wildish horse, being sometimes met by other lodes, which, like bad companions, divert it from the straight course. Unlike bad companions, however, they increase its value at the point of meeting by thickening it. Whatever course the lode takes, the miner conscientiously follows suit. His shaft slopes much, little, or not at all, according to the "lie of the lode." It is an ancient truism that water must find its level. Owing to this law, much water accumulates in the shaft, obliging the miner to erect an engine-house and provide a powerful pumping-engine with all its gear, at immense cost, to keep the works dry as he proceeds. He then goes to the shore, and there, in the face of the perpendicular cliff, a little above the sea-level, he cuts a horizontal tunnel about six feet high by three broad, and continues to chisel and blast away the solid rock until he "drives" his tunnel a quarter of a mile inland, which he will do at a rate varying from two to six feet per week, according to the hardness of the rock, until he reaches the shaft and thus provides an easy and inexpensive passage for the water without pumping. This tunnel or level he calls the "Adit level." But his pumping-engine is by no means rendered useless, for it has much to do in hauling ore to the surface, etcetera. In process of time, the miner works away all the lode down to the sea-level, and must sink the shaft deeper--perhaps ten or twenty fathoms--where new levels are driven horizontally "on the lode," and water accumulates which must be pumped up to the Adit level, whence it escapes to the sea. Thus down, down, he goes, sinking his shaft and driving his levels on-- that is, always following the lode _ad infinitum_. Of course he must stop before reaching the other side of the world! At the present time Botallack has progressed in that direction to a depth of 245 fathoms. To those who find a difficulty in realising what depth that really is, we would observe that it is equal to more than three and a half times the height of St. Paul's Cathedral in London, nearly four times the height of St. Rollox chimney in Glasgow, and considerably more than twice the height, from the plain, of Arthur's Seat, near Edinburgh. When the levels have been driven a considerable distance from the shaft, the air naturally becomes bad from want of circulation. To remedy this evil, holes, or short shafts, called "winzes," are sunk at intervals from the upper to the lower levels. These winzes are dangerous traps for the unwary or careless, extending frequently to a depth of ten or fifteen fathoms, and being bridged across by one or two loose planks. Ladders are fixed in many of them to facilitate progress through the mine. When a miner drives the end of his level so far that the air will not circulate, a new winze is usually sunk down to him from the level above. The circulation is thus extended, and the levels progress further and further right and left until they occupy miles of ground. The levels and shafts of Botallack, if put together, would extend to not less than forty miles, and the superficial space of ground, on and beneath which the mine lies, is above 260 acres. When the lode is rich, and extends upwards or downwards, it is cut away from between levels, in a regular systematic manner, strong beams being placed to support temporary platforms, on which the miners may stand and work as they ascend. When they have cut all the lode away up to the level above them, a false timber bottom is made to replace the rocky bottom of the level which is being removed. Thus, in traversing the old workings of a mine one suddenly comes to great caverns, very narrow, but of such immense height above and depth below that the rays of your candle cannot penetrate the darkness. In such places the thick short beams that were used by the old miners are seen extending from side to side of the empty space, disappearing in dim perspective. Woe betide the man who stumbles off his narrow plank, or sets his foot on an insecure beam in such places! Where such workings are in progress, the positions of the miners appear singularly wild and insecure. The men stand in the narrow chasm between the granite walls above each others' heads, slight temporary platforms alone preserving them from certain death, and the candles of those highest above you twinkling like stars in a black sky. In these underground regions of Botallack, above three hundred men and boys are employed, some of whom work occasionally by night as well as by day. On the surface about two hundred men, women, and boys are employed "dressing" the ore, etcetera. Other mines there are in the great mining centres of Cornwall--Redruth, St. Just, St. Austell, and Helston, which are well worthy of note--some of them a little deeper, and some richer than Botallack. But we profess not to treat of all the Cornish mines; our object is to describe one as a type of many, if not all, and as this one runs farthest out beneath the sea, is deeper than most of the others, and richer than many, besides having interesting associations, and being of venerable antiquity, we hold it to be the one most worthy of selection. With a few briefly stated facts we shall take final leave of statistics. As we have said, the Boscawen shaft measures 245 fathoms. The ladder-way by which the men ascend and descend daily extends to 205 fathoms. It takes a man half an hour to reach the bottom, and fully an hour to climb to the surface. There are three pumping and seven winding engines at work--the largest being of 70 horse-power. The tin raised is from 33 to 35 tons a month. The price of tin has varied from 55 pounds to 90 pounds per ton. In time past, when Botallack was more of a copper than a tin-mine, a fathom has been known to yield 100 pounds worth of ore, and a miner has sometimes broken out as much as 300 pounds worth in one month. The mine has been worked from time immemorial. It is known to have been wrought a hundred years before it was taken by the present company, who have had it between thirty and forty years, and, under the able direction of the present manager and purser, Mr Stephen Harvey James, it has paid the shareholders more than 100,000 pounds. The profit in the year 1844 was 24,000 pounds. At the termination of one period of working it left a profit of 300,000 pounds. It has experienced many vicissitudes of fortune. Formerly it was worked for tin, and at one period (1841) was doing so badly that it was about to be abandoned, when an unlooked for discovery of copper was made, and a period of great prosperity again set in, during which many shareholders and miners made their fortunes out of Botallack. Thus much, with a humble apology, we present to the reader, and now resume the thread of our narrative. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. The packmen are so styled because of their visits being paid fortnightly. CHAPTER EIGHT. DOWN, DOWN, DOWN. Before descending the mine Captain Dan led Oliver to the counting-house, where he bade him undress and put on miner's clothing. "I'll need a biggish suit," observed Oliver. "True," said Captain Dan; "we are obliged usually to give visitors our smallest suits. You are an exception to the rule. Indeed, I'm not sure that I have a pair of trousers big enough for--ah yes, by the way, here is a pair belonging to one of our captains who is unusually stout and tall; I dare say you'll be able to squeeze into 'em." "All right," said Oliver, laughing, as he pulled on the red garments; "they are wide enough round the waist, at all events. Now for a hat." "There," said the captain, handing him a white cotton skull-cap, "put that on." "Why, what's this for?" said Oliver. "To keep _that_ from dirtying your head," replied the other, as he handed his companion a thick felt hat, which was extremely dirty, on the front especially, where the candle was wont to be fixed with wet clay. "Now, then, attach these two candles to that button in your breast, and you are complete.--Not a bad miner to look at," said Captain Dan with a smile of approval. The captain was already equipped in underground costume, and the dirty disreputable appearance he presented was, thought Oliver, a wonderful contrast to his sober and gentlemanly aspect on the evening of their first meeting at his uncle's table. "I'll strike a light after we get down a bit--so come along," said Captain Dan, leaving the office and leading the way. On reaching the entrance to the shaft, Oliver Trembath looked down and observed a small speck of bright light in the black depths. "A man coming up--wait a bit," said the captain in explanation. Presently a faint sound of slow footsteps was heard; they grew gradually more distinct, and ere long the head and shoulders of a man emerged from the hole. Perspiration was trickling down his face, and painting him, streakily, with iron rust and mud. All his garments were soaking. He sighed heavily on reaching the surface, and appeared to inhale the fresh air with great satisfaction. "Any more coming?" "No, Captain Dan," replied the man, glancing with some curiosity at the tall stranger. "Now, sir, we shall descend," said the captain, entering the shaft. Oliver followed, and at once plunged out of bright sunshine into subdued light. A descent of a few fathoms brought them to the bottom of the first ladder. It was a short one; most of the others, the captain told him, were long ones. The width of the shaft was about six feet by nine. It was nearly perpendicular, and the slope of the ladders corresponded with its width--the head of each resting against one side of it, and the foot against the other, thus forming a zigzag of ladders all the way down. At the foot of the first ladder the light was that of deep twilight. Here was a wooden platform, and a hole cut through it, out of which protruded the head of the second ladder. The Captain struck a light, and, applying it to one of the candles, affixed the same to the front of Oliver's hat. Arranging his own hat in a similar way, he continued the descent, and, in a few minutes, both were beyond the region of daylight. When they had got a short way down, probably the distance of an ordinary church-steeple's height below the surface, Oliver looked up and saw the little opening far above him, shining brightly like a star. A few steps more and it vanished from view; he felt that he had for the first time in his life reached the regions of eternal night. The shaft varied in width here and there; in most places it was very narrow--about six feet wide--but, what with cross-beams to support the sides, and prevent soft parts from falling in, and other obstructions, the space available for descent was often not more than enough to permit of a man squeezing past. A damp smell pervaded the air, and there was a strange sense of contraction and confinement, so to speak, which had at first an unpleasant effect on Oliver. The silence, when both men paused at a ladder-foot to trim candles or to rest a minute, was most profound, and there came over the young doctor a sensation of being buried alive, and of having bid a final farewell to the upper earth, the free air, and the sunshine, as they went down, down, down to the depths below. At last they reached a "level" or gallery, by which the ladder-shaft communicated with the pump-shaft. Here Captain Dan paused and trimmed Oliver's candle, which he had thrust inadvertently against a beam, and broken in two. "You have to mind your head here, sir," said the captain, with a quiet smile; "'tis a good place to learn humility." Oliver could scarce help laughing aloud as he gazed at his guide, for, standing as he did with the candle close to his face, his cheeks, nose, chin, forehead, and part of the brim of his hat and shoulders were brought into brilliant light, while the rest of him was lost in the profound darkness of the level behind, and the flame of his candle rested above his head like the diadem of some aristocratic gnome. "How far down have we come?" inquired Oliver. "About eighty fathoms," said the captain; "we shall now go along this level and get into the pump-shaft, by which we can descend to the bottom. Take care of your feet and head as you go, for you'll be apt to run against the rocks that hang down, and the winzes are dangerous." "And pray what are winzes?" asked Oliver as he stumbled along in the footsteps of his guide, over uneven ground covered with debris.--"Ah! hallo! stop!" "What's wrong?" said the captain, looking back, and holding up his candle to Oliver's face. "Candle gone again, captain; I've run my head on that rock. Lucky for me that your mining hats are so thick and hard, for I gave it a butt that might have done credit to an ox." "I told you to mind your head," said Captain Dan, relighting the candle; "you had better carry it in your hand in the levels, it will light your path better. Look out now--here is a winze." The captain pointed to a black yawning hole, about six or seven feet in diameter, which was bridged across by a single plank. "How deep does it go?" asked the youth, holding up his candle and peering in; "I can't see the bottom." "I dare say not," said the captain, "for the bottom is ten fathoms down, at the next level." "And are all the winzes bridged with a single plank in this way?" "Why, no, some of 'em have two or three planks, but they're quite safe if you go steady." "And, pray, how many such winzes are there in the mine?" asked Oliver. "Couldn't say exactly, without thinkin' a bit," replied the captain; "but there are a great number of 'em--little short of a hundred, I should say--for we have a good many miles of levels in Botallack, which possesses an underground geography as carefully measured and mapped out as that of the surface." "And what would happen," asked Oliver, with an expression of half-simulated anxiety, "if you were to fall down a winze and break your neck, and my candle were to get knocked or blown out, leaving me to find my way out of a labyrinth of levels pierced with holes sixty feet deep?" "Well, it's hard to say," replied Captain Dan with much simplicity. "Go on," said Oliver, pursing his lips with a grim smile, as he followed his leader across the narrow bridge. Captain Dan continued his progress until he reached the pump-shaft, the proximity of which was audibly announced by the slow ascent and descent of a great wooden beam, which was styled the "pump-rod." Alongside, and almost touching it, for space was valuable there, and had to be economised, was the iron pipe--nearly a foot in diameter--which conveyed the water from the mine to the "Adit level." The slow-heaving plunge, of about ten feet in extent, and the sough or sigh of the great beam, with the accompanying gurgle of water in the huge pipe, were sounds that seemed horribly appropriate to the subterranean scene. One could have imagined the mine to be a living giant in the last throes of death by drowning. But these were only one half of the peculiarities of the place. On the other side of the shaft an arrangement of beams and partially broken boards formed the traversing "ways" or tube, up which were drawn the kibbles--these last being large iron buckets used for lifting ore to the surface. In the present day, machinery being more perfect, the ancient kibble has been to some extent supplanted by skips, or small trucks with wheels (in some cases iron boxes with guiding-rods), which are drawn up smoothly, and without much tear and wear; but in the rough times of which we write, the sturdy kibble used to go rattling up the shaft with deafening noise, dinting its thick sides, and travelling with a jovial free-and-easy swing that must have added considerably to the debit side of the account of working expenses. Between the pump-rod and the kibble-way there was just room for the ladders upon which Captain Dan, followed by Oliver, now stepped. This shaft was very wet, water dropped and spirted about in fine spray everywhere, and the rounds of the ladders were wet and greasy with much-squeezed slime. It would seem as though the kibbles had known that a stranger was about to descend and had waited for him, for no sooner did Oliver get on the ladder than they began to move--the one to ascend full, and the other to descend empty. "What's that?" exclaimed Oliver. "It's only the kibbles," replied Captain Dan. Before the captain could explain what kibbles were, these reckless buckets met, with a bang, close to Oliver's cheek, and rebounded on the beams that protected him from their fury. Naturally the young man shrank a little from a noise so loud and so near. He was at once scraped down on the other side by the pump-rod! Drawing himself together as much as possible, and feeling for once the disadvantage of being a large man, he followed his leader down, down, ever down, into the profounder depths below. All this time they had not met with a miner, or with any sign of human life--unless the pump and kibbles could be regarded as such--for they had been hitherto traversing the old levels and workings of the mine, but at last, during one of their pauses, they heard the faint sound of chip, chip, chip, in the far distance. "Miners?" inquired Oliver. Captain Dan nodded, and said they would now leave the shaft and go to where the men were at work. He cautioned his companion again to have regard to his head, and to mind his feet. As they proceeded, he stopped ever and anon to point out some object of peculiar interest. "There's a considerable space above and below you here, sir," said the captain, stopping suddenly in a level which was not more than three feet wide. Oliver had been so intent on his feet, and mindful of the winzes, that he had failed to observe the immense black opening overhead. It extended so high above him, and so far forward and backward in the direction of the level, that its boundaries were lost in an immensity of profoundly dark space. The rocky path was also lost to view, both before and behind them, so that the glare of their lights on the metallic walls rendered the spot on which they stood a point of brilliancy in the midst of darkness. Only part of a great beam was visible here and there above them, as if suspended in the gloom to render its profundity more apparent. This, Captain Dan explained, was the space that had once been occupied by a rich lode of ore, all of which had been removed years ago, to the great commercial advantage of a past generation. Soon after passing this the captain paused at a deep cutting in the rock, and, looking sadly at it for a few minutes, said,--"It was here that poor Trevool lost his life. He was a good lad, but careless, and used to go rattling along the levels with his light in his hat and his thoughts among the stars, instead of carrying the light in his hand and looking to his feet. He fell down that winze and broke his back. When we got him up to grass he was alive, but he never spoke another word, and died the same night." "Poor fellow!" said Oliver; "I suppose your men have narrow escapes sometimes." "They have, sir, but it's most always owin' to carelessness. There was a cousin of that very lad Trevool who was buried with a comrade by the falling in of a shaft and came out alive. I was there at the time and helped to dig him out." Captain Dan here stopped, and, sticking his candle against the wet wall of the mine, sat down on a piece of rock, while our hero stood beside him. "You see," said he, "we were sinking a shaft, or rather reopening an old one, at the time, and Harvey, that was the man's name, was down working with a comrade. They came to a soft bit o' ground, an' as they cut through it they boarded it up with timbers across to prevent it slipping, but they did the work hastily. After they had cut down some fathoms below it, the boarding gave way, and down the whole thing went, boards, timbers, stones, and rubbish, on their heads. We made sure they were dead, but set to, nevertheless, to dig them out as fast as possible--turning as many hands to the work as could get at it. At last we came on them, and both were alive, and not very much hurt! The timbers and planks had fallen over them in such a way as to keep the stones and rubbish off. I had a talk with old Harvey the other day on this very subject. He told me that he was squeezed flat against the side of the shaft by the rubbish which buried him, and that he did not lose consciousness for a moment. A large stone had stuck right above his head, and this probably saved him. He heard us digging down to him, he said, and when we got close he sang out to hold on, as the shovel was touching him. Sure enough this was the case, for the next shovelful of rubbish that was lifted revealed the top of his head! We cleared the way to his mouth as carefully as we could, and then gave him a drop of brandy before going on with the work of excavation. His comrade was found in a stooping position, and was more severely bruised than old Harvey, but both of them lived to tell the tale of their burial, and to thank God for their deliverance. Yes," continued the captain, detaching his candle from the wall and resuming his walk, "we have narrow escapes sometimes.--Look here, doctor, did you ever see a rock like that?" Captain Dan pointed to a place in the side of the rocky wall which was grooved and cut as if with a huge gouge or chisel, and highly polished. "It was never cut by man in that fashion; we found it as you see it, and there's many of 'em in the mine. We call 'em slinking slides." "The marks must have been caused when the rocks were in a state of partial fusion," observed Oliver, examining the place with much curiosity. "I don't know as to that, sir," said the captain, moving on, "but there they are, and some of 'em polished to that extent you could almost see your face in 'em." On turning the corner of a jutting rock a light suddenly appeared, revealing a pair of large eyes and a double row of teeth, as it were gleaming out of the darkness. On drawing nearer, this was discovered to be a miner, whose candle was at some little distance, and only shone on him partially. "Well, Jack, what's doing?" asked the captain. The man cast a disconsolate look on a large mass of rock which lay in the middle of the path at his feet. He had been only too successful in his last blasting, and had detached a mass so large that he could not move it. "It's too hard for to break, Captain Dan." "Better get it into the truck," said the captain. "Can't lift it, sur," said the man, who grudged to go through the tedious process of boring it for a second blast. "You must get it out o' that, Jack, at all events. It won't do to let it lie there," said the captain, passing on, and leaving the miner to get out of his difficulty as best he might. A few minutes more and they came on a "pare" of men (in other words, a band of two or more men working together) who were "stopeing-in the back of the level," as they termed the process of cutting upwards into the roof. "There's a fellow in a curious place!" said Oliver, peering up through an irregular hole, in which a man was seen at work standing on a plank supported by a ladder. He was chiselling with great vigour at the rock over his head, and immediately beyond him another man stood on a plank supported by a beam of timber, and busily engaged in a similar occupation. Both men were stripped to the waist, and panted at their toil. The little chamber or cavern in which they worked was brilliantly illuminated by their two candles, and their athletic figures stood out, dark and picturesque, against the light glistering walls. "A curious place, and a singular man!" observed the captain; "that fellow's family is not a small one.--Hallo! James Martin." "Hallo! Captain Dan," replied the miner, looking down. "How many children have you had?" "How many child'n say 'ee?" "Ay, how many?" "I've had nineteen, sur, an' there's eight of 'em alive. Seven of 'em came in three year an six months, sur--three doubles an' a single, but them uns are all gone dead, sur." "How old are you, Jim?" "Forty-seven, sur." "Your brother Tom is at work here, isn't he?" "Iss, in the south level, drivin' the end." "How many children has Tom had, Jim?" "Seventeen, sur, an' seven of 'em's alive; but Tom's only thirty-eight years old, sur." [See note 1.] "Good-morning, Jim." "Good-morning, Captain Dan," replied the sturdy miner, resuming his work. "Good specimens of men these," said the captain, with a quiet smile, to Oliver. "Of course I don't mean to say that all the miners hereabouts are possessed of such large families--nevertheless there are, as I dare say you have observed, a good many children in and about St. Just!" Proceeding onward they diverged into a branch level, where a number of men were working overhead; boring holes into the roof and burrowing upwards. They all drove onwards through flinty rock by the same slow and toilsome process that has already been described--namely, by chipping with the pick, driving holes with the borer, and blasting with gunpowder. As the Captain and Oliver traversed this part of the mine they had occasionally to squeeze past small iron trucks which stood below holes in the sides of the level, down which ever and anon masses of ore and debris came from the workings above with a hard crashing noise. The ore was rich with tin, but the metal was invisible to any but trained eyes. To Oliver Trembath the whole stuff appeared like wet rubbish. Suddenly a low muffled report echoed through the cavernous place. It was followed by five or six similar reports in succession. "They are blasting," said Captain Dan. As he spoke, the thick muddy shoes and brick-dust legs of a man appeared coming down the hole that had previously discharged ore. The man himself followed his legs, and, alighting thereon, saluted Captain Dan with a free-and-easy "Good-morning." Another man followed him; from a different part of the surrounding darkness a third made his appearance, and others came trooping in, until upwards of a dozen of them were collected in the narrow tunnel, each with his tallow candle in his hand or hat, so that the place was lighted brilliantly. They were all clad in loose, patched, and ragged clothes. All were of a uniform rusty-red colour, each with his broad bosom bared, and perspiration trickling down his besmeared countenance. Here, however, the uniformity of their appearance ended, for they were of all sizes and characters. Some were robust and muscular; some were lean and wiry; some were just entering on manhood, with the ruddy hue of health shining through the slime on their smooth faces; some were in the prime of life, pale from long working underground, but strong, and almost as hard as the iron with which they chiselled the rocks. Others were growing old, and an occasional cough told that the "miners' complaint" had begun its fatal undermining of the long-enduring, too-long-tried human body. There were one or two whose iron constitutions had resisted the evil influences of wet garments, bad air, and chills, and who, with much of the strength of manhood, and some of the colour of youth, were still plying their hammers in old age. But these were rare specimens of vigour and longevity; not many such are to be found in Botallack mine. The miner's working life is a short one, and comparatively few of those who begin it live to a healthy old age. Little boys were there, too, diminutive but sturdy urchins, miniature copies of their seniors, though somewhat dirtier; proud as peacocks because of being permitted at so early an age to accompany their fathers or brothers underground, and their bosoms swelling with that stern Cornish spirit of determination to face and overcome great difficulties, which has doubtless much to do with the excessive development of chest and shoulder for which Cornish miners, especially those of St. Just, are celebrated. [See note 2.] It turned out that the men had all arranged to fire their holes at the same hour, and assemble in a lower level to take lunch, or, as they term it, "kroust," while the smoke should clear away. This rendered it impossible for the captain to take his young companion further into the workings at that part of the mine, so they contented themselves with a chat with the men. These sat down in a row, and, each man unrolling a parcel containing a pasty or a thick lump of cake with currants in it, commenced the demolition thereof with as much zeal as had previously been displayed in the demolition of the rock. This frugal fare was washed down with water drawn from little flat barrels or canteens, while they commented lightly, grumblingly, or laughingly, according to temperament, on the poor condition of the lode at which they wrought. We have already said that in mining, as in other things, fortune fluctuates, and it was "hard times" with the men of Botallack at that period. Before they had proceeded far with their meal, one of the pale-faced men began to cough. "Smoke's a-coming down," he said. "We shall 'ave to move, then," observed another. The pouring in of gunpowder smoke here set two or three more a-coughing, and obliged them all to rise and seek for purer--perhaps it were better to say less impure--air in another part of the level, where the draught kept the smoke away. Here, squatting down on heaps of wet rubbish, and sticking their candles against the damp walls, they continued their meal, and here the captain and Oliver left them, retraced their steps to the foot of the shaft, and began the ascent to the surface, or, in mining parlance, began to "return to grass." Up, up, up--the process now was reversed, and the labour increased tenfold. Up they went on these nearly perpendicular and interminable ladders, slowly, for they had a long journey before them; cautiously, for Oliver had a tendency to butt his head against beams, and knock his candle out of shape; carefully, for the rounds of the ladders were wet and slimy and a slip of foot or hand might in a moment have precipitated them into the black gulf below; and pantingly, for strength of limb and lung could not altogether defy the influence of such a prolonged and upright climb. If Oliver Trembath felt, while descending, as though he should _never_ reach the bottom, he felt far more powerfully as if reaching the top were an event of the distant future--all the more that the muscles of his arms and legs, unused to the peculiar process, were beginning to feel rather stiff. This feeling, however, soon passed away, and when he began to grow warm to the work, his strength seemed to return and to increase with each step--a species of revival of vigour in the midst of hard toil with which probably all strong men are acquainted. Up they went, ladder after ladder, squeezing through narrow places, rubbing against wet rocks and beams, scraping against the boarding of the kibble-shaft, and being scraped by the pump-rods until both of them were as wet and red and dirty as any miner below. As he advanced, Oliver began to take note of the places he had passed on the way down, and so much had he seen and thought during his sojourn underground, that, when he reached the level where he first came upon the noisy kibbles, and made acquaintance with the labouring pump-rod, he almost hailed the spot as an old familiar landmark of other days! A circumstance occurred just then which surprised him not a little, and tended to fix this locality still more deeply on his memory. While he was standing in the level, waiting until the captain should relight and trim his much and oft bruised candle, the kibbles began their noisy motion. This was nothing new now, but at the same time the shout of distant voices was heard, as if the gnomes held revelry in their dreary vaults. They drew gradually nearer, and Oliver could distinguish laughter mingled with the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. "Foolish lads!" ejaculated Captain Dan with a smile, and an expression that proved he took some interest in the folly, whatever it might be. "What is it?" inquired Oliver. "They are racing to the kibble. Look and you shall see," replied the other. Just then a man who had outrun his comrades appeared at the place where the level joined the shaft, just opposite. Almost at the same moment the kibble appeared flying upwards. The miner leaped upon it, caught and clung to the chain as it passed, and shouted a defiant adieu to his less fortunate comrades, who arrived just in time to witness him disappear upwards in this rapid manner "to grass." "That's the way the young ones risk their lives," said the captain, shaking his head remonstratively; "if that young fellow had missed the kibble he would have been dashed to pieces at the bottom of the shaft." Again Captain Dan said "Foolish lads," and shook his head so gravely that Oliver could not help regarding him with the respect due to a sedate, fatherly sort of man; but Oliver was young and unsophisticated, and did not know at the time that the captain had himself been noted in his youth as an extremely reckless and daring fellow, and that a considerable spice of the daring remained in him still! Diverging to the right at this point Captain Dan led Oliver to an old part of the mine, where there were a couple of men opening up and extending one of the old levels. Their progress here was very different from what it had been. Evidently the former miners had not thought it worth their while to open up a wide passage for themselves, and Oliver found it necessary to twist his broad shoulders into all sorts of positions to get them through. The first level they came to in this part was not more than three feet high at the entrance. "A man can't hold his head very high here, sir," said his guide. "Truly no, it is scarce high enough for my legs to walk in without any body above them," said Oliver. "However, lead the way, and I will follow." The captain stooped and made his way through a winding passage where the roof was so low in many places that they were obliged to bend quite double, and the back and neck of the young doctor began to feel the strain very severely. There were, however, a few spots where the roof rose a little, affording temporary relief. Presently they came to the place where the men were at work. The ground was very soft here; the men were cutting through _soft_ granite!--a condition of the stone which Oliver confessed he had never expected to see. Here the lights burned very badly. "What can be the matter with it?" said Oliver, stopping for the third time to trim the wick of his candle. Captain Dan smiled as he said, "You asked me, last night, to take you into one of the levels where the air was bad--now here you are, with the air so bad that the candle will hardly burn. It will be worse before night." "But I feel no disagreeable sensation," said Oliver. "Possibly not, because you are not quite so sensitive as the flame of a candle, but if you remain here a few hours it will tell upon you. Here are the men-- you can ask them." The two men were resting when they approached. One was old, the other middle-aged. Both were hearty fellows, and communicative. The old one, especially, was ruddy in complexion and pretty strong. "You look well for an old miner," said Oliver; "what may be your age?" "About sixty, sur." "Indeed! you are a notable exception to the rule. How comes it that you look so fresh?" "Can't say, sur," replied the old man with a peculiar smile; "few miners live to my time of life, much less do they go underground. P'raps it's because I neither drink nor smoke. Tom there, now," he added, pointing to his comrade with his thumb, "he ain't forty yit, but he's so pale as a ghost; though he is strong 'nuff." "And do you neither drink nor smoke, Tom?" inquired Oliver. "Well, sur, I both smokes and drinks, but I do take 'em in moderation," said Tom. "Are you married?" asked Oliver, turning again to the old man. "Iss, got a wife at hum, an' had six child'n." "Don't you find this bad air tell on your health?" he continued. "Iss, sur. After six or seven hours I do feel my head like to split, an' my stummik as if it wor on fire; but what can us do? we must live, you knaw." Bidding these men goodbye, the captain and Oliver went down to another level, and then along a series of low galleries, in some of which they had to advance on their hands and knees, and in one of them, particularly, the accumulation of rubbish was so great, and the roof so low, that they could only force a passage through by wriggling along at full length like snakes. Beyond this they found a miner and a little boy at work; and here Captain Dan pointed out to his companion that the lodes of copper and tin were rich. Glittering particles on the walls and drops of water hanging from points and crevices, with the green, purple, and yellow colours around, combined to give the place a brilliant metallic aspect. "You'd better break off a piece of ore here," said Captain Dan. Oliver took a chisel and hammer from the miner, and applying them to the rock, spent five minutes in belabouring it with scarcely any result. "If it were not that I fear to miss the chisel and hit my knuckles," he said, "I think I could work more effectively." As he spoke he struck with all his force, and brought down a large piece, a chip of which he carried away as a memorial of his underground ramble. "The man is going to fire the hole," said Captain Dan; "you'd better wait and see it." The hole was sunk nearly two feet deep diagonally behind a large mass of rock that projected from the side of the level. It was charged with gunpowder, and filled up with "tamping" or pounded granite, Then the miner lighted the fuse and hastened away, giving the usual signal, "Fire!" The others followed him to a safe distance, and awaited the result. In a few minutes there was a loud report, a bright blinding flash, and a concussion of the air which extinguished two of the candles. Immediately a crash followed, as the heavy mass of rock was torn from its bed and hurled to the ground. "That's the way we raise tin and copper," said Captain Dan; "now, doctor, we had better return, if you would not be left in darkness, for our candles are getting low." "Did you ever travel underground in the dark?" inquired Oliver. "Not often, but I have done it occasionally. Once, in particular, I went down the main shaft in the dark, and gave a miner an awful fright. I had to go down in haste at the time, and, not having a candle at hand, besides being well acquainted with the way, I hurried down in the dark. It so chanced that a man named Sampy had got his light put out when about to ascend the shaft, and, as he also was well acquainted with the way, he did not take the trouble to relight. There was a good deal of noise in consequence of the pump being at work. When I had got about half-way down I put my foot on something that felt soft. Instantly there was uttered a tremendous yell, and my legs at the same moment were seized by something from below. My heart almost jumped out of my mouth at this, but as the yell was repeated it flashed across me I must have trod on some one's fingers, so I lifted my foot at once, and then a voice, which I knew to be that of Sampy, began to wail and lament miserably. "`Hope I haven't hurt 'ee, Sampy?' said I. "`Aw dear! aw dear! aw, my dear!' was all that poor Sampy could reply. "`Let us go up, my son,' said I, `and we'll strike a light.' "So up we went to the next level, where I got hold of the poor lad's candle and lighted it. "`Aw, my dear!' said Sampy, looking at his fingers with a rueful countenance; `thee have scat 'em all in jowds.'" "Pray," interrupted Oliver, "what may be the meaning of `scat 'em all in jowds'? "Broke 'em all in pieces," replied Captain Dan; "but he was wrong, for no bones were broken, and the fingers were all right again in the course of a few days. Sampy got a tremendous fright, however, and he was never known to travel underground without a light after that." Continuing to retrace their steps, Captain Dan and Oliver made for the main shaft. On the way they came to another of those immense empty spaces where a large lode had been worked away, and nothing left in the dark narrow void but the short beams which had supported the working stages of the men. Here Oliver, looking down through a hole at his feet, saw several men far below him. They were at work on the "end" in three successive tiers--above each other's heads. "You've seen two of these men before," said Captain Dan. "Have I?" "Yes, they are local preachers. The last time you saw the upper one," said Captain Dan with a smile, "you were seated in the Wesleyan chapel, and he was in the pulpit dressed like a gentleman, and preaching as eloquently as if he had been educated at college and trained for the ministry." "I should like very much to go down and visit them," said Oliver. "'Tis a difficult descent. There are no ladders. Will your head stand stepping from beam to beam, and can you lower yourself by a chain?" "I'll try," said Oliver. Without more words Captain Dan left the platform on which they had been walking, and, descending through a hole, led his companion by the most rugged way he had yet attempted. Sometimes they slid on their heels down places that Oliver would not have dreamed of attempting without a guide; at other times they stepped from beam to beam, with unknown depths below them. "Have a care here, sir," said the captain, pausing before a very steep place. "I will go first and wait for you." So saying, he seized a piece of old rusty chain that was fastened into the rock, and swung himself down. Then, looking up, he called to Oliver to follow. The young doctor did so, and, having cautiously lowered himself a few yards, he reached a beam, where he found the captain holding up his candle, and regarding him with some anxiety. Captain Dan appeared as if suspended in mid-air. Opposite to him, in the distance, the two "local preachers" were hard at work with hammer and chisel, while far below, a miner could be seen coming along the next level, and pushing an iron truck full of ore before him. A few more steps and slides, and then a short ascent, and Oliver stood beside the man who had preached the previous Sunday. He worked with another miner, and was red, ragged, and half-clad, like all the rest, and the perspiration was pouring over his face, which was streaked with slime. Very unlike was he at that time to the gentlemanly youth who had held forth from the pulpit. Oliver had a long chat with him, and found that he aspired to enter the ministry, and had already passed some severe examinations. He was self-taught, having procured the loan of books from his minister and some friends who were interested in him. His language and manners were those of a gentleman, yet he had had no advantages beyond his fellows. "My friend there, sir, also hopes to enter the ministry," said the miner, pointing, as he spoke, to a gap between the boards on which he stood. Oliver looked down, and there beheld a stalwart young man, about a couple of yards under his feet, wielding a hammer with tremendous vigour. His light linen coat was open, displaying his bared and muscular bosom. "What! is _he_ a local preacher also?" "He is, sir," said the miner, with a smile. Oliver immediately descended to the stage below, and had a chat with this man also, after which he left them at their work, wondering very much at the intelligence and learning displayed by them; for he remembered that in their sermons they had, without notes, without hesitation, and without a grammatical error, entered into the most subtle metaphysical reasoning (rather too much of it indeed!), and had preached with impassioned (perhaps too impassioned) eloquence, quoting poets and prose writers, ancient and modern, with the facility of good scholars--while they urged men and women to repent and flee to Christ, with all the fervour of men thoroughly in earnest. On the other hand, he knew that their opportunities for self-education were not great, and that they had to toil in the meantime for daily bread, at the rate of about 3 pounds a month! Following Captain Dan, Oliver soon reached the ladder-way. While slowly and in silence ascending the ladders; they heard a sound of music above them. "Men coming down to work, singing," said the captain, as they stood on a cross-beam to listen. The sounds at first were very faint and inexpressibly sweet. By degrees they became more distinct, and Oliver could distinguish several voices singing in harmony, keeping time to the slow measured tread of their descending steps. There seemed a novelty, and yet a strange familiarity, in the strains as they were wafted softly down upon his ear, until they drew near, and the star-like candles of the miners became visible. Their manly voices then poured forth in full strength the glorious psalm-tune called "French," which is usually sung in Scotland to the beautiful psalm beginning, "I to the hills will lift mine eyes." The men stopped abruptly on encountering their captain and the stranger. Exchanging a few words with the former, they stood aside on the beams to let them pass. A little boy came last. His small limbs were as active as those of his more stalwart comrades, and he exhibited no signs of fatigue. His treble voice, too, was heard high and tuneful among the others as they continued their descent and resumed the psalm. The sweet strains retired gradually, and faded in the depths below as they had first stolen on the senses from above; and the pleasant memory of them still remained with the young doctor when he emerged from the mine through the hole at the head of the shaft, and stood once more in the blessed sunshine! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Reader, allow us to remark that this is a fact. Indeed, we may say here, once for all, that all the _important_ statements and incidents in this tale are facts, or founded on facts, with considerable modification, but without intentional exaggeration. Note 2. It has been stated to us recently by a volunteer officer, that at battalion parade, when companies were equalised in numbers, the companies formed by the men of St. Just required about four paces more space to stand upon than the other volunteers. No one who visits a St. Just miner at his underground toil will require to ask the reason why. CHAPTER NINE. TREATS OF DIFFICULTIES TO BE OVERCOME. One afternoon a council--we may appropriately say of war--was held in St. Just. The scene of the council was the shop of Maggot, the blacksmith, and the members of it were a number of miners, the president being the worthy smith himself, who, with a sledge-hammer under his arm in the position of a short crutch, occupied the chair, if we may be allowed so to designate the raised hearth of the forge. The war with poverty had not been very successfully waged of late, and, at the time of which we write, the enemy had apparently given the miners a severe check, in the way of putting what appeared to be an insuperable obstacle in their path. "Now, lads," said Maggot, with a slap on the leathern apron that covered his knees, "this is the way on it, an' do 'ee be quiet and hould yer tongues while I do spaik." The other men, of whom there were nearly a dozen, nodded and said, "Go on, booy; thee's knaw tin, sure;" by which expression they affirmed their belief that the blacksmith was a very knowing fellow. "You do tell me that you've come so close to water that you're 'fraid to go on? Is that so?" "Iss, iss," responded the others. "Well, I'll hole into the house, ef you do agree to give un a good pitch," said Maggot. "Agreed, one and all," cried the miners. In order that the reader may understand the drift of this conversation, it is necessary to explain that the indefatigable miner, David Trevarrow, whom we have already introduced in his submarine workshop, had, according to his plan, changed his ground, and transferred his labour to a more hopeful part of the mine. For some time previous the men had been at work on a lode which was very promising, but they were compelled to cease following it, because it approached the workings of an old part of the mine which was known to be full of water. To tap this old part, or as the miners expressed it, to "hole into this house of water," was, they were well aware, an exceedingly dangerous operation. The part of the mine to which we allude was not under the sea, but back a little from the shore, and was not very deep at that time. The "adit"--or water-conducting--level by which the spot was reached commenced at the cliffs, on a level with the seashore, and ran into the interior until it reached the old mine, about a quarter of a mile inland. Here was situated the "house," which was neither more nor less than a number of old shafts and levels filled with water. As they had approached the old mine its near proximity was made disagreeably evident by the quantity of moisture that oozed through the crevices in the rocks--moisture which ere long took the form of a number of tiny rills--and at last began to spirt out from roof and sides in such a way that the miners became alarmed, and hesitated to continue to work in a place where they ran the most imminent risk of being suddenly drowned and swept into the sea, by the bursting of the rocks that still withstood the immense pressure of the confined water. It was at this point in the undertaking that David Trevarrow went to examine the place, and made the discovery of a seam--a "keenly lode"-- which had such a promising appearance that the anxiety of the miners to get rid of this obstructive "house" was redoubled. It was at this point, too, that the council of which we write was held, in order to settle who should have the undesirable privilege of constituting the "forlorn hope" in their subterranean assault. Maggot, who was known to be one of the boldest, and, at the same time, one of the most utterly reckless, men in St. Just, was appealed to in the emergency, and, as we have seen, offered to attack the enemy single-handed, on condition that the miners should give him a "pitch" of the good lode they had found--that is, give him the right to work out a certain number of fathoms of ore for himself. They agreed to this, but one of them expressed some doubt as to Maggot's courage being equal to the occasion. To this remark Maggot vouchsafed no other reply than a frown, but his friend and admirer John Cock exclaimed in supreme contempt,--"What! Maggot afear'd to do it! aw, my dear, hould tha tongue." "But he haven't bin to see the place," urged the previous speaker. "No, my son," said Maggot, turning on the man with a look of pity, "but he can go an' see it. Come, lads, lev us go an' see this place of danger." The miners rose at once as Maggot threw his forehammer on a heap of coals, put on his hat, and strode out of the forge with a reckless fling. A few minutes sufficed to bring them to the beach at the mouth of the adit. It was a singularly wild spot, close under those precipitous cliffs on which some of the picturesque buildings of Botallack mine are perched--a sort of narrow inlet or gorge which from its form is named the Narrow Zawn. There was nothing worthy of the name of a beach at the place, save a little piece of rugged ground near the adit mouth, which could be reached only by a zigzag path on the face of the almost perpendicular precipice. Arrived here, each man lighted a candle, wrapped the customary piece of wet clay round the middle of it, and entered the narrow tunnel. They advanced in single file, James Penrose leading. The height of the adit permitted of their walking almost upright, but the irregularity of the cuttings rendered it necessary that they should advance carefully, with special regard to their heads. In about a quarter of an hour they reached a comparatively open space--that is to say, there were several extensions of the cutting in various directions, which gave the place the appearance of being a small cavern, instead of a narrow tunnel. Here the water, which in other parts of the adit flowed along the bottom, ran down the walls and spirted in fine streams from the almost invisible crevices of the rock, thus betraying at once the proximity and the power of the pent-up water. "What think'ee now, my son?" asked an elderly man who stood at Maggot's elbow. After a short pause, during which he sternly regarded the rocks before him, the smith replied, "_I'll do it_," in the tone and with the air of a man who knows that what he has made up his mind to do is not child's play. The question being thus settled, the miners retraced their steps and went to their several homes. Entering his cottage, the smith found his little girl Grace busily engaged in the interesting process of nursing the baby. He seated himself in a chair by the fireside, smoked his pipe, and watched the process, while his wife busied herself in preparing the evening meal. Oh! but the little Maggot was a big baby--a worthy representative of his father--a true chip of the old block, for he was not only fat, riotous, and muscular, but very reckless, and extremely positive. His little nurse, on the contrary, was gentle and delicate; not much bigger than the baby, although a good deal older, and she had a dreadful business of it to keep him in order. All her efforts at lifting and restraining him were somewhat akin to the exertion made by wrestlers to throw each other by main force, and her intense desire to make baby Maggot "be good" was repaid by severe kicks on the shins, and sundry dabs in the face with, luckily, a soft, fat pair of fists. "Sit 'ee quiet, now, or I'll scat oo nose," said the little nurse suddenly, with a terrible frown. It need scarcely be said that she had not the remotest; intention of carrying out this dreadful threat to smash the little Maggot's nose. She accompanied it, however, with a twist that suddenly placed the urchin in a sitting posture, much to his own surprise, for he opened his eyes very wide, drew his breath sharply, and appeared to meditate a roar. He thought better of it, however, and relapsed into goodness just as the door opened, and David Trevarrow entered. "Oh, uncle David," cried little Grace, jumping up and running towards him, "do help me nuss baby." "What's the matter with the cheeld--bad, eh? Fetch un to me and I'll cure him." There was no necessity to fetch baby, for that obstreperous individual entertained an immense regard for "Unkil Day," and was already on his fat legs staggering across the floor to him with outstretched arms. Thereafter he only required a pair of wings to make him a complete cherub. Little Grace, relieved of her charge, at once set to work to assist her mother in household matters. She was one of those dear little earnest creatures who of their own accord act in a motherly and wifely way from their early years. To look at little Grace's serious thoroughgoing face, when she chanced to pause in the midst of work, and meditate what was to be done next, one might imagine that the entire care of the household had suddenly devolved upon her shoulders. In the matter of housewifery little Grace was almost equal to big Grace, her respected mother; in downright honesty and truthfulness she greatly excelled her. The description of Maggot's household, on that evening, would be very incomplete were we to omit mention of Zackey Maggot. That young man-- for man he deemed himself, and man he was, in all respects, except the trifling matters of years, size, and whiskers--that young man entered the room with his uncle, and, without deigning to change his wet red garments, sat him down at his father's feet and caught hold of a small black kitten, which, at the time, lay sound asleep on the hearth, and began to play with it in a grave patronising way, as though his taking notice of it at all were a condescension. That black kitten, or Chet, as it was usually styled, was accustomed to be strangled the greater part of the morning by the baby. Most of the afternoon it was worried by Zackey, and, during the intervals of torment, it experienced an unusually large measure of the vicissitudes incident to kitten life--such as being kicked out of the way by Maggot senior, or thrown or terrified out of the way by Mrs Maggot, or dashed at by stray dogs, or yelled at by passing boys. The only sunshine of its life (which was at all times liable to be suddenly clouded) was when it slept, or when little Grace put it on her soft neck, tickled its chin, and otherwise soothed its ruffled spirit, as only a loving heart knows how. A bad memory seemed to be that kitten's chief blessing. A horror of any kind was no sooner past than it was straightway forgotten, and the facetious animal would advance with arched back and glaring eyes in defiance of an incursive hen, or twirl in mad hopeless career after its own miserable tail! "'Tis a keenly lode," said Maggot, puffing his pipe thoughtfully. "Iss," assented David Trevarrow, also puffing his pipe, at the clouds issuing from which baby gazed with endless amazement and admiration; "it's worth much, but it isn't worth your life." "Sure, I ain't goin' to give my life for't," replied Maggot. "But you're goin' to risk it," said David, "an' you shouldn't, for you've a wife an' child'n to provide for. Now, I tell 'ee what it is: you lev it to me. _I'll_ hole to the house. It don't matter much what happens to me." "No, 'ee won't," said Maggot stoutly; "what I do promise to do I _will_ do." "But if you die?" said David. "Well, what if I do? we have all to come to that some day, sooner or later." "Are you prepared to die?" asked Trevarrow earnestly. "Now, David, don't 'ee trouble me with that. 'Tis all very well for the women an' child'n, but it don't suit me, it don't, so lev us have no more of it, booy. I'll do it to-morrow, that's fixed, so now we'll have a bit supper." The tone in which Maggot said this assured David that further conversation would be useless, so he dropped the subject and sat down with the rest of the family to their evening meal. CHAPTER TEN. SHOWS HOW MAGGOT MADE A DESPERATE VENTURE, AND WHAT FLOWED FROM IT. "A wilful man must have his way" is a proverb the truth of which was illustrated by the blacksmith on the following day. David Trevarrow again attempted to dissuade him from his purpose, and reiterated his offer to go in his stead, but he failed to move him. Mrs Maggot essayed, and added tears to her suasion, as also did little Grace; but they failed too--the obdurate man would not give way. The only one of his household who did not attempt to dissuade him (excepting, of course, the baby, who cared nothing whatever about the matter) was Zackey. That urchin not only rejoiced in the failure of the others to turn his father from his purpose, but pleaded hard to be allowed to go with him, and share his danger as well as glory. This, however, was peremptorily denied to the young aspirant to fame and a premature death by drowning in a dark hole. Early in the forenoon Maggot and his friends proceeded to the shore, where they found a number of miners and others assembled near the adit mouth--among them our hero Oliver Trembath, Mr Donnithorne, and Mr Cornish, at that time the purser and manager of Botallack mine. The latter gentleman accosted Maggot as he came forward, and advised him to be cautious. Of course the smith gave every assurance that was required of him, and immediately prepared himself to make the dangerous experiment. Supplying himself with a number of tallow candles, a mining hammer, and other tools, Maggot stripped to the waist, and jestingly bidding his friends farewell, entered the mouth of the tunnel, and disappeared. The adit level, or tunnel, through which he had to pass to the scene of his operations, was, as we have said, about a quarter of a mile in length, about six feet high, and two and a half feet wide. It varied in dimensions here and there, however, and was rough and irregular throughout. For the first hundred yards or so Maggot could see well enough to grope his way by the daylight which streamed in at the entrance of the adit, but beyond this point all was intense darkness; so here he stopped, and, striking a light by means of flint, steel, and tinder, lit one of his candles. This he attached to a piece of wet clay in the usual fashion, except that he placed the clay at the lower end of the candle instead of round the middle of it. He then stuck it against the rock a little above the level of his head. Lighting another candle he advanced with it in his hand. Walking, or rather wading onward (for the stream was ankle-deep) far enough to be almost beyond the influence of the first candle, he stopped again and stuck up another. Thus, at intervals, he placed candles along the entire length of the adit, so that he might have light to guide him in his race from the water which he hoped to set free. This precaution was necessary, because, although he meant to carry a candle in his hat all the time, there was a possibility--nay, a strong probability--that it would be blown or drowned out. Little more than a quarter of an hour brought him to the scene of his intended adventure. Here he found the water spirting out all round, much more violently than it had been the day before. He did not waste much time in consideration, having made up his mind on the previous visit as to which part of the rock he would drive the hole through. Sticking his last candle, therefore, against the driest part of the wall that could be found, he seized his tools and commenced work. We have already said that Maggot was a strong man. As he stood there, naked to the waist, holding the borer with his left hand, and plying the hammer with all his might with the other, his great breadth of shoulder and development of muscle were finely displayed by the candlelight, which fell in brilliant gleams on parts of his frame, while the rest of him was thrown into shadow, so deep that it would have appeared black, but for the deeper shade by which it was surrounded--the whole scene presenting a grand Rembrandt effect. It is unnecessary to say that Maggot wrought with might and main. Excited somewhat by the novelty and danger of his undertaking, he felt relieved by the violence of his exertion. He knew, besides, that the candles which were to light him on his return were slowly but surely burning down. Blow after blow resounded through the place incessantly. When the smith's right arm felt a very little wearied--it was too powerful to be soon or greatly exhausted--he shifted the hammer to his left hand, and so the work went on. Suddenly and unexpectedly the borer was driven to its head into the hole by a tremendous blow. The rock behind it had given way. Almost at the same instant a large mass of rock burst outwards, followed by a stream of water so thick and violent that it went straight at the opposite side of the cavern, against which it burst in white foam. This, rebounding back and around, rushed against roof and sides with such force that the whole place was at once deluged. Maggot was knocked down at the first gush, but leaped up and turned to fly. Of course both candles--that in his hat as well as that which he had affixed to the wall--were extinguished, and he was at once plunged in total darkness, for the rays of the next light, although visible, were too feeble to penetrate with any effect to the extremity of the adit. Blinded by rushing water and confused by his fall, the smith mistook his direction, and ran against the side of the level with such violence that he fell again, but his sturdy frame withstood the shock, and once more he sprang to his feet and leaped along the narrow tunnel with all the energy of desperation. Well was it for Maggot at that hour that his heart was bold and his faculties cool and collected, else then and there his career had ended. Bending forward and stooping low, he bounded away like a hunted deer, but the rush of water was so great that it rapidly gained on him, and, by concealing the uneven places in the path, caused him to stumble. His relay of candles served him in good stead; nevertheless, despite their light and his own caution, he more than once narrowly missed dashing out his brains on the low roof. On came the water after the fugitive, a mighty, hissing, vaulting torrent, filling the level behind, and leaping up on the man higher and higher as he struggled and floundered on for life. Quickly, and before quarter of the distance to the adit mouth was traversed, it gurgled up to his waist, swept him off his legs, and hurled him against projecting rocks. Once and again did he succeed in regaining his foothold, but in a moment or two the rising flood swept him down and hurled him violently onward, sporting with him on its foaming crest until it disgorged him at last, and cast him, stunned, bruised, and bleeding, on the seashore. Of course the unfortunate man's friends had waited for him with some impatience, and great was their anxiety when the first of the flood made its appearance. When, immediately after, the battered form of their comrade was flung on the beach, they ran forward and bore him out of the stream. Oliver Trembath being on the spot, Maggot wae at once attended to, and his wounds bound up. "He'll do; he's all right," said Oliver, on completing the work--"only got a few cuts and bruises, and lost a little blood, but that won't harm him." The expression of anxiety that had appeared on the faces of those who stood around at once vanished on hearing these reassuring words. "I knaw'd it," said John Cock energetically. "I knaw'd he couldn't be killed--not he." "I trust that you may be right, Oliver," said old Mr Donnithorne, looking with much concern on the pale countenance of the poor smith, who still lay stretched out, with only a slight motion of the chest to prove that the vital spark had not been altogether extinguished. "No fear of him, he's sure to come round," replied Oliver; "come, lads, up with him on your backs." He raised the smith's shoulder as he spoke. Three tall and powerful miners promptly lent their aid, and Maggot was raised shoulder-high, and conveyed up the steep, winding path that led to the top of the cliff. "It would never do to lose Maggot," murmured Mr Donnithorne, as if speaking to himself while he followed the procession beside Mr Cornish; "he's far too good a--" "A smuggler--eh?" interrupted the purser, with a laugh. "Eh, ah! did I say smuggler?" cried Mr Donnithorne; "surely not, for of all vices that of smuggling is one of the worst, unless it be an overfondness for the bottle. I meant to have said that he is too valuable a man for St. Just to lose--in many ways; and you know, Mr Cornish, that he is a famous wrestler--a man of whom St. Just may be justly proud." Mr Donnithorne cast a sly glance at his companion, whom he knew to be partial to the ancient Cornish pastime of wrestling. Indeed, if report said truly, the worthy purser had himself in his youthful days been a celebrated amateur wrestler, one who had never been thrown, even although he had on more than one occasion been induced in a frolic to enter the public ring and measure his strength with the best men that could be brought against him. He was long past the time of life when men indulge in such rough play, but his tall commanding figure and huge chest and shoulders were quite sufficient to warrant the belief that what was said of him was possible, while the expression of his fine massive countenance, and the humorous glance of his clear, black eye, bore evidence that it was highly probable. "'Twould be foul injustice," said the purser with a quiet laugh, "if I were to deny that Maggot is a good man and true, in the matter of wrestling; nevertheless he is an arrant rogue, and defrauds the revenue woefully. But, after all he is only the cat's-paw; those who employ him are the real sinners--eh, Mr Donnithorne?" "Surely, surely," replied the old gentleman with much gravity; "and it is to be hoped that this accident will have the effect of turning Maggot from his evil ways." The purser could not refrain from a laugh at the hypocritical solemnity of the old gentleman, who was, he well knew, one of the very sinners whom he condemned with such righteous indignation, but their arrival at Maggot's cottage prevented further conversation on the subject at that time. Mrs Maggot, although a good deal agitated when her husband's almost inanimate and bloody form was carried in and laid on the bed, was by no means overcome with alarm. She, like the wives of St. Just miners generally, was too well accustomed to hear of accidents and to see their results, to give way to wild fears before she had learned the extent of her calamity; so, when she found that it was not serious, she dried her eyes, and busied herself in attending to all the little duties which the occasion required. Little Grace, too, although terribly frightened, and very pale, was quite self-possessed, and went about the house assisting her mother ably, despite the tendency to sob, which she found it very difficult to overcome. But the baby behaved in the most shameful and outrageous manner. His naughtiness is almost indescribable. The instant the door opened, and his father's bloody face was presented to view, baby set up a roar so tremendous that a number of dogs in the neighbourhood struck in with a loud chorus, and the black kitten, startled out of an innocent slumber, rushed incontinently under the bed, faced about, and fuffed in impotent dismay! But not only did baby roar--he also fell on the floor and kicked, thereby rendering his noise exasperating, besides exposing his fat person to the risk of being trod upon. Zackey was therefore told off as a detachment to keep this enemy in check, a duty which he performed nobly, until his worthy father was comfortably put to bed, after which the friends retired, and left the smith to the tender care of his own family. "He has done good service anyhow," observed Mr Donnithorne to his nephew, as he parted from him that evening; "for he has cleared the mine of water that it would have cost hundreds of pounds and many months to pump out." CHAPTER ELEVEN. SHOWS THAT MUSIC HATH CHARMS, AND ALSO THAT IT SOMETIMES HAS DISADVANTAGES. One morning, not long after his arrival at St. Just, the young doctor went out to make a round of professional visits. He had on his way to pass the cottage of his uncle, which stood a little apart from the chief square or triangle of the town, and had a small piece of ground in front. Here Rose was wont to cultivate her namesakes, and other flowers, with her own fair hands, and here Mr Thomas Donnithorne refreshed himself each evening with a pipe of tobacco, the flavour of which was inexpressibly enhanced to him by the knowledge that it had been smuggled. He was in the habit of washing the taste of the same away each night, before retiring to rest, with a glass of brandy and water, hot, which was likewise improved in flavour by the same interesting association. The windows of the cottage were wide open, for no Atlantic fog dimmed the glory of the summer sun that morning, and the light air that came up from the mighty sea was fresh and agreeably cool. As Oliver approached the end of the cottage he observed that Rose was not at her accustomed work in the garden, and he was about to pass the door when the tones of a guitar struck his ear and arrested his step. He was surprised, for at that period the instrument was not much used, and the out-of-the-way town of St. Just was naturally the last place in the land where he would have expected to meet with one. No air was played--only a few chords were lightly touched by fingers which were evidently expert. Presently a female voice was heard to sing in rich contralto tones. The air was extremely simple, and very beautiful--at least, so thought Oliver, as he leaned against a wall and listened to the words. These, also, were simple enough, but sounded both sweet and sensible to the listener, coming as they did from a woman's lips so tunefully, and sounding the praises of the sea, of which he was passionately fond:-- SONG. "I love the land where acres broad Are clothed in yellow grain; Where cot of thrall and lordly hall Lie scattered o'er the plain. Oh! I have trod the velvet sod Beneath the beechwood tree; And roamed the brake by stream and lake Where peace and plenty be. But more than plain, Or rich domain, I love the bright blue sea! "I love the land where bracken grows And heath-clad mountains rise; Where peaks still fringed with winter snows Tower in the summer skies. Oh! I have seen the red and green Of fir and rowan tree, And heard the din of flooded linn, With bleating on the lea. But better still Than heath-clad hill I love the stormy sea!" The air ceased, and Oliver, stepping in at the open door, found Rose Ellis with a Spanish guitar resting on her knee. She neither blushed nor started up nor looked confused--which was, of course, very strange of her in the circumstances, seeing that she is the heroine of this tale--but, rising with a smile on her pretty mouth, shook hands with the youth. "Why, cousin," said Oliver, "I had no idea you could sing so charmingly." "I am fond of singing," said Rose. "So am I, especially when I hear such singing as yours; and the song, too--I like it much, for it praises the sea. Where did you pick it up?" "I got it from the composer, a young midshipman," said Rose sadly; at the same time a slight blush tinged her brow. Oliver felt a peculiar sensation which he could not account for, and was about to make further inquiries into the authorship of the song, when it occurred to him that this would be impolite, and might be awkward, so he asked instead how she had become possessed of so fine a guitar. Before she could reply Mr Donnithorne entered. "How d'ee do, Oliver lad; going your rounds--eh?--Come, Rose, let's have breakfast, lass, you were not wont to be behind with it. I'll be bound this gay gallant--this hedge-jumper with his eyes shut--has been praising your voice and puffing up your heart, but don't believe him, Rose; it's the fashion of these fellows to tell lies on such matters." "You do me injustice, uncle," said Oliver with a laugh; "but even if it were true that I am addicted to falsehood in praising women, it were impossible, in the present instance, to give way to my propensity, for Truth herself would find it difficult to select an expression sufficiently appropriate to apply to the beautiful voice of Rose Ellis!" "Hey-day, young man," exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, as he carefully filled his pipe with precious weed, "your oratorical powers are uncommon! Surely thy talents had been better bestowed in the Church or at the Bar than in the sickroom or the hospital. Demosthenes himself would have paled before thee, lad--though, if truth must be told, there is a dash more sound than sense in thine eloquence." "Sense, uncle! Surely your own good sense must compel you to admit that Rose sings splendidly?" "Well, I won't gainsay it," replied Mr Donnithorne, "now that Rose has left the room, for I don't much care to bespatter folk with too much praise to their faces. The child has indeed a sweet pipe of her own. By the way, you were asking about her guitar when I came in; I'll tell you about that. "Its history is somewhat curious," said Mr Donnithorne, passing his fingers through the bunch of gay ribbons that hung from the head of the instrument. "You have heard, I dare say, of the burning of Penzance by the Spaniards more than two hundred years ago; in the year 1595, I think it was?" "I have," answered Oliver, "but I know nothing beyond the fact that such an event took place. I should like to hear the details of it exceedingly." "Well," continued the old gentleman, "our country was, as you know, at war with Spain at the time; but it no more entered into the heads of Cornishmen that the Spaniards would dare to land on our shores than that the giants would rise from their graves. There was, indeed, an old prediction that such an event would happen, but the prediction was either forgotten or not believed, so that when several Spanish galleys suddenly made their appearance in Mounts Bay, and landed about two hundred men near Mousehole, the inhabitants were taken by surprise. Before they could arm and defend themselves, the Spaniards effected a landing, began to devastate the country, and set fire to the adjacent houses. "It is false," continued the old man sternly, "to say, as has been said by some, that the men of Mousehole were seized with panic, and that those of Newlyn and Penzance deserted their houses terror-stricken. The truth is, that the suddenness of the attack, and their unprepared condition to repel it, threw the people into temporary confusion, and forced them to retreat, as, all history shows us, the best and bravest will do at times. In Mousehole, the principal inhabitant was killed by a cannon-ball, so that, deprived of their leading spirit at the critical moment when a leader was necessary, it is no wonder that at _first_ the fishermen were driven back by well-armed men trained to act in concert. To fire the houses was the work of a few minutes. The Spaniards then rushed on to Newlyn and Penzance, and fired these places also, after which they returned to their ships, intending to land the next day and renew their work of destruction. "But that night was well spent by the enraged townsmen. They organised themselves as well as they could in the circumstances, and, when day came, attacked the Spaniards with guns and bows, and that so effectively, that the Dons were glad to hoist their sails and run out of the bay. "Well, you must know there was one of the Spaniards, who, it has been said, either from bravado, or vanity, or a desire to insult the English, or from all three motives together, brought a guitar on shore with him at Mousehole, and sang and played to his comrades while they were burning the houses. This man left his guitar with those who were left to guard the boats, and accompanied the others to Penzance. On his return he again took his guitar, and, going up to a high point of the cliff, so that he might be seen by his companions and heard by any of the English who chanced to be in hiding near the place, sang several songs of defiance at the top of his voice, and even went the length of performing a Spanish dance, to the great amusement of his comrades below, who were embarking in their boats. "While the half-crazed Spaniard was going on thus he little knew that, not three yards distant from him, a gigantic Mousehole fisherman, who went by the name of Gurnet, lay concealed among some low bushes, watching his proceedings with an expression of anger on his big stern countenance. When the boats were nearly ready to start the Spaniard descended from the rocky ledge on which he had been performing, intending to rejoin his comrades. He had to pass round the bush where Gurnet lay concealed, and in doing so was for a few seconds hid from his comrades, who immediately forgot him in the bustle of departure, or, if they thought of him at all, each boat's crew imagined, no doubt, that he was with one of the others. "But he never reached the boats. As he passed the bush Gurnet sprang on him like a tiger and seized him round the throat with both hands, choking a shout that was coming up, and causing his eyes to start almost out of his head. Without uttering a word, and only giving now and then a terrible hiss through his clenched teeth, Gurnet pushed the Spaniard before him, keeping carefully out of sight of the beach, and holding him fast by the nape of the neck, so that when he perceived the slightest symptom of a tendency to cry out he had only to press his strong fingers and effectually nip it in the bud. "He led him to a secluded place among the rocks, far beyond earshot of the shore, and there, setting him free, pointed to a flat rock and to his guitar, and hissed, rather than said, in tones that could neither be misunderstood nor gainsaid-- "`There, dance and sing, will 'ee, till 'ee bu'st!' "Gurnet clenched his huge fist as he spoke, and, as the Spaniard grew pale, and hesitated, he shook it close to his face--so close that he tapped the prominent bridge of the man's nose, and hissed again, more fiercely than before-- "`Ye haaf saved bucca, ye mazed totle, that can only frighten women an' child'n, an burn housen; thee'rt fond o' singin' an' dancin'--dance now, will 'ee, ye gurt bufflehead, or ef ye waant I'll scat thee head in jowds, an' send 'ee scrougin' over cliffs, I will.'" In justice to the narrator it is right to say that these words are not so bad as they sound. "The fisherman's look and action were so terrible whilst he poured forth his wrath, which was kept alive by the thought of the smouldering embers of his own cottage, that the Spaniard could not but obey. With a ludicrous compound of fun and terror he began to dance and sing, or rather to leap and wail, while Gurnet stood before him with a look of grim ferocity that never for a moment relaxed. "Whenever the Spaniard stopped from exhaustion Gurnet shouted `Go on,' in a voice of thunder, and the poor man, being thoroughly terrified, went on until he fell to the ground incapable of further exertion. "Up to this point Gurnet had kept saying to himself, `He is fond o' dancin' an' singin', let un have it, then,' but when the poor man fell his heart relented. He picked him up, threw him across his shoulder as if he had been a bolster, and bore him away. At first the men of the place wanted to hang him on the spot, but Gurnet claimed him as his prisoner, and would not allow this. He gave him his liberty, and the poor wretch maintained himself for many a day as a wandering minstrel. At last he managed to get on board of a Spanish vessel, and was never more heard of, but he left his guitar behind him. It was picked up on the shore, where he left it, probably, in his haste to get away. "The truth of this story, of course, I cannot vouch for," concluded Mr Donnithorne, with a smile, "but I have told it to you as nearly as possible in the words in which I have often heard my grandfather give it--and as for the guitar, why, here it is, having been sold to me by a descendant of the man who found it on the seashore." "A wonderful story indeed," said Oliver--"_if true_." "The guitar you must admit is at least a fact," said the old gentleman. Oliver not only admitted this, but said it was a sweet-sounding fact, and was proceeding to comment further on the subject when Mr Donnithorne interrupted him-- "By the way, talking of sweet sounds, have you heard what that gruff-voiced scoundrel Maggot--that roaring bull of Bashan--has been about lately?" "No, I have not," said Oliver, who saw that the old gentleman's ire was rising. "Ha! lad, that man ought to be hanged. He is an arrant knave, a smuggler--a--an ungrateful rascal. Why, sir, you'll scarcely believe it: he has come to me and demanded more money for the jewels which he and his comrade sold me in fair and open bargain, and because I refused, and called him a few well-merited names, he has actually gone and given information against me as possessor of treasure, which of right, so they say, belongs to Government, and last night I had a letter which tells me that the treasure, as they call it, must be delivered up without delay, on pain of I don't know what penalties. Penalties, forsooth! as if I hadn't been punished enough already by the harassing curtain-lectures of my over-scrupulous wife, ever since the unlucky day when the baubles were found, not to mention the uneasy probings of my own conscience, which, to say truth, I had feared was dead altogether owing to the villainous moral atmosphere of this smuggling place, but which I find quite lively and strong yet--a matter of some consolation too, for although I do have a weakness for cheap 'baccy and brandy, being of an economical turn of mind, I don't like the notion of getting rid of my conscience altogether. But, man, 'tis hard to bear!" Poor Mr Donnithorne stopped here, partly owing to shortness of breath, and partly because he had excited himself to a pitch that rendered coherent speech difficult. "Would it not be well at once to relieve your conscience, sir," suggested Oliver respectfully, "by giving up the things that cause it pain? In my profession we always try to get at the root of a disease, and apply our remedies there." "Ha!" exclaimed the old gentleman, wiping his heated brow, "and lose twenty pounds as a sort of fee to Doctor Maggot, who, like other doctors I wot of, created the disease himself, and who will certainly never attempt to alleviate it by returning the fee." "Still, the disease may be cured by the remedy I recommend," said Oliver. "No, man, it can't," cried the old gentleman with a perplexed expression, "because the dirty things are already sold and the money is invested in Botallack shares, to sell which and pay back the cash in the present depressed state of things would be utter madness. But hush! here comes my better half, and although she _is_ a dear good soul, with an unusual amount of wisdom for her size, it would be injudicious to prolong the lectures of the night into the early hours of morning." As he spoke little Mrs Donnithorne's round good-looking face appeared like the rising sun in the doorway, and her cheery voice welcomed Oliver to breakfast. "Thank you, aunt," said Oliver, "but I have already breakfasted more than an hour ago, and am on my way to visit my patients. Indeed, I have to blame myself for calling at so early an hour, and would not have done so but for the irresistible attraction of a newly discovered voice, which--" "Come, come, youngster," interrupted Mr Donnithorne, "be pleased to bear in remembrance that the voice is connected with a pair of capital ears, remarkable for their sharpness, if not their length, and at no great distance off, I warrant." "You do Rose injustice," observed Mrs Donnithorne, as the voice at that moment broke out into a lively carol in the region of the kitchen, whither its owner had gone to superintend culinary matters. "But tell me, Oliver, have you heard of the accident to poor Batten?" "Yes, I saw him yesterday," replied the doctor, "just after the accident happened, and I am anxious about him. I fear, though I am not quite certain, that his eyesight is destroyed." "Dear! dear!--oh, poor man," said Mrs Donnithorne, whose sympathetic heart swelled, while her blue eyes instantly filled with tears. "It is so very sad, Oliver, for his delicate wife and four young children are entirely dependent upon him and his two sons--and they found it difficult enough to make the two ends meet, even when they were all in health; for it is hard times among the miners at present, as you know, Oliver; and now--dear, dear, it is very, _very_ sad." Little Mrs Donnithorne said nothing more at that time, but her mind instantly reverted to a portly basket which she was much in the habit of carrying with her on her frequent visits to the poor and the sick--for the good lady was one of those whose inclinations as well as principles lead them to "consider the poor." It must not be imagined, however, that the poor formed a large class of the community in St. Just. The miners of that district, and indeed all over Cornwall, were, and still are, a self-reliant, independent, hard-working race, and as long as tough thews and sinews, and stout and willing hearts, could accomplish anything, they never failed to wrench a subsistence out of the stubborn rocks which contain the wealth of the land. Begging goes very much against the grain of a Cornishman, and the lowest depth to which he can sink socially, in his own esteem, is that of being dependent on charity. In some cases this sentiment is carried too far, and has degenerated into pride; for, when God in His wisdom sees fit, by means of disabling accident or declining health, to incapacitate a man from labour, it is as honourable in him to receive charity as it is (although not always sufficiently esteemed so) a high privilege and luxury of the more fortunate to give. Worthy Mrs Donnithorne's charities were always bestowed with such delicacy that she managed, in some mysterious way, to make the recipients feel as though they had done her a favour in accepting them. And yet she was not a soft piece of indiscriminating amiability, whose chief delight in giving lay in the sensations which the act created within her own breast. By no means. None knew better than she when and where to give money, and when to give blankets, bread, or tea. She was equally sharp to perceive the spirit that rendered it advisable for her to say, "I want you to do me a favour--there's a good woman now, you won't refuse me, etcetera," and to detect the spirit that called forth the sharp remark, accompanied with a dubious smile and a shake of her fat forefinger, "There now, see that you make better use of it _this_ time, else I shall have to scold you." Having received a message for poor Mrs Batten, the miner's wife, the doctor left the cottage, and proceeded to pay his visits. Let us accompany him. CHAPTER TWELVE. IN WHICH OLIVER GETS "A FALL," AND SEES SOME OF THE SHADOWS OF THE MINER'S LIFE. In crossing a hayfield, Oliver Trembath encountered the tall, bluff figure, and the grave, sedate smile of Mr Cornish, the manager. "Good-morning, doctor," said the old gentleman, extending his hand and giving the youth a grasp worthy of one of the old Cornish giants; "do you know I was thinking, as I saw you leap over the stile, that you would make a pretty fair miner?" "Thanks, sir, for your good opinion of me," said Oliver, with a smile, "but I would rather work above than below ground. Living the half of one's life beyond the reach of sunlight is not conducive to health." "Nevertheless, the miners keep their health pretty well, considering the nature of their work," replied Mr Cornish; "and you must admit that many of them are stout fellows. You would find them so if you got one of their Cornish hugs." "Perhaps," said Oliver, with a modest look, for he had been a noted wrestler at school, "I might give them a pretty fair hug in return, for Cornish blood flows in my veins." "A fig for blood, doctor; it is of no avail without knowledge and practice, as well as muscle. _With_ these, however, I do acknowledge that it makes weight--if by `blood' you mean high spirit." "By the way, how comes it, sir," said Oliver, "that Cornishmen are so much more addicted to wrestling than other Englishmen?" "It were hard to tell, doctor, unless it be that they feel themselves stronger than other Englishmen, and being accustomed to violent exertion more than others, they take greater pleasure in it. Undoubtedly the Greeks introduced it among us, but whether they practised it as we now do cannot be certainly ascertained." Here Mr Cornish entered into an enthusiastic account of the art of wrestling; related many anecdotes of his own prowess in days gone by, and explained the peculiar method of performing the throw by the heel, the toe, and the hip; the heave forward, the back-heave, and the Cornish hug, to all of which the youth listened with deep interest. "I should like much to witness one of your wrestling-matches," he said, when the old gentleman concluded; "for I cannot imagine that any of your peculiar Cornish hugs or twists can be so potent as to overturn a stout fellow who is accustomed to wrestle in another fashion. Can you show me one of the particular grips or twists that are said to be so effective?" "I think I can," replied the old gentleman, with a smile, and a twinkle in his eye; "of course the style of grip and throw will vary according to the size of the man one has to deal with. Give me hold of your wrist, and plant yourself firmly on your legs. Now, you see, you must turn the arm--so, and use your toe--thus, so as to lift your man, and with a sudden twist--there! That's the way to do it!" said the old gentleman, with a chuckle, as he threw Oliver head foremost into the middle of a haycock that lay opportunely near. It is hard to say whether Mr Cornish or Oliver was most surprised at the result of the effort--the one, that so much of his ancient prowess should remain, and the other, that he should have been so easily overthrown by one who, although fully as large a man as himself, had his joints and muscles somewhat stiffened by age. Oliver burst into a fit of laughter on rising, and exclaimed, "Well done, sir! You have effectually convinced me that there is something worth knowing in the Cornish mode of wrestling; although, had I known what you were about to do, it might not perhaps have been done so easily." "I doubt it not," said Mr Cornish with a laugh; "but that shows the value of `science' in such matters. Good-morning, doctor. Hope you'll find your patients getting on well." He waved his hand as he turned off, while Oliver pursued his way to the miners' cottages. The first he entered belonged to a man whose chest was slightly affected for the first time. He was a stout man, about thirty-five years of age, and of temperate habits--took a little beer occasionally, but never exceeded; had a good appetite, but had caught cold frequently in consequence of having to go a considerable distance from the shaft's mouth to the changing-house while exhausted with hard work underground and covered with profuse perspiration. Often he had to do this in wet weather and when bitterly cold winds were blowing--of late he had begun to spit blood. It is necessary here to remind the reader that matters in this respect-- and in reference to the condition of the miner generally--are now much improved. The changing-houses, besides being placed as near to the several shafts as is convenient, are now warmed with fires, and supplied with water-troughs, so that the men have a comfortable place in which to wash themselves on coming "to grass," and find their clothes thoroughly dried when they return in the morning to put them on before going underground. This renders them less liable to catch cold, but of course does not protect them from the evil influences of climbing the ladders, and of bad air. Few men have to undergo such severe toil as the Cornish miner, because of the extreme hardness of the rock with which he has to deal. To be bathed in perspiration, and engaged in almost unremitting and violent muscular exertion during at least eight hours of each day, may be said to be his normal condition. Oliver advised this man to give up underground work for some time, and, having prescribed for him and spoken encouragingly to his wife, left the cottage to continue his rounds. Several cases, more or less similar to the above, followed each other in succession; also one or two cases of slight illness among the children, which caused more alarm to the anxious mothers than there was any occasion for. These latter were quickly but good-naturedly disposed of, and the young doctor generally left a good impression behind him, for he had a hearty, though prompt, manner and a sympathetic spirit. At one cottage he found a young man in the last stage of consumption. He lay on his lowly bed pale and restless--almost wishing for death to relieve him of his pains. His young wife sat by his bedside wiping the perspiration from his brow, while a ruddy-cheeked little boy romped about the room unnoticed--ignorant that the hour was drawing near which would render him fatherless, and his young mother a widow. This young man had been a daring, high-spirited fellow, whose animal spirits led him into many a reckless deed. His complaint had been brought on by racing up the ladders--a blood-vessel had given way, and he had never rallied after. Just as Oliver was leaving him a Wesleyan minister entered the dwelling. "He won't be long with us, doctor, I fear," he said in passing. "Not long, sir," replied Oliver. "His release will be a happy one," said the minister, "for his soul rests on Jesus; but, alas! for his young wife and child." He passed into the sickroom, and the doctor went on. The next case was also a bad one, though different from the preceding. The patient was between forty and fifty years of age, and had been unable to go underground for several years. He was a staid, sober man, and an abstemious liver, but it was evident that his life on earth was drawing to a close. He had been employed chiefly in driving levels, and had worked a great deal in very bad air, where the candles could not be made to burn unless placed nine or ten feet behind the spot where he was at work. Indeed, he often got no fresh air except what was blown to him, and only a puff now and then. When he first went to work in the morning the candle would not keep alight, so that he had to take his coat and beat the air about before going into the level, and, after a time, went in when the candles could be got to burn by holding them on one side, and teasing out the wick very much. This used to create a great deal of smoke, which tended still further to vitiate the air. When he returned "to grass" his saliva used to be as black as ink. About five years before giving up underground work he had had inflammation of the lungs, followed by blood-spitting, which used to come on when he was at work in what he called "poor air," or in "cold-damp," and he had never been well since. Oliver's last visit that day was to the man John Batten; who had exploded a blast-hole in his face the day before. This man dwelt in a cottage in the small hamlet of Botallack, close to the mine of the same name. The room in which the miner lay was very small, and its furniture scanty; nevertheless it was clean and neatly arranged. Everything in and about the place bore evidence of the presence of a thrifty hand. The cotton curtain on the window was thin and worn, but it was well darned, and pure as the driven snow. The two chairs were old, as was also the table, but they were not rickety; it was obvious that they owed their stability to a hand skilled in mending and in patching pieces of things together. Even the squat little stool in the side of the chimney corner displayed a leg, the whiteness of which, compared with the other two, told of attention to small things. There was a peg for everything, and everything seemed to be on its peg. Nothing littered the well-scrubbed floor or defiled the well-brushed hearthstone, and it did not require a second thought on the part of the beholder to ascribe all this to the tidy little middle-aged woman, who, with an expression of deep anxiety on her good-looking countenance, attended to the wants of her injured husband. As Oliver approached the door of this cottage two stout youths, of about sixteen and seventeen respectively, opened it and issued forth. "Good-morning, lads! Going to work, I suppose?" said Oliver. "Iss, sur," replied the elder, a fair-haired ruddy youth, who, like his brother, had not yet sacrificed his colour to the evil influence of the mines; "we do work in the night corps, brother and me. Father is worse to-day, sur." "Sorry to hear that," said the doctor, as he passed them and entered the cottage, while the lads shouldered their tools and walked smartly down the lane that led to Botallack mine. "Your husband is not quite so well to-day, I hear," said the doctor, going to the side of the bed on which the stalwart form of the miner lay. "No, sur," replied the poor woman; "he has much pain in his eyes to-day, but his heart is braave, sur; I never do hear a complaint from he." This was true. The man lay perfectly still, the compressed lip and the perspiration that moistened his face alone giving evidence of the agony he endured. "Do you suffer much?" inquired the doctor, as he undid the bandages which covered the upper part of the man's face. "Iss, sur, I do," was the reply. No more was said, but a low groan escaped the miner when the bandage was removed, and the frightful effects of the accident were exposed to view. With intense anxiety Mrs Batten watched the doctor's countenance, but found no comfort there. A very brief examination was sufficient to convince Oliver that the eyes were utterly destroyed, for the miner had been so close to the hole when it exploded that the orbs were singed by the flame, and portions of unburnt powder had been blown right into them. "Will he see--a _little_, sur?" whispered Mrs Batten. Oliver shook his head. "I fear not," he said in a low tone. "Speak out, doctor," said the miner in firm tones, "I ain't afeard to knaw it." "It would be unkind to deceive you," replied Oliver sadly; "your eyes are destroyed." No word was spoken for a few minutes, but the poor woman knelt by her husband's side, and nestled close to him. Batten raised his large brown hand, which bore the marks and scars of many a year of manly toil, and laid it gently on his wife's head. "I'll never see thee again, Annie," he murmured in a low deep tone; "but I see thee face now, lass, as I _last_ saw it, wi' the smile of an angel on't--an' I'll see it so till the day I die; bless the Lord for that." Mrs Batten rose and went softly but quickly out of the room that she might relieve her bursting heart without distressing her husband, but he knew her too well to doubt the reason of her sudden movement, and a faint smile was on his lips for a moment as he said to Oliver,--"She's gone to weep a bit, sur, and pray. It will do her good, dear lass." "Your loss is a heavy one--very heavy," said Oliver, with hesitation in his tone, for he felt some difficulty in attempting to comfort one in so hopeless a condition. "True, sur, true," replied the man in a tone of cheerful resignation that surprised the doctor, "but it might have been worse; `the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord!'" Mrs Batten returned in a few minutes, and Oliver left them, after administering as much comfort as he could in the circumstances, but to say truth, although well skilled in alleviating bodily pains, he was incapable of doing much in the way of ministering to the mind diseased. Oliver Trembath was not a medical missionary. His mother, though a good, amiable woman, had been a weak, easy-going creature--one of those good-tempered, listless ladies who may be regarded as human vegetables, who float through life as comfortably as they can, giving as little trouble as possible, and doing as little good as is compatible with the presence of even nominal Christianity. She performed the duties of life in the smallest possible circle, the centre of which was herself, and the extremity of the radii extending to the walls of her garden. She went to church at the regulation hours; "said her prayers" in the regulation tone of voice; gave her charities in the stated way, at stated periods, with a hazy perception as to the objects for which they were given, and an easy indifference as to the success of these objects--the whole end and aim of her wishes being attained in, and her conscience satisfied by, the act of giving. Hence her son Oliver was not much impressed in youth with the power or value of religion, and hence he found himself rather put out when his common sense told him, as it not unfrequently did, that it was his duty sometimes to administer a dose to the mind as well as to the body. But Oliver was not like his mother in any respect. His fire, his energy, his intellectual activity, and his impulsive generosity he inherited from his father. Amiability alone descended to him from his mother--an inheritance, by the way, not to be lightly esteemed, for by it all his other qualities were immeasurably enhanced in value. His heart had beat in sympathy with the mourners he had just left, and his manly disposition made him feel ashamed that the lips which could give advice glibly enough in regard to bandages and physic, and which could speak in cheery, comforting tones when there was hope for his patient, were sealed and absolutely incapable of utterance when death approached or hopeless despair took possession of the sufferer. Oliver had felt something of this even in his student life, when the solemnities of sickness and death were new to him; but it was pressed home upon him with peculiar power, and his manhood was often put to the blush when he was brought into contact with the Wesleyan Methodism of West Cornwall, where multitudes of men and women of all grades drew comfort from the Scriptures as readily and as earnestly as they drew water from their wells--where religion was mingled with everyday and household duties--and where many of the miners and fishermen preached and prayed, and comforted one another with God's Word, as vigorously, as simply, and as naturally as they hewed a livelihood from the rocks or drew sustenance from the sea. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. TREATS OF SPIRITS AND OF SUNDRY SPIRITED MATTERS AND INCIDENTS. One sunny afternoon Mrs Maggot found herself in the happy position of having so thoroughly completed her round of household work that she felt at leisure to sit down and sew, while little Grace sat beside her, near the open door, rocking the cradle. Baby, in blissful unconsciousness of its own existence, lay sound asleep with a thumb in its mouth; the resolute sucking of that thumb having been its most recent act of disobedience. Little Grace was flushed, and rather dishevelled, for it had cost her half an hour's hard wrestling to get baby placed in recumbent somnolence. She now sought to soothe her feelings by tickling the chin of the black kitten--a process to which that active creature submitted with purring satisfaction. "Faither's long of coming hum, mother," said little Grace, looking up. "Iss," replied Mrs Maggot. "D'ee knaw where he is?" inquired Grace. "No, I doan't," replied her mother. It was evident that Mrs Maggot was not in the humour for conversation, so Grace relapsed into silence, and devoted herself to the kitten. "Is that faither?" said Grace, after a few minutes, pointing to the figure of a man who was seen coming over the distant moor or waste land which at that period surrounded the town of St. Just, though the greater part of it is now cultivated fields. "It isn' like un," said Mrs Maggot, shading her eyes with her hand; "sure, it do look like a boatsman." [The men of the coastguard were called "boatsmen" at that time.] "Iss, I do see his cutlash," said little Grace; "and there's another man comin' down road to meet un." "Haste 'ee, Grace," cried Mrs Maggot, leaping up and plucking her last-born out of the cradle, "take the cheeld in to Mrs Penrose, an' bide theer till I send for 'ee--dost a hear?" Plucked thus unceremoniously from gentle slumber to be plunged headlong and without preparation into fierce infantine war, was too much for baby Maggot; he uttered one yell of rage and defiance, which was succeeded by a lull--a sort of pause for the recovery of breath--so prolonged that the obedient Grace had time to fling down the horror-struck Chet, catch baby in her arms, and bear him into the neighbouring cottage before the next roar came forth. The youthful Maggot was at once received into the bosom of the Penrose family, and succeeding yells were smothered by eight out of the sixteen Penroses who chanced to be at home at the time. That Mrs Maggot had a guilty conscience might have been inferred from her future proceedings, which, to one unacquainted with the habits of her husband, would have appeared strange, if not quite unaccountable. When baby was borne off, as related, she seized a small keg, which stood in a corner near the door and smelt strongly of brandy, and, placing it with great care in the vacant cradle, covered it over with blankets. She next rolled a pair of stockings into a ball and tied on it a little frilled night-cap, which she disposed on the pillow, with the face pretty well down, and the back of the head pretty well up, and so judiciously and cleverly covered it with bedclothes that even Maggot himself might have failed to miss his son, or to recognise the outlines of a keg. A bottle half full of brandy, with the cork out, was next placed on the table to account for the odour in the room, and then Mrs Maggot sat down to her sewing, and rocked the cradle gently with her foot, singing a sweet lullaby the while. Ten minutes later, two stout men of the coastguard, armed with cutlasses and pistols, entered the cottage. Mrs Maggot observed that they were also armed with a pick and shovel. "Good-hevenin', missus; how dost do?" said the man who walked foremost, in a hearty voice. "Good-hevenin', Eben Trezise; how are _you_?" said Mrs Maggot. "Braave, thank 'ee," said Trezise; "we've come for a drop o' brandy, missus, havin' heard that you've got some here, an' sure us can smell it--eh?" "Why, iss, we've got wan small drop," said Mrs Maggot, gently arranging the clothes on the cradle, "that the doctor have order for the cheeld. You're welcome to a taste of it, but plaise don't make so much noise, for the poor cheeld's slaipin'." "He'll be smothered, I do think, if you don't turn his head up a bit, missus," said the man; "hows'ever you've no objection to let Jim and me have a look round the place, I dessay?" Mrs Maggot said they were welcome to do as they pleased, if they would only do it quietly for the sake of the "cheeld;" so without more ado they commenced a thorough investigation of the premises, outside and in. Then they went to the smithy, where Mrs Maggot knew her husband had concealed two large kegs of smuggled liquor on the hearth under a heap of ashes and iron debris, but these had been so cleverly, yet carelessly, hidden that the men sat down on the heap under which they lay, to rest and wipe their heated brows after their fruitless search. "Hast 'ee found the brandy?" inquired Mrs Maggot, with a look of innocence, when the two men returned. "Not yet," replied Eben Trezise; "but we've not done. There's a certain shaft near by that has got a bad name for drinkin', missus; p'raps you may have heard on it? Its breath do smell dreadful bad sometimes." Both men laughed at this, and winked to each other, while Mrs Maggot smiled, and, with a look of surprise, vowed that she had not heard of the disreputable shaft referred to. Despite her unconcerned look, however, Mrs Maggot felt anxious, for she was aware that her husband had recently obtained an unusually large quantity of French brandy and tobacco from the Scilly Islands, between which and the coasts of Cornwall smuggling was carried on in a most daring and extensive manner at the time of our story, and she knew that the whole of the smuggled goods lay concealed in one of those numerous disused shafts of old mines which lie scattered thickly over that part of the country. Maggot's absence rendered her position still more perplexing, but she was a woman of ready wit and self-reliance, and she comforted herself with the knowledge that the brandy lay buried far down in the shaft, and that it would take the boatsmen some time to dig to it--that possibly they might give up in despair before reaching it. While the men went off to search for the shaft, and while Mrs Maggot was calmly nursing her spirited little baby, Maggot himself, in company with his bosom friend John Cock, was sauntering slowly homeward along the cliffs near Kenidjack Castle, the ruins of which occupy a bold promontory a little to the north of Cape Cornwall. They had just come in sight of the tin-mine and works which cover Nancharrow valley from the shore to a considerable distance inland, where stand the tall chimneys and engine-houses, the whims and varied machinery of the extensive and prolific old tin-mine named Wheal Owles. The cliffs on which the two men stood are very precipitous and rugged-- rising in some places to a height of about 300 feet above the rocks where the waters of the Atlantic roll dark and deep, fringing the coast with a milky foam that is carried away by the tide in long streaks, to be defiled by the red waters which flow from Nancharrow valley into Porth Ledden Cove. This cove is a small one, with a narrow strip of sand on its shore. At its northern extremity is a deep narrow gorge, into which the waves rush, even in calm weather, with a peculiar sound. In reference to this it is said that the waves "buzz-and-go-in," hence the place has been named Zawn Buzzangein. The sides of the Zawn are about sixty feet high, and quite precipitous. In one part, especially, they overhang their base. It was here that Maggot and his friend stopped on their way home, and turned to look out upon the sea. "No sign o' pilchers yet," observed Maggot, referring to the immense shoals of pilchards which visit the Cornish coasts in the autumn of each year, and form a large portion of the wealth of the county. "Too soon," replied John Cock. "By the way, Jack," said Maggot, "wasn't it hereabouts that the schooner went ashore last winter?" "Iss, 'twor down theer, close by Pullandeese," replied the other, pointing to a deep pool in the rocks round which the swell of the Atlantic broke in white foam. "I was theere myself. I had come down 'bout daylight--before others were stirring, an' sure 'nuff there she lay, on the rocks, bottom up, an' all the crew lost. We seed wan o' them knackin' on the rocks to the north, so we got ropes an' let a man down to fetch un up, but of coorse it was gone dead." "That minds me, Jack," said Maggot, "that I seed a daw's nest here the last time I come along, so lev us go an' stroob that daw's nest." "Thee cusn't do it," said John Cock. Maggot laughed, and said he not only could but would, so he ran down to the neighbouring works and returned with a stout rope, which he fixed firmly to a rock at the edge of the overhanging cliff. We have already said that Maggot was a noted madcap, who stuck at nothing, and appeared to derive positive pleasure from the mere act of putting his life in danger. No human foot could, by climbing, have reached the spot where the nest of the daw, or Cornish chough, was fixed--for the precipice, besides being perpendicular and nearly flat, projected a little near the top, where the nest lay in a crevice overhanging the surf that boiled and raged in Zawn Buzzangein. Indeed, the nest was not visible from the spot where the two men stood, and it could only be seen by going round to the cliffs on the opposite side of the gorge. Without a moment's hesitation Maggot swung himself over the edge of the precipice, merely cautioning his comrade, as he did so, to hold on to the rope and prevent it from slipping. He slid down about two yards, and then found that the rock overhung so much that he was at least six feet off from the crevice in which the young daws nestled comfortably together, and no stretch that he could make with his legs, long though they were, was sufficient to enable him to get on the narrow ledge just below the nest. Several times he tried to gain a footing, and at each effort the juvenile daws--as yet ignorant of the desperate nature of man--opened their little eyes to the utmost in undisguised amazement. For full five minutes Maggot wriggled and the daws gazed, and the anxious comrade above watched the vibrations and jerks of the part of the rope that was visible to him while he listened intently. The bubbles on Zawn Buzzangein, like millions of watery eyes, danced and twinkled sixty feet below, as if in wonder at the object which swung wildly to and fro in mid-air. At last Maggot managed to touch the rock with the extreme point of his toe. A slight push gave him swing sufficient to enable him to give one or two vigorous shoves, by which means he swung close to the side of the cliff. Watching his opportunity, he planted both feet on the narrow ledge before referred to, stretched out his hands, pressed himself flat against the rock, let go the rope, and remained fast, like a fly sticking to a wall. This state of comparative safety he announced to his anxious friend above by exclaiming,--"All right, _John--I've_ got the daws." This statement was, however, not literally true, for it cost him several minutes of slow and careful struggling to enable him so to fix his person as to admit of his hands being used for "stroobing" purposes. At length he gained the object of his ambition, and transferred the horrified daws from their native home to his own warm but unnatural bosom, in which he buttoned them up tight. A qualm now shot through Maggot's heart, for he discovered that in his anxiety to secure the daws he had let go the rope, which hung at a distance of full six feet from him, and, of course, far beyond his reach. "Hullo! John," he cried. "Hullo!" shouted John in reply. "I've got the _daws_," said Maggot, "but I've lost the _rope_!" "Aw! my dear," gasped John; "have 'ee lost th' rope?" It need scarcely be said that poor John Cock was dreadfully alarmed at this, and that he eagerly tendered much useless advice--stretching his neck the while as far as was safe over the cliff. "I say, John," shouted Maggot again. "Hullo!" answered John. "I tell 'ee what: I'm goin' to jump for th' rope. If I do miss th' rope, run thee round to Porth Ledden Cove, an' tak' my shoes weth 'ee; I'll be theere before 'ee." Having made this somewhat bold prediction, Maggot collected all his energies, and sprang from his narrow perch into the air, with arms and hands wildly extended. His effort was well and bravely made, but his position had been too constrained, and his foothold too insecure, to admit of a good jump. He missed the rope, and, with a loud cry, shot like an arrow into the boiling flood below. John Cock heard the cry and the plunge, and stood for nearly a minute gazing in horror into Zawn Buzzangein. Presently he drew a deep sigh of relief, for Maggot made his appearance, manfully buffeting the waves. John watched him with anxiety while he swam out towards the sea, escaped the perpendicular sides of the Zawn, towards which the breakers more than once swept him, doubled the point, and turned in towards the cove. The opposite cliffs of the gorge now shut the swimmer out from John's view, so he drew another deep sigh, and picking up his comrade's shoes, ran round with all his might to Porth Ledden Cove, where, true to his word, having been helped both by wind and tide, Maggot had arrived before him. "Are 'ee safe, my dear man?" was John's first question. "Iss," replied Maggot, shaking himself, "safe enough, an' the daws too, but semmen to me they've gone dead." This was too true. The poor birds had perished in their captor's bosom. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. CONTINUES TO TREAT OF SPIRITS, AND SHOWS THE VALUE OF HOSPITALITY. Having accomplished the feat narrated in the last chapter Maggot proceeded with his friend towards the town. On their way they had to pass the mouth of an old shaft in which both of them chanced to be much interested at that time, inasmuch as it contained the produce of a recent smuggling expedition on a large scale, consisting of nearly a hundred tubs of brandy. The liquor had been successfully brought ashore and concealed in the mine, and that night had been fixed on for its removal. Mules had been provided, and about fifty men were appointed to meet at a certain spot, at a fixed hour, to carry the whole away into the neighbouring towns. Maggot and his comrade began to converse about the subject that was uppermost in their minds, and the former increased his pace, when John Cock drew his attention to the fact that the sun was getting low. "The boys will be mustering now," said John, "an' them theere daws have kep' us late enough already." "They do say that the boatsmen are informed about the toobs," observed Maggot. "More need to look alive," said John. "Hallo!" exclaimed Maggot suddenly; "there's some wan in the shaft!" He pointed to a neighbouring mound of rubbish, on which, just as he spoke, a man made his appearance. Without uttering a word the smugglers sauntered towards the mound, assuming a careless air, as though they were passing that way by chance. On drawing near they recognised Ebenezer Trezise, the coastguard-man. "Good-hevening, sur," said Maggot; "semmen as if you'd found a keenly lode." "Why, iss, we've diskivered a noo vein," said Trezise with a sly smile, "and we're sinkin' a shaft here in the hope o' raisin' tin, or _somethin'_." "Ha! hope you'll let John an' me have a pitch in the noo bal, won't 'ee?" said Maggot with a laugh. "Oh, cer'nly, cer'nly," replied the boatsman; "if you'll lend us a hand to sink the shaft. You appear to have been in the water, and 'twill warm 'ee." "No, thank 'ee," replied Maggot; "I've bin stroobin' a daw's nest under cliff, an' I fell into the say, so I'm goin' hum to dry myself, as I'm afeared o' kitchin' cold, being of a delikit constitootion. But I'll p'raps lend thee a hand afterwards." Maggot nodded as he spoke, and left the place at a slow saunter with his comrade, followed by the thanks and good-wishes of the boatsman, who immediately returned to the laborious task of clearing out the old shaft. "They've got the scent," said Maggot when out of earshot; "but we'll do 'em yet. Whenever thee gets on the leeside o' that hedge, John, do 'ee clap on all sail for Balaswidden, where the boys are waitin', an' tell 'em to be ready for a call. I'll send Zackey, or wan o' the child'n to 'ee." John went off on his errand the moment he was out of sight of the boatsmen, and Maggot walked smartly to his cottage. "Owld ooman," he said, commencing to unbutton his wet garments, "do 'ee git ready a cup o' tay, as fast as you can, lass; we shall have company to-night." "Company!" exclaimed Mrs Maggot in surprise; "what sort o' company?" "Oh! the best, the best," said Maggot with a laugh; "boatsmen no less-- so look sharp. Zackey booy, come here." Zackey put down the unfortunate black kitten (which immediately sought comfort in repose) and obeyed his father's summons, while his mother, knowing that her husband had some plot in his wise head, set about preparing a sumptuous meal, which consisted of bread and butter, tea and fried mackerel, and Cornish pasty. "Zackey, my son," said Maggot while he continued his toilet. "Iss, father." "I want 'ee to come down to the owld shaft with me, an' when I give 'ee the ward cut away as hard as thee legs can spank to Balaswidden, an' fetch the lads that are theere to the owld shaft. They knaw what to do, but tell 'em to make so little noise as they can. Dost a hear, my son?" "Iss, faither," replied Zackey, with a wink of such profound meaning that his sire felt quite satisfied he was equal to the duty assigned him. "Now, doan't 'ee wag tongue more than enough," continued Maggot; "and go play with the chet till I'm ready." The urchin at once descended like a thunderbolt on the black kitten, but that marvellous animal had succeeded in snatching five minutes' repose, which seemed to be amply sufficient to recruit its energies, for it began instantly to play--in other words to worry and scratch the boy's hand--with the utmost glee and good-humour. In a few minutes Maggot and his son went out and hastened to the old shaft, where they found the boatsmen still hard at work with pick and shovel clearing away the rubbish. "You haven't found a bunch o' copper yet, I dessay?" said Maggot with a grin. "No, not yet, but we shan't be long," replied Eben Trezise with a knowing smile. "It's warm work," observed Maggot, as he looked down the hole, and saw that what the boatsman said was true, and that they would not be long of reaching the spot where the liquor had been concealed. Trezise admitted that it _was_ warm work, and paused to wipe his heated brow. "I wish we had a drop o' water here," he said, looking up. "Ha!" exclaimed Maggot; "not much chance o' findin' water in _that_ hole, I do think--no, nor brandy nuther." "Not so sure o' that," said Trezise, resuming his work. "Now, et _is_ a shame to let 'ee die here for want of a drop o' water," said Maggot in a compassionate tone; "I'll send my booy hum for some." The boatsmen thanked him, and Zackey was ordered off to fetch a jug of water; but his father's voice arrested him before he had gone a hundred yards. "Hold on a bit, my son.--P'raps," he said, turning to Trezise, "you'd come up hum with me and have a dish o' tay? Missus have got it all ready." The invitation appeared to gratify the boatsmen, who smiled and winked at each other, as though they thought themselves very clever fellows to have discovered the whereabouts of a hidden treasure, and to be refreshed in the midst of their toil by one whom they knew to be a noted smuggler, and whom they strongly suspected of being concerned in the job they were at that time endeavouring to frustrate. Throwing down their tools they laughingly accepted the invitation, and clambered out of the shaft. "Now's your time," whispered Maggot with a nod to his hopeful son, and then added aloud-- "Cut away, Zackey booy, an' tell mother to get the tay ready. Run, my son, let us knaw what thee legs are made of." "He's a smart lad," observed Trezise, as Zackey gave his father an intelligent look, and dashed away at the top of his speed. "Iss, a clever cheeld," assented Maggot. "Bin down in the mines, I dessay?" said Trezise. "Iss, oh iss; he do knaw tin," replied Maggot with much gravity. In a few minutes the two coastguard-men were seated at Mrs Maggot's well-supplied board, enjoying the most comfortable meal they had eaten for many a day. It was seasoned, too, with such racy talk, abounding in anecdote, from Maggot, and such importunate hospitality on the part of his better half, that the men felt no disposition to cut it short. Little Grace, too, was charmingly attentive, for she, poor child, being utterly ignorant of the double parts which her parents were playing, rejoiced, in the native kindliness of her heart, to see them all so happy. Even the "chet" seemed to enter into the spirit of what was going on, for, regardless of the splendid opportunity that now presented itself of obtaining repose to its heart's content, that black ball of concentrated essence of mischief dashed wildly about the floor and up the bed-curtains, with its back up and its tail thickened, and its green eyes glaring defiance at everything animate, inanimate, or otherwise, insomuch that Maggot made sundry efforts to quell it with the three-legged stool--and Mrs Maggot followed suit with a dish-clout--but in vain! Meanwhile, men and mules and horses were converging by many paths and lanes towards the old shaft, and the shaft itself was apparently endued with the properties of a volcano, for out of its mouth issued a continuous shower of dust and stones, while many stalwart arms laid bare the mine beneath, and tossed up the precious "tubs" of brandy. Before the pleasant little tea-party in Maggot's cottage broke up the whole were scattered abroad, and men and mules and horses sped with their ill-gotten gains across the furze-clad moors. "Sure it's early to break up," said Maggot, when the boatsmen at last rose to take their leave; "there's no fear o' the bunches o' copper melting down there, or flyin' away." "There's no saying," replied Eben Trezise; "you've heerd as well as we of lodes takin' the bit in their teeth an' disappearing--eh?" "Well, iss, so they do sometimes; I'll not keep 'ee longer; good-hevenin' to 'ee," said Maggot, going outside the door and wishing them all manner of success as they returned to the old shaft. Reader, shall we follow the two knowing fellows to that shaft? Shall we mark the bewildered expression of amazement with which they gazed into it, and listen to the wild fiendish laugh of mingled amusement and wrath that bursts from them in fitful explosions as the truth flashes into their unwilling minds? No; vice had triumphed over virtue, and we deem it a kindness to your sensitive nature to draw a veil over the scene of her discomfiture. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. INTRODUCES A STRANGER, DESCRIBES A PICNIC, AND REVEALS SOME SECRETS OF MINING. Somewhere in the vicinity of that magnificent piece of coast scenery in West Cornwall, known by the name of Gurnard's Head, there sauntered, one fine afternoon, a gentleman of tall, commanding aspect. All the parts of this gentleman were, if we may so speak, _prononce_. Everything about him savoured of the superlative degree. His head and face were handsome and large, but their size was not apparent because of the capacity of his broad shoulders and wide chest. His waist was slender, hair curly and very black, only to be excelled by the intense blackness of his eyes. His nose was prominent; mouth large and well shaped; forehead high and broad; whiskers enormous; and nostrils so large as to appear dilated. He was a bony man, a powerful man--also tall and straight, and a little beyond forty. He was to all appearance a hero of romance, and his mind seemed to be filled with romantic thoughts, for he smiled frequently as he gazed around him from the top of the cliffs on the beautiful landscape which lay spread out at his feet. Above him there were wild undulating slopes covered with rich green gorse; below were the cliffs of Gurnard's Cove, with rocky projections that resemble the castellated work of man's hand, and intermingled therewith much of the _materiel_ connected with the pilchard fishery, with masses of masonry so heavy and picturesque as to resemble Nature's handiwork. Beyond lay the blue waters of the Atlantic, which at that time were calm almost as a mill-pond, studded with a hundred sails, and glittering in sunshine. The spot appeared a beautiful solitude, for no living thing was visible save the romantic gentleman and a few seagulls and sheep. The pilchard fishery had not yet commenced, and the three or four fishermen who pitched and repaired their boats on the one little spot of sand that could be seen far below on that rugged coast appeared like mice, and were too far distant to break the feeling of solitude--a feeling which was not a little enhanced by the appearance, on a spot not far distant, of the ruined engine-house of a deserted mine. It was indeed a lovely afternoon, and a beautiful scene--a very misanthrope would have gazed on it with an approach at least to benignity. No wonder that George Augustus Clearemout smiled on it so joyously, and whisked his walking-cane vigorously in the exuberance of his delight. But, strange to say, his smile was always brightest, and the cane flourished most energetically, when he turned his eyes on the ruined mine! He even laughed once or twice, and muttered to himself as he looked at the picturesque object; yet there seemed nothing in its appearance calculated to produce laughter. On the contrary, there were those alive whom the sight of it might have reduced to tears, for, in its brief existence, it had raised uncommonly little tin or copper, although it had succeeded in sinking an immense amount of gold! Nevertheless Mr Clearemout chuckled every time he looked at the ruin, and appeared very much tickled with the thoughts to which it gave rise. "Yes! the very thing! capital!" he muttered to himself, turning again and again to the object of his admiration, "couldn't be better--ha! ha! most suitable; yes, it will do for 'em, probably it will _do_ 'em--do 'em," (he repeated the phrase two or three times with a greater display of white teeth at each utterance of it), "a most superb name--Wheal Do-em--ha! ha! Spell it with two o's to make it look more natural, and ensure correct pronunciation--Wheal Dooem--nothing could be finer, quite candid and above-board--no one can call it a swindle." This last idea caused Mr Clearemout to break into the loudest laugh in which he had hitherto indulged, and he was about to repeat it, when the appearance of a phaeton at a turn of the carriage road reduced him to gravity. The vehicle contained a party of ladies and gentlemen from St. Just, among whom were Rose Ellis, Mrs Donnithorne and her husband, Oliver Trembath, and Mr William Grenfell, a gentleman of property in the neighbourhood. As it approached the spot where Mr Clearemout stood, the horse swerved at a sheep which started out from behind a furze bush, and then backed so rapidly that the hind-wheels were on the point of passing over the edge of the road, when the tall stranger sprang to its head, and led it gently forward. The danger was not great, for the road at the place was elevated little above the sward, but it was sufficiently so to warrant a profusion of thanks from the occupants of the vehicle, and a pressing invitation to Mr Clearemout to join the picnic party then and there assembling. "You see, we're not all here," said Mr Donnithorne, bustling about energetically, as he pulled baskets and bottles from the body of the vehicle, while Oliver assisted the ladies to alight; "there's another machineful coming, but we have lots of grub for all, and will only be too glad of your company, Mr--Mr--what did you say?" "Clearemout," interposed that gentleman, with a bow and a bland smile that quite took Mr Donnithorne by storm. "Ah, yes, glad to have you, Mr Clearemout; why, our necks might all have been broken but for you. Rose, my dear, do look after this basket. There--thanks--how hot it is, to be sure! Mr Clearemout--Mr Grenfell; no introduction--only to let you know his name--my wife-- niece, Rose--Oliver Trembath, and all the rest; there, dispense with ceremony on a picnic always. That's the chief fun of it." While the lively old gentleman ran on thus, and collected the baskets together, Mr Grenfell, who was a tall, gentlemanly man of about sixty, with a grave, aristocratic countenance and polite manner, assured Mr Clearemout that he was happy to make the acquaintance of a man who had rendered them such opportune service, whereupon Mr Clearemout declared himself to be fortunate in being present at such a juncture, and protested that his service was a trifle in itself, although it had led to an introduction which was most gratifying. Then, turning with much urbanity of manner to the ladies, he entered into conversation with them. "Here they come!" shouted old Mr Donnithorne, as another carriage drove up. "The rest of our party," said Mr Grenfell, turning to Mr Clearemout; "friends from St. Just." The carriage stopped as he spoke, and a number of ladies and gentlemen descended therefrom, and mingled their congratulations at the narrow escape which had just been made, with thanks to the dark stranger, and with orders, questions, counter-orders, and explanations innumerable, about baskets to be carried and places to be selected. The picnic, we need scarcely say, very much resembled picnics in general. All were in good spirits--elated with the splendour of the day, the beauty of the views, and the freshness of the sea-breeze that sprang up soon after their arrival. The only one whose feelings were not absolutely unruffled was Oliver Trembath. That youth was afflicted with an unaccountable dislike to the dark stranger which rendered him somewhat uncomfortable. As for the stranger, he made himself extremely agreeable--told anecdotes, sang songs, and became an immaculate waiter on the whole company, handing about plates, glasses, knives, etcetera, etcetera, as deftly as if he were dealing a pack of cards. Above all, he was a good listener, and not only heard other people's stories out to the end, but commented on them as one who had been interested. With all this, he was particularly attentive to Rose Ellis, but so guarded was he that no one noticed the attentions as being peculiar except Rose herself, and Oliver Trembath, who, for the first time in his life, to his great surprise and displeasure, felt the demon of jealousy tormenting his breast. But in the midst of all this, Mr George Augustus Clearemout displayed an insatiable curiosity in regard to mines and miners. Whatever might be the subject of conversation for the time, he invariably took the first opportunity of returning to his favourite theme with one or another of the party, as occasion served. Ashamed of the feelings which troubled him, Oliver Trembath resolved to take the bold and manly step of stifling them, by making himself agreeable to the object of his dislike. Accordingly, he availed himself of an opportunity when the party broke up into groups to saunter about the cliffs, and entered into converse with the stranger on the subject of mines. "You appear to take much interest in mining, I think," said he, as they walked out on the promontory together. "I do indeed," replied Clearemout; "the mines of Cornwall have ever been a subject of deep interest to me, and the miners I regard as a race of men singularly endowed with courage and perseverance." "Your opinion of them is correct," said Oliver. "Have you ever seen them at work?" "No, I have only just arrived in the county, but I hope to visit the mines ere long." "When you do," said Oliver with enthusiasm, "your opinion of them will be strengthened, for their endurance underground, and their perseverance in a species of labour which taxes their muscular power as well as their patience to the uttermost, surpasses anything I have either seen or heard of. England does not fully appreciate, because she is not minutely acquainted with, the endurance and courage of her Cornish miners. The rocks through which they have to cut are so hard and unyielding that men who had not been trained from childhood to subdue them would lose heart altogether at the weight of toil and the small return for it. Sometimes, indeed, miners are fortunate, and here, as elsewhere, lucky hits are made, but for the most part their gains are barely sufficient for their wants; and whether they are lucky or unlucky in that respect, the toil is always hard--so hard that few of them retain health or strength sufficient to go underground beyond the age of forty-five, while hundreds of them find an early grave, owing to disease resulting from their peculiar work, or to accidents. These last are usually occasioned by the bursting out of collections of water which flood the mines, or the fall of masses of timber, or the premature explosion of blast-holes. At other times the men lose hold of the ladders--`fall away' from them, as they express it--or stumble into a winze, which is a small shaft connecting level with level, in which latter case death is almost certain to ensue, many of the winzes being sixty feet deep. In St. Just you will see many poor fellows who have been blinded or maimed in the mines. Nevertheless Cornish miners are a contented, uncomplaining race of men, and Cornwall is justly proud of them." "I am much interested in what you tell me," said Clearemout; "in fact I have come here for the purpose of making inquiry into mines and mining concerns." "Then you will find this to be the very place for you," said Oliver. "My uncle, Mr Donnithorne, and Mr Grenfell, and Mr Cornish are intimately acquainted with mining in all its phases, and will, I am certain, be happy to give you all the information in their power. As to the people of St. Just and its neighbourhood, you will find them most agreeable and hospitable. I can speak from personal experience, although I have only been a short time among them." "I doubt it not," replied Mr Clearemout with a bland smile; "my own limited experience goes far to corroborate what you say, and I hope to have the pleasure of still further testing the truth of your observations." And Mr George Augustus Clearemout did test their truth for several weeks after the picnic. He was received with kindness and hospitality everywhere; he was taken down into the mines by obliging agents, and was invited to several of the periodical business dinners, called "account-dinners," at which he met shareholders in the mines, and had an opportunity of conversing with men of note and wealth from various parts of the county. He dwelt, during his stay, with old Mr Donnithorne, and, much to the surprise if not pleasure of Rose, proved himself to be a proficient on the guitar and a good musician. At length the dark gentleman took his departure for London, whither we shall follow him, and watch his proceedings for a very short time, before returning to the principal scene of our tale. Almost immediately on his arrival in the great city, he betook himself to the West End, and there, in a fashionable square, solicited an interview with an old lady, whose principal noteworthy points were that she had much gold and not much brains. She was a confiding old lady, and had, on a previous occasion, been quite won by the insinuating address of the "charming Mr Clearemout," who had been introduced to her by a noble lord. To this confiding old lady George Augustus painted Cornish mines and mining in the most glowing colours, and recommended her to invest in a mine a portion of her surplus funds. The confiding old lady had no taste for speculation, and was rather partial to the three per cent consols, but George Augustus was so charmingly persuasive that she could not help giving in--so George proposed little plans, and opened up little prospects, and the confiding old lady agreed to all the little plans without paying much regard to the little prospects. After this Mr Clearemout paid another visit in another West End square--this time to a gentleman. The gentleman was young and noble, for Clearemout styled him "My lord." Strange to say he also was of a confiding nature--very much so indeed--and appeared to be even more completely under the influence of George Augustus than the confiding old lady herself. For the benefit of this young gentleman Mr Clearemout painted the same picture in the same glowing colours, which colours seemed to grow warmer as the sun of success rose upon it. He added something about the value of a name, and referred to money as being a matter of small consequence in comparison. The young lord, like the old lady, agreed to everything that was proposed to him, except the proposal to advance money. On that point he was resolute, but Clearemout did not care much about obtaining money from the confiding young gentleman. His name was as good as gold, and would enable him to screw money out of others. After this the dark man paid a visit to several other friends at the West End, all of whom were more or less confiding--some with selfish, others with unselfish, dispositions--but all, without exception, a little weak intellectually. These had the same glowing pictures of a Cornish mine laid before them, and most of them swallowed the bait whole, only one or two being content to nibble. When afternoon began to merge into evening Mr Clearemout paid a last visit for the day--but not in the West End, rather nearer to the City-- to a gentleman somewhat like himself, though less prepossessing, for whose benefit he painted no glowing picture of a mine, but to whom he said, "Come, Jack, I've made a pretty good job of it; let's go and have a chop. If your luck has equalled mine the thing is done, and Wheal Dooem, as I have named the sweet little thing, will be going full swing in a couple of weeks--costing, perhaps, a few hundreds to put it in working order, with a trifle thereafter in the shape of wages to a man and a boy to coal the fire, and keep the thing moving with as much noise as possible to make a show, and leaving a pretty little balance of some twenty or thirty thousand at the credit of the Company, for you and me to enjoy in the meantime--_minus_ a small sum for rent of office, clerk's salary, gas and coal, etcetera, as long as the bubble lasts." Thus did this polite scoundrel go about from house to house getting up a Cornish Mining Company on false pretences (as other polite scoundrels have done before, and doubtless as others will do again), bringing into unmerited disrepute those genuine and grand old mines of Cornwall which have yielded stores of tin and copper, to the enriching of the English nation, ever since those old-world days when the Phoenicians sailed their adventurous barks to the "Cassiterides" in quest of tin. While these things were being done in London, a terrible catastrophe happened in Botallack mine, which threw a dark cloud for some time over more than one lowly cottage in St. Just. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. DESCRIBES "HOLING TO A HOUSE OF WATER" AND ITS TERRIBLE CONSEQUENCES. One morning, about seven o'clock, George and James, the two fair-haired sons of poor John Batten of Botallack, started for their work as usual. They were in high spirits, having obtained a good "pitch" on last setting-day, and things were looking well. They put on their underground clothing at the changing-house, and with several spare candles attached to buttons on the breasts of their coats, and their tools slung over their shoulders, walked towards the head of the ladder-shaft. At the mouth of the shaft they paused for a moment and glanced round. The sky was bright, the landscape green, and the sun lit up many a distant sail on the Atlantic. "I do wish," said the younger with a slight sigh, "that our work was more in the sunshine?" "You'll never be a true miner, Jimmy, if 'ee go hankerin' after the sun like that," said his brother with a laugh, as he stepped on the ladder and began to descend. Jimmy took a last look at the rising sun, and followed him close without replying. The lads were soon beyond the reach of daylight. This was the last they ever saw of earthly sunshine. In a few minutes there came a low soft sound up the shaft; it was the lads singing one of Wesley's beautiful hymns. They had been taught to sing these by their mother from their infancy, and usually beguiled the tedium of the long descent of the ladders by singing one or two of them. Arrived at their place of work the brothers threw down their tools, fixed their candles against the walls of the level, and began the labour of the day. Other men were in that part of the mine at the time, and the brothers found that a message had been sent to one of the captains requesting him to come and examine the place, as the men were becoming uneasy at the increasing flow of water from the walls. One miner, named John Nicols, was "driving an end," that is, extending the level lengthwise, and two others were "stopeing," or cutting up into the roof in pursuit of a promising little lode. They were using hammer and pick in soft ground when the water trickled through to them. It was well known that they were approaching an old part of the mine which had not been worked for thirty years. The drainage of the ground was not, however, accurately known, therefore questions had been put to experienced miners as to the probable condition of this "untapped land." The answer was that, as far as was known, the old mine was full of "deads," that is, of rubbish, and that there was therefore, in all probability, no gathering of water in it. Just at that moment one of the captains entered the level, accompanied by Oliver Trembath. The latter had been called to see a patient near the mine, and chanced to be with the captain when he was summoned. Being anxious to see the place, and the nature of the danger that threatened, he had descended along with him. Before the captain had time to put a question, and while the men were still picking cautiously at the soft ground, the flow of water suddenly increased. Recognising probable danger, a lad named Oats called to his father, who was at the "end" of the level with Nicols. At the same moment the water forced a gap in the wall three feet long by about half a foot wide, and burst in upon them with terrific violence. All turned and fled. Oats and his son, with the captain and Nicols, made for the nearest shaft--which was about eighty yards distant--and escaped, but the brothers Batten and Oliver were thrown down and swept away. One desperate effort was made by Oliver to outstrip the rushing stream; but the candles had been blown out, and, not stooping sufficiently low, he dashed his head against an overhanging rock, and fell. He retained sufficient consciousness, however, to be aware that a desperate struggle for life must be made, and, without knowing what he did, or at what he aimed, he fought with the strength of a giant in thick darkness against the chaotic flood; but his strength soon gave way, and in a few seconds he became insensible. That a terrible catastrophe had occurred was at once known to all the men in the mine by the roar of the rushing water. In order that the reader may clearly understand the situation, it is necessary to explain that the accident occurred in one of the _upper_ levels, at or near its extremity. At the same depth there were many of these underground passages, running in various directions, and several miles in extent, some of them being worked, but most of them old and used up--all the ore having been extracted from them. At various depths below this level other levels had been cut--also running in various directions, and of several miles' extent. These successive levels were not only connected and communicated with by the main shafts of the mine, but by "winzes" or smaller shafts which connected level with level in many places. Some of these were used as ladder-ways, but others had been cut merely for the purpose of securing ventilation. In many parts of these lower levels miners were at work--some, in following the course of promising lodes, "stopeing," or cutting overhead, some cutting downwards, some "driving ends" or extending the levels, and others sinking winzes to keep up the ventilation as they pushed further and further from the shafts or throats, down which flowed the life-giving air. By all of these men the dreaded sounds above--which reached the profounder depths with the muffled but deep-toned roar of a distant storm--were well understood and well heard, for the pent-up waters, in their irresistible fury, carried before them the pent-up atmosphere, and sent it through the low and narrow levels as if through the circling tubes of a monster trumpet, which, mingled with the crash of hurling timbers, rocks, and debris, created a mighty roar that excelled in hideous grandeur the prolonged peals of loud thunder. Every man dropped his tools, and ran to the nearest shaft for his life. It was not, indeed, probable that the flood would fill all the wide-extended ramifications of the vast mine, but no one knew for certain where the catastrophe had occurred, or how near the danger might be to the spot where he laboured. Enough for each that death was dealing terrible destruction somewhere _overhead_, and that, unless every muscle were strained to the uttermost, the pathway might be filled up, and his retreat cut off. The rush was swiftly but not easily made. Those who have never traversed the levels of a Cornish mine may perhaps fancy, on hearing of levels six feet high, and about two and a half feet broad, on the average, that the flight might resemble the rush of men through the windings and turnings of the intricate passages in a stupendous old castle. But it was far otherwise. The roofs, walls, and floors of these levels were irregular, not only in direction, but in height and form. There was no levelling or polishing-off anywhere. It was tunnelling of the roughest kind. Angles and projections remained as the chisel, the pick, and the blasting-powder had left them. Here, the foot tripped over a lump, or plunged into a hollow; there, the head narrowly missed a depending mass of rock, or the shoulder grazed a projecting one. Elsewhere, pools of water lay in the path, and at intervals the yawning chasm of a winze appeared, with one or two broken planks to bridge the gulf, of twenty, forty, or sixty feet, that descended to the levels below. Sometimes it was possible to run with the head stooped a little; generally the back had to be bent low--often double; and occasionally progress could only be made on hands and knees,--this, too, with a candle to be guarded from blasts of air or dripping water, and trimmed, lest it should go out and leave the place in total darkness. But long-continued habit and practice had made the men so familiar with the place, and so nimble in their movements, that they traversed the levels with wonderful rapidity, and most of them ascended the shaft of the mine in safety. Some, however, escaped with the utmost difficulty, and a few there were--chiefly among those who had been near to or immediately below the scene of the outbreak--who perished miserably. At the first rush the water had almost filled the level where it occurred, and, sweeping onward about eight fathoms to a winze, plunged down and partly over it. The greater part, however, went down to the eighty-five fathom level. East of this a man named Anguin, with his two sons, William and James--youths of about twenty years of age--were at work. They heard the roar of the approaching torrent, and the father and younger son James rushed towards the winze, intending to ascend the ladder. Before they reached it the flood was pouring down with deafening noise. The least harmful part of the cataract was the water, for the current now carried along with it stones, pieces of timber, and rubbish. To encounter all this might have caused the stoutest hearts to quail, but miners can never calculate the probable extent of an inundation. They might, indeed, by remaining in the roof of the level, escape; but, on the other hand, if the flood should be great enough to fill the place, they would certainly be drowned. Father and son, therefore, preferred to make a desperate effort to save their lives. They dashed into the flood and made a grasp at the ladder, but before their hands touched the first round they were beaten down and swept away dead corpses. William, on the other hand, climbed to a cross-piece of timber, where he remained until the water abated, which it did in a very short time, for events of this kind are for the most part awfully sudden and brief as well as fatal. Then, descending, he groped his way in the dark over the very spot where his father and brother lay dead--fearfully mutilated and covered with rubbish--and escaped up the shaft. In a still lower level two brothers were at work. Miners usually work in couples--sometimes in larger numbers--and brothers frequently go together. They were in a winze about thirty fathoms from the engine-shaft. Being overtaken by the flood they were washed _down_, to the next level, and along it nearly to the shaft. As the torrent tore past this place, bearing splintered timber, stones, and rubbish along with it, an iron wagon was caught up and flung across the level. This formed a barricade, against which the brothers were dashed. The elder of these brothers was afterwards found alive here, and carried to the surface; but he was speechless, and died twenty minutes after being brought up. When the dead body of the younger and weaker brother was recovered, it was found to be dreadfully shattered, nearly every bone being crushed. In the same level, two men--John Paul and Andrew Teague--hearing the rush of the advancing torrent above their head, made for a shaft, went up it against a heavy fall of water, and escaped. A man named Richard--a powerful man and a cool experienced miner, who had faced death in almost every form--was at work in one of the lowest levels with his son William, a youth of twenty-one, and his nephew, a lad of seventeen, who was the sole support of a widowed mother with six children. They were thirty fathoms from one of the winzes down which the water streamed. On hearing the roar Richard cautioned the younger men to be prompt, but collected. No time was to be lost, but rash haste might prove as fatal as delay. He sent them on in front of him, and they rushed under and past the winze, where they were nearly crushed by the falling water, and where, of course, their candles were extinguished, leaving them in midnight darkness. This last was not so serious a matter to the elder Richard as, at first sight, it might appear. He knew every foot of the ground they had to traverse, with all its turnings, yawning chasms, and plank bridges, and could have led the way blindfold almost as easily as with a light. As they neared the shaft he passed the younger men, and led the way to prevent them falling into it. At this time the water raged round them as high as their waists. The nephew, who was weak, in consequence of a fever from which he had not quite recovered, fell, and, passing the others unobserved, went down the shaft and was lost. The escape of Richard and his son was most wonderful. William was a stout fellow, but the father much more so. They were driven at first into the shaft, but there the fall of water was so great that they could do nothing more than cling to the ladder. By this cataract they were beaten back into the level, but here the water rose around them so quickly and with such force as to oblige them to make another effort to ascend. There was a crevice in the roof of the level here, in which the father had left part of his supply of candles and a tinder-box. He succeeded in reaching these, and in striking a light, which revealed to them the full horrors of their situation. It was with difficulty that the candle could be kept burning by holding it close to the roof under a projecting piece of rock which sheltered it partially from the dashing spray. "Let us try again!" shouted the father. The noise was so great that it was with difficulty they could make each other hear. "It's all over with we," cried the son; "let us pray, faither." The father urged his son, however, to make another effort, as the water had risen nearly to their waists, and prevailed on him to do so, getting on the ladder himself first, in order to bear the brunt of the falling water and thus break its force to his son. As the water below was now rising swiftly William only held the light long enough to enable his father to obtain a secure footing on the ladder, when he dropped it and followed him. So anxious was the youth to escape from the danger that menaced him from below, that he pressed eagerly up against his father. In doing so, he over-reached the rounds of the ladder on which his father trod, and, almost at every step, the latter unwittingly planted his heavy-nailed boots on the son's hands, lacerating them terribly. To avoid this was impossible. So heavy was the descending flood, that it was only his unusually great strength which enabled the father to advance slowly up against it. The son, being partially sheltered by his father's body, knew not the power against which he had to contend, and, being anxious to go up faster, pressed too closely on him, regardless, in his alarm, of the painful consequences. Masses of stone, wood, and rubbish, dashed down the shaft and grazed their shoulders, but providentially none struck them severely. Thus, slowly and painfully, did they ascend to a height of eighty-four feet, and were saved. In another part of the mine, below the level where the accident occurred, James Penrose, whom we have already introduced to the reader, was at work with John Cock. The latter having taken a fancy to try mining for a time instead of smuggling--just by way of a change--had joined the former in working a "pitch" in Botallack mine. These men were peculiarly situated. They were in a level which the water entered, not by flowing along or descending, but, by rising up through a winze. On hearing the noise they ran to this winze, and, looking down, saw the water boiling and roaring far below. They were about to pass on to the shaft when Penrose observed a dark object moving on the ladder. It came slowly up. "Hallo! John," cried Penrose, "stay a bit; here's some one on the ladder." John Cock returned, and they both stooped to afford help. In another moment Oliver Trembath, drenched and bleeding, and covered with mud, stood, or rather reeled, before them. It was evident that he was only half conscious, and scarcely able to stand. But they had no time to speak--scarcely to think--for the water was already boiling up through the winze like a huge fountain, and filling the level. They seized Oliver by the arms and dragged him hastily towards the nearest winze that led upward. Here they found water pouring down like rain, and heard its thunders above them, but the stream was not sufficient to retard their progress up the winze, which they ascended with comparative ease. Penrose and Cock were surprised at this, but the small quantity of water was soon accounted for by the fact that the hatch or trap-door of the winze had been closed; and thus, while it prevented the great body of water above from descending, also effectually shut off the only way of escape. They were therefore compelled to descend again to the level, in which the water was now rising rapidly. Oliver leaned against the rock, and stood in apathetic silence. Penrose tried to rouse him, but failed. His injuries had rendered him almost in capable of coherent speech, and his replies showed that his mind was rambling on the necessity of making haste and struggling hard. James Penrose, who was a "class-leader" and a local preacher among the Wesleyans, and mentally much superior to his comrades, now proved beyond a doubt that his God was to him "a very present help in trouble." Both he and Cock knew, or at least believed, that death was certain to overtake them in a few minutes, for both before and behind retreat was cut off, and the water was increasing with frightful rapidity. Observing that Cock looked anxious, Penrose turned and said earnestly,--"John, you and I shall be dead in a few minutes. "For myself I have no fear, for my peace is already made with God, through Jesus Christ--blessed be His name--but, oh! John, you do know that it is not so with you. Turn, John, turn, even now, to the Lord, who tells you that `though thy sins be as scarlet they shall be as white as snow,' and that `_now_ is the day of salvation,' if you will only repent, and believe on Him!" "Pray for un, James," said Cock, whose face betrayed his fears. Penrose at once clasped his hands, and, closing his eyes, prayed for his comrade with such fervour that his voice rose loud and strong above the turmoil of the flood. He was still engaged in prayer when the water drove them from the level, and compelled them to re-ascend the winze. Here John Cock began to pray for himself in agonising tones. By this time Oliver had partially recovered, and suggested that they should ascend the winze to the top. Penrose assured him that it was useless to do so; but, while he was still speaking, he observed that the water ceased to rise, and began quickly to abate. In fact, all that we have taken so long to describe--from the outburst to the termination of the great rush--took place within half an hour. The noise overhead now grew less and less, until it almost ceased. They then ascended to the trap-door and tried to force it open, but failed. They shouted, however, and were heard, ere long, by those who had escaped and had returned to the mine to search for their less fortunate companions. The trap-door was opened, strong and willing hands were thrust down the dark winze to the rescue, and in a few seconds the three men were saved. The danger was past--but several lives had been lost in the terrible catastrophe. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. TOUCHES ON THE CAUSES OF ACCIDENTS: OLIVER IN A NEW LIGHT AND HIS UNCLE IN A SAD ONE. That was a sad day in St. Just which followed the event related in the last chapter. Many a heart-broken wail was heard round the mouths of the shafts, as the remains of those who perished were brought to the surface, and conveyed to their former homes. Saddest of all perhaps was the procession that marched slowly to the cottage of blind John Batten, and laid the two fair-haired lads before their stricken parents. Tears were wrung from the strongest men there when they beheld the agonised but tearless mother guide her husband's hand to their faces that he might for the last time feel the loved ones whom, she said in the bitterness of her grief, "he should never see more." "Never see more, dear lass!" he replied with a sad smile, "how can thee say so? Shall we not behold their dear faces again when we see our blessed Lord face to face?" Thus the Christian miner comforted himself and his sorrowing family. It is right to add that such catastrophes are not of frequent occurrence in the mines. The danger of "holing to a house of water," is so great and so well known that the operation is usually conducted with great care, and accident is well guarded against. Nevertheless, an occasional act of carelessness will now and then result in a terrible disaster. A catastrophe, similar in all its chief features to that which has been related in the last chapter, happened in North Levant mine many years ago, and in the burying-ground of the Wesleyan Chapel of St. Just may be seen a tombstone, which bears record of the sad event as follows:-- _Sacred to the memory of_ JAMES, _aged_ 20, _and_ JOHN, _aged_ 15 _years, sons of James and Nanny Thomas of Bollowall, in this Parish, who were drowned (with three others) by the holing to a house of water in North Levant Mine on the first of April_ 1867. A "house" of much larger dimensions, and containing a much greater body of water than that which caused the latest destruction of life in North Levant mine, was cleared of water not long ago in Botallack. The agents knew of its existence, for, the whole region both above and below ground being measured off and planned, they could lay their finger on the exact spot where they knew that an old mine existed. They kept a large borer, six feet long, going constantly before them as they cut their way towards the point of danger. The result was that when the borer at last pierced through to the old mine, there were six feet of solid rock between them and the water. Through the small hole the water flowed, and thus the mine was slowly but safely drained. In the other case, the ground happened to be soft, and had been somewhat recklessly cut away. Of course, there are occasions--proving the truth of the proverb that "accidents will happen in the best regulated families"--in which neither foresight nor precaution can prevent evil; but these are comparatively few. Sometimes the cupidity of a miner will lead him, for the sake of following a rich lode, to approach too near and too recklessly to danger, despite the vigilance of captains, and cause considerable risk to the mine as well as to themselves. Such was the case once long ago at Botallack, when the miners below the sea cut away the rock to within three or four feet of the water, and actually made a small hole through so that they had to plug it up with a piece of wood. This is a fact which we can vouch for, having seen the plug, and heard the boulders rattling loudly over our head with each successive wave; but there is no danger here, because the cutting under the sea is narrow, and the rock solid and intensely hard. Such also was the case, not many years since, at Levant mine, where the men working in the levels under the sea drove upwards until the salt water began to trickle through to them in alarming quantities--insomuch that the other miners struck work, and refused to go again into the mine, unless the workings in that part were stopped, and the place made secure. This was accordingly done, and the men returned to the mine. The danger here was really great, because the cutting that had been made was wide, and the ground overhead comparatively soft. But, to return to our tale. For many days after the catastrophe Oliver Trembath lay in his bed suffering from severe cuts and bruises, as well as from what must have been, as nearly as possible, concussion of the brain, for he had certainly been washed down one of the winzes, although he himself retained only a confused recollection of the events of that terrible day, and could not tell what had befallen him. At length, however, he became convalescent, and a good deal of his old vigour returned. During this period of illness and convalescence Oliver had been constrained by old Mr Donnithorne to take up his abode in his house, and the young doctor could not have experienced more attention and kindness from the old couple if he had been their son. Rose Ellis, too, did her best to cheer him, and, as we need scarcely add, was wonderfully successful in her efforts! It was during this period that Oliver made the acquaintance of a young man of St. Just, named Charles Tregarthen--a congenial spirit--and one who was, besides, a thorough gentleman and an earnest Christian. With this youth he formed a sincere friendship, and although the subject of religion was never obtrusively thrust upon him by young Tregarthen, it entered so obviously into all his thoughts, and shone so clearly in his words and conduct, that Oliver's heart was touched, and he received impressions at that time which never left him. Oliver and his friend were sitting one forenoon in Mr Donnithorne's dining-room, which commanded an extensive view of green fields and grass-covered stone walls, with the beams and machinery of mines on the horizon, and the blue sea beyond. They were planning a short walking tour, which it was thought would be of great benefit to Oliver in that stage of his recovery, when old Mr Donnithorne entered the room with a somewhat perturbed expression of countenance. "How are you, Charlie my boy?" he said. "Oliver, I want to have a few minutes' talk with you in my room on business; I know Charlie will excuse you." "I was on the point of taking leave at any rate," said Tregarthen with a smile, as he grasped Oliver's hand; "think over our plan, like a good fellow; I am sure Mr Donnithorne will approve of it, and I'll look in to-morrow forenoon to hear what decision you come to." "Oliver," said Mr Donnithorne, sitting down opposite the invalid when his friend had left, and frowning portentously, "d'you know I'm a ruined man?" "I trust not, uncle," replied Oliver with an incredulous smile, supposing that the old gentleman was jesting. "Yes, but I am," he repeated with tremendous gravity. "At all events, I shall be ere long. These--these--vile jewels will be the death of me." Having thus broken the ice Mr Donnithorne went on with much volubility of utterance and exasperation of tone to explain that legal proceedings had been instituted for the recovery of the jewels which he had purchased from the fishermen; that things seemed almost certain to go against him; and that in all probability he should be compelled to sell his estate in order to refund the money. "But can you not sell your shares in Botallack and refund with the proceeds?" said Oliver. "No, I cannot," replied the old gentleman. "You know that at present these shares are scarcely saleable except at a ruinous discount, and it would be a pity to part with them just now, seeing that there is some hope of improvement at this time. There is nothing for it but to sell my estate, and I don't think there will be enough left to buy butter to my bread after this unhappy affair is settled, for it amounts to some thousands of pounds." "Indeed, uncle! how comes it that they found out the value of them?" "Oh, simply enough, Oliver, but strangely too. You must know that Maggot, the scoundrel (and yet not such a scoundrel either, for the fellow informed on me in a passion, without having any idea of the severity of the consequences that would follow),--Maggot, it seems, kept the cloth belt in which the jewels were found tied round the owner's waist, and there happened to be a piece of parchment sewed up in the folds of it, in which the number and value of the jewels were enumerated. This belt was ferreted out by the lawyers, and the result is that, as I said before, I shall be a ruined man. Verily," added Mr Donnithorne, with a look of vexation, as he stumped up and down the room with his hands thrust deep into his breeches pockets, "verily, my wife was a true prophetess when she told me that my sin would be sure to find me out, and that honesty was the best policy. 'Pon my conscience, I'm half inclined to haul down my colours and let her manage me after all!" "I am much concerned at what you tell me," said Oliver, "and I regret now very deeply that the few hundreds which I possessed when I came here--and which you know are all my fortune--have also been invested in Botallack shares, for they should have been heartily at your service, uncle." "Don't trouble yourself about your hundreds, lad," said the old gentleman testily; "I didn't come here to ask assistance from you in that way, but to tell you the facts of the case, and ask you to do me the favour to carry a letter to my lawyer in Penzance, and inquire into the condition of a mine I have something to do with there--a somewhat singular mine, which I think will surprise as well as interest you; will you do this, for me, lad?" "Most willingly," replied Oliver. "You heard my friend Charlie Tregarthen speak of our intention to go on a walking tour for a couple of days; now, if you have no objection, he and I will set off together without delay, and make Penzance our goal, going round by the Land's End and the coast." "So be it, Oliver, and don't hurry yourselves, for the business will wait well enough for a day or two. But take care of yourself, lad; don't go swimming off the Land's End again, and above all things avoid smugglers. The scoundrels! they have been the ruin of me, Oliver. Not bad fellows in their way either, but unprincipled characters-- desperately regardless of the national laws; and--and--keep clear of 'em, I advise you strongly--have nothing to do with 'em, Oliver, my son." So saying the old gentleman left the room, shaking his head with profound gravity. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. TELLS OF KING ARTHUR AND OTHER MORE OR LESS FABULOUS MATTERS. Next day Oliver Trembath and his friend Charles Tregarthen, before the sun had mounted his own height above the horizon, were on their way to the Land's End. The young men were admirably suited to each other. Both were well educated, and possessed similar tastes, though their temperaments were dissimilar, and both were strong athletic youths--Oliver's superiority in this latter respect being at that time counterbalanced by his recent illness, which reduced him nearly to a level with his less robust companion. Their converse was general and desultory until they reached the Land's End, on the point of which they had resolved to breakfast. "Now, Oliver, we have purchased an appetite," said Tregarthen, throwing down a wallet in which he carried some provisions; "let us to work." "Stay, Charlie, not here," said Oliver; "let us get out on the point, where we shall have a better view of the cliffs on either side of the Land's End. I love a wide, unobstructed view." "As you will, Oliver; I leave you to select our table, but I pray you to remember that however steady your head may have been in days of yore when you scaled the Scottish mountains, the rough reception it has met with in our Cornish mines has given it a shake that renders caution necessary." "Pshaw! Charlie, don't talk to me of caution, as if I were a timid old woman." "Nay, then, I talk of it because you are _not_ a timid old woman, but a reckless young man who seems bent on committing suicide. Yonder is a grassy spot which I think will suit you well." He pointed to a level patch of sward on the neck of land that connects the outlying and rugged promontory which forms the extreme Land's End with the cliffs of the mainland. Here they spread their meal, and from this point they could see the cliffs and bays of the iron-bound shore extending on the one hand towards Cape Cornwall, and on the other towards that most romantic part of the coast known by the somewhat curious name of Tolpedenpenwith, where rocks and caverns are found in such fantastic fashion that the spot has become justly celebrated for picturesque grandeur. At their feet, far below, the great waves (caused by the swell, for there was no wind) boomed in solemn majesty, encircling the cliffs with a lace-work of foam, while on the horizon the Scilly Islands could be seen shimmering faintly. A bright sun shone on the unruffled sea, and hundreds of ships and boats lay becalmed on its breast. "'Tis a splendid scene!" said Oliver, sitting down beside his friend. "It is indeed, and reminds me of the sea of glass before the great white throne that we read of in Revelation. It is difficult to imagine or to believe that the peaceful water before us, lying between this spot and the Scilly Islands yonder, was once a land full of verdure and life--yet such tradition tells us was the case." "You mean, I suppose, the fabled land of Lionesse?" said Oliver. "Yes; you have heard the story of its destruction, I suppose?" "Not I," said Oliver, "so if you have a mind to tell it me while I satisfy the cravings of an unusually sharp appetite I'll consider you a most obliging fellow. Pass me the knuckle of ham--thanks--and the bread; now go ahead." "'Tis a romantic story," said Tregarthen. "All the better," replied Oliver. "And terrible," added Tregarthen. "It won't spoil my appetite," said his friend. "Well, then, I'll tell it--to the best of my ability." The youth then began the following legend, pausing ever and anon during the narration to swallow a piece of bread or a mouthful of cold tea, which constituted the principal elements of their frugal meal. "You must know that, once upon a time, long, long ago, in those ancient days before Norman or Dane had invaded this land, while Britain still belonged to the British, and King Arthur held his court in Tintagel's halls, there was a goodly land, named Lethowsow or the Lionesse, extending a distance of thirty miles between this cape and yonder shadowy islets which seem to float like cirrus clouds on the horizon. It is said that this land of Lionesse was rich and fertile, supporting many hundreds of families, with large flocks and herds. There were no fewer than forty churches upon it, from which it follows that there must have been a considerable population of well-doing people there. "About the time of the events which I am going to narrate, King Arthur's reign was drawing to a close. Treason had thinned the ranks of the once united and famous knights of the Round Table. It is true that Sir Kaye, the seneschal, remained true, and Sir Ector de Mans, and Sir Caradoc, and Sir Tristram, and Sir Lancelot of the Lake, of whom it was said that `he was the kindest man that ever struck with sword; and he was the goodliest person that ever rode among the throng of knights; and he was the meekest man, and the gentlest, that did ever eat in hall among ladies; and he was the sternest knight to his mortal foe that ever laid lance in rest.' But many seats at the Round Table that once were filled by brave warriors had become empty, and among these, that of Prince Mordred, who, it was rumoured, meant to declare open war against his royal cousin and benefactor. "One night King Arthur sat at the Round Table in Tintagel Castle with his knights gathered round him, and Queen Guenever with her maidens by his side. At the beginning of the feast the king's brow was clouded, for, although there was no lack of merriment or song, there was a want of the free-hearted courtesy and confidence of former days. Still the semblance of unabated good-fellowship was kept up, and the evening passed in gaiety until its close, when the king rose to retire. Taking in his hand a golden cup to pledge his guests, he was about to drink, when a shudder passed through his frame, and he cast the goblet away, exclaiming, `It is not wine, but blood! My father Merlin is among us, and there is evil in the coming days. Break we up our court, my peers! It is no time for feasting, but rather for fasting and for prayer.' "The king glanced with a dark frown at the chair of his kinsman Mordred, but it was not empty! A strange, indistinct, shadowy form rested on it. It had no human shape, but a dreadful outline of something unearthly. Awe-struck and silent, the company at once broke up. "On the following day, news of Mordred's revolt arrived at Tintagel Castle, and day after day fresh rumours reached it of foes flocking in numbers to the rebel standard. The army increased as it advanced, but, strange to say, King Arthur showed no disposition to sally forth and meet the traitor. It seemed as if his brave heart had quailed at last, and his good sword Excalibur had lost its magic virtue. Some thought that he doubted the fidelity of those who still remained around him. But, whatever the cause might have been, King Arthur made no preparation, and indicated no feeling or intention. He lay still in his castle until the rebels had approached to the very gates. There was something terrible in this mysterious silence of the king, which had a tendency to overawe the rebels as they drew near, and remembered that they were about to match themselves against warriors who had grown old in fellowship with victory. "When the main body of the invaders appeared, the great bell of the fortress at last rang out a stirring peal, and before the barbican the trumpets sounded to horse. King Arthur then with his knights and men-at-arms, the best warriors of Britain, arose and sallied forth to fight in their last battle. "Next evening a broken band of horsemen alone remained to tell of the death of their king and the destruction of all their hopes. They numbered several hundreds, but their hacked armour, jaded steeds, and gaping wounds told that they were unfit to offer battle to any foe. They were in full flight, bearing a torn banner, still wet with the blood of King Arthur; yet they fled unwillingly, as men who were unused to retreat, and scarce knew how to comport them in the novel circumstances. Their course was in the direction of the Lionesse, the tract of country called in the Cornish tongue Lethowsow. On they dashed, without uttering a word, over the bleak moors before them. Sometimes they halted to drink at a spring or tighten their girths, and occasionally a man fell behind from sheer exhaustion. At night they encamped, after a hard ride of thirty miles. Next morning the flight was resumed, but the vindictive Mordred still thundered on in pursuit. Ere long they heard a trumpet sounding in their rear, and King Arthur's men halted for a few minutes, with the half-formed design of facing the foe and selling their lives dearly. While they paused in gloomy irresolution, gazing sternly on the advancing host, whose arms flashed back the rays of the morning sun, a mist rose up between them and their foes. It was a strange shadowy mist, without distinct form, yet not without resemblance to something ghostly. The knights at once recognised it as the shade of Merlin, the Great Wizard! Slowly the cloud uprose between the pursuers and pursued, effectually protecting the latter; nevertheless, although baffled, the former did not give up the chase. "At last Mordred reached a lofty slope, from the top of which he descried his enemies retreating across the land of Lionesse. Mad with rage, he descended to the plain, where soft sunlight shone through luxuriant glades and across the green pastures, gladdening the hearts of man and beast. Nature was all peaceful, and gloriously beautiful, but Mordred's eyes saw it not, his heart felt not the sweet influences. The bitterness induced by hatred and an evil conscience reigned within, as he urged his steed furiously onward. "Suddenly a terrible change occurred in the atmosphere, which became oppressively sultry and horrible, while low muttering thunders were heard, and heavings of the earth felt. At the same time the cloud gradually condensed in front of Mordred, and, assuming a distinct form, stood before him in the person of Merlin the Wizard. For a few seconds they stood face to face, frowning on each other in awful silence. Then Merlin raised his arm, and immediately the thunders and confused mutterings increased, until the earth began to undulate and rend as if the foundations of the world were destroyed. Great fissures appeared, and the rocks welled up like the waves of the sea. With a cry of agony the pursuers turned to fly. But it was too late. Already the earth was rent into fragments; it upheaved convulsively for a few seconds; then sank beneath the level of the deep, and the ocean rushed wildly over the land, leaving nothing behind to mark the spot where land had been, save the peaked and barren rocks you see before you, with the surge beating continually around them." "A most extraordinary tale, truly," said Oliver. "Do you believe it has any foundation?" "I believe not the supernatural parts of it, of course," replied Tregarthen; "but there is _something_ in the fact that the land of Cornwall has unquestionably given up part of its soil to the sea. You are aware, I suppose, that St. Michael's Mount, the most beautiful and prominent object in Mounts Bay, has been described as `a hoare rock in a wood,' about six miles from the sea, although it now stands in the bay; and this idea of a sunken land is borne out by the unquestionable fact that if we dig down a few feet into the sand of the shore near Penzance, we shall come on a black vegetable mould, full of woodland _detritus_, such as branches, leaves of coppice wood, and nuts, together with carbonised roots and trunks of forest trees of larger growth; and these have been found as far out as the lowest tide would permit men to dig! In addition to this, portions of land have been overwhelmed by the sea near Penzance, in the memory of men now alive." "Hum!" said Oliver, stretching out his huge limbs like a giant basking in the sunshine, "I dare say you are correct in your suppositions, but I do not profess to be an antiquary, so that I won't dispute the subject with you. At the same time, I may observe that it does seem to me as if there were a screw loose somewhere in the historical part of your narrative, for methinks I have read, heard, or dreamt, that King Arthur was Mordred's uncle, not his cousin, and that Mordred was slain, and that the king was the victor, at the fatal field of Camelford, although the victory was purchased dearly--Arthur having been mortally wounded and carried back to Tintagel to die there. But, of course, I won't pretend to doubt the truth of your narrative because of such trifling discrepancies. As to the encroachment of the sea on the Cornish coast, and the evidences thereof in Mounts Bay, I raise no objection thereto, but I cannot help thinking that we want stronger proof of the existence of the land of Lionesse." "Why, Oliver," said Tregarthen, laughing, "you began by saying that you would not dispute the subject with me, and in two minutes you have said enough to have justified a regular attack on my part, had I been so disposed. However, we have a long road before us, so I must protest against a passage of arms just now." Having finished breakfast, the two friends proceeded along the coast a few miles to Tolpedenpenwith. Here, in the midst of the finest scenery on the coast, they spent the greater part of the day, and then proceeded to Penberth Cove, intending to secure a lodging for the night, order supper, and, while that was in preparation, pay a visit to the famous Logan Rock. Penberth Cove is one of the prettiest little vales in the west of Cornwall. It is enriched with groups of trees and picturesque cottages, and possesses a luxuriant growth of shrubs and underwood, that almost conceals from view the streamlet, which is the chief cause of its fertility. There were also, at the time we write of, one or two houses which, although not public inns, were open for the entertainment of travellers in a semi-private fashion. Here, therefore, our excursionists determined to put up for the night, with the widow of a fisherman who had perished in a storm while engaged in the herring fishery off the Irish coast. This good woman's chief physical characteristic was rotundity, and her prominent mental attribute good-humour. She at once received the gentlemen hospitably, and promised to prepare supper for them while they went to visit the far-famed Logan or Logging Rock, which lay in the vicinity. This rock is one of those freaks of nature which furnish food for antiquaries, points of interest to strangers, and occupation to guides. Every one who goes to the Land's End must needs visit the Logan Rock, if he would "do" the country properly; and if our book were a "Guide to Cornwall," we should feel bound to describe it with much particularity, referring to its size, form, weight, and rocking quality, besides enlarging on the memorable incident in its career, when a wild officer of the navy displaced it from its pivot by means of seamen and crowbars, and was thereafter ordered to replace it (a herculean task, which he accomplished at great cost) on pain of we know not what penalties. But, as we make no pretensions to the important office of a guide, we pass this lion by, with the remark that Oliver and his friend visited it and rocked it, and then went back to Penberth Cove to sup on pilchards, after which followed a chat, then bed, sound sleep, daybreak and breakfast, and, finally, the road to Penzance, with bright sunshine, light hearts, and the music of a hundred larks ringing in the sky. CHAPTER NINETEEN. SMALL TALK AND SOME ACCOUNT OF CORNISH FAIRIES. "What a splendid country for a painter of cliffs!" observed Oliver, as the friends walked briskly along; "I wonder much that our artists do not visit it more frequently." "Perhaps they find metal more attractive nearer home," replied Tregarthen; "all the world has not fallen so violently in love with furze-clad moorland and rugged sea-cliffs as you seem to have done. Besides, the country is somewhat remote. Mayhap when a railway runs into it, which will doubtless be the case before many years pass by, we shall see knights of the brush pitching their white tents on the Land's End; meanwhile we have a few promising young men of our own who bid fair to rival the great Opie himself. You have heard of him, of course?" "I have heard of him indeed, and seen some of his works, but I'm ashamed to confess that, having left Cornwall when very young, and been a dweller in the far north of the kingdom ever since, I have only known the facts that he was a celebrated Cornish artist, and became the President of the Royal Academy. Can you tell me anything of his personal history?" "Not much, but I can give you a brief outline of his career. John Opie was the son of a carpenter of St. Agnes, near Truro, and was discovered and extracted, like a `bunch' of rich ore, from the midst of the tin-mines, by Dr Wolcot--who was celebrated under the name of Peter Pindar. The doctor first observed and appreciated Opie's talent, and, resolving to bring him into notice, wrote about him until he became celebrated as the `Cornish Wonder.' He also introduced people of note to the artist's studio in London, many of whom sat for their portraits. These gave so much satisfaction that the reputation of the `Cornish Wonder' spread far and wide, and orders came pouring in upon him, insomuch that he became a rich man and a Royal Academician, and ultimately President of the Academy. He married an authoress, and his remains were deposited in St. Paul's Cathedral, near to those of Sir Joshua Reynolds. I have heard my grandfather say that he met him once in the town of Helston, and he described him as somewhat rough and unpolished, but a sterling, kind-hearted man." "Did he paint landscape at all?" inquired Oliver. "Not much, I believe. He devoted himself chiefly to portraits." "Well, now," said Oliver, looking round him; "it strikes me that this is just the country for a landscape painter. There is nowhere else such fine cliff scenery, and the wild moors, which remind me much of Scotland, are worthy of being sketched by an able brush." "People have curiously different opinions in reference to the moors which you admire so much," said Tregarthen. "A clergyman who lived and wrote not very long ago, came to Cornwall in search of the picturesque, and he was so disappointed with what he termed a barren, desolate region, that he stopped suddenly on the road between Launceston and Bodmin, and turned his back on Cornwall for ever. As might be expected, such a man gave a very false idea of the country. On the other hand, a more recent writer, commenting on the first, speaks of his delight-- after having grown somewhat tired of the almost too rich and over-cultivated scenery of Kent--on coming to what he styled `a sombre apparition of the desert in a corner of green England,' and dwells with enthusiasm on `these solitudes, and hills crowned with rugged rocks, classical heaths and savage ravines, possessing a character of desolate grandeur.' But this writer did more. He travelled through the country, and discovered that it possessed other and not less beautiful features; that there were richly clothed vales and beautiful rivulets, cultivated fields and prolific gardens, in close proximity to our grand cliffs and moors." "He might have added," said Oliver, "that plants and flowers flourish in the open air here, and attain to a size, and luxuriance which are rare in other parts of England. Why, I have seen myrtles, laurels, fuchsias, pomegranates, and hortensias forming hedges and growing on the windows and walls of many houses. To my mind Cornwall is one of the finest counties in England--of which Flora herself has reason to be proud, and in which fairies as well as giants might dwell with much delight." "Spoken like a true Cornishman!" said Tregarthen, laughing; "and in regard to the fairies I may tell you that we are not without a few of them, although giants confessedly preponderate." "Indeed!" said Oliver; "pray whereabouts do they dwell?" "You have heard of the Gump, I suppose?" "What! the barren plain near Carn Kenidjack, to the north of St. Just?" "The same. Well, this is said to be a celebrated haunt of the pixies, who have often led benighted travellers astray, and shown them wonderful sights. Of course one never meets with any individual who has actually seen them, but I have frequently met with those who have assured me they had known others who had conversed with persons who had seen fairies. One old man, in particular, I have heard of, who was quite convinced of the reality of a fairy scene which he once witnessed. "This old fellow was crossing the Gump one evening, by one of the numerous paths which intersect it. It was summer-time. The sun had gone down beyond the sea-line, and the golden mists of evening were merging into the quiet grey that hung over the Atlantic. Not a breath of wind passed over land or sea. To the northward Chun Castle stood darkly on the summit of the neighbouring hill, and the cromlech loomed huge and mysterious; southward were traces of mystic circles and upright stones, and other of those inexplicable pieces of antiquity which are usually saddled on the overladen shoulders of the Druids. Everything, in fact--in the scene, the season, and the weather--contributed to fill the mind of the old man with romantic musings as he wended his way over the barren moor. Suddenly there arose on the air a sound of sweet, soft music, like the gentle breathings of an Aeolian harp. He stopped and gazed around with looks of mingled curiosity and surprise, but could see nothing unusual. The mysterious sounds continued, and a feeling of alarm stole over him, for twilight was deepening, and home was still far distant. He attempted to advance, but the music had such a charm for him that he could not quit the spot, so he turned aside to discover, if possible, whence it came. Presently he came to a spot where the turf was smoother and greener than elsewhere, and here the most wonderful and enchanting scene met his gaze. Fairies innumerable were before him; real live fairies, and no mistake. Lying down on the grass, the old man crept cautiously towards them, and watched their proceedings with deep interest. They were evidently engaged in the pleasant occupation of holding a fair. There were stalls, tastefully laid out and decorated with garlands of flowers. On these were spread most temptingly all the little articles of fairy costume. To be sure the said costume was very scanty, and to all appearance more picturesque than useful; nevertheless there was great variety. Some wore heath-bells jauntily stuck on their heads; some were helmeted with golden blossoms of the furze, and looked warlike; others had nothing but their own luxuriant hair to cover them. A few of the lady fairies struck the old man as being remarkably beautiful, and one of these, who wore an inverted tulip for a skirt, with a small forget-me-not in her golden hair, seemed to him the very picture of what his old Molly had been fifty years before. It was particularly noticeable that the stalls were chiefly patronised by the fairy fair sex, with the exception of one or two which were much frequented by the men. At these latter, articles were sold which marvellously resembled cigars and brandy, and the old man declared that he saw them smoke the former, and that he smelt the latter; but as he had himself been indulging a little that evening in smuggled spirits and tobacco, we must regard this as a somewhat ungenerous statement on his part, for it is ridiculous to suppose that fairies could be such senseless creatures as to smoke or drink! They danced and sang, however, and it was observed that one young man, with a yellow night-cap and a bad cold, was particularly conspicuous for his anxiety to be permitted to sing. "The music was naturally the great attraction of the evening. It consisted of a large band, and although some of the performers used instruments made of reeds, and straws, and other hollow substances, cut into various forms and lengths, most of them had noses which served the purpose of musical instruments admirably. Indeed, the leader of the band had a prolongation of the nose so like to a flesh-coloured clarionet, that it might easily have been mistaken for the real thing, and on this he discoursed the most seraphic music. Another fairy beside him had a much longer nose, which he used as a trombone with great effect. This fellow was quite a character, and played with such tremendous energy that, on more than one occasion, he brought on a fit of sneezing, which of course interrupted the music, and put the clarionet in a passion. A stout old misshapen gnome, or some such creature, with an enormous head, served for the big drum. Four fairies held him down, and a fifth belaboured his head with a drumstick. It sounded wonderfully hollow, and convinced the old man that it was destitute of brains, and not subject to headache. "All the time that the old man gazed at them, troops of fairies continued to arrive, some on the backs of bats, from which they slipped as they whirred past; others descending, apparently, on moonbeams. The old man even fancied that he saw one attempting to descend by a starbeam, which, being apparently too weak to support his weight, broke, and let him down with a crash into the midst of a party who were very busy round a refreshment stall, where a liberal supply of mountain dew was being served out; but the old man never felt quite sure upon this point, for, at sight of the mountain dew, he felt so thirsty that he determined to taste it. Fixing his eyes on the stall, he suddenly threw his hat into the midst of the party, and made a dash at it; but, to his intense disappointment, the vision was instantly dispelled, and nothing was to be seen on the spot but a few snails creeping over the wet grass, and gossamer threads bespangled with dewdrops." "A very pretty little vision," exclaimed Oliver, "and not the first that has been prematurely dispelled by too ardent a pursuit of strong drink! And now, Charlie, as you appear to be in the vein, and we have still some distance to go, will you tell me something about the giants, and how it came to pass that they were so fond of roaming about Cornwall?" "Their fondness for it, Oliver, must be ascribed to the same cause as your own--just because it is a lovable place," said Tregarthen; "moreover, being a thinly-peopled county, they were probably not much disturbed in their enjoyment of it. To recount their surprising deeds would require a longer space of time than is just now at our disposal, but you have only to look round, in passing through the country, to understand what a mighty race of men they were. There are `giants' quoits,' as you know, without end, some of which have the marks of the fingers and thumbs with which they grasped them. Their strength may be estimated by the fact that one of these quoits is no less than forty feet long and twenty wide, and weighs some hundreds of tons. It would puzzle even your strong arm to toss such a quoit! One of these giants was a very notable fellow. He was named `Wrath,' and is said to have been in the habit of quenching his thirst at the Holy Well under St. Agnes's Beacon, where the marks of his hands, made in the solid granite while he stooped to drink, may still be seen. This rascal, who was well named, is said to have compelled poor St. Agnes, in revenge for her refusing to listen to his addresses, to carry in her apron to the top of Beacon Hill the pile of stones which lies there. But here we are at Penzance, so we shall have done with fiction for the present, and revert to matters of fact. You have business with a lawyer, I believe, and I have business for a short time with a friend. Let us appoint a time and place of meeting." "What say you to the Wherry Mine at two o'clock?" said Oliver. "It is probable that my business will be concluded by that time, when we can go and see this mine together. My uncle seems to set great store by it, because of an old prophecy to the effect that some day or other it will enrich somebody!" "Why, that prophecy has been fulfilled long ago," said Tregarthen, with a laugh. "The mine was a bold undertaking, and at one time paid well, but I fear it won't do so again. However, let us meet there; so farewell, old boy, till two." CHAPTER TWENTY. THE MINE IN THE SEA. True to their appointment, young Tregarthen and Oliver Trembath met at the western end of the town of Penzance, close to the sea-beach, where a mass of buildings and a chimney indicated the position of the Wherry Mine. Oliver's countenance betrayed anxiety as he came forward. "Nothing wrong, I hope?" said Tregarthen. "Well, I can't say exactly that things are wrong; but, at the same time, I don't know that they are altogether right." "Much the same thing," said Tregarthen, smiling; "come, Oliver, unbosom yourself, as novelists say. It will do you good, and two heads, you know, are better than one." "It's not easy to unbosom myself, old fellow," returned Oliver, with a troubled look; "for my poor uncle's affairs are in a perplexed condition, and I hate explanations, especially when I don't understand the nature of what I attempt to explain, so we'll not talk about it, please, till after our visit to the mine. Let it suffice to say that that notorious smuggler Jim Cuttance is concerned in it, and that we must go to Newlyn this afternoon on a piece of business which I shall afterwards disclose. Meanwhile, where is this mine?" "Lift up your eyes and behold," said Tregarthen, pointing to an object which was surrounded by the sea, and stood above two hundred yards from the beach. "What! that martello-tower-like object?" exclaimed Oliver in much surprise. "Even so," replied Tregarthen, who thereupon proceeded to give his friend a history and description of the mine--of which the following is the substance:-- At the western extremity of the sea-beach at Penzance there is a reef of sunken rocks which shows its black crest above water at low tide. It was discovered that this reef contained tin, and the people of the town attacked it with hammers and chisels, when each receding tide left it exposed, as long as the seasons would permit, until the depth became unmanageable. After having been excavated a few fathoms the work was abandoned. Fortunately for the progress of this world there exist a few enterprising men whom nothing can discourage, who seem to be spurred on by opposition, and to gather additional vigour and resolution from increasing difficulties. These men are not numerous, but the world is seldom without a few of them; and one made his appearance in Penzance about the end of last century, in the person of a poor miner named Thomas Curtis. This man conceived the bold design of sinking a shaft through this water-covered rock, and thus creating a mine not only _under_, but _in_ the sea. With the energy peculiar to his class he set to work. The distance of the rock from the beach was about two hundred and forty yards; the depth of water above it at spring tides about nineteen feet. Being exposed to the open sea, a considerable surf is raised on it at times by the prevailing winds, even in summer; while in winter the sea bursts over with such force as to render all operations on it impossible. That Curtis was a man of no common force of character is obvious from the fact that, apart from the difficulties of the undertaking, he could not expect to derive any profit whatever from his labour for several years. As the work could only be carried on during the short period of time in which the rock was above water, and part of this brief period must necessarily be consumed each tide in pumping out the water in the excavation, it of course progressed slowly. Three summers were consumed in sinking the pump-shaft. After this a framework, or caisson, of stout timber and boards, was built round the mouth of the shaft, and rendered watertight with pitch and oakum. It rose to a height of about twelve feet above the surface of the sea, and was strengthened and supported by stout bars, or buttresses of timber. A platform was placed on the top, and a windlass, at which four men could work, was fixed thereon. This erection was connected with the shore by a stage or "wherry" erected on piles. The water was cleared out; the men went "underground," and, with the sea rolling over their heads, and lashing wildly round the turret which was their only safeguard from terrible and instant destruction, they hewed daily from the submarine rock a considerable portion of tin. These first workers, however, had committed an error in carrying on their operations too near the surface, so that water permeated freely through the rock, and the risk of the pressure above being too great, for it rendered the introduction of immense supporting timbers necessary. The water, too, forced its way through the shaft during the winter months, so that the regular working of the mine could not be carried on except in summer; nevertheless, this short interval was sufficient to enable the projector to raise so much ore that his mine got the reputation of being a profitable adventure, and it was wrought successfully for many years. About the end of the century the depth of the pump-shaft was about four fathoms, and the roof had been cut away to the thinness of three feet in some places. Twelve men were employed for two hours at the windlass in hauling the water, while six others were "teaming" from the bottom into the pump. When sufficient water had been cleared away the men laboured at the rock for six hours--in all, eight hours at a time. The prolific nature of the mine may be gathered from the fact that in the space of six months ten men, working about one tenth of that time--less than three weeks--broke about 600 pounds worth of ore. During one summer 3,000 pounds worth of tin was raised! A steam-engine was ultimately attached to the works, and the mine was sunk to a depth of sixteen fathoms, but the expense of working it at length became so great that it was abandoned--not, however, before ore to the amount of 70,000 pounds had been raised from under the sea! At the time of our tale another effort had been made to work the Wherry Mine, and great expectations had been raised, but these expectations were being disappointed. Our unfortunate friend Mr Donnithorne was among the number of those who had cause to regret having ventured to invest in the undertaking, and it was to make inquiries in regard to certain unfavourable rumours touching the mine that Oliver Trembath had been sent to Penzance. After inspecting Wherry Mine the two friends walked along the shore together, and Oliver explained the nature of the difficulties in which his uncle was involved. "The fact is, Charlie," he said, "an old fish-purchaser of Newlyn named Hitchin is one of the principal shareholders in this concern. He is as rich, they say, as Croesus, and if we could only prevail on him to be amiable the thing might be carried on for some time longer with every hope of a favourable result, for there can be no doubt whatever that there is plenty of tin in the mine yet, and the getting of it out is only a question of time and capital." "A pretty serious question--as most speculators find," said Tregarthen, laughing; "you appear to think lightly of it." "Well, I don't pretend to know much about such matters," replied Oliver, "but whatever may be the truth of the case, old Hitchin refuses to come forward. He says that he is low in funds just now, which nobody seems to believe, and that he owes an immense sum of money to Jim Cuttance, the smuggler, for what, of course, he will not tell, but we can have no difficulty in guessing. He says that Cuttance is pressing him just now, and that, therefore, he cannot afford to advance anything on the mine. This being the case it must go down, and, if it does, one of the last few gleams of prosperity that remain to my poor uncle will have fluttered away. This must be prevented, if possible, and it is with that end in view that I purpose going to Newlyn this afternoon to see Hitchin and bring my persuasive powers to bear on him." "H'm, not of much use, I fear," said Tregarthen. "Hitchin is a tough old rascal, with a hard heart and a miserly disposition. However, it may be worth while to make the attempt, for you have a very oily tongue, Oliver." "And you have an extremely impudent one, Charlie. But can you tell me at what time the mackerel boats may be expected this evening, for it seems the old fellow is not often to be found at home during the day, and we shall be pretty sure to find him on the beach when the boats arrive?" Thus appealed to, Tregarthen cast a long look at the sea and sky. "Well, I should say, considering the state of the tide and the threatening appearance of the sky, we may expect to see them at six o'clock, or thereabouts." "That leaves us nearly a couple of hours to spare; how shall we spend it?" said Oliver. "Go and have a look at this fine old town," suggested Tregarthen. "It is worth going over, I assure you. Besides the town hall, market, museum, etcetera, there are, from many points of the surrounding eminences, most superb views of the town and bay with our noble St. Michael's Mount. The view from some of the heights has been said by some visitors to equal that of the far-famed Bay of Naples itself." "Part of this I have already seen," said Oliver, "the rest I hope to live to see, but in the meantime tin is uppermost in my mind; so if you have no objection I should like to have a look at the tin-smelting works. What say you?" "Agreed, by all means," cried Tregarthen; "poor indeed would be the spirit of the Cornishman who did not feel an interest in tin!" CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. TREATS OF TIN-SMELTING AND OTHER MATTERS. There is something grand in the progress of a mechanical process, from its commencement to its termination. Especially is this the case in the production of metals, nearly every step in the course of which is marked by the hard, unyielding spirit of _vis inertiae_ on the one hand, and the tremendous power of intelligence, machinery, and manual dexterity on the other. Take, for example, the progress of a mass of tin from Botallack. Watch yonder stalwart miner at work, deep in the bowels of the mine. Slowly, with powerful blows, he bores a hole in the hard rock. After one, two, or three hours of incessant toil, it is ready for the powder. It is charged; the match is applied; the man takes shelter behind a projection; the mass is rent from its ancient bed, and the miner goes off to lunch while the smoke is clearing away. He returns to his work at length, coughing, and rubbing his eyes, for smoke still lingers there, unable, it would seem, to find its way out; and no wonder, lost as it is in intricate ramifications at the depth of about one thousand five hundred feet below the green grass! He finds but a small piece of ore--perhaps it is twice the size of his head, it may be much larger, but, in any case, it is an apparently poor return for the labour expended. He adds it, however, to the pile at his side, and when that is sufficiently large fills a little iron wagon, and sends it up "to grass" through the shaft, by means of the iron "kibble." Here the large pieces of ore are broken into smaller ones by a man with a hammer; as far as the inexperienced eye can distinguish he might be breaking ordinary stones to repair the road! These are then taken to the "stamps." Those who have delicate nerves would do well to keep as far as possible from the stamps of a tin-mine! Enormous hammers or pounders they are, with shanks as well as heads of malleable-iron, each weighing, shank and head together, seven hundredweight. They are fearful things, these stamps; iron in spirit as well as in body, for they go on for ever-- night and day--wrought by a steam-engine of one hundred horse-power, as enduring as themselves. The stamps are so arranged as to be self-feeders, by means of huge wooden troughs with sloping bottoms, into which the ore is thrown in quantities sufficient to keep them constantly at work without requiring much or constant attendance. Small streams of water trickle over the ore to keep it slowly sliding down towards the jaws, where the stamps thunder up and down alternately. A dread power of pounding have they, truly; and woe be to the toe that should chance to get beneath them! The rock they have to deal with is, as we have said, uncommonly hard, and it enters the insatiable mouth of the stamps about the size of a man's fist, on the average, but it comes out from these iron jaws so exceeding fine as to be incapable of thickening the stream of reddish-yellow water that carries it away. The colour of the stream is the result of iron, with which the tin is mingled. The particles of tin are indeed set free by the stamps from solid bondage, but they are so fine as to be scarcely visible, and so commingled with other substances, such as iron, copper, sulphur, etcetera, that a tedious process of separation has yet to be undergone before the bright metal can be seen or handled. At the present time the stream containing it is poured continuously on several huge wooden tables. These tables are each slightly raised in the centre where the stream falls, so that all the water runs off, leaving the various substances it contains deposited on the table, and these substances are spread over it regularly, while being deposited, by revolving washers or brushes. Tin, being the heaviest of all the ingredients contained in the stream, falls at once to the bottom, and is therefore, deposited on the head or centre of the table; iron, being a shade lighter, is found to lodge in a circle beyond; while all other substances are either spread over the outer rim or washed entirely away. When the tables are full--that is, coated with what appears to be an earthy substance up wards of a foot in depth--the rich tin in the centre is carefully cut out with shovels and placed in tubs, while the rest is rewashed in order that the tin still mingled with it may be captured--a process involving much difficulty, for tin is so very little heavier than iron that the lighter particles can scarcely be separated even after repeated and careful washings. In old times the tin was collected in large pits, whence it was transferred to the hands of balmaidens (or mine-girls) to be washed by them in wooden troughs called "frames," which somewhat resembled a billiard table in form. Indeed, the frames are still largely employed in the mines, but these and the modern table perform exactly the same office--they wash the refuse from the tin. Being finally cleansed from all its impurities, our mass of tin bears more resemblance to brown snuff than to metal. An ignorant man would suppose it to be an ordinary earthy substance, until he took some of it in his hand and felt its weight. It contains, however, comparatively little foreign substance. About seventy per cent of it is pure tin, but this seventy per cent is still locked up in the tight embrace of thirty per cent, of refuse, from which nothing but intense fire can set it free. At this point in the process, our mass of tin leaves the rough hand of the miner. In former days it was divided among the shareholders in this form--each receiving, instead of cash, so many sacks of tin ore, according to the number of his shares or "doles," and carrying it off on mule or horse back from the mine, to be smelted where or by whom he pleased. But whether treated in this way, or, as in the present day, sold by the manager at the market value, it all comes at last to the tin-smelter, whose further proceedings we shall now follow, in company with Oliver and his friend. The agent of the smelting company--a stout, intelligent man, who evidently did "knaw tin"--conducted them first to the furnaces, in the neighbourhood of which were ranged a number of large wooden troughs or bins, all more or less filled with tin ore. The ore got from different mines, he said, differed in quality, as well as in the percentage of tin which it contained. Some had much iron mixed with it, in spite of all the washings it had undergone; some had a little copper and other substances; while some was very pure. By mixing the tin of different mines, better metal could be procured than by simply smelting the produce of each mine separately. Pointing to one of the bins, about three yards square, he told them it contained tin worth 1,000 pounds. There was a large quantity of black sand in one of the bins, which, the agent said, was got by the process of "streaming." It is the richest and best kind of tin ore, and used to be procured in large quantities in Cornwall--especially in ancient times--being found near the surface, but, as a matter of course, not much of that is to be found now, the land having been turned over three times in search of it. This black sand is now imported in large quantities from Singapore. The agent then conducted his visitors to the testing-house, where he showed them the process of testing the various qualities of tin ore offered, to the House for sale. First he weighed out twenty parts of the ore, which, as we have said, resembled snuff. This, he remarked, contained about five-sixths of pure tin, the remaining one-sixth being dross. He mixed it with four parts of fine coal dust, or culm, and added a little borax--these last ingredients being intended to expedite the smelting process. This compound was put into a crucible, and subjected to the intense heat of a small furnace for about twenty minutes. At the end of that time, the agent seized the crucible with a pair of tongs, poured the metal into an iron mould, and threw away the dross. The little mass of tin thus produced was about four inches long, by half an inch broad, and of a dull bluish-grey colour. It was then put into an iron ladle and melted, as one would melt lead when about to cast bullets, but it was particularly noteworthy here, that a very slight heat was required. To extract the metal from the tin ore, a fierce heat, long applied, was necessary, but a slight heat, continued for a few minutes, sufficed to melt the metal. This remelted metal was poured into a stone mould, where it lay like a bright little pool of liquid silver. In a few seconds it solidified, retaining its clear purity in all its parts. "That," said the agent, "is tin of the very best quality. We sell it chiefly to dyers, who use it for colouring purposes, and for whom no tin but the best is of any use. I will now show you two other qualities-- namely, second and inferior." He went to a small cupboard as he spoke, and took therefrom a small piece of tin which had already gone through the smelting process in the crucible above described. Melting this in the ladle, he poured it into the mould, where it lay for a few moments, quite bright and pure, but the instant it solidified, a slight dimness clouded its centre. "That," explained the agent, "is caused by a little copper which they have failed to extract from the tin. Such tin would not do for the dyers, but it is good for the tin-plate makers, who, by dipping thin sheets of iron into molten tin, produce the well-known tin-plates of which our pot-lids and pans, etcetera, are manufactured. This last bit, gentlemen," he added, taking a third piece of tin from the cupboard, "is our worst quality." Having melted it, he poured it into the mould, where it assumed a dull, half-solid appearance, as if it were a liquid only half frozen--or, if you prefer it, a solid in a half molten state. "This is only fit to mix with copper and make brass," said the agent, throwing down the mould. "We test the tin ore twice--once to find out the quantity of metal it contains, and again to ascertain its quality. The latter process you have seen--the former is just the same, with this difference, that I am much more careful in weighing, measuring, etcetera. Every particle of dross I would have collected and carefully separated from any metal it might contain; the whole should then have been reweighed, and its reduction in the smelting process ascertained. Thus, if twenty parts had been the weight of tin ore, the result might perhaps have been fourteen parts of metal and six parts of dross. And now, gentlemen, having explained to you the testing process, if you will follow me, I will show you the opening of one of our furnaces. The smelting-furnace just shows the testing process on a large scale. Into this furnace, six hours ago," he said, pointing to a brick erection in the building to which he led them, "we threw a large quantity of tin ore, mingled with a certain proportion of culm. It is smelted and ready to be run off now." Here he gave an order to a sturdy man, who, with brawny arms bared to the shoulders, stood close at hand. He was begrimed and hairy--like a very Vulcan. Seizing an iron poker, Vulcan probed the orifice of the furnace, and forthwith there ran out a stream of liquid fire, which was caught in an iron bowl nearly four feet in diameter. The intense heat of this pool caused the visitors to step back a few paces, and the ruddy glow shone with a fierce glare on the swart, frowning countenance of Vulcan, who appeared to take a stern delight in braving it. Oliver's attention was at once attracted to this man, for he felt convinced that he had seen his face before, but it was not until he had taxed his memory for several minutes that the scene of his adventure with the smugglers near the Land's End flashed upon him, when he at once recognised him as the man named Joe Tonkin, who had threatened his life in the cavern. From a peculiar look that the man gave him, he saw that he also was recognised. Oliver took no further notice of him at the time, however, but turned to watch the flow of the molten tin. When the iron cauldron was almost full, "slag," or molten refuse began to flow and cover the top of the metal. The hole was immediately plugged up by Vulcan, and the furnace cleared out for the reception of another supply of ore. The surface of the tin was now cleared of slag, after which it was ladled into moulds and allowed to cool. This was the first process completed; but the tin was still full of impurities, and had to undergo another melting and stirring in a huge cauldron. This latter was a severe and protracted operation, which Vulcan performed with tremendous power and energy. In reference to this, it may interest the reader to mention a valuable discovery which was the result of laziness! A man who was employed in a tin-smelting establishment at this laborious work of stirring the molten metal in order to purify it, accidentally discovered that a piece of green wood dropped into it had the effect of causing it to bubble as if it were boiling. To ease himself of some of his toil, he availed himself of the discovery, and, by stirring the metal with a piece of green wood, caused such a commotion that the end in view was accomplished much more effectually and speedily than by the old process. The lazy man's plan, we need scarcely add, is now universally adopted. The last operation was to run the metal into moulds with the smelter's name on them, and these ingots, being of portable size, were ready for sale. While the agent was busily engaged in explaining to Charles Tregarthen some portions of the work, Oliver stepped aside and accosted Joe Tonkin. "So, friend," he said, with a smile, "it seems that smuggling is not your only business?" "No, sur, it ain't," replied Joe, with a grin. "I'm a jack-of-all-trades--a smelter, as you do see, an' a miner _also_, when it suits me." "I'm glad to hear it, my man, for it gives you a chance of coming in contact with better men than smugglers--although I'm free to confess that there _is_ some good among them too. I don't forget that your comrade Jim Cuttance hauled me out of the sea. Where is he?" "Don't knaw, sur," replied Tonkin, with an angry frown; "he and I don't pull well together. We've parted now." Oliver glanced at the man, and as he observed his stern, proud expression of face, and his huge, powerful frame, he came to the conclusion that Cuttance had met a man of equal power and force of character with himself, and was glad to get rid of him. "But I have not gi'n up smuggling," added the man, with a smile. "It do pay pretty well, and is more hearty-like than this sort o' thing." "I'd advise you to fall back on mining," said Oliver. "It is hard work, I know, but it is honest labour, and as far as I have seen, there does not appear to be a more free, hearty, and independent race under the sun than Cornish miners." Joe Tonkin shook his head and smiled dubiously. "You do think so, sur, but you haven't tried it. I don't like it. It don't suit me, it don't. No, no; there's nothin' like a good boat and the open sea." "Things are looking a little better at Botallack just now, Joe," said Oliver, after a pause. "I'd strongly advise you to try it again." The man remained silent for a few minutes, then he said,--"Well, Mr Trembath, I don't mind if I do. I'm tired o' this work, and as my time is up this very day, I'll go over to-morrow and see 'bout it. There's a man at Newlyn as I've got somethin' to say to; I'll go see him to-night, and then--" "Come along, Oliver," shouted Tregarthen at that moment; "it's time to go." Oliver bade Tonkin good-afternoon, and, turning hastily away, followed his friend. The two proceeded arm in arm up Market-Jew Street, and turning down towards the shore, walked briskly along in the direction of the picturesque fishing village of Newlyn, which lies little more than a mile to the westward of Penzance. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. SHOWS HOW OLIVER AND HIS FRIEND WENT TO NEWLYN AND SAW THE MACKEREL MARKET, AND FOUND SOME DIFFICULTIES AND MYSTERIES AWAITING THEM THERE. The beach opposite Newlyn presented a busy scene when Oliver Trembath and his friend Charlie Tregarthen reached it. Although the zenith of the season was over, mackerel fishing was still going on there in full vigour, and immense crowds of men, women, and children covered the sands. The village lies on the heights above, and crowds of people were leaning over the iron rails which guard the unwary or unsteady passenger from falling into the sea below. A steep causeway connects the main street above with the shore beneath; and up and down it horses, carts, and people were hurrying continuously. True, there was not at that time quite as much bustle as may be witnessed there at the present day. The railway has penetrated these remote regions of the west, and now men work with a degree of feverish haste that was unknown then. While hundreds of little boats (tenders to the large ones) crowd in on the beach, auctioneers with long heavy boots wade knee-deep into the water, followed and surrounded by purchasers, and, ringing a bell as each boat comes in, shout,--"Now, then, five hundred, more or less, in this boat; who bids? Twenty shillings a hundred for five hundred--twenty shillings--say nineteen--I'm bid nineteen--nineteen-and-six--say nineteen-an--twenty--twenty shillings I'm bid--say twenty-one--shall I make it twenty-one shillings for any person?" etcetera. The bells and voices of these auctioneers, loud though they be, are mild compared with the shouts of men, women, and children, as the fish are packed in baskets, with hot haste, to be in time for the train; and horses with laden carts gallop away over the sands at furious speed, while others come dashing back for more fish. And there is need for all this furious haste, for trains, like time and tide, wait for no man, and prices vary according to trains. Just before the starting of one, you will hear the auctioneers put the fish up at 20 shillings, 25 shillings, and even 30 shillings a hundred, and in the next half-hour, after the train is gone, and no chance remains of any more of the fish being got into the London market by the following morning, the price suddenly falls to 8 shillings a hundred, sometimes even less. There is need for haste, too, because the quantity of fish is very great, for there are sometimes two hundred boats at anchor in the bay, each with four thousand fish on the average, which must all be washed and packed in four or five hours. Yes, the old days cannot be compared with the present times, when, between the months of April and June, the three hundred boats of Mounts Bay will land little short of three thousand tons of mackerel, and the railway, for the mere carriage of these to London, Manchester, Birmingham, etcetera, will clear above 20,000 pounds! Nevertheless, the busy, bustling, hearty nature of the scene on Newlyn beach in days of yore was not so very different as one might suppose from that of the present time. The men were not less energetic then than now; the women were not less eager; the children were quite as wild and mischievous, and the bustle and noise apparently, if not really, as great. "What interests you?" asked Charlie Tregarthen, observing that his companion gazed pointedly at some object in the midst of the crowd. "That old woman," said Oliver; "see how demurely she sits on yonder upturned basket, knitting with all her might." "In the midst of chaos," observed Tregarthen, laughing; "and she looks as placidly indifferent to the noise around her as if it were only the murmuring of a summer breeze, although there are two boys yelling at her very ear at this moment." "Perhaps she's deaf," suggested Oliver. Tregarthen said he thought this highly probable, and the two remained silent for some time, watching, from an elevated position on the road leading down to the sands, the ever-changing and amusing scene below. Talk of a pantomime, indeed! No Christmas pantomime ever got up in the great metropolis was half so amusing or so grand as that summer pantomime that was performed daily on Newlyn sands, with admission to all parts of the house--the stage included--for nothing! The scenery was painted with gorgeous splendour by nature, and embraced the picturesque village of Newlyn, with its irregular gables, variously tinted roofs, and whitewashed fronts; the little pier with its modest harbour, perfectly dry because of the tide being out, but which, even if the tide had been in, and itself full to overflowing, could not apparently have held more than a dozen of the larger fishing-boats; the calm bay crowded with boats of all sizes, their brown and yellow sails reflected in the clear water, and each boat resting on its own image. On the far-off horizon might be seen the Lizard Point and the open sea, over which hung red and lurid clouds, which betokened the approach of a storm, although, at the time, all nature was quiet and peaceful. Yes, the scenery was admirably painted, and nothing could exceed the perfection of the acting. It was so _very_ true to nature! Right in front of the spot where the two friends stood, a fisherman sat astride of an upturned basket, enjoying a cup of tea which had been brought to him by a little girl who sat on another upturned basket at his side, gazing with a pleased expression into his rugged countenance, one cheek of which was distended with a preposterously large bite of bread and butter. The great Mathews himself never acted his part so well. What admirable devotion to the one engrossing object in hand! What a perfect and convincing display of a hearty appetite! What obvious unconsciousness of being looked at, and what a genuine and sudden burst of indignation when, owing to a touch of carelessness, he capsized the cup, and poured the precious tea upon the thirsty sand. At the distance from which Oliver and his friend observed him, no words were audible, but none were necessary. The man's acting was so perfect that they knew he was scolding the little girl for the deed which he himself had perpetrated. Then there was something peculiarly touching in the way in which he suddenly broke into a short laugh, and patted the child's head while she wiped out the cup, and refilled it from the little brown broken-nosed teapot hitherto concealed under her ragged shawl to keep it warm. No wizard was needed to tell, however, that this was quite an unnecessary piece of carefulness on the little girl's part, for any brown teapot in the world, possessing the smallest amount of feeling, would have instantly made hot and strong tea out of cold water on being pressed against the bosom of that sunny child! Just beyond this couple, three tired men, in blue flannel shirts, long boots, and sou'-westers, grouped themselves round a bundle of straw to enjoy a pipe: one stretched himself almost at full length on it, in lazy nonchalance; another sat down on it, and, resting his elbows on his knees, gazed pensively at his pipe as he filled it; while the third thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood for a few seconds with a grand bend at the small of his back (as if he felt that his muscles worked easily), and gazed out to sea. The greatest of the old masters could have painted nothing finer. Away to the right, an old man might be seen tying up the lid of a basket full of fish beside his cart, and dividing his attention between the basket and the horse, which latter, much to his surprise, was unwontedly restive that evening, and required an unusual number of cautions to remain still, and of threats as to the punishment that would follow continued disobedience, all of which afforded the most intense and unutterable delight to a very small precocious boy, who, standing concealed on the off side of the animal, tickled its ear with a straw every time it bent its head towards the bundle of hay which lay at its feet. No clown or pantaloon was there to inflict condign punishment, because none was needed. A brother carter standing by performed the part, extempore. His eye suddenly lit on the culprit; his whip sprang into the air and descended on the urchin's breech. Horror-struck, his mouth opened responsive to the crack, and a yell came forth that rose high above the surrounding din, while his little legs carried him away over the sands like a ragged leaf driven before the wind. To the left of this scene (and ignorant of it, for the stage was so large, the actors were so numerous, and the play so grand, that few could do more than attend to their own part) a cripple might be seen with a crutch hopping actively about. He was a young man; had lost his leg, by an accident probably, and was looking about for a cast-away fish for his own supper. He soon found one. Whether it was that one had been dropped accidentally, or that some generous-hearted fish-dealer had dropped one on purpose, we cannot tell, but he did get one--a large fat one, too--and hobbled away as quickly as he could, evidently rejoicing. The cripple was not the only one who crossed the stage thus lightly burdened. There were several halt and maimed, and some blind and aged ones there, whose desires in regard to piscatorial wealth extended only to one, or perhaps two, and they all got what they wanted. That was sufficient for the evening's supper--for the morrow there was no need to care; they could return to get a fresh supply evening after evening for many a day to come, for it was a splendid mackerel season--such as had not been for many years--so said the sages of the village. There were other groups, and other incidents that would have drawn laughter as well as tears from sympathetic hearts, but we must forbear. The play was long of being acted out--it was no common play; besides, it is time for _our_ actors to come upon the stage themselves. "I see old Hitchin," exclaimed Oliver Trembath, starting suddenly out of a reverie, and pointing into the thickest of the crowd. "How can you tell? you don't know him," said his companion. "Know him! Of course I do; who could fail to know him after the graphic description the lawyer gave of him? See--look yonder, beside the cart with the big man in it arranging baskets. D'you see?" "Which? the one painted green, and a scraggy horse with a bag hanging to its nose?" "No, no; a little further to the left, man--the one with the broken rail and the high-spirited horse. There, there he is! a thin, dried-up, wrinkled, old shabby--" "Ah! that's the man," exclaimed Tregarthen, laughing. "Come along, and let's try to keep our eyes on him, for there is nothing so difficult as finding any one in a crowd." The difficulty referred to was speedily illustrated by the fact that the two friends threaded their way to the spot where the cart had stood, and found not only that it was gone, but that Hitchin had also moved away, and although they pushed through the crowd for more than a quarter of an hour they failed to find him. As they were wandering about thus, they observed a very tall broad-shouldered man talking earnestly in undertones to a sailor-like fellow who was still broader across the shoulders, but not quite so tall. It is probable that Oliver would have paid no attention to them, had not the name of Hitchin struck his ear. Glancing round at the men he observed that the taller of the two was Joe Tonkin, and the other his friend of the Land's End, the famous Jim Cuttance. Oliver plucked his companion by the sleeve, and whispered him to stand still. Only a few words and phrases reached them, but these were sufficient to create surprise and arouse suspicion. Once, in particular, Tonkin, who appeared to be losing his temper, raised his voice a little, exclaiming,--"I tell 'ee what it is, Cuttance, I do knaw what you're up to, an' I'll hinder 'ee ef I can." The man confirmed this statement with a savage oath, to which Cuttance replied in kind; nevertheless he was evidently anxious to conciliate his companion, and spoke so low as to be nearly inaudible. Only the words, "Not to-night; I won't do it to-night," reached the ears of the listeners. At this point Tonkin turned from the smuggler with a fling, muttering in an undertone as he went, "I don't b'lieve 'ee, Cuttance, for thee'rt a liard, so I'll watch 'ee, booy." Oliver was about to follow Tonkin, when he observed Hitchin himself slowly wending his way through the crowd. He had evidently heard nothing of the conversation that appeared to have reference to himself, for he sauntered along with a careless air, and his hands in his pockets, as though he were an uninterested spectator of the busy scene. Oliver at once accosted him, "Pray, sir, is your name Hitchin?" "It is," replied the old man, eyeing his interrogator suspiciously. "Allow me to introduce myself, sir--Oliver Trembath, nephew to Mr Thomas Donnithorne of St. Just." Mr Hitchin held out his hand, and said that he was happy to meet with a nephew of his old friend, in the tone of a man who would much rather not meet either nephew or uncle. Oliver felt this, so he put on his most insinuating air, and requested Mr Hitchin to walk with him a little aside from the crowd, as he had something of a private nature to say to him. The old man agreed, and the two walked slowly along the sands to the outskirts of the crowd, where young Tregarthen discreetly left them. The moment Oliver broached the subject of the advance of money, Hitchin frowned, and the colour in his face betrayed suppressed anger. "Sir," said he, "I know all that you would say to me. It has already been said oftener than there is any occasion for. No one appears to believe me when I assert that I have met with heavy losses of late, and have no cash to spare--not even enough to pay my debts." "Indeed, sir," replied Oliver, "I regret to hear you say so, and I can only apologise for having troubled you on the subject. I assure you nothing would have induced me to do so but regard for my uncle, to whom the continuance of this mine for some time would appear to be a matter of considerable importance; but since you will not--" "_Wilt_ not!" interrupted Hitchin angrily, "have I not said _can not_? I tell you, young man, that there is a scoundrel to whom I owe a large sum for--for--well, no matter what it's for, but the blackguard threatens that if I don't--pshaw!--" The old man seemed unable to contain himself at this point, for he turned angrily away from Oliver, and, hastening back towards the town, was soon lost again in the crowd. Oliver was so taken by surprise, that he stood still gazing dreamily at the point where Hitchin had disappeared, until he was roused by a touch on the shoulder from Charlie Tregarthen. "Well," said he, smiling, "how fares your suit?" Oliver replied by a burst of laughter. "How fares my suit?" he repeated; "badly, very badly indeed; why, the old fellow's monkey got up the moment I broached the subject, and I was just in the middle of what I meant to be a most conciliating speech, when he flung off as you have seen." "Odd, very odd," said Tregarthen, "to see how some men cling to their money, as if it were their life. After all, it _is_ life to some--at least all the life they have got." "Come now, don't moralise, Charlie, for we must act just now." "I'm ready to act in any way you propose, Oliver; what do you intend to do? Issue your commands, and I'll obey. Shall we attack the village of Newlyn single-handed, and set fire to it, as did the Spaniards of old, or shall we swim off to the fleet of boats, cut the cables, bind the men in charge, and set sail for the mackerel fishing?" "Neither, my chum, and especially not the latter, seeing that a thundercloud is about to break over the sea ere long, if I do not greatly misjudge appearances in the sky; but, man, we must see this testy old fellow again, and warn him of the danger which threatens him. I feel assured that that rascal Cuttance means him harm, for he let something fall in his anger, which, coupled with what we have already heard from the smuggler himself, and from Tonkin, convinces me that evil is in the wind. Now the question is, how are we to find him, for searching in that crowd is almost useless?" "Let us go to his house," suggested Tregarthen, "and if he is not at home, wait for him." "Do you know where his house is?" "No, not I." "Then we must inquire, so come along." Pushing once more through the throng of busy men and women, the friends ascended the sloping causeway that led to the village, and here asked the first man they met where Mr Hitchin lived. "Right over top o' hill," replied the man. "Thank you. That'll do, Charlie, come along," said Oliver, turning into one of the narrow passages that diverged from the main street of Newlyn, and ascending the hill with giant strides; "one should never be particular in their inquiries after a place. When I'm told to turn to the right after the second turning to the left, and that if I go right on till I come to some other turning, that will conduct me point blank to the street that enters the square near to which lies the spot I wish to reach, I'm apt to get confused. Get a general direction if possible, the position indicated by compass is almost enough, and _ask again_. That's my plan, and I never found it fail." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. IN WHICH IS RECORDED A VISIT TO AN INFANT-SCHOOL; A WARNING TO A THANKLESS OLD GENTLEMAN; ALSO A STORM, AND A SUDDEN AS WELL AS SURPRISING END OF A MINE, BESIDES DARK DESIGNS. Oliver Trembath's plan of "asking again" had to be put in practice sooner than had been anticipated, for the back alleys and lanes of Newlyn were a little perplexing to a stranger. "Let us inquire here," said Tregarthen, seeing the half-open door of a very small cottage, with part of a woman's back visible in the interior. "By all means," said Oliver, pushing open the door and stooping low as he entered. The visitors were instantly transfixed by thirty pair of eyes--all of them bright blue, or bright black--few of them elevated much more than two feet from the ground, and not one of them dimmed by the smallest approach to a wink. Nay, on the contrary, they all opened so wide when the strangers entered that it seemed as if either winking or shutting were in future out of the question, and that to sleep with eyes wide open was the sad prospect of the owners thereof in all time coming. "An infant-school," murmured Tregarthen. The very smallest boy in the school--an infant with legs about five inches long, who sat on a stool not more than three inches high-- appeared to understand what he said, and to regard it as a personal insult, for he at once began to cry. A little girl with bright red hair, a lovely complexion, and a body so small as to be scarce worth mentioning, immediately embraced the small boy, whereupon he dried his eyes without delay. "You have a nice little school here," said Oliver. "Iss, sur; we do feel proud of it," said the good-looking motherly dame in charge, with a little twitch of her shoulders, which revealed the horrible fact that both her arms had been taken off above the elbows, "the child'n are very good, and they do sing bootiful. Now then, let the gentlemen hear you--`O that'll be'--come." Instantly, and in every possible pitch, the thirty mouths belonging to the thirty pair of eyes opened, and "O that will be joyful," etcetera, burst forth with thrilling power. A few leading voices gradually turned the torrent into a united channel, and before the second verse was reached the hymn was tunefully sung, the sweet voice of the little girl with the bright hair being particularly distinguishable, and the shrill pipe of the smallest boy sounding high above the rest as he sang, "O that will be doyful, doyful, doyful, doyful," with all his might and main. When this was finished Tregarthen asked the schoolmistress what misfortune had caused the loss of her arms, to which she replied that she had lost them in a coach accident. As she was beginning to relate the history of this sad affair, Oliver broke in with a question as to where old Mr Hitchin's house was. Being directed to it they took leave of the infant-school, and soon found themselves before the door of a small cottage. They were at once admitted to the presence of the testy old Hitchin, who chanced to be smoking a pipe at the time. He did not by any means bestow a welcome look on his visitors, but Oliver, nevertheless, advanced and sat down in a chair before him. "I have called, Mr Hitchin," he began, "not to trouble you about the matter which displeased you when we conversed together on the beach, but to warn you of a danger which I fear threatens yourself." "What danger may that be?" inquired Hitchin, in the tone of a man who held all danger in contempt. "What it is I cannot tell, but--" "Cannot tell!" interrupted the old man; "then what's the use of troubling me about it?" "Neither can I tell of what use my troubling you may be," retorted Oliver with provoking coolness, "but I heard the man speak of you on the beach less than an hour ago, and as you referred to him yourself I thought it right to call--" At this point Hitchin again broke in,--"Heard a man speak of me--what man? Really, Mr Trembath, your conduct appears strange to me. Will you explain yourself?" "Certainly. I was going to have added, if your irascible temper would have allowed me, that the notorious smuggler, Jim Cuttance--" Oliver stopped, for at the mention of the smuggler's name the pipe dropped from the old man's mouth, and his face grew pale. "Jim Cuttance!" he exclaimed after a moment's pause; "the villain, the scoundrel--what of him? what of him? No good, I warrant. There is not a rogue unhanged who deserves more richly to swing at the yard-arm than Jim Cuttance. What said he about me?" When he finished this sentence the old man's composure was somewhat restored. He took a new pipe from the chimney-piece and began to fill it, while Oliver related all that he knew of the conversation between the two smugglers. When he had finished Hitchin smoked for some minutes in silence. "Do you really think," he said at length, "that the man means to do me bodily harm?" "I cannot tell," replied Oliver; "you can form your own judgment of the matter more correctly than I can, but I would advise you to be on your guard." "What says your friend?" asked Hitchin, turning towards Tregarthen, of whom, up to that point, he had taken no notice. Thus appealed to, the youth echoed Oliver's opinion, and added that the remark of Cuttance about his intention not to do something unknown _that_ night, and Joe Tonkin's muttered expressions of disbelief and an intention to watch, seemed to him sufficient to warrant unusual caution in the matter of locks, bolts, and bars. As he spoke there came a blinding flash of lightning, followed by a loud and prolonged peal of thunder. Oliver sprang up. "We must bid you good-night," he said, "for we have to walk to St. Just, and don't wish to get more of the storm than we can avoid." "But you cannot escape it," said Hitchin. "Nevertheless we can go as far as possible before it begins, and then take shelter under a bush or hedge, or in a house if we chance to be near one. I would rather talk in rain any day than drive in a kittereen!" "Pray be persuaded to stop where you are, gentlemen," said the old man in a tone of voice that was marvellously altered for the better. "I can offer you comfortable quarters for the night, and good, though plain fare, with smuggled brandy of the best, and tobacco to match." Still Oliver and Tregarthen persisted in their resolution to leave, until Hitchin began to plead in a tone that showed he was anxious to have their presence in the house as protectors. Then their resolution began to waver, and when the old man hinted that they might thus find time to reconsider the matter of the Wherry Mine, they finally gave in, and made up their minds to stay all night. According to the opinion of a celebrated poet, the best-laid plans of men as well as mice are apt to miscarry. That night the elements contrived to throw men's calculations out of joint, and to render their cupidity, villainy, and wisdom alike ineffectual. A storm, the fiercest that had visited them for many years, burst that night on the southern shores of England, and strewed her rocks and sands with wrecks and dead bodies. Nothing new in this, alas! as all know who dwell upon our shores, or who take an interest in, and read the records of, our royal and noble Lifeboat Institution. But with this great subject we have not to do just now, further than to observe, as we have said before, that in those days there were no lifeboats on the coast. Under the shelter of an old house on the shore at Penzance were gathered together a huge concourse of townspeople and seafaring men watching the storm. It was a grand and awful sight--one fitted to irresistibly solemnise the mind, and incline it, unless the heart be utterly hardened, to think of the great Creator and of the unseen world, which seems at such a season to be brought impressively near. The night was extremely dark, and the lightning, by contrast, peculiarly vivid. Each flash appeared to fill the world for a moment with lambent fire, leaving the painful impression on observers of having been struck with total blindness for a few seconds after, and each thunderclap came like the bursting of artillery, with scarcely an interval between the flash and crash, while the wind blew with almost tropical fury. The terrible turmoil and noise were enhanced tenfold by the raging surf, which flew up over the roadway, and sent the spray high above and beyond the tops of the houses nearest to the shore. The old house creaked and groaned in the blast as if it would come down, and the men taking shelter there looked out to sea in silence. The bronzed veterans there knew full well that at that hour many a despairing cry was being uttered, many a hand was stretched wildly, helplessly, and hopelessly from the midst of the boiling surf, and many a soul was passing into eternity. They would have been ready then, as well as now, to have risked life and limb to save fellow-creatures from the sea, but ordinary boats they knew could not live in such a storm. Among the watchers there stood Jim Cuttance. He had been drinking at a public-house in Penzance, and was at the time, to use his own expression, "three sheets in the wind"--that is, about half-drunk. What his business was nobody knew, and we shall not inquire, but he was the first to express his belief that the turret and bridge of the Wherry Mine would give way. As he spoke a vivid flash of lightning revealed the stout timbers of the mine standing bravely in the storm, each beam and chain painted black and sharp against the illumined sky and the foaming sea. "She have stud out many a gale," observed a weather-beaten old seaman; "p'raps she won't go down yet." "I do hope she won't," observed another. "She haven't got a chance," said Cuttance. Just then another flash came, and there arose a sharp cry of alarm from the crowd, for a ship was seen driving before the gale close in upon the land, so close that she seemed to have risen there by magic, and appeared to tower almost over the heads of the people. The moments of darkness that succeeded were spent in breathless, intense anxiety. The flashes, which had been fast enough before, seemed to have ceased altogether now; but again the lightning gleamed--bright as full moonlight, and again the ship was seen, nearer than before--close on the bridge of the mine. "'Tis the Yankee ship broken from her anchors in Gwavus Lake," exclaimed a voice. The thunder-peal that followed was succeeded by a crash of rending timber and flying bolts that almost emulated the thunder. Certainly it told with greater power on the nerves of those who heard it. Once again the lightning flashed, and for a moment the American vessel was seen driving away before the wind, but no vestige of Wherry Mine remained. The bridge and all connected with it had been completely carried away, and its shattered remnants were engulfed in the foaming sea. It deserved a better fate; but its course was run, and its hour had come. It passed away that stormy night, and now nothing remains but a few indications of its shaft-mouth, visible at low water, to tell of one of the boldest and most singular of mining enterprises ever undertaken and carried out by man. There was one spectator of this imposing scene who was not very deeply impressed by it. Jim Cuttance cared not a straw for storms or wrecks, so long as he himself was safe from their influence. Besides, he had other work in hand that night, so he left the watchers on the beach soon after the destruction of the bridge. Buttoning his coat up to the neck, and pulling his sou'-wester tight over his brows, he walked smartly along the road to Newlyn, while many of the fishermen ran down to the beach to render help to the vessel. Between the town of Penzance and the village of Newlyn several old boats lay on the grass above high-water mark. Here the smuggler stopped and gave a loud whistle. He listened a moment and than repeated it still louder. He was answered by a similar signal, and four men in sailor's garb, issuing from behind one of the boats, advanced to meet him. "All right, Bill?" inquired Cuttance. "All right, sur," was the reply. "Didn't I tell 'ee to leave them things behind?" said Cuttance sternly, as he pointed to the butt of a pistol which protruded from the breast-pocket of one of the men; "sure we don't require powder and lead to overcome an old man!" "No more do we need a party o' five to do it," replied the man doggedly. To this Cuttance vouchsafed no reply, but, plucking the weapon from the man, he tossed it far into the sea, and, without further remark, walked towards the fishing village, followed by his men. By this time the thunder and rain had abated considerably, but the gale blew with increased violence, and, as there were neither moon nor stars, the darkness was so intense that men less acquainted with the locality would have been obliged to proceed with caution. But the smugglers knew every foot of the ground between the Lizard and the Land's End, and they advanced with rapid strides until they reached the low wall that encompassed, but could not be said to guard, old Mr Hitchin's garden-plot. The hour was suited for deeds of darkness, being a little after midnight, and the noise of the gale favoured the burglars, who leaped the wall with ease and approached the back of the cottage. In ordinary circumstances Hitchin would have been in bed, and Cuttance knew his habits sufficiently to be aware of this; his surprise, therefore, was great when he found lights burning, and greater still when, peeping through a chink of the window-shutter, he observed two stout fellows seated at the old man's table. Charles Tregarthen he had never seen before, and, as Oliver Trembath sat with his back to the window, he could not recognise him. "There's company wi' the owld man," said Cuttance, returning to his comrades; "two men, young and stout, but we do knaw how to manage they!" This was said by way of an appeal, and was received with a grin by the others, and a brief recommendation to go to work without delay. For a few minutes they whispered together as to the plan of attack, and then, having agreed on that point, they separated. Cuttance and the man whom he had called Bill, went to the window of the room in which Hitchin and his guests were seated, and stationed themselves on either side of it. The sill was not more than breast high. The other three men quickly returned, bearing a heavy boat's-mast, which they meant to use as a battering-ram. It had been arranged that Cuttance should throw up the window, and, at the same moment, his comrades should rush at the shutter with the mast. The leader could not see their faces, but there was light sufficient to enable him to distinguish their dark forms standing in the attitude of readiness. He therefore stepped forward and made a powerful effort to force up the window, but it resisted him, although it shook violently. Those inside sprang up at the sound, and the smugglers sank down, as if by mutual consent, among the bushes which grew thickly near the window. "I told you it was only the wind," said Oliver Trembath, who had opened the shutter and gazed through the window for some time into the darkness, where, of course, he saw nothing. Well was it for him that Cuttance refused to follow Bill's advice, which was to charge him through the window with the mast. The former knew that, with the window fastened, it would be impossible to force an entrance in the face of such a youth as Tregarthen, even although they succeeded in rendering the other _hors de combat_, so he restrained Bill, and awaited his opportunity. Oliver's remark appeared to be corroborated by a gust of wind which came while he was speaking, and shook the window-frame violently. "There it is again," he said, turning to his host with a smile. "Depend upon it, they won't trouble you on such a night as this." He closed and refastened the shutter as he spoke, and they all returned to their places at the table. Unfortunately Oliver had not thought of examining the fastening of the window itself. Had he done so, he would have seen that it was almost wrenched away. Cuttance saw this, however, and resolved to make sure work of it next time. When the men with the battering-ram were again in position, he and Bill applied their united strength to the window, and it instantly flew up to the top. At same moment, bolts and bars gave way, and the shutter went in with a crash. Making use of the mast as a rest, Cuttance sprang on the window-sill and leaped into the room. The whole thing was done with such speed, and, if we may so express it, with such simultaneity of action, that the bold smuggler stood before the astonished inmates almost as soon as they could leap from their chairs. Cuttance ducked to evade a terrific blow which Oliver aimed at him with his fist, and in another instant grappled with him. Tregarthen rushed to the window in time to meet Bill, on whose forehead he planted a blow so effectual that that worthy fell back into the arms of his friends, who considerately let him drop to the ground, and made a united assault on Charlie. Had Oliver Trembath possessed his wonted vigour, he would speedily have overcome his adversary despite his great strength, but his recent illness had weakened him a little, so that the two were pretty equally matched. The consequence was that, neither daring to loosen his hold in order to strike an effective blow, each had to devote all his energies to throw the other, in which effort they wrenched, thrust, and swung each other so violently round the room that chairs and tables were overturned and smashed, and poor old Hitchin had enough to do to avoid being floored in the _melee_, and to preserve from destruction the candle which lighted the scene of the combat. At first Oliver had tried to free his right hand in order to strike, but, finding this impossible, he attempted to throw the smuggler, and, with this end in view, lifted him bodily in the air and dashed him down, but Cuttance managed to throw out a leg and meet the ground with his foot, which saved him. He was a noted wrestler. He could give the famous Cornish hug with the fervour of a black bear, and knew all the mysteries of the science. Often had he displayed his great muscular power and skill in the ring, where "wrestlers" were wont to engage in those combats of which the poet writes:-- "They rush, impetuous, with a shock Their arms implicit, rigid, lock; They twist; they trip; their limbs are mixed; As one they move, as one stand fixed. Now plant their feet in wider space, And stand like statues on their base." But never before had Jim Cuttance had to deal with such a man as Oliver Trembath, who swung him about among the chairs, and crashed him through the tables, until, seizing a sudden opportunity, he succeeded in flinging him flat on the floor, where he held him down, and planted his knee on his chest with such force that he nearly squeezed all the breath out of him. No word did Jim Cuttance utter, for he was incapable of speech, but the colour of his face and his protruding tongue induced Oliver to remove his knee. Meanwhile Charlie Tregarthen had enough to do at the window. After he had tumbled Bill out, as we have described, two of the other men sprang at him, and, seizing him by the collar of his coat, attempted to drag him out. One of these he succeeded in overthrowing by a kick on the chest, but his place was instantly taken by the third of the bearers of the battering-ram, and for a few minutes the struggle was fierce but undecided. Suddenly there arose a great shout, and all three tumbled head over heels into the shrubbery. It was at this moment that Oliver rose from his prostrate foe. He at once sprang to the rescue; leaped out of the window, and was in the act of launching a blow at the head of the first man he encountered, when a voice shouted,--"Hold on, sur." It is certain that Oliver would have declined to hold on, had not the voice sounded familiar. He held his hand, and next moment Charlie appeared in the light of the window dragging a struggling man after him by the nape of the neck. At the same time Joe Tonkin came forward trailing another man by the hair of the head. "Has Cuttance got off?" inquired Tonkin. "No," replied Oliver, leaping back into the room, just in time to prevent Jim, who had recovered, from making his escape. "Now, my man, keep quiet," said Oliver, thrusting him down into a chair. "You and I have met before, and you know that it is useless to attempt resistance." Cuttance vouchsafed no reply, but sat still with a dogged expression on his weather-beaten visage. Hitchin, whose nerves were much shaken by the scene of which he had been a trembling spectator, soon produced ropes, with which the prisoners were bound, and then they were conducted to a place of safe keeping-- each of the victors leading the man he had secured, and old Hitchin going before--an excited advance-guard. The two men whom Tregarthen knocked down had recovered, and made their escape just before the fight closed. Oliver Trembath walked first in the procession, leading Jim Cuttance. "I gave you credit for a more manly spirit than this," said Oliver, as he walked along. "How could you make so cowardly an attack on an old man?" Cuttance made no reply, and Oliver felt sorry that he had spoken, for the remembrance of the incident at the Land's End was strong upon him, and he would have given all he possessed to have had no hand in delivering the smuggler up to justice. At the same time he felt that the attempt of Cuttance was a dastardly one, and that duty required him to act as he did. It seemed to Oliver as if Joe Tonkin had divined his thoughts, for at that moment he pushed close to him and whispered in his ear, "Jim Cuttance didn't mean to rob th' owld man, sur. He only wanted to give he a fright, an' make un pay what he did owe un." This was a new light on the subject to Oliver, who at once formed his resolution and acted on it. "Cuttance," he said, "it is not unlikely that, if brought to justice, you will swing for this night's adventure." He paused and glanced at the face of his prisoner, who still maintained rigid silence. "Well," continued our hero, "I believe that your intentions against Mr Hitchin were not so bad as they would appear to be--" "Who told 'ee that?" asked the smuggler sternly. "No matter," replied Oliver, drawing a knife from his pocket, with which he deliberately cut the cords that bound his prisoner. "There--you are free. I hope that you will make better use of your freedom in time to come than you have in time past, although I doubt it much; but remember that I have repaid the debt I owe you." "Nay," replied Cuttance, still continuing to walk close to his companion's side. "I did give you life. You have but given me liberty." "I'd advise you to take advantage of that liberty without delay," said Oliver, somewhat nettled by the man's remark, as well as by his cool composure, "else your liberty may be again taken from you, in which case I would not give much for your life." "If you do not assist, there is no one here who can take me _now_," replied Cuttance, with a smile. "However, I'm not ungrateful-- good-night." As he said this, the smuggler turned sharp to the right into one of the numerous narrow passages which divide the dwellings of Newlyn, and disappeared. Charles Tregarthen, who was as sharp as a needle, observed this, and, leaving his man in charge of Tonkin, darted after the fugitive. He soon returned, however, wiping the perspiration from his brow, and declaring that he had well-nigh lost himself in his vain endeavours to find the smuggler. "How in all the world did you manage to let him go?" he demanded somewhat sharply of Oliver. "Why, Charlie," replied his friend, with a laugh, "you know I have not been trained to the duties of a policeman, and it has always been said that Jim Cuttance was a slippery eel. However, he's gone now, so we had better have the others placed in safe custody as soon as possible." Saying this he passed his arm through that of old Mr Hitchin, and soon after the smugglers were duly incarcerated in the lock-up of Penzance. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. EXHIBITS THE MANAGING DIRECTOR AND THE SECRETARY OF WHEAL DOOEM IN CONFIDENTIAL CIRCUMSTANCES, AND INTRODUCES THE SUBJECT OF "LOCALS." About this time that energetic promoter of mining operations, Mr George Augustus Clearemout, found it necessary to revisit Cornwall. He was seated in an easy-chair in a snug little back-office, or board-room, in one of the airiest little streets of the City of London, when this necessity became apparent to him. Mr Clearemout did not appear to have much to do at that particular time, for he contented himself with tapping the arm of his easy-chair with the knuckles of his right hand, while he twirled his gold watch-key with his left, and smiled occasionally. To judge from appearances it seemed that things in general were prospering with George Augustus. Everything about him was new, and, we might almost say, gorgeous. His coat and vest and pantaloons had a look and a cut about them that told of an extremely fashionable tailor, and a correspondingly fashionable price. His rings, of which he wore several, were massive, one of them being a diamond ring of considerable value. His boots were faultlessly made, quite new, and polished so highly that it dazzled one to look at them, while his linen, of which he displayed a large quantity on the breast, was as white as snow--not London snow, of course! Altogether Mr G.A. Clearemout was a most imposing personage. "Come in," he said, in a voice that sounded like the deep soft whisper of a trombone. The individual who had occasioned the command by tapping at the door, opened it just enough to admit his head, which he thrust into the room. It was a shaggy red head belonging to a lad of apparently eighteen; its chief characteristics being a prolonged nose and a retracted chin, with a gash for a mouth, and two blue holes for eyes. "Please, sir, Mr Muddle," said the youth. "Admit Mr Muddle." The head disappeared, and immediately after a gentleman sauntered into the room, and flung himself lazily into the empty armchair which stood at the fireplace _vis-a-vis_ to the one in which Mr Clearemout sat, explaining that he would not have been so ceremonious had he not fancied that his friend was engaged with some one on business. "How are you, Jack?" said George Augustus. "Pretty bobbish," replied Jack. (He was the same Jack whom we have already introduced as being Mr Clearemout's friend and kindred spirit.) "Any news?" inquired Mr Clearemout. "No, nothing moving," said Jack languidly. "H'm, I see it is time to stir now, Jack, for the wheel of fortune is apt to get stiff and creaky if we don't grease her now and then and give her a jog. Here is a little pot of grease which I have been concocting and intend to lay on immediately." He took a slip of paper from a large pocket-book which lay at his elbow on the new green cloth-covered table, and handed it to his friend, who slowly opened and read it in a slovenly way, mumbling the most of it as he went on:-- "`WHEAL DOOEM, in St. Just, Cornwall--mumble--m--m--in 10,000 shares. An old mine, m--m--every reason to believe--m--m--splendid lodes visible from--m--m. Depth of Adit fifty fathoms--m--depth below Adit ninety fathoms. Pumps, whims, engines, etcetera, in good working order--m-- little expense--Landowners, Messrs.--m--Manager at the Mine, Captain Trembleforem--m--thirteen men, four females, and two boys--m--water-- wheels--stamps--m--Managing Director, George Augustus Clearemout, Esquire, 99 New Gull Street, London--m--Secretary, John Muddle, Esquire--ahem--'" "But, I say, it won't do to publish anything of this sort just yet, you know," said Secretary Jack in a remonstrative tone, "for there's nothing doing at all, I believe." "I beg your pardon," replied the managing director, "there is a good deal doing. I have written to St. Just appointing the local manager, and it is probable that things are really under way by this time; besides, I shall set out for Cornwall to-morrow to superintend matters, leaving my able secretary in charge here in the meantime, and when he hears from me this paper may be completed and advertised." "I say, it looks awful real-like, don't it?" said Jack, with a grin. "Only fancy if it should turn out to be a good mine after all--what a lark _that_ would be! and it might, you know, for it _was_ a real one once, wasn't it? And if you set a few fellows to sink the what-d'ye-call-'ems and drive the thingumbobs, it is possible they may come upon tin and copper, or something of that sort--wouldn't it be jolly?" "Of course it would, and that is the very thing that gives zest to it. It's a speculation, not a swindle by any means, and admirably suits our easy consciences. But, I say, Jack, you _must_ break yourself off talking slang. It will never do to have the secretary of the Great Wheal Dooem Mining Company talk like a street boy. Besides, I hate slang even in a blackguard--not to mention a black-leg--so you must give it up, Jack, you really must, else you'll ruin the concern at the very beginning." Secretary Jack started into animation at this. "Why, George," he said, drawing himself up, "I can throw it off when I please. Look here--suppose yourself an inquiring speculator--ahem! I assure you, sir, that the prospects of this mine are most brilliant, and the discoveries that have been made in it since we commenced operations are incredible--absolutely incredible, sir. Some of the lodes (that's the word, isn't it?) are immensely rich, and upwards of a hundred feet thick, while the part that runs under the sea, or _is_ to run under the sea, at a depth of three thousand fathoms, is probably as rich in copper ore as the celebrated Botallack, whose majestic headland, bristling with machinery, overhangs the raging billows of the wide Atlantic, etcetera, etcetera. O George, it's a great lark entirely!" "You'll have to learn your lesson a little better, else you'll make a great mess of it," said Clearemout. "A muddle of it--according to my name and destiny, George," said the secretary; "a muddle of it, and a fortune _by_ it." Here the secretary threw himself back in the easy-chair, and grinned at the opposite wall, where his eye fell on a large picture, which changed the grin into a stare of surprise. "What have we here, George," he said, rising, and fitting a gold glass in his eye--"not a portrait of Wheal Dooem, is it?" "You have guessed right," replied the other. "I made a few sketches on the spot, and got a celebrated artist to put them together, which he has done, you see, with considerable effect. Here, in the foreground, you observe," continued the managing director, taking up a new white pointer, "stands Wheal Dooem, on a prominent crag overlooking the Atlantic, with Gurnard's Head just beyond. Farther over, we have the celebrated Levant Mine, and the famous Botallack, and the great Wheal Owles, and a crowd of other more or less noted mines, with Cape Cornwall, and the Land's End, and Tolpedenpenwith in the middle-distance, and the celebrated Logan Rock behind them, while we have Mounts Bay, with the beautiful town of Penzance, and St. Michael's Mount, and the Lizard in the background, with France in the remote distance." "Dear, _dear_ me! quite a geographical study, I declare," exclaimed Secretary Jack, examining the painting with some care. "Can you really see all these places at once from Wheal Dooem?" "Not exactly from Wheal Dooem, Jack, but if you were to go up in a balloon a few hundred yards above the spot where it stands, you might see 'em all on a very clear day, if your eyes were good. The fact is, that I regard this picture as a triumph of art, exhibiting powerfully what is by artists termed `bringing together' and great `breadth,' united with exceedingly minute detail. The colouring too, is high--very high indeed, and the _chiaroscuro_ is perfect--" "Ha!" interposed Jack, "all the _chiar_ being on the surface, and the _oscuro_ down in the mine, eh?" "Exactly so," replied Clearemout. "It is a splendid picture. The artist regards it as his _chef_ _d'oeuvre_, and you must explain it to all who come to the office, as well as those magnificent geological sections rolled-up in the corner, which it would be well, by the way, to have hung up without delay. They arrived only this morning. And now, Jack, having explained these matters, I will leave you, to study them at your leisure, while I prepare for my journey to Cornwall, where, by the way, I have my eye upon a sweet little girl, whose uncle, I believe, has lots of tin, both in the real and figurative sense of the word. Something may come of it--who knows?" Next morning saw the managing director on the road, and in due time he found his way by coach, kittereen, and gig to St. Just, where, as before, he was hospitably received by old Mr Donnithorne. That gentleman's buoyancy of spirit, however, was not quite so great as it had been a few months before, but that did not much affect the spirits of Clearemout, who found good Mrs Donnithorne as motherly, and Rose Ellis as sweet, as ever. It happened at this time that Oliver Trembath had occasion to go to London about some matter relating to his deceased mother's affairs, so the managing director had the field all to himself. He therefore spent his time agreeably in looking after the affairs of Wheal Dooem during the day, and making love to Rose Ellis in the evening. Poor Rose was by no means a flirt, but she was an innocent, straightforward girl, ignorant of many of the world's ways, and of a trusting disposition. She found the conversation of Mr Clearemout agreeable, and did not attempt to conceal the fact. Mr Clearemout's vanity induced him to set this down to a tender feeling, although Rose never consciously gave him, by word or look, the slightest reason to come to such a conclusion. One forenoon Mr Clearemout was sitting in Mr Donnithorne's dining-room conversing with Rose and Mrs Donnithorne, when the old gentleman entered and sat down beside them. "I had almost forgotten the original object of my visit this morning," said the managing director, with a smile, and a glance at Rose; "the fact is that I am in want of a man to work at Wheal Dooem, a steady, trustworthy man, who would be fit to take charge--become a sort of overseer; can you recommend one?" Mr Donnithorne paused for a moment to reflect, but Mrs Donnithorne deeming reflection quite unnecessary, at once replied,--"Why, there are many such men in St. Just. There's John Cock, as good a man as you could find in all the parish, and David Trevarrow, and James Penrose-- he's a first-rate man; You remember him, my dear?" (turning to her worse half)--"one of our locals, you know." "Yes, my dear, I remember him perfectly.--You could not, Mr Clearemout, get a better man, I should say." "I think you observed, madam," said Mr Clearemout, "that this man is a `local.' Pray, what is a local?" Rose gave one of her little laughs at this point, and her worthy aunt exclaimed,--"La! Mr Clearemout, don't you know what a local preacher is?" "Oh! a _preacher_? Connected with the Methodist body, I presume?" "Yes, and a first-rate man, I assure you." "But," said Mr Clearemout, with a smile, "I want a miner, not a preacher." "Well, he is a miner, and a good one too--" "Allow _me_ to explain, my dear," said Mr Donnithorne, interrupting his spouse. "You may not be aware, sir, that many of our miners are men of considerable mental ability, and some of them possess such power of speech, and so earnest a spirit, that the Wesleyan body have appointed them to the office of local preaching. They do not become ministers, however, nor are they liable to be sent out of the district like them. They don't give up their ordinary calling, but are appointed to preach in the various chapels of the district in which they reside, and thus we accomplish an amount of work which could not possibly be overtaken by the ordinary ministry." "Indeed! but are they not untrained men, liable to teach erroneous doctrine?" asked Mr Clearemout. "They are not altogether untrained men," replied Mr Donnithorne. "They are subjected to a searching examination, and must give full proof of their Christianity, knowledge, and ability before being appointed." "And good, excellent Christian men many of them are," observed Mrs Donnithorne, with much fervour. "Quite true," said her husband. "This James Penrose is one of our best local preachers, and sometimes officiates in our principal chapel. I confess, however, that those who have the management of this matter are not always very judicious in their appointments. Some of our young men are sorely tempted to show off their acquirements, and preach _themselves_ instead of the gospel, and there are one or two whom I could mention whose hearts are all right, but whose brains are so muddled and empty that they are utterly unfit to teach their fellows. We must not, however, look for perfection in this world, Mr Clearemout. A little chaff will always remain among the wheat. There is no system without some imperfection, and I am convinced that upon the whole our system of appointing local preachers is a first-rate one. At all events it works well, which is one of the best proofs of its excellence." "Perhaps so," said Mr Clearemout, with the air of a man who did not choose to express an opinion on the subject; "nevertheless I had rather have a man who was _not_ a local preacher." "You can see and hear him, and judge for yourself," said Mr Donnithorne; "for he is, I believe, to preach in our chapel to-morrow, and if you will accept of a seat in our pew it will afford my wife and myself much--" "Thank you," interrupted Mr Clearemout; "I shall be very glad to take advantage of your kind offer. Service, you say, begins at--" "Ten precisely," said Mr Donnithorne. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. SHOWS THE MINER IN HIS SUNDAY GARB, AND ASTONISHES CLEAREMOUT, BESIDES RELATING SOME INCIDENTS OF AN ACCIDENT. The sun rose bright and hot on Sunday morning, but the little birds were up before the great luminary, singing their morning hymn with noisy delight. It was a peaceful day. The wind was at rest and the sea was calm. In the ancient town of St. Just it was peculiarly peaceful, for the numerous and untiring "stamps"--which all the week had continued their clang and clatter, morning, noon, and night, without intermission--found rest on that hallowed day, and the great engines ceased to bow their massive heads, with the exception of those that worked the pumps. Even these, however, were required to do as little work as was compatible with the due drainage of the mines, and as their huge pulsations were intermittent--few and far between--they did not succeed in disturbing the universal serenity of the morning. If there are in this country men who, more than any other, need repose, we should say they are the miners of Cornwall, for their week's work is exhausting far beyond that of most other labourers in the kingdom. Perhaps the herculean men employed in malleable-iron works toil as severely, but, besides the cheering consciousness of being well paid for their labour, these men exert their powers in the midst of sunlight and fresh air, while the miners toil in bad air, and get little pay in hard times. Sunday is indeed to them the Sabbath-day--it is literally what that word signifies, a day of much-required rest for body, soul, and spirit. Pity that the good old word which God gave us is not more universally used among Christians! Would it not have been better that the translation Rest-day had been adopted, so that even ignorant men might have understood its true signification, than that we should have saddled it with a heathen name, to be an apple of discord in all generations? However, Sunday it is, so Sunday it will stand, we suppose, as long as the world lasts. After all, despite its faulty origin, that word is invested with old and hallowed associations in the minds of many, so we enter our protest against the folly of our forefathers very humbly, beseeching those who are prone to become nettled on this subject to excuse our audacity! Well, as we have said, the Sunday morning to which we refer was peaceful; so would have been Maggot's household had Maggot's youngest baby never been born; but, having been born, that robust cherub asserted his right to freedom of action more violently than ever did the most rabid Radical or tyrannical Tory. He "swarmed" about the house, and kicked and yelled his uttermost, to the great distress of poor little Grace, whose anxiety to get him ready for chapel was gradually becoming feverish. But baby Maggot had as much objection to go to chapel as his wicked father, who was at that time enjoying a pipe on the cliffs, and intended to leave his family to the escort of David Trevarrow. Fortunately, baby gave in about half-past nine, so that little Grace had him washed and dressed, and on his way to chapel in pretty good time, all things considered. No one who entered the Wesleyan Chapel of St. Just that morning for the first time could have imagined that a large proportion of the well-dressed people who filled the pews were miners and balmaidens. Some of the latter were elegantly, we might almost say gorgeously, attired, insomuch that, but for their hands and speech, they might almost have passed for ladies of fashion. The very latest thing in bonnets, and the newest mantles, were to be seen on their pretty heads and shapely shoulders. As we have said before, and now repeat, this circumstance arose from the frequency of the visits of the individual styled "Johnny Fortnight," whose great aim and end in life is to supply miners, chiefly the females among them, with the necessaries, and unnecessaries, of wearing apparel. When the managing director entered Mr Donnithorne's pew and sat down beside his buxom hostess, he felt, but of course was much too well bred to express astonishment; for his host had told him that a large number of the people who attended the chapel were miners, and for a time he failed to see any of the class whom he had hitherto been accustomed to associate with rusty-red and torn garbs, and dirty hands and faces. But he soon observed that many of the stalwart, serious-looking men with black coats and white linen, had strong, muscular hands, with hard-looking knuckles, which, in some instances, exhibited old or recent cuts and bruises. It was a new sight for the managing director to behold the large and apparently well-off families filing into the pews, for, to say truth, Mr Clearemout was not much in the habit of attending church, and he had never before entered a Methodist chapel. He watched with much curiosity the gradual filling of the seats, and the grave, quiet demeanour of the people. Especially interesting was it when Maggot's family came in and sat down, with the baby Maggot in charge of little Grace. Mr Clearemout had met Maggot, and had seen his family; but interest gave place to astonishment when Mrs Penrose walked into the church, backed by her sixteen children, the eldest males among whom were miners, and the eldest females tin-dressers, while the little males and females aspired to be miners and tin-dressers in the course of time. "That's Penrose's family," whispered Mr Donnithorne to his guest. "What! the local's family?" Mr Donnithorne nodded. Soon after, a tall, gentlemanly man ascended the pulpit. The managing director was disappointed. He had come there to hear a miner preach, and behold, a clergyman! "Who is he?" inquired Clearemout. But Mr Donnithorne did not answer. He was looking up the hymn for Mrs D, who, being short-sighted, claimed exemption from the duty of "looking up" anything. Besides, he was a kind, good man at heart--though rather fond of smuggling and given to the bottle, according to Oliver Trembath's account of him--and liked to pay his wife little attentions. But there were still greater novelties in store for the London man that morning. It was new to him to hear John Wesley's beautiful hymns sung to equally beautiful tunes, which were not, however, unfamiliar to his ear, and sung with a degree of fervour that quite drowned his own voice, powerful and deep though it was. It was a new and impressive thing to hear the thrilling, earnest tones of the preacher as he offered up an eloquent extempore prayer--to the petitions in which many of the people in the congregation gave utterance at times to startlingly fervent and loud responses--not in set phraseology, but in words that were called forth by the nature of each petition, such as "Glory to God," "Amen," "Thanks be to Him"--showing that the worshippers followed and sympathised with their spokesman, thus making his prayer their own. But the newest thing of all was to hear the preacher deliver an eloquent, earnest, able, and well-digested sermon, without book or note, in the same natural tone of voice with which a man might address his fellow in the street--a style of address which riveted the attention of the hearers, induced them to expect that he had really something important to say to them, and that he thoroughly believed in the truth of what he said. "A powerful man," observed the managing director as they went out; "your clergyman, I suppose?" "No, sir," replied Mr Donnithorne with a chuckle, "our minister is preaching elsewhere to-day. That was James Penrose." "What! the miner?" exclaimed Clearemout in astonishment. "Ay, the local preacher too." "Why, the man spoke like Demosthenes, and quoted Bacon, Locke, Milton, and I know not whom all--you amaze me," said Mr Clearemout. "Surely all your local preachers are not equal to this one." "Alas, no! some of the young ones are indeed able enough to spout poetry and quote old authors, and too fond they are of doing so; nevertheless, as I have said to you before, most of the local preachers are sober-minded, sterling Christian men, and a few of them have eminent capabilities. Had Penrose been a younger man, he would probably have entered the ministry, but being above forty, with an uncommonly large family, he thinks it his duty to remain as he is, and do as much good as he can." "But surely he might find employment better suited to his talents?" said Clearemout. "There is not much scope in St. Just," replied Mr Donnithorne, with a smile, "and it is a serious thing for a man in his circumstances to change his abode and vocation. No, no, I think he is right to remain a miner." "Well, I confess that I admire his talents," returned Clearemout, "but I still think that an ordinary miner would suit me better." "Well, I know of one who will suit you admirably. He is common enough to look at, and if you will accompany me into the mine to-morrow I'll introduce you to him. I'm not fond of descending the ladders nowadays, though I could do it very well when a youth, but as the man I speak of works in one of the levels near the surface, I'll be glad to go down with you, and Captain Dan shall lead us." True to his word, the old gentleman met Mr Clearemout the following morning at nine o'clock, and accompanied him down into the mine. Their descent was unmarked by anything particular at first. They wore the usual suit of underground clothing, and each carried a lighted candle attached to his hat. After descending about thirty fathoms they left the main shaft and traversed the windings of a level until they came to a place where the sound of voices and hammers indicated that the miners were working. In a few seconds they reached the end of the level. Here two men were "driving" the level, and another--a very tall, powerful man--was standing in a hole driven up slanting-ways into the roof, and cutting the rock above his head. His attitude and aspect were extremely picturesque, standing as he did on a raised platform with his legs firmly planted, his muscular arms raised above him to cut the rock overhead, and the candle so placed as to cause his figure to appear almost black and unnaturally gigantic. "Stay a minute, Captain Dan," said Mr Donnithorne. "That, Mr Clearemout, is the man I spoke of--what think you of his personal appearance?" Clearemout did not reply for a few minutes, but stood silently watching the man as he continued to wield his heavy hammer with powerful strokes--delivering each with a species of gasp which indicated not exhaustion, but the stern vigour with which it was given. "He'll do," said Clearemout in a decided tone. "Hallo! James," shouted Mr Donnithorne. "Hallo! sir," answered the man looking back over his shoulder. "There's a gentleman here who wants to speak to you." The miner flung down his tools, which clattered loudly on the hard rock, as he leaped from his perch with the agility of one whose muscles are all in full and constant exercise. "What! not the local--" Before the managing director could finish his sentence Mr Donnithorne introduced him to James Penrose, and left the two for a time to talk together. It need scarcely be added that Clearemout was quite willing to avail himself of the services of the "local," but the local did not meet his proposals so readily as he would have wished. Penrose was a cautious man, and said he would call on Mr Clearemout in the evening after he had had time to consider the matter. With this reply the other was fain to rest satisfied, and shortly after he returned to the bottom of the shaft with his friends, leaving the hardy miner to pursue his work. At the bottom of the shaft they were accosted by a sturdy little man, who told them that a large piece of timber was being sent down the shaft, and it would be advisable to wait until it reached the bottom. "Is it on the way, Spankey?" asked Captain Dan. "Iss, sur, if it haven't walked into the thirty-fathom level in passin'." Spankey was a humorous individual addicted to joking. "Are you married, Spankey?" asked Clearemout, looking down with a grin at the dirty little fellow beside him. "Iss, sur. Had, two wives, an' the third wan is waitin' for me, 'spose." "Any children, Spankey?" "Iss, six, countin' the wan that died before it could spaik." At this point the beam was heard coming down. In a few seconds it made its appearance, and was hauled a little to one side by Spankey, who proceeded to unwind the chain that had supported it. "I'll give 'em the signal, Captain Dan, to haul up the chain before thee do go on the ladders." The signal was given accordingly, and the engine immediately began to draw up the chain by which the beam had been lowered. This chain had a hook at one end of it, and, as ill-luck would have it, the hook caught Spankey by the right leg of his trousers, and whisked him off his feet. Almost before those beside him could conceive what had happened, the unfortunate man went up the shaft feet foremost, with a succession of dreadful yells, in the midst of which could be heard a fearful rending of strong linen. Fortunately for Spankey, his nether garments were not only strong, but new, so that when the rend came to the seam at the foot, it held on, else had that facetious miner come down the shaft much faster than he went up, and left his brains at the bottom as a memorial of the shocking event! With palpitating hearts, Captain Dan, Clearemout, and old Donnithorne ran up the ladders as fast as they could. In a few minutes they reached the thirty-fathom level, and here, to their great relief, they found Spankey supported in the arms of stout Joe Tonkin. That worthy, true to his promise to Oliver Trembath, had gone to work in Botallack Mine, and had that very day commenced operations in the thirty-fathom level referred to. Hearing the terrible screams of Spankey, he rushed to the end of the level just as the unfortunate man was passing it. The risk was great, but Tonkin was accustomed to risks, and prompt to act. He flung his arms round Spankey, drew him forcibly into the level, and held on for life. There was a terrible rend; the leg of the trousers gave way at the hip, and went flapping up to grass, leaving the horrified miner behind. "Not gone dead yet, sur, but goin' fast," was Spankey's pathetic reply to Captain Dan's anxious inquiries. It was found, however, that, beyond the fright, the man had received no damage whatever. The only other noteworthy fact in reference to this incident is, that when Captain Dan and his companions reached the surface, they were met by the lander, who, with a face as pale as a ghost, held up the torn garment. Great was this man's relief, and loud the fit of laughter with which he expressed it, when Spankey, issuing from the mouth of the shaft, presented his naked limb, and claimed the leg of his trousers! CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. TELLS OF A DISCOVERY AND A DISASTER. That afternoon another accident occurred in the mine, which was of a much more serious nature than the one just recorded, and which interfered somewhat with the plans of the managing director of the Great Wheal Dooem Mining Company. Not long after his interview with Clearemout, James Penrose finished a blast-hole, and called to Zackey Maggot to fetch the fuse. Zackey had been working for a week past in connection with Penrose, and, at the time he was called, was engaged in his wonted occupation of pounding "tamping" wherewith to fill the hole. Wherever Zackey chanced to be at work, he always made himself as comfortable as circumstances would admit of. At the present time he had discovered a little hollow or recess in the wall of the level, which he had converted into a private chamber for the nonce. There was a piece of flat rock on the floor of this recess, which Zackey used as his anvil, and in front of which he kneeled. At his side was a candle, stuck against the wall, where it poured a flood of light on objects in its immediate neighbourhood, and threw the boy's magnified shadow over the floor and against the opposite wall of the level. Above his head was a small shelf, which he had ingeniously fixed in a narrow part of the cell, and on this lay a few candles, a stone bottle of water, a blasting fuse, and part of his lunch, which he had been unable to consume, wrapped in a piece of paper. A small wooden box on the floor, and a couple of pick-hilts, leaning against the wall, completed the furniture of this subterranean grotto. Zackey, besides being a searcher after metals, possessed an unusual amount of metal in himself. He was one of those earnest, hard-working, strong-hearted boys who pass into a state of full manhood, do the work of men, and are looked upon as being men, before they have passed out of their "teens." The boy's manhood, which was even at that early period of his life beginning to show itself, consisted not in his looks or his gait, although both were creditable, but in his firmness of purpose and force of character. What Zackey undertook to do he always did. He never left any work in a half-finished state, and he always employed time diligently. In the mine he commenced to labour the moment he entered, and he never ceased, except during a short period for "kroust," until it was time to shoulder his tools, and mount to the regions of light. Above ground, he was as ready to skylark as the most volatile of his companions, but underground he was a pattern of perseverance--a true Cornish miner in miniature. His energy of character was doubtless due to his reckless father, but his steadiness was the result of "Uncle Davy's" counsel and example. "Are you coming, Zackey?" shouted Penrose, from the end of the level. "Iss, I'm comin'," replied the boy, taking the fuse from the shelf, and hastening towards his companion. Penrose had a peculiar and pleased expression on his countenance, which Zackey observed at once. "What do 'ee grizzle like that for?" inquired the boy. "I've come on a splendid bunch of copper, Zackey," replied the man; "you and I shall make money soon. Run away to your work, lad, and come back when you hear the shot go off." Zackey expressed a hope that the prophecy might come true, and returned to his cell, where he continued pounding diligently--thinking the while of rich ore and a rapid fortune. There was more reason in these thoughts than one might suppose, for Cornish miners experience variety of fortune. Sometimes a man will labour for weeks and months in unproductive ground, following up a small vein in the hope of its leading into a good lode, and making so little by his hard toil that on pay day of each month he is compelled to ask his employer for "subsist"--or a small advance of money--to enable him to live and go on with his work. Often he is obliged to give up in despair, and change to a more promising part of the mine, or to go to another mine altogether; but, not unfrequently, he is rewarded for his perseverance by coming at last to a rich "lode," or mass, or "bunch" of copper or tin ore, out of which he will rend, in a single month, as much as will entitle him to thirty or forty, or even a hundred pounds, next pay day. Such pieces of good fortune are not of rare occurrence. Many of the substantial new cottages to be seen in St. Just at the present day have been built by miners who became suddenly fortunate in this way, so that, although the miner of Cornwall always works hard, and often suffers severe privation, he works on with a well-grounded expectation of a sudden burst of temporal sunshine in his otherwise hard lot. Zackey Maggot was dreaming of some such gleam of good fortune, and patiently pounding away at the tamping, when he heard the explosion of the blast. At the same moment a loud cry rang through the underground caverns. It was one of those terrible, unmistakable cries which chill the blood and thrill the hearts of those who hear them, telling of some awful catastrophe. The boy leaped up and ran swiftly towards the end of the level, where he called to his companion, but received no answer. The smoke which filled the place was so dense that he could not see, and could scarcely breathe. He ran forward, however, and stumbled over the prostrate form of Penrose. Zackey guessed correctly what had occurred, for the accident was, and alas! still is, too common in the mines. The shot had apparently missed fire. Penrose had gone forward to examine it, and it exploded in his face. To lift his companion was beyond Zackey's power, to leave him lying in such dense smoke for any length of time would, he knew, ensure his suffocation, so he attempted to drag him away, but the man was too heavy for him. In his extremity the poor boy uttered a wild cry for help, but he shouted in vain, for there was no one else at work in the level. But Zackey was not the boy to give way to despair, or to act thoughtlessly, or in wild haste in this emergency. He suddenly recollected that there was a rope somewhere about the level. He sought for and found it. Fastening an end of it round the body of the man, under the armpits, he so arranged that the knot of the loop should reach a few inches beyond his head, and on this part of the loop he spread a coat, which thus formed a support to the head, and prevented it being dragged along the ground. While engaged in this operation the poor boy was well-nigh suffocated with smoke, and had to run back once to where the air was purer in order to catch a breath or two. Then, returning, he seized the rope, passed it over his shoulder, and bending forward with all his might and main dragged the man slowly but steadily along the floor of the level to a place where the air was comparatively pure. Leaving him there he quickly fixed a candle in his hat, and carrying another in his hand, to avoid the risk of being left in darkness by an accidental stumble or gust of air, Zackey darted swiftly along the level and ran up the ladders at his utmost speed. Panting for breath, and with eyes almost starting from their sockets, he rushed into the engine-house, and told the man in charge what had occurred; then he dashed away to the counting-house and gave the alarm there, so that, in a very few minutes, a number of men descended the shaft and gathered round the prostrate miner. The doctor who had taken Oliver Trembath's place during his absence was soon in attendance, and found that although no bones had been broken, Penrose's face was badly injured, how deep the injury extended could not at that time be ascertained, but he feared that his eyes had been altogether destroyed. After the application of some cordial the unfortunate man began to revive, and the first words he uttered were, "Praise the Lord"-- evidently in reference to his life having been spared. "Is that you, Zackey?" he inquired after a few moments. "No, it is the doctor, my man. Do you feel much pain in your head?" he asked as he knelt beside him. "Not much; there is a stunned feeling about it, but little pain. You'd better light a candle." "There are candles burning round you," said the doctor. "Do you not see them? There is one close to your face at this moment." Penrose made no answer on hearing this, but an expression of deep gravity seemed to settle on the blackened features. "We must get him up as soon as possible," said the doctor, turning to Captain Dan, who stood at his elbow. "We're all ready, sir," replied the captain, who had quietly procured ropes and a blanket, while the doctor was examining the wounds. With great labour and difficulty the injured man was half hauled, half carried, and pushed up the shaft, and laid on the grass. "Is the sun shining?" he asked in a low voice. "Iss, it do shine right in thee face, Jim," said one of the miners, brushing away a tear with the back of his hand. Again the gravity of Penrose's countenance appeared to deepen, but he uttered no other word; so they brought an old door and laid him on it. Six strong men raised it gently on their shoulders, and, with slow steps and downcast faces, they carried the wounded miner home. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. INDICATES THAT "WE LITTLE KNOW WHAT GREAT THINGS FROM LITTLE THINGS MAY RISE." Soon after this accident to James Penrose, the current of events at the mines was diverted from its course by several incidents, which, like the obstructing rocks in a rapid, created some eddies and whirlpools in the lives of those personages with whom this chronicle has to do. As the beginning of a mighty inundation is oft-times an insignificant-looking leak, and as the cause of a series of great events is not unfrequently a trifling incident, so the noteworthy circumstances which we have still to lay before our readers were brought about by a very small matter--by a baby--_the_ baby Maggot! One morning that cherubical creature opened its eyes at a much earlier hour than usual, and stared at the ceiling of its father's cottage. The sun was rising, and sent its unobstructed rays through the window of Maggot's cottage, where it danced on the ceiling as if its sole purpose in rising had been to amuse the Maggot baby. If so, it was pre-eminently successful in its attempts, for the baby lay and smiled for a long time in silent ecstasy. Of course, we do not mean to say that the sun itself, or its direct rays, actually danced. No, it was too dignified a luminary for that, but its rays went straight at a small looking-glass which was suspended on the wall opposite to the window, and this being hung so as to slope forward, projected the rays obliquely into a tub of water which was destined for family washing purposes; and from its gently moving surface they were transmitted to the ceiling, where, as aforesaid, they danced, to the immense delight of Maggot junior. The door of the cottage had been carelessly closed the previous night when the family retired to rest, and a chink of it was open, through which a light draught of summer air came in. This will account for the ripple on the water, which (as every observant reader will note) ought, according to the laws of gravitation, to have lain perfectly still. The inconstancy of baby Maggot's nature was presently exhibited in his becoming tired of the sun, and the restlessness of his disposition displayed itself in his frantic efforts to get out of bed. Being boxed in with a board, this was not an easy matter, but the urchin's limbs were powerful, and he finally got over the obstruction, sufficiently far to lose his balance, and fall with a sounding flop on the floor. It is interesting to notice how soon deceit creeps into the hearts of some children! Of course the urchin fell sitting-wise--babies always do so, as surely as cats fall on their feet. In ordinary circumstances he would have intimated the painful mishap with a dreadful yell; but on this particular occasion young Maggot was bent on mischief. Of what sort, he probably had no idea, but there must have been a latent feeling of an intention to be "bad" in some way or other, because, on reaching the ground, he pursed his mouth, opened his eyes very wide, and looked cautiously round to make sure that the noise had awakened no one. His father, he observed, with a feeling of relief, was absent from home--not a matter of uncommon occurrence, for that worthy man's avocations often called him out at untimeous hours. Mrs Maggot was in bed snoring, and wrinkling up her nose in consequence of a fly having perched itself obstinately on the point thereof. Zackey, with the red earth of the mine still streaking his manly countenance, was rolled-up like a ball in his own bed in a dark recess of the room, and little Grace Maggot could be seen in the dim perspective of a closet, also sound asleep, in her own neat little bed, with her hair streaming over the pillow, and the "chet" reposing happily on her neck. But that easily satisfied chet had long ago had more than enough of rest. Its repose was light, and the sound of baby Maggot falling out of bed caused it to rise, yawn, arch its back and tail, and prepare itself for the mingled joys and torments of the opening day. Observing that the urchin rose and staggered with a gleeful expression towards the door, the volatile chet made a dash at him sidewise, and gave him such a fright that he fell over the door step into the road. Again was that tender babe's deceitfulness of character displayed, for, instead of howling, as he would have done on other occasions, he exercised severe self-restraint, made light of a bruised shin, and, gathering himself up, made off as fast as his fat legs could carry him. There was something deeply interesting--worthy of the study of a philosopher--in the subsequent actions of that precocious urchin. His powers in the way of walking were not much greater than those of a very tipsy man, and he swayed his arms about a good deal to maintain his balance, especially at the outset of the journey, when he imagined that he heard the maternal voice in anger and the maternal footsteps in pursuit in every puff of wind, grunt of pig, or bark of early-rising cur. His entire soul was engrossed in the one grand, vital, absorbing idea of escape! By degrees, as distance from the paternal roof increased, his fluttering spirit grew calmer and his gait more steady, and the flush of victory gathered on his brow and sparkled in his eye, as the conviction was pressed home upon him that, for the first time in his life, he was _free_! free as the wind of heaven to go where he pleased--to do what he liked--to be _as bad as possible_, without let or hindrance! Not that baby Maggot had any stronger desire to be absolutely wicked than most other children of his years; but, having learnt from experience that the attempt to gratify any of his desires was usually checked and termed "bad," he naturally felt that a state of delight so intense as that to which he had at last attained, must necessarily be the very quintessence of iniquity. Being resolved to go through with it at all hazards, he felt proportionately wild and reckless. Such a state of commotion was there in his heaving bosom, owing to contradictory and conflicting elements, that he felt at one moment inclined to lie down and shout for joy, and the next, to sink into the earth with terror. Time, which proverbially works wonderful changes, at length subdued the urchin to a condition of calm goodness and felicity, that would have rejoiced his mother's heart, had it only been brought on in ordinary circumstances at home. There is a piece of waste ground lying between St. Just and the sea--a sort of common, covered with heath and furze--on which the ancient Britons have left their indelible mark, in the shape of pits and hollows and trenches, with their relative mounds and hillocks. Here, in the days of old, our worthy but illiterate forefathers had grubbed and dug and turned up every square foot of the soil, like a colony of gigantic rabbits, in order to supply the precious metal of the country to the Phoenicians, Jews, and Greeks. The ground on this common is so riddled with holes of all sizes and shapes, utterly unguarded by any kind of fence, that it requires care on the part of the pedestrian who traverses the place even in daylight. Hence the mothers of St. Just are naturally anxious that the younger members of their families should not go near the common, and the younger members are as naturally anxious that they should visit it. Thither, in the course of time--for it was not far distant--the baby Maggot naturally trended; proceeding on the principle of "short stages and long rests." Never in his life--so he thought--had he seen such bright and beautiful flowers, such green grass, and such lovely yellow sand, as that which appeared here and there at the mouths of the holes and old shafts, or such a delicious balmy and sweet-scented breeze as that which came off the Atlantic and swept across the common. No wonder that his eyes drank in the beautiful sights, for they had seen little of earth hitherto, save the four walls of his father's cottage and the dead garden wall in front of it; no wonder that his nostrils dilated to receive the sweet odours, for they had up to that date lived upon air which had to cross a noisome and stagnant pool of filth before it entered his father's dwelling; and no wonder that his ears thrilled to hear the carol of the birds, for they had previously been accustomed chiefly to the voices of poultry and pigs, and to the caterwauling of the "chet." But as every joy has its alloy, so our youthful traveller's feelings began to be modified by a gnawing sensation of hunger, as his usual hour for breakfast approached. Still he wandered on manfully, looking into various dark and deep holes with much interest and a good deal of awe. Some of the old shafts were so deep that no bottom could be seen; others were partially filled up, and varied from five to twenty feet in depth. Some were nearly perpendicular, others were sloped and irregular in form; but all were more or less fringed with gorse bushes in full bloom. In a few cases the old pits were concealed by these bushes. It is almost unnecessary to say that baby Maggot's progress, on that eventful morn, was--unknown to himself--a series of narrow escapes from beginning to end--no not exactly to the end, for his last adventure could scarcely be deemed an escape. He was standing on the edge of a hole, which was partially concealed by bushes. Endeavouring to peer into it he lost his balance and fell forward. His ready hands grasped the gorse and received innumerable punctures, which drew forth a loud cry. Head foremost he went in, and head foremost he went down full ten feet, when a small bush caught him, and lowered him gently to the ground, but the spot on which he was landed was steep; it sloped towards the bottom of the hole, which turned inwards and became a sort of cavern. Struggling to regain his footing, he slipped and rolled violently to the bottom, where he lay for a few minutes either stunned or too much astonished to move. Then he recovered a little and began to whimper. After which he felt so much better that he arose and attempted to get out of the hole, but slipped and fell back again, whereupon he set up a hideous roar which continued without intermission for a quarter of an hour, when he fell sound asleep, and remained in happy unconsciousness for several hours. Meanwhile the Maggot family was, as may well be believed, thrown into a state of tremendous agitation. Mrs Maggot, on making the discovery that baby had succeeded in scaling the barricade, huddled on her garments and roused her progeny to assist in the search. At first she was not alarmed, believing that she should certainly find the self-willed urchin near the house, perhaps in the cottage of the Penroses. But when the cottages in the immediate neighbourhood had been called at, and all the known places of danger round the house examined, without success, the poor woman became frantic with terror, and roused the whole neighbourhood. Every place of possible and impossible concealment was searched, and at last the unhappy mother allowed the terrible thought to enter her mind that baby had actually accomplished the unheard-of feat of reaching the dreaded common, and was perhaps at that moment lying maimed or dead at the bottom of an ancient British shaft! Immediately a body of volunteers, consisting of men, women, and children, and headed by Mrs Maggot, hastened to the common to institute a thorough search; but they searched in vain, for the holes were innumerable, and the one in which the baby lay was well concealed by bushes. Besides, the search was somewhat wildly and hastily made, so that some spots were over-searched, while others were almost overlooked. All that day did Mrs Maggot and her friends wander to and fro over the common, and never, since the days when Phoenician galleys were moored by St. Michael's Mount, did the eyes of human beings pry so earnestly into these pits and holes. Had tin been their object, they could not have been more eager. Evening came, night drew on apace, and at last the forlorn mother sat down in the centre of a furze bush, and began to weep. But her friends comforted her. They urged her to go home and "'ave a dish o' tay" to strengthen her for the renewal of the search by torch-light. They assured her that the child could easily exist longer than a day without food, and they reminded her that her baby was an exceptional baby, a peculiar baby--like its father, uncommonly strong, and, like its mother, unusually obstinate. The latter sentiment, however, was _thought_, not expressed. Under the influence of these assurances and persuasions, Mrs Maggot went home, and, for a short time, the common was deserted. Now it chanced, curiously enough, that at this identical point of time, Maggot senior was enjoying a pipe and a glass of grog in a celebrated kiddle-e-wink, with his friend Joe Tonkin. This kiddle-e-wink, or low public-house, was known as Un (or Aunt) Jilly's brandy-shop at Bosarne. It was a favourite resort of smugglers, and many a gallon of spirit, free of duty, had been consumed on the premises. Maggot and his friend were alone in the house at the time, and their conversation had taken a dolorous turn, for many things had occurred of late to disturb the equanimity of the friends. Several ventures in the smuggling way had proved unsuccessful, and the mines did not offer a tempting prospect just then. There had, no doubt, been one or two hopeful veins opened up, and some good "pitches" had been wrought, but these were only small successes, and the luck had not fallen to either of themselves. The recent discovery of a good bunch by poor Penrose had not been fully appreciated, for the wounded man had as yet said nothing about it, and little Zackey had either forgotten all about it in the excitement of the accident, or was keeping his own counsel. Maggot talked gloomily about the advisability of emigration to America, as he sent clouds of tobacco smoke up Un Jilly's chimney, and Tonkin said he would try the mines for a short time, and if things didn't improve he would go to sea. He did not, however, look at things in quite the same light with his friend. Perhaps he was of a more hopeful disposition, perhaps had met with fewer disappointments. At all events, he so wrought on Maggot's mind that he half induced him to deny his smuggling propensities for a time, and try legitimate work in the mines. Not that Joe Tonkin wanted to reform him by any means, but he was himself a little out of humour with his old profession, and sought to set his friend against it also. "Try your luck in Botallack," said Joe Tonkin, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, preparatory to quitting the place, "that's my advice to 'ee, booy." "I've half a mind to," replied Maggot, rising; "if that theere cargo I run on Saturday do go the way the last did, I'll ha' done with it, so I will. Good-hevenin', Un Jilly." "Good-hevenin', an' don't 'ee go tumblin' down the owld shafts," said the worthy hostess, observing that her potent brandy had rendered the gait of the men unsteady. They laughed as they received the caution, and walked together towards St. Just. "Lev us go see if the toobs are all safe," said Maggot, on reaching the common. Tonkin agreed, and they turned aside into a narrow track, which led across the waste land, where the search for the baby had been so diligently carried on all that day. Night had set in, as we have said, and the searchers had gone up to the town to partake of much-needed refreshment, and obtain torches, so that the place was bleak and silent, as well as dark, when the friends crossed it, but they knew every foot of the ground so thoroughly, that there was no fear of their stumbling into old holes. Maggot led the way, and he walked straight to the old shaft where his hopeful son lay. There were three noteworthy points of coincidence here to which we would draw attention. It was just because this old shaft was so well concealed that Maggot had chosen it as a place in which to hide his tubs of smuggled brandy; it was owing to the same reason that the town's-people had failed to discover it while searching for the baby; and it was--at least we think it must have been--just because of the same reason that baby Maggot had found it, for that amiable child had a peculiar talent, a sort of vocation, for ferreting out things and places hidden and secret, especially if forbidden. Having succeeded in falling into the hole, the urchin naturally discovered his father's tubs. After crying himself to sleep as before mentioned, and again awakening, his curiosity in respect to these tubs afforded him amusement, and kept him quiet for a time; perhaps the fact that one of the tubs had leaked and filled the lower part of the old shaft with spirituous fumes, may account for the baby continuing to keep quiet, and falling into a sleep which lasted the greater part of the day; at all events, it is certain that he did not howl, as might have been expected of him in the circumstances. Towards evening, however, he began to move about among the tubs, and to sigh and whimper in a subdued way, for his stomach, unused to such prolonged fasting, felt very uncomfortable. When darkness came on baby Maggot became alarmed, but, just about the time of his father's approach, the moon shone out and cast a cheering ray down the shaft, which relieved his mind a little. "Joe," said Maggot in a whisper, and with a serious look, "some one have bin here." "D'ee think so?" said Tonkin. "Iss I do; the bushes are broken a bit. Hush! what's that?" The two men paused and looked at each other with awe depicted on their faces, while they listened intently, but, in the words of the touching old song, "the beating of their own hearts was all the sound they heard." "It wor the wind," said Maggot. "Iss, that's what it wor," replied Tonkin; "come, lev us go down. The wind can't do no harm to we." But although he proposed to advance he did not move, and Maggot did not seem inclined to lead the way, for just then something like a sigh came from below, and a dark cloud passed over the moon. It is no uncommon thing to find that men who are physically brave as lions become nervous as children when anything bordering on what they deem supernatural meets them. Maggot was about the most reckless man in the parish of St. Just, and Tonkin was not far behind him in the quality of courage, yet these two stood there with palpitating hearts undecided what to do. Ashamed of being thought afraid of anything, Maggot at last cleared his throat, and, in a husky voice, said,--"Come, then, lev us go down." So saying he slid down the shaft, closely followed by Tonkin, who was nearly as much afraid to be left alone on the bleak moor as he was to enter the old mine. Now, while the friends were consulting with palpitating hearts above, baby Maggot, wide-awake and trembling with terror, listened with bated breath below, and when the two men came scrambling down the sides of the shaft his heart seemed to fill up his breast and throat, and his blood began to creep in his veins. Maggot could see nothing in the gloomy interior as he advanced, but baby could see his father's dark form clearly. Still, no sound escaped from him, for horror had bereft him of power. Just then the dark cloud passed off the moon, and a bright beam shone full on the upper half of the baby's face as he peeped over the edge of one of the tubs. Maggot saw two glaring eyeballs, and felt frozen alive instantly. Tonkin, looking over his comrade's shoulder, also saw the eyes, and was petrified on the spot. Suddenly baby Maggot found his voice and uttered a most awful yell. Maggot senior found his limbs, and turned to fly. So did Tonkin, but he slipped and fell at the first step. Maggot fell over him. Both rose and dashed up the shaft, scraping elbows, shins, and knuckles as they went, and, followed by a torrent of hideous cries, that sounded in their ears like the screaming of fiends, they gained the surface, and, without exchanging a word, fled in different directions on the wings of terror! Maggot did not halt until he burst into his house, and flung himself into his own chair by the chimney corner, whence he gazed on what was calculated to alarm as well as to perplex him. This was the spectacle of his own wife taking tea in floods of tears, and being encouraged in her difficult task by Mrs Penrose and a few sympathising friends. With some difficulty he got them to explain this mystery. "What! baby gone lost?" he exclaimed; "where away?" When it was told him what had occurred, Maggot's eyes gradually opened, and his lips gradually closed, until the latter produced a low whistle. "I think that I do knaw where the cheeld is," he said; "come along, an' I'll show un to 'ee." So saying, the wily smith, assuming an air of importance and profound wisdom, arose and led his wife and her friends, with a large band of men who had prepared torches, straight to the old shaft. Going down, but sternly forbidding any one to follow he speedily returned with the baby in his arms, to the surprise of all, and to the unutterable joy of the child's mother. In one sense, however, the result was disastrous. Curious persons were there who could not rest until they had investigated the matter further, and the tubs were not only discovered, but carried off by those who had no title to them whatever! The misfortune created such a tumult of indignation in the breast of Maggot, that he was heard in his wrath to declare he "would have nothin' more to do with un, but would go into the bal the next settin' day." This was the commencement of that series of events which, as we have stated at the beginning of this chapter, were brought about by that wonderful baby--the baby Maggot. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. DESCRIBES SETTING-DAY AT THE MINE, ETCETERA. That very evening, while Maggot was smoking his pipe by the fireside, his son Zackey referred to the bunch of copper which Penrose had discovered in the mine. After a short conversation, Maggot senior went to the wounded man to talk about it. "'Twas a keenly lode, did 'ee say?" asked Maggot, after he had inquired as to the health of his friend. "Yes, and as I shall not be able to work there again," said Penrose sadly, "I would advise you to try it. Zackey is entitled to get the benefit of the discovery, for he was with me at the time, and, but for his aid, dear boy, I should have been suffocated." Maggot said no more on that occasion about the mine, being a man of few words, but, after conversing a short time with the wounded man, and ascertaining that no hope was held out to him of the recovery of his sight, he went his way to the forge to work and meditate. Setting-day came--being the first Saturday in the month, and no work was done on that day in Botallack, for the men were all above ground to have their "pitches" for the next month fixed, and to receive their wages-- setting-day being also pay day. Some time before the business of the day commenced, the miners began to assemble in considerable numbers in the neighbourhood of the account-house. Very different was their appearance on that occasion from the rusty-red fellows who were wont to toil in the dark chambers far down in the depths below the spot where they stood. Their underground dresses were laid aside, and they now appeared in the costume of well-off tradesmen. There was a free-and-easy swing about the movements of most of these men that must have been the result of their occupation, which brings every muscle of the body into play, and does not--as is too much the case in some trades--over-tax the powers of a certain set of muscles to the detriment of others. Some there were, however, even among the young men, whose hollow cheeks and bloodless lips, accompanied with a short cough, told of evil resulting from bad air and frequent chills; while, on the other hand, a few old men were to be seen with bright eyes and ruddy cheeks which indicated constitutions of iron. Not a few were mere lads, whose broad shoulders and deep chests and resolute wills enabled them to claim the title, and do the work, of men. There were some among them, both young and old, who showed traces of having suffered in their dangerous employment. Several were minus an eye, and one or two were nearly blind, owing to blast-holes exploding in their faces. One man in particular, a tall and very powerful fellow, had a visage which was quite blue, and one of his eyes was closed--the blue colour resulting from unburnt grains of powder having been blown into his flesh. He had been tattooed, in fact, by a summary and effective process. This man's family history was peculiar. His father, also a miner, had lived in a lonely cottage on a moor near St. Just, and worked in Balaswidden Mine. One night he was carried home and laid at his wife's feet, dead--almost dashed to pieces by a fall. Not long afterwards the son was carried to the same cottage with his right eye destroyed. Some time later a brother dislocated his foot twice within the year in the mine; and a few months after that another brother fell from a beam, descended about twenty-four feet perpendicularly, where he struck the side of the mine with his head, and had six or seven of his teeth knocked out; glancing off to one side, he fell twenty feet more on the hard rock, where he was picked up insensible. This man recovered, however, under the careful nursing of his oft and sorely tried mother. Maggot was present on this setting-day, with a new cap and a new blue cloth coat, looking altogether a surprisingly respectable character. A good deal of undertoned chaffing commenced when he appeared. "Hallo!" exclaimed one, "goin' to become an honest man, Maggot?" "Thinkin' 'bout it," replied the smith, with a good-humoured smile. "Why, if I didn't knaw that the old wuman's alive," said another, "I'd say he was agoin' to get married again!" "Never fear," exclaimed a third, "Maggot's far too 'cute a cunger to be caught twice." "I say, my dear man," asked another, "have 'ee bin takin' a waalk 'pon the clifts lately?" "Iss, aw iss," replied the smith with much gravity. "Did 'ee find any more daws 'pon clift?" asked the other, with a leer. There was a general laugh at this, but Maggot replied with good-humour,--"No, Billy, no--took 'em all away last time. But I'm towld there's some more eggs in the nest, so thee'll have a chance some day, booy." "I hope the daws ain't the worse of their ducking?" asked Billy, with an expression of anxious interest. "Aw, my dear," said Maggot, looking very sad, and shaking his head slowly, "didn't 'ee hear the noos?" "No, not I." "They did catch the noo complaint the doctor do spaik of--bronkeetis I think it is--and although I did tie 'em up wi' flannel round their necks, an' water-gruel, besides 'ot bottles to their feet, they're all gone dead. I mean to have 'em buried on Monday. Will 'ee come to the berryin, Billy?" "P'raps I will," replied Billy, "but see that the gravedigger do berry 'em deep, else he'll catch a blowin' up like the gravedigger did in Cambourne last week." "What was that, booy? Let us hear about it, Billy," exclaimed several voices. "Well, this is the way of it," said Billy: "the owld gravedigger in Cambourne was standin' about, after mittin' was over, a-readin' of the tombstones, for he'd got a good edjication, had owld Tom. His name was Tom--the same man as put a straw rope to the bell which the cows did eat away, so that he cudn't ring the people to mittin'. Well, when he was studdyin' the morials on the stones out comes Captain Rowe. He was wan o' the churchwardens, or somethin' o' that sort, but I don't knaw nothin' 'bout the church, so I ain't sure--an' he calls owld Tom into the vestry. "`Now look here, Tom,' says the captain, very stern, `they tell me thee 'rt gettin' lazy, Tom, an' that thee do dig the graves only four fut deep. Now, Tom, I was over to St. Just t'other day to a berryin', and I see that they do dig their graves six fut or more deeper than you do. That won't do, Tom, I tell 'ee. What's the meanin' of it?' "This came somewhat suddent on owld Tom, but he wor noways put out. "`Well, you do see, Cap'n Rowe,' says he, `I do it apurpose, for I do look at the thing in two lights.'" "`How so?' asked the captain. "`Why, the people of St. Just only think of the berryin', but _I_ do think of the resurrection; the consekince is that they do dig too deep, an' afore the St. Just folk are well out of their graves, _ours_ will be a braave way up to heaven!'" The laugh with which this anecdote was received had scarcely subsided when the upper half of one of the account-house windows opened, and the fine-looking head and shoulders of old Mr Cornish appeared. The manager laid an open book on the window-sill, and from this elevated position, as from a pulpit, he read out the names, positions, etcetera, of the various "pitches" that were to be "sett" for the following month. One of the mine captains stood at his elbow to give any required information--he and his three brother captains being the men who had gone all over the mine during the previous month, examined the work, measured what had been done by each man or "pare" of men, knew the capabilities of all the miners, and fixed the portion that ought to be offered to each for acceptance or refusal. The men assembled in a cluster round the window, and looked up while Mr Cornish read off as follows:-- "John Thomas's pitch at back of the hundred and five. By two men. To extend from the end of tram-hole, four fathom west, and from back of level, five fathom above." For the enlightenment of the reader, we may paraphrase the above sentence thus:-- "The pitch or portion of rock wrought last month by John Thomas is now offered anew--in the first place, to John Thomas himself if he chooses to continue working it at our rate of pay, or, if he declines, to any other man who pleases to offer for it. The pitch is in the back (or roof) of the level, which lies one hundred and five fathoms deep. It must be wrought by two men, and must be excavated lengthwise to an extent of four fathoms in a westerly direction from a spot called the tram-hole. In an upward direction, it may be excavated from the roof of the level to an extent of five fathoms." John Thomas, being present, at once offered "ten shillings," by which he meant that, knowing the labour to be undergone, and the probable value of the ore that would have to be excavated, he thought it worth while to continue at that piece of work, or that "pitch," if the manager would give him ten shillings for every twenty shillings' worth of mineral sent to the surface by him; but the captain also knew the ground and the labour that would be required, and his estimate was that eight shillings would be quite sufficient remuneration, a fact which was announced by Mr Cornish simply uttering the words, "At eight shillings." "Put her down, s'pose," said John Thomas after a moment's consideration. Perhaps John knew that eight shillings was really sufficient, although he wanted ten. At all events he knew that it was against the rules to dispute the point at that time, as it delayed business; that if he did not accept the offer, another man might do so; and that he might not get so good a pitch if he were to change. The pitch was therefore sett to John Thomas, and another read off:--"Jim Hocking's pitch at back of the hundred and ten. By one man. To extend," etcetera. "Won't have nothin' to do with her," said Jim Hocking. Jim had evidently found the work too hard, and was dissatisfied with the remuneration, so he declined, resolving to try his chance in a more promising part of the mine. "Will any one offer for this pitch?" inquired Mr Cornish. Eight and six shillings were sums immediately named by men who thought the pitch looked more promising than Jim did. "Any one offer more for this pitch?" asked the manager, taking up a pebble from a little pile that lay at his elbow, and casting it into the air. While that pebble was in its flight, any one might offer for the pitch, but the instant it touched the ground, the bargain was held to be concluded with the last bidder. A man named Oats, who had been in a hesitating state of mind, here exclaimed "Five shillings" (that is, offered to work the pitch for five shillings on every twenty shillings' worth sent to grass); next instant the stone fell, and the pitch was sett to Oats. Poor James Penrose's pitch was the next sett. "James Penrose's _late_ pitch," read the manager, giving the details of it in terms somewhat similar to those already sett, and stating that the required "pare," or force to be put on it, was two men and a boy. "Put me down for it," said Maggot. "Have you got your pare?" asked Mr Cornish. "Iss, sur." "Their names?" "David Trevarrow and my son Zackey." The pitch was allocated in due form at the rate of fifteen shillings per twenty shillings' worth of mineral sent up--this large sum being given because it was not known to be an unusually good pitch--Penrose having been too ill to speak of his discovery since his accident, and the captain having failed to notice it. When a place is poor looking, a higher sum is given to the miner to induce him to work it. When it is rich, a lower sum is given, because he can make more out of it. Thus the work went on, the sums named varying according to the nature of the ground, and each man saying "Naw," or "Put me down," or "That won't do," or "I won't have her," according to circumstances. While this was going on at the window, another and perhaps more interesting scene was taking place in the office. This apartment presented a singular appearances. There was a large table in the centre of it, which, with every available inch of surface on a side-table, and on a board at the window, was completely covered with banknotes and piles of gold, silver, and copper. Each pile was placed on a little square piece of paper containing the account-current for the month of the man or men to whom it belonged. Very few men laboured singly. Many worked in couples, and some in bands of three, five, or more. So much hard cash gave the place a wealthy appearance, and in truth there was a goodly sum spread out, amounting to several hundreds of pounds. The piles varied very much in size, and conveyed a rough outline of the financial history of the men they belonged to. Some large heaps of silver, with a few coppers and a pile of sovereigns more than an inch high, lying on two or more five-pound notes indicated successful labour. Nevertheless, the evidence was not absolutely conclusive, because the large piles had in most cases to be divided between several men who had banded together; but the little square account-papers, with a couple of crowns on them, told of hard work and little pay, while yonder square with two shillings in the centre of it betokened utter failure, only to be excelled by another square, on which lay _nothing_. You will probably exclaim in your heart, reader, "What! do miners sometimes work for a month, and receive only two shillings, or _nothing_ as wages?" Ay, sometimes; but it is their own seeking if they do; it is not forced upon them. There are three classes of miners--those who work on the surface, dressing ore, etcetera, who are paid a weekly wage; those who work on "tribute," and those who work at "tut-work." Of the first we say nothing, except that they consist chiefly of balmaidens and children-- the former receiving about 18 shillings a month, and the latter from 8 shillings to 20 shillings, according to age and capacity. In regard to "tributers" and "tut-workers," we may remark that the work of both is identical in one respect--namely, that of hewing, picking, boring, and blasting the hard rock. In this matter they share equal toils and dangers, but they are not subjected to the same remunerative vicissitudes. When a man works on "tribute" he receives so many shillings for every twenty shillings' worth of ore that he raises during the month, as already explained. If his "pitch" turns out to be rich in ore, his earnings are proportionably high; if it be poor, he remains poor also. Sometimes a part of the mineral lode becomes so poor that it will not pay for working, and has to be abandoned. So little as a shilling may be the result of a "tributer's" work for a month at one time, while at another time he may get a good pitch, and make 100 pounds or 200 pounds in the same period. The "tutman" (or piecework man), on the other hand, cuts out the rock at so much per fathom, and obtains wages at the rate of from 2 pounds, 10 shillings to 3 pounds a month. He can never hope to make a fortune, but so long as health and strength last, he may count on steady work and wages. Of course there is a great deal of the work in a mine which is not directly remunerative, such as "sinking" shafts, opening up and "driving" (or lengthening) levels, and sinking "winzes." On such work tutmen are employed. The man who works on "tribute" is a speculator; he who chooses "tut-work" is a steady labourer. The tributer experiences all the excitement of uncertainty, and enjoys the pleasures of hope. He knows something, too, about "hope deferred;" also can tell of hope disappointed; has his wits sharpened, and, generally, is a smart fellow. The tut-worker knows nothing of this, his pay being safe and regular, though small. Many quiet-going, plodding men prefer and stick to tut-work. In and about the counting-room the men who had settled the matter of their next month's work were assembled. These--the cashier having previously made all ready--were paid in a prompt and businesslike manner. First, there came forward a middle-aged man. It was scarcely necessary for him to speak, for the cashier knew every man on the mine by name, and also how much was due to him, and the hundreds of little square accounts-current were so arranged that he could lay his hands on any one in an instant. Nevertheless, being a hearty and amiable man, he generally had a word to say to every one. "How's your son, Matthew?" he inquired of the middle-aged man, putting the square paper with its contents into his hand. "He's braave, sir. The doctor do say he'll be about again in a week." Matthew crumpled up his account-current--notes, gold, silver, copper and all--in his huge brown hand, and, thrusting the whole into his breeches pocket, said "Thank 'ee," and walked away. Next, there came forward a young man with one eye, an explosion having shut up the other one for ever. He received his money along with that of the three men who worked in the same "pare" with him. He crumpled it up in the same reckless way as Matthew had done, also thrust it into his pocket, and walked off with an independent swagger. Truly, in the sweat, not only of his brow, but, of every pore in his body, had he earned it, and he was entitled to swagger a little just then. There was little enough room or inducement to do so down in the mine! After this young man a little boy came forward saying that his "faither" had sent him for his money. It was observable that the boys and lads among those who presented themselves in the counting-room, were, as a rule, hearty and hopeful. With them it was as with the young in all walks of life. Everything looked bright and promising. The young men were stern, yet free-and-easy--as though they had already found life a pretty tough battle, but felt quite equal to it. And so they were, every one of them! With tough sinews, hard muscles, and indomitable energy, they were assuredly equal to any work that man could undertake; and many of them, having the fear of God in their hearts, were fitted to endure manfully the trials of life as well. The elderly men were sedate, and had careworn faces; they knew what it was to suffer. Many of them had carried little ones to the grave; they had often seen strong men like themselves go forth in the morning hale and hearty, and be carried to their homes at evening with blinded eyes or shattered limbs. Life had lost its gloss to them, but it had not lost its charms. There were loving hearts to work for, and a glorious end for which to live, or, if need be, to die--so, although their countenances were sedate they were not sad. The old men--of whom there were but two or three--were jolly old souls. They seemed to have successfully defied the tear and wear of life, to have outlived its sorrows, and renewed their youth. Certainly they had not reached their second childhood, for they stepped forth and held out their hands for their pay as steadily as the best of the young ones. When about one-half of the number had been paid, a woman in widow's weeds came forward to take up the pay due to her son--her "wretched Harry," as she styled him. All that was due was seven-and-sixpence. It was inexpressibly sad to see her retire with this small sum--the last that her unsettled boy was entitled to draw from the mines. He had worked previously in the neighbouring mine, Wheal Owles, and had gone to Botallack the month before. He was now off to sea, leaving his mother, who to some extent depended on him, to look out for herself. The next who came forward was a blind man. He had worked long in the mine--so long that he could find his way through the labyrinth of levels as easily in his blind state as he did formerly with his eyesight. When his eyes were destroyed (in the usual way, by the explosion of a hole), he was only off work during the period of convalescence. Afterwards he returned to his familiar haunts underground; and although he could no longer labour in the old way, he was quite able to work a windlass, and draw up the bucket at a winze. For this he now pocketed two pounds sterling, and walked off as vigorously as if he had possessed both his eyes! Among others, a wife appeared to claim her husband's pay, and she was followed by Zackey Maggot, who came to receive his own and Penrose's money. "How does Penrose get on?" inquired the cashier, as he handed over the sum due. "Slowly, sur," said Zackey. "It is a bad case," said one of the captains, who sat close by; "the doctor thinks there is little or no chance for his eyesight." Poor Zackey received his pay and retired without any demonstration of his wonted buoyancy of spirit, for he was fond of Penrose, almost as much so as he was of uncle David Trevarrow. The varied fortune experienced in the mine was exhibited in one or two instances on this occasion. One man and a boy, working together, had, in their own phraseology, "got a sturt"--they had come unexpectedly on a piece of rich ground, which yielded so much tin that at the end of the month they received 25 pounds between them. The man had been receiving "subsist," that is, drawing advances monthly for nearly a year, and, having a wife and children to support, had almost lost heart. It was said that he had even contemplated suicide, but this little piece of good fortune enabled him to pay off his debt and left something over. Another man and boy had 20 pounds to receive. On the other hand, one man had only 2 shillings due to him, while a couple of men who had worked in poor ground found themselves 2 shillings in debt, and had to ask for "subsist." Some time previous to this, two men had discovered a "bunch of copper," and in the course of two months they cleared 260 pounds. At a later period a man in Levant Mine, who was one of the Wesleyan local preachers, cleared 200 pounds within a year. He gave a hundred pounds to his mother, and with the other hundred went off to seek his fortune in Australia! After all the men had been paid, those who wished for "subsist," or advances, were desired to come forward. About a dozen of them did so, and among these were representatives of all classes--the diligent and strong, the old and feeble, and the young. Of course, in mining operations as in other work, the weak, lazy, and idle will ever be up to the lips in trouble, and in need of help. But in mining the best of men may be obliged to demand assistance, because, when tributers work on hopefully day after day and week after week on bad ground, they must have advances to enable them to persevere--not being able to subsist on air! This is no hardship, the mine being at all times open to their inspection, and they are allowed to select their own ground. Hence the demand for "subsist" is not necessarily a sign of absolute but only of temporary poverty. The managers make large or small advances according to their knowledge of the men. There was a good deal of chaffing at this point in the proceedings--the lazy men giving occasion for a slight administration of rebuke, and the able men affording scope for good-humoured pleasantry and badinage. In Botallack, at the present time, about forty or fifty men per month find it necessary to ask for "subsist." Before the wages were paid, several small deductions had to be made. First, there was sixpence to be deducted from each man for "the club." This club consisted of those who chose to pay sixpence a month to a fund for the temporary support of those who were damaged by accidents in the mine. A similar sum per month was deducted from each man for "the doctor," who was bound, in consideration of this, to attend the miners free of charge. In addition to this a shilling was deducted from each man, to be given to the widow and family of a comrade who had died that month. At the present time from 18 pounds to 20 pounds are raised in this way when a death occurs, to be given to the friends of the deceased. It should be remarked that these deductions are made with the consent of the men. Any one may refuse to give to those objects, but, if he do so, he or his will lose the benefit in the event of his disablement or death. Men who are totally disabled receive a pension from the club fund. Not long ago a miner, blind of one eye, left another mine and engaged in Botallack. Before his first month was out he exploded a blast-hole in his face, which destroyed the other eye. From that day he received a pension of 1 pound a month, which will continue till his death--or, at least as long as Botallack shall flourish--and that miner may be seen daily going through the streets of St. Just with his little daughter, in a cart, shouting "Pilchards, fresh pilcha-a-rds, breem, pullock, fresh pullock, _pil-cha-a-rds_"--at the top of his stentorian voice--a living example of the value of "the club," and of the principle of insurance! At length the business of the day came to a close. The wages were paid, the men's work for another month was fixed, the cases of difficulty and distress were heard and alleviated, and then the managers and agents wound up the day by dining together in the account-house, the most noteworthy point in the event being the fact that the dinner was eaten off plates made of pure Botallack tin. Once a quarter this dinner, styled the "account-dinner," is partaken of by any of the shareholders who may wish to be present, on which occasion the manager and agents lay before the company the condition and prospects of the mine, and a quarterly dividend (if any) is paid. There is a matter-of-fact and Spartan-like air about this feast which commands respect. The room in which it is held is uncarpeted, and its walls are graced by no higher works of art than the plans and sections of the mine. The food is excellent and substantial, but simple. There is abundance of it, but there are no courses--either preliminary or successive--no soup or fish to annoy one who wants meat; no ridiculous _entremets_ to tantalise one who wants something solid; no puddings, pies, or tarts to tempt men to gluttony. All set to work at the same time, and enjoy their meal _together_, which is more than can be said of most dinners. All is grandly simple, like the celebrated mine on which the whole is founded. But there is one luxury at this feast which it would be unpardonable not to mention--namely the punch. Whoever tastes this beverage can never forget it! Description were useless to convey an idea of it. Imagination were impotent to form a conception of it. Taste alone will avail, so that our readers must either go to Cornwall to drink it, or for ever remain unsatisfied. We can only remark, in reference to it, that it is potent as well as pleasant, and that it is also dangerous, being of an insinuating nature, so that those who partake freely have a tendency to wish for more, and are apt to dream (not unreasonably, but too wildly) of Botallack tin being transformed into silver and gold. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. DETAILS, AMONG OTHER THINGS, A DEED OF HEROISM. To work went Maggot and Trevarrow and Zackey on their new pitch next day like true Britons. Indeed, we question whether true Britons of the ancient time ever did go to work with half the energy or perseverance of the men of the present day. Those men of old were mere grubbers on the surface. They knew nothing of deep levels under the ocean. However, to do them justice, they made wonderfully extensive tunnels in mother earth, with implements much inferior to those now in use. But, be that as it may, our trio went to work "with a will." Maggot was keen to get up as much of the rich mineral as possible during the month--knowing that he would not get the place next month on such good terms. Trevarrow, besides having no objections to make money when he could for its own sake, was anxious to have a little to spare to James Penrose, whose large family found it pinching work to subsist on the poor fellow's allowance from the club. As to Zackey, he was ready for anything where Uncle Davy was leader. So these three resolved to work night and day. Maggot took his turn in the daytime and slept at night; Trevarrow slept in the daytime and worked at night; while the boy worked as long as he could at whatever time suited him best. As they advanced on the lode it became larger and richer, and in a day or two it assumed such proportions as to throw the fortunate workers into a state of great excitement, and they tore out and blasted away the precious mineral like Titans. One day, about kroust-time, having fired two holes, they came out of the "end" in which they wrought and sat down to lunch while the smoke was clearing away. "'Tes a brave lode," said Maggot. "It is," responded Trevarrow, taking a long draught of water from the canteen. "What shall us do?" said Maggot; "go to grass to slaip, or slaip in the bal?" "In the bal, if you do like it," said Trevarrow. So it was agreed that the men should sleep in the mine on boards, or on any dry part of the level, in order to save the time and energy lost in ascending and descending the long ladders, and thus make the most of their opportunity. It was further resolved that Zackey should be sent up for dry clothes, and bring them their meals regularly. Trevarrow did not forget to have his Bible brought to him, for he was too serious a man to shut his eyes to the danger of a sudden run of good fortune, and thought that the best way to guard against evil would be to devote nearly all his short periods of leisure time to the reading of "the Word." You may be sure that Maggot afterwards laughed at him for this, but he did not concern himself much about it at the time, because he was usually too hungry to talk at meal-times, and too sleepy to do so after work was over. They were still busily discussing the matter of remaining in the mine all night, when they heard the kibble descending the shaft, near the bottom of which they sat, and next moment a man came to the ground with considerable violence. "Why, Frankey, is that thee, booy?" said Maggot, starting up to assist him. "Aw dear, iss; I'm gone dead a'most! aw dear! aw dear!" "Why, whatever brought 'ee here?" said Trevarrow. "The kibble, sure," replied the man, exhibiting his knuckles, which were cut and bleeding a good deal. "I did come by the chain, anyhow." This was indeed true. Frankey, as his mates called him, was at that time the "lander" in charge of the kibbles at the surface. It was his duty to receive each kibble as it was drawn up to the mouth of the shaft full of ore, empty it, and send it down again. Several coils of chain passing round the large drum of a great horse-windlass, called by the miners a "whim," was the means by which the kibbles were hoisted and lowered. The chain was so arranged that one kibble was lowered by it while the other was being drawn up. Frankey had emptied one of the kibbles, and had given the signal to the boy attending the horse to "lower away," when he inadvertently stepped into the shaft. With ready presence of mind the man caught the chain and clung to it, but the boy, being prevented by a pile of rubbish from seeing what had occurred, eased him down, supposing him to be the kibble! This "easing down" a great number of fathoms was by no means an easy process, as those know well who have seen a pair of kibbles go banging up and down a shaft. It was all that poor Frankey could do to keep his head from being smashed against rocks and beams; but, by energetic use of arms and legs, he did so, and reached the bottom of the shaft without further damage than a little skin rubbed off his knees and elbows, and a few cuts on his hands. The man thought so little of it, indeed, that he at once returned to grass by the ladder-way, to the unutterable surprise and no little consternation of the boy who had "eased him down." The air at the "end" of the level in which Maggot and Trevarrow worked was very bad, and, for some time past, men had been engaged in sinking a winze from the level above to connect the two, and send in a supply of fresh air by creating a new channel of circulation. This winze was almost completed, but one of the men employed at it had suddenly become unwell that day, and no other had been appointed to the work. As it was a matter of great importance to have fresh air, now that they had resolved to remain day and night in the mine for some time, Maggot and Trevarrow determined to complete the work, believing that one or two shots would do it. Accordingly, they mounted to the level above, and were lowered one at a time to the bottom of the unfinished winze by a windlass, which was turned by the man whose comrade had become unwell. For nearly two hours they laboured diligently, scarce taking time to wipe the perspiration from their heated brows. At the end of that time the hole was sufficiently deep to blast, so Maggot called out,--"Zackey, my son, fetch the fuse and powder." The boy was quickly lowered with these materials, and then drawn up. Meanwhile Maggot proceeded to charge the hole, and his comrade sat down to rest. He put in the powder and tamping, and asked the other to hand him the tamping-bar. "Zackey has forgot it," said Trevarrow, looking round. "It don't matter; hand me the borer." "No, I won't," said Trevarrow decidedly, as he grasped the iron tool in question. "Ho! Zackey booy, throw down the tampin'-bar." This was done, and the operation of filling the hole continued, while Trevarrow commented somewhat severely on his companion's recklessness. "That's just how the most o' the reckless men in the bal do get blaw'd up," he said; "they're always picking away at the holes, and tamping with iron tools; why, thee might as well put a lighted match down the muzzle of a loaded gun as tamp with an iron borer." "Come, now," said Maggot, looking up from his work with a leer, "it warn't that as made old Kimber nearly blow hisself up last week." "No, but it was carelessness, anyhow," retorted Trevarrow; "and lucky for him that he was a smart man, else he'd bin gone dead by this time." Maggot soon completed the filling of the hole, and then perpetrated as reckless a deed as any of his mining comrades had ever been guilty of. Trevarrow was preparing to ascend by the windlass, intending to leave his comrade to light the fuse and come up after him. Meanwhile Maggot found that the fuse was too long. He discovered this after it was fixed in the hole, and, unobserved by his companion, proceeded to cut it by means of an iron tool and a flat stone. Fire was struck at the last blow by the meeting of the iron and the stone, and the fuse ignited. To extinguish it was impossible; to cut it in the same way, without striking fire, was equally so. Of course there was plenty of time to ascend by the windlass, but _only one_ at a time could do so. The men knew this, and looked at each other with terrible meaning in their eyes as they rushed at the bucket, and shouted to the man above to haul them up. He attempted to do so, but in vain. He had not strength to haul up two at once. One could escape, both could not, and to delay would be death to both. In this extremity David Trevarrow looked at his comrade, and said calmly,--"Escape, my brother; a minute more and I shall be in heaven." He stepped back while he spoke--the bucket went rapidly upwards, and Trevarrow, sitting down in the bottom of the shaft, covered his eyes with a piece of rock and awaited the issue. The rumbling explosion immediately followed, and the shaft was filled with smoke and flame and hurling stones. One of these latter, shooting upwards, struck and cut the ascending miner on his forehead as he looked down to observe the fate of his self-sacrificing comrade! Maggot was saved, but he was of too bold and kindly a nature to remain for a moment inactive after the explosion was over. At once he descended, and, groping about among the debris, soon found his friend-- alive, and almost unhurt! A mass of rock had arched him over--or, rather, the hand of God, as if by miracle, had delivered the Christian miner. After he was got up in safety to the level above they asked him why he had been so ready to give up his life to save his friend. "Why," said David quietly, "I did think upon his wife and the child'n, and little Grace seemed to say to me, `Take care o' faither'--besides, there are none to weep if I was taken away, so the Lord gave me grace to do it." That night there were glad and grateful hearts in Maggot's cottage--and never in this world was a more flat and emphatic contradiction given to any statement, than that which was given to David Trevarrow's assertion--"There are none to weep if I was taken away." [A short but beautiful account of the above incident will be found in a little volume of poems, entitled _Lays from the Mine, the Moor, and the Mountain_, written by John Harris, a Cornish miner.] CHAPTER THIRTY. REVEALS SOME ASTONISHING FACTS AND THEIR CONSEQUENCES. Sorrow and trouble now began to descend upon Mr Thomas Donnithorne like a thick cloud. Reduced from a state of affluence to one bordering on absolute poverty, the old man's naturally buoyant spirit almost gave way, and it needed all the attentions and the cheering influence of his good wife and sweet Rose Ellis to keep him from going (as he often half-jestingly threatened) to the end of Cape Cornwall and jumping into the sea. "It's all over with me, Oliver," said he one morning, after the return of his nephew from London. "A young fellow like you may face up against such difficulties, but what is an old man to do? I can't begin the world over again; and as for the shares I have in the various mines, they're not worth the paper they're writ upon." "But things may take a turn," suggested Oliver; "this is not the first time the mines have been in a poor condition, and the price of tin low. When things get very bad they are likely to get better, you know. Even now there seems to be some talk among the miners of an improved state of things. I met Maggot yesterday, and he was boasting of having found a monstrous bunch, which, according to him, is to be the making of all our fortunes." Mr Donnithorne shook his head. "Maggot's geese are always swans," he said; "no, no, Oliver, I have lost all hope of improvement. There are so many of these deceptive mines around us just now--some already gone down, and some going--that the public are losing confidence in us, and, somewhat unfairly, judging that, because a few among us are scoundrels, we are altogether a bad lot." "What do you think of Mr Clearemout's new mine?" asked Oliver. "I believe it to be a genuine one," said the old gentleman, turning a somewhat sharp glance on his nephew. "Why do you ask?" "Because I doubt it," replied Oliver. "You are too sceptical," said Mr Donnithorne almost testily; "too much given to judging things at first sight." "Nay, uncle; you are unfair. Had I judged of you at first sight, I should have thought you a--" "Well, what? a smuggling old brandy-loving rascal--eh? and not far wrong after all." "At all events," said Oliver, laughing, "I have lived to form a better opinion of you than that. But, in reference to Clearemout, I cannot shut my eyes to the fact that the work doing at the new mine is very like a sham, for they have only two men and a boy working her, with a captain to superintend; and it is said, for I made inquiries while in London, that thirty thousand pounds have been called up from the shareholders, and there are several highly paid directors, with an office-staff in the City drawing large salaries." "Nonsense, Oliver," said Mr Donnithorne more testily than before; "you know very well that things must have a beginning, and that caution is necessary at first in all speculations. Besides, I feel convinced that Mr Clearemout is a most respectable man, and an uncommonly clever fellow to boot. It is quite plain that you don't like him--that's what prejudices you, Oliver. You're jealous of the impression he has made on the people here." This last remark was made jestingly, but it caused the young doctor to wince, having hit nearer the truth than the old gentleman had any idea of, for although Oliver envied not the handsome stranger's popularity, he was, almost unknown to himself, very jealous of the impression he seemed to have made on Rose Ellis. A feeling of shame induced him to change the subject of conversation, with a laughing observation that he hoped such an unworthy motive did not influence him. Now, while this conversation was going on in the parlour of Mr Donnithorne's cottage, another dialogue was taking place in a small wooden erection at the end of the garden, which bore the dignified name of "Rose's Bower." The parties concerned in it were George Augustus Clearemout and Rose Ellis. A day or two previous to the conversation to which we are about to draw attention, the managing director had undergone a change in his sentiments and intentions. When he first saw Rose he thought her an uncommonly sweet and pretty girl. A short acquaintance with her convinced him that she was even sweeter and prettier than at first he had thought her. This, coupled with the discovery that her uncle was very rich, and that he meant to leave a large portion of his wealth, if not all of it, to Rose, decided Clearemout, and he resolved to marry her. Afterwards he became aware of the fact that old Mr Donnithorne had met with losses, but he was ignorant of their extent, and still deemed it worth while to carry out his intentions. George Augustus had been a "managing director" in various ways from his earliest infancy, and had never experienced much opposition to his will, so that he had acquired a habit of settling in his own mind whatever he meant to do, and forthwith doing it. On this occasion he resolved to sacrifice himself to Rose, in consideration of her prospective fortune-- cash being, of course, Mr Clearemout's god. Great, then, was the managing director's surprise, and astonishing the condition of his feelings, when, on venturing to express his wishes to Rose, he was kindly, but firmly, rejected! Mr Clearemout was so thunderstruck--having construed the unsophisticated girl's candour and simplicity of manner into direct encouragement--that he could make no reply, but, with a profound bow, retired hastily from her presence, went to his lodgings, and sat down with his elbows on the table, and his face buried in his large hands, the fingers of which appeared to be crushing in his forehead, as if to stifle the thoughts that burned there. After sitting thus for half an hour he suddenly rose, with his face somewhat paler, and his lips a little more firmly compressed than usual. It was an epoch in his existence. The man who had so often and so successfully deceived others had made the wonderful discovery that he had deceived himself. He had imagined that money was his sole object in wishing to marry Rose. He now discovered that love, or something like it, had so much to do with his wishes that he resolved to have her without money, and also without her consent. Something within the man told him that Rose's refusal was an unalterable one. He did not think it worth while to waste time in a second attempt. His plans, though hastily formed, required a good deal of preliminary arrangement, so he commenced to carry them out with the single exclamation, "I'll do it!" accompanied with a blow from his heavy fist on the table, which, being a weak lodging-house one, was split from end to end. But the managing director had a soul above furniture at that moment. He hastily put on his hat and strode out of the house. Making good use of a good horse, he paid sundry mysterious visits to various smuggling characters, to all of whom he was particularly agreeable and liberal in the bestowal of portions of the thirty thousand pounds with which a too confiding public had intrusted him. Among other places, he went to a cottage on a moor between St. Just and Penzance, and had a confidential interview with a man named Hicks, who was noted for his capacity to adapt himself to circumstances (when well paid) without being troubled by conscientious scruples. This man had a son who had once suffered from a broken collar-bone, and whose ears were particularly sharp. He chanced to overhear the conversation at the interview referred to, and dutifully reported the same to his mother, who happened to be a great gossip, and knew much about the private affairs of nearly everybody living within six miles of her. The good woman resolved to make some use of her information, but Mr Clearemout left the cottage in ignorance, of course, of her resolution. Having transacted these little pieces of business, the managing director returned home, and, on the day following, sought and obtained an interview with Rose Ellis in her bower. Recollecting the subject of their last conversation, Rose blushed, as much with indignation as confusion, at being intruded upon, but Mr Clearemout at once dispersed her angry feelings by assuring her in tones of deferential urbanity that he would not have presumed to intrude upon her but for the fact that he was about to quit Cornwall without delay, and he wished to talk with her for only a few minutes on business connected with Mr Donnithorne. There was something so manly and straightforward in his tone and manner that she could not choose but allow him to sit down beside her, although she did falter out something about the propriety of talking on her uncle's business affairs with Mr Donnithorne himself. "Your observation is most just," said Mr Clearemout earnestly; "but you are aware that your uncle's nature is a delicate, sensitive one, and I feel that he would shrink from proposals coming from me, that he might listen to if made to him through you. I need not conceal from you, Miss Ellis, that I am acquainted with the losses which your uncle has recently sustained, and no one can appreciate more keenly than I do the harshness with which the world, in its ignorance of details, is apt to judge of the circumstances which brought about this sad state of things. I cannot help feeling deeply the kindness which has been shown me by Mr Donnithorne during my residence here, and I would, if I could, show him some kindness in return." Mr Clearemout paused here a few moments as if to reflect. He resolved to assume that Mr Donnithorne's losses were ruinous, little imagining that in this assumption he was so very near the truth! Rose felt grateful to him for the kind and delicate way in which he referred to her uncle's altered circumstances. "Of course," continued the managing director, "I need not say to _you_, that his independent spirit would never permit him to accept of assistance in the form which would be most immediately beneficial to him. Indeed, I could not bring myself to offer money even as a loan. But it happens that I have the power, just now, of disposing of the shares which he has taken in Wheal Dooem Mine at a very large profit; and as my hope of the success of that enterprise is very small, I--" "Very small!" echoed Rose in surprise. "You astonish me, Mr Clearemout. Did I not hear you, only a few nights ago, say that you had the utmost confidence in the success of your undertaking?" "Most true," replied the managing director with a smile; "but in the world of business a few hours work wonderful changes, sometimes, in one's opinion of things--witness the vacillations and variations `on 'Change'--if I may venture to allude before a lady to such an incomprehensible subject." Rose felt her vigorous little spirit rise, and she was about to return a smart reply in defence of woman's intelligence even in business matters, but the recollection of the altered relative position in which they now stood restrained her. "Yes," continued Mr Clearemout, with a sigh, "the confidence which I felt in Wheal Dooem has been much shaken of late, and the sooner your uncle sells out the better." "But would it be right," said Rose earnestly, "to sell our shares at a high profit if things be as you say?" "Quite right," replied Clearemout, with a bland smile of honesty; "_I_ believe the mine to be a bad speculation; my friend, we shall suppose, believes it to be a good one. Believing as I do, I choose to sell out; believing as he does, he chooses to buy in. The simplest thing in the world, Miss Ellis. Done every day with eyes open, I assure you; but it is not every day that a chance occurs so opportunely as the present, and I felt it to be a duty to give my friend the benefit of my knowledge before quitting this place--for ever!" There was something so kind and touching in the tone of the managing director that Rose was quite drawn towards him, and felt as if she had actually done him an unkindness in refusing him. "But," continued her companion, "I can do nothing, Miss Ellis, without your assistance." "You shall have it," said Rose earnestly; "for I would do anything that a woman might venture, to benefit my dear, dear uncle, and I feel assured that you would not ask me to do anything wrong or unwomanly." "I would not indeed," answered Clearemout with emotion; "but the world is apt to misjudge in matters of delicacy. To ask you to meet me on the cliffs near Priest's Cove, close to Cape Cornwall, to-night, would appear wrong in the eyes of the world." "And with justice," said Rose quickly, with a look of mingled dignity and surprise. "Nevertheless, this is absolutely needful, if we would accomplish the object in view. A friend, whom I know to be desirous of purchasing shares in the mine is to pass round the cape in his yacht this evening. The idea of offering these shares to him had not occurred to me when I wrote to say that I would meet him there. He cannot come up here, I know, but the stroke of a pen, with one of the family to witness it, will be sufficient." It was a bold stroke of fancy in the managing director to put the matter in such a ridiculously unbusinesslike light, but he counted much on Rose's ignorance. As for poor Rose herself, she, knew not what to say or do at first, but when Clearemout heaved a sigh, and, with an expression of deep sadness on his countenance, rose to take leave, she allowed a generous impulse to sway her. "Your answer, then, is--No," said Clearemout, with deep pathos in his tone. Now, it chanced that at this critical point in the conversation, Oliver Trembath, having left the cottage, walked over the grass towards a small gate, near which the bower stood. He unavoidably heard the question, and also the quick, earnest reply,--"My answer, Mr Clearemout, is--Yes. I will meet you this evening on the cliff." She frankly gave him her hand as she spoke, and he gallantly pressed it to his lips, an act which took Rose by surprise, and caused her to pull it away suddenly. She then turned and ran out at the side of the bower to seek the solitude of her own apartment, while Clearemout left it by the other side, and stood face to face with the spellbound Oliver. To say that both gentlemen turned pale as their eyes met would not give an adequate idea of their appearance. Oliver's heart, as well as his body, when he heard the question and reply, stood still as if he had been paralysed. This, then, he thought, was the end of all his hopes-- hopes hardly admitted to himself, and never revealed to Rose, except in unstudied looks and tones. For a few moments his face grew absolutely livid, while he glared at his rival. On the other hand, Mr Clearemout, believing that the whole of his conversation had been overheard, supposed that he had discovered all his villainy to one who was thoroughly able, as well as willing, to thwart him. For a moment he felt an almost irresistible impulse to spring on and slay his enemy; his face became dark with suppressed emotion; and it is quite possible that in the fury of his disappointed malice he might have attempted violence,--had not Oliver spoken. His voice was husky as he said,--"Chance, sir--unfortunate, miserable chance--led me to overhear the last few words that passed between you and--" He paused, unable to say more. Instantly the truth flashed across Clearemout's quick mind. He drew himself up boldly, and the blood returned to his face as he replied,--"If so, sir, you cannot but be aware that the lady's choice is free, and that your aspect and attitude towards me are unworthy of a gentleman." A wonderful influence for weal or woe oft-times results from the selection of a phrase or a word. Had Clearemout charged Oliver with insolence or presumption, he would certainly have struck him to the ground; but the words "unworthy of a gentleman" created a revulsion in his feelings. Thought is swifter than light. He saw himself in the position of a disappointed man scowling on a successful rival who had done him no injury. "Thank you, Clearemout. Your rebuke is merited," he said bitterly; and, turning on his heel, he bounded over the low stone wall of the garden, and hastened away. Whither he went he knew not. A fierce fire seemed to rage in his breast and burn in his brain. At first he walked at full speed, but as he cleared the town he ran--ran as he had never run before. For the time being he was absolutely mad. Over marsh and moor he sped, clearing all obstacles with a bound, and making straight for the Land's End, with no definite purpose in view, for, after a time, he appeared to change his intention, if he had any. He turned sharp to the left, and ran straight to Penzance, never pausing in his mad career until he neared the town. The few labourers he chanced to pass on the way gazed after him in surprise, but he heeded not. At the cottage on the moor where he had bandaged the shoulder of the little boy a woman's voice called loudly, anxiously after him, but he paid no attention. At last he came to a full stop, and, pressing both hands tightly over his forehead, made a terrible effort to collect his thoughts. He was partially successful, and, with somewhat of his wonted composure, walked rapidly into the town. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. DESCRIBES A MARRED PLOT, AND TELLS OF RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE. Meanwhile the gossiping woman of the cottage on the moor, whose grateful heart had never forgotten the little kindness done to her boy by the young doctor, and who knew that the doctor loved Rose Ellis, more surely, perhaps, than Rose did herself, went off in a state of deep anxiety to St. Just, and, by dint of diligent inquiries and piecing of things together, coupled with her knowledge of Clearemout's intentions, came to a pretty correct conclusion as to the state of affairs. She then went to the abode of young Charles Tregarthen, whom she knew to be Oliver's friend, and unbosomed herself. Charlie repaid her with more than thanks, and almost hugged her in his gratitude for her prompt activity. "And now, Mrs Hicks," said he, "you shall see how we will thwart this scoundrel. As for Oliver Trembath, I cannot imagine what could take him into Penzance in the wild state that you describe. Of course this affair has to do with it, and he evidently has learned something of this, and must have misunderstood the matter, else assuredly he had not been absent at such a time. But why go to Penzance? However, he will clear up the mystery ere long, no doubt. Meanwhile we shall proceed to thwart your schemes, good Mr Clearemout!" So saying, Charlie Tregarthen set about laying his counter-plans. He also, as the managing director had done, visited several men, some of whom were miners and some smugglers, and arranged a meeting that evening near Cape Cornwall. When evening drew on apace, four separate parties converged towards Priest's Cove. First, a boat crept along shore propelled by four men and steered by Jim Cuttance. Secondly, six stout men crept stealthily down to the cove, led by Charlie Tregarthen, with Maggot as his second in command. Thirdly, Rose Ellis wended her way to the rendezvous with trembling step and beating heart; and, fourthly, George Augustus Clearemout moved in the same direction. But the managing director moved faster than the others, having a longer way to travel, for, having had to pay a last visit to Wheal Dooem, he rode thence to St. Just. On the way he was particularly interested in a water-wheel which worked a pump, beside which a man in mining costume was seated smoking his pipe. "Good-evening," said Clearemout, reining up. "Good-hevenin', sur." "What does that pump?" asked the managing director, pointing to the wheel. "That, sur?" said the miner, drawing a few whiffs from his pipe; "why, that do pump gold out o' the Londoners, that do." The managing director chuckled very much, and said, "Indeed!" "Iss, sur," continued the miner, pointing to Wheal Dooem, "an' that wan theere, up over hill, do the same thing." The managing director chuckled much more at this, and displayed his teeth largely as he nodded to the man and rode on. Before his arrival at the rendezvous, the boat was run ashore not far from the spot where Tregarthen and his men were concealed. As soon as the men had landed, Charlie walked down to them alone and accosted their leader. "Well, Cuttance, you're a pretty fellow to put your finger in such a dirty pie as this." Cuttance had seen the approach of Tregarthen with surprise and some alarm. "Well, sur," said he, without any of the bold expression that usually characterised him, "what can a man do when he's to be well paid for the job? I do confess that I don't half like it, but, after all, what have we got to do weth the opinions of owld aunts or uncles? If a gurl do choose to go off wi' the man she likes, that's no matter to we, an' if I be well paid for lendin' a hand, why shouldn't I? But it do puzzle me, Mr Tregarthen, to guess how yow did come to knaw of it." "That don't signify," said Tregarthen sternly. "Do you know who the girl is?" "I don't knaw, an' I don't care," said Jim doggedly. "What would you say if I told you it was Miss Rose Ellis?" said Charlie. "I'd say thee was a liard," replied Cuttance. "Then I do tell you so." "Thee don't mean that!" exclaimed the smuggler, with a blaze of amazement and wrath in his face. "Indeed I do." "Whew!" whistled Jim, "then that do explain the reason why that smooth-tongued feller said he would car' her to the boat close veiled up for fear the men should see her." A rapid consultation was now held by the two as to the proper mode of proceeding. Cuttance counselled an immediate capture of the culprit, and pitching him off the end of Cape Cornwall; but Tregarthen advised that they should wait until Clearemout seized his victim, otherwise they could not convict him, because he would deny any intention of evil against Rose, and pretend that some other girl, who had been scared away by their impetuosity, was concerned, for they might depend on it he'd get up a plausible story and defeat them. Tregarthen's plan was finally agreed to, and he returned to his men and explained matters. Soon afterwards the managing director appeared coming down the road. "Is all right?" he inquired of Cuttance, who went forward to meet him. "All right, sur." "Go down to the boat then and wait," he said, turning away. Ere long he was joined by Rose, with whom he entered into conversation, leading her over the cape so as to get out of sight of the men, but young Tregarthen crept among the rocks and never for a moment lost sight of them. He saw Clearemout suddenly place a kerchief on Rose's mouth, and, despite the poor girl's struggles, tie it firmly so as to prevent her screaming, then he threw a large shawl over her, and catching her in his arms bore her swiftly towards the boat. Tregarthen sprang up and confronted him. Clearemout, astonished and maddened by this unexpected interference, shouted,--"Stand aside, sir! _You_ have no interest in this matter, or right to interfere." Charlie made no reply, but sprang on him like a tiger. Clearemout dropped his burden and grappled with the youth, who threw him in an instant, big though he was, for Tregarthen was a practised wrestler, and the managing director was not. His great strength, however, enabled him to get on his knees, and there is no saying how the struggle might have terminated had not Cuttance come forward, and, putting his hard hands round Clearemout's throat, caused that gentleman's face to grow black, and his tongue and eyes to protrude. Having thus induced him to submit, he eased off the necklace, and assisted him to rise, while the men of both parties crowded round. "Now, then, boys," cried Jim Cuttance, "bear a hand, one and all, and into the say with him." The managing director was at once knocked off his legs, and borne shoulder-high down to the beach by as many hands as could lay hold of him. Here they paused:-- "All together, boys--one--two--ho!" At the word the unfortunate man was shot, by strong and willing arms, into the air like a bombshell, and fell into the water with a splash that was not unlike an explosion. Clearemout was a good swimmer. When he came to the surface he raised himself, and, clearing the water from his eyes, glanced round. Even in that extremity the quickness and self-possession of the man did not forsake him. He perceived, at a glance, that the boat which, in the excitement of the capture, had been left by all the men, had floated off with the receding tide, and now lay a short distance from the shore. At once he struck out for it. There was a shout of consternation and a rush to the water's edge. Maggot shot far ahead of the others, plunged into the sea, and swam off. Observing this, and knowing well the courage and daring of the man, the rest stopped on the shore to witness the result. Clearemout reached the boat first, but, owing to exhaustion, was unable to raise himself into it. Maggot soon came up and grasped him by the throat, both men managed to get their arms over the gunwale, but in their struggle upset the boat and were separated. Clearemout then made for the shore with the intention of giving himself up, and Maggot followed, but he was not equal in swimming to the managing director, whose long steady strokes easily took him beyond the reach of his pursuer. He reached the shore, and stalked slowly out of the water. At the same moment Maggot sank and disappeared. The consternation of his comrades was so great that in the confusion their prisoner was unheeded. Some sprang into the sea and dived after Maggot; others swam to the boat, intending to right it and get the boat-hooks. Suddenly those who had remained on the beach observed something creep out of the sea near to some rocks a little to the right of the place where they stood. They ran towards it. "Hallo! is that you, old Maggot?" they cried. It was indeed the valiant smith himself! How he got there no one ever knew, nor could himself tell. It was conjectured that he must have become partially exhausted, and, after sinking, had crept along the bottom to the shore! However, be that as it may, there he was, lying with his arm lovingly round a rock, and the first thing he said on looking up was,--"Aw! my dear men, has any of 'ee got a chaw of baccy about 'ee?" This was of course received with a shout of laughter, and unlimited offers of quids while they assisted him to rise. Meanwhile Tregarthen was attending to Rose, who had swooned when Clearemout dropped her. He also kept a watch over the prisoner, who, however, showed no intention of attempting to escape, but sat on a stone with his face buried in his hands. The men soon turned their attention to him again, and some of the more violent were advancing to seize him, with many terrible threats of further vengeance, when Rose ran between them, and entreated them to spare him. Tregarthen seconded the proposal, and urged that as he had got pretty severe punishment already, they should set him free. This being agreed to, Charlie turned to the managing director, and said, with a look of pity, "You may go, sir, but, be assured, it is not for your own sake that we let you off. You know pretty well what the result would be if we chose to deliver you up to justice; we care more, however, for the feelings of this lady--whose name would be unavoidably and disagreeably brought before the public at the trial--than we care for your getting your merited reward. But, mark me, if you ever open your lips on the subject, you shall not escape us." "Iss," added Jim Cuttance, "ann remember, you chucklehead, that if you do write or utter wan word 'bout it, after gettin' back to London, there are here twelve Cornish men who will never rest till they have flayed thee alive!" "You need have no fear," said Clearemout with a bitter smile, as he turned and walked away, followed by a groan from the whole party. "Now, lads," said Cuttance after he was gone, "not wan word of this must ever be breathed, and we'll howld 'ee responsible, David Hicks, for t' wife's tongue; dost a hear?" This was agreed to by all, and, to the credit of these honest smugglers, and of Mrs Hicks, be it said, that not a syllable about the incident was ever heard of in the parish of St. Just from that day to this! CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. TOUCHES ON LOVE AND ON PILCHARD FISHING. There can be no doubt that "Fortune favours the brave," and Maggot was one of those braves whom, about this time, she took special delight in favouring. Wild and apparently reckless though he was, Maggot had long cherished an ambitious hope, and had for some time past been laying by money for the purpose of accomplishing his object, which was the procuring of a seine-net and boats for the pilchard fishery. The recent successes he had met with in Botallack enabled him to achieve his aim more rapidly than he had anticipated, and on the day following that in which Clearemout received his deserts, he went to Penberth Cove to see that all was in readiness, for pilchards had recently appeared off the coast in small shoals. That same day Oliver Trembath, having spent a night of misery in Penzance, made up his mind to return to St. Just and face his fate like a man; but he found it so difficult to carry this resolve into effect that he diverged from the highroad--as he had done on his first memorable visit to that region--and, without knowing very well why, sauntered in a very unenviable frame of mind towards Penberth Cove. Old Mr Donnithorne possessed a pretty villa near the cove, to which he was wont to migrate when Mrs D felt a desire for change of air, and in which he frequently entertained large parties of friends in the summer season. In his heart poor Mr Donnithorne had condemned this villa "to the hammer," but the improved appearance of things in the mines had induced him to suspend the execution of the sentence. News of the appearance of pilchards, and a desire to give Rose a change after her late adventure, induced Mr Donnithorne to hire a phaeton (he had recently parted with his own) and drive over to Penberth. Arrived there, he sauntered down to the cove to look after his nets--for he dabbled in pilchard fishing as well as in other matters--and Rose went off to have a quiet, solitary walk. Thus it came to pass that she and Oliver Trembath suddenly met in a lonely part of the road between Penberth and Penzance. Ah, those sudden and unexpected meetings! How pleasant they are, and how well every one who has had them remembers them! "Miss Ellis!" exclaimed Oliver in surprise. "Mr Trembath!" exclaimed Rose in amazement. You see, reader, how polite they were, but you can neither see nor conceive how great was the effort made by each to conceal the tumult that agitated the breast and flushed the countenance, while the tongue was thus ably controlled. It did not last long, however. Oliver, being thrown off his guard, asked a number of confused questions, and Rose, in her somewhat irrelevant replies, happened to make some reference to "that villain Clearemout." "Villain?" echoed Oliver in undisguised amazement. "The villain," repeated Rose, with a flushed face and flashing eye. "What? why? how?--really, excuse me, Miss Ellis--I--I--the villain-- Clearemout--you don't--" There is no saying how many more ridiculous exclamations Oliver might have made had not Rose suddenly said,--"Surely, Mr Trembath, you have heard of his villainy?" "No, never; not a word. Pray do tell me, Miss Ellis." Rose at once related the circumstances of her late adventure, with much indignation in her tone and many a blush on her brow. Before she had half done, Oliver's powers of restraint gave way. "Then you never loved him?" he exclaimed. "Loved him, sir! I do not understand--" "Forgive me, Rose; I mean--I didn't imagine--that is to say--oh! Rose, can it be--is it possible--my _dear_ girl!" He seized her hand at this point, and--but really, reader, why should we go on? Is it not something like a violation of good taste to be too particular here? Is it not sufficient to say that old Mr Donnithorne came suddenly, and of course unexpectedly, on them at that critical juncture, rendering it necessary for Rose to burst away and hide her blushing face on her uncle's shoulder, while Oliver, utterly overwhelmed, turned and walked (we won't say fled) at full speed in the direction of the cove. Here he found things in a condition that was admirably suited to the state of his feelings. The fishermen of the cove were in a state of wild excitement, for an enormous shoal of pilchards had been enclosed in the seine-nets, and Maggot with his men, as well as the people employed by Mr Donnithorne, were as much over head and ears in fishing as Oliver was in love. Do you ask, "Why all this excitement?" We will tell you. The pilchard fishing is to the Cornish fisherman what the harvest is to the husbandman, but this harvest of the sea is not the result of prolonged labour, care, and wisdom. It comes to him in a night. It may last only a few days, or weeks. Sometimes it fails altogether. During these days of sunshine he must toil with unwonted energy. There is no rest for him while the season lasts if he would not miss his opportunity. The pilchard is a little fish resembling a small herring. It visits the southern coasts of England in autumn and winter, and the shoals are so enormous as to defy calculation or description. When they arrive on the coast, "huers"--sharp-sighted men--are stationed on the cliffs to direct the boatmen when to go out and where to shoot their seine-nets. When these are shot, millions of pilchards are often enclosed in a single net. To give an idea of the numbers of fish and the extent of the fishing, in a few words, we may state the fact that, in 1834, one shoal of great depth, and nearly a mile broad, extended from Hayle River to St. Ives, a distance of two and a half miles. A seine was shot into this mass, and 3,600 hogsheads were carried to the curing cellars. As there are 3,000 pilchards in each hogshead, the catch amounted to nearly eleven million fish! The value of these might be 3 pounds a hogshead, and the clear profit about 1 pound a hogshead, so that it is no wonder we hear of fortunes having been made in a few hauls of the pilchard seines. At the same time, losses are sometimes very heavy, owing to gales arising and breaking or carrying away the nets. Such facts, combined with the uncertainty of the arrival or continuance of the fish on any particular part of the coast, tend to induce that spirit of eager, anxious excitement to which we have referred as being so congenial to Oliver Trembath's state of mind at the time of which we write. On the beach the young doctor found Maggot and his men launching their boats, and of course he lent them a hand. "Pilchards been seen?" he inquired. "Iss, iss, doctor," was the smith's curt reply; "jump in, an' go 'long with us." Oliver accepted the invitation, and was rowed towards a part of the bay where the sea appeared to be boiling. The boat was a large one, attended by several others of smaller dimensions. The boiling spot being reached, Maggot, whose whole being was in a blaze of enthusiasm, leaped up and seized the end of a seine-net--three hundred fathoms long by fourteen deep--which he began to throw overboard with the utmost energy, while the boat was rowed swiftly round the mass of fish. David Trevarrow assisted him, and in less than four minutes the whole net was in the sea. One of the other boats, meanwhile, had fastened another net to the first, and, rowing in an opposite direction from it, progressed in a circular course, dropping its net as it went, until the two met-- and thus an immense shoal of pilchards were enclosed. The nets being floated on the surface with corks, and their lower ends sunk to the bottom with leads, the fish were thus securely imprisoned. But the security was not great; a gale might arise which would sweep away the whole concern, or the pilchards might take a fancy to make a dash in one particular direction, in the event of which they would certainly burst the net, and no human power could save a single fin. In order to prevent this, the men in the smaller boats rowed round the seine, beat the sea with their oars, hallooed, and otherwise exerted themselves to keep the fish in the centre of the enclosure. Meanwhile a little boat entered within the circle, having a small net, named a "tuck-net," which was spread round the seine, inside, and gradually drawn together, until the fish were raised towards the surface in a solid, sweltering mass. The excitement at this point became tremendous. Thousands of silvery fish leaped, vaulted, and fluttered in a seething mass on the sea. Maggot roared and yelled his orders like a Stentor. Even mild David Trevarrow lost self-command, and shouted vociferously. "Hand the basket!" cried Maggot. A large basket, with a rope attached to one handle, was produced. Maggot seized the other handle, and thrust it down among the wriggling pilchards. Trevarrow hauled on the rope, lifted the basket out of the sea, and a cataract of living silver was shot into the boat, accompanied by a mighty cheer. Basketful after basketful followed, until the men stood leg-deep in fish. "Hold on a bit!" cried Maggot, as, with rolled-up sleeves, dishevelled hair, and glaring eyes, he threw one leg over the side of the boat, the more easily to continue his work. "Have a care," cried Oliver at that moment, stretching out his hand; but he was too late. The excitable smith had overbalanced himself, and was already head and shoulders deep down among the pilchards, which sprang high over him, as if in triumph! To catch him by the legs, and pull him back into the boat, was the work of a moment, but the proceedings were not interrupted by the mishap. A laugh greeted the smith as he was turned head up, and immediately he braced himself to his arduous labour with renewed energy. The boat filled, it was rowed to the shore, and here was received by eager and noisy men, women, and children, by whom the precious contents were carried to the "cellars," or salting-houses, where they were packed in the neatest possible piles, layer on layer, heads and tails, with a sprinkling of salt between. Maggot's family had followed him to Penberth. Mrs M was there, busy as a bee--so was Zackey, so was little Grace, and so was the baby. They all worked like Trojans, the only difference between baby Maggot and the others being, that, while they did as much work as in them lay, he undid as much as possible; was in every one's way; fell over and into everything, including the sea, and, generally, fulfilled his mission of mischief-maker with credit. The chet was there too! Baby Maggot had decreed that it should accompany him, so there it was, living on pilchards, and dragging out its harassed existence in the usual way. What between salt food, and play, kicks, cuffs, capers, and gluttony, its aspect at that time was more demoniacal, perhaps, than that of any other chet between John o' Groat's and the Land's End. Volumes would scarcely contain all that might be written about this wonderful scene, but enough has been said to indicate the process whereby Maggot secured and salted some hundreds of thousands of pilchards. The enclosing of the fish was the result of a few minutes' work, but the salting and packing were not ended for many days. The result, however, was that the lucky smith sent many hogsheads of pilchards the way of most Cornish fish--namely, to the Mediterranean, for consumption by Roman Catholics, and in due course he received the proceeds, to the extent of three thousand pounds. Thus did Maggot auspiciously begin the making of his fortune--which was originated and finally completed by his successful mining operations at Botallack. And let it be observed here, that he was neither the first nor the last poor man who became prosperous and wealthy by similar means. There are men, not a few, now alive in Cornwall, who began with hammer and pick, and who now can afford to drink in champagne, out of a golden flagon, the good old Cornish toast--"Fish, tin, and copper." CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. THE LAST. Many others as well as Maggot made money by the pilchards at that time. All round the coast of Cornwall millions of these little fish were taken, salted, and exported. No fewer than one thousand hogsheads were taken at St. Ives in the first three seine-nets cast into the sea. In Mounts Bay, Fowey Bay, Mevagissey, and other fishing grounds, immense quantities were caught, and the total catch of the county was little if at all short of thirty thousand hogsheads. Among others, old Mr Donnithorne was so successful that his broken fortunes were almost re-established; and a small sum which our friend Oliver Trembath had ventured to invest in the fishing was more than quadrupled before the end of the year. But this was not all. At the next Botallack account-dinner, Mr Cornish gladdened the hearts of the adventurers by telling them that the lodes which had been "promising" for such a length of time had at last got the length of "performance," and that he had now the pleasure of announcing a large dividend, which he paid there and then. A considerable share of this fell to old Mr Donnithorne, who, in the enthusiasm of the occasion, observed confidentially to Captain Dan that he was convinced "honesty was the best policy after all"--a sentiment which the captain heartily agreed with, although he failed to detect the precise connection between it and the old gentleman's sudden influx of good fortune. But, then, the captain did not drink Botallack punch, while old Mr Donnithorne did, which may to some extent account for the difference in their powers of vision. Captain Dan, however, possessed wonderful powers of vision in reference to the underground workings of Botallack, which were displayed to advantage--and to the great gratification of the shareholders--when, at the request of Mr Cornish, he stood up and gave a detailed and graphic account of the prospects of the mine; telling them that the appearance of the lodes in several parts of the mine was very promising indeed, and that some ground was returning a rich harvest for the labour that had been bestowed on it; that in the 105, which was driving north by six men, they had taken down the copper for fourteen fathoms long, nearly the whole of which had turned out to be worth 100 pounds per fathom; that a splice had been formed in the lode about two fathoms behind the present end, which had disordered it, but he was glad to say it was again improving, and was at that time about fifteen inches wide of rich copper, and, as far as he could judge, they were going through to the top part of the "bunch" of copper; that these facts, he thought, were very satisfactory, but that it was still more gratifying to know that the lode on the bottom of the 105 was far more valuable than that in the back; that in the "Crowns," especially in the various levels under the sea, the lodes were not only "promising," but performing great things, two men and a boy (he referred to Maggot, Trevarrow, and Zackey here) having broken an immense quantity of copper during the last quarter, which was paying splendidly. At this point, Mr Grenfell, who sat on Mr Cornish's right hand, exclaimed, "Hear! hear!" and a little bald-headed man, with a red nose and blue spectacles, near the foot of the table, echoed "Hear!" with genuine enthusiasm (for he had been bordering on bankruptcy for some months past), and swigged off a full glass of punch without winking. Thus encouraged, Captain Dan went on to remark that there were six men driving in Wheal Hazzard (which statement caused a "stranger" who chanced to be at the dinner to observe, in an undertone, that he was not aware they had horses or vehicles of any kind in the mines!), that one cross-cut was also being driven, and three winzes were sinking, and one rise--several of which were opening up tin of first-rate quality, while in the Narrow shaft, Chicornish, Higher Mine, and Wheal Cock, a great deal to the same effect was being done--all of which we leave to the imagination of the reader, merely remarking that however incomprehensible these things may appear to him (or her), they created feelings of profound joy in the assembled guests, especially in the breast of the almost bankrupt one with the bald, red, and blue headpiece. Mr Cornish afterwards congratulated the adventurers on the success of the mine, and the splendid prospects which were opening up to them-- prospects which, he had no doubt, would be fully realised ere long. He referred also to the condition of the miners of the neighbourhood, and alluded to the fact that the neighbouring mines, Wheal Owles and Levant, were also in a flourishing condition; a matter, he said, for which they had reason to be profoundly thankful, for the distress in the district had been severe and prolonged. The manager's voice deepened at this point, and he spoke with pathos, for he had a kindly heart, and his thoughts were at the moment with many a poor miner, in whose little cottages the effects of gaunt poverty could be traced in scanty furniture, meagre fare, and careworn brows. He remembered, too, that only the week before he had seen poor blind John Batten carried to his grave, and had heard the sobs of the bereaved widow, as she attempted to tell him how the brave man had forgotten himself to the very last, when he put his wasted hand on her head, and said, "I'm goin' to leave thee, Mary, for a time; but cheer up, dear lass, I'll be with Jesus soon, an' have my sight restored, and look wance more 'pon the faces of the dear boys, an' 'pon your own sweet face too, dear lass, when we meet again in heaven." There was one of the miners and shareholders of Botallack who did not die, but who lived to enjoy the fruit of his labour and the sunshine of prosperity. James Penrose recovered--not only his health, but also, in some degree, his sight. One of his eyes had indeed been entirely destroyed by the explosion which had so nearly killed him, but the other was partially restored. A long period elapsed, however, ere he was able to go about. Then he found his circumstances so much improved that it was not necessary to resume work underground. Botallack, in which all his savings had been invested, continued steadily to improve, and from the income derived from this source alone he was enabled to live without labouring. But Penrose was not the man to sit down in idleness. Wesley never had a more earnest follower than this miner of St. Just. Thenceforth he devoted himself to preaching, teaching, and doing good as his hand found opportunity, and, being an active man as well as conscientious, he laboured to the end of his days in the service of his Lord more energetically than he had ever toiled in the mines. Penrose and David Trevarrow had always been staunch friends. After the accident to the former, they became more closely united than before. Trevarrow did not give up underground work; he possessed no shares in any of the mines, but, in common with the rest of the mining community, he benefited by the sunshine of prosperity that became so bright at that period, and found leisure, when above ground, to join his friend in his labours of love. They both agreed to make an earnest effort to convince Maggot and John Cock of the error of their ways--with what amount of success it is not easy to state, for these worthies were made of stubborn metal, that required a furnace of unusually fierce heat to melt it. However, we are warranted in concluding that some good was done, from the fact that both of them gave up smuggling, and, in various other ways, showed indication of an improved state of mind. Maggot especially gave a signal and unexpected proof of a softened spirit, when, one Sunday morning, as he was getting ready for chapel, he said to his wife that it was "high time to send that little chucklehead the baby to Sunday school, for he was no better than a small heathen!" The "baby," be it observed, was about six years old at the time when this speech was made, and his _protege_ the "chet" was a great-grandmother, with innumerable chets of her own. It is right to add that, in accordance with this opinion of his father, the baby was carried off to school that very morning by Zackey and Grace, the first having grown to be a strapping youth, and the other a lovely girl, for whose sake there were scores of young miners in St. Just who would gladly have walked ten miles on their bare knees, or dived head foremost into Wheal Hazzard shaft, or jumped over the cliffs into Zawn Buzzangein, or done any other insane act or desperate deed, if, by so doing, they could have caused one thrill of pleasure to pass through her dear little heart! It is not necessary, we should think, to say that in the midst of so much sunshine Oliver Trembath and Rose Ellis thought it advisable to "make hay." Old Mr Donnithorne and his excellent wife (of whose goodness and wisdom, by the way, he became more and more convinced every day of his life) saw no objection whatever to this hay-making--so the young couple were wed at the Wesleyan Chapel of St. Just--Charlie Tregarthen, of course, being groomsman--and the only vehicle in the town was hired to drive them over to Penberth Cove and bliss! As to George Augustus Clearemout, Esquire--that able managing director, despite his ducking at St. Just, continued to fill his chair and to fulfil his destiny in the airy little street in London, where, for many years, he represented Wheal Dooem, and "did" a too confiding public. In this work he was ably assisted by Secretary Jack Muddle, who became quite celebrated as a clear expounder and explainer of veins, lodes, ores, cross-cuts, shafts, levels, winzes, minerals, metals, and mines-- insomuch that he was regarded by many of the confiding public who frequented his office as a more thoroughly learned and scientific man than George Augustus himself. It is interesting, how ever, to have to record the curious fact that the too confiding public changed their opinion at last on this head, and came to regard Secretary Jack as a humbug, and the managing director as a scoundrel. Unfortunately this change of opinion did not take place until the whole of the too confiding public (the T.C.P., as Clearemout styled them) had lost large sums of money, and a few of them become bankrupt. When affairs had reached this crisis, one of the T.C.P.--an irascible old gentleman, whose fiery nature seemed to have singed all the hair off his head, leaving it completely bald--went down to Cornwall in a passion to sift the thing for himself. There he found the Great Wheal Dooem pump-engine going full swing, day and night, under the superintendence of one man, while the vast works underground (on which depended the "enormous" dividends promised to and expected by the T.C.P.) were carried on by another man and a boy. On making this discovery the fiery old gentleman with the denuded head left Cornwall--still in a passion--and exploded in the face of a meeting of the members of the T.C.P., who immediately exploded in each other's faces, and appointed an indignation committee to go and explode, with unexampled fury, in the faces of the managing director and Secretary Jack. But these knowing gentlemen, being aware that the explosion was coming, had wisely betaken themselves to the retirement and seclusion of the Continent. Without troubling the reader with further particulars, we may say, in conclusion, that the result was the stoppage of Wheal Dooem mining operations, and the summary dismissal of the two men and the boy. At the present day the ruins of that great concern may be seen standing on the wild sea-cliffs of west Cornwall, solitary, gaunt, and grey, with the iron "bob" of the pump-engine motionless and pointing up obliquely to the sky, as if the giant arm of the mine were upraised to protest for ever against the villainy and the too confiding folly that had left it standing there--a monument of wasted and misdirected energy--a caution to all speculators--a deserted mine--in the language of miners, a "knacked bal." There are many such "knacked bals" in Cornwall, with their iron "bobs"-- horizontal, depressed, or raised aloft, according to the attitude in which they expired--holding forth similar firm, silent, and perpetual protests and cautions. Many Wheal Dooems (which having accomplished their ends may now be termed Wheal Donems) are to be seen all over the country on gorse-clad hills and on bold headlands; but, alongside of these, may be seen their venerable ancestors, still alive and working; subject, indeed, at times, to fits of depression, when, as their indomitable and unconquerable managers will tell you, "the price of tin is low," and subject also to seasons of revival, when they are getting a "little better price for tin," but still working on with untiring persistency whether the price of tin be high or low. Chief among these, our chosen type, Botallack, may be seen bristling on the grey cliffs of the "far west" with the Atlantic winds and spray revelling amongst its machinery, and the thunder of its stamps giving constant token that hundreds of stout-hearted, strong-limbed Cornishmen are still hewing out tin and copper from its gloomy depths, as they did in days gone by, and as they will, doubtless, continue to do in time to come--steadily, sternly, manfully doing their work of sinking and extending the mine deeper down under the sod and further out under the sea. THE END. 
33615	----	Three Young Ranchmen Or, Daring Adventures in the Great West By Captain Ralph Bonehill Author of "A Sailor Boy with Dewey," "For the Liberty of Texas," "The Young Bandmaster," etc. Illustrated New York and Boston H. M. Caldwell Company Publishers _Copyright, 1901_ By The Saalfield Publishing Company [Illustration: HORSE AND YOUTH WENT PLUNGING HEADLONG.] PREFACE "Three Young Ranchmen" relates the adventures of three brothers, Allen, Chetwood and Paul Winthrop, who are left to shift for themselves upon a lonely ranch home situated in the mountainous region of the beautiful State of Idaho, near one of the numerous branches of the Salmon River. The lads, although sturdy and brave, have no easy time making a living, and among other troubles, they are visited by horse thieves, and also by a crafty prospector who wishes to take their claim away from them. In the meantime an uncle of the lads has gone off to visit the city, and he disappears entirely, adding to the complexity of the situation. What the boys did to straighten out the trouble is told in the chapters which follow. In writing this story I have tried to give my boy readers a fair idea of life on a ranch of to-day, as well as of life in the wild mountains of Idaho, with some idea of the ranch hands and miners to be met with in these localities. The tale has been drawn as true to nature as possible, and I trust its reading will prove both entertaining and useful. CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. AN UNPLEASANT DISCOVERY CHAPTER II. ALLEN ON THE TRAIL CHAPTER III. A DANGEROUS SITUATION CHAPTER IV. THE MAN IN THE SINK HOLE CHAPTER V. GOOD CAUSE FOR ALARM CHAPTER VI. FROM ONE PERIL TO ANOTHER CHAPTER VII. THE CAVE IN THE MOUNTAIN CHAPTER VIII. INTO A SNAKE'S NEST CHAPTER IX. A VISITOR AT THE RANCH CHAPTER X. THE CAPTAIN'S SETBACK CHAPTER XI. IKE WATSON'S ARRIVAL CHAPTER XII. THE BOYS TALK IT OVER CHAPTER XIII. CAUGHT IN A CYCLONE CHAPTER XIV. ANOTHER SURPRISE CHAPTER XV. AT DOTTERY'S RANCH CHAPTER XVI. AN ENCOUNTER IN THE DARK CHAPTER XVII. SOMETHING ABOUT A LETTER CHAPTER XVIII. ALLEN CHANGES HIS PLANS CHAPTER XIX. ALONG THE WATER COURSE CHAPTER XX. MOVING AGAINST CAPTAIN GRADY CHAPTER XXI. SHOOTING A GRIZZLY BEAR CHAPTER XXII. AN IMPORTANT CAPTURE CHAPTER XXIII. NEWS OF IMPORTANCE CHAPTER XXIV. SOMETHING ABOUT BARNABY WINTHROP CHAPTER XXV. FIGHTING A WOLVERINE CHAPTER XXVI. DISAPPEARANCE OF SLAVIN CHAPTER XXVII. ALLEN SHOWS HIS BRAVERY CHAPTER XXVIII. A BUFFALO STAMPEDE CHAPTER XXIX. THE LONG LOST FOUND CHAPTER XXX. TOGETHER AT LAST--CONCLUSION ILLUSTRATIONS HORSE AND YOUTH WENT PLUNGING HEADLONG THE MAN CAUGHT THE END OF THE GUN VAINLY HE PUT OUT HIS HANDS TO STAY HIS PROGRESS HOLDING THE SNAKE, HE LEAPED OUT OF THE CIRCLE OF REPTILES THE THREE YOUNG RANCHMEN TALKED IT OVER THREE YOUNG RANCHMEN CHAPTER I. An Unpleasant Discovery "When do you think Allen will be back, Paul?" "He ought to be back by two or three o'clock, Chet. His horse was fresh, and the roads are very good just now." "I hope he brings good news, don't you? I am tired of waiting here." "We will have to content ourselves on the ranch another year, I am afraid. Father left matters in a very unsettled condition, and what has become of Uncle Barnaby the world only knows." "I don't care so much about the dullness--I like to hunt and fish and round up the cattle just as well as any one--but what I'm complaining of is the uncertainty of the way things are going to turn. For all we know, we may be cast adrift, as the saying goes, any day." "That is true, although I imagine our title to the ranch is O. K. If those title papers hadn't been burned up when one end of the house took fire I wouldn't worry a bit." "Neither would I. But we all know what Captain Grady is--the meanest man that ever drew the breath of life--and if he once learns that we haven't the papers he'll be down on us quicker than a grizzly bear in the spring." "Well, we won't let him know that the papers have been burned up. We will continue to bluff him off." "We can't bluff him forever. To my mind----" The boy broke off short, and coming to a halt, pointed with his disengaged hand toward the barn. "Did you leave that door unlocked?" he went on. "Certainly I didn't. Who opened it? Perhaps Allen is back." "And perhaps there are horse thieves around!" was the quick reply. "Come on." Without a word more the two boys dropped their burdens and started for the structure in which the horse belonging to each had been stabled. The boys were Chetwood and Paul Winthrop, two brothers, tall, well-built, and handsome. The face of each was browned by exposure, and showed the perfect health that only a life in the open can give. Chet and Paul lived with their elder brother Allen at a typical ranch home in Idaho, on one of the numerous branches of the winding Salmon River. The home was a rude but comfortable affair, with several outbuildings close at hand, the whole surrounded by a rude but substantial stockade, a relic of the time when troubles with the Indians were numerous. It was a warm, sunshiny day in August, and the two boys had been down to the river fishing at a favorite deep hole near the roots of a clump of cottonwood trees. Each had a nice mess of fish strung on a brush branch, showing that their quest of game had not been a vain one. For three years the three Winthrop boys had lived alone at the ranch home. Their former history was a peculiar one, the particulars of which will be given later. Just now we will follow Chet and Paul to the barn, the door to which stood half open. "Gone!" The single word burst from the lips of both simultaneously. It was enough, for it told the whole story. Their two animals, Jasper and Rush, had vanished. "Thieves, as sure as fate!" ejaculated Paul, gazing rapidly on all sides. "See how the lock has been broken open." "And they have taken all the extra harness as well," added Chet, his black eyes snapping angrily. "I wonder how long ago this happened." "There's no telling, Chet. Let's see--we went off about eight o'clock, didn't we?" "Yes." "Then the rascals have had nearly four hours in which to do their dirty work. By this time they are probably miles away. This is the worst luck of all." "You are not going to sit down and suck your thumb, are you, Paul?" questioned the younger brother, quickly. "Not if we can do anything. But we are tied fast here,--we can't follow on foot,--they knew that when they came to rob us." "Have you any idea who the thieves can be?" "Most likely a remnant of that old gang from Jordan Creek. I knew they would spring up again, even after Sol Davids was lynched. Let us take a look around, and see if we can't find some clew to their identity." "If only Allen would come----" "Fire off your gun. If he is in hearing that will hasten his movements." Thus directed, Chet hastened outside, and running to the house, quickly brought forth his double-barreled shotgun. Two reports rent the air a second later, and then the youth returned with the still smoking firearm to the barn. "Have you found anything?" he asked. "Here is a strap that doesn't belong to our outfit," replied Paul. "But it's only a common affair that might belong to any one." "And here is a silver cross!" cried Chet, as he sprang forward to pick up the object. The article which Chet had found embedded in the dirt flooring of the barn was really of silver, but so unpolished that it did not shine. It was not over an inch in length and height, with a round hole directly in the center. At the four corners of the cross were the letters D A F G. "What do you make of it?" asked Paul, impatiently, as he bent over to examine the object as it lay in his younger brother's palm. "Nothing. It's a silver cross with letters on it; that's all. I never saw one like it before." "Is there no name on the back?" Quickly the cross was turned over. There, dug into the metal, as if with a jackknife, were the letters S. M. "S. M.," said Chet, slowly. "Who can they stand for?" "Sam somebody, I suppose," replied Paul. "I reckon there are a good many folks in Idaho with the initials S. M." "That is true, too, but it's not likely many of them are mean enough to turn horse thieves." Chet surveyed the cross for a few seconds longer. Then he rammed it into his pocket and went on with the search, and Paul followed suit. But their further efforts remained unrewarded. Not another thing of value was brought to light. They were on the point of giving up when a clatter of hoofs was heard outside on the rocks leading from the trail back to the willows and cottonwoods. "There is Allen now!" cried Paul, joyfully. "Hi, Allen! This way, quick!" he added, elevating his voice. "All right, Paul, my boy!" came in a cheery voice from the elder of the Winthrops, as he dashed up on his faithful mare. "What's wanted?" "The horses have been stolen!" "Phew!" It was a low and significant whistle that Allen Winthrop emitted, and the pleasant look on his fine features gave way to one of deep concern. "Stolen!" he said at last. "When? By whom?" "We don't know," replied Paul. "We just got back from the river a few minutes ago and found the barn door broken open and both horses gone." "And no clew?" "We found this." Allen Winthrop caught up the silver cross quickly and gazed at it for the fraction of a minute. Then he muttered something under his breath. "Did you ever see this cross before?" asked Paul. "No, but I have heard father tell of it," was the answer. "It is the cross the old Sol Davids gang used to wear. Do you see those letters--D A F G? They stand for 'Dare All For Gold.' That was the gang's motto, and they never hesitated to carry it out." "Then we were right in thinking that the horse thieves might be some left-overs from the old gang," observed Paul. "Yes they are most likely of the same old crowd," said Allen. "The hanging of old Sol did not drive them out of this district." "But what of the initials S. M.?" asked Chet. "I never heard of any horse thief that those would fit." "We'll find out about that when we run the thieves down," said Allen. "You say you discovered the robbery but a short while since?" "Less than a quarter of an hour ago." "Have you been up to the house?" "I went for my gun," began Chet. "I wonder if it were possible----" he commenced, and then meeting his older brother's eyes stopped short. Not one of the trio said more just then. All made a wild dash from the barn to the house. They burst into the living room of the latter like a cyclone. "It looks all right," began Paul. "But it isn't all right," burst out Chet. "See the side window has been forced open!" Allen said nothing, having passed into one of the sleeping rooms. He began to rummage around the apartment, into the closet and the trunks. "By gracious!" he burst out presently. "What's up?" questioned his two brothers in a breath. "It's gone!" "Gone?" "Yes, every dollar is gone!" groaned Allen. He referred to three bags which had contained silver and gold to the amount of seven hundred dollars--the Winthrop savings for several years. Paul and Chet gave a groan. Something like a lump arose in the throat of the younger youth, but he cleared it away with a cough. "The mean, contemptible scoundrels!" burst out Paul. "We must get after them somehow!" "I'll go after them," replied Allen, with swift determination. "Give me my rifle. I already have my pistol." "You are not going alone, are you?" demanded Paul. "I'll have to. There is only my mare to be had." "It's foolhardy, Allen," urged Chet. "What could one fellow do against two or more? They would knock you over at the first chance." "I won't give them the first chance," grimly replied Allen, as he ran for his rifle. "As they used to say when father was young, I'll shoot first and talk afterward." "Can't two of us ride on the mare?" asked Paul. "I am not so very heavy." The older brother shook his head. "It can't be done, Paul; not with her all tired out after her morning's jaunt. No, I'll go alone. Perhaps the trail will lead past some other ranch and then I'll call on the neighbors for help." "Can you follow the trail?" "I reckon I can; leastwise I can try. I won't lose it unless they take to the rocks and leave the river entirely, and it ain't likely they'll do that." Chet and Paul shook their heads. To them it seemed dangerous, and so it was. But it was no use arguing with Allen when he had once made up his mind, so they let him have his own way. Three minutes later Allen was off on the trail of the horse thieves. CHAPTER II. Allen on the Trail Although Allen Winthrop was but a young man in years, yet the fact that he had had the care of the family on his shoulders since the death of his parents had tended to make him older in experience and give him the courage to face whatever arose before him in the path of duty. He was four years older than Chet and two years the senior of Paul, and the others had always looked upon him as a guiding spirit in all undertakings. Consequently but little was said by way of opposition when Allen determined to go after the thieves alone, but nevertheless the hearts of both the younger brothers were filled with anxiety when they saw Allen disappear on the back of his mare up the trail that led to the southwest. "It's too bad that we can't accompany him," was the way Chet expressed himself. "I'd give all I possess for a good horse just now." "All you possess isn't much, seeing we've all been cleaned out," replied Paul, with a trace of grim humor he did not really feel. "But I, too, wish I had a horse and could go along." "Still, somebody ought to stay on the ranch," went on Chet, "we might have more unprofitable visitors." "It's not likely that the gang will dare to show themselves in this vicinity again in a hurry. Like as not they'll steer for Deadwood, sell the horses, and then spend their ill-gotten gains around the gambling saloons. That is their usual style. They can't content themselves in the mountains or on the plains as long as they have the dust in their pockets." After Allen had disappeared the two boys locked up the barn as well as was possible, using a wooden pin in lieu of the padlock that had been forced asunder, and then went back to the house. Chet brought in the string of fish and threw them in a big tin basin. "I suppose I might as well fry a couple of these," he observed; "though, to tell the truth, I am not a bit hungry." "I, too, have lost my appetite," replied Paul. "But we must eat, and dinner will help pass away the time. I reckon there is no telling when Allen will be back." "No. I don't care much, if he only keeps from getting into serious trouble." In the meantime Allen had passed down the trail until the buildings of the ranch were left far behind. He knew the way well, and had no difficulty in finding the tracks--new ones--made by the hoofs of four horses. "As long as they remain as fresh as they are now it will be easy enough to follow them," was the mental conclusion which he reached, as he urged forward his tired mare in a way that showed his fondness for the animal and his disinclination to make her do more than could fairly be expected. The belt of cottonwood was soon passed, and Allen emerged upon the bank of a small brook which flowed into the river at a point nearly half a mile further on. He examined the wet bank of the brook minutely and came to the conclusion that here the horse thieves had stopped the animals for a drink. "I imagine they came a long distance to get here," he thought, "and that means they will go a long way before they settle down for the night. Heigh-ho! I have a long and difficult search before me." The brook had been forded, and Allen crossed over likewise, and five minutes later reached a bit of rolling land dotted here and there with sage and other brush. Allen wondered if the trail would lead to Gold Fork, as the little mining town at the foot of the mountains was called. "If they went that way I will have no trouble in getting help to run them down," he said to himself. "I can get Ike Watson and Mat Prigley, who will go willingly, and there is no better man to take hold of this sort of thing than Ike Watson." Mile after mile was passed, and the trail remained as plain as before. "It looks as if they didn't anticipate being followed," was the way Allen figured it, but he soon found out his mistake, when, on coming around a rocky spur of ground, the trail suddenly vanished. The young ranchman came to a halt in some dismay, and a look of perplexity quickly stole over his face. He looked to the right and the left, and ahead, but all to no purpose. The trail was gone. "Here's a state of things," he murmured as he continued to gaze around. "Where in the land of goodness has it gone to? They couldn't have taken wings and flown away." Allen spent all of a quarter of an hour on the rocky spur. Then on a venture he moved forward over the bare rocks, feeling pretty certain that it was the only way they could have gone without leaving tracks behind them. He calculated that he had traveled nearly ten miles. His mare showed signs of being tired, and he spoke to her more kindly than ever. "It won't do, Lilly," he said, patting her soft neck affectionately. "We have got to get through somehow or other. You must brace up and when it is all over you can take the best kind of a long resting spell." And the faithful animal laid back her ears and appeared to understand every word he said to her. She was a most knowing creature, and Allen would have gone wild had she been one of those stolen. The barren, rocky way lasted for upward of half a mile, and came to an end in a slight decline covered with rich grass and more brush. Allen looked about him eagerly. "Hurrah! there is the trail, true enough!" he cried, as the well understood marks in the growth beneath his feet met his gaze. "That was a lucky chance I took. On, Lilly, and we'll have Jasper and Rush back before nightfall, or know the reason why." Away flew the mare once more over the plain that stretched before her for several miles. Beyond were the mountains, covered with a purplish haze. The vicinity of the mountains was gained at last, and now, more than tired, the mare dropped into a walk as the first upward slope was struck. Hardly had she done so than Allen saw something that made his heart jump. It was a man, and he was riding Chet's horse! CHAPTER III. A Dangerous Situation It was not possible for Allen Winthrop to make any mistake regarding the animal the man on the mountain trail was riding. Too often had he ridden on Rush's back, and too well did he know the sturdy little horse's characteristics. But the man was a stranger to the young ranchman, and he could not even remember having seen the rascal's face before. "Stop!" called out Allen, as he struck Lilly to urge her on. "Stop! Do you hear me?" The man caught the words and wheeled about quickly. He was evidently much disturbed by the encounter. He had been looking ahead, and had known nothing of Allen's approach. "Stop, do you hear?" repeated Allen. "Wot do yer want?" was the surly response, but the speaker did not draw rein in the least. "I want you to stop!" exclaimed Allen, growing excited. "That horse belongs to my brother!" "Reckon you air mistaken, stranger," was the cool reply. "This air hoss is mine." This unexpected reply staggered Allen. He had expected the man to either show fight or take to his heels. It was plainly evident that the fellow intended, if possible, to bluff him off. "Your horse? Not much! Whoa, Rush, old boy!" Commanded by that familiar tongue, the horse came to a halt that was so sudden it nearly pitched the rider out of his saddle. He muttered something under his breath, straightened up and gave the reins a vicious yank that made Rush rear up in resentment. "See here, youngster, keep your parley to yourself!" howled the man, scowling at Allen. "I will--after you get down and turn that nag over to me," rejoined Allen, as coolly as he could, although he was in an exceedingly high state of suppressed excitement. "And whyfore should I turn him over to you, seein' as how he belongs to me?" growled the man, as brazenly as he could. "You stole that horse from our barn not four hours ago," retorted Allen. "I will waste no more words with you. Get down or take the consequences." As he concluded the youth unslung his rifle in a suggestive manner. He had lived out in those wilds long enough to know that to trifle in such a case as this would be sheer foolishness. "You're a hot-headed youngster, tew say the least," was the reply, and as he spoke the man scowled more viciously than ever. The sight of the ready rifle in Allen's hands was not at all to his liking. He made a movement toward his pistols, but a second glance at the youth made him change his mind. "I said I would waste no more words with you," repeated Allen. "Get down!" "But see here, youngster----" "Get down!" And up came the rifle in a motion that caused the man to start back in terror. "There must be a mistake somewhar," he said, slowly, as soon as he could recover. "My pard turned this critter over to me, and I reckoned it war all right." "There is where you reckoned wrong. Are you going to get down now or not?" "Supposin' we talk it over with my pard first? Thar he is now." The man pointed to the trail behind Allen. His manner was so natural that for the instant the young ranchman was deceived. He looked about. With a dash and a clatter the horse thief urged Rush on, digging his spurs deep into the little horse's flesh. As he did so he dropped partly under the horse's neck, thus to shield himself from a chance shot, should it be taken. But, although astonished and angered at being so easily duped, Allen did not fire. Rush was moving along over the rocks too rapidly for him to take the risk of killing his brother's favorite beast. Besides, only a small portion of the rider could be seen at one time. "I'll follow him until I get a better chance," he thought, and he cried to Lilly to follow in pursuit. Once again the gallant mare responded, although she was now thoroughly jaded. Up the rocks they went, and around numerous bends, the clatter ahead telling plainly that the race was about even for pursued and pursuer. "I must be on my guard or that fellow may play me foul," thought Allen. "He looks like a most desperate character, and he knows well enough what capture by the law-abiding folks of this State means. They would lynch him in a minute." Allen wondered what had become of the other thieves and the horse Jasper. Surely they could not be far away. "Perhaps that fellow is trying to reach the others, who may have gone on ahead," he speculated mentally. "If he reaches them it will be so much the worse for me, for I can never fight two or more among these rocks and bushes. On Lilly. We must run him down at once!" But the little mare could be urged no longer. She had reached her limit, and went forward with a doggedness that was pitiful to behold. In five minutes Allen heard the clatter ahead drawing away from him. Soon it ceased entirely. But he did not give up. It was not in his nature to surrender a cause so long as one spark of hope of success remained. The mountain trail now led downward for a few hundred yards, and then wound through a rocky pass, dark and forbidding. Allen kept watch on either side for a possible ambush, but none presented itself. "He has gone on, that is certain," he thought. "I rather guess he thinks to tire me out, knowing the condition my mare is in; but if he thinks that he is mistaken. I'll follow, if I have to do it on foot." At last the trail left the rocky pass and came out upon some shelving rocks overlooking a deep canyon, at the bottom of which sparkled the swift-running stream. Here a rude bridge led to the other side, a bridge composed of slender trees and rough-hewn planks. Without hesitation, Allen rode upon the bridge. As he did so a derisive laugh resounded from the other side of the canyon, and he saw the man he was after and two others ride into view. Then, before he could turn back, Allen felt the bridge sagging beneath him. Suddenly it parted in the center, and horse and youth went plunging headlong toward the waters far beneath. CHAPTER IV. The Man in the Sink Hole We will now return to the ranch and see how Chet and Paul were faring during their elder brother's absence. Chet took the string of fish, and selecting two, began to clean them. He was used to the work, and did it with a dexterity and quickness that could not have been excelled. Ever since his mother had died it had fallen upon Chet's young shoulders to do the culinary work about the ranch home. While Chet was thus engaged Paul busied himself in looking over the shotguns, cleaning and oiling them and then loading up. The fish cooked, Chet set the table, putting on three plates, although he himself was almost certain Allen would not come back in time for the meal. "It's queer, I've been thinking," remarked Paul, during the progress of the meal, "Allen said nothing about the result of his morning trip." "He was too excited over the theft of the horses to think of anything else, I reckon," was the reply Chet made. "It was enough to upset any one's mind." "At least he might have said if he had heard from Uncle Barnaby," grumbled Paul. "More particularly, as we were just dying to know." "I imagine if he had heard he would have said so and left us the letter, Paul. Allen knows as well as you or I how anxious we really were." "It's queer the way Uncle Barnaby disappeared," mused Paul, as he mashed the potatoes on his plate with a fork. "One would not think a man could go to San Francisco and disappear forever." "He might if he went to Chinatown and got sandbagged or something like that." "Oh, you don't really think such a thing would happen?" "It might. Uncle was a great hand to see the sights, and also to make a show of his money, and the Chinese in San Francisco are, many of them, a bloodthirsty set." "Do you really believe he discovered the rich mine he talked about?" "He discovered something, that is certain. And he had faith enough in it to go to San Francisco in the hope of starting a company to develop the claim." It was in this strain that the two boys talked on until long after the meal was finished, and while they are conversing let us take a brief glance at their former history. As I have said, the three brothers were orphans, their parents having died several years before. The ranch had belonged to their father, who had willed it to his three sons equally, and as none of them were yet of age, he had appointed his brother, Barnaby, his executor. Barnaby Winthrop was an old prospector, who had spent a life among the hills, prospecting for gold and silver. As has been said, he was a peculiar man, but warm and generous hearted to the last degree. As there was really little to do at the ranch but look after the cattle, the uncle had left the place in charge of the three boys and continued month in and month out ranging over the hills and among the mountains in search of the precious metal which lay hidden beneath the surface. One day Uncle Barnaby had staggered into the house, weak and hungry. He had made a perilous trip up to a point theretofore considered unattainable. He announced that he had at last struck a mining spot that if properly worked would prove a bonanza. He refused to state the exact location and announced his intention of going at once to San Francisco to organize a company to open up a mine. He started apparently in the best of health, and although he had been gone now a number of months, and they had been anxiously awaiting his reappearance, they had seen or heard nothing of him. During this period the boys had had considerable trouble at home, which had occupied their attention. At the start some of the cattle had gone astray, and it had taken a ten days' hunt over the long range to find them. Then had come Captain Hank Grady, who had sought in various ways to get possession of the ranch, stating that their father had borrowed money from him and that it had not been paid back. The captain was known to be both mean and unscrupulous, and all of the boys doubted very much if he spoke the truth. But they had expected much more trouble from him before the end was reached, and they were destined not to be disappointed. Captain Grady knew the value of the ranch, even if the boys did not, and he meant to gain possession of it, if not by fair means, then by foul. "We'll have to take a look for the cattle this afternoon," said Paul, some time after the conversation concerning Uncle Barnaby came to a close. "We don't want any of them to get in the sink hole again." "That's so; we'll start at once, and we'll see to it that we lock up good," laughed Chet. "No more thieves wanted." The house was soon tidied up, and then, after closing up everything well and setting an alarm to scare away any newcomer, Chet and Paul set out on foot over the rolling land which led from the river. Half a mile beyond the rolling land was a nasty bit of spongy soil known as the sink hole. Not unfrequently the cattle would stray in this direction and more than one had sunk to death in the mire. "Some cattle around there now!" cried Paul, as they drew close to the spot. "It's lucky we came this way." "Go to the westward of them," said Chet. "We can drive them----" Chet broke off short, for just then a piercing cry rang in their ears: "Help! help! For the sake of heaven, help!" Chet and Paul were thrilled to the heart to hear that wild, agonizing cry for assistance which rang out so clearly on the afternoon air. Plainly a human being was in distress, and needed immediate assistance. They looked around, but for several seconds saw nothing. Then the cry rang out again, more sharply, more pitiably than ever. "Help! help! Save me from death!" "Do you see him?" demanded Paul, breathlessly. "No, I do not," rejoined Chet. "But he must be near. Did not the cry come from over there?" pointing with his finger to the right. "I believe it did. Come on!" Paul set off on a run around the edge of the sink hole, which was all of several hundred feet in diameter. Close behind him came Chet, wondering who the man could be and how they might assist him should he be beyond their reach. Two dozen steps brought them in sight of the sufferer. He was a young man and his general dress and appearance betokened that he was a stranger in those parts, and, in fact, a stranger to the wilds; a city fellow, born and bred. "Save me! Help!" cried the man for a third time. He was up to his middle in the spongy soil and sinking rapidly. "Keep up your courage; we will assist you!" shouted Paul in return. "Thank God, somebody has heard my cry!" murmured the man, gratefully. "You must be quick; I am sinking rapidly," he continued aloud. "Have you anything in the shape of a rope with you?" asked Paul of Chet. "I have not." This was a sad predicament, as the man was all of three yards from solid ground. How to get to him was a question. But it was solved by Chet, as he brought a bit of stout cord from his pocket. "Tie the two stocks of the guns together," he said. "This way; let me show you." He held the two stocks side by side, so that they overlapped each other about eight or ten inches. The cord was hastily wound about them and tied, and it was Chet who thrust one of the gun barrels toward the sinking man, while he firmly grasped the other. "Catch hold," he said. "Paul, help me land him." [Illustration: THE MAN CAUGHT THE END OF THE GUN.] The man caught the end of the gun and Paul took hold of Chet's hand. Two efforts were made, the first time the man letting the gun slip and sinking deeper than ever. But the second effort was successful, and, panting from his unusual exertion, the man reached the solid ground and fell exhausted. CHAPTER V. Good Cause for Alarm It was several minutes before the man who had been rescued from the sink hole could sit up and talk. His hat was gone, and with a dirty face and tangled, muddy hair, he presented a sorry spectacle. "I'm very thankful to you for what you have done," were his first words, accompanied by a look that told plainly he felt what he said. "I thought I was at the end of my string sure, as they say in these parts." "I allow that's a bad hole to get into," returned Chet. "I wouldn't want to get into it myself." "And may I ask to whom am I indebted for my life?" continued the man. "My name is Chetwood Winthrop, and this is my brother Paul." "I am exceedingly glad to know you, boys. My name is Noel Urner, and I am from New York. I am a stranger in Idaho, and I know nothing of such treacherous places as this--at least I did not know of them until a short while ago." And the man shuddered as the memory of his fearful experience flashed over him. "It's one of the unpleasant things of the country," responded Paul, with a little laugh. "But how came you in it?" with a glance down at the spurs on the man's boots. "I see you are looking at my spurs. Yes, I had a horse, but he is gone now." "Gone! In the sink hole?" ejaculated Chet. "No; he was stolen from me." "Stolen!" Both boys uttered the word simultaneously. "Yes. I was riding along when I came to a spot where I saw some flora which particularly interested me, for I am a botanist, although for pleasure only. I dismounted and tied my horse to a tree and climbed up to secure the specimens which were on a shelf of rock some thirty feet over my head. Soon I heard a clatter of horses' hoofs as they passed along the road. I came down with my specimens to see who the riders were, but they had already passed on, taking my horse with them." "The horse thieves!" cried Chet. And he told the man of the raid made on the ranch and how Allen had gone off in pursuit of the thieves. The reader can well imagine with what interest Noel Urner listened to the tale. "One would not believe it possible!" he exclaimed, when Chet had wound up by saying he wished Allen would lay every one of the rascals low. "I fancied horse thievery was a thing only permitted in the wildest portions of the territories." "There are horse thieves everywhere," said Paul. "Every one living for a hundred miles around has suffered during the past ten years. Sometimes we think them wiped out, and then, all of a sudden they start up again." "Well, I trust your brother gets your horses back," said Noel Urner. "It's a pity he won't know enough to take mine away from the thieves, too!" "He'll collar the thieves and all they have, if he gets half a chance, you can depend on that," said Chet. "But won't you come to our ranch with us? You can clean up there and have something to eat if you are hungry." "Thank you, I will go gladly. Possibly you can sell me a headgear of some sort too." "We can fit you out all right enough, sir." It did not take the boys long to chase the cattle away from the sink hole, and this accomplished, they set off for the ranch with Noel Urner between them. They found the young man an exceedingly bright and pleasant chap. He said he had come west two months before and had been spending over a month in San Francisco. "I came out at the invitation of an old prospector," he said. "We were to meet in San Francisco, but when I arrived there I could not find my man. He belongs somewhere in this neighborhood. His name is Barnaby Winthrop. Perhaps you have heard of him?" "Heard of him!" cried Chet. "He is our uncle!" added Paul. "Your uncle!" And now it was Noel Urner's turn to be surprised. "Yes, our uncle, and he has been missing for several months," continued Paul. "Oh, tell us what you know of him at once, for we are dying to know!" "The Barnaby Winthrop I mean had an undeveloped gold and silver mine he wished to open up." "It was our uncle, beyond the shadow of a doubt," said Chet. "Our name is Winthrop, and Uncle Barnaby is our guardian. We can prove it to you by the papers, if you wish." "I am willing to take your word, boys. But, you understand, one must be careful about speaking of mines in this section; at least I have been told so." "Yes, we know about that," returned Paul. "Many a man has lost the chance of his life by advertising his knowledge too broadly. Others would gain a clew of a mine, hunt it up, and put in a claim before the original discoverer knew what was up." "Exactly, and that is why I was slow in saying anything. But when you ask me to tell you about your uncle, I am sorry to say I know but very little, although I suspect much, now you say he has been missing so long." By this time the little party had reached the ranch house. They went inside, and despite the fact that the boys were impatient to hear what Noel Urner might have to say, they gave the young man time to wash up and make himself otherwise presentable, Chet in the meanwhile frying another fish and preparing a pot of coffee. "This is just what I wished, and no mistake," said Noel Urner, as he set to with a hearty good will. "But I am sure you are impatient to learn something of your uncle, so I will not keep you waiting. To make my story plain, I will have to tell you something of myself also. "In the first place I am a broker and speculator from New York city. I make a specialty of mining stocks, and own shares myself in half a dozen mines. "About ten weeks or so ago I heard through a friend in San Francisco that Barnaby Winthrop was trying to form a company to develop a new strike in this vicinity. I wrote to him and he sent word back that if I would come on he would prove to me that he had a big thing, well worth looking into. "I had other business west, and so at once started for San Francisco. Your uncle had given his address as the Golden Nugget House, a place I afterward learned was frequented by old-time miners and prospectors. "I made inquiries at the Nugget House for your uncle, and to my astonishment learned that he had disappeared very mysteriously one night, leaving no trace behind him." "What!" cried Paul, springing to his feet, and Chet was too astonished to speak. "I do not wonder that you are astonished. Yes, he had disappeared, leaving his valise and overcoat behind him. "I thought the matter so queer that I was on the point of notifying the police. But on calling at the post office for letters I received one from him stating that he was sorry, but he had come back to the place in question and found it not what he had anticipated, so he wouldn't bother me any more." "I don't believe he came back!" ejaculated Chet. "If he had he would have stopped at the ranch." "I agree with you." "Have you that letter?" asked Paul, his voice trembling with excitement. "I have." "I would like to see it, please." "Certainly." And Noel Urner brought forth a large flat pocketbook from which he extracted the communication in question. Paul took it to the light and examined it closely. "This is a forgery! Uncle Barnaby never wrote it." "Let me see, Paul," ejaculated Chet. He also examined the letter with as much care as his brother had displayed. There was not the slightest doubt of it. The letter was not genuine. "It's certainly a bad state of affairs," said Noel Urner. "It makes the disappearance of your uncle look decidedly bad." "It looks like foul play!" cried Paul. "Why should Uncle Barnaby leave the hotel in that fashion if all was perfectly straight?" "It's like as not some mining town rascals got hold of his secret and then put him out of the way, so that they might profit by it," said Chet. "There are plenty of fellows mean enough for that." "At first I was satisfied by the receipt of the letter," continued Noel Urner. "But the more I thought over the matter the more I became convinced that something was wrong; but in a different way from what you think. I imagined your uncle had found other speculators to go in with him and they had persuaded him to cut me off. That is why I started off, after settling my other business in California, to find your uncle and learn the truth. I was willing to lose a few weeks' time out here looking around, even if it didn't pay." "We are very glad you came and that we found you," answered Paul. "I am sorry for only one thing, that Allen is not here to meet you." "I am in no hurry to continue my journey; indeed, I do not see how I can without a horse. If you wish I will remain here until your brother returns." "You are right welcome to do that," cried Chet. "As for not having a horse, you are no worse off than ourselves, for we are without an animal of any kind, outside of the cattle." "Then, being equally bad off, we ought to make good friends," smiled Noel Urner. "I shall like staying on a ranch for a few days first rate, and you can rely on my giving you all the assistance in my power when it comes to finding out the fate of your uncle." "We can't do anything until Allen returns," sighed Paul. "Then we will hope that your brother returns speedily, and with good news." "The best news will be his return with all our horses," returned Chet. "We can do nothing without our animals." Alas! How little did both Chet and Paul dream of the terrible ordeal through which Allen was at that moment passing! CHAPTER VI. From One Peril to Another "I am lost! Nothing can save me!" Such was the agonizing thought which rushed into Allen Winthrop's mind as he felt himself plunging madly downward to the glittering waters far beneath him. It must be confessed that the otherwise brave young ranchman was fearfully frightened at the dreadful peril which confronted him. He and his faithful mare were going down, and certain death seemed inevitable. "Heaven help me!" he murmured to himself, and shutting his teeth hard, clung grimly to the saddle. Out of the sunlight into the gloom and mist below descended horse and rider. Scarcely two seconds passed and then, with a resounding splash, the animal and its living burden disappeared beneath the surface of the river and out of the sight of the rascals on the opposite side of the canyon. "That settles him," cried one of the horse thieves, grimly. "He was a fool to follow us." "Maybe he'll escape," ventured a second. "Wot! Arfter sech a plunge?" returned the first speaker, sarcastically. "Wall, hardly, ter my reckonin'." They shifted their positions on the brink of the opening, but try their best, could see nothing more of the young man or the mare. It was now growing darker rapidly, and fifteen minutes later, satisfied that Allen had really taken a fall to his death, they continued on their way. And poor Allen? Down, down, down sank the mare and her hapless rider, until the very bottom of the river was struck. The swiftly flowing tide caught both in its grasp, tumbled them over and over and sent them spinning onward. Allen's grasp on the saddle relaxed, and as it did so the young man lost consciousness. How long he remained in this state Allen never knew. When he came to he was lying among brush, partly in the water and partly out. He attempted to sit up and in doing so, slipped back beyond his depth. But the instinct of self-preservation still remained with him, and he made a frantic clutch at the brush and succeeded in pulling himself high and dry upon a grassy bank. Here he lay for several minutes exhausted. He could not think, for his head felt as if it was swimming around in a balloon. At last he began to come to himself and after a bit sat up to gaze about him. But all was dark and he could see little or nothing. He remembered the great plunge he had taken and wondered what had become of Lilly. He called her with all the strength of his enfeebled lungs, but received no response. "She must have been killed," he thought. "Poor Lilly! But had it not been for the protection her body gave me it is more than likely that my life would have been ended, too!" and he shuddered to think of his narrow escape. It was nearly half an hour before Allen felt strong enough to rise up. His head felt light, and for a while he staggered like an intoxicated man. He knew he was down in the canyon, and some distance below where the bridge had been. He wondered how he could ascend to the top of the rocks which presented themselves on the two sides. "I can't climb up in this darkness," he said half aloud. "I might slip and break my neck. I had better walk along and hunt for some natural upward slope." He started off along the river side, the top of the canyon towering nearly a hundred feet above his head as he proceeded. The opening gradually grew narrower, and with this the distance between the rocks and the water decreased, until there was hardly room left for Allen to walk. "I must have made a mistake," was the mental conclusion which he arrived at. "I should have gone up the river instead of down. The chances are that I can't go over a hundred feet further, if as far." Soon Allen came to a halt. The ground between the wall of the canyon and the water ceased just before him. Beyond the steep and bare rocks ran directly downward into the stream. "That settles it," he muttered, in great disappointment. "All this traveling for nothing. And it's getting night over head, too! It's a shame!" Allen paused to rest, for in his weak condition the walk had tired him greatly. Then he started to retrace his steps. Hardly had he taken a yard's advance, when his left foot slipped upon a round stone. He was thrown over on his side, and before he could save himself went plunging headlong into the stream! He essayed by every means in his power to regain the bank, but in vain. The current of the river was extra strong at this point--the width of the course having narrowed down--and before he could clutch the first thing he was carried to where nothing but the steep and slippery rocks presented themselves. Vainly he put out his hands to stay his progress, vainly he tried by every means in his power to obtain some sort of hold on the rocks. [Illustration: VAINLY HE PUT OUT HIS HANDS TO STAY HIS PROGRESS] And now the surface of the river grew blacker as the rocks on both sides began, seemingly, to close in over his head. He was almost tempted to cry out for help, and took a breath for that purpose, but the sound was not uttered. What would be the use? Not a soul would hear him. On and on went the young ranchman, the waters growing more cold each instant and the prospects more gloomy. He was half tempted to give himself up for lost. It was an easy matter to keep himself on the surface, for he was really a good swimmer, but now the current was so strong that he could scarcely touch either side of its rocky confines as he was swept along, he knew not where. Allen had never explored this stream, and this to him made the immediate future look blacker than ever. "If it ends in some sort of a sink hole, I'm a goner sure," he thought. "But I never heard of such a hole up here among the mountains, so I won't give up just yet." Hardly had the thought occupied his mind when, on looking up, he saw the last trace of evening fade from sight. The river had entered a cavern! He was now underground! It may well be imagined with what dismay Allen, stout-hearted as he was, viewed the turn of the situation. Here he was being borne swiftly along on an underground river, he knew not where. It was a situation calculated to chill the bravest of hearts. All was pitch black around and overhead; beneath was the silent and cold water, and the only sound that fell upon his ears was the rushing along of the stream. As well as he was able, Allen put out his hands before him, to ward off the shock of a sudden contact of any sort, for he did not know but that he might be dashed upon a jagged rock at any instant. Then he prayed earnestly for deliverance. On and on he swept, the stream several times making turns, first to one side and then to the other. Once his hand came brushing up to a series of rocks, but before he could grasp them he was hurled onward in an awful blackness. A quarter of an hour went by--a time that to the young man seemed like an age--and during that period he surmised that he must have traveled a mile or more. Then the current appeared to slacken up, and he had a feeling come over him as if the space overhead had become larger. "This must be an underground lake," he thought. "Now if I----Ah, bottom!" His thought came to a sudden termination, for his feet had touched upon a sloping rock but a few feet below the surface of the stream. The rock sloped to his right, and, moving in that direction, Allen, to his great joy, soon emerged upon a stony shore. He took several cautious steps in as many different directions and felt nothing. He was truly high and dry at last. This fact was a cheering one, but there was still a dismal enough outlook. Where was he and how would he ever be able to gain the outer world once more? CHAPTER VII. The Cave in the Mountain Allen was too exhausted to do more than move about cautiously. He felt for the edge of the stream, and then moved away from it for several yards. His hand came in contact with a dried bush and several sticks of wood, all of which had probably floated in at one time on the stream, and these at once made him think of a fire. What a relief a bit of light would be! In his life on the long range, Allen had found a watertight matchbox very useful. He felt in his pocket and found the article still safe. He opened it with fingers that trembled a little; but the matches were still dry, and in a trice one was struck and lit. He held the match under some of the driest of the brush, and had the satisfaction of seeing it blaze up. He piled the stuff up, and on top placed several heavy sticks. Soon he had a fire which blazed merrily. The light illumined the cavern, casting a ruddy glare on the rocks and the rippling water. It was a weird and uncanny scene, and he shivered involuntarily. He would have given a good deal to have been in the outer world once more. Allen saw that the river had simply widened at the spot, and that a hundred yards further on it flowed into a narrow channel, as before. Only on the side which he occupied was there anything in the shape of a shore. Opposite the rocks stood straight up, and were covered with moss and slime. "If I am to get out, it must be from this shore upward," Allen thought as he surveyed the situation. "I can never get back on the river. One could never row even a boat against that current." The shore was not more than thirty or forty feet wide. It was backed up by rocks, but Allen was glad to see that they did not present an unbroken surface. There were numerous fissures, and in one place the opening was a dozen feet in width. Selecting the brightest of the firebrands Allen, left the vicinity of the stream and started to explore this opening. He was in great hopes that it would lead upward and that he would thus be enabled to climb out of his prison--for to him that damp, dark place was nothing less. The opening was filled with loose stones, and Allen had to be careful for fear of spraining an ankle, or worse. He moved along slowly, halting every few steps to survey the scene ahead. Twenty yards distant from the entrance to the fissure Allen came to a turn to the left. Here was a narrow opening just large enough for him to pass through. Beyond was another cavern-like spot not over ten yards in width and height and of interminable length. Fearful of losing his way, Allen hesitated about advancing. But presently he plucked up courage, and, holding down his firebrand, he allowed it to burn up again and then proceeded along the chamber. The flooring was uneven and covered with loose rocks and stones. Huge stalactites hung down from overhead, and in several spots the moisture dripped down with weird hollow sounds. "I would like to know how far underground I really am," was Allen's earnest mental speculation as he came to a halt beside a tiny stream which flowed from one side of the cavern to the other. "If there was only some slope which led upward it would be more encouraging. But it's about as flat as a bit of prairie land." Allen hopped over the stream, and, assured that he could easily retrace his steps if necessary, continued on his search, his firebrand held over his head. It was a discouraging journey when the end was reached. Before him arose a solid wall not less than twenty feet in height, at which elevation the cavern appeared to continue. Allen gazed up at the wall with a hopeless look on his face. "Humph! How in the name of creation am I to climb up there?" he muttered. "It's as steep as the side of a house and twice as slippery. If I can't find some sort of stepping places I reckon I'm beaten and booked to go back to where I started from." Waving the firebrand to make it burn the brighter, Allen began to scrutinize the face of the wall before him. He started at one end, resolved that not a foot of the surface should escape him. He had traveled along some fifteen feet when he came to something that made him start back in astonishment. "Great Caesar!" Before him were a number of letters, cut in smooth rock, which was apparently quite soft. The letters read: BARNABY WINTHROP'S MINE. Allen stared at the letters on the rock as if he had not spelled out the words aright. But there was no mistake. They really read "Barnaby Winthrop's Mine." "Well, if this isn't the most wonderful discovery ever made!" ejaculated the young man, finally. "So this is the place that Uncle Barnaby talked of as being the richest claim in Idaho. I wonder how he ever found it?" While Allen stood close to the rocky wall he reached the conclusion that his uncle must have come there by the river, but whether a voluntary or involuntary passenger he could not decide. He knew Uncle Barnaby was exceedingly fearless, but was there any human being who would take the awful risk of a journey on that underground river, not knowing to where it led? "He must have been caught, just as I was," said Allen to himself, at last. "And that being so, the question is, how did he manage, after he was once here, to get _out_?" While Allen was debating this question he cast his eyes about for some means of scaling the wall. He walked along its face until the very end was reached, and there, to his joy, discovered a dozen rudely cut niches, some of them were close together and others nearly a yard apart, but, with the end of the firebrand between his teeth, he had no great difficulty in pulling himself up to the level of the flooring of the cavern above. Allen now found himself in an opening not over fifty yards square. The roofing was hardly out of reach, and the young man saw at a glance that the quartz rock was full of virgin gold and silver. It was a veritable bonanza. "A million dollars or more!" he cried, enthusiastically. "Uncle Barnaby struck it rich for once. I wonder why he don't come back and begin operations. It's queer I didn't get word from him." Allen could not help but spend some time in looking around, so fascinating was the sight of the precious metal as it shimmered here and there in the ruddy glare of the torch. His uncle would be rich indeed, and he knew that he and his brothers would not be forgotten by their generous guardian. But soon the thought of escape came back to him. Was there an opening to the outer world, or was he entombed alive? At the far end of the chamber, after a long search, Allen came to a narrow passageway, which he was compelled to enter on hands and knees. It led upward and he had great hopes that ere long he would emerge into the outer air once more. But he was doomed to disappointment. The passageway led around numerous curves, and long before the end was reached his torch went out, and he was left in total darkness. He crawled on and on, until finally he brought up against a solid wall. Much frightened, he lit a match to survey the situation. Saving in his rear, the rocks arose on all sides. But overhead was open, and up he went, very much as a sweep might climb a half-choked up chimney, up through weeds and brush and dirt. He was half smothered by the dust which filled his nose and mouth, and he was forced to keep his eyes closed for fear of being blinded. At last, after he was nearly ready to give up in despair, he felt a breath of cooling air blow over him. This was encouraging, and he commenced to climb harder than ever. Up and up he went, until suddenly opening his eyes, he found himself at the top of the hole, and looking almost directly into the face of the rising sun! CHAPTER VIII. Into a Snake's Nest "All night underground!" murmured Allen to himself as he surveyed the scene before him in intense surprise. "Heaven be thanked for my escape!" His climb had so exhausted him that for a long while he sat on the ground, unable to move. He felt both cold and hungry, but paid no heed. It was blessing enough for the time being to be safe. When he felt stronger, he began to speculate upon where he was and how far he would have to travel to reach the ranch. The face of the country looked new and strange to him. "I must mark this spot, so I can find the mine again," he thought. "Uncle Barnaby may not know of this opening." Close at hand was a tall tree, and upon this Allen cut his initials in large letters. Then he walked to all the trees in the vicinity and cut hands on them pointing to the first tree. "Now, I reckon it's all right," he said to himself. "And the next best thing is to strike out for home." Climbing the tree, Allen took his bearings as well as he was able, and then struck off as rapidly as his tired legs and sore feet would permit. He had covered perhaps half a mile when he came to a steep decline. He tried to proceed down this with care, but slipped and rolled with a crash through the brush to the bottom. It was a bad fall and hurt him not a little, but that was not the worst of it. The passage through the brush aroused half a score of snakes, some small and others a yard and over in length, and now they came after him, hissing angrily and several preparing to dart at him. It was small wonder that Allen gave a yell. He knew the reptiles were, many of them, poisonous, and he had not the first thing with which to defend himself. He leaped back to retreat, but only to find himself surrounded. No one who has never been surrounded by snakes can realize the terrible feeling which awakens in one's breast at such an experience. It is a feeling that, once realized, is never forgotten. Allen said afterward he felt as if his hair had lifted from his head and his heart had had a bath in ice water. "Great Scott!" were the words which escaped from his lips. "This is the worst yet!" He had no time to say more, for at that moment one of the snakes leaped through the air directly for his hand. He threw his hand up, caught the reptile by the tail and flung it, hissing, among its fellows. Then he essayed to leap over those in front of him. But before he could do so one wound itself around the instep of his boot. It was a poisonous snake. Allen saw that at a glance. He tried to kick it off, but missed it. Then out darted the terrible fang and up came that ugly head, with diamond-like eyes, toward the young man's knee! For one brief second Allen fancied his last hour on earth had come. A single bite from that snake and all would be over, for it would be all out of the question to get rid of the poison. But with a strength and courage born of despair he bent down, and, reaching out, caught the reptile around the neck. The bright eyes almost paralyzed his nerve, and he was compelled to turn from them in order to accomplish his purpose. Holding the snake with a grasp of iron, he leaped out of the circle of reptiles. Then he bent down and forcing the snake's head against a rock, ground it to pieces under his heel. [Illustration: HOLDING THE SNAKE HE LEAPED OUT OF THE CIRCLE OF REPTILES.] It was a highly dangerous bit of work, and when it was over the great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. To him it was as if the last few seconds had been an age. The other snakes had not followed him, but, nevertheless, he lost no time in leaving the spot on a run. Five minutes later he was nearly a quarter of a mile from the vicinity. He had gone at right angles to the course he imagined would take him back to the ranch, and now he found he must make a detour around a hill covered with cactus and other prickly plants. By this time Allen was thoroughly worn out and hungry to the last degree. Bitterly he regretted the loss of his favorite mare, Lilly. "If I had her I imagine I could strike home inside of a couple of hours," he said to himself. "But on foot it will take me until noon or longer." But there was no use to grumble, and after resting a spell the young man again started on his weary tramp through thicket and brush, over hills and through hollows. More than once he stumbled and fell, and it was all he could do at times to regain his feet. "It's no fun to be afoot on the long range," he soliloquized. "A mile seems three times as long as when on horseback." But there was no help for it; he must go on, and on he went, his feet now so sore in his wet boots that he could hardly take a regular step. As he proceeded, he looked about for something to eat, but outside of a few half-green berries, found nothing. Birds were numerous, but without firearms they were out of his reach. A less experienced person than Allen would have been much frightened by the solitude and loneliness. But the young ranchman was accustomed to being out alone for days at a time, and he did not mind it. He wished to get home more for bodily comforts than aught else. At last, when Allen was beginning to congratulate himself that the roughest portion of the journey would soon be over he came face to face with a most unexpected difficulty. Emerging from a thicket, he found himself at the very brink of a gully all of ten feet wide and of great depth. "Humph!" he muttered, as he came to a halt. "I can't jump that. How am I to get over?" This question was not easy to answer. Looking up and down the opening, no bridge, either natural or artificial, was presented to view. "I'll have to cut a pole and use that," he thought. "There is no use to tramp up and down looking for a spot to cross." His pocketknife was still safe, and he drew it out and went to work with a will on a sapling growing some distance from the gully's edge. The sapling had just been laid low and Allen was on the point of dragging it away when sounds broke upon his ear that filled him with surprise. He heard human voices, and one of them was that of a man he had encountered on the road, the fellow who had been riding Chet's horse! "I reckon you have missed the road, Saul," said the man in a disgusted tone. "No, I ain't missed nuthin'," was the reply. "So don't you go for to croak so much, Darry." "Well, we don't appear to be makin' much headway," growled the fellow addressed as Darry. "We'll come out all right, never fear. It's this yere blamed gully bothers me. We might git over afoot, but we can't cross it on the hosses." Allen crouched back behind a bush, and a moment later the two men appeared in the opening near the gully. The fellow called Darry still rode Chet's horse, while he addressed as Saul was astride of Paul's animal. Behind the pair came a tall negro, riding a mustang and leading two others, little animals looking much the worse for constant and hard usage. "Dis yere ditch doan' seem ter git no narrower, nohow," said the colored man, with a good-natured grin. "I dun racken we might as well build a bridge an done with it." "By the boots, but I reckon Jeff is about half right," cried Darry. "This split may last clear across the hill." "It's not so easy to build a bridge," grumbled he called Saul, who appeared to be the leader of the trio. "We ain't got no axes." "Well, I move we take a rest, anyway," said Darry. "I'm tired of riding a strange hoss over these yere hills." "All right, we'll lay off and have a bite of the stuff in Jeff's haversack," replied the leader of the crowd. They dismounted not over two rods from where Allen lay hidden in the brush, hardly daring to breathe. Being unarmed and knowing the temper of the rascals only too well, the young man kept himself covered and made not the slightest sound. The negro brought forth an old army haversack and from it produced some crackers, jerked meat, and several other articles. Soon the trio were eating voraciously. The horses had been tied to several trees in the vicinity, and while the men were eating and talking in low tones, Allen conceived the idea of gaining possession of one of the animals and riding off with it. He knew it would do no good to confront the thieves unarmed. "I'll get on Paul's horse," he thought, "and if I can, I'll take Chet's animal with me. Then I'll have their horses back, even if I won't have my own." Watching for a chance, when the backs of the men were turned, Allen crept from his cover and wormed his way toward Paul's horse. His knife was in his hand, and noiselessly he cut the halter. Another cut and Chet's animal was also free. The horses stamped as they recognized Allen, who always made pets of all in the stable. Then Jasper let out a loud neigh of welcome. The sound reached the ears of the leader of the horse thieves. He sprang to his feet, and a second later, Allen was discovered! CHAPTER IX. A Visitor at the Ranch Let us once more go back to the ranch, where Chet and Paul, as well as the newcomer, Noel Urner, anxiously awaited Allen's return. The night had been a long one to the two boys, neither of whom had slept a whole hour at a time. As Chet expressed it, "they felt it in their bones" that something was wrong. At daybreak both rushed up to the roof of the ranch house, and with a field glass which Mr. Winthrop had left them, scanned eagerly in all directions. "Not a man or horse in sight," said Chet in deep disappointment. "The chase must have been a long one indeed." "Like as not Allen has gone on to some town," rejoined Paul. "But he ought to be back by noon; he knows we will be anxious to hear how he made out." The two went below to meet Noel, who had just finished dressing. They set to work and a smoking hot breakfast was soon on the table. "Well, I see nothing for me to do but to calmly wait for your brother's return," said the young man from New York. "I don't want to start out anywhere on foot, especially as I know nothing of the roads." "Yes, don't go anywhere till Allen gets back," said Paul. "I want you to tell him yourself all you know concerning Uncle Barnaby." The morning dragged by slowly, and at the passage of each hour the boys grew more anxious. "It's a dangerous proceeding, this chasing horse thieves," explained Chet to Noel Urner. "A fellow is apt to get shot, unless he is careful. That is what worries us so." "Unless something turns up right after dinner, I'm going off on foot with my rifle," put in Paul. "I may not discover anything, but it will ease my mind trying to do something." It lacked half an hour of noon when the boys heard a cheery voice from the road hail them. They looked out and beheld Ike Watson, the hunter, from Gold Fork, resting in the saddle just outside of the semi-stockade. "Whoop! Hullo thar!" cried the old fellow, who was hearty in both mind and body and full of fun. "Wot's the meanin' o' two healthy boys a-bummin' around the ranch sech an all-fired fine day as this yere?" "O, Ike; I'm so glad you happened along!" cried Paul, as he ran out to meet him. "We were hoping some friend would come." "Thet so?" Ike Watson's face grew sober on the instant. "Wot's the trouble?" "Our horses have been stolen----" "Gee, shoo! Hoss thieves ag'in! Wall, I'll be eternally blowed!" exclaimed Ike Watson, in a rage. "Who be they, Paul?" "We don't know. Allen has gone after them." "How many animiles did they git?" "Only two--that is here--Chet's and mine. But they also stole the horse belonging to this gentleman, Mr. Noel Urner. Mr. Urner, this is our friend, Ike Watson." "Hoss thieves is worse 'n pizen," growled Watson, as he sprang down and gave Noel Urner a hearty shake of the hand. "Thar ought ter be a law to hang every one o' 'em, say I!" "Allen went off yesterday afternoon, and as we have not heard from him since, we are getting anxious," put in Chet. "We would have followed, but we haven't a single beast left in the barn." "I see. Which way did the thieves go?" "Allen took the trail over the brook," replied Paul. "Humph!" Ike Watson scratched his head for a moment. "Wot's ter prevent me goin' after him, boys?" "Will you?" asked Paul eagerly. "Sartin. I ain't got nuthin' ter do, an' if I had, I reckon I could drop it putty quick ter do a favor fer Granville Winthrop's orphans. Give me a bite ter eat an' I'll be off ter onct." "Are you sufficiently armed?" questioned Noel Urner. "Armed? Well, I reckon," and from his belt Ike Watson produced an old '49 horse pistol nearly two feet long. "Thet air's my best friend, barrin' the rifle." Chet soon had dinner for the hunter, which was as quickly devoured, and then, after receiving some of the particulars of the case on hand, Ike Watson started off. "You'll hear from me before another sun smiles on ye!" he called back. "An' don't ye worry too much in the between time!" And he then disappeared. The boys felt much more comfortable after Watson had started off to hunt up Allen. They knew the old man would do all in his power to help their elder brother, no matter in what difficulty he might find him. "A rather odd character, truly," observed Noel, as they again passed into the house. "Yes, but with a heart of steel and gold," returned Chet. "Idaho does not contain a braver or better hunter than old Ike Watson." Shortly after this Chet and Paul went out to care for the cattle about the place, for quite a few head had already been penned up ready for the early fall drive. The ranch did not boast of many cattle, and such as there was they desired to keep in the best possible condition. Noel Urner accompanied them and was much interested in all to be seen and what was done. "Such a difference between life out here and in the city," he remarked. "Actually, it is like another world!" "You're right there," replied Paul. "And when you size it up all around, it's hard to tell which is the best--providing, of course, you can get a comfortable living at either place." Just as the three were walking back to the ranch the sounds of a horse's hoofs broke upon their ears. "Can it be Allen?" burst out Chet, but then his face fell. "No, it's not his style of riding." "Oh, pshaw!" whispered Paul a second later. "If it isn't Captain Grady!" "And who is he?" queried Noel. "An old prospector who wants to get possession of this ranch. He claims that our title to it is defective, or not good at all. I wonder what he wants now?" "Perhaps he's got more evidence to prove his claim to the place," groaned Chet. "Oh, dear! Troubles never come singly, true enough!" With anxious hearts the two brothers walked forward to meet the new arrival, whose face bore a look of insolence and self-satisfaction. Captain Hank Grady was a tall, evil-looking man of forty years of age. His title was merely one of favor, for he had neither served in the army nor the navy. But little was known of his past by the people of the section, and he never took the pains to enlighten those who were curious enough to know. For years he had wanted the Big Bear ranch, as the Winthrop homestead was called, for neither by fair means nor foul had he heretofore been able to obtain possession of the property. But now he had been working in secret for a long while, and he came prepared to make an announcement that was designed to trouble the boys not a little. "Hullo, there, young fellers," he called out roughly, as he dismounted. "I reckon you didn't expect to see me quite so soon again, did you?" "We did not," rejoined Paul, coldly. "Well, I confess I fixed matters up quicker than I first calculated to do," went on the captain. "I thought I was going to have a good bit more trouble to establish my claim." "As far as I know you have no claim here to establish," put in Chet, sharply. "You may pretend----" "See here, I ain't talking to you," retorted Captain Grady, cutting him short. "Your big brother is the feller I want to see--him or Barnaby Winthrop." "Both of them are away," replied Paul, "and Chet and I are running the ranch just now." "And if you do not like my manner of speech you need not stay here," cried Chet, warmly, his temper rising at the newcomer's aggressive manner. "Ho! you young savage, don't you speak that way to me," roared Captain Grady. "I didn't come here to deal with a kid." "I may be young, but I have my rights here, just the same," retorted Chet. "My brother is right," added Paul. "If you wish to talk business you must do so with both of us." The captain growled out something under his breath. He was about to speak when he caught sight of Noel Urner. He started back as though a ghost had confronted him, and the words died on his lips. The young man from New York saw the action, but could not in the least account for it. CHAPTER X. The Captain's Setback Captain Grady recovered in a few seconds. He glanced suspiciously about to see if there were others with Noel. Seeing the young man was alone, he plucked up fresh courage. "All right, I'll talk business with both," he said. "Who is this?" and he jerked his thumb toward Noel. "A friend of ours from New York," replied Paul. "Humph! Didn't know you had friends so far off." "We don't know everything in this world," retorted Chet, pointedly. "You're right, we don't," replied the captain with equal emphasis. He tied his horse fast to the doorpost and strode into the house. Paul motioned Chet to follow, and then buttonholed Noel Urner. "This is Captain Grady," he whispered. "We have told you a little about him. He is trying to get this ranch away from us." "And he has no real claim to it?" "I do not believe he has. But he is so slippery a customer he will swindle us if he can. Will you give us some advice how best to proceed? You know more about claims and legal papers than we do." "Certainly I'll do what I can for you," and then both entered the ranch home. "I'm sorry I ain't got your older brother to deal with," began the captain. "I reckon he is the one who will understand my talk best." "Then, perhaps you had best wait till he gets back," said Chet quickly. "And when will that be?" "I cannot say exactly." "I'm not in the humor to wait. I've waited too long already." The captain paused and cleared his throat. "I believe you said you had the original title papers to the ranch, didn't you?" he went on. "Yes, we did say that." "I would like to see 'em." Chet and Paul looked at each other. They had expected and dreaded this request. "Supposing we don't care to show them to you?" said Paul cautiously. "What's the reason you don't care?" retorted the captain, angrily. "We are not called on to explain all our actions to you," said Chet. "See here, I don't want to quarrel, but I'm a-goin' to see them ere papers," blustered Captain Grady, with a decided shake of his head. "I came all the way from Deadwood to see 'em." "Well, you won't see them," returned Paul, boldly. It would never do in the wide world to acknowledge that they had been burned up. "Well, then, I reckon I'm free to speak what's on my mind," roared the captain, "an' that is, that you never had no papers at all." "You can say what you please," said Chet, as calmly as he could. "An' that ain't all I've got to say," went on the captain. "I've got more to say to you. This ere claim o' land originally belonged to Sam Slater, o' Deadwood----" "We know that." "Slater died, an' left no will----" "That may all be true, too." "An' he left this land----" "No, he didn't. It was sold to my father before that!" cried Paul. "No such thing. Old Slater left it as part o' his estate----" "He did not." "He did, an' I can take my affidavy to it, if it's necessary," exclaimed Captain Grady. "But that ain't all yet wot I hev got to tell. Slater left it to his heirs, an' I bought it from them only last week." "It can't be true!" gasped Chet, faintly. "It is true, an' I hev the papers to prove it. This here ranch belongs to me, an' the sooner you boys pack up your duds an' git out the better it will please me," and Captain Grady smiled maliciously at the blow his news had brought to the boys. Both Paul and Chet were much dismayed by the unexpected announcement Captain Grady had made. For the moment they stared at the speaker as if they had not heard aright. It was Paul who spoke first. "You bought the ranch, and have the papers to prove it?" he gasped. "That's just wot I said, boy." "Your claim will not hold water," put in Chet, faintly. "Well, I reckon it will," retorted Captain Grady. "I allow as how I know wot I'm a-doin'." "My father bought this ranch, and that settles it," said Paul. "We will not give up our rights here just on what you say." "Perhaps you had better look at his papers," suggested Noel Urner, who had thus far remained silent. "It won't be necessary for them to look at 'em," returned the captain, doggedly. "I have 'em and that's enough. I ain't got to show my papers no more than they hev got to show theirs." "What shall we do?" whispered Paul to the young man from New York, as he led him a little to one side. "Stick to your resolve to stand up for your rights," was Noel's reply. "Remember, possession is nine points of the law. He cannot dispossess you unless he starts a lawsuit to recover the property he claims." "I ain't a-goin' to wait for your Uncle Barnaby or Allen to return," went on Captain Grady, sullenly. "I want you to leave at once, bag and baggage." "Indeed," returned Paul, coldly. "Yes, indeed. I've been kept out of this place long enough--seeing as how the original owner gave me a half hold on it long before he died." "What makes you so anxious for the place?" asked Noel Urner with sudden interest. "That's my business," growled the captain. "Is there any concealed wealth upon it?" "No, there ain't," exclaimed Captain Grady, almost so quick that it did not sound natural. "You seem to be awfully anxious----" "I own the next ranch, that's why. I want to turn my cattle an' sech in the two. Besides that, it ain't natural for a man to stand by an' see others a-usin' of his things." "You talk very positively, Captain Grady," said Paul. "But it will do you no good. We shall not budge for the present." "You won't?" "Not a step. We claim this property and you will have to get the law to put us out if we are to be put out." "You young highflyers!" growled the captain. He had a dread of the law and would do anything to keep out of court. "Do you think I'll stand sech talk?" "You will have to stand it," put in Chet. "I agree with Paul. We won't budge until the sheriff or a constable puts us out." For the moment Captain Grady was speechless. His face grew dark with gathering wrath, and he looked as if he wanted to eat some one up. "You won't budge, hey?" he roared at last. "No." "I'll put ye out!" "I don't think you will," retorted Paul. "Not without a big fight," added Chet. "The boys have a right to stay here until put out," said Noel Urner. "The property is in dispute, and the only way to settle the matter is by going to law." "I didn't ask for your advice," growled the captain, fiercely. "I own this ranch, an' I'm a-goin' to have it, an' putty quick, too!" And without another word he turned on his heel, strode out of the house, sprang on his horse, and rode away at top speed. "Phew! but isn't he mad!" exclaimed Chet, as the rider disappeared up the river trail. "You bet!" returned Paul, dropping into a bit of slang. "But he can stay mad as long as he pleases; he can't bulldoze us." "He is not so sure of his rights as he pretends to be," remarked Noel Urner, who, in the course of his city life, had met many men similar to Captain Grady. "If he knew all was right he wouldn't bluster so much." "That's my idea of it, too," rejoined Chet. "I am half inclined to think he never bought the land--that is, paid for what he supposed was a title to it--for he couldn't really buy it except it was sold by Uncle Barnaby." "Well, by the time he pays another visit your brother will be back most likely. It is a pity that your uncle should just now be missing." The afternoon wore away, and anxiously the two boys awaited the coming of Allen. Several times they went up to the roof of the house and swept all points of the compass with their field glass. At last the shades of night began to fall, and with heavy hearts the two began the round of evening work, feeding the chickens and pigs and seeing that everything was secure for the night. There were also a couple of cows to milk and a dozen or more of eggs to gather. Noel Urner went around with them as before, and he was greatly interested. When they returned to the house he began to question them as to the extent of the ranch. "Oh, it's pretty big," replied Paul. "It runs up and down the river nearly half a mile, and as far back as what we call the second foothills. If we had horses I could ride you around and show you." "Are there any mines in the foothills?" was the young man's next question. "There used to be a few, but they have all been abandoned because they did not pay." "Perhaps this Captain Grady has struck something that will pay." "Hardly. My father and Uncle Barnaby went over every foot of the ground half a dozen times, and they were both better prospectors than the captain." Noel Urner was about to ask more questions, but a sound outside of the stockade caused him to pause. They all listened, and then Chet gave a shout. "Somebody is coming! It must be Allen or Ike Watson! Come on out and see!" CHAPTER XI. Ike Watson's Arrival Let us go back to Allen. We left him just as the sound made by Paul's horse aroused the leader of the horse thieves, whose full name was Saul Mangle. "The feller that went over into the river, as sure as fate!" burst from the lips of Mangle, and he started back in astonishment. "Impossible!" cried Darry, the second man. "That feller must have been killed!" "See for yourself." With these words Saul Mangle sprang forward to stop Allen, who was about to mount Jasper. He reached the young man's side as Allen gained the saddle. "Come down out of that!" he cried, roughly. "Not much!" returned the young man. "Clear the track, unless you want to be run down!" He urged the horse forward. Jasper started, but ere he had taken three steps, Mangle caught him by the bridle. "Whoa!" he cried. "Whoa, I say!" "Let the horse go, do you hear?" ejaculated Allen, sharply. "I won't do it! Darry! Jeff! Come here, why don't you?" The others leaped into the brush. Allen saw that affairs were turning against him. He leaned forward to Jasper's neck. Smack! Mangle caught a sharp blow full across his mouth. It came so quickly that he staggered back and his hold was loosened. "On, Jasper, on, my boy!" cried Allen, slapping the animal with his palm. "Come, Rush! Come, Rush!" he added to Chet's horse, which stood close beside. Off went Jasper with a bound, and Rush followed at his heels. "Stop him! Hang the measly luck!" roared Saul Mangle. "Darry! Jeff! What are you at?" As he cried out, the leader of the horse thieves felt for his pistol. But before the weapon could be drawn both horses and Allen had disappeared behind a clump of cottonwoods. "We had bettah follow him on de mustangs," suggested the negro. "He can't ride----" "Of course, we'll follow him!" growled Mangle. "Don't stand and talk about it. Come on! He'll be out of hearing in another minute! This is the worst luck yet!" He leaped for one of the mustangs. In another second all three of the men were mounted and riding after Allen as rapidly as the nature of the land and growth would allow. "How do you think he escaped?" asked Darry, as they pushed on. "Can't make it out," replied Mangle. "We'll make him tell the story when we catch him. Ha! what was that?" A sudden crash ahead had arrested their attention. He listened. A dead silence followed. "The hosses and young feller have gone into some sort of a hole," cried Darry. "We'll have him now, all right enough." On they went through the brush, Mangle leading the way. Suddenly the leader came to a halt. Before him was a sheer descent of eight or ten feet. "Here's where he and the hosses went down," he said to his followers. "But where is he?" questioned Darry. "Not far off, I'll warrant ye. Come on." "Dis yere mustang won't take dat leap," put in Jeff, drawing back. "And I won't venture it," added Darry, "I don't want to land on my head." "Cowards!" howled Saul Mangle. "Well, then, there is a trail to the right; take that. Here goes!" He spoke to his animal, and an instant later rider and mustang went down in a graceful curve. They landed in a bunch of brush, none the worse for the leap. Darry and Jeff followed by way of the trail. They could hear Allen pushing through the brush not over a hundred yards ahead. The young man was having a hard time of it. He was going it blindly, and was so faint from want of sleep and something to eat that he could hardly sit up in the saddle. Yet he realized his peril and clung on desperately, meanwhile urging the horse and his mate to do their best to place distance between them and their pursuers. But now the slight trail he was pursuing became rougher, and it was with difficulty that any progress could be made. The horses labored along bravely, but were no match on such ground for the nimble-footed mustangs. "Halt! Do you hear?" were the first unpleasant words which greeted Allen's ears, and looking back he saw that Saul Mangle was in plain sight. Allen attempted to dodge out of sight. To frighten him Mangle fired off his pistol, the bullet cutting through the brush under Jasper's feet. "Will you stop now?" yelled Mangle. Allen was in a quandary. He did not wish to be shot, and yet---- But the young man was not called on to solve the dreadful question. While he hesitated there was a loud shout from some distance to his right, and looking up the rocks he saw to his great joy Ike Watson, the hunter, sitting astride of his horse, rifle in hand. "Wall, wall!" shouted the old man. "And what's the row, Allen, I want to know?" "Horse thieves, Ike! Save me!" was the quick reply. "There are three of them after me!" "Saul Mangle, as I'm a nateral born sinner, and Darry Nodley and Jeff Jones! Wall! wall! wall! Turn about, before it is too late, ye sarpints!" The loud cry from Ike Watson caused the gang of horse thieves to come to a sudden halt. Every one of them knew old Ike Watson only too well--knew him for a man of quaint humor, but with a sense of justice that no one dared to question. "Hang the measly luck!" muttered Saul Mangle. "There's Ike Watson!" "Then the jig's up for the present, and we had better vamoose!" returned Nodley. "Clar out, do ye hear me?" yelled Ike Watson to the crowd of three. "Don't wait for me to git riled up." "Come on!" whispered Saul Mangle, with a scowl, and like magic the trio of villains turned about and disappeared down a side trail, leaving poor exhausted Allen safe in friendly hands at last. "By the grasshoppers of Kansas, but ye look fagged out, Allen!" exclaimed old Ike Watson as he sprang down and caught Allen in his arms. "What's the matter with ye, boy?" "I've had an awful experience, Ike," replied the young ranchman as soon as he could recover sufficiently to speak. "I've been underground several miles, and I haven't had a mouthful to eat since yesterday morning!" "Gee shoo, Allen! Wall! wall! wall! If I didn't know ye so well I'd be apt ter think ye war tellin' me a fairy tale. But I allow as how Granville Winthrop's son couldn't lie if he tried." "I speak the truth, Ike. But where are those villains?" "Gone, boy, gone. They knowed better nor to stay whar Ike Watson was, ho! ho!" "They are horse thieves, and ought to be locked up." "Thet Saul Mangle ought to be strung up, ye mean. And Darry Nodley and that coon, Jeff Jones, ain't much better. But they are gone now." "Well, I have Paul's horse and Chet's, too, anyway," returned Allen, with a slight smile of satisfaction. "Whar's your own horse?" "Dead, I reckon. We went off the Upas Pass bridge together into the river, and I suppose she was drowned. Poor Lilly!" "Off the bridge! Gee shoo! Then ye war carried down the Black Rock River?" "Yes!" Allen gave a shudder. "It was fearful, Ike. But come, let us get to the ranch, and I can tell my story to all at once!" "That's the best way, sure. But down that air stream! Great snakes and turkey buzzards!" "I know it hardly can be believed, but that is not the worst or most wonderful part of it. But come; I am nearly famished." "Here's a bite I have in my pouch; eat that," returned Ike Watson, and he passed over some crackers and meat which Allen devoured with keen relish. CHAPTER XII. The Boys Talk It over Allen and Ike Watson were soon on the way back to the ranch. Fortunately Ike Watson knew every foot of the ground, and led by the most direct route. As the reader knows, Paul and Chet heard them approaching and received their elder brother with open arms. "You look like a ghost!" declared Chet, starting back on catching sight of Allen's pale face. "And I feel like a shadow," responded Allen with a weary laugh. "But a good dinner and a nap will make me as bright as a dollar again." "He has our horses!" cried Paul. "Yes, but not my own," returned Allen. He walked into the house and was here introduced to Noel Urner. The table was at once spread, and soon both Allen and Ike Watson were regaling themselves to their heart's content. During the progress of the meal Allen related all of his wonderful story of the fall from the bridge, the journey on the underground river, and of his struggle to reach the open air once more. He said nothing about the wealth which lay exposed in the cavern or of the fact that it was Uncle Barnaby's mine, for he felt he had no right to mention those matters before Ike Watson and Noel Urner, friends though they might be. Uncle Barnaby had guarded his secret well and he would do the same. All listened with deep interest to what he had to say. "It was a wonder the fall into the water didn't kill you," said Paul. "Such a distance as it was!" "Lilly saved my life--but it cost her her own," returned Allen, and he sighed, for Lilly had been his favorite for several years. Chet and Paul were eager that Allen should hear Noel Urner's story and the young man from New York related it without delay. Allen was as much surprised as his brothers had been, and so was Ike Watson. [Illustration: THE THREE YOUNG RANCHMEN TALKED IT OVER] "I am afraid somebody has played Uncle Barnaby foul," cried Allen, his face full of anxiety. "If he had left of his own accord we would have heard from him." "That's just my idea of it," said Paul. "But the thing of it is, who met him in San Francisco, and what did they do?" To that question Allen could only shake his head. "I am too tired to say much about it to-night," he said at last. "I must sleep on it." Allen wished to retire early, but before he did so Chet told him of Captain Grady's visit. "We won't stir," said Allen, briefly. "Let him sue Uncle Barnaby. We have nothing to do with it. Our first duty is to find uncle." And both Paul and Chet agreed with him on this point. Ike Watson was on his way up the Salmon River to visit a new gold diggings. He refused to stay all night, and set off in the dark, with Allen's thanks ringing in his ears for what he had done. Despite the excitement through which he had passed, Allen slept "like a log" that night, and did not awaken until long after the others were up and Chet and Paul had the morning chores done. "Now I feel like myself once more," he said when he came down. "And I am ready for business." "So am I," laughed Noel Urner. "But the trouble is, I do not know how to turn without horse or conveyance. I am not used to tramping about on foot." "If we had horses we might lend you one," said Allen. "But two nags for four people are two short," and he laughed. During the morning Paul went out on horseback, accompanied by Noel, to see if the cattle were safe. While they were gone Allen told Chet of the hidden mine. "It is worth a million," he said. "But it is Uncle Barnaby's secret, remember." "I will remember," said Chet, "but we must tell Paul." "Certainly; tell him after I am gone." "Gone? Why, Allen, what do you mean?" "I am going to leave home this afternoon, Chet." "You are fooling," remarked the younger brother. "Never more serious in my life, Chet." "And you are going----" Chet hesitated. "Direct to San Francisco to hunt up tidings of Uncle Barnaby." Of course, Chet was taken completely back by Allen's announcement. "To San Francisco!" he ejaculated. "Yes, Chet. I feel that it is my duty to discover what has become of uncle, if possible, at once." "I know, but it's such a journey----" "I am not afraid to take it. I will ride to the nearest station on the railroad, which is not over a hundred and forty miles, and then take the train. The journey on the cars will not take over a couple of days, all told." "And the cost----" "I will have to take what we have saved from the thieves. But surely, Chet, you do not regret taking that for such a purpose?" "No! no! take it all! I was thinking if it would be enough." "I will make it do. I will buy a cut-rate ticket from Ogden, if I can." "And what shall Paul and I do in the meantime?" questioned Chet in some dismay. "Do nothing but guard the cattle and the place generally. I will be back, or let you hear from me just as soon as I can." Paul was equally astonished at Allen's sudden determination. It was, however, what Noel Urner had expected. "Yes, I would go if I were you," said the latter. "And if you want me to, I will go with you," he added. "I must confess I am deeply interested in this strange case." "I would like you to go with me first rate," returned Allen. "And whether uncle is found or not, I will promise that you shall be well paid for all the trouble you will be put to." "I want no pay for helping you. I will enjoy the bit of detective work, as one might call it. But how am I to get to the railroad station without a horse?" "You can take both horses, if necessary," suggested Chet. "That's so; although we ought to have at least one animal on the ranch," added Paul. "We can both ride one animal as far as Dottery's ranch," said Allen, "and there we can either borrow or hire another animal." "How far is Dottery's?" "Only about twenty-five miles. We ought to reach it by dark, if we start shortly." "We can start at once, as far as I am concerned," laughed Noel. So it was decided to lose no time, and Chet at once set to work to prepare dinner and also some food to be carried along. CHAPTER XIII. Caught in a Cyclone Less than an hour later Jasper was brought out and Noel Urner sprang into the saddle, with Allen behind him on the blanket. "Keep a close watch for more thieves while I am gone!" cried Allen. "We will!" shouted Paul. "And you take care for more doctored bridges!" A parting wave of the hand and the ranch was left behind, and Allen was off on a journey that was to be filled with adventures and excitement from start to finish. Chet and Paul watched the horse and his two riders out of sight, and then with rather heavy hearts returned to the house. The place seemed more lonely than ever with both Allen and Noel Urner gone. "It's going to be a long time waiting for Allen's return," sighed Paul. "Perhaps not," returned Chet. "He left me with a secret to tell you, Paul." And Chet lost no time in relating Allen's story of the hidden mine of great wealth. "And perhaps we can explore the place during his absence," Paul said, after he had expressed his astonishment and asked half a dozen questions. "I don't know about that, Paul. We may not be able to find the opening Allen mentioned, and then, again, he may not wish us to do so." "Why should he object?" "I don't know." "We'll have ten days or two weeks on our hands, at the very least. We might as well take a look at that wealth as not." "Supposing somebody followed us and found out the secret? They would locate a claim before we could turn a hand." "We will make sure that we are not followed," said Paul, who was anxious to see if all Allen had told could really be true. Chet continued to demur, but after Allen and Noel had been gone the whole of the next day he gave in, and seemed as anxious as Paul to do something which would make it less lonely. Apparently the horse thieves had left the vicinity, so there was nothing to be feared in that direction during an absence that they meant should not last more than one whole day. Sunday came between, and on Monday morning they arose early and had breakfast ere it was yet daylight. They decided to take Rush, both to ride when on a level and each to take a turn at walking when on the uphill trails. Allen had left Chet minute directions as to how the opening to the hidden mine could be located, he having fixed the locality well in his mind before leaving it. It was rather a gloomy day, but this the two boys did not mind. "It's better than being so raging hot," said Paul. "It makes my head ache to ride when it's so fearfully hot." "If it only don't rain," returned Chet. "We need it bad enough, goodness knows, but it has held off so long it might as well hold off twenty-four hours longer." "I doubt if we get rain just yet. It hasn't threatened long enough," replied his brother. Before the two left the ranch they saw to it that every building was locked up tight, and an alarm, in the shape of a loaded gun, set to the doors and windows. "That ought to scare would-be thieves away," said Chet. "They'll imagine somebody is firing at them." The rest for a couple of days had done Rush much good, and he made no work of carrying the two boys along the trail that led to the second foothills. Long before noon they reached the hills, and here stopped for lunch. "And now for the wonderful mine!" cried Chet. Then, happening to glance across the plains below, he added: "Gracious, Paul! What is that?" The attention of both young ranchmen was at once drawn to a round, black cloud on the horizon to the east. It was hardly a yard in diameter, apparently, when first seen, but it increased in size with great rapidity. It was moving directly toward them, and in less than two minutes from the time Chet uttered his cry it had covered fully a third of the distance. "From what I have heard I should say that was a cyclone cloud," exclaimed Paul. "And still----" "Who ever heard of a cyclone up here among the foothills," returned Chet. "I don't believe they ever strike this territory." "I certainly never heard of their doing so," returned Paul. "But still, you must remember, that cyclones are erratic things at the best." "It looks as if it were coming directly this way." "So it does, and I reckon the best thing we can do is to make tracks for some place of safety." "That is true. Come on!" Both boys sprang into the saddle and started up the trail. Hardly had a hundred feet of the way been covered than a strange rush and roar of wind filled the air. "It's coming," shouted Paul. "Quick, Chet, down into that hollow before it strikes us!" He plunged into the basin he had designated, which was six or eight feet below the level of the trail and not over ten yards in diameter. Chet followed, ducking low as he did so, for already was the air filled with flying branches. "None too soon!" ejaculated Paul. "Down, Rush!" Between them they managed to get the horse to lie down close to a wall of dirt and rocks. They lay near, waiting almost breathlessly for that awful time of peril to pass. No one who has not experienced the dreadful effects of a cyclone can imagine it, be the description of it ever so fine. That strange rush and roar, that density of the air, accompanied by a feeling as if the very breath was about to be drawn from one's lungs, the flying débris, all unite to chill the stoutest heart and make one wonder if the next moment will not be the last. The cyclone was short and sharp. From the time it first struck the foothills until the time it spent itself in the distance was barely four minutes, yet, what an effect did it leave behind! On all sides of them many trees were literally torn up by the roots, brush was leveled as if cut by a mowing machine, and dirt and pebbles which had been perhaps carried for miles were deposited here, there, and everywhere. Ranch boys though they were, and accustomed to many things strange and wonderful, Chet and Paul could only gaze at the work of destruction in awe, and silently thank heaven that their lives had been spared. They had escaped with slight injury. Several sharp sticks and stones had scratched Chet's neck as he lay prostrate, and Paul's arm was greatly lamed by a blow from the branch of a tree which fell directly across the opening, pinning the horse down in such a fashion that he could not rise. "We must liberate Rush first of all," cried Chet. "Poor fellow! Whoa, Rush, we'll soon help you," he added, and patted the animal on the neck to soothe him. Evidently Rush understood, for he lay quiet. Then Chet and Paul, using all of their strength, raised up one end of the tree, which, fortunately, was not large. As soon as he felt himself free, Rush scrambled up out of harm's way, and they let the tree fall back again. "That is the kind of an adventure I never want to experience again," said Paul when he had somewhat recovered his breath. "My, how the wind did tear things!" "It was a full-fledged cyclone and no mistake," returned his brother. "Had that struck a town it would have razed every building in it." "That's true, and oh!" went on Paul suddenly, "I wonder if it has destroyed the marks Allen left whereby the mine is to be found?" Chet stared at him speechless. "Perhaps!" he gasped at last. "Come, let us go on and see!" There was considerable difficulty in getting out of the hollow into which they had so unceremoniously thrust themselves. Rush was somewhat frightened still, and instead of riding him, they led him out by a circuitous way which took them nearly a hundred yards out of their path. They found the trail almost impassable in spots, and more than once were compelled to make a wide detour in order to avoid fallen trees and gathered brush. "A cyclone like that can do more damage than can be repaired in ten years," observed Chet as they labored along on foot. "I wonder where it started from?" "Somewhere out on the flat lands near the river, I reckon," returned Paul. On they went around trees and rocks and brush, until the way grew so bad that both came to an involuntary halt. "It looks as if the very trail had been swept away," said Paul. "I can't see anything of it ahead." "Nor I. Whoever would have thought of such a thing when we left home?" "We can't go on in this direction, that's sure. What's best to be done?" Both looked around for several minutes and then decided to cross a rocky stretch to the right. They had to do this with great care, as the road was full of sink holes and crevices, and they did not want to break a leg or have the horse injured. The stretch crossed, they found themselves on a little hill. All about them could be seen the effects of the cyclone, not a tree or bush had escaped its ravages. "It looks as if the landmarks Allen had mentioned had been swept away," said Paul, as he gazed around hopelessly. "I can't see the first of them." "It would certainly seem so," rejoined Chet. "If they are, they won't be able to locate the mine again, excepting to sail down the underground river." "That is so--excepting Uncle Barnaby turns up with another and better way of locating it," replied Paul very seriously. CHAPTER XIV. Another Surprise The desolation on all sides of them and the failure to locate the marks Allen had mentioned caused Paul and Chet to become much downcast. They had had their long and tedious journey from the ranch home for nothing. "I suppose there isn't anything to do but to go back," remarked Chet dismally, as he thrashed around in the brush with a stick he had picked up. "We are as far away from the mine as we were when we started." "Let us be in no hurry to return," rejoined Paul. "We'll give Rush a chance to get back his wind." Leaving the trusty animal to roam about as pleased him, the two boys threw themselves on the grass and gave themselves up to their reflections. "I'll tell you what I would like to do," remarked Chet. "I would like to find the chap who cleaned us out of that seven hundred dollars." "I wonder that Allen didn't get Watson to stop the horse thieves and search them," mused Paul. "He must have known they had the money." "He was too played out to think of much just then, I reckon. It was a good deal to escape with the horses without getting shot." "The cross we found in the barn belonged to that Saul Mangle beyond a doubt. The initials prove that." "I believe you." "We must watch out for that Mangle, and if we can ever get our hands on him, make him give up our money and then have him locked up." "It is not so easy to lock up a man when you are miles and miles away from a jail." An hour went by, and the boys thought it time to start on the return. Rush was called back from a thicket into which he had wandered and both mounted, for the trail now lead almost entirely down hill. After the cyclone the sun had come out strong and hot, and halfway back to the ranch the brothers were glad enough to stop beside the bank of a tiny mountain stream and obtain a drink and water the horse. They were about to depart when Rush pricked up his ears and gave a peculiar whinny. "Hush! What does that mean?" Paul asked in quick alarm. "Draw behind the brush and see," replied Chet, cautiously. "Those horse thieves may be still in the vicinity." "Oh, they would not remain here," said Paul. Yet he followed his brother behind the brush. They tried to make Rush come, too, but for once the animal would not obey. "Come, Rush, come," whispered Chet. "Why he never acted this way before." "The cyclone upset his mind, I reckon," said Paul, with a faint show of humor. "Make him come." But the more Chet tried the more obstinate did the animal become. Finally he broke away altogether and ran off, kicking up his heels behind him. "Well, I never!" gasped Chet. "Quick, after him! I believe he means to run away!" cried Paul. "Rush run away!" said Chet reproachfully. It hurt him a good deal to have Paul speak in that fashion of the horse he so loved. Both boys leaped from the thicket and after Rush, who was now running up the bank of the stream at top speed. A turn was made and the brothers burst out into a loud and joyous shout. There, not fifty feet away, was Lilly, the faithful mare Allen had fancied was drowned in the Black Rock River. Rush stood beside her, licking her neck affectionately. "Allen's horse!" cried Chet. "And as well as ever almost," added Paul, as he rushed up and began an examination. The mare was evidently glad to see both the boys and her mate. She stood trembling as Chet and Paul examined her. "A few slight bruises, that is all," said Paul. "Won't Allen be glad when he hears of it?" "Indeed he will be. He loves Lilly as if she was his best girl. It's a good thing for us, too, Paul," he went on. "Now each can have a mount home." "Right you are--if Lilly can carry me." Paul was speedily on the mare's back. She seemed willing enough to carry him; in fact, glad to be in the keeping of a human being she knew. "If she could only talk what a tale she would have to tell," observed Paul as they rode homeward. "I wonder how she got out of the river?" "I reckon we'll never know, unless Allen makes her talk. He can make her do most everything," laughed Chet. On they went over the rocks and the level prairie beyond. The sun was now sinking in the west, and ere long the evening shadows would be upon them. "Well, we found a horse even if we didn't find a mine, and that's something," said Paul, as they reached the trail beside the river. "But I hope that the mine isn't lost for good," replied Chet, quickly. "The mine is worth a good deal more than even Lilly." "Maybe you can't tell that to Allen." "Oh, yes I can; for he saw the wealth there, you know." "If only he finds Uncle Barnaby," sighed Paul. "Do you know, the more I think of it, the more I become convinced that something dreadful has happened to him." "And that is the way I look at it, too, Paul. If we could----" Chet stopped short and stared ahead. They had come in sight of the semi-stockade around their ranch house. "Our furniture and trunks!" gasped Paul, following the direction of Chet's stare. "What on earth does it mean?" There on the grass lay their furniture in a confused mass--tables, chairs, trunks, clothing, one on top of another. And in another heap were the farming implements from the barn. "Captain Grady's dirty work!" cried Paul. "He has come here and taken possession during our absence." Paul was right, for at that moment Captain Grady appeared at the stockade gate, gun in hand. The sarcastic smile on the captain's face told plainly that he rather enjoyed the situation. He gazed at the boys without saying a word. His left hand was tied up in a bandage, showing that he had not entirely escaped the gun traps which had been set. As a matter of fact, half a dozen bird shot still remained in the fleshy part of his thumb. "What does this mean?" demanded Paul at length. He spoke as calmly as he could, although tremendously excited. "Reckon you have eyes an' can see," growled Captain Grady. "I told you that you hadn't seen the end of this, an' that I would have this place in my possession putty quick." "You had no right to break into our house and fire our things out!" cried Chet. "I deny as how it's your house, youngster. It belongs to me, as does the whole ranch property. There be your traps, an' the quicker you git them off this ground the better it will suit me." "We won't move a thing until we put them back into that house," retorted Chet hot-headedly. "This is no way to gain possession, and you know it." "Halt where you are!" Captain Grady raised his gun and pointed it at Chet, who was in advance. "You'll not come near this gate, mind that!" "I'm going in, and you won't stop me," retorted Chet. "Don't be rash, Chet," whispered Paul, riding up and plucking his younger brother by the sleeve. "You try and cross this gateway and I'll fire on you, sure as fate," went on the captain. Urged by Paul, Chet brought Rush to a stand. The boys were about thirty feet from where Captain Grady stood on guard. "Now, the best thing you fellers can do," said the captain, sharply, "is to ride over to Dottery's ranch, an' git a wagon an' tote these traps away. If they are left more 'n a week I'll pitch them into the river, mind you. If you ain't satisfied at the way matters have turned, you can go to law, just as you advised me to do," and again the man smiled sarcastically. "We certainly will go to law," replied Paul. "Are you alone here?" "That's not for you to ask." "I presume you hung around here and saw my brother go off first and then waited for us to go away." "I ain't standing here as a target for questions," growled Captain Grady. "You are a sneak and worse, Captain Grady!" burst out Chet. "If there is any law in Idaho you shall have your full dose of it, mark my word!" "Hi! you young bantam, don't talk to me in that fashion," roared the man in a rage. "Come, I've told you what is best to do. Now clear out. I shall keep watch, an' if you attempt to play any trick in the dark on me you'll find yourself running up against a charge of buckshot." That Captain Grady was in dead earnest was very evident. He scowled viciously and walked a step forward. Yet the boys were not daunted. They held their ground, and Paul even took a slight move forward on Lilly's back. "Supposing we go to Dottery's ranch," said the youth. "If we tell our story, don't you imagine Dottery will turn in and help us bounce you out of here?" "No, you'll get no help at Dottery's." "He is our friend, and he will not stand up for your doings, even if you do own the ranch over the river." "Well, why don't you go an' see Dottery," snapped Captain Grady. "We will--and some other people, too," cried Chet. "And in the meantime, if any of our stuff is lost, you'll pay for it," added Paul. "I won't be responsible for anything. Now clear out an' leave me alone." The two brothers looked at each other. Neither knew exactly what to do. Paul finally made a sign to withdraw, and they turned and rode down the river trail to the belt of cottonwoods. Captain Grady remained at the gateway, his baneful eyes on them until the trees hid them from view. Then he shut the heavy gate and walked slowly toward the house, rubbing his grizzled chin reflectively. "They won't come back to-night, I'm pretty certain of that," he said to himself. "An' by to-morrow I'll be better fixed to hold my own." CHAPTER XV. At Dottery's Ranch "It's a shame, Paul!" ejaculated Chet, almost crying with rage. "We ought to have shot him where he stood." "I suppose many a man would have done it," returned Paul, somewhat moodily. "But we must get him out." "He won't go out without a fight." "I think he will--when we get enough of a crowd against him. I more than half believe he is totally alone, although the furniture and other stuff look as if he had had somebody to help him." "He's been hanging around watching his chance," went on Chet. "Who knows but what he has been spying on us ever since his last visit." "Oh, I trust not, Chet!" Paul looked much disturbed. "He may have overheard some of our talk about Uncle Barnaby's mine, you know." "That's so! What if he did! He is rascal enough to try to locate it and set up a claim, eh?" "Undoubtedly. Come on; the best we can do is to ride to Dottery's and try to obtain help. It's a long journey by night, but there's nothing else to do." "I won't mind it--if only Dottery will turn in and help us. He ought to, but he always was a peculiar fellow. He may not want to make an enemy of Captain Grady, seeing as the ranches adjoin. But come on, while daylight lasts." And off the two brothers struck, along the river trail, and then down the road Allen and Noel Urner had pursued on their way to the far-away railroad station. They realized that in another hour darkness would be upon them. The boys knew the way well, having traveled it a dozen times in search of stray cattle. They rode on, side by side, urging on the tired horses and discussing the situation in all its various phases. Slowly the sun faded from view behind the distant mountains, casting long shadows over the foothills and the level stretches beyond. The night birds sang their parting song, and then came the almost utter silence of the night. "When do you suppose we'll reach Dottery's?" questioned Chet, after several miles had been covered. "If all goes well, we'll get there by one or two o'clock," returned his brother. "You must remember we have Demon Hollow to cross, and that's no fool of a job in the dark." "Especially if the Demon is abroad," laughed Chet. He was only joking, and did not believe in the old trappers' stories about the ghost in hiding at the bottom of the rocky pass. When darkness fell the hoofstrokes of the horses sounded out doubly loud on the semi-stony road. Yet, to the boys, even this was better than that intense stillness, which made one feel, as Chet expressed it, "a hundred miles from nowhere at all." So tired were the horses that the boys had their hands full making them keep their gait. They would trot a few steps and then drop into a stolid walk. "I don't blame them much," said Chet, sympathetically. "It's doing two days' work in one. But never mind, they shall have a good rest when it's all over." By ten o'clock it was pitch dark. To be sure the stars were shining, but they gave forth but a feeble light. The boys had to hold their animals at a tight rein to keep them from stumbling into unexpected holes. "It will be nearer three o'clock than two before we get there at this rate," grumbled Paul. "Just look ahead and see how dark and forbidding the Hollow looks." "Not the most cheerful spot in the world truly," rejoined Chet, as he strained his eyes to pierce the heavy shadows. "Let us get past it as soon as we can." "Afraid, Chet?" "Oh, no, only I--I would rather be on the level trail beyond the pass." Paul said no more, having no desire to hurt his younger brother's feelings. To tell the exact truth, he himself felt a bit "off." It was growing toward midnight. Down and down led the road, between two rocky crags. Soon the last trace of light was left behind, and they had to let the horses pick their own way as best they might. Suddenly Chet gave a start and a cry. "O, Paul, what is that?" "Where?" "Over to the left." Paul turned in his saddle. As he did so an object not over two feet in length and of a gray and white color, with some black, swept to one side of them. "Can it be a pig?" gasped Chet. "A pig? No, it's a badger, out on the forage. Don't you smell him?" Chet recovered and unslung his gun. He tried to take aim in the gloom. "Don't fire!" said Paul. "What is the use? It's only a waste of ammunition. The badger isn't hurting anything, and he's a good distance from the ranch. Let him go." By the time Chet had listened to all this the badger had disappeared. The animal was not used to being aroused and was more frightened than any one. They passed on. The very bottom of the Hollow was at hand. The horses proceeded slowly, realizing the peril of the place. Once Rush went down into a hole nearly throwing Chet over his head. But the youth held on, and Rush arose all right, with nothing but a slight scrape on his left foreleg. They peered with watchful eyes up and down the silent pass. Not a sign of any life was there. The water flowed on with a muffled murmur and the wind sighed through the deep opening, and that was all. In another five minutes the pass was left behind. For some reason both boys drew a long breath of relief when the high ground beyond was reached. The strain was gone, and now, by contrast, the road looked as bright to them as if the sun was about to rise. "Come to think of it, we may as well take it easy," remarked Paul. "It isn't likely that Dottery will care to make a move before daylight." "Yes; but if we get there sooner, we'll have a chance to rest up a bit, and we need that, and so do the horses." "I didn't think of that. Well, forward we go." An hour passed and then another. Soon after Chet gave a joyous cry. "There are Dottery's outbuildings! We'll soon be there now!" "Right you are, Chet. I wonder----" Paul stopped short. "Oh, look over there!" he cried. He pointed to a barn not a great distance back from the road. The door of the structure was open and within flashed the light of a lantern. "Dottery must be up, or else----" began Chet. "Horse thieves!" Both boys uttered the word simultaneously. Could it be possible that the thieves were raiding their nearest neighbor? "Wait. Let us dismount and investigate," whispered Paul. "Don't do anything rash," this as Chet started to run toward the barn. Thus cautioned, the younger boy paused. The horses were tied up behind some brush, and, guns in hand, the pair crept across the road and over a wire fence into the field. Hardly had they advanced a dozen steps when three men came out of the barn, leading four horses. They made for an opening in the fence not a rod from where the boys flung themselves flat on the grass. From the description they had received, the lads made up their minds that the men were Saul Mangle, Darry Nodley, and Jeff Jones. CHAPTER XVI. An Encounter in the Dark Chet and Paul could hardly suppress their excitement as they saw the horse thieves move toward the opening in the fence. Chet drew up his gun and pointed it at the leader. "Don't fire! Wait!" cautioned Paul. "There are three of them, remember." "I wonder where Dottery is?" questioned the younger boy, with his hand still on the trigger. "Asleep, most likely." "We ought to arouse him. Run, Paul, while I keep watch." "I will, but don't do anything rash during my absence," replied Paul Winthrop. He sneaked along in the tall grass until the outbuildings were left a hundred feet and sped like a deer toward the ranch home, showing dimly in the grim shadows ahead. Less than sixty seconds passed, and he was pounding vigorously on the front door of the heavy log building. Not content with using his fist he banged away with the toe of his cowhide boot. "Who's thar?" came from within presently. "Mr. Dottery!" "That's me, stranger." "Come out. It's Paul Winthrop. There are horse thieves at your barn." "What!" roared Dottery. He was a heavy-built man, with a voice like a giant. "The same chaps ez robbed you?" He unbarred the door and came out on a run, gun in hand and a long pistol in his belt. He was an old settler, and rarely took the trouble to undress when he went to rest for the night. "Yes, the same, unless I am very much mistaken. My brother Chet is down there now on the watch." "I'll fix 'em. Go back and call Jack, my man." Paul hesitated and then did as directed. It took some time to arouse the cowboy, Jack Blowfen, but once aroused, the man quickly took in the situation, and arming himself, joined the boy in a rush after Dottery. "The pesky rascals!" he muttered. "Yer brother told us about 'em when he stopped here on his way to the railroad station. It's a pity Ike Watson didn't plug every one of 'em when he had the chance. Next thing yer know they'll be runnin' off with a bunch o' cattle." "Be careful when you shoot; my brother Chet is there," continued Paul, not wishing Chet to be mistaken for a horse thief in the dark. "I know the lad, and I also know this Saul Mangle and his crowd," returned Jack Blowfen. "I owe Mangle one for the way he treated me in Deadwood one day." He ran so swiftly that Paul had hard work to keep up with him. Dottery had already disappeared in the darkness of the night. Bang! Bang! The shots came from behind the barn, while Paul was some distance away. It was Dottery firing at the thieves. Jack Blowfen was chasing them down by the wire fence. "Paul! Paul! Hold on!" It was Chet's voice. As he cried out the lad arose from the grass and caught his brother by the sleeve. Paul had passed so close that he had almost trodden on Chet. "Come on, Chet." "I'm coming. But hadn't we better look to our horses?" "In a minute. Let us find out what that firing means." Paul led the way in the direction of the barn. There, in the gloom, they saw two men struggling violently. They were Dottery and the negro, Jeff Jones. The other horse thieves and Jack Blowfen were nowhere in sight. Two horses were running about wildly, alarmed by the shots in the dark. Both were bridled but had no saddles. "Catch the hosses!" yelled Dottery, as he made out the forms of the boys. "Don't let 'em get out of that break in the fence!" "Have you that man?" cried Paul. "I will have in a second." The brothers ran for the animals as directed. It was no light work to secure them. When it was accomplished they ran the horses into the barn and closed the doors. As they came out panting from their exertions, they heard a gunshot from the brush on the opposite side of the road, and then the voice of Jack Blowfen calling out: "Let them hosses go, you rascals! Take that, Saul Mangle, fer the trick yer played me in Deadwood!" "Rush and Lilly!" gasped Chet. He said no more, but started in the direction of the encounter. He was determined his horse should not be taken again. Paul came on his heels. Both boys were now sufficiently aroused to fight even with their firearms. The wire fence was cleared at a single bound and into the brush they dove pell-mell. That Jack Blowfen was having a fierce hand-to-hand contest with his antagonist was plain. The boys could hear both men thrashing around at a lively rate. "You've hit me in the leg, and I'll never forgive you for it!" they heard Saul Mangle exclaim. "How do you like that, you milk-and-water cow puncher?" "I don't like it, and ain't going ter stand it, yer low down hoss thief and gambler," returned Jack Blowfen, and then came the fall of one body over another, just as Paul and Chet leaped into the little opening where the battle was taking place. They saw Jack Blowfen on his back with Saul Mangle on top of him. The horse thief had the butt of a heavy pistol raised threateningly. He looked alarmed at the unexpected appearance of the boys. "Let up there!" sang out Paul. "Let up at once!" The cry and the glint of the boys' weapons decided Mangle. With a low muttering he gave Jack Blowfen's body a kick and sprang for the bushes. Chet and Paul went after him, leaving the cowboy to stagger to his feet and regain his pistols. The boys followed Mangle not over a dozen feet. Then they came upon Darry Nodley, who had several horses in a bunch, among them Rush and Lilly. The man had been waiting for the leader of the gang to finish his row with Blowfen. Saul Mangle was ahead of the two boys, but ere he could leap upon the back of the nearest animal Paul ran up to him and seized him by the arm. "Stop!" he ordered. "You cannot take those horses. We will shoot you both if you attempt it!" "The Winthrop youngsters," muttered Darry Nodley. "How did they find their way here?" He attempted to move on, thinking Mangle would follow. But now Chet barred the way. The ranch boy had his gun up to his shoulder and there was a determined look on his sunburnt face. He was fighting for Rush as much as for anything else. "Get down!" was all he said, but the tone in which the words were uttered left no room for argument. Darry Nodley hesitated and thought at first to feel for his own gun. But then he changed his mind. He saw that Chet was thoroughly aroused, and saw, too, that Jack Blowfen was coming up. "We'll have to make tracks," he cried to Saul Mangle, and leaped to the ground, putting the horse between himself and Chet, and ran for the bushes. In the meantime Paul and Saul Mangle were having a hand-to-hand fight. The boy fought well, and the wounded man had all he could do to defend himself. Finally he went limping after Nodley, but not before Paul had relieved him of his gun. The brave lad could have shot the thief with ease, but could not bring himself to take the risk of killing his antagonist. "Where are they?" roared Jack Blowfen, coming up. "Which way did they go?" Paul pointed in the direction. At once Blowfen ran off. In another second Chet and Paul were left alone with the horses. The sounds from the distance told them that Saul Mangle and Darry Nodley were doing their best to escape from the neighborhood. "Our money!" cried Chet. "We ought to have made an effort to get that seven hundred dollars!" "That's so--but it's too late now, unless we go after the pair on horseback." "Let us return Dottery's horses to the barn first and see how he has made out with the negro." They took the horses in charge and passed with them across the road and through the break in the wire fence. At the barn they found the ranch owner in the act of making Jeff Jones a close prisoner by tying his hands and legs with odd bits of harness straps. "Got this one, anyway," growled Dottery. "Whar are the others?" "Jack Blowfen has gone after them," replied Paul. "Here are your horses." "Good enough. Say, will you watch this man if I follow Jack?" went on the ranch owner, anxiously. "Of course," exclaimed Chet. "If you can capture Saul Mangle, do so. We believe he has seven hundred dollars belonging to us." "So Allen told me." The boys took charge of the negro, and mounting one of the horses Caleb Dottery rode out of the inclosure. He took the lantern with him, thus leaving those behind in darkness. "Strike a light, Chet, and see if you can't find another lantern in the barn," said Paul. "I'll watch Jones so he don't get away." "Dis am werry hard on a poah man," moaned the negro. He was fearfully frightened, for he knew full well how stern was the justice usually meted out to horse thieves in that section of the country. "You ought to have thought of that before you started in this business," replied Paul. "It was Mangle coaxed me into de work, sah. He said as how he had a right to de hosses." "Indeed! I suppose he said he had a right to our horses, too," went on the youth, with a sarcasm that was entirely lost on the prisoner. "Yes, sah." "In that case you will have to suffer for your simpleness," was Paul's short response. He did not believe the colored man. "No lantern in the barn, so far as I can see," called out Chet. "Better march the fellow up to the house." "He can't march with his legs tied." "I reckon he can hobble a bit." Jeff Jones was unwilling to move, thinking he had a better chance of escape while out in the open. But Chet and Paul each caught him by the arm, and groaning and trembling the colored man was forced to move slowly toward the ranch home. Before moving to the house Chet had driven the horses into the barn and locked the door, so now the animals were safe, at least for the time being. It was found that Jeff Jones had received an ugly wound in the shoulder. This Paul set to work to dress, taking good care, however, that the prisoner should be allowed no chance of escape. "Wot is yo' gwine to do wid me?" asked Jeff Jones as the work progressed. "Ain't gwine ter tote me ter town, is yo'?" "That depends upon what Mr. Dottery says," replied Chet. "He's the boss of this ranch." "Better let me go," urged the colored man. "If yo' don't dar will be big trouble ahead." "Don't imagine we are to be scared so easily," returned Chet, smartly. "We have a bigger rascal to deal with even than you," he added. "Yo' mean Saul Mangle?" "No, I mean Captain Hank Grady," replied the boy, without stopping to think. "Captain Hank Grady! Wot yo' know ob him?" ejaculated Jeff Jones. "Did yo' know about him and yo' Uncle Barnaby----" the colored man broke off short. "My Uncle Barnaby!" exclaimed Chet. "What made you think of him in connection with Captain Grady?" "Oh, I know a lot about him an' de captain," said Jeff Jones suggestively. "A heap dat maybe yo' boys would gib a lot ter know about." CHAPTER XVII. Something about a Letter Allen Winthrop knew full well that he had a long journey before him and one that would, perhaps, be full of peril, yet his heart did not fail him as he and Noel Urner rode away, bound first for Dottery's ranch, and then for the railroad station, over a hundred miles away. "You must keep up a stout heart, Allen," said the young man from the east. "Perhaps all is well with your uncle in spite of appearances." "I am not daunted by what lies ahead," said the young ranchman. "But I am convinced that Uncle Barnaby has been led into some great trouble. Were it otherwise we would surely have heard from him ere this." At Dottery's they put up over night, and set off at sunrise in the morning; Allen riding the animal from the ranch and Noel using a large and powerful beast hired to him by Dottery. "Thirty-five miles to-day," observed Allen, as they pushed on along a somewhat hilly trail, lined on either side by cactus and other low plants. "Is that the distance to Daddy Wampole's hotel, as you call it?" "Yes--by the roads. The direct route would not make it over thirty miles, but we can't fly as the birds do." "We ought to make thirty-five miles easily enough." "We could on a level. But you must remember we have several hills to climb and half a dozen water courses to ford. I imagine, too, you will get tired of the saddle before nightfall." "Oh, I can stand it," laughed Noel Urner, "thanks to my experience in the riding schools in New York and my frequent exercises in Central Park." "A big difference between Central Park and this, eh? I would like to see the park some time," returned Allen. On they went, taking advantage of the early morning while the sun was still low. The level stretch was passed and then they came to a good-sized brook. Beyond was a belt of timber and the first of the hills. They watered the horses and took a drink themselves, and pushed on without stopping further. Allen knew they must keep on the move if they expected to reach Daddy Wampole's crossroads ranch before the evening shadows fell. On through the forest of spruce and hemlock, with here and there a tall cottonwood, they spurred their horses. The foot of the hill was soon reached, and up they toiled. "A grand country," murmured Noel Urner. "And big room for improvements," returned Allen, grimly. "It will take a deal of labor to put this land in shape for use." "We never realize what the pioneers had to contend with when they first settled this country until we see things as they are here. To cut down forests, level the land, build houses and barns, and fix roads--it's an immense amount of labor, truly." At noon they halted near the top of a second hill, and here started up just enough of a fire to boil themselves a pot of coffee. They had brought jerked meat and crackers from home and made a comfortable, if not luxurious meal. In twenty minutes they were again on the way, the horses in the meantime having also been fed. "Daddy Wampole's ranch is our post office," explained Allen, as they rode along side by side. "The mail comes down from Deadwood once a week. It's not very extensive and Wampole usually puts everything in a soap box and lets every comer pick out whatever belongs to him." Noel laughed. "I've heard of such doings before," he said. "I suppose he has another box of letters to be mailed." "Exactly." "It's not a very safe way to do. Letters might easily be stolen or taken by mistake. Who knows but what some communication from your uncle was carried off by another?" Allen's face grew serious. "I never thought of that. But who would be mean enough to do it?" "The man who sent that forged letter to me would be mean enough." "So he would! I must ask Wampole if he remembers any letter addressed to us." It was now the hottest part of the day. The road was dry and dusty and the horses hung out their tongues as they toiled onward. All were glad when they reached a portion of the road overhung by huge rocks a hundred feet or more in height. "A day in the saddle seems a long while," said Noel Urner. "And we have four more days to follow," smiled Allen. "I was afraid it would tire you." "Oh, I am all right yet, Allen. But look, what is that ahead, a building?" "That's the crossroads hotel. Come, we have less than a mile more to go." The sight of the rude building ahead raised Noel Urner's spirits. Off he went on a gallop, with Allen close at his heels. In ten minutes they drew up at the rude horse block and dismounted. Old Daddy Wampole, then a well-known character throughout Idaho, came out on the porch of his ranch to greet them. "Back ag'in, hey?" he called out to Allen. "Wall, thar ain't no new mail in sense ye war here afore." "I know that, Daddy," replied the young man. "I didn't come for the mail, exactly. My friend and I are bound for the railroad station." "Goin' ter San Francisco?" "Yes; we want to stop here to-night." "Ye air welcome ter do thet," and Daddy Wampole gave Noel a friendly nod. The young man was introduced and all three entered the ranch, one room of which did duty as a general store, barroom, and post office. Before anything else could be spoken of, Allen questioned Wampole concerning the letters which had been in the box for several weeks back, and the people who had called for them. "I don't remember much about the letters, but I recerlect thet Cap'n Grady took most all ez came in," was the suggestive reply from the so-styled postmaster. "So he took most of the letters, did he?" said Allen, slowly. "How many of them, on a rough guess?" "Seven or eight." "And you can't remember if any of them were addressed to me?" "No, I don't recerlect thet, Allen, but hold on--do ye suspect the cap'n o' tamperin' with yer mail?" "I don't believe he is above such an action," replied the young man, bluntly. "Wall, neither do I, privately speakin'. I was goin' ter say," went on the ranch owner slowly, "when the cap'n got the letters he walked over there to the old place and tore 'em open. Maybe----" There was no need for the man to go on. Allen had already left the apartment and was hurrying across the road to what had in former days been the only house in the section. It was a rude affair, now half fallen into decay. Outside, under the overhanging logs of the roof, was situated a bench sometimes used by travelers as a resting place. Here many a yarn had been told, and many a "hoss deal" talked over and closed. Straight to the bench went Allen, and in the fading light looked eagerly on all sides for bits of paper of any kind. He found a great number and gathered them all into his empty dinner pouch. When he was sure there were no more scraps in the vicinity he returned to the house. "Well, what have you?" asked Noel Urner, with interest. "I have nearly fifty scraps of letters," said Allen. "I must look them over at once." A lamp was lit, and, spreading out the scraps on a large, flat board, Allen set to work to sort out the various pieces. It was tedious work and Noel Urner assisted him. Suddenly the young ranchman uttered a low cry. "Look! Here is part of a letter that was addressed to me," he said. And he held up a scrap which bore the words: "--you and Chet can meet me and Paul----" "Is it in your uncle's handwriting?" questioned the young man from the east. "Yes." "Then it would seem as if some one had stolen your letter, certainly." "That's just what was done!" ejaculated Allen. "I wonder----" he stopped short. "What do you wonder?" "I wonder if Captain Grady had anything to do with Uncle Barnaby's disappearance." "The cap'n air a slick one," put in Daddy Wampole. "I never liked him from the day I fust sot eyes onto him. An' seem' as how he's achin' ter git thet ranch from ye boys, why, it ain't surprisin' he took thet letter and would do more, if 'twas fer his own benefit." "It won't be for his benefit if I find he is playing such an underhand game," rejoined Allen, grimly. The thought that Captain Grady had stolen his letter angered him thoroughly. "He fancies that we are only three boys, but he'll find out that even boys can do something when they are put to it." "It's a pity you didn't find the rest of the letter," observed Noel Urner. "No doubt that letter was of great importance. It might be best to hunt up this Captain Grady and learn the truth from him before we push further for the railroad station." "The trouble is the cap'n air hard to find," said Daddy Wampole. "He ain't on his ranch more 'n a quarter o' his time. Ye know he's as much interested in mines ez he is in cattle." The mention of mines gave a new turn to Allen's thoughts. Had that communication from Uncle Barnaby contained any reference to the valuable claim over by the Black Rock River? "If it did, then Captain Grady will rob Uncle Barnaby as sure as fate," thought the young ranchman, with an inward groan. CHAPTER XVIII. Allen Changes His Plans A moment later a clatter of horse's hoofs on the road outside betokened another arrival. Catching up his gun, Daddy Wampole strode out to see who it was. "Ike Watson! Wot brings ye here?" Allen heard him cry, and then ran out to greet the old hunter. "Allen, by all the good fortunes o' the Rockies!" ejaculated Ike Watson. "Jes' the boy I'm pinin' ter see." "And I'm mighty glad to see you, too, Ike," returned the young ranchman. "I want a bit of advice, and you are just the man to give it to me." "Advice? I'm ready to give ye bushels o' it, if it will do ye the least bit o' good, lad. But wot are ye doin' here? Why ain't ye hum?" "I came here on my way to the railroad station, I am bound for San Francisco to hunt up Uncle Barnaby." "Gee whiz! Now thet's what I call fortunate! If I hadn't a cotched ye, ye would be goin' off on a wild goose chase, with no end to the trail." "A wild goose chase? O, Ike, have you word from my uncle?" "No, I ain't got no word from him, but I got word in a way thet two rascals didn't dream on." "But what do you know?" questioned Allen impatiently. "Not much, ter tell the truth, an' yet a good deal. It happened this mornin', when I wuz down to Casey's Fork. I wuz ridin' along the old B'ar Trail when along comes a couple o' the worst lookin' bad men ye ever seed. Sez one to tudder, 'If we can make him tell us whar the mine is, we will all become millionaires.' Then sez tudder, 'We'll make him speak. We didn't trap Barnaby Winthrop inter leavin' San Francisco fer nuthin'.' The fellers wuz on the bottom trail, while I wuz up on the rocks. I tried to git to 'em to make 'em tell me wot wuz the meanin' of it all, when they spied me comin' down, an' by the grasshoppers o' Kansas! ye ought ter hev seed 'em put an' scoot. They got out o' sight in a jiffy, an' I couldn't locate 'em, try my best. I hung around an hour, an' then I made up my mind ter ride over an' tell ye wot I hed heard." Not only Allen, but also Noel Urner and Daddy Wampole were astonished by the revelation Ike Watson made. "Uncle Barnaby trapped into leaving San Francisco!" gasped Allen. "Did they say where they had taken him?" "Didn't say nuthin' more'n I told ye," responded the hunter from Gold Fork. "Leas'wise, didn't say nuthin' ez I could hear." "Who were the men?" "I don't know, 'ceptin' I seed 'em hangin' around Jordan Creek about six months ago. Like ez not they belong to the old Sol Davids gang. Nearly every one up thet water course belonged to thet gang." "Would you know them if you saw them again?" "Sartinly--I'm powerful good at recerlectin' faces onct I see 'em." "Where do you suppose the men went to?" "Rode off in the direction o' Black Rock River Canyon." Allen started. Could it be possible they suspected the claim was up in that neighborhood? It was more than possible. The young ranchman turned to Noel Urner. "Noel, I'm going to change my plans. I am going after those two men instead of going to San Francisco." "It would certainly seem a useless trip now," replied the young man from New York, slowly. "There is not the slightest doubt but what your uncle was decoyed away from San Francisco. Where he is now is a mystery which those two men must solve for you--they or----" "Captain Grady," finished Allen, impulsively. "I feel it in my bones that he is in this plot against Uncle Barnaby." "It would seem so." "How do ye make that out?" asked Ike Watson. In a few words Allen told the old hunter about the missing letter. "Gee, shoo! He are one o' the gang, sartin!" cried Ike Watson. "The best ye can do is to start in an' round 'em all up." "Thet's the talk," put in Daddy Wampole. "The state would be a hundred per cent better off with 'em fellers out o' it." Allen gazed at Ike Watson earnestly. "Will you help me in this work?" he asked. "You know more about these bad men than I do." "Will I help ye? Allen ye ought ter know better than ter axt sech a question. O' course I'll help ye. I ain't got much ter do. Them new claims up the Salmon kin wait well enough." "I would help ye, too, if I could git away," said Daddy Wampole. "Thet gang worried me enough for six years, goodness knows!" "And what of you?" Allen turned to Noel. "You see how matters stand. I don't want to ask you to go, for we may have some rough times, and----" "I came out to see rough times," interrupted the young man from the east. "So unless you think I'll be too much of a hindrance, I would like greatly to accompany you wherever you go. You must remember that I, too, am anxious to find your uncle." "Then, thet's settled," said Ike Watson. He did not much fancy having the company of a "tenderfoot," but Noel's manner pleased him. A long discussion followed. While it was in progress Mrs. Wampole prepared a hot supper, to which later on Allen and the others did full justice. It was decided to remain at the crossroads hotel all night, and the three retired early, that they might make a start before sunrise. It must be confessed that the young ranchman slept but little. His mind was in a whirl over all he had discovered, and he shuddered whenever he thought that his uncle might possibly be in peril of his life. "Those men would indeed dare all for gold, as those initials on the cross imply," he said to himself. "What a pity they were not exterminated the time old Sol Davids was lynched." Toward morning Allen dropped off into a troubled slumber, to be awakened with a start by a touch from Ike Watson's hand an hour later. "Time ter climb below an' feed up, Allen," cried the old hunter. "We hev a long ride afore us, ez ye know." "That's true!" cried the young ranchman, springing to his feet; and Ike went off to arouse Noel Urner. The young man from New York felt rather stiff from his ride of the day previous. Yet he did not complain, and did all he could to make the others believe he felt in perfect trim for another day in the saddle. After a substantial but hasty breakfast the horses were saddled and they were off, Daddy Wampole waving his hand after them and wishing them the best of luck. "We'll make for Casey's Fork fust o' all," said Ike Watson. "Perhaps I can pick up the trail thar. If I can't we kin push on toward the Salmon an' trust ter luck." Allen was doubtful if the old hunter could pick up the trail after having once lost it, but in lieu of something better, he agreed to Watson's plan. Noel, of course, was willing to go wherever the others led. It was high noon when Casey's Fork, a rough lot of rocks in a bend of the Umihalo Creek, was reached. Allen and Noel were glad enough to dismount in the shadow of the rocks while Ike Watson went off on a tour of inspection. The old hunter was gone so long that Allen at last grew alarmed. "Something is wrong, or he would be back ere this," he said. "Let us go after him." But hardly had they mounted when they heard a shout ahead. Looking beyond a belt of bushes they saw Ike Watson waving his hand to them. "Found it!" he cried as they came up. "They took the creek road over ter the forest trail. The marks are fresh, showin' they didn't move on until dark last night." "Then they can't be many miles ahead!" cried Allen. "Oh, if we can only keep the trail till we catch up to them!" "No time ter lose," said Ike Watson, and once more they continued the pursuit, this time faster than before. Yet at the end of two miles they came to a sudden halt. The trail led down to the bank of a shallow stream and there disappeared from view. CHAPTER XIX. Along the Water Course "Gone!" burst from Allen's lips. "What's to do now?" asked Noel Urner. Ike Watson halted in perplexity for fully a minute. Then he dismounted and waded into the stream, which was scarcely a foot to a foot and a half in depth. "Ho! ho! ho!" he laughed, suddenly. "I thought so! No, ye can't play thet game hyer.". "What now, Ike?" questioned the young ranchman. "They went up in the middle o' this yere stream, thinkin' they could throw me off the trail. See, hyer are the marks ez plain ez the nose on Cap'n Grady's face." And the old hunter pointed into the clear water. Leaving Allen to bring his horse, Watson walked slowly along the bed of the stream, taking good care not to step into any deep holes. In this manner half a mile was covered, when, at a point where the brush along the bank was thin, the trail led out once more on the dirt and rocks. "An old trick, but it didn't work this trip," chuckled Ike Watson to himself, as he once more resumed his seat in the saddle. "What I am thinking of is, what made them suspicious, after they were so far from Casey's Forks," said Allen. "Perhaps their guilty consciences," laughed Noel. "Thet, an' because they thought I might be follerin' 'em," added Ike Watson. "Hullo! What does this mean?" He had followed the trail around a belt of timber. Beyond was a wall of rocks, and here were traces of a recent camp--a smoldering fire and some odds and ends of crackers and meat. "We ain't far behind 'em, boys!" he went on. "This fire wuz tended ter less than a couple o' hours ago." "Then let us push on, by all means," returned Allen. "If we can catch those two men before they have a chance to join any of their evil companions, so much the better." "The trail leads along the rocks," observed Noel. "Have you any idea where we are going?" "Idee! I know this yere country like a book," said Ike Watson. "Don't ye git 'feered o' bein' lost so long ez ye stay nigh me." "I don't mean that. I mean, do you know where the men went from here?" "Up to Grizzly Pass, most likely, an' then along over ter the Black Rock Canyon. Eh, Allen?" "It would seem so," responded Allen seriously. "Grizzly Pass; rather a suggestive name," said Noel. "Ye-as; especially when a big grizzly shows hisself," drawled Watson, and there the conversation dropped. Despite the fierce sunshine, it was deliciously cool along the base of the rocky wall, and the horses made good progress over the hard but level trail. Here and there immense brier bushes overhung the way, but these were easily avoided by the animals, who were more afraid of them than were their riders. Presently the trail took an upward course, leading between a split in the rocks. "Ye want ter be careful hyer," cautioned Ike Watson. "It's a mighty slippery spot fer the best o' hoss flesh." Scarcely had he spoken when Noel Urner gave a cry of alarm. He was in the rear, and both the old hunter and Allen turned quickly to see what was the matter. They found Noel's horse on his knees, having slipped to one side of the trail. The young man was on the ground, one foot caught in the stirrup. "Stop the hoss!" cried Watson. "If ye don't he'll bang the young man's head off!" Before he had ceased speaking Allen was on the ground. He ran back and caught Noel's horse by the bridle. The young man from the east was partly stunned, and it was several seconds before he could recover sufficiently to disengage his foot and arise from his dangerous position. "Good for you, Allen!" he cried, as he stood by, while the young ranchman assisted the horse to a safe spot in the trail. "I was afraid I was in for it." "Ye did jes' the right thing, Allen," put in Ike Watson. "Dunno but wot ye hed better walk a brief spell," he went on to Noel, who was only too glad to do so. Half an hour later the top of the rocks was reached, and they moved back to where the way was smooth and safe. A lunch was had from the pouches, and on they went as fast as the fatigued horses would carry them. "I can see no trail," said Noel, as he rode abreast of his companions. "There ain't no need ter see a trail hyer," replied Ike Watson. "This yere way is a blind pocket fer all o' these three miles. Ye couldn't go no different if ye tried. Byme-by, when we come out on Sampson's flats, we'll look for the trail ag'in." "We ought to catch up to those men before we reach the flats," remarked Allen. "They must be tired out by that climb." "We ain't fur off," rejoined Watson. "Jes' keep silent half an hour longer, an' we'll----" He broke off short, reigned in his steed, and pointed ahead. Allen looked eagerly in the direction. Under the spreading branches of a giant pine rested two men. Not far from them two horses were hoppled. The men looked thoroughly tired. Both were smoking pipes and leaning against the tree with their eyes closed. "Let us dismount and tiptoe our way to them," whispered Allen. "If we secure their horses first they will have no chance to get away from us." "A good plan, lad," returned Watson, in an equally low tone. "Supposin' ye an' I leave our nags with Mr. Urner?" This was agreed upon, and after dismounting the horses were led behind some heavy brush by the young man from the east. Then, with their weapons ready for use, Allen and old Ike Watson stole cautiously forward to where were grazing the animals belonging to the two bad men from Jordan Creek. Allen and the old hunter from Gold Fork went about their work as silently as possible. The horses were somewhat in the rear, and so they made a detour, coming up behind the dozing men as softly as twin shadows. The animals reached, the next thing was to release them. This was speedly accomplished, and it was Allen who led them off, while Ike Watson still remained on guard with his trusty gun ready should the occasion arise to make use of the firearm. In less than three minutes the young ranchman was back, having left the captured animals in Noel's care. "Now, what's to do?" he questioned. "Maybe we hed better git a few ropes ready, in case we want ter bind 'em," began Ike Watson, but ere this idea could be put into execution one of the men dropped his pipe, and the hot tobacco, falling on his hand, brought him upright with a start. He opened his eyes, and with a loud exclamation, which awoke his companion, leaped to his feet. "What does this mea----" he began. "Hands up, ye rascal!" ordered Ike Watson, so sternly that instantly both arms were raised high overhead. The horse thief, for the man was nothing less, if not much worse, fully understood that his opponent had the "drop" on him and would not stop to parley unless the order to elevate his hands was obeyed. The second rascal, in his sitting position, attempted to draw a pistol, but Allen, producing his own weapon, forced the man to remain stationary. "We hev ye, stranger," remarked Watson after a second of silence. "Do ye acknowledge the corn?" "What's the meaning of this outrage?" growled the fellow who was standing, and he scowled fiercely, first at the old hunter and then at the young ranchman. "It means firstly that ye are in our power," chuckled Watson. It was evident that he thoroughly enjoyed the situation. "Well?" "Then ye acknowledge thet, do ye?" "I suppose we'll have to." "It's Ike Watson from Gold Fork," put in the man who was sitting. "Ike Watson!" the face of the speaker grew quite disturbed. It was plain he had heard of Watson before and did not relish being held up by the well-known old man. "Ye-as, I'm Ike Watson," drawled the old hunter. "Now, strangers, give me yer handles, and let me have 'em straight." "My name is Roe Bluckburn," came from the standing man. "Mine is Lou Slavin, and I'm not ashamed of it," came from the other. "Jes' so," mused Watson. "I've heard o' both o' yeez belongin' to the old Sol Davids gang o' hoss thieves." "You are mistaken. We are not thieves of any sort," said Bluckburn, who appeared the leader of the pair. "Well, we won't quarrel about that, seein' ez how we are on another trail ter day. We want ye ter up an' tell us ter onct whar Barnaby Winthrop is." "Yes, and tell us the truth," put in Allen, sternly. The men were both taken aback by the request. They exchanged glances and each waited for the other to speak. "Come, out with it, Bluckburn!" cried Watson. "Dunno the man you are talking about." "Ye can't come it thet way. Didn't I hear ye talkin' it over down ter Casey's Forks only yesterday? Come, out with the truth, or take the consequences!" and to scare the horse thief Ike Watson tapped his gun barrel suggestively. "Must be some mistake. We wasn't near Casey's Fork in a month. Eh, Lou?" "Nixy." "Ye tell it so smooth I would most believe ye, if I hadn't follered ye up," growled Watson. "But we know ye air in the deal ag'in Barnaby Winthrop, an' I am hyer ter help his nevvy thar, Allen Winthrop. So ye hed better ease yer mind ter onct. Understand?" The two men turned their attention to Allen curiously. They wished to hold a consultation, but Watson would not permit it. At that moment Noel Urner came forward, having succeeded in tying all of the horses in a little grove not far distant. He eyed both of the prisoners keenly, and then gave a start. "I saw that man in San Francisco!" he ejaculated, pointing to Roe Bluckburn. "He was hanging around the very hotel at which Mr. Barnaby Winthrop stopped." "It ain't so," growled Bluckburn, but his face proclaimed that Noel Urner had spoken the truth. "If that is the case, then he is the one who decoyed my uncle away," put in Allen. "For there is no longer any doubt in my mind that he was spirited away in some fashion." "Air ye fellers goin' ter speak?" roared Ike Watson, impatiently. "Ye can't expect me ter stand hyer with a gun the rest o' the day!" "Unless you do speak, we shall bind you and hand you over to the sheriff," said Allen. "We believe we have a good case against you--and will have a better after Captain Grady is placed under arrest," he added, struck with a sudden thought. "Captain Grady!" groaned the man named Lou Slavin. "I reckon the jig is up, Roe." "Shut up!" growled Bluckburn. "But if the captain is known wot show have we got?" grumbled Slavin. "Say?" he continued eagerly. "I went into this thing ag'in my will, an' I wish I was out of it. Supposin' I tell yer the truth about the hull gang, does that save me?" "Don't you say a word, Lou!" shouted Bluckburn, warningly, but ere he could speak further the muzzle of Ike Watson's gun caused him to retreat up to the tree, where he stood, not daring to say another word. "Go on and have yer say!" cried the old hunter to Lou Slavin. "And, ez I said before, give it ter us straight. Whar is Barnaby Winthrop?" "He is a prisoner, about ten miles from here," was Slavin's flat and sudden confession. CHAPTER XX. Moving against Captain Grady Both Paul and Chet Winthrop were deeply interested in the words uttered by Jeff Jones, the colored member of the horse thieves' gang. "So you know something of Captain Grady and our uncle, Barnaby Winthrop?" cried Chet, excitedly. "What do you know?" "Dat's fer you two fellers ter find out--onless yer let's me go," replied Jeff Jones, suggestively. "You mean you won't speak unless we grant you your liberty?" put in Paul. "Dat's de way to figure it." Paul looked at Chet inquiringly. "We can't promise anything until Mr. Dottery gets back," said Chet. "But if you know anything about our uncle you had better speak out, if you wish us to do anything at all for you." "I won't say a word," growled the colored man. Chet bit his lip in vexation. "Don't you know what it is to have us able to speak a word for you?" said Paul. "Supposing we let Jack Blowfen take you over to the next camp and tell the men that you are a downright horse thief? Would you fancy that?" Jeff Jones began to tremble. He knew what Paul meant--that he would be lynched inside the hour. In that section of the country, at that time, horse stealing was considered almost as bad as murder. "No! no! doan let him take me down ter de Fork!" howled Jeff Jones. "Anyt'ing but dat, boys!" "Well, you, had better talk, then," returned Paul, severely. "I doan know much, but I'll tell yo' all I do know," said the prisoner, after a short pause, "and yo' is ter do de best yo' can fo' me, promise me dat?" "We will," said Chet. He was very impatient for Jeff Jones to proceed. "Well, den, Captain Grady has been a-spottin' yo' uncle fer seberal weeks--eber sence he got Massah Winthrop ter leave San Francisco." "Got him to leave San Francisco?" queried Paul. "Yes. I doan know how de t'ing was done, but he got yo' uncle ter leave de city an' now he's tryin' ter make him gib up de secret ob a mine, or sumfin like dat." "Gracious!" burst from Chet's lips. "That explains it all. Uncle Barnaby must be in Captain Grady's power." "And by getting us out of the ranch he thought to make us leave the neighborhood," added Paul. "Do you know," he went on, "I believe he is at the head of a band who wish to obtain entire control of this section." "I don't doubt it, Paul," Chet turned to the prisoner. "Where is our uncle now?" "Dat I can't say." "Captain Grady must know." "Suah he does." "Then we'll make him tell, never fear," Chet began to walk up and down. "I wish Mr. Dottery would come back." "I hear somebody down the road," said Paul as he walked to the door. "It must be the two coming back now." Paul was right. There was a clatter beyond in the dark, and a moment later Caleb Dottery appeared, followed by Jack Blowfen. "Couldn't catch 'em in the dark," said Dottery, as he strode into the house and dropped into a rude but comfortable chair. "But thank fortune, the stock is safe!" "Slick rascals, Mangle and Nodley," continued Jack Blowfen. "But we'll round 'em up some day, I'll bet my _sombrero_ on it." "We have just heard important news," said Paul, and he instantly proceeded to repeat what Jeff Jones had said. Caleb Dottery and his cowboy helper listened with interest. The former gave a long, low whistle of astonishment. "Must say I didn't quite think it of Captain Grady, though I allow as how he's a slick one," he remarked. "Wot's ter do about it?" "We came here to obtain your aid," said Chet. "Captain Grady has taken possession of our ranch. You know he sets up some sort of a claim to it." "Got yer papers, ain't ye?" "No; they were burned up when we had our little fire." "Humph! thet's bad!" "But the place is ours--father bought and paid for it," added Paul, warmly. "And we intend to get Captain Grady out, even if we have to fight him." "Good fer ye!" shouted Jack Blowfen. "Thet's the way ter talk. I'm right hyer ter help ye. I love grit, I do!" and he held out his big brown hand to Paul as if to bind a bargain. "I'll certainly help ye, too," said Dottery. "Ye have done a good turn this night which I'm not likely to forgit in a hurry." "This colored man told us about our uncle and Captain Grady of his own free will," said Paul. "So, if you can be a little easy on him on that account I wish you would be." "Stealin' hosses ain't no light crime," growled Dottery. "An' it don't improve a man's reputation to become a sneak," added Jack Blowfen. Yet, after some talk, it was agreed to hold Jeff Jones merely as a prisoner for the present, instead of carrying him to the nearest camp to be turned over to the vigilance committee. It was now so near morning that to think of retiring was out of the question. The men began to smoke, and Blowfen stirred about getting breakfast. At six o'clock they dined. "I'll chain Jones up as a prisoner in the house till we git back," observed Dottery, when the meal was finished. "He'll keep quiet if he knows when he is well off." This was done, and then both house and outbuildings were made as secure as possible. Ten minutes later Paul, Chet, and the two men were on their way on horseback to the Winthrop ranch. All were armed and ready for anything that might turn up. But not one of the number dreamed of the several surprises in store for them. CHAPTER XXI. Shooting a Grizzly Bear "I wonder if Captain Grady is alone or if he has a number of the gang with him?" observed Paul, as he rode alongside of his younger brother, and just in front of the two men. "Most likely he is expecting trouble and has help at hand," returned Chet. "He knows well enough we won't give up our claim without a fight." "It's possible he thought to frighten us off until Allen got back from San Francisco." "Don't make any difference how much help he has," broke in Jack Blowfen. "He ain't no right to put ye out like a couple o' dogs, an' he knows it." In this manner the talk went on until a little after noon, when the locality known as Demon Hollow was reached. "Do you remember the badger, Paul?" laughed Chet. "The Hollow looks different in the daylight, doesn't it?" "Yes, indeed, but still--what was that?" "Jumpin' June bugs!" cried Jack Blowfen. "Dottery, did ye hear that?" "I did," replied the old ranch owner, and he clutched his gun apprehensively. "I heard something," said Chet. "What was it?" "A bar, boy, sure ez ye are born--a grizzly!" "Oh!" At once the little party came to a halt. To the right of them was a tall overhanging rock, to the left a number of prickly bushes. Ahead and behind was the winding and uneven road along which their animals had come on a walk. "Do ye see old Ephraim?" asked Jack Blowfen, as he, too, got his gun in readiness. "I don't see anything," declared Paul. Bang! It was Chet's gun which spoke. He fired up toward the top of the overhanging rock. Scarcely had the shot rung out than a fearful roar of mingled pain and rage rent the air. "Shot him, by Jupiter!" cried Caleb Dottery. "Stand from under, quick!" Hardly had the word been given than there was another roar. Then a heavy weight filled the air and down into the road leaped a big brown and gray grizzly weighing all of eight hundred pounds. He came down between the boys and the two men, and no sooner had he landed than Dottery and Blowfen opened fire on him, both striking the beast in the shoulder, and, consequently, doing but little damage, for a grizzly bear is tough and can stand many shots which do not touch his vital parts. The horses, much scared, backed in all directions, some going into the bushes and others up against the rocks. More angry than before the grizzly half turned, and then, without warning, raised up on his hind legs and made for Chet, whose horse was now flat upon the rocks, having stumbled in his hasty retreat, Chet himself was partly in and partly out of the saddle when the charge was made. "Run, Chet, run!" yelled Paul. "He is coming for you!" In alarm he came up on foot, his horse refusing to budge in the direction of the bear. The bear heard Paul's voice and for the second paused and turned, as if to make sure he was in no immediate danger from that quarter. Then he continued to advance upon Chet. Almost overcome with fear, Paul raised his gun and fired at the bear's head. It was a chance shot, but luckily it hit the huge beast in the ear. The bear howled with pain, staggered forward a few feet and rolled over on his side. By this time Dottery and Blowfen had their pistols out. Leaping to the roadway, they ran forward, and in less than a minute the bear had received six pistol balls and was kicking in his death agony. It was Paul who helped Chet to his feet. The boy was as white as a sheet and trembled so he could scarcely stand. "I--I thought I was a goner!" he stammered. "What a big fellow he is!" "The bar we war arfter last spring," said Jack Blowfen to Dottery as they examined the brute. "See those marks on his side where we tipped him? A good job that he is out of the way." It was the second grizzly bear the boys had seen since they had lived in that section and they gazed at him curiously. What white teeth he had, and how powerful he looked! Even now that he was still and all was over, Chet hardly cared to touch him. "I want to see no more of him," he said. "Well, I reckon he's the last in this neighborhood," said Caleb Dottery. "He's the only one I've seen around in nigh on six years." It was decided to leave the bear where he was until they returned. Of course, it was possible some wild animal might come up and make a feast in the meanwhile, but this could not be helped. To skin the animal and hang up the meat would take too long. Leaving Demon Hollow, they pushed along as rapidly as the horses would carry them. At the creek they stopped to water the animals, and here also partook of the lunch which Blowfen had packed up before starting. It was nightfall when they at last came in sight of the ranch home. All seemed deserted. Every building was tightly closed and so was the gate to the stockade. "Maybe he has thought better of it and skipped out," said Chet. "There is our stuff still in the road," returned Paul, pointing ahead. In a moment more they had reached the stockade. All four rode straight up to the heavy wooden gate. "I'll have to jump over and unbar it," said Paul. "Be careful," was Caleb Dottery's caution. "This may be a trap and----" He had no need to say more. "Halt!" came from the yard behind the stockade. "Stop where you are or I'll fire on you!" It was Captain Grady himself who spoke. CHAPTER XXII. An Important Capture Of course Paul made a prompt retreat. It would have been worse than useless, just then, to have remained where he was, with his hands on the stockade gate. The party outside could not see Captain Grady, but from the direction of his voice they knew he was on the other side of the stockade at a point where several peep and gun holes covered the entrance. "That's right, you better git back!" went on the captain, as Paul retreated. "See here, Grady, what does this mean?" demanded Caleb Dottery, as he advanced in the direction of the guard openings. "It means that I have got possession of this ranch, which rightfully belongs to me, and I mean to keep it," was the grim reply, delivered with great force and distinctness. "The Winthrop boys deny yer rights." "That makes no difference. I know what's what." "Open the gate and let us talk it over quietly," went on Dottery, who was naturally a peaceably inclined individual. "I'm not opening the gate just now. Those boys can go away. I don't mind you coming around, but I don't want those boys here." "Well, you'll have to put up with us," cried Chet, angrily. "Now, open the gate, or we'll smash it down!" "Don't be rash, Chet!" whispered Paul. "You monkey!" roared Captain Grady. "Fall back, before I let you have a dose of buckshot!" "There will be no shooting here, Captain, unless ye want ter get wiped out," broke in Jack Blowfen. "Open the gate fer yer neighbors and let us hev a powwow." "I've told you wot I'll do--open up when the boys go away." "Come on, Chet," whispered Paul to his younger brother. "Yes, but Paul----" "Come on, I say," and Paul whispered something into Chet's ear. At once, with a wink at Jack Blowfen, the two boys started off on a gallop toward the river. "Do you think we can do it?" asked Chet, anxiously. "I think so. We can try, anyway." Dismounting, the brothers made their way to where a deep ditch drained from the ranch home under the stockade into the river. The ditch was almost dry and was all but choked up with weeds and brush. "Now, Chet, it is a serious undertaking, but you know we must take some chances," went on Paul, as they let themselves down into the ditch. "The captain may really shoot at us, although I think he will hardly dare do it with Blowfen and Mr. Dottery at hand to see that justice is done." "If he shoots, we'll shoot back," replied Chet. "He has no right on our land, and, besides, we must do something for Uncle Barnaby's sake." Full of determination, and realizing that a crisis was at hand, the two boys wormed their way along the ditch until the stockade was reached. Here a few wooden bars blocked the way. But one of the bars was loose and was wrenched aside, and they went on. "We must be careful, in case any one is in the house," said Paul in a whisper. The ditch led around to the rear of the ranch home. But here it went underground and they were compelled to leave it and take to the grass. They gave a brief look and saw Captain Grady down by the opening in the stockade, still arguing with Dottery and Blowfen. He looked anxious. "He don't see us," whispered diet. "Come, the front door is open!" and he made a quick dash for the house, followed closely by Paul. The door was closing on the pair when Captain Grady started around and beheld Paul's form from the rear. He gave a quick cry of alarm. "Stop! Come out!" "Too late, Captain Grady!" called back Paul, facing about and aiming at the man with his gun. "Now, just you go and open the stockade gate!" "Thar ain't no need o' thet!" cried the voice of Jack Blowfen. "Well done, boys; I give ye credit." And over the stockade vaulted the cowboy, leaping from his saddle to the grass on the other side. Captain Grady knew not which way to turn, and before he could decide the gate was unbarred and Caleb Dottery rode in. In the meantime Chet had taken a hasty glance through the house and satisfied himself that Captain Grady was really alone. There was evidence that several visitors had been there but recently--a number of unwashed dishes and drinking glasses. Chet returned to the doorway and beheld Captain Grady in Jack Blowfen's strong grasp. The firearm had been wrenched from the captain and hurled a dozen feet away. "This--this is an outrage!" puffed the captain in a great rage. "So is the way ye set up to treat neighbors," replied the cow puncher, coolly. "Why didn't ye leave us in like gentlemen an' thus avoid all trouble?" The captain glared at him. "What does this mean?" he demanded sullenly after a pause. "Can you hold him, Blowfen?" asked Paul, anxiously. "I reckon, Paul; but maybe ye might better keep him covered with yer gun." "This means that we have come to take possession of our own," put in Chet. "We told you that we would be back." "It's ag'inst the law, and I'll have the sheriff on you!" shouted Captain Grady wrathfully. "We'll chance that," said Paul. "March into the house, please. We want to question you a bit on another matter," he continued. Captain Grady started. "What matter?" he asked in a lower tone of voice. "About our uncle, Barnaby Winthrop." "Don't know nothing of him," was the reply, and as he spoke Captain Grady's hand moved up to his inside breast pocket. Instantly Jack Blowfen leaped upon the rascal and bore him to the earth. CHAPTER XXIII. News of Importance "Don't be alarmed; he is not going to shoot," cried Paul. "Don't ye make too shure o' thet," ejaculated the cowboy. "Wot's he puttin' his hand into his pocket fer?" "He has something there I fancy he wishes to conceal," went on Paul. "Empty the pocket, please." "Let me go! This is highway robbery!" stormed Captain Grady. He struggled fiercely to regain his feet. But Blowfen was the stronger of the pair and he easily held the rascal down with one hand, while with the other he brought several letters from his inside pocket. Paul eagerly snatched the letters, in spite of the captain's protest. He glanced at them, with Chet looking over his shoulder. "Well, what do you make out?" asked Caleb Dottery. He didn't quite like the way matters were turning. "I think we will be safe in making Captain Grady a prisoner," replied Paul slowly. "Yes, make him a prisoner by all means," put in Chet. "He is a villain if ever there was one. If we can't prove it I think my Uncle Barnaby can." At the reference to Barnaby Winthrop Captain Grady grew pale. It was evident that his sins were at last finding him out. It did not take Jack Blowfen long to act upon Paul's suggestion. He disarmed the captain and made him march into the house, where he bound the fellow in very much the same manner as Dottery had bound Jeff Jones. While he was doing so Paul showed the letters taken from the prisoner to Caleb Dottery. Chet, while a second reading was going on, commenced to ransack the house. The captain had moved but a few things into the ranch home--a couple of chairs, a table, a bed, and an old hair trunk. The trunk Chet opened without ceremony. More letters were found there--documents which told only too plainly what manner of man the captain was. Chet smiled to himself to think how foolish the rascal had been not to have destroyed the epistles. "But the greatest of villains occasionally over-reach themselves," he said to Paul. "I fancy this is proof enough to show what an awfully bad man Captain Grady is." "You are right, Chet," said Dottery, after a careful examination. "He is a hoss thief as great as was old Sol Davids, and he is trying to rob yer uncle out of a mine claim as well." "Not only that, but as Jeff Jones said, he is with the crowd who holds my uncle a prisoner, sir. That, to me is the worst part of it." "I don't know but what ye are right." The captain was raising such a row that to quiet him Jack Blowfen threw him bodily into a dark closet and turned the key on him. "Now if ye don't quit yer noise, I'll gag ye in the bargain," said the cowboy, and thereupon the captain became quiet at once. It was now quite in line to hold a council of war, as Paul termed it. But before this was done all hands went to work to move the Winthrop household effects back to where they belonged. This was accomplished in a short space of time, and was productive of an accident which, while not excessively serious, was still of sufficient importance to cause a decided change in their plans. In moving in an old, heavy bedstead Caleb Dottery allowed the end he held to slip from his grasp. A sharp corner came down on his ankle, twisting it severely. He cried with pain and work was at once suspended. The ankle was bandaged, but it was found the old ranch owner could not walk, nor could he move about with any degree of comfort. He was placed on a couch and there he remained. The four talked matters over for a long while. In one of Captain Grady's letters was mentioned a certain cave in the vicinity of what was then known as the Albany Claim. The boys fancied that their uncle might be a prisoner in that cave. "Well, I dunno but what ye are right," mused Jack Blowfen. "It's sartinly wuth going to see." "Then you advise us to go?" asked Paul, eagerly. "Yes, and I'll go with ye." "But Mr. Dottery," began Chet. "I'll stay whar I am an' watch the captain," groaned the old ranch owner. "It's about all I'm good for jes' now." "The old Albany Claim is a good stiff forty miles an' more from hyer," said Jack Blowfen. "But I know the road over the second foothills perfectly. So if ye say the word any time we'll start." "It looks like rain just now," said Paul. "An' ye'll catch it heavy, too," put in Dottery. "We'll have to look after the cattle, too," added Chet. "Like as not half of them are in the sink hole." "I'll help ye with the stock," said Blowfen. That evening it rained in torrents, but only for a short while. By midnight it was as clear as it could be. Long before sunrise the boys and Blowfen were out on the range looking up the heads belonging to the Winthrops. They were gratified to find that all the stock was safe with a single exception. That was an old cow who had been caught in the cyclone and killed. Not one of the four-footed beasts had gone anywhere near the sink hole. When let out of the closet Captain Grady begged hard for his liberty. But the boys were obdurate and Caleb Dottery backed them up, as did Jack Blowfen. "Ye have done wrong an' must suffer," said the latter, and there the matter rested. By nine o'clock the two boys and Blowfen were off. They took with them enough provisions to last several days, as the journey upon which they were about to enter would be for the greater part through a dry and unproductive section. This same section has now been made, by a system of irrigation, very productive. "And now to find Uncle Barnaby and bring our enemies to terms!" cried Paul, as they rode out of the stockade. "So say I, and may uncle be found well," added Chet. "Amen," murmured Jack Blowfen. CHAPTER XXIV. Something about Barnaby Winthrop "My uncle a prisoner about ten miles from here?" repeated Allen Winthrop, after Lou Slavin had made his confession. "Will you shut up?" howled Bluckburn, savagely. "You'll spoil everything." "An' he'll save hisself from bein' lynched," added old Ike Watson, suggestively. "We haven't done anything--you can't hold us," spluttered Bluckburn. He found himself in a bad corner. "Holding a man a prisoner is nothing, I presume," said Allen, in deep anger. "Go on," he continued to Slavin. "Where is my uncle?" Thus urged, Lou Slavin blurted out a full confession, telling how Barnaby Winthrop had been followed to San Francisco by Bluckburn, who wanted to learn the secret of the new claim, which Bluckburn realized must be valuable. Slavin said it was Bluckburn who had sent to Barnaby Winthrop a forged letter calling the old prospector back to the ranch. The rascal had also forged the note received by Noel Urner. Word had been sent by telegraph to the other members of the thieving band, and when Barnaby Winthrop got off at the nearest railroad station to the ranch he was followed and waylaid. "The crowd had a mighty hard time o' it with him, he fit so," went on Slavin. "Onct he nearly got away, but Captain Grady tripped him up an' then he war bound tight." "Captain Grady!" ejaculated Allen. "Thet's his size," cried old Watson. "I allers allowed as how he war one o' the shady class." "He--he led the whole business," put in Bluckburn. He began to think it time to clear himself. "I only acted under his orders." "It's too late fer ye ter open yer mouth," was the way Ike Watson cut him short. "Go on, Slavin. Whar's Barnaby Winthrop? Straight, now, remember." Thus admonished, Slavin told the location of the cave in which the old prospector was held, as well as he was able. "I don't know the lay o' the land exactly, but I'm comin' purty nigh it." "Would you know the spot if you were in the vicinity?" asked Allen, eagerly. "I think I would." "Then we must take him along," said the young ranchman to Ike Watson. "But what shall we do with Bluckburn?" "He ought ter be lynched right now," was the old hunter's stern reply. During his days among the rough characters of the mountains he and his companions had had small use for jails and lockups. The law of the land, so called, was administered on the spot. A long discussion followed, which ended in a determination to take Bluckburn back to Daddy Wampole's place. They would leave him there a prisoner, and then take Slavin along with them, that he might locate Barnaby Winthrop's place of confinement. Bluckburn was secured on his horse's back, and Slavin was disarmed, and in less than half an hour the return to the crossroads hotel was begun. It was a long and tedious ride to Allen who was impatient to be off to find his uncle. But it could not be helped, and Allen bore it as patiently as he was able. Daddy Wampole was as much surprised as he well could be to see them ride up with their prisoner. He listened with deep interest to the tale Allen, Watson, and Noel Urner had to tell. "Yes, I'll keep him a prisoner," he said at the conclusion. "An' take my word on it, he shan't escape." "And it won't be long before we have Captain Grady, too," said Allen, never dreaming of what was taking place at home in the meanwhile. Bluckburn was exceedingly downcast over his turn of fortune. He insisted that Captain Grady was totally to blame, but this statement no one felt inclined to believe. Slavin showed himself more than willing now to do all in his power to redeem himself and his reputation. Yet neither Ike Watson nor Allen could trust him with so much as a pistol. "You jes' ride on ahead, an' if thar's any trouble we'll look out fer ye," was the way Watson put it, and with this Slavin had to be content. A long and exceedingly rough journey now lay before the three, a journey destined to try their patience to the utmost. "But we will have to make the best of it," said Allen. "And I don't care what we have to put up with so long as we find my uncle safe and sound." "Thet's the talk," answered Watson. "Can't expect ter have every comfort out in these yere parts nohow." The sun had been shining brightly, but presently the sky became overcast. "Unless I am mistaken we are close to a storm," observed Noel, as he surveyed the heavens anxiously. "Thet's wot," came from Watson. "An' I allow as how it will be a putty heavy one when it comes." "We've had storms enough lately," said Allen. "I want no more of them." They continued on their way as rapidly as the nature of the ground to be covered permitted. Occasionally Slavin grumbled at being pushed on so fast but Watson soon put a stop to his mutterings. "No ust ter grumble, Slavin," he said. "Ye kin be thankful thet ye wasn't shot down like a dog." "But I'm not feelin' well," pleaded the evil doer. "Ain't ye? Wall, what ye want is exercise," was Watson's sarcastic rejoinder. "So trot along, an' no more parley about it," and Slavin went along, but with a face that looked far from pleasant. Half an hour later the raindrops began to fall, at first scatteringly and then in a steady downpour. It was a cold rain and made one and another of the little party shiver. "I must say I don't like this," said Allen, when he was more than half soaked through. "I wonder if we can't find shelter until the worst of this is over?" "Perhaps we can," said Noel. "Although I don't see many large trees handy." "Might be as how's thar's a cave around," said Watson. "Anyway, we'll keep our eyes peeled fer one." This they did and a quarter of a mile further on came to something of a cliff overlooking a rocky valley. At the base of the cliff were a number of rough openings and one of these openings led to a cave of no mean size. "Jes' the ticket!" cried Watson, as he dismounted and entered the opening. "We can stay here all night an' by thet time the storm will be a thing o' the past. We ain't none too soon either," he added. Watson was right, for scarcely had all of the party entered the cavern than the storm let down in all of its fury. The landscape was blotted out and all became darker than ever. "Ye set down on thet rock," commanded Watson to Slavin. "An' don't ye dare ter stir if ye know when yer well off." "I ain't stirrin'," growled the prisoner. Nevertheless, although he spoke thus, Slavin had his eyes wide open. He intended to escape if it were possible to do so, fearing that all would not go well with him even though he had confessed to his captors. CHAPTER XXV. Fighting a Wolverine "I think we had better make a fire," suggested Allen, after the horses had been tied up in a place that was comparatively dry. "Right ye air, Allen," returned Watson. "Pervidin' we can find some firewood." "Here is a tree branch," said Noel, pointing it out in a dark corner of the cavern. "But we may have some trouble in breaking it up." "Ho! ho!" laughed Watson. "It's easy ter see ye ain't very strong. We'll break thet up in a jiffy; eh, Slavin?" "What do ye want?" growled the prisoner. "Want ye ter help break up some firewood." "Me?" "Persackly, Slavin. Reckon as how ye want ter git as warm as anybody. Wall, ye kin start in by doin' some work." Slavin demurred but his protest was unavailing and soon he and Watson were breaking up the large part of the tree branch, Noel looking on in wonder and Allen assisting on the smaller portions. "My, but you are strong," said Noel, in open admiration. "I'd give a good deal for your muscles." "Ye'll get the same, if ye stay out hyer long enough," answered Watson, "It's the mountain air as does it." "Oh, come, Watson, you know you are extra strong," put in Allen. "Why, he can do some wonderful things when he wants to." To this Watson made no reply, but the grin on his face showed that he appreciated the compliment. Soon they had a roaring fire, which threw grotesque shadows on the cavern walls. All drew closer to enjoy the warmth, and they prepared a meal to which even Slavin did full justice. They questioned the prisoner closely and he said he felt certain he was on the right trail. But he was shy about saying more. He was wondering if the coming night would offer any opportunity of escaping. "I'll get away if I can," he thought. "And if so I must lose no time in warning Mangle and Nodley. If I don't they'll be running into a trap, and my share of that stolen money will be lost." After the meal Allen and Watson remained near the entrance to the cave, to talk over the situation and speculate upon what the day following would bring forth. Slavin wanted to join them, but Allen ordered him back. "You go back to the fire," he said. "If you want to go to sleep you may do so." "Don't trust me even yet, do ye?" muttered the prisoner. "I do not." "Ye're rather hard on a chap wot is trying ter do ye a good turn." "It remains to be seen if it is a good turn or not, Slavin. You may be putting up a job on us." "No, I swear it's all right, Winthrop. Ye'll find everything jest as I told ye." "Perhaps. But you go back to the fire," and Slavin went back, but with a look on his face that rivaled the black clouds in the heavens outside. Soon the prisoner was curled up close to the fire and he closed his eyes as if in slumber, but he kept as wide awake as before. While Allen and Watson were talking at the entrance to the cavern, Noel, out of idle curiosity, procured a torch from the camp fire and went on a tour of observation. The cavern proved to be a narrow and rambling affair, being nothing more or less than a split in the mountain side. The floor was uneven and back from the entrance arose in a series of rough steps. Up these steps climbed the young man until he had gained a position fully fifty feet above the mouth of the cavern. At a great distance he heard the falling of water, as the rain swept over some rocks at a rear entrance to the cavern. Curious to see where the cavern led to be continued his climbing until the light of the camp fire was left far behind. His torch was burning low but he whirled it into a blaze and went on once more. Occasionally he slipped, for the rocks were now wet, but this did not daunt him. At last he reached a spot where the water was flowing in a miniature waterfall. There was an opening over his head but it was out of reach. "This must be a pretty place in the daylight," he mused. "What grand scenery on every hand throughout this State!" Of a sudden more than the usual amount of water came down and some of it hit the torch, extinguishing it instantly. "Confound the luck," he murmured, and felt in his pocket for a match. While he was searching for the article, he heard a strange noise overhead, close to the waterfall. He listened and the noise was followed by the unmistakable growl of a wild beast. A wolverine had strayed close to the waterfall and had slipped on the rocks to a shelf below. For a few seconds the ferocious beast clung to the ledge, then slipped again and landed at Noel's feet! The wolverine is one of the most ferocious beasts to be met with anywhere. It is not unlike the bear in general make-up, but has a more pointed head and a bushy tail. It is said that, generally speaking, a wolverine will not eat anything else if it can get meat. As soon as the wolverine smelled the presence of a human being he let out a growl that seemed to strike to Noel's very backbone. Letting the match he had pulled from his pocket drop, the young man felt for his pistol and brought forth the weapon with all possible speed. Bang! The weapon was discharged and the bullet clipped the wolverine on the left side of the head. Then with a snarl that was almost a scream, the ferocious animal hurled itself upon Noel. "Help! help!" cried the young man. He felt that he was in an exceedingly perilous position and that assistance was absolutely necessary. In the darkness he thought he had been attacked by a mountain bear. The wolverine managed to reach his shoulder, but Noel made a quick twist and freed himself. Then the young man fired a second shot. The wolverine was now hit in the side, but the wound was far from fatal or even serious, and it only made the creature scream louder. With blazing eyes and gleaming teeth, it crouched low and prepared to spring for Noel's throat. The young man knew that almost all wild beasts are fearful of fire but he did not know how the beast before him regarded water. Yet as he fired a third shot he stepped close up to the rocks, so that the water from the fall might pour over his person. The third report echoed throughout the cavern as loudly as had the others, while the bullet flew a foot over the wolverine's head. Then the savage beast made a second leap at Noel and caught the young man by the arm. The weight of the animal made Noel lose his balance, and man and wolverine rolled over on the cavern floor together. CHAPTER XXVI. Disappearance of Slavin "What's that?" The exclamation came from Allen as he broke off short in his conversation with Watson. The cry from Noel had reached his ears and the cry was quickly followed by the first of the pistol shots. "He's in trouble, thet's wot!" cried the old hunter. "Hark, thar's another shot!" He bounded back to the camp fire, but quick as was his movement, Allen was ahead of him. Both felt that Noel's peril must be extreme. "Get a torch!" cried Watson, and caught up a burning brand. "What of Slavin?" questioned Allen, but then, as the second shot rang out, he waited no longer, but with a torch in one hand and his gun in the other, he darted up the rocky steps as fast as he could. Watson was beside him, with pistol drawn, his gun resting on the side of the cave below. It took but a few seconds to gain the vicinity of the little waterfall but before they came up they heard the third shot and another yell from Noel. "My gracious!" burst from Allen's throat, as he beheld the awful scene. Noel was lying partly on his back, with one foot pressed against the wolverine's stomach. The wild beast still held the young man by the arm. Allen realized that whatever good was to be done must be done instantly, and without stopping to think twice he blazed away at the wolverine, twice in quick succession. Watson likewise fired, and the creature was struck each time. With a yelp that was almost human the wolverine turned, let go his hold on Noel, and leaped for Allen. "Take care!" yelled Watson, and then fired another shot, just as the wolverine, unable to reach Allen's throat, made a clutch at his left leg. The shot from the old hunter took the beast directly in the right eye, piercing his brain, and he fell over like a lump of lead, to move no more. "A close shave fer ye," remarked Watson, when he saw that Allen was uninjured. "A big one, too," he went on, shoving the wolverine with his foot. "How are ye, Urner?" "I--I guess I am not much hurt!" gasped Noel, when he felt able to speak. "The beast bit me in the arm though." "It's lucky he wasn't after gittin' at yer throat. I knowed a man onct as got a nip in the throat from a wolverine that made him pass in his checks then an' thar." "It was a terrible encounter! I thought I was a goner sure." "Didn't you have a torch?" questioned Allen. "I did, but the water struck it and put it out." "The darkness was what made the critter so bold," remarked Watson. "They're afeered o' fire, jes' like most o' wild beasts." "Oh, my, we forgot Slavin!" burst suddenly from Allen's lips. "I'll wager a horse he has dusted out!" "Ye're right," returned Watson, and began to make his way back to the camp fire with all speed, and with Allen close beside him. Noel was too weak to run and had to walk. He was still very white and his limbs trembled under him because of the unusual excitement. The camp fire gained, it needed but a single glance around to convince them that Slavin had indeed gone. "Took my shootin' iron, too, consarn him!" ejaculated Ike Watson. "What fools we wuz ter leave him yere alone!" "We saved Noel's life by the operation," answered Allen. "Thet's so, too, but----" "You hate to see him get away. So do I, and--Look!" "What now?" "He has taken one of the horses, too!" Allen was right, the best of the horses was gone. "He ain't got much o' a start," said Watson. "So let us git arfter him hot-footed." "I am with you on that, Watson; he must not get away under any circumstances. If he does----" "We won't be able to git on the trail o' yer uncle." "That's it." Both were soon in the saddle, and shouted back to Noel to keep the fire burning and wait for their return. Then away they dashed into the midnight darkness. The storm still continued and the rain poured down with a steadiness that was dismal enough to contemplate. But to the discomfort Allen gave scant heed. "He must not get away," he said, to himself, over and over again. "We must capture him and make him take us to where the gang have Uncle Barnaby a prisoner." "Right ye air, Allen." To follow a trail under such circumstances was not easy, yet they found some tracks in the soft dirt directly in front of the cliff and these led on the back trail and then to where there was a deep ravine between the rocky slopes of the mountains. Half a mile was covered and Watson called a halt. "Ye want ter go slow yere," he cautioned, "I don't like the looks o' this territory nohow." "What is wrong with it?" "Full o' holes, fer one thing, and water under the surface. We'll go slow," and they did. Occasionally it lightened and by the flashes of light they made out a fringe of woods skirting the hollow. The wind was coming up and this swept through the trees with a mournful sound. They were moving with care when they heard a sudden yell ahead. It was Slavin calling to his horse. "Back up!" they heard him cry. "Back, hang ye! De ye want ter pitch me in a hole?" And then followed a savage muttering they could not make out. "We've got him!" cried Watson. "Come--but be careful, be careful." "I'm going to dismount," said Allen, and did so and led his steed forward along the trail which the rain had made slippery and treacherous. Watson likewise got down and they now had to wait for another flash of lightning to show them just where they were. As the flash came Allen gave a look ahead. "Well, I never!" he ejaculated. "Wot did ye see?" came quickly from the old hunter. "Slavin has tumbled down and the horse with him." "Then we've got the rascal sure!" They plunged forward again. The trail was narrower than ever and the gully, or hollow, was on one side, and a fringe of mountain brush on the other. Presently they heard something which served to increase their surprise. Slavin was groaning as if in extreme pain. "The fall hurt him," said Allen, "Look after my horse, will you? I am going ahead." He hurried on around a slight turn of the trail and through a clump of bushes and trees growing close to the edge of the hollow. As he emerged from the bushes a sight met his gaze that thrilled him to the backbone. Slavin had fallen over the edge of the trail at a point where lay a huge half-rotted trunk of a tree. The trunk of the tree had slipped in the wet, rolled partly over the man, and was slowly but surely crushing the life out of him! CHAPTER XXVII. Allen Shows His Bravery "Slavin!" "Hel-help!" gasped the poor wretch. "Help! For the love of Heaven, help me!" "How did you get under the tree trunk?" "My horse kicked me and I fell. I tried to save myself from going into the hollow. Please help me!" "Thet's wot ye git fer runnin' away," put in Watson, who had appeared on the scene. "Don't--don't talk! Save me!" was Slavin's only answer. "We'll do what we can for you," returned Allen. Yet even as he spoke he realized how difficult, not to say dangerous, was the task which lay before him. Should he attempt to roll the log over it might catch him just as it had caught the suffering wretch now under it. "Take care, Allen!" warned Watson. "The bank here is mighty slippery." "I know it," was the answer. "Watson, can you hold yonder branch?" "Wait till I tether the hosses." This was done as quickly as possible and then the old hunter caught hold of the branch Allen had mentioned. Allen got down under the lower end of the fallen tree and caught Slavin by the arm. "Can't you turn over?" he asked. "I--I--can't budge!" was the low answer. And then with a groan the prisoner became insensible. "He has fainted!" cried Allen, to Watson. "Pull on that branch for all you are worth." "I'm a-pullin'." Still the tree trunk did not budge, for one end was embedded in the mud lying on the edge of the bank. Allen was determined to save the poor wretch who was slowly but surely having his chest crushed in by the sinking tree. Finding he could not move the tree he called on Watson to hold fast as before. "Ye can't do nothin', Allen," protested the old hunter. "Come away afore the tree rolls over an' crushes ye too!" "It won't roll if you hold fast," Allen answered. "Yes, it will, when it starts. I can't git nothin' ter brace ag'in here." "Well, I'm going to do my best and you must hold back as long as you can," was the answer. Getting down on his knees, Allen began to scoop away the loose dirt with his hands, working directly under Slavin's body. It was hard work and broke his finger nails, but he kept on and at last had quite a hole made. "Now hold hard, I'm going to pull!" he shouted to Watson, and the old hunter held as hard as he could. Then Allen pulled with might and main and at last had the satisfaction of getting the senseless body of Slavin free from its awful pressure. "Quick, the tree is a-goin'!" came from Watson. "Give me yer hand!" He reached forth and at the same time the tree began to slide down the hollow, directly in Allen's pathway. Allen had Slavin in his arms by this time. He made a leap and got on top of the tree, and just as the trunk went down Watson caught him and held tight. "A close call an' no error!" cried Watson, when Allen was safe on the trail once more. "Ye came within an ace o' goin' into the hollow with the tree on top o' ye!" "I guess Slavin's pretty badly hurt," said Allen, when he could get back his breath. "That trunk had him pinned down for fair. He would have been crushed in another minute or two. What shall we do with him?" "Wait till I catch his hoss an' we'll take him back to the cave," answered Watson. To catch the animal was not difficult and close at hand they found the gun Slavin had stolen. Then while Allen carried the firearms and led one horse and rode another, Watson took up the unconscious man in his arms and followed on his own steed to the cave. They found Noel sitting by the fire nursing his lacerated arm. The wound was an ugly affair but by no means dangerous, and after it was washed and bandaged it felt a great deal better, although the arm was bound to be stiff for several weeks to come and sore in the bargain. "Got him, I see," remarked the young man, as he glanced at Slavin. "What's the trouble, did you have to shoot him?" "No, he got under a fallen tree," answered Allen. The unconscious man was placed in a comfortable position near the fire, which was heaped up with fresh wood, that all might dry themselves, and Watson went to work to restore Slavin. This was no mean task and it was a good half hour before the man opened his eyes to stare about him. "I--I--where am I?" he stammered. "Yer safe," answered Watson, laconically. "That tree--Did I go over into the hollow?" "No." "How did I escape?" "Allen Winthrop saved ye." "He did!" "Yes, Slavin; he's yer best friend, if ye only know it," went on the old hunter warmly. "But I--don't--don't understand." In a few words Watson explained the situation to which Slavin listened with much interest. Then his eyes rested on Allen. "I'm much erbliged ter ye," he said slowly, and his manner showed he meant it. "You were a fool ter try ter git away," went on Watson. "I know thet--now," muttered the hurt one. "Don't ye know I would have plugged ye on sight?" "Would ye?" "Sartain shur, Slavin." "Wall, I won't give ye another chance," responded Slavin, with a heavy sigh. "Ye won't git the chance, ye mean," said the old hunter, significantly. "All right, jes' as ye please, Watson. But if thet young feller saved my life why I'm----" "What?" "I'm going to make it up ter him, thet's all." "Do you mean that you will lead us without any further trouble?" questioned Allen eagerly. "Thet's wot I do mean, an' I'll swear ter it if ye want me ter," added Slavin, solemnly. "You needn't swear, Slavin." "But I mean it, Winthrop. I may be a bad man, but I ain't so all-fired bad as ter forgit a man when he does me a good turn," went on the sufferer, with increased earnestness. "Well, I will take you at your word." "But I can't go on just yet. I've got a terrible pain in my breast, here." "I suppose you have. We shan't move to-night and maybe not to-morrow. It will depend upon how Noel Urner feels." "Oh, I'll go on," said Noel. "But I think a little rest here will do us all good," he added, thoughtfully. "Yes, ye all need it," put in Watson. "An' now I want all o' ye to turn in an' git some sleep. I'll stay on guard." "But not all night," insisted Allen. "Wake me at two or three o'clock." And so it was arranged. CHAPTER XXVIII. A Buffalo Stampede Allen went on duty at three o'clock and remained on guard until six, when the others awoke. The sun was showing itself in the east and all that remained of the storm were a few scattering drops. "How do you feel?" asked Allen of Noel. "Fairly well, although the arm is stiff, Allen." And the young man continued: "What shall we do with the wolverine?" "Nothing, unless you want the pelt." "I never want to see the beast again," said Noel, with a shudder for which Allen could not blame him. "Then let him lie for the other wild beasts to feed upon." When Watson arose Allen had breakfast ready and all ate without delay. Even Slavin got around, but it was plain to see that he was suffering. "I want ter show ye I mean ter do what I said," he told Allen. "I'll go on if I drop in my tracks." "We won't start just yet, Slavin," answered Allen, "and when we do we'll take it rather easy, both for your benefit and for Mr. Urner's." It was past ten o'clock when they left the cave. Their horses were much refreshed by the rest taken, and despite Slavin's hurts fair progress was made along the foothills. It was a lonely section of the State through which they were traveling and Allen could not help mentioning this fact to Ike Watson. But at his words the old hunter merely laughed. "Lonely," he snorted. "Gosh all hemlock, Allen, it ain't half as lonely as it used ter be, not by a jugful. Why, I remember the time ye could ride fer days an' days an' see nuthin' but buffalo or some other wild critters." "The buffalo are almost all gone now, aren't they?" "Putty much, an' it's a great shame, too, fer they were fine game. But them sports used ter come out west an' kill 'em off by the score, worse luck! Didn't want 'em fer nuthin' either!" And Watson shook his head sorrowfully. "Were you ever caught in a buffalo stampede, Ike?" "Onct, Allen, onct, an' it's an experience I'll never fergit as long as I live." "I should like to hear the particulars." "Thet ain't really much ter tell, Allen. I wuz out on Crazy Tom Mountain at the time. Reckon ye know the place." "Fairly well." "Well, it wuz while the buffalo had been over to the Fork. Grazin' wuzn't very good thet season an' the critters wuz rather ugly in consequence." "Yes, I've heard they get bad when their feed is cut short." "As I wuz sayin', I wuz up alongside o' Crazy Tom Mountain, looking fer b'ar, an' I had jes' struck a fine trail when I heered a curious sound on the tudder side o' the hill. I couldn't make it out nohow at fust, but byme-by I thought it must be buffalo, an' I wuz right." "Did they come right down on you?" "No, worse luck, they didn't. If they hed I might have scooted to one side or tudder. But instead o' comin' straight over the mountain--'tain's high, ye remember--they came around on both sides, an' afore I knowed it, I wuz right in the middle o' 'em." "What did you do?" asked Allen, as Watson paused reflectively. "At fust I didn't know what ter do persackly. I shot one of 'em, but bless ye, thet wuzn't nuthin', and I calkerlated as how I'd have ter ride fer it. Then of a sudden my hoss got scared and shot me over his head into a big thorn bush and made off like a streak o' greased lightnin', leaving me alone." "With the buffalo all around you?" "Jes' so, more'n twenty o' 'em, an' more'n a hundred others comin' up fast as they could leg it. I kin tell ye I wuz in a fix an' no error." "It must have hurt you to land in the thorn bush?" "Hurt? Wall say, it wuz like bein' dumped into a pit full o' daggers, that wuz! Hain't fergot the awful stickin' pain yit an' never will! But bein' chucked into thet thorn bush saved my life." "Didn't the buffalo touch the bush?" "Nary a one. They would come up close, on a dead run, an' then shy like a skittish hoss afore a bit o' white paper. Time an' ag'in I thought one would heave hisself atop o' me an' squash me, but the time didn't come. Say, but it wuz a sight, that wuz!" went on Watson earnestly. "Them buffalo was mad, clean stark mad, and trampled all over each other. The stampede at thet p'int didn't last more 'n three minutes an' arfter it wuz over thar wuz five buffalo dead less than four yards away from me!" "Tramped to death by the others?" "Yes, smashed up too. Ye never saw sech a sight. Arfter thet ye can calkerlate I keep clear o' all other stampedes," concluded the old hunter. Talking over one thing and another the party moved along until about one o'clock, when a halt was made for dinner. Allen found that Noel was suffering but little but his arm was well bandaged. Slavin, however, was pale. "You need a rest, Slavin," he said, kindly. "I reckon ye air right," was the faint response. "Didn't calkerlate ter git sech an all-gone feelin'." "We'll rest until the worst of the heat is over; eh, Ike?" "Jes' as ye say," answered the old hunter. They found an inviting spot in a small grove of trees close to a spring and a brook, and proceeded to make themselves comfortable. Slavin was glad enough to drop into a light doze. "He's a changed man, unless I miss my guess," said Allen to Noel. "I think you are right, Allen. That adventure took him so close to death I fancy it rather awakened his conscience." "I hope he does turn over a new leaf. He doesn't appear such a bad fellow at heart." "You are right. I suppose some men get bad out here simply because they haven't any good example to follow. They cut loose from their old associates and fall in with the wrong sort." "That's just it, and it's so much easier to find the wrong sort than the right sort. Some men think life altogether too slow unless they are doing something against the law." Allen, as he rested, could not help but think of his two brothers. What were Chet and Paul doing? He sincerely trusted all was going well with them. "They ought to be old enough to take care of themselves," said Noel. "You mustn't worry too much on their account." "Well, we have to be on guard out here night and day, Noel. You really don't know who to trust." "Oh, I know that." "Just think of what my uncle has suffered, and of what he may be suffering this minute. It is enough to make one's blood boil!" "It may not be as bad as you imagine, Allen. Your uncle must know a thing or two." "Of course, but one man can't do much against three or four, or half a dozen. Those rascals will do all in their power to bring him to terms, rest assured of that." "Well, I am willing to push on at any time you say." "I'll push on as fast as Slavin can travel. I can't do more than that. If he caves in on our hands we'll have no means of finding out anything more about my uncle's whereabouts." "He can't be shamming, can he?" "Not a bit of it. He was caught under the tree and I wouldn't have been in his position for a thousand dollars." "Then don't push him any harder than you dare. To me he looks like a fellow who might be getting a fever." "I noticed that. But I hope he doesn't," concluded Allen. But the fever was coming and by nightfall all of the others saw that Slavin was in a bad way. He sat up and began to talk wildly. "Let me go! Take the tree from me!" he cried. "I haven't got the money! Oh, how do ye do Mr. Winthrop. Glad to see me, eh? And how is that new mine, an' what kind of a trade are ye goin' to make with Captain Grady, eh? Ha! ha! The cave by the seven pines! A good hiding place, the seven pines! Let me go, the tree is crushing me!" And then he fell back almost exhausted. "He won't travel any more, not jes' yet," said Watson, soberly. "He's up ag'in a long spell o' sickness." "Did you hear what he said about Captain Grady?" asked Allen. "I did. He must be in this game, too. An' the seven pines." "The cave must be at a place called the seven pines," said Noel. "If it is I think I know the spot," answered Ike Watson. "I ran across 'em seven pines two years ago. They air about two miles from here, on the other side o' the mountain. We'll have ter go around ter git ter 'em." An hour later Allen and Watson left Slavin in Noel Urner's care and struck out for the place on the other side of the mountain which the old hunter had mentioned. CHAPTER XXIX. The Long Lost Found Before leaving camp both Allen and Ike Watson saw to it that their weapons were in good condition and ready for immediate use. "No tellin' what we may run up ag'inst," said the old hunter. "Well, I am ready to fight, if it comes to that," returned Allen, grimly. "But I would rather take the enemy by surprise." "Thet would be the best way, Allen. But fust we must locate thet cave." The ride around the mountain was a rather trying one and from a gallop they had to slow down to a walk. In some spots the trail was much cut up and the mud was deep, while in others they had to pick their way over rocks which were as smooth as they were dangerous. "Look thar," said Watson, as he paused on a spur of the rocks. "Thar's a tumble fer ye!" He pointed to a canyon all of five hundred feet deep and Allen had to draw back after looking into the awful depth. "If a fellow should tumble here he would never live to tell it," said the young ranchman. "This would be a bad trail to follow in the dark." Moving away from the spur of rocks overlooking the canyon, they turned to the northwest and plunged through a forest of cedar and hemlock. Here the wild birds were numerous and Allen was tempted to bring some of them down with his gun, but Watson demurred. "No use o' makin' too much noise," he explained. "Remember, somebody may be on guard up at thet cave." "Slavin said he thought only an old woman had been left in charge--a woman who claimed to be Darry Nodley's wife." "Didn't know as how thet rascal hed a wife." "That is what Slavin said." "It might be the truth, and then ag'in, it might not. We don't want ter believe too much, Allen." "I agree with you, Ike. But I think Slavin was really anxious to help us after we did him that good turn." The old hunter shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps; but I've seen too much foul play in my time ter trust everybody. Thar may be a woman up thar, an' thar may be some men-folks too." So the talk ran on and they gradually drew closer to where the old hunter had once seen the seven pine trees. To one not used to a life in the open, to remember such a locality after two years' absence would have been difficult, but it was not so with Ike Watson. "Can't fool me on a thing like this," he said, flatly. "Onct I see a place it hangs in my mind forever. Same way with a trail. Why onct I struck a trail in the south o' the State, kind o' a mixed trail too. I didn't see thet trail fer nigh onto six years, but when I did see it ag'in I knew it jes' as quick as I clapped eyes on it." "I believe you," replied the young ranchman. "You have an eye like a hawk," and in that Allen was right. The sun was sinking low in the west when they came out of a defile in the rocks and the old hunter pointed to a valley on the opposite side of the foothills below them. "Do ye see them, over thar?" he questioned. Allen gave a long look. "I do--seven pines, sure enough!" "Told ye I'd remember the spot!" cried Watson, triumphantly. "But where is the cave?" went on the young ranchman. "Like as not it's close by. Come, before the sun goes down an' it gits too dark." Soon they were making their way along the foothills at the lower side of the mountain. They had to pass through considerable brush and while they were doing this Watson suddenly halted and pointed to his side. "What is it?" asked Allen, as he also halted. "If thet ain't a putty fresh trail then I miss my guess." "It does look fresh, Ike." "Ain't over twenty-four hours old, nohow," went on the old hunter. "Allen, I reckon we have struck it about right." "But I see nothing of a cave." "Let us follow the trail. The cave may not be persackly by the pines but in sight o' them, do ye see?" "I do." "Thet trail is almost in the direction I wuz goin'," continued Watson. "So we won't miss much if we go wrong. Forward it is!" And again they struck out, this time with increased confidence. As they progressed the old hunter examined the hoof marks from time to time and said he was certain two horsemen had passed that way. But just as they were coming to the end of the foothills they reached a mountain water course and here the trail came to an abrupt end. "We are stumped now," said Allen, after both had crossed to the other side of the stream. "I ain't a-givin' up jes' yet," answered Watson. "Oh, neither am I. But where has the trail gone to?" "Let us move down the stream a bit," suggested the old hunter. "I don't think the hossmen who made thet trail would stick ter the water very long." On they went once more, and now in silence, for both felt that the cave might be close at hand. The seven pines were still in view, standing upon a hillock by themselves. At last they came to a spot where the water course broadened out into a tiny lake. At this point there was another brook, coming down from a spring upon the hillside. "The trail!" cried Allen, presently, and pointed it out. "Right ye air, Allen," returned Watson. "An' I reckon we air gittin' close ter the end on it too," he added suggestively. But little more was said and they quickly followed the trail up to where a wall of rocks arose, standing boldly out from the foothills and facing the seven pines. "If I ain't mistaken thar's a cave over yonder," whispered Watson, pointing with his hand. "Forward we go!" cried Allen, and dashed ahead, with his weapon ready for use. Two minutes later a turn of the trail brought them into plain view of a large cave in the cliff side. "Eureka!" began Watson, when Allen checked his speech. "Somebody is coming!" he whispered. "A woman! Get behind the brush!" He led the way and Watson followed, and both waited with bated breath. Presently a woman passed them, carrying an empty water bucket. She was bound for the spring just mentioned. "That must be the woman Slavin mentioned," went on Allen, in a low voice. "Like as not," whispered the old hunter in return. "Shall we capture her?" "No--wait." They waited and presently the woman came back with the bucket full of water. She entered the cavern without looking around her. "Let us follow her on foot," suggested Allen, and they tied up their horses. Soon the entrance to the cave was gained and they peered inside. For the moment they could see but little, for there was only a low fire burning in the cavern. Then of a sudden Allen let out a wild cry: "Look! look! There is my Uncle Barnaby, tied fast to the rear wall!" CHAPTER XXX. Together at Last--Conclusion Allen spoke the truth. There, tied by strong ropes to a projecting rock, was the uncle of the Winthrop boys. His face was pale and haggard, showing he had suffered much since his confinement. Forgetting the woman, Allen dashed forward. "Uncle Barnaby! How glad I am that we have found you!" he cried loudly. "Who is that?" The prisoner sprang up from where he was resting. "Allen!" "Yes, uncle! Are you not glad to see me?" "Glad is not a strong enough word, my boy!" was the reply from Barnaby Winthrop, and as soon as Allen had released him he caught his nephew in his arms. "I was praying to be rescued." "They have not treated you well, I can see that, uncle." "They have used me worse than a dog. They wanted to get my secret from me, and used every means in their power to accomplish their purpose." "But they did not succeed, did they?" "No. I told them I would die rather than allow the scoundrels to get rich through my instrumentality." A scuffle behind them stopped the conversation. Ike Watson was trying to secure the woman, who was struggling desperately to get away. By biting and scratching the desperate female at last freed herself from the old hunter's grasp. Then she bounded for the cave entrance. Watson aimed his gun at her and then lowered the weapon. "Reckon I won't," he drawled. "Never did shoot at a woman, an' I'm too old ter begin now. She don't count, anyhow!" And thus the woman was allowed to escape. She lost no time in quitting the vicinity. The old hunter shook hands warmly with Barnaby Winthrop, who was profuse in his thanks to Watson for what he had accomplished. "You shall lose nothing by what you have done, Ike," he said. "Just wait till I open up that new claim." "Speaking of the claim, there is somebody else to see you," began Allen, when the talk was interrupted by the clattering of horses' hoofs on the rocks outside. "Saul Mangle and Darry Nodley!" exclaimed Allen, as he glanced down the stony trail. "They are coming here, too!" "They belong to the gang," said Barnaby Winthrop. "Reckon ez how we can receive 'em all right," put in Ike Watson, dryly. As quickly as possible Barnaby Winthrop was provided with firearms. "My gracious!" It was Allen who let out the cry, loud enough for those who were approaching to hear. "What's up?" asked his uncle. "Look back of them." All did so, and then a shout went up. There only a few hundred yards to the rear, were Chet and Paul, trying their best to run down the horse thieves, whom they had discovered but a short five minutes before. "We've got 'em corralled!" said Watson, grimly. "Look, there is Jack Blowfen, too!" ejaculated Allen, as the cowboy also came into view. "Halt!" Ike Watson uttered the command. He ran into the open, followed by the others. A shout went up from Saul Mangle and Darry Nodley, and then another from those in the rear. "There is Allen!" "There is Uncle Barnaby!" "Capture the horse thieves!" The two rascals were bewildered and paused, not knowing which way to turn. They were quickly surrounded, and it was old Ike Watson who commanded them to throw down their weapons. At first they felt inclined to refuse, but a glance at the stern faces about them caused them to comply. "The jig is up!" muttered Saul Mangle, and Nodley groaned inwardly. There was another joyous greeting between uncle and nephews when Paul and Chet rode up. In the meanwhile Jack Blowfen assisted Ike Watson in making prisoners of Mangle and Nodley. The latter asked for his wife and seemed disappointed to learn she could not share his captivity. Allen and Barnaby Winthrop were glad to learn that Captain Grady was a prisoner. "When I am done with him I warrant he'll not give any of us further trouble," said the uncle of the boys. Before the party left the vicinity, Saul Mangle and Nodley were searched, and from them were taken the seven hundred dollars which had been stolen from the ranch home, as related at the beginning of this story. The prisoners were removed to Daddy Wampole's hotel, and later on were placed in the hands of the sheriff. The sheriff also took into custody Captain Hank Grady and Lou Bluckburn. The colored man, Jeff Jones, was, by the advice of Chet and Paul, allowed to go his own way on promise to turn over a new leaf. Slavin was taken to a hospital and later on let go. Several years have passed since the events above recorded took place. In that period of time many important changes have occurred. The horse thieves and would-be claim stealers were all duly tried according to law, and are now serving various terms of imprisonment. The ranch belonging to Captain Grady was confiscated by creditors from Deadwood and sold to Barnaby Winthrop, who turned it over to the three boys to add to the ranch already belonging to them. The Winthrop mine is now in operation and is paying very well. It is managed by Barnaby Winthrop himself, and Noel Urner owns a large block of stock, which he considers the best investment he ever made. Caleb Dottery and Jack Blowfen manage the ranch jointly in connection with their former work, doing this on shares for the Winthrop boys. As for old Ike Watson, he still roams the hills and mountains. He can have a good home with Barnaby Winthrop any time he wishes, but says he is not yet ready to settle down. And Allen, Paul, and Chet? The three boys are all in San Francisco. Allen is in college, and his two brothers are preparing to follow at a well-known private school. Allen is to be a lawyer, and privately has a notion he may enter politics as the State of Idaho grows in importance. Paul is inclined to be a doctor. Chet has not yet settled the question of a future occupation. "I think I'll go in with Uncle Barnaby," he said a few days ago. "I love the mountains too well to stick in any city. I'll become a mine owner and speculator in claims and cattle." They are all happy together, and, come what may, will never forget their adventures when they were left alone on the ranch to combat their many unknown enemies. 
31485	----	The BLUE GOOSE FRANK LEWIS NASON AUTHOR OF TO THE END OF THE TRAIL COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO. NEW YORK Published, March, 1903, R Second Impression * * * * * "_So I prophesied as I was commanded: and as I prophesied, there was a noise and behold a shaking, and the bones came together bone to bone._ "_And, lo, the sinews and the flesh came upon them, but there was no breath in them._ "_Son of man, prophesy unto the wind. Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these that they may live._ "_And the breath came into them and they lived._" To MY FRIEND OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS, CHARLES EMERSON BEECHER, who, with infinite skill and patience, has breathed the breath of life into the dry bones of Earth's untold ages of upward struggle, who has made them speak of the eternity of their past, and has made them prophesy hope for the eternity to come, this book is dedicated by the author. CONTENTS I. THE BLUE GOOSE II. THE OLD MAN III. ÉLISE IV. THE WATCHED POT BEGINS TO BOIL V. BENNIE OPENS THE POT AND FIRMSTONE COMES IN VI. THE FAMILY CIRCLE VII. MR. MORRISON TACKLES A MAN WITH A MIND OF HIS OWN AND A MAN WITHOUT ONE VIII. MADAME SEEKS COUNSEL IX. THE MEETING AT THE BLUE GOOSE X. ÉLISE GOES FORTH TO CONQUER XI. THE DEVIL'S ELBOW XII. FIGS AND THISTLES XIII. THE STORK AND THE CRANES XIV. BLINDED EYES XV. BENDING THE TWIG XVI. AN INSISTENT QUESTION XVII. THE BEARDED LION XVIII. WINNOWED CHAFF XIX. THE FLY IN THE OINTMENT XX. THE RIVER GIVES UP ITS PREY XXI. THE SWORD THAT TURNS XXII. GOOD INTENTIONS XXIII. AN UNEXPECTED RECRUIT XXIV. THE GATHERING TO ITS OWN XXV. A DIVIDED HOUSE XXVI. THE DAY OF RECKONING XXVII. PASSING CLOUDS THE BLUE GOOSE CHAPTER I _The Blue Goose_ "_Mais oui!_ I tell you one ting. One big ting. Ze big man wiz ze glass eyes, he is vat you call one slik stoff. Ze big man wiz ze glass eyes." "The old man?" "Zat's him! One slik stoff! _Écoutez!_ Listen! One day, you mek ze gran' trip. Look hout!" Pierre made a gesture as of a dog shaking a rat. The utter darkness of the underground laboratory was parted in solid masses, by bars of light that spurted from the cracks of a fiercely glowing furnace. One shaft fell on a row of large, unstoppered bottles. From these bottles fumes arose, mingled, and fell in stifling clouds of fleecy white. From another bottle in Pierre's hands a dense red smoke welled from a colourless liquid, crowded through the neck, wriggled through the bar of light, and sank in the darkness beneath. The darkness was uncanny, the fumes suffocating, the low hum of the furnace forcing out the shafts of light from the cracks of the imprisoning walls infernally suggestive. Luna shivered. He was ignorant, therefore superstitious, and superstition strongly suggested the unnatural. He knew that furnaces and retorts and acids and alkalies were necessary to the refinement of gold. He feared them, yet he had used them, but he had used them where the full light of day robbed them of half their terrors. In open air acids might smoke, but drifting winds would brush away the fumes. Furnaces might glow, but their glow would be as naught in sunlight. There was no darkness in which devils could hide to pounce on him unawares, no walls to imprison him. The gold he retorted on his shovel was his, and he had no fear of the law. In the underground laboratory of Pierre the element of fear was ever present. The gold that the furnace retorted was stolen, and Luna was the thief. There were other thieves, but that did not matter to him. He stole gold from the mill. Others stole gold from the mine. It all came to Pierre and to Pierre's underground furnace. He stood in terror of the supernatural, of the law, and, most of all, of Pierre. In the darkness barred with fierce jets of light, imprisoned by walls that he could not see, cut off from the free air of open day, stifled by pungent gases that stung him, throat and eye, he felt an uncanny oppression, fear of the unknown, fear of the law, most of all fear of Pierre. Pierre watched him through his mantle of darkness. He thrust forward his head, and a bar of light smote him across his open lips. It showed his gleaming teeth white and shut, his black moustache, his swarthy lips parted in a sardonic smile; that was all. A horrible grin on a background of inky black. Luna shrank. "Leave off your devil's tricks." "_Moi?_" Pierre replaced the bottle of acid on the shelf and picked up a pair of tongs. As he raised the cover of the glowing crucible a sudden transformation took place. The upper part of the laboratory blazed out fiercely, and in this light Pierre moved with gesticulating arms, the lower part of his body wholly hidden. He lifted the crucible, shook it for a moment with an oscillatory motion, then replaced it on the fire. He turned again to Luna. "Hall ze time I mek ze explain. Hall ze time you mek ze question. _Comment?_" Luna's courage was returning in the light. "You're damned thick-headed, when it suits you, all right. Well, I'll explain. Last clean-up I brought you two pounds of amalgam if it was an ounce. All I got out of it was fifty dollars. You said that was my share. Hansen brought you a chunk of quartz from the mine. He showed it to me first. If I know gold from sulphur, there was sixty dollars in it. Hansen got five out of it." Pierre interrupted. "You mek mention ze name." "There's no one to hear in this damned hell of yours." "_Non_," Pierre answered. "You mek mention in zis hell. Bimby you mek mention," Pierre gave an expressive upward jerk with his thumb, then shrugged his shoulders. "I'll look out for that," Luna answered, impatiently. "I'm after something else now. I'm getting sick of pinching the mill and bringing the stuff here for nothing. So are the rest of the boys. We ain't got no hold on you and you ain't playing fair. You've got to break even or this thing's going to stop." Pierre made no reply to Luna. He picked up the tongs, lifted the crucible from the fire, and again replaced it. Then he brought out an ingot mould and laid it on a ledge of the furnace. The crucible was again lifted from the fire, and its contents were emptied in the mould. Pierre and Luna both watched the glowing metal. As it slowly cooled, iridescent sheens of light swept over its surface like the changing colours of a dying dolphin. Pierre held up the mould to Luna. "How much she bin?" Luna looked covetously at the softly glowing metal. "Two hundred." "_Bien._ She's bin ze amalgam, ze quart', ze hozer stoff. Da's hall." Luna looked sceptical. "That's too thin. How many times have you fired up?" "Zis!" Pierre held up a single emphasizing finger. "We'll let that go," Luna answered; "but you listen now. One of the battery men is off to-night. I'm going to put Morrison on substitute. He's going to break a stem or something. The mortar's full to the dies. We're going to clean it out. I know how much it will pan. It's coming to you. You divide fair or it's the last you'll get. I'll hide it out in the usual place." "Look hout! Da's hall!" The other laughed impatiently. "Getting scared, Frenchy? Where's your nerve?" "Nerf! Nerf!" Pierre danced from foot to foot, waving his arms. "_Sacré plastron!_ You mek ze fuse light. You sit on him, heh? Bimeby, pretty soon, you got no nerf. You got noddings. You got one big gris-spot on ze rock. Da's hall." Pierre subsided, with a gesture of intense disgust. Luna snapped his watch impatiently. "It's my shift, Frenchy. I've got to go in a few minutes." "_Bien!_ Go!" Pierre spoke without spirit. "Mek of yourself one gran' _folie_. _Mais_, when ze shot go, an' you sail in ze air, don' come down on ze Blue Goose, on me, Pierre. I won't bin here, da's hall." Luna turned. "I tell you I've got to go now. I wish you'd tell me what's the matter with the old man." Pierre roused himself. "Noddings. Ze hol' man has noddings ze mattaire. It is you! You! Ze hol' man, he go roun' lak he kick by ze dev'. He mek his glass eyes to shine here an' twinkle zere, an' you mek ze gran' chuckle, 'He see noddings.' He see more in one look dan you pack in your tick head! I tol' you look hout; da's hall!" Luna jammed his watch into his pocket and rose. "It's all right, Frenchy. I'll give you another chance. To-day's Thursday. Saturday they'll clean up at the mill. It will be a big one. I want my rake-off. The boys want theirs. It all comes to the Blue Goose, one way or another. You think you're pretty smooth stuff. That's all right; but let me tell you one thing: if there's any procession heading for Cañon City, you'll be in it, too." Cañon City was the State hostelry. Occasionally the law selected unwilling guests. It was not over-large, nor was it overcrowded. Had it sheltered all deserving objects, the free population of the State would have been visibly diminished. Pierre only shrugged his shoulders. He followed Luna up the stairs to the outer door, and watched the big mill foreman as he walked down the trail to the mill. Then, as was his custom when perturbed in mind, Pierre crossed the dusty waggon trail and seated himself on a boulder, leaning his back against a scrubby spruce. He let his eyes rest contentedly on a big, square-faced building. Rough stone steps led up to a broad veranda, from which rose, in barbaric splendour, great sheets of shining plate-glass, that gave an unimpeded view of a long mahogany bar backed by tiers of glasses and bottles, doubled by reflection from polished mirrors that reached to the matched-pine ceiling. Across the room from the bar, roulette and faro tables, bright with varnish and gaudy with nickel trimmings, were waiting with invitations to feverish excitement. The room was a modern presentation of Scylla and Charybdis. Scylla, the bar, stimulated to the daring of Charybdis across the way, and Charybdis, the roulette, sent its winners to celebrate success, or its victims to deaden the pain of loss. At the far end of the room a glass-covered arcade stood in advance of doors to private club-rooms. At the arcade an obliging attendant passed out gold and silver coins, for a consideration, in exchange for crumpled time-checks and greasy drafts. Pierre grinned and rubbed his hands. Above the plate glass on the outside a gorgeous rainbow arched high on the painted front. Inscribed within, in iridescent letters, was: "The Blue Goose. Pierre La Martine." Beneath the spring of the rainbow, for the benefit of those who could not read, was a huge blue goose floating aimlessly in a sheet of bluer water. This was all of the Blue Goose that was visible to the eyes of the uninitiated; of the initiated there were not many. Beneath the floor was a large cellar, wherein was a fierce-looking furnace, which on occasion grew very red with its labours. There were pungent jars and ghostly vessels and a litter of sacks, and much sparkling dust on the earthen floor. All this Pierre knew, and a few others, though even these had not seen it. Beneath the shadow of the wings of the Blue Goose dwelt a very plain woman, who looked chronically frightened, and a very beautiful girl who did not. The scared woman was Madame La Martine; the unscared girl passed for their daughter, but about the daughter no one asked questions of Pierre. About the Blue Goose, its bar, and its gaming-tables Pierre was eloquent, even with strangers. About his daughter and other things his acquaintances had learned to keep silence; as for strangers, they soon learned. Obviously the mission of the Blue Goose was to entertain; with the multitude this mission passed current at its face value, but there were a few who challenged it. Now and then a grocer or a butcher made gloomy comments as he watched a growing accumulation of books that would not prove attractive to the most confirmed bibliophile. Men went to the Blue Goose with much money, but came out with none, for the bar and roulette required cash settlements. Their wives went in to grocers and butchers with no money but persuasive tongues, and came forth laden with spoils. Pandora could raise no taxes for schools, so there were none. Preachers came and offered their wares without money and without price, but there were no churches. For the wares of the preachers flushed no faces and burned no throats, nor were there rattles even in contribution boxes, and there was no whirr of painted wheels. Even the hundred rumbling stamps of the Rainbow mill might as well have pounded empty air or clashed their hard steel shoes on their hard steel dies for all the profit that came to the far-away stockholders of the great Rainbow mine and mill. So it came to pass that many apparently unrelated facts were gathered together by the diligent but unprosperous, and, being thus gathered, pointed to a very inevitable conclusion. Nothing and no one was prosperous, save Pierre and his gorgeous Blue Goose. For Pierre was a power in the land. He feared neither God nor the devil. The devil was the bogie-man of the priest. As for God, who ever saw him? But of some men Pierre had much fear, and among the same was "the hol' man" at the mill. CHAPTER II _The Old Man_ After leaving the Blue Goose Luna went straight to the superintendent's office. He was nettled rather than worried by Pierre's cautions. Worry implied doubt of his own wisdom, as well as fear of the old man. Superintendents had come to, and departed from, the Rainbow. Defiant fanfares had heralded their coming, confusion had reigned during their sojourn, their departure had been duly celebrated at the Blue Goose. This had been the invariable sequence. Through all these changes Pierre was complacently confident, but he never lost his head. The bottles of the Blue Goose bar were regularly drained, alike for welcoming and for speeding the departing incumbent at the Rainbow. The roulette whirred cheerfully, gold and silver coins clinked merrily, the underground furnace reddened and dulled at regular periods, and much lawful money passed back and forth between the Blue Goose and its patrons. Not that the passing back and forth was equal; Pierre attended to that. His even teeth gleamed between smiling lips, his swarthy cheeks glowed, and day by day his black hair seemed to grow more sleek and oily, and his hands smoother with much polishing. Pierre read printed words with ease. That which was neither printed nor spoken was spelled out, sometimes with wrinkling of brows and narrowing of eyes, but with unmistakable correctness in the end. From the faces and actions of men he gathered wisdom, and this wisdom was a lamp to his feet, and in dark places gave much light to his eyes. Thus it happened that with the coming of Richard Firmstone came also great caution to Pierre. The present superintendent blew no fanfares on his new trumpet, he expressed no opinion of his predecessors, and gave no hint of his future policy. Mr. Morrison, who oiled his hair and wore large diamonds in a much-starched, collarless shirt while at the bar of the Blue Goose, donned overalls and jumpers while doing "substitute" at the mill, and between times kept alive the spirit of rebellion in the bosoms of down-trodden, capitalist-ridden labour. Morrison freely voiced the opinion that the Rainbow crowd had experienced religion, and had sent out a Sunday-school superintendent to reform the workmen and to count the dollars that dropped from beneath the stamps of the big mill. In this opinion Luna, the mill foreman, concurred. He even raised the ante, solemnly averring that the old man opened the mill with prayer, sang hallelujahs at change of shift, and invoked divine blessing before chewing his grub. Whereat the down-trodden serfs of soulless corporations cheered long and loud, and called for fresh oblations at the bar of the Blue Goose. All these things Luna pondered in his mind, and his indignation waxed hot at Pierre. "The damned old frog-eater's losing his nerve; that's what! I ain't going to be held up by no frog-spawn." He opened the office door and clumped up to the railing. The superintendent looked up. "What is it, Luna?" "Long, on number ten battery, is sick and off shift. Shall we hang up ten, or put on Morrison?" The superintendent smiled. "Is it Morrison, or hang up?" he asked. The question was disconcerting. The foreman shifted his footing. "Morrison is all right," he said, doggedly. "He's a good battery man. Things ain't pushing at the Blue Goose, and he can come as well as not." "What's the matter with Morrison?" The superintendent's smile broadened. The foreman looked puzzled. "I've just been telling you--he's all right." "That's so. Only, back east, when a horse jockey gets frothy about the good points of his horse, we look sharp." The foreman grew impatient. "You haven't told me whether to hang up ten or not." "I'm not going to. You are foreman of the mill. Put on anyone you want; fire anyone you want. It's nothing to me; only," he looked hard, "you know what we're running this outfit for." The foreman appeared defiant. Guilty thoughts were spurring him to unwise defence. "If the ore ain't pay I can't get it out." "I'll attend to the ore, that's my business. Get out what there is in it, that's yours." He leaned forward to his papers. The foreman shifted uneasily. His defence was not complete. He was not sure that he had been attacked. He knew Morrison of the Blue Goose. He knew the workings of the mill. He had thought he knew the old man. He was not so sure now. He was not even sure how much or how little he had let out. Perhaps Pierre's words had rattled him. He shifted from foot to foot, twirling his hat on his fingers. He half expected, half hoped, and half waited for another opening. None came. Through the muffled roar of the stamps he was conscious of the sharp scratch of the superintendent's pen. Then came the boom of the big whistle. It was change of shift. The jar of the office door closing behind him was not heard. At the mill he found Morrison. "You go on ten, in Long's place," he said, gruffly, as he entered the mill. Morrison stared at the retreating foreman. "What in hell," he began; then, putting things together in his mind, he shook his head, and followed the foreman into the mill. The superintendent was again interrupted by the rasping of hobnailed shoes on the office floor and the startled creak of the office railing as a large, loose-jointed man leaned heavily against it. His trousers, tucked into a pair of high-laced, large-eyed shoes, were belted at the waist in a conspicuous roll. A faded gray shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, disclosed a red undershirt and muscular arms. A well-shaped head with grey streaked hair, and a smooth, imperturbable face was shaded by a battered sombrero that was thrust back and turned squarely up in front. The superintendent's smile had nothing puzzling now. "Hello, Zephyr. Got another Camp Bird?" "Flying higher'n a Camp Bird this time." "How's that?" "Right up to the golden gates this time, sure. It's straight goods. St. Peter ain't going to take no post-prandial siestas from now on. I'm timbering my shots to keep from breaking the sky. Tell you what, I'm jarring them mansions in heaven wuss'n a New York subway contractor them Fifth Avenue palaces." Zephyr paused and glanced languidly at the superintendent. Firmstone chuckled. "Go on," he said. "I've gone as far as I can without flying. It's a lead from the golden streets of the New Jerusalem. Followed it up to the foot of Bingham Pass; caught it above the slide, then it took up the cliff, and disappeared in the cerulean. Say, Goggles, how are you off for chuck? I've been up against glory, and I'm down hungrier than a she-bear that's skipped summer and hibernated two winters." "Good! Guess Bennie will fix us up something. Can you wait a few minutes?" "I think I can. I've been practising on that for years. No telling when such things will come in handy. You don't object to music, Goggles?" "Not to music, no," Firmstone answered, with an amused glance at Zephyr. Zephyr, unruffled, drew from his shirt a well-worn harmonica. "Music hath charms," he remarked, brushing the instrument on the sleeve of his shirt. "Referring to my savage breast, not yours." He placed the harmonica to his lips, holding it in hollowed hands. His oscillating breath jarred from the metal reeds the doleful strains of _Home, Sweet Home_, muffled by the hollow of his hands into mournful cadences. At last Firmstone closed his desk. "If your breast is sufficiently soothed, let's see what Bennie can do for your stomach." As they passed from the office Zephyr carefully replaced the harmonica in his shirt. "I'd rather be the author of that touching little song than the owner of the Inferno. That's my new claim," he remarked, distantly. Firmstone laughed. "I thought your claim was nearer heaven." "The two are not far apart. 'Death, like a narrow sea, divides.' But my reminiscences were getting historical, which you failed to remark. I ain't no Wolfe and Pierre ain't no Montcalm, nor the Heights of Abraham ain't the Blue Goose. Pierre's a hog. At least, he's a close second. A hog eats snakes and likewise frogs. Pierre's only got as far as frogs, last I heard. Pierre's bad. Morrison's bad. Luna ain't. He thinks he is; but he ain't. I'm not posting you nor nothing. I'm only meditating out loud. That's all." They entered the mill boarding-house. Bennie, the cook, greeted Zephyr effusively. "Goggles invited me to pay my respects to you," Zephyr remarked. "I'm empty, and I'm thinking you can satisfy my longing as nothing else can do." Zephyr addressed himself to Bennie's viands. At last he rose from the table. "To eat and to sleep are the chief ends of man. I have eaten, and now I see I am tired. With your consent, uttered or unexpressed, I'll wrap the drapery of my bunk around me and take a snooze. And say, Goggles," he added, "if, the next time you inventory stock, you are shy a sack of flour and a side of bacon, you can remark to the company that prospectors is thick around here, and that prospectors is prone to evil as the sparks fly upward. That's where the flour and bacon are going. Up to where St. Peter can smell them cooking; leastways he can if he hangs his nose over the wall and the wind's right." CHAPTER III _Élise_ Bennie was an early riser, as became a faithful cook; but, early as he usually was, this morning he was startled into wakefulness by a jarring chug, as Zephyr, with a relieved grunt, dropped a squashy sack on the floor near his bunk. Bennie sprang to a sitting posture, rubbing his sleepy eyes to clear his vision; but, before he could open his eyes or his mouth beyond a startled ejaculation, Zephyr had departed. He soon reappeared. There was another chug, another grunt, and another departure. Four times this was repeated. Then Zephyr seated himself on the bunk, and, pushing back his sombrero, mopped his perspiring brow. "What the--" Bennie started in, but Zephyr's uplifted hand restrained him. "The race is not to the swift, Julius Benjamin. The wise hound holds his yap till he smells a hot foot. Them indecisive sacks is hot footses, Julius Benjamin; but it isn't your yap, not by quite some." "What's up, Zephyr?" asked Bennie. "I'm not leaky." "Them gelatinous sacks," Zephyr went on, eyeing them meditatively, "I found hidden in the bushes near the mine, and they contain mighty interesting matter. They're an epitome of life. They started straight, but missed connections. Pulled up at the wrong station. I've thrown the switch, and now you and me, Julius, will make it personally conducted the rest of the trip." "Hm!" mused Bennie. "I see. That stuff's been pinched from the mill." "Good boy, Julius Benjamin! You're doing well. You'll go into words of two syllables next." Zephyr nodded, with a languid smile. "But, to recapitulate, as my old school-teacher used to say, there's thousands of dollars in them sacks. The Rainbow ain't coughing up no such rich stuff as that. That rock is broken; ergo, it's been under the stamps. It's coarse and fine, from which I infer it hasn't been through the screens. And furthermore----" Bennie interrupted eagerly. "They've just hung up the stamps and raked out the rich stuff that's settled between the dies!" "Naturally, gold being heavier than quartz. Julius Benjamin, you're fit for the second reader." Bennie laughed softly. "It's Luna or Morrison been robbing the mill. Won't Frenchy pull the long face when he hears of your find?" Zephyr made no farther reply than to blow _There'll Be a Hot Time_ from pursed lips as he rolled a cigarette. "So there will be," Bennie answered. "Not to-night, Bennie." Zephyr was puffing meditative whiffs in the air. "Great things move slowly. Richard Firmstone is great, Benjamin; leave it to him." Bennie was already dressed, and Zephyr, throwing the stub of his cigarette through the open window, followed him to the kitchen. He ate his specially prepared breakfast with an excellent appetite. "I think I'll raise my bet. I mentioned a sack of flour and a side of bacon. I'll take a can of coffee and a dab of sugar. St. Peter'll appreciate that. 'Tis well to keep on the right side of the old man. Some of us may have occasion to knock at his gate before the summer is over. You've heard of my new claim, Bennie?" Bennie made no reply. Between packing up Zephyr's supplies, attending to breakfast for the men, and thinking of the sacks of stolen ore, he was somewhat preoccupied. Zephyr stowed the supplies in his pack and raised it to his shoulder. Bennie looked up in surprise. "You're not going now, are you?" Zephyr was carefully adjusting the straps of his pack. "It looks pretty much that way, Benjamin. When a man's got all he wants, it's time for him to lope. If he stays, he might get more and possibly--less." "What will I do with these sacks?" Bennie asked hurriedly, as Zephyr passed through the door. Zephyr made no reply, further than softly to whistle _Break the News to Mother_ as he swung into the trail. He clumped sturdily along, apparently unmindful of the rarefied air that would ordinarily make an unburdened man gasp for breath. His lips were still pursed, though they had ceased to give forth sound. He came to the nearly level terrace whereon, among scattered boulders, were clustered the squat shanties of the town of Pandora. He merely glanced at the Blue Goose, whose polished windows were just beginning to glow with the light of the rising sun. He saw a door open at the far end of the house and Madame La Martine emerge, a broom in her hands and a dust-cloth thrown over one shoulder. Pierre's labours ended late. Madame's began very early. Both had an unvarying procession. Pierre had much hilarious company; it was his business to keep it so. He likewise had many comforting thoughts; these cost him no effort. The latter came as a logical sequence to the former. Madame had no company, hilarious or otherwise. Instead of complacent thoughts, she had anxiety. And so it came to pass that, while Pierre grew sleek and smooth with the passing of years, Madame developed many wrinkles and grey hairs and a frightened look, from the proffering of wares that were usually thrust aside with threatening snarls and many harsh words. Pierre was not alone in the unstinted pouring forth of the wine of pleasure for the good of his companions and in uncorking his vials of wrath for the benefit of his wife. Zephyr read the whole dreary life at a glance. A fleeting thought came to Zephyr. How would it have been with Madame had she years ago chosen him instead of Pierre? A smile, half pitying, half contemptuous, was suggested by an undecided quiver of the muscles of his face, more pronounced by the light in his expressive eyes. He left the waggon trail that zig-zagged up the steep grade beyond the outskirts of the town, cutting across their sharp angles in a straight line. Near the foot of an almost perpendicular cliff he again picked up the trail. Through a notch in the brow of the cliff a solid bar of water shot forth. The solid bar, in its fall broken to a misty spray, fell into a mossy basin at the cliff's foot, regathered, and then, sliding and twisting in its rock-strewn bed, gurgled among nodding flowers and slender, waving willows that were fanned into motion by the breath of the falling spray. Where the brook crossed the trail Zephyr stood still. Not all at once. There was an indescribable suggestion of momentum overcome by the application of perfectly balanced power. Zephyr did not whistle, even softly. Instead, there was a low hum-- _But the maiden in the garden Was the fairest flower of all._ Zephyr deliberately swung his pack from his shoulders, deposited it on the ground, and as deliberately seated himself on the pack. There was an unwonted commotion among the cluster of thrifty plants at which Zephyr was looking expectantly. A laughing face with large eyes sparkling with mischievous delight looked straight into his own. As the girl rose to her feet she tossed a long, heavy braid of black hair over her shoulder. "You thought you would scare me; now, didn't you?" She came forth from the tangled plants and stood before him. Zephyr's eyes were resting on the girl's face with a smile of quiet approbation. Tall and slender, she was dressed in a dark gown, whose sailor blouse was knotted at the throat with a red scarf; at her belt a holster showed a silver-mounted revolver. An oval face rested on a shapely neck, as delicately poised as the nodding flowers she held in her hand. A rich glow, born of perfect health and stimulating air, burned beneath the translucent olive skin. Zephyr made no direct reply to her challenge. "Why aren't you helping Madame at the Blue Goose?" "Because I've struck, that's why." There was a defiant toss of the head, a compressed frown on the arching brows. Like a cloud wind-driven from across the sun the frown disappeared; a light laugh rippled from between parted lips. "Daddy was mad, awfully mad. You ought to have seen him." The flowers fell from her hands as she threw herself into Pierre's attitude. "'Meenx,'" she mimicked, "'you mek to defy me in my own house? Me? Do I not have plenty ze troub', but you mus' mek ze more? _Hein?_ Ansaire!' And so I did. So!" She threw her head forward, puckered her lips, thrusting out the tip of her tongue at the appreciative Zephyr. "Oh, it's lots of fun to get daddy mad. 'Vaire is my whip, my dog whip? I beat you. I chastise you, meenx!'" The girl stooped to pick up her scattered flowers. "Only it frightens poor mammy so. Mammy never talks back only when daddy goes for me. I'd just like to see him when he comes down this morning and finds me gone. It would be lots of fun. Only, if I was there, I couldn't be here, and it's just glorious here, isn't it? What's the trouble, Zephyr? You haven't said a word to me all this time." "When your blessed little tongue gets tired perhaps I'll start in. There's no more telling when that will be than what I'll say, supposing I get the chance." "Oh, I knew there was something I wanted especially to see you about." The face grew cloudy. "What do you think? You know I was sixteen my last birthday, just a week ago?" She paused and looked at Zephyr interrogatively. "I want to know where you are all the time now. It's awfully important. I may want to elope with you at a moment's notice!" She looked impressively at Zephyr. Zephyr's jaw dropped. "What the mischief----" Élise interrupted: "No, wait; I'm not through. Daddy got very playful that day, chucked my chin, and called me _ma chère enfant_. That always means mischief. 'Élise bin seexten to-day, heh? Bimeby she tink to liv' her hol' daddy and her hol' mammy and bin gone hoff wiz anodder feller, _hein_?' Then he made another dab at my chin. I knew what he meant." She again assumed Pierre's position. "'What you say, _ma chérie_? I pick you hout one nice man! One ver' nice man! _Hein?_ M'sieu Mo-reeson. A ver' nice man. He ben took good care _ma chérie_!'" Zephyr was betrayed into a startled motion. Élise was watching him with narrowed eyes. There was a gleam of satisfaction. "That's all right, Zephyr. That's just what I did, only I did more. I told daddy I'd just like M'sieu Mo-reeson to say marry to me! I told daddy that I'd take the smirk out of M'sieu Mo-reeson's face and those pretty curls out of M'sieu Mo-reeson's head if he dared look marry at me. Only," she went on, "I'm a little girl, after all, and I thought the easiest way would be to elope with you. I would like to see M'sieu Mo-reeson try to take me away from a big, strong man like you." There was an expression of intense scorn on her face that bared the even teeth. Zephyr was not conscious of Élise. There was a hard, set look on his face. Élise noted it. She tossed her head airily. "Oh, you needn't look so terribly distressed. You needn't, if you don't want to. I dare say that the superintendent at the mill would jump at the chance. I think I shall ask him, anyway." Her manner changed. "Why do they always call him the old man? He is not such a very old man." "They'd call a baby 'the old man' if he was superintendent. Do they say much about him?" Zephyr asked, meditatively. "Oh yes, lots. M'sier Mo-reeson"--she made a wry face at the name--"is always talking about that minion of capitalistic oppression that's sucking the life-blood of the serfs of toil. Daddy hates the old man. He's afraid of him. Daddy always hates anyone he's afraid of, except me." Zephyr grunted absently. "That's so." Élise spoke emphatically. "That's why I'm here to-day. I told daddy that if I was old enough to get married I was old enough to do as I liked." In spite of his languid appearance Zephyr was very acute. He was getting a great deal that needed careful consideration. He was intensely interested, and he wanted to hear more. He half hesitated, then decided that the end justified the means. "What makes you think that Pierre hates the old man?" he ventured, without changing countenance. "Oh, lots of things. He tells Luna and M'sieu Mo-reeson"--another wry face--"to 'look hout.' He talks to the men, tells them that the 'hol' man ees sleek, ver' sleek, look hout, da's hall, an' go slow,' and a lot of things. I'm awfully hungry, Zephyr, and I don't want to go down for breakfast. Haven't you got something good in your pack? It looks awfully good." She prodded the pack with inquisitive fingers. Zephyr rose to his feet. "It will be better when I've cooked it. You'll eat a breakfast after my cooking?" Élise clapped her hands. "That will be fine. I'll just sit here and boss you. If you're good, and you are, you know, I'll tell you some more about M'sieu. Suppose we just call him M'sieu, just you and me. That'll be our secret." Zephyr gathered dry sticks and started a fire. He opened his pack, cut off some slices of bacon, and, impaling them on green twigs, hung them before the fire. A pinch of salt and baking powder in a handful of flour was mixed into a stiff paste, stirred into the frying-pan, which was propped up in front of the fire. He took some cups from his pack, and, filling them with water, put them on the glowing coals. Élise kept up a rattling chatter through it all. "Oh, I almost forgot. Daddy says M'sieu is going to be a great man, a great labour leader. That's what M'sieu says himself--that he will lead benighted labour from the galling chains of slavery into the glorious light of freedom's day." Élise waved her arms and rolled her eyes. Then she stopped, laughing. "It's awfully funny. I hear it all when I sit at the desk. You know there's only thin boards between my desk and daddy's private room, and I can't help but hear. That coffee and bacon smell good, and what a lovely bannock! Aren't you almost ready? It's as nice as when we were on the ranch, and you used to carry me round on your back. That was an awful long time ago, though, wasn't it?" Zephyr only grunted in reply. He pursed his lips for a meditative whistle, thought better of it, took the frying-pan from its prop, and sounded the browning bannock with his fingers. _For the babbling streams of youth Grow to silent pools of truth When they find a thirsty hollow On their way._ He spoke dreamily. "What are you talking about?" Élise broke in. "Oh, nothing in particular. I was just thinking--might have been thinking out loud." "That's you, every time, Zephyr. You think without talking, and I talk without thinking. It's lots more fun. Do you think I will ever grow into a dear, sober old thing like you? Just tell me that." She stooped down, taking Zephyr's face in both her hands and turned it up to her own. Zephyr looked musingly up into the laughing eyes, and took her hands into his. "Not for the same reasons, I guess, not if I can help it," he added, half to himself. "Now, if you'll be seated, I'll serve breakfast." He dropped the hands and pointed to a boulder. Élise ate the plain fare with the eager appetite of youth and health. From far down the gulch the muffled roar of the stamps rose and fell on the light airs that drifted up and down. Through it all was the soft swish of the falling spray, the sharp _blip! blip!_ as points of light, gathered from dripping boughs, grew to sparkling gems, then, losing their hold, fell into little pools at the foot of the cliff. High above the straggling town the great cables of the tram floated in the air like dusty webs, and up and down these webs, like black spiders, darted the buckets that carried the ore from mine to mill, then disappeared in the roaring mill, and dumping their loads of ore shot up again into sight, and, growing in size, swept on toward the cliff and passed out of sight over the falls above. Across the narrow gulch a precipice sheered up eight hundred feet, a hard green crown of stunted spruces on its retreating brow, above the crown a stretch of soft green meadow steeply barred with greener willows, above the meadow jagged spires of blackened lava, thrust up from drifts of shining snow: a triple tiara crowning this silent priest of the mountains. To the east the long brown slide was marked with clifflets mottled as was Joseph's coat of many colours, with every shade of red and yellow that rusting flecks of iron minerals could give, brightened here and there with clustered flowers which marked a seeping spring, up and up, broken at last by a jagged line of purple that lay softly against the clear blue of the arching sky. To the west the mountains parted and the vision dropped to miles of browning mesa, flecked with ranchers' squares of irrigated green. Still farther a misty haze of distant mountains rose, with the great soft bell of the curving sky hovering over all. Zephyr ate in a silence which Élise did not care to break. Her restless eyes glanced from Zephyr to the mountains, fell with an eager caress on the flowers that almost hid the brook, looked out to the distant mesa, and last of all shot defiance at the blazing windows of the Blue Goose that were hurtling back the fiery darts of the attacking sun. She sprang to her feet, brushing the crumbs from her clothes. "Much obliged, Mr. Zephyr, for your entertainment." She swept him a low courtesy. "I told you I was out for a lark to-day. Now you can wash the dishes." Zephyr had also risen. He gave no heed to her playful attitude. "I want you to pay especial attention, Élise." "Oh, gracious!" she exclaimed. "Now I'm in for it." She straightened her face, but she could not control the mischievous sparkle of her eyes. There was little of meditation but much decision in Zephyr's words. "Don't let Pierre tease you, persuade you, frighten you, or bulldoze you into marrying that Morrison. Do you hear? Get away. Run away." "Or elope," interrupted Élise. "Don't skip that." "Go to Bennie, the old man, or to anyone, if you can't find me." "What a speech, Zephyr! Did any of it get away?" Zephyr was too much in earnest even to smile. "Remember what I say." "You put in an awful lot of hard words. But then, I don't need to remember. I may change my mind. Maybe there'd be a whole lot of fun after all in marrying M'sieu. I'd just like to show him that he can't scare me the way daddy does mammy. It would be worth a whole box of chips. On the whole I think I'll take daddy's advice. Bye-bye, Zephyr." She again picked up her scattered flowers and went dancing and skipping down the trail. At the turn she paused for an instant, blew Zephyr a saucy kiss from the tips of her fingers, then passed out of sight. A voice floated back to the quiet figure by the fire. "Don't feel too bad, Zephyr. I'll probably change my mind again." CHAPTER IV _The Watched Pot Begins to Boil_ Of all classes of people under the sun, the so-called labouring man has best cause to pray for deliverance from his friends. His friends are, or rather were, of three classes. The first, ardent but wingless angels of mercy, who fail to comprehend the fact that the unlovely lot of their would-be wards is the result of conditions imposed more largely from within than from without; the second, those who care neither for lots nor conditions, regarding the labourer as a senseless tool with which to hew out his own designs; the third, those who adroitly knock together the heads of the labourer and his employer and impartially pick the pockets of each in the general _mêlée_ which is bound to follow. The past _were_ is designedly contrasted with the present _are_, for it is a fact that conditions all around are changing for the better; slowly, perhaps, but nevertheless surely. The philanthropic friend of the labourer is learning to develop balancing tail-feathers of judgment wherewith to direct the flights of wings of mercy. The employer is beginning to realise the beneficial results of mutual understanding and of considerate co-operation, and the industrious fomenter of strife is learning that bones with richer marrow may be more safely cracked by sensible adjustment than with grievous clubs wielded over broken heads. Even so, the millennium is yet far away, and now, as in the past, the path that leads to it is uphill and dim, and is beset with many obstacles. There are no short cuts to the summit. In spite of pessimistic clamours that the rich are growing richer and the poor poorer, frothy yowls for free and unlimited coinage at sixteen to one, or for fiat paper at infinity to nothing, the fact remains that, whereas kings formerly used signets for the want of knowledge to write their names, licked their greasy fingers for lack of knives and forks, and starved in Ireland with plenty in France, the poorest to-day can, if they will, indite readable words on well-sized paper, do things in higher mathematics, and avoid the thankless task of dividing eight into seven and looking for the remainder. Potatoes are worth fifty cents a bushel. Any yokel can dig a hole in the ground and plant the seed and in due time gather the ripened tubers. The engineer who drives his engine at sixty miles an hour, flashing by warning semaphores, rolling among coloured lights, clattering over frogs and switches, is no yokel. Therefore, because of this fact, with the compensation of one day he can, if he so elects, buy many potatoes, or employ many yokels. Had Sir Isaac Newton devoted to the raising of potatoes the energy which he gave to astronomy, he might have raised larger potatoes and more to the hill than his yokel neighbour. But, his conditions having been potatoes, his reward would have been potatoes, instead of the deathless glory of the discovery and enunciation of the law of gravity. The problem is very simple after all. The world has had a useless deal of trouble because no one has ever before taken the trouble to state the problem and to elaborate it. It is just as simple as is the obvious fact that _x_ plus _y_ equals _a_. There is a possibility, however, that we have been going too fast, and have consequently overlooked a few items of importance. We forgot for the moment, as often happens, that the factors in the problem are not homogeneous digits with fixed values, but complex personalities with decided opinions of their own as to their individual and relative importance, as well as pugnacious tendencies for compelling an acceptance of their assumptions by equally pugnacious factors which claim a differential valuation in their own favour. This consideration presents a somewhat different and more difficult phase of the problem. It really compels us to defer attempts at final solution, for the time being, at least; to make the best adjustment possible under present conditions, putting off to the future the final application, much on the same principle that communities bond their present public possessions for their own good and complacently bestow upon posterity the obligation of settling the bills. Considered in this light, the end of the struggle between capital and labour is not yet. Each is striving for the sole possession and control of things which belong to neither alone. Each looks upon the other not as a co-labourer but as a rival, instead of making intelligent and united effort for an object unattainable by either alone. If capital would smoke this in his cigar and labour the same in his pipe, the soothing effects might tend to more amicable and effective use of what is now dissipated energy. However, universal panaceas are not to be hoped for. The mailed fist puts irritating chips upon swaggering shoulders, and the unresentful turning of smitten cheeks is conducive to a thrifty growth of gelatinous nincompoops. The preceding _status quo_ existed in general at the Rainbow mines and mill, besides having a few individual characteristics peculiarly their own. Miners and millmen, for the most part recent importations from all countries of Europe, had come from the realms of oppression to the land of the free with very exaggerated notions of what freedom really was. The dominant expression of this idea was that everyone could do as he pleased, and that if the other fellow didn't like it, he, the other fellow, could get out. The often enunciating of abstract principles led to their liberal application to concrete facts. In this application they had able counsel in the ambitious Morrison. "Who opened these mountain wilds?" Morrison was wont to inquire, not for information, but for emphasis. "Who discovered, amidst toils and dangers and deprivations and snowslides, these rich mines of gold and silver? Who made them accessible by waggon trail and railroads and burros? Who but the honest sons of honest toil? Who, when these labours are accomplished, lolls in the luxurious lap of the voluptuous East, reaping the sweat of your brows, gathering in the harvest of hands toiling for three dollars a day or less? Who, but the purse-proud plutocrat who sits on his cushioned chair in Wall Street, sending out his ruthless minions to rob the labourer of his toil and to express his hard-won gold to the stanchless maw of the ghoulish East. Rise, noble sons of toil, rise! Stretch forth your horny hands and gather in your own! Raise high upon these mountain-peaks the banner of freedom's hope before despairing eyes raised from the greed-sodden plains of the effete East!" Whereat the sons of toil would cheer and then proceed to stretch forth hands to unripened fruits with such indiscriminating activity that both mine and mill ceased to yield expenses to the eastern plutocrat, and even the revenues of the Blue Goose were seriously impaired, to the great distress of Pierre. These rhodomontades of Morrison had grains of plausible truth as nuclei. The workmen never, or rarely, came in personal contact with their real employers. Their employers were in their minds men who reaped where others had sown, who gathered where they had not strewn. The labourer gave no heed to costly equipment which made mines possible, or at best weighed them but lightly against the daily toil of monotonous lives. They saw tons of hard-won ore slide down the long cables, crash through the pounding stamps, saw the gold gather on the plates, saw it retorted, and the shining bars shipped East. Against this gold of unknown value, and great because unknown, they balanced their daily wage, that looked pitifully small. The yield of their aggregate labour in foul-aired stopes and roaring mill they could see in one massive lump. They could not see the aggregate of little bites that reduced the imposing mass to a tiny dribble which sometimes, but not always, fell into the treasury of the company. They would not believe, even if they saw. For these reasons, great is the glory of the leaders of labour who are rising to-day, holding restraining hands on turbulent ignorance and taking wise counsel with equally glorious leaders who are striving to enforce the truth that all gain over just compensation is but a sacred trust for the benefit of mankind. These things are coming to be so to-day. But so long as sons of wealth are unmindful of their obligations, and so long as ignorance breathes forth noxious vapours to poison its victims, so long will there be battles to be fought and victories to be won. Thus was the way made ready for the feet of one of the labourer's mistaken friends. Morrison was wily, if not wise. He distinguished between oratory and logic. He kindled the flames of indignation and resentment with the one and fed them with the other. But in the performance of each duty he never lost sight of himself. Under the slack management of previous administrations, the conditions of the Rainbow mine and mill had rapidly deteriorated. In the mine a hundred sticks of powder were used or wasted where one would have sufficed. Hundreds of feet of fuse, hundreds of detonators, and pounds of candles were thrown away. Men would climb high in the mine to their work only to return later for some tool needed, or because their supplies had not lasted through their shift. If near the close of hours, they would sit and gossip with their fellow-workmen. Drills and hammers would be buried in the stope, or thrown over the dump. Rock would be broken down with the ore, and the mixed mass, half ore and half rock, would be divided impartially and sent, one-half to the dump and one-half to the mill. At the mill was the same shiftless state of affairs. Tools once used were left to be hunted for the next time they were wanted. On the night shift the men slept at their posts or deserted them for the hilarious attractions of the Blue Goose. The result was that the stamps, unfed, having no rock to crush, pounded steel on steel, so that stamps were broken, bossheads split, or a clogged screen would burst, leaving the half-broken ore to flow over the plates and into the wash-sluices with none of its value extracted. Among the evils that followed in the train of slack and ignorant management not the least was the effect upon the men. If a rich pocket of ore was struck the men stole it all. They argued that it was theirs, because they found it. The company would never miss it; the company was making enough, anyway, and, besides, the superintendent never knew when a pocket was opened, and never told them that it was not theirs. These pilfered pockets were always emptied at the Blue Goose. On these occasions the underground furnace glowed ruddily, and Pierre would stow the pilfered gold among other pilfered ingots, and would in due time emerge from his subterranean retreat in such cheerful temper that he had no heart to browbeat the scared-looking Madame. Whereupon Madame would be divided in her honest soul between horror at Pierre's wrong-doing and thankfulness for a temporary reprieve from his biting tongue. The miners stole supplies of all kinds and sold them or gave them to their friends. Enterprising prospectors, short of funds, as is usually the case, "got a job at the mine," then, having stocked up, would call for their time and go forth to hunt a mine of their own. The men could hardly be blamed for these pilferings. A slack land-owner who makes no protest against the use of his premises as a public highway, in time not only loses his property but his right to protest as well. So it happened at the Rainbow mine and mill that, as no locks were placed on magazines, as the supply-rooms were open to all, and as no protest was made against the men helping themselves, the men came to feel that they were taking only what belonged to them, whatever use was made of the appropriated supplies. These were some of the more obvious evils which Firmstone set about remedying. Magazines and supply-rooms were locked and supplies were issued on order. Workmen ceased wandering aimlessly about while on shift. Rock and ore were broken separately, and if an undue proportion of rock was delivered at the mill it was immediately known at the mine and in unmistakable terms. The effect of these changes on the men was various. Some took an honest pride in working under a man who knew his business. More chafed and fumed under unwonted restrictions. These were artfully nursed by the wily Morrison, with the result that a dangerous friction was developing between the better disposed men and the restless growlers. This feeling was also diligently stimulated by Morrison. "Go easy," was his caution; "but warm it up for them." "Warm it up for them!" indignantly protested one disciple. "Them fellers is the old man's pets." Morrison snorted. "Pets, is it? Pets be damned! It's only a matter of time when the old man will be dancing on a hot stove, if you've got any sand in your crops. The foreman's more than half with you now. Get the union organised, and we'll run out the pets and the old man too. You'll never get your rights till you're organised." At the mill, Firmstone's nocturnal visits at any unexpected hour made napping a precarious business and visits to the Blue Goose not to be thought of. The results of Firmstone's vigilance showed heavily in reduced expenses and in increased efficiency of labour; but these items were only negative. The fact remained that the yield of the mill in bullion was but slightly increased and still subject to extreme variations. The conclusion was inevitable that the mill was being systematically plundered. Firmstone knew that there must be collusion, not only among the workmen, but among outsiders as well. This was an obvious fact, but the means to circumvent it were not so obvious. He knew that there were workmen in the mill who would not steal a penny, but he also knew that these same men would preserve a sullen silence with regard to the peculations of their less scrupulous fellows. It was but the grown-up sense of honour, that will cause a manly schoolboy to be larruped to the bone before he will tell about his errant and cowardly fellow. Firmstone was well aware of the simmering discontent which his rigid discipline was arousing. He regretted it, but he was hopeful that the better element among the men would yet gain the ascendant. "He's square," remarked one of his defenders. "There was a mistake in my time, last payroll, and he looked over the time himself." "That's so," in answer to one objector. "I was in the office and saw him." "You bet he's square," broke in another. "Didn't I get a bad pair of boots out of the commissary, and didn't he give me another pair in their place? That's what." If Morrison and Pierre had not been in active evidence Firmstone would have won the day without a fight. CHAPTER V _Bennie Opens the Pot and Firmstone Comes in_ Firmstone was late to breakfast the day of Zephyr's departure, and Bennie was doing his best to restrain his impatience. When at last the late breakfaster appeared, Bennie's manner was noticeably different from the ordinary. He was a stanch defender of the rights of the American citizen, an uncompromising opponent of companies and trusts, a fearless and aggressive exponent of his own views; but withal a sincere admirer and loyal friend of Firmstone. Bennie knew that in his hands were very strong cards, and he was casting about in his mind for the most effective mode of playing them. "Good morning, Bennie," Firmstone called out, on entering the dining-room. Bennie returned the greeting with a silent nod. Firmstone glanced at the clock. "It is pretty late for good morning and breakfast, that's a fact." Bennie disappeared in the kitchen. He returned and placed Firmstone's breakfast before him. "What's the matter, Bennie?" Firmstone thought he knew, but events were soon to show him his mistake. "Matter enough, Mr. Firmstone, as you'll soon find." Bennie was getting alarming. Firmstone ate in silence. Bennie watched with impassive dignity. "Is your breakfast all right?" he finally asked, unbendingly. "All right, Bennie. Better than I deserve, pouncing on you at this hour." He again looked up at the clock. "Come when you like, late or early, you'll get the best I can give you." Bennie was still rigid. Firmstone was growing more puzzled. Bennie judged it time to support his opening. "I'm an outspoken man, Mr. Firmstone, as becomes an American citizen. If I take an honest dollar, I'll give an honest return." "No one doubts that, Bennie." Firmstone leaned back in his chair. He was going to see it out. Bennie's support was rapidly advancing. "You know, Mr. Firmstone, that I have my opinions and speak my mind about the oppression of the poor by the rich. I left my home in the East to come out here where it was less crowded and where there was more freedom. It's only change about, I find. In the East the rich were mostly Americans who oppressed the dagoes, being for their own good; but here it's the other way. Here's Mike the Finn, and Jansen the Swede, and Hansen the Dane, and Giuseppe the dago, and Pat the Irishman the boss of the whole dirty gang. Before God I take shame to myself for being an honest man and American born, and having this thieving gang to tell me how long I can work, and where I can buy, with a swat in the jaw and a knife in my back for daring to say my soul is my own and sticking to it against orders from the union." "Thunder and Mars, Bennie! What's the matter?" Bennie's reserves came up with a rush. He thrust open the door of his room and jerked a blanket from the sacks which Zephyr had left there. Firmstone gave a low whistle of surprise. "There's matter for you, Mr. Firmstone." "Where under the sun did you get these?" Firmstone had opened one of the sacks and was looking at the ore. "I didn't get them. Zephyr got them and asked me to see that you had them. There's a man for you! 'Twas little white paint the Lord had when he came West, but he put two good coats of it on Zephyr's back." Firmstone made no reply to Bennie's eulogy of Zephyr. He closed and retied the opened sacks. "There's mighty interesting reading in these sacks, Bennie." "Those were Zephyr's words, sir." "That ore was taken from the mill last night. Luna was on shift, Long was sick, and Luna put Morrison in his place." Firmstone looked at Bennie inquisitively. He was trying his facts on the cook. "That's so, sir," remarked Bennie. "But you'll never make a hen out of a rooster by pulling out his tail-feathers." Firmstone laughed. "Well, Bennie, that's about the way I sized it up myself. Keep quiet about this. I want to get these sacks down to the office some time to-day." He left the room and went to the office. Luna reported to the office that night as usual before going on shift. Firmstone gave a few directions, and then turned to his work. Shortly after twelve Luna was surprised at seeing the superintendent enter the mill. "Cut off the feed in the batteries." The order was curt, and Luna, much bewildered, hastened to obey. Firmstone followed him around back of the batteries, where automatic machines dropped the ore under the stamps. Firmstone waited until there began to come the sound of dropping stamps pounding on the naked dies, then he gave orders to hang up the stamps and shut down the mill. This was done. The rhythmic cadence of the falling stamps was broken into irregular blows as one by one the stamps were propped up above the revolving cams, till finally only the hum of pulleys and the click of belts were heard. These sounds also ceased as the engine slowed and finally stopped. "Shall I lay off the men?" asked the foreman. "No. Have them take out the screens." This also was done, and then Firmstone, accompanied by Luna, went from battery to battery. They first scraped out the loose rock, and afterward, with a long steel spoon, took samples of the crushed ore from between the dies. The operation was a long one; but at length the last battery was sampled. Firmstone put the last sample in a sack with the others. "Shall I carry the sack for you?" asked Luna. "No. Start up the mill, and then come to the office." Firmstone turned, and, with the heavy sack on his shoulder, left the mill. There were a hundred stamps in the mill. The stamps were divided into batteries of ten each. Each battery was driven separately by a belt from the main shaft. There was a man in attendance on every twenty stamps. Firmstone had taken samples from each battery, and each sample bore the number of the battery. He had taken especial care to call this to Luna's attention. The foreman saw to replacing the screens, and, when the mill was again started, he went to the superintendent's office. He knew very well that an unpleasant time awaited him; but, like the superintendent, he had his course of action mapped out. The foreman was a very wise man within a restricted circle. He knew that the battle was his, if he fought within its circumference. Outside of the circle he did not propose to be tempted. Firmstone could not force him out. Those who could, would not attempt it for very obvious and personal reasons. Luna was aware that Firmstone knew that there was thieving, and was morally certain as to who were the thieves, but lacked convincing proof. This was his protecting circle. Firmstone could not force him out of it. Morrison and Pierre knew not only of the thieving, but the thieves. They could force him out, but they would not. Luna was tranquil. Luna saw Firmstone in the laboratory as he entered the railed enclosure. He opened the railing gate, passed through the office, and entered the laboratory. Firmstone glanced at the foreman, but he met only a stolid face with no sign of confusion. "Pan these samples down." Without a word Luna emptied the sacks into little pans and carefully washed off the crushed rock, leaving the grains of gold in the pans. Eight of the pans showed rich in gold, the last two hardly a trace. Firmstone placed the pans in order. "What do you make of that?" he asked, sharply. Luna shook his head. "That's too much for me." "What batteries did these two come from?" Firmstone pointed to the two plates. "Nine and Ten," the foreman answered, promptly. "Who works on Nine and Ten?" "Clancy day and Long night," was the ready answer. "Did Long work last night?" "No. He was sick. I told you that, and I asked you if I should put on Morrison. You didn't say nothing against it." "Did Nine and Ten run all night?" "Except for an hour or two, maybe. Nine worked a shoe loose and Ten burst a screen. That's likely to happen any time. We had to hang up for that." "You say you can give no explanation of this?" Firmstone pointed to the empty pans. "No, sir." "Look this over." Firmstone went to his desk in the office and Luna followed him. He picked up a paper covered with figures marked "Mine Assays, May," and handed it to the foreman. Luna glanced over the sheet, then looked inquiringly at Firmstone. "Well?" he finally ventured. "What do you make of it?" Firmstone asked. Luna turned to the assay sheet. "The average of two hundred assays taken twice a week, twenty-five assays each time, gives twenty-five dollars a ton for the month of May." Luna read the summary. Firmstone wrote the number on a slip of paper, then took the sheet from the foreman. "You understand, then, that the ore taken from the mine and sent to the mill in May averaged twenty-five dollars a ton?" "Yes, that's right." Luna was getting puzzled. "Very good. You're doing well. Now look at this sheet." Firmstone handed him another paper. "Now read the summary." Luna read aloud: "Average loss in tailings, daily samples, May, two dollars and seventy-five cents a ton." "You understand from this, do you not, that the gold recovered from the plates should then be twenty-two dollars and twenty-five cents a ton?" "Yes, sir." Luna's face was reddening; beads of perspiration were oozing from his forehead. "Well, then," pursued Firmstone, "just look over this statement. Read it out loud." Luna took the paper offered him, and began to read. "What do you make out of that?" Firmstone was looking straight into the foreman's eyes. Luna tried his best to return the look, but his eyes dropped. "I don't know," he stammered. "Then I'll tell you. Not that I need to, but I want you to understand that I know. It means that out of every ton of ore that was delivered to this mill in May thirteen dollars and forty-five cents have been stolen." Luna fairly gasped. He was startled by the statement to a cent of the amount stolen. He and his confederates had been compelled to take Pierre's unvouched statements. Therefore he could not controvert the figures, had he chosen. He did not know the amount. "There must have been a mistake, sir." "Mistake!" Firmstone blazed out. "What do you say to this?" He pulled a canvas from the sacks of ore that had been brought to the office. He expected to see Luna collapse entirely. Instead, a look of astonishment spread over the foreman's face. "I'll give up!" he exclaimed. He looked Firmstone squarely in the face. He saw his way clearly now. "You're right," he said. "There has been stealing. It's up to me. I'll fire anyone you say, or I'll quit myself, or you can fire me. But, before God, I never stole a dollar from the Rainbow mill." He spoke the literal truth. The spirit of it did not trouble him. Firmstone was astonished at the man's affirmations, but they did not deceive him, nor divert him from his purpose. "I'm not going to tell you whom to let out or take in," he replied. "I'm holding you responsible. I've told you a good deal, but not all, by a good long measure. This stealing has got to stop, and you can stop it. You would better stop it. Now go back to your work." That very night Firmstone wrote a full account of the recovery of the stolen ore, the evils which he found on taking charge of the property, the steps which he proposed for their elimination. He closed with these words: "It must be remembered that these conditions have had a long time in which to develop. At the very least, an equal time must be allowed for their elimination; but I believe that I shall be successful." CHAPTER VI _The Family Circle_ On the morning of Élise's strike for freedom, Pierre came to breakfast with his usual atmosphere of compressed wrath. He glanced at his breakfast which Madame had placed on the table at the first sound which heralded his approach. There was nothing there to break the tension and to set free the pent-up storm within. Much meditation, with fear and trembling, had taught Madame the proper amount of butter to apply to the hot toast, the proportion of sugar and cream to add to the coffee, and the exact shade of crisp and brown to put on his fried eggs. But a man bent on trouble can invariably find a cause for turning it loose. "Where is Élise?" he demanded. "Élise," Madame answered, evasively, "she is around somewhere." "Somewhere is nowhere. I demand to know." Pierre looked threatening. "Shall I call her?" Madame vouchsafed. "If you know not where she is, how shall you call her? Heh? If you know, mek ansaire!" "I don't know where she is." "_Bien!_" Pierre reseated himself and began to munch his toast savagely. Madame was having a struggle with herself. It showed plainly on the thin, anxious face. The lips compressed with determination, the eyes set, then wavered, and again the indeterminate lines of acquiescent subjection gained their accustomed ascendency. Back and forth assertion and complaisance fled and followed; only assertion was holding its own. The eggs had disappeared, also the greater part of the toast. Pierre swallowed the last of his coffee, and, without a look at his silent wife, began to push his chair from the table. Madame's voice startled him. "Élise is sixteen," she ventured. Pierre fell back in his chair, astonished. The words were simple and uncompromising, but the intonation suggested that they were not final. "Well?" he asked, explosively. "When are you going to send Élise away to school?" "To school?" Pierre was struggling with his astonishment. "Yes." Madame was holding herself to her determination with an effort. "To school? _Baste!_ She read, she write, she mek ze figure, is it not suffice? Heh?" "That makes no difference. You promised her father that you would send her away to school." Pierre looked around apprehensively. "Shut up! Kip quiet!" "I won't shut up, and I won't keep quiet." Madame's blood was warming. The sensation was as pleasant as it was unusual. "I will keep quiet for myself. I won't for Élise." "Élise! Élise! Ain't I do all right by Élise?" Pierre asked, aggressively. "She have plenty to eat, plenty to wear, you tek good care of her. Don't I tek good care, also? Me? Pierre? She mek no complain, heh?" "That isn't what her father wanted, and it isn't what you promised him." Pierre looked thoughtful; his face softened slightly. "We have no children, you and me. We have honly Élise, one li'l girl, _la bonne_ Élise. You wan' mek me give up _la bonne_ Élise? _P'quoi?_" His face blazed again as he looked up wrathfully. "You wan' mek her go to school! _P'quoi?_ So she learn mek _teedle, teedle_ on ze piano? So she learn speak gran'? So she tink of me, Pierre, one li'l Frenchmens, not good enough for her, for mek her shame wiz her gran' friends? Heh? Who mek ze care for ze li'l babby? Who mek her grow up strong? Heh? You mek her go school. You mek ze gran' dam-zelle. You mek her go back to her pip'l. You mek me, Pierre, you, grow hol' wiz noddings? Hall ze res' ze time wiz no li'l Élise? How you like li'l Élise go away and mek ze marry, and w'en she have li'l children, she say to her li'l children, '_Mes enfants, voila!_ Pierre and Madame, _très bon_ Pierre and Madame,' and _les petits enfants_ mek big eyes at Pierre and Madame and li'l Élise? She say, '_Pauvres enfants_, Pierre and Madame will not hurt you. _Bon_ Pierre! _Bonne_ Madame!'" Pierre made a gesture of deprecating pity. Madame was touched to the quick. Starting tears dimmed the heavy eyes. Had she not thought of all this a thousand times? If Pierre cared so much for li'l Élise how much more reason had she to care? Li'l Élise had been the only bright spot in her dreary life, yet she was firm. Élise had been very dear to her in the past, but her duty was plain. Her voice was gentler. "Élise is not ours, Pierre. It is harder to do now what we ought to have done long ago." Pierre rose and walked excitedly back and forth. He was speaking half to himself, half to Madame. "Sixtin year 'go li'l Élise mammy die. Sixtin year! She no say, 'Madame Marie, tek my li'l babby back Eas' to my friend, _hein_? No. She say, 'Madame Marie, my poor li'l babby ain' got no mammy no mo'. Tek good care my poor li'l babby.' Then she go die. We mek good care of ze li'l Élise, me and you, heh? We sen' away Élise? _Sacré non!_ Nevaire!" Pierre stopped, and looked fiercely at Madame. "Yes," answered Madame. "Her mammy asked me to care for her little baby, but it was for her father. When her father died he made you promise to give her to her friends. Don't I know how hard it is?" Her tears were flowing freely now. "Every year we said, 'She is yet too young to go. Next year we will keep our promise,' and next year she was dearer to us. And now she is sixteen. She must go." Pierre broke in fiercely: "She shall not! Sixtin year? Sixtin year she know honly me, Pierre, her daddy, and you, her mammy. What you tink, heh? Élise go school in one beeg city, heh? She mek herself choke wiz ze brick house and ze stone street. She get sick and lonesome for ze mountain, for her hol' daddy and her hol' mammy, for ze grass and ze flower." "That is for her to say. Send her away as you promised. Then"--Madame's heavy eyes grew deep, almost beautiful--"then, if she comes back to us!" Pierre turned sullenly. "She is mine. Mine and yours. She shall stay." Madame's tears ceased flowing. "She shall go." Her temerity frightened her. "I will tell her all if you don't send her away." Pierre did not explode, as she expected. Instead, there was the calm of invincible purpose. He held up one finger impressively. "I settle hall zis. _Écoutez!_ She shall marry. Right away. Queek. Da's hall." He left the room before Madame had time to reply. Madame was too terrified to think. The possibility conveyed in her husband's declaration had never suggested itself to her. Élise was still the little baby nestling in her arms, the little girl prattling and playing indoors and out, on the wide ranch, and later, Madame shuddered, when Pierre had abandoned the ranch for the Blue Goose, waiting at the bar, keeping Pierre's books, redeeming checks at the desk, moving out and in among the throng of coarse, uncouth men, but through it all the same beautiful, wilful, loving little girl, so dear to Madame's heart, so much of her life. What did it matter that profanity died on the lips of the men in her presence, that at her bidding they ceased to drink to intoxication, that hopeless wives came to her for counsel, that their dull faces lighted at her words, that in sickness or death she was to them a comfort and a refuge? What if Pierre had fiercely protected her from the knowledge of the more loathsome vices of a mining camp? It was no more than right. Pierre loved her. She knew that. Pierre was hoarding every shining dollar that came to his hand. Was he lavish in his garnishment of the Blue Goose? It was only for the more effective luring of other gold from the pockets of the careless, unthinking men who worked in mines or mills, or roamed among the mountains or washed the sands of every stream, spending all they found, hoping for and talking of the wealth which, if it came, would only smite them with more rapid destruction. And all these little rivulets, small each one alone, united at the Blue Goose into a growing stream that went no farther. For what end? Madame knew. For Pierre, life began and ended in Élise. Madame knew, and sympathized with this; but her purpose was not changed. She knew little of life beyond the monotonous desolation of a western ranch, the revolting glamour of a gambling resort, where men revelled in the fierce excitement of shuffling cards and clicking chips, returning to squalid homes and to spiritless women, weighed down and broken with the bearing of many children, and the merciless, unbroken torture of thankless, thoughtless demands upon their lives. Madame saw all this. She saw and felt the dreary hopelessness of it all. Much as she loved Élise, if it parted her from all that made life endurable she would not shrink from the sacrifice. She knew nothing of life beyond her restricted circle, but anything outside this circle was a change, and any change must be for the better. "She shall marry. Right away." Pierre's words came to her again with overwhelming terror. Overwhelming, because she saw no way of averting the threatened blow. From behind, Madame felt two soft hands close on her straining eyes, and a sympathetic voice: "Has daddy been scolding you again? What was it about this time? Was it because I ran away this morning? I did run away, you know." For reply Madame only bowed her head from between the clasping hands that for the first time had distress instead of comfort for her groping soul. She did not pray for guidance. She never thought of praying. Why should she? The prisoned seed, buried in the dank and quickening soil, struggles instinctively toward the source of light and strength. But what instinct is there to guide the human soul that, quickened by unselfish love, is yet walled in by the Stygian darkness of an ignorant life? Madame's hands were clinched. Her hot eyes were dry and hard. No light! No help! Only a fierce spirit of resistance. At length she was conscious of Élise standing before her, half terrified, but wholly determined. Her eyes moistened, then grew soft. Her outstretched arms sought the girl and drew her within their convulsive grasp. "My poor Élise! My poor little girl, with no one to help her but me!" "What is it, mammy? What is it?" Madame only moaned. "My poor little Élise! My poor little girl!" Élise freed herself from the resisting arms. "Tell me at once!" She stamped her foot impatiently. Madame sprang to her feet. "You shall not marry that man. You shall not!" Her voice rose. "I will tell you all--everything. I will, if he kills me. I will! I will!" The door from the saloon was violently opened, and Pierre strode in. He pushed Élise aside, and, with narrowed eyes and uplifted hand, approached his wife. "You will? You will, heh?" The threatening blow fell heavily, but upon Élise. She thrust forth her hands. Pierre stumbled backward before the unexpected assault. His eyes, blazing with ungoverned fury, swept around the room. They rested upon a stick. He grasped it, and turned once more toward Madame. "You will! You will! I teach you bettaire. I teach you say 'I will' to me! I teach you!" Then he stopped. He was looking squarely into the muzzle of a silver-mounted revolver held in a steady hand and levelled by a steady eye. Pierre was like a statue. Another look came into his eyes. Youth toyed with death, and was not afraid. Pierre knew that. At threatening weapons in the hands of drink-crazed men Pierre smiled with scorn. The bad man stood in terror of the law as well as of Pierre. But when determined youth laid hold on death and shook it in his face Pierre knew enough to stand aside. Élise broke the tense silence. "Don't you ever dare to strike mammy again. Don't you dare!" Without a word Pierre left the room. He had loved Élise before with as unselfish a love as he could know. But hitherto he had not admired her. Now he rubbed his hands and chuckled softly, baring his teeth with unsmiling lips. "A-a-ah!" he breathed forth. "_Magnifique! Superb! La petite diable!_ She mek ze shoot in her eye! In ze fingaire! She bin shoot her hol' man, her hol' daddy, _moi!_ Pierre." Pierre thoughtfully rubbed his smooth chin. "_La petite diable!_" Poor Madame! Poor Pierre! The dog chases his tail with undiminished zest, and is blissfully rewarded if a straggling hair but occasionally brushes his nose. He licks his accessible paws, impelled alone by a sense of duty. CHAPTER VII _Mr. Morrison Tackles a Man with a Mind of His Own and a Man without One_ Mr. Morrison was a slick bird--in fact, a very slick bird. It was his soul's delight to preen his unctuous feathers and to shiver them into the most effective and comfortable position, to settle his head between his shoulders, and, with moistened lips, to view his little world from dreamy, half-closed eyes. This, however, only happened in restful moments of complacent self-contemplation. He never allowed these moods to interfere with business. He had broached the subject of marriage to Pierre, and Pierre had of course fallen in with his views. The fact that Élise evidently loathed him disturbed no whit his placid mind. He was in no hurry. He assumed Élise as his own whenever he chose to say the word. He regarded her in much the same way as a half-hungered epicure a toothsome dinner, holding himself aloof until his craving stomach should give the utmost zest to his viands without curtailing the pleasure of his palate by ravenous haste. He served Pierre with diligence and fidelity. The Blue Goose would sooner or later come to him with Élise. He had ambitions, political especially, not acquired, but instinctive. Not that he felt inspired with a mission to do good unto others, but that others should do good unto him, and also that the particular kind of good should be of his own choosing. He knew very well the temperaments of his chosen constituency, and he adapted himself to their impressionable peculiarities. To this end he dispensed heavily padded gratuities with much ostentation on selected occasions, but gathered his tolls in merciless silence. He did this without fear, for he knew that the blare of the multitude would drown the cries of the stricken few. Mr. Morrison had long meditated upon the proper course to take in order best to compass his ends. The unrest among the employees of the Rainbow Company came to him unsought, and he at once grasped the opportunity. The organisation of a miners' and millmen's union would be an obvious benefit to the rank and file; their manifestation of gratitude would naturally take the very form he most desired. To this end before the many he displayed the pyrotechnics of meaningless oratory, in much the same manner as a strutting peacock his brilliant tail; but individuals he hunted with nickel bullets and high-power guns. On various occasions he had displayed the peacock tail; this particular afternoon he took down his flat-trajectoried weapon and went forth to gun for Bennie. Bennie had washed the dinner dishes, reset his table, prepared for the coming meal, and now, as was his custom, was lying in his bunk, with an open book in his hands, prepared to read or doze, as the spirit moved him. Mr. Morrison appeared before him. "Howdy, Bennie! Taking a nap?" "I'm taking nothing but what's my own." Bennie looked meaningly at Morrison. Morrison slipped into what he mistook for Bennie's mood. "You're wise, if you get it all. Many's the ignorant devil that takes only what's given him and asks no questions, worse luck to him!" "You'll do well to go on," remarked Bennie, placidly. "There's many that gets more, and then damns the gift and the giver." "And just what might that mean, Bennie?" Morrison looked a little puzzled. "It means that, if more got what they deserved, 'twould be better for honest men." Bennie was very decided. Morrison's face cleared. He held out his hand. "Shake!" he said. Bennie took the proffered hand. "Here's hoping you'll come to your own!" he remarked, grimly. The clasped hands each fell to its own. Morrison's hands went to his pocket as he stretched out his crossed legs with a thankful look on his face. "I'm not specially troubled about myself. I've had fairly good luck looking out for Patrick Morrison, Esq. It's these poor devils around here that's troubling me. They get nipped and pinched at every turn of the cards." "It's God's truth you're talking. And you want to help them same poor devils?" "That's what." "Then listen to me. Smash your roulette and faro. Burn down the Blue Goose, first taking out your whisky that'll burn only the throats of the fools who drink it. Do that same, and you'll see fat grow on lean bones, and children's pants come out of the shade of the patches." Morrison lifted his hat, scratching his head meditatively. "That isn't exactly what I'm at." "Eagles to snowbirds 'tis not!" put in Bennie, aside. Morrison gave no heed to the interruption. "Every man has the right to spend his own money in his own way." "The poor devils get the money and the Blue Goose furnishes the way," Bennie again interpolated. Morrison was getting uneasy. He was conscious that he was not making headway. "You can't do but one thing at a time in good shape." "You're a damned liar! At the Blue Goose you're doing everyone all the time." Morrison rose impatiently. The nickel bullets were missing their billet. He began tentatively to unfold the peacock's tail. "You see," he said, "it's like this. In union is strength. What makes the rich richer? Because they hang together like swarming bees. You pick the honey of one and you get the stings of all. Learn from the rich to use the rich man's weapons. Let us poor workingmen band together like brothers in a common cause. Meet union with union, strength with strength. Then, and only then, can we get our own." "It took more than one cat to make strings for that fiddle," Bennie remarked, thoughtfully. "Just what might that mean?" Morrison again looked puzzled. He went back to his bullets. "To be specific," he spoke impressively, "as things stand now, if one workingman thinks he ought to have more pay he goes to the company and asks for it. The company says no. If he gets troublesome, they fire him. If one man works in a close breast with foul air the company tells him to go back to his work or quit. It costs money to timber bad ground. One poor workman's life doesn't count for much. It's cheaper for the company to take chances than to put in timber." He paused, looking sharply at Bennie. "You're talking sense now. How do you propose to help it?" Morrison felt solid ground beneath his feet. "Do as I said. Learn from the rich. Unite. If the men are not getting fair wages, the union can demand more." Bennie lifted an inquiring finger. "One word there. You want to organise a union?" "That's it. That's the stuff." Morrison was flatteringly acquiescent. "A company can turn down one man, but the union will shove it up to them hard." "If one man breaks five tons of ore a day, and another man breaks only one, will the union see that both get the same pay?" "A workingman is a workingman." Morrison spoke less enthusiastically. "A man that puts in his time earns all that he gets." Bennie looked musingly at the toes of his boots. "The union will equalise the pay?" "You bet it will!" "They'll make the company ventilate the mines and keep bad ground timbered?" "They'll look after these things sharp, and anything else that comes up." "The union will run the company, but who'll run the union?" Morrison waxed enthusiastic. "We'll take our turn at bossing all right. Every man in the union stands on the same floor, and when any of the boys have a grievance the president will see them through. The president and the executive committee can tie up the whole camp if the company bucks." "Is the union organised?" asked Bennie. "Not yet. It's like this." Morrison's voice had a tinge of patronage. "You see, I want to get a few of the level-headed men in the camp worked up to the idea; the rest will come in, hands down." "Who have you got strung?" "Well, there's Luna, and----" "Luna's a crowd by himself. He's got more faces than a town-clock telling time to ten streets. Who else?" "There's Thompson, the mine foreman----" "Jim Thompson? Don't I know him now? He'll throw more stunts than a small boy with a bellyful of green apples. Who else?" Morrison looked a little sulky. "Well, how about yourself. That's what I'm here to find out." Bennie glared up wrathfully. "You'll take away no doubts about me, if my tongue isn't struck by a palsy till it can't bore the wax of your ears. When it comes to bosses, I'll choose my own. I'm American and American born. I'd rather be bossed by a silk tile and kid gloves than by a Tipperary hat and a shillalah, with a damned three-cornered shamrock riding the necks of both. It's a pretty pass we've come to if we've got to go to Irish peat-bogs and Russian snow-banks to find them as will tell us our rights and how to get them, and then import dagoes with rings in their ears and Hungarians with spikes in their shoes to back us up. Let me talk a bit! I get my seventy-five dollars a month for knowing my business and attending to it, because my grub goes down the necks of the men instead of out on the dump; because I give more time to a side of bacon than I do to organising unions. And I'll tell you some more facts. The rich are growing richer for using what they have, and the poor are growing poorer because they don't know enough to handle what they've got. Organise a union for keeping damned fools out of the Blue Goose, and from going home and lamming hell out of their wives and children, and I'll talk with you. As it is, the sooner you light out the more respect I'll have for the sense of you that I haven't seen." Morrison was blazing with anger. "You'll sing another tune before long. We propose to run every scab out of the country." "Run, and be damned to you! I've got a thousand-acre ranch and five hundred head of cattle. I've sucked it from the Rainbow at seventy-five a month, and I've given value received, without any union to help me. Only take note of this. I've laid my eggs in my own nest, and not at the Blue Goose." Morrison turned and left the room. Over his shoulder he flung back: "This isn't the last word, you damned scab! You'll hear from me again." "'Tis not the nature of a pig to keep quiet with a dog at his heels." Bennie stretched his neck out of the door to fire his parting shot. Morrison went forth with a vigorous flea in each ear, which did much to disturb his complacency. Bennie had not made him thoughtful, only vengeful. There is nothing quite so discomposing as the scornful rejection of proffers of self-seeking philanthropy. Bennie's indignation was instinctive rather than analytical, the inherent instinct that puts up the back and tail of a new-born kitten at its first sight of a benevolent-appearing dog. Morrison had not gone far from the boarding-house before he chanced against Luna. Morrison was the last person Luna would have wished to meet. Since his interview with Firmstone he had scrupulously avoided the Blue Goose, and he had seen neither Morrison nor Pierre. His resolution to mend his ways was the result of fear, rather than of change of heart. Neither Morrison nor Pierre had fear. They were playing safe. Luna felt their superiority; he was doing his best to keep from their influence. "Howdy!" "Howdy!" Luna answered. "Where've you been this long time?" asked Morrison, suavely. Luna did not look up. "Down at the mill, of course." "What's going on?" pursued Morrison. "You haven't been up lately." "There's been big things going on. Pierre's little game's all off." Luna shrank from a direct revelation. "Oh, drop this! What's up?" "I'll tell you what's up." Luna looked defiant. "You know the last lot of ore you pinched? Well, the old man's got it, and, what's more, he's on to your whole business." Morrison's face set. "Look here now, Luna. You just drop that little _your_ business. It looks mighty suspicious, talking like that. I don't know what you mean. If you've been pulling the mill and got caught you'd better pick out another man to unload on besides me." "I never took a dollar from the mill, and I told the old man so. I----" But Morrison interrupted: "You've been squealing, have you? Well, you just go on, only remember this. If you're going to set in a little game of freeze-out, you play your cards close to your coat." Luna saw the drift of Morrison's remarks, and hastened to defend himself. "It's gospel truth. I haven't squealed." He gave a detailed account of his midnight interview with Firmstone, defining sharply between his facts and his inferences. He finally concluded: "The old man's sharp. There isn't a corner of the mine he doesn't know, and there isn't a chink in the mill, from the feed to the tail-sluice, that he hasn't got his eye on." Luna's mood changed from the defensive to the assertive. "I'll tell you one thing more. He's square, square as a die. He had me bunched, but he give me a chance. He told me that I could stop the stealing at the mill, that I had got to, and, by God, I'm going to, in spite of hell!" Morrison was relieved, but a sneer buried the manifestation of his relief. "Well," he exclaimed, "of all the soft, easy things I ever saw you're the softest and the easiest!" Luna only looked dogged. "Hard words break no bones," he answered, sullenly. "That may be," answered Morrison; "but it doesn't keep soft ones from gumming your wits, that's sure." "What do you mean?" "I mean just this. You say the old man had you bunched. Well, he's got you on your back now, and roped, too." Luna answered still more sullenly: "There's more'n one will be roped, then. If it comes to a show-down, I'll not be alone." "All right, Mr. Luna." Morrison spoke evenly. "When you feel like calling the game just go right ahead. I'm not going to stop you." Luna made no immediate reply. Morrison waited, ostentatiously indifferent. Luna finally broke the silence. "I don't see how the old man's got me roped." "Well, now you're acting as if you had sense. I'll tell you. I'm always ready to talk to a man that's got sense. Just answer a few straight questions. In the first place, you've been stealing from the mill." "I tell you I haven't," broke in Luna; "but I can tell you who has." He looked sharply at Morrison. Morrison waved his hand with wearied endurance. "Well, you're foreman at the mill. If there's been stealing, and you know your business, you know where it was done and how it was done. If you don't know your business what are you there for, and how long are you going to stay? You say yourself the old man is sharp, and he is. How long is he going to keep either a thief or a fool in your place?" "I'm not a thief," Luna answered, hotly. "I'm not a fool, either, and I'm not going to be made one any longer by you, either." "If you're not a fool listen to me, and keep quiet till I'm through." Morrison leaned forward, checking his words with his fingers. "The old man's sharp, and he's got you roped, any turn. There's been stealing at the mill. You say this. You're foreman there. It doesn't make any difference whether you stole or someone else. They hold you responsible. The old man's got the cards in his hands. The men saw him come in the mill, shut down, and take samples to back him up." "Well, what of it?" "What of it, you fool! This is what of it. He's got you just where he wants you. You'll walk turkey from now on, according to his orders. If there's any dirty work to be done you'll do it. You squeal or you kick, and he'll start the whole slide and bury you." "I'm not obliged to do any dirty work for him or any other man. Not even for you. I can quit." "And get another job?" Morrison asked, mockingly. "That's what." "Let me just point out a few things. You get mad and quit. Call for your time. Pack your turkey and go to another mill. They will ask your name. Then, 'Excuse me a minute.' Then they'll go to a little book, and they'll find something like this, 'Henry Luna, mill man, foreman Rainbow mill. Richard Firmstone, superintendent. Discharged on account of stealing ore from the mill.' Then they'll come back. 'No place for you, Mr. Luna,' and you'll go on till hell freezes, and that little record of yours will knock you, every clip. When you wear the skin off your feet, and the shirt off your back, you'll come back to the Rainbow, and Mr. Firmstone will politely tell you that, if you've walked the kick out of you, he'll give you another try." Luna was open-eyed. He had grasped but one thing. "What little book are you talking about?" he asked. "It's known as the Black List, little lambie. You'll know more about it if you keep on. Every company in Colorado or in the United States has one. You'll run up against it, all right, if you keep on." Luna had vague ideas of this powerful weapon; but it had never seemed so real before. He was growing suspicious. He recalled Firmstone's words, "I've told you a good deal, but not all by a good long measure." They had seemed simple and straightforward at the time, but Morrison's juggling was hazing them. "What's a fellow to do?" he asked, helplessly. "Nothing alone, except to take what's given you. You stand alone, and you'll be cut alone, worked overtime alone, kicked alone, and, when it gets unendurable, starve alone. But, if you've got any sense or sand, don't stand alone to get kicked and cuffed and robbed by a company or by a bunch of companies. Meet union with union, strength with strength, and, if worst comes to worst, fight with fight. Us workingmen have things in our own hands, if we stand together." Morrison was watching the foreman narrowly. "And there's another thing. When a long-toothed, sharp-nosed, glass-eyed company bull-dog puts up a padded deck on a workingman, he'll have the backing of the union to put him down." "The union ain't going to take up no private grievance?" Luna spoke, half questioningly. "They ain't, heh? What's it for, then? Bunching us up so they can pick us off one by one, without hunting us out like a flock of sheep. That ain't the union." Morrison paused, looking keenly at Luna. "There's no use scattering. There's nothing as skittish as a pocketful of dollars in a dress suit. If there's a grievance, private or common, go to the company in a bunch. Remonstrate. If that don't work, strike, fight, boycott! No weapons? The poor man's dollar will buy rifles and cartridges as quick as a rich man's checks. We've got this advantage, too. Rich men have to hire men to fight for them; but, by God, we can fight for ourselves!" Luna's thick wits were vibrating betwixt fear and vengeance. He had all the ignorant man's fear of superior brains, all the coward's sneaking resentment of a fancied imposition. He could see that fear had blinded his eyes to the real but covert threat of Firmstone's words. Here was his chance to free himself from Firmstone's clutches. Here his chance for revenge. Morrison was watching him closely. "Are you with us, or are you going down alone?" Luna held out his hand. "I'm with you, you bet!" "Come up to the Blue Goose some night when you're on day-shift. We'll talk things over with Pierre." Then they parted. CHAPTER VIII _Madame Seeks Counsel_ There are many evil things in the world which are best obviated by being let severely alone. The clumsy-minded Hercules had to be taught this fact. Tradition relates that at one time he met an insignificant-looking toad in his path which he would have passed by in disdain had it not been for its particularly ugly appearance. Thinking to do the world a service by destroying it he thumped the reptile with his club, when, to his surprise, instead of being crushed by the impact, the beast grew to twice its former size. Repeated and heavier blows only multiplied its dimensions and ugliness, until at length the thoroughly frightened hero divested himself of his clothing with the intention of putting an end to his antagonist. His formidable club was again raised, but before it could descend, he was counselled to wait. This he did, and to his greater surprise the ugly beast began to shrink, and finally disappeared. Pierre had no convenient goddess to instruct him in critical moments, so he depended on his own wit. Of this he had inherited a liberal portion, and this by diligent cultivation had been added to manyfold. So it happened that after Madame's surprising exhibition of an unsuspected will of her own, and her declaration of her intention to enforce it, Pierre had studiously let her alone. This course of action was as surprising to Madame as it was disconcerting. The consequences were such as her wily husband had foreseen. Encountering no externally resisting medium, its force was wasted by internal attrition, so that Madame was being reduced to a nervous wreck, all of which was duly appreciated by Pierre. This particular instance, being expanded into a general law, teaches us that oftentimes the nimble wit of an agile villain prevails against the clumsy brains of a lofty-minded hero. Madame had had long years of patient endurance to train her in waiting; but the endurance had been passive and purposeless, rather than active, and with a well-defined object. Now that an object was to be attained by action the lessons of patient endurance counted for naught. Instead of determined action against her open revolt, Pierre had been smilingly obsequious and non-resisting. She knew very well that Pierre had been neither cowed into submission nor frightened from his purpose; but his policy of non-interference puzzled and terrified her. She knew not at what moment he might confront her with a move that she would have neither time nor power to check. In this state of mind day after day passed by with wearing regularity. She felt the time going, every moment fraught with the necessity of action, but without the slightest suggestion as to what she ought to do. Pierre's toast might be burned to a crisp, his eggs scorched, or his coffee muddy, but there was no word of complaint. Regular or irregular hours for meals were passed over with the same discomposing smiles. She did not dare unburden her mind to Élise, for fear of letting drop some untimely word which would immediately precipitate the impending crisis. For the first time in her life Élise was subjected to petulant words and irritating repulses by the sorely perplexed woman. One evening, after a particularly trying day during which Élise had been stung into biting retorts, an inspiration came to Madame that rolled every threatening cloud from her mind. The next morning, after long waiting, Pierre came to the dining-room, but found neither breakfast nor Madame, and for the best of reasons. With the first grey light of morning, Madame had slipped from the door of the Blue Goose, and before the sun had gilded the head of Ballard Mountain she was far up the trail that led to the Inferno. Zephyr was moving deliberately about a little fire on which his breakfast was cooking, pursing his lips in meditative whistles, or engaged in audible discussion with himself on the various topics which floated through his mind. An unusual clatter of displaced rocks brought his dialogue to a sudden end; a sharp look down the trail shrank his lips to a low whistle; the sight of a hard knob of dingy hair, strained back from a pair of imploring eyes fringed by colourless lashes, swept his hat from his head, and sent him clattering down to Madame with outstretched hands. "You're right, Madame. You're on the right trail, and it's but little farther. It's rather early for St. Peter, it's likely he's taking his beauty sleep yet; but I'll see that it's broken, unless you have a private key to the Golden Gates, which you deserve, if you haven't got it." His address of welcome had brought him to Madame's side. Her only reply was a bewildered gaze, as she took his hands. With his help she soon reached the camp, and seated herself in a rude chair which Zephyr placed for her. Zephyr, having seen to the comfort of his guest, returned to his neglected breakfast. "It takes a pretty cute angel to catch me unawares," he glanced at Madame; "but you've got the drop on me this time. Come from an unexpected direction, too. I've heard tell of Jacob's vision of angels passing up and down, but I mostly allowed it was a pipe dream. I shall have to annotate my ideas again, which is no uncommon experience, statements to the contrary notwithstanding." Zephyr paused from his labours and looked inquiringly at Madame. Madame made no reply. Her bewildered calm began to break before the apparent necessity of saying or doing something. Not having a clear perception of the fitting thing in either case, she took refuge in a copious flood of tears. Zephyr offered no impediment to the flow, either by word or act. He was not especially acquainted with the ways of women, but being a close observer of nature and an adept at reasoning from analogy, he assumed that a sudden storm meant equally sudden clearing, so he held his peace and, for once, his whistle. Zephyr's reasoning was correct. Madame's tears dried almost as suddenly as they had started. Zephyr had filled a cup with coffee, and he tendered it deferentially to Madame. "A peaceful stomach favours a placid mind," he remarked, casually; "which is an old observation that doesn't show its age. From which I infer that it has a solid foundation of truth." Madame hesitatingly reached for the proffered coffee, then she thought better of it, and, much to Zephyr's surprise, again let loose the fountains of her tears. Zephyr glanced upward with a cocking eye, then down the steep pass to where the broken line of rock dropped sheer into Rainbow Gulch where lay Pandora and the Blue Goose. "About this time look for unsettled weather," he whispered to himself. Zephyr had dropped analogy and was reasoning from cold facts. He was thinking of Élise. Tears often clear the mind, as showers the air, and Madame's tears, with Zephyr's calm, were rapidly having a salubrious effect. This time she not only reached for the coffee on her own initiative, but, what was more to the purpose, drank it. She even ate some of the food Zephyr placed before her. Zephyr noted with approval. "Rising barometer, with freshening winds, growing brisk, clearing weather." Madame looked up at Zephyr's almost inaudible words. "How?" she ventured, timidly. "That's a fair question," Zephyr remarked, composedly. "The fact is, I get used to talking to myself and answering a fool according to his folly. It's hard sledding to keep up. You see, a fellow that gets into his store clothes only once a year or so don't know where to hang his thumbs." Madame looked somewhat puzzled, began a stammering reply, then, dropping her useless efforts, came to her point at once. "It's about Élise." Zephyr answered as directly as Madame had spoken. "Is Élise in trouble?" "Yes. I don't know what to do." Madame paused and looked expectantly at Zephyr. "Pierre wants her to marry that Morrison?" Madame gave a sigh of relief. There was no surprise in her face. "Pierre says she shall not go to school and learn to despise him and me. He says she will learn to be ashamed of us before her grand friends. Do you think she will ever be ashamed of me?" There was a yearning look in the uncomplaining eyes. Zephyr looked meditatively at the fire, pursed his lips, and, deliberately thrusting his hand into the bosom of his shirt, drew forth his harmonica. He softly blew forth a few bars of a plaintive melody, then, taking the instrument from his lips, began to speak, without raising his eyes. "If my memory serves me right, I used to know a little girl on a big ranch who had a large following of beasts and birds that had got into various kinds of trouble, owing to their limitations as such. I also remember that that same little girl on several appropriate occasions banged hell--if you will excuse a bad word for the sake of good emphasis--out of two-legged beasts for abusing their superior kind. Who would fly at the devil to protect a broken-winged gosling. Who would coax rainbows out of alkali water and sweet-scented flowers out of hot sand. My more recent memory seems to put it up to me that this same little girl, with more years on her head and a growing heart under her ribs, has sat up many nights with sick infants, and fought death from said infants to the great joy of their owners. From which I infer, if by any chance said little girl should be lifted up into heaven and seated at the right hand of God, much trouble would descend upon the Holy Family if Madame should want to be near her little Élise, and any of the said Holies should try to stand her off." Madame did not fully understand, but what did it matter? Zephyr was on her side. Of that she was satisfied. She vaguely gleaned from his words that, in his opinion, Élise would always love her and would never desert her. She hugged this comforting thought close to her cramped soul. "But," she began, hesitatingly, "Pierre said that she should not go to school, that she should marry right away." "Pierre is a very hard shell with a very small kernel," remarked Zephyr. "Which means that Pierre is going to do what he thinks is well for Élise. Élise has got a pretty big hold on Pierre." "But he promised her father that he would give back Élise to her friends, and now he says he won't." "Have you told Élise that Pierre is not her father?" "No; I dare not." "That's all right. Let me try to think out loud a little. The father and mother of Élise ran away to marry. That is why her friends know nothing of her. Her mother died before Élise was six months old, and her father before she was a yearling. Pierre promised to get Élise back to her father's family. It wasn't just easy at that time to break through the mountains and Injuns to Denver. You and Pierre waited for better times. When better times came you both had grown very fond of Élise. A year or so would make no difference to those who did not know. Now Élise is sixteen. Pierre realizes that he must make a choice between now and never. He's got a very soft spot in his heart for Élise. It's the only one he ever had, or ever will have. Élise isn't his. That doesn't make very much difference. Pierre has never had any especial training in giving up things he wants, simply because they don't belong to him. You haven't helped train him otherwise." Zephyr glanced at Madame. Madame's cheeks suddenly glowed, then as suddenly paled. A faint thought of what might have been years ago came and went. Zephyr resumed: "As long as Élise is unmarried, there is danger of his being compelled to give her up. Well," Zephyr's lips grew hard, "you can set your mind at rest. Élise isn't going to marry Morrison, and when the proper time comes, which will be soon, Pierre is going to give her up." Madame had yet one more episode upon which she needed light. She told Zephyr of Pierre's threatened attack, and of Élise's holding him off at the point of her revolver. She felt, but was not sure, that Élise by her open defiance had only sealed her fate. Zephyr smiled appreciatively. "She's got her father's grit and Pierre's example. Her sense is rattling round in her head, as her nonsense is outside of it. She'll do all right without help, if it comes to that; but it won't." Madame rose, as if to depart. Zephyr waved her to her seat. "Not yet. You rest here for a while. It's a hard climb up here and a hard climb down. I'll shake things up a little on my prospect. I'll be back by dinner-time." He picked up a hammer and drills and went still farther up the mountain. Having reached the Inferno, he began his work. Perhaps he had no thought of Jael or Sisera; but he smote his drill with a determined emphasis that indicated ill things for Pierre. Jael pinned the sleeping head of Sisera to the earth. Sleeping or waking, resisting or acquiescent, Pierre's head was in serious danger, if it threatened Élise. Zephyr loaded the hole and lighted the fuse, then started for the camp. A loud explosion startled Madame from the most peaceful repose she had enjoyed for many a day. After dinner Zephyr saw Madame safely down the worst of the trail. "Pierre is not all bad," he remarked, at parting. "You just _restez tranquille_ and don't worry. It's a pretty thick fog that the sun can't break through, and, furthermore, a fog being only limited, as it were, and the sun tolerably persistent, it's pretty apt to get on top at most unexpected seasons." Madame completed the remainder of her journey with very different emotions from those with which she had begun it. She entered the back door of the Blue Goose. Pierre was not in the room, as she had half expected, half feared. She looked around anxiously, then dropped into a chair. The pendulum changed its swing. She was under the old influences again. Zephyr and the mountain-top were far away. A thousand questions struggled in her mind. Why had she not thought of them before? It was no use. Again she was groping for help. She recalled a few of Zephyr's words. "Élise isn't going to marry Morrison, and Pierre's going to give her up." They did not thrill her with hope. She could not make them do so by oft repeating. Confused recollections crowded these few words of hope. She could not revivify them. She could only cling to them with blind, uncomprehending trust, as the praying mother clings to the leaden crucifix. CHAPTER IX _The Meeting at the Blue Goose_ An algebraic formula is very fascinating, but at the same time it is very dangerous. The oft-times repeated assumption that _x_ plus _y_ equals _a_ leads ultimately to the fixed belief that a is an attainable result, whatever values may be assigned to the other factors. If we assign concrete dollars to the abstract _x_ and _y_, _a_ theoretically becomes concrete dollars as well. But immediately we do this, another factor known as the personal equation calls for cards, and from then on insists upon sitting in the game. Simple algebra no longer suffices; calculus, differential as well as integral, enters into our problem, and if we can succeed in fencing out quaternions, to say nothing of the _nth_ dimension, we may consider ourselves fortunate. Pierre was untrained in algebra, to say nothing of higher mathematics; but it is a legal maxim that ignorance of the law excuses no one, and this dictum is equally applicable to natural and to human statutes. Pierre assumed very naturally that five dollars plus five dollars equals ten dollars, and dollars were what he was after. He went even further. Without stating the fact, he felt instinctively that, if he could tip the one-legged plus to the more stable two-legged sign of multiplication, the result would be twenty-five dollars instead of ten. He knew that dollars added to, or multiplied by, dollars made wealth; but he failed to comprehend that wealth was a variable term with no definite, assignable value. In other words, he never knew, nor ever would know, when he had enough. Pierre had started in life with the questionable ambition of becoming rich. As foreman on a ranch at five dollars a day and found, he was reasonably contented with simple addition. On the sudden death of his employer he was left in full charge, with no one to call him to account, and addition became more frequent and with larger sums. His horizon widened, the Rainbow mine was opened, and the little town of Pandora sprang into existence. Three hundred workmen, with unlimited thirst and a passion for gaming, suggested multiplication, and Pierre moved from the ranch to the Blue Goose. Had he fixed upon a definition of wealth and adhered to it, a few years at the Blue Goose would have left him satisfied. As it was, his ideas grew faster than his legitimate opportunities. The miners were no more content with their wages than he with his gains, and so it happened that an underground retort was added to the above-ground bar and roulette. The bar and roulette had the sanction of law; the retort was existing in spite of it. The bar and roulette took care of themselves, and incidentally of Pierre; but with the retort, the case was different. Pierre had to look out for himself as well as the furnace. As proprietor of a saloon, his garnered dollars brought with them the protection of the nine points of the law--possession; the tenth was never in evidence. As a vender of gold bullion, with its possession, the nine points made against rather than for him. As for the tenth, at its best it only offered an opportunity for explanation which the law affords the most obviously guilty. Morrison allowed several days to pass after his interview with Luna before acquainting Pierre with the failure to land their plunder. The disclosure might have been delayed even longer had not Pierre made some indirect inquiries. Pierre had taken the disclosure in a very different manner from what Morrison had expected. Morrison, as has been set forth, was a very slick bird, but he was not remarkable for his sagacity. His cunning had influenced him to repel, with an assumption of ignorance, Luna's broad hints of guilty complicity; but his sagacity failed utterly to comprehend Pierre's more cunning silence. Pierre was actively acquainted with Morrison's weak points, and while he ceased not to flatter them he never neglected to gather rewards for his labour. If the fabled crow had had the wit to swallow his cheese before he began to sing he would at least have had a full stomach to console himself for being duped. This is somewhat prognostical; but even so, it is not safe to jump too far. It sometimes happens that the fox and the crow become so mutually engrossed as to forget the possibility of a man and a gun. Late this particular evening Luna entered the Blue Goose, and having paid tribute at the bar, was guided by the knowing winks and nods of Morrison into Pierre's private club-room, where Morrison himself soon followed. Morrison opened the game at once. "That new supe at the Rainbow is getting pretty fly." He apparently addressed Pierre. Pierre bowed, in smiling acquiescence. "Our little game is going to come to an end pretty soon, too." "To what li'l game you refer?" Pierre inquired, blandly. Pierre did not mind talking frankly with one; with two he weighed his words. Morrison made an impatient gesture. "You know. I told you about the old man's getting back that ore." Pierre rubbed his hands softly. "Meestaire Firmstone, he's smooth stuff, ver' smooth stuff." "He's getting too smooth," interrupted Luna. "I don't mind a supe's looking out for his company. That's what he's paid for. But when he begins putting up games on the men, that's another matter, and I don't propose to stand it. Not for my part." "He's not bin populaire wiz ze boy?" inquired Pierre. "No." Pierre chuckled softly. "He keeps too much ze glass-eye on ze plate, on ze stamp, heh?" "That's not all." "No," Pierre continued; "he mek ze sample; he mek ze assay, hall ze time." "That's not all, either. He----" "A--a--ah! He bin mek ze viseete in ze mill in ze night, all hour, any hour. Ze boy can't sleep, bin keep awake, bin keep ze han'--" Pierre winked knowingly, making a scoop with his hand, and thrusting it into his pocket. Luna grinned. "At ze mine ze boy get two stick powdaire, four candle, all day, eh? No take ten, fifteen stick, ten, fifteen candle, use two, four, sell ze res'?" Pierre again winked smilingly. "You're sizing it up all right." "_Bien!_ I tol' you. Ze hol' man, he's bin hall right. I tol' you look out. Bimeby I tol' you again. Goslow. Da's hall." Morrison was getting impatient. "What's the use of barking our shins, climbing for last year's birds' nests? The facts are just as I told you. The old man's getting too fly. The boys are getting tired of it. The question is, how are we going to stop him? If we can't stop him can we get rid of him?" "I can tell you one way to stop him, and get rid of him at the same time," Luna broke in. "How is that?" asked Morrison. "Cut the cable when he goes up on the tram." "Will you take the job?" Morrison asked, sarcastically. Luna's enthusiasm waned under the question. "Such things have happened." "Some odder tings also happens." Pierre slipped an imaginary rope around his neck. Morrison passed the remark and started in on a line of his own. "I've been telling Luna and some of the other boys what I think. I don't mind their making a little on the side. It's no more than they deserve, and the company can stand it. It doesn't amount to much, anyway. But what I do kick about is this everlasting spying around all the time. It's enough to make a thief out of an honest man. If you put a man on his honour, he isn't going to sleep on shift, even if the supe doesn't come in on him, every hour of the night. Anyway, a supe ought to know when a man does a day's work. Isn't that so?" He looked at Luna. "That's right, every time." "Then there's another point. A man has some rights of his own, if he does work for $3 a day. The old man is all the time posting notices at the mine and at the mill. He tells men what days they can get their pay, and what days they can't. If a man quits, he's got to take a time-check that isn't worth face, till pay-day. Now what I want to know is this: Haven't the men just as good a right to post notices as the company has?" Morrison was industriously addressing Pierre, but talking at Luna. Pierre made no response, so Luna spoke instead. "I've been thinking the same thing." Morrison turned to Luna. "Well, I'll tell you. You fellows don't know your rights. When you work eight hours the company owes you three dollars. You have a right to your full pay any time you want to ask for it. Do you get it? Not much. The company says pay-day is the 15th of every month. You have nothing to say about it. You begin to work the first of one month. At the end of the month the company makes up the payroll. On the 15th you get pay for last month's work. The 15th, suppose you want to quit. You ask for your time. Do you get your pay for the fifteen days? Not much. They give you a time-check. If you'll wait thirty days you'll get a bank-check or cash, just as they choose. Suppose you want your money right away, do you get it?" Morrison looked fixedly at Luna. Luna shook his head in reply. "Of course not. What do you do? Why, you go to a bank, and if the company's good the bank will discount your check--one, two, three, or five per cent. Your time amounts to $60, less board. The bank gives you, instead of $60, $57, which means that you put in one hard day's work to get what's your due." "The law's done away with time-checks," objected Luna. "Oh, yes, so it has. Says you must be paid in full." Morrison called on all his sarcasm to add emphasis to his words. "So the company complies with the law. It writes out a bank-check for $60, but dates it thirty days ahead, so the bank gets in its work, just the same." Luna glanced cunningly from Morrison to Pierre. "It strikes me that the Blue Goose isn't giving the bank a fair show. I never cashed in at the bank." "What time ze bank open, eh?" Pierre asked, languidly. "Ten to four." Luna looked a trifle puzzled. "_Bien!_ Sunday an' ze holiday?" pursued Pierre. "'Tain't open at all." "_Très bien!_ Ze Blue Goose, she mek open hall ze time, day, night, Sunday, holiday." "Well, you get paid for it," answered Luna, doggedly. "Oh, that isn't all," Morrison interrupted, impatiently. "I just give you this as one example. I can bring up a thousand. You know them as well as I do. There's no use going over the whole wash." There was no reply. Morrison went on, "There's no use saying anything about short time, either. You keep your own time; but what does that amount to? You take what the company gives you. Of course, the law will take your time before the company's; but what does that amount to? Just this: You're two or three dollars shy on your time. You go to law about it, and you'll get your two or three dollars; but it will cost you ten times as much; besides, you'll be blacklisted." It may appear that Morrison was training an able-bodied Gatling on a very small corporal's guard, and so wasting his ammunition. The fact is, Morrison was an active dynamo to which Luna, as an exhausted battery, was temporarily attached. Mr. Morrison felt very sure that if Luna were properly charged he would increase to a very large extent the radius of dynamic activity. Inwardly Pierre was growing a little restless over Morrison's zeal. It was perfectly true that in the matter of paying the men the company was enforcing an arbitrary rule that practically discounted by a small per cent. the men's wages; but the men had never objected. Understanding the reason, they had never even considered it an injustice. There was no bank at Pandora, and it was not a very safe proceeding for a company, even, to carry a large amount of cash. Besides, the men knew very well that the discount did not benefit the company in the least. An enforcement of the law would interfere with Pierre's business. If Pierre found no butter on one side of his toast, he was accustomed to turn it over and examine the other side before he made a row. Recalling the fact that last impressions are the strongest, he proceeded to take a hand himself. He turned blandly to Luna. "How long you bin work in ze mill?" he asked. "About a year." "You get ze check every month?" "Why, yes; of course." "How much he bin discount?" "Nothing." "_Bien!_ You mek ze kick for noddings?" "I don't know about that," remarked Luna. "The way I size it up, that's about all that's coming my way. It's kick or nothing." There was a knock at the door. "Come in," called Morrison. The door swung open, and the mine foreman entered. "Why, howdy, Jim? You're just the fellow we've been waiting for. How's things at the mine?" "Damned if I know!" replied Jim, tossing his hat on the floor. "The old man's in the mix-up, so I don't know how much I'm supposed to know." "What are you supposed to know?" Morrison was asking leading questions. "Well, for one thing, I'm supposed to know when a man's doing a day's work." "Well, don't you?" "Not according to the old man. He snoops around and tells me that this fellow's shirking, and to push him up; that that fellow's not timbering right, doesn't know his business, that I'd better fire him; that the gang driving on Four are soldiering, that I'd better contract it." "Contract it, eh?" "Yes." "Did you?" "I had to!" "How are the contractors making out?" "Kicking like steers; say they ain't making wages." "Who measures up?" "The old man, of course." "Uses his own tape and rod, eh?" "Yes. Why?" "Oh, nothing; only, if I were you, I'd just look over his measures. You never heard of tapes that measured thirteen inches to the foot, did you? Nor of rods that made a hole three feet, when it was four?" "What are you feeding us?" the foreman asked, in surprise. "Pap. You're an infant. So's the gang of you." "What do you mean?" "Just this." Morrison looked wearied. "Thirteen inches to the foot means eight and one-third feet to the hundred. That is, it's likely the contractors are doing one hundred and eight feet and four inches, and getting pay for a hundred. No wonder they're kicking. That's $75 to the good for the company." "I never thought of that," replied the foreman. "I don't know that it's to be wondered at," answered Morrison. "After a man's pounded steel all day and got his head full of powder smoke, he's too tired and sick to think of anything. How are you coming on with the organisation?" "Oh, all right. Most of the boys will come in all right. Some are standing off, though. Say they'd as soon be pinched by the company as bled by the union." "Oh, well, don't trouble them too much. We'll attend to them later on. It's going to be a bad climate for scabs when we get our working clothes on." "It means a strike to get them out." To this sentiment Luna acquiesced with an emphatic nod. "Strike!" ejaculated Morrison. "That's just what we will do, and pretty soon, too!" He was still smarting with the memory of Bennie's words. Pierre again took a hand. "Who mek ze troub', heh? Meestaire Firmstone. I bin tol' you he's smooth stuff, ver' smooth stuff. You mek ze strike. _P'quoi?_ Mek Meestaire Firmstone quit, eh? _Bien!_ You mek ze strike, you mek Meestaire Firmstone keep his job. _P'quoi?_ Ze company say Meestaire Firmstone one good man; he mek ze boy kick. _Bien!_ Meester Firmstone, he stay." "He'll stay, anyway," growled Morrison, "unless we can get him out." Pierre shook his head softly. "Ze strike mek him to stay." "What do you propose, then?" asked Morrison, impatiently. "Meestaire Jim at ze mine bin foreman. Meestaire Luna at ze mill bin foreman. Slick men! Ver' slick men! An' two slick men bin ask hol' Pierre, one hol' Frenchmans, how mek for Meestaire Firmstone ze troub'." Pierre shook his head deprecatingly. "Mek one suppose. Mek suppose ze mill all ze time broke down. Mek suppose ze mine raise hell. _Bien!_ Bimeby ze company say, 'Meestaire Firmstone bin no good.'" "Frenchy's hitting pay dirt all right," commented Luna. "That's the stuff!" Pierre rose to his feet excitedly. "_Bien!_ Ze mill broke down and ze mine blow hup. Bimeby ze company say, 'Meestaire Firmstone mek _beaucoup_ ze troub' all ze time!' _Bien!_ Ze steel get hin ze roll, ze stamp break, ze tram break, ze men kick. Hall ze time Meestaire Firmstone mek ze explain. _Comment!_ 'Meestaire Firmstone, you ain't bin fit for no superintend. Come hoff; we bin got anodder fel'.'" Luna expressed his comprehension of Pierre's plan. He was seconded by the mine foreman. Morrison was not wholly enthusiastic; but he yielded. "Well," he said, "warm it up for him. We'll give it a try, anyway. I'd like to see that smooth-faced, glass-eyed company minion dancing on a hot iron." The assembly broke up. The very next day the warming process began in earnest. CHAPTER X _Élise Goes Forth to Conquer_ Élise had been environed by very plebeian surroundings. Being ignorant of her birth-right, her sympathies were wholly with her associates. Not that as yet they had had any occasion for active development; only the tendencies were there. In a vague, indefinite way she had heard of kings and queens, of lords and ladies, grand personages, so far above common folk that they needs must have mongrel go-betweens to make known their royal wills. Though she knew that kings and queens had no domain beneath the eagle's wings, she had absorbed the idea that in the distant East there was springing up a thrifty crop of nobilities who had very royal wills which only lacked the outward insignia. These, having usurped that part of the eagle's territory known as the East, were now sending into the as yet free West their servile and unscrupulous minions. This was common talk among the imported citizens who flocked nightly to the Blue Goose, and in this view of the case the home-made article coincided with its imported fellows. There were, however, a few independents like Bennie, and these had a hard row of corn. By much adulation the spirit of liberty was developing tyrannical tendencies, and by a kind of cross-fertilization was inspiring her votaries with the idea that freedom meant doing as they pleased, and dissenters be damned! On this evening Élise was in attendance as usual at the little arcade, which was divided from the council-room by a thin partition only. Consequently, she had overheard every word that passed between Pierre and his visitors. She had given only passive attention to Morrison's citation of grievances; but to his proposed plan of action she listened eagerly. Her sympathies were thoroughly enlisted over his proposed strike more than over Pierre's artful suggestion of covert nagging. Not that she considered an ambushed attack, under the circumstances, as reprehensible, but rather because open attack revealed one's personality as much as the other course concealed it. The first year only of humanity is wholly satisfied, barring colic, with the consciousness of existence. The remaining years are principally concerned with impressing it upon others. Élise was very far from possessing what might be termed a retiring disposition. This was in a large measure due to a naturally vivacious temperament; for the rest, it was fostered by peculiarly congenial surroundings. In this environment individuality was free to express itself until it encountered opposition, when it was still more freely stimulated to fight for recognition, and, by sheer brute force, to push itself to the ascendant. This being the case, Élise was sufficiently inspired by the exigencies of the evening to conceive and plan an aggressive campaign on her own account. Being only a girl, she could not take part either in Morrison's open warfare, or in Pierre's more diplomatic intrigues. Being a girl, and untrammelled by conventionalities, she determined upon a raid of her own. Her objective point was none other than Firmstone himself. Having come to this laudable conclusion, she waited impatiently an opportunity for its execution. Early one morning, a few days later, Élise saw Firmstone riding unsuspiciously by, on his way to the mine. Previous observations had taught her to expect his return about noon. So without ceremony, so far as Pierre and Madame were concerned, Élise took another holiday, and followed the trail that led to the mine. At the falls, where she had eaten breakfast with Zephyr, she waited for Firmstone's return. Toward noon she heard the click of iron shoes against the rocks, and, scattering the flowers which she had been arranging, she rose to her feet. Firmstone had dismounted and was drinking from the stream. She stood waiting until he should notice her. As he rose to his feet he looked at her in astonished surprise. Above the average height, his compact, athletic figure was so perfectly proportioned that his height was not obtrusive. His beardless face showed every line of a determination that was softened by mobile lips which could straighten and set with decision, or droop and waver with appreciative humour. His blue eyes were still more expressive. They could glint with set purpose, or twinkle with quiet humour that seemed to be heightened by their polished glasses. Élise was inwardly abashed, but outwardly she showed no sign. She stood straight as an arrow, her hands clasped behind her back, every line of her graceful figure brought out by her unaffected pose. "So you are the old man, are you?" The curiosity of the child and the dignity of the woman were humorously blended in her voice and manner. "At your service." Firmstone raised his hat deliberately. The dignity of the action was compromised by a twinkle of his eyes and a wavering of his lips. Élise looked a little puzzled. "How old are you?" she asked, bluntly. "Twenty-eight." "That's awfully old. I'm sixteen," she answered, decisively. "That's good. What next?" "What's a minion?" she asked. She was trying to deploy her forces for her premeditated attack. "A minion?" he repeated, with a shade of surprise. "Oh, a minion's a fellow who licks the boots of the one above him and kicks the man below to even up." Élise looked bewildered. "What does that mean?" "Oh, I see." Firmstone's smile broadened. "You're literal-minded. According to Webster, a minion is a man who seeks favours by flattery." "Webster!" she exclaimed. "Who's Webster?" "He's the man who wrote a lexicon." "A lexicon? What's a lexicon?" "It's a book that tells you how to spell words, and tells you what they mean." Élise looked superior. "I know how to spell words, and I know what they mean, too, without looking in a--. What did you call it?" "Lexicon. I thought you just said you knew what words meant." "I didn't mean big words, just words that common folks use." "You aren't common folks, are you?" "That's just what I am," Élise answered, aggressively, "and we aren't ashamed of it, either. We're just as good as anybody," she ended, with a toss of her head. "Oh, thanks." Firmstone laughed. "I'm common folks, too." "No, you aren't. You're a minion. M'sieu Mo-reeson says so. You're a capitalistic hireling sent out here to oppress the poor workingman. You use long tape-lines to measure up, and short rods to measure holes, and you sneak in the mill at night, and go prying round the mine, and posting notices, and--er--oh, lots of things. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." She paused in breathless indignation, looking defiantly at Firmstone. Firmstone chuckled. "Looks as if I were a pretty bad lot, doesn't it? How did you find out all that?" "I didn't have to find it out. I hear M'sieu Mo-reeson and Daddy and Luna and lots of others talking about it. Daddy says you're 'smooth, ver' smooth stuff,'" she mimicked. Élise disregarded minor contradictions. "'Twon't do you any good, though. The day is not far distant when down-trodden labour will rise and smite the oppressor. Then----" her lips were still parted, but memory failed and inspiration refused to take its place. "Oh, well," she concluded, lamely, "you'll hunt your hole all right." "You're an out-and-out socialist, aren't you?" "A socialist?" Élise looked aghast. "What's a socialist?" "A socialist is one who thinks that everyone else is as unhappy and discontented as he is, and that anything that he can't get is better than what he can. Won't you be seated?" Firmstone waved her to a boulder. Élise seated herself, but without taking her eyes from Firmstone's face. "Now you're making fun of me." "No, I'm not." "Yes, you are." "What makes you think so?" "Because you sit there and grin and grin all the time, and use big words that you know I can't understand. Where did you learn them?" "At school." "Oh, you've been to school, then, have you?" "Yes." "How long did you go to school?" "Ten or twelve years, altogether." "Ten or twelve years! What an awful stupid you must be!" She looked at him critically; then, with a modifying intonation, "Unless you learned a whole lot. I know I wouldn't have to go to school so long." She looked very decided. Then, after a pause, "You must have gone clear through your arithmetic. Zephyr taught me all about addition and division and fractions, clear to square root. I wanted to go through square root, but he said he didn't know anything about square root, and it wasn't any use, anyway. Did you go through square root?" "Yes. Do you want me to teach you square root?" "Oh, perhaps so, some time," Élise answered, indifferently. "What else did you study?" "Algebra, trigonometry, Latin, Greek." Firmstone teasingly went through the whole curriculum, ending with botany and zoology. Élise fairly gasped. "I never knew there was so much to learn. What's zoo--what did you call it--about?" "Zoology," explained Firmstone; "that teaches you about animals, and botany teaches you about plants." "Oh, is that all?" Élise looked relieved, and then superior. "Why, I know all about animals and plants and birds and things, and I didn't have any books, and I never went to school, either. Do all the big folks back East have to have books and go to school to learn such things? They must be awful stupids. Girls don't go to school out here, nor boys either. There aren't any schools out here. Not that I know of. Mammy says I must go to school somewhere. Daddy says I sha'n't. They have no end of times over it, and it's lots of fun to see daddy get mad. Daddy says I've got to get married right away. But I won't. You didn't tell me if girls went to school with you." "No; they have schools of their own." Élise asked many questions. Then, suddenly dropping the subject, she glanced up at the sun. "It's almost noon, and I'm awfully hungry. I think I'll have to go." "I'll walk down with you, if you'll allow me." He slipped his arm through the bridle and started down the trail. Élise walked beside him, plying him with questions about his life in the East, and what people said and did. Firmstone dropped his teasing manner and answered her questions as best he could. He spoke easily and simply of books and travel and a thousand and one things that her questions and comments suggested. Her manner had changed entirely. Her simplicity, born of ignorance of the different stations in life which they occupied, displayed her at her best. Her expressive eyes widened and deepened, and the colour of her cheeks paled and glowed under the influence of the new and strange world of which he was giving her her first glimpse. They reached the Blue Goose. Firmstone paused, raising his hat as he turned toward her. But Élise was no longer by his side. She had caught sight of Morrison, who was standing on the top step, glowering savagely, first at her, then at Firmstone. Morrison was habilitated in his usual full dress--that is, in his shirt-sleeves, unbuttoned vest, a collarless shirt flecked with irregular, yellowish dots, and a glowing diamond. Just now he stood with his hands in his pockets and his head thrust decidedly forward. His square, massive jaw pressed his protruding lips against his curled moustache. His eyes, narrowed to a slit, shot forth malignant glances, his wavy hair, plastered low upon a low forehead and fluffed out on either side, flattened and broadened his head to the likeness of a venomous serpent preparing to strike. Élise reached the foot of the stone steps, shot a look of fierce defiance at the threatening Morrison, then she turned toward Firmstone, with her head bent forward till her upturned eyes just reached him from beneath her arching brows. She swept him a low courtesy. "Good-bye, Mr. Minion!" she called. "I've had an awfully nice time." She half turned her head toward Morrison, then, as Firmstone lifted his hat in acknowledgment, she raised her hand to her laughing lips and flung him a kiss from the tips of her fingers. Gathering her skirts in her hand, she darted up the steps and nearly collided with Morrison, who had deliberately placed himself in her way. She met Morrison's indignant look with the hauteur of an offended goddess. Morrison's eyes fell from before her; but he demanded: "Where did you pick up that--that scab?" It was the most opprobrious epithet he could think of. Élise's rigid figure stiffened visibly. "It's none of your business." "What have you been talking about?" "It's none of your business. Is there any more information you want that you won't get?" "I'll make it my business!" Morrison burst out, furiously. "I'll----" "Go back to your gambling and leave me alone!" With unflinching eyes, that never left his face, she passed him almost before he was aware of it, and entered the open door. Could Morrison have seen the change that came over her face, as soon as her back was toward him, he might have gained false courage, through mistaking the cause. Loathing and defiance had departed. In their place were bewildering questionings, not definite, but suggested. For the first time in her life her hitherto spontaneous actions waited approbation before the bar of judgment. The coarse, venomous looks of Morrison ranged themselves side by side with the polished ease and deference of Firmstone. As she passed through the bar-room long accustomed sights were, for the first time, seen, not clearly, but comparatively. In the corridor that led to the dining-room she encountered Pierre. She did not speak to him. The quick eyes of the little Frenchman noted the unwonted expression, but he did not question her. At the proper time he would know all. Meantime his concern was not to forget. Élise opened the door of the dining-room and entered. Madame looked up as the door closed. Élise stood with distant eyes fixed upon the pathetically plain little woman. Never before had she noticed the lifeless hair strained from the colourless tan of the thin face, the lustreless eyes, the ill-fitting, faded calico wrapper that dropped in meaningless folds from the spare figure. Madame waited patiently for Élise to speak, or to keep silence as she chose. For a moment only Élise stood. The next instant Madame felt the strong young arms about her, felt hot, decided kisses upon her cheeks. Madame was surprised. Élise was fierce with determination. Élise was doing penance. Madame did not know it. Élise left Madame standing bewildered, and darted upstairs to her little room. She flung herself on her bed and fought--fought with ghostly, flitting shadows that elusively leered from darker shades, grasped at fleeting phantoms that ranged themselves beside the minatory demons, until at last she grew tired and slept. Élise had left the Blue Goose in the morning, a white-winged, erratic craft, skimming the sparkling, land-locked harbours of girlhood. She returned, and already the first lifting swells beyond the sheltering bar were tossing her in their arms. She had entered the shoreless ocean of womanhood. Pierre passed from the corridor to the bar-room. He glanced from the bar to the gaming-tables, where a few listless players were engaged at cards, and finally stepped out upon the broad piazza. He glanced at Morrison, who was following Firmstone with a look of malignant hatred. "Meestaire Firmstone, he bin come from ze mine?" "To hell with Firmstone!" growled Morrison. He turned and entered the saloon. Pierre followed him with knowing eyes. "To hell wiz Firmstone, heh?" He breathed softly. "_Bien!_" Pierre stood looking complacently over the broken landscape. Much understanding was coming to him. The harmlessness of the dove radiated from his beaming face, but the wisdom of the serpent was shining in his eyes. CHAPTER XI _The Devil's Elbow_ If Firmstone had flattered himself that his firm but just treatment of Luna in the case of the stolen ore had cleared his path of difficulties he would have been forced by current events to a rude awakening. He had been neither flattered nor deceived. He knew very well that a prop put under an unstable boulder may obscure the manifestation of gravity; but he never deceived himself with the thought that it had been eliminated. The warming-up process, recommended by Pierre, was being actively exploited. Scarcely a day passed but some annoying accident at the mine or mill occurred, frequently necessitating prolonged shut-downs. Day by day, by ones, by twos, by threes, his best men were leaving the mine. There was no need to ask them why, even if they would have given a truthful answer. He knew very well why. Yet he was neither disheartened nor discouraged. He realised the fact clearly, as he had written to his Eastern employers that it would take time and much patient endeavour to restore order where chaos had reigned so long undisturbed. There was another element impeding his progress which he by no means ignored--that was the Blue Goose. He had no tangible evidence against the resort beyond its obvious pretensions. He had no need of the unintentional but direct evidence of Élise's words that the habitués of the Blue Goose there aired their grievances, real or imagined, and that both Pierre and Morrison were assiduously cultivating this restlessness by sympathy and counsel. He was morally certain of another fact--that the Blue Goose was indirectly, at least, at the bottom of the extensive system of thieving, in offering a sure market for the stolen gold. This last fact had not especially troubled him, for he felt sure that the careful system of checks which he had inaugurated at the outset would eventually make the stealing so dangerous that it would be abandoned. So far in the history of the camp, when once the plates were cleaned and gold, as ingots, was in possession of the company, it had been perfectly safe. No attempts at hold-ups had ever been made. Yet Firmstone had provided, in a measure, safeguards against this possibility. The ingots had been packed in a small steel safe and shipped by stage to the nearest express office, about ten miles distant. Shipments had not been made every day, of course. But every day Firmstone had sent the safe, loaded with pigs of lead. The next day the safe was returned, and in it was the agent's receipt. Whether the safe carried gold or lead, the going and the returning weight was the same. If the safe carried gold enough lead was added by the express agent to make the returning weight the same. This fact was generally known, and even if a stage hold-up should be attempted, the chances were thirty to one that a few pounds of lead would be the only booty of the robbers. This afternoon Firmstone was at his office-desk in a meditative and relieved frame of mind. He was meditative over his troubles that, for all his care, seemed to be increasing. Relieved in that, but an hour before, $50,000 in bullion had been loaded into the stage, and was now rolling down the cañon on the way to its legitimate destination. His meditations were abruptly broken, and his sense of relief violently dissipated, when the office-door was thrust open, and hatless, with clothing torn to shreds, the stage-driver stood before him, his beard clotted with blood which flowed from a jagged cut that reached from his forehead across his cheek. Firmstone sprang to his feet with a startled exclamation. The driver swept his hand over his blood-clotted lips. "No; 'tain't a hold-up; just a plain, flat wreck. The whole outfit went over the cliff at the Devil's Elbow. I stayed with my job long's I could, but that wa'n't no decades." Firmstone dragged the man into his laboratory, and carefully began to wash the blood from his face. "That's too long a process, gov'ner." The driver soused his head into the bucket of cold water which Firmstone had drawn from the faucet. "Can you walk now?" Firmstone asked. "Reckon I'll try it a turn. Been flyin', for all I know. Must have been, to get up the cliff. I flew down; that much I know. Lit on a few places. That's where I got this." He pointed to the cut. Firmstone led the man to his own room adjoining the office, and opening a small chest, took out some rolls of plaster and bandages. He began drying the wound. The office-door again opened and the bookkeeper entered. "Go tell Bennie to come down right away," Firmstone ordered, without pausing in his work. Satisfied that the man's skull was not fractured, he drew the edges of the wound together and fastened them with strips of plaster. A few minutes later Bennie, followed by Zephyr, hurriedly entered the office. Paying no attention to their startled exclamations, Firmstone said: "I wish you would look after Jim. He's badly hurt. He'll tell you about it. You said at the Devil's Elbow?" turning to the driver. Zephyr glanced critically at the man; then, making up his mind that he was not needed, he said: "I'll go along with you. Are you heeled?" Firmstone made no audible reply, but took down his revolver and cartridge-belt, and buckled them on. "'Tain't the heels you want; it's wings and fins. They won't be much good, either. The whole outfit's in the San Miguel. I followed it that far, and then pulled out." The driver was attempting to hold out gamely, but the excitement and the severe shaking-up were evidently telling on him. Firmstone and Zephyr left the office and followed the wagon-trail down the cañon. Neither spoke a word. They reached the scene of the wreck and, still silent, began to look carefully about. A hundred feet below them the San Miguel, swollen by melting snows, foamed and roared over its boulder-strewn bed. Near the foot of the cliff one of the horses was impaled on a jagged rock; its head and shoulders in the lapping water. In mid-stream and further down the other was pressed by the current against a huge rock that lifted above the flood. No trace of the stage was to be seen. That, broken into fragments by the fall, had been swept away. The spot where the accident occurred was a dangerous one at best. For some distance after leaving the mill the trail followed a nearly level bench of hard slate rock, then, dipping sharply downward, cut across a long rock-slide that reached to the summit of the mountain a thousand feet above. On the opposite side a square-faced buttress crowded the trail to the very brink of the cañon. The trail followed along the foot of this buttress for a hundred feet or more, and at the edge it again turned from the gorge at an acute angle. At the turning-point a cleft, twenty feet wide, cut the cliff from the river-bed to a point far above the trail. A bridge had spanned the cleft, but it was gone. The accident had been caused by the giving way of the bridge when the stage was on it. "Well, what do you make of it?" Firmstone turned to Zephyr and Zephyr shook his head. "That's a superfluous interrogation. Your thinks and mine on this subject under consideration are as alike as two chicks hatched from a double-yolked egg." "This is no accident." Firmstone spoke decidedly. Zephyr nodded deliberately. "That's no iridescent dream, unless you and I have been hitting the same pipe." "The question is," resumed Firmstone, "was the safe taken from the stage before the accident?" He looked at Zephyr inquiringly. "That depends on Jim Norwood." Zephyr whistled meditatively, then spoke with earnest decision. "That safe's in the river. The Blue Goose has been setting for some time. This ain't the first gosling that's pipped its shell, and 'tain't going to be the last one, either, unless the nest is broken up." "That's what I think." Firmstone spoke slowly. "But this is a dangerous game. I didn't think it would go so far." "It's up to you hard; but that isn't the worst of it. It's going to be up to you harder yet. They never reckoned on Jim's getting out of this alive." Zephyr seated himself, and his hand wandered unconsciously to his shirt. Then, changing his mind, he spoke without looking up. "You don't need this, Goggles, but I'm going to give it to you, just the same. You're heavier calibre and longer range than the whole crowd. But I am with you, and there are others. The gang haven't landed their plunder yet, and, what's more, they aren't going to, either. I'll see to that. You just _restez tranquille_, and give your mind to other things. This little job is about my size." Firmstone made no reply to Zephyr. He knew his man, knew thoroughly the loyal sense of honour that, though sheltered in humourous, apparently indifferent cynicism, was ready to fight to the death in defence of right. "I think we might as well go back to the mill. We've seen all there is to be seen here." They walked back in silence. At the office-door Zephyr paused. "Won't you come in?" asked Firmstone. "I think not, dearly beloved. The spirit moveth me in sundry places. In other words, I've got a hunch. And say, Goggles, don't ask any embarrassing questions, if your grub mysteriously disappears. Just charge it up to permanent equipment account, and keep quiet, unless you want to inquire darkly whether anyone knows what's become of that fellow Zephyr." "Don't take any risks, Zephyr. A man's a long time dead. You know as well as I the gang you're up against. I think I know what you're up to, and I also think I can help you out." Firmstone entered the office with no further words. It was the hardest task of many that he had had, to send a report of the disaster to the company, but he did not shrink from it. He made a plain statement of the facts of the case, including the manner in which the bridge had been weakened to the point of giving way when the weight of the stage had been put upon it. He also added that he was satisfied that the purpose was robbery, and that he knew who was at the bottom of the whole business, that steps were being taken to recover the safe; but that the conviction of the plotters was another and a very doubtful proposition. Above all things, he asked to be let alone for a while, at least. The driver, he stated, had no idea that the wrecking of the stage was other than it appeared on the face, an accident pure and simple. The letter was sealed and sent by special messenger to the railroad. One thing troubled Firmstone. He was very sure that his request to be let alone would not be heeded. Hartwell, the Eastern manager of the company, was a shallow, empty-headed man, insufferably conceited. He held the position, partly through a controlling interest in the shares, but more through the nimble use of a glib tongue that so man[oe]uvred his corporal's guard of information that it appeared an able-bodied regiment of knowledge covering the whole field of mining. If Firmstone had any weaknesses, one was an open contempt of flatterers and flattery, the other an impolitic, impatient resentment of patronage. There had been no open breaks between the manager and himself; in fact, the manager professed himself an admiring friend of Firmstone to his face. At directors' meetings "Firmstone was a fairly promising man who only needed careful supervision to make in time a valuable man for the company." Firmstone had strongly opposed the shipping of bullion by private conveyance instead of by a responsible express company. In this he was overruled by the manager. Being compelled to act against his judgment, he had done his best to minimise the risk by making dummy shipments each day, as has been explained. The loss of the month's clean-up was a very serious one, and he had no doubt but that it would result in a visit from the manager, and that the manager would insist upon taking a prominent part in any attempt to recover the safe, if indeed he did not assume the sole direction. The opportunity to add to his counterfeit laurels was too good to be lost. In the event of failure, Firmstone felt that no delicate scruples would prevent the shifting of the whole affair upon his own shoulders. Firmstone had not made the mistake of minimising the crafty cunning of Pierre, nor of interpreting his troubles at the mine and mill at their obvious values. Cunningly devised as was the wreck of the stage, he felt sure that there was another object in view than the very obvious and substantial one of robbery. With the successful wrecking of the stage there were yet large chances against the schemers getting possession of the safe and its contents. Still, there was a chance in their favour. If neither Pierre nor the company recovered the bullion, Pierre's scheme would not have miscarried wholly. The company would still be in ignorance of the possibilities of the mine. Firmstone arranged every possible detail clearly in his mind, from Pierre's standpoint. His thorough grasp of the entire situation, his unwearying application to the business in hand made further stealing impossible. Pierre was bound to get him out of his position. The agitation inaugurated by Morrison was only a part of the scheme by means of which this result was to be accomplished. A whole month's clean-up had been made. If this reached the company safely, it would be a revelation to them. Firmstone's position would be unassailable, and henceforth Pierre would be compelled to content himself with the yield of the gambling and drinking at the Blue Goose. Whether the bullion ever found its way to the Blue Goose or not, the wrecking of the stage would be in all likelihood the culminating disaster in Firmstone's undoing. Firmstone's indignation did not burn so fiercely against Pierre and Morrison--they were but venomous reptiles who threatened every decent man--as at the querulous criticisms of his employers, which were a perpetual drag, clogging his every movement, and threatening to neutralise his every effort in their behalf. He recalled the words of an old and successful mine manager: "You've got a hard row of corn. When you tackle a mine you've got to make up your mind to have everyone against you, from the cook-house flunkey to the president of the company, and the company is the hardest crowd to buck against." Firmstone's face grew hard. The fight was on, and he was in it to win. That was what he was going to do. Zephyr, meantime, had gone to the cook-house. He found Bennie in his room. "How's Jim?" he asked. "Sleeping. That's good for him. He'll pull out all right. Get on to anything at the bridge?" Bennie was at sharp attention. "Nothing to get on to, Julius Benjamin. The bridge is gone. So's everything else. It's only a matter of time when Goggles will be gone, too. This last will fix him with the company." Zephyr glanced slyly at Bennie with the last words. "The jig is up. The fiddle's broke its last string, and I'm going, too." Bennie's eyes were flaming. "Take shame to yourself for those words, you white-livered frog-spawn, with a speck in the middle for the black heart of you! You're going? Well, here's the bones of my fist and the toe of my boot, to speed you!" "You'll have to put me up some grub, Benjamin." "Grub! It's grub, is it? I'll give you none. Stay here a bit and I'll grub you to more purpose. I'll put grit in your craw and bones in your back, and a sup of glue, till you can stand straight and stick to your friends. Lacking understanding that God never gave you, I'll point them out to you!" Zephyr's eyes had a twinkle that Bennie's indignation overlooked. "The Lord never passed you by on the other side, Julius. He put a heavy charge in your bell-muzzle. You're bound to hit something when you go off. If He'd only put a time-fuse on your action, 'twould have only perfect. Not just yet, Julius Benjamin!" Zephyr languidly lifted a detaining hand as Bennie started to interrupt. "I'm going a long journey for an uncertain time. This is for the public. But, Julius, if you'll take a walk in the gloaming each day, and leave an edible bundle in the clump of spruces above the Devil's Elbow you'll find it mysteriously disappears. From which you may infer that I'm travelling in a circle with a small radius. And say, Julius, heave over some of your wind ballast and even up with discretion. You're to take a minor part in a play, with Goggles and me as stars." "It's lean ore you're working in your wind-mill. Just what does it assay?" Bennie was yet a little suspicious. "For a man of abundant figures, Julius, you have a surprising appetite for ungarnished speech. But here's to you! The safe's in the river. There's fifty thousand in bullion in the safe that's in the river. The Blue Goose crowd is after the bullion that's in the safe that's in the river. Say, Julius Benjamin, this is hard sledding. It's the story of the House that Jack Built, adapted to present circumstances. I'm going to hang out in the cañon till the river goes down, or till I bag some of the goslings from the Blue Goose. Your part is to work whom it may concern into the belief that I've lit out for my health, and meantime to play raven to my Elijah. Are you on?" "Yes, I'm on," growled Bennie. "On to more than you'll ever be. You have to empty the gab from your head to leave room for your wits." CHAPTER XII _Figs and Thistles_ Though Zephyr had not explained his plan of operations in detail, Firmstone found no difficulty in comprehending it. It was of prime importance to have the river watched by an absolutely trustworthy man, and Firmstone was in no danger of having an embarrassing number from whom to choose. A day or two of cold, cloudy weather was liable to occur at any time, and this, checking the melting of the snow, would lower the river to a point where it would be possible to search for, and to recover the safe. It was with a feeling of relief that he tacitly confided the guarding of the river to Zephyr. While he offered no opposition to Zephyr's carrying out his scheme of having his mysterious disappearance reported, he was fully satisfied that it would not deceive Pierre for an instant. Firmstone, however, was deceived in another way. It was a case of harmless self-deception, the factors of which were wholly beyond his control. His reason assured him unmistakably that Hartwell would start at once for Colorado on learning of the loss of the bullion, and that the manager would be a hindrance in working out his plans, if indeed he did not upset them entirely. Firmstone's confidence in his ability to emerge finally triumphant from his troubles came gradually to strengthen his hope into the belief that he would be let alone. A telegram could have reached him within a week after he had reported the loss, but none came. He was now awaiting a letter. The bridge had been repaired, and travel resumed. A meagre account of the accident had been noted in the Denver, as well as in the local papers, but no hint was given that it was considered otherwise than as an event incidental to mountain travel. The miraculous escape of the driver was the sole item of interest. These facts gratified Firmstone exceedingly. Pierre was evidently satisfied that the cards were in his own hands to play when and as he would. He was apparently well content to sit in the game with Firmstone as his sole opponent. Firmstone was equally well content, if only---- There came the sharp click of the office gate. Inside the railing stood a slender man of medium height, slightly stooped forward. On his left arm hung a light overcoat. From a smooth face, with a mouth whose thin lips oscillated between assumed determination and cynical half-smiles, a pair of grey eyes twinkled with a humorously tolerant endurance of the frailties of his fellow-men. "Well, how are you?" The gloved right hand shot out an accompaniment to his words. Firmstone took the proffered hand. "Nothing to complain of. This is something of a surprise." This was true in regard to one mental attitude, but not of another. Firmstone voiced his hopes, not his judgment. "It shouldn't be." The eyes lost their twinkle as the mouth straightened to a line. "I'm afraid you hardly appreciate the gravity of the situation. The loss of $50,000 is serious, but it's no killing matter to a company with our resources. It's the conditions which make such losses possible." "Yes." Firmstone spoke slowly. The twinkle was in his eyes now. "As I understand it, this is the first time conditions have made such a loss possible." The significance of the words was lost on Hartwell. The possibility of a view-point other than his own never occurred to him. "We will not discuss the matter now. I shall be here until I have straightened things out. I have brought my sister with me. Her physician ordered a change of air. Beatrice, allow me to introduce my superintendent, Mr. Firmstone." A pink and white face, with a pair of frank, blue eyes, looked out from above a grey travelling suit, and acknowledged the curt introduction. "I am very happy to meet you." Firmstone took the proffered hand in his own. Miss Hartwell smiled. "Don't make any rash assertions. I am going to be here a long time. Where are you going, Arthur?" She turned to her brother, who, after fidgeting around, walked briskly across the room. "I'll be back directly. I want to look after your room. Make yourself comfortable for a few minutes." Then addressing Firmstone, "I suppose our quarters upstairs are in order?" "I think so. Here are the keys. Or will you allow me?" "No, thanks. I'll attend to it." Hartwell took the keys and left the room. Firmstone turned to Miss Hartwell. "What kind of a trip did you have out?" "Delightful! It was hot and dusty across the plains, but then I didn't mind. It was all so new and strange. I really had no conception of the size of our country before." "And here, even, you are only a little more than half way across." "I know, but it doesn't mean much to me." "Does the altitude trouble you?" "You mean Marshall Pass?" "Yes. In part, but you know Denver is over five thousand feet. Some people find it very trying at first." "Perhaps I might have found it so if I had stopped to think. But I had something else to think of. You know I had a ridiculous sensation, just as if I were going to fall off the world. Now you speak of it, I really think I did gasp occasionally." She looked up smilingly at Firmstone. "I suppose you are so accustomed to such sights that my enthusiasm seems a bore." "Do you feel like gasping here?" "No; why do you ask?" "Because you are a thousand feet higher than at Marshall Pass, and here we are three thousand feet below the mine. You would not only have the fear of falling off from the world up there, but the danger of it as well." Miss Hartwell looked from the office window to the great cliff that rose high above its steep, sloped talus. "I told Arthur that I was going to see everything and climb everything out here, but I will think about it first." "I would suggest your seeing about it first. Perhaps that will be enough." Hartwell bustled into the room with a preoccupied air. "Sorry to have kept you waiting so long." Miss Hartwell followed her brother from the room and up the stairs. "Make yourself as comfortable as you can, Beatrice. I gave you full warning as to what you might expect out here. You will have to look out for yourself now. I shall be very busy; I can see that with half an eye." "I think if Mr. Firmstone is one half as efficient as he is agreeable you are borrowing trouble on a very small margin." Miss Hartwell spoke with decided emphasis. "Smooth speech and agreeable manners go farther with women than they do in business," Hartwell snapped out. "I hope you have a good business equipment to console yourself with." Hartwell made no reply to his sister, but busied himself unstrapping her trunk. "Dress for supper as soon as you can. You have an hour," he added, looking at his watch. Hartwell did not find Firmstone on re-entering the office. He seated himself at the desk and began looking over files of reports of mine and mill. Their order and completeness should have pleased him, but, from the frown on his face, they evidently did not. Firmstone, meanwhile, had gone to the cook-house to warn Bennie of his coming guests, and to advise the garnishing of the table with the whitest linen and the choicest viands which his stores could afford. "What sort of a crowd are they?" Bennie inquired. "You'll be able to answer your own question in a little while. That will save you the trouble of changing your mind." "'Tis no trouble at all, sir! It's a damned poor lobster that doesn't know what to do when his shell pinches!" Firmstone, laughing, went to the mill for a tour of inspection before the supper hour. Entering the office a little later, he found Hartwell at his desk. "Well," he asked, "how do you find things?" Hartwell's eyes were intrenched in a series of absorbed wrinkles that threw out supporting works across a puckered forehead. "It's too soon to speak in detail. I propose to inform myself generally before doing that." "That's an excellent plan." Hartwell looked up sharply. Firmstone's eyes seemed to neutralise the emphasis of his words. "Supper is ready when you are. Will Miss Hartwell be down soon?" Miss Hartwell rustled into the room, and her brother led the way to the cook-house. Bennie had heeded Firmstone's words. Perhaps there was a lack of delicate taste in the assortment of colours, but scarlet-pinks, deep red primroses, azure columbines, and bright yellow mountain sunflowers glared at each other, each striving to outreach its fellow above a matted bed of mossy phlox. Hartwell prided himself, among other things, on a correct eye. "There's a colour scheme for you, Beatrice; you can think of it in your next study." Bennie was standing by in much the same attitude as a suspicious bumble-bee. "Mention your opinion in your prayers, Mr. Hartwell, not to me. They're as God grew them. I took them in with one sweep of my fist." Miss Hartwell's eyes danced from Firmstone to Bennie. "Your cook has got me this time, Firmstone." Hartwell grinned his appreciation of Bennie's retort. They seated themselves, and Bennie began serving the soup. Hartwell was the last. Bennie handed his plate across the table. They were a little cramped for room, and Bennie was saving steps. "It's a pity you don't have a little more room here, Bennie, so you could shine as a waiter." "Good grub takes the shortest cut to a hungry man with no remarks on style. There's only one trail when they meet." Hartwell's manner showed a slight resentment that he was trying to conceal. "This soup is excellent. It's rather highly seasoned"--he looked slyly at Bennie--"but then there's no rose without its thorns." "True for you. But there's a hell of a lot of thorns with the roses, I take note. Beg pardon, Miss!" Miss Hartwell laughed. "You have had excellent success in growing them together, Bennie." "Thank you, Miss!" Bennie was flushed with pleasure. "I've heard tell that there were roses without thorns, but you're the first of the kind I've seen." Bennie had ideas of duty, even to undeserving objects. Consequently, Hartwell's needs were as carefully attended to as his sister's or Firmstone's, but in spite of all duty there is a graciousness of manner that is only to be had by a payment in kind. Bennie paraded his duty as ostentatiously as his pleasure, and with the same lack of words. Hartwell noted, and kept silence. Hartwell looked across to the table which Bennie was preparing for the mill crew. "Do you supply the men as liberally as you do your own table, Firmstone?" "Just the same." "Don't think I want to restrict you, Firmstone. I want you to have the best you can get, but it strikes me as a little extravagant for the men." Bennie considered himself invaded. "The men pay for their extravagance, sir." "A dollar a day only, with no risks," Hartwell tendered, rather stiffly. "I'll trade my wages for your profits," retorted Bennie, "and give you a commission, and I'll bind myself to feed them no more hash than I do now!" The company rose from the table. For the benefit of Miss Hartwell and Firmstone, Bennie moved across the room with the dignity of a drum-major, and, opening the door, bowed his guests from his presence. CHAPTER XIII _The Stork and the Cranes_ In spite of Élise's declaration that she would see him again, Firmstone dropped her from his mind long before he reached his office. She had been an unexpected though not an unpleasant, incident; but he had regarded her as only an incident, after all. Her beauty and vivacity created an ephemeral interest; yet there were many reasons why it promised to be only ephemeral. The Blue Goose was a gambling, drinking resort, a den of iniquity which Firmstone loathed, a thing which, in spite of all, thrust itself forward to be taken into account. How much worse than a den of thieves and a centre of insurrection it was he had never stated to himself. He, however, would have had no hesitancy in completing the attributes of the place had he been asked. The fact that the ægis of marriage vows spread its protecting mantle over the proprietor, and its shadow over the permanent residents, would never have caused a wavering doubt, or certified to the moral respectability of the contracting parties. Firmstone was not the first to ask if any good thing could come out of Nazareth, or if untarnished purity could dwell in the tents of the Nazarenes. It occasionally happens that a stork is caught among cranes and, even innocent, is compelled to share the fate of its guilty, though accidental, associates. Thus it happened that when Élise, for the second time, met Firmstone at the falls he hardly concealed his annoyance. Élise was quick to detect the emotion, though innocence prevented her assigning it its true source. There was a questioning pain in the large, clear eyes lifted to Firmstone's. The look of annoyance on Firmstone's face melted. He spoke even more pleasantly than he felt. "Well, what I can do for you this time?" "You can go away from my place and stay away!" Élise flashed out. Firmstone's smile broadened. "I didn't know I was a trespasser." "Well, you are! I had this place before you came, and I'm likely to have it after you are gone!" The eyes were snapping. "You play Cassandra well." Firmstone was purposely tantalising. He was forgetting the cranes, nor was he displeased that the stork had other weapons than innocence. Élise's manner changed. "Who is Cassandra?" The eager, hungry look of the changing eyes smote Firmstone. The bantering smile disappeared. It occurred to him that Élise might be outdoing her prototype. "She was a very beautiful lady who prophesied disagreeable things that no one believed." Élise ignored the emphasis which Firmstone unconsciously placed on _beautiful_. She grew thoughtful, endeavouring to grasp his analogy. "I think," she said, slowly, "I'm no Cassandra." She looked sharply at Firmstone. "Daddy says you're going; Mo-reeson says you're going, and they put their chips on the right number pretty often." Firmstone laughed lightly. "Oh, well, it isn't for daddy and Morrison to say whether I'm to go or not." "Who's this Mr. Hartwell?" Élise asked, abruptly. "He's the man who can say." "Then you are up against it!" Élise spoke with decision. There was a suggestion of regret in her eyes. "These things be with the gods." Firmstone was half-conscious of a lack of dignity in seeming to be interested in personal matters, not intended for his immediate knowledge. Several times he had decided to end the episode, but the mobile face and speaking eyes, the half-childish innocence and unconscious grace restrained him. "I don't believe it." Élise looked gravely judicial. "Why not?" "Because God knows what he's about. Mr. Hartwell doesn't; he is only awfully sure he does." Firmstone chuckled softly over the unerring estimate which Élise had made. He began gathering up the reins, preparatory to resuming his way. Élise paid no attention to his motions. "Don't you want to see my garden?" she asked. "Is that an invitation?" "Yes." "You are sure I'll not trespass?" Élise looked up at him. "That's not fair. I was mad when I said that." She turned and hurriedly pushed through the matted bushes that grew beside the stream. There was a kind of nervous restlessness which Firmstone did not recall at their former meeting. They emerged from the bushes into a large arena bare of trees. It was completely hidden from the trail by a semicircle of tall spruces which, sweeping from the cliff on either side of the fall, bent in graceful curves to meet at the margin of the dividing brook. Moss-grown boulders, marked into miniature islands by cleaving threads of clear, cold water, were half hidden by the deep pink primroses, serried-massed about them. Creamy cups of marshmallows, lifted above the succulent green of fringing leaves, hid the threading lines of gliding water. On the outer border clustered tufts of delicate azure floated in the thin, pure air, veiling modest gentians. Moss and primrose, leaf and branch held forth jewelled fingers that sparkled in the light, while overhead the slanting sunbeams broke in iridescent bands against the beaten spray of the falling water. The air, surcharged with blending colours, spoke softly sibilant of visions beyond the power of words, of exaltation born not of the flesh, of opening gates with wider vistas into which only the pure in heart can enter. The girl stood with dreamy eyes, half-parted lips, an unconscious pose in perfect harmony with her surroundings. As Firmstone stood silently regarding the scene before him he was conscious of a growing regret, almost repentance, for the annoyance that he had felt at this second meeting. Yet he was right in harbouring the annoyance. He felt no vulgar pride in that at their first meeting he had unconsciously turned the girl's open hostility to admiration, or at least to tolerance of himself. But she belonged to the Blue Goose, and between the Blue Goose and the Rainbow Company there was open war. Suppose that in him Élise did find a pleasure for which she looked in vain among her associates; a stimulant to her better nature that hitherto had been denied her? That was no protection to her. Even her unconscious innocence was a weapon of attack rather than a shield of defence. She and she alone would be the one to suffer. For this reason Firmstone had put her from his mind after their first meeting, and for this reason he had felt annoyance when she had again placed herself in his path. But this second meeting had shown another stronger side in the girl before him. That deep in her nature was an instinct of right which her surroundings had not dwarfed. That this instinct was not to be daunted by fear of consequences. She had evidently come to warn him of personal danger to himself. This act carried danger--danger to her, and yet she apparently had not hesitated. Perhaps she did not realise the danger, but was he to hold it of less value on that account? Was he to accept what she gave him, and then through fear of malicious tongues abandon her to her fate without a thought? The idea was revolting, but what could he do? His lips set hard. There must be a way, and he would find it, however difficult. In some way she should have a chance. This chance must take one of two forms: to leave her in her present surroundings, and counteract their tendencies by other influences, or, in some way, to remove her from the Blue Goose. Firmstone was deeply moved. He felt that his course of action must be shaped by the calmest judgment, if Élise were to be rescued from her surroundings. He must act quickly, intelligently. If he had known of her real parentage he would have had no hesitancy. But he did not know. What he saw was Élise, the daughter of Pierre and Madame. To him they were her parents. Whatever opportunities he offered her, however much she might desire to avail herself of them, they could forbid; and he would be helpless. Élise was under age; she was Pierre's, to do with as he would. This was statute law. Firmstone rebelled against it instinctively; but it was hopeless. He knew Pierre, knew his greed for gold, his lack of scruple as to methods of acquiring it. He did not know Pierre's love for Élise; it would not have weighed with him had he known. For he was familiar with Pierre's class. Therefore he knew that Pierre would rather see Élise dead than in a station in life superior to his own, where she would either despise him or be ashamed of him. It was useless to appeal to Pierre on the ground of benefit to Élise. This demanded unselfish sacrifice, and Pierre was selfish. Firmstone tried another opening, and was confronted with another danger. If Pierre suspected that efforts were being made to weaken his hold on Élise there was one step that he could take which would forever thwart Firmstone's purpose. He had threatened to take this step. Firmstone's pulses quickened for a moment, then calmed. His course was clear. The law that declared her a minor gave her yet a minor's rights. She could not be compelled to marry against her own wishes. Élise must be saved through herself. At once he would set in motion influences that would make her present associates repugnant to her. The strength of mind, the hunger of soul, these elements that made her worth saving should be the means of her salvation. Should Pierre attempt to compel her marriage, even Firmstone could defeat him. Persuasion was all that was left to Pierre. Against Pierre's influence he pitted his own. "Where is Zephyr?" Élise broke the silence. "Why do you ask?" The Blue Goose was in the ascendant. Firmstone was casting about for time. The question had come from an unexpected direction. "Because he is in danger, and so are you." "In danger?" Firmstone did not try to conceal his surprise. "Yes." Élise made a slightly impatient gesture. "It's about the stage. They will kill him. You, too. I don't know why." "They? Who are they?" "Morrison and Daddy." "Did they know you would meet me to-day?" "I don't know, and I don't care." "You came to warn me?" "Yes." Firmstone stretched out his hand and took hers. "I cannot tell you how much I thank you. But don't take this risk again. You must not. I will be on my guard, and I'll look out for Zephyr, too." He laid his other hand on hers. At the touch, Élise looked up with hotly flaming cheeks, snatching her hand from his clasp. Into his eyes her own darted. Then they softened and drooped. Her hand reached for his. "I don't care. I can take care of myself. If I can't, it doesn't matter." Her voice said more than words. "If you are ever in trouble you will let me know?" Firmstone's hand crushed the little fingers in a tightening grasp. "Zephyr will help me." Firmstone turned to go. "I cannot express my thanks in words. In another way I can, and I will." CHAPTER XIV _Blinded Eyes_ An old proverb advises us to be sure we are right, then go ahead. To the last part of the proverb Hartwell was paying diligent heed; the first, so far as he was concerned, he took for granted. Hartwell was carrying out energetically his declared intention of informing himself generally. He was accumulating a vast fund of data on various subjects connected with the affairs of the Rainbow Company, and he was deriving great satisfaction from the contemplation of the quantity. The idea of a proper valuation of its quality never occurred to him. A caterpillar in action is a very vigorous insect; but by means of two short sticks judiciously shifted by a designing mind he can be made to work himself to a state of physical exhaustion, and yet remain precisely at the same point from whence he started. Hartwell's idea was a fairly laudable one, being nothing more nor less than to get at both sides of the question at issue individually from each of the interested parties. Early and late he had visited the mine and mill. He had interviewed men and foremen impartially, and the amount of information which these simple sons of toil instilled into his receptive mind would have aroused the suspicions of a less self-centred man. Of all the sources of information which Hartwell was vigorously exploiting, Luna, on the whole, was the most satisfactory. His guileless simplicity carried weight with Hartwell, and this weight was added to by a clumsy deference that assumed Hartwell's unquestioned superiority. "You see, Mr. Hartwell, it's like this. There's no need me telling you; you can see it for yourself, better than I can tell it. But it's all right your asking me. You've come out here to size things up generally." Luna was not particularly slow in getting on to curves, as he expressed it. "And so you are sizing me up a bit to see do I know my business and have my eyes open." He tipped a knowing wink at Hartwell. Hartwell nodded, with an appreciative grin, but made no further reply. Luna went on: "You see, it's like this, as I was saying. Us labouring men are sharp about some things. We have to be, or we would get done up at every turn. We know when a boss knows his business and when he don't. But it don't make no difference whether he does or whether he don't, we have to stand in with him. We'd lose our jobs if we didn't. I'm not above learning from anyone. I ain't one as thinks he knows it all. I'm willing to learn. I'm an old mill man. Been twenty years in a mill--all my life, as you might say--and I'm learning all the time. Just the other day I got on to a new wrinkle. I was standing watching Tommy; he's battery man on Five. Tommy was hanging up his battery on account of a loose tappet. Tommy he just hung up the stamp next the one with the loose tappet, and instead of measuring down, he just drove the tappet on a level with the other, and keyed her up, and had them dropping again inside of three minutes. I watched him, and when he'd started them, I up and says to Tommy, 'Tommy,' says I, 'I'm an old mill man, but that's a new one on me!' Tommy was as pleased as a boy with a pair of red-topped, copper-toed boots. It's too bad they don't make them kind any more; but then, they don't wear out as fast as the new kind. But, as I was saying, some bosses would have dropped on Tommy for that, and told him they didn't want no green men trying new capers." Luna paused and looked at Hartwell. Hartwell still beamed approbation, and, after casting about for a moment, Luna went on: "You see, a boss don't know everything, even if he has been to college. Most Eastern companies don't know anything. They send out a boss to superintend their work, and they get just what he tells them, and no more. None of the company men ever come out here to look for themselves. I ain't blaming them in general. They don't know. Now it's truth I'm telling you. I'm an old mill man. Been in the business twenty years, as I was telling you, and your company's the first I ever knew sending a man out to find what's the matter, who knew his business, and wa'n't too big to speak to a common workman, and listen to his side of the story." It was a strong dose, but Hartwell swallowed it without a visible gulp. Even more. He was immensely pleased. He was gaining the confidence of the honest toiler, and he would get the unvarnished truth. "This is all interesting, very interesting to me, Mr. Luna. I'm a very strict man in business, but I try to be just. I'm a very busy man, and my time is so thoroughly taken up that I am often very abrupt. You see, it's always so with a business man. He has to decide at once and with the fewest possible words. But I'm always ready to talk over things with my men. If I haven't got time, I make it." "It's a pity there ain't more like you, Mr. Hartwell. There wouldn't be so much trouble between capital and labour. But, as I was saying, we labouring men are honest in our way, and we have feelings, too." Luna was getting grim. He deemed that the proper time had arrived for putting his personal ax upon the whirling grindstone. He looked fixedly at Hartwell. "As I was saying, Mr. Hartwell, us labouring men is honest. We believe in giving a fair day's work for a fair day's pay, and it grinds us to have the boss come sneaking in on us any time, day or night, just like a China herder. He ain't running the mill all the time, and he don't know about things. Machinery won't run itself, and, as I was saying, there ain't no man knows it all. And if the boss happens to catch two or three of us talking over how to fix up a battery, or key up a loose bull-wheel, he ain't no right to say that we're loafing and neglecting our business, and jack us up for it. As I said, Mr. Hartwell, the labouring man is honest; but if we're sneaked on as if we wasn't, 'tain't going to be very long before they'll put it up that, if they're going to be hung for sheep-stealing, they'll have the sheep first, anyway." Luna paused more for emphasis than for approbation. That he could see in every line of Hartwell's face. At length he resumed: "As I said, that ain't all by a long shot. There's all sorts of pipe-dreams floating around about men's stealing from the mine and stealing from the mill. But, man to man, Mr. Hartwell, ain't the superintendent got a thousand chances to steal, and steal big, where a common workman ain't got one?" Luna laid vicious emphasis on the last words, and his expression gave added weight to his words. To do Hartwell simple justice, dishonesty had never for an instant associated itself in his mind with Firmstone. He deemed him inefficient and lacking a grasp of conditions; but, brought face to face with a question of honesty, there was repugnance at the mere suggestion. His face showed it. Luna caught the look instantly and began to mend his break. "I'm not questioning any man's honesty. But it's just like this. Why is it that a poor labouring man is always suspected and looked out for, and those as has bigger chances goes free? That's all, and, man to man, I'm asking you if that's fair." Luna's garrulity was taking a line which Hartwell had no desire to investigate, for the present, at least. He answered directly and abruptly: "When a man loses a dollar, he makes a fuss about it. When he loses a thousand, he goes on a still hunt." Luna took his cue. He winked knowingly. "That's all right. You know your business. That's plain as a squealing pulley howling for oil. But I wasn't telling you all these things because you needed to be told. Anyone can see that you can just help yourself. I just wanted to tell you so that you could see that us labouring men ain't blind, even if everyone don't see with eyes of his own the way you're doing. You are the first gentleman that has ever given me the chance, and I'm obliged to you for it. So's the men, too." Hartwell felt that, for the present, he had gained sufficient information, and prepared to go. "I'm greatly obliged to you, Mr. Luna, for the information you and your men have given me." He held out his hand cordially. "Don't hesitate to come to me at any time." Hartwell had pursued the same tactics at the mine, and with the same results. He had carefully refrained from mentioning Firmstone's name, and the men had followed his lead. Hartwell made a very common mistake. He underrated the mental calibre of the men. He assumed that, because they wore overalls and jumpers, their eyes could not follow the pea under the shell which he was nimbly manipulating. In plain English, he was getting points on Firmstone by the simple ruse of omitting to mention his name. There was another and far more important point that never occurred to him. By his course of action he was completely undermining Firmstone's authority. There is not a single workman who will ever let slip an opportunity to give a speeding kick to a falling boss on general principles, if not from personal motives. Hartwell never took this factor into consideration. His vanity was flattered by the deference paid to him, never for a moment dreaming that the bulk of the substance and the whole of the flavour of the incense burned under his nose was made up of resentment against Firmstone, nor that the waning stores were nightly replenished at the Blue Goose. Had Hartwell remained East, as devoutly hoped by Firmstone, it is all but certain that Firmstone's methods would have averted the trouble which was daily growing more threatening. Hartwell had occasionally dropped in for a social drink at the Blue Goose, and the deferential welcome accorded to him was very flattering. Each occasion was but the prologue to another and more extended visit. The open welcome tendered him by both Pierre and Morrison had wholly neutralised the warnings embodied in Firmstone's reports. He was certain that Firmstone had mistaken for deep and unscrupulous villains a pair of good-natured oafs who preferred to make a living by selling whisky and running a gambling outfit, to pounding steel for three dollars a day. In starting out on the conquest of the Blue Goose, Hartwell acted on an erroneous concept of the foibles of humanity. The greatness of others is of small importance in comparison with one's own. The one who ignores this truth is continually pulling a cat by the tail, and this is proverbially a hard task. Hartwell's plan was first to create an impression of his own importance in order that it might excite awe, and then, by gracious condescension, to arouse a loyal and respectful devotion. Considering the object of this attack, he was making a double error. Pierre was not at all given to the splitting of hairs, but in combing them along the line of least resistance he was an adept. Hartwell, having pacified the mine and the mill, had moved to the sanctum of the Blue Goose, with the idea of furthering his benign influence. Hartwell, Morrison, and Pierre were sitting around a table in the private office, Hartwell impatient for action, Pierre unobtrusively alert, Morrison cocksure to the verge of insolence. "Meestaire Hartwell will do me ze honaire to mek ze drink?" Pierre inquired. "Thanks." Hartwell answered the question addressed to him. "Mine is brandy." "A-a-ah! Ze good discrimination!" purred Pierre. "Not ze whisky from ze rotten grain; but ze _eau-de-vie_ wiz ze fire of ze sun and ze sweet of ze vine!" Morrison placed glasses before each, a bottle of soda, and Pierre's choicest brand of cognac on the table. "Help yourself," he remarked, as he sat down. Sipping his brandy and soda, Hartwell opened the game. "You see," he began, addressing Pierre, "things aren't running very smoothly out here, and I have come out to size up the situation. The fact is, I'm the only one of our company who knows a thing about mining. It's only a side issue with me, but I can't well get out of it. My people look to me to help them out, and I've got to do it." "Your people have ze great good fortune--ver' great." Pierre bowed smilingly. Hartwell resumed: "I'm a fair man. I have now what I consider sufficient knowledge to warrant me in making some radical changes out here; but I want to get all the information possible, and from every possible source. Then I can act with a perfectly clear conscience." He spoke decidedly, as he refilled his glass. "Then fire that glass-eyed supe of yours," Morrison burst out. "You never had any trouble till he came." Hartwell looked mild reproach. Morrison was going too fast. There was a pause. Morrison again spoke, this time sullenly and without raising his eyes. "He's queered himself with the men. They'll do him if he stays. They ain't going to stand his sneaking round and treating them like dogs. They----" "Mistaire Mo-reeson speak bad English, ver' bad." Pierre's words cut in like keen-edged steel. "On ze odder side ze door, it not mek so much mattaire." Morrison left the room without a word further. There was a look of sullen satisfaction on his face. Hartwell smiled approvingly at Pierre. "You've got your man cinched all right." "Hall but ze tongue." Pierre shrugged his shoulders, with a slight wave of his hands. "Well," Hartwell resumed, "I want to get at the bottom of this stage business. Fifty thousand doesn't matter so much to us; it's the thing back of it. What I want to know is whether it was an accident, or whether it was a hold-up." "Feefty tousand dollaire!" Pierre spoke musingly. "She bin a lot of monnaie. A whole lot." Pierre hesitated, then looked up at Hartwell. "Well?" Hartwell asked. "How you know she bin feefty tousand dollaire hin ze safe?" "Mr. Firmstone advised me of its shipment." "_Bien!_ Ze safe, where she bin now?" "In the river." "A-a-ah! You bin see her, heh?" "No. The water's too high." "When ze wattaire bin mek ze godown, you bin find her, heh?" "I suppose so." "_Bien!_ Mek ze suppose. When ze wattaire mek ze godown, you not find ze safe?" To some extent, Hartwell had anticipated Pierre's drift, but he preferred to let him take his own course. "It would look as if someone had got ahead of us." Pierre waved his hand impatiently. "Feefty tousand dollaire bin whole lot monnaie. Big lot men like feefty tousand dollaire, ver' big lot. Bimeby somebody get ze safe. Zey find no feefty tousand dollaire--only pig lead, heh?" Pierre looked up shrewdly. "Ze men no mek ze talk 'bout feefty tousand dollaire, no mek ze talk 'bout honly pig lead, heh?" "You think, then, the bullion was never put into the safe?" Hartwell had hardly gone so far as Pierre. "In other words, that Mr. Firmstone kept out the bullion, planned the wreck, caused the report to be spread that there was fifty thousand in the safe, with the idea of either putting it out of the way himself, or that someone else would get it?" Pierre looked up with well-feigned surprise. "_Moi?_" he asked. "_Moi?_" He shrugged his shoulders. "I mek ze fact, ze suppose. You mek ze conclude." Hartwell looked puzzled. "But," he said, "if what you say is true, there is no other conclusion." Pierre again shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "_Bien!_ I mek no conclude. You mek ze conclude. Ze suppose mek ze conclude. She's bin no mattaire _á moi_. I mek no conclude." Pierre's words and manner both intimated that, so far as he was concerned, the interview was closed. Pierre was a merciful man and without malice. When he felt that his dagger had made a mortal thrust he never turned it in the wound. In this interview circumstances had forced him farther than he cared to go. He was taking chances, and he knew it. Zephyr was booked to disappear. Others than Zephyr were watching the river. But Zephyr might escape; the company might recover the money. What, then? Only his scheme would have miscarried. The recovery of the money would clear Firmstone and leave him where he was before. Pierre's diagnosis of Hartwell was to the effect that, if an idea was once lodged in his mind, an earthquake would not jar it out again. Even in this event Pierre's object would be accomplished. Firmstone would have to go. Hartwell made several ineffectual attempts to draw out Pierre still farther, but the wily Frenchman baffled him at every turn. And there the matter rested. Had Hartwell taken less of Pierre's good brandy, he would hardly have taken so freely of his sinister suggestions. As it was, the mellow liquor began to impart a like virtue to his wits, and led him to clap the little Frenchman's back, as he declared his belief that Pierre was a slick bird, but that his own plumage was smoothly preened as well. Followed by Pierre, he rose to leave the room. His eyes fell upon Élise, sitting quietly at her desk, and he halted. His outstretched hand had hardly touched the unsuspecting girl when Pierre caught him by the collar, and, with a twist and shove, sent him staggering half-way across the room. Little short of murder was blazing from Pierre's eyes. "_Crapaud!_" he hissed. "You put ze fingaire hon my li'l Élise! _Sacré mille tonnerre!_ I kill you!" Pierre started as if to carry out his threat, but restraining hands held him back, while other hands and feet buffeted and kicked the dazed Hartwell into the street. The safe guarding of Élise was the one bright spot in Pierre's very shady career. To the fact that it was bright and strong his turning on Hartwell bore testimony. Every point in Pierre's policy had dictated conciliation and sufferance; but now this was cast aside. Pierre rapidly gained control of his temper, but he shifted his animus from the lust of gain to the glutting of revenge. CHAPTER XV _Bending the Twig_ Firmstone had done a very unusual thing for him in working himself up to the point where anything that threatened delay in his proposed rescue of Élise made him impatient. The necessity for immediate action had impressed itself so strongly upon him that he lost sight of the fact that others, even more deeply concerned than himself, might justly claim consideration. He knew that in some way Zephyr was more or less in touch with Pierre and Madame. Just how or why, he was in no mood to inquire. Only a self-reliant mind is capable of distinguishing between that which is an essential part and that which seems to be. So it happened that Firmstone, when for the second time he met Zephyr at the Devil's Elbow, listened impatiently to the latter's comments on the loss of the safe. When at last he abruptly closed that subject and with equal abruptness introduced the one uppermost in his mind the cold reticence of Zephyr surprised and shocked him. The two men had met by chance, almost the first day that Firmstone had assumed charge of the Rainbow properties, and each had impressed the other with a feeling of profound respect. This respect had ripened into a genuine friendship. Zephyr saw in Firmstone a man who knew his business, a man capable of applying his knowledge, whose duty to his employers never blinded his eyes to the rights of his workmen, a man who saw clearly, acted decisively, and yielded to the humblest the respect which he exacted from the highest. These characteristics grew on Zephyr until they filled his entire mental horizon, and he never questioned what might be beyond. Yet now he had fear for Élise. Firmstone was so far above her. Zephyr shook his head. Marriage was not to be thought of, only a hopeless love on the part of Élise that would bring misery in the end. This was Zephyr's limit, and this made him coldly silent in the presence of Firmstone's advances. Firmstone was not thus limited. Zephyr's silent reticence was quickly fathomed. His liking for the man grew. He spoke calmly and with no trace of resentment. "Of course, Élise is nothing to me in a way. But to think of a girl with her possibilities being dwarfed and ruined by her surroundings!" He paused, then added, "I wish my sister had come out with me. She wanted to come." Zephyr caught at the last words for an instant, then dropped them. His answer was abrupt and non-committal. "There are some things that are best helped by letting them alone." Firmstone rose. "Good night," he said, briefly, and started for the mill. Firmstone was disappointed at Zephyr's reception; but he had reasoned himself out of surprise. He had not given up the idea of freeing Élise from her associates. That was not Firmstone. The next morning, as usual, he met Miss Hartwell at breakfast. "I am going up to the mine, this morning. Wouldn't you like to go as far as the Falls? It is well worth your effort," he added. "I would like to go very much." She spoke meditatively. "If that means yes, I'll have a pony saddled for you. I'll be ready by nine o'clock." Miss Hartwell looked undecided. Firmstone divined the reason. "The trail is perfectly safe every way, and the pony is sure-footed, so you have nothing to fear." "I believe I will go. My brother will never find time to take me around." "I'll get ready at once." A seeming accident more often accomplishes desirable results than a genuine one. Firmstone was fairly well satisfied that one excursion to the Falls would incline Miss Hartwell to others. If she failed to meet Élise on one day she was almost certain to meet her on another. Promptly at nine the horses were at the door, and as promptly Miss Hartwell appeared in her riding habit. In her hand she carried a sketch-book. She held it up, smiling. "This is one weakness that I cannot conceal." "Even that needn't trouble you. I'll carry it." "You seem to have a weakness as well." She was looking at a small box which Firmstone was fastening to his saddle. "This one is common to us all. We may not be back till late, so Benny put up a lunch. The Falls are near Paradise; but yet far enough this side of the line to make eating a necessity." They mounted and rode away. Firmstone did not take the usual trail by the Blue Goose, though it was the shorter. The trail he chose was longer and easier. At first he was a little anxious about his guest; but Miss Hartwell's manner plainly showed that his anxiety was groundless. Evidently she was accustomed to riding, and the pony was perfectly safe. The trail was narrow and, as he was riding in advance, conversation was difficult, and no attempt was made to carry it on. At the Falls Firmstone dismounted and took Miss Hartwell's pony to an open place, where a long tether allowed it to graze in peace. Miss Hartwell stood with her eyes resting on reach after reach of the changing vista. She turned to Firmstone with a subdued smile. "I am afraid that I troubled you with a useless burden," she said. "I do not know to what you refer in particular; but I can truthfully deny trouble on general principles." "Really, haven't you been laughing at me, all this time? You must have known how utterly hopeless a sketch-book and water-colours would be in such a place. I think I'll try botany instead. That appeals to me as more attainable." Firmstone looked at his watch. "I must go on. You are quite sure you won't get tired waiting? I have put your lunch with your sketch-book. I'll be back by two o'clock, anyway." Miss Hartwell assured him that she would not mind the waiting, and Firmstone went on his way. Miss Hartwell gathered a few flowers, then opened her botany, and began picking them to pieces that she might attach to each the hard name which others had saddled upon it. At first absorbed and intent upon her work, at length she grew restless and, raising her eyes, she saw Élise. On the girl's face curiosity and disapprobation amounting almost to resentment were strangely blended. Curiosity, for the moment, gained the ascendency, as Miss Hartwell raised her eyes. "What are you doing to those flowers?" Élise pointed to the fragments. "I am trying to analyse them." "What do you mean by that?" "Analysis?" Miss Hartwell looked up inquiringly; but Élise made no reply, so she went on. "That is separating them into their component parts, to learn their structure." "What for?" Élise looked rather puzzled, but yet willing to hear the whole defence for spoliation. "So that I can learn their names." "How do you find their names?" It occurred to Miss Hartwell to close the circle by simply answering "analysis"; but she forebore. "The flowers are described in this botany and their names are given. By separating the flowers into their parts I can find the names." "Where did the book get the names?" If Miss Hartwell was growing impatient she concealed it admirably. If she was perplexed in mind, and she certainly was, perplexity did not show in the repose of her face. Her voice flowed with the modulated rhythm of a college professor reciting an oft-repeated lecture to ever-changing individuals with an unchanging stage of mental development. If her choice of answer was made in desperation nothing showed it. "Botanists have studied plants very carefully. They find certain resemblances which are persistent. These persistent resemblances they classify into families. There are other less comprehensive resemblances in the families. These are grouped into genera and the genera are divided into species and these again into varieties, and a name is given to each." Élise in her way was a genius. She recognised the impossible. Miss Hartwell's answers were impossible to her. "Oh, is that all?" she asked, sarcastically. "Have you found the names of these?" Again she pointed to the torn flowers. Miss Hartwell divided her prey into groups. "These are the Ranunculaceæ family. This is the Aquilegia Cærulea. This is the Delphinium Occidentale. This belongs to the Polemoniaceæ family, and is the Phlox Cæspitosa. These are Compositæ. They are a difficult group to name." Miss Hartwell was indulging in mixed emotions. Mingled with a satisfaction in reviewing her erudition was a quiet revenge heightened by the unconsciousness of her object. "You don't love flowers." There was no indecision in the statement. "Why, yes, I certainly do." "No; you don't, or you wouldn't tear them to pieces." "Don't you ever pick flowers?" "Yes; but I love them. I take them to my room, and they talk to me. They do, too!" Élise flashed an answer to a questioning look of Miss Hartwell, and then went on, "I don't tear them to pieces and throw them away. Not even to find out those hideous names you called them. They don't belong to them. You don't love them, and you needn't pretend you do." Élise's cheeks were flushed. Miss Hartwell was bewildered in mind. She acknowledged it to herself. Élise was teaching her a lesson that she had never heard of before, much less learned. Then came elusive suggestions, vaguely defined, of the two-fold aspect of nature. She looked regretfully at the evidences of her curiosity. She had not yet gone far enough along the new path to take accurate notes of her emotions; but she had an undefined sense of her inferiority, a sense of wrong-doing. "I am very sorry I hurt you. I did not mean to." Élise gave a quick look of interrogation. The look showed sincerity. Her voice softened. "You didn't hurt me; you made me mad. I can help myself. They can't." Miss Hartwell had left her sketch-book unclosed. An errant breath of wind was fluttering the pages. "What is that?" Élise asked. "Another kind of book to make you tear up flowers?" Her voice was hard again. Miss Hartwell took up the open book. "Perhaps you would like to see these. They may atone for my other wrong-doing." Élise seated herself and received the sketches one by one as they were handed to her. Miss Hartwell had intended to make comments as necessity or opportunity seemed to demand; but Élise forestalled her. "This is beautiful; only----" She paused. Miss Hartwell looked up. "Only what?" Élise shook her head impatiently. "You've put those horrid names on each one of them. They make me think of the ones you tore to pieces." Miss Hartwell stretched out her hand. "Let me take them for a moment, please." Élise half drew them away, looking sharply at Miss Hartwell. Then her face softened, and she placed the sketches in her hand. One by one the offending names were removed. "I think that is better." Élise watched curiously, and her expression did not change with the reception of the sketches. "Don't you ever get mad?" she asked. "Sometimes." "That would have made me awfully mad." "But I think you were quite right. The names are not beautiful. The flowers are." "That wouldn't make any difference with me. I'd get mad before I thought, and then I'd stick to it anyway." "That is not right." Élise looked somewhat rebuked, but more puzzled. "How old are you?" she asked. This was too much. Miss Hartwell could not conceal her astonishment. She recovered quickly and answered, with a smile: "I was twenty-five, last February." Élise resumed her examination of the water-colours. There was a look of satisfaction on her face. "Oh, well, perhaps when I get to be as old as that I won't get mad, either. How did you learn to make flowers?" Her attention was fixed all the time on the colours. "I took lessons." "Is it very hard to learn?" "Not very, for some people. Would you like to have me teach you?" Élise's face was flushed and eager. "Will you teach me?" she asked. "Certainly. It will give me great pleasure." "When can you begin?" "Now, if you like." Miss Hartwell had taste, and she had been under excellent instruction. Her efforts had been praised and herself highly commended; but no sweeter incense had ever been burned under her nostrils than the intense absorption of her first pupil. It was not genius; it was love, pure and simple. There was no element of self-consciousness, only a wild love of beauty and a longing to give it expression. Nominally, at least, Miss Hartwell was the instructor and Élise the pupil; but that did not prevent her learning some lessons which her other instructors had failed to suggest. The comments of Élise on the habits and peculiarities of every plant and flower that they attempted demonstrated to Miss Hartwell that the real science of botany was not wholly dependent upon forceps and scalpel. Another demonstration was to the effect that the first and hardest step in drawing, if not in painting, was a clear-cut conception of the object to be delineated. Élise knew her object. From the first downy ball that pushed its way into the opening spring, to the unfolding of the perfect flower, every shade and variety of colour Élise knew to perfection. Miss Hartwell's lessons had been purely mechanical. She had brought to them determination and faithful application; but unconsciously the object had been herself, not her subject, and her work showed it. Élise was no genius; but she was possessed of some of its most imperative essentials, an utter oblivion of self and an abounding love of her subjects. Miss Hartwell was astonished at her easy grasp of details which had come to her after much laborious effort. They were aroused by the click of iron shoes on the stony trail as Firmstone rode toward them. He was delighted that his first attempt at bringing Élise in contact with Miss Hartwell had been so successful. There was a flush of pleasure on Miss Hartwell's face. "I believe you knew I would not be alone. Why didn't you tell me about Élise?" "Oh, it's better to let each make his own discoveries, especially if they are pleasant." Firmstone looked at the paint-smudged fingers of Élise. "You refused my help in square root, and are taking lessons in painting from Miss Hartwell." "Miss who?" Firmstone was astonished at the change in the girl's face. "Miss Hartwell," he answered. Élise rose quickly to her feet. Brush and pencil fell unheeded from her lap. "Are you related to that Hartwell at the mill?" she demanded. "He is my brother." Fierce anger burned in the eyes of Élise. Without a word, she turned and started down the trail. Miss Hartwell and Firmstone watched the retreating figure for a moment. She was first to recover from her surprise. She began to gather the scattered papers which Élise had dropped. She was utterly unable to suggest an explanation of the sudden change that had come over Élise on hearing her name. Firmstone was at first astonished beyond measure. A second thought cleared his mind. He knew that Hartwell had been going of late to the Blue Goose. Élise, no doubt, had good grounds for resentment against him. That it should be abruptly extended to his sister was no matter of surprise to Firmstone. Of course, to Miss Hartwell he could not even suggest an explanation. They each were wholly unprepared for the finale which came as an unexpected sequel. A delicate little hand, somewhat smudged with paint, was held out to Miss Hartwell, who, as she took the hand, looked up into a resolute face, with drooping eyes. "I got mad before I thought, and I've come back to tell you that it wasn't right." Miss Hartwell drew the girl down beside her. "Things always look worse than they really are when one is hungry. Won't you share our lunch?" With ready tact she directed her words to Firmstone, and she was not disappointed in finding in him an intelligent second. Before many minutes, Élise had forgotten disagreeable subjects in things which to her never lacked interest. At parting Élise followed the direct trail to the Blue Goose. As Firmstone had hoped, another series of lessons was arranged for. CHAPTER XVI _An Insistent Question_ Had Firmstone been given to the habit of self-congratulation he would have found ample opportunity for approbation in the excellent manner with which his plan for the rescue of Élise was working out. The companionship of Élise and Miss Hartwell had become almost constant in spite of the unpropitious dénouement of their first meeting. This pleased Firmstone greatly. But there was another thing which this companionship thrust upon him with renewed interest. At first it had not been prominent. In fact, it was quite overshadowed while Miss Hartwell's unconscious part in his plan was in doubt. Now that the doubt was removed, his personal feelings toward Élise came to the front. He was neither conceited nor a philanthropist with more enthusiasm than sense. He did not attempt to conceal from himself that philanthropy, incarnated in youth, culture, and a recognised position, directed toward a young and beautiful girl was in danger of forming entangling alliances, and that these alliances could be more easily prevented than obviated when once formed. Firmstone was again riding down from the mine. He expected to find Élise and Miss Hartwell at the Falls, as he had many times of late. He placed the facts squarely before himself. He was hearing of no one so much as of Élise. Whether this was due to an awakening consciousness on his part or whether his interest in Élise had attracted the attention of others he could not decide. Certain it was that Miss Hartwell was continually singing her praise. Jim, who was rapidly recovering from his wounds and from his general shaking up at the wreck of the stage, let pass no opportunity wherein he might express his opinion. "Hell!" he remarked. "I couldn't do that girl dirt by up and going dead after all her trouble. Ain't she just fed me and flowered me and coddled me general? Gawd A'mighty! I feel like a delicatessen shop 'n a flower garden all mixed up with angels." Bennie was equally enthusiastic, but his shadowing gourd had a devouring worm. His commendation of Élise only aroused a resentful consciousness of the Blue Goose. "It's the way of the world," he was wont to remark, "but it's a damned shame to make a good dog and then worry him with fleas." There was also Dago Joe, who ran the tram at the mill. Joe had a goodly flock of graduated dagoes in assorted sizes, but his love embraced them all. That the number was undiminished by disease he credited to Élise, and the company surgeon vouched for the truth of his assertions. Only Zephyr was persistently silent. This, however, increased Firmstone's perplexity, if it did not confirm his suspicions that his interest in Élise had attracted marked attention. There was only one way in which his proposed plan of rescue could be carried out that would not eventually do the girl more harm than good, especially if she was compelled to remain in Pandora. Here was his problem--one which demanded immediate solution. He was at the Falls, unconsciously preparing to dismount, when he saw that neither Élise nor Miss Hartwell was there. He looked around a moment; then, convinced that they were absent, he rode on down the trail. As he entered the town he noted a group of boys grotesquely attired in miner's clothes. Leading the group was Joe's oldest son, a boy of about twelve years. A miner's hat, many sizes too large, was on his head, almost hiding his face. A miner's jacket, reaching nearly to his feet, completed his costume. In his hand he was swinging a lighted candle. The other boys were similarly attired, and each had candles as well. Firmstone smiled. The boys were playing miner, and were "going on shift." He was startled into more active consciousness by shrill screams of agony. The boys had broken from their ranks and were flying in every direction. Young Joe, staggering behind them, was almost hidden by a jet of flame that seemed to spring from one of the pockets of his coat. The boy was just opposite the Blue Goose. Before Firmstone could spur his horse to the screaming child Élise darted down the steps, seized the boy with one hand, with the other tore the flames from his coat and threw them far out on the trail. Firmstone knew what had happened. The miner had left some sticks of powder in his coat and these had caught fire from the lighted candle. The flames from the burning powder had scorched the boy's hand, licked across his face, and the coat itself had begun to burn, when Élise reached him. She was stripping the coat from the screaming boy as Firmstone sprang from his horse. He took the boy in his arms and carried him up the steps of the Blue Goose. Élise, running up the steps before him, reappeared with oil and bandages, as he laid the boy on one of the tables. Pierre and Morrison came into the bar-room as Firmstone and Élise began to dress the burns. Morrison laid his hand roughly on Firmstone's arm. "You get back to your own. This is our crowd." "Git hout! You bin kip-still." Pierre in turn thrust Morrison aside. "You bin got hall you want, Meestaire Firmstone?" "Take my horse and go for the doctor." Pierre hastily left the room. The clatter of hoofs showed that Firmstone's order had been obeyed. Élise and Firmstone worked busily at the little sufferer. Oil and laudanum had deadened the pain, and the boy was now sobbing hysterically; Morrison standing by, glaring in helpless rage. Another clatter of hoofs outside, and Pierre and the company surgeon hurried into the room. The boy's moans were stilled and he lay staring questioningly with large eyes at the surgeon. "You haven't left me anything to do." The surgeon turned approvingly to Élise. "Mr. Firmstone did that." The surgeon laughed. "That's Élise every time. She's always laying the blame on someone else. Never got her to own up to anything of this kind in my life." Joe senior and his wife came breathless into the room. Mrs. Joe threw herself on the boy with all the abandon of the genuine Latin. Joe looked at Élise, then dragged his wife aside. "The boy's all right now, Joe. You can take him home. I'll be in to see him later." The surgeon turned to leave the room. Joe never stirred; only looked at Élise. "It's all right, Joe." The surgeon shrugged his shoulders in mock despair. "There it is again. I'm getting to be of no account." Something in Élise's face caused him to look again. Then he was at her side. Taking her arm, he glanced at the hand she was trying to hide. "It doesn't amount to anything." Élise was trying to free her arm. From the palm up the hand was red and blistered. "Now I'll show my authority. How did it happen?" "The powder was burning. I was afraid it might explode." "What if it had exploded?" Firmstone asked the question of Élise. She made no reply. He hardly expected she would. Nevertheless he did not dismiss the question from his mind. As he rode away with the company surgeon, he asked it over and over again. Then he made answer to himself. CHAPTER XVII _The Bearded Lion_ Zephyr was doing some meditation on his own account after the meeting with Firmstone at the Devil's Elbow. That not only Firmstone's reputation, but his life as well, hung in the balance, Zephyr had visible proof. This material proof he was absently tipping from hand to hand, during his broken and unsatisfactory interview with Firmstone. It was nothing more nor less than a nickel-jacketed bullet which, that very morning, had barely missed his head, only to flatten itself against the rocks behind him. The morning was always a dull time at the Blue Goose. Morrison slept late. Élise was either with Madame or rambling among the hills. Only Pierre, who seemed never to sleep, was to be counted upon with any certainty. By sunrise on the day that Firmstone and Miss Hartwell were riding to the Falls Zephyr was up and on his way to the Blue Goose. He found Pierre in the bar-room. "_Bon jour, M'sieur._" Zephyr greeted him affably as he slowly sank into a chair opposite the one in which Pierre was seated. Pierre, with hardly a movement of his facial muscles, returned Zephyr's salutation. From his manner no one would have suspected that, had someone with sufficient reason inquired as to the whereabouts of Zephyr, Pierre would have replied confidently that the sought-for person was bobbing down the San Miguel with a little round hole through his head. Zephyr's presence in the flesh simply told him that, for some unknown reason, his plan had miscarried. Zephyr lazily rolled a cigarette and placed it between his lips. He raised his eyes languidly to Pierre's. "M'sieu Pierre mek one slick plan. Ze Rainbow Company work ze mine, ze mill. _Moi_, Pierre, mek ze gol' in mon cellaire." Zephyr blew forth the words in a cloud of smoke. Pierre started and looked around. His hand made a motion toward his hip pocket. Zephyr dropped his bantering tone. "Not yet, Frenchy. You'll tip over more soup kettles than you know of." He dropped the flattened bullet on the table and pointed to it. "That was a bad break on your part. It might have been worse for you as well as for me, if your man hadn't been a bad shot." Pierre reached for the bullet, but Zephyr gathered it in. "Not yet, M'sieur. It was intended for me, and I'll keep it, as a token of respect. I know M'sieur Pierre. Wen M'sieur Pierre bin mek up ze min' for shoot, M'sieur Pierre bin say,'_Comment!_ Zat fellaire he bin too damn smart _pour moi_.' Thanks! Me and Firmstone are much obliged." Pierre shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Zephyr noted the gesture. "Don't stop there, M'sieur. Get up to your head. You're in a mess, a bad one. Shake your wits. Get up and walk around. Explode some _sacrés_. Pull out a few handfuls of hair and scatter around. No good looking daggers. The real thing won't work on me, and you'd only get in a worse mess if it did. That's Firmstone, too. We both are more valuable to you alive than dead. Of what value is it to a man to do two others, if he gets soaked in the neck himself?" Pierre was angered. It was useless to try to conceal it. His swarthy cheeks grew livid. "_Sacré!_" he blurted. "What you mean in hell?" "That's better. Now you're getting down to business. When I find a man that's up against a thing too hard for him, I don't mind giving him a lift." "You lif' and bedam!" Pierre had concluded that pretensions were useless with Zephyr, and he gave his passion full play. Even if he made breaks with Zephyr, he would be no worse off. "I'll' lif'' all right. 'Bedam' is as maybe. Now, Frenchy, if you'll calm yourself a bit, I'll speak my little piece. You've slated Firmstone and me for over the divide. _P'quoi, M'sieur?_ For this. Firmstone understands his business and tends to it. This interferes with your cellar. So Mr. Firmstone was to be fired by the company. You steered that safe into the river to help things along. You thought that Jim would be killed and Firmstone would be chump enough to charge it to a hold-up, and go off on a wrong scent. Jim got off, and Firmstone was going to get the safe. I know you are kind-hearted and don't like to do folks; but Firmstone and me were taking unwarranted liberties with your plans. Now put your ear close to the ground, Frenchy, and listen hard and you'll hear something drop. If you do Firmstone you'll see cross-barred sunlight the rest of your days. I'll see to that. If you do us both it won't make much difference. I've been taking my pen in hand for a few months back, and the result is a bundle of papers in a safe place. It may not be much in a literary way; but it will make mighty interesting reading for such as it may concern, and you are one of them. Now let me tell you one thing more. If this little damned thing had gone through my head on the way to something harder, in just four days you'd be taking your exercise in a corked jug. My game is worth two of yours. Mine will play itself when I'm dead; yours won't." Pierre's lips parted enough to show his set teeth. "_Bien!_ You tink you bin damn smart, heh? I show you. You bin catch one rattlesnake by ze tail. _Comment?_ I show you." Pierre rose. "Better wait a bit, Frenchy. I've been giving you some information. Now I'll give you some instructions. You've been planning to have Élise married. Don't do it. You've made up your mind not to keep your promise to her dead father and mother. You just go back to your original intentions. It will be good for your body, and for your soul, too, if you've got any. You're smooth stuff, Pierre, too smooth to think that I'm talking four of a kind on a bob-tail flush. Comprenny?" Pierre's eyes lost their fierceness, but his face none of its determination. "I ain't going to give hup my li'l Élise. _Sacré, non!_" "That's for Élise to say. You've got to give her the chance." There was a moment's pause. "How you bin mek me, heh?" Pierre turned like a cat. There was a challenge in his words; but there were thoughts he did not voice. Zephyr was not to be surprised into saying more than he intended. "That's a slick game, Pierre; but it won't work. If you want to draw my fire, you'll have to hang more than an empty hat on a stick. In plain, flat English, I've got you cinched. If you want to feel the straps draw, just start in to buck." Pierre rose from the table. His eyes were all but invisible. There was no ursine clumsiness in his movements, as he walked to and fro in the bar-room. As became a feline, he walked in silence and on his toes. He was thinking of many a shady incident in his past career, and he knew that with the greater number of his shaded spots Zephyr was more or less familiar. With which of them was Zephyr most familiar, and was there any one by means of which Zephyr could thwart him by threatening exposure? Pierre's tread became yet more silent. He was half crouching, as if ready for a spring. Zephyr had referred to the cellar. There was his weakest spot. Luna, the mill foreman, dozens of men, he could name them every one--all had brought their plunder to the Blue Goose. Every man who brought him uncoined gold was a thief, and they all felt safe because in the eyes of the law he, Pierre, was one of them. He alone was not safe. Not one of the thieves was certainly known to the others; he was known to them all. It could not be helped. He had taken big chances; but his reward had been great as well. That would not help him, if--Unconsciously he crouched still lower. "If there's any procession heading for Cañon City you'll be in it, too." Someone had got frightened. Luna, probably. Firmstone was working him, and Zephyr was helping Firmstone. Pierre knew well the fickle favour of the common man. A word could destroy his loyalty, excite his fears, or arouse him to vengeance. Burning, bitter hatred raged in the breast of the little Frenchman. Exposure, ruin, the penitentiary! His hand rested on the butt of his revolver as he slowly turned. Zephyr was leaning on the table. There was a look of languid assurance, of insolent contempt in the eye that was squinting along a polished barrel held easily, but perfectly balanced for instant action. "Go it, Frenchy." Zephyr's voice was patronising. Pierre gave way to the passion that raged within him. "_Sacré nom du diable! Mille tonnerres!_ You bin tink you mek me scare, _moi_, Pierre! Come on, Meestaire Zephyr, come on! Fourtin more just like it! Strew de piece hall roun' ze dooryard!" Zephyr's boots thumped applause. "A-a-ah! Ze gran' _spectacle_! _Magnifique!_ By gar! She bin comedown firsrate. Frenchy, you have missed your cue. Take the advice of a friend. Don't stay here, putting addled eggs under a painted goose. Just do that act on the stage, and you'll have to wear seven-league boots to get out of the way of rolling dollars." CHAPTER XVIII _Winnowed Chaff_ Hartwell had a rule of conduct. It was a Procrustean bed which rarely fitted its subject. Unlike the originator of the famous couch, Hartwell never troubled himself to stretch the one nor to trim the other. If his subjects did not fit, they were cast aside. This was decision. The greater the number of the too longs or the too shorts the greater his complacence in the contemplation of his labours. There was one other weakness that was strongly rooted within him. If perchance one worthless stick fitted his arbitrary conditions it was from then on advanced to the rank of deity. Hartwell was strongly prejudiced against Firmstone, but was wholly without malice. He suspected that Firmstone was at least self-interested, if not self-seeking; therefore he assumed him to be unscrupulous. Firmstone's words and actions were either counted not at all, or balanced against him. In approaching others, if words were spoken in his favour, they were discounted or discarded altogether. Only the facts that made against him were treasured, all but enshrined. Even in his cynical beliefs Hartwell was not consistent. He failed utterly to take into account that it might suit the purpose of his advisers to break down the subject of his inquiry. For these reasons the interview with Pierre, even with its mortifying termination, left a firm conviction in his mind that Firmstone was dishonest, practically a would-be thief, and this on the sole word of a professional gambler, a rumshop proprietor, a man with no heritage, no traditions, and no associations to hold him from the extremities of crime. Not one of the men whom Hartwell had interviewed, not even Pierre himself, would for an instant have considered as probable what Hartwell was holding as an obvious truth. This, however, did not prevent Hartwell's actions from hastening to the point of precipitation the very crisis he was blindly trying to avert. He had not discredited Firmstone among the men, he had only nullified his power to manage them. Hartwell had succeeded in completing the operation of informing himself generally. Having reached this point, he felt that the only thing remaining to be done was to align his information, crush Firmstone beneath the weight of his accumulated evidence, and from his dismembered fragments build up a superintendent who would henceforth walk and act in the fear of demonstrated omniscient justice. He even grew warmly benevolent in the contemplation of the gratefully reconstructed man who was to be fashioned after his own image. Firmstone coincided with one of Hartwell's conclusions, but from a wholly different standpoint. Affairs had reached a state that no longer was endurable. Among the men there was no doubt whatever but that it was a question of time only when Firmstone, to put it in the graphic phrase of the mine, "would be shot in the ear with a time check." Firmstone had no benevolent designs as to the reconstruction of Hartwell, but he had decided ones as to the reconstruction of the company's affairs. The meeting thus mutually decided upon as necessary was soon brought about. Firmstone came into the office from a visit to the mine. It had been neither a pleasant nor a profitable one. The contemptuous disregard of his orders, the coarse insolence of the men, and especially of the foremen and shift bosses, organised into the union by Morrison, had stung Firmstone to the quick. To combat the disorders under present conditions would only expose him to insult, without any compensation whatever. Paying no attention to words or actions, he beat a dignified, unprotesting retreat. He would, if possible, bring Hartwell to his senses; if not, he would insist upon presenting his case to the company. If they failed to support him he would break his contract. He disliked the latter alternative, for it meant the discrediting of himself or the manager. He felt that it would be a fight to the death. He found Hartwell in the office. "Well," Hartwell looked up abruptly; "how are things going?" "Hot foot to the devil." "Your recognition of the fact does you credit, even if the perception is a little tardy. I think you will further recognise the fact that I take a hand none too soon." The mask on Hartwell's face grew denser. "I recognise the fact very clearly that, until you came, the fork of the trail was before me. Now it is behind and--we are on the wrong split." "Precisely. I have come to that conclusion myself. In order to act wisely, I assume that it will be best to get a clear idea of conditions, and then we can select a remedy for those that are making against us. Do you agree?" "I withhold assent until I know just what I am expected to assent to." Hartwell looked annoyed. "Shall I go on?" he asked, impatiently. "Perhaps your caution will allow that." Firmstone nodded. He did not care to trust himself to words. "Before we made our contract with you to assume charge of our properties out here I told you very plainly the difficulties under which we had hitherto laboured, and that I trusted that you would find means to remedy them. After six months' trial, in which we have allowed you a perfectly free hand, can you conscientiously say that you have bettered our prospects?" Hartwell paused; but Firmstone kept silence. "Have you nothing to say to this?" Hartwell finally burst out. "At present, no." Firmstone spoke with decision. "When will you have?" Hartwell asked. "When you are through with your side." Hartwell felt annoyed at what he considered Firmstone's obstinacy. "Well," he said; "then I shall have to go my own gait. You can't complain if it doesn't suit you. In your reports to the company you have complained of the complete disorganisation which you found here. That this disorganisation resulted in inefficiency of labour, that the mine was run down, the mill a wreck, and, worst of all, that there was stealing going on which prevented the richest ore reaching the mill, and that even the products of the mill were stolen. You laid the stealing to the door of the Blue Goose. You stated for fact things which you acknowledged you could not prove. That the proprietor of the Blue Goose was striving to stir up revolt among the men, to organise them into a union in order that through this organised union the Blue Goose might practically control the mine and rob the company right and left. You pointed out that in your opinion many of the men, even in the organisation, were honest; that it was only a scheme on the part of Morrison and Pierre to dupe the men, to blind their eyes so that, believing themselves imposed on and robbed by the company, they would innocently furnish the opportunity for the Blue Goose to carry on its system of plundering." Firmstone's steady gaze never flinched, as Hartwell swept on with his arraignment. "In all your reports, you have without exception laid the blame upon your predecessors, upon others outside the company. Never in a single instance have you expressed a doubt as to your own conduct of affairs. The assumed robbery of the stage I will pass by. Other points I shall dwell upon. You trust no one. You have demonstrated that to the men. You give orders at the mine, and instead of trusting your foremen to see that they are carried out you almost daily insist upon inspecting their work and interfering with it. The same thing I find to be true at the mill. Day and night you pounce in upon them. Now let me ask you this. If you understand men, if you know your business thoroughly, ought you not to judge whether the men are rendering an equivalent for their pay, without subjecting them to the humiliation of constant espionage?" He looked fixedly at Firmstone, as he ended his arraignment. Firmstone waited, if perchance Hartwell had not finished. "Is your case all in?" he finally asked. "For the present, yes." Hartwell snapped his jaws together decidedly. "Then I'll start." "Wait a moment, right there," Hartwell interrupted. "No. I will not wait. I am going right on. You've been informing yourself generally. Now I'm going to inform you particularly. In the first place, how did you find out that I had been subjecting the men to this humiliating espionage, as you call it?" Firmstone waited for a reply. "I don't know that I am under obligations to answer that question," Hartwell replied, stiffly. "Then I'll answer it for you. You've been to my foremen, my shift bosses, my workmen; you've been, above all other places, to the Blue Goose. You've been to anyone and everyone whose interest it is to weaken my authority and to render me powerless to combat the very evils of which you complain." Hartwell started to interrupt; but Firmstone waved him to silence. "This is a vital point. One thing more: instead of acquiring information as to the conditions that confront me and about my method of handling them, you go to my enemies, get their opinions and, what is worse, act upon them as your own." "Wait a minute right there." Hartwell spoke imperiously. "You speak of 'my foremen' and 'my shift bosses.' They are not your men; they are ours. We pay them, and we are going to see to it that we get an equivalent return, in any way we think advisable." Hartwell ignored Firmstone's last words. "That may be your position. If it is it is not a wise one, and, what is more, it is not tenable. You put me out here to manage your business, and you hold me responsible for results. I ask from you the same consideration I give to my foremen. I do not hire a single man at the mine or mill; my foremen attend to that. I give my orders direct to my foremen, and hold them strictly responsible. The men are responsible to my foremen, my foremen are responsible to me, and I in turn am wholly responsible to you. If in one single point you interfere with my organisation I not only decline to assume any responsibility whatever, but, farther, I shall tender my resignation at once." Hartwell listened impatiently, but nevertheless Firmstone's words were not without effect. They appealed to his judgment as being justified; but to accept them and act upon them meant a repudiation of his own course. For this he was not ready. In addition to his vanity, Hartwell had an abiding faith in his own shrewdness. He was casting about in his mind for a plausible delay which would afford him time to retreat from his position without a confession of defeat. He could find none. Firmstone had presented a clean-cut ultimatum. He was in an unpleasant predicament. Some one would have to be sacrificed. He was wholly determined that it should not be himself. Perhaps after all it would be better to arrange as best he might with Firmstone, rather than have it go farther. "It seems to me, Firmstone, as if you were going altogether too fast. There's no use jumping. Why not talk this over sensibly?" "There is only one thing to be considered. If you are going to manage this place I am going to put it beyond your power even to make me appear responsible." "You forget your contract with us," Hartwell interposed. "I do not forget it. If you discharge me, or force me to resign, I still demand a hearing." Hartwell was disturbed, and his manner showed it. Firmstone presented two alternatives. Forcing a choice of either of them would bring unpleasant consequences upon himself. Was it necessary to force the choice? "Suppose I do neither?" he asked. "That will not avert the consequences of what you have already done." "Are you determined to resign?" Hartwell asked, uneasily. "That is not what I meant." "What did you mean, then?" "This. Before you came out, I had things well in hand. In another month I would have had control of the men, and the property would have been paying a good dividend. As it is now----" Firmstone waved his hand, as if to dismiss a useless subject. "Well, what now?" Hartwell asked, after a pause. "It has to be done all over again, only under greater difficulties, the outcome of which I cannot foresee." "To what difficulties do you refer?" Firmstone's manner disturbed Hartwell. "The men were getting settled. Now you have played into the hands of two of the most unscrupulous rascals in Colorado. Between you, you've got the men stirred up to a point where a strike is inevitable." For a time, Hartwell was apparently crushed by Firmstone's unanswerable logic, as well as by his portentous forecasts. He could not but confess to himself that his course of action looked very different under Firmstone's analysis than from his own standpoint alone. He drummed his fingers listlessly on the desk before him. He was all but convinced that he might have been wrong in his judgment of Firmstone, after all. Then Pierre's suggestions came to him like a flash. "You are aware, of course, that I shall have to make a full report of the accident to the stage to our directors?" "I made a report of all the facts in the case, at the time. Of course, if you have discovered other facts, they will have to be given in addition." Hartwell continued, paying no attention to Firmstone. "That in the report which I shall make, I may feel compelled to arrange my data in such a manner that they will point to a conclusion somewhat at variance with yours?" "In which case," interrupted Firmstone; "I shall claim the right to another and counter statement." Hartwell looked even more intently at Firmstone. "In your report you stated positively that there were three thousand, one hundred and twenty-five ounces of bullion in your shipment; that this amount was lost in the wreck of the stage." "Exactly." Hartwell leaned forward, his eyes still fixed on Firmstone's eyes. Then, after a moment's pause, he asked, explosively,-- "Was there that amount?" Firmstone's face had a puzzled look. "There certainly was, unless I made a mistake in weighing up." His brows contracted for a moment, then cleared decisively. "That is not possible. The total checked with my weekly statements." Hartwell settled back in his chair. There was a look of satisfied cunning on his face. He had gained his point. He had attacked Firmstone in an unexpected quarter, and he had flinched. He had no further doubts. This, however, was not enough. He would press the brimming cup of evidence to his victim's lips and compel him to drink it to the last drop. "Who saw you put the bullion in the safe?" "No one." "Then, if the safe is never recovered, we have only your word that the bullion was put in there, as you stated?" Firmstone was slowly realising Hartwell's drift. Slowly, because the idea suggested appeared too monstrous to be tenable. The purple veins on his forehead were hard and swollen. "That is all," he said, from between compressed lips. "Under the circumstances, don't you think it is of the utmost importance that the safe be recovered?" "Under any circumstances. I have already taken all the steps possible in that direction." Firmstone breathed easier. He saw, as he thought, the error of his other half-formed suspicion. Hartwell was about to suggest that Zephyr should not be alone in guarding the river. Hartwell again leaned forward. He spoke meditatively, but his eyes were piercing in their intensity. "Yes. If in the event of the unexpected," he emphasised the word with a suggestive pause, "recovery of the safe, it should be found not to contain that amount, in fact, nothing at all, what would you have to say?" Every fibre of Firmstone's body crystallised into hard lines. Slowly he rose to his feet. Pale to the lips, he towered over the general manager. Slowly his words fell from set lips. "What have I to say?" he repeated. "This. That, if I stooped to answer such a question, I should put myself on the level of the brutal idiot who asked it." CHAPTER XIX _The Fly in the Ointment_ At last the union was organised at mill and mine. The men had been duly instructed as to the burden of their wrongs and the measures necessary for redress. They had been taught that all who were not for them were against them, and that scabs were traitors to their fellows, that heaven was not for them, hell too good for them, and that on earth they only crowded the deserving from their own. In warning his fellows against bending the knee to Baal, Morrison did not feel it incumbent upon him to state that there was a whole sky full of other heathen deities, and that, in turning from one deity to make obeisance to another, they might miss the one true God. He did not even take the trouble to state that there was a chance for wise selection--that it was better to worship Osiris than to fall into the hands of Moloch. With enthusiasm, distilled as much from Pierre's whisky as from Morrison's wisdom, the men had elected Morrison leader, and now awaited his commands. Morrison had decided on a strike. This would demonstrate his power and terrify his opponents. There was enough shrewdness in him to select a plausible excuse. He knew very well that even among his most ardent adherents there was much common sense and an inherent perception of justice; that, while this would not stand in the way of precipitating a strike, it might prevent its perfect fruition. Whatever his own convictions, Morrison felt intuitively that ideas in the minds of the majority of men were but characters written on sand which the first sweep of washing waves would wipe out and leave motiveless; that others must stand by with ready stylus, to write again and again that which was swept away. In other words, he must have aides; that these aides, if they were to remain steadfast, must be thinking men, impressed with the justice of their position. Hartwell had supplied just the motive that was needed. As yet, it was not apparent; but it was on the way. When it arrived there would be no doubt of its identity, or the course of action which must then be pursued. Morrison was sure that it would come, was sure of the riot that would follow. His face darkened, flattened to the similitude of a serpent about to strike. There was a flaw in Morrison's otherwise perfect fruit. Where hitherto had been the calm of undisputed possession was now the rage of baffled desire. Aside from momentary resentment at Élise's first interview with Firmstone, the fact had made little impression on him. As Pierre ruled his household, even so he intended to rule his own, and, according to Morrison's idea of the conventional, a temporary trifling with another man was one of the undeniable perquisites of an engaged girl. Morrison had been too sure of himself to feel a twinge of jealousy, rather considering such a course of action, when not too frequently indulged, an additional tribute to his own personality. What Morrison mistook for love was only passion. It was honourable, insomuch as he intended to make Élise his wife. Morrison ascribed only one motive to the subsequent meetings which he knew took place between Élise and Firmstone. Élise was drifting farther and farther from him, in spite of all that he could do. "Rowing," as he expressed it, had not been of infrequent occurrence between himself and Élise before Firmstone had appeared on the scene; but on such occasions Élise had been as ready for a "mix-up" as she was now anxious to avoid one. There was another thing to which he could not close his eyes. There had been defiance, hatred, an eager fierceness, both in attack and defence, which was now wholly lacking. On several recent occasions he had sought a quarrel with Élise; but while she had stood her ground, there was a contempt in her manner, her eyes, her voice, which could not do otherwise than attract his attention. To do Morrison the justice which he really deserved, there was in him as much of love for Élise as his nature was capable of harbouring for any one outside himself. He looked upon her as his own, and he was defending this idea of possession with the same pugnacity that he would protect his dollars from a thief. Morrison had been forced to the conclusion that Élise was lost to him. Hitherto Firmstone had been an impersonal obstacle in his path. Now--The eyes narrowed to a slit, the venomous lips were compressed. Morrison was a beast. Only the vengeance of a beast could wipe out the disgrace that had been forced upon him. In reality Élise was only a child. Unpropitious and uncongenial as had been her surroundings to her finer nature, these had only retarded development; they had not killed the germ. Her untrammelled life had been natural, but hardly neutral. To put conditions in a word, her undirected life had stored up an abundant supply of nourishing food that would thrust into vigorous life the dormant germ of noble womanhood when the proper time should come. There had been no hot-house forcing, but the natural growth of the healthy, hardy plant which would battle successfully the storms that were bound to come. In the cramped and sordid lives which had surrounded her there was much to repel and little to attract. The parental love of Pierre was strong and fierce, but it was animal, it was satiating, selfish, and undemonstrative. Hence Élise was almost wholly unconscious of its existence. As for Madame, hers was a love unselfish; but dominated and overshadowed, in terror of her husband, she stood in but little less awe of Élise. These two, the one selfish, with strength of mind sufficient to bend others to his purposes, the other unselfish, but with every spontaneous emotion repressed by stronger personalities, exerted an unconscious but corresponding influence upon their equally unconscious ward. These manifestations were animal, and in Élise they met with an animal response. She felt the domineering strength of Pierre, but without awe she defied it. She felt the unselfish and timorous love of Madame. She trampled it beneath her childish feet, or yielded to a storm of repentant emotion that overwhelmed and bewildered its timid recipient. She was surrounded and imbued with emotions, unguided, unanalysed, misunderstood, that rose supreme, or were blotted out as the strength of the individual was equal to or inferior to its opposition. They were animal emotions that one moment would lick and caress and fight to the death, the next in a moment of rage would smite to the earth. As Élise approached womanhood, these emotions were intensified, but were otherwise unmodified. There was another element which came as a natural temporal sequence. She had seen with unseeing eyes young girls given in marriage; she had no question but that a like fate was in store for her. So it happened that when Pierre, announcing to her her sixteenth birthday, had likewise broached the subject of marriage she opposed it not on rational grounds but simply on general principles. She was not at first conscious of any objections to Morrison. Being ignorant of marriage she had no grounds upon which to base a choice. To her Morrison was no better and no worse than any other man she had met. Morrison was perfectly right in his assumptions. Had not circumstances interfered, in the end he would have had his way. Morrison was also perfectly wrong. Élise was not Madame in any sense of the word. His reign would have been at least troubled, if not in the end usurped. The first circumstance which had already interfered to prevent the realisation of his desire was one which, very naturally, would be the last to appeal to him. This circumstance was Zephyr. From the earliest infancy of Élise, Zephyr had been, in a way, her constant guardian and companion. With enough strength of character to make him fearless, it was insufficient to arouse the ambition to carve out a distinctive position for himself. He absorbed and mastered whatever came in his way, but there his ambition ceased. He was respected and, to a certain extent, feared, even by those who were naturally possessed of stronger natures. There may be something in the fabled power of the human eye to cow a savage beast, but unfortunately it will probably never be satisfactorily demonstrated. A man confronted with the beast will invariably and instinctively trust to his concrete "44" rather than to the abstract force of human magnetism. Yet there is a germ of truth in the proverbial statement. Brought face to face with his human antagonist, the thinking man always stands in fear of himself, of his sense of justice, while the brute in his opponent has no scruples and no desires save those of personal triumph. These things Élise did not see. The things she saw which appealed to her and influenced her were, first of all, Zephyr's fearlessness of others who were feared, his good-natured, philosophical cynicism which ridiculed foibles that he did not feel called upon to combat, his protecting love for her which was always considerate but never obsequious, which was unrestraining yet restrained her in the end. Against his cynical stoicism the waves of her childish rage beat themselves to calm, or, hurt and wounded, she wept out her childish sorrows in his comforting arms. The protecting value of it she did not know, but in Zephyr, and that was the only name by which she knew him, was the only untrammelled outlet for every passion of her childish as well as for her maturing soul. Zephyr alone would have thwarted Morrison's designs on Élise. But Morrison despised Zephyr, even though he feared him. Zephyr in a neutral way had preserved Élise from herself and from her surroundings. Neutral, because his efforts were conserving, not developmental. Neutral, for, while he could keep her feet from straying in paths of destruction, he had through ignorance been unable to guide them in ways that led to a higher life. This mission had been left to Firmstone. Not that Zephyr's work had been less important, for the hand that fallows ground performs as high a mission as the hand that sows the chosen seed. Unconsciously at first, Firmstone had opened the eyes of Élise to vistas, to possibilities which hitherto had been undreamed of. It mattered little that as yet she saw men as trees, the great and saving fact remained, her eyes were opened and she saw. Morrison's eyes were also opened. He saw first the growing influence of Firmstone and later the association of Élise with Miss Hartwell. He could not see that Élise, with the influence of Firmstone, was an impossibility to him. Like a venomous serpent that strikes blindly at the club and not at the man who wields it, Morrison concentrated the full strength of his rage against Firmstone. Perhaps no characterisation of Élise could be stronger than the bald statement that as yet she was entirely oblivious of self. The opening vistas of a broader, higher life were too absorbing, too intoxicating in themselves, to permit the intrusion of the disturbing element of personality. Her eager absorption of the minutest detail, her keen perception of the slightest discordant note, pleased Miss Hartwell as much as it delighted Firmstone. Élise was as spontaneous and unreserved with the latter as with the former. She preferred Firmstone's company because with him was an unconscious personality that met her own on even terms. Firmstone loved strength and beauty for themselves, Miss Hartwell for the personal pleasure they gave her. She was flattered by the childish attention which was tendered her and piqued by the obvious fact that her personality had made only a slight impression upon Élise as compared with that of Firmstone. This particular afternoon Élise was returning from a few hours spent with Miss Hartwell at the Falls. It had been rather unsatisfactory to both. As the sun began to sink behind the mountain they had started down the trail together, but the walk was a silent one. Miss Hartwell had a slight flush of annoyance. Élise, sober and puzzled, was absorbed by thoughts that were as yet undifferentiated and unidentified. They parted at the Blue Goose. Élise turned at the steps and entered by the back door. Morrison was watching, unseen by either. He noted Élise's path, and as she entered he confronted her. Élise barely noticed him and was preparing to go upstairs. Morrison divined her intention and barred her way. "You're getting too high-toned for common folks, ain't you?" Élise paused perforce. There was a struggling look in her eyes. Her thoughts had been too far away from her surroundings to allow of an immediate return. She remained silent. The scowl on Morrison's face intensified. "When you're Mrs. Morrison, you won't go traipsing around with no high-toned bosses and female dudes more than once. I'll learn you." Élise came back with a crash. "Mrs. Morrison!" She did not speak the words, she shrank from them and left them hanging in their self-polluted atmosphere. "Learn me!" The words were vibrant with a low-pitched hum, that smote and bored like the impact of an electric wave. "You--you--snake; you--how dare you!" Morrison did not flinch. The blind fury of a dared beast flamed in his eyes. "Dare, you vixen! I'll make you, or break you! I've been in too many scraps and smelled too much powder to get scared by a hen that's trying to crow." The animal was dominant in Élise. Fury personified flew at Morrison. "You'll teach me; will you? I'll teach you the difference between a hen and a wild cat." The door from the kitchen was opened and Madame came in. She flung herself between Élise and Morrison. The repressed timorous love of years flamed upon the thin cheeks, flashed from the faded eyes. There was no trace of fear. Her slight form fairly shook with the intensity of her passion. "Go! Go! Go!" The last was uttered in a voice little less than a shriek. "Don't you touch Élise. She is mine. Why don't you go?" Her trembling hands pushed Morrison toward the open door. Bewildered, staggered, cowed, he slunk from the room. Madame closed the door. She turned toward Élise. The passion had receded, only the patient pleading was in her eyes. The next instant she saw nothing. Her head was crushed upon Élise's shoulder, the clasping arms caressed and bound, and hot cheeks were pressed against her own. Another instant and she was pushed into a chair. For the first time in her life, Madame's hungry heart was fed. Élise loved her. That was enough. The westward sinking sun had drawn the veil of darkness up from the greying east. Its cycles of waxing and waning were measured by the click of tensioned springs and beat of swinging pendulums. But in the growing darkness another sun was rising, its cycles measured by beating hearts to an unending day. CHAPTER XX _The River Gives up its Prey_ Because Zephyr saw a school of fishes disporting themselves in the water, this never diverted his attention from the landing of the fish he had hooked. This principle of his life he was applying to a particular event. The river had been closely watched; now, at last, his fish was hooked. The landing it was another matter. He needed help. He went for it. Zephyr found Bennie taking his usual after-dinner nap. "Julius Benjamin, it's the eleventh hour," he began, indifferently. Bennie interrupted: "The eleventh hour! It's two o'clock, and the time you mention was born three hours ago. What new kind of bug is biting you?" Zephyr studiously rolled a cigarette. "Your education is deficient, Julius. You don't know your Bible, and you don't know the special force of figurative language. I'm sorry for you, Julius, but having begun I'll see it through. Having put my hand to the plough, which is also figuratively speaking, it's the eleventh hour, but if you'll get into your working clothes and whirl in, I'll give you full time and better wages." Bennie sat upright. "What?" he began. Zephyr's cigarette was smoking. "There's no time to waste drilling ideas through a thick head. The wagon is ready and so is the block and ropes. Come on, and while we're on the way, I'll tackle your wits where the Almighty left off." Bennie's wits were not so muddy as Zephyr's words indicated. He sprang from his bed and into his shoes, and before the stub of Zephyr's cigarette had struck the ground outside the open window Bennie was pushing Zephyr through the door. "Figures be hanged, and you, too. If my wits were as thick as your tongue, they'd be guessing at the clack of it, instead of getting a wiggle on the both of us." The stableman had the wagon hooked up and ready. Zephyr and Bennie clambered in. Bennie caught the lines from the driver and cracking the whip about the ears of the horses, they clattered down the trail to the Devil's Elbow. Zephyr protested mildly at Bennie's haste. "Hold your hush," growled Bennie. "There's a hell of a fight on at the office this day. If you want to see a good man win the sooner we're back with the safe the better." There were no lost motions on their arrival at the Devil's Elbow. The actual facts that had hastened Zephyr's location of the safe were simple. He had studied the position which the stage must have occupied before the bridge fell, its line of probable descent. From these assumed data he inferred the approximate position of the safe in the river and began prodding in the muddy water. At last he was tolerably sure that he had located it. By building a sort of wing dam with loose rock, filling the interstices with fine material, the water of the pool was cut off from the main stream and began to quiet down and grow comparatively clear. Then Zephyr's heart almost stood still. By careful looking he could distinguish one corner of the safe. Without more ado he started for Bennie. The tackle was soon rigged. Taking a hook and chain, Zephyr waded out into the icy water, and after a few minutes he gave the signal to hoist. It was the safe, sure enough. Another lift with the tackle in a new position and the safe was in the wagon and headed for its starting-point. Bennie was rigid with important dignity on the way to the office and was consequently silent save as to his breath, which whistled through his nostrils. As for Zephyr, Bennie's silence only allowed him to whistle or go through the noiseless motions as seemed to suit his mood. The driver was alive with curiosity and spoiling to talk, but his voluble efforts at conversation only confirmed his knowledge of what to expect. When later interrogated as to the remarks of Zephyr and Bennie upon this particular occasion he cut loose the pent-up torrent within him. "You fellows may have heard," he concluded, "that clams is hell on keeping quiet; but they're a flock of blue jays cussin' fer a prize compared with them two fellers." As Firmstone turned to leave the office the door was thrust open and the two men entered. Bennie led, aggressive defiance radiating from every swing and pose. Zephyr, calm, imperturbable, confident, glanced at the red-faced Hartwell and at the set face of Firmstone. He knew the game, he knew his own hand. He intended to play it for its full value. He had an interested partner. He trusted in his skill, but if he made breaks it was no concern of his. "Assuming," he began; "that there's an interesting discussion going on, I beg leave to submit some important data bearing on the same." "Trim your switches," burst out Bennie. "They'll sting harder." The unruffled Zephyr bent a soothing eye on Bennie, moved his hat a little farther back from his forehead, placed his arms leisurely akimbo, and eased one foot by gradually resting his weight on the other. It was not affectation. It was the physical expression of a mental habit. "Still farther assuming," here his eyes slowly revolved and rested on Hartwell, "that truth crushed to earth sometimes welcomes a friendly boost, uninvited, I am here to tender the aforesaid assistance." He turned to Bennie. "Now, Julius, it's up to you. If you'll open the throttle, you can close your blow-off with no danger of bursting your boiler." He nodded his head toward the door. Hartwell's manner was that of a baited bull who, in the multiplicity of his assailants, knew not whom to select for first attack. For days and weeks he had been marshalling his forces for an overwhelming assault on Firmstone. He had ignored the fact that his adversary might have been preparing an able defence in spite of secrecy on his part. It is a wise man who, when contemplating the spoliation of his neighbour, first takes careful account of defensive as well as of offensive means. His personal assault on Firmstone had met with defeat. In the mental rout that followed he was casting about to find means of concealing from others that which he could not hide from himself. The irruption of Bennie and Zephyr threatened disaster even to this forlorn hope. Firmstone knew what was coming. Hartwell could not even guess. As he had seen Firmstone as his first object, so now he saw Zephyr. Blindly as he had attacked Firmstone, so now he lowered his head for an equally blind charge on the placid Zephyr. "Who are you, anyway?" he burst out, with indignant rage. "Me?" Zephyr turned to Hartwell, releasing his lips from their habitual pucker, his eyes resting for a moment on Hartwell. "Oh, I ain't much. I ain't a sack of fertilizer on a thousand-acre ranch." His eyes drooped indifferently. "But at the same time, you ain't no thousand-acre ranch." "That may be," retorted Hartwell; "but I'm too large to make it safe for you to prance around on alone." Zephyr turned languidly to Hartwell. "That's so," he assented. "I discovered a similar truth several decades ago and laid it up for future use. Even in my limited experience you ain't the first thorn-apple that I've seen pears grafted on to. In recognition of your friendly warning, allow me to say that I'm only one in a bunch." A further exchange of courtesies was prevented by the entrance of four men, of whom Bennie was one. Their entrance was heralded by a series of bumps and grunts. There was a final bump, a final grunt, and the four men straightened simultaneously; four bended arms swept the moisture from four perspiring faces. "That's all." Bennie dismissed his helpers with a wave of his hand, then stood grimly repressed, waiting for the next move. The scene was mildly theatrical; unintentionally so, so far as Zephyr was concerned, designedly so on the part of Bennie, who longed to push it to a most thrilling climax. It was not pleasant to Firmstone; but the cause was none of his creating, he was of no mind to interfere with the event. He was only human after all, and that it annoyed and irritated Hartwell afforded him a modicum of legitimate solace. Besides, Zephyr and Bennie were his stanch friends; the recovery of the safe and the putting it in evidence at the most effective moment was their work. The manner of bringing it into play, though distasteful to him, suited their ideas of propriety, and Firmstone felt that they had earned the right to an exhibition of their personalities with no interference on his part. He preserved a passive, dignified silence. As for Hartwell, openly attacked from without, within a no less violent conflict of invisible forces was crowding him to self-humiliation. To retreat from the scene meant either an open confession of wrong-doing, or a refusal on his part to do justice to the man whom he had wronged. To remain was to subject himself to the open triumph of Zephyr and Bennie, and the no less assured though silent triumph of Firmstone. Hartwell's reflections were interrupted by Zephyr's request for the keys to the safe. There was a clatter as Firmstone dropped them into his open hand. Hartwell straightened up with flushed cheeks. Pierre's words again came to him. The whole thing might be a bluff, after all. The safe might be empty. Here was a possible avenue of escape. With the same blind energy with which he had entered other paths, he entered this. He leaned back in his chair with tolerant resignation. "If it amuses you people to make a mountain out of a molehill I can afford to stand it." Bennie looked pityingly at Hartwell. "God Almighty must have it in for you bad, or he'd let you open your eyes t'other end to, once in a while." As the safe was finally opened and one by one the dull yellow bars were piled on the scales, there was too much tenseness to allow of even a show of levity. Zephyr had no doubts. No one could have got at the safe while in the river; he could swear to that. From its delivery to the driver by Firmstone there had been no time nor opportunity to tamper with its contents. As for Firmstone, he had too much at stake to be entirely free from anxiety, though neither voice nor manner betrayed it. He had had experience enough to teach him that it was not sufficient to be honest--one must at all times be prepared to prove it. The last ingot was checked off. Firmstone silently handed Hartwell the copy of his original letter of advice and the totalled figures of the recent weighing. Hartwell accepted them with a cynical smile and laid them indifferently aside. "Well," he remarked; "all I can say is, the company recovered the safe in the nick of time, from whom I don't pretend to say. We've got it, and that's enough." There was a grin of cunning defiance on his face. He had entered a covert where further pursuit was impossible. For once Bennie felt unequal to the emergency. He turned silently, but appealingly, to Zephyr. It was a new experience for Zephyr as well. For the first time in his life he felt himself jarred to the point of quick retort, wholly unconsonant with his habitual serenity. His face flushed. His hand moved jerkily to the bosom of his shirt, only to be as jerkily removed empty. The harmonica was decidedly unequal to the task. His lips puckered and straightened. His final resort was more satisfying. He deliberately seated himself on the safe and began rolling a cigarette. Placing it to his lips, he drew a match along the leg of his trousers. The shielded flame was applied to the cigarette. There came a few deliberate puffs, the cigarette was removed. His crossed leg was thrust through his clasped hands at he leaned backward. Through a cloud of soothing smoke his answer was meditatively voiced. "When the Almighty made man, he must have had a pot of sense on one hand and foolishness on the other, and he put some of each inside every empty skull. He got mighty interested in his work and so absent-minded he used up the sense first. Leastways, some skulls got an unrighteous dose of fool that I can't explain no other way. I ain't blaming the Almighty; he'd got the stuff on his hands and he'd got to get rid of it somehow. It's like rat poison--mighty good in its place, but dangerous to have lying around loose. He just forgot to mix it in, that's all, and we've got to do it for him. It's a heap of trouble and it's a nasty job, and I ain't blaming him for jumping it." CHAPTER XXI _The Sword that Turns_ As Zephyr and Bennie left the office Hartwell turned to Firmstone. There was no outward yielding, within only the determination not to recognise defeat. "The cards are yours; but we'll finish the game." The words were not spoken, but they were in evidence. Firmstone was silent for a long time. He was thinking neither of Hartwell nor of himself. "Well," he finally asked; "this little incident is happily closed. What next?" Hartwell's manner had not changed. "You are superintendent here. Don't ask me. It's up to you." Firmstone restrained himself with an effort. "Is it?" The question carried its own answer with it. It was plainly negative, only Hartwell refused to accept it. "What else are you out here for?" Firmstone's face flushed hotly. "Why can't you talk sense?" he burst out. "I am not aware that I have talked anything else." Hartwell only grew more rigid with Firmstone's visible anger. "If that's your opinion the sooner I get out the better." Firmstone rose and started to the door. "Wait a moment." Firmstone's decision was, by Hartwell, twisted into weakening. On this narrow pivot he turned his preparation for retreat. "The loss of the gold brought me out here. It has been recovered and no questions asked. That ends my work. Now yours begins. When I have your assurance that you will remain with the company in accordance with your contract, I am ready to go. What do you say?" Firmstone thought rapidly and to the point. His mind was soon made up. "I decline to commit myself." The door closed behind him, shutting off further discussion. The abrupt termination of the interview was more than disappointing to Hartwell. It carried with it an element of fear. He had played his game obstinately, with obvious defiance in the presence of Zephyr and Bennie; with their departure he had counted on a quiet discussion with Firmstone. He had no settled policy further than to draw Firmstone out, get him to commit himself definitely while he, with no outward sign of yielding, could retreat with flying colours. He now recognised the fact that the knives with which he had been juggling were sharper and more dangerous than he had thought, but he also felt that, by keeping them in the air as long as possible, when they fell he could at least turn their points from himself. Firmstone's departure brought them tumbling about his ears in a very inconsiderate manner. He must make another move, and in a hurry. Events were no longer even apparently under his control; they were controlling him and pushing him into a course of action not at all to his liking. The element of fear, before passive, was now quivering with intense activity. He closed his mind to all else and bent it toward the forestalling of an action that he could not but feel was immediate and pressing. Partly from Firmstone, partly from Pierre, he had gathered a clear idea that a union was being organised, and this knowledge had impelled him to a course that he would now have given worlds to recall. This act was none else than the engaging of a hundred or more non-union men. On their arrival, he had intended the immediate discharge of the disaffected and the installing of the new men in their places. He had chuckled to himself over the dismay which the arrival of the men would create, but even more over the thought of the bitter rage of Morrison and Pierre when they realised the fact that they had been outwitted and forestalled. The idea that he was forcing upon Firmstone a set of conditions for which he would refuse to stand sponsor had occurred to him only as a possibility so remote that it was not even considered. He was now taking earnest counsel with himself. If Firmstone had contemplated resignation under circumstances of far less moment than the vital one of which he was still ignorant--Hartwell drew his hand slowly across his moistening forehead, then sprang to his feet. Why had he not thought of it before? He caught up his hat and hurried to the door of the outer office. There was not a moment to lose. Before he laid his hand on the door he forced himself to deliberate movement. "Tell the stable boss to hitch up the light rig and bring it to the office." As the man left the room, Hartwell seated himself and lighted a cigar. In a few moments the rig was at the door and Hartwell appeared, leisurely drawing on a pair of driving-gloves. Adjusting the dust-robe over his knees, as he took the lines from the man, he said: "If Mr. Firmstone inquires for me tell him I have gone for a drive." Down past the mill, along the trail by the slide, he drove with no appearance of haste. Around a bend which hid the mill from sight, the horses had a rude awakening. The cigar was thrown aside, the reins tightened, and the whip was cracked in a manner that left no doubt in the horses' minds as to the desires of their driver. In an hour, foaming and panting, they were pulled up at the station. Hitching was really an unnecessary precaution, for a rest was a thing to be desired; but hitched they were, and Hartwell hurried into the dingy office. The operator was leaning back in his chair, his feet beside his clicking instrument, a soothing pipe perfuming the atmosphere of placid dreams. "I want to get off a message at once." Hartwell was standing before the window. The operator's placid dreams assumed an added charm by comparison with the perturbed Hartwell. "You're too late, governor." He slowly raised his eyes, letting them rest on Hartwell. "Too late!" Hartwell repeated, dazedly. "Yep. At once ain't scheduled to make no stops." The operator resumed his pipe and his dreams. "I've no time to waste," Hartwell snapped, impatiently. "Even so," drawled the man; "but you didn't give me no time at all. I don't mind a fair handicap; but I ain't no jay." "Will you give me a blank?" "Oh, now you're talking U. S. all right. I savvy that." Without rising, he pushed a packet of blanks toward the window with his foot. Hartwell wrote hurriedly for a moment, and shoved the message toward the operator. Taking his feet from the desk, he leaned slowly forward, picked up a pencil and began checking off the words. John Haskins, Leadville, Colorado. Do not send the men I asked for. Will explain by letter. Arthur Hartwell. "Things quieting down at the mine?" The operator paused, looking up at Hartwell. Hartwell could not restrain his impatience. "I'm Mr. Hartwell, general manager of the Rainbow Company. Will you attend to your business and leave my affairs alone?" "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hartwell. My name is Jake Studley, agent for R. G. S. I get fifty dollars a month, and don't give a damn for no one." He began clearing the papers from before his instrument and drumming out his call. The call was answered and the message sent. The operator picked up the paper and thrust it on a file. Hartwell's face showed conflicting emotions. He wanted to force the exasperating man to action; but his own case was urgent. He drew from his pocket a roll of bills. Selecting a ten-dollar note, he pushed it toward the operator, who was refilling his pipe. "I want that message to get to Haskins immediately, and I want an answer." The operator shoved the bill into his pocket with one hand, with the other he began another call. There was a pause, then a series of clicks which were cut off and another message sent. The man closed his instrument and winked knowingly at Hartwell. "I squirted a little electricity down the line on my own account. Told them the G. M. was in and ordered that message humped. 'Tain't up to me to explain what G. M. is here." Hartwell went out on the platform and paced restlessly up and down. In about an hour he again approached the window. "How long before I can expect an answer?" "I can't tell. It depends on their finding your man. They'll get a wiggle on 'em, all right. I'll stir them up again before long. Jehosaphat! There's my call now!" He hurriedly answered, then read, word by word, the message as it was clicked off. Arthur Hartwell, Rainbow, Colorado. Message received. Too late. Men left on special last night. John Haskins. Hartwell caught up another blank. John Haskins, Leadville, Colorado. Recall the men without fail. I'll make it worth your while. Arthur Hartwell. There was another weary wait. Finally the operator came from his office. "Sorry, Mr. Hartwell, but Leadville says Haskins left on train after sending first despatch. Says he had a ticket for Salt Lake." "When will that special be here?" Hartwell's voice was husky in spite of himself. "Ought to be here about six. It's three now." "Is there no way to stop it?" "Not now. Haskins chartered it. He's the only one that can call it off, and he's gone." Hartwell's face was pale and haggard. He again began pacing up and down, trying in vain to find a way of doing the impossible. The fact that he had temporised, resolutely set his face against the manly thing to do, only to find the same alternative facing him at every turn, more ominous and harder than ever, taught him nothing. The operator watched him as he repeatedly passed. His self-asserting independence had gone, in its place was growing a homely sympathy for the troubled man. As Hartwell passed him again he called out: "Say, governor, I know something about that business at the mine, and 'tain't up to you to worry. Your old man up there is a corker. They're on to him all right. He'll just take one fall out of that crowd that'll do them for keeps." Hartwell paused, looking distantly at the speaker. He was not actively conscious of him, hardly of his words. The operator, not understanding, went on with more assurance. "I know Jack Haskins. This ain't the first time he's been called on to help out in this kind of a racket, you bet! He's shipped you a gang that 'ud rather fight than eat. All you've got to do is to say 'sick 'em' and then lay back and see the fur fly." Hartwell turned away without a word and went to his rig. He got in and drove straight for the mill. His mind was again made up. This time it was made up aright. Only--circumstances did not allow it to avail. As he drove away he did not notice a man in miner's garb who looked at him sharply and resumed his way. The operator was still on the platform as the man came to a halt. He was deriving great satisfaction from the crackling new bill which he was caressing in his pocket. The new bill would soon have had a companion, had he kept quiet, but this he could not know. Glancing at the miner, he remarked, benevolently: "Smelling trouble, and pulling out, eh?" "What do you mean?" The new-comer looked up stupidly. "Just this. I reckon you've run up against Jack Haskins's gang before, and ain't hankering for a second round." "Jack Haskins's gang comin'?" There was an eagerness in the man's manner which the operator misunderstood. "That's what, and a hundred strong." The man turned. "Thanks, pard. Guess I'll go back and tell the boys. Perhaps they'd like a chance to git, too; then again they mightn't." Tipping a knowing wink at the open-mouthed operator, he turned on his heel and walked briskly away. He too was headed for the mill. The operator's jaw worked spasmodically for a moment. "Hen's feathers and skunk oil! If he ain't a spy, I'll eat him. Oh, Lord! Old Firmstone and Jack Haskins's gang lined up against the Blue Goose crowd! Jake, my boy, listen to me. You can get another job if you lose this; but to-morrow you are going to see the sight of your life." CHAPTER XXII _Good Intentions_ Returning from the station, Hartwell drove rapidly until he came to the foot of the mountain that rose above the nearly level mesa. Even then he tried to urge his jaded team into a pace in some consonance with his anxiety; but the steep grades and the rarefied air appealed more strongly to the exhausted animals than did the stinging lash he wielded. As, utterly blown, they came to a rest at the top of a steep grade, Hartwell became aware of the presence of three men who rose leisurely as the team halted. Two of them stood close by the horses' heads, the third paused beside the wagon. "Howdy!" he saluted, with a grin. "What do you want?" A hold-up was the only thing that occurred to Hartwell. "Just a little sociable talk. You ain't in no hurry?" The grin broadened. "I am." Hartwell reached for his whip. "None of that!" The grin died away. The two men each laid a firm hand on the bridles. "Will you tell me what this means?" There was not a quaver in Hartwell's voice, no trace of fear in his eyes. "By-and-by. You just wait. You got a gun?" "No; I haven't." "I don't like to dispute a gentleman; but it's better to be safe. Just put up your hands." Hartwell complied with the request. The man passed his hands rapidly over Hartwell's body, then turned away. "All right," he said, then seated himself and began filling his pipe. "How long am I expected to wait?" Hartwell's tone was sarcastic. "Sorry I can't tell you. It just depends. I'll let you know when." He relapsed into silence that Hartwell could not break with all his impatient questions or his open threats. The men left the horses' heads and seated themselves in the road. It occurred to Hartwell to make a dash for liberty, but there was a cartridge-belt on each man and holsters with ready guns. In the deep cañon the twilight was giving way to darkness that was only held in check by the strip of open sky above and by a band of yellow light that burned with lambent tongues on the waving foliage which overhung the eastern cliff. Chattering squirrels and scolding magpies had long since ceased their bickerings; if there were other sounds that came with the night, they were overcome by the complaining river which ceased not day nor night to fret among the boulders that strewed its bed. Like a shaft of light piercing the darkness a whistle sounded, mellowed by distance. The man near the wagon spoke. "That's a special. Where in hell's Jack?" "On deck." A fourth man came to a halt. He paused, wiping the perspiration from his face. "They're coming, a hundred strong. Jakey coughed it up, and it didn't cost a cent." He laughed. "It's Jack Haskins's crowd, too." The man by the wagon addressed Hartwell. "I can tell you now. It's an all-night wait. Tumble out lively. Better take your blankets, if you've got any. It's liable to be cool before morning right here. It'll be hotter on the mountain, but you'd better stay here." Hartwell did not stir. "Out with you now, lively. We ain't got no time to waste." Hartwell obeyed. The man sprang into the wagon and, pitching out the blankets, gathered up the lines. "Come on, boys." Turning to his companion, he said, "You stay with him, Jack. He ain't heeled; but don't let him off." To Hartwell direct, "Don't try to get away. We'll deliver your message about the special." His companions were already in the wagon and they started up the trail. Jack turned to his charge. "Now, if you'll just be a good boy and mind me, to-morrow I'll take you to the circus." CHAPTER XXIII _An Unexpected Recruit_ Like the majority of men in the West, Jake Studley took the view that all men are equal, and that the interests of one are the concerns of all. A civil answer to what in other climes would be considered impertinent curiosity was the unmistakable shibboleth of the coequal fraternity. Hartwell's manner had been interpreted by Jakey as a declaration of heresy to his orthodox code and the invitation to mind his own business as a breach of etiquette which the code entailed. Jakey thereupon assumed the duties of a defender of the faith, and, being prepared for action, moved immediately upon the enemy. The attack developed the unexpected. Hartwell's bill, tendered in desperation, was accepted in error, not as a bribe, but as an apology. Jakey sounded "cease firing" to his embattled lines, and called in his attacking forces. He had taken salt, henceforth he was Hartwell's friend and the friend of his friends. Jakey took neither himself nor his life seriously. He was station agent, freight agent, express agent, and telegraph operator at Rainbow Station, R. G. S., and he performed his various duties with laudable promptness, when nothing more promising attracted his attention. Just now the "more promising" was in sight. The company had no scruples in dismissing employees without warning, and Jakey had no quixotic principles which restrained him for a moment from doing to others what they would do to him if occasion arose. Jakey did not hold that the world owed him a living, but he considered that it possessed a goodly store of desirable things and that these were held in trust for those who chose to take them. Being "broke" did not appal him, nor the loss of a job fill him with quaking. The railroad was not the whole push, and if he could not pump electric juice he could wield a pick or rope a steer with equal zeal. Just now the most desirable thing that the world held in trust was the coming fight at the Rainbow. Accordingly he wired the R. G. S. officials that there was a vacancy at Rainbow Station. The said officials, being long accustomed to men of Jakey's stamp, merely remarked, "Damn!" and immediately wired to the nearest junction point to send another man to take the vacant position. Jakey admired Firmstone, and this admiration prepossessed him in Firmstone's favour. The prepossession was by no means fixed and invulnerable, and had not Hartwell cleared himself of suspected heresy, he would have lent the same zeal, now kindling within him, to the Blue Goose rather than the Rainbow. In what he recognised as the first round of the opening fight Jakey realised that the Blue Goose had scored. But, before the special pulled in, he was ready, and this time he was sure of his move. "By the Great Spirit of the noble Red Man," Jakey was apostrophising the distant mountains in ornate language; "what kind of a low-down bird are you, to be gathered in by a goose, and a blue one at that?" Jakey paused, gazing earnestly at the retreating figure of the miner. Then, shaking his fist at the man's back, "Look here, you down-trodden serf of capitalistic oppression, I'll show you! Don't you fool yourself! Tipped me the grand ha-ha; did you? Well, you just listen to me! 'Stead of milking the old cow, you've just rubbed off a few drops from her calf's nose. That's what, as I'll proceed to demonstrate." Jakey's loyalty had been wavering, passive, and impersonal. Now his personal sympathies were enlisted, for the path of self-vindication lay through the triumph of the Rainbow. Before the special had come to a standstill its animated cargo began to disembark. Coatless men with woollen shirts belted to trousers, the belts sagging with their heavy loads of guns and cartridges, every man with a roll of blankets and many with carbines as well, testified to the recognition of the fact that the path of the miner's pick must be cleared by burning powder. Jakey, thrusting his way through the boisterous crowd, forced upon the resentful conductor his surrendered insignia of office, then mingled with his future associates. He met a hilarious welcome, as the knowledge spread from man to man that he was with them. Its practical expression was accompanied by the thrusting of uncorked bottles at his face and demands that he should "drink hearty" as a pledge of fellowship. Jakey waved them aside. "Put them up, boys, put them up. Them weapons ain't no use, not here. They're too short range, and they shoot the wrong way." The leader pushed his way through the crowd around Jakey. "That's right, boys. It's close to tally now. Where's the Rainbow trail?" With elaborate figures, punctuated by irreverent adjectives, Jakey pointed out the trail and his reasons against taking it. "It's good medicine to fight a skunk head on," he concluded; "but when you go up against a skunk, a coyote, and a grizzly wrapped up in one skin, you want to be circumspect. Morrison's a skunk, Pierre's a coyote, and the rest are grizzlies, and you don't want to fool yourselves just because the skin of the beast grows feathers instead of fur." The leader listened attentively and, from the thick husk of Jakey's figures, he stripped the hard grains of well-ripened truth. Jakey laid small emphasis on the manner in which the envoy of the Blue Goose had gained his information. He had personal reasons for that, but the fact that the information was gained sufficed. The men grew silent as they realised that the battle was on and that they were in the enemy's country. Under the guidance of Jakey they tramped up the track, turned toward what appeared as a vertical cliff, and clambered slowly and painfully over loose rocks, through stunted evergreens, and at last stood upon the rolling surface of the mesa above. From here on, the path was less obstructed. It was near midnight when the dull roar of the mill announced the proximity of their goal. As silently as they had followed the tortuous trail, so silently each wrapped himself in his blankets and lay down to sleep. CHAPTER XXIV _The Gathering to its Own_ Had Firmstone known of Hartwell's move, which was to bring affairs to an immediate and definite crisis, his actions would have been shaped along different lines. But the only one who could have given this knowledge blindly withheld it until it was beyond his power to give. At the mill Firmstone noticed a decided change in Luna. The foreman was sullen in look and act. He answered Firmstone's questions almost insolently, but not with open defiance. His courage was not equal to giving full voice to his sullen hatred. Firmstone paid little heed to the man's behaviour, thinking it only a passing mood. After a thorough inspection of the mill, he returned to the office. "Mr. Hartwell said, if you inquired for him, that I was to tell you he had gone for a drive." The man anticipated his duty before Firmstone inquired. "Very well," Firmstone replied, as he entered the office. He busied himself at his desk for a long time. Toward night he ordered his horse to be saddled. He had determined to go to the mine. He had decided to move with a strong hand, to force his authority on the rebellious, as if it had not been questioned, as if he himself had no question as to whether it would be sustained. Hartwell had refused to indicate his position; he would force him to act, if not to speak. His after course events would decide; but half-way measures were no longer to be tolerated. As he rode by the Falls, he met Zephyr on his way down. Zephyr was the first to speak. "A weather-cock," he remarked, "has a reputation for instability of character which it does not deserve. It simply pays impartial attention to a breeze or a hurricane. In fact, it's alive to anything that's going in the wind line. We call a weather-cock fickle and a man wide-awake for doing the same thing." He paused, looking inquiringly at Firmstone. Firmstone was in anything but an allegorical mood, yet he knew that Zephyr had something of interest to communicate, and so restrained any manifestation of impatience which he might have felt. "Well?" he answered. "Say, Goggles"--Zephyr continued his allegory--"I've studied weather-cocks. I take note that when one of them so-called fickle-minded inanimates goes jerking around the four cardinal points and feeling of what's between, it's just responding to the fore-running snorts of a pull-up and come-along cyclone. That's why I'm bobbing up and down like an ant looking for its long-lost brother. There's a cyclone on its way, Goggles, and it's going to light hereabouts right soon." "I guess you're right, Zephyr." Firmstone gathered his reins, preparatory to resuming his way, but Zephyr laid a detaining hand on the horse's neck. It was not in Zephyr to make haste easily. His undulating shoulders indicated a necessity for immediate speech. The words, sizzling from between closed lips, were a compromise. "You have more sense than many weather-cocks, and more sand than a gravel train." Zephyr's face began to twitch. "Wait!" The word came forth explosively; the detaining hand grasped the bridle firmly. "Say, Goggles, I was dead wrong. Do you hear? About Élise. You remember? At the Devil's Elbow. She ain't Pierre's girl. She's as much of a lady as you are. Keep still! Listen! A hurricane ain't got sense. It'll pull up a weed as quick as an oak. It's coming. For the love of God and me especially, if I get pulled, look out for her! Say yes, and go along. Don't fool with me! You'll swallow a barrel of water to get a drink of whisky." Firmstone only stretched out his hand. Zephyr took it for an instant, then flung it aside. The next moment he was striding down the trail. Firmstone heard the strain of the jarring reeds of the harmonica shrill triumphantly, penetrated now and then by louder notes as a plunging step jarred a stronger breath through his lips. At the mine, Firmstone found his work cut out for him. On the narrow platform of the mine boarding-house, the foreman was standing with his cap shoved far back on his head, his hands in his pockets. There was an insolent poise to the head that only intensified the sneering smile on the lips. He was surrounded by a dozen or more of the men whom Firmstone had marked as makers of trouble. "Well, what in hell you up here for? Think I can't run a mine?" The foreman called into play every expression of coarse contempt at his command. "Not this one for me. Go into the office, and I'll make out your time." The foreman did not move. Firmstone made no threatening gesture as he advanced. The foreman's eyes wavered, cast behind him at the gaping men, then he turned as Firmstone ordered. In the office Firmstone wrote out a time check and tendered it to the man. "Now pack up and get down the hill." There were discordant cries outside that grew nearer and more distinct. As the foreman opened the door to pass out he flung back a defiant grin, but his words were drowned by a babel of voices that were surging into the ante-room from the platform and dining-room. Firmstone closed and locked the office door behind him. In an instant he was surrounded by a crowd of gesticulating, shouting men. There was a spreading pressure on all sides, as men were pushed back from an opening ring in the centre of the room. A man with blood-stained face rose, only to be again hurled to the floor by a stunning blow. Firmstone crushed his way into the ring. "No fighting here." The man dropped his eyes. "I ain't going to be called down by no scab." "If you want to fight, get off the company's grounds!" Firmstone moved between them. "I want my time." The man's eyes were still downcast. "You'll get it." The ring closed up again. "Are we let out?" "The whole push fired?" A burly, red-faced man pushed his way to the front. "Say, Mr. Firmstone! Don't make no mistake. This ain't you. You're the whitest boss that ever looked down my shirt collar. That's so. That's what the boys all say. Just you pull out from the company and go with us. We'll carry you right up to glory on the back of a fire-snorting alligator." Firmstone paid no attention to the man. He went from end to end of the room. The men gave way in front, only closing in behind. There was a hushed silence. "There's no shut-down. Any man who wants work can have it and be taken care of. Any one who wants to quit, come for your time right now!" As Firmstone again turned toward the office he was conscious for the first time of a thick-set man with kindly eyes, now steely-hard, who followed his every motion. It was the night-shift boss. "You're with me?" "You bet, and plenty more." "Hold them down. Send the men in, one by one, who want to quit. How about the magazine?" "All right. Two men and four guns. They're with you till hell freezes, and then they'll skate." It was midnight before the last man called for his time. Firmstone laid down his pen. "I'm shy a foreman. Will you take the job?" Firmstone addressed the shift boss. "Yes, till you can do better." "All right. You better move around pretty lively for to-night. I'll stay in the office till morning." The man left the office. He had not been gone long before there was a timid knock at the office door. "Come in," Firmstone called. The door was opened hesitatingly and two men entered. They stood with lowered eyes, shifting their caps from hand to hand, and awkwardly balancing from foot to foot. "Well?" Firmstone spoke sharply. "Me and my partner want our jobs back." "You'll have to see Roner. He's foreman now." "Where is he?" "In the mine." "Can we take our bunks till morning, sir?" "Yes." The men left the office. Outside, their manner changed. Nudging elbows grated each other's ribs. The darkness hid their winks. Firmstone had made a sad mistake. He was not omniscient. The men knew what he did not. They had been down to the Blue Goose and had returned with a mission. CHAPTER XXV _A Divided House_ In her little alcove at the Blue Goose Élise was gaining information every day of the progress of affairs, but in spite of impatience, in spite of doubt, she had seen nothing, heard nothing that seemed to demand immediate action on her part. She had made up her mind that a crisis was approaching. She had also determined with whom she would cast in her lot. It was late when Hartwell's team pulled up at the Blue Goose. A crowd of excited men surrounded it, but the driver and his companions made no reply to loud questions as they sprang from the wagon and entered the door. Morrison was the first to halt them. The driver broke out with a string of oaths. "It's so. Jack Haskins's gang is coming. Hartwell is taken care of all right. If his crowd try to make it through the cañon, there won't a hundred show up, to-morrow." He ended with a coarse laugh. Morrison listened till the driver had finished. Then he turned toward Pierre. Pierre was standing just in front of the alcove, hiding Élise from Morrison. Morrison advanced, shaking his fist. "Now you've got it, you trimmer. What are you going to do? I told you they were coming, and I've fixed for it." Pierre stood with his hands in his pockets. There was the old oily smile on his face, but his eyes were dangerous. Morrison did not observe them. "Why don't you speak? You're called." Morrison glanced over his shoulder at the silent crowd. "He's got a frog in his throat! The last one he swallowed didn't go down." Morrison was very near death. He noticed the crowd part hurriedly and turned in time to look into the muzzle of Pierre's revolver. The parting of the crowd was explained. An unlighted cigar was between Pierre's teeth. They showed gleaming white under his black moustache. Only bright points of light marked his eyes between their narrowed lids. Still holding his revolver point-blank, with thumb and finger he raised and lowered the hammer. The sharp, even click pierced Morrison's nerves like electric shocks. It was not in man to endure this toying with death. Surprise gave place to fear, and this in turn to mortal agony. His face paled. Great drops stood out on his forehead, gathered and streamed down his face. He feared to move, yet he trembled. His legs shook under him. There was a final stagger, but his terrified eyes never left Pierre's face. With a shuddering groan, he sank helpless to the floor. Pierre's smile broadened horribly. He lowered his weapon and, turning aside, thrust it in his pocket. Morrison had died a thousand deaths. If he lived he would die a thousand more. This Pierre knew. For this reason and others he did not shoot. Pierre also knew other things. Morrison had refused to take heed to his words. He had gone his own way. He had made light of Pierre before the men. Last of all, he had gained courage to taunt Pierre to his face with weakening, had bitterly accused him of using Élise as a means of ingratiating himself with the Rainbow crowd. Pierre was not above taking a human life as a last resort; but even then he must see clearly that the gain warranted the risk. Morrison had been weighed and passed upon. A dead Morrison meant a divided following. A living Morrison, cowed and beaten and shamed before them all, was dead to Pierre. This was Pierre's reasoning, and he was right. The first step had been taken. The next one he was not to take; but this fact did not nullify Pierre's logic. Given time, Pierre knew that Morrison would be beaten, discredited, do what he would. Luna helped the fallen Morrison to his feet. The first thing Morrison noticed was Pierre walking away toward the private office. Luna again approached Morrison with a brimming glass of brandy. "Take this down. Lord! That was a nerve-peeler! I don't blame you for going under." Morrison swallowed the liquor at a gulp. The pallor died away and a hot flush mounted his face. "I've got him to settle with, too. I'll make him squeal before I'm done." The crowd had surged to the door to meet a swarm of howling men who had just come down from the mine. Three or four remained with Luna around Morrison. His voice was hoarse and broken. "He's thrown us over. You see that? It's up to us to play it alone. He's put it up to your face that he's with you, but he's playing against you. He can't stop us now. It's gone too far. The first tug is coming, to-morrow. We'll win out, hands down. The Rainbow first, then Pierre." He ended with a string of profanity. Luna took up Morrison's broken thread. "There's fifty men with rifles in the cañon. Hartwell's gang will never get through. The boys are going to shoot at sight." "Where's Firmstone?" Morrison's face writhed. "Up to the mine. He's getting in his work." Luna looked over his shoulder at the crowd of miners. "That's so. The foreman's fired. So am I. He is going to die boss." The man grinned, as he held out a time check. "He'll die, anyway." Morrison's jaws set. "You're sure he's at the mine?" "Dead sure. He's got his work cut out to-night. Lots of scabs held out. He's put the night boss in foreman." The man grinned again. Morrison laid a hand on his shoulder. "You're game?" "You bet I am!" "Go back to the mine to-night----" "And miss all the fun down here?" the man interrupted. Morrison's hand rested more heavily on the shoulder. "Don't get flip. Have some fun of your own up there. The supe will hear the racket down here early. He'll start down with his scabs to help out. Two men can start a racket there that will keep him guessing. If he's started it will fetch him back. If he hasn't he won't start at all." "What kind of a racket, for instance?" Morrison swung impatiently on his foot. "What's the matter with letting off a box or two of powder under the tram?" "Nothing. Is that our job?" "Yes. And see that it's done." "That's me. Come on, Joe. Let's have a drink first." These two were the penitents whom Firmstone had taken back. The greater number of the men were crowded around the gilded bar, drinking boisterously to the success of the union and death to scabs and companies. A few, more sober-minded, but none the less resolute, gathered around Morrison. They were the leaders upon whom he depended for the carrying out of his orders, or for acting independently of them on their own initiative, as occasion might demand. With logic fiendish in its cunning, he pointed out to them their right to organise, laid emphasis on their pacific intentions only to defend their rights, and having enlarged upon this, he brought into full play Hartwell's fatal error. "You see," he concluded; "right or wrong, the company's gone in to win. They ain't taking no chances, and the law's at their backs. You know Haskins's gang. You know what they're here for. They're here to shoot, and they'll shoot to kill. Suppose you go out like lambs? That won't make no difference. It'll be too tame for them, unless some one's killed. What if it is murder and one of the gang is pulled? They've got the whole gang at their back and the company's money. Suppose we go out one by one and shoot back? Self-defence?" Morrison snapped his fingers. "That's our chance to get off. We've got to pull together. In a general mix-up, we'll be in it together, and there ain't no law to string up the whole push. Stick together. That's our hold. If Haskins's gang is wiped out to-morrow, and that glass-eyed supe with them, who'll get jumped? If the mine and mill both get blowed up, who's done it? The fellows who did it ain't going to tell, and it won't be good medicine for any one else to do it, even if he wants to." "Who's going to open up?" one of the men asked, soberly. Morrison turned carelessly. "That's a fool question. Folks that ain't looking for trouble don't put caps and powder in a bag to play foot-ball with. Both sides are putting up kicks. Who's to blame?" The man looked only half convinced. "Well, we ain't, and we don't want to be. If we keep quiet, and they open up on us, we've got a right to defend ourselves. Unless," he added, meditatively, "we get out beforehand, then there won't be any questions to ask." Morrison turned fiercely. "How much did you get?" "Get for what?" "How much did the company put up to stand you off?" "I haven't been bought off by the company," the man answered, fiercely; "and I ain't going to be fooled off by you." Morrison lifted his hand, palm outward. "That's all right. Go right on, first door right. Go right in. Don't knock. You'll find Pierre. He's scab-herding now." Morrison passed among the thronging men, giving suggestions and orders for the morning's struggle. His manner was forced, rather than spontaneous. Pierre's leaven was working. To Élise at her desk it seemed as if the revel would never end. She had made up her mind what to do, she was awaiting the time to act. She did not dare to leave her place now; Morrison would be certain to notice her absence and would suspect her designs. There was nothing to do but wait. It was after one o'clock when, slipping out from the alcove, she ostentatiously closed the office-door and, locking it, walked through the passage that led to the dining-room. Her footsteps sounded loudly as she went upstairs to her room. She intended they should. In her room, she took down a dark, heavy cloak, and, throwing it over her shoulders, drew the hood over her head. A moment she stood, then turned and silently retraced her steps. As the outside door closed noiselessly behind her, there was a momentary tightening around her heart. After all, she was leaving the only friends she had ever known. They were crude, coarse, uncouth, but she knew them. She knew that they would not remain ignorant of her actions this night. It would cut her off from them forever, and what was her gain? Only those she had known for a day, those whose very words of kindness had shown her how wide was the gulf that parted her from them. How wide it was she had never realised till now when she was to attempt to cross it, with the return for ever barred. She recalled the easy grace of Miss Hartwell, considerate with a manner that plainly pointed to their separate walks in life. And Firmstone? He had been more than kind, but the friendly light in his eyes, the mobile sympathy of his lips, these did not come to her now. What if the steel should gleam in his eyes, the tense muscles draw the lips in stern rebuke, the look that those eyes and lips could take, when they looked on her, not as Élise of the Blue Goose, but Élise, a fugitive, a dependant? The colour deepened, the figure grew rigid. She was neither a fugitive nor a dependant. She was doing right; how it would be accepted was no concern of hers. The shadow of the great mountain fell across the gulch and lay sharp and clear on the flank of the slide beyond. Overhead, in the deep blue, the stars glinted and shone, steely hard. Élise shivered in a hitherto unknown terror as she crept into the still deeper shadow of the stunted spruces that fringed the talus from the mountain. She did not look behind. Had she done so she might have seen another shadow stealing cautiously, but swiftly, after her, only pausing when she passed from sight within the entrance to the office at the mill. Zephyr had despoiled the Blue Goose of its lesser prey. He had no intention of stopping at that. Élise had gained her first objective point. It was long before the light in Miss Hartwell's room over the office descended the stairs and appeared at the outer door. Her face was pale, but yet under control. Only, as she clasped the hand that had knocked for admission, she could not control the grasp that would not let go its hold, even when the door was relocked. "It was very good of you to come." CHAPTER XXVI _The Day of Reckoning_ If Miss Hartwell was a debtor she was a creditor as well. In spite of a calm exterior, the hand that so tightly clasped Élise's throbbed and pulsed with every tumultuous beat of the heart that was stirred with a strange excitement born of mortal terror. Gradually the rapid strokes slowed down till, with the restful calm that comes to strained nerves in the presence of a stronger, unquestioning will, the even ebb and flow of pulsing blood resumed its normal tenor. The bread that Élise had cast upon the waters returned to her in a manifold measure. The vague sense of oppression which she had felt on leaving the doors of the Blue Goose gave way to an equally vague sense of restful assurance. She could dissect neither emotion, nor could she give either a name. The sense of comfort was vague; other emotions stood out clearly. These demanded immediate attention. She rose gently, but decidedly. The calm beat of the clasping hand again quickened with her motion. "I must leave you now." Her voice was even, but full of sympathy. "Don't. Please don't. I can't bear it." "I must; and you must." She was gently freeing the clasping hand. "Where are you going?" "To the mine, to warn Mr. Firmstone." "Don't go! Why not telephone?" The last was spoken with eagerness born of the inspiration of despair. "The wires are cut." Her hand was free now and Miss Hartwell was also standing. There was a deathly pallor on the quiet face, only the rapid beat of the veins on her temples showed the violence of the emotion she was mastering so well. "But my brother?" "Your brother is perfectly safe." Élise told briefly the circumstances of Hartwell's capture and detention. "They have men posted in the cañon; they have men between here and the mine. Mr. Firmstone does not know it. He will try to come down. They will kill him. He must not try to come down." "How can you get up there?" Miss Hartwell clutched eagerly at this straw. Élise smiled resolutely. "I am going up on the tram. Now you must listen carefully." She unbuckled her belt and placed her revolver in Miss Hartwell's listless hands. "Keep away from the windows. If there is any firing lie down on the floor close to the wall. Nothing will get through the logs." She turned toward the door. "You must come and lock up after me." At the door Miss Hartwell stood for a moment, irresolute. She offered no further objections to Élise's going. That it cost a struggle was plainly shown in the working lines of her face. Only for a moment she stood, then, yielding to an overmastering impulse, she laid her hands on the shoulders of Élise. "Good-bye," she whispered. "You are a brave girl." Élise bent her lips to those of Miss Hartwell. "Yours is the hardest part. But it isn't good-bye." The door closed behind her, and she heard the click of the bolt shot home. There were a few resolute men in the mill. It was short-handed; but the beating stamps pounded out defiance. In the tram tower Élise spoke to the attendant. "Stop the tram." The swarthy Italian touched his hat. "Yes, miss." The grinding brake was applied and an empty bucket swung gently to and fro. "Now, Joe, do just as I tell you. I am going up in this bucket." She glanced at the number. "When three-twenty comes in stop. Don't start up again for a half hour at least." The man looked at her in dumb surprise. "You go in the tram?" he asked. "What for?" "To warn Mr. Firmstone." For reply, the man brushed her aside and began clambering into the empty bucket. "Me go," he said, grimly. Élise laid a detaining hand upon him. "No. You must run the tram. I can't." "Me go," he insisted. "Cable jump sheave? What matter? One damn dago gone. Plenty more. No more Élise." Élise pulled at him violently. He was ill-balanced. The pull brought him to the floor, but Élise did not loose her hold. Her eyes were flashing. "Do as I told you." The man brought a ladder and Élise sprang lightly up the rounds. "All right," she said. "Go ahead." The man unloosed the brake. There was a tremor along the cable; the next instant the bucket shot from the door of the tower and glided swiftly up the line. "Don't forget. Three-twenty." Already the voice was faint with distance. In spite of injunctions to the contrary, Miss Hartwell was looking out of the window. She saw, below the shafts of sunlight already streaming over the mountain, the line of buckets stop, swing back and forth, saw the cable tremble, and again the long line of buckets sway gently as the cable grew taut and the buckets again slid up and down. Her heart was beating wildly as she lifted her eyes to the dizzy height. She knew well what the stopping and the starting meant. Sharp drawn against the lofty sky, the great cable seemed a slender thread to hold a human life in trust. What if the clutch should slip that held the bucket in place? What if other clutches should slip and let the heavy masses of steel slide down the cable to dash into the one that held the girl who had grown so dear to her? In vain she pushed these possibilities aside. They returned with increased momentum and hurled themselves into her shrinking soul. There were these dangers. "All employees of the Rainbow Company are forbidden to ride on the tram. ANY EMPLOYEE VIOLATING THIS RULE WILL BE INSTANTLY DISCHARGED." These words burned themselves on her vision in characters of fire. Élise had explained all of these things to her, and now! She buried her face in her trembling hands. Not for long. Again her face, pale and drawn, was turned upward. She moaned aloud. A black mass clinging to the cable was rising and sinking, swaying from side to side, a slender figure poised in the swinging bucket, steadied by a white hand that grasped the rim of steel. She turned from the window resolved to see no more. Her resolution fled. She was again at the window with upturned face and straining eyes, white lips whispering prayers that God might be good to the girl who was risking her life for another. The slender threads even then had vanished. There was only a fleck of black floating high above the rambling town, above the rocks mercilessly waiting below. She did not see all. At the mine two stealthy men were even then stuffing masses of powder under the foundations that held the cables to their work. Even as she looked and prayed a flickering candle flame licked into fiery life a hissing, spitting fuse and two men scrambled and clambered to safety from the awful wreck that was to come. A smoking fuse eating its way to death and "320" not yet in the mill! She saw another sight. From out the shadow of the eastern mountain, a band of uncouth men emerged, swung into line and bunched on the level terrace beyond the boarding-house. Simultaneously every neighbouring boulder blossomed forth in tufts of creamy white that writhed and widened till they melted in thin air like noisome, dark-grown fungi that wilt in the light of day. Beyond and at the feet of the clustered men spiteful spurts of dust leaped high in air, then drifted and sank, to be replaced by others. Faint, meaningless cries wove through the drifting crash of rifles, blossoming tufts sprang up again and again from boulders near and far. Answering cries flew back from the opening cluster of men, other tufts tongued with yellow flame sprang out from their levelled guns. Now and then a man spun around and dropped, a huddled grey on the spurting sand. It was not in man long to endure the sheltered fire. Dragging their wounded, Jack Haskins's gang again converged, and headed in wild retreat for the office. The opposing tufts came nearer, and now and then a dark form straightened and advanced to another shelter, or was hidden from sight by a bubble of fleecy white that burst from his shoulder. Close at the heels of the fleeing men the spiteful spurts followed fast, till they died out in the thud of smitten logs and the crashing glass of the office. The answering fire of the beleaguered men died to silence. The dark, distant forms grew daring, ran from shelter and clustered at the foot of the slide, across the trail from the Blue Goose. Rambling shots, yells of defiance and triumph, broke from the gathering strikers. The shafts of sunlight had swept down the mountain, smiting hard the polished windows of the Blue Goose that blazed and flamed in their fierce glory. Suddenly the clustered throng of strikers broke and fled. Cries of terror pierced the air. "The cables! The cables!" Overhead the black webs were sinking and rising with spiteful snaps that whirled the buckets in wild confusion and sent their heavy loads of ore crashing to the earth, five hundred feet below. Then, with a rushing, dragging sweep, buckets and cables whirled downward. Full on the Blue Goose the tearing cables fell, dragging it to earth, a crushed and broken mass. Morrison's emissaries had done their work well. The tram-house at the mine had been blown up. They had accomplished more than he had hoped for. Pierre was in the bar-room when the cables fell. He had no time to escape, even had he seen or known. Momentarily forgetful, the strikers swarmed around the fallen building, tearing aside crushed timbers, tugging at the snarled cable, if perchance some of their own were within the ruins. There came the spiteful spat of a solitary bullet, then a volley. With a yell of terror, the strikers broke and fled to the talus behind the saloon. They were now the pursued. They paused to fire no return shots. Stumbling, scrambling, dodging, through tangled scrub and sheltering thicket, down by the mill, down through the cañon, spurred by zipping bullets that clipped twigs and spat on stones around them; down by the Devil's Elbow they fled, till sheltering scrub made pursuit dangerous; then, unmolested, they scattered, one by one, in pairs, in groups, never to return. Even yet the startled echoes were repeating to the peaceful mountains the tale of riot and death, but they bent not from their calm to the calm below that was looking up to them with the eyes of death. Set in its frame of splintered timbers, the body of Pierre rested, a ruined life in a ruined structure, and both still in death. Wide-open eyes stared from the swarthy face, the strained lips parted in a sardonic smile, showing for the last time the gleaming teeth. Morrison had triumphed, but the wide open eyes saw the triumph that was yet defeat. Far up on the mountain-side they looked and saw death pursuing death. They saw Morrison climbing higher and higher, saw him strain his eyes ever ahead, never behind, saw them rest on two figures, saw Morrison crouch behind a rock and a shimmer of light creep along the barrel of his levelled rifle. The eyes seemed eager as they rested on another figure above him that stretched forth a steady hand; saw jets of flame spring from two guns. Then they gleamed with a brighter light as they saw the rifle fall from Morrison's hand; saw Morrison straighten out, even as he lay, his face upturned and silent. That was all in life that Pierre cared to know. Perhaps the sun had changed, but the gleam of triumph in the staring eyes faded to the glaze of death. Élise knew well the danger that went with her up the line. It laid strong hold upon her, as the loosened brake shot the bucket up the dizzy cable. As she was swept up higher and higher she could only hope and pray that the catastrophe which she knew was coming might be delayed until the level stretch above the Falls was reached, where the cables ran so near the ground she might descend in safety. She had given Joe the right number, and she knew that nothing short of death would keep him from heeding her words. She turned her thoughts to other things. Cautiously she raised her eyes above the rim of the bucket and scanned the winding trail. She saw men crouching behind boulders, but Firmstone was not in sight, and strength and courage returned. Her bucket swept up over the crest of the Falls, and her heart stood still, as it glided along swiftly, eating up the level distance to another rise. The saddle clipped over the sheave, swung for an instant, then stood still. She clambered out, down the low tower, then sped to the trail and waited. She rose to her feet, as from behind a sheltered cliff Firmstone emerged, stern, erect, determined. He caught sight of Élise. "What are you doing here?" he asked, fiercely. "To keep you from going to the mill." There was an answering fierceness in her eyes. "Well, you are not going to." He brushed her aside. "I am." She was again in his path. He took hold of her almost harshly. "Don't be a fool." "Am I? Listen." There was the glint of steel on steel in the meeting eyes. Echoing shots dulled by distance yet smote plainly on their ears. "Morrison's men are guarding the trail. They are in the cañon. You can't get through." Firmstone's eyes softened as he looked into hers. The set line broke for an instant, then he looked down the trail. Suddenly he spun around on his heel, wavered, then sank to the ground. Élise dropped on her knees beside him, mumbling inaudible words with husky voice. The hands that loosened the reddening collar of his shirt were firm and decided. She did not hear the grate of Zephyr's shoes. She was only conscious of other hands putting hers aside. His knife cut the clothes that hid the wound. Zephyr took his hat from his head. "Water," he said, holding out the hat. Élise returned from the brook with the brimming hat. The closed eyes opened at the cooling drops. "It's not so bad." He tried to rise, but Zephyr restrained him. "Not yet." Élise was looking anxiously above the trail. Zephyr noted the direction. "No danger. 'Twas Morrison. He's done for." Three or four miners were coming down the trail. They paused at the little group. Zephyr looked up. "You're wanted. The old man's hit." A litter was improvised and slowly and carefully they bore the wounded man down the trail. Zephyr was far in advance. He returned. "It's all right. The gang's on the run." The little procession headed straight for the office, and laid their burden on the floor. The company surgeon looked grave, as he carefully exposed the wound. To Élise it seemed ages. Finally he spoke. "It's a nasty wound; but he'll pull through." CHAPTER XXVII _Passing Clouds_ In spite of the surgeon's hopeful words, the path to recovery lay fearfully near the gate of death. Firmstone had been shot from above, and the bullet, entering at the base of the neck just in front of the throat, had torn its way beneath the collar-bone, passing through the left arm below the shoulder. During the period of trying suspense, when Firmstone's life wavered in the balance, through the longer period of convalescence, he lacked not devotion, love, nor skill to aid him. Zephyr was omnipresent, but never obtrusive. Bennie, with voiceless words and aggressive manner, plainly declared that a sizzling cookstove with a hot temper that never cooled was more efficacious than a magazine of bandages and a college of surgeons. Élise cared for Firmstone, Madame for Élise. Zephyr's rod and rifle, with Bennie's stove, supplied that without which even the wisest counsel comes to an inglorious end. Over all Élise reigned an uncrowned queen, with no constitution, written or unwritten, to hamper her royal will. Even the company surgeon had to give a strict accounting. The soft, red lips could not hide the hard, straight lines beneath rounded curves, nor the liquid black of velvet eyes break the insistent glint of an active, decisive mind. Miss Hartwell was still pretty and willing, but yet helpless and oppressed. It was therefore with a regretted sense of relief that the arrival of Miss Firmstone removed the last appearance of duty that kept her in useless toleration. Hartwell's capacious sleeve held a ready card which awaited but an obvious opportunity for playing. No sooner was Firmstone pronounced out of danger than the card, in the form of urgent business, was played, and Hartwell and his sister left for the East. Like her brother, Miss Firmstone evidently had a will of her own, and, also like her brother, a well-balanced mind to control its manifestations. There was a short, sharp battle of eyes when first the self-throned queen was brought face to face with her possible rival. The conflict was without serious results, for Miss Firmstone, in addition to will and judgment, had also tact and years superior to Élise. These were mere fortuitous adjuncts which had been denied Élise. So it happened that, though a rebellious pupil, Élise learned many valuable lessons. She was ready and willing to defy the world individually and collectively; yet she stood in awe of herself. One afternoon Firmstone was sitting in his room, looking out of his window, and in spite of the grandeur of the mountain there was little of glory but much of gloom in his thoughts. The mine was in ruins; so, as far as he could see, were his labours, his ambitions, and his prospects. He tried to keep his thoughts on the gloom of the clouds and shut his eyes to their silver lining. The silver lining was in softly glowing evidence, but he could not persuade himself that it was for him. Step by step he was going over every incident of his intercourse with Élise. Their first meeting, her subsequent warning that his life was in serious danger, her calm, resolute putting aside of all thought of danger to herself, her daring ride up the tram to keep him from sure death when she knew that the tram-house was to be blown up, that the catastrophe might occur at any moment, her unremitting care of him, wounded near to death: all these came to him, filled him with a longing love that left no nerve nor fibre of heart or soul untouched with thrills that, for all their pain, were even yet not to be stilled by his own volition. Firmstone grew more thoughtful. He realised that Élise was only a girl in years, yet her natural life, untrammelled by conventional proprieties which distract and dissipate the limited energy in a thousand divergent channels, had forced her whole soul into the maturity of many waxing and waning seasons. Every manifestation of her restless, active mind had stood out clear and sharp in the purity of unconscious self. This was the disturbing element in Firmstone's anxious mind. Responsive to every mood, fiercely unsparing of herself, yet every attempted word of grateful appreciation from him had been anticipated and all but fiercely repelled. With all his acumen, Firmstone yet failed to comprehend two very salient features of a woman's heart, that, however free and spontaneous she may be, there is one emotion instinctively and jealously guarded, that she will reject, with indignation, gratitude offered as a substitute for love. Firmstone's meditations were interrupted by a knock on the door. Zephyr came in, holding out a bulky envelope. It was from the eastern office of the Rainbow Company. Firmstone's face stiffened as he broke the seals. Zephyr noted the look and, after an introductory whistle, said: "'Tisn't up to you to fret now, Goggles. Foolishness at two cents an ounce or fraction thereof is more expensive than passenger rates at four dollars a pound." Firmstone looked up absently. "What's that you're saying?" Zephyr waved his hand languidly. "I was right. Have been all along. I knew you had more sense than you could carry in your head. It's all over you, and you got some of it shot away. I'm trying to make it plain to you that foolishness on paper ain't near so fatal as inside a skull. Consequently, if them Easterners had had any serious designs on you, they'd sent the real stuff back in a Pullman instead of the smell of it by mail." Firmstone made no reply, but went on with his letter. There was amusement and indignation on his face as, having finished the letter, he handed it to Zephyr. The letter was from Hartwell and was official. Briefly, it expressed regret over Firmstone's serious accident, satisfaction at his recovery, and congratulations that a serious complication had been met and obviated with, all things considered, so slight a loss to the company. The letter concluded as follows: We have carefully considered the statement of the difficulties with which you have been confronted, as reported by our manager, and fully comprehend them. We have also given equal consideration to his plans for the rehabilitation of the mine and mill, and heartily assent to them as well as to his request that you be retained as our superintendent and that, in addition to your salary, you be granted a considerable share in the stock of our company. We feel that we are warranted in pursuing this course with you, recognising that it is a rare thing, in one having the ability which you have shown, to take counsel with and even frankly to adopt the suggestions of another. By order of the President and Board of Directors of the Rainbow Milling Company, by ARTHUR HARTWELL, Gen. Man. and Acting Secretary. Zephyr's face worked in undulations that in narrowing concentrics reached the puckered apex of his lips. "Bees," he finally remarked, "are ding-twisted, ornery insects. They have, however, one redeeming quality not common to mosquitoes and black flies. If they sting with one end they make honey with the other. They ain't neither to be cussed nor commended. They're just built on them lines." Firmstone looked thoughtful. "I'm inclined to think you're right. If you're looking for honey you've got to take chances on being stung." "Which I take to mean that you have decided to hive your bees in this particular locality." Firmstone nodded. Zephyr looked expectantly at Firmstone, and then continued: "I also wish to remark that there are certain inconveniences connected with being an uncommonly level-headed man. There's no telling when you've got to whack up with your friends." "All right." Firmstone half guessed at what was coming. "Madame," Zephyr remarked, "having been deprived by the hand of death of her legal protectors, namely, Pierre and Morrison, wishes to take counsel with you." Zephyr, waiting no further exchange of words, left the room and shortly returned with Madame. She paused at the door, darted a frightened look at Firmstone, then one of pathetic appeal to the imperturbable Zephyr. Again her eyes timidly sought Firmstone, who, rising, advanced with outstretched hand. Madame's hands were filled with bundled papers. In nervously trying to move them, in order to accept Firmstone's proffered hand, the bundles fell scattered to the floor. With an embarrassed exclamation, she hastily stooped to recover them and in her effort collided with Zephyr, who had been actuated by the same motive. Zephyr rubbed his head with one hand, gathering up the papers with the other. "If Madame wore her heart on her neck instead of under her ribs, I would have had two hands free instead of one. Which same being put in literal speech means that there's nothing against nature in having a hard head keeping step with a tender heart." Madame was at last seated with her papers in her lap. She was ill at ease in the fierce consciousness of self, but her flushed face and frightened eyes only showed the growing mastery of unselfish love over the threatening lions that waited in her path. One by one, she tendered the papers to Firmstone, who read them with absorbed attention. As the last paper was laid with its fellows Madame's eyes met fearlessly the calm look of the superintendent. Slowly, laboriously at first, but gathering assurance with oblivion of self, she told the story of Élise's birth. With the intuition of an overpowering love, she felt that she was telling the story to one absolutely trustworthy, able and willing to counsel her with powers far beyond her own. Firmstone heard far more than the stumbling words recited. His eyes dimmed, but his voice was steady. "I think I understand. You want Élise restored to her friends?" Madame's eyes slowly filled with tears that welled over the trembling lids and rolled down her cheeks. She did not try to speak. She only nodded in silent acquiescence. She sat silent for a few moments, then the trembling lips grew firm, but her voice could not be controlled. "We ought to have done it long ago, Pierre and I. But I loved her. Pierre loved her. She was all we had." It was worse than death. Death only removes the presence, it leaves the consoling sense of possession through all eternity. Zephyr started to speak, but Firmstone, turning to Madame, interrupted. "You have no need to fear. Where you cannot go Élise will not." Madame looked up suddenly. The rainbow of hope glowed softly for an instant in the tear-dimmed eyes. Then the light died out. "She will be ashamed of her hol' daddy and her hol' mammy before her gran' friends." Pierre's words came to her, laden with her own unworthiness. The door opened and Élise and Miss Firmstone came in. Miss Firmstone took in the situation at a glance. "You are reliable people to trust with a convalescent, aren't you? And after the doctor's warning that all excitement was to be avoided!" "Doctors don't know everything," Zephyr exploded, in violence to his custom. Then, more in accord with it, "It does potatoes no end of good to be hilled." Élise looked questioning surprise, as her glance fell on Madame, then on Zephyr. Her eyes rested lightly for a moment on Firmstone. There was a fleeting suggestion that quickened his pulses and deepened the flush on his face. Again her eyes were on Madame. Pity, love, glowed softly at sight of the bowed head. She advanced a step, and her hand and arm rested on Madame's shoulders. Madame shivered slightly, then grew rigid. Nothing should interfere with her duty to Élise. Élise straightened, but her arm was not removed. "What is it? What have you been saying?" She was looking fixedly at Firmstone. There was no tenderness in her eyes, only a demand that was not to be ignored. Firmstone began a brief capitulation of his interview with Madame. When he told her that she was not Madame's daughter, that she was to be restored to her unknown friends, that Madame wished it, the change that came over the girl amazed him. Her eyes were flashing. Her clinched hands thrust backward, as if to balance the forward, defiant poise of her body. "That is not so! You have frightened her into saying what she does not mean. You don't want me to leave you; do you? Tell me you don't!" She turned to Madame, fiercely. Firmstone gave Madame no time to answer. "Wait," he commanded. "You don't understand." His words were impetuous with the intensity of his emotion. "I don't want you to leave Madame. You are not going to. Don't you understand?" He laid his hand on hers, but she shook it off. He withdrew his hand. "Very well, but listen." Himself he put aside; but he was not to be diverted from his purpose. He felt that in the life of the girl before him a vital crisis was impending, that, unforeseeing of consequences, she, in the sheer delight of overcoming opposing wills, might be impelled to a step that would bring to naught all her glorious possibilities. The thought hardened his every mental fibre. He was looking into eyes that gleamed with open, resolute defiance. "You and Madame are not to be separated. You are going East with my sister and Madame is going with you: You are going to your father's friends." "Is that all?" The voice was mocking. "No. I want your word that you will do as I say." Without seeming to turn her defiant eyes, Élise laid her hand firmly on Madame. "Come." Madame rose in response to the impulse of hand and word. She cast a frightened, appealing look at Firmstone, then with Élise moved toward the door. On the threshold Firmstone barred the way. "I have not had my answer." "No?" "I can wait." Élise and Firmstone stood close. There was a measure of will opposed to will in the unflinching eyes. Élise felt a strange thrill, strange to her. With Pierre and Madame opposition only roused her anger, their commands only gave piquancy to revolt. But now, as she looked at the strong, resolute man before her, there was a new sensation fraught with subtler thrills of delight, the yielding to one who commanded and took from her even the desire to resist. She felt warm waves of blood surging to her face. The defiant poise of her head was unchanged, her eyes softened, but the drooping lids hid them from those that she acknowledged master. "May I go if I give my answer?" "If your answer is right, yes." The eyes were veiled, but the mobile lips were wavering. "Madame and I have decided to go East." The look on Firmstone's face changed from resolution to pleading. "I have no right to ask more, unless you choose to give it. Don't you know what I want to ask? Will you give me the right to ask?" The drooping head bent still lower, a softer flush suffused the quiet face. Firmstone took the girl's unresisting hands in his own. "Can't you give me my answer, dear? You have come to be all the world to me. You are going away for the sake of your friends. Will you come back some time for mine?" Élise slowly raised her eyes to his. He read his answer. There was a slight answering pressure, then her hands were gently withdrawn. Firmstone stood aside. Élise and Madame moved over the threshold, the door swinging to behind them, not quite shut; then it opened, just enough to show a flushed face, with teasing, roguish eyes. "I forgot to ask. Is that all, Mr. Minion?" Then the door closed with a decided click. THE END Other Book to Read By Arthur Stanwood Pier Author of "The Pedagogues" THE TRIUMPH The Triumph has fire and pathos and romance and exhilarating humor. It is a capital story that will keep a reader's interest from the first appearance of its hero, the young doctor Neal Robeson, to his final triumph--his triumph over himself and over the lawless, turbulent oil-drillers, his success in his profession and in his love affair. It displays a delightful appreciation of the essential points of typical American characters, a happy outlook on everyday life, a vigorous story-telling ability working in material that is thrilling in interest, in a setting that is picturesque and unusual. The action takes place in a little western Pennsylvania village at the time of the oil fever, and a better situation can scarcely be found. Mr. Pier's account of the fight between the outraged villagers and the oil-drillers around a roaring, blazing gas well is a masterpiece of story telling. _Illustrations by W. D. Stevens_ By James Weber Linn Author of "The Second Generation" THE CHAMELEON The author uses as his theme that trait in human nature which leads men and women to seek always the lime light, to endeavor always to be protagonists even at the expense of the truth. His book is a study of that most interesting and pertinent type in modern life, the sentimentalist, the man whose emotions are interesting to him merely as a matter of experience, and shows the development of such a character when he comes into contact with normal people. The action of the novel passes in a college town and the hero comes to his grief through his attempt to increase his appearance of importance by betraying a secret. His love for his wife is, however, his saving sincerity and through it the story is brought to a happy ending. By M. Imlay Taylor Author of "The House of the Wizard" THE REBELLION OF THE PRINCESS A book that is a story, and never loses the quick, on-rushing, inevitable quality of a story from the first page to the last. Stirring, exciting, romantic, satisfying all the essential requirements of a novel. The scene is laid in Moscow at the time of the election of Peter the Great, when the intrigues of rival parties overturned the existing government, and the meeting of the National Guard made the city the scene of a hideous riot. It resembles in some points Miss Taylor's successful first story, "On the Red Staircase," especially in the date, the principal scenes and the fact that the hero is a French nobleman. By Edward W. Townsend Author of "Chimmie Fadden," "Days Like These," etc. LEES AND LEAVEN No novel of New York City has ever portrayed so faithfully or so vividly our new world Gotham--the seething, rushing New York of to-day, to which all the world looks with such curious interest. Mr. Townsend, gives us not a picture, but the bustling, nerve-racking pageant itself. The titan struggles in the world of finance, the huge hoaxes in sensational news-paperdom, the gay life of the theatre, opera, and restaurant, and then the calmer and comforting domestic scenes of wholesome living, pass, as actualities, before our very eyes. In this turbulent maelstrom of ambition, he finds room for love and romance also. There is a bountiful array of characters, admirably drawn, and especially delightful are the two emotional and excitable lovers, young Bannister and Gertrude Carr. The book is unlike Mr. Townsend's "Chimmie Fadden" in everything but its intimate knowledge of New York life. By S. R. Crockett Author of "The Banner of Blue," "The Firebrand" FLOWER O' THE CORN Mr. Crockett has made an interesting novel of romance and intrigue. He has chosen a little town in the south of France, high up in the mountains, as the scene for his drama. The plot deals with a group of Calvinists who have been driven from Belgium into southern France, where they are besieged in their mountain fastness by the French troops. A number of historical characters figure in the book, among them Madame de Maintenon. "Flower o' the Corn" is probably one of Mr. Crockett's most delightful women characters. The book is notable for its fine descriptions. By Edith Wyatt Author of "Every One His Own Way" TRUE LOVE A Comedy of the Affections Here commonplace, everyday, ordinary people tread the boards. The characters whom Miss Wyatt presents are not geniuses, or heroes, or heroines of romance, but commonplace persons with commonplace tricks and commonplace manners and emotions. They do romantic things without a sense of romance in them, but weave their commonplace doings into a story of great human interest that the reader will find far from commonplace. The vein of humorous satire, keen, subtle and refined, permeating the story and the characterization, sets this work of Miss Wyatt's in a class by itself. By Pauline B. Mackie Author of "The Washingtonians" THE VOICE IN THE DESERT This is a story of subtle attractions and repulsions between men and women; of deep temperamental conflicts, accentuated and made dramatic by the tense atmosphere of the Arizona desert. The action of the story passes in a little Spanish mission town, where the hero, Lispenard, is settled as an Episcopal clergyman, with his wife Adele and their two children. The influence of the spirit of the desert is a leading factor in the story. Upon Lispenard the desert exerts a strange fascination, while upon his wife it has an opposite effect and antagonizes her. As their natures develop under the spell of their environment, they drift apart and the situation is complicated by the influence upon Lispenard of a second woman who seems to typify the spirit of the desert itself. The spiritual situation is delicately suggested and all is done with a rare and true feeling for human nature. By Shan F. Bullock Author of "The Barrys," "Irish Pastorals" THE SQUIREEN Mr. Bullock takes us into the North of Ireland among North-of-Ireland people. His story is dominated by one remarkable character, whose progress towards the subjugation of his own temperament we cannot help but watch with interest. He is swept from one thing to another, first by his dare-devil, roistering spirit, then by his mood of deep repentance, through love and marriage, through quarrels and separation from his wife, to a reconciliation at the point of death, to a return to health, and through the domination of the devil in him, finally to death. It is a strong, convincing novel suggesting, somewhat, "The House with the Green Shutters." What that book did for the Scotland of Ian Maclaren and Barrie, "The Squireen" will do for Ireland. By Seumas McManus Author of "Through the Turf Smoke" "A LAD OF THE O'FRIEL'S" This is a story of Donegal ways and customs; full of the spirit of Irish life. The main character is a dreaming and poetic boy who takes joy in all the stories and superstitions of his people, and his experience and life are thus made to reflect all the essential qualities of the life of his country. Many characters in the book will make warm places for themselves in the heart of the reader. By Joel Chandler Harris GABRIEL TOLLIVER A story filled with the true flavor of Southern life. The first important novel by the creator of "Uncle Remus." Those who have loved Mr. Harris's children's stories, will find in this story of boy and girl love in Georgia during the troublous Reconstruction period, the same genial and kindly spirit, the same quaintly humorous outlook on life that characterizes his earlier work. A host of charming people, with whom it is a privilege to become acquainted, crowd the pages, and their characters, thoughts and doings are sketched in a manner quite suggestive of Dickens. The fawn-like Nan is one of the most winsome of characters in fiction, and the dwarf negress, Tasma Tid, is a weird sprite that only Mr. Harris could have created. "A novel which ranks Mr. Harris as the Dickens of the South."--_Brooklyn Eagle._ "It is a pretty love-story, artistically wrought, a natural, healthy love-story, full of Joel Chandler Harris's inimitable naivete."--_Atlanta Constitution. 
29818	----	THE PLUNDERER [Illustration: He leaned over her saddle, to where, as before something sacred, he stood with parted lips, and upturned face, bareheaded, in adoration.--The Plunderer] THE PLUNDERER By ROY NORTON With Frontispiece in Colors By DOUGLAS DUER A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers--New York Copyright, 1912, by W. J. WATT & COMPANY TO REX BEACH WITH ALL THE AFFECTION THAT ONE GIVES TO A PARTNER WITH WHOM HE HAS TRAILED, AND MINED, AND ADVENTURED FOR MANY YEARS, AND NEVER FOUND WANTING WHEN BACKS WERE AGAINST THE WALL CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Bully Presby 9 II. The Croix d'Or 22 III. An Ugly Watchman 36 IV. The Black Death 51 V. The Aged Engineer 71 VI. My Lady of the Horse 97 VII. The Woman Unafraid 114 VIII. The Inconsistent Bully 129 IX. Where a Girl Advises 151 X. Trouble Stalks Abroad 167 XI. Bells' Valiant Fight 182 XII. A Disastrous Blow 195 XIII. The Dynamiter 208 XIV. "Though Love Say Nay" 225 XV. "Mr. Sloan Speaks" 240 XVI. Benefits Returned 258 XVII. When Reason Swings 271 XVIII. The Bully Meets His Master 288 XIX. The Quest Supreme 303 THE PLUNDERER CHAPTER I BULLY PRESBY Plainly the rambling log structure was a road house and the stopping place for a mountain stage. It had the watering trough in front, the bundle of iron pails cluttered around the rusted iron pump, and the trampled muddy hollow created by many tired hoofs striking vigorously to drive away the flies. It was in a tiny flat beside the road, and mountains were everywhere; hard-cut, relentless giants, whose stern faces portrayed a perpetual constancy. At the trough two burros, with their packs deftly lashed, thrust soft gray muzzles deep into the water, and held rigid their long gray ears, casting now and then a wise look at the young man in worn mining clothes who stood patiently beside them. Another man, almost a giant in size, but with a litheness of movement that told of marvelous physical strength, emerged from the door of the road house, and the babel of sound that had been stilled when he entered, but a few minutes before, rose again. He crossed to the well, and smiled from half-humorous eyes at the younger man standing beside the animals, and said: "Bumped into a hornet's nest. Butted into an indignation meetin'. A Blackfoot war powwow when the trader had furnished free booze would have been a peace party put up against it." The younger man, who had turned to pump more water, following the polite mountain custom of replenishing for what you have used, stopped with a hand on the handle, and looked at him inquiringly. "It seems it's a bunch of fellers that's been workin' some placer ground off back here somewheres"--and he waved a tanned hand indefinitely in a wide arc--"and some man got the double hitch on 'em with the law, provin' that the ground was his'n, and the sheriff run 'em off! Now they're sore. But it seems they cain't help 'emselves, so they're movin' over to some other place across the divide." "But what has that to do with us?" "Nothin', except that it took me five minutes to get the barkeep' to tell me about the road. He says we've come all right this far, and this is the place where we hit the trail over the hills. Says we save a day and a half, with pack burros, by takin' the cut-off. Says it's seven or eight hours good ridin' by the road if we were on horses and in a hurry." He paused and scanned the hills with an observant eye, while his companion resumed the pumping process. The trough again filled, the latter walked around the pails and joined him. "Well, where does this trail start in?" he asked. "He's goin' to show us as soon as he can get a minute's rest from that bunch in there. Said we'd have to be shown. Said unless he could get away long enough we'd have to wait till somebody he named came in, and he'd head us into it." They led the burros across the road and into the shadow of a cliff where the morning sun, searching and fervid, did not reach, and threw themselves to the ground, resting their backs against the foot wall, and trying patiently to await the appearance of their guides. The steady, hurried clink of glass and bottle on bar, the ribald shouts and threats of the crowd that filled the road house, the occasional burst of a maudlin song, all told the condition of the ejected placer men who had stopped here on their journey. "I don't know nothin' about the case, of course," drawled the big man lazily, "and it's none of my funeral; but it does seem as if this feller they call 'Bully' is quite some for havin' him own way." He laughed softly as if remembering scraps of conversation he had segregated from the murmur inside, and rolled his long body over until he rested on his belly with the upper part of his torso raised on his elbows. "It appears that the courts down at the county seat gave a decision in his favor, and that he lost about as much time gettin' action as a hornet does when he's come to a conclusion. He just shows up with the sheriff, and about twenty deputies, good and true, and says: 'Hike! The courts say it's mine. These is the sheriffs. Off you go, and don't waste no time doin' it, either!' And so they hikes and have got this far, where they lay over for the night to comfort their insides with somethin' that smelled like a cross between nitric acid, a corn farm, and sump water. And it don't seem to cheer 'em up much, either, because their talk's right ugly." "But I thought you said they were heading for some other ground?" "So they are, but they're takin' their time on the road. I used to be that way till the day Arizona Bill plugged me because I was slow, all through havin' stopped at a place too long. Then, says I, when I woke up a month later in the Widder Haskins' back room: 'Bill, this comes from corn and rye. Never have nothin' to do with a farmer, or anything that comes from a farmer, after this; or some day, when your hand ain't quick enough, and things look kind of hazy, some quarrelsome man's goin' to shoot first and you'll cash in.' And from that day to this, when I want to go on a bust, I drink a gallon of soda pop to have a rip-roarin' time." A man lurched out of the door of the road house as if striving to find clean air, and stood leaning against one of the pole posts supporting a pole porch. Another one joined him, coarsely accusing him of being a "quitter" because he had left his drink on the bar. They were stubbornly passing words when, from down the road, there came the gritting of wheels over the pulverized stone, and the clacking of horses' hoofs, slow moving, as if being rested by a cautious driver along the ascent. The man by the post suddenly frowned in the direction of the sound, and then whirled back to the open door. "It's Bully!" he bellowed so loudly that his words were plainly audible to the partners lying in the shadow. "Bully's a-comin' up the road right now! Let's get him!" There was a fierce, bawling chorus of shouts that outdid anything preceding, and the door seemed to vomit men in all stages of intoxication, who came heavily out with their boots stamping across the boards of the porch. They cursed, imprecated, shook their fists, and threatened, as they surged into the road and looked down it toward the approaching driver. The men in the shade got quickly to their feet, interested spectators, and the burros awoke from their drowsy somnolence, and turned inquiring, soft eyes on their owners. Calmly driven up toward the mob in the road came a mountain buckboard drawn by two sweating horses. In the seat was a man who drove as if the reins were completely in control. He appeared to be stockily built, and his shoulders--broad, heavy, and high--had, even in that posture, the unmistakable stamp of one who is accustomed to stooping his way through drifts and tunnels. He wore a black slouch hat, which had been shaped by habitual handling to shade his eyes. His hair was white; his neck short and thick, with a suggestion of bull-like power and force. His face, as he approached to closer range, showed firm and masterful. His nose was dominant--the nose of a conqueror who overrides all obstacles. He came steadily forward, without in the least changing his attitude, or betraying anxiety, or haste. The men in the road waited, squarely across his path, and their hoarse fulminations had died away to a far more terrifying silence; yet he did not seem to heed them as his horses advanced. "Gad! Doesn't he know who they are?" the bigger man by the rock mumbled to his partner. "If he doesn't he has a supreme nerve," the younger man replied. "They look to me as if they mean trouble. They're in a pretty nasty temper--what with all the poison they've poured in, and all the injustice they believe they have met. Wonder who's right?" A shout from the crowd in the roadway interrupted any further speculation. The man who had first appeared on the road-house porch threw up his hand, and roared, "Here he is! We've got him! It's the Bully!" The shout was taken up by others until a miniature forest of raised fists shook themselves threateningly at the man in the buckboard who was now within a few feet of them. "Get a rope, somebody! Hang him!" yelled an excited voice. "Yes, that's the goods," screamed another, heard above the turmoil. "Up with the Bully!" Two men sprang forward, and caught the horses by their bits, and brought them to an excited, nervous stop, and the others began to surround the wagon. The man in the seat made no movement, but sat there with a hard smile on his firm lips. The partners stepped to the top of a convenient rock, where they could overlook the meeting, and watched, perturbed. "I don't know about this," the elder said doubtfully. "Looks to me like there's too many against one, and I ain't sure whether he deserves hangin'. What do you think?" "Let's wait and see. Then, if they get too ugly, we'll give them a talk and try to find out," the younger man answered. Even as he spoke, a man came running from the door of the road house with a coil in his hand, and began to assert drunkenly: "Here it is! I've got it! A rope!" The partners were preparing to jump forward and protest, when a most astonishing change took place. The man in the wagon suddenly stood up, stretched his hand commandingly to the men holding the horses' heads, and ordered: "Let go of my horses there, you drunken idiots! Let go of them, I say, or I'll come down there and make you! Understand?" The men at the horses' heads wavered under that harsh, firm command, but did not release their hold. Without any further pause, the man jumped from his buckboard squarely into the road, struck the man holding the rope a sweeping side blow that toppled him over like a sprawling dummy, jerked the coil from his hands, and tore toward his horses' heads. As if each feared to bar his advance, the men of the mob made way for him, taken by surprise. He brought the coil of rope with a stinging, whistling impact into the face of the nearest man, who, blinded, threw his hands upward across his eyes and reeled back. The man at the other horse's head suddenly turned and dove out of reach, but the whistling coils again fell, lashing him across his head and shoulders. Without any appearance of haste, and as if scornful of the mob that had so recently been threatening to hang him, the man walked back to his buckboard, climbed in, and stood there on his feet with the reins in one hand, and the rope in the other. "You get away from in front of me there," he said, in his harsh, incisive voice; "I'm tired of child's play. If you don't let me alone, I'll kill a few of you. Now, clear out!" The men around him were already backing farther away, and at this threat they opened the road in such haste that one or two of them nearly ran over others. "Say," admiringly commented the big observer on the rock, "we'd play hob helpin' him out. He don't need help, that feller don't. If I ever saw a man that could take care of himself----" "He certainly is the one!" his companion finished the sentence. "Who does this rope belong to?" demanded the hard-faced victor in the buckboard, looking around him. No one appeared eager to claim proprietorship. He gave a loud, contemptuous snort, and threw the rope far over toward the road house. "Keep it!" he called, in his cold, unemotional voice. "Some of you might want to cheat the sheriff by hanging yourselves. After this, any or all of you had better keep away from me. I might lose my temper." He sat down in the seat with a deliberate effort to show his scorn, picked the reins up more firmly, glanced around at the rear of his buckboard to see that his parcels were safe, ignored the cowed men, and without ever looking at them started his horses forward. As they began a steady trot and passed the partners, he swept over them one keen, searching look, as if wondering whether they had been of the mob, turned back to observe their loaded burros, apparently decided they had taken no part in the affair, and bestowed on them a faint, dry smile as he settled himself into his seat. At the bend of the road he had not deigned another look on the men who had been ravening to lynch him. He drove away as carelessly as if he alone were the only human being within miles, and the partners gave a gasp of enjoyment. "Good Lord! What a man!" exclaimed the elder, and his companion answered in an equally admiring tone: "Isn't he, though! Just look at these desperadoes, will you!" With shuffling feet some of them were turning back toward the inviting door in which the bartender stood with his dirty apron knotted into a string before him. Some of the more voluble were accusing the others of not having supported them, and loudly expounding the method of attack that would have been successful. The man with red welts across his face was swearing that if he ever got a chance he would "put a rifle ball through Bully." The young man by the rock grinned and said: "That's just about as close as he would ever dare come to that fellow. Shoot him through the back at a half-mile range!" The bartender suddenly appeared to remember the travelers, and ran across the road. "I'm sorry, gents," he said, "that I can't do more to show you the way, but you see how it is. Go up there to that big rock that looks like a bear's head, then angle off south-east, and you'll find a trail. When you come to any crossin's, don't take 'em, but keep straight on, and bimeby, about to-morrer, if you don't camp too long to-night, you'll see a peak--high it is--with a yellow mark on it, like a cross. Can't miss it. Right under it's the Croix Mine. You leave the trail to cross a draw, look down, and there you are. So long!" He turned and ran back across the road in response to brawling shouts from the men whose thirst seemed to have been renewed by their encounter with the masterful man they called "Bully," and the partners, glad to escape from such a place, headed their animals upward into the hills. CHAPTER II THE CROIX D'OR It was the day after the halt at the road house. Half-obliterated by the débris of snowslide and melting torrents, the trail was hard to follow. In some places the pack burros scrambled for a footing or skated awkwardly with tiny hoofs desperately set to check their descent, to be steadied and encouraged by the booming voice, deep as a bell, of the man nearest them. Sometimes in dangerous spots where shale slides threatened to prove unstable, his lean, grim face and blue-gray eyes appeared apprehensive, and he braced his great shoulders against one of the bulging packs to assist a sweating, straining animal. After one of these perilous tracts he stopped beside the burros, pushed the stained white Stetson to the back of his head, exposing a white forehead which had been protected from the sun, and ran the sleeve of his blue-flannel shirt across his face from brow to chin to wipe away the moisture. "Hell's got no worse roads than this!" he exclaimed. "Next time anybody talks me into takin' a cut-off over a spring trail to save a day and a half's time, him and me'll have an argument!" Ahead, and at the moment inspecting a knot in a diamond hitch, the other man grinned, then straightened up, and, shading his eyes from the sun with his hat, looked off into the distance. He was younger than his partner, whose hair was grizzled to a badger gray, but no less determined and self-reliant in appearance. He did not look his thirty years, while the other man looked more than his forty-eight. "Well, Bill," he said slowly, "it seems to me if we can get through at all we've saved a day and a half. By the way, come up here." The grizzled prospector walked up until he stood abreast, and from the little rise stared ahead. "Isn't that it?" asked the younger man. "Over there--through the gap; just down below that spike with a snow cap." He stretched out a long, muscular arm, and his companion edged up to it and sighted along its length and over the index finger as if it were the barrel of a rifle, and stared, scowling, at the distant maze of mountain and sky that seemed upended from the green of the forests below. "Say, I believe you're right, Dick!" he exclaimed. "I believe you are. Let's hustle along to the top of this divide, and then we'll know for sure." They resumed their progress, to halt at the top, where there was abruptly opened below them a far-flung panorama of white and gray and purple, stretched out in prodigality from sky line to sky line. "Well, there she is, Dick," asserted the elder man. "That yellow, cross-shaped mark up there on the side of the peak. I kept tellin' you to keep patient and we'd get there after a while." His partner did not reply to the inconsistency of this argument, but stood looking at the landmark as if dreaming of all it represented. "That is it, undoubtedly," he said, as if to himself. "The Croix d'Or. I suppose that's why the old Frenchman who located the mine in the first place gave it that name--the Cross of Gold!" "Humph! It looks to me, from what I've heard of it," growled the older prospector, "that the Double Cross would have been a heap more fittin' name for it. It's busted everybody that ever had it." The younger man laughed softly and remonstrated: "Now, what's the use in saying that? It wasn't the Croix d'Or that broke my father----" "But his half in it was all he had left when he died!" "That is true, and it is true that he sunk more than a hundred thousand in it; but it was the stock-market that got him. Besides, how about Sloan, my father's old-time partner? He's not broke, by a long shot!" "No," came the grumbling response, "he's not busted, just because he had sense enough to lay his hand down when he'd gone the limit." "Lay his hand down? Say, Bill, you're a little twisted, aren't you? Better go back over the last month or two and think it over. We, being partners, are working up in the Coeur d'Alenes. Our prospect pinches out. We've got just seven hundred left between us on the day we bring the drills and hammers back, throw them in the corner of the cabin, and say 'We're on a dead one. What next?' Then we get the letter saying that my father, whom I haven't seen in ten years, nor heard much of, owing to certain things, is dead, and that all he left was his half of the Croix d'Or. The letter comes from whom? Sloan! And it says that although he and my father, owing to father's abominable temper, had not been intimate for a year or two, he still respected his memory, and wanted to befriend his son. Didn't he? Then he said that he had enough belief left in the Croix d'Or to back it for a hundred thousand more, if I, being a practical miner, thought well of it. Do you call that laying down a hand? Humph!" The elder man finished rolling a cigarette, and then looked at him with twinkling, whimsical eyes, as if continuing the argument merely for the sake of debate. "Well, if he thinks it's such a good thing, why didn't he offer to buy you out? Why didn't they work her sooner? She's been idle, and water-soaked, for three years, ain't she? As sure as your name's Dick Townsend, and mine's Bill Mathews, that old feller back East don't think you're goin' to say it's all right. He knows all about you! He knows you don't stand for no lies or crooked work, and are a fool for principle, like a bee that goes and sticks his stinger into somethin' even though he knows he's goin' to kill himself by doin' it." "Bosh!" "And how do you know he ain't figurin' it this way: 'Now I'll send Dick Townsend down there to look at it. He'll say it's no good. Then I'll buy him out and unload this Cross of Gold hole and plant it on some tenderfoot and get mine back!' You cain't make me believe in any of those Wall Street fellers! They all deal from the bottom of the deck and keep shoemaker's wax on their cuff buttons to steal the lone ace!" As if giving the lie to his growling complaints and pessimism, he laughed with a bellowing cachinnation that prompted the burros, now rested, to look at him with long gray ears thrust forward curiously, and wonder at his noise. Townsend appeared to comprehend that his partner was but half in earnest, and smiled good-humoredly. "Well, Bill," he said, "if the mine's not full of water or bad air, so that we can't form any idea at all, we'll not be long in saying what we think of it. We ought to be there in an hour from now. Let's hike." They began the slow, plodding gait of the packer again, finding it easier now that they were on the crest of a divide where the trail was less obstructed and firmer, and the yellow lines on the peak, their goal, came more plainly into view. The cross resolved itself into a peculiar slide of oxidized earth traversing two gullies, and the arm of the cross no longer appeared true to the perpendicular. The tall tamaracks began to segregate as the travelers dropped to a lower altitude; and pine and fir, fragrant with spring odor, seemed watching them. The trail at last took an abrupt turn away from the cross-marked mountain, and they came to another halt. "This must be where they told us to turn off through the woods and down the slope, I think," said Townsend. "Doesn't it seem so to you, Bill?" The old prospector frowned off toward the top of the peak now high above them, and then, with the peculiar farsightedness of an outdoor man of the West, looked around at the horizon as if calculating the position of the mine. "Sure," he agreed. "It can't be any use to keep on the trail now. We'd better go to the right. They said we'd come to a little draw, then from the top of a low divide we'd see the mine buildings. Come on, Jack," he ended, addressing the foremost burro, which patiently turned after him as he led the way through the trees. They came to the draw, which proved shallow, climbed the opposite bank, and gave an exclamation of surprise. "Holy Moses! They had some buildings and plant there, eh, Dick?" The other, as if remembering all that was represented in the scene below, did not answer. He was thinking of the days when his father and he had been friendly, and of how that restless, grasping, conquering dreamer had built many hopes, even as he squandered many dollars, on the Croix d'Or. It was to produce millions. It was to be one of the greatest gold mines in the world. All that it required was more development. Now, it was to have a huge mill to handle vast quantities of low-grade ore; then all it needed was cheaper power, so it must have electric equipment. Again the milling results were not good, and what it demanded was the cyanide process. And so it had been, for years that he could still remember, and always it led his father on and on, deferring or promising hope, to come, at last, to this! A great, idle plant with some of its buildings falling into decay, its roadways obliterated by the brush growth that was creeping back through the clearings as Nature reconquered her own, and its huge waste dumps losing their ugliness under the green moss. It seemed useless to think of anything more than an occasional pay chute. Yet, as he thought of it, hope revived; for there had been pay chutes of marvelous wealth. Why, men still talked of the Bonanza Chute that yielded eighty thousand dollars in four days' blasting before it worked out! Maybe there were others, but that was what his father and Sloan had always expected, and never found! His meditations were cut short by a shout from below. A man appeared, small in the distance, on the flat, or "yard" of what seemed to be the blacksmith shop. "Wonder who that can be?" speculated Bill, drawing his hat rim farther over his eyes. "I don't know," answered Townsend, puzzled. "I never heard of their having any watchmen here. But we'll soon find out." They started down the hillside at a faster pace, the tired animals surmising, with their curiously acute instinct, that this must be the end of the journey and hastening to have it over with. As they broke through a screen of brush and came out to the edge of what had been a clearing back of a huge log bunk-house, the man who had shouted came rapidly forward to meet them. There was a certain shiftless, sullen, yet authoritative air about him as he spoke. "What do you fellers want here?" he asked. "I s'pose you know that no one's allowed on the Cross ground, don't you?" "We didn't know that," replied Townsend, inclined to be pacific, "but I fancy, we are different from almost any one else that would come. We represent the owners." "Can't help that," came the blustering answer. "You'll have to hit the trail. I don't take orders from no one but Presby." A shade of annoyance was depicted on Townsend's face as he continued to ignore the watchman's arrogance, and asked: "And please tell us, who is Presby?" "Presby? Who's Presby? What are you handin' me? You don't know Presby?" "I don't, or I shouldn't have asked you," Townsend answered with less patience. "Say," drawled his companion, with a calm deliberation that would have been dreaded by those who knew him, "does it hurt you much to be civil? You were asked who this man Presby is. Do you get that?" The watchman glared at him for a moment, but there was something in the cold eyes and firm lines of the prospector's face that caused him to hesitate before venturing any further display of officiousness. "He's the owner of the Rattler," he answered sullenly, "and I've got orders from him that nobody, not any one, is to step a foot on this ground. If you'd 'a' come by the road, you'd 'a' seen the sign." The partners looked at each other for an instant, and the younger man, ignoring the elder's apparent wrath, said: "Well, I suppose the best thing we can do is to leave the burros here and go and see Presby, and get this man of his called off." "You'll leave no burros here!" asserted the watchman, recovering his combativeness. "Why, you fool," exploded Mathews, starting toward him with his fists clenched and anger blazing from his eyes at the watchman's obstinate stupidity, "you're talking to one of the owners of this mine! This is Mr. Townsend." For an instant the man appeared abashed, and then grumbled acridly: "Well, I can't help it. I've got orders and----" "Oh, come on, Bill," interrupted the owner, stepping to the nearest burro's head. "We'll go on over to Presby, and get rid of this man of his. It won't hurt the burros to go a little farther." He turned to the watchman, who was scowling and obdurate. "Where can Presby and the Rattler be found?" he asked crisply. "Around the turn down at the mouth of the cañon," the watchman mumbled. "It's not more than half or three-quarters of a mile from here, but you'd better go back up the hill." As if this last suggestion was the breaking straw, the big prospector jumped forward, and caught the man's wrist with dexterous, sinewy fingers. He gave the arm a jerk that almost took the man from his feet. His eyes were hard and sharp now, and his jaw seemed to have shut tightly. "We'll go back up no hill, you bet on that!" he asserted belligerently. "We go by the road. We're done foolin' with you, my bucko! You go ahead and show the way and be quick about it! If you don't, you'll have trouble with me. Now git!" He released the wrist with a shove that sent the watchman ten feet away, and cowed him to subjection. He recovered his balance, and hesitated for a minute, muttering something about "being even for that," and then, as the big, infuriated miner took a step toward him, said: "All right! Come on," and started toward a roadway that, half ruined, led off and was lost at a turn. Cursing softly and telling the burros that it was a shame they had to go farther on account of a fool, the prospector followed, and the little procession resumed its straggling march. They passed the huge bunk-house, a mess-house, an assay office, what seemed to be the superintendent's quarters, and a dozen smaller structures, all of logs, and began an abrupt descent. The top of the cañon was so high that they looked down on the roof of the big, silent stamp mill with its quarter of a mile of covered tramway stretching like a huge, weather-beaten snake to the dumps of the grizzly and breakers behind it. The road was blasted from the side of the cañon on which they were, and far below, between them and the hoisting house and the mill, ran a clear little mountain stream, undefiled for years by the silt of industry. The peak of the cross, lifting a needle point high above them, as if keeping watch over the Blue Mountains, the far-distant Idaho hills, the near-by forests of Oregon, and the puny, man-made structures at its feet, appeared to have a lofty disdain of them and the burrowings into its mammoth sides, as if all ravagers were mere parasites, mad to uncover its secrets of gold, and futile, if successful, to wreak the slightest damage on its aged heart. CHAPTER III AN UGLY WATCHMAN By easy stages indicating competent engineering and a lavish expenditure of money, the road led them downward to a barricade of logs, in an opening of which swung a gate barely wide enough to pass the tired burros and their packs. "You'll find Presby over there," said their unwilling guide, pointing at a group of red-painted mining structures nestled in a flat lap in the ragged mountains. They surmised that this must be the Rattler camp, and inspected its display of tall smokestacks, high hoists, skeleton tramways, and bleak dumps. Before they could make any reply, the gate behind them slammed shut with a vicious bang that attracted their attention. They turned to see the watchman hurrying back up the road. Fixed to the barricade was a sign, crudely lettered, but insistently distinct: No one allowed on these premises, by order of the owners. For any business to be transacted with the Croix d'Or, apply to Thomas W. Presby. "Curt enough, at least, isn't he?" commented Townsend, half-smiling. "Curt!" growled his companion, frowning, with his recent anger but half-dissipated. "Curt as a bulldog takin' a bite out of your leg. Don't waste no time at all on words. Just says: 'It's you I'm lookin' after.' Where do you reckon we'll find this here Thomas Presby person?" "I suppose he must have an office up there somewhere," answered Townsend, waving his arm in the direction of the scattered buildings spread in that profligacy of space which comes where space is free. "These mules is tired. It's a shame we couldn't have left them up there," Mathews answered, looking at them and fondling the ears of the nearest one. "You go on up and get an order letting us into your mine, and I'll wait here. No use in makin' these poor devils do any more'n they have to." Townsend assented, and followed a path which zigzaged around bowlders and stumps up to the red cluster on the hillside above him. He was impatient and annoyed at the useless delays imposed upon them in this new venture, and wondered why his father's partner had not informed him of the fact that he would find the mine guarded by the owner of the adjoining property. A camp "washwoman," with clothespins in her mouth, and a soggy gray shirt in her hands, paused to stare at him from beneath a row of other gray and blue shirts and coarse underwear, dripping from the lines above her head. Two little boys, fantastically garbed in faded blue denim which had evidently been refashioned from cast-off wearing apparel of their sires, followed after him, hand in hand, as if the advent of a stranger on the Rattler grounds was an event of interest, and he found himself facing a squat, red, white-bordered, one-storied building, over whose door a white-and-black sign told the stranger, or applicant for work, that he was at the "office." A man came to a window in a picketed wicket as he entered, and said briskly: "Well?" "I want to see Mr. Presby," Dick answered, wasting no more words than had the other. "Oh, well, if nobody else will do, go in through that door." Before he had finished his speech, the bookkeeper had turned again toward the ledgers spread out on an unpainted, standing desk against the wall behind his palings, and Dick walked to the only door in sight. He opened it, and stepped inside. A white-headed, scowling man, clean shaven, and with close-shut, thin, hard lips, looked up over a pile of letters and accounts laid before him on a cheap, flat-topped desk. Dick's eyes opened a trifle wider. He was looking at the man who had defied the mob at the road house, and at this close range studied his appearance more keenly. There was hard, insolent mastery in his every line. His face had the sternness of granite. His hands, poised when interrupted in their task, were firm and wrinkled as if by years of reaching; and his heavy body, short neck, and muscle-bent shoulders, all suggested the man who had relentlessly fought his way to whatever position of dominancy he might then occupy. He wore the same faded black hat planted squarely on his head, and was in his shirt-sleeves. The only sign of self-indulgence betrayed in him or his surroundings was an old crucible, serving as an ash tray, which was half-filled with cigar stumps, and Dick observed, in that instant's swift appraisement, that even these were chewed as if between the teeth of a mentally restless man. "You want to see me?" the man questioned, and then, as if the thin partition had not muffled the words of the outer office, went on: "You asked for Presby. I'm Presby. What do you want?" For an instant, self-reliant and cool as he was, Dick was confused by the directness of his greeting. "I should like to have you tell that watchman over at the Croix d'Or that we are to be admitted there," he replied, forgetting that he had not introduced himself. "You should, eh? And who are you, may I ask?" came the dry, satirical response. Dick flushed a trifle, feeling that he had begun lamely in this reception and request. "I am Richard Townsend," he answered, recovering himself. "A son of Charles Townsend, and a half-owner in the property. I've come to look the Croix d'Or over." He was not conscious of it then, but remembered afterward, that Presby was momentarily startled by the announcement. The man's eyes seemed intent on penetrating and appraising him, as he stood there without a seat having been proffered, or any courtesy shown. Then, as if thinking, Presby stared at the inkwell before him, and frowned. "How am I to know that?" he asked. "The Cross has had enough men wanting to look it over to make an army. Maybe you're one of them. Got any letters telling me that I'm to turn it over to you?" For an instant Dick was staggered by this obstacle. "No," he said reluctantly, "I have not; that is, nothing directed to you. I did not know that you were in charge of the property." He was surprised to notice that Presby's heavy brows adjusted themselves to a scowl. He wondered why the mine owner should be antagonistic to him, when there was nothing at stake. "Well, I am," asserted Presby. "I hired the watchman up there, and I see to it that all the stuff lying around loose isn't stolen." "On whose authority, may I ask?" questioned Dick, without thought of giving offense, but rather as a means of explaining his position. "Sloan's. Why, you don't think I'm watching it because I want it, do you, young man? The old watchman threw up his job. I had Sloan's address, and wrote him about it. Sloan wrote and asked me to get a man to look after it, and I did. Now, you show me that you've got a right to go on the grounds of the Cross Mine, and I'll give an order to the watchman." There was absolute antagonism in his tone, although not in his words. Dick thought of nothing at the moment but that he had one sole proof of his ownership, the letter from Sloan himself. He unbuttoned the flap of his shirt pocket, and, taking out a bundle of letters, selected the one bearing on the situation. "That should be sufficient," he said, throwing it, opened, before Presby. The latter, without moving his solid body in the least, and as if his arms and hands were entirely independent of it, stolidly picked up the letter and read it. Dick could infer nothing of its reception. He could not tell whether Presby was inclined to accept it as sufficient authority, or to question it. Outside were the sounds of the Rattler's activity and production, the heavy, thunderous roar of the stamp mill, the clash of cars of ore dumped into the maws of the grizzly to be hammered into smaller fragments in their journey to the crusher, and thence downward to end their journeys over the thumping stamps, and out, disintegrated, across the wet and shaking tables. It seemed, as he stood waiting, that the dust of the pulverized mountains had settled over everything in the office save the granite-like figure that sat at the desk, rereading the letter which had changed all his life. For the first time he thought that perhaps he should not have so easily displayed that link with his past. It seemed a useless sacrilege. If the mine-owner was not reading the letter, he was pondering, unmoved, over a course of action, and took his time. Dick thought bitterly, in a flash, of all that it represented. The quarrel with his father on that day he had returned from Columbia University with a mining course proudly finished, when each, stubborn by nature, had insisted that his plan was the better; of his rebellious refusal to enter the brokerage office in Wall Street, and declaration that he intended to go into the far West and follow his profession, and of the stern old man's dismissal when he asserted, with heat: "You've always taken the road you wanted to go since your mother died. I objected to your taking up mining engineering, but you went ahead in spite of me. I tried to get you to take an interest in the business that has been my life work, but you scorned it. You wouldn't be a broker, or a banker. You had to be a mining engineer! All right, you've had your way, so far. Now, you can keep on in the way you have selected. I'll give you five thousand dollars, but you'll never get another cent from me until you've learned what a fool you're making of yourself, and return to do what I want you to do. It won't be long! There's a vast difference between dawdling around a university learning something that is going to be useless while your father pays the bills, and turning that foolish education into dollars to stave off an empty belly. You can go now." In those days the house of Phillip Townsend had been a great name in New York. Now this was all that was left of it. Dissolution, death, and dust, and a half-interest in an abandoned mine! The harsh voice of Bully Presby aroused him from his thoughts. "All right," it said. "This seems sufficient, but if you've got the sense and judgment Sloan seems to think you have, you'll come to the conclusion that there's not much use in wasting any of his good, hard dollars on the Croix d'Or. It never has paid. It never will pay. I offered to buy it once, but I wouldn't give a dollar for it now, beyond what the timber above ground is worth. It owns a full section of timberland, and that's about all." He reached for a pen and wrote a note to the watchman, telling him that the bearer, Richard Townsend, had come to look over the property and that his orders must be accepted, and signed it with his hard-driven scrawl. He handed it up to Dick without rising from his seat, and said: "That'll fix you up, I think." As if by an afterthought, he asked: "Have you any idea of the condition of the mine?" "No," Dick answered, as he folded the letter and put it into his pocket, together with the one from his late father's partner. "Well, then, I can tell you, it's bad," said Presby, fixing him with his cool, hard stare. "The Cross is spotted. Once in a while they had pay chutes. They never had a true ledge. There isn't one there, as far as anybody that ever worked it knows. They wasted five hundred thousand dollars trying to find it, and drove ten thousand feet of drifts and tunnels. They went down more than six hundred feet. She's under water, no one knows how deep. It might take twenty thousand to un-water the sinking shaft again, and at the bottom you'd find nothing. Take my advice. Let it alone. Good-day." Dick walked out, scarcely knowing whether to feel grateful for the churlish advice or to resume his wonted attitude of self-reliance and hold himself unprejudiced by Presby's condemnation of the Croix d'Or. He wondered if Bully Presby suspected him of having been friendly with the mob of drunken ruffians at the road house, but he had been given no chance to explain. At the bottom of the gulch he found Bill sprawled at length on his elbows almost under the forefeet of one of the burros which was nosing him over in a friendly caress. He called out as he approached, and the big prospector sat up, deftly snapped the cigarette he had been smoking into the creek with his thumb and forefinger, and got to his feet. "Do we get permission to go on the claim?" he grinned, as Townsend reached him. "Yes, I've got an order to the watchman. The old man doesn't seem to think much of it. Says it's spotted. Had rich pay chutes, but they pinched. No regular formation. Always been a loser. Thinks we'd be foolish to do anything with it." "Good of him, wasn't it?" Dick looked quickly at the hard, lined face of his companion. "That's the first thing I've heard that made me feel better," declared the prospector, as he swung one of the burro's heads back into the trail and hit the beast a friendly slap on the haunches to start it forward. "Whenever a man, like this old feller seems to be, gives me that kind of advice, I sit up and take notice." "Why--why, what do you know about him?" Dick asked, falling into the trail behind the pack animals, which had started forward with their slow jog trot, and ears swaying backward and forward as they went. "While you was gone," Mathews answered, "I had a long talk with a boy that came along and got friendly. You can believe boys, most of 'em. They know a heap more than men. They think out things that men don't. Kids are always friends with me; you know that. I reckon, from what I gathered, that this Presby man is about as hard and grasping an old cuss as ever worked the last ounce of gold out of a waste dump. He makes the men save the fags of the candles and the drips, so's he can melt 'em over again. He runs a company store, and if they don't buy boots and grub from him, they have to tear out mighty quick. He fired a fireman because the safety-valve in the boiler-house let go one day twenty minutes before the noon shift went back to work. If he says, 'Let the Cross alone,' I think it's because he wants it." "You couldn't guess who he is," Dick said, preparing to move. "Why? Do I know him?" "In a way. He's the man we saw the mob tackle, back there at the road house." Bill gave a long whistle. "So that's the chap, eh? Bully Presby! Well, if we ever run foul of him, we've got our work cut out for us. Things are beginnin' to get interestin'. 'I like the place,' as Daniel said when he went to sleep in the lion's den." They opened the gate through the barricade without any formality, and were well started up the inclined road of the Croix d'Or before they encountered the watchman who had given them so much trouble. As he came toward them, frowning, they observed that he had buckled a pistol round him as if to resist any intrusion in case it should be attempted without instructions. Dick handed him Presby's order, and the man read it through in surly silence; then his entire attitude underwent a swift change. He became almost obsequiously respectful. "I'll have to go down and have a talk with Mr. Presby," he said, and would have ventured a further remark, but was cut short by the mine-owner. "Yes, you'd better go and see him," Dick said concisely. "And when you go, take all of your dunnage you can carry, then come back and get the rest. I shall not want you on the claim an hour longer than necessary for you to get your stuff away. You're too good a man to have around here." The fellow gave a shrug of his shoulders, an evil grin, and turned back up the road to vanish in what had evidently been the superintendent's cabin, and noisily began to whistle as he gathered his stuff together. The partners halted before the door, and Dick looked inside. "I suppose you have the keys for everything, haven't you?" he called. The man impudently tossed a bundle at him without a word. Apparently his belongings were but few, which led the newcomers to believe that he had taken his meals at the Rattler, and perhaps slept there on many nights. They watched him as he rolled his blankets, and prepared to start down the trail. "The rest of that plunder in there, the pots and the lamp, belong to the mine," he said. And then, without other words, turned away. "That may be the last of him, and maybe it won't!" growled Bill, as he began throwing the hitches off the tired burros that stood panting outside the door. "Anyway, it's the fag end of him to-night." They were amazed at the lavish expenditure of money that had been made in the superintendent's quarters. There were a porcelain bathtub brought up into the heart of the wilderness, a mahogany desk whose edges had been burned by careless smokers, and a safe whose door swung open, exposing a litter of papers, mine drawings, and plans. The four rooms evidently included office and living quarters, and they betokened a reckless financial outlay for the purpose. "Poor Dad!" said Dick, looking around him. "No wonder the Cross lost money if this is a sample of the way the management spent it." He stepped outside to where the cañon was beginning to sink into the dusk. The early moon, still behind the silhouette of the eastern fringe of peaks and forests, lighted up the yellow cross mark high above, and for some reason, in the stillness of the evening, he accepted it as a sign of promise. CHAPTER IV THE BLACK DEATH It took seven days of exploration to reveal the condition of the Cross of Gold, and each night the task appeared more hopeless. The steel pipe line, leading down for three miles of sinuous, black length, from a reservoir high up in the hills, had been broken here and there maliciously by some one who had traversed its length and with a heavy pick driven holes into it that inflicted thousands of dollars of expense. The Pelton wheels in the power house, neglected, were rusted in their bearings, and without them and the pipe line there could be no electric power on which the mill depended. The mill had been stripped of all smaller stuff, and its dynamos had been chipped with an ax until the copper windings showed frayed and useless. The shoes of the huge stamps were worn down to a thin, uneven rim, battering on broken surfaces. The Venners rattled on their foundations, and the plates had been scarred as if by a chisel in the hands of a maniac. The blacksmith's tunnel--the tunnel leading off from the level--was blocked by fallen timbers where a belt of lime formation cut across; and fragments of wood, splintered into toothpick size, had been thrown out when the mountain settled to its place. But a short distance from the main shaft, which was a double compartment, carrying two cages up and down, in every level the air was foul down to the five-hundred foot, and below that the mine was filled with water. Patiently Dick and the veteran explored these windings as far as they might until the guttering of their candles warned them that the air was loaded with poison, and often they retreated none too soon to scale the slippery, yielding rungs of the ladder with dizzy heads. Expert and experienced, they were puzzled by what was disclosed. Either the mine had yielded exceedingly rich streaks and had been, in mining parlance, "gophered," or else the management had been as foolish as ever handled a property. In the assay-house, where the furnaces were dust-covered, the scale case black with grime, and the floor littered with refuse crucibles, cupels, mufflers, and worn buckboards, they discovered a bundle of old tablets. Almost invariably these showed that the assays had been made from samples that would have paid to work, but this alone gave them no hope. But this was not all. A mysterious enmity seemed to pursue all their efforts. Yet its displays were unaccountable for by natural causes. On their arrival at the mine they found water, fresh and clear, piped into every cabin, the mess-house, and the superintendent's quarters. They traced it back and discovered a small lake formed and fed by a large spring on what was evidently land of the mine. It suddenly failed them, and proved unwholesome. An investigation of the tiny reservoir disclosed masses of poisonous weeds in the water. They decided that they must have been blown there after their arrival, cleared the supply and yet, but two days later, when there had been no wind of more than noticeable violence, the weeds were there again. They abandoned their water supply for the time being and resorted to the stream at the bottom of the cañon. A day later one of their burros died mysteriously, and Bill, puzzled, said he believed that it had lost its sense of smell and eaten something poisonous. On the day following the other died, apparently from the same complaint. The veteran miner grieved over them as for friends. "I've been acquainted with a good many of 'em," he said, sorrowfully, "but I never knew two that had finer characters than these two did. They were regular burros! No cheaters--just the square, open and above-board kind, that never kicked without layin' back their ears to give you warnin' and never laid down on the trail unless they wanted to rest. The meanest thing a burro or a man can do is to die voluntarily when you're dependin' on him, or when he owes you work or money. So it does seem as if I must have been mistaken in these two, after all, because we may need 'em." Dick did not smile at his homily, for he caught the significance of it, that the Croix d'Or would have to make a better showing than they had so far discovered to warrant them in opening it. They had come almost to the end of the investigations possible. They scanned plans and scales in the office to familiarize themselves with the property, and there was but one portion of it they had not visited. That was a shaft which had been the "discovery hole," where the first find of ore had been made. And it was this they entered on the day when Fate seemed most particularly unkind. Yet even Fate appeared to relent, in the end, through one of those trifling afterthoughts which lead men to do the insignificant act. They had prepared everything for the venture. They had an extra supply of candles, chalk for making a course mark, sample bags for such pieces of ore as might interest them, and the prospectors' picks and hammers when they started out. They were a hundred yards from the office when the younger man hesitated, stopped and turned back. "I've an idea we might need those old maps," he said. "We haven't gone over them very much and they might come in handy." Bill protested, but despite this Dick went back to the quarters and got them. They were crude, apparently, compared with the later work when competent engineers had opened the mine in earnest; but doubtless had served their purpose. The men came to the mouth of the old shaft which had been loosely covered over with poles, and around which a thicket of wild blackberry bushes had sprung up in stunted growth. An hour's work disclosed the black opening and a ladder in a fair state of preservation. They lowered a candle into the depths and saw that it burned undimmed, indicating that the air was pure, and then descended cautiously, testing each rung as they went. The shaft was not more than fifty feet deep, and they found themselves standing on the bottom and peering off into a drift which had been crudely timbered and had fallen in here and there as the unworked ground had settled. "There doesn't seem to be much of anything here except some starved quartz," Bill said, staring at the wall after they had gone in some thirty or forty feet, and they had come to a place where the lagging had dropped away. He caught another piece of the half-rotted timbering and jerked it loose for a better inspection. It gave with a dull crack, then, immediately after, and seeming almost an echo, there was a terrific rumble, and a report like the explosion of a huge gun back in the direction of the shaft. Their candles flickered in the air impact, and for an instant they feared that the roof was coming down on them to crush them out of all resemblance to human beings. They turned and ran toward the shaft. A few loose pebbles and pieces of rock were dripping from above like a shower of porphyry. For an instant they dared not step out, but stood inside the drift, waiting for what might happen and staring at each other with set faces exposed in the still flickering light. They had said nothing up to this time, being under too great stress to offer other than sharp exclamations. "Sounds like that shaft had given way!" the veteran exclaimed. "If it has----" He leaned forward and looked into Dick's face. "If it has," the latter took up, "we are in a bad predicament." They stood tensed and anxious until the pebbles stopped falling and a silence like that of a tomb, so profound as to seem thick and dense, invaded the hollows; then Dick started out into the shaft. He felt a restraining hand on his arm. "Wait a minute, boy," the elder man said. "You're the owner here. It's dangerous. I ought to be the one to go first and find out what's happened. You wait inside the drift." But Dick shook his hand off and stepped out to look upward. A dense blackness filled what should have been a space of light. This he had partially expected from the fact that when they came out toward the shaft there had been no sign of day; but he had not anticipated such a complete closing of the opening. "Lord! We're buried in!" came an exclamation from behind him, and he felt a sudden sinking of the heart. "I'll go easily till I come to it," he said, his voice sounding strained and loud although he had spoken scarcely above a whisper. "You stand clear so that if anything gives, Bill, you won't be caught." The elder miner would have protested, but already he was slowly and cautiously climbing the ladder. Step by step he ascended, holding the light above his head to discover the place where the shaft had given way, and then Bill, standing anxiously below, heard a harsh shout. "I think the ladder will bear your weight as well as mine. Come up here." The big man climbed steadily upward until he stood directly beneath the younger man's feet. He ventured an exclamation that was almost an oath. "Not the shaft at all," he said, an instant later. "It's just a bowlder so big that it filled the whole opening. We're plugged and penned in here like rats in a trap!" Dick took his little prospecting hammer and tapped the bowlder, at first gently, then with firmer strokes, and looked down at his partner with a distressed face. "Hear that?" he exclaimed, rather than questioned. "It's a big one, and solid. It sounds bad to me." For a minute they waved their candles round the edge, inspecting the resting place of the rock that had imprisoned them. Everywhere it was set firmly. A fitted door could have been no more secure. They consulted, and at last Bill descended and stepped back into the entrance to the drift to avoid falling stone, while the younger man attacked the edge beneath the bowlder, inch by inch, trying to find some place where he could pick through to daylight. At last, his arm wearied and the point of his prospecting hammer dulled, he rested. "Come down, Dick, and I'll take a spell," Bill called up from below, and he obeyed. The big miner, without comment, climbed up, and again the vault-like space was filled with the persistent picking of steel on stone. For a half-hour it continued, and then, slowly, Bill descended. He sat down at the foot of the shaft, wiped the sweat from his face, thrust his candlestick in a crevice and rolled a cigarette before he said anything, and then only as Dick started to the foot of the ladder. "It's no use," he said. "We're holed up all right. I picked clear around the lower edge and there isn't a place where she isn't resting on solid rock. Nothing but dynamite could ever move that stone. Unless we can find some other way out we're----" He paused and Dick added the finishing word, "Gone!" "Exactly! No one knows we're here. No one comes to the mine. We're in the old works which I don't suppose a man has been inside of in five or ten years, and the map shows that it doesn't connect with the other ones. Answer--the finish!" Dick pulled the worn and badly drawn plans from his pocket and then lighted his own candle, indulging in the extravagance of two that he might study the faint and smudged penciled lines. "Here, Bill," he said, pointing at the drawing. "These two side drifts each end in what are now sump holes. We've got to watch out for them. That makes it safe for us to take the main drift and see where it leads. The two end drifts evidently ran but a few feet and were then abandoned. So, if these plans are any good, they, too, are safe, if we can get into them." The elder miner peered at the plans and studied them. He stood up and blew out his candle. He thrust his hands into his pockets. "I've got three candles left," he said, "and I cain't just exactly say why I put that many in unless the Lord gave me a hunch we'd need 'em. How many you got!" "One in my pocket, and this." "Then we'd better move fast, eh?" They took a desperate chance on foul air and plunged down the drift, pausing only now and then when they came to the first side drifts to make sure of their course. They were informed by the plans that they had barely three hundred feet to explore, yet they had gone even farther than that before they came to a halt, a threatening one, for directly ahead of them the timbering had given way, the shaft caved, and there seemed at first no opening through the débris. "Well, this looks pretty tough!" exclaimed Bill, stooping down and examining the face of the barrier. His companion lighted his own candle and together they went over the face of the obstruction. "It looks to me as if we could open her up a little if we can shift this timber here and use it as a lever," he said, pointing to one projecting near the roof. "May bring the whole mountain down, but it's our only chance," agreed Bill. "Here she goes. Stand back. No use in both of us getting it." He caught the end of the timber in his heavy hands, planted his feet firmly on the floor and heaved. The big timber creaked, but did not give. Again he planted himself and this time his great shoulders seemed to twist and writhe until the muscles cracked and then, with a crash, the barrier gave way. He sprang back with amazing quickness and they ran back up the drift for twenty or thirty feet while the mass again readjusted itself and settled slowly into position. A cloud of dust bellowed toward them, half-choking them with its gritty fineness, and then, in a minute, the air had cleared. They went cautiously forward. "Well, we got some farther, anyhow, unless she comes down while we're working through. We've got a hole to crawl into, and that's something," the big miner asserted. Before he could say anything more Dick had crowded him to one side and was entering the aperture. He had prevented his partner from taking the first perilous chance. Painfully he made his way, while the man behind listened with terrified apprehension; for none knew better than he the risk of that progress. "All right, but be careful," a voice came to him faintly from the distance. "She's bad, but the air over here seems good. It's a close shave." The big miner dropped down and began crawling through beneath the tons of balanced rock, which might give at any instant. Larger than his younger companion, he found it more difficult for his great shoulders persisted in brushing at all times, and now and then he was compelled to squeeze himself through a narrow place that for a moment threatened to be impossible. Once a timber above him gave a little and a rock crowded down until only by exerting his whole force could he sustain it while he scraped his hips through from under it. Then as it descended between his legs he found one of them pinioned. He shut his teeth desperately to avoid shouting, and twisted sidewise, and back, to and fro, at the imminent danger of dislodging everything above him. He heard an anxious voice calling outside and replied that he was coming and was all right. He rested for an instant to regain breath, then made a desperate forward effort to find that his foot alone caught him. Again he rolled from side to side, and again he rested. "Bill! Bill! For God's sake, what has happened?" he heard an agonized call from ahead. "I'm all right, boy," he called back patiently. "Just keep away from the hole so I can get air. I'm--I'm just findin' some places a little tight." His reply did not seem to allay the solicitude of his companion, who called again, "Can I help you in any way?" "Only by keeping clear. I'll make another try. Stand clear so if she comes down you won't be caught. If she does come--well--good-bye, Dick!" As he spoke the final word he made another fiercely desperate effort from his new position. There was a ripping, searing pain along the length of his foot which he disregarded in that supreme attempt and suddenly he seemed to slide forward while back of him came a crunching, grinding noise as the disturbed rock which had pinioned him settled down into place. He crawled desperately forward. A light flared in his eyes and he felt strong hands thrust under his arm pits and was jerked bodily out to the floor of the drift. They fell together and the candle, falling with them, was extinguished. They were overwhelmed, as they lay there in the darkness, gasping, by a terrific crashing impact as if the whole mountain had given way and at their very feet huge rocks thundered down. They crawled farther along on hands and knees and the falling rock seemed to pursue them malignantly. For an age it seemed as if the whole drift would give way as each set of timbers came to the strain and failed to hold. Then again all was still. Strangling, sweating, spent, they got to the side wall and raised themselves up, gasping for fresh air. Their senses wavered and swooned in that half-suffocation and slowly they comprehended that they were still alive and that the dust was settling. "Are you all right?" they called to each other in acute unison, their voices betraying a great apprehension, and then, reassured for the instant, they sagged weakly against the walls and each reached out to find the other. Their hands met and clasped fervently and, again in unison, they said, "Thank God!" A match spluttered dimly through the dark and dust-clogged air, a candle slowly took flame and they looked at each other. Bill was leaning against the wall, weakly, and trying to recover his strength. A tattered trousers leg clung above his bared leg and foot where he had wrenched himself loose from the rock, and torn his boot away in so doing. Along the length of the white flesh was a flaring line of red, where the point of rock had cut deeply when he made that last desperate struggle to escape. He dropped to the floor and clutched his wound with his hands while Dick, almost with a moan, thrust his candlestick into a timber and savagely tore his shirt off and rent it into strips. He stooped over and with hasty skill bandaged the wound. "It's not bad, I hope," he said, "but it does hurt, doesn't it, old partner?" "That's nothin'," bravely drawled the giant, striving to force a grin to his pain-drawn lips. "Don't worry now, boy! Think what might have happened if I'd been there a minute or two longer, or if I couldn't have got loose at all!" In their thankfulness for the last escape they had almost forgotten the fact that their situation was still almost hopeless, and that perhaps the speedy end would have been preferable to one more agonizing, more slow, to come. They got to their feet at last and hobbled forward, the big man resting half his weight on his friend's shoulder and making slow progress. Again they were centered on the faint hope that beyond was some sort of opening, because now they knew but too well that their retreat was effectually cut off. If there was no opening ahead they were doomed. They consulted the plan again and went forward. Abruptly they came to a halt, shutting their jaws hard. They had come to the end of the main drift and it was a blank wall of solid stone where the prospectors had finished! "Well, old man, there's still the two side drifts to examine," said Bill with a plain attempt to appear hopeful that did not in the least deceive the other. "Yes. That's back there about fifty feet," Dick assented, finding that it required an effort to steady his voice. "The other one is behind that barrier." They looked at each other, reading the same thought. They had but one more chance and that was almost futile; for the plans indicated that the side drift extended but a score or so of yards and had then been abandoned. They felt their feet faltering when they turned into it, dreading the end, dreading the revelation that must tell them they were to die in this limited burrow in the hills. But courageously they tried to assume an air of confidence. They did not speak as they progressed, each dreading that instant when he would again face an inexorable barrier. They counted their steps as they went, to themselves. They came to the twentieth, twenty-first, twenty-second, and were peering fixedly ahead. Together they stopped and turned toward each other. Dimly in the faintly thrown light of the candle beams, they could see it, the dusky gray mass where hope had pictured a continuing blackness. The wall leered at them as they stood there panting, despairing, desperate as trapped animals. Their imaginations told them the end. "Well, old man"--Bill's voice sounded with exceptional softness--"they didn't extend this drift any farther. All we can do now is to go up and sit down at the foot of it, and--wait!" "But it won't take long, Bill," Dick replied. "The air, you know. It can't last forever." They trudged forward for the few remaining yards and then, abruptly, the candle they were carrying gave a little flicker. This time they stopped in their tracks and shouted. Bill suddenly loosened his hold on the younger man's shoulder and began hopping forward, and the light threw huge, grotesque, strangely moving shadows on the wall ahead of them. Dick ran after him, crowding on his heels and shouting meaningless hopes. Abruptly they came to a right-angle drift, and then, but a few yards down it, they discovered an upraise, crude and uncared-for, but climbing into the higher darkness, and down this there streamed fresh air. It was such a one as prospectors make, having here and there a pole with cleats to serve as a ladder, then ascending at an incline which, though difficult, was not impossible, and again reverting to rocky footholds at the sides. Up this Dick boosted his partner, thrusting a shoulder beneath his haunches and straining upward with the exultation of reaction. They were saved! He knew it! The fresh air told that story to their experienced nostrils. Up, up, up they clambered for a long slanting distance and then fell out on the floor of another drift, at whose end was a shadowy light. Again they hobbled down a long length, ever approaching their goal. Bill stopped and leaned against the side wall and voiced his exultation. "I know where we are," he exclaimed. "This is the blacksmiths' tunnel. They made that upraise following the ore, and that's why the mine was opened for the second time here. They didn't complete the plans because they knew the old work was useless. Dick, we've been through some pretty hard times together and had some narrow shaves; but I don't care for many more like that! Come on. Help me out. I want you to take a look and see if my head is any whiter than it was at nine o'clock this mornin' when we went into that other hole." CHAPTER V THE AGED ENGINEER The sunlight was good to see again--good as only sunlight can be when men have not expected ever again to be enlivened by its glory. They were astonished at the shortness of the time of their imprisonment. They had lived years in dread thought, and but a few hours in reality. They had suffered for the spans of lives to find that the clock had imperturbably registered brief intervals. They had played the gamut of dread, terror, and anguish, to learn how trivial, after all, was the completed score. "I think that will do," said Dick, with a sigh of relief, as he straightened up from bandaging Bill's leg. "The stitches probably hurt some, but aside from a day's stiffness I don't think you will ever know it happened." "Won't eh?" rumbled the patient. "Sure, the leg's all right; but it ain't bruised limbs a man remembers. They heal. You can see the scars on a man's legs, but only the Lord Almighty can see those on his mind, and they're the only ones that last. Dick, now that it's all over, I ain't ashamed to tell you that there was quite a long spell down there underground when I thought over a heap of things I might have done different if I'd had a chance to do 'em over again. And, boy, I thought quite a little bit about you! It didn't seem right that a young fellow like you, with so much to live for, should be snuffed out down there in that black place, where the whole mountain acted as if it was chasin' us, step by step, to wipe us off the slate." He stood on his feet and limped across the room to his coat in an effort to recover himself, and Dick, more stirred than he cared to admit by the affection in his voice, tramped out to the little porch in front and pretended to whistle a tune, that proved tuneless. He looked at the little valley around the shoulder of the mountain at the head of the ravine, which they had so carelessly invaded that morning, and shuddered. Inside he heard Bill moving around, and then after a time his steps advancing stiffly, and turned to see him coming out. "I think," he said smiling, "that we're entitled to a rest for to-day. By to-morrow you'll be all right again, unless I'm mistaken. Let's put in the day looking over these old records." Bill grinned whimsically and assented. He could keep quiet when he had to; but the day following found him again restlessly investigating anything that seemed worth the trouble and the afternoon saw him standing looking upward toward the same valley of dread. "I've got over it a little," he said to the younger man, "and do you know I'm right curious to go over there and see how big that rock was that tumbled into the mouth of the old shaft. Want to come along?" Dick had sustained that same curiosity, so together they made their way to the beginning of the previous day's disaster. They chilled when they saw how effectually they had been caught; for the bowlder completely filled the entrance to the shaft and would have proved a hopeless trap had they tried to escape by burrowing around its edge. It rested, as they had discovered, on solid rock, and its course down the hillside was clearly marked. "What gets me," said the veteran miner, "is what could have started it. I noticed it up there when we went in. It was sort of poised on that little ledge you see, and it didn't have to roll more than thirty feet." He began to climb up the bowlder's well-defined path, and suddenly called to his partner with a hoarse shout, needlessly loud. "Come up here," he said. "That bowlder never started itself! Some one helped it. What do you think of that?" Dick hastily climbed up to his side and looked. The rock around was bare of growth or covering, so that no footprints could be discerned; but a rock rested there that had plainly been used as a fulcrum. The surface beneath it was weather beaten and devoid of moisture, which indicated that it had lain there but a short time, probably only from the time of its mission on the preceding day. They found themselves standing up and staring around at the surrounding hills as if seeking sight of the man who had attempted to murder them. "We'll find out about this!" Bill exclaimed. "Good thing we know enough to look." He limped to the edge of the barren spot and began to circle around its edge, while Dick did likewise, following his example. They found a footprint at last and took the trail. It did not lead them far before they came to a path on top of the hill that was so well used that any attempt to follow it was useless; but, intent on seeing where it led, they walked along it as it led straight away toward the timber. Scarcely inside the cool shadows of the tamaracks they paused and looked at each other understandingly; for thrown carelessly into a clump of laurel was a long, freshly cut sapling, that had been used as a lever. They recovered it from its resting place and inspected it. There was no doubt whatever that it had been the instrument of motion. Its scarred end, its length, and all, told that the man who had used it had carried it this far to discard it, believing his murderous work done. "I noticed that rock, as I said before," declared Bill. "You noticed how round it was on one side? Well, a man could take this lever, and by teetering on it until he got it in motion, finally upset it. The chances were a hundred to one it would land in the mouth of the shaft. And it's a cinch, it seems to me, he wouldn't do that for fun." Dick shook his head gravely. "But who could it be?" he insisted. "Who is there that could want us out of the way badly enough to murder us? No one here knows or cares a continental about us! It seems incredible. It must have been sheer carelessness of some restless loafer who wanted to see the rock roll." Yet they knew that the theory was scarcely tenable. They walked farther along the path and found that it was one used by workmen, evidently, leading at last down the steep mountain side and across to the Rattler. They surmised that it must be one made by the timber cutters for the mine, and learned, in later months, that the surmise was correct. "It makes one thing certain," Bill declared that evening when, candidly discouraged, they sat on the little porch in front of the office they had made their home and discussed the day's findings. "And that is that until we get a force to work here, if we ever do, it ain't a right healthy place for us. Of course with a gang of men around there wouldn't be a ghost of a chance for any enemy to get us; but until then we'd better watch out all the time. I begin to believe that about everything that's happened to us here has been the work of somebody who ain't right fond of us. Wish we could catch him at it once!" There was a grim undercurrent in his wish that left nothing to words. They remembered that in all the time since their arrival they had seen no other human being, the Rattler men having left them as severely alone as if they had been under quarantine. In the stillness of twilight they heard the slow, soft padding of a man's feet laboriously climbing the hill, and listened intently at the unusual sound. "Wonder who that is," speculated Bill, leaning forward and staring at the dim trail. "Looks like a dwarf from here. Some old man of the mountain coming up to drive us off!" "Hello," hailed a shrill, quavering voice. "Be you the bosses?" "We are," Dick shouted, in reply, "Come on up." The visitor came halting up the slope, and they discerned that he was lame and carrying a roll of blankets. He paused before them, panting, and then dropped the roll from his back, and sat down on the edge of the porch with his head turned to face them. He was white headed and old, and seemed to have exhausted his surplus strength in his haste to reach them before darkness. "I'm Bells Park," he said. "Bells Park, the engineer. Maybe you've heard of me? Eh? What? No? Well, I used to have the engines here at the Cross eight or ten years ago, and I've come to take 'em again. When do I go to work? They hates me around here. They drove me out once. I said I'd come back. I'm here. I'm a union man, but I tell 'em what I think of 'em, and it don't set well. When did you say I go to work?" "I'm afraid you don't go," Dick answered regretfully. The Cross, so far as he could conjecture, would never again ring with the sounds of throbbing engines. Already he was more than half-convinced that he should write to Sloan and reject his kindly offer of support. "We've been here but a week, but it doesn't look promising to us." "Well, then you're a pair of fools!" came the disrespectful and irascible retort. "They told me down in Goldpan that some miners had come to open the Cross up again. You're not miners. I've hoofed it all the way up here for nothin'." The partners looked at each other, and grinned at the old man's tirade. He went on without noticing them, speaking of himself in the third person: "I can stay here to-night somewhere, can't I? Bells Park is askin' it. Bells Park that used to be chief in the Con and Virginia, and once had his own cabin here--cabin that was a home till his wife went away on the long trip. She's asleep up there under the cross mark on the hill. Bells Park as came back because he wanted to be near where she was put away! She was the best woman that ever lived. I'm looking for my old job back. I can sleep here, can't I?" His querulous question was more of a challenge than a request, and Dick hastened to assure him that he could unroll his blankets in a bunk in the rambling old structure that loomed dim, silent, and ghostly, on the hill beyond where they were seated. His pity and hospitality led him farther. "Had your supper?" he asked. Bells Park shook his head in negation. "Then you can share with us," Dick said, getting to his feet and entering the cabin from which in a few moments came a rattle of fire being replenished, a coffee-pot being refilled, and the crisp, frying note of sizzling bacon and eggs. "Who might that young feller be?" asked the engineer, glowering with sudden curiosity, after his long silence, into the face of the grizzled old prospector, who, in the interim, had sat quietly. "Him? That's Dick Townsend, half-owner in the mine," Bill replied. "Half owner? Cookin' for me? Why don't you do it? What right have you got sittin' here on your long haunches and lettin' a boss do the work? Hey? Who are you?" "I'm his superintendent," grinned Bill, appreciating the joke of being superintendent of a mine where no one worked. "Oh!" said the engineer. And then, after a pause, as if readjusting all these conditions to meet his approval: "Say, he's all right, ain't he!" "You bet your life!" came the emphatic response. The applicant said no more until after he had gone into the cabin and eaten his fill, after which he insisted on clearing away the dishes, and then rejoined them in a less-tired mood. He squatted down on the edge of the porch, where they sat staring at the shadows of the glorious night, and appeared to be thoughtful for a time, while they were silently amused. "You're thinkin' it's no good, are you?" he suddenly asked, brandishing his pipe at Dick. "Well, I said you were a fool. Take it kindly, young feller. I'm an old man, but I know. You've been good to me. I didn't come here to butt my nose in, but I know her better than you do. Say!" He pivoted on his hips, and tapped an emphatic forefinger on the warped planks beneath in punctuation. "There never was a set of owners shell-gamed like them that had the Croix d'Or! There never was a good property so badly handled. Two superintendents are retired and livin' on the money they stole from her. One millman's bought himself a hotel in Seattle with what he got away with. There was enough ore packed off in dinner-pails from the Bonanza Chute to heel half the men who tapped it. They were always lookin' for more of 'em. They passed through a lead of ore that would have paid expenses, on the six-hundred-foot level, and lagged it rather than hoist it out. I know! I've seen the cars come up out of the shaft with a man standin' on the hundred foot to slush 'em over with muddy sump water so the gold wouldn't show until the car men could swipe the stuff and dump it out of the tram to be picked up at night. It ain't the rich streaks that pays. It's the four-foot ledge that runs profit from two bits to a couple of dollars a ton. That's what showed on the six-hundred level. Get it?" The partners by this time were leaning eagerly forward, half-inclined to believe all that had been told them, yet willing to discount the gabbling of the old man and find content. Until bedtime he went on, and they listened to him the next morning, when the slow dawn crept up, and decided to take the plunge. And so it was that Dick wrote a long statement of the findings to his backer in New York and told him that he was going to chance it and open the Croix d'Or again until he was satisfied, either that it would not pay to work, or would merit larger expenditure. Once again the smoke belched from the hoisting house of the Cross, and the throb of the pumps came, hollow and clanking, from the shaft below. A stream of discolored water swirled into the creek from the waste pipes, and the rainbow trout, affrighted and disgusted, forsook its reaches and sought the pools of the river into which it emptied. Slowly they gained on its depths, and each day the murk swam lower, and the newly oiled cage waited for its freshly stretched cable, one which had happened to be coiled in the store-house. The compressor shivered and vibrated as the pistons drove clean, sweet air through the long-disused pipes, and at last the partners knew they could reach the anticipated six-hundred-foot level and form their own conclusions. "Well, here goes," said Bill, grinning from under his sou'wester as they entered the cage with lamps in hand. "We'll see how she looks if the air pipes aren't broken." They saw the slimy black sides of the shaft slip past them as Bells Park dropped them into the depths, and felt the cage slow down as he saw his pointer above the drum indicate the approach of the six-hundred-foot level. They stepped out cautiously, whiffed the air, and knew that the pipes, which had been protected by the water, were intact, and that they had no need to fear foul air. The rusted rails, slime-covered, beneath their rubber boots, glowed a vivid red as they inspected the timbering above, and saw that the sparse stulls, caps, and columns were still holding their own, and that the heavy porphyritic formation would scarcely have given had the timbers rotted away. Dank, glistening walls and a tremulous waving blackness were ahead of them as they cautiously invaded the long-deserted precincts, scraping and striking here and there with their prospector's picks in search of the lost lead. "About two hundred feet from the shaft, Bells said," Dick commented. "And this must be about the place where they cut through pay ore in search of another lobe of the Bonanza Chute. What thieves they were!" He suddenly became aware that his companion was not with him, and whirled round. Back of him shone a tiny spark of flaring light, striving to illumine the solid blackness. He paused expectantly, and a voice came bellowing through the dark: "Here it is. The old man's right, I think. This looks like ore to me." Dick hastened back, and assisted while they broke away the looser pieces of green rock, glowing dully, and filled their sample sacks. Three hours later they stood over the scales in the log assay-house above, and congratulated each other. "It'll pay!" Dick declared gleefully. "Not much, but enough to justify going on with the work. I am glad I wrote Sloan that I should draw on him, and now we'll go ahead and hire a small gang to set the mill and the Cross in shape." They were like boys when they crossed to the engine house and told the news to the hard-worked engineer, who chuckeled softly and asserted that he had "told them so." "Now, the best way for you to get a gang around here," he said, "is to go down to Goldpan and tell 'The Lily' you want her to pass the word, or stick a sign up in her place saying what men, and how many, you want." "Sounds like a nice name," Mathews commented. "The Lily?" questioned Dick, anxious as to who this camp character could be. "Sure," the engineer rasped, as if annoyed by their ignorance. "Ain't you never heard of her? Well, her right name, so they tell, is Lily Meredith. She owns the place called the High Light. Everybody knows her. She's square, even if she does run a dance hall and rents a gamblin' joint. She don't stand for nothin' crooked, Lily don't. She pays her way, and asks no favors. Go down and tell her you want men. They all go there, some time or another." He stooped over to inspect the fire under the small boiler he was working, and straightened up before he went on. Through the black coating on his face, he appeared thoughtful. "Best time to see The Lily and get action is at night. All the day-shift men hang around the camp then, and, besides that, they've got a new batch of placer ground about a mile and a half over the other side, and lots of them fellers come over. Want to go to-day?" The partners looked at each other, as if consulting, and then Dick said: "Yes. I think the sooner the better." Bells Park pulled the visor of his greasy little cap lower over his eyes, and stepped to the door. "Come out here onto the yard," he said, and they followed. "Go down to the Rattler, then bear off to the right. The trail starts in back of the last shanty on the right-hand side. You see that gap up yonder? Not the big one, but the narrow one." He pointed with a grimy hand. "Well, you go right through that and drop down, and you'll see the camp below you. It's a stiff climb, but the trail's good, and it's just about two miles over there. It's so plain you can make it home by moonlight." Without further ceremony or advice, he returned into the boiler-room, and the partners, after but slight preparations, began their journey. It was a stiff climb! The sun had set, and the long twilight was giving way to darkness when they came down the trail into the upper end of the camp. Some embryo artist was painfully overworking an accordion, while a dog rendered melancholy by the unmusical noise, occasionally accompanied him with prolonged howls. A belated ore trailer, with the front wagon creaking under the whine of the brakes and the chains of the six horses clanking, lurched down from a road on the far side of the long, straggling street, and passed them, the horses' heads hanging as if overwork had robbed them of all stable-going spirit of eagerness. The steady, booming "clumpety-clump! clumpety-clump!" of a stamp-mill on a shoulder of a hill high above the camp, drowned the whir and chirp of night insects, and from the second story of a house they passed they heard the crude banging of a piano, and a woman's strident voice wailing, "She may have seen better da-a-ys," with a mighty effort to be pathetic. "Seems right homelike! Don't it?" Bill grinned and chuckled. "That's one right nice thing about minin'. You can go from Dawson to Chiapas, and a camp's a camp! Always the same. I reckon if you went up the street far enough you'd find a Miner's Home Saloon, maybe a Northern Light or two, and you can bet on there bein' a First Class." The High Light proved to be the most pretentious resort in Goldpan. For one thing it had plate-glass windows and a gorgeous sign painted thereon. Its double doors were wide, and at the front was a bar with a brass rail that, by its very brightness, told only too plainly that the evening's trade had not commenced. Two bartenders, one with a huge crest of hair waved back, and the other with his parted in the middle, plastered low and curled at the ends, betokened diverse taste in barbering. A Chinese was giving the last polish to a huge pile of glasses, thick and heavy. On the other side of the room, behind a roulette wheel, a man who looked more like a country parson than a gambler sat reading a thumbed copy of Taine's "English Literature." Three faro layouts stretched themselves in line as if watching for newcomers, and in the rear a man was lighting the coal-oil lamps of the dance hall. It was separated from the front part of the house by an iron rail, and had boxes completely around an upper tier and supported by log pillars beneath, and a tiny stage with a badly worn drop curtain. "Is the boss here?" Bill asked, pausing in front of the man with a wave. "Who do you mean--Lily?" was the familiar reply. "Yes." "I think she's over helpin' nurse the Widder Flannery's sick kids this afternoon. They've got chicken pox. Might go over there and see her if you're in a rush." "We didn't say we wanted to borrow money," Bill retorted to the jocular latter part of the bartender's speech. "What time will she be here?" "About ten, I guess," was the more courteous reply. The partners walked out and past the row of buildings until they came to a general store, where they occupied themselves in making out an order for supplies and arranging for their delivery on the following day. The trader was a loquacious individual with the unmistakable "Yankee" twang and nasal whine of the man from that important speck of the United States called New England. When they again turned into the street, the long twilight had been replaced by night, and on the tops of the high peaks to the westward the light of the full moon was beginning to paint the chill white with a shining glow. The street was filled with men, most of them scorning the narrow board walks and traversing the roadway. A pandemonium of sound was robbing the night of peace through music, of assorted character, which boiled forth from open doors in discordant business rivalry, but underneath it all was the steady, dull monotone of the stamp-mill, remorselessly beating the ore as if in eternal industry. "Hardly know the place now, eh?" Bill said, as they entered the open doors of the High Light. "It certainly keeps gettin' more homelike. Camp must be makin' money, eh?" Dick did not answer. He was staring at a woman who stood at the lower end of the bar outside, and talking to a man with a medicine case in his hand. He surmised that she must be The Lily, and was astonished. He had expected the customary brazen appearance of other camp women he had known in his years of wandering; the hard-faced, combatative type produced by greed. Instead, he saw a woman of perhaps thirty years of age, or in that vague boundary between thirty and thirty-five. She was dressed in a short skirt, wore a spotless shirt waist over an exceptionally graceful pair of shoulders, and her hair, neatly coiled in heavy bronze folds, was surmounted by a white hat of the frontier type, dented in regulation form with four hollows. From the hat to the high tan boots, she was neat and womanly; yet it was not this that attracted him so much as her profile. From the straight brow, down over the high, fine nose and the firm lips to the firmer chin, the face was perfect. As if sensing his inspection, she turned toward him, and met his wondering eyes. Her appraisement was calm, repressed, and cold. Her face gave him the impression that she had forgotten how to smile. Townsend advanced toward her, certain that she must be the proprietress of the High Light. "You are Miss Meredith?" he interrogated, as he halted in front of her. "Mrs. Meredith," she corrected, still unbending, and looking at him a question as to his business. A forgotten courtesy impelled him to remove his hat as he introduced himself, but Mathews did not follow it when he was introduced, and reached out and caught her competent hand with a hard grip. Dick explained his errand, feeling, all the time under that steady look, that he was being measured. "Oh, yes, they'll be all right by to-morrow, Lily," the doctor interrupted. "Excuse me for being so abrupt, but I must go now. Good-night." "Good-night," she answered, and then: "I'll be up there at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. Ah, you were saying you wanted----" She had turned to the partners again with her unfinished question leading them on to state their mission. "Men. Here's a list," Dick answered, handing her a memorandum calling for go many millmen, so many drill runners, swampers, car handlers, and so forth; in all, a list of twenty odd. "Who told you to come here?" She exploded the question as if it were vital. "Park. Bells Park." She laughed mirthlessly between lips that did not smile and regular, white teeth. But her laugh belied her lack of sympathy. "Poor old Bells!" she said, with a touch of sadness in her voice. "Poor old fool! I tried to keep him from gambling when he had money, and he went broke, like all the other fools. But he loved his wife. He made her happy. Some one in this world must be happy. So he came back, did he? And is up there at the Cross? Well, he's a faithful man. I'm not an employment agency, but maybe I can help you. I would do it for Bells. I like him. Good men are scarce. The bums and loafers are always easy to get. There isn't a mine around here that isn't looking for good men, since they made that discovery over in the flat. Most of them broke to the placer ground. Wages are nothing when there's a chance for better." She had not looked at Dick as she talked, but had her eyes fixed on the paper, though not seeming to scan its contents. The room was crowded with men and filled with a confused volume of sound as she spoke, the click and whir of the wheel, the monotonous voice of the student--turned gambler--calling "Single O and the house wins. All down?" the sharp snap of the case-keeper's buttons before the faro layouts, the screech of the orchestra in the dance hall, and the heavy shuffling of feet; yet her words and intonations were distinct. "We would like to get them as soon as we can," Dick answered. "We have unwatered the main shaft and----" From the dance hall in the rear there came a shrill, high shriek, oaths, shouts, and the orchestra stopped playing. Men jumped to their feet from the faro layouts, and then, mob-like, began to surge toward the door, while in the lead, uttering scream on scream, ran one of the dance-hall girls with her gaudy dress bursting into enveloping flame. She had the terror of a panic-stricken animal flying into the danger of the open air to die. As if springing forward from live ground, Mathews leaped into her path, and caught her in his arms. He jammed her forward ahead of him, taking no pains to shield her body save with his bent arm, and seized the cover of the roulette wheel, which lay neatly folded on the end of the bar. "Give me room!" he bellowed, in his heavy, thunderous voice. "Stop 'em, Dick! For God's sake, stop 'em!" Dick leaped in among the crowd that was madly stampeding--women with faces whose terror showed through masks of rouge, shrieking, men who cursed, trampled, and elbowed their way to the outer air, and the wild-eyed musicians seeking to escape from a fire-trap. Dick struck right and left, and in the little space created Bill swathed the girl in the cover, smothering the flames. And all the time he shouted: "Don't run. What's the matter with you? Go back and put the fire out! Don't be idiots!" As suddenly as it had commenced the panic subsided, and the tide turned the other way. Sobbing women hovered round the door, and men began to form a bucket line. In a long age of five or ten minutes the excitement was over, and the fire extinguished. The dance-hall floor was littered with pieces of scorched wood torn bodily from the boxes, and the remnants of the lamp which had exploded and caused the havoc were being swept into the sodden, steaming heap in the center of the room. Through the press at the sides came The Lily, who, in the turmoil, had sought refuge behind the bar. The partners, stooping over the unconscious, swaddled figure on the floor, looked up at her, and Dick saw that her face was as calm and unemotional as ever. "Bring her to my room," she said; "I'll show you where it is. You, Tim," she called to one of the bartenders, "go as quickly as you can and get Doctor Mills." The partners meekly followed her lead, pausing but once, when she turned to hold up an authoritative hand and tell the curious ones who formed a wake that they must go back, or at least not come ahead to make the case more difficult. Mathews carried his senseless burden as easily as if it were of no weight, and even as they turned up a hallway leading to a flight of stairs ascending to The Lily's apartments, the doctor and bartender came running to join them. Not until they had swathed the girl in cooling bandages did any one speak. Then, as they drew the sheet tenderly over her, they became conscious of one another. As Bill looked up through blistered eyelids, exposing a cruelly scorched face, his lips broke into a painful smile. "Doctor," The Lily said, "now you had better care for this patient." She put her firm, white fingers out, brushed the miner's singed hair back from his brow, and said: "I've forgotten your name, but--I want to say--you're a man!" CHAPTER VI MY LADY OF THE HORSE "It serves you right for bein' so anxious to help one of them dance-hall women; not but what I'd probably 'a' done it myself," was the croaking, querulous consolation offered by Bells Park as he sat beside the plainly suffering and heavily bandaged Bill that night, or rather in the early hours of the morning, in the cabin on the Cross. "They ain't no good except for young fools to gallop around with over a floor." He poured some more olive oil over the bandages, and relented enough to add: "All but The Lily, and she don't dance with none of 'em. She's all right, she is. Mighty peart looker, too. None purtier than Dorothy Presby, though." Dick, looking up from where he sat with his tired chin resting on his tired hands and elbows, thought of the gruff Bully Presby with some interest. "Oh, so the old Rattler owner has a daughter, eh?" "I don't mean old skinflint Presby!" sharply corrected the engineer. "He ain't the only Presby in this whole United States, is he? He don't own the whole world and the name, even if he thinks he does. This Presby I'm talkin' about ain't no kin of his. He's too white. He owns all them sawmills on the other side of the Cross peak, about four miles from here. Got a railroad of his own. Worth about a billion, I reckon." Dick's momentary interest subsided, but he heard the old man babbling on: "I worked for him once, when Dorothy was a little bit of a kid. Him and me fought, but he's a white man. She's been away to some of those fool colleges for women back East, they say, for the last four or five years. It don't do women no good to know too much. My wife couldn't read or write, and she was the best woman that ever lived, bar none." He looked around as if delivering a challenge, and, finding that no one was paying any attention to him, subsided, fidgeted for a minute, and then said he guessed he'd "turn in so's the water wouldn't gain on the pumps in the mornin'." On the insistent demand of his partner, Dick also retired shortly, and the cabin on the hillside was dark save for the dim light that glowed in the sufferer's room. They began to straggle in, the men wanted, before the partners had finished their breakfast on the following morning. Some of them were real miners, and others were nondescripts, bearing out The Lily's statement that good men were scarce, but all were hired as they came, and the Croix d'Or began to thrill with activity. A fat cook--and no miner can explain why a camp cook is always fat--beamed from the mess-house door. A blacksmith, accepting the ready name of "Smuts," oiled the rusted wheels of his blower, and swore patiently and softly at a new helper as he selected the drills for sharpening. Three Burley drill runners tinkered with their machines, and scraped off the verdigris and accumulated dust of storage; millmen began to reset the tables, strip the damaged plates, and lay in new water pipes to drip ceaselessly over the powered ore. Over all these watched Bill with his bandaged face, rumbling orders here and there, and tirelessly active. Out on the pipe line, winding by cut and trestle from the reservoir in the high hills, Dick superintended repairs and laid plans. Leaving his gang replacing sections near the power-house, he climbed up the length of the line to discover, if possible, how far the labors of the vandal had extended. Foot by foot he had traversed it, almost to the reservoir itself, when he paused to breathe and look off at the mountains spread below and around. The Cross, in the distance, was softened again to a miracle of dim yellow laid against a field of purple, and, like a speck, a huge eagle swept in circles round its point to come to rest on its extreme summit. He turned from admiring its flight to inspect a bowlder that had tumbled down from the slope above and come to rest in a big dent; it had smashed in the top of the pipe. He picked up a piece of a storm-broken limb, used it as a lever, and sent the rock crashing across the pipe to go bounding down the hillside as it gained momentum with every leap. There was a startled snort, a sudden threshing of the brush, and it parted to disclose a girl astride a horse that was terrified and endeavoring his best to dismount his rider. Dick, surmising that horse and rider had suffered a narrow escape from the bowlder, ran toward them remorsefully, but the girl already had the animal in control after a display of splendid horsemanship. "Thank you," she said, as he hastened toward the horse's head, intent on seizing the snaffle. "Please don't touch him. I can quiet him down." "I am so sorry," he pleaded, with his hat in his hand. "I had no idea that any one ever rode up this way." "Don't apologize," she answered, with a careless laugh. "No one ever does, save me. It's an old and favorite view of mine. I used to ride here, to see the Cross, many years ago, before I went away to school. So I came back to see my old friend, and--well--your bowlder would have struck us if my horse hadn't jumped." She laughed again, and reached a yellow-gauntleted hand down to pat her mount's shoulder with a soothing caress. The horse stopped trembling, and looked at Dick with large, intelligent eyes. "Ah," said Dick, remembering the garrulity of the engineer. "I believe you must be Miss Presby." Even as she said simply: "I am, but how did you know? I don't remember ever seeing you," he took note of her modish blue riding-dress with divided skirts and patent-leather boots. There was a clean freshness about her person, a smiling candor in her eyes, and a fine, frank girlishness in her face that attracted him beyond measure. She appeared to be about twenty years of age, and was such a girl as those he had known and danced with, in those distant university days when his future seemed assured, and life a joyous conquest with all the odds in his favor. Now she was of another world, for he was, after all, but a workingman, while she, the daughter of a millionaire lumberman, would dance and associate with those other university men whose financial incomes enabled them to dawdle as they pleased through life. He had no bitterness in this summary, but he sustained an instant's longing for a taste of that old existence, and the camaraderie of such girls as the one who sat before him on her horse. "No," he said, looking up at her, "you never saw me before. I have been in the Blue Mountains but six weeks. I am Richard Townsend." Her face took on a look of aroused interest, different from the casual look she had been giving him in the brief minute of their meeting. "Oh," she said, "then you must be the Mr. Townsend of the Croix d'Or. I learned of your arrival last night after I came home. You are rehabilitating the old mine?" "Yes," he answered, smiling. "At least we are trying to. As to the outcome--I don't know." "You mustn't say that!" she protested. "Faith in anything is the first requisite for success. That's what it says in the copybooks, doesn't it?" She laughed again in her clear, mezzo voice, and then with a resumption of gravity gathered her reins into a firmer grip, and, as her horse lifted his head in response to the summons, said: "Anyway, I thank you for volunteering to rescue me, Mr. Townsend, and wish you lots of good luck, but please don't start any more bowlders down the hill, because if you do I shall be robbed of my most enjoyable trip each day. Good-by." "Don't be afraid," he called to her, as she started away. "There are no more bowlders to roll." He stood and watched her as she rode, masterfully seated on the black horse, around a crag that stuck out into the trail. "'Faith in anything is the first requisite for success,'" he repeated to himself, striving to recall whether or not it was, as she had intimated, a hackneyed proverb for the young; yet there was something bracing in it, coming from her calm, young, womanly lips. "That's it; she has it," he again said to himself. "'Faith.' That's what I need." And he resumed his tramp up the mountainside with a better courage and more hope for the Croix d'Or. He was still vaguely troubled when he made his way back past the power-house, in a sliding, scrambling descent, his boots starting tiny avalanches of shale and loose rock to go clattering down the mountainside. The new men were proving competent under the direction of a boss pipeman who had been made foreman, and Dick trudged away toward the mine, feeling that one part of the work, at least, would be speedily accomplished. Bill was still striding backward and forward, but devoting most of his attention to cleaning up the mill, and declared, with a wry smile, that he never felt better in his life, but never liked talking less. When the noon whistle shrieked its high, staccato note from the engine-house, they went up to the mess, and seated themselves at the head of the table. As a whole, the men were fairly satisfactory. Bill stared coldly down the table, and appeared to be mentally tabulating those who would draw but one pay-check, and that when their "time" was given them, but Dick's mind persisted in wandering afield to the chance encounter of the morning. The men had finished their hasty meal, in hasty miner's fashion, silently, and tramped, with clumping feet, out of the mess-house to the shade of its northern side before Bill had ended his painful repast. Whiffs of tobacco smoke and voices came through the open windows, where the miners lounged and rested on a long bench while waiting for the whistle. "Don't you fool yourself about Bully Presby," one of them was saying. "It's true he's a hard man, and out for the dust every minute of his life, but he's got nerve, all right. He'll bulldoze and fight and growl and gouge, but he's there in other ways. I don't like him, and we quit pretty sudden, yet I saw him do somethin' once that beat me." "Did you work on the Rattler?" another voice queried. "No," the other went on, "I worked for him down on the Placer Belle in California. It was under the old system and was a small mine. Kept all the dynamite on the hundred-foot level in an old chamber. Every man went there to get it when it was time to load his holes. I was startin' for mine one evenin', whistlin' along, when I smelled smoke. Stopped and sniffed, and about weakened. Knowed it was comin' from the powder room down there. It wan't more'n twenty feet from the shaft, and there was two or three tons of it in that hole. Ran back and gave the alarm bell to the engineer, then ducked my head and went toward the smoke to see if anything could be done before she blew up the whole works. On his hands and knees, with all that was left of his coat, was Bully. He'd got the fire nearly smothered out, and we coughed and spit, and drowned the rest of the sparks from the water barrel. He'd fought it to a finish all alone, and I had to drag him out to the cage that was slidin' up and down as if the engineer was on a drunk, and every time it went up I could see the boys' faces, kind of white, and worried, and hear the alarms bangin' away like mad. But he'd put the fire out there with all that stuff around him. That took some nerve, I tell you!" "What did he do for you?" asked another voice. The narrator gave a heavy laugh, and chuckled. "Do for me? When he got fresh air in him again, up in the hoist, he sat up and opened his hand. In it was a candlestick and a snipe, burned on the side till the wick looked about a foot long. 'Who owns this candlestick?' says he. No one spoke, but some of us knowed it belonged to old Deacon Wells, an absent-minded old cuss, but the deacon had a family of nigh on to ten kids. So nobody answered. 'Some fool left this here,' Bully bellowed, tearing around. 'And that's what started the fire. I'll kick the man off the works that owns the stick.' Still nobody said anything. He caught me grinnin'. 'You know who it was,' says he. 'Sure I do,' says I, 'but I'm a little tongue-tied.' Then he told me he'd fire me if I didn't say who it was. 'Give me my time-check,' says I, and he gave it. He found out afterward I was the man that dragged him out, and sent a letter up to Colusa askin' me to come back, but I didn't go. Don't s'pose he'd remember me now, and don't know as I'd want him to. Any man that works for Bully comes about as near givin' away his heart's blood as any one could, and live." The voices went rumbling on, and Dick sat thinking of the strange, powerful man of the Rattler. "Three of the millmen know their business," mumbled Bill, as if all the time he had been mentally appraising his force. "Two are rumdums. The chips isn't bad. He could carpenter anywhere, and if he's as smart a timberman as he is millwright, will make good. The engineer that's to relieve Bells ain't so much, but I'll leave it to Bells to cuss him into line. That goes. Two of the Burley men are all right, and I fired the third in the first hour because he didn't know what was the nut and which the wrench. Smuts is a gem. He put the pigeon-blue temper on a bunch of drills as fast as any man could have done it." Dick did not answer, but concentrated his mind on the work ahead. The whistle blew, and he compelled Bill to submit to new bandages, following the doctor's instructions, and smiled at his steady swearing as the wrappings were removed and the blisters redressed. They walked across to the hoist, entered the cage, and felt the sinking sensation as they were dropped, rather than lowered, to the six-hundred-foot level. The celerity of the descent almost robbed him of breath, but he thought of sturdy old Bells' boast, that he had "never run a cage into the sheaves, nor dropped it to the sump, in forty years of steam." Lights glowed ahead of them, and they heard hammering. The suck of fresh air under pressure, vapored like steam, whirled around them in gusts, and the water oozed and rippled beside their feet as they went forward. The carpenter was putting in a new set of timbers, and his task was nearly finished, while beside him waited a drill man and a swamper with the cumbersome, spiderlike mechanism ready to set. The carpenter gave a few more blows to a key block, and methodically flung his hammer into his box and hurried back out through the tunnel toward the cage, intent on resuming his work at the mill. Bill tentatively inspected the timbers, tapped the roof with a pick taken from the swamper's hands, heard the true ring of live rock, and backed away. The drill was drawn up to the green face of ore. "About there, I should say," Dick directed, pointing an indicatory finger, and the drill runner nodded. The swamper, who appeared to know his business, came forward with the coupling which fed compressed air to the machine, the runner gave a last inspection of his drill, turned his chuck screw, setting it against the rocky face, and signaled for the air. With a clatter like the discharge of a rapid-fire gun, the steel bit into the rock, and the Cross was really a mine again. Spattered with mud, and satisfied that the new drift was working in pay, the partner trudged back out. They signaled for the cage, shot upward, and emerged to the yard near the blacksmith's tunnel in time to see a huge bay horse, with a woman rider, come toiling up the slope. There was something familiar about the white hat, and as she neared them they recognized The Lily. Before they could assist her to dismount, she leaped from the saddle, landing lightly on her toes, and dropped the horse's reins over his head. "Good-day--never mind--he'll stand," she said, all in a breath, striding toward them with an extended hand. Dick accepted it with a firm grip, and lifted his hat, while Bill merely shook hands and tried to smile. It was to him that she turned solicitously. "I'm glad you are out," she remarked, without lowering her eyes which swept over the bandages on his face. "You're all right, are you?" "Sure. But how's that girl? It don't matter much about an old cuss like me. Girls are a heap scarcer." The owner of the High Light looked troubled for a moment, and removed her gloves before answering. "Doctor Mills says she will live," she said quietly, "but she is terribly burned. She will be so disfigured that she can never work in a dance hall any more. It's pretty rough luck." Dick recoiled and felt a chill at this hard, cold statement. The girl could never work in a dance hall any more! And this was accepted as a calamity! Accustomed as he was to the frontier, this matter-of-fact acceptance of a dance-hall occupation as something desirable impressed him with its cynicism. Not that he doubted the virtue of many of those forlorn ones who gayly tripped their feet over rough boards, and drank tea or ginger ale and filled their pockets with bar checks to make a living as best they might, but because the whole garish, rough, drink-laden, curse-begrimed atmosphere of a camp dance hall revolted him. Mrs. Meredith had intuition, and read men as she read books, understandingly. She arose to the defense of her sex. "Well," she said, facing him, as if he had voiced his sentiment, "what would you have? Women are what men make them, no better, no worse." "I have made no criticism," he retorted. "No, but you thought one," she asserted. "But, pshaw! I didn't come here to argue. I came up to tell you that the dance-hall girl will recover and has friends who will see that she doesn't starve, even if she no longer works in my place. Also, I came to see how Mister--what is your name, anyway?--is." "Mathews, ma'am. William Mathews. My friends call me Bill. I don't allow the others to call me anything." The temporary and threatening cloud was dissipated by the miner's rumbling laugh, and they sauntered across the yard, the bay horse looking after them, but standing as firmly as if the loosened reins were tied to a post instead of resting on the ground. A swamper, carrying a bundle of drills, trudged across the yard to the blacksmith shop, as they stood in its doorway. "I sent you the best men I could pick up," The Lily said. "You did me a good turn, and I did my best to pay it back. That blacksmith is all right. Some of the others I know, but I don't know him. Never saw him before. You'd better watch him." She pointed at the swamper as coolly as if he were an inanimate object, and he glared at her in return, then dropped his eyes. "I told you I didn't run an employment agency," she went on, "but if any of these fellows get fresh, let me know, and I'll try to get you others. How does the Cross look, anyway?" They turned away and accompanied her over the plant above ground, and heard her greet man after man on a level of comradeship, as if she were but a man among men. Her hard self-possession and competence impressed the younger man as a peculiar study. It seemed to him, as he walked beside her thoughtfully, that every womanly trait had been ground from her in the stern mills of circumstance. He had a vague desire to probe into her mind and learn whether or not there still dwelt within it the softness of her sex, but he dared not venture. He stood beside the bandaged veteran as she rode away, a graceful, independent figure. "Is she all tiger, or part woman?" he said, turning to Mathews, whose eyes had a singularly thoughtful look. The latter turned to him with a quick gesture, and threw up his unbandaged hand. "My boy," he said, "she's not a half of anything. She's all tiger, or all woman! God only knows!" CHAPTER VII THE WOMAN UNAFRAID They were to have another opportunity to puzzle over the character of The Lily before a week passed, when, wishing to make out a new bill of supplies, they went down to the camp. The night was fragrant with the spring of the mountains, summer elsewhere--down in the levels where other occupations than mining held rule. The camp had the same dead level of squalor in appearance, the same twisting, wriggling, reckless life in its streets. "Fine new lot of stuff in," the trader said, pushing his goods in a brisk way. "Never been a finer lot of stuff brought into any camp than I've got here now. Canned tomatoes, canned corn, canned beans, canned meat, canned tripe, canned salmon. That's a pretty big layout, eh? And I reckon there never was no better dried prunes and dried apricots ever thrown across a mule's back than I got. Why, they taste as if you was eatin' 'em right off the bushes! And Mexican beans! Hey, look at these! Talk about beans and sowbelly, how would these do?" He plunged his grimy hand into a sack, and lifted a handful of beans aloft to let them sift through his fingers, clattering, on those below. The partners agreed that he had everything in the world that any one could crave in the way of delicacies, and gave him their orders; then, that hour's task completed, sauntered out into the street. Dick started toward the trail leading homeward, but Bill checked him, with a slow: "Hold on a minute." The younger man turned back, and waited for him to speak. "I'd kind of like to go down to the High Light for a while," the big man said awkwardly. "We ought to go round there and see Mrs. Meredith, and patronize her as far as a few soda pops, and such go, hadn't we? Seein' as how she's been right good to us." Dick, nothing loath to a visit to The Lily, assented, although the High Light, with its camp garishness, was an old and familiar sight to any one who had passed seven years in outlying mining regions. The proprietress was not in sight when they entered, but the bartenders greeted them in a more friendly way, and the Chinese, who seemed forever cleaning glasses, grinned them a welcome. They nodded to those they recognized, and walked back to the little railing. "Lookin' for Lily?" the man with the bangs asked, trying to show his friendliness. "She ain't here now, but she'll be here soon. She's about due. Go on up and grab a box for yourselves. The house owes you fellers a drink, it seems to me. Can I send you up a bottle of Pumbry? The fizzy stuff's none too good for you, I guess." He appeared disappointed when Dick told him to send up two lemonades, and turned back to lean across the bar and hail some new arrival. The partners went up and seated themselves in one of the cardboard stalls dignified by the name of boxes, and, leaning over the railing in front between the gilt-embroidered, red-denim curtains, looked down on the dancers. Two or three of their own men were there, grimly waltzing with girls who tried to appear cheerful and joyous. Shrill laughter echoed now and then, and when the music changed a man with a voice like a megaphone shouted: "Gents! Git pardners for the square sets!" and the scene shifted into one of more regular pattern, where different individuals were more conspicuous. Some of the more hilarious cavorted, and tried clumsy shuffles on the corners when the raucous-voiced man howled: "Bala-a-ance all!" and others merely jigged up and down with stiff jerks and muscle-bound limbs, gravely, and with a desperate, earnest endeavor to enjoy themselves. A glowering, pockmarked man, evidently seeking some one with no good intent, pulled open the curtains at the back of the box, and stared at them in half-drunken gravity; then discovering his mistake, with a clumsy "Beg pardon, gents," let the draperies drop, and passed on down the row. Across from them, in the opposite box, some man from the placers, with his face tanned to a copper color, was hilariously surrounding himself with all the girls he could induce to become his guests, holding a box party of his own. He was leaning over the rail and bellowing so loudly that his voice could be heard above the din: "Hey, down there! You, Tim! Bring me up a bottle of the bubbly water--two bottles--five--no, send up a case. Whoop-ee! Pay on seventeen! This is where little Hank Jones celebrates! Come on up, girls. Here's where no men is wanted. It's me all by my little lonely!" Some one threw a garland of paper flowers round his neck, which he esteemed as a high honor, and shook it out over the floor below, where all the dancers were becoming confused in an endeavor simultaneously to watch his antics, and keep their places in the dance. "The most disgusting object in the world is a man who drinks!" came a cold voice behind them, and they turned to see The Lily standing back of them, and frowning at the scene across. Bill turned to greet her, holding out his hand, and his broad shoulders shut out the view of Bacchanalia. "The bartender says you drink nothing stronger than lemonade," she said, looking up at the giant, "and I am glad to hear it. It is a pleasure to meet men like you once in a while. It keeps one from losing faith in all." She sat down in one of the chairs--a trifle wearily, Dick thought, and he noticed that there were lines under the eyebrows, melancholy, pensive, that he had not observed before in the few times they had met her. As on the occasion of their meeting at the mine, she appeared to sense his thoughts, and turned toward him as if to defend herself. "You are asking yourself and me the question, why, if I dislike liquor, and gambling, and all this, I am owner of the High Light?" she said, reverting to her old-time hardness. "Well, it's because I want money. Does that answer you?" "I didn't ask you a question," he retorted. "No, but it's just like it always is with you! You looked one. I'm not sure that I like you; you look so devilish clean-minded. You always accuse me, without saying anything so that I can have a chance to answer back. It isn't fair. I don't like to be made uncomfortable. I am what I am, and can't help it." She turned her frowning eyes on Bill, and they softened. She relented, and for the first time in the evening her rare laugh sounded softly from between her white, even teeth. "You see," she said, addressing him, "I can't help being angry with Mr. Townsend. I think I'm a little afraid of him. I'm a coward in some ways. You're different. You just smile kindly at me, as if you were older than Methuselah, and had all the wisdom of Solomon or Socrates, and were inclined to be tolerant when you couldn't agree." "Go on," Bill said. "You're doin' all the talkin'." "I have a right to exercise at least one womanly prerogative, once in a while," she laughed. And then: "But I am talking more than usual. Tell me about the mine and the men? How goes it?" They had but little to tell her, yet she seemed to find it interesting, and her eyes had the absent look of one who listens and sees distant scenes under discussion to the exclusion of all immediate surroundings. "Have you met Bully Presby yet?" she asked. They smiled, and told her they had. "He is a wonderful man," she said admiringly. "He makes his way over everything and everybody. He is ruthless in going after what he wants. He fears nothing above or below. I honestly believe that if the arch demon were to block him on the trail, Bully Presby would take a chance and try to throw him over a cliff. I don't suppose he ever had a vice or a human emotion. I believe I'd like him better if he had a little of both." Dick laughed outright, and stared at her with renewed interest. He admitted to himself that she was one of the most fascinating women he had ever met, and wondered what vicissitude could have brought such a woman, who used classical illustrations, fluent, cultivated speech, and who was strong grace exemplified, to such a position. She seemed master of her surroundings, and yet not of them, looking down with a hard and lofty scorn on the very men from whom she made her living. He began to believe what was commonly said of her, that her virtue, physical and ethical, was unassailable. There was a crash and a loud guffaw of laughter. They pulled the curtains farther apart, and looked across at the man who was celebrating. He had dropped a bottle of wine to the floor below, and was beseeching some one to bring it up to him. Bill leaned farther out of the box to look, and suddenly the drummer saw him, pointed in his direction with a drumstick, and spoke to a girl leaning near by. She, too, looked up, and then clapped her hands. "There he is!" she called in her high treble voice. "Up there in number five! The man that carried Pearl out and got burned himself." Some man near her climbed to the little stage and pointed, took off his hat, and shouted: "A tiger for that man! Now! All together! Whooee! Whooee! Whooee! Ow!" In the wild yell that every one joined, Bill was abashed. He shrank back into the box, flushed and embarrassed, while Dick laughed outright, with boyish enjoyment at his confusion, and The Lily watched him with a soft look in her eyes, and then stared down at the floor below. Suddenly her figure seemed to stiffen, and the look on her face altered to one of cold anger. She peered farther over as if to assure herself of something, and Dick, following her eyes, saw they were fixed on a man who stood leaning against one of the pillars near the entrance to the dance floor. He alone, apparently, was taking no part in the demonstration in Bill's honor, but glowered sullenly toward the box. It took no long reasoning for Dick to know why. The man was the one who had been the watchman at the mine when they arrived. The band struck up again, and another dance began, the enthusiasts forgetting Bill as quickly as they had saluted him; but the ex-watchman continued to lean against the post, a picture of sullenness, and in the box The Lily stood with knitted brows, as if trying to recollect him. "Well," she said at last, "I must go now. Come and see me whenever you can, both of you. I like you." They arose and followed her out of the box, and down the flimsy stairs that led to the floor below. She paused on the bottom step, and clutched the casing with both hands, then tried to get a closer look at the ex-watchman, who had turned away until but a small part of his face was exposed. She walked onward, still looking angrily preoccupied, to the end of the bar, and the partners were on the point of bidding her good-night, when she abruptly started, seemed to tense herself, and exclaimed: "Now I know him!" The partners wondered when she made a swift clutch under the end of the bar and slipped something into the bosom of her jacket. She took five or six determined steps toward the ex-watchman and tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled sharply as if his mind had guilty fears, and faced her defiantly. Those immediately around, suspecting something unusual, stopped to watch them, and listened. "So you are here in Goldpan, are you, Wolff?" she demanded, with a cold sneer in her voice. He gave her a fierce, defiant stare, and brazenly growled: "You're off. My name's not Wolff. My name's Brown." "You lie!" she flared back, with a hard anger in her voice. "Your name is Gus Wolff! You get out of this place, and don't you ever come in again! If you do, I'll have you thrown out like a dog." He glowered at the crowd that was forming around him, as crowds invariably form in any controversy, and then started toward the door, but he made a grave mistake. He called back a vile epithet as he went. "Stop!" she commanded him, with an imperious, compelling tone. He half-turned, and then shrugged his shoulders, and made as if to move on. "Stop, I said!" He turned again to face a pistol which she had snatched from her jacket, and now the partners, amazed, understood what that swift motion had meant. He halted irresolutely. "You used a name toward me that I permit no man to use," she said fiercely. "So I shall explain to these men of Goldpan who you are, Gus Wolff! You were in Butte five years ago. You induced a poor, silly little fool named Rose Trevor to leave the dance hall where she worked, and go with you. You were one of those who believe that women are made to be brutalized. But good as most of them are, and bad as some of them are, there is none, living or dead, that you are or were fit to consort with. You murdered her. Don't you dare to deny it! They found her dead outside of your cabin. They arrested you, and tried you, and should have hanged you, but they couldn't get the proof of what everybody believed, that you--you brute--had killed, then thrown her over the rocks to claim that she had fallen there in the darkness." She paused as if the tempest of her words had left her breathless, and men glared at him savagely. It seemed as if every one had crowded forward to hear her denunciation. "Bah!" she added scornfully. "The jury was made up of fools, and men knew it. The sheriff himself told you so when he slipped you out of the jail where he had protected you, and let you loose across the border in the night. Didn't he? And he told you that if ever you came back to Butte, he would not turn a hand to keep you from the clutches of the mob; didn't he? And now you are plain 'Mister Brown,' working somewhere back up in the hills, are you? Well, Mr. Brown, you keep away from the High Light. Get out!" Some one made a restless motion, and declared the man should be hanged, even now, but The Lily turned her angry eyes on the speaker, and silenced him. "Not if I can help it, or any of my friends can," she said coolly. "There'll be no mobbing anybody around here. I've said enough. Let him alone, but remember what kind of a blackguard he is. That's all!" She turned back and tossed the pistol behind the bar, and the crowd, as if her words and the advice of the more contained element prevailed, resumed its play. She looked up, and saw the partners waiting to bid her good-night, and suddenly bit her lip, as if ashamed that they had seen her fury unmasked. "We're going now," Bill said, reaching out his hand. She did not take it, but looked around the room with unreadable eyes. "I'll walk with you to the beginning of your trail," she said. "I'm sick of this," and led the way out into the night. For half the length of the long street, she strode between them, wordless, and then suddenly halted and held her arms apart appealingly. "What must you think of me?" she said, with a note of grief in her voice. "Oh, you two don't know it all! You don't know what it takes to make a woman, who tries to be decent, rebellious at everything under the skies. What brutes there are walking the earth! Sometimes, lately, I begin to doubt if there is a God!" "And that," exclaimed the quiet, steadfast young voice at her side, "is unworthy of you and your intelligence." She halted again, as if thinking. "And I," said the giant, in his deep, musical tones, "know there's one. It takes more than men to make me believe there ain't. I know it when I look at them!" He waved his hands at the starlit mountains surrounding them, and towering in serenity high up to the cloudless spaces. "I'd be mighty ashamed to doubt when I can see them," he said, "and if they went away, I'd still believe it; because if I didn't, I couldn't see no use in livin' any more. It's havin' Him lean down and whisper to you once in a while, in the night, when everything seems to be goin' wrong, 'Old boy, you did well,' that keeps it all worth while and makes a feller stiffen his back and go ahead, with his conscience clean and not carin' a cuss what anybody says or thinks, so longs as he knows that the Lord knows he did the right thing." She faltered for a moment, and Dick, staring through the darkness at her, could not decide whether it was because the woman in her was melting after the storm of anger, or whether she was merely weighing his partner's words. As abruptly as had been any of her actions in all the time they had known her, she turned and walked away from them, her soft "Good-night" wafting itself back with a note of profound sadness and misery. "I've decided what she is," Bill said, as they paused for a last look at the lights of the camp. "She's all woman, and a mighty good one, at that!" CHAPTER VIII THE INCONSISTENT BULLY "Them beans," declared the fat cook, plaintively, "looks as if they had been put through some sort of shrivelin' process. The dried prunes are sure dry all right! Must have been put up about the time they dried them mummy things back in Egypt. Apuricots? Humph! I soaked some of 'em all day and to-night took one over to the shop and cut it open with a chisel to see if it was real leather, or only imitation. The canned salmon, and the canned tripe is all swells so that the cans is round instead of flat on the ends. I reckon you'd better go down and see that storekeeper. I dassen't! If I did I'd probably lose my temper and wallop him. If somebody don't go, the men here'll be makin' a mistake, blamin' it on me, and I can't exactly see how they could keep from hangin' me, if they want to do justice." He had stood in the doorway of the office to voice his complaint, and now, without further words walked away toward his own particular section of the little camp village. "So that's the way that trader down there filled the order, is it?" Dick said, frowning at his companion. The latter merely grunted and then offered a solution. "Probably," he said, "that stuff was sent up here without bein' opened, just as he got it. If that's so it ain't his fault. About half the rows in life come from takin' things for granted. The other half because we know too well how things did happen." He stood up and stretched his arms. "What do you say we go down and hear what the trader has to say? If he's square he'll make good. If he ain't--we'll make him!" Taking it for granted that the younger man would accompany him, he was already slipping off his working shirt and peering around the corners of the room for his clean boots. Dick hesitated and had to be urged. He wondered then if it were not possible that something beside the errand to the trader's caused Bill's eagerness; but wisely kept the idea to himself. The camp was in the dusk when they entered it, the soft dusk that falls over early summer evenings in the hills, when everything in nature seems drowsily awaiting the night. They thought there was an unusual hush in the manner of those they met. Men talked on the corners or in groups in the roadway with unaccustomed earnestness. Women leaned across window sills and chatted across intervening spaces with an air of anxiety; the very dogs in the street appeared to be subdued. At the trader's there was not the usual small gathering of loungers, squatted sociably around on cracker boxes and packing cases, and the man with the twang was alone. "Say, there's something wrong with that stuff you sent us," Bill began, and the trader answered with a soft, absent-minded, "So?" Bill repeated the words of the cook; but the storekeeper continued to stare out of the door as if but half of what was said proved interesting. "I'll send up and bring it back to-morrow," he replied when the miner had concluded his complaint. "The fact is it's a job lot I bought in Portland, and I didn't look at it. Came in yesterday. I ain't--I ain't exactly feelin' right. I suppose you heard about it?" The partners looked at him questioningly, but he did not shift his eyes from the door through which he still appeared to be staring away into the distance, and it was easy to conjecture, from the expression of his eyes, that he was seeing a tragedy. "I'm sort of busted up," he went on, without looking at them. "You see I had a brother over there. A shift boss, he was. Him and me was more than brothers. We was friends. It don't seem right that Hiram was down there, in the dark, when the big cave came--came just as if the whole mountain wanted to smash them men under it. It don't seem right! I can't quite get it all yet. I'm goin' over there on the stage in the mornin'. He's left a widder and a couple of little shavers. I'm goin' to bring 'em here." "We don't quite understand you," Dick said, hesitatingly, and with sympathy in his voice. "We haven't heard about it--whatever it is. I'm sorry if----" The trader straightened up from where he had been leaning on his elbows across the counter and they saw that his face was drawn. "Oh, I see," he said, in the same slow, hopeless voice. "I forgot you men don't come down here very often and that my driver never has anything to say to anybody. Why, it's the Blackbird mine over across the divide--on the east spur. Bad, old fashioned mine she was, with crawlin' ground. Lime streaks all through the formation and plenty of water. Nobody quite knows how it happened. There was a big slip over there a few days ago on the four-hundred-foot level. Thirty odd men back of it. Timbers went off, they say, like a gatlin' gun. I just can't seem to understand how they didn't handle that ground better. It don't look right to me!" He stooped and twisted his fingers together and the palms of his hands gave out dry, rasping sounds. His attitude seemed inconsistent with the immobility of his face, but Dick surmised that he was trying to regain control of his emotions. He had a keen desire to know more of the particulars of the tragedy, but sensed from the storekeeper's appearance that he was scarcely able to give a coherent account of it. His words had already told his sorrow. Bill's voice broke the pause. "We're right sorry we bothered you about the supplies," he said, softly. "But we didn't know, you see. I reckon we ain't in any big hurry. You just take your time about fixin' it up. We can live on most anything for a day or two." The storekeeper looked at him gratefully and then lowered his eyes again. He turned away from them with a long sigh. "Nope," he said. "Much obliged. I'll send my man up to-morrow. Business keeps a-goin' on just the same, no matter who passes out. If you or me died to-night, the whole world would just keep joggin' along. I'll send up." They turned and walked out, feeling that anything they could say would be useless, and sound hollow, and they did not speak until they were some distance farther up the street. "He's hard hit, poor cuss!" Bill said. "Wonder what the rest of it was. Lets go on up toward the High Light. Seems as if it must have been pretty bad. What's the commotion down there?" Ahead of them they saw men clustering toward a central point, and others who had been in the street hurrying forward to be absorbed into the group. They quickened their steps a trifle, speculating as to whether it could mean a brawl, or something relating to the disaster of which they had just learned. It proved the latter. A man was standing in the center of the gathering crowd with the reins of a tired horse hanging loosely over his arm. He was talking to the doctor, who was asking him questions. "No," Bill and Dick heard him say as they crowded into the group, "there ain't nothin' you can do, Doc. It's all over with 'em. I was there until quite late. God! It's awful!" "Anybody get out at all?" someone asked. "No. That's a cinch. You see they were driving back in and feeling for the ledge. Blocking out, I think. Pretty lean ore, over there, you know. So there was just one drift away from the shaft, and it was in that she caved." There was a moment's silence and then a half-dozen questions asked almost in the same moment. The man turned first to one and then to another as if striving to decide which query should be answered first, and shook his head hopelessly. "They didn't have a chance," he asserted. "It happened three days ago, as you all know. They sent over to Arrapahoe and all the boys over there went and volunteered. They worked just as many men as could get into the drift at a time, and they spelled each other in half-hour shifts, so's every man could do his best. They hadn't got in twenty feet before they saw that she was bad. Seemed as if the whole drift had been wiped out. It was as solid as rock in place--just as if the whole mountain had slipped!" "Did you go down, Jim?" the doctor asked. For reply the man held up his hands. Dick, close behind him and peering forward to see them in the light that came from a street lamp, saw they were a mass of blisters with the skin torn away, red and bleeding. The answer was too eloquent to require words for the man they called Jim had evidently been there and striving madly, as had others, in the attempt to rescue. There was a surge forward as the crowd pressed in, each man trying to inspect these evidences of the tragedy. The questions were coming faster and from all sides. Most frequently the anxious demand, coupled with a pronounced eagerness was, "Is there anything any of us can do? Can we help if we get over there?" "How far over is it?" Bill asked the man nearest him. "Forty-miles," was the answer. They were all willing to travel that far, or farther, if they could be of any assistance whatever. "No, there's no use in going," the man in the center said. "There's more men there now than can be handled, and all they're doing is to try to get at the boys' bodies. It's sure that they can't live till they're taken out. You all know that! They're gone, every one of 'em. And that ain't the worst. They left twenty-six widows, most of 'em with children!" A groan went up from the crowd. The word passed back along like the waves cast up by a rock thrown into the center of a pool of blackness. It began at the center with its repetition as the words were conveyed to those out of earshot. "He says there's twenty-six widows. He says there's a lot of children." The questions were flowing inward again. "No, boys, there ain't a thing you can do," the man they called Jim repeated. "That is, there ain't a thing can be done for the boys underground. They're gone; but somebody ought to do what can be done for them that's left. It's money that helps the most. That's the best way to show that most all of us had friends who went out." He turned and climbed back into his saddle in the little open space, and there was another moment's silence. The crowd looked up at him now, as he sat there in the center of the light thrown downward, feebly, from the lamp. "Give me room, boys, won't you?" he asked. "My cayuse is about all in. There ain't nothing more to tell. There ain't a thing you can do; but just what I said. Those women and children will need money. They're all broke." The crowd slowly parted and he rode through a narrow lane where his stirrups brushed against those in the front ranks, and then the gathering began to twist backward and forward, to disintegrate, to spread itself outward and up the street of the camp. It talked in a subdued way as it went. There were but few in it who did not know and picture the meaning of all that had been imparted by the courier--the desperate alarm, the haggard, sobbing women in front of a hoist, the relays of men who were ready to descend and beat hammer on steel and tear madly at slow-yielding rock, the calls for a rest while carpenters hastily propped up tottering roofs and walls, the occasional warning shouts when men fell back to watch other huge masses of rock fall into the black drift, and the instants when some rescuer, overwrought, thought he heard sounds of "rock telegraphing" and bade the others pause and listen. There were those among the men on the street who had seen the desperate, melancholy conclusions, when hope, flaming ever more feebly, guttered out as a burned candle and died. There were those among them who had been in those black holes of despair and been rescued, to carry scars of the body for life, but recklessly forget the scars of the mind, the horrors of despair. Comparative strangers to the camp as were the two men of the Cross, they appreciated the full meaning of the blow; for doubtless there was scarcely a man around them who had not known some of those who perished in that terrible, lingering agony. Besides they were miners all. "Pretty tough luck, isn't it?" They found themselves confronted by the doctor, who had turned at the sound of their voices as they resumed conversation. "We just learned of it," Dick answered, "and know scarcely anything whatever of it, save what we just heard." The doctor shook his head. "It has been almost the sole topic here for the last two days," he said. "We heard of it after it was too late for any of us to be of use. I started over, but got word from a confrère of mine from a camp farther east, that there were already four doctors on the spot and that I need not come unless they called for me. Even then they were hopeless. Most of the men of the Blackbird were good men, too. The kind that have families, and are steady; but I suppose from what I hear they were nearly all fellows who have been idle for some time, or have just moved into the district, so probably they had nothing much to leave in the way of support--for those left behind." He stopped for a moment and peered at other men who were passing them. "I think it my duty to do something in that regard," he said, quietly. "I believe I shall get Mrs. Meredith to call a meeting out in front of her place. Nearly every man of the camp goes there at some time or another, in the course of the evening. Perhaps I could--" Again he stopped, as if thinking of the best plan. "I see," interpolated the miner, almost as his younger companion was about to offer the same suggestion. "Let her send out word that every man in the camp is wanted. Then you give them the last news and get them to do what they can. That's right." "It is the best way," asserted Dick, agreeing with the project. "You can do more than any one. They all respect and know you." They left him to make his way toward the High Light and stood at the borders of little gatherings on the street, gleaning other details of the tragedy, for nearly an hour, and then were attracted by a sound below them. Men were calling to one another. Out in front of the High Light two torches flared, their flames glowing steadily in the still night air and lighting the faces of those who gathered toward them. They went with the street current and again found themselves in a crowd; but it was not so dense as that first one they had encountered. Men stood in groups, thoughtfully, with hands in pockets, their harsh, strong faces rendered soft by the light. They talked together with a quiet and sad sympathy, as if in that hour they were all of one family up there in the heart of the mountains from which they tore their hard livelihood. There was a stir from the nearest store and a voice called, "Here, Doc! Here's a couple of boxes for you to stand on so they can see you when you talk." Men were carrying some large packing cases, or tumbling them end over end, with hollow, booming noises, to form a crude platform. The boxes clashed together. Two men holding the torches climbed up on them and they saw two others boosting the doctor upward. At sight of him there was a restraining hiss passed round through the gathering crowd, commanding silence. He waited for it to become complete. "Men," he said, "you have all heard the news. Thirty-three of our fellows died over across the divide, or are dying now. God knows which! God grant they went quickly!" He stopped and although not a trained orator, the pause could have been no more effective. Dick looked around him. The faces of those nearest were grave and unmoved, as if carved from the mother rock of the country in which they delved; but he saw a light in their frowning eyes that told how deeply their sympathies were stirred. "I didn't get up here to talk to you so much about them, however," the doctor went on, quietly, "as I did to remind you that out of thirty-three of these men there were twenty-six who left widows, or widows and children behind them. The boys over there did all they could. There were a hundred and fifty men who tried to save them. They are now working merely to get their bodies. We couldn't be there to help in that; so we do what we can here. And that doing shall consist in helping out those women and children. There's a box down here in front of me. I wish you'd put what you can on it." Bill, staring over the heads of those around him, saw a movement among those nearest the orator's stand, and into the ring of light stepped The Lily. Apparently she was speaking to the doctor, who leaned down to listen. He straightened up and called for silence. "Mrs. Meredith," he said, "says that any man here who has no money with him can sign what he wants to give on a piece of paper, and that she will accept it as she would a pay-check and forward the cash. Then on pay-day the man can come and redeem his paper pledge." There was a low murmur of approval swept round over the crowd which began to move forward with slow regularity. The doctor dropped down from his rostrum as if his task were done. The torches lowered as their bearers followed him and planted them beside the box on which coins, big round silver dollars and yellow gold-pieces, were falling, with here and there a scrap of paper. No one stood guard over that collection. The crowd was thinning out. Dick turned toward his friend and looked up at him to meet eyes as troubled as his own. Each understood the other. "I wish I had some money of my own," the younger man exclaimed; "but I haven't a dollar that actually belongs to me. I am going to borrow a little from Sloan." "I can't do that much," was the sorrowful reply. "And there ain't nothin' I'd rather do in the world than walk up there and drop a couple of hundred on that pile. I'm--I'm--" His manner indicated that he was about to relapse into stronger terms. He suddenly whirled. A hand had been laid on his sleeve and a low, steady voice said, "Excuse me, I heard you talking and I understand. I know what you feel. I want you to permit me." It was Mrs. Meredith who had walked around behind them unobserved and now held out her hand. They fell back, embarrassed. She appeared to fathom their position. "I know," she said. "I wasn't eavesdropping. I saw you here. I wanted to talk to you both and so, well, I overheard. Take this, won't you? Please permit me." Bill suddenly reached his hand out and found in his palm a roll of bills, rare in that camp. He looked at them curiously. "There is five hundred dollars in it," she said. "That permits a reasonable gift from each of you. You can return it to me at your convenience." Neither of them had spoken to her in all this time. Now both voiced thanks. But a moment later Dick found himself talking alone and telling her that he would send her a check within a few days to cover the amount of the loan; but she was not looking at him. He saw that her eyes were fixed on the big man by his side, who stood there looking down into her face. For some reason she appeared embarrassed by that direct scrutiny, and her eyes fell, and wandered around on those standing nearest. Suddenly she frowned, and wondering they followed the direction of her look. Not ten feet from them, standing stockily on his feet with his high, heavy shoulders squared, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his firm face unmoved, his hat shading his eyes, stood Bully Presby. He made no movement toward the goal of the contributors, and seemed to have no intention of so doing. As if to escape an unpleasant situation The Lily suddenly walked toward him. "Good-evening, Mister Presby," she saluted, and he slowly turned his head and stared at her. He did not shift his attitude in the least, and appeared granite-like in his rigid pose. "I suppose," she said, "that you have put something into the contribution." "I have not," he replied with his customary incisive, harsh voice. "Why should I? The contribution means nothing to me." The brutality, the inhumanity of his words made her recoil for an instant, and then she recovered her fearlessness and dignity. "I might have known that," she said, coolly. "I should have expected nothing more from you. The lives of these--all these--" and she gestured toward those around--"mean nothing to you. Nor the sufferings and poverties of those dependent on them." "Certainly not," he answered with a trace of a harsh sneer outlined on his face. "If they get killed, I am sorry. If they live, they are useful. If they are lost, others take their places. They are merely a part of the general scheme. They are for me to use." His words were like a challenge. He watched her curiously as if awaiting her reply. Dick felt Bill starting forward, angrily, then checked him. "Wait!" he whispered. "Let's hear what he has to say." The Lily took a step forward to arraign him. Her face shone whiter than ever in the light of the torches. "And that is all? That is your attitude?" He did not answer, but stared at her curiously. It seemed to anger her more. "I wonder," she said, "if you would care for my estimate of you! I wonder if you would care for the estimate of those around you. It does not seem strange that you are called by the fitting sobriquet of 'Bully Presby.' You are that! You are one of those shriveled souls that fatten on the toil of others--that thrive on others' misfortunes and miseries. My God! A usurer--a pawnbroker, is a prince compared to you. You are without compassion, pity, charity or grace. Your code is that of winning all, the code of greed! Listen to me. You doubtless look down on me as a camp woman, and with a certain amount of scorn! But knowing what I am, I should far rather be what I am, the owner of the High Light, a sordid den, than to be you, the owner of the Rattler, the man they call Bully Presby!" To their astonishment he leaned his head back and laughed, deeply, from his chest, as if her anger, her scorn, her bitter denunciation, had all served to amuse him. It was as if she had flattered him by her characterizations. She was too angry to speak and stood regarding him coldly until he had finished. He turned and appeared for the first time to observe the men of the Croix d'Or scowling at him, and his laugh abruptly stopped. He scowled back at them, and, without so much as a good-night salutation turned and walked away and lost himself in the shadows of the street. "Oh," she said, facing them and clenching her hands, "sometimes I hate that man! He is unfathomable! There have been times when I wondered if he was human." She bit her lip as if to restrain her words, and then looked up at the partners. "And there are times," drawled the big miner, "when I wonder how long I'll be able to keep my hands off of him. And one of those times has been in the last minute! If you think it would do any good, I'll--" She looked up at him and smiled, for the first time since they had met. She interrupted him. "No, the only way you can do any good is to make your contribution. I'll go with you." They walked together toward the box which was now deserted, save by the doctor and one other, who were scooping the money into a water pail they had secured somewhere. Bill threw his roll of bills into it and the doctor looked up and smiled. "I knew you would come," he said. "And that, with the two thousand that Mrs. Meredith has volunteered--" She checked him. "That was to be my secret. Please, none of you, speak of it again." "As you wish," replied the doctor. "And I apologize. Now I would suggest that you take charge of this and take it to the High Light. I'll send it over to-morrow by Jim. The boys have done well." That was all he said, and yet in his simple sentence was much. The camp had done well. He straightened up with an air of weariness. "This pail is pretty heavy," he said. "Won't you take it, Mathews, and carry it over?" The miner caught it up in his arms, fearing lest the bail break loose under its weight. The doctor bade them good night, and they started toward the High Light, leaving the torch man to extinguish his flares. She talked freely as she walked between them, expressing her relief that none of the destitute in that distant camp of mourning would suffer unduly after the receipt of Goldpan's offering. As they entered the house of the lights and noise the bartender nearest hailed her, wiped his hands on his apron and reached out an envelope. "Bully Presby was in here about an hour or two ago," he said, "and left this. It was before you and Doc Mills was goin' out to try and get the boys interested." She tore it open, then flushed, and passed it to the partners who together read it. "I hear," the letter read, "that some of the men who were killed over at the Blackbird used to work for me down in California. Also that there are some women and children over there who may have a hard time of it. Will you see to it that this goes to the right channels, and regard it as confidential? I don't want to appear to be a philanthropist on even a small scale. Presby." Pinned to the letter was a check. It was for ten thousand dollars. Bill lifted it in his fingers, scanned each word, then handed it to Mrs. Meredith who stood frowning with her eyes fixed on the floor. "I've known burros, and other contrary cusses, in my time," he said, slowly, "but this feller Presby has 'em all lookin' as simple, and plain, and understandable, as a cross-roads guide-post." And The Lily, contrite, agreed. CHAPTER IX WHERE A GIRL ADVISES "There's one thing about you, pardner, I don't quite sabe," drawled Bill to his employer as they sat in front of their cabin one night, after discussing the assays which Dick made his especial work. "You ain't as talkative as you used to be. Somethin's on your mind. It's more'n two weeks now since I had time to think about anything but the green lead, and I'm beginnin' to notice. Where the devil do you go every mornin' between nine and eleven?" Dick turned toward him impulsively, and then made no reply, other than to laugh softly. Then slowly he felt a wave of embarrassment. "Not that it's any of my business, bein' as you're you and I'm me; but we were pardners for some years before things changed and made you the boss and me the hired hand. And it may be I'm undue curious. Who's that girl you go up on the pipe line to meet every mornin'?" His question was so abrupt that, for an instant, the younger man had a hot, childish anger; but he controlled himself, and wondered why he should have been annoyed by the frank interrogation. "Miss Presby, the lumberman's daughter," he said crisply. "But what interests me most is how you knew?" The elder miner slapped his leg gleefully, as if pleased with a joke, and said: "Well, I went up there five or six days ago, tryin' to find you, because I'd lost the combination to the safe, and wanted to look over them old drawings. I sneaked back, because I was a little jealous to see you sittin' on the pipe talkin' right friendly to such a good-looker. Three evenin's later while you were workin' on them mill samples, I thought I'd like to see the whole of the line. I took a walk. There's been a real good horse trail worked into the ground up there, ain't there? And it's a new trail, too. Seems as if somebody must have been riding up and down that way every day for just about two weeks. And it's serious, too, because you don't say nothin' to a man you was pardners with for more'n seven years. Hey, Dick! What ails you, anyway?" The younger man was on his feet with one of his fists drawn back, in an attitude of extreme temper. "Suppose after this you mind your own business?" For a full half minute the elder man sat there in the dusk, and then said slowly: "All right, boy--I mean, Mister Townsend--I will hereafter." In the gloom his figure seemed suddenly bent forward more than usual, and his voice had a note of terrible hurt. It was as if all the ties of seven years of vicissitude had been arbitrarily cast off by his old partner; that they had become master and man. His words conveyed an indescribable sorrow, and loss. "Bill!" Dick's arm had relaxed, and he had stepped closer. Mathews did not lift his head. A hand, pleading, fell on his shoulder, and rested there. "Bill, I didn't mean it! I'm--I'm--well, I'm upset. Something's happened to me. I didn't seem to realize it till just now. I'm--well, thank you, I'm making a fool of myself." The faithful gray head lifted itself, and the gray eyes glowed warmly as they peered in the dusk at the younger man's face. "Whe-e-w!" he whistled. "It's as bad as that, is it, boy? Just forget it, won't you? That is, forget I butted in." Dick sat down, hating himself for such an unusual outburst. He felt foolish, and extremely young again, as if his steadfast foundations of self-reliance and repression had been proven nothing more than sand. "I know how them things go," the slow voice, so soft as to be scarcely audible, continued. "I was young once, and it was good to be young. Not that I'm old now, because I'm not; but because when a feller is younger, there are hot hollows in his heart that he don't want anybody to know about. Only don't make me feel again that I ought to 'mister' you. I don't believe I could do that. It's pretty late to begin." Dick went to his bed with a critical admission of the truth, and from any angle it appeared foolish. How had it all happened? He was not prone to be easy of heart. He had known the light, fleeting loves of boyhood, and could laugh at them; but they had been different to this. And it had come on him at a time when everything was at stake, and when his undivided thoughts and attention should have been centered on the Croix d'Or. He reviewed his situation, and scarcely knew why he had drifted into it, unless it had been through a desire to talk to some one who knew, as he knew, all that old life from which he had been, and would forever be, parted. Not that he regretted its easy scramble, and its plethora of civilized concomitants; for he loved the mountains, the streams, the open forests, and the physical struggles of the wild places; but--and he gave over reasoning, and knew that it was because of the charm of Miss Presby herself, and that he wanted her, and had hoped unconsciously. Sternly arraigning himself, he knew that he had no groundwork to hope, and nothing to offer, just then; that he must first win with the Croix d'Or, and that it was his first duty to win with that, and justify the confidence of the kindly old Sloan who backed him with hard dollars. He had not appreciated how much the daily meeting of Miss Presby meant to him until, on the following morning, and acting on his hardly reached resolution of the night before, he went up for what might be the last time. It was difficult to realize that the short summer of the altitudes was there in its splendid growth, and that it had opened before his unobserving eyes, passed from the tender green of spring to the deep-shaded depths of maturity, and that the wild flowers that carpeted the open slopes had made way for roses. Even the cross on the peak was different, and it came to him that he had not observed it in the weeks he had been climbing to the slope, but had always waited eagerly for the light of a woman's face. She came cantering up the trail, and waved a gay hand at him as she rounded the bend of the crag. There was a frank expectancy in her face--the expectancy of a pleasant hour's visit with a good comrade. He wondered, vaguely and with new scrutiny, if that were not all--just friendliness. They talked of nothing; but his usual bantering tone was gone, and, quick to observe, she divined that there had come to him a subtle change, not without perturbation. "You don't seem talkative to-day," she accused as he stood up, preparatory to going. "Have you finished work on your pipe line?" He flushed slightly under the bronze of his face at the question, it being thus brought home to him that he had used it as a pretext for continuing their meetings for more than two weeks after that task was completed and the pipemen scattered--perhaps working in some subway in New York by that time. "Yes," he said, "the work is finished. I shall not come up here again unless it is for the sole purpose of seeing you." There was something in his tone that caused her to glance up at him and there was that in his eyes, on his face, in his bearing of restraint, that caused her to look around again, as if to escape, and hastily begin donning her gloves. She pulled the fingers, though they fitted loosely, as if she had difficulty with them--even as though they were tight gloves of kid, and said: "Well, you might do that, sometimes--when you have time; but you mustn't neglect your work. I come here because it is my favorite ride. You must not come merely to talk to me when there are other duties." "Yes," he said, endeavoring to appear unconcerned. "The Croix d'Or is apt to be a most insistent tyrant." "And it should come first!" He was obtuse for the instant in his worriment, and did not catch the subtle shade of bitterness in which she spoke. She tugged at the reins of her horse, and the animal reluctantly tore loose a last mouthful of the succulent grass growing under the moisture and shadow of the big steel pipe, and stood expectantly waiting for her to mount. She was in the saddle before Dick could come around to her side to assist her. He made a last desperate compromise, finding an excuse. "When I feel that I must see you, because you are such a good little adviser, I shall come back here," he said, "morning after morning, in the hope of seeing you and unburdening my disgruntlement." She laughed, as if it were a joke. "I'm afraid I'm not a very good miner," she said, "although I suppose I ought to be a yellow-legged expert, having been brought up somewhere within sound of the stamps all my life. Good luck to you. Good-by." His reply was almost a mumble, and the black horse started down the trail. He watched her, with a sinking, hungry heart. Just as the crag was almost abreast of her mount, she turned and called back: "Oh, I forgot to say that I shall probably come here almost every day." He did not understand, until long afterward, the effort that speech cost her; nor did he know ever that her face was suffused when her horse, startled, sprang out of sight at the touch of her spurs. He did not know, as he stood there, wishing that he had called her back, that she was riding recklessly down the road, hurt, and yet inclined to be strangely happy over that parting and all it had confessed. With a set face, as if a whole fabric of dreams had been wrenched from his life, the miner turned and walked slowly over the trail, worn by his own feet, which led him back to the Croix d'Or, and the struggle with the stubborn rock. As he topped the hill he suddenly listened, and his steps quickened. From below a new sound had been added to the threnody of the hills; a new note, grumbling and roaring, insistent and strong. Its message was plain. The mill of the Cross was running again for the first time in years; and, even as he looked down on the red roof, the whistle in the engine-house gave a series of cheerful toots in salute of the fact. Down on the flat in front of the long structure which held, in its batteries, almost two-score stamps, a tall figure came out, and looked around as if seeking him, and then, casting its eyes upward, beheld him, and lifted a battered hat and swung it overhead. It was Bill, rejoicing in his work. A car of ore slid along the tramway, with the carboy dangling one leg over the back end while steadying himself by the controller, as if he had been thus occupied for years. Dick tore his hat off, threw it in the air, and shouted, and raced down the hill. From now on it must be work; unless they met with great success--then--he dared not stop to think of what then. He hastened on down to the mill and entered the door. Everything about it, from the dumping of the cars sixty feet above, the wrench of the crushers breaking the ore into smaller fragments, the clash of the screens as it came on down to the stamps, and their terrific "jiggety-jig-jig," roared, throbbed, and trembled. Every timber in the structure seemed to keep pace with that resistless shaking as the tables slid to and fro, dripping from the water percolating at their heads, to distribute the fine silt of crushed, muddy ore evenly over the plates in the steady downward slant. Already the bright plates of copper, coated with quicksilver, were catching, retaining, amalgamating the gold. "The venners need a little more slant, don't you think?" bellowed his partner, with his hands cupped and held close against Dick's ear in the effort to make himself heard in that pandemonium where millmen worked the shift through without attempting to speak. In the critical calculation of the professional miner, Dick forgot all other affairs, and leaned down to see the run of water. He nodded his head, beckoned to the mill boss, and by well-known signs indicated his wish. He scrambled above and studied the pulp, slipping it through his fingers and feeling its fineness, and speculating whether or not they would be troubled with any solution of lead that would render the milling difficult and slime the plates so that the gold would escape to go roistering down the creek with waste water. It did feel very slippery, and he was reassured. He was eager to get to the assay-house and make his first assay of "tailings," refuse from the mill, to discover what percentage of gold they were saving, and, in parlance, "How she would run on mill test." Fascinated in his inspection and direction of certain minor changes, he was astonished when the noise suddenly dropped from fortissimo to a dull whine, as the mill slowed down to a stop for the noon hour. And the afternoon passed as quickly while he worked over the bucking board--a plate used to crush ore for assaying--in the assay-house, and watched the gasoline flare and fume in his furnaces to bring the little cupels, with their mass of powdered, weighed, and numbered samples, to a molten state. He took them out with his tongs, watched them cool, and weighed, on the scales that could tell the weight of a lead pencil mark on a sheet of paper, the residue of gold, thus making his computations. He was not pleased with the result. The green lead was not as rich as they had believed. "It won't pay more than fifty cents a ton with the best milling we can do," he said to Bill, who came eagerly into the assay office. "But you know the old idea--that she gets richer as we go down?" his partner asserted. "If it pays fifty cents a ton at the mill plates, we'll open up the face of the ledge and put on a day and night shift. We can handle a heap of ore with this plant. It begins to look to me as if the Cross is all to the good. Come on. Let's go down to the power-house and see how things look down there when we're working." They had been contemplating a new timber road, and, after visiting the power plant and finding it trim, and throbbing with its new life, they cut across and debouched into the public road leading up the cañon, by the banks of the stream, to the Rattler. When almost at the fork, where their own road branched off and crossed the stream to begin its steep little climb up to the Croix d'Or, they saw a man standing on the apron of the bridge, and apparently listening to the roar of their mill. His back was toward them, and seemingly he was so absorbed in the sounds of industry from above that he did not hear them approach until their feet struck the first planks leading to the heavy log structure. He turned his head slowly toward them, and they recognized him as Bully Presby. It was the first time either of them had seen him since the evening in the camp. "So you're running, eh?" he asked Dick without any preliminary courtesy. "Yes, we started the mill to-day." "On ore, or waste?" There was a sneer in his question which caused Dick to stiffen a trifle; and Bill frowned, as if the question carried an insult. Still the younger man was inclined to avoid words. "Naturally, we shouldn't put waste through the mill," he said coldly. "We have opened up an old vein which the other managers did not seem to think worth while." "And so, I suppose, showing superior knowledge, you will demonstrate that the men before you were a set of dubs? Humph! From babes and fools come wisdom!" His voice was hard and cynical, and his grim lips curled with a slightly contemptuous twitch. The hot, impulsive streak in Dick leaped upward. His eyes were angry when he answered. "If you apply the latter to me," he retorted hotly, "you are going pretty far. I don't know what business it is of yours. We have never asked you for any advice, and we don't want any. I expect no favors from any one, and if I did, am certain, in view of your attitude, that I shouldn't ask them from you." "Steady! Steady, boy!" admonished his partner's drawling voice at his side. Dick did not utter other words that were surging to his tongue, and finished with an angry shrug of his shoulders. Bill turned coolly to the owner of the Rattler, and appeared to probe him with his eyes; and his stare was returned with one as searching as his own. "Who are you?" Presby asked, as if the big miner were some man he had not noticed before. "Me? My name's Mathews. I'm superintendent of the Croix d'Or," Bill answered, as calmly as if the form of question had been ignored. "And I suppose the young Mister Townsend relies on you for advice, and that he----" "He don't need to rely on any one for advice," interrupted the soft, repressed voice. "I rely on him. He knows more than I do. And say," he added, taking a step toward Bully Presby, and suddenly appearing to concentrate himself with all his muscles flexed as if for action, "I've mined for thirty-five years. And I've met some miners. And I've never met one who had as little decency for the men on the next claim, or such bullying ways as you've got." Presby's face did not change in the least, nor did he shift his eyes. There was an instant's pause, and he showed no inclination to speak. "'Most every one around these diggings seems to be kind of buffaloed by you," Bill added; "but I sort of reckon we ain't like them. I'm handin' it to you right straight, so you and me won't have any trouble after this, because if we do--well, we'd have to find out which was the better man." Bully Presby's eyes flashed a singular look. It seemed as if they carried something of approval, and at the same time a longing to test the question of physical superiority. And then, abruptly, he laughed. Astonished by this strange, complex character, Bill relaxed, and turned toward his partner. Dick, seeing that the interview was ended, as far as the necessity for saying anything was concerned, moved across the bridge, and Bill took a last hard stare at the mine owner. The latter laughed again, with his cold, cynical rumble. "I think," he said, "that when the Cross shuts down for good, I'd like to give you a job. When it does, come and see me." Without another look, word, or sign of interest, he turned his back on them, and marched up the hill toward the Rattler. CHAPTER X TROUBLE STALKS ABROAD August had come, with its broiling heat at midday and its chill at night, when the snow, perpetual on the peaks, sent its cold breezes downward to the gulches below. Here and there the grass was dying. The lines on Dick's brows had become visible; and even Mathews' resolute sanguinity was being tested to the utmost. The green lead was barely paying expenses. There had come no justification for a night shift, and use of all the batteries of the mill, for the ledge of ore was gradually, but certainly, narrowing to a point where it must eventually pinch out. Five times, in as many weeks, Dick had crossed the hill and waited for Miss Presby. Twice he had been bitterly disappointed, and three times she had cantered around to meet him. Their first meeting had been constrained. He felt that it was due to his own bald discovery that he wanted her more than anything in life, and was debarred from telling her so. In the second meeting she had been the good comrade, and interested, palpably, in the developments at the Croix d'Or. "You should sink, I believe," she had said hesitatingly, as if with a delicate fear that she was usurping his position. "I know this district very well, indeed; and there isn't a mine along this range that has paid until it had gone the depth. Do I talk like a miner?" She laughed, in cheerful carelessness as if his worries meant but little to her. "You see, I've heard so much of mines and mining, although my father seldom talks of them to me, that I know the geological formation and history of this district like a real miner. I played with nothing but miners' children from the time I was so high, pigtails and pinafores, until I was this high, short skirts and frocks." She indicated the progressive stages of her growth with her riding crop, as if seeing herself in those younger years. "Then my father sent me to an aunt, in New York, with instructions that I was to be taught something, and to be a lady. I believe I used to eat with my knife when I first went to her home." She leaned back and laughed until the tears welled into her eyes. "She was a Spartan lady. She cured me of it by rapping my knuckles with the handle of a silver-plated knife. My, how it hurt! I feel it yet! I wonder that they were not enlarged by her repeated admonitions." Dick looked at them as she held them reminiscently before her, and had an almost irresistible desire to seize and crush the long, slender, white fingers in his own. But the end of the meeting had been commonplace, and they had parted again without treading on embarrassing ground. Dick had heard no more from the owner of the Rattler, save indirectly, nor met him since the strained passage of the bridge; but mess-house gossip, creeping through old Bells, who recognized no superiors, and calmly clumped into the owner's quarters whenever he felt inclined, said that the neighboring mine was prodigiously prosperous. "I heard down in Goldpan," he squeaked one night, "that Wells Fargo takes out five or six bars of bullion for him every mill clean-up. And you can bet none of it ever gets away from that old stiff." "But how does this news leak out?" Dick asked, wondering at such a tale, when millmen and miners were distinguished for keeping inviolate the secrets of the property on which they worked. "Wells Fargo," the engineer answered. "None of the boys would say anything. He pays top wages and hires good men. Got to hand that to him. He brags there ain't no man so high-priced that he can't make money off'n him--Bully Presby does. And they ain't no better miner than him on earth. He can smell pay ore a mile underground--Bully Presby can." The old man suddenly looked at the superintendent, and said: "Say, Bill. You been down to the camp a few times, ain't you?" "Yes, we've been down there several times. Why?" "Well, I suppose you know they's a lot of talk goin' around that the Cross is workin' in good pay now?" "Oh, I've heard it; but don't pay any attention when it's not so." Bells Park leaned farther over, and lowered his shrill, garrulous voice to a thin murmur. "Well, I cain't tell you what it is, but I want to give you the right lead. When that gets to goin' on about newcomers in the Blue Mountains--fellers like you be--look out for storms." "Go on! You're full of stuff again!" Bill gibed, with his hearty laugh. "If we'd listened to all the mysterious warnin's you've handed us since we came up here, Bells, we'd been like a dog chasin' his tail around when it happened to be bit off down to the rump and no place to get hold of. Better look out! Humph!" The old engineer got up in one of his tantrums, fairly screamed with rage, threatened to leave as soon as he could get another job, and then tramped down the hill to the cabin he occupied with the other engineer. But that was not new, either, for he had made the same threat at least a half-dozen times, and yet the men from the Coeur d'Alenes knew that nothing could drive him away but dismissal. It was but two or three days later that the partners, coming from the assay-house to the mess late, discovered a stranger talking to the men outside under the shade of a great clump of tamaracks that nestled at the foot of a slope. They passed in and sat down at their table, wondering who the visitor could be. The cook's helper, a mute, served them, and they were alone when they were attracted by a shrill, soft hiss from the window. They looked, and saw Bells Park. Nothing but his head, cap-crowned, was visible as he stood on tiptoe to reach the opening. "I told you to look out," he said warningly. "Old Mister Trouble's come. Don't give anything. Stand pat. A walkin' delegate from Denver's here. God knows why. Look out." His head disappeared as if it were a jack-in-the-box, shut down; and the partners paused with anxious eyes and waited for him to reappear. Dick jumped to his feet and walked across to the window. No one was in sight. He went to the farther end of the mess-house and peered through a corner of the nearest pane. Out under the tamaracks the stranger was orating, and punctuating his remarks with a finger tapping in a palm. His words were not audible; but Dick saw that he was at least receiving attention. He returned to the table, and told Bill what he had seen. The latter was perturbed. "It looks as if we were goin' to have an argument, don't it?" he asked, voicing his perplexity. "But about what?" Dick insisted. "We pay the union scale, and, while I don't know, I believe there isn't a man on the Cross that hasn't a card." "Well," replied his partner, "we'll soon see. Finished?" As they walked to the office, men began to hurry across the gulch toward the hoist, others toward the mill, and by the time they were in their cabin the whistle blew. It was but a minute later that they heard someone striding over the porch, and the man they assumed to be the walking delegate entered. He was not of the usual stamp, but appeared intent on his errand. Save for a certain air of craftiness, he was representative and intelligent. He was quietly dressed, and gave the distinct impression that he had come up from the mines, and had known a hammer and drill--a typical "hard-rock man." "Gentlemen," he said, "I am representing the Consolidated Miners' Association." He drew a neat card from a leather case in his pocket, and presented it, and was asked to seat himself. "What can we do for you?" Dick asked, wasting no time on words. "I suppose this mine is fair?" "Yes. It is straight, as far as I know." "It has no agreement." "But we are ready to sign one whenever it is presented." The delegate drew a worn wallet from his pocket, extracted a paper, and tendered it. "I anticipated no trouble," he said, but without smiling or giving any sign of satisfaction. "Would you mind looking that over, and seeing if it meets with your approval?" Dick stepped to the high desk at the side of the room which he had been utilizing as a drawing board, laid the sheet out, and began reading it, while Bill stood up and scanned it across his shoulders. Bill suddenly put a stubby finger on a clause, and mumbled: "That's not right." Dick slowly read it; and, before he had completed the involved wording, the finger again clapped down at another section. "Nor that. Don't stand for it!" "What do you want, anyhow?" Bill demanded, swinging round and facing the delegate. The latter looked at him coolly and exasperatingly for a moment, then said: "What position do you occupy here, my man?" Dick whirled as if he had been struck from behind. "What position does he occupy? He is my superintendent, and my friend. Anything he objects to, or sanctions, I object to, or agree with. Anything he says, I'll back up. Now I'll let him do the talking." The delegate calmly flicked the ash from a cigar he had lighted, puffed at it, blew the smoke from under his mustache toward the ceiling, and looked at the thin cloud before answering. It was as if he had come intent on creating a disturbance through studied insolence. "Well," he said, without noticing the hot, antagonistic attitude of the mine owner, "what do you think of the proffered agreement?" "I think it's no good!" answered Mathews, facing him. "It's drawn up on a number-one scale. This mine ain't in that class." "Oh! So you've signed 'em before." "I have. A dozen times. This mine has but one shift--the regular day shift. It has but one engineer and a helper. It has but one mill boss." "Working eight batteries?" "No. You know we couldn't work eight batteries with one small shift." "Well, you've got to have an assistant millman at the union scale, you know," insisted the delegate. "What to do? To loaf around, I suppose," Bill retorted. "And you've got to have a turn up in the engine-house. You need another hoisting engineer," continued the delegate, as if all these matters had been decided by him beforehand. Dick thought that he might gain a more friendly footing by taking part in the conversation himself. "See here," he said. "The Croix d'Or isn't paying interest. Maybe we aren't using the requisite number of men as demanded under this rating; but they are all satisfied, and----" "I don't know about that," interrupted the delegate, with an air of insolent assurance. "And if we can't go on under the present conditions, we may as well shut down," Dick concluded. "That's up to you," declared the delegate, with an air of disinterest. "If a mine can't pay for the working, it ought to shut down." The partners looked at each other. There was a mutual question as to whether it would be policy to throw the delegate out of the door. Plainly they were in a predicament, for the man was master, in his way. "Look here," Bill said, accepting the responsibility, "this ain't right. You know it ain't. We're in another class altogether. You ought to put us, at present, under----" "It is right," belligerently asserted the delegate. "I've looked it all over. You'll agree to it, or I'll declare the Croix d'Or unfair." He had arisen to his feet as if arbitrarily to end the argument. For a wonder, the veteran miner restrained himself, although there was a hard, glowing light in his eyes. "We won't stand for it," he said, restraining Dick with his elbow. "When you're ready to talk on a square basis, come back, and we'll use the ink. Until then we won't. We might as well shut down, first as last, as to lose money when we're just breakin' even as it is. Think it over a while, and see if we ain't right." "Well, you'll hear from me," declared the delegate, as he put his hat on his head and turned out of the door without any parting courtesy. "Keep the card. My name's Thompson, you know." For a full minute after he had gone, the partners stared at each other with troubled faces. "Oh, he's a bluff! That's all there is to it," asserted Mathews, reaching into the corner for his rubber boots, preparatory to going underground. "He knows it ain't right, just as well as I do. If he can put this over, all right. If he can't he'll give us the other rating." He left Dick making up a time-roll, and turned down the hill; and they did not discuss it again until they were alone that night. It was seven o'clock the next evening when the partners observed an unusual stir in the camp. They came into the mess-house to find that the men had eaten in unusually short order; and from the bench outside, usually filled at that hour with laughing loungers, there was not a sound. A strange stillness had invaded the colony of the Croix d'Or, almost ominous. Preoccupied, and each thinking over his individual trials, the partners ate their food and arose from the table. Out on the doorstep they paused to look down the cañon, now shorn of ugliness and rendered beautiful by the purple twilight. The faint haze of smoke from the banked fires, rising above the steel chimney of the boiler-house, was the only stirring, living spectacle visible; save one. "What does that mean?" Bill drawled, as if speaking to himself. Far below, just turning the bend of the road, Dick saw a procession of men, grouped, or walking in pairs. They disappeared before he answered. "Looks like the boys," he said, using the term of the camps for all men employed. "I wonder where they are bound for? If it were pay night, I could understand. It would mean Goldpan, the dance halls, a fight or two, and sore heads to-morrow; but to-night--I don't know." Bill did not answer. He seemed to be in a silent, contemplative mood when they sat in the rough easy-chairs on the porch in front of the office and looked up at the first rays of light on the splendid, rugged peak above. Dick's mind reverted to the lumberman's daughter, as does the needle veer to the magnet; and for a long time they sat there, until the fires of their cigars glowed like stars. The moon came up, and the cross was outlined, dimly, above them, and against the background of black, cast upon the somber, starlit blue of the night. From far below, as if steel had been struck upon stone, came a faint, ringing sound. Living in that strange world of acuteness to which men of the high hills are habituated, they listened, alert. Accustomed, as are all those dwellers of the lonesome spots, to heeding anything out of the ordinary, they strained their ears for a repetition. Clattering up the roadway came the sound of a hard-ridden horse's hoofs, then his labored breathing, and a soft voice steadying him to further effort. Into the shadows was injected something moving, some unfamiliar, living shape. It turned up the hill over the trail, and plunged wearily toward them. They jumped to their feet and stepped down off the porch, advancing to meet the belated visitor. The horse, with lathering neck and distended nostrils, paused before them. The moon cleared the top of the eastern ridges with a slow bound, lowering the shadows until the sweat on the horse's neck glistened like a network of diamond dust strewn on a velvet cloak. It also lighted to a pallid gleam the still face of the night rider. It was Lily Meredith. "I've come again," she said. "They're trying to make trouble for you, down there in the camp. Bells Park came out and told me about it. The miners' union stirred up by that man from Denver. Bells said the only chance you had was to come down there at once. They've split on your account--on account of the Croix d'Or. I've ridden two miles to warn you, and to get you there before the meeting breaks up. Bells will try and hold them until you can come and demand a hearing. If you don't make it they will scab the mine. You must hurry. It's your only chance. I know them, the best friends in peace, and devils when turned the other way." She stopped abruptly and looked off at the moon, and then around over the dark and silent camp. Only one light was visible, that in the cook's end of the mess-house, where that fat worthy lay upon his back and read a yellow-backed, sentimental novel. Faint and rumbling came the subdued roar of the mill at the Rattler, beating out the gold for Bully Presby; and through some vague prescience Dick was aware of its noise for the first time in weeks, and it conveyed a sense of menace. Everything was at stake. Everything watched him. He looked up at the white face of The Lily above him, and in the moonlight saw that her eyes were fixed, glowing, not on him or the scenes of the night, but on the aroused giant at his side. CHAPTER XI BELLS' VALIANT FIGHT "We'll get there as soon as we can," Dick said. "It may not do any good; but we'll demand a word and give them an argument. I haven't time to thank you now, Mrs. Meredith, but some day----" "You owe me no thanks," was her rejoinder. "It is I who owe you. Turn about, you know." The big man said nothing, but took a step nearer to her horse, and looked up into her face with his penetrating eyes. He reached up and closed his hand over both of hers, and held them for an instant, and then whirled back into the cabin to get his hat. The horse pivoted and started away. "If I see Bells before you do," a voice floated up from the shadows below, where the moon had not yet penetrated, "I'll tell him you're coming. So long." As the partners dog-trotted down the trail, she was already a long way in advance. Now and then, as they panted up the steep path leading away behind the Rattler, whose lights glowed dimly, they heard faint sounds telling them that she was hastening back to Goldpan. The winding of the trail took them away from the immediate roar of the stamp mill behind, and they were still in the gloom, when they saw the horse and rider outlined for a moment high above them on the crest of the divide and they thought she stopped for a moment and looked back. Then the silhouette seemed to float down out of sight, and was gone. At the top, wordless, and sweating with effort, they filled their lungs, hitched their belts tighter, and plunged into the shadows leading toward the straggling rows of lights far below. They ran now, doggedly, hoping to arrive in the camp before the meeting came to an end. "All we want," Bill said jerkily, as his feet pounded on the last decline, "is a chance to argue it out with the men themselves before this Denver feller gets his work in. I'm entitled to talk to 'em. I've got my own card, and am as good a union man as any of 'em. The boys'll be reasonable if they stop to think." They hastened up the roadway of the street, which was, as at any hour of the night, filled with moving men and clamorous with sound. They knew that the miners' hall was at its farthest end over the Golden Age Saloon, and so lost no time in directing their steps toward it. A group in the roadway compelled them to turn out; and they were hurrying past, when a high, angry voice arrested them. "And that's what they did to me--me, old Bells Park, who is sixty-four!" Dick turned into the crowd, followed by his partner, and began forcing his way through. Bells was screaming and sobbing now in anger, and venting a tirade of oaths. "If I'd been younger they couldn't have done it so easily. If I'd 'a' had my gun, I'd 'a' killed some of 'em, I would!" As the partners gained the little opening around him, the light from a window disclosed the white-headed, little man. Two men were half-holding him up. His face was a mass of blood, which one of his supporters was endeavoring to wipe away with a handkerchief, and from all sides came indignant, sympathetic mutterings. "Who did that?" roared the heavy, infuriated voice of Bill as he turned to those around him. Bells, whose eyes were swollen shut, recognized the voice, and lurched forward. "Some fellers backin' up that Denver thug," he wailed. "I was tryin' to hold 'em till you come. He had the meetin' packed with a lot of bums I never saw before, and, when I told 'em what I thought of 'em and him, he ordered me thrown out. I tore my card to pieces and chucked 'em in his fat face, and then one of the fellers that came with him hit me. They threw me down the stairs, and might 'a' killed me if there hadn't been one or two of my friends there. They call 'emselves union miners! The dirty loafers!" And his voice screamed away again into a line of objurgations and anathemas until Bill quieted him. "Here, Dick," he said, "give us a hand. We'll take him over to Lily's rooms and have her get Doc Mills." His voice was unusually calm and contained. Dick had heard him use that tone but once before, when he made a proposition to a man in an Arizona camp that the road was wide, the day fine, and each well armed. He had helped bury the other man after that meeting, so now read the danger note. "I'll go get The Lily to come up and open the door," one of Bells' supporters said; "and won't you go for Doc?" He addressed the man on the other side of the engineer. "Sure!" replied the other. Within five minutes they were in Mrs. Meredith's rooms again; and it seemed to Dick, as he looked around its dainty fittings, that it was forever to be a place of tragedy; for the memory of that terribly burned victim of the fire was still there, and he seemed to see her lying, scorched and unconscious, on the white counterpane. "His nose is busted, I think," his partner said to The Lily, whose only comment was an abrupt exclamation: "What a shame! The cowards!" He turned to the woman with his set face, and, still speaking in that calm, deadly voice, said: "Do you happen to have your gun up here?" Her eyes opened wider, and Dick was about to interpose, when she answered understandingly: "Yes; but I'll not give it to you, Bill Mathews." "I'm sorry," he said, as quietly as if his request or her refusal had been mere desultory conversation. "I might need one in a pinch; but if you can't spare it, I reckon the boy and me can do what we have to do without one." He turned and walked from the room and Dick followed, hoping to argue him from that dangerous mood. "Say, Bill," he said, "isn't it about bad enough without any more trouble?" "What? You don't mean to say you're not with me?" exclaimed the miner, suddenly turning on him and stopping abruptly in the street. "Are you for lettin' 'em get away with it? Of course you ain't! You always stick. Come on." They saw that the lights in the miners' hall were out, and began a steady tour of the saloons in the vicinity. One of their own men was in one of them--Smuts, the blacksmith, cursing loudly and volubly as they entered. "Them boys has always treated us white clean through," he bawled, banging his fist on the bar, "and a lot of you pikers that don't know nothin' about the case sit around like a lot of yaps and let this Denver bunch pack the meetin' and declare a strike. Then you let the same Denver bunch jump on poor old Bells, and hammer him to a pulp after they've hustled him out of the door, instead of follerin' out to see that he don't get the worst of it. Bah! I'm dead sick of you." The partners had paused while listening to him, and he now saw them. "Come out here, Smuts," Dick said, turning toward the door, and the smith followed them. "So they've ordered a strike on us, have they?" Dick asked. "Yes," was the blacksmith's heated response; "but it don't go for me! I stick." "Then if you're with us, where is that Denver bunch?" Bill asked; and Dick knew that any effort to deter his partner from his purpose would prove useless. "They all went down to the High Light," the smith answered. "Have you seen Bells?" "Yes, and taken care of him. Now I'm goin' to take care of the man that done it." The blacksmith banged a heavy hand on the superintendent's shoulder. "Bully for you! I'm with you. We'll go together!" he exclaimed, and at once led the way toward the flaming lights of the High Light but a few doors below. Dick nerved himself for the inevitable, and grimly walked with them as they entered the doors. As they stood there, with the big miner in front, a sudden hush invaded the babel of noise, and men began to look in their direction. The grim, determined man in the lead, glaring here and there with cold, terrible eyes, was too noticeable a figure to escape observation. The set face of his partner, scarcely less determined, and the smith, with brawny, clenched hands, and bushy, black brows drawn into a fierce scowl, completed the picture of a desperate trio come to avenge. "You're the man I'm after," suddenly declared Bill, pointing a finger at Thompson, of Denver, who had been the center of an admiring group. "You're the one that's responsible for old Bells. Let's see if you or any of your bunch are as brave with a younger man. Come outside, won't you?" When first he began to speak, in that silky, soft rumble, Thompson, who was nearly as large as Mathews, assumed an air of amused disdain; but before the speech was ended his face went a little white. "Oh, go on away, you drunken loafers!" he said, half-turning, as if to resume his conversation. Instantly Bill sprang at him; and it seemed that he launched his sinewy bulk with a tiger's directness and deadliness straight through the ten feet intervening. He drove his fist into the face of the Denver man, and the latter swept back against those behind him. Again he lifted the merciless fist, and now began striking with both with incredible rapidity. The battered Thompson was driven back, to fall against a faro layout. The miner bent him backward over the table until he was resting on the wildly scattered gold and silver coins, and struck again, and this time the blood spurted in a stream, to run across the green cloth, the staring card symbols, and the case rack. "Don't kill him, Bill, don't kill him!" Dick's shout arose above the shouts of men and the screams of dance-hall women. He had barely time to observe, in a flash, that Bill had picked the limp form of Thompson up, and heavy as it was, lifted it high above his head and thrown it violently into a vacant corner back of the table in a crumpled heap, when he was almost felled to the floor by a blow from behind, and turned to fight his own battle with one of the Denver bullies. His old gymnasium training stood him in good stead; for, half-dazed by the blow, he could only reel back and block the heavy fists that were smashing toward him, when there came a sudden pause, and he saw that the smith had forced his way forward and lunged, with his heavy, slow arm, a deadly punch that landed under his assailant's ear, and sent him limp and dazed to the floor. The smith jumped forward and lifted his heavy boot to kick the weaving face; but Dick caught him by the arm, and whirled him back in time to prevent needless brutality. "There's another of 'em that hit Bells," the smith yelled, pointing to a man who began desperately edging toward the door. All the rage of the primitive was aroused in Dick by this time, the battle lust that dwells, placidly through life, perhaps, in every man, but which breaks loose in a torrent when once unleashed. He leaped after the retreating man, seized him by the collar, and gave a wrench that tore coat, collar, and tie from the man's throat. He drove a blow into the frightened face, and yelled: "That for old Bells Park! And that!" The room had become a pandemonium. Men seemed striking everywhere. Fists were flying, the bartenders and gamblers shouting for order; and Dick looked back to where Smuts and Bill were clearing a wide circle as they went after individual members of Thompson's supporters who were edging in. Suddenly he saw a man leap on the bar, and recognized in him the man who had been watchman at the Croix d'Or. Even in that tempestuous instant Dick wondered at his temerity in entering the place. Something glistened in the light, and he saw that the watchman held a drawn revolver, and was leveling it at Bill. The motion of the fight was all that prevented the shot, as Mathews leaped to and fro. A dozen men were between Dick and the watchman; but almost under his hand, at the edge of the bar, stood a whisky bottle. He dove for it, brought it up, and threw. The watchman, struck fairly on the side of the head, dropped off backward, and fell to the floor behind the bar, and his pistol exploded harmlessly upward. Instantly there came a change. From terrific uproar the room became as still as a solitude. Brutal and deadly as had been that fierce minute or two of battle in which all men fought, or strove to protect themselves from the maddened ones nearest, the sound of the shot brought them to their senses. A fight was one thing, a shooting another. Gunmen as many of them were, they dreaded the results if firearms were resorted to in that dense mass of excited men, and each one stood still, panting, listening, calmed. "I think Bells Park has played even," came a calm, steady voice at the door. They turned in surprise. Standing in the doorway, motionless, scornful, and immaculate, with her white hat still on her head, as if she had just entered from the street, stood The Lily. "Poor old Bells! Poor old man!" she said, in that panting silence, and then for what seemed a long time looked at the floor. "Bells Park," she said at last, lifting her eyes, "is dead!" Suddenly, and before any one could speak, she clenched her hands at her sides, her eyes blazed, her face twisted, and went white. "Oh," she said bitterly, in a voice low-pitched and tortured with passion, "I hate you! I hate you! You brutes of Goldpan. You gambling dogs! You purchasers of women. From this time, forever, I am done with you!" She lifted her arms, opened her hands, and made one wide, sweeping, inclusive gesture, and turned and walked out into the night. "Dead! Dead! Bells is dead!" Dick heard an unutterably sorrowful voice exclaim; and Bill, half-denuded, his blue shirt in shreds, his face puffed from blows, and his cut knuckles dripping a slow, trickling red, plunged toward him, followed by the smith. No one blocked their way as they went, the three together, as they had come. Behind them, the room broke into hushed, awed exclamations, and began to writhe and twist, as men lifted and revived the fallen, and took stock of their injuries. Two men came running down the street with weapons in hand; and the moonlight, which had lifted until it shone white and clear into the squalors of the camp, picked out dim blazes from the stars on their breasts. They were the town marshal and a deputy sheriff, summoned from some distant saloon by the turmoil, and hastening forward to arrest the rioters, not suspecting that men were wanted for a graver offense. Standing alone in the moonlight, in the middle of the road, with her hands clenched before her, the three men discerned another figure, and, when they gained it, saw that in the eyes of The Lily swam unshed tears. Dick and the smith hastened onward toward her rooms; but Bill abruptly turned, after they had passed her, and spoke. They did not hear what he said. They scarcely noted his pause, for in but two or three steps he was with them again, grimly hurrying to where lay the man they had come to love. CHAPTER XII A DISASTROUS BLOW In after years it all came back to Dick as a horrible nightmare of unreality, that tragic night's events and those which followed. The grim setting of the coroner's jury, where men with bestial, bruised, and discolored faces sat awkwardly or anxiously, with their hats on their knees, in a hard stillness; the grave questions of the coroner, coupled with the harsh, decisive interrogations of the prosecuting attorney, who had been hastily summoned from the county seat across the hills; and there in the other room, quiet, and at rest, the faithful old man who had given his life in defense of his friends. Dick gave his testimony in a dulled voice that sounded strange and unfamiliar, telling all that the engineer had said of the assault. He had one rage of vindictiveness, when the three men from Denver were identified as the ones who had attacked the engineer, and regretted that they were alive to meet the charge against them. He but vaguely understood the technical phraseology of Doctor Mills when he stated that Bells Park died from the shock of the blows and kicks rained on him in that last valorous chapter of his life. He heard the decision placing the responsibility on the men from Denver, saw the sheriff and his deputies step forward and lay firm hands on their arms and lead them away; and then was aroused by the heavy entrance of the camp undertaker to make ready, for the quiet sleep, the body of Bells Park, the engineer. "He belongs to us," said Dick numbly; "to Bill and me. He died for the Croix d'Or. The Croix d'Or will keep him forever, as it would if he had lived and we had made good." He saw, as they trudged past the High Light, that its door was shut, and remembered, afterward, a tiny white notice pasted on the glass. The trail across the divide was of interminable length, as was that other climb up to the foot of the yellow cross on the peak, and to the grave he had caused to be dug beside that other one which Bells had guarded with jealous care, planted with flowers, weeded, and where a faded, rough little cross bore the rudely carved inscription: A DISASTEROUS BLOW MEHITABLE PARK. THE BEST WOMAN THAT EVER LIVED. Those who had come to pay the last honor to the little engineer filed back down the hill, and the Croix d'Or was left alone, silent and idle. The smoke of the banked fires still wove little heat spirals above the stacks as if waiting for the man of the engines. The men were shamefacedly standing around the works and arguing, and one or two had rolled their blankets and dumped them on the bench beside the mess-house. Two or three of them halted Dick and his partner as they started up the little path to the office building where they made their home. "Well?" Bill asked, facing them with his penetrating eyes. "We don't want you boys to think we had any hand in any of this," the old drill runner said, taking the lead. "They jobbed us. There were but three or four of the Cross men there when they voted a strike, and before that there wasn't a man that hadn't taken the floor and fought for your scale. The meeting dragged for some reason, because old Bells kept bringing up arguments--long-winded ones--as if holding it off." He appeared to choke up a little, and gave a swift glance over his shoulder at the yellow landmark above. "If any of us had been there, they'd never have gotten him. We all liked Bells. But they tell me that meeting was packed by that"--and he suddenly flamed wrathful and used a foul epithet--"from Denver, and the three thugs he brought with him. Mr. Townsend, there ain't a man on the Cross that don't belong to the union. You know what that means. You know how hard it is for us to scab ourselves. But there ain't a man on the Cross that hasn't decided to stick by the mine if you want us. We're making a protest to the head officers, and if that don't go--well, we stick!" Dick impulsively put out his hand. He could not speak. He was choking. "Want you, boys? Want you?" Bill rumbled. "We want all of you. Every man jack on the works. You know how she's goin' as well as we do; but I'm here to tell you that if the Cross makes good, there'll be one set of men that'll always have the inside edge." The men with the blankets grinned, and furtively flung them through an open bunk-house window. They all turned away, tongue-tied in emotion, as are nearly all men of the high hills, and tried to appear unconcerned; while Dick, still choking, led the way up the trail. The unwritten law of the mines had decreed there should be no work that day; and he saw the men of the Cross pass down the road, arguing with stolid emphasis against the injustice of the ordered strike. He knew they would return to the camp and continue that argument, with more or less heat, and wondered what the outcome would be. He tried to forget his sorrow and bodily pains by checking over his old assay slips, while Bill wandered, like a bruised and melancholy survivor of a battle, from the mill to the hoist, from cabin to cabin, and mess-house to bunk-house, stopping now and then to stare upward at the peak, as if still thinking of that fresh and fragrant earth piled in a mound above Bells Park. Once, in the night, they were awakened by the sounds of the men returning, as they discussed their situation and interjected copious curses for the instruments of the tragedy. Once again, later, Dick was awakened by a series of blasts, and turned restlessly in his bed, struck a match, and looked at his watch, wondering if it had all been a dream, and the morning shots of the Rattler had aroused him. It was but three o'clock, and he returned to his troubled sleep thinking that he must have been mistaken. Barely half-awake, he heard Bill climb out of his bed and don his clothing, the whistle pulled by the new hands, and the clang of hammer on steel in the blacksmith's shop. Then with a start, he was aroused from the dreamless slumber of the utterly exhausted by a heavy hand laid on his shoulder and a heavy voice: "Wake up, Dick! Wake up, boy! They've got us." He sat up, rubbing his eyes and fumbling with the cordings of his pajamas. Bill was sitting on the edge of his bed, scowling and angry. "Got us? Got us?" Dick repeated vaguely. "Yes. Dynamited the Peltons, and I'm afraid that ain't all. We'll have to go up the pipe line to find out." Dick rolled out and jumped for his clothing. He did not take time to follow his partner's kindly suggestion that he had better go to the mess-house and get the "cookie" to give him a cup of hot coffee. He was too much upset by the disaster, and walked rapidly over the trail. Not a man was in sight around the works; and as he passed the smith's door, he saw that Smuts, too, had gone, without taking time to don his cap or doff his apron. The whole force appeared to have collected around the power-house at the foot of the hill, which was around a bend and shut off from view of the Cross. A jagged rent, scattered stone and mortar, and a tangle of twisted steel told the story; but that was not the most alarming damage he had to fear, for the heavy steel pipe, where it entered the plant, was twisted loose, gaping and dry. He scrambled up the hill, seizing the manzanita brush here and there to drag himself up faster, and gained the brow where the pipe made its last abrupt descent. Far ahead, and walking sturdily, he recognized the stalwart figure of his partner, and knew that Bill was suffering the same anxiety. He ran when the ascent was less steep, and shouted to the grizzled miner ahead, who turned and waited for him. "I'm afraid of it," Bill called as he approached; and Dick, breathless, made no reply, but hurried ahead with him to the reservoir. In all the journey, which seemed unduly long and hot that morning, they said nothing. Once, as they passed the familiar scene of his tryst with Miss Presby, now ages past, Dick bit his lips, and suppressed a moan like that of a hurt animal. Bitterly he thought that now she was more unattainable, and his dreams more idle than ever they had been. And the first sight of the reservoir confirmed it. To a large extent, the reservoir of the Cross was artificial. It had been constructed by throwing a deep stone and concrete dam across a narrow cañon through which there percolated, in summer, a small stream. Its cubic capacity was such, however, that when this reservoir was filled by spring freshets it contained water enough to run the full season round if sparingly used; and it was on this alone that the mill depended for its power, and the mine for its lights and train service, from hoist to breakers. Where had stood the dam, gray with age and moss-covered, holding in check its tiny lake, was now nothing but ruins. The shots had been placed in the lower point, which was fifty feet down and conical as it struck and rested on the mother rock. Whoever had placed the charges knew well the explosive directions of his powder, and his work had been disastrously effective. The whole lower part of the dam was out, and through it, in the night, had rushed the deluge of water so vital to the Croix d'Or. Small trees that had grown up since the dam had been built were uprooted in the bed of the cañon, and great bowlders pulled from their sockets and sent resistlessly downward. Where, the day before, had been grassy beds and heavy growths of ferns, was now but a naked bed, stripped to the rock, down which flowed a small stream oozing from what had been the reservoir. The partners stood, as if paralyzed, on the edge of the gulch, and looked down. The catastrophe, coming on top of all that had gone before, was a death blow, stupefying, stupendous, and hopelessly irremediable. "Well, you were right," Dick said despairingly. "They've got us at last!" Bill nodded, without shifting his eyes from the ruin below. They stood for another minute before scrambling down the cañon's steep side to inspect more closely the way the vandalism had been effected. Slipping down the muddy bank, heedless of their clothing or bruised hands, they clambered over the broken pieces of wall, and looked upward through the great hole and into the daylight beyond. The blow was too great to permit of mere anger. It was disaster supreme, and they could find no words in that time of despondency. "I'll give a hundred dollars toward a reward for the man who did that," shouted a voice, hoarse with indignation, above them; and they looked up to see the smith on the bank, shaking his smudged and clenched fist in the air. "And I'll take a hundred more," growled one of the drill runners in the augmenting group behind him. And then, as if the blow had fallen equally on all, the men of the Cross stormed and raved, and clambered over the ruins and anathematized their unknown enemy; all but one known as Jack Rogers, the boss millman, who silently, as if his business had rendered him mute as well as deaf, stood looking up and down the gulch. While the others continued their inspection of the damage, he drifted farther and farther away, intent on the ground about him, and the edge of the stream. Suddenly he stooped over and picked up something water-stained and white. He came back toward them. "Whoever did the one job," he said tersely, "did both. Probably one man. Set the fuses at the power-house, then came on here and set these. Then he must have got away by going to the eastward." "For heaven's sake, how do you figure that out?" Dick asked eagerly, while the others gathered closer around, with grim, inquiring faces, and leaned corded necks forward to catch the millman's words. "I found a piece of fuse down at the power plant," he said. "See, here it is. It's a good long one. The fellow that did the job knew just how long it would take him to walk here; and he knew fuse, and he knew dynamite. The proof that he did it that way is shown by this short piece of fuse I found down there at the edge of the wash. He cut the fuse short when he shot the dam. He wanted the whole thing, both places, to go up at once. Now it's plain as a Digger Indian's trail that he didn't intend to go back the way he came, so he must have gone eastward. And if he went that way, it shows he didn't intend to hit it back toward Goldpan, but to keep on goin' over the ridge cut-off till he hit the railroad." Dick was astonished at the persistent reasoning of the man whom hitherto he had regarded as a singularly taciturn old worker, wise in milling and nothing more. "Now, if there's any of you boys here that know trails," he said, "come along with me, and we'll section the hillside up there and pick it up. If you don't, stay here, because I can get it in time, and don't want no one tramplin' over the ground. I was--a scout for five years, and--well, I worked in the Geronimo raid." Dick and Bill looked at him with a new admiration, marveling that the man had never before betrayed that much of his variegated and hard career. "You're right! I believe you're right," the superintendent exclaimed. "I can help you. So can Dick. We've lived where it came in handy sometimes." But two other men joined them, one a white-headed old miner called Chloride and the other a stoker named Sinclair who had been at the Cross for but a few weeks, and admitted that he had been a packer in Arizona. Slowly the men formed into a long line, and began working toward one another, examining the ground in a belt twenty feet wide and covering the upper eastward edge of the cañon. Each had his own method of trailing. The white-headed man stooped over and passed slowly from side to side. Bill walked with slow deliberation, stopping every three or four feet and scanning the ground around him with his brilliant, keen eyes. The stoker worked like a pointer dog, methodically, and examining each bush clump for broken twigs. But it was Rogers the millman, whose method was more like Bill's, who gave the gathering call. On a patch of earth, close by the side of the rampart and where the moisture had percolated sufficiently to soften the ground, was the plain imprint of a man's foot, shod in miner's brogans, and half-soled. Nor was that all. The half-soling had evidently been home work, and the supply of pegs had been exhausted. In lieu of them, three square-headed hobnails had been driven into the center of the seam holding the patch of leather to the under part of the instep, or palm of the foot. They were off like a pack of bloodhounds, with the old millman in the lead. Dick started to follow, and then paused. He saw that Bill was standing aside, as if hesitating what to do. "Bill, old partner," he said wearily, "if anything can be found they can find it. I think you and I had better go back and try to think some way out of this--try to see some opening. It looks pretty black." The big fellow took four or five of his long, swinging steps, and threw an arm over the younger man's shoulder. "Boy," he said, "they're a-givin' us a right fast run for our money; but we ain't whipped yet--not by a long way! And if they do, well, it's a mighty big world, with mighty big mountains, and we'll strike it yet; but they haven't cleaned us out of the Cross, and can't as long as you and me are both kickin.' They've got poor old Bells. They've tried to hand us a strike. They've blown our reservoir so's we can't work the mill until another spring passes over; and yet we're still here, and the Croix d'Or is still there, off under the peak that's holdin' it down." He waved his arm above in a broad gesture, and Dick took heart as they turned back toward the mine, calculating whether they could find a means of opening it underground to pay; whether they would need as many men as they had, and other troublesome details. CHAPTER XIII THE DYNAMITER The men of the Croix d'Or slowly made their way upward toward the higher crest of the range, spread out in an impatient fan whose narrow point was made up of the three experienced men. At times the trail was almost lost in the carpet of pine needles and heavy growths of mountain grass, and again it would show plainly over long stretches where the earth was exposed. It dipped down over a crest and sought a hollow in which ran a mountain stream, spread out over a rocky bed and running swiftly. At its bank they paused. It was plain that their man had taken to the water to retard pursuit, if such came. The millman threw up his hand and called the others around him. "Before we go any farther," he said, "let's find out how many shooting irons are in this crowd. We may need 'em." The men looked blankly at one another, expressing by their actions the fact that in all the party there was not one who possessed a weapon. "Then it seems to me the best thing to do is for one man to go back to the mine and get some," said Rogers, assuming leadership. "Who ever goes will find my gun hanging up at the head of my bunk in a holster. Bring that and the belt. There's cartridges in it." One after another told where a weapon might be found, and two men volunteered to return for them. It was agreed that the others were to keep on and that after leaving the stream men were to be posted at intervals to guide the messengers as they came up. Rogers proved something of a general in the disposition of his little army, and then, with Sinclair on one bank of the stream and Chloride on the other, he plunged into the water and began an up-stream course. "It stands to reason," he argued, "that our man didn't go down stream unless it was for a blind. He wouldn't double back because it would bring him out almost where he started. He will keep on up this way until she gets too small to travel in and then will hit off somewhere else. You other fellers keep behind." They began a slow, painstaking course up the stream and began to fear they had been mistaken in their surmise, when Sinclair gave a shout. He had found the trail again, a telltale footprint with the patched sole. It broke upward on the other side of the cañon, and now men were posted within shouting distance of one another and left behind to notify the two men bringing weapons which way to go. Across spots where the trail was difficult or entirely lost, and still higher until the timber line was passed and bare gray rocks were everywhere, the man-hunters made their way, and another watchman was left on the highest point. Down the other side and into the timber line again, directed only by a broken twig, a freshly turned bowlder, or now and then a faint suggestion of a footprint, they plunged as rapidly as they could and then through tangled brush until suddenly they came out to an old disused path. Unerringly they picked up the footprints again, and now these indicated that the quarry had felt himself secure against pursuit and made no further attempt at concealment. "He is heading out to the east, just as you said he would," the smith declared, as he sat down with the others to await the coming of the messengers. They were certain now that henceforth they would travel rapidly. They talked in low, angry voices among themselves, while Rogers, silent and grim, sat quietly on a bowlder and smoked. A shout from the hilltop attracted their attention and they looked up to see a group beginning to descend. The men with guns had returned and the outposts doubled back on themselves as they came, adding a man at intervals, until they joined those waiting for them. Without delay the men strung out in single file along the path, with the old millman in the lead. For the most part they went as quietly as would Indians on the war-path, loping along now and then down declivities, or panting upward when the trail climbed to higher altitudes. There was no doubt at all that the man who had dynamited the dam was certain of his having evaded all followers, and indeed he would have done so with men less trained and astute. "Does any one know this country here?" demanded Rogers, suddenly halting his little band. "I do," declared one of the drill runners. "I worked over here on this side one time about two years ago. Why?" "Well, where does this trail go?" "To an old logging camp, first, then from there there is a road leading over to Malapi." Rogers lowered his hand from his ear and looked thoughtful for a moment. "Many men at the camp?" "No, I think it's been abandoned for two or three years," replied the drill runner. Rogers slapped his hand on his leg, and seemed confident again. "Then that's where we'll find him. In that old, abandoned camp," he exclaimed. "It's a ten-to-one bet that he got some supplies up there some time within the last few days, when he made up his mind to do this job, and that he plans to lay quiet there until it is safe for him to get out of the country." The others nodded their heads sagely. "If you're sure of that," the drill runner said, "the best thing to do is for us to leave the trail over here a ways and come up to the old camp from behind it. He might be on the watch for this trail." "Good again!" asserted the millman. "Here, you take the lead now and we'll follow." For another hour they plugged along the trail with an increasing alertness, and wondering how soon the drill runner would turn off. At last he looked back and gestured to them. They understood. He slipped off the trail into the brush and began going slowly. Once he stopped to whisper to them to be cautious, inasmuch as within a few hundred yards they would reach their goal. Now they began to exercise the utmost caution of movement, spreading out according to individual judgment to avoid windfalls and thickets. Again the lead man stopped and signaled them. He beckoned with his arm, and they closed up and peered where he indicated. Out in the center of a clearing stood a big, rambling structure that had done service and been abandoned. A slow wisp of smoke, gray and thin, floated upward from the rough chimney, a part of whose top rocks had been dislodged by winter storms. They dropped to the ground and held a whispered consultation. They argued heatedly over the best course to pursue. The millman favored surrounding the cabin, and then permitting him with two others to advance boldly to the door and endeavor to capture their man. The packer, Sinclair, suggested another course, which was nothing less valorous than a straight rush for the doors and windows; but Chloride fought that plan. "It ain't that I'm afraid to take my chances," he declared; "but if we do that, some of us, with such a crowd, is sure to get shot. We don't want to lose no lives on a skunk of a dynamiter like this feller must be. I'm for surroundin' the house, then callin' him out. If he's an honest man, he'll come. If he ain't, he'll fight. Then we'll get him in the long run if we have to fire the cabin to-night." "And maybe burn a couple of million dollars worth of timber with it at the same time," growled the drill runner. "That's a fine idea! I'm for Jack's plan. First, line out around the cabin, out of sight of course, then two men walk up and get him. I'm one of 'em." "And I the other," declared Rogers. "Let's lose no time." Silently, as before, the party spread out until it had completed the ring around the cabin and then, when all was in readiness, the millman and the runner, with pistols loosened, stepped out into the open and walked around to the door. There was a moment's tensity as they made that march, neither they nor the watchers knowing when a shot might sound and bring one of them to the ground. The runner rapped on the door, insistently. It creaked and gave back a sodden, hollow sound, but at first there was no response. He rapped again, and at the same time tried to open it; but it was barred. A voice from inside called, "Hello! What do you want out there?" "Want to see you," the runner answered. "Open the door, can't you?" There was an instant's hesitation and then again the voice, "Well, what do you want? Who are you?" "Two men that ain't familiar with these parts," was the wary reply of the runner. "Want to talk it over with you." There was the creaking of a bar, and the door was opened cautiously. One eye applied to a crack scanned the runner, who stood there alert. Rogers was out of sight. Apparently the man in the cabin did not recognize the runner, for now he flung the door wide and stepped out. As he did so he saw the millman, whom he recognized, and swiftly pulled a gun and shot at him. Even as he did so the younger man leaped upon him, caught his wrist and wrenched the weapon from his hand. He did the unexpected thing. Instead of fighting, or attempting to regain the cabin, he deftly threw out a foot, tripped the runner against Rogers, leaped over both as they fell, and dashed headlong for the forest. Suddenly, as he gained the edge, several shots cracked viciously, but none of them seemed to have taken effect. He snarled loudly with excitement and plunged into the edge of the timber. Quite as quickly as he gained it a man arose straight in his path, leaped forward, caught him around the waist, and brought him to the ground. Men came rushing forward, almost falling over one another, but arrived too late to assist in the capture. Lying under and pinned to the earth by the huge blacksmith, struggling for release, and cursing between shut teeth, was the man who had been the watchman at the Croix d'Or when its new proprietor arrived, the man Wolff, whose past had been exposed by The Lily in the presence of some of those who were now his captors. "Might have guessed it," growled the smith. "It's like him, anyhow." Two others reached over and assisted him. They caught Wolff by his arms and lifted him to his feet, where they held him. Another man ran his hand over his clothes and took out a big hunting knife, sheathed. A further search revealed nothing save a small sum of money and a few dynamite caps. The prisoner attempted to brazen it out. "What do you mean by this, anyhow?" he demanded. "Bein' held up, am I?" No one replied to him directly, but it was Rogers who said, "Lift his feet up there until we get a look at the shoes." Unceremoniously they hoisted him clear of the ground, although in a sudden panic he kicked and struggled. There was no doubt of it. The shoes were identical with those worn by the man who had dynamited the reservoir dam. The hobnails had betrayed him. For the first time he seemed to lose courage and whined a protest. "Where were you last night?" demanded the smith, frowning in his face. "Right here in this cabin. Been here two days now." They walked him between them back to the door and Chloride and Sinclair went in. They inspected it closely. They dropped to their knees and examined the deposit of dust. They walked over to the fireplace and inspected the ash surrounding the little blaze, which had been started less than an hour before, as far as they could decide. Below was a heap of mouldy ash that had been beaten down by winter snows and summer rains falling through the broken chimney. The others watched the two inquisitors curiously through the open door. "If he has been here two days he has moved around the room scarcely at all," Sinclair declared, "because the dust isn't disturbed by more than one or two trails. And, what's more, that fire is the first one that has been built here in many a long month, and it wasn't started very long ago. It's too thin. He just got here! He's the man!" The prisoner was ringed round by accusing, scowling eyes. He shoved a dry tongue out and wet his lips as if the nervous strain were beginning to tell. He started to speak, but apparently decided to say nothing and stood looking at the ground. "Well," demanded Rogers, "what have you to say for yourself? You've plainly lied about being here in the cabin. What did you do that for?" "I didn't say that I was in the cabin. I slept outside," Wolff growled. "Then take us to the place where you camped," suggested one of the drill runners. A chorus of approving shouts seconded his request; but Wolff began to appear more confused than ever and did not answer. He took refuge in a fierce burst of anger. "What do you fellows mean, anyhow?" he demanded. "I ain't done nothin'. What right have you to come up here and grab a man that way? Who are you lookin' for, anyhow?" "Wolff," said the old millman, steadily, "we are looking for the man that blew up the Croix d'Or power-house and dam last night. And what's more, we think we've got him. You're the man, all right!" His attempts to pretend ignorance and innocence were pitiful. This impromptu court was trying him there in the open beside the cabin, and he knew that its verdict would be a speedy one. He started to run the gamut of appeal, denial, and anger; but his hearers were inflexible. They silenced him at last. "We need just one thing more, boys," said Rogers, "and that is to be sure that these are the same boots that made the tracks there by the dam. All we have to do to prove that is to take this fellow back with us. The tracks will still be there. If they are the same we can be sure." "That's right," added the blacksmith. "That'd be proof enough. Let's move out." They knotted their huge handkerchiefs and bound his arms at the elbows and then his hands at the wrists, and started him forward. He fought at first, but on being prodded sharply with the muzzle of a gun moved sullenly in their midst along the trail he had so lately come over. They trudged in a harsh silence, save now and then when he tried to persuade them of his innocence, only to convince them further that he lied. Their return was made much faster than their coming, for now they had no need to seek a trail, nor to walk in a mountain stream. They forged ahead rapidly under the direction of the runner who had been in that part of the mountains before, and yet it was almost dusk when they came down the hill above the great wreck. They led him to the big heap of broken masonry and then ordered him to sit down. He had to be thrown from his feet, after which they removed his shoes, and while two of them stood guard over him the others descended to the edge of the wall and found the clear-cut prints which had been first noted that morning and which, trailed, had led to his capture. They struck matches to be certain that there was no mistake and bent over while Rogers carefully pressed one of the shoes into the mud beside that first imprint. They were undoubtedly the same. He then fitted the shoe into that track, and all further proof was unnecessary. Grimly they passed back to where Wolff was being guarded. "Well, boys," said Rogers, gravely, "this is the man! There isn't a doubt of it. Now you all know who he is, what his past has been, what he has done here, and I want to get your ideas what should be done with him." The smith stepped forward and took off his hat. It was as if he knew that he were the one to impose a death sentence. "There ain't but one thing for the likes of him. That's hangin'," he declared, steadily. "I vote to hang him. Here and now, across the end of the dam he shot out." He stepped back into the closely drawn circle. Rogers faced man after man, calling the name of each. There was no dissenting voice. The verdict was unanimous. So certain had been the outcome that one of their number had started along the pipe line to the wreck of the power-house for a rope before ever they compared the imprints of the telltale shoes, and now, almost by the time they had cast their ballot, this man returned. "Wolff, you've heard," said the old millman, with solemnity. "If you've got any messages you want sent, we'll send them. If you want time to pray, this is your chance. There's nothing you can say is going to change it. You are as good as dead. Boys, some of you get one of those beams that's tore loose there at the side, fasten the rope around the end, and shove it over the edge of the wall above the cañon there for a few feet. He shall hang above the dam he dynamited." Wolff knew that they were in earnest. There was something more inexorable in their actions than in a court of law. At the last he showed some courage of a brute kind, reviling them all, sputtering forth his hatred, and interlarding it with a confession and threats of what he wanted to do. They silenced him by leading him to the wall and adjusting the noose. Once more Rogers besought him to pray and then, when he again burst into oaths, they thrust him off. The fall was as effective as ever hangman devised. "In the morning, boys," said the smith, "a half-dozen of us must be up early and come back here. The hound is at least entitled to a half-way decent burial. I'll call some of you to come with me." That was their sole comment. They had neither regrets, compunctions, nor rancor. They had finished their task according to their own ideas of justice, without hesitation. At the Croix d'Or the partners, worried over their problems, and somewhat astonished at the non-appearance of the force, sat on the bench by the mess-house, smoking and silent. In soft cadence they heard, as from the opposite side of the gulch, the tramping of feet. Swinging along in the dusk the men came, shadowy, unhalting, and homeward bound, like so many tired hounds returning after the day's hunt. Their march led them past the bench; but they did not look up. There was an unusual gravity in their silence, a pronounced earnestness in their attitude. "Well," called Dick, "what did you learn?" It was the smith who answered, but the others never halted, continuing that slow march to the bunk-house. "We got him." "Where is he, then?" "Hanging to a beam across the dam he blew up," was the remorseless response. He started as if to proceed after the others, then paused long enough to add: "It was that feller that used to be watchman here; the feller that tried to shoot Bill that night. Found him in that old, deserted cabin near the Potlach. Had the shoe on him, and at last said he did it, and was sorry for just one thing, that he didn't get all of us. Said he'd 'a' blown the bunk-house and the office up in a week more, and that he'd tried to get you two with a bowlder and had killed your burros--well, when we swung him off, he was still cursing every one and everything connected with the Croix d'Or." He paused for an instant, then came closer, and lowered his voice. "And that ain't all. He said just before he went off--just like this--mind you: 'I'd 'a' got Bully Presby, too, because he didn't treat me fair, after me doin' my best and a-keepin' my mouth shut about what I knew of the big lead.' Now, what in hell do you suppose he meant by that?" CHAPTER XIV "THOUGH LOVE SAY NAY" "Of one thing I am sure," said Dick on the following day, when they began to readjust themselves for a decision, "and that is that if we can find work for them, there isn't a man on the works that I don't want to keep. They are too true and loyal to lose." "We could drive into the blacksmith's tunnel," Bill said; "and I've an idea we might strike something when we pass under that hard cone just above--well, just about under where Bells is. I saw it yesterday when we were up there for the first time. That would give the millman and his gang something to do. Some of 'em can take out the rest of the green lead, and after that drift see if it comes in again. And the others that can't do anything underground, can turn to and build up the dam, with a few masons to help, and, when a new wheel comes, the millman will know how to set that all right again. So, you see, we don't have to lose any of them that has stood by us, so long as Sloan is ready to take his gamble and the hundred thousand lasts. Before that's gone, we'll just have to make good. And somehow I feel we will." As if to add to the mental trials of the half-owner of the Croix d'Or, but another day elapsed after this decision and adjustment before he received a letter from a Seattle broker offering him a price for his interest in the mine. Thus wrote the agent: "My client has the timber and water rights of your property in view more than anything underground, which, on the advice of experts who have visited the property in previous years, he seems to regard as worthless. He informs me that you are, to all intents, representing not only your own interest, but that of the other partner, who places implicit confidence in you. I presume that you will therefore be amenable to doing all you can to save from the wreckage of the dead property all that is possible in behalf of that partner as well as yourself, and am authorized to make you the extremely liberal offer of sixty thousand dollars for the full title to the property." The price was ridiculously low, and Dick knew it; yet if the mine produced nothing more, and was, as the experts were supposed to have reported, worthless, the amount was extremely liberal. But for Bill he would have hesitated to decline such an offer. That worthy, however, threw his head back and roared derisively. "Sixty thousand? Sixty thousand! What does that idiot think men who have dropped a quarter of a million in a property would quit for? Does he think that sixty thousand is any saving from a wreck like this has been? Tell him to chase himself--that the tail goes with the hide, and you'll quit clean whipped, or not at all." But Dick was loath to refuse any offer without consulting his superior in New York, and accordingly wandered off into the hills to think. It was late in the afternoon, and he mechanically tramped over the trail to the pipe line, where, when hope ran higher, he had dared to dream. The whole situation had become a nerve-racking tragedy of mind and action. His desperate desire for success after his self-acknowledgment that he loved Miss Presby, and then the blows that had been rained on him and the mine, the failure of the green lead to hold out when it had at least promised and justified operation--all cumulated into a disheartening climax which was testing his fortitude as it had never been tried before. He was not of those who lack either persistence, determination, or moral bravery; and it was this last characteristic, coupled with a certain maturing caution, which made him question the honesty of proceeding to lay out, perhaps, the entire hundred thousand volunteered by Sloan, with such little certainty of returns. Had the money been his own, he would have taken the chances uncomplainingly; but his judgment told him that, had he been sent to the Croix d'Or as an expert to pass an opinion on the justification of putting a hundred thousand into the ground, under present conditions, he would have advised against it. He went as far as the reservoir. Its wreckage seemed to mock his efforts. To rebuild it alone meant big expense in a country where every barrel of cement had to be brought in on the backs of pack mules, and where stone masons received unduly high wages. The repairs to the plant would not prove so heavy; but after that? None knew better than he the trials of expensive prospecting underground, the long drives to end in nothing, the drifts that tapped no ore, the ledges that promised to come in strongly, and led the worker on with hope deferred until his purse was exhausted. The cruelty of nature itself flaunting the golden will-o'-the-wisp in the blackness of the earth. He stood on a timber thrown carelessly on the brink of the gorge, and suddenly thought how it happened to be there, and for what tragic purpose it had served--a gallows. He shuddered, thinking of the mentally distorted wretch who had died at its end, cursing as the men of the Cross pushed him over to gasp and wrench his life away fifty feet above the ruin he had wrought. He wondered where the man had been buried, and hurried back along the pipe line to try and forget that episode. A little flutter of white from a clump of brush attracted his eyes, and he extracted from the brambles a dainty handkerchief still fragrant with the personality of the girl he loved. He lifted it to his lips tightly, and, with a heart that was almost in pain, dropped to the line, and sat on the pipe, bent, and utterly dejected. He sat there for some minutes, and then a sound caused him to straighten himself with a jerk. The black horse was thundering down the hill as he had seen it on those other mornings when, looking backward, the "world was young." "I saw you, Mr. Townsend," Miss Presby said as he assisted her to alight, and her voice was sympathetic and grave. "You are unhappy. I don't blame you. I have heard all about it, and--well, I have had to fight an hourly impulse to come to you ever since I heard the news. Oh, my friend, believe me, I am so sorry! So sorry!" He could not reply, lest his voice betray the emotions aroused by her kindly sympathy. All his yearnings were fanned to flame by the cadence of her voice and the softness of her eyes. Mechanically he resumed his place on the pipe, and she seated herself by his side, half-facing him. Her slender foot, booted, braced against the ground, and almost touching his heavy miner's boot, tapped its toe on the sward as if she were impatient to find words. "It has been a little tough," he said; "but it seems less hard to me now that I know you care." He had blundered in his first words to the beginning of dangerous heights, and his pulses gave a wild throb when he glanced up at her and saw a light in her face, in her eyes, in her whole attitude, that he had never surprised there before. Words, unuttered, leaped hotly from his heart; a mad desire to tell of his love, of the visions he had seen in the air, on the blue of the peaks, in the cool shadows of the forests, in the black depths hundreds of feet under the ground. Of how the Croix d'Or had come to represent, not financial success, but a battle for her, and his love. His face went white, and he bit his dry, twisting lips, and clenched his hands until they hurt. "Not now!" he savagely commanded himself. "Not now!" She appeared to be thinking of something she had to say, and her first words rendered him thankful that he had held his tongue, otherwise he might never have known the depths of the girl seated there by his side. "I don't want you to think me forward," she said quietly; "but I have wanted for the last two days to ask you something. It makes it easier now that I know you know, that--that I care for it. What are your--your--how are your finances?" She had stammered it out at last, and, now that the conversation had been led in that direction, he could speak. He sat there quietly, as if by a comrade, and told her all. Told her of his boyhood, his father's death, and that he, in his own right, had nothing in the world but youth and a half-ownership in the Croix d'Or, which threatened to prove worthless. He voiced that dread of wasting his backer's money when he had none of his own to put with it, meeting dollar for dollar as it was thrown into the crucibles of fate. He stopped at last, a little ashamed of having so completely unbosomed himself, for he was by habit and nature reticent. "You have made it a great deal easier for me," she said, with an assumption of gayety. "I can say what I've been thinking of for two days without spludging all over my words." She laughed as if in recollection of her previous embarrassment, and again became seriously grave, and went on: "They say my father is a hard man. At times I have been led to believe it; but he has been a good father to me, and I appreciate it and his worries more, after a four years' absence in an Eastern school, and--well, perhaps because I am so much older now, and better able to judge leniently. I have never known much of his business from his lips. It is one subject on which he is not exactly loquacious, as probably you know." Again she laughed a little, grim laugh. Dick had opened his lips to say that he had never met her father, when she continued: "On the day I met you first, up here by your pipe line, the day you almost ended my bright young career by starting a half-ton bowlder down the hill--don't interrupt with repeated apologies, please--I had my birth anniversary. I was twenty-one, and--my own boss." "Congratulations, belated, but fervent." "Thank you; but you again interrupt. On that day when I went home, my father, in his customary gruff way, turned back just as he was going to the office where he lives at least eighteen hours out of every twenty-four, and threw in my lap a bank-book. 'Joan,' he said, 'you're of age now. That's for you. It's all yours, to do just what you dam' please with. I have nothing to do with it. If you make a fool use of it, it'll be your fault, not mine. I'm giving it to you so that if anything happened to me, or the Rattler, you'd not be helplessly busted.'" He jumped to his feet with an exclamation. "The Rattler! The Rattler! And--and your name is Joan and not Dorothy, and you are Bully Presby's daughter?" He was bewildered by surprise. "Why, yes. Certainly! Didn't you know that--all this time?" "No!" he blurted. "There is a Dorothy Presby, and a----" "Dorothy Presby!" She doubled over in a gust of mirth. "The daughter of the lumberman over on the other side. Oh, this is too good to keep! I must tell her the next time I see her. After all these months, you still thought----" Again her laughter overwhelmed her; but it was not shared by Dick, who stood above her on the slope, frowning in perplexity, thinking of the strange blunder into which he had been led by the words of poor old Bells, his acceptance of her identity, his ignorance that Bully Presby had kith or kin, and of the mine owner's sarcastic references and veiled antagonism throughout all those troubled months preceding. If she were Bully Presby's daughter, he might never gain her father's consent, though the Croix d'Or were in the list of producers. He thought of that harsh encounter on the trail, and his assertion that he was capable of attending to his own business and asked neither friendship nor favor from any man under the skies; of Bully Presby's gruff reply, and of their passing each other a second time, in the streets of Goldpan, without recognition. The girl in front of him, so unlike her father save for the firm chin and capable brow, did not appear to sense his perturbation. "Well," she said, "it doesn't matter. I am not jeal---- I'm not any different--just the same. Come back here and sit down, please, while I go ahead with what I wish to say." The interlude appeared to have rendered her more self-possessed. "So, on that day I met you, I became quite rich. That money has rested in a bank, doing neither me nor any one else any benefit. I think I have drawn one check, for twenty-five dollars, just to convince myself that it was all reality. And I am, in some ways, the daughter of my father. I want my money to work. I'm quite a greedy young person, you see. I want to lend you as much of that money as you need." "Impossible!" "Not at all. I have as much faith in you, perhaps more, than this Mister Sloan, of whom I'm a trifle jealous. I want to have a share in your success. I want to make you feel that, even if I'm not the daughter of a lumberman, I am, and shall have a right to be, interested in--in--the Croix d'Or." "Impossible!" "It isn't any such thing. I mean it!" "Then it's because I haven't made it plain to you--haven't made you understand that even now I am thinking, to preserve my honor, of telling Mr. Sloan that it is too much of a venture. If I should decline to venture his money, why should I----?" "Refuse mine? That's just it. His money you could decline. He isn't on the ground. He doesn't know mines, mining, or miners. I know them all. I am here. I know the history of the Cross from the day it made its first mill run. I went five hundred feet under ground in a California mine when I was a month old. I've run from the lowest level to the top of the hoist, and from the grizzlies to the tables, for at least ten years of my life. I've absorbed it. I've lived in it. Had I the strength, there isn't a place in this, or any mine, that I couldn't fill. I'm backing my judgment. The Croix d'Or will prove good with depth. It may never pay until you get it. The blowing of your dam, the loss of your green lead, and all of those troubles, don't amount to that." She snapped a thumb and forefinger derisively, and went on before he could interject a word, so intent was she on assisting him and encouraging him, and proving to him that her judgment, through knowledge, was better than his. "Borrow my money, Dick, and sink." The name came so easily to her lips! It was the first time he had ever heard her utter it. It swept away his flying restraint even as the flame of powder snaps through a fuse to explosion; and he made a sudden, swinging step toward her, and caught her in his arms savagely, greedily, tenderly fierce. All his love was bursting, molten, to speech; but she lifted both hands and thrust herself away from him. "Oh, not that!" she said. "Not that! I wish you had not. It robs me of my wish. I wanted you to take my money as a comrade, not as my---- Oh, Dick! Dick! Don't say anything to me now, or do anything now! Please let me have my way. You will win. I know it! The Cross must pay. It shall pay! And when it does, then--then----" She stood, trembling, and abashed by her own words, before him. Slowly the delicacy of her mind, the romanticism of her dreams, the great, unselfish love within her, fluttering yet valiant, overwhelmed him with a sense of infinite unworthiness and weakness. He took his hat from his head, leaned over, and caught one of the palpitant hands in both his own, and raised it reverently to his lips. It was as if he were paying homage to heaven devoutly. "I understand," he said softly, still clinging to the fingers, every throb of which struck appealingly on his heartstrings. "Forgive me, and--yet--don't. Joan, little Joan, I can't take your money. It would make me a weakling. But I can make the Cross win. If it never had a chance before, it will have now. It must! God wouldn't let it be otherwise!" "Help me to my horse," she said faintly. "We mustn't talk any more. Let us keep our hopes as they are." He lifted her lightly to the saddle, and the big black, with comprehending eyes, seemed to stand as a statue after she was in her seat. The purple shadows of the mountain twilight were, with a soft and tender haze, tinting the splendid peak above them. Everything was still and hushed, as if attuned to their parting. She leaned low over her saddle to where, as before something sacred, he stood with parted lips, and upturned face, bareheaded, in adoration. Quite slowly she bent down and kissed him full on the lips, and whispered: "God bless you, dear, and keep you--for me!" The abrupt crashing of a horse's hoofs awoke the echoes and the world again. She was gone; and, for a full minute after the gray old rocks and the shadows had encompassed her, there stood in the purple twilight a man too overcome with happiness to move, to think, to comprehend, to breathe! CHAPTER XV "MR. SLOAN SPEAKS" "Wow! Somethin' seems to have kind of livened up the gloom of this dump, seems to me," exclaimed Bill on the following morning, when returning from his regular trip underground, he stamped into the office, threw himself into a chair, and hauled off one of his rubber boots preparatory to donning those of leather. Dick had been bent over the high desk, with plans unrolled before him, and a sheet of paper on which he made calculations, whistling as he did so. "First time I've heard you whistle since we left the Coeur d'Alenes," Bill went on, grinning slyly, as if secretly pleased. "What're you up to?" "Finding out if by sinking we couldn't cut that green lead about two hundred feet farther down." "Bully boy! I'm with you!" encouraged the older miner, throwing the cumbersome boots into the corner, and coming over behind Dick, where he could inspect the plans across the angle of the other's broad shoulder. "How does she dope out?" "We cut the green lead on the six-hundred-foot, at a hundred and ten feet from the shaft, didn't we? Well, the men before us cut on the five-hundred at a hundred and seventy from the shaft, and at two-twenty from the shaft on the four-hundred-foot level, where they stoped out a lot of it before concluding it wouldn't pay to work. It was a strong but almost barren ledge when they first came into it on the two-hundred-foot level. The Bonanza chute made gold because they happened to hit it at a crossing on the four-hundred-foot level. At the six-hundred, as we know, it was almost like a chimney of ore that is playing out as we drift west. If the mill had not been put out of business, we were going to stope it out, though, and prove whether it was the permanent ledge, weren't we?" "Right you are, pardner." "Well, then, at the same angle, we would have to drift less than seventy feet on the seven-hundred-foot level to cut it again, and at the eight-hundred-foot we'd just about have it at the foot of the shaft. Well, I'm sinking, regardless of expense." "It might be right, boy, it might be right," Bill said, thoughtfully scowling at the plans, and going over the figures of the dip. "But you're the boss. What you say goes." "But don't you think I'm right?" "Yes," hesitatingly, "or, anyway, it's worth takin' a chance on. Bells used to say the mines around here all had to get depth, and that most of the ledges came in stronger as they went down. The Cross ain't shown it so far, but eight hundred feet ought to show whether that's the right line of work." "How is the sump hole under the shaft?" Dick asked. "Must be somewhere about seventy or eighty feet of water in it; but we can pump that out in no time. She isn't makin' much water. Almost a dry mine now, for some reason I don't quite get. Looks as if it leaked away a good deal, somewhere, through the formation. There wouldn't be no trouble in sinkin' the shaft." "And thirty feet, about, would bring us to the seven-hundred-foot mark?" "Yes." "Then I'll tell you what I want to do: I want you to shift the crew so that there is a day and a night shift. The rebuilding of the dam can be put off for a while, except for such work as the millmen are agreeable to take on. I want to sink! I don't want to waste any time about it. I want to go down just as fast as it can be done, and when we get to the seven-hundred-foot, one gang must start to drift for the green lead, and the others must keep going down." He was almost knocked over the desk by a rousing, enthusiastic slap on the back. "Now you're my old pardner again!" Bill shouted. "You're the lad again that was fresh from the schools, knew what he wanted, and went after it. Dick, I've been kind of worried about you since we came here," the veteran went on, in a softer tone of voice. "You ain't been like the old Dick. You ain't had the zip! It's as if you were afraid all the time of losing Sloan's money, and it worried you. And sometimes--now, I don't want you to get sore and cuss me--it seemed to me as if your mind wa'n't altogether on the job! As if the Cross didn't mean everything." He waited expectantly for a moment, as if inviting a confidence; then, observing that the younger man was flushed, and not looking at him, grinned knowingly, and trudged out of the office, calling back as he went: "There'll be sump water in the creek in half an hour." As if imbued with new energy, he ordered one of the idle millmen to act as stoker, if he cared to do so, which was cheerfully done, had the extra pump attached, saw the fire roaring from another boiler, and by noon the shaft rang with the steady throb of the pistons pounding and pulling the waste water upward. The last of the unwatering of the Cross was going forward in haste. By six o'clock in the evening he reported that soundings showed that the map had not been checked up, and that the shaft was seven hundred and ten feet deep, and that they would commence a drift on the seven-hundred-foot mark the next day. Dick was awakened at an early hour, and found Bill missing. He went over to the hoist house, where a sleepy night man, new to the hours, grinned at him with a pleasant: "Looks like we're busy, just--the--same, Mr. Townsend! The old man"--the superintendent of a mine is always "the old man," be he but twenty--"left orders last night that when the water was clear at seven hundred feet he was to be called. He kicked up two of the drill men at four this mornin', and they're down there puttin' the steel into the rock ever since. Hear 'em? He's makin' things hump!" Dick leaned over the unused compartment of the shaft, and heard the steady, savage chugging of the drills. Bill was "makin' things hump!" with a vengeance. A man who had been sent to the camp for the semi-weekly mail arrived while the partners were at breakfast, and the first letter laid before them was one with a New York postmark, which Dick read anxiously. It was from Sloan, who told him that he had been unexpectedly called to the Pacific coast on a hurried trip, and that, while he did not have time to visit the Croix d'Or, he very earnestly hoped that Dick would arrange, on receipt of the letter, to meet him in Seattle, and named a date. "Whe-e-w! You got to move some, ain't you? Let's see, if you want to meet him you'll have to be hittin' the trail out of here in an hour," said Bill, laying down his knife and fork. "What do you s'pose is up? Goin' to tie the poke strings again?" Dick feared something was amiss. And he continued to think of this after he had written a hasty note to Joan, telling her of his abrupt absence, and that he expected to return in a week. He pondered for a moment whether or not to add some note of affection, but decided that he was still under her ban, and so contented himself with the closing line: "I am following your advice. We are sinking!" He had to run, bag in hand, to catch the stage from Goldpan, and as it jolted along over the rough passes and rugged inclines had a medley of thought. Sometimes he could not imagine why Sloan had been so anxious to talk with him, and in the other and happier intervals, he thought of Joan Presby, daughter of the man whom he had come to regard as antagonistic in many ways. The confusion of mind dwelt with him persistently after he had boarded the rough "accommodation" that carried him to the main line, where he must wait for the thunderous arrival of the long express train that was to carry him across the broad and splendid State of Washington. Idaho and Oregon were left behind. The magnificent wheat belt spread from horizon to horizon, and harvesters paused to wave their hats at the travelers. The Western ranges of the Olympics, solid, dignified, and engraved against the sky with their outline of peak and forest, came into view, and yet his perturbation continued. He saw the splendid panorama of Puget Sound open to his view, and the train, at last, after those weary hours of jolting, rattled into the long sheds that at that time disgraced the young giant city of the North-west. It was the first time he had even entered its shadows, and as he turned its corner he looked curiously at the stump of a tree that had been hollowed into an ample office, and was assailed by the strident cries of cabmen. "The Butler House," he said, relinquishing his bag into the hands of the first driver who reached him, and settled back into the cushions with a sense of bewilderment, as if something long forgotten had been recalled. He knew what it was as he drove along in all that clamor of sound which issues from a great and hurrying city. It was New York, and he was in the young New York of the North-west, with great skeleton structures uprearing and the turmoil of building. Only here was a difference, for side by side on the streets walked men clad in the latest fashion, and men bound to or coming from the arctic fields of gold-bound Alaska. Electric cars tearing along at a reckless speed, freight wagons heavily laden, newsboys screaming the call of extras, and emerging from behind log wagons, and everything betokening that clash of the old and the intensely new. At the Butler House the man behind the desk twirled the register toward him, and assigned him a room. "Sloan?" he replied to Dick's inquiry. "Oh, yes. He's the old chap from New York who said he was expecting someone, and to send him right up. I suppose you're the man. Here, boy, show Mr. Townsend to five-fifty. Right that way, sir." And before his words were finished he had turned to a new arrival. The clamor of the streets, busy as is no other city in the world busy when the season is on, was still in his ears, striking a familiar note in his memory, and the modernity of the elevator, the brass-buttoned boy, and the hotel itself brought back the last time he had seen Mr. Sloan, and the day he had parted from his father in that office on Wall Street. He found the Wall Street veteran grayer, much older, and more kindly, when he was ushered into the room to receive his greeting. He subsided into a chair, but his father's old-time friend protested. "Stand up!" he commanded, "and turn around, young fellow, so I can see whether you have filled out. Humph! You'll do, I guess, physically. I don't think I should want to have any trouble with you. You look as if you could hold your own most anywhere. I'm glad. Now, sit down, and tell me all about the mine." He listened while Dick went into details of the work, sparing none of the misfortunes and disappointments, and telling of the new method employed. He was interrupted now and then by a shrewd question, an exclamation, or a word of assent, and, after he had finished the account, said: "Well, that is all there is to report. What do you think?" "Who is Thomas W. Presby?" Sloan's question was abrupt. "The owner of the Rattler, the mine next to us." "He is?" the question was explosive. "Ah, ha! The moth in the closet, eh? So that accounts for it! I spent a hundred dollars, then, to good purpose, it seems to me!" Dick looked an intent and wondering question. "An agent here in Seattle wrote me that they had written you, making an offer of sixty thousand dollars for the property--yes--the same one you wrote me about. He said they had reason to believe I was the financial backer for the mine, and that they now wished to deal with me, inasmuch as you might be carried away by youthful enthusiasm to squandering my hard-earned cash. I wrote back that your judgment satisfied me. Then, just before I left, I got a flat offer of a hundred thousand dollars for the property in full, or seventy-five thousand for my share alone. It set me to thinking, and wondering if some one wasn't trying to cut your feet from under you. So, having business in Portland, I came on up here, and got after this agent." Dick had a chill of apprehension. He knew before the loyal old man had proceeded half-way what to expect. "It cost me a hundred dollars in entertainment, and a lot of apparent readiness to talk business, to get him confidential with me. Then I got the name of the would-be purchaser, under injunctions of secrecy, because those were the agent's positive instructions. The man who wants to buy is Presby!" For one black, unworthy instant, Dick looked out of the window, wondering if it were possible that Joan had known of her father's efforts, and had withheld the information. Then the memory of that gentle face, the candid eyes, her courageous advice, and--last of all--the kiss and prayer on her lips, made him mentally reproach himself for the thought. But he remembered that he still owed affection and deference to the stanch old man who sat before him, who had been his benefactor in an hour of need, and backed faith with money. "Well, sir," he said, turning to meet the kindly eyes, "what do you think of it?" "Think of it? Think of it?" Sloan replied, raising his voice. "I'll tell you my answer. 'You sit down,' I said, 'and write this man Presby that I knew no one in connection with the Croix d'Or but the son of the man who many times befriended me, in desperate situations when I needed it! That I was paying back to the son what I was unfortunately prevented from paying back to the father--a constant gratitude! That I'd see him or any other man in their graves before I'd sell Richard Townsend out in that way. That I'd back Dick Townsend on the Croix d'Or as long as he wanted me to, and that when he gave that up, I'd still back him on any other mine he said was good!' That's what I said!" He had lost his calm, club poise, and was again the virulent business man of that Wall Street battle, waged daily, where men must have force or fail to survive. Dick saw in him the man who was, the man who at times had shaken the financial world with his desperate bravery and daring, back in the days when giants fought for the beginnings of supremacy. He felt very inexperienced and young, as he looked at this veteran with scars, and impulsively rose to his feet and held out his hand. He was almost dumb with gratitude. "I shouldn't have asked you to say so much," he said. "I am--well--I am sort of down and out with it all! I feel a little bit as I did when the Cornell eleven piled on top of me in the annual, when I played half-back." "Hey! And wasn't that a game!" the old man suddenly enthused, with sparkling eyes. "And how your father and I did yell and howl and beat the heads of those in front! Gad! I remember the old man had a silk hat, and he banged it up and down on a bald head in front until there was nothing but a rim left, and then looked as sheepish as a boy caught stealing apples when he realized what he had done. Oh, but your Daddy was a man, even if he did have a temper, my boy!" His eyes sparkled with a fervid love of the game of his college days, and he seemed to have dismissed the Croix d'Or from his mind, as if it were of no importance. Nor did he, during the course of that visit, refer to it again. He made exception, when he shook hands with Dick at the train. "Don't let anybody bluff you," he said. "Remember that a brave front alone often wins. If you fail with the Croix the world is still big, and--well--you're one of my legatees. Good-by. Good luck!" Again Dick endured the rumbling of trains through long hours, the change from one to another at small junctions, the day and night in a stage coach whose springs seemed to have lost resiliency, and the discourse of two drummers, Hebraic, the chill aloofness of a supercilious mining expert new to the district, and the heated discussions of two drill runners, veterans, off to a new field, and celebrating the journey with a demijohn. The latter were union men, and long after he was tired of their babel they broached a conversation which brought Dick to a point of eager listening. "Yes, you see," one of the men asserted; "they got the goods on him. Thompson had been a good delegate until he got the finger itch, then he had an idea he could use the miners' union to scratch 'em. He held up one or two small mines before the big guns got wise. That got him to feelin' his oats, and he went for bigger game." "But how did they get him?" the other runner insisted. "They got him over here to where we're goin--Goldpan. He held up some fellers that's got a mine called the Craw Door, or somethin' like that. Fetched three of his pals from Denver with him. They called 'emselves miners! God! Miners nothin'! They'd worked around Cripple Creek long enough to get union cards, but two of 'em was prize fighters, and the other used to be bouncer at the old Alcazar when she was the hottest place to lose money that ever turned a crooked card. I remember there one time when----" "Nobody asked you about that," growled the other man. "What I'm interested in is about this big stiff, Thompson." "Him? Oh, yes. Where was I? Well, he fixed things for a hold-up. Was goin' to get these fellers at the Craw Door to untie their pokes, but they don't stand for it. He packs a meetin' with a lot of swampers that don't know nothin' about the case, and before they gets done they votes a strike, and an old feller from this Craw Door gets his time. Gets kicked to death, the same as they uster in Park City when the Cousin Jacks from the Ontario cut loose on one another. The Denver council takes cawgnizance of this, and investigates. It snoops around till it gets the goods. Then--_wow! bing!_ goes this here Thompson. They sue him themselves, and now he's up in Cañon City, a-lookin' plaintive like through these things." He held his knotted, rough fingers open before his face, and jerked his head sideways, simulating a man peering through penitentiary bars. Then, with a roar, he started in to bellow, "The union forever--hooraw, boys hooraw!" in which his companion, forgetting all the story, joined until it was again time to tilt the wicker-covered jug. And so that was the end of Thompson and presumably the strike, Dick thought, as he settled back into the corner he had claimed. And it was easy to see, with this damning evidence to be brought forward, that Bells Park's murderers would pay, to the full, the penalty. For them, on trial, it meant nothing less than life. He was human enough to be glad. The stage rattled into Goldpan, and, stiff and sore from his journey, he began his tramp toward the trail of the cut-off leading homeward: He stopped but once. It was in front of the High Light, where a small scrap of paper still clung to the plate glass. On it was written, in a hurried, but firm and womanly, handwriting: This place is closed for good. It is not for sale. It has held hell. Hereafter it shall hold nothing but cobwebs. LILY MEREDITH. The date was that of the tragic night, the night when Bells Park, fighting for those on whom he had bestowed a queer, distorted affection, had been kicked to death by the ruffians now cowering in a distant jail! Verily the camp and the district had memories for him as he trudged away from its straggling shanties, and filled his lungs with the fresh, free air from the wide, rugged stretches beyond. When he came through the borders of the Rattler he looked eagerly, insistently, for a glimpse of his heart's desire, and thought, with annoyance, that he did not so much as know the cabin which she called home. But he was not rewarded. It was still the same, with no enlivening touch of form or color, the same spider-web tramways debouching into the top of the mill, the same sullen roar and rumble of falling stamps, the same columns of smoke from tall chimney and humble log structure, alike, and the same careless clash of the breakers. Bill came hurrying down the trail to meet him, waving his hat, and shouting a welcome. Up at the yard the smith held a black hand and muscled arm up to shade his eyes from the last sunlight, and then shook a hammer aloft. From the door of the engine room the man who had been Bells' assistant bawled a greeting, and the fat cook shook a ladle at him through the mess-house window. It all gave him an immense and satisfactory warmth of home-coming, and the Croix d'Or, with its steadfast, friendly little colony, was home in truth! "We're in sixty feet on the seven-hundred-foot," Bill grinned, with the air of one giving a pleasant surprise, "and say, boy, we've hit the edge of ore. You were all right. The green lead is still there, only she looks better to me than she did before, and I know rock, some." There was nothing wanting in the pleasure of his return, and the last addition to that satisfactory day was a note he found, lying on the very top of other letters awaiting him. It was from Joan Presby, and Bill, starting to enter the office, saw his partner's face in the light of the lamp, smiled affectionately, and then tiptoed away into the darkness, as if to avoid intrusion at such a time. CHAPTER XVI BENEFITS RETURNED Dick waited impatiently at the rendezvous, saw Joan coming, hurried to meet her, and was restrained from displaying his joy by her upheld hand, as she smiled and cautioned: "Now, steady, Dick! You know we were not to--to--be anything but comrades for a while yet." He was compelled to respect her wishes, but his eyes spoke all that his tongue might have uttered. In the joy of meeting her, he had forgotten the part played by her father in his surreptitious attempt to gain possession of the Croix d'Or: but her first words reminded him of it: "It has been terribly lonesome since you left. I have felt as if the whole world had deserted me. Dad is not a cheery sort of companion, because he is so absorbed by the Rattler that he lives with it, eats with it, sleeps with it. And, to make him worse, something appears to have upset him in the last week or ten days until a bear would be a highly lovable companion by comparison." She failed to notice the gravity of his face, for he surmised how Sloan's answer must have affected the owner of the Rattler, who strode mercilessly over all obstacles and men, but now had come to one which he could not surmount. He wondered how obdurate Bully Presby would prove if the time ever came when he dared ask for Joan, and whether, if the father refused, Joan's will would override this opposition. Studying the lines of her face, and the firm contour of her chin as it rounded into the grace of her throat, he had a joyful sense of confidence that she would not prove wanting, and dismissed Bully Presby from his thoughts. With a great embarrassment, he fumbled in the pocket of his shirt, and brought out a little box which he opened, to display a glittering gem. He held it toward her, in the palm of his hand; but she pulled her gloves over her fingers, and blushed and laughed. "It seems to me," she declared, "that you have plenty of assurance." "Why?" he insisted. "Because I haven't made my mind up--that far, yet, and because if I had I shouldn't say so until the Croix d'Or had been proven one way or the other." She stopped, awkwardly embarrassed, as if her objection had conveyed a suggestion that his financial standing had a bearing on her acceptance, and hastened to rectify it: "Not that its success or the money it would bring has anything to do with it." "But if it failed?" he interrogated, striving to force her to an admission. "I should accept you as quickly as if it were a success; perhaps more quickly, for I have money enough. But that isn't it. Don't you see, can't you understand, that I want you to make good just to show that you can?" "Yes," he answered gloomily. "But if I didn't feel quite confident, I shouldn't offer you the ring. And if I failed, I shouldn't ask you." "Then you musn't fail," she retorted. "And, do you know," she hastened, as if eager to change the subject, and get away from such a trying pass, "that I've never seen the Croix since you took possession of it?" "Come now," he said, with boyish eagerness. "I've wanted you to see what we are doing for weeks--yes, months. Will you? We can lead your horse down over the trail easily." He walked by her side, the black patiently following them, and told her of what had been accomplished in his absence, and of their plans. She listened gravely, offering such sage advice now and then that his admiration of her knowledge constantly increased. There were but few men in sight as they crossed the head of the cañon, and came slowly down past the blacksmith shop. "Why, if there isn't Mr. Clark!" she exclaimed, and the smith looked up, grinned, dropped his tongs, and came toward them, wiping his hand on his smudgy apron. "Hello, Joan!" he called out. "You're a bit bigger'n you used to be, when I made iron rings for you." "Oh, Smuts," she laughed happily, stepping to meet him, "do you know I still have one, and that it's in my jewel case, among my most precious possessions?" She held out her white, clean hand, and he almost seized it in his grimy, fist, then drew her back. "'Most forgot!" he declared. "I reckon I'd muss that up some if I took it in my fist." "Then muss it," she laughed. "You weren't always so particular." And he grabbed, held, and patted the hand that he had known in its childhood. "Why, little Joan," he growled, with a suspicious softness in his voice, "you ain't changed none since you used to sit on the end of that old-fashioned forge, dirty up your pinafores, and cry when Bully led you off. Him and me ain't friends no more, so's you could notice. Seven years now since I hit him for cussin' me for somethin' that wa'n't my fault! But, by gee whiz, old Bully Presby could go some! We tipped an anvil over that day, and wrecked a bellows before they pulled us off each other. I've always wondered, since then which of us is the better man!" He spoke with such an air of regret that Joan and Dick laughed outright, and in the midst of it a shadow came across their own, and they turned to meet the amused, complacent stare of Bill. In acknowledging the introduction, Joan felt that his piercing eyes were studying her, probing her soul, as appraisingly as if seeking to lay her appearance and character bare. His harsh, determined face suddenly broke into a wondrous warmth of smile, and he impulsively seized her hand again. "Say," he said, "you'll do! You're all right!" And she knew intuitively that this giant of the hills and lonely places had read her, with all her emotions and love, as he would read print, and that, with the quick decision of such men, he was prepared to give her loyal friendship and affection. They walked slowly around the plant, Dick pointing out their technical progress as they went, and she still further gained Bill's admiration in the assay-house when she declared that she had a preference for another kind of furnace than they were using. "Why, say, Miss Presby, can you assay?" he burst out. "Assay!" she said. "Why, I lived in the assay-house at two or three times, and then studied it afterward." "Hey, up there!" a shout came from the roadway below. They turned and went out to the little cindered, littered level in front of the door, and looked down to where, on the roadway a hundred feet below, a man stood at the head of a string of panting burros, and they recognized in him a packer from Goldpan. "I've got somethin' here for you." He waved his hand back toward the string of burros. "What is it?" asked Bill, turning to Dick. "I don't know what it can be. I have ordered nothing as heavy as that outfit appears to be." Perplexed, they excused themselves and descended the slope, leaving Joan standing there in front of the assay office, and enjoying the picture of the cañon, with its border of working buildings on one side, and its scattered cabins, mess- and bunk-houses on the other, the huge waste dump towering away from the hoist, and filling the head of the cañon, and the sparkle of the stream below. "It's for you, all right," the packer insisted. "The Wells Fargo agent turned it over to me down in Goldpan, and said the money had been sent to pay me for bringin' it up here. I don't know what it is. It's stones of some kind." Still more perplexed, the partners ordered him to take his pack train around to the storage house, and Bill led the way while his partner climbed back up the hill, and rejoined Joan. He was showing her some of the assay slips from the green lead when they heard a loud call from the yard. It was Bill, beckoning. They went across to meet him. One of the hitches had been thrown, and the other burros stood expectantly waiting to be relieved of their burdens. "It's a tombstone," Bill said gravely. "It's for Bell's grave. The express receipt shows that it was sent by----" he hesitated for a moment, as if studying whether to use one name, or another, and then concluded--"The Lily." He pointed to a section of granite at their feet, and on its polished surface they read: Under this granite sleeps Bells Park, an engineer. Murdered in defense of his employers. Faithful when living, and faithful when dead, to the Croix d'Or and all those principles which make a worthy man. A sudden, overwhelming sadness seemed to descend upon them. Bill turned abruptly, and stepped across toward the boiler-house. The whistle sent out a long-drawn, booming call--the alarm signal for the mine. In all the stress of the Croix d'Or it was the first time that note had ever been used save in drill. The bells of the hoist arose into a jangling clamor. They heard the wheels of the cage whirl as it shot downward, the excited exclamations of men ascending, some of them with tools in hand, the running of a man's feet, emerging from the blacksmith's tunnel, the shout of the smith to his helper, and the labored running of the cook and waiter across the cinders of the yard. Bill slowly returned toward them. "We'll have to get you to land it up there," he said, waving his arm toward the cross high above. "Give us a hand here, will you? and we'll throw this hitch again." The entire force of the mine had gathered around them before he had finished speaking, and, seeing the stone, understood. Joan caught her riding skirts deftly into her hand, and, with Bill leading the way up the steep and rock-strewn ascent, they climbed the peak. The burros halted now and then to rest, straining under the heaviness of their task. The men of the Croix d'Or sometimes assisted them with willing shoulders pushing behind, and there by the mound, on which flowers were already beginning to show green and vivid, they laid out the sections of granite. Only the cook's helper was absent. Willing hands caught the sections, which had been grooved to join, and, tier on tier, they found their places until there stood, high and austere, the granite shaft that told of one man's loyalty. Dick gave some final instructions as to the rearranging of the grave and the little plot that had been created around it, and they descended in a strange silence, saddened by all that had been recalled. No one spoke, save Bill, who gave orders to the men to return to their tasks, and then said, as if to himself: "I'd like mighty well to know where Lily Meredith is. We cain't even thank her. Once I wondered what she was. Now I know more than ever. She was all woman!" And to this, Joan, putting out her hand to bid them good-by, assented. The night shots had been fired at five o'clock--the time usually selected by mines working two shifts--supper had been eaten, and the partners were sitting in front of their quarters when Bill again referred to Mrs. Meredith. High up on the hill, where the new landmark had been, erected, at the foot of the cross, the day shift of the Croix d'Or was busied here and there in clearing away the ground around the grave of the engineer, some of the men on hands and knees casting aside small bowlders, others trimming a clearing in the surrounding brush, and still others painfully building a low wall of rock. "The hard work of findin' out where The Lily is," said Bill softly, "is because she covered her trail. Nobody knows where she went. The stage driver saw her on the train, but the railway agent told him she didn't buy no ticket. The conductor wrote me that he put her off at the junction, and that she took the train toward Spokane. That's all! It ends there as if she'd got on the train, and then it had never stopped. We cain't even thank her." Dick, absorbed in thoughts of Joan, heard but little of what he said, and so agreed with a short: "No, that's right." And Bill subsided into silence. A man came trudging up the path leading from the roadway lower down, and in his hand held a bundle of letters. "Got the mail," he said. "The stage may run every other day after this, instead of twice a week, the postmaster over at the camp told me. Not much to-night. Here it is." He handed Dick a bundle of letters, and then, sighting the others on the side of the peak above, started to join them, and take his share in that labor of respect and affection. In the approaching twilight Dick ran through the packet, selected one letter addressed to his partner, and gave it to him, then tore open the first one at hand. It was addressed in an unfamiliar and painful chirography, with the postmark of Portland, Ore., stamped smudgily in its corner. He began casually to read, then went white as the laborious lines flowed and swam before his eyes: Dear Mister Townsend, owner of the cross mine, I write you because I am afraid I aint got your pardners name right and because Ive got something on my mind that I cant keep any more. Im the girl that got burned at the High Light. Your pardner saved my life and you were awful kind to me. Everybody's been very kind to me too. I spose you know I'll not be able to work in dance halls no more because Im quite ugly now with them scars all over my face. But that dont make no difference. Mrs. Meredith has been here to see me and told me who it was saved my life. Mrs. Meredith dont want nobody to know where shes gone. Shes not coming back any more. Shes quit the business and is running a sort of millinery store in---- Here a name had been painstakingly obliterated, as if by afterthought, the very paper being gouged through with ink. Shes paid all my hospital bills and when I get strong enough shes going to let me go to work for her. But that aint what Im writing about and this letter is the biggest I ever wrote. The nurse says Im making a book. I wasn't a very bad girl or a very good girl when I was in the camps. Maybe you know that but I done my best and was as decent as I could be. There was a man was my sweetheart and sometimes when he drank too much he talked too much. Men always say a whole lot when theyre full of rotgut, unless they get nasty. My man never got nasty. Hes gone away and I dont know where. Maybe he dont want nothing more to do with me since I got my face burned. Ive kept my mouth shut until I found out it was you two men who saved me and Im writing this to pay you back the only way I can. Bully Presby is stealing all his best pay ore from the Croix d'Or. Hes worked clean under you and got the richest ledge in the district. They aint nobody but confidential men ever get into that drift. Hes been stealing that ore for going on two years andll give you a lot of trouble if you dont mind your Ps and Qs. I hope you beat him out, and I pray for both of you. Your ever grateful, Pearl Walker. CHAPTER XVII WHEN REASON SWINGS Dick suddenly crumpled the sheet of paper, and put it in his pocket. He lifted himself, as a man distracted, from the chair in which he had been sitting, gripping the arms with hands that were tensely responding to an agony of spirit. He almost lurched forward as he stepped to the little steps leading down from the porch, and into the worn trail, hesitated at the forks leading to mess-house or assay office, and then mechanically turned in the latter direction, it being where the greater number of his working hours were passed. "Where you goin'?" the voice of his partner called, as he plunged forward. He had to make a determined attempt to speak, then his voice broke, harsh and strained, through dry lips: "Assay office." He did not look back, but went forward, with limp hands and tottering knees, turning neither to right nor left. The whole world was a haze. The steadfast mountain above him was a cynical monster, and dimly, in the shadow of the high landmark, he discerned a change, sinister, gloating, and leering on him and his misery. The soft voices of the men of the day shift returning from their voluntary task, the staccato exhaust of the hoisting engine bringing up a load of ore from the refound lead, the clash of a car dumping its load of waste, and the roar of the Rattler's stamps, softened by distance, blended into discordance. He entered the assay-house like a whipped dog seeking the refuge of its kennel, threw himself on a stool before the bench, leaned his head into his hollowed arms, and groaned as would a stricken warrior of olden days when surrendering to his wounds. This, then, explained it all--that sequence of events, frustrating, harrying, baffling him, since the first hour he had come to the mine of the Croix d'Or. The rough suggestion of Bully Presby on the first day, discouraging him; the harsh attitude; the persistent attempts to dishearten him and buy him out; the endeavor to buy half the property from, and remove the backing, of Sloan, without which he could not go on; the words of the watchman, who doubtless had discovered Bully Presby's secret theft, blackmailed him as much as he could, and, dying, cursed him; but, hating the men of the mine more, had withheld the vital meaning of his accusation. Perhaps Presby had been instrumental in Thompson's strike. But no, that could scarcely be, although, in the light of other events in that iniquitous chain, it might be possible. That he had any part in the dynamiting of the dam or power-house, Dick cast aside as unworthy of such a man. The strong, hard, masterful, and domineering face of Bully Presby arose before him as from the darkening shadows of the room, and it seemed triumphant. He lifted his head suddenly, thinking, in his superacute state of mind, that he had heard a noise. He must have air! The assay office, with its smell of nitric acid, its burned fumes, its clutter of broken cupels and slag, was unbearable. He arose from the stool so suddenly that it went toppling over to fall against the stacked crucibles beneath the bench which lent their clatter to the upset. He stepped out into the night. It was dark, only the stars above him dimly betraying the familiar shapes of mountains, forests, and buildings around. Up in the bunk-house some man was wailing a verse of "Ella Re," accompanied by a guitar, and the doleful drone of the hackneyed chorus was caught up by the other men "off shift." But, nauseating as it was to him, this piebald ballad of the hills, it contained one shrieking sentence: "Lost forevermore!" That was it! Joan was lost! He looked up at the superintendent's quarters, which had been his home, and saw that its lights were out. Bill, he conjectured, always hard working and early rising, had tumbled into his bed, unconscious of this tragedy. He struck off across the gulch, and took the trail he had so frequently trodden with a beating heart, and high and tender hope. It led him to the black barrier of the pipe line, the place where first he had met her, the sacred clump of bushes that had held and surrendered to him the handkerchief enshrined in his pocket, the slope where she had leaned down from her horse and kissed him in the only caress he had ever received from her lips, and told him that he should be with her in her prayers. Reverently he caressed with his hands the spot where she had so often sat on a gray old bowlder, flat-topped. His heart cried for one more sight of her, one more caress, one more opportunity to listen to her voice before he dealt her the irrevocable wound that would end it all. Not for an instant did he waver. The tempter, whispering in his ear, told him that he could conceal his knowledge, advise Sloan to sell, take his chance with Joan, and let the sleeping dog lie, forever undiscovered. It told him that Sloan was admittedly rich beyond his needs, and that with him the Croix d'Or was merely a matter of sentiment, and an opportunity of bestowing on the son of his old-time friend a chance to get ahead in the world. But back of it all came the inexorable voice of truth, telling Dick that there was but one course open, and that was reparation; that to his benefactor he owed faith and loyalty; that Presby must pay, though his--Richard Townsend's--castles crumbled to dust in the wreckage of exposure. He must break the heart and faith of the girl who loved him, and whom, with every fiber of his being, he loved in return. She would stand in the world as the daughter of a colossal thief! Not a thief of the marts, where crookedness was confused with shrewdness far removed from the theft of the hands; but a thief who had burrowed beneath another man's property, and carried away, to coinage, his gold. Between Bully Presby and the man who tunneled under a bank to loot the safe, there was no moral difference save in the romance of that mystic underground world where men bored like microbes for their spoil. "Joan! Joan! Joan!" he muttered aloud, as if she were there to hear his hurt appeal. It was for her that he felt the wound, and not for Bully Presby, her father. For the latter he spared scant sympathy; but it was Joan who would be stricken by any action he might take, and the action must be taken, and would necessarily be taken publicly. Under criminal procedure men had served long terms behind bars for less offenses than Presby's. Others had made reparation through payment of money, and slunk away into the shadows of disgrace to avoid handcuffs. And the fall of Presby of the Rattler, as a plunderer, was one that would echo widely in the mining world where he had moved, a stalwart, unbending king. Not until then had Dick realized how high that figure towered. Presby, the irresistible, a thief, and fighting to keep out of the penitentiary, while Joan, the brave, the loving, the true, cowered in her room, dreading to look the world in the face. And he, the man who loved her, almost accepted as her betrothed, with the ring even then burning in his pocket, was the one who must deal her this blow! He got up and staggered through the darkness along the length of the line, almost envying the miserable dynamiter, who had died above the remnant of wall, for the quiet into which he had been thrust. If the train bringing him homeward had been wrecked, and his life extinguished, he could have saved her this. The Cross would have been sold. She might have grieved for him, for a time, but wounds will heal, unless too deep. He stood above the abyss where daylight showed ruins, and knew that the destruction of the dam, heavy a blow as it had seemed when inflicted, was nothing as compared to this ruin of dreams, of love, and hope. "Dick! Dick! What is it, boy?" came a soft voice from the night, scarcely above a whisper. "Can't you tell me, old man? Ain't we still pardners? Just as we uster be?" He peered through the darkness, roused from his misery in the stillness of the hour, and the night, by the appeal. Dimly he discerned, seated above him on the abutment, a shape outlined against the stars. It threw itself down with hard-striking feet, and came toward him, and he knew it was not a phantom of misery. It came closer to where he stood on the brink of the blackness, and laid a hand on his shoulder, put it farther across and held him, as tenderly as father might have held, in this hour of distress. "I've been follerin' you, boy," the kindly voice went on. "I saw that somethin' had got you. That you were hard hit! I've been near you for the last two or three hours. I don't know as I'd have bothered you now, if I hadn't been afraid you'd fall over. Let's go back, Dick--back to the mine." It seemed as if there had come to him in the night a strong support. Numbed and despairing, but with a strange relief, he permitted Bill to lead him back over the trail, and at last, when they were standing above the dim buildings below, found speech. "It's her," he said. "It's for her sake that I hate to do it. It's Joan!" "Sit down here by me," the big voice, commiserating, said. "Here on this timber. I've kept it to myself, boy, but I know all about her. I stood on the bank, where I'd just gone to hunt you, on that day she reached down from the saddle. I knew the rest, and slipped away. You love her. She's done somethin' to you." "No!" the denial was emphatic. "She hasn't! She's as true as the hills. It's her father. Look here!" He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the crumpled sheet, and struck a match. Bill took the letter in his hands and read, while the night itself seemed pausing to shield the flickering flame. With hurried fingers he struck another match, and the light flared up, exposing his frowning eyebrows, the lights in his keen eyes, the tight pressure of his firm lips. He handed the letter back, and for a long time sat silently staring before him, his big, square shoulders bent forward, and his hat outlined against the light of the night, which was steadily increasing. "I see how it is," he said at last. "And it's hard on you, isn't it, boy? A man can stand anything himself, but it's hell to hurt those we care for." The sympathy of his voice cut like a knife, with its merciful hurt. Dick broke into words, telling of his misery, but stammering as strong men stammer, when laying bare emotions which, without pressure, they always conceal. His partner listened, motionless, absorbing it all, and his face was concealed by the darkness, otherwise a great sympathy would have flared from his eyes. "We've got to find a way out of this, Dick," he said at last, with a sigh. And the word "we" betrayed more fully than long sentences his compassion. "We must go slow. Somehow, I reckon, I'm cooler than you in this kind of a try-out. Maybe because it don't hit me so close to home. Let's go back, boy, back to the cabin, and try to rest. The daylight is like the Lord's own drink. It clears the head, and makes us see things better than we can in the night--when all is dark. Let's try to find a way out, and try to forget it for a while. Did you ever think how good it all is to us? Just the night, coming along every once in a while, to make us appreciate how good the sun is, and how bright the mornings are. It ain't an easy old world, no matter how hard we try to make it that; because it takes the black times to make our eyes glad to watch the sunrise. Let me help you, old pardner. We've been through some pretty tight places together, and somehow, when He got good and ready, the Lord always showed us a way out." He arose on his feet, stretched his long muscular arms, and started down the hill, and Dick followed. There was not another word exchanged, other than the sympathetic "good-night" in which they had not failed for more than seven years, and outside the stars waned slowly, the stamp mill of the Rattler roared on, and the Croix d'Or was unmoved. The daylight came, and with it the boom of the night shift setting off its morning blasts, and clearing the way for the day shift that would follow in sinking the hole that must inevitably betray the dishonesty of the stern mine master at the foot of the hill. Dick had not slept, and turned to see a shadow in the door. "Don't you get up, Dick," Bill said. "Just try to rest. I heard you tumblin' around all the night. You don't get anywhere by doin' that. A man has to take himself in hand more than ever when there's big things at stake. Then's when he needs his head. You just try to get some rest. I'll keep things goin' ahead all right, and there ain't no call to do nothin' for a week or ten days--till we get our feet on the ground. After that we'll find a trail. Don't worry." Through the kindly tones there ran confidence, and, entirely exhausted, Dick turned over and tried to sleep. It came to him at last, heavy and dreamless, the sleep that comes beneficently to those who suffer. The sun, creeping westward, threw a beam across his face, and he turned restlessly, like a fever-stricken convalescent, and rolled farther over in the bed. The beam pursued him, until at last there was no further refuge, and he sat up, dazed and bewildered, and hoping that all had been a nightmare, and that he should hear the cheery note of the whistle telling him that it was day again, and calling the men of the Croix d'Or to work. It was monstrous, impossible, that all should have changed. It was but yesterday that he had returned to the mine with finances assured, confidence restored, and the certainty that Joan Presby loved him, and could come to his side when his work was accomplished. He looked at his watch and the bar of sunlight. It was four o'clock, and the day was gone. Everything was real. Everything was horrible. He crawled stiffly from his bed, thrust his head into the cold water of the basin, and, unshaven, stepped out to the porch and down the trail. The plumes of smoke still wreathed upward from two stacks. Bill was still driving downward unceasingly. The mellow clang of the smith's hammer, sharpening drills, smote his ears, and the rumble of the cars. The cook, in a high, thin tenor, sang the songs with which he habitually whiled away his work. Everything was the same, save him! And his air castles had been blown away as by the wind. In a fever of uncertainty, he stood on the hillside and thought of what he should do. He believed that it was his duty to be the one to break the harsh news to Joan, and wondered whether or not she might be found at the tryst. He remembered that, once before when he had not appeared, she had ridden over there in the afternoon. Perhaps, expecting him, and being disappointed, she might be there again. He hurried down the slope, and back up across the divide and along the trail, his hopes and uncertainties alone rendering him certain that she must be there, and paused when the long, black line shone dully outlined in its course around the swelling boss of the hill. He experienced a thrill of disappointment when he saw that she was not waiting, and, again consulting his watch feverishly, tramped backward and forward along the confines of the hallowed place. At last, certain from the fresh hoof marks on the yielding slope, that she had come and gone, he turned, and went slowly back to the mine. He had a longing to see his partner, and learn whether or not Mathews, with that strange, resourceful logic of his, had evolved some way out of the predicament. But Bill was nowhere in sight. He was not in the office, and the mill door was locked. The cook had not seen him; and the blacksmith, busy, stopped only long enough to say that he thought he had seen the superintendent going toward the hoisting-house. "Have you seen Bill?" Dick asked of the engineer, who stood at his levers, and waited for a signal. "He's below," the engineer answered, throwing over an arm, and watching the cage ascend with a car of ore. It trundled away, and Dick stepped into the cage. The man appeared irresolute, and embarrassed. "He'll be up pretty soon, I think," he ventured. "Well, I'll not wait for him," Dick said. "Lower away." The man still stood, irresolute. "Let her go, I said," Dick called sharply, his usual patience of temper having gone. "But--but----" halted the engineer. "Bill said to me, when he went down, says he: 'You don't let any one come below. Understand? I don't care if it's Townsend himself. Nobody comes down. You hold the cage, because I'll send the shift up, and 'tend to the firing myself.'" For an instant Dick was enraged by this stubbornness, and turned with a threat, and said: "Who's running this mine? I don't care what he said. You haven't understood him. Lower away there, I say, and be quick about it!" The rails and engine room slid away from him. The cage slipped downward on its oiled bearings, as if reluctant, and the light above faded away to a small pin-point below, and then died in obscurity, as if the world had been blotted out. Only the sense of falling told him that he was going down, down, to the seven-hundred-foot level, and then he remembered that he had no candle. The cage came to a halt, and he fumbled for the guard bar, lifted it, and stepped out. Straight ahead of him he saw a dim glow of light. With one hand on the wall he started toward it, approached it, and then, in the hollow of illumination saw something that struck him like a blow in the face. The hard, resounding clash of his heels on the rock underfoot stopped. His hands fell to his sides, as if fixed in an attitude of astonishment. Standing in the light beyond him stood Joan, with her hands raised, palms outward. "Stop!" she commanded. "Stop! Stay where you are a moment!" Amazed and bewildered, he obeyed mechanically, and comprehended rather than saw that, crouched on the floor of the drift beyond, his partner knelt with a watch in his hand, and in a listening attitude. Suddenly, as if all had been waiting for this moment, a dull tremor ran through the depths of the Croix d'Or. A muffled, beating, rending sound seemed to tear its way, vibrant, through the solid ledge. He leaped forward, understanding all at once, as if in a flash of illumination, what the woman he loved and his partner had been waiting for. It was the sound of the five-o'clock blasts from the Rattler, as it stole the ore from beneath their feet. It was the audible proof of Bully Presby's theft. "Joan! My Joan!" he said, leaping forward. "I should have spared you this!" But she did not answer. She was leaning back against the wall of the tunnel, her hands outstretched in semblance of that cross whose name was the name of the mine----as if crucified on its cross of gold. The flaring lights of the candles in the sticks, thrust into the crevices around, lighted her pale, haggard face, and her white hands that clenched themselves in distress. She looked down at the giant who was slowly lifting himself from his knees, with his clear-cut face upturned; and the hollows, vibrant with silence, caught her whispered words and multiplied the sound to a sibilant wail. "It's true!" she said. "It's true! You didn't lie! You told the truth! My father--my father is a thief, and may God help him and me!" CHAPTER XVIII THE BULLY MEETS HIS MASTER The ache and pain in her whole being was no greater than the colossal desire Dick had to comfort and shield her. He rushed toward her with his arms reached out to infold, but she pushed him back, and said hoarsely: "No! No! I sha'n't let you! It would be an insult now!" Her eyes were filled with a light he had never seen in them before, a commanding flame that held him in check and stupefied him, as he tried to reason why his love at that moment would be an insult. It did not dawn on him that he was putting himself in the position of one who was proffering silence for affection. All he knew was that everything in the world seemed against him, and, overstrained to the breaking point, he was a mere madman. "You brought her here?" he hoarsely questioned Bill. "I did." "And told her that her father was under us?" "Yes." "And that I was to be kept above ground?" "Of course, and I had a reason, because--" He did not finish the sentence. The younger man shouted a furious curse, and lunged forward and struck at the same time. His feet, turning under a fragment of rock, twisted the directness of his blow so that it lost force; but its heavy spat on the patient face before him was like the crack of a pistol in that underground chamber. Bill's hands lifted impulsively, and then dropped back to his sides, hanging widely open. The flickering candlelight showed a slow red stream emerging slowly from one of his nostrils, and running down across the firm chin, and the pain-distorted lips. In his eyes was a hurt agony of reproach, as if the knife of a friend had been unexpectedly thrust into his heart. Dick's arm, tensed by the insane anger of his mind, was drawn back to deal another blow, and seemed to stop half-way, impotent to strike that defenseless face before him. "Why don't you hit again, boy? I'll not strike back! I have loved you too much for that!" There was a world of misery and reproach in the quiet voice of the giant, whose tremendous physical power was such that he could have caught the younger man's arm, and with one wrench twisted it to splintered bone. Before its echoes had died away another voice broke in, suffused with anguish, the shadows waving on the walls of gray rock twisted, and Joan's hands were on his arm. "Dick! Dick! Are you mad? Do you know what you are doing?" He shook her hands from his arm, reeled against the wall, and raised his forearm across his eyes, and brushed it across, as if dazed and blinded by a rush of blood which he would sweep away. He had not noticed that in that staggering progress he had fallen full against a candlestick, and that it fell to the floor and lay there between them, with its flame slowly increasing as it formed a pool of grease. For the first time since he had spoken, the huge miner moved. He stepped forward, and ground the flame underfoot. "There might be a stray cap around here somewhere," he said. His voice appeared to rouse the younger man, and bring him to himself. He stepped forward, with his hands behind him and his face still set, wild and drawn, and said brokenly: "Bill! Bill! Strike back! Do something! Old friend!" "I cain't," came the reply, in a helpless monotone. "You know if it were any other man I'd kill him! But you don't understand yet, and--" "I made him bring me here," Joan said, coming closer, until the shadows of the three were almost together. Her voice had a strange hopelessness in it, and yet a calm firmness. "He came to talk it over with me, on your account. Pleading your cause--begging me that, no matter what happened, I should not change my attitude toward you. Toward you, I say! He said your sense of honesty and loyalty to Sloan would drive you to demanding restitution even though it broke your heart. He said he loved you more than anything on earth, and begged me to help him find some way to spare--not me, or my father--but you!" Dick tried to speak, but his throat restricted until he clutched it with his fingers, and his lips were white and hard. "I did not believe that what he said was true," the voice went on, coming as from depths of desolation and misery, and with dead levels dulled by grief beyond emotion. "I have believed in my father! I thought there must be some mistake. I demanded of your partner that he lay off his own shift, and bring me here where we might listen. Oh, it was true--it was true!" She suddenly turned and caught the steel handle of a candlestick in her hand, and tore its long steel point from the crevice. "But I've found the way," she said. "I've found the way. You must come with me--now! Right now, I say. We shall have this over with, and then--and then--I shall go away from here; for always!" "Not that," Dick said, holding his hands toward her. "Not that, Joan! What are you going to do?" "I'm going to my father. He, too, must be spared. He must give it back. It must never be known. I must save him disgrace. It must be done to-night--now!" She started down the drift toward the cage, walking determinedly, and Dick's lips opened again to beg her to come back; but Bill's hand was on his shoulder, and his grave and kindly voice in his ear. "Go with her, boy. She's right. It's the only way. Have it over with to-night. If you don't you'll break her heart, as well as your own." They followed her to the cage, and the big miner gave the hoisting bell. The cage floated upward, and into the pale twilight. Heedless of anything around, they walked across the yard, and turned into the roadway leading down the gulch. "Will you come?" she asked, turning toward Bill. "No," he said slowly. "I'm not needed. Besides, I couldn't stand another blow to-day!" It was the only reference he ever made to it, but it went through Dick with more pain than he had administered. Almost sullenly he followed her down the road, wordless, bewildered, and despairing. Unable to spare her, unable to shield her, unable to comfort her, and unable to be other than true to his benefactor, he plodded after her into the deeper shadows of the lower gulch, across the log bridge spanning the brawling mountain stream, and up into the Rattler camp. Her steps never faltered as she advanced straight to the office door, and stepped inside. The bookkeepers were gone, and the inner door ajar. She threw it open, walked in, and closed it after Dick, who sustained a deadly anger against the man who sat at his desk, and as they entered looked up with a sharp stare of surprise. Something in the attitude of the two appeared to render him more alert, more hard, more uncompromising and he frowned, as Dick had seen him frown before when angry men made way for him and his dominant mastery. His daughter had stopped in front of the closed door, and eyed him with eyes no less determined than his own. "Your men are working under the Croix d'Or," she said coldly, without wasting words in preliminary. His face hardened instantly, and his eyes flamed, dull and defiant. The lines of his heavy jaw appeared to deepen, his shoulders lifted a trifle, as if the muscles of him had suddenly tensed for combat, and his lips had a trace of the imperious sneer. "Oh, you're certain of that, are you, my girl?" "I am," she retorted. "I was in their lower level when the Rattler's shots were fired. I heard them." For an instant he seemed about to leap from his chair, and then, recovering himself, said with sarcastic emphasis, and a deadly calmness: "And pray what were you doing there? Was the young mine owner, Townsend, there with you? Was he so kind----?" "Is there any need for an exchange of insults?" Dick demanded, taking a step toward him, and prevented from going farther only by recollection of his previous loss of temper. For an instant the mine owner defiantly met his look, and then half-rose from his chair, and stared more coldly across the litter of papers, plans, and impedimenta on his desk. "Then why are you here together?" he demanded. "Weren't you man enough to come yourself, instead of taking my daughter underground? Did you want to compel her to be the chief witness in your claim? What right had you to--?" "Father!" admonished Joan's voice. It served a double purpose, for had she not interrupted Dick might have answered with a heat that he would have regretted, and Bully Presby dropped back into his chair, and drummed with his fingers on the desk. "You took the ore. You must pay. You must!" went on the dull voice of his daughter. "But how should I know how much it amounts to, even if I do find out that some of my men drove into the Cross pay?" he answered, fixing her with his flaming eyes. "But you must know," she insisted dully. "I know you know. I know you knew where the ore was coming from. It must be paid back." For an instant they eyed each other defiantly, and her brave attitude, uncompromising, seemed to lower the flood-gates of his anger. His cheeks flushed, and he lowered his head still farther, and stared more coldly from under the brim of his square-set hat. There were not many men who would have faced Bully Presby when he was in that mood; but before him stood his daughter, as brave and uncompromising as he, and fortified by something that he had allowed to run dwarf in his soul--a white conscience, burning undimmed, a true knowledge of what was right and what was wrong. Her inheritance of brain and blood had all the strength of his, and her fearlessness was his own. She did not waver, or bend. "It must be paid back," she reiterated, a little more firmly. He suddenly jerked himself to his feet, his tremendous shoulders thrust forward across the desk, and raised his hand with a commanding finger. "Joan," he ordered harshly, "you get out of here. Go to your room! Leave this affair to this man and me. This is none of your business. Go!" "I shall not!" she defied him. "I think it is best," Dick said, taking a step toward her. "I can take care of my own and Mr. Sloan's interests. Please go." The word "Joan" almost slipped from his lips. She faced him, and backed against the door. "Yours and Mr. Sloan's interests? What of mine? What of my conscience? What of my own father? What of me?" She stepped hastily to the desk, and tapped on it with her firm fingers, and faced the mine master. "I said you must pay!" she declared, her voice rising and trembling in her stress. "And you must! You shall!" He was in a fury of temper by now, and brought the flat of his heavy, strong hand down on its top, sending the inkwell and the electric stand lamp dancing upward with a bound. "And I shall do as I please!" he roared. "And it doesn't please me to pay until these men"--and between the words he brought his hand down in heavy emphasis--"until--these--men--of the Cross mine prove it! I'll make them get experts and put men in my mine, and put you yourself on the stand before I'll give them one damned dollar! I'll fight every step of the road before I'll lay my hand down. I'll pay nothing!" She stood there above him, fixing him with her clear, honest, accusing eyes, and never faltered. Neither his words nor his rage had altered her determination. She was like a statue of justice, fixed and demanding the right. Dick had rushed forward to try and dissuade her from further speech, and stood at the end of the desk in the halo of light from the lamp, and there was a tense stillness in the room which rendered every outward sound more distinct. The voice of a boy driving mules to their stable and singing as he went, the clank and jingle of the chain tugs across the animals' backs, and the ceaseless monotone of the mill, all came through the open windows, and assailed their ears in that pent moment. "Please let me have my way," Joan said, turning to Dick, and in her voice was infinite sorrow and tragedy. "It is more my affair than yours now. Father, I shall not permit you to go any farther. It is useless. I know! I can't do it! I can't keep the money you gave me. It isn't mine! It is theirs! You say you will not pay. Well, then, I shall, to the last dollar!" "But I shall accept nothing--not a cent--from you, if we never get a penny from the Cross!" declared Dick, half-turning, as if to end the interview. She did not seem to hear him. She was still facing the hard, twisting face of Bully Presby, who had suddenly drawn back, as if confronted by a greater spirit than his own. She went on speaking to him as if Dick was not in the room. "You stole their ore. You know you stole it. Somehow, it all hurts so that I cannot put it in words; for, Dad, I have loved you so much--so much! Oh, Dad! Dad! Dad!" She dropped to her knees, as if collapsed, to the outer edge of the desk, and her head fell forward on her hands. The unutterable wail of her voice as she broke, betrayed the desperate grief of her heart, the destruction of an idol. It was as if she told the man across the desk that he had been her ideal, and that his actions had brought this ruin about them; as if all the sorrows of the world had cumulated in that ruin of faith. Dick looked down at her, and his nails bit into his palms as he fought off his desire to reach down and lift her to his arms. Bully Presby's chair went clashing back against the wall, where he kicked it as he leaped to his feet. He ran around the end of the desk, throwing Dick aside as he did so with one fierce sweep of his arm. "Joan!" he said brokenly, laying his hand on her head. "Joan! My little Joan! Get up, girl, and come here to your Dad!" She did not move. The excess of her grief was betrayed by her bent head and quivering shoulders. The light, gleaming above her, threw stray shadows into the depths of her hair, and softened the white, strained tips of her fingers. Bully Presby, the arrogant and forceful, still resting his hand on her head, turned toward the twisted, youthful face of the man at his side, whose fingers were now clenched together, and held at arm's length in front of him. The mine owner seemed suddenly old and worn. The invincible fire of his eyes was dulled to a smoldering glow, as if, reluctantly, he were making way for age. His broad shoulders appeared suddenly to have relinquished force and might. He stooped above her, as if about to gather her into his arms, and spoke with the slow voice of pathos. "She's right," he said. "She's right! I should pay; and I will! But I did it for her. She was all I had. I've starved for her, and worked for her, and stolen for her! Ever since her mother died and left her in my arms, I've been one of those carried away by ambition. God is damning me for it, in this!" He abruptly straightened himself to his old form, and gestured toward the sobbing girl at his feet. "I am paying more to her than as if I'd given you the Rattler and all--all--everything!--for the paltry ore I pulled from under your feet. You shall have your money. Bully Presby's word is as good as his gold. You know that! I don't know anything about you. I don't hate you, because you are fighting for your own! Somehow I feel as if the bottom had been knocked out of everything, all at once! I wish you'd go now. I want to have her alone--I want to talk to her--just the way I used to, before--before--" He had gone to the limit. His strong hands knotted themselves as they clenched, then unclenched as he stepped to the farther side of the door and looked at Dick, who had not moved; but now, as if his limitations also had been reached, the younger man leaned forward, stooped, and his arms caught Joan and lifted her bodily to his breast. In slow resignation, and with a sigh as if coming to shelter at last, her arms lifted up, her hands swept round his shoulders, and came to rest, clasped behind his head, and held him tightly, as if without capitulation. There was a gasp of astonishment, and the rough pine floor creaked as Bully Presby, dumbfounded, comprehending, conquered, turned toward the door. He opened it blindly, fumbling for the knob with twitching hands--hands unused to faltering. He looked back and hesitated, as if all his directness of life, all his fierce decision of character had become undermined, irresolute. He opened his lips as if to protest, to demand, to dominate, to plead for a hearing; but no sound came. His face, unobserved by either the man he had robbed, or the daughter who had arraigned him, betrayed all these struggling, conflicting emotions. He was whipped! He was beaten more certainly than by fists. He was spiritually and physically powerless. Dazed, bewildered, he stood for an instant, then his heavy hands, which for the first time in his life had been held out in mute appeal, dropped to his sides. Habit only asserted when he slammed the door behind him as he walked out into the lonely darkness of the accusing night. CHAPTER XIX THE QUEST SUPREME It was twilight again, and such a twilight as only the Blue Mountains of that far divide may know. It barred the west with golden bands, painted lavish purples and mauves in the hollows, and reddened the everlasting snows on the summits. It deepened the greens of the tamaracks, and made iridescent the foams of the streams tearing downward joyously to the wide rivers below. It painted the reddish-yellow bars of the cross on the peak above the Croix d'Or, and rendered its outlines a glorified symbol. It lent stateliness to the finger of granite beneath the base that told those who paused that beneath the shaft rested one who had a loyal heart. It swooped down and lingered caressingly on the strong, tender face of the girl who sat on the wall surrounding the graves of Bells Park and "the best woman that ever lived." "For some reason," Joan said, speaking to the two men beside her, "the ugliness of some of it has gone. There is nothing left but the good and the beautiful. Ah, how I love it--all! All!" Dick's arm slipped round her, and drew her close, and unresisting, to his side. "And but for you and Bill," he said softly, "it might never have ended this way." "Humph!" drawled the deep voice of the grizzled old miner. "Things is just the way they have to be. Nobody can change 'em. The Lord Almighty fixes 'em, and I expect they have to work out about as He wants 'em to. Somehow, up here in the tops of the hills, where it's close to the sky, He seems a heap friendlier and nearer than He does down on the plains. 'Most always I feel sorry for them poor fellers that live down there. They seem like such lonesome, forgotten cusses." The youthful couple by him did not answer. Their happiness was too new, too sacred, to admit of speech. "Now," Bill went on argumentatively, "me and Bully Presby are friends. He likes me for standin' up for my own, and told me so to-day. He ain't got over that feller Wolff yet. Says he could have killed him when he found out Wolff had poisoned the water and rolled the bowlder into the shaft to pen us in. I reckon Wolff tried to blackmail him about what he knew, but the Bully didn't approve none of the other things. That ain't his way of fightin'. You can bet on that! He drifted over and got the green lead in the Cross, when others had given it up and squandered money. That shows he was a real miner. We come along, and--well--all he's done is just to help us find it, and then hand over the proceeds, all in the family, as I take it. Nobody's loser. The families gets tangled up, and instead of there bein' two there's just one. The Rattler and the Croix d'Or threatens to be made into one mine, and the two plants consolidated to make it more economical. The green lead's the best ledge in the Blue's, and 'most everybody seems to be gettin' along pretty well. That ain't luck. It's God Almighty arrangin' things for the best." He sat for a moment, and gave a long sigh, as if there were something else in his mind that had not been uttered. Dick lifted his eyes, and looked at him affectionately, and then whispered into the ear close by his shoulder: "Shall I tell him now?" "Do!" Joan said, drawing away from him, and looking expectantly at the giant. Dick fumbled in his pocket with a look of sober enjoyment. "Oh, by the way, Bill," he said, "I got a letter from Sloan a few days ago. Here it is. Read it." The latter took it, and frowning as he opened it, held it up to catch the light. "Great Scott!" he exclaimed. "Gives the Croix d'Or to you. Says he wants you to have it, because you're the one that made good on it, and he don't need the money! That the deeds are on the way by registered mail, and all he asks is a small bar from the first clean-up!" He folded the letter, and held it in his hands, looking thoughtfully off into the distance for a time while he absorbed the news. "Why, Dick," he said, "you're a rich man! Richer'n I ever expected you'd be; but I'm a selfish old feller, after all! It seems to me as if we ain't never goin' to be the same again, as we uster be when all we had was a sack of flour and a side of bacon, and the whole North-west to prospect. It seems as if somethin' mighty dear has gone." Dick got up and stood before him, with his hands in his pockets, and smiling downward into his eyes. "I've thought of that, too, Bill," he said, "and I can't afford to lose you. I'd rather lose the Cross. So I'll tell you something that I told Joan, long ago--that if ever the mine made good, and I could give you something beside a debt, you were to have half of what I made. A few days ago it would have been a quarter interest you owned. Now it is a half. We're partners still, Bill, just as we were when there was nothing but a sack of flour and a side of bacon to divide." They looked at him, expecting him to show some sign of excitement, but he did not. Instead, he reached over, and painstakingly pulled a weed from the foot of the wall, and threw it away. He cleared his throat once or twice, but did not look at them, and then got to his feet and started as if to go down to the camp. Then, as if his feelings were under control again, came back, and took one of Joan's and one of Dick's hands into his own toil-worn palms, and said: "Thanks, Dick! It's more'n I deserve, this knowin' both of you, and havin' you give me a share in the Cross! And I accept it; but conditionally." He dropped their hands, and turned to look around, as if seeing a very broad world. "What is the condition?" Joan asked, laying her hand on his arm, and looking up at him. "Can we change it?" "No," he said; "you can't. I've had a hard hit of my own for a long time now. I'm a-goin' to try to heal it. I'm goin' away on what may be a short, or a long, long trail." His voice dropped until it was scarcely audible. "I'm goin' away to keep goin' till I find The Lily. And when I find her, I'll come back, and bring her with me, if she'll come." He turned his back toward them, unbuttoned the flap of his flannel shirt, and reached inside. He drew out a sheet of paper wrapped in an old silk handkerchief, as if it were a priceless possession to be carefully preserved, and held it toward them. He did not look at either of them as he spoke. "I got that a long time ago," he said; "but somehow I could never say anything about it to any one. And I reckon you're the only two in the world that'll ever see it. Read it and give it back to me when--when you come down the mountain." He turned and stalked away over the trail, his feet planting themselves firmly, as he had walked through life with firmness. They watched him go, and opened the letter, and read, in a high, strong handwriting: DEAR MR. MATHEWS: I am writing you of business, for one thing, and because I feel that I must, for another. I have paid for a tombstone suitable for Bells Park, whom I esteemed more than I have most men. And I have paid for its delivery to you, knowing that you will have it mounted in place. So you must pay nothing for it in any form, as I wish to stand all the expense in memory of an old and tried friend. I have left Goldpan for good and all, and all those old associations of my life. I am starting over again, to make a good and clean fight, in clean surroundings. I am sick to death of all that has made up my life. I am bitter, knowing that I was handicapped from the start. My father educated me because it was easier to have me in a boarding school in all my girlhood than to have me with him. I never knew my mother. I had no love bestowed upon me in my girlhood. When I came of age my father, who was an adventurer of the discredited gentleman type, gave me to a friend of his. I learned a year after I had been married that I had been sold to my husband--God save the mark! I tried to be patient when he dragged me from camp to camp, and I want to say that whatever else I have been, I have been good. You understand me, I hope, because I am defending myself to you, the only living being for whose esteem I care. I have had two happy moments in my life--one when the news was brought me that my husband had shot himself across a gambling table, and the second when you faced me that night after Bells Park was killed, alone there in the street after your partner had gone on, and said: "Lily, it hurts you as it does me. You're on the level, little pal. I want to stop long enough to tell you I believe in you." Then you went on, and I shall not see you again. I am writing this from a place I shall leave before it starts to you. You could not find me if you had the desire, and so I say to you that which perhaps I never should have said, if we had remained in sight of each other in the Blue Mountains. You are the only man I have ever met who made me heartsick because I was not worthy of him, and could not aspire to his level. You are the only man I have ever loved so much that it was an ache. You are the only man who told me by the look in his eyes, that he thought my life unworthy, and accused me without words every time we met. I am through with it, and if it will do you any good to know that your reproaches have done more than anything else to cause me to begin all over again, and live a different life, I want you to have that satisfaction. And this shall be my only good-by. LILY MEREDITH. For a long time Joan stood holding the letter in her hands, and then, as if fathoming its cry of loneliness, clutched it tightly to her breast. "He will find her!" she said. "I know it! He must! It wouldn't be kind of heaven to keep her from him. And he loved her all the time!" Far across the peaks of the Blue Mountains the last rays of the sunset went out, as an extinguished torch. A bird near by cheeped sleepily, and the new night was coming to its own. Throbbing, rumbling, and grinding in a melody softened by distance, the roar of the Rattler's mills became audible, as it brought the yellow gold, glistening and beautiful, from its sordid setting of earth. In the camp of the Croix d'Or a chorus was wafted faintly up as men sitting in the dusk sang: "Hearts that are brave and true, my lads, hearts that are brave and true!" Silently, arm in arm, they gave a last lingering look at the shaft, the peak above, and turned down the trail to the camp which seemed all aglow with rosy light. THE END Popular Copyright Novels AT MODERATE PRICES Ask Your Dealer for a Complete List of A. L. Burt Company's Popular Copyright Fiction Abner Daniel. By Will N. Harben. Adventures of Gerard. By A. Conan Doyle. Adventures of a Modest Man. By Robert W. Chambers. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. Adventures of Jimmie Dale, The. By Frank L. Packard. After House, The. By Mary Roberts Rinehart. Alisa Paige. By Robert W. Chambers. Alton of Somasco. By Harold Bindloss. A Man's Man. By Ian Hay. Amateur Gentleman, The. By Jeffery Farnol. Andrew The Glad. By Maria Thompson Daviess. Ann Boyd. By Will N. Harben. Anna the Adventuress. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Another Man's Shoes. By Victor Bridges. Ariadne of Allan Water. By Sidney McCall. Armchair at the Inn, The. By F. Hopkinson Smith. Around Old Chester. By Margaret Deland. Athalie. By Robert W. Chambers. At the Mercy of Tiberius. By Augusta Evans Wilson. Auction Block, The. By Rex Beach. Aunt Jane. By Jeanette Lee. Aunt Jane of Kentucky. By Eliza C. Hall. Awakening of Helena Richie. By Margaret Deland. Bambi. By Marjorie Benton Cooke. Bandbox, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. Barbara of the Snows. By Harry Irving Green. Bar 20. By Clarence E. Mulford. Bar 20 Days. By Clarence E. Mulford. Barrier, The. By Rex Beach. Beasts of Tarzan, The. By Edgar Rice Burroughs. Beechy. By Bettina Von Hutten. Bella Donna. By Robert Hichens. Beloved Vagabond, The. By Wm. J. Locke. Beltane the Smith. By Jeffery Farnol. Ben Blair. By Will Lillibridge. Betrayal, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Better Man, The. By Cyrus Townsend Brady. Beulah. (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans. Beyond the Frontier. By Randall Parrish. Black Is White. By George Barr McCutcheon. Blind Man's Eyes, The. By Wm. MacHarg & Edwin Balmer. Bob Hampton of Placer. By Randall Parrish. Bob, Son of Battle. By Alfred Ollivant. Britton of the Seventh. By Cyrus Townsend Brady. Broad Highway, The. By Jeffery Farnol. Bronze Bell, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. Bronze Eagle, The. By Baroness Orczy. Buck Peters, Ranchman. By Clarence E. Mulford. Business of Life, The. By Robert W. Chambers. By Right of Purchase. By Harold Bindloss. Cabbages and Kings. By O. Henry. Calling of Dan Matthews, The. By Harold Bell Wright. Cape Cod Stories. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Cap'n Dan's Daughter. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Cap'n Eri. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Cap'n Warren's Wards. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Cardigan. By Robert W. Chambers. Carpet From Bagdad, The. By Harold MacGrath. Cease Firing. By Mary Johnson. Chain of Evidence, A. By Carolyn Wells. Chief Legatee, The. By Anna Katharine Green. Cleek of Scotland Yard. By T. W. Hanshew. Clipped Wings. By Rupert Hughes. Coast of Adventure, The. By Harold Bindloss. Colonial Free Lance, A. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Coming of Cassidy, The. By Clarence E. Mulford. Coming of the Law, The. By Chas. A. Seltzer. Conquest of Canaan, The. By Booth Tarkington. Conspirators, The. By Robt. W. Chambers. Counsel for the Defense. By Leroy Scott. Court of Inquiry, A. By Grace S. Richmond. Crime Doctor, The. By E. W. Hornung. Crimson Gardenia, The, and Other Tales of Adventure. By Rex Beach. Cross Currents. By Eleanor H. Porter. Cry in the Wilderness, A. By Mary E. Waller. Cynthia of the Minute. By Louis Jos. Vance. Dark Hollow, The. By Anna Katharine Green. Dave's Daughter. By Patience Bevier Cole. Day of Days, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. Day of the Dog, The. By George Barr McCutcheon. Depot Master, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Desired Woman, The. By Will N. Harben. Destroying Angel, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. Dixie Hart. By Will N. Harben. Double Traitor, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Drusilla With a Million. By Elizabeth Cooper. Eagle of the Empire, The. By Cyrus Townsend Brady. El Dorado. By Baroness Orczy. Elusive Isabel. By Jacques Futrelle. Empty Pockets. By Rupert Hughes. Enchanted Hat, The. By Harold MacGrath. Eye of Dread, The. By Payne Erskine. Eyes of the World, The. By Harold Bell Wright. Felix O'Day. By F. Hopkinson Smith. 50-40 or Fight. By Emerson Hough. Fighting Chance, The. By Robert W. Chambers. Financier, The. By Theodore Dreiser. Flamsted Quarries. By Mary E. Waller. Flying Mercury, The. By Eleanor M. Ingram. For a Maiden Brave. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Four Million, The. By O. Henry. Four Pool's Mystery, The. By Jean Webster. Fruitful Vine, The. By Robert Hichens. Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford. By George Randolph Chester. Gilbert Neal. By Will N. Harben. Girl From His Town, The. By Marie Van Vorst. Girl of the Blue Ridge, A. By Payne Erskine. Girl Who Lived in the Woods, The. By Marjorie Benton Cook. Girl Who Won, The. By Beth Ellis. Glory of Clementina, The. By Wm. J. Locke. Glory of the Conquered, The. By Susan Glaspell. God's Country and the Woman. By James Oliver Curwood. God's Good Man. By Marie Corelli. Going Some. By Rex Beach. Gold Bag, The. By Carolyn Wells. Golden Slipper, The. By Anna Katharine Green. Golden Web, The. By Anthony Partridge. Gordon Craig. By Randall Parrish. Greater Love Hath No Man. By Frank L. Packard. Greyfriars Bobby. By Eleanor Atkinson. Guests of Hercules, The. By C. N. & A. M. Williamson. Halcyone. By Elinor Glyn. Happy Island (Sequel to Uncle William). By Jeannette Lee. Havoc. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Heart of Philura, The. By Florence Kingsley. Heart of the Desert, The. By Honoré Willsie. Heart of the Hills, The. By John Fox, Jr. Heart of the Sunset. By Rex Beach. Heart of Thunder Mountain, The. By Elfrid A. Bingham. Heather-Moon, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. Her Weight in Gold. By Geo. B. McCutcheon. Hidden Children, The. By Robert W. Chambers. Hoosier Volunteer, The. By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles. Hopalong Cassidy. By Clarence E. Mulford. How Leslie Loved. By Anne Warner. Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker. By S. Weir Mitchell, M.D. Husbands of Edith, The. By George Barr McCutcheon. I Conquered. By Harold Titus. Illustrious Prince, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Idols. By William J. Locke. Indifference of Juliet, The. By Grace S. Richmond. Inez. (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans. Infelice. By Augusta Evans Wilson. In Her Own Right. By John Reed Scott. Initials Only. By Anna Katharine Green. In Another Girl's Shoes. By Berta Ruck. Inner Law, The. By Will N. Harben. Innocent. By Marie Corelli. Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, The. By Sax Rohmer. In the Brooding Wild. By Ridgwell Cullum. Intrigues, The. By Harold Bindloss. Iron Trail, The. By Rex Beach. Iron Woman, The. By Margaret Deland. Ishmael. (Ill.) By Mrs. Southworth. Island of Regeneration, The. By Cyrus Townsend Brady. Island of Surprise, The. By Cyrus Townsend Brady. Japonette. By Robert W. Chambers. Jean of the Lazy A. By B. M. Bower. Jeanne of the Marshes. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Jennie Gerhardt. By Theodore Dreiser. Joyful Heatherby. By Payne Erskine. Jude the Obscure. By Thomas Hardy. Judgment House, The. By Gilbert Parker. Keeper of the Door, The. By Ethel M. Dell. Keith of the Border. By Randall Parrish. Kent Knowles: Quahaug. By Joseph C. Lincoln. King Spruce. By Holman Day. Kingdom of Earth, The. By Anthony Partridge. Knave of Diamonds, The. By Ethel M. Dell. Lady and the Pirate, The. By Emerson Hough. Lady Merton, Colonist. By Mrs. Humphrey Ward. Landloper, The. By Holman Day. Land of Long Ago, The. By Eliza Calvert Hall. Last Try, The. By John Reed Scott. Last Shot, The. By Frederick N. Palmer. Last Trail, The. By Zane Grey. Laughing Cavalier, The. By Baroness Orczy. Law Breakers, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Lighted Way, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Lighting Conductor Discovers America, The. By C. N. & A. N. Williamson. Lin McLean. By Owen Wister. Little Brown Jug at Kildare, The. By Meredith Nicholson. Lone Wolf, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. Long Roll, The. By Mary Johnson. Lonesome Land. By B. M. Bower. Lord Loveland Discovers America. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. Lost Ambassador. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Lost Prince, The. By Frances Hodgson Burnett. Lost Road, The. By Richard Harding Davis. Love Under Fire. By Randall Parrish. Macaria. (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans. Maids of Paradise, The. By Robert W. Chambers. Maid of the Forest, The. By Randall Parrish. Maid of the Whispering Hills, The. By Vingie E. Roe. Making of Bobby Burnit, The. By Randolph Chester. Making Money. By Owen Johnson. Mam' Linda. By Will N. Harben. Man Outside, The. By Wyndham Martyn. Man Trail, The. By Henry Oyen. Marriage. By H. G. Wells. Marriage of Theodora, The. By Mollie Elliott Seawell. Mary Moreland. By Marie Van Vorst. Master Mummer, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Max. By Katherine Cecil Thurston. Maxwell Mystery, The. By Caroline Wells. Mediator, The. By Roy Norton. Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. Mischief Maker, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Miss Gibbie Gault. By Kate Langley Bosher. Miss Philura's Wedding Gown. By Florence Morse Kingsley. Molly McDonald. By Randall Parrish. Money Master, The. By Gilbert Parker. Money Moon, The. By Jeffery Farnol. Motor Maid, The. By C. N and A. M. Williamson. Moth, The. By William Dana Orcutt. Mountain Girl, The. By Payne Erskine. Mr. Bingle. By George Barr McCutcheon. Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Mr. Pratt. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Mr. Pratt's Patients. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Mrs. Balfame. By Gertrude Atherton. Mrs. Red Pepper. By Grace S. Richmond. My Demon Motor Boat. By George Fitch. My Friend the Chauffeur. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. My Lady Caprice. By Jeffery Farnol. My Lady of Doubt. By Randall Parrish. My Lady of the North. By Randall Parrish. My Lady of the South. By Randall Parrish. Ne'er-Do-Well, The. By Rex Beach. Net, The. By Rex Beach. 
26993	----	THE COPPER PRINCESS A Story of Lake Superior Mines _By_ KIRK MUNROE. _Author of "The Painted Desert" "Rick Dale" The "Mates" Series, etc._ _Illustrated by_ W. A. ROGERS [Illustration: Logo] NEW YORK AND LONDON HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 1898 [Illustration: Page 105 ON THE FACE OF THE CLIFF STOOD A GIRLISH FIGURE] BY KIRK MUNROE. THE PAINTED DESERT. A Story of Northern Arizona. RICK DALE. A Story of the Northwest Coast. SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES. A Sequel to "The Fur-Seal's Tooth." THE FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH. A Story of Alaskan Adventure. RAFTMATES. A Story of the Great River. CANOEMATES. A Story of the Florida Reef and Everglades. CAMPMATES. A Story of the Plains. DORYMATES. A Tale of the Fishing Banks. _Each one volume. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1 25._ _The "Mates" Series, 4 vols., in a box, $5 00._ WAKULLA. A Story of Adventure in Florida. THE FLAMINGO FEATHER. DERRICK STERLING. A Story of the Mines. CHRYSTAL, JACK & CO., and DELTA BIXBY. Two Stories. _Each one volume. Illustrated. Square 16mo, Cloth, $1 00._ NEW YORK AND LONDON: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS. Copyright, 1898, by HARPER & BROTHERS. _All rights reserved._ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. STARTLING INTRODUCTION OF TOM TREFETHEN 1 II. PEVERIL TIES "BLACKY'S" RECORD 9 III. A 'VARSITY STROKE STRIKES ADVERSE FORTUNE 17 IV. STARTING IN SEARCH OF THE COPPER PRINCESS 25 V. THE TREFETHENS 32 VI. A MILE BENEATH THE SURFACE 40 VII. CORNWALL TO THE RESCUE 48 VIII. IN THE NEW SHAFT 56 IX. WINNING A FRIEND BY SHEER PLUCK 65 X. HEROISM REWARDED 73 XI. NELLY TREFETHEN FINDS A LETTER 81 XII. A VISION OF THE CLIFFS 89 XIII. LOG-WRECKERS AND SMUGGLERS 95 XIV. A VAIN EFFORT TO RECOVER STOLEN PROPERTY 102 XV. PEVERIL IN THE HANDS OF HIS ENEMIES 110 XVI. LOST IN A PREHISTORIC MINE 118 XVII. UNDERGROUND WANDERINGS 125 XVIII. FROM ONE TRAP INTO ANOTHER 133 XIX. "DARRELL'S FOLLY" AND ITS OWNER 141 XX. PEVERIL IS TAKEN FOR A GHOST 148 XXI. MIKE CONNELL TO THE RESCUE 156 XXII. THE SIGNAL IS CHANGED 164 XXIII. A BATTLE WITH SMUGGLERS 172 XXIV. CONNELL MAKES GOOD HIS ESCAPE 180 XXV. A SEA FIGHT ON LAKE SUPERIOR 188 XXVI. FIRST NEWS OF THE COPPER PRINCESS 196 XXVII. A NIGHT WITH A MADMAN 205 XXVIII. LEFT IN SOLE POSSESSION 213 XXIX. A ROYAL NAME FOR A ROYAL MINE 221 XXX. PEVERIL ACQUIRES AN UNSHARED INTEREST 230 ILLUSTRATIONS ON THE FACE OF THE CLIFF STOOD A GIRLISH FIGURE _Frontispiece_ "IN BREATHLESS SILENCE THE GROUP WATCHED PEVERIL'S MOVEMENTS" _Facing p._ 12 PEVERIL GOES TO WORK " 36 THE CAR-PUSHERS MADE A FURIOUS ATTACK ON PEVERIL " 46 PEVERIL LEAPED DOWN AMONG THE SPUTTERING FUSES " 66 THE MEN HASTILY THREW PEVERIL HEAD-FIRST INTO THE BUSHES " 106 PEVERIL SAT BESIDE THE FIRE IN FORLORN MEDITATION " 130 AT SEEING PEVERIL, THE MEN UTTERED A CRY OF TERROR " 152 A WILD-LOOKING MAN LEVELLED A PISTOL AT PEVERIL " 174 THE TWO MEN STOOD AND LISTENED " 194 RESCUED FROM THE SHAFT " 200 PEVERIL FINDS MARY AGAIN " 234 THE COPPER PRINCESS CHAPTER I STARTLING INTRODUCTION OF TOM TREFETHEN "Look out, there!" "My God, he is under the wheels!" The narrow-gauge train for Red Jacket had just started from the Hancock station, and was gathering quick headway for its first steep grade, when a youth ran from the waiting-room and attempted to leap aboard the "smoker." Missing the step, he fell between two cars, though still clutching a hand-rail of the one he had attempted to board. With cries of horror, several of those who witnessed the incident from the station platform averted their faces, unwilling to view the ghastly tragedy that they believed must occur in another instant. At sound of their cries, a neatly dressed young fellow, broad-shouldered and of splendid physique, who was in the act of mounting the car-steps, turned, and instantly comprehended the situation. Without a moment of hesitation he dropped the bag he was carrying and flung his body over the guard-rail, catching at its supporting stanchions with his knees. In this position, with his arms stretched to their utmost, he managed to grasp the coat-collar of the unfortunate youth who was being dragged to his death. In another moment he had, by a supreme effort, lifted the latter bodily to the platform. Those who witnessed this superb exhibition of promptly applied strength from the station platform gave a cheer as the train swept by, but their voices were drowned in its clatter, and the two actors in their thrilling drama were unaware that it had been noticed. The rescued youth sat limp and motionless on the swaying platform where he had been placed, dazed by the suddenness and intensity of his recent terror; while the other leaned against the guard-rail, recovering from his tremendous effort. After a few minutes of quick breathing he pulled himself together and helped his companion into the car, where they found a vacant seat. A few of the passengers noted the entrance of two young men, one of whom seemed to be in need of the other's assistance, and glanced at them with meaning smiles. There had been races at Hancock that day, and they evidently believed that these two had attended them. No one spoke to them, however, and it quickly became apparent that the supremest moment in the life of one of the two, which would also have been his last on earth but for the other, had passed unnoticed by any of the scores of human beings in closest proximity to them at the time. It was hard to realize this, and for a few minutes the young men sat in silence, dreading but expecting to be overwhelmed with a clamor of questions. It was a relief to find that they were to be unmolested, and when the conductor had passed on after punching their tickets, the one who had rescued the other turned to him with a smile, saying: "No one knows anything about it, for which let us be grateful." "You can bet I'm grateful, Mister, in more ways than one," answered the other, his eyes filling with the tears of a deep emotion as he spoke. "I won't forget in a hurry that you've saved my life, and from this time on, if ever you can make any use of so poor a chap as me, I'm your man. My name's Tom Trefethen, and I live in Red Jacket, where I run a compressor for No. 3 shaft of the White Pine Mine. That's all there is to me, for I 'ain't never done anything else, don't know anything else, and expect I'm no good _for_ anything else. So, you see, I hain't got much to offer in exchange for what you've just give me; same time, I'm your friend all right, from this minute, and I wouldn't do a thing for you only just what you say; but that goes, every time." "That's all right, Tom, and don't you worry about trying to make any return for the service I have been able to render you. I won't call it a slight service, because to do so would be to undervalue the life I was permitted to save. Besides, you have already repaid me by giving me a friend, which was the thing of which I stood in greatest need, and had almost despaired of gaining." "Why, Mister--" "Peveril," interrupted the other. "Richard Peveril is my name, though the friends I used to have generally called me 'Dick Peril."' "Used to have, Mr. Peril? Do you mean by that that you hain't got any friends now?" "I mean that five minutes ago it did not seem as though I had a friend in the world; but now I have one, who, I hope, will prove a very valuable one as well, and his name is Tom Trefethen." "It's good of you to say so, Mr. Peril, though how a poor, ignorant chap like me can prove a valuable friend to a swell like you is more than I can make out." At this the other smiled. "I don't know just what you mean by a swell," he said. "But I suppose you mean a gentleman of wealth and leisure. If so, I certainly am no more of a swell than you, nor so much, for I have just expended my last dollar for this railroad ticket, and have no idea where I shall get another. In fact, I do not know where I shall obtain a supper or find a sleeping-place for to-night, and think it extremely probable that I shall go without either. I hope very much, though, to find a job of work to-morrow that will provide me with both food and shelter for the immediate future." "Work! Are you looking for work?" asked Tom, gazing at Peveril's natty travelling-suit, and speaking with a tone of incredulity. "That is what I have come to this country to look for," was the smiling answer. "I came here because I was told that this was the one section of the United States unaffected by hard times, and because I had a letter of introduction to a gentleman in Hancock whom I thought would assist me in getting a position. To my great disappointment, he had left town, to be gone for several months, and, as I could not afford to await his return, I applied for work at the Quincy and other mines, only to be refused." "Is it work in the mines you are looking for?" asked Tom Trefethen, evidently doubting if he had heard aright. "Yes, that or any other by which I can make an honest living." "Well, sir, I wouldn't have believed it if any one but yourself had told me." "But you must believe it, for it is true, and I am now on my way to Red Jacket because I have been told there is more work to be had there than at any other place in the whole copper region, or in the State, for that matter." "And more people to do it, too," muttered Tom Trefethen, as he sank into a brown-study. By this time the train had climbed from the muddy level of Portage Lake, which with its recently cut ship-canals bisects Keweenaw Point, making of its upper end an island, and was speeding northward over a rough upland. Its way led through a naked country of rocks and low-growing scrub, for the primitive growth of timber had been stripped for use in the mines. Every now and then it passed tall shaft-houses and chimneys, belching forth thick volumes of smoke, which, with their clustering villages, marked the sites of copper-mines. Finally, as darkness began to shroud the uninteresting landscape, the train entered the environs of a wide-spread and populous community, where huge mine buildings reared themselves from surrounding acres of the small but comfortable dwellings of North-country miners. Everywhere shone electric lights, and everywhere was a swarming population. Peveril gazed from his car window in astonishment. "What place is this?" he asked. "Red Jacket," answered his companion. "That is, it is Red Jacket, Blue Jacket, Yellow Jacket, Stone Pipe, Osceola, White Pine, and several other mining villages bunched together and holding in all about twenty-five thousand people." "Whew! and I expected to find a place of not over one thousand inhabitants." "You don't know much about the copper country, that's a fact," said Tom Trefethen, with the slight air of superiority that residents of a place are so apt to assume towards strangers. "Why, a single company here employs as many as three thousand men." "I am willing to admit my ignorance," rejoined Peveril, "but I am also very anxious to learn things, and hope in course of time to rank as a first-class miner. Therefore, any information you can give me will be gratefully received. To begin with, I wish you would tell me the name of some hotel where my grip will serve as security for a few days' board and lodging." "A hotel, Mr. Peril! You can't be feeling so very poor if you are thinking of going to a hotel. Or perhaps you don't know how expensive our Red Jacket hotels are. You see, there is always such a rush of business here that prices are way up. Why, they don't think anything of charging two dollars a day; and they get it, too--don't give you anything extra in the way of grub, either. I can do lots better than that for you, though. There's a-plenty of boarding-houses here that'll fix you up in great shape for five a week. You just wait here at the station a few minutes while I go and look up one that I know of." Without waiting for a reply Tom Trefethen hurried from the train, which was just coming to a stop at the bustling Red Jacket station, and disappeared in the crowd of spectators who had gathered to witness its arrival. Peveril followed more slowly, and, depositing the handsome dress-suit case that he had learned to call a "grip" in a vacant corner of the platform, prepared to await the return of his only acquaintance in all that community, "or in the whole State of Michigan, so far as I know," reflected the young man. "As for friends, I wonder if I have any anywhere. This Tom Trefethen claims to have a friendly feeling towards me, and, if he comes back, I will try to believe in him. It is more than likely though that his leaving me here is only a way of escaping an irksome obligation, and I shouldn't be one bit surprised never to see him again. It seems to be the way of the world, that if you place a fellow under an obligation he begins to dislike you from that moment. My! if all the fellows whom I have helped would only pay what they owe me, how well fixed I should be at this minute. I could even put up with a clear conscience at one of Tom Trefethen's two-dollar-a-day hotels. What an unsophisticated chap he is, anyway. Wonder what he would say to the Waldorf charges? And yet only a short time ago I thought them very moderate. It's a queer old world, and a fellow has to see all sides of it before he can form an idea of what it is really like. I must confess, however, that I am not particularly enjoying my present point of view. Must be because I am so infernally hungry. Odd sensation, and so decidedly unpleasant that if my friend with the Cornish name doesn't return inside of two minutes more I shall abandon our tryst and set forth in search of a supper." At this point in his dismal reflections Peveril became aware of a short, solidly built man, having a grizzled beard, and wearing a rough suit of ill-fitting clothing, who was standing squarely before him and regarding him intently. As their eyes met, the new-comer asked, abruptly: "Be thy name Richard, lad?" "Yes." "What's t'other part of it?" "Peveril. And may I inquire why you ask?" "Because, lad, in all t'world thee has not a truer friend, nor one more ready to serve thee, than old Mark Trefethen. So come along of me, and gi' me a chance to prove my words." CHAPTER II PEVERIL TIES "BLACKY'S" RECORD "Are you the father of Tom Trefethen?" asked Peveril of the man who had so abruptly introduced himself. "Certain I be, lad, feyther to the young fool who, but for thee, would never have come home to us no more. His mother was that upset by thought of his danger that she couldn't let him leave her, and so bade me come to fetch you mysel'. Not that I needed a bidding, for I'm doubly proud of a chance to serve the man who's gied us back our Tom. So come along, lad, to where there's a hearty welcome waiting, togither with a bite and a bed." "But, Mr. Trefethen, I can't allow you to--" "Man, you must allow me, for I'm no in the habit o' being crossed. Besides, I'd never dare go back to mother without you. This thy grip?" With this the brawny miner swung Peveril's bag to his shoulder, and started briskly down the station platform, followed closely by the young man, who but a moment before had believed himself to be without a friend. They had not gone more than a block from the station, and Peveril was wondering at the crowds of comfortable-looking folk who thronged the wooden sidewalks, as well as at the rows of brilliantly lighted shops, when his guide turned abruptly into the door of a saloon. Following curiously, the young man also entered, and, passing behind a latticed screen, found himself in a long room having a sanded floor, and furnished with a glittering bar, tables, chairs, and several queer-looking machines, the nature of which he did not understand. Several men were leaning against the counter of the bar; but without noticing them other than by a general nod of recognition, Mark Trefethen walked to the far end of the room, where he deposited Peveril's bag on the floor beside one of the machines already mentioned. It was a narrow, upright frame, placed close to the wall, and holding a stout wooden panel. In the centre of this, at the height of a man's chest, was a stuffed leathern pad, on which was painted a grotesque face, evidently intended for that of a negro, and above it was a dial bearing numbers that ranged from 1 to 300. The single pointer on this dial indicated the number 173, a figure at which Mark Trefethen sniffed contemptuously. "Let's see thee take a lick at 'Blacky,' lad, just for luck," he said. Although he had never before seen or even heard of such a machine as now confronted him, Peveril was sufficiently quick-witted to realize that his companion desired him to strike a blow with his fist at the grinning face painted on the leathern pad, and he did so without hesitation. At the same time, as he had no idea of what resistance he should encounter, he struck out rather gingerly, and the dial-pointer sprang back to 156. Mark Trefethen looked at once incredulous and disappointed. "Surely that's not thy best lick, lad," he said, in an aggrieved tone; "why, old as I am, I could better it mysel'." Thus saying, the miner drew back a fist like a sledge-hammer, and let drive a blow at "Blacky" that sent the pointer up to 180. "Now, lad, try again," he remarked, with a self-satisfied air; "and remember, what I should have telled thee afore, that the man who lets pointer slip back owes beer to the crowd." Wondering how he should cancel the indebtedness thus innocently incurred, and also at the strangeness of such proceedings on the part of one who had just invited him to a much-longed-for supper, Peveril again stepped up and delivered a nervous blow against the unresisting leathern pad, driving the pointer to 184. The miner's shout of "Well done, lad! That's spunky," attracted the idlers at the bar and brought them to the scene of contest. They arrived just in time to see Trefethen deliver his second blow, the force of which drove the sensitive needle six points farther on, or until it registered 190. With a flush of pride on his strongly marked face, the old Cornishman exclaimed, "There's a mark for thee lad, but doan't 'ee strike 'less thee can better it, for I'd like it to stand for a while." Peveril only smiled in answer, and, taking a quick forward step, planted so vigorous a blow upon the painted leather that the pointer gained a single interval. So small were the spaces that at first it was thought not to have moved; but when a closer examination showed it to indicate 191, a murmur of approbation went up from the spectators. Mark Trefethen said not a word, but, throwing off his coat and baring his corded arm for a mighty effort, he again took place before the machine. Carefully measuring his distance, he drew back and delivered a blow into which he threw the whole weight of his body. As though galvanized into action, the needle leaped up four points and registered 195. "A record! A record!" shouted the spectators, while the miner turned a face beaming with triumph towards his athletic young antagonist. On many an occasion had he played at solitaire fisticuffs with that leathern dummy, but never before had he struck it such a mighty blow, and now he did not believe that another in all Red Jacket could equal the feat he had just performed. "Lat it stand, lad! Lat it stand!" he said, good-humoredly, but in a tone unmistakably patronizing. "You've done enough to take front rank, for not more than three men in all the Jackets have ever beat your figure. Besides, the beer is on the house now for a record, but 'twill be on any man who lowers yon--so best lat well enough alone." [Illustration: "IN BREATHLESS SILENCE THE GROUP WATCHED PEVERIL'S MOVEMENTS"] This advice was tendered in all sincerity, and was doubtless very good, but Peveril was now too deeply interested in the novel contest to accept defeat without a further effort. Besides, the stroke-oar of a winning crew in the great Oxford-Cambridge boat-race, which is what Dick Peveril had been only two months earlier, was not accustomed to be beaten in athletic games. So he, too, threw off his coat and bared the glorious right arm that had at once been the pride of his college and the envy of every other in the 'varsity. In breathless silence the little group of spectators watched his movements, and when, with sharply exhaled breath, he planted a crashing "facer" straight from the shoulder squarely upon the leathern disk they sprang eagerly forward to note the result. For an instant they gazed at each other blankly, for the needle, though trembling violently, remained fixedly pointing at the figure 195. Then they realized what had happened. Mark Trefethen's score had been neither raised nor lowered, but had been duplicated. A double record had been established, and that in a single contest. Such a thing had never before happened in Red Jacket, where trials of strength and skill similar to the one they had just witnessed were of frequent occurrence. As the amazing truth broke upon them, they raised a great shout of applause, and every man present pressed eagerly about the two champions with cordially extended hands. But Peveril and the old miner were already shaking hands with each other, for Mark Trefethen had been the first to appreciate the result of his opponent's blow, and had whirled around from his examination of the dial to seize the young man's hand in both of his. "Now I believe it, lad!" he cried. "Now I believe the story boy Tom telled this night. I couldn't make it seem possible that you had lifted him as he said, and so I wanted proof. Now I'm got it, and now I know you for best man that's come to mines for many a year. Pray God, lad, that you and me'll never have a quarrel to settle wi' bare fists, for I'm free to say I'd rayther meet any ither two men in the Jackets than the one behind the fist that struck yon blow." "You will never meet him in a quarrel if I can help it, Mr. Trefethen," replied Peveril, flushing with gratified pride, "for I can't imagine anything that would throw me into a greater funk than to face as an enemy the man who established the existing record on that machine. But, now, don't you think we might adjourn to the supper of which you spoke awhile since? I was never quite so famished in my life, and am nearly ready to drop with the exhaustion of hunger." "Oh, Jimmy!" groaned one of the listening spectators. "If 'e done wot 'e did hon a hempty stummick, hit's 'eaven 'elp the man or the machine 'e 'its when 'e's full." "Step up for your beers, gentlemen," cried the bartender at this moment. "The house owes two rounds for the double record, and is proud to pay a debt so handsomely thrust upon it." This invitation was promptly accepted by the spectators of the recent contest, all of whom immediately lined up at the bar. Mark Trefethen stood with them, and when he noticed that Peveril held back, he called out, heartily, "Step up, lad, and doan't be bashful. We're waiting to take a mug wi' thee." "I thank you all," rejoined Peveril, politely, "but I believe I don't care to drink anything just now." "What! Not teetotal?" "Not wholly," replied the other, with a laugh, "but I long ago made it a rule not to take liquor in any form on an empty stomach." "Oh, it won't hurt you. And this time needn't count, anyway," said one of the men, whose features proclaimed him to be of Irish birth. "I think it would hurt me," replied Peveril, "and if my rule could be broken at this time, of course it could at any other. So I believe I won't drink anything, thank you." "You mane you're a snob, and don't care to associate with working-men," retorted the other. "I mean nothing of the kind, but exactly what I said, that I don't propose to injure my health to gratify you or any other man. As for associating with working-men, I am a working-man myself, and have come to this place with the hope of finding a job in one of the mines. If I hadn't wanted to associate with working-men I shouldn't be here at this minute." "Well, you can't associate with them in one thing if not in all, Mr. Workingman," rejoined the Irishman, sneeringly, "and so, if you won't drink with us, you can't become one of us." "That's right," murmured several voices. "Moreover," continued the speaker, "you don't look, talk, or act like a working-man, and I'm willing to bet the price of these beers that you never earned a dollar by honest labor in your life." "If I didn't, that's no reason why I shouldn't." "But did you?" "No, I never did." "I knew it from the first," exclaimed the other, triumphantly, "you're nothing but a d--d--" "Shut up, Mike Connell! don't ye dare say it!" shouted Mark Trefethen, shaking a knotted fist in close proximity to the Irishman's face. "How dare you insult the friend I've brought to this place? Lad's right about the liquor, too, and damned if I'll drink a drop of it mysel'. Same time, working-man or no, he's worth any two of you wi' his fists, and, I'll bate, has more brains than the rest of us put together. So keep a civil tongue in your head in the presence of your betters, Mike Connell. Come, lad, time we were getting home. Mother 'll be fretting for us." Thus saying, the sturdy miner laid his toil-hardened hand on Peveril's shoulder and led him from the place. CHAPTER III A 'VARSITY STROKE STRIKES ADVERSE FORTUNE Richard Peveril, student at Christ Church, was not only one of the most popular men in his own college, but, as stroke of the 'varsity eight, was becoming one of the best known of Oxford undergraduates when the blow was struck that compelled him to leave England and return to the land of his birth without even waiting to try for his degree. He had been an orphan from early boyhood, and, under the nominal care of a guardian who saw as little of his charge as possible, had passed most of his time in American boarding-schools, until sent abroad to finish his education. While his guardian had never been unkind to him, he had not tried to understand the boy or to win his affection, but had placed him at the best schools, supplied him liberally with pocket-money, and then let him alone. Although the lad had thus been denied the softening influence of a home, the tender care of a mother, and a father's counsel, his school-life had trained him to self-reliance, prompt obedience to lawful authority, a strict sense of honor, and to a physical condition so perfect that in all his life he had never known a day's sickness. Having always had plenty of money, he had never learned its value, though in his school-days his allowance had been limited by the same wise rules that also checked undue extravagance. Thus, while brought up to live and spend money like a gentleman, he had not been permitted to acquire vicious habits. Even at college his allowance had always been in excess of his needs, and so, though ever ready to help a friend in trouble, he had never run into debt on his own account. Another influence for good was the lad's inherited love for all out-of-door sports, and he could not remember the time when he was not in training for a team, a crew, or an athletic event of some kind. Thus the keeping of regular hours, together with a studied temperance in both eating and drinking, had been grafted into his very nature. Life had thus been made very pleasant for our hero, and, believing himself to be heir to a fortune, he had never been disturbed by anxieties concerning the future. Of course, while he had hosts of acquaintances, most of whom called themselves his friends, he was well aware that some of them were envious of his position and would rejoice at his downfall, should such an event ever take place. It was partly this knowledge, partly his own sense of absolute security in life, and partly a habit acquired during a long career of leadership among his school companions that rendered him brusque with those for whom he did not particularly care and contemptuous to the verge of rudeness towards such persons as he disliked. Thus it will be seen that our young man possessed a facility for the making of enemies as well as friends. Of his secret enemies the most bitter was a fellow-student, also an American, named Owen, who, possessed of barely means enough to carry him through college, and with no prospects, had, by relinquishing everything else, taken much the same stand in scholarship that Peveril had in athletics. As a consequence, each was envious of the other, for the stroke of the 'varsity eight was so little of a student that he had never more than barely scraped through with an examination in his life, and was always overwhelmed with conditions. This jealousy would not, however, have led to enmity without a further cause, which had been furnished within a year. Owen had crossed on a steamer with Mrs. Maturin Bonnifay, of New York, and her only daughter, Rose. They did London together, and never had the young American found that smoke-begrimed city so delightful. At his solicitation the Bonnifays consented to visit Oxford, and permitted him to act as their escort. In contemplating the pleasure of such a visit, Owen had lost sight of its dangers; but, alas for his happiness! they became only too quickly apparent. The ladies must be taken to the river, of course, and there the one thing above all others to see was the 'varsity eight at practice. Of the entire crew none attracted such instant attention as the stroke-oar, and when they learned that he was an American their interest in him was doubled. Of course he and Mr. Owen, being compatriots in a strange land, and both having done so splendidly at the dear old university, must be friends. Oh, certainly. Then wouldn't Mr. Owen present his friend? It was always so pleasant to meet the right kind of Americans when abroad. "Why! There he comes now! I am sure that must be he; isn't it, Mr. Owen? Though one does look so different in a boat and out of it." It was indeed Peveril, who had purposely sauntered in that direction for a closer view of the pretty girl whom "Dig" Owen, of all men, had picked up; and, in another minute, Owen, with an extremely bad grace, had introduced him. From that moment, as is always the case when athletes and scholars compete for feminine favor, the scholar was almost ignored, while his muscular rival was petted to a degree that Owen declared simply scandalous. Although the latter was still allowed to act as second-best escort to the ladies, and form a fourth in their various excursions, it was always Peveril who walked, sat, strolled, and talked with Miss Rose, while Owen was monopolized by her mother. The Bonnifays had only intended to spend a day or two in Oxford, but the place proved so charmingly attractive that they remained a month, and when they finally took their departure for the Continent Miss Rose wore a superb diamond ring on the third finger of her left hand, that had very recently been placed there by Peveril. Before they separated it had been arranged that he and they should travel through Norway together during the following summer. Owen had also been invited to join the party, but had declined on the ground that immediately upon taking his degree he would be obliged to return to America. So that winter the scholar, filled with envy and bitterness, ground away gloomily but persistently at his books; while the athlete, radiant with happiness, steadily cheerful and good-natured, labored with his crew. Finally, he stroked them to a win on the Thames, and then, at the height of his glory, began to consider his chances for a degree. At this moment the blow was struck, and it came in the shape of a cablegram from a New York law firm. "Return at earliest convenience. Carson dead. Affairs badly involved." Boise Carson was the guardian whom Peveril had so seldom seen, but who had always controlled his affairs and provided so liberally for all his wants. Upon coming of age, a few months before, Peveril had sent over a power of attorney, and his ex-guardian had continued to act for him as before. They were to have had a settlement when the young man took his degree, for which purpose he had planned to run over to New York, spend a few days there, and return in time for his Norway trip with the Bonnifays. In the autumn he and they would sail for New York together, and the wedding would take place as soon thereafter as was practicable. Now this wretched cablegram promised to upset everything, and he must look forward to spending the summer in trying to disentangle an involved business, instead of spending it with the girl of his heart. Perhaps, though, "badly involved" did not mean so _very_ badly, and possibly he might get through with the hated business in time for the Norway trip after all, if he only set to work at once. Of course that would necessitate the giving up of his degree, but what difference did that make? Other things were of infinitely more importance. So Peveril bade farewell to Oxford, wrote a long letter, full of love and hopeful promises, to Rose Bonnifay, at Rome, sent her a reassuring telegram from Southampton, and sailed for New York. Having been so long absent, he found very few friends in that city, and it seemed to him that some even of those few greeted him with a constraint bordering on coldness. As Boise Carson, who had lived and died a bachelor, had roomed at the Waldorf, Peveril also established himself in that palatial caravansary, and was then ready to plunge into the business that had brought him to America. His first shock came from the lawyer who had summoned him, and who at once told him that he feared everything was lost. "I don't exactly understand what you mean," said Peveril. "In plain terms, then, I am afraid that your late guardian not only squandered his own fortune in unwise speculation, but yours as well. Perhaps this note, left for you, will explain the situation." Thus saying, the lawyer handed Peveril a sealed envelope addressed to him in the well-known handwriting of Boise Carson. Tearing it open, the young man read as follows: "MY DEAR RICHARD: "Having lost everything, including your fortune and my own honor, I have no longer an object in living. I therefore conclude that it will be best to efface myself as speedily as possible. I have made a will, leaving you my sole heir and executor. You are welcome to whatever you can save from the wreck. All papers belonging to your father and left in my charge will be handed you by Mr. Ketchum. Good-bye. "Yours, for the last time, "BOISE CARSON." "He didn't commit suicide?" exclaimed Peveril, incredulously. "It is to be feared that he did," replied the lawyer, "and the state of his affairs bears out the supposition." After this Peveril spent a month in New York, trying to recover something from the wreck of his fortune. At the end of that time he found himself with less than one hundred dollars over and above his obligations. Realizing at length that he must for the future depend entirely upon his own efforts, he made several applications for vacant positions in the city, only to find in every case that they were also sought by men more competent to fill them than he. One day, when, for want of something better to do, he was mechanically looking over a package of old papers that had belonged to his father, he came across a contract of partnership between his parent and a certain Ralph Darrell. It was for the opening and development of a mine, to be known as the "Copper Princess," and located in the upper peninsula of Michigan. By the terms of the contract the partnership was to exist for twenty years, and, if either party died during that time, his heir or heirs were to accept the liabilities and receive all benefits accruing to an original partner. It was, however, provided that the claims of such heirs must be made before expiration of the contract, otherwise the entire property would fall into possession of the longest-surviving partner or his heirs. The document bore a date nineteen years old. "Well," said Peveril, reflectively, as he finished reading this paper, "although everything else is lost, it would seem that as my father's sole heir I am still half-owner in a copper mine. I wonder if it is worth looking up?" CHAPTER IV STARTING IN SEARCH OF THE COPPER PRINCESS Viewed through the sanguine eyes of youth, the possession of a half-interest in a copper mine seemed to offer a ready solution of Peveril's recent difficulties. He vaguely recalled stories of great fortunes made in copper, and speculated concerning the market value of his newly discovered property. "There must be plenty of people ready to buy such things, if they are only offered cheaply enough," he said to himself; "and Heaven knows I wouldn't hold out for any fancy price. Ten thousand dollars, or even five, would be sufficient for the Norway trip, and after that something would be certain to turn up." Of all his trials none had seemed so hard to bear as the giving up of that journey to Norway, and now it might be accomplished, after all. He had written several letters to Rose since reaching New York, and at first they had been filled with hopes of a speedy reunion. Then, as he began to realize the condition of his fortunes, they became less frequent and less hopeful, until for some weeks, not knowing what to write, he had not written at all. Now filled with a new courage, he wrote a long and cheerful letter, in which he stated a belief that his business troubles were so nearly ended that he would speedily be able to join his friends in Norway. This letter, finished and mailed, the young mine-owner visited his lawyer, to inform him of his discovery and learn its probable value. Mr. Ketchum smiled grimly as he glanced at the contract on which Peveril was building such high hopes, and then, handing it back, said, pityingly: "My dear boy, I hate to dash your hopes, but I doubt if this thing is worth anything more than the paper on which it is written. Boise Carson brought it to us years ago, and we looked into it at that time. We discovered that a property located somewhere in Northern Michigan, and supposed to be rich in copper, had been purchased at a stiff price by your father and this Ralph Darrell, who was a banker in one of the New England cities--Boston, I believe. They christened it the 'Copper Princess,' invested nearly a million dollars in a complete mining-plant, and sank a shaft into barren rock. Not one cent did the mine ever yield, and the deeper they went the poorer became their prospects. Finally, Darrell, completely ruined financially, became crazed by his troubles and disappeared; nor has he ever been heard from since. Your father, having put half of his fortune into the venture, brooded over its loss until his death, which, I am convinced, was largely caused by the failure of the Copper Princess." "What became of the property after that?" asked Peveril, who had listened with a sinking heart to this recital. "I believe it stands to-day, as it was abandoned years ago, one of the many monuments of ruined hopes in that country of squandered fortunes." "But there is copper in that region, is there not?" "Certainly there is, and in fabulous quantity, but apparently not in the immediate vicinity of the Copper Princess." "Did you visit the place yourself?" "No. We conducted our inquiries through a mine-owner of Hancock, which was at that time the nearest town of importance to the property." "Does your correspondent still live there?" "I believe so. At any rate, he did within a year." "Will you give me a note of introduction to him, and also a paper of identification, by which I may substantiate my claim to a half-ownership in the Copper Princess?" "Certainly I will; but may I ask how you propose to use such documents? You surely do not intend to visit the property with the hope that anything can be realized from it?" "I don't think I have much hope of any kind just now," replied Peveril, bitterly. "But I suppose there is as much work to be done in the copper country as anywhere else, while my chances of obtaining employment there will at least be as good as they are here. Besides, it will be a sort of satisfaction to gaze upon the only existing evidence that there ever was a fortune in the family. You said that buildings of some sort had been erected on the property, did you not?" "Yes, according to my recollection there was quite a village of miners' houses, besides all the other necessary structures." "Then I may at least discover a roof under which I can dwell, rent free, while the sensation of finding myself lord of a manor will be decidedly novel." Having thus decided upon a course of action, our young mine-owner lost no time in carrying out his newly formed plans. That very afternoon he purchased a ticket for Buffalo, from which point he proposed to economize his slender resources by taking a lake steamer to his point of destination. His last duty before leaving New York, and the one from which he shrank most, was the writing of a second letter to Rose, telling her that the trip to Norway was no longer a possibility, so far as he was concerned. He wrote: "I am suddenly confronted with the necessity of taking rather a long Western journey, to investigate the condition of a mine in which I own a half-interest. I hate to go, because every mile will lengthen the distance between us, and am more bitterly disappointed than I can express at being compelled to give up our Norwegian trip. But my call to the West is imperative, and must be obeyed. So, dear, let us bear our disappointment as best we can, for I hope it is one to you as well as to me, and look forward to a joyful reunion in this city next autumn." The epistle, of which the above is but a fragment, not only caused Miss Bonnifay to utter an impatient exclamation as she read it, but also led to complications. Feeling that, with Peveril safely across the Atlantic, there might be some hope for him, Owen had reconsidered his determination not to go to Norway, and had written from Oxford, offering to escort the ladies on that trip. His letter reached them in company with that from Peveril announcing that he too would shortly be with them. Thereupon Mrs. Bonnifay replied to Owen that, while they should be delighted to have him join their party, he must not inconvenience himself to do so, as Mr. Peveril's business was in such shape that he would be able to carry out his original intention of accompanying them. Then came Peveril's second letter, stating that he could not leave America, after all, and the elder lady hurriedly penned the following note: "MY DEAR MR. OWEN: "We are so glad that you can accompany us to Norway, the more so that Mr. Peveril will, after all, be prevented from so doing. He has just written that business of the utmost importance, connected with an immensely valuable mine that he owns somewhere in the West, will prevent his leaving America this summer. Of course he is in despair, and all that, while we are awfully sorry for him, but we shall not allow our grief to interfere in the least with the pleasure we are anticipating from a trip to Norway under your escort. Hoping, then, to see you here very soon, "I remain," etc., etc. Quickly as this letter followed its immediate predecessor, it arrived too late to accomplish its purpose; for, on the very day that he received it, Owen had cabled his acceptance of a position offered him in the United States and procured his ticket for New York. "Was ever a man so cursed by fate!" he cried, as he finished reading Mrs. Bonnifay's note; "or, rather, by the stupidity of a blundering idiot! I don't believe Dick Peveril cares a rap for the girl; if he did, he would not desert her on any such flimsy pretext. The idea of his having business with a mine! He never did have any business, and never will. How I hate the fellow!" With this, Mr. Owen composed a letter to Mrs. Bonnifay, in which his regrets at the miscarriage of their plans were skilfully interwoven with insinuations that possibly Peveril had found America to hold even greater attractions than Norway. He also promised to keep them informed concerning the latest New York news. This promise he redeemed two weeks later by forwarding whatever of gossip he could gather regarding Peveril. It included the information that the latter had not only lost his fortune, but had sought so unsuccessfully for employment in the city that he had finally been obliged to leave it, and no one knew whither he had gone. Having accomplished this piece of work, Mr. Owen also departed from New York, and turned his face westward. In the mean time, Peveril, happily unconscious of these several epistles, was finding his own path beset by trials such as he had never encountered on any previous journey, for they were those caused by a scarcity of funds with which to meet his every-day expenses. His determination to economize failed because of his ignorance of the first principles of economy. Besides that, his appearance, his manner, his dress, and his personal belongings were all so many protests against economy. Thus, when he inquired concerning a hotel in Buffalo, no one thought of naming any save the most expensive, and he drove to it in a carriage, because he did not know how else to reach it. Then it happened that the first boat leaving for the Superior country was the _Northland_, one of the most luxurious and extravagant of lake craft. To be sure, she was also the swiftest, and would carry him through without loss of time; but when he left her at the Sault, as he found he must in order to reach the copper country, his scanty stock of money was depleted beyond anything he had deemed possible on so short a trip. From the Sault he travelled by rail, and finally reached Hancock with but five dollars in his pocket. Then, failing to find the only person to whom he had a note of introduction, and also being unable to obtain work, he finally expended his last dollar for transportation to Red Jacket, where he knew he must either find employment or starve. And thus was our hero led to the point at which we first made his acquaintance. CHAPTER V THE TREFETHENS As Peveril walked with his newly made acquaintance through the brisk mining-town, of whose very name he had been ignorant until that day, Mark Trefethen directed his attention to its various places and objects of interest. Of one small but handsome stone building, surrounded by grass and shade-trees, he said: "There's where the swells get's their beer." Peveril instantly knew it for a club-house, and, with a pang of regret for the lost comforts of such an establishment, glanced enviously at its cosey interior, disclosed through open windows. At length they reached the modest cottage, built on the plan of a hundred others, that Mark Trefethen rented from the company and called his home. The room into which Peveril was ushered was scrupulously clean and neat, but seemed to him painfully bare and cheerless. It was lighted by a single, unshaded lamp, that stood in the middle of an oilcloth-covered table laid for supper. Half a dozen cheap wooden chairs and a sewing-machine of inferior grade completed its furnishing. The new-comer had only time for a single glance at these things as he entered the door, before his recent acquaintance of the train, who now seemed almost like an old friend, sprang forward with outstretched hand, exclaiming: "I'm so glad you've come, for I was afraid father might not find you, or you might get tired of waiting, or that something might have happened to take you some other place. I would have gone back myself, only father wouldn't have it that way, and claimed 'twas his place to fetch you." "Surely, son; and why not? Could I do less than give the first welcome to one who has done for us what Mr. Peril has? Mother, take a step and shake hands wi' him who saved our boy to us this day. I couldn't believe it till I seen him hit 'Blacky' such a blow as but one other in all Red Jacket has ever struck. What do you think of one ninety-five for a record?" "Oh, father! you surely didn't take him--" But Tom's words were lost in the heartfelt though somewhat trying greeting that Peveril was at that moment receiving from Mrs. Trefethen. She was a large woman, whose ample form was unconfined by stay or lace, and with whom to "take a step" was evidently an exertion. That she was also of an emotional nature was shown by the tears that rolled in little well-defined channels down her cheeks as she made an elephantine courtesy before her guest. "Mister Peril, sir," she said, in a voice that seemed to bubble up through an overflow of tears, "may you never hexperience the feelinks of a mother, more especial the mother of a honly son, which 'arrowing is no name for them. As I were saying to Miss Penny this very day--a true lady, sir, if there is one in hall Red Jacket, and wife of No. 2, timber boss, my Mark being the same in No. 3--Miss Penny, sez I--but, laws! what's the use of telling sich things to a mere man? as I frequent sez to my Mark and my Tom, which he hain't no more'n a boy when all's said and done, if he does claim to vote, and halways on the side of 'is father, when, if wimmen had the privilege--as Miss Penny, who is a geniwine lady, and by no means a woman-sufferer, has frequent said to me, that it's a burning shame they shouldn't--things would be more naturally equalled up. Same time, young sir, seeing has 'ow you've come--" "And is also nearly starved," interrupted Mark Trefethen. "Let's have supper. You've done yourself proud, mother, and give Mr. Peril a master-welcome; but eating before talking, say I, and so let us fall to." Faint with hunger as he was, the guest needed no second invitation to seat himself at the homely but hospitable table, on which was placed a great dish of corned beef and cabbage, another of potatoes, a wheaten loaf, and a pot of tea. Cups, plates, and saucers were of thickest stone-ware, knives and forks were of iron, and spoons were of pewter, but Peveril managed to make successful use of them all, and though betraying a woful ignorance of the proper functions of a knife, ate his first working-man's meal with all of a working-man's appetite and hearty appreciation. Mrs. Trefethen occupied a great rocking-chair at one end of the table, surrounded by a group of clamorous little ones, into whose open mouths she dropped bits of food as though they were so many young birds in a nest, and kept up an unceasing flow of conversation regarding her friend Mrs. Penny, to which Peveril strove to pay polite attention. From the opposite end her husband expatiated between mouthfuls upon the fate that had overtaken 'Blacky' that evening, but Peveril was too hungry to talk, and so apparently was Tom. These four were waited on by a slim, rosy-cheeked lass, with demure expression but laughing eyes, to whom the guest had not been introduced, but who, from her likeness to Tom, he rightly concluded must be his sister. She was addressed as "Nelly." After supper the three men adjourned to a little front porch, where Mark Trefethen lighted a pipe and questioned Peveril concerning his plans for the future. After listening attentively to all that his guest chose to tell of himself, he said: "It's plain, lad, thee's not been brought up to work, and knows nought of mining; but thee's got head to learn and muscle to work with. So if 'ee wants job thee shall have it, or Mark Trefethen 'll know why. Now I tell 'ee what. Bide along of us, and be certain of welcome. Take to-morrow to look about, and by night I'll have news for you." Gratefully accepting this invitation, the Oxford undergraduate slept that night in a tiny chamber of the Trefethen cottage, from which he shrewdly suspected Miss Nelly had been turned out to make room for him. The next day he went with his new-found friends to the mine, where, in the "Dry," he saw the underground laborers change into their red-stained working-suits. Then he watched them clamber, a dozen at a time, into the great ore-cages and disappear with startling suddenness down the black shaft into unknown depths of darkness. After all were gone he spent some time in the "compressor-room" of the engine-house with Tom, who was there on duty. The remainder of the day he passed in wandering among shaft-houses, rock-crushers, ore-cars, and shops, making close observations, asking questions, and gaining a deal of information concerning the mining of copper. That evening Mark Trefethen told him that he had made arrangements by which he could, if he chose, go to work in the mine the following morning. "Job's wi' timber gang, lad," he said, "in bottom level. It's hard work and little pay at first--only one twenty-five the day--but if 'ee's game for it, job's thine." "I am game to try it, at any rate," replied the young man, gratefully, "and will also try my best to prevent you from being ashamed of me." "No fear, lad. Only fear is I'll be proud of thee, and lat others see it, which would be very bad indeed. Now, I'll bate 'ee hasn't rag of clothing fit for mine work." "I have only what I am wearing," answered Peveril, who had left his trunks in Hancock, "but I guess they will do until I can earn the money to buy others more suitable." [Illustration: PEVERIL GOES TO WORK] "Do, lad! They'd be ruined forever in first five minutes. Besides, thee'd be laughing-stock of whole mine, if 'ee went down dressed like Jim Dandy. No, no; come along of me and I'll rig 'ee out proper." So Peveril was taken to the company store, where, with Mark Trefethen to vouch for him, he was allowed to purchase, on credit, two blue-flannel shirts, a suit of brown canvas, a pair of heavy hobnailed shoes, two pairs of woollen socks, a hard, round-topped hat, a dinner-pail, and a miner's lamp. As these things were, by order of the timber boss, charged to "Dick Peril," that was the name under which our young Oxonian began his new life and became known in the strange community to which erratic fortune had led him. On the following morning he sallied forth from the Trefethen cottage with a tin dinner-pail on one arm, his working-suit under the other, and uncomfortably conscious that he was curiously regarded by every person whom he met on his way to the mine. As the "Dry" was already overcrowded, he shared Tom's locker, and was grateful for the opportunity of changing his clothing in the comparative seclusion of the compressor-room rather than in company with the two hundred men who thronged the steam-heated building devoted especially to that purpose. Having assumed his new garments, and feeling very awkward in them, Peveril made his way to the shaft-mouth. There he was joined by Mark Trefethen, who regarded the change made in his protégé's appearance with approving eyes. Together, and in company with a stream of men talking in a bewildering Babel of tongues, they climbed flight after flight of wooden stairs to the uppermost floor of the tall shaft-house. An empty cage that had just deposited its load of copper conglomerate was again ready to descend into the black depths, and, hurrying Peveril forward, Mark Trefethen, with half a dozen other miners, entered it. An iron gate closed behind them and a gong clanged in the engine-house. "Hold fast, lad, and remember there's no danger," was all that the timber boss had time to say. Then the bottom seemed to drop out of everything, and Peveril, experiencing the sickening sensation of having left his stomach at the top of the shaft, found himself rushing downward with horrible velocity through utter blackness. Instinctively reaching out for something by which to hold on, he clutched a rough-coated arm, but his grasp was rudely shaken off, and a gruff voice bade him keep his hands to himself. He could not frame an answer, for his brain was in a whirl, his ears were filled with a dull roaring, and a whistling rush of air caught away his breath. The motion of the cage was so smooth and noiseless that after a while he could not tell whether it were going up or down, though it seemed to be doing both, as though poised on a gigantic spring. At length faint glimmers of light began to flash past as it shot by the mouths of working levels, and finally it stopped with a jerk that threw its passengers into a confused huddle. A gate was flung open, and as Peveril stumbled out of the cage he was only conscious of dancing lights, a crashing rumble of iron against iron, and a medley of shouting voices. At the same time all these sounds seemed far away and unreal. CHAPTER VI A MILE BENEATH THE SURFACE "Swallow, lad!" Mark Trefethen uttered the words, and Peveril, dimly comprehending him, instinctively obeyed. The effect of that simple muscular action was marvellous. His brain was instantly cleared of its weight, the ringing in his ears ceased, and his hearing was restored to its normal keenness. At the same time he was happily conscious that his stomach had been restored to its proper position. "This is plat of bottom level, and we're a mile underground," continued Mark. "They put us down in one-thirty this time, but often they do it ten seconds better." "I wonder how much longer it would take to drop from a balloon one mile above the earth?" reflected Peveril, at the same time gazing about him with a lively interest. The place in which he stood was a spacious room, hewn from solid rock. Lighted by several lanterns and little, flaring mine-lamps, it was also smoothly floored with iron plates, and from it a narrow-gauge railway led away into the blackness. Articles of clothing and dinner-pails were hung about the walls, and on the side opposite the shaft was a bench of rude workmanship. Every few minutes an iron car holding several tons of copper rock was run into the plat with a tremendous clatter from the little railway that penetrated to every "drift" and "stope" of the level. Each of these cars was pushed by a team of three wild-looking men, who were stripped naked to the waist. Their haggard faces and naked bodies were begrimed with powder-smoke, stained red with ore-dust, and gleamed in the fitful lamp-light with trickling rivulets of perspiration. The car-pushers were all foreigners--Italians, Bohemians, Hungarians, or Poles--and the uncouth jargon of their shouts intensified the wildness of their appearance. Theirs was the very lowest form of mine drudgery, and but few of them were possessed of intelligence or ambition sufficient to raise them above it. One, who was accounted somewhat brighter than his fellows, by whom he was regarded as a leader, had indeed been promoted on trial by the timber boss to a position in his own gang. He was a perfect brute for strength, but so densely ignorant and of such sullen disposition that when a better man was offered, in the person of Dick Peveril, the boss was only too glad to return him to his hated task of car-pushing and accept the new-comer in his place. His sentence of degradation, pronounced only the day before, had been received as a personal affront by every wild-eyed car-pusher of the mine. All knew that some one must fill the place from which their leader had been ousted, and all were prepared to hate him the moment his identity should be disclosed. Thus, as Peveril stumbled awkwardly out of the cage in which he had just made that breathless, mile-deep descent, he was instantly spotted as being a new man, and a team of car-pushers, slaking their thirst at a water-barrel in one corner of the plat, gazed at him with scowling intentness, that they might minutely describe his appearance to their fellows. As he knew nothing of the circumstances through which a place had been made for him, he paid no attention to these men, other than to note their savage appearance as a feature of his novel surroundings. In fact, he had barely time to take a single comprehensive glance around the plat before a man who had been one of his fellow-passengers in the cage remarked, sneeringly: "Pretty well scared, wasn't you, young feller?" "Yes, I was," replied Peveril, turning and facing his questioner. "But how did you know it?" "By the way you grabbed my arm. If you'd done it again I'd have punched your head; for I don't 'low no man to catch holt on me that way." Peveril had already recognized the speaker's face; but, without deigning a further reply, he turned to Mark Trefethen and said: "Will you kindly give me the name of this unpleasant person, as I wish to file it away in my memory for future reference?" "Person be blowed!" exclaimed the man, stepping forward with a menacing gesture. "What do you mean by calling me names, you damned--" "Shut up, Mike Connell, and go about your business," commanded the timber boss. "Come, lad, he's not worth noticing," and, thus saying, Mark Trefethen led Peveril away. Although the car-pushers had not caught the words of this brief conversation, they had readily understood Mike Connell's threatening gesture towards the new-comer, and several times during that day one or more of them might have been seen in low-voiced consultation with the scowling-faced Irishman. "Here, lad, fill lamp wi' sunlight," said the timber boss, as he and his protégé were leaving the plat. "First rule of mine is always have lamp in trim, and carry candle, besides plenty of matches in pocket." With this Mark scooped up in his hand a small quantity of a stiff, whitish substance from an open box beside them, and stuffed it into his lamp. The box was indeed marked "Sunlight," but when Peveril followed his companion's example he found its contents to be merely solidified paraffine. With their lamps well filled and flaring brightly, the two walked for half a mile through a dry and well-ventilated gallery, which had been driven by drill and blast through solid rock, and from which thousands of tons of copper had been taken. Now Peveril learned for the first time what "timbering" a mine meant, and realized the necessity for the huge piles of great logs that he had seen above ground in close proximity to the shaft. Not only had it been incased on all four sides by logs mortised together and laid up like the walls of a house, but the drift through which he now walked was timbered from end to end. Its roof was upheld by huge tree-trunks standing from ten to twenty feet apart, and occasionally in groups of three or four together. Supported by them, and pressing against the roof or "hanging," were other great timbers known as "wall plates," and behind these was a compactly laid sheathing of split timber spoken of as "lagging." As the two men advanced deeper into the drift, an occasional ore-car, pushed by its panting human team, rumbled heavily past, while every now and then came dull, tremulous shocks like those of an earthquake. These were blasts on other levels, or in other parts of the one on which they were. At sound of a confused shouting from somewhere ahead of them, they stood still until, with a crashing roar that bellowed and echoed through the galleries like a peal of loudest thunder, one of these blasts was fired close at hand. A minute later they were enveloped in a pungent smoke, through which twinkled dimly a score of lights. Brawny, half-naked forms were already wielding pick and shovel amid the masses of rock just loosened, a powerful air-drill was being placed in position for another attack upon the wall of tough rock, and a small timber gang was struggling to hoist a huge log that they called a "stull" into position. "Here's the place, lad. Take hold and give a lift. Now, boys, altogether"! shouted Mark Trefethen, and in another moment Dick Peveril found himself hard at work. Within a few minutes the new hand was as begrimed and dripping with perspiration as any member of the gang, all of whom exchanged significant glances as they noted the willingness with which he exerted his great strength. Never had the heavy timbers been set in place so quickly, and never in their remembrance had a green hand "caught on" so readily. "He won't last long, though, at that pace," remarked one of the older men to Trefethen, as he paused to wipe the sweat-drops from his eyes, "he's too fresh." "Perhaps not," replied the timber boss. "We'll give him a bit of a try, though, before dropping him," and then he walked away to inspect the operations of another gang in a distant part of the mine. Late that day, as Peveril's first shift of work drew towards its close, he ached in every part of his body, but was learning his new trade so rapidly that his fellows were already beginning to regard him as one of the best men in their gang. He had made several trips to and from the foot of the timber-shaft in company with others, and so, when, shortly before quitting time, the foreman of his gang sang out: "Oh, Peril! Just run back to the stack and bring us one of them small sprags. Hurry, now!" the new man started without a moment's hesitation. He found his way without difficulty to the timber pile, and began a search for such a piece as he had been told to fetch. The better to see what he was doing, he removed the lamp from his hat and held it low in front of him, in which position his own face was clearly revealed by its light. While he was thus engaged, a miner, who, with his day's work finished, was walking towards the plat, paused to regard him. The man's face bore a malicious expression, and he seemed to meditate some mischief towards the unsuspecting youth, for he clinched his fists and took a step in Peveril's direction. Just then the rumble of an approaching car caused him to pause and wait until it should pass. As it came abreast of him he recognized one of its pushers, and drew him aside, while the car, still propelled by two members of its team, moved on out of sight. Without a word the miner directed his companion's attention to the figure still bending over the log pile, and made several significant gestures. The brutish face of the pusher lighted with an ugly leer, expressive of understanding, and he began to move cautiously towards the man who had that day displaced him from the timber gang. As he had left his light on the car, there was nothing to warn Peveril of his approach until he was close at hand and about to deliver a cowardly blow. At that instant the mysterious premonition that always gives warning of human presence caused the young man to turn his head. Although he was too late to avoid the impending blow, it was deflected by his movement, and instead of stunning him it merely caused him to stagger and drop his lamp. He also partially warded off a closely following second blow, and then his own terrible fist was planted with crashing force full on his assailant's jaw. [Illustration: THE CAR-PUSHERS MADE A FURIOUS ATTACK ON PEVERIL] The man uttered a scream of agony, covered his face with his hands, and started to run. At this moment the other two car-pushers appeared on the scene, and with fierce cries began a furious attack upon the young man whom they had sworn either to kill or drive from the mine. At this time the battleground was only dimly illumined by the flickering light of the miner who was thus far sole spectator of the contest. Peveril fought in dogged silence, but his assailants uttered shrill cries in an unknown tongue. Attracted by these, other lights began to appear from both directions, and all at once Mark Trefethen's gruff tones were heard demanding to know what was going on. At this sound Peveril uttered a joyful shout, while at the same moment the light in Mike Connell's hat was extinguished. Recognizing his protégé's voice, the timber boss sprang to his side, and within another minute the two car-pushers would have been annihilated had not the coming of a second car given them a reinforcement of three more half-naked savages. Thus beset and outnumbered by more than two to one, Trefethen thought it no shame to call for aid, and, uplifting his mighty voice, he sent rolling and echoing through the rock-bound galleries the rallying cry of the Cornishmen: "One and all for Cornwall! One and all!" CHAPTER VII CORNWALL TO THE RESCUE "One and all!" The rallying-cry of the most clannish county in England. The one in which, from Land's End to Plymouth Sound, every family claims some degree of cousinship with every other, until, at home and abroad, "Cousin Richard" is the name proudly borne by all Cornishmen. "One and all!" As the startling cry rang through the black underground depths it was heard and answered, caught up and repeated, until it penetrated the remotest corners of the far-reaching level. At its sound the men of Cornwall, working in stope or drift, breast or cross-cut, dropped their tools and sprang to obey its summons. By twos and threes they ran, shouting the magic words that Cornish tongues have carried around the world. They met in eager groups, each demanding to know who had first given the alarm and its cause. As none could answer, and the shouts still came from far away, they swept on, in ever-increasing numbers and with growing anxiety, for the call of Cornwall is never given save in an emergency. In the meantime the fight between two and five rages with unabated fury; the two, with their backs to a wall, putting up the splendid defence of trained boxers against the fierce but untaught rush of mere brutes. Science, however, labored under the disadvantage of fighting in a gloom that was almost darkness, for Mark Trefethen's lamp had been extinguished at the outset, and the only one still burning was on a car standing at a distance from them. Of a sudden the timber boss heard a groan at his side, and found himself fighting alone. His comrade had sunk limply to the ground, and an exultant yell from the others proclaimed their knowledge that they had no longer to fear his telling blows. As they were about to rush in and complete their victory, the battle-cry of Cornwall, accompanied by the flash of many lights, came rolling down the gallery. Help was close at hand. If Mark Trefethen could hold out for another minute he would be surrounded by friends. With an answering shout of "One and all!" he sprang to meet his assailants, and, realizing their danger, they fled before him. At the same instant the lamp on their car disappeared, and in the utter darkness that followed Trefethen could only grope his way back to Peveril's side. A moment later the flaring lights of the Cornish miners disclosed the old man, with face battered and bleeding, standing grimly undaunted beside the motionless form of the newest comer to the mine. The latter lay unconscious, with an ugly wound on the side of his head, from which blood was flowing freely. It had been made by a fragment of copper rock, evidently taken from the loaded car close at hand, and flung from that direction. Several other similar pieces were picked up near where the two men had defended themselves, and, now that Trefethen had time for reflection, he recalled having heard these crash against the wall behind him. Who had flung them was a mystery, as was the cause of the attack on Peveril. Even the identity of his assailants seemed likely to remain unrevealed, for these had slipped away in the darkness, and though the rescuing party searched the level like a swarm of angry hornets, they could not discover a man bearing on his person any signs of the recent fray. In the gloom shrouding the scene of conflict, Mark Trefethen had not been able to recognize those with whom he fought, but only knew them to be foreigners and car-pushers. It afterwards transpired that a number of these had, on that evening, made their way to a shaft a mile distant, and so gained the surface. One of them was reported to have had his head tied up as the result of an accident, but no one had recognized him. While certain of the Cornishmen searched the mine, Trefethen and others bore the still unconscious form of Richard Peveril to the plat, and sounded the alarm signal of five bells. Nothing so startles a mining community as to have this signal come from underground. It may mean death and disaster. It surely means that there are injured men to be brought up to the surface, and the time elapsing before their arrival is always filled with deepest anxiety. It was so in the present case, and when the cage containing the two battered miners, one of whom had also every appearance of being dead, emerged from the shaft, a throng of spectators was waiting to greet it. These learned with a great sigh of relief that there had been no accident, but merely a fight, in which the men just brought up were supposed to be the only ones injured. Their revulsion of feeling led many of the spectators to treat the whole affair as a joke, especially as the only person seriously hurt was a stranger. "It's always new-comers as stirs up shindies," growled a miner who, having reached the surface a few minutes earlier, formed one of the expectant group. "They ought not to be let underground, I say." "How about Trefethen?" asked a voice. "He's no new-comer." "Oh, Mark's a quarrelsome old cuss, who's always meddling where he has no call." "You lie, Mike Connell, and you know it. My father never fights without good cause," cried Tom Trefethen, who had arrived just in time to resent the slurring remark. "I'll teach you, you young whelp!" shouted the miner, springing furiously forward; but Tom leaped aside, leaving the other to be confronted by several burly Cornishmen, in whose ears was still ringing the cry of "One and all!" "Lad's right, Maister Connell," said one of these. "If 'ee doan't believe it, come along and get proof." But the Irishman, muttering something about not caring to fight all Cornwall, turned abruptly and walked away. Tom Trefethen, not yet knowing that Peveril had been hurt, also hurried away to find his father, who, having left his young friend in the hands of the mine surgeon, had gone to change his clothing. At the same time poor Peveril lay in a small room of the shaft-house, having the gash in his head sewn up. Several spectators regarded the operation curiously, and among them was a gentleman, addressed by the doctor as Mr. Owen, whom none of the others remembered to have seen before, but who seemed to take a great interest in the still unconscious sufferer. "Do you consider it a serious case, doctor?" he asked. "No. Not at all serious. These miners are a tough lot, and not easily done for, as you'll find out before you have seen as much of them as I have. This one will probably be out and at work again in a day or two. I'm always having such little jobs on my hands, the results of accident, mostly, though this, I believe, is a case of fighting, something very uncommon in our mine, I can assure you. Splendid physique, hasn't he? Savage-looking face, though. Hate to trust myself alone with him. I understand old Mark Trefethen had a hard tussle before he brought him to terms." "What was the trouble?" "I don't know, exactly. Insubordination, I suppose; but old Mark don't put up with any nonsense." "Do you know this fellow's name, or anything about him?" "Um--yes. I have learned something, but not much. His name is Peril--Richard Peril. Odd name, isn't it? He's a new-comer, and, like yourself, has just entered the company's employ. Rather a contrast in your positions, though. Illustrates the difference between one brought up and educated as a gentleman, and one destined from the first for the other thing, eh? It is all poppycock to say that education can make a gentleman; don't you think so? In the present case, for instance, I doubt if even Oxford could make a gentleman of this fellow. His whole expression is a protest against such a supposition. But now he's coming to all right, and I'm glad of it, for I have an engagement at the club, and don't want to spend much more time with him." Poor Peveril, whose begrimed and blood-streaked face was not calculated to prepossess one in his favor, began just then to have a realizing sense that he was still alive, and the doctor, bending over him, said: "There now, my man, you are doing nicely, and by taking care of yourself you will be about again in a day or two. You had a close call, though, and it's a warning to behave yourself in the future; for I can assure you that one given to fighting or disobedience of orders is not allowed to linger in these parts. I must leave you now, but will call again this evening to see how you are getting along. What is your address?" "He lives along of us, sir," answered Tom Trefethen, who had just entered the room; "and if you think it's safe to move him, we'll take him right home." "Certainly you can move him; in fact, he could walk if there was no other way; but it will be as well to take him in a carriage. Let me see, your name is Trefethen, is it not?" "Yes, sir." "Very well; put your boarder to bed as soon as you get him home, keep him quiet, give him only cooling drinks, and I'll call round after a while. Now I must hurry along." The stranger, who walked away with the self-important young doctor, was none other than Peveril's Oxford classmate--"Dig" Owen--who, having obtained a position in the Eastern office of the White Pine Mining Company, had been advised to visit the mine and learn something of its practical working before assuming his new duties. He had just arrived when the rumor of an accident caused him to hurry to the shaft-mouth. There he was thunderstruck at recognizing in one of the two men brought up from the depths his recent college-mate and rival. In the excitement of the moment he had very nearly betrayed the fact of their acquaintance, but managed to restrain himself, and was afterwards careful to keep out of Peveril's sight, foreseeing a great advantage to himself by so doing. That same evening he sat in the comfortable writing-room of the club-house--at which poor Peveril had gazed with envious eyes--and composed a long epistle to Rose Bonnifay, in which he mentioned that he had just run across their mutual friend, Dick Peveril, working as a day-laborer in a copper-mine. "This" [he continued] "is doubtless the mine in which he claimed to be _interested_, and under the circumstances one can hardly blame the poor fellow for putting it in that way. At the same time, I consider it only fair that _you_ should know the real facts in the case. "His misfortunes seem also to have affected his disposition, for on the very day of my arrival he was engaged in a most disgraceful fight with some of his low associates, by whom he was severely and justly punished. Of course I could not afford to recognize him, and so took pains to have him kept in ignorance of my presence. Is it not sad that a fellow of such promise should in so short a time have fallen so low? "Within a few days I shall return to the East, where my own prospects are of the brightest," etc. "There," said Mr. Owen to himself, as he sealed and addressed this letter. "If that don't effectually squelch Mr. Richard Peveril's aspirations in a certain direction, then I'm no judge of human nature." CHAPTER VIII IN THE NEW SHAFT When the mine-surgeon visited his patient that evening he found only Mrs. Trefethen, sitting on the porch and awaiting him, "her men-folk," as she informed him, "being on the trail of they murderers." "Which, if they ain't so many Cainses this night, hit bain't their fault, as I sez to Miss Penny the moment I sees that pore lamb brought into the 'ouse just like 'e was struck down the same as a flower of the field that bloweth where hit listeth; and she sez to me--for me and Miss Penny was wishing at that blessed minute, like hit were providential--she sez--" "It is certainly very kind of you to take such an interest in a stranger," ruthlessly interrupted the doctor; "but may I inquire how my patient is getting along?" "You may indeed, sir, and may the good Lord preserve you from a like harm, which hit make my blood boil to think of my pore Mark's hescape, him being what you might call owdacious to that degree. He were telling me has'ow 'One and hall' was everythink that saved 'im, and they rocks pattering same has 'ailstones hall the time. Law, sir!" "Doubtless, madam, the episode must have been most exciting; but now, if you will allow me to interview the cause of all this trouble, I shall be much obliged." "Trouble, doctor, dear! Don't mention the word when hit's 'im 'eld the life of my Tom in 'is two 'ands, and but for they cruel rocks that battered 'is fore'ead would ha' throttled them rascal pushers same as rattan in tarrier's grip; for my man 'olds there was ne'er a fisticuffer like 'im in hall the Jackets. But, doctor! doctor! Oh, drat the man! now 'e'll go hand wake Maister Peril, which I were a-settin' 'ere a pu'pos' to tell 'im lad's asleep." Impatient of longer delay, and despairing of obtaining a direct answer to his questions, the doctor had indeed slipped into the house and instinctively made his way up-stairs towards the only room in which a light was burning. He was met outside the door by a warning "Sh!" from Nelly Trefethen, who had been left on guard by her mother, and together they entered the room where the wounded man lay tossing in restless slumber. The doctor started at close sight of him, and for a moment refused to believe that the handsome, high-bred face, from which every trace of grime and blood had been carefully removed, was that of the young fellow who, he had declared, could never become a gentleman. Only the evidence of his own handiwork, in shape of the bandages still swathing Peveril's head, served to convince him that this was indeed his patient of the shaft-house. After a few minutes of observation he left the room, without awakening the sleeper, and gave his directions for the night down-stairs. He also questioned Nelly closely concerning the young man who had so aroused his curiosity, but she could only tell him that the stranger's name was "Peril," that he had come to Red Jacket in search of work, had saved her brother's Tom's life, and had in consequence been given a job in the mine. "But he is evidently a gentleman?" said the doctor. "Claims to be working-man," put in Mrs. Trefethen. "He can be both, can't he, mother?" asked Nelly, somewhat sharply. "Surely you think father is a gentleman." "Not same as him yonder," replied the older woman, stoutly. "Well, I don't care what he is or isn't," answered the girl, with a toss of her pretty head, "he hasn't shown any sign yet of holding himself above us, and Tom thinks he is just splendid. If he was here he wouldn't hear a word said against him, I know that much." "Save us, lass! Who's said aught 'gainst thy young man?" "He's not my young man, mother, and you know it. Can't a girl stand up for a stranger who saved her brother's life, and who has just been knocked senseless while fighting beside her own father, without being twitted about him?" "Certainly she can," replied the doctor, with an admiring glance at the girl's spirited pose and flushed face. "But have a care, Miss Nelly. There's nothing so dangerous to a girl's peace of mind as an interesting invalid of the opposite sex." "Thank you, for nothing, doctor, and you needn't fret one little bit about me. We Red Jacket girls can take care of ourselves without going to any man for advice." "Save us, lass, but thee's getting a pert hussy!" cried Mrs. Trefethen; but the doctor only laughed, and took his departure, promising to call again the next day. He had hardly gone before Mark Trefethen returned, filled with excitement over certain discoveries he had just made. One was that the car-pushers of the mine had sworn either to force Peveril from it or to kill him. He had also learned that Rothsky, the Bohemian, who had been found wanting when tried in the timber gang, had led the attack of that evening, and had received a broken jaw in consequence. The identity of the two car-pushers who were with him at the time having also been discovered, the captain of the mine had promptly discharged all three. Moreover, the Cornish miners had sworn that if either their own leader or his protégé were again molested while underground they would drive every foreign car-pusher from the workings. When Tom came home he confided to his father a belief that Mike Connell had been at the bottom of all the recent deviltry, but, as he confessed that he could not verify his suspicions, Mark Trefethen bade him keep them to himself. "We'll not take away any man's character, lad," he said, "without proof that he deserves to lose it. But if ever I know for certain that Mike Connell had hand in this, lat him have a care o' me. As for yon Dick Peril, there's no fear but what he can look out for hissel', now that we can warn him of his enemies." For two days Peveril kept his bed, assiduously waited on by Mrs. Trefethen and her daughter, watched over at night by Tom, and an object of anxious solicitude to the entire family. Then he was allowed to venture down-stairs, while the children were driven from the house, that they might not disturb him. Before the week ended he was taking short walks, escorted by Miss Nelly, who was only too proud to show off this new cavalier before the other girls of her acquaintance. Several times as the doctor saw them thus together he shook his head doubtfully. During one of these walks Peveril made the joyful discovery of a public library, and thereafter much of his convalescence was passed within its walls. There he read with avidity all that he could find concerning the Lake Superior copper region, and mining in general. Particularly was he interested in everything pertaining to the prehistoric mining of copper by a people, presumably Aztecs or their close kin, who possessed the art, long since lost, of tempering that metal. All this time he never for a moment forgot the object of his coming to that country, nor neglected a possible opportunity for gaining news of the mine in which he believed himself to be a half-owner. Thus, in all his reading, as well as in his conversations with Mark Trefethen and other miners, he always sought for information concerning the Copper Princess, but could find none. His books had nothing to say on the subject, and, while the men knew by report of many abandoned mining properties, they had not heard of one bearing the name in question. Finally, chafing under this enforced idleness, as well as under the poverty that compelled him to be a pensioner on those who could ill afford to support him, Peveril announced his complete restoration to health, and declared his intention of again going to work. Mark Trefethen tried to persuade him to wait a while longer before thus testing his strength, but without avail, and at length, finding the young man set in his determination, used his influence to procure for him a temporary situation in which the work would be much lighter than with the timber gang. This job was in a shaft then being sunk by the White Pine Company, and included a certain supervision of the explosives used in blasting. The new shaft was already down several hundred feet, and was being driven through solid rock by drill and blast, at the rate of twenty feet per week. Of course there was no regular running of cages up and down as yet, but the loosened material was hoisted to the surface in a big iron bucket, or "skip," and in this the miners engaged in the work also travelled back and forth. The great opening was a rectangle twenty-two by six and a half feet, and to sink it a series of holes was drilled around its sides. Then all the men but one were sent to the surface, while Peveril descended with a load of dynamite and a fuse. The man left at the bottom was always an experienced miner, and it was his duty to charge the holes, place and light the fuses, which were timed to burn for several minutes, jump into the skip and give the signal for hoisting. In all of this work he was of course assisted by Peveril, and when their task was completed the two men were lifted to the surface as quickly as possible. After our young friend had been engaged in this delicate business some two weeks, and had become thoroughly familiar with its details, he was disagreeably surprised one day, upon descending with his freight of explosives, to find Mike Connell awaiting him at the bottom of the shaft. The Irishman seemed equally annoyed at seeing him, but the purpose for which they were there must be accomplished, and so, glad as each would have been for a more congenial companion, they set doggedly to work. When Connell, in a spirit of bravado, handled the sticks of dynamite with criminal recklessness, and finally managed to drop one of them close beside Peveril, the latter sharply commanded him to be more careful. "Afraid, are you?" sneered the other. "Yes, I am afraid to work with a man who knows so little of his business as you appear to," answered Peveril. "Go to the top then, and lave me to finish the job alone. Lord knows, I don't want no dealings with a coward." "It makes no difference what you want or do not want," answered the younger man steadily, though with a hot flush mounting to his cheeks. "I was sent here for a certain duty, and intend to stay until I have performed it." "And I've a great mind to do what I ought to have done the first day you struck Red Jacket, and that is to punch your head." "You shall have a chance to try it when we get to the surface." "Where you think you'll find friends to protect you. No, by ----, I'll do it now!" With this the Irishman sprang forward with clinched fists, but the other, being on guard, caught him so deft a blow under the chin that he dropped like a log. Then, with the full exercise of his strength, the young Oxonian picked his enemy up and dropped him into the skip. After doing which he proceeded to complete arrangements for the blast. He worked with nervous haste, and did not see that his enemy had so far recovered as to be watching him with an expression of deadly hate over the side of the great iron bucket. But it was so, and, just as Peveril had lighted the several fuses, Connell gave the signal to hoist. The movement of the skip disclosed his devilish purpose in time for Peveril to spring and catch with outstretched arms one of its supporting bars. With a mighty effort he drew himself up, and, in spite of Connell's furious attempts to prevent him, gained its interior. At that moment something went wrong with the hoisting machinery, the upward movement was arrested, and the bucket hung motionless not more than ten feet above the deadly mine. In the awfulness of their common danger, the men forgot their enmity and gazed at each other with horror-stricken eyes. Then, with a groan of despair, Mike Connell sank limply to the bottom of the skip. CHAPTER IX WINNING A FRIEND BY SHEER PLUCK Peveril's lamp had been extinguished during his struggle to force an entrance into the skip, while that in Mike Connell's hat went out as he sank helpless from terror and crouched at the other's feet. So the blackness that shrouded them as with a pall was only faintly illumined by the fitful flashing of the fuses that hissed like so many fiery serpents beneath them. Their red eyes gleamed spitefully through the gloom, and for an instant Peveril, leaning over the side of the skip, gazed at them in fascinated helplessness. Then he leaped down among them and began to tear them from their connection with the devilish forces that only awaited a signal to burst forth and destroy him. The fiery serpents bit at him as he flung them, to writhe in impotent rage, where they could do no harm; but he heeded not the pain, and after a little they expired, one by one, hissing spitefully to the last. Some of them had already burned so low that he could not pluck them forth, and was forced to stamp out their venomous lives with the constant knowledge that, should a single spark escape this imperfect method of extinguishment, he would still be lost. So fiercely did he labor that in less than one minute the last visible spark from a score of fuses had glimmered out, and he stood in absolute darkness. But he must wait for a full minute more before he could be certain that none had escaped him, to creep viciously down through the loose tamping and still reach the hidden dynamite. It was a period of the same helpless anxiety that immediately precedes the hearing of a sentence that may be either one of death or acquittal. While it lasted Peveril was bathed in a cold perspiration, his brain reeled, and his limbs trembled until he was obliged to lean against the side of the shaft for support. As second after second dragged itself away, until it was finally certain that sixty of them had passed, and that sentence had been pronounced in his favor, the young miner sank to his knees and framed, as best he could, a prayer of gratitude. How long he thus remained in grateful contemplation of his narrow escape from death he never knew, but he was at length aroused by a shout from above, and, looking up, saw an approaching light twinkling like a star of good promise through the blackness. The call that came to him was one of anxious uncertainty; but, as his answering shout sped upward, it was changed to an exultant cry of joy. Then came cheer after cheer as the skip slowly descended until it finally reached the bottom, and a solitary figure sprang from it. [Illustration: PEVERIL LEAPED DOWN AMONG THE SPUTTERING FUSES] This person acted like a crazy man, first flinging his arms about Peveril, and then falling on his knees at the young man's feet, with a torrent of words in which praise and gratitude were mingled with pleas for forgiveness. He was Peveril's recent companion and avowed enemy, who, after the former had leaped from the skip, had leaned weakly over its side and watched with fascinated gaze the struggle for life going on below him. Ere it was ended, the hoisting-machinery began again to work, and the skip was suddenly impelled upward with breathless speed. Those who witnessed its safe arrival at the surface had their congratulations changed to exclamations of dismay by the discovery that it contained but a single occupant. Though the time-limit for the explosion was already passed, and though Mike Connell begged them to send him down again at once, they refused to do so until another full minute should elapse. During its slow passage they crowded about the shaft-mouth in breathless silence, listening with strained ears for the awful sound they so dreaded to hear. Even with the minute of safety passed, it was not certain that the explosion might not yet occur; but the young Irishman demanded so fiercely to be instantly lowered to the very bottom that they finally consented to do as he desired. Several were even willing to accompany him, but he waved these back and insisted upon going alone. He had to meet the man to whom he owed his life, as well as a shameful confession of cowardly acts, and he preferred to meet him alone. Two minutes later he was at the bottom of the shaft, kneeling in semi-darkness on its rocky floor, acknowledging his obligation, confessing his guilt, and imploring forgiveness. "You are the bravest man I've ever known, Mister Peril, though I've met them as was counted brave before; but none of them would dare do what you have this day. You have given me my life, and yet I tried twice to take yours, for 'twas me flung that rock in the mine. And--I'm choked with the shame of the black deed--but I gave the signal to hoist the skip a few minutes since, and tried to leave you here to die. I'm a coward and a murderer at heart, Mister Peril, and the dirtiest blackguard that ever was let live. I'm not worthy of your contempt, and yet, sir, I'm going to dare ask a favor of you." "My dear fellow," interrupted Peveril, who was greatly moved by the man's attitude and words of self-condemnation. "Believe me--" "Wait, Mister Peril. Please wait, sir, till you've heard me through. You have the right to hate me, to despise me, or even to kill me, and I'd not lift a finger to prevent you; but I'm going to ask you to forgive me. If you don't, I can never hold up my head or look an honest man in the face again. If you can't forgive me I shall never dare ask the forgiveness of God in heaven." "I do forgive you, with all my heart," exclaimed Peveril, "and there is my hand on it." With this he grasped the young Irishman's hand and almost lifted him to his feet. "You have done a brave deed in coming down here after me," he added, "while there was still danger of an explosion, and one much braver even than that, in confessing your faults. These two things prove that you are not a coward, and from this time on I shall claim you as a friend." "Thank you, Mister Peril, and may God bless you for them words," cried Connell, in a voice choked with feeling. "As for being your friend, sir, I'd be proud to be counted your slave." "I would much rather have a friend than a slave," returned the other, smiling. "And so, if you don't mind, we'll stick to the first proposition. But, Connell, I want to ask you a question. What made you hate me, as you seemed to do from the very first?" "Jealousy, Mister Peril. Just black, bitter jealousy, and nothing at all else." "How could that be, when you didn't even know me?" "Because, sir, I'm near crazy with love for a girl who only laughs at me, and whose folks treat me with contempt. When I first saw you, so strong and handsome and gentleman-like, with her father, and knew he was going to take you to live in the very house along of her, I couldn't help but hate you." "You surely can't mean Miss Trefethen?" "Yes, sir, no other; and when I seen you and her walking together, and she looking up so smiling into your face, I swore I'd kill you if ever I had the chance, and this day the devil gave it to me. But now, Mister Peril, you've proved yourself the best man of us two, and if you want her I'll never again stand in your way." "But I don't want her!" cried Peveril. "Nothing was ever farther from my thoughts; and even if I did, I couldn't have her, because I am engaged to another young lady." "You are, sir? Bless you for them words! And may I tell her that you are already bespoke?" "Certainly; or, better still, I will tell her myself at the very first opportunity I have for speaking with her on such a subject. But, now that everything is settled between us, don't you think we'd better prepare the blast again before we go up? There is fuse enough left in the skip." "Well, you are a game one!" exclaimed Connell, admiringly. "Of course, if you are willing to do it after what you've just gone through, I'm the man to stand by you. Only I do hope as there won't be no hitch in the hoisting this time." The signal, "All's well," having already been sent to the surface, Connell now notified the engineer to be ready to hoist for a blast, and the two set to work. In a few minutes the charge, that had so nearly proved fatal to both of them, was again ready for firing, and the hissing fuses were lighted. Then both men sprang into the skip, the signal to hoist was hurriedly sounded, and away they sped up the black shaft towards the distant sunlight. As they reached the surface and clambered from the skip, aided by a dozen eager hands, there came from the depths below a dull roar and the tremor of a heavy explosion. At this a throng of persons which, to Peveril's surprise, was gathered at the shaft-mouth raised a mighty cheer. Then they crowded tumultuously forward to shake hands with, or even to gaze on, the hero of the hour; for, on his previous visit to surface, Mike Connell had told of Peveril's brave deed, and news of it had already spread far and wide. So the night-shift had paused to see him before entering the mine, and the day-shift had waited to greet him before going to their homes, while others had come from all directions. Waving them all back, and grasping Peveril's hand, Mike Connell shouted: "Wait a minute, mates! Only one minute, and then you shall have a chance at him. First, though, I want you all to know that Mister Peril here has just stepped from the very jaws of hell, where he went of his own free will to save my life. It's proud I am to call him my friend, and for the deed he has done this day I name him the bravest lad in all Red Jacket. If any man denies that, he'll have to settle with Mike Connell, that's all. And now, boys, you may treat him as a brave man deserves to be treated." Poor Peveril, covered with confusion, tried to explain that whatever he had done was for his own salvation as well as for that of his friend, Mr. Connell; but no one would listen. All were too busy with cheering and in crowding forward for a look at him. In another minute he was hoisted on the shoulders of half a dozen sturdy miners, the foremost of whom was proud old Mark Trefethen, and was being borne in triumphal procession through the principal streets of the town. It was a spontaneous tribute of working-men to a fellow-workman; and, gladly as Peveril would have modified the form of the ovation, he was more proud of it than of any ever tendered him for having stroked the Oxford 'varsity eight to a win. CHAPTER X HEROISM REWARDED As the story of Peveril's brave act preceded him, it gained so remarkably in passing from mouth to mouth that, by the time it reached Mrs. Trefethen, she received a confused impression that by some unheard-of bravery the young man had saved all in the mine, including her Mark and her Tom, from instant destruction. Her information having come direct from her dearest friend, Mrs. Penny, she could not doubt its truth, nor had she time to do so before the triumphal procession of miners appeared and halted at her very door. Calling upon Nelly to support her, the worthy woman started forth to greet her heroes, and welcome them with all the warmth of her overflowing heart. As she gained the roadway, she was so blinded by thankful tears that she could not distinguish one person from another, but impulsively flung her arms about the neck of the first man she encountered, who happened to be Mike Connell, and treated him to a hearty embrace. "Gie mun a kiss, lass!" she called to Nelly, as she loosed her arms and made towards another victim. "Nought's too good for they brave lads this day. Oh, Mark, man! but I be proud o' being thy earthly wife, 'stead o' seeing thee in 'eaven this blessed minute." This last was addressed to a bewildered stranger whom Mrs. Trefethen had mistaken for her husband, and who was vainly striving to escape from her encircling arms. "Art crazy, mother, to be hustling men in public street thiccy way? I be 'shamed of 'ee!" cried Mark Trefethen, catching hold of his wife at this moment. "Come along in house, or if 'ee must have man to hug take me or Tom here, or Maister Peril, who deserves it best of all for this day's work." Nothing loath to do as she was bid, Mrs. Trefethen made a third effort to express her feelings towards Peveril, in her own peculiar fashion; but he laughingly evaded her, and she fell instead upon the neck of another astonished stranger who happened in her way, and upon whose head she tearfully called down the choicest blessings of Heaven. "Thee's saved me from widow's grave, lad, which the same, I frequent saz to Miss Penny, I did 'ope never to live to see; but our 'Eveanly Feyther knows best, and if hits 'Is will--But there, I'm that over-set--Nelly, gie Maister Peril a kiss, lass, in token of thy forgiveness for what 'e's done this day." So saying, the well-meaning blunderer released her victim, with the view of allowing Nelly a chance to express her gratitude, and, for the first time, caught sight of his face. "Thee's not Dick Peril!" she cried. "W'at's thee mean by scandalizing honest woman thiccy way? Isn't thee 'shamed on thysel', thou great lump?" The poor man tried in vain to explain his innocence of act or intention, but his voice was drowned in the boisterous laughter of his mates, amid which the crowd gradually dispersed, while Mrs. Trefethen, still exclaiming against the duplicity of men in general, was led into the house by her husband and son. In the meantime Miss Nelly had demurely shaken hands with Mike Connell, who was still gasping in astonishment at the warmth of Mrs. Trefethen's reception. Then she kissed her father and Tom, stole one look at Peveril's face, and, murmuring something about seeing after supper, ran into the house. Although Peveril had not forgotten the promise to his newly made friend to inform Nelly of his own engagement as soon as possible, he had no chance to do so that evening; for supper had hardly been eaten when he began to receive visitors eager to congratulate him upon his recent act of heroism. Among these was Major Arkell, general manager of the mine, whom the young man had never before met. The Trefethens were thrown into a flutter of hospitable pride by the coming to their cottage of so distinguished a visitor, but, after a courteous greeting to them, he devoted his entire attention to him whom he had come purposely to see. After the latter had been introduced to him as "Mr. Peril," he asked so many questions concerning the recent incident as to finally draw out the whole story of that day's experience. He was a good listener, though a man of few words, and during Peveril's narrative gained a very fair idea of our young miner's education and capabilities. When the latter had finished, the major asked him if he proposed to continue his career as a miner. "I expect I shall have to," answered Peveril, "seeing that I am entirely dependent upon my own exertions for a livelihood, and have no knowledge of any other business." "Do you mind telling me what led you to choose this line of work from all others?" "Because," replied Peveril, flushing, "finding myself in Red Jacket without a dollar, I was glad to accept the first job that offered." "And we was only too glad to have him for one of us, major," broke in Mark Trefethen, "seeing as how he introduced himself by saving our Tom's life." "Indeed! I hadn't heard of that. How did it happen?" Glad of an opportunity for singing his young friend's praises, the timber boss eagerly related the incident; and when it was told the manager said, with a smile: "Well, sir, you seem to have such a happy faculty for life-saving that I don't know but what we ought to appoint you inspector of accidents. Seriously, though, I am very glad to have a man of your evident ability and steady nerve with us, and if you are inclined to remain in our employ I shall make it my business to see that your interests do not suffer. So, if you will call at my office about eight o'clock to-morrow morning I shall be pleased to have a further talk with you." "Thank you, sir," rejoined Peveril; "I will not fail to be there." After the great man had departed, the Trefethens indulged in many speculations as to what he intended to do for their guest; nor was Peveril himself devoid of a hopeful curiosity in the same direction. "Mayhap he'll make 'ee store-keeper," suggested Mrs. Trefethen; "hand if 'e only will, Maister Peril, me and Miss Penny 'll take all our trade to thy shop, though they do say has 'ow company ginghams woan't wash, while has for white goods, they've poorest stock in hall Red Jacket. Same time, there's many other little things can be 'ad reasonable, and Miss Penny's a lady as isn't above buying 'er own groceries, which hit's a treat to see 'er taking, a taste of this or a nibble at that, and always giving shopkeeper the benefit of 'er hexperience." "Store-keeper be danged!" growled Mark Trefethen. "'Tisn't likely they'll try to make a counter-jumper outen a lad of Maister Peril's size and weight o' fist, to say nothing of his l'arnin'. No, no. More like he'll get a good berth underground--foreman of gang, or plat boss, or summut like that." Tom thought it might be a job connected with the railroad, which was his own ambition; while Nelly, usually so ready with her tongue, for a wonder kept silent and made no suggestions. On the following morning, when, promptly at eight o'clock, Peveril presented himself at the manager's office, his patience was tried by being compelled to wait in an anteroom for more than an hour while the great man despatched an immense amount of business with many subordinates. Richard could not help overhearing many of the conversations carried on in the private office, and, as he listened, was filled with admiration at the decisive readiness with which the manager disposed of one difficult problem after another. Finally, when all the others had been dismissed, Peveril was summoned to the inner room, where, after a word of regret at having kept him so long in waiting, the manager bade him be seated, and said: "Mr. Peril, it is so evident that you have been accustomed to a position far removed from that of a common laborer, that I am desirous of knowing something more of your life before intrusting you with a responsibility. Do you mind telling me what brought you to this section of country?" "No, sir; I don't know that I do. I came out here ruined in fortune, through no fault of my own, to seek information concerning an old, and, I believe, a long-ago-abandoned mine, known as the Copper Princess." "Um! I remember hearing the name; and, if I am not mistaken, it applied to a worthless property on which a large sum of money was squandered many years since." "Yes, sir." "How are you interested in it?" "My father was an owner, and I am his heir." "I am glad you have told me this, and relieved to find that no worse folly has caused a gentleman to seek employment as a common miner, though I cannot hold out the slightest hope that you will ever recover a dollar from your property. Still, I will make inquiries, and let you know anything I may learn." "Thank you, sir." "Do you know anything about boats?" asked the manager, abruptly changing the subject. "Yes, sir; I have handled boats more or less all my life." "Good! Then I want you to take charge of a gang of men whom you will find awaiting you on the company's tug down at the landing. They are going some distance up the coast, to recover whatever may be found of a valuable timber raft belonging to us, and wrecked near Laughing Fish Cove during the gale of two days ago. All our logs are marked 'W. P.' If you find any such in possession of other parties, you will lay claim to them, and even take them by force if necessary. The tug will leave you at the cove, where you will establish a camp, and to which you will raft the recovered logs, holding them against her return, which will be in about a week. Here is a note of introduction to her captain. Do you understand?" "Yes, sir; I think I do." "Then you may start at once." "Very well, sir;" and the young man, realizing his employer's love of promptness, rose to leave. "By the way," said the other, as he reached the door, "is your name Peril?" "No, sir; it is Peveril." "Richard?" "Yes, sir." "Then this letter is probably for you. It has lain here several days, awaiting a claimant." With this Major Arkell handed the young man a dainty-looking missive that he acknowledged to be for him, and which, as he thrust it into his pocket, he saw with a thrill of joy was addressed in the handwriting of Rose Bonnifay. CHAPTER XI NELLY TREFETHEN FINDS A LETTER Having donned his best suit for the interview with Major Arkell, and realizing that his mine clothing would be more in keeping with the job now on hand, Peveril first hastened home to make the change. He found only Mrs. Trefethen in the house, and at sight of him she expressed an eager curiosity to learn the result of his recent interview. "It's all right," he laughed, as he bounded up the narrow stairway leading to his room. "I'm to turn sailor, and be captain of a craft somewhere up the coast." "Whativer can lad mean?" exclaimed the perplexed woman. "'Im a sailor! Did iver any one 'ear the like o' that? Oh, Maister Peril! be iver coming back?" "Of course I am!" shouted Peveril from the little upper room, in which he was hastily changing his clothing. "I shall be back whenever my ship comes in, which will probably be in a week, or it may take a few days longer. There's a wreck, you know, and I am going to save the pieces. But I'll be down directly." "A wrack!" gasped Mrs. Trefethen, "and 'im in hit! Save us! but 'twill be worse than down shaft. Shaft be dry land, anyway, but they awful sea that rageth like a lion seeking whom it may devour. Oh, Maister Peril!" "Yes, coming!" The young man was just then making a hasty transfer of the contents of his pockets, besides cramming into those of his working-suit several articles that he imagined might prove useful. At that moment an impatient whistle from the timber train that would take him to the landing warned him that he had no more time to spare, and, snatching his hat, he sprang down the stairway. "Good-bye, Mrs. Trefethen!" he cried. "Tell Miss Nelly she sha'n't be turned out of her own room any longer, and tell her--But never mind; only tell her that I will have something important to say to her when I come back. Give her my love, and--" Here his words were cut short by another shrill whistle from the waiting train; and Peveril ran from the house, shouting back "Good-bye!" as he went, and leaving the good woman gasping with the breathless flurry of his departure. When Nelly Trefethen reached home a half-hour later she received such a confused account of what had just happened as caused her rosy cheeks to take on a deeper color and filled her with a strange agitation. Mr. Peril had gone to be a sailor, and would come back very shortly as captain of a ship. Perhaps it would be a splendid, great steamer, such as she had seen lying at the Marquette ore docks. He had left his love for her; he would have something of the greatest importance to say the next time he saw her; and she was not to be turned out of her room again. What could he mean by that, and what a very strange thing it was for a young man to say? Since he had said it to her mother, though, it must have meant--Oh dear! how she wished she had not gone out that morning, and what an endless time a whole week seemed! At length, anxious to escape from her mother's torrent of words, and to be alone with her own thoughts, the blushing girl fled up-stairs on the pretence of putting Mr. Peril's room in order. The very first thing she spied on entering the room, about which his belongings were scattered in every direction, was a letter lying on the floor, and almost hidden beneath the bed. Picking it up, she was surprised to find it sealed, and still more so to note that it was addressed to Mr. Richard _Peveril_. How could that be? Was their guest living among them under an assumed name? No, of course he wouldn't do such a thing; and this letter must have been handed to him by mistake. That was the reason why he had not opened it. The names were very much alike in sound, though so differently spelled. Besides, this letter was addressed in a lady's handwriting, and evidently came from some foreign country. She knew Mr. Peril was an American, because he had said so. He had also told them that he was, so far as he knew, without a relative in the world, so there were no sisters or young lady cousins to write to him. She did not think he could be engaged, because he had never mentioned the fact, while all the other young men of her acquaintance were in the habit of talking very freely about their "best girls," if they were so fortunate as to have such. Besides, had not Mr. Peril just left his love for _her_, and a message to the effect that he had something very important to tell _her_? She would keep this hateful letter, though, and confront him with it the moment she saw him again. Then his manner would convey the information she wanted. How she did long to open it and just glance at its contents! The impulse to do this was so strong that only by thrusting the letter into her pocket could she resist it. Now the innocent cause of her perplexity seemed to burn like a coal of fire until she again drew it forth. A dozen times that day did she do this, with the temptation to set her doubts at rest by tearing open the sealed envelope always assailing her with increased force. Finally, to her great relief, an honorable way of escaping this temptation presented itself. She would return the horrid letter to the post-office. From there, if it were indeed for Mr. Peril, he would in due course of time receive it, as he had before; while, if it were intended for some one else, it would be delivered to its rightful owner. This plan was no sooner conceived than executed; and, as the troublesome missive disappeared through the narrow slit of the post-office letter-box, the girl heaved a sigh of relief. When, the very next day, that identical letter was advertised on the post-office bulletin, and Nelly Trefethen saw the notice, she was assured that she had done the right thing. For ten days that advertisement stared her in the face whenever she visited the office, and then, to her great satisfaction, it disappeared. Rose Bonnifay's message from across the sea had gone to the place of "dead" letters, but Nelly believed that it had at last found its rightful owner. On the very evening of Peveril's departure Miss Nelly's old sweetheart, Mike Connell, joined her for a walk, and, after much preliminary conversation, finally plucked up courage to ask if Mr. Peril had told her anything of importance before going away. "What should he have to tell me?" asked the girl, evasively. "He might have tould you that he liked you better than any other girl in the world," was the diplomatic answer. "You know he'd never say a thing like that, Mr. Connell," cried Nelly, blushing furiously. "Well, then, he might have said he was already bespoke." "I don't believe it." "It's true, all the same." "What right have you to say so?" asked Nelly, whose face was now quite pale. "The right of his own words, for he telled me so himself." "Who is she?" "He didn't say." "Where does she live, then?" "Divil a bit do I know." "I don't believe you know anything at all about it. You are just making up a story to tease me." "T'asing you is the last thing I'd be thinking of, Nelly darlin', except it was t'asing ye to marry me. No, alanna, it's the truth I'm telling you, and if you can't believe me just ax him. At the same time, I'm sore hurted that ye should be caring whether he's bespoke or no." "I will ask him," answered the girl, "and until I do I'll thank you, Mr. Connell, never to mention Mr. Peril's name again." "Not even to tell you what a brave, bowld lad he is, and how handsome?" "You'd not be telling me anything I don't know." "But, darlin', when he tells you with his own mouth that he's already bespoke and not to be had at all, you'll not refuse a bit of hope to one who loves the very ground trod by your two little feet." "Good-night, Mr. Connell. Here's the door, and I'm going in." In the meantime Peveril, after bidding good-bye to Mrs. Trefethen, had been whirled away by the little timber train to a landing on the lake shore, where he found the tug _Broncho_ awaiting him. Towing behind it was a light double-ended skiff, and on its narrow deck he saw three men, dressed very much as he was himself, whom he knew must be those chosen to assist him in his forthcoming labors. One of them was a bright-looking French Canadian, while the others were evidently foreigners of the same class as the car-pushers in the mine. The captain of the tug was a Yankee named Spillins. The latter glanced over the note from Major Arkell that the new-comer handed him, and said, "All right, Mr. Peril; if you're ready for a start, I am." "Yes," replied Peveril, "I'm ready," and in another minute they were off. As they got under way the young leader of the expedition walked aft to make the acquaintance of his men. He was annoyed to find that, while two of them were brawny fellows who looked well fit for work, they could not muster a dozen words of English between them. Noting his efforts to converse with them, the third man, who introduced himself as Joe Pintaud, came to his assistance. "No goot you talk to dem Dago feller, Mist Pearl," he said; "zey can spik ze Anglais no more as woodchuck. You tell 'em, 'dam lazy scoundrel,' zey onstan pret goot; but, by gar, you talk lak white man you got kick it in hees head." Realizing the truth of Joe Pintaud's words, Peveril left the others to a stolid smoking of their long-stemmed pipes, and sought whatever information their more intelligent companion had to give concerning their present undertaking. He quickly discovered that, while Joe was as ignorant as himself of that coast, he was an expert raftsman and logger. He also found that the tug carried a good supply of rope, axes, pike-poles, and other things necessary for the work in hand. After having satisfied himself on these points, Peveril gazed for a while at the bleak, rock-bound coast along which they were running, and then, suddenly bethinking himself of a pleasure that he had reserved for a leisure moment, he entered the pilot-house, and, sitting down on a cushioned locker behind Captain Spillins, who stood at the wheel, began to feel in his pockets. As he did this his movements grew more and more impatient, until finally, with a muttered exclamation, he turned the entire contents of his pockets out on the cushion. "Lost something?" asked the captain, looking around. "Yes." "Not your money, I hope." "No, but a letter that was worth more to me than all the money in the world." "Whew!" whistled the captain. "Must have been important." CHAPTER XII A VISION OF THE CLIFFS Rose Bonnifay had acted more from impulse than from real feeling when she consented to become engaged to Richard Peveril. As a popular Oxford man and stroke of the 'varsity eight he was a hero to attract almost any girl. His wealth was by no means to be despised, and it would certainly be a fine thing to have him in devoted attendance during her proposed trip to Norway. She was greatly disappointed at his failure to rejoin them, and wondered what he could mean by announcing the loss of his fortune when he was still the owner of a gold-mine. Miss Rose said "gold"-mine to herself, because, while Peveril had not specified the character of his property, she imagined all Western mines to be gold-bearing. Of course, too, their owners must be wealthy. So she hoped for the best; and, while realizing that she was not at all in love, determined to let her engagement hold good for the present. Under the circumstances she felt that this decision was very creditable to her loyalty, which, however, was sadly shaken by Owen's first gossipy letter from New York. With its disquieting news still fresh in her mind, she received a second that completely dispelled her illusions, and caused her to wonder how she could ever have been so foolish as to engage herself to a man of whom she knew so little. This second letter, which contained the cruel distortion of facts penned by Mr. Owen in Red Jacket, followed the Bonnifays to Norway, where it was received. Acting on the impulse acquired by reading it, Rose immediately sat down and wrote to Peveril the letter that reached him in due course of time, but which he lost without even having broken its seal. He had joyfully recognized the handwriting of its address, but was at the same time puzzled to know how Rose could have learned his present abiding-place. Now he was filled with consternation at his carelessness. Of course, though, he must have dropped the letter while transferring the contents of his pockets, and he would surely find it again upon his return to the Trefethen cottage. At Laughing Fish Cove the log-wrecking party was landed, shortly after noon, near a fishing settlement of half a dozen forlorn-appearing huts that stood in an irregular row on the beach. A few slatternly women, and twice their number of wild-eyed children, were the sole occupants of the place, for its men were away on the lake tending their nets. Again was Peveril disappointed to learn, from the appearance and conversation of these people, that they also were foreigners, speaking a language unintelligible to him, though evidently comprehended by two of his men. Captain Spillins explained that, uninviting as the place looked, it was one of the very few harbors on that rugged coast in which the logs of which Peveril was in search could be rafted and held in safety until called for. So the stores and supplies were landed, and, after the tug had steamed away, Peveril set his men at work building a camp and collecting firewood, while he took the skiff for an exploration of the adjacent coast. On the south side of Laughing Fish Cove he found logs bearing the letters "W. P." strewn for miles along the shore, and piled in every conceivable position among the rocks, on which they had been hurled by furious seas. As he studied the situation, our young wreck-master foresaw an immense amount of labor in dislodging these and getting them once more afloat. Besides those on the rocks he discovered a number on the beach of the cove that could easily be got into the water. But all that he thus saw formed only about one-half of what had been contained in the great raft. The remainder must, then, be found somewhere to the northward of Laughing Fish, and, accordingly, late in the afternoon he headed his skiff in that direction. The coast that he now skirted was very wild but grandly beautiful, with precipitous cliffs brilliant in the reds and greens of mineral stains, and surmounted by a dense growth of sharp-pointed firs, among which were set groups of white birches. At the base of the cliffs, and amid the detached masses fallen from them, the crystal-blue waters plashed softly, and an occasional wood-duck in iridescent plumage swam hurriedly from his course with anxious backward glances. In the upper air, nesting gulls in spotless white darted to and fro, noting his movements with keen, red eyes. He found some logs near the cove; but the farther he went from it the scarcer they became, until finally he passed a mile or more of coast without seeing one. "Strange!" muttered the young man. "What can have become of them? There are hundreds still missing, and they should be somewhere in this vicinity." He was paddling almost without a sound, and skirting a ledge of black rocks that jutted well out into the lake, as he spoke. At that same moment something impelled him to glance upward and encounter a vision startling in its unexpectedness. On the very face of the cliff, some twenty feet above the water, and leaning slightly forward, stood a girlish figure gazing directly at him with great, wondering eyes. For an instant she seemed to read his very soul. Then a vivid flush sprang to her cheeks, and with a quick movement she disappeared as though the solid rock had opened to receive her. Peveril rubbed his eyes and looked again. She certainly was not there, nor could he discover the slightest indication of an opening through which she could have vanished. Yet, even as he looked, a pebble leaped, apparently from the unbroken face of the cliff, and dropped with a clatter to the ledge close beside him. He paddled farther out into the lake, but still failed to discover any aperture. He moved for short distances both up and down the coast without any better success. To be sure, a stunted cedar growing out from the rocky face near where the girl had disappeared showed the existence of either a crevice or ledge, and she might have concealed herself behind it, though Peveril did not believe she had. Even if she were thus hidden, how had she gained that perilous position?--how would she escape from it?--who was she?--and where had she come from? She was not one of the fisher-women from the cove; of that he was certain. Neither was she an Indian girl, for the face, indelibly pictured in his memory, was fair and refined. It had not struck him as being beautiful, except for the glorious eyes that had looked so fully into his. He called several times: "Are you in trouble? Can I help you?" But only mocking echoes, and the harsh screams of a flock of gulls circling about the very place where he had seen her, came to him in answer. He sought for some means of scaling the cliff, but found none. Everywhere it was smooth and sheer. Never in his life had the young man been so baffled and never so loath to own himself beaten; but he was at length warned by the setting of the sun to give over his quest and row vigorously back the way he had come. Twilight was merging into darkness when he again entered Laughing Fish Cove, but a bright fire on the beach served at once as a beacon and a promise of good cheer. A comfortable cabin of poles and bark had been built by the men during his absence. In it were all the stores, as well as a quantity of spruce boughs and hemlock tips for bedding. The chill evening air was filled with a delicious fragrance of burning cedar, mingled with the pleasant odor of boiling coffee. Several white-fish nailed to oak planks were browning before a bed of glowing coals, while slices of a lake-trout were sizzling together with bits of bacon in the frying-pan. Supper was ready, as Joe, who superintended the culinary operations, announced with a shout the moment Peveril's skiff grated on the beach. Several of the fisher-huts were lighted, others had bright fires blazing outside their doors. The boats had returned, and there was a pleasant bustle about the little settlement. Peveril did not mention the perplexing vision he had seen that afternoon, though it continually haunted him, and a decided zest was given to his work of the coming week by the thought of this mystery. As he lay on his couch of fragrant boughs that evening planning how to solve it, he almost forgot his unhappiness of the morning, and a little later a new face had found its way into his dreams. CHAPTER XIII LOG-WRECKERS AND SMUGGLERS There were no laggards in the camp on the following morning, for, with the stars still shining, Peveril routed out his men from their fragrant couches. Leaving Joe Pintaud to prepare breakfast, he and the two Bohemians began to form their raft by rolling to the water's edge, setting afloat, and securing such logs as lay nearest at hand. While the wreckers were thus engaged, the fishermen appeared from their huts and made ready for another day on the lake. They were an ill-favored set, and Peveril was not pleased to note that they seemed to make sneering remarks concerning the task on which he was engaged. Beneath their jeers his own men grew so surly and restless that he was relieved when Joe called them to breakfast. After that all hands set forth in the skiff to work at the logs stranded along the coast to the southward. As they pulled out of the cove Peveril noticed that a small schooner, which he had believed belonged to the fishermen, was still at anchor, and that the crew lounging about her deck were of a different class from those who had already gone out. He was about to call Joe's attention to this, when that individual hailed the schooner, and began to carry on a lively conversation with her men. When they had passed beyond hearing, Peveril questioned the Canadian concerning the strange craft, and was told that she was not a fishing-boat, but a trader. "What does she trade in?" "Plenty t'ing. Cognac, seelk, dope, everyt'ing. Plenty trade, plenty mun. Much better as mining. Mais, parbleu! I am a fool, me." "Why?" "Zat I, too, vill not trade and make ze mun." "Why don't you, if you prefer that business?" "Ah! It is because I am what you call too mooch a cow--a hard cow. I like not ze jail, me." "You mean a coward?" "Oui, oui. Cowhard. I am one cowhard for ze jail." "Oh!" cried Peveril, suddenly enlightened. "Your friends of the schooner are smugglers." "Oui, zat it. Smoogler, an' bimeby, some time, maybe, soldat catch it. Take all ze mun, put it in jail. Bim! No good!" "That is the first time I ever heard of any smugglers on this coast," remarked Peveril, reflectively. "I wonder if they can have taken our logs?" "Log, no," replied Joe, contemptuously. "Canada, he gat plenty log--too plenty. Tradair tak' ze drapeau, ze viskey, ze tick-tick, but not ze log." Here the conversation was ended by the arrival at the scene of labor, and the work of dislodging stranded logs was begun. All day long they toiled at the difficult task, straining, lifting, stumbling, rolling, and slipping on the wet rocks, receiving many a bump and bruise, pausing only for a bite of lunch and a whiff of pipe-smoke at noon, and finally returning to Laughing Fish at dusk, slowly towing into the cove a small raft of the recovered wreckage. For several days longer, sometimes in clear weather, but often in cheerless rain and fog, was the task of collecting such logs as had stranded on the south side of the cove continued. At length the last one was gathered from that direction, and our wreckers were ready to explore the coast lying to the northward. Not since the day of his coming had Peveril found leisure to revisit the place where he had seen the mysterious figure of the cliffs. He had thought often of her, and had so longed to return to that part of the coast that only a strict sense of duty had prevented him. Now that he was free to unravel the mystery if he could, he was as excited as a boy off for a holiday. He purposed gathering the few logs already seen on that side of the cove, and then to continue his exploration indefinitely in search of others; but, to his amazement, as they skirted the rugged coast, not a log was to be found. In vain did the young leader stand up in his boat, the better to scan every inch of the shore. In vain did he land on the rocks and scramble over their broken surface. There were no logs, and yet he knew they had been there five days earlier. Nor had there been any storm during that time to dislodge them. "Joe, your smuggling friends must have taken them." "Non. He gat plenty log in Canada, him." "What, then, has become of them?" "Dunno. Maybe dev catch him." "It is a human devil of some kind, then, and he must have carried them still farther up the coast, for we should have seen them if they had been carried the other way." "Oui, m'sieu." "Give way, men! I'm going to find those logs if they are anywhere on Keweenaw Point." So the light skiff shot ahead, with the two Bohemians rowing, and the others in bow and stern, watching the coast sharply as they slipped past its rocky front. They were already beyond any point at which Peveril had previously discovered logs, and were rapidly approaching the place of his mystery. He could see the jutting ledge, and was eagerly scanning the cliffs above it, when suddenly Joe held up his hand with a warning "Hist!" Without a word Peveril gave the signal to stop rowing, which was instantly obeyed. In the silence that followed they heard a sound of singing. It was a plaintive melody, sung in a girlish voice, untrained, but full and sweet. To his amazement Peveril recognized it as one of the very latest songs of a popular composer, whose music he had supposed almost unknown in America. The voice also seemed to be close at hand. At first the men gazed about them with an idle curiosity, but, not seeing anyone, they began to grow uneasy, and to cast frightened glances on every side. "By gar!" exclaimed Joe Pintaud, and on the instant the singing ceased. The sudden silence was almost as disquieting as the voice of an invisible singer, and again Joe uttered his favorite exclamation. "Where did that voice come from?" "Dunno, Mist Pearl. One tam I t'ink from rock, one tam from water. Fust he come from ze hair, zen he gat under ze bateau. Bimeby he come every somewhere. One tam I t'ink angele, me; one tam dev. Mostly I t'ink dev." "It seemed to me to come from the cliff," said Peveril. "Oui; so I t'ink." "Though I could also have sworn that it rose from the water." "Oui, m'sieu. You say dev, I say dev." By this time Peveril had again got his craft under way, and they were skirting a wooded islet that lay off the coast just beyond the black ledge. This island appeared to be nearly cut in two by a narrow bay; but as those in the boat seemed to see every part of this, and were convinced that it contained no logs, they did not enter it. The young leader was not giving much thought to either logs or his immediate surroundings just then, for his ears were still filled with the music that had come to him as mysteriously as had the vision of a few days earlier. So lost was he in reflection that he started abruptly when the rowing again ceased, and one of the men whispered, hoarsely: "Mist Pearl, look!" He was pointing back from where they had come; and, turning, Peveril saw, apparently gliding from the very shore of the island they had just passed, a small schooner. She must have sailed from the bay into which they had gazed, and yet they believed they had scrutinized every inch of its surface. "By gar!" cried Joe Pintaud. "Some more dev, hein?" "It looks to me like the boat of your friends the smugglers," suggested Peveril, studying the vessel closely. "Oui, certainment! It ees ze sheep of ze tradair." "Then we will go and see where she came from, for so snug a hiding-place is worth discovering." So the skiff was put about and rowed back to the little bay bisecting the island. Then it was found that there were two small islands, and that the supposed bay was really an inlet from the lake, which made a sharp angle at a point invisible from outside. This channel led to a narrow sound, from which another inlet cut directly into the rock-bound coast. It was quite short, and quickly widened into an exquisite basin, completely land-locked and very nearly circular. Peveril had followed this devious course with all the eagerness of an explorer; but his men had cast many nervous glances over their shoulders, and even Joe Pintaud had expressed a muttered hope that they were not being led into some trap. As the skiff emerged from the high-walled inlet and shot into the smiling basin, an exclamation burst from all four men at once. "Ze log!" cried Joe. "Our logs!" echoed Peveril. The others probably used words meaning the same thing. At any rate, they talked excitedly, and pointed to the opposite side of the basin, where was moored a raft of logs. Two men with a yoke of oxen were in the act of hauling one of these from the water, and a deeply marked trail, leading up the bank to a point of disappearance, showed where a number of its predecessors had gone. "Give way!" cried Peveril, and the skiff sped across the basin. As it ranged alongside the moored raft, the young leader recognized the deep-cut mark of the White Pine Mine on one floating stick after another. "Hold on!" he shouted. "Where are you going with that log?" "None of your business!" answered one of the two men, who was old and white-headed. "What are you doing here, anyway?" "I've come after these logs." "Well, you can't have them, and you want to get out of here quicker than you came in!" With this the man spoke a few words to his assistant, who immediately ran up the trail and disappeared, while Peveril, with a hot flush mounting to his forehead, ordered his crew to pull for the shore. CHAPTER XIV A VAIN EFFORT TO RECOVER STOLEN PROPERTY Leaping ashore the moment his skiff grated on the beach, Peveril stepped directly up to the old man and said: "I do not know who you are, sir, nor what claim you make to ownership in those logs. I do know, however, that they bear the private mark of the White Pine Mining Company, and formed part of a raft recently wrecked on this coast. Having been sent here expressly to secure this property, I am determined to use every endeavor to carry out my instructions. Such being the case, I trust that you will not interfere with the performance of my duty." "I shall, though," answered the old man, gruffly. "I have need of this timber, and consider that I have a just claim to it, seeing that it was cast up by the sea on my land. I have also expended a great amount of labor in bringing it to this place; so that if I had no other claim I have one for salvage." "Which will doubtless be allowed when presented in proper form," replied Peveril. "In the meantime I am ordered to take possession of all logs that I may find bearing the W. P. mark." "Supposing I forbid you to do so?" "I am also authorized to use force, if necessary, to carry out my instructions." "That sounds very much like a threat, my young friend; but I decline to be frightened by it, and still forbid you to touch those logs." Joe Pintaud had followed his young leader ashore, and stood close beside him during the foregoing interview, while the Bohemians still remained in the skiff. Now, without deigning any further reply to the old man, Peveril, in a low tone, ordered the Canadian to provide himself and the others with poles, and, if possible, shove the raft off from shore, adding that he would join in their efforts the moment he had cast loose its moorings. As Joe started to obey these instructions, Peveril ran to the farther of two ropes holding the raft and unfastened it. While he did this the old man stood without remonstrance, but with a cynical smile on his thin lips. Finding himself uninterrupted, Peveril fancied that no resistance was to be offered, after all, and, with the carelessness of confidence, stooped to cast off the remaining line. The next instant a nervous shove from behind sent him headforemost into the lake. Just then there came a rush of feet, and as Peveril, half-choked by his sudden bath in the icy water, rose to the surface and attempted to regain the bank he was seized by half a dozen pair of brawny hands belonging to as many wild-looking men who had been summoned from beyond the ridge. In another minute the young wrecker was lying in the bottom of his own skiff, and it was being towed out to sea by a second boat manned by two lusty foreigners. In its stern-sheets sat the old man holding a cocked revolver, from which he threatened to put a bullet through Peveril's head if he lifted it above the gunwale. Under the circumstances the latter, though raging at his sudden discomfiture, deemed it best to lie still and await, with what patience he might, the result of his misadventure. So he was towed for a long distance, and when his skiff finally seemed to have lost motion and be drifting, he ventured to lift his head. Before he could see over the side there came the sharp report of a pistol, a bullet whistled close above him, and he was ordered to remain quiet until he received permission to sit up. Peveril obeyed, and for nearly half an hour longer lay motionless. Then his craft struck bottom, and he sprang up in alarm. He was alone, and his skiff was bumping against a black ledge that he recognized as the one lying at the foot of the mysterious cliff. Not a boat was to be seen, but on the rocks close at hand lay the oars that had been taken from his skiff when he was thrown into it. They were not lying together, but at some distance apart, as though flung there, but whether from a boat or from some other direction he could not tell. At any rate, he was thankful to have them, and at once began to plan how he should use them in connection with his regained liberty. At first his indignation at his recent treatment suggested that he row back and attempt, at least, to recover his men; but a moment's reflection showed the folly of such a scheme. Not only would he again be confronted by an overpowering number of opponents, but it was probable that his men were even then on their way overland to Laughing Fish, for he did not believe the old man would dare hold them prisoners. At any rate, it would be best to rejoin them before planning to gain possession of the logs in the basin, upon which he was still determined. Although the young man did not know it, he was keenly watched during these moments of indecision by a pair of bright eyes that peered down from the cliff above him. When he shiveringly re-entered his skiff the eyes were hastily withdrawn lest he should look up. A little later a young girl of slight figure, clad in a dark gown, stepped out from the cliff, as from behind a curtain, and, half concealed by the stunted cedar, watched him curiously until he was lost to view. "He is ever so different from an ordinary miner," she soliloquized, "and looks as though he might be interesting. I wonder if I shall ever see him again? I am glad I thought of getting these oars and throwing them down, even if he has used them to go away with. What will papa think when he finds them gone? Anyhow, the monotony of this stupid place has been broken at last, and now, perhaps, something else will happen. I believe something must be going to happen very soon, anyhow, from the way papa talks. Dear papa! how queerly he acts, and how I wish I could see him happy just once! Now I must go and tell him that the schooner is coming." With this the girl apparently performed a miracle, for she seemed to push aside a portion of the red-stained cliff and disappear behind it without leaving a trace of an opening. As Peveril rowed steadily down the coast he saw in the distance a schooner that he believed to be the one belonging to Joe Pintaud's friends beating up from the southward. For a moment he thought of trying to board her, but, quickly dismissing the idea, doggedly pursued his way. Arrived at the cove, he was disappointed to find his camp vacant and without a sign that his coming companions had returned to it. Building a fire, he made a pot of coffee, and prepared to await their coming with what patience he could command. Some of the fisher-children came and watched him shyly, but when he attempted to draw them into conversation they only laughed and ran away. Feeling very lonely, and undecided as to what he should do, he had just begun to eat a lunch of cold food prepared by Joe that morning when a plan occurred to him. It was to set forth on foot to meet his men, failing to do which he could at least spy out the enemy's strength. "I can discover, too, what lies behind that ridge, and where they are carrying those logs," he said, half aloud. [Illustration: THE MEN HASTILY THREW PEVERIL HEAD-FIRST INTO THE BUSHES] So impatient was he to put this plan into execution that he would not wait to finish his lunch, but, swallowing a mug of coffee and stuffing a few hard biscuit into the ample pockets of his now nearly dry coat, he set forth. Coming across a well-trodden though narrow trail, leading in what he believed to be the right direction, he turned into it, and followed it briskly for several miles. It was by this time late afternoon, and long shadows were creeping over the rugged upland country that he traversed. No house was to be seen, nor evidence of human occupation. All the large timber having been long since cut off, the region was now covered with a ragged second growth and thick underbrush. Extensive tracts had been burned over, and thousands of small trees, standing in the melancholy attitudes of death, added to the desolation of the scene. Every now and then he passed yawning prospect-holes, offering mute evidence of disappointed hopes. At length he caught a whiff of smoke, a dull clang of machinery came to his ears; and, with curiosity keenly aroused, he pursued his way more cautiously. A few minutes later he reached a point where he caught glimpses of buildings, evidently belonging to a mine. A tall shaft-house was surrounded by various shops and a cluster of dwellings, most of them very humble in appearance, though one was large and pretentious. Although smoke was curling lazily from a lofty stack, that he imagined belonged to an engine-house, and though there was a certain amount of noise, as of machinery in motion, there were no other signs of activity about the place. In fact, it was pervaded by an aspect of desolation and desertion. There were no hurrying men nor teams. Most of the buildings appeared to be permanently closed; doors were boarded up, windows were broken, and the smaller dwellings were almost hidden by the rank growth of weeds and bushes that closely surrounded them. As Peveril stared in perplexity at this melancholy picture his attention was attracted by a sound of voices near at hand. He gazed eagerly, and even took a few steps forward, hoping to meet his own party, but was grievously disappointed to see instead a group of three burly strangers clad in mining costume. As they drew near he recognized them to be Bohemians, and was particularly struck by the hideous expression of him who seemed to act as leader of the party. Although the new-comers started at sight of the young man, and regarded him with scowling faces as they drew near, they did not speak nor offer to molest him, but passed by in silence. Disappointed that they were not his own men, but relieved to be so easily rid of them, Peveril again turned his attention to the semi-deserted mining village that had so aroused his curiosity. So deeply interested did he at once become in watching a team of oxen that had just appeared, hauling a log over a rise of ground, that he did not hear the approach of stealthy footsteps nor note the crouching forms creeping up behind him. Closer and closer they came, until they were within reach of their unconscious victim. Then they sprang upon him all at once, and he was hurled to the ground. In another moment his arms were bound, and he recognized in one distorted face, leering close above his own, that of the man who had led the attack on him in the mine, and whom he had sent reeling away with a broken jaw. Now the cruel face was rendered doubly hideous by a grin of triumph, and Peveril's heart sank within him as he gazed into the pitiless eyes that lighted its brutish features. CHAPTER XV PEVERIL IN THE HANDS OF HIS ENEMIES Having been driven from Red Jacket by the Cornishmen under Mark Trefethen, the Bohemian, Rothsky, and his fellow car-pushers of the White Pine Mine who had assaulted Peveril on his first day of work, had taken to the woods like wild beasts. Although restrained of their evil intentions for the time being, they were more bitter than ever against the innocent cause of their trouble, and swore, with strange, foreign oaths, to kill him if the chance should ever offer. In the meantime they must find some way of gaining a livelihood, and this finally came to them at a queer, semi-abandoned mine across which they stumbled in the course of their wanderings. Its proprietor was an old man who seemed half crazed; and the mine that he was working in a small way, with a pitifully inadequate force, was absolutely barren of copper; but, as he paid their wages promptly, the car-pushers were willing to do his bidding without asking questions. One of the scarcest things about this mine was timber with which to support the roof of the only drift that was being opened. The proprietor tried to force his men to continue their work, and open the drift far beyond a point of safety without the protection of this most necessary adjunct, and when they refused he became furiously angry. Their job seemed to have come to an end, and all hands were about to leave, when, by an opportune gale, a supply of the desired material was cast up on the adjacent coast. Every able-bodied man was immediately set to work collecting this, and in towing raft after raft of the Heaven-sent logs to a land-locked basin that lay but a short distance from the mine. In this way, even before the arrival of Peveril and his wreckers, a large amount of the needed timber had been secured. Although the miners were well aware that their employer carried on some other business besides the development of his barren property, they neither knew nor cared to know what it was. They discovered that it was in some way connected with the coming and going of certain vessels, but beyond this they were kept in ignorance. When one of these vessels reported a party at Laughing Fish also engaged in a search for wrecked logs, the exertions of the white-haired mine-owner were so redoubled that before Peveril found time to work the coast to the northward of his camp, it had been stripped of every log. Having obtained possession of his coveted timber, the old man was now making every effort to have it transported to the mouth of his shaft, believing that, if he could once get it underground, his right to the logs would remain unquestioned. He had, however, only partially succeeded in effecting this removal, when, to his chagrin, Peveril appeared on the scene of activity. After the defeat of the young man's attempt to capture the raft, his two Bohemians were easily induced to join the enemy by promises of better pay than they were getting. As for Joe Pintaud, he was indeed taken prisoner, but was purposely so loosely guarded that he found no difficulty in escaping to the schooner of his friends, which came into port that afternoon, and on which he was carried off to Canada. Thus was the White Pine wrecking expedition completely broken up, and only its leader was left to carry out, if he could, its objects. Even he had been set adrift in an oarless skiff, with the hope that he would be so long delayed in reporting to his employers as to allow time for the captured logs to be put underground before another demand for them could be made. This disposition of the captive was only known to the old man, who had, unobserved, removed the oars from Peveril's skiff; and so it was generally supposed that he would return directly to his camp at Laughing Fish. Rothsky, the Bohemian, who was one of those working near the log raft, had instantly recognized Peveril, and at sight of him his hatred blazed up with redoubled fury. To be sure, his broken jaw had healed, but so awry as to disfigure his face and render it more hideous than ever. Now to find the man who had done him this injury again interfering with his plans filled him with rage. Although he had no opportunity for venting it at the moment, he easily learned from Peveril's late followers the location of their camp, and, believing that the young man would be found there, he planned an attack upon it for that very night. He had no difficulty in inducing the two other car-pushers who had been driven from the White Pine to join him, and as soon as they quit work that evening they set forth on foot. They had not settled on any plan of action, and, though Rothsky was determined to kill the man he hated, his associates imagined that the young fellow was only to be punished in such a way as would cause him a considerable degree of suffering and at the same time afford them great amusement. They did not anticipate any interference with their plans, even should they be discovered, for the fishermen of the cove were their fellow-countrymen, bound to them by the ties of a common hatred against all native-born Americans. Now it so happened that the only daughter of the erratic old mine-owner had set forth that afternoon, accompanied only by her ever-present body-guard, a great, lean stag-hound, on a long gallop over the wild uplands surrounding her home. For that desolate little mining village was the only home Mary Darrell had known since the death of her mother, five years before, or when she was but twelve years of age. Until then she had lived in New England, and had only seen her father upon the rare occasions of his visits from the mysterious West in which his life was spent. To others he was a man of morose silence, suspicious of his fellows, secretive and unapproachable, but to his only child, the one light of his darkened life, and the sole hope of his old age, he was ever the loving father, tender and indulgent. Bringing her to the only home he had to offer, he had made all possible provision for her comfort and happiness. The most recent books were sent to her, and the latest music found its way into the wilderness for her amusement. Himself a well-educated man, Ralph Darrell devoted his abundant leisure to her instruction, and to the study of her tastes. Only two of the girl's expressed wishes were left ungratified, and both of these he had promised to grant when she should be eighteen years of age. One of them was that they might return to the home of her childhood. To this her father's unvarying answer was that business and a regard for her future welfare compelled him to remain where they were until the expiration of a certain time. When it should be elapsed, he promised that she should lead him to any part of the world she chose. Cheered by this promise, she planned many an imaginary journey to foreign lands, and many a long hour did Mary and her father beguile in arranging the details of these delightful wanderings. Her other wish was for a companion of her own age; but this was so decidedly denied that she knew it would be useless to express it again after the first time. "It would mean ruin, absolute ruin and beggary for us both," said Mr. Darrell, "if I were to allow a single stranger, young or old, of even ordinary intelligence, to visit this place. From the time you are eighteen years of age you shall have plenty of friends of your own choosing; but until that date, dear, you must be content with only the society of your old dad." So Mary Darrell studied, sang, read, rode, and thought the fanciful thoughts of girlhood alone, but always with impatient longings for the coming of the magic hour that should set her free. And yet she was not wholly alone, for her father would at any time neglect everything else to give her pleasure, while she also had both "Sandy," her stag-hound, and "Fuzz," her pony, for devoted companions. She was allowed to ride when and where she pleased, with only these attendants, on two conditions. One was that she should never visit, nor even go near, a human residence; and the other that, when on such excursions, she should, for greater safety, dress as a boy. When she was thus costumed her father was very apt to call her by her middle name, which was Heaton; and so it was generally supposed by the few miners who caught glimpses of her that the old man had two children--a girl, and a boy who was not only younger than she, but devoted to horseback riding. Only one duty devolved upon the girl thus strangely reared, and that was the keeping watch for certain vessels that came in from the great lake and sailed away again at regular intervals. So Mary Darrell was out riding on the evening that witnessed the capture of Richard Peveril by his bitterest enemies, and as twilight deepened into dusk she was urging her way homeward with all speed. In the meantime the three rascal car-pushers, who had come so unexpectedly upon him whom they sought, and had so easily effected his capture, led Peveril directly away from the trail he had been following to a place in the woods known only to Rothsky. Close to where they finally halted and began preparations for the punishment of the prisoner, who was also expected to afford them infinite amusement by his sufferings, yawned a great black hole. It was of unknown depth, and was nearly concealed by a tangle of vines and bushes. Rothsky had stumbled upon it by accident only a few days before, and now conceived that it would be a good place in which to dispose of a body, in case they should happen to have one on their hands. Trusting to the wildness of their surroundings and the absence of human beings from that region to shield them from observation, they ventured to build a fire, by the light of which they proposed to carry out their devilish plans. Besides binding Peveril's arms, they had, on reaching this place, taken the further precaution of tying his ankles, so that he now lay on the ground utterly helpless, a prey to bitter thoughts, but nerving himself to bear bravely whatever torture might await him. All at once the deep baying of a hound and a crash of galloping hoofs, coming directly towards the fire-light, sounded through the wood. With a fierce imprecation Rothsky gave a hasty order, at which all three men sprang to where Peveril was lying in deepest shadow. Hurriedly picking him up, they carried him a short distance, gave a mighty swing, and flung him from them. There was a crash of parted bushes and rending vines, a stifled cry, and all was still. A minute later, when a boyish figure on horseback swept past the fire, the three men seated by it only aroused a fleeting curiosity in Mary Darrell's mind as to what they could be doing in such a place at such a time. CHAPTER XVI LOST IN A PREHISTORIC MINE After the disappearance of the young rider, whose coming had so materially changed the plan of Rothsky and his associate scoundrels, they gazed at each other for a full minute in sullen silence. In the minds of two of them the anger of their disappointment was mingled with a cowardly terror at the awful deed they had committed, and they began fiercely to denounce their leader for having implicated them in it. Rothsky answered with equal bitterness that he was no more to blame than they, and the quarrel grew so furious that for a time it seemed as though only the shedding of blood could settle it. At length they were quieted by a realizing sense of the common danger that might only be averted by mutual support. So they finally swore with strange oaths never to betray each other, or breathe a word to a living soul of what had just taken place. Of course they did not for a moment anticipate that their crime would ever come to light, though each was secretly determined that if it did he would promptly secure his own safety by denouncing his comrades. With the patching up of this truce and the forming of their worthless compact the three wretches prepared to depart from the scene of their villany. First, however, they advanced cautiously as close as they dared to the edge of the pit into which they had flung their victim, and, peering into its blackness, listened fearfully. No sound broke the awful silence, and of a sudden the three men, moved by a common impulse, turned and fled through the darkness, stumbling and falling, clutched at by invisible fingers as they ran, and uttering inarticulate cries of terror. At that same moment their victim was lying on a ledge of rock deep down in the ground beneath them, still alive, but numbed almost into unconsciousness by the hopeless horror of his situation. In the first agony of falling he had instinctively exerted a strength of which he would have been incapable under other circumstances, and burst asunder the bonds confining his arms. He believed that in a moment he would be dashed into eternity, and yet a medley of incongruous and commonplace thoughts darted through his mind with inconceivable rapidity. Innumerable scenes of his past life glanced before him, but more distinct than any, sharp and clear as though revealed by a flash of lightning, shone the wonderful eyes that had appeared to him from the red-stained cliffs overlooking the great lake. And, strangest of all, the face seemed to smile at him with a promise of hope. In another instant all the pictures were blotted out, and his whole world was gulfed by a rush of water in which he sank to fathomless depths. After an endless space of time he began slowly to rise, until at length, to his infinite amazement, he found himself still alive and gasping for a breath of the blessed air into which he had once more emerged. Although his ankles were still bound, his arms were free, and, with the instinct of self-preservation strong within him, he began, awkwardly and feebly, to swim. Dazed, fettered, and weighted by clothing as he was, his utmost efforts would not have carried him more than a few feet, and then he must have sunk forever in that black flood. But the strength given him was sufficient, and ere it was exhausted his hands struck a shelf of rock upon which he finally managed to drag himself. On the flinty platform that he thus gained he lay weakly motionless, chilled to the bone, dimly conscious that he had for a time been granted a respite from death, but without a hope that it would be much longer extended. After a while the sense that he still lived became stronger, and with it grew the desire for life. Animated by it he sat up and made an effort to loosen the cord that still bound his ankles. It was tightly knotted, and the knot was so hardened with the water that for a long time his trembling fingers could make no impression on it. Still he persevered, and his exertions infused him with a slight warmth. Finally the knot yielded and his limbs were free, though so numbed that it was several minutes before he could stand up. Knowing nothing of his surroundings he dared not move more than a step or two in any direction for fear of again plunging into that deadly water. Nor could he with outstretched arms touch a wall on any side. "Oh, for a light!" he groaned, "that I might at least see what my tomb looks like!" Then he remembered that he actually did possess both matches and a candle, it having been impressed upon him by old Mark Trefethen that a miner should never be without those necessities. So he had always carried them in a pocket of his canvas mining-suit. But were they not rendered useless by the double wetting he had received that day? With trembling eagerness he drew forth the silver match-safe that Tom Trefethen had insisted on presenting to him in token of his gratitude. It had been called water-tight. Would it prove so in this time of his greatest need? A match was withdrawn, and he struck it against a roughened side of the safe. There was a splutter of sparks, but no flame. That, however, was more than he had dared hope for, and, sitting down, that he might not run the chance of dropping his precious box, he rubbed it briskly in his hands until it was thoroughly dry before making another attempt. This time there was no result, the head of the match having evidently flown off. With breathless anxiety he tried a third, and was thrilled with joy by having it burst into flame. Tom Trefethen's gift had redeemed its promise. By the fitful flare of that match, whose cheery gleam filled him with a new hope, Peveril saw that he was sitting on the rocky floor of a cave or chamber that extended back beyond his narrow circle of light. On the other side, and but a few inches below him, was outspread a gleaming surface of water, smooth as a mirror and black as ink. These things he saw, and then his match burned out. The darkness that followed was so absolute as to be suffocating; but before striking another of the priceless "fire-sticks" he drew forth the candle that had lain quietly in his pocket for several weeks awaiting just such an emergency as the present. After many reluctant sputterings, it, too, yielded to his efforts, and finally burned with a steady flame. With it he was enabled to make a much more careful and extended survey of his surroundings. To his great delight he discovered, lodged here and there on the rocks about him, a considerable quantity of dry wood in small pieces. Whittling some shavings from one of these, he soon had a brisk blaze that not only drove the black shadows to a respectful distance, but imparted a delicious warmth to his chilled body. "I'll live to get out of this place yet and confront the wretches who tried to murder me--see if I don't!" he cried, filled with a new courage inspired by the magic of light and warmth. "They probably think me safely dead long ere this; but they'll find out that I am very much alive, and I'll know them when I see them again, too. What could have been their object, and what can they have against me? I wonder if the old fellow who claimed the logs could have set them on to me? I hate to believe it; but the whole business looks awfully suspicious. "There's a deep game going on somewhere, but I may live to fathom it yet. What made them start up in such a hurry and fling me down this hole? I remember: they were scared by the barking of a dog and the approach of some one on horseback. Whoever that chap was, I'll owe him a debt of gratitude if ever I get out of here; and if I don't--Well, perhaps he did me a good turn anyhow, for they would probably have killed me in the end. Hello! I had forgotten these hardtack." Mechanically thrusting his hands into the pockets of his coat during this soliloquy, Peveril found the hard biscuit that he had slipped into them on leaving camp. Now, though these were soggy with water, they were still in a condition to be handled, and, carefully withdrawing them, he ate one hungrily, but laid the other near the fire to dry. Then he removed his clothing, wrung what water he could from each article, rubbed his body into a glow, re-dressed, and again sat beside his fire for a further consideration of his strange situation. As he could arrive at no conclusion regarding an attempt to escape until the coming of daylight, which he hoped would reach him with sufficient clearness to disclose the nature of his prison, his thoughts finally drifted to other matters. He recalled his lost letter, and wondered if Rose would grow very impatient at his long delay in answering it. "If she does, she must," he remarked, philosophically, "for I am not in a position to hurry the mails just now. How distressed the dear girl would be, though, if she could see me at this minute! That is, if she didn't find it a situation for laughter, and, by Jove! I believe she would, for she laughs at most everything. I only hope we will have the chance to laugh over it together some time." In some way thoughts of Rose led to a recollection of that other girl, whom he had only seen for an instant; and when, a little later, in spite of his desperate situation, he actually fell asleep on his bed of cold flint, it was the face of the unknown that again haunted his dreams. CHAPTER XVII UNDERGROUND WANDERINGS When Peveril next awoke he was racked with pain, and so stiff in every joint that an attempt to move caused him to groan aloud. A faint light dimly revealed his surroundings; but these were so strange and weird that for several minutes he could not imagine where he was nor what had happened. Slowly the truth dawned upon him, and one by one the awful incidents of the past night began to shape themselves in his mind. "I have been murdered and drowned," he said to himself. "Now I am entombed alive, beyond reach of hope or human knowledge. Never again shall I see the sunlight, never revisit the surface of the earth, never look upon my fellows nor hear the voice of man. I may live for several days, but I must live them alone--alone must I bear my sufferings, and finally I must die alone. What have I done to deserve such a fate? Is there no escape from it? I shall go mad, and I hope I may. Better oblivion than a knowledge of such agony as is in store for me. "And yet why should I lose faith in the Power that has thus far miraculously preserved me? I am alive, and in possession of all my faculties. I shall not suffer from thirst. I even have a certain amount of food, together with the means for procuring fire. I am not left in utter darkness, and, above all, I have not yet proved by a single trial that escape is impossible. How much better off I am in every respect than thousands of others, who, finding themselves in desperate straits, have yet had the strength and courage to work out their own salvation! What an ingrate I have been! What a coward! But, with God's help, I will no longer be either!" Having thus brought himself to a happier and more courageous frame of mind, Peveril stiffly gained his feet, moved his limbs, and rubbed them until a certain degree of suppleness was restored. He was about to build a fire, but refrained from so doing upon reflection that his stock of fuel must be limited, and that a fire might be of infinitely greater value at some other time. Now the prisoner began a careful survey of his surroundings by the feeble light finding its way down the shaft into which he had been flung. As it did not materially increase, he concluded that full day had already reached the upper world. It was also brightest in the middle of the black pool, which showed that the opening through which it came must be directly above that point, and that the shaft must be perpendicular. Peveril called the hole a shaft, because, while he could neither see to the top nor clearly make out the outlines of the portions nearest at hand, it still impressed him as being of artificial construction, while the opening at one side, in which he stood, also seemed very much like a drift or gallery hewn from the solid rock by human hands. The impossibility of scaling the sheer, smooth walls of the shaft was evident at a single glance, and Peveril turned from it with a heavy heart. At the same moment his attention was attracted by a sharp squeaking, and, to his dismay, he made out a confused mass of something in active motion about the precious biscuit that he had left beside his fireplace. With a loud cry he sprang in that direction, only to stumble and fall over a small pile of what he took to be rocks that lay in his path. Without waiting to regain his feet, he flung several of these at the animals that had discovered and were devouring his hardtack. A louder squeak than before showed that at least one of his missiles had taken effect, and then there was a scampering away of tiny feet. When he reached the scene of destruction his only biscuit was half eaten, while beside it lay a huge rat that had been killed by one of his shots. "With plenty of rats and plenty of rocks I need not starve, at any rate," he remarked, grimly. "The idea of eating rats is horrid, of course, but I don't know why it should be. Certainly many persons have eaten them, and in an emergency I don't know why I should be any more squeamish than others. "What heavy rocks those were, though, and what sharp edges they had! I expect it will be a good idea to collect a few, and have them ready for my next rat-hunt." With this Peveril returned to the pile over which he had stumbled, and to his amazement found it to be composed of hammers and hatchets, chisels, knives, and other tools that he was unable to name, all of quaint shape, and all made of tempered copper. In an instant the nature of his prison became clear. He was in a prehistoric copper-mine, opened and worked thousands of years ago by a people so ancient that even tradition has nought to say concerning them. The knowledge thus thrust upon him filled the young man with awe, and he glanced nervously about him, as though expecting to see the ghosts of long-ago delvers advancing from the inner gloom. The thought that he was probably the first human being to set foot on that rocky platform since the prehistoric workmen had flung down their tools on it for the last time was overpowering. At the same time, if this were indeed a mine, it must also be a tomb, for it was not likely to have any exit save the unscalable shaft glimmering hopelessly above him. Here, then, was the end of all his hopes, for of what use were strength and courage in a place where neither could be made available? But hold! Where had the rats come from? Certainly not from the water, nor was it probable that they had come down the shaft, for its rocky sides appeared as straight and smooth as those of a well. Why should they have come at all to a place that could not contain a crumb of food, except the scanty supply that he had brought? If that alone had attracted them, why had they not found it hours before, while he was asleep? Might it not be possible that they had come from a distance in search of water after a night of feasting elsewhere? They had, at any rate, run back into the gallery; and by following the lead thus presented he might find some place of exit from that terrible subterranean prison. Even if it were only a rat-hole, he might be able to enlarge it, now that he had tools with which to work. At this moment how he blessed the dear old friend at whose insistence he had provided himself with the matches and candle that now rendered it possible for him to explore the dark depths of that prehistoric drift! Before starting on the trip that he was now determined to make, he ate the portion of biscuit left by the rats. He also so far overcame his repugnance as to skin and clean the dead rat, which he placed on a ledge of rock for future use in case he should be driven to it. Then he lighted his candle and set forth. For a considerable distance the gallery was open and fairly spacious, while everywhere the young explorer found scattered on its floor the ancient and quaintly shaped tools that told of the great number of workmen employed in its excavation. After a while his way began to be encumbered by piles of loose rock that seemed to have been collected for the purpose of removal. Now his way grew narrower and rougher, until in several places it was nearly blocked by masses of material that had fallen from the roof or caved in from the sides. Over some of these he was forced to creep on hands and knees, flattening himself into the smallest possible compass. At length the gallery came to an end, though from it a small "winze," or passage, barely wide enough to crawl through, led upward at a sharp angle. At the bottom of this Peveril hesitated. His precious candle was half burned out, and would not much more than serve to carry him back to the place from which he had started. Besides this, the passage before him was so small that a person entering it could by no possibility turn around if he should desire to retrace his course. It was even doubtful if he could back out after having penetrated a short distance into the winze. "I don't know why I should care, though," said Peveril, bitterly, "for, even if I should get stuck in there, it would only be exchanging a tomb for a grave. At the same time, one does like to have room even to die in, and I don't believe the risk is worth taking. There isn't the slightest chance of a hole like that leading anywhere, and, so long as I can draw a breath at all, I am going to draw it in the open." So, with the last spark of hope extinguished, and with a heart like lead, the poor fellow turned to retrace his steps to the place in which he proposed to spend his few remaining hours of life, and then to yield it up as bravely as might be. As he did so a little gusty draught of air blew the flame from his candle and plunged him into absolute darkness. [Illustration: PEVERIL SAT BESIDE THE FIRE IN FORLORN MEDITATION] Peveril was so startled by this occurrence that for some time he plunged blindly with outstretched hands back over the way he had come, forgetting in his bewilderment that he still had matches with which to relight his candle. Ere this was suggested to him he had retraced about half the distance, guided solely by the sense of feeling, though not without innumerable bruises and abrasions. When he at length reached the end of the gallery and stood once more beside the black pool into which he had been flung, what little of daylight found its way into those dim depths was rapidly fading. It only served while he gathered every stick of drift that some former high stage of water had deposited on the rocky platform, and then another night of almost arctic length was begun. To escape the awful gloom, Peveril lighted a fire and sat beside it in forlorn meditation, carefully feeding it one stick at a time, and longing for some sound to break the oppressive silence. Finally, faint with hunger, he recalled the bit of game that he had stored away ready for cooking. Fetching this, he quickly had it spitted on a sliver of wood and broiling with appetizing odor over a tiny bed of coals. It smelled so good as it sizzled and browned that all his repugnance vanished, and he was only impatient for it to be cooked. The moment it was so he began to devour it ravenously, regretting at the same time that he had not half a dozen rats to eat instead of one. He felt better after his meal, and a new courage crept into his heavy heart as he again sat in meditation beside his flickering blaze. Why he should feel more hopeful he could not imagine, for no glimmer of a plan for escape had presented itself. It was not until he had once more stretched himself on his flinty bed, with a block of wood for a pillow, and was trying to forget his wretchedness in sleep, that he knew. Then he sprang up with a shout. "What an idiot I am! What an absolute idiot! Where did the draught that blew out my light come from? From up that sloping passage, of course, and a draught can only be caused by an opening of some kind to the outer air. If I can only find it, I believe I shall also find a way out of here. So, old man, cheer up and never say die! You'll live to stand on top of the world again, yet--see if you don't!" CHAPTER XVIII FROM ONE TRAP INTO ANOTHER The light of another day was dimly penetrating those underground depths before our prisoner was prepared to make his last effort for liberty. For all the aid he would receive from the pitiful amount allotted to him he might as well have started hours earlier; but while he longed to make the trial he also dreaded it. The thought of that box-like passage, through which he would be obliged to force his way without a chance of retreat, was so terrible that he shrank from it as we all shrink from anything dangerous or painful. Then, too, if he should escape, he would want daylight by which to guide his future movements. So, after tossing for hours on his hard bed and considering every aspect of his situation, he finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasted until morning. For breakfast he had only water, but of this he drank as much as he could, for he knew not when he would find another supply. Then he selected such of the copper tools as he thought might prove useful. Into one of them, which was a sort of a pick, he fitted a rude wooden handle, while the others, which had cutting edges and were in the nature of knives, he thrust into his pockets. Having thus completed his simple preparations, he took a long look, that he well knew might be his last, on the daylight that was now so doubly precious, and then resolutely faced the inner gloom of the ancient mine. Determined to save his candle for use in the unknown winze, he slowly groped his way through utter darkness, and finally reached what he believed to be the end of the drift. Now he lighted his candle, and for a moment his unaccustomed eyes ached from the glare of its flame. He was, as he had thought, at the lower opening of the narrow passage, and, as he noted its steep upward slope, he was agitated by conflicting hopes and fears. It might lead to liberty, but there was an equal chance that in it he should miserably perish. At the very outset he was confronted by a condition that was not only disappointing, but exerted a most depressing influence. There was no draught, such as he had believed would issue from the winze. In vain did he hold up a wetted finger, in vain watch for the slightest flicker in the flame of his candle. The air was as stagnant as that of a dungeon. And yet there certainly had been a decided current at that very place only a few hours before. Puzzled and disheartened, he was still determined to press forward, and, stooping low, he entered the passage. It almost immediately became so contracted that he was compelled to creep on hands and knees, by which method he slowly and painfully overcame foot after foot of the ascent. A little later he was forcing his way with infinite labor, an inch at a time, through a space so narrow that he was squeezed almost to breathlessness. He was also bathed in perspiration, and was obliged to recruit his strength by frequent halts. At length his candle, which had burned low, was about to expire. With despairing eyes he watched its last flickering flame, feeling only the terror of impending darkness, and heedless of the fact that it was burning his hand. With the quenching of its final spark he resigned himself to his fate. He had fought his best, but the odds against him were too heavy, and now his strength was exhausted. Closing his eyes, and resting his head wearily on his folded arms, he prepared for the oblivion that he prayed might come speedily. Lying thus, and careless of the passage of time, he was visited by pleasant dreams, in which were mingled happy voices, laughter, and singing. He rested on a couch of roses, and cool breezes fanned his fevered brow. He was free as air itself and surrounded by illimitable space. All at once he became conscious that he was not dreaming, but was wide awake and staring with incredulous eyes at a glimmer of light, so wellnigh imperceptible that only by passing a hand before his face and so shutting it out for an instant could he be certain of its existence. At the same time an unmistakable draught of air was finding its way to him, and a voice as of an angel came to his ears faintly but distinctly with the snatch of a gay song. With hot blood surging to his brain, the poor fellow tried to call out, but the words died in his parched throat, and he could only emit a husky whisper. Then he struggled forward, and found himself in a larger space that widened rapidly until he was able to sit up and move his arms with freedom. He had reached the end of the passage; for, above his head, he could feel only a smooth surface of rock. The singing had ceased, the ray of light had faded into darkness, and the draught of air was no longer felt. But Peveril had noted the aperture by which it had come, and could now thrust his hand through this into a vacant space beyond. It seemed to him that the rock above his head was but a slab of no great thickness, and he tried to lift it. For some minutes he could not succeed, but finally he secured a purchase, got his shoulders directly beneath it, and, with a mighty upward heave, moved it slightly from the bed in which it had lain for centuries. With another powerful effort it was lifted the fraction of an inch, and, though it immediately settled back in place, the prisoner knew that the time of his deliverance had come. He could not raise the great slab bodily, but with wedges he could hold the gain of each upward lift. His first aids of this kind were the copper knives that he had brought with him. Then, by a dim light that came through the crevice thus opened, he used his pick to break off fragments of rock, which were slipped under the slab. It was thus raised and supported an inch at a time, until at length an opening nearly two feet in width was presented. The moment this was effected Peveril drew himself through it, and, with a great sigh of thankfulness for his marvellous escape, lay for some minutes recovering breath after his tremendous exertions and studying his new surroundings. Although the small amount of light greeting his eyes as he lifted the rock had shown him that he was not to emerge into the open air, he could not help a feeling of disappointment at finding himself still underground. To be sure, he was in a spacious chamber or cavern, he could not yet tell which, illumined by a faintly diffused light that gave promise of some connection with the outer world; but he feared this might prove to be another unscalable shaft, in which case he would be no better off than before--in fact, he might find himself worse off, for he was desperately thirsty and could see no sign of water. "It would be pretty hard lines if I should be compelled to return to my old well for a drink," he said to himself. As soon as he had recovered breath, Peveril rose to his feet and began to walk slowly towards that part of the cavern where the light seemed brightest. As he went he looked eagerly on all sides for some trace of the singer whose voice had inspired him with a new hope at the moment of his blackest despair, but no person was to be seen or heard. At the same time he found abundant proof that human beings had recently visited that place, and would doubtless soon do so again. This was in the shape of boxes, bales, and casks piled against the walls on both sides of the passage. For a moment Peveril was greatly puzzled by these; then, as he recalled Joe Pintaud's conversation regarding smugglers, he concluded that he had stumbled across a depot of goods belonging to those free-traders of the great lake. "In which case," he said to himself, "I shall surely be out of here within a few minutes; for an entrance for smugglers must mean an exit for prisoners." This was a sound theory, but, like a great many other theories, one that proved faulty upon practical application, as our young friend discovered a few minutes later. Directly beyond the packages of goods he came upon a small derrick, set firmly into the solid rock at both top and bottom. It had a substantial block-and-fall attachment, and was swung inward. At this point also a heavy tarpaulin, reaching from floor to ceiling, was hung completely across the cavern. Cautiously raising one corner of this, Peveril was blinded by such a flood of light that for a moment he was completely dazzled. As his vision was gradually restored he found himself on the brink of a precipice and gazing out over a boundless expanse of water--in fact, over the great lake itself. A narrow ledge projected a little beyond the curtain that he had lifted, and as he hesitatingly stepped out upon it he also instinctively grasped a small cedar that grew from it to steady himself while he looked down. The descent was sheer for twenty feet, and so smooth as not to afford a single foothold along its entire face. From the rippling water at its base rose a jagged ledge of black rocks, which Peveril recognized the moment his eyes fell upon them. "Of all mysteries this is the most inexplicable!" he cried; "and yet it surely is the very place." As he spoke he turned to look at the curtain which he had let fall behind him, and very nearly tumbled from the ledge in amazement at what he saw. Instead of the sheet of dingy canvas that he expected, he was confronted by a sheer wall of cliff, stained the same rusty red as that extending for miles on either side, and apparently not differing from it in any particular. He was compelled to reach out his hand and touch it before he could dispel the illusion and convince himself that only a sheet of painted canvas separated him from the cavern he had just left. "It is one of the very cleverest things in the way of a hiding-place I ever heard of," he said, half aloud; "and now I understand the disappearance of that girl. But where on earth did she come from? How did she get here? and where did she go to? Could it have been she whom I heard singing a little while ago? If so, where is she now? Not in the cavern. That I'll swear to." Peveril might have speculated at much greater length concerning this mystery had not the sight of water that he could not reach so aggravated his thirst that for the moment he could think of little else. All at once he hit upon a plan, and two minutes later had drawn aside the curtain, swung out the little derrick, and was letting himself down towards the ledge by means of its tackle. Lying flat on the rough rocks, he drank and drank of the delicious water, lifting his head for breath or to gaze ecstatically about him, and then thrusting it again into the cool flood for the pleasure of feeling the water on his hot cheeks. At length a slight sound caused him to turn quickly and look upward. To his dismay and astonishment the tackle by which he had lowered himself had disappeared. Unless he could make up his mind to swim for miles through water of icy coldness, he was as truly a prisoner on that ledge of rock as ever he had been in the underground depths from which he had so recently escaped. CHAPTER XIX "DARRELL'S FOLLY" AND ITS OWNER Ralph Darrell was possessed by a passion for accumulating wealth, and, not satisfied with the certain but slow gains of his legitimate business of banking, was always on the lookout for extraordinary investments, in which he was willing to take great risks on the chance of receiving proportionate returns. During an excitement caused by marvellous finds of copper in the upper peninsula of Michigan, he, too, caught the fever, and became convinced that here was his opportunity for acquiring a fortune. From experts in whom he placed confidence he received such good accounts of a certain mineral tract located on Keweenaw Point, where mines of fabulous richness were already opened, that he purchased it, and persuaded Richard Peveril's father to become associated with him in a scheme for its development. When the crash came, and their golden dreams were dispelled by a rude awakening, he had sunk his own modest fortune, together with half of Peveril's, in a barren mine, and the blow was so heavy as to partially deprive him of his reason. He imagined himself to be the object of a conspiracy, headed by his partner, to obtain entire control of the mine, which he also imagined to be immensely valuable. For the purpose of protecting the interests that he fancied to be thus endangered, Ralph Darrell disappeared from his home, made his way to the scene of his wrecked hopes, and took up a solitary abode in the deserted mining village. Although he was now a desperate man, and also one so crazed by misfortune that he believed every rock taken from the Copper Princess to be rich in metal, he retained much of the business shrewdness gained by years of experience. At the same time, he had become sly, suspicious of his fellows, and absolutely non-communicative. He had conceived the idea of holding on to the mine, and at the same time spreading reports of its worthlessness until the term of contract had expired, when he hoped that, in default of other claims, the entire property would fall into his hands. Then he would proclaim its true value and reap his long-delayed reward. So he lived alone in the comfortable house that had been built for the manager of the mine, held no intercourse with his widely scattered neighbors, discouraged all attempts on the part of outsiders to learn anything concerning him, rejoiced when he heard his mine spoken of as "Darrell's Folly," and devoted himself to keeping its valuable plant in repair, against the time when he should be free to use it for his own sole benefit. In looking about for some method of acquiring means with which to reopen and work the mine when it should be wholly his, he ran across a crew of Canadian fishermen, who were also smugglers in a small way, and, joining them, soon developed their unlawful trade into a flourishing business. Having discovered a deep cavern opening on the lake and extending close to the cellar of the very house in which he dwelt, he decided to use it as a receptacle and hiding-place for smuggled goods. To enhance its value for this purpose, he connected it with his own residence by an underground passage. On this he expended a vast amount of labor, digging it with his own hands, and holding it a secret from every human being. Even the smugglers, who implicitly obeyed his orders, since he had made it so profitable for them to do so, knew nothing of it, nor what became of their goods after they were delivered at night on a certain rocky ledge, and hoisted up the face of the cliff to some place that they never saw. Nor were the peddlers, by whom these same goods were carried far and wide, any wiser, for they always transacted their business with "old man" Darrell, and received their merchandise after dark, in a certain room of his house, the only one they were ever allowed to enter. Not only had Darrell retained to himself the secret of the cavern, but he had also conceived the idea of hiding it from the observation of passing vessels by means of a canvas screen drawn over its entrance, and cleverly painted to resemble the adjacent cliffs. Surrounded by these safeguards, and further protected by its locality in that desolate region, the unlawful business flourished amazingly. It not only yielded its chief promoter a sufficient income to support his family comfortably in their distant Eastern home and enable him to keep his mining-plant in good repair, but each year saw a very tidy surplus stored away for the future development of the Copper Princess. Darrell had learned of his partner's death, and waited anxiously for years to hear from the Peveril heirs. As they remained silent, and made no claim against the property in which his own life was so completely bound up, he cherished the belief that they considered it too worthless even to investigate, and that he would be left in undisturbed possession to the end. He became so emboldened by this belief that, when the term of contract had so nearly expired that it had but a few months more to run, he even began in a small way to resume work in the mine. Thus he had it pumped out and partially retimbered. He also started work on a new level, and in every way possible, without attracting too much attention, got his property ready for the great scheme of development upon which he was determined the moment he should be freed from his contract. In the meantime his wife had died, and his only child, who had been born since he entered upon this strange existence, had come to share his lonely home. As she was but twelve years old when this great change in her life took place, she of course knew nothing of business, and had never heard of such a thing as smuggled goods. In her eyes everything that her dear papa did was right, and she was too happy at being permitted to become in any degree his assistant to think of questioning his methods. So the secret of the cavern and its underground connection was finally confided to her. She was also intrusted with the duty of watching for the little vessels that brought the goods in which her father dealt, and of hanging out the signal-lights by which their movements were guided. As these lights were always displayed from the stunted cedar at the mouth of the cavern, and as this place also served her for a post of observation, she passed much of her time within the limits of the great cave. Her father had won her promise never to mention the existence of the cavern, and had also warned her not to allow herself to be seen in it. There was, however, no necessity of such a warning, for Mary Darrell was too proud of her great secret to share it. Even Aunty Nimmo, the old black nurse who had come West with her, and had remained to care for her ever since, was not told of the cavern, though she shrewdly suspected its existence. If to the foregoing explanation it is added that the little trading-vessels, which were also to all appearance fisher-boats, never took on their return cargoes from the cavern, but always at either Laughing Fish Cove or the land-locked basin, the situation as it existed at the time of Peveril's appearance on the scene will be understood. As the sister schooner of the one that had carried off Joe Pintaud was due to arrive at about this date, Mary Darrell was keeping a sharp watch for it, and paying frequent visits to her post of observation at the mouth of the cavern for that purpose. On each of these she of course drew aside the painted curtain, thereby letting in a rush of air that penetrated to the innermost recesses of the great cavity behind her. It was a little breath from one of these that, finding its way through the aperture beside the slab of rock, and so on down the narrow passage that led to the prehistoric mine, had blown out Peveril's candle. Of course the girl, who was the innocent cause of that bit of mischief, had no idea of what the breeze was doing, for neither she nor her father, or any one else for that matter, knew of the existence of the old workings so close at hand. On the following morning Mary again entered the cavern, singing light-heartedly as she did so. This time she remained but a few minutes, for she had something to attend to in the house; but she held aside the canvas curtain long enough to look out, assure herself that no vessel was in sight, and to allow another inrush of air. From it a second little breeze found its way beneath the great slab and into the darkness of the underground passage, where it restored poor, despairing Peveril to life and hope by cooling his fevered brow and carrying the sound of singing to his ears. The very next time the girl entered the cavern she was at first bewildered to find the canvas screen drawn aside from its opening and the place flooded with light. Next she was frightened to note that the derrick was swung outward, and that its attached tackle was hanging down out of sight. Her first impulse was to run and call her father. Then she remembered that, as he was down in the mine, it would be a long time before he could come. Also, being a brave young woman and not easily frightened, she determined to find out for herself if there was any real cause for alarm. So she crept softly to the mouth of the cavern and peered cautiously out. At sight of a man lying on the rocks at the foot of the cliff, with his head in the water, her heart almost stopped its beating and she almost screamed. He lay so still that for a moment she imagined him to be dead, though the next instant she knew he was not, for he lifted his head to catch a breath. Then he again plunged it into the water, and quick as thought the girl drew up the tackle by which he had lowered himself. "There," she said to herself; "I guess you will stay where you are, Mister Man, until I can bring papa; and he'll know what to do with you!" She had drawn in the tackle very cautiously, without noticing the little scraping noise that its lower block made in crossing the rocky ledge, and she turned to go as she spoke. But she must take one more look, just to see if that horrid man was still there, and what he was doing. So she very carefully leaned forward and gazed straight down into the upturned face of Richard Peveril. CHAPTER XX PEVERIL IS TAKEN FOR A GHOST The situation in which the two principal characters of this story were left at the close of the preceding chapter was so embarrassing to both that for several seconds they continued to stare at each other in silent amazement. Mary Darrell, her face alternately flushing and paling with confusion, seemed fascinated and incapable of motion. In spite of Peveril's astonishingly disreputable appearance, she at once recognized him as being the young stranger whom she had seen twice before, and had even helped out of an awkward predicament. She also knew that he had in some way aroused her father's enmity. But he had taken his departure from that vicinity several days earlier, and, though she had wondered if he would ever come back, she had not really expected to see him again. Now to come upon him so suddenly, looking so dreadful, and to realize that, incredible as it seemed, he must have learned the secret of the cavern, was all so bewildering and startling as to very nearly take away her breath. So she simply stared. It must be confessed that Peveril's present appearance was not so prepossessing as it had been at other times, and might be again. He had lost his hat, his hair was uncombed, his hands were bruised and soiled, while his clothing was torn and covered with dirt from the underground passages through which he had so recently struggled. But his face was quite clean, for he had just given it a thorough scrubbing, and to it the girl's gaze was principally directed. It was Peveril who first broke the embarrassing silence. "I am very glad to see you again," he said, "and to find that you are a real flesh-and-blood girl, instead of only a vision, or a sort of a rock-nymph, as I imagined you might be from the way you disappeared that other time." "What makes you think I am a girl?" asked Mary Darrell, whose face was the only part of her that Peveril could see. "Why, because," he began, hesitatingly--"because you are too good-looking to be anything but a girl, and because--Oh, well, because I am certain that you are. What else could you be, anyway?" Mary Darrell's face was crimson, but still she answered, stoutly, "I might be a boy, you know." "No, indeed. No boy could blush as you are doing at this moment." In reply, the girl rose to her feet and stepped out on the ledge in full view of the young man. She was clad in a golf suit, neat-fitting and becoming, but masculine in every detail. She had become so accustomed to dressing in that way that she was perfectly at her ease in the costume, and even preferred it to her own proper garments. "I beg your pardon," stammered poor Peveril, as he gazed in bewilderment at the apparition thus presented. "I'm awfully ashamed to have made such a stupid mistake, but really, you know--" "Oh, it's all right," replied the other, "and you needn't apologize. I have so often been taken for a girl that I am quite used to it. And now may I ask who you are? why you are here? what you are doing down there? how you propose to get away? and--" "Hold on, my dear fellow!" interrupted Peveril. "Don't you think your list of questions is already long enough without adding any more?" "I suppose it is," laughed the other, assuming a seat in an expectant attitude at the base of the stunted cedar. The novelty of the situation, combined with its absolute safety, so far as she was concerned, was fascinating to the lonely girl. "Now you may begin," she added, "and tell me everything you know about yourself." "That would be altogether too long a story," replied Peveril, a little nettled at what he mentally termed the cheek of the youth. "Besides," he continued, "I am too nearly starved to do much talking, seeing that, for more days than I can remember, I have had nothing to eat but a rat, and--" "A rat!" cried the other, in a tone of horror. "You didn't really eat a rat?" "Indeed I did, and I would gladly eat another at this very minute, I am so hungry. Don't you think you could get me one? Or if you had any cold victuals that you could spare--" At that moment Mary Darrell, without waiting to hear another word, jumped up and disappeared, leaving Peveril to wonder what had struck the young fellow, and hoping that he had gone for something in the shape of food. "I wish I'd got him to let down that rope again first," he said to himself, as he paced back and forth across the ledge; "then I could have pulled myself up and gone with him, thereby saving both time and trouble. I would have sworn, though, that he was a girl. Never was so deceived in my life. He must have a sister, and perhaps they are twins, for it surely was a girl that I saw here the other time. All the same, I'm rather glad she isn't on hand just now, for I should hate to have any girl see me in my present disguise. My appearance must be decidedly tough and tramp-like. Wonder if I can't do something to improve it? That chap might be just idiot enough to bring his sister back with him." Thus thinking, the young man attempted to get a look at himself in the water-mirror of the lake, and was trying to comb his hair with his fingers, when a merry laugh from above put an end to his toilet and caused him to start up in confusion. His young friend of the golf suit had returned, and was letting down a small basket attached to a stout cord. "Why don't you drop the tackle and let me come up there to you?" suggested Peveril, who was not only very tired of the ledge, but curious to make a closer acquaintance with his new friend. "Oh no," said the other, hurriedly, "I can't do that. But look out! catch the basket. I am sorry not to have brought you a better lunch, but you seemed in such a hurry that I thought you might not be particular." "It's fine," rejoined Peveril, who was already making a ravenous attack on the bread and cold meat contained in the basket. "You couldn't have brought me anything that I should have liked better, or that would have done me more good, and I am a thousand times obliged." A few minutes of silence ensued after this, while the one in the golf suit eagerly watched the other satisfy his hunger. When the last crumb of food had disappeared, Peveril heaved a sigh of content. "I feel like a new man now," he said, "and if you will only be so kind as to throw down that tackle--" "But you haven't answered a single one of my questions," interrupted the other. "Can't I do that up there as well as here?" "No, I want them answered right off, now." "Well, you are a queer sort of a chap," retorted Peveril; "but, seeing that you were so kind about the lunch, I don't mind humoring you a bit. Let me see: What were they? Oh! First--who am I? Well, I am Richard Peveril; but beyond that I hardly know how to answer. Second--why am I here? Because I can't get away. Third--what am I doing? Answering questions. Fourth--how do I propose to get away? By climbing the rope that you will let down to me, of course, and then have you show me the same way out of the cavern that you take." [Illustration: AT SEEING PEVERIL, THE MEN UTTERED A CRY OF TERROR] "Oh, but I can't do that!" "Why not?" "Because I have promised never to show it to any one. But, if you don't know the way, how did you get into the cavern?" "If you'll show me your way out, I'll show you mine," replied Peveril, who was growing impatient. "I tell you I can't. It is simply impossible." "Oh, well! I won't urge you, then. Only let down the rope, so that I can get up to where you are, and I'll manage to find my own way out." "But I don't dare even to do that," answered the other, in genuine distress. "You don't mean to leave me down here forever, do you?" "No, of course not; but--Oh, I know! I'll send a boat for you. So, just wait patiently a little while longer and you shall be taken off." "I say! hold on!" cried Richard; but his words were unheeded, for, acting on the impulse of the moment, the other had disappeared, and he was talking to empty space. "Confound the boy!" he exclaimed, impatiently. "I never heard of anything so utterly absurd. Why, in the name of common-sense, should he object to showing me the way out of his old cave? One would think that ordinary humanity--But boys are such heartless young beggars that there's no such thing as appealing to their sympathies. If it had only been his sister now!" In the meantime Mary Darrell had hastened from the cavern full of her new plan for rescuing the prisoner without betraying the secret of the underground passage. She at first thought of appealing to her father for aid, but, remembering his bitterness against the young man, decided to act without him. So she called two miners who were at work about the mouth of the shaft and bade them follow her. As they did so she led the way to the basin, and, entering a boat, ordered the men to row her out into the lake. They obeyed without hesitation, and, as Mary steered, she soon had the satisfaction of seeing her prisoner just where she had left him. He was at the same time relieved of a growing anxiety by the approach of the boat, in which he finally recognized the young fellow who, although acting so curiously, had, on the whole, proved himself a friend. The boat approached so close to the ledge that Mary had given the order to cease rowing before the oarsmen turned their heads to see where they were. As they did so, they uttered a simultaneous cry of terror, again seized their oars, whirled their light craft around, and, in spite of Mary Darrell's angry protestations, began to row with frantic haste back in the direction from which they had come. Although Peveril was not so much surprised at this proceeding as he might have been had he not recognized the villain Rothsky in the bow-oarsman, he was bitterly disappointed, and paced up and down his narrow prison with restless impatience. "Oh! If I ever get out of this scrape!" he cried. Less than an hour afterwards, when Mary Darrell again entered the cavern, but this time in company with her father, to whom she had confided the whole story, Peveril had disappeared. There was no boat to be seen, and they were confident that none had been on the coast that day. The derrick, with its tackle, was just as Mary had left it, yet neither in the cavern nor on the ledge was a trace of the young man to be seen. CHAPTER XXI MIKE CONNELL TO THE RESCUE On the very day that the White Pine logging expedition had been so completely disbanded, the tug _Broncho_ had been sent up the coast in a hurry after a supply of timber. She reached Laughing Fish Cove in the evening after Peveril's departure from his camp, and spent the night there awaiting him. Her captain was greatly perplexed by the failure of any of the party to put in an appearance, and the more so when he learned from the fishermen that Peveril had returned alone only to depart again on foot soon afterwards. By morning he dared not wait longer, for his instructions were to start back immediately with such logs as had been collected. He also imagined that, having picked up all the timber they could find, and becoming tired of waiting for him, the wreckers might have set out for Red Jacket on foot. So, taking in tow the raft that he found in the cove, he started down the coast, arriving at his destination that same evening. Mike Connell, who had been anxiously awaiting Peveril's coming, was at the landing to meet his friend, and was much disappointed at his non-appearance. After gaining all the news concerning the missing party that Captain Spillins could give him, he hastened back to Red Jacket, and went at once to the Trefethen cottage with a faint hope that Peveril might be there. The inmates of the little house had also pleasantly anticipated the return of the young man in whom they were so interested, and had made such simple preparations as came within their means for welcoming him. Now their disappointment at Connell's report was mingled with a certain anxiety that increased as they discussed the situation. "I'm feared lad's got into some trouble along of they furriners," reflected Mark Trefethen, as he puffed thoughtfully at his short pipe. "Not but he'll find way outen it, though, for he's finely strong and handy wi' his fists. Still, there's always the knives and deviltry of they furriners to be reckoned with." "They do tell as hit's a cruel country up yon, full o' thieves and murderers, to say naught o' smuggling pirates," put in his wife; "which, as I were saying to Miss Penny no longer ago than yesterday, when me and 'er was looking in at company store, the same as Maister Peril should be running this blessed minute if 'e 'ad 'is rights, 'Miss Penny,' sez I, 'that pore young man'll never get it in this world, now 'e's gone for a sailor, mark my words,' little thinking they'd so soon come true." "If I was a man," said Nelly Trefethen, at the same time casting a meaning glance at her sweetheart, "I'd not be sitting here wondering how he's to be got out of trouble, especially if he'd done for me what he has for some." "No more will I," spoke up Mike Connell, "for I'm going to find him, which is what I came to say along with telling the news." "And I'll go with you!" exclaimed Tom Trefethen, springing to his feet, as though for an immediate start. "No, Tom; glad as I'd be of your company, it's best I should go alone, seeing as I know that country well, and one man can get along in it when two couldn't. Besides, you are needed here, while I'm not." In spite of young Trefethen's protests, the Irishman remained firm in his decision to set forth alone in search of his friend; and as he left the house Nelly, who with the others accompanied him to the door, managed to give his hand an approving squeeze. Although Major Arkell gave orders for the tug to return to Laughing Fish in search of the missing loggers the moment her services could be spared, it was not until twenty-four hours after bringing in the raft that it was possible for her to do so. In the meantime Mike Connell, starting at the break of day, and walking briskly northward, reached the cove that still held Peveril's deserted camp that same afternoon. Through an intimacy with several of his countrymen who were successful peddlers of Ralph Darrell's smuggled goods, Connell had learned much concerning that section of country, and the various operations conducted within its limits. He had at one time seriously contemplated going into the peddling business himself, and had made so many inquiries in regard to its details that he was even familiar with "Darrell's Folly," though it was a place he had never visited. Knowing it to be a headquarters for smugglers, and believing that, if Peveril had really got himself into trouble, it would be in connection with some of those people, he felt that it was a likely locality in which to search for information. Accordingly he headed directly for it, only going a short distance out of his way to visit Laughing Fish Cove. Having heard that the fisher-folk were in league with the smugglers, he did not care to betray his presence to them, and so did not show himself in the little settlement, but only skirted it, until certain that his friends were not there. Then he proceeded towards his destination by the same trail that Peveril had followed only two nights before. As he walked slowly along the narrow pathway, trying to invent some plausible excuse for presenting himself before the irascible old man who, he had heard, excluded all strangers from "Darrell's Folly," his steps were arrested by the sound of voices approaching from the opposite direction. In another moment he saw three men hurrying towards him, gesticulating wildly and talking loudly in an unknown tongue. As they drew near he recognized in them the three car-pushers recently driven from the White Pine Mine. It also flashed into his mind that these were the men whom he had urged to make a cowardly attack on the young fellow he had then considered an enemy, but for whom he was now searching as for a dear friend. The new-comers also recognized him, and, regarding him as of one purpose with themselves in all that concerned Peveril, did not hesitate to advance and speak to him. After an exchange of greetings, Connell broached the business in hand by asking if they had seen anything in those parts of the chap who had driven them from White Pine. The men glanced at each other hesitatingly for a moment, and then Rothsky answered: "Yes, my friend, indeed we have seen him, and to our sorrow, since it is but now that he has driven us from another job, better even than that." "How so?" inquired Connell, pricking up his ears. "It is this way: We are working, at good wages, for the old fool over yonder, when that devil of a Per'l comes and tries to steal our timbers. Then the boss compels us to seize him and put him in his boat, which we tow far out in the lake. Then, as he makes a try to escape, the boss, who is like a man crazy, shoots him with a pistol through the head, and we all see him fall without life in the bottom of his boat. He is so very dead that he does not even move, and so is let go to drift, him and his boat, while we return to shore." "A fine way of treating trespassers, bedad!" exclaimed Connell; "but all the same, there is folks who would call it murder." "Yes, was it not? But wait. All that was three days ago; and yet, but one hour since, two of us have seen the ghost of this beast Per'l standing on the black rocks, with the white face of death, the wet hair of the drowned, and his clothing torn by the teeth of fishes. He said not one word, but waited for us, and would have dragged us to the bottom if we had not fled in time. Now, with such things allowed, we can no longer work in this place, and so, for the second time, has he driven us from our good job." "It's a cruel shame and an outrage on dacency, nothing less!" cried Connell, in pretended indignation. "At the same time, Rothsky, man, I'd like to have been with you, for do you know I've never laid eyes on a ghost at all, but would like mightily to have the exparience. Would ye mind tellin' me now where could I find this one, just for the pleasure of the sensation?" "No, no, Mist Connell! Don't go near it, for you'll be going to your death if you do." "But, if I'm willing to risk it why not?" So the Irishman insisted that they should permit him to share with them the glory of having seen a ghost, and finally won from them full directions how to discover the place from which they had fled in terror. The sly fellow even made pretence of wishing them to go back with him, and, when they declined to consider his invitation, declared them to be a set of cowards, and set forth alone. "It's my belief," he said to himself, as he made his way towards the place where they had told him he would find a boat, "that them divils of Dagos have played some dirty trick on Mister Peril. If there'd been but two of them I'd found some way of extorting a confession from their lying mouths, but odds of three to one is too big to risk. So I had to blarney them; but maybe I'll be able to help the lad some way; and, anyhow, here's for the trying." It was dusk when Connell, having found the boat, pulled unobserved out of the land-locked basin, and by the time he reached the ledge, where he had been told he would find Peveril's ghost, darkness had so closed in that he could not tell whether it was occupied or not until he had left his craft and explored its limited area. "Mister Peril!" he called, softly; "come out, if you're hiding, for it's only me, Mike Connell, come to take you away from this--Oh, bad cess to it, he's not here at all, and it's a great song-and-dance them Dagos give me! Now I'll have to go and beg a night's lodging of the old man, and maybe he'll give me a job in place of them as has just left him. In that case I'll find out something, or me name's not--Holy smoke! where's me boat? Bad luck to the slippery craft! It's gone entirely, and here I am left to spend the cruel night alone on a bit of a rock in the sea. If I was in jail I'd be better off." It was only too true. The light skiff, carelessly left to its own devices, had been caught by a gentle breeze and borne without a sound beyond sight or hearing. As the second prisoner claimed by the black ledge that day stood dismally bemoaning his hard fate, a light flashed out above him, and, glancing upward, he saw what he took to be a man in the act of hanging two lanterns to a bit of a tree. It was a danger-signal warning the smugglers to keep away, and Mary Darrell was placing it by order of her father, who feared Peveril might still be lingering in that vicinity. "Hey, lad," cried Connell, noting her slight figure, "will you help a fellow-creature in distress by tossing down the end of a rope?" "Are you really still there?" exclaimed the girl, in a tone of dismay, and striving to peer down through the darkness. "I am that, but most anxious to get away." "And if I do let down the rope, will you promise to depart at once the same way you came?" "I'll promise anything if you'll only let me up." "Well, then, there it is. I know I am doing wrong, but I can't leave you down there all night, for you would be dead by morning." "True for ye," answered Connell, as he began briskly to climb the rope, hand over hand. As his face appeared within the circle of lantern-light, the poor girl, who was waiting with trembling anxiety, uttered a cry of terror and fled into the gloom of the cavern. "Well, if that don't bate my time!" exclaimed the new-comer, as he gained a foothold on the ledge. "Whatever could the lad be frightened of?" CHAPTER XXII THE SIGNAL IS CHANGED Peveril had been amazed and disgusted at the sudden turning about and departure of the boat that had so nearly effected his rescue. Of course, on recognizing the oarsmen, he understood why they declined to help him, though it did not enter his mind that they regarded him as a supernatural being. "What cowards they are!" he reflected, bitterly. "They are determined to kill me though, that is evident, and I don't believe they will be content with simply leaving me here to die of exposure. It's more than likely they will roll rocks down on me from the cliffs during the night. There's a cheerful prospect to contemplate, with darkness already coming on, too! "That young fellow seemed willing enough to help me, only he was bound to do it in his own way; but now I suppose those wretches will prevent him from making any more efforts in my behalf. What is he doing with that gang of murderers, I wonder? Apparently he is about as far removed from that class as a person can be. Well, that's neither here nor there. The one thing to be considered just now is, how am I to get out of this fix? I wonder if there is any possibility of that cord bearing my weight." The cord thus referred to was the one by which the basket of food had been lowered. As it still hung close at hand, Peveril gave it a sharp pull. Although it yielded slightly, it did not break, and, encouraged by this, he threw his whole weight on it as a conclusive test of its strength. The result was sudden, surprising, and wellnigh disastrous. The cord gave way so readily that Peveril sprawled at full length on the rocks, while, at the same time, something heavy fell with a rush down the face of the cliff and struck with great force close beside his head. Springing to his feet in alarm at this most unexpected happening, the prisoner found to his amazement and also to his delight that he had pulled down the derrick-tackle by which he had descended. To be sure, the block at its lower end had very nearly dashed out his brains, but what did he care for that so long as he had been given the benefit of the miss? For a moment he was puzzled to know how his pull on the cord could have effected so desirable a result, but, upon an examination of the tackle, he laughed aloud at the simplicity of the proposition. For want of something better to hold her end of the cord, Mary Darrell had tied it to the block of the derrick-tackle, intending, of course, to draw up the basket again as soon as her starving guest had emptied it. Then, absorbed in a suddenly evolved plan for releasing him from his predicament and at the same time preserving her father's secret, she had gone away and neglected to do so. Peveril was not slow to avail himself of the means of escape thus provided, and a few minutes later stood once more within the portal of the great cavern. His first care was to haul up the tackle and dispose it as he imagined it to have been left, with the attached cord hanging down the face of the cliff. "There!" he said, when this was done to his satisfaction. "The young fellow is almost certain to come back for another look at me, and, though I fancy he'll be somewhat surprised to find me gone, it will never enter his head that I am up here. Then when he leaves I will simply follow his lead, and so find the way out of this mysterious place. Perhaps, though, I can discover it for myself." Thus thinking, Peveril made as careful an examination of the cavern walls as the fading light would permit, but could find no sign of an opening. Finally, deciding to carry out his original plan, he selected a hiding-place, and, settling himself in it as comfortably as possible, began to await with what patience he might the return of his young friend. By this time the cavern was quite dark, save for a dim twilight at its opening; and, having nothing to distract his attention, he began to realize how very weary he was after the exertions and nervous strain of the past three days. He had also just eaten a hearty meal. It is little wonder then that, within five minutes, and in spite of his strenuous exertions to keep awake, he fell fast asleep. Fortunately he did not snore, nor make any sound to betray his presence, but unfortunately, also, his slumber was so profound that when, a little later, Mary Darrell and her father softly entered the gallery and cautiously proceeded to its mouth for a look at the prisoner, whom they supposed still to be on the black ledge, he did not waken. Puzzled as they were at his disappearance, they were also greatly relieved to have him gone. They never for a moment imagined that he could have regained the cavern, and so, after drawing up the basket, they retired as they had come, leaving Peveril undisturbed to his nap. While it was not certain that the expected smuggling schooner would reach the coast that evening, she might do so, and, with the cautiousness marking all of his operations, Ralph Darrell decided that it would not do for her cargo to be landed while there was a chance of a stranger, who was at the same time an enemy, being in the neighborhood. He felt assured that the young man who had so mysteriously appeared and disappeared that day must be an enemy; for, though Mary had not mentioned his name, she had described him as being the one who had recently attempted to steal his logs from the land-locked basin. Now he had no doubt that the chap was a revenue-officer who had come to spy out his smuggling operations, and only pretended to be in search of wrecked timber as a cloak for his real designs. Else why should he still hang around, and especially in the vicinity of the cavern, where there were no logs? Mary even declared a belief that he had been in their carefully concealed hiding-place, but, of course, she must be mistaken. Still, no more cargo must be landed until the spy was located and driven from that region. "I sha'n't need to carry on the business much longer," said the old man to himself; "but so long as I choose to remain in it I don't propose to be interfered with." So Mary was directed to go and display two lanterns at the mouth of the cavern as a signal that no goods were to be landed that night, while her father went out for the final look at his precious mining property that he took every evening just after the men had quit work. Ralph Darrell's heart was bound up in the new work he had recently began, and so anxious was he to push it that he was engaging all laborers who came that way. As yet his force was very small, but he was in hopes of speedily increasing it. Thus, to discover that three of his strongest men had suddenly thrown up their jobs and left him without warning filled him with anger. So furious was he, even after he entered the house, that poor Mary, who had just returned badly frightened from the cavern, dared not confess to him that, through her own carelessness, another stranger had been admitted to the hidden storehouse of the cliffs. Perhaps by morning this unwelcome visitor would have disappeared, as the other had done; and, at any rate, he could never find the secret passage, for it was too carefully concealed. By morning, too, her father would be restored to his ordinary frame of mind, and it would be easier to tell him what she had done, if, indeed, it should prove necessary to tell him at all. In the meantime Mike Connell was much puzzled by the nature of the place in which he found himself after his climb, as well as by the abrupt disappearance of the lad upon whom he had counted for guidance. The darkness, with its accompanying profound silence, so affected him that, while he called several times, "Whist now! Where are you? Come out o' that, young feller, and have done with your foolin'!" he did so in an awed tone but little above a whisper. "All right; stay where you are then!" he added, after listening vainly for a reply. "If it's a game of hide-and-seek ye want, I can soon accommodate you, seeing as how you've been so kind as to leave me a couple of glims, though it's only one of them I'll need." Thus saying, the new-comer removed one of the two lanterns that had been hung out as a warning to the smugglers, and unwittingly changed the danger-signal into one of safety and invitation by so doing. With the lantern thus acquired to light his footsteps, he began a careful survey of the cavern, hoping to discover either an exit from it or his vanished guide. With his previous knowledge of the principal industry of that region, it did not take him long to conjecture the meaning of the bales and boxes upon which he soon stumbled. "Holy smoke!" he cried; "it's a cave of smugglers you've broke into, Mike Connell, no less, and a sorrowful time ye'll have of it if the folks comes home and catches you at the trespassing! Where the divil is the back door, I wonder, for the one in front is no good at all? Saints preserve us! What's that?" With this last exclamation the frightened Irishman began to retreat slowly backward, holding his lantern so that, while it revealed his own terror-stricken face, its light also fell full on the form of Richard Peveril standing before him and staring in blankest amazement. "Plaze, good Mister Spook--I mean yer Honor--Oh, Holy Fathers! what will I say?" stammered the poor fellow, in such faltering accents that Peveril broke into a roar of laughter. "Mike Connell!" he cried; "wherever did you come from? and what has happened? You look as though you had seen a ghost!" "And haven't I?" retorted the other, still staring dubiously. "Is it yourself, lad? But sure it must be, seeing you have a voice of your own, which is a thing never yet given to a spook. Glory be to goodness, Mister Peril, that I've found you just as I'd lost you entirely, and meself as well!" "But how do you happen to be here?" asked the still bewildered Peveril. "Sure I just came, thinking you might want me." "Which way did you come?" "Through the front door, the same as yourself." "But I came in by a back entrance." "Then we'd best be getting out that way, for I'm afeard there'll soon be others here as won't be pleased to see us." "We can't, for that way is barred," answered Peveril; "but let us sit down and try to arrive at some understanding of this mysterious affair." So, for nearly an hour, the two talked over the situation; and, though each frequently interrupted the other with questions or exclamations, they finally gained a pretty clear comprehension of their position. At the end of the conference Peveril exclaimed: "Then, so far as I can see, we are shut up here like two rats in a trap." "Yes," cried Connell, "and here comes the rat-catchers after us now!" As he spoke he pointed to the outer entrance, where the head and shoulders of a man had just appeared above the rocky ledge. CHAPTER XXIII A BATTLE WITH SMUGGLERS After supper that same evening the violence of Ralph Darrell's rage had so subsided that his daughter ventured to inquire concerning its cause. When he had informed her, she said: "Why should you let a little thing like that worry you, papa? Surely you can engage plenty more miners if you want them. I don't see why you should bother with the old mine, though. It don't seem to be worth anything." "Not worth anything!" cried the old man, standing up in his excitement. "Why, child, it is worth millions! It is one of the richest copper properties in the world, and in one week's time it will be all my own. Rather, it will be yours, since it is for you alone that I have lived in this wilderness all these years, thereby saving it from destruction, and warding off the conspiracy that would reduce you to beggary. For your sake only have I so guarded the secret of its wealth that no living soul suspects it. Even the men who delve in its depths know not the value of the material in which they toil, for I have not told them. Nor have I allowed an assay to be made of its smallest fragment; but I know its worth, its fabulous value, that will make the owner of the Copper Princess one of the richest heiresses in the world." "Who is the Copper Princess, papa?" asked the girl, who, though bewildered by the old man's extravagant statements, could not help but be interested in them. "You are, my darling, you are a copper princess; but the name also applies to your mine, and was given to it before you were born. 'Darrell's Folly' is what men, in their ignorance, call it now, but in one week's time it may assume its rightful title, and thereafter the fame of the Copper Princess will spread far and wide." "But why not let people call the mine by its real name now, papa? What difference will one week make?" "Because," replied Ralph Darrell, bending towards his daughter, and lowering his voice almost to a whisper, as though fearful of being overheard, "in one week's time--only one week from this very day--the contract will expire, and the heirs of Richard Peveril can make no claim." "Richard Peveril!" cried the girl, with a sudden recollection; "why, papa, that is the name of the young man who was in the cavern to-day, for he told me so himself. He is the same, you know, who came for your logs." For an instant the old man glared at his daughter with an expression so terrible that she shrank from him frightened. Then it cleared, and in his ordinary tone he said, gently: "I wish, dear, you would go and change your dress. I don't like to have you wear this boy's costume in the evening." With only a moment of hesitation the girl obeyed him and left the room. She had no sooner disappeared than the strange expression that he had so successfully banished for a minute returned to the man's face, and, possessing himself of a revolver, he proceeded to load it. As he did so he muttered: "I must do it for her sake, though she must never know. Richard Peveril shall not be given an opportunity for making his claim. If he is really in the cavern he must not be allowed to escape from it alive." So saying, the old man left the room, while Mary Darrell, who had been anxiously watching his movements through a crack of the opposite doorway, followed swiftly after him. In the cavern, at that moment, two groups of men were confronting each other suspiciously, but hesitating as to what attitude they should assume. The expected schooner had reached the coast that evening, and, assured of safety by the single light displayed from the cliffs, had run boldly in to her accustomed anchorage. As the operations of the smugglers were necessarily conducted with great promptness, a portion of her valuable cargo was immediately transferred to a small boat, and four men accompanied it to the usual landing-place on the black ledge. Here the goods were taken out, and two of the men returned to the schooner with the boat while the others remained on shore. These became so impatient at not receiving the usual intimation from above that all was in readiness for hoisting, nor any answer to their repeated signals, that they finally decided to avail themselves of the tackle hanging ready beside them to go up and investigate. The captain of the schooner, who was an Englishman, went first, and the other, who was a French Canadian, followed closely after him. [Illustration: A WILD-LOOKING MAN LEVELLED A PISTOL AT PEVERIL] To their amazement they found the cavern, which they had been told was never entered except by old man Darrell or his son, in possession of two strangers, who appeared equally surprised at seeing them. "What are you chaps doing 'ere?" demanded the Englishman. "Oui. By gar! vat you do in zis place?" added his follower. "I was about to ask that same question," said Peveril. "What are _you_ doing here?" "Yes, be jabers! That's what _we_ want to know. What be _yous_ doing here?" chimed in Mike Connell. At that moment a wild-looking, white-headed figure suddenly appeared on the scene, and, with one searching glance at Peveril, who stood fully revealed in the light of Mike Connell's lantern, levelled a pistol full at him. As he did so, a cry of terror rang through the rock-hewn chamber, and a pair of soft arms were flung about the old man from behind. By this his aim was so disconcerted that, though the shot still rang out with startling effect in that confined space, its bullet flew wide of the intended mark, and Peveril stood unharmed. In another second the schooner's captain had sprung upon the madman and wrenched the pistol from his hand, crying out: "No, no, Mr. Darrell! There must be no murder connected with this business. It is bad enough, God knows, without having that added!" "C'est vrai! Certainment! By gar!" shouted the Canadian. "You bet your sweet life, old man! That sort of thing don't go down in the copper country, and it's mighty lucky for you that the young feller was on hand to kape you from carrying out your murderous intentions," said Mike Connell, sternly. Peveril, seeing that the man, whom he had already recognized, was rendered harmless by the loss of his pistol, remained coolly silent, waiting for some cue by which his own course of action might be determined. "I see I have made a mistake, gentlemen," said Ralph Darrell, changing his tactics with all a madman's cunning and readiness. "And I beg Mister--a--" "Peveril," said the young man--"Richard Peveril is my name, sir." "Yes, of course; and, as I was saying, I beg Mr. Richard Peveril's pardon for being so hasty; but my daughter here, having informed me of his suspicious presence in the vicinity of this warehouse, I came to protect my property from possible depredation. Finding him in the very place that I was most anxious to guard, I very naturally took him for a burglar, and acted accordingly. I am sorry, of course, if I have made a mistake; but, if I remember rightly, I have already had occasion to accuse Mr. Peveril of trespassing, and to order him from my premises." "You did, sir, and I refused to go until I had recovered certain property to which I have a claim." "Do you refuse to go now, when I tell you that the property in question has been removed beyond your reach?" "I do not." "Will you promise never to return?" "I will not." "Will you go with these men on their schooner?" "Certainly not, unless compelled by force, for I have no inclination to trust myself with a gang of smugglers." By this time two more of the schooner's crew, who had reached the ledge with a second boat-load of goods in time to be attracted by the pistol-shot in the cavern, had made their appearance on the scene, and stood wonderingly behind their captain. To this individual the old man whispered: "I will give you one thousand dollars to capture this spy, who threatens to break up our business. Carry him on board your schooner, and keep him there for one week--one whole week, remember. Five hundred down, and the remainder at the end of the week, if you have him still on board." "Done!" said the captain, eagerly; and, turning to his men, he muttered a few words to them in a low tone. Peveril and Connell watched this by-play with considerable anxiety, for they had no idea what action would be best to take. It would be folly to make an attack on so strong a force, especially as they had no direct provocation for so doing. Even should they succeed in driving them from the cavern, they had no clear idea of what would be gained. At the same time they did not relish the idea of waiting quietly while the others carried on their secret consultation. "The divils mean mischief, Mister Peril," whispered Connell. "Kape your eye on them; and mind, if we get separated in the shindy, I'm not the lad to desert a friend. Look out! Here they come! Take that, you imps of Satan!" With this final exclamation, the Irishman hurled his lighted lantern full into the faces of the group at that moment rushing towards them. It struck with a crash of glass, and then everything was enveloped in darkness. The fight was fierce, but short-lived. Peveril found himself striking out wildly, was conscious of delivering several telling blows, and of receiving twice as many in return. Then he was overwhelmed by numbers, and, still fighting stoutly, was borne to the rocky floor. When all was over and a lantern was brought, it revealed several bloody faces and blackened eyes. Peveril was lying flat on his back, with three men holding him down. Connell had disappeared, and so had Mary Darrell, who was still looked upon by all present, except her father, as being a boy. The old man held the lighted lantern, and the captain of the schooner, swearing savagely, was holding his hands to his face, which had been badly cut by the Irishman's missile. A cord was brought, the very one that had lowered the lunch-basket, and with it Peveril was trussed like a fowl for roasting. Then he was swung down to the ledge at the base of the cliffs, tossed into a boat, and rowed away. A few minutes later he was handed aboard the schooner, taken below, and chucked into a small, evil-smelling state-room, the door of which was locked behind him. It was a very unpleasant position to occupy, and yet his thoughts were not dwelling half so much upon it as they were upon the fact that the young person in golf costume who had saved his life that evening had been spoken of as a _daughter_. CHAPTER XXIV CONNELL MAKES GOOD HIS ESCAPE From the very first Mike Connell had determined not to be captured, if he could possibly help it, wisely concluding that he would stand a better chance of serving his friend in freedom than as a prisoner. He realized that Ralph Darrell's enmity was especially directed towards Peveril, and believed that he, therefore, would be the principal object of attack. At the same time he knew that, no matter how desperately two might fight against six, there was little hope of success in face of such overwhelming odds. So, while he was prepared to throw himself heart and soul into the fray, he was also on the watch for a chance of escape. The entrance of the Darrell's into the cavern had been so precipitate, and both of them had been so intent upon the object of their coming, that they had forgotten their usual precaution and neglected to close the door giving them admittance. It was a slab of stone, carefully fitted to its place, swinging easily on iron pivots, and usually fastened by a stout spring. Being left open, it disclosed a patch of blackness a shade darker than the wall on either side, and this caught Connell's eye just as the rush was made. Believing that here was offered a chance of escape that could be utilized better in darkness than in light, and knowing also that a battle against odds could be more successfully waged under the same conditions, he used his lantern as a weapon of offence, and thereby dashed out its flame at the very beginning of the fracas. For a moment he entertained a vague hope that he would be able to draw Peveril with him into the place that he had discovered, and that thus they might effect an escape together. Quickly finding this impossible, he sprang to one side, after knocking down one of his enemies, groped along the wall until he found the desired opening, and entered it. As he did so he came in contact with the slight figure of Mary Darrell, who had here taken refuge at the outbreak of the struggle, and was awaiting its termination in trembling anxiety. Now, thinking the new-comer to be her father, and desirous of saving him from harm, she gave the stone door a push that closed it. Then she said: "I am so glad to have you safely away from those dreadful men, dear papa! Now you will go back with me to the house, won't you, for I am afraid to go alone?" "Yes, only hurry!" whispered the Irishman, readily accepting the situation, but not daring to speak aloud for fear of betraying his identity. At the same time the thought, "What a coward the young fellow is, to be sneaking away from an elegant shindy like the one behind us! I've a mind to give him a taste of me fist for luck when we get out of this black hole! No, I will not, though. I'll lave him be, for wasn't it him saved Mr. Peril's life, after all?" Resting one hand lightly on his guide's shoulder, he followed her closely, and had barely reached the foregoing conclusion when the girl flung open a door, and the two stepped into a lighted room. For a moment their eyes were completely dazzled by its brightness. Mary was the first to become accustomed to the glare of light, and turned to speak to her supposed father. Upon seeing the face of a perfect stranger she uttered a cry of dismay, and started as though to fly, but the other clutched her arm. "None of that, young feller!" he said, sternly. "Now that you've brought me so far you'll see me farther and show me the way out of here. You're a fine, bold chap, ain't you?" he added, in a tone of scorn. "Look like you was fitter to be a girl than a lad, any day, and, if it wasn't for the good turn you done me friend back yonder, I'd be tempted to give you a kindergarten lesson in the manly art of self-defence. As it is, I'll let you off this time, provided you'll show me the way out. But you want to get a move on." Terribly frightened as she was, the girl still found strength to open a door on the opposite side of the room and motion for the man to pass through. As he did so she slammed it behind him and locked it. Then her overwrought feelings gave way, and she sank into a chair, sobbing hysterically. Furious at finding himself thus tricked, the Irishman's first impulse was to turn and batter down the door, but a couple of heavy kicks delivered against it for this purpose brought forth a loud cry from some lower region. "Hi! up dar. What you all a-doin'?" At the same time it flashed into Connell's mind that his recent enemies of the cavern might appear at any moment and open the door in such a way as to cause him to regret that it had not remained closed. Besides, was he not capable of finding his own way out of a house? "Of course I am," he muttered, "and I'd best be doing it in a hurry, too. So good-bye, young feller, and here's hoping we'll meet again." Then he made his way down-stairs, opened a door, and found himself in a kitchen, confronted by a resolute old colored woman, who, after one glance at his strange face, let fly at it a ladle of hot water. This assault was immediately followed by such a well-directed shower of plates, pans, and culinary utensils as caused the intruder to utter howls of pain and make a blind dash for an outer door. Even outside the house his troubles were far from ended, for shouting men were running towards him through the darkness, while at the same time a dog leaped at him. Throttling the animal and flinging him off after a vigorous struggle, Connell had next to knock down a man who was attacking him on the opposite side, receive a blow from a broom-handle wielded by Aunty Nimmo, dodge several other assailants, and finally to run for his life. When the poor fellow at length found himself alone and safe from present pursuit, he sat breathlessly on a log, over which he had just pitched headlong, and began to consider his situation. "You may talk about your dynamite and gunpowder," he said, "but being blown up with aither of them isn't a patch to what I've gone through this night. What with being wracked on a rock in the sea, fighting smugglers, nagurs, and Polanders--to say nothing of dogs and other wild animals--beat and battered, torn and scalded, tripped up and lost in the wilderness, and all in the middle of a cruel blackness, is an experience that any man might be grateful to be done with. If I have a whole bone left inside of me skin, or a rag to me back, it's more than I'm hoping. Now what'll I do next? "Will I go back to the house? Indade I will not. Will I make another try for the cave? Not so long as I have me right mind. Will I go back to Red Jacket?--and meet them as would ax me what had I done with Mister Peril? Not on your life. Where is Mister Peril at this blessed minute, anyhow? At sea on board the smuggler, or I miss me guess. How will I get to him? By taking a boat, of course. Where will I find one? At Laughing Fish Cove, to be sure. That's the very place, bedad! and the sooner I'm getting there the better." The tug _Broncho_ had reached Laughing Fish about an hour before Mike Connell arrived at this decision. She had come in search of the party of log-wreckers that she had brought to that place more than a week earlier, and now those on board were greatly troubled at not finding a trace of the missing men save their deserted camp. Nor could they obtain any information concerning them from the fisher folk of the cove. On board the tug was Major Arkell, who had been led by curiosity to take the trip. He was curious to know what had become of the young man whom he had sent into that region to pick up wrecked logs, and he was also curious to ascertain what had become of a large number of those same logs that still remained unaccounted for. At the same time he would like to investigate certain reports that had reached him of the reopening of some old mine-workings in that neighborhood. He had hoped that his researches might not take him beyond Laughing Fish, where he anticipated finding Richard Peveril prepared to answer all his questions. Failing to discover the young man, or any trace of him, the problems that he had set out to solve became more interesting than before, and he ordered Captain Spillins to start at daybreak on a cruise still farther up the coast. Early on the following morning, therefore, everything was in readiness on board the tug, and its crew were getting up the anchor when their attention was arrested by the shouts and gesticulations of a man on the beach. "Send a boat in and see what he wants," said the manager; and ten minutes later Mike Connell was on board, telling his story to a highly interested group of listeners. Within an hour after receiving her new passenger, the _Broncho_, under full head of steam, was several miles to the northward of Laughing Fish, and well out to sea, in hot pursuit of a small schooner. The latter was slipping easily along before the fresh morning breeze that had recently set in after a night of calm. The water rippled merrily past her flashing sides, and she was making some six miles an hour. At the same time the _Broncho_, pouring forth great clouds of soft-coal smoke and heaping the smooth water into double white-crested billows as she rushed through it, was doing two miles to her one, and would soon overtake her. "Whatever can that bloomin' teakettle want of us?" growled the captain of the schooner as he blinked with half-closed eyes at his pursuer. "She ain't no revenue boat, as I can see. Tom, h'ist our ensign as a hint for 'em to keep away." The sailor obeyed, and a minute later ran the crimson flag of Great Britain to the main peak, where it streamed out bravely in the freshening breeze. "Got a flag aboard this boat, Captain Spillins?" asked Major Arkell as he watched the schooner from the _Broncho's_ pilot-house. "Yes, sir, two of 'em." "Good. We'll see that fellow and go him one better. Set 'em both." In consequence of this order the Stars and Stripes were quickly snapping defiantly from both the forward and after jack-staffs of the on-rushing tug. "Sheer off, blast you, or you'll run us down!" bellowed the captain of the schooner as the tug ranged close abreast. "Is that your man?" asked the manager, of Mike Connell. "He is. Sure I'd know him from a thousand by me own frescos on his purty face." "Have you a man named Richard Peveril aboard your craft?" demanded Captain Spillins. "None of your d----d business." "Run him down!" ordered Major Arkell, sternly, and the words had hardly left his mouth before the two vessels came together with a crash. CHAPTER XXV A SEA-FIGHT ON LAKE SUPERIOR As no other schooner was in sight, and as this one was standing off the coast when discovered, the _Broncho_ people had from the very first believed her to be the one they wanted. Her hoisting of British colors strengthened this belief, and it was finally confirmed by Connell's recognition of her captain. Until that moment, however, they had entertained serious doubts as to whether they should find Peveril on board; for it did not seem credible that even a smuggler, accustomed to running great risks, would dare abduct and forcibly carry off an American citizen. They did not know of the tempting reward promised to the schooner's captain for doing that very thing, nor of his determination to make this his last voyage on the great lake. So they anxiously awaited his answer to the question: "Have you a man named Richard Peveril aboard your craft?" When it came, although it was neither yes nor no, it so thoroughly confirmed their suspicions that they had no hesitation in attempting to rescue their friend by force, and the _Broncho's_ men gave a yell of delight as the two vessels crashed together. On board the tug this moment had been foreseen and prepared for. Two small anchors had been got ready to serve as grappling-irons, and each man had been told off for special duty. The regular crew of four men had been materially strengthened by the addition of the two passengers; but, as the engineer must be left on board under all circumstances, the available fighting force was reduced to five. As it happened, this was the exact number on board the schooner. So, as the _Bronchos_ scrambled to her deck, each singled out an individual and went for him. The vessel had been thrown into the wind by the collision, her sails were thrashing to and fro with a tremendous clatter, which, combined with a roar of escaping steam from the tug, created such dire confusion among the smugglers as rendered them almost incapable of resistance. In fact, their captain was the only one who made a show of fighting; and, springing at him with a howl of delight, Mike Connell sent him sprawling to the deck with a single blow. Then the Irishman dove down the companionway, cast a hasty glance about the little cabin, and made for the only door in sight. A couple of vigorous kicks burst it open, and in another minute Richard Peveril was again a free man. As the two friends reached the deck, Connell uttered a wild Irish yell of triumph, while the released captive, who now gained his first inkling of what had taken place, stared about him in bewilderment. Then he burst into a shout of laughter at the spectacle of four men, one of whom was the dignified manager of the great White Pine Mining Company, calmly sitting on the prostrate bodies of four others, while a fifth, who had just struggled to his feet with a very rueful countenance, suddenly dropped to the deck again as he caught sight of Connell. Greeting Peveril with a hearty cheer, and carrying him with them, the _Bronchos_ regained their ship and cast off the lines that held her to the schooner. As these were loosed her jingle-bell rang merrily, her screw churned the dimpled waters into a yeasty foam, and, with a derisive farewell yell from her exultant crew, she dashed away, leaving her recent antagonist enveloped in a cloud of sulphurous smoke. The whole affair had occupied just five minutes. There was no lack of entertainment on board the good tug _Broncho_ as she again headed southward and ploughed her way briskly towards Laughing Fish, for every one had thrilling stories to tell or to hear. "It seems to me," remarked Major Arkell to Peveril, after listening attentively to the young man's narration, "that you have managed to compress a greater number of desperate adventures and hair-breadth escapes into a short space of time than any other man in the Copper Country. I, for instance, have been here for ten years, and haven't yet had an adventure worth the telling." "Not even the one of this morning?" "Oh, that was only an incident compared with what has happened to you. How do you manage it? Do you always find such stirring times wherever you go?" "No, indeed," laughed Peveril; "until very recently I have led a most quiet and uneventful life. Even now I would gladly exchange all my adventures, as you are pleased to call them, for the smallest scrap of information regarding the mine that I came out here to find." "Haven't you learned anything concerning your Copper Princess yet?" "Not one word." "That's strange! I wonder if it can be located in the Ontonagon region?" "I had just about made up my mind to visit that section and find out," replied Peveril. "That is, if I have earned enough money while working for you to pay my travelling expenses." "I guess you have," laughed the major; "but I can't let you go yet a while, for I shall want you to help me settle accounts with that old fellow who stole our logs. Besides, you have so aroused my curiosity regarding those prehistoric workings of yours that I should like very much to visit them. Do you think you could find the entrance again?" "Which entrance--the hole down which I was thrown, or the one through which I crawled out?" "The one by which you were introduced to them, of course. From your own account, the other is altogether too small for comfort, and the chances of being shot for trespass are altogether too great in its vicinity." "I expect I could find the locality, but I hate the idea of ever going near it again. I don't think you can imagine what I suffered while down there. I am sure the place will haunt my worst dreams during the remainder of my life." "By going down again with plenty of light, company, and an assured means at leaving at any moment, the place will present a very different and much more cheerful aspect. Besides, the ancient tools that you mention as existing in such numbers down there are becoming so scarce as to be very valuable and well worth collecting. So, on the whole, I think we had better go and take a look at your prehistoric diggings this very day." "Very well, sir. Since you insist upon it, I will act as your guide; but I must confess that I shall be heartily glad to leave this part of the country and return to the civilization of Red Jacket." "Civilization of Red Jacket is good!" laughed the other. "How long since you considered it as civilized?" "Ever since I left there and found out how much worse other places could be." As a result of this conversation, four men left Laughing Fish soon after the tug again dropped anchor in its cove, and took to the trail that two of them had followed before. These two were Peveril and Connell. The others were the White Pine manager and Captain Spillins. Arrived at the point from which "Darrell's Folly" could be seen, they turned abruptly to the right and plunged into the woods. Only too well did Peveril remember the path over which he had been dragged a helpless captive only three days before. But the way seemed shorter now than then, and he was surprised to discover the dreaded shaft within a few hundred feet of the trail they had just left. They had brought ropes with them, as well as an axe, and candles in abundance. Now, after cutting away the bushes from the shaft-mouth, and measuring its depth by letting down a lighted candle until it was extinguished in the water at the bottom, they prepared for the descent. The major was to go first, and Peveril, whose dread of the undertaking had been partially overcome, was to follow. The others were to remain on the surface to pull their companions up, when their explorations should be finished. So Major Arkell seated himself in a loop of the rope, swung over the edge of the old shaft, and was slowly lowered until the measured length had run out. Then the others, peering anxiously down from above, saw his twinkling light swing back and forth until it suddenly disappeared. A moment later the rope was relieved of its strain, and they knew that its burden had been safely deposited on the rocky platform described by Peveril. He went next, and was quickly landed in safety beside his companion. "It is an old working, sure as you live!" exclaimed the major, who was examining the walls of the gallery with a professional eye. "And here are the tools you spoke of. Beautiful specimens, by Jove! Finest I ever saw. We must have them all up--every one. But let us go back a piece and examine the drift. First time I ever knew of those old fellows drifting, though. They generally only worked in open pits until they struck water, and then quit. Didn't seem to have any idea of pumps." Still filled with his recent horror of the place, Peveril tried to dissuade the other from penetrating any farther into the workings, but in vain; and so, each bearing a lighted candle, they set forth. At the several piles of material, previously noted as barring the way, the major uttered exclamations of delight and astonishment. "It is copper!" he cried. "Mass copper, almost pure! The very richest specimens I have ever seen! Why, man, the old mine must have been a bonanza, if it all panned out stuff like this! These piles were evidently ready for removal when something interfered to prevent. Wonder what it could have been? Didn't find any bones, did you, or evidences of a catastrophe?" "No. Nothing but what you see. Good heavens, major! What's that?" With blanched faces the two stood and listened. Strong men as they were, their very limbs trembled, while their hearts almost ceased beating. Again it came from the black depths beyond them--a cry of agony, pitiful and pleading. "Let's get out of this," whispered the major, clutching at Peveril's arm and endeavoring to drag him back the way they had come. "I've had enough." "No," replied the other, resolutely; "we can't leave while some human being is calling for deliverance from this awful place." [Illustration: THE TWO MEN STOOD AND LISTENED] "You don't think it a human voice?" "I do, and at any rate I am going to see. There! Hear it?" Again came the shrill cry, echoing from the rocky walls. "Help! For God's sake, don't leave us here to perish!" At the sound Peveril sprang forward, and the major tremblingly followed him. Back in the gloom, a hundred yards from where they had halted, they came upon a scene that neither will ever forget so long as he lives. A slender youth and a white-haired man stood clinging to each other, and gazing with wildly incredulous eyes at the advancing lights. "It is Richard Peveril, father! Oh, thank God! Thank God, sir, that you have come in time!" cried the younger of the two. "Richard Peveril?" repeated the old man, huskily. "No, no, Mary! It can't be! It must not be! Richard Peveril is dead, and the contract is void. He has no claim on the Copper Princess. It is all mine. Mine and yours. But don't let him know. Keep the secret for one week longer--only one little week--then you may tell it to the world." CHAPTER XXVI FIRST NEWS OF THE COPPER PRINCESS When Peveril made his miraculous escape from the old mine, he left his place of exit open. In his impatience to get away from the scene of his sufferings, he had not even given another thought to the great stone slab that he had raised with such difficulty and precariously propped into position by a few fragments of rock. So the narrow passage leading down from the cavern into the ancient workings that had been so carefully concealed for centuries was at length open to the inspection of any who should happen that way. Thus it remained during the day of exciting incidents in the cavern, and through the struggle that was ended by the smugglers bearing Peveril away captive to their schooner. Having thus disposed of the person whom of all in the world he most dreaded, and placed him where it was apparently impossible for him to make a claim on the Copper Princess before the expiration of the term of contract, Ralph Darrell rejoined his daughter. She, noting his excitement and fearing to increase it, made no mention of her own encounter with the other stranger, whose presence in the cavern seemed to have escaped her father's notice. So they only talked of Peveril; and the girl, picturing him as he had appeared on the several occasions of their meeting, wondered if he could really be trying to rob them of their slender possessions, as her father claimed. The latter talked so incoherently of a conspiracy, a contract, and of the great wealth that would be theirs in one week from that time, that she was completely bewildered, and for the first time in her life began to wonder if her papa knew exactly what he was saying. Thus thinking, she soothed him as best she could, and finally succeeded in getting him off to bed; but in the morning the subject was again uppermost in his mind, and he would talk of nothing else. Now he wondered how Peveril could have found his way into the cavern; and as Mary was also very curious on that point, she willingly accompanied him on a tour of investigation. In this search it was not long before they discovered the upraised stone slab at the rear end of the cavern, and peered curiously into the black passage beneath it, which from the very first Ralph Darrell was determined to explore. "It is a part of our own mine," he said, "and so I must find out all about it. There is no danger, for I can go very carefully, and return when I please. I must go, though, for it is clearly my duty to do so. Who knows but what I may strike another vein down there, as valuable as the one we are already working. So, dear, do you wait here, and I will come back to you very shortly." But brave Mary Darrell would not agree to any such proposition, and declared that if her father insisted on going into that horrid place she should follow him. So the old man and the girl--the former filled with eager curiosity and the latter with a premonition of danger--crept under the great slab and entered the sloping passage. They had but a single candle with them, and of this Mary was glad, for she knew it would limit their exploration and compel a speedy return. Both of them being of much slighter frame than Peveril, they found little difficulty in slipping through the passage and reaching the ancient workings to which it led. Here Darrell began to find copper, and went into ecstasies over its richness. Forgetful of everything else, he pushed eagerly forward from one pile of the valuable metal to another, and Mary, inspired by his enthusiasm, almost forgot her dread of the gloomy place in which so much wealth was stored. So absorbed were they that neither of them paid any attention to a dull sound, as of some heavy body falling, that came from a distance. Finally, their candle burning low warned them to hasten their return; but to their consternation, when they again reached the end of the passage, they found its entrance closed. The great slab, insecurely supported, had fallen into place, and the utmost exertion of their feeble strength was insufficient to move it. As they realized the full extent of the disaster that had thus befallen them, the girl was awed into a despairing silence; while the old man's impaired intellect gave way completely beneath the awful strain of the situation, and he broke into incoherent ravings. At length Mary Darrell knew that her beloved father had lost his mind, and that she must share her living tomb with a madman. In his ravings he declared that the situation was exactly as he wanted it; for now no one, not even Richard Peveril himself, could share their new-found wealth. With the next breath he expressed an intention of getting back to the piles of copper as quickly as possible, that he might defend them with his life against all claimants. Terrible as it was to the girl to hear her father talk in this way, his mention of Peveril brought a faint ray of hope. If the young man had indeed gained access to the cavern from this direction, then the old workings must possess some other exit. If they could only discover such a place, it was barely possible that they might still escape. Thus thinking, she humored her father's desire to return to the piles of copper, and even hastened his steps in that direction, for their candle was burning perilously low. So nearly had it expired that they had hardly regained the old workings before its feeble flame gave a final flicker, and they were plunged into blackness. Through this they still groped their way until the old man's strength was exhausted and he refused to go farther. Then, clinging to him in an agony of despair, the poor girl closed her eyes and prayed: "Dear Christ, help me in this time of my bitter trouble, for I have no strength save in Thee!" Her cry was heard and her prayer was answered even as it was uttered; for with the opening of her eyes she caught a far-away gleam of light. A minute later, when Richard Peveril came to her, he seemed like one sent from heaven, and at that moment she could have worshipped him. Peveril's heart leaped at the sound of her voice, and he received two other distinct thrills of delight from her father's incoherent words. One was when he addressed the slight figure at his side as "Mary," and the other was caused by his mention of the Copper Princess. By the first Peveril's recently aroused suspicion concerning the sex of the wearer of that golf costume was reduced to a certainty, while by the other he gained his first clue to the mine of which he was in search. At the moment, however, these things merely flashed through his mind; for he realized that the present was neither the time nor the place to discuss them. The two helpless ones, so wonderfully intrusted to his care, must be removed at once from the place in which they had suffered so keenly. Both he and the major agreed that it would be best to take them out by way of the shaft, and though they were full of curiosity as to how the Darrells came into their distressing position, both manfully refrained from asking questions until they had escorted them to the entrance. For this forbearance the major deserved even greater credit than his young friend; for as yet he had no knowledge of who the strangers were, nor how it happened that they seemed to know Peveril. [Illustration: RESCUED FROM THE SHAFT] Arrived at the shaft, it was decided that the major should ascend first, to prepare those at the top for what was coming, as well as to receive the old man, who would be sent up next. As he adjusted the rope about his body, he whispered to Peveril, who was assisting him: "Who are they?" "Darrells," was the laconic answer. "Not old man Darrell of the 'Folly'?" "Yes." "And his daughter?" "I believe so," replied the young man, at the same time wondering how the other had discovered so quickly the rightful sex of the apparent lad. "But how on earth do they happen to know you?" "They ought to, seeing that the old man has shot at me twice; while Miss Darrell and I have met several times, and on one occasion, at least, she saved my life." "Whew! No wonder you greet each other like old friends," rejoined the major, as he swung off over the black pool and began slowly to ascend the ancient shaft. When the rope was again lowered it brought some bits of stout cord for which Peveril had asked, and with these he fastened the old man so securely into the loop that there was no possibility of his falling out. Although Ralph Darrell was still highly excited and talked constantly, he readily agreed to every proposition made by his daughter, and offered no objection to going up the shaft. As he swung out from the platform, and those above began to hoist on the rope, his daughter bent anxiously forward to note his progress. Apparently unconscious of her own danger, she leaned out farther and farther, until Peveril, fearful lest she should lose her balance and plunge into the pool, reached an arm about her waist and held her. The girl was so intent upon watching her father that for a moment she paid no attention to this. Then, suddenly becoming conscious of the strong support against which she was leaning, she stepped quickly back to a position of safety. "I didn't suppose you would think it necessary to take such care of a boy," she said, with an attempt at dignity. "I shouldn't," laughed Peveril; "but why didn't you tell me yesterday that you were a young lady, and that your name was Mary?" "I don't remember that you asked me." "That's so. It was you who asked all the questions and I who answered them. So now it is my turn." "I sha'n't promise to answer, though." "Oh, but you must; for there are some things that I am extremely anxious to know. For instance, why do you dress in boy's costume?" "Because my father wished me to." "An excellent reason. Now I want to know if 'Darrell's Folly' and the Copper Princess are one and the same mine?" "I believe the Copper Princess has been called by that other name, which, however, I will thank you not to repeat in my presence." "All right, I won't; but tell me--" "Here is the rope, Mr. Peveril, and, thanking you over and over again for your very great kindness, I will bid you _au revoir_," said the girl, hurriedly adjusting the loop and preparing to ascend. There was never a more amazed or abashed man in this world than was Mike Connell when the "young lady" whom he, full of curiosity, was helping to hoist from the old shaft made her appearance, and he discovered her to be the "lad" whom he had treated with such freedom the evening before. He was so staggered that he could not utter a word, but simply stared at her with an expression in which mortification and admiration were equally blended. The moment the girl gained a footing on the surface she made a comprehensive little bow to the men assembled about the shaft-mouth, and said: "My father and I thank you, gentlemen, from overflowing hearts, for your great kindness to us, and shall hope to see you at our home for supper, after you have been rejoined by Mr. Peveril. Come, papa, let us go and make ready for company." With this she led the old man away in the direction of his "Folly." Half an hour later the four men from White Pine were received at the door of the Darrell house by a dignified young lady, simply but becomingly dressed in the usual costume of her sex. Looking directly at one of them, she said: "I bid you welcome, Mr. Peveril, to your own Copper Princess." CHAPTER XXVII A NIGHT WITH A MADMAN When left alone at the bottom of the ancient shaft, with the impenetrable gloom of the prehistoric workings crowding him close, Peveril had found a few minutes in which to reflect upon the strange happenings of the past half-hour. "Darrell's Folly" was the Copper Princess, the mine in which he owned a half-interest--the one for which he had searched so long and had almost given up hopes of finding. Was it of any value? Or did the name, applied in derision, rightly describe it? And the old man who had twice attempted to take his life, whom he had just rescued from a living tomb, was his partner! How could they ever work harmoniously together? He certainly should not agree to the carrying on of further smuggling operations, and so there was a barrier to their amicable relations at the very outset. But was that man the person with whom he would have to deal, after all? He was evidently crazy, and probably had been from the very first; for Peveril now remembered that Mr. Ketchum had hinted at something of the kind during their last interview. As a crazy man could not legally transact business, his dealings would then be with Ralph Darrell's heirs or legal representatives. Who were those heirs? Were there any other besides this daughter, Mary? He hoped not. What a brave, splendid girl she was, and how pleasant it would be to discuss business plans with her! How absurd of him not to have recognized her at once, even in her boyish costume, and how stupid she must think him! He wished those fellows up above had not been in such a hurry with that rope, for there were a lot more questions he wanted to ask her. So many that he would not have objected if he and she had been left down there together ever so much longer. How different the old mine seemed now to what it had when he first knew it! Hereafter it would always be associated in his mind with memories of a slight figure that he had been permitted to hold for a single minute, a flushed face, a pair of glorious eyes, and a voice that he should never forget. How shy she was, and at the same time how dignified; how sweet and womanly in her anxiety about her father! He hoped they could be friends, as all business partners should be. Of course they could never be anything more than that; for he was not forgetting his obligation to Rose--oh no, not for one minute. How infernally slow those chaps up above were now, and why didn't they let down the rope? Were they going to keep him waiting in that beastly hole forever? It really seemed so. By a simple process of reasoning, and the putting together of the various bits of information gained from her father, Mary Darrell had reached the conclusion that the young man whose fortunes had been so strangely interwoven with hers during the past ten days was the rightful owner of the mine that her father had claimed for so many years. She was too loyal to the latter to believe for a moment that he had consciously attempted to defraud Peveril of his rights, but credited all his actions to the sad mental condition of which she had only now become aware. "Poor, dear papa!" she said to herself. "He has done splendidly to take care of me for so long as he has, and now I will take care of him. We will go away from this horrid place, where he gets so excited, and find some little home in the East, where he can rest until his mind is wholly restored. "In the meantime this Mr. Peveril can have the old mine, to do with as he pleases. I shall let him know that we consider it his property before he has a chance to even make a claim against it. I mustn't let him see for a moment how badly we feel about it, though, for he seems very nice, and has certainly placed us under a great obligation by coming to our rescue so splendidly. I wonder how he knew that papa and I were down in that awful place?" Having got her father to his room, told Aunty Nimmo to prepare for company, and hurriedly changed her dress, Mary Darrell greeted the expected guests according to her privately arranged programme, and invited them in to supper. After seeing them seated at the table and provided with a bountiful meal, she left them on the plea that her father needed her attention. The girl had not been gone many minutes, and Peveril's friends were still congratulating him upon having come into his fortune, at the same time speculating whether the "Folly" was worth anything or not, when she re-entered the room with a frightened expression on her face. Addressing herself to Major Arkell, she said: "Would you mind coming up to see my father, sir? I fear he is very ill." The major at once complied with this request, and, after he had gone, Captain Spillins said: "I shouldn't wonder if the old fellow played out and left you in sole possession of the Princess, after all, Mr. Peveril." "Which Princess are you meanin', captain?" asked Mike Connell. "Sure it seems to me there's two of them." "Have a care, Connell," said Peveril, warningly. "Remember the circumstances under which we are here." "I beg your pardon, Mister Peril," exclaimed the Irishman, contritely; "I'd near forgot that you was already bespoke." A hot flush sprang to the young man's cheek, but ere he could frame a reply Major Arkell reappeared, looking greatly worried. "Boys," he said, "we've a very serious case on our hands, and one that demands immediate action. The old man up-stairs is fairly out of his head, besides being in a high fever. He needs medical attendance as quickly as it can be got to him, and careful nursing. I have given him an opiate, which I hope will keep him quiet for a while, and now I propose to go to Red Jacket in the tug for a doctor and a nurse. Captain Spillins will, of course, go with me, and we shall try to be back by morning. In the meantime the poor young lady must not be left alone, or with only that old aunty, who is nearly frightened out of her wits, and so I think you, Peveril, ought to stay here with Connell and do what you can. You are, in a sense, the proprietor here, you know, and as Connell has also been here before, maybe the old man will be more reasonable with you than he would be with entire strangers." "I quite agree with you that some of us ought to stay here and do what we can," said Peveril; "and, under the circumstances, I suppose Connell and I are the ones to do so. At the same time, I haven't had much experience in caring for madmen." "No more have I," said Connell, "but I'll do me best, for sake of the young lady, and maybe she'll forgive me for treating her the same as I would a lad." "And, major," added Peveril, "if you will kindly fetch my luggage from the Trefethen's I shall be greatly obliged." So the party separated; and, while two of them wended their way back to the tug at Laughing Fish, the others prepared for the long vigil of the night. After the effect of the opiate had passed, their patient was seized with paroxysms of raving and frantic efforts to leave his bed for the purpose of protecting his property. At such times it required the united efforts of the two volunteer nurses to restrain him, and after each attack he was left weak and helpless as an infant. Then he would weep, and beg piteously not to be abandoned to the mercy of his enemies; or he would fancy himself still in the awful blackness of the ancient workings, and plead with his attendants not to be left thereto die. "For the sake of my daughter, gentlemen--my only child--who has no one else in the world to love her or care for her, I beg of you to save me. If you are human, take pity on her and let me go!" he would cry. At such times no voice, not even Mary's, seemed to soothe him as did that of Peveril, and his most violent struggles were controlled by the gentle firmness of the young athlete. All through that dreadful night Mary Darrell watched Peveril with tear-filled eyes, wondering at his strength and gentleness, and unconsciously loving him for them. Not that she would for an instant have admitted such a thing even to herself. She tried instead to believe that he was the cause of all this sorrow, and that she hated him for it. "In whatever he does," she said to herself, "he is actuated by remorse, and a desire to atone in some way for ruining my father's life." The anxiously awaited dawn found Ralph Darrell lying quietly with closed eyes and Peveril keeping wakeful watch beside him. Aunty Nimmo had been sent to her bed long since, and Connell was fast asleep on the floor of the hall just outside the sick-room door. Mary Darrell sat in an easy-chair, overcome by exhaustion, also sleeping lightly. As the growing light fell on her tear-stained face, crowned by a wealth of close-clipped hair curling in tiny ringlets, Peveril looked at her curiously, and wondered why he had never thought her beautiful until that moment. Apparently conscious of the young man's gaze, the girl suddenly opened her eyes, and a faint flush suffused her pale cheeks. Ere either she or Peveril could speak, the muffled sound of a steam-whistle broke the morning stillness. "Our friends have come, Miss Darrell," whispered the watcher. "You have just time to go to your room and refresh yourself with a dash of cold water before they appear." Nodding assent, the girl accepted the suggestion and departed. Then Peveril sent Connell to meet the new-comers, who, as he knew, would steam directly into the land-locked basin, and remained to finish his vigil alone. Suddenly, as he sat absorbed in meditation, the madman, who had been watching through half-closed eyes, sprang upon him without a sound of warning and clutched his throat with a vise-like grip. Not even the utmost exertion of Peveril's splendid strength served to loose that horrid hold. In silence he fought for his life, until he grew black in the face and his eyes started from their sockets. His head seemed on the point of bursting. He reeled, staggered, and then, together with his terrible assailant, fell heavily to the floor. As they did so, the old man's head struck on a sharp corner; he uttered a moan, and at last the deadly clutch on Peveril's throat was relaxed. With his next moment of consciousness Peveril was sitting on the floor gasping for breath, and Ralph Darrell lay motionless beside him in a pool of blood. Then came quick steps on the stair, and Mary Darrell, accompanied by Major Arkell and the doctor from Red Jacket, entered the room. For an instant the girl stared horror-stricken at the scene before her. Then she darted forward and clasped her father's body in her arms, crying out as she did so: "You have killed him, Richard Peveril!--killed an old man, sick and helpless; robbed him of his all, and then murdered him! Oh, papa!--dear, dear papa! Why did I leave you for a single minute?" "My! How she hates poor Mr. Peril!" whispered Nelly Trefethen, who had come to act as nurse, and who, guided by Mike Connell, reached the doorway in time to witness the tableau, as well as to hear Mary Darrell's cruel words. CHAPTER XXVIII LEFT IN SOLE POSSESSION Although Ralph Darrell was to all appearance dead, the doctor pronounced him to be still alive, and caused him to be lifted back to the bed, where he dressed his wound, at the same time administering restoratives. While this was being done, Major Arkell, taking charge of Peveril, led him to another room, in which his things, brought from the Trefethen house, had been placed. The young man was still trembling from his recent awful experience. "In another minute all would have been over with me," he said, in describing the incident to his friend. "For I could no more loosen his clutch than if it had been a band of steel." "That fall was a mighty lucky thing, then," commented the other. "Yes, I suppose it was, for apparently nothing else could have saved me. At the same time, think how unpleasant it would have been for me if it had killed him, and I had been charged with his murder!" "Oh, pshaw! no one would have imagined such a thing." "His daughter did," replied Peveril, in whose ears Mary Darrell's terrible accusation was still ringing. "She didn't know what she was saying. You must remember the trying circumstances of her position, and forgive and forget everything else. If I am any judge of human character, she is just the girl to bitterly regret her hasty words, if she ever recalls having uttered them." "Of course I forgive her," said Peveril; "but I doubt if I can forget as long as I live." A bath in water as hot as he could bear it, followed by a cold douche and a brisk rubbing with the coarse towels procured from Aunty Nimmo, restored the young man to his normal condition. Then he exchanged the ragged garb of a miner, that he had worn ever since leaving Red Jacket, for a suit of his own proper clothing. With this the transformation in his appearance was so complete that when, a little later, Mary Darrell passed him in the hall, it was without recognition. She only regarded him as one of the many strangers who seemed suddenly to have taken unauthorized possession of her home. At breakfast-time the doctor reported that his patient was sleeping quietly and doing wonderfully well. "In fact," said the medical gentleman, "I believe the blood-letting that resulted from his fall was just what he needed; and, as he seems to have a vigorous constitution, unimpaired by intemperate living, I predict for him a speedy recovery." This prediction was so far fulfilled that, within two days, Ralph Darrell was sitting up, and, by the end of a week, he had very nearly regained his strength. At the same time his excitability had wholly disappeared, leaving him very quiet and as docile as a child, but with little memory of past happenings. His daughter was the one person whom he recognized, and to her he clung with passionate fondness, readily accepting her every suggestion, but always begging her to take him back to his Eastern home. His rapid convalescence was largely due to her devoted care, and to the capital nursing of Nelly Trefethen, who proved most efficient in the sick-room. During that week the night-watches were taken by Mike Connell, whom Miss Darrell engaged expressly for the purpose, but Peveril was not asked to share them. On the few occasions when he and Mary chanced to meet she treated him with formal politeness, but rarely spoke, and never gave him the opportunity of exchanging with her more than a few commonplace remarks. At the same time she watched him furtively, and he seldom left the house or entered it without her knowledge. She had learned his history, so far as Nelly Trefethen knew it, and, by her readiness to listen, encouraged the girl to talk by the hour on this theme. She also learned one thing about him that was not told her, and that was that he was engaged to be married. One evening Nelly and Connell, coming back from a walk, encountered Peveril near the house, and close under a window at which Mary happened to be standing. As the young man was about to pass them the Irishman stopped him, saying: "Oh, Mister Peril, would you mind telling Nelly here the thing you told me down the new shaft that time?" "I don't think I remember what it was." "About your being bespoke." "Oh! about my engagement? Yes, I remember now that you did want me to tell Miss Nelly of it, though I am sure I can't imagine why it should interest her." "Arrah, Mister Peril, don't every young woman be interested to know if she's to smile on a young man or give him the cold stare?" "If that is the case," laughed Peveril, "I am afraid all the girls must give me the cold stare, for I certainly am engaged; and, by the way, Miss Nelly, do you know if there is a letter awaiting me at your house? I received one from my sweetheart on the very day that I left Red Jacket, and, with most unpardonable carelessness, managed to lose it without having even opened it." "I don't know, Mr. Peril--I mean, I didn't hear mother, speak of it," stammered the girl, so frightened that for a moment she had no idea of what she was saying. "I do mind, though, seeing one advertised in the post-office with a name something like yours," she added, more coherently. "Then I must have dropped it on the street, and whoever found it must have been honest enough to return it to the post-office. I will write at once for it, and am much obliged for your information." Some days later Peveril did write to the Red Jacket postmaster, and received prompt answer that the bit of mail-matter in question had been sent to the dead-letter office. So he wrote to Washington concerning his missing letter, and in due time learned that it had been returned to sender. Then, as he had no idea of "sender's" present address, he decided to wait until hearing from her again before attempting to forward his explanation of how it all happened. In the meantime he was extremely interested in other affairs that engrossed more and more of his attention. On that very first morning he had shown to Major Arkell several papers that came to him with his baggage. Among these were Boise Carson's letter, lawyer Ketchum's note of identification, and the famous contract under which he claimed a half-ownership in the Copper Princess. At a later date he also attempted to show these papers to Mary Darrell, but she declined to look at them, saying that, as she did not doubt the validity of his claim, she had no desire to discuss it. Major Arkell, however, examined the papers carefully, and expressed himself as thoroughly satisfied that his young friend was a half-owner in the mine heretofore known as "Darrell's Folly." "And now," he said, "let us examine the property, and see whether it is worth anything or not." So these two set forth on a tour of inspection. They found the several buildings to be in fair order, and all machinery in an excellent state of preservation. Then they descended the shaft and examined the material through which the several galleries had been driven, and which the White Pine manager pronounced as barren even of promise as any rock he had ever seen. "The trouble seems to be," he said, "that they persistently drifted in exactly the wrong direction, and went away from the true vein--which I believe to be indicated by those ancient workings over yonder--instead of towards it. Thus the engineer who laid out this mine either displayed great ignorance, or else your property does not include that strip of territory. But I'll tell you what we'll do. You stay here and hold the fort for a few days while I go and look the thing up." "I don't like to have you take so much trouble," protested Peveril. "No trouble at all, my dear fellow--purely a matter of business. I want, if possible, to become associated with you in this proposition. As it now stands, your mine is worthless, unless it includes, or can be made to include, those old workings. I believe they will make it extremely valuable, for I am persuaded that the vein indicated by them can be reached at a lower level from this very shaft." So the major took his departure, and Peveril waited a whole week for his return. In the meantime he familiarized himself with his property, and, by means of a careful survey, established the relative positions of the prehistoric mine and the shaft of the Copper Princess. During this week, as has been said, he saw very little of Mary Darrell, and often wondered how she occupied her time. Finally there came a day when Miss Darrell informed Mike Connell that, as her father was now so much better, it would no longer be necessary to watch with him at night. So the honest fellow, who had been working hard with Peveril on his measurements, and was rejoiced at the prospect of an unbroken night's rest, retired early to the quarters that he and the young proprietor occupied together at some distance from the Darrells' house. Very early on the following morning the two men were awakened by a loud knocking at their door, and the voice of Nelly Trefethen calling as though in distress. "Coming!" shouted Peveril, as they both sprang from bed and hurriedly dressed. As they emerged from the house the girl exclaimed: "They're gone, Mr. Peril! gone in the night, and I never heard a sound. How they went, no one can tell, for all the outer doors were left locked, with the keys on the inside. But they're gone, for I have hunted high and low without finding a sign of them." "Who have gone?" demanded Peveril. "Miss Mary and her father and the old colored woman." That these three had taken a mysterious departure was only too apparent when the two men returned with Nelly to the house and searched it from top to bottom. Then, under Connell's guidance, they went through the secret passage to the cavern. There they found a lighted lantern hung on the stunted cedar just outside the entrance, the canvas curtain drawn aside, the derrick swung out, and its tackle hanging down to within a foot of the black ledge, but that was all. Three months after that time Peveril received the following letter: "DEAR MR. PEVERIL: "I feel it a duty to tell you that my dear father has at length passed peacefully away, and so will never trouble you again. At the very last he spoke lovingly of Richard Peveril, and said he was a splendid fellow; but I am inclined to think he referred to your father rather than to yourself. He was also perfectly rational on all subjects except that of the Princess, which he persisted in declaring was one of the richest copper mines of the world. I, of course, know better, for I realized long ago how truly the name 'Darrell's Folly' described that unfortunate venture. "Whatever pleasure you may find in owning such an unremunerative piece of property you may enjoy without any fear of molestation, for I, as my father's sole heir, shall never lay claim to any share in it, and hereby authorize you to do with it as you think best. "We have been very happy since we left you so suddenly and unexpectedly. The opportunity for departure came, and we embraced it. "I have but one more thing to say before closing this one-sided correspondence forever--I humbly beg your pardon and crave your forgiveness for the cruel injustice that I once did you in a moment of agony. "Trusting that you are happy (I knew of your engagement) and prosperous, "I remain, always under obligations, your friend, "MARY DARRELL." With this letter there was no date nor address, and its only post-mark was the stamp of the railway postal-service on a distant Eastern road. CHAPTER XXIX A ROYAL NAME FOR A ROYAL MINE Peveril was greatly distressed at the unforeseen and mysterious disappearance of the Darrells; for it made him feel as though he had driven them from their home and usurped their rights. The place also seemed very empty and forlorn without Mary Darrell's winning face and all-pervading presence; for, though he had seen but little of her and had reason to believe that she did not feel kindly towards him, he now realized how much his happiness had depended on the knowledge that she was always close at hand. Then, too, the domestic establishment that ran on so smoothly under the supervision of Aunty Nimmo was completely broken up. Nelly Trefethen must, of course, return at once to Red Jacket, and this she did that very day on Mary Darrell's pony, under escort of Mike Connell, who was only too happy to make the journey on foot. The few men employed by Mr. Darrell having been paid off and discharged, the departure of his two remaining friends left the young proprietor entirely alone, in a place as desolate as though it were beyond the reach of human knowledge. The sky was overcast, making the day dark and cheerless, so that, as Peveril wandered disconsolately about his deserted property, the future looked to him as gloomy as the present. "There can't be anything in it," he said to himself, as he gazed moodily down the black mouth of the shaft. "Of course, the men who sank a fortune in that hole would have found it out long ago if there were. As for those prehistoric workings on which the major counts so largely, I don't believe but what the old fellows who opened them also made a pretty thorough clean-up of everything in them. Certainly the few small piles of copper that they left behind would not now pay for their removal. "It has all been very pleasant to dream of becoming a wealthy mine-owner, but the sooner I realize that it is only a dream, and wake from it to the necessity of earning a livelihood by hard work, the better off I shall be. At any rate, I know I won't spend another day alone in this place. If I did, I should go crazy. No wonder old man Darrell lost his mind under the conditions surrounding him. I don't believe Major Arkell will come back, anyway. Why should he, if, as is probable, he has discovered the utter worthlessness of the property? He knows that if he leaves me here alone I must turn up in Red Jacket sooner or later, and thinks the bad news he has to tell will keep until I do. Well, I shall throw the whole thing up to-morrow and go to him for a job. There isn't anything else for it that I can see. "I guess he will give me something to do, and after a while I shall rise to be a plat-man, or timber boss, or even store-keeper, and then--Well, then I can settle down and marry some nice girl like Nelly Trefethen, perhaps achieve fame as a local politician, and so end my days in a blaze of glory. Oh, it's a lovely prospect! As for poor Rose, there's no use in thinking any longer of her, and the sooner she forgets me the better. Probably she has ere this, and, if so, I can't blame her." At length the long day dragged itself wearily away, and darkness found Peveril faint with hunger, for he had not had the heart to prepare a dinner, awkwardly attempting to provide himself with something to eat in Aunty Nimmo's kitchen. A single lamp threw a faint ray out from the window, and in all that forlorn little mining village it was the only gleam of light to be seen. Suddenly there came a clatter of hoofs and a cheery "Hello, the house!" Instantly forgetful of his culinary operations, Peveril sprang to the door, just in time to fling it open and welcome Major Arkell, who was alighting from a weary-looking horse. "What will you take for your Copper Princess, my boy?" shouted the new-comer as he entered the room, rubbing his hands and sniffing expectantly at the pleasant odors of cooking with which it was pervaded. "About five cents," responded Peveril. "Done! It's a bargain," cried the other. "And we'll settle the details of the transfer after eating the elegant supper that I discover in process of preparation. But you are not cooking half enough. I could eat twice as much as that and still be hungry. Let me show you how. What has become of Aunty Nimmo, that I find you presiding over her domain? Never mind; tell me later, after you've called Connell or some one to look after my horse." "I will gladly attend to the horse, major, if you will take charge of the cooking," said Peveril, laughing for the first time that day. "You see, I am not an expert at this sort of thing, and--" "No, I should judge not," interrupted the other, glancing comically at the various burned, lumpy, and muddy failures with which the stove was covered; "but I'll do the trick for you if you will look after the beast." Half an hour later the two sat down to a bountiful and fairly well-cooked meal that in the major's cheery company seemed to poor, hungry Peveril about as fine a one as he had ever eaten. While it was in progress he told of the happenings of the past week, including the mysterious disappearance of the Darrells; but, as the major did not seem to have any news to impart in return, he concluded that there was none to tell, and so forbore to ask questions. It was not until after they had finished supper and were sitting before a cheerful blaze in the cosey living-room of the Darrell house that the major said: "Now for our bargain. Though I could, of course, hold you to that five-cent deal, I won't do so, but will, instead, make an offer of ten thousand dollars for one-half of your half-interest in the Copper Princess." "What!" gasped Peveril. "Yes, I mean it; and, in addition, if you will devote that sum to the development of the mine, I will advance an equal amount, or ten thousand dollars more, for the same purpose. Now don't say a word until I have explained the situation. By a careful searching of old records and maps I have discovered that the Princess property not only embraces our prehistoric mine, but extends some distance beyond it. I think I have also found out why those who originally laid out this mine started their cuts on the wrong side of their shaft. They evidently knew that ancient workings existed somewhere in this neighborhood, but they were deceived as to their location, for on all the maps I find them marked, but the place thus indicated is always in the opposite direction from that in which we now know them to lie." "But--" began Peveril. "Wait a minute. Of course those old fellows may merely have struck a pocket and exhausted it, but I don't believe so, and am willing to risk twenty thousand dollars on the continuance of the vein. If it is there, that sum of money ought to enable us to reach it from your present shaft; and if we do strike it, why, in the slang of the day, the Copper Princess is simply a 'peach.' Are you game to accept my offer and go in for raising that kind of fruit?" "I certainly am." "Good! Shake. The bargain is made, and the sooner we get to work the better." Ten days from that time sees the legal formalities of that quickly concluded bargain settled, and the mining village of Copper Princess presenting a vastly different appearance from what it did on the melancholy day when Peveril was its sole occupant. All its houses are now occupied, and from every window cheery lights stream out with the coming of evening shadows. Peveril occupies the comfortable quarters so long ago provided for the manager, and until recently the home of the Darrells. With him lives a young engineer of about his own age, recommended by Major Arkell, and here, too, are the several offices. The nearest cottage to it is that of our old friends the Trefethens--for Mark Trefethen is captain of the mine, and Tom is shaft boss. Mrs. Trefethen and Nelly have their hands full in caring for both these houses and in providing meals for their occupants. Mike Connell is timber boss, and, in timbering the ancient mine, as well as the new workings, is one of the busiest men in the place. Although he has a cottage of his own, it is still a lonely one, and he is looking eagerly forward to the time when the anxiously expected vein shall be struck. Then, and not until then--and, in case it is not struck at all, perhaps never--will Nelly Trefethen become his wife. So it is no wonder that the impatient fellow descends the shaft each day to anxiously inspect the new work. With nearly one hundred sturdy miners engaged on it, and the other tasks necessary to its progress, it is driven by night as well as by day, and in reality advances with great rapidity, though to Connell it seems to creep by inches. The great chimney pours forth clouds of smoke, heavy skips hurry up and down the shaft, there is always a cheerful ring of anvils, rafts of logs lie in the land-locked basin, men and teams are to be seen in every direction, and everywhere is heard the inspiring hum of many industries, though as yet not one pound of copper has been brought up from the underground depths. For weeks and months the work goes on with unabated energy. Peveril, always willing to listen to advice and never ashamed to ask it from those more experienced than himself, is everywhere, seeing to everything and directing everything. Though he is thinner than when we first met him, and his face has taken on an anxious look, it wears at the same time an expression of greater manliness, self-confidence, and determination. Major Arkell has not yet appeared on the scene in person, and only the young proprietor is known as the responsible head of all this bewildering activity. It is bewildering to outsiders to see the long-abandoned "Darrell's Folly" suddenly transformed into one of the busiest mining-camps of the copper region, for as yet no one, except Connell and the Trefethens, knows the secret hopes of the proprietors. Even those who are driving the new side-cut far beneath the surface, straight as a die towards the prehistoric mine, though on a much lower level, know not what they are expected to find. At length three months have passed since the night on which Peveril sold for ten thousand dollars an undivided half of his interest in the Copper Princess. Since that time he has not once left the scene of his labors, his hopes, and his fears. He has not even visited Red Jacket since the morning, that now seems so long ago, when he left it in charge of a gang of log-wreckers. Now the money put into this new venture is very nearly exhausted. It will hold out for one more pay-day, but that is all. And as yet only barren rock has come up from that yawning shaft that seems to gulp down money with an appetite at once inordinate and insatiable. A huge pile of rock has accumulated about its mouth. If it were copper rock it would be worth a fortune; as it is, it is worse than worthless, for it contains only disappointed hopes. And yet a point directly beneath the ancient workings has been reached and passed. Is the quest a vain one, after all? Is Peveril's as great a folly as Darrell's ever was? It would seem so; and the young proprietor's heart is heavy within him. He has just received the letter in which Mary Darrell declares the Copper Princess to be a worthless property. With it in his pocket he visits the mouth of the shaft, intending to descend. As he approaches it, a skip containing several men comes to the surface. When they emerge into daylight they are yelling in delirious excitement. One of them leaps out and runs towards him, shouting incoherently. It is Mike Connell. What had gone wrong? Has there been some terrible accident underground? "We've struck it, Mister Peril! We've struck the vein, and it's the richest ever knowed!" yells the Irishman. "Here's a specimen. Did ever you see the like? It's gold--nothing less! Hooray for us! Hooray for the Princess! and hooray for Nell Trefethen, that'll be Mrs. Michael Connell this day week, plaze God!" A few minutes later every cottage in the settlement holds specimens of the wonderful rock glistening with glowing metal. Every man is cheering himself hoarse. The great steam-whistle is shrieking out the glorious news, and Richard Peveril, with heavy pockets, is riding like mad in the direction of Red Jacket. The Copper Princess--a royal name for a royal mine--has at last entered as a power the ranks of the world's wealth-yielding properties. CHAPTER XXX PEVERIL ACQUIRES AN UNSHARED INTEREST An autumn evening two years later finds Richard Peveril seated in the smoking-room of the University, the most thoroughly home-like and comfortable of all New York clubs. He has dined alone, and now, with a tiny cup of black coffee on the stand beside him, is reflectively smoking his after-dinner cigar. This is his first visit to the East since he left it, more than two years before, almost penniless and wellnigh friendless, on a search for a mine that he was assured would prove worthless when found. Today that same mine is yielding an enormous revenue, of which he receives one-quarter, or a sum vastly in excess of his simple needs, for he is still a bachelor, acting as manager of the Copper Princess, and still makes his home in the little mining settlement on the shore of the great Western lake. A fortune twice as large as his own, and derived from the same source, lies idle in the vaults of a trust company awaiting a claimant who cannot be found. Her name is Mary Darrell, and though from the very first Peveril has guarded her interests more jealously than his own, and though he has made every effort to discover her, her fortune still awaits its owner. He has not only been disappointed at the non-success of his efforts in this direction, but is deeply hurt that the girl, who has been so constantly in his thoughts during his two years of loneliness, should so persistently ignore him. That she has occupied so great a share of his time for thinking is due largely to the fact that there is no one else to take a like place, for Rose Bonnifay long since released him from his engagement to her, and he has contracted no other. As soon as he believed his _fiancée_ to be in New York, he wrote her a long letter descriptive of his good-fortune and promising very soon to rejoin her for the fulfilling of his engagement. To his amazement it was promptly returned to him, endorsed on the outside in Miss Bonnifay's well-known handwriting. "As my last to you came back to me unopened, I now take pleasure in returning yours in the same condition." He immediately wrote again, only to have his second letter treated as the first had been, except that this time it came to him without a word. From that day he had heard nothing further from Rose Bonnifay. Now business had called him to New York, and he had reached the city but an hour before his appearance at the club. Here he gazed curiously about him, as one long strange to such scenes, but who hopes to discover the face of a friend in that of each new-comer. Thus far he had not been successful, nor had he been recognized by any of the men, many of them in evening-dress, who came and went through the spacious rooms. Peveril was also in evening-dress, for he had conceived a vague idea of going to some theatre, or possibly to the opera. And now he listlessly glanced over the advertised list of attractions in an afternoon paper. While he was thus engaged, a young man, faultlessly apparelled and pleasing to look upon, stood in front of him, regarded him steadily for a moment, and then grasped his hand, exclaiming: "If it isn't old Dick Peveril--come to life again after an age of burial! My dear fellow, I am awfully glad to see you. Where have you been, and what have you been doing all these years? Heard you had gone West to look up a mine, but never a word since. Hope you found it and that it turned out better than such properties generally do. Was it gold, silver, iron, or what?" "You may imagine its nature from its name," answered Peveril, who was genuinely glad to meet again his old college friend, Jack Langdon; "it is called the 'Copper Princess.'" "The 'Copper Princess'!" cried the other. "By Jove! you don't say so! Why, that mine is the talk of Wall Street, and if you own any part in it, you must be a millionaire!" "Not quite that," laughed Peveril, "though I am not exactly what you might call poor." "I should say not, and only wish I stood in your shoes; but, you see--" Here Langdon plunged into a long account of his own affairs, to which Peveril listened patiently. Finally the former said: "By the way, what have you on hand for to-night?" "Nothing in particular. Was thinking of going to some theatre." "Don't you do it! Beastly shows, all of them. Nothing but vaudeville nowadays. Come with me and I'll take you to a place where you will not only have a pleasant time, but will meet old friends as well. You remember old Owen?--'Dig' Owen, we used to call him." "Yes." "Well, he is here in New York, and has made a pot of money--no one knows how. Shady speculations of some kind, and, between ourselves, it is liable to slip through his fingers at any moment. But that's neither here nor there. He married, about a year ago, a nice enough girl, who has apparently lived abroad all her life. Rather a light-weight, but entertains in great shape. Always has something good on hand--generally music. They give a blow-out to-night, to which I am going to drop in for a while, and, of course, they will be delighted to see you. So don't utter a protest, but just come along." In accordance with the programme thus provided, Peveril found himself an hour later entering the drawing-room of a spacious mansion on upper Fifth Avenue. It was already so well filled that it was some time before the new-comers could approach their hostess. When they finally reached the place where she was talking and laughing with a group of guests, her face was so averted that Peveril did not see it until after Langdon had said: "Good-evening, Mrs. Owen. You have gathered together an awfully jolly crowd, and I have taken the liberty of adding another to their number. He is an old college friend of your husband's, and quite a lion just now, for he is the owner of the famous Copper Princess that every one is talking about. May I present him? Mrs. Owen, my friend Mr. Richard Peveril." With this Langdon stepped aside, and Peveril found himself face to face with Rose Bonnifay. For an instant she was deadly pale. Then, with a supreme effort, she recovered her self-possession, the blood rushed back to her cheeks, and, extending her hand with an engaging smile, she said: "This is indeed an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Peveril, and I am ever so much obliged to Mr. Langdon for bringing you. Did he know, I wonder, that you were an old friend of mine, as well as of Mr. Owen's? No! Then the surprise is all the pleasanter. Oh! there is mamma, and she will be delighted to meet you again. Mamma, dear, here is our old friend, Mr. Peveril. So pleased, and hope we shall see you often this winter." [Illustration: PEVERIL FINDS MARY AGAIN] Other newly arrived guests demanding Mrs. Owen's attention at this moment, Peveril found himself borne away by her mother, who had greeted him effusively, and now seemed determined to learn everything concerning his Western life to its minutest details. To accomplish this she led him to a corner of the conservatory for what she was pleased to term an uninterrupted talk of old times, but which really meant the propounding of a series of questions on her part and the giving of evasive answers on his. While Peveril was wondering how he should escape, a hush fell on the outer assembly, and some one began to sing. At first sound of the voice the young man started and listened attentively. "Who is she?" he asked. "Nobody in particular," responded Mrs. Bonnifay; "only a girl whom Rose met when she was studying music in Germany. I fancy she spent her last cent on her musical education, which, I fear, won't do her much good, after all; for, as you must notice, she is utterly lacking in style. She is dreadfully poor now, and earns a living by singing in private houses--all her voice is really fit for, you know. So Rose takes pity on her, and has her in once in a while. Why, really, they are giving her an encore! How kind of them; and yet they say the most wealthy are the most heartless. But you are not going, Mr. Peveril? I haven't asked you half--" Peveril was already out of the conservatory and making his way towards the piano, as though irresistibly fascinated. For her encore the singer was giving a simple ballad that had been very popular some years before. The last time Peveril heard it was when cruising along a shore of Lake Superior, and it had come to him from somewhere up in the red-stained cliffs. At last he had found Mary Darrell--"his Mary," as he called her--in quick resentment of the smiling throng about him, who _paid_ her to sing for them. He did not speak to her then, nor allow her to see him, but when, with her task finished, she left the room, his eyes followed her every movement and lingered lovingly on her beautiful face--for it was beautiful. He knew it now, as he also knew that he loved her, and always had done so from the moment that he first beheld her, a vision of the cliffs. When, accompanied by faithful Aunty Nimmo, she left the house, he was waiting outside. She tried to hurry away as he approached her, but at the sound of his voice she stood still, trembling violently. An hour later, in the modest apartment far downtown, which was the best her scanty earnings could afford, he had told his story. Mary Darrell knew that she was no longer a poor, struggling singer, but an heiress to wealth greater than she had ever coveted in her wildest dreams. But to this she gave hardly a thought, for something greater, finer, and more desirable than all the wealth of the world had come to her in that same brief space of time. She knew that she was loved by him whom she loved, for he had told her so. Even now he stood awaiting, with trembling eagerness, her answer to his plea. Could she not love him a little bit in return? Would she not go back with him, as his wife, to the house that had been hers, and still awaited her, by the shore of the great lake? "But I thought, Mr. Peveril--I mean, I heard that you were engaged?" "So I was. I was engaged to Mrs. Owen, at whose house you sang this evening, and where I was so blessed as to find you. But she thought me unworthy and let me go. I know I am unworthy still; but, Mary dear, won't you give me one more chance? Won't you take me on trial?" "Well, then, on trial," she answered, though in so low a tone that he barely caught the words. In another instant he had folded her in his arms, for he knew that she was wholly his, and that in _this_ Copper Princess his interest was unshared. * * * * * THE END * * * * * By S. R. KEIGHTLEY THE LAST RECRUIT OF CLARE'S. Being Passages from the Memoirs of Anthony Dillon, Chevalier of St. Louis, and Late Colonel of Clare's Regiment in the Service of France. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50. This is a romance not of love, but of daring adventure, and so well worked as to be profoundly interesting.--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._ Cleverly told, and enchains the reader's attention immediately, holding him captive to the last page.--_Brooklyn Standard-Union._ A series of vivid pictures of the life of a soldier who was also a gentleman.--_N. Y. Press._ THE CRIMSON SIGN. A Narrative of the Adventures of Mr. Gervase Orme, sometime Lieutenant in Mountjoy's Regiment of Foot. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50. Recounts in an able manner the terrible scenes which culminated in the siege and relief of Londonderry, giving his readers a personal interest in the characters he has created, and many and pathetic are the resulting pictures. Mr. Keightley, with a few deft touches of his pen, brings them home to the reader with a force that enables him to realize what such warfare really means. The French soldier is a strange character, strikingly conceived.--_Literary World_, London. THE CAVALIERS. A Novel. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50. Full of adventure, incident, and the wild spirit of the age, yet written withal in so true, simple, and vigorous a manner that it is the people of the narrative as much as their doings and escapades that interest the reader.--_Chicago Journal._ Compels immediate and enduring interest on the part of the reader. From an artistic and literary point of view, indeed, the book is entirely noteworthy. It has swing, verve, and genuine force. The interest is cumulative, and the denouement of the story in no wise disappointing.--_Philadelphia Bulletin._ PUBLISHED By HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK _The above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the publishers, postage prepaid, on receipt of the price._ * * * * * BY CAPT. CHARLES KING * * * * * CAMPAIGNING WITH CROOK, AND STORIES OF ARMY LIFE. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25. A WAR-TIME WOOING. Illustrated by R. F. ZOGBAUM. pp. iv., 196. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.00. BETWEEN THE LINES. A Story of the War. Illustrated by GILBERT GAUL. pp. iv., 312. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25. In all of Captain King's stories the author holds to lofty ideals of manhood and womanhood, and inculcates the lessons of honor, generosity, courage, and self-control--_Literary World_, Boston. The vivacity and charm which signally distinguish Captain King's pen.... He occupies a position in American literature entirely his own.... His is the literature of honest sentiment, pure and tender.--_N. Y. Press._ A romance by Captain King is always a pleasure, because he has so complete a mastery of the subjects with which he deals.... Captain King has few rivals in his domain.... The general tone of Captain King's stories is highly commendable. The heroes are simple, frank, and soldierly; the heroines are dignified and maidenly in the most unconventional situations.--_Epoch_, N. Y. All Captain King's stories are full of spirit and with the true ring about them--_Philadelphia Item._ Captain King's stories of army life are so brilliant and intense, they have such a ring of true experience, and his characters are so lifelike and vivid that the announcement of a new one is always received with pleasure.--_New Haven Palladium._ Captain King is a delightful story-teller.--_Washington Post._ In the delineation of war scenes Captain King's style is crisp and vigorous, inspiring in the breast of the reader a thrill of genuine patriotic fervor.--_Boston Commonwealth._ Captain King is almost without a rival in the field he has chosen.... His style is at once vigorous and sentimental in the best sense of that word, so that his novels are pleasing to young men as well as young women.--_Pittsburgh Bulletin._ It is good to think that there is at least one man who believes that all the spirit of romance and chivalry has not yet died out of the world, and that there are as brave and honest hearts to-day as there were in the days of knights and paladins.--_Philadelphia Record._ * * * * * PUBLISHED By HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. _Any of the above works sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price._ 
29693	----	[Illustration: SHE STARED BEWILDERED INTO THE SHAGGY FACES AROUND HER.--PAGE 21.] A WAIF OF THE MOUNTAINS BY EDWARD S. ELLIS AUTHOR OF "UP THE TAPAJOS," "FROM THE THROTTLE TO THE PRESIDENT'S CHAIR," "THE LAND OF WONDERS," ETC. CHICAGO GEO. M. HILL CO. PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY THE MERSHON COMPANY A WAIF OF THE MOUNTAINS CHAPTER I AT NEW CONSTANTINOPLE IT had been snowing hard for twenty-four hours at Dead Man's Gulch. Beginning with a few feathery particles, they had steadily increased in number until the biting air was filled with billions of snowflakes, which whirled and eddied in the gale that howled through the gorges and cañons of the Sierras. It was still snowing with no sign of cessation, and the blizzard blanketed the earth to the depth of several feet, filling up the treacherous hollows, caverns and abysses and making travel almost impossible for man or animal. The shanties of the miners in Dead Man's Gulch were just eleven in number. They were strung along the eastern side of the gorge and at an altitude of two or three hundred feet from the bed of the pass or cañon. The site protruded in the form of a table-land, offering a secure foundation for the structures, which were thus elevated sufficiently to be beyond reach of the terrific torrents that sometimes rushed through the ravine during the melting of the snow in the spring, or after one of those fierce cloud-bursts that give scarcely a minute's warning of their coming. The diggings were in the mountain side at varying distances. The success in mining had been only moderate, although several promising finds raised hopes. The population numbered precisely thirty men, representing all quarters of the Union, while five came from Europe. The majority were shaggy, bronzed adventurers, the variety being almost as great as the numbers. Some had been clerks, several were college graduates, a number were the sons of wealthy parents, and one was a full-fledged parson, while there was a certain percentage who had left their homes to escape the grip of the offended law. With that yearning for picturesqueness which is a peculiar trait of Americans, the miners felt that when their settlement had attained the dignity of nearly a dozen dwellings, it was entitled to an appropriate name. The gorge, which seemed to have been gouged out of the solid mass of boulders and rocks, when the mountains were split apart in the remote past, was known from the first by the title already given, which also clung to the diggings themselves. The single saloon presided over by Max Ortigies, was the Heavenly Bower,--so _that_ point was settled, but when it came to naming the settlement itself, the difficulties were so numerous that days and weeks passed without an agreement being reached. No matter how striking and expressive the title offered by one man, the majority promptly protested. It was too sulphurous, or too insipid or it lacked in that nebulous characteristic which may be defined as true Americanism. It looked as if the problem would never be solved, when Landlord Ortigies, taking the bull by the horns, appointed a committee of three to select a name, the others pledging themselves to accept whatever the committee submitted. But the mischief was to pay when on the night of the blizzard the committee met at the Heavenly Bower to make their report. The chairman insisted upon "E Pluribus Unum," the second member's favorite was "Murderer's Holler," while the third would not listen to anything except "Wolf Eye," and each was immovably set in his convictions. Budge Isham was not a member of the committee, but he was known as a college graduate. From his seat on an overturned box at the rear of the room, where he was smoking a pipe, he asked troublesome questions and succeeded in arraying the committeemen so fiercely against one another that each was eager to vote, in the event of failing to carry his own point, in favor of any name objectionable to the rest. The chairman as stated favored the patriotic name "E Pluribus Unum," and boldly announced the fact. "It has a lofty sound," blandly remarked Isham; "will the chairman be good enough to translate it for us? In other words, what does 'E Pluribus Unum' mean?" "Why," replied the chairman with scorn in his manner; "everybody oughter know it means, 'Hurrah for the red, white and blue.'" "Thank you," returned Isham, puffing at his pipe. Vose Adams, the second committeeman, felt it his duty to explain his position. "The trouble with that outlandish name is in the fust place that it has three words and consequently it's too much to manage. Whoever heard of a town with three handles to its name? Then it's foreign. When I was in college (several disrespectful sniffs which caused the speaker to stop and glare around in quest of the offenders); I say when I was in college and studying Greek and Chinese and Russian, I larned that that name was made up of all three of them languages. I b'leve in America for the Americans, and if we can't find a name that's in the American language, why let's wait till we can." This sentiment was delivered with such dramatic force that several of the miners nodded their heads in approval. It was an appeal to the patriotic side of their nature--which was quick to respond. "Mr. Chairman," said Budge Isham, addressing the landlord, who, by general consent, was the presiding officer at these disputations, and who like the others failed to see the quiet amusement the educated man was extracting, "if it is agreeable to Mr. Adams, to whose eloquent speech we have listened with much edification, I would like him to give us his reasons for calling our handsome town 'Murderers' Hollow.'" The gentleman appealed to rose to his feet. Turning toward the man who had called upon him, he gave him a look which ought to have made him sink to the floor with mortification, preliminary to saying with polished irony: "If the gentleman had paid attention as he oughter, he would have obsarved that I said 'Murderer's Holler,' not 'Murderers' _Hollow_.' I would advise him not to forget that he ain't the only man in this place that has received a college eddycation. Now as to the name: it proclaims our stern virtue and love for law." The orator paused, but the wondering expression of the bronzed faces turned toward him showed that he would have to descend to particulars. "When violators of the law hear that name, what does it say to them? It says that if any murderer shows his face in this place, he will receive such rough handling that he will have to holler 'enough,' and will be glad to get out--I don't see what there is to laugh at!" exclaimed Vose angrily, looking threateningly around again with his fists clenched and his gaze fixed specially upon the grinning Budge Isham. "There's some sense in what Vose says, which ain't often the case," remarked Ike Hoe, the other member of the committee, "but the trouble will be that when folks hear of the name, they won't think to give it the meanin' that he gives it. They'll conclude that this place is the home of murderers, and, if it keeps on, bime by of hoss thieves. If it warn't for that danger, I might go in for backing up Vose with his name, but as it stands it won't do." The argument of Ike had produced its effect. There was little sympathy in the first place for the title, and that little was destroyed by the words of Ike, who proceeded to plead for his own choice. "Now as to 'Wolf Eye.' In the first place, it is short and easy to say. There ain't any slur in the name, that might offend a new comer, who would think the 'Murderer's Holler' contained ungentlemanly allusions to his past. It is warning, too, that the place has got an eye on everybody and has teeth as sharp as a wolf. Then there is poetry in the name. Gentlemen," added Ike in a burst of enthusiasm, "we oughter go in for poetry. How can any one live in such a glorious country as this with the towering kenyons around him, with the mountains thousands of feet deep, with the grand sun kissin' the western tips in the morning and sinking to rest at night in the east,--with the snow storms in summer and the blazing heat in winter--with the glo----" "Hold on! hold on!" called Budge Isham, rising solemnly to his feet, with hands uplifted in protest; "if Ike doesn't stop, he'll have us all standing on our heads. There's a brand of liquor down in Sacramento called 'Wolf Eye;' I don't make any charges, gentlemen, against my friend Ike, but you can draw your inferences. Wolf Eye won't do." A general laugh greeted this sally, seeing which the indignant Ike turned the tables upon Budge with an admirable piece of sarcasm. "Seeing as how all of us together don't know 'nough to git up a name that will suit, I move that the college eddycated gentleman supplies the brains and does it himself." The crushing irony of this remark was spoiled by Budge accepting it in all seriousness. He bowed his head and gracefully thanked the satirical Vose. "I shall be very glad to do so. The committee meant well enough, but the trouble was that there were too many fools on it----" At this point Wade Ruggles sprang to his feet, with the fierce question: "Does the gentleman refer to _me_?" His hand was at his hip on the butt of his revolver and matters looked squally, but the tactful Budge quelled the rising storm with Chesterfieldian grace. Waving his hand and bowing, he said: "I did not intend the remotest reference to you." Vose Adams came up promptly. "Then it's _me_ and I'm ready to make any man eat his words." "My good friend is mistaken; nothing could induce me to apply such a term to him; I hold him in too high esteem." Since this left Ike Hoe as the only remaining member, he began to show signs of explosion, perceiving which the incomprehensible Budge proceeded to mollify him. "And Ike knows that I would be the last person in the world to slur a gentleman from whom I as well as the others have received so much instruction." Ike was mystified. He looked at the other members of the committee and then into the faces of the group. He couldn't make it out. "If it's all the same, Mr. Chairman, since the gentleman has said there was too many fools on the committee, and has just explained that he didn't mean any one of us three, I'll be obliged if he'll explain who in thunder he did mean." This sounded unanswerable, but the cunning Budge was equal to the occasion. "It gives me pleasure to answer the question of the gentleman: my remark was made in a Pickwickian sense." He leaned forward with a beaming smile, as if his explanation left nothing to be added. No one understood to what he referred, but all were too proud to admit the fact. There was a general nodding of heads, and Ike, with the manner of a man who magnanimously accepts the humble apology of him whom he has worsted, leaned back on his stool and audibly remarked: "That makes it all right." Budge Isham resumed his seat, when he was reminded that he was expected to submit a name for the new settlement. "I beg pardon," he said, rising again, "it is a fact known to this highly intelligent assemblage, that every city of prominence in Europe has from one to forty namesakes in this country. There is one exception, however; doubtless all know to what city I refer." In response to his inquiring looks, the group tried to appear as if the name was familiar to them, but no one spoke. "It is hardly necessary for me to mention the city, but I may say it is Constantinople." A contemptuous sniff greeted this proposal. "That's the worst yet," said Wade Ruggles, drawing a match along the thigh of his trousers to relight his pipe, which had gone out during the excitement; "the man that insults this party with such a proposition, ought to be run out of the place." "What's the matter with it?" demanded Budge. "It's too long in the fust place," commented Ike Hoe; "it bothers a man to git his mouth around it and it hain't any music, like the other names such as Starvation Kenyon, Hangman's Noose, Blizzard Gorge and the rest. I stick to mine as the purtiest of all." "What's that?" "'Blazes,' short and sweet and innercent like." Landlord Ortigies was leaning with both elbows on the bar. The new name struck him favorably. "I'm inclined to agree with Budge," he said, "cause there hain't any other place that's hit onto it. All of them names that you chaps have tried to spring onto us, have been used in other places, or at least some part of the names, but, as Budge has observed, no galoot has scooped 'Constantinople.'" "'Cause no one ain't fool enough," observed Ike Hoe, who noted the drift of the sentiment. "But they'll pounce onto it powerful quick if we don't grab it while it's passin'; it's a good long name, and what if it does make a chap sling the muscles of his jaw to warble it? All the better; it'll make him think well of his town, which I prophesy is going to be the emporium of the West." "Let's see," growled Wade Ruggles, "Constantinople is in Ireland isn't it?" "Where's your eddycation?" sneered Ike Vose; "it's the oldest town in Wales." Landlord Ortigies raised his head and filled the room with his genial laughter. "If there was anything I was strong on when I led my class at the Squankum High School it was astronermy; I was never catched in locating places." "If you know so much," remarked Ruggles, "you'll let us know something 'bout that town which I scorn to name." "I'm allers ready to enlighten ign'rance, though I've never visited Constantinople, which stands on the top of the Himalaya Mountains, in the southern part of Iceland." "That's very good," said Budge Isham, who with his usual tact maneuvered to keep the ally he had gained, "but the Constantinople I have in mind is in Turkey, which is such a goodly sized country that it straddles from Europe to Asia." "Which the same I suppose means to imply that this ere Constantinople will do likewise similar." "No doubt that's what it'll do in time," assented the landlord. "I beg to offer an amendment to my own motion," continued the oily Budge; "when the boom strikes this town, as it is bound soon to do, and it rivals in size the famous city on the other side of the Atlantic, there should be something to distinguish the two. We have no wish to rob any other place of the honors it has taken centuries to gain; so, while we reserve the principal name, I propose that we distinguish it from the old city by prefixing the word 'New.'" "You mean that this town shall be 'New Constantinople?'" was the inquiring remark of the landlord. "Precisely; and I now make the motion that that be our name." There were seventeen persons present and it looked as if a decision was inevitable. The landlord was shrewd. His first act was to invite all to drink at his expense, after which he made each pledge himself to abide by the decision, whatever it might be. These preliminaries being arranged, a show of hands was called for. The vote was eight for and eight against the new name. "That's a tie," commented the landlord from behind his immense beard; "and therefore the question ain't settled." "It's easy 'nough to settle it," said Ike Hoe. "How?" "Take another vote." "I don't see how that'll do it, onless some one changes his mind; but again, gentlemen: all who favor the new name, raise their right hands." Eight horny palms were elevated in air, while the same number were displayed in the negative. The landlord looked troubled. "We must keep it up till some one weakens," observed Wade Ruggles. The host scanned the earnest faces in front of him. "Which of you gentlemen will promise to weaken if we keep this thing up for half the night?" "I'll stay here a week," was the reply of Vose Adams, while the general nodding of heads showed that he echoed the sentiments of the others. The landlord met the crisis with becoming dignity. "Gentlemen, when I was a member of Congress, all questions that was tied was settled by the presiding officer casting the deciding vote, and which as aforesaid we don't lay any claim to being higher than Congress, I therefore, by virtue of the aforesaid right vested in me, cast my vote in favor of this city being called New Constantinople, which the same is on me again; gentlemen, what will you have?" It was a coup d'etat, the victory being clinched before the opposition realized it. Ere the company had fairly recovered from their bewilderment, Budge Isham declared that the victory was really his, due to the good sense and high toned chivalry of his friends, and he insisted upon doing the honors. He would accept no denial and the engaging style in which he acquitted himself of this duty restored good humor. Thus it was that the little mining town of the Sierras in the days that are gone received its title. The Heavenly Bower consisted of two large apartments, both on the ground floor. The one at the rear was used by Landlord Ortigies for sleeping, eating and partial storage purposes. When Vose Adams made his quarterly visits to Sacramento, he was accompanied by two mules. They were not necessary to take and bring the mail, since the pocket of Adams' great coat was sufficient for that, but they carried down to Sacramento several empty casks which came back filled, or rather they were thus when the return journey was begun, but to the dismay of the proprietor of the Heavenly Bower, he found that they were barely two-thirds full, when unloaded at his place. Vose explained that the leakage was due to the roughness of the trail. Since there seemed no other way of overcoming this, the landlord sent an extra cask with the request to Vose that he would confine his leakage to that and Vose kindly obliged him. The stuff thus provided for the Heavenly Bower was generally in concentrated form, thereby permitting a dilution which insured a full supply for the customers who were afflicted with an eternal thirst. The bar room was of extensive proportions. Nearly all of one side was occupied by the bar. Opposite was the huge fireplace, and scattered around were a number of stools, rickety chairs and strong boxes which served equally well for seats. The crackling fire, the genial warmth and good cheer within the room were the more striking because of their contrast with the howling storm without. The gale roared around the corners of the rude but strong structure, rattling against the massive door and the log walls, spitting vicious gusts down the chimney and flinging great drifts hither and yon with a fury that threatened to send the building skurrying through the snowy space. "It's the worst blizzard we ever had," remarked Wade Ruggles, after one of these violent outbursts; "God pity any one that's abroad to-night." "It reminds me of that zephyr last winter," observed Vose Adams, "when I was bringing your freight, Max, from Sacramento." "I remember," nodded the landlord; "you started with two kegs and got here with about half a one; the leakage was tremenjus on that trip." "True; the blizzards is always rough on Mountain Dew, and sorter makes it shrink," replied the unblushing Vose. "Can't you stop the casks leaking so much," inquired Felix Brush, who had been a parson in Missouri, and claimed that he had never been "unfrocked." The landlord solemnly swayed his head. "Not as long as Vose has charge of the freight----" At that instant a dull but resounding thump was heard on the roof overhead. It shook every log in the structure, checked speech and caused each man to look wonderingly at his neighbor. "The mountain has fell on us!" exclaimed Ike Hoe in a husky whisper. "If it was the mountain," said Budge Isham, slightly raising his voice, as the courage of the party came back; "none of us would be able to tell of it." "Then it's a rock--well, I'm blessed! the thing is moving!" Something was certainly astir in the mass of snow overhead. "I guess it's a angel that has lost its way," submitted Hoe. "More likely it's a grizzly b'ar that's stumbled off the rocks--" But all these speculations were scattered to the winds by the sound of a voice muffled and seemingly far away, which came to them through the storm: "_Helloa, the house_!" CHAPTER II WHAT THE BLIZZARD BROUGHT TO NEW CONSTANTINOPLE A moment after the hail was heard from the roof, the muffled noise which accompanied it ceased. The stranger groping about in the snowy gloom had stepped off the roof into the huge drift outside the Heavenly Bower, and a minute later, lifted the latch of the door and pushed in among the astonished miners. They saw the figure of a sturdy man holding something in his arms, so wrapped round with blankets and coverings that no one could tell its nature. He stamped the snow from his boots, shook himself like a shaggy dog, then walked heavily to the chair which Budge Isham placed near the fire for him, and almost fell into it. "Good evening, friends," he said in a grave voice; "It was no fault of mine that I tried at first to enter by the roof." "When I built the Heavenly Bower," replied Landlord Ortigies; "I meant to place a door up there, but there wasn't anybody in New Constantinople with enough sense to know how to do it. I 'spose you was looking fur it, stranger." "No," was the reply, "I wasn't looking for anything; I was just walking, walking through the storm, not knowing or caring where I went. I can't say how far I came, but it must have been a number of miles. I was still plodding on, when I set my foot on vacancy and down I went." "Gracious! you fell nearly a hundred feet," said Parson Brush; "it was a wonderful providence that saved you from being dashed to death." "The snow on the roof must be five or six feet deep," replied the stranger; "for it received me as if it were a feather bed. I saw a glow from the top of your chimney against the rocks and knew I was on the roof of a house. I hardly felt jarred and groped my way off into a lot more snow and here I am." The astonishment of the listeners did not make them forget the laws of hospitality. Budge Isham looked significantly at the landlord, but he had already drawn a glass of spirits and was coming from behind the bar with it. "Stranger, swallow this; you look cold; you're welcome to the Heavenly Bower, whether you come through the roof or down the chimbley." "Thank you; I'll take the whiskey in a minute." And then feeling that he owed those who made him so welcome some explanation of his coming among them, the stranger said: "My friends, my name is Maurice Dawson. About two months ago, I left Independence, Missouri, with an emigrant train for the Pacific coast. The elements, disease and the Indians made such inroads upon us that after a time only half a dozen families remained. As if that wasn't enough, the few survivors quarreled over the course to follow, most of them aiming for a pass through the mountains into Southern California, while I, the greatest fool of them all, set out to find Dead Man's Gulch, of which I had heard from a party of trappers. My canvas covered wagon, with a single span of horses, contained all my worldly goods, and my companions were my wife and little girl Nellie, only three years old. Everything might have gone well but for this blizzard, which jumbled up the points of the compass and made traveling so difficult that after a time it became impossible." All were listening with the closest interest, and every heart was touched by the emotion of the man, which he could not control for several minutes. No one interrupted, and, feeling that his story was not quite completed, he added: "I fired my gun in the hope of attracting attention, but fortunately for others I was the only one abroad. By and by the horses stopped. They could draw the wagon no further. They stood panting and exhausted and soon lay down in the snow. I turned to speak to my wife, when I found she had been dead for some minutes, the cold carrying her off as quietly as if she were dropping asleep. Before she passed away, she wrapped nearly all her clothing about Nellie, who was cuddling beside her, so that really the mother, like the noble woman she was, gave her life for the little one. It was because Nellie was alive, that I jumped out of the wagon and began floundering through the snow. I ploughed blindly forward until providence guided me to you." While uttering the last words, Maurice Dawson was tenderly unwrapping the bundle in his arms. There were many folds to draw away, but at last he reached the treasure within, which was his Nellie, still sound asleep. If the miners were startled by the resounding thump on the roof, they were now almost struck dumb with amazement. They sat with open mouths, staring eyes and for a minute no one spoke or stirred. "God bless you, my Nellie," murmured the father, bending his head and touching his lips to the cool forehead; "I had no hope of this when I left your dead mother and started on my tramp through the snow." A general sigh went up from the group of awed miners. Wade Ruggles, who had been leaning on the bar, with his gaze fixed on that of the handsome stranger, was the first to recover from the spell which held them all. Tiptoeing across the room, he paused in front of the father and his child and stared, wondering and speechless. Then one by one the others did the same, until the whole company were grouped around the man and child, each afraid to whisper, as if doing so would dissolve the heavenly vision. When the wrappings had been laid aside, and the little one was placed upright, she stared bewildered into the shaggy faces around her. Her big blue eyes were open to their widest extent, the mass of golden curls rippled about her shoulders and the fairy-like feet were inclosed in thick, warm shoes and stockings. The dress of a dull brown color and thick texture, fitted her tiny frame perfectly and she formed a most winsome picture of infantile beauty. For fully five minutes all stared in silence at the marvelous picture. As before, Wade Ruggles was the first to come to himself, but when he spoke, it was in an awed, hesitating whisper: "Is she really alive?" The sorrowful face of the father lit up with a faint smile as he answered: "Yes; thank heaven; alive and well." "May I touch her?" timidly asked Ike Hoe, extending his finger which faintly brushed the rosy cheek, and was instantly snatched away as if he felt he had done a sacrilegious thing. "I say," ventured Ruggles gathering courage, "I wonder now if she would let me take her in my arms for a minute or so; I won't drop her; but that's too much to ask, howsumever." While he stood hopeful, hesitating and doubtful, Nellie with a half frightened smile, dived her head under the arm of her father, as if to get away from the embarrassing situation. He gently fondled the golden hair and drew her face into view again. "There, little one, there's nothing to be frightened at; these people are all your friends and will do anything they can to please you." "You're right!" exclaimed Landlord Ortigies, with a shake of his head; "we'll do anything in the world for you; if you say the word, I'll stand on my head or stand any one else here the same way." And he showed an alarming inclination to invert himself for the amusement of the child, but she did not seem to grasp the meaning of the offer. She fixed her eyes upon Ruggles, who made bold by what seemed a favorable sign, took a step forward and invitingly extended his hands. She debated for a moment, whether to meet the proffer and then with the impulsiveness of infancy leaned toward him. With a thrill of pleasure the grizzled miner carefully placed his huge arms underneath hers, and lifted her as if she were a doll from her father's knee. As he did so, every one saw the big tears trickling down his cheeks. "I can't help it, boys," he said apologetically; "the last child I held in these arms was my own Jennie, and she was dead." With infinite affection, he pressed his bearded lips against the chubby cheek, while she, relieved of all fear, flung her dimpled arms about his neck and kissed him in return. With one hand, she lifted the flapping hat from his head and with the other smoothed away the luxuriant hair from his forehead. "I like you ever so much, but you are crying," she said sympathetically; "what makes you do that? Haven't you got a little girl like me?" "No, my precious child; I once had just such a sweet tot as you, but the good Lord took her from me, and I love you just as I loved her." "And that's what we all are going to do," remarked Ike Hoe, with a sniff as he drew his sleeve across his eyes; "this beats anything in the history of New Constantinople, by seven hundred and eighty-four thousand majority." "Come, Wade, you must be fair with us," said the landlord, reaching out his arms; "we all claim an equal share in her." The miner felt the truth of this, and without a word relinquished the treasure. Drawing his handkerchief, he wiped his eyes clear of their mist and jealously followed the surrendered one as she was fondled in turn by the others. First one and then another, until she had completed the round. All had something pleasant to say to her and she replied in her sweet innocent way, causing laughter and winning her path straight to the hearts of the hardy fellows, to whom such endearments had been unknown for years, but whose better natures were stirred by the presence of the child, as if she were in reality an angel sent from heaven. Felix Brush had purposely left his turn for the last, hoping thereby to retain her longer than his friends. After chatting with her for a moment and repeating some rigmarole that set her laughing, followed by the request for him to say it again, he stood her on the bar. Then he danced in front of her, swung his arms like a jumping-jack, and told some outlandish fairy story from the stock that no one had ever suspected he possessed. "Can you stand on your head?" asked Nellie, rippling over with fun. "Certainly," he replied, as without a moment's hesitation, he inverted himself and cracked his heels together, though the attitude was such an unfamiliar one that he careened and went over on his back with a thump that made the room tremble. Nellie clapped her chubby hands with delight and before Brush could repeat the performance, she called: "Catch me; I'm going to jump." "All right; I'm ready for you." She recoiled a step to gather momentum and Landlord Ortigies, terrified at the fear that she might step off backward, made a dive round the end of the bar, catching his foot in an obstruction and falling with a crash that drew all attention to him. "I'm so sorry; be you hurt?" asked Nellie, turning her head and surveying him, as his face came up to view like the full moon rising above the horizon. "Not a bit; I done that on purpose to make you laugh; I always do that to please good little girls like you." "Bime by I'll let you fall all the time, but just see me jump." Felix Brush was still standing, with arms outstretched, and, without a second's hesitation the child leaped off into space. She showed no fright, for there was no cause for it, since she was caught fairly and securely. Inasmuch as she had been fondled by every one, and the parson had had her longer than anyone else, he set her down on the floor and she began running here and there, displaying a childish curiosity to understand everything in sight. Going to the half-opened door, communicating with the darkened apartment at the rear, she peeped timidly in. "Who lives in dere?" she asked, turning around and addressing the whole group who were laughingly watching her. "That's where I live," replied Ortigies. "Do you live all alone?" "Yes, my child." "Haven't you got any little girl like me?" "No; I'd give all I have in the world if I had." "Wouldn't you like to have me for your little girl?" "Indeed I would; will you be my little girl?" The baby face became thoughtful. She thrust one finger in the corner of her mouth and looked down at the floor. "What would papa do and those other folks? I will be the little girl for all of you." This struck the party as the brightest and wittiest expression ever made by a mortal. They laughed, clapped their hands and striking each other on the shoulder wanted to know whether anything of the like had ever before been heard. Certainly not. Without paying any heed to them, Nellie was peering into the room again. "It's dark and cold," she said in an awed voice, turning her face around, the better to communicate the information; "but I ain't afraid." Before she could fairly enter the place, her father, who was affectionately watching her, said: "I guess you would better not go in there, Nellie; it's growing late and is time you prepared for bed." "I'll fix a place for her," said Ortigies; "we ain't much on style here, but I can manage to make her comfortable." "But will it not discommode you?" "That little gal can't discommode any one in New Constantinople; if she would prefer to have me go out and sleep in the snow, I'll be glad to do it." "I've just the place for her," interposed Wade Ruggles; "couldn't be better if I had taken a week to get it ready." "Can't begin with my quarters," Felix Brush hastened to say, and there would have been a general wrangle for the privilege of accommodating the little one, had not her father, seeing how matters were going, smilingly raised his hand in protest. "I cannot tell you, my friends, how much I thank you all for your kindness. Ah, if my poor wife could have held out until she reached here, but that was not to be. I shall be glad to stay with Mr. Ortigies to-night, and with your permission shall remain for a few days in your settlement. I have lost everything I owned in the world, and will need some time to decide what is best to do. Our stay in New Constantinople will give all a better chance to get acquainted with Nellie. I'll surrender her to you until you get tired of her." "Get tired of her!" repeated Vose Adams, voicing the sentiments of all; "we're not the kind of galoots to git tired of an angel." The father expressed his thanks with such winsome grace, that every man instinctively felt that he was a born gentleman. There was not a miner in the room who did not sympathize with him in his affliction, and yet they envied him the possession of the child, whose innocence and beauty impressed them as more wonderful than they had ever looked upon before. When Felix Brush whispered to Budge Isham that arrangements must be made in some way to keep the father with them, for the sake of having the child, his friend nodded his head, and said he had made up his mind to the same effect from the moment the parent referred to the matter. And the sentiments of these two were those of the rest. "Come, Nellie, let me prepare you for bed; it's a long time since you have had that privilege." The little one obediently walked to her father and turned her back to him that he might better remove her clothing. "I suppose you have plenty of covering for her?" remarked the parent inquiringly to the landlord. "There's all she can need." Lifting her on his knee, the father began removing the shoes and stockings, the little one giving what aid she could, when it came to the garments. One of the last acts of the affectionate mother had been to place upon her child the gown she was accustomed to wear while asleep. When at last she was ready, she looked up to her father and asked in a half whisper: "Where's mamma?" "She will not be with us to-night." "Then she will come in the morning?" "Wait until then, my child; don't say anything more about mamma now." She was satisfied, and signified that she was ready to have her father carry her to her bed. Then she exclaimed with a laugh: "Ain't that funny?" "What's that?" "I like to fordot to say my prayers." And slipping from her father's knee, she knelt on the floor, with her hands covering her face which, as it pressed his knee, was hidden by the mass of golden ringlets clustering and falling about it. Not a man stirred or spoke. All were so silent that the sifting of the snow against the logs, the moaning of the gale and the soft rustle of the embers that broke apart on the hearth were audible. But all these were as the "voice of silence" itself, so that when the child began her prayer in a low voice, every syllable was heard. "Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless papa, mamma and make Nellie a good girl; bless--" Wheeling short round at the silent, awed group, she looked at the landlord and asked: "What is your name?" "Or-ti-gies," he replied, pronouncing it carefully. She made rather sorry work at first, but there could be no doubt that the One to whom she was addressing the petition understood her wishes. When she had satisfied herself and included the landlord in her prayer, she ceased again, and this time looked up at her father whose hand was resting on her head. "I must pray for _all_ of them, musn't I?" "Certainly, my child." "But I don't know dere names." "They will all tell them." No act of worship in church or grand cathedral was more solemn and reverential than that of the men, as each in turn stepped softly forward with bowed head, and repeated his name to the tiny petitioner, who immediately included it with those for whom she had already prayed and it was wafted upward through space to Him who delights to hear and answer such petitions. She did not forget one. To make sure, she looked up while still on her knees and asked: "Did I fordot any of you?" "No," replied the parent; "you have not missed any. That's a good girl." "And I know they will all be good, for I asked God to make 'em so." The father now rose to his feet with her in his arms, and she called a general good night, flinging a kiss to all. Landlord Ortigies had lit an extra lamp and with it in hand, he led the way to the rear room, where as he stated, comfortable quarters were provided for the little one. Since the Heavenly Bower was the only place in the mining settlement where the wanderer, who occasionally made his way into that remote part of the world, could expect to find sleeping accommodations, Ortigies was always prepared for visitors. Thus he was able to furnish the father with a couch so placed that he virtually shared the bed with his child. Ten minutes later, when he stole back into the room with the landlord to see whether everything was right with his child, she was found sunk in the sweet, dreamless slumber of infancy. The picture was so winsome as she lay with her cheek resting upon the rough pillow, that Ortigies stepped softly to the door and beckoned to his friends. Everyone stole forward, and stood looking down for several minutes upon the sleeper, and, as he did so, new resolves sprang into his heart. Already it may be said they were better men because of the blessed messenger that had come among them. CHAPTER III A SLIP OR TWO The blizzard gradually subsided toward morning, but when the fall of snow ceased, it lay to the depth of several feet on the level, while the gorges were choked with vast drifts. The cold was below zero and no work could be done in the diggings until a rise in temperature came. It was hardly light, however, on the succeeding morning, when three of the miners accompanied Maurice Dawson in his search for the abandoned wagon and team. There was not a trace of anything resembling a trail, the footprints of the man having been obliterated by the wind-driven snow, and the skill of the party was taxed to the utmost. Several times they were compelled to rest, and Dawson himself suggested that the search be given up until a change in the weather; but the kind hearted men saw how deeply he grieved, and their sympathy kept them toiling until about noon when success came. The wagon was so covered with snow that it resembled a hummock, which ordinarily would have been passed without notice. The horses and the inanimate form within were like blocks of wood. The slight figure was lifted tenderly from its resting place and brought to Dead Man's Gulch. Since the last recollection of Nellie was when she supposed her mother alive, it was deemed kinder that she should not look upon the lifeless form again. With hard labor the picks and shovels hollowed out a shallow grave into which the form, wrapped about with a single blanket, was laid away to rest until the last day. The father, when questioned by the little one, explained that her mother had gone on a long, long journey and there was no saying when she would be seen again. Nellie cried a good deal and it saddened her parent's heart, when stealing softly into her room, he saw the traces of tears on her cheeks. Who can tell the sorrows of childhood when such a cruel affliction comes upon it? But it is a blessed truth that time is the healer of all wounds, and after awhile the little one ceased to ask about her mother. When the whole truth was told her, she had become old enough to bear the blow. Maurice Dawson's first purpose was to remain only for a week or two with the friends of himself and child. He had set out for the Pacific coast, and, although it was still a thousand miles distant, he felt it his duty to press on, but he suffered himself to be dissuaded, when it was explained that the prospect of obtaining gold was as good at New Constantinople, whereas, if he continued his journey, he would have to make his home among strangers, who were not likely to feel the interest in him and his child that was felt by those who were the means of saving their lives. Furthermore, since he had lost his team, he was without the means of pressing on. None of the emigrant trains turned so far out of their course as to come to Dead Man's Gulch, and nothing was plainer than that the citizens of that place would not give the least help in an enterprise that was to deprive them of Nellie. It is impossible to say what would have followed, had he persisted in his first decision, for while the men might have consented to let him go, they would have rebelled had he attempted to take the child from them. And so it came about, we repeat, that Maurice Dawson decided to make his home indefinitely in the town that had been christened New Constantinople. With the help of his neighbors, Landlord Ortigies divided his rear room into two apartments, one of which was turned over to the parent and his child. Nearly every miner brought some article, such as a fragment of mirror, a picture or trinket and presented it to the little one, whose room naturally became the finest in New Constantinople. Dawson himself joined the miners at their work, all showing an eagerness to lend him a helping hand, and there was reason to hope that in time there would be a fair reward for their labor. He was not only an educated man, but was strong and enterprising, considerate of the feelings of others, and now that his life partner was gone, he had but the little daughter to live for. Gladly he toiled for her, for no child was ever more tenderly loved by parent than she. His thoughts turned to the future, but for some years he believed it was better that she should remain where she was. Nellie Dawson became the pet of the mining town. There was not a man in the place, no matter how rough his ways, nor how dark had been his past, who was not made the better by her presence. She touched a responsive chord in every heart. She awoke tones that had been silent for years, and stirred into life resolves that had lain dormant for a generation. When the weather grew milder with the approach of spring, she flitted like a bird from cabin to cabin, equally at home and dearly prized in all. Many a time when night came, the father was unable to find her, and perhaps saw nothing of her until the next day, but he never felt any solicitude. He knew that some of the men had persuaded her to remain with them, and he was too considerate to rob them of the pleasure of listening to her innocent prattle, while they racked their ingenuity and threw dignity to the winds in the effort to entertain her. Each one strove to make her think more of him than the others, and it ended by her loving them all. As a rule, Nellie ate her morning meal at home, after spending the night with her father, and then she was off for the day, returning or remaining away as her airy fancy prompted. Her sweet influence in the mining camp was beyond the power of human calculation to fathom. No gauge could be placed upon it. Like the sweep of an angel's wing, her coming seemed to have wafted nearly all the coarseness, wrong and evil from her path. "There's a serious question that I want to lay afore this company," gravely remarked Wade Ruggles one night in the Heavenly Bower. Dawson was absent with a brother miner at the lower end of the settlement, so the gathering felt at liberty to discuss him and his child. Wade of late had fallen into the habit of taking the lead in such discussions, and Landlord Ortigies was quite willing to turn over the honors of the chairmanship to the outspoken fellow. The remainder of the company were smoking, drinking and talking as the mood took them, and all looked inquiringly at the speaker, seeing which Wade continued with the same earnestness he had shown at first: "It is this: that little angel that was tossed down here in the blizzard is growing fast; she's larning something cute every day; she notices things that you don't think of; fact is she's the smartest youngster that was ever born. Does any gent feel disposed to dispoot the aforesaid statement?" he abruptly asked, laying his hand on the butt of his revolver and looking severely around in the faces of his friends. No one questioned the assertion. Had it been left to them to choose the words, they would have made them stronger. "Wal, the remark I was about to remark is that I hear some coarse observations once in awhile. I may say that I have indulged in a few myself when the 'casion was suitable and called for 'em, but I want to give notice that the thing must stop in the presence of the angel." "Your suggestions generally ain't worth listenin' to," observed Ike Hoe, "but there's solid sense in them words. I have been troubled over the same thing and was goin' to submit a proposition." "You're a purty one to do it," commented Vose Adams scornfully; "why it's only yesterday that I heerd you say 'darn' just because I happened to smash the end of your finger, with the hammer I was drivin' a nail with." "Did the little one hear him?" asked Wade Ruggles, while an expression of horror settled on every countenance. "No, sir!" declared Ike; "afore I indulged in the expression, so proper under the tryin' circumstances, I looked round to make sartin she wasn't in hearing distance." "You must have looked very quick," said Vose; "for the horrible words was simultaneous with the flattenin' of your big forefinger. Howsumever, I gazed round myself and am happy to say she warn't in sight. If she had been, I'd smashed all your fingers." "A very proper Christian spirit," commended Wade; "I hope all the rest of you will strive to emerlate it." Felix Brush was leaning on the end of the bar with a glass of steaming toddy, which he had partly sipped, and was now caressing with his hand. "Gentlemen," said he impressively, "permit me a word. Wade has touched a subject which appeals to us all. I have given it much thought for the past few days and feel it my duty to look after the religious instruction of the child." Two or three disrespectful snickers followed this declaration. The parson instantly flared up. "If any reprobate here feels a desire to scoff, he's only to step outside for a few minutes and see who can get the drop on the other." Everybody knew that the parson was always well heeled, and no one questioned his courage. His friends contented themselves with pitying smiles and significant glances at one another. Felix hastily swallowed his toddy, with the evident intention of airing his emphatic views, when Wade Ruggles interposed: "Pards, you're gettin' off the track; we hain't got to the religious racket yit; that'll come later. What I want to 'rive at is as to using cuss words and unproper language where the angel hears it. It ain't 'nough for us to agree that we won't do it; it must be fixed so we don't take no chances." This was not exactly clear and Wade was asked to be more explicit. "I mean that there must be a penalty, such as will stop a galoot that has once offended from doing the same thing again." This clearly intimated that the punishment which the chairman had in mind was of a frightful nature. The landlord begged Wade to come down to particulars. "My idee is that whoever offends this little one by unproper language shall be filled full of bullet holes: how does _that_ strike you?" "It hits me just right!" responded the landlord, with several nods of his head; "but there's one thing in the way." "What's that?" demanded Wade, showing some temper at this attack upon his scheme. "It 'lows a man to say the unproper words in the hearin' of the angel, _afore_ he's shot; so it won't prevent her ears from being 'fended. Can't we fix it some way, so that she shan't hear 'em at all?" "There's no trouble about that," solemnly remarked Budge Isham from his seat at the further end of the room; "You have only to find out when a fellow has made up his mind to use improper language in the presence of the child, and then shoot him before he can say the words." "But how shall we know he's going to say 'em?" inquired the chairman, who in the earnestness of his feelings felt no suspicion of the honesty of his friend. "You will have to judge that by the expression of his countenance. I think when a fellow has made up his mind to swear his looks give notice of what is coming. The rest of us must be on the alert and pick him off before the words get out of his mouth. And yet I am sorry to say," added Budge gravely rising to his feet, "that there is one serious drawback to my proposition." "The chairman is anxious to hear it." "There might be mistakes made. A man's expression is not always an index of his thoughts. He might be suffering from some inward pain, and be in the act of uttering some expression, but his face could have so mean a look that if our law was in force, he would be shot on sight. For instance, studying these faces all turned toward me, I should say, speaking on general principles, that all except one or two deserve, not shooting, but hanging, and if looks were to determine a man's depth of infamy, mighty few of you would live five minutes." Budge sank gravely into his seat and resumed smoking, while his friends, understanding his trifling character, contemptuously refused attention to his disrespectful remarks. In the general discussion which followed, several insisted that the only proper punishment for the grave offence was death; but the sentiment crystallized into the feeling that that penalty was somewhat severe for the first breaking of the law. It was proper enough for the second crime, but a man who had been accustomed to picturesque and emphatic words was liable to err once at least while on the road to reformation. The agreement finally reached was that the offender should be heavily fined, compelled to fast several days, or, more frightful than all, be deprived of the privileges of the bar for the same length of time. When the last penalty was fixed there were several suppressed groans and a general setting of lips, with the unshakable resolve to steer clear of that appalling punishment. Everything was serene for several days, when, as might have been anticipated, the explosion came. Al Bidwell, in coming out of the Heavenly Bower, caught the toe of one of his boots and fell forward on his hands and knees. Two of his friends seeing him naturally laughed, whereupon, as he picked himself up, he demanded in the name of the presiding genius of hades, what they saw to laugh at. By way of answer, one of them pointed to Nellie Dawson, who ran forward to help him to his feet. "Did you hurt yourself, Mr. Bidwell? I's so sorry." "You may well be, little one," was the bitter response, as he realized his awful offence; "for this will play thunder with me--there it goes agin! Please don't say another word," he exclaimed desperately, striding down the street to save himself from piling up a mountain of unpardonable crimes. The committee did not gather until late that evening, for Nellie was at home and it was thought advisable to wait until she was asleep, so that she should not know anything of what was in the air. The conversation was in subdued tones until Mr. Dawson tip-toed out of the rear room, with the announcement that the little one was sunk in slumber. "Such bein' the case," remarked Wade Ruggles, with becoming gravity, "this meeting will proceed to bus'ness. Pards, a hein'us crime has been committed among us. In the proud history of New Constantinople, we've had hangin' bees; we've shot three Injins 'cause they _was_ Injins; there has been any number of holes plugged inter them as was a little careless of speech, and more'n once there has been the devil to pay, but nothin' like this, _never_! Vose Adams, you was one as heard this wretch Bidwell indulge in his shocking profanity. You'll be good 'nough to give the partic'lars to the gents that I must warn to brace themselves fur the shock." Vose Adams told the story which was familiar to all. He and Budge Isham were approaching the Heavenly Bower that forenoon, the cause being a due regard for the requirement of the laws of health, when Albert Bidwell, the accused, stubbed his toe. Hearing a laugh, he looked up and demanded to know what the ---- they were laughing at. While the query, though objectionable on æsthetic grounds, might have passed muster in the diggings or anywhere in New Constantinople previous to the advent of the angel at present making her home with them, yet the horror of the thing was that the aforesaid angel heard it. She ran to the help of the villain, who added to his monumental crime by calmly remarking to her that what he had just said would play thunder with him. This second offence was unanimously felt by those present to be more unpardonable than the first, since it was in the nature of an addendum, had nothing to do with the business proper, and worst of all, was addressed to Nellie herself. Chairman Ruggles turned his severest frown upon the prisoner, who was sitting disconsolately on a box, and drawing at his brier wood pipe, which in the depth of his emotion, he failed to notice was unlighted. "What has the prisoner to say fur himself?" Bidwell shuffled to his feet, took the pipe from his mouth and looked around upon the cold, unsympathetic faces. "Wal, pards," he remarked, heaving a great sigh, "I don't see that there's anything partic'lar fur me to say. When a thing is fairly proved onto you, you can't make nothin' by denyin' of the same. I've been tryin' to walk a chalk line ever since the angel arrove among us. Two or three times I fell over backward and bruised my head, owin' to my tryin' to stand up too straight. I was just bracin' myself to do the same as aforesaid, when comin' out of this disgraceful place, when I took a headlong dive and struck the earth so hard, I must have made a bulge in China. Two unmannerly ijuts that happened to see me, instead of expressin' sorrer for my mishap, broke out laughin', and in my righteous indignation, I asked them a emphatic question." "Ord'narily," observed the Court, "your explanation would do. In the old times, nothin' would have been said if you'd drawed your gun and give 'em a lesson in manners, but that aint the question afore the house: Why did you do it in the presence of the angel?" "Didn't see her till after the crime was committed." "But why didn't you look fur her to larn whether she was in sight or was liable to hear your shocking words?" "Didn't think of it." "Your reply only aggervates the offence. If any man feels that he must swear or bust, he must bust, purvided the little one is in sight; or he must hold in till he can climb on top of the rocks, or creep among the foothills where he's sure of being alone. The Court hain't any 'bjection to your thinking all the cuss words you want to, but you mus'n't speak 'em when she's about. You understand the position of the Court?" "I'd be a fool if I didn't," growled the accused. "It's onnecessary to understand 'em in order to be a fool, Mr. Bidwell, but how 'bout your second offence, when you used the word 'thunder,' and addressed it to the gal herself?" The prisoner felt that nothing could be said in palliation of this charge. "That _was_ bad bus'ness, I'll confess; but I was so disgusted with myself that I didn't know what I was doing or saying; the words come out afore I had time to pull myself together. I was so afeard of adding something still worser that I just rushed off to git out of danger." [Illustration: AS HE PICKED HIMSELF UP, HE DEMANDED IN THE NAME OF THE PRESIDING GENIUS OF HADES WHAT THEY SAW TO LAUGH AT.--PAGE 43.] "There's where you showed the first grain of sense the Court ever knowed you to show. If I had been in your place, I would have jumped off the rocks, into the kenyon, two thousand feet below. If you'd done that you'd been saved the disgrace of being put on trial in this honorable Court. Gents," added Ruggles, glancing from the prisoner into the expectant faces, "since the man owns up, it rests with you to fix the penalty for his crime of bigamous murder." The prisoner resumed his seat and the chairman looked around, as an invitation for those present to express their views. When they came to do so, a wide diversity came to the surface. Vose Adams suggested that the criminal be compelled to go without any food for three days, but this was not favorably received, since the rough, trying life which each man had been compelled to follow at times during the past years, made the punishment much less than it appeared to be. Ike Hoe suggested that instead of food, the accused's liquid refreshment should be shut off for the time named. The accused groaned. When this had continued for some time, Felix Brush, the parson, took the floor. "Gentlemen, it's a principle in law to be lenient with the first offence, and, since this is the first time that Bidwell has offended and he deeply feels his disgrace, why not require him to apologize to the young lady and stand treat for the crowd, with the understanding that his next crime shall be visited with condign punishment?" "Do you propose to let him off?" demanded the wrathful chairman. "Yes; for this once, but never again." "I'll never consent to anything of the kind! The dignity of the Court must be preserved; the law must be executed, and any man who says 'devil' or 'thunder' in the presence of the little gal, I don't care what the circumstances, orter to be shot, so that there wont be any delay in his going to the devil, where he belongs." "_O, Mr. Ruggles, I heard you_!" A little figure dressed in white stood at the door leading to the rear room, and the startled auditors turning their heads, saw Nellie Dawson, with her chubby finger pointed reprovingly at the dumbfounded chairman. CHAPTER IV SUITING THE PUNISHMENT TO THE CRIME Wade Ruggles was speechless. He sat with his mouth wide open and his eyes staring at the little figure, as if it were a veritable apparition. All the others looked in the same direction. Nellie Dawson stood for a moment with her finger pointed reprovingly at the chairman, and then turning about ran back into the rear room and plunged into her bed. "Max, quick!" said Ruggles faintly, pointing to the black bottle at the rear of the bar. The landlord hastily poured out some of the fiery stuff, and the miserable fellow swallowed it at a gulp. It served partly to revive him, but he was really on the verge of collapse. The only one of the company not impressed was Maurice Dawson, father of the little girl. He was sitting well back of the rest, where no one paid attention to him. Comprehending the meaning of this incident, he drew his hand across his mouth to conceal the smile that could not be wholly restrained. Then he hurried back into the room to see that his child was "tucked up" and properly covered for the night. Finding himself in the dark, where he could not be observed, he laughed deeply and silently, his mirth all the greater because of the oppressive gravity of every one else. Then bending over, he said, as he kissed the little one: "I thought you were asleep, Nellie?" "So I was, but Mr. Ruggles spoke those bad words so loud he woked me." "You mustn't get up again, will you?" "Not if you don't want me to." "I have just told you I don't wish you to." "Then I wont get up." The father lingered in the room, until he mastered his disposition to laugh, and then, when he walked out among his friends no countenance was graver than his. "I say, Dawson," said Ruggles, swallowing a lump in his throat, "will you oblige me by acting as chairman?--I don't feel--very--well." The gentleman walked forward to where Ruggles had been standing with his back against the bar, looking down in the faces of his friends. The poor fellow seemed to have aged ten years, as he slouched off to an upturned box near the door, where he dejectedly seated himself. "What is your pleasure, gentlemen?" asked Dawson, as if presiding over the deliberations of one of the most august assemblages in the land; "I am ready to hear any suggestion or motion." Al Bidwell rose to his feet. "Mr. Chairman, I wish to endorse with all my heart, the soul-stirring, eloquent address to which we have just listened from the late Mr. Ruggles,--I mean the late Chairman. Them sentiments of his is as sound as a gold dollar. He maintains that any gent that uses an unproper word, such as he used and which I scorn to repeat, in the presence of the young lady, who has just listened to his remarks, oughter to be sent to the individooal whose name is too shocking fur me to pronounce, since the aforesaid young lady is in the adjoining apartment, from whence she was awoke by the awful profanity of the gent who lately served as our chairman." And having gotten back on Ruggles in this masterly manner, Bidwell sat down, slung one leg over the other, and relit his pipe. The oppressive silence was broken by a prodigious sigh from Ruggles. Parson Brush, after the stillness had continued some minutes, rose to his feet. "Mr. Chairman, an extraordinary state of affairs has arisen. You have not forgotten that I plead for charity for Mr. Bidwell, because it was his first offence. My plea was not well received, but my sentiments are unchanged, and I now make the same plea for Mr. Ruggles and on the same grounds. When he was denouncing in fitting terms the sin of Bidwell, he had no thought of committing the crime himself, but in his earnestness he did. This being plain to all of us, I renew----" Wade Ruggles bounded to his feet. "I don't want any one to plead for me! I ain't pleading fur myself! I can take my medicine like a man; if there's any galoot here----" He suddenly checked himself with an apprehensive glance at the door of the rear room, and then resumed in a more subdued voice: "I insist that Al Bidwell shall suffer for his onspeakable crime and me too, 'cause mine was onspeakabler. Jedgin' from the evidence that showed itself, I must have awoke the little gal from peaceful slumber, by them awful words of mine." He paused and looked inquiringly at the chairman, who calmly returned his gaze, without speaking. It was Parson Brush who interposed: "I should like to ask, Mr. Dawson, whether the supposition of Mr. Ruggles has any foundation in fact." "It has; when I asked Nellie what caused her to awake, she said it was Mr. Ruggles when he used those bad words." "Just what I thought!" exclaimed Ruggles, as if he enjoyed heaping fire upon his own head; "there ain't any depth of infamy which I hain't reached. For me to try to sneak out now, when I made such a----(Here he again threw a startled glance at the rear of the room) would be to do something which Wade Ruggles never done in his variegated career of nigh onto forty years. All I ask is that you'll git through it as soon as you kin and fix our terms of imprisonment or our deaths and hev done with it." Al Bidwell took an unworthy delight in prodding the man who had been so severe upon him. "I beg humbly to suggest to the gent that there are plenty of places in the mountains where he can make a jump of a thousand feet or two into the kenyons. Wouldn't it be a good idee fur the gent to try it?" "I will if you'll join me," retorted Wade, turning upon him like a flash. "I'll let you try it first and see how it works," replied Bidwell, so crushed that he remained silent henceforward. "Since I am chairman," said Dawson, with becoming dignity, "it is my duty to listen to suggestions and to hear motions. What is your pleasure, gentlemen?" No one in looking at the countenance of Maurice Dawson would have suspected he was extracting the keenest enjoyment from these proceedings, yet such was the fact. There was something so intensely ludicrous in the whole business, that only by assuming preternatural gravity could he refrain from breaking into merriment. His policy was to egg on the discussion until the company were ready for a decision, when he would interpose with the proposal to wipe out the whole matter and begin over again. The earnestness of Wade Ruggles, however, threatened to check anything of that nature. He was on his feet several times until Budge Isham, who shrewdly suspected the sentiments of the chairman, protested. "With all due respect to the parson, to Ruggles and to Bidwell, it strikes me, Mr. Chairman, that they should give the rest of us a show. We have listened to their yawping until it has grown monotonous. Having told us a dozen times, more or less, that he wants us to punish him all he deserves, Mr. Ruggles ought to let it rest with that; but he shouldn't forget," added Budge, with the solemn manner which always marked his waggery, "that, if we took him at his word, he would be kicking vacancy this minute. However, this hasn't anything to do with his general cussedness, but concerns his offence against the young lady. That is all there is before the house, and I insist that we confine ourselves to that----" "Isn't that what I've been insistin' on?" demanded Wade Ruggles. "There you go again! I have the floor, and you have no parliamentary right to interrupt me with your frivolous remarks. Am I correct, Mr. Chairman?" "You are most unquestionably; proceed." "Well, to bring this tiresome matter to a close, I move that Mr. Bidwell be deprived of the bar privileges of the Heavenly Bower for a period of four days, and that the same be denied to Mr. Ruggles for a period of one week. Did I hear a groan?" asked Budge, looking round at the two men, who were trying bravely to bear up under the threatened punishment. Both shook their heads, afraid to trust their voices by way of reply. "If the gentlemen will permit me," said the chairman, "I should like to say a few words." "I am sure we shall be glad to hear from Mr. Dawson," remarked the parson. "Thank you. What I had in mind is this:--It is creditable to your honor that you should pledge yourselves to refrain from unbecoming language in the hearing of my little girl, for you cannot help being her instructors, no matter how much you may wish it were otherwise. But you are magnifying the matter. I am sure every man of you will strive just as hard, without being incited thereto by the fear of punishment. I would beg to suggest----" He paused, for, looking at Wade Ruggles, he saw it was useless to go further. Bidwell would have been glad to receive leniency, but his partner in crime was immovable, and it would not do to punish one and allow the other to go free. Dawson was wise enough to accept the situation promptly. "You have heard the penalties suggested for the offences of the two gentlemen accused. All who favor such punishment will show it by raising their right hands." Every man in the room, except the chairman, voted in the affirmative. "It isn't worth while to put the negative. The accused have heard the verdict, which is that Mr. Bidwell shall not drink a drop of anything except water or coffee for a period of four days, dating from this moment, while Mr. Ruggles is to undergo the same penalty for a period of one week." "That's right," growled Bidwell; "for he drank about half of what was in the bottle only a few minutes ago." "And you would have drunk it all," retorted Ruggles, "if you'd knowed what was coming." CHAPTER V A HUNDRED FOLD All this may seem a trifling matter to the reader who does not understand the real punishment suffered by these two men, who, like all the rest of their companions, had been accustomed to the use of ardent spirits for many years. There was no deprivation which they could not have borne with less distress, but their great consolation was that both knew the penalty was fully deserved, and they would not have complained had it been made more severe. "I tell you," said Bidwell, at the end of the fourth day, when he had celebrated his release from purgatory, "it pays, Ruggles." "What pays?" "The reward you git for all this. At the end of a week you'll have a thirst that you wouldn't take a thousand dollars fur." "But the week isn't much more'n half gone and I'd sell my thirst mighty cheap now." "Don't you do it! Hold fast to it." "That's what I'm doing, 'cause I can't help myself. Howsumever it's the thirst that's holding fast to me." "That's the beauty of it; it'll git stronger and stronger, and then it's so big that you can't well handle it. It seems to me that ten minutes after I've had a drink, I'm thirsty agin, which reminds me; I'd like to invite you, Wade." "Invite all you want to, 'cause it won't do any more hurt than good; don't let me keep you," added Ruggles, observing the longing eyes his friend cast in the direction of the Heavenly Bower. Bidwell moved off with pretended reluctance, out of consideration for the feelings of his friend, but once inside, he gave another demonstration of the truth of his remarks concerning thirst. As for Ruggles, only he who has been similarly placed can appreciate his trial. No man is so deserving of sympathy as he who is making a resolute effort to conquer the debasing appetite that has brought him to the gutter. On that fourth night the thirst of the fellow was a raging fever. He drank copious draughts of spring water, but all the help it gave was to fill him up. The insatiate craving remained and could not be soothed. It seemed as if every nerve was crying out for the stimulant which it was denied. "The only time I ever went through anything like this," he said to himself, "was twenty years ago, when a party of us were lost in the Death Valley. Three of 'em died of thirst, and I come so nigh it that it makes me shudder to think of it even at this late day." A wonderful experience came to Wade Ruggles. To his unbounded amazement, he noticed a sensible diminution, on the fifth day, of his thirst. It startled him at first and caused something in the nature of alarm. He feared some radical change had taken place in his system which threatened a dangerous issue. When this misgiving passed, it was succeeded by something of the nature of regret. One consoling reflection from the moment his torture began, was the reward which Al Bidwell had named, that is,--the glorious enjoyment of fully quenching his terrific craving, but, if that craving diminished, the future bliss must shrink in a corresponding ratio, and _that_ was a calamity to make a man like him shudder. On the evening of the fifth day, he ventured for the first time during his penal term, to enter the Heavenly Bower. He wished to test his self-control. When he sat quietly and saw his friends imbibing, and was yet able to restrain himself from a headlong rush to join them, he knew that beyond all question, his fearful appetite had lost a part of its control over him. Still he believed it was only a temporary disarrangement, and that the following day would bring a renewal of his thirst, with all its merciless violence. But lo! on the sixth morning, the appetite was weaker than ever. His craving was so moderate that, after a deep draught of mountain spring water, he was hardly conscious of any longing for liquor. He seemed to be losing his memory of it. "I don't understand it," he mused, keeping the astonishing truth to himself; "It's less than a week ago that I was one of the heaviest drinkers in New Constantinople, and if anyone had told me of this, I would have been sure he'd lost his senses, which the same may be what's the matter with me." But there was no awakening of his torment during the day, and when he lay down at night, he was disturbed by strange musings. "If we had a doctor in the place, I would ask him to tell me what it means. The queerest thing 'bout the whole bus'ness is that I feel three thousand per cent. better. I wonder if it can be on 'count of my not swallerin' any of Ortigies' pison which the same he calls Mountain Dew. I guess it must be that." But that night he was restless, and gradually his thoughts turned into a new channel. A momentous problem presented itself for solution. "If I've improved so much after goin' six days without drinkin', won't I feel a blamed sight better, if I try it for six weeks--six months--six years--_forever_." And as an extraordinary, a marvelous resolution simmered and finally crystallized, he chortled. "What'll the boys say? What'll the parson think? What'll I think? What would that good old mother of mine think, if she was alive? But she died afore she knowed what a good for nothin' man her boy turned out to be. God rest her soul!" he added softly, "she must have prayed over me a good many hundred times; if she's kept track of me all these years, this is an answer to her prayers." Budge Isham was the partner of Wade, and shared his cabin with him. He slept across the room, and noticed how his friend tossed and muttered in his sleep. "Great Gee!" he exclaimed, "but Wade's got it pretty bad; I wonder if it's the jim jams that is getting hold of him; I'll sleep with one eye open, for he will need looking after. What a blessed thing it is that he has only one more day. Then he can celebrate and be happy. I have no doubt that by the end of another week, he will have brought things up to their old average." And with this conclusion, the man who a few years before took the first honors at Yale, shifted his position, so as to keep an eye on his comrade, and straightway proceeded to drop into a sound slumber, which was not broken until the sun rose on the following morning. The sympathy for Wade was general. Had he not insisted upon carrying out in spirit and letter the full punishment pronounced upon him, there would have been a unanimous agreement to commute his term by one or two days at least; but all knew the grit or "sand" of the fellow too well to propose it. His actions on the seventh day caused considerable disquietude. He had labored in the mines, in a desultory fashion up to that time, but he did not do a stroke of work during the concluding hours of his ordeal. It was observed by his partner, Budge Isham, that his appetite was unusually good and he seemed to be in high spirits. His friends attributed this to the closeness of his reward for his abstention, but he took several walks up the mountain side and was gone for a good while. He wore a smiling face and Vose Adams declared that he overheard him communing with himself, when he thought he was too far off for the act to be noticed. "No use of talkin'," whispered Vose; "Wade ain't quite himself; he's a little off and won't be exactly right till after two or three days." "He has my sympathy," remarked the parson, "but it will serve as a lesson which he will always remember." "And won't _we_ remember it?" said Ike Hoe, with a shudder. "When we're disposed to say one of them unproper words, the picture of that miserable scamp going a full week without a touch of Mountain Dew, will freeze up our lips closer than a clam." That night the usual group was gathered at the Heavenly Bower. There were the same merry jests, the reminiscences, the conjectures how certain diggings would pan out, the small talk and the general good feeling. Common hardship and suffering had brought these rough men close to one another. They were indulgent and charitable and each one would have eagerly risked his life for the sake of the rest. Quick to anger, they were equally quick to forgive, mutually rejoicing in good fortune, and mutually sympathetic in sorrow. There was more than one furtive glance at Ruggles, who was among the first arrivals. Whispers had passed around of his strange actions, and the surprise would not have been great had it been found that he had gone clean daft; but nothing in his manner indicated anything of that nature. He was as full of quip and jest as ever, and none was in higher or more buoyant spirits than he. He suddenly called: "Dawson, what time is it?" The latest comer among them carried a watch which he drew out and examined. "It is exactly half-past nine." "When did my punishment begin?" "A week ago to-night, precisely at this hour; I began to fear that you had forgotten it." "No danger of my ever forgetting it," grimly responded Ruggles; "what I want to know is whether I have served out my full term." "You have unquestionably." "Is there anyone here disposed to dispute this statement?" asked Wade, standing very erect and looking around in the faces of his friends. No one interposed an objection. He had not only the sympathy but the respect of every one. "You sarved your time like a man," remarked Ike Hoe; "the week is up and you've give good measure." "Which the same being the case, I invite all to come forward and liquidate." Never was an invitation responded to with more enthusiasm. The grinning Ortigies set out a couple of bottles, intending as a matter of course to join in the celebration. He feelingly remarked: "Wade, my heart bled for you and thar ain't a pard here that wouldn't have been willing to take your place--that is for a limited time," the landlord hastened to add. Each tumbler was half-filled with the fiery stuff and all looked in smiling expectancy at their host to give the cue. He poured a small quantity into his glass, and elevating it almost to a level with his lips, looked over the top. "Are you ready, pards? here goes." Up went every glass and down went the stuff. But there was one exception. While the glass was at his lips, and while the familiar odor was in his nostrils, Wade Ruggles deliberately inverted the tumbler and emptied the contents on the floor. It was the strangest incident that had ever occurred in New Constantinople. CHAPTER VI TEACHER AND PUPIL The group looked at Wade Ruggles in breathless amazement. He had invited them to the bar to join in celebrating his release from thralldom; all had filled their glasses and he had raised his own to his lips, though several noticed that there was only a small amount of liquid in the tumbler. Then, when every glass was upraised and there was a general gurgling, he had turned his glass upside down and spilled every drop on the floor. Before anyone could think of suitable terms in which to express his emotions, Wade said, with a smile that rather added than detracted from his seriousness: "Pards, never again does a drop of that stuff go down my throat! I've suffered hell, but I've come out of the flames, and the one that fetched me through is the little gal which lays asleep in the next room." He did not attempt to deliver a temperance lecture to his friends, nor did they trifle with him. They questioned him closely as to how he had reached this extraordinary decision, and he gave a vivid and truthful account of his experience. It made several of the men thoughtful, but most of them felt dubious about his persistence in the new path he had laid out for himself. "You know, boys, whether I've got a will of my own," he quietly replied; "just wait and see how this thing comes out." It was noticed that Parson Brush was the most interested inquirer, and, though he had comparatively little to say, he left the Bower unusually early. He had begun his system of instruction with Nellie Dawson, and reported that she was making remarkably good progress. Had the contrary been the fact, it may be doubted whether it would have been safe for him to proclaim it. And now the scene changes. It is the close of a radiant summer day in the Sierras. Far down in the cañon-like chasm between the mountainous spurs, nestled the little mining settlement, which had been christened but a short time before, New Constantinople. Here and there tiny wounds had been gouged into the ribs of the mountain walls, and the miners were pecking away with pick and shovel, deepening the hurts in their quest for the yellow atoms or dark ore which had been the means of bringing every man thousands of miles to the spot. Far up toward the clouds were the towering, craggy peaks, with many a rent and yawn and table-land and lesser elevation, until, as if to check the climbing ambition of the prodigious monster, nature had flung an immense blanket of snow, whose ragged and torn edges lapped far down the sides of the crests. Ages ago the chilling blanket was tucked around the mountain tops, there to remain through the long stretch of centuries to follow. Down the valley, at the bottom of the winding cañon, the air palpitated with the fervor of the torrid zone. He who attempted to plod forward panted and perspired, but a little way up the mountain side, the cool breath crept downward from the regions of perpetual ice and snow, through the balsamic pines and cedars, with a revivifying power that was grateful to all who felt its life-giving embrace. The sun hovered in a sky of unclouded azure. It shot its arrows into the gullies, ravines and gorges, but made no impression on the frozen covering far up in cloudland itself. Long pointed ravelings on the lower edge of the mantle showed where some of the snow had turned to water, which changed again to ice, when the sun dipped below the horizon. The miners were pigmies as they toiled in the sides of the towering mountain walls, where they had toiled for many a day. On the lip of a projecting crag, half a mile above were three other pigmies, who neither toiled nor spun. Viewed through a glass, it was seen that they wore stained feathers in their black hair dangling about their shoulders, with the blankets wrapped round their forms descending to their moccasined feet. They were watching in grim silence these proofs of the invasion of their homes by the children of another race, and mayhap were conjuring some scheme for driving them back into the great sea across which they had sailed to occupy the new land. One of the Indians was a chieftain. He had come in violent contact with these hated creatures and he bore on his person the scars of such meeting. All carried bows and arrows, though others of their tribe had learned the use of the deadly firearms, which has played such havoc with the American race. Suddenly the chief uttered an exclamation. Then drawing an arrow from the quiver over his shoulder, he fitted it to the string of his long bow, and pointing downward toward the group of miners, launched the shaft. Except for the power of gravity, it would have been a foolhardy effort, but guided by the wisp of feather twisted around the reed, the missile spun far outward over the cañon, and dived through the vast reach of space, as if it were endowed with life and determined to seek out and pierce the intruders. The black eyes of the three warriors followed the arrow until it was only a flickering speck, far below them; but, before that moment arrived, they saw that it was speeding wide of the mark. When at last, the sharp point struck the flinty rock, and the missile doubled over upon itself and dropped harmlessly to the bottom of the cañon, it was at such a distance from the miners, that they knew nothing of it. They never looked up, nor were they aware of the futile anger of the red men, who seeing how useless was everything of that nature, turned about and soon passed from view. The incident was typical of the futility of the red man struggling against his inevitable doom at the hands of his white brother. Half way between the bottom of the cañon and the lower fringe of the vast mantle of snow, a waterfall tumbled over the edge of a rock, and with many a twist and eddy found its way to the small stream, which rippled along the bottom of the gorge, until its winding course carried it beyond sight. Now and then a rift of wind blew aside some of the foam, like a wisp of snow, and brought the murmur more clearly to the ear of the listener, shutting out for the time, the faint hollow roar that was wafted from the region of pines and cedars. It was a picture of lonely grandeur and desolation, made all the more impressive by the tiny bits of life, showing in the few spots along the mountain wall. [Illustration: THE TEACHER HAD MARKED ON THE DARK FACE OF THE ROCK WITH A SPECIES OF CHALK ALL THE LETTERS OF THE ALPHABET.--PAGE 71.] At the rear of the row of cabins, and elevated perhaps fifty feet above, was the comparatively smooth face of a rock, several square rods in extent. At the base was abundant footing for two persons, Parson Brush and Nellie Dawson. The teacher had marked on the dark face of the rock with a species of chalk, all the letters large and small of the alphabet. They were well drawn, for the parson, like others in the settlement, was a man of education, though his many years of roughing it had greatly rusted his book knowledge. Standing to one side of his artistic work, like a teacher of the olden time, the parson, with a long, trimmed branch in his hand, pointed at the different letters in turn and patiently waited for his little pupil to pronounce their names. It never would have done to make the child keep her feet like an ordinary mortal. With great labor, three of the miners had carried a stone of considerable size to the spot, which served her as a seat, while receiving instruction. It is true that she never sat still for more than three minutes at a time, but that was enough to establish the indispensable necessity of a chair. "You are doing very well, my dear," said the parson, encouragingly; "you have received only a few lessons, but have mastered the alphabet. I notice that the 'd's' and 'b's' and 'h's' and 'q's' puzzle you a little now and then, but you have got them straight, and it is now time that we took a lesson in spelling." "Oh, I can't do that, Mr. Brush," protested the queen, rising from the chair, adjusting her skirts and sitting down again; "I never can spell." "What is it to spell?" "I don't know; what is it?" "I can best answer your question by showing you. Have you ever seen a cat?" "Do you mean a pussy?" "Yes; some folks call it that." "Oh, yes; when we came from where we used to live,--I guess it must have been three or four hundred years ago, we brought my pussy along. Her name was Nellie, the same as mine." "What became of her?" "She died," was the sorrowful reply; "I guess she was homesick." "That was too bad. Now will you tell me what letter that is?" "Why, Mr. Brush, don't you know?" "Yes, but I wish to find out whether you know." "It is C; anybody knows that." "And this one?" "A." "That is right; now this one?" "T; I hope you will remember, Mr. Brush, because I don't like to tell you so often." The teacher continued to drill her, skipping about and pointing at the letters so rapidly in turn that he was kept bowing and straightening up like a jumping-jack. Then, allowing her to rest, he pronounced the letters in their regular order, giving them the sounds proper to the word itself. Nellie, who was watching closely and listening, suddenly exclaimed with glowing face: "Why, that's 'cat'!" "Of course; now can you say the letters without looking at them?" After one or two trials she did it successfully. "There! you have learned to spell 'cat.' You see how easy it is." "Does that spell 'pussy' too?" "No,--only 'cat.' After a time you will be able to spell big words." "Let me try something else, Mr. Brush." The next word tackled was 'dog,' which was soon mastered. When this was accomplished, the teacher paused for a moment. He was trying to think of another word of three letters, but oddly enough could not readily do so. "Ah," he exclaimed, "here is another. Now give me the name of that letter," "D." "And that?" "A." "And that?" "M." "Now say them quickly, 'd-a-m;' what is the word?" "Why, it's 'dam'; O, Mr. Brush, I heard you say that is a bad word." The teacher was thunderstruck and stammered: "I didn't think of that, but there are two kinds of 'dam' and this one is not a bad word. It means a bank of earth or stones or wood, that is put up to stop the flow of water." CHAPTER VII PUPIL AND TEACHER Mr. Brush glanced nervously around, to learn whether any of his friends were within hearing, shuddering to think what the consequences might be. He believed that he could explain the matter to some of the folks, but the majority were so radical in their views that they would refuse to admit the distinction, and would take him to task for teaching improper language to his young pupil. It caused him another shudder at the thought that the same penalty that Wade Ruggles had undergone might be visited upon him, though it is doubtful if the issue would have been similar. "Ahem, Miss Nellie, when we go back home, will you promise me to say nothing about this part of your lesson?" "You mean 'bout that bad word?" "Yes,--let's forget all about it." "I'll try, but mebbe I'll forget to forget it." "Likely enough," gloomily reflected the parson; "suppose we try some other words. Ah, we have a visitor." At that moment Budge Isham climbed into view and sauntered smilingly toward them. Brush added a whispered warning to the little one not to forget her promise, though, since Isham was an educated man, there ought not to have been anything to fear in his case, but the teacher knew his waggish nature, and had good reason to fear the mischief he would delight in creating. "Good day," was his cheery greeting, as he came up; "I hope I am not intruding, but I thought I should like to see how you are getting on, Nellie." "Oh, Mr. Brush says I am learning real fast; I can spell 'cat,' and 'dog,' and 'dam.'" Budge raised his hands in horror. "What in the name of heaven, parson, does she mean?" "Mr. Isham," said the gentleman, severely, "are you aware that you are using improper language in the presence of this young lady?" "Explain yourself." "It is wrong for you to appeal to heaven on so trifling a question; it is such a near approach to profanity that the dividing line is imperceptible. I am sorry you forgot yourself, but I will overlook it this time." Budge was really frightened, for though the distinction was quite fine, he felt there was some justice in the position of the parson, but he bluffed it out. "I doubt whether a jury would find me guilty, and in the meantime explain the remark just made by Nellie, if you please." Thus cornered, the parson made a clean breast of it. Isham assumed a grave expression. "The only criticism I can make is upon your taste in selecting a word, susceptible of a questionable meaning. You know as well as I that if this should be submitted to a jury at the Heavenly Bower this evening, the majority would sit down on you, and it would be hard work for you to escape the penalty." "I'm afraid it would," responded the parson; "it was a piece of forgetfulness on my part----" "Which is the plea that Bidwell and Ruggles made, but it didn't answer. However, I'll say nothing about it, knowing you will be more careful in the future, while I shall not forget to put a bridle on my own tongue. The trouble, however," he added with a smile, "is to make _her_ overlook it." "She has promised she will do so." "Since that promise was made just before I got here, she has shown how readily she can forget it." "I will give her a longer lesson than usual and thus drive all remembrance out of her mind," said the parson resolutely. Budge Isham folded his arms, prepared to look on and listen, but the queen of the proceedings checked it all by an unexpected veto. "Mr. Brush, I feel so tired." Her face wore a bored expression and she looked wistfully away from the blackboard toward the cabins below them. "Does your head hurt you?" inquired the teacher with much solicitude, while the single auditor was ready to join in the protest. "No, but mebbe it will hurt me one of these days." "It isn't wise, parson, to force the child; a great deal of injury is done to children by cramming their heads with useless knowledge." The teacher could not feel sure that this counsel was disinterested, for there could be no danger of his taxing the mental powers of the little one too severely, but her protest could not pass unheeded. "You have done very well, my child; you are learning fast, so we'll leave the spelling for to-morrow. Suppose we now try the commandments: can you repeat the first one?" Nellie gave it correctly, as she did with slight assistance, the remaining ones. She was certainly gifted with a remarkable memory and possessed an unusually bright mind. Budge Isham was impressed by her repetition of the decalogue, whose meaning she was unable fully to grasp. His frivolous disposition vanished, as he looked upon the innocent child and watched the lips from which the sacred words flowed. He quietly decided that it would be inexcusably mean to seek any amusement at the expense of the parson, and it may as well be added that he never afterward referred to the incident, while it seemed to have passed wholly from the mind of Nellie herself. At the conclusion of the lesson, Budge complimented teacher and pupil and said he would be glad to certify that Mr. Brush was the best teacher in New Constantinople, and that it was impossible for any one to take his place. Then he bade them good day and walked thoughtfully away, leaving them once more to themselves. These were the most precious moments of all to the teacher, when the formal lesson was completed, and he sat down for a little talk with his pupil. He occupied the stone which served her for a seat, while one arm loosely clasped the figure which stood between his knees. She patted his cheek, played with his rough collar and shaggy whiskers, while as he listened and replied to her prattle, felt as never before the truth of the declaration that of such is the kingdom of heaven. "Mr. Brush," she finally said, "do you know why I love you?" "I suppose it must be because I am so handsome," he replied with a smile. "No; it isn't that, for you _ain't_ handsome." "Whew! but you are not afraid to speak the truth, little one, and I hope you will always do that. No; I don't know why you love me, unless you are so good yourself that you can't help it." This was not exactly clear to the little one, and she stood silent for a minute, gently fingering his long beard. Then she thought it best to clear up the mystery without further parley. "I love you 'cause you're good." Even though the avowal was delightful, it caused a pang, like a knife-thrust from his accusing conscience. "I am thankful to hear you say that, but, Nellie, I am not good." "Yes, you is, but if you ain't good, why ain't you good?" The logic of the reply of the adult was of the same grade as that of the child. "I suppose the true reason is because I am bad. I am sorry to say it, but I have drifted far away from where I ought to be." The dimpled hand continued to fondle the whiskers, and the little brain was busy, but a wisdom that was more than human guided it. Turning those lustrous blue eyes upon him she softly asked: "Will you do what I ask you?" He almost gasped, for he instinctively suspected what was coming, but he answered without hesitation: "If it is my power I will do it, though it kills me." "Oh, I don't want it to kill you; this won't hurt you; will you do it, Mr. Brush?" "Yes, God helping me." "Do like Mr. Ruggles." "How's that?" asked the parson with a sinking heart. "Don't drink any more of that red water, which makes men talk loud and sometimes say bad words." "Heavens!" thought the parson; "she little dreams what she is asking me, but it is not she but some One who is thus calling me back to duty. Yes, my child, I will do what you ask." "You is as good and nice as you can be now, but then you will be a good deal gooder and nicer," said she, warmly kissing him. "I hope so," he added, rising to his feet, with the feeling that he was not himself but some one else, and that that some one else was the young man away among the distant hills of Missouri, before he wandered to the West, and in doing so, wandered from the path along which he had attempted to guide and lead others. "I call myself her teacher," he mused, as he reached down and took the tiny hand in his own, "but she is the teacher and I am the pupil." They had started in the direction of the cabins, when they heard curious shouts and outcries in that direction. "There's something strange going on down there," he said, peering toward the point; "I wonder what it can be; let us hurry and find out." Firmly clasping her hand, the two hastened down the incline, wondering what it was that caused all the noise and confusion. CHAPTER VIII THE PASSING YEARS THE excitement in New Constantinople was caused by the arrival of Vose Adams, the mail carrier and messenger, with his budget of letters and freight for the Heavenly Bower. These periodical journeys never occupied less than two weeks, and in the present instance he had been absent several days beyond that period, so that some anxiety was felt for him, since every trip was attended with more or less danger. He was exposed to the peril of storms, snowslides, wild animals and hostile Indians. The elemental disturbances in the Sierras are sometimes of a terrific nature. Twice he had lost a mule, and once both animals went spinning down a precipice for a thousand feet, in an avalanche of snow and were never found again. Vose's only consolation in the last instance was that it occurred when on his way to Sacramento, while in the former case he saved one of the precious kegs, which he insisted was the means of saving him in turn from perishing in the Arctic temperature. The shadowy trail wound in and out among the gorges and cañons, beside towering mountain walls, at a dizzying elevation, over ridges above the snow line, across table lands, through forests of pine and cedar and tumultuous mountain torrents, where he took his life in his hands every time he made the venture. The unerring marksmanship of Vose and his alertness reduced the danger from the fierce grizzly bears and ravening mountain wolves to the minimum, but the red men were an ever present peril. He had served as the target of many a whizzing arrow and stealthy rifle shot, but thus far had emerged with only a few insignificant hurts. He was ready at the stated times to set out on his journey, and appeared indeed to welcome the change in the existence which otherwise became tiresome and monotonous. It mattered not that his friends often intimated that he was starting on his last venture of that nature, for he believed that his "time" had been set and it mattered naught what he did, since it could not be changed. Vose explained that the cause of his last delay was the old one--Indians. They had pursued and pestered him so persistently that he was compelled to hunt out a new trail, longer and more difficult that the old one, and which came within a hair of landing him into the very camp of his enemies. However, everything had turned out well, and he brought with him the most prized cargo that ever arrived in New Constantinople. First of all, were the two casks of freight, which had suffered so slight leakage, that Landlord Ortigies complimented the vigilance of the messenger. Then he brought with him fully a hundred letters and newspapers. Each citizen received one, and many had several. In every instance, the grateful recipient paid Vose a dollar for his mail, so that the reward was generous, including as it did a liberal honorarium from the proprietor of the Heavenly Bower. In addition to the mail and freight, there were a number of articles to which no special reference is needed. In one package, however, every one was deeply interested, and Nellie Dawson more than the others. Unknown to the father, a goodly sum had been entrusted to Adams, with which to purchase such articles as it was believed the child needed. These included material for numerous new dresses of gorgeous pattern, stockings, shoes, slippers, ribbons, hats and even gloves, trinkets and playthings beyond enumeration. When these were spread out before the little one, she clapped her hands and danced with delight. She had never dreamed of or seen such bewildering wealth, and the miners were repaid a hundred fold, while the grateful parent thanked them for their thoughtful kindness. With no other person of her sex in the settlement, it would naturally be thought that she lacked in many of the little attentions which only a mother or adult female friend can give, but such was not the case. There was not a man among them all, who had not been taught in the hard school of necessity to become his own tailor and conservator of clothing. Many had natural taste, and had not wholly forgotten the education and training received in the homes of civilization, before they became adventurers and wanderers. A consensus of views, all moved by the same gentle impulse, resulted in Nellie Dawson being clothed in a garb which would hardly have caused criticism in the metropolis of our country. Not only that, but she was abundantly provided against all kinds of weather, and with Vose Adams making his regular trips westward, there was no possibility of her ever knowing the want of thoughtful care. The education of the little one was never neglected. Enough has been told to show her brightness, and even had not her teacher been inspired by his affection for the little one, the task of imparting knowledge to such an apt pupil must have been a constant pleasure. This work, as we have shown, fell by common consent to the parson, Felix Brush, though his choice at first was not unanimous. Wade Ruggles was so insistent that he should have a part in the work, that he was allowed a trial, but it cannot be said the result of several days' effort was satisfactory. A stealthy inspection of the blackboard by Budge Isham and the parson disclosed that Ruggles had constructed the alphabet on a system of his own. Some of the letters were reversed, several inverted, while the forms of others prevented any one from identifying them except the teacher himself. An examination of the pupil developed the same startling originality in Ruggles's system of orthography, which seemed to be a mixture of the phonetic and the prevailing awkward method. Thus he insisted that "purp" was the right way to spell the name of a young dog, whose correct title was "dorg." Ruggles was finally persuaded to resign, though he displayed considerable ill feeling and intimated that the movement was inspired by jealousy of his success. Budge Isham not only refrained from referring to the slip which the parson made in his spelling lesson, but spoke in such high terms of his success with Nellie, that every one conceded the right teacher had been selected, and it would be a misfortune for any one to assume to take the place of the parson. Not until the final summing up of all accounts, will the full measure of the influence of the little one be known. It was gentle, subtle, almost imperceptible. Wade Ruggles never broke his resolve not to touch liquor. Inasmuch as an appetite nourished for years, cannot be wholly extirpated in a day, he had his moments of intense yearning for stimulants, when the temptation was powerful, but his will was still more so, and the time came when the terrific thirst vanished entirely, though he knew it was simply "asleep" and could be roused into resistless fury by indulgence in a single glass. The parson had a severer struggle. After holding out for days, he yielded, and by his inordinate dissipation brought back matters to a fair average. Then he set about manfully to retrieve himself. A second time he fell, and then, thank heaven! he gained the mastery. Henceforward he was safe. Maurice Dawson himself had been an occasional tippler for years, but he felt the influence of example and experienced no trouble in giving up the habit. Several others did the same, while more tried but "fell by the wayside." Landlord Ortigies noticed the diminution in his receipts, but, strange as it may sound, down in his heart he was not sorry. Like nine out of ten engaged in his business he was dissatisfied, and like the same nine out of ten, he longed for the chance to take up some other calling which would bring him bread and butter and no accusing pangs of conscience. Before the coming of Nellie Dawson, brawls and personal encounters often occurred. The walls of the Heavenly Bower contained several pounds of lead. Blood had been shed, and the history of the settlement showed that three persons had died with their boots on, but those stirring days seemed to have departed forever. Parson Brush did a good deal of thinking. When through with his pupil, he was accustomed to take long walks into the mountains, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed in meditation. It is safe to conclude that Conscience was getting in its work with him. And so the seasons came and went and the years rolled on. Varick Thomson, an old miner, who had spent years of fruitless toil in the diggings of Australia, lay down and died, and the parson officiated at his funeral. Two other miners grew weary of the poor success in Dead Man's Gulch and went off on a prospecting tour deeper into the mountains. A year later another prospecting party came upon two skeletons, near a small stream of water, which after careful examination, were pronounced to be those of their former friends, doubtless victims of the ferocity of the red men. Three vagrant miners straggled into New Constantinople one night and were hospitably entertained at the Heavenly Bower. Their appearance was against them, and, when they announced their intention of making their home at Dead Man's Gulch, the suggestion to them to move on was made in such terms that they acted upon it and were never seen there again. Thus it came about that New Constantinople, instead of increasing in population and making a bid for the chieftaincy among the new towns in the West, was actually shrinking in numbers. And all this time, Nellie Dawson was growing fast. Her beautiful mind kept pace with the expansion of her body. Her natural grace and perfection of figure would have roused admiration anywhere. Her innocence and goodness were an ever present benison to the rough miners, who had long since learned to check the hasty word, to restrain the rising temper and to crush the wrongful thought in her presence. After a time, Maurice Dawson took possession of one of the deserted cabins which he fitted up, or rather the community fitted up the principal apartment for the young queen, whose rule was supreme. No one else was permitted to share the building with them, though visitors were constant and Nellie herself continually passed to and fro among her friends. But those who watched Dawson saw that a change had come over him. Formerly there was a quiet waggery in his nature, much like that of Budge Isham, which led him to enjoy the rough pleasantries of his companions, though he rarely took part in them, except as an inciting cause. One of his greatest pleasures had been to sit in the Heavenly Bower and exchange reminiscences with his friends, but all that came to an end. Night after night passed without his face being seen in the place. Those who called at the cabin were treated hospitably, but he was reserved and moody, and often failed to hear the words addressed to him. It was evident that there was something on his mind, though he showed no disposition to make a confidant of any one. CHAPTER IX THE CLOUD OF WAR "I KNOW the cause of Dawson's trouble," remarked Vose Adams, late one night at the Heavenly Bower. "What is it?" asked Wade Ruggles, while the rest listened intently. "On my last trip to Sacramento, two months ago, I brought him a thick letter: that's what is raising the mischief with him." "But what was in the letter to make him act so queer?" "How should I know? do you expect me to open and read all the letters I bring through the mountains?" "Bein' as you couldn't read the big letters the parson has painted on the side of the rock a foot high," said Al Bidwell sarcastically, "there ain't much danger of your doin' that, which the same is lucky for them as gits love letters like myself regular by each mail." "Which the same you won't git any more onless you sling your remarks a little more keerful," warned the mail carrier. "And the same being that you can't read the directions writ onto them, I don't see how you're going to help yourself." "The postmaster at Sacramento is very obligin'," was the significant comment of Vose. Bidwell saw the dangerous ground on which he was treading, and made it safe by a jesting remark and an invitation to Adams and the rest to join him at the bar. "We was on the subject of Dawson," remarked Ruggles from his seat, for all had learned long before of the uselessness of inviting him to drink; "and it's the opinion of Vose, I understand, that it was the letter that has made the change in him." "There ain't any doubt about it," said Adams; "fur the attack took him right after; I noticed the difference in him the next day. He sets by himself these evenings after the little gal has gone to bed, smoking his pipe, without any light in his shanty, and thinking hard." Wade smoked thoughtfully a minute and then remarked: "I wonder whether it wouldn't be a good idee to app'int a committee to wait on Dawson and ask him what the blazes is the matter and whether we can't do nothin' to make a man of him agin." Since Ruggles had become accustomed to act as chairman at the discussions in the Heavenly Bower, he had developed a strong faith in committees. "That's a piece of the most onspeakable foolishness that I've run aginst since I settled in New Constantinople," observed the landlord with a contemptuous sniff; "the minute the committee arrove and stated their bus'ness, Dawson would kick 'em out of his shanty and clean across the street, and he'd be lacking in the instincts of a man if he didn't do that same thing." "Mr. Ortigies forgits that I didn't mean to suggest that _he_ was to be a member of the committee; I meant they should be _gentlemen_; consequently that bars him out and there wouldn't be no trouble." "I understand your sarcasm, Wade, but your words would leave you off the committee likewise; but may I ask what the members would ask him when they knocked at his door?" "Any gentleman wouldn't be at a loss what to say, fur he would only hev to remark sorter careless like that he had observed the man was acting so queer that we was afeard he was troubled with remorse over some crime he'd committed, and about which he had got notice that the officers was lookin' fur him, but that if he'd trust us and give a description of the officers, so there wouldn't be any mistake, we'd watch fur 'em up the trail and pick 'em off afore they could profane New Constantinople with their presence." This was a prodigious sentence for Wade, and he leaned back and smoked his pipe with considerable self-complacency, but it impressed none of his hearers as he expected. Parson Brush shook his head. "It isn't a very wise way of introducing yourself to a man by assuming that he is a fugitive from justice. In the first place, I am sure there is nothing of the kind in the case of Dawson. He has probably heard some news from the East that troubles him." "That's just what I was sayin'," broke in Ruggles. "But not of the nature intimated by you." "What else can it be?" "It might be one of a dozen things; I know you are all wrong in your guesses." Every eye was fixed upon the parson, for all were anxious to learn at what he was hinting. His face was unusually grave, but he stopped speaking, as if he deemed it indiscreet to say anything more. He noticed the looks and whetted the curiosity by adding: "I have been so disturbed over the change in Dawson that I called on him last night and had a talk with him." "And what did you learn?" asked Budge Isham, the moment Brush showed an inclination to stop talking. "Well, it was hard work to draw him out, but finally he told me he had received a letter from the East, which made him think he would have to leave us. That isn't the worst." All were breathless, afraid to give utterance to the dread that until then was vague and indistinct in their minds. "He thinks he must take his daughter Nellie with him." "What! Take her away from us? That can never be allowed." None felt the anguish of the announcement keener than the man who made it, but he looked calmly into the angry faces and said: "You forget, my friends, that she is his child and he has the moral and legal right to do what he thinks is best for her." "But where are _our_ rights?" demanded Wade Ruggles; "they mustn't be forgot." "We haven't any,--not a single one. But I am satisfied that one cause of Dawson's distress of mind is the very question you have asked. He can never cease to be deeply grateful to all of us for what we have done for him and his child. He doesn't wish to take her away for it will be as painful to her as to us. But friends," continued the parson, with a sense of right that was creditable to him, "Dawson's first duty is to his child. She is now twelve years old, quite a large girl and is growing fast. She has never seen girl or woman since she was brought here; she will soon be a young woman; she requires association with others of her own sex; her welfare demands this; her education and proper training can never be obtained in this mining settlement." "Eddycation!" exclaimed Vose Adams; "what have you been doing with her all this time? She must be as far along in her studies and eddycation as me and Ruggles." "It is to be hoped so," replied the parson with a smile; "I doubt whether she will meet any one of her age as proficient in book learning as herself, but there remains music, etiquette, and above all, the social customs and accomplishments which can be acquired nowhere except in the abode of civilization. There is none upon whom this blow will fall more heavily than myself, but I have no right to interpose when a man is doing his duty." An exploding bomb could not have caused more consternation than the news brought by the parson. Every one felt the truth of his words and respected him for their utterance, but it was like asking them to consent to the blotting of the sun from the heavens. "I see a way out of it," finally remarked Wade Ruggles with a brightening face; "we can compermise." "In what way?" "Why, if Dawson feels that he and the gal must go, let him split the difference atween us; he can go and leave her; that will satisfy everybody." "It will hardly satisfy him, since the whole question is that of taking her with him. He must be left free to do whatever he chooses." The parson looked into the gloomy faces turned toward him. "Boys, you have all heard the news brought by the last papers. Fort Sumter has been fired on; President Lincoln has called for volunteers; the Southern Confederacy has been declared and civil war has begun. It is the intention of Dawson to offer his services to the cause of the Union." "And I shall enlist too," declared Wade Ruggles, compressing his lips, "but it will be on the other side." "I'm with you," added Budge Isham; "I am from Alabama, and if she secedes, as she is sure to do, I am ready to lay down my life in her defence." "Sorry, pards, but that shoves me into the Union army," remarked Al Bidwell, puffing quietly at his pipe; "we must keep the balance right, but we'll part friends here and we'll be friends till we shoulder our muskets. Then we'll do all we can to kill each other." Further discussion disclosed that the citizens of New Constantinople were about equally divided in their allegiance, but all of them were not yet ready to take up arms in support of the cause with which they sympathized. There were eight who announced their intention of making their way to San Francisco, there to find the most available route to the points necessary to reach. It was typical of that stupendous struggle, the greatest of modern times, that four of these recruits were ardent supporters of one cause and four equally eager to risk their lives for the other. They were the warmest of friends and had been for years, willing to face any danger for the sake of the remainder. It would be the same until they parted, and then, as one of them had already expressed it, they would devote every energy to trying to kill one another. None of the volunteers faltered until Maurice Dawson decided to leave his daughter at the settlement until his return, if so be he should be permitted to return. He knew of no better or safer place for her, nor of any friends to whose care he would more cheerfully commit her, in case it should be his lot to fall on the field of battle. It had been Parson Brush's intention to be Dawson's comrade in his perils, but when the father begged him to stay behind to look after his child he consented. And so the programme, so fraught with momentous consequences, was arranged. CHAPTER X THE BLUE AND THE GRAY The four years of stupendous war came to an end. The sun of the Southern Confederacy went down in gloom and defeat behind the hills of Appomattox, never to rise again, and blessed peace brooded over a reunited nation, which shall endure through the coming ages to the end of time. It was only the faint echoes of the mighty struggle that, faintly reverberating across prairie and mountain, reached the little mining settlement nestling among the solitudes of the Sierras. Vose Adams made more frequent journeys to Sacramento, in order to gather news of the terrific events, which were making history at an appalling rate. Upon his return, the miners gathered round Parson Brush, or some other one with a good voice, who stood up, with every eye centred on him and every ear keyed to the highest point and they listened with breathless interest until the thrilling story was read through to the end. The same diversity of sentiment that appeared at first continued to the last, but the parson's earnest words and his insistence that no quarrels should take place among the neighbors prevented any outbreak, though more than once the point was perilously near. "If your sympathies are with the Union or with the South," he said impressively, "there is nothing to prevent your taking up arms, but it must be on the battle field and not here." And this wise counsel prevailed. Now and then some ardent partisan shouldered his rifle, bade his friends a hasty good-by and hurried away. One by one, they went until the new recruits numbered five. Thus the population of New Constantinople dwindled to about one-half, and retaining its exclusive tastes, permitted no new comers to join them, so that the boom which in its early days was so confidently looked for sank to zero and vanished. In truth it looked as if New Constantinople was doomed to die of dry rot. Strange news came now and then from the men who had gone to the war. Maurice Dawson wrote often to his daughter Nellie, whose letters, it can well be understood were the bright spots in his life of adventure and danger. She had improved wonderfully under the careful tuition of Parson Brush, who, gaining experience, as he saw the brightness of her mind, found his work of the most pleasant nature conceivable. She displayed a thirst for knowledge and made advances which astonished him. The books needed for her instruction were procured by Vose Adams in Sacramento, and she valued such presents more than anything else. The teacher declared many a time, with a certain pride, that she put him upon his mettle to make clear the abstruse problems with which he wrestled when in college. "How she will surprise the boys and her father when they come back," reflected the parson; "it won't take her much longer to reach the point beyond which I cannot lead her." To her friends who remained, the growth and improvement of the girl were astonishing. Probably no one of her sex ever gave nature itself a better chance to show what she can do with a healthy frame, when untrammeled by the fashions and requirements of modern usages. Her lithe, comely figure was perfect. She never knew an hour's illness. The cheeks had the rose tint of health, the eyes were clear, the teeth perfect and her spirits buoyant. As one of the men expressed it, she was like a burst of sunshine in the settlement. But Parson Brush was thoughtful. He saw that she was crossing the line into young womanhood, and that her own interests demanded that she should go out into the world of which he had told her so much; that she should meet those of her own sex and learn the mysteries of her own being. The affection of her friends could not make up for this lack. It cost the honest fellow many a pang when he thought of this, but his consolation lay in the inevitable conclusion that nothing could be done until the return of her parent or until his wishes were made known. "If it so happens that he shall fall in battle, then a grave problem must be met. It will not do for her to remain here; I will talk it over with the others and we shall make some arrangement for her good," and with this conclusion he was content to await the issue of events. Occasionally the parson received a letter from the father. The missives were models in their way, telling of his experiences in the service of the battles, of the prospect of victory and his faith in the final triumph of the great struggle. He thanked the teacher for his interest in his child and assured him that his kindness would never be forgotten by father or daughter. Vose Adams continued his frequent journeys to Sacramento, for those were stirring times and he was as anxious as his friends for news. Always on his return he was met by Nellie some distance down the winding trail, and, as soon as she was in sight, he held up the plump letter for which she yearned, and over which she was made happy beyond expression, and he never failed to carry back with him the reply of the child, who knew how much it cheered the brave soldier in the distant East and South fighting the battles of his country. For two years and more there was not a break in this correspondence. Dawson must have been a good soldier, for, though he enlisted as a private, he was soon promoted, and before the close of the two years, was a full fledged captain, with the brevet of major. It was about this time that one of his letters gave the story of Gettysburg. In the hell-blast of Pickett's charge two of his old friends, who had left New Constantinople to fight for the South, were riddled, and another, marching at the captain's side, had his head blown off by an exploding shell. Thus in one engagement three of the old residents of the mining settlement were wiped out. Only once or twice was any news received of Al Bidwell. It was known that Ruggles was with the Army of Northern Virginia, but no tidings came of Budge Isham and Ike Hoe. The continued silence was accepted as almost certain proof of their death, and yet both were well and unharmed. One day in early summer, two sunburned, shaggy men rode down the mountain side and drew up their horses in front of the Heavenly Bower. They had ridden from the East and had come through many hardships and dangers. One of them wore a partial uniform of blue, while the other was of a faded, butternut tinge. The two had been engaged for years in trying to slay each other, inclusive of their respective friends, but failing in the effort, gave it up when the final surrender took place at Appomattox. Both were from New Constantinople, and they now turned their faces in that direction. Starting from widely separated points their lines of travel converged and finally joined. When they met, there was a moment of mutual sharp scrutiny, then an exclamation of delight, a fervent handclasp and a moistening of the eyes, as both exclaimed: "God bless you, old boy! There's no one in the world I would rather meet than you! Shake again!" And they did, and henceforward they followed the same trail and "drank from the same canteen." They shared their rations with each other, and in the regions of the West, where danger lurked in the air, one watched while the other slept, ready to interpose his body as a shield between peril and his comrade. And what splendid soldiers the Civil War made! How those veterans could fight! What pluck, what coolness, what nerve, what daring they displayed! There was one stormy night beyond the Mississippi, when a band of jayhawkers, believing the two men carried a few hundred dollars, formed a plan for shooting both for the sake of the plunder. There were six of the outlaws at the opening of proceedings, but at the close just half the number was left, and one of them carried away a wound with him, from which he could never recover, while the defenders did not receive a scratch. "When I heard that rebel yell of yours," remarked the veteran who wore the blue, "it tingled through my veins as it did at Chancellorsville, Antietam and various other scenes of unpleasantness. I couldn't help sailing in." "I didn't mean to let out the yawp," returned his companion, "but when the shooting began, it was so like old times I couldn't help it. It was real enjoyable." "Yes," was the dry response, "but rather more so for us than for the other fellows." Three days later a band of Indians concluded to try their hand upon the veterans, but the trouble was that the red men could not get a fair chance. Before they arrived within effective striking distance, the veterans began shooting, and whenever they shot somebody fell. The thing became so monotonous that the hostiles gave it up in disgust and drew off. Thenceforward the old soldiers had comparatively an easy time of it. And so, after a ride of more than two thousand miles on horseback, these two men entered Dead Man's Gulch and drew rein in front of the Heavenly Bower. Their coming caused a sensation, for their looks showed they were veterans of the war and were certain to bring important news. The couple smiled and whispered to each other, for they saw that no one suspected their identity. Among the wondering group that gathered round was Nellie Dawson. She was profoundly interested, for Vose Adams had made two journeys to and from Sacramento without bringing a letter from her father. Doubtless these men could tell her something, and she stood on the edge of the group, waiting for them to speak and for the opportunity to question them. "Do you see her?" whispered one of the men. "Yes; gracious! hasn't she grown? Why, she was a little girl when we left and now she's a young woman." "Blessed if she isn't! She wears such long dresses that you can see only the tiny toes of her shoes; we've obsarved a good many purty women since we left these parts, but nothing that could come up to her." "You can bet your life! She hasn't any idee of who we are, nor have the boys, but it looks to me as if the parson is a little suspicious." Although the patronage of the Heavenly Bower had shrunk a good deal, Landlord Ortigies was as genial and hospitable as ever. The new arrivals had time only for a few secret comments, when he came forward: "Strangers, you're welcome to the best we have, which isn't anything to boast of; look as if you had rid a good many miles and you must be as tired and thirsty as your animals. If you'll turn 'em over to Vose Adams, he'll 'tend to them, and, if you'll allow me, you shall have a good meal, which before the same, I beg to tender you some distilled home brewed Mountain Dew." Thanking the landlord for his offer, the men dismounted and waited outside, while he brought forth two glasses, half-filled with the fiery stuff of the poetical name. One of the men took his and eagerly swallowed it. The other held his aloft, where under the bright sunlight it glowed crimson like blood. With his hand motionless for a moment, he slowly inverted the glass and allowed the liquid to run out on the ground. "Max, I reckon you haven't forgot when I done something like that some four years ago," said the man, turning toward the astonished host. CHAPTER XI WAITING "Wade Ruggles, as I'm alive!" exclaimed the delighted landlord, rushing forward and grasping his hand. Instantly the group closed in, and there was such laughing and handshaking that for a time nothing was clearly distinguished. "I was suspicious," remarked the parson; "but, though you both had beards when you went away, these have grown so much that they have greatly altered your appearance." He scanned the other man closely, but before the parson had identified him, several others had done so. "It's Al Bidwell!" "Yes," replied the laughing Ruggles; "that's the fellow, but I'm sorry to say that since they made a major-general of him, he's become a reg'lar dude. He doesn't go out when it rains for fear of soiling his uniform, and the noise of powder makes him sick, so be careful how you handle the delicate fellow." "Well, you do not need to be told," was the hearty response of the parson, "that no one could be more welcome than you; let's shake hands all around again." It was some minutes before the flurry was over, for the delight on both sides was unbounded and the joy of the reunion great. One member of the group lingered in the background. Her face was flushed with delighted expectancy, but with a coyness unknown in her earlier years, she hesitated on the outer edge of the circle. She could not mingle with the rush and waited until the flurry was over. The men were scarcely less embarrassed than she, and while not appearing to see her, both were watching her every movement. When the time came that the meeting could no longer be delayed, Ruggles walked to her and extended his hand. "Well, Nellie, aren't you glad to see me?" The crinkling of the whiskers at the side of the invisible mouth showed that he was laughing, and indeed his white teeth gleamed through his wealth of beard. Nellie promptly advanced and met him half way. "Mr. Ruggles, I can't tell you how glad I am to meet you again." He had been asking himself whether it would do to kiss this vision of loveliness. He wished to do so, but was afraid. However, the question was settled by the girl, who, instead of taking the hand, flung her arms about his neck and saluted him fervently, that is as well as she could under the conditions. Al Bidwell came forward and was received in the same manner. Then, as the two men stepped back and looked admiringly at her, she said: "I can see you are the same and yet those beards make you look different; I love to think of you as you were when you bade us good-by and rode off four years ago." "We shall be glad to fix up our faces in the old style," said Ruggles, while his companion nodded assent. If she had asked them to cut off their heads they would have unhesitatingly agreed to do it. "No doubt we've changed somewhat," said Bidwell, "but not one half so much as you." "As I!" she repeated in astonishment; "why, I am just the same," and she looked down at her dress, as if seeking the explanation of his remark; "I haven't changed a bit." "Not in goodness and all that sort of thing, but we left a little girl and now I'm blessed if we don't find a young woman, and yet it's the same little girl after all." The maidenly blush darkened her face and she laughed. "You couldn't expect me to stand still all these years." "No; though we would have been glad if you had done so." The three were standing apart, the others with commendable delicacy leaving them to themselves. Nellie laid her arm on the sleeve of Ruggles, and looking up yearningly in his face she asked: "Can you give me any news of father?" "Being as him and me was on different sides, I haven't seen or heard a thing of him since we parted in San Francisco, but I hope all has gone well with him." She turned to Bidwell, who said: "Me and him was thrown together once or twice and I met him after Gettysburg, where neither of us got a scratch, which is more than tens of thousands of others can say. Then I seen him in front of Petersburg, where we had the same good luck agin, but in the fighting round there we lost track of each other. Are you worried about him, little gal?" "Very much," she mournfully replied; "never once did Vose Adams come back from Sacramento without one or two letters from him, but he has now done so twice, and I haven't heard a word. I fear father is dead; if he is, my heart is broken and I shall die too." What could they say to cheer her, for Vose Adams made still another journey westward with the same dismal emptiness of the mail bag, so far as she was concerned. Every one did his utmost to cheer her, but none succeeded. The ground taken was that the parent had set out on his return, but had been hindered by some cause which would be explained when he finally arrived. When not one of the men himself believed the story, how could he hope to make the mourning daughter believe it? Felix Brush took a different stand from the others. He early settled into the belief that Captain Dawson was dead, and that it was wrong to encourage hope on the part of the child when the disappointment must be more bitter in the end. "If you are never to see him again in this world," he said, at the close of a sultry afternoon, as the two were seated on a rocky ledge near the cabin in which she had made her home all alone during her parent's long absence, "what a blessed memory he leaves behind him! Died on the field of battle, or in camp or hospital, in the service of his country,--what more glorious epitaph can patriot desire?" "If he is dead then I shall die; I shall pray that I may do so, so that I shall soon see him again." "My dear child, you must show some of the courage of your parent and prove that you are a soldier's daughter. Your blow is a severe one, but it has fallen upon thousands of others, and they have bravely met it. You are young; you have seen nothing of the great world around you--" "I do not care to see anything of it," she interrupted with a sigh. "You will feel different when you have recovered from the blow. It is an amazing world, my dear. The cities and towns; the great ocean; the works of art; the ships and steamboats; the vast structures; the railways; the multitudes of people; the lands beyond the seas, with still more marvelous scenes,--all these will expand like fairy land before you and make you wonder that you ever should have wished to leave such a realm of beauty and miracles while in your youth." Nellie sat for some time in silence, and then rose to her feet with a weary sigh. Without speaking, she turned to walk away, but not in the direction of her own home. "Where are you going?" he asked. "To look for him," was her sorrowful reply. It was what he suspected and feared. He knew she had done the same thing night after night for weeks past, even when the rains fell and the chilling blasts made her shiver with discomfort. He could not interpose, and with the reflection that perhaps it was as well, he turned mournfully aside and walked slowly toward the cabins. Meanwhile, Nellie Dawson passed beyond the limits of the settlement until all the houses were behind her. She did not sit down, but folding her arms, after gathering her shawl about her, bent her gaze upon the trail, which wound in and out at the bottom of the cañon below, for a fourth of a mile, when a mass of projecting rocks hid it from sight. Night was closing in. Already the grim walls, thousands of feet in height, were wrapped in gloom, and few eyes beside hers could have traced the devious mule path for more than a hundred yards from where she stood. The clear sky was studded with stars, but the moon had not yet climbed from behind the towering peaks, which would shut out its light until near the zenith. The soft murmur of the distant waterfall, the sound of voices behind her, the faint, hollow roar, which always is present in a vast solitude, filled the great space around her and made the stillness grander and more impressive. All this had been in her ears many a time before, and little heed did she give to it now. Her musings were with that loved one, who had been silent for so many weeks, and for whose coming she longed with an unspeakable longing. She knew the course of the trail so well, though she had never been far over it, that she was aware at what point he must first appear, if he ever appeared, and upon that point she centered her attention. "Something tells me that when father comes it will be in the night time," she said; "I know he has tried hard to reach me, and what could it be that held him back? I will not believe he is dead until--" Her heart gave a quicker throb, for surely that was a faint sound in the path, though too far off for her to perceive the cause. She could not tell its precise nature, but fancied it was the footfall of some animal. She took several quick steps forward on tiptoe, with head extended, peering and listening, with all her senses at the highest tension. Hark! she heard it again. Surely it was the noise of hoofs, for it was repeated and the sounds ran into each other as if the animal were trotting or galloping, or mayhap there was more than one of them. Yes; some one was drawing nigh on the back of horse or mule. There was no mistaking the hoof beats, and in the gloom the figure of an animal and his rider assumed vague form, growing more distinct each moment. Nellie broke into a run, her arms outstretched and her hair flying. "Father! father! I know it is you! It is I--Nellie, your own Nellie, who has waited so long for you! You have come at last!" CHAPTER XII HOME AGAIN The horseman coming up the trail had assumed definite form. Checking his animal he sat transfixed until the flying girl was beside him. Then he bent forward and in a choking voice, answered: "Yes, Nellie, it is your father! God be thanked for permitting me to come to you again. And you are Nellie! But how grown!" Captain Dawson leaned over the side of his horse and, passing his strong arm around the waist of his daughter, lifted her up in front of him. Then he pressed his lips to hers, and half-laughing and half-crying asked: "Who's the happier, you or I?" "You can't be any happier than I; but, father," she added in amazement, "where is your other arm?" "Buried in Southern Virginia as a memento of my work for the Union, but, my dear child, _I_ am here; isn't _that_ enough?" "Yes, bless your heart!" she exclaimed, nestling up to him; "it all seems like a dream, but it _isn't_, for I can feel you. I am so sorry," she added, noticing the sleeve pinned to his breast; "how you must have suffered." "Nonsense! it isn't anything to lose an arm; it's not half so bad as having your head blown off or both legs carried away. After going nearly through the war without a scratch, I caught it just before Appomattox, but thousands were less fortunate and I am thankful." "But why did you not write to me and tell me all this? Mr. Brush was sure you were dead, and I know the rest thought so, too, though they didn't talk that way." "I did have a close call; I got the fever while in the hospital and didn't know so much as my own name for several weeks. Then, when well enough to write, I concluded to come myself, believing I could keep up with any letter and you would be gladder to see me than to receive anything I might send." While these words were passing the steed remained motionless, but Nellie had observed from the first that her parent had a companion. "Father," she whispered, "you have some one with you." "Yes, my child, I had forgotten it in my delight at meeting you." A horseman was sitting as motionless as a statue in the trail behind them, the form of himself and animal clearly outlined in the obscurity. He had not spoken nor stirred since the coming of the girl. The head of the steed was high, but beyond and above it loomed the head and shoulders of the man sitting upright, like an officer of dragoons. The gloom prevented a fair view of his countenance, but Nellie fancied he was of pleasing appearance and wore a mustache. Captain Dawson turned his head and looked over his shoulder, as if to locate the man. "That is Lieutenant Russell; he served under me during the latter part of the war; he is my friend, Nellie, for he saved my life. Lieutenant," added the captain, elevating his voice, "this is my daughter Nellie of whom you heard me speak so often." The young officer lifted his cap, the graceful gesture being plainly seen and replied with a pleasant laugh. "Miss Dawson, I am glad to become acquainted with you and hope I shall soon be favored with a better view." "And I hope to see more of the one that was the means of saving my dear father," she was quick to reply. "Well, I guess that was equal on both sides, for I should never have reached this place but for him." "Father, what is _that_?" abruptly asked Nellie, shrinking closer to him; "have you a bear following you?" That which caused the startled question was a huge animal, which came slowly forward from the gloom in which he had been enveloped. The horses showed no fear of him, and he sniffed at the skirts of the girl. "Don't be alarmed," replied her father; "you may consider him a lion or tiger or both combined. He is Lieutenant Russell's dog Timon, one of the biggest, fiercest, but most intelligent and affectionate of his kind. We three are comrades, so you must accept him, too, as your friend." The two now gave rein to their horses and within briefer time than would be supposed, every man in New Constantinople knew of the arrival of the couple and had given them right royal welcome. It was the most joyous incident in the history of the little mining settlement. Every one knew of the corroding grief of Nellie Dawson, and there was not a heart that did not go out in sympathy to her. All were gathered around and within the crowded quarters of the Heavenly Bower, where the two men and Nellie ate their happy evening meal. Then the pipes were lighted, and with the girl perched upon her father's knee, the rest listened to his story, which he summarized, leaving the particulars for a more convenient occasion. "I am sorry my long silence caused misgiving," said he looking round in the faces of his friends, "but it could not be very well helped. You have noticed that whereas I left New Constantinople with two arms, I am now one short. As I told Nellie, that happened in the very last days of the war. It was quite a loss, but you have little idea of how soon a man can become accustomed to it. The fact is," added the soldier, with a grim smile, "things are moving so well with me that I wouldn't give much to have the old limb back again. I have no doubt General Howard feels the same way." "The pruned oak is the strongest," observed Parson Brush. "Provided it isn't pruned too much. With my wound came an attack of fever, which brought me nearer death than I ever was in battle, but I came out of it all and here we are." "What route did you take, captain?" asked Wade Ruggles. "By steamer to the Isthmus, then up the coast to San Francisco. There the lieutenant and I joined a party to Sacramento and each bought a good strong horse. He had brought his dog Timon all the way from Virginia, where he was given to him by an old friend who wore the gray. We were hopeful of meeting Vose Adams in Sacramento, but he had not been there for weeks. Instead of him, whom should we come across but Ike Hoe, who was also getting ready to start for this place. We three set out nearly ten days ago, but Ike is still in the mountains." This was said with so grave a face that all knew what it meant. "I never heard of the Indians being so troublesome. For three days and nights it was little else than fighting. In the darkness we would steal off and hunt for some new way through the mountains, but it mattered not where we went, for we were sure to run against some of them." "How was it that Hoe met his death?" asked the parson. "It was on the third night. We hadn't seen a thing of the Indians since the noon halt and were hopeful they had given up the hunt for us. We hadn't eaten a mouthful for twenty-four hours and were hungry enough to chew our boots. Ike found a place among the rocks, where a camp fire couldn't be seen for more than a few rods and started a blaze. The lieutenant had brought down an antelope, and if we could get a chance to cook the steak, we were sure of the right kind of a meal. Well, we broiled enough to give each all he wanted. Ike leaned back with a pleasant smile on his face and remarked that it was worth all the risk to get such a feast, when I caught the flicker of something like the dart of a small bird between him and me. Before I could make out what it was, Ike gave a groan, and rolling over backward, never spoke or stirred. I saw the feathered end of an arrow sticking up above his breast. The head had gone clean through him and it must have split his heart in two." "But was neither you or the lieutenant harmed?" "That is the remarkable part of it. The lieutenant saw the arrow before I did and warned me. We darted back in the darkness with our guns ready, but saw and heard nothing more of the Indians. What was remarkable about it was that only the single arrow should have been launched at Ike." "It looks as if there was but the single Injin," suggested Bidwell. "That is the way we interpreted it." "And that was the end of your troubles with the Indians?" "Not quite, but they bothered us only once more and then they managed to get us into a corner, where it would have been the last of me had it not been for the lieutenant and Timon. I tell you----" The captain stopped short and smiled. He had seen the protesting expression on the face of the young officer, and said: "We'll keep that story till some time when he isn't present. But there is another fact which I observed. There are more white men in the mountains than ever before and the numbers will increase. The close of the war has released nearly a million soldiers, who must make a living somehow. Some will come westward. You have preserved this place as an exclusive residence for yourselves, but you won't be able to do it much longer." All saw the truth of these words, and knew trouble would inevitably follow the mingling of uncongenial spirits, but they concluded it would be time enough to meet it when it came, without allowing the fear to disturb the pleasure of the present communion. Lieutenant Fred Russell could not fail to be an individual of keen interest to those who had never before seen him. While the captain was talking, he sat modestly in the background, smoking his brierwood, listening as intently as if everything said was new to him. It was noticed that like several of the rest, he did not drink at the bar, though he received numerous invitations. Truth to tell, he had been quite a drinker, but during that eventful journey through the mountains, when Captain Dawson was talking of his daughter, as he loved to do, he named those who had reformed as the result of Nellie's influence. The young officer made no comment, but it struck him that if those rough, hardy men could abstain, it ought not to be difficult for him to do the same, and he did it. Few men were more prepossessing than the lieutenant. He was educated, about twenty-four years of age, and undeniably handsome. His campaigns of exposure, hardship and fighting had hardened his frame into the mould of the trained athlete. The faded uniform which he still wore became him well. The ruddy cheeks had grown swarthy and browned, but when he removed his cap, the upper part of his forehead showed as white and fair as that of a woman. His nose was slightly aquiline, just enough to give character to his countenance, the hair which was rather scant, was dark like the mustache and the small tuft on his chin. He wore fine, high cavalry boots, reaching above the knees, a sword and like the captain was armed with revolver and Winchester rifle. Crouched at his feet was his massive dog Timon, an object of as much interest as his master; for, curious as it may seem, he was the only canine ever owned in New Constantinople. He was of mixed breed, huge, powerful and swift, seeming to combine the sagacity and intelligence of the Newfoundland, the courage of the bull dog, the persistency of the bloodhound and the best qualities of all of them. Seeming to understand that he was among friends, he rested his nose between his paws and lay as if asleep, but those who gazed admiringly at him, noted that at intervals he opened one of his eyes as if to say: "Strangers, I guess it is all right, but I'm taking no chances." Coming with the credentials that no one else ever bore, Lieutenant Fred Russell was sure of a warm reception at New Constantinople. The depletion of the population had left more than one cabin vacant and the best of these was turned over to him. In it he found cooking utensils, rough but serviceable bedding and accommodations and much better comforts than he was accustomed to during his campaigning. Having no immediate relatives, he had followed the discreet course of Captain Dawson, who deposited nearly all of his accumulated pay in a savings institution in the East, reserving only enough to insure their arrival on the Pacific coast. Russell, like so many turned from consumers into producers by the end of hostilities, was obliged to decide upon the means of earning a livelihood. He had begun the study of law, at the time he answered the call for volunteers, and would have had no difficulty in taking it up again; but, somehow or other, he did not feel drawn thitherward. He disliked the confinements of office work and the sedentary profession itself. He wanted something more stirring, and active, and calling for out door life. It was when he was in this mood, that Captain Dawson urged him to accompany him to the gold diggings in the Sierras. "So far as I can learn," explained the captain, "the mines haven't panned out to any great extent, but there is no doubt that there are millions of dollars in gold in the mountains, and if it isn't at New Constantinople, it is not far off." "I shall accept your invitation," replied the junior officer, "with the understanding that if the prospect is not satisfactory, I shall feel at liberty to go somewhere else." "That's the constitutional right of every American citizen." "I am not as far along in years as you, but I am old enough to feel that no person ought to fritter away the most valuable years of his life." And thus it was that the lieutenant went to New Constantinople and received the heartiest welcome from every one there. And yet among these citizens were two that had lately become partners and sharers of the same cabin, and who were oppressed with misgiving. "I tell you," said the parson late at night, when he and Wade Ruggles were smoking in their home, with no one near enough to overhear them; "Captain Dawson has made the mistake of his life." "How?" "In bringing Lieutenant Russell to New Constantinople." "I don't quite foller your meaning, parson." "Yes, you do; you understand it as well as myself." "I have a suspicion of it, but are you afraid to trust me?" "You ought to know better than to ask that." "Go ahead then and give me the partic'lars." "In the first place then, the lieutenant is young and good looking." "Unfortinitly there can't be any doubt of that." "Nellie Dawson has never seen a handsome young man----" "Exceptin' you and me, and we ain't as young as we once was." "She is now a young woman and ready to fall in love, and just at the right hour, or rather the very worst hour, the captain brings the man here." "You have spoke the exact thoughts I had in mind all along; you're right, parson." He would have been better pleased had Ruggles contradicted him. He did not wish to believe that which he could not help believing. "We must treat him well because the captain brings him and he has saved the captain's life, but, Wade, _we must watch them both close_." "I agree with you agin, but what shall we do if we find him making love to the little gal?" The parson's fierce reply showed how deeply his feelings were stirred. "Warn him just once!" "I feel as bad about it as you do, but, parson, I haven't forgot that afore the war broke out, and we was afeard the captain meant to take the gal away to have her eddycated, you told us it was none of our bus'ness and he had the right to do as he thought best with his own child." "All that was true at the time, but the conditions have changed." "_Now_ I can't foller you. 'Spose the captain is agreeable?" "He _won't_ be!" exclaimed Brush, who in the depth of his excitement added an exclamation which sounded perilously like profanity. But for the parson's intense earnestness, Ruggles would have quizzed him, but he pitied the man and at the same time was distressed himself. "I hope you're right, but I doubt it. We've all felt for a good while that sooner or later, we must lose the little one. Now that she's growed up, the captain may feel more than ever that she must be took off to some town where all the men ain't savages, and she can see some of her own kind." "If he puts it that way, we shall have to submit. He can take her where he wills, for my position is the same as four or five years ago, but nobody else must take her from among us." Ruggles's mood was now quite similar to that of his partner. "If I see anything wrong in the doings of that pretty faced young officer, I'll shoot him down like a mad dog." "So will I." The two were in the ugliest temper conceivable. They continued to smoke, but their meditations were tumultuous and revengeful. Each breast contained a strange disturbing secret that either would have died before confessing, but nevertheless, it was there and had taken ineradicable root within the past days and weeks. Felix Brush, as the reader knows, had been the instructor of Nellie Dawson from infancy. He was the medium through which she had gained an excellent book education. He had held many long confidential talks with her. She, in her trusting innocence, had told him more of her inmost thoughts, her self communings, her dim, vague aspirations, than she imparted to anyone else. And he could not but notice her wonderful budding beauty. Surely, he thought, such a winsome creature was never born. He had begun to ask himself in a whispered, startled way: "Why may I not possess this mountain flower? True, I am much her senior, but I will nourish, protect and defend her against the world, as no younger man could or would. She believes in my goodness, far more than I deserve. I will cultivate the affection within her of whose nature she has as yet no comprehension. By and by, when she is a few years older, perhaps I may claim her. More extraordinary things have happened and are happening every day. I have but to keep her uncontaminated from the world, of which I have told her so much, so that when she goes forth, she shall be under my guardianship--the most sacred guardianship of all for it shall be that of husband." "Aye," he added, his heart throbbing with the new, strange hope, "all this, please heaven, shall come to pass if things go on as they are, and no younger man with better looks crosses my path." And now that younger and better looking man had crossed his path. The knowledge seemed to rouse all the dormant resentment of his nature, and to undo the good that the girl herself had done in the years that were gone. He felt that if he lost her, if his cherished dream was to be rudely dissipated, he would go to perdition. And somewhat similar in range and nature were the communings of Wade Ruggles, who until this eventful evening, had cherished a hope, so wild, so ecstatic, so strange and so soul-absorbing that he hardly dared to admit it to himself. At times, he shrank back, terrified at his presumption, as does the man who has striven to seize and hold that which is unattainable and which it would be sacrilege for him to lay hands upon. "I'm three months younger than the parson," he would reflect when the more hopeful mood was upon him; "neither of us is in danger of being hung for our good looks, but I've got the bulge on him dead sure. I had too much in the way of whiskers to suit the little one, when I came back from the war; she wanted to see me as I was when I left; _why was that_?" After pausing for a reply, he continued: "So accordin' I trimmed 'em off and she says I'm better looking than ever, and what she says in Dead Man's Gulch and New Constantinople, goes. She meant it, too, as I could see by the sparkle of her eyes. "I went all through the war without swallerin' a mouthful of strong drink, even when the doctor ordered it. I've contrived, sort of accerdental and off hand like, to let her know them circumstances and I've seen it pleased her immense. I've been layin' out some of my money for clothes, too, since I got back. Vose bought me a coat in Sacramento, blue with brass buttons. I've had a necktie that has been laid away till the proper time comes to put it on. There are three or four yards of silk in it and it will knock a rainbow out of sight. I didn't want to overwhelm her too sudden like, and have been layin' back for the right occasion. "It's arriv! I must knock that leftenant out, and that necktie will do it! I'm mighty glad the parson hain't got any foolish dreams 'bout the gal. The leftenant is the only galoot I've got to look out for, or rather," added the miner grimly, "I'm the one he's got to beware of. I'm in dead earnest this time." CHAPTER XIII YOUNG LOVE'S DREAM That which in the nature of things was inevitable came to pass. Lieutenant Russell, in the same moment that his eyes rested upon Nellie Dawson, was smitten, as hopelessly as ever ardent lover was smitten by the lady whom he worshiped. The many things which the father had told him about his daughter naturally excited interest in her, but the young officer never dreamed of looking upon such marvelous beauty as that which met his gaze in that secluded cañon of the Sierras. It required all his self-control from drawing attention to himself by his admiration of her. "I never saw such a perfect combination of face, feature and figure," he reflected when alone. "It is an illustration of what nature can do when left to herself. Then, too, she has a fund of knowledge that is amazing, when all the circumstances are considered. I haven't had much chance to converse with her, but I heard enough to know that she would shine by virtue of her mind among the most accomplished of her sisters, who have had every advantage that civilization can give. She is a flower nourished on a mountain crag, exhaling all its fragrance, untainted by a poisonous breath from the outer world. Who would have dared to say that amid this rough, uncouth people, such loveliness could take root and nourish? And yet it is that loveliness which has permeated and regenerated the miners themselves. But for her these nights would be spent in drinking, roistering, fighting and carousing. It is her blessed influence, which unconsciously to herself has purified the springs of life. Like the little leaven she has leavened the whole lump." The passing days increased his interest in her, until very soon he confessed to himself that he was deeply in love with Nellie Dawson. She had become dearer to him than his own life. He could not live without the hope of gaining and possessing her. He would remain in New Constantinople and starve, even though a Golconda was discovered a few miles away. He would linger, hopeful, buoyant and believing that the dream of his existence was to be crowned with perfect fruition. But the sagacious lieutenant had learned to be observant and to note the most trifling things that escape the eyes of the majority of persons. Thus it was that the secret which Wade Ruggles and Parson Brush believed was hidden, each from everyone except himself, became as clear as noonday to him. He pitied them and yet he extracted a grim amusement from the fact. "They are hopelessly infatuated with her; they are excessively jealous and would rather shoot me than have me win. They are more than double her age, and yet they can see no incongruity in hoping to win her. They will hope on until the awakening comes. Then they will be my deadliest enemies. I shouldn't be surprised if I receive a call and warning from them, but neither they nor the whole world shall turn me from the prize which is more than all the gold, mined or unmined, in the Sierras." No one could have been more circumspect than the young man. He treated Nellie Dawson with the chivalrous respect of a Crusader of the olden time. He was always deferential, and, though he managed frequently to meet and chat with her, yet it invariably had the appearance of being accidental. Fortunately his feeling of comradeship for Captain Dawson gave him a legitimate pretext for spending many evenings in his cabin, where it was inevitable that he should be thrown into the society of the daughter. Wade Ruggles and the parson noted all this with growing resentment. When it had continued for several weeks, the two friends had a conference over the situation. "I tell you, parson, it won't do to wait any longer," observed Ruggles, puffing away at his pipe; "things is getting dangerous." "Do you think so?" asked his companion, who held precisely the same opinion, but disliked to admit it. "There isn't a particle of doubt of it." "Let me see,--we agreed to give him warning didn't we?--just once." "Yes,--it's only fair that you should let a man know afore you hit him, so he can brace himself for the shock, as it were." "Well, if we are going to do it, there is no use of waiting." "No use! It'll git worse every day. Let's go over to his place now." "It isn't likely we'll find him there; he spends nearly every evening in the cabin of Captain Dawson." Neither fancied the task, and, had not their feelings been so wrought up, they never could have been induced to undertake it, but because of their misgivings, nothing could have dissuaded them from their purpose. "When he comes to think soberly of it," added Ruggles, "he'll thank us for giving him warning in time. If we wait much longer, it might be too late; we couldn't scare him off the track, but now he'll show his sense by stopping at once." The two passed out of the house and walked to the cabin of Lieutenant Russell. Relieved, and yet in a certain sense dismayed, they found the young officer at home engaged in reading. The instant he saw and admitted them, he knew the errand on which they had come. Except for the grave question involved, that which followed would have been a delicious comedy. The lieutenant could not have treated a brother with greater cordiality and never did host shine more brilliantly. He fell to talking of war times, drew out Ruggles, interested the parson and gave some of his own stirring experiences. They remained two hours and went away charmed, without having once referred to Nellie Dawson. They voted the young man a good fellow, concluded they were mistaken about his admiring the young lady, and thought it lucky they had not made fools of themselves. When they were clear of the house, Lieutenant Russell laughed heartily. "Their faces gave them away; they were loaded and primed, but I drew their charges; to-night they will vote me one of the best fellows that ever lived; to-morrow they will begin to doubt, and by and by the sweetest privilege they can ask will be to shoot me." Perhaps the most curious feature of the tragical incidents that followed was the obtusiveness of Captain Dawson. What every one else saw was veiled from him, until at times he almost seemed wilfully blind. The two men had gone through many perilous experiences together, and sometimes alone. It had been the fortune of the younger officer to serve the elder, more than once when in imminent danger and none could be more grateful than the captain. As for Nellie Dawson herself, it is unlikely that for a time she suspected the truth in all its fulness. She knew that hers was a peculiarly sweet enjoyment, while her deft fingers were busy with some needlework, to listen to the reminiscences of the two. Sometimes she started with a shock of alarm, when the father pictured in his graphic way a situation from which it seemed no escape was open to him. Forgetful for the moment of the fact that he was there before her, alive and well, she fairly held her breath, until the _denouement_ came. Not until then were her fears wholly relieved. And when the parent rendered such glowing tributes to the bravery of the young officer, recalling events of so thrilling a nature that the lieutenant never would have dared to describe them in similar terms, how could the daughter help the kindling of admiration for the handsome young man? How could she avoid feeling grateful, when she knew that he had risked his life for her parent, even on their late journey through the mountains? In truth, everything tended to fan the flame that had already been kindled in both hearts. It was late one night, after the tired Nellie had withdrawn, that the visitor made her the subject of the conversation, the approach being so tactful, that the captain had no suspicion of its object. "Do you intend to spend all your life in this out of the way corner of the world?" was the question of the lieutenant. "Probably I shall. Just before I went to war, I became convinced that my duty to my daughter demanded I should move to the East, in order to give her the education she can never receive here. However, when I went to the war, there was no place except this where I could leave her. When I come back, I find her a young woman, with excellent book knowledge, thanks to Brush and the kind attention of the others. Sometimes I think that she is so innocent and ignorant of evil, that it will be better for her to spend the rest of her life here." "It is a serious matter, but neither you nor she should be content to remain in this place for the rest of your lives." "Why not? Does that which she can learn elsewhere outweigh that which she will never learn in this secluded settlement? Is not the man or woman fortunate who never comes face to face with the ingratitude, the treachery, the selfishness, the baseness and the sin which are the accompaniments of civilization? In this untainted mountain air, her nature will retain its freshness and purity; her life will be a well spring of happiness and goodness to all with whom she comes in contact; I shall never marry, and mean to keep her by me until in the order of nature I am called away. That is the only boon that I ask from heaven." "But may not all this be hers and yours if the flower is transplanted from the wilderness into a more congenial soil? Has she not already acquired that rugged strength which renders her nature secure against evil? Is she not doubly panoplied in goodness by the training of her infancy and girlhood?" "I would like to think so, but, lieutenant, I have lived a few years longer than you. She _might_ not be safe there; I _know_ she is here." CHAPTER XIV THE THUNDERBOLT Lieutenant Russell was treading on delicate ground, where the utmost caution was necessary. He must not alarm his friend. He smoked a few minutes in silence. "It is not for me to give counsel to my captain, but is it not a fact that selfishness grows upon us with advancing years?" "Very likely." "Has it occurred to you that in concluding to pass the remainder of your days in this mining settlement, you are thinking more of yourself than of your child?" "What have I said that warrants that question?" asked the captain sharply. "No higher motive than to protect a daughter from harm can inspire a father, but if she should be allowed to close your eyes, when you come to lie down and die, it will be hers to live: what _then_?" "I shall leave her comfortably provided for. My pay amounted to a goodly sum when the war ended, and it is placed where no one else can reap the benefit of it. Then, too, as you know we have struck considerable paying dirt of late. The prospects are that New Constantinople, even if a small town, will soon be a rich one." Lieutenant Russell groaned in spirit. Would the parent never understand him? "Then you expect her to remain here, sharing in all the vicissitudes of the place? It cannot always stand still; it will either increase, bringing with it many bad elements, or it will cease to exist and these people will have to go elsewhere: what then of the child whom you have left behind you?" "Oh, by that time," airily replied the father; "she will be married to some good honest fellow, like the parson, who seems to be fond of her, as I know she is of him, but I will not allow her to think of marriage for a long while to come," he added with emphasis. Lieutenant Russell had heard all he wished. He had learned that the father would not consent to the marriage of his daughter for a number of years, and when that time came, he would select one of the shaggy, uncouth miners for her life partner. "He has never thought of _me_ in that capacity, but he will have to entertain the thought before he is much older." In her dreamings of the mysterious world, with its teeming multitudes and all manner of men, Nellie Dawson was sure that none lived who could compare with this young cavalier who had come out from that wonderful realm into the loneliness of her mountain home, bringing with him a sunshine, a glow, a radiance, a happiness, and a thrilling life which she had never believed could be hers. She often sat with her eyes upon his countenance, when, in his chair opposite her father, he recalled those marvelous experiences of his. To her no man could ever possess so musical a voice, and none so perfect features and winning ways. It was young love's dream and in her heart the sacred flame was kindled and fanned until her whole being was suffused and glowed with the new life. One of Lieutenant Russell's firsts acts of kindness to Nellie Dawson was to present her with his massive dog Timon. She had shown great admiration from the first for the magnificent brute, who became fond of her. The maiden was delighted beyond measure and thanked the donor so effusively that he was embarrassed. It is not probable, however, that Timon himself was ever aware of the change of ownership, for it brought no change of conditions to him. He had learned to divide his time about equally between the home of the lieutenant and that of Captain Dawson, while, like the young lady herself, he wandered about the settlement at will. He was a dignified canine, who stalked solemnly through New Constantinople, or took a turn in Dead Man's Gulch, resenting all familiarity from every one, except from the only two persons that had ever owned him. The lieutenant reflected much upon his conversation with Captain Dawson, the impression which he had received being anything but pleasant. "He considers himself unselfish, and yet like all such he is selfishness itself. He has determined to spend the rest of his days in this hole and to keep her with him. He won't allow her to marry for years, because it might interfere with his own pleasure; then he intends to turn her over to that lank, shaggy-faced Brush, who pretends to be a parson. The captain never thinks of _me_ as having any claims upon her love. To carry out his plan would be a crime. If she objects to Brush, he will probably give her a choice from the whole precious lot, including Ruggles, Adams, Bidwell, or Red Mike, the reformed gambler. "Never once has he asked himself whether his daughter may not have a preference in the matter, but, with the help of heaven, he shall not carry out this outrage." In the solitude of his own thoughts, the lover put the question to himself: "Am _I_ unselfish in my intentions?" Selfishness is the essence of love. We resolve to obtain the one upon whom our affections are set, regardless of the consequences or of the future. It is _our_ happiness which is placed in the balance and outweighs everything else. "Of course," continued the young officer in his self-communing, "I shall be the luckiest fellow in the world when I win her and she will be a happy woman. Therefore, it is her good which I seek as much as my own." How characteristic of the lover! "I shall not abduct her. If she tells me she does not love me; if she refuses to forsake all for me, then I will bid her good-by and go off and die." How characteristic again of the lover! And yet it may be repeated that Lieutenant Russell was the most guarded and circumspect of men. He no longer argued with Captain Dawson, for it was useless. He rather lulled his suspicion by falling in with his views, and talked of the future of parent and daughter, as if it were one of the least interesting subjects that could come between them. On one of Vose Adams's pilgrimages to Sacramento, he returned with a superb mettled pony, the gift of Lieutenant Russell. With this pet she soon became a daring and accomplished horsewoman. She was an expert, too, with the small Winchester and revolver which her father brought with him from the East. Perched like a bird upon her own Cap, as she named him, she often dashed for a mile down the trail, wheeling like a flash and returning at full speed. "Have a care," said Parson Brush, more than once; "you ride like a centaur and none knows better how to use firearms, but there are Indians in these mountains and they sometimes approach nigh enough to be seen from New Constantinople. Then, too, your father brought word that other miners are working their way toward us. More than likely there are bad men among them whom it is best you should not meet." "But none would harm _me_," was the wondering reply of the miss; "are not all of my own race my friends?" "They ought to be, but alas! it is too much to expect." She could not believe, however, that any danger of that nature threatened her, but she deferred to the fears of her father, Lieutenant Russell and the parson to that extent that she generally had a companion with her on these dashes down the trail. Sometimes it was Brush, sometimes Ruggles or her parent, and less frequently the young officer. Timon always galloped or trotted behind her pony, and she could not be made to believe that his protection was not all-sufficient. The winds of early autumn were moaning through the gorges and cañons of the Sierras, bringing with them the breath of coming winter, which was often felt with all its Arctic rigor in these depressions among the towering peaks and ridges. The usual group was gathered in the Heavenly Bower, though two of the most prominent citizens were absent. They were Felix Brush and Wade Ruggles, who were seated in their cabin, where a small fire had been kindled on the primitive hearth and afforded the only light in the small apartment. They had eaten their evening meal and as usual were smoking. As neither cared to taste the Mountain Dew, so winsome to a majority of the miners, the two often spent their evenings thus, especially since the shadow caused by the coming of Lieutenant Russell had fallen across their threshold. "Things begin to look better than afore," remarked Ruggles, sitting with one leg flung across the other and looking thoughtfully into the fire. "Yes, I always insisted that the soil about here is auriferous and we had only to stick to it to obtain our reward." Ruggles took his pipe from his mouth and looked at his partner with a disgusted expression. "What are you talkin' 'bout, parson?" "Didn't you refer to the diggings?" he innocently asked in turn. "Come now, that won't do; you know my references to allusions was the leftenant and the young lady. I say things look better as regards the same." "In what way?" "In the only way there could be. They don't care partic'lar for each other." "There is no doubt they did some time ago." "Of course, but I mean _now_." "How do you explain the change, Wade?" "The chap ain't a fool; he's took notice of our warnin's." "I wasn't aware that we had given him any." "Not 'zactly in words, but every time I've met him with the gal, I give the leftenant a scowl. Once I come purty near shakin' my fist at him; he's obsarved it all and is wise in time." "I think there is ground for what you say," remarked the parson, anxious to be convinced of the hoped-for fact; "what I base my belief on is that the leftenant doesn't accompany her on her little riding trips as often as her father or you or I: _that_ is a sure barometer, according to my judgment. Still I have sometimes feared from the way she talks and acts that she thinks more of him than is right." "Nothing of the kind! She treats him as she does everybody else; the leftenant is the friend of the cap and the leftenant give her the dog that is the size of a meetin' house and the pony hardly as big as the dog, but she doesn't think half as much of him as of you and me; how can she?" demanded Ruggles, sitting bolt upright and spreading his hand like a lawyer who has uttered an unanswerable argument; "hain't she knowed us a blamed sight longer than him?" "You are correct; I didn't think of that." How eagerly we accept the argument, flimsy as it may be, which accords with our wishes! "When I feel sorter ugly over my 'spicions," continued Ruggles; "I jest reflect that we've knowed the gal ever since she was a baby and her father tumbled down a hundred feet onto the roof of the Heavenly Bower, with her in his arms in the middle of that howlin' blizzard,--when I think of that I say----" The door of the cabin was hastily shoved inward and Captain Dawson, his face as white as death, strode in. "Have you seen anything of Nellie?" he asked in a husky whisper. "No; what's the matter?" asked the startled miners. "She has gone! she has left me!" gasped the father dropping into the only remaining chair, the picture of despair and unutterable woe. "Why do you think that?" asked the parson, sympathetically. "Lieutenant Russell has gone too! They have fled together!" CHAPTER XV COMRADES IN SORROW Wade Ruggles and Parson Brush sprang to their feet and confronted the white-faced Captain Dawson, who stared at them and breathed fast. For a full minute they gazed into one another's faces, dazed, motionless and speechless. The partners stood, each with pipe in hand, the faint smoke curling upward from the bowls, their slouched hats still on their frowsy heads, the revolvers at their cartridge belts spanning their waists, their trousers tucked in the tops of their boots, and with their heavy flannel shirts serving for coats and vests. Captain Dawson was similarly attired. He had dashed out of his own cabin and into that of his friends, his long locks flying, and even the strands of his heavy beard rigidly apart, as if from the consternation that had taken possession of his very soul. In those seconds of tomb-like stillness, an ember on the earthen hearth fell apart and a twist of flame threw a yellow illumination through the small room, grim and bare of everything suggesting luxury. It was the parson who first found voice, but when he spoke the tones, even to himself, sounded like those of another person. "Captain, it is possible that there is some mistake about this." "Would to God there might be!" "Let us hope there is." "Mistake!" he repeated in a husky, rasping voice; "can there be any mistake about _that_?" He threw out his single arm as he spoke, as if he would drive his fist through their chests. But he held a crumpled bit of paper in the face of the parson, who silently took it from him, crinkled it apart and turning his side so that the firelight fell on the sheet, began reading the few words written in pencil and in the pretty delicate hand which he knew so well. "Read it out loud, parson," said Ruggles, speaking for the first time. Felix Brush did so in a voice of surprising evenness: "MY DEAREST FATHER:--I have decided to go with Lieutenant Russell. We love each other and I have promised to become his wife. Do not think I love you any less for that can never be. I cannot remain here. You will hear from us soon and then I pray that you will come to your own NELLIE." "Have you been to his shanty?" asked Ruggles, who hardly comprehended the meaning of his own words. "Why would he go there?" angrily demanded the parson. "Mebbe the villain changed his mind." "But, if he had, _she_ would not be there." "Yes; I went to his cabin," bitterly answered Captain Dawson; "he has not been in the place for hours; all is dark and deserted; if I found him, I would have killed him." The three were laboring under fearful emotion, but with surprising power forced themselves to seem comparatively calm. "Captain, tell us about it," said the parson, carefully folding the bit of paper upon itself and shoving it into his pocket, unobserved by the others. Despite his apparent calmness it took a few moments for the father to gain sufficient self-control to speak clearly. Seated in the chair, he looked into the embers of the fire on the hearth, compressed his lips and breathed hard. His two friends had also seated themselves, for it seemed to them it was easier to master their agitation thus than while upon their feet. "What have I to tell, but my everlasting woe and shame? The lieutenant and I have been working for several days by ourselves on a new lead. I had noticed nothing unusual in his manner nor indeed in that of my child. At lunch time to-day he complained to me of not feeling like work, and told me not to expect him back this afternoon. I would have returned with him, had not the indications of the new lead been so good. And actually he invited me to do no more work until to-morrow, though why he should have done it, when it would have spoiled their whole scheme, is more than I can explain. "It was part of his plan to deceive you." "I don't see how it could do that, for there was no need of his inviting me,--but let it go. It came about that I worked later than usual, so that it was dark when I got home. I was surprised to see no light and to find no fire or Nellie. I thought nothing of that, however, for who would have believed it possible that there could be anything wrong? I supposed she was with some of the folks and being tired I sat down in my chair and fell asleep. "When I awoke, the room was cold, silent and as dark as a wolf's mouth. I felt impatient and decided to give her a scolding for being so neglectful. I groped around until I found a match, intending to start a fire. I had just lit the lamp and set it down on the table, when I caught sight of a folded piece of paper with my name in her handwriting on the outside. It gave me a queer feeling and my hands trembled when I unfolded and read it. "I don't clearly remember the next few minutes. The room seemed to be spinning around, and I think I had to sit down to keep from falling, but what saved me from collapse was my anger. I have been consumed with indignation once or twice in my life, but was never so furious, so uncontrollable, so utterly savage as I was after reading that note. If I could have found Russell, I would have throttled him. It may sound strange, but I hardly once thought of Nellie; it was _he_, the villain, whom I yearned to get my hands on." "Of course," said Ruggles, "that's the way you oughter feel." "I don't know what possessed me to do so, but I rushed out and made straight for his cabin, as if I would find him there. Of course that too was empty, and then I came here. Fool that I have been!" exclaimed the parent, leaping to his feet and striding up and down the room; "not to see all this, but," he added pathetically, "I believed that Nellie loved me." The flaming wrath of the two melted into pity for the stricken father. Parson Brush laid his hand on his shoulder and compelled him to resume his seat. Then he spoke with the tenderness of a woman: "That child _does_ love you more than she loves her own life, but she is blinded by her infatuation for that smooth-tongued scoundrel. It is the nature of her sex to feel and act thus; but, as I said, it does not mean that her love for you is less--" "Don't talk of her love for me," fiercely interrupted the parent; "we only judge of a person by his actions." "But you and I have made mistakes--" "Nothing like this; why did she not ask me? why did _he_ not tell me that he wished to marry her?--that is if he does," added the father, as if determined to make his own cup as bitter as possible. "He did not ask you, because he knew you would refuse; for from the first time he entered this community, he was determined to have her." "How do you know that?" "Because Ruggles and I read him; we did what no one else did,--we measured the man. Am I right, Wade?" The miner nodded his head. "Every word is as true as gospel; we noticed his sly looks at her, that first night you and him entered the Heavenly Bower and she was there. We couldn't make any mistake about it." "And you didn't warn me! You two are as bad as he, because you kept the secret when you ought to have put me on my guard, so that I might have strangled him at the first advance he made." Sympathy for the man prevented his listeners taking offence at the words which, from any one else, would have brought serious consequences. The parson said soothingly: "If you were not so wrought up, captain, you would not be so unreasonable; suppose Wade and I had gone to you with the statement that the man who, according to your own words, had saved your life but a short time before in the mountains, was a villain, who contemplated robbing you of your child; what would you have done?" "Thanked you and been on my guard." "You would have done nothing of the kind; you would have cursed us and told us to mind our own business." "No matter what I would have done, it was your duty to tell me, regardless of the consequences to yourselves. I might have resented it, but my eyes would have been opened and this blow saved me." "Nothing could have opened your eyes, for you were blind," said the parson, who felt that though the man was intensely agitated, he ought to hear some plain truths; "even had you suspected there was ground for our fears, you would have gone to Lieutenant Russell and demanded an explanation. He would have denied it, and you would have believed him with the result that he would have been put on his guard and would have deceived you the more completely." "Likewise, as aforesaid," added Ruggles, "the villain would have come to us and made us give our grounds for our charges. What ridic'lous fools we would have been, when all we could answer was that we thought he looked as if he meant to run away with your darter." "There may be some justice in what you say," replied the captain more composedly; "It was I who was blind, but I can't understand it. Never until I read that piece of paper, did I suspect the truth." "Howsumever, the parson and me haven't been idle; we often talked it over and fixed on a line that we thought would work better than going to you. We showed the leftenant that we was onto his game; I give him a scowl now and then, as it fell convenient, that said 'Beware!' We, that is the parson and me, made up our minds to watch close, and, at the first sign that was dead sure, we'd fall onto him like a couple of mountains." "And why didn't you?" "He fooled us as he did you. We was talkin' over matters the very minute you busted into the door and was satisfied that he had larned he was playin' with fire and had concluded to drop it. We was as big fools as you." CHAPTER XVI NOW It was the parson who now broke in. "Why do we sit here, lamenting that which cannot be helped? Do you mean to give up, captain, and let her go? Will you settle down to toil in the diggings, giving her no further thought, while this pretty-faced lieutenant is chuckling over the clever manner by which he fooled you as well as us--" "No!" fairly shouted the roused parent; "I will follow them to the ends of the earth! They shall not find a foot of ground that will protect them! She has never seen me angry, but she shall now!" "We are with you," coolly responded Brush, "but only on one condition." "What's that?" "That this account is to be settled with _him_ alone; you musn't speak so much as a cross word to Nellie; she will shed many a bitter tear of sorrow; she will drain the cup to its dregs; _he_, the cause of it all, is to be brought to judgment. When do you wish to take up the pursuit?" "Now!" "And we are with you." There was something wonderful in the way Parson Brush kept control of himself. Externally he was as calm as when standing in front of the adamantine blackboard, giving instruction to Nellie Dawson, while down deep in his heart, raged a tempest such as rouses into life the darkest passions that can nerve a man to wrong doing. Believing it necessary to stir the father to action, he had done it by well chosen words, that could not have been more effective. For weeks and months the shadow had brooded over him. Sometimes it seemed to lift and dissolve into unsubstantiality, only to come back more baleful than before. And the moment when he had about persuaded himself that it was but a figment of the imagination, it had sprung into being and crushed him. But he was now stern, remorseless, resolute, implacable. It was much the same with Wade Ruggles. He strove desperately to gain the remarkable control of his feelings, displayed by his comrade, and partly succeeded. But there was a restless fidgeting which caused him to move aimlessly about the room and showed itself now and then in a slight tremulousness of the voice and hands, but his eyes wore that steely glitter, which those at his side had noticed when the rumble and grumble told that the battle was on. Captain Dawson went from one extreme to the other. Crazed, tumultuous in his fury, and at first like a baffled tiger, he moderated his voice and manner until his companions wondered at his self-poise. "They have started for Sacramento and are now well advanced over the trail," he remarked without any evidence of excitement. "When do you imagine they set out?" asked Brush. "Probably about the middle of the afternoon; possibly earlier." "Then," said Ruggles, "they have a good six hours' start. They haven't lost any time and must be fifteen or twenty miles away." "The trail is easy traveling for twice that distance, as I recollect it," observed the captain; "after that it grows rougher and they will not be able to go so fast." "This must have been arranged several days ago, though it is only guesswork on our part. Of course she has taken considerable clothing with her." "I did not look into her room," said the captain; "there's no use; it is enough to know they made their preparations and started, accompanied by that dog Timon." No time was wasted. They knew they would encounter cold weather, for the autumn had fairly set in, and some portions of the trail carried them to an elevation where it was chilly in midsummer. Each took a thick blanket. The captain donned his military coat, with the empty sleeve pinned to the breast, caught up his saddle and trappings, his Winchester and revolver, and buckled the cartridge belt around his waist. Then he was ready. Neither of the others took coat or vest. The blanket flung around the shoulders was all that was likely to be needed, in addition to the heavy flannel shirt worn summer and winter. Thus equipped, the three stood outside the cabin, with the moon high in the sky, a gentle wind sweeping up the cañon and loose masses of clouds drifting in front of the orb of night. Here and there a light twinkled from a shanty and the hum of voices sounded faintly in their ears. Further off, at the extreme end of the settlement, stood the Heavenly Bower, with the yellow rays streaming from its two windows. They could picture the group gathered there, as it had gathered night after night during the past years, full of jest and story, and with never a thought of the tragedy that had already begun. "Shall we tell them?" asked Ruggles. "No," answered Brush; "some of them might wish to go with us." "And it might be well to take them," suggested Captain Dawson. "We are enough," was the grim response of the parson. Like so many phantoms, the men moved toward the further end of the settlement. Opposite the last shanty a man assumed form in the gloom. He had just emerged from his dwelling and stopped abruptly at sight of the trio of shadows gliding past. "What's up, pards?" he called. "Nothing," was the curt answer of the captain, who was leading and did not change his pace. "You needn't be so huffy about it," growled the other, standing still and puffing his pipe until they vanished. "That was Vose Adams," remarked the captain over his shoulder; "he'll tell the rest what he saw and it will be known to everybody in the morning." The little party was carefully descending the side of the cañon, with now and then a partial stumble, until they reached the bottom of the broad valley where the grass grew luxuriantly nearly the whole year. It was nutritious and succulent and afforded the best of pasturage for the few horses and mules belonging to the miners. Captain Dawson and Lieutenant Russell had ridden up the trail, each mounted on a fine steed, which had brought them from Sacramento. When the saddles and bridles were removed, the animals were turned loose in the rich pasturage, which extended for miles over the bottom of the cañon. There, too, grazed the pony of Nellie Dawson, the horses of Ruggles and Bidwell and the three mules owned by Landlord Ortigies and Vose Adams. The latter were left to themselves, except when needed for the periodical journeys to Sacramento. The little drove constituted all the possessions of New Constantinople in that line. Consequently, if any more of the miners wished to join in the pursuit, they would have to do so on foot or on mule back,--a fact which was likely to deter most of them. In the early days of the settlement, before the descent of that terrible blizzard, fully a dozen mules and horses were grazing in the gorge, subject to the call of their owners, who, however, did not expect to need them, unless they decided to remove to some other site. But one morning every hoof had vanished and was never seen again. The prints of moccasins, here and there in the soft earth, left no doubt of the cause of their disappearance. Perhaps this event had something to do with the permanence of New Constantinople, since the means of a comfortable departure with goods, chattels, tools and mining implements went off with the animals. After that the miners made no further investments in quadrupeds, except to the extent of three or four mules, needed by Vose Adams, though he was forced to make one journey to Sacramento on foot. Thus matters stood until the addition of the horses. There was always danger of their being stolen, but as the weeks and months passed, without the occurrence of anything of that nature, the matter was forgotten. The three men were so familiar with the surroundings that they made their way to the bottom of the cañon with as much readiness as if the sun were shining. Pausing beside the narrow, winding stream, which at that season was no more than a brook, they stood for several minutes peering here and there in the gloom, for the animals indispensable for a successful pursuit of the eloping ones. "There's no saying how long it will take to find them," remarked the captain impatiently; "it may be they have been grazing a mile away." "Have you any signal which your animal understands?" "Yes, but it is doubtful if he will obey it." Captain Dawson placed his fingers between his lips and emitted a peculiar tremulous whistle, repeating it three times with much distinctness. Then all stood silent and listening. "He may be asleep. Once he was prompt to obey me, but he has been turned loose so long that there is little likelihood of his heeding it." "Try it again and a little stronger," suggested Ruggles. The captain repeated the call until it seemed certain the animal must hear it, but all the same, the result was nothing. It was exasperating for the hounds thus to be held in leash when the game was speeding from them, with the scent warm, but there was no help for it. "We are wasting time," said Dawson; "while you two go up the gorge, I will take the other direction; look sharp for the animals that are probably lying down; they are cunning and will not relish being disturbed; if you find them whistle, and I'll do the same." They separated, the captain following one course and his friends the other. "It'll be a bad go," remarked Ruggles, "if we don't find the horses, for we won't have any show against them on their animals." "Little indeed and yet it will not hold us back." "No, indeed!" replied Ruggles with a concentration of passion that made the words seem to hiss between his teeth. Since the stream was so insignificant, Wade Ruggles leaped across and went up the cañon on the other side, his course being parallel with his friend's. A hundred yards further and he made a discovery. "Helloa, Brush, here they are!" The parson bounded over the brook and hurried to his side, but a disappointment followed. The three mules having cropped their fill had lain down for the night but the horses were not in sight. CHAPTER XVII THE PURSUERS The parson expressed his disappointment in vigorous language, when, instead of the horses, the hybrids proved to be the only animals near them. "I am afraid this proves one thing," he said. "What is that?" "I have had a dread all along that the Indians would run off the horses, but it seems to me that if they had done so, they would have taken the mules." "It strikes me as more likely that the leftenant took the horses, so as to prevent our follering him and the gal." "That sounds reasonable," said the parson thoughtfully; "the plan is so simple that it must have occurred to him. The mules are too slow to be of any use to us, and it may be as well that we shall have to go afoot." "How do you figure that out?" "They will conclude that, if we haven't any horses, we won't follow them; they will, therefore, take their time and travel so slow, that we'll have the chance to swoop down on them when they are not expecting it." "I s'pose there's what you call philosophy in that, but it doesn't hit me very favorable. We'll see what the cap thinks--helloa!" Clearly and distinctly through the still air came the signal by which Captain Dawson was to announce his discovery of the animals. The call scattered all thoughts of making the journey on foot, and, wheeling about, the two started off at a rapid pace to join their friend. At the same moment the call sounded again, and they answered it to let it be known they understood the situation. In a brief time they came upon Captain Dawson impatiently awaiting them. There was no need for him to tell them he had been successful in his search, for he was standing beside the three horses, which were quickly saddled and bridled. A minute later the men vaulted upon their backs and the captain said crisply: "Now we are off!" Each seemed to be inspired by the spirit of adventure. They sat erect in the saddles, drew in a deep inhalation of the keen night air, and moved off with their horses on a brisk walk, which almost immediately became a canter. For a mile, the trail through Dead Man's Gulch was nearly as hard and even as a country highway. The width of the cañon varied from a few rods to a quarter of a mile, with the mountain ridges on either hand towering far up into cloudland, the tallest peaks crowned with snow which the sun never dissolved. The tiny stream wound like a silvery serpent through the stretch of green, succulent grass, narrowing gorge and obtruding rock and boulder. Now and then the path led across the water, which was so shallow that it only plashed about the fetlocks of the horses. Captain Dawson, in his impetuosity, kept a few paces in front of the other two, as if he were the leader. When the space increased too much he reined up his animal and waited until his friends joined him. They were grim, resolute and for most of the time had little to say to one another, though, as may be supposed, their thoughts were of anything but a pleasant nature. So long as the moon held her place near the zenith, the cañon was suffused and flooded with its soft radiance, but the rifts of clouds drifting before its face rendered the light at times treacherous and uncertain. The horses had rested so long, and had had such extensive browsing on the rich pasturage, that they were in fine condition, and the gallop seemed more grateful to them than an ordinary walking gait. The air was cool and the fine trail, at this portion of the journey, made all the conditions favorable. After a time however, the ascent and descent would appear, the ground would become rough and the best the animals could do would be to walk. When Parson Brush remarked that Lieutenant Russell had proved himself an idiot when he left these horses behind for his pursuers to use, the captain and Ruggles agreed with him. "I don't understand it," said Brush; "he must have expected we would be hot after him, within the very hour we learned of what he had done, or can it be that he and she concluded we would say, 'Depart in peace?' If so, the young man shall have a terrible awakening." "It seems to me," said Ruggles, "that it is more likely he believed that with the start he would gain, it didn't matter whether we follered or not, feelin' sure that he could keep out of reach and get to Sacramento so fur ahead of us, that he needn't give us a thought." "I am not very familiar with the trail," remarked the captain, "for, as you know, I have passed over it only twice; first, nearly five years ago, when I went to the war, and a few months since when I came back." "But you and Russell did not lose your way," said the parson. "That was because we did our traveling by day. We tried it once at night, but came within a hair of tumbling over a precipice a thousand feet deep. This will be easy enough, so long as we have the sun to help us." "You probably know as much about the trail as Wade and I, for neither of us has been over it often. Consequently, when we travel by night, we shall have to go it blind, or rather shall do so after awhile, since all is plain sailing now." "I ain't so sure of that," observed Ruggles doubtfully; "we must have come a mile already and ought to have made a turn by this time." Captain Dawson checked his horse and peered ahead. "Can it be we are off the track? We have come nearer two miles than one--ah!" Just then the moon emerged from the obscuring clouds and their field of vision so broadened that they saw themselves face to face with an impassable barrier. The cañon closed directly in front of them like an immense gate of stone. It was impossible to advance a hundred feet further. "Well, I'm blessed if this isn't a pretty situation!" exclaimed the captain. "We have passed the opening, but we haven't far to return, and you know that a bad beginning brings a good ending." "Humph! I would rather chance it on a good beginning." Ruggles was the first to wheel and strike his horse into a gallop, which he did with the remark that he knew where the right passage was located. His companions were almost beside him. The cañon was of that peculiar conformation that, while it terminated directly in front, it contained an abrupt angle between where the party had halted and the mining settlement. At that point it was so wide that the little stream, which might have served for a guide, was lost sight of. Had they followed the brook, they would not have gone astray. The only inconvenience was the slight delay, which in their restless mood tried their spirits to the utmost. Captain Dawson muttered to himself and urged his horse so angrily that he again placed himself in advance. His mood was no more savage than that of his companions, but he chafed at everything which caused delay, no matter how trifling, in the pursuit. Fearing that he might go wrong, Ruggles spurred up beside him. The distance passed was less than any one expected it to be, when Ruggles called out: "Here we are!" The exclamation was caused by the hoofs of their horses plashing in the water. They seemed to share the impatience of their riders; "all we have to do now is to keep to the stream; obsarve its turn." Its course was almost at right angles to that which they had been following. The animals were cantering easily, when suddenly a deeper gloom than usual overspread the valley like a pall. This came from a heavy bank of clouds sweeping before the moon. The steeds were drawn down to a walk, but the obscurity was not dense enough to shut out the chasm-like opening, where the mountains seemed to part, riven by some terrific convulsion ages before. The enormous walls drew back the door as if to invite them to enter and press the pursuit of the couple that were fleeing from a just and righteous wrath. The width of the cañon had now dwindled to a few yards, and the stream expanding and shallow, occupied so much of the space that the horses were continually splashing through it, but the rise and fall of the trail was so slight that the gallop might have continued with little danger of mishap. The formation of the party was in "Indian file," with Captain Dawson leading, Ruggles next and Brush bringing up the rear. All three animals were walking, for the light of the moon was variable and often faint, while the danger of a mis-step was ever present, and was likely to bring a fatal ending of the pursuit almost before it had fairly begun. Occasionally the gloom in the narrow gorge was so deep that they distinguished one another's figures indistinctly, but the animals were left mostly to themselves. They seemed to know what was expected of them and showed no hesitation. It was impossible for them to go wrong, for it was much the same as if crossing a bridge, with its protecting barrier on either hand. The horse of the captain showed his self-confidence once or twice by a faint whinney and a break from the walk into a trot, but his rider checked him. "Not yet; heaven knows that I am as anxious to push on as you, but we have already made one blunder and we can't afford another; when the time comes that it is safe to trot you shall do so and perhaps run." "Hush!" called Brush from the rear; "I hear a curious sound." "What does it seem to be?" "It is impossible to tell; let's stop for a moment." As the three animals stood motionless, the strange noise was audible. It was a deep, hollow roar rapidly increasing in volume and intensity, and resembled the warning of a tornado or cyclone advancing through the forest. The animals, as is the case at such times, were nervous and frightened. They elevated their heads, pricked their ears, snuffed the air and the animal of the parson trembled with terror. The three believed that something in the nature of a cyclone was approaching, or it might be a cloudburst several miles away, whose deluge had swollen the stream into a rushing torrent that would overwhelm them where they stood, caught inextricably in a trap. The terrifying roar, however, was neither in front nor at the rear, but above them,--over their heads! From the first warning to the end was but a few seconds. The sound increased with appalling power and every eye was instinctively turned upward. In the dim obscurity they saw a dark mass of rock, weighing hundreds of tons, descending like a prodigious meteor, hurled from the heavens. It had been loosened on the mountain crest a half mile above, and was plunging downward with inconceivable momentum. Striking some obstruction, it rebounded like a rubber ball against the opposite side of the gorge, then recoiled, still diving downward, oscillating like a pendulum from wall to wall, whirling with increasing speed until it crashed to the bottom of the gorge with a shock so terrific that the earth and mountain trembled. Landing in the stream, the water was flung like bird shot right and left, stinging the faces of the men fifty feet distant. They sat awed and silent until Ruggles spoke: "Now if that stone had hit one of us on the head it would have hurt." "Probably it would," replied the captain, who had difficulty in quieting his horse; "at any rate, I hope no more of them will fall till we are out of the way." "I wonder whether that could have been done on purpose," remarked the parson. "No," said Ruggles; "the leftenant couldn't know anything about our being purty near the right spot to catch it." "I alluded to Indians,--not to him." But Ruggles and the captain did not deem such a thing credible. A whole tribe of red men could not have loosened so enormous a mass of stone, while, if poised as delicately as it must have been, they would have known nothing of the fact. Sometimes an immense oak, sound and apparently as firm as any in the forest around it, suddenly plunges downward and crashes to the earth, from no imaginable cause. So, vast masses of rock on the mountain side which have held their places for centuries, seem to leap from their foundations and tear their way with resistless force into the valley below. This was probably one of those accidental displacements, liable to occur at any hour of the day or night, which had come so startlingly near crushing the three men to death. Captain Dawson drew a match from his pocket and scraping it along his thigh, held it to the face of his watch. "Just midnight and we are not more than half a dozen miles from home." "And how far do you suppose _they_ are?" asked the parson. "Probably five times as much, if not more." "But they will not travel at night, and by sunrise we ought to be considerably nearer to them than now." "You can't be certain about that. Lieutenant Russell knows me too well to loiter on the road; he has a good horse and the pony of Nellie is a tough animal; both will be urged to the utmost; for they must be sure the pursuit will be a hard one." The discomforting fact in the situation was that if the fugitives, as they may be considered, pushed their flight with vigor, there was no reason why they should not prevent any lessening of the distance between them and their pursuers, and since they would naturally fear pursuit, it was to be expected that they would use all haste. The hope was that on account of Nellie, the animals would not keep up the flight for so many hours out of the twenty-four, as the pursuers would maintain it. The trail steadily ascended and became so rough and uneven that the horses frequently stumbled. This made their progress slow and compelled the three men, despite themselves, to feel the prudence of resting until daylight, but not one of them wished to do so, since the night pursuit was the only phase of the business which brought with it the belief that they were really lessening the distance separating them from the two in advance. Eager as the couple were to get through the mountains and reach Sacramento, where for the first time they could feel safe from their pursuers, the young officer was too wise to incur the risk of breaking down their horses, for such a mishap would be a most serious one indeed, and fraught with fatal consequences. There was little fear of the pursuers going astray. Captain Dawson had an extraordinary memory for places, as he repeatedly proved by recalling some landmark that he had noticed on his previous trip. Furthermore, the gorge was so narrow that in a certain sense, it may be said, they were fenced in, and would have found it hard to wander to the right or left, had they made the effort. After an hour of steady climbing they reached an altitude which brought with it a sharp change of temperature. The air became so chilly that Ruggles and Brush flung their blankets about their shoulders and found the protection added to their comfort. The horses, too, began to show the effects of their severe exertion. Their long rest had rendered them somewhat "soft," though the hardening would be rapid. After a few days' work they would not mind such exertion as that to which they were now forced. When a sort of amphitheatre was reached, it was decided to draw rein for a brief while, out of sympathy for their panting animals. "I thought if we failed to find our horses," remarked the parson, "we wouldn't find it hard to keep up the pursuit on foot; I have changed my mind." He looked back over the sloping trail, which speedily vanished in the gloom and the eyes of the other two were turned in the same direction. At the moment of doing so, the animals again became frightened, so that, despite their fatigue, it was hard to restrain them. "There's something down there," remarked the captain slipping from his saddle; "Wade, you are the nearest, can you see anything?" Ruggles was out of the saddle in an instant, Winchester in hand. "I catched sight of something," he said in an undertone; "look after my horse, while I find out what it is." "Have a care," cautioned the parson; "it may be an Indian." "That's what I think it is," replied Ruggles, who instantly started down the trail rifle in hand, his posture a crouching one and his senses strung to the highest point. He passed from view almost on the instant, and his companions listened with intense anxiety for what was to follow. Suddenly the sharp crack of their friend's rifle rang out in the solemn stillness, the report echoing again and again through the gorge, with an effect that was startling even to such experienced men. It was the only sound that came to them, and, while they were wondering what it meant, Ruggles reappeared among them with the noiselessness of a shadow. "It was a bear," he explained; "I think he scented the animals and was follering on the lookout for a chance at 'em." "Did you kill him?" "Don't think I did; he must have heard me comin' and was scared; he went down the trail faster than I could; when I seen that I couldn't catch him, I let fly without taking much aim. Maybe I hit him; leastways, he traveled so much faster that I give it up and come back." The party lingered for half an hour more, but as the horses showed no further fear, they concluded that bruin had taken to heart the lesson he received and would bother them no further. The mountains still towered on every hand. The stream had long since disappeared among the rocks and the gorge had become narrower. Generally it was no more than a dozen feet in width, occasionally expanding to two or three times that extent. The moon had moved over so far that only its faint reflection against the dark walls and masses of rock availed the horsemen. The sky seemed to contain an increasing number of clouds and there were indications of a storm, which might not break for a day or two, and as likely as not would not break at all. The traveling, despite its difficulty, was comparatively safe. The trail did not lead along the sides of precipices, with a climbing wall on one side and a continuous descent on the other, but it was solid and extended across from one ridge to the other. Because of this fact the three pushed their animals hard, knowing that it would not be long before they would have to be favored. "I don't know whether we are wise to keep this up as we are doing," said the captain, "but I know there are few places where we can travel in the darkness and I feel like making the most of them." "It is only a question of what the horses are able to stand," replied Brush; "it is easy enough for us to ride, but a very different thing for them to carry us. We must guard against their breaking down." "I will look out for that, but it is strange that when we were making ready to start we forgot one important matter." "What was that?" "We did not bring a mouthful of food." "We shall have little trouble in shooting what game we need." "Perhaps not and perhaps we shall. The lieutenant and I found on our way from Sacramento that, although game appeared to be plenty, it had an exasperating habit of keeping out of range when we particularly needed it. Delay will be necessary to get food, and the reports of our guns are likely to give warning, just when it is dangerous." "It was a bad slip," assented the parson; "for there was plenty of meat and bread at home; but we shall have to stop now and then to rest our animals and to allow them to feed and we can utilize such intervals by getting something for ourselves in the same line." "It isn't that, so much as the risk of apprising the two of their danger. In addition, it will be strange if we get through the mountains without a fight with the Indians. According to my recollection, we shall strike a region to-morrow or on the next day, where there will be the mischief to pay." Two miles more of laborious work and another halt. For the first time Parson Brush showed excitement. "Do you know," he said, "that some one is following us? There may be several, but I am sure of one at least and he is on a horse." CHAPTER XVIII A CLOSE CALL Few situations are more trying than that of being followed at night by what we suspect is an enemy. The furtive glances to the rear show the foe too indistinctly for us to recognize him, and the imagination pictures the swift, stealthy attack and the treacherous blow against which it is impossible to guard. There was little of this dread, however, in the case of our friends, for they felt strong enough to take care of themselves. Moreover, all three formed an instant suspicion of the identity of the man. It was Felix Brush at the rear who first heard the faint footfalls, and, peering into the gloom, saw the outlines of a man and beast a few rods distant, coming steadily up the trail in the same direction with himself. A few minutes later the halt was made and all eyes were turned toward the point whence the man was approaching. He must have noticed the stoppage, but he came straight on until he joined the group. "Howdy, pards," was his greeting. "I thought it was you, Vose," said the captain, sharply; "what do you mean by following us?" "What right have you to get in front of me? Don't I have to make a trip to Sacramento three or four times each year?" "But you are not accustomed to start in the night time." "And I never knowed it was your custom to leave New Constantinople in the middle of the night; leastways I never knowed you to do it afore." "We have important business," added the captain brusquely, uncertain as yet whether he ought to be displeased or angered by the intrusion of Adams. "So have I." "What is it?" "Your good." "I don't understand you; explain yourself." "There ain't one of you three that knows the way through the mountains, and if you undertook it alone, it would take you three months to reach Sacramento." This was a new and striking view of the situation, but the parson said: "Each of us has been over it before." "Sartinly, but one trip nor half a dozen ain't enough. You lost your way the first hour in Dead Man's Gulch; if you hadn't done so, it would have took me a blamed sight longer to find you; there are half a dozen other places in the mountains ten times worse than the one where you flew the track. Howsumever, if you don't want me, I'll go back." And Vose Adams, as if his dignity had received a mortal hurt, began turning his mule around. "Hold on," interposed Captain Dawson; "you have put things in their true light; we are very glad to have you with us." "That makes it all right," was the cheery response of the good natured Vose; "I never like to push myself where I ain't wanted, but as you seem glad to see me, after having the thing explained, we won't say nothing more about it. Howsumever, I may add that I obsarved you started in such a hurry that I thought it warn't likely you fetched any vittles with you, so I made up a lunch and brought it with me, being as you may not always have time to spare to shoot game." The chilliness of Vose Adams' greeting changed to the warmest welcome. He had shown more thoughtfulness than any of them, and his knowledge of the perilous route through the mountains was beyond value. Indeed, it looked as if it was to prove the deciding factor in the problem. "Do you know our business, Vose?" asked the captain. "I knowed it the minute I seen you sneaking off like shadows toward the trail. I hurried to my cabin, got a lot of cold meat and bread together and then hunted up Hercules, my boss mule. He isn't very handsome, but he has a fine voice and has been through these mountains so many times that he knows the right road as well as me. I knowed you would travel fast and didn't expect to overhaul you afore morning, but you went past the right turn and that give me a chance to catch up sooner." "But how was it you suspected our errand?" persisted the captain. "How could I help it? What else could it be? I seen the miss and the leftenant start for Sacramento, and being as you took the same course it was plain that you was going there too, if you didn't overtake 'em first." "You saw them start!" thundered the father of Nellie Dawson; "why didn't you hurry off to me with the news?" "Why should I hurry off to you with the news?" coolly asked Vose Adams; "it wasn't the first time I had seen the two ride in that direction; sometimes she was with you, or with the parson or Ruggles, and once or twice with me. Would you have thought there was anything wrong if you had seen them?" "No, I suppose not," replied the captain, seeing the injustice of his words; "but I have been so wrought up by what has occurred that I can hardly think clearly. I ask your pardon for my hasty words." "You needn't do that, for I see how bad you feel and I'm sorry for you." "When was it they left?" "Early this afternoon." "There was no one with them of course?" "Nobody except that big dog they call Timon; he was frolicking 'round the horses, as if he enjoyed it as much as them." Every atom of news was painful, and yet the afflicted father could not restrain himself from asking questions of no importance. "About what hour do you think it was when they left?" "It must have been near two o'clock when the leftenant fetched up his horse and the pony belonging to the young lady. She must have been expectin' him, for she come right out of the house, without keeping him waitin' a minute. He helped her into the saddle, while they talked and laughed as happy as could be." This was wormwood and gall to the parent, but he did not spare himself. "Did you overhear anything said by them?" "I wouldn't have considered it proper to listen, even if they hadn't been so far off I couldn't catch a word that passed atween 'em." "Was there anything in their actions to show they intended to take a longer ride than usual?" "I don't see how there could be," replied the puzzled Adams, while Parson Brush, understanding what the distraught captain meant, explained: "Was there anything in their appearance which suggested that they meant to take anything more than an ordinary gallop?" "I didn't think of it at the time, but I can see now there was. Each of them had what seemed to be extra clothing and perhaps they had food, though I couldn't make sure of that. You know there has been something in the sky that looked like a coming storm, and I thought it was on that account that the clothing was took along. Then, as the leftenant had knocked off work, it might be he was not feeling very well." "The scoundrel made that very excuse for leaving me," bitterly commented Captain Dawson, "but he wouldn't have taken the clothing as part of the same design for there was no need of anything of the kind. They laid their plans carefully and everything joined to make it as easy as possible." "Your thoughts were precisely what ours would have been," said the parson, drawn toward the messenger unjustly accused by the captain in the tumult of his grief;" if we had seen the two start, we should have believed it was for one of the usual gallops which the young lady is so fond of taking; but, Vose, if we would have certainly gone astray in the mountains, without your guidance, how will it be with them, when she has never been over the trail and he has ridden over it but once?" "They are sure to have a tough time of it which will make it all the harder for us." "How is that?" "Some good luck may lead them right; more than likely, howsumever, they'll get all wrong; therefore, if we stick to the path we may pass 'em a half dozen times. You see it's the blamed onsartinty of the whole bus'ness." "I would not question your wisdom on such matters, Vose, but when I remember that each of them is riding a horse, and that the two must leave traces behind them, I cannot apprehend that we shall go very far astray in our pursuit. The most likely trouble as it seems to me is that they will travel so fast that it will be almost impossible to overtake them." "If they can manage to keep to the trail, it is going to be hard work to come up with them. You haven't forgot that when I'm pushing through the mountains I sometimes have to hunt a new trail altogether." "That is due to the trouble with Indians?" "Precisely; sometimes it's a long, roundabout course that I have to take, which may keep me off the main course for a couple of days, or it may be for only a part of the day, but Injins is something that you must count on every time." "And they are as likely to meet them as we?" "More so, 'cause they're just ahead of you. Oh, it was the biggest piece of tomfoolery ever heard of for them to start on such a journey, but what are you to expect of two young persons dead in love with each other?" This was not the kind of talk that was pleasing to the father, and he became morosely silent. It was equally repugnant to Ruggles and the parson to hear Nellie Dawson referred to as being in love with the execrated officer. Ruggles was grim and mute, and the parson deftly drew the conversation in another direction. "I would like to ask you, Vose, how it was that Lieutenant Russell did not take the other horses with him, so as to make it impossible for anything in the nature of pursuit?" "There might be two reasons; he may have thought it would be mean to hit you below the belt like that; he was too honorable--" "It warn't anything like _that_," fiercely interrupted Ruggles. "Then it must have been that if he had took all the animals with him, even though they was a considerable way down the gulch, the thing would have been noticed by others, who would have wanted to know what it meant." "No doubt you have struck the right reason. Had the start been in the night time, he would have made sure that not even the mules were left for us. But, Vose," added the parson gravely, "we would be much better pleased if when you referred to the lieutenant, you said nothing about 'honor.'" "Oh, I am as much down on him as any of you," airily responded Vose; "and, if I git the chance to draw bead on him, I'll do it quicker'n lightning. Fact is, the hope of having that same heavenly privilege was as strong a rope in pulling me up the trail after you as was the wish to keep you folks from gettin' lost. But, pards, Hercules is rested and I guess likely your animals are the same, so let's be moving." Although Captain Dawson had been silent during the last few minutes, he did not allow a word to escape him. He knew Vose Adams was talkative at times, due perhaps to his enjoyment of company, after being forced to spend weeks without exchanging a word with any one of his kind, but there was no overestimating his value, because of his knowledge of the long, dangerous route through the mountains. When, therefore, the party were about to move on, the captain said: "Vose, from this time forward you are the guide; the place for you is at the head; you will oblige me by taking the lead." Vose accepted the post of honor, which was also the one of peril, for it is the man in his position whose life hangs in the balance when Indians are concerned. But there was no hesitancy on his part, though he was well aware of the additional risks he incurred. "There's one good thing I can tell you," he said, just before they started. They looked inquiringly at him and he explained: "The hardest part of the climbing is over,--that is for the time," he hastened to add, seeing that he was not understood; "you'll have plenty more of it before we see Sacramento, but I mean that we have struck the highest part of the trail, and it will be a good while before there's any more climbing to do." "That is good news," said Ruggles heartily, "for it has been mighty tough on the animals; I 'spose too, the trail is smoother." Adams laughed. "I am sorry to say it's rougher." Ruggles muttered impatiently, but the four took up the task, Adams in the lead, with the rest stringing after him in Indian file. The declaration of Vose was verified sooner than was expected. While the mule was so sure-footed that he seemed to meet with no difficulty, it was excessively trying to the horses, who stumbled and recovered themselves so often that Captain Dawson began to fear one or more of them would go lame. Still in his anxiety to get forward, he repressed his fears, hoping that there would be some improvement and cheering himself with the belief that since all had gone well for so long, it would continue on the same line. * * * * * Once, however, his horse made such an abrupt stumble that the captain narrowly saved himself from being unseated. On the impulse of the moment he called to Adams in advance: "Vose, I am afraid this won't do!" The leader did not look around and acted as if he had not heard him. "I say, Vose, isn't it better that we should wait till our horses can see the way?" Since the leader took no notice of this demand, the captain concluded his fears were groundless and said no more. "If he thinks it safe for us to keep on, I shall not oppose." But Captain Dawson might have opposed, had he known the truth, for, strange as it may seem, Vose Adams did not hear the words addressed to him, because he was asleep on the back of his mule Hercules, as he had been many a time while riding over the lonely trail. In truth, there was some foundation for his declaration that he could sleep more soundly on the back of his animal than while wrapped up in his blanket in some fissure among the rocks. Fortunately for him, however, these naps were of short duration, and, while indulging in them, he relied upon his animal, which had acquired a wonderful quickness in detecting danger. The slightest lagging in his gait, a halt, a turning to one side or a whinny was sufficient to bring back on the instant the wandering senses of the rider. In the present instance his slumber was not interrupted until Hercules, seeing exactly where he was, dropped his walk to a lagging gait. On the very second Vose Adams opened his eyes. So naturally that no one suspected anything, he checked his animal and looked around. "Pards, we've reached a ticklish spot, and it's for you to say whether we shall wait for daylight afore trying it." "What is its nature?" asked the captain, as he and the two behind him also reined up their animals. "The trail winds through these peaks in front, and instead of being like that we've been riding over all along, keeps close to the side of the mountain. On the right is the solid rock, and on the left it slopes down for I don't know how many hundred feet, afore it strikes bottom. Once started down that slide, you'll never stop till you hit the rocks below like that mass of stone that tumbled over in front of you." "How wide is the path?" asked the parson. "There's more than a mile where it isn't wide enough for two of us to ride abreast, and there are plenty of places where a horse has got to step mighty careful to save himself. Hercules knows how to do it, for he larned long ago, but I have my doubts about your hosses." "It might have been better after all if we had brought the mules," said the captain. "Not a bit of it, for Hercules is the only one that knows how to git over such places." "How do the others manage it?" "They've never tried it in the night time; that's what I'm talking 'bout." Adams's description enabled the others to recall the place. It was all that had been pictured and they might well pause before assuming the fearful risk. One reason for wishing to press forward was the knowledge that at the termination of the dangerous stretch, the trail was so smooth and even that for a long distance it would be easy to keep their animals at a gallop, while still further the peril appeared again. Captain Dawson once more struck a match and looked at his watch. "Half-past three; in two hours it will begin to grow light; if no accident happens we shall be at the end of the ugly piece of ground by that time, where the traveling is good. It is a pity to lose the opportunity, but I will leave it to you, parson and Ruggles; what do you say?" "Our horses have been pushed pretty hard, but they are in good condition. I hate to remain idle." "Then you favor going ahead?" "I do." "And you, Ruggles?" "I feel the same way." "That settles it; lead on, Vose." "I'm just as well suited, but keep your wits about you," was the warning of the leader, whose mule instantly responded, stretching his neck forward and downward and occasionally snuffing the ground, as if he depended on his sense of smell more than that of hearing. The task was a nerve-wrenching one, and more than once each of the three regretted their haste in not waiting for daylight; but, having started, there was no turning back. To attempt to wheel about, in order to retrace their steps, was more perilous than to push on, while to stand still was hardly less dangerous. The moonlight gave such slight help that the four depended almost wholly upon the instinct of their animals. Hercules never faltered, but advanced with the slow, plodding, undeviating certainty of those of his kind who thread their way through the treacherous passes of the Alps. Once his hind hoof struck a stone which went bounding down the precipice on his left, until at the end of what seemed several minutes, it lay still at the bottom. Neither animal nor rider showed the least fear, for in truth both were accustomed to little slips like that. "I'm blessed if this isn't the most ticklish business that I ever attempted," muttered Captain Dawson; "I never had anything like it in the army; it reminds me of scouting between the lines, when you expect every second a bullet from a sharpshooter--" At that instant his horse stepped on a round, loose stone which turned so quickly that before he could recover himself the hoof followed the stone over the edge of the precipice. The horse snorted and struggled desperately, and the brave rider felt an electric shock thrill through him from head to foot, for there was one moment when he believed nothing could save them from the most frightful of deaths. The left hind leg had gone over the rocky shelf, which at that point was very narrow, and the hoof was furiously beating vacancy in the despairing effort to find something upon which to rest itself. His body sagged downward and the rider held his breath. "Steady, my boy!" he called, and with rare presence of mind allowed the rein to lie free so as not to disconcert the steed. The tremendous struggle of the intelligent animal prevailed and with a snort he recovered his balance and all four feet stood upon firm support. "That was a close call," observed the parson, whose heart was in his mouth, while the brief fight for life was going on. "It was so close that it couldn't have been any closer," coolly commented the captain, fully himself again. CHAPTER XIX A COLLISION At this moment, the cheery voice of Adams called: "There's only about a hundred yards more of this, but we've now struck the worst part of the whole trail." "If it is any worse than what we have just passed, it won't do to try it," replied Captain Dawson, with the memory of his recent thrilling experience still vivid with him. "We can do it, but we must foller a different plan." "What is that?" "We must lead our animals. There are plenty of places where you can get off your horses with more comfort, but we can't stand here doing nothing. Get to the ground the best way you know how." It was clear that the advice of the guide would have to be followed, and all four set about the task with the cool daring shown from the first. Since each man was to lead his animal, it was necessary to dismount in front, instead of slipping over the tail, as would have been easier. The beasts showed striking sagacity in this delicate task. The trail was so narrow that to dismount to the left, on the side of the dizzying precipice, made it impossible for a man to keep his poise, while to descend on the right, directly beside the body of the animal was almost certain to crowd him over into the gorge. Each, therefore, lowered himself with infinite care over the right shoulder of his steed, so well forward, that the horse by turning his head to the left afforded just enough room for the trick to be done. Every one dismounted in safety, each drawing a breath of relief when the exquisitely delicate task was accomplished. Looking around in the gloom, Vose Adams saw that his friends stood on the ground. "Are you all ready?" he asked. "Yes," replied Brush from the rear. "Hold the bridle so gentle that you can let go if your animal slips off: if he has to go over the precipice, there's no need of your follering him." Each man took his Winchester in hand, and loosely grasping the bridle rein, began stealing forward, the captain's loss compelling him to make his single arm answer for both purposes. The advance was necessarily slow, for it was made with the utmost care. The path could not have been more dangerous than for the brief stretch between them and the broad, safe support beyond. Several times the trail so narrowed that each trembled through fear of not being able to keep his balance, while it seemed absolutely impossible for a horse to do so; but one of the strange facts connected with that intelligent animal is that, despite his greater bulk, he is generally able to follow wherever his master leads. So it was that when a miner carefully turned his head, he saw his steed following slowly but unfalteringly in his footsteps. It was soon perceived that this perilous stretch did not take a straight course, but assumed the form of an immense, partial circle. When half way around, the plodders came in sight of a huge rent in the distant mountain wall, through which the sky showed nearly from the zenith to the horizon. In this immense V-shaped space shone the moon nearly at its full, and without a rift or fleck of cloud in front of its face. A flood of light streamed through and between the encompassing peaks, tinging the men and animals with its fleecy veil, as if some of the snow from the crests had been sprinkled over them. On their left, the craggy wall sloped almost vertically downward, the projecting masses of rock displaying the same, fairy-like covering, ending in a vast, yawning pit of night and blackness, into whose awful depth the human eye could not penetrate. On the right, the mass of stone, rock and boulder, rugged, broken and tumbled together, as if flung about by giants in sport, towered beyond the vision's reach, the caverns, abysses and hollows made the blacker and more impenetrable by the moonlight glinting against the protruding masses. It was as if a party of Titans had run their chisels along the flinty face of the mountain from the rear, gouging out the stone, with less and less persistency, until they reached the spot where the men and animals were creeping forward, when the dulled tools scarcely made an impression sufficient to support the hesitating feet. Captain Dawson was but a few paces to the rear of Vose Adams's mule, whose surety of step he admired and tried to imitate. "Training seems able to accomplish anything," reflected the captain; "I remember how Lieutenant Russell and I stopped on the further edge of this infernal place when we reached it one forenoon and spent several hours trying to find a safer path. It kept us in a tremor until we were across. Had any one told me that on the next journey I should try it in the night, I would have believed him crazy, but," he grimly added, "I would have thought the same, if I had been told that a necessity like this would compel us to do so." The bridle rein was looped over his elbow, which extended behind him, the same hand grasping his rifle, so that he advanced partly sideways over the treacherous trail. He attempted to do nothing but look after his own footsteps. Sometimes, when it was a little harder to pull the rein, he slackened his pace. It would not do to hurry the animal, since a slight disturbance might cause him to loose his footing. The horse knew what was required of him and would do it better by being left wholly to himself. It was because of this concentration of his mind upon the one thing that the captain failed to perceive that the mule in his front had stopped walking, until the rim of his slouched hat touched the tail of the motionless animal. "Helloa, Vose, what's the matter?" The guide said something, but kept his face turned away, and his words, instead of being in the nature of an answer, were addressed to some one who confronted him. Adams was of slight stature, so that, although he stood erect, it was easy for the captain to look over his head and see what was beyond. That which was thus revealed was another horseman leading his animal and coming toward them. He was advancing in the same manner as the miners, that is by leading his horse, and, meeting our friends thus face to face, it was impossible for either party to pass: one or the other must give way and retreat. A startling feature of this meeting was that the individual who thus confronted them was an Indian of gigantic stature. He was more than six feet in height and of massive proportions. He belonged to what were known as the "mountain Indians," who were brave and of irrestrainable ferocity. They were the most dangerous people met by the miners in the early days on the Pacific slope. Equity demanded that this particular specimen should back his horse over the few yards to the point where the trail broadened, for the task was possible of accomplishment, while the white men were unable to force their animals in safety for one-half of the distance behind them. Moreover, it was evident that this Indian had deliberately started over the trail, with the knowledge of the four white men approaching, so that a meeting was inevitable. He courted an encounter with them and was in a murderous mood. Vose Adams knew all this and recognized the warrior as one of the dreaded Indians, with whom he was better acquainted than were his friends. He had had several scrimmages with them on his trips through the mountains, and held them in such wholesome fear that he contrived to avoid a direct conflict. The diminutive miner overflowed with pluck, but in a hand to hand encounter, must be only a child in the grasp of the aboriginal giant. The present situation, however, was peculiar. There can be no doubt that this savage sought the meeting with the party, for on no other supposition can his acts be explained. He must have reasoned that on the narrow ledge his enemies would have to meet him one by one and engage him single handed. He was like a chamois that had lived all its life in these wild solitudes and was surer-footed than any white man. What a triumph it would be (and was it unreasonable to expect it?) for him to slay the insignificant pale face immediately in his front, shove his mule over the precipice, and then serve the remaining three in same fashion! "Get out of this!" were the words which Vose Adams addressed to the Indian, directly after the question of Captain Dawson to himself, and when the enemies were within six feet of each other; "there isn't room for both of us; you knew that before you started; one of us has got to give way and I'll be hanged if I do!" Inasmuch as the red man did not understand a word of English, it is not to be supposed that he grasped the whole meaning of this command, but the situation must have made it evident that he had been ordered to back his horse and to open a way for the white men, and inasmuch as he had come upon the trail for the express purpose of bringing about this encounter, it seems hardly necessary to say that he failed to obey the order. Instead, he repeated some words in his own language, which it is not unlikely were of the same import as those addressed to him, for he resolutely maintained his place. "I tell you," added Vose, raising his voice, as if that could help make his meaning clear; "if you don't do as I say, somebody is going to get hurt!" The warrior, who was carrying a rifle, stooped and gently let it fall beside him. At the same moment he let go of the thong which served as a bridle. Thus both hands were free and he crouched down with his hideous face thrust forward and took a slow, half-step toward Adams. The coarse black hair dangling loosely about his shoulders, the broad frightful countenance, which, however, was devoid of paint, the glittering, basilisk-like eyes, the sinewy half-bent finger, with the right fingers closed like a vise around the handle of the knife at his waist, while gently drawing it forth, the catlike advance,--all these made him so terrible an enemy that the bravest man might well doubt the result of a meeting with him. And yet the closest scrutiny of Vose Adams would not have discovered any tremor in his frame, or so much as a blanching of his face. He fully comprehended the nature of the peril that impended, but with the cool readiness of a veteran, he had fixed upon his line of action, in the same moment that he read the purpose of his formidable enemy. The preliminary actions of the guide were similar to that of the warrior. The bridle rein dropped from his hand, and, slightly stooping, he let his Winchester fall to the ground beside him. Then his knife flashed out and he was ready. Since only the mule was between Captain Dawson and the combatants, he observed all this and interpreted its meaning. "Vose, what do you mean to do?" he sharply asked. "Have a little dispute with the fellow," replied Adams, without removing his gaze from the face of the savage. "You mustn't do it." "It sorter looks as if it can't be helped, captain." "I shall prevent it." "How?" "Thus!" The captain had laid down his rifle and drawn his revolver, in the use of which he was an expert. While thus engaged, he stooped down, so that the interposing body of the mule, prevented the Indian from observing what he was doing. When his weapon was ready and just as he uttered his last word, he straightened up like a flash. Adams being of short stature and in a stooping posture, gave him just the chance he needed. His single arm was extended with the quickness of lightning and he fired. The bullet bored its way through the bronzed skull of the Indian, who, with an ear-splitting screech, flung his arms aloft, leaped several feet from the ground, toppled sideways over the edge of the trail and went tumbling, rolling and doubling down the precipice far beyond sight, into the almost fathomless abyss below. "That's what I call a low down trick!" was the disgusted exclamation of Adams, looking round with a reproachful expression. "Do you refer to the Indian?" asked the captain. "No; to you; I had just got ready for him and had everything fixed when you interfered." "Vose, you are a fool," was the comment of his friend. "And why?" "That fellow was twice as big as you and you hadn't an earthly chance in a fight with him." "Do you 'spose that is the first time I ever met a mountain Injin?" "You never fought one of that size in this spot." "What difference does the spot make?" "I want you to understand," said the captain with assumed gravity, "that I didn't interfere out of any regard for you." "What the mischief are you driving at?" demanded the puzzled guide. "Under ordinary circumstances, I would have stood by and watched the flurry, only wishing that the best man might win. That means, of course, that you would have been the loser. But we need some one to guide us through the mountains; you haven't done it yet; when your work is over you may go and live on wild Indians for all I care." Vose quickly regained his good nature. He returned his knife to its resting place, picked up his rifle, grasped the bridle rein and gently pulled. "Come, Hercules; I don't know whether they appreciate us or not; steady now!" "What are you going to do with that horse in front of you?" asked the captain. "Hang it! if I didn't forget about him; back with you!" he commanded with a gesture, moving toward the animal, who showed the intelligence of his kind, by retrograding carefully until he reached the broad safe place so anxiously sought by the others. There he wheeled and trotted off, speedily disappearing from sight. "Vose, you might have traded Hercules for him." "Not much! I wouldn't give that mule for a drove of horses that have belonged to these mountain Injins." "What's the matter with them? Aren't they as good as ours?" "They're too good; you can't tell what trick they'll sarve you; I was once riding through these very mountains, on the back of a horse that I picked up--it isn't necessary to say how--when his owner gave a signal and the critter was off like a thunderbolt. If I hadn't slipped from his back at the risk of breaking my neck, he would have carried me right into a camp of hostiles and you would have been without your invaluable guide on this trip." "That is important information--if true--helloa! it is growing light off there in the east!" "Yes,--day is breaking," added Vose. The captain looked at his watch and found the time considerably past five o'clock. They had been longer on the road than any one supposed, and the coming of morning was a vast relief to all. The party were now grouped together, for the trail was broad and safe. Parson Brush asked, as he pointed almost directly ahead: "Isn't that a light off yonder?" The guide gazed in that direction and replied: "Yes, but it comes from a camp fire, which isn't more than a half mile away." The men looked in one another's faces and the captain asked in a guarded voice, as if afraid of being overheard: "Whose fire is it?" "There's no saying with any sartinty, till we get closer, but I shouldn't be 'sprised if it belong to the folks you're looking for." The same thought had come to each. There was a compression of lips, a flashing of eyes and an expression of resolution that boded ill for him who was the cause of it all. In the early morning at this elevation, the air was raw and chilling. The wind which blew fitfully brought an icy touch from the peaks of the snow-clad Sierras. The party had ridden nearly all night, with only comparatively slight pauses, so that the men would have welcomed a good long rest but for the startling discovery just made. Over the eastern cliffs the sky was rapidly assuming a rosy tinge. Day was breaking and soon the wild region would be flooded with sunshine. Already the gigantic masses of stone and rock were assuming grotesque form in the receding gloom. The dismal night was at an end. The twinkling light which had caught the eye of Felix Brush appeared to be directly ahead and near the trail which they were traveling. This fact strengthened the belief that the fire had been kindled by the fugitives. The illumination paled as the sun climbed the sky, until it was absorbed by the overwhelming radiance that was everywhere. The pursuers felt well rewarded for the energy they had displayed in the face of discouragement and danger. Valuable ground had been gained, and even now when they had supposed they were fully a dozen miles behind the fugitives, it looked as if they had really caught up to them, or at least were within hailing distance. Every eye was fixed on the point which held so intense an interest for them. As the day grew, a thin, wavy column of smoke was observed ascending from the camp fire, which was partly hidden among a growth of scrub cedars, some distance to the right of the trail, whither it must have been difficult for the couple to force their horses. "That leftenant ought to have knowed better than to do that," remarked Vose Adams, "his fire can be seen a long way off." "What else could they do?" asked the captain. "The rocks give all the cover he needs." "But they could have no idea that we were so near," suggested the parson. "It isn't that, but the leftenant had 'nough 'sperience with Injins on his way through here before to know he's liable to run agin them at any time. I never dared to do a thing like that on my trips." "Let's push on," said the captain, who saw no reason for tarrying now that they had located the game. The ground was so much more favorable that the animals were forced to a canter, though all were in need of rest. Little was said, and Captain Dawson spurred forward beside Adams, who as usual was leading. Wade Ruggles and Parson Brush also rode abreast. They were far enough to the rear to exchange a few words without being overheard. "From the way things look," said Brush; "we shall have to leave everything with the captain and he isn't likely to give us anything to do." "He's mad clean through; I don't b'leve he'll wait to say a word, but the minute he can draw bead on the leftenant, he'll let fly." "He is a fine marksman, but he may be in such a hurry that he'll miss." "No fear of that; I wonder," added Ruggles, startled by a new thought, "whether Vose has any idee of stickin' in his oar." "Likely enough." "I must git a chance to warn him that we won't stand any nonsense like that! The best that we'll do is to promise him a chance for a crack after you and me miss." "That won't be any chance at all," grimly remarked the parson. "Wal, it's all he'll have and he mustn't forgit it. There's some things I won't stand and that's one of 'em." "We can't do anything now, but we may have a chance to notify him. If the opportunity comes to me, he shall not remain ignorant." They were now nearly opposite the camp and the two noticed with surprise that Adams and the captain were riding past it. "What's that fur?" asked the puzzled Ruggles. "That's to prevent them from fleeing toward Sacramento. When they find we are on the other side, they will have to turn back." This was apparently the purpose of the men in advance, for they did not draw rein until a hundred yards beyond the camp. Suddenly the two halted, and half-facing around, waited until Brush and Ruggles joined them. The explanation of the guide showed that his plan had been rightly interpreted by Parson Brush. CHAPTER XX THE CAMP FIRE The trail, as has been stated, was broad and comparatively level. The slope of the mountain to the right was so moderate that it could be climbed by a horse almost as readily as by a man. Its face was covered with a growth of cedars, continuing half way to the summit, when it terminated, only bleak masses of rock, sprinkled with snow, whose volume increased with the elevation, being visible above and beyond. When the four pursuers came together, their faces showed that they comprehended the serious business before them. It was seen that Captain Dawson was slightly pale, but those who had been with him in battle had observed the same peculiarity. Accompanied, as it was in this instance, by a peculiar steely glitter of his eyes, it meant that he was in a dangerous mood and the man who crossed his path did so at his peril. It was evident that he and Vose Adams had reached an understanding during the few minutes that they were riding in advance. The words of Vose Adams were spoken for the benefit of Ruggles and the parson. "You'll wait here till I take a look at things." "What do you mean to do?" asked Brush. "I'm going up the slope on foot to find out how the land lays." "And when you find that out, what next?" "He is to come back and report to me," interposed the captain. There was a world of meaning in these words. It showed that the captain allowed Adams to lead only when acting as a guide. In all other matters, the retired officer assumed control. The opportunity of Vose to pick off the offending lieutenant promised to be better than that of any one else, since he would first see him, but he had been given to understand that he must immediately return and let the captain know the situation. Adams had promised this and he knew Dawson too well to dare to thwart him. Brush and Ruggles could make no objection, keen though their disappointment was. They watched Adams, as he slipped off his mule, not deeming it worth while to utter the warning both had had in mind. It was the parson who said: "I suppose we have nothing to do except to wait here till you come back?" "It looks that way, but you must ask the captain." "You won't be gone long?" "I don't think so." "Be careful, but there's no need of waiting," said the captain. The three watched the guide until he disappeared from sight among the cedars, when the captain added: "Vose told me that it was possible that camp fire had been started by Indians, but it seems to me there is little likelihood of that." "Why?" "Those people are so skilled in woodcraft that they would have been on the alert against our approach, for a brief survey of the trail for the last half hour would have revealed us to them." "It may be," suggested the parson, "that with every reason to believe there is no danger of anything of the kind, for it must be rare that a white man passes along this trail, they did not keep a lookout." The captain shook his head. "From what I know of the American race, it is unlike them." "What knowledge have we that they have not maintained such a lookout and discovered us as soon as we noticed the camp fire itself? They may have formed an ambuscade at some point further along the trail." "It is a disturbing possibility and I would be alarmed, but for my confidence in Vose. He has been through this region so often and knows these wild people so thoroughly that he could not commit a blunder like that. It seems to me," added the captain a few minutes, later, "that he is absent a long time." "It's tough," remarked Ruggles, "that things are fixed so we won't have a chance to take any hand in this bus'ness." The captain looked inquiringly at him and he explained: "You and Vose have set it up atween you." "I have told you that if your help is needed, it will be welcome; I can add nothing to that." "The captain is right," interposed the parson, "but at the same time, he can see what a disappointment it is for us." "I admit that, but we are not out of the woods yet." Before he could make clear the meaning of this remark, Vose Adams emerged from the cedars, and the three breathlessly awaited his coming. He broke into a trot and quickly descended the slope to where they stood. The expression of his face showed before he spoke that he brought unwelcome news. "Confound it!" he exclaimed with a shake of his head, "they're not there!" "Then they have gone on up the trail," said the captain inquiringly. "No; they haven't been there; it isn't their camp." "Whose is it?" "Injins; there are five of 'em; they've just had their breakfast and are gettin' ready to make a start." "Didn't they see you?" "That isn't the way I do bus'ness," replied Vose rather loftily; "it's more'n likely, howsumever, they seen us all awhile ago when we was further down the trail. They're traveling eastward." "How can you know that?" asked the parson. "The Injin that took his dive off the trail 'bout the time the captain fired off his revolver, was going that way. He b'longed to the party and was sorter leading 'em; he was a chief or something of the kind." "Where are their ponies?" "They haven't any,--leastways he was the only one that had, which is why I said he was some kind of a chief. We shall hear from 'em agin." "Why?" "I mean after they find out about that little row." "Why need they find out about it?" "They can't help it; they'll miss their chief; they'll run across that horse of his and that'll give 'em the clue." This unexpected discovery put a new face on matters. Five mountain Indians, the bravest and most implacable of their race, were almost within stone's throw of the party. But for the occurrence of a brief while before, they probably would have permitted the white men to continue their journey unmolested, since the strength of the two bands, all things considered, was about equal, but when the hostiles learned of the death of their leader, they would bend every effort toward securing revenge. They would dog the miners, watchful, alert and tireless in their attempts to cut them off from the possibility of ever repeating the deed. "But that chief, as you seem to think he was," said Captain Dawson, "is gone as utterly as if the ground had opened and swallowed him. They will never have the chance to officiate at his funeral, so how are they to learn of the manner of his taking off?" "It won't take 'em long," replied Adams; "his pony will hunt them out, now that he is left to himself; that'll tell 'em that something is up and they'll start an investigatin' committee. The footprints of our horses, the marks on the rocks, which you and me wouldn't notice, the fact that we met the chief on that narrer ledge and that he's turned up missing will soon lay bare the whole story, and as I remarked aforesaid, we shall hear from 'em agin." "It looks like a case of the hunter hunting the tiger," said the parson, "and then awaking to the fact that the tiger is engaged in hunting him; it is plain to see that there's going to be a complication of matters, but I don't feel that it need make any difference to us." "It won't!" replied the captain decisively; "we haven't put our hands to the plough with any intention of looking back. What's the next thing to do, Vose?" "We've got to look after our animals." "But there's no grass here for them." "A little further and we'll strike a stream of water where we'll find some grass, though not much, but it's better than nothing." Vaulting into the saddle, the guide after some pounding of his heels against the iron ribs of Hercules, forced him into a gallop, which the others imitated. The trail continued comparatively smooth, and, being slightly descending, the animals were not crowded as hard as it would seem. A mile of this brought them to the water, where they were turned loose. The stream gushed from the mountain side, and, flowing across the trail, was lost among the rocks to the left. The moisture thus diffused produced a moderate growth of tough, coarse grass, which the animals began plucking as soon as the bits were removed from their mouths. They secured little nutriment, but as the guide remarked, it was an improvement upon nothing. The men bathed their faces in the cold, clear water, took a refreshing draught, and then ate the lunch provided for them by the thoughtful Adams. Though they ate heartily, sufficient was kept to answer for another meal or two, if it should be thought wise to put themselves on an allowance. They had just lighted their pipes, when Wade Ruggles uttered an exclamation. Without explaining the cause, he bounded to his feet and ran several rods to the westward, where he was seen to stoop and pick something from the ground. He examined it closely and then, as he turned about and came back more slowly it was perceived that he held a white handkerchief in his hand. His action caused the others to rise to his feet. "What have you there?" asked Captain Dawson, suspecting its identity. "I guess you have seen it before," replied Wade, handing the piece of fine, bordered linen to him. He turned it over with strange emotions, for he was quick to recognize it. "Yes," he said, compressing his lips; "it is hers; she dropped it there--how long ago, Vose?" The latter examined the handkerchief, as if looking for the answer to the question in its folds, but shook his head. "Even a mountain Injin could not tell that." The parson asked the privilege of examining the article. His heart was beating fast, though no one else was aware of it, for it was a present which he had made to Nellie Dawson on the preceding Christmas, having been brought by Vose Adams, with other articles, on his trip made several months before the presentation. There was the girl's name, written by himself in indelible ink, and in his neat, round hand. It was a bitter reflection that it had been in her possession, when she was in the company of the one whom she esteemed above all others. "It may have been," reflected the parson, carefully keeping his thoughts to himself, "that, when she remembered from whom it came, she flung it aside to please him. Captain," he added, "since this was once mine, I presume you have no objection to my keeping it." "You are welcome to it; I don't care for it," replied the parent. "Thank you," and the parson carefully put it away to keep company with the letter of Nellie Dawson which broke her father's heart; "I observe that it is quite dry, which makes me believe it has not been exposed to the dew, and therefore could not have lain long on the ground." "You can't tell anything by that," commented Vose; "the air is so dry up here, even with the snow and water around us, that there's no dew to amount to anything." All seemed to prefer not to discuss the little incident that had produced so sombre an effect upon the party. Wade Ruggles was disposed to claim the handkerchief, inasmuch as it was he who found it, but he respected the feelings of the parson too much to make any protest. The occurrence was of no special interest to the guide. He had said they were in danger from the Indians and he gave his thoughts to them. While the others kept their seats on the ground, he stood erect, and, shading his eyes with one hand, peered long and attentively over the trail behind them. The clump of cedars from amid which the thin column of vapor was slowly climbing into the sky and the narrow ledge which had been the scene of their stirring adventure were in view, though its winding course shut a portion from sight. "I expected it!" suddenly exclaimed Vose. The others followed the direction of his gaze and saw what had caused his words. The five Indians, whom Vose had discovered in camp, were picking their way along the ledge, with their faces turned from the white men, who were watching them. Despite the chilly air, caused by the elevation, not one of the warriors wore a blanket. Two had bows and arrows, three rifles, carried in a trailing fashion, and all were lithe, sinewy fellows, able to give a good account of themselves in any sort of fight. A curious fact noted by all of our friends was that while these warriors were thus moving away, not one of them looked behind him. Their long black hair hung loosely about their shoulders, and in the clear air it was observable that three wore stained feathers in the luxuriant growth on their crowns. "Is it possible that they have no suspicion of us?" asked the parson; "their action in not looking around would imply that." "Don't fool yourself," was the reply of Adams; "they knowed of us afore we knowed anything of them." "Why did they allow us to pass their camp undisturbed?" "Things weren't in the right shape for 'em. There are only three guns among 'em, though them kind of Injins are as good with the bow as the rifle, and they made up their minds that if we let them alone, they wouldn't bother us." "You said awhile ago that we should have trouble from them." "And so we shall; when they reasoned like I was sayin', they didn't know anything about the little accident that happened to their chief; it's that which will make things lively." "We can't see the point where that accident took place," said Captain Dawson. "No; the trail curves too much, but we can foller it most of the way; they're likely to go right on without 'specting anything, but when they find the horse, it'll set 'em to looking round. After that, the band will begin to play." While the party were watching the five Indians, the leader was seen to pass from view around the curve in the trail, followed by the next, until finally the fifth disappeared. All this time, not one of the warriors looked behind him. It was a singular line of action, and because of its singularity roused the suspicion of the spectators. While three of the miners resumed their seats on the boulders and ground, Vose Adams kept his feet. Doubling each palm, so as to make a funnel of it, he held one to either eye and continued scrutinizing the point where he had last seen the hostiles. He suspected it was not the last of them. Instead of imitating him, his friends studied his wrinkled countenance. The air in that elevated region was wonderfully clear, but it is hardly possible to believe the declaration which the guide made some minutes later. He insisted that, despite the great distance, one of the Indians, after passing from view, returned over his own trail and peeped around the bend in the rocks, and that the guide saw his black hair and gleaming snake-like eyes. The fact that Vose waited until the savage had withdrawn from sight, before making the astonishing declaration, threw some discredit on it, for it would have required a good telescope to do what he claimed to have done with the unassisted eye alone. "You see I was looking for something of the kind," he explained, "or mebbe I wouldn't have obsarved him." "Could you tell the color of his eyes?" asked the doubting Ruggles. "They were as black as coal." "It is safe to say that," remarked the parson, "inasmuch as I never met an Indian who had eyes of any other color." "There are such," said Vose, "and I've seen 'em, though I'll own they're mighty scarce and I never knowed of any in this part of the world. Howsumever, I won't purtend that I could see the color of a man's eyes that fur, but I did see his hair, forehead and a part of his ugly face. He knowed we was behind him all the time, and this one wanted to find out what we was doing. When he larned that, they kept on along the ledge, but there's no saying how fur they'll go afore they find something's gone wrong." Captain Dawson showed less interest in this by-play than the others. He was not concerned with what was behind them, so much as with what was in front. The belief was so strong with him that their persistent travel through the night had brought them close to the fugitives that he begrudged the time necessary for the animals to rest and eat. Parson Brush felt that Adams was acting wisely in giving attention to the rear. It would be the height of folly to disregard these formidable warriors when they meant trouble. Brush rose to his feet and using his palms as did the guide, scanned the country behind them. He saw nothing of any warrior peering around the rocks, but he did see something, which escaped even the keen vision of Vose Adams himself. Beyond the ledge and a little to the left, he observed a riderless horse, with head high in air, and gazing at something which the two white men could not see. The parson directed the attention of Vose to the animal. "By gracious! it's the chief's horse," he exclaimed; "do you see that?" The other two were now looking and all plainly saw a warrior advance into view, approaching the animal, which, instead of being frightened, seemed to recognize his friends, and remained motionless until the Indian came up and grasped the thong about his neck. Then the two passed from sight. The identical thing prophesied by Vose Adams had occurred under the eyes of the four pursuers. The steed of the dead chieftain had been recovered, and it would not take the hostiles long to penetrate the mystery of the matter. Vose was wise in taking the course he did, and his companions were now inclined to believe his astonishing assertion that he saw one of the number when he peeped around the curving ledge and watched their actions. However, it would have been absurd to wait where they were in order to learn every move of their enemies, for that would have been a voluntary abandonment of the advantage secured at the cost of so much labor and danger. Captain Dawson insisted that the pursuit should be pressed without any thought of the red men, and Vose consented. "But there's one thing we mustn't forget, captain," he said, "and that is that it is daytime and not night." "I do not catch your meaning," replied the captain, pausing on the point of moving off to secure his horse. "It is this: them people in front will keep as sharp an eye to the rear as to the front; more'n likely it will be sharper, and it will be a bad thing if they discover us when we're two or three miles off." "How shall we prevent it?" "We can do it, if we're careful. You'll remember that when you went over this route last, you come upon places where you could see for a mile or more, 'cause the trail was straight and broad, while there are others where you can't see more'n a hundred yards. Them that I've named last is where we must overhaul 'em." "That sounds well, Vose," said the captain, "but I am unable to see how you are going to manage so as to bring that about." "While you're getting the animals ready, I'll take a look ahead." This was not in the nature of an explanation, but the three willingly did their part. Vose disappeared almost instantly, and, though they took but a few minutes to prepare their animals for the resumption of travel, he was back among them, the expression of his face showing that he brought news of importance. "They ain't fur off," he said. "How far?" asked the captain. "I can't say anything more than that we're purty close to 'em. Let's push on!" CHAPTER XXI STRANGERS The signs of an approaching storm that had been noted with some apprehension the night before, passed away. The sky revealed hardly a cloud rift, and, when the sun had climbed the mountain crests, the scene was grand beyond description. But for the grim errand of the four men, holding relentlessly to the pursuit, they must have yielded to its impressive influence. The trail remained so favorable for a couple of miles further, that it was passed at the same easy, swinging gallop. Vose Adams retained his place a few paces in advance of the others, who saw him glance sharply to the right and left, often to the ground and occasionally to the rear, as if to assure himself that none of his friends was going astray. The moderate but continuous descent of the path took them so far downward that the change of temperature again became noticeable. The ground was rough and uneven and the animals dropped to a walk. Sometimes the course led around boulders, through sparse growths of cedar, beside brawling torrents, two of which they were compelled to ford, where it was hard for their animals to keep their feet. "Last fall," remarked the guide, at the most difficult of these passages, "I had to wait two days before I dared try to cross with Hercules and one of the other mules." His companions nodded their heads but made no other answer. They were not in the mood for talking. They were now making their way through a cañon similar to Dead Man's Gulch, with rents and yawning ravines opening on the right and left, before which the party might have halted in perplexity, had it been in the night time. But the path showed plainly and the familiarity of the guide prevented any mistake on his part. Adams had intimated that by a certain line of procedure the watchful fugitives could be prevented from discovering the approach of the pursuers until too late to escape them. In counting upon his ability to do this, he overestimated his skill, for the task was clearly impossible, and it was because of his efforts in that direction that he made a serious blunder. He had crossed for the third time a stream which was shallow, and, upon reaching the opposite bank, where the ground was moist and soft, he reined up with an exclamation of impatience. "What's the matter?" asked Captain Dawson, in the same mood. "We've passed 'em," was the reply; "they're somewhere behind us." "How far?" "That remains to be found out, but I don't think it's a great distance." The captain angrily wheeled his horse and re-entered the stream. "If they don't get away, it won't be our fault," was his ungracious comment; "we have done little else than throw away our chances from the first." The guide made no response, and the next minute the four were retracing their course, their animals at a walk, and all scanning the rocks on either hand as they passed them. It was clear by this time that the fugitives held one important advantage over their pursuers. The route that they were following was so devious and so varied in its nature, that only at rare intervals could it be traced with the eye for a quarter or half a mile. Certain of pursuit, Lieutenant Russell and his companion would be constantly on the lookout for it. They were more likely, therefore, to discover the horsemen than the latter were to observe them. Even if their flight was interrupted, there were innumerable places in this immense solitude where they could conceal themselves for an indefinite period. The question the pursuers asked themselves was whether the others had strayed unwittingly from the trail, or whether they had turned off to elude their pursuers, whose desperate mood they could not but know. The latter supposition seemed the more likely, since the path was marked so plainly that it could be lost only by unaccountable carelessness. At the first break in the side of the vast mountain walls Vose Adams again slipped from his mule and spent several minutes in studying the ground. "They haven't gone in here," was his comment, as he remounted. "Make certain that we are not too far back," said the captain. "I have made no mistake," was the curt reply of the guide. The party had gone less than twenty rods further, when another rent opened on the other side of the cañon, which was about an eighth of a mile wide. It would not do now to slight anything, and Adams headed his mule diagonally across the gorge, the animal walking slowly, while the rider leaned over with his eyes on the ground. Suddenly he exclaimed: "We've hit it this time! Here's where they went in!" All four leaped from the back of their animals. Adams pointed out the faint indentations made by the hoofs of two horses. Less accustomed than he to study such evidence, they failed to note that which was plain to him; the hoof prints of one of the animals were smaller than those of the other, since they were made by Cap, the pony belonging to Nellie Dawson. There could no longer be any doubt that the pursuers were warm on the trail of the fugitives. Such being the fact, the interest of the men naturally centered on the avenue through which the others had made their way. It was one of those fissures, sometimes seen among enormous piles of rock, that suggest that some terrific convulsion of nature, ages before, has split the mountain in twain from top to bottom. The latter was on a level with the main cañon itself, the chasm at the beginning being ten or twelve yards in width, but, occurring in a depression of the mountain spur, its height was no more than five or six hundred feet, whereas in other localities it would have been nearly ten times as great. The base was strewn with fragments of sandstone, some of the pieces as large as boulders, which had probably been brought down by the torrents that swept through the ravine in spring or when a cloudburst descended upon the upper portion. Standing at the entrance, it was observed that the gorge trended sharply to the left, so that the view was shut off at a distance of fifty yards. It was noticeable, too, that the path taken by the fugitives sloped upward at so abrupt an angle that it must have sorely tried the horses. "I thought so," was the comment of Vose Adams, when he returned from a brief exploration of the ravine; "they got off and led their animals." "Have you any idea of the distance they went?" asked Captain Dawson, who was in a more gracious mood, now that he appreciated the value of the services of their guide. "No; I've rid in front of that opening a good many times, but this is the first time I ever went into it." "Well, what is to be done?" asked Parson Brush. "Why, foller 'em of course," Wade Ruggles took upon himself to reply. "That won't do," replied Adams, "for it is likely to upset everything; I'll leave Hercules with you and sneak up the gorge far enough to find how the land lays. I'll come back as soon as I can, but don't get impatient if I'm gone several hours." Brush and Ruggles showed their displeasure, for, while admitting the skill of the guide, they could not see adequate cause for the impending delay. They had made so many slips that it seemed like inviting another. It was clear that they were close upon the fugitives, and the two believed the true policy was to press the pursuit without relaxing their vigor. But Captain Dawson, the one who naturally would have been dissatisfied, was silent, thereby making it apparent that Adams was carrying out a plan previously agreed upon by the two. Vose paid no heed to Ruggles and the parson, but started up the ravine, quickly disappearing from view. Believing a long wait inevitable, the three prepared to pass the dismal interval as best they could. Here and there scant patches of grass showed in the cañon, and the animals were allowed to crop what they could of the natural food. The men lounged upon the boulders at hand, smoked their pipes and occasionally exchanged a few words, but none was in the mood for talking and they formed a grim, stolid group. Hardly ten minutes had passed, when Ruggles, with some evidence of excitement, exclaimed in a guarded undertone: "Helloa! Something's up!" He referred to the horses, who are often the most reliable sentinels in the presence of insidious danger. Two of them had stopped plucking the grass, and, with their ears pricked, were staring up the cañon at some object that had attracted their attention and that was invisible to their owners in their present situation. Convinced that something unusual had taken place, Ruggles walked out into the cañon where he could gain a more extended view. One sweeping glance was enough, when he hurried back to his companions. "Thunderation! all Sacramento's broke loose and is coming this way!" The three passed out from the side of the gorge to where they had a view of the strange procession. There seemed to be about a dozen men, mounted on mules, with as many more pack animals, coming from the west in a straggling procession, talking loudly and apparently in exuberant spirits. "I don't like their looks," said Brush; "it is best to get our property out of their way." The counsel was good and was followed without a minute's delay. The four animals were rounded up and turned into the ravine, up which Vose Adams had disappeared. They gave no trouble, but, probably because of the steepness of the slope, none of the four went beyond sight. Had the three men been given warning, they would have placed them out of reach, for none knew better than they how attractive horses are to men beyond the power of the law. But it was too late now, and the little party put on a bold front. As the strangers drew near, they were seen to be nine in number and they formed a motley company. Their pack mules were so cumbrously loaded as to suggest country wagons piled with hay. The wonder was how the tough little animals could carry such enormous burdens, consisting of blankets, picks, shovels, guns, cooking utensils, including even some articles of furniture. Our older readers will recall that for years after the close of the war, tens of thousands of the blue army overcoats were in use throughout the country. It looked as if every man in the present company was thus provided, including in many instances trousers of the same material, though each person had discarded the army cap for a soft slouch hat, similar to those worn by the miners. All the garments were in a dilapidated condition, proving their rough usage as well as their poor quality. Many of the heavy boots disclosed naked toes, while the mules had not known a curry comb for weeks and perhaps months. The faces of the men were anything but attractive. Most of them were heavily bearded, with long, frowsy, unkempt hair, dangling about the shoulders. Every one displayed side arms, and there could be no mistake in setting them down as a reckless lot, whom a peaceable citizen would not care to meet anywhere. The leader of this mongrel gang was a massive man, who bestrode so small a mule that his feet were only a few inches from the ground. There was little semblance of discipline in the company, but a certain rude deference to the fellow, who kept his place at the head, and did the loudest talking, ornamented with plenty of expletives, indicated his prominence among his fellows. The mountain tramps had descried the three men standing at the side of the cañon, watching them as they approached. They ceased their boisterous talking and studied them as they drew near. "Howdy, pards?" called the leader, raising his two fingers to his forehead and making a military salute, to which our friends responded coolly, hoping the company would keep on without stopping. But they were disappointed. Colonel Briggs, as his men called him, suddenly shouted "Whoa!" in a voice that could have been heard a mile off, and pulled so hard on his bridle rein that he drew the jaws of the mule against his breast, while the rider lay back almost on the haunches of his animal, who showed his contrariness by walking round in a short circle before standing still. "Which way, pards?" asked the leader, while his followers, who with more or less effort succeeded in checking their mules, curiously surveyed the three miners. "We intend to visit Sacramento," replied Captain Dawson. "Huh! that's where we come from." "On your way to the diggings I presume?" continued the captain courteously. "That's what's the matter; we're going to New Constantinople, which is the name of a mining settlement in Dead Man's Gulch. Do you know anything of the place?" "We live there." "The deuce! Queer town, ain't it?" "In what respect?" "Don't like visitors; Red Tom and Missouri Mike, two of the gang with me, stopped there a year or so ago with the idee of staying; the best they could do was to sleep there one night and git fired the next morning. That went agin the grain," continued Colonel Briggs, "and the more the boys thought it over the madder they got. When they told the rest of us, we made up our minds that the trouble was the diggings had panned out so rich in them parts that the folks meant to keep 'em to themselves. I don't call that square, so we're going down to divvy with 'em. Big scheme, ain't it?" Our three friends were astounded. The addition of this gang to New Constantinople meant nothing less than its moral ruin. It would bring a peril from the first hour and doubtless precipitate a murderous conflict with a doubtful issue. "They are a peculiar people," said Captain Dawson, repressing all evidence of his anger; "it's a mistake to attribute their prejudice against immigrants to the richness of the diggings, for though they have been worked for years, they have not produced much. But they want no strangers among them, and I know they will not allow you and your friends to make your homes in their settlement." Colonel Briggs threw back his head, opened his enormous mouth and broke into uproarious laughter, most of his companions joining him to the extent of a broad grin. "Do you hear that, boys? Won't let us settle among 'em, eh? And there are nine of us and we hain't had a scrimmage since we left Sacramento, except with the Injins, which don't count. Stranger, we're yearning to hear your folks say we shan't jine 'em, 'cause if they try to stop it, it'll make things lively." It was not a pleasant recollection of our friends that, since their departure from New Constantinople, the force left behind would be hardly a match for this desperate gang of marauders, who no doubt were as eager for trouble as they professed to be. "Why not make a settlement of your own?" was the conciliating question of Parson Brush; "there's plenty of room in this country." "That would be too peaceable like; it don't suit us; we're looking for trouble." "And you'll find it powerful quick," said Wade Ruggles, "if you try to shove that gang of yours into New Constantinople." "That's music in our ears; that's what we're hungry for; we're ready to start an opposition hotel to the Heavenly Bower, too; we've got the stock to furnish it." "Wade," said the parson, "keep your temper; we can't afford to quarrel with these men." "It wouldn't take much for me to shoot that chap off his mule as he sets there." "Leave matters to the captain; it looks as if we shall have a fight, but it is best to keep cool." The observant trio had noticed an additional cause for uneasiness. More than one of the party were surveying the three horses and mule with admiring eyes. Some of them spoke to one another in low tones, and there could be no doubt they looked with envy upon the animals, which, tiring of their confinement in the ravine, had come forth as if with the purpose of passing under review, on their way to crop the grass from which they had been driven. "Colonel," called one of the men behind him, "them is likely animals." "I had obsarved that fact myself; strangers, I've made up my mind to buy them critters; what's your price?" "They are not for sale," replied Captain Dawson. "Why not?" "We need them for our own use." "Then we'll trade." "You won't do anything of the kind," said the captain, speaking with the utmost coolness, but with that paling of the countenance and glitter of the eyes that Colonel Briggs would have done well to heed. "Strikes me, stranger, you're rather peart in your observations," said the leader with an odd chuckle; "we ain't used to having people speak to us in that style." "It is my custom to say what I mean; it saves misunderstanding." "It's my opinion, stranger, you'd better say trade." "It is of no importance to me what your opinion is; we need the horses and the mule for our own use and we shall keep them." "But you've got one more than you want." "He belongs to a friend who is not far off and will soon return; we can't spare one of them." "If we give you four of ours for the lot, that'll make an even thing of it. Besides, we'll throw in something to boot." "I wouldn't give one of the horse's shoes for all the trash you have piled on top of your animals; the stuff isn't worth house room, but it is what I should expect to see in the hands of a lot of tramps like you and yours; I wouldn't trade our mule for the whole party which, to judge by their looks, ought to be in jail." Brush and Ruggles were amazed to hear the captain use such language, for it sounded as if he was trying to provoke instead of avoid a fight. The truth was the veteran was thoroughly enraged by the evident purpose of the fellow before him. Although his voice was low and deliberate, the captain's temper was at a white heat. The point had been reached where a desperate struggle seemed unavoidable, and he wished to precipitate the crisis, inasmuch as it had to come. Colonel Briggs did not laugh, but turning his head, talked for a minute with the man nearest him, their words so low that no one else heard them. Then the leader turned back in a quick, decisive way. "There don't seem much use in talking, stranger, so 'spose we make a fight of it." "As you prefer." The gang hardly expected so firm a front. Some of them muttered to one another. They were not a unit on the question, though it was evident that the majority preferred to fight. The three men stood with their backs almost against the mountain wall. Each had a Winchester and revolver and all were expert in the use of the weapons. The others were gathered in an irregular group around their leader. They, too, were provided with all the weapons they could use, not to mention the extra guns strapped upon the pack mules. They outnumbered our friends three to one. Captain Dawson could use his rifle as well with his single arm as formerly with two. "He can't fire before me," he said in an undertone to Brush, standing next to him; "when the shooting begins, I'll drop him off his mule before he knows what's coming. When I say the word, let fly as quick as lightning! Likely enough they'll win, but we'll make them pay high for their victory." "Do you notice that tall thin man at the rear?" asked Brush, in the same guarded voice; "his eyes shine like a rattlesnake's; he'll be _my_ first target." CHAPTER XXII FRIENDS Colonel Briggs was nonplussed for the moment. He had failed to scare the men whom he meant to despoil of their property and some of the mutterings behind him showed that he lacked the unanimous support of his followers. "Boys," he said, looking round in their faces; "you've heerd what these strangers say to my mild requests. Since they are too mean to trade, I leave it to you to say whether we shall let up on 'em or make 'em trade; which is it?" "Trade! trade!" was the response, given with such ardency that there seemed to be no dissent, though there was. "That hits me right; trade it shall be; the first one of the strangers that kicks, fill him full of holes." "And the first man that lays a finger on my property," said Captain Dawson, in the same deliberate voice, "will be shot down like a dog!" The person whom Parson Brush had selected a few minutes before for his first target and whom he was watching closely, now did an extraordinary thing. This individual was thin to emaciation. His beard was scant and scraggly, and his large black eyes gleamed like those of a wild animal. He had a very long body, and sat so upright in his saddle, with his Winchester resting across in front, that he towered head and shoulders above his companions. From the first, he fixed his penetrating eyes on Captain Dawson and studied him closely. It was this persistent intensity of gaze that attracted the notice of Brush, who set him down as being even more malignant than the leader of the disreputable party. When a collision was impending, and must have come the next second, the singular looking man, grasping his revolver, raised his hand above his head and called: "Hold on a minute!" His commanding voice and manner hushed every one. From his place at the rear, he spurred his mule straight toward the three men standing on the ground. "Keep off!" commanded the parson; "if you come any nearer I'll shoot!" The extraordinary looking individual gave him no heed, but forced his mule in front of Captain Dawson, upon whom he kept his eyes riveted. "Don't fire till I give the word," commanded the captain, who had become suddenly interested in the tall, slim man. Halting his mule directly before Dawson, and with no more than a couple of yards separating them, the stranger craned his head forward until his chin was almost between the long ears of his animal. He seemed to be trying to look the officer through, while every other man watched the curious proceeding. Suddenly the fellow resumed his upright posture in the saddle, his manner showing that he had solved the problem that perplexed him. Through his thin, scattered beard, he was seen to be smiling. "What's your name?" he asked. "Maurice Dawson." "Formerly captain of the Iowa ---- cavalry?" "The same at your service." "Don't you know me, captain?" The officer thus appealed to took a single step forward, and looked searchingly in the face of the man that had thus addressed him. "There is something familiar in your looks and voice, but I am unable to place you." "Did you ever hear of Corporal Bob Parker of the ---- Missouri?" "Yes; you are he! I recognize you now! I am glad to greet you." And shoving his Winchester under the stump of his arm, Captain Dawson extended his hand to his old comrade and shook it warmly, the two seeming to forget the presence of every one else. "Something in your face struck me," said the corporal, "but I wasn't sure. The last time I saw you, you had both arms." "Yes; I got rid of this one at the very close of the war." "Things were pretty well mixed up around Petersburg; I tried to get on your track, but failed; I knew you meant to come to California, and when we drifted here, I was hopeful of finding you, but I didn't think it would be in this style." While speaking the corporal had retained the hand of the captain, shaking it occasionally as he spoke. He now gave it a final pressure and dropped it. "Captain, you and I went through some pretty tough scrimmages and you were always dead true and game; when we lost our colonel and major, you took command and led the charge that day at Cold Harbor; Grant or Sheridan couldn't have done better." "It _was_ rather warm," smiled the captain, blushing at the compliment; "but, corporal, it looks as if we are going to have something of the kind here." Corporal Parker deliberately turned to the wondering group behind him. "Jim and Tom, you know what we agreed on, if this should prove to be my old commander. You two wore the gray, but you are true blue now." At this reminder, two of the company without a word rode forward and placed themselves beside the corporal. "Now, we'll face the other way." His suggestion was followed. The three wheeled their animals around, so that their riders, like the footmen, were in a line confronting Colonel Briggs and his astonished company. "Dress," said the corporal, looking down and moving his mule about until the alignment would have drawn a compliment from a West Point cadet. "Now, boys, are your shooting irons ready?" "They gin'rally air," was the significant response of one of the men. "All right, colonel," added the corporal making a military salute; "everything being in readiness please let the skirmish proceed." Colonel Briggs emitted a forceful exclamation. "What's the meaning of all this? I don't understand it." "There are six on each side; that evens matters; shall you start the music or do you prefer to have the captain fire the opening gun?" "But you haven't told me what this means." "It means that Captain Dawson and Corporal Bob Parker have drunk from the same canteen." It must be conceded that Colonel Briggs had one merit; no one was quicker than he to grasp a situation. So long as there were nine men on one side and three on the other, the success of the former was promising. He meant to crowd the defiant miners to the wall and would have done so but for the unprecedented turn of affairs. Now it was six to six and he knew the mettle of the three recruits that had joined the miners. Bob Parker was the most terrific fighter in the whole company. He was one of those men, occasionally seen, who was absolutely without fear. He would have stood up alone and fought the other eight. During that single week in Sacramento, he gained the name of a terror and caused a sigh of relief on the part of the authorities when he left for the mountains. The corporal always fired to kill, and his skill with rifle and pistol was marvelous. While talking with Colonel Briggs, he fixed his brilliant black eyes on him, as if to intimate that he had selected _him_ for his pet antagonist. All this was disconcerting. In this crisis, when every nerve was drawn tense and the question of life and death hung on the passing of a breath, Colonel Briggs leaned backward and elevating his chin in the way that had become familiar, emitted one of his resounding laughs. Then he abruptly snapped his jaws together like the springing of a trap. "Why, Bob, this puts a different face on things," he said cheerily; "if the man's a friend of yours, of course we can't quarrel with him." "I rather think not," replied the corporal. "I was in the army myself," added the colonel, "but didn't stay long; me and General Grant couldn't agree as to how the war should be run, and one night when no one was around, I resigned and left." "Then you didn't win your title in the service," remarked Captain Dawson, who felt that he could afford to show good will, now that the situation had taken so remarkable a turn. "Scarcely; the boys think that no officer lower than a colonel is fit to command this crowd, so that's how I got the handle." Captain Dawson could not forbear saying: "I think it much more befitting that a true and tried soldier, like Corporal Parker, should be in your place." "It was offered to me," said the corporal, "but I refused it." "No; we agreed to make him a full-fledged major-general, but he declined the honor with some sarcastic remarks," said the colonel; "howsumever, boys, now that things have been straightened out, do you intend to go with the captain or with us?" Corporal Parker addressed his two comrades. "Wheel and salute!" They faced their animals around, and, taking the cue from the corporal, made an elaborate military salutation to Captain Dawson and his companions. Then they wheeled again and rode back to their former places. "With my best regards," added the colonel, also saluting, while the rest half-nodded and grinned over the odd turn of affairs. Dawson, Brush and Ruggles unbent sufficiently to respond, but kept their places, side by side, and watched the curious procession until it passed out of sight beyond a sweeping curve in the cañon. "I wonder if we are likely to see any more of them," said the parson; "they are an ugly lot and badly want our horses." "Not badly enough to fight Corporal Parker and his two friends. The corporal is the bravest man I ever saw. I know he was disappointed when the colonel was so quick in backing down. He will go hungry for two or three days, for the sake of a fight. It is he and not the colonel or any one in the company that is spoiling for a row." "And I picked him out as the first one to shoot," grimly remarked Brush. "The chances are ten to one that he would have dropped you first, but it shows how easily one may be mistaken." "I tell you," said Ruggles earnestly, "when that gang strikes New Constantinople, there'll be trouble." "There's no doubt of it," commented Brush; "the forces will be about equal; if the boys at home could have warning of what is coming, they would make it so hot for Colonel Briggs and his tramps that they would be glad to camp somewhere else." "That wouldn't improve matters, for of necessity there would be passing back and forth, and there are some people at New Constantinople who would welcome the change. That's the worst of it; a good deal of this evil seed will fall on soil waiting for it." "We may be back in time to take a hand in the business," said the parson; "I don't know whether your friend, the corporal, can be secured as an ally." "It is doubtful, for about the only merits he has are his bravery and his loyalty to his friends." "In my 'pinion the same is considerable," commented Ruggles. "He would be a powerful friend to Nellie, because she is a female and because she is my daughter, but," added the father with a sigh, "I have my doubts whether I shall ever take her to the settlement again." This announcement strangely affected the two who heard it, for the dearest schemes which they secretly nourished included the spending of their days in the mining settlement. The hope of each had flickered into life once more with the prospect of recovering and punishing her abductor. They knew that she would bitterly mourn his loss, and would probably be inconsolable for a time, but the months and years would bring forgetfulness and then--who should say what _might_ come to pass? "We thought," remarked Ruggles, as they resumed their seats, "that we should have a weary wait for Vose, but it didn't prove so dull after all." The captain looked at his watch. "He has been gone more than an hour, and there's no saying when he will be back. He has his own way of managing this business, and, though I concede his skill and superior knowledge in this part of the world, it is hard to keep my patience when I see the hours slipping away without bringing any results." But the patience of the three men was tried more sorely than ever before, and to a greater extent than any one of them anticipated. Noon came and passed and without bringing Vose Adams. The party partook sparingly of their lunch, leaving enough for their absent friend, but the lagging hours wore away and they still waited. They said little to one another, but the captain, unable to restrain his restlessness, wandered down the cañon. The two left behind watched him until he passed from view in the direction taken by Colonel Briggs and his company. A few minutes later, the report of his rifle came back to them. "I wonder if _he's_ got into trouble," exclaimed the parson, rising to his feet and peering to their left, without seeing everything to explain the sound that had reached them. "I shouldn't wonder," replied Ruggles; "everything is going wrong; Vose wouldn't stay away so long, unless he, too, was in difficulty." "The captain may need us; he can't be far off." Gun in hand, the couple walked hurriedly down the cañon, on the alert for Indians, for it seemed more likely that if any danger threatened, it was from them. To their relief, however, they soon found their alarm groundless. The captain was seen coming, apparently as well as ever. "Nothing is wrong," he explained when they were within speaking distance; "I saw an antelope among the rocks and took a shot at him." "How near did you come to hitting him?" "He made only a single jump after he received my bullet; it's a pity he didn't make a couple of them." "Why?" "It would have brought him over the outer rock and into the ravine; then we should have had something for supper. Haven't you seen Adams yet?" Instead of answering directly the three looked toward the fissure in the side of the cañon, and there, to their unspeakable relief, they saw the man who had been absent for so many hours. As is the rule at such times, their ill-humor deepened. "Why didn't you wait till morning?" was the question of the captain. "I was afraid I would have to do so," replied the guide, whose flushed face and agitated manner proved that he brought important news; "but I didn't have to, and got away in time to reach you afore night." "Not much before," commented the parson; "you must have had a remarkable experience to detain you so long." "Rather, but I'm starving, give me something to eat, while I talk." The lunch was produced, and he fell to with avidity, but he saw they were in no mood for frivolity, and he did not presume upon their indulgence. "Wal, pards, after leaving you, I picked my way as best I could up the gorge, which runs back, with the bottom rising more or less all the way, for 'bout two hundred yards when you reach level ground. That is to say, the gorge ends, but the ground is anything but level." "And they went all that distance ahead of you with their animals?" asked Brush. "That's what they done; the tracks of the horses were so plain there couldn't be any mistake 'bout it. At the top of the gorge, the trail slanted off to the right, toward a big pile of rocks, caves and gullies, where it didn't look as if a goat could travel. There was so much stone that it was mighty hard to keep on the trail and I lost it." "And didn't you find it again?" demanded the captain. "Yes, but it took a good deal of time; that's one reason why I was gone so long, but it wasn't the only reason by a jug full. When I struck it agin, it led straight toward a high rocky place to the left, where I made up my mind the two were hidin'." "That would imply that they knew we were close behind them." "There can't be any doubt of that. What bothered me was to learn what they had done with their horses, fur the prints that I followed was made by the folks' feet. I couldn't figger out what they had done with the animals, and I spent some more time in trying to larn, but it was no use. "Bime by I struck better ground, where the trail was so clear I could have trotted over it." "Why didn't you do it?" asked Ruggles. Adams shook his head. "It wouldn't have done; as I said they must have found out, purty early in the day, that we was after them, for if they didn't, why did they turn off the reg'lar track?" "Never mind asking questions," replied the captain; "go on with your story." "Wal, pards, by that time I must have been a mile from here and it looked as if I'd have to go that much further. I had a good mind to come back after you, for time was important, but when another rocky, walled-up place showed in front of me, I was sartin I was close upon 'em. Their horses couldn't make their way through such a spot, and I was sure I had 'em fast." "Why didn't you come back at once?" said the captain, "but, never mind, go on with your account." "I thought it would be best to find out just how they was fixed. At the same time, it would never do to let 'em diskiver that I was about. So I was powerful careful and crept forward as if into an Injin camp. It wasn't long before I smelled burning wood. That told me they had come to a stop, built a fire and didn't dream I was anywhere in the neighborhood. "But I wasn't through with the bother yet; it took me another long time to find where that fire was burnin', but I hit it at last. A little faint streak of smoke was climbin' from behind a ridge, among a growth of pines. I begun creeping forward when I changed my mind. I thought that if one of 'em happened to be on the watch and see me, they would be off afore I could git anywhere near 'em. So I worked round to the other side to come upon 'em from that. Then you see if they took the alarm, they'd have to come back toward you or make another long circuit. Anyway, I was sure of a chance to meet 'em. "Wal, pards, I don't want to make a long story of what is a short one. I got round to tother side, but it took me a good while, and it's hardly an hour ago that I catched my first sight of their camp." "What passed between you and them?" asked the captain. "When I rested my eyes on the little bundle of wood burnin', there wasn't a man, woman or horse in sight." The listeners were dumbfounded for the moment. After the waste of the greater part of the day, they were no nearer seeing the fugitives than before. In a voice, husky with passion, Captain Dawson exclaimed: "It will take hard work to convince me that all this was not done on purpose by you." "What do you mean?" demanded Vose, showing more anger than at any time since the strange hunt had been begun. "If you had spent a week trying to fix things so as to help them get away from us, you couldn't have done any better than your own account shows you to have done. The whole day has been lost and we stand just as near success as we did twenty-four hours ago." "You ought to have returned to us as soon as you located them," added Brush in the effort to soothe the ruffled feelings of the two. "P'raps I didn't do the wisest thing," replied Adams with unexpected meekness; "but I ain't the first person in the world that has made a mistake. Howsumever, there won't be any more slips by me." His companions looked inquiringly at him. "I don't understand that remark," said the captain, "when you are sure to blunder as long as you attempt to manage things." "That's the p'int; I resign from this time forward; I haven't given satisfaction and you may now do the work to suit yourselves." "It's just as well," commented the captain, "for we can't make a greater mess of it than you." The story told by Vose Adams was a singular one, but the most singular feature about it was that it did not contain a grain of truth. Every statement was a falsehood, deliberately intended to deceive, and, seeing that he had succeeded in his purpose, he was satisfied. CHAPTER XXIII VOSE ADAMS Lieutenant Russell gave no hint to Nellie Dawson of the scheme upon which he had fixed his hopes, until after she had confessed her love for him, and he was certain beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he possessed the sole affection of her heart. Even then he hesitated for he knew the shock it would cause the gentle one, who was devotedly attached to her father. But the resolution of Captain Dawson to spend the remainder of his days at the mining settlement, and his intention of selecting her husband from among those that had made New Constantinople their home for years, crystallized the determination that had been vaguely shaping itself in his brain for weeks. As he expected, she recoiled shocked by the proposal to leave her father; but love is eloquent, and he won by convincing her that the separation would be only temporary. Her father would be quick to see the great wrong his course would inflict upon his child, and he would not only consent to the union, but would follow and make his home with them. It was this implicit belief which made her the companion of Lieutenant Russell in the flight from the mountain settlement. The project having been carefully planned and arranged, the preparations were more complete than those of their pursuers. They took sufficient extra clothing in the form of wraps and blankets, and enough food to last for several days. They were well mounted and had the companionship of the huge dog Timon, with his almost human intelligence. The lieutenant's memory of places was good, and, having a number of hours of daylight at command, he escaped the mistake of his pursuers. The turn from Dead Man's Gulch was made at the right point, and they were miles on their way before their flight was discovered by Captain Dawson and his friends. Both of the fugitives did not doubt they would be pursued. They knew the consuming anger that would take possession of her father, who would probably collect several companions and start after them with furious haste. He would take frightful vengeance upon the man that had dared to steal his daughter. Everything, therefore, must be done to keep beyond his reach until his wrath had time to cool. The intention was to make Sacramento ahead of him. At that city, the lieutenant would seek out his future father-in-law and plead his cause. When night closed around them, they had penetrated to a distance of perhaps fifteen miles in the Sierras. It was at sunset that they passed a spot, where horses and riders, the latter on foot, had to pick their way with extreme care, while even Timon, who clung faithfully to them, showed timidity, though he had been over the place before. The sagacious brute knew that a mis-step on his part meant death. The passage, however, was made without mishap, and Russell, as he helped his companion into the saddle, assured her that nothing so trying to the nerves was to be expected during the rest of the journey. There was no fear of pursuit until after nightfall, but Russell frequently pointed his glass backward and scanned the trail over his whole field of vision. When the gathering darkness shut out everything, he had seen nothing of enemies, either white or red. He could not forget that on his previous journey, he and the captain had desperate fighting with the Indians and the same peril still impended. Nellie was eager to cover all the ground possible, while the opportunity was theirs, and the flight was pushed longer than Russell would have advised. Finally, he insisted they should stop and rest themselves and horses for the remainder of the night. The halting place was selected with much care. The animals were turned loose, where the grass was growing and a small stream wound its way toward a larger one. Then the two, accompanied by Timon, pushed in among the rocks to where the final halt was made. They were in profound darkness. The lieutenant decided to start a fire, and, with much difficulty, gathered a sufficiency of dried branches. They were fortunate enough to find a partial cavern, so open in front that it would have given slight shelter in the event of a storm. When the blaze threw out its cheerful light, it served to dissipate the gloom which in spite of themselves had oppressed them with the coming of night. They partook of food and the lieutenant's spirits rose, for he saw nothing to prevent the full success of the dream which had inspired and thrilled him so long. His buoyancy was infectious, and he brought a smile to the beauteous countenance by his merry sallies, and his picture of the happy future that was close at hand. "Your father will be angry at first," he said; "it would be strange if he were not, but he loves you and I think has a pretty fair opinion of me. When he gains time to think over the matter, he will admit the wisdom of what we have done and we shall receive his blessing." It was this assurance, more than all else, that served to lift the gloom from her. Deep as was her love for the one at her side, it would not have sufficed to draw her from her adored parent, had she believed that his resentment against her would last. As it was, she grieved that even for a brief time, as she thought would be the case, he should hold harsh feelings toward her. No chivalrous knight of the Crusades could have been more scrupulously considerate of lady intrusted to his charge than Lieutenant Russell. He would have died before offending Nellie Dawson by act, word or presumptuous thought. When, as the night advanced, the bright eyes began to grow drowsy, he arranged a couch for her, saw that she was well provided with blankets and then turned to the immense dog, who had never left them and who looked as if he understood everything. "Now, Timon, you are to stay right here," he said, bending over and impressively shaking his finger at the animal; "you are not to venture a dozen feet from your mistress without permission. Do you understand?" A whine and wagging of the tail left no doubt that the wishes of his late master were clear to him. "You have your gun at your side," he added, turning to Nellie; "I do not think you will have any call to use it. We have not met any Indians and your father cannot overtake us before morning. Timon will be sure to give you warning of the approach of danger, and, if your gun goes off, I shall be here in a twinkling." He bade her good night and departed. Enough wood had been flung on the fire to keep it going for an hour or two, but long before it sank to ashes, the girl had drifted into dreamland. The lieutenant carefully selected his own sleeping quarters. He finally fixed upon a large flat boulder, at the rear of the cavern occupied by Timon and his charge; but, although beyond sight, he was near enough to reach the spot on the instant needed. Spreading out his blanket, he lay down upon it. "This recalls the old days in Virginia, when mud a foot deep, with the rain dashing in our faces, was what we had for weeks at a time. This couch doesn't equal a feather bed, but it will answer." The night passed without incident and it was hardly light when the young officer was astir. He visited the horses and found them cropping the grass, but he waited until Timon came to him before calling upon Nellie. She, too, had been awake for some time and they partook of their morning meal with rugged appetites. She was so eager to hurry on that he lost no time in taking the road again. Neither could doubt that their pursuers were on their trail, and, with the aid of his small glass, he carefully studied the country behind them. It was not long before he made the discovery he dreaded: four horsemen were following their footprints, and beyond them were the five Indians picking their way along the ledge in the opposite direction. The lieutenant passed the glass to his companion who scrutinized the party with the keenest interest. "They must have traveled all night," remarked her escort, while she still peered through the instrument. "That shows how dreadfully angry father is; I hope it will not last." "Can you make out the members of the party?" She studied them a minute or two more before answering: "I think that is father who is close to the man on a mule." "The one on a mule must be Vose Adams, for he is more accustomed to that sort of animal. I am sorry he is with the party." "Why?" asked Nellie, lowering the glass and looking at him. "He is so familiar with the trail, that it will be hard work to outwit him; he isn't the man to make mistakes. Did you recognize the others?" "I cannot be sure, but I suspect they are Mr. Ruggles and Mr. Brush." "I have no doubt you are right,--not because I was able to identify them, but because the two are partners and your father would naturally go to them first. I do not think any one of the four has a glass, so, despite their sharp eyes, we have a big advantage in that respect." "But they know the route better than we, and we are losing time." The course of the trail took them out of the field of vision of their pursuers. It was at the suggestion of Russell that the two turned aside from the cañon into the fissure-like gorge. This would have been a serious mistake, except for the plan he had in view, for it must place the pursuers in advance, the very thing which it would seem the fugitives ought if possible to prevent. The lieutenant had believed from the first that Vose Adams, in threading his way through the mountains, traveled a good many miles more than was necessary. It was quite likely that, if he could follow a straight line, he would shorten the distance one-half. Although this was impossible, the young man, nevertheless, was convinced that by changing the route, a good many miles could be saved: and it was in his mind to do that thing. The lieutenant's experience in campaigning had taught him the danger of going astray, when picking his way through an unfamiliar country, but the little compass attached as a charm to his watch chain would help him to keep track of the variations and windings, and he was confident of coming out right. He and Nellie were well mounted and armed, all of which being impressed upon his companion, she offered no objection to the radical change of plan which took them out of the cañon into the ravine that led them they knew not whither, but it was ominous of disaster that at the top of the fissure, when the two were leading their animals, a grievous mishap occurred. The pony of Nellie slipped and sprained his ankle so badly that he whined with pain and paused with his weight supported on three legs. [Illustration: THE LIEUTENANT PASSED THE GLASS TO HIS COMPANION, WHO SCRUTINIZED THE PARTY WITH THE KEENEST INTEREST.--PAGE 269.] "That's a bad go!" exclaimed the dismayed Russell; "it will be several days before he is able to travel." She examined the ankle, as best she could, trying to soothe the pain by passing her hand over the injured part, but it was plain that neither she nor her companion could give any help. "Poor fellow," she said sympathetically; "you cannot go any further; what shall be done, Fred?" "Only one thing seems possible,--take you on my horse." "And what will become of Cap?" "We must leave him behind." "What will happen to him?" "Some one will pick him up, or, after his leg recovers, he may find his way back to the settlement." The impulsive girl flung her arms about the animal's neck and touched her lips to the silken nose. "They shall not part us, Cap," she exclaimed with tears in her eyes. The lieutenant watched this by-play, full of sympathy for the girl, but he was in a quandary. Prudence seemed to demand that everything should be sacrificed to speed by abandoning the pony. In all probability, the latter would serve as a dinner for some of the bears, wolves or other denizens of the mountains, who would quickly harry him to death. To wait where they were until the animal was able to travel rendered certain a speedy meeting with their pursuers. The woodcraft of Vose Adams would enable him to discover with slight delay the point where the fugitives had left the cañon, and he would guide his companions with the skill of one of the mountain Indians themselves. On the other hand, the plan he had in view imposed prodigious work upon his own animal. Between the halting place and Sacramento were many miles of easy traveling, over which he could walk, but for long distances the beast would be compelled to carry double. In the event of close pursuit, this must prove a fatal handicap. In his perplexity, the lieutenant again examined the hurt of the pony. "It would be cruel to make him take a single step, but he may soon recover. I am afraid to leave him behind and to continue our flight with only my horse. You know how dangerous it is to linger, Nellie, when it is certain _they_ are not far off----" She caught his arm and whispered: "Look at Timon! he has discovered something!" The dog was standing a few paces in front of them, with his nose pointed toward the cañon. He emitted several growls and pricked up his ears in a way that left no doubt that he was angered. The lieutenant had hardly time to place himself in an attitude of defence with his Winchester, when a soft footfall was heard, and the next moment Vose Adams emerged from behind the pile of rocks and approached them. It was proof of the guide's woodcraft that he was able to come thus close before being detected by Timon, who advanced threateningly toward him. A word, however, from the lieutenant stayed the dog. "Well, Vose," said the young man, "this is unexpected." "So I jedge and I've a 'spicion that you ain't tickled half to death to see me." "We were always friends, but I can't say that either Nellie or I am glad to meet you under the circumstances; for in truth, we have been doing all we could to prevent such a meeting." "Things has that look," added Vose, standing on guard as may be said, for he was not free from misgiving concerning the young lieutenant whom he had managed to run down. His positive orders forbade him to assume the aggressive, but no one could forbid him to defend himself, and he did not mean that this handsome officer should catch him unprepared. "Whom have you with you?" asked Russell. "The captain, Wade Ruggles and the parson." "What we suspected; I presume no one of the three feels specially affectionate toward me." "It is all the captain can do to prevent the other two from quarrelin' as to which shall have the first chance to shoot you." "Why does Captain Dawson prevent them?" "'Cause he means to have the first chance himself." "How about _you_?" grimly asked Lieutenant Russell. "I'm left." "How's that?" "A low down trick was played onto me; as near as I can find out, the captain comes first, Wade and the parson next and me fourth. You can see for yourself that there won't be any chance at all left for me after them three is through." "It doesn't look so,--that's a fact. But where are the three?" "Along the main trail, down in the kenyon." "Why did they not come with you?" "I advised 'em to wait till I found out how the land laid and they won't leave the spot till I get back." Lieutenant Russell gave no expression to the thought that flashed upon him. Why not keep Vose Adams a prisoner? The loss of his services to the party would be irreparable, for, as it was, the present hiding place of the fugitives never would have become known to them without the help of the guide. It was a daring scheme, but there were so many objections to carrying it out, that the officer dismissed it. In truth he thought of a much better plan. "You have told me enough, Vose, to prove that the four men--for I may as well include yourself--feel bitterer toward me than I suspected: do you think this enmity of theirs will last?" "Not for long." "How long?" "They'll let up as soon as you're shot." Lieutenant Russell could not restrain a smile at this way of putting it, while Nellie was so horrified that she gasped and stared and listened in silence. "There can be little doubt that you are right, but I meant to ask whether you do not think the captain will moderate his anger when he is given time to think it over." "He has had all night to do that, and this mornin' he was hotter if anything, than at any time since he larned what you had done." "When did he learn it?" Thereupon, Vose told the facts which have already been made known to the reader, the most interesting feature of which was that Adams was not an original member of the pursuing party. But, although the guide was so pronounced in his opinion of the continuance of the enmity of Captain Dawson, the lieutenant believed otherwise. He was confident that if he and Nellie could reach Sacramento before meeting the irate father, the latter would be open to reason, and all would turn out well. Vose turned to the young woman. "Nellie, do you want a little advice from me?" "I am glad to have it at any time." "Howsumever, what I say is as much for the leftenant as for you, which the same is that both of you should give up this bus'ness." "But," said Nellie, "you have just told us that father is so angry with Lieutenant Russell that he will shoot him the moment they meet." "We can fix that easy 'nough; let the leftenant stay here while you go with me; I think we can explain matters to the captain and the others so they won't bother the leftenant." "And what am _I_ to do?" asked Russell. "Push on to Sacramento as fast as you can, for though I think I can fix it, I wouldn't advise you to take too many chances." "In other words, after Nellie and I have fled from the settlement and got this far on the road to safety, you urge me to give her up forever." "Wal, that's lookin' a little further ahead than I meant to, but I 'spose it amounts to that." "You mean well, Vose, but do you imagine that Nellie and I did not count the cost before turning our backs on New Constantinople? Don't you suppose we knew we should be pursued and were prepared for the consequences?" "I can't say as to that, but it strikes me that the plan I laid before you is the only one there is." "Why?" "You cannot get away from the captain and the men with him." "Well, there is no call for me to repeat my opinion, but I will say that the decision shall rest with Nellie herself. If she wishes to go with you I will interpose not a word of objection." He looked toward her as an invitation for her to speak. There was a world of affection and faith in the lustrous eyes, as she walked resolutely forward and placed herself by his side. "Only death shall separate us!" CHAPTER XXIV AN UNEXPECTED ALLY The lovelight shone in the eyes of Lieutenant Russell, as he looked down at the slight figure beside him. He tenderly passed his arm around the girl and touched his lips to her forehead. "It was not that I doubted you, Nellie," he said, "but that Vose might know the full truth." Then turning to the guide, he asked: "Do you still advise her to leave me?" Vose Adams was unaccustomed to scenes like this. He moved about uneasily, coughed, cleared his throat, and for a few minutes was at a loss for words. "I don't know what to advise," he finally said; "but don't you think, if she could go to the captain and let him see how she feels, he will give in? How would it do for both of you to walk back with your arms round each other's neck and sayin' sweet words--wouldn't that fetch him? Hanged, if I know what to tell you!" he exclaimed desperately, observing the smiles on their faces. "I am afraid your plan wouldn't work," said the lieutenant, "but you have proved yourself the very friend we need." These words were a hint of the scheme that had come into the brain of the young officer. Had he made a prisoner of Vose Adams, as he thought for a minute of doing, the guide would really be more dangerous, since there was no way of guarding against his treachery, but if he could be turned into a friend, it would be almost equivalent to saving the fugitives. It was that for which the young man planned, but he felt that the real work must be done by Nellie. He could not win the good will of Vose, but she could, for who was able to resist her appeals? It was a proof of the brightness of the girl that she caught the purpose of her escort the moment his last words were uttered, and she performed her part with a cleverness that could not have been surpassed. Tears were in the eyes of the emotional Nellie, but she stepped across the brief intervening space and laid her hand on the arm of Adams. "How glad I am, Vose, that you will help us, for you have told enough to show that it will not do for us to meet father for some time to come; we are now in your hands." "Blamed if I won't do anything I can! But what can _I_ do? 'Spose I sneak back, shoot the captain and then plug Ruggles and the parson? Will that suit you?" "Gracious; I should rather you would kill me than harm a hair of father's head." "Wal, 'spose I shoot you and the leftenant and the captain and the rest? No; that won't do; how the mischief shall I fix things?" The cooler headed Russell saw that the problem had been solved; Nellie Dawson had won over Vose Adams, as may be said, by the turn of her finger. He was eager to do all he could to help them, but in the flurry of the moment could not reason with his usual acumen. "We don't want any shooting, Vose; I am sure that if we can reach Sacramento without meeting the captain, his anger will pass away. In Sacramento, I shall be able to arrange a meeting between him and his daughter, and his love for her will break down the barriers and do the rest." "I'm in too deep water when you get to figgerin' that way, but there seems to be reason in what you say, but what about Ruggles and the parson?" "We'll leave them out; they are in this as the friends of Captain Dawson, and will not dare go contrary to his wishes, but if they do, it can make no difference to my plan." "They're just as savage as the captain," said Vose significantly; "and it won't do to forget 'em; but what did you expect to do, when you left the kenyon? If you come back, you would have been sartin to meet us, and what then?" "My intention was not to return, but to keep away from the main trail and hunt a shorter road through the mountains to Sacramento." Vose Adams gave a low whistle of astonishment. "That's the worst I ever heard!" "And why?" "You're not follerin' any trail at all; you would be sartin to get lost and would never find your way through the mountains; anyhow it would take you three or four years, which I ca'clate is longer than you want to wait." "How can you be so positive?" "It's true I never went to Sacramento and back, except by follerin' for most of the way the trail that I know so well, but other folks as smart as you have been lost in the mountains and you couldn't help it." "You advise against it then?" "I'm so sure of your goin' wrong that I won't try to help you unless you give up the idee." "Then I hereby give it up." Since Vose Adams had committed himself to Russell and Nellie's interests, there was no more talking at cross purposes. The object of the three was the same, and they sat down on the rocks for consultation. There was abundance of time in which to do this, since those whom they feared would not leave the cañon until the return of their guide, and he did not mean to go back until the day was so far spent that further delay was unavoidable. "They will be mad when they see me," he said with a grin, "but it won't do them any good and I'll fix up a yarn about gettin' on and then off your trail agin, that they'll have to be satisfied with." "That will serve for to-night, but you will all be astir at an early hour to-morrow morning." "They will still have to depend on me to guide 'em, and I rather think I can steer 'em off the track, so as to give you plenty of time to get out of the way." "How?" "As soon as they leave the kenyon, that is as soon as the way is clear, you must ride back to it and put on all steam for Sacramento, for I understand, leftenant, that you've give up your idee of finding a new route through the mountains." "I have." "You've got two good animals and you'll gain a full day's start." "You forget about poor Cap," said Nellie. "So I did! if he can't go with you, you'll have to leave him behind and ride double, but it will be rather tough on your horse, leftenant." "Nellie doesn't weigh enough to make any difference, and I expect to walk most of the distance." An unexpected piece of good fortune raised the spirits of the three. To the amazement of all, Cap, the pony, was seen hunting for grass and bearing upon the lame foot with little inconvenience. That which was thought to be a bad sprain was only a wrench, from which he promised speedily to recover. "He'll be as well as ever by to-morrow mornin'," said Vose Adams; "you'll need to humor him at first, but not for long." As has been intimated, the guide remained with them through most of the afternoon, for, if he had gone back to his friends earlier than he did, he would not have dared to offer any excuse for not leading them in the pursuit, and he meant to avert all possibility of that. The reader understands by this time why the guide formulated such an astounding fiction when attempting to explain the cause of his delay. Had his listeners been in cooler mood, they might have tangled him up with a few questions, but their exasperation and disgust prevented. Before parting with the fugitives, Vose assured them that he was confident their plans could not fail. "All they've got to do," he reflected, "is to do nothing afore to-morrow and then when the road is open, strike out over the main trail as hard as they can travel. I hope none of them Injins that we had the row with will be pokin' 'round to-night, for if there's to be any trouble, it'll come from them." It will be recalled that the story of Adams was received with such coolness that he indignantly resigned and told the captain to run matters himself. "And he'll make purty work of it," chortled Vose "he won't be able to come within miles of where they are hidin'." When the moody silence had lasted for some time, the guide was moved to remark in a more conciliatory spirit: "There's one thing that mustn't be forgot: Colonel Briggs and his folks won't make any trouble, but we're not done with them Injins." "Isn't there likelihood that Colonel Briggs will divert them?" asked the parson. "No; for the redskins can't be fooled; they'll know it wasn't any of the colonel's folks that give their chief his walkin' papers, but us, and they're the sort of people that don't forget a thing of that kind." "I was thinking of hunting up enough wood to start a fire," said the captain; "but we don't need it, and I suppose it will be safer without it." "It seems to me," observed Ruggles, "that what we've got the most to fear is that the Injins will run off with our animals: we would be left in a bad fix." "We must look out for that; I'll stand guard the first part of the night." Each was ready to take his turn, and it was arranged that Captain Dawson should act as sentinel until midnight, when he would awake Vose Adams, who would assume the duty till morning. Soon afterward, the three wrapped themselves in their blankets and stretched out on the ground, near the boulders, where they speedily sank into deep slumber. It seemed to Adams that he had slept less than an hour, when the captain touched him. Rising immediately to a sitting position, he asked: "Is it midnight?" "It's a half hour past." "Why didn't you awake me afore? Have you seen anything wrong?" "I am not sure; my doubt made me hold on a little longer, but I learned nothing of account." "What was it anyway?" "It is only that the animals appear to be uneasy, but it may mean nothing, or it may mean a good deal." "It's more'n likely it means something. Where are they?" "Lying down off there to the right, almost near enough to be seen." "They can't be too close; wal, you can sleep and I'll take my turn." Thus warned by Captain Dawson, Vose Adams assumed the duties of sentinel with his senses on the alert. He had become so accustomed to the delicate duty, when aware that the slightest slip on his part meant death, that he was better fitted for the task than any member of the party, though the experience of Ruggles and the captain in the army had given them the ability to awake at any moment fixed upon before sinking into slumber, and they were sensitive to the least disturbance while enjoying refreshing rest. Adams believed what he had remarked more than once that the little company of mountain Indians would do their utmost to revenge themselves upon the men who had taken off their chief. He suspected that the five were prowling in the neighborhood, looking for some such opportunity, and that they would strike a blow before the rising of the morrow's sun. Nothing was to be hoped for in the way of a diversion, created by the intrusion of Colonel Briggs and his vagrant miners. Not that the Indians were not eager to strike at any members of the hated race, but the all-controlling motive was lacking in the case of the larger party. Although the moon was in the sky, only a small part of its light penetrated the cañon. Peering into the darkness, Vose dimly made out the forms of the four animals, who, having ceased their cropping of the grass, had lain down for the remainder of the night. They were so near that they could not be stampeded or stolen without the effort being known to the sentinel. It would have been the height of rashness to start a camp fire, for all the figures within its circle of illumination must have formed the best of targets for their stealthy foes. As it was, an enemy would have to steal from the gloom and approach near enough to touch them, before striking a blow or firing a shot. Vose Adams, with his Winchester in his right hand and held close to his side, took his seat on the ground, resting his back against the nearest boulder. As a rule, a sentinel can keep awake for an extended time only by motion and exercise, such as walking to and fro, but the trained hunter often takes the risk and there is little danger of his succumbing, especially after he has just finished a nap, as was the case with the guide. Thus seated, with the boulder rising several feet above his head, Adams's only reliance was upon his keenness of hearing and sight. He had not waited long when he saw proof of what the captain had told him: the animals were restless, or rather one of them was. The quadruped thus affected was Hercules, his own mule, who, although lying down, twice rose to his feet, shifted his position and lay down again. Then he sniffed as if the air contained an odor that was displeasing to him. "I wouldn't think much of it, if it was one of the horses," reflected his master, "but Hercules has brains; he knows more'n all the others together, and yet it may be it ain't that after all." One of the singular facts regarding cattle and other quadrupeds is that they are sometimes troubled with disquieting dreams, the same as ourselves. This trifling cause has resulted many a time in the stampeding of a drove numbering tens of thousands. "I've knowed Hercules to kick and snort in his sleep, and one time he come mighty near breakin' a leg of mine; howsumever, I don't think that's the trouble with him to-night. I 'spect it's Injins this time!" When Captain Dawson lay down to sleep and Vose Adams assumed his place as sentinel, the moon was near the zenith, but the contour of the cañon shut out its beams. While Vose was striving to pierce the gloom, over and about the four animals, he noted a flickering tremor against the vast wall which formed the other side of the cañon. A faint, fleecy veil of moonlight having been lifted over the mountain crests, was now flung downward and caught against and suspended upon the projecting rocks and crags. It was but a frosty shimmer, but the veil dangled lower and lower, pendant here and there until the fringe rested on the bottom of the gorge. The sleeping miners and horses were wrapped in deep shadow, but the tremulous, almost invisible veil still fluttered on the further side of the cañon. By and by, the shifting moon would whisk it up again and all would be gloom as before. The sentinel lay flat on his face and peered over the prone animals toward the faint light across the cañon, and, looking thus, he saw the outlines of a man moving among the horses and mule. A shadow could not have been more noiseless. Not the faintest rustle betrayed his footsteps. "Just what I expected," thought Vose; "I'll wager Hercules against a dozen of the best horses in Sacramento that that shadder is one of them five Injins we seen stealin' along the ledge this mornin'. All the same, I can't imagine what the mischief he is driving at." The guide's first impulse was to bring his rifle to his shoulder and let fly. The intruder was so near that it was impossible to miss him, but two causes operated to prevent this summary course: Vose wished first to learn the business of the intruder, and there was a single possibility in a hundred that he was neither an Indian nor an enemy. The latter doubt could be solved by challenging the prowler with a threat to fire, if instant satisfaction was refused, while the firing could be made so promptly that the stranger would have no chance of whisking out of reach. Vose decided to wait until he got some idea of the other's business. He could still dimly discern the form, but it was so obscure that had it not been moving about, he would not have been able to distinguish it or make sure it was within his field of vision. While studying the phantom, the lower part of the veil of moonlight on the other side of the cañon was twitched up for a hundred feet. Lingering thus a minute, it was twitched still higher; then a third flirt snatched it out of the gorge. The shifting of the moon had left the cañon shrouded in darkness as before. Nothing could have attested more strikingly the marvelous stealth of the intruder than the fact that not one of the horses was awakened by him. The approach of the great Geronimo and several of his Apaches was betrayed under somewhat similar circumstances by the neighing of a horse that they awakened, apparently when making no noise at all. This prowler was a shadow in a world of shadows. If Hercules detected his presence, the man succeeded in soothing the fear of the hybrid. "_Halt or I'll fire!_" Vose Adams's voice was low, but in the tomb-like stillness a thunderclap could not have been more distinct. The hail, however, produced no response. The angered Vose drew his Winchester to a level, with his finger on the trigger, but when he ran his eye along the barrel, he failed to perceive any target. He lowered the muzzle a few inches and peered over the top. Nothing was discernible. "You're there somewhere and I'll find you!" Instead of rising erect, the sentinel advanced in a crouching posture, so that his head was no higher than if he were on his hands and knees. This clever strategy was thrown away. Within five seconds, he was at the side of Hercules, prepared and expecting to grapple with his enemy, who, to his exasperation, continued invisible. Vose did not require to have the matter explained to him, for he understood it. Upon being hailed, the intruder instead of throwing up his hands or starting to run, had also assumed a stooping position. It was as if he had quietly sunk below the surface of a sea of darkness through which he was wading, and swum with noiseless celerity to a point beyond reach. Vose was angered but took his defeat philosophically. "You was too smart for me that time; I never had it played finer on me, but I guess it's just as well; you've learned that we're on the lookout and you can't sneak into camp without _some_ risk of having a hole bored inter you." But Vose was not yet through with his nocturnal experiences. He held his seat for some fifteen or twenty minutes without seeing or hearing anything to cause the slightest misgiving. The horses still slept, and even the uneasy Hercules appeared to have become composed and to have made up his mind to slumber until morning. "I don't b'leve there'll be anything more to disturb me, onless some wild animal wants his supper----" The thought had hardly taken shape, when a shiver of affright ran through him, though the cause was so slight that it might have brought a smile, being nothing more than a pebble rolling down the ravine, up which the fugitives had passed the day before. The stone came slowly, loosening several similar obstructions, which joined with it, the rustling increasing and continuing until all reached the bottom and lay at rest a few feet from where he sat. Nothing could have been easier than for this to occur in the natural course of things, since hundreds of such instances were taking place at every hour of the day and night, but in the tense state of the sentinel's nerves, he was inclined to attribute it either to the Indian that had just visited camp and slunk away, or to one of his comrades trying to steal a march upon him. "I 'spose the next thing will be for him to climb over this boulder behind me and drop onto my head. Howsumever, if he does, he'll find me awake." Vose sat thus, depending almost wholly upon his sense of hearing to apprise him of the stealthy approach of an enemy, while the long silent hours gradually passed, without bringing additional cause for alarm. CHAPTER XXV INSTINCT OR REASON As the night wore away without bringing any further evidence of the presence of enemies, the solicitude of Vose Adams was transferred to the two, who, hardly a mile distant, were awaiting with equal anxiety the coming of morning. They and he had agreed upon the plan to be pursued, but now, with the crisis at hand, the guide became apprehensive about the final issue. Suppose the couple should leave their hiding place to return to the main trail before their pursuers were out of the way? Mutual discovery was certain with the dreadful catastrophe that none dreaded more than he. But it would seem that Lieutenant Russell was too cautious to run the risk of so fatal a mistake. He would reconnoitre the ground and keep out of sight until the coast was clear, but the restless Adams was astir at the first streakings of light in the cañon. He first visited the animals. It was possible that the stealthy prowler of the night before had done them injury, but, so far as he could ascertain, nothing of the kind had occurred. Except for what he had seen and heard during the darkness, he would not have known that a visitor had been in camp. It was not fully light when the others rose from their primitive couches. Water was at hand, and after drinking and ablution, the group sat down to their morning meal, which disposed of the last remnant furnished by Vose Adams. While they were eating, he told of the occurrences of the night and was surprised that his companions made light of them. To them it was of less importance than to him. "So long as they do no more than prowl about the camp," remarked Captain Dawson, "we need feel no concern." "It seems to me," said Brush, "that if the fellow intended mischief, he would have done it, but he has left no traces of anything of the kind." "Which was because the right kind of chance didn't show itself," said Vose; "if we don't have a lively fight before this bus'ness is over, I'm much mistook, but it's time we was moving." The guide seemed to have forgotten his resentment of the night before and his friends were too considerate to refer to it. It took but a short time to make the animals ready, when the procession started up the gorge, Vose, as usual, leading, with the captain next, then Wade Ruggles, while the parson brought up the rear, that position naturally falling to him. Men and beasts were refreshed by their rest and food, and it required but a brief while to reach the top of the gorge, where, as will be remembered, it terminated. It was here that Vose Adams began his fine work, and he showed no more hesitancy in drawing a "long bow," than on the previous night, when pretending to account for his long absence. "The trail leads to the right," he said, with a glance at the ground, as if to refresh his memory. His first thrill of misgiving came when he saw the parson pause and look searchingly at the ground. Had he possessed one-half the skill of Vose in trailing, he would have discovered that the guide was misleading them, but he did not have that cleverness nor did any other member of the party. The glance of the parson was perfunctory and his brief pause was to regain his breath after the short but laborious climb of the steep slope. Vose was watching him closely and quickly saw the meaning of his action, for, whatever Brush may have observed on the ground in front of him, it was not the faint impressions left on the stones by the fugitives. Neither the captain nor Ruggles so much as looked at the earth, accepting the dictum of their guide without question. It was not deemed best to mount the animals, because of the roughness of the ground and the belief that they were close upon the parties for whom they were searching. Vose took care to turn so sharply to the right that they were speedily out of sight of the spot where he had parted from the fugitives. Everything was going promisingly when Wade Ruggles startled his companions by the exclamation: "Helloa! there's that dog Timon!" A hundred yards to the left rose a pile of rocks, the highest of which reached an altitude of two hundred feet or more. Upon the crest of one of the lower rocks, which had only a slight height, the immense dog stood in plain sight. It looked as if he had started to ascend the rocks, when he discovered the party and paused to learn their business. The picture was a striking one. The enormous size of the brute gave the impression at first that he was a wolf or some wild animal that had challenged the advance of the four men. This error would have been made had not each been so familiar with the creature. As he stood, his formidable head raised, his forequarters being slightly higher than the remainder of his body, his position was diagonal. He was surveying his acquaintances, who surveyed him in turn with equal curiosity. Vose Adams's heart sank. What was the meaning of this? As he viewed it, the presence of the dog could have no other significance than that the lieutenant and Nellie Dawson were close at hand. Timon was in their company and would not have strayed far, so that he had betrayed them. From some cause, which the guide could not comprehend, Lieutenant Russell had made a change of plan and placed himself almost in the path along which Vose was leading the pursuers, in the belief that the fugitives were at a safe distance. The four men looked at the dog for several moments in silence, when the captain spoke: "We must be very near them." "You're dead right," added Ruggles in the same undertone; "we've got 'em cornered sooner than we expected." "They can't go far," said the parson, "without being stopped by the rocks, when we shall have them in the nicest trap that was ever set for any game." The reflection of Vose Adams was of a different nature. "If they make fools of themselves and upset all my plans, what can I do to help 'em? Why didn't they stay where they promised to stay, and why didn't they kill that blamed dog afore he played this trick on 'em?" Timon stood for two or three minutes so immovable that he suggested a stone image of himself, carved out of the rock on which he was perched. Then he emitted a single husky bark and leaped lightly down from where he had been standing. It was no more than a dozen feet, and he alighted as gracefully as a panther. He trotted part way to the horsemen, who were closely watching his movements, stopped, barked again and wheeling, trotted forward over precisely the course Vose Adams was taking when checked by the appearance of the canine. The men looked at one another in astonishment. The action of the dog was unaccountable, but Captain Dawson's explanation sounded reasonable. "That shows we are on the right track and he has come to guide us to where they are awaiting him." There could be no doubt of it. The actions of the brute said as plainly as so many words: "Come with me and I will take you straight to the people you want to see." Instead of following Timon at once, the party kept watch of him. He trotted a dozen steps and then paused and looked back. Observing that he was not understood, he emitted several more barks, took a couple of steps and then repeated the performance. His object was so evident that Captain Dawson said: "That's as plain as the nose on your face; the animal is worth a dozen guides like you, Vose." "Then why don't you foller him?" sulkily asked the latter. "That's what we shall do; come on." Observing that the captain left his horse standing, the parson inquired the reason. "They are of no use to us and will be only a bother; leave them here until we need them; I will follow the dog and you can take what order you choose, but," he added with unmistakable earnestness, "every one of you must keep in the background till I'm through." Timon held his motionless position until the four men had taken several steps toward him and there could be no error as to their intention. Vose Adams observed that he was following, without a hair's variation, the course he had in mind. "It serves 'em right," was his angry reflection; "when the leftenant spoke 'bout hunting up a new trail through the mountains, I oughter knowed he hain't no sense and was sure to make a mess of things. Now's he gone and sneaked off where these folks will stub their toes agin him; I'm 'sprised that the Queen didn't hammer a little sense into his head." The guide was in a torture of apprehension. The impending outcome was likely to betray the deception he had used, but it was not for that he cared. There could be no mistaking the deadly mood of Captain Dawson and the equally intense hatred of Ruggles and Brush. A meeting with Lieutenant Russell made a frightful tragedy inevitable, and no one could be more vividly aware of the fact than the young officer himself, for Vose had impressed it upon him, but the guide in his anguish of spirit, saw no possible escape from it. He stolidly followed, striving to brace himself for what must soon come. Meanwhile, the strange leadership continued. Timon seemed to be impatient, for occasionally he broke into a trot, abruptly pausing and looking back, as if to urge his followers to use more haste. Since they did not do so, he checked himself, when about to pass beyond sight and waited for them to draw near. He led them around boulders and masses of rocks, over ridges, down declivities, across one small stream, through a ravine and again among the precipitous piles of stone, until even the hardy men were well nigh exhausted. They had traveled fully a mile over a route that was of the most trying nature. It was about this time that an extraordinary suspicion began forming in the mind of Vose Adams. He hardly dared give credence to it, but it took greater hold upon him with every few rods of advance. Nothing in the world would have induced him to make known his suspicion, but it continued to grow. Suddenly Captain Dawson stopped. As he looked around his face was agitated. "Boys," said he, "there's something infernally strange about this." Vose Adams saw that his own suspicion had entered the mind of their leader, but the countenance of the guide was as blank as that of a child. "It's the worst tramp I ever had," remarked the parson, removing his hat and mopping his forehead. "If there's any harder work," added Ruggles, "count me out." Captain Dawson looked angrily at Vose. "Do you know the meaning of this?" Vose shook his head and prevaricated still further by adding: "Nor what you're driving at either." "That dog has misled us; instead of conducting us to the couple he has taken us away from them." It was true and every one of the four knew it. The suspicion of the guide had become certainty. Was it instinct or reason that controlled the animal? Who shall draw the line in explaining many of the actions of the brute creation? Vose Adams was silent a moment and then emitted a low whistle. "Hang me, if I don't b'leve you're right, captain. I've been told that that dog knowed more than a good many folks and there ain't no doubt of it now." The disgusted parson exclaimed: "Why didn't one of us think of that? The idea of all four being fooled by a dog!" "It wouldn't have been so bad if there had been two dogs," said Ruggles, who saw the grim humor of the thing, "but it is tough to have our eyes shet by only one." It was impossible for Vose Adams wholly to restrain all evidence of his pleasure. When in the depths of despair, he was awakened to the fact that the canine had performed one of the most brilliant exploits conceivable. He could not help smiling. The captain was in an ugly mood and in a threatening voice asked: "Did you have anything to do with this?" "Certainly; me and Timon fixed up the thing afore he left Dead Man's Gulch; it took us a good while; the dog didn't think it would work, but I stuck to it and finally he promised to have a try at it; certainly we fixed it up atween us." The guide did a clever thing in thus turning the fantastic belief of the captain into ridicule. Had he protested, he might have added to the suspicion against himself. It was further in his favor that it was known he had never had much to do with Timon. As already related, the brute had few friends among the miners and Vose Adams never sought his acquaintance. Nevertheless, it was impossible to brush out of sight one significant fact,--the long absence of Adams the day before. But for the last occurrence, nothing would have been thought of the former, but it was clear that Captain Dawson had begun to entertain doubts of the loyalty of his guide. "He'll never repeat his trick anyway," exclaimed the officer, facing about and bringing his rifle to his shoulder. But his intention of shooting Timon was frustrated, for the brute was nowhere in sight. Unreasonable as it might sound, it looked as if he suspected how things would turn out and took the occasion to place himself beyond danger from the indignant men. "In the army we shoot spies and traitors," remarked the captain, so angered by his repeated disappointments that he could not govern his feelings. In giving expression to the remark, the officer made a serious mistake, which he saw the moment the words left his lips. He was suspicious of Vose Adams, but he should have concealed all evidence of it, until the proof appeared. When that took place, he would shoot the man with no more hesitation that he would have shot the dog. But he had now put Vose on his guard and the difficulty of detecting him was increased tenfold. As if to obliterate the memory of his words, the captain said in the most matter of fact tone he could assume: "The mistake we made has taken us from the right spot; they must have been near the rocks where Timon showed himself." "No doubt," said the parson, "and were watching us." "The one thing to do is to retrace our steps; perhaps the two may be fools enough," bitterly added the captain, "to wait for us, since that seems to be the only way by which we shall ever come up with them." A single short bark startled them. The captain wheeled like a flash with his gun at his shoulder. But Timon was too cunning to show himself. It is not improbable that he meant the expression for a note of triumph over his inimitable exploit, while such a wonderful dog was too wise to run any risk of punishment from his indignant victims. The hunter is sustained against fatigue by the excitement of the chase; and, despite the severe labor of following the canine guide, all four men stood it far better than the return to the spot where the pursuit began. Angered, chagrined and in desperate mood, even the grim leader was forced occasionally to stop and rest. Nearly two hours passed before they descried the familiar pile of rocks in their front. "That's the spot," he said, "but what good can it do us? It's a wonder if they have not run off with our horses; it would be a fitting climax to this folly." It was the secret wish of Adams, from the moment of discovering the cleverness of Timon, that this very thing should be done. If Lieutenant Russell took such a precaution, it could not fail to be effective. Returning to the main trail after his pursuers were out of the way, he would have an open path through the mountains to Sacramento. If the lameness of Nellie's pony continued, her saddle could be transferred to one of the other horses, and, leading or driving the remainder of the animals, the four men would soon find their task a hopeless one. But the young officer was restrained from such action by a certain chivalry that governed all his actions. He could not consent to take so unfair an advantage of an enemy, even though the fate of one dearer than his own life was at stake. And yet it must be confessed that the lieutenant drew it very fine. His course did not win the respect of his enemies, who were inclined to attribute it to stupidity, rather than courtesy. But no time was to be lost in deciding their line of action. "I think we'd better make a hunt among them rocks," suggested Wade Ruggles. The others studied them with as much interest as if it were the first time they had been seen. If the couple had taken refuge among the caverns and crevices of this immense pile of stone, they must have left their animals on the ground below where they could be readily discovered. "We may as well have a look," remarked the captain; "what do you think, Vose?" "I don't think anything; don't ask me any questions." He never looked more angry. He had not forgotten the slur of the captain and had spirit enough to resent it. Dawson was too proud to apologize and he could not do so, when his suspicion of the fellow's loyalty was as strong as ever. On the contrary, having made his blunder, the officer drove the arrow home. "I am sorry you didn't take that resolution in the first place; it would have been better for all of us, though not so good for those we are looking for." The captain and Ruggles now turned to the right, while the other two took the opposite direction. They were thus enabled, after more hard work, practically to pass around the mass of rocks, returning to their starting point, without having discovered any traces of man, woman or their animals. On the journey, Adams and the parson exchanged few words, but it was different with the other couple. "What do you think of his long absence yesterday?" asked the captain. "It has a bad look,--worse than I thought when he come back." "Why so?" "I take it with the action of that dog. You didn't fail to notice that Timon took us along the exact route that Vose was leadin' us over and we found out that it was the wrong one." "And you believe he purposely misled us?" "It's almost sartin." "Suppose it _was_ certain, Wade?" "I'd shoot him quicker'n lightning." "So would I." "But you see we can't be sartin just yit; if Vose is in that kind of bus'ness, he'll give himself away purty soon." "I agree with you and we'll watch him." Thus was the momentous bargain made. When the four came together once more, the parson remarked: "It's my belief that after we were well out of the way, the two went down the gorge to the main trail and are now making haste to Sacramento." The exact line of action that had been agreed upon! Vose Adams was firmly convinced that this was the very thing that had taken place and the utmost he could do was to prevent the horsemen from acting on that theory until the fugitives were given opportunity to pass beyond reach. Except for the words of Captain Dawson, the guide would have striven to delay the pursuit, but he dared not attempt it after the warning. Ignoring the captain, he said to Felix Brush: "It's more'n likely you're right, parson; that would have been the most nat'ral thing for them to do and it's no use of our standing here and talking, when every minute counts." "We can quickly learn the truth; it isn't far to the gorge, where they must have left traces; leave the horses here, for we can soon return for them if it proves necessary." Forgetting their fatigue, the four walked back over their own trail. The forenoon was well advanced, and, by this time, the fugitives were probably a good way off. Adams was relieved because of this action, for it promised more delay. Reaching the beginning of the gorge, all began an examination of the ground, for the imprints of the horses' feet were plainly seen. To the amazement of every one, each hoof pointed upward, that is away from the cañon. There was no evidence that any quadruped had descended the slope. All had gone up. Vose Adams was in despair. "They have let their only chance go by," he bitterly reflected; "it's too late now to save them!" CHAPTER XXVI AT BAY Lieutenant Russell held a long consultation with Nellie Dawson, after the departure of Vose Adams. His first intention had been to press their flight with all possible vigor, and, as will be recalled, Adams carried away that belief with him. "My view of matters has undergone a change," he said after a time to his companion, who looked up in his face for an explanation. "Instead of waiting until we reach Sacramento for a meeting with your father, I believe it will be much better to have it as soon as possible." "Why?" she asked, though curious to say, she had been wavering for some time in her belief. "It will add to rather than lessen his anger, if he is obliged to follow us that far, and the fact that he is in a city instead of the mountains will not decrease his determination to do me injury." "What about those who are with him?" "Your father is the only one to be considered. My proposal is that we wait here till to-morrow morning until they come up; what is your opinion?" "I believe you are right; let us do so; I don't think father will cast me off when I go to him." The plan was carried out, though the young man felt more misgiving than his companion suspected. He remained on guard a part of the night, sharing the duty with Timon, whose almost human intelligence made him as reliable as a trained scout himself. Straight to the spot came the pursuers soon after daylight, when the horses were saddled and bridled. Nellie was in a state of feverish expectancy. When she caught sight of her father, leading the others, she joyfully uttered his name and ran toward him with outstretched arms. "Father, my own father, are you not glad to see your Nellie?" Still holding his Winchester half-raised, he glanced sternly at her and replied: "Come no nearer; you are no daughter of mine!" She stopped as if shot, and with hands still outstretched stood motionless, with her eyes fixed yearningly upon him. She was like a marble statue, without the breath of life in her body. All were silent. Even Timon looked from one to another without moving. The whole thing was beyond his comprehension. Then the dreadful truth seemed to force itself upon the consciousness of the girl, who staggered backward to the nearest boulder, upon which she sank and covered her face with her hands. She did not weep, for her grief was too deep. And who shall picture the sorrow that wrenched the heart strings of the parent? There was a strange look on his face and his massive frame trembled. But he quickly recovered his self-poise, and looking away from his child, fixed his eyes upon Lieutenant Russell. "It is with _you_ that I have to settle." "I am ready." The young officer was standing beside his pony, with one arm resting on the saddle, across which his rifle was supported, while the other hand lay idly on his hip, and his body was borne upon one foot. His pose was one of negligence, as if he and his animal had taken position before the camera, and the world contained no such thing as hatred and enmity. He looked calmly into the angered countenance, while he waited for the next words of the man who was impatient to send a bullet through his heart. Wade Ruggles and Felix Brush would have been glad of the privilege of doing this, but they felt that for the time they were out of it. The right of calling Lieutenant Russell to account lay with the father of Nellie. They had nothing to do or say until that tragedy was ended, and they stood apart, silent, grim and watchful of everything. The coolness of the young man disconcerted the captain for the moment. Feeling it unnecessary to hold his weapon, he lowered the point, but, never once removing his eyes from the face of the other, said: "I will give you the same chance as myself for your life; though you do not deserve to live, it shall never be said I took any advantage over you. Each of us has a revolver and knows how to use it; you may pace off the distance for yourself, but make it short." "Captain, I decline to fight you," replied Lieutenant Russell, without a change of pose and in his usual voice. "Why?" demanded the other. "You have saved my life on the battle field; we have been comrades; we have drank from the same canteen; shoot me if you wish; I will keep the position I now hold and you may stand where you are; you have your Winchester in your hands; you have but to raise it and it will be all over in a twinkling, but nothing that you can say or do will induce me to harm one of your gray hairs." This reply was unexpected to all, but it served if possible to intensify the wrath of Captain Dawson. He shook with tempestuous rage, and it was several seconds before he could command his voice. Ruggles, Brush and Adams did not stir or whisper a word to one another. The white-faced Nellie remained seated on the boulder, but she lowered her hands and stared at the two, as if she could not comprehend it all. Once she made a motion to rise, but sank back and stared with a fixidity of gaze that went to the hearts of the three spectators. "You are a sneaking scoundrel to use those words," said Captain Dawson, when able to command his voice; "all the past is wiped out except that of the last two days; I shall shoot you for stealing my child from me." The lieutenant looked calmly into the countenance of the man, and, lowering his tones almost to a whisper, that was perfectly audible to all, replied: "I am at your disposal." From the moment Captain Dawson learned of the flight of his child, he had been eager for but one thing,--the opportunity to draw bead on the miscreant, without giving him an instant to prepare for death. That opportunity was his but he hesitated. Something that he could not explain, but which incensed him, held his hand motionless. But perhaps the end would have been the same, when he rallied from the momentary struggle, had not his daughter awakened from the daze that had held her mute and motionless. Like Pocahontas, she sprang forward, with arms again outstretched, and with a faint shriek, flung them about the form of her lover. "Shoot father, if you will, but you shall kill me too!" Felix Brush shivered and turning away his head, muttered in a broken voice: "My God, Wade! I can't stand this!" Ruggles attempted to reply, but the words choked in his throat. Still he and Adams kept their eyes upon the three before them. Ruggles was on the point of interfering when Nellie Dawson averted the necessity. Lieutenant Russell was disconcerted. His lip quivered, and, with infinite tenderness, he sought to loosen the arms that entwined him, but she would not permit it. "No, no, no! He shall not part us! Let him slay us both! Do not repulse me! I will die with you!" The situation of Captain Dawson was awful. He was scarcely himself. The dainty form of his child could not fully shield the athletic figure of Lieutenant Russell, strive as much as she might, and the opening for the threatened shot was as clear as ever. Whether he would have persisted in his intention can never be known, for at that juncture the startling incidents were succeeded by one still more startling and unexpected. CHAPTER XXVII NO BRAVER DEED EVER WAS DONE The hearts of two of the party were wrung as never before. Wade Ruggles and Felix Brush saw with noonday clearness the dreadful mistake they had made in the past in hoping to win the heart of the maiden who had declared that if her beloved was to die she would die with him. It was contrary to nature and the laws of God, and it was characteristic of each that he felt a thrill of gratitude over the belief that no person suspected his secret. Both would have died rather than allow it ever to become known. With this awakening came a transformation of feeling toward the couple. They sympathized with Lieutenant Russell, but more than all, they pitied her whose soul was distraught with grief. They had never before seen her in the agony of distress and neither could stand it. "Brush," whispered Ruggles, "this must stop." "_Hold!_" called Brush in a loud voice, striding commandingly forward with his arm upraised; "I have something to say!" There was a majesty and an impressiveness of mien like that of the Hebrew prophet who hushed the tempest. Captain Dawson, without moving body or limb, turned and glared at the intruder; Ruggles kept his position; Nellie Dawson, with arms still clasping the neck of her betrothed, looked over her shoulder at her old friend; Lieutenant Russell reached up so as to hold the wrists of the girl, while still retaining his grip upon his rifle and fixed his eyes upon the tall, gaunt figure that halted between him and Captain Dawson and a little to one side of him. "Lieutenant Frederic Russell, do you love Nellie Dawson?" was the astounding question that fell from the lips of Brush. "Aye, more than my life," was the prompt response. "And you have started for Sacramento with the purpose of making her your wife?" "That was my resolve with the help of heaven." "And, Nellie, you agreed to this?" "Yes, yes; we shall not be parted in life or death." "Such being your feelings," continued Felix Brush, in the same loud, clear tones, "I pronounce you man and wife, and whom God hath joined together let not man put asunder!" It was a thunderclap. No one moved or spoke for a full minute. Felix Brush was the only one who seemed to retain command of his senses. Stepping forward, with a strange smile on his seamed countenance, he extended his hand to the groom. "Allow me to congratulate you, lieutenant; and, Nellie, I don't think you will deny me my fee." With which he bent over and tenderly kissed her. "O, Mr. Brush, are we really married?" she asked in a faint, wild voice. "As legally as if it were done by the archbishop of Canterbury and if--" But he got no further, for her arms were transferred from the neck of her husband to those of the parson, whom she smothered with her caresses. "Bless your heart! You are the nicest, best, sweetest, loveliest man that ever lived,--excepting Fred and father--" "And _me_," added Wade Ruggles, stepping forward. "Yes, and you, you great big angel," she replied, bestowing an equally warm embrace upon him. The two rugged fellows had won the greatest victory that can be achieved by man, for they had conquered themselves. When the great light broke in upon their consciousness, each resolved to let the dead past bury its dead and to face the future like the manly heroes they were. And no braver deed ever was done. Poor Captain Dawson! For a time he believed he was dreaming. Then, when he grasped the meaning of it all, his Winchester dropped from his nerveless grasp and he staggered and would have fallen, had not Lieutenant Russell leaped forward and caught him in his arms. He helped him to the boulder from which Nellie had risen and then he collapsed utterly. The soldier who had faced unmoved the hell blast of battle had fainted for the first time in his life. Nellie ran to the brook a few paces away, and catching some of the water in the hollow of her hand darted back and flung it into his face. "There, dear father; it is all right; rouse yourself; O, Mr. Brush, suppose he is dead!" she exclaimed, turning terrifiedly toward him. "He is as likely to die as you are, and you don't look just now as if you mean to put on wings and fly away." In a few minutes the veteran revived and looked confusedly around him. He seemed unable to comprehend what it all meant and his gaze wandered in a dazed way from one countenance to another without speaking. Nellie was still caressing him, while Lieutenant Russell stood back a couple of steps, looking pityingly into the face of the man who had suffered so much. Felix Brush was the hero of the occasion. Turning to the group, he said: "Leftenant, you and Nellie and Ruggles and Vose move off for a short distance and leave him with me for a little while." Understanding his purpose the three withdrew, and the two men were left alone. The captain instantly roused himself. "What does all this mean, Brush?" "It means that you and Ruggles and I have been the three infernalist fools that ever pretended to have sense." "How?" "How? In every way conceivable. Wade and I, as we told you, saw that those two were in love with each other; instead of persuading you to consent, we have helped you to prevent it. I must say, captain, that though Wade and I played the idiot, I think the championship belongs to you." "I begin to suspect it." "There's no doubt of it." "But, you see, parson, I had never thought of anything like this." "Which goes to prove the truth of what I have just said. If you hadn't been blind you would have seen it." "I got the belief into my head that his intentions were not honorable toward Nellie." "You never made a greater mistake; Lieutenant Russell is the soul of honor; heaven intended him for the husband of Nellie, and we were flying in the face of Providence when we tried to prevent it." "I suppose it is all right; but how is it possible for a man to make such a consummate ass of himself?" "You have just given a demonstration of how it is done, Wade and I adding material help in the demonstration." The captain looked to the ground in deep thought. When he raised his eyes there was an odd twinkle in them. "I say, parson, wasn't that a rather cheeky performance of yours, when you made them man and wife?" "The circumstances warranted it. There's no saying what might have happened, if it had been deferred for only a few minutes." "True," replied the veteran thoughtfully; "it begins to look as if the hand of Providence was in it." "It is in everything that occurs in this life. It was in your coming to New Constantinople; in the blessed influence of your child upon that barbarous community; in the impulse that led you to bring Lieutenant Russell to us, and now comes the crowning Providence of all in their marriage." "Parson, you ain't such a poor preacher after all." "Perhaps I can preach a little, but my practice has been away off, though I hope to get back one of these days to where I was, but--" He suddenly turned and beckoned to his friends to join them. They came smilingly forward, for they suspected what it meant. Captain Dawson rose to his feet, and, without speaking extended his single arm toward his child. With a glad cry she flew into his embrace and pillowed her head on his breast. No one spoke, but there was not a dry eye among the spectators, while the silent embrace lasted. Finally the daughter was released and then the captain reached his hand toward his son-in-law, who eagerly stepped forward and grasped it. "Yes, lieutenant, we have drunk from the same canteen," he said, "and now let's all go home." And it was accordingly so done. THE END 
36123	----	THE COMSTOCK CLUB. BY C. C. GOODWIN EDITOR SALT LAKE DAILY TRIBUNE. Neither radiant angels nor magnified monsters, but just plain, true men. 1891. TRIBUNE JOB PRINTING COMPANY, SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH. _Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1891, by_ THE LEONARD PUBLISHING COMPANY, _in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C._ TO THE MINERS OF THE PACIFIC COAST, THIS BOOK, WHICH WAS WRITTEN WHILE WORKING FOR AND AMONG THEM, IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. _Salt Lake City, Utah, December 15, 1891._ CONTENTS. I. THE OLD FLUSH DAYS II. THE CLUB III. MIRAGES IV. THE ARGONAUTS V. THE CALL OF THE BIRDS VI. THE PERFUME AND THE LIGHT VII. MAN AS A WORKER VIII. ROUGH ROYALTY IX. MORE ROYALTY X. SPECIMEN LIARS XI. THE CLUB GROWS POETICAL XII. AN UNBIASED JUDGE XIII. SISTER CELESTE XIV. TROUBLE WITH THE EXPENSE ACCOUNT XV. HUMOR OF THE WEST XVI. TROUBLE IN THE CLUB XVII. UP IN THE SHEAVES XVIII. THE TERRIBLE DEPTHS XIX. THE DAWN OF ELYSIUM XX. THREE POSTSCRIPTS THE COMSTOCK CLUB. CHAPTER I. "The pioneer! Who shall fitly tell the story of his life and work? "The soldier leads an assault; it lasts but a few minutes; he knows that whether he lives or dies, immortality will be his reward. What wonder that there are brave soldiers! "But when this soldier of peace assaults the wilderness, no bugles sound the charge; the forest, the desert, the wild beast, the savage, the malaria, the fatigue, are the foes that lurk to ambush him, and if, against the unequal odds, he falls, no volleys are fired above him; the pitiless world merely sponges his name from its slate. "Thus he blazes the trails, thus he fells the trees, thus he plants his rude stakes, thus he faces the hardships, and whatever fate awaits him, his self-contained soul keeps its finger on his lips, and no lamentations are heard. "He smooths the rugged fields, he turns the streams, and the only cheer that is his is when he sees the grain ripen, and the flowers bloom where before was only the frown of the wilderness. When over the trail that he has blazed, enlightenment comes joyously, with unsoiled sandals, and homes and temples spring up on the soil that was first broken by him, his youth is gone, hope has been chastened into silence within him; he realizes that he is but a back number. "Not one in a thousand realizes the texture of the manhood that has been exhausting itself within him; few comprehend his nature or have any conception of his work. "But he is content. The shadows of the wilderness have been chased away; the savage beast and savage man have retired before him; nature has brought her flowers to strew the steps of his old age; in his soul he feels that somewhere the record of his work and of his high thoughts has been kept; and so he smiles upon the younger generation and is content. "May that contentment be his to the end." It was an anniversary night in Pioneer Hall, in Virginia City, Nevada, one July night in 1878, and the foregoing were the closing words of a little impromptu speech that Alex Strong had delivered. A strange, many-sided man was Alex Strong. He was an Argonaut. When the first tide set in toward the Golden Coast, he, but a lad, with little save a pony and a gun, joined a train that had crossed the Missouri and was headed westward. The people in the company looked upon him as a mere boy, but, later, when real hardships were encountered and sickness came, the boy became the life of the company. When women and children drooped under the burdens and the fear of the wilderness, it was his voice that cheered them on; his gun secured the tender bit of antelope or grouse to tempt their failing appetites; his songs drove away the silence of the desert. He was for the company a lark at morn, a nightingale at night. Arriving in California, he sought the hills. When his claim would not pay he indicted scornful songs to show his "defiance of luck." Some of these were published in the mountain papers, and then a few people knew that somewhere in miner's garb a genius was hiding. Amid the hills, in his cabin, he was an incessant reader, and with his books, his friction against men and in the study of nature's mighty alphabet, as left upon her mountains, with the going by of the years he rounded into a cultured, alert, sometimes pathetic and sometimes boisterous man, but always a shrewd, all-around man of affairs. When we greet him he had been for several years a brilliant journalist. He had jumped up to make a little speech in Pioneer Hall, and the last words of his speech are given above. When he had finished another pioneer, Colonel Savage, was called upon. He was always prepared to make a speech. He delighted, moreover, in taking the opposite side to Strong. So springing to his feet, he cried out: "Too serious are the words of my friend. What of hardships, when youth, the beautiful, walks by one's side! What of danger when one feels a young heart throbbing in his breast! "Who talks of loneliness while as yet no fetter has been welded upon hope, while yet the unexplored and unpeopled portions of God's world beckon the brave to come to woo and to possess them! "The pioneers were not unhappy. The air is still filled with the echoes of the songs that they sung; their bright sayings have gone into the traditions; the impression which they made upon the world is a monument which will tell of their achievements, record their sturdy virtues and exalt their glorified names." As the Colonel ceased and some one else was called upon to talk, Strong motioned to Savage and both noiselessly sought some vacant seats in the rear of the hall. Colonel Savage was another genius. He was a young lawyer in New York when the first news of gold discoveries in California was carried to that city. He, with a hundred others, chartered a bark that was lying idle in the harbor, had her fitted up and loaded, and in her made a seven months' voyage around the Cape to San Francisco. He was the most versatile of the Argonauts. Every mood of poor human nature found a response in him. At a funeral he shamed the mourners by the sadness of his face; at a festival he added a sparkle to the wines; he could convulse a saloon with a story; he could read a burial service with a pathos that stirred every heart, and so his life ran on until when we find him he had been several years a leading member of a brighter bar than ever before was seen in a town of the size of Virginia City. He was a tall, handsome man, his face was classical, and all his bearing, even when all unbent, was that of a high-born, self-contained and self-respecting man. Strong, on the other hand, was of shorter statue; his face was the perfect picture of mirthfulness; there was a wonderful magnetism in his smile and hand-clasp; but when in repose a close look at his face revealed, below the mirthfulness, that calm which is the close attendant upon conscious power. As they reached their seats Alex spoke: "You were awfully good to-night, Colonel." "Of course; I always am. But what has awakened your appreciation to-night?" "I thought my speech was horrible." "For once it would require a brave man to doubt your judgment," said the Colonel, sententiously. "I was sure of it until I heard you speak; then I recovered my self-respect, believing that, by comparison, my speech would ring in the memories of the listeners, like a psalm." "You mean Sam, the town-crier and bootblack. His brain is a little weak, but his lungs are superb." "I believe you are jealous of his voice, Colonel. But sit down: I want to tell you about the most unregenerate soul on earth." "Proceed, Alex, only do not forget that under the merciful statutes of the State of Nevada no man is obliged to make statements which will criminate himself." "What a comfort that knowledge must be to you." "It often is. My heart is full of sympathy for the unfortunate, and more than once have I seen eyes grow bright when I have given that information to a client." "The study of that branch of law must have had a peculiar fascination to you." "Indeed, it did, Alex. At every point where the law draws the shield of its mercy around the accused, in thought it seemed made for one or another of my friends, and, mentally, I found myself defending one after the other of them." "Did you, at the same time, keep in thought the fact that in an emergency the law permits a man to plead his own cause?" "Never, on my honor. In those days my life was circumspect, even as it now is, and my associates--not as now--were so genteel that there was no danger of any suspicion attaching to me, because of the people I was daily seen with." "That was good for you, but what sort of reputations did your associates have?" asked Alex. "They went on from glory to glory. One became a conductor on a railroad, and in four years, at a salary of one hundred dollars per month, retired rich. One became a bank cashier, and three years later, through the advice of his physicians, settled in the soft climate of Venice, with which country we have no extradition treaty. Another one is a broker here in this city, and I am told, is doing so well that he hopes next year to be superintendent of a mine." "Why have you not succeeded better, Colonel, financially?" "I am too honest. Every day I stop law suits which I ought to permit to go on. Every day I do work for nothing which I ought to charge for. I tell you, Alex, I would sooner be right than be President." "I cannot, just now, recall any one who knows you, Colonel, who does not feel the same way about you." "That is because the most of my friends are dull, men, like yourself. But how prospers that newspaper?" "It is the same old, steady grind," replied Alex, thoughtfully. "I saw a blind horse working in a whim yesterday. As he went round and round, there seemed on his face a look of anxiety to find out how much longer that road of his was, and I said to him, compassionately: 'Old Spavin, you know something of what it is to work on a daily paper.' I went to the shaft and watched the buckets as they came up, and there was only one bucket of ore to ten buckets of waste. Then I went back to the horse and said to him: 'You do not know the fact, you blissfully ignorant old brute, but your work is mightily like ours, one bucket of ore to ten of waste.'" "How would you like to have me write an editorial for your paper?" "I should be most grateful," was the reply. "On what theme?" "Oh, you might make your own selection." "How would you like an editorial on----scoundrels?" "It would, with your experience, be truthfully written, doubtless, but Colonel, it is only now and then in good taste for a man to supply the daily journals with his own autobiography." "How modest you are. You did not forget that, despite the impersonality of journalism, you would have the credit of the article." "No, I was afraid of that credit, and I am poor enough now, Colonel; but really, that credit does not count. If, for five days in the week, I make newspapers, which my judgment tells me are passably good, it appears to me the only use that is made of them is for servant girls to kindle fires with, and do up their bangs in: but if, on the sixth day, my heart is heavy and my brain thick, and the paper next morning is poor, it seems to me that everybody in the camp looks curiously at me, as if to ascertain for a certainty, whether or no, I am in the early stages of brain softening." "A reasonable suspicion, I fancy, Alex; but what do you think of your brother editors of this coast as men and writers?" "Most of them are good fellows, and bright writers. If you knew under what conditions some of them work, you would take off your hat every time you met them." "To save my hat?" queried the Colonel. "But whom do you consider the foremost editor of the coast?" "There is no such person. Men with single thoughts and purposes, are, as a rule, the men who make marks in this world. For instance, just now, the single purpose of James G. Fair, is to make money through mining. Hence, he is a great miner, and he, now and then, I am told, manages to save a few dollars in the business. The dream of C. P. Huntington is to make money through railroads, so he builds roads, that he may collect more fares and freights, and he collects more fares and freights so that he may build more roads, and I believe, all in all, that he is the ablest, if not the coldest and most pitiless, railroad man in the world. The ruling thought of Andy Barlow is to be a fighter, and he can draw and shoot in the space of a lightning's flash. The dream of George Washington, he having no children, was to create and adopt a nation which should at once be strong and free, and the result is, his grave is a shrine. But, as the eight notes of the scale, in their combinations, fill the world with music--or with discords, so the work of an editor covers all the subjects on which men have ever thought, or ever will think, and the best that any one editor can do is to handle a few subjects well. Among our coast editors there is one with more marked characteristics, more flashes of genius, in certain directions, more contradictions and more pluck than any other one possesses. "That one is Henry Mighels, of Carson. I mention him because I have been thinking of him all day, and because I fear that his work is finished. The last we heard of him, was, that he was disputing with the surgeons in San Francisco, they telling him that he was fatally ill, and he, offering to wager two to one that they were badly mistaken." "Poor Henry," mused the Colonel; "he is a plucky man. I heard one of our rich men once try to get him to write something, or not to write something, I have forgotten which, and when Mighels declined to consent, the millionaire told him he was too poor to be so exceedingly independent. Here Mighels, in a low voice, which sounded to me like the purr of a tiger, said: 'You are quite mistaken, you do not know how rich I am. I have that little printing office at Carson; paper enough to last me for a week or ten days. I have a wife and three babies,' and then suddenly raising his voice, to the dangerous note, and bringing his fist down on the table before him with a crash, he shouted, '_and they are all mine_!' "The rich man looked at him, and, smiling, said: 'Don't talk like a fool, Mighels.' The old humor was all back in Mighels' face in an instant, as he replied, 'Was I talking like a fool, old man? What a sublime faculty I have of exactly gauging my conversation to the mental grasp of my listener!' But, Alex, do you not think there is a great deal of humbug about the much vaunted power of the press?" "There's gratitude for you. You ask _me_ such a question as that." "And why not?" inquired the Colonel. "You won a great suit last week, did you not--the case of Jones vs. Smith?" "Yes. It was wonderful; let me tell you about it." "No; spare me," cried Alex. "But how much did you receive for winning that case?" "I received a cool ten thousand dollars." "And you still ask about the influence of the press?" "Yes. Why should I not?" "Sure enough, why should you not? If you will stop and think you will know that three months ago you could not have secured a jury in the State that would have given you that verdict. There was a principle on trial that public opinion was pronounced against in a most marked manner. The press took up the discussion and fought it out. At length it carried public opinion with it. That thing has been done over and over right here. At the right time, your case, which hung upon that very point, was called. You think you managed it well. It was simply a walkover for you. The men with the Fabers had done the work for you. The jury unconsciously had made up their minds before they heard the complaint in the case read. The best thoughts in your argument you had unconsciously stolen from the newspapers, and the judge, looking as wise as an Arctic owl, unconsciously wrung half an editorial into his charge. You received ten thousand dollars, and to the end of his days your client will tell (heaven forgive his stupidity) what a lawyer you are, but ask him his opinion of newspaper men and he will shrug his shoulders, scowl, and with a donkey's air of wisdom, answer: 'Oh, they are necessary evils. We want the local news and the dispatches, and we have to endure them.' "I am glad you robbed him, Colonel. I wish you could rob them all. If a child is born to one of them we have to tell of it, and mention delicately how noble the father is and how lovely the mother is. If one of them dies we have to jeopardize our immortal souls trying to make out a character for him. They want us every day; we hold up their business and their reputations, beginning at the cradle, ending only at the grave." "What kind of character would you give me, were I to die?" "Try it, Colonel! Try it! And if 'over the divide' it should be possible for you to look back and read the daily papers, when your shade gets hold of my notice, I promise you it shall be glad that you are dead." "But what about that unregenerate soul that you were going to tell me of--has some broker sold out some widow's stocks?" "No: worse than that." "Has some one burglarized some hospital or orphan asylum?" suggested the Colonel. "Oh, no. Old Angus Jacobs, you know, is rich. Among strangers he parades his thin veneering of reading, and poses as though all his vaults were stuffed with reserves of knowledge. Well, while East last spring, he ran upon a distinguished publisher there, with whom he agreed that he would, on his return, write and send for publication an article on the West. "He came and begged me to write it, confessing that he had deceived the publisher, and asserting that, he must keep up the deception, or the integrity of the West would be injured in the estimation of that publisher. "I went to work, wrote an article, became enthused as I wrote, wrote it over, spent as much as three solid days upon it, and when it was finished I looked upon my work, and lo, it was good. "Then, at my own expense, I had it carefully copied and gave the copy to old Angus. He sent it East. To-day he received a dozen copies and a letter of profuse praise and thanks from the publisher. "I saw the old thief give one of the copies to a literary man from San Francisco, telling him, cheerfully, as he did, that he dashed the article off hastily, that most of the language was crude and awkward, but it might entertain him a little on the train going to San Francisco." "I never heard of anything meaner or more depraved than that," indignantly remarked the Colonel, "except when I read the funeral service over an old Dutchman's child once, in Downieville. Speaking of it afterward, the old Hessian said: "'Dot Colonel's reading vos fine, but he dond vos haf dot prober look uf regret vot he ought to haf had'--but here comes the Professor." Professor Stoneman joined the pair, and when the greetings were over the Professor said: "I am just in from Eastern Nevada: went to Eureka to examine a mine owned by a jolly miner named Moore. It is a good one, too--a contact vein between lime and quartzite. The fellow worked, running a tunnel, all winter, and now he has struck, and cross-cut, his vein. It is fully seven feet thick, and rich. I asked him how he felt when at last he cut the vein. "'How did I feel, Professor,' he said, 'how did I feel? Why, General Jackson's overcoat would not have made a paper collar for me.' "There are a great many queer characters out that way. Moore is not a very well educated man. In Eureka I was telling about the mine--that Moore ought to make a fortune out of it--when a man standing by, a stranger to me, stretched up both his arms and cried: 'A fortune! Look at it, now! Moore is so unspeakably ignorant that he could not spell out the name of the Savior if it were written on White Pine Mountain in letters bigger than the Coast Range. But he strikes it rich! His kind always do.' Then he added, bitterly: 'If I could find a chimpanzee, I would draw up articles of copartnership with him in fifteen minutes.' "And then a quiet fellow, who was present, said: 'Jim, maybe the chimpanzee, after taking a good look at you, would not stand it.' "I was sitting in a barroom there one day, and a man was talking about the Salmon River mines, and insisting that they were more full of promise than anything in Nevada, when another man in the crowd earnestly said: "'If my brother were to write me that it was a good country, and advise me to come up there, I would not believe him.' "Quick as lightning, still another man responded: 'If we all knew your brother as well as you do, maybe none of us would believe him.' "That is the way they spend their time out there. But I secured some lovely specimens: specimens of ore, rare shells, some of the finest specimens of mirabilite of lead that I ever saw. It is a most interesting region. But I don't agree entirely with Clarence King on the geology of the district. You see King's theory is--" "Oh, hold on, Professor," said the Colonel, "it does not lack an hour of midnight. You have not time, positively. Heigh ho. Here is Wright. How is the mine, Wright?" "About two hundred tons lighter than it was this morning, I reckon," replied Wright. "But tell us about the mine, Wright," said Alex, impatiently. "How is the temperature?" "How is your health?" responded Wright, jocularly. "If you do not expect to live long, you might come down and take some preparatory lessons; that is, if you anticipate joining the majority of newspaper men." "No, no; you are mistaken," said Alex. "You mean the Colonel. He is a lawyer, you know." "It is the Professor that needs the practice," chimed in the Colonel. "Just imagine him 'down below,' explaining to the gentleman in green how similar the formation is to a hot drift that he once found in the Comstock." "I will tell you a hotter place than any drift in the Comstock," said the Professor. "Put all the money that you have into stocks, having a dead pointer from a friend who is posted, buy on a margin, and then have the stocks begin to go down; that will start the perspiration on you." "We have all been in that drift," said Alex. "Indeed, we have," responded Wright. "I have lived in that climate for twelve years. One or two winters it kept me so warm that I did not need an overcoat or watch, so I loaned them to----'mine uncle,'" remarked the Colonel. "But, do you know any points on stocks, Wright?" "No, not certainly, Alex. I heard some rumors last night and ordered 100 Norcross this morning. Some of the boys think it will jump up three or four dollars in the next ten days." "I took in a block of Utah yesterday. They are getting down pretty deep, and there is lots of unexplored ground in that mine," said the Colonel, quietly. The Professor, looking serious, said: "I have all my money the other way, in Justice and Silver Hill. They are not deep enough in the north end yet." Alex got up from his chair. "You are all mistaken," said he, "Overman is the best buy, but it is growing late and I must go to work. What shift are you on, Wright?" "I go on at seven in the morning. By the way, you should come up of an evening to our Club. We would be glad to see all three of you." "And pray, what do you mean by your Club?" asked the Colonel. "Why," said Wright, "I thought you knew. Three or four of us miners met up here one night last month. Joe Miller was in the party, and as we were drinking beer and talking about stocks, Miller proposed that we should hire a vacant house on the divide--the old Beckley House--and give up the boarding and lodging houses. We talked it all over, how shameful we had been going on, how we were spending all our money, how, if we had the house, we could save fifty or sixty dollars a month, and eat what we pleased, do what we pleased, and have a place in which to pass our leisure time without going to the saloons; so we picked up three or four more men, and, on last pay-day, moved in--seven of us in all--each man bringing his own chair, blankets and food. The latter, of course, was all put into common stock, and Miller had fixed everything else. Since then we have been getting along jolly.'" "But who makes up your company?" inquired Alex. "Oh, you know the whole outfit," answered Wright. "There is Miller, as I told you; there are, besides, Tom Carlin, old man Brewster, Herbert Ashley, Sammy Harding, Barney Corrigan and myself." "It is a good crowd; but you are not all working in the same mine, are you?" said the Professor, inquiringly. "Oh, no. Brewster is running a power-drill in the Bullion. He is a mechanic, you know, and not a real miner. Miller and Harding are in the Curry, Barney is in the Norcross, Carlin and Ashley are in the Imperial, and I in the Savage. But we all happen to be on the same shift, so, for this month at least, we have our evenings together." "It must be splendid," enthusiastically remarked the Colonel. "How do you spend your evenings?" asked Alex. "We talk on all subjects except politics. That subject, we agreed at the start, should not be discussed. We read and compare notes on stocks." "How do you manage about your cooking?" queried the Professor. "We have a Chinaman, who is a daisy. He is cook, housekeeper, chambermaid, and would be companion and musician if we could stand it. You must come up and see us." "I will come to-morrow evening," Alex replied, eagerly. "So will I," said the Colonel, with a positiveness that was noticeable. "And so will I," shouted the Professor. Just then the eleven o'clock whistles sounded up and down the lead. "That is our signal for retiring," said Wright, "and so good night." "Let us go out and take a night cap, first," said the Colonel. "Well, if I must," said Wright. "Though the rule of our Club is only a little for medicine." The night caps were ordered and swallowed. Then the men separated, the Colonel, Professor and Wright going home, the journalist to his work. Professor Stoneman was a character. Tall and spare, with such an outline as Abraham Lincoln had. He was fifty years of age, with grave and serene face when in repose, and with the mien of one of the faculty of a university. Still he had that nature which caused him when a boy to run away from his Indiana home to the Mexican war, and he fought through all that long day at Buena Vista, a lad of eighteen years. Of course he was with the first to reach California. He had tried mining and many other things, but the deeper side of his nature was to pursue the sciences--the lighter to mingle with good fellows. He would tell a story one moment and the next would combat a scientific theory with the most learned of the Eastern scientists, and carry away from the controversy the full respect of his opponent. There was a great fund of merriment within him, and his generosity not only kept his bank account a minus number, but moreover, kept his heart aching that he had no more to give. When by himself he was an incessant student, and beside knowing all that the books taught, he had his own ideas of their correctness, especially those that deal with the formation of ore deposits. He was a learned writer, a gifted lecturer and an expert of mines, and, over all, the most genial of men. Adrian Wright was of another stamp altogether. He was tall and strong, with large feet and hands, a massive man in all respects, and forty-five years of age. He had a cool and brave gray eye, a firm, strong mouth, very light brown hair and carried always with him a something which first impressed those who saw him with his power, while a second look gave the thought that beside the power which was visible, he had unmeasured reserves of concealed force which he could call upon on demand. He went an uncultured lad to California. He was at first a placer miner. Obtaining a good deal of money he became a mountain trader and the owner of a ditch, which supplied some hydraulic grounds. He was brusque in his address, said "whar" and "thar," but his head was large and firmly poised; his heart was warm as a child's, and he was loved for his clear, good sense and for the sterling manhood which was apparent in all his ways. Though uncultured in the schools, he had read a great deal, and, mixing much with men, his judgment had matured, until in his mountain hamlet his word had become an authority. His friends persuaded him to become a candidate for the State Legislature. After he had consented to run he spent a good deal of money in the campaign. He was elected and went to Sacramento. There he was persuaded to buy largely of Comstock stocks. He bought on a margin. When it came time to put up more money he could not without borrowing. He would not do that through fear that he could not pay. He lost the stocks. He went home in the spring to find that his clerks had given large credits to miners; the hydraulic mines ceased to pay, which rendered his ditch property valueless, and a few days later his store burned down. When his debts were paid he had but a few hundred dollars left. He said nothing about his reverses, but went to Virginia City and for several years had been working in the mines. As already said, a miners' mess had been formed. Seven miners on the Comstock might be picked out who would pretty nearly represent the whole world. This band had been drawn together partly because of certain traits that they possessed in common, though they were each distinctly different from all the others. We have read of Wright. Of the others, James Brewster, was the eldest of the company. He was fifty years of age, and from Massachusetts. He was not tall, but was large and powerful. There were streaks of gray in his hair, but his eyes were clear, and black as midnight. He had a bold nose and invincible mouth; the expression of his whole face was that of a resolute, self-contained, but kindly nature. All his movements were quick and positive. He was educated, and though of retiring ways, when he talked everybody near him listened. He was not a miner, but a mechanical engineer, and his work was the running of power drills in the mine. He never talked much of his own affairs, but it was understood that misfortune in business had caused him to seek the West somewhat late in life. The truth was he had never been rich. He possessed a moderately prosperous business until a long illness came to his wife, and when the depression which followed the reaction from the war and the contraction of the currency fell upon the North, he found he had little left, and so sought a new field. He was the Nestor of the Club and was exceedingly loved by his companions. Miller, who first proposed the Club, was a New Yorker by birth, a man forty-five years of age, medium height, keen gray eyes, a clear-cut, sharp face, slight of build, but all nerve and muscle, and lithe as a panther. He had been for a quarter of a century on the west coast, and knew it well from British Columbia to Mexico, and from the Rocky Mountains to the Pacific. He was given a good education in his youth; he had mingled with all sorts of men and been engaged in all kinds of business. There was a perpetual flash to his eyes, and a restlessness upon him which made him uneasy if restrained at all. He had the reputation of being inclined to take desperate chances sometimes, but was honorable, thoroughly, and generous to a fault. He had studied men closely, and of Nature's great book he was a constant reader. He knew the voices of the forests and of the streams; he had a theory that the world was but a huge animal; that if we were but wise enough to understand, we should hear from Nature's own voices the story of the world and hear revealed all her profound secrets. He possessed a magnetism which drew friends to him everywhere. His hair was still unstreaked with gray, but his face was care-worn, like that of one who had been dissipated or who had suffered many disappointments. Carlin was twenty-eight years of age, long of limb, angular, gruff, but hearty; quick, sharp and shrewd, but free-handed and generally in the best of humors. He was an Illinois man, and a good type of the men of the Old West. His eyes were brown, his hair chestnut; erect, he was six feet in height, but seated, there seemed to be no place for his hands and hardly room enough for his feet. He was well-educated, and had been but three and a half years on the Comstock. All the Californians in the Club insisted, of course, that there was no other place but that, but this Carlin always vehemently denied, for he came from the State of Lincoln and Douglas, and the State, moreover, that had Chicago in one corner of it, and he did not believe there was another such State in all the Republic. Ashley was from Pennsylvania; a young man of twenty-five, above medium height, compact as a tiger in his make-up, and weighing, perhaps, one hundred and eighty pounds. His eyes were gray, his hair brown, his face almost classic in its outlines; his feet and hands were particularly small and finely formed, and there was a jollity and heartiness about his laugh which was contagious. He had an excellent education, and had seen a good deal of business in his early manhood. Corrigan was a thorough Irishman, generous, warm-hearted, witty, sociable, brave to recklessness, curly-haired, with laughing, blue eyes; the most open and frank of faces that was ever smiling, powerfully built and ready at a moment's notice to fight anyone or give anyone his purse. Everybody knew and liked him, and he liked everybody that, as he expressed it, was worth the liking. He had come to America a lad of ten. He lived for twelve years in New York City, attended the schools, and was in his last year in the High School when, for some wild freak, he had been expelled. He worked two years in a Lake Superior copper mine, then went to California and worked there until lured to Nevada by the silver mines, and had been on the Comstock five years when the Club was formed. Harding was the boy of the company, only twenty-two years of age, a native California lad. But he was hardly a type of his State. His eyes were that shade of gray which looks black in the night; his hair was auburn. He had a splendid form, though not quite filled out; his head was a sovereign one. But he was reticent almost to seriousness, and it was in this respect that he did not seem quite like a California boy. There was a reason for it. He was the son of an Argonaut who had been reckless in business and most indulgent to his boy. He had a big farm near Los Angeles, and shares in mines all over the coast. The boy had grown up half on the farm and half in the city. He was an adept in his studies; he was just as much an adept when it came to riding a wild horse. He had gained a good education and was just entering the senior class in college when his father suddenly died. He mourned for him exceedingly, and when his affairs were investigated it was found there was a mortgage on the old home. He believed there was a future for the land. So he made an arrangement to meet the interest on the mortgage annually, then went to San Francisco, obtained an order for employment on a Comstock superintendent, went at once to Virginia City and took up his regular labor as a miner. He had been thus employed for a year when the Club was formed. This was the company that had formed a mess. Miller had worked up the scheme. It had been left to Miller to prepare the house--to buy the necessary materials for beginning housekeeping, like procuring the dishes, knives and forks and spoons, and benches or cheap chairs, for the dining room, and it was agreed to begin on the next pay day. CHAPTER II. About four o'clock in the afternoon of the day appointed for commencing housekeeping, our miners gathered at this new home. The provisions, bedding and chairs had been sent in advance, in care of Miller, who had remained above ground that day, in order to have things in apple-pie shape. The chairs were typical of the men. Brewster's was a common, old-fashioned, flag-bottomed affair, worth about three dollars. Carlin and Wright each had comfortable armchairs; Ashley and Harding had neat office chairs, while Miller and Corrigan each had heavy upholstered armchairs, which cost sixty dollars each. When all laughed at Brewster's chair, he merely answered that it would do, and when Miller and Corrigan were asked what on earth they had purchased such out-of-place furniture for, to put in a miner's cabin, Miller answered: "I got trusted and didn't want to make a bill for nothing," and Corrigan said: "To tell the truth, I was not over-much posted on this furniture business, I did not want to invest in too chape an article, so I ordered the best in the thavin' establishment, because you know a good article is always chape, no matter what the cost may be." The next thing in order was to compare the bills for provisions. Brewster drew his bill from his pocket and read as follows: Twenty pounds bacon, $7.50; forty pounds potatoes, $1.60; ten pounds coffee, $3.75; one sack flour, $4.00; cream tartar and salaratus, $1.00; ten pounds sugar, $2.75; pepper, salt and mustard, $1.50; ten pounds prunes, $2.50; one bottle XXX for medicine, $2.00; total, $32.60. The bill was receipted. The bills of Wright and Harding each comprised about the same list, and amounted to about the same sum. They, too, were receipted. The funny features were that each one had purchased nearly similar articles, and the last item on each of the bills was a charge of $2.00 for medicine. It had been agreed that no liquor should be bought except for medicine. The bills of Carlin and Ashley were not different in variety, but each had purchased in larger quantities, so that those bills footed up about $45 each. On each of the bills, too, was an item of $4.75 for demijohn and "half gallon of whisky for medicine." All were receipted. Corrigan's bill amounted to $73, including one-half gallon of whisky and one bottle of brandy "for medicine," and his too was receipted. Miller read last. His bill had a little more variety, and amounted to $97.16. The last item was: "To demijohn and one gallon whisky for medicine, $8.00." On this bill was a credit for $30.00. A general laugh followed the reading of these bills. The variety expected was hardly realized, as Corrigan remarked: "The bills lacked somewhat in versatility, but there was no doubt about there being plenty of food of the kind and no end to the medicine." When the laugh had subsided, Brewster said: "Miller estimated that our provisions would not cost to exceed $15.00 per month apiece. I tried to be reasonable and bought about enough for two months, but here we have a ship load. Why did you buy out a store, Miller?" "I had to make a bill and I did not want the grocery man to think we were paupers," retorted Miller. "How much were the repairs on the house, Miller?" asked Carlin. "There's the beggar's bill. It's a dead swindle, and I told him so. He ought to have been a plumber. He had by the Eternal. He has no more conscience than a police judge. Here's the scoundrel's bill," said Miller, excitedly, as he proceeded to read the following: "'To repairing roof, $17.50; twenty battens, $4.00; to putting on battens, $3.00; hanging one door, $3.50; six lights glass, $3.00; setting same, $3.00; lumber, $4.80; putting up bunks, $27.50; total, $66.30.' "The man is no better than a thief; if he is, I'm a sinner." "You bought some dishes, did you not, Miller?" inquired Ashley. "How much did they amount to?" "There's another scalper," answered Miller, warmly. "I told him we wanted a few dishes, knives, forks, etc.--just enough for seven men to cabin with--and here is the bill. It foots up $63.37. A bill for wood also amounts to $15.00; two extra chairs, $6.00." Brewster, who had been making a memorandum, spoke up and said: "If I have made no error the account stands as follows: Provisions $357 56 Crockery, knives, forks, etc. 53 37 Wood 19 00 Repairs 66 50 One month's rent 50 00 One month's water 7 00 Chairs 6 00 ------- Making a total of $559 43 Or, in round numbers, eighty dollars per capita for us all. I settled my account at the store, amounting to $32.60, which leaves $47.40 as my proportion of the balance. Here is the money." This was like Brewster. Some of the others settled and a part begged-off until next pay-day. The next question was about the cooking. After a brief debate it was determined that all would join in getting up the first supper. So one rushed to a convenient butcher shop and soon returned with a basket full of porter house steaks, sweetbreads and lamb chops; another prepared the potatoes and put them in the oven; another attended to the fire; another to setting the table. Brewster was delegated to make the coffee. To Corrigan was ascribed the task of cooking the meats, while Miller volunteered to make some biscuits that would "touch their hearts." He mixed the ingredients in the usual way and thoroughly kneaded the dough. He then, with the big portion of a whisky bottle for a rolling-pin, rolled the dough out about a fourth of an inch thick. He then touched it gently all over with half melted butter; rolled the thin sheet into a large roll; then with the bottle reduced this again to the required thickness for biscuits, and, with a tumbler, cut them out. His biscuit trick he had learned from an old Hungarian, who, for a couple of seasons, had been his mining partner. It is an art which many a fine lady would be glad to know. The result is a biscuit which melts like cream in the mouth--like a fair woman's smile on a hungry eye. Corrigan had his sweetbreads frying, and when the biscuits were put in the oven, the steak and chops were put on to broil. The steak had been salted and peppered--miner's fashion--and over it slices of bacon, cut thin as wafers, had been laid. The bacon, under the heat, shriveled up and rolled off into the fire, but not until the flavor had been given to the steak. One of the miners had opened a couple of cans of preserved pine-apples; the coffee was hot, the meats and the biscuits were ready, and so the simple supper was served. Harding had placed the chairs; Brewster's was at the head of the table. Corrigan waited until all the others had taken their seats at the table; then, with a glass in his hand and a demijohn thrown over his right elbow, he stepped forward and said: "To didicate the house, and also as a medicine, I prescribe for aitch patient forty drops." Each took his medicine resignedly, and as the last one returned the glass, Corrigan added: "It appears to me I am not faling ony too well meself," and either as a remedy or preventive, he took some of the medicine. The supper was ravenously swallowed by the men, who for months had eaten nothing but miners' boarding-house fare. With one voice they declared that it was the first real meal they had eaten for weeks, and over their coffee they drank long life to housekeeping and confusion to boarding-houses. When the supper was over and the things put away, the pipes were lighted. By this time the shadow of Mount Davidson around them had melted into the gloom of the night, and for the first time in months these men settled themselves down to spend an evening at home. It was a new experience. "It is just splendid," cried Wright. "No beer, no billiards, no painted nymphs, no chance for a row. We have been sorry fools for months--for years, for that matter--or we would have opened business at this stand long ago." "We have, indeed," said Ashley. "To-night we make a new departure. What shall we call our mess?" Many names were suggested, but finally "The Comstock Club" was proposed and nominated by acclamation. [Illustration: THE COMSTOCK CLUB.] It was agreed, too, that no other members, except honorary members, should be admitted, and no politics talked. Then the conversation became general, and later, confidential; and each member of the Club uncovered a little his heart and his hopes. Miller meant, so soon as he "made a little stake," to go down to San Francisco and assault the stock sharps right in their Pine and California street dens. He believed he had discovered the rule which could reduce stock speculation to an exact science, and he was anxious for the opportunity which a little capital would afford, "to show those sharpers at the Bay a trick or two, which they had never yet 'dropped on.'" He added, patronizingly: "I will loan you all so much money, by and by, that each of you will have enough to start a bank." "I shtarted a bank alridy, all be mesilf, night before last," said Corrigan. "What kind of a bank was it, Barney?" asked Harding. "One of King Pharo's. I put a twenty-dollar pace upon the Quane; that shtarted the bank. The chap on the other side of the table commenced to pay out the pictures, and the Quane----" "Well, what of the Queen, Barney?" asked Carlin. "She fill down be the side of the sardane box, and the chap raked in me double agle." "How do you like that style of banking, Barney?" asked Ashley. "Oh! Its mighty plisant and enthertainin', of course; the business sames to be thransacted with a grate dale of promptness and dispatch; the only drawback seems to be that the rates of ixchange are purty high." Tom Carlin knew of a great farm, a store, a flour mill, and a hazel-eyed girl back in Illinois. He coveted them all, but was determined to possess the girl anyway. After a little persuasion, he showed her picture to the Club. They all praised it warmly, and Corrigan declared she was a daisy. In a neat hand on the bottom of the picture was written: "With love, Susie Richards." Carlin always referred to her as "Susie Dick." Harding, upon being rallied, explained that his father came with the Argonauts to the West; that he was brilliant, but over-generous; that he had lived fast and with his purse open to every one, and had died while yet in his prime, leaving an encumbered estate, which must be cleared of its indebtedness, that no stain might rest upon the name of Harding. There was a gleam in the dark eyes, and a ring to the voice of the boy as he spoke, that kindled the admiration of the Club, and when he ceased speaking, Miller reached out and shook his hand, saying: "You should have the money, my boy!" Back in Massachusetts, Brewster had met with a whole train of misfortunes; his property had become involved; his wife had died--his voice lowered and grew husky when mentioning this--he had two little girls, Mable and Mildred. He had kept his children at school and paid their way despite the iron fortune that had hedged him about, and he was working to shield them from all the sorrows possible, without the aid of the Saint who had gone to heaven. The Club was silent for a moment, when the strong man added, solemnly, and as if to himself: "Who knows that she does not help us still?" In his youth, Brewster acquired the trade of an engineer. At this time, as we learned before, he was running a power drill in the Bullion. He was a great reader and was thorough on many subjects. Wright had his eyes on a stock range in California, where the land was cheap, the pasturage fine, the water abundant, and where, with the land and a few head of stock for a beginning, a man would in a few years be too rich to count his money. He had been accustomed to stock, when a boy, in Missouri, and was sure that there was more fun in chasing a wild steer with a good mustang, than finding the biggest silver mine in America. Ashley had gained some new ideas since coming West. He believed he knew a cheap farm back in Pennsylvania, that, with thorough cultivation, would yield bountifully. There were coal and iron mines there also, which he could open in a way to make old fogies in that country open their eyes. He knew, too, of a district there, where a man, if he behaved himself, might be elected to Congress. It was plain, from his talk, that he had some ambitious plans maturing in his mind. Corrigan had an old mother in New York. He was going to have a few acres of land after awhile in California, where grapes and apricots would grow, and chickens and pigs would thrive and be happy. He was going to fix the place to his own notion, then was going to send for his mother, and when she came, every day thereafter he was going to look into the happiest old lady's eyes between the seas. So they talked, and did not note how swiftly the night was speeding, until the deep whistle of the Norcross hoisting engine sounded for the eleven o'clock shift, and in an instant was followed by all the whistles up and down the great lode. Then the good nights were said, and in ten minutes the lights were extinguished and the mantles of night and silence were wrapped around the house. CHAPTER III. An early breakfast was prepared by the whole Club, as the supper of the previous evening had been. The miners had to be at the mines, where they worked, promptly at 7 o'clock, to take the places of the men who had worked since eleven o'clock the previous night. While at breakfast the door of the house was softly opened and a Chinaman showed his face. He explained that he was a "belly good cook," and would like to work for ten dollars a week. Carlin was nearest the door, and in a bantering tone opened a conversation with the Mongolian. "What is your name, John?" "Yap Sing." "Are you a good cook, sure, Yap?" "Oh, yes, me belly good cook; me cookie bleef-steak, chickie, turkie, goosie; me makie bled, pie, ebbything; me belly good cook." "Have you any cousins, Yap?" "No cuzzie; no likie cuzzie." "Do you get drunk, Yap?" "No gettie glunk; no likie blandy." "Do you smoke opium?" "No likie smokie opium. You sabe, one man smokie opium, letee while he all same one fool; all same one d----d monkey." "Suppose we were to hire you, Yap, how long would it take you to steal everything in the ranch?" "Me no stealie; me no likie stealie." "Now, Yap, suppose we hire you and we all go off to the mines and leave you here, and some one comes and wants to buy bacon and beans and flour and sugar, what would you do?" "Me no sellie." "Suppose some one comes and wants to steal things, what then?" "Me cuttie his ears off; me cuttie his d----d throat." At this Brewster interposed and said: "I believe it would be a good idea to engage this Chinaman. We are away and the place is unprotected all day; besides, after a man has worked all day down in the hot levels of the Comstock, he does not feel like cooking his own dinner. Let us give John a trial." It was agreed to. Yap Sing was duly installed. He was instructed to have supper promptly at six o'clock; orders were given him on the markets for fresh meat, vegetables, etc. From the remnants of the breakfast the dinner buckets were filled and the men went away to their work. Yap Sing proved to be an artist in his way. When the members of the Club met again at their home, a splendid, hot supper was waiting for them. They ate, as hungry miners do, congratulating themselves that, as it were from the sky, an angel of a heathen had dropped down upon them. After supper, when the pipes were lighted, the conversation of the previous evening was resumed. The second night brought out something of the history of each. They had nearly all lived in California; some had wandered the Golden Coast all over; all had roughed it, and all had an experience to relate. These evening visits soon became very enjoyable to the members of the Club, and the friendship of the members for each other increased as they the more thoroughly, knew the inner lives of each other. On this night, Wright was the last to speak of himself. When he had concluded, Ashley said to him: "Wright, you have had some lively experiences. What is the most impressive scene that you ever witnessed?" "I hardly know." Wright replied. "I think maybe a mirage that was painted for me, one day, out on the desert, this side of the sink of the Humbolt, when I was crossing the plains, shook me up about as much as anything that ever overtook me, except the chills and fever, which I used to have when a boy, back in Missouri. For only a picture it was right worrisome." The Club wanted to hear about it, and so Wright proceeded as follows: "We had been having rough times for a good while; thar had been sickness in the train; some of the best animals had been poisoned with alkali; thar had been some Injun scares--it was in '57--and we all had been broken, more or less, of our rest, I in particular, was a good deal jolted up; was nervous and full of starts and shivers. I suspect thar was a little fever on me. We halted one morning on the desert, to rest the stock, and make some coffee. It was about eight o'clock. We had been traveling since sundown the night before, crossing the great desert, and hoped to reach Truckee River that afternoon. "While resting, a mighty desire took possession of me to see the river, and to feel that the desert was crossed. "I had a saddle mule that was still in good condition. I had petted him since he was three days old, had broken him, and he and myself were the best of friends. His mother was a thoroughbred Kentucky mare; from her he had inherited his courage and staying qualities, while he had also just enough of his father's stubbornness to be useful, for it held his heart up to the work when things got rough. "I looked over the train; it was all right; I was not needed; would not be any more that day. "The mule was brought up in the Osage hills, and I had named him Osage, which after awhile became contracted to Sage. I went to him and looked him over. He was quietly munching a bacon sack. I took a couple of quarts of wheaten flour, mixed it into a soft paste, with water from one of the kegs which had been brought along, and gave it to him. He drank it as a hungry boy drinks porridge, and licked the dish clean. The journey had impressed upon him the absolute need of exercising the closest economy. "When he had finished his rather light breakfast, I whispered to him that if he would stand in with me, I would show him, before night, the prettiest stream of water--snow water--in the world. I think he understood me perfectly. Telling the people of the train that I would go ahead and look out a camping place, I took my shotgun, put a couple of biscuits in my pocket, and mounted Sage. He struck out at once on his long swinging walk. "It was an August morning and had been hot ever since the sun rose. That is a feature out thar on the desert in the summer. The nights get cold, but so soon as the sun comes up, it is like going down into the Comstock. In fifteen minutes everything is steaming. Old Ben Allen, down on the borders of the Cherokee Nation, never of a morning, warmed up his niggers any livelier than the sun does the desert. "I rode for a couple of hours. As I said, I was weak and nervous. In the sand, Sage's feet hardly made any sound, and the glare and the silence of the desert were around and upon me. If you never experienced it you don't know what the silence of the desert means. Take a day when the winds are laid; when in all directions, as far as your vision extends, thar is not a moving thing; when all that you can see is the brazen sky overhead, and the scarred breast of the earth, as if smitten and transfixed by Thor's thunderbolts, lying prone and desolate like the face of a dead world, before you; and withal not one sound: absolute stillness; and strong nerves after awhile become strained. On me, that forenoon, my surroundings became almost intolerable. I had been on foot driving team all night; I had eaten nothing since midnight, and then had only forced down a small slice of bread and a cup of horrible black coffee, and was really not more than half myself. One moment I was chilly; the next was perspiring, and sometimes it seemed as though I should suffocate. With my nerves strung up as they were, I guess it would not have required much to give me a panic. "Just then, out against the sun to the southward, and apparently a mile away, I saw something. Talk about being impressed! that was my time. I was sure I saw five hundred Indian warriors, all mounted. They were wheeling in black squadrons on the desert, wheeling and forming, as I thought. Horses and men were all black, and now and then as they wheeled or swung to and fro, I marked what I was sure was the gleam of steel. They evidently had seen me: I expected every moment to hear their yell and wondered that I did not feel the tremble of the earth beneath their horses' feet; I was too nearly paralyzed to try to escape. I slipped or fell, I don't know which, from my mule, and lay panting like a tired hound upon the sand. But I could not keep my eyes from the terrible sight before me. Still those tawny warriors kept wheeling and forming, and as I believed, menacing me. "At length I grew a little calmer, and remember that I explained to myself that the reason I did not hear the thunder of their horses' feet, was because of the sand, and from the fact that the ponies could not be shod. But I wondered more and more where an Indian tribe could get so many black horses. "Once, when they seemed particularly furious, and just on the point of charging down upon me; I remember that I said to myself: 'If they eat me they will have to broil me in the sun, for thar is no fuel here.' All the time too, I was pitying Sage, and my own voice frightened me as I unconsciously said: 'Poor Sage, it is a hard fate to be faithful and suffer as you have and then fall into the hands of savages.' "When a little more under my own control, I cautiously rose to my feet and looked at the mule. It was no use. On top of the fatigue of coming quite two thousand miles, he had, on that morning, been constantly traveling for fourteen hours, with only two rests of thirty minutes each. He never could get away from those fresh ponies. I looked back in the direction of the train; it was nowhar in sight and must have been back probably five miles. "In this strait I looked up again toward my savages. At that very moment the charge commenced; the whole array was bearing down upon me. I took my gun from the horn of the saddle and sat down on the ground. I felt--but no matter how I felt; I only know that at that moment I would have given my note for a large sum to have been back in Missouri. "On they swept, and I watched them coming. But somehow they began to grow smaller and smaller, and in an instant more the squadron vanished. Where the moment before an armed band, terrible with life and bristling with fury, had shone upon my eyes, now all that there was to be seen was a flock of perhaps twenty ravens, flying with short flights, and hopping and lighting around some little thing, which lay above the level of the desert. I mounted Sage and rode out to the spot, some four hundred yards away. "I found another road, and strung along it, were the carcasses of a good many cattle that had died in emigrant trains. The ravens were hopping about these carcasses and flying from one to another. I had heard of the mirage of the desert, when a boy in school, and suddenly 'I dropped upon' the whole business. By some mighty refraction of the beams of light, these miserable scavengers of the desert had been magnified into formidable, mounted warriors, and the glint of steel that I had seen, was but the shimmer of sunbeams upon their black wings. "Again I headed Sage for the river. In a little while he commenced to stretch out his nose; soon, of his own accord, he quickened his pace to a trot, a little later he took up his long lope and never relaxed his speed until he drove his nose into the delicious water of the Truckee. I dismounted and joined him. Right there we each took the biggest and longest drink of our lives; then I gave Sage one of my biscuits and ate the other myself, and we both felt immensely refreshed. I stripped the saddle and bridle from the mule and let him go. The river bank was green with grass and Sage was happy. "Throwing myself upon the ground, and laying my head upon the saddle, I composed myself for a sleep. "I was greatly in need of sleep, but the moment I closed my eyes, here came my black cavalry charging down upon me again, and I sprang up with a cry. Of all impressive scenes, that was my biggest one sure. I see it in my dreams still, at times, and I never, from this mountain side, look down to where the sand clouds are piling up their dunes over toward the Sink of the Carson, that I do not instinctively take one furtive glance in search of my savages." "I had a livelier mirage than that once," said Miller with a laugh. "I was prospecting for quartz in the foothills of Rogue River Valley, Oregon, and looking up, I thought I saw four or five deer, lying under a tree, on a hill side, about three hundred yards away. I raised the sight on my gun, took as good aim as I could on horseback, and blazed away. "In a second, four of those Rogue River Indians sprang from the ground and made for me. I had a good horse, but they ran me six miles before they gave up the chase. No more mirages like that for me, if you please." "I had a worse one than either of yees," chimed in Corrigan. "It was in that tough winter of '69. I had been placer mining up by Pine Grove, in California, all summer. I had a fair surface claim, and by wurking half the time, I paid me way and had a few dollars besides. The other half of the time I was wurking upon a dape cut, through bid rock, to get a fall in which I could place heavy sluices, and calculated that with the spring I could put in a pipe, and hydraulic more ground in one sason than I could wurk in the ould way in tin. One day, late in the autumn, I went up to La Porte to buy supplies, and on the night that I made that camp it began to snow. When once it got shtarted, it just continued to snow, as it can up in those mountains, and niver "lit up" for four hours at a time for thray wakes. It began to look as though the glacial period had returned to the wurld. "When I wint into town, I put up at Mrs. O'Kelly's boardin' and lodgin' house. Mrs. O'Kelly was a big woman, weighin' full two hundred pounds, and she was a business woman. She didn't pretind to be remainin' in La Porte jist for her hilth. "But there was a beautiful girl waitin' on the table in Mrs. O'Kelly's home. Her name was Maggie Murphy, and she was as thrim and purty a girl as you would wish to mate. She had bright, cheery ways, and whin she wint up to a table and sung out 'Soup'? all the crockery in the dinin' room would dance for joy. "Of an avenin' I used, after a few days, to visit a bit with Maggie. Some one had told about the camp that I had a great mine, and was all solid, and I was willin' to have the delusion kipt up, anyway until the storm saised. Maggie, I have a suspicion, had hurd the same story, for she was exceedingly gracious loike to me. One avenin,' as I was sayin' 'good night'--we were growin' mighty familiar loike thin--I said 'Maggie,' says I, 'the last woman I iver kissed was my ould mother, may I not kiss you, for I love you, darlint?' 'Indade you shall not,' says she, but in spite of that, somethin' in her eyes made me bould loike, and I saised upon and hild her--but she did not hould so very hard--and I kissed her upon chake and lips and eyes, and me arms were around her, and her heart was throbbin' warm against mine, and me soul was in the siventh heaven. "After awhile we quieted down a bit, and with me arms shtill around her, I asked, didn't she think Corrigan was a purtier name nor Murphy, and as I could not change my name fur her sake, wouldn't she change hers fur moine? "Thin with the tears shinin' loike shtars in her beautiful eyes, she raised up her arms, let thim shtale round me neck, and layin' her chake against me breast, which was throbbin' loike a stone bruise, said, said she, 'Yis, Barney, darlint.' "I had niver thought Barney was a very beautiful name before, but jist then it shtruck upon me ear swater thin marriage bells." Here Miller interrupted with, "You felt pretty proud just then, did you not, Barney?" "The Koohinoor would not hiv made a collar button fur me." "Don't interrupt him, Miller," interposed Carlin; "let Barney tell us the rest of the story." "There was a sofay near by. I drew Maggie to it, sat down and hild her to me side. She was pale, and we were both sort of trembly loike. "We did not talk much at first, but after awile Maggie said, suddent, said she: 'What a liar you are, Barney!' "And I said 'for why?' And she said 'to say you had niver kissed a woman since you had lift your ould mother. You have had plinty of practice.' "'And how do you know,' says I, and thin--but no matter, we had to begin all over again. "After awhile I wint away to bid, and talk about your mirages; all that night there was a convoy of angels around me, and the batein' of their wings was swater than the echoes that float in whin soft music comes from afar over still wathers. "One of the angels had just folded her wings and taken the form of Maggie, and was jist bend in' over me, whisperin' beautiful loike, whin, oh murther, I was wakened with a cry of: 'Are ye there now, ye blackguard?' I opened me eyes, and there stood Mrs. O'Kelly, with a broomstick over her head, and somethin' in her eye that looked moighty like a cloudburst. "'Ye thavin' villin,' said she, 'pertendin' to be a rich miner, and atin' up a poor woman all the time.' Thin she broke down intoirely and comminced wailin. "'Oh, Mr. Corrigan,' she howled through her sobs, 'How could yees come here and impose upon a unsuspectin' widdie; you know how hard I wurk; that I am up from early mornin' until the middle of the night, cookin' and shwapin' and makin' beds, and slavin' loike a black nigger, and----' by this time she recovered her timper and complated the sintence with: 'If yees don't pay me at once I'll--I'll, I'll--' "I found breath enough after awhile to tell her to hould on. My pantaloons were on a chair within aisy rache; I snatched thim up, sayin' as I did so: 'How much is your bill, Mrs. O'Kelly?' "'Thray wakes at iliven dollars is thray and thirty dollars, and one extra day is a dollar and five bits, or altogither, thirty-four dollars and five bits.' "I shtill had siveral twinty-dollar paces; I plunged me hand into the pocket of me pants, saized them all, thin let them drop upon aich other, all but two, and holdin' these out, said sharply, and still with the grand air of a millionaire: 'The change, if you plase, Mrs. O'Kelly.' "She took the money, gazed upon it a moment with a dazed and surprised look; thin suddenly her face was wrathed in smiles, and as softly as a woman with her voice (it sounded loike a muffled threshing machine) could, said: 'Take back your money. Mr. Corrigan, and remain as long as you plase. I was only jist after playin' a bit of a trick upon yees. What do yees think I care for a few beggarly dollars?' "But I could not see it; I remained firm. Again I said: 'The change, if you plase, Mrs. O'Kelly, and as soon too as convanient.' "She brought me the change, sayin': 'I'll have your brikfast smokin' hot for yees, in five minutes, Mr. Corrigan.' "I put on me clothes and looked out. The storm had worn itself out at last. I wint down stairs to the dinin' room door, and beckoned to Maggie. She came to me, and there ware the rale love-light in her beautiful eyes. I can see her now. She was straight as a pump rod; her head sat upon her nick like a picture; the nick itsilf was white loike snow--but niver mind. "'Come out in the hall a bit.' I whispered, and she come. I clasped her hand for a moment and said: 'It's goin' home I am, Maggie; I am goin' to fix me house a little: it will take me forty days to make me arrangements. If I come thin, will you take me name and go back with me?' "'I will,' says she. "This is the sivinteenth of the month, Maggie; the sivinteenth of next month will be thirty days, and tin more will make it the twinty-sivinth. If I come thin, will yees go?' I asked. "'I will, Barney, Dear,' was the answer. "'Have yees thought it over, and will yees be satisfied, darlint?' I asked. "'I have, Barney; I shall be satisfied, and I will be a good wife to yees, darlint,' was the answer. [Illustration: MAGGIE.] "Thin I hild out me arms and she sprang into thim. There was an embrace and a kiss and thin-- "'Goodbye, Maggie!' "'Good bye, Barney!' and I wint away. "I wint to a ristaurant and got a cup of coffee, and was jist startin' fer home, whin a frind come up and said: 'Barney,' said he; 'there's a man here you ought to go and punch the nose off of.' "'What fur,' says I. "'He's a slanderin' of yer,' says he. "'Who is the man and what is he sayin?' says I. "'It's Mike Dougherty, the blacksmith,' says he; and he is a sayin' as how your claim is no account, and that you are a bummer.' "Me heart was too light to think of quarrelin'; on me lips the honey of Maggie's kiss was still warm, and what did I care what ony man said. I merely laughed, and said: 'Maybe he is right,' and wint upon me way." With this Corrigan ceased speaking. After a moment or two of silence, Carlin said: "Well, Barney, how was it in six weeks?" "I had another mirage thin," said Barney. "I wint up to town; called at Mrs. O'Kelly's; she mit me, smilin' like, and said: 'Walk in, Mr. Corrigan!' I said: 'If you please, Mrs. O'Kelly, can I see Miss Murphy?' There was a vicious twinkle in her eye, as she answered, pointin' to a nate house upon the hillside, as she spoke. "'You will find her there, but her name is changed now. She was married on Thursday wake, to Mr. Mike Dougherty, the blacksmith. A foine man, and man of property, is Mr. Dougherty.' "Talk about shtrong impressions! For a moment I felt as though I was fallin' down a shaft. I----but don't mention it." Barney was still for a moment, and then said, in a voice almost husky: "As I came into town that day, all the great pines were noddin,' shmilin' and stretchin' out their mighty arms, as much as to say: 'We congratulate you, Mr. Corrigan.' As I turned away from Mrs. O'Kelly's, it samed to me that ivery one of thim had drawn in its branches and stood as the hoodlum does whin he pints his thumb to his nose and wriggles his fingers." Just then the Potosi whistle rung out on the still night again, the others answered the call, and the Club, at the signal, retired. CHAPTER IV. As the pipes were lighted next evening, Carlin said to Barney: "Corrigan, does the ghost of your La Porte mirage haunt you as Wright's does him?" "Not a bit of it," answered Corrigan sharply. "It hurt for awhile, I confess it, but a year and a half after Maggie was married, I passed her house one avenin' in the gloaming, and in a voice which I knew well, though all the swateness had been distilled out of it, this missage came out upon the air: 'Mike, if yees have got the brat to slape, yees had better lay him down and come out to your tay. I should loike to get these supper things put away sometime to-night.' Be dad, there was no mirage about that, no ravens about that, Wright; it was the charge of the rale Injun!'" "Speaking of babies," said Miller nonchalantly, "do you know that about the most touching scene I ever witnessed was over a baby? It was in Downieville. California, way back in '51 or '2. You know at that time babies were not very numerous in the Sierras. There were plenty of men there who had not seen a good woman, or a baby, for two years or more. You may not believe it, but you shut the presence of women and children all out of men's lives, for months at a time, and they contract a disease, which I call 'heart hunger,' and because of that I suspect that more whiskey has been drunk in this country, and more killings have grown out of trifling quarrels, than through all other causes combined. Without the eyes of women, good women, that he respects, upon a man, in a little while the wild beast, which is latent in all men's hearts, begins to assert itself. Because of this, men who were born to be good and true, have, to kill the unrest within their souls, taken to drink; the drink has led naturally up to a quarrel; they have got away with their first fight; the fools around them have praised them for their 'sand'; there has been no look of sorrow and reproach in any honest woman's eyes to bring them back to their senses; and after such a beginning, look for them in a year, and, in nine cases out of ten, you will find that they are lost men. "But I commenced to tell you about the Downieville baby. It had been decided that we would have a Fourth of July celebration. There was no trouble about getting it up. We had a hundred men in camp, either one of whom could make as pretty a speech as you ever heard; everybody had plenty of money, and there was no trouble about fixing things to have a lively time. True, there was no chance for a triumphal car, with a Goddess of Liberty, and a young lady to represent each State. There was a good reason for it. There were not thirty young ladies within three hundred miles of us. "But we had a big live eagle to represent Sovereignty, and a grizzly bear as a symbol of Power, which we hauled in the procession; we had some mounted men, including some Mexican packers on mule back; a vast variety of flags, and many citizens on foot in the procession. Of course we had a marshal and his staff, a president of the day, an orator, poet, reader and chaplain, and last, but not least, a brass band of a few months' training. There were flags enough for a grand army, and every anvil in town was kept red hot firing salutes. "After the parade, the more sedate portion of the people repaired to the theatre, to hear the Declaration, poem, and oration. The prayer, Declaration and poem had been disposed of, and the president of the day was just about to introduce the orator, when a solitary baby but a few months old, set up a most energetic yell, and continued it for two or three minutes, the frightened mother not daring in that crowd to supply the soothing the youngster was evidently demanding. To cause a diversion, I suppose, the leader of the brass band nodded to the others, and they commenced to play the 'Star Spangled Banner.' The band had not had very much more practice than the baby, but the players were doing the best they could, when a tremendous, big-whiskered miner sprang upon a back seat, and waving his hat wildly, in a voice like a thunder-roll, shouted: 'Stop that----d band and give the baby a chance!' "Nothing like what followed during the next ten minutes had ever been seen on this earth, since the confusion of tongues transpired among the builders of Babel's Tower. Men shouted and yelled like mad men, strangers shook each other by the hand and screamed 'hurrah,' and in the crowd I saw a dozen men crying like children. "For a moment every heart was softened by the memories that baby's cries awakened. "The next time you feel provoked because the children shout and shy rocks as they return from school, you may all remember that could the world be carried on without children, it would not require more than two generations to transform men into wild beasts." When Miller ceased speaking, Ashley remarked: "Miller, yon talk very wisely on the subject of babies, why have you none of your own?" Miller waited a moment before answering, and then in an absent-minded manner said: "Did you never hear a gilt-edged expert talk familiarly about a mine, as though he knew all about it, when he did not really know a streak of ore from east country porphyry?" At this the others all laughed, and Miller joined in the merriment heartily, but nevertheless, something in the thoughts which the question awakened, had its effect upon him, for he was moody and preoccupied for several minutes. Meanwhile, a spell seemed to be upon the whole Club, except Brewster, who was reading a pamphlet on "The Creation of Mineral Veins," and Carlin, who was absorbed in a daily paper. "Whoever stops to think," proceeded Miller, speaking as much to himself as to the others, "upon what sorrows the foundations of new States are laid, how many hearts are broken, how many strong lives are worn out in the pitiless struggle? "Where are the men who were the Argonauts of the golden days? The most of them are gone. Every hill side is marked with their graves. They were a strong, brave, generous race. They laid the wand of their power on the barbarism which met them; it melted away at their touch; they blazed the trails and smoothed the paths, that, unsoiled, the delicate sandals of civilization might draw near; they rifled the hills and ravines of their stores of gold, and poured it into the Nation's lap, until every sluggish artery of business was set bounding; they built temples to Religion, to Learning, to Justice and to Industry; as they moved on, cities sprung up in their wake; following them came the enchantments of home and the songs of children; but for them, what was their portion? They were to work, to struggle, to be misjudged in the land whence they came; to learn to receive any blows which outrageous fortune might hurl at them, without plaint; to watch while States grew into place around them, and while the frown on the face of the desert relaxed into a smile at their toil, that toil was simply to be accepted as a matter of course by the world, and in the severe and self-satisfied civilization of older States, only pity was to be felt for their ignorance, and only horror for their rough ways. They were to be path-finders, the sappers and miners to storm the strong-holds of barbarism; through summer's heat, and winter's cold, to continue their march, until the final night should come, and then to sink to a dreamless bivouac under the stars. What wonder if some became over-wearied! if others grew reckless?" He had risen and was walking the floor, to and fro, like a caged lion, as he talked. Going now to the kitchen door, he cried: "Yap, bring some hot water, some sugar, a nutmeg and some limes, if you have them." The heathen obeyed, and Miller made seven big, hot whiskey punches. Then lifting his glass he offered this toast: "Here's to the Old Boys; to those who worked and suffered and died, but never complained!" All rose and drank in silence. CHAPTER V. At the next meeting, when the pipes were all lighted, Ashley, turning to Miller, said: "You took too gloomy a view of things last night. What you said, or rather something in your tone, has haunted me ever since. But you were wrong. The Argonauts will not be forgotten. "The names of the kings who compelled the building of the pyramids are mostly matters of conjecture now, but no man who ever gazed upon those piles of stone that have borne unscarred the desert storms that have been breaking upon and around them through the centuries, has failed to think of the tremendous energy of the race that reared those monuments above the sand; reared them so that the abrasion of the ages avails not against them. "One loves to dream of how that race must have looked, there under that sky, while yet the world was young, and while the energy and beauty of youth was upon it. There was no steam power to assist, no power drills, there were only rude, untempered tools. The plain wedge, and the lever in its more effective form, were about all that was known of mechanics; still from the quarries of Syene, far up the Nile, those blocks were wrested, hewed, transported, lifted up and laid in place, and with such mathematical precision was the work performed, that the ebb and flow of the centuries have no effect upon the work. While this material work was going on, in the same realm wise men were putting into a language the alphabet of the sky, tracing out the procession of the stars and solving the mystery of the seasons. When we think of Ancient Egypt, it is not of her kings, but what was wrought out there by brain and hand. "To-day I was at work on the twenty-four hundred-foot level of the mine. Around me power drills were working, cars were rattling, cages were running; three hundred men were stoping, timbering and rolling cars to and from the chutes and ore-breasts, and in the spectral light I thought it was a scene for a painter. But while so thinking, for some reason, there came to me the thought of the one hundred times three hundred men, who, for a generation, worked on a single pyramid; worked without pay days, without so much as a kind word, and on poorer fare than one gets at a fourth-rate miners' boarding house; and, as I reflected over that, our little work here seemed small indeed. "So, in estimating Greece, we do not pick out a few men or women to remember, but we think of the race that made Thermopylæ and Marathon possibilities, of the men who followed Xenophon, of the women who closed their hearts and left their deformed offspring to perish in the woods that Greece should rear no woman who could not bear soldiers, no man who could not bear arms; of the race so finely strung that poetry was born of it; that sculpture and eloquence were so perfected in, that to copy is impossible; that was so susceptible to beauty that it turned justice aside, and yet that was so valiant that it mastered the world. "So of Rome! It is not that the great Julius lived that we call it 'The Imperial Nation.' We stand in awe of it still, not because out of its millions a few superb figures shine. Rather, we think of the valor that from a little nucleus widened until it subdued the world; of the ten thousand fields on which Romans fought and conquered. We think how they marshaled their armies, and taught the nations how to lay out camps; how they built roads and aqueducts, that their land might be defended and the Imperial City sustained; how they carved out an architecture of their own which the world still clings to in its most stately edifices; how, from barbarism, they progressed, until they framed a code which is still respected; how, in literature and the arts, they excelled, and how, for a thousand years, they were the concernment of the world. "So of England. Which merits the greater glory, King John or the stern, half barbarous barons who, with an instinct generations in advance of their age, circled around their sullen king and compelled him to give to them 'the great charter?' Through the thousand years that have succeeded that act, how many individual names can we rescue from the hosts that on that little isle have lived and died? Not many. But the grand career of the nation is in the mind forever. How, through struggle after struggle, the advance has been made; struggles that, though full of errors, knew no faltering or despair, until at last, for the world, she became the center and the bulwark of civilization; until in material strength she had no equal; until the sheen of her sails gave light to all the seas, and under her flag signal stations were upreared the world around. We do not remember many men, but there is ever in the mind the thought of English valor and persistence, and the clear judgment which backed the valor by land and sea. "But we need not go abroad; our own land has examples enough. Not many can call over the names of those who came in the 'Mayflower,' or those who made up the colonies up and down the Atlantic coast. But the spectacle of the 'Mayflower' band kneeling, on their arrival, in the snow and singing a triumphal song, is a picture the tints of which will deepen in splendor with the ages. We need not call over the names of our statesmen and warriors; they give but a slight impression of our race. But when we think how, from the Atlantic to the Mississippi, the woods were made to give place to gardens, fruitful fields and smiling homes; when we think that the majority of those families had each of them less to start with than any one of us gets for a month's labor, and yet how they subdued the land, pressed back the savage, reared and educated and created a literature for their children, until over all the vast expanse there was peace, prosperity, enlightenment and joy, then it is that we begin to grow proud. "If the Argonauts of the Golden Coast can show that they have wrought as well, they will not be forgotten. Those who succeed them will know that they were preceded by a race that was strong and brave and true, and their memory in the West will be embalmed with the memory of those in the East who, starting under the spray that is tossed from the white surf of the eastern sea, with no capital but pluck, hewed out and embellished the Republic. "Of course, there have been sorrows; of course, hearts have broken; but there has been much of triumph also. It is something to have a home in this Far West; there is something in the hills, the trees, the free air and action of this region which brings to men thoughts that they would never have had in other lands. It is not bad sometimes for men to leave their books and turn to Nature for instruction. Here of all the world some of the brightest pages of Nature's book are spread open for the reader. And many a man that others pity because they think his heart must be heavy, does not ask that pity; does not feel its need. Those hearts have gathered to themselves delights, which, if not, perhaps, of the highest order, still are very sweet. Let me give an instance. "Last year I went to look at a mine down in Tuolumne county, California. I was the guest of a miner who had lived in the same cabin for more than twenty years. He was his own cook and housekeeper and seldom had any company except his books--a fine collection--his daily papers, his gun and some domestic animals. He had a little orchard and garden. Around his garden tame rabbits played with his dogs. In explanation, he said: 'They were all babies at the same time and have grown up together.' While walking with him in his garden, he asked me if I had ever seen a mountain quail on her nest. At the same moment he parted the limbs of a shrub, and there, within six inches of his hand, sat a bird, her bright eyes looking up in perfect confidence into his. "The place was in the high foothills; there was a space in front of his cabin. From that point the hills, in steadily increasing waves, swelled into the great ridges of the higher Sierras, and far away to the east the blue crest of Mount Bodie stood out clear against the sky. "It was not strange to me that he loved the place. When within doors he talked upon every subject with a peculiar terse shrewdness all his own. He had had many bouts with the world; he knew men thoroughly; he had in a measure withdrawn himself from them, and found a serener comfort in his pets, his hills and trees. He had acquired that faculty which men often do when a great deal alone in the mountains. He did not reason his way up through the proof of a proposition, but with a clear sagacity reached the truth at a bound, and left the reasoning for others. He had his theory of how fissures were originally formed and filled; he had his opinion of ancient and modern authors; he understood politics well, and gave brief and true reasons for his belief. In short, he was a self-appointed ambassador to the court of the hills, to represent all the world. "My admiration for him increased the longer I remained with him, for he knew much of interest to me; but he spoke always in a tone as though he was revealing only a little of what he knew. I suspect that was the real state of the case. There was a charm, too, about his manner. Though I knew that he had suffered many disappointments, if not sorrows, there was no bitterness. Whatever he did or said, was with a gentle grace of his own. He was free, alike, from either harshness, egotism or diffidence. Something of the great calm of the hills around him had entered into his soul. "But the greatest surprise was reserved for me to the last. I had to get up at three o'clock in the morning and walk over a dim trail two or three miles to a little village, in order to take the stage which passed the village at five o'clock. When I was ready, my friend said: 'There are so many trails through the hills you might take the wrong one in the uncertain light. I will pilot you.' "When we set out it was yet dark. There was an absolute hush upon the world. Up through the branches of the great pines, God's lanterns were swinging as though but just trimmed and lighted, and under the august roof where they swung, they shone with rays more pure than vestal lamps. But at length up the east some shafts of light were shot, and soon the miracle of the dawn began to unfold. It was a June morning and entirely cloudless. Soon the warm rays of approaching day began to bend over the hills from the east; the foliage which had been black began to grow green; the scarlet of the hills shone out where the light touched it; the sentinel fires above began to grow dim. A little later the hills began to grow resonant with the manifold voices which they held, and which commenced to awaken to hail the approaching day. "Then my sententious companion, as though kindled by the same influences, opened his lips. He seemed to have forgotten that I was near; he was answering the greetings of his friends in the woods. I can only give the faintest idea of what he said, and I grieve over it, for it was sweeter than music. His words ran something like this: "'Chirp, chirp; O, my martin, (the swallow's grandmother); as usual you are up first, to say good morning, the first to hail the beautiful coming day. Ah, there you are, whistling, my lovely quail, you charming cockaded glory; and now, my mocking bird, you brown splendor with a flat nose, where do you get all your voices? Heigh, O! you are up, Mr. Jacob (woodpecker) up to see if Mrs. Jacob is gathering acorns this morning, you old miser of the woods, with your black and white clothes and your thrift worse than a Chinaman's; and now, my morning dove has commenced its daily drone, growling because breakfast is not ready, I suppose. At last you have opened your eyes, Mrs. Lark; a nice bird you are to claim to be an early riser, but you have a cheery voice, nevertheless. Now, my wren and my oreole, you are making some genuine music, if both of you together are not as big as one note of an organ. Hist! that was a curlew's cry from away down on the river's bank, and now you are all awake and singing, you noisy chatterers, as though your hearts would burst for joy. Finally, old night-raiding owl, you are saying 'good night' this morning, you old burglar of the woods.' "Meanwhile the banners of the dawn had grown more and more bright in the sky, and as he ceased speaking, the full disc of the sun, lighted with omnipotent fires, shone full above the hills, with a splendor too severe for human eyes. "I had not interrupted my friend during the half hour that he, striding before me on the trail, had been talking. I half suspected that he had forgotten that I was near, absorbed as he was in greeting his warblers. Of course I have not named the birds in their order; nor have I named half that he greeted; I might as well try to repeat to you all the scientific terms in one of Professor Stewart's earthquake lectures. But all that day, and for many days afterwards, his words were ringing in my ears; and often have I wondered, if, with his thoughts and his surroundings, he was not with more reason and more peace, passing down life's trail, than as though he were out in the pitiless world of men, striving for wealth and for power. Never since have I seen a lonely man in town, with shy face which revealed that he was unused to the crowds of the city, purchasing some few little necessaries, and, apparently, hurrying to get away, that I have not said to myself: 'He has a cabin somewhere with books and dogs, and with a garden outside, and he knows every bird in the forest by its morning call.'" While Ashley was talking, he had unconsciously fixed his eyes upon the light which shone from a reflector, up through the window from the hoisting works down the hill, and seemed to forget the presence of any one near. As he ceased and looked around, he discovered that all his auditors had fallen asleep in their chairs, except Yap Sing, who had stolen into the room. He looked up knowingly, smiled and said: "You talkie belly nice. Me heap sabbie, clail, chickie, duckie, goosie. Me cookie lem flirst late, you bettie." "You be--" said Ashley, and went to bed. The rest, awakened by the whistles, started up in surprise, and Corrigan said: "I was dramin' of agles and pacocks and swans and hummin' birds. I must have been afther atin too much supper." CHAPTER VI. The next evening as the club gathered around the hearth, Brewster, who, next to Harding, was the most reticent member of the party, said apologetically to Ashley: "It was shabby of us not to give more heed to your story last night, but the truth with me was, I was very tired. We were cutting out a station on the 2,300 level of the mine, yesterday; the work was hard, the ventilation bad, and it was hot and prostrating work. But, I heard most of your story, nevertheless. While I know nothing of your miner who lives with his books and birds and dogs and flowers; and hence know nothing of what storms he has breasted and what heart-aches he has borne; and, therefore, cannot, in my own mind, fix his place, still, on general principles, it is man's duty never to accept any rebuff of unkind fortune as a reason for ceasing to try; but rather he should struggle on and do the best he can; if needs be dying with the harness on his back. Moreover, as a rule, it is the easier way. It is in harmony with nature's first great law, and man seldom errs when he follows the laws that were framed before the world's foundations were laid. When man was given his two feet to stand upon; his arms to cleave out for himself a path and a career, and his brain to be his guide; then with the rich earth for a field, in the opinion of the Infinite Goodness, he has all the capital that he required. The opportunities of this land, especially this free West, with a capacity to plan and work, are enough for any man. The trouble is, men falter too soon. On that last night of anxiety, before the New World rose out of the sea to greet the eyes of Columbus; when his sullen and fear-stricken crews were on the point of mutiny, suddenly there came to the senses of the great commander, the perfume of earthly flowers. Soon after the veil of the ocean was rent asunder, and upon his thrilled eyes there burst a light. Columbus was not the only man who ever discovered a new world. They are being found daily. I meet men often on the street and know by something in their faces, that, at that very moment, the perfume of the flowers of some glory to come is upon them, and that the first rays of the dawn of a divine light are commencing to fill with splendor their eyes. "When the idea of the Alexandrian, after having been transmitted from mortal to mortal, for more than fifty generations, at last materialized, and the care worn man who was watching, heard the first sob of artificial life come from a steam engine, to him was the perfume and the light. "When, after generations of turmoil and war, in the deadly double struggle to assimilate various peoples, and at the same time out of barbarism to construct a stable and enlightened government; when the stern old English barons caught the right inspiration, and gathering around their sovereign, asked him to recognize the rights of the men on whose valor his throne leaned for safety and to sign Magna Charta; to them came the perfume and the light. "When the desire of the colonies, voiceless before, at length through the pen of Jefferson, found expression in the words: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident--that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creater with certain unalienable rights;' then to a whole nation, yes to the world, came the perfume and the light. "In public life these emotions are marked, and the world applauds. In humble life they are generally unnoticed, but they are frequent, and the enchantment of the perfume becomes like incense, and it is a softer light that dawns. When the poor man, who lays aside daily but a pittance from his earnings, finds at last, after months and years, that the sum has increased until it is certain that he can build a little home for his wife--a home which is to be all his own--and that he can educate his children; then the perfume and lights of a new world entrance him, and in his sphere he is as great as was the dark-eyed Italian. "In the Bible we read that all the prophets were given to fasting and to labor, in order to bring the body under subjection to the soul. This is but typical of what a great soul must submit to, if it would catch the perfume and the light. The world's wealth rests on labor. Whether a man tills a garden or writes a book, the harvest will be worth gathering just in proportion to the soil, and to the energy and intelligence of the work performed. Columbus could never have discovered a new world by standing on the sea shore and straining his eyes to the West. The tempests had to be met; the raging seas outrode; the mutinous crew controlled. There are tempests, waves and mutineers in every man's path, and it is only over and beyond them that there comes the perfume and the light. The lesson taught at Eden's gate is the one that must still be learned. All that man can gain is by labor, and the sword that guards the gate flames just as fiercely as of old. "To the Argonauts was given a duty. They were appointed to redeem a wild and create a sovereign state. I believe they were a brave, true race. The proof is, that without the restraint of pure women and without law, they enforced order. Their energy, also, was something tremendous. After building up California, they, in great part, made a nucleus for civilization to gather to in each of half-a-dozen neighboring Territories. But they had advantages which the men who settled the Eastern States--the region beyond the Mississippi River, I mean--never possessed. They had better food to eat, a better climate to live in. If they did not have capital, they knew a living, at least, could be had from the nearest gravel bank or ravine, and if they lacked the encircling love of wife and children, they were spared the sorrow of seeing dear women wear out lives of hardship and poverty, as has been seen on all other frontiers in America. "If some fell by the wayside, it was natural, for human nature is weak and Death is everywhere; if some in the pitiless struggle failed, they had no right to cease to try, for when men do that the hope that to them will come the perfume or that upon their eyes will ever shine the light, is forever closed." "All that is good," said Carlin, "but the rule does not always hold true. There is sometimes a limit to man's capacity to suffer, and his heart breaks; and still after that his face gives no sign, and there is no abatement of his energies. In such cases, however, men generally lose the capacity to reason calmly and chase impossibilities. I saw a case yesterday. I met a man mounted on a cheap mustang, and leading another on which was packed a little coarse food, a pick, shovel, pan, coffee-pot and frying pan. As he moved slowly up C. street, a friend--himself an Argonaut--clutched me by the arm with one hand, and with the other pointing to the man on horseback, asked me if I knew him. Replying that I did not, he said: 'Why, that is "Prospecting Joe"; I thought everybody knew him.' I told him I had never heard of him, when he related his story, almost word for word, as follows: "He came to the far West from some Eastern state in the old, old days. He was not then more than twenty-three or twenty-four years old. Physically he was a splendid specimen of a man, I am told. He was, moreover, genial and generous, and drew friends around him wherever he went. He secured a claim in the hills above Placerville. One who knew him at that time told me, that, calling at his cabin one night, he surprised him poring over a letter written in a fair hand, while beside him on his rude table lay the picture of a beautiful girl. His heart must have been warmed at the time, for picking up the picture and handing it to my friend, he said. 'Look at her! She is my Nora, _my_ Nora. She, beautiful as she is, would in her divinity have bent and married a coarse mold of clay like myself, and poor, too, as I was; but her father said: 'Not yet, Joe. Go out into the world, make a struggle for two years, then come back, and if by that time you have established that you are man enough to be a husband to a true woman, and you and Nora still hold to the thought that is in your hearts now, I will help you all I can. And, mind you, I don't expect you to make a fortune in two years; I only want you to show that the manhood which I think you have within you is true.' 'That was square and sensible talk, and it was not unkind. So I came away.' Then he took the picture and looked fondly at it for a long time, and said: 'I see the delicious girl as she looked on that summer's day, when she waved me her last good by. I shall see her all my life, if I live a thousand years.' "Well, Joe worked on week days; on Sundays, as miners did in those days, he went to camp to get his mail and supplies. His claim paid him only fairly well, but he was saving some money. In eight months he had been able to deposit twelve hundred dollars in the local bank. One Sunday he did not receive the expected letter from his Nora, and during the next hour or two he drank two or three times with friends. He was about to leave for home, when three men whom he slightly knew, and who had all been drinking too much, met him and importuned him to drink with them. He declined with thanks, when one of the three caught him by the arm and said he must drink. "At any other time he would have extricated him self without trouble and gone on his way. But on that day he was not in good humor, so he shook the man off roughly and shortly told him to go about his own affairs. "The others were just sufficiently sprung with liquor to take offense at this, and the result was a terrific street fight. Joe was badly bruised but he whipped all three of the others. Then he was arrested and ordered to appear next morning to answer a charge of fighting. He was of course cleared without difficulty, but it took one-fourth of his deposit to pay his lawyer. Then the miners gathered around him and called him a hero and he went on his first spree. "Next morning when he awoke and thought of as much as he could remember of the previous day's events, he was thoroughly ashamed. As he went down to the office of the hotel, in response to an inquiry as to how he felt, he answered: 'Full of repentance and beer.' A friend showed him the morning paper with a full account of the Sunday fight and his trial and acquittal. This was embellished with taking head-lines, as is the custom with reporters. It cut him to the heart. He knew that if the news reached his old home of his being in a street fight on Sunday, all his hopes would be ended. His first thought was to draw his money and take the first steamer for Panama and New York. He went to the bank and asked how his account stood, for he remembered to have drawn something the previous day. He was answered that there was still to his credit $150. The steamer fare was $275. Utterly crushed, he returned to his claim. The fear that the news of his disgrace would reach home, haunted him perpetually and made him afraid to write. He continued to work, but not with the old hope. "After some weeks, a rumor came that rich ground had been 'struck' away to the north, somewhere in Siskiyou county. He drew what money he had, bought a couple of ponies, one to ride and one to pack, and started for the new field. Before starting, he confided to a friend that the previous night he had dreamed of a mountain, the crest of which glittered all over with gold, and he was going to find it. "The friend told him it was but a painted devil of the brain, the child of a distempered imagination, but he merely shook his head and went away. "He has pursued that dream ever since. His eyes have been ever strained to catch the reflection from those shining heights. When he began the search, his early home and the loving arms which were there stretched out to him, began to recede in the distance. In a few years they disappeared altogether. Then his hopes one by one deserted him, until all had fled except the one false one which was, and still is, driving him on. Youth died and was buried by the trail, but so absorbed was he that he hardly grieved. As Time served notice after notice upon him; as his hair blanched, his form bent and the old sprightliness went out of his limbs, he retired more and more from the haunts of men; more and more he drew the mantle of the mountains around him. But his eyes, now bright with an unnatural splendor, were still strained upon the shining height. There were but a few intervening hills and some forests that obstructed his view. A little further on and the goal would be reached. Last night he was in his cups and he told my friend that this time he would 'strike it sure,' that the old man would make his showing yet, that he would yet go back to the old home and be a Providence to those he loved when a boy. "Poor wretch. There is an open grave stretched directly across his trail. On this journey or some other soon, he will, while his eyes are still straining towards his heights of gold, drop into that grave and disappear forever. "Some morning as he awakens, amid the hills or out upon the desert, there will be such a weariness upon him that he will say, 'I will sleep a little longer,' and from that sleep he will never waken. "Heaven grant that his vision will then become a reality and that he may mount the shining heights at last. "Of course it is easy to say that he was originally weak, but that is no argument, for human nature is prone to be weak. His was a high-strung, sensitive, generous nature. He never sought gold for the joy it would give him, but for the happiness he dreamed it would give to those he loved. His Nora was a queen in his eyes and he wanted to give her, every day, the surroundings of a queen. He made one mistake and never rallied from it. Had the letter come that fatal Sunday from Nora, as he was expecting it, or had he left for home half an hour earlier, or had he been of coarser clay, that day's performance would have been avoided, or would have been passed as an incident not to be repeated, but not to be seriously minded. But he was of different mold, and then that was a blow from Fate. It is easy enough to say that there is nothing in that thing called luck. Such talk will not do here on the Comstock. There is no luck when a money lender charges five dollars for the use of a hundred for a month and exacts good security. He gets his one hundred and five dollars, and that is business. "But in this lead where ore bodies lie like melons on a vine, when ore is reported in the Belcher and in the Savage, when Brown buys stock in the Belcher and Rogers buys in the Savage; when the streak of ore in the Belcher runs into a bonanza and Brown wakes up rich some morning, and when the streak of ore in the Savage runs into a Niagara of hot water which floods the mine and Rogers's stock is sold out to meet an assessment, it will not do to call Brown a shrewd fellow and Rogers an idiot. "Still, I do not object to the theory that a man should always keep trying, even if the lack is against him, because luck may change sometime, and if it does not, he sleeps better when he knows that with the lights before him he has done the best he could. A man can stand almost anything when his soul does not reproach him as he tries to go to sleep. "Then, too, man is notoriously a lazy animal, and unless he has the nerve to spur himself to work, even when unfortunate, he is liable to fail and get the dry rot, which is worse than death. "But my heart goes out in sympathy when I think of the glorified spirits, which on this coast have failed and are failing every day, because from the first an iron fortune has hedged them round and baffled their every effort, struggle as they would." Carlin ceased speaking, and the silence which prevailed in the Club for a moment was broken by Miller, who said: "Don't worry about them, Carlin. If they do fail they have lots of fun in trying." "I would grave more for your mon Joe," interposed Corrigan, "did I not remember Mrs. Dougherty, who married the gintleman of properthy, and thin your Joe war a fraud onyway. What war there in a bit of a scrap to make a mon grave himself into craziness over it?" "Your stock-buying illustration is not fair, Carlin, for that is only a form of gambling at best," suggested Brewster. The club winced under this a little, for every member dabbled in stocks sometimes, except Brewster and Harding. For two evenings Harding had been scribbling away behind the table, and during a lull in the conversation Ashley asked him what he had been writing. "Letters?" suggested Ashley. "No, not letters," answered Harding, sententiously. "What is it, then," asked Miller; "won't you read it to us?" "Yes, rade it, rade it," said Corrigan, and the rest all joined in the request. "You won't laugh?" said Harding, inquiringly. They all promised, and Harding read as follows: THE PROSPECTOR. How strangely to-night my memory flings From the face of the past its shadowy wings, And I see far back through the mist and tears Which make the record of twenty years; From the beautiful days in the Golden State, When life seemed sure by long leases from Fate; From the wondrous visions of "long ago" To the naked shade that we call "now." Those halcyon days! There were four with me then-- Ernest and Ned, Wild Tom and Ben. Now all are gone; Tom was first to die. I held his hands, closed his glazed eye; And many a tear o'er his grave we shed As we tenderly pillowed his curly head In the shadows deep of the pines, that stand Forever solemn, forever fanned By the winds that steal through the Golden Gate And spread their balm o'er the Golden State. And the others, too, they all are dead. By the turbid Gila perished Ned; Brave, noble Ernest, he was lost Amid Montana's ice and frost; And out upon a desert trail Our Bennie met the spectre pale. And I am left--the last of all-- And as to-night the white snows fall, As barbarous winds around me roar, I think the long past o'er and o'er-- What I have hoped and suffered, all, From twenty years rolls back the pall, From the dusty, thorny, weary track, As the tortuous path I follow back. In my childhood's home they think me, there, A failure, or lost, till my name in the prayer At eve is forgot. Well, they cannot know That my toil through heat, through tempest and snow, While it seemed for naught but a struggle for pelf, Was more for them, far more, than myself. Ah, well! As my hair turns slowly to snow The places of childhood more distantly grow; And my dreams are changing. 'Tis home no more, For shadowy hands from the other shore Stretch nightly down, and it seems as when I lived with Tom, Ned, Ernest and Ben. And the mountains of Earth seem dwindling down, And the hills of Eden, with golden crown, Rise up, and I think, in the last great day, Will my claim above bear a fire assay? From the slag of earth, and the baser strains, Will the crucible show of precious grains Enough to give me a standing above, Where in temples of Peace rock the cradles of Love? "That is good, but it is too serious by half," Miller said, critically. "What is a young fellow like you doing with such a melancholy view of things?" "It's a heap better to write such things for pleasure in boyhood than to have to feel them for a fact in old age," said Wright. "I say, Harding, have you measured all the faet in that poem?" remarked Corrigan, good-naturedly. "We have been talking too seriously for two or three evenings and it is influencing Harding," was Miller's comment. Brewster thought it was a good way for Sammie to spend his evenings. It would give him discipline, which would help him in writing all his life. CHAPTER VII. The next evening Wright had business down town. "Carlin was right last night," began Miller, "when he said that all men were naturally lazy. Laziness is a fixed principle in this world. I can prove it by my friend Wand down at Pioche. "When he was not so old as he has been these last few years, he made a visit to San Francisco, and one day, passing a building on Fourth street, saw within several hives of bees, evidently placed there to be sold. Some whim led him within the building and, from the man in charge, he learned that in California, because of the softer climate, bees worked quite nine months in the year; that a good swarm of bees would gather a certain number of pounds of honey in a season, which sold readily at a certain price, making a tremendous percentage on the cost of the bees, which was, if I remember correctly, one hundred dollars per hive. The idea seemed to strike Wand. He had fifteen hundred dollars, and all that day he was mentally estimating how much money could be made out of fifteen swarms of bees in a year. The figures looked exceedingly encouraging. They always do, you know, when your mind is fixed upon a certain business which you want to engage in. "That evening Wand happened to meet a friend who had just come in from Honolulu. This friend was enthusiastic over the Hawaiian Islands. There was perpetual summer there and ever-blooming flowers. Before one flower cast its leaves, others on the same tree were budding. Their glory was ever before the eyes and their incense ever upon the air. "Wand fell asleep that night trying to estimate how much money a swarm of bees would make a year in a land of perpetual summer. The conclusion was that next morning Wand bought twelve hives of bees, and that afternoon sailed with them for Honolulu. "He found a lovely place for his bees, and saw with kindling pleasure that they readily assimilated with the new country and went to work with apparent enthusiasm. "The bees worked steadily until, in their judgment, it was time for winter to come. Then they ceased to work, remained in their hives until they ate up their hoarded wealth, and then, as Wand expresses it, 'took to the woods.' "He borrowed the money necessary to pay his passage to San Francisco, and ever since has sworn that bees are like men, 'natural loafers,' that will not work unless they are forced to. He believes that the much lauded ant would be the same way if it were not urged on to work perpetually by the miser's fear of starvation." Carlin suggested that the question be tested nearer home, and called out, "Yap Sing!" The Mongolian came in from the kitchen and Carlin interrogated him. "Yap, do you like to work?" "Yes, me heap likee workee." "How many hours a day do you like to work, Yap?" "Maybe eight hour, maybe ten hour, maybe slixteen hour." "We give you forty dollars a month. Would you work harder if we paid you fifty dollars?" "No. Me thinkee not," answered Yap, adroitly. "You sabbie, you hire me, me sellee you my time. Me workee all the slame, forty doll's, fifty doll's, one hundred doll's. No diffelence." "Yap, suppose you were to get $3,000, would you work then?" "Oh, yes. Me workee all the slame, now." "Suppose, Yap, you had $5,000--what then?" "Me workee all the slame." "Do you ever buy stocks?" "Slum time buy lettle; not muchee." "Suppose, Yap, that some time stocks would go up and make you $20,000, would you work then?" The Chinaman, with eyes blazing, replied vehemently: "Not one d----d bittee." The Club agreed that Carlin had pretty well settled a vexed question, that conditions which would make both the bee and the Chinaman idlers, would be apt to very soon cause the Caucasian to lie in the shade. "And yet," mused Brewster, "there are mighty works going on everywhere. This Nation to-day makes a showing such as this world never saw before. From sea to sea, for three thousand miles, the chariot wheels of toil are rolling and roaring as they never did in any other land. The energy that is exhausted daily amounts to more than all the world's working forces did a hundred years ago. The thing to grieve about is not that there is not enough work being performed, but that in this intensely practical, and material age, the gentler graces in the hearts of men are being neglected. In the race for wealth the higher aspirations are being smothered. If from the 'tongue-less past' there could be awakened the silent voices, the cry which would be heard over all others would be: 'I had some golden thoughts; I meant to have given them expression, but the swiftly moving years with their cares were too much for me, and I died and made no sign.' "If there is such a thing as a ghost of memory, all the aisles of the past are full of wailing voices, wailing over facts unspoken, over eloquence that died in passionate hearts unuttered, over divine poems that never were set to earthly music. Aside from native indolence, most men are struggling for bread, and when the day's work is completed, brain and hand are too weary for further effort. So the years drift by until the zeal of young ambition loses its electric thrill; until cares multiply; until infirmities of body keep the chords of the soul out of tune, and the night follows, and the long sleep. There were great soldiers before Achilles or Hector, but there were no Homers, or if there were, they were dissipated fellows, or they were absorbed in business, or, under the clear Grecian sky, it was their wont to dream the beautiful days away, and so, no sounds were uttered, of the kind which, booming through space, strike at last on the immortal heights, and there make echoes which thrill the earth with celestial music ever after. If fortune had not made an actor of Shakespeare, and if his matchless spirit, working in the line of his daily duties, had not felt that all the plays offered were mean and poor, as wanting in dramatic power as they were false to human nature, and so was roused to fill a business need, the chances are a thousand to one that he 'would have died with all his music in him,' and would, to-day, have been as entirely lost in oblivion as are the boors who were his neighbors. Just now there is not much hope for our own country, and probably will not be for another century. Present efforts are all for wealth and power and are almost all earthly. Everything is calculated from a basis of coin. Before that, brains are cowed, and for it Beauty reserves her sweetest smiles. The men who are pursuing grand ideas with no motive more selfish than to make the masses of the world nobler, braver and better, or to give new symphonies to life, are wondrously few. There are splendid triumphs wrought, but they are almost every one material and practical. "The men who created the science of chemistry dreamed of finding the elixir of life; the modern chemist pursues the study until he invents a patent medicine or a baking powder, and then all his energies are devoted to selling his discovery. "In its youthful vitality the Nation has performed wonders, and from the masses individuals have solved many of nature's mysteries and bridled many elemental forces. "The winds have been forced to swing open the doors to their caves and show where they are brewed; the lightnings have submitted to curb and rein; the ship goes out against the tempest, carried forward on its own iron arms; the secret of the sunlight has been fathomed and a counterfeit light created; the laws which govern sound have been mastered until the human voice now thrills a wire and is caught with perfect distinctness sixty miles away, and a thousand other such triumphs have been achieved. "But no deathless poem has been written, no immortal picture has been called to life on canvas; no master hand has touched the cold stone and transfigured it into something which seems ready, like the fabled statue of the old master, to warm into life and smiles. "Souls surcharged at first with celestial fire have waited for the work of the bodies to be finished, that they might materialize into words of form and splendor, waited until the tenement around them fell away and left them unvoiced, to seek a purer sphere, and a generation, three generations have died with their deepest tints unpainted, their sweetest music unsung. "This is one of the penalties attached to the laying of the foundations of new States. There is too much to be accomplished, too many purely material struggles to be made, and so hearts are stifled and souls, glowing with celestial fervor, are forbidden an altar on which to kindle their sacred flame. "England struggled a thousand years before a man appeared to shame wealth, power and titles with the majesty of a divine mind. Perhaps it will be as long in the United States before some glorified spirit will appear to show by example that the things which this generation is struggling most for are mere dust, which, when obtained, are but Dead Sea apples to the lips of hope." "But Brewster," said Harding, "do you not think that a good miner is of more use to the world than a bad sculptor?" "Suppose," said Carlin, "we were all to stop this four dollars a day business of ours and go to writing poetry, who would pay the Chinaman and settle the grocery bills at the end of the month?" "Were not the Argonauts making pretty good use of their time," asked Miller, "when in twelve years they dug up and gave to the world nearly a thousand millions of dollars and caused such a change in the business of the country as comes to the fainting man's circulation through a transfusion of healthy blood into his veins?" "Did you not tell us last evening," said Ashley, "that when a poor man earned a home for his wife and babies, that to him came the perfume and the light?" "I carved out some beautiful stories and shpoke any amount of illegint poethry to Maggie Murphy, but it would not do," said Corrigan. "There is a mirage before Brewster's eyes to-night," said Miller; "the business of most men is to earn bread." Then Brewster, bristling up, responded: "My answer to all of you is this: Man's first duty is to provide for himself, and for those dependent upon him, by honest toil, either of hand or brain, or both. For a long time you have each worked eight hours out of the twenty-four; perhaps eight hours more have been absorbed in eating and sleeping. What have you done with the other eight hours? You are miners. You can set timbers in line, you can lie on your backs and hit a drill above you with perfect precision; but could you make a draught of a mine, or clothe a description of one in good language on paper? You look upon a piece of ore, but can you test it and tell how much it is worth? These are all legitimate parts of your business as miners, and I refer to them merely to illustrate that in the excitements of this city, and the dream of getting rich in stock speculations, you have not only neglected your better natures, but have failed to thoroughly accomplish yourselves in your real business. You can see what you have actually lost, but you cannot estimate the pleasure you have been denying yourselves. Then when you are too old to work, what amusements and diversions are you preparing for old age?" "For that, matter," said Miller, "ask the man who fell down the Alta shaft last week, 800 feet to the sump, and the pieces of whose body, that could be found, were sewed up in canvas to be brought to the surface." Then there was a silence for several minutes until a freight train, with two locomotives (a double header), came up the heavy grade from Gold Hill and, when opposite the house of the Club, both locomotives whistled. At this Corrigan said: "Hear those black horses neigh! What a hail they give to the night! What a power they have under their black skins! I wonder if they don't think sometimes, the off-colored monsters." "If the steam engine has not reflective faculties it ought to have," said Harding. "The highest pleasures which a man, in his normal state, can have are the approving whispers of his own soul. If in the iron frame of the steam engine there could be hidden a soul, what whispers would thrill it in these days! Methinks they would be something like this: "'When I was born Invention gave to Progress a child which was to be to the modern world what the Genii were to the ancient world, except that I am real, while the Genii were but dreams. In me man finds the materialization of a dream which haunted mortals through the centuries, while the world was slowly pressing onward to a better state. At my birth men were glad to give to me their burdens, because I could carry them without fatigue. They thought me but a dumb slave to do their bidding; they saw that I could add greatly to their achievements by enabling them to overcome heavy matter, and with tireless feet to chase the swift hours. I cannot add to man's actual years, but I can make one hour for him equal to a day in the olden time. At first my work was confined to the closely peopled regions. But at length I was pushed out beyond the settlements of men, and then something of the divinity within me began to assert itself. Savage man and the wild beast retired before me; when the path was made for me into the immemorial hills, before my scream the scream of the eagle died away. The lordly bird spread his wings to seek more impenetrable crags. Following in my wake, civilization came; homes sprang up, temples to art and to learning were upreared, and on the air, which but a year before was startled only by barbarous cries, there fell the benediction of children's voices, as with swinging satchels in their hands, they sang their songs going to and returning from schools. Then man began to discover that there was more to me than polished iron and brass; more than a heart of fire and a breath of steam. In my headlight they began to discover a faint reflection of the Infinite light, and in whispers began to say: "It is not a dumb slave; rather it is to Progress an evangel." As my power increased, it was seen that as the wild man and wild beast fled before me, old bigotries and old superstitions likewise fled, snarling like wolves, from my path; man moved up to a higher plane, and as he comprehended himself better, his thoughts were led upward; with enlarged ideas and deeper reverence, he turned to the contemplation of the First Great Cause who thrilled the dull matter of the universe with His own celestial light and order, and established that nothing was made in vain. And now a path is to be made down where the terrible Spaniard wrested an empire from the Aztecs; where, with the sword, he hewed down the altars on which human sacrifices were made, and built up new altars consecrated to Christianity. The people there will gather around me and rejoice. They think only of material things; how I will carry their burdens, take from them the fatigue of travel and increase their trade. They do not know that mine is a higher mission; that as I do their work there is to gradually fade from the faith that holds them, the superstitions which for centuries have environed their better selves and benumbed their grander energies. They will not realize, what is true, that angels still walk with men; that it is the near presence of the angels of Progress, Truth, Free Thought, Mercy and Eternal Justice, all rejoicing, which will give the thrill to their hearts. As yet my work has hardly commenced. It is not yet fifty years since I became a power in the world. Wait until I am better understood, until the smooth paths are made for me through all the wilderness, over all the rivers and hills, and I am given dominion over all the deep seas, that I may swiftly bring together the children of men, till gradually the nations will take on common thoughts and return to that tongue which was universal when the world was young, and, as yet, man walked in the clear image of his Creator. Then armies will melt away before me as savage tribes now do; then no more cannons will be cast, no more swords fashioned. Then, through my example, labor in the walks of peace will become exalted; then the thirst for gold will cease, because I will till the field, drive the loom, and take from man all that is servile or gross in toil; and gradually the wild beast in men's souls will be bred out, and in the peace of perfect brotherhood men will possess the earth, and I will be the good angel that will take away the burdens.'" As if in response to the words of Harding, just as he finished, the whistles all up and down the great lode sounded for the eleven o'clock change of shift, and the Club retired with this remark from Corrigan: "Harding, they heard what yez was remarkin' upon, and now hear the whole row of them cheerin' your spache." CHAPTER VIII. Just after the lamps were lighted the next evening the door opened and the Professor, Colonel Savage and Alex Strong came in. The greetings were warm all around, and at once conversation turned upon stocks. The Professor insisted that the first great showing was to be made in the south end mines, Alex still believed in Overman, the Colonel was sanguine over Utah, Ashley asked the opinion of the others on Sierra Nevada. The general sentiment was that if Skae had any real indication there the Bonanza firm would gobble it up before any outsider could realize. Wright still inclined to the belief that the water must be conquered pretty soon in the Savage and that there would be a showing that would make every servant girl and hostler on the coast want some Savage. So the conversation ran on for an hour, until something was said which turned the conversation upon the strange characters which had been met on the western coast. At length the Colonel settled down for a talk, and the others became willing listeners. "I have met many royal people on this coast," began the Colonel. "Royal, though they never wore crowns, at least crowns not visible in the dim light of this world. The emblems of their royalty were hidden from most mortal eyes. In narrow spheres they lived and died, and only a few, besides God, knew of their sovereignty. One of these was OLD ZACK TAYLOR. "His last years were passed in Plumas and Lassen counties, California. When he came there his hair was already silvered; he must have been fifty years of age. "No one knew his antecedents. In the excitements and free-heartedness of those days not many questions were asked. Besides the young and hopeful there were many who had sought the new land as a balm for domestic troubles; as a spot where former misfortunes might be forgotten, where early mistakes might, in earnest lives, be buried out of sight. With the rest came Zack Taylor. From the first that region seemed to possess a charm for him. No person can imagine the splendor in natural scenery of Plumas county. It must be seen to be comprehended. The mountains are tremendous; the valleys are so fair that they seem like pictures in their mountain frames. And so they are. They are the work of a Master's hand, whose work never fades. His signet is upon them as it was indented, when, in the long ago, it was decided that at last the earth was fitted to be a habitation for man. "The forests are such forests as are no where seen in this world, except in the Pacific States of the United States. There is no exaggeration in this. Ordinary pines will make ten thousand feet of lumber, and they stand very near together, those mighty pines of the Sierras. "The panoramas that are unrolled there when nature is in the picture-making mood are most gorgeous. Some that I saw there linger fresh upon my mind still. They come to me sometimes when I am down in the depths of the mine, and for a moment I forget the heat and the gloom. "As a rule, all the summer long, the skies are of a crystal clearness; the green of the hill tops melts into the everlasting incandescent white beyond, and there is no change for days and weeks at a time, except as the green of the day fades into the shadows of the night, and the gold of the sunlight gives place to the silver of the stars. "It was to this region that Zack Taylor came and made his abode. About him was an air of perfect contentment. Besides his blanching hair, there were deep lines about his face, which were an alphabet from which could be spelled out stories of past excitements and trials, but if sorrows and sufferings were included, the firm lips gave no sign, and the bright, black eyes were ever kindly. There were rumors that he had been a soldier, but the general impression was, that from childhood, he had been tossed about on the frontier. He had the moods, the gestures and dialect of the frontier. He liked wild game cooked upon a camp fire, and, in frontier phrase, he could 'punish a heap of whisky.' "He was at home everywhere; in the saloons his coming was always welcome; when he met a lady on the street, no matter whether she was young or old, fair or ugly, he always doffed his hat, and the few children of those early days looked upon him as a father--or an angel. He had a cheery, hearty, winsome way about him which drew all hearts to him. "When I saw him last the gray hair had turned to snowy white; the scars of time had grooved deeper furrows on cheek and brow, the old elastic, merry way had grown sedate, but the black eyes were still kindly and bright. At that time he lived, a welcome pauper, on the citizens of Susanville, in Lassen county. "When hungry he went where he pleased and got food; when he needed clothes they were forthcoming in any store where he applied for them. When, sometimes, merchants would in jest banter him for money on account of what he owed, his way was to softly suggest to them that if the patronage of the place did not, in their judgments, justify them in remaining; there was no constitutional objection that he was aware of to prevent their making an auction. "One fearfully cold winter's night a few of us were sitting around the stove in the Stewart House, in Susanville, when old Zack came in. The circle was widened for him, and as he drew up to the fire, some one said: 'Zack, tell us about that night's work when you tended bar for the poker players?' "'Itwusdown on Noth Fok (North Fork) of Feather River, 'bout '52 or '53, I disremember which,' began Zack. 'It wus in the winter, and it being too cold for mining, ther boys wus all in camp. Thar wus no women thar, least ways, no ladies, and women as isn't ladies--but we dun no who thar mothers wus, nor how much they has suffered, and we haint got no business to talk about 'em. But, as I wus sayin', the boys wus all in camp, and thar wus lots of beans and whisky and sich things, and we hed good times, you bet! "Jake Clark kept a saloon thar, which wus sort of headquarters, and sometimes when the boys got warmed up on Jake's whisky thar wus lively times. Well, I _should_ remark. It wussent much wonder, neither, for Jake made his whisky in the back room, made it out of old boots, akerfortis and sich things, and if you believe me, a fire assay of that beverage would have shown 93 per cent, of cl'ar hell. Thar wus three or four copies of Shakespeare in camp, and everbody got a Sacermento _Union_ every week when the express came in; so we kept posted solid. Speakin' of that, if folks only jest stick to Shakespeare and then paternize one first-class paper, sich as the old _Union_ wus, and read 'em, in the long run they'd have a heap more sense. "'Of course the boys would play poker sometimes. Men will always do that when the reproach in honest women's eyes is taken away, and I have heard, now and then, of one who would play in spite of good influences. At least thar is rumors to that effect. "'Well, they wus playin' one night, five or six of them, inter Jake's saloon. It got to be about ten o'clock, and Jake says to me, says he, 'Zack, them fellers is playin' and will most likely run it all night. By mornin' Tom D. will have the hul pile, and Tom never pays nuthin'. I'm goin' home. You run the ranch, Zack, and when they call for it you give 'em whisky outer this 'ere keg, so if they never pay we won't lose too much." This he told me in a low voice behind the bar, in confidence like. "'Jake started for home and I went on watch. Thar wus lots of coin and dust on the table and the boys wus playin' high. I stood behind the bar and watched 'em, and as I watched I said to myself, says I, "The doggoned cusses! They come here and bum Jake's fuel and lights, and drink his whisky, and don't pay nuthin'. It's too bad." "'Then an idea struck me. I had a log of fat pine in the back yard. It wus fuller of pitch than Bill Pardee is of religion in revival times, and I thought of somethin'. I went out, got a lot of the pitch, warmed it in the candle down behind the bar and rubbed it all along the bottom of my hands, so, and then I waited developments. "'Pretty soon thar wus a call for whisky. I started out with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other, and, setting down the glass first, I said, "'Ere's your glass," and settin' down the bottle, said, "'Ere's your whisky." "'They drank all 'round, when Harlow Porter said: "This is mine, Zack." I argued the pint with him and asked him how a man could furnish a house, lights, fires and whisky, and keep it up if nobody paid? They told me to "hire a hall," and all laughed. It wus only old Zack, you know. "'But I did tolerable well after all. When I sat down the glass half a dollar stuck to my hand, and when I sat down the whisky the other hand caught up a two and a half piece. "'The playin' went on, and I warmed my hands. By and by more whisky wus called for. I responded. Once more I said, '"Ere's your glass," and "'Ere's your whisky." They drank, and then Henry Moore said to Hugh Richmond: "Why don't you ante?" "I have," wus Hugh's reply; "I jist put up five dollars." "No you didn't," said Henry. "Yes I did," said Hugh, hotly. "You're a liar," said Miller, and then biff! biff! biff! came the blows. "'I got down behind the bar, for some of them cusses would shoot if half a chance wus given them. The truth wus, I had picked up the five with my pitch when I said "'Ere's your whisky." "'The boys got hold and stopped the row and the players proceeded. The oftener they drank the wurs bookkeepers they became, and all the time I wus doin' reasonably well. "'Durin' the night I took in eighty-three dollars and seen a beautiful fight. "'I didn't tell of it, though, for nigh onto three year, 'cept to Jake. It nearly killed me to keep it to myself. But Lord! wouldn't they have made it tropic for me if they'd ever dropped on the business! Well, I should remark!' "When Zack finished his story I asked if he would not take something. "He remarked that he was not particularly proud and, besides, the weather was 'powerful sarchin';' he believed he would. "He swallowed a stiff drink, returned to the stove, resumed his seat, began and told the whole story over, except that the whisky was having its effect, and as he drew towards the close he commenced to exaggerate, and wound up by the assertion that he took in one hundred and sixty dollars and saw two tremendous fights. "Some one else asked him to drink. He accepted, then returned to his chair and apparently fell into a doze. After a few minutes, however, he aroused himself and began again, as follows: "'It wus down on North Fok of Feather River, in '52 or '53, I disremember which. It was in the winter, and it bein' too cold for minin' ther boys wus all in camp. Thar wus no women thar, leastways no ladies, and women as is no ladies--but we dun no.' "Here I arose and slipped out of the room. Returning about fifteen minutes later. I found old Zack gesticulating wildly and in a high key exclaiming: "'I everlastingly broke the boys with my pitch. I took in _three hundred and forty-three dollars_ and seen three the _dod-durndest fights in the world_.' "But it was not this that I began to tell. Three or four years before Zack's death, a courier announced to the people of Susanville that three days before, out near Deep Hole, on the desert eighty miles east of Susanville, a man had been killed by renegade Pi Ute Indians. The announcement made only a temporary impression, for such news was often brought to Susanville in those days. In a very few years eighty Lassen county men were murdered by Indians. "A few days after the news of this particular murder was brought in, Susanville began to be vexed by the evident presence of a mysterious thief. If a hunter brought in a brace of grouse or rabbits and left them exposed for a little while they disappeared. "If a string of trout were caught from the river and were left anywhere for a few minutes they were lost. Gardens were robbed of fruit and vegetables; blankets, flannels and groceries disappeared from stores. The losses became unbearable at length, everybody was aroused and on the alert, but no thief could be discovered, though the depredations still went on. This continued for days and weeks, until the people became desperate, and many a threat was made that when the thief should finally be caught, in disposing of him the grim satisfaction of the frontier should be fully enjoyed. Old Zack was especially fierce in his denunciations. "One morning a horseman dashed into town, his mustang coming in on a dead run. Reining up in front of the main hotel, he sprang down from his horse and to the people who came running to see what was the matter, he explained that half a mile from town, around the bend of the hill, in the old deserted cabin, he had found the widow of the man killed weeks before by the Indians; had found her and a nest of babies, and none of them with sufficient food or clothing. "When the story was finished, men and women--half the population of the village--made a rush for the cabin. It was nearly concealed from view from the road by thick bushes, but they found the woman there and four little children. The woman seemed like one half dazed by sorrow and despair, but when questioned, she replied that she had been there five weeks. 'But how have you lived?' asked half a dozen voices in concert. Then the woman explained that she and her children would have starved, had it not been for a kind old gentleman who brought her everything that she required. "'Indeed,' she added, 'he brought me many things that I did not need, and which I felt that I ought not to accept, but he over-persuaded me, telling me that I did not know how rich he was, that his supplies were simply inexhaustible. "When asked to describe this man, she began to say: 'He is a heavy-set old gentleman; wears blue clothes; his hair is white as snow, but his eyes are black, and--'but she was not allowed to go any farther, for twenty voices, between weeping and laughing, cried 'Old Zack!' "The widow and her children were taken to the village, a house with its comforts provided for them, and there was, thenceforth, no more trouble from the ubiquitous thief. "Living on charity himself, with the wreck of a life behind him and nothing before him but the grave, which he was swiftly nearing, this great-hearted, old heavenly bummer and Christian thief, had taken care of this helpless family, and had done it because despite the dry rot and the whisky which had benumbed his energies, his soul, deep down, was royal to the core. "It is true that he had robbed the town to minister to the woman and her babies, but in the books of the angels, though it was written that he was a thief, in the same sentence it was also added, 'and God bless him,' and these words turned to gold even as they were being written. "When Old Zack was asked why he did not make the facts about the family known, after waiting a moment he replied: "'You see I've been tossed about a powerful sight in my time; have drank heaps of bad whisky; have done a great many no-account things and not a great many good ones. Since I wus a boy I have never had chick or kin of my own. I met the woman and her babies up by the cabin; they wus as pitiful a sight as ever you seen; and besides, the woman wus jist about to go stark mad with grief and hunger and anxiety and weariness. I seen she must have quiet and that anxiety about her children must be soothed some way. Then I did some of the best lyin' you ever heard. I got her to eat some supper and waited until the whole outfit wus fast asleep. I watched 'em a little while and then I got curis to know what kind of a provider I would have made for a family had I started out in life different, and that wus all there wus about it.' "Is it a wonder, then, that when the old man died his body was dressed in soft raiment, placed in a costly casket, and that, preceded by a martial band playing a requiem, all the people followed sorrowingly to the grave; and that, as they gently heaped the sods above his breast they sent after him into the Beyond heartfelt 'all-hails and farewells?'" "You see your man through colored spectacles, Colonel," spoke up Brewster. "From your description, I think there was more of the border deviltry in the old man than there was true royalty. Life had been a joke to him always; he played it as a joke to the end. One such a man was entertainment to the village; had there been a dozen more like him they would have become intolerable nuisances?" "That," said the Colonel, "only shows how miserable are my descriptive powers. There are not a dozen other such men as old Zack Taylor was among all the fourteen hundred millions of people on this sorrowful earth." "No," interposed Miller, "you told the story well enough, but it was only descriptive of a good-humored bummer at best--of one who was warm-hearted without a conscience, of one who was more willing to work to perpetrate a joke on others than to honorably earn the bread that he ate. "I will tell you of a royal fellow that I knew. It was Billie Smith. He lived in Eureka that first hard winter of '70-71. He was not a miner as we are, receiving four dollars per day. He and his partner, a surly old fellow, had a claim which they were developing, hoping that it would amount to something in the spring. That was before smelting had been made a success. The ores were all base and of too low a grade to ship away. These men had a little supply of flour, bacon and coffee, and that was about all, and it was all they expected until spring. "It was early in January and the weather was exceedingly cold. Their cabin was but a rude hut, open on every side to the winds. I was there and I know how things were. One day I was waiting in a tent, which by courtesy was called a store, when Billie came in. He had a cheery smile and hearty, welcome words for every one. He had been there but a few minutes when his partner came in. The old man was fairly boiling with rage. So angry was he that he could hardly articulate distinctly. Finally he explained that some thief had stolen their mattress, a pair of their best blankets and a sack of flour. He wanted an officer dispatched with a search warrant. Then I overheard the following conversation between the two men: "'O, never mind,' said Billie; 'some poor devil needed the things or he would not have taken them.' "'Yes, but we need them, too; need them more than anything else,' was the response. "'O, we will get along; we have plenty.' "'Yes,' retorted the partner, 'but what are we going to do for a bed? Our hair mattress and best pair of blankets are gone, and the cabin is cold.' "'We can sew up some sacks into a mattress, and fill it with soft brush and leaves, and use our coats for blankets,' replied Billie. 'We'll get along all right. The truth is we have been sleeping too warm of late.' "Too warm!' said the partner, bitterly; 'I should think so. A polar bear would freeze in that cabin without a bed.' "'Do you think so?' asked Billie, smiling. 'Well, that is the way to keep it, and so if any wild animal comes that way we can freeze him out. Brace up, partner! Why should a man make a fuss about the loss of a trifle like that?' "Later I found out the facts. A little below Billie's cabin was another cabin, into which a family of emigrants had moved. They were dreadfully poor. Going to and returning from town Billie had noticed how things were. One night as he passed, going home in the dark, he heard a child crying in the cabin and heard it say to its mother that it was hungry and cold. "Next morning he waited until his partner had gone away, then rolled the mattress around a sack of flour, then rolled the mattress and flour up in his best pair of blankets, swung the bundle on his shoulder, carried it down the trail to the other cabin, where, opening the door, he flung it inside; then with finger on his lip he said in a hoarse whisper to the woman: 'Don't mention it! Not a word. I stole the bundle, and if you ever speak of it you will get me sent to prison,' and in a moment was swinging down the trail singing joyously: "If I had but a thousand a year, Robin Ruff, If I had but a thousand a year." "Last winter, after the fire, there was one man in this city, John W. Mackay, who gave $150,000 to the poor. It was a magnificent act, and was as grandly and gently performed as such an act could be. No one would ever have known it, had not the good priest who distributed the most of it, one day, mentioned the splendid fact. That man will receive his reward here, and hereafter, for it was a royal charity. But he has $30,000,000 to draw against, while, when Billie in the wilderness gave up his bed and his food, he not only had not a cent to draw against, but he had not a reasonably well-defined hope. "When at last the roll-call of the real royal men of this world shall be sounded, if any of you chance to be there, you will hear, close up to the head of the list, the name of Billie Smith, and when it shall be pronounced, if you listen, you will hear a very soft but dulcet refrain trembling along the harps and a murmur among the emerald arches that will sound like the beating of the wings of innumerable doves." "That was a good mon, surely. Did he do well with his mine?" asked Corrigan. "No," answered Miller. "It was but a little deposit, and was quickly worked out. He scuffled along until the purchase of the Eureka Con. in the spring, then went to work there for a few months, then came here, and a day or two after arriving, was shot dead by the ruffian Perkins. "He was shot through the brain, and people tell me he was so quickly transfixed that in his coffin the old sunny smile was still upon his face. I don't believe that, though. I believe the smile came when, as the light went out here, he saw the dawn and felt the hand clasps on the other side. "By the way, there was a man here who knew him, and who wrote something with the thought of poor Billie in his mind while he was writing." At this Miller arose and went to his carpet-sack, opened it and drew out a paper. Then handing it to Harding, he said: "Harding, you read better than I do, read it for us all." Harding took the paper and read as follows: ERNEST FAITHFUL. 'Twas the soul of Ernest Faithful Loosed from its home of clay-- Its mission on earth completed, To the judgment passed away. 'Twas the soul of Ernest Faithful Stood at the bar above, Where the deeds of men are passed upon In justice, but in love. And an angel questioned Faithful Of the life just passed on earth! What could he plead of virtue, What could he count of worth. And the soul of Ernest Faithful Trembled in sore dismay; And from the judgment angel's gaze Shuddering, turned away. For memory came and whispered How worldly was that life; Unfairly plotting, sometimes, In anger and in strife; For a selfish end essaying To treasures win or fame, And the soul of Ernest cowered 'neath The angel's eye of flame. Then from a book the angel drew A leaf with name and date, A record of this Ernest's life Wove in the looms of Fate. And said: "O, Faithful, answer me, Here is a midnight scroll, What didst thou 'neath the stars that night? Didst linger o'er the bowl? "Filling the night with revelry With cards and wine and dice, And adding music's ecstacy, To give more charms to vice?" Then the soul of Faithful answered, "By the bedside of a friend I watched the long hours through; that night His life drew near its end." "Here's another date at midnight, Where was't thou this night, say?" "I was waiting by the dust of one Whose soul had passed that day." "These dollar marks," the angel said; "What mean they, Ernest, tell?" "It was a trifle that I gave To one whom want befell." "Here's thine own picture, illy dressed; What means this scant attire?" "I know not," answered Faithful, "save That once midst tempest dire, "I found a fellow-man benumbed, And lost amid the storm And so around him wrapped my vest, His stiffening limbs to warm." "Here is a woman's face, a girl's. O, Ernest, is this well? Knowst thou how often women's arms Have drawn men's souls to hell?" Then Ernest answered: "This poor girl An orphan was. I gave A trifle of my ample store The child from want to save." "Next are some words. What mean they here?" Then Ernest answered low: "A fellow-man approached me once Whose life was full of woe, "When I had naught to give, except Some words of hope and trust; I bade him still have faith, for God Who rules above is just." Then the grave angel smiled and moved Ajar the pearly gate And said: "O, soul! we welcome thee Unto this new estate. "Enter! Nor sorrow more is thine, Nor grief; we know thy creed-- Thou who hast soothed thy fellowmen In hour of sorest need. "Thou who hast watched thy brother's dust, When the wrung soul had fled; And to the stranger gave thy cloak, And to the orphan, bread. "And when all else was gone, had still A word of kindly cheer For one more wretched than thyself, Thou, soul, art welcome here. "Put on the robe thou gav'st away 'Tis stainless now and white; And all thy words and deeds are gems; Wear them, it is thy right!" And then from choir and harp awoke A joyous, welcome strain, Which other harps and choirs took up, In jubilant refrain, Till all the aisles of Summer Land Grew resonant, as beat The measures of that mighty song Of welcome, full and sweet. "That is purty. I hope there were no mistake about the gintleman making the showing up above," said Corrigan. "What lots of music there must be up in that country," chimed in Carlin. "I wonder if there are any buildings any where on the back streets where new beginners practice." "That represents the Hebrew idea of Heaven," said Alex. "I like that of the savage better, with hills and streams and glorious old woods. There is a dearer feeling of rest attached to it, and rest is what a life craves most after a buffet of three score years in this world." "Rest is a pretty good thing after an eight-hours' wrestle with the gnomes down on a 2,300 level of the Comstock," said Miller; "suppose we say good night." "Withdraw the motion for a moment, Miller," said Wright. "First, I move that our friends here be made honorary members of the Club." It was carried by acclamation, and thereafter, for several nights, the three were present nightly. CHAPTER IX. When the Club reassembled Carlin, addressing the Colonel, said: "You told us of a royal old bummer last night, and Miller told us of an angel in miner's garb. Your stories reminded me of something which happened in Hamilton, in Eastern Nevada, in the early times, when the thermometer was at zero, when homes were homes and food was food. There was a royal fellow there, too, only he was not a miner, and though he lived upon the earnings of others, he never accepted charity. By profession he was a gambler, and not a very 'high-toned' gambler at that. He was known as 'Andy Flinn,' though it was said, for family reasons, he did not pass under his real name. "Well, Andy had, in sporting parlance, been 'playing in the worst kind of luck' for a good while. One afternoon his whole estate was reduced to the sum of fifteen dollars. He counted it over in his room, slipped it back into his pocket and started up town. A little way from the lodging where he roomed he was met by a man who begged him to step into a house near by and see how destitute the inmates were. "Andy mechanically followed the man, who led the way to a cabin, threw open the door and ushered Andy in. There was a man, the husband and father, ill in bed, while the wife and mother, a delicate woman, and two little children, were, in scanty garments, hovering around the ghost of a fire. "Andy took one look, then rushed out of doors, the man who had led him into the cabin following. Andy walked rapidly away until out of hearing of the wretched people in the house, then swinging on his heel, for full two minutes hurled the most appalling anathemas at the man for leading him, as Andy expressed it, 'into the presence of those advance agents of a famine.' "When he paused for breath the man said, quietly: 'I like that; I like to see you fellows, that take the world so carelessly and easily, stirred up occasionally.' "'Easy!' said Andy; 'you had better try it. You think our work is easy; you are a mere child. We don't get half credit. I tell you to make a man an accomplished gambler requires more study than to acquire a learned profession; more labor than is needed to become a deft artisan. You talk like a fool. Easy, indeed!' "'I don't care to discuss that point with you, Andy,' said the man. 'I expect you are right, but that is not the question. What are you, a big, strong, healthy fellow, going to do to help those poor wretches in the cabin yonder?' "Andy plunged his hand into his pocket, drew out the fifteen dollars and was just going to pass it over to the man when a thought struck him. 'Hold on,' he said; 'a man is an idiot that throws away his capital and then has to take his chances with the thieves that fill this camp. You come with me. I am going to try to take up a collection. By the way,' he said, shortly, 'do you ever pray?' "The man answered that he did sometimes. 'Then,' said Andy, 'you put in your very biggest licks when I start my collection.' "Not another word was said until they reached and entered a then famous saloon on Main street. "Going to the rear where a faro game was in progress, Andy exchanged his fifteen dollars for chips and began to play. He never ceased; hardly looked up from the table for two hours. Sometimes he won and sometimes he lost, but the balance was on the winning side. Finally he ceased playing, gathered up his last stakes, and beckoning to the man who had come with him to the saloon, and who had watched his playing with lively interest, he led the way into the billiard room. "Andy went to a window on one side of the room and began to search his pockets, piling all the money he could find on the sill of the window. The money was all in gold and silver. "When his pockets were emptied, with the quickness of men of his class, he ran the amount over. Then taking from a billiard table a bit of chalk he, with labored strokes, wrote on the window sill the following: hul sum $263 50 starter 15 00 ------- doo ter god $248 50 "He picked up a ten-dollar piece and a five-dollar piece from the amount, then pushing the rest along the sill away from the figures, asked the man to count it. He did so and said: "'I make altogether $248.50, Andy.' "'I suspect you are correct,' said Andy, 'and now you take that money and go and fix up those people as comfortably as you can. Tell 'em we took up a collection among the boys; don't say a word about it on the outside, and see here. If you ever again show me as horrible a sight as that crowd makes in that accursed den down the street, I'll break every bone in your body.' "'But,' said the man, 'this is not right, Andy. It is too much. Fifty dollars would be a most generous contribution from you. Give me fifty dollars and you take back the rest.' "'What do you take me for?' was Andy's reply. 'Don't you think I have any honor about me? When I went into that saloon I promised God that if He would stand in with me, His poor should have every cent that I could make in a two hours' deal. I would simply be a liar and a thief if I took a cent of that money. You praying cusses have not very clear ideas of right and wrong after all.' "The man went on his errand of mercy, and Andy returned and invested his money in the bank again, as he said, 'to try to turn an honest penny.'" "That was a right ginerous man," remarked Corrigan. "May be and may be not," was the remark of the Colonel. "It is possible that he had been 'playing in bad luck,' as they say, for a good while and did it to change that luck. Confirmed gamesters never reason clearly on ordinary subjects. They are either up in the clouds or down in the depths; they are perpetually studying the doctrine of chances, and are as full of superstitions as so many fortune tellers." "That class of men are proverbially generous, though," said Harding; "but the way they get their money, I suspect, has something to do with the matter. Had the man earned the money at four dollars a day, running a car down in a hot mine, he would hardly have given up the whole sum." Here Miller took up the conversation. "I knew a man down in Amador county, California," said he, "who worked in a mine as we are working here, except that wages were $3.50 instead of $4.00 per day. He came there in the fall of the year and worked eight months. His clothes were always poor. He lived in a cabin by himself, and such miners as happened into his cabin at meal time declared their belief that his food did not cost half a dollar a day. He never joined the miners down town; was never known to treat to as much as a glass of beer. We all hated him cordially and looked upon him as a miner so avaricious that he was denying himself the common comforts of life. He was the talk of the mine, and many were the scornful words which he was made to hear and to know that they were uttered at his expense. Still he was quiet and resented nothing that was said, and there was no dispute about his being a most capable and faithful miner. At last one morning as the morning shift were waiting at the shaft to be lowered into the mine, Baxter (that was his name) appeared, and, after begging our attention for a moment, said: "'Gentlemen, there is the dead body of an old man up in the cabin across from the trail. It will cost sixty dollars to bury it in a decent coffin. The undertaker will not trust me, but if twenty of you will put in three dollars each, I will pay you all when pay-day comes.' "Then we questioned him, and it came out at last that Baxter had found the old man sick a few days after he came to work, and of his $3.50 per day had spent $3.00 in food, medicine and medical attendance upon the man, all through the long winter, and had moreover often watched with him twelve hours out of the twenty-four. It was not a child that something might be hoped for; there was no beautiful young girl about the place to be in love with. It was simply a death watch over a worn-out pauper. I thought then, I think still, it was as fine a thing as ever I saw. "There were sixty of us on the mine. We put in ten dollars apiece, went to Baxter in a body, and, begging his pardon, asked him to accept it. "With a smile, he answered: 'I thank you, but I cannot take it. I have wasted much money in my time. Now I feel as though I had a little on interest, and I shall get along first rate.' "Talk about royalty, our Baxter was an Emperor." "He did have something on interest," said Brewster. "Something for this world and the world to come." "Did you ever hear about Jack Marshall's attempt to pay his debts by clerking in a store?" asked Savage. "Jack brought a good deal of coin here and opened a store. He did first rate for several months, and after awhile branched out into a larger business, which required a good many men. When everything was promising well a fire came and swept away the store and a flood destroyed the other property. There was just enough saved out of the wreck to pay the laborers. "When all was settled up Jack had but forty-three dollars left and an orphan boy to take care of. Just then a man that Jack had known for a good while as a miner, came into town, and hearing of Jack's misfortunes, hunted him up and told him that he had given up mining and settled down to farming, and begged Jack to come and make his home with him until he had time to think over what was best to do. He further said that he had twelve acres of land cleared and under fence, with ditches all dug for irrigating the crop; that he had a yoke of oxen to plough the land; that his intention was to plant the whole twelve acres to potatoes; that a fair crop would yield him sixty tons, which, as potatoes then were four cents a pound, would bring him nearly $5,000 for the season. But he explained that he could not drive oxen, and more than that, it required two men to do the work, and as he had not much money and did not want to run in debt, his business in town was to find some steady man who could drive oxen, who would go with him and help him plant, tend, harvest and sell the crop on shares. The ranch was down on Carson River, not far from Fort Churchill. "When the man had finished his story, Jack said to him: 'How would I do for a steady man and a bovine manipulator?' "'My God, Mr. Marshall! you would not undertake to drive oxen and plant potatoes, would you?' said the man. "'That's just what I would,' said Jack, 'if you think you can endure me for a partner. I will become a horny-handed tender of the vine--the potato vine. What say you?' "Well, that evening both men started for the farm. No friend of Jack knew his real circumstances. They knew he had been unfortunate, but did not know that it was a case of 'total wreck.' He bade a few of them good-bye, with the careless remark that he was going for a few days' hunt down toward the sink of the Carson. "Well, he ploughed the land, the two men planted the crop and irrigated it until the potatoes were splendidly advanced and just ready to blossom. It got to be the last of June and the promise for a bountiful crop was encouraging. They had worked steadily since the middle of March. But just then a thief, who had some money, made a false affidavit, got from a court an injunction against the men and shut off the water. It was just at the critical time when the life of the crop depended upon water. In two weeks the whole crop was ruined. In the meantime for seed and provisions, clothes, etc., a debt of one hundred and fifty dollars had been contracted at the store of a Hebrew named Isaacs. News of the injunction reached the merchant, and one morning he put in an appearance. "'Meester Marshall, hous dings?' asked Isaacs. "Pointing to the blackened and withering crop, Jack answered: 'They look a little bilious, don't you think so?' "'Mine Gott! Mine Gott!' was the wailing exclamation. Then, after a pause, 'Ven does you suppose you might pay me, Meester Marshall?' "'As things have been going of late, I think in about seven years. It is said that bad luck changes about every seven years.' "'Mine Gott! Meester Marshall,' cried Isaacs; 'haven't you got nodings vot you can pay? I vill discount de bill--say ten per cent.' "'Nothing that I can think of, except a dog. I have a dog that is worth two hundred dollars, but to you I will discount the dog twenty-five per cent.' "'O, mine Gott! vot you dinks I could do mit a dog?' said the despairing merchant. "'Why keep him for his society, Mr. Isaacs,' was the bantering answer. 'With him salary is not so much an object as a comfortable and respectable home. There's too much alkali on the soil to encourage fleas to remain, so there's no difficulty on that score; and he's an awfully good dog, Isaacs; no bad habits, and the most regular boarder you ever saw; he has never been late to a meal since we have been here. You had better take him; twenty-five per cent is an immense discount.' "By this time the Hebrew was nearly frantic. "'Meester Marshall,' he said, hesitatingly, 'did you clerk ever in a store?' "'Oh, yes.' "'Vould you clerk for me?' "'Yes: that is, until that bill shall be settled.' "'Ven could you come?' "'Whenever you wish.' "'Vould you come next Monday--von of mine clerks, Henery, goes avay Monday?' "'Yes, I will be on hand Monday. Let us see; it is seven miles to walk. I will be there about nine o'clock in the morning.' "'Vell, I danks you, Meester Marshall; danks you very much.' "He turned away and rode off a few steps, then stopped and called back: 'Meester Marshall, if you dinks vot de society of de dog is essential to your comfort, bring him.' "'Thanks, Isaacs,' cried Jack, cheerfully; 'considering where I am going to work, and the company I am going to keep, it will not be necessary.' "Jack went as he had promised. Isaacs, who was a thoroughly good man, was delighted to see him, shook hands cordially, and then suddenly, with a mysterious look, led him to the extreme rear end of the store, and when there, placing his lips close to Jack's ear, in a hoarse whisper, said: "'Meester Marshall, de vater here is ---- bad; it is poison, horrible. You drinks nodings but vine until you gets used to de vater.' "Marshall went to work at once. It was in 1863. The war was at its height, and Jack was intensely Union, while Isaacs, his employer, was a furious Democrat. Nothing of especial interest transpired for a couple of weeks, when one day an emigrant woman, just across the plains, leading two little children, came into the store. "She was an exceedingly poor woman, evidently. All her clothes were not worth three dollars, while her children were pitiful looking beyond description. "Isaacs was in the front of the store; Jack was putting up goods in the rear, but in hearing, while another clerk was in the warehouse outside of the main store. Isaacs went to wait on the woman. She picked out some needed articles of clothing for her children, amounting to some six or eight dollars, then unrolling a dilapidated kerchief, from its inner folds drew out a Confederate twenty-dollar note and tendered it in payment. "Isaacs, who had been all smiles, drew back in horror, exclaiming: 'I cannot take dot; dot is not monish, madam.' "Jack overheard what Isaacs said and the woman's reply, as follows: "'It is all that I have; it is all the money that we have had in Arkansas since the war commenced. Everybody takes it in Arkansas.' "This conversation continued for two or three minutes, and the woman was just about turning away without the goods when Jack, unable to longer bear it, stepped forward and said: "'Mr. Isaacs, Mr. Smith would like to see you in the warehouse; please permit me to wait upon the lady.' "'All right,' said Isaacs, 'only (in a whisper) remember dot ish not money.' "Isaacs passed out of the store and Jack then said: 'If you please, madam, let me see your money.' "The woman, with a trembling hand, presented the Confederate note. Jack glanced at it and said: "'Why, this is first-class money, madam. It is just a prejudice that that infernal old Abolitionist has. I will discharge him to-night. They would hang him in two hours in Arkansas, and they ought to hang him here. Buy all the goods you want, madam.' "With eyes full of gratitude the woman increased the bill, until it amounted to eleven dollars and a half. Jack tied up the goods, took the Confederate note, handed the woman a five-dollar gold piece and three dollars and fifty cents in silver, and she went on her way holding the precious coin, the first she had seen in years, closely clasped in her hand. "Jack charged goods to cash twenty dollars, charged himself to cash twenty dollars, and went back to putting up goods, humming to himself. "'Half the world never knows how the other half lives.' Jack's salary was one hundred and fifty dollars a month. He owed one hundred and fifty dollars when he went to work. It took him four months to pay off his indebtedness, but when he gave up his place he had all his pockets full of Confederate money." As the story was finished, Miller said: "A real pleasant but characteristic thing happened right here in this city when Bishop W---- first came here. "He wanted to establish a church, and his first work was to select men who would act and be a help to him as trustees. "It is nothing to get trustees for a mining company here, but a church is a different thing. In a church, you know, a man has to die to fill his shorts, and then, somehow, in these late years men have doubts about the formation, so that when a man starts a company on that lead any more he finds it mighty hard to place any working capital. "At the time I was speaking of it was just about impossible to get a full staff of trustees that would exactly answer the orthodox requirements. But the Bishop is a man of expedients. It was sinners that he came to call to repentance, and it did not take him long to discover that right here was a big field. He went to work at once with an energy that has never abated for a moment since. He selected all his trustees but one, and looking around for him, with a clear instinct he determined that Abe E---- should be that one if he would accept the place. "Now Abe was the best and truest of men, but he would swear sometimes. Indeed when he got started on that stratum he was a holy terror. But the Bishop put him down as a trustee, and, meeting Abe on the street, informed him that he was trying to organize a church; had taken the liberty to name him as a trustee, and asked Abe to do him the honor of attending a trustees' meeting at 1 o'clock the next afternoon. "'I would be glad to help you, Bishop,' said Abe, 'but----it----I don't know. I can run a mine or a quartz mill, but I don't know any more than a Chinaman about running a church.' "But the Bishop plead his case so ably that Abe at length surrendered, promised to attend the meeting, and, having promised, like the sterling business man that he was, promptly put in an appearance. "Besides Abe and the Bishop, there were six others. When all had assembled the Bishop explained that he desired to build a church; that he had plans, specifications and estimates for a church to cost $9,000, with lot included; that he believed $1,500 might be raised by subscription, leaving the church but $7,500 in debt, which amount would run at low interest and which in a growing place like Virginia City the Bishop thought might be paid up in four or five years, leaving the church free. He closed by asking the sense of the trustees as to the wisdom and practicability of making the attempt. "There was a general approval of the plan expressed by all present except Abe, who was silent until his opinion was directly asked by the Bishop. "'Why ---- it, Bishop,' said he, 'I told you that I knew nothing about church business, but I don't like the plan. If you were to get money at fifteen per cent per annum, which is only half the regular banking rate, your interest would amount to nearly $1,200 a year, or almost as much as you hope to raise for a commencement. I am afraid, Bishop, you would never live long enough to get out of debt. You want a church, why ---- it, why don't you work the business as though you believed it would pay? That is the only way you can get up any confidence in the scheme.' "Abe sat down and the Bishop's heart sank with him. "With a smile, one of the other gentlemen asked Abe what his plan for getting a church would be. "'I will tell you,' said Abe, 'I move that an assessment of one thousand dollars be levied upon each of the trustees, payable immediately.' "It was a startling proposition to the Bishop, who was just from the East and who had not become accustomed to Comstock ways. With a faltering voice he said: "'Mr. E., I fear that I cannot at present raise $1,000.' "'Never mind, Bishop,' said Abe, 'we will take yours out in preaching; but there is no rebate for any of the rest of you. If you are going to serve the Lord, you have got to be respectable about it. Your checks if you please, gentlemen.' "All were wealthy men, the checks were laughingly furnished, with joking remarks that it was the first company ever formed in Virginia City where the officers really invested any money. "'Abe took the checks, added his own to the number, begged the Bishop to excuse him, remarking as he went out that while he had every faith in the others still he was anxious to reach the bank a little in advance of them, and started up town. "He met this man and that and demanded of each a check for from $50 to $250, as he thought they could respectively afford to pay. "When asked how long he would want the money his reply was: 'I want it for keeps, ---- it. I am building a church.' In forty minutes he had the whole sum. He took the checks to the bank and for them received a certificate of deposit in the Bishop's name. Carrying this to the Bishop's house he rang the bell. "'The Bishop had seen his coming and answered the summons in person. Handing him the certificate Abe said: "'Take that for a starter, Bishop. It won't be enough, for a church is like an old quartz mill. The cost always exceeds the estimates a good deal, but go ahead, and when you need more money we will levy another assessment on the infernal sinners.'" Strong, who had been listening attentively said: "I heard the Bishop preach and pray over Abe's dead body three years ago, and watched him as he took a last, long look at Abe's still, clear-cut splendid face as it was composed in death. Abe never joined the church, and I am told that he swore a little to the last. His part in building the church was simply one of his whims, but for years he was a Providence here to scores of people. No one knew half his acts of bountiful, delicate charity, or in how many homes bitter tears were shed when he died. "But the Bishop knew enough to know and feel as he was praying over his remains, that while it was well as a matter of form, it was quite unnecessary; that, so far as Abe was concerned, he was safe; that in the Beyond where the mansions are and where the light is born; where, over all, are forever stretched out the brooding wings of celestial peace, Abe had been received, and that, upon his coming, while the welcomes were sounding and the greetings were being made to him, flowers burst through the golden floor and blossomed at his feet. "Among the royal ones of the earth, the soul of Abe E---- bore the sceptre of perfect sovereignty." "I knew him," said Corrigan, "may his soul rest in peace, for he was a noble man." "I knew him," interposed Carlin, "no words give an idea of how sterling and true a man he was." "I knew him," added Wright. "When he died Virginia City did not realize the loss which his death entailed." "I knew him," concluded Strong. "His heart was a banyan tree, its limbs were perpetually bending down and taking root, till it made shade for the poor of the city." Then Carlin, opening the door to the kitchen, called Yap Sing to bring glasses. A night-cap toddy was made and as it was drank the good nights were spoken. CHAPTER X. With the lighting of the pipes the next night Miller said: "All your royal people so far, though not perfect men, have had redeeming traits. I once knew one who had not a single characteristic, except, perhaps, some pluck. My man was simply a royal liar. In Western parlance, 'he was a boss.' His name was Colonel Jensen. "Now, in my judgment, lying is the very grossest of human evils. A common liar is a perpetual proof of the truth of the doctrine of original sin. By that vice more friendships are broken and more real misery is perpetrated and perpetuated in the world than comes through any other channel. "But as genius excites admiration even when exerted for sinister purposes, so when the art of lying is reduced to an absolute science there is something almost fine about it. "My liar, when I first knew him, seemed to be between fifty and sixty years of age; but no one ever knew what his real age was. "But he was quite an old man, for his hair was perfectly white, and that, with a singularly striking face and fine faculty of expressing his ideas, gave him an appearance at once venerable and engaging. It was hard to look into his almost classical face and to think that if he had told the truth within twenty years, it must have been an accident; but such was the fact, nevertheless. "He was indeed a colossal prevaricator. He was at home, too, on every theme, and there was the charm of freshness to every new falsehood, for he spoke as one who was on the spot--an actor. If it was an event that he was describing, he was a participant; if a landscape or a structure, it was from actual observation; if it chanced to be a scientific theme, he invariably reported the words of some great scientist 'just as they fell from his lips.' "He knew and had dined with all the great men of his generation--that is, he said so. He always spoke with particularly affectionate remembrance of Henry Clay and Daniel Webster, always referring to them as 'Hank' and 'Dan,' so intimate had he been with them. "My introduction to him was on a stormy winter night, in the early years of the Washoe excitement. A few of us were conversing in a hotel. One gentleman was describing something that he had witnessed in his boyhood, in Columbus, Ohio. "As he finished his story, a venerable gentleman, who was a stranger in Washoe, and who had, for several minutes, been slowly pacing up and down the room, suddenly stopped and inquired of the gentleman who had been talking if he was from Columbus? When answered in the affirmative, the stranger extended his hand, dropped into a convenient seat as he spoke, and expressed his pleasure at meeting a gentleman from Columbus, at the same time introducing himself as Colonel Jensen and remarking that one of the happiest recollections of his life was of a day in Columbus, on which day all his prospects in life were changed and wonderfully brightened. "With such an exordium, the rest could do no less than to press the old gentleman to favor the company with a rehearsal of what had transpired. "The story was as follows: "I had just returned with the remnant of my regiment from Mexico, and had received the unanimous thanks of the Legislature of Ohio for--so the resolution was worded--"the magnificent ability and steadfast and desperate courage displayed by Colonel Jensen for twelve consecutive hours on the field of Buena Vista." I was young at the time and had not got over caring for such things. The day after this resolution of thanks was passed the Governor of the State ordered a grand review, at the capital, of the militia of the State in honor of the soldiers who had survived the war. As a mark of especial honor I was appointed Adjutant-General on the Governor's staff. My place at the review was beside the Governor--who was, of course, Commander-in-Chief--except when my particular regiment was passing. "'There are a few things which I have never outgrown a weakness for. One is a real Kentucky blood horse. I had sent to Kentucky and paid four thousand dollars for a son of old Gray Eagle. I bought him cheap, too, because of his color. He was a dappled gray. The Boston stock of horses was just then becoming the rage, and gray was beginning to be an off color for thoroughbreds. My horse was a real beauty. He had been trained on the track, and from a dead stand would spring twenty-two feet the first bound. But he was thoroughly broken and tractable, though he had more style than a peacock, and when prancing and careering, though not pulling five pounds on the bit, he looked as though in a moment he would imitate Elijah's chariot and take to the clouds. "'As the hour for the review approached I mounted my horse and took my position, as assigned, beside the Governor. "'I was quietly conversing with him and with our Brigadier-General, when a runaway team, attached to an open carriage in which were two ladies, dashed past us. "'What followed was instinct. I gave Gray Eagle both rein and spur. In a few seconds he was beside the running horses. I sprang from his back upon the back of the near carriage horse, gathered the inside reins of the team, drew the heads of the two horses together and brought them to a standstill only a few feet from the bluffs, which any one from that city will remember, and over which the team would have dashed in a moment more. "'People gathered around instantly, took the horses in hand and helped the ladies from the vehicle. Being relieved, I caught and remounted my horse, took my place and the review proceeded. "'After the review, I received a note from the Governor asking me to dine with him that evening. "'I accepted, supposing the invitation was due to my Mexican record. Judge my surprise, then, when going to the Governor's mansion, I was shown into the parlor, and, on being presented to the Governor's wife and her beautiful unmarried sister, in a moment found myself being overwhelmed by the grateful thanks of the two ladies, learning for the first time, from their lips, that they were the ladies I had rescued. "'Of course, after that, I was a frequent visitor at the house, and in a few months the young lady became my wife.' "His story was told with an air of such modest candor and at the same time with such dramatic effect, that what might have seem improbable or singular about it, had it been differently related, was not thought of at the time. The old man was a real hero for a brief moment at least. "When, later, we knew the Colonel had never been in the Mexican war or any other war; that he had never been married; that if he had ever witnessed a military review it was from a perch on a fence or tree; that he had never possessed four thousand or four hundred dollars with which to buy a horse, and that his oldest acquaintances did not believe that he had ever been on a horse's back, still, while the admiration for the man was somewhat chilled, there was no difference of opinion as to the main fact, which was that as a gigantic and dramatic liar, on merit, he was entitled to the post of honor on a day when the Ananiases of all the world were passing in review. "Old and middle-aged men in the West will remember the delightful letters, which Lieut. B., under the _nom de plume_ of 'Ching Foo,' used to write to the Sacramento _Union_. Once in the presence of Colonel Jensen these letters were referred to as masterpieces. The Colonel smiled significantly and said: "'They were delicious letters, truly. Take him all in all, Ching Foo was the most intelligent Chinaman I ever saw. He cooked for me three years in California. I taught him reading and writing. I reckon he would have been with me still, but the early floods in '54 washed out my bed-rock flume in American River and I had to break up my establishment. I had a ton of gold in sight in the river bed, but next morning the works were all gone and with them $125,000 which I had used in turning the river.' "One day an Ohio man and a Tennessee man engaged in a warm dispute over the relative excellencies of the respective State houses in Ohio and Tennessee. Finally they appealed to Colonel Jensen for an opinion. The Colonel, with his sovereign air, said to the Ohio man: "'You are wrong, Tom. I had just completed the State house at Columbus, when I was sent for to go and make the plans and superintend the construction of the State house at Nashville. It would have been strange if I had not made a great many improvements over the Ohio structure, in preparing plans for the one to be erected in Tennessee.' "The Colonel was a bungling carpenter by trade, and never built anything more complicated or imposing than a miner's cabin. "One more anecdote and I will positively stop. Two neighbors had a law suit in Washoe City. One was an honest man, the other a scoundrel. As is the rule in Nevada, both the plaintiff and defendant testified. The defendant denied point blank the testimony of the plaintiff. It was plain that one or the other had committed terrible perjury. Some other witnesses were called, the case was closed and the jury retired to consider upon a verdict. But how to decide was the question. Which was the honest man and which the scoundrel? "At last one juror hit upon a happy thought. He said: "Gentlemen, did you notice closely the last witness for the defendant? His hair was white as snow, his body bent, his steps were feeble and tottering. That man has already one foot in the grave; he will not survive another month. Surely a man in his condition would tell the truth.' The argument seemed logical and the reasoning sound. The verdict was unanimous for the defendant. "No case ever showed clearer the 'infallibility' of a jury. The witness was Colonel Jensen. The defendant was the perjurer, and all the Colonel knew of the case was what the defendant had, that morning, out behind a hay corral, drilled him to know and to swear to, for a five-dollar piece. "The Colonel has gone now to join his ancestors on the other side. In the old orthodox days there would not have been the slightest doubt as to who his original ancestor was, or of the temperature of his present quarters, but who knows? "I only know that, while upon the earth, he was one of the few men whom I have known that I believed was a native genius; a very Shakespeare (or Bacon) in language; a Michael Angelo in coloring; a colossal, all-embracing, magnificent, measureless liar." "He was a good one, sure," said Carlin. "He was a bad one, sure," remarked Ashley. Then Brewster, taking up the theme, said: "He had a chronic disease, that was all. He was as much of an inebriate in his way as ever was drunkard a slave to alcohol. He had great vanity and self-esteem and a flowery imagination. These were chastened or disciplined by no moral attributes. He could no more help being what he was than can the raven avoid being black." "There was bad stock in the mon," said Corrigan. "He should have been strangled in his cradle; for sich a mon is forever making bitterness in a neighborhood, and is not fit to live." "Boys," asked the Colonel, "do you believe that lying is ever justifiable?" Brewster, Harding and Ashley simultaneously answered "No." "It depends," said Carlin. "Hardly iver," said Corrigan. Miller thought it might be necessary. "For one's self, no; for another, perhaps yes," said the Professor. "That is just the point," remarked the Colonel. "Let me tell you about a case which transpired right here in this city. There were two men whose first names were the same, while their surnames were similar. Their given names were Frank and their surnames were, we will say, Cady and Carey, respectively. Cady was a young married man. He had a beautiful wife, a lovely little girl three years of age and a baby boy a year old at the time I am speaking of. Carey was five or six years younger and single. They were great friends, notwithstanding that Cady was pretty fast while Carey was as pure-hearted a young man as ever came here. More, he was devotedly attached to a young lady who was a close friend of the wife of Cady. The young couple were expecting to be married in a few weeks at the time the incident happened which I am going to relate. "Cady was wealthy, while Carey was poor and a clerk in a mercantile establishment. One day Cady said to his friend: 'Carey, I bought some Con. Virginia stock to-day at $55. I have set aside eighty shares for you. Some people think it is going to advance before long. If it does and there is anything made on the eighty shares it shall be yours.' Sixty days later the stock struck $463, when it was sold and the bank notified Carey that there was a deposit of $32,000 to his credit. When this stroke of good fortune came the youth hastened to tell the good news to the girl of his heart, and before they separated their troth was plighted and the marriage day fixed. "During this delicious period, one morning Carey stepped into the outer office of Cady and was horrified to hear from behind the glass screen which separated the inner office from the main office the wife of Cady upbrading her husband in a most violent manner. Her back was to the front of the building. She was holding a letter in her hand, and as Carey entered the building she began and read the letter through, and wound up by crying: 'Who is this Marie who is writing to you and directing the letters simply to Frank, Postoffice box 409? You are keeping a private box, are you? But you are too careless by half; you left this letter in your overcoat pocket, and when I went to sew a button on the coat this morning it fell out, so I could not help but see it.' "Just then Cady looked up and saw Carey through the glass petition. The latter with a swift motion touched a finger to his lips and shook his head, which in perfect pantomime said: 'Don't give yourself away,' then in a flash slipped noiselessly from the building. "Once outside, he hastily, on a leaf of his memorandum book, wrote to the postmaster that if he called with a lady and asked what his postoffice box was to answer 409; to at once take out anything that might be in the box, and if he had time to seal and stamp an envelope, direct it to him and put it in 409, and he added: 'Don't delay a moment.' "Calling a bootblack who was standing near, he gave him the note and a silver dollar, bade him run with the letter to the postoffice and to be sure to deliver the note only to some of the responsible men there, to the postmaster himself if possible. "Then, with a good deal of noise, he rushed into his friend's place of business again. "As he entered he heard his friend's wife, through her sobs, saying: 'Oh, Frank! I should have thought that respect for our children would have prevented this, even if you have no more love for me.' "Carey dashed through the sash door, seemed taken all aback at seeing Cady's wife in the office. In great apparent confusion he advanced and said: 'Excuse me, Cady, but I am in a little trouble this morning. I was expecting a letter last night directed simply to my first name and my postoffice box. It has not come, and as you and myself have the same first name, I did not know but the mistake might have been made at the postoffice.' He was apparently greatly agitated and unstrung and seemed particularly anxious about the letter. "Cady replied: 'With my mail last night a letter came directed as you say. I opened and glanced over it, thought it was some joke, put it in my pocket and thought no more about it until my wife brought it in this morning. Somehow she does not seem satisfied at my explanation.' "At this the lady sprang up, and, confronting the young man, said: 'Frank Carey, what is the number of your box in the postoffice?' "With steady eyes and voice he answered; '409.' The woman was dumfounded for a moment, but she quickly rallied. "'Come with me,' she said. The young man obeyed. She took her way directly to the postoffice. Arriving, she tapped at the delivery window and asked if she could see the postmaster in person. The boy delivered the message and in a moment the door opened and the pair were ushered into the private office of the postmaster. Hardly were they seated when the lady said abruptly: 'We have come, Judge, on a serious business. Will you be kind enough to tell me the number of this gentleman's postoffice box?' "The postmaster looked inquiringly at Carey, who nodded assent. Then in response to the lady, he replied: 'I do not exactly remember. I will have to look at the books.' "He passed into the main office, but returned in a moment with a petty ledger containing an alphabetical index. He opened at the 'C's' and read: 'Frank Carey, box 409; paid for one quarter from Jan----' Continuing, he said: 'I remember now, Frank, you hired the box about the time you realized on Con. Virginia, and the quarter has about a month more to run.' "This he said with an imperturbable, and incorruptible face, and with an air of mingled candor and business which it was charming to behold. "The lady was nearly paralyzed, but she made one more effort. "'There can be no possible mistake in what you have told me, Judge?' she asked. "'I think not the least in the world,' was the reply, and, rising, he continued: 'Please step this way.' He led the way to the boxes, and there over 409 was the name of Frank Carey. More, there was a sprinkle of dust over it, showing that it had been there for some time. "'By the way,' said the postmaster, you have a letter, Frank. It must be a drop letter, as no mail has been received this morning.' He took the letter from the box in a manner so awkward that the lady could not help seeing that it had evidently been directed in a disguised female hand, and that the superscription was simply 'Frank, P. O. Box 409.' "Arrived again in the private office, the lady said to the young man, in a latitude 78-degree north tone, 'I see, sir, you have a very extensive, and I have no doubt, very _select_ correspondence.' "At the same time she caught up her skirts--the ladies wore long skirts that year--and, with a 'I thank you, Judge; good morning,' started toward the door. As she passed Carey she drew close to the wall, as though for her robes to touch the hem of his garments would be contamination, and passed haughtily into the street. "When she had disappeared Carey sank into a chair and drew a long breath of relief, while the grave face of the ancient 'Nasby' unlimbered and warmed into a smile which shone like virtue's own reward. "'Lord! Lord!' he said, 'but it was a close shave. I had just got things fixed when you came. And was not she mad though? She looked like the prospectus of a cyclone. But tell me, Carey, am I not rather an impressive liar, when, in the best interests of domestic peace, my duty leads me into that channel?' "Frank answered, 'As Mark Twain told those wild friends of his who perpetrated the bogus robbery upon him, "You did a marvelous sight too well for a mere amateur." But now, Judge, mum is the word about this business.' "'Mum is the word,' was the reply. "That evening Carey called at the home of his betrothed. A servant showed him into the parlor, but for the first time the young lady did not put in an appearance. In her stead her mother came. The elder lady, without sitting, in a severe tone said: 'Mr. Carey, my daughter has heard something to-day from Mrs. Cady. Until you explain that matter to my satisfaction my daughter will beg to decline to see you.' "Carey replied: 'Since your daughter has heard of the matter, it does concern _her_, and I shall very gladly explain to her; but I cannot to any one else, not even to you.' "'You could easily impose upon a silly girl who is in love, but I am no silly girl, and am not in love, especially not with _you_, and you will have to explain to _me_,' said the lady. "'My dear madam,' said Carey, mildly, 'in one sense there is nothing in all that gossip. In another sense so much is involved that I would not under the rack whisper a word of it to any soul on earth save she who has promised to give her happiness into my keeping. When your daughter becomes my wife your authority as mother in our home shall never be questioned by me. Until then my business is not with you.' "'It is not worth while to prolong this discussion,' said the old lady, excitedly. 'If you have nothing more to say, I will bid you good evening.' "'Good evening, madam,' said Carey, and went out into the night. "A year later the young lady married the wildest rake on the Comstock, but Carey never married, and died last year. "When Cady saw how things were going, he went to Carey and said: 'Carey, let me go and explain to those ladies. It kills me to see you as your are.' "'It will never do,' was the reply. 'They would not keep the secret, especially the elder one never would. It would kill her not to get even with your wife. It worried me a little at first, for I feared that ---- might grieve some and be disappointed; but she is all right. I watched her covertly at the play last night. She will forget me in a month. She will be married within the year. We will take no chance of having your home made unhappy. Dear friend, it is all just as I would have it.'" "It was too bad," said Harding. "That Carey was a right noble fellow," was Wright's comment. Miller thought if he had been right game he would have seen that girl, old woman or no old woman. "He was punished for his falsehood. He had to atone for his own and his friend's sins," was Brewster's conclusion. "O, murther! I think he had a happy deliverance from the whole family intoirely," said Corrigan. Carlin, addressing Brewster, said: "You say he was punished for the sins of himself and his friend; how do you dispose of the wickedness of the postmaster?" "Possibly," was the response, "he is wicked by habit, and it may be he is being reserved for some particular judgment." "All that I see remarkable about Carey's case," said Ashley, "is that he made the money in the first place. Had that stock been carried for me, the mine would have been flooded the next week and my work would have been mortgaged for a year to come to make good the loss." "It was a hard case, no doubt," said Strong, "but I think with Corrigan, that the punishment was not without its compensations." "He had his mirage and it was worse than wild Injuns, was it not, Wright?" asked Corrigan. "Or worse, Barney," said Wright, "than a blacksmith, a foine mon and a mon of property." "O, murther, Wright," said Corrigan; "stop that. There go the whistles. Let us say good night." CHAPTER XI. About this time Virginia City was visited one day by a heavy rain storm accompanied with thunder. But as the sun was disappearing behind Mount Davidson, the clouds broke and rolled away from the west, while at the same time a faint rainbow appeared in the East, making one of those beautiful spectacles common to mountainous regions. At the same time the flag on Mount Davidson caught the beams from the setting sun and stood out a banner of fire. This, too, is not an unfrequent spectacle in Virginia City, and long ago inspired a most gifted lady to write a very beautiful poem, "The Flag on Fire." The storm and the sunset turned the minds of the Club to other beautiful displays of nature which they had seen. Said Miller, "I never saw anything finer than a sunset which I witnessed once at sea down off the Mexican coast. "We were in a tub of a steamship, the old "Jonathan." We had been in a storm for four days, three of which the steamer had been thrown up into the wind, the machinery working slowly, just sufficient to keep steerageway on the ship. "There were 600 passengers on board, with an unusual number of women and children, and we had been miserable past expression. But at last, with the coming of the dawn, the wind ceased; as soon as the waves ran down so that it was safe to swing the ship, she was turned about and put upon her course. "In a few hours the sea grew comparatively smooth, and the passengers by hundreds sought the deck. "All the afternoon the Mexican coast was in full view, blue and rock-bound and not many miles away. "Just before the sun set its bended rays struck those blue head-lands and transfigured them. They took on the forms of walls and battlements and shone like a city of gold rising out of the sea in the crimson East, and looked as perhaps the swinging gardens of Semiramis did from within the walls of Babylon. In the West the disc of the sun, unnaturally large, blazed in insufferable splendor, while in glory this seeming city shone in the East. Between the two pictures the ship was plunging on her course and we could feel the pulses of the deep sea as they throbbed beneath us. The multitude upon the deck hardly made a sound; all that broke the stillness was the heavy respirations of the engines and the beating of the paddles upon the water. The spell lasted but a few minutes, for when the sun plunged beneath the sea, the darkness all at once began as is common in those latitudes, but while it lasted it was sublime. "Speaking of Nature's pictures, in my judgment about the most impressive sight that is made in this world, is a storm at sea. I mean a real storm in which a three thousand ton ship is tossed about like a cork, when the roar of the storm makes human voices of no avail, and when the billows give notice that 'deep is answering unto deep.' "When a boy I often went down under the overhanging rock over which the current of Niagara pours. As I listened to the roar and tried to compute the energy which had kept those thunders booming for, heaven only knows how many thousands of years, it used to make me feel small enough; but it never influenced me as does an ocean storm. When all the world that is in sight goes into the business of making Niagaras, and turns out a hundred of them every minute, I tell you about all an ordinary landsman can do is to sit still and watch the display. "A real ocean storm--a shore shaker--is about the biggest free show that this world has yet invented." Corrigan spoke next; said he: "Spakin' of storms, did you iver watch the phenomenon of a ragin' snow storm high up in the Sierras? When it is approaching there is a roar in the forest such as comes up a headland when the sea is bating upon its base. This will last for hours, the pines rocking like auld women at a wake, and thin comes the snow. Its no quiet, respectable snow such as you see in civilized countries, but it just piles down as though a new glacial period had descinded upon the worreld. As it falls all the voices of the smaller streams grow still and the wind itself grows muffled as though it had a could in the head. The trees up there are no shrubs you know. They grow three hundred feet high and have branches in proportion, and whin they git to roarin' and rockin', it is as though all the armies of the mountains were presentin' arms. "When the storm dies away, thin it is you see a picture, if the weather is not too cold. The snow masses itself upon the branches, and thin you stand in a temple miles in extent, the floor of which is white like alabaster while the columns that support it are wrought in a lace-work of emerald and of frost more lofty and dilicate than iver was traced out by the patient hand of mortal in grand cathadrals." Here Carlin interrupted. "Say, Barney, is there not a great deal of frieze to one of those Sierra temples?" "It might same so, lookin' from the standpoint of the nave," was Barney's quick reply. Groans followed this outbreak, from various members of the Club. They were the first puns that had been fired into that peaceful company and they were hailed as omens of approaching trouble. The gentle voice of Brewster next broke the silence. "I saw," he said, "in Salt Lake City, three years ago on a summer evening, a sunset scene which I thought was very beautiful. The electric conditions had been strangely disturbed for several days; there had been clouds and a good deal of thunder and lightning. You know Salt Lake City lies at the western base of the Wasatch range. On this day toward evening the sky to the west had grown of a sapphire clearness, but in the east beyond the first high hills of the range a great electric storm was raging. The clouds of inky blackness which shrouded the more distant heights, and through which the lightnings were incessantly zigzaging, were in full view from the city, though the thunders were caught and tied in the deep caverns of the intervening hills. To the southeast the range with its imposing peaks was snow-crowned and under a clear sky. In the southwest the Oquirrh range was blue and beautiful. Just then from beyond the great lake the setting sun threw out his shafts of fire, and the whole firmament turned to glory. The sun blazed from beyond the waters in the west, the lightnings blazed beyond the nearer hills in the east, the snowy heights in the southeast were turned to purple, while in the city every spire, every pane of glass which faced the west, every speck of metal on house and temple in a moment grew radiant as burnished gold, and there was a shimmer of splendor in all the air. Then suddenly over the great range to the east and apparently against the black clouds in which the lightnings were blazing the glorious arch of a magnificent rainbow was upreared. All the colors were deep-dyed and perfectly distinct. There was neither break nor dimness in all the mighty arch. There it stood, poised in indescribable splendor for quite five minutes. So wonderful was the display that houses were deserted: men and women came out into the open air and watched the spectacle in silence and with uncovered heads. "No one stopped to think that the glory which shone on high was made merely by sunlight shining through falling water; the cold explanation made by science was forgotten, and hundreds of eyes furtively watched, half expecting to catch glimpses of a divine hand and brush, for the pictures were rare enough to be the perfect work of celestial beings sent to sketch for mortals a splendor which should kindle within them dim conceptions of the glories which fill the spheres where light is born. "Salt Lake City is famous for its sunsets, but to this one was added new and unusual enchantments by the storm which was wheeling its sable squadrons in the adjacent mountains. "As I watched that display I realized for the first time how it was that before books were made men learned to be devout and to pray; for the picture was as I fancy Sinai must have appeared, when all the elements combined to make a spectacle to awe the multitude before the mountain; and when they were told that the terrible cloud on the mountain's crest was the robe which the infinite God had drawn around Himself in mercy, lest at a glimpse of His unapproachable brightness they should perish, it was not strange if they believed it." It was not often that Brewster talked, but when he did there was about him a grave and earnest manner which impressed all who heard him with the perfect sincerity of the man. After he ceased speaking the room was still for several seconds. At length the Colonel broke the silence: "Brewster, you spoke of Sinai. What think you of that story; of the Red Sea affair; of the Sinai incident, and the golden calf business?" "Believed literally," Brewster continued, "it is the most impressive of earthly literature; looked upon allegorically, still it is sublime. Its lesson is, that when in bondage to sorrow and to care, if we but bravely and patiently struggle on, the sea of trouble around us will at length roll back its waves into walls and leave for us a path. Unless we keep straining onward and upward, no voice of Hope, which is the voice of God, will descend to comfort us. If we are thirsty we must smite the rock for water; that is, for what we have we must work, and if we cease our struggle and go into camp, we not only will not hold our own, but in a little while we will be bestowing our jewels upon some idol of our own creation. If we toil and never falter, before we die we shall climb Pisgah and behold the Promised Land; that is, we shall be disciplined until we can look every fate calmly in the face and turn a smiling brow to the inevitable. "I found a man once, living upon almost nothing, in a hut that had not one comfort. He had graded out a sharp hillside, set some rude poles up against the bank, covered them with brush, and in that den on a bleak mountain's crest he had lived through a rough winter. I asked him how he managed to exist without becoming an idiot or a lunatic. His answer was worthy of an old Roman. 'Because,' said he, 'I at last am superior to distress.' "He had reached the point that Moses reached when he gained the last mountain crest. After that the Promised Land was forever in sight." "Suppose," asked Savage, "you buy stocks when they are high and sell them, or have them sold for you, when they are low, where does the Promised Land come in?" "What becomes of the 'superior to distress' theory," asked Carlin, "when a man in his fight against fate gets along just as the men do in the Bullion shaft, finding nothing but barren rock, and all the time the air grows hotter and there is more and more hot water?" "Oh, bother the stocks and the hot water," said Strong. "Professor, we have heard about the Wasatch Range and Mount Sinai, shake up your memory and tell us about old Mount Shasta! I heard you describe it once. It is a grand mountain, is it not?" "The grandest in America, so far as I have seen," was the reply. "It is said that Whitney is higher, but Whitney has for its base the Sierras, and the peaks around it dwarf its own tremendous height. But Shasta rises from the plain a single mountain, and while all the year around the lambs gambol at its base, its crown is eternal snow. Men of the North tell me that it is rivaled by Tacoma, but I never saw Tacoma. In the hot summer days as the farmers at Shasta's base gather their harvests, they can see where the wild wind is heaping the snow drifts about his crest. The mountain is one of Winter's stations, and from his forts of snow upon its top he never withdraws his garrison. There are the bastions of ice, the frosty battlements; there his old bugler, the wind, is daily sounding the advance and the retreat of the storm. The mountain holds all latitudes and all seasons at the same time in its grasp. Flowers bloom at its base, further up the forest trees wave their ample arms; further still the brown of autumn is upon the slopes and over all hangs the white mantle of eternal winter. "Standing close to its base, the human mind fails to grasp the immensity of the butte. But as one from a distance looks back upon it, or from some height twenty miles away views it, he discovers how magnificent are its proportions. "For days will the mountain fold the mist about its crest like a vail and remain hidden from mortal sight, and then suddenly as if in deference to a rising or setting sun, the vapors will be rolled back and the watcher in the valley below will behold gems of topaz and of ruby made of sunbeams, set in the diadem of white, and towards the sentinel mountain, from a hundred miles around, men will turn their eyes in admiration. In its presence one feels the near presence of God, and as before Babel the tongues of the people became confused, so before this infinitely more august tower man's littleness oppresses him, and he can no more give fitting expression to his thoughts. "It frowns and smiles alternately through the years; it hails the outgoing and the incoming centuries, changeless amid the mutations of ages, forever austere, forever cold and pure. The mountain eagle strains hopelessly toward its crest; the storms and the sunbeams beat upon it in vain; the rolling years cannot inscribe their numbers on its naked breast. "Of all the mountains that I have seen it has the most sovereign look; it leans on no other height; it associates with no other mountain; it builds its own pedestal in the valley and never doffs its icy crown. "The savage in the long ago, with awe and trembling, strained his eyes to the height and his clouded imagination pictured it as the throne of a Deity who issued the snow, the hoar frost and the wild winds from their brewing place on the mountain's top. "The white man, with equal awe, strains his eye upward to where the sunlight points with ruby silver and gold the mimic glaciers of the butte, and is not much wiser than the unlettered savage in trying to comprehend how and why the mighty mass was upreared. "It is a blessing as well as a splendor. With its cold it seizes the clouds and compresses them until their contents are rained upon the thirsty fields beneath; from its base the Sacramento starts, babbling on its way to the sea; despite its frowns it is a merciful agent to mankind, and on the minds of those who see it in all its splendor and power a picture is painted, the sheen and the enchantment of which will linger while memory and the gift to admire magnificence is left." "That is good, Professor," said Corrigan; "but to me there is insupportable loneliness about an isolated mountain. It sames always to me like a gravestone set up above the grave of a dead worreld. But spakin' of beautiful things, did yees iver sae Lake Tahoe in her glory? "I was up there last fall, and one day, in anticipation of the winter, I suppose, she wint to her wardrobe, took out all her winter white caps and tied them on; and she was a daisy. "Her natural face is bluer than that of a stock sharp in a falling market; but whin the wind 'comes a wooin' and she dons her foamy lace, powders her face with spray and fastens upon her swellin' breast a thousand diamonds of sunlight, O, but she is a winsome looking beauty, to be sure. Thin, too, she sings her old sintimintal song to her shores, and the great overhanging pines sway their mighty arms as though keeping time, joining with hers their deep murmurs to make a refrain; and thus the lake sings to the shore and the shore answers back to the song all the day long. Tahoe, in her frame of blue and grane, is a fairer picture than iver glittered on cathadral wall; older, fairer and fresher than ancient master iver painted tints immortal upon. There in the strong arms of the mountains it is rocked, and whin the winds ruffle the azure plumage of the beautiful wathers, upon wather and upon shore a splendor rists such as might come were an angel to descend to earth and sketch for mortals a sane from Summer Land." "You are right, Corrigan," said Ashley. "If the thirst for money does not denude the shores of their trees, and thus spoil the frame of your wonderful picture, Lake Tahoe will be a growing object of interest until its fame will be as wide as the world. "But while on grand themes, have you ever seen the Columbia River? To me it is the glory of the earth. It is a great river fourteen hundred miles above its mouth, and from thence on it rolls to the sea with increasing grandeur all the way. Where it hews its way through the Cascades a new and gorgeous picture is every moment painted, and when the mountain walls are pierced, with perfect purity and with mighty volume it sweeps on toward the ocean. It is, through its last one hundred and fifty miles, watched over by great forests and magnificent mountains. There are Hood and St. Helens and the rest, and where, upon the furious bar, the river joins the sea, there is an everlasting war of waters as beautiful as it is terrible. "It makes a man a better American to go up the Columbia to the Cascades and look about him. He is not only impressed with the majesty of the scene, but thoughts of empire, of dominion and of the glory of the land over which his country's flag bears sovereignty, take possession of him. He looks down upon the rolling river and up at Mount Hood, and to both he whispers, 'We are in accord; I have an interest in you,' and the great pines nod approvingly, and the waterfalls babble more loud. "The Mississippi has greater volume than the Oregon, the Hudson makes rival pictures which perhaps are as beautiful as any painted in the Cascades; but there is a power, a beauty, a purity and a wildness about the river of the West which is all its own and which is unapproachable in its charms. "More than that. To me the river is the emblem of a perfect life. Through all the morning of its career it fights its way, blazing an azure trail through the desert. There is no green upon its banks, hardly does a bird sing as it struggles on. But it bears right on, and so austere is its face that the desert is impotent to soil it. Then it meets a rocky wall and breaks through it, roaring on its way. Then it takes the Willamette to its own ample breast, and it bears it on until it meets the inevitable, and then undaunted goes down to its grave. "It fights its way, it bears its burdens, it remains pure and brave to the last. That is all the best man that ever lived could do." As Ashley concluded Strong said: "Why, Ashley! that is good. Why do you not give up mining and devote yourself to writing?" Ashley laughed low, and said: "Because I have had what repentant sinners are said to have had, my experience. Let me tell you about it. "It was in Belmont in Eastern Nevada, during that winter when the small pox was bad. It took an epidemic form in Belmont, and a good many died. "Among the victims was Harlow Reed. Harlow was a young and handsome fellow, a generous, happy-hearted fellow, too, and when he was stricken down, a 'soiled dove,' hearing of his illness, went and watched over him until he died. "The morning after his death, Billy S. came to me, and handing me a slip of paper on which was Reed's name, age, etc., asked me to prepare a notice for publication. I fixed it as nearly as I could, as I had seen such things in newspapers. It read: DIED--In Belmont, Dec. 17, Harlow Reed, a native of New Jersey aged twenty-three years. "Billie glanced at the paper and then said: 'Harlow was a good fellow and a good friend of ours, can you not add something to this notice?' "In response I sat down and wrote a brief eulogy of the boy, and closed the article in these words: And for her, the poor woman, who braving the dangers of the pestilence, went and sat at the feet of the man she loved, until he died; for her, though before her garments were soiled, we know that this morning, in the Recording Angel's book it is written "her robes are white as snow." "Billie took the paper to the publisher, and as he went away, I had a secret thought that, all things being considered, the notice was not bad. "Next morning I went into a restaurant for breakfast and took a seat at a small table on one side of the narrow room. Directly opposite me were two short-card sharps. One was eating his breakfast, while the other, leaning back to catch the light, was reading the morning paper. Suddenly he stopped, and peering over his paper, though with chair still tilted back, said to his companion: 'Did you see this notice about that woman who took care of Harlow Reed while he was sick?' "'No,' was the reply. 'What is it?' asked the companion. "'It's away up,' said the first speaker. 'But what is it?' asked the other. "The first speaker then threw down the paper, leaned forward, and, seizing his knife and fork, said shortly: "'Oh, it's no great shakes after all. It says the woman while taking care of Harlow got her clothes dirty, but after he died she changed her clothes and she's all right now.' "Since then I have never thought that I had better undertake a literary career so long as I could get four honest dollars a day for swinging a hammer in a mine; but I have always been about half sorry that I did not kill that fellow, notwithstanding the lesson that he taught me." There was a hearty laugh at Ashley's expense, and then Strong roused himself and said: "The Columbia is very grand, but you must follow it up to its chief tributary if you would find perfect glory--follow it into the very desert. You have heard of the lava beds of Idaho. They were once a river of molten fire from 300 feet to 900 feet in depth, which burned its way through the desert for hundreds of miles. To the east of the source of this lava flow, the Snake River bursts out of the hills, becoming almost at once a sovereign river, and flowing at first south-westerly, and then bending westerly, cuts its way through this lava bed, and, continuing its way with many bends, finally, far to the north merges with the Columbia. On this river are several falls. First, the American Falls, are very beautiful. Sixty miles below are the Twin Falls, where the river, divided into two nearly equal parts, falls one hundred and eighty feet. They are magnificent. Three miles below are the Shoshone Falls, and a few miles lower down the Salmon Falls. It was of the Shoshone Falls that I began to speak. "They are real rivals of Niagara. Never anywhere else was there such a scene; never anywhere else was so beautiful a picture hung in so rude a frame; never anywhere else on a background so forbidding and weird were so many glories clustered. "Around and beyond there is nothing but the desert, sere, silent, lifeless, as though Desolation had builded there everlasting thrones to Sorrow and Despair. "Away back in remote ages, over the withered breast of the desert, a river of fire one hundred miles wide and four hundred miles long, was turned. As the fiery mass cooled, its red waves became transfixed and turned black, giving to the double desert an indescribably blasted and forbidding face. "But while this river of fire was in flow, a river of water was fighting its way across it, or has since made the war and forged out for itself a channel through the mass. This channel looks like the grave of a volcano that has been robbed of its dead. "But right between its crumbling and repellant walls a transfiguration appears. And such a picture! A river as lordly as the Hudson or the Ohio, springing from the distant snow-crested Tetons, with waters transparent as glass, but green as emerald, with majestic flow and ever-increasing volume, sweeps on until it reaches this point where the august display begins. "Suddenly, in different places in the river bed, jagged, rocky reefs are upraised, dividing the current into four rivers, and these, in a mighty plunge of eighty feet downward, dash on their way. Of course, the waters are churned into foam and roll over the precipice white as are the garments of the morning when no cloud obscures the sun. The loveliest of these falls is called "The Bridal Veil," because it is made of the lace which is woven with a warp of falling waters and a woof of sunlight. Above this and near the right bank is a long trail of foam, and this is called "The Bridal Train." The other channels are not so fair as the one called "The Bridal Veil," but they are more fierce and wild, and carry in their furious sweep more power. "One of the reefs which divides the river in mid-channel runs up to a peak, and on this a family of eagles have, through the years, may be through the centuries, made their home and reared their young, on the very verge of the abyss and amid the full echoes of the resounding boom of the falls. Surely the eagle is a fitting symbol of perfect fearlessness and of that exultation which comes with battle clamors. "But these first falls are but a beginning. The greater splendor succeeds. With swifter flow the startled waters dash on and within a few feet take their second plunge in a solid crescent, over a sheer precipice, two hundred and ten feet to the abyss below. On the brink there is a rolling crest of white, dotted here and there, in sharp contrast, with shining eddies of green, as might a necklace of emerald shimmer on a throat of snow, and then the leap and fall. "Here more than foam is made. Here the waters are shivered into fleecy spray, whiter and finer than any miracle that ever fell from India loom, while from the depths below an everlasting vapor rises--the incense of the waters to the water's God. Finally, through the long, unclouded days, the sun sends down his beams, and to give the startling scene its crowning splendor, wreaths the terror and the glory in a rainbow halo. On either sullen bank the extremities of its arc are anchored, and there in its many-colored robes of light it stands outstretched above the abyss like wreaths of flowers above a sepulcher. Up through the glory and the terror an everlasting roar ascends, deep-toned as is the voice of Fate, a diapason like that the rolling ocean chants when his eager surges come rushing in to greet and fiercely woo an irresponsive promontory. "But to feel all the awe and to mark all the splendor and power that comes of the mighty display, one must climb down the steep descent to the river's brink below, and, pressing up as nearly as possible to the falls, contemplate the tremendous picture. There something of the energy that creates that endless panorama is comprehended; all the deep throbbings of the mighty river's pulses are felt; all the magnificence is seen. "In the reverberations that come of the war of waters one hears something like God's voice; something like the splendor of God is before his eyes; something akin to God's power is manifesting itself before him, and his soul shrinks within itself, conscious as never before of its own littleness and helplessness in the presence of the workings of Nature's immeasurable forces. "Not quite so massive is the picture as is Niagara, but it has more lights and shades and loveliness, as though a hand more divinely skilled had mixed the tints, and with more delicate art had transfixed them upon that picture suspended there in its rugged and sombre frame. "As one watches it is not difficult to fancy that away back in the immemorial and unrecorded past, the Angel of Love bewailed the fact that mortals were to be given existence in a spot so forbidding, a spot that apparently was never to be warmed with God's smile, which was never to make a sign through which God's mercy was to be discerned; that then Omnipotence was touched, that with His hand He smote the hills and started the great river in its flow; that with His finger He traced out the channel across the corpse of that other river that had been fire, mingled the sunbeams with the raging waters and made it possible in that fire-blasted frame of scoria to swing a picture which should be, first to the red man and later to the pale races, a certain sign of the existence, the power and the unapproachable splendor of the Great First Cause. "And as the red man through the centuries watched the spectacle, comprehending nothing except that an infinite voice was smiting his ears, and insufferable glories were blazing before his eyes; so through the centuries to come the pale races will stand upon the shuddering shore and watch, experiencing a mighty impulse to put off the sandals from their feet, under an overmastering consciousness that the spot on which they are standing is holy ground. "There is nothing elsewhere like it; nothing half so weird, so wild, so beautiful, so clothed in majesty, so draped with terror; nothing else that awakens impressions at once so startling, so winsome, so profound. While journeying through the desert to come suddenly upon it, the spectacle gives one something of the emotions that would be experienced to behold a resurrection from the dead. In the midst of what seems like a dead world, suddenly there springs into irrepressible life something so marvelous, so grand, so caparisoned with loveliness and irresistible might, that the head is bowed, the strained heart throbs tumultuously and the awed soul sinks to its knees." The whistles had sounded while Strong was speaking, and as he finished the good nights were spoken and the lights put out. CHAPTER XII. With the lighting of the pipes one evening, the conversation of the Club turned upon what constituted courage and a high sense of honor; whether they were native or acquired gifts. A good deal of talk ensued, until at last Wright's opinion was asked: "You are all right," said he, "and all wrong. Some men are born insensible to fear, and some have a high sense of honor through instinct. But this, I take it, is not the rule and comes, I think, mostly as an hereditary gift, through long generations of proud ancestors. In my judgment, no gift to mortals is as noble as a lofty, honest pride. I do not mean that spurious article which we see so much of, but the pride which will not permit a man or woman to have an unworthy thought, because of the sense of degradation which it brings to the breast that entertains it. This, I believe, is more common in women than in men, and I suppose that it was this divine trait, manifesting itself in a brutal age, which gave birth to the chivalry of the Middle Ages. "I have known a few men who, I believe, were born without the instinct of fear. Charley Fairfax was one of these. He was a dead shot with a pistol. He had some words with a man one day on the street in Sacramento, and the man being very threatening, Fairfax drew and cocked his Derringer. At the same moment the man drove the blade of a sword cane through one of the lungs of Fairfax, making a wound which eventually proved fatal. Fairfax raised his Derringer and took a quick aim at the heart of the murderer, but suddenly dropped the weapon and said: 'You have killed me, but you have a wife and children; for their sakes I give you your life,' and sank fainting and, as he thought, dying, into the arms of a friend who caught him as he was falling. "There are other men as generous as Fairfax was, but to do what he did, when smarting under a fatal wound, requires the coolness and the nerve of absolute self-possession. "Not one man in a million under such circumstances could command himself enough to think to be generous. Many a man has, for his courage, had a statue raised to his memory who never did and never could have given any such proof of a manhood absolutely self-contained as did Fairfax on that occasion. "But, as a rule, we are all mere creatures of education. A friend of mine came 'round the Horn in a clipper ship. He told me that when off the cape they encountered a gale which drove the ship far to the southward; that the weather was so dreadfully cold that the ship's rigging was sheeted with ice from sleet and frozen spray. "One evening the gale slackened a little and some sails were bent on, but toward the turn of the night the wind came on again and the sails had to be taken in. Said my friend: 'The men went up those swaying masts and out upon those icy yards apparently without a thought of danger, while I stood upon the deck fairly trembling with terror merely watching them.' After awhile the storm was weathered, the cape was rounded and the ship put into Valparaiso for fresh supplies. "The sailors were given a holiday. They went ashore and hired saddle horses to visit some resort a few miles out of town. They mounted and started away, but within three minutes half of them returned leading their horses, and one spoke for all when he said: 'The brute is crank; I am afraid he will broach to and capsize.' "The men who rode the icy spars off Cape Horn on that inky midnight were afraid to ride those gentle mustangs. "There are, I suppose, in this city to-night one hundred men who, with knife or pistol, would fight anybody and not think much about it. But what would they do were they placed where I saw Corrigan unconcernedly working to-day? "He was sitting on a narrow plank which had been laid across a shaft at the eight hundred-foot level, repairing a pump column. He was eight hundred feet from the surface, and there was only that plank between him and the bottom of that shaft nine hundred feet below. Put the ordinary ruffian who cuts and shoots on that plank and he would faint and fall off through sheer fright." "I guess you are right," interposed Carlin. "There is the Mexican who lives across the street from us. If I were to take a revolver and go over there in the morning and attack him, the chances are I would scare him to death; were I to try the same experiment with a bowie knife the chances are more than even that he would give me more of a game than I would want, and simply because he is accustomed to a knife and not to a pistol. "So the mountain trapper will attack a grizzly bear with perfect coolness, or cross the swiftest stream in a canoe without any fear, but bring the same man for the first time here to the mine and ask him to get on a cage with you and go down a shaft, and he will grow pale and tremble like a girl." "An Indian," suggested the Professor, "at the side of a white man will go into a desperate battle and never flinch; so long as the white man lives he will fight even unto death. But let a white man engage in a hand to hand fight with two or three Indians, and if he has the nerve to hold him up to the fight for two or three minutes he will conquer, because an hereditary fear overcomes the savage that the pale face will conquer in the end. That is really the cowardice which Falstaff assumed to feel, the cowardice of instinct in the presence of the true prince, and is the mark which the Indian mothers have impressed upon their babes for ten generations. "The rule is that we follow our trades!" "Then some men are brave at one time and cowardly at another," said the Colonel. "Men who will fight without shrinking, by day, are often completely demoralized by a night attack. With such men the trouble is, they cannot see to estimate their danger, and their imaginations multiply and magnify it a hundred fold. I know a man in this city who has been in a hundred fights, many of them most desperate encounters. He told me once that he believed it would frighten him to death to be awakened at night by a burglar in his room. "This is the fear, too, which paralyzes men in the presence of an earthquake. The sky may be clear and the air still, but the thought that in a moment chaos may come is too much for the ordinary nerves of mortals." "The bravest act I ever witnessed was on C street in this city," responded Strong. "It was a little Hebrew dunning a desperado for the balance due on a pair of pantaloons. The amount was six dollars and fifty cents. I would not have asked the fighter for the money for six times the sum, but the little chap not only asked for it, but when the fighter tried to evade him, he seized him by the arm with one hand and putting the forefinger of his other hand alongside his own nose, in the most insulting tone possible said: 'You does not get avay. Der man vot does not bay for his glose is, vots yer call him? one d----d loafer. I vants my monish.' "The fighter could no more escape from that eye than a chicken hawk can from the spell of the eye of the black snake, and so he settled. "That was the courage which it required the hardships and persecutions of one hundred generations of suffering men to acquire, and I tell you there was something thrilling in the way it was manifested." "So, too, men's ideas of honor are often warped strangely by education," Miller said. "Do you remember there was a Frenchman hanged in this city a few years ago? On the scaffold, with a grandiloquent air, just before the cap was drawn over his face, he said: 'Zey can hang me, but zey cannot hang Frawnce.' He had from childhood entertained the belief that there was but one entirely invincible nation on this earth, and that was France; and the thought that to the last France must be honored possessed him. "That man had murdered a poor woman of the town for her money." "I should say there were some queer ideas of honor in this country," chipped in the Colonel. "I believe the rule among some or all sporting men is, that it is entirely legitimate to practice any advantage on an opponent in a game, so long as the same idea controls the opponent. Still those men have most tenacious ideas of honor. Indeed they have a code of their own. If one borrows money of another he pays it if he has to rob someone to do it. If one stakes another--that is gives him money to play--and a winning is made, the profits are scrupulously divided. If one loses more at night than he has money to pay, he must have it early next morning or go into disgrace. "A friend of mine who lived on Treasure Hill during that first fearful winter, told me that during that season a faro game was running, and the owners of the bank had won some thirty-five hundred dollars. The dealer's habit was to lock up his place in the forenoon and not return until evening. The interval was his only time for sleep, as the game frequently ran all night. "Three or four 'sports' who lived together in a house, had lost heavily at this game. One morning, one of them said that if he could only get that dealer's cards for half an hour he believed he could 'fix' them so that the luck of the boys would change. "They had for a cook and servant a young man who had confessed that he left the East without any extensive or extended preparations, and that he did it to avoid paying a penalty for picking a lock and robbing a till. "He was called up, it was explained to him what was wanted and for what reason, and asked if it was not possible for him to procure those cards. "The youth took kindly to the proposition, went away, and in a few minutes returned--not with the cards--but with the dealer's sack of coin, saying as he laid down the sack: 'As I picked the lock of the drawer I found the sack and the cards lying side by side. I thought it would be easier to take the coin than to fool with the cards, and here it is.' "Instantly there was a commotion, and a perfect storm of imprecations was poured out upon the thief. On every side were shouts of: 'Take back that money! you miserable New York thief! What do you take us for? Take back that sack or we will sell you for headcheese before night!' "The youth carried back the coin and brought the cards. They were found to be 'fixed'; they were 'fixed' over and returned, and that night 'on the dead square,' the bank was broken. The boys had the sack for the second time, but this time the transaction, according to their code, was entirely legitimate. "By the operation the professional thief obtained new ideas of the nice distinctions which are made in the gamblers' code of honor." "I once in Idaho knew a most conscientious judge," said Miller. "In his court a suit involving the title of some mining ground was pending between two companies. In another part of the district the Judge had some claims which were looked upon as mere 'wild cat.' "He had for a year been trying to raise money to open his claims, but without avail. He had incorporated with 40,000 shares and held his shares at one dollar, with the understanding that twenty per cent. of the stock should be set aside as a working capital. But no one could see the ground with the sanguine eyes of the Judge, so he still had all his stock. "But one night quite late the Judge heard a soft knock on the door. In answer to his 'come in,' the president of the company that was plaintiff in the mining suit entered, when this conversation ensued: "'I was looking at your claims over on the east side to-day,' said the President, 'and I believe they are good and would like some of the stock.' "There is some of it for sale at one dollar,' was the reply. "'I will take ten thousand shares,' said the President. 'If you please, have the stock ready and I will call at nine o'clock to-morrow morning with the money.' "'I suppose this transaction had better be kept secret at present,' suggested the Judge. "'Oh, yes. It is a private speculation of my own and I would rather my company would not hear of it.' "'Very well, the stock will be ready.' "The money was promptly paid and the stock delivered. "The day of trial drew near, when one day the Judge met the superintendent of the company which was defendant in the suit. The Judge told the superintendent that he had some promising claims, and added impressively that if he could afford to purchase about 10,000 shares he felt sure that he would do well. The superintendent admitted that he had examined the claims with considerable care, and believed with the Judge, that there was promise in them. The result was that the next day another ten thousand dollars was paid to the Judge and ten thousand more shares delivered. The Judge deposited sixteen thousand dollars to his own account and four thousand dollars to the credit of the company. With the four thousand dollars he let a contract for work on the mine. "In due time the case in court came on and was decided in favor of the plaintiff and an appeal provided for. The plaintiff kept still about the stock transaction, but the superintendent of the defendant company did not hesitate to declare that the Judge was a thief. So matters ran along for some months, when one day the aforesaid president and superintendent each received a note asking them to call at the office of the Judge at a certain hour. Both responded, and each was greatly surprised to see the other. "The Judge opened the business by saying that a grand deposit of ore had been struck on one of the claims from which enough ore had already been taken to enable the company to pay a dollar per share dividend on the capital stock, upon which he pushed a check for ten thousand dollars to each of the men. He then went on to say that he had that morning received an offer of two hundred thousand dollars for the property, which he thought was a fair price, and asked the opinion of the others. They thought so too, and in a few days the money was paid over and each of the two received fifty thousand dollars. "'Now,' said the Judge, 'let me give you some advice. Settle up that foolish lawsuit outside of court. The claim is not worth what either one of you will pay out in attorneys' fees if you fight it out in the courts.' "By this time the three men had grown familiar, so the superintendent ventured to say: "'Judge, will you tell me what caused you to urge me to buy those shares?' "'I thought it was a good investment,' was the reply. "'But was not there something else?' asked the superintendent. "'To tell you the truth,' replied the Judge, 'I had received ten thousand dollars from the President here, and I was afraid if the matter went that way into the court I might be prejudiced, so I sold you a like amount that I might go upon the bench, to try the case, _entirely unbiased_.'" "He was a good judge, no doubt, but he ividently had a leaning toward the east side," said Corrigan. "That was one case where the only justification was success," said Brewster. "He took his chances, that was all," Miller remarked, "and that is the corner-stone on which every fortune on the coast has been builded. I mean every fortune in mining." "That is so," chimed in Carlin. "Mining is simply a grand lottery and is about as much of a game of chance as poker or faro." "Oh, no, Carlin," said Strong. "You have picked up the idea that is popular, but there is nothing to it. I am not referring to mining on paper, that mining which is done on Pine and California streets. That is not only gambling, but it is, nine times out of ten, pure stealing. But what I mean is where a man, or a few men, from the unsightly rock, by honest labor, wrest something, which all men, barbarous and civilized alike, hold as precious; something which was not before, but which when found, the whole world accepts as a measure of values, and the production of which makes an addition to the world's accumulated wealth, and not only injures none, but quickens the arteries of trade everywhere; that is not gambling. Of course there are mistakes, of course worlds of unnecessary work have been performed, of course hopes have been blasted and hearts broken through the business, but in this world men have to pay for their educations. Twenty years ago there was not a man in America who could work Comstock ores up to seventy-five per cent. of their money value; only a scholarly few knew anything about the formations in which ore veins are liable to be found; processes to work ores and economical methods to open and work mines had to be invented; so far as the West was concerned the business of mining and reducing ores had to be created. The results do not justify any man in calling mining a lottery. In my judgment, it is the most legitimate business in the world; the only one in which there can be no overproduction, and the one which, above all others, advances every other industry of the country. "When the steam engine was first invented steam boilers blew up every day. This was no argument against the engine, but was a notice to men to build better boilers. For the same reason the sixty-pound steel rail has been substituted for the old wooden rail with an iron strap on top on railways, and the sixteen ton Pullman car for the old rattle trap that the slightest collision would smash. The Westinghouse air brake and the Miller platform are part of the same education. "By and by men will learn to know the rocks, and when their marks and signs are reduced to a perfect alphabet the crude work of mining as carried on now will take on the dignity of a science, and mining will become what it deserves to be, the most honored of industries." CHAPTER XIII. At length the first sorrow fell upon the Club. The mail brought to Corrigan one day the news of the death of his mother in New York. It was a terrible blow to him. It had been his dream all through the years that he had been absent from his home that some time he would accumulate money enough to provide her with a home, where around her life every comfort would be drawn, and from her life every heart-breaking care would be driven away. But time would not wait for him, and the letter, which only in gentle words told him of his mother's death, kindled in his heart such bitter self-reproaches that for awhile the warm-hearted man's grief was inconsolable. The Club heartily sympathized with him, but there was little said. The men who face death daily in a deep mine either come to think, after awhile, that this life hangs on too tender a thread to be grieved over so very much when that thread is broken, or, because of the nature of their occupation, which is necessarily carried on mostly in silence, they lose the faculty to say the words which in society circles are intruded upon people who are in deep sorrow. On this evening the supper was eaten in silence, Corrigan hardly tasting anything. As the Club took their seats Ashley found opportunity to covertly whisper to Yap Sing that Corrigan had received bad news and he must prepare something especially tempting for him to eat. When the meal was nearly finished Yap Sing brought a mammoth dish of strawberries, a bowl of sugar and pitcher of cream, and after the noiseless manner of his race, set them in front of Corrigan's plate. No one else at the table seemed to notice the act of the Chinaman. Corrigan gave a quick glance around the table and when he saw that no one else was to be served with the berries--that it was meant as a special act of sympathy for him--his eyes filled with tears and he hastily withdrew from the room. At his leisure during the evening Yap Sing ate the berries and the cream, remarking to himself as he did so: "Me heap slory Meester Clorigan; me likee be heap slory ebbly day." For an hour after supper the Club did little but smoke. At length, however, Harding, who usually spent his evenings absorbed in reading, laid aside his book and in his low and kindly voice, began to talk. "Often when a boy I heard my father tell a story of a woman, a Sister of Charity, which, I think, may be, it will be good to tell to-night. In one of the mountain towns of Northern California a good many years ago, while yet good women, compared to the number of the men, were so disproportionately few, suddenly one day, upon the street, clad in the unattractive garb of a Sister of Charity, appeared a woman whose marvelous loveliness the coarse garments and uncouth hood peculiar to the order could not conceal. "There was a Sisters' Hospital in the place and this nun was one of the devoted women who had come to minister to the sick in that hospital. "She was of medium size and height, and despite her shapeless garments it was easy to see that her form was beautiful. The hand that carried a basket was a delicate one; under her unsightly hood glimpses of a brow as white as a planet's light could be caught; the coarse shoes upon her feet were three sizes too large. When she raised her eyes from the inner depths a light like that of kindly stars shone out, and though a Sister of Charity, there was something about her lips which seemed to say that of all famines a famine of kisses was hardest to endure. There was a stately, kindly dignity in her mien, but in all her ways there was a dainty grace which, upon the hungry eyes of the miners of that mountain town, seemed like enchantment. She could not have been more than twenty years of age. "It was told that she was known as 'Sister Celeste,' that she had recently come to the Western Coast, it was believed, from France, and that was all that was known of her. When the Mother Superior at the hospital was questioned about the new sister, she simply answered: 'Sister Celeste is a sister now; she will be a glorified saint by and by.' "The first public appearance of Sister Celeste in the town was one Sunday afternoon. She emerged from her hospital and started to carry some delicacy to a poor, sick woman, a Mrs. De Lacy, who lived on the opposite side of the town from the hospital; so to visit her the nun was obliged to walk almost the whole length of the one long, crooked street which, in the narrow canon, included all the business portion of the town. "When the nun started out from the hospital the town was full of miners, as was the habit in those days on Sunday afternoons, and as the Sister passed along the street hundreds of eyes were bent upon her. She seemed unconscious of the attention she was attracting; had she been walking in her sleep she could not have been more composed. "Many were the comments made as she passed out of the hearing of different groups of men. One big, rough miner, who had just accepted an invitation to drink, caught sight of the vision, watched the Sister as she passed and then said to the companion who had asked him: "'Excuse me, Bob, I have a feeling as though my soul had just partaken of the sacrament. No more gin for me to-day.' "Said another: 'It is a fearful pity. That woman was born to be loved, and to love somebody better than nine hundred and ninety out of every thousand could. Her occupation is, in her case, a sin against nature. Every hour her heart must protest against the starvation which it feels; every day she must feel upon her robes the clasp of little hands which are not to be.' "One boisterous miner, a little in his cups, watched until the Sister disappeared around a bend in the crooked street, and then cried out: 'Did you see her, boys? That is the style of a woman that a man could die for and smile while dying. Oh! Oh!' Then drawing from his belt a buckskin purse, he held it aloft and shouted: 'Here are eighty ounces of the cleanest dust ever mined in Bear Gulch; it's all I have in the world, but I will give the last grain to any bruiser in this camp who will look crooked at that Sister when she comes back this way, and let me see him do it. In just a minute and a half--but no matter, I'm better that I have seen her.' "After that, daily, for all the following week, Sister Celeste was seen going to and returning from the sick woman's house. It suddenly grew to be a habit with everybody to uncover their heads as Sister Celeste came by. "Sunday came around again, and it was noticed that on that morning the nun went early to visit her charge and remained longer than usual. On her return, when just about opposite the main saloon of the place, a kindly, elderly gentleman, who was universally known and respected, ventured to cross the path of the Sister, and address her as follows: "'I beg pardon, good Sister, but you are attending upon a sick person. We understand that it is a woman. May I not ask if we can not in some way assist you and the woman?' "A faint flush swept over the glorious face of Sister Celeste as she raised her eyes, but simply and frankly, and with a slight French accent, she answered: "'The lady, kind sir, is very ill. Unless, in some way, we can manage to remove her to the hospital, where she can have an evenly warmed room and close nursing, I fear she will not live; but she is penniless and we are very poor, and, moreover, I do not see how she can be moved, for there are no carriages.' "She spoke with perfect distinctness, notwithstanding the slight foreign accent. The accent was no impediment; rather from her lips it gave her words a rhythm like music. "The man raised his voice: 'Boys,' he shouted, 'there is a suffering woman up the street. She is very destitute and very ill, and must be removed to the hospital. The first thing required is some money.' Then, taking off his hat with one hand, with the other he took from his pocket a twenty-dollar piece, put the money in the hat, then sprang upon a low stump that was standing by the trail and added: 'I start the subscription, those who have a trifle that they can spare will please pass around this way and drop the trifle into the hat.' "Then Sister Celeste had a new experience. In an instant she was surrounded by a shouting, surging, struggling crowd, all eager to contribute. There was a Babel of voices, but for once a California crowd were awakened to full roar without an oath being heard. The boys could not swear in the presence of Sister Celeste. "In a few minutes between seven and eight hundred dollars was raised. It was poured out of the hat into a buckskin purse, the purse was tied, and handed, by the man who first addressed her, to Sister Celeste, with the remark that it was for her poor and that when she needed more the boys would stand in. "Again the nun raised her eyes and in a low voice which trembled a little, she said: "'Please salute the gentlemen and say to them that God will keep the account.' "The man turned around and with an awkward laugh said: 'Boys! I am authorized, by one of His angels, to say that for your contribution, God has taken down your names, and given you credit.' "Then a wild fellow cried out from the crowd: "'Three cheers for the Angel!' "The cheers rang out like the braying of a thousand trumpets in accord. Then in a hoarse under-tone a voice shouted 'Tiger!' and the deep-toned old-day California 'Tiger' rolled up the hillsides like an ocean roar. It would have startled an ordinary woman, but Sister Celeste was looking at the purse, and it is doubtful if she heard it at all. "Then the first speaker called from the crowd eight men, by name, and said: "'You were all married men in the States and for all that I know to the contrary, were decent, respectable gentlemen. As master of ceremonies I delegate you, as there are no carriages in this camp, to go to the sick woman's house, and carry her to the hospital, while the good Sister proceeds in advance and makes a place for her.' "This was agreed to, and the Sister was told that in half an hour she might expect her patient. "Then she hurried away, the crowd watching her and remarking that her usual stately step seemed greatly quickened. "Long afterward, the Mother Superior related that, when Sister Celeste reached the hospital on that day, she fell sobbing into the Mother's arms, and when she could command her voice, said: 'Those shaggy men that I thought were all tigers are all angels disguised. O, Mother, I have seen them as Moses and Elias were, transfigured.' "The eight men held a brief consultation in the street, then going to a store they bought a pair of heavy white blankets, an umbrella and four pick handles. Borrowing a packer's needle and some twine they began to sew the pick handles into the sides of the blanket, first rolling the handles around once or twice in the edges of the blanket. They then proceeded to the sick woman's house; one went in first and told the sick woman, gently, what they had come to do, and bade her have no fears, that she was to be moved so gently that if she would close her eyes she would not know anything about it. The others were called in; the blanket was laid upon the floor; the bed was lifted with its burden from the bedstead and laid on the blanket; the covers were neatly tucked under the mattress; four men seized the pickhandles at the sides, lifted the bed, woman and all from the floor, a fifth man stepped outside, raised the umbrella and held it above the woman's face, and so, as gently as ever mother rocked her babe to sleep, the sick woman was carried the whole length of the street to the hospital, where Sister Celeste and the Mother Superior received her. "Then all hands went up town and talked the matter over, and I am afraid that some of them drank a little, but the burden of all the talk and all the toasts, was Sister Celeste. "After that the nun was often seen, going on her errands of mercy, and it is true that some men who had been rough and who had drank hard for months previous to the coming of the Sister, grew quiet in their lives and ceased to go to the saloons. "One day a most laughable event transpired. Two men got quarrelling in the street which in a moment culminated in a fight. The friends of the respective men joined and soon there was a general fight in which perhaps thirty men were engaged. When it was at its height (and such a fight meant something) Sister Celeste suddenly turned the sharp bend of the street and came into full view not sixty yards from where the melee was raging in full fury. "One of the fighters saw her and made a sound between a hiss and a low whistle, a peculiar sound of alarm and warning, so significant that all looked up. "In an instant the men clapped their hands into their side pockets, and commenced moving away, some of them whistling low and dancing as they went, as though the whole thing was but a jovial lark. When Sister Celeste reached the spot a moment afterward, the street was entirely clear. The men washed their faces, some wag began to describe the comical scene which they made when they concluded that the street under certain circumstances was no good place for a fight; good humor was restored, the chief combatants shook hands with perfect cordiality, a drink of reconciliation was ordered all around, and when the glasses were emptied, a man cried out: 'Fill up once more, boys. I want you to drink with me the health of the only capable peace officer that we have ever had in town--Sister Celeste.' The health was drank with enthusiasm. "The winter came on at length and there was much sickness. Sister Celeste redoubled her exertions; she was seen at all hours of the day, and was met, sometimes, as late as midnight, returning from her watch beside a sick bed. "The town was full of rough men; some of them would cut or shoot at a word, but Sister Celeste never felt afraid. Indeed, since that Sabbath when the subscription was taken up in the street she had felt that nothing sinister could ever happen to her in that place. "Once, however, she met a jolly miner who had been in town too long, and who had started for home a good deal the worse for liquor. She met him in a lonely place where the houses had been a few days previous burned down on both sides of the street. Emboldened by rum, the man stepped directly in front of the nun and said: "'My pretty Sister, I will give your hospital a thousand dollars for one kiss.' "The Sister never wavered; she raised her calm and undaunted eyes to the face of the man, an incandescent whiteness warmed upon her cheek, giving to her striking face unwonted splendor. For a moment she held the man under the spell of her eyes, then stretching her right arm out toward the sky, slowly and with infinite sadness in her tones said: "'If your mother is watching from there, what will she think of her son?' "The man fell on his knees, crying 'pardon,' and Sister Celeste, with her accustomed stately step, passed slowly on her way. "Next day an envelope directed to Sister Celeste was received at the hospital. Within there was nothing but a certificate of deposit from a local bank for one thousand dollars, made to the credit of the hospital. "On another occasion the nun had a still harder trial to bear. A young man was stricken with typhoid fever and sent to the hospital. He was a rich and handsome man. He had come from the East only a few weeks before he was taken down. His business in California was to settle the estate of an uncle recently deceased, who had died leaving a large property. "When carried to the hospital Sister Celeste was appointed his nurse. The fever ran twenty-one days, and when it left him finally, he lay helpless as a child and hovering on the very threshhold of the grave for days. "With a sick man's whim, no one could do anything for him but Sister Celeste. She had to move him on his pillows, give him his medicines and such food as he could bear. In lifting him her arms were very often around him and her bosom was so near his breast that she could feel the throbbing of his heart. "As health slowly returned, the young man watched the nurse with steadily increasing interest. "At length the time came when the physician said that in another week the patient would require no further attendance, but that he ought, so soon as possible, to go to the seaside, where the salt air would furnish him the tonic that he needed most. "When the physician went away the young man said: 'Sister Celeste, sit down and let us talk.' She obeyed. 'Let me hold your hand,' he said: 'I want to tell you of my mother and my home, and with your hand in mine it will seem as though the dear ones there were by my side.' She gave him her hand in silence. "Then he told her of his beautiful home in the East; of the love that had always been a benediction to that home; of his mother and little sister, of their daily life and their unbroken happiness. "Insidiously the story flowed on until at length he said, with returning health, his business being nearly all arranged, he should return to those who awaited, anxiously, his coming. And before Sister Celeste had any time for preparation or remonstrance, the young man added: "'You have been my guardian angel; you have saved my life. The world will be all dark without you. You can serve God and, humanity better as my wife than as a lowly and poor Sister here. Some women have higher destinies and a nobler sphere to fill on earth than as Sisters of Charity; you were never meant to be a nun, but a loving wife. Be mine. If it is the poor you wish to serve, a thousand shall bless you where one blesses you here; but come with me, filling my mother's heart with joy and taking your rightful place as my wife. Be my guardian angel forever!' "The face of Sister Celeste was white as the pillow on which her hand lay; for a moment she seemed choking, while about her lips and eyes there was a tremulousness as though she was about to break into a storm of uncontrollable sobs. But she rallied under a tremendous effort at self-control, gently disengaged her hand from the hand that held it, rose to her feet and said: "'I ought not to have permitted this; ought not to have heard what you said. However, we must bear our cross. I do not belong to the world; but do not misjudge me, I have not always been as you see me. I can only tell you this: To a woman now and then there comes a time when either her heart must break or she must give it to God. I have given mine to Him. I cannot take it back. I would not if I could. "'If you suffer a little now, you will forget it with returning strength. I only ask that when you are strong and well and far away, you will sometimes remember that the world is full of heart aches. Comfort as many as you can. And now, God bless you, and farewell.' "She laid her hand a moment on his brow, then drew it down upon his cheek, where it lingered for a moment like a caress, and then she was gone. "After that the Mother Superior became the young man's nurse until he left the hospital. He tried hard, but never saw Sister Celeste again. While he remained in the place she ceased to appear on the street. "Another year passed by and Sister Celeste grew steadily in the love of the people. With the winter months some cases of smallpox broke out. The country was new, the people careless, and no particular alarm was felt until the breaking out of ten cases in one day awakened the people to the fact that the disease prevailed generally. "Sister Celeste labored almost without rest, night or day, until the violence of the contagion had passed; then she was stricken. She recovered, but was shockingly marked by the disease. "She was in a darkened room, and how to break to her the news of her disfigurement was a matter of sore distress to the other nuns. But one day, to a Sister who was watching by her bed side, she suddenly said: "'I am almost well now, Sister. Throw back the blinds and bring me a mirror,' and, with a gentle gaiety that never forsook her when with her sister nuns, she added: 'It is time that I began to admire myself.' "The nun opened the blinds, brought the glass, laid it upon the bed and sat down in fear and trembling. "Sister Celeste, without glancing at the mirror, laid one hand upon it, and, shading her eyes with the other hand, for a moment was absorbed in silent prayer. Then she picked up the glass and held it before her face. The watching nun; hardly breathing and in an agony of suspense, waited. After a long, earnest look, without a shade passing over her face, Sister Celeste laid down the glass, clasped her hands and said: 'God be praised! Now all is peace. Never, never again will my face bring sorrow to my heart.' "The waiting nun sank, sobbing, to her knees; but as she did so, she saw, on the face of the stricken woman, a smile which she declared was as sweet as the smile of God. "With the return of health, Sister Celeste again took up her work of mercy, and for a few months more her presence was a benediction to the place. At last, however, it began to be noticed that her presence on the street was less frequent than formerly, and soon an unwelcome rumor began to circulate that she was ill. The truth of this was soon confirmed, and then, day by day, for some weeks, the report was that she was growing weaker and weaker, and finally, one morning, it was known that she was dead. "A lady of the place who was greatly attached to Sister Celeste, because of that attachment and because of her devotion to 'Mother Church,' was permitted to watch through the last hours of the nun's life. Of the closing moments of the glorified woman's life she gave the following account: "For an hour the dying nun had been motionless, as though hushed in a peaceful sleep. When the first rays of the dawn struck on the window, a lark lighted on the sill, and in full voice warbled its greeting to the day. Then the Sister opened her eyes, already fringed by the death frost, and in faint and broken sentences murmured: "'A delicious vision has been sent me. _Deo gratias_, every act meant in kindness that I have ever done, in the vision had become a flower, giving out an incense ineffable. These had been woven into a diadem for me. Every word, meant in comfort or sympathy, that I have ever spoken, had been set to exquisite music, which voices and harps not of this world were singing and playing while I was being crowned. Every tear of mine shed in pity had become a precious gem. These were woven into the robes of light that they drew around me. A glass was held before me; from face and bosom the cruel scars were all gone, and to eye and brow and cheek the luster and enchantment of youth had returned, and near all radiant'-- "'The eyes, with a look of inexpressibly joyous surprise in them, grew fixed, and all was still save where on the casement the lark was repeating her song.' "Among the effects left by Sister Celeste was found a package addressed to the same lady who had watched during the closing hours of the dead nun's life. This was brought to her by the Mother Superior. On being opened, within was found another package, tied with silver strings, sealed with wax, and the seal bore the date on which she took her vows. This in turn was opened, and a large double locket was revealed. In one side was the picture of a young man in the uniform of a French colonel. From the other side a picture had evidently been hastily removed, as though in a moment of excitement, for there were scars upon the case which had been made by a too impetuous use of some sharp instrument. On the outer edge of the case was a half-round hole, such as a bullet makes, and there were dark stains on one side of the case. Below the picture in a woman's delicate hand-writing, were the words: 'Henrie. Died at Majenta.' "The lady called the Mother Superior aside and showed her the picture. Tears came to the faded eyes of the devoted woman. "'Now God be praised!' said she. 'Three nights since, as I watched by the poor child, I heard her murmur that name in her fevered sleep, and I was troubled, for I feared she was dreaming of the youth she nursed back to life here in the hospital. It was not so. Her work was finished on earth, she was nearing the spheres where love never brings sorrow; her soul was already outstretching its wings to join--' the poor nun stopped, breathed short and hard a few times, and then incoherently began to tell her beads in Latin. "While they were conversing the body of Sister Celeste lay dressed for the grave in another apartment, watched over by two Sisters. When the Mother Superior ceased speaking, the lady said to her: "Mother, come with me to where Sister Celeste is sleeping! When we reach the room, send the watchers away, and then do not look at me. I want to put this picture away.' "The Mother Superior was strangely agitated, but she led the way to the room, bade the nuns there go and get some rest, then knelt by the foot of the casket, and bowed her head in prayer. "The lady slipped the locket beneath the folds of the winding sheet, where it lay above the pulseless heart of the dead nun. "The whole population of the place were sorrowing mourners at the obsequies of Sister Celeste, and for years afterward, every morning, in summer and winter, upon her grave, a dressing of fresh flowers could be seen. "On the day of the funeral the miners made up a purse and gave it to Mrs. De Lacy, the consideration being that every day for a year, the grave of the Sister should be flower-crowned. The contract was renewed yearly until Mrs. De Lacy moved away. In the meantime a wild rosebush and cypress had been planted beside the grave, and they keep watch there still." The good-night whistles had already blown when Harding finished his story. Not much was said as the Club retired, but Corrigan, understanding why the story had been told, in silence wrung Harding's hand. CHAPTER XIV. The Club had now been running a month. It had been most enjoyable. When Yap Sing had been installed as cook and housekeeper he was given a memorandum book, on the first page of which was written an order for such supplies as the Club might require at the stores and markets. Brewster had objected to this at first, inasmuch as the Mongolian was a stranger, and because it was not good to make bills. But he was overruled by the explanation that almost everything required, except fresh vegetables and, now and then, fresh meat, had already been provided, and that the Chinaman could not cheat very much with seven men to watch him. But from the first day the Club fared sumptuously. Yap Sing was a thorough artist in his way. He had a trick of preparing substantials and dainties, and of arranging a table, which was wonderful. His breakfasts and suppers were masterpieces, and daily as the dinner buckets, which Yap Sing had filled, were opened at the mines, the members of the Club were the envy of all the men, underground, who were their companions. It was a change from the boarding houses, so delicious, that the members of the Club did not care to consider what the probable extra expense would be. Moreover, each had a feeling that so long as the rest were satisfied it was not worth while to interrupt the pleasant course which events were taking by intruding questions which possibly might lead to unpleasant developments. But on pay day the bills were sent in. For provisions and crockery they amounted to more than three hundred dollars, or about one dollar and a half per day for each member of the Club. This was in addition to the stock of food purchased at the beginning. The first thought was that Yap Sing had been robbing the Club. He was called in, confronted with the bills and questioned as to what he had to say to the amount. He declared it to be his belief that it was "belly cheapee." Miller took up the case for the plaintiffs and said: "But, Yap, you understand when you came here a month ago we had plenty of provisions--flour, butter, bacon, lard, tea, coffee, sugar--everything required except fresh vegetables and, now and then, fresh meat." "Yes, me sabbe; got plentie now, allee samee," said Yap. "But, Yap," said Miller, "you know in boarding-houses and restaurants board is only eight dollars a week. Besides what you had at the beginning, this is costing a dollar and a half a day for each one of us. What have you to say to that?" "Me say him heap cheapee," said Yap. "Me no care for bloarding-housie; me no care for lestaulent; me heap sabbie 'em. You likie 'em, you bletter go lare eatie. You no likie loyster; you likie hashie. You no likie tlenderloin; you likie corn beefe. You no likie turkie; you likie bull beefe. You no likie plum puddie; you likie dlied apples. All litie, me cookie him; me no care. You no likie bloiled tongue, loast chickie and devil ham for dinner bucket; you likie blead and onion. All litie, me fixie him. You wantie one d----d cheapee miners' bloarding-housie. All litie, no difflence me." It was hard to argue the point with the countryman of Confucius. Notwithstanding the magnificent fare, the impression was general that Yap Sing had been feeding three or four of his cousins and making a little private pocket change for himself by the transaction, but it would have been useless to try to convict him. Indeed, it would have been impossible, for when any particularly outrageous item was pointed out he would cite some special occasion when he had outdone himself in his art. "What a time-keeper he would make for a mine!" said Carlin. "He would have his pay-roll full every day if he had to rob a graveyard of all the names on its monuments to fill it." "What a superintendent he would make!" said Miller. "There would not be an item in the monthly accounts that he would not be prepared to explain with entire satisfaction and appalling promptness, and all the time he would have looked like a sorrowful statue of unappreciated innocence." "What a mining expert he would be!" said Ashley. "With his faculty for making doubtful things look plausible, and his powers of expression, he would convince the ordinary man that he could see further into the ground than you could bore with a diamond drill." "But his cooking is lovely; you must all admit that," said Wright. "If there be blame anywhere, it rests on us," said Brewster, "for we could all see that we were living a little high, and yet not one of us so much as cautioned Yap to go slow." It was finally decided that there must be a return to sound and economic principles. Yap was paid his month's salary and instructed that, in future, the fare must be reduced to plain, solid miner's food. The money to pay all the bills, together with what was due on the previous month, and also the rent, was contributed and placed in Miller's hands as treasurer and paymaster, that he might pay the accounts, and the Club settled down to its pipes and conversation. In the meantime the honorary members had come in. As usual, the first theme was the condition of stocks. Miller believed that Silver Hill was the best buy on the lode, Corrigan had heard that day that a secret drift had been run west from the thirteen hundred level of the Con. Virginia; that up in the Andes ground an immense body of ore had been cut through, but that nothing would come of it until the Bonanza firm could gather in more of the stock. Carlin was disposed to believe that a development was about to be made in Chollar Potosi, because during the past month the superintendent had come up twice from Oakland, California, to look at the property. Strong was disposed to unload all the stocks that he had and invest in Belcher and Crown Point because the superintendent of both mines had that day assured him that they had no developments worth mentioning. At length the conversation turned on silver. The Club had that day received a portion of their month's pay in silver, and some grumbled, thinking they should have received their full wages in gold. After a good deal had been said, the Professor, who had been quietly reading and had taken no part in the discussion, was asked for his opinion. He answered as follows: "It is not right to pay laboring men in a depreciated currency; it is a still greater wrong that there is a discount on silver. It is the steadiest measure of values that mankind has ever found; it is the only metal that three-fifths of the human race can measure their daily transactions in; its full adoption by our Government, as a measure of values and basis of money, would mean prosperity; its rejection during the past five years and the denying to it its old sovereignty, have wrought incalculable loss. "Here on the Comstock it sleeps in the same matrix with gold, the proportion in bullion being about forty-four per cent. gold to fifty-six per cent. silver. The Nation cannot make a better adjustment than to keep that proportion good in her securities. Five years ago silver commanded a premium over gold. Since then two dollars in gold to one in silver have been taken from the earth, but silver is at a discount, because through unwise if not dishonest legislation, its sovereignty as a measure of values, its recognition as money was taken away. The whole burden was put upon gold, and the result is that the purchasing power of gold has been enhanced, and silver is, or seems to be, at a discount. Those who have accomplished this wrong affect to scorn the proposition that legislation could restore to silver its old value, ignoring the fact that the present apparent depreciation is due entirely to unfriendly legislation, and conveniently forgetting that with silver, everything else is at a discount when measured by gold. That is, gold is inflated by the discriminations which have been made in its favor. The chief use of silver in the world is for a measure of values, as the chief use of wheat is for material out of which to make bread. Were men forbidden to make any more bread from wheaten flour and compelled to use corn meal as a substitute, would the present prices of wheat and corn remain respectively the same? "Silver should be restored to its old full sovereignty, side by side with gold. Then, in this country, just as little of either metal as possible should be used in men's daily transactions. Handling gold and silver directly in trade is but continuing the barter of savage men, and is a relic of a dark age. Moreover, the loss by abrasion is very great. Both metals should be cast into ingots and their values stamped upon them. Then they should be stored in the Treasury and certificates representing their value should be issued as the money of the people. If this makes the Government a banker no matter, so long as it supplies to the people a money on which there can be no loss. The thought that this would drain our land of gold has not much force, because the trade balances are coming our way and will soon be very heavy; if the gold shall be taken away something will have to be returned in lieu of it, and after all the truth is that four-fifths of our people do not see a gold piece twice a year. Our internal commerce is very much greater than our foreign commerce, and to keep that moving without jar should be the first anxiety of American statesmen. For that purpose nothing could be better than the silver certificate. "The Government has commenced to coin silver and has partially remonetized it. It is only partial because gold is still made the absolute measure of values and preference is reserved for it in ways which will keep silver depressed until there shall come a demand for it which cannot at once be met; then it will be discovered that it is still one of the precious metals and it will take its place in trade as it has its place here in the mines, side by side and the full brother of gold. Were the Government to-morrow to commence to absorb and hoard all the product of our mines and keep this up for a generation, issuing certificates on the same for the full value, at the end of about thirty years there would be on deposit as security for the paper afloat more than one thousand millions of dollars. This seems like a vast sum, but it would then amount to but ten dollars per capita for our people. You have each received two and a half times that amount to-day on account of your last month's wages, and the only serious inconvenience it has inflicted upon you is the discount which wicked legislation has given to silver. "But long before one thousand millions in silver could be secured it would command a premium, because that would mean one-fourth of all the silver in circulation, and this old world cannot spare to one Nation that amount and still keep her commerce running and the arts supplied." "But, Professor," said Alex, "why hoard the metals? Why may not money be represented by paper backed by the Nation's faith? Why pile up the metals in the Government vaults when the printing press can supply as good money as the people want?" "That," replied the Professor, "is an argument for times of peace and prosperity only. The failure of one crop would so lessen the faith of the people that a serious discount would fall upon the money that was only backed by faith. And suppose Europe were to combine to fight the United States, then what would the loss be to the people? We can only estimate the amount by thinking what the United States currency was worth in 1864. "Such a combination is not at all impossible. There is a vast country to the south of us, the trade of which should be ours, and with the Governments of which we have notified Europe there must be no interference from beyond the Atlantic. There are channels for ships to be hewed through the Spanish American Isthmus, and their control is to become a question. "Above all, the light and majesty of our Republic are becoming a terror to the Old World. Think of it. The immigrants that come to us annually, together with the young men and women that annually reach their majority here, are enough to supply the places of all the people of this coast were they to go away. Who can estimate the swelling strength that is sufficient to fully equip a new state annually? "Before the spectacle thrones are toppling and kings sleep on pillows of thorns. If our soil was adjacent to Europe, the nations would combine and assail us to-morrow, in sheer self-defense. They have tremendous armies; they are accumulating mighty navies and arming them as ships were never armed before. Suppose that sometime they decide that the world's equilibrium is being disturbed by the Great Republic, even as they did when Napoleon the first became their terror, and that, as with him, they determine that our country shall be divided or crushed. What then? Of course they will maneuver to have a rebellion in our country and espouse the cause of the weaker side. This is what nearly happened in 1862; what would have surely happened had not Great Britain possessed the knowledge that if she joined with France in the proposed scheme, whatever the outcome might be, one thing was certain, for a season at least, there would be no night on the sea; the light made by British ships in flames would make perpetual day. "Then ocean commerce was carried mostly in ships that had to trust alone to the fickle winds for headway. In twenty years more steam will be the motive power for carrying all valuable freights, and will be comparatively safe as against pursuing cruisers. "Imagine such a crisis upon us, what then would the unsupported paper dollar be worth? But imagine that behind the Republic there was in the treasury a thousand millions of dollars in silver, the original money of the world, and another thousand millions in gold, what combination of forces could place the money of the Nation in danger of loss by depreciation? "Gold and silver when produced are simply the measures of the labor required to produce them; they are labor made imperishable; and when either is destroyed--and demonetization is destruction--just so much labor is destroyed, and you who work have to make up the loss by working more hours for a dollar. You are supposed to receive the same wages that the miners did who worked on this lode six years ago, for a month's work. But you do not because, through the mistake of honest men or the manipulation of knaves, twenty per cent. of the twenty-five dollars paid you in silver for last month's work has been destroyed; and now those who have dealt this blow insist that money can in no wise be changed in value by legislation. "The trouble is our law-makers do not estimate at half its worth their own country. They stand in awe of what they call the money centers of the world, and refuse to see that already the world is placed at a disadvantage by our Republic; that within thirty years all existing nations, all the nations that have existed through all the long watches of the past, will, in material wealth and strength, seem mean and poor in comparison with our own. "Look at it! Five hundred thousand foreigners absorbed annually, and not a ripple made where they merge with the mighty current of our people! What is equal to a new State, with all its people and equipments, launched upon the Union every year--it makes me think of the Creator launching worlds--with immeasurable resources yet to be utilized; the wealth of the country already equal to that of Great Britain, with all her twelve hundred years of spoils; all our earnings our own; no five millions of people toiling to support another million that stand on guard, as is required in France and Germany and Russia and Austria and Italy; our great Southern staple commanding tribute from all the world; hungry Europe looking to our Northern States for meat and bread, and to our rivers for fish; our Western miners supplying to business the tonic which keeps its every artery throbbing with buoyant health, while over all is our flag, which symbols a sovereignty so awful in power and yet so beneficent in mercies, that while the laws command and protect, they bring no friction in their contact; rather they guarantee the perfect liberty of every child of the Republic, to seize with equal hand upon every opportunity for fortune, or for fame, which our country holds within her august grasp. "To carry on the business of such a land an ocean of money is needed, and infinitely more will be required in future. And for this money there must be a solid basis; not merely a faith which expands with this year's prosperity and contracts with next year's calamity; not something which the death of a millionaire or a visitation of grasshoppers will throw down; but something which is the first-born child of labor, and is therefore immortal and without change. This is represented by gold and silver, and to commerce they are what 'the great twin brethren' at Lake Regillus were to Rome." When the Professor ceased speaking, Harding said: "Professor, what you have been saying about our Republic sounds to me almost like a coincidence. Did you dream what you have been saying?" The Professor replied that he did not, and asked what in the world prompted such a question. Harding smiled and blushed, and then said: "Because I had a dream last night." All wanted to hear what it was. "You won't laugh, Carlin?" said Harding. Carlin said he would not. "And you will not call me a fool, Wright?" Harding asked. Wright promised to conceal his sentiments, if necessary. "You will not call it a mirage, Corrigan?" asked Harding. Corrigan agreed to refrain. "And, Colonel, you will not ask mysterious questions about who usually sits as a commission of lunacy in Virginia City?" Harding inquired. The Colonel agreed to restrain himself. "And, Alex, you will not expose me in the paper?" questioned Harding. Alex promised to be merciful to the public. In final appeal, Harding said: "And you, Professor, you will not say it is a tough, hard formation and too nearly primitive to carry any treasure?" The Professor assured him that faults and displacements were common in the richest mineral-bearing veins. "Well," said Harding, "I was tired and nervous last night. I could not sleep, and so determined to get up and read for an hour. I happened to pick up a volume of Roman history, and became so absorbed in it that I read for an hour or two more than I ought to. I went to bed at last, and my body dropped to sleep in a moment, but my brain was still half awake, and for a while ran things on its own account in a confused sort of a way. "I thought I was sitting here alone, when, suddenly, a stranger appeared and began to pace, slowly, up and down the room. He had an eye like a hawk, nose like an eagle's beak and an air that was altogether martial. His walk had the perfect, measured step of the trained veteran soldier. After watching him for a little space, I grew bold and demanded of him his name and business. When I spoke the sound of my own voice startled me, for he was more savage looking than a shift boss. He turned round to me--don't laugh, I pray you--and said: "'I am that Scipio to whom Hannibal the terrible capitulated. I was proud of my Rome and my Romans. We were the "Iron Nation," truly. All that human valor and human endurance could do we accomplished. Amid the snows of the Alps and the sands of Africa we were alike invincible. We were not deficient either in brain power. We left monuments enough to abundantly establish that fact. To us the whole civilized world yielded fealty, but we were barbarians after all. Listen!' "Just then there floated in through the open window what seemed a full diapason of far-off but exquisite music. "'Do you know what that is?' he asked. 'It is the echo of the melody which the children of this Republic awaken, singing in their free schools. It smites upon and charms the ear of the sentinel angel, whose station is in the sun, through one-eighth of his daily round; those echoes that with an enchantment all their own ride on the swift pinions of the hours over all the three thousand miles between the seas. "My Rome had nothing like that. We trusted alone to the law of might, and though we tried to be just, the slave was chained daily at our gates; we sold into slavery our captives taken in war; we fought gladiators and wild beasts for the amusement of our daughters and wives; we never learned to temper justice with mercy; only the first leaves of the book of knowledge were opened to us; our brains and our bodies were disciplined, but our hearts were darkened and we perished because we were no longer fit to rule. "'Whether by evolution the world has advanced, or whether, indeed, the lessons of that Nazarene, whom our soldiers crucified, are bearing celestial fruit, who knows! But surely our Rome, with all its power, all its splendor, all its heroic men and stately women; its victories in the field, its pageants in the Imperial City on the days when, returning from a conquest, our chieftians were laurel-crowned; our art, our eloquence--all, were nothing compared with this song of songs. It started at first where the sullen waves wash against Plymouth Rock; it swelled in volume while the deep woods gave place to smiling fields; over mountain and desert it rolled in full tones and only ceases, at last, where the roar of the deep sea, breaking outside the Golden Gate, or meeting in everlasting anger the Oregon upon her stormy bar, gives notice that the pioneer must halt at last in his westward march.' "As he ceased to speak the melody was heard again, sweeter, clearer and fuller than before. My guest faded away before me and I awoke. In all the air there was no sound save the deep respirations of the hoisting engine in the Norcross works, and the murmur of the winds, as on slow beating wings they floated up over the Divide and swept on, out over the desert." The verdict of the Club was that if old Scipio talked in that strain he had softened down immensely since the days when he was setting his legions in array against the swarthy hosts of the mighty Carthagenian. After a while Corrigan spoke: "You native Americans," he said, "at least the majority of yees, do not half appreciate your country. I was but a lad whin, after a winter of half starvation, in the care of an uncle, I lift Ireland in an English imigrant ship. One mornin' as me uncle and meself were watchin' from the deck a sail rose out of the say directly in our path. It grew larger and larger, in a little while the hull appeared, and soon after we could discern that it was a frigate. The wind was off her beam, blowing fresh; every sail was crowded on, and as her black beak rose and fell with the says, I thought her more beautiful than the smile of the sunlight on the hills of Kildare. Half careened as she was under the pressure on her sails, but still resolutely rushing on, she made a pictur' of courage which has shone before me eyes a thousand times since, when me heart has been heavy. She drew quite near, and as she swung upon her tack her flag was dipped in salute. Then me uncle bent and said: 'Barney, lad, mark will that flag! That is an Amirican ship of war.' "Great God! Child that I was, I think in that moment I knew how the young mother feels, when in the curtained dimness of her room, she half fainting, hears the blissful whisper that unto her is born a son. "There was the ensign of the land which held all joy in thought for us; which to us opened the gates of hope; that wondrous land in the air of which the pallid cheek of Want grows rosy red and Irish hearts cast off hereditary dispair. "I rushed forward, where thray hundred imigrants were listlessly lounging about the deck, and, in mad excitement, shouted: 'See! See! It is the Amirican flag!' Just then the sunlight caught in its folds and turned it to gold. "O, but thin there was a transformation sane. Ivery person on that deck sprang up and shouted. Men waved their hats and women embraced each other, and with a mighty 'All Hail' those Irish imigrants--Irish no longer, but henceforth forever to be Amiricans--greeted that flag. In response the marines manned the yards, and off to us across the wathers came the first ringing Amirican chare that we had iver heard. We answered back with a yell like that which might have been awakened at Babel. It was not a disciplined chare, but simply a wild cry of joy, and it was none the less hearty that over us swung haughtily the red cross of St. George. "You native Amiricans are like spiled children, that niver having known an unsatisfied want, surfeit on dainties." Corrigan relapsed into silence, but his eyes were glistening and there was a tremble about his lips. His mind was still in the burial place, where "memory was calling up its dead." While the spell of Barney's words was still upon the Club, Yap Sing softly opened the door and announced that the evening luncheon was ready. The heathen had inaugurated these luncheons on the first day of his coming. They were at once accepted and had become a regular thing. Seeing that they were received approvingly, Yap had exhausted every device to make them a marked feature of the Club. On this occasion the table was fully set, but there was no food on the table. Beside each plate stood a glass of water and a dish of salt. When the company was seated, Yap went to the cooking range, took out and set upon the table an immense platter which was piled high with huge baked potatoes, after which, with a face utterly destitute of expression, he went to his bench in the corner of the room and sat down. Wright, who was nearest him, said: "What is the matter, Yap? Are you sick?" "Nothing matter; me no sickie," said Yap. "But why do you not bring on the supper?" asked Wright. "No catchie any more," was the answer. "What! Just potatoes straight, Yap? What is the matter?" said Wright. "I no sabbie what's the matter," said the sullen Oriental. "You livie belly cheapie now. Potato belly good. Blenty potato, blenty saltie, blenty cold water; no makie you sickie; I dink belly good." The Club took in the situation with great hilarity; the cause of Yap Sing's frugality was briefly explained to the guests; each seized a potato and commenced their meal. At length Carlin asked Yap Sing if he could not furnish a little butter with the salt. Yap shook his head resolutely, and said: "No catchie. Blutter five bittie [sixty-two and a half cents] one pound. No buy blutter for five bittie to putee on potato; too muchie money allee time pay out for hashie." Then Ashley asked for a pickle, but Yap Sing was firm. Said he: "Pickle slix bittie one bottle; no can standee." A great many other things were banteringly asked for, from cold tongue and horse-radish to blackberry jam; but the imperturbable face of the Mongolian never relaxed and his ears remained deaf to all entreaties. The potatoes were eaten with a decided relish, though there was no seasoning except salt, and when the repast was over the Club still sat at the table while the Colonel delivered a dissertation upon the virtues of the potato in general and upon the Nevada potato in particular. He insisted that the potato was the great modern mind food, and instanced the effect of potato diet upon the people of Ireland, pointing out that the failure of a crop there meant mental prostration and despair, while the news of a bountiful crop was a certain sign of a lively revolution within the year. From a scientific standpoint he demonstrated that no where else on the continent were the conditions absolutely perfect for producing potatoes that were potatoes, except upon the high, dry, slightly alkaline table lands between the Sierras and the Wasatch Range, and, giving his lively imagination full play, he pictured that region as it would be fifty years hence; when transportation shall be reduced; when artesian wells shall be plenty; when the rich men of the earth will not be able to give entertainments without presenting their guests with Nevada or Utah potatoes, and when to say that a man has a potato estate in the desert will be as it now is to say that a man has a wheat farm in Dakota, an orange orchard in Los Angeles, or a cotton plantation in Texas. While talking, the Colonel managed, between sentences, to dispose of a second potato. When the pipes were resumed, the joke of Yap Sing was fully discussed, and finally the Chinese question came up for consideration. Strong took up this latter theme and said: "The men of the Eastern States think that we of the West are a cruel, half-barbarous race, because we look with distrust upon the swelling hosts of Mongolians that are swarming like locusts upon this coast. They say: 'Our land has ever been open to the oppressed, no matter in what guise they come. The men of the West are the first to stretch bars across the Golden Gate to keep out a people. And this people are peaceable and industrious; all they petition for is to come in and work. Still, there is a cry which swells into passionate invective against them. It must be the cry of barbarism and ignorance. It surely fairly reeks with injustice and cruelty and sets aside a fundamental principle of our Government which dedicates our land to freedom and opens all its gates to honest endeavor.' "Those people will not stop to think that we came here from among themselves. We were no more ignorant, we were no worse than they when we came away. We have had better wages and better food since our coming than the ordinary men of the East obtain. Almost all of us have dreamed of homes, of wives and children that are men's right to possess, but which are not for us; and though they of the East do not know it, this experience has softened, not hardened our hearts, toward the weak and the oppressed. If they of the East would reflect they would have to conclude that it is not avarice that moves us; that there must be a less ungenerous and deeper reason. "Our only comfort is, that, by and by, maybe while some of us still live, those men and women who now upbraid us, will, with their souls on their knees, ask pardon for so misjudging us. "We quarantine ships when a contagion is raging among her crew; we frame protective laws to hold the price of labor up to living American rates; New England approves these precautions, but when we ask to have the same rules, in another form, enforced upon our coast, her people and her statesmen, in scorn and wrath, declare that we are monsters. "There is Yap Sing in the kitchen. You have just paid him forty dollars for a month's work. All the clothes that he wears were made in China. If he boarded himself, as nearly as possible, he would eat only the food sent here from China. Of his forty dollars just received, thirty at least will be returned to China and be absorbed there. There are one hundred thousand of his people in this State and California. We will suppose that they save only thirty cents each per day. That means, for all, nine hundred thousand dollars per month, or more than ten million dollars per annum that they send away. This is the drain which two States with less than one million inhabitants are annually subjected to. How long would Massachusetts bear a similar drain, before through all her length and breadth, her cities would blaze with riots, all her air grow black with murder? Ireland, with six times as many people, and with the richest of soils, on half that tax, has become so poor that around her is drawn the pity of the world. "'But,' say the Eastern people, 'you must receive them, Christianize them, and after awhile they will assimilate with you.' "Waiving the degradation to us, which that implies, they propose an impossibility. They might just as well go down to where the Atlantic beats against the shore, and shout across the waste to the Gulf stream, commanding it to assimilate with the 'common waters' of the sea. Not more mysterious is the law that holds that river of the deep within its liquid banks, than is the instinct which prevents the Chinaman from shaking off his second nature and becoming an American. He looks back through the halo of four thousand years, sees that without change, the nation of his forefathers has existed, and with him all other existing nations except Japan and India and Persia, are parvenues. "For thousands of years, he and his fathers before him, have been waging a hand-to-hand conflict with Want. He has stripped and disciplined himself until he is superior to all hardships except famine, and that he holds at bay longer than any other living creature could. "Through this training process from their forms everything has disappeared except a capacity to work; in their brains every attribute has died except the selfish ones; in their hearts nearly all generous emotions have been starved to death. The faces of the men have given up their beards, the women have surrendered their breasts and the ability to blush has faded from their faces. "Like all animals of fixed colors they change neither in habits nor disposition. In four thousand years they have changed no more than have the wolves that make their lairs in the foothills of the Ural mountains, except that they have learned to economize until they can even live upon half the air which the white man requires to exist in. They have trained their stomachs until they are no longer the stomachs of men; but such as are possessed by beasts of prey; they thrive on food from which the Caucasian turns with loathing, and on this dreadful fare work for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four. "The moral sentiments starved to death in their souls centuries ago. They hold woman as but an article of merchandise and delight to profit by her shame. "Other foreigners come to America to share the fortunes of Americans. Even the poor Italian, with organ and monkey, dreams while turning his organ's crank, that this year or next, or sometime, he will be able to procure a little home, have a garden of his own, and that his children will grow up--sanctified by citizenship--defenders of our flag. "But the Chinaman comes with no purpose except for plunder; the sole intention is to get from the land all that is possible, with the design of carrying it or sending it back to native land. The robbery is none the less direct and effective for being carried on with a non-combatant smile instead of by force. "It is such a race as this that we are asked to welcome and compete with, and when we explain that the food we each require--we, without wife or child to share with--costs more in the market daily than these creatures are willing to work for and board themselves; the question, with a lofty disdain, is asked: 'Are you afraid to compete with a Chinaman?' "It is an unworthy question, born of ignorance and a false sentimentality; for no mortal can overcome the impossible. "In the cities these creatures fill the places of domestics and absorb all the simpler trades. The natural results follow. Girls and boys grow up without ever being disciplined to labor. But girls and boys must have food and clothes. If their parents can not clothe and feed them other people must. If poor girls with heads and hands untrained have nothing but youth and beauty to offer for food, when hungry enough they will barter both for bread. "The vices and diseases which the Chinese have already scattered broadcast over the west, are maturing in a harvest of measureless and indescribable suffering. "The Chinese add no defense to the State. They have no patriotism except for native land; they are all children of degraded mothers, and as soldiers are worthless. "Moreover it is not a question of sharing our country with them; it is simply a question of whether we should surrender it to them or not. When the western nations thoroughly understand the Chinese they will realize that with their numbers, their imitative faculties, their capacity to live and to work on food which no white man can eat, with their appalling thrift and absence of moral faculties, they are, to-day, the terror of the earth. "The nations forced China to open her gates to them. It was one of the saddest mistakes of civilization. "To ask that their further coming be stopped, is simply making a plea for the future generations of Americans, a prayer for the preservation of our Republic. It springs from man's primal right of self-preservation, and when we are told that we should share our country and its blessings with the Chinese, the first answer is that they possess already one-tenth of the habitable globe; their empire has everything within it to support a nation; they have, besides, the hoarded wealth of a hundred generations, and if these were not enough, there are still left illimitable acres of savage lands. Let them go occupy and subdue them. "The civilization of China had been as perfect as it now is for two thousand years when our forefathers were still barbarians. While our race has been subduing itself and at the same time learning the lessons which lead up to submission to order and to law; while, moreover, it has been bringing under the ægis of freedom a savage continent, the Mongolian has remained stationary. To assert that we should now turn over this inheritance (of which we are but the trustees for the future), or any part of it, to 'the little brown men,' is to forget that a nation's first duty is like a father's, who, by instinct, watches over his own child with more solicitude than over the child of a stranger, and who, above all things, will not place his child under the influence of anything that will at once contaminate and despoil him. "Finally, by excluding these people no principle of our Government is set aside, and no vital practice which has grown up under our form of government. Ours is a land of perfect freedom, but we arrest robbers and close our doors to lewd women. While these precautions are right and necessary it is necessary and right to turn back from our shores the sinister hosts of the Orient." With this the whole Club except Brewster heartily agreed. Brewster merely said: "Maybe you are right, but your argument ignores the saving grace of Christianity, and maybe conflicts with God's plans." Then the good-nights were said. CHAPTER XV. The next evening when supper was prepared, Harding was not present. He had bruised one hand so badly in the mine the previous day, that he was forced to have it bound up and treated with liniments and had not worked that day. Thinking he would be home soon the rest ate their suppers, but it was an hour before he came. When he arrived he had a troubled look, and being pressed to tell what had gone wrong, he stated that he had met a group of five miners from the Sierra Nevada day shift, men whom they all knew, who, without provocation, had commenced abusing him; jeering him about joining with six or seven more miners, hiring a house and a cook, and putting on airs; that finally they dared him to fight, and when he offered to fight any one of them, they said it was a mere "bluff," that he would not fight a woman unless she were sick, and further declared their purpose at some future time to go up and "clean out" the whole outfit. Harding was the younger member of the Club; the rest knew about his former life; how his father, joining the reckless throng of the early days, lived fast, and suddenly died, just as the boy came from school; how the young man had put aside his hopes, learned mining, and with a brave purpose was working hard and dreaming of the time when he would wipe away every reproach which rested on his father's memory. To have him set upon by roughs, causelessly, was like a blow in the face to every other member of the Club. When Harding had told his story, Miller said: "Who did you say these men were, Harding?" Harding told their names. "Why, they are not miners at all," said Carlin. "They are a lot of outside bruisers who have come here because there is going to be an election this year, and they have got their names on a pay roll to keep from being arrested as vagrants. You did just right, Harding, to get away from them with your crippled hand without serious trouble." "Indeed you did, Harding," said Brewster. "One street fight at your age might ruin you for life." "That is quite true," said Miller; "I am glad you had no fight." Said Corrigan: "You offered to fight any one of the blackguards, and whin they refused, you came away? It was the proper thing to do." "Did you have any weapons with you, Harding?" asked Ashley. "Not a thing in the world," was the reply. "I am glad of that," said Ashley. "The temptation to wing one or two of the brutes, would have been very great had you been 'fixed.'" "I am glad it was no worse," said Wright. "You said it was down by the California Bank corner?" "No," replied Harding; "it was by the Fredericksburg Brewery corner, on Union Street, just below C." "You managed the matter first-rate, Harding," said Wright. "Do not think any more about it." Harding, thus reassured by his friends, felt better, but said if three of the Club would go with him he would undertake to do his part to bring hostilities to a successful close with the bullies. Ashley and Corrigan at once volunteered, but Wright and Carlin interfered and said it must not be, and Brewster expostulated against any such thing. Corrigan and Ashley caught a look and gesture from Wright which caused them to subside, and Harding at length went out to supper. When Harding came in from up town, Miller was making arrangements to go out, as he said, to meet a broker as per agreement. As Harding went to supper, Miller went out and Brewster resumed the reading of a book in which he was engaged. The Professor, Colonel and Alex had not yet come in. Significant glances passed between the others, and soon Wright arose and said: "Boys! the Emmetts drill to-night; suppose we go down to the armory and look on for half an hour." The rest all agreed that it would be good exercise, and quietly the four men went out, Wright saying as he started: "Brewster, if the others come, tell them we have just gone down to the Emmetts armory, and will be back in half an hour or so." The Professor and Alex shortly after came in, a little later the Colonel and Miller. It was nearly an hour before the others returned. When they did they were in the best possible humor; spoke of the perfectness of the Emmetts' drill; told of something they had heard down town which was droll, while Barney in particular was full of merriment over a speech that had that day been made by a countryman of his, Mr. Snow, in a Democratic convention, and insisted upon telling Brewster about it. Brewster laid down his book and assumed the attitude of a listener. "It was this way," said Barney. "The convintion had made all its nominations, when it was proposed that on Friday nixt a grand mass-ratification matin' should be hild at Carson City, the matin' to be intinded for the inauguratin' of the campaign, where all the faithful from surroundin' counties might mate and glorify, and thus intimidate the inemy from the viry commincement. "The proposition was carried by acclamation, and jist thin a mimber sprang up and moved that the matin' should be a barbecue. This motion likewise carried by an overwhilmin' vote. Whin the noise died away a bit, my ould friend Snow, he of the boardin' house, arose and made a motion. It was beautiful. Listen! "'Mr. Spaker! Bain that the hift of the Dimocratic party do not ate _mate_ of a Friday, I move yees, sir, that we make it a _fish_ barbecue.'" A great laugh followed Barney's account of the motion, and then the usual comparison of notes on stocks took place. Miller was sure that Silver Hill was the best buy on the lode; Corrigan had been told by a Gold Hill miner that Justice was looking mighty encouraging; the Colonel had heard the superintendent of the Curry tell the superintendent of the Belcher that he was in wonderfully kindly ground on the two thousand foot level; the Professor had that day heard the superintendent of the Savage declare that the water was lowering four feet an hour, while all were wondering when the Sierra Nevada would break, as it was too high for the development. By all is meant all but Brewster and Harding; they never joined in any conversations about stocks. At length the stock talk slackened, when Corrigan again referred to the fish barbecue resolution. Naturally enough, the conversation drifted into a discussion of the humor of the coast, when the Colonel said: "There is not much pure humor on this coast. There is plenty of that material called humor, which has a bitter sting to it, but that is not the genuine article. The men here who think as Hood wrote, are not plenty. I suspect the bitter twang to all the humor here comes from the isolation of men from the society of women, from broken hopes, and it seems to me is generally an attempt to hurl contempt, not upon the individual at whom it is fired, but at the outrageous fortunes which hedge men around. The coast has been running over with that sort of thing, I guess since 'forty-nine.' "A man here, fond of his wife and children, said to a friend a day or two after they went away for a visit to California: 'Did you ever see a motherless colt?' "'Oh, yes,' was the reply. "'Then,' said the man, 'you know just how I feel.' "'Yes,' said the friend. 'I suppose you feel as though you are not worth a dam.' "I know a brother lawyer who is somewhat famous for getting the clients whom he defends convicted. One morning he met a brother attorney, a wary old lawyer, and said to him: 'I heard some men denouncing you this morning and I took up your defense.' "'What did you say?' the other asked. "'Those men were slandering you and I took it upon myself to defend you,' said the first lawyer. "The old lawyer took the other by the arm, led him aside, then putting his lips close to the ear of his friend, in a hoarse whisper said: 'Don't do it any more.' "'I am going to lecture to-night at C----,' said a pompous man. "'I am glad of it,' was the quick answer. 'I have hated the people there for years. No punishment is too severe for them.' "'I am particular who I drink with,' said a man curtly to another. "'Yes?' was the answer. 'I outgrew that foolish pride long ago. I would as soon you would drink with me as not.' "'I do not require lecturing from you,' said a man. 'I am no reformed drunkard.' "'Then why do you not reform?' was the response. "This coast is full of the echoes of such things." The Professor spoke next. "I think," said he, "that there is more extravagance in figures of speech on this coast than in any other country. Marcus Shults had a difficulty in Eureka the other day, when I was there. He told me about it. Said he: 'I told him to keep away; that I was afraid of him. I wanted some good man to hear me say that, but I had my eye on him every minute, and had he come a step nearer, why--when the doctors would have been called in to dissect him they would have thought they had struck a new lead mine.'" Here Wright interrupted the Professor. "Marcus was from my State, Professor. Did you ever hear him explain why he did not become a fighter?" The Professor answered that he never had, when Wright continued: "Marcus never took kindly to hard work. Indeed, he seems to have constitutional objections to it. As he tells the story, while crossing the plains he made up his mind that, upon reaching California, he would declare himself and speedily develop into a fighter. His words, when he told me the story, were: 'They knew me back in Missouri, and I was a good deal too smart to attempt to practice any such profession there, but my idea was that California was filled with Yankees, and in that kind of a community I would have an easy going thing. Well, I crossed the Sierras and landed at Diamond Springs, outside of Placerville a few miles, and when I had been there a short time I changed my mind.' "Of course at this point some one asks him why he changed his mind, whereupon he answers solemnly: "'The first day I was there a State of Maine man cut the stomach out of a Texan.' "Marcus was with the boys during that first tough winter in Eureka. One fearfully cold day a man was telling about the cold he had experienced in Idaho. When the story was finished Marcus cast a look of sovereign contempt upon the man and said: "'You know nothing about cold weather, sir; you never saw any. You should go to Montana. In Montana I have seen plenty of mornings when were a man to have gone out of a warm room, crossed a street sixty feet wide and shaken his head, his ears would have snapped off like icicles.' "The stranger, overawed, retired." Alex spoke next: "The other day Dan Dennison asked me to go and look at a famous trotting horse that he has here. We went to the stable, and when the stepper was pointed out I started to go into the stall beside him, whereupon Dan caught me by the arm, drew me back, and said: "'Be careful! Sometimes he deals from the bottom.' "He stripped the covers from the horse and backed him out where I could look at him. The horse was not a beauty by any means and I intimated my belief of that fact to Dan. "'No,' said Dennison. The truth is--' He hesitated a moment and then the words came in a volley: "'He's deformed with speed.' "There is a lawyer down town, you all know him. He has a head as big as the old croppings of the Gould and Curry, but like some other lawyers that practice at the Virginia City bar (here he glanced significantly at the Colonel), he is not an exceedingly bright or profound man. He was passing a downtown office yesterday when a man, who chanced to be standing in the office, said to the bookkeeper of the establishment: "'Look at Judge ----. His head is bigger than Mount Davidson, but I am told that where his brains ought to be there is a howling wilderness.' "The bookkeeper stopped his writing, carefully wiped his pen, laid it down, came out from behind his desk, came close up to the man who had spoken to him, and said: "'Howling wilderness? I tell you, sir, that man's head is an unexplored mental Death Valley.'" "Yes," said the Colonel, "his is a queer family. He has a brother who is a journalist; he has made a fortune in the business. His great theme is sketching the lives and characters of people." "But has he made a fortune publishing sketches of that description?" asked Miller. "Oh, no," replied the Colonel; "he has made his money by refraining from publishing them. People have paid him to suppress them." "Colonel," asked Strong, "did it never occur to you that other fortunes might be made the same way by people just exactly adapted to that style of writing?" "If it had," was the reply. "I should have considered that the field here was fully occupied." "You might write a sketch of your own career," suggested the Professor. "Don't do it, Colonel," said Alex. "Why not?" asked Ashley. "There is a law which sadly interferes with the circulation of a certain character of literature," said Alex. "Alex," said the Colonel, "what a painstaking and delicate task it will be, under that law, to write your obituary." "There will be great risk in writing yours, Colonel," said Alex; "but it will be a labor of love, nevertheless; a labor of love, Colonel." "If you have it to do, Alex, don't forget my strongest characteristic," said the Colonel; "that lofty generosity, blended with a self-contained dignity, which made me indifferent always to the slanders of bad men." It was always a delight to the Club to get these two to bantering each other. Ashley here interposed and said: "You all know Professor ----. One night in Elko, last summer, he was conversing with Judge F---- of Elko. Both had been indulging a little too much; the Professor was growing talkative and the Judge morose. "The Professor was telling about the battle of Buena Vista, in which he, a boy at the time, participated. In the midst of the description the Judge interrupted him with some remark which the Professor construed into an impeachment of his bravery. "He leaned back in his chair and sat looking at the Judge for a full minute, as if in an astonished study, and then in a tone most dangerous, said: "'I do not know how to classify you, sir. I do not know, sir, whether you are a wholly irresponsible idiot, or an unmitigated and infamous scoundrel, sir.' "He was conscientious and methodical even in his wrath. He would not pass upon the specimen of natural history before him until certain to what species it belonged." Said Miller: "Did you ever hear how Judge T---- of this city met a man who had been saying disrespectful things about him, but who came up to the Judge in a crowd and, with a smile, extended his hand? The Judge drew back quickly, thrust both hands in his side pockets and said: "'Excuse me, sir; I have just washed my hands.'" "I heard something yesterday of a rough man whom you all know, Zince Barnes," said the Professor, "which seemed to me as full of bitter humor as anything I have heard on this mountain side. You know that politics are running pretty high. "Well, an impecunious man--so the story goes--called upon a certain gentleman who is reported to be rich and to have political aspirations, and tried to convince him that the expenditure of a certain sum of money in a certain way would redound amazingly to the credit, political, of the millionaire. The man of dollars could not see the proposition through the poor man's magnifying glasses, and the patriot retired baffled. "A few minutes later, and while yet warm in his disappointment, he met Zince Barnes, told him of the interview and closed by expressing the belief that the millionaire was a tough, hard formation. "'Hard!' said Zince. 'I should think so. The tears of widows and orphans are water on his wheel.'" At this Corrigan 'roused up and said: "Speakin' of figures of spache, I heard some from a countrywoman of mine one bitter cowld mornin' last March. It was early; hardly light. John Mackay was comin' down from the Curry office on his way to the Con. Virginia office, and whin just opposite the Curry works, he met ould mother McGarrigle, who lives down by the freight depot. I was in the machane shop of the Curry works; they were just outside, and there being only an inch boord and about ten feet of space between us, I could hear ivery word plain, or rather I could not help but hear. The conversation ran about after this style: "'Mornin', Meester Mackay, and may the Lord love yees.' "'Good morning, madam.' "'How's the beautiful wife and the charmin' childers over the big wathers, Mr. Mackay?' "'They are all right.' "'God be thanked intirely. Does yees know, Mr. Mackay, that in the hull course of me life I niver laid eyes upon childer so beautiful loike yees. Often and often I've tould the ould man that same. And they're will, are they?' "'Yes, they are first-rate. I had a cable from them yesterday.' "'A tilligram, was it? Oh, but is not that wonderful, though! A missige under the say and over the land to this barbarous place. It must have come like the smile of the Good God to yees.' "'Oh, I get them every day.' "'Ivery day! And phat do they cost?' "'Oh, seven or eight dollars; sometimes more. It depends upon their length.' "'Sivin or eight dollars! Oh, murther! But yees desarve it, Mr. Mackay. What would the poor do without yees in this town, Mr. Mackay? Only yisterday I was sayin' to the ould man, says I: "Mike, it shows the mercy of God whin money is given to a mon like Mr. John Mackay. It's a Providence he is to the city. God bless him." I did, indade.' "By this time Mackay began to grow very ristless. "'What can I do for you this morning, Mrs. McGarrigle?' "'It's the ould mon, Lord love yees, Mr. Mackay. It's no work he's had for five wakes, and it's mighty little we have aither to ait or to wear. It's work I want for him.' "'I am sorry, but our mines are full. Indeed, we are employing more men than we are justified in doing.' "'But Mr. Mackay, it's so poor we are, and so hard it is getting along at all; put him on for a month and may all the saints bless yees.' "'The city is full of poor people, madam. To determine what to do to mitigate the distress here occupies half our time.' "'Yis, but ours is a particular hard case intirely. I am dilicate meself. I know I don't look so, but I am; and yees ought ter interpose to help a poor countryman of yees own in trouble.' "By this time Mackay was half frozen and thoroughly out of patience. In his quick, sharp way he said: 'Madam, we cannot give all the men in the country employment.' "The mask of the woman was off in an instant. With a scorn and hate unutterable she burst forth in almost a scrame. "'Oh, yees can't. Oh, no! Yees forgits fen yees was poor your ownsilf, ye blackguard. Refusin' a poor man work, and shakin the mountains and churnin' the ocean avery day wid your siven and eight dollar missages. Yees can't employ all the min in the counthry. Don't yees own the whole counthry? And do yees think we'd apply to yees at all if we could find a dacant mon in the worreld? May the divil fly away wid yees, and whin he does yees may tell him for me if he gives a short bit for yer soul he'll chate himself worse nor he's been chated since he bargained with Judas Iscariot. Thake that, sur, wid me compliments, yees purse-proud parvenu.' "When the woman began to rave, Mackay walked rapidly away, but she niver relaxed the scrame of her tirade until Mackay disappeared from sight. Thin she paused for a moment, thin to herself she muttered, 'But I got aven wid him oneway.' She thin turned and walked away toward her cabin. "It was a case where money was no assistance to a man." "There is a good deal of humor displayed in courts of justice at times, is there not, Colonel?" asked Wright. "Oh, yes," was the reply. "Anyone would think so who ever heard old Frank Dunn explain to a court that the reason of his being late was because he had no watch, and deploring meanwhile his inability to purchase a watch because of the multitude of unaccountable fines which His Honor had seen proper, from time to time, to impose upon him." "In that first winter in Eureka," said Wright, "I strolled into court one day when a trial was in progress. "Judge D---- was managing one side and a volunteer lawyer the other. The volunteer lawyer had the best side, and to confuse the court, Judge D----, in his argument, misquoted the testimony somewhat. His opponent interrupted and repeated exactly what the witness had testified to. "Turning to his opponent, Judge D----, with a sneer, said: "'I see, sir, you are very much interested in the result of this case.' "'Oh, no,' was the response. 'I am doing this for pure love. I do not make a cent in this case.' "Then Judge D----, with still more bitterness, said: "'That is like you. You try cases for nothing and cheat _good_ lawyers out of their fees.' "With a look of unfeigned astonishment the other lawyer said: "'Well, what are _you_ angry about? How does that interfere with _you_?'" Here Brewster, who had been reading, laid down his book and said: "I heard of a case as I came through Salt Lake City some years ago, which, if not particularly humorous, revealed wonderful presence of mind on the part of the presiding judge. It may be the story is not true, but it was told in Salt Lake City as one very liable to be true. "A miner, who had been working a placer claim in the hills all summer--so the story ran--and who had been his own cook, barber, chambermaid and tailor, came down to Salt Lake City to see the sights and purchase supplies. He had dough in his whiskers, grease upon his overalls, pine twigs in his hair, and altogether did not present the appearance of a dancing master or a millionaire. Hardly had he reached the city when he thought it necessary to take something in order to 'brace up.' One drink gave him courage to take another, and in forty minutes he was dead drunk on the sidewalk. "The police picked him up and tossed him into a cell in the jail, disdaining to search him, so abject seemed his condition. "Next morning he was brought before the Police Judge and the charge of D. D. was preferred against him. "'You are fined ten dollars, sir,' was the brief sentence of the Court. The man unbuttoned two pairs of overalls and from some inner recess of his garments produced a roll of greenbacks as big as a man's fist. It was a trying moment for the Judge, but his presence of mind did not fail him. He raised up from his seat, leaned one elbow on his desk and, as if in continuation of what he had already said, thundered out: 'And one hundred dollars for contempt of court.' "The man paid the one hundred and ten dollars and hastily left the court and the city." Miller was the next to speak. Said he: "Once in Idaho I heard a specimen of grim humor which entertained me immensely. There was a man up there who owned a train of pack mules and made a living by packing in goods to the traders and packing out ore to be sent away to the reduction works. He was caught in a storm midway between Challis and Powder Flat. It was mid-winter; the thermometer at Challis marked thirty-four degrees below zero. He was out in the storm and cold two days and one night, and his sufferings must have been indescribable. When safely housed and ministered to at last a friend said to him: 'George, that was a tough experience, was it not?' "'Oh, regular business should never be called tough,' said he, 'but since I began to get warm I have been thinking that, if I make money enough, may be in three or four years I will get married, if I can deceive some woman into making the arrangement. If I should succeed, and if after a reasonable time a boy should be born to us, and if the youngster should "stand off" the colic, teething, measles, whooping cough, scarlet fever and falling down stairs, and grow to be ten or twelve years old, and have some sense, if I ever tell him the story of the past two days of my life and he don't cry his eyes out, I will beat him to death, sure.'" The Professor was reminded by the anecdote of something which transpired in Belmont, Nevada, the previous winter. Said he: "I went to Belmont to examine a property last winter and while there Judge ---- came in from a prospecting trip down into the upper edge of Death Valley. I saw him as he drove into town, and went to meet him. He was in no very good spirits. On the way to his office he said: 'I was persuaded against my better judgment to go on that trip. The thief who coaxed me away told a wonderful story. He had been there; he had seen the mine, but had been driven away by the Shoshones; he knew every spring and camping place. It would be just a pleasure trip. So, like an idiot, I went with him. It was twice as far as he said, and we got out of food; he could not find one particular spring, and we were forty hours without water. We had to camp in the snow, and the only pleasure I had in the whole journey was in seeing my companion slip and sit down squarely on a Spanish bayonet plant. It was a double pleasure, indeed; one pleasure to see him sit down and another pleasure to see him get right up again without resting at all, and with a look on his face as though a serious mistake had been made somewhere.' "By this time we had reached the Judge's office. On the desk lay a score of letters which had been accumulating during his absence. Begging me to excuse him for five minutes, he sat down and commenced to run through his mail. "Suddenly he stopped, seized a pen and wrote rapidly for two or three minutes. Then he threw down the pen and begged my attention. First he read a letter which was dated somewhere in Iowa. The writer stated that he had a few thousand dollars, but had determined to leave Iowa and seek some new field, and asked the Judge's advice about removing to Nevada. I asked the Judge if he knew the man. "'Of course not,' said he. 'He has found my name in some directory, and so has written at random. He has probably written similar letters to twenty other men. Possibly he is writing a book descriptive of the Far West by an actual observer,' continued the Judge. "'How are you going to reply?' I asked. "'That is just the point,' he answered. 'I have written and I want you to tell me if I have done about the right thing. Listen.' "At this he read his letter. It was in these identical words: MY DEAR SIR:--Your esteemed favor is at hand and after careful deliberation I have determined to write to you to come to Nevada. I cannot, in the brief space to which a letter must necessarily be confined, enter into details; but I can assure you that if you will come here, settle and invest your means, the final result will be most happy to you. A few brief years of existence here will prepare you to enjoy all the rest and all the beatitudes which the paradise of the blessed can bestow, and if, perchance, your soul should take the other track, hell itself can bring you no surprises. Respectfully, etc. "He mailed the letter, but at last accounts the gentleman had not come West." "That," said Alex, "reminds me of Charley O----'s mining experience. An Eastern company purchased a series of mines at Austin and made Charley superintendent of the company at a handsome salary. Charley proceeded to his post of duty, built a fine office and drew his salary for a year. He did his best, too, to make something of the property, but it is a most difficult thing to make a mine yield when there is no ore in it. The result was nothing but 'Irish dividends' for the stockholders. It was in the old days, before the railway came along. "One morning, when the overland coach drove into Austin, a gentleman dismounted, asked where the office of the Lucknow Gold and Silver Consolidated Mining and Milling Company was, and being directed, went to the office and without knocking, opened the door and walked in. Charley was sitting with his feet on the desk, smoking a cigar and reading the morning paper. "'Is Mr. O---- in?' politely inquired the stranger. "'I am Mr. O----,' responded Charley. The stranger unbuttoned his coat, dived into a side pocket and drawing out a formidable envelope, presented it to O----. "Charley tore open the envelope and found that the letter within was a formal notice from the secretary of the company that the bearer had been appointed superintendent and resident manager of the L. G. and S. C. M. & M. Co., and requesting O----to surrender to him the books and all other property of the company. After reading the letter Charley looked up and said to the stranger: "'And so you have come to take my place?' "'It seems so,' was the reply. "'On your account I am awfully sorry,' said Charley. "The stranger did not believe that he was in any particular need of sympathy. "'But you will not live six months here,' said Charley. "The stranger was disposed to take his chances. "This happened in August. Charley took the first stage and came in to Virginia City. In the following December the morning papers here contained a dispatch announcing that Mr. ----, superintendent of the Lucknow Gold and Silver Consolidated Mining and Milling Company, was dangerously ill of pneumonia. On the succeeding morning there was another dispatch from Austin saying that Mr. ----, late superintendent of the Lucknow Gold and Silver Consolidated Mining and Milling Company, died the previous evening and that the body would be sent overland to San Francisco, to be shipped from there to the East. Two days after that, about the time the overland coaches were due, Charley was seen wading through the mud down to the Overland barn. He went in and saw two coaches with fresh mud upon them. The curtains of the first were rolled up. The curtains of the second were buckled down close. O---- went to the second coach, loosened one of the curtains and threw it back; then reaching in and tapping the coffin with his knuckles, said: 'Didn't I tell you? Didn't I tell you? You thought you could stop my salary and still live. See what a fix it has brought you to!' And then he went away. No one would ever have known that he had been there had not an 'ostler overheard him. "Speaking of Austin, I think the remark made by Lawyer J. B. Felton of Oakland, California, regarding the mines of Austin, was as cute as anything I ever heard. When the mines were first discovered Felton was induced to invest a good deal of money in them. "The mines were three hundred and fifty miles from civilization, there being no reduction works of any kind, and pure silver would hardly have paid. So Felton did not realize readily from his investment. After some months had gone by Felton was standing on Montgomery street, San Francisco, one day when a long procession, celebrating St. Patrick's day, filed past. Of course Erin's flag was 'full high advanced' in the procession. Turning to a friend, Felton said: 'Can you tell why that flag is like a Reese River mine?' "The friend could not. "Said Felton: 'It's composed mostly of sham rock and a blasted lyre!'" Ashley was next to speak. "After all," said he, "the funniest things are sometimes those which are not meant to be funny at all. Steve Gillis, in a newspaper office down town, perpetrated one the other day. An Eastern editor was here, and when he found out how some of the men in the office were working he was paralyzed, and said to Gillis: "'There's ----, you will go into his room some day and find him dead. He will go like a flash some time. No man can do what he is doing and stand it.' "'Do you think so?' asked Gillis. "'Indeed I do; I know it,' said the man. "'Then,' said Gillis, 'you ought to be here. You would see the most magnificent funeral ever had in Virginia City.'" By this time it was very late and the Club dispersed for the night. Next morning Harding, who was reading the morning paper, came upon this item: A LIVELY SCRIMMAGE. Last evening, about seven-thirty o'clock, there was a terrific fight on Union Street, near the depot; four men against five. It lasted but a few minutes, but the five men were dreadfully beaten. No one seemed to know the origin of the fight. A boy who was standing across the street says the men met, a few low words passed between them, and then the fight ensued. The four men, who seem to have been the assailants, hardly suffered any damage, but the five others were so badly beaten that two of them had to be carried home, while the other three had fearful mansard roofs put upon them. There were no arrests; indeed little sympathy was felt for the injured men, for though at present at work in the mines, they are known as bullies and roughs by trade. No one seems to know who the victors were, except that they were miners. One man told our reporter that he knew one of the men by sight; that he was, he thought, a Gold Hill miner. No weapons were drawn on either side, and no loud words were spoken, but it was as fierce an encounter as has been seen here since the old fighting days. Harding looked up from the paper and said: "Wright, what was it you said about the drill of the Emmett Guards, last night?" "They are splendid, those Emmetts," was the reply, with an imperturbable face. CHAPTER XVI. Pay day was on the fifth of the month. On the night of the thirteenth, when the Club met at the usual hour for supper, Miller was not present. He was never as regular as the others, so the rest did not wait supper for him. After supper the Club settled down to their pipes, the Professor, the Colonel and Alex came in, and the usual discussion about stocks was indulged in for some minutes, the chief matter dwelt upon being the steady and unaccountable rise in Sierra Nevada. At length it was noticed that Carlin did not join as usual in the conversation, and Ashley asked him what he seemed so cast down about. At this Carlin shook himself together and said: "I will be glad if you will all give me your attention for a moment." He took a letter from his pocket and read as follows: CARLIN: When you receive this I shall be on my way, by horseback (overland), to Eastern Nevada. I am going to Austin, and if I do not obtain employment there, shall continue on to Eureka. You can find me in one place or the other by Sunday. The evening of pay day, with the money which the Club had placed in my hands to pay the bills, I went down town to carry out the wishes of the Club, when I met a friend, who is in the close confidence of the "big ring" of operators. He called me aside and told me that he had inside information that within three days Silver Hill would commence to jump, that within a week the present value would be multiplied by five or six and more likely by ten. That there would be an immediate and great advance he assured me was absolutely certain. He told me how he had received his information, and it seemed to me to be conclusive. I found a broker, unloaded my pockets, and bade him buy Silver Hill; to buy on a margin all he could afford to. The stock has fallen thirty per cent., and the indications are that it will go still lower. Yesterday I suppose it was sold out, for on the previous day I received a notice from the broker to please call at his office at once. My courage, that never failed me before, broke down. I could not go. The amount of money belonging to the Club which I had was altogether $575.00. Of course it in lost. It is a clear case of breach of trust, if not of embezzlement. You can make me smart for it, if you feel disposed to, or if you can give me the time, I can pay the money in about eight months after I get to work. That is, I can send you about eighty dollars per month. If wanted I will be in Austin or Eureka. I might make this letter much longer, but I suspect by the time you will have read this much, you will think it long enough. Believe me none of you can think meaner of me than I do of myself. JOE MILLER. After the reading of the letter, Wright was the first to find his voice. Said he: "It is too bad. I knew Miller was reckless, but I believed his recklessness never could go beyond his own affairs. I had implicit faith in him." "Had he only told us," said Ashley, "that he wanted to use the money, he could have had five times the sum." "What I hate about it, is the want of courage and the lack of faith in the rist of us," said Corrigan. "Why did he not come loike a mon and say, 'Boys, I have lost a trifle of your money in the malstroom of stocks; be patient and I will work out?'" "It is a pitiable business," said Carlin. "The money--that is the loss of it--does not hurt at all. But it was Miller who proposed the forming of this Club, and he is the one who first betrays us, and then lacks the sand to tell us about it frankly. But no matter. Jesus Christ failed to secure twelve men who were all true. What do you think of it, Brewster?" "What Miller has done," said Brewster, "is but a natural result when a working man goes down into the pit of stock gambling. The hope in that business is to obtain money without earning it. It is a kind of lunacy. In a few months, men so engaged lose everything like a steady poise to their minds. They take on all the attributes which distinguish the gambler. Their ideas are either up in the clouds or down in the depths. Worst of all, they forget that a dollar means so many blows, so many drops of sweat, that a dollar, when we see it, means that sometime, somewhere, to produce that dollar, an honest dollar's worth of work was performed, that when that dollar is transferred to another, another dollar's worth of work in some form must be given in return, or the eternal balance of Justice will be disarranged. Miller reached the point where he did not prize his own dollars at their true value. It ought not to be expected that he would be more careful of ours." "Colonel, what is your judgment about the business?" Carlin asked. "It seems to me," was the reply, "that when he went away Miller insulted all of you--all of us, for that matter. His conduct assumes that we are all pawnbrokers who would go into mourning over a few dollars lost." "Oh, no, I think not," said Strong. "Miller is a sensitive, high-strung man. He has been in all sorts of dangers and difficulties and has never faltered. At last he found himself in a place where, for the first time, he felt his honor wounded, and his courage failed him. He is not running away from us, he is trying to run away from himself." "What is your judgment, Professor?" asked Carlin. "As they say out here, Miller got off wrong," said the Professor; "and he seems blinded by the mistake so much that he cannot see his best way back." "Harding, why are you so still?" asked Carlin. "I am sorry for Miller," said Harding. "He is the best-hearted man in the world." "It is a most unpleasant business. What shall we do about it?" asked Carlin. "I wish all would express an opinion." "What ought to be done, Carlin?" asked Wright. Carlin answered: "The business way would be to formally expel him from the Club, and to write him that, without waiving any legal rights, we will give him the time he requires in which to settle." "That would no doubt be just," said Wright. "There would be no injustice in it, from a business standpoint," said Ashley. "He certainly," said Brewster, "would have no right to complain of such treatment." Said Corrigan: "The verdict of the worreld would be that we had acted fairly." "No one," said the Colonel, "could blame you for firing him out. He has not only wronged you directly, but at the same moment has attacked your credit in the city where you are owing bills." "That is true," said the Professor. "It is only a matter of discretion what to do," said Alex. "All the direct equities are against Miller." "There is no decision so fair as by a secret ballot," said Harding. "Let us take a vote on the proposition of Miller's expulsion, and all must take part." This was agreed to. Nine slips of paper were prepared, all of one size and length, one was given to each man to write "expulsion, yes," or "expulsion, no," as he pleased. A hat was placed on the table for a ballot-box; each in turn deposited his ballot and resumed his seat. The silence was growing painful when Brewster said: "Carlin, Miller wrote back to you; you will have to write to him. Suppose you be the returning board to count the votes and make up the returns." Carlin arose and went to the table. There he paused, and his face wore a look of extreme trouble; but he shook off the influence, whatever it was, stretched out his hand in an absent-minded way, picked up a ballot and slowly brought it before his eyes. He looked at it, turned it over and looked on the other side, then with a foolish laugh he said: "Why, the ballot is blank." He transferred it to his left hand, picked up another ballot with his right hand; looked at it; it, too, was blank. So in turn he took up one after another. They all were blank. As he called the last one and started to resume his seat, Harding, in a low voice, as to himself, said: "Thank God!" All looked a little foolish for a moment, and then the Colonel said: "Why, Carlin, you are not much of a returning board, after all." Said Corrigan: "It sames the convintion moved to make it unanimous." Said Carlin: "I could not vote to expel Miller. He has long been my friend. I know how sensitive he is. He wronged us a little, but I just could not do it." Said Brewster: "I could not do it, because that would be the quickest way to cause a man, when on the down grade, to keep on. To make him feel that those who have been most intimate with him, despise him, may be exact justice, but it seldom brings reformation." Said the Colonel: "I could not do it in his absence. It would have had a look of assassination from behind." "I could not do it," said the Professor. "The news would have got out and the Club would have been disgraced." "It was not much more than an error of judgment, on Miller's part," said Wright. "He never intended to wrong us out of a penny. Crime is measured only by the intention." "That is the true inwardness of the whole business, Wright, and that thought kept my ballot blank," was Alex's suggestion. "I could not do it," said Ashley. "His expulsion would have looked as though we measured friendship by dollars. If a man ever needs friends, it is when he is in trouble." "I could not do it," chimed in Corrigan. "Suppose all our mistakes shall be remimbered against us, how will we iver git admitted to the great Club above?" "I could not do it, because I love him," said Harding. "I feared," said Brewster, "that things were going wrong with Miller a week ago, when I noticed that in lieu of the costly chair which he first brought to the Club, he was using that old, second-hand cheap affair." "I think," said Harding, "that I have a right to tell now what has been a secret. You know Miller and myself worked together. We were coming up from the mine one evening, ten days ago, when we chanced to pass old man Arnold's cabin--Arnold, who was crippled by a fall in the Curry some months ago. The old man was sitting outside his cabin and resting his crippled limb on a crutch. Miller stopped and asked him how he was getting on, and talked pleasantly with him for a few minutes, when an express wagon came by. Miller left the old man with a pleasant word, asked me if I would not wait there a few minutes, hailed the expressman, jumped upon his wagon, said something to the man which I did not understand, and the wagon was driven rapidly away. "In a few minutes it returned; Miller sprang down; the expressman handed him the great easy chair; he carried it into the door of the cabin, setting it just inside; then lifted the old man in his arms from his hard chair, placed him in the soft cushions of the other, moved it gently until it was in just the position where the old man could best enjoy looking at the descending night; then, picking up the old battered chair, he said, cheerily: 'Arnold, I want to trade chairs with you,' and walked so rapidly away that the old man could not recover from his surprise enough to thank him. This old chair is the one he brought away. "Coming home he said to me: 'Harding, don't give me away on this business, please. We are all liable to be crippled some time, and to need comforts which we do not half appreciate now. I would have given the old man the chair two weeks ago, but I did not have it quite paid for at that time.' "I tell you the story now because I do not think there is any obligation to keep it a secret any longer." When Harding had finished there was not one man present who was not glad that the vote had resulted unanimously against the generous man's expulsion. The next question was as to the form of the letter that should be sent Miller. This awakened a good deal of discussion. It was finally decided that each should write a letter, and that the one which should strike the Club most favorably should be sent, or that from the whole a new letter should be prepared. Writing materials were brought out and all went to work on their letters. For several minutes nothing but the scratching of pens broke the silence. When the letters were all completed, Carlin was called upon to read first. He proceeded as follows: VIRGINIA CITY, August 13th, 1878. Friend Miller:--The Club has talked everything over. All think you made a great mistake in going away, and that it would be better for you to return to your work. Your old place in the Club will be kept open for you. Sincerely yours, TOM CARLIN. Wright read next as follows: VIRGINIA CITY, August 13th, 1878. JOE:--I make a poor hand at writing. I have been banging hammers too many years. But what I want to say is, you had better, so soon as your visit is over, come along back. There wasn't a bit of sense in your going away. Your absence breaks up the equilibrium of the Club amazingly. The whole outfit is becoming demoralized, and the members are growing more garrulous than so many magpies. We shall look for you within a week. We all want to see you. Your sincere friend, ADRIAN WRIGHT. The Colonel responded next. VIRGINIA CITY, August 13th, 1878. MILLER:--You made a precious old fool of yourself, rushing off as you did. Are you the first man who has ever been deceived by Comstock "dead points?" If you think you are, try and explain how it is that while some thousands of bright fellows have devotedly pursued the business during the past fifteen years, you can, in five minutes, count on your fingers all that have saved a quarter of a dollar at the business. The whole Club join me in saying that you ought to return without delay. Yours truly, SAVAGE. The Professor's letter, which was next read, was as follows: VIRGINIA CITY, August 13th, 1878. DEAR MILLER:--We do not like your going away. The act was deficient in candor, and seems to have a look as though you estimated yourself or the Club at too low a figure. Suppose you did get a little off; the true business would have been to have told us all about it. We would have "put up the mud" and carried the thing along until it came your way. But what is done is done. The thing to decide now is what it is best for you to do. Austin is no place for you. The mines there are rich, but the veins are small and the district restricted. In that camp the formation makes impossible the creation of a big body of ore; the fissures are necessarily small. You would die of asphyxia within a month or go blind searching for a place where an ore body "could make." Eureka is open to other objections. It would require six months for you to become acclimated there, and the chances are that within that time you would be tied up in a knot with lead colic. The proper course to pursue is to come back. The Club are all agreed on that proposition. Yours truly, STONEMAN. Ashley's letter, in these words, followed: VIRGINIA CITY, August 13th, 1878. DEAR FRIEND JOE:--Your going away has caused us ever so much trouble. It was foolish and cruel of you to imagine--even when you were in trouble--that any of the Club weighed friendship on old-fashioned placer diggings gold scales. We are sorry for your misfortune, but it is on _your_ account that we are sorry. It is not so serious that it cannot be made up in a little while, if you do not persist in remaining in some place where there are no opportunities to do any good for yourself. It may be a long time, among strangers, before you can obtain employment. Because you have made one mistake, do not make another, but without delay come back. This is Tuesday. It will take you until about Saturday next to get to Austin. You will be pretty badly used up and will have to rest a day. But on Sunday evening you ought to start back by stage and rail. That will bring you home a week from to-day. A week from to-night then, we shall expect your account of how big the mosquitoes are at the sink of the Carson, and what your opinion is of Churchill County as a location for a country residence. Yours fraternally, HERBERT ASHLEY. Alex's letter was very brief, as follows: VIRGINIA CITY, August 13th, 1878. Come back, Joe. Were your precedent to be strictly followed, we should suddenly lose a majority of our most respected citizens. In the interest of society and of the Club come. ALEX. TO MR. JOE MILLER, Austin. Corrigan did not like to read his letter, but the Club insisted, and after declaring that the Club would get "a dale the worst of it," he proceeded as follows: VIRGINIA CITY, Nevada, August 13th, 1878. DEAR AULD JO:--It's murthered yees ought to be for doing onything phat compills me to write you a lether. Whin I commince to write I fale as though all the air pipes were shut off intirely. I would sooner pick up a thousand dollars in the strate, ony day, than to have to hould a pin in me hand and make sinse in my head at the same moment. You know that same, too, and hince phy did yees go away and force all this work upon me? Is it in love wid horseback exercise that ye are? We have been talkin' your case over, quiet loike, in the Club, and we have unanimously rached the irresistible conclusion that it was an unpatriotic thing for yees to do--to propose this Club business and thin dezart it just whin our habits had become fixed, so to spake; and it would become a mather of sarious inconvanience for us to change. In this wurreld a man can shirk onything excipt his duty, and it is a plain proposition that it is your duty immejitely to come back. My poor fingers are cramped to near brakin' by this writin', and it is your falt, the whole of it, ond I pray yees don't let it happen ony more. Faithfully, B. CORRIGAN. P. S.--Should you nade a bit of coin to return comfortably draw on me through W. F. & Co. BARNEY. Harding read next. VIRGINIA, August 13th, 1878. DEAR FRIEND MILLER:--Enclosed I send certificate of deposit for $100. The Club desire, unanimously, that you return without a moment's unnecessary delay. All agree that this is the best field for you. I will see the foreman in the morning, tell him you have been called away for a week and get him to hold your place for you. It was very wicked of you to go away. You can only get forgiveness by hurrying back. Lovingly, HARDING. Brewster's was the final letter, and was in these words: VIRGINIA CITY, Nevada. } 8th month, 13th day, A. D. 1878. } MR. JOSEPH MILLER: DEAR SIR AND FRIEND:--I have this evening, with great pain, learned that you have left this place, and, moreover, have heard explained the reasons which prompted that course on your part. It would be a lack of candor on my part not to inform you that I sincerely deplore the wrong which you have done yourself and us. At the same time I believe that the real date of the wrong was when you permitted yourself first to engage in stock gambling. This world is framed on a foundation of perfect justice. The books of the Infinite always exactly balance. In the beginning it was decreed that man should have nothing except what he earned. It was meant that the world's accumulations of treasures--in money, in brain, in love, or in any other material that man holds dear--should, from day to day, and from year to year, represent simply the honest effort put forth to produce the treasure. Men have changed this in form. Some men get what they have not earned; but the rule is inexorable and cannot be changed. The books must balance. So when one man gets more than his share, the amount has to be made up by the toil of some other man or men. This last is what you have been called upon to do, and, naturally, you suffer. But I acquit you of any sinister intention toward us. So do we all. Your fault was when you first attempted to set aside God's law. You may recall what was said a few nights ago. "The decree which was read at Eden's gate is still in full force, and behind it, just as of old, flashes the flaming sword." We have thoughtfully considered your case. The unanimous conclusion is that you should at once return; that here among friends and acquaintances, with the heavy work which is going on, you have a far better opportunity to recover your lost ground than you possibly could among strangers. Moreover, you are familiar with this lode and the manner of working these mines. You are likewise accustomed to this climate, hence I conclude that your chances against accident or disease would be from fifteen to twenty per cent. in favor of your returning. In conclusion, I beg, without meaning any offense, but on the other hand, with a sincere desire to serve you, to say that I have a few hundred dollars on hand, enough perhaps to cover all your indebtedness here. If you would care to use it, it shall be yours, _in hearty welcome_, until such time as you can conveniently return it. I beg, sir, to subscribe myself your friend and servant, JAMES BREWSTER. "God bless you, Brewster," said Harding impetuously. "That is a boss lether," said Corrigan. "I could not do better than that myself," was Ashley's comment. "It is a diamond drill, and strikes a bonanza on the lower level," said Carlin. "The formation is good, the pay chute large, the trend of the lode most regular, the grade of the ore splendid," said the Professor. Wright said: "It is a good letter, sure." "It reads as I fancy the photographs of the Angels of Mercy and Justice look when taken together," suggested Alex. The Colonel remarked that the letter established the fact that Brewster was not so bad a man as he looked to be. What should be sent to Miller was next discussed again. It was finally determined that all the letters should be sent except Harding's; that he should rewrite his, and instead of sending the certificate of deposit, should, like Corrigan, instruct Miller to draw on him if he needed money, and that any such drafts should be shared by the whole Club. Then the money to pay the bills was raised among the old members of the Club, and placed in Carlin's hands to be paid out next day. When all was finished a sort of heaviness came upon the company. There was an impression of sorrow upon them. They had been happy in their innocent enjoyment, but suddenly one who was a favorite, who was at heart the most generous one of the company, had failed them, and they brooded over the change. At length Harding roused himself and said: "Miller must be sleeping somewhere down in the desert to-night. I wish I could call to him by telephone and bring him back." "That reminds me," said Alex, "of something that I heard of yesterday. Down at the Sisters' Academy there is a telephone. There is a little miss attending that school, and every morning at a certain hour there is a ring at a certain house down town. The response goes back, 'Who is it?' and then the conversation goes on as follows: 'Is that you, papa?' 'Yes!' 'Good morning, papa!' 'Good morning, little one.' 'Is mamma there?' 'Yes.' 'Say good morning and give my love to mamma.' 'Yes.' 'Goodbye.' 'Good bye.' "In the evening the same call is made; the same answer; and then from the still convent on noiseless pinions these words go out through the night, and pulsate on the father's ear: 'Good night, papa! Good night, mamma! a kiss for each of you!' and then the weird instrument materializes two kisses for the father's ear. "He is a rough fellow, but he declares that since he commenced to receive those kisses, he knows that an answer to prayer is not impossible; that if that child's voice can come to him, stealing past the night patrol unheard, stealing in clear and distinct and like a benediction, while the winds and the city are roaring outside, there is nothing wonderful in believing that on the invisible wire of faith the same voice could send its music to the furthest star, and that the Great Father would bend His ear to listen." "It is a pretty story," said Brewster. "The telephone is the most poetical of inventions. There is a metallic sound to the click of the telegraph, as though its chief use was to further the work and the worry of mankind. There is something like a sob to the perfecting press, as though saddened by the very thought of the abuses it must reform. There is a something about a steam engine which reminds one of the heavy respirations of the slave, toiling on his chain, but the telephone has a voice for but one ear at a time, and when it is a voice that we love its messages come like caresses. "Not the least of its triumphs is that it has broken the silence of the convent. "At last voices from the outer world thrill through the thick walls, and the patient women who are immured there hear the good nights and the kisses which by loving lips are sent away to loving homes. How their starved hearts must be thrilled by those messages! Sometimes, too, they must realize that the course of Nature cannot be changed; that the beginning of heaven is in the love which canopies true homes on earth. But with that thought there comes another, that from the Infinite, to palace, convent and humble homes alike, celestial wires, too fine for mortal eyes to discern, stretch down, and all alike are held in one sheltering hand. Sometime all these wires will work in accord, and the good-nights and the kisses in the souls of men will materialize into harmony and fill the world with music." "That is, Brewster," said Corrigan, "supposin' the wires do not get crossed and the girls do not kiss the wrong papas." "Suppose, Brewster," said the Colonel, "that at the final concert it shall be discovered that certain gentlemen have not settled their monthly rents for a long time, and their connection has been cut off?" "There is no music where there are no ears to hear," said Wright. "What if some souls are born deaf and dumb?" "Suppose," said the Professor, "that there are souls which have no ear for music?" "I do not know," said Brewster, "but I fancy that the fairest final prizes may not be to the best musicians, but to those who made the sorest sacrifices in order to get a ticket to the concert." With this the good nights were repeated. CHAPTER XVII. At length there came a day when there was real trouble in the Club. The foreman of the mine in which Wright was at work ordered Wright and a fellow miner to go to the surface to assist in handling some machinery which was to be sent down into the mine. The two men stepped upon the cage and three bells were sounded--the signal to the engineer at the surface that men were to be hoisted and all care used. The cage started from the 2,400-foot level. Nothing unusual happened until, as they neared the surface, Wright said to his comrade: "By the way we are passing the levels, it seems to me they must be in a hurry on top." The other miner answered: "I guess it is all right;" but hardly were the words spoken, when they shot up into the light; in an instant the cage went crashing into the sheaves and was crushed, the men being thrown violently out. Wright's companion, as he fell, struck partly on the curbing of the shaft, rolled in and was of course dashed to pieces. Wright was thrown outside the shaft, and though not killed outright, two or three ribs were broken, one lung was badly injured, besides he was otherwise terribly bruised. People unfamiliar with mining may not understand the above. On the Comstock the hoisting engines are set from forty to eighty feet from the mouths of the shafts. Directly over the shafts are frames from thirty to fifty feet in height, on which pulleys (rimmed iron wheels) are fastened. The cages are lowered and raised by flat, plaited, steel wire cables, which are generally four or five inches wide and about three-eighths of an inch in thickness. This cable is first coiled on the reel of the engine, then the loose end is drawn over the pulley, then down to the cage, to which it is made fast. The wheel of a pulley is called a sheave, and by habit it has grown to be a common expression to call the block and wheel in hoisting works "the sheaves." At intervals of one or two hundred feet on the cables they are wound with white cloth, as a guide to the engineer, as the cable is uncoiled in lowering or coiled in hoisting. Also, on the outer rim of the reel, is a dial with figures or marks at regular intervals, and a hand (like the hand of a clock) which perpetually indicates to the engineer about where the cage is in all stages of lowering or hoisting. These engineers work eight hour shifts, and sometimes twelve. Of the nature of their work an idea can be formed by the statement that during the two or three years when the great Bonanza in the California and Con. Virginia mines was giving up its treasure, through two double-compartment shafts, all the work of those two mines was carried on. The main ore body was between the 1,300-foot and 1,700-foot levels. Every day from six hundred to eight hundred men were lowered into and hoisted out of the mine. One hundred thousand feet (square measure) of timbers were lowered daily (three million feet per month); nearly or quite one thousand tons of ore was hoisted daily; the picks, drills and gads were sent up to be sharpened and returned; the powder used and five tons of ice daily were lowered, and besides this work, there was machinery to lower and hoist; the waste rock to be handled and visitors and officers of the mine to be lowered and hoisted. The cages are about four feet six inches in length and three feet in width, and are simply iron frames with a wooden floor and iron bonnet over the top and made to exactly fit the size of the shaft. Three of these compartments had double cages--one above the other, and one had three cages. A three-decker carries three tons of ore or twenty-seven men at a time. Of course when such work is being driven, the eyes of an engineer have to be every moment on their work. Men follow the occupation for months and years without an accident or mistake, but now and then, through the ceaseless strain, their nerves break down; something like an aberration of the mind comes over them and they watch, dazed like sleep-walkers, as the cage shoots out of the shaft and mounts up into the sheaves and cannot command themselves enough to move the lever of the engine which is in their hand. Such an accident as this overtook Wright and his companion. Poor Wright was carried home by brother miners. The accident happened only about an hour before the time for changing shifts and hardly was Wright laid in his bed before the other members of the Club met at their home. The best surgical talent of the city was called; the members of the Club took turns in watching; there was not a moment that one or the other was not bending over their friend. At first, when he rallied from the shock of the injury, Wright told all about the accident. He further told his friends that he had no near relatives, instructed the Club, in the event of his death, to open his trunk, burn the papers and divide the little money there among themselves, designated little presents for each one and said: "Miller will be grieved if I die, and may think my heart was not altogether warm toward him, so give him my watch; it is the most valuable trinket that I have." When the first reaction from the shock came, his friends were encouraged to believe he would recover; but it was a vain hope. He soon went into a half unconscious, half delirious state, from which it was hard to 'rouse him for even a few minutes at a time. He lay that way for two days and nights and then died. On the afternoon of the second day it was clear that he was almost gone--the spray began to splash upon his brow from the dark river--and all the Club grouped around him. Out of the shadow of death his mind cleared for a moment. In almost his old natural tones, but weak, like the voices heard through a telephone, he said: "I have seen another mirage, boys. It was the old home under the Osage shadows. It was all plain; the old house, the orchard, the maples were red in the autumn sun, and my mother, who died long ago, seemed to be there, smiling and holding out her arms to me. "It was all real, but you don't know how tired I am. Carlin, old friend, turn me a little on my side and let me sleep." Gently as mothers move their helpless babes, the strong miner turned his friend upon his pillows. He breathed shorter and shorter for a few minutes, then one long sigh came from his mangled breast, and all was still. There was perfect silence in the room for perhaps five minutes. Then Brewster, with a voice full of tears, said: "God grant that the mirage is now to him a delicious reality," and all the rest responded, "Amen." The undertaker came, the body was dressed for the grave and placed in a casket, and the Club took up their watch around it. Now and then a subdued word was spoken, but they were very few. The hearts of the watchers were all full, and conversation seemed out of place. Wright was one of the most manly of men, and the hearts of the friends were very sore. The evening wore on until ten o'clock came, when there fell a gentle knock on the outer door. The door was opened and by the moonlight four men could be seen outside. One of them spoke: "We 'eard as 'ow Hadrian wur gone, and thot to sing a wee bit to he as 'ow the lad might be glad." They were the famous quartette of Cornish miners and were at once invited in. They filed softly into the room--the Club rising as they entered--and circled around the casket. After a long look upon the face of the sleeper they stood up and sang a Cornish lament. Their voices were simply glorious. The words, simple but most pathetic, were set to a plaintive air, the refrain of each stanza ending in some minor notes, which gave the impression that tears of pity, as they were falling, had been caught and converted into music. The effect was profound. The stoicism of the Club was completely broken down by it. When the lament ceased all were weeping, while warm-hearted and impetuous Corrigan was sobbing like a grieved child. The quartette waited a moment and then sang a Cornish farewell, the music of which, though mostly very sad, had, here and there, a bar or two such as might be sung around the cradle of Hope, leaving a thought that there might be a victory even over death, and which made the hymn ring half like the _Miserere_ and half like a benediction. When this was finished and the quartette had waited a moment more, with their magnificent voices at full volume, they sang again--a requiem, which was almost a triumph song, beginning: Whatever burdens may be sent For mortals here to bear, It matters not while faith survives And God still answers prayer. I will not falter, though my path Leads down unto the grave; The brave man will accept his fate, And God accepts the brave. Then with a gentle "Good noight, lads," they were gone. It was still in the room again until Corrigan said: "I hope Wright heard that singin'; the last song in particular." "Who knows?" said Ashley. "It was all silence here; those men came and filled the place with music. Who knows that it will not, in swelling waves, roll on until it breaks upon the upper shore?" "Who knows," said Harding, "that he did not hear it sung first and have it sent this way to comfort us? I thought of that when the music was around us, and I fancied that some of the tones were like those that fell from Wright's lips, when, in extenuation of Miller's fault, he was reminding us that it was the intent that measured the wrong, and that Miller never intended any wrong. Music is born above and comes down; its native place is not here." "He does not care for music," said the Colonel. "See how softly he sleeps. All the weariness that so oppressed him has passed away. The hush of eternity is upon him, and after his hard life that is sweeter than all else could be." "Oh, cease, Colonel," said Brewster. "Out of this darkened chamber how can we speak as by authority of what is beyond. As well might the mole in his hole attempt to tell of the eagle's flight. "We only know that God rules. We watched while the great transition came to our friend. One moment in the old voice he was conversing with us; the next that voice was gone, but we do not believe that it is lost. As we were saying of the telephone, when we speak those only a few feet away hear nothing. The words die upon the air, and we explain to ourselves that they are no more. But thirty miles away, up on the side of the Sierras, an ear is listening, and every tone and syllable is distinct to that ear. Who knows what connections can be made with those other heights where Peace rules with Love? "Our friend whose dust lies here was not called from nothing simply to buffet through some years of toil and then to return to nothing through the pitiless gates of Death. To believe such a thing would be to impeach the love, the mercy and the wisdom of God. Wright is safe somewhere and happier than he was with us. I should not wonder if Harding's theory were true, and that it was to comfort us that he impelled those singers to come here." "Brewster," said Alex, "your balance is disturbed to-night. You say 'from out our darkened chamber we cannot see the light,' and then go on to assert that Wright is happier than when here. You do not know; you hope so, that is all. So do I, and by the calm that has pressed its signet on his lips, I am willing to believe that all that was of him is as much at rest as is his throbless heart, and that the mystery which so perplexes us--this something which one moment greets us with smiles and loving words, but which a moment later is frozen into everlasting silence--is all clear to him now. I hope so, else the worlds were made in vain, and the sun in heaven, and all the stars whose white fires fill the night, are worthy of as little reverence as a sage brush flame; and it was but a cruel plan which permitted men to have life, to kindle in their brains glorious longings and in their hearts to awaken affections more dear than life itself." Then Harding, as if to himself repeated: "It matters not while Faith survives, and God still answers prayer." Half an hour more passed, then the Colonel arose, looked long on the face in the casket and said: "How peaceful is his sleep. The mystery of the unseen brings no look of surprise to his face. Around him is the calm of the dreamless bivouac: the brooding wings of eternal rest have spread their hush above him. To-morrow the merciful earth will open her robes of serge to receive him; in her ample bosom will fold his weary limbs, and while he sleeps will shade his eyes from the light. In a brief time, save to the few of us who love him, he will be forgotten among men. Days will dawn and set; the seasons will advance and recede; the years will ebb and flow; the tempest and the sunshine will alternately beat upon his lonely couch, until ere long it will be leveled with the surrounding earth; his body will dissolve into its original elements and it will be as though he had never lived. The great ocean of life will heave and swell, and there will be no one to remember this drop that fell upon the earth in spray and was lost. "This is as it seems to us, straining our dull eyes out upon the profound beyond our petty horizon. But who knows? We can trace the thread of this life as it was until it passed beyond the range of our visions, but who of us knows whether it was all unwound or whether in the 'beyond' it became a golden chain so strong that even Death can not break it, and thrilled with harmonies which could never vibrate on this frail thread that broke to-day?" Then the Colonel sat down and the Professor stood up, and with his left hand resting on the casket, said: "Three days ago this piece of crumbling dust was a brave soldier of peace. I mean the words in their fullest sense. Just now our brothers in the East are fearful lest so much silver will be produced that it will become, because of its plentifulness, unfit to be a measure of values. They do not realize what it costs or they would change their minds. They do not know how the gnomes guard their treasures, or what defense Nature uprears around her jewels. They revile the stamp which the Government has placed upon the white dollar. Could they see deeper they would perceive other stamps still. There would be blood blotches and seams made by the trickling of the tears of widows and orphans, for before the dollar issues bright from the mint, it has to be sought for through perils which make unconscious heroes of those who prosecute the search. For nearly twenty years now, on this lode, tragedies like this have been going on. We hear it said: 'A man was killed to-day in the Ophir,' or 'a man was dashed to pieces last night in the Justice,' and we listen to it as merely the rehearsal of not unexpected news. Could a list of the men who have been killed in this lode be published, it would be an appalling showing. It would outnumber the slain of some great battle. "Besides the deaths by violence, hundreds more, worn out by the heat and by the sudden changes of temperature between the deep mines and the outer air, have drooped and died. "The effect is apparent upon our miners. Their bearing perplexes strangers who come here. They do not know that in the conquests of labor there are fields to be fought over which turn volunteers into veteran soldiers quite as rapidly as real battle fields. They know nothing about storming the depths; of breaking down the defences of the deep hills. They can not comprehend that the quiet men whom they meet here on the streets are in the habit of shaking hands with Death daily until they have learned to follow without emotion the path of duty, let it lead where it may, and to accept whatever may come as a matter of course. "Such an one was this our friend, who fell at his post; fell in the strength of his manhood, and when his great heart was throbbing only in kindness to all the world. "One moment he exulted in his splendid life, the next he was mangled and crushed beyond recovery. "Still there was no repining, no spoken regrets. For years the possibility of such a fate as this had been before his eyes steadily; it brought much anguish to him, but no surprise. "He had lived a blameless life. As it drew near its close the vision of his mother was mercifully sent to him, and so in his second birth the same arms received him that cradled him when before he was as helpless as he is now. "By the peace that is upon him, I believe those arms are around his soul to-night; I believe he would not be back among us if he could. "We have a right on our own account to grieve that he is gone, but not on his. He filled on earth the full measure of an honest, honorable, brave and true life. That record went before him to Summer Land. I believe it is enough and that he needs neither tears nor regrets." The Professor sat down and Corrigan then arose and went and looked long and fondly upon the upturned face. At last in a low voice he said: "Auld frind, if yees can, give me a sign some time that something was saved from this mighty wrick. I will listen for the call in the dape night. I will listen by the timbers in the dape drifts; come back if yees can and give us a hope that there will be hand clasps and wilcomes for us whin the last shift shall be worked out." So one after the other talked until the night stole away before the smile of the dawn. Harding pulled aside the curtains, and at that moment the sun, panoplied in glory, shed rosy tints all over the desert to the eastward. "See," said Harding. "It was on such a morning as this that on the desert was painted the mirage which troubled poor Wright so much, until the clearer light drove it away. Let us hope that there are no refractions of the rays to bring fear to him where he is." There was the usual inquest, and on the second day after his death, Wright was buried. After the funeral his effects were looked over; the bills were paid, a simple stone was ordered to be placed over his grave, and his money, some few hundred dollars, was divided among the hospitals of the city. CHAPTER XVIII. A few days more went by, but the old joy of the Club was no more. Wright was gone, and all that had been heard from Miller was a brief note thanking the Club for their kindness, but giving no intimation that he contemplated returning. One morning about the twenty-fifth of the month the five miners who were left went away to their work as usual, but all were unusually depressed, as though a sense of sorrow or of approaching sorrow was upon them. As said before, Brewster was working in the Bullion. Toward noon of this day word was passed down into the other mines that an accident was reported in the Bullion; some said it was a cave and some that it was a fire, but it was not certainly known. Each underground foreman and boss was instructed to see that the bulkheads, which, when closed, shut off the underground connections between the several mines, were made ready to be closed at a moment's notice, in case the accident proved to be a fire. The whisper of "fire in the mine" is a terrible one on the Comstock, for in the deeps there are dried timbers sufficient to build a great city, and once on fire they would make a roaring hell. When the news of an accident in the Bullion was circulated in the other mines, but one thought took form in the minds of the other four members of the Club. Brewster was working in the Bullion, and it might be that he was in peril. Within half an hour, and almost at the same moment, Carlin, Corrigan, Ashley and Harding appeared at the Bullion hoisting works. The superintendent stood at the shaft, and though perfectly self-contained, he was very pale and it needed but a glance at his face to know that he was either suffering physically or was greatly troubled. By this time, too, the wives of the miners at work in the Bullion had commenced to gather around the works. Mingled with the condensing vapors at the mouth of the shaft, there was the ominous odor of burning timbers. Just as the Club miners entered the Bullion works, the bell struck and the cage came rapidly to the surface. There was nothing on the cage, but tied to one of the iron braces was a slip of paper. This the superintendent seized and eagerly scanned. Turning to a miner who stood near, he said: "Sandy, go outside and tell those women to go home. Say to them that the accident involves only one man, and he has no family here. His name is Brewster, and we hope to save him yet." At this the four members of the Club sprang to the shaft and demanded to be let down. They were sternly ordered back by the superintendent. "But," said Carlin, fiercely, "this man whom you have named is like a brother to us; if he is in danger we must go to his rescue." The rest were quite as eager in their demands. Seeing how earnest they were, the superintendent said: "You are strangers to the mine. The whole working force from all the levels has been sent to the point of the accident. You would only be in the way." But they still insisted, vehemently. Said Ashley: "Your men are working for money, and will take no risks; it is different with us." "You do not know what you are doing in refusing us," said Harding; "that man's life is worth a thousand ordinary lives." "Suppose your brother were in danger and some man stood in the way forbidding you to go to him, what would you think?" asked Carlin. "Yees are superintindint and rule this mine," said Corrigan, "but you have no rule over min's lives, and this is a matter of the grandest life upon the lode, and yees have no right to refuse us." "Very well," said the superintendent; "if you men can be of any possible use you shall be sent down." On a bit of paper he wrote a brief note, tied it to the frame of the cage and sent it down. When the cage disappeared in the shaft, he turned to the men and explained that he had been upon the surface but a few minutes; that long before a drift had been run off from the main gallery at the twenty-one hundred-foot level some fifty feet through ground so hard that it had never required timbering. At the farther end soft ground had been encountered and a stringer of ore. Following this stringer a lateral drift had been run some fifty feet each way. This lateral drift was timbered when it was run. No ore of any value having been uncovered the work was abandoned, and since then the drift had been used as a storage place for powder and candles. That morning the foreman had gone into this drift with a surveyor to establish some point which the engineer required. To assist the surveyor the foreman had stuck his candlestick into a timber and had gone with the surveyor to one end of this lateral drift. Looking back they saw that the candle had fallen against the timber, which was dry as tinder. It had caught on fire and the flame had already run up and was in the logging. They rushed back, and though not seriously injured, were pretty badly scorched. All the miners in the mine were called to that point, and the work of putting out the fire, or of keeping it from connecting with the main drift, was begun. The superintendent was at the time on the twenty-four hundred-foot level. He had hastened to the spot at the first alarm. A donkey pump was at the twenty-one hundred-foot station, with plenty of hose. This was running within fifteen minutes. The fire, after burning a little way in each direction along the lateral drift, exhausting the oxygen in the air, ceased to flame and just burrowed its way through the timbers. This produced a dense and sifting smoke. A heavy stream of water was turned into this drift, the superintendent directing the work until, under the heat and smoke, he had fainted and been brought to the surface. Holding up the note which had come up on the cage, he said the man Brewster who was holding the nozzle of the hose had gone too far into the drift, under where the logging had burned away and had been caught in a cave, but the rest were working to release him. The bell sounded again and in three minutes the cage shot out of the shaft. The paper which it brought had only these few words: "If you can send two (2) first-class miners, all right, but not more. Any others would only be in the way. It is a very dangerous place, don't send any but thorough men." This was signed by the foreman. When the superintendent read the note the four men rushed forward, and for a moment their clamors were indescribable. "It is my place to go," said Ashley. "I have as little to live for as any of you. Do not hold me back." "Stand back," said Harding. "I would rather never go home than not to go with Brewster." Seizing Harding by the arm, Carlin hurled him back, exclaiming: "Art crazy, boy? Your bark is but just launched; this is work for old hulks that are used to rocks and storms." Over all the voice of Corrigan rang out: "Hould, men! This is me place. Me life has been but a failure. I will make what amind I can," and he sprang upon the cage, and, seizing a brace with either hand, turned his glittering eyes upon his friends. At length over the Babel the voice of the superintendent was heard commanding "Silence!" "You all alike seem determined," he said, "but only two can go. You will have to draw lots to decide." This proposition was with many murmurs agreed to. The superintendent prepared four bits of paper, two long and two short ones. He placed the slips in his hat, and, holding it above the level of the men's eyes, said: "You will each draw a slip of paper; the two who draw the long slips will go, the others will remain. Go on with the drawing!" The long slips were drawn by Corrigan and Carlin. With smiles of triumph these two shook hands with the others, who were weeping. Said Corrigan: "Whativer may happen, do not grave, boys. I will see yees again before night, or--I will see me mither." The two men stepped upon the cage. In his old careless way, Carlin said: "Don't worry about me, boys! I will come back by and by and bring Brewster, or I will know as much as Wright does before night." With these words the two devoted men disappeared with the cage into the dreadful depths. With bitter self-reproaches the two remaining men sat down and waited. A half hour went by, when the bell struck and the engine began to hoist. The cage again bore only a slip of paper. This the superintendent read as follows: "We have had another cave; another man is hurt; all the miners are much exhausted. Send a couple more men if possible." The two men sprang upon the cage, the superintendent joined them, and they were rapidly lowered into the depths. Reaching the fatal level, they learned that Corrigan and Carlin, on going down, had insisted on taking the lead; that they had partly uncovered Brewster when another cave had come. It had caught and buried Corrigan, but Carlin, though stunned and bruised somewhat, had escaped. By this time the smoke had partially cleared, but the drift was intensely hot. The superintendent again took charge. Timbers and heavy plank were brought. The drift was rapidly shored up, and within an hour Harding and Ashley recovered the body of Corrigan. There was very little rock over him, but he was quite dead. He had been struck and crushed by a boulder from the roof of the drift. He was bending down at the time, the boulder struck him fairly in the back of the neck and he must have died instantly. Very soon Brewster's body, too, was uncovered. He also was dead. He had been buried by decomposed rock, and had died from asphyxia. The bodies were carried to the shaft; each was wrapped in a blanket, and that of Corrigan was placed upon the cage. The superintendent, with Carlin and two other miners, stepped on the cage and it was hoisted to the surface. It returned in a few minutes, and this time Brewster's body was placed upon it, and Harding and Ashley, with two other miners, accompanied it to the surface. In the daylight the faces of the dead were both peaceful, as though in sleep. The bodies were sent away to an undertaker, and as Brewster had been heard to say, at Wright's funeral, that if he should die in the West, he would want his body sent East to be buried beside that of his wife, word was sent to the undertaker to try and get the coroner's permission and then to embalm the body of Brewster. The three remaining members of the Club were carried to their dreary home. Besides their sorrow, they were terribly exhausted. Harding had fainted once in the drift; Carlin was, besides being worn out, badly bruised, and Ashley was so exhausted that upon reaching the surface he was seized with chills and vomiting. The Professor, the Colonel and Alex were at the hoisting works when they were hoisted to the surface. They accompanied them home and remained, ministering to them until late in the night, when at last all were sleeping peacefully. With the morning the desolateness of their situation seemed more oppressive than ever. Yap Sing had prepared a dainty breakfast, but when they entered the dining room and saw only three plates where a few days before there had been seven, it was impossible for them to eat a mouthful. Each drank a cup of black coffee, but neither tasted food. Returned to the sitting room, it was determined to examine the effects of their dead friends. There was little in Corrigan's bundles except clothing and a memorandum book. This book had $150 in greenbacks, and a great many memorandums of stocks purchased, extending over a period of three years. These, a few words at the bottom of the pages showed, had almost all been sold either on too short margins or for assessments. Corrigan's humor ran all through the book in penciled remarks. The following are samples: "I had a sure thing; was the only mon in the sacret. I was but one and I caught it." "I bate Mr. Broker mon. He bought for me on a fifty per cint margin, and it broke that fast he could not get out from below it." "This was a certain sure point. Bedad, I found it that same." "I took the Scorpion to my bosom and, the blackguard, he stung me." "I stuck to Jacket until I had not a ghoust of a jacket to me back." "I made love to Julia. She was more ungrateful than Maggie Murphy." But between these same pages was found the letter Corrigan had received announcing his mother's death, and this was almost illegible because of the tear stains upon it. In Brewster's trunk everything was found in the perfect order which had marked all his ways. A book showed every dollar that he had received since coming to the Comstock; his monthly expenses, the sums he had sent his sister for his children, and his bank book showed exactly how much was to his credit. Another paper was found giving directions that if anything fatal should happen to him, his body should be returned to Taunton, Massachusetts, and if anything should be left above the necessary expenses of forwarding his body, the amount should be sent to his sister, Mrs. Martha Wolcott, of Taunton, for his children. The paper also contained an order on his banker for whatever money might be to his credit, and a statement that he owed no debts. There were also sealed letters directed to each of his children. Another large package was tied up carefully and endorsed, "My children's letters. Please return them to Taunton without breaking the package." The bank book showed that there was eleven hundred and sixty-three dollars to his credit. Brewster was a man that even death could not surprise. He was always ready. When the examination was completed, Carlin suggested to Ashley that he take the book, call at the bank, see if the amount was correct and if the bank would pay it on the order found in the book. Ashley hesitated. "There is something else, Carlin, that should be done, but I do not know how to go about it. That sister should be advised of her brother's death, that she may communicate the news to Brewster's children." "I have been thinking of that ever since yesterday," said Carlin, "but I can not do it." "I have been thinking of it, too," said Harding, "but by evening we can determine when the body will be sent and can include everything in one dispatch." Ashley went away, leaving Carlin and Harding together. "I am not sure," said Harding, "but I begin to believe that the man who invented dealing in stocks was an enemy to his race. Look at the result of Corrigan's life; think what poor Wright had to show for all his years of toil. They could not have fared much worse had they dealt in poker or faro straight." "And they are only two," responded Carlin. "There are three thousand more miners like them here and a hundred times three thousand other people scattered up and down this coast, trying to get rich in the same way, while here and in San Francisco a dozen men sit behind their counters and draw in the earnings of the coast. It is worse than folly, Harding. It is a kind of lunacy, a sort of an every day financial hari-kari." By this time it was past eleven o'clock in the forenoon. Suddenly, without a preliminary knock, the door opened and Miller stood before the two men. They sprang to their feet and welcomed him, the tears starting to all their eyes as they shook hands. "Oh, Miller!" said Harding, "why did you go away? We have had only trouble and sorrow since." "It was not fair of you, Miller," said Carlin, "You held our friendship at a miserably low price." "You are awfully good," said Miller; "but you are looking from your standpoint. I looked from mine, and I could not do differently. But tell me about this dreadful business. I saw about Wright, and read the account of this fearful accident of yesterday as I was coming up in the train, but still, there must have been some blundering somewhere." Everything was explained, and also what had been discovered of the effects of the dead miners. "Poor grand souls," said Miller. "It was a tough ending. Never before did three such royal hearts stop beating in a single fortnight on the Comstock." Ashley returned, and, with words full of affectionate reproach, greeted Miller. Ashley had found everything at the bank as the book indicated, and the undertaker had promised that Brewster's remains should be ready for shipment on the evening of the next day. Then the question of the dispatch to the family came up again. "Before deciding upon that," said Miller, "let me tell you something: "When I took the money to pay the bills, I had, with a little of my own, something over seven hundred dollars. I bought on a margin of only twenty-five per cent.--the broker was my friend--all the Silver Hill that the money would purchase. I thought I had a sure thing. My informant was a Silver Hill miner. I believed I could multiply the money by three within as many days. In five days it fell thirty per cent. What could I do? A note from the broker asking me to call, received the evening before I went away, decided me. I went away, but when I saw by dispatches that Wright had been killed, and I could get nothing to do, I determined to come back. "Well, I met my broker this morning. He asked me to call at his place. There he informed me that the day he purchased Silver Hill he met the superintendent and learned from him that there was not yet a development; that the stock was more liable to fall than to rise for two or three weeks to come, the rage being just then for north end stocks. He could not find me, and accordingly, on his own responsibility, he sold the stock, losing nothing but commissions and cost of dispatches. "There was a little lull in Sierra Nevada that day, and, believing it was good, he bought with my money and on my account. As it shot up he kept buying. At last, a week ago, he had two thousand shares and sold five hundred, and by the sale paid himself all up except $21,000. "Hearing day before yesterday that I had left the city, he sold the other fifteen hundred shares at $157. This morning he handed me a certificate of deposit in my favor for $213,000, and here it is." Most heartily did the others congratulate Miller on his good fortune. But Miller said: "Congratulate yourselves! I used the money of the Club. The profit I always intended should be the Club's. Wright and Corrigan and Brewster are gone, but you are left and Brewster's children are left. If I am correct, $213,000 divided by five, makes exactly $42,600. That is, you each have $42,600 on deposit in the bank, and a like sum is there for two fatherless and motherless children in Massachusetts." It was useless to try to reason the matter with Miller. He merely said: "It shall be my way. It was a square deal. I meant it so from the first; only," he added, sadly, "I wish Wright and Corrigan and Brewster could have lived to know it." Then turning quickly to Harding, he said: "Harding, how much is that indebtedness which has worried you so long?" Harding replied that the mortgage was $8,000, while the personal debts amounted to $3,000 more. "Then," said Miller, "you can pay the debts and have nearly $30,000 more with which to build your house and barns, to stock and fix your place for a home." The tears came to Harding's eyes, but he could not answer. "Never mind, old boy," said Miller; "did I not tell you I would make things all right for you?" Then Carlin got up, went into the adjoining room, brought out the watch which had been Wright's and told Miller how Wright, under the shadow of death, had bequeathed the watch to him. For the first time Miller broke down and burst into tears. When he recovered somewhat the command of himself, he said: "Now, I have a proposition to make. Let us all give up this mining. It is a hard life, and generally ends either in poverty or in a fatal accident. I am going to San Francisco. The place to make money is where there is money, and I am going to try my skill at the other end of the line." "You are right," said Carlin. "I am never going down into the Comstock again. I made up my mind to that yesterday. I am going back to Illinois." "And I am going to Pennsylvania," said Ashley. "I gave up mining yesterday, also," said Harding; "at least on the Comstock. I do not mind the labor or the danger, but it is not a life that fits a man for a contented old age." Suddenly Miller said: "Harding, were you ever in the Eastern States?" "No," said Harding; "the present boundary of my life is limited to California and Nevada." "Well," said Miller, "if we all give ourselves credit for all the good we ever dreamed of doing, still neither of us, indeed, all of us together, are not worthy to be named on the same day with James Brewster. His body must go East, and on its arrival there only an aged woman and two little orphan children await to receive it. I think it would be shabby to send the dust of the great-hearted and great-souled man there unattended. What say you, Ashley and Harding, will you not escort the body to its old home?" Both at once assented. A dispatch was prepared announcing Brewster's death, and adding that his body would be shipped the next evening escorted by two brother miners, Herbert Ashley and Samuel Harding. This was signed by the superintendent of the Bullion company. The superintendent also made a written statement that he had examined the effects of Brewster and found that, less the expenses of embalming, transportation, etc., together with $80 due Brewster from the Bullion company, there was left the sum of $840.25. With this statement a bill of exchange on Boston for the $840.25 was enclosed, and Ashley took charge of it. The bills were all paid. The money due Brewster's orphans, according to Miller's calculation, was also converted into a bill of exchange payable to Mabel and Mildred Brewster. Ashley and Harding took charge of the first and left the second of exchange to be forwarded by Colonel Savage, and before night all preparations for leaving the next day were made. The next morning Corrigan's funeral took place with all the ostentatious parade which Virginia City was famous for in the flush times when some one who had been a favorite had passed away. At the hall of the Miners' Union Colonel Savage delivered a eulogy which was infinitely more beautiful than some of the orations which have been treasured among the gems of the century. He was followed by Strong in a eulogy that touched every heart. Here is a sample: "Gentle and unpretentious was Barney Corrigan. There was no disguise in his nature. Could his heart have been worn outside his breast, and could it, every moment, have thrown off pictures of the emotions that warmed it, to those who knew him well, those pictures would have thrown no new light on his nature. "Generous and true was he; true as a man, a friend a citizen. His walk through life was an humble one, but it was, nevertheless, grand. So brave was he that he performed heroic acts as a matter of course, and all unconscious that he was a hero. "So he toiled on, his path lighted by his own genial eyes, and strewn behind him with generous deeds. "When death came to him the blessed anæsthetic which made him indifferent to his sufferings was the thought that in a little while he would rescue a friend in peril, or feel the grasp of the spirit hand of his mother. "Noble was his life; consecrated will be the ground that receives his mortal part. The world was better that he lived; it is sadder that he has died. "With tears we part with him; our souls send tender 'all hails and farewells' out to his soul that has fled, and we pray that his sleep may be sweet." The Colonel, Professor and Alex, with Miller, Carlin, Ashley and Harding, rode in the mourning carriages. These were followed by a long line of carriages and quite one thousand miners on foot. At the grave the services were simply a prayer and a hymn sung by the Cornish quartette. They made his grave close beside that of Wright's; they ordered a duplicate stone to be placed above it, and left him to his long sleep. Yap Sing was paid off and a handsome present made him, the furniture and food in the Club house was distributed among poor families in the neighborhood, and on the evening train the four living men, with the body of their dead friend, moved out of Virginia City. A great crowd was at the depot to see them off, and the last hands wrung were those of the Professor, the Colonel and Alex. On the way to Reno, Carlin said to Miller: "One thing I cannot understand, Miller; whatever possessed that broker to turn over that money to you when he was not compelled to?" "I have no idea in the world," said Miller, "except that we are old friends." "But did you never do him any great favor, Miller--any particularly great favor?" asked Carlin. "No," said Miller, "I cannot think of any." But after a moment's silence he added: "By the way, come to think of it, I did do him a little favor once. I saved his life." "How was it?" asked Carlin. "Why," answered Miller, "he and myself had a running fight with a band of renegade Indians. There were seven or eight of them at first, and we got them reduced to four, when one of them killed the broker's horse. It was a very close game then. It required the promptest kind of work. When the horse fell the broker was thrown violently on his shoulder and the side of his head and was too stunned to gather his wits together for a few minutes. I had a gentle horse, so sprang down from him and let him go. I got behind a low rock and succeeded in stopping two of the Indians, when the others concluded it was no even thing and took the back track. But the broker was "powerful" nervous when I got up to him. The worst of all was, I had to ride and tie with him for seventeen miles, and he was so badly demoralized that I had to do all the walking." At Reno Miller bade the others good-bye and took the west-bound train. Carlin sent a dispatch to an Illinois town. Late in the night the east-bound Overland express came in; the body of Brewster was put on board, the three friends entered a sleeper and the long ride began. CHAPTER XIX. Following a long established habit our three travelers were up next morning shortly after dawn. The train was then thundering over the desert northeast of Wadsworth. Carlin noticed the country and said: "This must be almost on the spot where poor Wright saw his wonderful mirage." As he spoke the bending rays of the rising sun swept along the sterile earth, and a shimmer in the air close to the ground revealed how swiftly the heat waves were advancing. "It is as Wright said; the desert grows warm at once, so soon as the morning sun strikes it," said Harding. "Heavens, how awful a desolation. It is as though the face-cloth had been lifted from a dead world." "Do you remember what Wright told us, about the appalling stillness of this region?" asked Ashley. "One can realize a little of it by looking out. Were the train not here what would there be for sound to act upon?" "Is it not pitiful," said Harding, "to think of a grand life like Wright's being worn out as his was? He met the terrors here when but a boy. From that time on there was but blow after blow of this merciless world's buffetings until the struggle closed in a violent and untimely death." "You forget," said Ashley, "that a self-contained soul and royal heart like his, are their own comforters. He had joys that the selfish men of this world never know." All that day the conversation was only awakened at intervals and then was not long continued. Not only the sorrow in their hearts was claiming their thoughts and imposing the silence which real sorrow covets; but the swift changes wrought in the week just passed, had really resulted in an entire revolution in all their thoughts and plans. It was to them an epoch. The breakfast station came, later the dinner, later the supper station. All the day the train swept on up the Humboldt valley. Along the river bottom were meadows, but about the only change in the monotonous scenery, was from desert plains to desert mountains and back again to the plains. Night came down in Eastern Nevada. When they awoke next morning the train was skirting the northwest shore of Great Salt Lake and the rising sun was painting the splendors that, with lavish extravagance, the dawn always pictures there on clear days, and no spot has more clear days during the year. Ogden was reached at nine o'clock in the morning, the transfer to the Union Pacific train was made; breakfast eaten, and toward noon, the beauties of Echo Canyon began to unfold. Green River was crossed in the gloaming; in the morning Laramie was passed, at noon Cheyenne, and the train was now on a down grade toward the East. With the next morning men were seen gathering their crops; the desert had been left behind and the travelers were now entering the granary of the Republic. Late that night the train entered Omaha. The usual delay was made; the transfers effected and early next morning the journey across Iowa, so wonderful to one who has been long in the desert, began. Ashley darted from side to side of the coach that he might not lose one bit of the view; but Harding sat still, by the window, hardly moving, but straining his eyes over the low waves of green, which, in the stillness of the summer day, seemed like a sea transfixed. Carlin was strangely restless. He did not seem to heed the scenery around him. He studied his guidebook and every quarter of an hour looked at his watch. When spoken to, he answered in an absent-minded way; it was plain that he was absorbed by some overmastering thought. Noon came at length, then one o'clock, then two; the train gave a long whistle, slackened speed, and in a moment was brought to a standstill in front of a station. With the first signal Carlin had sprang from his seat and walked rapidly toward the end of the car. "What can the matter be with Carlin?" asked Harding. "He has been half wild all day and altogether different from his usual self." "He will be home sometime to-night," replied Ashley. "He has been absent a long time, and I do not wonder at his unrest. I expect to have my attack next week when the southern hills of Pennsylvania lift up their crests, and the old familiar haunts begin to take form." "Look! Look!" said Harding. "Carlin's unrest is taking a delicious form, truly." Two ladies were standing on the platform. Carlin had leaped from the train while yet it was moving quite rapidly. He bent and kissed the first lady, but the second one he caught in his arms, held her in a long embrace and kissed her over and over again. "He has struck a bonanza," said Ashley. "And the formation is kindly," said Harding. "The indications are splendid," said Ashley. "Mark the trend of the vein; it is exquisite." "It does not seem to be rebellious or obstinate ore to manipulate either. Carlin's process seems to work like a fire assay," said Harding. "Just by the surface showing the claim is worth a thousand dollars a share," said Ashley. "I wonder if Carlin has secured a patent yet?" "And I wonder," said Harding, "if we are not a pair of blackguards to be talking this way. Let us go and meet them." The friends arose and started for the platform, but were met half way by Carlin and the ladies. There were formal introductions to Mrs. and Miss Richards. Under the blushes of the young lady could be traced the lineaments of the "Susie Dick" that Carlin had shown to the Club in the photograph. Crimson, but still smiling, the young lady said: "Gentlemen, did you see Mr. Carlin at the station, before a whole depot of giggling ninnies, too? Was ever anything half so ridiculous?" Then glancing up at Carlin with a forgiving look, but still in a delicious scolding tone, she added: "I really had hoped that the West had partly civilized him." Harding and Ashley glanced at each other with a look which said plainly enough, "Carlin has proved up without any contest; even if the patent is not already issued, his title is secure." The friends had the drawing room and a section outside. With a quick instinct Ashley seated the elder lady in the section, bade Harding entertain her, then swinging back the drawing room door, said: "Miss Richards, I know that you want to scold Carlin for the next hour, and he deserves it. Right in here is the best place on the car for the purpose. Please walk in." Saying which he stepped back and seated himself beside Harding. The elder lady was a charming traveling companion. She wanted to know all about the West. She knew all about the region they were passing through, and the whole afternoon ride was a delight. During the journey Harding and Ashley had been begging Carlin to accompany them to Massachusetts, and he had finally promised to give them a positive answer that day. After a while he emerged from the drawing room and said: "I am sorry, but I cannot go East with you. These ladies have been good enough to come out and meet me. We will all go on as far as Chicago and see you off, but we cannot very well extend the journey further. Indeed, Miss Susie intimates that I am too awkward a man to be safe east of Chicago." The others saw how it was and did not further importune him. Next day they separated, Carlin's last words being, "If you ever come within five hundred miles of Peoria stop and stay a month." The grand city was passed. The train swung around the end of Lake Michigan, leaving the magical city in its wake. Through the beautiful region of Southern Michigan it hurried on. Detroit was reached and passed; the arm of the Dominion was crossed, and finally, when in the early morning the train stopped, the boom of Niagara filled the air, and the enchantment of the picture which the river and the sunlight suspend there before mortals, was in full view. Next the valley of the Genesee was unfolded, and with each increasing mile more and more distinct grew the clamors of toiling millions, jubilant with life and measureless in energy. Swifter and more frequent was the rush of the chariots on which modern commerce is borne, and all the time to the eyes of the men of the desert the lovely homes which fill that region flitted by like the castles of dreamland. Later in the day the panorama of the Mohawk Valley began to unroll and was drawn out in picture after picture of rare loveliness. Ashley and Harding were enchanted. It was as though they had emerged into a new world. "Think of it, Ashley," said Harding. "It is but eight days--at this very hour--since we were having that wrestle with death in the depths of the Bullion mine. Think of that and then look around upon these serene homes and the lavish loveliness of this scenery." "I know now how Moses felt, when from the crest of Pisgah he looked down to where the Promised Land was outstretched before him," was the reply. "I feel as I fancy a soul must feel, when at last it realizes there is a second birth." Said Harding: "I dread more and more to meet these people where we are going. How uncouth we will seem to them and to ourselves." "Our errand will plead our excuses," said Ashley; "besides they will be too much absorbed with something else to pay much attention to us. Moreover they will know that our lives of late have been passed mostly under ground, and they will not expect us to reflect much light." "What are your plans, Ashley, for the near future, after this business which we have in hand shall be over?" asked Harding. "A home in old Pennsylvania is to be purchased," said Ashley, "and then a trial with my fellow men for a fortune and for such honors as may be fairly won. And you Harding, what have you marked out?" Said Harding: "My father's estate is to be redeemed; after that, whatever a strong right arm backing an honest purpose, can win. But one thing we must not forget. We must be the semi-guardians of those children of Brewster, until they shall pass beyond our care." "You are very right, my boy," said Ashley. "Brewster was altogether grand and his children must ever be our concernment." In the early night the Hudson was crossed and the train plunged on through the hills beyond. At Walpole early next morning the train was boarded by three gentlemen who searched out Harding and Ashley and introduced themselves as old friends of Brewster and his family. They had come out to escort the body of Brewster to Taunton, now only a few miles off. The names of these men were respectively Hartwell, Hill and Burroughs. Hartwell explained that the remains would be taken to an undertaker, and examined to see if it would be possible for the children and Mrs. Wolcott, the sister of Brewster, to look upon their father's and brother's face. He also said the funeral would be on the succeeding day. Then the particulars of the accident were asked. A full and graphic account of the whole affair had been published in the Virginia City papers. Copies of these were produced and handed over as giving a full idea of the calamity. The statement made by the superintendent of the Bullion including the smaller certificate of deposit, also the other effects of Brewster, all but the money obtained from Miller, were transferred to Mr. Hartwell. On reaching Taunton a great number of sympathizing friends were in waiting, for Brewster had lived there all his life until he went West three years before, and he was much esteemed. The manner of his death added to the general sympathy. A hearse in waiting, at once took the body away. The young men were taken to his home by Mr. Hartwell. They begged to be permitted to go to a hotel, but the request would not be listened to. On examination it was found that the work of the embalmer had been most thorough. The face of Brewster was quite natural and placid, as though in sleep. Breakfast was in waiting for the young men, and when it was disposed of they were shown again to the parlors and introduced to a score of people who had gathered in to hear the story of Brewster's death from the lips of the men who had taken his body from the deep pit and brought it home for burial. In the conversation which followed two or three hours were consumed. When the callers had gone, Hartwell said: "Gentlemen, I advise you to go to your rooms and try and get some rest. In two or three hours I shall want you to go and make a call with me, if the poor family of my friend can bear it." Late that afternoon Hartwell knocked on the door of the sitting room, which, with sleeping apartments on either side, had been given Harding and Ashley, and when the door was opened, he said: "Gentlemen, please come with me, the children of James Brewster desire to see you!" The young men arose and followed their host. Brewster had always referred to his daughters as his "little girls;" the man who had the young men to go and meet them, spoke of them as "the children of James Brewster." Both Harding and Ashley, as they followed Hartwell, were mentally framing words of comfort to speak to school misses just entering their teens, who were in sorrow. When then, they were ushered into the presence of two thoroughly accomplished young women, and when these ladies, with tears streaming down their faces, came forward, shook their hands, and, in broken words of warmest gratitude, thanked them for all they had done and were doing, and for all they had been to their father in life and in death, the men from the desert were lost in surprise and astonishment. As Harding said later: "I felt as though I was in a drift on the 2,800-foot level, into which no air pipe had been carried." This apparition was all the more startling to them, because during the two or three years that they had been at work on the Comstock, the very nature of their occupation forbade their mingling in the society of refined women to any but a most limited extent. From the papers given the family by Hartwell that day, matters were fully understood by the sister of Brewster and the young ladies, so no explanations were asked. At first the conversation was little more than warm thanks on the part of the young ladies and modest and half incoherent replies. The ladies were in the humble home of their father's widowed sister, Mrs. Wolcott. That they were all poor was apparent from all the surroundings. This fact at length forced its way through the bewildered brain of Harding and furnished him a happy expedient to say something without advertising himself the idiot that he, in that hour, would have been willing to make an affidavit that he was. Said he: "Ladies, amid all the sorrows that we bring to you, we have, what but for your grief would be good news. Tell them, Ashley!" "Oh, yes," said Ashley, "we have something which is yours, and which, while no balm for sorrow like yours, will, we sincerely hope, be the means of driving some cares from your lives." Taking a memorandum from his pocket, he continued: "Your father left more property than he himself knew of. How it was Harding and myself will explain at some other time, if you desire. At present it is only necessary to say that the amount is forty-two thousand and six hundred dollars, for which we have brought you a bill of exchange." With that he extended the paper to Miss Brewster. Then these brave girls began to tremble and quake indeed. "It can not be," said Mabel. "There must be some mistake," said Mildred. "Indeed, there is no mistake," said Harding. "See, it is a banker's order on a Boston bank, and is payable to your joint order. No one can draw it until you have both endorsed it, for it is yours." Then these girls fell into each others arms and sobbed afresh. As soon as they could the miners retired. Mabel Brewster was tall, of slender form and severely classic face. She had blue eyes, inherited from her mother, and that shade of hair which is dusky in a faint light, but which turns to gold in sunlight. Her complexion was very fair, her hands and arms were exquisite and her manners most winsome. Mildred, her sister, was of quite another type. A year and a half younger than Mabel, she looked older than her sister. She had her father's black eyes, and like him, a prominent nose and resolute mouth. She was lower of statue and fuller of form than her sister. She had also a larger hand and stronger arm. Over all was poised a superb head, crowned with masses of tawny hair. Standing in their simple mourning robes, with the afternoon sun shining around them, they looked as Helen and Cassandra might have looked, while yet the innocence and splendor of early womanhood were upon them. Mabel was such a woman as men dream of and struggle to possess; Mildred was such an one as men die for when necessary, and do not count it a sacrifice. [Illustration: MABEL AND MILDRED.] From the house the young men walked rapidly away, and so busy were they with their own thoughts that neither spoke until they entered a wooded park or common, and finding a rustic bench sat down. Harding was the first to speak. "After all his mighty toil; after his self-sacrificing life; after all his struggles, Brewster died and was not permitted to see his children. It is most pitiable." "May be he sees them now," said Ashley, softly. "It can not be far from here to Heaven." "I wish I had never seen her," said Harding, impetuously. And then all his reserve breaking down he arose, stretched out his arms and cried: "I wish I had died in Brewster's stead." "Is she not divine?" said Ashley. "A very Iris, goddess of the rainbow, bringing divine commands to man, his guide and his adviser." "Say not so," said Harding. "Rather she is Ceres, in her original purity returned to earth; flowers bloom under the soft light of her divine eyes, and all bountifulness rests in the heaven of her white arms. I tell you, Ashley, the man who could have that woman's eyes to smile up approvingly upon him, would have to move on from conquest to conquest so long as life lasted." An anxious look came over the face of Ashley. "Which lady do you mean?" he asked. "Mean!" echoed Harding. "I mean she of the royal brow and starry eyes, Mildred Brewster." "Thank God," said Ashley with a great sigh of relief. "And why do you thank God?" asked Harding. "Because," said Ashley, "to me Mabel is the dainty, the divine one. She comes upon the eye as a perfect soprano voice smites on a musical ear." "You are growing musical, are you?" said Harding. "Well then, the other is a celestial contralto, deep-toned and full and sweet, materialized." After this both were silent for a moment and then Ashley began to laugh low to himself. "What is your hilarity occasioned by?" asked Harding. "I was thinking what fools we have been making of ourselves," said Ashley. "And how did you reach that estimate, pray?" asked Harding. "Why, Harding," was the answer, "an hour ago we met two ladies. They were not what we expected to find, and they brought a sort of enchantment to us. We saw them first an hour ago; we will to-morrow see them once more, and that will be all; and still we have been raving like two lunatics for the past half hour about them." "You are right," was the sad reply. "See yonder on the street corner." Just then a dainty carriage and a set of heavy trucks met on the corner and passed each other, the carriage turning to the east, the trucks to the west. "Typical, is it not?" said Ashley. "The trucks go west--at least they will to-morrow night." "Most true," said Harding, "and still I think I would like to kiss the carpet that has been sanctified by the footfalls of Mildred Brewster." Ashley reached out, seized Harding's wrist and felt his pulse. "You have got it bad, Harding," said he, "and I don't feel very well myself. If poor Corrigan were alive again and here we would get him to tell us about Maggie Murphy." "We have had a mirage, Ashley. Let us pray that it will soon pass by," said Harding. And then without another word being spoken, they returned to the hospitable house of Hartwell. CHAPTER XX. The following is the copy of a letter written by Mrs. Wolcott to the widow of her deceased husband's brother, Mrs. Abby Roberts, of Eastport, Maine: TAUNTON, Sept. 20th, 1878. MY DEAR SISTER:--I wrote you briefly of the dispatch announcing the death of my brother James, in a Nevada mine, and that his embalmed body was being brought home by two miners. Since then events have crowded upon me so swiftly that I have not had composure enough to think of writing. The remains of my brother reached here on the 29th ultimo. Mr. Hartwell, Mr. Hill and Mr. Burroughs went out as far as Walpole on the railroad to meet the train on which the body was being brought. The miners were taken home by Mr. Hartwell. On examination my poor brother's face was found to look quite natural, and it wore an expression so restful that I could not help but feel as though it was an indictation that after his hard physical toil and fierce mental troubles, he was at peace at last. Mabel, you know, has been with me since she graduated in June. On receiving the dispatch we telegraphed to Mildred at Mt. Holyoke to come home at once, so both girls were with me when the remains arrived. From the two miners who came with the body Mr. Hartwell received the Nevada papers giving an account of the accident in which James was killed; also a letter from the superintendent of the mine, stating that after all expenses were paid my poor brother left eight hundred and forty dollars to his children. This we all thought was most wonderful, considering the amount regularly sent the children. It shows that poor James lived a most economical life in the West and that the wages paid there are generous. The letter of the superintendent stated that the two miners who were to accompany the remains home had risked their lives in trying to rescue James, and the published account showed that one of them had fainted in the dreadful chamber of the mine while the exhaustion of the other was so extreme that he was entirely prostrated and seized with chills and vomiting upon being brought out into the open air. Of course myself and the girls were anxious to meet and thank these men, but I confess that at the same time we all dreaded the interview awfully. Good land! You know what we have been reading about Western miners for the last twenty-five years, and we could not help but feel that if they should prove to be quiet men it would only at best be a case of wild beast with a collar and chain on. And what to do with them at the funeral was something which had been troubling us ever since the receipt of the dispatch. It was to be in church and on Sunday and it was certain that there would be a church full of people. How to be polite, and at the same time how to get those men in and out of a church without their doing something dreadful was a question which I confess had worried me and I could see that it was worrying Mabel, too. Mildred did not seem to think much about it. Mr. Hartwell called upon us and told us he was going to bring them over at once and we sat down in fear and trembling to wait their arrival. You can never imagine our surprise when Mr. Hartwell showed them into our parlor and we saw them for the first time. Both were young men, one not more than thirty, and the other not more than twenty-four years of age; both were dressed with perfect taste, in dark business suits of fashionable clothes, and though slightly confused--I guess startled is a better word--both, with considerate gentleness, and with a grave courtesy, in low voices, addressed me first and then the children. They expected to find school children, they met young ladies--I may say beautiful young ladies if I am their aunt--and I think the surprise for a moment threw them off their guard. But they certainly were not more astonished than were we. Mabel well nigh broke down, but Mildred, with her more matter-of-fact nature, bore the ordeal nobly. While the girls were talking I stole the opportunity to look more closely at the men. My surprise increased every moment. Instead of a pair of bronzed bruisers, they stood there with faces that were as free from tan as the face of a closely-housed woman. They were each of about medium height, but with broad shoulders, tremendous chests and powerful arms. The younger one had a firm foot and large hand and the frankest open face you ever looked into. The other had smaller hands, feet and features, but their heads were both superb, and the first words they spoke revealed that both were fairly educated. The younger one was light with auburn hair. He wore a heavy mustache; the rest of his face was clean shaven. The other was darker with gray eyes, brown hair, with full beard, but neatly trimmed, and the hair of both was of fashionable cut. I tell you, sister, as they stood there they would have borne inspection even in Boston. After the first greetings were over and we had all gained a little composure, the men explained to us that James was possessed of more property than he himself was aware of, and one of them handed to Mabel a paper which he called "a bill of exchange" on a Boston bank for forty two thousand six hundred dollars. Since then they have explained that the money was made by a friend of my brother, and that it was accomplished by buying stocks when they were low and selling them when they were high, which seems to me to be a most profitable business. You see it makes the girls rich when they thought they were so poor, and were counting only on lives of hard work. The visit of the young men was only a very brief one, not five minutes in duration it seemed to me, but they were moments of great excitement to our little household as you may well believe. When they were gone Mabel said: "Are they not perfectly splendid?" and I said: "Indeed, they are," but Mildred merely said: "They seem to be real gentlemen." That Mildred is the strangest girl. The funeral was to be the next day, and in anticipation of it we had bought cheap mourning hats and plain bombazine mourning habits, such as I thought would be becoming to people in our circumstances. But when I learned that the girls were no longer poor, I thought it would be only proper that they should have more expensive dresses. So as soon as the young men had gone, I sent a message to Mrs. Buffets, the dressmaker, and Mrs. Tibbetts, the milliner, asking them to do me the favor to call upon me at once, if possible. They both called within a few minutes. Before they came, however, I explained to the girls what I had done, at which Mabel was very glad, but Mildred seemed perfectly indifferent. She hardly spoke after the young men went away for several minutes. I think their coming had turned her thoughts back more intently upon her father. Mrs. Tibbetts came first and from her Mabel ordered three expensive hats. I expostulated against her buying a hat for me but she would have it so. When we explained what was wanted to Mrs. Buffets, she declared at first that it was impossible without working after twelve o'clock on Saturday night which she did not like to do as she was a member in good standing in the First Baptist church, but she finally agreed that she would try, provided we would pay what would be extra for her sewing girls. This she estimated would amount on three dresses to at least seven dollars and a half. I have no idea that the girls got more than half a dollar apiece extra and there were but seven of them, and that the rest was clear gain to Mrs. Buffets, but that is the advantage which is always taken of people when there is a funeral. We had a hard time with Mildred. She insisted that two dresses and hats were all that were required, one for Mabel and one for aunty; that as yet she was a school girl and the cheap raiment was good enough for her. I think she would have refused to yield had I not told her that unless she did I would not accept either hat or habit; then she consented. Of course, it may seem like vanity to speak of such a thing in so sad a connection, but the dresses were most lovely. The girls' were of rich and soft cashmere, mine was of Henrietta cloth. I must say that in the new clothes the girls did look beautiful at the funeral, and I was as proud of them as I could be on so sad an occasion. That Saturday evening after we talked the matter over, the girls sent an invitation over to Mr. Hartwell's house to the miners to attend the funeral with us. The invitation was answered by the younger miner, Harding. He accepted the invitation for himself and his friend, stating that Ashley (the other one) was temporarily absent in the city. The note was beautifully written and every word was spelled correctly. Next morning, a few minutes before it was time to proceed to the church, the young men came in. They were scrupulously dressed in black and their attire even to their hats and gloves was in perfect taste. Mildred betrayed more agitation than on the first meeting. She is a strange girl and the loss of her father almost crushed her. Mabel, however, received them with a grace which was queenly and in her new robes she looked like a queen indeed. When it came time to go to the church, I supposed, of course, the young men would offer to escort the girls. Besides Mildred, Mabel and myself, Aunt Abigail, James' wife's grandmother had come down to the funeral. You know she is old now--past 73; she never was very pretty and coming down from the country her dress and bonnet--good land, she was a sight. Mabel could not conceal her mortification, and I must say I should have been glad if she had not come. As we stood up to go, the younger miner said gently: "Ashley, will you not see to Mrs. Wolcott?" and then he went up to Aunt Abigail and with as much kindly politeness as I ever saw displayed, asked her to lean upon him in the walk to the church. The other one gave me his arm, at the same time saying: "The young ladies are the nearer relatives, they should walk in front." His face was fair, but the arm I took was as hard as iron. I said: "No matter, Mildred take the other arm of Mr. Ashley and Mabel take that of Mr. Harding!" This was done except that somehow in the confusion Mildred took the arm of Harding and Mabel sought the disengaged arm of Ashley. At the church we were seated in the front pew, of course. You never saw such a crowd at a funeral. I noticed as we worked our way up the aisle, men there that had not been in a church before for years. There were, besides, the Brown, the Smith and the Jones families who were never before known to attend an ordinary funeral. I mention this merely to show how much James was respected. The services were most impressive. The organ was played as we entered the church. When we were seated there was a short prayer, then a chant with organ accompaniment was rendered. Professor Van Dyke, the music teacher at the seminary, presided at the organ and Jane Emerson led the sopranos. She sang her best and people do tell me that they have paid money to hear women sing in concerts that could not sing as well as Jane Emerson. If Jane was only a little better looking and knew how to dress in better style and if her father only belonged to a better family, there would not be a young woman in Taunton with brighter prospects than hers. Mr. Ashman's main prayer was a most touching one and it moved many in the congregation to tears. He preached from John, the fourteenth chapter and eighteenth verse. "I will not leave you comfortless, I will come to you." It was generally conceded that the sermon was one of the minister's best efforts since be preached in Taunton. Miss Hume who was present says she never heard a finer discourse in Boston. The burden of the sermon was that the promise to send a comforter to the disciples was a promise made for all time, to those in sorrow, that if they would but ask, the comforter would come to them. When the sermon was over and the choir had sung again; the minister said, as many persons present would like to know the particulars of James' death he would read the account from the _Territorial Enterprise_, a paper published in Virginia City only a few miles from the Nevada mines. He said further that the report was written by a Mr. De Quille, who he presumed was a descendant of the distinguished family of France of that name, that the account showed that he was a very learned man and graphic writer, and such a man could only be retained by the receipt of an enormous salary. He further explained that where the word shaft was used it meant a hole like a well which men sunk in order to get the rock out from underground that had silver in it, that drifts were places in the mines where the rock that had the silver in it lay in ridges like snow drifts; that stations were where men kept lunch stands for the miners, that tunnels were holes made in the shape of a funnel to get air down in the mine, that a winze was a corruption for windlass, and cages were simply elevators, like those in use in hotels, but made like cages so that men could not fall out, that run up and down in the well. You never at a revival saw a congregation so excited as that one was during the reading of that account. They tell me that men were as pale as death all over the house while the sobbing of women could be heard above the reading. But our two miners never showed a bit of emotion and never seemed conscious that every eye in the church was on them. The only things I noticed were that during the singing the older one was softly beating time on his hymn book, and both moved a little uneasily in their seats when the minister was explaining the mining terms. After the children had looked for the last time on their father's face, the young men who had been standing at the foot of the coffin, walked up to the head, one on each side. After a long gaze at James' face they turned facing each other and stretching out their hands, clasped hands a moment over the coffin. I suppose that is a custom among miners in the west. Brother's body was buried beside that of his wife. The young men remained in Taunton two weeks after the funeral. We all went on a little excursion to Buzzards Bay and to Cape Cod. I never saw better behaved men, even those that come down from Boston, than those two miners. They received a great many attentions, too, here in Taunton and every day were obliged to decline invitations to dinner. There is a story going around, but I do not believe it is true, that one morning early they went to a livery stable and asked for two wild horses, regular furies, that had thrown their riders the previous day, that they mounted them and the horses reared and plunged awfully but they rode rapidly out of town; that they were gone an hour and a half and when they returned the horses were covered with foam and seemed perfectly gentle. Just before going away they came over one day to my house and telling the girls that they had received so many kindnesses from so many people that they wanted to make a little picnic festival in Mr. Hartwell's grounds, asked them to help suggest names for the invitations. The festival was to be the next afternoon. What do you think? That morning carpenters came and fixed benches and tables on the grounds, the three o'clock train brought the ---- Cornet Band from Boston, and at five o'clock in the afternoon the waiters in the ---- Hotel appeared, set the tables and waited on the guests. They had sent up to Boston for the dinner and I never saw anything like it in my life. Mr. Hartwell says the expense must have been at least two hundred and twenty-five dollars. Those Western men are awfully extravagant. Next morning they went away. The older one to Pennsylvania, where he will live hereafter, and the other one to California, where he has property. We have been real lonesome ever since they went away. Mildred left us yesterday to return to school, and will graduate next June, she says on the day she is eighteen. Mabel, you know, was eighteen and a half when she graduated last June, but Mildred always was a little the most forward scholar of her age. Since the funeral the girls have purchased some beautiful clothing, and it would do your heart good to see them. My letter is pretty long but I could tell you as much more if I had time. Your loving sister, MARTHA WOLCOTT. P. S.--I want to tell you a secret. I think that Ashley, the older miner, and Mabel have a liking for each other, though I don't know, except that I saw Ashley kiss Mabel as he was going away. All I can say is that if they should make a match, there would not be a handsomer couple in Massachusetts. It is only a surmise on my part that they are fond of each other. After the young men had been gone for several hours I asked Mabel if there were any serious relations between her and Ashley, and she answered: "Not the least serious auntie, our relations are altogether pleasant." M. W. The next letter from Mrs. Wolcott to Mrs. Roberts read like this: TAUNTON, Sept. 13th, 1879. MY DEAR SISTER:--It is now almost a year since I wrote you the letter telling you of brother James' funeral and that I half suspected a fondness had sprung up between one of the men who came with the remains of James and Mabel. Well, I was correct in my suspicion for last Thursday they were married and left by the evening train for their future home in Pennsylvania. He has an iron mine in the mountains and reduction works at Pittsburg and is making money very fast. Their home is in Pittsburg. I thought at first that I was mistaken because no letters came to Mabel, but it seems Mabel made a confident of her cousin George who is a conductor on a train which runs between here and Providence, he hired a box in the postoffice there, Mabel's letters were sent to that postoffice and George brought them to her. This was done to thwart the curiosity of the wife of the postmaster here. The postmaster himself is a good meaning man, but his wife is a real gossip and had frequent letters come from one place to Mabel the whole town would have known it in no time. When it was known that the girls had received a large amount of money the Browns, the Smiths and the Proctors, who had never called before, all came and begged Mabel, now that she had graduated, (look at the hypocrisy) to come out more in the world. Young Henry Proctor called several times and in less than a fortnight asked Mabel if he might not sit up with her on Saturday nights. He is a very proud young man and it is said he will have twelve thousand dollars when he goes out for himself next year, but Mabel declined any particular attentions from him. She did the same thing with half a dozen more young men of the best families. I was perplexed. Of course I was in no hurry for Mabel to marry, but good opportunities for girls are none too plenty, so many young men go West, and when I saw her throw away chance after chance, and some of them so eligible, I was afraid she would be sorry sometime, for careless as girls are, they all expect sometime to be married. It went on so until six weeks ago when suddenly one evening Mabel said: "Auntie come go with me to Boston to-morrow." "What are you going to Boston for?" I asked. "There is a young man coming here to carry me away in a few weeks, Aunty, and I need a few things," said she. "And who is the young man, Mabel?" I asked. "Herbert Ashley," was the answer, and then she fell on her knees and burying her face in my lap sobbed for joy. I cried a little, too, it was so sudden. "But when were you engaged?" I asked after she grew a little composed. "We have had a perfect understanding since the week after father's funeral," said she, and then added: "My heart followed him out of the house on that first day when I had only looked once in his eyes. Is he not grand, Auntie?" "But why have you never told me?" I asked. Then she put her arms around me and said: "Because, dear Aunty, you know you could not have kept my secret." I was hurt at this, because every body knows how close mouthed I am. But I went to Boston and, what do you think? that girl spent over seven hundred dollars just for clothes. I remonstrated, but she cut me short, saying, "I am going with my king, and I must not disgrace his court." Did you ever hear such talk? When I was married I had just two merino dresses, one brown and one blue, four muslin dresses and some plain underclothing. But I had a beautiful feather bed that I had made myself, four comforters, two quilted bed spreads in small patterns, and a full set of dishes that cost six dollars and a half in Portland. Things are greatly changed since I was a girl. Well, Mr. Ashley came; he is a splendid man. Mabel slipped away with her cousin and went down to Providence to meet him. He brought Mabel jewelry that the best judges here think cost as much as a thousand dollars. It is shameful, the extravagance of those Western men. Why, he gave the minister that married them fifty dollars, which you know yourself was a clear waste of forty-five dollars. Five dollars is certainly enough for five minutes work of a minister, especially if he and his wife are also given a fine supper. Mr. Ashley also gave Mildred some beautiful jewelry. It must have cost two hundred and fifty dollars, and he was most generous to me, too. On his wedding day he got five dispatches from the West; one from Illinois, two from Virginia City, Nevada, and two from California, congratulating him, and they must have cost the senders as much as fifty dollars. Thank goodness, they all came marked "paid." The wedding was in the church in the evening. It had been whispered around and the church was full. Land sakes, but they were a lovely couple. Mabel's dress was white satin with princesse train of brocaded satin. The front of the skirt was trimmed with lace flounces, headed with garlands of lilies of the valley and orange blossoms. She wore also a long tulle veil, with orange blossoms in the hair. Her dress cost one hundred and fifty-three dollars and thirty-seven cents. I did not think the train was necessary and there was no need of a veil, leastwise not so long a one, but it was Mabel's wish to have them, so I did not object. Mrs. White said she never saw a handsomer bride in Boston nor a more manly looking groom. I confess I was proud of them both. We had a quiet little party at my house and a supper, and at ten o'clock they went away by special train to Providence. Think of the foolishness of hiring a special train, when the regular train would have come by next morning. Mr. Ashley wanted to have what he called a "boss wedding;" wanted to ask half the town and, as he said, "shake up Taunton for once," but Mabel coaxed him out of the idea. He wanted me to sell or rent my place and with Mildred go and make his home mine, but I don't think that is the best way. Young married folks want to be let alone mostly, while they are getting acquainted with each other. Mildred has been home since she graduated in June. I think she has discouraged more men since she came home than ever Mabel did. She has improved greatly in her personal appearance and is a girl of most decided character. When she first came home we used to tease her about her beaux, but we do not any more. When the young men were here last year, after we got pretty well acquainted, one day when they had called Mildred took a sheet of paper and pen and going to Mr. Harding, said: "Mr. Harding, please write an inscription to put upon Father's monument." He took the pen and wrote: "The truest, best of men." Well, one day about a month ago Mildred had gone down town for something when Mabel wanting scissors, or thimble or something which she had mislaid, went to Mildred's work basket to get hers. There under some soft wools that Mildred had been working upon Mabel saw the end of a ribbon and picking it up drew out a locket which was attached to it. She could not control her curiosity but brought it to me. I gave Mabel liberty to open it though my sense of perfect justice was a good deal shocked. To tell the truth I was dying to see what was in it. Mabel opened it and inside there was nothing but that bit of paper with the words in Harding's hand-writing: "The truest, best of men." There were some stains on the paper but whether they were made by kisses or tears we could not make out though I put on my gold-rimmed spectacles, which are powerful magnifiers, and looked my best. Mabel put the locket back, but to this day there has not been a word said to give me any idea whether there is anything like an engagement or not. Mildred is so quiet and self-contained that if her heart was breaking I do not believe she would say a word. I should be glad to think they were engaged, for privately, I liked Mr. Harding a little the best, but if they had been it seems to me he would have been here to the wedding. I don't know when I have been so worked up about anything. If I was fifteen years younger, and I thought the majority of men in the West were like the two that I have seen, I would sell my place and go West, too. Your affectionate sister, MARTHA WOLCOTT. P. S.--When Mr. Ashley was here he took the girls out to James' grave. We had put up a plain stone but Mr. Ashley did not like it. When he came in he ordered the finest monument in the marble works. Those that have seen it say it is real Italian marble, and that it is handsomer than the one that the banker Sherman erected over his wife and that cost over five hundred and fifty dollars. M. W. This letter explains itself: LOS ANGELES, Cal., March 20, 1880. MY DARLING SISTER:--We reached our home here last night. While I write the perfume of almonds and orange blossoms, of climbing vines, and roses shedding their incense in lavish fragrance steals in through the open window. A mocking bird is mimicking an oriole's warblings, and I fancy I feel at this moment as do ransomed souls when amid the mansions of the redeemed they open their eyes and know that for them joy is to be eternal. You have always called me "Old Matter-of-Fact." Well, then, just imagine me sitting here half blinded by the tears of happiness that I can not restrain. But let me tell you of my journey. You remember that though the sky was bright overhead--as bright as it can be in Pittsburg--on the morning that we were married, when we took the train in the evening it was snowing hard. Before morning the train was delayed by the snow. We worried along, however, and the next evening arrived at Peoria, Illinois. Here an old friend of my husband (is not that word husband lovely?) your husband and father's, with his wife met us at the depot and we had to go home with them and stay two days. The man's name is Carlin and he is "a splendid fellow," as they say out this way. He was one of the Club to which our husbands belonged. He has a mill, store and farm a few miles from Peoria and seems to be the first man in that region. He has, too, a charming wife whom he calls "Susie Dick," and a six months' old baby which he calls "Brewster Miller Carlin." They are as hearty people in their friendship as I ever met. They asked all about your husband, and yourself, and I had to get out your photograph to convince them that you were far more beautiful than myself. When we arrived Mr. Carlin sent out and got in some twenty couples, and to use his own expression, "we made a night of it," and "painted the town red," that is until midnight. They made me sing and play, and one old gentleman present made me proud, by telling me "you beat ord'nary primer donners." After the company retired Mr. Carlin asked me how I liked the old gentleman's pronunciation, and then husband said the old gentleman knew as much about music as our minister in Taunton did about mining. Then he told Mr. Carlin what Mr. Ashman said about tunnels, drifts, stations, etc., and the man laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. Well, at length, with blessings, presents, and packed lunch baskets, we got away. All through Illinois and Iowa the world was hid by the snow, we passed Omaha, crossed Nebraska, climbed the Rocky Mountains and came down on this side, and swept across the desert of Nevada to Reno. Here we stopped and next day went to Virginia City. I wanted to visit the place where our father died. In Virginia City--which is a city on a desert mountain side--you cannot conceive of such a place--the wind was blowing a hurricane; blowing as at the old home, it comes in sometimes from the ocean in a southeaster. Husband took me to the fatal Bullion shaft. The men were just then changing shift as they call it; the men who had worked eight hours were coming out of the mine, those who were to work the next eight hours were going down. The shaft is half a mile deep and the cage loaded with nine men shoots up out of the dreadful gloom or drops back into it as though it were nothing. Many of the miners greeted husband warmly, and were hearty in their welcomes to me, though they were not encumbered by any great amount of clothing. I turned away from the shaft almost in a panic, I could not bear to took at it. But Virginia City is a wonderful place, I would tell you more of it, if you had not some one near you who can tell it much better than I can. We met a great many pleasant people there, especially a lawyer named Col. Savage, a journalist, a Mr. Strong and a Professor Stoneman. They met us like brothers and spoke of your Herbert as another brother. We left that same evening and returning to Reno started up the Sierras. I confess that a feeling of something like desolation took possession of me. The region was so dreary, it seemed to me that only my husband was between me and chaos. After leaving Reno a couple of hours, we entered the snow sheds and I went to sleep with a thought that I was under a mountain of snow. I wakened next morning in Sacramento and when I looked out the birds were singing and flowers were blooming around me. Before noon we reached San Francisco and drove to the Palace. There we were met by a gentleman named Miller, the one that made for father our money. He is very rich. He told husband that he had been "coppering" the market ever since he came to the city and had "taken every trick." Later I asked husband what "coppering" meant and he smiled and said: "betting that it will not win." I do not quite understand it yet, but I know it is right for husband says so. This Mr. Miller told husband that he was going to make me a present and that he must not say a word at which Sammy said "go ahead." Then he handed me a little package but said I must not open it until I reached home. What do you think? It is a diamond cluster which the cost of must have been fifteen hundred dollars. In San Francisco I found the most delicious flowers I ever saw. Tell aunty, too, that there are no such hotels, as one or two in San Francisco, "not even in Boston." There are splendid churches and theatres. The Bay is beautiful, the park is going to be grand, the ladies dress most richly. We sailed over to Saucelito and San Rafael, looked out through the Golden Gate--in short, ran around for a week. Then we came directly home, reaching this place last night. A charming supper was in waiting, and, all smiles, the Chinaman who prepared it was in attendance. His name is Yap Sing, and he has been with husband ever since his first return from the East. He was the cook for the Club which you have heard our husbands talk about, and of course knew father. He fairly ran over with joy at our coming, and such a cook as he is. I would like to hear what Aunt Martha would say to one of his dinners. But husband pays him forty dollars a month. Is not that a dreadful price for a cook? We have received good news since coming home. Husband's mine in Arizona is yielding him for his one-half interest twelve hundred and fifty dollars per month. My house is a beautiful cottage, with broad halls and verandas, and is furnished elegantly all through. My heart runs over with gratitude. My soul is on its knees in thankfulness all the time. I believe I am the happiest woman in the world. "The truest and best of men" sits across the room writing letter after letter, clearing up a delayed correspondence. He is handsomer than on that day when I first looked in his eyes, and knew in an instant that he was my fate, that I should worship him forever, whether he knew it or not; that if he did not ask me to be his wife, I should never be a wife, but by myself should walk through life bearing my burdens as humbly and bravely as I could, and keeping my heart warm by the flame in the vestal lamp which his smile had kindled within it. Now heaven has opened to me, and so jubilant is my heart that I can feel it throbbing as I write, and with a thankfulness unspeakable I worship at my hero's feet. With warmest love to you, dear sister, and to your husband and Auntie, in which my other self joins heartily, I am Your loving sister, MILDRED BREWSTER HARDING. P. S.--Sister: This morning as we sat here I asked my lord why he and your husband clasped hands over our father's coffin. Waiting a moment, he answered that on the journey East with father's body, your husband and himself made a covenant together that henceforth, whatever might happen, they would watch over us as a sacred trust received from our father, and that the hand-clasp was but an involuntary pledge of the sincerity of that compact. Can we ever be good enough wives to these men who do not half realize how grand they are? Love and kisses, MILDRED.