The Plunderer Page 9

  CHAPTER IX

  WHERE A GIRL ADVISES

  "There's one thing about you, pardner, I don't quite sabe," drawledBill to his employer as they sat in front of their cabin one night,after discussing the assays which Dick made his especial work. "Youain't as talkative as you used to be. Somethin's on your mind. It'smore'n two weeks now since I had time to think about anything but thegreen lead, and I'm beginnin' to notice. Where the devil do you goevery mornin' between nine and eleven?"

  Dick turned toward him impulsively, and then made no reply, other thanto 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; butwe were pardners for some years before things changed and made you theboss and me the hired hand. And it may be I'm undue curious. Who'sthat 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 ahot, childish anger; but he controlled himself, and wondered why heshould have been annoyed by the frank interrogation.

  "Miss Presby, the lumberman's daughter," he said crisply. "But whatinterests 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 findyou, because I'd lost the combination to the safe, and wanted to lookover them old drawings. I sneaked back, because I was a little jealousto see you sittin' on the pipe talkin' right friendly to such agood-looker. Three evenin's later while you were workin' on them millsamples, I thought I'd like to see the whole of the line. I took awalk. There's been a real good horse trail worked into the ground upthere, ain't there? And it's a new trail, too. Seems as if somebodymust have been riding up and down that way every day for just abouttwo weeks. And it's serious, too, because you don't say nothin' to aman you was pardners with for more'n seven years. Hey, Dick! Whatails you, anyway?"

  The younger man was on his feet with one of his fists drawn back, inan 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 thensaid slowly: "All right, boy--I mean, Mister Townsend--I willhereafter."

  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 tiesof seven years of vicissitude had been arbitrarily cast off by his oldpartner; that they had become master and man. His words conveyed anindescribable sorrow, and loss.

  "Bill!"

  Dick's arm had relaxed, and he had stepped closer. Mathews did notlift his head. A hand, pleading, fell on his shoulder, and restedthere.

  "Bill, I didn't mean it! I'm--I'm--well, I'm upset. Something'shappened 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 warmlyas 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 forgetit, won't you? That is, forget I butted in."

  Dick sat down, hating himself for such an unusual outburst. He feltfoolish, and extremely young again, as if his steadfast foundations ofself-reliance and repression had been proven nothing more than sand.

  "I know how them things go," the slow voice, so soft as to be scarcelyaudible, 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 isyounger, there are hot hollows in his heart that he don't want anybodyto 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 fromany angle it appeared foolish. How had it all happened? He was notprone to be easy of heart. He had known the light, fleeting loves ofboyhood, 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, andwhen his undivided thoughts and attention should have been centered onthe Croix d'Or. He reviewed his situation, and scarcely knew why hehad drifted into it, unless it had been through a desire to talk tosome one who knew, as he knew, all that old life from which he hadbeen, and would forever be, parted.

  Not that he regretted its easy scramble, and its plethora of civilizedconcomitants; for he loved the mountains, the streams, the openforests, and the physical struggles of the wild places; but--and hegave over reasoning, and knew that it was because of the charm of MissPresby 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 Croixd'Or, and that it was his first duty to win with that, and justify theconfidence of the kindly old Sloan who backed him with hard dollars.

  He had not appreciated how much the daily meeting of Miss Presby meantto him until, on the following morning, and acting on his hardlyreached resolution of the night before, he went up for what might bethe last time. It was difficult to realize that the short summer ofthe altitudes was there in its splendid growth, and that it hadopened before his unobserving eyes, passed from the tender green ofspring to the deep-shaded depths of maturity, and that the wildflowers that carpeted the open slopes had made way for roses. Even thecross on the peak was different, and it came to him that he had notobserved it in the weeks he had been climbing to the slope, but hadalways waited eagerly for the light of a woman's face.

  She came cantering up the trail, and waved a gay hand at him as sherounded the bend of the crag. There was a frank expectancy in herface--the expectancy of a pleasant hour's visit with a good comrade.He wondered, vaguely and with new scrutiny, if that were not all--justfriendliness. They talked of nothing; but his usual bantering tone wasgone, and, quick to observe, she divined that there had come to him asubtle 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, itbeing thus brought home to him that he had used it as a pretext forcontinuing their meetings for more than two weeks after that task wascompleted and the pipemen scattered--perhaps working in some subwayin New York by that time.

  "Yes," he said, "the work is finished. I shall not come up here againunless it is for the sole purpose of seeing you."

  There was something in his tone that caused her to glance up at himand there was that in his eyes, on his face, in his bearing ofrestraint, that caused her to look around again, as if to escape, andhastily begin donning her gloves. She pulled the fingers, though theyfitted loosely, as if she had difficulty with them--even as thoughthey were tight gloves of kid, and said: "Well, you might do that,sometimes--when you have time; but you mustn't neglect your work. Icome here because it is my favorite ride. You must not come merely totalk to me when there are other duties."

  "Yes," he said, endeavoring to appear unconcerned. "The Croix d'Or isapt to be a most insistent tyrant."

  "And it should come first!" He was obtuse for the instant in hisworriment, and did not catch the subtle shade of bitterness in whichshe spoke.

  She tugged at the reins of her horse, and the animal reluctantly toreloose a last mouthful of the succulent grass growing under themoisture and shadow of the big steel pipe, and stood expectantlywaiting for her to mount. She was in the saddle before Dick could comearound 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 littleadviser, I shall come back here," he said, "morning after morning, inthe 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 supposeI ought to be a yellow-legged expert, having been brought up somewherewithin 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 thetrail. He watched her, with a sinking, hungry heart. Just as the cragwas almost abreast of her mount, she turned and called back: "Oh, Iforgot to say that I shall probably come here almost every day."

  He did not understand, until long afterward, the effort that speechcost her; nor did he know ever that her face was suffused when herhorse, startled, sprang out of sight at the touch of her spurs. Hedid not know, as he stood there, wishing that he had called her back,that she was riding recklessly down the road, hurt, and yet inclinedto be strangely happy over that parting and all it had confessed. Witha set face, as if a whole fabric of dreams had been wrenched from hislife, the miner turned and walked slowly over the trail, worn by hisown feet, which led him back to the Croix d'Or, and the struggle withthe 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; anew note, grumbling and roaring, insistent and strong. Its message wasplain. The mill of the Cross was running again for the first time inyears; and, even as he looked down on the red roof, the whistle in theengine-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 itsbatteries, almost two-score stamps, a tall figure came out, and lookedaround as if seeking him, and then, casting its eyes upward, beheldhim, 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 legover the back end while steadying himself by the controller, as if hehad been thus occupied for years. Dick tore his hat off, threw it inthe air, and shouted, and raced down the hill. From now on it must bework; unless they met with great success--then--he dared not stop tothink of what then.

  He hastened on down to the mill and entered the door. Everythingabout it, from the dumping of the cars sixty feet above, the wrenchof the crushers breaking the ore into smaller fragments, the clash ofthe screens as it came on down to the stamps, and their terrific"jiggety-jig-jig," roared, throbbed, and trembled. Every timber inthe structure seemed to keep pace with that resistless shaking as thetables slid to and fro, dripping from the water percolating attheir heads, to distribute the fine silt of crushed, muddy ore evenlyover the plates in the steady downward slant. Already the brightplates of copper, coated with quicksilver, were catching, retaining,amalgamating the gold.

  "The venners need a little more slant, don't you think?" bellowed hispartner, with his hands cupped and held close against Dick's ear inthe effort to make himself heard in that pandemonium where millmenworked the shift through without attempting to speak.

  In the critical calculation of the professional miner, Dick forgot allother affairs, and leaned down to see the run of water. He nodded hishead, beckoned to the mill boss, and by well-known signs indicated hiswish. He scrambled above and studied the pulp, slipping it through hisfingers and feeling its fineness, and speculating whether or not theywould be troubled with any solution of lead that would render themilling difficult and slime the plates so that the gold would escapeto go roistering down the creek with waste water. It did feel veryslippery, and he was reassured. He was eager to get to the assay-houseand make his first assay of "tailings," refuse from the mill, todiscover 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 adull whine, as the mill slowed down to a stop for the noon hour. Andthe afternoon passed as quickly while he worked over the buckingboard--a plate used to crush ore for assaying--in the assay-house, andwatched the gasoline flare and fume in his furnaces to bring thelittle cupels, with their mass of powdered, weighed, and numberedsamples, to a molten state. He took them out with his tongs, watchedthem cool, and weighed, on the scales that could tell the weight of alead pencil mark on a sheet of paper, the residue of gold, thus makinghis computations. He was not pleased with the result. The green leadwas not as rich as they had believed.

  "It won't pay more than fifty cents a ton with the best milling we cando," 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?" hispartner 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 meas if the Cross is all to the good. Come on. Let's go down to thepower-house and see how things look down there when we're working."

  They had been contemplating a new timber road, and, after visiting thepower plant and finding it trim, and throbbing with its new life, theycut across and debouched into the public road leading up the canyon, bythe banks of the stream, to the Rattler. When almost at the fork,where their own road branched off and crossed the stream to begin itssteep little climb up to the Croix d'Or, they saw a man standing onthe apron of the bridge, and apparently listening to the roar of theirmill. His back was toward them, and seemingly he was so absorbed inthe sounds of industry from above that he did not hear them approachuntil their feet struck the first planks leading to the heavy logstructure. He turned his head slowly toward them, and they recognizedhim as Bully Presby. It was the first time either of them had seen himsince the evening in the camp.

  "So you're running, eh?" he asked Dick without any preliminarycourtesy.

  "Yes, we started the mill to-day."

  "On ore, or waste?" There was a sneer in his question which causedDick to stiffen a trifle; and Bill frowned, as if the question carriedan 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 seemto think worth while."

  "And so, I suppose, showing superior knowledge, you will demonstratethat the men before you were a set of dubs? Humph! From babes andfools come wisdom!"

  His voice was hard and cynical, and his grim lips curled with aslightly contemptuous twitch. The hot, impulsive streak in Dick leapedupward. His eyes were angry when he answered.

  "If you apply the latter to me," he retorted hotly, "you are goingpretty far. I don't know what business it is of yours. We have neverasked you for any advice, and we don't want any. I expect no favorsfrom any one, and if I did, am certain, in view of your attitude, thatI shouldn't ask them from you."

  "Steady! Steady, boy!" admonished his partner's drawling voice at hisside. 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 probehim with his eyes; and his stare was returned with one as searching ashis own.

  "Who are you?" Presby asked, as if the big miner were some man he hadnot noticed before.

  "Me? My name's Mathews. I'm superintendent of the Croix d'Or," Billanswered, as calmly as if the form of question had been ignored.

  "And I suppose the young Mister Townsend relies on you for advice, andthat 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," headded, taking a step toward Bully Presby, and suddenly appearing toconcentrate 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'venever 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 buffaloedby you," Bill added; "but I sort of reckon we ain't like them. I'mhandin' it to you right straight, so you and me won't have any troubleafter this, because if we do--well, we'd have to find out which wasthe better man."

/>   Bully Presby's eyes flashed a singular look. It seemed as if theycarried something of approval, and at the same time a longing to testthe question of physical superiority. And then, abruptly, he laughed.Astonished by this strange, complex character, Bill relaxed, andturned toward his partner. Dick, seeing that the interview was ended,as far as the necessity for saying anything was concerned, movedacross 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 liketo give you a job. When it does, come and see me."

  Without another look, word, or sign of interest, he turned his back onthem, and marched up the hill toward the Rattler.