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

“Yes, he must be a funny guy,” observed Denver mirthlessly. “Any relation to that feller they call Dave?”

“Oh, Mr. Chatwourth? No, he’s from Kentucky–they say he’s the last of his family. All the others were killed in one of those mountain feuds–Mr. Menzger says he’s absolutely fearless.”

“Well, what did he leave home for, then?” inquired Denver arrogantly. “He don’t look very bad to me, I guess if he was fearless he’d be back in Kentucky, shooting it out with the rest of the bunch.”

“No, it seems that his father on his dying bed commanded him to leave the country, because there were too many of the others against him. But Mr. Menzger tells me he’s a professional killer, and that’s why Old Murray hired him. Do you think they would jump our claims?”

“They would if they struck copper,” replied Denver bluntly. “And old Murray warned me not to buy from your father–that shows he’s got his eye on your property. It’s a good thing we’re doing this work.”

“Weren’t you afraid, then?” she asked, putting the wonder-note into her voice and laying aside her frank manner, “weren’t you afraid to buy our claim? Or did you feel that you were guided to it, and all would be for the best?”

“That’s it!” exclaimed Denver suddenly putting down his drill to gaze into her innocent young eyes. “I was guided, and so I bought it anyhow.”

“Oh, I think it’s so romantic!” she murmured with a sigh, “won’t you tell me how it happened?”

And then Denver Russell, forgetting the seeress’ warning at the very moment he was discussing her, sat down on a rock and gave Drusilla the whole story of his search for the gold and silver treasures. But at the end–when she questioned him about the rest of the prophecy–he suddenly recalled Mother Trigedgo’s admonition: “Beware how you reveal your affection or she will confer her hand upon another.”

A shadow came into his blue eyes and his boyish enthusiasm was stilled; and Drusilla, who had been practicing her stage-learned wiles, suddenly found her technique at fault. She chattered on, trying subtly to ensnare him, but Denver’s heart was now of adamant and he failed to respond to her approaches. It was not too late yet to heed the words of the prophecy, and he drilled on in thoughtful silence.

“Don’t you get lonely?” she burst out at last, “living all by yourself in that cave? Why, even these old prospectors have to have some pardner–don’t you ever feel the need of a friend?”

There it was–he felt it coming–the appeal to be just friends. But another girl had tried it already, and he had learned about women from her.

“No,” he said shortly, “I don’t need no friends. Say, I’m going to load this hole now.”

“Well, go on!” she challenged, “I’m not afraid. I’ll stay here as long as you do.”

“All right,” he said lowering his powder down the hole and tamping it gently with a stick, “I see I can’t scare you.”

“Oh, you thought you could scare me!” she burst out mockingly, “I suppose you’re a great success with the girls.”

“Well,” he mocked back, “a good-looking fellow like me─” And then he paused and grinned slyly.

“Oh, what’s the use!” she exclaimed, rising up in disgust, “I might as well quit, right now.”

“No, don’t go off mad!” he remonstrated gallantly. “Stay and see the big explosion.”

“I don’t care that for your explosion!” she answered pettishly and snapped her fingers in the air.

It was the particular gesture with which the coquettish Carmen was wont to dismiss her lovers; but as she strode down the hill Drusilla herself was heart-broken, for her coquetry had come to naught. This big Western boy, this unsophisticated miner, had sensed her wiles and turned them upon her–how then could she hope to succeed? If her eyes had no allure for a man like him, how could she hope to fascinate an audience? And Carmen and half the heroines of modern light opera were all of them incorrigible flirts. They flirted with servants, with barbers, with strolling actors, with their own and other women’s husbands; until the whole atmosphere fairly reeked of intrigue, of amours and coquettish escapades. To the dark-eyed Europeans these wiles were instinctive but with her they were an art, to be acquired laboriously as she had learned to dance and sing. But flirt she could not, for Denver Russell had flouted her, and now she had lost his respect.

A tear came to her eye, for she was beginning to like him, and he would think that she flirted with everyone; yet how was she to learn to succeed in her art if she had no experience with men? It was that, in fact, which her teacher had hinted at when he had told her to go out and live; but her heart was not in it, she took no pleasure in deceit–and yet she longed for success. She could sing the parts, she had learned her French and Italian and taken instruction in acting; but she lacked the verve, the passionate abandon, without which she could never succeed. Yet succeed she must, or break her father’s heart and make his great sacrifice a mockery. She turned and looked back at Denver Russell, and that night she sang–for him.

He was up there in his cave looking down indifferently, thinking himself immune to her charms; yet her pride demanded that she conquer him completely and bring him to her feet, a slave! She sang, attired in filmy garments, by the light of the big, glowing lamp; and as her voice took on a passionate tenderness, her mother looked up from her work. Then Bunker awoke from his gloomy thoughts and glanced across at his wife; and they sat there in silence while she sang on and on, the gayest, sweetest songs that she knew. But Drusilla’s eyes were fixed on the open doorway, on the darkness which lay beyond; and at last she saw him, a dim figure in the distance, a presence that moved and was gone. She paused and glided off into her song of songs, the “Barcarolle” from “Love Tales of Hoffman,” and as her voice floated out to him Denver rose up from his hiding and stepped boldly into the moonlight. He stood there like a hero in some Wagnerian opera, where men take the part of gods, and as she gazed the mockery went out of her song and she sang of love alone. Such a love as women know who love one man forever and hold all his love in return, yet the words were the same as those of false Giuletta when she fled with the perfidious Dapertutto.

“Night divine, O night of love,O smile on our enchantmentMoon and stars keep watch aboveThis radiant night of love!”

She floated away in the haunting chorus, overcome by the madness of its spell; and when she awoke the song was ended and love had claimed her too.

CHAPTER XVI

A FRIEND

A new spirit, a strange gladness, had come over Drusilla and parts which had been difficult became suddenly easy when she took up her work the next day; but when she walked out in the cool of the evening the sombrero and boy’s boots were gone. She wore a trailing robe, such as great ladies wear when they go to keep a tryst with knightly lovers, and she went up the trail to where Denver was working on the last of her father’s claims. He was up on the high cliff, busily tamping the powder that was to blast out the side of the hill, and she waited patiently until he had fired it and come down the slope with his tools.

“That makes four,” he said, “and I’m all out of powder.” But she only answered with a smile.

“I’ll have to wait, now,” he went on bluffly, “until McGraw comes up again, before I can do any more work.”

“Yes,” she answered and smiled again; a slow, expectant smile.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded and then his face changed and he fumbled with the strap of his canteen. And when he looked up his eyes met hers and there was no longer any secret between them.

“You can rest a few days, then,” she suggested softly, “I’d like to hear some of your records.”

“Yes–sure, sure,” he burst out hastily and they walked down the trail together. She went on ahead with the quick step of a dancer and Denver looked up at an eagle in the sky, as if in some way it could understand. But the eagle soared on, without effort and without ceasing, and Denver could only be glad. In some way, far beyond him, she had divined his love; but it was not to be spoken of–now. That would spoil it all, the days of sweet communion, the pretence that nothing had changed; yet they knew it had changed and in the sharing of that great secret lay the tie that should bind them together. Denver looked from the eagle to the glorious woman and remembered the prophecy again. Even yet he must beware, he must veil every glance, treat her still like a simple country child; for the seeress had warned him that his fate hung in the balance and she might still confer her hand upon another.

In the happy days that followed he did no more work, further than to sack his ore and ship it; but all his thoughts were centered upon Drusilla who was friendly and elusive by turns. On that first precious evening she came up with her father and inspected his smoke-blackened cave, and over his new records there sprang up a conversation that held him entranced for hours. She had been to the Metropolitan and the Boston Opera Houses and heard the great singers at their best; she understood their language, whether it was French or Italian or the now proscribed German of Wagner, and she listened to the records again and again, trying to steal the secret of their success. But through it all she was gentle and friendly, and all her old quarrelsomeness was gone.

A week passed like a day, full of dreams and half-uttered confidences and long, contented silences; and then, as they sat in the shade of the giant sycamore Denver let his eyes that had been fixed upon Drusilla, stray and sweep the lower road.

“What are you looking for now?” she demanded impatiently and he turned back with a guilty grin.

“McGraw,” he said and she frowned to herself for at last the world had come between them. For a week he had been idle, a heaven-sent companion in the barren loneliness of life; but now, when his powder and mining supplies arrived, he would become the old hard-working miner. He would go into his dark tunnel before the sun was up and not come out till it was low in the west, and instead of being clean and handsome as a young god he would come forth like a groveling gnome. His face would be grimy, his hands gnarled with striking, his digging-clothes covered with candle-grease: and his body would reek with salty sweat and the rank, muggy odor of powder fumes. And he would crawl back to his cave like an outworn beast of burden, to sleep while she sang to him from below.

“Will you go back to work?” she asked at last and he nodded and stretched his great arms.

“Back to work!” he repeated, “and I guess it’s about time. I wonder how much credit Murray gave me?”

Drusilla said nothing. She was looking far away and wondering at the thing we call life.

“Why do you work so hard?” she inquired, half complainingly. “Is that all there is in the world?”

“No, lots of other things,” he answered carelessly, “but work is the only way to get them. I’m on my way, see? I’ve just begun. You wait till I open up that mine!”

“Then what will you do?” she murmured pensively, “go ahead and open up another mine?”

“Well, I might,” he admitted. “Don’t you remember that other treasure? There’s a gold-mine around here, somewhere.”

“Oh, is that all you think about?” she protested with a smile. “There are lots of other treasures, you know.”

“Yes, but this one was prophesied,” returned Denver doggedly. “I’m bound to find it, now.”

“But Denver,” she insisted, “don’t you see what I mean? These fortune-tellers never tell you, straight out. Yours said, ‘a golden treasure,’ but that doesn’t mean a gold mine. There are other treasures, besides.”

“For instance?” he suggested and she looked far away as if thinking of some she might name.

“Well,” she said at length, “there are opals, for one. They are beautiful, and look like golden fire. Or it might be a rare old violin that would bring back your music again. I saw one once that was golden yellow–wouldn’t you like to play while I sing? But if you spend all your life trying to grub out more riches you will lose your appreciation of art.”

“Yes, but wait,” persisted Denver, “I’m just getting started. I haven’t got a dollar to my name. If Murray don’t send me the supplies that I ordered I’ll have to go to work for my grub. The jewels can wait, and the yellow violins, but I know that she meant a mine. It would have to be a mine or I couldn’t choose between them–and when I make my stake I’m going to buy out the Professor and see what he’s got underground. Of course, it’s only a stringer now but─”

“Oh dear,” sighed Drusilla and then she rose up, but she did not go away. “Aren’t you glad,” she asked, “that we’ve had this week together? I suppose I’m going to miss you, now. That’s the trouble with being a woman–we get to be so dependent. Can I play over your records, sometimes?”

“Sure,” said Denver, “say, I’m going up there now to see if McGraw isn’t in sight. Would you like to come along too? We can sit outside in the shade and watch for his dust, down the road.”

“Well, I ought to be studying,” she assented reluctantly, “but I guess I can go up–for a while.”

They clambered up together over the ancient, cliff-dwellers’ trail, where each foothold was worn deep in the rock; but as they sat within the shadow of the beetling cliff Drusilla sighed again.

“Do you think?” she asked, “that there will be a great rush when they hear about your strike down in Moroni? Because then I’ll have to go–I can’t practice the way I have been with the whole town filled up with miners. And everything will be changed–I’d almost rather it wouldn’t happen, and have things the way they are now. Of course I’ll be glad for father’s sake, because he’s awfully worried about money; but sometimes I think we’re happier the way we are than we will be when we’re all of us rich. What will be the first thing you’ll do?”

“Well,” began Denver, his eyes still on the road, “the first thing is to open her up. There’s no use trying to interest outside capital until you’ve got some ore in sight. Then I’ll go over to Globe to a man that I know and come back with a hundred thousand dollars. That’s right–I know him well, and he knows me–and he’s told me repeatedly if I find anything big enough he’s willing to put that much into it. He came up from nothing, just an ordinary miner, but now he’s got money in ten different banks, and a hundred thousand dollars is nothing to him. But his time is valuable, can’t stop to look at prospects; so the first thing I do is to open up that mine until I can show a big deposit of copper. The silver and lead will pay all the expenses–and you wait, when that ore gets down to the smelter I’ll bet there’ll be somebody coming up here. It runs a thousand ounces to the ton or I’m a liar, the way I’ve sorted it out; but of course old Murray and the rest of ’em will rob me. I don’t expect more than three hundred dollars.”

“Isn’t it wonderful,” murmured Drusilla, “and to think it all happened just from having your fortune told! I’m going over to Globe before I start back East and get her to tell my fortune, too; but of course it can’t be as wonderful as yours–you must have been just born lucky.”

“Well, maybe I was,” said Denver with a shrug, “but it isn’t all over yet–I still stand a chance to lose. And she told me some other things that are not so pleasant–sometimes I wish I’d never gone near her.”

“Oh, what are they?” she asked in a hushed eager voice; but Denver ignored the question. Never, not even to his dearest friend, would he tell the forecasting of his death; and as for dearest friends, if he ever had another pardner he could never trust him a minute. The chance slipping of a pick, a missed stroke with a hammer, any one of a thousand trivial accidents, and the words of the prophecy would come to pass–he would be killed before his time. But if he favored one man no more than another, if he avoided his former pardners and friends, then he might live to be one of the biggest mining men in the country and to win Drusilla for his wife.

“I’ll tell you,” he said meditatively, “you’d better keep away from her. A man does better without it. Suppose she’d tell you, for instance, that you’d get killed in a cave like she did Jack Chambers over in Globe; you’d be scared then, all the time you were under ground–it ruins a man for a miner. No, it’s better not to know it at all. Just go ahead, the best you know how, and play your cards to win, and I’ll bet it won’t be but a year or two until you’re a regular operatic star. They’ll be selling your records for three dollars apiece, and all those managers will be bidding for you; but if Mother Trigedgo should tell you some bad news it might hurt you–it might spoil your nerve.”

“Oh, did she tell you something?” cried Drusilla apprehensively. “Do tell me what it was! I won’t breathe it to a soul; and if you could share it with some friend, don’t you think it would ease your mind?”

Denver looked at her slowly, then he turned away and shook his head in refusal.

“Oh, Denver!” she exclaimed as she sensed the significance of it, and before he knew it she was patting his work-hardened hand. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but if ever I can help you I want you to let me know. Would it help to have me for a friend?”

“A friend!” he repeated, and then he drew back and the horror came into his eyes. She was his friend already, the dearest friend he had–was she destined then to kill him?

“No!” he said, “I don’t want any friends. Come on, I believe that’s McGraw.”

He rose up hastily and held out his hand to help her but she refused to accept his aid. Her lips were trembling, there were tears in her eyes and her breast was beginning to heave; but there was no explanation he could give. He wanted her, yes, but not as a friend–as his beloved, his betrothed, his wife! By any name, but not by the name of friend. He drew away slowly as her head bowed to her knees; and at last he left her, weeping. It was best, after all, for how could he comfort her? And he could see McGraw’s dust down the road.

“I’m going to meet McGraw!” he called back from the steps and went bounding off down the trail.

CHAPTER XVII

BROKE

McGraw, the freighter, was a huge, silent man from whom long years on the desert had almost taken the desire for speech. He came jangling up the road, his wagons grinding and banging, his horses straining wearily in their collars; and as Denver ran to meet him he threw on the brakes and sat blinking solemnly at his inquisitor.

“Where’s my powder?” demanded Denver looking over the load, “and say, didn’t you bring that coal? I don’t see that steel I ordered, either!”

“No,” said McGraw and then, after a silence: “Murray wouldn’t receive your ore.”

“Wouldn’t receive it!” yelled Denver, “why, what was the matter with it–did the sacks get broke going down?”

“No,” answered McGraw, “the sacks were all right. He said the ore was no good.”

“Like hell!” scoffed Denver, “that ore that I sent him? It would run a thousand ounces to the ton!”

McGraw wrinkled his brows and looked up at the sun.

“Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll be going.”

“But–hey, wait!” commanded Denver, scarcely believing his ears, “didn’t he send me any grub, or anything?”

“Nope,” answered McGraw, “he wouldn’t give me nawthin’. He said the ore was no good. Come, boys!” And he threw off the brakes with a bang.

The chains tightened with a jerk, the wheelers set their feet; then the lead wagon heaved forward, the trail-wagon followed and Denver was alone on the road. His brain was in a whirl, he had lost all volition, even the will to control his wild thoughts; until suddenly he burst out in a fit of cursing–of Murray, of McGraw, of everything. McGraw had been a fool, he should have demanded the supplies anyway; and Murray was just trying to job him. He knew he was broke and had not had the ore assayed, and he was taking advantage of the fact. He had refused the ore in order to leave him flat and compel him to abandon his mine; and then he, Murray, would slip over with his gun-man and take possession himself. Denver struck his leg and looked up and down the road, and then he started off for Moroni.

It was sixty miles, across a scorching desert with only two wells on the road; but Denver arrived at Whitlow’s an hour after sunset, and he was at Desert Wells before dawn. A great fire seemed to consume him, to drive him on, to fill his body with inexhaustible strength; and, against the advice of the station man, he started on in the heat for Moroni. All he wanted was a show-down with Bible-Back Murray, to meet him face to face; and no matter if he had the whole county in his pocket he would tell him what he thought of him. And he would make him take that ore, according to his agreement, or answer to him personally; and then he would return to Pinal, where he had left Drusilla crying. But he could not face her now, after all his boasting and his tales of fabulous wealth. He could never face her again.

The sun rose up higher, the heat waves began to shimmer and the landscape to blur before his eyes; and then an automobile came thundering up behind him and halted on the flat.

“Get in!” called the driver throwing the door open hospitably; and in an hour’s time Denver was set down in Moroni, but with the fever still hot in his brain. His first frenzy had left him, and the heat madness of the desert with its insidious promptings to violence; but the sense of injustice still rankled deep and he headed for Murray’s store. It was a huge, brick building crowded from basement to roof with groceries and general merchandise. Busy clerks hustled about, waiting on Mexicans and Indians and slow-moving, valley ranchers; and as Denver walked in there was a man there to meet him and direct him to any department. It showed that Bible-Back was efficient, at least.

“I’d like to see Mr. Murray,” announced Denver shortly and the floor-walker glanced at him again before he answered that Mr. Murray was out. It was the same at the bank, and out at his house; and at last in disgust Denver went down to the station, where he had been told his ore was lying. The stifling heat of the valley oppressed him like a blanket, the sweat poured down his face in tiny streams; and at each evasion his anger mounted higher until now he was talking to himself. It was evident that Murray was trying to avoid him–he might even have started back to the mine–but his ore was there, on a heavily timbered platform, where it could be transferred from wagon to car without lifting it up and down. There was other ore there too, each consignment by itself, taken in by the store-keeper in exchange for supplies and held to make up a carload. The same perfect system, efficiency in all things–efficiency and a hundred per cent profit.

Denver leapt up on the platform and cut open a sack, but as he was pouring a generous sample of the ore into his handkerchief a man stepped out of the next warehouse.

“Hey!” he called, “what are you doing, over there? You get down and leave that ore alone!”

“Go to hell!” returned Denver, tying a knot in his handkerchief, and the man came over on the run.

“Say!” he threatened, “you put that ore back or you’ll find yourself in serious trouble.”

“Oh, I will, hey?” replied Denver with his most tantalizing smile. “Whose ore do you think this is, anyway?”

“It belongs to Mr. Murray, and you’d better put it back or I’ll report the matter at once.”

“Well, report it,” answered Denver. “My name is Denver Russell and I’m taking this up to the assayer.”

“There’s Mr. Murray, now,” exclaimed the man and as Denver looked up he saw a yellow automobile churning rapidly along through the dust. Murray himself was at the wheel and, sitting beside him, was another man equally familiar–it was Dave, his hired gun-man.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Russell?” demanded Murray with asperity and Denver became suddenly calm. Old Murray had been hiding from him, but they had summoned him by telephone, and he had brought along Dave for protection. But that should not keep him from having his way and forcing Murray to a show-down.

“I just came down for a sample of that ore I sent you,” answered Denver with a sarcastic grin. “McGraw said you claimed it was no good, so I thought I’d have it assayed.”

“Oh,” observed Murray and for a minute he sat silent while Dave and Denver exchanged glances. The gun-man was slight and insignificant looking, with small features and high, boney cheeks; but there was a smouldering hate in his deep-set eyes which argued him in no mood for a jest, so Denver looked him over and said nothing.