CHAPTER IX
GATHERING FOR THE FEAST
Two hours later saw an extraordinary change at the foot of Devil'sHill. The wonder of the "washout" had passed. Its awe was no longerupon the human mind. The men of the camp regarded it with no morethought than if the destruction had been caused by mere blastingoperations. They were not interested in the power causing the wreck,but only in their own motives, their own greedy longings, their ownlust for the banquet of gold outspread before their ravening eyes.
The Padre watched these people his news had brought to the hill withtolerant, kindly eye. He saw them scattered like a small swarm of beesin the immensity of the ruin wrought by the storm. They had for thetime forgotten him, they had forgotten everything in the wild momentof long-pent passions unloosed--the danger which overhung them, theirpast trials, their half-starved bodies, their recent sufferings. Thesethings were thrust behind them, they were of the past. Their presentwas an insatiable hunger for finds such as had been thrust beforetheir yearning eyes less than an hour ago.
He stood by and viewed the spectacle with a mind undisturbed, with agentle philosophy inspired by an experience which he alone couldappreciate. It was a wonderful sight. The effort, the haste, thealmost insane intentness of these people seeking the yellow metal, thediscovery of which was the whole bounds of their horizon. He feltthat it was good to see them. Good that these untamed passions shouldbe allowed full sway. He felt that such as these were the advanceguard of all human enterprise. Theirs was the effort, theirs thehardship, the risk; and after them would come the trained mind,perhaps the less honest mind, the mind which must harness the resultof their haphazard efforts to the process of civilization's evolution.He even fancied he saw something of the influence of this day's workupon the future of that mountain world.
But there was regret too in his thought. It was regret at theimpossibility of these pioneers ever enjoying the full fruits of theirlabors. They would enjoy them in their own way, at the moment, butsuch enjoyment was not adequate reward for their daring, theirsacrifice, their hardihood. Well enough he knew that they were but thetoilers in a weed-grown vineyard, and that it would fall to the lot ofthe skilled husbandman to be the man who reaped the harvest.
It was a picture that would remain long enough in his memory. Theflaying picks rising and falling amongst the looser debris, thegrinding scrape of the shovel, turning again and again the heavy redgravel. The shouts of hoarse voices hailing each other in jubilanttones, voices thrilling with a note of hope such as they had not knownfor weeks. He saw the hard muscles of sunburnt arms standing outrope-like with the terrific labor they were engaged in. And in thebackground of it all he saw the grim spectacle of the blackened hill,frowning down like some evil monster, watching the vermin life eatinginto a sore it was powerless to protect.
It was wonderful, the transformation of these things. And yet it wasfar less strange than his witness of the spectacle of the beaten,hopeless men he had helped so long up in the camp. He was glad.
He was glad, too, that even Buck had been caught in the fever of themoment. He saw him with the rest, with borrowed tools, working with avigor and enthusiasm quite unsurpassed by the most ardent of theprofessional gold-seekers. Yet he knew how little the man was taintedwith the disease of these others. He had no understanding whatever ofthe meaning of wealth. And the greed of gold had left him quiteuntouched. His was the virile, healthy enthusiasm for a quest forsomething which was hidden there in the wonderful auriferous soil, aquest that the heart of any live man is ever powerless to resist.
With him it would last till sundown, maybe, and after that the feverwould pass from his veins. Then the claims of the life that had alwaysbeen his would reassert themselves.
After a while the Padre's thoughts drifted to the pressingconsiderations of the future. Several times he had heard the shouts ofmen who had turned a nugget up in the gravel. And at each such cry hehad seen the rush of others, and the feverish manner in which theytook possession of the spot where the lucky individual was working andhustled him out. It was in these rushes that he saw the danger lyingahead.
Hitherto these men had been accustomed to the slow process of washing"pay-dirt." It was not only slow, but unemotional. It had not thepower to stir the senses to a pitch of excitement like this veritableTom Tiddler's ground, pitchforked into their very laps by one ofNature's freakish impulses.
With this thought came something very like regret at the apparentrichness of the find. Something must be done, and done without delay,to regulate the situation. The place must be arranged in claims, anddefinite regulations must be laid down and enforced by a council ofthe majority. He felt instinctively that this would be the only way toavert a state of anarchy too appalling to contemplate. It would be aneasy matter now, but a hopeless task to attempt later on. Yes, a bigtrouble lay in those rushes, which seemed harmless enough at present.And he knew that his must be the work of straightening out thethreatened tangle.
But for the moment the fever must be allowed to run riot. It must workitself out with the physical effort of hard muscles. In the calm ofrest after labor counsel might be offered and listened to. But notuntil then.
So that memorable day wore on to its close. The luck had come not inthe petty find such as these men had looked for, but in proportions ofprodigal generosity such as Nature sometimes loves to bestow uponthose whom she has hit the hardest. She had called to her aid thosestrange powers of which she is mistress and hurled them headlong to doher bidding. She had bestowed her august consent, and lo, the earthwas opened, and its wealth poured out at the very feet of those whohad so long and so vainly sought it.
The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills Page 9
