He was the direct antithesis of Jennings, harnessed lightning in clothes, working early and late. He flew at the machinery like a madman, yelling for wrenches, and rivets and bolts, chiselling, and soldering, and oiling, until the fly-wheel was on its shaft in the power-house, and the dynamos, dragged at top speed from the river-bank, no longer looked like a pile of junk. The switchboard went up, and the pressure gauge, and the wiring for the power-house light. But for all Bruce’s relief at seeing things moving, he had a feeling of uneasiness lest there was too much haste. “Good enough—that’s good enough!” were the words oftenest on Banule’s lips. They filled Bruce with vague forebodings, misgivings, and he came to feel a flash of irritation each time the genius said airily: “Oh, that’s good enough.”
Bruce warned him often—“Don’t slight your work—do it right if it takes twice as long.”
Banule always made the same cheering answer: “Don’t worry, everything is going fine; in less than a month we’ll be generating ‘juice’.” And Bruce tried to find comfort in the assurance.
When Bruce pulled the lever which opened the valve, and heard the hiss of the water when it shot from the nozzle and hit the wheel, and watched the belt, and shaft, and big fly-wheel speed up until the spokes were a blur and the breeze it created lifted his hair, it was the happiest moment of his life. When he saw the thread of carbon filament in the glass bulb turn red and grow to a bright, white light, he had something of the feeling of ecstasy that he imagined a mother must have when she looks at her first-born—a mixture of wonder and joy.
He had an odd, intimate feeling—a strong feeling of affection—for every piece of machinery in the power-house. He liked to hear the squeak of the belting and the steady chug-chug of the water-wheels; the purr of the dynamos was music, and he kept the commutators free from dust with loving care.
But these moments alone in the power-house were high-lights in a world of shadows. His periods of elation were brief, for so many things went wrong, and so often, that sometimes he wondered if it was the way some guardian angel had of warning him, of trying to prevent him from keeping on and making a big mistake bigger; or was it only the tests that the Fates have a way of putting humans through and, failing to break their hearts, sometimes let them win?
Important as the power-house was it was only a small portion of the whole. There was still the 10-inch pump in the pump-house with its 75 horse-power motor and the donkey engine with the 50 horse-power motor to get to working right, not to mention the flume and sluice-boxes, with their variety of riffles and every practicable device for trapping the elusive fine gold. And not the least of Bruce’s increasing anxieties was “Alf” Banule with his constant “good enough.”
It was well toward the end of October and Bruce, hurrying over the trail with sheets of mica for Banule, who was working on the submerged motor which had to be rewound, noticed that the willows were turning black. What a lot had happened since he had noticed the willows turning black last year! A lifetime of hopes and fears, and new experiences had been crowded into twelve flying months.
His mind straying for a moment from the work and its many problems, he fell to thinking of Helen Dunbar and her last letter. When he was not thinking of undercurrents or expanded metal riffles or wondering anxiously if the 10-inch and 8-inch pumps were going to raise sufficient water, or if the foundation built on piling, instead of cement, was “good enough,” Bruce was thinking of the girl he loved.
She had written in her last letter—Bruce knew them all by heart—
I had a visitor yesterday. You will be as surprised, when I tell you who it was, as I was to see him. Have you guessed? I’m sure you haven’t. None other than our friend Sprudell—very apologetic—very humble and contrite, and with an explanation to offer for his behavior that was really most ingenious. There’s no denying he has cleverness of a kind—craft, perhaps, is a better word.
His humility was touching but so unlike him that I should have been alarmed if he had not been so obviously sincere.
Nevertheless his visit has upset me. I’ve been worried ever since. Perhaps you’ll only laugh at me when I tell you that it is because I am afraid for you. Truly I am! I don’t know that I can explain exactly so you’ll understand but there was something disturbing which I felt when he spoke quite casually of you. It was almost too intangible to put into words but it was like a gloating secret satisfaction, as though he had the best of you in some way, the whip-hand.
It may be just a silly notion, one of those fears that pop into one’s head in the most inexplicable way and stick, refusing to be driven out by any amount of logic. Tell me, is there anything that he can do to you? Any way that he can harm you?
I am nervous—anxious—and I cannot help it.
She was anxious about him! That fact was paramount. Somebody in the world was worrying over him. He stopped short in the trail with fresh wonder of it. Every time he thought of it, it gave him a thrill. His face, that had been set in tired, harsh lines of late, softened with a smile of happiness.
And he did so long to give her substantial evidence of his gratitude. If that machinery ever started—if the scrapers ever got to hauling dirt—her reward, his reward, would come quick. That was one of the compensating features of mining; if the returns came at all they came quick. Bruce started on, hastening his footsteps until he almost ran.
The electrical genius was driving a nail with a spirit-level when Bruce reached the pump-house and Bruce flared up in quick wrath.
“Stop that, Banule! Isn’t there a hammer on this place?”
“Didn’t see one handy,” Banule replied cheerfully, “took the first thing I could reach.”
“It just about keeps one pack-train on the trail supplying you with tools.”
“Guess I am a little careless.” Banule seemed unruffled by the reproach—because he had heard it so many times before, no doubt.
“Yes, you’re careless,” Bruce answered vigorously, “and I’m telling you straight it worries me; I can’t help wondering if your carelessness extends to your work. There, you know, you’ve got me, for I can’t tell. I must trust you absolutely.”
Banule shrugged a shoulder—
“This ain’t the first plant I’ve put up, you know.” He added—“I’ll guarantee that inside two weeks we’ll be throwin’ dirt. Eh, Smaltz? Ain’t I right?”
Smaltz, who was stooping over, did not immediately look up. Bruce saw an odd expression cross his face—an expression that was something like derision. When he felt Bruce looking at him it vanished instantly and he straightened up.
“Why, yes,” with his customary grin, “looks like we orter make a start.”
The peculiar emphasis did not escape Bruce and he was still thinking of the look he had caught on Smaltz’s face as he asked Banule:
“Is this mica right? Is it the kind you need?”
Smaltz looked at Banule from the corner of his eye.
“’Taint exactly what I ought to have,” Banule responded cheerfully. “I forgot to specify when I ordered, but I guess I can make it do—it’s good enough.”
It seemed to Bruce that his over-strained nerves snapped all at once. He did not recognize the sound of his voice when he turned on Banule:
“S’help me, I’m goin’ to break every bone in your body if you don’t cut out that ‘good enough’! How many hundred times have I got to tell you that nothing’s good enough on this plant until it’s right?”
“I didn’t mean anything,” Banule mumbled, temporarily cowed.
Bruce heard Smaltz snicker as he walked away.
The sluice-boxes upon which Bruce was putting the finishing touches were his particular pride. They were four feet wide and nearly a quarter of a mile in length. The eight per cent grade was steep enough to carry off boulders twice, three times, the size of a man’s head when there was a force of water behind them.
The last box was well over the river at a point where it was sufficiently swift to take off the “tail
ings” and keep it free. The top earth, which had to be removed to uncover the sand-bank, was full of jagged rocks that had come down in snowslides from the mountain and below this top earth was a strata of small, smooth boulders—“river wash.”
This troublesome “overburden” necessitated the use of iron instead of wooden riffles, as the bumping and grinding of the boulders would soon have worn the latter down to nothing. So, for many weary trips, a string of footsore pack-horses had picked their way down the dangerous trail from Ore City, loaded to their limit with pierced iron strips, rods, heavy sacks of nuts and bolts.
It had been laborious, nerve-racking work and every trip had had its accident, culminating in the loss of the best pack-horse in the string, the horse having slipped off the trail, scattering its pack, as Smaltz announced it, “from hell to breakfast.”
But the iron strips and rods were made into riffles now, and laid. Bruce surveyed the whole with intense satisfaction as he stood by the sluice-boxes looking down the long grade. It was his work and he knew that he had done it well. He had spared no labor to have it right—nothing had been just “good enough.”
There was cocoa matting under the riffles of the first six boxes. Half-way the length of the sluice-boxes the finest gravel, yellow and black sand, dropped through perforated sheet-iron grizzles into the “undercurrents” while the rocks and boulders rushed on through the sluice-boxes to the river.
At the end of the undercurrents there was a wide table having a slight grade, and this table was covered with canton flannel over which was placed more riffles of expanded metal. And, as a final precaution, lest some infinitesimal amount of gold escape, there was a mercury trap below the table. While Bruce was expecting to catch the greater part of it in the first six sluice-boxes he was not taking a single chance.
Now, as he stood by the sluice-boxes looking their length, he allowed himself to dream for a moment of the days when the mercury, turned to amalgam, should be lying thick with gold behind the riffles; to anticipate the unspeakable happiness of telegraphing his success to Helen Dunbar.
Even with the tangible evidence before his eyes it was hard to realize that after all the struggle, he was so near his goal. The ceaseless strain and anxiety had left their marks upon his face. He looked older by years than when he had stood by the river dipping water into his old-fashioned cradle and watching “Slim” scramble among the rocks.
But it would be worth it all—all and more—he told himself exultingly, if he succeeded—as he must. His eyes shone with enthusiasm and he tingled with his joy, as he thought what success meant.
A sound behind him brought him back to earth. He turned to see Toy picking his way gingerly over the rocks.
“You old rascal!” he cried joyfully. “Dog-gone, I’m glad to see you, though you don’t deserve it.”
“I come back now,” the Chinaman announced serenely. “No go way no more I think.”
* * *
XXIV
The Midnight Visitor
Toy raised his head sharply from his little flat pillow where he lay in his tent, pitched for convenience beside the kitchen, and listened. A sound like the cautious scraping of the sagging storehouse door on the other side of the kitchen had awakened him. He was not sure that he had not dreamed it or that it was not merely renewed activities on the part of his enemies, the pack-rats, between whom and himself there waged constant war. There was a possibility that some prowling animal might push in the door, but, as the month was now November and the nights were as cold as winter, he was not too anxious to crawl from his warm nest and investigate until he was sure.
Hearing nothing more he dropped back on his pillow sleepily, vowing fresh vengeance on the pack-rats who at that moment no doubt were carrying off rice and rolled oats. Suddenly there came a fresh sound, very distinct in the stillness, somewhat like the side of a big tin bulging where it had been dented. To ease his mind rather than because he expected to find anything Toy slipped his feet into his thick-soled Chinese slippers and shuffled out into the night.
The faintest gleam of light was coming through the opening in the storehouse door, which Toy himself had carefully closed. It was all of eleven o’clock and the men, Toy knew, had been in bed for hours. He stepped noiselessly inside and stared with all his eyes at Smaltz. Smaltz was about to extinguish the candle which he had been shielding with his coat.
“What you do? What you gittee?”
Smaltz whirled swiftly at the shrill demand with a startled look on his impudent face.
“Oh—hello,” he said uncertainly.
“Why you come? What you want?”
“Why—er—I wanted to see if they was any more of them eight-penny nails left. I’ll need some to-morrow and bein’ awake frettin’ and stewin’ over my work I thought I’d come up and take a look. Besides,” with his mocking grin, “the evenin’s reely too lovely to stay in bed.”
“You lie, I think.” Toy’s teeth were chattering with cold and excitement. “Why you come? What you want?”
“You oughtn’t to say those rude, harsh things. They’re apt to hurt the feelin’s of a sensitive feller like me.”
“What you steal?” Toy pointed a trembling finger at the inside pocket of Smaltz’s coat where it bulged.
“You wrong me,” said Smaltz sorrowfully in mock reproach. “That’s my Bible, Chink.”
After Smaltz had gone Toy lighted a candle and poked among the boxes, cans, and sacks. He knew almost to a pound how much sugar, flour, rice, coffee, beans, and other provisions he had, but nothing, that he could discover, had been disturbed. The nail kegs and reserve tools in the corner, wedges, axe-handles and blades, files and extra shovels all were there. It was a riddle Toy could not solve yet he knew that Smaltz had not told the truth.
A white man who was as loyal to Bruce as Toy would have told him immediately of Smaltz’s mysterious midnight visit to the storehouse, but that was not the yellow man’s way. Instead he watched Smaltz like a hawk, eying him furtively, appearing unexpectedly at his elbow while he worked. From that night on, instead of one shadow Smaltz found himself with two.
Toy never had liked Smaltz from the day he came. Those who knew the Chinaman could tell it by the scrupulous politeness with which he treated him. He was elaborately exact and fair but he never spoke to him unless it was necessary. Toy yelled at and bullied those he liked but a mandarin could not have surpassed him in dignity when he addressed Smaltz.
Bruce surmised that the Chinaman must share his own instinctive distrust, yet Smaltz, with his versatility, had proved himself more and more valuable as the work progressed.
Banule’s sanguine prophecy that they would be “throwin’ dirt” within two weeks had failed of fulfilment because the pump motors had sparked when tried out. So small a matter had not disturbed the cheerful optimism of the genius, who declared he could remedy it with a little further work. Days, weeks, a month went by and still he tinkered, while Bruce, watching the sky anxiously, wondered how much longer the bad weather would hold off. As a convincing evidence of the nearness of winter, Porcupine Jim, who considered himself something of a naturalist, declared that the grasshoppers had lost their hind-legs.
While the time sped, Bruce realized that he must abandon his dream of taking out enough gold to begin to repay the stockholders. The most he could hope for now was a few days’ run.
“If only I could get into the pay-streak! If I can just get enough out of the clean-up to show them that it’s here; that it’s no wild-cat; that I’ve told them the truth!” Over and over he said these things monotonously to himself until they became a refrain to every other thought.
In the middle of the summer he had been forced to ask for more money. He was days nerving himself to make the call; but there was no alternative—it was either that or shut down. He had written the stockholders that it would surely be the last, and his relief and gratitude had been great at their good-natured response.
Now the sparking of the motors which unexpect
edly prolonged the work had once more exhausted his funds. It took all Bruce’s courage to write again. It seemed to him that it was the hardest thing he had ever done but he accomplished it as best he could. He was peremptorily refused.
His sensations when he read the letter are not easy to describe. There was more than mere business curtness in the denial. There was actual unfriendliness. Furthermore, it contained an ultimatum to the effect that if the season’s work was unsuccessful they would accept an offer which they had had for their stock.
With Helen’s warning still fresh in his mind, Bruce understood the situation in one illuminating flash. Under the circumstances, no one but Sprudell would want to buy the stock. Obviously Sprudell had gotten in touch with the stockholders and managed somehow to poison their minds. This was the way, then, that he intended taking his revenge!
Harrah’s secretary had written Bruce in response to his last appeal that Harrah had been badly hurt in an aeroplane accident in France and that it would not be possible to communicate with him for months perhaps. This was a blow, for Bruce counted him his only friend.
Bruce had neither the time nor money to go East and try to undo the harm Sprudell had done, and, furthermore, little heart for the task of setting himself right with people so ready to believe.
There was just one thing that remained for Bruce to do. He could use the amount he had saved from his small salary as general manager and continue the work as long as the money lasted. When this was gone he was done. In any event it meant that he must face the winter there alone. If the machinery was still not in working order when he came to the end of his resources it meant that he was stranded, flat broke, unable even to go outside and struggle.
The Man from the Bitter Roots Page 21
