VIII
UNCLE BILL FINDS NEWS IN THE "TRY-BUNE"
When anybody remained in Ore City through the winter it was a tacitconfession that he had not money enough to get away; and this winter theunfortunates were somewhat more numerous than usual. Those who remainedcomplained that they saw the sun so seldom that when it did come out ithurt their eyes, and certain it is that owing to the altitude there werealways two months more of winter in Ore City than in any other camp inthe State.
After the first few falls of snow a transcontinental aeroplane mighthave crossed the clearing in the thick timber without suspecting anysettlement there, unless perchance the aeronaut was flying low enough tosee the tunnels which led like the spokes of a wheel from thesnow-buried cabins to the front door of the Hinds House.
When the rigid cold of forty below froze everything that would freeze,and the wind drove the powdery snow up and down the Main street, therewould not be a single sign of life for hours; but at the least cessationthe inhabitants came out like prairie dogs from their holes and scuttledthrough their tunnels, generally on borrowing expeditions: that is, ifthey were not engaged at the time in conversation, cribbage, piute orpoker in the comfortable office of the Hinds House. In which event theyall came out together.
In winter the chief topic was a continual wonder as to whether the stagewould be able to get in, and in summer as to whether when it did get init would bring a "live one." No one ever looked for a "live one" laterthan September or earlier than June.
There had been a time when the hotel was full of "live ones," and nearlyevery mine owner had one of his own in tow, but this was when theMascot was working three shifts and a big California outfit had bondedthe Goldbug.
But a "fault" had come into the vein on the Mascot and they had neverbeen able to pick up the ore-shoot again. So the grass grew ankle-deepon the Mascot hill because there were no longer three shifts ofhob-nailed boots to keep it down. The California outfit dropped theGoldbug as though it had been stung, and a one-lunger stamp-mill chuggedwhere the camp had dreamed of forty.
In the halcyon days, the sound that issued from "The Bucket o' Blood"suggested wild animals at feeding time; but the nightly roar from thesaloon even in summer had sunk to a plaintive whine and ceasedaltogether in winter. Machinery rusted and timbers rotted while the roofof the Hinds House sagged like a sway-backed horse; so did the beds, soalso did "Old Man" Hinds' spirits, and there was a hole in thedining-room floor where the unwary sometimes dropped to theirhip-joints.
But the Hinds House continued to be, as it always had been, the socialcentre, the news bureau, the scene where large deals were constantlybeing conceived and promulgated--although they got no further. Eachinhabitant of Ore City had his set time for arriving and departing, andhe abided as closely by his schedule as though he kept office hours.
There was a generous box of saw-dust near the round sheet-iron stovewhich set in the middle of the office, and there were manystraight-backed wooden chairs whose legs were steadied with baling wireand whose seats had been highly polished by the overalls of countlessembryo mining magnates. On one side of the room was a small pine tablewhere Old Man Hinds walloped himself at solitaire, and on the other sideof the room was a larger table, felt-covered, kept sacred to the gamesof piute and poker, where as much as three dollars sometimes changedhands in a single night.
At the extreme end of the long office was a plush barber chair, and arow of gilt mugs beneath a gilt mirror gave the place a metropolitanair, although there was little doing in winter when whiskers and longhair became assets.
Selected samples of ore laid in rows on the window-sills; there wereneat piles heaped in the corners, along the walls, and on every shelf,while the cabinet-organ, of Jersey manufacture, with its ornamental rowsof false stops and keys, which was the distinguishing feature of theoffice, had "spec'mins" on the bristling array of stands which stood outfrom it in unexpected places like wooden stalagmites.
The cabinet-organ setting "catty-cornered" beside the roller-towelindicated the presence of womankind, and it indicated correctly, for outin the kitchen was Mrs. Alonzo Snow, and elsewhere about the hotel wereher two lovely daughters, the Misses Violet and Rosie Snow,--facetiouslyknown as "the Snowbirds."
Second to the stove in the office, the Snow family was the attraction inthe Hinds House, for the entertainment they frequently furnished was asfree as the wood that the _habitues_ fed so liberally to the sheet-ironstove.
A psychological writer has asserted that when an extremely sensitiveperson meets for the first time one who is to figure prominently in hislife, he experiences an inward tremor. Whether it was that Old Man Hindswas not sufficiently sensitive or was too busy at the time to becognizant of inward tremors, the fact is he was not conscious of anysuch sensation when the "Musical Snows" alighted stiffly from the BeaverCreek stage; yet they were to fill not only his best rooms but his wholehorizon.
"Nightingales and Prodigies," the handbills said, and after the concertnobody questioned their claims. The "Musical Snows" liked the people,the food, the scenery--and the climate which was doing Mr. Snow such alot of good--so well that they stayed on. There were so many of them andthey rested so long that their board-bill became too hopelessly large topay, so they did not dishearten themselves by trying.
Then while freight was seven cents a pound from the railroad terminusand Old Man Hinds was staring at the ceiling in the tortured watches ofthe night trying to figure out how he could make three hams last untilanother wagon got in, a solution came to him which seemed the answer toall his problems. He would turn the hotel over to the "Musical Snows"and board with them! It was the only way he could ever hope to catch up.To board them meant ruin.
So the Snow family abandoned their musical careers and consented toassume the responsibility temporarily--at least while Pa was "poahly."This was four years ago, and "Pa" was still poahly.
He spent most of his time in a rocking chair upstairs by the stove-pipehole where he could hear conveniently. When the stove-pipe parted at thejoint, as it sometimes did, those below knew that Mr. Snow hadinadvertently clasped the stove-pipe too tightly between his stockingedfeet, though there were those who held that it happened because he didnot like the turn the talk was taking. At any rate the Snow familyspread themselves around most advantageously. Mr. Will Snow, the tenorof the "Plantation Quartette," appeared behind the office desk, whileMr. Claude Snow, the baritone, turned hostler for the stage-line andsold oats to the freighters. And "Ma" Snow developed such a taste fordiscipline and executive ability that while she was only five feet fourand her outline had the gentle outward slope of a churn, Ore City spokeof her fearfully as "SHE."
Her shoulders were narrow, her chest was flat, and the corrugated puffsunder her eyes with which she arose each morning looked like thehalf-shell of an English walnut. By noon these puffs had sunk as far theother way, so it was almost possible to tell the time of day by MaSnow's eyes; but she could beat the world on "The Last Rose of Summer,"and she still took high C.
Regular food and four years in the mountain air had done wonders for"The Infant Prodigies," Miss Rosie and Miss Vi, who now weighed close totwo hundred pounds, tempting an ungallant freighter to observe that theymust be "throw-backs" to Percheron stock and adding that "they ought towork great on the wheel." Their hips stood out like well-filled saddlepockets and they still wore their hair down their backs in thin braids,but, as the only girls within fifty miles, the "Prodigies" wereundisputed belles.
One dull day in early December, when the sky had not lightened even atnoon, a monotonous day in the Hinds House, since there had been noimpromptu concert and the cards had been running with unsensationalevenness, while every thread-bare topic seemed completely talked out,Uncle Bill walked restlessly to the window and by the waning lightturned a bit of "rock" over in his hand.
The sight was too much for Yankee Sam, who hastily joined him.
"Think you got anything, Bill?"
"I got a hell-uv-a-lot of somethin
' or a hell-uv-a-lot of nothin'. It'sforty feet across the face."
"Shoo!" Sam took it from him and picked at it with a knife-point,screwing a glass into his eye to inspect the particle which he laid outcarefully in his palm.
"Looks like somethin' good."
"When I run a fifty foot tunnel into a ledge of antimony over on theSkookumchuck it _looked_ like somethin' good." Uncle Bill added drily:"I ain't excited."
"It might be one of them rar' minerals." Yankee Sam hefted itjudicially. "What do you hold it at?"
"Anything I can git."
"You ought to git ten thousand dollars easy when Capital takes holt."
"I'd take a hundred and think I'd stuck the feller, if I could gitcash."
"A hundred!" Yankee Sam flared up in instant wrath. "It's cheap fellerslike you that's killin' this camp!"
"Mortification had set in on this camp 'fore I ever saw it, Samuel,"replied Uncle Bill calmly. "I was over in the Buffalo Hump Country doin'assessment work fifteen hundred feet above timber-line when the lastLive One pulled out of Ore City. They ain't been one in since to myknowledge. The town's so quiet you can hear the fish come up to breathein Lemon Crick and I ain't lookin' for a change soon."
"You wait till spring."
"I wore out the bosoms of two pair of Levi Strauss's every winter since1910 waitin' for spring, and I ain't seen nothin' yet except Capitalmakin' wide circles around Ore City. This here camp's got a black eye."
"And who give it a black eye?" demanded Yankee Sam wrathfully. "Who doneit but knockers like you? I 'spose if Capital was settin' rightalongside you'd up and tell 'em you never saw a ledge yet in this camphold out below a hundred feet?"
Uncle Bill replied tranquilly:
"Would if they ast me."
"You'd rather see us all starve than boost."
"Jest as lief as to lie."
"Well, that's what we're goin' to do if somethin' don't happen thisSpring. She'll own this camp. Porcupine Jim turned over 'the Underdog'yesterday and Lannigan's finished eatin' on 'The Gold-dust Twins'." Hemoved away disconsolately. "Lord, I wish the stage would get in."
At this juncture Judge George Petty turned in from the street, hittingboth sides of the snow tunnel as he came. He fumbled at the door-knob ina suspicious manner and then stumbled joyously inside.
"Boys," he announced exuberantly, "I think I heerd the stage."
The group about the red-hot stove regarded him coldly and no one moved.It was like him, the ingrate, to get drunk alone. When he tried to wedgea chair into the circle they made no effort to give him room.
"You don't believe me!" The Judge's mouth, which had been upturned atthe corners like a "dry" new moon, as promptly became a "wet" one anddrooped as far the other way.
"Somethin' you been takin' must a quickened your hearin'," said YankeeSam sourly. "She's an hour and a half yet from bein' due."
"'Twere nothin'," he answered on the defensive, "but a few drops ofvaniller and some arnicy left over from that sprain. You oughtn't tofeel hard toward me," he quavered, wilting under the unfriendly eyes."I'd a passed it if there'd been enough to go aroun'."
"An' after all we've done fer ye," said Lannigan, "makin' ye Jestice ofthe Peace to keep ye off the town."
"Jedge," said Uncle Bill deliberately, "you're gittin' almost no-accountenough to be a Forest Ranger. I aims to write to Washington when yourterm is out and git you in the Service."
The Judge jumped up as though he had been stung.
"Bill, we been friends for twenty year, an' I'll take considerable offyou, but I want you to understan' they'r a _limit_. You kin call me awolf, er a Mormon, er a son-of-a-gun, but, Bill, you can't call me noForest Ranger! Bill," pleadingly, and his face crumpled in sudden tears,"you didn't mean that, did you? You wouldn't insult an ol', ol' frien'?"
"You got the ear-marks," Uncle Bill replied unmoved. "For a year nowyou've walked forty feet around that tree that fell across the trail toyour cabin rather than stop and chop it out. You sleeps fourteen hours aday and eats the rest. The hardest work you ever do is to draw yourmoney. Hell's catoots! It's a crime to keep a born Ranger like you offthe Department's pay-roll."
"You think I'm drunk now and I'll forgit. Well--I won't." The Judgeshook a tremulous but belligerent fist. "I'll remember what you said tome the longest day I live, and you've turned an ol', ol' frien' into anenemy. Whur's that waumbat coat what was hangin' here day 'foreyistiday?"
In offended dignity the Judge took the waumbat coat and retreated to thefurthermost end of the office, where he covered himself and went tosleep in the plush barber-chair.
In the silence which followed, Miss Vi doing belated chamberworkupstairs sounded like six on an ore-wagon as she walked up and down theuncarpeted hall.
"Wisht they'd sing somethin'," said Porcupine Jim wistfully.
As though his desire had been communicated by mental telepathy Ma Snow'ssoprano came faintly from the kitchen--"We all like she-e-e--p-." MissRosie's alto was heard above the clatter of the dishes she was placingon the table in the dining-room--"We all like she-e-e--p-." Miss Vi'sthroaty contralto was wafted down the stairs--"We all like she-e-e-p.""Have gone" sang the tenor. "Have gone astray--astray"--Mr. Snow'sbooming bass came through the stove-pipe hole. The baritone arrived fromthe stable in time to lend his voice as they all chorded.
"The stage's comin'," the musical hostler announced when the strainsdied away. The entranced audience dashed abruptly for the door.
A combination of arnica and vanilla seemed indeed to have sharpened theJudge's hearing for the stage was fully an hour earlier than any one hadreason to expect.
"Don't see how he can make such good time over them roads loaded downlike he is with Mungummery-Ward Catalogues and nails comin' by passelpost." Yankee Sam turned up his coat collar and shivered.
"Them leaders is turrible good snow-horses; they sabe snow-shoes like aman." Lannigan stretched his neck to catch a glimpse of them through thepines before they made the turn into the Main street.
There was a slightly acid edge to Uncle Bill's tone as he observed:
"I ought to git my Try-bune to-night if the postmistress at Beaver Crickis done with it."
"Git-ep! Eagle! Git-ep, Nig!" They could hear the stage driver urginghis horses before they caught sight of the leader's ears turning thecorner.
Then Porcupine Jim, who had the physical endowment of being able toelongate his neck like a turtle, cried excitedly before anyone elsecould see the rear of the stage: "They's somebudy on!"
A passenger? They looked at each other inquiringly. Who could be cominginto Ore City at this time of year? But there he sat--a visible fact--inthe back seat--wearing a coon-skin cap and snuggled down into acoon-skin overcoat looking the embodiment of ready money! A Live One--inwinter! They experienced something of the awe which the Children ofIsrael must have felt when manna fell in the wilderness. Even Uncle Billtingled with curiosity.
When the steaming stage horses stopped before the snow tunnel, thepopulation of Ore City was waiting like a reception committee, theirattitudes of nonchalance belied by their gleaming, intent eyes.
The stranger was dark and hatchet-faced, with sharp, quick-moving eyes.He nodded curtly in a general way and throwing aside the robes sprangout nimbly.
A pang so sharp and violent that it was nearly audible passed throughthe expectant group. Hope died a sudden death when they saw his legs. Itvanished like the effervescence from charged water, likewise theirsmile. He wore puttees! He was the prospectors' ancient enemy. He was aYellow Leg! A mining expert--but who was he representing? Withoutknowing, they suspected "the Guggenheimers"--when in doubt they alwayssuspected the Guggenheimers.
They stood aside to let him pass, their cold eyes following his legsdown the tunnel, waiting in the freezing atmosphere to avoid theappearance of indecent haste, though they burned to make a bee-line forthe register.
"Wilbur Dill,--Spokane" was the name he inscribed upon the spotless pagewith many curlicues, while Ma Snow waited with a g
raceful word ofgreeting, bringing with her the fragrant odors of the kitchen.
"Welcome to our mountain home."
As Mr. Dill bowed gallantly over her extended hand he became aware thatthere was to be fried ham for supper.
He was shown to his room but came down again with considerable celerity,rubbing his knuckles, and breaking the highly charged silence of theoffice with a caustic comment upon the inconvenience of sleeping in coldstorage.
There was a polite murmur of assent but nothing further, as his hearersknew what he did not--that Pa Snow upstairs was listening. Yankee Samhowever tactfully diverted his thoughts to the weather, hoping thusindirectly to draw out his reason for undertaking the hardship of such atrip in winter. But whatever Mr. Dill's business it appeared to be of anature which would keep, although they sat expectantly till Miss Rosiecoyly announced supper.
"Don't you aim to set down, Uncle Bill?" she asked kindly as the restfiled in.
"Thanks, no, I et late and quite hearty, an' I see the Try-bune's come."
"I should think you'd want to eat every chance you got after all youwent through out hunting."
"It's that, I reckon, what's took my appetite," the old man answeredsoberly, as he produced his steel-rimmed spectacles and started to readwhat the Beaver Creek postmistress had left him of his newspaper.
Inside, Mr. Dill seated himself at the end of the long table which aplacard braced against the castor proclaimed as sacred to the"transient." A white tablecloth served as a kind of dead-line overwhich the most audacious regular dared not reach for special delicacieswhen Ma Snow hovered in the vicinity.
"Let me he'p yoah plate to some Oregon-grape jell," Ma Snow was urgingin her honied North Carolina accent, when, by that mysterious sixthsense which she seemed to possess, or the eye which it was believed sheconcealed by the arrangement of her back hair, she became suddenly awareof the condition of Mr. Lannigan's hands.
She whirled upon him like a catamount and her weak blue eyes watered ina way they had when she was about to show the hardness of a LucretiaBorgia. Her voice, too, that quivered as though on the verge of tears,had a quality in it which sent shivers up and down the spines of thosewho were familiar with it.
"Lannigan, what did I tell you?"
It was obvious enough that Lannigan knew what she had told him for heimmediately jerked his hands off the oilcloth, and hid them under thetable.
He answered with a look of innocence:
"Why, I don't know ma'am."
"Go out and wash them hands!"
Hands, like murder, will out. Concealment was no longer possible, sinceit was a well-known fact that Lannigan had hands, so he held them infront of him and regarded them in well-feigned surprise.
"I declare I never noticed!"
It was difficult to imagine how such hands could have escapedobservation, even by their owner, as they looked as though he had usedthem for scoops to remove soot from a choked chimney. Also thedemarcation lines of various high tides were plainly visible on hiswrists and well up his arms. He arose with a wistful look at the platterof ham which had started on its first and perhaps only lap around thetable.
Uncle Bill glanced up and commented affably:
"You got ran out, I see. I thought _she'd_ flag them hands when I sawyou goin' in with 'em."
Lannigan grunted as he splashed at the wash basin in the corner.
"I notice by the Try-bune," went on Uncle Bill with a chuckle, "that oneof them English suffragettes throwed flour on the Primeer and--" Hismouth opened as a fresh headline caught his eye, and when he hadfinished perusing it his jaw had lengthened until it was resting welldown the bosom of his flannel shirt . . . The headline read:
BRAVE TENDERFOOT SAVES HIS GUIDE FROM DEATH IN BLIZZARD T. VICTOR SPRUDELL CARRIES EXHAUSTED OLD MAN THROUGH DEEP DRIFTS TO SAFETY A MODEST HERO
Uncle Bill removed his spectacles and polished them deliberately. Thenhe readjusted them and read the last paragraph again:
"The rough old mountain man, Bill Griswold, grasped my hand at parting,and tears of gratitude rolled down his withered cheeks as he saidgood-bye. But, tut! tut!" declared Mr. Sprudell modestly: "I had donenothing."
Uncle Bill made a sound that was somewhere between his favoriteejaculation and a gurgle, while his face wore an expression which was adroll mixture of amazement and wrath.
"Oh, Lannigan!" he called, then changed his mind and, instead, laid thepaper on his knee and carefully cut out the story, which had been copiedfrom an Eastern exchange, and placed it in his worn leather wallet.
The Man from the Bitter Roots Page 8
