IX
THE YELLOW-LEG
While seated in the office of the Hinds House, with his eyes rolled tothe ceiling, listening in well-feigned rapture to "Rippling Waves" onthe cabinet organ, and other numbers rendered singly and ensemble by theMusical Snows, Mr. Dill in reality was wondering by what miracle he wasgoing to carry out Sprudell's specific instructions to keep his errand asecret.
"The great, white light which plays upon a throne" is not more searchingthan that which follows the movements of a possible Live One in amoribund mining camp, and, in spite of his puttees, Ore City hopedagainst hope that some benefit might be derived from the stranger'spresence.
Dill's orders were to get upon the ground which had been worked in aprimitive way by a fellow named Bruce Burt--now deceased he wastold--and relocate it in Sprudell's name together with seven othercontiguous claims, using the name of dummy locators which would giveSprudell control of one hundred and sixty acres by doing the assessmentwork upon one. Also Dill was instructed to run preliminary survey linesif possible and lose no time in submitting estimates upon the mostfeasible means of washing the ground.
Seated in his comfortable office in Spokane, Mr. Dill had foreseen nogreat difficulties in the way of earning his ample fee, but it seemedless ample after one hundred miles by stage over three summits, and abetter understanding of conditions. Between the stage-driver's sweepingdenunciations of road-supervisors in general and long and picturesquecastigations of the local road supervisor in particular, Mr. Dill hadadroitly extracted the information that the twenty-mile trail to theriver was the worst known, and snow-line blazes left by "Porcupine Jim"were, in summer, thirty feet in the air.
Mr. Dill learned enough en route to satisfy himself that he was going toearn every dollar of his money, and when he reached Ore City he was sureof it. The problem before him was one to sleep on, or rather, thinkingwith forebodings of the clammy sheets upstairs, to lie awake on.However, something would perhaps suggest itself and Mr. Dill wasresourceful as well as unhampered by any restrictions regarding thetruth.
The Snow family were at their best that evening, and Ma Snow's renditionof "The Gypsy's Warning" was received with such favor that she wasforced to sing the six verses twice and for a third encore the entirefamily responded with "The Washington Post March" which enabled Mr.Snow, who had tottered down from his aerie, to again demonstrate hisversatility by playing the concertina with long, yellow fingers, beatingthe cymbals and working the snare-drum with his feet.
Ma Snow wore her coral-rose breast-pin, and a tortoise-shell comb thrustthrough her knob of ginger-colored hair added to her dignity and height;while Miss Vi and Miss Rosie Snow were buttoned into their stylishprincess gowns, with large red bows sprouting back of each ear. Intruth, the dress of each member of the family bore some little touchwhich hinted delicately at the fact that with them it had not beenalways thus.
All Ore City was present. Those who "bached" had stacked their dishesand hurried from the supper-table to the Hinds House, where the regularboarders were already tilted on the rear legs of their chairs withtheir heads resting comfortably on the particular oily spot on theunbleached muslin sheeting, which each recognized as having been made byweeks of contact with his own back hair.
A little apart and preoccupied sat Uncle Bill with the clipping in hiswallet burning like a red-hot coal. He could have swallowed being"carried down the mountain side," but the paragraph wherein "tears ofgratitude rained down his withered cheeks" stuck, as he phrased it, inhis craw. It set him thinking hard of Bruce Burt and the young fellow'sdeliberate sacrifice of his life for one old "Chink." Somehow he couldnot rid himself of blame that he had let him go alone. As soon as hecould get back to Ore City he had headed a search party that had failedto locate even the tent under the unusual fall of snow. Well, if Burthad taken a life, even accidentally, he had in expiation given his own.
As he brooded, occasionally the old man glanced at Wilbur Dill. He hadseen him before--but where? The sharp-faced, sharp-eyed Yellow-Leg wasassociated in the older man's mind with something shady, but what it washe could not for the time recall.
"Rosie, perhaps Mr. Dill would like to hear 'When the Robins NestAgain,'" Ma Snow suggested in the sweet, ingratiating tones of a motherwith two unattached daughters.
Mr. Dill declared that it was one of his favorite compositions, so MissRosie obligingly stood forth with the dog-eared music.
"When the Robins Nest Again, and the flower-r-rs--" she was warbling,but they never bloomed, for Mrs. Snow started for the door, explaining:"I'm sure I heard a scrunching." She threw it open and the yellow lightfell upon a gaunt figure leaning against the entrance of the snowtunnel. The man was covered with frost and icicles where his breath hadfrozen on his cap and upturned collar, while it was obvious from hissnow-caked knees and elbows that he had fallen often. He stood staringdumbly at the light and warmth and at Ma Snow, then he stooped and beganfumbling clumsily at the strappings of his snow-shoes.
"Won't you-all come in?" Ma Snow, recovering a little from her surprise,asked hospitably.
He pitched forward and would again have gone down but that he threw outhis hand and caught the door-jamb.
"Bruce Burt! Hell's catoots! Bruce Burt!" Uncle Bill was on his kneesoutside in an instant, jerking and tugging at the snow-clogged buckles.
Chairs came down on their forelegs with a thump and Ore City shambledforward in curiosity and awkward congratulation. Mr. Dill did not move.He was gazing at the scene in mingled resentment and consternation. Wasthis the Bruce Burt whose claims he was sent to survey? It was plainenough that Bruce Burt "now deceased" was very much alive, and he, Dill,had crossed three summits on a wild goose chase, since it was obvious hecould not relocate a man's ground while he was actually living upon it.Why didn't Sprudell find out that he was deceased before he sent a busyengineer on such a trip in winter? Mr. Dill sat frowning at Bruce, whilewilling hands helped him out of the coat his fingers were too stiff tounbutton.
"I've been coming since daylight." He spoke thickly, as though even histongue were cold. "I played out on the last big hill and sat so long Ichilled."
"And I guess you're hungry," Uncle Bill suggested.
Hungry! The word stabbed Ma Snow to the heart and her heels wentclickity-click as she flew for the kitchen.
Divested of his coat Bruce looked a big, starved skeleton. The cords ofhis neck were visible when he turned his head, his cheeks were hollow,his wrist-bones were prominent like those of a fever convalescent.
"You're some ga'nted up," Uncle Bill commented as he eyed himcritically. "Don't hardly look as though you'd winter."
The shadow of a smile crossed Bruce's dark face.
"Toy and I proved just about the length of time a man can go withouteating, and live."
"You made it then? You got to Toy--he's all right?"
"Yes," briefly, "but none too soon. The snow had broken the tent down,so we made it over the ridge to an old tunnel . . . I killed a porcupinebut we ran out of matches and there was no dry wood or sticks to make afire."
"I et raw wolf onct in Alasky," Yankee Sam interjected reminiscently."'Tain't a dish you'd call for in a restauraw, and I reckon procupine'sgot much the same flavor of damp dog. How did you get the Chinamandown?"
"I rigged up a travois when he could travel and hauled him to the cabin,where's he's waiting now. We are nearly out of grub, so I had to come."
Of the fierce hunger, the wearing, unceasing fight against Arctic cold,and, when weakened and exhausted by both, the dumb, instinctive strugglefor life against the combination, Bruce said nothing; but in a dozencommonplace sentences described physical sufferings sufficient for alifetime--which is the western way.
He walked to the desk, where the gifted tenor, clerk and post-masterstood pleased and expectant, pen in hand, waiting for him to register.
"Is there any mail for me?" He tried to speak casually but, to himselfthe eager note in his voice seemed to shriek and vibrate. Making everyallowance for delay
s and changed addresses he had calculated that by nowhe should have an answer from Slim's mother or sister. He did notrealize how positively he had counted on a letter until the clerk shookhis head.
"Nothing?" Bruce looked at him blankly.
"Nothing." The answer seemed to take the last scrap of his vitality. Hemoved to the nearest chair and sat down heavily.
The thought of assuming Slim's responsibilities, of making up for hisown futile years, and bringing to pass at least a few of his mother'sdreams for him, had become a kind of obsession since that first night ofhorror after his quarrel with Slim. It had kept him going, hanging ondoggedly, when, as he since believed, he might have given up. It seemedto have needed the ghastly, unexpected happening in the lonely cabin tohave aroused in him the ambition which was his inheritance from hismother. But it was awake at last, the stronger perhaps for having lainso long dormant.
Failures, humiliating moments, hasty, ungenerous words, heartless deeds,have a way of coming back with startling vividness in the still solitudeof mountains, and out of the passing of painful panoramas had grownBruce's desire to "make good." Now, in the first shock of his intensedisappointment he felt that without a tangible incentive he was donebefore he had started.
"Mistah Bruce, if you'll jest step out and take what they is," announcedMa Snow from the doorway. "And watch out foah yoah laig in this holeheah." She called over her shoulder: "Mistah Hinds, I want you shouldget to work and fix that place to-morrow or I'll turn yoah ol' hotel backon yoah hands. You heah me?"
The threat always made Old Man Hinds jump like the close explosion of astick of giant powder.
Bruce looked at the "light" bread and the Oregon-grape "jell," thesteaming coffee and the first butter he had seen in months, while beforehis plate on the white tablecloth at the "transient" end of the table,sat a slice of ham with an egg! like a jewel--its crowning glory.
Ma Snow whispered confidentially:
"One of the hins laid day 'fore yistiddy." The prize had been filchedfrom Mr. Snow, one of whose diversions was listening for a hen tocackle.
From his height Bruce looked down upon the work-stooped little woman andhe saw, not her churn-like contour nor her wrinkled face, but the lightof a kind heart shining in her pale eyes. He wanted to cry--he--BruceBurt! He fought the inclination furiously. It was too ridiculous--weak,sentimental, to be so sensitive to kindness. But he was so tired, solonely, so disappointed. He touched Ma Snow's ginger-colored haircaressingly with his finger tips and the impulsive, boyish action madefor Bruce a loyal friend.
In the office, Mr. Dill was noticeably abstracted. His smiling suavity,his gracious manner, had given place to taciturnity and Ore City'schoicest _bon mots_, its time-tested pleasantries, fell upon inattentiveears. As a matter of fact, his bones ached like a tooth from three long,hard days in the mail-carrier's sledges, and also he recognized certainsymptoms which told him that he was in for an attack of dyspepsia due tohis enforced diet en route, of soda-biscuit, ham, and bacon. But thesewere minor troubles as compared to the loss of the fee which in his mindhe had already spent. The most he could hope for, he supposed, wascompensation for his time and his expenses.
He sat in a grumpy silence until Bruce came out of the dining-room, thenhe stated his intention of going to bed and asked for a lamp. As he saidgood-night curtly he noticed Uncle Bill eyeing him hard, as he hadobserved him doing before, but this time there was distinct hostility inthe look.
"What's the matter with that old rooster?" he asked himself crossly ashe clumped upstairs to bed.
"I know that young duck now," said Uncle Bill in an undertone, as Brucesat down beside him. "He's a mining and civil engineer--a good one,too--but crooked as they come. He's a beat."
"He's an engineer?" Bruce asked in quick interest.
"He's anything that suits, when it comes to pulling off a mining deal.He'd 'salt' his own mother, he'd sell out his grandmother, but in hisprofession there's none better if he'd stay straight. I knowed him downin Southern Oregon--he was run out."
"Have you heard yet from Sprudell?"
"Yes," Uncle Bill answered grimly. "As you might say, indirectly. I wantyou should take a look at this."
He felt for his leather wallet and handed Bruce the clipping.
"Don't skip any," he said acidly. "It's worth a careful peruse."
There was a little likelihood of that after Bruce had read theheadlines.
"I hopes you takes special note of tears of gratitude rainin' down mywithered cheeks," said Uncle Bill savagely, "I relishes bein' publishedover the world as a sobbin' infant."
Bruce folded the clipping mechanically many times before he handed itback. There was more in it to him than the withholding of credit whichbelonged to an obscure old man, or the self-aggrandizement of a pompousbraggart. To Bruce it was indicative of a man with a moral screw loose,it denoted a laxity of principle. With his own direct standards ofconduct it was equivalent to dishonesty.
"You didn't git no answer to your letter, I notice," Griswold commented,following Bruce's thoughts.
"No."
They smoked in silence for a time, the target of interested eyes, Bruceunconscious that the stories of his feats of strength and his daring asa boatman had somehow crossed the almost impassable spurs of mountainbetween Ore City and Meadows to make a celebrity of him, not only inOre City but as far as the evil reputation of the river went.
"You'll hardly be startin' back to-morrow, will you, Burt?"
"To-morrow? No, nor the next day." There was a hard ring in Bruce'svoice. "I've changed my mind. I'm going outside! I'm going toBartlesville, Indiana, to see Sprudell!"
"Good!" enthusiastically. "And if you has cause to lick that pole kittyhit him one for me."
Wilbur Dill, who had not expected to close his eyes, was sleepingsoundly, while Bruce in the adjoining room, who had looked forward to anight of rest in a real bed, was lying wide awake staring into the dark.His body was worn out, numb with exhaustion, but his mind wasunnaturally alert. It refused to be passive, though it desperatelyneeded sleep. It was active with plans for the future, with speculationconcerning Sprudell, with the rebuilding of the air castles which hadfallen with his failure to find mail. In the restless days of waitingfor Toy to get well enough to leave alone for a few days while he wentup to Ore City for mail and provisions, a vista of possibilities hadunexpectedly opened to Bruce. He was standing one morning at the tinywindow which overlooked the river, starting across at Big Squaw creek,with its cascades of icicles pendant from its frozen mouth.
What a stream Big Squaw creek was, starting as it did all of thirtymiles back in the unknown hills, augmented as it came by tricklingrivulets from banks of perpetual snow and by mountain springs, until itgrew into a roaring torrent dashing itself to whiteness against thegreen velvet boulders, which in ages past had crashed through theunderbrush down the mountainside to lie forever in the noisy stream!And the unexpected fern-fringed pools darkened by overhanging boughs,under which darted shadows of the trout at play--why he had thought, ifthey had Big Squaw creek back in Iowa, or Nebraska, or Kansas, or any ofthose dog-gone flat countries where you could look further and see less,and there were more rivers with nothing in them than any other states inthe Union, they'd fence it off and charge admission. They'd--it was thenthe idea had shot into his mind like an inspiration--they'd _harness_Big Squaw creek if they had it back in Iowa, or Nebraska, or Kansas, andmake it work! They'd build a plant and develop power!
The method which had at once suggested itself to Sprudell was slow incoming to Bruce because he was unfamiliar with electricity. In theisolated districts where he had lived the simpler old-fashioned,steam-power had been employed and his knowledge of water-power waschiefly from reading and hearsay.
But he believed that it was feasible, that it was the solution of thedifficulty, if the expense were not too great. With a power-house at themouth of Squaw creek, a transmission wire across the river and apump-house down below, he could wash the whole sand-bar into the riv
erand all the sand-bars up and down as far as the current would carry! Inhis excitement he had tried to outline the plan to Toy, who had morethat intimated that he was mad.
The Chinaman had said bluntly: "No can do."
Placer-mining was a subject upon which Toy felt qualified to speak,since, after a cramped journey from Hong Kong, smuggled in his uncle'sclothes hamper, he had started life in America at fourteen, carryingwater to his countrymen placering in "Chiny" Gulch; after which hebecame one of a company who, with the industry of ants, built a trestleof green timber one hundred and fifty feet high to carry water to theBeaver Creek diggings and had had his reward when he had seen thesluice-box run yellow with gold and had taken his green rice bowlheaping full upon the days of division.
Those times were quick to pass, for the white men had come, and withtheir fists and six-shooters drove them from the ground, but theeventful days surcharged with thrills were the only ones in which hecounted he lived. He laundered now, or cooked, but he had never left thedistrict and he loved placer-mining as he loved his life.
Bruce had found small comfort in discussing his idea with Toy, for Toyknew only the flume and the ditch of the days of the 60's, so he waseager to submit his plan to some one who knew about such things and hewished that he had had an opportunity of talking to the "Yellow-Leg." Ifit was practicable, he wanted to get an idea of the approximate cost.
Bruce was thinking of the "Yellow-Leg" and envying him his education andknowledge when a new sound was added to the audible slumbers of theguests of the Hinds House and of the Snow family, who were not somusical when asleep. Accustomed to stillness, as he was, the chorus thatechoed through the corridor had helped to keep him awake, this and theuncommon softness of a feather pillow and a cotton mattress that Mr.Dill in carping criticism had likened unto a cement block.
This new disturbance which came through the thin partition separatinghis room from Dill's was like the soft patter of feet--barefeet--running around and around. Even a sudden desire for exerciseseemed an inadequate explanation in view of the frigid temperature ofthe uncarpeted rooms. Bruce was still more mystified when he heard Dillhurdling a chair, and utterly so when his neighbor began dragging awash-stand into the centre of the room. Making all due allowance for theeccentricities of Yellow-Legs, Bruce concluded that something was amiss,so, slipping into his shoes, he tapped upon the stranger's door.
The activity within continuing, he turned the knob and stepped insidewhere Mr. Dill was working like a beaver trying to add a heavy home-madebureau to the collection in the middle of the floor. Shivering in hisstriped pajamas he was staring vacantly when Bruce lighted the lamp andtouched him on the shoulder.
"You'd better hop into bed, mister."
Mr. Dill mumbled as he swung his arms in the gesture of swimming.
"Got to keep movin'!"
"Wake up." Bruce shook him vigorously.
The suspected representative of the "Guggenheimers" whined plaintively:"Itty tootsies awfy cold!"
"Itty tootsies will be colder if you don't get 'em off this floor,"Bruce said with a grin, as he dipped his fingers in the pitcher andflirted the ice water in his face.
"Oh--hello!" Intelligence returned to Mr. Dill's blank countenance."Why, I must have been walking in my sleep. I always do when I sleep ina strange place, but I thought I'd locked myself in. I dreamed I was afish freezing up in a cake of ice."
"It's not surprising."
"Say." Mr. Dill looked at him wistfully as he stood on one foot curlinghis purple toes around the other knee. "I wonder if you'd let me get inwith you? I'm liable to do it again--sleeping cold and all."
"Sure," said Bruce sociably, leading the way. "Come ahead."
The somnambulist chattered:
"I've been put out of four hotels already for walking into otherpeople's rooms, and once I got arrested. I've doctored for it."
While lamenting his inability to discuss his proposition with theengineer, the last thing Bruce anticipated was to be engaged beforedaylight in the humane and neighborly act of warming Wilbur Dill's back,but so it is that Chance, that humorous old lady, thrusts Opportunity inthe way of those in whom she takes an interest.
Bruce was so full of his subject that he saw nothing unusual inpropounding his questions in Mr. Dill's ear under the covers in themiddle of the night.
"How many horse-power could you develop from a two-hundred-feet headwith a minimum flow of eight hundred miners' inches?"
"Hey?" Mr. Dill's muffled voice sounded startled.
Bruce repeated the question, and added:
"I'm going out on the stage in the morning and it leaves before you'reup. I'd like mightily to know a few things in your line if you don'tmind my asking."
He was leaving, was he? Going out on the stage? Figuratively, Mr. Dillsat up.
"Certainly not." His tone was cordial. "Any information at all----"
As clearly as he could, Bruce outlined the situation, estimating that aflume half a mile in length would be necessary to get thistwo-hundred-foot head, with perhaps a trestle bridging the canyon of BigSquaw creek. And Dill, wide awake enough now, asked practical, pertinentquestions, which made Bruce realize that, as Uncle Bill had said,whatever doubt there might be about his honesty there could be none atall concerning his ability.
He soon had learned all that Bruce could tell him of the situation, ofthe obstacles and advantages. He knew his reason for wishing to locatethe pump-house at the extreme end of the bar, the best place to crossthe river with the transmission wire, of the proximity of saw-timber,and of the serious drawback of the inaccessibility of the ground. Brucecould think of no detail that Dill had overlooked when he was done.
"Transportation is your problem," the engineer said, finally. "With themachinery on the ground the rest would be a cinch. But there's only theriver or an expensive wagon-road. A wagon-road through such countrymight cost you the price of your plant or more. And the river with itsrapids, they tell me, is a terror; so with the water route eliminated,there remains only your costly wagon-road."
"But," Bruce insisted anxiously, "what would be your rough estimate ofthe cost of such a plant, including installation?"
"At a guess, I'd say $25,000, exclusive of freight, and as you know therates from the coast are almighty high."
"Twenty-five thousand dollars!" And five hundred, Bruce remindedhimself, was about the size of his pile.
"Much obliged."
"Don't mention it," Mr. Dill yawned. "One good turn deserves another,and, thanks to you, I'm almost warm."
Because Mr. Dill yawned it did not follow that he slept. On thecontrary, he was as wide awake as Bruce himself and when Bruce gentlywithdrew from the sociable proximity of a bed that sagged like ahammock, and tiptoed about the room while dressing, going downstairs tothe office wash-basin when he discovered that there was skating in thewater-pitcher, lest the sound of breaking ice disturb his bed-fellow,Dill was gratefully appreciative.
He really liked the fellow, he did for a fact--in spite of his firstprejudice against him for being alive. Besides, since he was goingoutside, as he had told him, for an indefinite stay, he might notinterfere so much with his plans after all, for Mr. Dill, too, had hadan inspiration.
The Man from the Bitter Roots Page 9
