XXV
THE CLEAN-UP
Toy's disappearance was mysterious and complete. There was not a singleclue to show which way he had gone, or how, or why. Only one thingseemed certain and that was that his departure was unpremeditated.
His potatoes were in a bucket of water, peeled and ready for dinner; thebread he had set to raise was waiting to be kneaded; his pipe laid onthe window sill while his hoarded trinkets for the little Sun Loon werestill hidden under the pad of the bed in his tent. His fish-pole in itsusual place disposed of the theory that he had fallen in the river, andalthough trained eyes followed every trail there was not a singletelltale track. He had vanished as though he had gone straight up.
His disappearance sobered the men. There was something uncanny about it;they lowered their voices When they speculated and all their latentsuperstition arose. Porcupine Jim declared that the place was "hoodooed"and as evidence enumerated the many accidents and delays. Bruce himselfwondered if the malignant spirit of Slim was lingering on the river toharry him as he had in life.
Smaltz was now in the power-house doing at last the specific work forwhich he had been hired. To all Bruce's questions, he replied that themachinery there was "doing fine." Down below, the pump-house motors werefar from satisfactory, sparking and heating in a way that Bruce, who didnot know the a, b, c's of electricity, could see was not right. Whilethe pumps and scrapers were working Banule dared not leave the motorsalone.
Then, after a couple of days' unsatisfactory work, the water dropped solow in Big Squaw creek that there was only sufficient pressure to useone scraper. Bruce discharged all the crew save Smaltz, Banule, andPorcupine Jim, who labored in the kitchen--a living insult to theBrotherhood of Cooks. While Bruce, by running back and forth between thedonkey-engine and the top sluice-box where the scraper dumped, managedto do the work of two men ten hours a day.
His nerves were at a tension, for along with the strain of hisresponsibilities was the constant fear of a serious break-down. Banulemade light of the sparking motors but the bearings were heating badly,daily necessitating more frequent stops. When a grounded wire sent theleaking current through the cable that pulled the scraper, and knockedBruce flat, he was not convinced by Banule's assurance that it "didn'tamount to much." It was all evidence to Bruce that fundamentallysomething was wrong.
But in spite of the time lost the cut was deepening and the side wallsstood up so that every scraper that emptied into the sluice-boxes wasfrom the pay-streak. Bruce fairly gloated over each cubic yard that hesucceeded in getting in, for the sample pans showed that it was all hehad hoped for, and more.
If only the riffles were saving it and the tables catching the finegold!
This he could not know until the clean-up and he did not mean to stopuntil he had brought in the last load he dared before a freeze. So farthe weather had been phenomenal, the exceptional open fall had been hisone good piece of luck. Under usual weather conditions, to avoidcleaning up through the ice he would have been obliged to have shut downat least a month before.
So the work kept on intermittently until an incredibly late date inNovember. The leaves of the poison oak had turned crimson, the talltamaracks in the high mountains were gold, frost crystals glittered eachmorning on the planks and boards, but Big Squaw creek kept runningsteadily and the sunshine soon melted the skim ice that formed overnight.
By this time Bruce had a fresh worry. It kept him awake hour after hourat night. The mercury was not looking right where it showed behind theriffles. It was too lively. There was something in it, of course, butnot enough to thicken it as he had hoped. He could see the flakes ofgold sticking to it as though it had been sprinkled with Nepaul pepperbut the activity of it where it showed in quantity alarmed him more thanhe would confess to himself.
The change of weather came in the night. That day he started toclean-up. A chill wind was blowing from the east and the sky was darkwith drab, low-hanging clouds when Bruce put on his hip-boots and beganto take up riffles. A thin sheet of water flowed through the boxes, justsufficient to keep the sand and gravel moving down as he took up theriffles one at a time and recovered the mercury each had contained.
Bruce's feet and fingers grew numb working in the icy water with ascrubbing brush and a small scoop but they were no colder than the coldhand of Premonition that lay heavy upon him.
Behind the riffles at the top of the first box the mercury wasamalgam--all that he could have wished for--beyond that point itsuddenly stopped and all that he recovered as he worked down looked tobe as active as when he had poured it from the flask.
What was wrong? He asked himself every conceivable question as he workedwith aching hands and feet. Had he given the boxes too much grade? Hadhe washed too fast--crowded the dirt so that it had not had time tosettle? Was it possible that after all the gold was too light and fineto save in paying quantities?
Hope died hard and he tried to make himself believe that the lower boxesand the tables had caught it--that there was more in the mercury thanthere looked. But the tension as he took up riffle after rime with theone result was like watching a long-drawn-out race with all one'spossessions staked on the losing horse.
He took up riffles until it was a physical impossibility to work longerin the numbing water, his fingers could not hold the scoop. Then he wentto the pump-house and told Banule to telephone Smaltz to shut down.
"He wants to know if you'll be pumpin' again?"
"Yes, after awhile. Tell him to stay there. I'm going to squeeze out the'quick' I've taken up, but I want to get as near finished to-day as Ican. You come and help me."
As Bruce walked back to the sluice-boxes with bowed head he was thinkingthat the day was well suited to the ending of his roseate dreams.Failure is dull, drab, colorless, and in his heart he had little doubtthat for some reason still to be explained, he had failed. Just howbadly remained to be seen.
Bruce had scooped the mercury into a clean granite kettle and now,while he held the four corners of a square of chamois skin, Banulepoured mercury from the kettle into the centre of the skin until told tostop.
"Looks like you ought to get several hundred dollars out of that,"Banule said hopefully as Bruce gathered the four corners, twisted themand began to squeeze.
"Yes, looks like I ought to," Bruce replied ironically.
The quicksilver came through the pores of the skin in a shower ofshining globules.
Banule's expression of lively interest in the process was graduallyreplaced by one of bewilderment as with every twist the contents keptsqueezing through until it looked as though there would be no residueleft. It was a shock even to Bruce, who was prepared for it, when hespread the chamois skin on a rock and looked at the ball of amalgamwhich it contained.
Banule stared at it, open-mouthed.
"What's the matter? Where's it gone? And out of all that dirt!"
Bruce shook his head; his voice was barely audible:
"I don't know." The sagging clouds were not heavier than his heart--"Iwish I did."
Banule stood a moment in silent sympathy.
"Guess you won't work any more to-day," he suggested.
"Yes; tell Smaltz to start," Bruce answered dully.
"I've got to save the mercury anyhow."
Banule lingered.
"Say," he hesitated--obviously he found the confession embarrassing orelse he hated to lay the final straw upon the camel's back--"justbefore you told me to shut down, the motor on the small pump startedsparkin' pretty bad."
"Yes?" Bruce knew that if Banule admitted it was "pretty bad" it was badindeed.
"I'll look it over if we can stop awhile."
Bruce shook his head.
"There's not an hour to lose. It's going to storm; I must get done."
"I 'spose we can start." Banule looked dubious. "I'll try it, but Ithink we'll have to quit."
_Was_ there anything more that could happen? Bruce asked himself in dumbmisery as he picked up his scoop and brush and mechanically went
to workwhen the pumps started and the water came.
His feet and hands were soon like ice but he was scarcely conscious ofthe pain for his heart-ache was so much greater. As he pursued theelusive quicksilver and worked the sand and gravel to the end of the boxall he could see was the stack of receipted bills which the work andplant had cost, in shocking contrast to that tiny ball of amalgam lyingin the chamois-skin on the rock. He had spent all of $40,000 and hedoubted if he would take $20 from the entire clean-up as it now looked.
How could he break the news to Helen Dunbar? Where would he find thecourage to tell the unfriendly stockholders the exact truth? It was aforegone conclusion that they would consider him a fakir and a crook.
It had to be done. As, in his imagination, he faced the ordeal heunconsciously straightened up.
"Burt! Burt! come quick!" Banule was waving his arms frantically fromthe platform of the pump-house. There was desperation in his cry forhelp. He dashed back inside as soon as he saw Bruce jump out of thesluice-box. Before Bruce reached the pump-house he heard Banule ringingthe telephone violently, and his frenzied shout:
"Shut down, Smaltz! Shut down! Where are you? Can't you hear? For God'ssake shut down, everything's burnin' up!"
He was ringing as though he would have torn the box loose from the wallwhen Bruce reached the pump-house door. Bruce turned sick when he heardthe crackling of the burning motors and saw the electric flames.
"Somethin's happened in the power-house! I can't ring him! He must havegot a shock! Until I know what's wrong, I don't dare shut down for fearI'll burn everything out up there!"
"_Keep her going!_" Bruce bounded through the door and dropped from theplatform. Then he threw off his hat as he always did when excited, andran. And how he ran! With his fists clenched and his arms tight againsthis sides he ran as though the hip-boots were the seven-league boots offable.
In the stretch of deep sand he had to cross the weight was killing. Thedrag of the heavy boots seemed to pull his legs from their sockets buthe did not slacken his pace. His breath was coming in gasps when hestarted up the steep trail which led from the sand over a highpromontory. He clutched at bushes, rocks, anything to pull himself upand the pounding of his heart sounded to him like the chug of asteamboat, before he reached the top.
The veins and arteries in his forehead and neck seemed bursting, as didhis over-taxed lungs, when he started stumbling and sliding down theother side. It was not the distance he had covered which had so windedhim, nor even the terrific pace, but the dragging weight of thehip-boots. They felt as though they were soled with lead.
He imagined that he had crawled but as a matter of fact the distancewould never be covered in the same space of time again.
The perspiration was trickling from his hair and through his thickeyebrows when he reached the boat landing where ordinarily they crossed.He brushed it out of his eyes with the back of his sleeve and stared atthe place where usually the boat rode. It was gone! Smaltz had taken itinstead of the overhead tram in which he always crossed.
There was no time to speculate as to Smaltz's reason. He kept on runningalong the river until he came to the steps of the platform where theheavy iron cage, suspended from a cable, was tied to a tree. Brucebounded up the steps two at a time and loosened the rope. It was notuntil then that he saw that the chain and sprocket, which made thecrossing easy, were missing. This, too, was strange. There was no timefor speculation. Could he cross in it hand over hand? For answer he puthis knee on the edge and kicked off.
The impetus sent it well over the river. Then it struck the slack in thecable and slowed up. Bruce set his teeth and went at it hand over hand.The test came when it started up grade. No ordinary man could havebudged it and Bruce pulled to the very last ounce of his strength. Hemoved it only an inch at a time--slipping back two inches frequentlywhen he changed hands.
If he lost the grip of both hands for a single second and slid back tothe middle of the slack he realized that he was too near exhausted topull up again, so, somehow, he hung on, making inarticulate sounds as heexerted superhuman strength, groaning like an animal loaded beyond itslimit. If only he could last!
When he reached the platform on the other side he was just able to throwan arm around the tree and crawl out while the ponderous iron cagesqueaking on the rusty cable rolled back to the middle of the river,where it swung to and fro.
Bruce gathered himself and tried to run. His legs refused to obey hiswill and he had to fall back to a walk. He hung over from the waist likea bent old man, his arms swinging limply at his sides.
He knew from the small amount of water going over the spillway that themachinery was still running and as he drew nearer to the power-house hecould hear the hiss of the 200-feet head as it hit the wheel.
He dreaded entering for fear of what he should see. He had little doubtbut that Smaltz was dead--electrocuted--roasted. He expected thesickening odor of burning flesh. He had been so long in gettingthere--but he had done his best--the power must be shut off first--hemust get to the lever--if only he could run. His thoughts wereincoherent--disconnected, but all of Smaltz. Smaltz had been loyal;Smaltz never had shirked; but he never had shown Smaltz the slightestevidence of friendship because of his unconquerable dislike.
Bruce was reproaching himself as he stepped up on the wooden casingwhich covered the pipes and nozzles inside the power-house. There hestopped and stood quite motionless, looking at Smaltz. Smaltz's facewore a look of keenest interest, as with one shoulder braced against theside of the building, his hands in his pockets, he watched the plantburn up.
Down below, Banule had thrown out the switch and the machinery wasrunning away. A rim of fire encircled the commutators. The cold, blueflame of electrical energy was shooting its jagged flashes from everypiece of magnetic metal it could reach, while the crackling of theshort-circuited wires was like the continuous, rattling reports of arapid-fire gun.
There was something terrifying in the sight of the racing machinery,something awe-inspiring in the spectacle of a great power gone mad. Thewind from the round blur that represented the fly-wheel was a gale andin the semi-dusk,--Smaltz had closed the double-doors--the leapingflames and the screech of the red-hot bearings made the place anInferno.
For a moment the amazing, unexpected sight deprived Bruce of the powerto move. Then he jumped for the lever and shut down. It was not untilthe machinery responded that Smaltz turned. His yellow-brown eyeswidened until they looked round. He had not counted on anyone's beingable to cross the river for fully half an hour.
If Smaltz had been the villain of fiction, he would have been a cowardas well. But Smaltz was not a coward. It is true he was startled--sostartled that his skin turned a curious yellow-green like a half-ripepear--but he was not afraid. He knew that he was "in for it." He knewthat something was going to happen, and quick. That Bruce was sitting onthe wooden casing quietly pulling off his heavy boots did not deceivehim in the least.
It was as still as the tomb in the power-house when Bruce stood up andwalked toward Smaltz. Grimy streaks of perspiration showed on hiscolorless face, from which every drop of blood seemed to have fled, andhis black eyes, that shone always with the soft brilliancy of a warm,impulsive nature and an imaginative mind, were glittering andpurposeful.
Smaltz stood his ground as Bruce advanced.
"Why didn't you answer that telephone, Smaltz?"
In feigned surprise Smaltz glanced at the box.
"I declare--the receiver's dropped off the hook!"
Bruce ignored the answer; he did not even look, but stepped closer.
"Why didn't you shut down?"
Smaltz summoned his impudent grin, but it wavered and faded underBruce's burning eyes even while he replied in a tone of injuredinnocence--
"How should I know? The bell didn't ring--Banule hadn't told me to."
Bruce paid no attention to the foolish excuse. He demanded again:
"Why didn't you shut down, Smaltz?"
"I've told you once," w
as the sullen answer.
Bruce turned to the telephone and rang the bell hard.
"Hello--hello--hello!" came the frantic reply.
"Can you swim, Banule?"
"Yes."
"Then take it where the cable crosses the river. Come quick." He put thereceiver back on its hook and stepped to the lever. Smaltz's eyes openedwide as Bruce shoved it hard. He stared as though he thought Bruce hadgone out of his mind. Then the dynamos began to pick up.
"What you goin' to do?" he shouted above the screech of the belting andthe hot bearings.
"You're going to tell the truth!" The last vestige of Bruce'sself-control vanished. His voice, which had been nearly a whisper, waslike the sudden roar of a deep-hurt bear. His dark face was distorted tougliness with rage. He rushed Smaltz--with his head down--and Smaltzstaggered with the shock. Then they grappled and went down. Once more itwas pandemonium in the power-house with the screeching of the red hotbearings and the glare of the crackling blue flames that meant the finaland complete destruction of the plant. Over and over the grimy,grease-soaked floor of the power-house they rolled and fought. Brutally,in utter savagery, Bruce ground Smaltz's face into the rough plankslittered with nails and sharp-copper filings, whenever hecould--dragging him, shoving him, working him each second a littlecloser to the machinery with the frenzy of haste. He had not yetrecovered from his run but Smaltz was no match for his great strength.
A glimmer of Bruce's purpose came to Smaltz at last.
"What--you tryin'--to do?" he panted.
Bruce panted back:
"I'm going to kill you! Do you hear?" His eyes were bloodshot, more thanever he looked like some battle-crazed grizzly seeing his victim througha blur or rage and pain. "If I can--throw you--across thosecommutators--before the fireworks stop--I'm goin' to give you fifteenhundred volts!"
A wild fright came in Smaltz's eyes.
"Let me up!" he begged.
For answer Bruce shoved him closer to the dynamo. He fought with freshdesperation.
"Don't do that, Burt! My God--Don't do that!"
"Then talk--talk! She's going fast. You've got to tell the truth beforeshe stops! _Why_ did you burn out this plant?"
Smaltz would not answer. Bruce lifted him bodily from the floor. In thestruggle he threw out a hand to save himself and his finger touched thespring that held the carbons. He screamed with the shock, but the blueflashes were close to his face blinding him before he suddenly relaxed:
"I'm all in. I'll tell."
Bruce let him drop back hard upon the floor and thrust a knee into hischest.
"Goon, then--talk!"
The words came with an effort; he seemed afraid of their effect uponBruce, then, uncertainly:
"I--was paid."
For the fraction of a second Bruce stared into Smaltz's scared face."You were paid," he repeated slowly. "Who--" and then the word camerapier-like as had the thought--"Sprudell!"
"He told me to see that you didn't start. He left the rest to me." Withsullen satisfaction: "And it's cost him plenty--you bet--"
Inexplicable things suddenly grew clear to Bruce.
"You turned the boat loose in Meadows--"
"Yes."
"You wrecked it on that rock--"
"Yes."
"You fouled the mercury in the boxes?"
"Yes."
"And Toy!" The look of murder came back into Bruce's face, his handcrept toward Smaltz's throat. "Don't lie! What did you do to Toy?"
Smaltz whispered--he could barely speak--"I'm tellin' the truth--it wasan accident. He jumped me--I threw him off and he fell in thesluice-box--backward--I tried to save him--I did--that's straight."Smaltz kept rolling his head back and forth in an oil-soaked spot wherea grease cup leaked. Bruce's knee was grinding into his ribs and chestand his fingers were tightening on his throat.
Bruce raised himself a little and looked down at Smaltz. As he stared atthe smudged, bleeding face and into the yellow-brown eyes with theirdilated pupils, the rage in his own gave place to a kind of intensecuriosity, the scrutiny one gives to a repulsive and venomous insect orreptile he has captured. He was trying to impress upon his own mind theincredible fact that this human being, lying helpless beneath him,watching him with questioning fear, had ruined him without the leastpersonal malice--had robbed him of all he had strained, and worked, andfought for, for pay! It seemed like a preposterous, illogical dream; yetthere he lay, alive, real, his face less than two feet from his own.
Finally, Bruce took his knee from his chest and got up. Smaltz pulledhimself to his feet and stood uncertainly.
"Well--I suppose it's jail." There was sullen resignation in his voice.
Bruce stopped the machinery without answering. Then he folded his armsand leaned his broad shoulders against the rough boards of thepower-house while, eying Smaltz, he considered. A year ago he would havekilled him--he would have killed him begging on his knees, but taking ahuman life either makes a man callous or sobers him and the remorsewhich had followed the tragedy in the cabin was a sensation Bruce neverwanted to experience again.
Penitentiaries were made for men like Smaltz--but in a country of longand difficult distances, with the lax courts and laws indifferentlyenforced, to put Smaltz where he belonged was not so simple as it mightsound. It required time and money; Bruce had neither to spare.
It was so still in the power-house that the ticking of the dollar watchhanging on a nail sounded like a clock. Smaltz shifted feet nervously.At last Bruce walked to the work-bench and took a carpenter's pencilfrom a box and sharpened it. He smoothed out some wrapping paper thenmotioned Smaltz to sit down.
"I want you to write what you told me--exactly--word for word. Write itin duplicate and sign your name."
Consternation overspread Smaltz's face. A verbal confession to savehimself from being electrocuted was one thing, to put it in black andwhite was quite another. He hesitated. Bruce saw the mutiny in his face;also the quick, involuntary glance he gave toward a monkey-wrench whichlay on the end of the work-bench within his reach.
Rage burned up in Bruce again.
"Don't you know when you've got enough?" He stepped forward and removedthe heavy wrench from Smaltz's reach. "I'll give you just one minute bythe watch there to make up your mind. You'd better write, for you won'tbe able when I'm through!"
They measured each other, eye to eye again. Each could hear thebreathing of the other in the silence while the watch ticked off theseconds. An over-sanguine pack-rat tried to scramble up the tar-papercovering on the outside and squeaked as he fell back with a thud, butthe face of neither man relaxed. Smaltz took the full limit of the time.He saw Bruce's fingers work, then clinch. Suddenly he grinned--asheepish, unresentful grin.
"I guess you're the best man," He slouched to the bench and sat down.
He was still writing when Banule came, breathing hard and still drippingfrom his frigid swim. He stopped short and his jaw dropped at seeingSmaltz. He was obviously disappointed at finding him alive.
Smaltz handed Bruce the paper when he had finished and signed his name.Neither the writing or composition was that of an illiterate man. Bruceread it carefully and handed it to Banule:
"Read this and witness it."
Banule did as he was told, for once, apparently, too dumfounded forcomment.
"Now copy it," said Bruce, and Smaltz obeyed.
When this was done, signed and witnessed Smaltz looked upinquiringly--his expression said--"What next?"
Bruce stepped to the double doors and slid the bolt.
"There's your trail--now _hit_ it!" He motioned into the wilderness ashe threw the doors wide.
Incredulity, amazement, appeared on Smaltz's face.
In the instant that he stood staring a vein swelled on Bruce's templeand in a spasm of fury he cried:
"_Go_, I tell you! Go while I can keep my hands off you--you--" hefinished with an oath.
Smaltz went. He snatched his coat from its nail as he passed but did notstop for his hat.
It was not until he reached the slab which served as abridge over the water from the spillway that he recovered anything ofhis impudent nonchalance. He was in the centre of it when he heardBanule say:
"If it ud be me I'd a put a lash rope round his neck and drug him upthat hill to jail."
Smaltz wheeled and came back a step.
"Oh, you would, would you? Say, you fakir, I'm glad you spoke. I almostforgot you." There was sneering, utter contempt in Smaltz's voice."_Fakir_," he reiterated, "you get that, do you, for I'm pickin' mywords and not callin' names by chance. You're the worst that ever comeoff the Pacific coast--and that's goin' _some_."
He turned sharply to Bruce.
"You know even a liar sometimes tells the truth and I'm goin' to give itto you straight now. I've nothin' to win or lose. _This machinery neverwill run._ The plant was a failure before it was put up. And," he noddedcontemptuously at Banule, "nobody knew it better than that dub."
"Jennings," he went on "advised this old-fashioned type of machinerybecause it was the only kind he understood and he wanted the job ofputting it up, honestly believin' at the time that he could. When herealized that he couldn't, he sent for Banule to pull him through.
"Jennings failed because of his ignorance but this feller _knows_, andwhatever he's done he has done knowin' that his work couldn't by anychance last. All he's thought of was gettin' the plant up somehow so itwould run temporarily--any old way to get through--get his money, andget out. He's experimented continually at your expense; he's bungled thejob from beginning to end with his carelessness--his 'good enough' work.
"You were queered from the start with them armatures he wound back thereon the Coast. He and Jennings took an old fifty horse-power motor andtried to wind it for seventy-five. There wasn't room for the copper sothey hammered in the coils. They ruptured the insulation in the armatureand that's why it's always short-circuited and sparked. He rated it atseventy-five and it's never registered but fifty at its best. He ratedthe small motor at fifty and it developed thirty--no more. The blueprint calls for 1500 revolutions on the big pump and the speed indicatorshows 900. Even if the motors were all right, the vibration from thatbum foundation that he told you was 'good enough' would throw them out,in time.
"All through he's lied and bluffed, and faked. He has yet to put up hisfirst successful plant. Look up his record if you think it ain't thetruth. What's happened here is only a repetition of what's happenedeverywhere he's ever been. It would be a fortune if 'twas figured whathis carelessness has cost the men for whom he's worked.
"In the eyes of the law I'm guilty of wreckin' this plant but in fact Ionly put on the finishin' touches. I've shortened your misery, Burt,I've saved you money, for otherwise you'd have gone tryin' to tinker itup. Don't do it. Take it from me it isn't worth it. From start to finishyou've been stung."
He turned mockingly to Banule:
"As we know, Alphy, generally there's a kind of honor among crooks thatkeeps us from squeakin' on each other, but that little speech of yournabout takin' a turn of a las' rope round my neck kind of put me on theprod. That virtuous pose of yours sort of set my teeth on edge, knowin'what I do, and I ain't told half of what I could if I had the time.However, Alphy," he shot a look at Bruce's face, "if you'll take theadvice of a gent what feels as though a log had rolled over him, you'llsift along without puttin' up any holler about your pay."
The Man from the Bitter Roots Page 25
