Silver and Gold

by Coolidge, Dane

  “Where did this come from?” he asked holding up a chunk that was heavy with silver and lead, “is this some high-grade from the famous Lost Burro?”

  “Nope,” returned Bunker, “’bout the same kind of rock, though. That comes from the tunnel in there.”

  “Like hell!” scoffed Denver with a swift look at the specimen, “and for sale for five hundred dollars? Well, there’s something funny here, somewhere.”

  He stepped into the tunnel and there, across the face, was a four inch vein of the ore. It lay between two walls, as a fissure vein should; but the dip was almost horizontal, following the level of the uptilted strata. Except for that it was as ideal a prospect as a man could ask to see–and for sale for five hundred dollars! A single ton of the ore, if it was as rich as it looked, ought easily to net five hundred dollars.

  Denver knocked off some samples with his prospector’s pick and carried them out into the sun.

  “Why don’t you work this?” he asked as he caught the gleam of native silver in the duller gray of the lead and Old Bunk hunched his shoulders.

  “Little out of my line,” he suggested mildly, “I leave all that to the Swedes. Say, did you ever hear that one about the Swede and the Irishman–you don’t happen to be Irish, do you?”

  “No,” answered Denver and as he waited for the story he remembered what the Professor had told him. This long, gangly Yankee, with his drooping red mustache and his stories for every occasion, was nothing but a store-keeper and a cowman. He knew nothing about mining or the value of mines but like many another old-timer simply held down his claims and waited–and to cover up his ignorance of mining he told stories about Irishmen and Swedes. “No,” said Denver, “and you’re no Swede, or you’d drift in there and see what you’ve got.”

  “A mule can work,” observed Bunker oracularly, “but here’s one I heard sprung on an Irishman. He was making a big talk about Swedes and Swede luck, and after he’d got through a feller made the statement that the Swedes were the greatest people in the world.

  “‘In the wur-rold!’ yells the Irishman, like he was out of his head, ‘well, how do you figure thot out?’

  “‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ says the feller, ‘the Swedes invented the wheel-barrow–and then they learned you Irish to stand on your hind legs and run it!’ Har, har, har; he had him going that time–the Mick couldn’t think what else to do so he went to heaving bricks.”

  “Yes–sure,” nodded Denver, “that was one on the Irish. But say, have you got a clean title to this claim? Because if you have─”

  “You bet I have!” spoke up Bunker, now suddenly strictly business; but as he waited expectantly there was a shout from the trail and Professor Diffenderfer came rushing up.

  “Oh, I heard you!” he cried shaking a trembling fist at Bunker. “I heard vot you said about my claim! Und now, Mister Bunk, I’ll have my say–no sir, you haf no goot title. You haf not done your yearly assessment vork on dis or any oder claims!”

  “Say, who called you in on this?” inquired Bunker Hill coldly. “You danged, bat-headed Dutchman, you keep butting in on my deals and I’ll forget and bust you on the jaw!”

  His long, sharp chin was suddenly thrust out, one eye had a dangerous droop; but the Professor returned his gaze with an insolent stare and a triumphant toss of the head.

  “Dat’s all right!” he said, “you say my golt mine is a stringer–I say your silver mine is nuttings. You haf no title, according to law, but only by the custom of the country.”

  “Well, you poor, ignorant baboon,” burst out Bunker in a fury, “what better title do you want? The claim is mine, everybody knows it and acknowledges it; and I’ve got your signature, sworn before a notary public, that the annual work was done!”

  “Just a form, just a form,” returned the Professor with a shrug, “I do like everyone else. But dis claim dat I haf–and my tunnel on the hill–on dem the vork is done. And now, Mr. Russell, if you haf finished looking here, I will take you to see my mine.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” began Denver still gazing at the silver ore, “this looks pretty good, right here.”

  “But the prophecy!” exclaimed the Professor with a knowing smirk, “don’t it tell you to choose between the two? And how can you tell if you don’t even look–whether the golt or the silver is better?”

  “Aw, go down and look at it!” broke in Bunker Hill angrily as Denver scratched his head, “go and see what he calls a mine–and if you don’t come running back and put your money in my hand you ain’t the miner I think you are. But by the holy, jumping Judas, I’m going to forget myself some day and knock the soo-preme pip out of this Dutchman!” He turned abruptly away and went striding back towards the town and the Professor leered at Denver.

  “Vot I told you?” he boasted, “I ain’t scared of dat mens–he promised his vife he von’t fight!”

  “Good enough,” said Denver, “but don’t work it too hard. Now come on and let’s look at your mine.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER IX

  BIBLE-BACK MURRAY

  As a matter of form Denver went with the Professor and inspected his boasted mine but all the time his mind was far away and his heart was beating fast. The vein of silver that Bunker Hill had shown him was worth a thousand dollars anywhere; but, situated as it was on the next claim to the Lost Burro, it was worth incalculably more. It was too good a claim to let get away and as he listened perfunctorily to the Professor’s patter he planned how he would open it up. First he would shoot off the face, to be sure there was no salting, and send off some samples to the assayer; and then he would drive straight in on the vein as long as his money lasted. And if it widened out, if it dipped and went down, he would know for a certainty that it was the silver treasure that good old Mother Trigedgo had prophesied. But to carry out the prophecy, to choose well between the two, he gazed gravely at the Professor’s strip of gold-ore.

  It was a knife-blade stringer, a mere seam of rotten quartz running along the side of a canyon; and yet not without its elements of promise, for it was located near another big fault. In geological days the rim-rock had been rent here as it had at Queen Creek Canyon and this stringer of quartz might lead to a golden treasure that would far surpass Bunker’s silver. But the signs were all against it and as Denver turned back the Professor read the answer in his eyes.

  “Vell, vat you t’ink?” he demanded insistently, “vas I right or vas I wrong? Ain’t I showed you the golt–and I’ll tell you anodder t’ing, dis mine vill pay from the start. You can pick out dat rich quartz and pack it down to the crick and vash out the pure quill golt; but dat ore of Old Bunk’s is all mixed oop with lead and zinc, and with antimonia too. You vil haf to buy the sacks, and pay the freight, and the smelter charges, too; and dese custom smelters they penalize you for everyt’ing, and cheat you out of what’s left. Dey’re nutting but a bunch of t’ieves and robbers─”

  “Aw, that’s all right,” broke in Denver impatiently, “for cripe’s sake, give me a chance. I haven’t bought your mine nor Bunk’s mine either, and it don’t do any good to talk. I’m going to rake this country with a fine-tooth comb for claims that show silver and gold, and when I’ve seen ’em all I’ll buy or I won’t, so you might as well let me alone.”

  “Very vell, sir,” began the Professor bristling with offended dignity and, seeing him prepared with a long-winded explanation, Denver turned up the hill and quit him. He clambered up to the rim, dripping with sweat at every step, and all that day, while the heat waves blazed and shimmered, he prospected the face of the rim-rock. The hot stones burned his hands, he fought his way through thorns and catclaws and climbed around yuccas and spiny cactus; but at the end of the long day, when he dragged back to camp, he had found nothing but barren holes. The country was pitted with open cuts and shallow prospect-holes, mostly dug to hold down worthless claims; and the second day and the third only served to raise his opinion of the claim that Bunker had showed him.

  On
the fourth day he went back to it and prospected it thoroughly and then he kept on around the shoulder of the hill and entered the country to the north. Here the sedimentary rim-rock lay open as a book and as he followed along its face he found hole after hole pecked into one copper-stained stratum. It was the same broad stratum of quartzite which, on coming to the creek, had dipped down into Bunker’s claim; and now Denver knew that others beside himself thought well of that mineral-bearing vein. For the country was staked out regularly and in each location monument there was the name Barney B. Murray.

  The steady panting of a gas-engine from somewhere in the distance drew Denver on from point to point and at last, in the bottom of a deep-cleft canyon, he discovered the source of the sound. Huge dumps of white waste were spewed out along the hillside, there were houses, a big tent and criss-crossed trails; but the only sign of life was that chuh, chuh, of the engine and the explosive blap, blaps of an air compressor. It was Murray’s camp, and the engine and the compressor were driving his diamond drill.

  Denver looked about carefully for some sign of the armed guard and then, not too noisily, he went down the trail and followed along up the gulch. The drill, which was concealed beneath the big, conical tent, was set up in the very notch of the canyon, where it cut through the formation of the rim-rock; and Denver was more than pleased to see that it was fairly on top of the green quartzite. He kept on steadily, still looking for the guard, his prospector’s pick well in front; and, just down the trail from the tented drill, he stopped and cracked a rock.

  “Hey! Get off this ground!” shouted a voice from the tent and as Denver looked up a man stepped out with a rifle in his hand. “What are you doing around here?” he demanded angrily and, as Denver made no answer, another man stepped out from behind. Then with a word to the guard he came down the trail and Denver knew it was Murray himself.

  He was a tall, bony man with a flowing black beard and, hunched up above his shoulders, was the rounded hump which had given him the name of “Bible-Back.” To counterbalance this curvature his head was craned back, giving him a bristling, aggressive air, and as he strode down towards Denver his long, gorilla arms, extended almost down to his knees.

  “What are you doing here, young man?” he challenged harshly, “don’t you know that this ground is closed?”

  “Why, no,” bluffed Denver, “you haven’t got any signs out. What’s all the excitement about?”

  Bible-Back Murray paused and looked him over, and his prospector’s pick and ore-sack, and a glint came into one eye. The other eye remained fixed in a cold, rheumy stare, and Denver sensed that it was made of glass.

  “Who are you working for?” rasped Murray and as he raised his voice the guard started down the dump.

  “I’m not working for anybody,” answered Denver boldly, “I’m out prospecting along the edge of the rim.”

  “Oh–prospecting,” said Murray suddenly moderating his voice; and then, as the guard stood watching them narrowly, he gave way to a fatherly smile. “Well, well,” he exclaimed, “it’s pretty hot for prospecting–you can’t see very well in this glare. Whereabouts have you made your camp?”

  “Over on the crick,” answered Denver. “What have you got here, anyway? Is this that diamond drill?”

  “Never mind, now!” put in the guard who, anticipating a call-down for his negligence, was in a distinctly hostile mood, “you know danged well it is!”

  “Oh, I do, do I?” retorted Denver, “well, all right pardner, if you say so; but you don’t need to call me a liar!”

  He returned the guard’s glare with an insulting sneer and Murray made haste to intercede.

  “Now, now,” he said, “let’s not have any trouble. But of course you’ve no business on this ground.”

  “That’s all right,” defended Denver, “that don’t give him a license to pull any ranicky stuff. I’m as peaceable as anybody, but you can tell your hired man he don’t look bad to me.”

  “That will do, Dave,” nodded Murray and after another look at Denver, the guard turned back towards the tent.

  “Judas priest,” observed Denver thrusting out his lip at the guard, “he’s a regular gun-fighting boy. You must have something pretty good hid away here somewhere, to call for a guard like that.”

  “He’s a dangerous man,” replied Murray briefly, “I’d advise you not to rouse him. But what do you think of our district, Mister–er─”

  “Russell,” said Denver promptly, “my name is Denver Russell. I just came over from Globe.”

  “Glad to meet you,” answered Murray extending a hairy hand, “my name is B. B. Murray. I’m the owner of all this ground.”

  “’S that so?” murmured Denver, “well don’t let me keep you.”

  And he started off down the trail.

  “Hey, wait a minute!” protested Murray, “you don’t need to go off mad. Sit down here in the shade–I want to have a talk with you.”

  He stepped over to the shade of an abandoned cabin and Denver followed reluctantly. From the few leading questions which Mr. Murray had propounded he judged he was a hard man to evade; and, until he had got title to the claim on Queen Creek, it was advisable not to talk too much.

  “So you’re just over from Globe, eh?” began Murray affably, “well, how are things over in that camp? Yes, I hear they are booming–were you working in the mines? What do you think of this country for copper?”

  “It sure looks good!” pronounced Denver unctuously, “I never saw a place that looked better. All this gossan and porphyry, and that copper stain up there–and just look at that dacite cap!”

  He waved his hand at the high cliff behind and Murray’s eye became beady and bright.

  “Yes,” he said rubbing his horny hands together and gazing at Denver benevolently, “we think the indications are good–were you thinking of locating in these parts?”

  “No, just going through,” answered Denver slowly. “I was camping by the crick and saw that copper-stain, so I thought I’d follow it up. How far are you down with your drill?”

  “Quite a ways, quite a ways,” responded Murray evasively. “You don’t look like an ordinary prospector–who’d you say it was you were working for?”

  Denver turned and looked at him, and grunted contemptuously.

  “J. P. Morgan,” he said and after a silence Murray answered with a thin-lipped smile.

  “That’s all right, that’s all right,” he said with a cackle. “No hard feeling–I just wanted to know. You’re an honest young man, but there are others who are not, and we naturally like to inquire. Are you staying with Mr. Hill?”

  “Well, not so you’d notice it,” replied Denver brusquely. “I’m camped in that cave across the crick.”

  “Oh, is that so?” purred Murray driving relentlessly on in his quest for information, “did he show you any of his claims?”

  “He showed me one,” answered Denver and, try as he would, he could not keep his voice from changing.

  “Oh, I see,” said Murray suddenly smiling triumphantly, “he showed you that claim by the creek.”

  “That’s the one,” admitted Denver, “and it sure looked good. Have you got any interests over there?”

  “Not at present,” returned Murray with a touch of asperity, “but let me tell you a little about that claim. You’re a stranger in these parts and it’s only fair to warn you that the assessment work has never been done. He has no title, according to law; so you can govern your actions accordingly.”

  “You mean,” suggested Denver, “that all I have to do is to go in and jump the claim?”

  “Hell–no!” exclaimed Bible-Back startled out of his piosity. “I mean that you had better not buy it.”

  “Well, thanks,” drawled Denver, “this is danged considerate of you. Shall I tell him you’ll take it yourself?”

  “Certainly not!” snapped back Murray, “I’ve enough claims, already. I’m just warning you for your own good.”

  “Danged considerate,
” repeated Denver with a sarcastic smile, “and now let me ask you something. Who told you I wanted to buy?”

  “Never mind!” returned Murray, “I’ve warned you, and that is enough.”

  “Well, all right,” agreed Denver, “but if you don’t want it yourself─”

  “Young man!” exclaimed Murray suddenly rising to his feet and crooking his neck like a crane, “I guess you know who I am. I can make or break any man in this country, and I’m telling you now–don’t you buy!”

  “I get you,” answered Denver, and without arguing the point he rose up and went down the trail.

  * * *

  CHAPTER X

  SIGNS AND OMENS

  When a man like Bible-Back Murray, the biggest man in the country–a sheep-owner, a store-keeper, a political power–goes out of his way to break up a trade there is something significant behind it. Denver had come to Pinal in response to a prophecy, in search of two hidden treasures between which he must make his choice; and now, added to that, was the further question of whether he should venture to oppose Murray. If he did, he could proceed in the spirit of the prophecy and choose between the silver and gold treasures; but if he did not there would be no real choice at all, but simply an elimination. He must turn away from the silver treasure, that precious vein of metal which led so temptingly into the hill, and take the little stringer of quartz which the Professor had offered as a gold mine. Denver thought it all over out in front of his cave that night and at last he came back to the prophecy.

  “Courage and constancy,” it said, “will attend you through life, but in the end will prove your undoing, for you will meet your death at the hands of your dearest friend.”

  Denver’s heart fell again at the thought of that hard fate but it did not divert him from his purpose. Mother Trigedgo had said that he should be brave, nevertheless–very well then, he would dare oppose Murray. But now to choose between the two, between the Professor’s stringer of gold and Bunker’s vein of silver–with the ill will of Murray attached. Denver pondered them well and at last he lit a candle and referred it to Napoleon’s Oraculum.