Silver and Gold

by Coolidge, Dane

  In the front of the Book of Fate were thirty-two questions the answers to which, on the succeeding pages, would give counsel on every problem of life. The questions, at first sight, seemed more adapted to love-sick swains than to the practical problem before Denver, but he came back to number nine.

  “Shall I be SUCCESSFUL in my present undertaking?”

  All he had to do was to decide to buy the silver claim and then put the matter to the test. He spread a sheet of fair paper on the clear corner of his table and made five rows of short lines across it, each containing more than the requisite twelve marks. Then he counted each row and, opposite every one that came even, he placed two dots; opposite every line that came odd, one dot. This made a series of five dots, one above the other, of which the first two were double and the last three single, and he turned to the fateful Key.

  It was spread across two pages, a solid mass of signs and letters, arranged in a curious order; and along the side were the numbers of the questions, across the top the different combinations of dots. Against the thirty-two questions there were thirty-two combinations in which the odd and even dots could be arranged, and Denver’s series was the seventh in order. The number of his question was nine. Where the seventh line from the side met the ninth from the top there occurred the letter O. Denver turned to the Oraculum and on the page marked O he found thirty-two answers, each starred with a different combination of dots. The seventh answer from the top was the one he sought–it said:

  “Fear not, if thou are prudent.”

  “Good enough!” exclaimed Denver, shutting the book with a slap; but as he went out into the night a sudden doubt assailed him–what did it mean by: “If thou art prudent?”

  “Fear not!” he understood, it was the first and only motto in the bright, brief lexicon of his life; but what was the meaning of “prudent?” Did it mean he was to refrain from opposing Old Bible-Back, or merely that he should oppose him within reason? That was the trouble with all these prophecies–you never could tell what they meant. Take the silver and golden treasures–how would he know them when he saw them? And he had to choose wisely between the two. And now, when he referred the whole business to the Oraculum it said: “Fear not, if thou art prudent.”

  He paced up and down on the smooth ledge of rock that made up the entrance to his home and as he sunk his head in thought a voice came up to him out of the blackness of the town below. It was the girl again, singing, high and clear as a flute, as pure and ethereal as an angel, and now she was singing a song. Denver roused up and listened, then lowered his head and tramped back and forth on the ledge. The voice came again in a song that he knew–it was one that he had on a record–and he paused in his impatient striding. She could sing, this girl of Bunk’s, she knew something besides scales and running up and down. It was a song that he knew well, only he never remembered the names on the records. They were in German and French and strange, foreign languages, while all that he cared for was the music. He listened again, for her singing was different; and then, as she began another operatic selection he started off down the trail. It was a rough one at best and he felt his way carefully, avoiding the cactus and thorns; but as he crossed the creek he suddenly took shame and stopped in the shadow of the sycamore.

  What if the Professor, that old prowler, should come along and find him, peeping in through Bunker’s open door? What if the ray of light which struck out through the door-frame should reveal him to the singer within? And yet he was curious to see her. Since his first brusque refusal to go in and meet her, Bunker had not mentioned his daughter again–perhaps he remembered what was said. For Denver had stated that he had plenty of music himself, if he could ever get his phonograph from Globe. Yet he had had the instrument for nearly a week and never unpacked the records. They were all good records, no cheap stuff or rag-time; but somehow, with her singing, it didn’t seem right to start up a machine against her. And especially when he had refused to come down and meet her–a fine lady, practicing for grand opera.

  He sat down in the black shadow of the mighty sycamore and strained his ears to hear; but a chorus of tree-frogs, silenced for the moment by his coming, drowned the music with their eerie refrain. He hurled a rock into the depths of the pool and the frog chorus ceased abruptly, but the music from the house had been clearer from his cave-mouth than it was from the bed of the creek. For half an hour he sat, gazing out into the ghostly moonlight for some sign of the snooping Diffenderfer; and then by degrees he edged up the trail until he stood in the shadow of the store. The music was impressive–it was Marguerite’s part, in “Faust,” sung consecutively, aria by aria–and as Denver lay listening it suddenly came over him that life was tragic and inexorable. He felt a great longing, a great unrest, a sense of disaster and despair; and then abruptly the singing ceased, and with it passed the mood.

  There was a murmur of voices, a strumming on the piano, a passing of shadows to and fro; and then from the doorway there came gay and spritely music–and at last a song that he knew. Denver listened intently, trying to remember the record which had contained this lilting air. He had it–the “Barcarolle,” the boat-song from the “Tales of Hoffmann!” And she was singing the words in English. He left the shadow and stepped out into the open, forgetful of everything but the singer, and the words came out to him clearly.

  “Night divine, O night of love,

  O smile on our enchantment;

  Moon and stars keep watch above

  This radiant night of love!”

  She came to the end, riding up and down in an ecstatic series of “Ahs!” and as the song floated away into piano and pianissimo Denver braved the light to see her.

  She was standing by the piano, swaying like a flower to the music; and a lamp behind made her face like a cameo, her hair like a mass of gold. That was all he saw in the swift, stolen moment before he retreated in a panic to his cave. It was she, the beautiful woman that the seeress had predicted, the one he should fall in love with! She had won his heart before he even saw her, but how could he hope to win her? She was a singer, an artist as Mother Trigedgo had said, and he was a hobo miner. He stood by his cavern looking down on the town and up at the moon and stars and the words of her song came back to his ears in a continual, haunting refrain.

  “Ah! smile on our enchantment,

  Night of Love, O night of love!

  Ah, Ah! Ah, Ah! Ah, Ah! Ah, Ah!”

  It floated away in a lilting diminuendo, a joyous, mocking refrain; and long after the night was quiet again the music still ran through his head. It possessed him, it broke his sleep, it followed him in dreams; and with it all went the vision of the singer, surrounded like St. Cecilia with a golden halo of light. He woke up at dawn with a fire in his brain, a tumult of unrest in his breast; and like a buck when he feels the first sting of a wound he turned his face towards the heights. The valley seemed to oppress him, to cabin him in; but up on the cliffs where the eagles soared there was space and the breath of free winds. He toiled up tirelessly, a fierce energy in his limbs, a mill-race of thoughts in his mind, and at last on the summit he turned and looked down on the house that sheltered his beloved.

  She was the woman, he knew it, for his heart had told him long before he had thought of the prophecy; and now the choice between the gold and silver treasures seemed as nothing compared to winning her. Of all the admonitions which had been laid upon him by the words of the Cornish seeress, none seemed more onerous than this about the woman that he would love.

  “You will fall in love with a beautiful woman who is an artist,” Mother Trigedgo had written, “but beware how you reveal your affection or she will confer her hand upon another.”

  On another! This woman, whom he had worshipped from the moment he had seen her, would flaunt him if he revealed his love! That was the thought which had tortured him and driven him to the heights, where he could wrestle with his problem alone. How could he meet her without her reading in his eyes the secret he must not reveal? And yet he
was possessed with a mad desire to see her–to see her and hear her sing. All her scales and roulades, her runs and trills, had passed by him like so much smoke; but when the mood had come and she had sung her song-of-songs he had lost his heart to her instantly. But if, in her presence, he revealed this new love she would confer her hand upon another!

  He stood on the edge of Apache Leap and gazed down at the valley below, then he looked far away where peak piled on peak and the desert sloped away to the horizon. It was hot, barren land, every ridge spiked with giant cactus, every gulch a bruising tangle of brush and rocks; but Pinal lay sleeping in the cool shadow of the Leap, and Drusilla slept there too. But who would think to look for her in a place like that, or for the treasures of silver and gold? The finger of destiny had pointed him plain, for he stood on the Place of Death. It was lifeless yet, save for the uneasy eagles who watched him from a splintered crag; and the clean, black shadow that lapped out over the plain held the woman and the treasures in its compass.

  A sense of awe, of religious exaltation, came over Denver as he considered the prophecy, and from somewhere within him there came a new strength which stilled the fierce tumult in his breast. Since the stars had willed it that he should have this woman if he veiled his love from her eyes he would be brave then, and constant, and steel his boy’s heart to resist her matchless charms. He would watch over her from afar, feeding his love in secret, and when the time came he would reap his reward and the prophecy would be fulfilled. And while he stood aloof, stealing a glimpse of her at night or listening to the magic of her songs; he must win the two treasures, both the silver and the gold, to lay as an offering at her feet.

  The shadow of the Leap drew back from the town, leaving the houses sun-struck and bare, and as his mind went back to the choice between the treasures he watched the moving objects below. He saw a steer wandering down the empty street, and Old Bunk going across to the store; and then in the walled garden that lay behind the house he beheld a woman’s form. It was draped in white and it moved about rhythmically, bending slowly from side to side; and then with the graceful ethereal lightness it leapt and whirled in a dance. In the profundity of the distance all was lost but the grace of it, the fairy-like flitting to and fro; and, as Denver watched, the tears leapt to his eyes at the thought of her perfect beauty.

  She was a woman from another world, which a horny-handed miner could hardly hope to enter; yet if he won the two treasures, which would make them both rich, the doors would swing open before him. All it needed was a wise choice between the silver and the gold, and destiny would attend to the rest. Well–if he chose the gold he would offend her own father, who was urgently in need of funds; and if he chose the silver he would offend Bible-Back Murray, and Diffenderfer as well. He considered the two claims from every standpoint, looking hopefully about for some sign; and as he stepped to the edge and looked down into the depths, the male eagle left his crag.

  Riding high on the wind which, striking against the face of the cliff, floated him up into the spaces above; he wheeled in a smooth circle, turning his head from side to side as he watched the invader of his eyrie. And at each turn of his head Denver caught the flash of gold, though he was loath to accept it as a sign. He waited, fighting against it, marshaling reasons to sustain him; and then, folding his wings, the eagle descended like a plummet, shooting past him with a shrill, defiant scream. Denver flinched and stepped back, then he leaned forward eagerly to watch where the bird’s flight would take him. No Roman legionary, going into unequal battle with his war eagle wheeling above its standard, ever watched its swift course with higher hopes or believed more fully in the omen. The eagle spread his wings and glided off to the west, flying low as he approached the plain; and as he passed over Pinal and the claim by Queen Creek, Denver laughed and slapped his leg.

  “It’s a go!” he exulted, “the silver wins!”

  And he bounded off down the trail.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XI

  THE LADY OF THE SYCAMORES

  A weight like that of Pelion and Ossa seemed lifted from Denver’s shoulders as he hurried down from Apache Leap and, with his wallet in his hip pocket, he strode straight to Bunker’s house. The eagle had chosen for him, and chosen right, and the last of his troubles was over. There was nothing to do now but buy the claim and make it into a mine–and that was the easiest thing he did. Pulling ground was his specialty–with a good man to help he could break his six feet a day–and now that the choice had been made between the treasures he was tingling to get to work.

  “Here’s your money,” he said as soon as Bunker appeared, “and I’d like to order some powder and steel. Just write me out a quit-claim for that ground.”

  “Well, well,” beamed Bunker pushing up his reading glasses and counting over the roll of bills, “this will make quite a stake for Drusilla. Come in, Mr. Russell, come in!”

  He held the door open and Denver entered, blinking his eyes as he came in from the glare. The room was a large one, with a grand piano at one end and music and books strewn about; and as Bunker Hill shouted for his wife and daughter Denver stared about in astonishment. From the outside the house was like any other, except that it was covered with vines; but here within it was startling in its elegance, fitted up with every luxury. There was a fireplace with bronze andirons, massive furniture, expensive rugs; and the walls were lined with stands and book-shelves that overflowed with treasures.

  “Oh Drusilla!” thundered Bunker and at last she came running, bounding in through the garden door. She was attired in a filmy robe, caught up for dancing, and her feet were in Grecian sandals; and at sight of Denver she drew back a step, then stood firm and glanced at her father.

  “Here’s that five hundred dollars,” said Bunker briefly and put the roll in her hand.

  “Oh–did you sell it?” she demanded in dismay “did you sell that Number One claim?”

  “You bet I did,” answered her father grimly, “so take your money and beat it.”

  “But I told you not to!” she went on reproachfully, ignoring Denver entirely. “I told you not to sell it!”

  “That’s all right,” grumbled Bunker, “you’re going to get your chance, if it takes the last cow in the barn. I know you’ve got it in you to be a great singer–and this’ll take you back to New York.”

  “Well, all right,” she responded tremulously, “I did want just one more chance. But if I don’t succeed I’m going to teach school and pay every dollar of this back.”

  She turned and disappeared out the garden door and Bunker Hill reached for his hat.

  “Come on over to the store,” he said and Denver followed in a daze. She was not like any woman he had ever dreamed of, nor was she the woman he had thought. In the night, when she was singing, she had seemed slender and ethereal with her swan’s neck and piled up hair; but now she was different, a glorious human animal, strong and supple yet with the lines of a girl. And her eyes were still the eyes of a child, big and round and innocently blue.

  “Here comes the Professor,” muttered Bunker gloomily, as he unlocked the heavy door, “he’s hep, I reckon, the way he walks.”

  The Professor was waddling with his queer, duck-like steps down the middle of the deserted street and every movement of his gunboat feet was eloquent of offended dignity.

  “Vell,” he began as he burst into the store and stopped in front of Denver, “I vant an answer, right avay, on dat property I showed you the udder day. I joost got a letter from a chentleman in Moroni inquiring about an option on dat claim and─”

  “You can give it to him,” cut in Denver, “I’ve just closed with Mr. Hill for that Number One claim up the crick.”

  “So!” exploded the Professor, “vell, I vish you vell of it!” And he flung violently out the door.

  “Takes it hard,” observed Bunker, “never was a good loser. You want to watch out for him, now–he’s going over to report to Murray.”

  “So that’s the combination,” nod
ded Denver. “I was over there yesterday and Murray knew all about me–gave me a tip not to buy this property.”

  “Danged right he’s working for him,” returned Old Bunk grimly. “He runs to him with everything he hears. It’s a wonder I haven’t killed that little tub of wienies–he crabs every trade I start to make. What’s the matter with Old Bible-Back now?”

  “Oh, nothing,” answered Denver, “but if it’s all the same to you I’d like to just locate that ground. Then I’ll do my discovery work and if there ever comes up a question I’ll have your quit-claim to boot.”

  “Suit yourself,” growled Bunker, “but I want to tell you right now I’ve got a perfect title to that property. I’ve held it continuously for fifteen years and─”

  “Give me a quit-claim then; because Murray questions your title and I don’t want to take any chances. He says you haven’t kept up your work.”

  “He does, hey!” challenged Bunker thrusting out his jaw belligerently, “well, I’d like to see somebody jump me. I’m living on my property, and possessory title is the very best title there is. By grab, if I thought that Mormon-faced old devil was thinking of jumping my ground─” He went off into uneasy mutterings and wrote out the quit-claim absently; then they went up together and, after going over the lines, Denver relocated the mine and named it the Silver Treasure.

  “Think you guessed right, do you?” inquired Bunker with a grin. “Well, I hope you make a million. And if you do you’ll never hear no kick from me–you’ve bought it and paid my price.”

  “Fair enough!” exclaimed Denver and shook hands on the trade, after which he bought some second-hand tools and went to work on a trail. Not a hundred feet down-stream from where the vein cropped out, the main trail crossed to the east side of the creek, leaving the mine on the side of a steep hill. A few days’ work, while he was waiting for his powder, would clear out the worst of the cactus and catclaws and give him free access to his hole. Then he could clean out the open cut, set up a little forge and prepare for the driving of his tunnel. The sun was blazing hot, not a breath of wind was stirring and the sweat splashed the rocks as he toiled; but there was a song in Denver’s heart that made his labors light and he hummed the “Barcarolle” as he worked. She was scornful of him now and thought only of her music; but the time would come when she would know him as her equal, for a miner can be an artist, too. And at swinging a double-jack or driving uppers Denver Russell was as good as any man. He worked for the joy of it and took pride in his craft–and that marks the true artist everywhere.