Silver and Gold

by Coolidge, Dane

  He drew out the Oraculum, by which the Man of Destiny had ordered the least affairs of his life, and read down through the thirty-two questions. Only once on each day could he consult the mystic oracle, and once only in each month on the same subject, lest the fates be outworn by his insistence. At first it was Number Thirteen that appealed to his fancy:

  “Will the FRIEND I most reckon upon prove faithful or TREACHEROUS?” But he knew without asking that, whatever her failings, Drusilla would never prove treacherous. No, since he had taken her for his friend he would never question her faithfulness; Number Twenty-six was more to his liking:

  “Does the person whom I love, LOVE and regard me?”

  He spread out a sheet of paper on his littered table and dashed off the five series of lines, and then he counted each carefully and made the dots at the end–two dots for the two lines that came even and one for those that came odd. The first two came odd, the next two even, the last one odd again; and under that symbol the Oraculum Key referred him to section B for his answer. He turned to the double pages with its answers, good and bad, and his brain whirled while he read these words:

  “Thy heart of thy beloved yearneth toward thee.”

  He closed the book religiously and put it away, and his heart for the moment was comforted.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXIV

  COLONEL DODGE

  Denver doubted it, himself, for human nature is much the same in man and woman and Drusilla had been sorely slighted; but the Oraculum had said that her heart was yearning towards him and the Book of Fate had always spoken true. Perhaps women were different, but if it had been done to him, he would have called down black curses instead. Yet women were different, one could never guess their moods, and perhaps Drusilla would forgive him. Not right away, of course, but after her blood had cooled and he had written a proper letter. He would let it go awhile, until he had framed up some excuse or decided to tell her the truth, and in the meantime there was plenty of work to do that would help him forget his sorrow. There was his mine, and McGraw had brought up some powder.

  There was something in the air which seemed to whisper to Denver of portentous happenings to come, and as he was sharpening up his steel for a fresh assault upon the ore-body a big automobile came into town. It stopped and a big man wearing a California sombrero and a pair of six-buckle boots leapt out and led the way to the Lost Burro. Behind him followed three men attired as gentlemen miners and as Denver listened he could hear the big man as he recited the history of the mine. Undoubtedly it was the buyer of the Lost Burro Mine, with a party of “experts” and potential backers who had come up to look over the ground; yet something told Denver that there was more behind it all. He felt their eyes upon him. They spent a few minutes looking over the old workings, and then they came stringing up his trail.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” hailed the promoter, “are you the owner of this property? Well, I’d like with your permission to show my friends some of your ore–why, what’s this, have you hauled it away?”

  “Yes, I shipped it out yesterday,” answered Denver briefly and the big man glanced swiftly at his friends.

  “Well, I’m Colonel Dodge–H. Parkinson Dodge–you may have heard the name. I’m your neighbor here on the south–we’ve taken over the Lost Burro property. Yes, glad to know you, Mr. Russell.” He shook hands and introduced his friends all around, after which he came to the point. “We’ve been looking at the Lost Burro and one of the gentlemen suggested that it might be well to enlarge our property. That would make it more attractive to worth-while buyers and at the same time prevent any future litigation in case our ore-bodies should join. You understand what I mean–there’s such a thing as apex decision and of course you hold the higher ground. Well, before we do any work or tie up our money we would like to know just exactly where we stand in relation to surrounding properties. What price do you put on your claim?”

  “No price,” answered Denver. “I don’t want to sell. Are you thinking of opening up the Lost Burro?”

  “That will all depend,” hinted the Colonel darkly, “upon the attitude of the people in the district. If we meet with encouragement we intend to form a company and spend hundreds of thousands of dollars; but if not, why we will charge up our option money to profit and loss and seek out a less backward community. What is your lowest price on your claim?”

  “A million dollars–cash,” responded Denver cheerfully. “Now you come through and make me an offer.”

  “Well,” began the Colonel, and then he stopped and glanced suggestively at the tunnel. “We’d like to look it over first.”

  “Fair enough,” replied Denver and, giving each a candle, he led them into the tunnel. They looked the ore over, making indifferent comments and asking permission to take samples, and then Colonel Dodge took one of his experts aside and they conferred in muffled tones.

  “Er–we’d rather not make an offer just now,” said the Colonel at last; and in a silent procession they returned to the daylight, leaving Denver to follow behind. The atmosphere of the group was now reeking with gloom but after a long conference the Colonel came back, summoning up the ghost of a smile. “Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Russell,” he began apologetically, “we saw some of your ore before we came up and we were all of us most enthusiastic. The copper in particular was very promising but the gentleman I was talking with is our consulting engineer and he advises me not to buy the property.”

  “All right,” answered Denver, “you don’t have to buy it. I never saw one of these six-buckle men yet that wouldn’t knock a good claim.” He turned back angrily to his job of tool-sharpening and the Colonel followed after him solicitously.

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” he said, “there’s nothing I’d like better than to buy in this neighboring property–if I could get it at a reasonable figure; but Mr. Shadd advises me that your ore lies in a gash-vein, which will undoubtedly pinch out at depth.”

  “A gash-vein!” echoed Denver, “why the poor, ignorant fool–can’t you see that the vein is getting bigger? Well, how can it be a gash-vein when it’s between two good walls and increasing in width all the time? Your friend must think I’m a prospector.”

  “Oh, no,” protested the Colonel smiling feebly at the joke, “but–well, he advises me not to buy. The fact that the ore is so rich on the surface is against its continuance at depth. All gash-veins, as you know, are very rich at the surface; so in this case the fact is against you. But I tell you what I will do–just to protect my other property and avoid any future complications–I’ll give you a thousand dollars for your claim.”

  “Whooo!” jeered Denver, “I’ll get more than that for the ore I just sent to the smelter. No, I’m no thousand-dollar man, Mr. Dodge. I’ve got a fissure vein and it’s increasing at depth, so I guess I’ll just hold on a while. You wait till old Murray begins to ship!”

  “Ah–er–well, I’ll give you fifteen hundred,” conceded the Colonel drawing out his check-book and pen. “That’s the best I can possibly do.”

  “Well save your check then, because I’m a long ways from broke. What d’ye think of that for a roll?” Denver drew out his roll of prize money, with a hundred dollar bill on top, and flickered the edges of the twenties. “I guess I can wait a while,” he grinned. “Come around again, when I’m broke.”

  “I’ll give you a thousand dollars down and nine thousand in six months,” burst out the Colonel with sudden vehemence. “Now it’s that or absolutely nothing. If you try to hold me up I’ll abandon my option and withdraw entirely from the district.”

  “Sorry to lose you, old-timer,” returned Denver genially, “but I guess we can’t do business. Come around in about a month.”

  A sudden flash came into the Colonel’s bold eyes and he opened his mouth to speak–then he paused and shut his mouth tight.

  “Not on your life, Mr. Russell,” he said with finality, “if I go I will not come back. Now give me your lowest cash price for the property. W
ill you accept ten thousand dollars?”

  “No, I won’t,” answered Denver, “nor a hundred thousand, either. I’m a miner–I know what I’ve got.”

  “Very well, Mr. Russell,” replied Colonel Dodge crisply and, bowing haughtily, he withdrew.

  Denver looked after him laughing, but something about his stride suddenly wiped away the grin from Denver’s face–the Colonel was going somewhere. He was going with a purpose, and he walked like a man who was perfectly sure of his next move–like a man who has seen a snake in the road and turns back to cut a club. It was distinctly threatening and a light dawned on Denver when the automobile turned off towards Murray’s camp. That was it, he was an agent of Murray.

  Denver sharpened up his steel and put in a round of holes but all that day and the next his uneasiness grew until he jumped at every sound. He felt the hostility of Colonel Dodge’s silence more than any that words could express; and when, on the second day, he saw Professor Diffenderfer approaching he stopped his work to watch him.

  “Vell, how are you?” began the Professor, trying to warm up their ancient friendship; and then, seeing that Denver merely bristled the more, he cast off his cloak of well-wishing. “I vas yoost over to Murray’s camp,” he burst out vindictively, “and Dave said he vanted his gun.”

  “Tell ’im to come over and get it,” suggested Denver and then he unbuckled his belt. “All right,” he said handing over the gun and cartridges, “here it is; I don’t need it, anyhow.” The Professor blinked and looked again, then reached out and took the belt doubtfully.

  “Vot you mean?” he asked at last as his curiosity got the better of him, “have you got anudder gun somevhere? Dot Dave, he svears he vill kill you.”

  “That’s all right,” replied Denver, “just give him his gun–I’ll take him on any day, with rocks.”

  “How you mean ‘take him on?’” inquired the Professor all excitement but Denver waved him away.

  “Go on now,” he said, “and give him his gun. I guess he’ll know what I mean.”

  But if Chatwourth understood the hidden taunt he did not respond to the challenge and Denver’s mind reverted to H. Parkinson Dodge and his flattering offers for the mine. Ten thousand dollars cash, from a mining promoter, was indeed a princely sum; better by far than the offer of half a million shares that went with Bunker’s option. For stock is the sop that is thrown to poor miners in lieu of the good hard cash, but ten thousand dollars was a lot of money for a promoter to pay for a claim. It showed that there were others beside himself who believed in the value of his property, yet who this Colonel Dodge was or who were his backers was a question that only Bunker could answer. Denver waited in a sweat, now wondering if Bunker would speak to him, nor exulting in the offer for his mine; and when at last he saw Bunker Hill drive in he threw down his tools and hurried towards him.

  But Bunker Hill was surly, he barely glanced at Denver and went on caring for his horses; and Denver did not crowd him. He waited, and at last Old Bunk looked up with jaw thrust grimly out.

  “Well?” he said, and Denver forgot everything but the question that was on his tongue.

  “Say,” he burst out, “who is this Colonel Dodge that came up and bought your mine? Is he working for Murray, or what?”

  “Search me,” grumbled Bunker, “I got his thousand dollars, and that’s about all I know.”

  “He was up here to see me the same day you left, with a whole load of six-buckle experts; and say, he offered me a check for ten thousand dollars if I’d sell him the Silver Treasure claim. And when I refused it he got into his machine and went right over to Murray’s. I’ll bet you you’re sold out to Bible-Back.”

  “Well, he’s stuck then,” said Bunker. “I guess you haven’t heard the news–Murray’s closed down his camp for good.”

  “He has!” exclaimed Denver, and then he laughed heartily. “He’s a foxy old dastard, isn’t he?”

  “You said it,” returned Bunker. “Never did have any ore. Just pretended he had in order to sell stock and recoup what he’d lost on the drilling. They’re offering the stock for nothing.”

  “Who’s offering it?” demanded Denver suddenly taking the matter seriously. “I’ll bet you it’s nothing but a fake!”

  “All right,” shrugged Bunker, “but I met a bunch of miners and they were swapping stock for matches. Old Tom Buchanan down at Desert Wells won’t accept it at any price–that shows how much it’s a fake.”

  “Aw, he pulled that once before,” answered Denver contemptuously, “but he don’t fool me again. Like as not he’s made a strike and is just shutting down so he can buy back the stock he sold.”

  Bunker looked up and grunted, then gathered together his purchases and ambled off towards the house.

  “That’s all you think about, ain’t it?” he said at parting. “I’ll mention it when I write to Drusilla.”

  “Oh–oh, yes,” stammered Denver suddenly reminded of his dereliction, “say, how did she happen to go? And I want to get her address so I can explain how it happened–I wouldn’t have missed seeing her for anything!”

  “No, of course not,” growled Bunker, “not for anything but your own interests. You can go to hell for your address.”

  “Why, what do you mean?” demanded Denver; but as Bunker did not answer he fell back and let him go on.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXV

  THE ANSWER

  There are some kinds of questions which require no answers and others which answer themselves. Denver had asked Bunker what he meant when he refused Drusilla’s address and intimated that he was unworthy of her friendship, but after a gloomy hour in the deepening twilight the question answered itself. Bunker had taken his daughter across the desert, on her way to the train and New York, and his curt remarks were but the reflex of her’s as she discussed Denver’s many transgressions. He thought more of mines and of his own selfish interests than he did of her and her art, and so she desired to hear no more of him or his protestations of innocence. That was what the words meant and as Denver thought them over he wondered if it was not true.

  Drusilla had greeted him cordially when he had returned from Globe and had invited him to dinner that same night, but he had refused because he needed the sleep and begrudged the daylight to take it. And the next day he had worked even harder than before and had forgotten her invitation entirely. She was to sing just for him and, after the singing, she would have told him all her plans; and then perhaps they might have spoken of other things and parted as lovers should. But no, he had spoiled it by his senseless hurry in getting his ore off with McGraw; and now, with all the time in the world on his hands, the valley below was silent. Not a scale, not a trill, not a run or roulade; only silence and the frogs with their devilish insistence, their ceaseless eh, eh, eh. He rose up and heaved a stone into the creek-bed below, then went in and turned on his phonograph.

  They were real people to him now, these great artists of the discs; Drusilla had described them as she listened to the records and even the places where they sang. She had pictured the mighty sweep of the Metropolitan with its horse-shoe of glittering boxes; the balconies above and the standing-room below where the poor art-students gathered to applaud; and he had said that when he was rich he would subscribe for a box and come there just to hear her sing. And now he was broke, and Drusilla was going East to run the perilous gauntlet of the tenors. He jerked up the stylus in the middle of a record and cursed his besotted industry. If he had let his ore go, and gone to see her like a gentleman, Drusilla might even now be his. She might have relented and given him a kiss–he cursed and stumbled blindly to bed.

  In the morning he went to work in the close air of the tunnel, which sadly needed a fan, and then he hurled his hammer to the ground and felt his way out to daylight. What was the use of it all; where did it get him to, anyway; this ceaseless, grinding toil? Murray’s camp had shut down, the promoters had vanished, Pinal was deader than ever; he gathered up his tools and stored t
hem in his cave, then sat down to write her a letter. Nothing less than the truth would win her back now and he confessed his shortcomings humbly; after which he told her that the town was too lonely and he was leaving, too. He sealed it in an envelope and addressed it with her name and when he was sure that Old Bunk was not looking he slipped in and gave it to her mother.

  “I’m going away,” he said, “and I may not be back. Will you send that on to Drusilla?”

  “Yes,” she smiled and hid it in her dress; but as he started for the door she stopped him.

  “You might like to know,” she said, “that Drusilla has received an engagement. She is substitute soprano in a new Opera Company that is being organized to tour the big cities. I’m sorry you didn’t see her.”

  “Yes,” answered Denver, “I’m sorry myself–but that never bought a man anything. Just send her the letter and–well, goodby.”

  He blundered out the door and down the steps, and there stretched the road before him. In the evening he was as far as Whitlow’s Well and a great weight seemed lifted from his breast. He was free again, free to wander where he pleased, free to make friends with any that he met–for if the prophecy was not true in regard to his mine it was not true regarding his friends. And how could any woman, by cutting a pack of cards and consulting the signs of the zodiac, predict how a man would die? Denver made himself at home with a party of hobo miners who had come in from the railroad below, and that night they sat up late, cracking jokes and telling stories of every big camp in the West. It was the old life again, the life that he knew and loved, drifting on from camp to camp with every man his friend. Yet as he stretched out that night by the flickering fire he almost regretted the change. He was free from the great fear, free to make friends with whom he would; but, to win back the love of the beautiful young artist, he would have given up his freedom without a sigh.