CHAPTER XVIII
THE HAND OF FATE
The swift hand of fate, which had hurled Denver from the heights intothe depths of dark despair, suddenly snatched him up out of the abyssagain and whisked him back to Globe. When he walked out of Moroni hismind was a blank, so overcome was his body with heat and toil and theastounding turns of his fortune; but at the next station below, as hewas trying to steal a ride, a man had dropped off the train and draggedhim, willy nilly, into his Pullman. It was a mining superintendent whohad seen him in action when he was timbering the Last Chance stope, andin spite of his protests he paid his fare to Globe and put him to workdown a shaft.
At the bottom of this shaft was millions of dollars worth of copper andlevel after level of expensive workings; and some great stirring of theearth was cutting it off, crushing the bottle off at the neck. Everynight, every shift, the swelling ground moved in, breaking stulls andsquare-sets like tooth-picks; and now with solid steel and quick-settingconcrete they were fighting for the life of the mine. It was a dangerousjob, such as few men cared to tackle; but to Denver it was a relief, areturn to his old life after the delirium of an ugly dream. Even yet hecould not trace the flaw in his reasoning which had brought him to earthwith such a thump; but he knew, in general, that his error was thecommon one of trying to run a mine on a shoestring. He had set up inbusiness as a mining magnate on eight hundred dollars and his nerve, andBible-Back Murray had busted him.
Upon that point, at least, Denver suffered no delusion; he knew that hisdownfall had been planned from the first and that he had bit like asucker at the bait. Murray had dropped a few words and spit on the hookand Denver had shipped him his ore. The rest, of course, was likeshooting fish in the Pan-handle--he had refused to buy the ore, leavingDenver belly-up, to float away with other human debris. But there wasone thing yet that he could not understand--why had Murray closed downhis own mine? That was pulling it pretty strong, just to freeze out alittle prospector and rob him of a ton or two of ore; and yet Denver hadproof that it was true. He had staked a hobo who had come over the trailand the hobo had told him what he knew. The diamond drill camp wasclosed down and all the men had left, but the guard was still herdingthe property. And the hobo had seen a girl at Pinal. She was easy tolook at but hard to talk to, so he had passed and hit the trail forGlobe.
Denver worked like a demon with a gang of Cousin Jacks, opposing theswelling ground with lengths of railroad steel and pouring in theconcrete behind them; but all the time, by fits and snatches, the oldmemories would press in upon him. He would think of Mother Trigedgo andher glowing prophecies, which had turned out so wonderfully up to acertain point and then had as suddenly gone wrong; and then he wouldthink of the beautiful artist with whom he was fated to fall in love,and how, even there, his destiny had worked against him and led him tosacrifice her love. For how could one hope to win the love of a woman ifhe denied her his friendship first? And yet, if he accepted her as hisdearest friend, he would simply be inviting disaster.
It was all wrong, all foolish--he dismissed it from his mind as unworthyof a thinking man--yet the words of the prophecy popped up in his headlike the memories of some evil dream. His hopes of sudden riches wereblasted forever, he had given up the thought of Drusilla; but the onesinister line recurred to him constantly--"at the hands of your dearestfriend." Never before in his life had he been without a pardner, toshare his ramblings and adventures, but now in that black hole with thesteel rails coming down and death on every hand, superstitionovermastered him and he rebuffed the hardy Cornishmen, refusing to takeany man for his friend. Nor would he return to Mother Trigedgo'sboarding house, for her prophecies had ruined his life.
He worked on for a week, trying to set his mind at rest, and then aprompting came over him suddenly to go back and see Drusilla. If deathmust come, if some friend must kill him, in whose hands would he ratherentrust his life than in those of the woman he loved? Perhaps it was allfalse, like the rest of the prophecy, the gold and silver treasures andthe rest; and if he was brave he might win her at last and have her formore than a friend. But how could he face her, after all he had said,after boasting as he had of his fortune? And he had refused herfriendship, when she had endeavored to comfort him and to exorcise thisfear-devil that pursued him. He went back to work, determined to forgetit all, but that evening he drew his time. It came to ninety dollars,for seven shifts and over-time, and they offered him double to stay; butthe desire to see Drusilla had taken possession of him and he turned hisface towards Pinal.
It was early in the morning when he rode out of Globe and took the trailover the divide; and as he spurred up a hill he overtook anotherhorseman who looked back and grinned at him wisely.
"Going to the strike?" he asked and Denver's heart leapt, though he kepthis quirt and spurs working.
"What strike?" he said and the man burst into a laugh as if sensing ahidden jest.
"That's all right," he answered, "I guess you're hep--they say it runsforty per cent copper."
"How'd _you_ hear about it?" inquired Denver, fishing cautiouslyfor information. "Where you going--over to Pinal?"
"You're whistling," returned the man, quite off his guard. "Say, stakeme a claim when you get there, if old Bible-Back hasn't jumped themall."
"Say, what are you talking about?" demanded Denver, suddenly reining inhis horse. "Is Murray jumping claims?"
"Never mind!" replied the man, shutting up like a clam, and Denverspurred on and left him.
There was a strike then in Pinal, Old Murray had tapped the vein and itran up to forty per cent copper! That would make the claim that Denverhad abandoned the week before worth thousands and thousands of dollars.It would make him rich and Bunker Hill rich and--yes, it would prove theprophecy! He had chosen the silver treasure and the gold treasure hadbeen added to it--for the copper ore which had come in later was almostthe color of gold. As old Bunk had said, all these prophecies weresymbolical, and he had done Mother Trigedgo an injustice. And there wasone claim that he knew of--yes, and four others, too--that Murray wouldnever jump. That was his own Silver Treasure and the four claims ofBunker's that he had done the annual work on himself.
Denver's heart leapt again as he raced his horse across the flats andled him scrambling with haste up the steep hills, and before the sun wasthree hours high he had plunged into the box canyon of Queen Creek. Herethe trail wound in and out, crossing and recrossing the shrunken streamand mounting with painful zigzags over the points; but he rioted throughit all, splashing the water out of the crossings as he hurried to claimhis own. The box canyon grew deeper, the walls more precipitous, thecreek bottom more dark and cavernous; until at last it opened out intobroad flats and boulder patches, thickly covered with alders and ashtrees. And then as he swung around the final, rocky point he saw his ownclaim in the distance. It was nothing but a hole in the side of therocky hillside, a slide of gray waste down the slope; but to him it wasa beacon to light his home-coming, a proof that some dreams do cometrue. He galloped down the trail where Drusilla and he had loitered andlet out an exultant whoop.
But as Denver came opposite his mine a sinister thing happened--a headrose up against the black darkness of the tunnel and a man lookedstealthily out. Then he drew back his head like some snake in a hole andDenver stopped and stared. A low wall of rocks had been built across thecut and the man was crouching behind it--Denver jogged down and turnedup the trail. A glimpse at Pinal showed the streets full of automobilesand a huddle of men by the store door, and as he rode up towards hismine Bunker Hill came running out and beckoned him frantically back.
"Come back here!" he hollered and Denver turned and looked at him butkept on up the narrow trail. The mine was his, without a doubt, both bypurchase and by assessment work done; and he had no fear ofdispossession by a jumper who was so obviously in the wrong.
"Hello, there!" he hailed, reining in before the tunnel; and after aminute the man rose up with his pistol poised over his shoulder. It wasDave, Murray's gun-man,
and at sight of his enemy Denver was swept witha gust of passion. From the moment he had first met him, thisnarrow-eyed, sneering bad-man had roused all the hate that was in him;but now it had gone beyond instinct. He found him in adverse possessionof his property and with a gun raised ready to shoot.
"What are _you_ doing here?" demanded Denver insolently butChatwourth did not move. He stood like a statue, his gun balanced in theair, a thin, evil smile on his lips, and Denver gave way to his fury."You get out of there!" he ordered. "Get off my property! Get off orI'll put you off!"
Chatwourth twirled his gun in a contemptuous gesture; and then, like aflash, he was shooting. He threw his shots low, between the legs of thehorse, which reared and whirled in a panic; and with the bang of theheavy gun in his ears, Denver found himself headed down the trail. Ahigh derisive yell, a whoop of hectoring laughter, followed after him ashe galloped into the open; and he was fighting his horse in a cloud ofdust when Bunker Hill and the crowd came up.
Silver and Gold: A Story of Luck and Love in a Western Mining Camp Page 18
