Silver and Gold: A Story of Luck and Love in a Western Mining Camp

by Dane Coolidge

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE ROCK-DRILLING CONTEST

  The main street of Globe was swarming with men, from the court-housesquare down past the viaduct to where the Bohunks dwelt. And the menwere all miners, deep-chested and square-shouldered, but white fromworking underground. They were gathered in knots before the soft-drinkemporiums that before had all been saloons and as Denver rode in theyshouted a hoarse welcome and followed on to Miners' Hall. There theCommittee of Arrangements was sitting in state but when Denver strode ina huge form bulked up before him and Slogger Meacham grinned at himevilly. Two months before, on the Fourth of July, they had been partnersin the winning team; but now Meacham had taken on with a Cornishman fromMiami and they counted the money as good as won.

  "What are you doing here?" demanded the Slogger insolently, "do youthink you're going to compete?"

  "Danged right I am, if the judges will let me," answered Denver shovingresolutely past; and at sight of their lost champion the committeebrightened up, though they glanced at each other anxiously. But whatthey wanted was a contest, something that would bring out the crowd andmake the great day a success, and they waited upon Denver expectantly.

  "Well, here's where you get left then," spoke up Meacham with a sneer,"the entries were closed at noon."

  "Oh, hell!" cursed Denver and was turning to go when the chairman calledhim back.

  "Just a minute," he said, "didn't you send in your entry? I believewe've got it here, somewhere." He began to fumble industriously througha pile of papers and Denver caught his breath. For a moment he had seenhis dreams brought to nothing, his last chance at the prize-money gone;but at this tentative suggestion on the part of the chairman he suddenlytook heart of grace. They wanted him to compete, it had been advertisedin all the papers, and they were willing to meet him half-way. ButDenver was no liar, he shook his head and sighed, then turned back at asudden thought.

  "Maybe Tom Owen made the entry?" he burst out eagerly, "he was over tosee me, you know."

  "That was it!" exclaimed the chairman as if clutching at a straw, "say,where is that blank of theirs, Joe?"

  "Search me," answered Joe, "it's around here, somewhere. Oh, I know!"And he went out into the back room. "Ain't this it?" he inquiredreturning with a paper and the chairman snatched it away from him.

  "Yes," he said, "how'd it get out there? Well, no matter--that's allright, Mr. Russell!"

  "No it ain't!" blurted out Meacham making a grab for the paper; but thechairman struck away his hand.

  "You keep out of this!" he said. "What d'ye think you're trying to do?You keep out or I'll put you out!"

  "It's a flim-flam!" raged Meacham, "you're trying to job me. He nevermade no entry."

  "I never claimed to," retorted Denver boldly and Meacham turned on him,his pig eyes blazing with fury.

  "I'll fix you, for this!" he burst out hoarsely, "I'll get you if I haveto kill you. You robbed me once, but you won't do it again; so I giveyou fair warning--pull out!"

  "You robbed _me_!" came back Denver, "and these boys all know it.But I fought you fair for the whole danged roll----"

  "You did naht!" howled Meacham, "you had a feller with ye----"

  "Well, I'll fight you right now, then," volunteered Denveraccommodatingly but the Slogger did not put up his hands.

  "That's all right," he said backing sullenly away, "but remember what Itold you--I'll git ye!"

  "You'll git nothing!" returned Denver and laughed him out the door,though there were others who muttered warnings in his ears. SloggerMeacham was a fighter as well as a driller and his flight with theprize-money was not the first time that he had lapsed from the ways ofstrict rectitude. He had killed a man during the riots at Goldfield andhad been involved in several ugly brawls; but his record as a bad mandid not deter Denver from opposing him and he went out to hunt up Owen.

  Tom Owen was a good man, and he was also a good driller, but there wasone thing that Denver held against him--he had been a drinking man whenArizona was wet. And a man who has drunk, no matter when, is never quitethe same in a contest. He has lost that narrow margin of vital force,those last few ounces of strength and stamina which win or lose at thefinish. Yet even at that he was a better man than Meacham, who had laiddown like a yellow dog. Denver remembered that too and when he found hisman he told him they were due to win. Then he borrowed some drills and apair of eight-pound hammers and they went through a try-out together.Owen was quick and strong, he made the changes like lightning and strucka heavy blow; but when it was over and he was rolling a cigarette Denvernoticed that his hand was trembling. The strain of smashing blows hadover-taxed his nerves, though they had worked but three or four minutes.

  "Well, do the best you can," said Denver at last, "and for cripes sake,keep away from this boot-leg."

  There was plenty of it in town on this festive occasion, anerve-shattering mixture that came in from New Mexico and had a kicklike a mule. It was circulating about in hip pockets and suit-cases andin automobiles with false-bottomed seats, and Denver knew too well frompast experience what the temptation was likely to be; yet for all hisadmonitions when he met Owen in the morning he caught the bouquet ofwhisky. It was disguised with sen-sen and he pretended not to notice itbut his hopes of first money began to wane. They went out again to thebackyard of an old saloon where a great block of granite was embeddedand while their admirers looked on they practiced their turn, for theyhad never worked together. A Cornish miner, a champion in his day,volunteered to be their coach and at each call of: "Change!" theyshifted from drill to hammer without breaking the rhythm of theirstroke.

  "You'll win, lads," said the Cornishman, patting them affectionately onthe back and Denver led them off for their rub-down.

  The band began to play in the street below and the Miners' Union marchedpast, after which they banked in about a huge block of granite and thedrilling contests began. The drilling rock was placed on a platform ofheavy timbers at the lower side of the court-house square, and the slopeabove it and the windows of all the buildings were crowded with shoutingminers. First the men who were to compete in the single-jack contestsmounted the platform one by one; and the sharp, _peck_,_peck_, of their hammers made music that the miners knew well.Then, as their holes were cleaned out and the depth of each measured,the first team of double-jackers climbed up to the platform amid thefrantic plaudits of the crowd. The announcer introduced them, they laidout their drills and the hammer-man poised his double-jack; then at theword from the umpire they leapt into action, striking and turning likemen gone mad.

  There were five teams entered, of which Denver's was the last, but whenMeacham and his partner were announced as the next contestants hisimpatience would not brook further delay. With his own precious drillstied securely in a bundle and Owen and the coach behind him he foughthis way to the base of the platform and sat down where he could watchevery blow. They came on together, a team hard to match; Meachamstripped to the waist, his ponderous head thrust forward, the musclesswelling to great knots in his arms. His partner wore the heavy, yellowundershirt of a miner, his trousers draped low on his hips; and to holdthem up he had a strand of black fuse twisted loosely in place of abelt. He was a hard, hairy man, with grim, deep-set eyes and a jaw thatjutted out like a crag and as he raised his hammer to strike Denver sawthat he was out to win.

  "Go!" called the umpire and the hammer smote the drill-head till it madethe blue granite smoke; and then for thirty seconds he flailed awaywhile Slogger Meacham turned the short starter-drill.

  "Change!" called their coach and with a single swoop Meacham flung hisdrill back into the crowd and caught up his hammer to strike. Hispartner dropped his hammer and chucked in a fresh drill--_smash_,the hammer struck it into the rock--and so they turned and struck whilethe ramping miners below them looked on in envious amazement. As eachdrill was thrown out it was brought back from where it fell and examinedby the quick-eyed coach, and as he called off the half minutes heannounced their probable depth as indicated by the
mud marks on thedrills. Across the block from the two drillers knelt a man with a rubbertube who poured water into the churning hole; and at each blow of thehammer the gray mud leapt up, splashing turner and hammer-man alike.

  At the end of five minutes they were down fifteen inches, at ten theystill held their pace; but as Denver glanced doubtfully at his coach andOwen the sound of the drilling changed. There was a grating noise, acurse from the turner, and as he flung out the drill and thrust inanother a murmur went up from the crowd. They had broken the bit fromthe brittle edge of their drill and the new drill was grinding away onthe fragment, which dulled the keen edge of the steel. The quick ears ofthe miners could sense the different sound as the drill champed thefragment to pieces, and when the next change was made the mud-marks onthe drill showed that over an inch had been lost. A team working at topspeed averaged three inches to the minute, driving down through hardGunnison granite; but Meacham and his partner had lost their fast startand they had yet four minutes to go. The tall Cornishman's eyesgleamed--he struck harder than ever--but Meacham had begun to loseheart. The accident upset him, and the grate of the broken steel as thedrill bit down on chance fragments; and as his coach urged him on heglanced up from his turning with a look that Denver knew well. It wasthe old pig-eyed glare, the look of unreasoning resentment, that he hadseen on the Fourth of July.

  "He's quitting," chuckled Owen when Meacham rose to strike; but when thehole was measured it came to forty-three and fifteen-sixteenths of aninch. The big Cornishman had done it in spite of his partner, he hadrefused to accept defeat; and now, with only two more teams to compete,they led by nearly an inch.

  "You can beat it!" cried Denver's coach, "I've done better than thatmyself! Forty-four! You can make forty-six!"

  "I'm game," answered Denver, "but it takes two to win. Do you think youcan stick it out, Tom?"

  "I'll be up there, trying," returned Owen grimly and Denver nodded tothe coach.

  The next team did no better, for it is a heart-breaking test and the sunwas getting hot, and when Denver and Owen mounted up on the platform ahush fell upon the crowd. Denver Russell they knew, but Owen was a newman; and a drilling contest is won on pure nerve. Would he crack, likeMeacham, as the end approached, or would he stand up to the punishment?They looked on in silence as Denver spread out his drills--a fulltwenty, oil-tempered, of the best Norway steel, each narrower by a hairthan its predecessor. The starter was short and heavy, with aninch-and-a-quarter bit; and the last long drill had a seven-eighths bit,which would just cut a one-inch hole. They were the best that moneycould buy and a famous tool-sharpener in Miami had tempered their edgesto perfection. Denver picked up his starter, all the officials left theplatform, and Owen raised his hammer.

  "Are the drillers ready?" challenged the umpire. "Then _go_!" heshouted, and the double-jack descended with a smash. For thirty secondswhile the drill leapt and bounded, Denver held it firmly in its place,and at the call of "Change!" he chucked it over his shoulder and swunghis own hammer in the air. Owen popped in a new drill, the hammer struckit squarely and the crowd set up a cheer. Denver was working hard,striking faster than his partner; and in every stroke there was asmashing enthusiasm, a romping joy in the work, that won the hearts ofthe miners. He was what they had been before drink and bad air hadsapped the first freshness of their strength, or dust and hot stopes hadbroken their wind, or accidents had crippled them up--he was a miner,young and hardy, putting his body behind each blow yet striking like atireless automaton.

  "Change!" cried the coach, his voice ringing with pride; and as thedrill came flying back he shouted out the depth which was better thanthree inches for the minute. At five minutes it was sixteen, at ten,thirty-three; but at eleven the pace slackened off and at twelve theyhad lost an inch. Tom Owen was weakening, in spite of his nerve, inspite of his dogged persistence; he struck the same, but his blows hadlost their drive, the drill did not bite so deep. At every stroke, asDenver twisted the long drill loose and turned it by so much in thehole, he raised it up and struck it against the bottom, to add to theweight of the blows. The mud and muck from the hole splashed up into hisface and painted his body a dull gray, but at thirteen minutes they hadlost their lead and Tom Owen was striking wild. Then he missed the steeland a great voice rose up in mocking, stentorian laughter.

  "Ho! Ho!" it roared, and Denver knew it well--it was Slogger Meacham,exulting.

  "Here--you turn!" he said flinging out his drill, and as Owen sank downon his knees by the hole Denver caught up his double-jack and struck.For a half minute, a minute, he flailed away at the steel; while Owen,his shoulders heaving, turned the drill like clock-work and gasped towin back his strength.

  "Thirteen and a half!" announced the coach at last and then he shouted:"Change!"

  "No--_turn_!" panted Denver, never missing a stroke; and Owen sankback to his place by the hole while the battery of blows kept on.

  "Fourteen!" proclaimed the coach, "you're about an inch behind. Howabout it--do you want to change?"

  "No--turn!" choked Denver. "I'll finish it--_turn_!" And as Owenstraightened his back Denver struck like a mad-man while the sweatpoured down in a shower. The official umpire leapt up on the platform totoll off the last sixty seconds, but the rise and fall of Denver's bodywas faster by far than his count. A frenzy seemed to seize him as thehalf minute was called and Owen slipped in their last drill; and withhoarse, coughing grunts he smashed it deeper and deeper while the minerssurged forward with a cheer.

  "Fifty-eight--fifty-nine--_sixty_!" cried the umpire, slapping himsharply on the back to stop, and Denver fell like dead across the stone.His great strength had left him, completely, on the instant; and when heraised his head there was a grinning crowd around him as his coach wasmeasuring the last drill.

  "The poor, dom fool!" he exclaimed commiseratingly, "and to think of himwurruking like thot. He's ahead by two inches and more."