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

by Dane Coolidge

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE HEART OF HIS BELOVED

  There was a celebration that day which warmed Denver's heart and sentSlogger Meacham cursing out of the camp, but as soon as it was over andhe had his prize money in his hand Denver remembered his unguardedclaim. Bunker Hill was there, of course, but the spiteful Professor hadheralded his pledge afar; and a man who has promised his wife not tofight is ill-fitted to herd a mine. No, the Silver Treasure lay open forDave or Murray to jump, if they felt like contesting his claim; and,weak as he was, Denver took no rest until he was back where he couldfight for his own. He rode in late and slept like the dead, but in themorning he was up and down at the store as soon as Old Bunk came out.

  "I win!" he announced holding up the roll of bills, "first money--canyou get me some powder?"

  "W'y, you lucky fool!" exclaimed Bunker admiringly, "seems like_nothing_ can keep you down. Sure I'll get your powder, and just toshow you what _I_ can do--how's that for a healthy little roll?" Hedrew out a roll of bills twice the size of Denver's and fingered themover lovingly. "A thousand dollars," he murmured, "for an option on halfthe Lost Burro. A party came up yesterday and took one look at it andgrabbed it right off the bat, and as soon as old Murray gets in to hisore they're going to capitalize the Burro for a million. Fine name that,for stock-selling--known all over the world, in England, Paris andeverywhere--but I made 'em come through with a thousand dollars cash, soDrusilla could have a good stake. She's thinking of going East, soon."

  "'S that so?" said Denver, trying to take it all in, "are these partiesgoing to do any work?"

  "Well, that's an unfair question, as Pecos Edwards used to say when theyasked him if all Texans was cow-thieves; but you know how thesepromoters work. There'll be lots of work done; but mostly by lawyers,and publicity men and such. There's a whole lot of water in the workingsof the Lost Burro that'll have to be pumped out first, and then there'sa little job of timbering that'll cost a world of money. No, I sold themthat mine on the ore in your tunnel--I will say, it shows up splendid.If you'd've been here yesterday you might have made a deal thatwould----"

  "Not on your life!" broke in Denver, "I don't sell to anybody. But say,but what did they think of my mine?"

  "Think!" exclaimed Bunker, "they stopped thinking right here, when Ishowed 'em that big vein of copper! They went crazy, just like lunatics;because it ain't often, I'm telling you, that you find sixty-per-centcopper on the surface."

  "Not in a fissure vein--no," agreed Denver emphatically, "I wouldn'tsell out for a million. Did those promoters take away any samples?"

  "Well, yes; a few," responded Bunker apologetically, "I didn't thinkyou'd object."

  "Why, of course not," answered Denver, "it'll advertise the district andbring in some outside people. And now that I've got another stake I'mgoing to sack my ore and make a trial shipment to the smelter. But youbet your boots, after what Murray put over on me, I'm going to have someassaying done first."

  "Yes, and keep some samples," advised Bunker wisely. "Keep a sample outof every bag."

  "I'll just mix that ore up," said Denver cautiously, "and cut it down,the way they do at the mill. Throw out every tenth shovel and mix 'em upagain and then cut the pile down smaller until you've got a control,like the ore brokers take at the smelter. And then I'll send a sample tothe assayer--say, there's Drusilla over there, trying to call you."

  "She's trying to call you," answered Bunker Hill shortly and went oninto the store.

  "Well, be sure and order that powder," shouted Denver after him. "Andsay, I'll want the rest of those ore-sacks."

  "All right," replied Bunker and Denver turned to the house whereDrusilla was waiting on the porch.

  "Did you hear the news?" she asked dancing ecstatically to and fro; asif she were a Delilah, leading the Philistine maidens in the "SpringSong," and he were another Samson. "I'm expecting to go East now, soon."

  "Good!" exclaimed Denver. "Well, I won't see you much then--I'm going towork in the mine."

  "Yes, isn't it grand?" she cried. "Everything is coming out fine--butyou must come down to dinner to-night. I'm going to sing, just for you."

  "I'll be there," smiled Denver, and then he stopped. "But let's not makeit to-night," he said, "I'm dead on my feet for sleep."

  "Well, sleep then," she laughed, "and get rested from your contest--I'mawfully glad you won. And then----"

  "Nope, can't come to-night," he answered soberly, "I want to get thatore sacked to-day. And I'm stiff as a strip of burnt raw-hide."

  "Well, to-morrow night," she said, "unless you don't want to come. Butyou'll have to come soon or----"

  "Oh, I want to come, all right," interposed Denver hastily, "you knowthat, without telling. But my partner played out on me before the end ofthe contest and I had to finish the striking myself. And then I rodehard to get back here, before Dave or some gun-man jumped my claim."

  "Then to-morrow night," she smiled, "but don't you forget, because ifyou do I'll never forgive you."

  She danced away into the house and Denver turned in his tracks and wentto look over his ore-sacks. They were old and torn, what was left of abig lot that Bunker had got in a trade; but Denver picked out the bestand wheeled them up to his dump, where his picked ore lay waiting forshipment. He had a big lot, much larger than he had thought, and it wasjust as it had been shot down from the breast. Some was silver-lead; andthere was copper to boot, though that would hardly do to ship. Yet atthirty cents a pound copper was almost a precious metal, and a reportfrom the smelter would be a check. He would know from that how the orereally ran and how much he would be penalized for the zinc. So he pickedout the best of it and broke it up fine, for the rough chunks would notdo to sack; and before he had more than got started with his samplingthe sun had gone down behind the ridge. And he was tired--too tired toeat.

  There was music that night at the big house below but Denver could nothold up his head. Nature had drugged him with sleep, like a rompingchild that takes no thought of its strength, and in the morning he wokeup in a sort of stupor that could not be worked off. Yet he worked,worked hard, for McGraw had arrived and the ore must be loaded that day;so they threw in together, Denver sacking the heavy ore and McGrawwheeling it out to the wagon. They toiled on till dark, for McGrawstarted early and the work could not be put off till to-morrow; and whenit was over Denver staggered up to his cave like an old and outworn man.He was reeking with sweat, his hands were like talons, the ore-dust hadleft his face gray; and all he thought of was sleep. For a moment heroused up, as if he remembered some new duty--something pleasant, yetinvolving further effort--and then his candle went out. He fell asleepin his chair and when he awoke it was only to stumble to his bed.

  The sun was over the Leap when he opened his heavy eyes and gazed at therude squalor of his cave. The dishes were unwashed, the floor was dirty,a long-tailed rat hung balanced on the table-edge--and he was tired,tired, tired. He heaved himself up and reached for the water-bucket buthe had forgotten to fill it at the creek. Now he grabbed it upimpatiently and started down the trail, every joint of his bodyprotesting, and when he had climbed back he was weak from theeffort--his bank account with Mother Nature was overdrawn. He was wornout, at last; and his poor, tired brain took no thought how to make upthe deficit. All he wanted was rest, something to eat, a drink of water.A drink of water anyway, and sleep. He drank deep and bathed his face,then sank back on the bed and let the world whirl on.

  It was late in the day when he awoke again and hunger was gnawing hisvitals; but the slow stupor was gone, he was himself again and thecramps had gone out of his limbs. He rose up luxuriously and cut a canof tomatoes, drinking the juice and eating the fruit, and then he lit afire and boiled some strong coffee and cooked up a great mess of food.There was two cans of corn and a can of corned beef, heated together ina swimming sea of bacon grease and eaten direct from the frying-pan. Itwent to the spot and his drooping shoulders straightened, the springcame back into his step; yet as he cleaned up the
dishes and changed todecent clothes the weight of some duty seemed to haunt him. Was itMcGraw? No, he had loaded the last sack and sent him on his way. It wasDrusilla--she had been going to sing for him.

  Denver stepped to the door and looked down at the house and his heartsank low at the thought. They had invited him to dinner and he hadforgotten to come, he had gone home and fallen asleep. And no one hadcome to call him--or to inquire what had kept him away. A heavy guiltcame over him as he gazed down at the house with its broad porch andtrailing Virginia creepers, the Hills would take it very ill to havetheir invitation ignored. Old Bunk had told him the time before, when hehad invited him in to dinner: "Now, for the last time, Denver----" andit would take more than mere words to ever mend that breach. Denverpaced back and forth, undecided what to do, and at last he decided to donothing. As the sun went down he ate another supper and drugged hissorrows with sleep.

  The next morning he rose early and shaved and bathed and put on his lastclean shirt, and then he walked down to the town; but the store waslocked, there was no voices from the house, only a smoke from thekitchen stove. He went on to his mine and looked it over, and as hepassed the Professor leered out at him; there was something that heknew, some bad news or spiteful gossip, for he found pleasure only inevil. Denver came back down the street, that was now as deserted as ithad been before the stampede, and once more the Professor looked out.

  "Vell," he said, "so you haf lost your sveetheart!" And he chuckled andshut the door softly.

  Denver stopped and stood staring, hardly crediting the news, yetconscious of the sinister exulting. The Professor was glad, thereforethe news was bad; but what did he mean by those words? Had Drusilla goneaway or had she thrown him over for neglecting to keep his engagement?She had probably spoken her mind as she watched for him at the doorwayand the Professor had been out there, eavesdropping.

  "What are you talking about?" he demanded at last but the Professor onlytittered. Then he dropped the heavy bar across his door and Denver tookthe hint to move on. He went down past the house and looked it overhopefully, but as no one came out he pocketed his pride and knocked,like a hobo battering the door for a meal, Mrs. Hill came out slowly asif preoccupied with other things, but when he saw her eyes he knew shehad been crying and that Drusilla had really gone.

  "I'm sorry," he began and then he stopped; there was nothing that hecould say. "Has Drusilla gone?" he asked at length and Mrs. Hillanswered him, almost kindly.

  "Yes," she said, "she was summoned by a telegram. Her father took herdown this morning."

  He stood thinking a minute, then he shook his head regretfully andstarted off down the steps.

  "She was sorry not to have seen you," she added gently but Denver madeno reply. He was weak again now and inadequate to life; he could onlycrawl back like some dumb, wounded animal, to the sheltering gloom ofhis cave. But as he sat there stolidly, now trying to make some plan,now endeavoring to become reconciled to his fate, a rage swept over himlike a storm-wind that shakes a tree and he burst into gusty oaths. Thefates had turned against him, his horoscope had come to nothing; he hadfollowed the admonitions of Mother Trigedgo and this was the result ofher advice. She had told him to beware how he revealed his affection,but nothing about what to do when he had fallen asleep while his belovedsang only for him.

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

  "Will the FRIEND I most reckon upon prove faithful or TREACHEROUS?" Buthe knew without asking that, whatever her failings, Drusilla would neverprove treacherous. No, since he had taken her for his friend he wouldnever question her faithfulness; Number Twenty-six was more to hisliking:

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

  He spread out a sheet of paper on his littered table and dashed off thefive series of lines, and then he counted each carefully and made thedots at the end--two dots for the two lines that came even and one forthose that came odd. The first two came odd, the next two even, the lastone odd again; and under that symbol the Oraculum Key referred him tosection B for his answer. He turned to the double pages with itsanswers, 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 themoment was comforted.