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Bitter Roots, byCaroline Lockhart,

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Title: The Man from the Bitter Roots

Author: Caroline Lockhart

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"YOU'VE GOT TO TELL THE TRUTH BEFORE SHESTOPS! WHY DID YOU BURN OUT THIS PLANT?"

THE MAN FROMTHE BITTER ROOTS

By CAROLINE LOCKHART

Author of“The Fighting Shepherdess,” “The Lady Doc,” etc.

FRONTISPIECE BY

GAYLE HOSKINS

A. L. BURT COMPANYPublishers

Published by arrangement with J. B. Lippincott Company

COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY STREET & SMITHCOPYRIGHT, 1915, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT

COMPANY

PUBLISHED OCTOBER, 1915

PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANYAT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS

PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.

Tomy good friend

MRS. LOUIS HOWE

this book is dedicated withall gratitude and affection

CONTENTSCHAPTER

I. Before He Grew UpII. “Pardners”

III. “The Game Butchers”IV. Self-DefenceV. “The Jack-Pot”

VI. The Returned HeroVII. Sprudell Goes East

VIII. Uncle Bill Finds News in the “Try-Bune”IX. The Yellow-LegX. “Capital Takes Holt”

XI. The Ghost at the BanquetXII. Thorns—and a Few Roses

XIII. “Off His Range”

XIV. His Only AssetXV. Millions!

XVI. “Slim’s Sister”XVII. A Practical Man

XVIII. Prophets of EvilXIX. At the Big MallardXX. “The Forlorn Hope”

XXI. ToyXXII. The General Manager

XXIII. “Good Enough”XXIV. The Midnight VisitorXXV. The Clean-Up

XXVI. FailureXXVII. Uncle Bill is Ostracized

XXVIII. “Annie’s Boy”

THE MAN FROM THEBITTER ROOTS

I

Before He Grew Up

The little white “digger,” galloping withthe stiff, short-legged jumps of the broken-down cow pony, stopped short as the boyriding him pulled sharply on the reins, andafter looking hard at something which layin a bare spot in the grass, slid from its fatback.

He picked up the rock which had attractedhis eye, and turned it over and over in hishand. His pockets bulged with coloredpebbles and odd-looking stones he hadfound in washouts and ravines. There wasno great variety on the Iowa prairie, andhe thought he knew them all, but he hadnever seen a rock like this.

He crossed his bare, tanned legs, and satdown to examine it more closely, whilethe lazy cow pony immediately went tosleep. The stone was heavy and black,with a pitted surface as polished as thoughsome one had laboriously rubbed itsmooth. Where did it come from? Howdid it get there? Involuntarily he looked upat the sky. Perhaps God had thrown itdown to surprise him—to make him

wonder. He smiled a little. God was avery real person to Bruce Burt. He had anotion that He kept close watch upon hismovements through a large cracksomewhere in the sky.

Yes, God must have tossed it down, forhow else could a rock so different fromevery other rock be lying there as though ithad just dropped? He wished he had notso long to wait before he could show it tohis mother. He was tempted to say he sawit fall, but she might ask him “HonestInjun?” and he decided not. However, ifGod made crawfish go into their holesbackward just to make boys laugh, andgrasshoppers chew tobacco, whywouldn’t He——

The sound of prairie grass swishing about

the legs of a galloping horse made himjump, startled, to his feet and thrust thestrange rock into the front of his shirt. Hisfather reined in, and demanded angrily:

“What you here for? Why didn’t you do asI told you?”

“I—I forgot. I got off to look at a funnyrock. See, papa!” His black eye sparkledas he took it from his shirt front and held itup eagerly.

His father did not look at it.

“Get on your horse!” he said harshly. “Ican’t trust you to do anything. We’re lateas it is, and women don’t like peoplecoming in on ’em at meal-time withoutwarning.” He kicked his horse in the ribs,and galloped off.

The abashed look in the boy’s facechanged to sullenness. He jumped on hispony and followed his father, but shortlyhe lowered his black lashes, and the tearsslipped down his cheeks.

Why had he shown that rock, anyhow? heasked himself in chagrin. He might haveknown that his father wouldn’t look at it,that he didn’t look at anything or careabout anything but horses and cattle.Certainly his father did not care abouthim. He could not remember when thestern man had given him a pat on the head,or a good-night kiss. The thought of hisfather kissing anybody startled him. Itseemed to him that his father seldomspoke to him except to reprimand orridicule him, and the latter was by far the

worse.

His eyes were still red when he sat downat the table, but the discovery that therewas chicken helped assuage his injuredfeelings, and when the farmer’s wifedeliberately speared the gizzard from theplatter and laid it on his plate the worldlooked almost bright. How did she knowthat he liked gizzard, he wondered? Thelook of gratitude he shyly flashed herbrought a smile to her tired face. Therewere mashed potatoes, too, and gravy,pickled peaches, and he thought hesmelled a lemon pie. He wondered if theyhad these things all the time. If it wasn’tfor his mother he believed he’d like tolive with Mrs. Mosher, and golly! wasn’the hungry! He hoped they wouldn’t stop to

talk, so he’d dare begin.

He tried to regard his mother’s frequentadmonitions concerning “manners”—thatone about stirring up your potatoes asthough you were mixing mortar, and bitinginto one big slab of bread. He did his best,but his cheek protruded with half apickled peach when he heard his fathersay:

“I sent Bruce on ahead to tell you thatwe’d be here, but he didn’t mind me. Ifound him out there on the prairie, lookingat a rock.”

All eyes turned smilingly upon the boy,and he reddened to the roots of his hair,while the half peach in his cheek feltsuddenly like a whole one.

“It was a funny kind of rock,” he mumbledin self-defence when he could speak.

“The rock doesn’t have to be very funny tomake you forget what you’re told to do,”his father said curtly, and added to theothers: “His mother can’t keep pockets inhis clothes for the rocks he packs aroundin them, and they’re piled all over thehouse. He wants her to send away and gethim a book about rocks.”

“Perhaps he’ll be one of these rock-sharpswhen he gets big,” suggested Mr. Mosherhumorously. “Wouldn’t it be kinda nice tohave a perfesser in the family—with longhair and goggles? I come acrost one oncethat hunted bugs. He called a chinch bug aRhyparochromus, but he saddled his horsewithout a blanket and put bakin’ powder

in the sour-dough.”

In the same way that the farmer’s wifeknew that boys liked gizzards, she knewthat Bruce was writhing under theattention and the ridicule.

“He’ll be a cattleman like his dad,” andshe smiled upon him.

His father shook his head.

“No, he doesn’t take hold right. Why, evenwhen I was his age I could tell a stray inthe bunch as far as I could see it, and hedon’t know the milk cow when she getsoutside of the barn. I tell his mother I’mgoin’ to work him over again with a tracestrap——”

The sensitive boy could bear no more. Hegave one regretful glance at his heaping

plate, a shamed look at Mrs. Mosher, thensprang to his feet and faced his father.

“I won’t learn cattle, and you can’t makeme!” he cried, with blazing eyes. “Andyo u won’t work me over with a tracestrap! You’ve licked me all I’ll stand. I’llgo away! I’ll run away, and I won’t comehome till I’m white as a darned sheep!”

“Bruce!” His father reached for his collar,but the boy was gone. His chair tippedover, and his precious rock dropped fromhis shirt front and bounced on the floor. Itwas a precious rock, too, a fragment ofmeteorite, one which fell perhaps in theshower of meteoric stones in Iowa in ’79.

“He’s the touchiest child I ever saw,” saidBurt apologetically, “and stubborn as amule; but you’d better set his plate away. I

guess the gentleman will return, since he’stwenty-five miles from home.”

The farmer’s wife called after the boyfrom the doorway, but he did not stop.Hatless, with his head thrown back andhis fists clenched tight against his sides,he ran with all his might, his bare feetkicking up the soft, deep dust. There wassomething pathetic to her in the lonelylittle figure vanishing down the long,straight road. She wished it had nothappened.

“It isn’t right to tease a child,” she said,going back to her seat.

“Well, there’s no sense in his acting likethat,” Burt answered. “I’ve tried to thrashsome of that stubbornness out of him, buthis will is hard to break.”

“I don’t believe in so much whipping,” thewoman defended. “Traits that children arepunished for sometimes are the makin’ ofthem when they’re grown. I think that’swhy grandparents are usually easier withtheir grandchildren than they were withtheir own—because they’ve lived longenough to see the faults they whipped theirchildren for grow into virtues. Bruce’sstubbornness may be perseverance whenhe’s a man, and to my way of thinking toomuch pride is far better than too little.”

“Pride or no pride, he’ll do as I say,” Burtanswered, with an obstinacy of tone whichmade the farmer’s wife comment mentallythat it was not difficult to see from whomthe boy had inherited that trait.

But it was the only one, since, save in

coloring and features, they were totallydissimilar, and Burt seemed to have nounderstanding of his passionate, warm-hearted, imaginative son. Perhaps,unknown to himself, he harbored a secretresentment that Bruce had not been thelittle girl whose picture had been as fixedand clear in his mind before Bruce cameas though she were already an actuality.She was to have had flaxen hair, with blueribbons in it, and teeth like tiny, sharppearls. She was to have come dancing tomeet him on her toes, and to have snuggledcontentedly on his lap when he returnedfrom long rides on the range. Boys wereall right, but he had a vague notion thatthey belonged to their mothers. Bruce wasdistinctly “his mother’s boy,” and this wastacitly understood. It was to her he went

with his hurts for caresses, and with hisconfidences for sympathy andunderstanding.

Now there was nothing in Bruce’s mindbut to get to his mother. While his breathlasted and he burned with outraged prideand humiliation, the boy ran, his thought aconfused jumble of mortification that Mrs.Mosher should know that he got“lickings,” of regret for the gizzard andmashed potatoes and lemon pie, ofwonder as to what his mother would saywhen he came home in the middle of thenight and told her that he had walked allthe way alone.

He dropped to a trot, and then to a walk,for it was hot, and even a hurt and angryboy cannot run forever. The tears dried to

grimy streaks on his cheeks, and the sunblistered his face and neck, while hediscovered that stretches of stony roadwere mighty hard on the soles of the feet.But he walked on purposefully, with nothought of going back, thinking of thecomforting arms and shoulder that awaitedhim at the other end. After all, nobodytook any interest in rocks, except mother;nobody cared about the things he reallyliked, except mother.

Toward the end of the afternoon hisfootsteps lagged, and sunset found himresting by the roadside. He was so hungry!He felt so little, so alone, and the comingdarkness brought disturbing thoughts ofcoyotes and prairie wolves, of robbersand ghosts that the hired man said he had

seen when he had stayed out too late o’nights.

Ravines, with their still, eloquentdarkness, are fearsome places forimaginative boys to pass alone.Hobgoblins—the very name sent chills upand down Bruce’s spine—would be mostapt to lurk in some such place, waiting,waiting to jump on his back! He broke andran.

The stars came out, and a late moon foundhim trudging still. He limped and hissturdy shoulders sagged. He was tired,and, oh, so sleepy, but the prolonged howlof a wolf, coming from somewhere a longway off, kept him from dropping to theground. Who would have believed thattwenty-five miles was such a distance? He

stopped short, and how hard his heartpumped blood! Stock-still and listening,he heard the clatter of hoofs coming downthe road ahead of him. Who would be outthis time of night but robbers? He lookedabout him; there was no place on the flatprairie to hide except a particularly darkravine some little way back which hadtaken all his courage to go through withoutrunning.

Between robbers and hobgoblins thereseemed small choice, but he choserobbers. With his fists clenched and thecold sweat on his forehead, he waited bythe roadside for the dark rider, who wascoming like the wind.

“Hello!” The puffing horse was pulledsharply to a standstill.

“Oh, Wess!” His determination to diewithout a sound ended in a broken cry ofgladness, and he wrapped an arm aroundthe hired man’s leg to hold him.

“Bruce! What you doin’ here?”

“They plagued me. I’m going home.”

“You keep on goin’, boy. I’m after youand your father.” There was somethingqueer in the hired man’s voice—something that frightened him. “Yourmother’s taken awful sick. Don’t waste notime; it’s four miles yet; you hustle!” Thebig horse jumped into the air and wasgone.

It was not so much what the hired mansaid that scared him so, but the way hesaid it. Bruce had never known him not to

laugh and joke, or seen him run his horselike that.

“Oh, mamma, mamma!” he panted as hestumbled on, wishing that he could fly.

When he dragged himself into the room,she was lying on her bed, raised highamong the pillows. Her eyes were closed,and the face which was so beautiful to himlooked heavy with the strange stupor inwhich she lay.

“Mamma, I’m here! Mamma, I’ve come!”He flung himself upon the soft, warmshoulder, but it was still, and thecomforting arms lay limp upon thecounterpane.

“Mamma, what’s the matter? Saysomething! Look at me!” he cried. But the

gray eyes that always beamed upon himwith such glad welcome did not open, andthe parted lips were unresponsive to hisown. There was no movement of her chestto tell him that she even breathed.

A fearful chill struck to his heart. What ifshe was dying—dead! Other boys’mothers sometimes died, he knew, but hismother—his mother! He tugged gently atone long, silken braid of hair that lay inhis grimy hand like a golden rope, callingher in a voice that shook with fright.

The cry penetrated her dulled senses. Itbrought her back from the borderland ofthat far country into which she had almostslipped. Slowly, painfully, with the lastfaint remnant of her will power, she triedto speak—to answer that beloved, boyish

voice.

“My—little boy——” The words camethickly, and her lips did not seem to move.

But it was her voice; she had spoken; shewas not dead! He hugged her hard in wildecstasy and relief.

“I’m glad—you came. I—can’t stay—long. I’ve had—such hopes—for you—little boy. I’ve dreamed—such dreams—for you—I wanted to see—them all cometrue. If I can—I’ll help you—from—theother side. There’s so much—more I wantto say—if only—I had known—— Oh,Bruce—my—li—ttle boy——” Her voiceended in a breath, and stopped.

II

“Pardners”

“Looks like you’d say somethin’ aboutthem pancakes instead of settin’ thereshovelin’.”

“Haven’t I told you regular every morningfor six months that they was greatpancakes? Couldn’t you let me off foronce?”

The two partners glared at each otheracross the clumsy table of hewn pine.They looked like two wild men, as blackeyes flashed anger, even hate, into blackeyes. Their hair was long and uneven,

their features disguised by black beards ofmany weeks’ growth. Their miners’ bootswere but ludicrous remnants tied on withbuckskin thongs. Their clothes hung inrags, and they ate with the animal-likehaste and carelessness of those who livealone.

The smaller of the two men rose abruptly,and, with a vicious kick at the box uponwhich he had been sitting, landed ithalfway across the room. His cheeks andnose were pallid above his beard, his thinnostrils dilated, and his hand shook as hereached for his rifle in the gun rack madeof deer horns nailed above the kitchendoor. He was slender and wiry of build,quick and nervous in his movements, yetthey were almost noiseless, and he walked

with the padded soft-footedness of thepreying animal.

Bruce Burt lounged to the cabin door andlooked after “Slim” Naudain as he went tothe river. Then he stepped outside,stooping to avoid striking his head. Heleaned his broad shoulder against the doorjamb and watched “Slim” bail the leakyboat and untie it from the willows. Whilehe filled and lighted his pipe, Bruce’seyes followed his partner as he seatedhimself upon the rotten thwart and shovedinto the river with home-made oars thatwere little more than paddles. The rivercaught him with the strength of a hundredeager hands, and whirled him, paddlinglike a madman, broadside to the current. Itbore him swiftly to the roaring white

rapids some fifty yards below, and the firedied in Bruce’s pipe as, breathless, hewatched the bobbing boat.

“Slim’ll cross in that water-coffin oncetoo often,” he muttered, and Bruce himselfwas the best boatman the length of thedangerous river.

There were times when he felt that healmost hated Slim Naudain, and this wasone of them, yet fine lines of anxiety drewabout his eyes as he watched the firstlolling tongue of the rapids reach for thetiny boat. If it filled, Slim was gone, forno human being could swim in the roaring,white stretch where the great, green riverreared, curled back, and broke intoiridescent foam. The boat went out ofsight, rose, bobbed for an instant on a

crest, then disappeared.

Bruce said finally, in relief:

“He’s made it again.”

He watched Slim make a noose in thepainter, throw it over a bowlder, wipe thewater from his rifle with his shirt sleeve,and start to scramble up the steepmountainside.

“The runt of something good—that feller,”Bruce added, with somber eyes. “I oughtto pull out of here. It’s no use, we can’t hitit off any more.”

He closed the cabin door against thievingpack rats, and went down to the river,where his old-fashioned California rockerstood at the water’s edge. He started towork, still thinking of Slim.

Invariably he injected the same commentinto his speculations regarding his partner:“The runt of something good.” It was the“something good” in Slim, the ear-marksof good breeding, and the peculiarfascination of blue blood run riot, whichhad first attracted him in Meadows, themountain town one hundred and fifty milesabove. This prospecting trip had beenBruce’s own proposal, and he tried toremember this when the friction wasgreatest.

Slim, however, had jumped at hissuggestion that they build a barge andwork the small sand bars along the riverwhich were enriched with fine gold fromsome mysterious source above by eachhigh water. They were to labor together

and share and share alike. This wasunderstood between them before they leftMeadows, but the plan did not work outbecause Slim failed to do his part. Savefor an occasional day of desultory work,he spent his time in the mountains, killinggame for which they had no use, trappinganimals whose pelts were worthlessduring the summer months. He seemed tokill for the pleasure he found in killing.Protests from Bruce were useless, and thiswanton slaughter added day by day to thedislike he felt for his partner, to theresentment which now was eversmoldering in his heart.

Bruce wondered often at his own self-control. He carried scars of knife andbullet which bore mute testimony to the

fact that with his childhood he had notoutgrown his quick and violent temper. Inmining camps, from Mexico to the Stikineand Alaska in the North, he was known asa “scrapper,” with any weapon of hisopponent’s choice.

Perhaps it was because he could havethrottled Slim with his thumb and finger,have shaken the life out of him with onehand, that Bruce forbore; perhaps it wasbecause he saw in Slim’s erratic, surlymoods a something not quite normal, asomething which made him sometimeswonder if his partner was well balanced.At any rate, he bore his shirking, hisinsults, and his deliberate selfishness witha patience that would have made his oldcompanions stare.

The bar of sand and gravel upon whichtheir cabin stood, and where Bruce nowwas working, was half a mile in width anda mile and a half or so in length. He hadfollowed a pay streak into the bank,timbering the tunnel as he went, and hewheeled his dirt from this tunnel to hisrocker in a crude wheelbarrow of his ownmake.

He filled his gold pan from thewheelbarrow, and dumped it into thegrizzly, taking from each pan the brightest-colored pebble he could find to place onthe pile with others so that when the day’swork was done he could tell how manypans he had washed and so form someidea as to how the dirt was running percubic yard.

His dipper was a ten-pound lard can witha handle ingeniously attached, and as hedipped water from the river into thegrizzly, the steady, mechanical motion ofthe rocker and dipper had the regularity ofa machine. If he touched the dirt with somuch as his finger tips he washed themcarefully over the grizzly lest some tinyparticle be lost. Bruce was as good arocker as a Chinaman, and than that thereis no higher praise.

When the black sand began to coat theBrussels-carpet apron, Bruce stoopedover the rocker frequently and looked atthe shining yellow specks.

“She’s looking fine to-day! She’s runningfive dollars to the cubic yard if she’srunning a cent!” he ejaculated each time

that he straightened up after an inspectionof the sand, and the fire of hope andenthusiasm, which is close to the surfacein every true miner and prospector, shonein his eyes. Sometimes he frowned at therocker and expressed his disapprovalaloud, for years in isolated places hadgiven him the habit of loneliness, and hetalked often to himself. “It hasn’t got slopeenough, and I knew it when I was makingit. I don’t believe I’m saving more thanseventy per cent. I’ll tell you, hombre,grade is everything with this fine gold andheavy sand.”

While he rocked he lifted his eyes andsearched the sides of the mountains acrossthe river. It seemed a trifle less lonely ifoccasionally he caught a glimpse of Slim,

no bigger than an insect, crawling over therocks and around the peaks. Yet each timethat he saw him Bruce’s heavy blackeyebrows came together in a troubledfrown, for the sight reminded him of theincreasing frequency of their quarrels.

“If he hadn’t soldiered,” he muttered as hesaw Slim climbing out of a gulch, “hecould have had a good little grub-stake forwinter. Winter’s going to come quick, theway the willows are turning black. Let itcome. I’ve got to pull out, anyhow, asthings are going. But”—his eyes kindledas he looked at the high bank into whichhis tunnel ran—“I certainly am getting intogreat dirt.”

It was obvious that the sand bar where hewas placering had once been the river

bed, but when the mighty stream, in thecourse of centuries, cut into the mountainopposite it changed the channel, leavingbed rock and bowlders, which eventuallywere covered by sand and graveldeposited by the spring floods. In thisdeposit there was enough flour-gold toenable any good placer miner to makedays’ wages by rocking the rich streaksalong the bars and banks.

This particular sand bar rose from a depthof five feet near the water’s edge to aheight of two hundred feet or more againstthe mountain at the back. There wasenough of it carrying fine gold to inflamethe imagination of the most conservativeand set the least speculative to calculating.A dozen times a day Bruce looked at it

and said to himself:

“If only there was some way of gettingwater on it!”

For many miles on that side of the riverthere was no mountain stream to flume, nopossibility of bringing it, even from a longdistance, through a ditch, so the slow andlaborious process he was employingseemed the only method of recovering thegold that was but an infinitesimalproportion of what he believed the big barcontained.

While he worked, the sun came up warm,and then grew dim with a kind of haze.

“A storm’s brewing,” he told himself.“The first big snow is long overdue, sowe’ll get it right when it comes.”

His friends, the kingfishers, who had livedall summer in a hole at the top of the bank,had long since gone, and the camp-robbers, who scolded him incessantly, satsilent in the tall pine trees near the cabin.He noticed that the eagle that nested in aninaccessible peak across the riverswooped for home and stayed there. Theredsides and the bull trout in the riverwould no longer bite, and he rememberednow that the coyote who denned among therocks well up the mountain had howledlast night as if possessed: all signs ofstorm and winter.

By noon a penetrating chill had crept intothe air, and Bruce looked oftener acrossthe river.

“It’s just like him to stay out and sleep

under a rock all night with a stormcoming,” he told himself uneasily.

This would be no new thing for Slim inone of his ugly moods, and ordinarily itdid not matter, for he kept his pocketswell filled with strips of jerked elk andvenison, while in the rags of his heavyflannel shirt he seemed as impervious tocold as he was to heat.

Chancing to glance over his shoulder andraise his eyes to the side of the mountain,which was separated from the one at theback of the bar by a cañon, a smile ofpleasure suddenly lighted Bruce’s darkface, and he stopped rocking.

“Old Felix and his family!” he chuckled.Whimsically he raised both arms aloft in agesture of welcome. “Ha—they see me!”

The band of mountain sheep picking theirway down the rough side stopped shortand looked.

“It’s all of a month since they’ve beendown for salt.” Then his face fell. “ByGeorge, we’re shy on salt!”

He turned to his rocker, and the sheepstarted down again, with Old Felix in thelead, and behind him two yearlings, twoewes, and the spring lamb.

Their visits were events in Bruce’suneventful life. He felt as flattered by theirconfidence as one feels by the preferenceof a child. His liking for animalsamounted to a passion, and he had beenabsurdly elated the first time he hadenticed them to the salt, which he hadplaced on a flat rock not far from the cabin

door. For the first few visits their softblack eyes, with their amber rims, hadfollowed him timorously, and they wereready to run at any unusual movement.Then, one afternoon, they unexpectedly laydown in the soft dirt which banked thecabin, and he was so pleased that hechuckled softly to himself all the time theystayed.

Now he laid down his dipper, and startedtoward the house.

“I’ll just take a look, anyhow, and seehow much there is.”

He eyed uncertainly the small bag of tablesalt which he took from the soap-boxcupboard nailed to the wall.

“There isn’t much of it, that’s a fact. I

guess they’ll have to wait.” He slammedthe door of the improvised cupboard hardupon its leather hinges made of a boot-top,and turned away.

“Aw, dog-gone it!” he cried, stoppingshort. “I haven’t got the heart to disappointthe poor little devils.” He turned back andtook the salt.

The sheep were just coming out of thecañon between the mountains when Brucestepped through the cabin door. Old Felixstopped and stood like a statue—OldFelix, the Methuselah of the Bitter Roots,who wore the most magnificent pair ofhorns that ever grew on a mountain sheep.Solid and perfect they were, all ofnineteen and three-quarters inches at thebase and tapering to needle points. Of

incredible weight and size, he carriedthem as lightly on his powerful neck asthough they were but the shells of horns.Now, as he stood with his tremulousnozzle outstretched, sniffing, cautious,wily, old patriarch that he was, he made apicture which, often as Bruce had seen it,thrilled him through and through. BehindOld Felix were the frisking lamb and themild-eyed ewes. They would not comeany closer, but they did not run.

“It wouldn’t have lasted but a few dayslonger anyhow,” Bruce murmured halfapologetically as he divided the salt andspread it on the rock. He added: “Isuppose Slim will be sore.”

He returned to his work at the river, andthe sheep licked the rock bare; then they

lay down in leisurely fashion beside thecabin, their narrow jaws waggingludicrously, their eyelids droopingsleepily, secure in their feeling that allwas well.

Bruce had thrust a cold biscuit in thepocket of his shirt, and this he crumbledfor the little bush birds that twittered andchirped in the thicket of rosebushes whichhad pushed up through the rocks near thesand bank.

They perked their heads and looked at himinquiringly when it was gone.

“My Gawd, fellers,” he demandedhumorously, “don’t you ever get filledup?”

As he rocked he watched the water ouzel

teetering on a rock in the river, joyouslyshaking from its back the spray whichdeluged it at intervals. Bruce observed.

“I’d rather you’d be doing that than me,with the water as cold as it is and,” with aglance at the fast-clouding sky, “gettingcolder every minute.”

The sheep sensed the approaching storm,and started up the gulch to their place ofshelter under a protecting rim rock closeto the peak.

When they were no longer there to watchand think about, Bruce’s thoughts rambledfrom one subject to another, as do theminds of lonely persons.

While the water and sand were flowingevenly over the apron he fell to wishing he

had a potato. How long had it been—hethrew back his head to calculate—howmany weeks since he had looked a potatoin the eye? Ha!—not a bad joke at that. Hewished he might have said that aloud tosome one. He never joked with Slim anymore.

He frowned a little as he bent over thegrizzly and crushed a small lump betweenhis thumb and finger. He wandered if therewas clay coming into the pay streak. Claygathered up the “colors” it touched like somuch quicksilver. Dog-gone, if it wasn’tone thing it was another. If the tunnelwasn’t caving in, he struck a bowlder, andif there wasn’t a bowlder there was——

“Bang! bang! Bang! bang!” Then afusillade of shots. Bruce straightened up in

astonishment and stared at themountainside.

“Boom! boom!” The shots were muffled.They were shooting in the cañon. Whowas it? What was it? Suddenly heunderstood. The sheep! His sheep! Theywere killing Old Felix and the rest!Magnificent Old Felix—the placid ewes—the frisking lamb! What a bombardment!That wasn’t sport; ’twas slaughter!

His dark skin reddened, and his eyesblazed in excitement. He flung the dipperfrom him and started toward the cabin ona run. They were killing tame sheep—sheep that he had taught to lose their fearof man. Then his footsteps slackened andhe felt half sick as he remembered that thebig-game season was open and he had no

legal right to interfere.

Bruce had not seen a human face saveSlim’s since the end of May, and it nowwas late in October, but he had no desireto meet the hunters and hear them boast oftheir achievement. Heavy-hearted, hewondered which ones they got.

The hunters must have come over the oldtrail of the Sheep-eater Indians—the onewhich wound along the backbone of theridge. Rough going, that. They werecamped up there, and they must have a bigpack outfit, he reasoned, to get so far fromsupplies at this season of the year.

He tried to work again, but found himselfupset.

“Dog-gone,” he said finally. “I’ll slip up

the cañon and see what they’ve done.They may have left a wounded sheep forthe cougars to finish—if they did I canpack it down.”

Bruce climbed for an hour or more up thebowlder-choked cañon before hisexperienced eye saw signs of the huntersin two furrows where a pair of heels hadplowed down a bank of dirt. The cañon,as he knew, ended abruptly in aperpendicular wall, and he soon saw thatthe frightened sheep must have runheadlong into the trap. He found the printsof their tiny, flying hoofs, the indentationswhere the sharp points had dug deep asthey leaped. Empty shells, more shells—they must have been bum shots—and thena drop of blood upon a rock. The drops

came thicker, a stream of blood, and thenthe slaughter pen. They had been shotdown against the wall without a singlechance for their lives. The entire band,save Old Felix, had been exterminated.Their limp and still-bleeding carcasses,riddled and torn by soft-nosed bullets, layamong the rocks. Wanton slaughter it was,without even the excuse of the necessity ofmeat, since only a yearling’s hind quarterswere gone. Not even the plea of killing fortrophies could be offered, since the headsof the ewes were valueless.

Bruce straightened the neck of a ewe asshe lay with her head doubled under her. Ithurt him to see her so. He looked into herdull, glazed eyes which had been so softand bright as they had followed him at

work a little more than an hour before. Heran his hand over a sheep’s white“blanket,” now red with blood, and stoodstaring down into the innocent face of thediminutive lamb.

Then he raised his eyes in the direction inwhich he fancied the hunters had gone.They shone black and vindictive throughthe mist of tears which blinded him as hecried in a shaking voice:

“You butchers! You game hogs! I hopeyou starve and freeze back there in thehills, as you deserve!”

A snow cloud, drab, thick, saggingominously, moved slowly from thenortheast, and on a jutting point, sharplyoutlined against the sky, motionless as therock beneath him, stood Old Felix,

splendid, solitary, looking off across thesea of peaks in which he was alone.

III

“The Game Butchers”

“Ain’t this an awful world!” By thisobservation Uncle Bill Griswold, standingon a narrow shelf of rock, with thesheep’s hind quarters on his back, meantmerely to convey the opinion that therewas a great deal of it.

The panting sportsman did not answer. T.

Victor Sprudell was looking for someplace to put his toe.

“There’s a hundred square miles overthere that I reckon there never was a whiteman’s foot on, and they say that the Westhas been went over with a fine-toothcomb. Wouldn’t it make you laugh?”

Mr. Sprudell looked far from laughter as,by placing a foot directly in front of theother, he advanced a few inches at a timeuntil he reached the side of his guide. Itwas an awful world, and the swift glancehe had of it as he raised his eyes from thetoes of his boots and looked off across theocean of peaks gave him the feeling that hewas about to fall over the edge of it. Hispink, cherubic face turned saffron, and heshrank back against the wall. He had been

in perilous places before, but this was theworst yet.

“There might be somethin’ good overyonder if ’twas looked into right,” went onUncle Bill easily, as he stood with the ballof his feet hanging over a precipice,staring speculatively. “But it’ll be like tostay there for a while, with these youngbucks doin’ all their prospectin’ aroundsome sheet-iron stove. There’s nobodyaround the camps these days that ain’tafraid of work, of gittin’ lost, of sleepin’out of their beds of nights. Prospectin’ inunderbrush and down timber is no cinch,but it never stopped me when I was ayoung feller around sixty or sixty-five.” Adry, clicking sound as Sprudellswallowed made the old man look around.

“Hey—what’s the matter? Aire youdizzy?”

Dizzy! Sprudell felt he was going to die. Ifhis shaking knees should suddenly giveway beneath him he could see, by craninghis neck slightly, the exact spot where hewas going to land. His chest, plump andhigh like a woman’s, rose and fell quicklywith his hard breathing, and the barrel ofhis rifle where he clasped it was dampwith nervous perspiration. His smallmouth, with its full, red lips shaped likethe traditional cupid’s bow, wascolorless, and there was abject terror inhis infantile blue eyes. Yet superficially,T. Victor Sprudell was a brave figure—picturesque as the drawing for agunpowder “ad,” a man of fifty, yet

excellently well preserved.

A plaid cap with a visor fore and aftmatched his roomy knickerbockers, andcanvas leggings encased his roundedcalves. His hob-nailed shoes were thelatest thing in “field boots,” and hishunting coat was a credit to the sportinghouse that had turned it out. His cartridgebelt was new and squeaky, and he had thelast patents in waterproof match safes andskinning knives. That goneness at hisstomach, and the strange sensations up anddown his spine, seemed incongruous insuch valorous trappings. But he had themunmistakably, and they kept him cringingclose against the wall as though he hadbeen glued.

It was not entirely the thought of standing

there that paralyzed him; it was the thoughtof going on. If accidentally he should stepon a rolling rock what a gap there wouldbe in the social, financial, and politicallife of Bartlesville, Indiana! It was at thispoint in his vision of the things that mighthappen to him that he had gulped.

“Don’t look down; look up; look acrost,”Uncle Bill advised. “You’re liable tobounce off this hill if you don’t take care.Hello,” he said to himself, staring at theriver which lay like a great, green snake atthe base of the mountains, “must be somefeller down there placerin’. That’s a newcabin, and there’s a rocker—looks like.”

“Gold?” Sprudell’s eyes became a shadeless infantile.

“Gold a-plenty; but it takes a lard can full

to make a cent and there’s no way to getwater on the ground.”

Uncle Bill stood conjecturing as to who itmight be, as though it were of importancethat he should know before he left. Interestin his neighbor and his neighbor’sbusiness is a strong characteristic of theminer and prospector in these, our UnitedStates, and Uncle Bill Griswold in thisrespect was no exception. It troubled himfor hours that he could not guess who wasplacering below.

“Looks like it’s gittin’ ready for a storm,”he said finally. “We’d better sift along.Foller clost to me and keep a-comin’, forwe don’t want to get caught out ’way offfrom camp. We’ve stayed too long in themountains for that matter, with the little

grub that’s left. We’ll pull out to-morrow.”

“Which way you going?” Sprudell askedplaintively.

“We gotta work our way around thismountain to that ridge.” Uncle Bill shiftedthe meat to the other shoulder, andtravelled along the steep side with thesure-footed swiftness of a venerablemountain goat.

Sprudell shut his trembling lips togetherand followed as best he could. He waspaying high, he felt, for the privilege ofentertaining the Bartlesville CommercialClub with stories of his prowess. Hedoubted if he would get over the nervousstrain in months, for, after all, Sprudellwas fifty, and such experiences told.

Never—never, he said to himself when arolling rock started by his feet boundedfrom point to point to remind him howeasily he could do the same, never wouldhe take such chances again! It wasn’tworth it. His life was too valuable.Inwardly he was furious that Uncle Billshould have brought him by such a way.His heart turned over and lay down with aflop when he saw that person stop andheard him say:

“Here’s kind of a bad place; you’d betterlet me take your gun.”

Kind of a bad place! When he’d beenfrisking on the edge of eternity.

Uncle Bill waited near a bank of sliderock that extended from the mountain topto a third of the way down the side, after

which it went off sheer.

“’Tain’t no picnic, crossin’ slide rock, butI reckon if I kin make it with a gun andhalf a sheep on my back you can make itempty-handed. Step easy, and don’t start itslippin’ or you’ll slide to kingdom come.Watch me!”

Sprudell watched with all his eyes. Thelittle old man, who boasted that heweighed only one hundred and thirty withhis winter tallow on, skimmed the surfacelike a water spider, scarcely jarring loosea rock. Sprudell knew that he could neverget across like that. Fear would make himheavy-footed if nothing else.

“Hurry up!” the old man shoutedimpatiently. “We’ve no time to lose.Dark’s goin’ to ketch us sure as shootin’,

and it’s blowin’ up plumb cold.”

Sprudell nerved himself and started,stepping as gingerly as he could; but inspite of his best efforts his feet camedown like pile drivers, disturbing rockseach time he moved.

Griswold watched him anxiously, andfinally called:

“You’re makin’ more fuss than a cow elk!Step easy er you’re goin’ to start thewhole darn works. Onct it gits to movin’,half that bank’ll go.”

Sprudell was nearly a third of the wayacross when the shale began to move,slowly at first, with a gentle rattle, thenfaster. He gave a shout of terror andfloundered, panic-stricken, where he

stood.

The old man danced in frenzy:

“Job in your heels and run like hell!”

But the mass had started, and was movingfaster. Sprudell’s feet went from underhim, and he collapsed in a limp heap.Then he turned over and scrabbled madlywith hands and feet for something thatwould hold. Everything loosened at histouch and joined the sliding bank of shale.He could as easily have stopped hisprogress down a steep slate roof.

“Oh, Lord! There goes my dude!” UncleBill wrung his hands and swore.

Sprudell felt faint, nauseated, and his neckseemed unable to hold his heavy head. Helaid his cheek on the cold shale, and, with

his arms and legs outstretched like a giantstarfish, he weakly slid. His body, movingslower than the mass, acted as a kind ofwedge, his head serving as a separator todivide the moving bank. He wasconscious, too, of a curious sensation inhis spine—a feeling as though someinvisible power were pulling backward,backward until it hurt. He wanted toscream, to hear his own voice once more,but his vocal cords would not respond; hecould not make a sound.

Griswold was shouting something; it didnot matter what. He heard it faintly abovethe clatter of the rocks. He must be closeto the edge now—Bartlesville—theCommercial Club—Abe Cone—and thenMr. Sprudell hit something with a bump!

He had a sensation as of a hatpin—manyhatpins—penetrating his tender flesh, butthat was nothing compared to the fact thathe had stopped, while the slide of shalewas rushing by. He was not dead! but hewas too astonished and relieved toimmediately wonder why.

Then he weakly raised his head andlooked cautiously over his shoulder lestthe slightest movement start him travellingagain. What miracle had saved his life?The answer was before him. When hecame down the slide in the fortunateattitude of a clothespin, the Fates, who hadother plans for him, it seemed, steered himfor a small tree of the stout mountainmahogany, which has a way of pushing upin most surprising places.

“Don’t move!” called Griswold. “I’llcome and get ye!”

Unnecessary admonition. AlthoughSprudell was impaled on the thick, sharpthorns like a naturalist’s captive butterfly,he scarcely breathed, much less attemptedto get up.

“Bill, I was near the gates,” said Sprudellsolemnly when Griswold, at no small riskto himself, had snaked him back to solidground. “Fortuna audaces juvat!”“If that’s Siwash for ‘close squeak,’ itwere; and,” with an anxious glance at theominous sky, “’tain’t over.”

IV

Self-Defence

When Bruce came out of the cañon, wherehe had a wider view of the sky, he sawthat wicked-looking clouds were pilingthick upon one another in the northeast,and he wondered whether the month wasthe first of November or late October, asSlim insisted. They had lost tracksomehow, and of the day of the week theyhad not the faintest notion.

There was always the first big snowstormto be counted on in the Bitter RootMountains, after which it sometimescleared and was open weather for weeks.

But this was when it came early inSeptember; the snow that fell now wouldin all probability lie until spring.

At any rate, there was wood to be cut,enough to last out a week’s storm. But,first, Bruce told himself, he must clean upthe rocker, else he would lose nearly theentire proceeds of his day’s work. Thegold was so light that much of it floatedand went off with the water when the sandwas wet again, after it had once driedupon the apron.

Bruce placed a gold pan at the end of therocker, and, with a clean scrubbing brush,carefully worked the sand over theBrussels-carpet apron, pouring water intothe grizzly the while.

“That trip up the cañon cost me half a

day’s wages,” he thought as he saw thethin yellow scum floating on the top of thepan.

Sitting on his heel by the river’s edge,where he had made a quiet pool bybuilding a breakwater of pebbles, heagitated and swirled the sand in the goldpan until only a small quantity remained,and while he watched carefully lest someof the precious specks and flakes whichfollowed in a thick, yellow string behindthe sand slip around the corners and overthe edge, he also cast frequent glances atthe peaks that became each moment moredensely enveloped in the clouds.

“When she cuts loose she’s going to be atwister,” and he added grimly, asinstinctively his eyes sought the

saddleback or pass over which the ancienttrail of the Sheep-eater Indians ran:“Those game hogs better pull their freightif they count on going out as they came in.”

His fingers were numb when he stood upand shook the cold river water from them,turning now to look across for a sight ofSlim.

“I’ve cut his share of wood all summer, soI guess there’s no use quitting now.Turning pancakes is about the hardestwork he’s done since we landed on thebar. Oh, well”—he raised one bigshoulder in a shrug of resignation—“we’llsplit this partnership when we get out ofhere. By rights I ought to dig out now.”

The chips flew as he swung the ax withblows that tested the tough oak handle.

Bruce Burt was a giant in his strength, andas unconscious of the greatness of it as abear. He could not remember that he hadever fully tried it. He never had lifted aweight when he had not known that, ifnecessary, he could lift a little more. Hisphysique had fulfilled the promise of hissturdy youth, and he was as little awarethat it, too, was remarkable as he was ofthe fact that men and women turned inadmiration to look again at his dark,unsmiling face upon the rare occasionswhen he had walked the streets of thetowns.

He was as splendid a specimen of his kindas Old Felix, as primitive nearly, and asshy. His tastes had led him into thewilderness, and he had followed the gold

strikes and the rumors of gold strikes fromSonora, in Old Mexico, to the Siberiancoast, on Behring Sea, in search of a newKlondike. He had lived hard, enduredmuch in the adventurous life of which heseldom talked. His few intimates had beenmen like himself—the miners andprospectors who built their cabins in thefastnesses with Hope their onecompanion, to eat and sleep and workwith. He was self-educated and wellinformed along such lines as his tastes ledhim. He read voraciously all thatpertained to Nature, to her rocks andminerals, and he knew the habits of wildanimals as he knew his own. Of thepeople and that vague place they called“the outside,” he knew little or nothing.

He had acquaintances and he had enemiesin the mining camps which necessitycompelled him to visit at long intervalsfor the purchase of supplies. Agreeableand ingratiating storekeepers who soldhim groceries, picks, shovels, powder,drills, at fifty per cent. profit, neat,smooth-shaven gamblers, bartenders, whowelcomed him with boisterouscamaraderie, tired and respectable womenwho “run” boarding houses, painted,highly-perfumed ladies of the dance hall,enigmatic Chinamen, all were types withwhich he was familiar. But he called noneof them “friend.” Their tastes, theirinterests, their standards of conduct weredifferent from his own. They had nothingin common, yet he could not haveexplained exactly why. He told himself

vaguely that he did not “cotton” to them,and thought the fault was with himself.

Bruce was twenty-seven, and his motherwas still his ideal of womanhood. Hedoubted if there were another like her inall the world. Certainly he never had seenone who in the least approached her. Heremembered her vividly, the grave, gray,comprehending eyes, the long braids ofhair which lay like thick new hempen ropeupon the white counterpane.

His lack of a substantial education—acollege education—was a sore spot withhim which did not become less sore withtime. If she had lived he was sure it wouldhave been different. With his mother tointercede for him he knew that he wouldhave had it. After her death his father

grew more taciturn, more impatient, morebent on preparing him to follow in hisfootsteps, regardless of his inclinations.The “lickings” became more frequent, forhe seemed only to see his mistakes andchildish faults.

The culmination had come when he hadasked to be allowed to leave the countryschool where he rode daily, and attend thebetter one in the nearest village, whichnecessitated boarding. After nervinghimself for days to ask permission, he hadbeen refused flatly.

“What do you think I’m made of—money?” his father had demanded. “You’llstay where you are until you’ve learned toread, and write, and figure: then you’llhelp me with the cattle. Next thing you’ll

be wantin’ to play a flute or the piano.”

He thought of his father always withhardness and unforgiveness, for herealized now, as he had not at the time heran away from home, what the thousandsof acres, the great herd of sleek cattle,meant—the fortune that they represented.

“He could have so well afforded it,”Bruce often mused bitterly. “And it’s all Iwould have asked of him. I didn’t comeinto the world because I wanted to come,and he owed it to me—my chance!”

The flakes of snow which fell at first andclung tenaciously to Bruce’s dark-blueflannel shirt were soft and wet, so muchso that they were almost drops of rain, butsoon they hardened and bounced andrattled as they began to fall faster.

As he threw an armful of wood behind thesheet-iron camp stove, Bruce gave adisparaging poke at a pan of yeast breadset to rise.

“Slim and I will have to take this dough tobed with us to keep it warm if it turnsmuch colder. Everything’s going to freezeup stiff as a snake. Never remember it ascold as this the first storm. Well, I’ll get apail of water, then let her come.” Headded uneasily: “I wish Slim would getin.”

His simple preparations were sooncomplete, and when he closed the heavydoor of whip-sawed lumber it wasnecessary to light the small kerosenelamp, although the dollar watch ticking onits nail said the hour was but four-thirty.

He eyed a pile of soiled dishes in disgust,then set a lard bucket of water to heat.

“Two days’ gatherings! After I’ve eatenfour meals off the same plate it begins togo against me. Slim would scrape the gruboff with a stick and eat for a year withoutwashing a dish. Seems like the betterraised some fellers are the dirtier they arewhen they’re out like this. Guess I’ll washme a shirt or two while I’m holed up.Now where did I put my dishrag?”

His work and his huge masculinity lookedludicrously incongruous as he bent overthe low table and scraped at the tin plateswith his thumb nail or squinted into thelard buckets, of which there seemed anendless array.

The lard bucket is to the prospector what

baling wire is to the freighter on theplains, and Bruce, from long experience,knew its every use. A lard bucket was hiscoffee-pot, his stewing kettle, his sour-dough can. He made mulligan in one lardbucket and boiled beans in another. Theoutside cover made a good soap dish, andthe inside cover answered well enough fora mirror when he shaved.

He wrung out his dishcloth now and hungit on a nail, then eyed the bed in the end ofthe cabin disapprovingly.

“That’s a tough-looking bunk for whitemen to sleep in! Wonder how ’twouldseem if ’twas made?”

While he shook and straightened theblankets, and smote the bear-grass pillowswith his fists, he told himself that he

would cut some fresh pine boughs tosoften it a little as soon as the weathercleared.

“I’m a tidy little housewife,” he saidsardonically as he tucked away theblankets at the edge. “I’ve had enoughinside work to do since I took in a starboarder to be first-class help around somelady’s home.” A dead tree crashedoutside. “Wow! Listen to that wind!Sounds like a bunch of squaws wailing;maybe it’s a war party lost in the NezPerce Spirit Land. Wish Slim wouldcome.” He walked to the door andlistened, but he could hear nothing savethe howling of the wind.

He was poking aimlessly at the breaddough with his finger, wondering if it ever

meant to rise, wondering if his partnerwould come home in a better humor,wondering if he should tell him about thesalt, when Slim burst in with a swirl ofsnow and wind which extinguished thetiny lamp. In the glimpse Bruce had of hisface he saw that it was scowling and ugly.

Slim placed his rifle on the deer-horn gunrack without speaking and stamped themud and snow from his feet in the middleof the freshly swept floor.

“I was kind of worried about you,” Brucesaid, endeavoring to speak naturally. “I’mglad you got in.”

“Don’t know what you’d worry about mefor,” was the snarling answer. “I’m aswell able to take care of myself as youare.”

“It’s a bad night for anybody to beroaming around the hills.” Bruce wasadjusting the lamp chimney and putting itback on the shelf, but he noticed thatSlim’s face was working as it did in hisrages, and he sighed; they were in foranother row.

“You think you’re so almighty wise; Idon’t need you to tell me when it’s fit tobe out.”

Bruce did not answer, but his black eyesbegan to shine. Slim noticed it withseeming satisfaction, and went on:

“I saw them pet sheep of yourn comin’down. Did you give ’em salt?”

Bruce hesitated.

“Yes, Slim, I did. I suppose I shouldn’t

have done it, but the poor little devils——”

“And I’m to go without! Who the —— doyou think you are to give away my salt?”

“Your salt——” Bruce began savagely,then stopped. “Look here, Slim!” His deepvoice had an appealing note. “It wasn’tright when there was so little, I’ll admitthat, but what’s the use of being so onery?I wouldn’t have made a fuss if you haddone the same thing. Let’s try and getalong peaceable the few days we’ll becooped up in here, and when the storm letsup I’ll pull out. I should have gone before.But I don’t want to wrangle and quarrelwith you, Slim; honest I don’t.”

“You bet you don’t!” Slim answered, withugly significance.

Bruce’s strong, brown fingers tightened ashe leaned against the window casementwith folded arms. His silence seemed tomadden Slim.

“You bet you don’t!” he reiterated, andadded in shrill venom: “I might ’a’ knowdhow ’twould be when I throwed in with amucker like you.”

“Careful, Slim—go slow!” Bruce’s eyeswere blazing now between their narrowedlids, but he did not move. His voice was awhisper.

“That’s what I said! I’ll bet your fathertoted mortar for a plasterer and yourmother washed for a dance hall!”

Slim’s taunting, devilish face, corpse-likein its pallor above his black beard, was

all Bruce saw as he sprang for his throat.He backed him against the door and heldhim there.

“You miserable dog—I ought to kill you!”The words came from between his setteeth. He drew back his hand and slappedhim first on the right cheek, then on theleft. He flung Slim from him the length ofthe cabin, where he struck against thebunk.

Slim got to his feet and rushed headlongtoward the door. Bruce thought he meantto snatch his rifle from the rack, and wasready, but he tore at the fastening and ranoutside. Bruce watched the blacknessswallow him, and wondered where hemeant to go, what he meant to do on such anight. He was not left long in doubt.

He heard Slim coming back, running,cursing vilely as he came. The shaft ofyellow light which shot into the darknessfell upon the gleaming blade of the ax thathe bore uplifted in his hand.

“Slim!”

The answer was a scream that was nothuman. Slim was a madman! Bruce saw itclearly now. Insanity blazed in his blackeyes. There was no mistaking the look;Slim was violently, murderously insane!

“I’m goin’ to get you!” His scream waslike a woman’s screech. “I’ve meant to getyou all along, and I’m goin’ to do it now!”

“Drop it, Slim! Drop that ax!”

But Slim came on.

Instinctively Bruce reached for the heavy,old-fashioned revolver hanging on its nail.

Slim half turned his body to get a longer,harder swing, aiming as deliberately forBruce’s head as though he meant to split astick of wood.

Bruce saw one desperate chance and tookit. He could not bring himself to stop Slimwith a gun. He flung it from him. Swift andsure he swooped and caught Slim by theankles in the instant that he paused.Exerting his great strength, he hurled himover his shoulder, ax and all, where hefell hard, in a heap, in the corner, betweenthe bunk and wall. The sharp blade of theax cut the carotid artery.

Bruce turned to see a spurt of blood. Slimrolled over on his back, and it gushed like

a crimson fountain. Bruce knelt besidehim, trying frantically to bring together thesevered ends, to stop somehow the ghastlyflow that was draining the madman’sveins.

But he did not know how, his fingers wereclumsy, and Slim would not lie still. Hethreshed about like a dying animal, tryingto rise and stagger around the room.Finally his chest heaved, and hiscontracted leg dropped with a thud. Brucestared at the awful pallor of Slim’s face,then he got up and washed his hands.

He looked at the watch ticking steadilythrough it all; it was barely a quarter tofive. He spread his slicker on the bunk andlaid Slim on it and tried to wash the bloodfrom the floor and the logs of the cabin

wall, but it left a stain. He changed hisshirt—murderers always changed theirshirts and burned them.

Slim was dead; he wouldn’t have to getsupper for Slim—ever again. And he hadkilled him! Mechanically he poked hisfinger into the dough. It was rising. Hecould work it out pretty soon. Slim wasdead; he need not get supper for Slim; hekept looking at him to see if he hadmoved. How sinister, how “onery” Slimlooked even in death. He closed his mouthand drew the corner of a blanket over thecruel, narrow face. How still it seemedafter the commotion and Slim’s maniacalscreams!

He had joined the army of men who havekilled their partners. What trifles bring on

quarrels in the hills; what mountainsmolehills become when men are alone inthe wilderness! That cook in the BuffaloHump who tried to knife him because hestubbed his toe against the coffee-pot, and“Packsaddle Pete,” who meant to brainhim when they differed over throwing thediamond hitch; and now Slim was deadbecause he had given a handful of salt tothe mountain sheep.

It did not seem to matter that Slim had saidhe meant to kill him, anyhow, or that theway in which his malignant eyes hadfollowed his every movement took on newsignificance in the light of what hadhappened. He blamed himself. He shouldhave quit long ago. He should have seenthat Slim’s ill-balanced mind needed only

a trifle to shove it over the edge. It hadnever seemed so still in the cabin evenwhen Slim was gone as it did now.Mechanically he set about getting supper,making as much noise as he could.

But he was unable to eat after it was onthe table before him. He drank his coffeeand stared at the bacon and cold biscuit awhile, then washed the dishes again. Slimseemed to be getting farther and fartheraway.

The storm outside had become a blizzard.Old Mother Westwind took to her heelsand the Boss of the Arctic raged. Itoccurred to Bruce that it would be hard tobury Slim if the ground froze, and thatreminded him that perhaps Slim had“folks” who ought to know.

Bruce filled the stove, and shoved hisbread in the oven; then he pulled Slim’swar bag from under the bunk and dumpedthe contents on the table, hoping with allhis heart that he would not find anaddress. He could not imagine how hisshould find the words in which to tellthem that he had killed Slim.

There were neckties, samples of ore, apair of silk suspenders, and a miner’scandlestick, one silk sock, a weasel skin,a copy of “The Gadfly,” and a box ofquinine pills. No papers, no letters, not asingle clew to his identity. Bruce feltrelief. Wait—what was this? He took thebag by the corners, and a photographer’smailing case fell out. It was addressed toSlim in Silver City, New Mexico, in a

childish, unformed hand.

He took out the picture and found himselfsmiling into the eyes that smiled up intohis. He knew intuitively that it was Slim’ssister, yet the resemblance was thefaintest, and there was not a trace of hismeanness in her look.

He had been right in his conjecture, Slimwas “the runt of something good.” Therewas no mistaking the refinement and goodbreeding in the girl’s sweet face.

Slim had known better, yet nearly alwayshe had talked in the language of theuneducated Westerner, in the jargon ofyeggmen, and the vernacular of theprofessional tramps with whom he hadhoboed over the West—a “gay cat,” as hewas pleased to call himself, when

boasting of the “toughness” of his life. Hehad affected uncleanliness, uncouthness;but in spite of his efforts the glimmer ofthe “something good” of which he was therunt had shown through.

Slim had had specific knowledge of aworld which Bruce knew only by hearsay;and when it had suited his purpose, aswhen Bruce had first met him inMeadows, he had talked correctly, evenbrilliantly, and he had had an undeniablecharm of manner for men and womenalike. But, once well started down theriver, he had thrown off all restraint,ignoring completely the silent code whichexists between partners in the hills.

Such fellows were well named “blacksheep,” Bruce thought, as he looked at the

picture.

A letter had been wrapped around thephotograph, with an address and a dateline twelve years old. The letter read:

DEAR BROTHER: WE HAVE JUST HEARD THAT YOU WEREWORKING IN A MINE DOWN THERE AND SO I THOUGHT I WOULDWRITE AND TELL YOU THAT I HOPE YOU ARE WELL AND MAKE A LOTOF MONEY. I HOPE YOU DO AND COME HOME BECAUSE WEARE AWFUL POOR AND MOTHER SAYS IF I DON’T MARRY WELL SHEDON’T KNOW WHAT WE WILL DO BECAUSE THERE AREMORTGAGES ON EVERYTHING AND WE DON’T KEEP HORSES ANYMORE AND ONLY ONE SERVANT WHICH IS PRETTY HARD FORMOTHER. THE GIRL IS SASSY SOMETIMES BUT MOTHER CAN’T LETHER GO BECAUSE SHE CAN’T PAY HER YET. PLEASE, FREDDIE,COME HOME AND HELP US. EVERYTHING DREADFUL HASHAPPENED TO US SINCE FATHER DIED. MOTHER WILL FORGIVE YOUFOR BEING BAD AND SO DO I ALTHOUGH IT WAS NOT NICE TO SEEOUR NAMES AND PICTURES IN THE PAPERS ALL THE TIME. WRITETO ME, FREDDIE, AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS. YOUR LOVINGsister,

HELEN.

P. S.—I AM THIRTEEN TO-DAY AND THIS IS MY PICTURE. I WISHI COULD GO WEST TOO, BUT DON’T MENTION THIS WHEN YOUwrite.

Bruce wondered if Slim had answered.He would wager his buckskin bag of dustthat he had not. The marvel was that hehad even kept the letter. He looked againat the date line—twelve years—themortgages had long since been foreclosed,if it had depended upon Slim to pay them—and she was twenty-five. He wonderedif she’d “married well.”

Slim was a failure; he stood for nothing inthe world of achievement; for all thedifference that his going made, he mightnever have been born. Then a thought asstartling as the tangible appearance ofsome ironic, grinning imp flashed to his

mind. Who was he, Bruce Burt, tocriticise his partner, Slim? What more hadhe accomplished? How much moredifference would his own death make inanybody’s life? His mother’s laboredwords came back with painfuldistinctness: “I’ve had such hopes for you,my little boy. I’ve dreamed such dreamsfor you—I wanted to see them all cometrue.” An inarticulate sound came fromhim that was both pain and self-disgust.He was close to twenty-eight—almostthirty—and he’d spent the precious years“just bumming round.” Nothing to showfor them but a little gold dust and theclothes he wore. He wondered if hismother knew.

Her wedding ring was still in a faded

velvet case that he kept among histreasures. He never had seen a womanwho had suggested ever so faintly thethought that he should like to place it onher finger. There had been women, of akind—“Peroxide Louise,” in Meadows,with her bovine coquetry and loud-mouthed vivacity, yapping scandal up anddown the town, the transplanted product ofa city’s slums, not even loyal to the manwho had tried to raise her to his level.

Bruce never had considered marrying; thethought of it for himself always made himsmile. But why couldn’t he—the thoughtnow came gradually, and grew—whyshouldn’t he assume the responsibilitiesSlim shirked if conditions were the sameand help was still needed? In expiation,

perhaps, he could halfway make amends.

He’d write and mail the letter in Ore Cityas soon as he could snowshoe out. He’dexpress them half the dust and tell themthat ’twas Slim’s. He’d——“OO—oo—ough!” he shivered—he’d forgotten tostoke the fire. Oh, well, a soogan woulddo him well enough.

He pulled a quilt from under Slim andwrapped it about his own shoulders. Thenhe sat down again by the fireless stoveand laid his head on his folded arms uponthe rough pine table. The still body on thebunk grew stark while he slept, the swift-running river froze from shore to shore,the snow piled in drifts, obliterating trailsand blocking passes, weighting the pinesto the breaking point, while the intense

cold struck the chill of death into the ballsof feathers huddled for shelter under theflat branches of the spruces.

V

“The Jack-Pot”

As Uncle Bill Griswold came breathlessfrom the raging whiteness outside with anarmful of bark and wood, the two longicicles hanging from the ends of hismustache made him look like anindustrious walrus. He drew the fuel

beside the tiny, sheet-iron camp stove, andtied fast the flap of the canvas tent.

“We’re in a jack-pot, all right.”

He delivered the commonplacepronunciamento in a tone which wouldhave conveyed much to a mountain man.To Mr. Sprudell it meant only that hemight expect further annoyance. Hedemanded querulously:

“Did you find my shirt?”

Uncle Bill rolled his eyes with a drollgrimace of despair toward the mound ofblankets in the corner whence came themuffled voice. The innocence of a dudewas almost pitiful. He answered dryly:

“I wouldn’t swear to it—I wouldn’t go sofar as to make my affadavvy to it, but I

think I seen your shirt wavin’ from a p’inta rock about seventy mile to the south’ard—over t’ward the Thunder Mountaincountry.”

“Gone?”

“Gone”—mournfully—“where thewoodbine twineth.”

“And my trousers?”

“Where the wangdoodle mourneth fer hislost love. Blowed off. I got your union suitout’n the top of a pine tree. You’ve nomore pants than a rabbit, feller.Everything went when the guy-ropesbusted—I warned you to sleep in yourclothes.”

“But what’ll I do?” Sprudell quavered.

“Nothin’.” His tone was as dry as punk.“You kin jest as well die in them pinkpajammers as anything else.”

“Huh?” excitedly. The mound began toheave.

“I say we’re in for it. There’s a feel in theair like what the Injuns call ‘The WhiteDeath.’ It hurt my lungs like I wasbreathin’ darnin’ needles when I cut thiswood. The drifts is ten feet high and gittin’higher.” Laconically: “The horses havequit us; we’re afoot.”

“Is that so? Well, we’ve got to get out ofhere—I refuse to put in another such night.Lie still!” he commanded ferociously.“You’re letting in a lot of cold air. Quitrampin’ round!” From which it may begathered that Mr. Sprudell, for purposes

of warmth and protection, was sleepingwith the Chinese cook.

“Three in a bed is crowded,” Uncle Billadmitted, with a grin. “To-night you mighttry settin’ up.”

A head of tousled white hair appearedabove the edge of the blankets, then a pairof gleaming eyes. “I propose to get out ofhere to-day,” Mr. Sprudell announced,with hauteur.

“Indeed?” inquired Uncle Bill calmly.“Where do you aim to go?”

“I’m going back to Ore City—on foot, ifneed be—I’ll walk!”

Uncle Bill explained patiently:

“The trail’s wiped out, the pass is drifted

full of snow, and the cold’s a fright.You’d be lost inside of fifteen yards.That’s loco talk.”

“I’m going to get up.” There was offendeddignity in Mr. Sprudell’s tone.

“You can’t,” said the old man shortly.“You ain’t got no pants, and your shoes isfull of snow. I doubts if you has socks tillI takes a stick and digs around where yourtepee was.”

“Tsch! Tsch!” Mr. Sprudell’s tongueclicked against his teeth in the extreme ofexasperation at Uncle Bill. By someprocess of reasoning he blamed him fortheir present plight.

“I’m hungry!” he snapped, in a voicewhich implied that the fact was a matter of

moment.

“So am I,” said Uncle Bill; “I’m holler tomy toes.”

“I presume”—in cold sarcasm—“there’sno reason why we shouldn’t breakfast,since it’s after ten.”

“None at all,” Uncle Bill answered easily,“except we’re out of grub.”

“What!”

“I explained that to you four days ago, butyou said you’d got to get a sheep. I thoughtI could eat snowballs as long as youcould. But I didn’t look for such a stormas this.”

“There’s nothing?” demanded Sprudell,aghast.

“Oh, yes, there’s somethin’,” grimly. “Ikin take the ax and break up a couple ofthem doughnuts and bile the coffeegrounds again. To-night we’ll gorgeourselves on a can of froze tomatoes,though I hates to eat so hearty and go rightto bed. There’s a pint of beans, too, thatby cookin’ steady in this altitude ought tobe done by spring. We’d ’a’ had thatsheep meat, only it blowed out of the treelast night and somethin’ drug it off. Here’syour doughnut.”

Mr. Sprudell snatched eagerly at it andretired under the covers, where a loudscrunching told of his efforts to masticatethe frozen tidbit.

“Can you eat a little somethin’, Toy? Isyour rheumatiz a-hurtin’ pretty bad?”

“Hiyu lumatiz,” a faint voice answered,“plitty bad.”

The look of gravity on the man’s facedeepened as he stood rubbing his handsover the red-hot stove, which gave outlittle or no heat in the intense cold.

The long hours of that day draggedsomehow, and the next. When the third daydawned, the tent was buried nearly to theridgepole under snow. Outside, the stormwas roaring with unabated fury, and UncleBill’s emergency supply of wood wasalmost gone. He crept from under theblankets and boiled some water, making afew tasteless pancakes with a teacupful offlour.

Sprudell sat up suddenly and said, withsavage energy:

“Look here—I’ll give you a thousanddollars to get me out of this!”

Uncle Bill looked at him curiously. Athousand dollars! Wasn’t that like a dude?Dudes thought money could do anything,buy anything.

Uncle Bill would rather have had a sackof flour just then than all the moneySprudell owned.

“Your check’s no more good than a bunchof dried leaves. It’s endurance that’scountin’ from now on. We’re up against itright, I tell you, with Toy down sick andall.”

Sprudell stared.

“Toy?” Was that why Griswold would notleave? “What’s Toy got to do with it?” he

demanded.

It was the old man’s turn to stare.

“What’s Toy got to do with it?” He lookedintently at Sprudell’s small round eyes—hard as agate—at his selfish, Cupid’smouth. “You don’t think I’d quit him, doyou, when he’s sick—leave him here todie alone?” Griswold flopped a pancakein the skillet and added, in a somewhatmilder voice: “I’ve no special love forChinks, but I’ve known Toy since ’79. Hewouldn’t pull out and leave me if I wasdown.”

“But what about me?” Sprudell demandedfuriously.

“You’ll have to take your chances alongwith us. It may let up in a day or two, and

then again it mayn’t. Anyway, the gamegoes; we stop eatin’ altogether before to-morry night.”

“You got me into this fix! And what am Ipaying you five dollars a day for, exceptto get me out and do as you are told?”

“I got you into this fix? I did?” The stovelids danced with the vigor with whichUncle Bill banged down the frying pan.The mild old man was stirred at last. “Isure like your nerve! And, say, when youtalk to me, jest try and remember that Idon’t wear brass buttons and a uniform.”His blue eyes blazed. “It’s your infernalmeanness that’s to blame, and nothin’ else.I warned you—I told you half a dozentimes that you wasn’t gittin’ grub enoughto come into the hills this time of year. But

you was so afraid of havin’ six bits’ worthleft over that you wouldn’t listen to what Isaid. I don’t like you anyhow. You’re thekind of galoot that ought never to git out ofsight of a railroad. Now, blast you—youstarve!”

Incredible as the sensation was, Sprudellfelt small. He had to remind himselfrepeatedly who he was before he quite gotback his poise, and no suitable retort cameto him, for his guide had told the truth. Butthe thought that blanched his pink faceuntil it was only a shade less white thanhis thick, white hair was that he, T. VictorSprudell, president of the BartlesvilleTool Works, of Bartlesville, Indiana, wasgoing to starve! To freeze! To die in thepitiless hills like any penniless

prospector! His check-book was asuseless as a bent weapon in his hand, andhis importance in the world counted for nomore than that of the Chinaman, by hisside. Mr. Sprudell lay down again, weakfrom an overwhelming sense ofhelplessness.

Sprudell had not realized it before; butnow he knew that always in the back ofhis head there had been a picture of animposing cortège, blocks long, followinga wreath-covered coffin in which hereposed. And later, an afternoon extra inwhich his demise was featured and hisdelicate, unostentatious charitiesdescribed—not that he could think of any,but he presumed that that was the usualthing.

But this—this miserable finality!Unconsciously Sprudell groaned. To diebravely in the sight of a crowd wassublime; but to perish alone, unnoted, sideby side with the Chinese cook and chieflyfor want of trousers in which to escape,was ignominious. He snatched his coldfeet from the middle of the cook’s back.

Another wretched day passed, the event ofwhich was the uncovering of Sprudell’sfine field boots in a drift outside. Thatnight he did not close his eyes. Hisnervousness became panic, and his paniclike unto hysteria. He ached with cold andhis cramped position, and he was nowgetting in earnest the gnawing pangs ofhunger. What was a Chinaman’s lifecompared to his? There were millions like

him left—and there was only oneSprudell! In the faint, gray light of thefourth day, Griswold felt him crawlingout.

Griswold watched him while he kneadedthe hard leather of his boots to soften it,and listened to the chattering of his teethwhile he went through the Chinaman’s warbag for an extra pair of socks.

“The sizes in them Levi Strauss’ allus runtoo small,” Uncle Bill observed suddenly,after Sprudell had squeezed into Toy’sone pair of overalls.

“There’s no sense in us all staying here tostarve,” said Sprudell defiantly, as thoughhe had been accused. “I’m going to OreCity before I get too weak to start.”

“I won’t stop you if you’re set on goin’;but, as I told you once, you’ll be lost infifteen yards. There’s just one chance Isee, Sprudell, and I’ll take it if you’ll sayyou’ll stay with Toy. I’ll try to get downto that cabin on the river. The feller maybe there, and again he may have gone forgrub. I won’t say that I can make it, but I’lldo my best.”

Sprudell said stubbornly:

“I won’t be left behind! It’s every man forhimself now.”

The old man replied, with equalobstinacy:

“Then you’ll start alone.” He addedgrimly: “I reckon you’ve never walleredsnow neck deep.”

For the first time the Chinaman stirred,and raising himself painfully to his elbow,turned to Uncle Bill.

“You go, I think.”

Griswold shook his head.

“That ‘every-man-for-himself’ talk aintthe law we know, Toy.”

The Chinaman reiterated, in monotone:

“You go, I think.”

“You heard what I said.”

“You take my watch, give him ChinyCharley. He savvy my grandson, the littleSun Loon. Tell Chiny Charley he write thebank in Spokane for send money to Chinyto pay on lice lanch. Tell Chiny Charley—he savvy all. I stay here. You come back

—all light. You no come back—all light. Ino care. You go now.” He lay down. Thematter was quite settled in Toy’s mind.

While Sprudell stamped around trying toget feeling into his numb feet and makinghis preparations to leave, Uncle Bill laystill. He knew that Toy was sincere inurging him to go, and finally he said:

“I’ll take you at your word, Toy; I’ll makethe break. If there’s nobody in the cabin, Idon’t believe I’ll have the strength towaller back alone; but if there is, we’llget some grub together and come as soonas we can start. I’ll do my best.”

The glimmer of a smile lighted old Toy’sbroad, Mongolian face when Griswoldwas ready to go, and he laid his chiefesttreasure in Griswold’s hand.

“For the little Sun Loon.” His oblique,black eyes softened with affectionatepride. “Plitty fine kid, Bill, hiyu wawa.”

“For the little Sun Loon,” repeated UncleBill gravely. “And hang on as long as youcan.” Then he shook hands with Toy anddivided the matches.

The old Chinaman turned his face to thewall of the tent and lay quite still as thetwo went out and tied the flap securelybehind them.

It did not take Sprudell long to realize thatUncle Bill was correct in his assertionthat he would have been lost alone infifteen yards. He would have been lost inless than that, or as soon as the full forceof the howling storm had struck him andthe wind-driven snow shut out the tent. He

had not gone far before he wished that hehad done as Uncle Bill had told him andwrapped his feet in “Californy socks.”The strips of gunny sacking which he hadrefused because they looked bunglesomehe could see now were an immenseprotection against cold and wet. Sprudellalmost admitted, as he felt the dampnessbeginning to penetrate his waterproof fieldboots, that there might still be some thingshe could learn.

He gasped like a person taking a long,hard dive into icy water when theyplunged into the swirling world whichshut out the tent they had called home. Andthe wind that took his breath had acurious, piercing quality that hurt, asUncle Bill had said, like breathing darning

needles. “The White Death!” Literally itwas that. Panting and quickly exhausted,as he “wallered snow to his neck,” T.Victor Sprudell began seriously to doubtif he could make it.

“Aire you comin’?” There was nosympathy, only impatience, in the callwhich kept coming back with increasingfrequency, and Sprudell was longingmightily for sympathy. He had a quaintconceit concerning his toes, not being ableto rid himself of the notion that when heremoved his socks they would rattle in theends like bits of broken glass; and soon hewas so cold that he felt a mild wonder asto how his heart could go on pumpingcongealed blood through the auricles andventricles. It had annoyed him at first

when chunks of snow dropped fromoverhanging branches and lodged betweenhis neck and collar, to trickle down hisspine; but shortly he ceased to notice sosmall a matter. In the start, when he hadinadvertently slipped off a buried log andfound himself entangled in a network ofdown timber, he had struggled franticallyto get out, but now he experienced noteven a glimmer of surprise when hestepped off the edge of something intonothing. He merely floundered like afallen stage horse to get back, withoutexcitement or any sense of irritation. Afterthree exhausting hours or so of fightingsnow, his frenzy lest he lose sight of UncleBill gave place to apathy. When he fell, heeven lay there—resting.

Generally he responded to Griswold’scall; if the effort was too great, he did notanswer, knowing the old man would comeback. That he came back swearing madeno difference, so long as he came back.He had learned that Griswold would notleave him.

When he stumbled into a drift and settledback in the snow, it felt exactly like hisfavorite leather chair by the fire-place inthe Bartlesville Commercial Club. He hadthe same cozy sensation of contentment.He could almost feel the crackling firewarming his knees and shins, and itrequired no great stretch of theimagination to believe that by simplyextending his hand he could grasp a glassof whisky and seltzer on the wide arm-

rest.

“What’s the matter? Aire you downag’in?”

How different the suave deference of hisfriends Abe Cone and Y. Fred Smart tothe rude tone and manner of this irascibleguide! Mr. Sprudell fancied that by way ofreply he smiled a tolerant smile, but as amatter of fact the expression of his white,set face did not change.

“Great cats! Have I got to go back and gitthat dude?” The intervening feet lookedlike miles to the tired old man.

Wiry and seasoned as he was, he wasnearly exhausted by the extra steps he hadtaken and the effort he had put forth tocoax and bully, somehow to drag Sprudell

along. The situation was desperate. Thebitter cold grew worse as night came on.He knew that they had worked their waydown toward the river, but how far down?Was the deep cañon he had tried to followthe right one? Somewhere he had lost the“squaw ax,” and dry wood wasinaccessible under snow. If it were not forSprudell, he knew that he could still plodon.

His deep breath of exhaustion was a groanas he floundered back and shook the inertfigure with all his might.

“Git up!” he shouted. “You must keepmovin’! Do you want to lay right downand die?”

“Lemme be!” The words came thickly,and Sprudell did not lift his eyes.

“He’s goin’ to freeze on me sure!” UncleBill tried to lift him, to carry him, to draghim somehow—a dead weight—fartherdown the cañon.

It was hopeless. He let him fall andyelled. Again and again he yelled into theempty world about him. Not so much thathe expected an answer as to give vent tohis despair. There was not a chance in amillion that the miner in the cabin wouldhear him, even if he were there. But hekept on yelling, whooping, yodling withall his might.

His heart leaped, and he stopped in themidst of a breath. He listened, with hismouth wide open. Surely he heard ananswering cry! Faint it was—far off—asthough it came through thicknesses of

blankets—but it was a cry! A humanvoice!

“Hello! Hello!”

He was not mistaken. From somewhere inthe white world of desolation, the answercame again:

“Hello! Hello!”

Uncle Bill was not much given toreligious allusions except as a matter ofemphasis, but he told himself that that far-off cry of reassurance sounded like thevoice of God.

“Help!” he called desperately, sunk to hisarmpits in the snow. “Help! Come quick!”

Night was so near that it had just aboutclosed down when Bruce came fighting

his way up the cañon through the drifts toGriswold’s side. They wasted no time inwords, but between them dragged andcarried the unresisting sportsman to thecabin.

The lethargy which had been so nearlyfatal was without sensation, but after anhour or so of work his saviors had thesatisfaction of hearing him begin to groanwith the pain of returning circulation.

“Git up and stomp around!” Uncle Billadvised, when Sprudell could stand.“But,” sharply, as he stumbled, “lookwhere you’re goin’—that’s a corp’ overthere.”

The admonition revived Sprudell asapplications of snow and ice water hadnot done. He looked in wide-mouthed

inquiry at Bruce.

Bruce’s somber eyes darkened as heexplained briefly:

“We had a fuss, and he went crazy. Hetried to get me with the ax.”

There was no need to warn Sprudell againto “look where he was goin’,” as heexisted from that moment with his gazealternating between the gruesome bundleand the gloomy face of his black-browedhost. Incredulity and suspicion shoneplainly in his eyes. Sprudell’s imaginationwas a winged thing, and now it spread itsstartled pinions. Penned up with amurderer—what a tale to tell inBartlesville, if by chance he returnedalive! The fellow had him at his mercy,and what, after all, did he know of Uncle

Bill? Even fairly honest men sometimestook desperate chances for so fat a purseas his.

Sprudell saw to it that neither of them gotbehind him as they moved about the room.

Casting surreptitious glances at thebookshelf, where he looked to see the lifeof Jesse James, he was astonished andsomewhat reassured to discover a titlelike “Fossil Fishes of the Old RedSandstone of the British Isles.” It wasunlikely, he reasoned, that a man whovoluntarily read, for instance,“Contributions to the Natural History ofthe United States,” would split his skullwhen his back was turned. Yet theysmacked of affectation to Sprudell, whoassociated good reading with good

clothes.

“These are your books—you read them?”There was skepticism, a covert sneer inSprudell’s tone.

“I’d hardly pack them into a place like thisif I didn’t,” Bruce answered curtly.

“I suppose not,” he hastened to admit, andadded, patronizingly; “Who is this fellowAgassiz?”

Bruce turned as sharply as if he hadattacked a personal friend. The famous,many-sided scientist was his hero,occupying a pedestal that no othercelebrity approached. Sprudell hadtouched him on a tender spot.

“That ‘fellow Agassiz,’” he answered incold mimicry, “was one of the greatest

men who ever lived. Where do you stopwhen you’re home that you never heard ofAlexander Agassiz? I’d rather have beenAlexander Agassiz than the richest man inAmerica—than any king. He was a greatscientist, a great mining engineer, asuccessful business man. He developedand put the Calumet and Hecla on a payingbasis. He made the University Museum inCambridge what it is. He knew moreabout sea urchins and coral reefs than menwho specialize, and they were only sideissues with him. I met him once when Iwas a kid, in Old Mexico; he talked to mea little, and it was the honor of my life. I’drather walk behind and pack his suitcaselike a porter than ride with the presidentof the road!”

“Is that so?” Sprudell murmured,temporarily abashed.

“Great cats!” ejaculated Uncle Bill, withbulging eyes. “My head would git a hot-box if I knowed jest half of that.”

When Sprudell stretched his stiff musclesand turned his head upon the bear-grasspillow at daybreak, Bruce was writing aletter on the corner of the table and UncleBill was stowing away provisions in asmall canvas sack. He gathered, from thesigns of preparation, that the miner wasgoing to try and find the Chinaman.Outside, the wind was still sweeping thestinging snow before it like powder-driven shot. What a fool he was to attemptit—to risk his life—and for what?

It was with immeasurable satisfaction that

Sprudell told himself that but for hisinitiative they would have been there yet.These fellows needed a leader, a strongman—the ignorant always did. His eyescaught the suggestive outlines of theblanket on the floor, and, with a start, heremembered what was under it. They hadno sensibilities, these Westerners—theylacked fineness; certainly no one wouldsuspect from the matter-of-factness oftheir manner that they were rooming witha corpse. For himself, he doubted if hecould even eat.

“Oh, you awake?” Uncle Bill glanced athim casually.

“My feet hurt.”

Uncle Bill ignored his plaintive tone.

“They’re good and froze. They’ll itch likeforty thousand fleabites atter while—likeas not you’ll haf to have them took off. Laystill and don’t clutter up the cabin till Burtgits gone. I’ll cook you somethin’bimeby.”

Sprudell writhed under the indifferentfamiliarity of his tone. He wished oldGriswold had a wife and ten smallchildren and was on the pay roll of theBartlesville Tool Works some hardwinter. He’d——Sprudell’s resentmentfound an outlet in devising a variety ofsituations conducive to the disciplining ofUncle Bill.

Bruce finished his letter and re-read it,revising a little here and there. He lookedat Sprudell while he folded it reflectively,

as though he were weighing something proand con.

Sprudell was conscious that he was beingmeasured, and, egotist though he was, hewas equally aware that Bruce’sobservations still left him in some doubt.

Bruce walked to the window undecidedly,and then seemed finally to make up hismind.

“I’m going to ask you to do me a favor,stranger, but only in case I don’t comeback. I intend to, but”—he glancedinstinctively out of the window—“it’s nosure thing I will.

“My partner has a mother and a sister—here’s the address, though it’s twelveyears old. If anything happens to me, I

want you to promise that you’ll hunt themup. Give them this old letter and thepicture and this letter, here, of mine. Thisis half the gold dust—our season’s work.”He placed a heavy canvas sample sack inSprudell’s hand. “Say that Slim sent it;that although they might not think itbecause he did not write, that just thesame he thought an awful lot of them.

“I’ve told them in my letter about theplacer here—it’s theirs, the whole of it, ifI don’t come back. See that it’s recorded;women don’t understand about suchthings. And be sure the assessment work’skept up. In the letter, there, I’ve giventhem my figures as to how the samplesrun. Some day there’ll be found a way towork it on a big scale, and it’ll pay them

to hold on. That’s all, I guess.” He lookeddeep into Sprudell’s eyes. “You’ll do it?”

“As soon as I get out.”

“I’d just about come back and haunt you ifyou lied.”

There were no heroics when he left them;he simply fastened on his pack and went.

“Don’t try to hunt me if I stay too long,”was all he said to Uncle Bill at parting. “Ifthere’s any way of getting there, I canmake it just as well alone.”

It was disappointing to Sprudell—nothinglike the Western plays at tragic moments;no long handshakes and heart-breakingspeeches of farewell from the “roughdiamonds.”

“S’ long,” said Uncle Bill.

He polished a place on the window-panewith his elbow and watched Burt’sstruggle with the cold and wind and snowbegin.

“Pure grit, that feller,” when, working likea snowplow, Bruce had disappeared.“He’s man all through.” The old voicetrembled. “Say!” He turned ferociously.“Git up and eat!”

Uncle Bill grew older, grayer, grimmer inthe days of waiting, days which he spentprincipally moving between window anddoor, watching, listening, saying tohimself monotonously: It can’t stormforever; some time it’s got to stop.

But in this he seemed mistaken, for the

snow fell with only brief cessation, and insuch intervals the curious fog hung overthe silent mountains with the malignantpersistency of an evil spirit.

He scraped the snow away from besidethe cabin, and Sprudell helped him burySlim. Then, against the day of their going,he fashioned crude snow-shoes ofmaterial he found about the cabin and builta rough hand sled.

“If only ’twould thaw a little, and come acrust, he’d stand a whole lot better showof gittin’ down.” Uncle Bill scanned thesky regularly for a break somewhere eachnoon.

“Lord, yes, if it only would!” Sprudellalways answered fretfully. “There arebusiness reasons why I ought to be at

home.”

The day came when the old mancalculated that even with the utmosteconomy Bruce must have been two dayswithout food. He looked pinched andshrivelled as he stared vacantly at themouth of the cañon into which Bruce haddisappeared.

“He might kill somethin’, if ’twould lift alittle, but there’s nothin’ stirrin’ in such astorm as this. I feel like a murderer settin’here.”

Sprudell watched him fearfully lest theirresolution he read in his face change toresolve, and urged:

“There’s nothing we can do but wait.”

Days after the most sanguine would have

abandoned hope, Uncle Bill hung on.Sprudell paced the cabin like a captivepanther, and his broad hints becamedemands.

“A month of this, and there would beanother killin’; I aches to choke thewindpipe off that dude,” the old man toldhimself, and ignored the peremptorycommands.

The crust that he prayed for came at last,but no sign of Bruce; then a gale blowingdown the river swept it fairly clear ofsnow.

“Git ready!” Griswold said one morning.“We’ll start.” And Sprudell jumped on hisfrosted feet for joy. “We’ll take it on theice to Long’s Crossin’,” he vouchsafedshortly. “Ore City’s closest, but I’ve no

heart to pack you up that hill.”

He left a note on the kitchen table, thoughhe had the sensation of writing to the dead;and when he closed the door he did soreverently, as he would have left amausoleum. Then, dragging blankets andprovision behind them on the sled, theystarted for the river, past the broken snowand the shallow grave where the deadmadman lay, past the clump of snow-ladenwillows where the starving horses thathad worked their way down huddled forshelter, too weak to move. Leaden-hearted, Uncle Bill went with reluctantfeet. Before a bend of the river shut fromsight the white-roofed cabin from which atiny thread of smoke still rose, he lookedover his shoulder, wagging his head.

“I don’t feel right about goin’. I shorelydon’t.”

VI

The Returned Hero

It is said that no two persons see anotherin exactly the same light. Be that as it may,it is extremely doubtful if Uncle BillGriswold would have immediatelyrecognized in the debonair raconteur whoheld a circle breathless in the BartlesvilleCommercial Club the saffron-colored,

wild-eyed dude whom he had fished offthe slide rock with a pair of “galluses”attached to a stout pole.

The account of Sprudell’s adventure hadleaked out and even gotten into print, but itwas not until some time after that hisspecial cronies succeeded in getting thestory from his own lips.

There was not a dry eye when he wasdone. That touch about thinking of themand the Yawning Jaws, and grapplinghand to hand with The White Death—why,the man was a poet, no matter what hisenemies said; and, as though to prove it,Abe Cone sniffled so everybody looked athim.

“We’re proud of you! But you musn’t takesuch a chance again, old man.”

A chorus echoed Y. Fred Smart’s friendlyprotest. “’Tain’t right to temptProvidence.”

But Sprudell laughed lightly, and theyregarded him in admiration—danger wasthe breath of life to some.

But this reckless, peril-courting side wasonly one side of the many-sided T. VictorSprudell. From nine in the morning untilfour in the afternoon, he was the man ofbusiness, occupied with facts and figuresand the ever-interesting problem of how toextract the maximum of labor for theminimum of wage. That “there is nosentiment in business” is a doctrine hepractised to the letter. He was hard,uncompromising, exact.

Rather than the gratifying cortège which he

pictured in his dreams, a hansom cab or amotorcycle could quite easily haveconveyed all the sorrowing employees ofthe Bartlesville Tool Works whovoluntarily would have followed itspresident to his grave.

But when Sprudell closed his office door,he locked this adamantine, quibbling,frankly penurious, tyrannical man ofbusiness inside, and the chameleon doesnot change its color with greater ease thanSprudell took on another and distinctpersonality. On the instant he became the“good fellow,” his pink face and beamingeyes radiating affability, conviviality, anall-embracing fondness for mankind, alsoa susceptible Don Juan keenly on the alertfor adventure of a sentimental nature.

In appearance, too, he was a credit to theBartlesville Commercial Club, when, withhis pink face glowing above a glimpse ofcrimson neck scarf, dressed in pearl-grayspats, gray topcoat, gray business clothesindistinctly barred with black, and suèdegloves of London smoke, he bounded upthe clubhouse steps with the elasticity ofwell-preserved fifty, lightly swinging aslender stick. His jauntily-placed hat wasa trifle, a mere suspicion, too small, andalways he wore a dewy boutonnière ofviolets, while his thick, gray hair had aslight part behind which it pleased him tothink gave the touch of distinction andoriginality he coveted.

This was the lighter side of T. VictorSprudell. The side of himself which he

took most seriously was his intellectualside. When he was the scholar, thescientist, the philosopher, he demandedand received the strictest attention andconsideration from his immediate coterieof friends. So long as he was merely lebon diable, the jovial clubman, it wassafe to banter and even to contradict him;but when the conversation drifted into thehigher realms of thought, it was tacitlyunderstood that the privileges offriendship were revoked. At suchmoments it was as though the oracle ofDelphi spoke.

This ambition to shine as a man oflearning was the natural outcome of hisdisproportionate vanity, his abnormalegotism, his craving for prominence and

power. Sprudell was a man who had hadmeager youthful advantages, but throughlife he had observed the tremendousimpression which scholarly attainmentsmade upon the superficially educated—which they made upon him.

So he set about acquiring knowledge.

He dabbled in the languages, and a fewuseful words and phrases stuck. Heplunged into the sciences, and arose fromthe immersion dripping with a smatteringof astronomy, chemistry, biology,archæology, and what not. The occult wasto him an open book, and he was wonttemporarily to paralyze the small talk ofsocial gatherings with dissertations uponthe teachings of the ancients which he hadswallowed at a gulp. He criticised the

schools of modern painting in impressiveart terms, while he himself dashed offhalf-column poems at a sitting for theCourier, in which he had acquiredcontrolling stock.

In other words, by a certain amount ofindustry, T. Victor Sprudell had become awalking encyclopædia of misinformationwith small danger of being found out solong as he stayed in Bartlesville.

Certainly Abe Cone—born Cohen—whohad made his “barrel” in ready-madeclothing, felt in no position to contradicthim when he stated his belief in the theoryof transmigration as expounded byPythagoras, and expressed the opinion thatby chance the soul of Cleopatra might beoccupying the graceful body of the club

cat. Abe was not acquainted with thedoctrine of Pythagoras, though he hadheard somewhere that the lady was ahuzzy; so he discreetly kept his mouthclosed and avoided the cat. IntellectuallySprudell’s other associates were of Abe’scaliber, so he shone among them, the onebright, particular star—too vain, toofundamentally deficient to know how littlehe really knew.

Nevertheless he was the most thoroughlydetested, the most hated man inBartlesville. And those who hated fearedhim as they hated and feared theincendiary, the creeping thief, the midnightassassin; for he used their methods toattain his ends, along with a despot’spower.

No man or woman who pricked his vanity,who incurred his displeasure, was safefrom his vengeance. No person whowounded his self-esteem was too obscureto escape his vindictive malice, and nomeans that he could employ, providing itwas legally safe, was too unscrupulous,too petty, to use to punish the offender.Hounding somebody was his recreation,his one extravagance. He exhumed theburied pasts of political candidates whohad crossed him; he rattled familyskeletons in revenge for social slights; hepublished musty prison records, and overnight blasted reputations which had beenyears in the building. His enmity costsalaried men positions through pressurewhich sooner or later he always found theway to bring to bear, and even mere

“day’s jobs” were not beneath his notice.Yet his triumphs cost him dear. Merrygroups had a way of dissolving at hiscoming. He read dislike in many ahostess’s eye, and, save for the smallcoterie of inferior satellites, Sprudell inhis own club was as lonely as a leper. Butso strong was this dominating trait that hepreferred the sweetness of revenge to anytie of fellowship or hope of popularity.The ivy of friendship did not grow forhim.

By a secret ballot, Sprudell in his owntown could not have been elected dog-catcher, yet his money and his newspapermade him dangerous and a power.

When he regaled his fellow members withthe dramatic story of his sufferings, he

said nothing of Bruce Burt. Bruce Burtwas dead, of that he had not the faintestdoubt. He intended to keep the promise hehad made to hunt the Naudain fellow’srelatives, but for the present he felt that hisfrosted feet were paramount.

VII

Sprudell Goes East

With an air of being late for manyimportant engagements, T. Victor Sprudellbustled into the Hotel Strathmore in the

Eastern city that had been Slim’s homeand inscribed his artistic signature uponthe register; and as a consequence Peters,city editor of the Evening Dispatch, whileglancing casually over the proofs that hadjust come from the composing room, somehours later, paused at the name of T.Victor Sprudell, Bartlesville, Indiana,among the list of hotel arrivals.

Mr. Peters shoved back his green shade,closed one eye, and with the other staredfixedly at the ceiling. One of the chiefreasons why he occupied the particularchair in which he sat was because he hada memory like an Edison record, and nowhe asked himself where and in whatconnection he had seen this name in printbefore.

Who was this Sprudell? What had hedone? Had he run away with somebody,embezzled, explored—explored, that wasmore like it! Ah, now he remembered—Sprudell was a hero. Two “sticks” in theAssociated Press had informed the worldhow nobly he had saved somebody fromsomething.

Peters scanned the city room. The brightyoung cub who leaps to fame in a singlestory was not present. The city editor hadno hallucinations regarding such membersof his staff as he saw at leisure, butthought again, as he had often thoughtbefore, that the world had lost some goodplumbers and gasfitters when they turnedto newspaper work. He said abruptly tothe office boy:

“Tell Miss Dunbar to come here.”

In a general way, Mr. Peters did notapprove of women in journalism, but hedid disapprove very particularly ofmaking any distinction between the sexesin the office. Yet frequently he foundhimself gripping the chair arm to preventhimself from rising when she entered; andin his secret soul he knew that he lookedout of the window to note the weatherbefore giving her an out-of-townassignment. When she came into the cityroom now he conquered this annoyingimpulse of politeness by not immediatelylooking up.

“You sent for me?”

“Go up to the hotel and see this man” (heunderscored the name and handed her the

proof); “there might be a story in him. Hesaved somebody’s life out West—hisguide’s, as I recall it. Noble-hero story—brave tenderfoot rescuing seasonedWesterner—reversal of the usual picture.Might use his photograph.”

“I’ll try,” as she took the slip. It wascharacteristic of her not to ask questions,which was one of the several reasons whythe city editor approved of her.

“In that event I know we can count on it.”Mr. Peters waited expectantly and was notdisappointed.

She was walking away but turned her headand looked back at him over her shoulder.The sudden, sparkling smile changed herface like some wizard’s magic from thatof a sober young woman very much in

earnest to a laughing, rather mischievouslooking little girl of ten or twelve.

There are a few women who even atmiddle-age have moments when it seemsas though the inexorable hand of Timewere forced back to childhood by theyouthfulness of their spirit. For a minute,or perhaps a second merely, the observerreceives a vivid impression of them asthey looked before the anxieties andsorrows which come with living had lefttheir imprint.

Helen Dunbar had this trick of expressionto a marked degree and for a fleetingsecond she always looked like a little girlin shoe-top frocks and pigtails. Mr. Petershad noticed it often, and as a student ofphysiognomy he had found the

transformation so fascinating that he hadnot only watched for it but sometimesendeavored to provoke it. He alsoreflected now as he looked after her, thather appearance was a credit to the sheet—a comment he was not always able tomake upon the transitory ladies of hisstaff.

The unconscious object of thenewspaper’s attention was seated at adesk in the sitting-room of his suite in theHotel Strathmore, alternately frowningand smiling in the effort of composition.

Mr. Sprudell had a jaunty, colloquial stylewhen he stooped to prose.

“Easy of access, pay dirt from the grassroots, and a cinch to save,” he waswriting, when a knock upon the door

interrupted him.

“Come in!” He scowled at the uniformedintruder.

“A card, sir.” It was Miss Dunbar’s, ofthe Evening Dispatch.

“What the dickens!” Mr. Sprudell lookedpuzzled. “Ah yes, of course!” For asecond, an instant merely, Mr. Sprudellhad quite forgotten that he was a hero.

“These people will find you out.” His tonewas bored. “Tell her I’ll be downpresently.”

When the door closed, he walked to theglass.

He twitched at his crimson neck scarf andwhisked his pearl-gray spats; he made a

pass or two with his military brushes athis cherished part, and took his violetsfrom a glass of water to squeeze them dryon a towel. While he adjusted hisboutonnière, he gazed at his smiling imageand twisted his neck to look for wrinklesin his coat. “T. Victor Sprudell, WealthySportsman and Hero, Reluctantly Consentsto Be Interviewed” was a headline whichoccurred to him as he went down in theelevator.

The girl from the Dispatch awaited him inthe parlor. Mr. Sprudell’s genialcountenance glowed as he advanced withoutstretched hand.

Miss Dunbar noted that the hand waswarm and soft and chubby; nor was thisdapper, middle-aged beau exactly the man

she had pictured as the hero of a thrillingrescue. He looked too self-satisfied andfat.

“Now what can I do for you, my dearyoung lady?” Mr. Sprudell drew up achair with amiable alacrity.

“We have heard of you, you know,” shebegan smilingly.

“Oh, really!” Mr. Sprudell lifted oneastonished brow. “I cannot imagine——”He was thinking that Miss Dunbar hadremarkably good teeth.

“And we want you to tell us something ofyour adventure in the West.”

“Which one?”

“Er—the last one.”

“Oh, that little affair of the blizzard?” Mr.Sprudell laughed inconsequently. “Tut, tut!There’s really nothing to tell.”

“We know better than that.” She looked athim archly.

It was then he discovered that she hadespecially fine eyes.

“I couldn’t have done less than I did,under the circumstances.” Mr. Sprudellclosed a hand and regarded the polishednails modestly. “But—er—frankly, Iwould rather not talk for publication.”

“People who have actually donesomething worth telling will never talk,”declared Miss Dunbar, in mock despair,“while those——”

“But you can understand,” interrupted Mr.

Sprudell, with a gesture of depreciation,“how a man feels to seem to”—he all butachieved a blush—“to toot his own horn.”

“I can understand your reluctanceperfectly” Miss Dunbar admittedsympathetically, and it was then henoticed how low and pleasant her voicewas. She felt that she did understandperfectly—she had a notion that nothingshort of total paralysis of the vocal cordswould stop him after he had gone throughthe “modest hero’s” usual preamble.

“But,” she urged, “there is so much crimeand cowardice, so many dreadful things,printed, that I think stories of self-sacrifice and brave deeds like yoursshould be given the widest publicity—akind of antidote—you know what I

mean?”

“Exactly,” Mr. Sprudell acquiescedeagerly. “Moral effect upon the youth ofthe land. Establishes standards of conduct,raises high ideals in the mind of thereader. Of course, looking at it from thatpoint of view——” Obviously Mr.Sprudell was weakening.

“That’s the view you must take of it,”insisted Miss Dunbar sweetly.

Mr. Sprudell regarded his toe. Charmingas she was, he wondered if she could dothe interview—him—justice. A hint of hisinteresting personality would make aneffective preface, he thought, and a shortsketch of his childhood culminating in hissuccessful business career.

“Out there in the silences, where the peakspierce the blue——” began Mr. Sprudelldreamily.

“Where?” Miss Dunbar felt for a pencil.

“Er—Bitter Root Mountains.” Thebusiness-like question and tonedisconcerted him slightly.

Mr. Sprudell backed up and started again:

“Out there in the silence, where the peakspierce the blue, we pitched our tents in thewilderness—in the forest primeval. Wepillowed our heads upon nature’s heart,and lay at night watching the cold starsshivering in their firmament.” That wasgood! Mr. Sprudell wondered if it wasoriginal or had he read it somewhere? “Byday, like primordial man, we crept around

beetling crags and scaled inaccessiblepeaks in pursuit of the wild things——”

“Who crept with you?” inquired MissDunbar prosaically. “How far were youfrom a railroad?”

A shade of irritation replaced the look ofpoetic exaltation upon Sprudell’s face. Itwould have been far better if they had senta man. A man would undoubtedly havetaken the interview verbatim.

“An old prospector and mountain mannamed Griswold—Uncle Bill they callhim—was my guide, and we were—letme see—yes, all of a hundred miles froma railroad.”

“What you were saying was—a—beautiful,” declared Miss Dunbar, noting

his injured tone, “but, you see,unfortunately in a newspaper we musthave facts. Besides”—she glanced at thewrist watch beneath the frill of her coatsleeve—“the first edition goes to press ateleven-forty-five, and I would like to havetime to do your story justice.”

Mr. Sprudell reluctantly folded hisoratorical pinions and dived to earth.

Beginning with the moment when he hademerged from the cañon where he haddone some remarkable shooting at a bandof mountain sheep—he doubted if ever hewould be able to repeat the performance—and first sensed danger in the leadenclouds, to the last desperate strugglethrough the snowdrifts in the paralyzingcold of forty below, with poor old Uncle

Bill Griswold on his back, he told thestory graphically, with great minuteness ofdetail. And when divine Providence ledhim at last to the lonely miner’s cabin onthe wild tributary of the Snake, and he hadsunk, fainting and exhausted, to the floorwith his inert burden on his back, Mr.Sprudell’s eyes filled, touched to tears bythe story of his own bravery.

Miss Dunbar’s wide, intent eyes andparted lips inspired him to go further.Under the stimulus of her flatteringattention and the thought that through herhe was talking to an audience of at leasttwo hundred thousand people, he forgotthe caution which was always strongerthan any rash impulse. The circulation oft h e Dispatch was local; and besides,

Bruce Burt was dead, he reasoned swiftly.

He told her of the tragedy in the lonelycabin, and described to her the scene intowhich he had stumbled, getting into thetelling something of his own feeling ofshock. In imagination she could see thebig, silent, black-browed miner cooking,baking, deftly doing a woman’s work,scrubbing at the stains on logs andflooring, wiping away the black splasheslike a tidy housewife. “This is my story,”she thought.

“Why did they quarrel?”

“It began with a row over pancakes, andwound up with a fight over salt.”

She stared incredulously.

“Fact—he said so.”

“And what was the brute’s name?”

He answered, not too readily:

“Why—Bruce Burt.”

“And the man he murdered?”

“They called him Slim Naudain.”

“Naudain!” Her startled cry made himlook at her in wonder. “Naudain! Whatdid they call him beside Slim?”

“Frederick was his given name.”

“Freddie!” she whispered, aghast.

Sprudell stared at her, puzzled.

“It must be! The name is too uncommon.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He must have been my brother—my half-

brother—my mother was married twice. Itis too dreadful!” She stared at Sprudellwith wide, shocked eyes.

Sprudell was staring, too, but he seemedmore disconcerted than amazed.

“It’s hardly likely,” he said, reassuringly.“When did you hear from him last?”

“It has been all of twelve years since weheard from him even indirectly. I wrote tohim in Silver City, New Mexico, wherewe were told he was working in a mine.Perhaps he did not get my letter; at leastI’ve tried to think so, for he did notanswer.”

Indecision, uncertainty, were uppermostamong the expressions on Sprudell’s face,but the girl did not see them, for her

downcast eyes were filled with tears.Finally he said slowly and in a voicecuriously restrained.

“Yes, he did receive it and I have it here.It’s a very strange coincidence, MissDunbar, the most remarkable I have everknown; you will agree when I tell you thatmy object in coming East was to find youand your mother for the purpose of turningover his belongings—this letter youmention, an old photograph of you andsome five hundred dollars in money heleft.”

“It’s something to remember, that at leasthe kept my letter and my picture.” Sheswallowed hard and bit her lips for self-control. “He was not a good son or a goodbrother, Mr. Sprudell,” she continued with

an effort, “but since my father and motherdied he’s been all I had. And I’ve mademyself believe that at heart he was allright and that when he was older he wouldthink enough of us some time to comehome. I’ve counted on it—on him—morethan I realized until now. It is”—sheclenched her hands tightly and swallowedhard again—“a blow.”

Sprudell replied soothingly

“This fellow Burt said his partner thoughta lot of you.”

“It’s strange,” Helen looked upreflectively, “that a cold-bloodedmurderer like that would have turned overmy brother’s things—would have sentanything back at all.”

“I made him,” said Sprudell.

“I’m too shocked yet to thank youproperly,” she said, rising and giving himher hand, “but, believe me, I do appreciateyour disinterested kindness in making thislong trip from Bartlesville, and for totalstrangers, too.”

“Tut! tut!” Mr. Sprudell interrupted. “It’snothing—nothing at all; and now I wishyou’d promise to dine with me thisevening. I’ll call for you if I may and bringthe money and the letter and picture. Fromnow on I want you to feel that I am afriend who is always at your service. Tut!tut! don’t embarrass me with thanks.”

He accompanied her to the door, thenstepped back into the parlor to watch herpass the window and cross the street. He

liked her brisk, alert step, her erectcarriage, and the straight lines of the darkclothes she wore mightily became herslender figure. “Wouldn’t a girl likethat”—his full, red lips puckered in awhistle—“wouldn’t she make a stir inBartlesville!”

Sprudell returned to his task, but withabated enthusiasm. A vague uneasiness,which may have been his conscience,disturbed him. He would write furiously,then stop and read what he had writtenwith an expression of dissatisfaction.

“Hang it all.” He threw his work downfinally, and, thrusting his hands in thepockets of his trousers, paced up anddown the floor to “have it out.” Whatcould the girl do with the place if she had

it? It was a property which requiredmoney and experience and brains tohandle. Besides, he had committed himselfto his friends, talked of it, promoted itpartially, and they shared his enthusiasm.It was something which appealedintensely to the strong vein ofsensationalism in him. What a pill itwould be for his enemies to swallow if hewent West and made another fortune! Theymight hate him, but they would have toadmit his brains. To emerge, Midaslike,from the romantic West with bags ofyellow gold was the one touch needed tomake him an envied, a unique andpicturesque, figure. He could not give itup. He meant to be honest—he would behonest—but in his own way.

He would see that the girl profited by thedevelopment of the ground. He would finda way. Already there was a hazy purposein his head which, if it crystallized, wouldprove a most satisfactory way. Sprudellsat down again and wrote until theprospectus of the Bitter Root PlacerMining Company was ready for theprinter.

VIII

Uncle Bill Finds News in the “Try-Bune”

When anybody remained in Ore Citythrough the winter it was a tacitconfession that he had not money enoughto get away; and this winter theunfortunates were somewhat morenumerous than usual. Those who remainedcomplained that they saw the sun soseldom that when it did come out it hurttheir eyes, and certain it is that owing tothe altitude there were always two monthsmore of winter in Ore City than in anyother camp in the State.

After the first few falls of snow atranscontinental aeroplane might havecrossed the clearing in the thick timberwithout suspecting any settlement there,unless perchance the aeronaut was flyinglow enough to see the tunnels which ledlike the spokes of a wheel from the snow-buried cabins to the front door of theHinds House.

When the rigid cold of forty below frozeeverything that would freeze, and the winddrove the powdery snow up and down theMain street, there would not be a singlesign of life for hours; but at the leastcessation the inhabitants came out likeprairie dogs from their holes and scuttledthrough their tunnels, generally onborrowing expeditions: that is, if they

were not engaged at the time inconversation, cribbage, piute or poker inthe comfortable office of the Hinds House.In which event they all came out together.

In winter the chief topic was a continualwonder as to whether the stage would beable to get in, and in summer as to whetherwhen it did get in it would bring a “liveone.” No one ever looked for a “live one”later than September or earlier than June.

There had been a time when the hotel wasfull of “live ones,” and nearly every mineowner had one of his own in tow, but thiswas when the Mascot was working threeshifts and a big California outfit hadbonded the Goldbug.

But a “fault” had come into the vein on theMascot and they had never been able to

pick up the ore-shoot again. So the grassgrew ankle-deep on the Mascot hillbecause there were no longer three shiftsof hob-nailed boots to keep it down. TheCalifornia outfit dropped the Goldbug asthough it had been stung, and a one-lungerstamp-mill chugged where the camp haddreamed of forty.

In the halcyon days, the sound that issuedfrom “The Bucket o’ Blood” suggestedwild animals at feeding time; but thenightly roar from the saloon even insummer had sunk to a plaintive whine andceased altogether in winter. Machineryrusted and timbers rotted while the roof ofthe Hinds House sagged like a sway-backed horse; so did the beds, so also did“Old Man” Hinds’ spirits, and there was a

hole in the dining-room floor where theunwary sometimes dropped to their hip-joints.

But the Hinds House continued to be, as italways had been, the social centre, thenews bureau, the scene where large dealswere constantly being conceived andpromulgated—although they got no further.Each inhabitant of Ore City had his settime for arriving and departing, and heabided as closely by his schedule asthough he kept office hours.

There was a generous box of saw-dustnear the round sheet-iron stove which setin the middle of the office, and there weremany straight-backed wooden chairswhose legs were steadied with balingwire and whose seats had been highly

polished by the overalls of countlessembryo mining magnates. On one side ofthe room was a small pine table whereOld Man Hinds walloped himself atsolitaire, and on the other side of the roomwas a larger table, felt-covered, keptsacred to the games of piute and poker,where as much as three dollars sometimeschanged hands in a single night.

At the extreme end of the long office wasa plush barber chair, and a row of giltmugs beneath a gilt mirror gave the placea metropolitan air, although there waslittle doing in winter when whiskers andlong hair became assets.

Selected samples of ore laid in rows onthe window-sills; there were neat pilesheaped in the corners, along the walls, and

on every shelf, while the cabinet-organ, ofJersey manufacture, with its ornamentalrows of false stops and keys, which wasthe distinguishing feature of the office, had“spec’mins” on the bristling array ofstands which stood out from it inunexpected places like woodenstalagmites.

The cabinet-organ setting “catty-cornered”beside the roller-towel indicated thepresence of womankind, and it indicatedcorrectly, for out in the kitchen was Mrs.Alonzo Snow, and elsewhere about thehotel were her two lovely daughters, theMisses Violet and Rosie Snow,—facetiously known as “the Snowbirds.”

Second to the stove in the office, the Snowfamily was the attraction in the Hinds

House, for the entertainment theyfrequently furnished was as free as thewood that the habitués fed so liberally tothe sheet-iron stove.

A psychological writer has asserted thatwhen an extremely sensitive person meetsfor the first time one who is to figureprominently in his life, he experiences aninward tremor. Whether it was that OldMan Hinds was not sufficiently sensitiveor was too busy at the time to be cognizantof inward tremors, the fact is he was notconscious of any such sensation when the“Musical Snows” alighted stiffly from theBeaver Creek stage; yet they were to fillnot only his best rooms but his wholehorizon.

“Nightingales and Prodigies,” the

handbills said, and after the concertnobody questioned their claims. The“Musical Snows” liked the people, thefood, the scenery—and the climate whichwas doing Mr. Snow such a lot of good—so well that they stayed on. There were somany of them and they rested so long thattheir board-bill became too hopelesslylarge to pay, so they did not disheartenthemselves by trying.

Then while freight was seven cents apound from the railroad terminus and OldMan Hinds was staring at the ceiling in thetortured watches of the night trying tofigure out how he could make three hamslast until another wagon got in, a solutioncame to him which seemed the answer toall his problems. He would turn the hotel

over to the “Musical Snows” and boardwith them! It was the only way he couldever hope to catch up. To board themmeant ruin.

So the Snow family abandoned theirmusical careers and consented to assumethe responsibility temporarily—at leastwhile Pa was “poahly.” This was fouryears ago, and “Pa” was still poahly.

He spent most of his time in a rockingchair upstairs by the stove-pipe holewhere he could hear conveniently. Whenthe stove-pipe parted at the joint, as itsometimes did, those below knew that Mr.Snow had inadvertently clasped the stove-pipe too tightly between his stockingedfeet, though there were those who held thatit happened because he did not like the

turn the talk was taking. At any rate theSnow family spread themselves aroundmost advantageously. Mr. Will Snow, thetenor of the “Plantation Quartette,”appeared behind the office desk, whileMr. Claude Snow, the baritone, turnedhostler for the stage-line and sold oats tothe freighters. And “Ma” Snow developedsuch a taste for discipline and executiveability that while she was only five feetfour and her outline had the gentleoutward slope of a churn, Ore City spokeof her fearfully as “She.”

Her shoulders were narrow, her chest wasflat, and the corrugated puffs under hereyes with which she arose each morninglooked like the half-shell of an Englishwalnut. By noon these puffs had sunk as

far the other way, so it was almostpossible to tell the time of day by MaSnow’s eyes; but she could beat the worldon “The Last Rose of Summer,” and shestill took high C.

Regular food and four years in themountain air had done wonders for “TheInfant Prodigies,” Miss Rosie and MissVi, who now weighed close to twohundred pounds, tempting an ungallantfreighter to observe that they must be“throw-backs” to Percheron stock andadding that “they ought to work great onthe wheel.” Their hips stood out like well-filled saddle pockets and they still woretheir hair down their backs in thin braids,but, as the only girls within fifty miles, the“Prodigies” were undisputed belles.

One dull day in early December, when thesky had not lightened even at noon, amonotonous day in the Hinds House, sincethere had been no impromptu concert andthe cards had been running withunsensational evenness, while everythread-bare topic seemed completelytalked out, Uncle Bill walked restlessly tothe window and by the waning light turneda bit of “rock” over in his hand.

The sight was too much for Yankee Sam,who hastily joined him.

“Think you got anything, Bill?”

“I got a hell-uv-a-lot of somethin’ or ahell-uv-a-lot of nothin’. It’s forty feetacross the face.”

“Shoo!” Sam took it from him and picked

at it with a knife-point, screwing a glassinto his eye to inspect the particle whichhe laid out carefully in his palm.

“Looks like somethin’ good.”

“When I run a fifty foot tunnel into a ledgeof antimony over on the Skookumchuck itlooked like somethin’ good.” Uncle Billadded drily: “I ain’t excited.”

“It might be one of them rar’ minerals.”Yankee Sam hefted it judicially. “What doyou hold it at?”

“Anything I can git.”

“You ought to git ten thousand dollarseasy when Capital takes holt.”

“I’d take a hundred and think I’d stuck thefeller, if I could git cash.”

“A hundred!” Yankee Sam flared up ininstant wrath. “It’s cheap fellers like youthat’s killin’ this camp!”

“Mortification had set in on this camp’fore I ever saw it, Samuel,” repliedUncle Bill calmly. “I was over in theBuffalo Hump Country doin’ assessmentwork fifteen hundred feet above timber-line when the last Live One pulled out ofOre City. They ain’t been one in since tomy knowledge. The town’s so quiet youcan hear the fish come up to breathe inLemon Crick and I ain’t lookin’ for achange soon.”

“You wait till spring.”

“I wore out the bosoms of two pair ofLevi Strauss’s every winter since 1910waitin’ for spring, and I ain’t seen nothin’

yet except Capital makin’ wide circlesaround Ore City. This here camp’s got ablack eye.”

“And who give it a black eye?” demandedYankee Sam wrathfully. “Who done it butknockers like you? I ’spose if Capital wassettin’ right alongside you’d up and tell’em you never saw a ledge yet in thiscamp hold out below a hundred feet?”

Uncle Bill replied tranquilly:

“Would if they ast me.”

“You’d rather see us all starve thanboost.”

“Jest as lief as to lie.”

“Well, that’s what we’re goin’ to do ifsomethin’ don’t happen this spring. She’ll

own this camp. Porcupine Jim turned over‘The Underdog’ yesterday and Lannigan’sfinished eatin’ on ‘The Gold-dustTwins’.” He moved away disconsolately.“Lord, I wish the stage would get in.”

At this juncture Judge George Petty turnedin from the street, hitting both sides of thesnow tunnel as he came. He fumbled at thedoor-knob in a suspicious manner and thenstumbled joyously inside.

“Boys,” he announced exuberantly, “Ithink I heerd the stage.”

The group about the red-hot stoveregarded him coldly and no one moved. Itwas like him, the ingrate, to get drunkalone. When he tried to wedge a chair intothe circle they made no effort to give himroom.

“You don’t believe me!” The Judge’smouth, which had been upturned at thecorners like a “dry” new moon, aspromptly became a “wet” one anddrooped as far the other way.

“Somethin’ you been takin’ must aquickened your hearin’,” said Yankee Samsourly. “She’s an hour and a half yet frombein’ due.”

“’Twere nothin’,” he answered on thedefensive, “but a few drops of vanillerand some arnicy left over from that sprain.You oughtn’t to feel hard toward me,” hequavered, wilting under the unfriendlyeyes. “I’d a passed it if there’d beenenough to go aroun’.”

“An’ after all we’ve done fer ye,” saidLannigan, “makin’ ye Jestice of the Peace

to keep ye off the town.”

“Jedge,” said Uncle Bill deliberately,“you’re gittin’ almost no-account enoughto be a Forest Ranger. I aims to write toWashington when your term is out and gityou in the Service.”

The Judge jumped up as though he hadbeen stung.

“Bill, we been friends for twenty year, an’I’ll take considerable off you, but I wantyou to understan’ they’r a limit. You kincall me a wolf, er a Mormon, er a son-of-a-gun, but, Bill, you can’t call me noForest Ranger! Bill,” pleadingly, and hisface crumpled in sudden tears, “you didn’tmean that, did you? You wouldn’t insultan ol’, ol’ frien’?”

“You got the ear-marks,” Uncle Billreplied unmoved. “For a year now you’vewalked forty feet around that tree that fellacross the trail to your cabin rather thanstop and chop it out. You sleeps fourteenhours a day and eats the rest. The hardestwork you ever do is to draw your money.Hell’s catoots! It’s a crime to keep a bornRanger like you off the Department’s pay-roll.”

“You think I’m drunk now and I’ll forgit.Well—I won’t.” The Judge shook atremulous but belligerent fist. “I’llremember what you said to me the longestday I live, and you’ve turned an ol’, ol’frien’ into an enemy. Whur’s that waumbatcoat what was hangin’ here day ’foreyistiday?”

In offended dignity the Judge took thewaumbat coat and retreated to thefurthermost end of the office, where hecovered himself and went to sleep in theplush barber-chair.

In the silence which followed, Miss Vidoing belated chamberwork upstairssounded like six on an ore-wagon as shewalked up and down the uncarpeted hall.

“Wisht they’d sing somethin’,” saidPorcupine Jim wistfully.

As though his desire had beencommunicated by mental telepathy MaSnow’s soprano came faintly from thekitchen—“We all like she-e-e—p-.” MissRosie’s alto was heard above the clatterof the dishes she was placing on the tablein the dining-room—“We all like she-e-e

—p-.” Miss Vi’s throaty contralto waswafted down the stairs—“We all like she-e-e-p.” “Have gone” sang the tenor.“Have gone astray—astray”—Mr. Snow’sbooming bass came through the stove-pipehole. The baritone arrived from the stablein time to lend his voice as they allchorded.

“The stage’s comin’,” the musical hostlerannounced when the strains died away.The entranced audience dashed abruptlyfor the door.

A combination of arnica and vanillaseemed indeed to have sharpened theJudge’s hearing for the stage was fully anhour earlier than any one had reason toexpect.

“Don’t see how he can make such good

time over them roads loaded down like heis with Mungummery-Ward Cataloguesand nails comin’ by passel post.” YankeeSam turned up his coat collar andshivered.

“Them leaders is turrible good snow-horses; they sabe snow-shoes like a man.”Lannigan stretched his neck to catch aglimpse of them through the pines beforethey made the turn into the Main street.

There was a slightly acid edge to UncleBill’s tone as he observed:

“I ought to git my Try-bune to-night if thepostmistress at Beaver Crick is done withit.”

“Git-ep! Eagle! Git-ep, Nig!” They couldhear the stage driver urging his horses

before they caught sight of the leader’sears turning the corner.

Then Porcupine Jim, who had the physicalendowment of being able to elongate hisneck like a turtle, cried excitedly beforeanyone else could see the rear of thestage: “They’s somebudy on!”

A passenger? They looked at each otherinquiringly. Who could be coming intoOre City at this time of year? But there hesat—a visible fact—in the back seat—wearing a coon-skin cap and snuggleddown into a coon-skin overcoat lookingthe embodiment of ready money! A LiveOne—in winter! They experiencedsomething of the awe which the Childrenof Israel must have felt when manna fell inthe wilderness. Even Uncle Bill tingled

with curiosity.

When the steaming stage horses stoppedbefore the snow tunnel, the population ofOre City was waiting like a receptioncommittee, their attitudes of nonchalancebelied by their gleaming, intent eyes.

The stranger was dark and hatchet-faced,with sharp, quick-moving eyes. Henodded curtly in a general way andthrowing aside the robes sprang outnimbly.

A pang so sharp and violent that it wasnearly audible passed through theexpectant group. Hope died a suddendeath when they saw his legs. It vanishedlike the effervescence from charged water,likewise their smile. He wore puttees! Hewas the prospectors’ ancient enemy. He

was a Yellow Leg! A mining expert—butwho was he representing? Withoutknowing, they suspected “theGuggenheimers”—when in doubt theyalways suspected the Guggenheimers.

They stood aside to let him pass, theircold eyes following his legs down thetunnel, waiting in the freezing atmosphereto avoid the appearance of indecent haste,though they burned to make a bee-line forthe register.

“Wilbur Dill,—Spokane” was the namehe inscribed upon the spotless page withmany curlicues, while Ma Snow waitedwith a graceful word of greeting, bringingwith her the fragrant odors of the kitchen.

“Welcome to our mountain home.”

As Mr. Dill bowed gallantly over herextended hand he became aware that therewas to be fried ham for supper.

He was shown to his room but came downagain with considerable celerity, rubbinghis knuckles, and breaking the highlycharged silence of the office with acaustic comment upon the inconvenienceof sleeping in cold storage.

There was a polite murmur of assent butnothing further, as his hearers knew whathe did not—that Pa Snow upstairs waslistening. Yankee Sam however tactfullydiverted his thoughts to the weather,hoping thus indirectly to draw out hisreason for undertaking the hardship ofsuch a trip in winter. But whatever Mr.Dill’s business it appeared to be of a

nature which would keep, although theysat expectantly till Miss Rosie coylyannounced supper.

“Don’t you aim to set down, Uncle Bill?”she asked kindly as the rest filed in.

“Thanks, no, I et late and quite hearty, an’I see the Try-bune’s come.”

“I should think you’d want to eat everychance you got after all you went throughout hunting.”

“It’s that, I reckon, what’s took myappetite,” the old man answered soberly,as he produced his steel-rimmedspectacles and started to read what theBeaver Creek postmistress had left him ofhis newspaper.

Inside, Mr. Dill seated himself at the end

of the long table which a placard bracedagainst the castor proclaimed as sacred tothe “transient.” A white tablecloth servedas a kind of dead-line over which the mostaudacious regular dared not reach forspecial delicacies when Ma Snowhovered in the vicinity.

“Let me he’p yoah plate to some Oregon-grape jell,” Ma Snow was urging in herhonied North Carolina accent, when, bythat mysterious sixth sense which sheseemed to possess, or the eye which itwas believed she concealed by thearrangement of her back hair, she becamesuddenly aware of the condition of Mr.Lannigan’s hands.

She whirled upon him like a catamountand her weak blue eyes watered in a way

they had when she was about to show thehardness of a Lucretia Borgia. Her voice,too, that quivered as though on the vergeof tears, had a quality in it which sentshivers up and down the spines of thosewho were familiar with it.

“Lannigan, what did I tell you?”

It was obvious enough that Lannigan knewwhat she had told him for he immediatelyjerked his hands off the oilcloth, and hidthem under the table.

He answered with a look of innocence:

“Why, I don’t know ma’am.”

“Go out and wash them hands!”

Hands, like murder, will out. Concealmentwas no longer possible, since it was a

well-known fact that Lannigan had hands,so he held them in front of him andregarded them in well-feigned surprise.

“I declare I never noticed!”

It was difficult to imagine how such handscould have escaped observation, even bytheir owner, as they looked as though hehad used them for scoops to remove sootfrom a choked chimney. Also thedemarcation lines of various high tideswere plainly visible on his wrists andwell up his arms. He arose with a wistfullook at the platter of ham which hadstarted on its first and perhaps only laparound the table.

Uncle Bill glanced up and commentedaffably:

“You got ran out, I see. I thought she’dflag them hands when I saw you goin’ inwith ’em.”

Lannigan grunted as he splashed at thewash basin in the corner.

“I notice by the Try-bune,” went on UncleBill with a chuckle, “that one of themEnglish suffragettes throwed flour on thePrimeer and—” His mouth opened as afresh headline caught his eye, and when hehad finished perusing it his jaw hadlengthened until it was resting well downthe bosom of his flannel shirt . . . Theheadline read:

BRAVE TENDERFOOT SAVES HIS GUIDEFROM DEATH IN BLIZZARD

T. VICTOR SPRUDELL CARRIES EXHAUSTEDOLD MAN

THROUGH DEEP DRIFTS TO SAFETY

A MODEST HERO

Uncle Bill removed his spectacles andpolished them deliberately. Then hereadjusted them and read the lastparagraph again:

“The rough old mountain man, BillGriswold, grasped my hand at parting, andtears of gratitude rolled down hiswithered cheeks as he said good-bye. But,tut! tut!” declared Mr. Sprudell modestly:“I had done nothing.”

Uncle Bill made a sound that wassomewhere between his favoriteejaculation and a gurgle, while his facewore an expression which was a drollmixture of amazement and wrath.

“Oh, Lannigan!” he called, then changed

his mind and, instead, laid the paper onhis knee and carefully cut out the story,which had been copied from an Easternexchange, and placed it in his wornleather wallet.

IX

The Yellow-Leg

While seated in the office of the HindsHouse, with his eyes rolled to the ceiling,listening in well-feigned rapture to“Rippling Waves” on the cabinet organ,

and other numbers rendered singly andensemble by the Musical Snows, Mr. Dillin reality was wondering by what miraclehe was going to carry out Sprudell’sspecific instructions to keep his errand asecret.

“The great, white light which plays upon athrone” is not more searching than thatwhich follows the movements of apossible Live One in a moribund miningcamp, and, in spite of his puttees, Ore Cityhoped against hope that some benefitmight be derived from the stranger’spresence.

Dill’s orders were to get upon the groundwhich had been worked in a primitiveway by a fellow named Bruce Burt—nowdeceased he was told—and relocate it in

Sprudell’s name together with seven othercontiguous claims, using the name ofdummy locators which would giveSprudell control of one hundred and sixtyacres by doing the assessment work uponone. Also Dill was instructed to runpreliminary survey lines if possible andlose no time in submitting estimates uponthe most feasible means of washing theground.

Seated in his comfortable office inSpokane, Mr. Dill had foreseen no greatdifficulties in the way of earning hisample fee, but it seemed less ample afterone hundred miles by stage over threesummits, and a better understanding ofconditions. Between the stage-driver’ssweeping denunciations of road-

supervisors in general and long andpicturesque castigations of the local roadsupervisor in particular, Mr. Dill hadadroitly extracted the information that thetwenty-mile trail to the river was theworst known, and snow-line blazes left by“Porcupine Jim” were, in summer, thirtyfeet in the air.

Mr. Dill learned enough en route to satisfyhimself that he was going to earn everydollar of his money, and when he reachedOre City he was sure of it. The problembefore him was one to sleep on, or rather,thinking with forebodings of the clammysheets upstairs, to lie awake on. However,something would perhaps suggest itselfand Mr. Dill was resourceful as well asunhampered by any restrictions regarding

the truth.

The Snow family were at their best thatevening, and Ma Snow’s rendition of “TheGypsy’s Warning” was received withsuch favor that she was forced to sing thesix verses twice and for a third encore theentire family responded with “TheWashington Post March” which enabledMr. Snow, who had tottered down fromhis aerie, to again demonstrate hisversatility by playing the concertina withlong, yellow fingers, beating the cymbalsand working the snare-drum with his feet.

Ma Snow wore her coral-rose breast-pin,and a tortoise-shell comb thrust throughher knob of ginger-colored hair added toher dignity and height; while Miss Vi andMiss Rosie Snow were buttoned into their

stylish princess gowns, with large redbows sprouting back of each ear. In truth,the dress of each member of the familybore some little touch which hinteddelicately at the fact that with them it hadnot been always thus.

All Ore City was present. Those who“bached” had stacked their dishes andhurried from the supper-table to the HindsHouse, where the regular boarders werealready tilted on the rear legs of theirchairs with their heads restingcomfortably on the particular oily spot onthe unbleached muslin sheeting, whicheach recognized as having been made byweeks of contact with his own back hair.

A little apart and preoccupied sat UncleBill with the clipping in his wallet burning

like a red-hot coal. He could haveswallowed being “carried down themountain side,” but the paragraph wherein“tears of gratitude rained down hiswithered cheeks” stuck, as he phrased it,in his craw. It set him thinking hard ofBruce Burt and the young fellow’sdeliberate sacrifice of his life for one old“Chink.” Somehow he could not ridhimself of blame that he had let him goalone. As soon as he could get back to OreCity he had headed a search party that hadfailed to locate even the tent under theunusual fall of snow. Well, if Burt hadtaken a life, even accidentally, he had inexpiation given his own.

As he brooded, occasionally the old manglanced at Wilbur Dill. He had seen him

before—but where? The sharp-faced,sharp-eyed Yellow-Leg was associated inthe older man’s mind with somethingshady, but what it was he could not for thetime recall.

“Rosie, perhaps Mr. Dill would like tohear ‘When the Robins Nest Again,’” MaSnow suggested in the sweet, ingratiatingtones of a mother with two unattacheddaughters.

Mr. Dill declared that it was one of hisfavorite compositions, so Miss Rosieobligingly stood forth with the dog-earedmusic.

“When the Robins Nest Again, and theflower-r-rs—” she was warbling, but theynever bloomed, for Mrs. Snow started forthe door, explaining: “I’m sure I heard a

scrunching.” She threw it open and theyellow light fell upon a gaunt figureleaning against the entrance of the snowtunnel. The man was covered with frostand icicles where his breath had frozen onhis cap and upturned collar, while it wasobvious from his snow-caked knees andelbows that he had fallen often. He stoodstaring dumbly at the light and warmth andat Ma Snow, then he stooped and beganfumbling clumsily at the strappings of hissnow-shoes.

“Won’t you-all come in?” Ma Snow,recovering a little from her surprise,asked hospitably.

He pitched forward and would again havegone down but that he threw out his handand caught the door-jamb.

“Bruce Burt! Hell’s catoots! Bruce Burt!”Uncle Bill was on his knees outside in aninstant, jerking and tugging at the snow-clogged buckles.

Chairs came down on their forelegs with athump and Ore City shambled forward incuriosity and awkward congratulation.Mr. Dill did not move. He was gazing atthe scene in mingled resentment andconsternation. Was this the Bruce Burtwhose claims he was sent to survey? Itwas plain enough that Bruce Burt “nowdeceased” was very much alive, and he,Dill, had crossed three summits on a wildgoose chase, since it was obvious hecould not relocate a man’s ground whilehe was actually living upon it. Why didn’tSprudell find out that he was deceased

before he sent a busy engineer on such atrip in winter? Mr. Dill sat frowning atBruce, while willing hands helped him outof the coat his fingers were too stiff tounbutton.

“I’ve been coming since daylight.” Hespoke thickly, as though even his tonguewere cold. “I played out on the last bighill and sat so long I chilled.”

“And I guess you’re hungry,” Uncle Billsuggested.

Hungry! The word stabbed Ma Snow tothe heart and her heels went clickity-clickas she flew for the kitchen.

Divested of his coat Bruce looked a big,starved skeleton. The cords of his neckwere visible when he turned his head, his

cheeks were hollow, his wrist-bones wereprominent like those of a feverconvalescent.

“You’re some ga’nted up,” Uncle Billcommented as he eyed him critically.“Don’t hardly look as though you’dwinter.”

The shadow of a smile crossed Bruce’sdark face.

“Toy and I proved just about the length oftime a man can go without eating, andlive.”

“You made it then? You got to Toy—he’sall right?”

“Yes,” briefly, “but none too soon. Thesnow had broken the tent down, so wemade it over the ridge to an old

tunnel . . . I killed a porcupine but we ranout of matches and there was no dry woodor sticks to make a fire.”

“I et raw wolf onct in Alasky,” YankeeSam interjected reminiscently. “’Tain’t adish you’d call for in a restauraw, and Ireckon procupine’s got much the sameflavor of damp dog. How did you get theChinaman down?”

“I rigged up a travois when he couldtravel and hauled him to the cabin,where’s he’s waiting now. We are nearlyout of grub, so I had to come.”

Of the fierce hunger, the wearing,unceasing fight against Arctic cold, and,when weakened and exhausted by both,the dumb, instinctive struggle for lifeagainst the combination, Bruce said

nothing; but in a dozen commonplacesentences described physical sufferingssufficient for a lifetime—which is thewestern way.

He walked to the desk, where the giftedtenor, clerk and post-master stood pleasedand expectant, pen in hand, waiting forhim to register.

“Is there any mail for me?” He tried tospeak casually but, to himself the eagernote in his voice seemed to shriek andvibrate. Making every allowance fordelays and changed addresses he hadcalculated that by now he should have ananswer from Slim’s mother or sister. Hedid not realize how positively he hadcounted on a letter until the clerk shookhis head.

“Nothing?” Bruce looked at him blankly.

“Nothing.” The answer seemed to take thelast scrap of his vitality. He moved to thenearest chair and sat down heavily.

The thought of assuming Slim’sresponsibilities, of making up for his ownfutile years, and bringing to pass at least afew of his mother’s dreams for him, hadbecome a kind of obsession since that firstnight of horror after his quarrel with Slim.It had kept him going, hanging ondoggedly, when, as he since believed, hemight have given up. It seemed to haveneeded the ghastly, unexpected happeningin the lonely cabin to have aroused in himthe ambition which was his inheritancefrom his mother. But it was awake at last,the stronger perhaps for having lain so

long dormant.

Failures, humiliating moments, hasty,ungenerous words, heartless deeds, have away of coming back with startlingvividness in the still solitude ofmountains, and out of the passing ofpainful panoramas had grown Bruce’sdesire to “make good.” Now, in the firstshock of his intense disappointment he feltthat without a tangible incentive he wasdone before he had started.

“Mistah Bruce, if you’ll jest step out andtake what they is,” announced Ma Snowfrom the doorway. “And watch out foahyoah laig in this hole heah.” She calledover her shoulder: “Mistah Hinds, I wantyou should get to work and fix that placeto-morrow or I’ll turn yoah ol’ hotel back

on yoah hands. You heah me?”

The threat always made Old Man Hindsjump like the close explosion of a stick ofgiant powder.

Bruce looked at the “light” bread and theOregon-grape “jell,” the steaming coffeeand the first butter he had seen in months,while before his plate on the whitetablecloth at the “transient” end of thetable, sat a slice of ham with an egg! like ajewel—its crowning glory.

Ma Snow whispered confidentially:

“One of the hins laid day ’fore yistiddy.”The prize had been filched from Mr.Snow, one of whose diversions waslistening for a hen to cackle.

From his height Bruce looked down upon

the work-stooped little woman and hesaw, not her churn-like contour nor herwrinkled face, but the light of a kind heartshining in her pale eyes. He wanted to cry—he—Bruce Burt! He fought theinclination furiously. It was too ridiculous—weak, sentimental, to be so sensitive tokindness. But he was so tired, so lonely,so disappointed. He touched Ma Snow’sginger-colored hair caressingly with hisfinger tips and the impulsive, boyishaction made for Bruce a loyal friend.

In the office, Mr. Dill was noticeablyabstracted. His smiling suavity, hisgracious manner, had given place totaciturnity and Ore City’s choicest bonmots, its time-tested pleasantries, fellupon inattentive ears. As a matter of fact,

his bones ached like a tooth from threelong, hard days in the mail-carrier’ssledges, and also he recognized certainsymptoms which told him that he was infor an attack of dyspepsia due to hisenforced diet en route, of soda-biscuit,ham, and bacon. But these were minortroubles as compared to the loss of the feewhich in his mind he had already spent.The most he could hope for, he supposed,was compensation for his time and hisexpenses.

He sat in a grumpy silence until Brucecame out of the dining-room, then hestated his intention of going to bed andasked for a lamp. As he said good-nightcurtly he noticed Uncle Bill eyeing himhard, as he had observed him doing

before, but this time there was distincthostility in the look.

“What’s the matter with that old rooster?”he asked himself crossly as he clumpedupstairs to bed.

“I know that young duck now,” said UncleBill in an undertone, as Bruce sat downbeside him. “He’s a mining and civilengineer—a good one, too—but crookedas they come. He’s a beat.”

“He’s an engineer?” Bruce asked in quickinterest.

“He’s anything that suits, when it comes topulling off a mining deal. He’d ‘salt’ hisown mother, he’d sell out hisgrandmother, but in his profession there’snone better if he’d stay straight. I knowed

him down in Southern Oregon—he wasrun out.”

“Have you heard yet from Sprudell?”

“Yes,” Uncle Bill answered grimly. “Asyou might say, indirectly. I want youshould take a look at this.”

He felt for his leather wallet and handedBruce the clipping.

“Don’t skip any,” he said acidly. “It’sworth a careful peruse.”

There was a little likelihood of that afterBruce had read the headlines.

“I hopes you takes special note of tears ofgratitude rainin’ down my witheredcheeks,” said Uncle Bill savagely, “Irelishes bein’ published over the world as

a sobbin’ infant.”

Bruce folded the clipping mechanicallymany times before he handed it back.There was more in it to him than thewithholding of credit which belonged toan obscure old man, or the self-aggrandizement of a pompous braggart. ToBruce it was indicative of a man with amoral screw loose, it denoted a laxity ofprinciple. With his own direct standardsof conduct it was equivalent to dishonesty.

“You didn’t git no answer to your letter, Inotice,” Griswold commented, followingBruce’s thoughts.

“No.”

They smoked in silence for a time, thetarget of interested eyes, Bruce

unconscious that the stories of his feats ofstrength and his daring as a boatman hadsomehow crossed the almost impassablespurs of mountain between Ore City andMeadows to make a celebrity of him, notonly in Ore City but as far as the evilreputation of the river went.

“You’ll hardly be startin’ back to-morrow, will you, Burt?”

“To-morrow? No, nor the next day.”There was a hard ring in Bruce’s voice.“I’ve changed my mind. I’m going outside!I’m going to Bartlesville, Indiana, to seeSprudell!”

“Good!” enthusiastically. “And if you hascause to lick that pole kitty hit him one forme.”

Wilbur Dill, who had not expected toclose his eyes, was sleeping soundly,while Bruce in the adjoining room, whohad looked forward to a night of rest in areal bed, was lying wide awake staringinto the dark. His body was worn out,numb with exhaustion, but his mind wasunnaturally alert. It refused to be passive,though it desperately needed sleep. It wasactive with plans for the future, withspeculation concerning Sprudell, with therebuilding of the air castles which hadfallen with his failure to find mail. In therestless days of waiting for Toy to getwell enough to leave alone for a few dayswhile he went up to Ore City for mail andprovisions, a vista of possibilities hadunexpectedly opened to Bruce. He wasstanding one morning at the tiny window

which overlooked the river, startingacross at Big Squaw creek, with itscascades of icicles pendant from its frozenmouth.

What a stream Big Squaw creek was,starting as it did all of thirty miles back inthe unknown hills, augmented as it cameby trickling rivulets from banks ofperpetual snow and by mountain springs,until it grew into a roaring torrent dashingitself to whiteness against the green velvetboulders, which in ages past had crashedthrough the underbrush down themountainside to lie forever in the noisystream! And the unexpected fern-fringedpools darkened by overhanging boughs,under which darted shadows of the trout atplay—why he had thought, if they had Big

Squaw creek back in Iowa, or Nebraska,or Kansas, or any of those dog-gone flatcountries where you could look furtherand see less, and there were more riverswith nothing in them than any other statesin the Union, they’d fence it off and chargeadmission. They’d—it was then the ideahad shot into his mind like an inspiration—they’d harness Big Squaw creek if theyhad it back in Iowa, or Nebraska, orKansas, and make it work! They’d build aplant and develop power!

The method which had at once suggesteditself to Sprudell was slow in coming toBruce because he was unfamiliar withelectricity. In the isolated districts wherehe had lived the simpler old-fashioned,steam-power had been employed and his

knowledge of water-power was chieflyfrom reading and hearsay.

But he believed that it was feasible, that itwas the solution of the difficulty, if theexpense were not too great. With a power-house at the mouth of Squaw creek, atransmission wire across the river and apump-house down below, he could washthe whole sand-bar into the river and allthe sand-bars up and down as far as thecurrent would carry! In his excitement hehad tried to outline the plan to Toy, whohad more that intimated that he was mad.

The Chinaman had said bluntly: “No cando.”

Placer-mining was a subject upon whichToy felt qualified to speak, since, after acramped journey from Hong Kong,

smuggled in his uncle’s clothes hamper, hehad started life in America at fourteen,carrying water to his countrymenplacering in “Chiny” Gulch; after whichhe became one of a company who, withthe industry of ants, built a trestle of greentimber one hundred and fifty feet high tocarry water to the Beaver Creek diggingsand had had his reward when he had seenthe sluice-box run yellow with gold andhad taken his green rice bowl heaping fullupon the days of division.

Those times were quick to pass, for thewhite men had come, and with their fistsand six-shooters drove them from theground, but the eventful days surchargedwith thrills were the only ones in which hecounted he lived. He laundered now, or

cooked, but he had never left the districtand he loved placer-mining as he lovedhis life.

Bruce had found small comfort indiscussing his idea with Toy, for Toyknew only the flume and the ditch of thedays of the 60’s, so he was eager tosubmit his plan to some one who knewabout such things and he wished that hehad had an opportunity of talking to the“Yellow-Leg.” If it was practicable, hewanted to get an idea of the approximatecost.

Bruce was thinking of the “Yellow-Leg”and envying him his education andknowledge when a new sound was addedto the audible slumbers of the guests of theHinds House and of the Snow family, who

were not so musical when asleep.Accustomed to stillness, as he was, thechorus that echoed through the corridorhad helped to keep him awake, this andthe uncommon softness of a feather pillowand a cotton mattress that Mr. Dill incarping criticism had likened unto acement block.

This new disturbance which came throughthe thin partition separating his room fromDill’s was like the soft patter of feet—bare feet—running around and around.Even a sudden desire for exercise seemedan inadequate explanation in view of thefrigid temperature of the uncarpetedrooms. Bruce was still more mystifiedwhen he heard Dill hurdling a chair, andutterly so when his neighbor began

dragging a wash-stand into the centre ofthe room. Making all due allowance forthe eccentricities of Yellow-Legs, Bruceconcluded that something was amiss, so,slipping into his shoes, he tapped upon thestranger’s door.

The activity within continuing, he turnedthe knob and stepped inside where Mr.Dill was working like a beaver trying toadd a heavy home-made bureau to thecollection in the middle of the floor.Shivering in his striped pajamas he wasstaring vacantly when Bruce lighted thelamp and touched him on the shoulder.

“You’d better hop into bed, mister.”

Mr. Dill mumbled as he swung his arms inthe gesture of swimming.

“Got to keep movin’!”

“Wake up.” Bruce shook him vigorously.

The suspected representative of the“Guggenheimers” whined plaintively:“Itty tootsies awfy cold!”

“Itty tootsies will be colder if you don’tget ’em off this floor,” Bruce said with agrin, as he dipped his fingers in the pitcherand flirted the ice water in his face.

“Oh—hello!” Intelligence returned to Mr.Dill’s blank countenance. “Why, I musthave been walking in my sleep. I alwaysdo when I sleep in a strange place, but Ithought I’d locked myself in. I dreamed Iwas a fish freezing up in a cake of ice.”

“It’s not surprising.”

“Say.” Mr. Dill looked at him wistfully ashe stood on one foot curling his purpletoes around the other knee. “I wonder ifyou’d let me get in with you? I’m liable todo it again—sleeping cold and all.”

“Sure,” said Bruce sociably, leading theway. “Come ahead.”

The somnambulist chattered:

“I’ve been put out of four hotels alreadyfor walking into other people’s rooms,and once I got arrested. I’ve doctored forit.”

While lamenting his inability to discusshis proposition with the engineer, the lastthing Bruce anticipated was to be engagedbefore daylight in the humane andneighborly act of warming Wilbur Dill’s

back, but so it is that Chance, thathumorous old lady, thrusts Opportunity inthe way of those in whom she takes aninterest.

Bruce was so full of his subject that hesaw nothing unusual in propounding hisquestions in Mr. Dill’s ear under thecovers in the middle of the night.

“How many horse-power could youdevelop from a two-hundred-feet headwith a minimum flow of eight hundredminers’ inches?”

“Hey?” Mr. Dill’s muffled voice soundedstartled.

Bruce repeated the question, and added:

“I’m going out on the stage in the morningand it leaves before you’re up. I’d like

mightily to know a few things in your lineif you don’t mind my asking.”

He was leaving, was he? Going out on thestage? Figuratively, Mr. Dill sat up.

“Certainly not.” His tone was cordial.“Any information at all——”

As clearly as he could, Bruce outlined thesituation, estimating that a flume half amile in length would be necessary to getthis two-hundred-foot head, with perhapsa trestle bridging the cañon of Big Squawcreek. And Dill, wide awake enough now,asked practical, pertinent questions, whichmade Bruce realize that, as Uncle Bill hadsaid, whatever doubt there might be abouthis honesty there could be none at allconcerning his ability.

He soon had learned all that Bruce couldtell him of the situation, of the obstaclesand advantages. He knew his reason forwishing to locate the pump-house at theextreme end of the bar, the best place tocross the river with the transmission wire,of the proximity of saw-timber, and of theserious drawback of the inaccessibility ofthe ground. Bruce could think of no detailthat Dill had overlooked when he wasdone.

“Transportation is your problem,” theengineer said, finally. “With themachinery on the ground the rest would bea cinch. But there’s only the river or anexpensive wagon-road. A wagon-roadthrough such country might cost you theprice of your plant or more. And the river

with its rapids, they tell me, is a terror; sowith the water route eliminated, thereremains only your costly wagon-road.”

“But,” Bruce insisted anxiously, “whatwould be your rough estimate of the costof such a plant, including installation?”

“At a guess, I’d say $25,000, exclusive offreight, and as you know the rates from thecoast are almighty high.”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars!” And fivehundred, Bruce reminded himself, wasabout the size of his pile.

“Much obliged.”

“Don’t mention it,” Mr. Dill yawned.“One good turn deserves another, and,thanks to you, I’m almost warm.”

Because Mr. Dill yawned it did notfollow that he slept. On the contrary, hewas as wide awake as Bruce himself andwhen Bruce gently withdrew from thesociable proximity of a bed that saggedlike a hammock, and tiptoed about theroom while dressing, going downstairs tothe office wash-basin when he discoveredthat there was skating in the water-pitcher,lest the sound of breaking ice disturb hisbed-fellow, Dill was gratefullyappreciative.

He really liked the fellow, he did for afact—in spite of his first prejudice againsthim for being alive. Besides, since he wasgoing outside, as he had told him, for anindefinite stay, he might not interfere somuch with his plans after all, for Mr. Dill,

too, had had an inspiration.

X

“Capital Takes Holt”

It is a safe wager that where two or threeprospectors meet in a mining camp orcabin, the length of time which will elapsebefore the subject of conversation revertsto food will not exceed ten minutes and inthis respect the inhabitants of Ore Citywho “bached” were no exception. Thetopic was introduced in the office of the

Hinds House this morning as soon as therewas a quorum.

“I declare, I doubts if I lives to see grass,”said Yankee Sam despondently as hemanicured a rim of dough from his finger-nails with the point of a savage-lookingjack-knife. “I opened my next-to-the-lastsack of flour this mornin’ and ’twasmouldy. I got to eat it though, and like asnot t’other’s the same. I tell you,”lugubriously, “the pickin’s is gittin’ slimon this range!”

“I know one thing,” declared JudgeGeorge Petty, who was sober andirritable, “if N. K. Rippetoe sends me inany more of that dod-gasted Injun bakin’powder, him and me is goin’ to fall out. Iwarned him once I’d take my trade away

and now he’s gone and done it again. Itwon’t raise nothin’, not nothin’!”“An’ you can’t drink it,” Lanninganobserved pointedly.

“You remember them dried apples Ibought off the half-breed lady down on theNez Perce Reserve? Well,” saidPorcupine Jim sourly, “they walked offday ’fore yistiddy—worms. I weighed thatlady out cash gold, and look what she’sdone on me! I wouldn’t wonder if themapples wa’nt three to four year old.”

“If only we could find out what thatYellow-Leg’s after.” Lannigan’s face wascross-lined with anxiety. “If some of uscould only unload somethin’ on him, thenthe rest of us could borry till Capital tookholt in the spring.”

“S-ss-sh! That’s him,” came a warningwhisper.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I seem to haveslept late.”

It was apparent to all that Mr. Dill’sspirits were decidedly better than when hehad retired.

Yankee Sam suggested humorously:

“I reckon they was a little slow gittin’around with the tea-kittle to thaw you out,so you could git up.”

Mr. Dill declared that he had beenagreeably disappointed in his night; that hereally felt quite rested and refreshed.

“If it isn’t too soon after breakfast,friends,” he said tentatively, as he

produced a flask.

It was quickly made clear to him that itwas never too soon, or too late, for thatmatter, and a suggestion of force wasnecessary to tear the flask from YankeeSam’s face.

“What? Teetotaler?” As Uncle Bill shookhis head.

“Not exactly; sometimes I take a little ginfor my kidnas.”

Ore City looked at him in unfeignedsurprise. Mr. Dill, however, believed heunderstood. The old man either knew himor had taken a personal dislike—maybeboth—at any rate he ceased to urge.

“Gentlemen,” impressively, and Ore Cityfelt intuitively that its acute sufferings, due

to ungratified curiosity, were at an end,“no doubt you’ve wondered why I’mhere?”

Ore City murmured a hypocritical protest.

“That would be but natural,” Mr. Dillspoke slowly, drawling his words,animated perhaps by the spirit whichprompts the cat to prolong the struggles ofthe dying mouse, “but I have postponedmaking my mission known untilrejuvenated by a good night’s sleep. Now,gentlemen, if I can have your support, yourhearty co-operation, I may tell you that Iam in a position—to make Ore City boom!In other words—Capital Is Going to TakeHold!”

Porcupine Jim, who, through long practiceand by bracing the ball of his foot against

the knob on the stove door, was able tobalance himself on one rear leg of hischair, lost his footing on the nickel knoband crashed to the floor, but he “came upsmiling,” offering for inspection a piece ofore in his extended hand.

“Straight cyanidin’ proposition, averagin’$60 to the ton with a tunnel cross-cuttin’the ore-shoot at forty feet that samples $80where she begins to widen—” Lack ofbreath prevented Porcupine Jim fromsaying that the hanging wall was of schistand the foot wall of granite and he wouldtake $65,000 for it, if he could have 10per cent. in cash.

The specimen which Yankee Sam wavedin the face of Capital’s representativealmost grazed his nose.

“This here rock is from the greatest low-grade proposition in Americy! Porpherydike with a million tons in sight andrunnin’ $10 easy to the ton and $40,000buys it on easy terms. Ten thousanddollars down and reg’lar payments everysix months, takin’ a mortgage—”

“I’m a s-showin’ y-you the best f-free-millin’ proposition outside of C-California,” Judge George Pettystammered in his eagerness. “That theremine’ll m-make ten m-men rich. They’sstringers in that there ledge that’ll run$5,000—$10,000 to the ton. I t-tell you,sir, the ‘B-Bouncin’ B-Bess’ ain’t no m-mine—she’s a b-bonanza! And, when yougit down to the secondary enrichmentyou’ll take it out in c-c-chunks!”

Inwardly, Lannigan was cursing himselfbitterly that he had eaten “The Gold-DustTwins,” but, searching through hispockets, fortunately, he found a samplefrom the “Prince o’ Peace.” He handed itto Mr. Dill, together with a magnifyingglass.

“Take a look at this, will you?” Heindicated a minute speck with hisfingernail.

Mr. Dill lost the speck and was some timein finding it and, while he searched, thestove pipe separated at the joint, callingattention to the fact that the suffererupstairs was nervous. Pa Snow’s voicecame so distinctly down the stove-pipehole that there was reason to believe hewas on his hands and knees.

“Befoah you should do anything definite,we-all should like if you would look ovah‘The Bay Hoss.’ It’s makin’ a fineshowin’, and ‘The Under Dawg’ is on themarket, too, suh.”

In the excitement Uncle Bill sat puffingcalmly on his pipe.

Mr. Dill with a gesture brushed aside thewaving arms and eager hands:

“And haven’t you anything to sell?” heasked him curiously. “Don’t you mine?”

“Very little,” Uncle Bill drawledtranquilly: “I dudes.”

“You what?”

“I keeps an ‘ad’ in the sportin’ journals,and guides.”

“Oh, yes, hunters—eastern sportsmen—”Mr. Dill nodded. “But I thought Irecognized an old-time prospector inyou.”

“They’s no better in the hull West,”Yankee Sam declared generously, whileUncle Bill murmured that there was surermoney in dudes. “Show Dill that rar’mineral, Uncle Bill.” To Dill in an aside:“He’s got a mountain of it and it’ssomethin’ good.”

Uncle Bill made no move.

“I aims to hold it for the boom.”

“And what’s your honest opinion of thecountry, Mr. Griswold?” Dill askedconciliatingly. “What do you think wellfind when we reach the secondary

enrichment?”

A pin dropping would have sounded like atin wash boiler rolling downstairs in thesilence which fell upon the office of theHinds House. Uncle Bill, looking serenelyat the circle of tense faces, continued tosmoke while he took his own time toreply.

“I’m a thinkin’,”—puff-puff—“that whenyou sink a hundred feet below thesurface,”—puff-puff—“you won’t git adamn thing.”

Involuntarily Yankee Sam reached for thepoker and various eyes sought the wood-box for a sizable stick of wood.

“Upon what do you base your opinion?”asked Mr. Dill, taken somewhat aback.

“What makes you think that?”

“Because we’re in it now. The weatherin’away of the surface enrichment made theplacers we washed out in ’61-’64.”

Judge George Petty glowered anddemanded contemptuously:

“Do you know what a mine is?”

“Well,” replied Uncle Bill tranquilly, “notallus, but ginerally a mine is a hole in theground owned by a liar.”

Yankee Sam half rose from his chair andpointed an accusing poker at Uncle Bill.

“That old pin-head is the worst knockerthat ever queered a camp. If we’d aknowed you was comin’,” turning to Mr.Dill, “we’d a put him in a tunnel with ten

days’ rations and walled him up.”

“They come clost to lynchin’ me onct onSucker Crick in Southern Oregon fortellin’ the truth,” Uncle Bill saidreminiscently, unperturbed.

Southern Oregon! Wilbur Dill lookedstartled. Ah, that was it! He lookedsharply at Griswold, but the old man’sface was blank.

“We’re all entitled to our opinions,” hesaid lightly, though his assurance hadabated by a shade, “but, judgingsuperficially, from the topography of thecountry, I’m inclined to disagree.”

Ore City’s sigh of relief was audible.

Mr. Dill continued:

“And I—we are willing to back ourconfidence in your camp by theexpenditure of a reasonable amount, inorder to find out; but, gentlemen, you’veraised your sights too high. Your figures’llhave to come down if we do business. Aprospect isn’t a mine, you know, andthere’s not been much development workdone, as I understand.”

“How was you aimin’ to work it,” UncleBill asked mildly, “in case you did gitanything? The Mascot burned its profitsbuyin’ wood fer steam.”

“The riddles of yesterday are thecommonplaces of to-day, my friend. Theworld has moved since the arrastre wasinvented and steam is nearly as obsolete.Hydro-electric is the only power to-day

and that’s what I—we—propose to use.”

Ore City’s eyes widened and then theylooked at Uncle Bill. What drawbackwould he think of next? He neverdisappointed.

“There ain’t water enough down there inLemon Crick in August to run a churn.”

Mr. Dill laughed heartily: “Right you are—but how about the river down below—there’s water enough in that, if all I’m toldis true.”

For once he surprised the old man into anastonished stare.

“The river’s all of twenty mile fromhere.”

“They’ve transmitted power from Victoria

Falls on the Zembesi River, in Rhodesia,six hundred miles to the Rand.”

Chortling, Ore City looked at the camphoodoo in triumph.—That should holdhim for a while.

“I wish you luck,” said Uncle Bill, hiscomplacency returning, “but Ore City ain’tthe Rand. You’ll never pull your moneyback.”

“And in our own country they send ‘juice’two hundred and forty-five miles from AuSable to Baltic Creek, Michigan.”

Before his departure Bruce had arrangedwith Porcupine Jim to load a tobogganwith provisions and snowshoe down toToy. Mr. Dill was delighted when he

learned this fortunate circumstance, for itenabled him to make a trip to the river forthe purpose, as he elaborately explained,of “looking out a power-site, and the bestroute to string the wires.”

While he was gone, properties to thevalue of half a million in the aggregatechanged hands—but no cash. It was likethe good old days to come again, to seethe embryo magnates whispering incorners, to feel once more a delicioussense of mystery and plotting in the air.Real estate advanced in leaps and boundsand “Lemonade Dan” overhauled the barfixtures in the Bucket o’ Blood, andstuffed a gunny-sack into a brokenwindow pane with a view to opening up.In every shack there was an undercurrent

of excitement and after the dull days ofmonotony few could calm themselves to areally good night’s sleep. They talked inthousands and the clerk’s stock of Cincos,that had been dead money on his hands forover three years, “moved” in three days—sold out to the last cigar!

When the time arrived that they hadcalculated Dill should return, even to thehour, the person who was coming backfrom the end of the snow tunnel at the frontdoor of the Hinds House, that commandeda good view of the trail, always metsomeone going out to ask if there was “anysight of ’em?” and he, in turn, took hisstand at the mouth of the tunnel, untildriven in by the cold. In this way, therewas nearly always someone doing lookout

duty.

Ore City’s brow was corrugated withanxiety when Dill and Porcupine Jim hadexceeded by three days the time allottedthem for their stay. Wouldn’t it be like thecamp’s confounded luck if Capital fell offof something and broke its neck?

Their relief was almost hysterical whenone evening at sunset Lannigan shoutedjoyfully: “Here they come!”

They dashed through the tunnel to see Mr.Dill dragging one foot painfully after theother to the hotel. He seemed indifferent tothe boisterous greeting, groaning merely:

“Oh-h-h, what a hill!”

“We been two days a makin’ it,” Jimvouchsafed cheerfully. “Last night we

slept out on the snow.”

“You seem some stove up.” Uncle Billeyed Dill critically. “And looks like youhave fell off twenty pounds.”

“Stove up!” exclaimed Dill plaintively.“Between Jim’s cooking and that hill Itook up four notches in my belt. I wouldn’tmake that trip again in winter if the AlaskaTreadwell was awaiting me as a gift at theother end.”

“You’ll git used to it,” consoled UncleBill, “you’ll learn to like it when you’redown there makin’ that there ‘juice.’ Imind the time I went to North Dakoty on avisit—I longed for one of these hills toclimb to rest myself. The first day they setme out on the level, I ran away—it tookfour men to head me off.”

“We found where we kin develop 250,000jolts,” Porcupine Jim announced.

“Volts, James,” corrected Mr. Dill, andadded, dryly, “Don’t start in to put up theplant until I get back.”

H e was coming back then—he was!Figuratively, all Ore City fell at his feet,though strictly only two scrambled for theprivilege of unbuckling his snow-shoes,and only three picked up his bag.

XI

The Ghost at the Banquet

T. Victor Sprudell’s dinner guests weresoon to arrive, and Mr. Sprudell’s pearlgray spats were twinkling up and downthe corridor of Bartlesville’s best hotel,and back and forth between the privatedining-room and the Room of Mysteryadjoining, where mechanics of variouskinds had been busy under his direction,for some days.

But now, so far as he could see,everything was in perfect working orderand he had only to sit back and enjoy histriumph and receive congratulations; foronce more Mr. Sprudell had demonstratedhis versatile genius!

The invited guests came, all of them—afew because they wanted to, and the rest

because they were afraid to stay away.Old Man “Gid” Rathburn, who cherishedfor Sprudell the same warm feeling ofregard that he had for a rattlesnake,occupied the seat of honor, while John Z.Willetts, a local financier, whose closetcontained a skeleton that Sprudell byindustrious sleuthing had managed tounearth, was placed at his host’s left toenjoy himself as best he could. AdolphGotts, who had the contract for the citypaving and hoped to renew it, was presentfor the sole purpose, as he statedprivately, of keeping the human catamountoff his back. Others in the merry partywere Abram Cone and Y. Fred Smart.

The dinner was the most elaborate thechef had been able to devise, the domestic

champagne was as free as the air, and Mr.Sprudell, stimulated by the presence of themoneyed men of Bartlesville and hisprivate knowledge of the importance ofthe occasion, was keyed up to his best.Genial, beaming, he quoted freely from hisFrench and Latin phrase-book and at everyturn of the conversation was ready withappropriate verse—his own, mostly.

This was Mr. Sprudell’s only essay atpromoting, but he knew how it was done.A good dinner, wine, cigars; and he hadgone the ingenious guild of money-raisersone better by an actual, uncontrovertibledemonstration of the safety and value ofhis scheme.

His personal friends already had anoutline of the proposition, with the

promise that they should hear more, andnow, after a dash through “Spurr’sGeology Applied to Mining,” he wasprepared to tell them all that theirrestricted intelligences could comprehend.

When the right moment arrived, Mr.Sprudell arose impressively. In anattentive silence, he gave an instructivesketch of the history of gold-mining,beginning with the plundering expeditionsof Darius and Alexander, touching lightlyon the mines of Iberia which the Romanwrestled from the Carthagenians, and notforgetting, of course, the conquest ofMexico and Peru inspired by the desirefor gold.

When his guests were properly impressedby the wide range of his reading, he

skillfully brought the subject down tomodern mines and methods, and at last tohis own incredible good fortune, afterhardships of which perhaps they alreadyhad heard, in securing one hundred andsixty acres of valuable placer-ground inthe heart of a wild and unexplored country—a country so dangerous and inaccessiblethat he doubted very much if it had everbeen trod by any white foot beside hisown and old “Bill” Griswold’s.

The climax came when he dramaticallyannounced his intention of making a stockcompany of his acquisition and permittingBartlesville’s leading citizens tosubscribe!

Mr. Sprudell’s guests received the newsof the privilege which was to be accorded

them in an unenthusiastic silence. In facthis unselfish kindness seemed to inspireuneasiness rather than gratitude inBartlesville’s leading citizens. They couldbring themselves to swallow his dinners,but to be coerced into buying his miningstock was a decidedly bitter dose.

Well-meaning but tactless, Abe Coneexpressed the general feeling, when heobserved:

“I been stung once, already, and I ain’tlookin’ for it again.”

To everyone’s surprise Abe got offunscathed. In fact Mr. Sprudell laughedgood-naturedly.

“Stung, Abe—that’s the word. And why?”He answered himself. “Because you were

investing in something you did notunderstand.”

“It looked all right,” Abe defended. “Youcould see the gold stickin’ out all over therock, but I was ‘salted’ so bad I never gotenough to drink since. I don’t understandthis placer-mining either, when it comes tothat.”

Adolph Gotts, who had been a butcher,specializing in sausage, before he becamea city contractor, was about to say thesame thing, when Sprudell interruptedtriumphantly:

“Ah, but you will before I’m done.” It wasthe moment for which he had waited.“Follow me, gentlemen.”

He threw open the door of the adjoining

room with a wide gesture, his face radiantwith elation.

The company stared, and well it might, forat a signal a miniature placer mine startedoperation.

The hotel porter shovelled imported sandinto a sluice-box through which a streamof water ran and at the end was the gold-saving device invented by Mr. Sprudellwhich was to revolutionize placer-mining!

The sand contained the gold-dust thatrepresented half of Bruce’s laborioussummer’s working and when Sprudellfinally removed his coat and cleaned upthe sluice boxes and the gold-savingmachine, the residue left in the gold-panwas enough to give even a “‘49’er” heartfailure.

His triumph was complete. There was anote of awe even in Old Man “Gid”Rathburn’s voice, while Abe Cone fairlygrovelled as he inquired:

“Is it all like that? Where does it comefrom? How did it git into that dirt?”

Mr. Sprudell removed his eyeglasses withgreat deliberation and pursed his lips:

“In my opinion,” he said weightily—hemight have been an eminent geologistgiving his opinion of the conglomerate ofthe Rand banket, or Agricola elucidatinghis theory of vein formation—“in myopinion the gold found in this deposit wasderived from the disintegration of gold-bearing rocks and veins in the mountainsabove. Chemical and mechanicalprocesses are constantly freeing the gold

from the rocks with which it is associatedand wind and water carry it to lowerlevels, where, as in this instance, itconcentrates and forms what we callplacers.”

Mr. Sprudell spoke so slowly and chosehis words with such care that the companyreceived the impression that this theory ofplacer deposit was his own and in spite oftheir personal prejudice their admirationgrew.

“As undoubtedly you know,” continuedMr. Sprudell, tapping his glassesjudicially upon the edge of the sluice-box,“the richest gold in all alluvial deposits—”

“What is an alluvial deposit?” inquiredAbe Cone, eagerly.

Mr. Sprudell looked hard at Abram butdid not answer, one reason being that hewished to rebuke the interruption, andanother that he did not know. Hereiterated: “The richest gold in all alluvialdeposits is found upon bed-rock. Thisplacer, gentlemen, is no exception andwhile it is pay-dirt from the grass rootsand the intermediate sand and gravelabundantly rich to justify their exploitationby Capital, it is upon bed-rock that will beuncovered a fortune to dazzle the mind ofman!

“Like myself, you are practical men—youwant facts and figures, and when youinvest your money you want to be morethan reasonably sure of its return.Gentlemen, I have in the hands of a printer

a prospectus giving the values of theground per cubic yard, and from this data Ihave conservatively, very conservatively,calculated the profits which we mightreasonably anticipate. You will bestartled, amazed, bewildered by themagnitude of the returns upon theinvestment which I am giving you theopportunity to make.

“I shall say no more at present, gentlemen,but when my prospectus is off the press Ishall place it in your hands—”

“Gemman to see you, suh.”

“I’m engaged.”

“Said it was important.” The bell boylingered.

Sprudell frowned.

“Did he give no name?”

“Yes, suh; he said to tell you Burt—BruceBurt.”

Sprudell grew a curious, chalky white andstood quite still. He felt his color goingand turned quickly lest it be observed.

Apologetically, to his guests:

“One moment, if you please.”

He remembered that Bruce Burt hadwarned him that he would come back andhaunt him—he wished the corridor wasone mile long.

There was nothing of the wraith, orphantom, however, in the broad-shouldered figure in a wide-brimmedStetson sitting in the office watching

Sprudell’s approach with ominousintentness.

With a fair semblance of cordialitySprudell hastened forward withoutstretched hand.

“I’m amazed! Astonished—”

“I thought you would be,” Bruce answeredgrimly, ignoring Sprudell’s hand. “I cameto see about that letter—what you’vedone.”

“Everything within my power, my friend—they’re gone.”

“Gone! You could not find them?”

“Not a trace.” Sprudell looked himsquarely in the eye.

“You did your best?”

“Yes, Burt, I did my best.”

“Well,” Bruce got up slowly, “I guess I’llregister.” His voice and face showed hisdisappointment. “You live here, they said,so I’ll see you in the morning and get thepicture and the ‘dust’.”

“In the morning, then. You’ll excuse menow, won’t you? I have a little dinner on.”

He lingered a moment to watch Brucewalk across the office and he noticed howhe towered almost head and shouldersabove the clerk at the desk: and he sawalso, how, in spite of his ill-fitting clothesso obviously ready-made, he commanded,without effort, the attention andconsideration for which, in his heart,Sprudell knew that he himself had to payand pose and scheme.

A thought which was so strong, so like aconviction that it turned him cold, flashedinto his mind as he looked. If, by anywhim of Fate, Helen Dunbar and BruceBurt should ever meet, all the materialadvantages which he had to offer wouldnot count a straw’s weight with the girl hehad determined to marry.

But such a meeting was the most remotething possible. There were nearer bridgesto be crossed, and Sprudell was anxiousto be rid of his guests that he might think.

When Bruce stepped out of the elevatorthe next morning, Sprudell greeted himeffusively and this time Bruce, though withno great enthusiasm, took his plump, softhand. From the first he had a feeling whichgrew stronger, as the forenoon waned, that

Sprudell was “riding herd on him,”guarding him, warding off chanceacquaintances. It amused him, when hewas sure of it, for he thought that it wasdue to Sprudell’s fear lest he betray him inhis rôle of hero, though it seemed to Brucethat short as was their acquaintanceSprudell should know him better than that.When he had the young man corralled inhis office at the Tool Works, he seemeddistinctly relieved and his vigilancerelaxed. He handed Bruce his own letterand a roll of notes, saying with a smilewhich was uncommonly graciousconsidering that the money was his own:

“I suppose it won’t make any difference toyou that your gold-dust has taken on adifferent form.”

“Why, no,” Bruce answered. “It’s all thesame.” Yet he felt a little surprise. “Butthe letter from ‘Slim’s’ sister, and thepicture—I want them, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Sprudell frowned inperplexity, “but they’ve been mislaid. Ican’t think where I put them, to save mysoul.”

“How could you misplace them?” Brucedemanded sharply. “You kept them alltogether, didn’t you? I wanted thatpicture.”

“It’ll turn up, of course,” Sprudell repliedsoothingly. “And when it does I’ll get it toyou by the first mail.”

Bruce did not answer—there seemednothing more to say—but there was

something in Sprudell’s voice and eyesthat was not convincing. Bruce had thefeeling strongly that he was holding backthe letter and the picture, but why? Whatcould they possibly mean to a stranger?He was wrong in his suspicions, ofcourse, but nevertheless, he was intenselyirritated by the carelessness.

He arose, and Sprudell did likewise.

“You are going West from here?”

Bruce answered shortly:

“On the first train.”

Sprudell lowered his lids that Bruceshould not see the satisfaction in his eyes.

“Good luck to you, and once more,congratulations on your safe return.”

Bruce reluctantly took the hand he offered,wondering why it was that Sprudellrepelled him so.

“Good-bye,” he answered indifferently, ashe turned to go.

Abe Cone in his comparatively shortcareer had done many impulsive and ill-considered things but he never committeda worse faux pas than when he dashedunannounced into Sprudell’s office, at thismoment, dragging an out-of-town customerby the arm.

“Excuse me for intrudin’,” he apologizedbreathlessly, “but my friend here, Mr.Herman Florsheim—shake hands with Mr.Sprudell, Herman—wants to catch a trainand he’s interested in what I been tellin’him of that placer ground you stumbled on

this fall. He’s got friends in that countryand wanted to know just where it is. Iremember you said something about OreCity bein’ the nearest post-office, but whatrailroad is it on? If we need any outsidemoney, why, Herman here—”

Bruce’s hand was on the door-knob, buthe lingered, ignoring the most urgentinvitation to go that he ever had seen inany face.

“I’m busy, Abe,” Sprudell said so sharplythat his old friend stared. “You areintruding. You should have sent yourname.”

Bruce closed the door which he hadpartially opened and came back.

“Don’t mind me,” he said slowly, looking

at Sprudell. “I’d like to hear about thatplacer—the one you stumbled on lastfall.”

“We’ll come another time,” Abe said,crestfallen.

Bruce turned to him:

“No, don’t go. I’ve just come from OreCity and I may be able to tell your friendsomething that he wants to know. Where isyour placer ground, Sprudell?”

Sprudell sat down in his office chair,toying with a desk-fixture, while Bruceshoved both hands in his trousers’ pocketsand waited for him to speak.

“Burt,” he said finally, “I regret thisunpleasantness, but the fact is you did notcomply with the law—you have never

recorded and you are located out.”

“So you’ve taken advantage of theinformation with which I trusted you tojump my ground?” Bruce’s eyes blazedinto Sprudell’s.

“The heirs could not be found, you weregiven up for dead, and in any event I’venot exceeded my rights.”

“You have no rights upon that ground!”Bruce answered hotly, “My locationswere properly made in ‘Slim’s’ name andmy own. The sampling and the cabin andthe tunnel count for assessment work. Ihad not abandoned the claim.”

“Nevertheless, my engineer informs me——”

“Your engineer?” A light dawned.

“Wilburt Dill—pity you did not meet him,a bright young chap—”

“I met him,” Bruce answered grimly. “Ishall hope to meet him again.”

“No doubt you will,” Sprudell taunted, “ifyou happen to be there when we’re puttingup the plant. As I was saying, Mr. Dill’stelegram, which came last night, informsme that he has carried out my instructions,and therefore, individually, and as thePresident of the Bitter Root Placer MiningCompany, I now control one hundred andsixty acres of ground up and down theriver, including the bar upon which yourcabin stands.” Sprudell’s small, red mouthcurved in its tantalizing smile.

“You’ll never hold it!” Bruce saidfuriously.

“The days of gun-plays have gone by,”Sprudell reminded him. “And you haven’tgot the price to fight me in the courts.You’d better lay down before you startand save yourself the worry. What can youdo? You have no money, no influence, nobrains to speak of,” he sneered insultingly,“or you wouldn’t be down there doingwhat you are. You haven’t a single assetbut your muscle, and in the open marketthat’s worth about three-fifty a day.”

Bruce stood like a mute, the blood burningin his face. Even toward “Slim” he neverhad felt such choking, speechless rage asthis.

“You Judas Iscariot!” he said when hecould speak. “You betrayed my hospitality—my trust. Next to a cache robber you’re

the meanest kind of a thief I’ve everknown. I’ve read your story in thenewspaper, and so has the old man whosaved your rotten life. We know you forthe lying braggart that you are. You madeyourself out a hero when you were aweakling and a coward.

“You’re right—you tell the truth when youtwit me with the fact that I have no moneyno influence, perhaps no brains—not asingle asset, as you say, but brute strength;yet somehow, I’ll beat you!” He steppedcloser and looking deep into the infantileblue eyes that had grown as hard asgranite, reiterated—“Somehow I’m goingto win!”To say that Abe Cone and Mr. HermanFlorsheim departed is not enough—they

faded, vanished, without a sound.

Sprudell’s eyes quailed a little beneath thefierce intensity of Bruce’s gaze, but for amoment only.

“I’ve heard men talk like that before.” Heshrugged a shoulder and looked Bruce upand down—at his coat too tight across thechest, at his sleeves, too short for hislength of arm, at his clumsy miner’s shoes,as though to emphasize the gulf which laybetween Bruce’s condition and his own.Then with his eyes bright withvindictiveness and his hateful smile ofconfidence upon his lips, he stood in hissetting of affluence and power waiting forBruce to go, that he might close the door.

XII

Thorns—and a Few Roses

Helen Dunbar was exercising that doubtfuleconomy, walking to save car-fare, whenshe saw Mae Smith with her eyes fixedupon her in deadly purpose making a bee-line across the street. If there was any onething more needed to complete herdepression it was a meeting with MaeSmith.

She stopped and waited, trying to thinkwhat it was Mae Smith resembled whenshe hurried like that. A penguin! that wasit—Mae Smith walked exactly like a

penguin. But Helen did not smile at thecomparison, instead, she continued to looksomberly and critically at the woman whoapproached. When Helen was lowspirited, as now, Mae Smith always rosebefore her like a spectre. She saw herselfat forty another such passé newspaperwoman trudging from one indifferenteditor to another peddling “space.” Andwhy not? Mae Smith had been young andgood-looking once, also a local celebrityin her way when she had signed a columnin a daily. But she had grown stale withthe grind, and having no special talent orpersonality had been easily replaced whena new Managing Editor came. Now,though chipper as a sparrow, she wasalways in need of a small loan.

As Helen stood on the corner, in hertailor-made, which was the last word insimplicity and good lines, the time lookedvery remote when she, too, would bepeddling space in a $15 gown, that hadfaded in streaks, but Helen had nohallucinations concerning her own ability.She knew that she had no great aptitudefor her work and realized that her successwas due more often to the fact that shewas young, well-dressed, and attractivethan to any special talent. This was allvery well now, while she got results, butwhat about the day when her shoes spreadover the soles and turned over at the heels,and she bought her blouse “off the pile?”When her dollar gloves were shabby andwould not button at the wrist? What aboutthe day when she was too dispirited to

dress her hair becomingly, but combed itstraight up at the back, so that her“scolding locks” hung down upon hercoat-collar, and her home-trimmed hatrode carelessly on one ear?

All these things were characteristic ofMae Smith, who personified unsuccessful,anxious middle-age. But there was onething, she told herself as she returned MaeSmith’s effusive greeting, that never,never, no matter how sordid her lotbecame, should there emanate from herthat indefinable odor of poverty—cooking, cabbage, lack of ventilation, badair—not if she had to hang her clothing outthe window by a string!

“I’ve been over to the Chronicle office,”Mae Smith chattered. “Left some fashion

notes for the Sunday—good stuff—but Idon’t know whether he’ll use ’em; that kidthat’s holdin’ down McGennigle’s jobdon’t buy much space. He’s got it in forme anyhow. I beat him on a conventionstory when he was a cub. I was just goin’down to your office.”

“Yes? I’m on the way to the doctor’s.”

“You don’t look well, that’s a fact. Sick?”

Helen smiled, faintly. “I do feelmiserable. Like every one else I got adrenching at the Thanksgiving Game.”

“That’s too bad,” Mae Smith murmuredabsently. What was a cold compared tothe fact that she needed two dollars and ahalf? “Say, I wonder if I could get a littleloan for a few days? You know I bought

this suit on the installment plan and I’mtwo weeks behind on it. The collector wasaround yesterday and said he’d have totake it back. I can’t go around gettin’fashion notes in my kimono, and themilkman wouldn’t leave any milk until Ipaid for the last ticket. I’m up against itand I thought maybe—”

“How much do you want?”

“About two dollars and a half.” The tenselook faded instantly from Miss Smith’sface.

Helen did not mention, as she laid thatamount in her eager hand, that it was partof the money she had saved to buy a pairof long gloves.

“Thank you”—gaily—“ever so much

obliged! I’ve got a corking idea in myhead for a Sunday special and just as soonas I write it and get paid—”

“No hurry,” Helen answered with aquizzical smile, and she watched MaeSmith clamber joyously on a street car toride two blocks and spend the fare thatHelen had walked eight blocks to save.

The girl’s spirits were low and her faceshowed depression when she mounted thebroad stone steps of the physician’s cityoffice and residence, but when she camedown the look had changed to a kind offrozen fright.

She had not felt like herself for weeks, butshe did not dream that it was anythingwhich time and a little medicine wouldnot cure. Now, he had told her that she

must leave the city—stop her work atonce.

He advised the South or West—particularly the West—some place whereit was high and dry. How lovely—and sosimple! Just stop work and start! Whydidn’t he say St. Petersburg or the Arcticcircle. With no income save what sheearned from week to week they wereequally impossible.

She had come in time, he had assured her,but she must not delay. Filled withconsternation, sick with dread and horrorof what she saw before her, Helen walkedslowly to her hotel, the shabby placewhere she had found board and lodgingwithin her means. She loathed it,everything about it—its faded tawdry

splendor, the flashy, egotistical theatricalfolk who frequented it, the salariedmediocrities who were “permanent” likeherself, the pretentious, badly cookedfood; but as she climbed the yellowishmarble steps she thought despairingly thateven this would be beyond her reach someday.

If only Freddie were alive! There was alump in her throat as she removed her hatand looked at her pale face in the old-fashioned bureau mirror in her room. Shemight have gone to him in such anemergency as this—she had saved moneyenough to have managed that. He had beena bad son and an utterly indifferentbrother, but surely he would not haveturned her out.

Her shoulders drooped and two tearsslipped from beneath her lashes as she saton the edge of her narrow bed with herhands lying passively in her lap. Tearswere so weak and futile in a world whereonly action counted that it was seldomthey ever reached her eyes, though theysometimes came close.

Practical as Helen’s life had made her inmost things, she was still young enough tobuild high hopes on a romanticimprobability. And nothing was moreimprobable than that “Slim” Naudain,even if he had lived, ever would havereturned to make amends.

But she had thrown the glamour ofromance about her scapegrace brotherfrom the day he had flung out of the house

in ignominy, boasting with the arroganceof inexperience that he would succeed andcome back triumphant, to fill them withenvy and chagrin. She never had heardfrom him directly since, but she had kepther childish, unreasoning faith that hewould make good his boast andcompensate her for her share of the fortunewhich it had cost to save him from his evildeeds.

She had not realized until Sprudell hadtold her of his death how strongly she hadcounted upon him. He was the only oneleft to her of her own blood, and had beenthe single means of escape that she couldsee from the exhausting, uncongenial grindand the long, lonely hours in the shabbyhotel when her work was done. If the

future had looked dark and hopelessbefore, how much worse it seemed withillness staring her in the face!

The money Freddie had left her wouldhave gone a long way toward the vacationafter she had used the larger part of it topay off a long-standing obligation whichher mother had incurred. The thought ofthe money reminded her of the letter andphotograph. She brushed her wet cheekswith her hand and getting up took thesoiled and yellowing envelope from thebureau drawer, wondering again why hismurderer had sent it back.

The quick tears came once more as sheread the ingenuous scrawl! What centuriesago it seemed since she had written that!She bit her lip hard but in spite of herself

she cried—for her lost illusions—for hermother—for that optimistic outlook uponlife which never would come back. Shehad learned much since that smiling“pitcher” was taken—what “mortgages”mean, for instance—that poverty has moredepressing depths than the lack of servantsand horses, and that “marrying well,” asshe interpreted a successful marriage then,is seldom—outside of “fiction andPittsburgh”—for the girl who earns herown living. Young men who inheritincomes or older men of affairs do notlook in shops and offices for their wives.Helen Dunbar had no hallucinations onthis score.

Propinquity, clothes, social backing, thenecessary adjuncts to “marrying well,”

had not been among her advantages formany years. There remained on herhorizon only the friendly youths ofmediocre attainments that she met in herdaily life. She liked them individually andcollectively in business, but socially,outside of the office, they made no appeal.

Ill-health was a misfortune she never hadconsidered. It was a new spectre, theworst of all. If one were well one couldalways do something even without muchtalent, but helpless, dependent—the dreadwhich filled her as she walked up anddown the narrow confines of her roomwas different from the vague fears of theinexperienced. Hers came from actualknowledge and observation obtained inthe wide scope of her newspaper life. The

sordid straits which reduce existence to amatter of food and a roof, the ceaselessanxiety destroying every vestige ofpersonal charm, the necessity of asking forloans that both borrower and lender knowto be gifts—grudgingly given—acceptedin mingled bitterness and relief—HelenDunbar had seen it all. The pictures whichrose before her were real. In her nervousstate she imagined herself some dayenvying even Mae Smith, who at least hadhealth and irrepressible spirits.

But there must be no more tears, she toldherself at last. They were a confession ofweakness, they dissipated courage; andthe handkerchief which had been a moistball dried in her hot hand. She said aloudto her flushed reflection in the glass:

“Well,” determinedly, “I’ve never thoughtmyself a coward and I won’t act like onenow. There’s been many a thousandbefore me gone through this experiencewithout whining and I guess I can do thesame. Until I’m a sure enough down-and-outer I’ll do the best I can. I must find acheaper room and buy an oil-stove. Ugh!the first step on the down grade.”

There was a rap upon the door and shelowered the shade a little so that the bell-boy with her evening paper should not seeher reddened eyes. Instead of the paper hecarried a long pasteboard box.

Flowers? How extraordinary—perhapsPeters; no, not Peters, as she read thename of a side street florist on the box, hewas not to be suspected of any such

economy as that. Roses—a dozen—a littletoo full blown to last very long but lovely.T. Victor Sprudell’s card fell out as shetook them from the box.

XIII

“Off His Range”

Bruce stood before the blackboard in theBartlesville station studying the schedule.A train went west at 11.45. The first trainwent east at 11.10. He hesitated a moment,then the expression of uncertainty upon his

face hardened into decision. He turnedquickly and bought a ticket east. IfSprudell had lied he was going to find itout.

As he sat by the car window watching thesmug, white farm-houses and big redbarns of the middle west fly by, their dullrespectability, their commonplaceprosperity vaguely depressed him. What ifhe should be sentenced for life to walk upto his front door between two rows ofwhitewashed rocks, to live surrounded bya picket fence, and to die behind a pair ofneat green blinds? But mostly his thoughtswere a jumble of Sprudell, of hisinsincere cordiality and the unexpecteddenouement when Abe Cone’s call hadforced his hand; of Dill and his mission,

and disgust at his own carelessness infailing to record his claims.

They concentrated finally upon the workwhich lay before him once he haddemonstrated the truth or falsity ofSprudell’s assertion that Slim’s familywere not to be found. He turned thesituation over and over in his mind andalways it resolved itself into the samething, namely, his lack of money. Thatobstacle confronted him at every turn andyet in spite of it, in spite of the doubts andfears which reason and caution togetherthrust into his mind, his determination towin, to outwit Sprudell, to make good hisboast, grew stronger with every turn of thecar wheels.

Ambition was already awake within him;

but it needed Sprudell’s sneers to sting hispride, Sprudell’s ingratitude and arrogantassumption of success in whatever itpleased him to undertake, to arouse inBruce that stubborn, dogged, half-sullenobstinacy which his father had calledmulishness but which the farmer’s wifewith her surer woman’s intuition hadrecognized as one of the traits which makefor achievement. It is a quality whichstands those who have it in good steadwhen failure stares them in the face.

It did not take Bruce long to discover thatin whatever else Sprudell hadprevaricated he at least had told the truthwhen he said that the Naudain family haddisappeared. They might never haveexisted, for all the trace he could find of

them in the city of a million.

The old-fashioned residence where“Slim” had lived, with its dingytrimmings, and its marble steps worn inhollows, affected him strangely as hestood across the street where he could seeit from roof to basement. It made “Slim”seem more real, more like “folks” andless like a malignant presence. It had beenan imposing house in its time but now itwas given over to doctors’ offices andstudios, while a male hair-dresser in thebasement transformed the straight locks offashionable ladies into a wonderfulmarcelle.

Bruce went down to make some inquiriesand he stared at the proprietor as thoughhe were some strange, hybrid animal when

he came forward testing the heat of acurling-iron against his fair cheek.

No, the hair-dresser shook his fluffy,blonde head, he never had heard of afamily named Naudain, although he hadbeen four years in the building and kneweveryone upstairs. A trust company ownedthe place now; he was sure of that becausethe rent collector was just a shade moreprompt than the rising sun. Yes, mostcertainly he would give Bruce thecompany’s address and it was no troubleat all.

He was a fascinating person to Bruce,who would have liked to prolong theconversation, but the disheveled customerin the chair was growing restless, so hetook the address, thanked him, and went

out wondering whimsically if through anycataclysm of nature he should turn up ahair-dresser, sweet-scented, redolent oftonique, smelling of pomade, how itwould seem to be curling a lady’s hair?

Back in the moderate-priced hotel wherehe had established himself, he set aboutinterviewing by telephone the Naudainswhose names appeared in the directory. Itwas a nerve-racking task to Bruce, whowas unfamiliar with the use of thetelephone, and those of the name withwhom he succeeded in getting incommunication seemed singularly busyfolk, indifferent to the amenities andentirely uninterested in his quest. But hepersisted until he had exhausted the list.

Since there was no more to do that night,

in fact no more to do at all if the trustcompany failed him, he went to bed: buteverything was too strange for him tosleep well.

A sense of the nearness of people madehim uneasy, and the room seemed closealthough there was no steam and thewindow was wide open. The noises of thestreet disturbed him; they were poorsubstitutes for the plaintive music of thewind among the pines. His bed was fartoo soft; he believed he could have slept ifonly he had had his mattress of pine-boughs and his bear-grass pillow. Theonly advantage that his present quartershad over his cabin was the hot and coldwater. It really was convenient, he toldhimself with a grin, to have a spring in the

room.

The street lamp made his room like dayand as he lay wide-eyed in the white lightlistening to the clatter of hoofs over thepavement, he recalled his childishambition to buy up all the old horses in theworld when he was big—he smiled nowat the size of the contract—all the horseshe could find that were stiff and sore, andhalf dead on their feet from straining onpreposterous loads; the horses that werelashed and cut and cursed because in theirwretched old age they could not step outlike colts. He meant to turn them into apasture where the grass was knee-deepand they could lie with their necksoutstretched in the sun and rest their tiredlegs.

He had explained the plan to his motherand he remembered how she had assuredhim gravely that it was a fine idea indeed.It was from her that he had inherited hispassionate fondness for animals. Crueltyto a dumb brute hurt him like a blow.

On the trip out from Ore City anoverworked stage horse straining on asixteen per cent. grade and more haddropped dead in the harness—a victim tothe parsimony of a government that hasspent millions on useless dams, pumpingplants, and reservoirs, but continues topay cheerfully the salaries of the engineersresponsible for the blunders; footing thebills for the junkets of hordes of“foresters,” of “timber-inspectors” andinspectors inspecting the inspectors, and

what not, yet forcing the parcel post uponsome poor mountain mail-contractorwithout sufficient compensation, hagglingover a pittance with the man it is ruininglike some Baxter street Jew.

Like many people in the West, Bruce hadcome to have a feeling for some of thedepartments of the government, whoseactivities had come under his observation,that was as strong as a personal enmity.

He put the picture of the stage-horse,staggering and dying on its feet, resolutelyfrom his mind.

“I never will sleep if I get to thinking ofthat,” he told himself. “It makes me hot allover again.”

From this disquieting subject his thought

reverted to his own affairs, to “Slim’s”family and his self-appointed task, to theplacer and Sprudell. Nor were thesereflections conducive to sleep. More andmore he realized how much truth therewas in Sprudell’s taunts. Without moneyhow could he fight him in the Courts?There were instances in plenty whereprospectors had been driven from thatwhich was rightfully theirs because theywere without the means to defend theirproperty.

Squaw Creek was the key to the situation.This was a fact which became more andmore plain. However, Sprudell wasundoubtedly quite as well aware of this ashe was himself and would lose no time inapplying for the water right. The situation

looked dark indeed to Bruce as he tossedand turned. Then like a lost word or namewhich one gropes for for hours, days,weeks perhaps, there suddenly jumpedbefore Bruce’s eyes a paragraph from thestate mining laws which he had glancedover carelessly in an idle moment. It stoodout before him now as though it were indouble-leaded type.

“If it isn’t too late! If it isn’t too late!” hebreathed excitedly. “Dog-gone, if it isn’ttoo late!”

With the same movement that he sprangout on the floor he reached for his hat; thenhe recalled that telegraph operators weresometimes ladies and it would be as wellto dress. He made short work of theperformance, however, and went

downstairs two steps at a time rather thanwait for the sleepy bell-boy, who diddouble duty on the elevator at night. Thetelegraph office was two squares away,the wondering night-clerk told him, andBruce, stepping frequently on hisshoelaces, went up the street at a gaitwhich was more than half suspicious tothe somnambulant officer on the beat.

The trust company’s doors had not beenopened many minutes the next morningbefore Bruce arrived. The clerk wholistened to his inquiries was willingenough to give him any information that hehad but he had none beyond the fact thatthe property in question had passed fromthe possession of a family named Dunbarinto the hands of the trust company many

years ago, and no person named Naudainhad figured in the transfer, or any othertransfer so far as he could ascertain fromconsulting various deeds and documents inthe vault.

It was puzzling enough to Bruce, who wassure that he had read the number and thestreet correctly and had remembered it,but the clerk was waiting politely for himto go, so he thanked him and went out.

As Bruce stood in the wide stone archwayof the building watching the stream ofpassers-by hastening to their offices andshops, some faint glimmerings of themagnitude of the task he had set himself inraising money among strangers to defendthe placer ground if need be and install thehydro-electric plant for working it, came

to him. He had little, if any, idea how tobegin or where, and he had a feeling as hestudied the self-centred faces of thehurrying throng that if he should fall on hisknees before anyone among them and begfor a hearing they would merely walkaround him and go on.

It occurred to Bruce that the clerk insidewas an uncommonly good fellow, andfriendly; he believed he would ask hisadvice. He might make some usefulsuggestions. Bruce acted at once upon theidea and again the clerk came forwardcheerfully. Going to the point at once,Bruce demanded:

“How would a stranger go about raisingmoney here for a mining proposition?”

A quizzical expression came into the

clerk’s eyes and a faint smile played abouthis mouth. He looked Bruce over withsome personal interest before heanswered.

“If I was the stranger,” he said dryly, “I’dget a piece of lead-pipe and stand in anarea-way about 11.30 one of these darknights. That’s the only way I know to raisemoney for mining purposes in this town.”

Bruce stepped back abruptly and his darkface reddened.

“Sorry I bothered you,” he eyed the clerksteadily, “but I made a mistake in the wayI sized you up.”

It was the clerk’s turn to flush, but becausehe really was a good fellow and there wasthat in Bruce’s unusual appearance that he

liked, he called him back when he wouldhave gone.

“I apologize,” he said frankly, “I hadn’tany business to get funny when you askedme a civil question, but the fact is thetown’s been worked to death with miningschemes. Nearly everyone’s been bitten tothe point of hydrophobia and I doubt if youcan raise a dollar without friends.”

“I wouldn’t say I had much show if that’sthe case,” Bruce answered, “for I’m along way off my range.”

In his well-worn Stetson, with his darkskin tanned by sun and wind and snow to ashade that was only a little lighter than anIndian’s; using, when he talked, the wide,careless gestures that bespeak the farWest, Bruce was so obviously of the

country beyond the Mississippi that theclerk could not repress a smile.

“I’ve never promoted anything moreimportant than a theatre party or a motortrip,” the clerk vouchsafed, “but I shouldthink some of the brokers who handlemining stocks would be the people to see.There’s a good firm two doors above. Ican give you the names of a few peoplewho sometimes take ‘flyers’ on the sidebut even they don’t go into anything thatisn’t pretty strongly endorsed by someonethey know. There’s always the chancethough,” he continued, looking Bruce overspeculatively, “that someone may take afancy to you personally. I’ve noticed thatpersonality sometimes wins where factsand figures couldn’t get a look in.”

Bruce answered simply:

“That lets me out again, I’ve no silvertongue. I’ve talked with too few people tohave much fluency.”

The clerk did not contradict him though hewas thinking that Bruce could thank hispersonality for the time he was giving himand the pains he was taking to help him.

“Here,” handing Bruce a hastily writtenlist. “You needn’t tell them I sent you forit wouldn’t do any good. Some of themcome in here often but they look upon meas an office fixture—like this mahoganydesk, or that Oriental rug.”

“This is mighty good of you,” said Bruce,as grateful as though he had writtenspecial letters of endorsement for him to

all his friends. “Say,” with his impulsivehospitality, “I wish you could come outand visit me. Couldn’t you get away theend of August when the bull-trout and theredsides are biting good?”

“Me?” The clerk started, then hemurmured wistfully: “When the bull-troutand the redsides are biting good! Gee! Ilike the way that sounds! Then,” with aresigned gesture, “I was never fartherwest than South Bethlehem; I never expectto have the price.”

He looked so efficient and well dressedthat Bruce had thought he must receive alarge salary and he felt badly to learn thatthe prosperity of such a nice chap wasonly clothes deep. He promised to look inon him before he left the city and tell him

how he had gotten on; then he took his listand went back to the hotel prepared tospend some anxious hours in the timewhich must intervene before he couldexpect to hear from his night telegram. Hehoped the answer would come in themorning, for disappointments, he hadlearned, were easier to bear when the sunshone.

The telegram was awaiting him when hereturned from an excursion to adepartment store which had been fraughtwith considerable excitement. A majesticblonde had assumed a kind of protectorateover him and dissuaded him from hisoriginal intention of buying thirty yards ofruching for Ma Snow with a firmness thatapproached a refusal to sell him anything

so old-fashioned, although he protestedthat it had looked beautiful in the neck andsleeves of his mother’s gowns somefifteen years before. Neglecting to explainthat his gift was for a woman all of fifty, apink crepe-de-chine garment was heldalluringly before his embarrassed eyesand a filmy petticoat, from beneath which,in his mind’s eye, Bruce could see PaSnow’s carpet-slippers, in which MaSnow “eased her feet,” peeping in and out.In the end he fought his way out—throughmore women than he had seen together inall his life—with a box of silk hose inappallingly vivid colors and a beaded bagwhich, he had it on the saleslady’s honor,was “all the rage.”

Bruce took the yellow envelope which the

desk-clerk handed him and looked at itwith a feeling of dread. He had countedthe hours until it should come and now hewas afraid to open it. It meant so much tohim—everything in fact—the moment wasa crisis but he managed to tear theenvelope across with no outwardindication of his dread.

He took in the contents at a glance andthere was such relief, such renewed hopein his radiant face that the desk-clerk wasmoved to observe smilingly: “Good news,I gather.” And Bruce was so glad, sohappy, that for the moment he could thinkof nothing more brilliant to answer than—“Well I should say so! I should say so!”

XIV

His Only Asset

It would be a pleasure to record thatCapital found Bruce’s personality soirresistible that his need of funds met withinstant response, that the dashingpicturesqueness of his appearance andcharm of his unconventional speech andmanner was so fascinating that Capitalviolated all the rules observed byexperienced investors and handed out itschecks with the cheery “God bless you m’boy!” which warms the heart towardCapital in fiction. Such, however, was notthe case.

It took only one interview to disabuseBruce’s mind of any faint, sneaking ideahe may have had that he was doing Capitala favor for which it would duly thank him.The person whom he honored with hisfirst call strongly conveyed the impressionafter he had stated his case that heconsidered that he, Bruce, had obtainedvaluable time under false pretenses.Certainly the last emotion which heseemed to entertain for the opportunitygiven him was gratitude, and his refusal tobe interested amounted to a curt dismissal.

The second interview, during which Brucewas cross-examined by a cold-eyedgentleman with a cool, impersonal voice,was sufficient to make him realize withtolerable clearness his total

unpreparedness. What engineer ofrecognized standing had reported upon theground? None! To what extent, then, hadthe ground been sampled? How many test-pits had been sunk, and how far to bed-rock? What was the yardage? Where werehis certified assay sheets, and hisengineer’s estimate for hydro-electricinstallation? What transportationfacilities?

Bruce, still dazed by the onslaught, hadturned and looked at the door which hadclosed behind him with a briskness whichseemed to say “Good riddance,” andmuttered, thinking of the clerk’s onesanguine suggestion: “Personality! I mightas well be a hop-toad.”

But in his chagrin he went to extremes in

his contemptuous estimate of himself, forthere was that about him which generallygot him a hearing and a longer one thanwould have been accorded the average“promoter” with nothing more tangibleupon which to raise money than hisunsupported word. His Westernphraseology and sometimes humoroussimiles, his unexpected whimsicalitiesand a certain naïveté secretly amusedmany of those whom he approached,though they took the best of care not toshow it lest he mistake their interest inhimself for interest in his proposition.

One or two went so far as to pass him onby giving him the name of a friend, but,mostly, they listened coldly, critically, andrefused with some faint excuse or none.

There was no harder task that Bruce couldhave set himself than applying to such menfor financial help for, underneath, he wasstill the sensitive boy who had boltedfrom the dinner-table in tears and anger toescape his father’s ridicule, and,furthermore, he was accustomed to thefriendly spirit and manner of the far West.

The chilling stiffness, the skepticism andsuspicion, the curtness which was close torudeness, at first bewildered, then hurt andhumiliated him, finally filling him with aresentment which was rapidly reaching apoint where it needed only an uncivilword or act too much to produce anexplosion.

But if he was like that boy of other days inhis quick pride, neither had he lost the

tenacity of purpose which had kept himdragging one sore, bare foot after the otherto get to his mother when the gulches hehad to pass were black and full of ghostly,fearsome things that the hired man hadseen when staying out late o’ nights. Thistrait now kept him trudging grimly fromone office to another, offering himself atarget for rebuffs that to him had the stingof insults.

He had come to know so well what toexpect that he shrank painfully from eachinterview. It required a strong effort ofwill to turn in at the given number and askfor the man he had come to see, and whenhe saw him it required all his courage toexplain the purpose of his call. Bruceunderstood fully now how he was

handicapped by the lack of data and thefact that he was utterly unknown, but solong as there was one glimmer of hopethat someone would believe him, wouldsee the possibilities in his proposition ashe saw them, and investigate for himselfBruce would not quit. The list of namesthe clerk had given him and many othershad long since been exhausted. Lookingback it seemed to him that he was a babein swaddling clothes when he started outwith his telegram and his addresses, sofull of high hopes and the roseateexpectations of inexperience.

Day after day he plodded, his dark faceset in grim lines of purpose, following upclews leading to possible investors whichhe obtained here and there, and always

with the one result. What credentials hadhe? To what past successes could hepoint? None? Ah, good-day.

One morning Bruce opened his eyes andthe conviction that he had failed leapedinto his mind as though it had been waitinglike a cat at a mouse hole to pounce uponhim the instant of his return toconsciousness.

“You have failed! You have got to giveup! You are done!” The words poundinginto his brain affected him like hammerblows over the heart. He laid motionless,inert, his face grown sallow upon thepillow, and he thought that the feelings ofa condemned man listening to the buildingof his gallows must be something like hisown.

Those who have struggled for something,tried with all their heart and soul, foughtto the last atom of their strength, andfailed, know something of the sickeningheaviness, the dull, aching depressionwhich takes the vitality and seems actuallyto slow up the beating of the heart.

Out in the world, he told himself, wheremen won things by their brains, he hadfailed like any pitiable weakling; that hehad been handicapped by unpreparednesswas no palliation of the crime of failure.Ignorance was no excuse. In humiliationand chagrin he attributed the mistakes ofinexperience to lack of intelligence. Hismother had over-estimated him, he hadover-estimated himself. It waspresumption to have supposed he was

fitted for anything but manual labor.Sprudell had been right, he thoughtbitterly, when he had sneered that musclewas his only asset.

He could see himself loading hisbelongings into Slim’s old boat, hisblankets and the tattered soogan andbobbing through the rapids with theblackened coffee-pot, the frying pan, andlard cans jingling in the bottom, whileSprudell, with his hateful, womanishsmile, watched his ignominious departure.Bruce drew his sleeve across his dampforehead. If there was any one thing whichcould goad him to further action it wasthis picture.

He arose and dressed slowly. Bruce hadknown fatigue, the weakness of hunger, but

never anything like the leaden, heavy-footed depression which comes fromintense despondency and hopelessness.

As his finances had gone down he hadgone up, until he was now locatedpermanently on the top floor of the hotelwhere the hall carpets and furniture weregiven their final try-out before going intothe discards. The only thing whichstopped him from going further was theroof. He had no means of judging what theoriginal colors in his rug had been save byan inch or two close to the wall, and everybrass handle on the drawers of his dressercame out at the touch. The lone faucet ofcold water dripped constantly and he hadto stand on a chair each time he raised thesplit green shade. When he wiped his face

he fell through the hole in the towel; hecould never get over a feeling of surpriseat meeting his hands in the middle, and thepatched sheets on his bed looked like cityplots laid out in squares.

He loathed the shabbiness of it, and thesuggestion of germs, decay, down-at-the-heel poverty added to his depression. Henever had any such feelings about hisrough bunk filled with cedar boughs andhis pine table as he had about this ironbed, with its scratched enamel and tinknobs, which deceived nobody intothinking them brass, or the wobbly dresserthat he swore at heartily each time heturned back a fingernail trying to claw adrawer open.

Bruce had vowed that so long as a stone

remained unturned he would stay and turnit, but—he had run out of stones. Threeuntried addresses were left in his note-book and he looked at them as he ate hisfrugal breakfast speculating as to whichwas nearest.

“If I’d eaten as much beef as I have crowsince I came to this man’s town,” hemeditated as he dragged his unwilling feetup the street, “I’d be a ‘shipper’ in primeA1 condition. I’ve a notion I haven’t puton much weight since it became the chiefarticle of my diet. If thirty days of quailwill stall a man what will six weeks ofcrow do to him? I doubt if I will everentirely get my self-respect back unless,”he added with the glimmer of a smile, “Igo around and lick some of them before I

leave.”

“I suppose,” his thoughts ran on, “that it’sa part of the scheme of life that a personmust eat his share of crow before he getsin a position to make some one else eat it,but dog-gone!” with a wry face, “I’ve sureswallowed a double portion.” Then he fellto wondering if—he consulted his note-book—J. Winfield Harrah had specializedat all upon his method of serving up thisgame-bird which knows no closedseason?

As he sat in Harrah’s outer office on ahigh-backed settee of teak-wood ornatewith dragons and Chinese devils, with hisfeet on a rug which would have gone along way toward installing a power-plant,looking at pictures of Jake Kilrain in

pugilistic garb and pose, the racing yachtShamrock under full sail, andHeatherbloom taking a record smashingjump, the spider-legged office boy camefrom inside endeavoring to hide somepleasurable excitement under a semblanceof dignity and office reticence.

“Mr. Harrah has been detained and won’tbe here for perhaps an hour.”

“I’ll wait,” Bruce replied laconically.

The office boy lingered. He fancied Brucebecause of his size and his hat and aresemblance that he thought he sawbetween him and his favorite western heroof the movies; besides, he was burstingwith a proud secret. He hunched hisshoulders and looked cautiously behindtoward the inner offices. Between his

palms he whispered:

“He’s been arrested.”

It delighted him that Bruce’s eyeswidened.

“Third time in a month—speedin’ inJersey—his new machine is 80 horse-power—! A farmer put tacks in the roadand tried to kill him wit’ a pitchfork. Say!my boss et him. I bet he’ll get fined thelimit.” His red necktie swelled palpablyand he swaggered proudly. “Pooh! hedon’t care. My boss, he—”

“Willie!”

“Yes ma’am.” The stenographer’s callinterrupted further confidences fromWillie and he scuttled away, leavingBruce with the impression that the boy’s

admiration for his boss was not unmixedwith apprehension.

The hour had gone when the door openedand a huge, fiery-bearded, dynamic sort ofperson went swinging past Bruce withouta glance and on to the inner offices. Theoffice boy’s husky “That’s him!” was notneeded to tell him that J. Winfield Harrahhad arrived. The air suddenly seemedcharged electrically. The stenographerspeeded up and dapper young clerks andaccountants bent to their work with a zealand assiduity which merited immediatepromotion, while “Willie,” Bruce noticed,came from a brief session in the privateoffice with the dazed look of one who hasjust been through an experience.

When Bruce’s turn came Harrah sat at his

desk like an expectant ogre; there was thatin his attitude which seemed to say:“Enter; I eat promoters.” His eyesmeasured Bruce from head to foot in aglance of appraisement, and Bruce on hispart subjected Harrah to the same swiftscrutiny.

Without at all being able to explain itBruce felt instantly at his ease, heexperienced a kind of relief as does astranger in a strange land when hediscovers someone who speaks histongue.

Harrah appeared about Bruce’s age,perhaps a year or two older, and he wasas tall, though lacking Bruce’s thicknessand breadth of shoulder. His arms werelong as a gorilla’s and he had huge white

fists with freckles on the back that lookedlike ginger-snaps. Fiery red eyebrows asstiff as two toothbrushes bristled above apair of vivid blue eyes, while his shortbeard resembled nothing so much as aneatly trimmed whisk broom, flaming incolor. His skin was florid and his hair,which was of a darker shade than hisbeard, was brushed straight back from ahigh, white forehead. A tuft of hair stoodup on his crown like the crest on a game-cock. Everything about him indicatedvolcanic temperament, virility, andimpulsiveness which amounted toeccentricity.

Harrah represented to Bruce practicallyhis last chance, but there was nothing inHarrah’s veiled, non-committal eyes as he

motioned Bruce to a chair and inquiredbrusquely: “Well—what kind of a wild-cat have you got?” which would have ledan observer to wager any large amountthat his last chance was a good one.

Bruce’s eyes opened and he stared for thefraction of a second at the rudeness of thequestion, then they flashed as he answeredshortly.

“I’m not peddling wild-cats, or sellingmining stock to widows and orphans—ifyou happen to be either.”

Capital is not accustomed to tart answersto its humor caustic, from persons in needof financial assistance for theirenterprises. Harrah raised his toothbrusheyebrows and once more he favoredBruce with a sweeping glance of interest,

which Bruce, in his sensitive pride,resented.

“Who sent you?” Harrah demandedroughly.

“Never mind who sent me,” Bruceanswered in the same tone, reaching forhis hat which he had laid on the floorbeside him, “but he had his dog-gonenerve directing me to an ill-manneredfour-flusher like you.”

The color flamed to Harrah’s cheek bonesand over his high, white forehead.

“You’ve got a curious way of trying toraise money,” he observed. “I suppose,”dryly, “that’s what you’re here for?”

“You suppose right,” Bruce answeredhotly as he stood up, “but I’m no damn

pauper. And get it out of your head,” hewent on as the accumulated wrath ofweeks swept over him, “that you’retalking to the office boy. I’ve foundsomebody at last that’s big enough to standup to and tell ’em to go to hell! Sabe? Youneedn’t touch my proposition, you needn’teven listen to it, but, hear me, you talkcivil!”

As Harrah arose Bruce took a step closerand looked at him squarely.

A lurking imp sprang to life in Harrah’svivid eyes, a dare-devil look which foundits counterpart in Bruce’s own.

“I believe you think you’re a better manthan I am.”

“I can lick you any jump in the road,”

Bruce answered promptly.

Harrah looked at him speculatively,without resentment, then his lips parted ina grin which showed two sharp, white,prominent front teeth.

“On the square,” eagerly, “do you thinkyou can down me?”

“I know it,” curtly—“any old time orplace. Now, if it suits you.”

To Bruce’s amazement Harrah took hishand and shook it joyfully.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you could!You look as hard as nails. Do you box orwrestle?”

Bruce wondered if he was crazy.

He answered shortly: “Some.”

“Bully!” excitedly. “The best luck ever!We’ll have a try-out in private and ifyou’re the moose I think you are you canbreak him in two!”

“Break who in two?”

“The Spanish Bull-dog! Eureka!” hechuckled gleefully. “I’ll back you to thelimit!”

“What’s the matter with you?” Brucedemanded. “Are you loco?”

“Close to it!” the eccentric capitalist criedgaily,—“with joy! He bested me properthe other night at the Athletic Club—hedusted the mat with me—and I want toplay even.” Seeing that Bruce’s face didnot lose its look of mystification he curbedhis exuberance: “You see I’ve got some

little reputation as a wrestler so whenBilly Harper ran across this fellow inCentral America he imported him onpurpose to reduce the swelling in myhead, he said, and he did it, for while thechap hasn’t much science he’s sopowerful I couldn’t hold him. But you, byGeorge! wait till I spring you on him!”

“Say,” Bruce answered resentfully, “Icame East to raise money for a hydro-electric power plant, not to go into thering. It looks as if you’re taking a gooddeal for granted.”

“That’s all right,” Harrah answeredeasily. “How much do you want? Whatyou got? Where is it?”

Bruce told him briefly.

Harrah heard him through attentively andwhen he was done Harrah said candidly:

“Perhaps you’ve been told before thatwithout a qualified engineer’s report itisn’t much of a business proposition toappeal to a business man.”

“Once or twice,” Bruce answered dryly.

“Nevertheless,” Harrah continued, “I’mwilling to take a chance on you—not onthe proposition as you’ve put it up to mebut on you personally, because I like you.I’ll head your inscription list with $5000and introduce you to some men that willprobably take a ‘flyer’ on my say-so. Ifyou’re still short of what you think you’llneed I’ll make up the remainder, allproviding”—with a quick grin—“that yougo in and wallop that Greaser!”

Bruce’s expression was a mixture ofmany.

Finally he replied slowly:

“Well, it isn’t just the way I’d figured outto interest Capital and I reckon the methodis unique in mine promotion, but as I’m atthe end of my rope and have no choice,one more meal of ‘crow’ won’t kill me.”He went on with a tinge of bitterness,thinking of Sprudell: “Since muscle is myonly asset I’ll have to realize on it.” Thenhis dark face lighted with one of the slow,whimsical smiles that transformed it—“Unchain the ‘Spanish Bull-dog,’feller!”

Harrah rang for the office boy and reachedfor his hat.

“William,” he said sternly when thequaking youth stood before him, “tellthose people outside not to wait. I’mcalled away on business—urgent,important business and I can’t say whenI’ll be back.”

XV

Millions!

Would the car never come—would itnever come! Helen walked once more tothe corner from the shelter of a building inone of the outlying mill districts where anassignment had taken her.

The day was bitterly cold with a windblowing which went through her coat andskirt as though they were light-weightsummer clothing. She held her muffagainst her cheek and she peered up thestreet and the dark backgroundaccentuated the drawn whiteness of her

face with the pinched, blue look about hermouth and nostrils. The girl was reallysuffering terribly. She had passed thechattering stage and was enduring dumbly,wondering how much longer she couldstand it, knowing all the time that she muststand it as there was no place to go insideand missing the car which ran at half hourintervals meant missing the edition. Shewas paid to stand it, she told herself, asshe stamped her feet which were almostwithout feeling. The doctor’s emphaticwarning came to her mind with each icyblast that made her shrink and huddlecloser to the wall of the big storagebuilding. Exposure, wet feet, were assuicidal in her condition as poison, he hadtold her. She could guard against the latterbut there was no escape from the former if

she would do her work conscientiouslyfor long, cold rides and waits on streetcorners were a recognized part of it.

She could not afford even to dresswarmly. There was absolutely nothing butfur that would keep out such penetratingwind and cold as this, and anything at allpresentable was beyond her means.

“And they tell us, these smug, unctuouspreachers warming their shins before theirstudy fires, that living is a privilege, andwe should be grateful to the Almighty forbeing allowed to go through things likethis! I can’t see it!” she declared to herselfin angry rebellion. “I haven’t one thing onearth to look forward to—unless—” herhand tightened on a letter inside her muff—“unless I take a way out which, in the

end, might be worse.”

Sprudell’s note had come by specialdelivery from the Hotel Strathmore just asshe was leaving the office, so she had notstopped to answer it. He had made severaltrips from Bartlesville since their firstmeeting, under the pretext of business, butit did not require any great acumen todiscover that he came chiefly to see her.

Now, thinking that it might divert her mindfrom her misery, Helen turned her back tothe wind and drew out his note for asecond reading. One would scarcely havegathered from her expression as she turnedthe pages that she was reading a cordialdinner invitation.

Everything about it grated upon her—andthe note was so eminently characteristic.

She observed critically the “My dear MissDunbar,” which he considered moreintimate than “Dear Miss Dunbar.” Shedisliked the round vowels formed withsuch care that they looked piffling, and theelaborately shaded consonants. Thestiffness, the triteness of his phraseology,and his utter lack of humor, made hisletters dull reading but most of all hisinexact use of words irritated her—itmade him seem so hopeless—far more sothan bad spelling. She even detested theglazed note paper which she was sure wasa “broken lot” bought at a bargain in adepartment store.

“To-night I have a matter of supremeimportance to impart,” she read, “makeevery effort to join me. The evening may

prove as eventful to you as to me, so donot disappoint me, Mignonne.”

“Mignonne!” Her lips curled. “Idiot!Imbecile! Ignoramus!” Savagely—“Donkey!”She leaned a shoulder against the coldbricks of the warehouse, her head droopedand a tear slipped down her cheek to turnto frost on the dark fur of her muff.

Helen was too analytical and she had hadthe opportunity of knowing and observingmen in too many walks of life not to haveby this time a fairly good insight intoSprudell’s character. At least sheunderstood him to the extent of reading hismotives and interpreting his actions withtolerable accuracy. She tried to becharitable and endeavored not to dwell

upon the traits which, in the light of hislover’s attitude, made him ridiculous.When she received tender offering of stalefruit-cake and glucose jam from a cut-rategrocer, large boxes of candy from anobscure confectioner, and other giftsbetraying the penurious economy whichalways tempered his generosity, sheendeavored to assure herself that it camemerely from the habit of saving in smallways which many self-made men had incommon. She dwelt resolutely upon hisintegrity, upon the acumen which hadmade him a business success; yet in herheart she could not help likening him to agarment of shoddy material aping the styleof elegance. While endeavoring to palliatethese small offenses Helen knew perfectlythat they were due to the fact that he was

innately what was known in the officevernacular as a “cheap skate,” striving togive the impression of generosity at aminimum of expense.

Helen had grown sensitive about hercough and shrank from comment upon it.She did her best to stifle it and she herselfspoke of it lightly; but to-day, when shecame into the warm air of the office afterthe nightmare of a wait on the corner andthe long, cold ride afterward, it set hercoughing violently, so violently that itattracted the attention of her neighbor,who called over the partition jocularly butwith a note of seriousness in his voice—

“We’ll have to ship you to Colorado,Miss Dunbar, if you go on like that!”

Helen caught her clasped hands quickly to

her breast, a trick she had when startled.

“Yes?” she answered lightly but herexpression was frightened.

People were noticing! It was the laststraw needed. When she laid out her mostbecoming frock that evening it was thewhite flag of capitulation. The odds weretoo heavy—she felt she must surrenderbefore it was too late. While she dressedher hair with more than usual care shescrutinized her face closely for thatindefinable look which conveys to theinitiated a hint of something deeper-seatedthan the languor of fatigue.

If Helen had cared at all for Sprudell’sapprobation she would have had thereward for her pains in the pleased, self-satisfied air of proprietorship with which

he followed her to the table he hadreserved in the fashionable restaurant ofthe Hotel Strathmore. He missed none ofthe interested looks directed at her as shepassed, and glowed with satisfaction.

“If they notice her like this in a city,” hethought triumphantly, “she’ll make ’em situp in Bartlesville!” Sprudell’s cup ofhappiness seemed running full.

“You’re looking great to-night,” hewhispered as they sat down.

“Fine feathers—” she smiled slightly—“my one good gown.”

“My dear, you can have a hundred—athousand!” he cried extravagantly. “It’s upto you!”

She studied him curiously, wondering

what had happened. He was tremulouswith suppressed excitement; his highspirits were like the elation of intoxicationand he ordered with a lavishness whichmade him conspicuous.

But Sprudell was indifferent toappearances, seeming to survey the worldat large from the height of omnipotenceand it seemed to Helen that everyobjectionable trait he had wasexaggerated, twice enlarged under thestimulus of this mysterious, exalted mood.His egotism loomed colossal, he wasoblivious to everything and everybody buthimself, else he could not have failed tosee the growing coldness in her eyes.

Helen herself had little appetite, so whileSprudell partook of the numerous dishes

with relish she inspected him anew fromthe critical viewpoint of the woman whointends to marry without love. As shedissected him it occurred to her thatSprudell exemplified every petty feminineprejudice she had. She disliked his small,red mouth, which had a way of fixingitself in an expression of mawkishsentimentality when he looked at her, andthere was that in the amorous, significantlight in his infantile blue eyes whichsickened her very soul. She disapprovedof his toddling walk, his fat, stoopedshoulders, his spats and generalappearance of over-emphasizeddapperness. The excessive politeness, theelaborate deference which he showed herupon occasions, exasperated her, and itwas incredible, she thought, that a part in

a man’s back hair should be able to arousesuch violence of feeling. But it did. Shehated it. She loathed it. It was one of hervery strongest aversions. She had alwayshoped never even to know a man whoparted his back hair and now she wasgoing to marry one.

She tried to imagine herself going throughlife making a pretense of taking hislearning and his talents seriously, ofrefraining carefully from calling attentionto his errors or correcting hismisstatements, of shielding him from theridicule which his pedantry must bringupon him when he mingled with hissuperiors, smoothing over smarts when hebullied and “talked down,” withoutconvincing his adversaries—as Helen had

seen other women do. But could she do it?When it came right down to brass tacks,she asked herself, could she exchangeherself, her freedom, her individuality, allthe years to come if many were sparedher, for the chance to get well and forrelief from anxiety about food and clothesand shelter?

To marry Sprudell meant immunity fromfreezing on street corners, from mental andphysical exhaustion, from the rebuffswhich were a part of her work and whichhurt far worse than anyone guessedbecause she could never regard them asimpersonal. Women were making suchexchanges every day and with less excuse—for luxury or position merely—butcould she do it?

Must she grow into an old woman withouta single romance in her life? That muchseemed every woman’s right. What hadshe done that the Fates should “have it infor her” like this? She clenched her handsunder the shelter of the tablecloth. Thisthing she had made up her mind to doseemed such a horrid, sordid, vulgar endto youth and sentiment.

Sprudell meanwhile was revolving in hismind the best method of impartingeffectively and dramatically the newswhich was burdening him. He consideredbeginning with a Latin quotation from hisVest-Pocket Manual—“Labor omniavincit”—or something like that—butended, when he felt the right moment hadarrived, by stating the fact bluntly and

abruptly:

“I’m going to be as rich as Crœsus.”

Helen looked up, to see his red lower liptrembling with excitement.

“My dear,” solemnly, “I shall havefabulous wealth.”

Undoubtedly he was in earnest. She couldsee that from the intensity shining in hiseyes. Wonderingly she took the pamphletwhich he withdrew from its envelope andpassed to her, watching her face eagerlyas she read.

PROSPECTUS OF THE BITTER ROOTPLACER MINING COMPANY

proclaimed the outside page, and thefrontispiece contained a picture of sevenlarge mules staggering up a mountain trail

under a load of bullion protected byguards carrying rifles with eight-footbarrels.

“That illustration is my idea,” he saidproudly.

“It’s very—very alluring,” Helenconceded. “And you are interested?”

“Interested!” gleefully, “it’s all mine!Wait till you go on.”

The first paragraph of the text read:

WE HAVE, WITH INFINITE HARDSHIP AND DIFFICULTIES AND ALARGE PERSONAL EXPENSE, SECURED ABSOLUTE LEGALOWNERSHIP, AND PHYSICAL POSSESSION, OF EIGHT PLACERCLAIMS, MAKING 160 ACRES OF THE RICHEST, UNWORKED PLACERground in the United States.

THE PROPERTIESQueen of Sheba No. 1:—Area about 15 acres.

SECTION 1—600 × 300 FEET. EXAMINED BY THE BESTOBTAINABLE PLACER EXPERTS AND UNDER THE MOST FAVORABLECONDITIONS MONEY COULD AFFORD. PROSPECT SHAFT NO. L:—THROUGH NATURAL, CLEAN SAND AND FINE RIVER GRAVEL. DEPTHOF PIT 10 FEET. EVERY FOOT SHOWED GOLD IN PAYINGQUANTITIES. A FOUR FOOT STREAK, EXTREMELY RICH, PASSESTHROUGH THIS SECTION. RED-ROCK WAS NOT REACHED BUT THEvalues increase with depth, as is usually true.

Average workable depth ofthis section 60 ft.Average assay .6235 percubic yard.600 × 300 × 60——400,000cu. yds. @ .6235 $249,400

Estimated cost of working 5cents per cu. yd. 20,000

————Estimated Net Profit $229,000

“That’s one of the poor claims,” he

explained carelessly, “we probably won’tbother with it.”

“The yardage of ‘The Pot of Gold’ andclaims ‘Eureka’ 1 and 2 totalled millions,while the leanest next to ‘The Queen ofSheba,’ yielded a net profit of $700,000.”

Then the monotony of facts and figureswas varied by another illustrationshowing a miner in hip-boots and asou’wester blithely handling a giant whichthrew a ten-inch stream into a sand-bank.

“I drew the rough sketch for that and theartist carried out my ideas.” Sprudellwished to convey the impression thatalong with his many other gifts hepossessed artistic talent, had he onlychosen to develop it.

Helen read at random:

NUMEROUS PROSPECT HOLES, CUTS AND TRENCHES FULLYCORROBORATE THE VALUE OF THE GROUND. THERE ARE RICHSTREAKS AND SPOTS YIELDING 25 CTS. TO 50 CTS. TO THE PAN OFWHAT AREA THE GIANT ALONE WILL TELL. EVERY SURFACE FOOTYIELDS GOLD IN PAYING QUANTITIES. IT IS PAY-DIRT FROM THEGRASS-ROOTS. WHILE WE CONFINE OUR ESTIMATES TO THE ACTUALGROUND EXAMINED, NEVERTHELESS WE ARE CERTAIN THE REALwealth lies on bed-rock.THE HOME CLAIM WITH ITS RUSTIC LOG CABIN PROVIDES ADELIGHTFUL HOME FOR THOSE INTERESTED IN THE ENTERPRISE,SUPPLYING COMFORTS AND LUXURIES WHICH MONEY CANNOTPURCHASE IN LARGE CITIES. GAME AND FISH IN GREATESTABUNDANCE INFEST ITS DOOR-YARD. WE HAVE SEEN FIFTYGROUSE AND TWENTY MOUNTAIN SHEEP WITHIN THREE HUNDREDFEET OF THE DOORWAY. BEAR MAY BE HAD AT ANY TIME FORthe going after.IT MUST BE BORNE IN MIND, ALL OF THESE PLACERS ARE THEANCIENT BEDS OF A LEAST TWO SEPARATE PERIODS OF A GREATRIVER, CONSEQUENTLY, BED-ROCK WILL UNDOUBTEDLY REVEALFABULOUS WEALTH WHICH CANNOT BE UNCOVERED IN ANEXAMINATION. IT WOULD BE USELESS TO ATTEMPT TO

EXAGGERATE THE POSSIBILITIES OF THESE PROPERTIES. THE PLAIN,SIMPLE FACTS ARE FAR MORE POTENT THAN UNESTABLISHEDfiction could possibly be.All the claims we have described represent virgin ground,SOMETHING SELDOM FOUND, NOW, ANYWHERE IN THE U. S.THERE IS NOT A WAGON TRACK IN THE WHOLE VALLEY. IT HASHERETOFORE BEEN TOO DIFFICULT OF ACCESS TO TEMPT CAPITAL TOCOME IN HERE. WE HAVE CHANGED THE WHOLE SITUATION. OURSAW-MILL, WHICH WE NOW HAVE IN OPERATION, IS THE WONDEROF THE PLACE, AND IS, OF COURSE, OUR SALVATION, FOR WITHOUTTHAT, OF COURSE, WE COULD NOT CONSTRUCT FLUMES TO PUTwater upon our placer ground.WE HAVE PARTIALLY CONSTRUCTED A WAGON ROAD TO SHORTENAND MAKE LESS ARDUOUS THE DIFFICULT TRIP INTO THIS PARADISE.NEVERTHELESS, IT IS A PARADISE, WHEN ONCE WITHIN ITSCHARMED ENVIRONMENTS. GOLD IS THE COMMONEST PRODUCTthere.This is quite sufficient.The confidential details which accompany this prospectuswill make known our financial requirements.WE KNOW WE HAVE A GREAT FORTUNE IN SIGHT, BUT, HIDDENAWAY IN THE GREATER DEPTHS ARE UNKNOWN POSSIBILITIES OF

FABULOUS RICHES, FOR THIS GREAT RIVER IS NOTED FOR ITSRICHNESS ON BED-ROCK. MILLIONS HAVE BEEN TAKEN OUT OF ITSsand with the crudest devices.WE HAVE DEMONSTRATED OUR GOOD FAITH AND OURCONFIDENCE IN THE WORTH OF THESE PROPERTIES BY A PERSONALexpenditure approximating fifty thousand dollars in cash.WE HAVE TAKEN EVERY LEGAL PRECAUTION AND NECESSARYPHYSICAL STEP TO INSURE AN ABSOLUTELY SAFE AND PROFITABLEinvestment.WE ARE NOW READY, AND DESIRE, TO FINANCE A CLOSEcorporation, with a limited capital, to operate this propertyon a scale BEFITTING ITS IMPORTANCE.

Helen closed the pamphlet and passed itback. She knew nothing of mining and hadno reason to doubt its truth or Sprudell’shonesty. Not only the facts but themagnitude of the possibilities as he hadoutlined them were bewildering. Hemight, indeed, become as rich as Crœsusand, she thought, how like a tyrant he

would use his power!

“Well?” He looked at her, exultant,gloating. For the moment he had theappearance of a person whose every wishhad been granted. His eyes blazed withexcitement, his face was crimson.Dazzled, intoxicated by the prospect of hisgreat wealth, he felt himself omnipotent,immune from the consequences of rudemanners and shameless selfishness, safefrom criticism among the very rich. He felta wild, reckless impulse to throw the cut-glass rose-vase on the floor—and pay forit.

“Well?” he repeated arrogantly. He felt sosure of her, for what woman who earnedher own living would refuse what he nowcould offer! He was impatient for her to

say something that would show how muchshe was impressed.

And still Helen did not answer. Looking athim as he bared himself in his transport,the realization came swiftly, unexpectedlythat she could not marry him if to refusemeant the beginning of sure starvation onthe morrow! Not because she was toohonorable, too conscientious, to marrywithout love in her present circumstances,but because it would be an actualimpossibility for her to marry Sprudell.

It was not a question of honor orconscience, of mental uncongeniality,temperamental differences, or even thepart in his back hair; it was, as sherealized, a case of physical repulsion pureand simple.

From her first acquaintance with him shehad shrunk involuntarily from the touch ofhis hand, the slightest contact; when he satbeside her in taxicabs and at the theatreshe invariably had been unpleasantlyconscious of his nearness. She wasconvinced now that her reluctant feetwould have refused to carry her to thealtar, and her tongue to answer accordingto her bidding.

If she had been less strong in her likes anddislikes, less violent in her prejudices,she might have forced herself to dwellupon the advantages over her presentposition and come to accept the situationwith something like serenity. But she wastoo strong a character to adapt herselfcomplacently to a livelong, intimate

association with a person so genuinely, souncontrollably, physically repugnant to heras was Sprudell.

Psychologically, it was curious—no doubtthere were women in the world who had,or did, or might, adore Sprudell; but forherself she understood clearly now thatthe single kindly feeling she had for himwas the gratitude she felt she owed him.

“I congratulate you,” she said finally. “Itis a remarkable story—most romantic!Money is power—there never wasanything truer—Listen!” She raised afinger. “Isn’t that your name? Yes; the boyis paging you.”

Sprudell ostentatiously opened thetelegram which was brought to him,secretly pleased at seeming to be thus

pursued by the requirements of his largebusiness interests; but his frown ofimportance and air of a man with weightymatters to decide was wasted upon Helen,who was watching a lively party of menmaking its way to a nearby table reservedfor six.

Sprudell read:

THE ORIGINAL LOCATOR HAS BEAT US TO THE WATER-RIGHT.APPLIED BY WIRE WHILE I WAS SNOWED UP. ADVISE MAKINGbest terms possible with him. Letter follows.

DILL.

He looked as if some one had struck himin the face.

Helen was still watching the advancingparty. She murmured, with a smile ofamusement, as Sprudell laid the telegram

down:

“Here, coming in the lead, is our unfailingnews supply—Winfield Harrah. You’veheard of him no doubt. Behind him, the bigone—that huge chap with the black eyes,is the mysterious Samson from the Westwho whipped the ‘Spanish Bull-dog.’‘The Man from the Bitter Roots’ I thinkthey call him.”

Subconsciously, Sprudell heard what shewas saying and his eyes followed hers.The start he gave caused her to turn herhead quickly. His face was more thancolorless, it was chalky even to the lips.

“Burt!” He exclaimed involuntarily,“Bruce Burt!” He could have bitten histongue out the instant after.

XVI

“Slim’s Sister”

Bruce Burt! the murderer! Of all things inthe world that he should be “The Manfrom the Bitter Roots”—dining at theStrathmore—the guest of Winfield Harrah!Weren’t people punished for murder in theWest? Sprudell had intimated that hewould hang for it. Helen’s grey eyes werebig with amazement and indignation whileshe watched him being seated.

She saw the widening of his eyes when herecognized Sprudell, the quick hardening

of his features and the look that followed,which, if not exactly triumph, wascertainly satisfaction. Involuntarily sheglanced at Sprudell and the expression onhis face held her eyes. It fascinated her.For the moment she forgot Bruce Burt instudying him.

She thought she had read his real nature,had seen his dominant characteristic in theblatant egotism that had shown itself sostrongly in his elation. But this wasdifferent, so different that she had a queerfeeling of sitting opposite an utterstranger. It was not dislike, resentment,fear; it was rather a sly but savagevindictiveness, a purposeful malice thatwould stop at nothing. In the unguardedmoment Sprudell’s passion for revenge

was stamped upon his face like a brand.Helen had thought of him contemptuouslyas a bounder, a conceited ignoramus—hewas more than these things, he was adangerous man.

But why this intense antagonism? Whyshould they not speak? Sprudell had nottold her of a quarrel.

“Who are those men!” he asked in anundertone, and she noticed that he wasbreathing hard in an excitement he couldnot conceal.

As she named them in turn she saw thatBruce Burt was regarding her with thepuzzled, questioning look one gives to theperson he is trying to place.

The one stipulation which Bruce had made

when he consented to meet the “SpanishBull-dog” was that his name should not beknown in the event of the match beingmentioned in the papers; so Harrah hadcomplied by introducing him to his friendsby any humorous appellation whichoccurred to him. It proved a wiseprecaution, since directly Bruce’schallenge had been sent and it was knownthat he was Harrah’s protegé, the papershad made much of it, publishingunflattering snapshots after he had steadilyrefused to let them take his picture.

It was true enough, as Helen had said, hehad whipped the “Spanish Bull-dog,”loosened his tenacious grip in a feat ofstrength so sensational that the nextmorning he had found himself featured

along with an elopement and a bankfailure.

They called him “The Man from the BitterBoots,” and a staff artist depicted him as ahairy aborigine that Winfield Harrah hadhad captured to turn loose on the Spanishgladiator. Which humor Bruce did notrelish, for Sprudell’s taunt that “muscle”was his only asset still rankled.

The betting odds had been against him inthe Athletic Club, for Bruce’s sizeofttimes made him look clumsy, but ifBruce had a bear’s great strength he hadalso a bear’s surprising quickness andagility. And it was the combination whichhad won the victory for him.Unexpectedly, with one of the awkwardbut swift movements which was

characteristically bear-like, Bruce hadswooped when he saw his opening andthrown the “Bull-dog” as he had thrown“Slim”—over his shoulder. Then he hadwhirled and pinned him—both shouldersand a hip touching squarely. There hadbeen no room for dispute over thedecision. Friends and foes alike hadcheered in frenzy, but beyond the fact thatthe financial help which Harrah promisedwas contingent upon his success, Brucefelt no elation. The whole thing was ahumiliation to him.

But Harrah had been as good as his word.They had filed in to Bruce’s top floorroom one evening—Harrah’s friendsheaded by Harrah. They had seemed toregard it as a lark, roosting on his bed and

window-sill and table, while Brucedropped naturally to a seat on his heel,camp-fire fashion, with his back againstthe wall, and to their amusement outlinedhis proposition and drew a map of thelocation of his ground on the carpet withhis finger.

But they had not taken much interest indetail, they were going into it chiefly toplease Harrah. Bruce saw that clearly andit piqued him. He felt as though hisproposition, his sincerity, counted fornothing, but while it nettled him more thanever, it put him on his mettle.

Bruce’s brief acquaintance with Harrahalready had opened up new vistas, shownhim unknown possibilities in life. Theywere sport-loving, courteous, generous

people that Harrah drew about him—merry-hearted as those may be who arefree from care—and Bruce found theinhabitants in this new world eminentlycongenial. He never had realized beforehow much money meant in the world“outside.” It was comfort, independence,and most of all the ability to choose, to agreat extent, one’s friends instead of beingforced to accept such as circumstancesmay thrust upon one.

Bruce saw what anyone may see wholooks facts in the face, namely, that moneyis the greatest contributory factor tohappiness, no matter how comforting itmay be to those who have none to assurethemselves to the contrary. There mayeven be doubts as to whether the majority

of rich invalids would exchange theircheck-books for the privilege of beinghusky paupers in spite of the time-honoredplatitude concerning health.

Yet Bruce could not help a certainsoreness that all he had fought for sodoggedly and so unavailingly came soeasily as the result of a rich man’s whim.

Laughingly, with much good-humored jest,they had made up the $25,000 betweenthem and then trailed off to Harrah’s boxat the opera, taking Bruce with them,where he contributed his share to thegaiety of the evening by observing quiteseriously that the famous tenor sounded tohim like nothing so much as a bull-elkbugling.

Harrah’s subscription which had headed

the list had been half of his winnings andthe other half had gone to his favoritecharity—The Home For CrippledChildren. “If you get in a hole and need alittle more I might dig up a few thousand,”he told Bruce privately, but the othersstated plainly that they would not committhemselves to further sums or be liable forassessments.

Bruce had gone about with Harrah sincethen and with so notable a sponsor theworld became suddenly a pleasant,friendly place and life plain sailing; butnow every detail had been attended to,and, eager to begin, Bruce was leaving onthe morrow, this dinner being in the natureof a farewell party.

To see Bruce in the East and in the

company of these men on top of Dill’stelegram was a culminating blow toSprudell, as effective as though it hadbeen planned. Stunned at first by the lossof the water-right which made the groundvalueless, then startled, and astonished byBruce’s unexpected appearance, all histhoughts finally resolved themselves into afurious, overmastering desire to defeathim. Revenge, always his first impulsewhen injured, was to become anobsession. Whatever there was ofmagnanimity, of justice, or of honor, inSprudell’s nature was to become poisonedby the venom of his vindictive malicewhere it concerned Bruce Burt.

Bruce had altered materially inappearance since that one occasion in his

life, in Sprudell’s office, when he hadbeen conscious of his clothes. Those henow wore were not expensive but theyfitted him and for the first time in manyyears he had something on his feet otherthan hob-nailed miner’s shoes. Also helaid aside his stetson because, as heexplained when Harrah deplored thechange, he thought “it made folks look athim.” “Folks” still looked at him for evenin the correct habiliments of civilizationhe somehow looked picturesque and alien.Powerfully built, tanned, with his wide,forceful gestures, his utter lack of self-consciousness, there was stamped uponhim indelibly the freedom and broadnessof the great outdoors.

He was the last person, even in that group,

all of whose members were more or lessnotable, who would have been suspectedof a cold-blooded murder.

Against her will Helen found herselflooking at him. It seemed unnatural; shewas shocked at herself, but he attractedher irresistibly. Her brother’s murdererwas handsome in a dark, serious,unsmiling way which appealed to herstrongly.

She tried to fix her attention upon the foodbefore her, to keep up a conversation withSprudell, who made no pretense oflistening; but just so often as she resolvednot to look again, just so often she foundherself returning Bruce Burt’s questioningbut respectful stare.

Helen took it for granted that his object in

coming East was to meet the “SpanishBull-dog,” but Sprudell knew better. Hehad seen enough of Bruce to guesssomething of his fixity of purpose whenaroused and Dill’s telegram confirmed it.But he had thought that, naturally, Brucewould return to the West at once fromBartlesville to try and hold his claims,from which, when he was ready, through adue process of law, if necessary, Sprudellwould eject him.

To find him here, perhaps already withformidable backing, for the momentscattered Sprudell’s wits, upset him; theonly thing in his mind which was fixedand real was the determination somehowto block him.

A vaguely defined plan was already

forming in his mind, and he wanted to bealone to perfect it and put it intoimmediate execution. Besides, he was farfrom comfortable in the presence of theman who, temporarily at least, hadoutwitted him, nor was he toopreoccupied to observe Bruce’s obviousinterest in Helen. He made the motion togo as soon as possible and in spite of hisbest efforts to appear deliberate hismovements were precipitate.

Bruce found it impossible to keep hisattention upon the conversation at his owntable. After his first surprise at seeingSprudell his mind and eyes persisted infixing themselves upon Sprudell’scompanion. He could not rid himself ofthe notion that somewhere he had seen her,

or was it only a resemblance? Yet surelyif he ever had known a girl with a profilelike that—such hair, such eyes, such aperfect manner—he would not haveforgotten her! Was it the face of somedream-girl that had lingered in hismemory? It was puzzling, mostextraordinary, but whoever she was shelooked far too nice to be dining with that—that—. His black brows met in a frownand unconsciously his hands became fistsunder the table.

He felt a sharp pang when he saw that theywere preparing to go. Why couldn’t it behis luck to know a girl like that? Hewondered how it would seem to be sittingacross the table from her, talkingintimately. And he found considerable

satisfaction in the fact that she had notsmiled once at Sprudell during theconversation. He would not have said thatshe was enjoying herself particularly.

Then she arose and the gloves in her lapfell to the floor. He had an impulse tojump and slide for them but the waiter wasahead of him. Sprudell looked backimpatiently.

“Thank you so much.” She smiled at thewaiter-fellow and Bruce knew her.

Slim’s sister! There was no mistaking thesweetly serious eyes, the smiling lips withwhich he had grown familiar in theyellowish picture. She was older, thinner,the youthful roundness was gone, butbeyond question she was Slim’s sister!

She passed the table without a glance andin something like a panic he watched herleave the room. He would never see heragain! This was the only chance he’d everhave. Should he sit there calmly and let itpass! He laid his napkin on the table, andexplained as he rose hastily:

“There’s someone out there I must see. I’llbe back, but don’t wait for me.”

He did not know himself what he meant tosay or do, beyond the fact that he wouldspeak to her even if she snubbed him.

She had stepped into the cloak room forher wrap and Sprudell was waiting in thecorridor. Immediately when he saw Brucehe guessed his purpose and the fullsignificance of a meeting between themrushed upon him. He was bent desperately

upon preventing it. Sprudell took theinitiative and advanced to meet him.

“If you’ve anything to say to me, Bruce,I’ll meet you to-morrow.”

“I’ve nothing at all to say to you except torepeat what I said to you in Bartlesville. Itold you then I thought you’d lied and nowI know it. That’s Slim’s sister.”

“That is Miss Dunbar.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’ll prove it.”

“Introduce me.”

“It isn’t necessary; besides,” he sneered,“she’s particular who she knows.”

“Not very,” Bruce drawled, “or she

wouldn’t be here with you.” He addedobstinately: “That’s Slim’s sister.”

Helen came from the cloak room andstopped short at seeing Bruce andSprudell in conversation. Certainly thiswas an evening of surprises.

“Are you ready, Miss Dunbar?” Sprudellplaced loud emphasis upon the name.

She nodded.

Sprudell, who was walking to meet her,glanced back at Bruce with a smile ofmalice but it was wasted upon Bruce, whowas looking at the girl. Why should therebe that lurking horror and hostility in hereyes? What had Sprudell told her? On asudden desperate impulse and beforeSprudell could stop him, he walked up to

her and asked doggedly, though histemerity made him hot and cold:

“Why do you look at me as if I were anenemy? What has Sprudell been tellingyou?”

“I forbid you to answer this fellow—”Sprudell’s voice shook and his pink facehad again taken on the curious chalkinessof color which it became under stress offeeling. Forgetting prudence, hisdeferential pose, forgetting everything thathe should have remembered in his rage atBruce’s hardihood, and the fear ofexposure, he shook his finger threateninglybefore Helen’s face.

On the instant her chin went haughtily inthe air and there was a dangerous sparklein her eyes as she replied:

“You are presumptuous, Mr. Sprudell.Your manner is offensive—very.”

He ignored her resentment and laid hishand none too gently upon her arm, asthough he would have turned her forciblytoward the door. The action, thefamiliarity it implied, incensed her.

“Take your hand away,” Helen saidquietly but tensely.

“I tell you not to talk to him!” But heobeyed.

“I intend to hear what Mr. Burt has tosay.”

“You mean that?”

“I do.”

“Then you’ll listen alone,” he threatened.

“You can get home the best you can.”

“Suit yourself about that,” Helen repliedcoolly. “There are taxicabs at the doorand the cars run every six minutes.”

Bruce contributed cordially:

“Sprudell, you just dust along wheneveryou get ready.”

“You’ll repent this—both of you!” Hisvoice shook with chagrin and fury—“I’llsee to that if it takes the rest of my life andmy last dollar.”

Bruce warned in mock solicitude:

“Don’t excite yourself, it’s bad for yourheart; I can tell that from your color.”

Sprudell’s answer was a malignant lookfrom one to the other.

“On the square,” said Bruce ruefully whenthe last turn of the revolving door had shutSprudell into the street, “I hadn’t an ideaof stirring up anything like this when Ispoke to you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Helen answeredcoldly. “It will disabuse his mind of thenotion that he has any claim on me.”

“It did look as though he wanted to givethat impression.”

Bruce was absurdly pleased to findhimself alone with her, but Helen’s eyesdid not soften and her voice was distant asshe said, moving toward the nearestparlor:

“If you have anything to say to me, pleasebe brief. I must be going.”

“I want to know what Sprudell has toldyou that you should look at me almost as ifyou hated me?”

“How else would I look at the man whomurdered my brother in cold-blood.”

He stared at her blankly in anastonishment too genuine to be feigned.

“I murdered your brother in cold-blood!You are Slim’s sister, then?”

“I’m Frederic Naudain’s sister, if that’swhat you mean—his half-sister.”

The light of understanding grew slowly onBruce’s face. The revelation made manythings plain. The difference in the nameaccounted for his inability to trace her. Itwas easy enough now to account forSprudell’s violent opposition to their

meeting.

“He told you that it was a premeditatedmurder?”

Watching him closely Helen saw that histanned skin changed color.

She nodded.

“Why, I came East on purpose to findyou!” he exclaimed. “To make amends—”

“Amends!” she interrupted, and the coldscorn in her voice made the perspirationstart out on his forehead.

“Yes, amends,” he reiterated. “I was toblame in a way, but not entirely. Don’t beany harder on me than you can help; it’snot any easy thing to talk about to—hissister.”

She did not make it easier, but sat waitingin silence while he hesitated. He waswondering how he could tell her so shewould understand, how not to shock herwith the grewsome details of the story.Through the wide archway with itsdraperies of gold thread and royal purplevelvet a procession of bare-shouldered,exquisitely dressed women was passingand Bruce became suddenly conscious ofthe music of the distant orchestra, of thefaint odor of flowers and perfume, ofeverything about him that stood for cultureand civilization. How at the antipodeswas the picture he was seeing! For themoment it seemed as though that lonely,primitive life on the river must be only amemory of some previous existence. Thenthe unforgettable scene in the cabin came

back vividly and he almost shuddered, forhe felt again the warm gush over his handand saw plainly the snarling madmanstriking, kicking, while he fought to savehim. He had meant to tell her delicatelyand instead he blurted it out brutally.

“I made him mad and he went crazy. Hecame at me with the axe and I threw himover my shoulder. He fell on the blade andcut an artery. Slim bled to death on thefloor of the cabin.”

“Ugh—how horrible!” Bruce imaginedshe shrank from him. “But why did youquarrel—what started it?”

Bruce hesitated; it sounded so petty—soridiculous. He thought of the two oldpartners he had known who had threebloody fights over the most desirable

place to hang a haunch of venison. “Salt,”he finally forced himself to answer.

“Sprudell told me that and I could notbelieve it.”

She looked at him incredulously.

“We were down to a handful, and I fed itto a band of mountain-sheep that came tothe cabin. I had no business to do it.”

“You said that he went crazy—do youmean actually?”

“Actually—a maniac—raving.”

“Then why do you blame yourself somuch?”

“Because I should have pulled out when Isaw how things were going. We hadquarrelled before over trifles and I knew

he would be furious. You can’t blame memore than I blame myself, Miss Dunbar. Isuppose you think they should hang me?”There was a pleading note in the questionand he wiped the perspiration from hisforehead while he waited for her answer.

She did not reply immediately but whenshe finally looked him squarely in the eyesand said quietly: “No, because I believeyou,” Bruce thought his heart turned overwith relief and joy.

“What you have told me shows merely thathe had not changed—that my hopes forhim were quite without foundation. Evenas a child he had a disposition—a temper,that was little short of diabolical. Wehave all been the victims of it. I should notwant to see another. He disgraced and

ruined us financially. Now,” Helen saidrising, “you must go back to your friends.I’ll take a taxicab home—”

“Please let me go with you. They can waitfor me—or something,” he added vaguely.The thought of losing sight of herfrightened him.

She shook her head.

“No—no; I won’t listen to it.” She gavehim her hand: “I must thank you forsending back my letter and picture.”

“Sprudell gave them to you!”

“Yes, and the money.”

“Money?”

“Why, yes.” She looked at himinquiringly.

Just in time Bruce caught and stopped agrin that was appearing at the thought thatSprudell had had to “dig up” the money hehad returned to him out of his own pocket.

“That’s so,” he agreed. “I had forgotten.But Miss Dunbar,” eagerly. “I must seeyou on business. Your brother leftproperty that may be valuable.”

“Property? Mr. Sprudell did not mentionit.”

“I suppose it slipped his mind,” Bruceanswered drily. “You’ll give me youraddress and let me come to-morrow?”

“Will you mind coming early—at nine inthe morning?”

“Mind! I’ll be sitting on the steps atsunrise if you say so,” Bruce answered

heartily.

How young she looked—how like thelittle girl of the picture when she laughed!Bruce looked at his watch as he returnedto his party to see how many hours itwould be before nine in the morning.

The shabbiness of the hotel where Helenlived surprised him. It was worse than hisown. She had looked so exceptionallywell-dressed the previous evening he hadsupposed that what she called ruin wascomparative affluence, for Bruce had notyet learned that clothes are unsafestandards by which to judge the resourcesof city folks, just as on the plains and inthe mountains faded overalls and a raggedshirt are equally untrustworthy guides to a

man’s financial rating. And the musty odorthat met him in the gloomy hallway—hefelt how she must loathe it. He hadwondered at the early hour she’d set butwhen Helen came down she quicklyexplained.

“I must leave here at half past and if youhave not finished what you have to say Ithought you might walk with me to theoffice.”

“The office?” It shocked him that sheshould have to go to an office, that she hadhours, that anybody should have a claimupon her time by paying for it.

Quizzically:

“Did you think I was an heiress!”

“Last night you looked as though you might

be.” His tone told her of his admiration.

“Relics of past greatness,” Helen repliedsmiling. “A remodelled gown that was mymother’s. One good street suit at a timeand a blouse or two is the best I can do. Iam merely a wonderful bluff in theevening.”

Bruce felt that it was a sore spot althoughshe was smiling, and he could not helpbeing glad, for it meant she needed him. Ifhe had found her in prosperouscircumstances the success or failure of theplacer would have meant very little to her.H e must succeed, he told himselfexuberantly; his incentive now was tomake her life happier and easier.

“If everything goes this summer as I hope—and expect—” he said slowly, “you

need not be a ‘bluff’ at any hour of theday.”

Her eyes widened.

“What do you mean?”

Then Bruce described the ground that heand Slim had located. He told of hisconfidence in it, of his efforts to raise themoney to develop it, and the means bywhich he had accomplished it.Encouraged by her intelligent interest hetalked with eager enthusiasm of his plansfor working it, describing mercury traps,and undercurrents, discussing thecomparative merits of pole and block,Hungarian and caribou rifles. Once hewas well started it seemed to him that hemust have been saving up things all hislife to tell to this girl. He talked almost

breathlessly as though he had much to sayand an appallingly short time to say it in.

He told her about his friend, Old Felix,and about the “sassy” blue-jays and thedarting kingfisher that nested in the cut-bank where he worked, of the bush-birdsthat shared his sour-dough bread. He triedto picture to her the black bear lumberingover the river bowlders to the serviceberry bush across the river, where hestood on his hind legs, cramming hismouth and watching over his shoulder,looking like a funny little man in baggytrousers. He told her of his hero, the greatAgassiz, of his mother, of whom even yethe could not speak without a break in hisvoice, and of his father, as he rememberedhim, harsh, silent, interested only in his

cattle.

It dawned upon Bruce suddenly that hehad been talking about himself—babblingfor nearly an hour.

“Why haven’t you stopped me?” hedemanded, pausing in the middle of asentence and coloring to his hair. “I’vebeen prattling like an old soldier, tellingwar stories in a Home. What’s got intome?”

Helen laughed aloud at his dismay.

“Honest,” he assured her ruefully, “I neverbroke out like this before. And the worstof it is that I know with the leastencouragement from you I’ll start again. Inever wanted to talk so much in my life.I’m ransacking my brain this very minute

to see if there’s anything else I know that Ihaven’t told you. Oh, yes, there is,” heexclaimed putting his hand inside his coat,“there’s some more money coming to youfrom Slim—I forgot to tell you. It isn’t agreat deal but—” he laid in her hand thebank-notes Sprudell had been obliged togive him in Bartlesville after havingdenied finding her.

Helen looked from the money to Bruce insurprised inquiry:

“But Mr. Sprudell has already given mewhat Freddie left.”

“Oh, this is another matter—a collection Imade for him after Sprudell left,” hereplied glibly. It was considerablesatisfaction to think that Sprudell had hadto pay for his perfidy and she would

benefit by it.

The last thing that Helen had expected todo was to cry, but the money meant somuch to her just then; her relief was sogreat that the tears welled into her eyes.She bit her lip hard but they kept coming,and, mortified at such an exhibition, shelaid her arm on the back of the worn plushsofa and hid her face.

Tears, however embarrassing, have a wayof breaking down barriers and Bruceimpulsively took in his the other hand thatlay in her lap.

“What is it, Miss Dunbar? Won’t you tellme? If you only knew how proud andhappy I should be to have you talk to mefrankly. You can’t imagine how I’velooked forward to being allowed to do

something for you. It means everything tome—far more than to you.”

Bruce remembered having seen his mothercry, through homesickness and loneliness,softly, uncomplainingly, as she went abouther work in the ugly frame house backthere on the bleak prairie. And heremembered the roars of rage in whichPeroxide Louise had voiced her jealousy.But he had seen few women cry, and nowhe was so sorry for her that it hurt him—he felt as though someone had laid a handupon his heart and squeezed it.

“It’s relief, I suppose,” she said brokenly.“It’s disgusting that money should be soimportant.”

“And do you need it so badly?” Bruceasked gravely.

“I need it if I am to go on living.” And shetold him of the doctor’s warning.

“You must go away at once.” Brace’svoice was sharp with anxiety. “I wish youcould come West,” he added wistfully.

“I’d love it, but it is out of the question;it’s too far—too expensive.”

Bruce’s black eyebrows came together.His poverty had never seemed so galling,so humiliating.

“I must go.” She got up quickly. “I’m late.Do my eyes look very badly?”

“They’re all right.” He turned abruptly forhis hat. He knew that if he looked aninstant longer he should kiss her! Whatwas the matter with him anyhow? he askedhimself for the second time. Was he

getting maudlin? Not content with talking astrange girl to death he would put on thefinishing touch by kissing her. It was hightime he was getting back to the mountains!

He walked with her to the office, wishingwith all his heart that the blocks wereeach a mile long, and in his fear lest hemiss a single word she had to say hepushed divers pedestrians out of his waywith so little ceremony that only his sizesaved him from unpleasant consequences.

It was incredible and absurd that heshould find it so hard to say good-bye to agirl he had just met, but when they reachedthe steps it was not until he had exhaustedevery infantile excuse he could think of fordetaining her just an instant longer that hefinally said reluctantly:

“I suppose you must go, but—” hehesitated; it seemed a tremendous thing toask of her because it meant so much to him—“I’d like to write to you if you’d answermy letter. Pardners always write to eachother, you know.” He was smiling, butHelen was almost startled by the wistfulearnestness in his eyes. “I’d like to knowhow it feels,” he added, “to drawsomething in the mail besides a mail-ordercatalogue—to have something to lookforward to.”

“To be sure—we are partners, aren’twe?”

“I’ve had a good many but I never had oneI liked better.” Bruce replied with suchfervor that Helen felt herself coloring.

“I don’t like being a silent partner,” she

returned lightly. “I wish I could do myshare. I’m even afraid to say I’ll pray foryour success for, to the present, I’ve nevermade a prayer that’s been answered. But,”and she sobered, “I want to tell you I dobelieve in you. It’s like a fairy tale—toowonderful and good to be true—but I’mgoing to bank on it and whatever happensnow—no matter how disagreeable—Ishall be telling myself that it is of noimportance for in a few months my hardtimes will all be done.”

Bruce took the hand she gave him andlooked deep into her eyes.

“I’ll try—with all my might,” he saidhuskily, and in his heart the simplepromise was a vow.

He watched her as she ran up the steps

and disappeared inside the wide doors ofthe office building—resenting again thethought that she had “hours”—that she hadto work for pay. If all went well—if therewere no accidents or miscalculations—heshould be able to see her again by—certainly by October. What a long timehalf a year was when a person came tothink of it! What a lot of hours there werein six months! Bruce sighed as he turnedaway.

He looked up to meet the vacant gaze of anondescript person lounging on thecurbing. It was the fourth or fifth time thatmorning he thought he had seen that sameblank face.

“Is this town full of twins and triplets inbattered derbies?” Bruce asked himself,

eying the idler sharply as he passed, “or isthat hombre tagging me around?”

XVII

A Practical Man

Bruce’s thoughts were a jumble ofdynamos and motors, direct andalternating currents, volts and amperes,when James J. Jennings’ papier-machesuitcase hit him in the shins in the lobby ofa hotel which was headquarters for miningmen in the somnolent city on the Pacific

coast.

Jennings promptly dropped the suitcaseand thrust out a hand which still hadground into the knuckles oil and smudgeacquired while helping put up a power-plant in Alaska.

“Where did you come from—what are youdoing here?” Bruce had seen him last inAlberta.

“Been up in the North Country, but”—James lifted a remarkable upper lip in ashy grin of ecstasy—“I aims to git marriedand stay in the States.”

“Shoo—you don’t say so!” Bruceexclaimed, properly surprised andcongratulatory.

“Yep,” he beamed, then dropped, as he

added mournfully, “So fur I’ve had awfulbad luck with my wives; they allus die orquit me.”

Bruce ventured the hope that his luckmight change with this, his last—and asJennings explained—fifth venture.

“I kinda think it will,” the prospectivebridegroom declared hopefully. “Berthalooks—er—lasty. But what about you?—Inever knew you’d even saw a city.”

“I’m a sure enough Sourdough,” Bruceadmitted, “but I did stray out of the timber.Register, and I’ll tell you all about it—maybe you can help me.”

Jennings, Bruce commented mentally as hewatched him walk to the desk, was notexactly the person he would have singled

out as the hero of five serious romances.Even five years before, in the Kootnaicountry, Jennings had been no matineeidol and Time had not been lenient.

He had bent knees, protuberant, thatseemed to wobble. A horseman wouldhave called him knee-sprung and declaredhe stumbled. His back was stooped so hisoutline was the letter S, and CARE waswritten in capitals on his corrugated brow.No railroad president with a strike onever wore a heavier air of responsibility,though the suitcase which gave out anempty rattle contained James’s earthly all.His teeth were yellow fangs and hiscomplexion suggested a bad case of SanJosé scale, but his distinctive feature wasa long elastic upper lip which he had a

habit of puffing out like a bear pouting in atrap. Yet James’s physical imperfectionshad been no handicap, as was proved bythe fact that he was paying alimony intotwo households and the bride on thehorizon was contemplating matrimonywith an enthusiasm equal to his own.

While Jennings breakfasted Bruce toldhim the purpose of his visit to the Pacificcoast, hoping that out of the wideexperience with machinery whichJennings claimed he might make someuseful suggestions; besides Bruce found ita relief to talk the situation over withsomeone he had known.

“I don’t pretend to know the first thingabout electrical machinery,” he saidfrankly, “I only know the results I want—

that I must have. I’ve got to rely on thejudgment and honesty of others and there’ssuch a diversity of opinion that I tell you,Jennings, I’m scared to death lest I make amistake. And I can’t afford to make amistake. I’ve left myself no margin formistakes, every dollar has got to count.”

“There’s one thing you want to rememberwhen you’re workin’ in an isolatedcountry, and that’s the need of strength—strength and simplicity. These new-fangled—”

Bruce interrupted eagerly—

“My idea exactly—durability. If anythingbreaks down there that can’t he repairedon the place it means laying off the crewfrom a month to six weeks while the partsare going in and out to the factory.”

Jennings nodded.

“That’s it—that’s why I say strengthabove everything.” Nearly half a centuryof frying-pan bread had given Jenningsindigestion and now as he sipped his hotwater he pondered, bursting out finally—“If I was you, Burt, I’ll tell you what I’ddo, I’d install the old type Edisonmachines for that very reason. You can’tbreak ’em with a trip hammer. They’re sosimple a kid can run ’em. There’s nothin’about ’em to git out of repair onct they’reup. If you aim to work that ground withscrapers, I’ll tell you now it’s goin’ to bea big drag on the motors. Of coursethey’re a little bit heavier than these new-fangled—”

“But the agents tell me these newer and

lighter machines will stand it.”

Jennings blew out his elastic upper lip andshrugged a shoulder:

“Maybe they know more than I do—maybe they do, but it’s to their interest totalk ’em up, ain’t it? I’m no collegeelectrician—I’m a practical man and Ibeen around machinery nigh to fifty years,so I know them old-fashioned motors.They’ll stand an overload, and take myword for it they’ll git it on them scrapers.These new-fangled machines will standjest about what they’re rated at and youcan’t tell me anything differenter. I saythem old type Edison machines is the thingfor rough work in that kind of a country.Ain’t I seen what they can do on drudgers?Besides, you can pick ’em up for half the

price and as good as new with a littlerepairin’.”

“I wonder if they would do the work,”Bruce murmured to himself thoughtfully.

“What interest would I have in tellin’ youif they wouldn’t?” Jennings demanded.

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,”Bruce assured him quickly. “I wasthinking that if they would do the work andI could save something on the price ofmachinery I’d sure breathe easier.”

“Do the work!” scornfully. “You can pulloff a chunk of mountain with a gooddonkey-engine and them motors. Why, onthe drudgers up here in Alasky—”

“Do you know where you can get hold ofany of these machines?”

“I think I do,” Jennings reflected. “BeforeI went down North I knowed where theywas a couple if they ain’t been sold.”

“Suppose you look them up and find outtheir condition—will you do this for me?”

“Bet I will, old man, I’d like to see youmake a go of it. I gotta show up atBertha’s, then I’ll run right out and look’em over and report this evenin’.”

Jennings kept his word and when Brucesaw him cross the office with a spray oflilies-of-the-valley in his buttonhole andstepping like an English cob he guessedthat he either had been successful or hiscall upon Bertha had been eminentlysatisfactory. He was correct, it proved, inboth surmises.

“They’re there yet” he announced withelation, “in good shape, too. The motorsneed re-winding and there’s some otherlittle tinkerin’, but aside from that—say,my boy, you’re lucky—nearly as lucky as Iam. I tell you I’m goin’ to git a great littlewoman!”

“Glad to hear it, Jennings. But about thismachinery, what’s it going to weigh? Idon’t know that I told you but I mean totake it down the river.”

“Bad water?”

“It’s no mill-pond,” Bruce answereddryly, “full of rapids.” Jennings looked alittle startled, and Bruce added:

“The weight is a mighty importantfeature.”

Jennings hesitated.

“The dynamos will weigh close to 22,000pounds, and the whole 55,000 poundsapproximately.”

“They weigh a-plenty,” Bruce lookedthoughtful, “but I reckon I can bring themif I must. And there’s no doubt about themust, as a wagon road in there would cost$20,000.”

As the outcome of the chance meetingBruce bought the machines uponJennings’s recommendation with a savingof much money and Jennings furthermorewas engaged to make the necessaryrepairs and install the plant on the river. Itwas a load off Bruce’s mind to feel thatthis part of the work was safe in the handsof a practical, experienced man

accustomed to coping with theemergencies which arise when workingfar from transportation facilities.

Once this was settled there was nothingmore for Bruce to do in the city and agreat deal to be done upon the river, so hebade good-bye to Jennings and leftimmediately.

On the journey from the Pacific coast toSpokane the gritting of the car-wheels wasa song of success, of achievement. Brucefelt himself alive to the finger-tips withthe joy of at last being busy at somethingworth while. He looked back upon thetimes when he had thought himself happywith profound pity for his ignorance.

When he had stretched himself at night onhis mattress of pine-boughs with his head

on the bear-grass pillow watching throughthe cabin window the moon rise out of the“draw” where Big Squaw creek headed,he had thought that he was happy. When hehad found a bit of float that “panned,” aledge that held possibilities, or the yellowflakes had shown up thicker than usual inthe day’s clean-up he had called thissatisfaction, the momentary exhilaration,happiness. When he had landed a battling“red-side” after a struggle and later thrusthis fork through the crisp, brown skin intoits steaming pink flesh he hadcharacterized that animal contentment suchas any clod might have, as happiness.Poor fool, he told himself now, he had notknown the meaning of the word.

His day dreams had taken on a different

color. His goal was always before himand this goal was represented by the hourwhen the machinery in the power andpump houses was running smoothly, whena head of water was flowing through theflume and sluice-boxes and the scraperswere handling 1000 cubic yards a day. Ashe stared through the window at the flyinglandscape he saw, not the orchards andwheat fields of the great state ofWashington, but quicksilver lying thickwith amalgam behind the riffles and thescales sagging with precious, yellow,honey-combed chunks of gold still hotfrom the retort.

Sometimes he found himself anticipatingthe moment when he should betelegraphing the amount of the clean-up to

Helen Dunbar, to Harrah, and to Harrah’sgood-naturedly pessimistic friends. Bruceransacked his brain for somebody in theworld to envy, but there was no one.

He had gone directly to the river from theEast, taking a surveyor with him, and assoon as his application for the water-rightin Big Squaw creek had been granted hegot a crew together composed chiefly ofthe magnates from Ore City who, owing toDill’s failure to take up the options, foundthemselves still at leisure and the financialdepression unrelieved.

Ore City nursed a grievance against Dillthat was some sorer than a carbuncle andit relieved its feelings by inventingpunishments should he ever return to thecamp which in ingenuity rivalled the

tortures of the Inquisition. Bruce, too,often speculated concerning Dill, for itlooked as though he had purposelybetrayed Sprudell’s interest. Certainly aman of his mining experience knew betterthan to make locations in the snow and topass assessment work which wasobviously inadequate. From Sprudell,Bruce had heard nothing and engrossed inhis new activities all but forgot him andhis treachery, his insults and mysteriousthreats of vengeance.

Before leaving for the Pacific coast to buymachinery, Bruce had mapped out for thecrew the work to be done in his absenceand now, upon his return, he found greatchanges had come to the quiet bar on theriver. There was a kitchen where Toy

reigned, an arbitrary monarch, and a longbunk-house built of lumber sawed by anold-fashioned water-wheel which itselfhad been laboriously whip-sawed fromheavy logs. Across the river the men werestraining and lifting and tugging on thegreen timbers for the 500 feet of trestlewhich the survey demanded in order to getthe 200-feet head that was necessary todevelop the 250 horse-power needed forthe pumps and scrapers.

Bruce was not long in exchanging theclothes of civilization for the recognizeduniform of the miner, and in flannel shirtand overalls he toiled side by side withPorcupine Jim, Lannigan and the otherlocal celebrities on his pay-roll, who byheroic exertions were pushing the trestle

foot by foot across Big Squaw creek.

The position of General Manager as Bruceinterpreted it was no sinecure. A GeneralManager who worked was an anomaly,something unheard of in the district wherethe title carried with it the time-honoredprerogative of sitting in the shade issuingorders, sustained and soothed by anunfailing supply of liquid refreshment.

And while the crew wondered, theycriticised—not through any lack of regardfor Bruce but merely from habit and thesecret belief that whatever he did theycould have done better. In their hours ofrelaxation it was their wont to go over hisplans for working the ground, so far asthey knew them, and explain to each othercarefully and in detail how it was

impossible for Bruce with the kind of a“rig” he was putting in, to handle enoughdirt to wash out a breast-pin. Yet theytoiled none the less faithfully for thesedispiriting conversations, doing the workof horses, often to the point of exhaustion.

When the trestle was well along Brucecommenced sawing lumber for the halfmile of flume which was to bring thewater from the head-gate across the trestleto the pressure-box above the power-house. He sawed in such frenzy of haste—for there was so much to do and so littletime to do it in—and with suchconcentration that when he raised his eyesthe air seemed full of two by fours, andbottoms. When he closed them at night hesaw “inch stuff,” and bottoms. When he

dreamed, it was of saw-logs, battens andbottoms.

Spring came unmistakably and Brucewaited anxiously for word from Jenningsthat the repairs had been made and themachinery was on its way to Meadows—the mountain town one hundred and fiftymiles above where the barges would bebuilt and loaded for their hazardousjourney.

As the sun grew stronger daily Brucebegan to watch the river with increasinganxiety. He wondered if he had made itclear to Jennings that delay, the differenceof a week, might mean a year’spostponement. The period nearestapproaching safety was when the riverwas at the middle stage of the spring rise

—about eight feet above low water. Afterit had passed this point only the utterlyfoolhardy would have attempted it.

Bruce’s nerves were at a tension as thedays went by and he saw the great greensnake swelling with the coming of warmerweather. Inch by inch the water crept upthe sides of “Old Turtle-back,” the hugeglazed rock that rose defiantly, splittingthe current in the middle. A few hot sunswould melt the snowbanks in themountains to send the river thunderingbetween its banks until the very earthtrembled, and its navigation wasunthinkable.

The telegram came finally, and Bruce’srelief was so great that, as little as heliked him, he could almost have embraced

Smaltz, the man who brought the news thatthe machinery was boxed and on its wayto Meadows.

“Thank God, that worry’s over!” Bruceejaculated as he read it, and Smaltzlingered. “I may get a night’s sleep nowinstead of lying awake listening to theriver.”

“Oh, the machinery’s started?”

Bruce had an impression that he alreadyknew the contents of the telegram in spiteof his air of innocence and his question.

“Yes,” he nodded briefly.

“Say,—me and Porcupine Jim been talkin’it over and wonderin’ if we’d pay ourown way around so it wouldn’t cost theCompany nothin’, if you’d let us come

down with a boat from Meadows?”

“Can you handle a sweep?”

“Can I?” Smaltz sniggered. “Try me!”

Bruce looked at him a moment before heanswered. He was wondering why thevery sight of Smaltz irritated him. He wasthe only man of the crew that he dislikedthoroughly. His boastful speech, hisswaggering walk, a veiled insolence in hiseyes and manner made Bruce itch to sendhim up the hill for good, but since Smaltzwas unquestionably the best all-round manhe had, he would not allow himself to beinfluenced by his personal prejudices.While he boasted he had yet to fail tomake good his boastings and the tatteredcredentials he had displayed when he hadasked for work were of the best. When he

asserted now that he could handle a sweepit was fairly certain that he could not onlyhandle one but handle it well. PorcupineJim, Bruce knew, had had someexperience, so there was no good reasonwhy he should not let them go since theywere anxious.

“I’ve engaged the front sweepman for theother two boats,” Bruce said finally, “butif you and Jim want to take a hind sweepeach and will promise to obey orders Iguess there’s no objection.”

“Surest thing you know,” Smaltz answeredin the fresh tone that rasped Bruce. “An’much obliged. Anything to git a chanst toshoot them rapids. I’d do it if I wasn’tgittin’ nothin’ out of it just for the fun ofit.”

“It won’t look like fun to me with all I’llhave at stake,” said Bruce soberly.

“Aw—don’t worry—we kin cut her.”Smaltz tossed the assurance back airily ashe walked away, looking sharply to theright and left over his shoulder. It was ahabit he had, Bruce often had noticed it,along with a fashion of stepping quicklyaround corners, peering and craning hisneck as if perpetually on the alert forsomething or somebody. “You act likesome feller that’s ‘done time’—or orter.I’ll bet a hundred to one you know how tomake horsehair bridles,” Woods, thecarpenter, had once told him pointedly,and the criticism had voiced Bruce’s ownthoughts.

In the mail which Smaltz had brought

down from Ore City was a letter fromHelen Dunbar. It was the second he hadhad and he told himself as he tore it openeagerly that it had come none too soon, forthe first one was well nigh worn out. Hecould not get over the surprise ofdiscovering how many readings three orfour pages of scraggly handwriting willstand without loss of interest.

Now, as he tried to grasp it all in a glance,the friendliness of it, the confidence andencouragement it contained made himglow. But at the end there was a paragraphwhich startled him—always the fly in theointment—that gave rise to a vagueuneasiness he could not immediately shakeoff.

“I ran up to the city one day last week,”

the paragraph read, “and who do yousuppose I saw with Winfield Harrah in thelobby of the Hotel Strathmore? You wouldnever guess. None other than our versatilefriend T. Victor Sprudell!”

How did they meet? For what purpose hadSprudell sought Harrah’s acquaintance? Ittroubled as well as puzzled Bruce for hecould not think the meeting an accidentbecause even he could see that Harrah andSprudell moved in widely different stratasof society.

XVIII

Prophets of Evil

The difference between success andfailure is sometimes only a hair’s breadth,the turning of a hand, and although the manwho loses is frequently as deserving ofcommendation as the man who wins heseldom receives it, and Bruce knew thatthis would be particularly true of hisattempt to shoot the dangerous rapids ofthe river with heavily loaded boats. If heaccomplished the feat he would be laudedas a marvel of nerve and skill andshrewdness, if he failed he would beknown in the terse language of Meadowsas “One crazy damn fool.”

While the more conservative citizens ofthe mountain towns refrained from

publicly expressing their thoughts, acoterie known as the “Old Timers” lefthim in no doubt as to their own opinion ofthe attempt. Each day they came to theriver bank as regularly as though they hadoffice-hours and stationed themselves on apile of lumber near where Bruce caulkedand tarred the seams of the three boatswhich were to make the first trip throughthe rapids. They made Bruce think of somany ancient ravens, as they roosted in arow croaking disaster. By the time themachinery was due to arrive they spoke ofthe wreck of the boats as somethingforeordained and settled. They differedonly as to where it would happen.

“I really doubts, Burt, if you so much asgit through the Pine-Crick rapids.”

“No?”

“I mind the time Jake Hazlett and his crewwas drowned at the ‘Wild Goose.’ Itseems the coroner was already there asettin’ on a corp’ that had come up in theeddy. ‘Go on through, boys!’ he hollers to’em, ‘I’ll wait for you down below. It’llsave me another trip from Medders’.”

Bruce worked on, apparently unperturbedby these discouraging reminiscences.

“They say they’s a place down therewhere the river’s so narrow it’s bentover,” volunteered a third pessimist, as hecut an artistic initial in a plank with theskill of long practice. “And you’ll gothrough the Black Canyon like a bat out o’hell. But I has no notion whatsoever thatyou’ll ever come up when you hits that

waterfall on the other end. When her nosedips under, heavy-loaded like that, she’llsink and fill right thar. Why—”

“Do you rickolect,” quavered a spryyoung cub of eighty-two who talked of theCivil War and the Nez Perce uprising asthough they were the events of yesterday,“do you remember the time ‘Death-on-the-Trail’ lost his hull outfit tryin’ to gitthrough the ‘Devil’s Teeth’? The idee ofan old feller like him startin’ out alone!Why he was all of seventy.”

“An’ the time ‘Starvation Bill’ turnedover at Proctors’s Falls?” chortledanother. “Fritz Yandell said the river wasfull of grub—cracker cans, prunes and thelike o’ that, for clost to a week. I nevergrieved much to hear of an accident to him

for we’d had a railroad in here twentyyears ago if it hadn’t been for Bill. Thesurvey outfit took him along for helper andhe et up all the grub, so the Injin guide quit’em cold and they couldn’t go on. I allushoped he’d starve to death somm’eres, butafter a spell of sickness from swallerin’ aham-bone, he died tryin’ to eat six dozenaigs on a bet.”

“Talkin’ of Fritz Yandell—he told me hefished him a compass and transit out’n theriver after them Governmint Yellow-Legswrecked on Butcher’s Bar.” The speakeradded cheerfully: “Since the Whites comeinto the country I reckon all told you couldcount the boats that’s got through withouttrouble on the fingers of one hand. If theseboats was goin’ empty I’d say ‘all right—

you’re liable to make it,’ but sunk deep inthe water with six or eight thousandpounds—Burt, you orter have your headexamined.”

But Bruce refused to let himself think ofaccident. He knew water, he could handlea sweep; he meant to take everyprecaution and he could, he must getthrough.

The river was rising rapidly now, not aninch at a time but inches, for the days werewarmer—warm enough to start rivuletsrunning from sheltered snowbanks in themountains. Daily the distance increasedfrom shore to shore. Sprawling trees,driftwood, carcasses, the year’s rubbishfrom draws and gulches, swept by on thebroad bosom of the yellow flood. The

half-submerged willows were bending inthe current and water-mark after water-mark disappeared on the bridge piles.

Bruce had not realized that the days ofwaiting had stretched his nerves to such atension until he learned that the freight hadreally come. He felt for a moment asthough the burdens of the world had beensuddenly rolled from his shoulders. Hisrelief was short-lived. It changed toconsternation when he saw the last of themachinery piled upon the bank forloading. It weighed not fifty thousandpounds but all of ninety—nearer ahundred! Dumfounded for the moment, hedid not see how he could take it. Thesaving that he had made on the purchaseprice was eaten up by the extra weight

owing to the excessive freight rates fromthe coast and on the branch line toMeadows. More than that, Jennings haddisobeyed his explicit orders to box thesmaller parts of each machine together.All had been thrown in the car helter-skelter.

Not since he had raged at “Slim” hadBruce been so furious, but there was littletime to indulge his temper for there wasnow an extra boat to build upon which hemust trust Smaltz as front sweepman.

They all worked early and late, buildingthe extra barge, dividing the weight andloading the unwieldy machinery, but thebest they could do, counting four boats toa trip instead of three, each barge drewfrom eight to twelve inches of water.

Though he gave no outward sign and wenton stubbornly, the undertaking under suchconditions—even to Bruce—lookedfoolhardy, while the croakings of the “OldTimers” rose to a wail of lamentation.

The last nail was driven and the last pieceloaded and Bruce and his boatmen stoodon the banks at dusk looking at the fourbarges, securely tied with bow and sternlines riding on the rising flood. Thirty-seven feet long they were, five feet high,eight feet wide while the sweeps were oftwo young fir trees over six inches indiameter and twenty feet in length. Atwelve foot plank formed the blade whichwas bolted obliquely to one end and thewhole balanced on a pin. They wereclumsy looking enough, these flat-

bottomed barges, but the only type of boatthat could ride the rough water and skimthe rocks so menacingly close to thesurface.

“There’s nothin’ left to do now but say ourprayers.” Smaltz’s jocularity broke thesilence.

“My wife hasn’t quit snifflin’ since sheheard the weight I was goin’ to take,” saidSaunders, the boatman upon whom Brucecounted most. “If I hadn’t promised I don’tknow as I’d take the risk. I wouldn’t, as itis, for anybody else, but I know what itmeans to you.”

“And I sure hate to ask it,” said Bruceanswered gravely. “If anything happensI’ll never forgive myself.”

“Well—we can only do the best we can—and hope,” said Saunders. “The water’s asnear right as it ever will be; and Iwouldn’t worry if it wasn’t for the load.”

“To-morrow at eight, boys, and beprompt. Every hour is counting from nowon, with two more trips to make.”

Bruce walked slowly up the street andwent to his room, too tired and depressedfor conversation down below. The weigh-bill from the station-agent was even worsethan he had expected; and the questionwhich he asked himself over and over waswhether Jennings’s under-estimation of theweight was deliberate misrepresentationor bad figuring? Whatever the cause thecostly error had shaken his faith inJennings.

Bruce was asleep as soon as his headtouched the pillow. The last thing heremembered was Smaltz’s raucous voicein the bar-room below boasting of thewicked rapids he had shot in thetumultuous “Colo-rady” and on the Stikinein the far north.

The noise of the bar-room ceased at anearly hour and the little mountain towngrew quiet but Bruce was not conscious ofthe change. It was midnight—and longpast—well toward morning when in thesleep which had been so profound heheard his mother calling, calling in thesame dear, sweet way that she used to callhim when, tired out with following hisfather on long rides, he had overslept inthe morning.

“Bruce! Bruce-boy! Up-adaisy!”

He stirred uneasily and imagined that heanswered.

The voice came again and there waspleading in the shrill, staccato notes:

“Bruce! Bruce! Bruce!”

The cry from dreamland roused hisconsciousness at last. He sat up startled.There was no thought in his mind but theboats—the boats! In seconds, not minutes,he was in his clothes and stumbling downthe dark stairway. There was somethingghostly in the hollow echo of his footstepson the plank sidewalk as he ran throughthe main street of the still village.

He saw that one boat was gone from itsmooring before he reached the bank! He

could see plainly the space where it hadbeen. The other boats were safe—but thefourth—. He stopped short on the bank forone brief second weak with relief. Thefourth barge, which was holding ittemporarily. The water by some miracle ithad jammed against the third barge whichwas holding it temporarily. The water wasslapping against the side that was turnedto the stream and the other was bumping,bumping against the stern of the third boatbut the loose barge was working a littlecloser to the current with each bump. Amatter of five minutes more at the mostand it would have been started on itsjourney to destruction.

Bruce sprang to the stern of the third bargeand dragged the loose bow-line from the

water. It was shorter by many feet—thestout, new rope had been cut! It was notnecessary to strike a match—the starlightwas sufficient to show him that. He staredat it, unable to credit his own eyes. Hescrambled over the machinery to the stern.The stern-line was the same—cut squareand clean. If further evidence was needed,it was furnished by the severed portion,which was still tied around a bush.

There was no more sleep for Bruce thatnight. Bewildered, dumfounded by thediscovery, he rolled himself in a “tarp”and laid down on the boat’s platform. Sofar as he knew he had not an enemy in thetown. There seemed absolutely noreasonable explanation for the act.

XIX

At the Big Mallard

The sun rose the next morning upon aneventful day in Bruce’s life. He wasbacking his judgment—or was it only hismulish obstinacy?—against the convictionof the community. He knew that if it hadnot been for their personal friendship forhimself the married men among hisboatmen would have backed out. Therewas excitement and tension in the air.

The wide, yellow river was running like amill-race, bending the willows, lappinghungrily at the crumbling shore. The bank

was black with groups of people, tearfulwives and whimpering children,lugubrious neighbors, pessimistic citizens.Bruce called the men together andassigned each boat its place in line.Beyond explicit orders that no boatmanshould attempt to pass another and thebarges must be kept a safe distance apart,he gave few instructions, for they had onlyto follow his lead.

“But if you see I’m in trouble, followSaunders, who’s second. And, Jim, doexactly as Smaltz tells you—you’ll be onthe hind sweep in the third boat with him.”

In addition to a head and hind sweepmaneach barge carried a bailer, for there wererapids where at any stage of the water aboat partially filled. The men now silently

took their places and Bruce on hisplatform gripped the sweep-handle andnodded—

“Cast off.”

The barge drifted a little distance slowly,then faster; the current caught it and itstarted on its journey like some greatswift-swimming bird. As he glided intothe shadow of the bridge Saunders started;before he turned the bend Smaltz waswaving his farewells, and as Meadowsvanished from his sight the fourth boat, theheaviest loaded, was on its way. Brucedrew a deep breath, rest was behind him,the next three days would be hours ofalmost continual anxiety and strain.

The forenoon of the first day wascomparatively easy going, though there

were places enough for an amateur towreck; but the real battle with the riverbegan at the Pine Creek Rapids—thebattle that no experienced boatman everwas rash enough to prophesy the result.The sinister stream, with its rapids andwhirlpools, its waterfalls and dangerouschannel-rocks, had claimed countlessvictims in the old days of the gold rushand there were years together since thewhite people had settled at Meadows thatno boat had gone even a third of its length.Wherever the name of the river wasknown its ill-fame went with it, and thosefeared it most who knew it best. Only theinexperienced, those too unfamiliar withwater to recognize its perils so long asnothing happened, spoke lightly of itsdangers.

Above the Pine Creek Rapids, Bruceswung into an eddy to tie up for lunch;besides, he wanted to see how Smaltzhandled his sweep. Smaltz came on,grinning, and Porcupine Jim, bare-headed,his yellow pompadour shining in the sunlike corn-silk, responded instantly toevery order with a stroke. They wereworking together perfectly, Bruce notedwith relief, and the landing Smaltz madein the eddy was quite as good as the onehe had made himself.

Once more Bruce had to admit that ifSmaltz boasted he always made good hisboast. He believed there was little doubtbut that he was equal to the work.

An ominous roar was coming from therapids, a continuous rumble like thunder

far back in the hills. It was not the mostcheerful sound by which to eat and themeal was brief. The gravity of theboatmen who knew the river wascontagious and the grin faded graduallyfrom Smaltz’s face.

Life preservers were dragged out withineasy reach, the sweepmen replaced theirboots with rubber-soled canvas ties andcleared their platform of every nail andsplinter. When all were ready, Bruceswung off his hat and laid both hands uponhis sweep.

“Throw off the lines,” he said quietly andhis black eyes took on a steady shine.

There was something creepy, portentous,in the seemingly deliberate quietness withwhich the boat crept from the still water

of the eddy toward the channel.

The bailer in the stern changed color andno one spoke. There was an occasionalripple against the side of the boat but savefor that distant roar no other sound brokethe strained stillness. Bruce crouched overhis sweep like some huge cat, a cougarwaiting to grapple with an enemy as wilyand as formidable as himself. The boatslipped forward with a kind of stealth andthen the current caught it.

Faster it moved, then faster and faster. Therocks and bushes at the water’s edge flewby. The sound was now a steady boom!boom! growing louder with every heart-beat, until it was like the indescribableroar of a cloudburst in a canyon—anavalanche of water dropping from a great

height.

The boat was racing now with a speedwhich made the flying rocks and foliagealong the shore a blur—racing toward awhite stretch of churning spray and foamthat reached as far down the river as itwas possible to see. From the waterwhich dashed itself to whiteness againstthe rocks there still came the mightyboom! boom! which had put fear intomany a heart.

The barge was leaping toward it as thoughdrawn by the invisible force of some greatsuction pump. The hind sweepmangripped the handle of the sweep until hisknuckles went white and Bruce over hisshoulder watched the wild water with ajaw set and rigid.

The heavy barge seemed to pause for aninstant on the edge of a precipice with halfher length in mid-air before her bowdropped heavily into a curve of water thatwas like the hollow of a great green shell.The roar that followed was deafening. Thesheet of water that broke over the boat foran instant shut out the sun. Then she cameup like a clumsy Newfoundland, with thewater streaming from the platform andswishing through the machinery, and all onboard drenched to the skin.

Bruce stood at his post unshaken, throwinghis great strength on the sweep this wayand that—endeavoring to keep it in thecentre of the current—in the middle of thetortuous channel through which the boatwas racing like mad. And the hind-

sweepman, doing his part, responded,with all the weight of body and strength hepossessed, to Bruce’s low-voiced ordersalmost before they had left his lips.

Quick and tremendous action wasimperative for there were places where asingle instant’s tardiness meantdestruction. There was no time in that madrush to rectify mistakes. A miscalculation,a stroke of the sweep too little or toomuch, would send the heavily loaded boatwith that tremendous, terrifying forcebehind it, crashing and splintering on arock like a flimsy-bottomed strawberrybox.

For all of seven miles Bruce never liftedhis eyes, straining them as he wielded hissweep for the deceptive, submerged

granite boulders over which the water slidin a thin sheet. Immovable, tense, hesteered with the sureness of knowledgeand grim determination until the boatceased to leap and ahead lay a littlestretch of peace.

Then he turned and looked at the lollingtongues behind him that seemed stillreaching for the boat and straightening uphe shook his fist:

“You didn’t get me that time, dog-goneyou, and what’s more you won’t!”

All three boats were coming, rearing andplunging, disappearing and reappearing.Anxiously he watched Smaltz work until abend of the river shut them all from sight.It was many miles before the riverstraightened out again but when it did he

saw them all riding safely, with Smaltzholding his place in line.

Stretches of white water came at frequentintervals all day but Bruce slept on theplatform of his barge that night moresoundly than he ever had dared hope. Eachhour that passed, each rapid that they putbehind them, was so much done; he wasso much nearer his goal.

On the second night when they tied up,with the Devil’s Teeth, the Black Canyonand the Whiplash passed in safety, Brucefelt almost secure, although the rapid thathe dreaded most remained for the thirdand last day.

The boatmen stood, a silent group, at TheBig Mallard. “She’s a bad one, boys—andlooking wicked as I’ve ever seen her.”

There was a furrow of anxiety betweenBruce’s heavy brows.

Every grave face was a shade paler andPorcupine Jim’s eyes looked like two bluebuttons sewed on white paper as hestared.

“I wish I was back in Meennyso-ta.” Theunimaginative Swede’s voice wasplaintive.

“We dare not risk the other channel,Saunders,” said Bruce briefly, “thewater’s hardly up enough for that.”

“I don’t believe we could make it,”Saunders answered; “it’s too long achance.”

Smaltz was studying the rocks and currentintently, as though to impress upon his

mind every twist and turn. His face wasserious but he made no comment andwalked back in silence to the eddy abovewhere the boats were tied.

It was the only rapid where they hadstopped to “look out the trail ahead,” but apeculiarity of the Big Mallard was that thechannel changed with the varying stages ofthe water and it was too dangerous at anystage to trust to luck.

It was a stretch of water not easy todescribe. Words seem colorless—inadequate to convey the picture itpresented or the sense of awe it inspired.Looking at it from among the boulders onthe shore it seemed the last degree ofmadness for human beings to pit theirLilliputian strength against that racing,

thundering flood. Certain it was that TheBig Mallard was the supreme test ofcourage and boatmanship.

The river, running like a mill-race, shotstraight and smooth down grade until itreached a high, sharp, jutting ledge ofgranite, where it made a sharp turn. Themain current made a close swirl and thenfairly leaping took a sudden rush for anarrow passageway between two greatboulders, one of which rose close to shoreand the other nearer the centre of the river.The latter being covered thinly with asheet of water which shot over it to dropinto a dark hole like a well, rising again tostrike another rock immediately belowand curve back. For three hundred yardsor more the river seethed and boiled, a

stretch of roaring whiteness, as though itsgrowing fury had culminated in thisfoaming fit of rage, and from it cameuncanny sounds like children crying,women screaming.

Bruce’s eyes were shining brilliantly withthe excitement of the desperate gameahead when he put into the river, butnothing could exceed the carefulness, thecaution with which he worked his boat outof the eddy so that when the current caughtit it should catch it right. Watching thelandmarks on either shore, measuringdistances, calculating the consequences ofeach stroke, he placed the clumsy bargewhere he would have it, with all theaccurate skill of a good billiard playermaking a shot.

The boat reached the edge of the current;then it caught it full. With a jump like arace-horse at the signal it was shootingdown the toboggan slide of water towardthe jutting granite ledge. The blanchedbailer in the stern could have touched itwith his hand as the boat whipped aroundthe corner, clearing it by so small amargin that it seemed to him his heartstood still.

Bruce’s muscles turned to steel as hegripped the sweep handle for the last madrush. He looked the personification ofhuman daring. The wind blew his hairstraight back. The joy of battle blazed inhis eyes. His face was alight with areckless exultation. But powerful, fearlessas he was, it did not seem as though it

were within the range of human skill orpossibilities to place a boat in thattoboggan slide of water so that it wouldcut the current diagonally, miss the rocknearest shore and shoot across to miss thechannel boulder and that yawning holebeneath. But he did, though he skimmedthe wide-mouthed well so close that thebailer stared into its dark depths withbulging eyes.

The boat leaped in the spray below, butthe worst was passed and Bruce and hishind sweepman exchanged the swift smileof satisfaction which men have for eachother at such a time.

“Keep her steady—straight away.” He hadnot dared yet to lift his eyes to look behindsave for that one glance.

“My God! they’re comin’ right together!”

The sharp cry from the hind sweepmanmade him turn. They had rounded theledge abreast and Smaltz’s boat insidewas crowding Saunders hard. Saundersand his helper were working withsuperhuman strength to throw the boat intothe outer channel in the fraction of timebefore it started on the final shoot. Couldthey do it! could they! Bruce felt his lungs—his heart—something inside him hurtwith his sharp intake of breath as hewatched that desperate battle whose lossmeant not only sunk machinery but verylikely death.

Bruce’s hands were still full getting hisown boat to safety. He dared not look toolong behind.

“They’re goin’ to make it! They’re almostthrough! They’re safe!” Then—shrilly—“They’re gone! they’ve lost a sweep.”

Bruce turned quickly at his helper’s cry ofconsternation, turned to see the hind-sweep wildly threshing the air while theboat spun around and around in the boilingwater, disappearing, reappearing, sinkinga little lower with each plunge. Then, atthe risk of having every rib crushed in,they saw the bailer throw his body acrossthe sweep and hold it down before it quiteleaped from its pin. The hind-sweepmanwas scrambling wildly to reach and holdthe handle as it beat the air. He got it—held it for a second—then it waswrenched out of his hand. He tried againand again before he held it, but finally

Bruce said huskily——

“They’ll make it—they’ll make it sure ifSaunders can hold her a little longer offthe rocks.”

His own boat had reached quieter water.Simultaneously, it seemed, both he and hishelper thought of Smaltz. They took theireyes from the boat in trouble and the hind-sweepman’s jaw dropped. He saidunemotionally—dully—as he might havesaid—“I’m sick; I’m hungry”—“They’vestruck.”

Yes—they had struck. If Bruce had notbeen so absorbed he might have heard thebottom splintering when she hit the rock.

Her bow shot high into the air and settledat the stern. As she slid off, tilted, filled

and sunk, Smaltz and Porcupine Jim bothjumped. Then the river made a bend whichshut it all from Bruce’s sight. It was half amile before he found a landing. He tied upand walked back, unexcited, not hurrying,with a curious quietness inside.

Smaltz and Jim were fighting when he gotthere. Smaltz was sitting astride thelatter’s chest. There were epithets andrecriminations, accusations, counter-charges, oaths. The Swede was crying anda little stream of red was trickling towardhis ear. Bruce eyed him calmly,contemplatively, thinking what a face hemade, and how ludicrous he looked withthe sand matted in his corn-silk hair andcovering him like a tamale casing of corn-meal as it stuck to his wet clothes.

He left them and walked up the riverwhere the rock rose like a monument tohis hopes. With his hands on his hips hewatched the water rippling around it,slipping over the spot where the boat layburied with some portion of everymachine upon the works while like a boltfrom the blue the knowledge came to himthat since the old Edison type wasobsolete the factories no longer madeduplicates of the parts.

XX

“The Forlorn Hope”

It was August. “Old Turtle-back” wasshowing up at the diggin’s and the riverwould reach low water-mark with lessthan half a foot.

Pole in hand, big John Johnson of the crewstood on the rocking raft anchored belowThe Big Mallard and opposite the rockwhere the boat had sunk and smiled hissolemn smile at Bruce.

“Don’t know but what we ought to nameher and break a bottle of ketchup over thebow of this here craft a’fore we la’nchher.”

“The Forlorn Hope, The Last Chance, orsomething appropriate like that,” Brucesuggested, although there was too much

truth in the jest for him to smile. Thisattempt to recover the sunken boat wasliterally that. If it was gone, he was done.His work, all that he had been through,was wasted effort; the whole an expensivefiasco proving that the majority aresometimes right.

The suspense which Bruce had been underfor more than two months would soon beended one way or the other. Day and nightit seemed to him he had thought of littleelse than the fate of the sunken boat. Hisbrain was tired with conjecturing as towhat had happened to her when the waterhad reached its flood. Had the force of itshoved her into deeper water? Had thesand which the water carried at thatperiod filled and covered her? Had the

current wrenched her to pieces andimbedded the machinery deep in thesediment and mud?

Questioning his own judgment, doubtful asto whether he was right or wrong, he hadgone on with the work as though themachinery was to be recovered, yet all thetime he was filled with sickening doubts.But it seemed as though his inborn tenacityof purpose, his mulish obstinacy, wouldnot let him quit, driving him on to finishthe flume and trestle 40 feet high withevery green log and timber snaked in andput in place by hand; to finish the pressurebox and penstock and the 200 feet of pipe-line riveted on the broiling hillside whenthe metal was almost too hot to touch withthe bare hand. The foundation of the

power house was ready for the machineryand the Pelton water-wheel had beeninstalled. It had taken time and money andgrimy sweat. Was it all in vain?

Asking himself the question for which tenminutes at most would find the answerBruce sprang upon the tilting raft andnodded—

“Shove off.”

As Bruce balanced himself on the raftwhile the Swede poled slowly toward therock that now arose from the water thesize of a small house, he was thankful thatthe face can be made at times to serve asso good a mask. Not for the world wouldhe have had John Johnson guess howafraid he was, how actually scared todeath when the raft bumped against the

huge brown rock and he knew that he mustlook over the side.

Holding the raft steady, Johnson kept hiseyes on Bruce’s face as he peered into theriver and searched the bottom. Not amuscle of Bruce’s face moved nor aneyelid flickered in the tense silence. Thenhe said quietly—

“John, she’s gone.”

A look of sympathy softened the Swede’shomely face.

Bruce straightened up.

“Gone!” he reiterated—“gone.”

Johnson might guess a little but he couldnever guess the whole of the despairwhich seemed to crush Bruce like an

overwhelming weight as he stood lookingat the sun shining upon the back of thetwisting green snake of a river that he hadthought he could beat; Johnson never hadrisked and lost anybody’s money but hisown, he never had allowed a woman heloved to build her hopes upon hisjudgment and success. To have failed soquickly and so completely—oh, themortification of it! the chagrin!

Finally Johnson said gently:

“Guess we might as well go back.”

Bruce winced. It reminded him what goingback meant. To discharge the crew andtelegraph his failure to Helen Dunbar,Harrah and the rest, then to watch thelumber dry out and the cracks widen in theflume, the rust take the machinery and the

water-wheel go to ruin—that’s whatgoing back meant—taking up his lonely,pointless life where he had left it off,growing morbid, eccentric, like the otherfailures sulking in the hills.

“There were parts of two dynamos, one50 horse-power motor, a keeper, and afield, beside the fly-wheel in the boat.”Bruce looked absently at Johnson but hewas talking to himself. “I wonder, Iwonder”—a gleam of hope lit up his face—“John, go up to Fritz Yandell’s andborrow that compass that he fished out ofthe river.”

Johnson looked puzzled but started in ahurry. In an hour or so he was back, stillpuzzled; compasses he thought were forpeople who were lost.

“It’s only a chance, John, another forlornhope, but there’s magnetic iron in thosedynamos and the needle might show it ifwe can get above the boat.”

Johnson’s friendly eye shone instantlywith interest. Starting from the spot of thewreck, he poled slowly down the river,keeping in line with the rock. Ten, twenty,thirty—fifty feet below the rock theypoled and the needle did not waver fromthe north.

“She’d go to pieces before she evertravelled this far.” The glimmer of hope inBruce’s eyes had died. “Either the needlewon’t locate her or she’s drifted into thechannel. If that’s the case we’ll never gether out.”

Then Johnson poled back and forth, zig-

zagging from bank to bank, covering everyfoot of space, and still the needle hungsteadfastly to its place.

They were all of fifty feet from where theboat had sunk and some forty feet fromshore when Bruce cried sharply:

“Hold her steady! Wait!”

The needle wavered—agitatedunmistakably—then the parts of thedynamos and the motor in the boat draggedthe reluctant point of steel slowly,flutteringly, but surely, from its affinity,the magnetic North.

Bruce gulped at something in his throatbefore he spoke——

“John, we’ve got her!”

“ I see her!” Johnson executed a kind ofdance on the rocking raft. “Lookee,” hepointed into the exasperatingly densewater, “see her there—like a shadow—her bow is shoved up four—five feetabove her stern. Got her?”

Bruce nodded, then they looked at eachother joyfully, and Bruce rememberedafterward that they had giggledhysterically like two boys.

“The water’ll drop a foot yet,” Bruce saidexcitedly. “Can you dive?”

“First cousin to a musk-rat,” the Swededeclared.

“We’ll build a raft like a hollow square,use a tripod and bring up the chain blocks.What we can’t raise with a grappling-

hook, we’ll go after. John, we’re going toget it—every piece!”

“Bet yer life we’ll get her!” John criedresponsively, “if I has to git drunk to do itand stand to my neck in water for a week.”

XXI

Toy

Bruce paused in the blithesome task ofpacking six by eights to look at themachinery which lay like a pile of junk onthe river bank. Each time he passed he

looked at it and always he felt the samehot impatience and burning sense ofirritation.

The days, the weeks, months were goingby and nothing moved.

Two months Jennings had named as themaximum of time required to set up themachines and have the plant in workingorder. “We’ll be throwin’ dirt by themiddle of July,” he had said, confidently,and it was now close to the middle ofSeptember. The lost machinery was nolonger an excuse, as every piece had beenrecovered by grappling and diving, andlanded safely at the diggin’s.

Twice the whole crew save Jennings haddragged a heavy barge fifteen miles up theriver, advancing only a pull at a time

against the strong current, windlassingover the rapids with big John Johnsonpoling like mad to keep the boat off therocks; sleeping at night in wet clothing,waking stiff and jaded as stage horses togo at it again. Six days they had beengetting up, and a little over an hour comingdown, while two trips had been necessaryowing to the low stage of the water, whichnow made the running of a deeply loadedboat impossible. It had been a severe testof endurance and loyalty in which nonehad fallen short and no one among themhad worked with more tireless energy thanSmaltz, or his erstwhile friend but presentenemy, Porcupine Jim.

There was amazingly little damage doneto the submerged machinery, and when the

last bit of iron was unloaded on the bank,the years which had come upon Bruce inthe weeks of strain and tension seemed toroll away. Unless some fresh calamityhappened, by September, surely, theywould be “throwing dirt.”

Now, as Bruce changed the lumber fromthe raw spot on his right shoulder to theraw spot on his left shoulder he waswondering how much more of a chancewas due Jennings, how much longer hecould hold his tongue. A more extendedacquaintance with his “practical man” hadtaught him how easily a virtue maybecome a fault.

In his insistence upon solidity andexactitude he went beyond the point ofcareful workmanship and became a

putterer. He was the King of Putterers. Hecould out-putter a plumber. And when hehad finished it was usually someunimportant piece of work that any manwho handled tools could have done aswell in half the time.

Bruce had a favorite bush, thick, and asafe distance from the work, behind whichit was his wont to retire at such times asthe sight of Jennings puttering while thecrew under him stood idle, became toomuch for Bruce’s nerves:

“He’d break the Bank of England!” Brucewould exclaim in a vehement whisperbehind the bush. “If he’d been on the pay-roll of Rameses II, they’d have dug up hiswork intact. It’s fierce! As sure asshooting I’m going to run out of money.”

Yet so long as Jennings was in charge,Bruce would not listen to attacks upon himbehind his back, and Jennings hadsucceeded in antagonizing almost all thecrew. With the same regularity that the sunrose he and Woods, the carpenter, hadtheir daily set-to, if over nothing moreimportant than the mislaying of a file orsaw—no doubt they were at it now.

Bruce sighed. It seemed eons ago that hehad had time to watch the kingfisher flyingto his nest or the water-ousel ducking andteetering sociably at his feet. They nevercame any more, neither they nor the blackbear to his service-berry bush and OldFelix had learned in one bitter lesson howhis confidence in man had beenmisplaced. Nothing came any more but

annoyances, trouble, and thinking oftrouble. Bruce wondered what was thematter with Toy. He had looked as grimand forbidding at breakfast as a Chinesegod of war.

But it was no time to speculate, with aload of lumber grinding into his soreshoulder, so Bruce hurried on across theslippery foot-log and up a steep pitch tosee the carpenter charging through thebrush brandishing a saw as if it was asabre.

“I want my ‘time,’” he shouted when hesaw Bruce. “Him or me has got to quit. Iwon’t work with that feller—I won’t takeorders from the likes o’ him! I never sawa man from Oregon yit that was worth thepowder to blow him up! Half-baked, no-

account fakirs, the whole lot of ’em—allus a hirin’ for somethin’ they cain’t do!Middle West renegades! Poor white trash!Oregon is the New Jersey of the Pacificcoast; it’s the Missoury of the West. Itought to be throwed into some other stateand its name wiped off the map. That thereJennings has got the ear-marks of Oregonprinted on him like a governmint stamp.Every time I see that putterin’ web-foot’stracks in the dust it makes me hot. Hedon’t know how to put up this plant nomor’n I do and you’ll find it out. If anOregonian’d be offered a job teachin’dead languages in a college he’d make abluff at doin’ it if he couldn’t write hisown name. Why them ‘web-feet’—”

“Just what in particular is the matter?”

Bruce asked, as the carpenter paused, notfor want of verbal ammunition but becausehe was out of breath.

“Matter!” panted Woods, “he’s got usstrainin’ our life out puttin’ up them greenfour-by-eight’s when they’s no need.They’d carry a ocean cable, them cross-arms would. Four-by-fives is big enoughfor all the wire that’ll be strung here. JohnJohnson jest fell out’n a tree a liftin’ andlike to broke a lung.”

“Do you feel sure that four-by-five’s arestrong enough?”

“Try it—that’s all I ask.”

“You’d better come back to work.”

The carpenter hesitated.

“I don’t like to quit when you need me,but,” he waved the rip-saw in a significantgesture, “if that Oregonian gives me anymore back-talk I aims to cut him up inchunks.”

It was the first time Bruce hadcountermanded one of Jennings’s ordersbut now he backed Woods up. He hadshared the carpenter’s opinion that four-by-five’s were strong enough but he hadsaid nothing, supposing that Jennings wasfollowing precedent and knew what hewas about. Woods, too, had voiced asuspicion which kept rising in his mind asto whether Jennings did know how to putup the machines. Was it possible that theunimportant detail work which Jenningsinsisted upon doing personally in order

that it might be exactly right, was only asubterfuge to put off as long as possiblethe day when the showdown must come?Was it in his mind to draw his generouswages as long as he safely might theninvent some plausible excuse to quit?

Bruce was not a fool but neither was heapt to be suspicious of a person he had nogood reason to mistrust. He had madeevery allowance for Jennings’ slowness,but his bank account was rapidly reachinga stage where, even if he would, he couldno longer humor Jennings’ mania forsolidity. Something had to move, and,taking Jennings aside, Bruce told him so.

The look which darkened Jennings’s facewhen his instructions to Woods werecountermanded surprised Bruce. It was

more than chagrin, it was—ugly. Itprejudiced Bruce against him as all hisputtering had failed to do. The correctnessor incorrectness of his contentionconcerning the cross-arm seemed of lessimportance than the fact that Bruce’sinterference had impaired his dignity—belittled him in the eyes of the crew.

“Am I the constructin’ ingineer, or ain’t I?If I am, I’m entitled to some respect.”More than ever Jennings looked like abear pouting in a trap.

“What’s your dignity got to do with it?”Bruce demanded. “I’m General Manager,when it comes to that, and I’ve beenpacking cross-arms like a mule. This is notime to talk about what’s due you—getresults. This pay-roll can’t go on forever,

Jennings. There’s an end. At this rate it’llcome quick. You know what the successof this proposition means to me—my first,and, I beg of you don’t putter any more;get busy and put up those machines. Yousay that 50 horse-power motor has got tobe rewound—”

“One man can’t work on that alone,”Jennings interrupted in a surly tone. “Ican’t do anything on it until that otherelectrician comes in.”

“Get Smaltz to help you.”

“Smaltz! What does he know. Him holdingout for them four-be-five cross-armsshows what he knows.”

“Sometimes I think he knows a good dealmore than he lets on.”

“Don’t you think it,” Jennings sneered.“He don’t know half as much as he letson. Jest one of them rovin’ windjammerspickin’ up a little smatterin’ here andthere. Run a power-house in the Coeurd’Alenes. Huh—what’s that! This herefeller that I got comin’ is a ’lectricalgenius. He’s worked with me on drudgers,and I know.”

Glaring at the victorious carpenter who,being human, sent back a grin, Jenningswent to the power-house, mumbling to thelast that “four-be-five’s” would neverhold.

“I think I go now I think.”

“Toy!”

The old Chinaman at his elbow was

dressed for travelling in a clean butunironed shirt; and his shoes had beennewly hobbed. His round, black hat waspulled down purposefully as far as hisears would permit. All his possessionswere stuffed into his best overalls with thelegs tied around his waist and the pair ofattached suspenders worn over hisshoulders so that at first glance hepresented the startling appearance ofcarrying a headless corpse pick-a-back.

Bruce looked at him in astonishment. Hewould as soon have thought of thussuddenly losing his right arm.

The Chinaman’s yellow face wasimpassive, his snuff-brown eyes quiteblank.

“I go now,” he repeated.

“But Toy—” There are a special set ofsensations which accompany theannouncement of the departure of cooks,Bruce felt distinctly when his heart hit hisboots. To be without a cook just now wasmore than an annoyance—it was a tragedy—but mostly it was the Chinaman’singratitude that hurt.

“I go,” was the stubborn answer.

Bruce knew the tone.

“All right—go,” he answered coldly, “butfirst I want you to tell me why.”

A flame of anger leaped into Toy’s eyes;his whole face worked; he was stirred tothe centre of his being.

“She kick on me!” he hissed. “She say I nocan cook!”

Instantly Bruce understood. Jennings’sbride had been guilty of the oneunforgivable offense. His own eyesflashed.

“Tell her to keep out of the kitchen.”

Toy shook his head.

“I no likee her; I no stay.”

“Won’t you stay if I ask you as a favor?”

The Chinaman reiterated in his stubbornmonotone:

“She kick on my glub; I no likee her; I nostay.”

“You’re going to put me in an awful hole,Toy, if you go.”

“She want my job, I think. All light—I no

care.”

Bruce knew him too well to argue. TheChinaman could see only one thing, andthat loomed colossal. He had beeninsulted; his dignity would not permit himeven to breathe under the same roof with awoman who said he could not cook. Heturned away abruptly and jogged down thetrail with the overalls stuffed with hispossessions bobbing ludicrously on hisback.

Heavy-hearted Bruce watched him go. IfToy had forgotten that he owed him for hislife he would not remind him, but he hadthought that the Chinaman’s gratitude wasdeeper than this, although, it was true, henever had thanked him or indicated in anyway that he realized or appreciated what

Bruce had done. Nevertheless Bruce hadbelieved that in his way Toy was fond ofhim, that deep under his yellow skin therewas loyalty and a passive,undemonstrative affection. Obviouslythere was none. He was no different fromother Chinamen, it seemed—the whiteman and his country were only means toan end.

Bruce would not have believed thatanybody with oblique eyes and a shingledqueue could have hurt him so. Of the threemen he had befriended, two had turned theknife in him. He wondered cynically howsoon he would hear from Uncle Bill.

XXII

The General Manager

Jennings and Woods were now swornenemies and the stringing of the wiresbecame a matter of intense interest, as thiswas the test which would prove the truthor fallacy of Jennings’ cantankerousharping that the cross-arms were too light.

In isolated camps where there is nooutside diversion such tests of opinionbecome momentous matters, and thepresent instance was no exception. Mrs.Jennings, too, had taken sides—herhusband’s, naturally—and the anti-Jennings faction was made to realize fully

the possibilities for revenge which liewithin the jurisdiction of the cook.

The alacrity with which Jennings’s bridestepped into Toy’s shoes convinced Brucethat the Chinaman had been correct in hisassertion, but he was helpless in thecircumstances, and accepted theinevitable, being able for the first time tounderstand why there are wife-beaters.

Jennings had opined that his bride was“lasty.” She looked it. “Bertha” stood sixfeet in her moccasins and lifted a sack offlour as the weaker of her sex toy with afan. She had an undershot jaw and a noseso retroussé that the crew asserted it waspossible to observe the convolutions ofher brain and see what she had plannedfor the next meal. Be that as it may, Bertha

had them cowed to a man, with thepossible exception of Porcupine Jim,whose hide no mere sarcasm couldpenetrate. There was general envy of thetemerity which enabled Jim to ask formore biscuits when the plate was empty.Even Smaltz shrank involuntarily whenshe came toward him with her mouth onthe bias and a look in her deep-set eyeswhich said that she would as soon, orsooner, pour the steaming contents of thecoffee-pot down the back of his neck thanin his cup, while Woods averred that“Doc” Tanner who fasted forty daysdidn’t have anything on him.

Nobody but Jennings shared Bertha’shallucination that she could cook, and hewas the recipient of special dishes, such

delicacies as cup-custard, and toast. Thisin no wise added to Jennings’s popularitywith the crew and when Bruce suggestedas much to the unblushing bride she toldhim, with arms akimbo and her heels wellplanted some three feet apart, that if they“didn’t like it let ’em come and tell herso.”

Bertha was looking like a gargoyle whenthe men filed in for supper the night beforethe stringing of the wires was to begin.The fact that men antagonistic to herhusband dared walk in before her eyesand eat, seemed like bravado, a challenge,and filled her with such black resentmentthat Bruce trembled for the carpenterwhen she hovered over him like a Fury,with a platter of bacon.

Woods, too, felt his peril, and intrepidsoul though he was, seemed to contract,withdraw like a turtle into his flannelcollar, as though already he felt thesizzling grease on his unprotected pate.

Conversation was at a standstill in theatmosphere charged with Bertha’sdisapproval. Only Porcupine Jim, quiteunconscious, unabashed, heaped his plateand ate with all the loud abandon of aBerkshire Red. Emboldened by the pangsof hunger a long way from satisfied, JohnJohnson tried to “palm” a fourth biscuitwhile surreptitiously reaching for a third.Unfortunately John was not sufficientlypractised in the art of legerdemain and thebiscuit slipped from his fingers. It fell offthe table and rolled like a cartwheel to

Bertha’s feet.

“Shan’t I bring you in the shovel, Mr.Johnson?” she inquired in a tone of deadlypoliteness as she polished the biscuit onher lip and returned it to the plate.

John’s ears flamed, also his neck and face.The honest Swede looked like a sheep-killing dog caught in the act. He dared notanswer, and she added:

“There’s three apiece.”

“Mrs. Jennings, I haven’t put the camp onhalf-rations yet.” Bruce was mutinous atlast.

The bride drew herself up and rearedback from the waist-line until she lookedall of seven feet tall. The row of shortlocks that hung down like a row of fish-

hooks beneath a knob of black hairseemed to stand out straight and thewindow rattled in its casing as sheswarmed down on Bruce.

“Look a here, young feller, I don’t need noboss to tell me how much to cook!”

Jennings protested mildly:

“Now don’t you go and git upset, Babe.”

“Babe” turned upon him savagely:

“And don’t you go to takin’ sides! I’mused to livin’ good an’ when I think what Igive up to come down here to this hole—”

“I know ’taint what you’re used to,”Jennings agreed in a conciliatory tone.

Smaltz took this occasion to ostentatiouslyinspect a confection the upper and lower

crusts of which stuck together like twopieces of adhesive plaster.

“Looks like somebudy’s been high-gradin’this here pie.”

The criticism might have touched even amild-tempered cook; it made a demon ofBertha. She started around the table withthe obvious intention of doing Smaltzbodily harm, but at the moment, PorcupineJim, whose roving eye had been searchingthe table for more food, lighted upon oneof the special dishes set before Jennings’plate.

It looked like rice pudding with raisins init! If there was one delicacy whichappealed to James’s palate more thananother it was rice pudding with raisins init. He arose from the bench in all the

pristine splendor of the orange-coloredcotton undershirt in which he worked anddined, and reached for the pudding. It wasa considerable distance and he was unableto reach it by merely stretching himselfover the table, so James, unhampered bythe rules of etiquette prescribed by afinical Society, put his knee on the tableand buried his thumb in the pudding as hedragged it toward him by the rim.

Without warning he sat down so hard andso suddenly that his feet flew up andkicked the table underneath.

“Leggo!” he gurgled.

For answer Bertha took another twistaround the stout neck-band of his orangeundergarment.

“I’ll learn you rough-necks somemanners!” she panted. “I’ll git the respectthat’s comin’ to a lady if I have to cleanout this here camp!”

“You quit, now!” He rolled a pair of wild,beseeching eyes around the table.“Somebudy take her off!”

“Coward—to fight a woman!” She fellback with a section of James’s shirt in onehand, with the other reaching for his hair.

He clapped the crook of his elbow overhis ear and started to slide under the tablewhen the special Providence that looksafter Swedes intervened. A long, plump,shining bull-snake took that particularmoment to slip off one of the log beamsand bounce on the bride’s head.

She threw herself on Jennings emittingsounds like forty catamounts tied in a bag.The flying crew jammed in the doorway,burst through and never stopped to lookbehind until they were well outside.

“Hy-sterics,” said the carpenter who wasmarried—“she’s took a fit.”

“Hydrophoby—she must a bit herself!”Porcupine Jim was vigorously massaginghis neck.

The bride was sitting on the floor beatingher heels, when Bruce put his head in thedoor cautiously:

“If there’s anything I can do—”

Bertha renewed her screams at sight ofhim.

“They is—” she shrieked—“Git out!”

“You don’t want to go near ’em whenthey’re in a tantrum,” advised thecarpenter in an experienced tone. “Butthat’s about the hardest one I ever see.”

Jennings, staggering manfully under hisburden, bore the hysterical Amazon to hertent and it remained for Bruce to do herwork.

“That’s a devil of a job for a GeneralManager,” commented John Johnsonsympathetically, as he stood in thedoorway watching Bruce, with his sleevesrolled up, scraping assiduously at thebottom of a frying-pan.

Bruce smiled grimly but made no reply.He had been thinking the same thing

himself.

Bruce often had watched an ant trying tomove a bread-crumb many times its size,pushing with all its feet braced, rushing itwith its head, backing off and consideringand going at it again. Failing, runningfrantically around in front to drag and pulland tug. Trying it this way and that,stopping to rest for an instant then tacklingit in fresh frenzy—and getting nowhere,until, out of pity, he gave it a lift.

Bruce felt that this power-plant was hisbread-crumb, and tug and push andstruggle as he would he could not make itbudge. The thought, too, was becoming aconviction that Jennings, who should havehelped him push, was riding on the otherside.

“I wouldn’t even mind his riding,” Brucesaid to himself ironically, “if he wouldn’tdrag his feet.”

He was hoping with all his heart that themuch discussed cross-arms would hold,for when the wires were up and stretchedacross the river he would feel that thebread-crumb had at least moved.

When Bruce crossed to the work the nextmorning, the “come-along” was clampedto the transmission wire and hooked to theblock-and-tackle. Naturally Jennings hadcharge of the stretching of the wire and heselected Smaltz as his assistant.

All the crew, intensely interested in thetest, stood around as Jennings, taciturn andsour and addressing no one but Smaltz,puttered about his preparations.

Finally he cried:

“Ready-O!”

The wire tightened and the slackdisappeared under Smaltz’s steady pull.The carpenter and the crew watched thecross-arm anxiously as the strain cameupon it under the taut wire. Their facesbrightened as it held.

Smaltz looked at Jennings quizzically.

“More?”

“You ain’t heard me tell you yet to stop,”was the snarling answer.

“Here goes, then.” Smaltz’s face wore anexpressive grin as he put his strength onthe rope of the block-and-tackle, whichgave him the pull of a four-horse team.

Bruce heard the cross-arm splinter as hecame up the trail through the brush.

Jennings turned to Woods and saidoffensively:

“Old as you are, I guess I kin learn yousomethin’ yet.”

The carpenter’s face had turned white.With a gesture Bruce stopped hisbelligerent advance.

“Try the next one, Jennings,” he saidquietly.

Once more the slack was taken up and thewire grew taut—so taut it would havetwanged like a fiddle-string if it had beenstruck. Jennings did not give Smaltz thesign to stop even when the cross-armcracked. Without a word of protest Bruce

watched the stout four-by-five splinter anddrop off.

“There—you see—I told you so! Iknowed!” Jennings looked triumphantly atthe carpenter as he spoke. Then, turning tothe crew: “Knock ’em off—every one.Now I’ll do it right!”

Not a man moved and for an instant Brucedared not trust himself to speak. When hedid speak it was in a tone that madeJennings look up startled:

“You’ll come across the river and getyour time.” His surprise was genuine asBruce went on—“Do you imagine,” heasked savagely, trying to steady his voice,“that I haven’t intelligence enough to knowthat you’ve got to allow for the swaying ofthe trees in the wind, for the contraction

and expansion of heat and cold, for theweight of snow and sleet? Do you think Ihaven’t brains enough to see when you’redeliberately destroying another man’swork? I’ve been trying to make myselfbelieve in you—believe that in spite ofyour faults you were honest. Now I knowthat you’ve been drawing pay for monthsfor work you don’t know how to do. Ican’t see any difference between you andany common thief who takes what doesn’tbelong to him. Right here you quit!Vamoose!” Bruce made a sweepinggesture—“You go up that hill as quick asthe Lord will let you.”

XXIII

“Good Enough”

“Alf” Banule, the electrical genius forwhom Jennings had sent to help himrewind an armature and who therefore hadtaken Jennings’s place as constructingengineer, had the distinction of being theonly person Bruce had ever seen whocould remove his socks without taking offhis shoes. He accomplished the feat withease for the reason that there were neverany toes in the aforesaid shoes. As hehimself said, he would have been a tallman if there had not been so much of himturned up at the end.

The only way he was able to wear shoesat all, save those made to order, was tocut out the toes; the same applied to hissocks, and the exposed portion of his barefeet had not that dimpled pinkness whichmoves poets to song. From the rear,Banule’s shoes looked like two bobsledsgoing down hill, and from the front theeffect of the loose soles was that of twogreat mouths opening and closing. Yet heskimmed the river boulders at amazingspeed, seeming to find no inconveniencein the flap-flapping of the loose leather ashe leaped from rock to rock.

In contrast to his yawning shoes and a pairof trousers the original shade of whichwas a matter of uncertainty, together witha black satine shirt whose color made

change unnecessary, was a stylishTyrolese hat—green felt—with a butterflybow perched jauntily on one side. Andunderneath this stylishness there was aprematurely bald head covered withsmudges of machine grease which it couldreadily be believed were souvenirs of hisapprentice days in the machine shop. Ifindifference to appearance be a mark ofgenius it would be impossible to denyBanule’s claim to the title.

He was the direct antithesis of Jennings,harnessed lightning in clothes, workingearly and late. He flew at the machinerylike a madman, yelling for wrenches, andrivets and bolts, chiselling, and soldering,and oiling, until the fly-wheel was on itsshaft in the power-house, and the

dynamos, dragged at top speed from theriver-bank, no longer looked like a pile ofjunk. The switchboard went up, and thepressure gauge, and the wiring for thepower-house light. But for all Bruce’srelief at seeing things moving, he had afeeling of uneasiness lest there was toomuch haste. “Good enough—that’s goodenough!” were the words oftenest onBanule’s lips. They filled Bruce withvague forebodings, misgivings, and hecame to feel a flash of irritation each timethe genius said airily: “Oh, that’s goodenough.”

Bruce warned him often—“Don’t slightyour work—do it right if it takes twice aslong.”

Banule always made the same cheering

answer: “Don’t worry, everything is goingfine; in less than a month we’ll begenerating ‘juice’.” And Bruce tried tofind comfort in the assurance.

When Bruce pulled the lever whichopened the valve, and heard the hiss of thewater when it shot from the nozzle and hitthe wheel, and watched the belt, and shaft,and big fly-wheel speed up until thespokes were a blur and the breeze itcreated lifted his hair, it was the happiestmoment of his life. When he saw thethread of carbon filament in the glass bulbturn red and grow to a bright, white light,he had something of the feeling of ecstasythat he imagined a mother must have whenshe looks at her first-born—a mixture ofwonder and joy.

He had an odd, intimate feeling—a strongfeeling of affection—for every piece ofmachinery in the power-house. He liked tohear the squeak of the belting and thesteady chug-chug of the water-wheels; thepurr of the dynamos was music, and hekept the commutators free from dust withloving care.

But these moments alone in the power-house were high-lights in a world ofshadows. His periods of elation werebrief, for so many things went wrong, andso often, that sometimes he wondered if itwas the way some guardian angel had ofwarning him, of trying to prevent him fromkeeping on and making a big mistakebigger; or was it only the tests that theFates have a way of putting humans

through and, failing to break their hearts,sometimes let them win?

Important as the power-house was it wasonly a small portion of the whole. Therewas still the 10-inch pump in the pump-house with its 75 horse-power motor andthe donkey engine with the 50 horse-power motor to get to working right, not tomention the flume and sluice-boxes, withtheir variety of riffles and everypracticable device for trapping the elusivefine gold. And not the least of Bruce’sincreasing anxieties was “Alf” Banulewith his constant “good enough.”

It was well toward the end of October andBruce, hurrying over the trail with sheetsof mica for Banule, who was working onthe submerged motor which had to be

rewound, noticed that the willows wereturning black. What a lot had happenedsince he had noticed the willows turningblack last year! A lifetime of hopes andfears, and new experiences had beencrowded into twelve flying months.

His mind straying for a moment from thework and its many problems, he fell tothinking of Helen Dunbar and her lastletter. When he was not thinking ofundercurrents or expanded metal riffles orwondering anxiously if the 10-inch and 8-inch pumps were going to raise sufficientwater, or if the foundation built on piling,instead of cement, was “good enough,”Bruce was thinking of the girl he loved.

She had written in her last letter—Bruceknew them all by heart—

I HAD A VISITOR YESTERDAY. YOU WILL BE AS SURPRISED, WHENI TELL YOU WHO IT WAS, AS I WAS TO SEE HIM. HAVE YOUGUESSED? I’M SURE YOU HAVEN’T. NONE OTHER THAN OURFRIEND SPRUDELL—VERY APOLOGETIC—VERY HUMBLE ANDCONTRITE, AND WITH AN EXPLANATION TO OFFER FOR HIS BEHAVIORTHAT WAS REALLY MOST INGENIOUS. THERE’S NO DENYING HEHAS CLEVERNESS OF A KIND—CRAFT, PERHAPS, IS A BETTERword.HIS HUMILITY WAS TOUCHING BUT SO UNLIKE HIM THAT I SHOULDHAVE BEEN ALARMED IF HE HAD NOT BEEN SO OBVIOUSLYsincere.NEVERTHELESS HIS VISIT HAS UPSET ME. I’VE BEEN WORRIEDEVER SINCE. PERHAPS YOU’LL ONLY LAUGH AT ME WHEN I TELLYOU THAT IT IS BECAUSE I AM AFRAID FOR you. TRULY I AM! IDON’T KNOW THAT I CAN EXPLAIN EXACTLY SO YOU’LLUNDERSTAND BUT THERE WAS SOMETHING DISTURBING WHICH Ifelt WHEN HE SPOKE QUITE CASUALLY OF YOU. IT WAS ALMOSTTOO INTANGIBLE TO PUT INTO WORDS BUT IT WAS LIKE A GLOATINGSECRET SATISFACTION, AS THOUGH HE HAD THE BEST OF YOU INsome way, the whip-hand.IT MAY BE JUST A SILLY NOTION, ONE OF THOSE FEARS THAT POPINTO ONE’S HEAD IN THE MOST INEXPLICABLE WAY AND STICK,REFUSING TO BE DRIVEN OUT BY ANY AMOUNT OF LOGIC. TELL ME,

IS THERE ANYTHING THAT HE CAN DO TO YOU? ANY WAY THAT HEcan harm you?I am nervous—anxious—and I cannot help it.

She was anxious about him! That fact wasparamount. Somebody in the world wasworrying over him. He stopped short inthe trail with fresh wonder of it. Everytime he thought of it, it gave him a thrill.His face, that had been set in tired, harshlines of late, softened with a smile ofhappiness.

And he did so long to give her substantialevidence of his gratitude. If that machineryever started—if the scrapers ever got tohauling dirt—her reward, his reward,would come quick. That was one of thecompensating features of mining; if thereturns came at all they came quick. Bruce

started on, hastening his footsteps until healmost ran.

The electrical genius was driving a nailwith a spirit-level when Bruce reachedthe pump-house and Bruce flared up inquick wrath.

“Stop that, Banule! Isn’t there a hammeron this place?”

“Didn’t see one handy,” Banule repliedcheerfully, “took the first thing I couldreach.”

“It just about keeps one pack-train on thetrail supplying you with tools.”

“Guess I am a little careless.” Banuleseemed unruffled by the reproach—because he had heard it so many timesbefore, no doubt.

“Yes, you’re careless,” Bruce answeredvigorously, “and I’m telling you straight itworries me; I can’t help wondering if yourcarelessness extends to your work. There,you know, you’ve got me, for I can’t tell. Imust trust you absolutely.”

Banule shrugged a shoulder—

“This ain’t the first plant I’ve put up, youknow.” He added—“I’ll guarantee thatinside two weeks we’ll be throwin’ dirt.Eh, Smaltz? Ain’t I right?”

Smaltz, who was stooping over, did notimmediately look up. Bruce saw an oddexpression cross his face—an expressionthat was something like derision. When hefelt Bruce looking at him it vanishedinstantly and he straightened up.

“Why, yes,” with his customary grin,“looks like we orter make a start.”The peculiar emphasis did not escapeBruce and he was still thinking of the lookhe had caught on Smaltz’s face as he askedBanule:

“Is this mica right? Is it the kind youneed?”

Smaltz looked at Banule from the cornerof his eye.

“’Taint exactly what I ought to have,”Banule responded cheerfully. “I forgot tospecify when I ordered, but I guess I canmake it do—it’s good enough.”

It seemed to Bruce that his over-strainednerves snapped all at once. He did notrecognize the sound of his voice when he

turned on Banule:

“S’help me, I’m goin’ to break every bonein your body if you don’t cut out that ‘goodenough’! How many hundred times have Igot to tell you that nothing’s good enoughon this plant until it’s right?”

“I didn’t mean anything,” Banulemumbled, temporarily cowed.

Bruce heard Smaltz snicker as he walkedaway.

The sluice-boxes upon which Bruce wasputting the finishing touches were hisparticular pride. They were four feet wideand nearly a quarter of a mile in length.The eight per cent grade was steep enoughto carry off boulders twice, three times,the size of a man’s head when there was a

force of water behind them.

The last box was well over the river at apoint where it was sufficiently swift totake off the “tailings” and keep it free. Thetop earth, which had to be removed touncover the sand-bank, was full of jaggedrocks that had come down in snowslidesfrom the mountain and below this top earthwas a strata of small, smooth boulders—“river wash.”

This troublesome “overburden”necessitated the use of iron instead ofwooden riffles, as the bumping andgrinding of the boulders would soon haveworn the latter down to nothing. So, formany weary trips, a string of footsorepack-horses had picked their way downthe dangerous trail from Ore City, loaded

to their limit with pierced iron strips,rods, heavy sacks of nuts and bolts.

It had been laborious, nerve-racking workand every trip had had its accident,culminating in the loss of the best pack-horse in the string, the horse havingslipped off the trail, scattering its pack, asSmaltz announced it, “from hell tobreakfast.”

But the iron strips and rods were madeinto riffles now, and laid. Bruce surveyedthe whole with intense satisfaction as hestood by the sluice-boxes looking downthe long grade. It was his work and heknew that he had done it well. He hadspared no labor to have it right—nothinghad been just “good enough.”

There was cocoa matting under the riffles

of the first six boxes. Half-way the lengthof the sluice-boxes the finest gravel,yellow and black sand, dropped throughperforated sheet-iron grizzles into the“undercurrents” while the rocks andboulders rushed on through the sluice-boxes to the river.

At the end of the undercurrents there was awide table having a slight grade, and thistable was covered with canton flannelover which was placed more riffles ofexpanded metal. And, as a finalprecaution, lest some infinitesimal amountof gold escape, there was a mercury trapbelow the table. While Bruce wasexpecting to catch the greater part of it inthe first six sluice-boxes he was not takinga single chance.

Now, as he stood by the sluice-boxeslooking their length, he allowed himself todream for a moment of the days when themercury, turned to amalgam, should belying thick with gold behind the riffles; toanticipate the unspeakable happiness oftelegraphing his success to Helen Dunbar.

Even with the tangible evidence before hiseyes it was hard to realize that after all thestruggle, he was so near his goal. Theceaseless strain and anxiety had left theirmarks upon his face. He looked older byyears than when he had stood by the riverdipping water into his old-fashionedcradle and watching “Slim” scrambleamong the rocks.

But it would be worth it all—all and more—he told himself exultingly, if he

succeeded—as he must. His eyes shonewith enthusiasm and he tingled with hisjoy, as he thought what success meant.

A sound behind him brought him back toearth. He turned to see Toy picking hisway gingerly over the rocks.

“You old rascal!” he cried joyfully. “Dog-gone, I’m glad to see you, though youdon’t deserve it.”

“I come back now,” the Chinamanannounced serenely. “No go way no moreI think.”

XXIV

The Midnight Visitor

Toy raised his head sharply from his littleflat pillow where he lay in his tent,pitched for convenience beside thekitchen, and listened. A sound like thecautious scraping of the saggingstorehouse door on the other side of thekitchen had awakened him. He was notsure that he had not dreamed it or that itwas not merely renewed activities on thepart of his enemies, the pack-rats, betweenwhom and himself there waged constantwar. There was a possibility that someprowling animal might push in the door,but, as the month was now November andthe nights were as cold as winter, he was

not too anxious to crawl from his warmnest and investigate until he was sure.

Hearing nothing more he dropped back onhis pillow sleepily, vowing freshvengeance on the pack-rats who at thatmoment no doubt were carrying off riceand rolled oats. Suddenly there came afresh sound, very distinct in the stillness,somewhat like the side of a big tin bulgingwhere it had been dented. To ease hismind rather than because he expected tofind anything Toy slipped his feet into histhick-soled Chinese slippers and shuffledout into the night.

The faintest gleam of light was comingthrough the opening in the storehousedoor, which Toy himself had carefullyclosed. It was all of eleven o’clock and

the men, Toy knew, had been in bed forhours. He stepped noiselessly inside andstared with all his eyes at Smaltz. Smaltzwas about to extinguish the candle whichhe had been shielding with his coat.

“What you do? What you gittee?”

Smaltz whirled swiftly at the shrilldemand with a startled look on hisimpudent face.

“Oh—hello,” he said uncertainly.

“Why you come? What you want?”

“Why—er—I wanted to see if they wasany more of them eight-penny nails left.I’ll need some to-morrow and bein’awake frettin’ and stewin’ over my work Ithought I’d come up and take a look.Besides,” with his mocking grin, “the

evenin’s reely too lovely to stay in bed.”

“You lie, I think.” Toy’s teeth werechattering with cold and excitement. “Whyyou come? What you want?”

“You oughtn’t to say those rude, harshthings. They’re apt to hurt the feelin’s of asensitive feller like me.”

“What you steal?” Toy pointed atrembling finger at the inside pocket ofSmaltz’s coat where it bulged.

“You wrong me,” said Smaltz sorrowfullyin mock reproach. “That’s my Bible,Chink.”

After Smaltz had gone Toy lighted acandle and poked among the boxes, cans,and sacks. He knew almost to a poundhow much sugar, flour, rice, coffee, beans,

and other provisions he had, but nothing,that he could discover, had beendisturbed. The nail kegs and reserve toolsin the corner, wedges, axe-handles andblades, files and extra shovels all werethere. It was a riddle Toy could not solveyet he knew that Smaltz had not told thetruth.

A white man who was as loyal to Bruceas Toy would have told him immediatelyof Smaltz’s mysterious midnight visit tothe storehouse, but that was not the yellowman’s way. Instead he watched Smaltzlike a hawk, eying him furtively,appearing unexpectedly at his elbowwhile he worked. From that night on,instead of one shadow Smaltz foundhimself with two.

Toy never had liked Smaltz from the dayhe came. Those who knew the Chinamancould tell it by the scrupulous politenesswith which he treated him. He waselaborately exact and fair but he neverspoke to him unless it was necessary. Toyyelled at and bullied those he liked but amandarin could not have surpassed him indignity when he addressed Smaltz.

Bruce surmised that the Chinaman mustshare his own instinctive distrust, yetSmaltz, with his versatility, had provedhimself more and more valuable as thework progressed.

Banule’s sanguine prophecy that theywould be “throwin’ dirt” within twoweeks had failed of fulfilment because thepump motors had sparked when tried out.

So small a matter had not disturbed thecheerful optimism of the genius, whodeclared he could remedy it with a littlefurther work. Days, weeks, a month wentby and still he tinkered, while Bruce,watching the sky anxiously, wonderedhow much longer the bad weather wouldhold off. As a convincing evidence of thenearness of winter, Porcupine Jim, whoconsidered himself something of anaturalist, declared that the grasshoppershad lost their hind-legs.

While the time sped, Bruce realized thathe must abandon his dream of taking outenough gold to begin to repay thestockholders. The most he could hope fornow was a few days’ run.

“If only I could get into the pay-streak! If I

can just get enough out of the clean-up toshow them that it’s here; that it’s no wild-cat; that I’ve told them the truth!” Overand over he said these thingsmonotonously to himself until they becamea refrain to every other thought.

In the middle of the summer he had beenforced to ask for more money. He wasdays nerving himself to make the call; butthere was no alternative—it was eitherthat or shut down. He had written thestockholders that it would surely be thelast, and his relief and gratitude had beengreat at their good-natured response.

Now the sparking of the motors whichunexpectedly prolonged the work hadonce more exhausted his funds. It took allBruce’s courage to write again. It seemed

to him that it was the hardest thing he hadever done but he accomplished it as besthe could. He was peremptorily refused.

His sensations when he read the letter arenot easy to describe. There was more thanmere business curtness in the denial.There was actual unfriendliness.Furthermore, it contained an ultimatum tothe effect that if the season’s work wasunsuccessful they would accept an offerwhich they had had for their stock.

With Helen’s warning still fresh in hismind, Bruce understood the situation inone illuminating flash. Under thecircumstances, no one but Sprudell wouldwant to buy the stock. Obviously Sprudellhad gotten in touch with the stockholdersand managed somehow to poison their

minds. This was the way, then, that heintended taking his revenge!

Harrah’s secretary had written Bruce inresponse to his last appeal that Harrah hadbeen badly hurt in an aeroplane accidentin France and that it would not be possibleto communicate with him for monthsperhaps. This was a blow, for Brucecounted him his only friend.

Bruce had neither the time nor money togo East and try to undo the harm Sprudellhad done, and, furthermore, little heart forthe task of setting himself right withpeople so ready to believe.

There was just one thing that remained forBruce to do. He could use the amount hehad saved from his small salary as generalmanager and continue the work as long as

the money lasted. When this was gone hewas done. In any event it meant that hemust face the winter there alone. If themachinery was still not in working orderwhen he came to the end of his resourcesit meant that he was stranded, flat broke,unable even to go outside and struggle.

In his desperation he sometimes thought ofappealing to his father. The amount herequired was insignificant compared towhat he knew his father’s yearly incomemust be. He doubted if even Harrah’sfortune was larger than the onerepresented by his father’s land and herds;but just as often as he thought of this wayout just so often he realized that therewere some things he could not do—noteven for Helen Dunbar—not even to put

his proposition through.

That humiliation would be too much. Togo back begging after all these years—no,no, he could not do it to save his life! Hewould meet the pay-roll with his ownchecks so long as he had a cent, and hopefor the best until he knew there was nobest.

The end of his rope was painfully closethe day Banule announced, after frequenttestings, that they might start.

During short intervals of pumping, Brucehad been able by ground-sluicing to workoff a considerable area of top soil andnow that the machinery was declared to beready for a steady run he could set thescrapers at once in the red gravel streakthat contained the “pay.”

The final preparation before starting wasto pour the mercury behind the riffles inthe sluice-boxes. When it lay quiveringand shining behind each block and barBruce felt that his gargantuan bread-crumbhad been dragged almost to the goal. Itwas well, too, he told himself withindescribable relief, for, not only hismoney, but his courage, his nerves, werewell-nigh gone.

Bruce would trust no one but himself topour the mercury in the boxes.

“That looks like good lively ‘quick’,”Smaltz commented as he watched him atthe task.

“It should be; it was guaranteed never tohave been used.” He added with a smile:“Let’s hope when we see it again it won’t

be quite so lively.”

“Looks like it orter be as thick as mush ifyou can run a few thousand yards of thatthere pay-streak over it.” There was amocking look in Smaltz’s yellow-browneyes which Bruce, stooping over, did notsee. He only heard the hopeful words.

“Oh, Smaltz—Smaltz—if it only is!Success means so much to me!”Unaccountably, such a tide of feeling rosewithin him that Bruce bared his heart tothe man he did not like.

Smaltz looked at him with a curioussoberness.

“Does it?” he responded after a pause.

“And I’ve tried so hard.”

“You’ve sure worked like a horse.” Therewas a look that was half pity, halfgrudging admiration on Smaltz’s impudentface.

Banule was to run the power-house for theday and complete some work inside, sowhen Bruce had finished with the mercuryhe told Smaltz to telephone Banule fromthe pump-house that they were ready tostart. Therefore while Bruce took hisplace at the lever on the donkey-engineenclosed in a temporary shed to protectthe motor from rain and dust, Smaltz wentto the pump-house as he was bid.

When Banule answered his ring heshouted:

“Let her go in about two minutes—twominutes—d’ye hear?” The telephone

receiver was shaking in Smaltz’s hand andhe was breathing hard.

“Yes,” Banule answered irritably, “butdon’t yell so in my ear.”

Smaltz already had slammed the receiverback on the hook. With a swift movementhe threw in the switch and jumped for theoutside. He dropped from the highplatform and fell among the rocks someten feet below. Instantly he scrambled tohis feet and crouching, dodging among theboulders that strewed the river bank, heran at top speed until he reached thesluice-boxes. The carpenter came out fromhis shop to take a leisurely survey of theworld and Smaltz threw himself flat untilhe had turned inside again.

Then, still crouching, looking this way and

that, watching the trail, he took a bottlefrom his pocket and pulling the cork withhis teeth poured the contents over themercury almost to the upper end of thefirst box. He went as far as he daredwithout being seen by Bruce inside theshed.

The pumps had already started and the bighead of water was coming with a rushdown the steep grade, but Smaltz had donehis evil work thoroughly for wherever themercury laid thickest it glittered withiridescent drops of kerosene.

He was thrusting the bottle back in hispocket, his tense expression relaxed, whenhe turned his head sharply at the sound ofa crashing in the brush.

“Toy!” Smaltz looked startled—scared.

It was Toy, his skin a waxy yellow and hisoblique eyes blazing with excitement andrage.

“I savvy you, Smaltz! I savvy you!” Hisvoice was a shrill squawk. “I savvy you!”His fingers with their long, sharp nailswere opening and shutting like claws.

Smaltz knew that he had seen him from thehill and, watching, had understood. It wastoo late to run, useless to evade, so hestood waiting while shrieking, screechingat every step, the Chinaman came on.

He flew at Smaltz’s face like a wild-cat,clawing, scratching, digging in his nailsand screaming with every breath: “I savvyyou! I savvy you!”

Smaltz warded him off without striking,

trying to get his hand over his mouth; butin vain, and the Chinaman kept up hisshrill accusing cry, “I savvy you, Smaltz! Isavvy you!” There was little chance,however, of his being heard above therush of the water through the sluice-boxesand the bumping and grinding together ofthe rocks and boulders that it carrieddown.

Then Smaltz struck him. Toy fell amongthe rocks, sprawling backwards. He got tohis feet and came back. Once more heclawed and clung and once more Smaltzknocked him down. A third time hereturned.

“You’re harder to kill nor a cat,” Smaltzgrinned without malice, but he threw himviolently against the sluice-box.

Toy lost his balance, toppled, and wentover backward, reaching out wildly tosave himself as he fell. The water turnedhim over but he caught the edge of the box.His loose purple “jumper” of cotton andsilk ballooned at the back as he swung byone hand in the on-rushing water, thickand yellow with sand, filled with thegrinding boulders that came down as,though shot from a catapult, drowningcompletely his, agonized cry of “Bluce!Bluce!”

It was only a second that he hung with hiswild beseeching eyes on Smaltz’s scaredface while his frail, old body acted as awedge for the racing water and the rocks.Then he let go and turned over and overtumbling grotesquely in the wide sluice-

box while the rocks pounded and groundhim, beat him into insensibility. He shotover the tail-race into the river limp andunresisting, like a dead fish.

XXV

The Clean-Up

Toy’s disappearance was mysterious andcomplete. There was not a single clue toshow which way he had gone, or how, orwhy. Only one thing seemed certain andthat was that his departure was

unpremeditated.

His potatoes were in a bucket of water,peeled and ready for dinner; the bread hehad set to raise was waiting to bekneaded; his pipe laid on the window sillwhile his hoarded trinkets for the littleSun Loon were still hidden under the padof the bed in his tent. His fish-pole in itsusual place disposed of the theory that hehad fallen in the river, and althoughtrained eyes followed every trail therewas not a single telltale track. He hadvanished as though he had gone straightup.

His disappearance sobered the men. Therewas something uncanny about it; theylowered their voices When theyspeculated and all their latent superstition

arose. Porcupine Jim declared that theplace was “hoodooed” and as evidenceenumerated the many accidents anddelays. Bruce himself wondered if themalignant spirit of Slim was lingering onthe river to harry him as he had in life.

Smaltz was now in the power-house doingat last the specific work for which he hadbeen hired. To all Bruce’s questions, hereplied that the machinery there was“doing fine.” Down below, the pump-house motors were far from satisfactory,sparking and heating in a way that Bruce,who did not know the a, b, c’s ofelectricity, could see was not right. Whilethe pumps and scrapers were workingBanule dared not leave the motors alone.

Then, after a couple of days’

unsatisfactory work, the water dropped solow in Big Squaw creek that there wasonly sufficient pressure to use onescraper. Bruce discharged all the crewsave Smaltz, Banule, and Porcupine Jim,who labored in the kitchen—a livinginsult to the Brotherhood of Cooks. WhileBruce, by running back and forth betweenthe donkey-engine and the top sluice-boxwhere the scraper dumped, managed to dothe work of two men ten hours a day.

His nerves were at a tension, for alongwith the strain of his responsibilities wasthe constant fear of a serious break-down.Banule made light of the sparking motorsbut the bearings were heating badly, dailynecessitating more frequent stops. When agrounded wire sent the leaking current

through the cable that pulled the scraper,and knocked Bruce flat, he was notconvinced by Banule’s assurance that it“didn’t amount to much.” It was allevidence to Bruce that fundamentallysomething was wrong.

But in spite of the time lost the cut wasdeepening and the side walls stood up sothat every scraper that emptied into thesluice-boxes was from the pay-streak.Bruce fairly gloated over each cubic yardthat he succeeded in getting in, for thesample pans showed that it was all he hadhoped for, and more.

If only the riffles were saving it and thetables catching the fine gold!

This he could not know until the clean-upand he did not mean to stop until he had

brought in the last load he dared before afreeze. So far the weather had beenphenomenal, the exceptional open fall hadbeen his one good piece of luck. Underusual weather conditions, to avoidcleaning up through the ice he would havebeen obliged to have shut down at least amonth before.

So the work kept on intermittently until anincredibly late date in November. Theleaves of the poison oak had turnedcrimson, the tall tamaracks in the highmountains were gold, frost crystalsglittered each morning on the planks andboards, but Big Squaw creek kept runningsteadily and the sunshine soon melted theskim ice that formed over night.

By this time Bruce had a fresh worry. It

kept him awake hour after hour at night.The mercury was not looking right whereit showed behind the riffles. It was toolively. There was something in it, ofcourse, but not enough to thicken it as hehad hoped. He could see the flakes of goldsticking to it as though it had beensprinkled with Nepaul pepper but theactivity of it where it showed in quantityalarmed him more than he would confessto himself.

The change of weather came in the night.That day he started to clean-up. A chillwind was blowing from the east and thesky was dark with drab, low-hangingclouds when Bruce put on his hip-bootsand began to take up riffles. A thin sheetof water flowed through the boxes, just

sufficient to keep the sand and gravelmoving down as he took up the riffles oneat a time and recovered the mercury eachhad contained.

Bruce’s feet and fingers grew numbworking in the icy water with a scrubbingbrush and a small scoop but they were nocolder than the cold hand of Premonitionthat lay heavy upon him.

Behind the riffles at the top of the first boxthe mercury was amalgam—all that hecould have wished for—beyond that pointit suddenly stopped and all that herecovered as he worked down looked tobe as active as when he had poured itfrom the flask.

What was wrong? He asked himself everyconceivable question as he worked with

aching hands and feet. Had he given theboxes too much grade? Had he washed toofast—crowded the dirt so that it had nothad time to settle? Was it possible thatafter all the gold was too light and fine tosave in paying quantities?

Hope died hard and he tried to makehimself believe that the lower boxes andthe tables had caught it—that there wasmore in the mercury than there looked. Butthe tension as he took up riffle after rimewith the one result was like watching along-drawn-out race with all one’spossessions staked on the losing horse.

He took up riffles until it was a physicalimpossibility to work longer in thenumbing water, his fingers could not holdthe scoop. Then he went to the pump-

house and told Banule to telephone Smaltzto shut down.

“He wants to know if you’ll be pumpin’again?”

“Yes, after awhile. Tell him to stay there.I’m going to squeeze out the ‘quick’ I’vetaken up, but I want to get as near finishedto-day as I can. You come and help me.”

As Bruce walked back to the sluice-boxeswith bowed head he was thinking that theday was well suited to the ending of hisroseate dreams. Failure is dull, drab,colorless, and in his heart he had littledoubt that for some reason still to beexplained, he had failed. Just how badlyremained to be seen.

Bruce had scooped the mercury into a

clean granite kettle and now, while heheld the four corners of a square ofchamois skin, Banule poured mercuryfrom the kettle into the centre of the skinuntil told to stop.

“Looks like you ought to get severalhundred dollars out of that,” Banule saidhopefully as Bruce gathered the fourcorners, twisted them and began tosqueeze.

“Yes, looks like I ought to,” Bruce repliedironically.

The quicksilver came through the pores ofthe skin in a shower of shining globules.

Banule’s expression of lively interest inthe process was gradually replaced by oneof bewilderment as with every twist the

contents kept squeezing through until itlooked as though there would be noresidue left. It was a shock even to Bruce,who was prepared for it, when he spreadthe chamois skin on a rock and looked atthe ball of amalgam which it contained.

Banule stared at it, open-mouthed.

“What’s the matter? Where’s it gone? Andout of all that dirt!”

Bruce shook his head; his voice wasbarely audible:

“I don’t know.” The sagging clouds werenot heavier than his heart—“I wish I did.”

Banule stood a moment in silent sympathy.

“Guess you won’t work any more to-day,”he suggested.

“Yes; tell Smaltz to start,” Bruceanswered dully.

“I’ve got to save the mercury anyhow.”

Banule lingered.

“Say,” he hesitated—obviously he foundthe confession embarrassing or else hehated to lay the final straw upon thecamel’s back—“just before you told me toshut down, the motor on the small pumpstarted sparkin’ pretty bad.”

“Yes?” Bruce knew that if Banuleadmitted it was “pretty bad” it was badindeed.

“I’ll look it over if we can stop awhile.”

Bruce shook his head.

“There’s not an hour to lose. It’s going to

storm; I must get done.”

“I ’spose we can start.” Banule lookeddubious. “I’ll try it, but I think we’ll haveto quit.”

Was there anything more that couldhappen? Bruce asked himself in dumbmisery as he picked up his scoop andbrush and mechanically went to workwhen the pumps started and the watercame.

His feet and hands were soon like ice buthe was scarcely conscious of the pain forhis heart-ache was so much greater. As hepursued the elusive quicksilver andworked the sand and gravel to the end ofthe box all he could see was the stack ofreceipted bills which the work and planthad cost, in shocking contrast to that tiny

ball of amalgam lying in the chamois-skinon the rock. He had spent all of $40,000and he doubted if he would take $20 fromthe entire clean-up as it now looked.

How could he break the news to HelenDunbar? Where would he find the courageto tell the unfriendly stockholders theexact truth? It was a foregone conclusionthat they would consider him a fakir and acrook.

It had to be done. As, in his imagination,he faced the ordeal he unconsciouslystraightened up.

“Burt! Burt! come quick!” Banule waswaving his arms frantically from theplatform of the pump-house. There wasdesperation in his cry for help. He dashedback inside as soon as he saw Bruce jump

out of the sluice-box. Before Brucereached the pump-house he heard Banuleringing the telephone violently, and hisfrenzied shout:

“Shut down, Smaltz! Shut down! Whereare you? Can’t you hear? For God’s sakeshut down, everything’s burnin’ up!”

He was ringing as though he would havetorn the box loose from the wall whenBruce reached the pump-house door.Bruce turned sick when he heard thecrackling of the burning motors and sawthe electric flames.

“Somethin’s happened in the power-house! I can’t ring him! He must have got ashock! Until I know what’s wrong, I don’tdare shut down for fear I’ll burneverything out up there!”

“Keep her going!” Bruce bounded throughthe door and dropped from the platform.Then he threw off his hat as he always didwhen excited, and ran. And how he ran!With his fists clenched and his arms tightagainst his sides he ran as though the hip-boots were the seven-league boots offable.

In the stretch of deep sand he had to crossthe weight was killing. The drag of theheavy boots seemed to pull his legs fromtheir sockets but he did not slacken hispace. His breath was coming in gaspswhen he started up the steep trail whichled from the sand over a high promontory.He clutched at bushes, rocks, anything topull himself up and the pounding of hisheart sounded to him like the chug of a

steamboat, before he reached the top.

The veins and arteries in his forehead andneck seemed bursting, as did his over-taxed lungs, when he started stumbling andsliding down the other side. It was not thedistance he had covered which had sowinded him, nor even the terrific pace, butthe dragging weight of the hip-boots. Theyfelt as though they were soled with lead.

He imagined that he had crawled but as amatter of fact the distance would never becovered in the same space of time again.

The perspiration was trickling from hishair and through his thick eyebrows whenhe reached the boat landing whereordinarily they crossed. He brushed it outof his eyes with the back of his sleeve andstared at the place where usually the boat

rode. It was gone! Smaltz had taken itinstead of the overhead tram in which healways crossed.

There was no time to speculate as toSmaltz’s reason. He kept on running alongthe river until he came to the steps of theplatform where the heavy iron cage,suspended from a cable, was tied to atree. Bruce bounded up the steps two at atime and loosened the rope. It was notuntil then that he saw that the chain andsprocket, which made the crossing easy,were missing. This, too, was strange.There was no time for speculation. Couldhe cross in it hand over hand? For answerhe put his knee on the edge and kicked off.

The impetus sent it well over the river.Then it struck the slack in the cable and

slowed up. Bruce set his teeth and went atit hand over hand. The test came when itstarted up grade. No ordinary man couldhave budged it and Bruce pulled to thevery last ounce of his strength. He movedit only an inch at a time—slipping backtwo inches frequently when he changedhands.

If he lost the grip of both hands for asingle second and slid back to the middleof the slack he realized that he was toonear exhausted to pull up again, so,somehow, he hung on, making inarticulatesounds as he exerted superhuman strength,groaning like an animal loaded beyond itslimit. If only he could last!

When he reached the platform on the otherside he was just able to throw an arm

around the tree and crawl out while theponderous iron cage squeaking on therusty cable rolled back to the middle ofthe river, where it swung to and fro.

Bruce gathered himself and tried to run.His legs refused to obey his will and hehad to fall back to a walk. He hung overfrom the waist like a bent old man, hisarms swinging limply at his sides.

He knew from the small amount of watergoing over the spillway that the machinerywas still running and as he drew nearer tothe power-house he could hear the hiss ofthe 200-feet head as it hit the wheel.

He dreaded entering for fear of what heshould see. He had little doubt but thatSmaltz was dead—electrocuted—roasted.He expected the sickening odor of burning

flesh. He had been so long in getting there—but he had done his best—the powermust be shut off first—he must get to thelever—if only he could run. His thoughtswere incoherent—disconnected, but all ofSmaltz. Smaltz had been loyal; Smaltznever had shirked; but he never had shownSmaltz the slightest evidence of friendshipbecause of his unconquerable dislike.

Bruce was reproaching himself as hestepped up on the wooden casing whichcovered the pipes and nozzles inside thepower-house. There he stopped and stoodquite motionless, looking at Smaltz.Smaltz’s face wore a look of keenestinterest, as with one shoulder bracedagainst the side of the building, his handsin his pockets, he watched the plant burn

up.

Down below, Banule had thrown out theswitch and the machinery was runningaway. A rim of fire encircled thecommutators. The cold, blue flame ofelectrical energy was shooting its jaggedflashes from every piece of magneticmetal it could reach, while the cracklingof the short-circuited wires was like thecontinuous, rattling reports of a rapid-firegun.

There was something terrifying in the sightof the racing machinery, something awe-inspiring in the spectacle of a great powergone mad. The wind from the round blurthat represented the fly-wheel was a galeand in the semi-dusk,—Smaltz had closedthe double-doors—the leaping flames and

the screech of the red-hot bearings madethe place an Inferno.

For a moment the amazing, unexpectedsight deprived Bruce of the power tomove. Then he jumped for the lever andshut down. It was not until the machineryresponded that Smaltz turned. His yellow-brown eyes widened until they lookedround. He had not counted on anyone’sbeing able to cross the river for fully halfan hour.

If Smaltz had been the villain of fiction, hewould have been a coward as well. ButSmaltz was not a coward. It is true he wasstartled—so startled that his skin turned acurious yellow-green like a half-ripe pear—but he was not afraid. He knew that hewas “in for it.” He knew that something

was going to happen, and quick. ThatBruce was sitting on the wooden casingquietly pulling off his heavy boots did notdeceive him in the least.

It was as still as the tomb in the power-house when Bruce stood up and walkedtoward Smaltz. Grimy streaks ofperspiration showed on his colorless face,from which every drop of blood seemedto have fled, and his black eyes, that shonealways with the soft brilliancy of a warm,impulsive nature and an imaginative mind,were glittering and purposeful.

Smaltz stood his ground as Bruceadvanced.

“Why didn’t you answer that telephone,Smaltz?”

In feigned surprise Smaltz glanced at thebox.

“I declare—the receiver’s dropped off thehook!”

Bruce ignored the answer; he did not evenlook, but stepped closer.

“Why didn’t you shut down?”

Smaltz summoned his impudent grin, but itwavered and faded under Bruce’s burningeyes even while he replied in a tone ofinjured innocence—

“How should I know? The bell didn’t ring—Banule hadn’t told me to.”

Bruce paid no attention to the foolishexcuse. He demanded again:

“Why didn’t you shut down, Smaltz?”

“I’ve told you once,” was the sullenanswer.

Bruce turned to the telephone and rang thebell hard.

“Hello—hello—hello!” came the franticreply.

“Can you swim, Banule?”

“Yes.”

“Then take it where the cable crosses theriver. Come quick.” He put the receiverback on its hook and stepped to the lever.Smaltz’s eyes opened wide as Bruceshoved it hard. He stared as though hethought Bruce had gone out of his mind.Then the dynamos began to pick up.

“What you goin’ to do?” he shouted above

the screech of the belting and the hotbearings.

“You’re going to tell the truth!” The lastvestige of Bruce’s self-control vanished.His voice, which had been nearly awhisper, was like the sudden roar of adeep-hurt bear. His dark face wasdistorted to ugliness with rage. He rushedSmaltz—with his head down—and Smaltzstaggered with the shock. Then theygrappled and went down. Once more itwas pandemonium in the power-housewith the screeching of the red hot bearingsand the glare of the crackling blue flamesthat meant the final and completedestruction of the plant. Over and over thegrimy, grease-soaked floor of the power-house they rolled and fought. Brutally, in

utter savagery, Bruce ground Smaltz’sface into the rough planks littered withnails and sharp-copper filings, wheneverhe could—dragging him, shoving him,working him each second a little closer tothe machinery with the frenzy of haste. Hehad not yet recovered from his run butSmaltz was no match for his great strength.

A glimmer of Bruce’s purpose came toSmaltz at last.

“What—you tryin’—to do?” he panted.

Bruce panted back:

“I’m going to kill you! Do you hear?” Hiseyes were bloodshot, more than ever helooked like some battle-crazed grizzlyseeing his victim through a blur or rageand pain. “If I can—throw you—across

those commutators—before the fireworksstop—I’m goin’ to give you fifteenhundred volts!”

A wild fright came in Smaltz’s eyes.

“Let me up!” he begged.

For answer Bruce shoved him closer tothe dynamo. He fought with freshdesperation.

“Don’t do that, Burt! My God—Don’t dothat!”

“Then talk—talk! She’s going fast. You’vegot to tell the truth before she stops! Whydid you burn out this plant?”

Smaltz would not answer. Bruce liftedhim bodily from the floor. In the strugglehe threw out a hand to save himself and

his finger touched the spring that held thecarbons. He screamed with the shock, butthe blue flashes were close to his faceblinding him before he suddenly relaxed:

“I’m all in. I’ll tell.”

Bruce let him drop back hard upon thefloor and thrust a knee into his chest.

“Goon, then—talk!”

The words came with an effort; he seemedafraid of their effect upon Bruce, then,uncertainly:

“I—was paid.”

For the fraction of a second Bruce staredinto Smaltz’s scared face. “You werepaid,” he repeated slowly. “Who—” andthen the word came rapier-like as had the

thought—“Sprudell!”

“He told me to see that you didn’t start.He left the rest to me.” With sullensatisfaction: “And it’s cost him plenty—you bet—”

Inexplicable things suddenly grew clear toBruce.

“You turned the boat loose in Meadows—”

“Yes.”

“You wrecked it on that rock—”

“Yes.”

“You fouled the mercury in the boxes?”

“Yes.”

“And Toy!” The look of murder came

back into Bruce’s face, his hand crepttoward Smaltz’s throat. “Don’t lie! Whatdid you do to Toy?”

Smaltz whispered—he could barely speak—“I’m tellin’ the truth—it was anaccident. He jumped me—I threw him offand he fell in the sluice-box—backward—I tried to save him—I did—that’sstraight.” Smaltz kept rolling his headback and forth in an oil-soaked spot wherea grease cup leaked. Bruce’s knee wasgrinding into his ribs and chest and hisfingers were tightening on his throat.

Bruce raised himself a little and lookeddown at Smaltz. As he stared at thesmudged, bleeding face and into theyellow-brown eyes with their dilatedpupils, the rage in his own gave place to a

kind of intense curiosity, the scrutiny onegives to a repulsive and venomous insector reptile he has captured. He was tryingto impress upon his own mind theincredible fact that this human being, lyinghelpless beneath him, watching him withquestioning fear, had ruined him withoutthe least personal malice—had robbedhim of all he had strained, and worked,and fought for, for pay! It seemed like apreposterous, illogical dream; yet there helay, alive, real, his face less than two feetfrom his own.

Finally, Bruce took his knee from his chestand got up. Smaltz pulled himself to hisfeet and stood uncertainly.

“Well—I suppose it’s jail.” There wassullen resignation in his voice.

Bruce stopped the machinery withoutanswering. Then he folded his arms andleaned his broad shoulders against therough boards of the power-house while,eying Smaltz, he considered. A year agohe would have killed him—he would havekilled him begging on his knees, but takinga human life either makes a man callous orsobers him and the remorse which hadfollowed the tragedy in the cabin was asensation Bruce never wanted toexperience again.

Penitentiaries were made for men likeSmaltz—but in a country of long anddifficult distances, with the lax courts andlaws indifferently enforced, to put Smaltzwhere he belonged was not so simple as itmight sound. It required time and money;

Bruce had neither to spare.

It was so still in the power-house that theticking of the dollar watch hanging on anail sounded like a clock. Smaltz shiftedfeet nervously. At last Bruce walked to thework-bench and took a carpenter’s pencilfrom a box and sharpened it. He smoothedout some wrapping paper then motionedSmaltz to sit down.

“I want you to write what you told me—exactly—word for word. Write it induplicate and sign your name.”

Consternation overspread Smaltz’s face.A verbal confession to save himself frombeing electrocuted was one thing, to put itin black and white was quite another. Hehesitated. Bruce saw the mutiny in hisface; also the quick, involuntary glance he

gave toward a monkey-wrench which layon the end of the work-bench within hisreach.

Rage burned up in Bruce again.

“Don’t you know when you’ve gotenough?” He stepped forward andremoved the heavy wrench from Smaltz’sreach. “I’ll give you just one minute by thewatch there to make up your mind. You’dbetter write, for you won’t be able whenI’m through!”

They measured each other, eye to eyeagain. Each could hear the breathing of theother in the silence while the watch tickedoff the seconds. An over-sanguine pack-rat tried to scramble up the tar-papercovering on the outside and squeaked ashe fell back with a thud, but the face of

neither man relaxed. Smaltz took the fulllimit of the time. He saw Bruce’s fingerswork, then clinch. Suddenly he grinned—asheepish, unresentful grin.

“I guess you’re the best man,” Heslouched to the bench and sat down.

He was still writing when Banule came,breathing hard and still dripping from hisfrigid swim. He stopped short and his jawdropped at seeing Smaltz. He wasobviously disappointed at finding himalive.

Smaltz handed Bruce the paper when hehad finished and signed his name. Neitherthe writing or composition was that of anilliterate man. Bruce read it carefully andhanded it to Banule:

“Read this and witness it.”

Banule did as he was told, for once,apparently, too dumfounded for comment.

“Now copy it,” said Bruce, and Smaltzobeyed.

When this was done, signed and witnessedSmaltz looked up inquiringly—hisexpression said—“What next?”

Bruce stepped to the double doors andslid the bolt.

“There’s your trail—now hit it!” Hemotioned into the wilderness as he threwthe doors wide.

Incredulity, amazement, appeared onSmaltz’s face.

In the instant that he stood staring a vein

swelled on Bruce’s temple and in a spasmof fury he cried:

“Go, I tell you! Go while I can keep myhands off you—you—” he finished with anoath.

Smaltz went. He snatched his coat from itsnail as he passed but did not stop for hishat. It was not until he reached the slabwhich served as a bridge over the waterfrom the spillway that he recoveredanything of his impudent nonchalance. Hewas in the centre of it when he heardBanule say:

“If it ud be me I’d a put a lash rope roundhis neck and drug him up that hill to jail.”

Smaltz wheeled and came back a step.

“Oh, you would, would you? Say, you

fakir, I’m glad you spoke. I almost forgotyou.” There was sneering, utter contemptin Smaltz’s voice. “Fakir,” he reiterated,“you get that, do you, for I’m pickin’ mywords and not callin’ names by chance.You’re the worst that ever come off thePacific coast—and that’s goin’ some.”

He turned sharply to Bruce.

“You know even a liar sometimes tells thetruth and I’m goin’ to give it to youstraight now. I’ve nothin’ to win or lose.This machinery never will run. The plantwas a failure before it was put up. And,”he nodded contemptuously at Banule,“nobody knew it better than that dub.”

“Jennings,” he went on “advised this old-fashioned type of machinery because itwas the only kind he understood and he

wanted the job of putting it up, honestlybelievin’ at the time that he could. Whenhe realized that he couldn’t, he sent forBanule to pull him through.

“Jennings failed because of his ignorancebut this feller knows, and whatever he’sdone he has done knowin’ that his workcouldn’t by any chance last. All he’sthought of was gettin’ the plant upsomehow so it would run temporarily—any old way to get through—get hismoney, and get out. He’s experimentedcontinually at your expense; he’s bungledthe job from beginning to end with hiscarelessness—his ‘good enough’ work.

“You were queered from the start withthem armatures he wound back there onthe Coast. He and Jennings took an old

fifty horse-power motor and tried to windit for seventy-five. There wasn’t room forthe copper so they hammered in the coils.They ruptured the insulation in thearmature and that’s why it’s always short-circuited and sparked. He rated it atseventy-five and it’s never registered butfifty at its best. He rated the small motor atfifty and it developed thirty—no more.The blue print calls for 1500 revolutionson the big pump and the speed indicatorshows 900. Even if the motors were allright, the vibration from that bumfoundation that he told you was ‘goodenough’ would throw them out, in time.

“All through he’s lied and bluffed, andfaked. He has yet to put up his firstsuccessful plant. Look up his record if you

think it ain’t the truth. What’s happenedhere is only a repetition of what’shappened everywhere he’s ever been. Itwould be a fortune if ’twas figured whathis carelessness has cost the men forwhom he’s worked.

“In the eyes of the law I’m guilty ofwreckin’ this plant but in fact I only put onthe finishin’ touches. I’ve shortened yourmisery, Burt, I’ve saved you money, forotherwise you’d have gone tryin’ to tinkerit up. Don’t do it. Take it from me it isn’tworth it. From start to finish you’ve beenstung.”

He turned mockingly to Banule:

“As we know, Alphy, generally there’s akind of honor among crooks that keeps usfrom squeakin’ on each other, but that

little speech of yourn about takin’ a turn ofa las’ rope round my neck kind of put meon the prod. That virtuous pose of yourssort of set my teeth on edge, knowin’ whatI do, and I ain’t told half of what I could ifI had the time. However, Alphy,” he shot alook at Bruce’s face, “if you’ll take theadvice of a gent what feels as though a loghad rolled over him, you’ll sift alongwithout puttin’ up any holler about yourpay.”

XXVI

Failure

Smaltz was a liar, as he said, but Bruceknew that he had told the truth regardingBanule’s work. He confirmed thesuspicions and fears that had been inBruce’s mind for months. Therefore, whenhe said quietly to Banule—“You’d bettergo up the hill!” there was that in his voiceand eyes which made that person take hisdeparture with only a little less celeritythan Smaltz had taken his.

It remained for Bruce to gather upBanule’s scattered tools, drain the pumps,and nail the pump-house door. When heclosed the head gate and turned the waterback into Big Squaw Creek, removed thebelting from the pulleys in the power-house and shut the place up tight, he felt

that it was much like making arrangementsfor his own funeral.

At last everything was done andPorcupine Jim, who had stayed on a dayor so to help, was waiting for Bruce tofinish his letter to Helen Dunbar so hecould take it up the hill. Jim sat by thekitchen stove whistling dismally throughhis teeth while Bruce groped for words inwhich to break the news of his completefailure.

If only he could truthfully hold out somehope! But there was not the slightest thathe could see. Harrah was out of it. Thestockholders had lost both confidence andinterest in him and his proposition andwould sell out, as they had notified himthey would do if the season’s work was a

failure—and consider themselves lucky tohave the chance. It was a foregoneconclusion that Sprudell would shortlyown the controlling stock.

There was nothing for it but the blunt truthso Bruce wrote:

SPRUDELL BOASTED THAT HE WOULD DOWN ME AND HE HAS.VILLAINY, INCOMPETENCY AND CARELESSNESS HAVE BEEN TOOstrong a combination for my inexperience to beat.I’VE FAILED. I’M BROKE. I’VE SPENT $40,000 AND HAVENOTHING TO SHOW FOR IT BUT A BURNED-OUT PLANT OF ANobsolete type.You can’t imagine how it hurts to write these words. TheDISAPPOINTMENT AND HUMILIATION OF IT PASSES BELIEF. NO ONEWHO HAS NOT BEEN THROUGH AN EXPERIENCE LIKE IT COULDever, even faintly, understand.I GROW HOT AND COLD WITH SHAME WHEN I LOOK BACK NOWAND SEE MY MISTAKES. THEY ARE SO PLAIN THAT IT MAKES MEFEEL A FOOL—AN IGNORANT, CONCEITED, INEXPERIENCED FOOL.I’ve learned many lessons, but at what a price!

YOU’LL SEE FROM THE ENCLOSED PAPER WHAT I WAS UPAGAINST. BUT IT DOES NOT EXCUSE ME, NOT IN THE LEAST.THINKING MYSELF JUST, I WAS MERELY WEAK. A CONFIDINGCONFIDENCE IN ONE’S FELLOWMAN IS VERY BEAUTIFUL IN THEORYBUT THERE’S NOTHING MAKES HIM MORE RIDICULOUS WHEN IT’STAKEN ADVANTAGE OF. WHEN I RECALL THE SUSPICIOUSHAPPENINGS THAT SHOULD HAVE WARNED ME FROM JENNING’SINCOMPETENCY TO SMALTZ’S VILLAINY I HAVE NO WORDS INWHICH TO EXPRESS MY MORTIFICATION. THE STOCKHOLDERSCANNOT CONDEMN ME MORE SEVERELY FOR MY FAILURE THAN Icondemn myself.You are the beginning and end of everything with me. AllMY HOPES, MY AMBITIONS, MY LIFE ITSELF HAVE COME TOCENTRE IN YOU. IT WAS THE THOUGHT THAT IT WAS FOR YOU THATKEPT ME GOING WHEN I HAVE BEEN SO TIRED DOING TWOMEN’S WORK THAT I COULD SCARCELY DRAG ONE FOOT AFTER THEOTHER. IT MADE ME TAKE RISKS I MIGHT OTHERWISE NEVERHAVE DARED TO TAKE. IT KEPT ME PLODDING ON WHEN ONEFAILURE AFTER ANOTHER SMASHED ME IN THE FACE SO FAST THATI could not see for the blackness.I NEVER DREAMED THAT LOVE WAS LIKE THIS—THAT IT WAS SUCHA SPUR—SUCH AN INCENTIVE—OR THAT IT COULD ADD SO TO THEbitterness OF FAILURE. FOR I DO LOVE YOU, HELEN; I SEE NOWTHAT I HAVE LOVED YOU FROM THE TIME I SAW YOU WITH

SPRUDELL—FURTHER BACK THAN THAT, FROM THE TIME I SHOOKyour picture out of that old envelope.I’M TELLING YOU THIS SO YOU’LL KNOW WHY MY TONGUE RANAWAY WITH MY JUDGMENT WHEN I TALKED SO MUCH TO YOU OFMY PLANS AND EXPECTATIONS, HOPING THAT IN SPITE OF THEGREAT DISAPPOINTMENT MY FAILURE WILL BE TO YOU, IT WILLmake you a little more lenient.I HAVE FAILED SO COMPLETELY THAT I DON’T EVEN DARE ASKYOU IF YOU CARE THE LEAST BIT FOR ME. IT’S PRESUMPTUOUS TOSUGGEST IT—IT SEEMS LIKE PRESUMING BECAUSE YOU HAVEBEEN KIND. BUT EVEN IF SUCH A MIRACLE COULD BE, I HAVENOTHING TO OFFER YOU. I DON’T MEAN TO QUIT BUT IT MAY BEYEARS BEFORE I GET AGAIN THE CHANCE THAT I HAD DOWNhere.I LOVE YOU, HELEN, TRULY, COMPLETELY: I AM SURE THERE WILLNEVER BE ANY ONE ELSE FOR ME. IF ONLY FOR THIS REASONWON’T YOU WRITE TO ME SOMETIMES, FOR YOUR LETTERS WILLmean so much in the days that are ahead of me.

When he had finished, Bruce gave Jim theletter and paid him off with the check thattook the last of his balance in the bank.

From the doorway of the shack hewatched the Swede climb the hill,following him with his eyes until he hadrounded the last point before the zig-zagtrail disappeared into the timber on theridge. A pall of awful loneliness seemedto settle over the canyon as the figurepassed from sight and as Bruce turnedinside he wondered which was going tobe the worst—the days or nights. Hisfootsteps sounded hollow when he walkedacross the still room. He stopped in thecentre and looked at the ashesoverflowing the hearth of the greasy range,at the unwashed frying-pan on the dirtyfloor, at the remains of Jim’s lunch thatlittered the shabby oilcloth on the table. Ablack wave of despair swept over him.This was for him instead of cleanliness,

comfort, brightness, friendly people—andHelen Dunbar. This squalor, this bareloneliness, was the harsh penalty offailure. He put his hand to his throat andrubbed it for it ached with the suddencontraction of the muscles, but he made nosound.

One of the pictures with which Brucetortured himself was Helen’sdisappointment when she should read hisletter. He imagined the animation fadingfrom her face, the tears rising slowly toher eyes. Her letters had shown how muchshe was counting on what he had led herto expect, for she had written him of herplans; so the collapse of her air-castlescould not be other than a blow.

And he was right. The blunt news was ablow. In one swift picture Helen sawherself trudging drearily along the dull,narrow road of genteel poverty to the endof her days, sacrificing every taste, andimpulse, and instinct to the necessity ofliving, for more and more as she thoughther freedom closer the restrictions ofeconomic slavery chaffed.

But as she read on, her face grew radiantand when she raised the letter impulsivelyto her lips her eyes were luminous withhappiness. He loved her—he had told herso—that fact was paramount. Itovershadowed everything else, even herdisappointment. The conditions againstwhich she rebelled so fiercely suddenlyshrank to small importance. It was

extraordinary how half-a-dozen sentencesshould change the world! She was soincredibly happy that she could havecried.

In her eagerness, she had read the first ofBruce’s letter hastily so she had notgrasped the full significance of what hehad written of the part in his failure thatSprudell had played. It was not until sheread it again together with Smaltz’sconfession, that it came to her clearly.When it did she was dumfounded by theextent of Sprudell’s villainy, his audacity,the length to which his mania for revengewould take him. It was like a plot in oneof his own preposterous melodramas!

And was he to be allowed to get awaywith it? Were his plans to work out

without a hitch? she asked herselffuriously. She realized that Bruce’s handswere tied, that the complete exhaustion ofhis resources left him helpless.

She sat at her desk for a long time,mechanically drawing little designs upona blotter. Wild impulses, impracticalplans, followed each other in quicksuccession. They crystallized finally into adefinite resolve, and her lips set in a lineof determination.

“I don’t know how much or how little Ican do, but, T. Victor Sprudell,” Helenclenched a small fist and shook it in thedirection in which she imaginedBartlesville lay, “I’m going to fight!”

If much of Helen’s work was uncongenialit at least had the merit of developing

useful traits. It had given her confidence,resourcefulness, persistency and when shewas aroused, as now, these qualities wereof the sort most apt to furnish the exultantSprudell with a disagreeable surprise.

It was not such a difficult matter as Helenhad thought to get from the investors athirty days’ option upon their stock. In thefirst place they were frankly amused andinterested by her request; and, in thesecond, while Sprudell had succeeded inshaking their confidence in Bruce he hadnot inspired any liking for himself.Besides, he had not been able to concealhis eagerness and they felt that his offerwould keep. It was unusual and quiteoutside their experiences, but in these

days of women architects, legislators,financiers, who could tell where the sexwould turn up next? So at a meeting of thestockholders it was agreed that it woulddo no harm to “give the girl a chance”though they made no secret of the fact thatthey had little expectation that she wouldbe able to take up the option.

When it was secure and she had obtainedleave of absence from the office, Helenfelt that the hardest part of the task she hadassigned herself was done. To acquaintBruce’s father with Sprudell’s plot andenlist him on Bruce’s side seemedaltogether the easiest part of her plan. Shehad no notion that she was the brilliantlady-journalist to whom the diplomat, therecluse, the stern and rock-bound

capitalist, give up the secrets of theirsouls, but she did have an assured feelingthat with the arguments she had to offershe could manage Bruce’s “Dad.”

Therefore on the monotonous journey westher nerves relaxed and with a comfortablefeeling of security she rehearsed her caseas she meant to present it, which was toconclude with an eloquent plea for help. Itseemed to her that in spite of the years ofestrangement it would be the most naturalthing in the world for Burt, when he heardall the facts, to rush to the rescue of hisson. Of the result she really entertained nodoubt.

But she was reckoning without John Burt.Reasoning that would apply to nearly anyother man did not at all fit Bruce’s father.

Helen had the sensation of having run atfull speed against a stone wall when Burtcame toward her slowly, leading hissaddle-horse through one of the corralsnear the unpretentious ranch-house, whichshe had reached after a long drive.

The amenities to which she wasaccustomed were not, as the phrase is,John Burt’s long suit. He did not raise hishat, extend a hand, or evince the slightestinterest by any lighting of the eye. With hisarm thrown across his saddle he waitedfor her to begin, to state her business andbe gone.

The broad backs of ten thousand cattleglistened in the sun as they fed inside theJohn Burt ranch, but owing to his seedyappearance their owner was frequently

mistaken for his own hired man. Self-centred, of narrow views, strongprejudices, saving to penuriousness,whatever there was of sentiment, or warmhuman impulse, in his nature, seemed tohave been buried with Bruce’s mother. Hehad not re-married, but this was the onlyoutward evidence by which any one couldknow that the memory of “his Annie” wasas green as the day she died. He neverspoke of her nor of his son, and Burt’s lifeseemed to have for its aim the piling up ofdollars faster than his neighbors.

Helen grasped something of his characterin her swift appraisement. As she returnedhis impersonal gaze she realized that tohim she was simply a female—a person inpetticoats who was going to take up his

time and bore him until he could get rid ofher. She was not accustomed to areception of this kind; it disconcerted her,but chiefly the magnitude of her taskloomed before her.

The sudden, unexpected fear of failurethrew her into a panic. The feeling whichcame upon her was like stage-fright. In thefirst awkward moment she could scarcelyremember why she had come, much lesswhat she had intended to say. But he wastoo indifferent to notice her confusion andthis helped her somewhat to recover herpresence of mind.

When she mentioned the distance she hadtravelled to see him he was entirelyunimpressed and it was not until shementioned Bruce’s name that he appeared

to realize that she was not an agent tryingto sell him a book. Then Helen saw in hiseyes his mental start;—the look ofresignation vanished and his black brows,so like Bruce’s, contracted in a frown.

“He’s alive then,” Burt’s voice was hard.

Helen nodded.

“I’ve come to see you on his behalf.”

“Oh, he’s in trouble.” His voice had anacid edge. “He wants me to help him out.”

“In trouble—yes—but I’m not sure he’dforgive me if he knew I had come.”

“Still sore, is he?” His features stiffened.

“Not sore,” Helen pleaded, “but—proud.”

“Stubborn”—curtly—“mulish. But why

should you come to me?”

“Why shouldn’t I? You’re his father andhe needs a helping hand just now moreperhaps than he ever will again.”

“Being his father is no reason, that I cansee. He’s never written me a line.”

“And you’ve never tried to find him,”Helen retorted.

“He had a good home and he ran away. Hewas fourteen—old enough to know whathe was doing.”

“Fourteen!” repeated Helen scornfullythrowing diplomacy to the winds at hiscriticism of Bruce, “Fourteen!—and youjudged him as though he were a man ofyour own age and experience!”

“I made $20 a month and my board when Iwas fourteen.”

“That doesn’t prove anything except adifference in ambition. You wanted the$20 a month and Bruce wanted aneducation.”

“He owed me some respect.” Burtdeclared obstinately. At the moment heand Bruce looked marvellously alike.

“And don’t you think you owed himanything?” Helen’s cheeks were flaming.The last thing she had expected was toquarrel with Bruce’s father, but since shewas in it she meant to stand her ground.She had made a muddle of it she felt, andher chances of success were slim indeed.“Don’t you think a child is entitled to thebest chance for happiness and success that

his parents can give him? All Bruce askedwas an education—the weapon that everychild has a right to, to enable him to fighthis own battles. I had the best educationmy parents could afford and at that I’m notbowed down with gratitude for theprivilege of struggling merely to exist.”

She expected him to reply with equal heatbut instead he ignored her argument andwith a return to his former manner asthough his flare-up of interest had passed,asked indifferently:

“What’s he done?”

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Helenanswered vigorously, “and everything tobe proud of. He’s put up a plucky fight butthe odds are too strong against him andhe’s going to lose unless you come to the

rescue—quick.”

Burt combed the horse’s mane with hisfingers.

“What’s he in—what’s he doing?” Therewas no personal interest in the question.

Helen hesitated for a second, knowinginstinctively the effect her answer wouldhave upon him—then she replied with atouch of defiance:

“Mining.”

“Minin’!” His tone was full of disgust,much as though she had said gambling orburglary. “I might have known it would besome fool thing like that. No, ma’am,”harshly, “by writin’ first you might havesaved yourself the trip for not a dollar ofmy money ever has or ever will go into

any minin’ scheme. I don’t speculate.”

“But Mr. Burt—” Helen began pleadingly.She had a panicky feeling that she wasgoing to cry.

“It’s no use arguin’,” he interrupted. “Hecan’t get me into any wild-cat minin’scheme—”

“It isn’t a wild-cat mining scheme,” Helendefended hotly.

Burt went on—

“If he wants to come home and help mewith the cattle and behave himself nowthat he’s fooled away his time and failed—”

“But he hasn’t failed.” Helen insisted witheager impatience. “He won’t fail if——”

“Well he’s hard up—he wants money——” Burt spoke as though the fact werea crime.

“A good many men have been ‘hard up’and needed money before theysucceeded,” Helen pleaded. “Surely youknow that crises come in nearly everyundertaking where there isn’t unlimitedcapital, obstacles and combinations ofcircumstances that no one can forsee. Andif you knew what Bruce has had to fight——”

Helen had expected of course to tellBruce’s father of the placer properties andhis efforts to develop them. She hadthought he would have a father’s naturalpride in what Bruce had accomplished inthe face of dangers and difficulties. She

had intended to tell him of Sprudell, toshow him Smaltz’s confession, and theoptions which would defeat Sprudell’splotting, but in the face of his narrowobstinacy, his deep prejudices, she felt thefutility of words or argument. She had notfor a moment counted upon suchopposition; now she felt helpless,impotent before this armor of hardness.

“I don’t care what he’s had to fight. I’djust as soon put my money in the stove asput it in a mining scheme. There’s twothings I never do, young lady, and that’sspeculate and go on people’s notes.”

“But, Mr. Burt,” she begged hopelessly,“If you’d only make an exception—justthis once. Go to him—see for yourself thatall he needs is a helping hand across this

one hard place.”

“I got on without any helping hands.Nobody saw me across hard places. I’vetold you the only way that he can expect toget anything from me.”

“Then it’s useless, quite, quite useless forme to say any more?” Helen wasstruggling hard to keep her voice steady tothe end. “No matter what thecircumstances may be you refuse to doanything for Bruce?”

“That’s the size of it—unless he comesback. There’s plenty for him to do here.”His tone was implacable and he waswaiting with a stolid patience for her togo.

“I’m sorry if I’ve bored you and I shan’t

inflict you any more. Please remember thatBruce knew nothing of my coming. I cameupon my own responsibility. But hissuccess meant so much to him—to me thatI—that I——” she choked and turnedaway abruptly. She dared not even saygood-bye.

Burt remained standing by his horselooking after her straight, slender figure asshe walked toward the gate. His face wasstill sphinx-like but there was aspeculative look in his shrewd eyes.Bruce’s success “meant so much to her,”did it? That, then, was why she had come.The distance she had travelled for thepurpose of seeing him had not impressedhim in the least before.

Helen was halfway to the gate when she

stopped to replace the rubber that stuck inthe muddy corral and slipped from herheel. Her chin was quivering, hersensitive lips drooped and, feeling thatBurt was looking at her, she raised hereyes to his. They were brimming full oftears. She looked for all the world like asorrowful, disappointed, woe-begonelittle girl of not more than ten or twelve.

The unconscious pathos of some look orpose grips the heart harder than anyspoken word and so it was that thisunstudied trick of expression found thevulnerable spot in Burt’s armor—the spotwhich might have remained imperviousindefinitely to any plea. It went straight tohis one weakness, his single point ofsusceptibility, and that was his

unsuspected but excessive fondness forlittle girls.

The distinct picture that was firmly fixedin his unimaginative mind before Brucewas born was still there; the picture ofthat little girl with flaxen hair that hadblue ribbons in it, with a laughing mouththat had tiny sharp teeth like pearls, andwho was to come dancing to meet himwith her arms outstretched each time thathe rode into the yard. That the dream wasnever realized was one of the realdisappointments of Burt’s life.Inexplicably he saw that little girl again ashe looked at Helen’s upturned face withits quivering chin and swimming,reproachful eyes.

John Burt had a queer feeling of something

wilting, crumbling inside of him,something hard and cold giving wayaround his heart. He could not haveexplained it, it was not his way to try, buthe took an impulsive step toward her andcalled out:

“Wait a minute! Go on in the house till Iput up my horse, I’ll hear what you have tosay.”

XXVII

Uncle Bill is Ostracized

Uncle Bill Griswold sat by the window inthe office of the Hinds House where hecould watch the stage road, and, as usualthis winter, he was sitting by himself. Itwas thus that Ore City punished reticence.

Uncle Bill was suspected of knowingsomething—of having business—of hisown—and keeping it to himself. A displayof friendly interest in his affairs havingreceived no encouragement and variouslines of adroit cross-examination havingbeen successfully blocked, Ore City wasforced to regard his stubborn reserve as ahostile act for which it was tacitly agreedhe should be disciplined. Therefore itwithdrew its own confidences andcompany. Uncle Bill was shunned, leftalone to enjoy his secret. The heavy hand

of Public Opinion was upon him. Sociallyhe was an outcast. Conversation ceasedwhen he approached as if he had been aspy. Games of solo, high-five, and piutewent on without him and in heatedarguments no one any longer asked hisviews.

This latter offense however was only anaggravation of the real one which datedback to the memorable occasion whenWilbur Dill had asked his opinion of the“secondary enrichment.” It was held that aman who would tell the truth at a time likethat was a menace to the camp and thesooner he moved on the better.

In the early spring the old man haddisappeared into the mountain withpowder, drills, and a three months’ grub-

stake. He had told no one of hisdestination, and when he had returned themost he would say was that he had “beenpeckin’ on a ledge all summer.” He sentsamples of his rock outside but did notshow the assays. He wrote letters andbegan to get mail in blank, non-committalenvelopes and added to the general feelingof exasperation by always being at thedesk before even the clerk had time tomake out the postmarks. Oh, he was up tosomething—that was certain—somethingthat would “knock” the camp no doubt.They wouldn’t put it past him.

If Uncle Bill felt his exile or harboredresentment at being treated like a leper hewas too proud to give any sign.

There had been but little change in the

Hinds House in a year. Only a closeobserver would have noted that it hadchanged at all. There was a trifle morebaling-wire intertwined among the legs ofthe office chairs and a little higher polishon the seats. The grease spots on theunbleached muslin where Ore City restedits head were a shade darker and themonuments of “spec’mins” were higher.The Jersey organ had lost two stops and awooden stalagmite was broken. “OldMan” Hinds in a praiseworthy attempt toclean his solitaire deck had washed off thespots or at least faded them so that no onebut himself could tell what they were. Theoffice was darker, too, because of thebox-covers nailed across the windowswhere a few more panes had gone out.Otherwise it might have been the very day

a year ago that Judge George Petty hadlurched through the snow tunnel jubilantlyannouncing the arrival of the stage.

Only this year there was no snow tunneland the Judge was sober—sober anddespondent.

His attitude of depression reflected moreor less the spirit of the camp, which foronce came near admitting that “if Capitaldidn’t take holt in the Spring they mighthave to quit.”

“Anyway,” Yankee Sam was saying,lowering his voice to give the impressionto Uncle Bill at the window that he, too,had affairs of a private nature, “I learnt mylesson good about givin’ options. Thatwere our big mistake—tyin’ ourselves uphand and foot with that feller Dill. Why, if

a furrin’ syndicate had walked in here andoffered me half a million fer my holdin’sin that porphory dike I couldn’t a done astroke of business. Forfeit money in thebank after this for Samuel. But if ever Ilays eyes on that rat—” Yankee Samglared about the circle—“you watch mysmoke! Mind what I tell you.”

“What about the deal he give me on ThePrince o’ Peace?” demanded Lannigan.“Look what he cost me! The money I spenton them stamps writin’ to know what wasdoin’ would a kept me eatin’ for a month.Maybe you think because I don’t roarmuch I ain’t angery. If I had the price I’dhire somebudy regalar to help me hate thatfeller!”

“I hold that he’s worse than robbed me!”

Judge Petty struck his knee with atremulous fist. “He took one whole yearoff’n my life, that’s what he’s done—puremurder, ain’t it? Expectin’ to sell everymail, all summer, and then bein’disappinted has shore took it out of me.Made an ol’ man of me, as you might say,as was hale and hearty. I might haveknowed, too; you had only to look in hisface to see what he was! ‘Crook’ waswrote all over him. There’s a law for thelikes o’ Wilbur Dill—false pretenses.”

“Law!” contemptuously. “Pa” Snow spentmore of his time downstairs now in arocking chair upholstered with a soogan,where he could vent his bitterness at shortrange. Disappointment over the sale of“The Bay Horse” had made a socialist of

him. “The law—a long way we’d gethavin’ the law on him! The law’s no useto the poor man—he’s only got oneweapon he can count on; and while I’venever set out to let no man’s blood, if thatskunk ever pokes his nose inside thesepremises he’ll find a red-hot Southernerwaitin’ for him!” Mr. Snow looked soaltogether ferocious that Ore City morethan half believed him.

“Seems like everything this year has beenagin us.” The despondent voice behind thestove sounded hopeless. “Burt’sproposition fizzlin’ out on the river isgoin’ to hurt this camp wonderful. It’ssurprisin’ how fast the news of a failuregits around among Capital. I knew the wayhe was startin’ in to work—in fact I told

him—that he never could make nothin’.”

“When I first went down to work for him Iadvised steam but he goes ahead, and lookwhat’s happened—broke down and youcan gamble he won’t start up again.”Lannigan added confidently as though hespoke from personal knowledge—“Themstockholders is done puttin’ up money.”

“I warned him about the grade he wasgivin’ them sluice-boxes—I went to himfirst off, didn’t I?” Yankee Sam lookedaround for confirmation. “Do you mind Isaid at the time he wasn’t warshin’ thatdirt fast enough?”

“Anyhow,” declared the Judgequerulously, “he ought to ’a piped it off.T’were a hydraulickin’ proposition. Hecould handle it just twice as fast at half the

cost. I sent him down word when I heardwhat he was doin’.”

“And wastin’ money like he did on allthem new style riffles—expanded metaland cocoa matting! Gimme pole riffleswith a little strap-iron on the top and ifyou can’t ketch it with that you can’t ketchit with nothin’.”

“Mostly,” said Ma Snow who had comeup behind the critic’s chair unnoticed,“you’ve ketched nothin’.” She went on inher plaintive voice:

“It’s a shame, that’s what it is, that BruceBurt didn’t just turn over his business toyou-all this summer. With shiningexamples of success to advise him, like’ssittin’ here burnin’ up my wood t’houtofferin’ to split any, he couldn’t have

failed. Personally, I wouldn’t think ofmakin’ a business move without firsttalkin’ it over with the financiers that havemade Ore City the money centre that it is!”

“Everybody can learn something,” YankeeSam retorted with a show of spirit.

“Not everybody,” Ma Snow’s voice hadan ominous quaver, “or you’d a learnedlong ago that you can’t knock that youngman in my hearin’. I haven’t forgot if youhave, that the only real money that’s beenin the camp all Summer has come up fromthe river.”

“We wasn’t sayin’ anything against himpersonal,” the brash Samuel assured herhastily; but Bruce’s champion refused tobe mollified.

“What if he did shut down? What of it?”She glared defiance until her pale eyeswatered with the strain. “I don’t noticeanybody here that’s ever had gumptionenough even to start up. What do you do?”She answered for them—“Jest scratch ahole in the ground, then set and wait forCapital to come and hand you out amillion. I dast you to answer!”

It was plain from the silence that no onecared to remove the chip on Ma Snow’sshoulder.

“I hear he aims to stay down there allwinter alone and trap.” Judge Petty madethe observation for the sake ofconversation merely, as the fact was aswell known as that there were four feet ofsnow outside or that the camp was

“busted.”

“And it’s to his credit,” Ma Snowsnapped back. “When he’s doin’ that heain’t runnin’ up board bills he cain’t pay.”

“It’s as good a place as any,” admitted theJudge, “providin’ he don’t go nutty.” Heraised his voice and added with asignificant look at Uncle Bill: “Bachin’alone makes some fellers act like a bull-elk that’s been whipped out of the herd.”

“It takes about four months before youbegin to think that somebudy’s layin’ outin the brush watchin’ you—waitin’ to robyou even if you haven’t got anything tosteal but a slab of swine-buzzum and asack of flour. The next stage,” went on thecitizen behind the stove speaking with thevoice of authority, “is when you pack your

rifle along every time you go for a bucketof water, and light you palouser in themiddle of the night to go around the cabinlookin’ for tracks. Yes, sir,” emphatically,“and the more brains you got the quickeryou go off.”

“You seemed about the same when you gotback as when you left that time youwintered alone on the left fork ofSwiftwater,” Ma Snow commented.

“Like as not you remember that spell Ispent t’other side of Sheep-eater Ridgewhen I druv that fifty foot tunnel single-handed into the Silver King?”

“You’ve never give us no chance to forgitit,” responded an auditor. “We’ve heard itreg’lar every day since.”

“I hadn’t seen nobody fer clost to threemonths,” Lemonade Dan continued “whena feller come along, and says: ‘I’d like tostop with ye but I’m short of cash.’ Icounted out a dollar-thirty and I says‘Stranger,’ I says, ‘that’s all I got but it’syourn if you’ll stay!’”

“And you’ll jump for a new seedcatalogue or an Agricultural Bulletin likeit was a novel just out,” contributedYankee Sam from his experience. “I’veallus been a great reader. I mind how Icome clost to burnin’ myself out onaccount of it the fall of ’97 when I wasground-sluicin’ down there on Snakeriver. I had a tidy cabin papered withnewspapers and one week when ‘twerestormin’ I got interested in a serial story

what was runnin’. It started back of thestove and they was an installment pastedin the cupboard, they was a piece upsidedown clost to the floor so I had to stand onmy head, as you might say, to read it, andthe end was on the ceilin’. One evenin’ Iwas standin’ on a box with my mouth openand my neck half broke tryin’ to see how itcome out when I tipped the lamp over. I’ma reg’lar book-worm, when I gits wherethey’s readin’.”

“I mind the winter I bached on CrookedCrick I tamed a mouse,” venturedLannigan. “He got so sociable he et out ofmy fingers.”

“He shorely must have been fond of you.”Ma Snow looked fixedly at Lannigan’shands. “Mistah Hinds,” turning sharply

upon that person, who was endeavoring byclose inspection to tell whether the lastcard was a king or queen, “the bacon’sfroze and there ain’t a knife in yoah ol’kitchen that will cut.”

“Yes ma’am,” murmured Mr. Hinds,hoping against hope that the statement wasnot a command with his luck justbeginning to turn and a sequence in sight.

“If there ain’t an aidge on one of thembutcher knives that’ll cut bread when Istart in to get supper—”

But Ma Snow did not deliver herultimatum. In the first place it was notnecessary, for the cowed owner of theHinds House knew perfectly well what itwas, and in the second, Uncle Bill arosesuddenly and stood on tiptoe looking

through the window in something thatapproached excitement. Nothing ordinarycould jar Uncle Bill’s composure—chairswent over in the rush to join him at thewindow.

The stage was coming—with passengers!It was almost in—they could hear thedriver’s—“Git ep, Eagle! Git ep, Nig! Gitep—git ep—git ep!” There was luggageon behind and—Yankee Sam’s voicebroke as though it were changing when heannounced it—a female and two men!

Was this Uncle Bill’s secret? Had heknown? They could learn nothing from hisface and his mouth was shut so tight itlooked as if he had the lock-jaw.

Who was she? Where was she from? Didshe have any money? Was she old or

young? Delicacy forbade them to gooutside and look straight at a strange ladybut a dozen questions rose in every mind.Then simultaneously the same thoughtcame to each. Moved by a commonimpulse they turned and staredsuspiciously at Uncle Bill. Could it be—was it possible that he had beenadvertising for a wife? Luring sometrusting female from her home byrepresenting himself as a mining manforced to reside in this mountain solitudenear his valuable properties? Ore Cityknew of cases like it; and he was justabout the age to begin writing tomatrimonial bureaus.

Speculation ended abruptly. A sharpintake of breath—a startled gasp ran

through the tense group as a pair ofnimble, yellow legs flashed from beneaththe robes and the citizens of Ore City sawthe smiling face of Wilbur Dill! Theyturned to each other for confirmation lesttheir own eyes deceive them.

Mr. Dill stamped the snow from his feet,flung open the door and beamed aroundimpartially.

“Well, boys—” he threw off his opulent,fur-lined coat—“it’s good to be back.”

For the space of a second Ore City stooduncertainly. Then Pa Snow disentangledhis feet from the quilt and stepped forthbriskly.

“Welcome home!” said the fire-eatercordially.

Dill’s return could have but one meaning.He had returned with a “Live One” to takeup the options. Hope smouldering to thepoint of extinction sprang to life andburned like a fire in a cane-brake.Imaginations were loosed on the instant.Once more Ore City began to think in sixfigures.

Yankee Sam, who had called upon hisfriends and High Heaven to “watch hissmoke,” was the next to wring Dill’s hand,and Lannigan followed, while the Judgeforgot the priceless year of which he hadbeen robbed and elbowed Porcupine Jimaside to greet him. Only Uncle Bill stoodaloof turning his jack-knife over and overnonchalantly in the pocket of his LeviStrauss’s.

Ore City scowled. Couldn’t he bediplomatic for once—the stubborn oldburro’—and act glad even if he wasn’t?Why didn’t he at least step up like a manand say howdy to the woman he had luredfrom a good home? Where was he raised,anyhow?—drug up in the brush, most like,in Missoury.

Dill looked about inquiringly.

“Ah-h! Mr. Griswold.” He strode acrossthe floor. “How are you?”

Ore City’s hand flew to its heart,figuratively speaking, and clutched it. Noman ever called another “Mister” in thattone unless he had something he wanted.And no man ever answered “tolable” withUncle Bill’s serenity unless he knew hehad something the other fellow wanted.

Had he really got hold of something on hisprospecting trip this summer? Had hesold? Was he selling? Did this account forDill’s presence and not the options? Thechill at their hearts shot to their feet.

Mr. Dill tapped his pocket and loweredhis voice—a futile precaution, for at themoment Ore City could have heard a“thousand legger” walk across the floor.“I’ve got the papers here,” he said, “allready to be signed up if every thing’s asrepresented.”

Ore City went limp but not too limp tostrain their ears for Uncle Bill’s reply.

“Yes,” he drawled, “you want to takeparticular care that I ain’t saltin’ you.Give plenty of time to your examination.They’s no great sweat; I wouldn’t sign my

name to an application for a fish licensethat you brought me until I’d had a goodlawyer look it over first. As I promisedyou when you wrote me to open up thatledge, I’ll give you the first shot at it, butdon’t try any funny business. I know nowwhat I got, and I don’t need you to help mehandle it. I’ve never made it no secret,Wilbur, that I wouldn’t trust you with ared-hot stove.”

“I don’t see why you should talk to melike this,” Dill declared in an injured tone.“You can’t point to a single thing I’vedone.”

“I ain’t got fingers enough,” Uncle Billsaid dryly, “and my toes is under cover.It’s prob’ly slipped your mind that I wasdown in south’rn Oregon when you left

between two suns; but tain’t that”—his oldeyes gleamed—“it’s what you done lastwinter—goin’ down there deliberate tojump Bruce Burt’s claim.”

“Ss-sh!” Mr. Dill hissed, not in resentmentbut in alarm as he glanced over hisshoulder. “That’s Burt’s father.” From thecorner of his mouth—“I think he’s gotmoney.”

Money! The word acted like a strychniatablet upon Ore City’s retardedcirculation. Money! Warmth returned to itsextremities. It looked at the object of thesehopeful suspicions as though its manyheads swung on a single neck. He wassitting by the stove in a suit of clothes thatmust have cost as much as fifteen dollarsand he appeared as oblivious to their

concentrated gaze as though he were alonein the middle of his ranch.

The strange female was still unaccountedfor. Ore City had the tense, over-strainedfeeling of a spectator trying to watch allthe acts in a triple-ringed circus. Whenshe removed her outer wraps it was seenthat she was not only young but, in OreCity’s eyes, overpoweringly good-looking. Was she married? Every questionpaled beside this one. Surely—theylooked at Uncle Bill contemptuously—even if he had struck something she wouldnot marry that old codger.

When she walked to the stove to warm herhands if they had followed their impulsesthey would have jumped and run. Thebravest among them dared not raise his

eyes two inches above the bottom part ofthe stove-door though in each mind therewas a wild groping for some light and airynothing to show how much he felt at ease.Something which should be appropriateand respectful, yet witty.

And of course it must be Porcupine Jimwho finally spoke.

“That’s a hard stage ride, ma’am,” he saiddeferentially. “Them jolts is enough totear the linin’ out of a lady. They does meup and I’m quite hearty.”

Ore City blushed to the roots of its hairand there was murder in the eyes thatturned on Jim. Didn’t he know nothin’—that Swede?

They felt somewhat relieved when she

laughed.

“It is rather bumpy but I enjoyed it. Themountains are wonderful, and the air, andeverybody is so kind; it’s a new world tome and I love it all!”

Ore City fairly purred. Was she married?There was a general movement—asurreptitious smoothing of back hair—anapologetic fumbling at the spot sacred toneckties. The judge buttoned up the tworemaining buttons of his waistcoat.Lannigan concealed his hands.

The shadow of a grin flitted across JohnBurt’s face, for he sometimes saw andheard more than was generally believed.

“If you was aimin’ to stay any length oftime, ma’am,” Yankee Sam fished

innocently, “we kin git up a picnic andshow you somethin’ of the country whenthe snow goes off. About three days’ ridefrom here I know a real nice view.”

Helen thanked him adequately andexplained that she was not sure how longshe would remain. “I should like to stay,though,” she added, “long enough to seethe boom.”

Ore City sat up as if she had said,“bomb.”

“By the way, I wonder, if Mr. Griswold ishere?”

It was Uncle Bill then! He’d ought to belynched. It was sickening the luck somepeople had.

Uncle Bill came forward wonderingly.

“Here I be.”

Helen put out a friendly hand:

“You don’t know me, of course, but I’veheard a great deal about you.”

“I’m most afraid to ask what it is, ma’am,for lyin’ and stealin’ is the only crimes Idenies.”

“I’ll tell you when I know you better,”Helen laughed, “because I hope we’regoing to be good friends.”

He looked keenly into her face. “Iwouldn’t never look for any troublebetween you and me, ma’am. Shake.” Headded with a smile: “I ain’t got so manyfriends that I kin afford to turn one down.”

“You’ll have enough of them shortly,”

Helen smiled. “I know the worldsufficiently well to be sure of that. I hopeI’m the first to congratulate you on yourgood fortune. Mr. Dill has told mesomething of your luck. He says you’regoing to be the saviour of the camp.”

“I been crucified a-plenty,” Uncle Billreplied, with a significant look at Ore Citysitting with its mouth agape, “but,”modestly, “I wouldn’t hardly like to go asfar as to call myself that.”

XXVIII

“Annie’s Boy”

When Bruce was left alone in the gloomycanyon, where the winter sun at its bestdid not shine more than three hours in thetwenty-four, he had wondered whether thedays or nights would be the hardest toendure. It was now well into December,and still he did not know. They wereequally intolerable.

During the storms which kept him insidehe spent the days looking at the floor, thenights staring at the ceiling, springingsometimes to his feet burning withfeverish energy, a maddening desire to dosomething—and there was nothing for himto do but wait. Moments would comewhen he felt that he could go out andconquer the world bare-handed but they

quickly passed with a fresh realization ofhis helplessness, and he settled back to theinevitable.

It was folly to go out penniless—unarmed;he had learned that lesson in the East andhis condition then had been affluencecompared to this. He was doing the onething that it was possible for him to do inthe circumstances—to get money enoughto go outside.

“Slim” had brought a collection of trapsdown the river from Meadows, and Brucehad set these out. So far he had been ratherlucky and the pile of skins in the cornerwas growing—lynx, cougar, marten, mink—but it still was not high enough.

If Bruce had been less sensitive, moreworld-hardened, his failure would not

have seemed such a crushing, unbearablething, but alone in the killing monotony hebrooded over the money he had sunk forother people until it seemed like acolossal disgrace for which there was noexcuse and that he could never live down.In his bitter condemnation of himself forhis inexperience, his ill-judgedmagnanimity, he felt as though his was anisolated case—that no human being everhad made such mistakes before.

But it was thoughts of Helen that alwaysgave his misery its crowning touch. Shepitied him, no doubt, because, she waskind, but in her heart he felt she mustdespise him for a weakling—a braggartwho could not make good his boasts. Sheneeded him, too,—he was sure of it—and

lack of money made him as helpless to aidher as though he were serving a jailsentence. When, in the night, his mindbegan running along this line he could nolonger stay in his bunk; and not once, butmany times, he got up and dressed andwent outside, stumbling around in thebrush, over the rocks—anything to changehis thoughts.

He tried his utmost to put her out of hismind, yet as he plodded on his snow-shoes, along his fifteen-mile trap line,either actively or subconsciously histhoughts were of her. He could no longerimagine himself feeling anything more thana mild interest in any other woman. Heloved her with the same concentration ofaffection that he had loved his mother.

Bruce had formed the habit of wonderingwhat she would think of this and that—ofimagining how she would look—what shewould say—and so all through the summershe had been associated with the work. Hehad anticipated the time when he shouldbe showing her the rapids with themoonlight shining on the foam, the pinkand amber sunsets behind the umbrellatree, and when the wind blew among thepines of listening with her to the soundsthat were like Hawaiian music in thedistance.

Now, try as he would, he could not ridhimself of the habit, and, as he pushed hisway among the dark underbrush of creeks,he was always thinking that she, too,would love that “woodsy” smell; that she,

too, would find delight in the frozenwaterfalls and the awesome stillness ofthe snow-laden pines.

But just so often as he allowed hisimagination rein, just so often he cameback to earth doubly heavy-hearted, forthe chance that she would ever share hispleasure in these things seemed to growmore remote as the days went by.

Bruce had built himself a shelter at the endof his trap-line that consisted merely ofpoles and pine boughs leaned against arim-rock. Under this poor protection,wrapped in a blanket, with his feet towardthe fire at the entrance and his backagainst the wall, he spent many a wretchednight. Sometimes he dozed a little, butmostly wide-eyed, he counted the endless

hours waiting for the dawn.

During the summer when things hadcontinually gone wrong Bruce had foundsome comfort in recounting the difficultieswhich his hero of the Calumet and Heclahad gone through in the initial stages of thedevelopment of that great mine. But thattime had passed, for, while AlexanderAgassiz had had his struggles, Bruce toldhimself with a shadowy smile, he neverhad been up against a deal like this! therewas no record that he ever had had to lieout under a rim-rock when thethermometer stood twenty and twenty-fivebelow.

In the long, soundless nights that had thecold stillness of infinite space, Brucealways had the sensation of being the only

person in the universe. He felt alone uponthe planet. Facts became hazy myths, truthsmerely hallucinations, nothing seemedreal, actual, except that if he slept too longand the fire went out he would freeze todeath under the rim-rock.

It was only when he dropped down fromthe peaks and ridges and began to followhis own steps back, that he returned toreality and things seemed as they areagain. Then it was not so hard to believethat over beyond that high, white rangethere were other human beings—happypeople, successful people, people withplenty to read and plenty to do, peoplewho looked forward with pleasure, notdread, to the days as they came.

He was so lonely that he always felt a

little elated when he came across an elktrack in the snow. It was evidence thatsomething was stirring in the world besidehimself.

One day three deer came within thirty feetof him and stared.

“I suppose,” he mused, “they’rewondering what I am? Dog-gone!” withsavage cynicism. “I’m wondering thatmyself.”

Whatever small portion of his spirits hehad recovered by exercise and success athis traps, always disappeared again on hisreturn down Big Squaw Creek. To passthe head-gate and the flume gave him anacute pang, while the high trestle whichrepresented so much toil and sweat, hurthim like a stab. It seemed unbelievable

that he could fail after all that work!

When he passed the power-house with itsnailed windows and doors he turned hishead the other way. It was like walking bya graveyard where some one was sleepingthat he loved.

Bruce always had been peculiarlydepressed by abandoned homesteads,deserted cabins, machinery left to rust,because they represented wasted efforts,failure, but when these monuments to deadhopes were his own! His quickenedfootsteps sometimes became very nearlylike a run.

It was from such a trip that Bruce cameback to his cabin after two days’ absencemore than ordinarily heavy-hearted, if thatwere possible, though his luck had been

unusually good. He had a cougar, onelynx, and six dark marten. Counting theState bounty on the cougar, the green skinsbe brought back represented close to ahundred dollars. At that rate he soon couldgo “outside.”

But to-night the thought did not elate him.What was there for him outside? Whatwas there for him anywhere? As he hadtrudged along the trail through the brokensnow, the gloom of the canyon hadweighed upon him heavily, but it was thechill silence in the bare cabin when heopened the door that put the finishingtouches upon his misery. The emptiness ofit echoed in his heart.

The blankets were in a mound in the bunk;he had been too disheartened before he

left even to sweep the floor; the ashesover-flowed the stove hearth and therewas no wood split. The soiled dishes,caked with hardened grease, made himsick. The chimney of the lamp he lightedwas black with smoke. It was the lastword in cheerlessness, and there was noreason to think, Bruce told himself, that itwould not be in such surroundings that hewould end his days. He was tired, hungry;his vitality and spirits were at low ebb.

He warmed over a pan of biscuits andcold bacon and threw a handful of coffeein the dismal looking coffee pot. When itwas ready he placed it on the clammyoilcloth and sat down. He eyed the foodfor a moment—the ever-present bacon, thesticky can of condensed milk, the black

coffee in the tin cup, the biscuits coveredwith protuberances that made them looklike a panful of horned toads. He realizedsuddenly that, hungry as he had thoughthimself, he could not eat.

With a sweeping, vehement gesture hepushed it all from him. The tin cup upsetand a small waterfall of coffee splashedupon the floor, the can of condensed milkrolled across the table and fell off but hedid not pick it up. Instead, he folded hisarms upon the oilcloth in the space he hadmade and dropping his forehead upon hisragged shirt-sleeve, he cried. Bruce hadhit bottom.

Older, wiser, braver men than Bruce havecried in some crisis of their lives. Tearsare no sign of weakness. And they did not

come now because he was quitting—because he did not mean to struggle onsomehow or because there was anythingor anybody of whom he was afraid. It wasonly that he was lonely, heartsick,humiliated, weary of thinking, bruisedwith defeat.

These tears were different from the readytears of childhood, different from the lasthe had shed upon his dead mother’sunresponsive shoulder; these came slowly—smarting, stinging as they rose. Hisshoulders moved but he made no sound.

A little way from the cabin where thesteep trail from Ore City dropped off themountain to the sudden flatness of theriver bar, some dead branches cracked

and a horse fell over a fallen log,upsetting the toboggan that it dragged andtaking Uncle Bill with it. Helen hurried tothe place where he was trying to extricatehimself from the tangle.

“Are you dead, Uncle Bill?”

“Can’t say—I never died before. Say,” ina querulous whisper as he helped thefloundering horse up—“Why don’t younotice where you’re goin’? Here youcome down the mountain like you had furon your feet, and the minute I gits youwhere I wants you to be quiet you makemore noise nor a cow-elk goin’ throughthe brush. How you feelin’, ma’am?” toHelen. “I expect you’re about beat.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Uncle Bill, butI’m not. You tried so hard to keep me from

coming I don’t think I’d tell you if I was.”

“You wouldn’t have to—I reckon I’d findit out before we’d gone far. I’ve noticedthat when a lady is tired or hungry she gitspowerful cross.”

“Where did you learn so much aboutwomen?”

“I’ve picked up considerable knowledgeof the female disposition from wranglin’dudes. A bald-face bear with cubs is areg’lar streak of sunshine compared to alady-dude I had out campin’ once—whenshe got tired or hungry, or otherwise onthe peck. Her and me got feelin’ prettyhos-tile toward each other ’fore we quit.

“I didn’t so much mind packin’ warmwater mornin’s for her to wash her face,

or buttonin’ her waist up the back, orchangin’ her stirrups every few miles orgittin’ off to see if it was a fly on herhorse’s stummick that made him switch histail, but I got so weak I couldn’t hardly setin the saddle from answerin’ questionsand tryin’ to laugh at her jokes.

“‘Say,’ says she, ‘ain’t you got no sense ofhumor?’ atter I’d let out somethin’between a groan and a squeal. ‘I had,’ Isays, ‘’till I was shot in the head.’ ‘Shot inthe head! Why didn’t it kill you?’ ‘Thebullet struck a bolt, ma’am, and glancedoff.’ We rode seven hours that day withoutspeakin’ and ’twere the only enjoyabletime I had. Dudin’ wouldn’t be a badbusiness,” Uncle Bill added judicially, “ifit weren’t for answerin’ questions and

listenin’ to their second-hand jokes.Generally they’re smart people whenthey’re on their home range and sometimesthey turns out good friends.”

“Like Sprudell.” Helen suggestedmischievously.

“Sprudell!” The old man’s eyes blazedand he fairly jumped at the sound of thename. “I ain’t blood-thirsty and I neverbore that reputation but if I had knowed asmuch about that feller as I know now he’da slept in that there snow-bank untilspring.

“You know, ma’am,” Uncle Bill went onsolemnly while he cast an eye back up thetrail for Burt who had fallen behind,“when a feller’s drunk or lonesome he’sallus got some of a dream that he dreams

of what he’d do if he got rich. Sometimesits a hankerin’ to travel, or be StateSenator, or have a whole bunch ofbananny’s hangin’ up in the house to onct.I knowed an old feller that died pinin’ fora briled lobster with his last breath. SinceI read that piece about sobbin’ out mygratitude on Sprudell’s broad chest it’swoke a new ambition in me. Every time Igits about three fingers of ‘cyanide’ fromthe Bucket o’ Blood under my belt I seespictures of myself gittin’ money enoughtogether to go back to Bartlesville,Indianny, and lick him every day, reg’lar,or jest as often as I kin pay my fine, gitwashed up, and locate him agin.” UncleBill added reflectively:

“If this deal with Dill goes through

without any hitch, I’d ort to be able to startabout the first of the month.”

“When you get through with him,” Helenlaughed, “I’ll review the book he’spublishing at his own expense. Herecomes Mr. Burt; he looks fagged out.”

“These plains fellers are never any goodon foot,” Uncle Bill commented as Burtcaught up. “Now,” to Burt and Helen, “I’lljest hold this war-horse back while youtwo go on ahead. Down there’s his light.”

There was eagerness in Burt’s voice as hesaid:

“Yes, I’d like to have a look at him beforehe knows we’re here. I’m curious to seehow he lives—what he does to pass thetime.”

“I hope as how you won’t ketch him in themiddle of a wild rannicaboo of wine,women and song,” Uncle Bill suggesteddryly. “Bachin’ in the winter twenty milesfrom a neighbor is about the mostdissipatin’ life I know. There must besomethin’ goin’ on this evenin’ or hewouldn’t be settin’ up after it’s dark underthe table.”

“I’m so excited I’m shaking.” Helendeclared. “My teeth are almost chattering.I’m so afraid he’ll hear us. That will spoilthe surprise.”

But Bruce had not heard. In completeabandonment to his wretchedness he wasstill sitting at the table with his head uponhis arm. So it was that his father saw himafter fifteen years.

When he had thought of Bruce it wasalways as he had seen him that daythrough the window of the prairie ranchhouse—his head thrown back in stubborndefiance, his black eyes full of the tears ofchildish anger and hurt pride, runningbare-footed and bare-headed down thedusty road—running, as he realizedafterward, out of his life.

He had bitterly imagined that his son wasprospering somewhere, with a wife andchildren of his own, too indifferent in hiscontentment and success to bother with hisold Dad; and the picture had hardened hisheart.

His own life had been no bed of roses—no pioneer’s was—and he, too, hadknown loneliness, hardships, but never

anything like this. His shrewd face, deep-seamed and weather-beaten by the sunsand snows of many years, worked. Thenhe straightened his shoulders, stoopedfrom years of riding, and the black eyesunder their thick eyebrows flashed.

“So this was that Sprudell fellow’s work,was it? He was trying to freeze Bruce out,down him because he thought he had nobacking—break him on the rack!” Histeeth shut hard and the fingers inside hismittens clenched. “There were people inthe world who thought they could treatBruce like that—and get away with it?Annie’s boy—his son! Not yet, by God,not while steers were bringing nine-sixtyon the hoof.”

Burt strode around the corner and threw

the door back wide.

“Bruce! Bruce! You mustn’t feel so bad!”Excitement made his voice sound harsh,but there was no mistaking the sympathyintended or the yearning in his face.

Bruce jumped, startled, to his feet andstared, his vision dimmed by the smartingtears. Was it a ghost—was he, too, getting“queer?”

“Haven’t you anything to say to me,Bruce?”

There was an odd timidity in his father’svoice but it was real enough—it was nohallucination. Simultaneous with the reliefthe thought flashed through Bruce’s mindthat his father had seen him through thewindow in his moment of weakness and

despair. His features stiffened and with aquick, shamed movement he brushed hiseyes with the back of his hand while hiseyes flashed pride and resentment.

“I said all I had to say fifteen years agowhen you refused me the chance to makesomething of myself. If I’d had aneducation nobody could have made a foolof me like this.” His voice vibrated withmingled bitterness and mortification.

“I suppose you’ve heard all about it andcome to say—‘I told you so.’”

“I’ve come to see you through.”

“You’re too late; I’m down and out.” InBruce’s voice Burt recognized his ownharsh tones. “You’ve got nothing that Iwant now; you might as well go back.”

His black eyes were relentless—hard.

“Won’t you shake hands with me, Bruce?”There was pleading in his voice as hetook a step toward his son. Bruce did notstir, and Burt added with an effort: “Itain’t so easy as you might think for me tobeg like this.”

“I begged, too, but it didn’t do any good.”

“I’ve come twenty miles—on foot—to tellyou that I’m sorry. I’m not young anymore, Bruce. I’m an old man—and you’reall I’ve got in the world.”

An old man! The words startled Bruce—shocked him. He never had thought of hisfather as old, or lonely, but always astireless, self-centred, self-sufficient,absorbed heart and soul in getting rich. He

seemed suddenly to see the bentshoulders, the graying hair and eyebrows,the furrows and deep, drooping linesabout the mouth that had not beenengraved by happiness. There wassomething forlorn, pathetic about him ashe stood there with his hand out asking forforgiveness. And he had plodded throughthe snow—twenty miles—on foot to seehim!

The blood that is thicker than waterstirred, and the tugging at his heart stringsgrew too hard to withstand. He unfoldedhis arms and stretched out a handimpulsively—“Father!” Then both—“Dad!” he cried.

“My boy!” There was a catch in the oldman’s voice, misty eyes looked into misty

eyes and fifteen years of bitternessvanished as father and son clasped hands.

When Burt could speak he looked at Brucequizzically and said, “I thought you’d bemarried by this time, Bruce.”

“Married! What right has a Failure to getmarried?”

“That’s no way to talk. What’s one slip-up, or two, or three? Nobody’s a failuretill he’s dead. Confidence comes fromsuccess, but, let me tell you, boy, practicalknowledge comes from jolts.”

“Dog-gone! I ought to be awful wise,”Bruce answered ironically. “Yes,”sobering. “I’ve learned something—I’mnot liable to make the same mistaketwice.” He added ruefully: “Nor, by the

same token, am I likely to have the chance.I suppose I’ve got the reputation of beingsomething midway between an idiot and athief.”

Burt seemed to consider.

“Well, now, I can’t recall that the personwho engineered this trip for me used anysuch names as that. As near as I couldmake out she was somewhat prejudiced onyour side.”

Bruce stared.

“She? Not ‘Ma’ Snow!”

Burt’s eyes twinkled as he shook his head.

“No,” drily, “not ‘Ma’ Snow. She’s anestimable lady but I doubt if she could talkme into comin’ on a tour like this in

winter.”

A wonderful light dawned suddenly inBruce’s eyes.

“You mean—”

“—Helen. I’m feelin’ well enoughacquainted with her now to call her Helen.Whatever else we disagree on, Bruce, itlooks as though we had the same tastewhen it comes to girls.”

“You know her?” Bruce’s tone was asincredulous as his face.

Burt answered with a wry smile:

“After you’ve ridden on the back seat ofthat Beaver Creek stage with a person andbumped heads every fifteen feet for ahundred miles, you’re not apt to feel like

strangers when you get in.”

Bruce almost shouted—

“She’s in Ore City!”

“She was.”

Bruce fell back into his old attitude at thetable, but his father stepped quickly to thedoor and an instant later threw it open. Athis side was Helen—with outstretchedarms and face aglow, her eyes shininghappily.

Bruce had not known that great and suddenjoy could make a person dizzy, but thewalls, the floor, everything, seemed towaver as he leaped to his feet.

“I was sure you wouldn’t turn your ownpartner out of doors!” Her lips parted in

the smile that he loved and though hecould not speak he went toward her withoutstretched arms.

Passing the window, Uncle Bill stoppedand stood for a second looking into thelight.

“Hells catoots!” he muttered gruffly,“Seems like sometimes in this worldthings happen as they ort.” And then, OreCity to the contrary, he demonstrated thathe had both presence of mind and tact, forhe shouted to Burt in a voice that wouldhave carried a mile on a still night—“Hi!Old Man! Come out and help me with thishorse. Sounds like he’s down agin andchokin’ hisself.”

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