wilderness, yet making many rich. In the midst thereof a ferry-boat which
is by the brink of the river. Take victuals with you for the journey. Turn
you northward into the wilderness, to a great and high mountain; cedar
trees in abundance scattered over the face of the high mountain. In the
cliffs there is a path which no fowl knoweth, and which the vulture’s eye
hath not seen. Come to the top of the mount. Pass over unto the other
side, westward. On the hillside, a very great heap of stones joined to a
dry tree. Go into the clefts of the rocks, into the tops of the jagged
rocks, to the sides of the pit. Take heed, now--that is exceeding deep. It
is hid from the eyes of all living. Creep into the midst thereof,
eastward, two hundred and fourscore feet. Ye shall find a pure river of
water. Proceed no further. There is gold heavier than the sand; pure gold
upon the sand. And all the gold thou shalt take up. Then shalt thou
prosper if thou takest heed. I know thy poverty, but thou art rich.
“Take heed, now. On the hillside which is upon the bank of the river in
the wilderness, there shall the vultures also be gathered. Ye shall find
him that is mine enemy. His mouth is full of cursing, under his tongue is
mischief and vanity. Be watchful--the heart is desperately wicked.
“He that keepeth his mouth, keepeth his life. I put my trust in thee. Now,
my son, the Lord be with thee and prosper thou.”
Rawley folded the paper, looking up under his bandaged brows at Uncle Peter,
and sending a glance past him to the unreadable face of Johnny Buffalo.
“So that’s what I dug out of his Bible. He meant it for his son. He told me so
himself. But he said my dad wasn’t the man to get anything out of it--which
was true. When he passed it on to me, he--he didn’t know he had another son
who _could_ make good on the proposition. It’s yours, by rights. He just gave
it to me because he didn’t know of any one else. And--all I ask, Uncle Peter,
is that you make some kind of provision for Johnny, over there. I told him
we’d go fifty-fifty, and--” he held out the folded paper to Peter--“Johnny’s
been hands and feet and a loyal friend to Grandfather, all these years. Fifty.
Just think of that, Uncle Peter. Grandfather didn’t have anything but his
pension--and this. He didn’t say so, but I know he expected me to look after
Johnny. I will, of course. I can make good money at my profession. And I want
to say, Uncle Peter,” he added boyishly, “that I’m mighty glad Grandfather
left something--for his son.”
Rawley lay back with a relieved sigh and watched Peter, his eyes smiling a
little. He did not think that he had done any unusual thing. Peter was exactly
the kind of son whom Grandfather King had longed for, all these years. Rawley
guessed that Peter, too, had been defrauded of the father he would have
worshiped. It was a foregone conclusion that, had Grandfather King known
Peter, he would have sent him, long ago, hunting for the mine. And while Peter
had not said so, Rawley guessed shrewdly that Peter did not greatly admire
Jess Cramer, in spite of the fact that he had believed the man his father. His
nightmare thoughts, that he had somehow defrauded Peter, were wiped out once
for all. The code had been written for the son of King, of the Mounted. The
son had it. No more was to be said.
Peter opened the paper and read it through slowly, a corner of his lip drawn
between his teeth. What he thought, no man could say. He finished the reading
and folded the paper slowly, looking at Rawley afterward from under his heavy
brows.
“Have you still got the Bible and the references?” he asked.
“Yes. In my safe deposit box, in St. Louis.”
“Humph.” Peter deliberately twisted the paper into a spill, felt in his pocket
for a match, and as deliberately set fire to the paper, turning and tilting it
until the creeping flame was about to scorch his fingers. He laid the stub on
the floor, bent and watched it go black, then set his foot upon the charred
fragments.
“Boy, you keep what was given you. If I’ve any right in it, I’ll sign that
right over to you. But never mention that--” he motioned toward the ashes on
the floor--“above your breath. Your grand--my father was right. The vultures
are perched here by the river, and the old vulture’s eye is never shut. While
you’re here, forget it. Both of you.”
“But it isn’t mine. It’s yours, Uncle Peter. I don’t want it--now.”
“If it’s mine, then it will never be found. I don’t need it. When the vultures
swoop down and light--the feast will be big enough even for them. But I warn
you, remember. Never speak of that again, in this camp.” He stood up, gazing
down at Rawley much as Grandfather King had looked at him that night. With a
quick, impulsive movement he stooped and laid his hand over Rawley’s, pressing
it warmly. He smiled; and there was that in the smile which made Rawley draw
in his breath sharply.
“If Fate had dealt the cards straight to me--I might have had you for _my_
son!”
He drew his hand away, turned and walked out.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE COLORADO
The tribe of Cramer dined. In the shack beside the big mesquite tree was heard
the clatter of knives and forks--more knives than forks, one might guess--the
dull clink of enameled ware, the high, demanding voices of hungry children
more Indian than white. Above all the clamor of feeding, the shrill petulance
of Aunt Gladys could be heard rising above all other sounds as she
expostulated incessantly with her young. The baby was crying monotonously.
Some one kicked a dog, which shot out of the open door ki-yi-ing hysterically.
In the smaller rock dugout, tinkle of glass and silver plate and china
betrayed the fact that the white blood held itself aloof from the red at
mealtime. In the larger cabin built for Nevada, Rawley had just finished his
supper, eaten with Johnny Buffalo in a punctilious regard for the old man’s
feelings, though he had been invited to join Peter and Nevada at table.
In the matter of recovery, young bones were healing much faster than the old.
Rawley had been promoted to a gauze pad held in place by strips of adhesive
over the long gash on his head. His arm had settled down to the dull, grinding
ache and intolerable deep itching of knitting bone and healing flesh. Johnny
Buffalo, splinted and bandaged, was able to sit propped in cushions in a big
chair on the porch.
Rawley left him reading deliberately the matchless “Apology” of Socrates,
which Peter had lent him that day, and started out for a walk, choosing
between his own company and the companionship of Nevada, which seemed always
to bring at least half the tribe of Cramer at their heels like the dragging
tail of a kite. Rawley reflected disgustedly that as yet he had never had five
consecutive minutes alone with Nevada. When her grandmother was not filling
the foreground, the offspring of Aunt Gladys formed a snuffling, big-eared
background which Nevada sweepingly termed the Little Pitchers. Whether Nevada
enjoyed the company of the Little Pitchers on their infrequent strolls to the
river bank, or approved the solid chaperonage of the juglike Anita, Rawley had
never been able to decide. Nevada’s manner toward her dark-skinned kinsfolk
was impartially and imperturbably gracious. Indeed, Rawley sometimes suspected
that she deliberately encouraged their tagging along. Four goggling kids and
three dogs, he considered, might be recommended as a romance-proof
chaperonage.
Mechanically he walked straight down to the river, to the spot which Nevada
always chose as their destination. A flat rock there formed a convenient place
to sit and enjoy the view of the river and the hills beyond. Across the
swift-moving, muddy stream, bottom lands covered with cottonwoods gave a
refreshing touch of green to the picture. Arizona cottonwoods they were, since
the Colorado formed the dividing line. Away to the southwest, he could see the
hills made familiar at Kingman. Rough, rather forbidding mountains they had
been at close range, but now they were made soft and alluring by the blue haze
of distance. Straight down the river he could see the hill that looked down on
El Dorado, that “city forsaken.” Up the river he could not see, because of the
high, granite cliffs that blocked the view.
Because nature had seemed to bar the way, Rawley turned and made his way
aimlessly toward the barrier. With his left arm in splints and carried in a
sling, he could not do much in the way of climbing; but presently he stumbled
upon a well-defined path leading amongst bowlders just under the rim of the
basin. The path led up the canyon, and Rawley followed it with a desultory
interest in seeing where it led,--and for the exercise it promised. Perhaps,
had he given the matter thought, he would have owned that a strange trail
never failed to tempt his feet to follow. At any rate, he held to the pathway.
Now the river was hidden completely from him, though he could hear it
complaining over the bowlders in the canyon and hurrying through as fast as if
indignation lent it speed. The path went on, finding the easiest places to
worm through the jagged rocks and climbing closer and closer to the river,
whose roar became more distinct as he neared it.
Through a split in the huge wall so narrow as to be almost a crevice, the
trail led him quite suddenly to a narrow shelf set sheer above the river.
Crude steps cut in the rock went down the cliff at a slant. He heard the water
worrying over something unseen at the bottom, and began to descend, his right
hand steadying himself against the granite wall. He was curious, somewhat
mystified. Neither Peter nor Nevada had mentioned any possibility of reaching
the water’s edge in the canyon.
He found himself in a tiny cove which had been formed when some primal
upheaval had split the granite wall at the base, throwing the outside into the
river. No more than a wide crack, it was, but it was serving well a purpose. A
small, rock landing filled the shore end of the slit completely. Riding
quietly in the slack water of the small anchorage, a squat, powerful looking
launch sat bow to the landing, secured there by a heavy chain.
A great deal of labor had gone into the making of that landing and the steps
leading down to it. His trained eyes could see where an inner portion of the
jagged point had been cleverly blown off in such manner that the huge
fragments formed a most natural appearing breakwater, making quiet water
within instead of a moiling swirl. If the Cramers wanted a secret landing on
the river, here was one ideally suited to their needs.
But the Cramers had another landing, in plain sight of the flat rock at the
rim of the basin. At that landing also a launch was tied; a very ordinary
launch of a type sufficiently sturdy to combat easily enough the strong river
current. It was that other launch that was out of repair so that a trip to
Needles had been declared impossible. True enough, this launch might also be
out of commission, but Rawley did not think so. Stopping and looking in at the
engine, he judged that it was in very good working order indeed, and from
certain little, indefinable signs, he believed that it had been lately used.
By whom he did not know, although he remembered now that Young Jess--who was
not so young as he sounded, since he was well past forty--had not been in
evidence lately among his family.
He saw all that was to be seen and retraced his steps up the rock stairway. It
could not matter, one way or the other, if the Cramers kept a dozen secret
landings on the river. Nevertheless, Rawley was frankly puzzled. He thought he
could guess why his Uncle Peter had not wanted to take them to Needles in this
large boat. If he really meant to keep this boat a secret, it would scarcely
do to run it down to the house landing, alongside the smaller, crippled
launch. Rawley and Johnny might come back, some time, and they might ask about
the second launch, seeing only one down there at the other landing.
Some one must want absolute freedom to come and go by the river without
observation, he decided. With the smaller launch innocently swinging in the
eddy at the lower landing, the Cramers would naturally appear to be at home,
or ranging in the hills; whereas one or two of them might be absent in this
boat here. It was very simple,--and very mystifying as well. The rock landing
stage was built to make safe anchorage in high water as in low; which proved
conclusively that this was an all-year landing.
At the top he hesitated, in some doubt as to whether he should return to the
house or follow the path on up the canyon. He yielded to the unknown trail,
which was singularly well-traveled for a trail that apparently led directly
away from any logical destination. He had not gone far when he came upon the
flat, level space of a dump. Close beside him the black mouth of a tunnel
opened into the cliff rising a sheer hundred feet above his head. He stopped,
astonished at this unexpected ending of the trail. The solid face of granite
gave no indication whatever of carrying mineral of any kind. There was no
logical reason, therefore, for all this evidence of development work.
The ethics of his profession forbade his prowling underground without being
invited. He would as soon open an unlocked door and go spying through a man’s
house and personal belongings. From the size of the dump he judged that the
workings extended for some distance underground, and from the look of the rock
that had come from the tunnel he knew that any hope of reaching mineral was
likely to remain long unfulfilled. Instinctively he picked up a piece of rock
here and there, looked at it and threw it aside. If they were driving in to a
contact, he thought, the Cramers must have sharp eyes indeed for surface
indications. Knowing mineral formations at a glance was a part of his trade,
and he had seen absolutely nothing that would lead him to the point of
advising any man to lift a shovelful of muck.
He turned back. The afterglow was purpling across the river, and he did not
want to be too long away from Johnny Buffalo. He reached a turn in the trail
where a jutting crag thrust out and overhung the river,--and there he stopped
short.
Perched on the point of the crag like the vulture his grandfather had named
him, Old Jess Cramer leaned and looked down upon the hurrying waters, a full
six hundred feet below him. The distance between them was mostly a matter of
altitude, for Old Jess had climbed considerably to reach that particular
point. Staring up at him, Rawley was struck with a certain weird resemblance
to that predatory bird. There was something sinister about him as he sat
there; something rapacious and purposeful. It was as if he meant to seize the
river and wrest from it something which his greed desired. While he looked,
Old Jess stretched out his arm and shook his fist at the roaring stream.
Rawley turned away. Something within him revolted at the sight, though even to
himself he could not have explained why. As his gaze dropped from Old Jess to
the trail, there was Peter standing looking from one to the other. Peter’s
face was stern, his eyes cold with disapproval. It seemed to Rawley that he
was purposely blocking the trail.
“I see you’ve done quite a lot of development work back there,” Rawley
remarked to cover a vague embarrassment.
“Yes. Quite a lot. Did you go in?”
Rawley smiled at what seemed to him a needless question. “Certainly not. I
never go underground unless I’m hired to do so.”
He thought he saw relief in his Uncle Peter’s eyes.
“Well, I never saw any particular fun in it, myself. It’s all work, to me.” He
turned and seemed to be awaiting Rawley’s pleasure. “If you want a view,”
Peter hazarded drily, “you ought to go down to where the river swings east,
below the basin where we live. You can look straight up the canyon here for a
long way. Cliffs are too jagged here to get much of a view; there’s a bulge in
the canyon that interferes.”
“It’s better down at the landing in front of the house than it is here,”
Rawley agreed carelessly. “I see now why Nevada always heads straight for that
big, flat rock.”
He caught a swift, questioning side glance from Uncle Peter and knew beyond
all doubt that the big launch, the hewn-rock stairway and the tunnel in the
cliff were things which he was not supposed to know about. But the reason for
the secrecy he could not guess.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE VULTURE SCREAMS
A high-keyed snarl brought the two sharply facing the crag. Bearing down upon
them with his fists flailing the air in a kind of impotent fury came old Jess
Cramer, like a vulture fighting for his feast. Rawley had seen the old man at
a short distance, but he had never before stood face to face with him. He
would cheerfully have missed the meeting now. Old Jess craned his long neck
toward him, his bleak, blue-gray eyes venomous. But it was Peter to whom he
spoke--screamed, rather.
“Told ye it’d come to this, didn’t I? You _would_ take ’em in and pet ’em up,
and treat ’em better’n you do your own kin! Think so much of ’em you had to go
and show ’em what we’re doing and why! Reckon when we touch ’er off and git
the damned river penned back, you’ll beg ’em on your knees to go down and claw
out gold till they wear their fingers to the bone!
“What have I slaved for and worked for and hoarded for, all these years? To
let you give away the gold when we git it? Is this the kind uh thing I raised
ye for? Take in the first stranger that comes snoopin’ around the place, and
bring him sight-seein’ up here to our dam! You--!”
Rawley had thought the miners he sometimes worked among could curse, but he
stood agape before the blistering vituperations of this gray-bearded old man.
He looked at Peter, wondering how any man with the King blood could have
endured his fancied father’s vile tongue all these years. Peter stood with a
face of iron, his eyes terribly blue and hard, and listened impersonally to
the frenzied outburst.
“That’s enough, now. Shut up and listen to me!”
It was like snapping a whip in the face of a roaring lion. Old Jess had
stopped merely to gasp fresh air into his lungs so that he could go on. He
glared at Peter, weakened and cringed. The fire that had flared in his eyes
died as suddenly. He looked toward the river, looked at Rawley and his glance
slid away from the two of them.
“What’d yuh want to go and let it all out to him for?” he half whimpered. “Now
he’ll want a share--and there might not be more ’n five or six millions in the
hull damned river bed! And you know ’s well as I do, Peter, that our dam is
liable as not to go out, next high water. We won’t have many months to work
in, mebby. I--I want a word with yuh, Peter. I--I want a word with yuh, that’s
all. I guess mebby you know what you’re up to, but--”
“Shut up!” Peter snapped the verbal whip again. His eyes turned briefly toward
Rawley. “What’s been let out, you did yourself, dad.” (Rawley thought that
Peter hesitated over the last word.) “I have never breathed one word of our
plan. Slave? What have _I_ been slaving for, all these years? Do you think _I_
have not endured everything but dishonor, for the sake of the millions we plan
to get? And Nevada--what about _her_? Hasn’t she done the work of a man and
slaved over her studies, so that she could help, too? It’s you, letting go
your tongue and raving like a fool, that has betrayed the secret. _You’ve_
done it. This man didn’t know or suspect a thing, till you let it out,
accusing me of telling!”
The old man looked uneasily from one to the other. Peter stared unrelentingly
at him. Rawley, stealing a glance at his face, thought that he knew now the
kind of man his Grandfather King had been in his old, fighting days.
“Now, he’ll have to know.” Peter’s voice relaxed the tension. It was as if he
had suddenly determined to accept the situation and make the best of it,--and
the most. “He can be trusted, I think. He’ll _have_ to be trusted, after your
blathering.”
Old Jess turned his predatory eyes on Rawley, and his beard moved to a
sinister smile beneath.
“You’re a big man, Peter--and it ain’t but a few steps to the edge!” He tilted
his head backwards toward the river. There was no possibility of mistaking his
meaning. But he added a sentence to clinch it: “She never gives up a body--the
Colorado don’t!”
Peter’s grin was a withering thing to face. Again the old man cringed, and his
eyes shifted like a cornered rat.
“I’ll remember that, if you open your mouth again. I’m strong--and the river
never gives up a dead man. You keep that in mind, will you?” Peter insisted
ominously.
“He shan’t have none of _my_ share,” Old Jess shrilled, his voice cracking
with anger and fear. “It was my idee, before you was born, Peter. You shan’t
rob me in my old age--you shan’t, now! I’ll be the first one to pick up the
gold--that’s been understood, since you was big enough to talk. An’ he better
not let it out to anybody! I’ll kill him if he does--you mark me, Peter! I’ll
kill any man that stands in my road to them millions I been watching over all
these long years--scrabbling the gold together, ounce by ounce, till I’ve got
enough to do it! A million dollars--but I’ll reap a thousand dollars for one.
You mark what I say; I’ll kill anybody that tries to horn in--It’s mine, every
bit of it!”
“In that case,” said Peter contemptuously, “you can go ahead and get it.”
“All but your share’s mine, Peter. Yours and Young Jess’ and Nevada’s. This
feller better not think--”
“He only thinks you’re a fool,” Peter told him harshly. “Stay and watch your
gold, then. It might float off!” He motioned with his head toward home, and
Rawley obeyed the signal and started ahead of him down the trail, wondering a
good deal over the encounter.
“Looks like I’m driving you off,” Peter remarked after a bit. “But I’m merely
bringing up the rear. Old Jess is not all there. I’ll tell you all about it,
now he’s told so much. I had half a mind to, anyway, if I could get him and
Young Jess to agree. You’re a mining engineer. I kind of wanted your opinion
and advice. It is out of your line, probably; but technical training helps. I
never had any, myself. Old Jess is a slave driver, all right. And now he’s
half crazy, and I wouldn’t want to go off and leave him with the women. If a
stranger happened along and roused his suspicion, there’s no prophesying what
might happen.”
“It sounds pretty wild, to me, all his talk,” Rawley returned after a minute.
“I can easily believe the old man’s crazy. I can’t seem to get any sense out
of it; millions of gold--and all that. Uncle Peter, were you just stringing
him along--because he’s crazy?”
Peter laughed queerly. “I can’t wonder at your thinking so,” he said. “Sit
down here, and I’ll tell you the straight of it.”
It was the flat rock which they had reached. The shouts of the children, the
barking of the dogs and the crying of the baby came to them in one
indistinguishable chorus from across the small flat. In the deepening dusk
they would not be noticed and interrupted.
“Away back, before I was born,” Peter began, “Jess had mining claims here.
Placer, and he was doing pretty well at it, I imagine. He bached here beside
the river, and an idea came to him one day that has stuck to him like a burr
ever since. That idea, boy, has ruled this bunch, has driven us like dogs.
It’s a big one--the only big idea he ever had, so far as I know.
“Old Jess got to thinking how much gold must lie at the bottom of the river,
washed down through all the centuries of time, through Colorado, even through
Wyoming, where its main tributaries rise. When you think of it, the thing gets
hold of you. And the more you think, the stronger it holds. He thought how
tremendously rich and powerful he’d be if he could just get at that gold out
there. But you see the old river; she holds what she’s got. And in flood
time--
“Well, it wasn’t long before he began to figure out how he could get at that
gold. And he got the idea of throwing a dam across the canyon here, and
backing up the water. I don’t think he ever told any one, but he kind of
quizzed around and decided finally that it would cost a lot of money. A
million dollars, we made it at a rough guess. So he began to save his gold,
instead of gambling and carousing with it down in El Dorado and at the fort.
For that matter, I believe the old man always was a grasping, avaricious
individual. It’s his nature--I’ve seen it demonstrated all my life.
“We’re all living fairly decently now, son. But until I was old enough to
assert myself a bit, he almost starved us, he was so keen on saving that
million. Even now I have to have a run-in with him, every so often, about the
money that goes for living expenses. But he can afford it. He’s got his
million, and then some.”
“_What?_”