THE SPINNING OF THE WEB
Bill Hinckley, pallid, unshaven, tremulous with drink, his drooping
lower lip destroying whatever intelligence of expression he might have
had when sober, blinked across the table at Harrison, and with his
tattered coat sleeve wiped the maudlin tears from his staring,
bloodshot eyes.
"I'm damn much obliged, Jack," he quavered, "you're good frien' to me
always, an' I'll never forget it, never. I thought I was down 'n out
for good, 'n would have been, too, 'f 'twan't for you. You're good
frien', Jack, an' I'll never forget it, never."
Harrison eyed him with some disgust. "Ah, cut out the thanks, Bill,"
he said good-naturedly. "This ain't charity; it's business. We need a
watchman, an' if you've got sense enough to keep sober there ain't no
reason why you can't hold down the job as well as the next man. It
ain't my doings, anyway; it's Gordon's. He's puttin' up the stuff, an'
he asks me if I've got any friend I think'll be partial to the job.
That's how you come in. But you want to get out of this place pretty
damn quick. You've got two days to sober off in, an' then it's up to
you whether you make good on your job or not. So you want to make a
break out of here right away now. Rum shops ain't healthy for you. Get
the idea?"
He rose, and Hinckley obediently enough followed suit, although into
his drink-sodden brain hardly a word of Harrison's explanation and
caution had penetrated. He had a chance at a job, and Harrison had got
it for him; those were the two ideas he had absorbed, and those only,
and his last words to Harrison were a repetition of his old refrain,
"You're good frien' to me, Jack, an' I'll never forget it, never."
The week which Gordon had proposed for the consideration of the
question of the capital stock had become first two, and then three,
without any definite agreement being reached. The old man stood firm.
Ten thousand shares, par one hundred; that he had determined upon as
the proper thing, and to move him one share or one dollar in either
direction seemed apparently a task impossible of achievement. To
Gordon, therefore, fell the lot of yielding gracefully, and while he
did not at once abandon his position outright, he did take pains to
make it clear both to Mason and to Harrison that any arrangement in
reason would be satisfactory to him. Thus complete good feeling was
restored among the three, each tacitly assuming that some kind of an
understanding would be reached whenever Gordon was ready to say the
word.
Certain much needed improvements, indeed, Gordon insisted upon having
made at once; for the mine's sake, as he phrased it, and not for his
own. Not the least of these was the appointment of Bill Hinckley as
watchman, and in Hinckley's welfare Gordon from the first showed a
most kindly interest. Not only did he fit him out with a suit of
clothes, a cartridge belt and revolver, but further he did what he
could to arouse the drunkard's self-respect, smoothing out occasional
dissensions between Mason and Hinckley, and sometimes even, when bound
towards the mine, taking Hinckley's lunch pail down to him, and
stopping for a pipe and a friendly chat.
Small wonder that he soon numbered Hinckley, along with most of the
rest of the township, among his devoted admirers. With high and low
alike, indeed, throughout the county, Gordon, as time went on, had
reinforced his first good impression, gained by force of arms, by
showing equal aptitude for the gentler arts of peace. Alike in the
town of Seneca, among the scattered mountain claims, and in Jim
Mason's little cabin itself, he was soon a welcome visitor, honestly
liked, respected and looked up to.
And all this time, for all his different activities, for all the
seeming aimlessness of many of his expeditions and conversations,
Gordon, far underneath the surface, was working ceaselessly, steadily,
relentlessly, toward one desired end; with Jim Mason's cabin as the
scene, and the members of Jim Mason's household as the involuntary
actors, in the drama whose final act he was seeking to hasten to its
end.
With honest, open-minded Jack Harrison he had been on the best terms
from the first; with Jim Mason progress had been slower, but progress
it had been, for all that. And while the old man's grunts and
occasional dry chuckles meant to Gordon little in the way of
cordiality or good-will, to Ethel Mason and to Harrison they were
a source of constant wonderment, revealing, as they did, depths of
good-humor in the crusty old man of which they had never even dreamed.
With the girl herself Gordon found his wits kept busy in a spirited
warfare of words, for apparently to Ethel Mason his every action
was a subject for criticism, his every word an opening for a shaft
of wit, barbed for the most part, too, with a sarcasm keen and fine;
and yet, for all their contention, under the surface both felt a
mutual--perhaps both alike would have paused, at a loss for the
precise word--liking, regard, attraction, perchance even a word of
deeper meaning still.
From the first, indeed, they had been thrown much in each other's
company. Many a long ride Gordon had been forced to take over the
winding, solitary mountain roads, and what more natural than that he
should ask Ethel Mason to go with him as companion and guide. And
then, on days when business did not intrude itself, what again more
natural than the transition to rides and walks with pleasure and not
business as their aim.
One place especially possessed for Gordon an irresistible
attraction,--beyond the pass, down in the lowland between the
mountains, where the brown of the marsh, dotted with many a quiet pond
and reedy pool, stretched far away on either hand, far as the eye
could reach, losing itself at last against the dim, smoky outline of
the distant hills. The river, a narrow ribbon of brightest blue,
flowing peacefully along through the valley in many a winding curve,
spread gradually out, just under the shadow of Burnt Mountain, into a
long, shallow, sedgy lagoon, the stopping place for innumerable hosts
of chattering wild-fowl, winging their leisurely way along on their
journey to the southward. Hither it was that Gordon loved to come, and
hither it was, on a crisp fall afternoon, that he and Ethel Mason,
driving over the mountain from Seneca, had come, intent upon the
evening flight.
The sun still hung, an hour high, above the horizon. A big
green-headed mallard drake winged his way lazily from the marsh over
toward the pond, noted with pleased interest the little flock of his
companions feeding near the shore, turned, set his wings, and glided
gently downward through the crisp, dry stillness of the keen October
air. A puff of white smoke darted from the clump of reeds, there was a
crack like the sharp snap of a whip lash; the drake's head jerked
suddenly back over his body, and with a mighty splash fell stone dead
into the quiet waters of the pond. The little ripples spread away
until they touched the shore, a few feathers floated softly downward
on to the quiet surface, the smoke wreathed slowly heavenward,
dissolving against the clear blue sky, and all was still again.
Lying back at ease in the little blind skilfully hidden on the shore,
Gordon leisurely took the gun from the girl's hand, snapped it open,
slipped in a fresh cartridge, and with a slow smile of admiration
handed it back to her again.
"Ethel," he said, "you certainly can shoot. I've never heard of a girl
killing ducks the way you can. It's really remarkable."
The girl nodded indifferently. "Yes," she answered listlessly; "I can
shoot, and fish, and ride a horse, and cook, and keep house, and
that's all. That makes a great life for a girl, doesn't it? And all
the things I'd really like to do, the things that make any girl's life
pleasant, why, I've never had a chance at one of them--and I suppose I
never shall."
Gordon gazed steadily at the girl as she sat looking out over the
pond, the little sixteen-gage across her knees. For the hundredth time
he noted the slender perfection of her lithe young figure, the
faultless profile, the delicate, almost childlike beauty of every
feature. And he did not take his eyes away.
"The things you'd really like to do," he repeated. "I'm afraid, Ethel,
you're just like nine-tenths of the rest of the world, not knowing
when you're well off. What could you want better than this?"--he waved
his hand toward the quiet waters of the pond, the level marsh beyond,
the pleasant valley stretching away to meet the distant hills, and
above them the huge mountain towering up against the sky. "And you'd
leave the life you're living--for what? Suppose you had all the money
you wanted, suppose this very minute you were free absolutely to act
as you pleased, now what would you really do?"
The girl gazed dreamily away over the valley. "All the money I
wanted," she mused; "oh, I don't know. First of all, I'd get straight
away from here. I'm sick to death of it all. I'd go right to some big
city, where I could see all the things I've always wanted to see, and
buy all the things I've always wanted to buy. Clothes, first, of
course, and jewels and things; and theaters, and the opera, and an
automobile. Oh, I could spend the money all right; you needn't worry
about that."
Gordon laughed. "I believe you," he said. "I'd like to watch you doing
it, and I believe I'll have a chance to, some day. I don't know how
good it's going to be for you, but if you'll have patience a little
while longer, till this deal about the mine goes through, you'll have
money enough. There's no question about that."
The girl shook her head disbelievingly. "For the last five years," she
said, "I've been hearing about the money we were going to get out of
the mine some day. Now I've got so that when I see it--real, true
money--I'll believe it; and not a minute before."
Gordon smiled. "This time," he said, "things are really going through.
I'm willing to admit that your father is about the toughest
proposition to do business with that I've ever come across. I'm used
to getting my own way, myself, but I can always see the other fellow's
side, and come to some sort of a compromise; but your father--good
heavens, he doesn't know what the word compromise means. I've given in
to him practically on every detail of the whole agreement, and when,
at the very end of everything, there's one little point that I'm
anxious to have my way about, why, no, he won't give in on that,
either, and if I don't like it, I can go back East without the mine,
or go to another place he mentioned. That's compromise for you, with a
vengeance."
The girl laughed in thorough enjoyment. "What is it you can't agree
about?" she queried.
"Why," answered Gordon, "it's about the question of the capital stock.
It's a little technical, perhaps, to explain to you, but the result is
that where he wants to make one dollar, I want to make five. Doesn't
my way sound the best?"
The girl laughed again, but, withal, glanced at him shrewdly. "Of
course it does," she answered lightly, "much the best; but I suppose
in the end you've got to give in to him, just the same; that is, if
you want the mine."
Gordon sighed. "Yes, I suppose so," he assented, "but don't let him
know it, just the same. I'm still holding out on a bluff. But I've as
good as made up my mind. The mine's really a wonder; it's too good a
chance to let go, even though it's got to be run on your father's
somewhat old-fashioned ideas."
There was a moment's silence. Then the girl spoke again. "You've waked
them up a little, anyway," she observed. "Didn't Jack tell me you were
going to keep Hinckley for a watchman?"
Gordon nodded. "We surely are," he answered. "I did manage to persuade
the old man about that. Oh, and that reminds me, too; there's
something else I meant to ask him about that. Isn't there another
opening of some old claim that comes out near our fifth level
somewhere?"
The girl nodded in turn. "Sure," she answered "Abe Peters started a
claim before the one he's got now that does come out right on the
fifth level, but we bought the land afterwards; it wasn't any use to
him. You wouldn't need any watchman there."
"No," assented Gordon; "I guess that's right. I had an idea it was on
Peters' land. I don't suppose any one could get down it, anyway."
The girl laughed outright. "Of course they could," she cried; "but
they couldn't do any harm to the claim. It seems to me you're awfully
green about mining for such a smart man as they say you are."
Gordon did not seem in the least offended. On the contrary, he laughed
with the utmost good nature. "I'll admit it," he said; "but I'm not
nearly so green when it comes to the stock market end of things, and
that's what concerns you most, after all. You wait about six months,
and you'll be spending money hand over fist; see if you don't."
The girl pondered. "I don't suppose," she said, at last, "that the old
man would let me go off traveling alone. Maybe I'll have the money,
but no chance to blow it in."
Gordon laughed. "Of course," he said, with mock seriousness, "what you
really need is a husband to take you around and give you a good time.
I think I know a man that would like the job first-rate, too."
The girl nodded. "I know of several myself," she answered coolly, "but
I suppose you mean Jack, don't you?"
"Yes," said Gordon, "I mean Jack. It's quite evident to any one.
Joking aside, though, Jack's a mighty good fellow, and he's been a
mighty good friend to your father. It isn't one man in a hundred that
would stick the way he has. If your father's made a will, or ever does
make one, you really ought to remind him to fix Jack all right in it.
It's a curious thing, but as a man grows older, he sometimes forgets
things like that altogether."
The girl shrugged her shapely shoulders. "A will," she echoed. "He'd
never take the trouble to make a will. He's pretty healthy yet. And as
long as you've got it all fixed that I'm to marry Jack, it'll be all
right, anyway."
Gordon laughed. He found the girl distinctly amusing. "I wonder," he
said idly, "how Jack will like taking a spending trip around the
country. Not very much, I fancy. I imagine he's more for the happy
fireside act, isn't he?"
The girl laughed, too. "I think you're awfully good," she said, "to
take so much trouble over my affairs. I think you're right, too. I
never thought of it before. I don't believe I'll take Jack, after
all."
"I wonder, now," ventured Gordon, "if any of the others--"
The girl shook her head. "No, not a bit better," she answered. "I'll
tell you, though, what you might do. You might break off your
engagement with that girl back East you've been telling me about, and
then ask me. I'm not sure but what you'd do pretty well. You've got
money, they say, and that's a good deal. Of course, you're rather
conceited, but then you're not bad-looking. On the whole--"
Gordon cut her short. "I beg off," he cried; "a joke's a joke, but
you're rather rubbing it in. I tried to be funny with the wrong
person; I'll admit it. Speaking of Rose, though; that reminds me
again--I'm going to see if I can't persuade her to come out here soon;
it's taking so much longer to get things in shape than I thought it
would, and I was wondering--do you suppose you'd mind asking her to
stay with you? The hotel, to be frank, is pretty near the limit, and
then there'd be a chaperon, too, while if you invited her--"
The girl nodded. "Sure," she said; "glad to. I'd really like to see--"
She stopped abruptly. A pair of black ducks swung swiftly across the
decoys, and like a flash the gun leaped to her cheek. The two quick
reports sounded almost as one, and the two ducks struck the water,
dead. The girl rose.
"Come on," she cried, "that makes our dozen. We've got to be getting
back home."
By the time Gordon had launched the little skiff and brought the ducks
ashore, she had deftly harnessed the horse to the old buggy, and stood
waiting for him. Tossing the ducks under the seat, he stood back for
her to get in, and then, with a sudden impulse, stepped forward again,
blocking her path. Very dainty, very charming, she stood there with a
little smile of understanding on her lips.
"Ethel," he whispered.
She made no answer. A sudden gust of passion shook him. He took one
quick step forward, and clasped her in his arms. "Ethel," he whispered
hoarsely, "suppose there wasn't any other girl."
With a glance enticing beyond words, she raised her eyes to his. "Oh,
but there is," she answered, and yet she made no move to free herself,
and in another moment their lips met.