A COMBINATION OF FORCES
Bostwick effected a change of dress in the rear of the nearest store.
A rough blue shirt, stout kahki garments and yellow "hiking" boots
converted him into one of the common units of which the camp throng was
comprised. He was then duly barbered, after which he made a strenuous
but futile endeavor to procure accommodations for the night.
There was no one with leisure to listen to his tirade on the shameful
inadequacy of the attributes of civilization in the camp, and after one
brief attempt to arouse civic indignation against Van for his acts of
deliberate lawlessness, he perceived the ease with which he might
commit an error and render himself ridiculous. He dropped all hope of
publicly humiliating the horseman and deferred his private vengeance
for a time more opportune.
Wholly at a loss to cope with a situation wherein he found himself so
utterly neglected and unknown, despite the influential position he
occupied both in New York and Washington, he resolved to throw himself
entirely upon the mercies of McCoppet.
He knew his man only through their correspondence, induced by Beth's
brother, Glenmore Kent. Inquiring at the bank, he was briefly directed
to the largest saloon of the place. When he entered the bar he found
it swarming full of men, miners, promoters, teamsters, capitalists,
gamblers, lawyers, and--the Lord alone knew what. The air was a reek
of smoke and fumes of liquor. A blare of alleged music shocked the
atmosphere. Men drunk and men sober, all were talking mines and gold,
the greatness of the camp, the richness of the latest finds, and the
marvel of their private properties. Everyone had money, everyone had
chunks of ore to show to everyone else.
At the rear were six tables with layouts for games of chance. Faro,
"klondike," roulette, stud-poker, almost anything possibly to be
desired was there. All were in full blast. Three deep the men were
gathered about the wheel and the "tiger." Gold money in stacks stood
at every dealer's hand. Bostwick had never seen so much metal currency
in all his life.
He asked for McCoppet at the bar.
"Opal? Somewhere back--that's him there, talkin' to the guy with the
fur on his jaw," informed the barkeeper, making a gesture with his
thumb. "What's your poison?"
"Nothing, thank you," answered Bostwick, who started for his man, but
halted for McCoppet to finish his business with his friend.
The man on whom Bostwick was gazing was a tall, slender, slightly
stooped individual of perhaps forty-five, with a wonderful opal in his
tie, from which he had derived his sobriquet. He was clean-shaved, big
featured, and gifted with a pair of heavy-lidded eyes as lustreless as
old buttons. He had never been seen without a cigar in his mouth, but
the weed was never lighted.
Bostwick noted the carefulness of the man's attire, but gained no clue
as to his calling. To avoid stupid staring he turned to watch a game
of faro. Its fascinations were rapidly engrossing his attentions and
luring him onward toward a reckless desire to tempt the goddess of
chance, when he presently beheld McCoppet turn away from his man and
saunter down the room.
A moment later Bostwick touched him on the shoulder.
"Beg pardon," he said, "Mr. McCoppet?"
McCoppet nodded. "My name."
"I'd like to introduce myself--J. Searle Bostwick," said the visitor.
"I expected to arrive, as I wrote you----"
"Glad to meet you, Bostwick," interrupted the other, putting forth his
hand. "Where are you putting up?"
"I haven't been able to find accommodations," answered Bostwick warmly.
"It's an outrage the way this town is conducted. I thought perhaps----"
"I'll fix you all right," cut in McCoppet. "Are you ready for a talk?
Nothing has waited for you to come."
"I came for an interview--in fact----"
"Private room back here," McCoppet announced, and he started to lead
the way, pausing for a moment near a faro table to cast a cold glance
at the dealer.
"Wonderfully interesting game," said Bostwick. "It seems as if a man
might possibly beat it."
There might have been a shade of contempt in the glance McCoppet cast
upon him. He merely said: "He can't."
Bostwick laughed. "You seem very positive."
McCoppet was moving on again.
"I own the game."
He owned everything here, and had his designs on two more places like
it, down the street. He almost owned the souls of many men, but gold
and power were the goals on which his eyes were riveted.
Bostwick glanced at him with newer interest as they passed down the
room, and so to a tight little office the walls of which were specially
deadened against the transmission of sound.
"Have anything to drink?" inquired the owner, before he took a chair,
"--whiskey, wine?"
"Thanks, no," said Bostwick, "not just yet." He took the chair to
which McCoppet waved him. "I must say I'm surprised," he admitted, "to
see the numbers of men, the signs of activity, and all the rest of it
in a camp so young. And by the way, it seems young Kent is away."
"Yes," said the gambler, settling deeply into his chair and sleepily
observing his visitor. "I sent him away last week."
Bostwick was eager.
"On something good for the--for our little group?"
"On a wild goose séance," answered McCoppet. "He's in the way around
here."
"Oh," said Bostwick, who failed to understand. "I thought----"
"Yes. I culled your thought from your letters," interrupted his host
drawlingly. "We might as well understand each other first as last.
Bostwick--are you out here to work this camp my way or the kid's?"
Bostwick was cautious. "How does he wish to work it?"
"Like raising potatoes."
"And your plan is----"
"Look here, do I stack up like a Sunday-school superintendent? I
thought you and I understood each other. I don't run no game the other
man can maybe beat. Didn't you come out here with that understanding?"
"Certainly, I----"
"Then never mind the kid. What have you got in your kahki?"
"Our syndicate to buy the Hen Hawk group----" started Bostwick, but the
gambler cut in sharply.
"That's sold and cold. You have to move here; things happen. What did
you do about the reservation permit?"
Bostwick looked about the room furtively, and edged his chair a bit
closer.
"I secured permission from Government headquarters to explore all or
any portions of the reservation, and take _assistants_ with me," he
imparted in a lowered tone of voice. "I had it mailed to me here by
registered post. It should be at the post-office now."
"Right," said McCoppet with more of an accent of approval in his
utterance. "Get it out to-day. I've got your corps of assistants
hobbled here in camp. They can get on the ground to-morrow morning."
Bostwick's eyes were gleaming.
"There's certainly gold on this reservation?"
"Now, how can anybody tell you that?" demanded McCoppet, who from his
place here in Goldite had engineered the plan whereby his and
Bostwick's expert prospectors could explore every inch of the
Government's forbidden land in advance of all competitors. "We're
taking a flyer, that's all. If there's anything there--we're on."
Bostwick reflected for a moment. "There's nothing at present that our
syndicate could do?"
"There'll be plenty of chances to use ready money," McCoppet assured
him, rising. "You're here on the ground. Keep your shirt on and leave
the shuffling to me."
Bostwick, too, arose. "How long will young Kent be away?"
"As long as I can keep him busy out South."
"What is he doing out South?"
"Locating a second Goldite," said the gambler. "Keeps him on the
move." He threw away his chewed cigar, placed a new one in his mouth,
and started for the door. "Come on," he added, "I'll identify you over
at the postoffice and show you where you sleep."