THE SUDDEN RISE OF PETER MACGONIGAL
A four-wheeled buggy, with springs, the only vehicle of its kind in
Bison, had been hired for Power's first outing. During a whole week
toward the close of July he had stumped about on a crutch, and, when the
great day arrived that he was able to crawl slowly to and fro in the
veranda with the aid of a stick, he announced to the watchful MacGonigal
that henceforth he was "on the job again."
On that memorable occasion, while Derry was showing off the new-found
accomplishment of walking, an elderly man, white-haired and wiry, but of
small stature, rode by on a mettlesome mustang. Power's face grew hard
when he met the rider's stare of astonishment; but the expression fled
instantly, and he waved a friendly greeting, which, however, received
the curtest of responses, while the horse unexpectedly found his head
free for a canter.
MacGonigal, whose big eyes lost nothing within range, noted the bare nod
which acknowledged Power's salute.
"Old man Willard held out the marble mitt that-a time, Derry," said he.
Power did not reply for a moment. When he answered, he quoted Dryden's
couplet:
"Forgiveness to the injured doth belong;
But they ne'er pardon who have done the wrong."
"Good fer you, Derry!" exclaimed the storekeeper appreciatively. "I've
often wondered what you was connin' to yerself up thar," and he jerked
his head in the direction of Power's bedroom; "but I never allowed it
was po'try."
"You were not mistaken, Mac. I was hard at work on dry prose. Those
lines are not mine. They were written before Colorado was christened,
and they will be true until men attain the millennium."
"Huh!"
MacGonigal took refuge in a noncommittal grunt, because he fancied that
the millennium was the name of a Chicago vaudeville house, and, somehow,
the notion did not seem to fit into its right place in the conversation.
"For all that," mused Power aloud, "I'll call on Mr. Francis Willard,
tomorrow."
So this resolution explained the light conveyance standing outside the
store next morning. Power was in the act of settling himself as
comfortably as might be beside the driven, when One-thumb Jake galloped
down the slope leading from the Gulch. The cowboy pulled up in the
approved style of his tribe, swung out of the saddle, and banged into
the veranda a decrepit portmanteau, which he had been carrying in the
thumbless hand.
"Room an' drink fer a single gent!" he shouted. "I'm an orfin, I am, a
pore weak critter slung out inter a crool world!"
"You're never leaving the Willard outfit, Jake?" said Power, who might
well be surprised, since the man had been connected with the Dolores
ranch since the first lot of cattle was turned loose on its pastures.
"That's about the size of it," said the other.
"But why?"
"The old man says, 'Git!' an' I got."
"No reason?"
"Wall, if you squeeze it outer me, I'll be squoze. In a sort of a way,
it had ter do with you."
"With me?"
"Yes, sir. The boss says ter me yestiddy, 'Why is Derry Power hangin'
roun' Mac's?' Says I, 'He bruk his leg.' 'Pity he didn't break his
neck,' says the boss, an', seein' as you'se a friend of mine, I didn't
agree with any sich sentiments, an' tole him the same. He kind o' curled
up then; but this mornin' he gev me the perlite push,--said as he was
quittin' Bison fer a spell, an' the ranch would be shut down. Anyways,
Derry, I'm mighty glad ter see you hoppin' aroun'. Git down outer that
rig, an' hev a sociable drink."
Power consulted his watch, and seemed to arrive at some decision on the
spur of the moment.
"Can't wait now," he said. "You'll be here this evening?"
"Sure."
"Then I'll be around, and I may table a proposition that will please
you. Jim," this to the driver, "beat it to the depot. I want to make the
ten o'clock to Denver, and we have only twenty minutes."
MacGonigal, as usual a silent auditor, gazed after the cloud of dust
raised by horse and buggy, and was minded, perhaps, to say something.
Whatever may have been his first intent, he repressed it.
"What's yer pizen, Jake?" he inquired, and the cowboy named it.
Late that night Power returned. He was so tired that he had practically
to be carried to bed; but he contrived to tell the storekeeper that Jake
should remain in Bison at his (Power's) expense until certain business
conditions had developed. Next day he was too exhausted to take any
exercise; but sat in the veranda after breakfast, smoking and chatting
with the habitués, whose varied surmises he shared, when a stranger
whizzed through the township in the buggy, vanished in the direction of
the Gulch, and returned with equal celerity of movement a couple of
hours subsequently.
"Looks like a lawyer," said some wiseacre. "Them fellers air allus on a
hair-trigger when a mortgage falls in."
"Is Willard's time up?" inquired another man.
"Thar was talk about it afore this dry spell kem an' cleared him out. Of
course----"
The speaker stopped suddenly. He was on the point of alluding to Nancy's
marriage, when he remembered that Power was present, and, in such
circumstances, it is safe to assume that a gathering of rough western
miners will display more real courtesy and consideration for the
feelings of others than may be forthcoming in far more pretentious
circles.
"No need to trip your tongue on my account," laughed Power, reaching
lazily for a glass of milk and seltzer. "You were going to say, I
suppose, that when Mr. Willard's daughter married a rich man the
mortgage difficulty would disappear."
"Somethin' like that, Derry," was the answer.
"Did you ever hear the amount of the mortgage?"
"Five thousand, I was told."
Power laughed again. "Five thousand!" he cried. "Surely Nancy Willard
cost more than that! Why, Marten gave me that amount as a rake-off on
one job I put through for him this spring."
The words were bitter as gall, though uttered in a tone of quiet banter.
None spoke in reply. Each man there had seen Power and the girl
scampering together through Bison on their ponies so often that the two
were marked down by good-natured gossip as "made for each other."
Sympathy now would be useless and misplaced; so there was silence for
awhile, until a safer and collectively interesting topic was broached by
MacGonigal.
"Kin anybody here tell me what's going on at the mill?" he asked
suddenly.
The "mill," as the agency through which many thousands of tons of
low-grade telluride ore were transmuted weekly into a certain number of
ounces of gold and silver, was the breath of life to Bison. If it
stopped, the greater part of the little town's inhabitants was aware
instantly of bare cupboards and empty pockets. Work might cease at the
mines for varying periods without causing vital harm to the community;
but the metal pulses of the mill must beat with regularity, or Bison
suffered from a severe form of heart disease. Consequently, there was no
rush to volunteer information; though some of those present had had
their suspicions that all was not as it should be with the giant whose
clamant voice rang ever in their ears.
"Some books and things was carted from the office to Denver
a-Wednesday," said the know-all who had spoken about the mortgage.
"Why?"
The storekeeper's tone was ominous, and the other man grinned uneasily.
"Guess it's what they call an audit," he said.
"Thar's been two audits a year fer ten years at Bison, an' the books hev
never gone ter Denver afore."
"Page has been nosin' around, too, like as if he was takin' stock," put
in a feeder, whose task it was to guide and shovel ore into the rolls.
"Page oughter know what's in the mill by this time," said MacGonigal,
and indeed, the personage under discussion being the manager, the
statement was almost excessively accurate.
"Thar was talk in the papers awhile sence about some new process fer
treatin' low-grade ores," commented the feeder, apropos of nothing in
particular. Then he seemed to wake into cheerful activity. "But what's
the use o' meetin' trouble halfways?" he cried. "Goldarn it! people said
the mines was peterin' out more'n a year ago, an' we're workin' full
spell this yer week.... Who's fer a fizz? I go on at six, an' I hev to
eat a line fust."
That evening, before the store filled with the day men, and Power alone
was listening, MacGonigal was more outspoken.
"I've a notion that the mill is goin' ter close down, Derry," he said
glumly.
"Probably, for a time," said Power.
Such prompt agreement was unexpected; but MacGonigal passed it without
comment.
"Nit--fer good. They lost the main vein a year last Christmas, an' the
treatin' of ounce ore has been a bluff whiles they s'arched high an' low
beyond the fault. No, Derry, Bison is busted. Me for Denver tomorrow,
an' any fellar kin hev this store at a vallyation, wid a good rake-off,
too--dang it!"
Power was smoking placidly, and the gloomy prophecy of his friend did
not appear to disturb him. He even affected to ignore the sigh with
which MacGonigal turned away after gazing at him with an expression akin
to dismay; for the stout man had the constitutional dislike of his kind
to change, and the store had yielded a steady income since the inception
of Bison.
"Say, Mac," said Power after a long pause, "if you were to dig deep down
into your pants, how much could you ante up?"
"Eight thousand dollars, ef I kep' a grubstake," came the instant
response.
"And what is the mill worth?"
"It cost the best part of a hundred an' fifty thousand."
"I asked you what it is worth."
"What it'll fetch."
"Can you figure it out?"
"There's on'y the movable plant. A lot of money is sunk in cyanide vats,
an' rails, an' buildin's. Guess, when you come ter whittle it down ter
rolls an' engines, less the cost of takin' 'em ter pieces an' fixin'
'em anywhar, you'd git 'em fer twenty thousand."
"And plenty, too, for a mill erected ten years ago to deal with
high-grade ore. You see, Mac, the scientific treatment of rich ores has
developed so rapidly of late that the Bison mill is practically a back
number; while we know that it cannot compete with the low-grade
extractions now practised in Cripple Creek and at Leadville. No, you
must cut down your estimate. When you buy that mill, Mac, you shouldn't
spring a cent beyond fifteen thousand, and begin by offering ten. At
best, it would only form a nucleus for real work."
"Me--buy--the--mill!" MacGonigal permitted himself to be astounded to
the point of stupefaction.
"Yes, that is what will happen. But not a word of this to anyone. Start
in and sell the store, by all means; provided you fix its value on the
basis of live business, likely to improve."
"Derry, air you wool-gatherin', or what?"
"Unless I am greatly mistaken, Mac, you and I will gather as much wool
during the next twelve months as we are likely to need for the remainder
of our lives. I may be wrong, of course, but you will be perfectly safe.
You will grab the mill at its breaking-up price, and you should sell the
store in any event. All I ask is that you act strictly according to my
instructions. It is hardly necessary to repeat that you must keep the
proposition to yourself."
These two knew each other thoroughly; though MacGonigal was well aware
that certain unfathomable characteristics had developed of late in the
once carefree and even-minded youngster for whom he felt an almost
parental tenderness. He made no reply. He asked no question. He knew
that when the time came Power would speak, but not until the scheme he
had in mind, whatever it might be, was ripe for action. Indeed, ever
since the accident, Power had displayed some of the attributes which
caused men to hate and fear Marten. He, whose laugh had been the
merriest and human sympathies the most marked among all the men who had
passed in review before the storekeeper's bulbous eyes, was now apt to
lapse into a cold cynicism, an aloofness of interest, a smiling contempt
for the opinions and wishes of his fellows, which had puzzled and
saddened his one stanch friend. But MacGonigal's confidence in him had
not diminished. Rather was he aware of a broadening and strengthening of
qualities already remarkable, and he hugged the belief that, as the
image of Nancy Willard faded into impenetrable mists, Power would come
back to his erstwhile sane and wholesome outlook on life.
So the stout man did not even trouble to put into words the assurance
that he might be trusted to hold his tongue as to possible occurrences
at Bison. After a prolonged stare at a glorious sunset which silhouetted
the Rocky Mountains in a rich tint of ultramarine against a sky of
crimson and gold, he executed that unaided transit of a cigar across his
mouth for which he was noted, and when he spoke it was only to assure
the section of Colorado visible through the door that he was dog-goned.
Thereafter events moved with the swiftness which at times seems to
possess the most out-of-the-way places in America like a fever.
The stranger whose guise suggested a lawyer to the quidnuncs of Bison
was not seen again in the township during the ensuing fortnight; but
affrighting rumor, which soon became deadly fact, told of the mill
closing down for lack of paying ore. Mr. Page, Marten's representative,
promised the sorrowing people that work would be found for everyone
elsewhere. Though this guarantee alleviated the crushing effect of the
blow, there was much grieving over the loss of more or less comfortable
homes which had been won from the wilderness by years of patient effort.
Men and women, even in strenuous America, twine their heartstrings
around stocks and stones, and the threatened upheaval was grievous to
them. It meant the breaking up of families and friendships, a
transference to new districts and a strange environment, a scattering of
the household gods which might never reassemble in the old and familiar
order. Amid the general unrest none gave much heed to the news that the
Dolores ranch had found a new owner--who, by the way, according to the
joyous version of the foreman, One-thumb Jake, meant to raise horses
instead of cattle--but all Bison felt its hair lifting in amazement when
the _Rocky Mountain News_ announced that Mr. Hugh Marten had sold the
mill to Mr. Peter MacGonigal for a sum unnamed, but variously estimated
between the ridiculous (though actual) price of twelve thousand dollars
(toward which one-half was contributed by a mortgage on mill and ranch)
and five times the amount as representing its cheap acquisition as a
going concern.
Every practical miner knew that the ore bodies in the mines were
exhausted, and many and quaint were the opinions privately uttered as to
Mac's sanity. Even the astute Page--once the deeds were signed and the
money paid--expressed the hope that the storekeeper would not rue his
bargain.
"Of course," he said diplomatically, "you may find purchasers for some
of the plant; but milling machinery is a special thing, and you will be
lucky if you sell the stuff soon. I suppose you have a purpose in view
for the buildings?"
"Guess there's some stuff ter be found in the tailin's, an' a few
pockets of ore in the mines," said MacGonigal.
The manager shook his head. "You can take it from me that when Marten
sucks an orange there isn't much juice left for the next fellow," he
said. "You bought the place with your eyes open, and I still think you
may get your money back, with a small profit; but I advise you strongly
not to lose a day in advertising the rolls and accessories, while the
man who has taken over the Dolores ranch may buy the buildings. They
will come in useful as barns."
"I'll chew on that proposition," said MacGonigal.
Page thought him slightly cracked; but shook hands affably, and caught
the next train for Denver. He was completely flabbergasted when an
assistant whom he had deputed to superintend the removal of Bison's
citizens to new spheres of labor informed him that Messrs. Power and
MacGonigal were signing on the whole of the miners and mill-hands at
established rates of pay, and that operations were to be started
forthwith on a new strike in the Gulch. When he had recovered somewhat
from the shock of this announcement he strolled into the government
record offices, and examined the registry of recent mining claims. There
he found that a location certificate had been obtained by John Darien
Power for 1,500 feet by 300 feet on a well defined crevice, at least 10
feet deep, situated in the Gulch, Dolores Ranch, Bison, in the county of
Bison and state of Colorado. Other certificates had been issued to cover
more than a mile of the main contact, and, to clench the mining right,
John Darien Power figured as the legal owner of the land. In a word, he
was "a valid discoverer" on his own property.
Page was a shrewd man, and he did not commit the error of
underestimating the ability of the rival who had engineered this subtle
stroke.
"I'm buncoed this time, and no mistake," he muttered, and hurried back
to his office, pallid with wrath and foreboding.
There he met Benson, and told him what had happened. The private
secretary, rather staggered at first, regained his complacency when he
had glanced through some letters and cablegrams received from their
common chief.
"The boss has approved of every move in the game," he said, with a
half-hearted laugh. "You see, here he authorizes us to take even less
than MacGonigal paid for the mill, and, when Willard repaid the loan, he
refused to accept it, but cabled that the money was a gift from Mrs.
Marten. So I don't think he can hold us responsible."
"It's not the responsibility I'm kicking at, but the smooth way in
which I was bested," growled Page. "Now, who'd have thought Power had it
in him?"
"Well, I would, for one," said Benson.
"Why, you hardly knew him."
"I met him under exceptional conditions."
"But how the deuce did he manage to locate that lost vein--I suppose
that is what he has found?"
"Perhaps it was a gift from the gods."
"I do wish you'd talk sense," said the irritated manager.
"What _you_ would call sense might not pass for wisdom on Olympus,"
smiled Benson.
"Will you kindly tell me what you are driving at?"
"I can't. But look here, Page--which of us is going to write this story
to the boss?"
"You are, and don't forget to put in those remarks of yours. They'll
help some."
"Shouldn't I cable? Marten may want to know of this new move."
"Yes, I suppose that is the right thing to do. When you have coded the
message, I'll go through it with you. There must be no mistake this
time."
Thus, within a few hours, Hugh Marten, established at the Meurice in
Paris, received news which certainly took him aback; for he was a man
who seldom brooked a successful interloper. At first he was annoyed, and
had it in mind to discharge Page by cablegram. There would be no
difficulty in giving "Messrs. Power and MacGonigal" a good deal of legal
trouble. To begin with, the lawyers would allege collusion against Page,
and an investigation into the purchase of the ranch might reveal
loopholes for legal stilettos. Indeed, his alert brain was canvassing
all manner of chicanery possible through statutes made and enacted when
his wife came in, flushed and breathless.
"Hugh," she cried, "I've had heaps of fun this afternoon! Madame de
Neuville brought me to the Duchesse de Brasnes' place in that quaint old
Faubourg St. Germain, and the Duchesse took such a fancy to me that we
are invited for a week-end shoot at her castle, one of the real châteaux
on the Loire. You'll come, of course?"
"Why, yes, Nancy."
"You say yes as though I had asked you to go to the dentist."
"I'm a trifle worried, and that's the fact."
"What is it? Can I help?"
Marten hesitated; though only for an instant. His wife was more adorable
than ever since she had discovered what wonders an illimitable purse
could achieve in the _boutiques_ of the Rue de la Paix; but there was
ever at the back of his mind a suspicion that she looked on her past
life as a thing that was dead, and was schooling herself to an
artificial gaiety in these glittering surroundings of rank and fashion.
"The truth is that I am vexed at something which has happened in
Colorado--at Bison," he said.
"You have had no ill news of Dad?" she cried, in quick alarm.
"No, he's all right. I told you he had sold the ranch. Well, the
purchaser is that young engineer, Derry Power."
He watched her closely; but trust any woman to mislead a man when she
knows that her slightest change of expression will be marked and
understood. Mrs. Marten's eyes opened wide, and she had no difficulty in
feigning honest surprise.
"Derry Power!" she almost gasped. "What in the world does he want with
the ranch?"
"It seems that he contrived to find the main vein which we lost in the
Esperanza mine."
"Oh, is that it?" She was indifferent, almost bored. Her mind was in the
valley of the Loire.
"Yes. That idiot Page was kept in the dark very neatly; so he sold the
mill at a scrap price--by my instructions, I admit--and now Power and
MacGonigal have everything in their own hands."
Nancy's eyebrows arched, and she laughed gleefully. "Just fancy Mac
blossoming into a mining magnate!" she cried. "But why should this
affair worry you, Hugh?"
His hard features softened into a smile--in this instance, a real
smile--for he was intensely proud of his pretty wife.
"I hate to feel that I have got the worst of a deal," he admitted. "But
that's all right, Nancy. We won't quarrel with old friends at Bison. Run
away and write to your duchess while I concoct a cable."
And so it came to pass that Page, instead of receiving a curt dismissal,
was told to place no obstacles in the way of the new venture, but rather
to facilitate it by fixing a reasonable price on land and houses not
covered by the sale of the mill, should they be needed by Marten's
successors at Bison. In fact, by an unexampled display of good will on
the part of his employer, he was bade to offer these properties to
Power at a valuation. That somewhat simple though generous proposal had
a highly important sequel when Francis Willard, rendered furious by
learning how he had been ousted from the ranch, sought legal aid to
begin a suit against Power. Even his own lawyer counseled abandonment of
the law when the facts were inquired into. Power's title was
indisputable, and Marten's action in selling the mill, no less than his
readiness to make over other portions of the real estate if desired,
showed that the whole undertaking had been carried through in an open
and businesslike way.
Willard was convinced against his will; but, being a narrow-minded and
selfish man, who had not scrupled to imperil his daughter's happiness
when a wealthy suitor promised to extricate him from financial troubles,
the passive dislike he harbored against Power now became an active and
vindictive hatred. He believed, perhaps he had honestly convinced
himself of this, that the young engineer had secured the estate by a
trick. It was not true, of course, because he had jumped at the chance
of a sale when approached by the Denver lawyer acting for Power. But a
soured and rancorous nature could not wholly stifle the prickings of
remorse. He knew that he had forced his daughter into a loveless
marriage; he could not forget the girl's wan despair when no answer came
from Sacramento to her letters; he had experienced all the misery of a
craven-hearted thief when he stole the letters Power sent to Bison until
Marten assured him that equally effective measures at the other end had
suppressed Nancy's correspondence also. Because these things were
unforgivable he could not forgive the man against whom they were
planned. Penury and failing health had driven him to adopt the only sure
means by which he could break off the tacit engagement which opposed a
barrier to his scheming; but the knowledge that he had sinned was an
ever-present torture. A certain order of mind, crabbed, ungenerous,
self-seeking, may still be plagued by a lively conscience, and Willard's
enmity against Power could be measured only by his own fiercely
repressed sufferings.
"Curse the fellow!" he said bitterly, when the lawyer told him that a
suit for recovery of the ranch must be dismissed ignominiously. "Curse
him! Why did he cross my path? I am an old man, and I do not wish to
distress my daughter, or I would go now to Bison and shoot him at
sight!"
So John Darien Power had made at least one determined enemy, and it may
be taken for granted that, had he visited the Dolores ranch instead of
Denver on that first day in the open air after his accident, no money he
could command would have made him undisputed lord of the land and all it
contained.
But evil thinking is a weed that thrives in the most unlikely soil. To
all appearance, with Nancy wed and the foundations of a fortune securely
laid, Willard's animosity could achieve small harm to Power. Yet it
remained vigorous throughout the years, and its roots spread far, so
that when the opportunity came they entangled Power's feet, and he fell,
and was nearly choked to death by them.