Mr. Havens and his wife had bidden the chums good-bye when they rode
away from the house on the outskirts of Silver Run and watched them as
they cantered off down the road. Chet’s mother secretly feared something
might befall her boy on his mission to Grub Stake; while Mr. Havens was
only proud that he had a son whom he could trust in such an emergency.
When Mrs. Havens had retired to the house her husband sank comfortably
back into his chair and relit his pipe. It was then he espied the
stranger in the black slouch hat coming up the street.
Silver Run was not such a large town that the owner of the Silent Sue
mine did not know most of its regular inhabitants, either by name or
sight. This fellow he never remembered having seen before.
Nevertheless, when the man came opposite to the Havens’ house, he
crossed the road and came up to the porch on which Chet’s father sat. He
was a broadly smiling man; but his eyes did not smile. They were little
and sharp and altogether too near each other to be honest.
“I reckon you’re Mr. Havens?” queried the stranger, putting out a hand
that Mr. Havens did not appear to see. He was busy re-tamping his pipe
just then.
“Yes, sir,” said the mine owner. “I’m the man.”
“You’ve got an interest in a mine up yonder?” said the stranger, nodding
toward the mountain that loomed above the town.
“Another man and I own the Silent Sue,” was the serious answer.
“Shucks! I don’t mean that,” exclaimed the visitor jovially.
“What do you mean, then?” asked Mr. Havens. “Not that it’s any of my
business.”
“Sure it’s your business,” cried the stranger. “I’ve come here to talk
to you about it.”
“About what?”
“The Crayton claim.”
“Oh!” Mr. Havens eyed him silently and with much curiosity. But he had
learned to wait and let the other man do the talking. That was why he
was so successful in business.
“Yes,” said the stranger. “I got hold of a share of the Crayton claim in
a curious way. And I’d like to own it all, Mr. Havens. I learn at the
Office of Record that you own a part. Will you sell?”
“That’s odd,” said Chet’s father slowly, and still examining the
stranger with serious gaze. “I became possessed of a share of the claim
in a curious way, too, and I want to control it. Will you sell,
Stranger?”
“No. I tell you I want to buy,” said the man, with some warmth. “I
didn’t come here to peddle my share.”
“And I didn’t ask you to come,” said Mr. Havens softly. “I don’t want to
sell.”
“I’ve come here prepared to buy,” declared the man blusteringly.
“Sorry. Looks like a deadlock to me,” said Mr. Havens coolly. “By the
way, what is your name, Stranger?”
“Steve Brant. You don’t know me,” said the man ungraciously.
“No. You’re not at home in Silver Run, I take it?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Nothing particular to bring you here but a desire to buy my interest in
the Crayton claim?”
“No,” repeated the man.
“Then,” drawled Mr. Havens, “there’s nothing to keep you from taking the
next stage-coach out. It leaves the Silver Run Hotel this afternoon at
two.”
The man who called himself Brant flushed dully under Mr. Havens’ tone of
raillery; but he managed to control his temper.
“You’d better think it over, Mr. Havens. I can give you a good trade.”
“Don’t want to trade.”
“You’re not the only man I can deal with!” exclaimed Steve Brant,
looking at the mine owner slyly.
“No?”
“I can get control without buying _you_ out.”
“That so?” returned Mr. Havens with apparent curiosity.
“Yes. You’re not the only one who owns a bit of the Crayton claim. There
may not be ten cents’ worth of pay ore left in it, but I have a fancy to
open it up.”
“Everybody ought to be free to follow his fancy,” said Mr. Havens
cheerfully.
“But you’d better take your chance while you have it offered to you.
I’ve only got to go to Grub Stake and buy,” went on the visitor.
“That so? Then shares in the old claim are offered in Grub Stake?”
queried Mr. Havens. “Never heard of that before.”
“You don’t know everything,” sneered Steve Brant “Old John Morrisy’s
never sold his share in the Crayton mine. I can get it and that will
give me control.”
“No,” said Mr. Havens, quietly shaking his head.
“Why not, I’d like to know?” demanded Steve Brant angrily.
“Because I’ve got an option on John Morrisy’s holdings—that’s why,
Stranger.”
“What d’ye mean—option?”
“Just what I say. John’s agreed to sell it to me.”
“And you tied down here with a broken foot?” cried the other. “I know
old John Morrisy. The man who can show him ready cash first will get his
share in the old diggings, sure!”
“You’re so sure,” sighed Mr. Havens. “Go ahead. You’ll learn.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Go ahead. I might as well tell you, though,” said Chet’s father, “that
I’ve got my money on the spot and the papers are on the way to Grub
Stake right now. I reckon I’ve beat you to it, Stranger.”
“Say! you don’t know me,” remarked Steve Brant threateningly. “I’m not
so easily beaten.”
“And I don’t care whether I beat you or not. I never saw you before,”
said Mr. Havens; “and I don’t care to see you again. But take it from
me: I’m going to control the old Crayton claim. It won’t be you. Mark
that now!”
The mine owner had become a little heated. Now he sank back in his chair
again, and puffed strongly on his pipe. He appeared to have no further
interest in the discussion.
Steve Brant turned away from the porch—on which he had not been invited
to sit—in plain wrath. He did not bid Mr. Havens good-bye, nor did the
latter look after Brant when he walked down the street.
Had he done so he could not have heard what the man was saying to
himself. He felt that Mr. Havens had the best of him—for the time, at
least. And it made him very angry.
“Something has ’woke him up. He must know something about that old
claim—he knows as well as I do,” muttered Steve Brant. “He’s in
communication with old John Morrisy, is he?
“By gracious! that’s where those boys were bound for when I saw them
ride away this morning. I waited for them to get away first, for I was
afraid they might have remembered my being up there with that young
redskin.
“Ha! I’d like to see what kind of papers they carry. Old John Morrisy is
a queer duck—and he can’t read. Pshaw! I ought to be able to get the
better of a couple of boys. Now, why not? That Tony knows the trail like
a book—Humph!
“If I’m not smarter than a couple of boys and a man that’s tied to his
piazza like a poodle-dog, I’ll eat my hat,” declared Steve Brant, as he
turned the nearest corner below the Havens’ house.
Mr. Brant was evidently a man who would bear watching.