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SILVER AND GOLD
* * * * *
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE FIGHTING FOOL:
A Tale of the Western Frontier
Cloth, 12mo. with a wrapper drawn by Edward Borein
$1.75 net
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
NEW YORK
* * * * *
SILVER AND GOLD
A Story of Luck and Love in a Western Mining Camp
by
DANE COOLIDGE
Author of "The Fighting Fool" Etc.
[Illustration]
"Gold is where you find it, and Silver in high places."
--_Miners' Saying_.
New York
E. P. Dutton & Company
681 Fifth Avenue
Copyright, 1919
By E. P. Dutton & Company
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Ground-Hog 1
II. Big Boy 7
III. Hobo Stuff 16
IV. Cash 23
V. Mother Trigedgo 33
VI. The Oraculum 42
VII. The Eminent Buttinsky 53
VIII. The Silver Treasure 61
IX. Bible-Back Murray 72
X. Signs and Omens 81
XI. The Lady of the Sycamores 92
XII. Steel on Steel 100
XIII. Swede Luck 108
XIV. The Strike 119
XV. A Night for Love 128
XVI. A Friend 138
XVII. Broke 147
XVIII. The Hand of Fate 154
XIX. The Man-Killer 161
XX. Jumpers--and Tenors 170
XXI. Broke Again 180
XXII. The Rock-Drilling Contest 189
XXIII. The Heart of his Beloved 200
XXIV. Colonel Dodge 210
XXV. The Answer 219
XXVI. The Course of the Law 231
XXVII. Like a Hog on Ice 238
XXVIII. Parole 245
XXIX. The Interpretation Thereof 251
SILVER AND GOLD
_THE PROPHECY_
"You will make a long journey to the West and there, within the
shadow of a Place of Death, you will find two treasures, one of Silver
and the other of Gold. Choose well between them and both shall be Yours,
but if you choose unwisely you will lose them Both and suffer a great
disgrace. You will fall in love with a beautiful woman who is an artist,
but beware how you reveal your affection or she will confer her hand
upon Another. Courage and constancy will attend you through life but in
the end will prove your undoing, for you will meet your death at the
hands of your Dearest Friend."
SILVER AND GOLD
CHAPTER I
THE GROUND-HOG
The day had dawned on the summit of Apache Leap and a golden eagle,
wheeling high above the crags, flashed back the fire of the sun from his
wings; but in the valley below where old Pinal lay sleeping the heat had
not begun. A cool wind drew down from the black mouth of Queen Creek
Canyon, stirring the listless leaves of the willows, and the shadow of
the great cliff fell like a soothing hand on the deserted town at its
base. In the brief freshness of the morning there was a smell of
flaunting green from the sycamores along the creek, and the tang of
greasewood from the ridges; and then, from the chimney of a massive
stone house, there came the odor of smoke. A coffee mill began to purr
from the kitchen behind and a voice shouted a summons to breakfast, but
the hobo miner who lay sprawling in his blankets did not answer the
peremptory call. He raised his great head, turned his pig eyes toward
the house, then covered his face from the flies.
There was a clatter of dishes, a long interval of silence, and then the
sun like a flaming disc topped the mountain wall to the east. The square
adobe houses cast long black shadows across the whitened dust of the
street and as the man burrowed deeper to keep out the light the door of
the stone house slammed. The day seldom passed when Bunker Hill's wife
did not cook for three or four hoboes but when Old Bunk called a man in
to breakfast he expected him to come. He stood for a minute, tall and
rangy and grizzled, a desert squint in one eye; and then with a muttered
oath he strode across the street.
"Hey!" he called prodding the blankets with his boot and the hobo came
alive with a jump.
"You look out!" he snarled, bounding violently to his feet and dropping
back to a crouch; but when he met Bunker Hill's steely eyes he mumbled
something and lowered his hands.
"All right, pardner," observed Hill, "I'll do all of that; but if you
figure on getting any breakfast you'd better come in and eat it."
"Huh!" responded the hobo scowling and blinking at the sun and then
without a word he started for the house. He was a big, hulking man, with
arms like a bear and bulging, bench-like legs; but the expression on his
face above his enormous black mustache was that of a disgruntled
ground-hog. His nose was tipped up, his eyes were small and stubborn and
as he ate a hurried breakfast he glanced about uneasily as if fearful of
some trap; yet if Bunker Hill had any reservations about his guest he
did not abate his hospitality. The coffee was still hot, there was
plenty of everything and when the miner rose to go Old Bunk accompanied
him to the door.
"Going to be hot," he observed as the heat struck through their clothes;
but the hobo omitted even a nod of assent in his haste to be off down
the trail.
"Well, the dadblasted bum!" exclaimed Bunker in a rage as the miner
passed over the first hill and, stumping across the street, he rolled up
the tumbled blankets. "The dirty dog!" he grumbled vindictively,
hoisting the bed upon his shoulders; but as he started back to the house
he heard something drop from the roll. He paused and looked back and
there on the ground lay a wallet, stuffed with bills. It was the miner's
purse, which he had put under his pillow and forgotten in his sudden
departure.
"O-ho!" observed Bunker as he picked it up. "O-ho, I thought you was
broke!" He opened the purse with great deliberation, laying bare a great
sheaf of bills, and as his wife and daughter came hurrying down the
steps he counted the hobo's hoard.
"Over eight hundred dollars," he announced with ominous calm. "Some
roll, when a man is bumming his meals and can't even stop to say
thanks----"
"He's coming back for it," broke in his wife anxiously. "And now,
Andrew, please don't----"
"Never mind," returned her husband, slipping the wallet into his pocket,
and she sighed and folded her hands. The hobo was walking fast, coming
back down the hill, and when he saw Hill by the blankets he broke into a
ponderous trot.
"Say," he called, "you didn't see a purse, did ye? I left one under my
blankets."
"A purse!" exclaimed Bunker with exaggerated surprise. "Why I thought
you was broke--what business have _you_ got with a purse?"
"Well, I had a few keep-sakes and----"
"You're a liar!" rapped out Bunker and his sharp lower jaw suddenly
jutted out like a crag. "You're a liar," he repeated, as the hobo let it
pass, "you had eight hundred and twenty-five dollars."
"Well, what's that to you?" retorted the miner defiantly. "It's mine, so
gimme it back!"
"Oh, I don't know," drawled Bunker hauling the purse from his pocket and
looking over the bills, "I don't know whether I will or not. You came in
here last night and told me you were broke, but right here is where I
collect. It'll cost you five dollars for your supper and breakfast and
five dollars more for your bed--that's my regular price to transients."
"No, you don't!" exclaimed the hobo, but as Bunker looked up he drew
back a step and waited.
"That's ten dollars in all," continued Hill, extracting two bills from
the purse, "and next time you bum your breakfast I'd advise you to thank
the cook."
"Hey, you give me that money!" burst out the miner hoarsely, holding out
a threatening hand, and Bunker Hill rose to his full height. He was six
feet two when he stooped.
"W'y, sure," he said handing over the wallet; but as the miner turned to
go Hill jabbed him in the ribs with a pistol. "Just a moment, my
friend," he went on quietly, "I just want to tell you a few things. I've
been feeding men like you for fifteen years, right here in this old
town, and I've never turned one away yet; but you can tell any bo that
you meet on the trail that the road-sign for this burg is changed. I
used to be easy, but so help me Gawd, I'll never feed a hobo again. Here
my wife has been slaving over a red-hot stove cooking grub for you
hoboes for years and the first bum that forgets and leaves his purse has
eight hundred dollars--cash! Now you git, dad-burn ye, before I do the
world a favor and fill you full of lead!" He motioned him away with the
muzzle of his pistol while his wife laid a hand on his arm, and after
one look the hobo turned and loped over the top of the hill.
"Now Andrew, please," expostulated Mrs. Hill, and, still breathing hard,
Old Bunk put up his gun and reached for a chew of tobacco.
"Well, all right," he growled, "but you heard what I said--that's the
last doggoned hobo we feed."
"Well--perhaps," she conceded, but Bunker Hill was roused by the memory
of years of ingratitude.
"No 'perhaps' about it," he asserted firmly, "I'll run every last one of
them away. Do you think I'm going to work my head off for my family,
only to be et out of house and home? Do you think I'm going to have you
cooking meals for these miners when they're earning their five dollars a
day? Let 'em buy a lunch at the store!"
"No, but Andrew," protested Mrs. Hill, who was a large, motherly soul
and not to be bowed down by work, "I'm sure that some of them are
worthy."
"Yes, I know you are," he answered, smiling grimly, "that's what you
always say. But you hear me, now; I'm through. Don't you feed another
man."
He turned to his daughter for support, but his bad luck had just begun.
Drusilla was shading her eyes from the sun and staring up the trail.
"Oh, here comes another one," she cried in a hushed voice and pointed up
the creek. He stood at the mouth of the black-shadowed canyon where the
trail comes in from Globe--a young man with wind-blown hair, looking
doubtfully down at the town; but when he saw them he stepped boldly
forth and came plodding down the trail.
"Oh, not this one!" pleaded Mrs. Hill when she saw his boyish face; but
Bunker Hill thrust out his jaw.
"Every one of 'em," he muttered, "the whole works--all of 'em! You women
folks go into the house."