THE LADY OF THE SYCAMORES
A weight like that of Pelion and Ossa seemed lifted from Denver's
shoulders as he hurried down from Apache Leap and, with his wallet in
his hip pocket, he strode straight to Bunker's house. The eagle had
chosen for him, and chosen right, and the last of his troubles was over.
There was nothing to do now but buy the claim and make it into a
mine--and that was the easiest thing he did. Pulling ground was his
specialty--with a good man to help he could break his six feet a
day--and now that the choice had been made between the treasures he was
tingling to get to work.
"Here's your money," he said as soon as Bunker appeared, "and I'd like
to order some powder and steel. Just write me out a quit-claim for that
ground."
"Well, well," beamed Bunker pushing up his reading glasses and counting
over the roll of bills, "this will make quite a stake for Drusilla. Come
in, Mr. Russell, come in!"
He held the door open and Denver entered, blinking his eyes as he came
in from the glare. The room was a large one, with a grand piano at one
end and music and books strewn about; and as Bunker Hill shouted for his
wife and daughter Denver stared about in astonishment. From the outside
the house was like any other, except that it was covered with vines; but
here within it was startling in its elegance, fitted up with every
luxury. There was a fireplace with bronze andirons, massive furniture,
expensive rugs; and the walls were lined with stands and book-shelves
that overflowed with treasures.
"Oh Drusilla!" thundered Bunker and at last she came running, bounding
in through the garden door. She was attired in a filmy robe, caught up
for dancing, and her feet were in Grecian sandals; and at sight of
Denver she drew back a step, then stood firm and glanced at her father.
"Here's that five hundred dollars," said Bunker briefly and put the roll
in her hand.
"Oh--did you sell it?" she demanded in dismay "did you sell that Number
One claim?"
"You bet I did," answered her father grimly, "so take your money and
beat it."
"But I told you not to!" she went on reproachfully, ignoring Denver
entirely. "I told you not to sell it!"
"That's all right," grumbled Bunker, "you're going to get your chance,
if it takes the last cow in the barn. I know you've got it in you to be
a great singer--and this'll take you back to New York."
"Well, all right," she responded tremulously, "I did want just one more
chance. But if I don't succeed I'm going to teach school and pay every
dollar of this back."
She turned and disappeared out the garden door and Bunker Hill reached
for his hat.
"Come on over to the store," he said and Denver followed in a daze. She
was not like any woman he had ever dreamed of, nor was she the woman he
had thought. In the night, when she was singing, she had seemed slender
and ethereal with her swan's neck and piled up hair; but now she was
different, a glorious human animal, strong and supple yet with the lines
of a girl. And her eyes were still the eyes of a child, big and round
and innocently blue.
"Here comes the Professor," muttered Bunker gloomily, as he unlocked the
heavy door, "he's hep, I reckon, the way he walks."
The Professor was waddling with his queer, duck-like steps down the
middle of the deserted street and every movement of his gunboat feet was
eloquent of offended dignity.
"Vell," he began as he burst into the store and stopped in front of
Denver, "I vant an answer, right avay, on dat property I showed you the
udder day. I joost got a letter from a chentleman in Moroni inquiring
about an option on dat claim and----"
"You can give it to him," cut in Denver, "I've just closed with Mr. Hill
for that Number One claim up the crick."
"So!" exploded the Professor, "vell, I vish you vell of it!" And he
flung violently out the door.
"Takes it hard," observed Bunker, "never was a good loser. You want to
watch out for him, now--he's going over to report to Murray."
"So that's the combination," nodded Denver. "I was over there yesterday
and Murray knew all about me--gave me a tip not to buy this property."
"Danged right he's working for him," returned Old Bunk grimly. "He runs
to him with everything he hears. It's a wonder I haven't killed that
little tub of wienies--he crabs every trade I start to make. What's the
matter with Old Bible-Back now?"
"Oh, nothing," answered Denver, "but if it's all the same to you I'd
like to just locate that ground. Then I'll do my discovery work and if
there ever comes up a question I'll have your quit-claim to boot."
"Suit yourself," growled Bunker, "but I want to tell you right now I've
got a perfect title to that property. I've held it continuously for
fifteen years and----"
"Give me a quit-claim then; because Murray questions your title and I
don't want to take any chances. He says you haven't kept up your work."
"He does, hey!" challenged Bunker thrusting out his jaw belligerently,
"well, I'd like to see somebody jump me. I'm living on my property, and
possessory title is the very best title there is. By grab, if I thought
that Mormon-faced old devil was thinking of jumping my ground----" He
went off into uneasy mutterings and wrote out the quit-claim absently;
then they went up together and, after going over the lines, Denver
relocated the mine and named it the Silver Treasure.
"Think you guessed right, do you?" inquired Bunker with a grin. "Well, I
hope you make a million. And if you do you'll never hear no kick from
me--you've bought it and paid my price."
"Fair enough!" exclaimed Denver and shook hands on the trade, after
which he bought some second-hand tools and went to work on a trail. Not
a hundred feet down-stream from where the vein cropped out, the main
trail crossed to the east side of the creek, leaving the mine on the
side of a steep hill. A few days' work, while he was waiting for his
powder, would clear out the worst of the cactus and catclaws and give
him free access to his hole. Then he could clean out the open cut, set
up a little forge and prepare for the driving of his tunnel. The sun was
blazing hot, not a breath of wind was stirring and the sweat splashed
the rocks as he toiled; but there was a song in Denver's heart that made
his labors light and he hummed the "Barcarolle" as he worked. She was
scornful of him now and thought only of her music; but the time would
come when she would know him as her equal, for a miner can be an artist,
too. And at swinging a double-jack or driving uppers Denver Russell was
as good as any man. He worked for the joy of it and took pride in his
craft--and that marks the true artist everywhere.
Yet now that his sale had been consummated and he had the money he
needed, Bunker Hill suddenly lost all interest in Denver and retired
into his shell. He had invited Denver once to come down to his house and
share the hospitality of his home; but, after Denver's brusque, almost
brutal refusal, Old Bunk had never been the same. He had shown Denver
his claim and stated the price and told a few stories on the side, but
he had shown in many ways that his pride had been hurt and that he did
not fully approve. This was made the more evident by the careful way in
which he avoided introducing his wife; and it became apparent beyond a
doubt in that tense ecstatic minute when Drusilla had come in from the
garden.
Then, if ever, was the moment when Denver should have been introduced;
but Bunker had pointedly neglected the opportunity and left him still a
stranger. And all as a reward for his foolish words and his refusal of
well-meaning hospitality. Denver realized it now, but his pride was
touched and he refrained from all further advances. If he was not good
enough to know Old Bunker's family he was not good enough to associate
with him; and so for three days he lived without society, for the
Professor, too, was estranged. He passed Denver now with eyes fixed
straight ahead, refusing even to recognize his presence; and, cut off
for the time from all human intercourse, Denver turned at last to his
phonograph.
The stars had come out in the velvety black sky, the hot stillness of
evening had come, and from the valley below no sound came up but the
eerie, _eh_, _eh_, _eh_, of tree toads. They were sitting
by the stream and in cracks among the rocks, puffing out their pouched
throats like toy balloons and raising, a shrill, haunting chorus. Their
thin voices intermingled in an insistent, unearthly refrain as if the
spirits of the dead had come again to gibber by the pool. Even the
scales and trills of Drusilla had ceased, so hot and close was the
night.
Denver set up his phonograph with its scrollwork front and patent filing
cases and looked over the records which he had bought at great expense
while the other boys were buying jazz. He was proud of them all but the
one he valued most he reserved for another time. It was the "Barcarolle"
from "Les Contes D' Hoffmann," sung by Farrar and Scotti, and he put on
instead a tenor solo that had cost him three dollars in Globe. Then a
violin solo, "Tambourin Chinois," by some man with a foreign name; and
at last the record that he liked the best, the "Cradle Song," by
Schumann-Heink. And as he played it again he saw Drusilla come out and
stand in the doorway, listening.
It was a beautiful song, very sweet, very tender, and sung with the
feeling of an artist; yet something about it seemed to displease
Drusilla, for she turned and went into the house. Perhaps, hearing the
song, she was reminded of the singers, stepping forward in a blare of
trumpets to meet the applause of vast audiences; or perhaps again she
felt the difference between her efforts and theirs; but all the next
day, when she should have been practicing, Drusilla was strangely
silent. Denver paused in his work from time to time as he listened for
the familiar roulades, then he swung his heavy sledge as if it were a
feather-weight and beat out the measured song of steel on steel. He
picked and shoveled, tearing down from above and building up the trail
below; and as he worked he whistled the "Cradle Song," which was running
through his brain. But as he swung the sledge again he was conscious of
a presence, of someone watching from the sycamores; and, glancing down
quickly he surprised Drusilla, looking up from among the trees. She met
his eyes frankly but he turned away, for he remembered what the seeress
had told him. So he went about his work and when he looked again his
lady of the sycamores had fled.