BROKE
McGraw, the freighter, was a huge, silent man from whom long years on
the desert had almost taken the desire for speech. He came jangling up
the road, his wagons grinding and banging, his horses straining wearily
in their collars; and as Denver ran to meet him he threw on the brakes
and sat blinking solemnly at his inquisitor.
"Where's my powder?" demanded Denver looking over the load, "and say,
didn't you bring that coal? I don't see that steel I ordered, either!"
"No," said McGraw and then, after a silence: "Murray wouldn't receive
your ore."
"Wouldn't receive it!" yelled Denver, "why, what was the matter with
it--did the sacks get broke going down?"
"No," answered McGraw, "the sacks were all right. He said the ore was no
good."
"Like hell!" scoffed Denver, "that ore that I sent him? It would run a
thousand ounces to the ton!"
McGraw wrinkled his brows and looked up at the sun.
"Well," he said, "I guess I'll be going."
"But--hey, wait!" commanded Denver, scarcely believing his ears, "didn't
he send me any grub, or anything?"
"Nope," answered McGraw, "he wouldn't give me nawthin'. He said the ore
was no good. Come, boys!" And he threw off the brakes with a bang.
The chains tightened with a jerk, the wheelers set their feet; then the
lead wagon heaved forward, the trail-wagon followed and Denver was alone
on the road. His brain was in a whirl, he had lost all volition, even
the will to control his wild thoughts; until suddenly he burst out in a
fit of cursing--of Murray, of McGraw, of everything. McGraw had been a
fool, he should have demanded the supplies anyway; and Murray was just
trying to job him. He knew he was broke and had not had the ore assayed,
and he was taking advantage of the fact. He had refused the ore in order
to leave him flat and compel him to abandon his mine; and then he,
Murray, would slip over with his gun-man and take possession himself.
Denver struck his leg and looked up and down the road, and then he
started off for Moroni.
It was sixty miles, across a scorching desert with only two wells on the
road; but Denver arrived at Whitlow's an hour after sunset, and he was
at Desert Wells before dawn. A great fire seemed to consume him, to
drive him on, to fill his body with inexhaustible strength; and, against
the advice of the station man, he started on in the heat for Moroni. All
he wanted was a show-down with Bible-Back Murray, to meet him face to
face; and no matter if he had the whole county in his pocket he would
tell him what he thought of him. And he would make him take that ore,
according to his agreement, or answer to him personally; and then he
would return to Pinal, where he had left Drusilla crying. But he could
not face her now, after all his boasting and his tales of fabulous
wealth. He could never face her again.
The sun rose up higher, the heat waves began to shimmer and the
landscape to blur before his eyes; and then an automobile came
thundering up behind him and halted on the flat.
"Get in!" called the driver throwing the door open hospitably; and in an
hour's time Denver was set down in Moroni, but with the fever still hot
in his brain. His first frenzy had left him, and the heat madness of the
desert with its insidious promptings to violence; but the sense of
injustice still rankled deep and he headed for Murray's store. It was a
huge, brick building crowded from basement to roof with groceries and
general merchandise. Busy clerks hustled about, waiting on Mexicans and
Indians and slow-moving, valley ranchers; and as Denver walked in there
was a man there to meet him and direct him to any department. It showed
that Bible-Back was efficient, at least.
"I'd like to see Mr. Murray," announced Denver shortly and the
floor-walker glanced at him again before he answered that Mr. Murray was
out. It was the same at the bank, and out at his house; and at last in
disgust Denver went down to the station, where he had been told his ore
was lying. The stifling heat of the valley oppressed him like a blanket,
the sweat poured down his face in tiny streams; and at each evasion his
anger mounted higher until now he was talking to himself. It was evident
that Murray was trying to avoid him--he might even have started back to
the mine--but his ore was there, on a heavily timbered platform, where
it could be transferred from wagon to car without lifting it up and
down. There was other ore there too, each consignment by itself, taken
in by the store-keeper in exchange for supplies and held to make up a
carload. The same perfect system, efficiency in all things--efficiency
and a hundred per cent profit.
Denver leapt up on the platform and cut open a sack, but as he was
pouring a generous sample of the ore into his handkerchief a man stepped
out of the next warehouse.
"Hey!" he called, "what are you doing, over there? You get down and
leave that ore alone!"
"Go to hell!" returned Denver, tying a knot in his handkerchief, and the
man came over on the run.
"Say!" he threatened, "you put that ore back or you'll find yourself in
serious trouble."
"Oh, I will, hey?" replied Denver with his most tantalizing smile.
"Whose ore do you think this is, anyway?"
"It belongs to Mr. Murray, and you'd better put it back or I'll report
the matter at once."
"Well, report it," answered Denver. "My name is Denver Russell and I'm
taking this up to the assayer."
"There's Mr. Murray, now," exclaimed the man and as Denver looked up he
saw a yellow automobile churning rapidly along through the dust. Murray
himself was at the wheel and, sitting beside him, was another man
equally familiar--it was Dave, his hired gun-man.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Russell?" demanded Murray with asperity
and Denver became suddenly calm. Old Murray had been hiding from him,
but they had summoned him by telephone, and he had brought along Dave
for protection. But that should not keep him from having his way and
forcing Murray to a show-down.
"I just came down for a sample of that ore I sent you," answered Denver
with a sarcastic grin. "McGraw said you claimed it was no good, so I
thought I'd have it assayed."
"Oh," observed Murray and for a minute he sat silent while Dave and
Denver exchanged glances. The gun-man was slight and insignificant
looking, with small features and high, boney cheeks; but there was a
smouldering hate in his deep-set eyes which argued him in no mood for a
jest, so Denver looked him over and said nothing.
"Very well," said Murray at last, "the ore is yours. Go ahead and have
it assayed. But with the price of silver down to forty-five cents I
doubt if that stuff will pay smelter charges. I'll ship it, if you say
so, along with this other, if only to make up a carload; but it will be
at your own risk and if the returns show a deficit, your mine will be
liable for the balance."
"Oh, that's the racket, eh?" suggested Denver. "You've got your good eye
on my mine. Well, I'd just like to tell you----"
"No, I haven't," snapped back Murray, his voice harsh and strident, "I
wouldn't accept your mine as a gift. Your silver is practically
worthless and there's no copper in the district; as I know all too well,
to my sorrow. I've lost twenty thousand dollars on better ground than
yours and ordered the whole camp closed down--that shows how much I want
_your_ mine."
He started his engine and glided on to the warehouse and Denver stood
staring down the road. Then he raised his sample, tied up in his
handkerchief, and slammed it into the dirt. His mine was valueless
unless he had money, and Murray had abandoned the district. More than
ever Denver realized how much it had meant to him, merely to have that
diamond drilling running and a big man like Murray behind it. It was
indicative of big values and great expectations; but now, with Murray
out of the running, the district was absolutely dead. There was no
longer the chance of a big copper strike, such as had been rumored
repeatedly for weeks, to bring on a stampede and make every claim in the
district worth thousands of dollars as a gamble.
No, Pinal was dead; the Silver Treasure was worthless; and he, Denver
Russell, was broke. He had barely the price of a square meal. He started
up-town, and turned back towards the warehouse where Murray was
wrangling with his hireling; then, cursing with helpless rage, he swung
off down the railroad track and left his broken dreams behind him.