THE HEART OF HIS BELOVED
There was a celebration that day which warmed Denver's heart and sent
Slogger Meacham cursing out of the camp, but as soon as it was over and
he had his prize money in his hand Denver remembered his unguarded
claim. Bunker Hill was there, of course, but the spiteful Professor had
heralded his pledge afar; and a man who has promised his wife not to
fight is ill-fitted to herd a mine. No, the Silver Treasure lay open for
Dave or Murray to jump, if they felt like contesting his claim; and,
weak as he was, Denver took no rest until he was back where he could
fight for his own. He rode in late and slept like the dead, but in the
morning he was up and down at the store as soon as Old Bunk came out.
"I win!" he announced holding up the roll of bills, "first money--can
you get me some powder?"
"W'y, you lucky fool!" exclaimed Bunker admiringly, "seems like
_nothing_ can keep you down. Sure I'll get your powder, and just to
show you what _I_ can do--how's that for a healthy little roll?" He
drew out a roll of bills twice the size of Denver's and fingered them
over lovingly. "A thousand dollars," he murmured, "for an option on half
the Lost Burro. A party came up yesterday and took one look at it and
grabbed it right off the bat, and as soon as old Murray gets in to his
ore they're going to capitalize the Burro for a million. Fine name that,
for stock-selling--known all over the world, in England, Paris and
everywhere--but I made 'em come through with a thousand dollars cash, so
Drusilla could have a good stake. She's thinking of going East, soon."
"'S that so?" said Denver, trying to take it all in, "are these parties
going to do any work?"
"Well, that's an unfair question, as Pecos Edwards used to say when they
asked him if all Texans was cow-thieves; but you know how these
promoters work. There'll be lots of work done; but mostly by lawyers,
and publicity men and such. There's a whole lot of water in the workings
of the Lost Burro that'll have to be pumped out first, and then there's
a little job of timbering that'll cost a world of money. No, I sold them
that mine on the ore in your tunnel--I will say, it shows up splendid.
If you'd've been here yesterday you might have made a deal that
would----"
"Not on your life!" broke in Denver, "I don't sell to anybody. But say,
but what did they think of my mine?"
"Think!" exclaimed Bunker, "they stopped thinking right here, when I
showed 'em that big vein of copper! They went crazy, just like lunatics;
because it ain't often, I'm telling you, that you find sixty-per-cent
copper on the surface."
"Not in a fissure vein--no," agreed Denver emphatically, "I wouldn't
sell out for a million. Did those promoters take away any samples?"
"Well, yes; a few," responded Bunker apologetically, "I didn't think
you'd object."
"Why, of course not," answered Denver, "it'll advertise the district and
bring in some outside people. And now that I've got another stake I'm
going to sack my ore and make a trial shipment to the smelter. But you
bet your boots, after what Murray put over on me, I'm going to have some
assaying done first."
"Yes, and keep some samples," advised Bunker wisely. "Keep a sample out
of every bag."
"I'll just mix that ore up," said Denver cautiously, "and cut it down,
the way they do at the mill. Throw out every tenth shovel and mix 'em up
again and then cut the pile down smaller until you've got a control,
like the ore brokers take at the smelter. And then I'll send a sample to
the assayer--say, there's Drusilla over there, trying to call you."
"She's trying to call you," answered Bunker Hill shortly and went on
into the store.
"Well, be sure and order that powder," shouted Denver after him. "And
say, I'll want the rest of those ore-sacks."
"All right," replied Bunker and Denver turned to the house where
Drusilla was waiting on the porch.
"Did you hear the news?" she asked dancing ecstatically to and fro; as
if she were a Delilah, leading the Philistine maidens in the "Spring
Song," and he were another Samson. "I'm expecting to go East now, soon."
"Good!" exclaimed Denver. "Well, I won't see you much then--I'm going to
work in the mine."
"Yes, isn't it grand?" she cried. "Everything is coming out fine--but
you must come down to dinner to-night. I'm going to sing, just for you."
"I'll be there," smiled Denver, and then he stopped. "But let's not make
it to-night," he said, "I'm dead on my feet for sleep."
"Well, sleep then," she laughed, "and get rested from your contest--I'm
awfully glad you won. And then----"
"Nope, can't come to-night," he answered soberly, "I want to get that
ore sacked to-day. And I'm stiff as a strip of burnt raw-hide."
"Well, to-morrow night," she said, "unless you don't want to come. But
you'll have to come soon or----"
"Oh, I want to come, all right," interposed Denver hastily, "you know
that, without telling. But my partner played out on me before the end of
the contest and I had to finish the striking myself. And then I rode
hard to get back here, before Dave or some gun-man jumped my claim."
"Then to-morrow night," she smiled, "but don't you forget, because if
you do I'll never forgive you."
She danced away into the house and Denver turned in his tracks and went
to look over his ore-sacks. They were old and torn, what was left of a
big lot that Bunker had got in a trade; but Denver picked out the best
and wheeled them up to his dump, where his picked ore lay waiting for
shipment. He had a big lot, much larger than he had thought, and it was
just as it had been shot down from the breast. Some was silver-lead; and
there was copper to boot, though that would hardly do to ship. Yet at
thirty cents a pound copper was almost a precious metal, and a report
from the smelter would be a check. He would know from that how the ore
really ran and how much he would be penalized for the zinc. So he picked
out the best of it and broke it up fine, for the rough chunks would not
do to sack; and before he had more than got started with his sampling
the sun had gone down behind the ridge. And he was tired--too tired to
eat.
There was music that night at the big house below but Denver could not
hold up his head. Nature had drugged him with sleep, like a romping
child that takes no thought of its strength, and in the morning he woke
up in a sort of stupor that could not be worked off. Yet he worked,
worked hard, for McGraw had arrived and the ore must be loaded that day;
so they threw in together, Denver sacking the heavy ore and McGraw
wheeling it out to the wagon. They toiled on till dark, for McGraw
started early and the work could not be put off till to-morrow; and when
it was over Denver staggered up to his cave like an old and outworn man.
He was reeking with sweat, his hands were like talons, the ore-dust had
left his face gray; and all he thought of was sleep. For a moment he
roused up, as if he remembered some new duty--something pleasant, yet
involving further effort--and then his candle went out. He fell asleep
in his chair and when he awoke it was only to stumble to his bed.
The sun was over the Leap when he opened his heavy eyes and gazed at the
rude squalor of his cave. The dishes were unwashed, the floor was dirty,
a long-tailed rat hung balanced on the table-edge--and he was tired,
tired, tired. He heaved himself up and reached for the water-bucket but
he had forgotten to fill it at the creek. Now he grabbed it up
impatiently and started down the trail, every joint of his body
protesting, and when he had climbed back he was weak from the
effort--his bank account with Mother Nature was overdrawn. He was worn
out, at last; and his poor, tired brain took no thought how to make up
the deficit. All he wanted was rest, something to eat, a drink of water.
A drink of water anyway, and sleep. He drank deep and bathed his face,
then sank back on the bed and let the world whirl on.
It was late in the day when he awoke again and hunger was gnawing his
vitals; but the slow stupor was gone, he was himself again and the
cramps had gone out of his limbs. He rose up luxuriously and cut a can
of tomatoes, drinking the juice and eating the fruit, and then he lit a
fire and boiled some strong coffee and cooked up a great mess of food.
There was two cans of corn and a can of corned beef, heated together in
a swimming sea of bacon grease and eaten direct from the frying-pan. It
went to the spot and his drooping shoulders straightened, the spring
came back into his step; yet as he cleaned up the dishes and changed to
decent clothes the weight of some duty seemed to haunt him. Was it
McGraw? No, he had loaded the last sack and sent him on his way. It was
Drusilla--she had been going to sing for him.
Denver stepped to the door and looked down at the house and his heart
sank low at the thought. They had invited him to dinner and he had
forgotten to come, he had gone home and fallen asleep. And no one had
come to call him--or to inquire what had kept him away. A heavy guilt
came over him as he gazed down at the house with its broad porch and
trailing Virginia creepers, the Hills would take it very ill to have
their invitation ignored. Old Bunk had told him the time before, when he
had invited him in to dinner: "Now, for the last time, Denver----" and
it would take more than mere words to ever mend that breach. Denver
paced back and forth, undecided what to do, and at last he decided to do
nothing. As the sun went down he ate another supper and drugged his
sorrows with sleep.
The next morning he rose early and shaved and bathed and put on his last
clean shirt, and then he walked down to the town; but the store was
locked, there was no voices from the house, only a smoke from the
kitchen stove. He went on to his mine and looked it over, and as he
passed the Professor leered out at him; there was something that he
knew, some bad news or spiteful gossip, for he found pleasure only in
evil. Denver came back down the street, that was now as deserted as it
had been before the stampede, and once more the Professor looked out.
"Vell," he said, "so you haf lost your sveetheart!" And he chuckled and
shut the door softly.
Denver stopped and stood staring, hardly crediting the news, yet
conscious of the sinister exulting. The Professor was glad, therefore
the news was bad; but what did he mean by those words? Had Drusilla gone
away or had she thrown him over for neglecting to keep his engagement?
She had probably spoken her mind as she watched for him at the doorway
and the Professor had been out there, eavesdropping.
"What are you talking about?" he demanded at last but the Professor only
tittered. Then he dropped the heavy bar across his door and Denver took
the hint to move on. He went down past the house and looked it over
hopefully, but as no one came out he pocketed his pride and knocked,
like a hobo battering the door for a meal, Mrs. Hill came out slowly as
if preoccupied with other things, but when he saw her eyes he knew she
had been crying and that Drusilla had really gone.
"I'm sorry," he began and then he stopped; there was nothing that he
could say. "Has Drusilla gone?" he asked at length and Mrs. Hill
answered him, almost kindly.
"Yes," she said, "she was summoned by a telegram. Her father took her
down this morning."
He stood thinking a minute, then he shook his head regretfully and
started off down the steps.
"She was sorry not to have seen you," she added gently but Denver made
no reply. He was weak again now and inadequate to life; he could only
crawl back like some dumb, wounded animal, to the sheltering gloom of
his cave. But as he sat there stolidly, now trying to make some plan,
now endeavoring to become reconciled to his fate, a rage swept over him
like a storm-wind that shakes a tree and he burst into gusty oaths. The
fates had turned against him, his horoscope had come to nothing; he had
followed the admonitions of Mother Trigedgo and this was the result of
her advice. She had told him to beware how he revealed his affection,
but nothing about what to do when he had fallen asleep while his beloved
sang only for him.
He drew out the Oraculum, by which the Man of Destiny had ordered the
least affairs of his life, and read down through the thirty-two
questions. Only once on each day could he consult the mystic oracle, and
once only in each month on the same subject, lest the fates be outworn
by his insistence. At first it was Number Thirteen that appealed to his
fancy:
"Will the FRIEND I most reckon upon prove faithful or TREACHEROUS?" But
he knew without asking that, whatever her failings, Drusilla would never
prove treacherous. No, since he had taken her for his friend he would
never question her faithfulness; Number Twenty-six was more to his
liking:
"Does the person whom I love, LOVE and regard me?"
He spread out a sheet of paper on his littered table and dashed off the
five series of lines, and then he counted each carefully and made the
dots at the end--two dots for the two lines that came even and one for
those that came odd. The first two came odd, the next two even, the last
one odd again; and under that symbol the Oraculum Key referred him to
section B for his answer. He turned to the double pages with its
answers, good and bad, and his brain whirled while he read these words:
"Thy heart of thy beloved yearneth toward thee."
He closed the book religiously and put it away, and his heart for the
moment was comforted.