THE ANSWER
There are some kinds of questions which require no answers and others
which answer themselves. Denver had asked Bunker what he meant when he
refused Drusilla's address and intimated that he was unworthy of her
friendship, but after a gloomy hour in the deepening twilight the
question answered itself. Bunker had taken his daughter across the
desert, on her way to the train and New York, and his curt remarks were
but the reflex of her's as she discussed Denver's many transgressions.
He thought more of mines and of his own selfish interests than he did of
her and her art, and so she desired to hear no more of him or his
protestations of innocence. That was what the words meant and as Denver
thought them over he wondered if it was not true.
Drusilla had greeted him cordially when he had returned from Globe and
had invited him to dinner that same night, but he had refused because he
needed the sleep and begrudged the daylight to take it. And the next day
he had worked even harder than before and had forgotten her invitation
entirely. She was to sing just for him and, after the singing, she would
have told him all her plans; and then perhaps they might have spoken of
other things and parted as lovers should. But no, he had spoiled it by
his senseless hurry in getting his ore off with McGraw; and now, with
all the time in the world on his hands, the valley below was silent. Not
a scale, not a trill, not a run or roulade; only silence and the frogs
with their devilish insistence, their ceaseless _eh_, _eh_,
_eh_. He rose up and heaved a stone into the creek-bed below, then
went in and turned on his phonograph.
They were real people to him now, these great artists of the discs;
Drusilla had described them as she listened to the records and even the
places where they sang. She had pictured the mighty sweep of the
Metropolitan with its horse-shoe of glittering boxes; the balconies
above and the standing-room below where the poor art-students gathered
to applaud; and he had said that when he was rich he would subscribe for
a box and come there just to hear her sing. And now he was broke, and
Drusilla was going East to run the perilous gauntlet of the tenors. He
jerked up the stylus in the middle of a record and cursed his besotted
industry. If he had let his ore go, and gone to see her like a
gentleman, Drusilla might even now be his. She might have relented and
given him a kiss--he cursed and stumbled blindly to bed.
In the morning he went to work in the close air of the tunnel, which
sadly needed a fan, and then he hurled his hammer to the ground and felt
his way out to daylight. What was the use of it all; where did it get
him to, anyway; this ceaseless, grinding toil? Murray's camp had shut
down, the promoters had vanished, Pinal was deader than ever; he
gathered up his tools and stored them in his cave, then sat down to
write her a letter. Nothing less than the truth would win her back now
and he confessed his shortcomings humbly; after which he told her that
the town was too lonely and he was leaving, too. He sealed it in an
envelope and addressed it with her name and when he was sure that Old
Bunk was not looking he slipped in and gave it to her mother.
"I'm going away," he said, "and I may not be back. Will you send that on
to Drusilla?"
"Yes," she smiled and hid it in her dress; but as he started for the
door she stopped him.
"You might like to know," she said, "that Drusilla has received an
engagement. She is substitute soprano in a new Opera Company that is
being organized to tour the big cities. I'm sorry you didn't see her."
"Yes," answered Denver, "I'm sorry myself--but that never bought a man
anything. Just send her the letter and--well, goodby."
He blundered out the door and down the steps, and there stretched the
road before him. In the evening he was as far as Whitlow's Well and a
great weight seemed lifted from his breast. He was free again, free to
wander where he pleased, free to make friends with any that he met--for
if the prophecy was not true in regard to his mine it was not true
regarding his friends. And how could any woman, by cutting a pack of
cards and consulting the signs of the zodiac, predict how a man would
die? Denver made himself at home with a party of hobo miners who had
come in from the railroad below, and that night they sat up late,
cracking jokes and telling stories of every big camp in the West. It was
the old life again, the life that he knew and loved, drifting on from
camp to camp with every man his friend. Yet as he stretched out that
night by the flickering fire he almost regretted the change. He was free
from the great fear, free to make friends with whom he would; but, to
win back the love of the beautiful young artist, he would have given up
his freedom without a sigh.
His sleep that night was broken by strange dreams and by an automobile
that went thundering by, and in the morning as they cooked a mulligan
together he saw two great motor trucks go past. They were loaded with
men and headed up the canyon and Denver began to look wild. A third
machine appeared and he went out to flag it but the driver went by
without stopping; and so did another, and another. He rushed after the
next one and caught it on the hill but the men pushed him roughly from
the running board. They were armed and he knew by their hard-bitten
faces that it was another party of jumpers.
"Where are you going?" he yelled but they left him by the road without
even a curse for an answer. Well, he knew then; they were going to
Final, and Murray had fooled him again. Denver had suspected from the
first that Murray's shutdown was a ruse, to shake down the public for
their stock; and now he knew it, and that if his mine was jumped again
it would be held against all comers. Another automobile whirled by; and
then came men that he knew, the miners who owned claims in the district.
"What's the matter?" he called but they would not stop to talk, simply
shouted and beckoned him on. Denver started, right then, without
stopping for breakfast or to pick up his hobo's pack; and soon he caught
a ride with a party of prospectors whose claims he had once freed from
jumpers.
"It's a big strike!" they clamored, hauling him in and rushing on. "Old
Murray struck copper in his tunnel! _Rich?_ Hell, yes!" And they
gave him all the details as the machine lurched along up the road.
Murray had struck another ore-body, entirely different from the first
one--the copper had come out the drill-holes like pure metal--and then
he had shut down and rushed the machine-men away before they could tell
of the strike. But they had got loose down in Moroni and showed the
drill-dust and every man that saw it had piled into his machine and
joined the rush for Murray's.
"Jumped again!" muttered Denver and when he arrived in Pinal he found
his mine swarming with men. They had built a barricade and run a pipe
line down the hill to pump up water from the creek, and when he appeared
they ordered him off without showing so much as a head. And he went, for
the swiftness of the change had confused him; he was whipped before he
began. There was no use to fight or to put up a bluff, the men behind
the wall were determined; and while, according to law, they held no
title the law was far away. It was a weapon for rich men who could
afford to pay the price; but how could he, a poor man, hope to win back
his claim when it was held by Bible-Back Murray? He went down to the
store, where the Miners' Meeting was assembled, and beckoned Bunker
aside.
"Mr. Hill," he said, "you promised me one time to give me the loan of a
gun. Well, now is the time I need it."
"Nope," warned Bunker, "you ain't got a chance. Them fellers are just up
here to get you."
"Well, for self-defense!" protested Denver, "Dave sent word he'd kill
me."
"Keep away, then," advised Bunker, "don't give him no chance. But if
them fellers should jump on you, just run to my house and I'll slip you
the old Injun-tamer."
Denver went out on the street, now swarming with traffic, and looked up
toward his mine; and as he gazed he walked up closer until he stopped at
the fork of the trails. The men behind the wall were watching him
grimly, without letting their faces be seen; but as he stood there
looking they began to bandy jests and presently to taunt him openly. But
Denver did not answer, for he divined their evil purpose, and at last he
turned quietly away.
"Hey! Come back here!" roared a voice and Denver whirled in his tracks
for he knew it was Slogger Meacham's. He was standing there now, looking
across the barricade, and as Denver met his gaze he laughed.
"Ho! Ho!" he rumbled folding his arms across his breast and thrusting
out his huge black mustache. "Well, how do you feel about it now?"
"Never mind," returned Denver and, leaving him gloating, he hurried away
down the trail. Old Bunk was right, they had come there to get him, and
there was no use playing into their hands; yet at thought of Slogger
Meacham his hair began to bristle and he muttered half-formed threats.
The Slogger had come to get him--and Dave Chatwourth was behind there,
too--the whole district was dominated by their gang; but the times would
change and with inrush of other men the jumpers would soon be
out-numbered. It was better then to wait, to let the excitement die down
and law and order return; and then, with a deputy sheriff at his back,
he could eject them by due process of law. The claim was his, his papers
were recorded and no lawyer could question their validity--no, the best
thing was to let the jumpers rage, to say nothing and keep out of sight.
That was all that he had to do.
But to avoid them was not so easy, for as the day wore on and no attempt
was made to oust them, the jumpers walked boldly into town. At first it
was Chatwourth, to buy some tobacco and break in on the Miners' Meeting;
and then Slogger Meacham, a huge mountain of a man, came ambling down
the street. He slouched down on the store platform and leered about him
evilly, but Denver had retreated to his cave under the cliff and the
Slogger returned to the mine. Then they came down in a body, Chatwourth
and Meacham and all the jumpers; but though his mine was left open
Denver refrained from going near it, for their purpose was becoming very
plain. They were trying to inveigle him into openly opposing them, after
which they would have a pretext for resorting to actual violence. But
their plans went no further for he remained in retirement and the
Miners' Meeting adjourned. Soon the street was deserted, except for
their own numbers, and they returned to the mine with shrill whoops.
From his lookout above Denver watched them with a smile, for his nerve
had come back to him now. Now that Murray had made his strike, and
increased the value of the Silver Treasure by a thousand per cent over
night, Denver's mind had swung back like a needle to the pole to his
former belief in the prophecy. He had doubted it twice and renounced it
twice, but each time as if by an act of Providence he was rebuked for
his lack of faith. Now he _knew_ it was so--that the mine would be
restored and that only his dearest friend could kill him. So he smiled
almost pityingly at the loud-mouthed jumpers and went boldly down the
trail.
The hush of evening was in the air when he knocked at Bunker Hill's door
and after a look about Old Bunk went back into the house and brought out
a heavy pistol. It was an old-fashioned six-shooter of the Indian-tamer
type--a single action, wooden-handled forty-five--and Bunker fingered it
lovingly as he handed it over to Denver.
"For self-defense, understand," he said beneath his breath, "and look
out, that bunch is sure ranicky."
"Much obliged," responded Denver and tested the action before he slipped
the gun in its belt. He was starting for his cave, when from his cabin
up the street the Professor came out and beckoned him.
"What do you want?" called Denver; then, receiving no answer, he strode
impatiently up the street.
"Come in," urged the Professor touching his nose for secrecy, "come in,
I vant to show you some-t'ing."
"Well, show it to me here," answered Denver but the Professor drew him
inside the house.
"You look oudt vat you do," he warned mysteriously, "dem joompers are
liable to see you."
"I should worry," said Denver and, whipping out the gun, he made the
motions of fanning the hammer.
"Now, now," reproved Diffenderfer drawing back in a panic; and then he
laughed, but nervously.
"Well, what do you want to show me?" demanded Denver bluntly. "Hurry up
now--I hear somebody coming."
"Oh, nutting--come again!" exclaimed the Professor apprehensively. "Come
to-morrow--I show you everyt'ing!"
"You'll show me now," returned Denver imperturbably, "I'm not afraid of
the whole danged bunch. Come on, what have you got--a bottle?"
"Yoost a piece of copper from Murray's tunnel--Mein Gott, I hear dem
boys coming!"
He sprang to the door and dropped the heavy bar but Denver struck it up
and stepped out.
"What the hell are you trying to do?" he demanded suspiciously and the
door slammed to behind him.
"Run! Run!" implored the Professor staring out through his peep-hole but
Denver lolled negligently against the house. A crowd of men, headed by
Slogger Meacham, were coming down the street; but it was not for him to
fly. He had a gun now, as well as they, and his back was against the
wall. They could pass by or stop, according to their liking; but the
show-down had come, there and now.
They came on in a bunch down the middle of the street, ignoring his
watchful glances; but as the rest trampled past Slogger Meacham turned
his head and came to a bristling halt.
"Well," he said, "out for a little airing?" And the jumpers swung in
behind him.
"Yes," answered Denver regarding him incuriously and the Slogger moved a
step or two closer.
"You start anything around here," he went on significantly, "and you'll
be airing the smoke out of your clothes. We got your number, see, and
we're here to put your light out if you start to make a peep."
"Is that so?" observed Denver still standing at a crouch and one or two
of the men walked off.
"Come on, boys," they said but Meacham stood glowering and Chatwourth
stepped out in front of him. "I hear," he said to Denver, "that you've
been making your brag that you kin whip me with a handful of stones."
"Never mind, now," replied Denver, "I'm not looking for trouble. You go
on and leave me alone."
"I'll go when I damned please!" cried Chatwourth in a passion and as he
advanced on Denver the crowd behind him suddenly gave a concerted shove.
Denver saw the surge coming and stepped aside to avoid it, undetermined
whether to strike out or shoot; but as he was slipping away Slogger
Meacham made a rush and struck him a quick blow in the neck. He whirled
and struck back at him, the air was full of fists and guns, swung like
clubs to rap him on the head; and then he went down with Meacham on top
of him and a crashing blow ringing in his ears. When he came to his
senses he was stripped and mauled and battered, and a stranger stood
over him with a gun.
"You're my prisoner," he said and Denver sat up startled.
"Why--what's the matter?" he asked looking about at the crowd that had
gathered on the scene of the fight, "what's the matter with that jasper
over there?"
"He's dead--that's all," answered the officer laughing shortly, "you hit
him over the head with this gun."
"I did not!" burst out Denver, "I never even drew it. Say, who is that
fellow, anyway?"
"Name was Meacham," returned the officer, "come on."