LIKE A HOG ON ICE
A month had wrought great changes in the life of Denver Russell, raising
him up from a prisoner, locked up like a mad dog, to the boss of a gang
of road-makers. He was free again, as far as bolts and bars were
concerned; all that kept him to his place was the word he had given and
his pride as an honest man. And now he was out, doing an honest man's
work and building a highway for the state; and by the irony of fate the
road he was improving was the one that led to Pinal. For time had
wrought other changes while he lay in prison and the rough road up the
canyon was swarming with traffic going and coming from Murray's camp. It
was called "Murray" now, and a narrow-gauge railroad was being rushed to
haul out the ore. Teams and motor trucks swung by, hauling in timbers
and machinery, auto stages came and went like the wind; and old Mike
McGraw, who had hauled all the freight for years, looked on in wonder
and awe.
Yes, Murray was a live camp, a copper camp with millions of dollars
behind it; and Bible-Back himself was a king indeed, for he had tapped
the rich body of ore. It was his courage and aggressiveness that had
made the camp, and the papers all sounded his praise; but still he was
not satisfied and as he passed by Denver Russell he glanced at him
almost appealingly. Here was a man he had broken in order to get his
way, and his efforts had come to nothing; for the Silver Treasure lay
idle, waiting the clearing of its title before the work could go on. And
Denver Russell, swinging his double-jack on a drill, never once returned
the glance. He was stiff-necked and stubborn, though Murray had sent
intermediaries and practically promised to get him a parole.
A legal point had come up, after Denver had been imprisoned, which
Murray had failed to foresee; the fact that a convict is legally dead
until he has served his term. He cannot transfer property or enter into
a contract or transact any business whatever--nor, on the other hand,
can his mining claims be jumped. As a ward of the State his property is
held in trust until his term has expired. Then he gains back his
identity, if not his citizenship; and with the passing of his number and
the resumption of his name he can enter into contracts once more.
Murray's lawyer had known all this, but Murray had not; and when he
suggested a suit to quiet title to the Silver Treasure old Bible-Back
received a great blow. After all his efforts he found himself
balked--his work must even be undone. Denver Russell must be pardoned,
or at least paroled, and as the price of his freedom he must give his
word not to contest the title to his mine. No papers would be necessary,
in fact they would not be legal; but if his word would prevent him from
escaping from the road-camp it would keep him from claiming his mine.
Murray attended to the matter himself, for he was in a fever to begin
work; and then Denver Russell struck back--he refused to apply for
parole. Though he was pleasant and amenable, never breaking the prison
rules and holding his gang to their duty, when the kindly parole clerk
offered to present his case to the Board he had flatly and
unconditionally refused. The smouldering fire of his resentment had
blazed up and overmastered him as he sensed the hidden hand of his
enemy, and he had cursed the black name of Murray. That was the
beginning, and now when Murray passed, his glance was almost beseeching.
The price of silver was going up, there were consolidation plans in
sight, and Denver's claim apexed all the rest--Murray pocketed his pride
and, after a word with the guard, drew Denver out of hearing of the
gang.
"Mr. Russell," he said trying to appear magnanimous, "that offer of mine
holds good. I'll get you a parole to-morrow if you'll give me a
quit-claim to your claim."
"How can I give you a quit-claim?" inquired Denver defiantly, "a convict
can't give title to anything!"
"Just give me your word then," suggested Murray suavely and Denver
laughed in his face.
"You glass-eyed old dastard," he burst out contemptuously, "I know what
you're up to, too well. You're trying to get me paroled so you can take
my mine away from me and I won't dare to raise a hand. But I'll fool
you, old-timer; I'll just serve my term out and then--well, I'll get
back my mine."
"Is that a threat?" demanded Murray but Denver only smiled and toyed
with his heavy hammer. "Because if it is," went on Murray, "just for
self-protection, I'll see that you don't get out."
"No, it isn't a threat," answered Denver quietly. "If I wanted to kill
you I'd swing this sledge and knock you on the head, right now. No, I
don't intend to kill you; but a man would be a sucker to play right into
your hands."
"What do you mean?" asked Murray trying to argue the matter, but Denver
refused to indulge him.
"Never mind," he said, "you railroaded me to the Pen', but by grab you
can't get me out. I'll just show you I'm as independent as a hog on
ice--if I can't stand up I'll lay down."
"Then you intend, just to spite me, to remain on in prison when you
might be a free man to-morrow? I can't believe that--it doesn't seem
reasonable."
"Well, I can't stand here talking," answered Denver impatiently and went
off and left him staring.
It certainly was unbelievable that any reasoning creature should prefer
confinement and disgrace to freedom, but the iron had burned deep into
Denver's soul and his one desire now was revenge. He had been deprived
of his property and branded a convict by this man who boasted of his
powers; but, like a thrown mule, if he could not have his way he could
at least refuse to get up. He was down and out; but by a miracle of
Providence, a hitch in the wording of the law, the slave-driver Murray
could not proceed with his chariot until this balky mule got up. Denver
knew his rights as a prisoner of the state and his status before the
law; and bowed his head and took the beating stubbornly, punishing
himself a hundred times over to thwart his enemy's plans. As he worked
on the road old friends came by and tried to argue him out of his mood,
even Bunker Hill suggested a compromise; but he only listened sulkily, a
slow smile on his lips, a gleam of smouldering hatred in his eyes.
So the winter passed by and as spring came on the road-gang drew near to
Murray. From the hills above their camp Denver could see the dumps and
hoists, and the mill that was going up below, and as the ore-trains
glided by on the newly finished narrow-gauge he picked up samples of the
copper. It was the same as his vein, a brassy yellow chalcopyrites with
chunks of red native copper, and he forgot the daily heart-ache and the
ignominy of his task as he contemplated the wealth that awaited him.
Yes, the mine was still his, though he was herded with common felons and
compelled to build a road for Murray; it was his and the law would
protect him, the same law that had sent him to prison. And he was a
prisoner by choice now for both the warden and the parole clerk had
recommended him heartily for parole.
They treated him like a friend, like a big, wrong-headed boy who was
still sound and good at heart; and he knew that when he went to them and
applied for a parole they would recommend it at once to the Board. But
he was playing a deep game, one that had come to him suddenly when
Murray had suggested a parole, for by refusing to accept his freedom he
made the state his guardian and the receiver of his coveted property. It
was safe, and he could wait; and when the time was ripe he could apply
to the Governor for a pardon. A pardon would remove the taint of
dishonor and restore him to honest citizenship; but a paroled man was
known for an ex-con everywhere--he might as well be back in the
road-gang. Yet it was hard on his pride when the automobiles rushed past
and the passengers looked back and stared, it was hard to have the guard
always watching the gang for fear that some crook might decamp; and only
the thought that he was working out his destiny gave him courage to play
out his hand.
But how wonderfully had the prophecy of Mother Trigedgo been justified
by the course of events! Not a year before he had come over the Globe
trail in pursuit of Slogger Meacham, and had discovered the Place of
Death. It rose before him now, a solid black wall, and within its shadow
lay the mine of the prophecy, the precious Silver Treasure. He had
chosen the silver treasure, and the yellow chalcopyrites had added its
wealth of copper. And now he but awaited the end of his long ordeal and
the reward of his courage and constancy. Both the silver and gold
treasures were destined to be his; and Drusilla--but there he paused.
Old Bunk had avoided him, Drusilla had not written; yet he had been
careful not to reveal his affection. Not once had he asked for her, only
once had he written; yet perhaps that one letter had defeated him. He
had acknowledged his love, humbly admitted his faults, and begged her to
try to forgive him. Even that might have cost him her love.
The spring came on warmer, all the palo verde trees burst out in masses
of brilliant yellow, the mezquites hung out tassels of golden fuzz and
the giant cactus donned its crown of orange blossoms. Even the
iron-woods flaunted bloom and the barren, sandy washes turned green with
six-weeks grass. It was a time when rabbits gamboled, when mockingbirds
sang by moonlight and all the world turned young. Denver chafed at his
confinement, one of his Mexicans broke his parole, the hobo miners went
swinging past; and just as the last of his courage was waning Bunker
Hill came riding down the road. He was on his big bay, yet not out after
cattle--he was coming straight towards him. Denver caught his breath,
and waited.