It was just as well. Fairchild could have said nothing that would have
helped matters. He could have done nothing that would have damaged
them. The cards were still the same; the deck still bore its markings,
and the deal was going on without ever a change, except that now the
matter of concealment of enmities had turned to an open, aboveboard
proposition. Whether Harry had so intended it or not, he had forced
Squint Rodaine to show his hand, and whether Squint realized it, that
amounted to something. Fairchild was almost grateful for the fact as
he went back into the tunnel, spun the flywheels of the gasoline
engines and started them revolving again, that the last of the water
might be drained from the shaft before the pumps must be returned to
their owners.
Several hours passed, then Harry returned, minus his gorgeous clothing
and his diamond ring, dressed in mining costume now, with high leather
boots into which his trousers were tucked, and carrying a carbide
lantern. Dolefully he looked at the vacant finger where once a diamond
had sparkled. Then he chuckled.
"Sam took it back," he announced. "And I took part of the money and
paid it out for rent on these pumps. We can keep 'em as long as we
want 'em. It's only costing about a fourth of what it might of.
Drowning 's worth something," he laughed again. Fairchild joined him,
then sobered.
"It brought Rodaine out of the bushes," he said. "Squint threatened us
after they 'd hauled you down town on the rail."
Harry winked jovially.
"Ain't it just what I expected? It's better that wye than to 'ave 'im
snoopin' around. When I came up to the mine, 'e was right behind me.
I knew it. And I 'd figured on it. So I just gave 'im something to
get excited about. It was n't a minute after I 'd thrown a rock and my
'at in there and let out a yell that he came thumping in, looking
around. I was 'iding back of the timbers there. Out 'e went,
muttering to 'imself, and I--well, I went to Center City and read the
papers."
They chuckled together then; it was something to know that they had not
only forced Squint Rodaine to show his enmity openly, but it was
something more to make him the instrument of helping them with their
work. The pumps were going steadily now, and a dirty stream of water
was flowing down the ditch that had been made at one side of the small
tram track. Harry looked down the hole, stared intently at nothing,
then turned to the rusty hoist.
"'Ere 's the thing we 've got to fix up now. This 'ere chiv wheel's
all out of gear."
"What makes your face so red?" Fairchild asked the question as the
be-mustached visage of Harry came nearer to the carbide. Harry looked
up.
"Mother 'Oward almost slapped it off!" came his rueful answer. "For
not telling 'er what I was going to do, and letting 'er think I got
drownded. But 'ow was I to know?"
He went to tinkering with the big chiv wheel then, supported on its
heavy timbers, and over which the cable must pass to allow the skip to
travel on its rails down the shaft. Fairchild absently examined the
engines and pumps, supplying water to the radiators and filling an oil
cup or two. Then he turned swiftly, voicing that which was uppermost
in his mind.
"When you were here before, Harry, did you know a Judge Richmond?"
"Yeh." Harry pawed his mustache and made a greasy, black mark on his
face. "But I don't think I want to know 'im now."
"Why not?"
"'E's mixed up with the Rodaines."
"How much?"
"They own 'im--that's all."
There was silence for a moment. It had been something which Fairchild
had not expected. If the Rodaines owned Judge Richmond, how far did
that ownership extend? After a long time, he forced himself to a
statement.
"I know his daughter."
"You?" Harry straightened. "'Ow so?"
"She sold me a ticket to a dance," Fairchild carefully forgot the
earlier meeting. "Then we 've happened to meet several times after
that. She said that her father had told her about me--it seems he used
to be a friend of my own father."
Harry nodded.
"So 'e was. And a good friend. But that was before things
'appened--like they 've 'appened in the last ten years. Not that I
know about it of my own knowledge. But Mother 'Oward--she knows a lot."
"But what's caused the change? What--?"
Harry's intent gaze stopped him.
"'Ow many times 'ave you seen the girl when she was n't with young
Rodaine?"
"Very few, that's true."
"And 'ow many times 'ave you seen Judge Richmond?"
"I have n't ever seen him."
"You won't--if Mother 'Oward knows anything. 'E ain't able to get out.
'E's sick--apoplexy--a stroke. Rodaine's taken advantage of it."
"How?"
"'Ow does anybody take advantage of somebody that's sick? 'Ow does
anybody get a 'old on a person? Through money! Judge Richmond 'ad a
lot of it. Then 'e got sick. Rodaine, 'e got 'old of that money. Now
Judge Richmond 'as to ask 'im for every penny he gets--and 'e does what
Rodaine says."
"But a judge--"
"Judges is just like anybody else when they're bedridden and only 'arf
their faculties working. The girl, so Mother 'Oward tells me, is about
twenty now. That made 'er just a little kid, and motherless, when
Rodaine got in 'is work. She ain't got a thing to sye. And she loves
'er father. Suppose," Harry waved a hand, "that you loved somebody
awful strong, and suppose that person was under a influence? Suppose
it meant 'is 'appiness and 'is 'ealth for you to do like 'e wanted you?
Wouldn't you go with a man? What's more, if 'e don't die pretty soon,
you 'll see a wedding!"
"You mean--?"
"She 'll be Mrs. Maurice Rodaine. She loves 'er father enough to do
it--after 'er will's broken. And I don't care 'oo it is; there ain't a
woman in the world that's got the strength to keep on saying no to a
sick father!"
Again Robert Fairchild filled an oil cup, again he tinkered about the
pumps. Then he straightened.
"How are we going to work this mine?" he asked shortly. Harry stared
at him.
"'Ow should I know? You own it!"
"I don't mean that way. We were fifty-fifty from the minute you showed
up. There never has been any other thought in my mind--"
"Fifty-fifty? You're making me a bloated capitalist!"
"I hope I will. Or rather, I hope that you 'll make such a thing
possible for both of us. But I was talking about something else; are
we going to work hard and fight it out day and night for awhile until
we can get things going, or are we just going at it by easy stages?"
"Suppose," answered Harry after a communication with his magic
mustache, "that we go dye and night 'til we get the water out? It
won't be long. Then we 'll 'ave to work together. You 'll need my
vast store of learning and enlightenment!" he grinned.
"Good. But the pumping will last through tomorrow night. Can you take
the night trick?"
"Sure. But why?"
"I want to go to that dance!"
Harry whistled. Harry's big lips spread into a grin.
"And she 's got brown eyes!" he chortled to himself. "And she 's got
brown 'air, and she 's a wye about 'er. Oh! She's got a wye about
'er! And I 'll bet she 's going with Maurice Rodaine! Oh! She's got
a wye about'er!"
"Oh, shut up!" growled Fairchild, but he grinned in schoolboy fashion
as he said it. Harry poured half a can of oil upon the bearings of the
chiv wheel with almost loving tenderness.
"She 's got a wye about 'er!" he echoed. Fairchild suddenly frowned.
"Just what do you mean? That she 's in love with Rodaine and just--"
"'Ow should I know? But she 's got a wye about 'er!"
"Well," the firm chin of the other man grew firmer, "it won't be hard
to find out!"
And the next night he started upon his investigations. Nor did he stop
to consider that social events had been few and far between for him,
that his dancing had progressed little farther than the simple ability
to move his feet in unison to music. Years of office and home, home
and office, had not allowed Robert Fairchild the natural advantages of
the usual young man. But he put that aside now; he was going to that
dance, and he was going to stay there as long as the music sounded, or
rather as long as the brown eyes, brown hair and laughing lips of Anita
Richmond were apparent to him. What's more, he carried out his
resolution.
The clock turned back with the entrance to that dance hall. Men were
there in the rough mining costumes of other days, with unlighted
candles stuck through patent holders into their hats, and women were
there also, dressed as women could dress only in other days of sudden
riches, in costumes brought from Denver, bespangled affairs with the
gorgeousness piled on until the things became fantastic instead of the
intensely beautiful creations that the original wearers had believed
them to be. There was only one idea in the olden mining days, to buy
as much as possible and to put it all on at once. High, Spanish combs
surmounted ancient styles of hairdressing. Rhinestones glittered in
lieu of the real diamonds that once were worn by the queens of the
mining camps. Dancing girls, newly rich cooks, poverty-stricken
prospectors' wives suddenly beaming with wealth, nineteenth-century
vamps, gambling hall habitués,--all were represented among the
femininity of Ohadi as they laughed and giggled at the outlandish
costumes they wore and thoroughly enjoyed themselves.
Far at one side, making a brave effort with the "near" beer and "almost
there" concoctions of a prohibition buried country, was the
"old-fashioned bar" with its old-fashioned bartender behind it, roaring
out his orders and serving drinks with one hand while he waved and
pulled the trigger of a blank-cartridged revolver with the other.
Farther on was the roulette wheel, and Fairchild strolled to it,
watching the others to catch the drift of the game before he essayed
it, playing with pennies where, in the old days, men had gambled away
fortunes; surrounded by a crowd that laughed and chattered and forgot
its bets, around a place where once a "sleeper" might have meant a
fortune. The spirit of the old times was abroad. The noise and
clatter of a dance caller bellowed forth as he shouted for everybody to
grab their "podners one an' all, do-se-do, promenade th' hall!" and
Fairchild, as he watched, saw that his lack of dancing ability would
not be a serious handicap. There were many others who did not know the
old numbers. And those who did had worn their hobnailed boots,
sufficient to take the spring out of any one's feet. The women were
doing most of the leading, the men clattered along somewhere in the
rear, laughing and shouting and inadvertently kicking one another on
the shins. The old times had come back, boisterously, happily,--and
every one was living in those days when the hills gushed wealth, and
when poverty to-day might mean riches tomorrow.
Again and again Fairchild's eyes searched the crowds, the multicolored,
overdressed costumes of the women, the old-fashioned affairs with which
many of the men had arrayed themselves, ranging all the way from high
leather boots to frock suits and stovepipe beaver hats. From one face
to another his gaze went; then he turned abstractedly to the long line
of tables, with their devotees of keno, and bought a paddle.
From far away the drone of the caller sounded in a voice familiar, and
Fairchild looked up to see the narrow-eyed, scarred face of Squint
Rodaine, who was officiating at the wheel. He lost interest in the
game; lackadaisically he placed the buttons on their squares as the
numbers were shouted, finally to brush them all aside and desert the
game. His hatred of the Rodaines had grown to a point where he could
enjoy nothing with which they were connected, where he despised
everything with which they had the remotest affiliation,--excepting, of
course, one person. And as he rose, Fairchild saw that she was just
entering the dance hall.
Quaint in an old-fashioned costume which represented more the Civil War
days than it did those of the boom times of silver mining, she seemed
prettier than ever to Robert Fairchild, more girlish, more entrancing.
The big eyes appeared bigger now, peeping from the confines of a poke
bonnet; the little hands seemed smaller with their half-length gloves
and shielded by the enormous peacock feather fan they carried. Only a
moment Fairchild hesitated. Maurice Rodaine, attired in a mauve frock
suit and the inevitable accompanying beaver, had stopped to talk to
some one at the door. She stood alone, looking about the hall,
laughing and nodding,--and then she looked at him! Fairchild did not
wait.
From the platform at the end of the big room the fiddles had begun to
squeak, and the caller was shouting his announcements. Couples began
to line up on the floor. The caller's voice grew louder:
"Two more couples--two more couples! Grab yo' podners!"
Fairchild was elbowing his way swiftly forward, apologizing as he went.
A couple took its place beside the others. Once more the plea of the
caller sounded:
"One more couple--then the dance starts. One more couple, lady an' a
gent! One more--"
"Please!" Robert Fairchild had reached her and was holding forth his
hand. She looked up in half surprise, then demurred.
"But I don't know these old dances."
"Neither do I--or any other, for that matter," he confessed with sudden
boldness. "But does that make any difference? Please!"
She glanced quickly toward the door. Maurice Rodaine was still
talking, and Fairchild saw a little gleam come into her eyes,--the
gleam that shows when a woman decides to make some one pay for
rudeness. Again he begged:
"Won't you--and then we 'll forget. I--I could n't take my payment in
money!"
She eyed him quickly and saw the smile on his lips. From the platform
the caller voiced another entreaty:
"One more cou-ple! Ain't there no lady an' gent that's goin' to fill
out this here dance? One more couple--one more couple!"
Fairchild's hand was still extended. Again Anita Richmond glanced
toward the door, chuckled to herself while Fairchild watched the
dimples that the merriment caused, and then--Fairchild forgot the fact
that he was wearing hobnailed shoes and that his clothes were worn and
old. He was going forward to take his place on the dance floor, and
she was beside him!
Some way, as through a haze, he saw her. Some way he realized that now
and then his hand touched hers, and that once, as they whirled about
the room, in obedience to the monarch on the fiddler's rostrum, his arm
was about her waist, and her head touching his shoulder. It made
little difference whether the dance calls were obeyed after that.
Fairchild was making up for all the years he had plodded, all the years
in which he had known nothing but a slow, grubbing life, living them
all again and rightly, in the few swift moments of a dance.
The music ended, and laughing they returned to the side of the hall.
Out of the haze he heard words, and knew indistinctly that they were
his own:
"Will--will you dance with me again tonight?"
"Selfish!" she chided.
"But will you?"
For just a moment her eyes grew serious.
"Did you ever realize that we 've never been introduced?"
Fairchild was finding more conversation than he ever had believed
possible.
"No--but I realize that I don't care--if you 'll forgive it.
I--believe that I 'm a gentleman."
"So do I--or I would n't have danced with you."
"Then please--"
"Pardon me." She had laid a hand on his arm for just a moment, then
hurried away. Fairchild saw that she was approaching young Rodaine,
scowling in the background. That person shot an angry remark at her as
she approached and followed it with streaming sentences. Fairchild
knew the reason. Jealousy! Couples returning from the dance floor
jostled against him, but he did not move. He was waiting--waiting for
the outcome of the quarrel--and in a moment it came. Anita Richmond
turned swiftly, her dark eyes ablaze, her pretty lips set and firm.
She looked anxiously about her, sighted Fairchild, and then started
toward him, while he advanced to meet her.
"I 've reconsidered," was her brief announcement. "I 'll dance the
next one with you."
"And the next after that?"
Again: "Selfish!"
But Fairchild did not appear to hear.
"And the next and the next and the next!" he urged as the caller issued
his inevitable invitations for couples. Anita smiled.
"Maybe--I 'll think about it."
"I 'll never know how to dance, unless you teach me." Fairchild
pleaded, as they made their way to the center of the floor. "I 'll--"
"Don't work on my sympathies!"
"But it's the truth. I never will."
"S'lute yo' podners!" The dance was on. And while the music squealed
from the rostrum, while the swaying forms some way made the rounds
according to the caller's viewpoint of an old-time dance, Anita
Richmond evidently "thought about it." When the next dance came, they
went again on the floor together, Robert Fairchild and the brown-eyed
girl whom he suddenly realized he loved, without reasoning the past or
the future, without caring whom she might be or what her plans might
contain; a man out of prison lives by impulse, and Fairchild was but
lately released.
A third dance and a fourth, while in the intervals Fairchild's eyes
sought out the sulky, sullen form of Maurice Rodaine, flattened against
the wall, eyes evil, mouth a straight line, and the blackness of hate
discoloring his face. It was as so much wine to Fairchild; he felt
himself really young for the first time in his life. And as the music
started again, he once more turned to his companion.
Only, however, to halt and whirl and stare in surprise. There had come
a shout from the doorway, booming, commanding:
"'Ands up, everybody! And quick about it!"
Some one laughed and jabbed his hands into the air. Another, quickly
sensing a staged surprise, followed the example. It was just the
finishing touch necessary,--the old-time hold-up of the old-time dance.
The "bandit" strode forward.
"Out from be'ind that bar! Drop that gun!" he commanded of the
white-aproned attendant. "Out from that roulette wheel. Everybody
line up! Quick--and there ain't no time for foolin'."
Chattering and laughing, they obeyed, the sheriff, his star gleaming,
standing out in front of them all, shivering in mock fright, his hands
higher than any one's. The bandit, both revolvers leveled, stepped
forward a foot or so, and again ordered speed. Fairchild, standing
with his hands in the air, looked down toward Anita, standing beside
him.
"Is n't it exciting," she exclaimed. "Just like a regular hold-up! I
wonder who the bandit is. He certainly looks the part, does n't he?"
And Fairchild agreed that he did. A bandanna handkerchief was wrapped
about his head, concealing his hair and ears. A mask was over his
eyes, supplemented by another bandanna, which, beginning at the bridge
of his nose, flowed over his chin, cutting off all possible chance of
recognition. Only a second more he waited, then with a wave of the
guns, shouted his command:
"All right, everybody! I'm a decent fellow. Don't want much, but I
want it quick! This 'ere 's for the relief of widders and orphans.
Make it sudden. Each one of you gents step out to the center of the
room and leave five dollars. And step back when you 've put it there.
Ladies stay where you 're at!"
Again a laugh. Fairchild turned to his companion, as she nudged him.
"There, it's your turn."
Out to the center of the floor went Fairchild, the rest of the victims
laughing and chiding him. Back he came in mock fear, his hands in the
air. On down the line went the contributing men. Then the bandit
rushed forward, gathered up the bills and gold pieces, shoved them in
his pockets, and whirled toward the door.
"The purpose of this 'ere will be in the paper to-morrow," he
announced. "And don't you follow me to find out! Back there!"
Two or three laughing men had started forward, among them a fiddler,
who had joined the line, and who now rushed out in flaunting bravery,
brandishing his violin as though to brain the intruder. Again the
command:
"Back there--get back!"
Then the crowd recoiled. Flashes had come from the masked man's guns,
the popping of electric light globes above and the showering of glass
testifying to the fact that they had contained something more than mere
wadding. Somewhat dazed, the fiddler continued his rush, suddenly to
crumple and fall, while men milled and women screamed. A door slammed,
the lock clicked, and the crowd rushed for the windows. The hold-up
had been real after all,--instead of a planned, joking affair. On the
floor the fiddler lay gasping--and bleeding. And the bandit was gone.
All in a moment the dance hall seemed to have gone mad. Men were
rushing about and shouting; panic-stricken women clawed at one another
and fought their way toward a freedom they could not gain. Windows
crashed as forms hurtled against them; screams sounded. Hurriedly, as
the crowd massed thicker, Fairchild raised the small form of Anita in
his arms and carried her to a chair, far at one side.
"It's all right now," he said, calming her. "Everything 's over--look,
they 're helping the fiddler to his feet. Maybe he 's not badly hurt.
Everything 's all right--"
And then he straightened. A man had unlocked the door from the outside
and had rushed into the dance hall, excited, shouting. It was Maurice
Rodaine.
"I know who it was," he almost screamed. "I got a good look at
him--jumped out of the window and almost headed him off. He took off
his mask outside--and I saw him."
"You saw him--?" A hundred voices shouted the question at once.
"Yes." Then Maurice Rodaine nodded straight toward Robert Fairchild.
"The light was good, and I got a straight look at him. He was that
fellow's partner--a Cornishman they call Harry!"