After this, there was little conversation until Harry and Fairchild had
reached the boarding house. Then, with Mother Howard for an adviser,
the three gathered in the old parlor, and Fairchild related the events
of the night before, adding what had happened at the post-office, when
Anita had passed him without speaking. Mother Howard, her arms folded
as usual, bobbed her gray head.
"It's like her, Son," she announced at last. "She 's a good girl. I
've known her ever since she was a little tad not big enough to walk.
And she loves her father."
"But--"
"She loves her father. Is n't that enough? The Rodaines have the
money--and they have almost everything that Judge Richmond owns. It's
easy enough to guess what they 've done with it--tied it up so that he
can't touch it until they 're ready for him to do it. And they 're not
going to do that until they 've gotten what they want."
"Which is--?"
"Anita! Any fool ought to be able to know that. Of course," she added
with an acrid smile, "persons that are so head over heels in love
themselves that they can't see ten feet in front of them would n't be
able to understand it--but other people can. The Rodaines know they
can't do anything directly with Anita. She would n't stand for it.
She 's not that kind of a girl. They know that money does n't mean
anything to her--and what's more, they 've been forced to see that
Anita ain't going to turn handsprings just for the back-action honor of
marrying a Rodaine. Anita could marry a lot richer fellows than
Maurice Rodaine ever dreamed of being, if she wanted to--and there
wouldn't be any scoundrel of a father, or any graveyard wandering,
crazy mother to go into the bargain. And they realize it. But they
realize too, that there ain't a chance of them losing out as long as
her father's happiness depends on doing what they want her to do. So,
after all, ain't it easy to see the whole thing?"
"To you, possibly. But not to me."
Mother Howard pressed her lips in exasperation.
"Just go back over it," she recapitulated. "She got mad at him at the
dance last night, did n't she? He 'd done something rude--from the way
you tell it. Then you sashayed up and asked her to dance every dance
with you. You don't suppose that was because you were so tall and
handsome, do you?"
"Well--" Fairchild smiled ruefully--"I was hoping that it was because
she rather liked me."
"Suppose it was? But she rather likes a lot of people. You understand
women just like a pig understands Sunday--you don't know anything about
'em. She was mad at Maurice Rodaine and she wanted to give him a
lesson. She never thought about the consequences. After the dance was
over, just like the sniveling little coward he is, he got his father
and went to the Richmond house. There they began laying out the old
man because he had permitted his daughter to do such a disgraceful
thing as to dance with a man she wanted to dance with instead of
kowtowing and butting her head against the floor every time Maurice
Rodaine crooked his finger. And they were n't gentle about it. What
was the result? Poor old Judge Richmond got excited and had another
stroke. And what did Anita do naturally--just like a woman? She got
the high-strikes and then you came rushing in. After that, she calmed
down and had a minute to think of what might be before her. That
stroke last night was the second one for the Judge. There usually
ain't any more after the third one. Now, can't you see why Anita is
willing to do anything on earth just to keep peace and just to give her
father a little rest and comfort and happiness in the last days of his
life? You 've got to remember that he ain't like an ordinary father
that you can go to and tell all your troubles. He 's laying next door
to death, and Anita, just like any woman that's got a great, big, good
heart in her, is willing to face worse than death to help him. It's as
plain to me as the nose on Harry's face."
"Which is quite plain," agreed Fairchild ruefully. Harry rubbed the
libeled proboscis, pawed at his mustache and fidgeted in his chair.
"I understand that, all right," he announced at last. "But why should
anybody want to buy the mine?"
It brought Fairchild to the realization of a new development, and he
brought forth the letter, once more to stare at it.
"Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money," came at last. "It would
pretty near pay us for coming out here, Harry."
"That it would."
"And what then?" Mother Howard, still looking through uncolored
glasses, took the letter and scanned it. "You two ain't quitters, are
you?"
"'Oo, us?" Harry bristled.
"Yes, you. If you are, get yourselves a piece of paper and write to
Denver and take the offer. If you ain't--keep on fighting."
"I believe you 're right, Mother Howard."
Fairchild had reached for the letter again and was staring at it as
though for inspiration. "That amount of money seems to be a great
deal. Still, if a person will offer that much for a mine when there 's
nothing in sight to show its value, it ought to mean that there's
something dark in the woodpile and that the thing 's worth fighting
out. And personally speaking, I 'm willing to fight!"
"I never quit in my life!" Harry straightened in his chair and his
mustache stuck forth pugnaciously. Mother Howard looked down at him,
pressed her lips, then smiled.
"No," she announced, "except to run away like a whipped pup after you
'd gotten a poor lonely boarding-house keeper in love with you!"
"Mother 'Oward, I 'll--"
But the laughing, gray-haired woman had scrambled through the doorway
and slammed the door behind her, only to open it a second later and
poke her head within.
"Need n't think because you can hold up a dance hall and get away with
it, you can use cave-man stuff on me!" she admonished. And in that one
sentence was all the conversation necessary regarding the charges
against Harry, as far as Mother Howard was concerned. She did n't
believe them, and Harry's face showed that the world had become bright
and serene again. He swung his great arms as though to loosen the big
muscles of his shoulders. He pecked at his mustache. Then he turned
to Fairchild.
"Well," he asked, "what do we do? Go up to the mine--just like nothing
'ad ever 'appened?"
"Exactly. Wait until I change my clothes. Then we 'll be ready to
start. I 'm not even going to dignify this letter by replying to it.
And for one principal reason--" he added--"that I think the Rodaines
have something to do with it."
'"Ow so?"
"I don't know. It's only a conjecture; I guess the connection comes
from the fact that Squint put a good valuation on the mine this morning
in court. And if it is any of his doings--then the best thing in the
world is to forget it. I 'll be ready in a moment."
An hour later they entered the mouth of the Blue Poppy tunnel, once
more to start the engines and to resume the pumping, meanwhile
struggling back and forth with timbers from the mountain side, as they
began the task of rehabilitating the tunnel where it had caved in just
beyond the shaft. It was the beginning of a long task; well enough
they knew that far below there would be much more of this to do, many
days of back-breaking labor in which they must be the main
participants, before they ever could hope to begin their real efforts
in search of ore.
And so, while the iron-colored water gushed from the pump tubes. Harry
and Fairchild made their trips, scrambling ones as they went outward,
struggling ones as they came back, dragging the "stulls" or heavy
timbers which would form the main supports, the mill-stakes, or lighter
props, the laggs and spreaders, all found in the broken, well-seasoned
timber of the mountain side, all necessary for the work which was
before them. The timbering of a mine is not an easy task. One by one
the heavy props must be put into place, each to its station, every one
in a position which will furnish the greatest resistance against the
tremendous weight from above, the constant inclination of the earth to
sink and fill the man-made excavations. For the earth is a jealous
thing; its own caverns it makes and preserves judiciously. Those made
by the hand of humanity call forth the resistance of gravity and of
disintegration, and it takes measures of strength and power to combat
them. That day, Harry and Fairchild worked with all their strength at
the beginning of a stint that would last--they did not, could not know
how long. And they worked together. Their plan of a day and night
shift had been abandoned; the trouble engendered by their first attempt
had been enough to shelve that sort of program.
Hour after hour they toiled, until the gray mists hung low over the
mountain tops, until the shadows lengthened and twilight fell. The
engines ceased their chugging, the coughing swirl of the dirty water as
it came from the drift, far below, stopped. Slowly two weary men
jogged down the rutty road to the narrow, winding highway which led
through Kentucky Gulch and into town. But they were happy with a new
realization: that they were actively at work, that something had been
accomplished by their labors, and progress made in spite of the
machinations of malignant men, in spite of the malicious influences of
the past and of the present, and in spite of the powers of Nature.
It was a new, a grateful life to Fairchild. It gave him something else
to think about than the ponderings upon the mysterious events which
seemed to whirl, like a maelstrom, about him. And more, it gave him
little time to think at all, for that night he did not lie awake to
stare about him in the darkness. Muscles were aching in spite of their
inherent strength. His head pounded from the pressure of intensified
heart action. His eyes closed wearily, yet with a wholesome fatigue.
Nor did he wake until Harry was pounding on the door in the dawn of the
morning.
Their meal came before the dining room was regularly open. Mother
Howard herself flipping the flapjacks and frying the eggs which formed
their breakfast, meanwhile finding the time to pack their lunch
buckets. Then out into the crisp air of morning they went, and back to
their labors.
Once more the pumps; once more the struggle against the heavy timbers;
once more the "clunk" of the axe as it bit deep into wood, or the
pounding of hammers as great spikes were driven into place. Late that
afternoon they turned to a new duty,--that of mucking away the dirt and
rotted logs from a place that once had been impassable. The timbering
of the broken-down portion of the tunnel just behind the shaft had been
repaired, and Harry flipped the sweat away from his broad forehead with
an action of relief.
"Not that it does us any particular good," he announced. "There ain't
nothing back there that we can get at. But it's room we 'll need when
we start working down below, and we might as well 'ave it fixed up--"
He ceased suddenly and ran to the pumps. A peculiar gurgling sound had
come from the ends of the hose, and the flow depreciated greatly;
instead of the steady gush of water, a slimy silt was coming out now,
spraying and splattering about on the sides of the drainage ditch.
Wildly Harry waved a monstrous paw.
"Shut 'em off!" he yelled to Fairchild in the dimness of the tunnel.
"It's sucking the muck out of the sump!"
"Out of the what?" Fairchild had killed the engines and run forward to
where Harry, one big hand behind the carbide flare, was peering down
the shaft.
"The sump--it's a little 'ole at the bottom of the shaft to 'old any
water that 'appens to seep in. That means the 'ole drift is unwatered."
"Then the pumping job 's over?"
"Yeh." Harry rose. "You stay 'ere and dismantle the pumps, so we can
send 'em back. I 'll go to town. We 've got to buy some stuff."
Then he started off down the trail, while Fairchild went to his work.
And he sang as he dragged at the heavy hose, pulling it out of the
shaft and coiling it at the entrance to the tunnel, as he put skids
under the engines, and moved them, inch by inch, to the outer air.
Work was before him, work which was progressing toward a goal that he
had determined to seek, in spite of all obstacles. The mysterious
offer which he had received gave evidence that something awaited him,
that some one knew the real value of the Blue Poppy mine, and that if
he could simply stick to his task, if he could hold to the unwavering
purpose to win in spite of all the blocking pitfalls that were put in
his path, some day, some time, the reward would be worth its price.
More, the conversation with Mother Howard on the previous morning had
been comforting; it had given a woman's viewpoint upon another woman's
actions. And Fairchild intuitively believed she was correct. True,
she had talked of others who might have hopes in regard to Anita
Richmond; in fact, Fairchild had met one of those persons in the
lawyer, Randolph Farrell. But just the same it all was cheering. It
is man's supreme privilege to hope.
And so Fairchild was happy and somewhat at ease for the first time in
weeks. Out at the edge of the mine, as he made his trips, he stopped
now and then to look at something he had disregarded previously,--the
valley stretching out beneath him, the three hummocks of the far-away
range, named Father, Mother and Child by some romantic mountaineer; the
blue-gray of the hills as they stretched on, farther and farther into
the distance, gradually whitening until they resolved themselves into
the snowy range, with the gaunt, high-peaked summit of Mount Evans
scratching the sky in the distance.
There was a shimmer in the air, through which the trees were turned
into a bluer green, and the crags of the mountains made softer, the
gaping scars of prospect holes less lonely and less mournful with their
ever-present story of lost hopes. On a great boulder far at one side a
chipmunk chattered. Far down the road an ore train clattered along on
the way to the Sampler,--that great middleman institution which is a
part of every mining camp, and which, like the creamery station at the
cross roads, receives the products of the mines, assays them by its
technically correct system of four samples and four assayers to every
shipment, and buys them, with its allowances for freight, smelting
charges and the innumerable expenditures which must be made before
money can become money in reality. Fairchild sang louder than ever, a
wordless tune, an old tune, engendered in his brain upon a
paradoxically happy and unhappy night,--that of the dance when he had
held Anita Richmond in his arms, and she had laughed up at him as, by
her companionship, she had paid the debt of the Denver road. Fairchild
had almost forgotten that. Now, with memory, his brow puckered, and
his song died slowly away.
"What the dickens was she doing?" he asked himself at last. "And why
should she have wanted so terribly to get away from that sheriff?"
There was no answer. Besides, he had promised to ask for none. And
further, a shout from the road, accompanied by the roaring of a motor
truck, announced the fact that Harry was making his return.
Five men were with him, to help him carry in ropes, heavy pulleys,
weights and a large metal shaft bucket, then to move out the smaller of
the pumps and trundle away with them, leaving the larger one and the
larger engine for a single load. At last Harry turned to his
paraphernalia and rolled up his sleeves.
"'Ere 's where we work!" he announced. "It's us for a pulley and
bucket arrangement until we can get the 'oist to working and the skip
to running. 'Elp me 'eave a few timbers."
It was the beginning of a three-days' job, the building of a heavy
staging over the top of the shaft, the affixing of the great pulley and
then the attachment of the bucket at one end, and the skip, loaded with
pig iron, on the other. Altogether, it formed a sort of crude,
counterbalanced elevator, by which they might lower themselves into the
shaft, with various bumpings and delays,--but which worked
successfully, nevertheless. Together they piled into the big, iron
bucket. Harry lugging along spikes and timbers and sledges and ropes.
Then, pulling away at the cable which held the weights, they furnished
the necessary gravity to travel downward.
An eerie journey, faced on one side by the crawling rope of the skip as
it traveled along the rusty old track on its watersoaked ties, on the
others by the still dripping timbers of the aged shaft and its broken,
rotting ladder, while the carbide lanterns cast shadows about, while
the pulley above creaked and the eroded wheels of the skip squeaked and
protested! Downward--a hundred feet--and they collided with the
upward-bound skip, to fend off from it and start on again. The air
grew colder, more moist. The carbides spluttered and flared. Then a
slight bump, and they were at the bottom. Fairchild started to crawl
out from the bucket, only to resume his old position as Harry yelled
with fright.
"Don't do it!" gulped the Cornishman. "Do you want me to go up like a
skyrocket? Them weights is all at the top. We 've got to fix a plug
down 'ere to 'old this blooming bucket or it 'll go up and we 'll stay
down!"
Working from the side of the bucket, still held down by the weight of
the two men, they fashioned a catch, or lock, out of a loop of rope
attached to heavy spikes, and fastened it taut.
"That 'll 'old," announced the big Cornishman. "Out we go!"
Fairchild obeyed with alacrity. He felt now that he was really coming
to something, that he was at the true beginning of his labors. Before
him the drift tunnel, damp and dripping and dark, awaited, seeming to
throw back the flare of the carbides as though to shield the treasures
which might lie beyond. Harry started forward a step, then pausing,
shifted his carbide and laid a hand on his companion's shoulder.
"Boy," he said slowly, "we 're starting at something now--and I don't
know where it's going to lead us. There's a cave-in up 'ere, and if we
're ever going to get anywhere in this mine, we 'll 'ave to go past it.
And I 'm afraid of what we 're going to find when we cut our wye
through!"
Clouds of the past seemed to rise and float past Fairchild. Clouds
which carried visions of a white, broken old man sitting by a window,
waiting for death, visions of an old safe and a letter it contained.
For a long, long moment, there was silence. Then came Harry's voice
again.
"I 'm afraid it ain't going to be good news, Boy. But there ain't no
wye to get around it. It's got to come out sometime--things like that
won't stay 'idden forever. And your father 's gone now--gone where it
can't 'urt 'im."
"I know," answered Fairchild in a queer, husky voice. "He must have
known, Harry--he must have been willing that it come, now that he is
gone. He wrote me as much."
"It's that or nothing. If we sell the mine, some one else will find
it. And we can't 'it the vein without following the drift to the
stope. But you're the one to make the decision."
Again, a long moment; again, in memory, Fairchild was standing in a
gloomy, old-fashioned room, reading a letter he had taken from a dusty
safe. Finally his answer came:
"He told me to go ahead, if necessary. And we 'll go, Harry."