Fairchild did not hesitate. Scraping the watery conglomeration into a
tobacco can, he threw on his coat and ran for the shaft. Then he
pulled himself up, singing, and dived into the fresh-made drifts of a
new storm as he started toward town; nor did he stop to investigate the
fast fading footprints of some one who evidently had passed the mine a
short time before. Fairchild was too happy to notice such things just
now; in a tin can in his side pocket was a blackish, muggy mixture
which might mean worlds to him; he was hurrying to receive the verdict,
which could come only from the retorts and tests of one man, the
assayer.
Into town and through it to the scrambling buildings of the Sampler,
where the main products of the mines of Ohadi found their way before
going to the smelter. There he swung wide the door and turned to the
little room on the left, the sanctum of a white-haired, almost
tottering old man who wandered about among his test tubes and "buttons"
as he figured out the various weights and values of the ores as the
samples were brought to him from the dirty, dusty, bin-filled rooms of
the Sampler proper. A queer light came into the old fellow's eyes as
he looked into those of Robert Fairchild.
"Don't get 'em too high!" he admonished.
Fairchild stared.
"What?"
"Hopes. I 've seen many a fellow come in just like you. I 've been
here thirty year. They call me Old Undertaker Chastine!"
Fairchild laughed.
"But I'm hoping--"
"Yep, Son." Undertaker Chastine looked over his glasses. "You 're
just like all the rest. You 're hoping. That's what they all do; they
come in here with their eyes blazing like a grate fire and their faces
all lighted up as bright as an Italian cathedral. And they tell me
they 've got the world by the tail. Then I take their specimens and I
put 'em over the hurdles,--and half the time they go out wishing there
was n't any such person in the world as an assayer. Boy," and he
pursed his lips, "I 've buried more fortunes than you could shake a
stick at. I 've seen men come in here millionaires and go out
paupers--just because I 've had to tell 'em the truth. And I 'm
soft-hearted. I would n't kill a flea--not even if it was eatin' up
the best bird dog that ever set a pa'tridge. And just because o' that,
I 've adopted the system of taking all hope out of a fellow right in
the beginning. Then if you 've really got something, it's a joyful
surprise. If you ain't, the disappointment don't hurt so much. So
trot 'er out and let the old Undertaker have a look at 'er. But I 'm
telling you right at the start that it won't amount to much."
Sobered now, Fairchild reached for his tobacco can, which had been
stuffed full of every scrap of slime that he and 'Arry had been able to
drag from the powder hole. Evidently, his drill had been in the ore,
whatever it was, for some time before he realized it; the can was
heavy, exceedingly heavy, giving evidence of purity of something at
least. But Undertaker Chastine shook his head.
"Can't tell," he announced. "Feels heavy, looks black and all that.
But it might not be anything but straight lead with a sprinkling of
silver. I 've seen stuff that looked a lot better than this not run
more 'n fifteen dollars to the ton. And then again--"
He began to tinker about with his pottery. He dragged out a scoop from
somewhere and prepared various white powders. Then he turned to the
furnace, with its high-chimneyed draft, and filled a container with the
contents of the tobacco can.
"Let 'er roast, Son," he announced. "That's the only way. Let 'er
roast--and while it's getting hot, well, you just cool your heels."
Long waiting--while the eccentric old assayer told doleful tales of
other days, tales of other men who had rushed in, just like Fairchild,
with their sample of ore, only to depart with the knowledge that they
were no richer than before, days when the news of the demonetization of
silver swooped down upon the little town like some black tornado,
closing down the mines, shutting up the gambling halls and great
saloons, nailing up the doors, even of the Sampler, for years to come.
"Them was the times when there was a lot of undertakers around here
besides me," Chastine went on. "Everybody was an undertaker then.
Lor', Boy, how that thing hit. We 'd been getting along pretty well at
ninety-five cents and a dollar an ounce for silver, and there was men
around here wearing hats that was the biggest in the shop, but that did
n't come anywhere near fittin' 'em. And then, all of a sudden, it hit!
We used to get in all our quotations in those days over the telephone,
and every morning I 'd phone down to Old Man Saxby that owned the
Sampler then to find out how the New York market stood. The treasury,
you know, had been buying up three or four million ounces of silver a
month for minting. Then some high-falutin' Congressman got the idea
they didn't want to do that any more, and he began to talk. Well, one
morning, I telephoned down, and silver 'd dropped to eighty-five. The
next morning it went to seventy. The House or the Senate, I 've
forgotten which, had passed the demonetization bill. After that,
things dragged along and then--I telephoned down again.
"'What's the quotation on silver?' I asked him."
"'Hell,' says Old Man Saxby, 'there ain't any quotation! Close 'er
up--close up everything. They 've passed the demonetization bill, the
president 's going to sign it, and you ain't got a job.'
"And young feller--" Old Undertaker Chastine looked over his glasses
again, "that was some real disappointment. And it's a lot worse than
you 're liable to get in a minute."
He turned to the furnace and took out the pottery dish in which the
sample had been smelting, white-hot now. He cooled it and tinkered
with his chemicals. He fussed with his scales, he adjusted his
glasses, he coughed once or twice in an embarrassed manner; finally to
turn to Fairchild.
"Young man," he queried, "it ain't any of my business, but where 'd you
get this ore?"
"Out of my mine, the Blue Poppy!"
"Sure you ain't been visiting?"
"What do you mean?" Fairchild was staring at him in wonderment.
Old Undertaker Chastine rubbed his hands on his big apron and continued
to look over his glasses.
"What 'll you take for the Blue Poppy mine, Son?"
"Why--it's not for sale."
"Sure it ain't going to be--soon?"
"Absolutely not." Then Fairchild caught the queer look in the man's
eyes. "What do you mean by all these questions? Is that good ore--or
is n't it?"
"Son, just one more question--and I hope you won't get mad at me. I 'm
a funny old fellow, and I do a lot of things that don't seem right at
the beginning. But I 've saved a few young bloods like you from
trouble more than once. You ain't been high-grading?"
"You mean--"
"Just exactly what I said--wandering around somebody else's property
and picking up a few samples, as it were, to mix in with your own
product? Or planting them where they can be found easily by a
prospective buyer?"
Fairchild's chin set, and his arms moved slowly. Then he
laughed--laughed at the small, white-haired, eccentric old man who
through his very weakness had the strength to ask insulting questions.
"No--I 'll give you my word I have n't been high-grading," he said at
last. "My partner and I drilled a hole in the foot wall of the stope
where we were working, hoping to find the rest of a vein that was
pinching out on us. And we got this stuff. Is it any good?"
"Is it good?" Again Old Undertaker Chastine looked over his glasses.
"That's just the trouble. It's too good--it's so good that it seems
there's something funny about it. Son, that stuff assays within a
gram, almost, of the ore they 're taking out of the Silver Queen!"
"What's that?" Fairchild had leaped forward and grasped the other man
by the shoulders, his eyes agleam, his whole being trembling with
excitement. "You're not kidding me about it? You're sure--you 're
sure?"
"Absolutely! That's why I was so careful for a minute. I thought
maybe you had been doing a little high-grading or had been up there and
sneaked away some of the ore for a salting proposition. Boy, you 've
got a bonanza, if this holds out."
"And it really--"
"It's almost identical. I never saw two samples of ore that were more
alike. Let's see, the Blue Poppy's right up Kentucky Gulch, not so
very far away from the Silver Queen, is n't it? Then there must be a
tremendous big vein concealed around there somewhere that splits, one
half of it running through the mountain in one direction and the other
cutting through on the opposite side. It looks like peaches and cream
for you, Son. How thick is it?"
"I don't know. We just happened to put a drill in there and this is
some of the scrapings."
"You have n't cut into it at all, then?"
"Not unless Harry, my partner, has put in a shot since I 've been gone.
As soon as we saw that we were into ore, I hurried away to come down
here to get an assay."
"Well, Son, now you can hurry back and begin cutting into a fortune.
If that vein's only four inches wide, you 've got plenty to keep you
for the rest of your life."
"It must be more than that--the drill must have been into it several
inches before I ever noticed it. I 'd been scraping the muck out of
there without paying much attention. It looked so hopeless."
Undertaker Chastine turned to his work.
"Then hurry along, Son. I suppose," he asked, as he looked over his
glasses for the last time, "that you don't want me to say anything
about it?"
"Not until--"
"You 're sure. I know. Well, good news is awful hard to keep--but I
'll do my best. Run along."
And Fairchild "ran." Whistling and happy, he turned out of the office
of the Sampler and into the street, his coat open, his big cap high on
his head, regardless of the sweep of the cold wind and the fine snow
that it carried on its icy breath. Through town he went, bumping into
pedestrians now and then, and apologizing in a vacant, absent manner.
The waiting of months was over, and Fairchild at last was beginning to
see his dreams come true. Like a boy, he turned up Kentucky Gulch,
bucking the big drifts and kicking the snow before him in flying,
splattering spray, stopping his whistling now and then to
sing,--foolish songs without words or rhyme or rhythm, the songs of a
heart too much engrossed with the joy of living to take cognizance of
mere rules of melody!
So this was the reason that Rodaine had acknowledged the value of the
mine that day in court! This was the reason for the mysterious offer
of fifty thousand dollars and for the later one of nearly a quarter of
a million! Rodaine had known; Rodaine had information, and Rodaine had
been willing to pay to gain possession of what now appeared to be a
bonanza. But Rodaine had failed. And Fairchild had won!
Won! But suddenly he realized that there was a blankness about it all.
He had won money, it is true. But all the money in the world could not
free him from the taint that had been left upon him by a coroner's
investigation, from the hint that still remained in the recommendation
of the grand jury that the murder of Sissie Larsen be looked into
further. Nor could it remove the stigma of the four charges against
Harry, which soon were to come to trial, and without a bit of evidence
to combat them. Riches could do much--but they could not aid in that
particular, and somewhat sobered by the knowledge, Fairchild turned
from the main road and on up through the high-piled snow to the mouth
of the Blue Poppy mine.
A faint acrid odor struck his nostrils as he started to descend the
shaft, the "perfume" of exploded dynamite, and it sent anew into
Fairchild's heart the excitement and intensity of the strike.
Evidently Harry had shot the deep hole, and now, there in the chamber,
was examining the result, which must, by this time, give some idea of
the extent of the ore and the width of the vein. Fairchild pulled on
the rope with enthusiastic strength, while the bucket bumped and
swirled about the shaft in descent. A moment more and he had reached
the bottom, to leap from the carrier, light his carbide lamp which hung
where he had left it on the timbers, and start forward.
The odor grew heavier. Fairchild held his light before him and looked
far ahead, wondering why he could not see the gleam from Harry's lamp.
He shouted. There was no answer, and he went on.
Fifty feet! Seventy-five! Then he stopped short with a gasp. Twisted
and torn before him were the timbers of the tunnel, while muck and
refuse lay everywhere. A cave-in--another cave-in--at almost the exact
spot where the one had occurred years before, shutting off the chamber
from communication with the shaft, tearing and rending the new timbers
which had been placed there and imprisoning Harry behind them!
Fairchild shouted again and again, only gaining for his answer the
ghostlike echoes of his own voice as they traveled to the shaft and
were thrown back again. He tore off his coat and cap, and attacked the
timbers like the fear-maddened man he was, dragging them by superhuman
force out of the way and clearing a path to the refuse. Then, running
along the little track, he searched first on one side, then the other,
until, nearly at the shaft, he came upon a miner's pick and a shovel.
With these, he returned to the task before him.
Hours passed, while the sweat poured from his forehead and while his
muscles seemed to tear themselves loose from their fastenings with the
exertion that was placed upon them. Foot after foot, the muck was torn
away, as Fairchild, with pick and shovel, forced a tunnel through the
great mass of rocky debris which choked the drift. Onward--onward--at
last to make a small opening in the barricade, and to lean close to it
that he might shout again. But still there was no answer.
Feverish now, Fairchild worked with all the reserve strength that was
in him. He seized great chunks of rock that he could not even have
budged at an ordinary time and threw them far behind him. His pick
struck again and again with a vicious, clanging reverberation; the hole
widened. Once more Fairchild leaned toward it.
"Harry!" he called. "Harry!"
But there was no answer. Again he shouted, then he returned to his
work, his heart aching in unison with his muscles. Behind that broken
mass, Fairchild felt sure, was his partner, torn, bleeding through the
effects of some accident, he did not know what, past answering his
calls, perhaps dead. Greater became the hole in the cave-in; soon it
was large enough to admit his body. Seizing his carbide lamp,
Fairchild made for the opening and crawled through, hurrying onward
toward the chamber where the stope began, calling Harry's name at every
step, in vain. The shadows before him lengthened, as the chamber gave
greater play to the range of light. Fairchild rushed within, held high
his carbide and looked about him. But no crumpled form of a man lay
there, no bruised, torn human being. The place was empty, except for
the pile of stone and refuse which had been torn away by dynamite
explosions in the hanging wall, where Harry evidently had shot away the
remaining refuse in a last effort to see what lay in that
direction,--stones and muck which told nothing. On the other side--
Fairchild stared blankly. The hole that he had made into the foot wall
had been filled with dynamite and tamped, as though ready for shooting.
But the charge had not been exploded. Instead--on the ground lay the
remainder of the tamping paper and a short foot and a half of fuse,
with its fulminate of mercury cap attached, where it had been pulled
from its berth by some great force and hastily stamped out. And Harry--
Harry was gone!