The four men on the “Zip Coon” Ledge had not got fairly settled to their
morning's work. There was the usual lingering hesitation which is apt to
attend the taking-up of any regular or monotonous performance, shown in
this instance in the prolonged scrutiny of a pick's point, the solemn
selection of a shovel, or the “hefting” or weighing of a tapping-iron or
drill. One member, becoming interested in a funny paragraph he found in
the scrap of newspaper wrapped around his noonday cheese, shamelessly
sat down to finish it, regardless of the prospecting pan thrown at him
by another. They had taken up their daily routine of mining life like
schoolboys at their tasks.
“Hello!” said Ned Wyngate, joyously recognizing a possible further
interruption. “Blamed if the Express rider ain't comin' here!”
He was shading his eyes with his hand as he gazed over the broad
sun-baked expanse of broken “flat” between them and the highroad. They
all looked up, and saw the figure of a mounted man, with a courier's
bag thrown over his shoulder, galloping towards them. It was really
an event, as their letters were usually left at the grocery at the
crossroads.
“I knew something was goin' to happen,” said Wyngate. “I didn't feel a
bit like work this morning.”
Here one of their number ran off to meet the advancing horseman. They
watched him until they saw the latter rein up, and hand a brown envelope
to their messenger, who ran breathlessly back with it to the Ledge as
the horseman galloped away again.
“A telegraph for Jackson Wells,” he said, handing it to the young man
who had been reading the scrap of paper.
There was a dead silence. Telegrams were expensive rarities in those
days, especially with the youthful Bohemian miners of the Zip Coon
Ledge. They were burning with curiosity, yet a singular thing happened.
Accustomed as they had been to a life of brotherly familiarity and
unceremoniousness, this portentous message from the outside world of
civilization recalled their old formal politeness. They looked steadily
away from the receiver of the telegram, and he on his part stammered an
apologetic “Excuse me, boys,” as he broke the envelope.
There was another pause, which seemed to be interminable to the waiting
partners. Then the voice of Wells, in quite natural tones, said, “By
gum! that's funny! Read that, Dexter,--read it out loud.”
Dexter Rice, the foreman, took the proffered telegram from Wells's hand,
and read as follows:--
Your uncle, Quincy Wells, died yesterday, leaving you sole heir. Will
attend you to-morrow for instructions.