The Opened Door
It was nearly Thanksgiving time, and it seemed months to Willis since he
had been to Buffalo Roost. Mrs. Thornton had almost decided to return to
her father's since the death of her sister, but Willis had objected
seriously. He was determined to unravel the mine mystery before they
left. They were still living at the Williams's home, but they saw very
little of the uncle. The death of his wife had been a severe blow to him,
and he had been spending long periods of time in the mountains--no one
seemed to know just where.
During Thanksgiving vacation Mr. Allen was going to have a three days'
camp at the Roost, so Ham and Willis were planning on making a
preliminary trip, to find out how deep the snow was and just what
condition the canyon was in.
The circus was over, and had been a big success; enough money had been
raised to pay all the debts and leave a nice amount for future
improvements. Meanwhile Ham and Willis had become inseparable companions,
so much so, that Willis had taken him into the mystery of his father's
mine. Very often they had talked it over together, but neither had yet
arrived at any satisfactory conclusions. The day chosen for their trip
turned out to be bitter cold; but the other fellows were depending on
them, and they must not fail. They found it very difficult to climb
the hogsback because of the snow, so when they reached the railroad they
decided to follow it to Fairview rather than attempt the canyon trail. As
they plodded on they grew very cold.
"There is a dandy little pile of pitch-pine shavings on the hearth," said
Ham; "it won't take long to get a fire. We'll play a joke on this cold
snap yet, when we get inside the cabin." The walking was not bad until
they reached the crest, but here the trail lay on the south side and
was completely filled with snow. Many of the drifts were shoulder-deep,
so it took them nearly an hour to force their way from the ridge to the
cabin. Ham, to his surprise, had great difficulty in opening the lock; it
was evident that it had been tampered with. As they entered, he noticed
that his little pile of shavings were gone from the hearth. Some one had
been inside!
How much heat it seemed to take that night to warm that frigid air! They
piled in the great logs until the fireplace was full, and still they had
to sit close to keep warm. Slowly the cold was driven out, and the cabin
became more comfortable. Willis took the water bucket and an ax and went
out to the stream for water, but the ice was a foot thick and the water
so cold that it froze in the bucket before he got it back to the cabin.
As he set the bucket on the shelf, he noticed that the mirror which hung
above the bucket was broken into a thousand pieces. No doubt a bullet had
come in through the chinking. Was this a declaration of war? Or had
some rowdy just been showing off? They examined things carefully, but
found nothing missing but the chips, not even food. Ham could not imagine
why the kindling had been removed from the hearth, for he was positive
that no fire had been built in either the stove or the fireplace since
they had last been there.
After they had warmed sufficiently, they began to think of supper. Ham
selected a can of clam soup from the shelf and opened it, but it was
frozen solid. He set it by the fire to thaw out and made a second
selection. This time he chose a can of beans, but found them in the same
condition. He looked in the bread box--the rye-bread was as hard as a
bullet. They pulled the table close up before the fire and made out a
supper, the best thing on the menu being a pot of boiling-hot tea.
After supper they pulled down the blankets and carefully warmed them
before the fire. Then the two boys sat and planned concerning the coming
camp until they grew sleepy. After a great pine knot had been placed for
the night log, the boys slipped into bed between at least a dozen
blankets.
Just before going to bed, Willis prepared a few choice slivers so that a
fire could be quickly started in the morning, and he left them in a
little pile on the hearth. In the night he heard strange noises down on
the floor, but, because it was so cold, he did not venture out to
investigate, and in the morning every chip was gone. The mystery of the
chips grew deeper.
They lay in bed late next morning, for the cabin was cold and dark and
they were so comfortable. Time was nothing to them that day. As they lay,
chatting, Ham suddenly squeezed Willis's arm, then raised on his elbow to
listen. He heard voices, and they were coming up the canyon. He crawled
to where he could peep out of the window, but all he could see were the
feet of two men and a dog. The cabin was very cold, so he slipped back
between the blankets to warm and talk it over with Willis. About nine
o'clock they got up, still wondering what could have brought men into
that canyon on such a morning.
Surely there was no hunting, and why should men from the claim in the
other gulch be coming up through Buffalo Park? The boys were bothered.
They were just sitting down to a breakfast of steaming-hot cakes when
from somewhere up in the timber came the clear sound of some one
hammering on metal, heavy blow after blow. Ham paused, listened
attentively, a forkful of hot cake raised half-way to his mouth. The
sound came very clearly and at regular intervals.
"Sounds like some one pounding a stone drill; perhaps they are going to
do some blasting!"
Willis rose from his seat, threw open the door, and looked up the snowy
hillside. He was right--the sound came from the direction of his father's
mine.
"What on earth would any one be blasting up there for?" he said, half to
himself. He was thinking of what Ben had told him the last time he was at
the Roost. Ham had also risen from the table and stood looking out over
Willis's shoulder. The bark of a dog came floating down the canyon.
Suddenly there was a sharp rattle in the corner of the cabin, followed by
a heavy thud. Ham turned quickly, just in time to see the ax fall to the
floor from its place in the corner. Willis felt a long, cold shiver creep
up his back. The ax had been laid on top of the little stove in the
corner, and something had caused it to fall.
"Spooks," laughed Ham dryly.
"What made that ax fall?" questioned Willis in a voice which betrayed his
feeling. They advanced cautiously toward the corner. There was a scamper
of tiny feet, and a large gray rat bounded across the floor and dropped
out of sight through a long opening between the floor and the wall. In a
moment Willis was down on his hands and knees, investigating.
"Well, of all things," he said, as he looked up laughingly at Ham; "we
have located our mysterious robber. Here are all of our precious fire
starters." Ham stooped to see for himself, and there, under the stove in
the corner, was a neat little pile of pine slivers.
"If that rat lived in the city," observed Ham, "he'd be a shoplifter,
sure. It's strange he hasn't stolen our food?"
"Ham, I'm going to the mine. Do you want to stay here or go along?" Ham
thought a moment, then began to pull on his coat. As he passed the
fireplace, he threw on another log, then the two boys stepped out into
the morning air. Ham carefully locked the door behind them--he always
took that precaution.
"I'd like to know who tried to get into this house, Willis?" he said as
they struck the trail following the footprints of the earlier party up
the canyon. The sound of hammering still came occasionally from the hill.
"Perhaps it was the same men that passed this morning," replied Willis.
"I wonder why they didn't stop and try the door; they must have seen that
it was unlocked."
"Perhaps they wanted to pass unnoticed."
"No, that couldn't be, for they were talking loudly as they passed."
"Perhaps they didn't notice the cabin door at all."
"Perhaps not, but they must have noticed our trail over the bridge and
your footprints to the stream."
"O, I don't know; it snowed in the night, and besides, you see they were
on the upper trail. They evidently came for some special purpose, and
were anxious to get at it. You know, I've been thinking they must have
come from Bruin Inn this morning, because they couldn't have gotten here
so early if they had come all the way from the city."
"By Jove, boy! I hadn't thought of that, but since you speak of it, there
certainly was something familiar in one of those voices, and that laugh!
Why, of course, it was Old Ben, his dog, and some stranger."
Progress was slow, for the snow was deep in places. At the old
tumbled-down cabin the trail turned and ran up the mountain side.
Willis felt a strange pounding at his heart. The noise on the mountain
had stopped, but every now and then he heard the sound of voices from
somewhere up in the timber. As they reached the last turn in the
trail, the two figures came into view. Ham had been correct in his
supposition--one of the men was Old Ben, but the other was a stranger.
Ben had, no doubt, seen the boys coming, for he stood looking down the
trail toward them. When they were a little nearer he saluted them:
"Howdy, young'uns. This is a tarnal cold morning for a pair o' city
fellers, ain't it?"
"Not on your life," cheerily answered Ham; "there's nothing citified
about us. Any one who could sleep in these hills a night like last night
and not freeze is no tenderfoot. What brings you up here so early this
morning?"
"Early, boys? You're so tarnal lazy, you think dinner time is early. See
anything o' my dog round the cabin?"
"No, we haven't seen him, except when you went by a while ago."
Willis was interested in what the stranger was doing. He was bent over a
big rock, filing a metal instrument. His back was turned. Willis was
looking about to see what they could have been hammering, but could see
no sign of their work.
"Prospecting a little?" queried Ham, as he picked up the light sledge
that lay on the snow.
"Well, not jist exactly," drawled Old Ben; "it's too tarnal cold to do
much prospectin'. We're jist on an observin' trip this time."
"Observing the scenery, or what?" persisted Ham. "We heard you doing some
mighty loud observing up here a few minutes ago. Come, now, no secrets.
What are you up to? Do you know you are trespassing this very moment?"
"Trespassin', eh? Well, I expect Old Ben knows when he's trespassin' an'
when he ain't. This time he ain't." He turned to the stranger and
continued: "I jist come along to give my friend here a little moral
support. He's so tarnal foolish about this old hole."
"Not foolish, Ben," answered the stranger, as he turned from his work,
"not foolish, but--why, good morning, lad!" He advanced with extended
hand toward Willis.
Willis could hardly believe his own eyes. What was this man doing here?
"It seems like our paths cross often, doesn't it?"
"Why, I--" exclaimed Willis.
"I know you are surprised," continued the stranger, "but no more so than
I, for I didn't expect to find you here on such a morning as this."
"But what are you doing here?" stammered Willis. "What is there about
this mine that is of interest to you? This mine is my father's property,
and it's locked--the tunnel, I mean--"
"Yes, I know, lad," he interrupted. "I know it does seem strange, but it
isn't half as strange to you as it is to me, and besides--"
"But, sir, how dare you tamper with locked property?"
"Lad," and the stranger spoke in that same quiet, kindly voice that had
attracted Willis the first time he had seen him, "do you remember that
fall day when we last talked together? Up back of Daddy Wright's on the
Cheyenne trail?"
"Yes, sir, I do," replied Willis, "and I remember every word you said,
but--"
The stranger lifted his hand for silence, and then continued: "And do you
remember you asked me if I had ever known a young engineer that used to
be in these parts, and I said, 'Yes;' then you asked me if I knew a Tad
Kieser that used to be a partner of his, and I told you I did?"
"Yes, yes, I remember all that," interrupted Willis; "but what has that
to do with this mine?"
"A very great deal, my boy. Listen! I know Tad Kieser better than any man
alive, and of all the men I ever knew, Tad is the strangest. I believe he
owns a half interest in this property, does he not? But he hasn't been
near it for half a dozen years, and to my knowledge he has never been
inside of it since the day of the accident. What's more, my boy, there's
just one thing in all the world that could ever induce him to enter it
again--"
"What is the one thing?" questioned Ham.
"If it wasn't for the advice of old Ben here, I would not be here to-day,
either; but Ben and I have been friends these twenty years, and in that
time I have learned to know that Ben's opinions are expressed only after
a very careful consideration of all the facts. I'm here because Old Ben
insisted that I come."
Willis turned and looked at Ben. He stood by, smiling and puffing away at
his pipe. "But what has all that to do with Tad Kieser?" questioned
Willis a little disappointedly. "Of all the men in the world I would like
most to see, it's Tad. Tell me where he is, if you know."
"But why do you want to see him so badly, may I ask?" questioned the
stranger.
"Because he is the only man in the world that can straighten out a tangle
of things that I don't understand. And I'm sure that if he knew I was
here, he'd come to help me."
Old Ben came to the rescue.
"Boy, Tad would do anything in the great, wide world fer ye. He's talked
about ye every tarnal day since he first seen ye, an' they ain't been
nothin' in his mind since, except yer welfare. Ye are a tarnal lucky
feller to have such a friend."
"Saw me?" questioned Willis. "Tad Kieser saw me?"
"Yes, boy, an' is a lookin' at ye now, an' is out in this cold here fer
ye this mornin', a breakin' of vows he made long ago. Tad, tell the boy
all about it. This young feller an' me is goin' to look up that tarnal
dog." He took Ham by the arm and drew him away down the trail out of
hearing. Tad and Willis were busy at the lock of the old tunnel. Old Ben
explained the situation to Ham as they leisurely hunted the dog. At last
Ham understood, and was happy for Willis.
"My, but you look pert, Tad. I ain't seed ye look so pert in ten year.
What's up? Come, tell a feller. Has that young'un been stuffin' ye while
we was gone?" and Ben laughed a merry laugh.
"Why didn't you tell me you were Tad the first day?" questioned Willis,
his eyes shining with pleasure.
"I'll tell you why some time," replied the old miner, "but not now. I
would never have consented to come up here this morning with Ben if I had
not suspected that Mr. Williams intended to enter this tunnel very soon.
Perhaps you know how he hates me. I caught him in a mighty crooked deal
here once, and scared him badly. He and I have fought each other ever
since the death of your father. He holds the keys to this lock, that's
why I'm cutting it off. We're going to replace it with another. When your
uncle comes he will find I have been ahead of him."
"And you aren't going into the tunnel?" questioned Willis in
astonishment.
"No, lad, not to-day. I don't know as I ever will."
"Tell me all about the trouble between you and my uncle. How does it
happen that he holds the key to this lock instead of you? Mother told me
you had the key?" questioned Willis.
"I did once, but when I refused to let him enter, he came with a hacksaw
and removed the lock, placing this great brass one in its stead. Your
uncle was the only person with your father when he died, except the
nurse, and he has always claimed that Bill turned all his mining property
over to him. He offered to buy me out, but I refused to sell.
"Nearly a year after your father's death, I learned from a nurse in the
hospital that in his last moments your father called for me, but Williams
told him that I was badly hurt. He told your uncle that the real gold
vein had been uncovered by the fatal blast, and that I was to be sure to
work it for your sake and your mother's. Williams promised to tell me.
I tried to get the nurse to go into court and swear to her statement, but
she refused, and I found out afterward that Williams had bought her off.
I went and looked at the tunnel; then he broke in, took samples, and, I
believe, found them good. He locked the door with this lock, and since
the day of the accident I have never seen inside. I have never wanted to.
I don't know, but I have always been determined that he should not
plunder your father's possessions. At the time of the accident he came
into possession of all your father's papers. He let the assessments run
out on the Cheyenne claim, and then jumped it for his own. Only last
month he sold that claim to Beverly H. Pembroke for a consideration of
eight thousand dollars.
"He hates me, because he knows that one more move on his part and I'll
place the matter in the hands of the law. I believe that he once hired an
outlaw to kill me, but was unsuccessful. I can't prove it, but the facts
look so. I have been afraid ever since I knew you were here that your
mother, as the rightful heir to the property, would play into his hands.
I feared he would offer to sell her share of this mine for her and, in
reality, buy it himself. He could then, according to law, force me to
sell my share or to buy his. If I refused to sell, he would ask a very
large sum for his, and in that way force me to his bargain. His working
the tunnel on the other side of the dyke this fall and winter is more to
scare me into believing he will get the gold anyway, and that I may as
well sell, than anything else. I have learned that they are having
a great deal of trouble in their tunnel. It's very shaly and keeps caving
from above. If he spent as much time and money caring for his sick wife
as he has on this mine, she might have gotten well."
Willis had been listening with breathless interest.
"Go on," he begged. "Tell me all about everything, from the very
beginning."
"Lad, it's a long, long story. I'll do that later. Let's not talk any
more about it now."
"O, I must know about it. Don't stop. Tad, you can't possibly know what
all this means to me." Tad rose and snapped the new lock in place on the
door, while Old Ben cursed under his breath.
"Of all the tarnal idiots," he was saying; "I never seed a man so sot in
his ways. Tad, ain't ye even goin' to peek inside?"
"No, Ben, not to-day. Perhaps some day," returned the old prospector,
"and perhaps never."
Willis jumped to his feet. "Not to-day, Tad? Not to-day? Do you mean you
aren't going into the mine. Well, I am, even if you aren't. I don't leave
this spot until I see the inside for myself. Give me the key. Ham and I
will go in alone."
"O, I wish you wouldn't. It's dangerous, and I am sure the story of the
gold is only a notion. Your father was out of his mind when he died, and
the gold he told about was just one of his dreams. I worked with him that
day, and I saw no special signs of gold."
"Yes, but that varmit, Williams, has seed signs," muttered Ben. "He went
in an' brought out samples; he knows, an' you only think you do."
Willis held out his hand for the key, and Ben urged him on. Tad looked
far away over the snowy hills, then up the quiet valley, so peaceful in
its white robes, and at last down to the little cabin below. There his
gaze rested.
"My, but it hardly seems fourteen years since I built that shanty," he
said. "How happy I was then! Fourteen years brings strange things into a
man's life. My boy, I hope you will never get the gold fever. Steer clear
of it."
"But Tad, I have it already," replied Willis, "and I am following where
it leads me."
Tad looked at him, and a strange, sad expression came to his face.
"How much you talk like your father, and you're so like him, too! I'm
sorry."
He reached deep into his trousers' pocket, pulled out the key, then got
slowly to his feet. Twice he changed his mind; but Willis persisted, and
at last he yielded. The new lock opened easily, but not so the great log
door. Its hinges were rusted from the storms of many seasons. As Willis
pulled hard, the old hinges groaned, as if regretting that they were to
be disturbed after so long a rest. As the door swung back, and the mouth
of the tunnel was disclosed, Tad caught Willis by the arm and held him.
"Wait, my boy," he said, "you must let the old place air out. Remember,
it has been bottled up a long time. I'll wager a light won't even burn
in there just now."
"Have you a candle?" asked Willis, his tone betraying his excitement.
"I'll get some," volunteered Ham, and off he started down the trail for
the cabin.
The tunnel was a round, irregular hole a little higher than a man's head,
and in width it varied with the width of the dyke. The floor had been
covered with rough-hewn planks to make the pushing of the loaded
wheelbarrows easier. These old planks were black and wet, but still quite
sound. As they stood, waiting for Ham to return, Tad told Willis
something more of the early history of the mine:
"You see, the dyke seems to follow an ancient crevice in the granite,
which runs straight in for a hundred and fifty feet, then turns abruptly
to the west. Here it widens out, and just at that point the strata shifts
and is folded. We found a small quantity of quartz just there. The day of
the accident I was replacing some of the floor planks near the entrance
and your father was preparing to make a series of blasts on the new
strata. I was to help him shoot them when he was ready. He was very
pleased at the new outcropping of quartz, and was very anxious to open
up the vein before we quit work for the day. The farther in you go, the
more shaly the black rock seems to get, and in some places we were forced
to roof the drift with mine props in order to keep the ceiling up. I was
bending over, chopping the end of a plank, when I was violently knocked
down. In falling I struck my head against the rough wall, cutting myself
badly over the left eye. I struggled to my feet dazedly, the blood
streaming down over my face. I had mined long enough to know just what
had happened. In some way your father had prematurely set off his blast.
I started toward him, but the heavy powder smoke drove me back. I dropped
to my knees to get the air--it's always best near the floor--and in
a moment a second explosion came. I snatched the jug of water and began
crawling toward Bill on all fours. I called again and again, but no
answer came. When I finally reached him I felt faint and sick. I found
him nearly completely buried in a heap of stone. He was unconscious,
and never spoke to me again. After two hours of tremendous effort, I was
able to lift his poor, broken body in my arms and carry it out. I was
thankful then that he was unconscious and could not feel the pain. By
night I got him to the cabin, and at once set off for Ben's. We came
back by lantern light that night, and led the old horse. We spent the
rest of the night building a crude litter of poles and blankets, and as
soon as it was light we fastened one end of the stretcher to the horse, a
pole on either side of him, and each one of us carried a pole at the
other end. It took an hour for us to get down to the canyon road. In
twelve hours your father died. He regained consciousness just long enough
to talk with Williams briefly. What he said at that time I have never
been able to find out.
"Then followed the awful years of lonesomeness for me, made worse by the
always-present knowledge that I should have been the one to shoot those
blasts and not your father. I wrote your mother fully concerning the
accident, but never received a reply, so have had no word of you since
that time. I've told you how your uncle tried to get possession of the
mine. When I would not sell, he hounded my every step until at last I
left the city and went to work for the D. & P.W. as fireman. I went
through the city often, but very rarely stopped off. But it seems I came
just often enough to keep your uncle too frightened to carry out his plan
concerning the tunnel."
Ham was returning up the trail now, and soon the candles were lighted.
Tad took the lead, followed by Willis, Ham and Old Ben bringing up the
rear. A little inside the entrance, and to one side, a small room had
been cut in the solid granite for a store-room. Here were the tools of
the mine--two wheelbarrows, several shovels and picks, a large lantern,
and several boxes of powder. What had once been a heavy coil of hemp rope
was now a very comfortable rat's nest. Several old stone drills had been
driven into the crevices for hooks, and on them hung old burlap sacks, a
coil of heavy wire, two old slouch hats, and a man's coat.
Tad had bared his head as he entered. He slowly led the way down the
narrow lane without a word. A little farther in they came to a very rusty
ax, leaning against the wall, and Willis guessed that it had never been
moved from where Tad had last used it. The large, blackened chips were
scattered over the floor, and the great plank lay where he had last
worked on it. Tad was very cautious now, trying the props overhead every
few feet, to see if they were safe. Willis was walking as if in a dream;
he was stepping very softly and his head was bowed. This was the very
path his father had trod. He fancied he heard his cheery voice now, as he
came and went with load after load of rock. He fancied how he must have
felt as he worked day by day, ever surer of the fortune that was to be
his. He found himself wondering how his life's course might have been
changed if that golden dream had come true. The tunnel turned abruptly to
the west, and Tad moved more cautiously still. Presently Tad halted and
pointed to a heap of rock on the floor, "It was there, lad," he said very
quietly, and that was all. Willis stooped and placed his hand on the
place for a second. Tad noticed that his face was white and drawn and his
eyes were very big. He let him stay for an instant, then took him gently
by the arm and led him out.
Old Ben made a hasty examination of the rocks on the floor, then of the
exposed vein. He handed the candle to Ham, and, drawing from his pocket a
heavy cold chisel, he carefully knocked off some choice pieces of the ore
and placed them in his pocket, muttering to himself all the while. When
he had satisfied himself, he turned, took the candle, and started out,
motioning Ham to precede him.
"Best gold quartz I've seed in many a year," he said softly, "only Tad
will never believe it." Ham understood. Ahead of them, down the narrow
black passage, they saw Tad's light disappear.
"They have stepped into the tool-room, boy," said Ben, "an' every tarnal
one o' them implements is nearly sacred to Tad. Let's not disturb 'em."
He blew out his light and leaned against the wall of the tunnel, pulling
Ham back with him.
In a few minutes they were surprised to hear loud exclamations and the
moving of the old iron wheelbarrows. Ahead they could see the light of
the opening, so Old Ben started again toward the entrance.
"Guess that memorial service must be all over, from the racket they're
makin' with them tarnal carts," he said.
When they reached Willis, they found him carefully going through the
pockets of the musty old coat hanging upon the wall. The cloth had fairly
rotted in the moisture. Tad was holding the treasures as Willis removed
them from the pockets. To Tad's surprise, there was inside the coat an
old vest. They were no doubt the clothes Mr. Thornton had worn the day
of the accident. In one vest pocket was Bill's gold watch, in another a
musty pocketbook and a badly worn note-book that had mildewed in the
moisture. There were three letters in the outside coat pocket. Willis
took one, moist and rotten as it was, from the envelope and noticed they
were from his mother, and were probably the last ones she had written.
Willis's hand shook violently and two great tears glistened in his eyes.
In the other outside pocket was a strange tin tube, perhaps a foot in
length, with a removable lid at either end. The tube was rusted red and
the ends sealed tight with rust. Willis handed the tube to Tad, a
question on his lips.
"Thank God," Tad was saying to himself, "thank God, he didn't do it.
I've often thought I'd kill him if he had."
"If who had what?" questioned Willis.
"Don't ask me, lad, not now--I'll tell you some time, perhaps. Come,
let's go. This air is very bad, and I'm just a little sick." He linked
his arm through Willis's, and together they walked out into the cold
morning air. Ben and Ham followed. When they were outside, Tad swung the
door shut and locked it. Then, with a note of triumph in his voice, he
said:
"There, Williams can have the place for all I care," and he held the
queer tin tube in his hand before them.
"Open it," urged Willis. Tad turned to him.
"My boy, there has never been a day in the past half-dozen years that I
have not wondered what became of that tin tube. Many times, after hours
of reasoning, I have decided that your uncle stole that tube from your
father's belongings. I have done the man an injustice. From my firm
belief that he had taken the tube came my great dislike for him. You have
never seen the contents of that can, lad, but your mother has. At one
time they were very valuable, and I have no doubt that even now that can
contains a small fortune for you--"
"But--" interrupted Willis. Tad paid no attention to him, and went on:
"The contents of that tube will place your father among the greatest of
mining engineers and give his name the honor it has always been entitled
to--"
"But Tad--"
"When your father conceived that idea it was impractical. He was too far
ahead of the times. But to-day, lad, it means that every mine dump in the
Cripple Creek region will be worked over again and the gold removed at a
trifling expense, for in that tube are the blueprints of the greatest
electrical ore-roasting machine in the world." He took his knife from his
pocket and slowly and carefully pried off the rusty lid. The blue roll
slid out into his hand. The moisture had not penetrated the can, and the
sketches were as good as the day they were made. Willis took them in his
hand and proudly turned them over and over, then he placed them again in
the can with the remark, "Tad, these things all belong to mother. I
wonder what she'll say?"
Tad broke into a pleased little laugh, and the old smile that had made
him so many friends in the years gone by came back to his grizzled face.
"Lad, you're rich to-day, and I am better satisfied. Those plans will
bring you and your mother a goodly sum. It lifts a great burden from a
poor, worthless prospector's mind." Willis did not know the true meaning
of the words, but Old Ben did, and it was now his turn to talk.
"Tad, I've knowed ye for a tarnal lot o' years, hain't I? An', Tad, they
ain't a soul on earth as would do fer ye as me. I've lived a life myself,
Tad, an' I ain't so big a fool as ye are about some things." Ben pulled a
piece of the ore from his pocket and held it up for inspection. "Tad,
there's a twenty-inch vein of that rock in yonder, an' finer gold quartz
ye never seed in all yer days." He turned to Willis: "Boy, ye'r tarnal
lucky. Them plans may be valuable, but I have my doubts about it; but
it's certain that that mine is valuable. Jist how much gold they is
there, I don't know, but they is lots of it. Two or three more weeks an'
Williams would have struck it from the other side. Now listen, lad: sell
out, do you hear me, sell out. It'll bring a handsome price on assay; but
sell now, or Williams--" and his voice dropped to a mysterious whisper
and he looked suspiciously about him, "or Williams will get the best of
ye yet."
After more talk and discussion, the whole party went down to the cabin,
and Ham prepared a special supper. After the meal was over, all sat and
talked before the fireplace, and the entire story was gone over again in
detail. Towards late afternoon they began the down trip through the
canyon.
At the inn Tad promised to come the next day to the city to meet Mrs.
Thornton. Together they would confer about the newly-discovered facts.
"Don't wait too tarnal long to sell, boy, or something will happen. Tad's
unlucky. Sell if ye can, an' I'd make that tarnal critter, Williams, buy
the whole business, if I was you."
Tad and Willis stood some time talking, Willis then took the plans and
the other things that had been in his father's coat, and started home.
They walked in silence for some time, then Willis spoke:
"O, Ham, I'm so happy to-day, and still--" He paused and the smile faded
from his face. "Still, why should I be happy? Do these plans and that
gold mine up there give me back my dear old dad?"
"Not really," replied Ham, "but perhaps those things he left you will
make it possible for you to accomplish in this world the things he had
hoped to do, and perhaps better things." The little smile came back again
to Willis's face.
"Ham, you're really a philosopher. I'll do my very best, I'll tell you
that. Now, let's hurry."