AND A MINE IS JUMPED
“Who’s your new shift boss?” Glenister inquired of his partner, a few
days later, indicating a man in the cut below, busied in setting a line
of sluices.
“That’s old ‘Slapjack’ Simms, friend of mine from up Dawson way.”
Glenister laughed immoderately, for the object was unusually tall and
loose-jointed, and wore a soiled suit of yellow mackinaw. He had laid
off his coat, and now the baggy, bilious trousers hung precariously from
his angular shoulders by suspenders of alarming frailty. His legs were
lost in gum boots, also loose and cavernous, and his entire costume
looked relaxed and flapping, so that he gave the impression of being
able to shake himself out of his raiment, and to rise like a burlesque
Aphrodite. His face was overgrown with a grizzled tangle that looked as
though it had been trimmed with button-hole scissors, while above the
brush heap grandly soared a shiny, dome-like head.
“Has he always been bald?”
“Naw! He ain’t bald at all. He shaves his nob. In the early days he wore
a long flowin’ mane which was inhabited by crickets, tree-toads, and
such fauna. It got to be a hobby with him finally, so that he growed
superstitious about goin’ uncurried, and would back into a corner with
both guns drawed if a barber came near him. But once Hank--that’s his
real name--undertook to fry some slapjacks, and in givin’ the skillet a
heave, the dough lit among his forest primeval, jest back of his ears,
soft side down. Hank polluted the gulch with langwidge which no man had
ought to keep in himself without it was fumigated. Disreppitableness
oozed out through him like sweat through an ice-pitcher, an’ since then
he’s been known as Slapjack Simms, an’ has kept his head shingled smooth
as a gun bar’l. He’s a good miner, though; ain’t none better--an’ square
as a die.”
Sluicing had begun on the Midas. Long sinuous lengths of canvas hose
wound down the creek bottom from the dam, like gigantic serpents, while
the roll of gravel through the flumes mingled musically with the rush of
waters, the tinkle of tools, and the song of steel on rock. There were
four “strings” of boxes abreast, and the heaving line of shovellers ate
rapidly into the creek bed, while teams with scrapers splashed through
the tail races in an atmosphere of softened profanity. In the big white
tents which sat back from the bluffs, fifty men of the night shift were
asleep; for there is no respite here--no night, no Sunday, no halt,
during the hundred days in which the Northland lends herself to pillage.
The mine lay cradled between wonderful, mossy, willow-mottled mountains,
while above and below the gulch was dotted with tents and huts, and
everywhere, from basin to hill crest, men dug and blasted, punily,
patiently, while their tracks grew daily plainer over the face of this
inscrutable wilderness.
A great contentment filled the two partners as they looked on this
scene. To wrest from reluctant earth her richest treasures, to add to
the wealth of the world, to create--here was satisfaction.
“We ain’t robbin’ no widders an’ orphans doin’ it, neither,” Dextry
suddenly remarked, expressing his partner’s feelings closely. They
looked at each other and smiled with that rare understanding that
exceeds words.
Descending into the cut, the old man filled a gold-pan with dirt taken
from under the feet of the workers, and washed it in a puddle, while the
other watched his dexterous whirling motions. When he had finished, they
poked the stream of yellow grains into a pile, then, with heads
together, guessed its weight, laughing again delightedly, in perfect
harmony and contentment.
“I’ve been waitin’ a turrible time fer this day,” said the elder. “I’ve
suffered the plagues of prospectin’ from the Mexicos to the Circle, an’
yet I don’t begretch it none, now that I’ve struck pay.”
While they spoke, two miners struggled with a bowlder they had
unearthed, and having scraped and washed it carefully, staggered back to
place it on the cleaned bed-rock behind. One of them slipped, and it
crashed against a brace which held the sluices in place. These boxes
stand more than a man’s height above the bed-rock, resting on supporting
posts and running full of water. Should a sluice fall, the rushing
stream carries out the gold which has lodged in the riffles and floods
the bed-rock, raising havoc. Too late the partners saw the string of
boxes sway and bend at the joint. Then, before they could reach the
threatened spot to support it, Slapjack Simms, with a shriek, plunged
flapping down into the cut and seized the flume. His great height stood
him in good stead now, for where the joint had opened, water poured
forth in a cataract. He dived under the breach unhesitatingly and,
stooping, lifted the line as near to its former level as possible,
holding the entire burden upon his naked pate. He gesticulated wildly
for help, while over him poured the deluge of icy, muddy water. It
entered his gaping waistband, bulging out his yellow trousers till they
were fat and full and the seams were bursting, while his yawning
boot-tops became as boiling springs. Meanwhile he chattered forth
profanity in such volume that the ear ached under it as must have ached
the heroic Slapjack under the chill of the melting snow. He was relieved
quickly, however, and emerged triumphant, though blue and puckered, his
wilderness of whiskers streaming like limber stalactites, his boots
loosely “squishing,” while oaths still poured from him in such profusion
that Dextry whispered:
“Ain’t he a ring-tailed wonder? It’s plumb solemn an’ reverent the way
he makes them untamed cuss-words sit up an’ beg. It’s a privilege to be
present. That’s a _gift_, that is.”
“You’d better get some dry clothes,” they suggested, and Slapjack
proceeded a few paces towards the tents, hobbling as though treading on
pounded glass.
“Ow--w!” he yelled. “These blasted boots is full of gravel.”
He seated himself and tugged at his foot till the boot came away with a
sucking sound, then, instead of emptying the accumulation at random, he
poured the contents into Dextry’s empty gold-pan, rinsing it out
carefully. The other boot he emptied likewise. They held a surprising
amount of sediment, because the stream that had emerged from the crack
in the sluices had carried with it pebbles, sand, and all the
concentration of the riffles at this point. Standing directly beneath
the cataract, most of it had dived fairly into his inviting waistband,
following down the lines of least resistance into his boot-legs and
boiling out at the knees.
“Wash that,” he said. “You’re apt to get a prospect.”
With artful passes Dextry settled it in the pan bottom and washed away
the gravel, leaving a yellow, glittering pile which raised a yell from
the men who had lingered curiously.
“He pans forty dollars to the boot-leg,” one shouted.
“How much do you run to the foot, Slapjack?”
“He’s a reg’lar free-milling ledge.”
“No, he ain’t--he’s too thin. He’s nothing but a stringer, but he’ll pay
to work.”
The old miner grinned toothlessly.
“Gentlemen, there ain’t no better way to save fine gold than with
undercurrents an’ blanket riffles. I’ll have to wash these garments of
mine an’ clean up the soapsuds ’cause there’s a hundred dollars in
gold-dust clingin’ to my person this minute.” He went dripping up the
bank, while the men returned to their work singing.
After lunch Dextry saddled his bronco.
“I’m goin’ to town for a pair of gold-scales, but I’ll be back by
supper, then we’ll clean up between shifts. She’d ought to give us a
thousand ounces, the way that ground prospects.” He loped down the
gulch, while his partner returned to the pit, the flashing shovel
blades, and the rumbling undertone of the big workings that so
fascinated him.
It was perhaps four o’clock when he was aroused from his labors by a
shout from the bunk-tent, where a group of horsemen had clustered. As
Glenister drew near, he saw among them Wilton Struve, the lawyer, and
the big, well-dressed tenderfoot of the Northern--McNamara--the man of
the heavy hand. Struve straightway engaged him.
“Say, Glenister, we’ve come out to see about the title to this claim.”
“What about it?”
“Well, it was relocated about a month ago.” He paused.
“Yes. What of that?”
“Galloway has commenced suit.”
“The ground belongs to Dextry and me. We discovered it, we opened it up,
we’ve complied with the law, and we’re going to hold it.” Glenister
spoke with such conviction and heat as to nonplus Struve, but McNamara,
who had sat his horse silently until now, answered:
“Certainly, sir; if your title is good you will be protected, but the
law has arrived in Alaska and we’ve got to let it take its course.
There’s no need of violence--none whatever--but, briefly, the situation
is this: Mr. Galloway has commenced action against you; the court has
enjoined you from working and has appointed me as receiver to operate
the mine until the suit is settled. It’s an extraordinary procedure, of
course, but the conditions are extraordinary in this country. The season
is so short that it would be unjust to the rightful owner if the claim
lay idle all summer--so, to avoid that, I’ve been put in charge, with
instructions to operate it and preserve the proceeds subject to the
court’s order. Mr. Voorhees here is the United States Marshal. He will
serve the papers.”
Glenister threw up his hand in a gesture of restraint.
“Hold on! Do you mean to tell me that any court would recognize such a
claim as Galloway’s?”
“The law recognizes everything. If his grounds are no good, so much the
better for you.”
“You can’t put in a receiver without notice to us. Why, good Lord! we
never heard of a suit being commenced. We’ve never even been served with
a summons and we haven’t had a chance to argue in our own defence.”
“I have just said that this is a remarkable state of affairs and unusual
action had to be taken,” McNamara replied, but the young miner grew
excited.
“Look here--this gold won’t get away. It’s safe in the ground. We’ll
knock off work and let the claim lie idle till the thing is settled. You
can’t really expect us to surrender possession of our mine on the mere
allegation of some unknown man. That’s ridiculous. We won’t do it. Why,
you’ll have to let us argue our case, at least, before you try to put us
off.”
Voorhees shook his head. “We’ll have to follow instructions. The thing
for you to do is to appear before the court to-morrow and have the
receiver dismissed. If your title is as good as you say it is, you won’t
have any trouble.”
“You’re not the only ones to suffer,” added McNamara. “We’ve taken
possession of all the mines below here.” He nodded down the gulch. “I’m
an officer of the court and under bond--”
“How much?”
“Five thousand dollars for each claim.”
“What! Why, heavens, man, the poorest of these mines is producing that
much every day!”
While he spoke, Glenister was rapidly debating what course to follow.
“The place to argue this thing is before Judge Stillman,” said
Struve--but with little notion of the conflict going on within
Glenister. The youth yearned to fight--not with words nor quibbles nor
legal phrases, but with steel and blows. And he felt that the impulse
was as righteous as it was natural, for he knew this process was unjust,
an outrage. Mexico Mullins’s warning recurred to him. And yet--. He
shifted slowly as he talked till his back was to the door of the big
tent. They were watching him carefully, for all their apparent languor
and looseness in saddle; then as he started to leap within and rally his
henchmen, his mind went back to the words of Judge Stillman and his
niece. Surely that old man was on the square. He couldn’t be otherwise
with her beside him, believing in him; and a suspicion of deeper plots
behind these actions was groundless. So far, all was legal, he supposed,
with his scant knowledge of law; though the methods seemed unreasonable.
The men might be doing what they thought to be right. Why be the first
to resist? The men on the mines below had not done so. The title to this
ground was capable of such easy proof that he and Dex need have no
uneasiness. Courts do not rob honest people nowadays, he argued, and
moreover, perhaps the girl’s words were true, perhaps she _would_ think
more of him if he gave up the old fighting ways for her sake. Certainly
armed resistance to her uncle’s first edict would not please her. She
had said he was too violent, so he would show her he could lay his
savagery aside. She might smile on him approvingly, and that was Worth
taking a chance for--anyway it would mean but a few days’ delay in the
mine’s run. As he reasoned he heard a low voice speaking within the open
door. It was Slapjack Simms.
“Step aside, lad. I’ve got the big uncovered.”
Glenister saw the men on horseback snatch at their holsters, and, just
in time, leaped at his foreman, for the old man had moved out into the
open, a Winchester at shoulder, his cheek cuddling the stock, his eyes
cold and narrow. The young man flung the barrel up and wrenched the
weapon from his hands.
“None of that, Hank!” he cried, sharply. “I’ll say when to shoot.” He
turned to look into the muzzles of guns held in the hands of every
horseman--every horseman save one, for Alec McNamara sat unmoved, his
handsome features, nonchalant and amused, nodding approval. It was at
him that Hank’s weapon had been levelled.
“This is bad enough at the best. Don’t let’s make it any worse,” said
he.
Slapjack inhaled deeply, spat with disgust, and looked over his boss
incredulously.
“Well, of all the different kinds of damn fools,” he snorted, “you are
the kindest.” He marched past the marshal and his deputies down to the
cut, put on his coat, and vanished down the trail towards town, not
deigning a backward glance either at the mine or at the man unfit to
fight for.