In the weeks which followed the settling of the trouble in the camp,
Kay flourished and grew. Great trainloads of supplies were daily dumped
on the platform of the railway station, to be checked off and sorted,
before the final haul up to camp. The old rough road to the station had
become hard and smooth by the continual pounding of the heavy, six-mule
wagons. Under McKay’s master direction, the framework bridges on the
route had been replaced by substantial structures. Wherever a cañon or
gulch opened, sluice boxes had been buried beneath the road surface, so
that a heavy rain no longer meant washouts and consequent stoppage of
coke and supplies. The coke teams struggled back to the railroad almost
as heavily laden with matt, as on the upward trip they had been with
coke. Each day saw new framework houses built, and new families settling
their possessions. Wagons were driven into camp laden with battered
stoves, broken chairs, a stray dog or two, and in general the household
belongings of new settlers; for the growth of the “lilies of the field”
is as nothing compared with that of a prosperous mining camp. Each day
the office was filled with men clamoring for lumber: “Only a little,
Boss! Just to put in a flooring. We can get along with two boards on the
sides. Anything just so as we can get settled.” And Loring sat behind
his desk, speaking with kindly but evasive words, telling each that the
Company longed to build him a perfect palace, but that under the present
conditions he must wait.
For fast as lumber was hauled into camp, still faster came the need
for it for mine timbering, for storehouses, and for a thousand and one
necessities. The construction work had been rushed to completion. The
huge new ore cribs were a triumph of McKay’s ingenuity, built by a clever
system of bracing from the unseasoned lumber that had been at hand, and
supporting with perfect safety the enormous strain to which they were
subjected. The Company was rapidly becoming the controlling factor in the
copper output of the district.
It was the time for the arrival of the evening mail and the office was
full of men and tobacco smoke. McKay had pre-empted the safe and sat on
the top of it, clanking his heels against the sides. His sandy colored
hair matched the color of the pine boards of the wall against which he
was propped. The draughting tables carried their load of men, as did each
of the well-worn chairs, and the three-legged stool. A babel of voices
prevailed. Every now and then Reade opened the door from the back office,
and poking his head into the room with a disgusted expression upon his
face, called out: “Soft pedal there, soft pedal! How in hell can a man do
any work with you fellows raising such a racket?”
Stephen, as usual sat at his roll-top desk in the corner, his feet up on
the slide, both hands in his pockets, the while he rocked his pipe gently
up and down in his teeth. One of the clerks was telling with becoming
modesty of his social triumphs in Phœnix at the “Elks” ball. The audience
listened with the listless attention of those whose curiosity hangs heavy
on their hands.
“I was the candy kid, all right,” remarked the narrator.
His fervid discourse was interrupted by a drawl from some one in the
background. “I reckon that some time you must have drunk copiouslike of
the Hassayampeh River.”
A machinery drummer who was in the office cocked up his ears, thinking
that perhaps behind the allusion lay a doubtful story.
“What’s that about the river?” he asked. “I never heard of that.”
“Why, they say,” answered the first speaker, “that whoever drinks of the
Hassayampeh River can’t ever tell the truth again so long as he lives.”
“And also,” added McKay; “that no matter where he drifts to, he is sure
to wander back again to the old territory; that he’ll die in Arizona.”
“How was that story ever started?” Loring asked.
“The valley of the Hassayampeh was one of the first trails into the
ore country,” answered McKay, “and the lies that emanated from the
camps along that river was of such a fearful, godless and prize package
variety that they made the old river famous. There was a fellow in camp
here only the other day was telling me about prospectin’ down there
in seventy-three. He said all they had to eat was fried Gila monster.
I guess that was after he’d drunk the water though,” finished McKay
reflectively.
“The territory sure has gone off since those days,” said a cattleman who
had ridden into camp for his mail. “Only last year down near Roosevelt I
shot two Mexicans, and say, it cost me a hundred dollars for negligence,”
he went on indignantly, “and the sons of guns warn’t wurth more than
twelve dollars and two bits apiece.”
“You are right about the way Arizona is going to hell,” said the mine
foreman. “I don’t know as any of you fellows ever knowed ‘Teeth’ Barker.
Anyhow, next to what his father must have been, he was the ugliest
creature that ever lived on this earth. All of his teeth just naturally
stuck out like the cowcatcher of an engine. Well, in spite of that, he
always was a good friend of mine. Least he used to be.
“About six months ago I was up to Jerome, and they was telling about
an accident there. A man no one knowed at all was killed, but a fellow
said he had the ugliest tusks he ever seed. I knew at once that must
be Barker. They said they’d planted him up on the knoll, and so,”
continued the foreman sadly, “and so, although it was a powerful hot
day, I struggled up to the knoll with a nice piece of pine board, and a
jack-knife, and I sort of located ‘Teeth’ with a handsome monument and an
exaggerated epitaph.
“I came down as hot as the devil, and steps into a saloon to get a drink,
when who should walk up to me but ‘Teeth’ Barker himself!
“‘You’re dead,’ said I.
“‘Do I look like it?’ he asked. He got sort of hot under the collar about
it, too.
“Well, the long and short of it all was that I had gone and taken all
that trouble with a tombstone for a stranger.
“‘The least that you can do, “Teeth” Barker,’ said I, ‘is to come up and
see that beautiful monument I erected over you. It took as much trouble
to make as a year’s assessment work.’
“Well, he didn’t see it that way. Said he wouldn’t go up there if I was
to pay him. And that was after I had taken all that trouble! Gratitude!
There ain’t no such thing any more in Arizona,” concluded the foreman.
Story after story was put forth for the edification of the crowd until
the grating of wheels outside told of the arrival of the stage. A moment
later heavy footsteps resounded on the porch, and the burly stage-driver,
with two great mail-sacks slung over his shoulder, swung into the office.
“Evening, gents!” he called in answer to the general salutation.
He stepped over to Stephen’s desk and threw down a little bunch of
envelopes. “Four telegrams,” he said.
Loring rapidly slit open the envelopes, laying the telegrams on one side,
and after running through the contents, began to sort the mail.
“Any passengers?” he asked the driver.
“Yes, six. Drummers mostly. They are over there eating now. There was two
men and a lady; but they stopped to eat supper at the station. They will
be up later.”
“It’s lucky Mrs. Brown built those new sleeping quarters to her place;
she’ll be running a regular hotel here soon,” said the driver, as he
swung on his heel and tramped out to unharness his horses.
Stephen sorted the mail rapidly, and deftly scaled the letters to the
fortunate recipients.
“That is all,” he said, as he tossed the last. Every one left the office
with the exception of McKay who, with a woebegone expression on his face,
lingered behind.
“What is the matter?” asked Loring.
“Nothing,” answered McKay gruffly.
“Well, how is this?” said Stephen, taking from his pocket a letter which
was addressed in large square characters to McKay. “You see she did not
forget you, after all.”
McKay blushed to the roots of his hair, then opened the letter with
seeming nonchalance.
“It seems to me that you have a pretty steady correspondent there,” said
Stephen, while he straightened up his desk preparatory to the evening’s
work. “I have handed you a letter like that every night this week.” McKay
colored even more, then stretched out his hand. “Shake, Steve! I am going
to get spliced. I have been meaning to tell you before this.”
Loring jumped up and pounded him on the back.
“You gay winner of hearts, who is she?”
“Do you remember Jane Stevens, back at Quentin? Well, it’s her.”
Loring’s eyes twinkled. “How did you ever get the nerve?” he asked.
At the thought of his audacity, the perspiration broke out on McKay’s
forehead.
“Well she had me plumb locoed. I remember once a horse had me buffaloed
the same way,” he explained. “I was scared, scared blue, Steve; but
finally I got up my nerve and thought I’d go and break my affections to
her gentle and polite like. So one day I rode over to their place,—you
know where it is was, just south of the Dominion trail,—and I thought
I’d go to see her brother Charlie and fix it up with him. When I reached
their shack she came to the door looking as neat as a partridge and with
a sort of smile hidden somewhere in her face, and—and I’ll be damned if I
didn’t kiss her right then without any formalities.”
“That was the simplest solution of the problem, wasn’t it?” laughed
Stephen. “When are you going to be married?”
“Oh, soon, I guess; but I wish it could be managed as simply as these
Mexicans do. And how about you, Steve?” continued McKay. “You ain’t been
took this way yourself, have you? Not that woman you was telling me about
in Mexico.”
Loring shook his head. “Unfortunately she was a married woman.”
“I sort of thought,” went on McKay, “that you and Miss Cameron was—”
“Well, you thought wrongly,” interrupted Loring sharply. “I never expect
to see Miss Cameron again.”
There came a ripple of laughter from the doorway, and looking up quickly
he saw Jean and her father walk into the office. Behind them stood Baird
Radlett.
“What a hospitable form of welcome!” exclaimed Miss Cameron, smiling at
him frankly.
For a moment Loring swayed in his chair, then he rose stiffly, as a man
in a trance. He stared at Jean with an absorption that was almost rude,
as if there were nothing in the universe beyond her. There lay a hint of
laughter in the gray depths of her eyes.
“What is the matter?” asked Radlett. “Are you surprised to see us? Didn’t
you get my letter?”
“It is probably in to-night’s mail which haven’t opened yet,” answered
Loring, still half dazed.
“Mr. Cameron has consented to come and make a report on the property for
me,” explained Baird.
Mr. Cameron came forward and held out his hand. “Mr. Loring, I have heard
of the splendid work that you have done here. I want to congratulate
you.” This little speech was a hard one for Mr. Cameron to make; but he
was a man who, when he had once made up his mind to the right course,
followed it to the end.
The expression of pride in Stephen’s face turned to one of appreciation,
and he shook Mr. Cameron’s hand with a firm, grateful pressure. But all
the while he was looking at Jean longingly, worshipingly, all unconscious
of the intensity of his gaze, as a man who for days has been in the
desert without water looks upon the sudden spring. In all the months that
he had thought of her, dreamed of her, she had never seemed to have the
beauty, the potential tenderness, which marked her now when she stood
before him, her look telling him that she was proud of what her friend
had been and done.
To Radlett, looking at them both, came a sudden suspicion, and a sudden
despair.
Jean, at Loring’s request, seated herself at his desk, in the big
revolving chair, and while playing absent-mindedly with the papers on the
desk, kept up a laughing discussion with Baird.
Loring, at the other side of the room, was answering Mr. Cameron’s
businesslike questions as to the grade of the ore, the force, the cost
of production, accurately and fast, as though almost every faculty in
his body and mind were not concentrated upon the girl who seemed to be
having such an interesting talk with Radlett. Finishing his talk with
Mr. Cameron, Loring left the office to arrange for sleeping quarters for
the visitors. In a few minutes he returned with the announcement that
all was ready, and led the way to the long, low building next the mess,
whose many rooms, opening on a broad porch, served as accommodations for
strangers in camp.
Loring walked beside Miss Cameron, doing his best to talk unconcernedly
of every-day matters, but the hoarseness of his voice betrayed him.
“I am very sorry to have to offer you such rough quarters,” he said to
Jean, as they reached the house, “but they are the best that we have. In
another month we hope to have something more comfortable to give to our
guests.”
“In another month, Stephen, you will have an up-to-date city constructed
here,” exclaimed Radlett, with an almost reluctant enthusiasm.
At the steps Stephen and Radlett said good-night to the others, and
walked slowly back to Stephen’s quarters, which they were to share.
Loring sat on the edge of his cot, and smoked slowly while he watched
Baird unpack his valise, and with the method of an orderly nature put
everything away in the rough chest of drawers, or on the black iron
hooks which protruded from the wall. Espying a tin of expensive tobacco
neatly packed amidst a circle of collars, Stephen pounced upon it, and
knocking out the contents of his pipe, proceeded to fill it with the new
mixture. Radlett finished his unpacking, and recovering the tobacco can
from Loring, filled his own pipe. Then he tipped a chair back against the
wall, and sitting in it, regarded Loring for a moment in silence.
“Stephen,” he remarked after a few seconds, “you have done a good piece
of work. I knew that you would.”
Loring’s irrelevant answer was to the effect that the tobacco which
he had stolen was good. It was an odd characteristic of this man that
though his nature contained many streaks of vanity, praise for work
which he knew was good embarrassed him. At length he began to appreciate
the ungraciousness of his response to Radlett’s advances, and leaning
forward, with his elbows on his knees, he said: “You cannot guess what it
means to me, Baird, to have you say things like that, to be patted on the
back and made to feel as if I had done something, and that by a man who
has succeeded in everything to which he has turned his hand, who has won
all the big prizes of life.”
Radlett drew back into the shadow where the lamplight could not reveal
the expression of his face.
“All the prizes in life?” he queried with scornful emphasis. “No, not all
by a damn sight. You see, Stephen, I feel as if Fate had stood over me
with a deuced ironical smile, and said: ‘You shall have your every wish
in life—except the one thing that you want most of all—the one thing
that would make you happy.’”
“Hm,” murmured Loring, shaking out the embers from his pipe and gazing
into the empty bowl. “With any one else I should say that meant a woman;
but with you it could not be.”
“Why not with me as well as with any other man?”
“Because there is no woman alive who would be fool enough to refuse you.”
“Bless your heart, Stephen! It is only your blind loyalty that makes you
think me irresistible.”
“Do you mean that there really is a woman so benighted? What is she
thinking of?”
“I imagine,” answered Radlett slowly, “that you might change that ‘what’
to _whom_.”
“You would have me believe that knowing you, she prefers some one else?”
asked Loring incredulously. “Why, Baird, it is impossible.”
“By no means. I think I know the man.”
Loring’s blood boiled. “Who is the brute?” he cried out. “Tell me and I
will kill him, break his neck, shoot him.”
Baird smiled wryly, blew a cloud of smoke toward the roof, and observed:
“If I were you, Stephen, I would do nothing rash. But come, we have
talked long enough of me and my affairs. Let us talk now about you and
yours! Suppose, for instance, you tell me why you turned the color of a
meerschaum pipe when Miss Cameron appeared in the doorway to-night.”
Loring started and looked quickly at Radlett. “You noticed that, did you?
Well, you have quick eye and a gift for drawing conclusions, but they may
not always be right.”
“Not always, no; but this time they are, aren’t they? Be honest, Stephen,
are you or are you not in love with Jean Cameron?”
“Excuse me, but that can not interest you to know.”
“Perhaps not, and perhaps it is a damned impertinence to inquire, but
after all an old friendship gives some privileges.”
“Of course it does!” exclaimed Stephen, tilting down his chair. He walked
across the room to Radlett’s seat and stood behind him. “See here, Baird.
I did not want to speak of this thing because I was afraid of breaking
down and making an ass of myself generally. You don’t know what it is to
be placed as I am. When you asked a girl to marry you, you had something
to offer her, whether she had the sense to take it or not. You offered
her a clean life, a fortune honorably made, an untarnished name, while
I,—why even if there were the remotest chance that Miss Cameron would
look at me, I should be a brute to ask her. The more I cared for her, the
less I could do it. So you see, for me it must be ‘the desire of the moth
for the star.’ A man must abide by the consequences of his acts; he must
take his medicine, and if mine is bitter, it may do me all the more good
only—only I cannot talk about it. Good night!”
Radlett did not answer; but long after Stephen was asleep, or pretended
to be, Baird lay staring at the rafters. “To lay down his life for his
friend,” he said to himself. “That would not be the hardest thing. To lay
down his love! I wonder if I am man enough to do it.”