THE MAN FROM PHILADELPHIA
Spring passed and soon came summer, with its heat and its flies,
mosquitoes, ants, and other insects. But the boys and Maybe Dixon were
doing well and paid small attention to the pests that came to bother
them.
They had moved from Three Cross Gulch to another spot fifty miles away
called White Rock Gulch. Here they had located two claims, and both
were panning out very well. At White Rock Gulch they did only surface
mining, following up the gulch and its various tributaries for miles.
They took out a good deal of coarse gold, and once Maybe Dixon got out
a nugget worth at least a hundred and fifty dollars.
All told, they calculated that they had about three thousand dollars'
worth of gold on hand. They might have had several hundred dollars'
worth more but living was very high, and they did not want to go
without at least some good things, although Si, who was used to scant
farm fare, sometimes shook his head when the others paid a dollar a
pound for sugar, three dollars for coffee, and two dollars per pound
for steak that was a long way from being porterhouse in quality.
Fortunately, however, high prices did not last and by August they could
get the articles mentioned for a third of the figures given.
One day Mark took the mule and rode off to a fair-sized settlement
known as Bender's because the chief storekeeper was Captain Samuel
Bender. This place was twelve miles from where the camp of our friends
was located, and it took the youth and the animal three hours to cover
the distance over the uneven hilly trail.
Mark spent two hours in doing some trading and in seeing the sights.
At one spot was an amusement hall, and he stopped for a few minutes
to listen to some music on a banjo and watch a colored man dance a
breakdown. Near at hand was an open bar at which several men were
drinking.
As was natural, the men at the bar presently caught the youth's eye
and he looked them over, wondering if he had seen any of them before.
One looked strangely familiar and Mark cudgeled his brain to place the
individual.
"I know I've seen him somewhere," thought the boy. "The question is
where? Did I meet him on the trail, or elsewhere? I am sure he isn't a
miner."
Presently the man turned away from the bar, and walked past Mark. He
gave the youth a sharp look, and then both started.
"Hullo!" cried Mark, involuntarily.
"Hullo yourself," said the man, gruffly. "Where--er--where have I met
you before?"
"In Philadelphia," answered Mark, quickly.
"Is that so?"
"Yes, you got into my step-father's office by mistake one day."
"Did I? I don't remember it," said the man, coldly. He had fully
recovered his self-possession.
"Yes, I met you on the stairs. I was going up and you were coming down."
"Is that so? It has slipped my mind entirely." The man pretended to
yawn. "What's your name?"
"Mark Radley. My step-father's name is Jadell Powers."
"I don't know him."
"What is your name?"
"Morgan Fitzsimmons."
"You are from Philadelphia, aren't you?"
"I have been there a few times," answered Morgan Fitzsimmons, and
pretended to yawn again. "I am a great traveler. Just now I am doing
the gold fields."
"Then you are not going to try your luck at mining?"
"Hardly." The man gave a short laugh. "I am not used to such hard work.
Are you at it?"
"Yes."
"Here?"
"No, over to White Rock Gulch."
"Alone or with your step-father?"
"I am with three friends."
"Then your step-father didn't come out?"
"Not that I know of. I haven't heard from him for some time."
"I'll wager a dollar you ran away from home," said Morgan Fitzsimmons,
with a smile that Mark did not admire--it was so full of sarcastic
cunning.
"Maybe you know that I did run away," said the boy, boldly.
"Me! Why--er--not at all," stammered the man. "What makes you think
that?" he added and gave Mark a sharp look, as if to read his very
thoughts.
"Oh, it doesn't matter," said Mark. "Are you stopping here?"
"Yes, for a few days."
"And after that?"
"I don't know where I will go. But see here, boy----"
"I may see you again," said Mark, and walked away, before Morgan
Fitzsimmons could ask him any more questions.
Mark's heart was beating rapidly. He recognized the man fully as the
individual who had come away from his step-father's office on that
fateful day when the safe had been robbed of three hundred dollars.
"He looks just slick enough to be the robber," thought Mark. "But how
am I going to prove it out here and at this time?"
He thought the matter over carefully, and some time later tied his mule
to a tree and went again in search of Morgan Fitzsimmons. He found
that individual in another drinking place, playing cards with two
innocent-looking miners.
"Another five dollars gone," he heard one of the miners say. "I am in
hard luck to-day."
"So am I," said the other miner. "Don't think I am going to play any
more," he added, as he arose from the bench on which he was sitting.
"Give you a chance to win your money back if you say so," said Morgan
Fitzsimmons, carelessly.
"Another time," said the miner, and then he moved away, followed by his
companion. Morgan Fitzsimmons took the money lying on the table and
put it in his pocket.
"Have something with me," he said, to the man who was keeping the bar.
"I will and I'll have more," said the other individual, coolly.
"How much more?"
"I get twenty-five per cent. of a straight game."
"That's a pretty steep rake-off."
"And I get fifty per cent. of a crooked game," said the man who ran the
establishment.
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean, Mr. Fitzsimmons, that I want half of what you got out of Dinky
Blade and Jack Wilson."
"Hum!" Morgan Fitzsimmons was taken somewhat aback. "Then--er--you mean
to say----"
"Better say nothing, my dear friend. I understand you and you'll
understand me, sooner or later. You won forty dollars. Hand over twenty
and call for what you please."
Morgan Fitzsimmons glared at the keeper of the place and the other
man eyed him coolly. Then the gambler and swindler--for Fitzsimmons
was nothing less--passed over four five-dollar bills, after which the
keeper of the resort treated him to some liquor. Then the pair became
quite confidential.
Mark had slipped around to a side window and was taking in the scene
with keen interest. He saw what it all meant. Morgan Fitzsimmons had
played cards with the miners and swindled them out of forty dollars.
The keeper of the resort was willing to wink at the transaction and
let it pass for one-half of the ill-gotten gains. Now Fitzsimmons was
evidently arranging to do more "business" in the future, on the same
basis.
"He is a rascal--fully as bad as Sag Ruff," thought Mark. "And that
being so, it is more than likely he stole that three hundred dollars
from the office safe. I wish I could corner him in some way and bring
him to justice. That would clear my name. I suppose Mr. Powers still
thinks I am guilty."
The talk between the keeper of the resort and Morgan Fitzsimmons went
on for some time and then the gambler drew back.
"I'll be on hand every night this week," said he. "We'll make a big
thing of this, trust me for it."
"All right, Mr. Fitzsimmons. But mind, not a word to anybody of it."
"Trust me," and then Fitzsimmons walked away. Mark watched him go down
the rude street until he came to a row of shanties which were used
for boarding places. He passed into one of them and to a room he had
evidently rented for the time being.
"Here is where he is hanging out," Mark told himself. "I'll remember
that."
The boy went back to where he had left his mule and soon found shelter
for himself and the animal. Early in the morning he went back to White
Rock Gulch with his stock of provisions.
Mark had long since acquainted all of his companions with his past
history and each believed thoroughly in his innocence. All listened
with interest to the story he had to tell about Morgan Fitzsimmons.
"I want to know what you would do if you were in my place," said he,
after he had finished. "I am satisfied in my own mind that he is the
rascal who robbed my step-father."
"But what proof have you got, Mark?" asked Maybe Dixon. "You can't have
a man arrested unless you have proof against him."
"I haven't any proof excepting that I saw him coming down the stairs."
"Did anybody else see him?" asked Bob.
"I do not know, but I think not."
"Then I don't see what you can do," went on Maybe Dixon. "In a court of
law his word is as good as yours, commonly speaking, although the fact
that he is a gambler may go against him."
"And a swindler--if you can prove that," put in Si.
They talked the matter over whenever they got the chance that day, but
reached no conclusion of value. Then Mark cooled down a little, and
resolved to let the matter rest for a while.
"But I'll tell you what I am going to do," he said, suddenly. "I am
going to write to my step-father and let him know where I am and how
I am getting along, and I'll tell him all I know about this Morgan
Fitzsimmons. Then if he wants to do anything, let him go ahead, and
I'll help him all I can."
"Maybe he will get after you for running away," said Maybe Dixon.
"I am not afraid of him any more," answered Mark. "I think he will let
me alone when he learns how well I am doing--especially if I promise
not to bother him about a settlement of my heritage."
The whole party was doing very well at White Rock Gulch. On the day
that Mark went away Bob found several fair-sized nuggets, and when Mark
went to work he came across a pocket containing several nuggets as big
as peas. Then Si and Maybe Dixon capped the good fortune by finding
twin nuggets, one fitting into the other, and both together worth not
less than four hundred dollars.
"Talk about getting rich!" cried the former farm boy. "Say, this beats
hoeing corn all to pieces," and he danced a jig for joy.
"If only our good fortune keeps up," said Bob, with his face on a broad
grin.
"Well, it seems to be keeping up," said Mark. "At this rate we'll have
quite a pile laid by when winter comes."
"Don't mention winter yet!" exclaimed Si. "I don't want to think of
giving up digging gold. It's too much fun!"