OIL ON TROUBLED WATERS
John Berwick's accident was the last touch which caused the uprising to
crumble. One more great effort after the ideal of justice had fallen and
parted.
Frank Corte was sitting in front of the Dominion Creek cabin, by the
side of a pool of water that had formed since the claims--which
rightfully belonged to himself and his three associates--had been taken
over by the agents of Poo-Bah. The policy of the land was to reap to-day
and spend to-morrow, so a dam had been put in on the "pup" or tributary
of Dominion Creek that entered above the claims; and already a harvest
was in sight. Frank had some possessions in the cabin, which he had come
to fetch before joining the new stampede.
Above the cabin was a line of sluice-boxes, into which half-a-dozen
lusty Scandinavians were shovelling the precious dirt. It was Frank's
own claim they were working--and he gritted his teeth. For an instant
his face lost its habitual grin. "If this was only God's country," he
muttered, as he glanced through the open door of the cabin at the rifle
hanging on the wall therein. He continued to whirl the gold-pan which he
held in his hands. In the pan was a handful of dirt he was idly
concentrating. "The boss won't stand for it--and he's a white man."
Frank smiled again.
From the mining operations at the sluice-boxes, voices came to where
Corte sat. Neither the foreman nor his men had realized that their
voices were carrying beyond the sound of rushing water. They were
shouting that they might hear each other above the roar in the sluices,
and were laughing cheerily--for Poo-Bah was a good paymaster to his men.
"One dollar, two dollar, one and six bits"--would float to Frank's ears,
as the foreman estimated the contents of a pan; and he would inwardly
groan as he calculated the wealth that was passing from him into the
great grafter's pocket.
"I guess we'd better clean up; we can get her down to the black sand by
half-past ten and finished an hour later."
Something rose in Frank's throat and almost choked him. The attitude of
these intruders galled him. He half jumped up to seize his rifle, when
"No," he muttered: "Them yellow-legs!"
His attention was attracted to the gold-pan. Specks of gold were
floating upon the water; at the bottom of the pan he noticed an
unmistakable grease spot, and, true to its nature, it had secured to its
surface several of the tiny yellow grains. Grease was alike fatal to the
gold-pan and the stamp battery.
Suddenly his eyes took on a new light: they were full of energy. He
glanced towards the working miners, and followed the line of sluices to
the artificial pond in the "pup" whence they got their water. "Yes,
yes!" he muttered, and sprang to his feet. He hurried to the quarters of
one of his friends, Jerry, the engineer on a neighbouring claim where a
steam-plant had been installed.
"Jerry," said Frank, "I want two bottles of lubricating oil."
"Pretty near all I got."
"Don't care--must have it."
"All right, what do you want it for?"
"Frying slap-jacks." Frank went with his evil-smelling petroleum.
"What the devil is he up to!" asked Jerry, as the drooping figure hulked
out of sight. The weasel that peeped at him through the poles of his
cabin floor could not tell him, nor did he know.
Frank put the oil on the table of his cabin, and then went outside and
began chopping wood. It was now the orthodox bed-time, so he must show a
good reason for being about. The sun had just set in the north, the
quarter it sets in the Northland.
"Shut her off," he heard the foreman cry, and he knew the cleaning was
to be commenced. Down came the axe on a four-inch stick of spruce with a
force that burst it asunder and threw the pieces far apart. No
experienced woodman in the ordinary course of events would have used so
much force, and Frank Corte had chopped much wood.
The roar of the water diminished, the voices of the clean-up men fell
away. He could hear no more, but he knew every move. First, the riffles
would be lifted from the sluice-boxes and the dump-box, and the dirt in
the sluice-boxes would be shovelled into the dump-box. Then a strip of
wood, about two inches square, would be placed across the dump-box where
it joined the head of the sluices. This would prevent the gold from
being washed down the boxes.
When these processes were accomplished the foreman shouted "Turn on half
a head," and Ole Oleson, at the gate, allowed half the usual flow of
water to rush down the flume to the dump-box. Had Frank watched the
impact of the water on the dirt in the dump-box he would, even in the
now failing light, have seen a burst of yellow shine out from what had
previously appeared dross.
As the water reached the dirt the dirt was forced against it by three or
four stout paddles, whereby the husky workmen churned and washed the
dirt thoroughly. Across the dump-box where the water met the pay-dirt
stretched a band of gold. First it was half an inch, and then two
inches. Meanwhile the pebbles and the dross worked their way over the
retaining block and bumped ignominiously to the tailings.
"It looks good," said the foreman in loud tones. Frank heard him then
shout to Ole, "A quarter of a head." Corte, thereupon, threw down his
axe. It was time for action. He went into the cabin, and placed the two
bottles of oil in a bucket, with which he set out for the dam. It was
the most natural thing in the world for a man to draw a bucket of water
before retiring: he might want a drink during the night.
Ole was almost asleep when Frank came up to him. He was lounging over
the gate. Frank greeted him with, "Good-evening, partner; you're working
late to-night."
"Dat's so," was all Ole had life enough to answer. Frank slipped his
bucket into the water; the bottle sank against the mud. The hues of
iridescence spread across the weird and silent surface.
The bottles were safely at the bottom of the pool, and the bucket full
of water, as Frank turned towards the cabin, saying, "Good-night, Ole."
As he neared his cabin he heard the foreman shout, "Shut her half off";
and knew that the work of taking out the black sand from the dust was at
hand. He knew that already the small specks of gold were being carried
to the lower end of the pool. So he made haste, and, taking a blanket,
nailed it at the waste gate of the lower pond, so that the total flood
from above went through it: then he turned in.
He was awake at four on the next morning, and, proceeding to the lower
pond, loosed the blanket, which was heavy with water and gold. Then he
built a fire in the open, and after it was burning well placed the
blanket upon it.
When the blanket was totally consumed and the fire burnt down, Frank
collected the ashes and panned them out. The gold was fine in form and
quality, and proved worth some thousands of dollars.
"Hi-u chickaman stuff," laughed Frank.