The Tenderfoot must see the Blackguard a mile or so on his way, but
La Mancha took him by a new route which sloped down quickly into the
timber. The boy's heart beat high because the Blackguard treated him
now as an equal, almost as a chum, and this, which he would have
disdained yesterday morning, seemed a great condescension to-day. In
his heart of hearts Mr. Ramsay felt a new thing--a craving for the
rough frontier life, for the romance of savagery. A real Britisher
is never thoroughly civilised; inside the veneer of the university
lurks the schoolboy barbarian, blessed with the hereditary instinct
of clenched fists, which gives world-mastery to the Dominant Race,
that blood-thirst of the Vikings, that chivalry of the Middle Ages,
that headlong courage of the sea heroes who took to water in the
great days of Elizabeth, that masterfulness which afterwards created
the most glorious empire the world has ever seen. Britain is not in
Fleet Street, or Mayfair, or the City, but at heart a rough race of
conquerors and rulers. So this Tenderfoot from Balham, awakening in
one short day, shook off the garments of conventionalism, worshipping
the Blackguard because he was brave and strong, hung furtively a pace
behind him as they walked, that he might gloat upon a pair of big
rowelled spurs, a glittering cartridge belt, and a big sheathed
revolver. That is the way of an English lad since the very
beginning, and that must be the way until the time when we fall to
rise no more.
"Why don't we ride?" he asked, for the Blackguard was leading both
horses, tied head to tail.
"Because horses weren't built to carry a weight down hill. Their
knees are weak."
Said the Tenderfoot fatuously, "But you're a Spaniard, they say."
"And what of that?"
"I thought Spaniards were always beastly cruel."
Yesterday the Blackguard would have struck any man living for saying
as much. Now he grinned.
"You're improving, Charlie. You'll be getting damaged presently for
cheek. If I were all Spaniard I'd ride down here at a gallop. I'd
ride over you to begin with, just to see the blood squirting. As it
is, the Spanish end of me isn't over safe to fool with, though the
English end of me rather fancies your confounded impudence."
"So you're half English?"
"My mother was English."
"Oh!"
Presently the Blackguard asked a question, watching narrowly what the
effect would be. "I suppose, Charlie, you'll be flirting with Miss
Burrows up yonder?"
The lad blushed hotly.
"I thought so, Charlie. Halt; look me square in the eyes, if you
can. The Spanish end of me wanted to ride you down just now; it got
jealous, but the English end of me thinks it only common decency to
warn you. I may be flirting with that girl myself,--I suppose
because I oughtn't to think of her on a regular month's fine of my
pay and Government rations. You needn't look like a frost-bitten
chipmunk,--the betting is ten to one on you, because you're a
presentable candidate, and I'm not, worse luck. The betting is a
hundred to one on you, because you've got the field all to yourself,
you brat. Besides that, you're good-looking in a way, with those
infernally frank blue eyes, while I look like the very devil. We've
each got to take our chance, and when she makes her choice, the devil
take the hindmost. You understand?"
"But it's not that way at all." Mr. Ramsay was blushing. "She's an
awfully nice girl--but--fact is," he drew himself up, and added with
slow magnificence, "I'm not a marrying man."
The Blackguard laughed. "Well, let's drop that and get down to the
Tough Nut Claim before dinner-time. By the way, when you meet these
prospectors, take care not to let them suspect why you came to this
country, because, if they think you represent money in London,
they'll make it a point of honour to sell you a wild-cat claim."
"Why did you bring me this way?"
"When that cad Burrows has talked you blind you'll need a friend or
so to lead you about. Come on, we'll have dinner at the Claim."
Among the torchlike pines they came to a little log-cabin, with a
door and window in front, shaded by an extension of the ridge roof,
and at the back a chimney of sticks wattled over with clay. Just
beyond, a cutting had been made into the hill, this being the
entrance to a tunnel, the waste rock from which had been spread out
into a terrace, or dump, littered with heaps of silver-bearing lead,
all glittering in the sunlight. From within the tunnel came the
steady clang of a sledge-hammer beating a bar of steel into live
rock; but the Blackguard tethered his horses to a stump, and the two
men sat down in a rough smithy.
"What's this?" Mr. Ramsay sniffed disdainfully. "It looks like some
blacksmith's shop."
"It is," said La Mancha, lighting his pipe. "They use it for
sharpening the points of the drills. Look here, youngster, for fear
of trouble when you meet these prospectors, I'm going to give you a
dose of etiquette.
"If you meet a westerner, call him 'my good man.'
"When you dine with him, criticise the food, ask how much there's to
pay, and look on while he washes up.
"Always make him keep his distance, and, if he won't take the hint,
talk about your big relations--your friend, the Duchess of Balham,
and so forth.
"When you light your cigar, don't offer him one first.
"Afterwards, when you meet, give him your finger-tips to shake, or
don't even notice him.
"Always"--
"Stop," cried the Tenderfoot, hot with rage and shame. "Do you think
I'm such an awful cad as that?"
"You were yesterday, my buck, when you left camp.
"For instance, just now you set off to walk this way with me because
you were too uneasy to say good-bye. You thought you ought to offer
me a tip, but you didn't dare."
"Suppose I had?" asked the other sulkily.
"I'd have thrashed you to a jelly. I always over-exert myself when I
lose my temper."
For a minute or so the Blackguard watched a gaily-striped squirrel, a
"chipmunk," which was playing with some nut-shells by the forge.
"Cheep," said La Mancha, with a queer click of the tongue.
"Cheep," responded the animal, still busy.
"Cheep," said La Mancha again, whereupon the dainty little beast sat
on end, with furry tail coiled Up its furry back, and looked from one
to the other to see which spoke.
"Cheep," said La Mancha, at which the chipmunk glanced derisively at
the Englishman's riding-breeches, then ran up the big man's boot and
perched on his knee.
"How's the nut business, eh, little man?"
"Cheep, cheep," clicked the chipmunk; then, disdaining any further
overtures of friendship, scuttled off to play again with his
nut-shells.
Mr. Ramsay sat in high dudgeon, brooding over his wrongs, much to the
Blackguard's amusement as he smoked peacefully until the prospectors
should be ready to knock off work at the dinner-hour. The clang of
the sledge-hammer had ceased, a willowy man in long boots and a muddy
complexion crossed from the tunnel to the cabin, the dinner smoke
began to float up from the chimney, from within the tunnel came a
sound of tapping, then thumping, then silence.
"Tamping in the charges," muttered La Mancha; "there'll be blasting
soon. Cheer up, Charlie; Long Leslie saw us when he went to the
cabin, or he wouldn't have made a dinner fire on a hot day like this."
Mr. Ramsay disdained to answer, so La Mancha smoked peacefully,
watching the chipmunk at play.
A second muddy man came running from the tunnel, dodging behind the
ore bank, yelling "Look out!" A volley of stones came flying out
after him; a dull explosion shook the hillside.
"All right?" called the second muddy man, now eagerly examining the
fragments just thrown out. "I'll be with you, Blackguard, in a
jiffy."
Mr. Ramsay had picked up a yellow object from the bench beside him,
something which might have been a very big stick of barley sugar, yet
felt rather like wax.
"Give that to me," said the Blackguard; then, seeing that the other
resented his tone of command, he made a rapid grab at the stick.
Indignant because of the treatment he received at the hands of a man
who had unconsciously flattered him into a feeling of equality and
friendship, the Tenderfoot swung the yellow stick over his head with
a rapid aim at the squirrel.
"Take care," said the Blackguard,--"that's dynamite."
It was too late. The stick had already flown from the youngster's
hand, was swirling across the smithy. Then a red flower seemed to
bud in the air, which became a gigantic blossom growing-- filling all
the world, scorching hot.
* * * * * *
The Blackguard opened one eye, then the other, lazily observant of
the two prospectors, who were lifting away the ruins of their smithy.
"How's that Tenderfoot? Is he dead?"
Shorty answered, with a gulp in his throat, "So, you're alive?
That's good."
"But the Tenderfoot?"
"Oh, we got him out all right."
Shorty was wrenching at a small beam which lay across La Mancha's
shoulder.
"No bones broken; but he hasn't woke up. Here, that takes the weight
off you. How do you feel?"
"Middling," said the Blackguard, closing his eyes again. "Are the
horses all right?"
"Only scared."
"Ride up, one of you; fetch the Burrows girl with some tintacks and
the family gum-pot. Right arm broken above the elbow. Just like my
confounded luck. They'll fine me another month's pay
for--breaking--leave." And then he fainted.
* * * * * *
The Blackguard groaned as he woke up. "Beg pardon, didn't mean to,"
he said; then opening his eyes, "Are you the Burrows girl, or a
Christmas-card angel?"
Miss Violet's eyes were red as she bent over him, holding a
half-empty flask.
"If you're a woman," he said, "please kiss me."
She did.
"Thanks. You're a very nice girl. Do you know how to do what you're
told?"
She nodded, trying to smile, which was difficult, because her lips
would curl the wrong way. "Then," he said, "take two sticks of wood,
cover them all over with cotton wool, bind it down even with
bandages, then strap them on either side of my arm, while Shorty and
Long Leslie pull the bones out straight. Understand?"
"I'm awfully frightened," whispered Miss Violet.
"Be frightened afterwards, not now. I always come to grief whenever
I try to be good. I promise I won't ever do it again; but be quick,
my dear, and while you're making the splints get somebody to pour
cold water on the swelling."
"How's that silly ass?" he asked tenderly, while the work went
forward; and it was the Tenderfoot who answered tearfully, "The silly
ass is ashamed."