THE "LITTLE YANKEE" MINE
A wide out-jutting wall of rock, uneven and precipitous, completely
shut off all view toward the broader valley of the Vila, as well as of
the town of San Juan, scarcely three miles distant. Beyond its stern
guardianship Echo Canyon stretched grim and desolate, running far back
into the very heart of the gold-ribbed mountains. The canyon, a mere
shapeless gash in the side of the great hills, was deep, long,
undulating, ever twisting about like some immense serpent, its sides
darkened by clinging cedars and bunches of chaparral, and rising in
irregular terraces of partially exposed rock toward a narrow strip of
blue sky. It was a fragment of primitive nature, as wild, gloomy,
desolate, and silent as though never yet explored by man.
A small clear stream danced and sang over scattered stones at the
bottom of this grim chasm, constantly twisting and curving from wall to
wall, generally half concealed from view by the dense growth of
overhanging bushes shadowing its banks. High up along the brown rock
wall the gleam of the afternoon sun rested warm and golden, but deeper
down within those dismal, forbidding depths there lingered merely a
purple twilight, while patches of white snow yet clung desperately to
the steep surrounding hills, or showered in powdery clouds from off the
laden cedars whenever the disturbing wind came soughing up the gorge.
Early birds were beginning to flit from tree to tree, singing their
welcome to belated Springtime; a fleecy cloud lazily floating far
overhead gave deeper background to the slender strip of over-arching
blue. It all combined to form a nature picture of primeval peace,
rendered peculiarly solemn by those vast ranges of overshadowing
mountains, and more deeply impressive by the grim silence and
loneliness, the seemingly total absence of human life.
Yet in this the scene was most deceptive. Neither peace nor loneliness
lurked amid those sombre rock shadows; over all was the dominance of
men--primitive, fighting men, rendered almost wholly animal by the
continued hardships of existence, the ceaseless struggle after gold.
The vagrant trail, worn deep between rocks by the constant passage of
men and mules, lay close beside the singing water, while here and there
almost imperceptible branches struck off to left or right, running as
directly as possible up the terraced benches until the final dim traces
were completely lost amid the low-growing cedars. Each one of these
led as straight as nature would permit to some specific spot where men
toiled incessantly for the golden dross, guarding their claims with
loaded rifles, while delving deeper and deeper beneath the mysterious
rocks, ever seeking to make their own the secret hoards of the world's
great storehouse. Countless centuries were being rudely unlocked
through the ceaseless toil of pick and shovel, the green hillsides torn
asunder and disfigured by ever-increasing piles of debris, while
eager-eyed men struggled frantically to obtain the hidden riches of the
rocks. Here and there a rudely constructed log hut, perched with
apparent recklessness upon the brink of the precipice, told the silent
story of a claim, while in other places the smouldering remains of a
camp-fire alone bespoke primitive living. Yet every where along that
upper terrace, where in places the seductive gold streak lay half
uncovered to the sun, were those same yawning holes leading far down
beneath the surface; about them grouped the puny figures of men
performing the labors of Hercules under the galling spur of hope.
On this higher ledge, slightly beyond a shallow intersecting gorge
shadowed by low-growing cedars, two men reclined upon a rock-dump,
gazing carelessly off six hundred feet sheer down into the gloomy
depths of the canyon below. Just beyond them yawned the black opening
of their shaft-hole, the rude windlass outlined against the gray
background of rock, while somewhat to the left, seemingly overhanging
the edge of the cliff, perched a single-roomed cabin of logs
representing home. This was the "Little Yankee" claim, owners William
Hicks and "Stutter" Brown. The two partners were sitting silent and
idle, a single rifle lying between them on the dump. Hicks was tall,
lank, seamed of face, with twinkling gray eyes, a goat's beard dangling
at his chin to the constant motion of his nervous jaws; and Brown,
twenty years his junior, was a young, sandy-haired giant, limited of
speech, of movement, of thought, with freckled cheeks and a downy
little moustache of decidedly red hue. They had been laboriously
deciphering a letter of considerable length and peculiar illegibility,
and the slow but irascible Stutter had been swearing in disjointed
syllables, his blue eyes glaring angrily across the gully, where
numerous moving figures, conspicuous in blue and red shirts, were
plainly visible about the shaft-hole of the "Independence," the next
claim below them on the ledge. Yet for the moment neither man spoke
otherwise. Finally, shifting uneasily, yet with mind evidently made up
for definite action, Hicks broke the prolonged silence.
"I was thinkin' it over, Stutter, all the way hoofin' it out yere," he
said, chewing continually on his tobacco, "but sorter reckoned ez how
yer ought ter see the writin' furst, considerin' ez how you're a full
partner in this yere claim. It sorter strikes me thet the lawyer hes
give us the straight tip all right, an' thar 's no other way fer
gittin' the cinch on them ornary fellers over thar," and the speaker
waved his hand toward the distant figures. "Yer see, it's this yere
way, Stutter. You an' I could swar, of course, thet the damned cusses
hed changed the stakes on us more 'n onct, an' thar 's no doubt in our
two minds but what they 're a-followin' out our ore-lead right now,
afore we kin git down ter it. Hell! of course they are--they got the
fust start, an' the men, an' the money back of 'em. We ain't got a
darn thing but our own muscle, an' the rights of it, which latter don't
amount ter two bumps on a log. Fer about three weeks we 've been
watchin' them measly skunks take out our mineral, an' for one I 'm
a-goin' ter quit. I never did knuckle down ter thet sort, an' I 'm too
old now ter begin. The lawyer says ez how we ain't got no legal proof,
an' I reckon it's so. But I 'm damned if I don't git some. Thar ain't
a minin' engineer in San Juan that 'll come up yere fer us. Them
fellers hes got 'em all on the hip; but I reckon, if we hunt long
'nough, we kin find some feller in Colorado with nerve 'nough to tackle
this yere job, an' I 'm a-goin' out gunnin' for jist that man."
He got to his feet, his obstinate old eyes wandering across the gully,
and the younger man watched him with slow curiosity.
"How f-f-far you g-g-going, Bill?" he burst forth stutteringly.
"Denver, if I need to," was the elder's resolute, response. "I 'll
tell ye what I 'm a-goin' ter do, Stutter. I 'm a-goin' ter draw out
every blamed cent we 've got in the bank down at San Juan. 'T ain't
much of a pile, but I reckon it's got ter do the business. Then I 'll
strike out an' hunt till I find a minin' engineer thet 's got a soul of
his own, an' grit 'nough behind it ter root out the facts. I 've been
a-prospecttn' through these here mountings fer thirty years, an' now
thet I 've hit somethin' worth havin', I 'm hanged if I 'm a-goin' ter
lie down meek ez Moses an' see it stole out plumb from under me by a
parcel o' tin-horn gamblers. Not me, by God! If I can't git a cinch
on sich a feller ez I want, then I 'll come back an' blow a hole
through that Farnham down at San Juan. I reckon I 'll go in an' tell
him so afore I start."
The old man's square jaws set ominously, his gnarled hand dropping
heavily on the butt of the Colt dangling at his hip.
"You stay right yere, Stutter, on the dump, and don't yer let one o'
them measly sneaks put nary foot on our claim, if yer have ter blow 'em
plumb ter hell. You an' Mike kin tend ter thet all right, an' you bet
I 'm goin' ter have some news fer yer when I git home, my boy."
He swung around, and strode back along the ledge to the door of the
cabin, reappearing scarcely a moment later with a small bundle in his
hand.
"Thar 's 'nough grub in thar ter last you an' Mike fer a week yit, an'
I 'll be back afore then, er else planted. _Adios_."
Brown sat up, his gun resting between his knees, and in silence watched
his partner scrambling down the steep trail. It was not easy for him
to converse, and he therefore never uttered a word unless the situation
demanded the sacrifice. He could swear, however, with considerable
fluency, but just now even that relief seemed inadequate. Finally, the
older man disappeared behind the scrub, and, except for those more
distant figures about the dump of the "Independence," the blond giant
remained apparently alone. But Stutter had long ago become habituated
to loneliness; the one condition likely to worry him was lack of
occupation. He scrambled to his feet and climbed the dump, until able
to lean far over and look down into the black mouth of the uncovered
shaft.
"Got yer b-b-bucket full, M-M-Mike?" he questioned, sending his deep,
sputtering voice far down into the depths below.
"Oi have thot," came the disgusted response from out the darkness. "Ye
measly spalpeen, ain't Oi bin shakin' of the rope fer twinty minutes?
Oi tought maybe ye'd run off an' left me to rot down in the hole. Whut
's up now, ye freckled-face ilephant, yer?"
Brown indulged in a cautious glance about, then stuck his almost boyish
face farther down within the safety of the hole before venturing an
explanation.
"B-B-Bill's g-gone to find s-s-some engi-n-neer w-with nerve 'nough ter
r-r-run our lines," he managed to spit out disjointedly. "S-s-says
he'll go plumb ter Denver 'fore he 'll g-g-give up, an' if he d-don't
f-find any sich he 'll c-c-come back an' p-p-perforate F-F-Farnham."
"Bedad!" a tinge of unrestrained delight apparent in the sudden roar,
"an' was he hot?"
"H-he sure was. He m-m-m-meant business all r-right, an' hed f-f-forty
rounds b-b-buckled on him. H-here goes, Mike," and Brown grasped the
warped handle of the windlass and began to grind slowly, coiling the
heavy rope, layer upon layer, around the straining drum. He brought
the huge ore-bucket to the surface, dumped its load of rock over the
edge of the shaft-hole, and had permitted it to run down swiftly to the
waiting Mike, when a slight noise behind sent the man whirling suddenly
about, his hand instinctively reaching forth toward the discarded but
ready rifle. A moment he stared, incredulous, at the strange vision
fronting him, his face quickly reddening from embarrassment, his eyes
irresolute and puzzled. Scarcely ten feet away, a woman, rather
brightly attired and apparently very much at her ease, sat upon a
rather diminutive pony, her red lips curved in lines of laughter,
evidently no little amused at thus startling him. Brown realized that
she was young and pretty, with jet black, curling hair, and eyes of the
same color, her skin peculiarly white and clear, while she rode man
fashion, her lower limbs daintily encased within leggings of buckskin.
She had carelessly dropped her reins upon the high pommel of the
saddle, and as their glances fairly met, she laughed outright.
"You mooch frighten, señor, and you so ver' big. It make me joy." Her
broken English was oddly attractive. "Poof! los Americanos not all
find me so ver' ter'ble."
Stutter Brown ground his white teeth together savagely, his short red
moustache bristling. He was quite young, never greatly accustomed to
companionship with the gentler sex, and of a disposition strongly
opposed to being laughed at. Besides, he felt seriously his grave
deficiencies of speech.
"I-I-I was s-sorter expectin' a-a-another kind of c-c-caller," he
stuttered desperately, in explanation, every freckle standing out in
prominence, "an' th-th-thought m-m-maybe somebody 'd g-g-got the d-drop
on me."
The girl only laughed again, her black eyes sparkling. Yet beneath his
steady, questioning gaze her face slightly sobered, a faint flush
becoming apparent in either cheek.
"You talk so ver' funny, señor; you so big like de tree, an' say vords
dat vay; it make me forget an' laf. You moost not care just for me.
Pah! but it vas fight all de time vid you, was n't it, señor? Biff,
bang, kill; ver' bad," and she clapped her gauntleted hands together
sharply. "But not me; I vas only girl; no gun, no knife--see. I just
like know more 'bout mine--Americano's mine; you show me how it vork.
_Sabe_?"
Stutter appeared puzzled, doubtful.
"Mexicana?" he questioned, kicking a piece of rock with his heavy boot.
"Si, señor, but I speak de English ver' good. I Mercedes Morales, an'
I like ver' much de brav' Americanos. I like de red hair, too,
señor--in Mexico it all de same color like dis," and she shook out her
own curling ebon locks in sudden shower. "I tink de red hair vas more
beautiful."
Mr. Brown was not greatly accustomed to having his rather fiery
top-knot thus openly referred to in tones of evident admiration. It
was a subject he naturally felt somewhat sensitive about, and in spite
of the open honesty of the young girl's face, he could not help
doubting for a moment the sincerity of her speech.
"L-l-like f-fun yer do," he growled uneasily. "A-a-anyhow, whut are
yer d-d-doin' yere?"
For answer she very promptly swung one neatly booted foot over and
dropped lightly to the ground, thus revealing her slender figure. Her
most notable beauty was the liquid blackness of her eyes.
"Si, I tell you all dat ver' quick, señor," she explained frankly,
nipping the rock-pile with her riding whip, and bending over to peer,
with undisguised curiosity, into the yawning shaft-hole. "I ride out
from San Juan for vat you call constitutional--mercy, such a vord,
señor!--an' I stray up dis trail. See? It vas most steep, my, so
steep, like I slide off; but de mustang he climb de hill, all right,
an' den I see you, señor, an' know dere vas a mine here. Not de big
mine--bah! I care not for dat kind--but just one leetle mine, vere I
no be 'fraid to go down. Den I look at you, so big, vid de beautiful
red hair, an' de kin' face, an' I sink he vood let me see how dey do
such tings--he vas nice fellow, if he vas all mud on de clothes. Si,
for I know nice fellow, do I not, _amigo_? _Si, bueno_. So you vill
show to me how de brav' Americanos dig out de yellow gold, señor?"
She flashed her tempting glance up into the man's face, and Brown
stamped his feet nervously, endeavoring to appear stern.
"C-c-could n't h-hardly do it, m-m-miss. It 's t-too blame dirty
d-d-down below fer y-your sort. B-b-besides, my p-pardner ain't yere,
an' he m-m-might not l-like it."
"You haf de pardner? Who vas de pardner?"
"H-h-his name's H-H-Hicks."
She clasped her hands in an ecstasy of unrestrained delight.
"Beell Heeks? Oh, señor, I know Beell Heeks. He vas ver' nice fellow,
too--but no so pretty like you; he old man an' swear--Holy Mother, how
he swear! He tol' me once come out any time an' see hees mine. I not
know vere it vas before. Maybe de angels show me. You vas vat Beell
call Stutter Brown, I tink maybe? Ah, now it be all right, señor.
_Bueno_!"
She laid her gauntleted hand softly on the rough sleeve of his woollen
shirt, her black, appealing eyes flashing suddenly up into his troubled
face.
"I moost laugh, señor; such a brav' Americano 'fraid of de girl. Why
not you shoot me?"
"A-a-afraid nothin'," and Stutter's freckled face became instantly as
rosy as his admired hair, "b-but I t-tell ye, miss, it's a-a-all d-dirt
down th-there, an' not f-f-fit fer no lady ter t-t-traipse round in."
The temptress, never once doubting her power, smiled most bewitchingly,
her hands eloquent.
"You vas good boy, just like I tink; I wear dis ol' coat--see; an' den
I turn up de skirt, so. I no 'fraid de dirt. Now, vat you say, señor?
_Bueno_?"
Thus speaking, she seized upon the discarded and somewhat disreputable
garment, flung it carelessly about her shapely shoulders, shrugging
them coquettishly, her great eyes shyly uplifting to his relenting
face, and began swiftly to fasten up her already short dress in
disregard of the exposure of trim ankles. The agitated Mr. Brown
coughed, his uneasy glances straying down the open shaft. He would
gladly, and with extreme promptness, have shoved the cold muzzle of his
Colt beneath the nose of any man at such moment of trial; but this
young girl, with a glance and a laugh, had totally disarmed him.
Disturbed conscience, a feeling akin to disloyalty, pricked him, but
the temptation left him powerless to resist--those black eyes held him
already captive; and yet in this moment of wavering indecision, that
teasing hand once again rested lightly upon his shirt-sleeve.
"Please do dat, señor," the voice low and pleading. "It vas not ver'
mooch just to let a girl see your leetle mine. What harm, señor? But
maybe it's so because you no like me?"
Startled by so unjust a suspicion, the eyes of the young giant
instantly revealed a degree of interest which caused her own to light
up suddenly, her red lips parting in a quick, appreciative smile which
disclosed the white teeth.
"Ah, I see it vas not dat. Eet make glad de heart--make eet to sing
like de birds. Now I know eet vill be as I vish. How do I get down,
señor?"
Thus easily driven from his last weak entrenchments, his heart
fluttering to the seduction of her suggestive glance, the embarrassed
Stutter made unconditional surrender, a gruff oath growling in his
throat. He leaned out over the dark shaft, his supporting hand on the
drum.
"Come u-u-up, M-M-Mike," he called, rattling his letters like
castanets. "I w-w-want to g-go d-d-down."
There followed a sound of falling rocks below, a fierce shaking of the
suspended rope, and then a muffled voice sang out an order, "H'ist
away, and be dommed ter yer." Brown devoted himself assiduously to the
creaking windlass, although never able entirely to remove his attention
from that bright-robed, slender figure standing so closely at his side.
For one brief second he vaguely wondered if she could be a witch, and
he looked furtively aside, only to perceive her bright eyes smiling
happily at him. Then suddenly a totally bald head shot up through the
opening, a seamed face the color of parchment, with squinting gray
eyes, peered suspiciously about, while a gnarled hand reached forth,
grasped a post in support, and dragged out into the sunlight a short,
sturdy body. Mike straightened up, with a peculiar jerk, on the dump,
spat viciously over the edge of the canyon, and drew a short, black
pipe from out a convenient pocket in his shirt. He made no audible
comment, but stood, his back planted to the two watchers; and Stutter
cleared his throat noisily.
"Th-th-this l-l-lady wants ter s-s-see how we m-m-mine," he explained
in painful embarrassment, "a-an' I th-th-thought I 'd t-take her
d-d-down if you 'd w-work the w-w-windlass a b-bit."
Old Mike turned slowly around and fronted the two, his screwed-up eyes
on the girl, while with great deliberation he drew a match along the
leg of his canvas trousers.
"Onything to oblige ye," he said gruffly. "Always ready to hilp the
ladies--be me sowl, Oi've married three of thim already. An' wus this
Hicks's orthers, Stutter?"
"N-n-no, not exactly," Brown admitted, with evident reluctance. "B-but
ye s-s-see, she's a g-great friend o' B-B-Bill's, an' so I reckon it
'll be all r-right. Don't s-see how n-no harm kin be d-d-done."
The pessimistic Michael slowly blew a cloud of pungent smoke into the
air, sucking hard at his pipe-stem, and laid his rough hands on the
windlass handle.
"None o' my dommed funeral, beggin' yer pardon, miss," he condescended
to mutter in slight apology. "Long as the pay goes on, Oi 'd jist as
soon work on top as down below. H'ist the female into the bucket, ye
overgrown dood!"
Stutter Brown, still nervous from recurring doubts, awkwardly assisted
his vivacious charge to attain safe footing, anxiously bade her hold
firmly to the swaying rope, and stood, carefully steadying the line as
it slowly disappeared, hypnotized still by those marvellous black eyes,
which continued to peer up at him until they vanished within the
darkness. Leaning far over to listen, the young miner heard the bucket
touch bottom, and then, with a quick word of warning to the man
grasping the handle, he swung himself out on the taut rope, and went
swiftly down, hand over hand. Mike, still grumbling huskily to
himself, waited until the windlass ceased vibrating, securely anchored
the handle with a strip of raw-hide, and composedly sat down, his teeth
set firmly on the pipe-stem, his eyes already half closed. It was an
obstinate, mulish old face, seamed and creased, the bright sunlight
rendering more manifest the leather-like skin, the marvellous network
of wrinkles about eyes and mouth. Not being paid for thought, the old
fellow now contented himself with dozing, quite confident of not being
quickly disturbed.
In this he was right. The two were below for fully an hour, while
above them Mike leaned with back comfortably propped against the
windlass in perfect contentment, and the hobbled pony peacefully
cropped the short grass along the ledge. Then the brooding silence was
abruptly broken by a voice rising from out the depths of the shaft,
while a vigorous shaking of the dangling rope caused the windlass to
vibrate sharply. Old Mike, with great deliberation stowing away his
pipe, unslipped the raw-hide, and, calmly indifferent to all else
except his necessary labor, slowly hauled the girl to the surface. She
was radiant, her eyes glowing from the excitement of unusual adventure,
and scrambled forth from the dangling bucket without awaiting
assistance. Before Brown attained to the surface, the lady had safely
captured the straying pony and swung herself lightly into the saddle.
Squaring his broad shoulders with surprise as he came out, his face
flushed, his lips set firm, the young giant laid restraining fingers on
her gloved hand.
"Y-y-you really m-mean it?" he asked, eagerly, as though fearing the
return to daylight might already have altered her decision. "C-can I
c-call on you wh-wh-where you s-s-said?"
She smiled sweetly down at him, her eyes picturing undisguised
admiration of his generous proportions, and frank, boyish face.
"Si, si, señor. _Sapristi_, why not? 'T is I, rather, who 'fraid you
forget to come."
"Y-you n-need n't be," he stammered, coloring. "S-señorita, I sh-shall
never f-f-forget this day."
"_Quien sabe_?--poof! no more vill I; but now, _adios_, señor."
She touched her pony's side sharply with the whip, and, standing
motionless, Stutter watched them disappear over the abrupt ledge. Once
she glanced shyly back, with a little seductive wave of the gauntleted
hand, and then suddenly dropped completely out of view down the steep
descent of the trail. Old Mike struck another match, and held the tiny
flame to his pipe-bowl.
"An' it's hell ye played the day," he remarked reflectively, his eyes
glowing gloomily.
The younger man wheeled suddenly about and faced him.
"Wh-what do ye m-m-mean?"
"Jist the same whut I said, Stutter. Ye 're a broight one, ye are.
That's the Mexican dancer down at the Gayety at San Juan, no less; and
it's dollars to doughnuts, me bye, that that dom Farnham sint her out
here to take a peek at us. It wud be loike the slippery cuss, an' I
hear the two of thim are moighty chummy."
And Stutter Brown, his huge fists clinched in anger, looked off into
the dark valley below, and, forgetting his affliction of speech, swore
like a man.