Silver and Gold Part 4

"We were all badly scared, because that ground was always moving, and finally we agreed that we'd take a full hour off and work till five o'clock. Well, we waited till after one before we went to the collar and just as I was stepping into the cage the whole danged stope caved in!"

"Well, sir, I went back to my room and got every dollar I had and gave Mother Trigedgo the roll. I could easy earn more but if I'd been caught in that cave they'd never even tried to dig me out. That was the least I could do, considering what she'd done for me; but Mother Trigedgo took on so much about it that I told her it was to have my fortune told.

Well, she tried the cards and dice and consulted the signs of the Zodiac; and then one day when she felt the power strong she poured a little water in my hand. That made a kind of pool, like these crystal-gazers use, and when she looked into it she began to talk and she told me all about my life. Or that is, she told me what she thought I ought to know, and gave me a copy of the Book of Fate that Napoleon always consulted. And here it ain't three months till I make this journey west and find the place she prophesied."

"Yes, and silver, too!" added Old Bunk portentously, "she hit it, down to a hickey. And now, if you'd like to inspect those claims----"

"No, hold on," protested Big Boy still pondering on his fate, "I've got to find these treasures myself. And one of them was of gold. What's the chances around here for that?"

"Danged poor," grumbled Bunker as he saw his hopes gone glimmering, "don't remember to have seen a color. But say, old Bible Back is drilling for copper and that's a good deal like gold. Same color, practically, and you know all these prophecies have a kind of symbolical meaning. A golden treasure don't necessarily mean gold, and I've got a claim----"

"Say, who's that up there?" broke in Big Boy uneasily and Old Bunk looked around with a jerk.

An old, white-haired man, wearing a battered cork helmet, was peering over the bank and when he perceived that his presence was discovered he came shuffling down the trail. He was a short, fat man, in faded shirt and overalls; and on his feet he wore a pair of gunboat brogans, thickly studded on the bottom with hob-nails. A s.p.a.ce of six inches between the tops of his shoes and the worn-off edge of his trousers exposed his shrunken shanks, and he carried a stick which might serve for cane or club as circ.u.mstances demanded. He came down briskly with his broad toes turned out in grotesque resemblance to a duck and when Bunker Hill saw him he snorted resentfully and rose up from his seat.

"Have you seen my burros?" demanded the old man, half defiantly, "I can't find dose rascals nowhere. Ah, so; here's a stranger come to camp!

Good morning, I'm glad to know you."

"Good morning," returned Big Boy glancing doubtfully at Bunker Hill, "my name is Denver Russell."

"Oh, excuse _me_!" spoke up Bunker with a sarcastic drawl, "Mr.

Russell, this is Professor Diffenderfer, the eminent b.u.t.tinsky and geologist."

"Ah--so!" beamed the Professor overlooking the fling in the excitement of the meeting, "I take it you're a mining man? Vell, if it's golt you're looking for I haf a claim up on dat hill dat is rich in auriferous deposits."

"Yes," broke in Bunker giving Big Boy a sly wink, "you ought to inspect that tunnel--it's unique in the annals of mining. You see the Professor here is an educated man--he's learned all the big words in the dictionary, and he's learned mining from reading Government reports.

We're quite proud of his achievements as a mining engineer, but you ought to see that tunnel. It starts into the hill, takes a couple of corkscrew twists and busts right out into the sunshine."

"Oh, never mind _him_!" protested the Professor as Bunker burst into a roar, "he will haf his choke, of course. But dis claim I speak of----"

"And that ain't all his accomplishments," broke in Bunker Hill relentlessly, "Mr. Diffenderfer is a count--a German count--sometimes known as Count No-Count. But as I was about to say, his greatest accomplishments have been along tonsorial lines."

A line of pain appeared between the Professor's eyes--but he stood his ground defiantly. "Yes," went on Bunker thrusting out his jaw in a baleful leer at his rival, "for many years he has had the proud distinction of being the Champion Rough-Riding Barber of Arizona."

"Vell, I've got to go," murmured the Professor hastily, "I've got to find dem burros."

He started off but at the plank across the creek he stopped and cleared his throat. "Und any time," he began, "dat you'd like to inspect dem claims----"

"The Champeen--Rough-Riding--Barber!" repeated Old Bunk with gusto, "he won his t.i.tle on the race-track at Tucson, before safety razors was invented."

"Shut up!" snapped the Professor and, crossing the plank with waspish quickness, he went squattering off down the creek. Yet one ear was turned back and as Bunker began to speak he stopped in the trail to listen.

"He took a drunken cowboy up in the saddle before him," went on Bunker with painful distinctness, "and gave him a close shave while the horse was bucking, only cutting his throat three times."

"You're a liar!" yelled the Professor and, stamping his foot, he hustled vengefully off down the trail.

"Say, who is that old boy?" enquired Big Boy curiously, "he might know where I'd find that gold."

"Who--him?" jeered Bunker, "why, that old stiff wouldn't know a chunk of gold if he saw it. All he does is to snoop around and watch what _I'm_ doing, and if he ever thinks that I've picked up a live one he b.u.t.ts in and tries to underbid me. Now I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll get you a horse and show you all over the district, and any claim I've got that you want to go to work on, you can have for five hundred dollars. Now, that's reasonable, ain't it? And yet, the way things are going, I'm glad to let you in on it. If you strike something big, here I've got my store and mine, and plenty of other claims, to boot; and if there's a rush I stand to make a clean-up on some of my other properties. So come up to the house and meet my wife and daughter, and we'll try to make you comfortable. But that old feller----"

"Nope," said Big Boy, "I think I'd rather camp--who lives in those cave-houses up there?"

He jerked his head at some walled-up caves in the bluff not far across the creek and Old Bunk scowled reproachfully.

"Oh, n.o.body," he said, "except the rattle-snakes and pack-rats. Why don't you come up to the house?"

"I don't need to go to your house," returned Big Boy defiantly. "I've got money to buy what I need."

"Yes, but come up anyway and meet my wife and daughter. Drusilla is a musician--she's studied in Boston at the celebrated Conservatory of Music----"

"I've got me a phonograph," answered Big Boy shortly, "if I can ever get it over here from Globe."

"Well, go ahead and get it, then," said Bunker Hill tartly, "they's n.o.body keeping you, I'm sure."

"No, and you bet your life there won't be," came back Big Boy, starting off, "I'm playing a lone hand to win."

CHAPTER VI

THE ORACULUM

The palpitating heat lay like a shimmering fleece over the deserted camp of Pinal and Denver Russell, returning from Globe, beheld it as one in a dream. Somewhere within the shadow of Apache Leap were two treasures that he was destined to find, one of gold and one of silver; and if he chose wisely between them they were both to be his. And if he chose unwisely, or tried to hold them both, then both would be lost and he would suffer humiliation and shame. Yet he came back boldly, fresh from a visit with Mother Trigedgo who had blessed him and called him her son.

She had wept when they parted, for her burdens had been heavy and his gift had lightened her lot; but though she wished him well she could not control his fate, for that lay with the powers above. Nor could she conceal from him the portion of evil which was balanced against the good.

"Courage and constancy will attend you through life'" she had written in her old-country scrawl; "but in the end will prove your undoing, for you will meet your death at the hands of your dearest friend."

That was the doom that hung over him like a hair-suspended sword--to be killed by his dearest friend--and as he paused at the mouth of Queen Creek Canyon he wished that his fortune had not been told. Of what good to him would be the two hidden treasures--or even the beautiful young artist with whom he was destined to fall in love--if his life might be cut off at any moment by some man that he counted his friend?

_When_ his death should befall, Mother Trigedgo had not told, for the signs had been obscure; but when it did come it would be by the hand of the man that he called his best friend. A swift surge of resistance came over him again as he gazed at the promised land and he shut his teeth down fiercely. He would have no friends, no best of friends, but all men that he met he would treat the same and so evade the harsh hand of fate. Forewarned was forearmed, he would have no more pardners such as men pick up in rambling around; but in this as in all else he would play a lone hand and so postpone the evil day.

He strode on down the trail into the silent town where the houses stood roofless and bare, and as he glanced at the ancient gallows-frame above the abandoned mine fresh courage came into his heart. This city of the dead should come back to life if what the stars said was true; and the long rows of adobes now stripped of windows and doors, would awaken to the tramp of miners' boots. He would find two treasures and, if he chose well between them, both the silver and the gold would be his. But neither wily Bunker Hill nor the palavering Professor should pull him this way or that; for Mother Trigedgo had given him a book, to consult on all important occasions. It was Napoleon's Oraculum, or Book of Fate; and as Denver had glanced at the key--with its thirty-two questions covering every important event in human life--a thrill of security had pa.s.sed over him. With this mysterious Oraculum, the Man of Destiny had solved the many problems of his life; and in question thirteen, that sinister number, was a test that would serve Denver well:

"Will the FRIEND I most reckon upon prove faithful or treacherous?"

How many times must that great, aloof man have put some friend's loyalty to the test; and if the answer was in the negative how often had he avoided death by foreknowledge of impending treachery! Yet such friends as he had retained had all proved loyal, his generals had been devoted to his cause; and with the aid of his Oraculum he had conquered all his enemies--until at last the Book of Fate had been lost. At the battle of Leipsic, in the confusion of the retreat, his precious Dream Book had been left behind. Kings and Emperors had used it since, and seeresses as well; and now, after the lapse of a hundred years, it was published in quaint cover and lettering, for the guidance of all and sundry. And Old Mother Trigedgo, coming all the way from Cornwall, had placed the Book of Fate in his hands! There was destiny in everything, and this woman who had saved his life could save it again with her Oraculum.

Denver turned to the Mexican who, with two heavily-packed mules, stood patiently awaiting his pleasure; and with a brief nod of the head he strode down the trail while the mules minced along behind him. Past the old, worked-out mine, past the melted-down walls of abandoned adobe ruins, he led on to the store and the cool, darkened house which sheltered the family of Andrew Hill; but even here he did not stop, though Old Bunk beckoned him in. His life, which had once been as other people's lives, had been touched by the hand of fate; and gayeties and good cheer, along with friendship and love, had been banished to the limbo of lost dreams. So he turned across the creek and led the way to the cave that was destined to be his home.

It was an ancient cavern beneath the rim of a low cliff which overlooked the town and as Denver was helping to unlash the packs Bunker Hill came toiling up the trail.

"Got back, hey?" he greeted stepping into the smoke-blackened cave and gazing dubiously about, "well, it'll be cool inside here, anyway."

"Yes, that's what I figured on," responded Denver briefly, and as he cleaned out the rats' nests and began to make camp Old Bunk sat down in the doorway and began a new cycle of stories.

"This here cave," he observed, "used to be occupied by the cliff-dwellers--them's their hand-marks, up on the wall; and then I reckon the Apaches moved in, and after them the soldiers; but when the Lost Burro began turning out the ore, I'll bet it was crowded like a bar-room. Them was the days, I'm telling you--you couldn't walk the street for miners out spending their money--and a cliff-house like this with a good, tight roof, would bring in a hundred dollars a night, any time that it happened to rain. All them melted-down adobes was plumb full of people, the saloons were running full blast, and the miner that couldn't steal ten dollars a day had no business working underground.

They took out chunks of native silver as big as your head, and it all ran a thousand ounces to the ton, but even at that them worthless mule-skinners was throwing pure silver at their teams. They had mounted guards to ride along with the wagons and keep them from stealing the ore, but you can pick up chunks yet where them teamsters threw them off and never went back to find 'em.

"Did you ever hear how the Lost Burro was found? Well, the name, of course, tells the story. If one of these prospectors goes out to find his burros he runs across a mine; and if he goes out the next day to look for another mine he runs across his burros. The most of them are like the old Professor down here, they wouldn't know mineral if they saw it; but of course when they grab up a chunk of pure silver and start to throw it at a jacka.s.s they can't help taking notice. Well, that's the way this mine was found. A prospector that was camping here went up on that little hill to rock his old burro back to camp and right on top he found a piece of silver that was so pure you could cut it with your knife. That guy was honest, he gave the credit to his burro, and, if the truth was known, half the mines in the west would be named after some knot-headed jacka.s.s. That's how much intellect it takes to be a prospector."