CHAPTER XV

A NIGHT FOR LOVE

There was music that evening in the Bunker Hill mansion but Denver Russell sat sulking in his cave with no company but an inquisitive pack-rat. He regretted now his curt refusal to join the Hills at supper, for Drusilla was singing gloriously; but a man without pride is a despicable creature and Old Bunk had tried to insult him. So he went to bed and early in the morning, while the shadow of Apache Leap still lay like a blanket across the plain, he set out to fulfill his contract. Across one shoulder he hung a huge canteen of water, on the other a sack of powder and fuse; and, to top off his burden, he carried a long steel churn-drill and a spoon for scooping out the muck.

The discovery hole of Bunker's Number Two claim was just up the creek from his own and, after looking it over, Denver climbed up the bank and measured off six feet from the edge. Then, raising the steel bar, he struck it into the ground, churning it rhythmically up and down; and as the hole rapidly deepened he spooned it out and poured in a little more water. It was the same uninteresting work that he had seen men do when they were digging a railroad cut; and the object was the same, to shoot down the dirt with the minimum of labor and powder. But with Denver it became a work of art, a test of his muscle and skill, and at each downward thrust he bent from the hips and struck with a deep-chested "Huh!"

An hour passed by, and half the length of the drill was buried at the end of the stroke; and then, as he paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes, Denver saw that his activities were being noted. Drusilla was looking on from the trail below, and apparently with the greatest interest. She was dressed in a corduroy suit, with a broad sombrero against the sun; and as she came up the slope she leapt from rock to rock in a heavy pair of boys' high boots. There was nothing of the singer about her now, nor of the filmy-clad barefooted dancer; the jagged edge of old Pinal would permit of nothing so effeminate. Yet, over the rocks as on the smooth trails, she had a grace that was all her own, for those hillsides had been her home.

"Well, how's the millionaire?" she inquired with a smile that made his fond heart miss a beat. "Is this the way you do it? Are you just going to drill one hole?"

"That's the dope," replied Denver, "sink it down ten feet and blow the whole bank off with one shot. It's as easy as shooting fish."

"Why, you're down half-way, already!" she cried in amazement. "How long before you'll be done?"

"Oh, half an hour or so," said Denver. "Want to wait and see the blast? I learned this system on the railroad."

"You'll be through, then, before noon!" she exclaimed. "You're actually making money."

"Well, a little," admitted Denver, "but, of course, if you're not satisfied——"

"Oh, I'm satisfied," she protested, "I was only thinking—but then, it's always that way. There are some people, of course, who can make money anywhere. How does it feel to be a millionaire?"

"Fine!" grinned Denver, chugging away with his drill, "this is the way they all got their start. The Armstrong method—and that's where I shine; I can break more ground than any two men."

"Well, I believe you can," she responded frankly, "and I hope you have a great success. I didn't like it very well when you called me a quitter, but I can see now what you meant. Did you ever study music at all?"

Denver stopped his steady churning to glance at her quickly and then he nodded his head.

"I played the violin, before I went to mining. Had to quit then—it stiffens up your fingers."

"What a pity!" she cried. "But that explains about your records—I knew you'd heard good music somewhere."

"Yes, and I'm going to hear more," he answered impressively, "I'm not going to blow my money. I'm going back to New York, where all those singers live. The other boys can have the booze."

"Don't you drink at all?" she questioned eagerly. "Don't you even smoke? Well, I'm going right back and tell father. He told me that all miners spent their money in drinking—why wouldn't you come over to supper?"

She shot the question at him in the quick way she had, but Denver did not answer it directly.

"Never mind," he said, "but I will tell you one thing—I'm not a hobo miner."

"No, I knew you weren't," she responded quickly. "Won't you come over to supper to-night? I might sing for you," she suggested demurely; but Denver shook his head.

"Nope," he said, "your old man took me for a hobo and he can't get the idea out of his head. What did he say when you gave me this job?"

"Well, he didn't object; but I guess, if you don't mind, we'll only do three or four claims. He says I'll need the money back East."

"Yes, you will," agreed Denver. "Five hundred isn't much. If I was flush I'd do this for nothing."

"Oh, no," she protested, "I couldn't allow that. But if there should be a rush, and father's claims should be jumped——"

"You'd have the best of them, anyway. I wouldn't tempt old Murray too far."

"No," she said, "and that reminds me—I hear that he's made a strike. But say, here's a good joke on the Professor. You know he thinks he's a mining expert, and he's been crazy to look at the diamond drill cores; and the other day the boss driller was over and he told me how he got rid of him. You know, in drilling down they run into cavities where the lime has been leached away, and in order to keep the bore intact they pour them full of cement. Well, when the Professor insisted upon seeing the core and wouldn't take no for an answer, Mr. Menzger just gave him a section of concrete, where they'd bored through a filled-up hole. And Mr. Diffenderfer just looked so wise and examined it through his microscope, and then he said it was very good rock and an excellent indication of copper. Isn't that just too rich for anything?"

"Yeh," returned Denver with a thin-lipped smile. And then, before he thought how it sounded: "Say, who is this Mr. Menzger, anyway?"

"Oh, he's a friend of ours," she answered drooping her eyelashes coquettishly. "He gets lonely sometimes and comes down to hear me sing—he's been in New York and everywhere."

"Yes, he must be a funny guy," observed Denver mirthlessly. "Any relation to that feller they call Dave?"

"Oh, Mr. Chatwourth? No, he's from Kentucky—they say he's the last of his family. All the others were killed in one of those mountain feuds—Mr. Menzger says he's absolutely fearless."

"Well, what did he leave home for, then?" inquired Denver arrogantly. "He don't look very bad to me, I guess if he was fearless he'd be back in Kentucky, shooting it out with the rest of the bunch."

"No, it seems that his father on his dying bed commanded him to leave the country, because there were too many of the others against him. But Mr. Menzger tells me he's a professional killer, and that's why Old Murray hired him. Do you think they would jump our claims?"

"They would if they struck copper," replied Denver bluntly. "And old Murray warned me not to buy from your father—that shows he's got his eye on your property. It's a good thing we're doing this work."

"Weren't you afraid, then?" she asked, putting the wonder-note into her voice and laying aside her frank manner, "weren't you afraid to buy our claim? Or did you feel that you were guided to it, and all would be for the best?"

"That's it!" exclaimed Denver suddenly putting down his drill to gaze into her innocent young eyes. "I was guided, and so I bought it anyhow."

"Oh, I think it's so romantic!" she murmured with a sigh, "won't you tell me how it happened?"

And then Denver Russell, forgetting the seeress' warning at the very moment he was discussing her, sat down on a rock and gave Drusilla the whole story of his search for the gold and silver treasures. But at the end—when she questioned him about the rest of the prophecy—he suddenly recalled Mother Trigedgo's admonition: "Beware how you reveal your affection or she will confer her hand upon another."

A shadow came into his blue eyes and his boyish enthusiasm was stilled; and Drusilla, who had been practicing her stage-learned wiles, suddenly found her technique at fault. She chattered on, trying subtly to ensnare him, but Denver's heart was now of adamant and he failed to respond to her approaches. It was not too late yet to heed the words of the prophecy, and he drilled on in thoughtful silence.

"Don't you get lonely?" she burst out at last, "living all by yourself in that cave? Why, even these old prospectors have to have some pardner—don't you ever feel the need of a friend?"

There it was—he felt it coming—the appeal to be just friends. But another girl had tried it already, and he had learned about women from her.

"No," he said shortly, "I don't need no friends. Say, I'm going to load this hole now."

"Well, go on!" she challenged, "I'm not afraid. I'll stay here as long as you do."

"All right," he said lowering his powder down the hole and tamping it gently with a stick, "I see I can't scare you."

"Oh, you thought you could scare me!" she burst out mockingly, "I suppose you're a great success with the girls."

"Well," he mocked back, "a good-looking fellow like me——" And then he paused and grinned slyly.

"Oh, what's the use!" she exclaimed, rising up in disgust, "I might as well quit, right now."

"No, don't go off mad!" he remonstrated gallantly. "Stay and see the big explosion."

"I don't care that for your explosion!" she answered pettishly and snapped her fingers in the air.

It was the particular gesture with which the coquettish Carmen was wont to dismiss her lovers; but as she strode down the hill Drusilla herself was heart-broken, for her coquetry had come to naught. This big Western boy, this unsophisticated miner, had sensed her wiles and turned them upon her—how then could she hope to succeed? If her eyes had no allure for a man like him, how could she hope to fascinate an audience? And Carmen and half the heroines of modern light opera were all of them incorrigible flirts. They flirted with servants, with barbers, with strolling actors, with their own and other women's husbands; until the whole atmosphere fairly reeked of intrigue, of amours and coquettish escapades. To the dark-eyed Europeans these wiles were instinctive but with her they were an art, to be acquired laboriously as she had learned to dance and sing. But flirt she could not, for Denver Russell had flouted her, and now she had lost his respect.

A tear came to her eye, for she was beginning to like him, and he would think that she flirted with everyone; yet how was she to learn to succeed in her art if she had no experience with men? It was that, in fact, which her teacher had hinted at when he had told her to go out and live; but her heart was not in it, she took no pleasure in deceit—and yet she longed for success. She could sing the parts, she had learned her French and Italian and taken instruction in acting; but she lacked the verve, the passionate abandon, without which she could never succeed. Yet succeed she must, or break her father's heart and make his great sacrifice a mockery. She turned and looked back at Denver Russell, and that night she sang—for him.

He was up there in his cave looking down indifferently, thinking himself immune to her charms; yet her pride demanded that she conquer him completely and bring him to her feet, a slave! She sang, attired in filmy garments, by the light of the big, glowing lamp; and as her voice took on a passionate tenderness, her mother looked up from her work. Then Bunker awoke from his gloomy thoughts and glanced across at his wife; and they sat there in silence while she sang on and on, the gayest, sweetest songs that she knew. But Drusilla's eyes were fixed on the open doorway, on the darkness which lay beyond; and at last she saw him, a dim figure in the distance, a presence that moved and was gone. She paused and glided off into her song of songs, the "Barcarolle" from "Love Tales of Hoffman," and as her voice floated out to him Denver rose up from his hiding and stepped boldly into the moonlight. He stood there like a hero in some Wagnerian opera, where men take the part of gods, and as she gazed the mockery went out of her song and she sang of love alone. Such a love as women know who love one man forever and hold all his love in return, yet the words were the same as those of false Giuletta when she fled with the perfidious Dapertutto.

"Night divine, O night of love, O smile on our enchantment Moon and stars keep watch above This radiant night of love!"

She floated away in the haunting chorus, overcome by the madness of its spell; and when she awoke the song was ended and love had claimed her too.



CHAPTER XVI

A FRIEND

A new spirit, a strange gladness, had come over Drusilla and parts which had been difficult became suddenly easy when she took up her work the next day; but when she walked out in the cool of the evening the sombrero and boy's boots were gone. She wore a trailing robe, such as great ladies wear when they go to keep a tryst with knightly lovers, and she went up the trail to where Denver was working on the last of her father's claims. He was up on the high cliff, busily tamping the powder that was to blast out the side of the hill, and she waited patiently until he had fired it and come down the slope with his tools.

"That makes four," he said, "and I'm all out of powder." But she only answered with a smile.

"I'll have to wait, now," he went on bluffly, "until McGraw comes up again, before I can do any more work."

"Yes," she answered and smiled again; a slow, expectant smile.

"What's the matter?" he demanded and then his face changed and he fumbled with the strap of his canteen. And when he looked up his eyes met hers and there was no longer any secret between them.

"You can rest a few days, then," she suggested softly, "I'd like to hear some of your records."

"Yes—sure, sure," he burst out hastily and they walked down the trail together. She went on ahead with the quick step of a dancer and Denver looked up at an eagle in the sky, as if in some way it could understand. But the eagle soared on, without effort and without ceasing, and Denver could only be glad. In some way, far beyond him, she had divined his love; but it was not to be spoken of—now. That would spoil it all, the days of sweet communion, the pretence that nothing had changed; yet they knew it had changed and in the sharing of that great secret lay the tie that should bind them together. Denver looked from the eagle to the glorious woman and remembered the prophecy again. Even yet he must beware, he must veil every glance, treat her still like a simple country child; for the seeress had warned him that his fate hung in the balance and she might still confer her hand upon another.

In the happy days that followed he did no more work, further than to sack his ore and ship it; but all his thoughts were centered upon Drusilla who was friendly and elusive by turns. On that first precious evening she came up with her father and inspected his smoke-blackened cave, and over his new records there sprang up a conversation that held him entranced for hours. She had been to the Metropolitan and the Boston Opera Houses and heard the great singers at their best; she understood their language, whether it was French or Italian or the now proscribed German of Wagner, and she listened to the records again and again, trying to steal the secret of their success. But through it all she was gentle and friendly, and all her old quarrelsomeness was gone.

A week passed like a day, full of dreams and half-uttered confidences and long, contented silences; and then, as they sat in the shade of the giant sycamore Denver let his eyes that had been fixed upon Drusilla, stray and sweep the lower road.

"What are you looking for now?" she demanded impatiently and he turned back with a guilty grin.

"McGraw," he said and she frowned to herself for at last the world had come between them. For a week he had been idle, a heaven-sent companion in the barren loneliness of life; but now, when his powder and mining supplies arrived, he would become the old hard-working miner. He would go into his dark tunnel before the sun was up and not come out till it was low in the west, and instead of being clean and handsome as a young god he would come forth like a groveling gnome. His face would be grimy, his hands gnarled with striking, his digging-clothes covered with candle-grease: and his body would reek with salty sweat and the rank, muggy odor of powder fumes. And he would crawl back to his cave like an outworn beast of burden, to sleep while she sang to him from below.

"Will you go back to work?" she asked at last and he nodded and stretched his great arms.

"Back to work!" he repeated, "and I guess it's about time. I wonder how much credit Murray gave me?"

Drusilla said nothing. She was looking far away and wondering at the thing we call life.

"Why do you work so hard?" she inquired, half complainingly. "Is that all there is in the world?"

"No, lots of other things," he answered carelessly, "but work is the only way to get them. I'm on my way, see? I've just begun. You wait till I open up that mine!"

"Then what will you do?" she murmured pensively, "go ahead and open up another mine?"

"Well, I might," he admitted. "Don't you remember that other treasure? There's a gold-mine around here, somewhere."

"Oh, is that all you think about?" she protested with a smile. "There are lots of other treasures, you know."

"Yes, but this one was prophesied," returned Denver doggedly. "I'm bound to find it, now."

"But Denver," she insisted, "don't you see what I mean? These fortune-tellers never tell you, straight out. Yours said, 'a golden treasure,' but that doesn't mean a gold mine. There are other treasures, besides."

"For instance?" he suggested and she looked far away as if thinking of some she might name.

"Well," she said at length, "there are opals, for one. They are beautiful, and look like golden fire. Or it might be a rare old violin that would bring back your music again. I saw one once that was golden yellow—wouldn't you like to play while I sing? But if you spend all your life trying to grub out more riches you will lose your appreciation of art."

"Yes, but wait," persisted Denver, "I'm just getting started. I haven't got a dollar to my name. If Murray don't send me the supplies that I ordered I'll have to go to work for my grub. The jewels can wait, and the yellow violins, but I know that she meant a mine. It would have to be a mine or I couldn't choose between them—and when I make my stake I'm going to buy out the Professor and see what he's got underground. Of course, it's only a stringer now but——"

"Oh dear," sighed Drusilla and then she rose up, but she did not go away. "Aren't you glad," she asked, "that we've had this week together? I suppose I'm going to miss you, now. That's the trouble with being a woman—we get to be so dependent. Can I play over your records, sometimes?"

"Sure," said Denver, "say, I'm going up there now to see if McGraw isn't in sight. Would you like to come along too? We can sit outside in the shade and watch for his dust, down the road."

"Well, I ought to be studying," she assented reluctantly, "but I guess I can go up—for a while."

They clambered up together over the ancient, cliff-dwellers' trail, where each foothold was worn deep in the rock; but as they sat within the shadow of the beetling cliff Drusilla sighed again.

"Do you think?" she asked, "that there will be a great rush when they hear about your strike down in Moroni? Because then I'll have to go—I can't practice the way I have been with the whole town filled up with miners. And everything will be changed—I'd almost rather it wouldn't happen, and have things the way they are now. Of course I'll be glad for father's sake, because he's awfully worried about money; but sometimes I think we're happier the way we are than we will be when we're all of us rich. What will be the first thing you'll do?"

"Well," began Denver, his eyes still on the road, "the first thing is to open her up. There's no use trying to interest outside capital until you've got some ore in sight. Then I'll go over to Globe to a man that I know and come back with a hundred thousand dollars. That's right—I know him well, and he knows me—and he's told me repeatedly if I find anything big enough he's willing to put that much into it. He came up from nothing, just an ordinary miner, but now he's got money in ten different banks, and a hundred thousand dollars is nothing to him. But his time is valuable, can't stop to look at prospects; so the first thing I do is to open up that mine until I can show a big deposit of copper. The silver and lead will pay all the expenses—and you wait, when that ore gets down to the smelter I'll bet there'll be somebody coming up here. It runs a thousand ounces to the ton or I'm a liar, the way I've sorted it out; but of course old Murray and the rest of 'em will rob me. I don't expect more than three hundred dollars."

"Isn't it wonderful," murmured Drusilla, "and to think it all happened just from having your fortune told! I'm going over to Globe before I start back East and get her to tell my fortune, too; but of course it can't be as wonderful as yours—you must have been just born lucky."

"Well, maybe I was," said Denver with a shrug, "but it isn't all over yet—I still stand a chance to lose. And she told me some other things that are not so pleasant—sometimes I wish I'd never gone near her."

"Oh, what are they?" she asked in a hushed eager voice; but Denver ignored the question. Never, not even to his dearest friend, would he tell the forecasting of his death; and as for dearest friends, if he ever had another pardner he could never trust him a minute. The chance slipping of a pick, a missed stroke with a hammer, any one of a thousand trivial accidents, and the words of the prophecy would come to pass—he would be killed before his time. But if he favored one man no more than another, if he avoided his former pardners and friends, then he might live to be one of the biggest mining men in the country and to win Drusilla for his wife.

"I'll tell you," he said meditatively, "you'd better keep away from her. A man does better without it. Suppose she'd tell you, for instance, that you'd get killed in a cave like she did Jack Chambers over in Globe; you'd be scared then, all the time you were under ground—it ruins a man for a miner. No, it's better not to know it at all. Just go ahead, the best you know how, and play your cards to win, and I'll bet it won't be but a year or two until you're a regular operatic star. They'll be selling your records for three dollars apiece, and all those managers will be bidding for you; but if Mother Trigedgo should tell you some bad news it might hurt you—it might spoil your nerve."

"Oh, did she tell you something?" cried Drusilla apprehensively. "Do tell me what it was! I won't breathe it to a soul; and if you could share it with some friend, don't you think it would ease your mind?"

Denver looked at her slowly, then he turned away and shook his head in refusal.

"Oh, Denver!" she exclaimed as she sensed the significance of it, and before he knew it she was patting his work-hardened hand. "I'm sorry," she said, "but if ever I can help you I want you to let me know. Would it help to have me for a friend?"

"A friend!" he repeated, and then he drew back and the horror came into his eyes. She was his friend already, the dearest friend he had—was she destined then to kill him?

"No!" he said, "I don't want any friends. Come on, I believe that's McGraw."

He rose up hastily and held out his hand to help her but she refused to accept his aid. Her lips were trembling, there were tears in her eyes and her breast was beginning to heave; but there was no explanation he could give. He wanted her, yes, but not as a friend—as his beloved, his betrothed, his wife! By any name, but not by the name of friend. He drew away slowly as her head bowed to her knees; and at last he left her, weeping. It was best, after all, for how could he comfort her? And he could see McGraw's dust down the road.

"I'm going to meet McGraw!" he called back from the steps and went bounding off down the trail.



CHAPTER XVII

BROKE

McGraw, the freighter, was a huge, silent man from whom long years on the desert had almost taken the desire for speech. He came jangling up the road, his wagons grinding and banging, his horses straining wearily in their collars; and as Denver ran to meet him he threw on the brakes and sat blinking solemnly at his inquisitor.

"Where's my powder?" demanded Denver looking over the load, "and say, didn't you bring that coal? I don't see that steel I ordered, either!"

"No," said McGraw and then, after a silence: "Murray wouldn't receive your ore."

"Wouldn't receive it!" yelled Denver, "why, what was the matter with it—did the sacks get broke going down?"

"No," answered McGraw, "the sacks were all right. He said the ore was no good."

"Like hell!" scoffed Denver, "that ore that I sent him? It would run a thousand ounces to the ton!"

McGraw wrinkled his brows and looked up at the sun.

"Well," he said, "I guess I'll be going."

"But—hey, wait!" commanded Denver, scarcely believing his ears, "didn't he send me any grub, or anything?"

"Nope," answered McGraw, "he wouldn't give me nawthin'. He said the ore was no good. Come, boys!" And he threw off the brakes with a bang.

The chains tightened with a jerk, the wheelers set their feet; then the lead wagon heaved forward, the trail-wagon followed and Denver was alone on the road. His brain was in a whirl, he had lost all volition, even the will to control his wild thoughts; until suddenly he burst out in a fit of cursing—of Murray, of McGraw, of everything. McGraw had been a fool, he should have demanded the supplies anyway; and Murray was just trying to job him. He knew he was broke and had not had the ore assayed, and he was taking advantage of the fact. He had refused the ore in order to leave him flat and compel him to abandon his mine; and then he, Murray, would slip over with his gun-man and take possession himself. Denver struck his leg and looked up and down the road, and then he started off for Moroni.

It was sixty miles, across a scorching desert with only two wells on the road; but Denver arrived at Whitlow's an hour after sunset, and he was at Desert Wells before dawn. A great fire seemed to consume him, to drive him on, to fill his body with inexhaustible strength; and, against the advice of the station man, he started on in the heat for Moroni. All he wanted was a show-down with Bible-Back Murray, to meet him face to face; and no matter if he had the whole county in his pocket he would tell him what he thought of him. And he would make him take that ore, according to his agreement, or answer to him personally; and then he would return to Pinal, where he had left Drusilla crying. But he could not face her now, after all his boasting and his tales of fabulous wealth. He could never face her again.

The sun rose up higher, the heat waves began to shimmer and the landscape to blur before his eyes; and then an automobile came thundering up behind him and halted on the flat.

"Get in!" called the driver throwing the door open hospitably; and in an hour's time Denver was set down in Moroni, but with the fever still hot in his brain. His first frenzy had left him, and the heat madness of the desert with its insidious promptings to violence; but the sense of injustice still rankled deep and he headed for Murray's store. It was a huge, brick building crowded from basement to roof with groceries and general merchandise. Busy clerks hustled about, waiting on Mexicans and Indians and slow-moving, valley ranchers; and as Denver walked in there was a man there to meet him and direct him to any department. It showed that Bible-Back was efficient, at least.

"I'd like to see Mr. Murray," announced Denver shortly and the floor-walker glanced at him again before he answered that Mr. Murray was out. It was the same at the bank, and out at his house; and at last in disgust Denver went down to the station, where he had been told his ore was lying. The stifling heat of the valley oppressed him like a blanket, the sweat poured down his face in tiny streams; and at each evasion his anger mounted higher until now he was talking to himself. It was evident that Murray was trying to avoid him—he might even have started back to the mine—but his ore was there, on a heavily timbered platform, where it could be transferred from wagon to car without lifting it up and down. There was other ore there too, each consignment by itself, taken in by the store-keeper in exchange for supplies and held to make up a carload. The same perfect system, efficiency in all things—efficiency and a hundred per cent profit.

Denver leapt up on the platform and cut open a sack, but as he was pouring a generous sample of the ore into his handkerchief a man stepped out of the next warehouse.

"Hey!" he called, "what are you doing, over there? You get down and leave that ore alone!"

"Go to hell!" returned Denver, tying a knot in his handkerchief, and the man came over on the run.

"Say!" he threatened, "you put that ore back or you'll find yourself in serious trouble."

"Oh, I will, hey?" replied Denver with his most tantalizing smile. "Whose ore do you think this is, anyway?"

"It belongs to Mr. Murray, and you'd better put it back or I'll report the matter at once."

"Well, report it," answered Denver. "My name is Denver Russell and I'm taking this up to the assayer."

"There's Mr. Murray, now," exclaimed the man and as Denver looked up he saw a yellow automobile churning rapidly along through the dust. Murray himself was at the wheel and, sitting beside him, was another man equally familiar—it was Dave, his hired gun-man.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Russell?" demanded Murray with asperity and Denver became suddenly calm. Old Murray had been hiding from him, but they had summoned him by telephone, and he had brought along Dave for protection. But that should not keep him from having his way and forcing Murray to a show-down.

"I just came down for a sample of that ore I sent you," answered Denver with a sarcastic grin. "McGraw said you claimed it was no good, so I thought I'd have it assayed."

"Oh," observed Murray and for a minute he sat silent while Dave and Denver exchanged glances. The gun-man was slight and insignificant looking, with small features and high, boney cheeks; but there was a smouldering hate in his deep-set eyes which argued him in no mood for a jest, so Denver looked him over and said nothing.

"Very well," said Murray at last, "the ore is yours. Go ahead and have it assayed. But with the price of silver down to forty-five cents I doubt if that stuff will pay smelter charges. I'll ship it, if you say so, along with this other, if only to make up a carload; but it will be at your own risk and if the returns show a deficit, your mine will be liable for the balance."

"Oh, that's the racket, eh?" suggested Denver. "You've got your good eye on my mine. Well, I'd just like to tell you——"

"No, I haven't," snapped back Murray, his voice harsh and strident, "I wouldn't accept your mine as a gift. Your silver is practically worthless and there's no copper in the district; as I know all too well, to my sorrow. I've lost twenty thousand dollars on better ground than yours and ordered the whole camp closed down—that shows how much I want your mine."

He started his engine and glided on to the warehouse and Denver stood staring down the road. Then he raised his sample, tied up in his handkerchief, and slammed it into the dirt. His mine was valueless unless he had money, and Murray had abandoned the district. More than ever Denver realized how much it had meant to him, merely to have that diamond drilling running and a big man like Murray behind it. It was indicative of big values and great expectations; but now, with Murray out of the running, the district was absolutely dead. There was no longer the chance of a big copper strike, such as had been rumored repeatedly for weeks, to bring on a stampede and make every claim in the district worth thousands of dollars as a gamble.

No, Pinal was dead; the Silver Treasure was worthless; and he, Denver Russell, was broke. He had barely the price of a square meal. He started up-town, and turned back towards the warehouse where Murray was wrangling with his hireling; then, cursing with helpless rage, he swung off down the railroad track and left his broken dreams behind him.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE HAND OF FATE

The swift hand of fate, which had hurled Denver from the heights into the depths of dark despair, suddenly snatched him up out of the abyss again and whisked him back to Globe. When he walked out of Moroni his mind was a blank, so overcome was his body with heat and toil and the astounding turns of his fortune; but at the next station below, as he was trying to steal a ride, a man had dropped off the train and dragged him, willy nilly, into his Pullman. It was a mining superintendent who had seen him in action when he was timbering the Last Chance stope, and in spite of his protests he paid his fare to Globe and put him to work down a shaft.

At the bottom of this shaft was millions of dollars worth of copper and level after level of expensive workings; and some great stirring of the earth was cutting it off, crushing the bottle off at the neck. Every night, every shift, the swelling ground moved in, breaking stulls and square-sets like tooth-picks; and now with solid steel and quick-setting concrete they were fighting for the life of the mine. It was a dangerous job, such as few men cared to tackle; but to Denver it was a relief, a return to his old life after the delirium of an ugly dream. Even yet he could not trace the flaw in his reasoning which had brought him to earth with such a thump; but he knew, in general, that his error was the common one of trying to run a mine on a shoestring. He had set up in business as a mining magnate on eight hundred dollars and his nerve, and Bible-Back Murray had busted him.

Upon that point, at least, Denver suffered no delusion; he knew that his downfall had been planned from the first and that he had bit like a sucker at the bait. Murray had dropped a few words and spit on the hook and Denver had shipped him his ore. The rest, of course, was like shooting fish in the Pan-handle—he had refused to buy the ore, leaving Denver belly-up, to float away with other human debris. But there was one thing yet that he could not understand—why had Murray closed down his own mine? That was pulling it pretty strong, just to freeze out a little prospector and rob him of a ton or two of ore; and yet Denver had proof that it was true. He had staked a hobo who had come over the trail and the hobo had told him what he knew. The diamond drill camp was closed down and all the men had left, but the guard was still herding the property. And the hobo had seen a girl at Pinal. She was easy to look at but hard to talk to, so he had passed and hit the trail for Globe.

Denver worked like a demon with a gang of Cousin Jacks, opposing the swelling ground with lengths of railroad steel and pouring in the concrete behind them; but all the time, by fits and snatches, the old memories would press in upon him. He would think of Mother Trigedgo and her glowing prophecies, which had turned out so wonderfully up to a certain point and then had as suddenly gone wrong; and then he would think of the beautiful artist with whom he was fated to fall in love, and how, even there, his destiny had worked against him and led him to sacrifice her love. For how could one hope to win the love of a woman if he denied her his friendship first? And yet, if he accepted her as his dearest friend, he would simply be inviting disaster.

It was all wrong, all foolish—he dismissed it from his mind as unworthy of a thinking man—yet the words of the prophecy popped up in his head like the memories of some evil dream. His hopes of sudden riches were blasted forever, he had given up the thought of Drusilla; but the one sinister line recurred to him constantly—"at the hands of your dearest friend." Never before in his life had he been without a pardner, to share his ramblings and adventures, but now in that black hole with the steel rails coming down and death on every hand, superstition overmastered him and he rebuffed the hardy Cornishmen, refusing to take any man for his friend. Nor would he return to Mother Trigedgo's boarding house, for her prophecies had ruined his life.

He worked on for a week, trying to set his mind at rest, and then a prompting came over him suddenly to go back and see Drusilla. If death must come, if some friend must kill him, in whose hands would he rather entrust his life than in those of the woman he loved? Perhaps it was all false, like the rest of the prophecy, the gold and silver treasures and the rest; and if he was brave he might win her at last and have her for more than a friend. But how could he face her, after all he had said, after boasting as he had of his fortune? And he had refused her friendship, when she had endeavored to comfort him and to exorcise this fear-devil that pursued him. He went back to work, determined to forget it all, but that evening he drew his time. It came to ninety dollars, for seven shifts and over-time, and they offered him double to stay; but the desire to see Drusilla had taken possession of him and he turned his face towards Pinal.

It was early in the morning when he rode out of Globe and took the trail over the divide; and as he spurred up a hill he overtook another horseman who looked back and grinned at him wisely.

"Going to the strike?" he asked and Denver's heart leapt, though he kept his quirt and spurs working.

"What strike?" he said and the man burst into a laugh as if sensing a hidden jest.

"That's all right," he answered, "I guess you're hep—they say it runs forty per cent copper."

"How'd you hear about it?" inquired Denver, fishing cautiously for information. "Where you going—over to Pinal?"

"You're whistling," returned the man, quite off his guard. "Say, stake me a claim when you get there, if old Bible-Back hasn't jumped them all."

"Say, what are you talking about?" demanded Denver, suddenly reining in his horse. "Is Murray jumping claims?"

"Never mind!" replied the man, shutting up like a clam, and Denver spurred on and left him.

There was a strike then in Pinal, Old Murray had tapped the vein and it ran up to forty per cent copper! That would make the claim that Denver had abandoned the week before worth thousands and thousands of dollars. It would make him rich and Bunker Hill rich and—yes, it would prove the prophecy! He had chosen the silver treasure and the gold treasure had been added to it—for the copper ore which had come in later was almost the color of gold. As old Bunk had said, all these prophecies were symbolical, and he had done Mother Trigedgo an injustice. And there was one claim that he knew of—yes, and four others, too—that Murray would never jump. That was his own Silver Treasure and the four claims of Bunker's that he had done the annual work on himself.

Denver's heart leapt again as he raced his horse across the flats and led him scrambling with haste up the steep hills, and before the sun was three hours high he had plunged into the box canyon of Queen Creek. Here the trail wound in and out, crossing and recrossing the shrunken stream and mounting with painful zigzags over the points; but he rioted through it all, splashing the water out of the crossings as he hurried to claim his own. The box canyon grew deeper, the walls more precipitous, the creek bottom more dark and cavernous; until at last it opened out into broad flats and boulder patches, thickly covered with alders and ash trees. And then as he swung around the final, rocky point he saw his own claim in the distance. It was nothing but a hole in the side of the rocky hillside, a slide of gray waste down the slope; but to him it was a beacon to light his home-coming, a proof that some dreams do come true. He galloped down the trail where Drusilla and he had loitered and let out an exultant whoop.

But as Denver came opposite his mine a sinister thing happened—a head rose up against the black darkness of the tunnel and a man looked stealthily out. Then he drew back his head like some snake in a hole and Denver stopped and stared. A low wall of rocks had been built across the cut and the man was crouching behind it—Denver jogged down and turned up the trail. A glimpse at Pinal showed the streets full of automobiles and a huddle of men by the store door, and as he rode up towards his mine Bunker Hill came running out and beckoned him frantically back.

"Come back here!" he hollered and Denver turned and looked at him but kept on up the narrow trail. The mine was his, without a doubt, both by purchase and by assessment work done; and he had no fear of dispossession by a jumper who was so obviously in the wrong.

"Hello, there!" he hailed, reining in before the tunnel; and after a minute the man rose up with his pistol poised over his shoulder. It was Dave, Murray's gun-man, and at sight of his enemy Denver was swept with a gust of passion. From the moment he had first met him, this narrow-eyed, sneering bad-man had roused all the hate that was in him; but now it had gone beyond instinct. He found him in adverse possession of his property and with a gun raised ready to shoot.

"What are you doing here?" demanded Denver insolently but Chatwourth did not move. He stood like a statue, his gun balanced in the air, a thin, evil smile on his lips, and Denver gave way to his fury. "You get out of there!" he ordered. "Get off my property! Get off or I'll put you off!"

Chatwourth twirled his gun in a contemptuous gesture; and then, like a flash, he was shooting. He threw his shots low, between the legs of the horse, which reared and whirled in a panic; and with the bang of the heavy gun in his ears, Denver found himself headed down the trail. A high derisive yell, a whoop of hectoring laughter, followed after him as he galloped into the open; and he was fighting his horse in a cloud of dust when Bunker Hill and the crowd came up.



CHAPTER XIX

THE MAN-KILLER

"Did he hit ye?" yelled Bunker when Denver had conquered his pitching horse and set him back on his haunches. "Hell's bells, boy, I told you to stay out of there!"

"Well, you lend me a gun!" shouted Denver in a fury, "and I'll go back and shoot it out with that dastard! It's him or me—that's all!"

"Here's a gun, pardner," volunteered a long-bearded prospector handing up a six-shooter with tremulous eagerness; but Bunker Hill struck the long pistol away and took Denver's horse by the bit.

"Not by a jugful, old-timer," he said to the prospector. "Do you want to get the kid killed? Come on back to the meeting and we'll frame up something on these jumpers that'll make 'em hunt their holes. But this boy here is my friend, understand?"

He held the prancing horse, which had been spattered with glancing lead, until Denver swung down out of the saddle; and then, while the crowd followed along at their heels, he led the way back to the store.

"What's going on here?" demanded Denver, looking about at the automobile and the men who had popped up like magic, "has Murray made a strike?"

"Danged right," answered Bunker, "he made a strike last month—and now he has jumped all our claims. Or at least, it's his men, because Dave there's the leader; but Murray claims they're working for themselves. He's over at his camp with a big gang of miners, driving a tunnel in to tap the deposit—it run forty per cent pure copper."

"Well, we're made then," exulted Denver, "if we can get back our claims. Come on, let's run these jumpers off!"

"Yes, that's what I said, a few hours ago," grumbled Bunker biting savagely at his mustache, "and I never was so hacked in my life. We went up to this Dave and all pulled our guns and ordered him out of the district, and I'm a dadburned Mexican if he didn't pull his gun and run the whole bunch of us away. He's nervy, there's no use talking; and I promised Mrs. Hill that I'd keep out of these shooting affrays. By grab, it was downright disgraceful!"

"That's all right," returned Denver, "he don't look bad to me. You just lend me a gun and——"

"He'll kill ye!" warned Bunker, "I know by his eye. He's a killer if ever there was one. So don't go up against him unless you mean business, because you can't run no blazer on him!"

"Well—oh hell, then," burst out Denver, "what's the use of getting killed! Isn't there anything else we can do? I don't need to eject him because he's got no title, anyway. How about these lead-pencil fellows that haven't done their work for years?"

"That's it," explained Bunker, "we were having a meeting when we seen you horn in on Dave. These gentlemen are all men that have held their ground for years and it don't seem right they should lose it. At the same time it'll take something more than a slap on the wrist to make these blasted jumpers let go. They've staked all the good claims and are up doing the work on them and the question is—what can we do?"

"I'll tell you what I'll do," spoke up the old prospector vindictively as the crowd surged into the store, "I'll get up on the Leap and shoot down on them jumpers until I chase the last one of 'em off. They can't run no rannikaboo on me!"

He wagged his long beard and spat impressively but nobody paid any attention to him. They realized at last that they were up against gun-fighters—men picked for quick shooting and iron nerves and working under the orders of one man. That man was Dave Chatwourth, nominally dismissed by Murray but undoubtedly still in his pay, and until they could devise some plan to eliminate him it was useless to talk of violence. So they resumed their meeting and, as Denver owned a claim, he found himself included in the membership. It was a belated revival of the old-time Miners' Meeting, at one time the supreme law in Western mining camps; and Bunker Hill, as Recorder of the district, presided from his perch on the counter.

From his seat in the corner Denver listened apathetically as the miners argued and wrangled, and the longer they talked the more it became apparent that nothing was going to be done. The encounter with Dave had cooled their courage, and more and more the sentiment began to lean towards an appeal to the power of the law. But then it came out that the law was an instrument which might operate as a two-edged sword; for possession, and diligence in working the claim, are the two big points in mining law and just at that moment a legal decision would be all in favor of the jumpers. And if Murray was behind them, as all the circumstances seemed to indicate, he would hire the most expensive lawyers in the country and fight the case to a finish. No, if anything was to be done they must find out some other way, or they would be playing right into his hands.

"I'll tell you," proposed Bunker as the talk swung back to action, "let's go back unarmed and talk to Dave again and find out what he thinks he's doing. He can't hold Denver's claim, and those claims of mine, because the work has just been done; and then, if we can talk him into vacating our ground, maybe these other jaspers will quit."

"I'll go you!" said Denver rising up impatiently, "and if he won't vacate my claim I'll try some other means and see if we can't persuade him."

"That's the talk!" quavered the old prospector, slapping him heartily on the back. "Lord love you, boy, if I was your age I'd be right up in front there, shooting. Why, up in the Bradshaws in Seventy-three——"

"Never mind what you'd do if you had the nerve," broke in Bunker Hill sarcastically. "Just because you've got a claim that you'd like to get back is no reason for stirring up trouble. No, I'm willing to go ahead and do all the talking; but I want you to understand—this is peaceable."

"Well, all right," agreed the miners and, laying aside their pistols, they started up the street for Denver's mine; but as Bunker led off a voice called from the porch and his wife came hurrying after him. Behind her followed Drusilla, reluctantly at first; but as her father kept on, despite the entreaties of her mother, she ran up and caught him by the sleeve.

"No, don't go, father!" she cried appealingly and as Bunker replied with an evasive laugh she turned her anger upon Denver.

"Why don't you get back your own mine?" she demanded, "instead of dragging my father into it?"

"Never mind, now," protested Bunker, "we ain't going to have no trouble—we just want to have a friendly talk. This has nothing to do with Denver or his mine—all we want is a few words with Dave."

"He'll shoot you!" she insisted. "Oh, I just know something will happen. Well, all right, then; I'm going along too!"

"Why, sure," smiled Bunker, "always glad to have company—but you'd better stay back with your mother."

"No, I'm going to stay right here," she answered stubbornly, giving Denver a hateful glance, "because I don't believe a word you say."

"Ve-ry well, my dear," responded Bunker indulgently and took her under his arm.

"I'm going ahead!" she burst out quickly as they came to the turn in the trail; and before he could stop her she slipped out of his embrace and went running to the entrance of the cut. But there she halted suddenly and when they came up they found her pale and trembling. "Oh, go back!" she gasped. "He's in there—he'll shoot you. I know something awful will happen!"

"You'd better go back, now," suggested her father quietly, and then he turned to the barrier. "Don't start anything, Dave—we've come peaceable, this time; so come out and let's have a talk."

There was a long, tense silence and then the muzzle of a gun stirred uneasily and revealed the hiding place of Dave. He was crouched behind the rocks which he had piled up across the cut where it entered the slope of the hill, and his long barrelled six-shooter was thrust out through a crack just wide enough to serve for a loop-hole.

"Don't want to talk," he answered at last. "So go on, now; get off of my property."

"Well, now listen," began Bunker shaking off Drusilla's grasp, "we acknowledge we made a slight mistake. We tried to run a whizzer and you called us good and plenty—all right then, now let's have a talk. If you can show title to this ground you're holding, we'll leave you in peaceful possession; and if you can't, you're just wasting your time and talents, because there's plenty more claims that ain't took. It's a cinch you can't hide in that hole forever, so you might as well have it out now."

"Well what d'ye want?" snarled Chatwourth irritably. "By cripes, I'll kill the first man that comes a step nearer. I won't stand no monkey-business from nobody."

"Oh, sure, sure," soothed Bunker, "we know you're the goods—nerviest gun-man, I believe, I ever saw. But here's the proposition, you ain't here for your health, you must figure on making a winning somehow. Well, if your title's good you've got a good mine, but if it ain't you're out of luck. Now I sold this claim for five hundred dollars to Mr. Russell, that you met a while ago; and we think it belongs to him yet. I gave him a clear title and he's done his work, so——"

"Your title was no good!" contradicted Chatwourth from his rock pile, "you hadn't done your work for years. I've located this claim and the man don't live——"

"That's all right!" spoke up Denver, "but I located it before you did. I didn't buy this claim. I paid for a quit-claim and then relocated it myself—and my papers are on record in Moroni."

"Who called you in on this?" burst out Chatwourth abusively, rising up with his gun poised to shoot. "Now you git, dam' your heart, and if you say another word——"

"You don't dare to shoot me!" answered Denver in a passion, standing firm as the crowd surged back. "I'm unarmed, and you don't dare to shoot me!"

"Here, here!" exclaimed Bunker grabbing hastily at Denver's arm but Denver struck him roughly aside.

"Never mind, now," he said, "just get those folks away—I don't want any of my friends to get hurt. But I'll tell you right now, either I throw that man out or he'll have to shoot me down in cold blood."

He backed away panting and the miners ran for cover, but Bunker Hill held his ground.

"No, now listen, Denver," he admonished gently, "you don't know what you're doing. This man will kill you, as sure as hell."

"He will not!" cried Denver grabbing up a heavy stone and advancing on the barricade, "I'm destined to be killed by my dearest friend—that's what old Mother Trigedgo told me! But this bastard ain't my friend and never was——"

He paused, for Chatwourth's gun came down and pointed straight at his heart.

"Stand back!" he shrilled and Denver leapt forward, hurling the rock with all his strength. Then he plunged through the smoke, swinging his arms out to clutch, and as he crashed through the barrier he stumbled over something that he turned back and pounced on like a cat. It was Chatwourth, but his body was limp and senseless—the stone had struck him in the head.



CHAPTER XX

JUMPERS AND TENORS

They led Denver away as if he were a child, for the revulsion from his anger had left him weak; but Chatwourth, the killer, was carried back to town with his head lolling forward like a dead man's. The smash of the stone had caught him full on the forehead, which sloped back like the skull of a panther; and the blood, oozing down from his lacerated scalp, made him look more murderous than ever. But his hard, fighting jaw was hanging slack now and his dangerous eyes were closed; and the miners, while they carried him with a proper show of solicitude, chuckled and muttered among themselves. In a way which was nothing short of miraculous Denver Russell had walked in on Murray's boss jumper and knocked him on the head with a rock—and the shot which Chatwourth had fired in return had never so much as touched him.

They put Chatwourth in an automobile and sent him over to Murray's camp; and then with broad smiles they gathered about Denver and took turns in slapping him on the back. He was a wonder, a terror, a proper fighting fool, the kind that would charge into hell itself with nothing but a bucket of water; and would he mind, when he felt a little stronger, just walking with them to their claims? Just a little, friendly jaunt, as one friend with another; but if Murray's hired junipers saw him coming up the trail that was all that would be required. They would go, and be quick about it, for they had been watching from afar and had seen what happened to Dave—but Denver brushed them aside and went up to his cave where he could be by himself and think.

If he had ever doubted the virtue of Mother Trigedgo's prophecy he put the unworthy thought behind him. He knew it now, knew it absolutely—every word of the prophecy was true. He had staked his life to prove the blackest line of it, and Chatwourth's bullet had been turned aside. No, the silver treasure was his, and the golden treasure also, and no man but his best friend could kill him; but the beautiful artist with whom he had fallen in love—would she now confer her hand upon another? He had come back to Pinal to set the prophecy at defiance and ask her to be his dearest friend; but now, well, perhaps it would be just as well to stick to the letter of his horoscope. "Beware how you reveal your affections," it said—and he had been rushing back to tell her! And besides, she had met his advances despitefully, and practically called him a coward. Denver brushed off the dust from his shiny phonograph and put on the "Anvil Chorus."

The next morning, early, he was up at his mine, with Chatwourth's gun slung low on his leg; and while he remained there, to defend it against all comers, he held an impromptu reception. There was a rush of miners, to look at the mine and inspect the specimens of copper; and then shoestring promoters began to arrive, with proposals to stock the property. The Professor came up, his eyes staring and resentful; and old Bunker, overflowing with good humor; and at last, when nobody else was there, Drusilla walked by on the trail. She glanced up at him hopefully; then, finding no response, she heaved a great sigh and turned up his path to have it over and done with.

"Well," she said, "I suppose you despise me, but I'm sorry—that's all I can say. And now that I know all about your horoscope I don't blame you for treating me so rudely. That is, I don't blame you so much. But don't you think, Denver, when you went away and left me, you might have written back? We'd always been such friends."

She checked herself at the word, then smiled a sad smile and waited to hear what he would say. And Denver, in turn, checked what was on his lips and responded with a solemn nod. It had come to him suddenly to rise up and clasp her hands and whisper that he'd take a chance on it, yet—that is, if they could still be friends—but the significance of the prophecy had been proved only yesterday, and miracles can happen both ways. The same fate, the same destiny, which had fended off the bullet when Chatwourth had aimed at his heart, might turn the merest accident to the opposite purpose and make Drusilla his unwilling slayer.

"Yes," he said, apropos of nothing, "you see now how I'm fixed. Don't dare to have any friends."

"No, but Denver," she pouted, "you might say you were sorry—that's different from being friends. But after we'd been so—oh, do you believe all that? Do you believe you'll be killed by your dearest friend, and that nobody else can harm you? Because that, you know, is just superstition; it's just like the ancient Greeks when they consulted the oracle, and the Indians, and Italians and such people. But educated people——"

"What's the matter with the Greeks?" spoke up Denver contentiously. "Do you mean to say they were ignorant? Well, I talked with an old-timer—he was a Professor in some university—and he said it would take us a thousand years before we even caught up with them. Do you think that I'm superstitious? Well, listen to this, now; here's one that he told me, and it comes from a famous Greek play. There was a woman back in Greece that was like Mother Trigedgo, and she prophesied, before a man was born, that he'd kill his own father and marry his own mother. What do you think of that, now? His father was a king and didn't want to kill him, so when he was born he pierced his feet and put him out on a cliff to die. But a shepherd came along and found this baby and named him Edipus, which means swelled feet; and when the kid grew up he was walking along a narrow pass when he met his father in disguise. They got into a quarrel over who should turn out and Epidus killed his father. Then he went on to the city where his mother was queen and there was a big bird, the Sphinx, that used to come there regular and ask those folks a riddle: What is it that is four-footed, three-footed and two-footed? And every time when they failed to give the answer the Sphinx would take one of them to eat. Well, the queen had said that whoever guessed that riddle could be king and have her for his wife, and Epidus guessed the answer. It's a man, you see, that crawls when he is a baby, stands on two legs when he's grown and walks with a cane when he is old. Epidus married the queen, but when he found out what he'd done he went mad and put his own eyes out. But don't you see he couldn't escape it."

"No, but listen," she smiled, "that was just a legend, and the Greeks made it into a play. It was just like the German stories of Thor and the Norse gods that Wagner used in his operas. They're wonderful, and all that, but folks don't take them seriously. They're just—why, they're fairy tales."

"Well, all right," grumbled Denver, "I expect you think I am crazy, but what about Mother Trigedgo? Didn't she send me over here to find this mine? And wasn't it right where she told me? Doesn't it lie within the shadow of a place of death, and wasn't the gold added to it?"

"Why, no!" exclaimed Drusilla, "did you find the gold, too? I thought——"

"That referred to the copper," answered Denver soberly. "It was your father that gave me the tip. When I first came over here I was inquiring for gold, because I knew I had to make a choice; but he pointed out to me that these horoscopes are symbolical and that the golden treasure might be copper. It looks a whole lot like gold, you know; and now just look what happened! I chose the silver, see—I chose the right treasure—and when I drifted in, this vein of chalcopyrites appeared and was added to the silver. It followed along in the hanging wall until the whole formation dipped and then——"

"Oh, I don't care about that!" burst out Drusilla fretfully, "it's easy to explain anything, afterwards! But of course if you think more of gold and silver than you do of having me for a friend——"

"But I don't," interposed Denver, gently taking her hand. "Sit down here and let's talk this over."

"Well," sighed Drusilla and then, winking back the tears, she sank down in the shade beside him.

"I don't want you to think," went on Denver tenderly, without weighing very carefully what he said, "I don't want you to think I don't like you, because—say, if you'll kiss me, I'll take a chance."

"Oh—would you?" she beamed her eyes big with wonder, "would you take a chance on my killing you?"

"If it struck me dead!" declared Denver gallantly, but she did not yield the kiss.

"No," she said, "I don't believe in kisses—have you kissed other girls before? And besides, I just wanted to be friends again, the way we were before."

"Well, I guess you don't want to be friends very bad," observed Denver with a disgruntled smile. "When do you expect to start for the East?"

"Pretty soon," she answered. "Will you be sorry?"

Denver shrugged his shoulders and began snapping pebbles at an ant.

"Sure," he said and she drew away from him.

"You won't!" she burst out resentfully.

"Yes, I'll be sorry," he repeated, "but it won't make much difference—I don't expect to last very long. I've always had a pardner, some feller to ramble around with and borrow all my money when he was broke, and I'm getting awful lonesome without one. Sooner or later, I reckon, I'll pick up another one and the crazy danged fool will kill me. Drop a timber hook on my head or some stunt like that—I wish I'd never seen old Mother Trigedgo! What you don't know never hurt anyone; but now, by grab, I'm afraid of every man I throw in with. For the time being, at least, he's the best friend I've got; and—oh, what's the use, anyway, it'll get you, sooner or later—I might as well go out like a sport."

"You were awful brave," she murmured admiringly, "when you fought with Mr. Chatwourth yesterday. Weren't you honestly afraid he would kill you?"

"No, I wasn't!" declared Denver. "He didn't look bad to me—don't now and never did—and as long as the cards are coming my way I don't let no alleged bad-man run it over me. Here's the gun that I took away from him."

"Yes, I noticed it," she said. "But when he comes back for it are you going to give it up?"

"Sure," answered Denver, "just show me a rock-pile and I'll run him out of town like a rabbit."

"And you fought him with rocks!" she said half to herself, "I wish I were as brave as that."

"Well, it's all in your mind," expounded Denver. "Some people are afraid to crack an egg but I'm game to try anything once."

"So am I!" she defended looking him boldly in the eye but he shook his head and smiled.

"Nope," he said, "you don't believe in kisses. But I was willing to take a chance on getting killed."

"No," she said, "a kiss means more than that. It means—well, it means that you love someone."

"It means what you want it to mean," he corrected. "Don't you have to kiss the tenor in these operas?"

"Well that's different," she responded blushing. "That's why I'm afraid I'll never succeed! Of course we're taught to do stage kisses, but somehow I can't bring myself to it. But oh, I do so love to sing! I like it all, except just that part of it—and the singers are not all nice men. Some of them just make a business of flattering pretty girls and offering to get them a hearing. That's why some girls succeed and get such big parts—they have an understanding with someone that can use his influence with the directors. They don't take the best singers and actors at all, it's all done by intrigue and money. Oh, I wish some real nice man would start a new company and invite me to take a part. I've heard one was being organized—a traveling company that will sing in all the big cities—and I've written to my music teacher about it. But if I don't get some position my money will all be gone in no time and then—well, what will I do?"

She looked at him bravely and he saw in her eyes the calmness that goes with desperation.

"You write to me," he said, "and I'll send you the last dollar I've got."

"No, I didn't mean that," she replied, "I can earn my living at something. But father and mother have spent all their money in training me to be a great singer and I just can't bear to disappoint them. It's cost ten thousand dollars to bring me where I am, and this five hundred dollars is nothing. Why the great vocal teachers, who can use their influence to get their pupils a hearing, charge ten dollars for a half-hour lesson; and if I don't go to them then every door is closed—unless I'm willing to pay the price."

"Well, I take it all back then," spoke up Denver at last, "there are different kinds of bravery. But you go on back there and do your best and maybe we can make a raise. I'll just take my gun and go up to your father's claims and jump out that bunch of bad-men——"

"No! No, Denver!" she broke in very earnestly, "I don't want you to do that again. I heard last night that Dave said he would get you—and if he did, why then I'd be to blame. You'd be doing it for me, and if one of those men killed you—well, it would be just the same as me."

"Nope!" denied Denver, "there was no figure of speech about that. It said: 'at the hands of your dearest friend.' These jumpers ain't my friends and never was—come on, let's take a chance. I'll run 'em off the claims if your father will give you half of 'em, and then you can turn around and sell out for cash and go back to New York like a queen. You stand off the tenors and I'll stand off the jumpers; and then, perhaps—but we won't talk about that now. Come on, will you shake hands on the deal?"

She looked at him questioningly, his powerful hand reached out to help her, the old, boyish laughter in his eyes, and then she smiled back as bravely.

"All right," she said, "but you'll have to be careful—because now I'm your dearest friend."

"I'm game," he cried, "and you don't have to kiss me either. But if some Dago tenor——"

"No," she promised looking up at him wistfully. "I'll—I'll save the kiss for you."



CHAPTER XXI

BROKE AGAIN

The industry of four jumpers, digging in like gophers on the best of Bunker Hill's claims, was brought to an abrupt termination by the appearance of one man with a gun. He came on unconcernedly, Dave's six-shooter at his hip and the strength of a lion in his stride; and the first of the gun-men, after looking him over, jumped out of his hole and made off. Denver tore down his notice and posted the old one, with a copy of his original affidavit that the annual work had been done; and when he toiled up to the remaining three claims the jumpers had fled before him. They knew him all too well, and the gun at his hip; and they counted it no disgrace to give way before the man who had conquered Dave Chatwourth with rocks. So Denver changed the notices and came back laughing and Bunker Hill made over the claims.

"Denver," he said clasping him warmly by the hand, "I swow, you're the best danged friend I've got. For the last time, now, will you come to dinner?"

"Sure," grinned Denver, "but cut out that 'friend' talk. It makes me kind of nervous."

"I'll do it!" promised Bunker, "I'll do anything you ask me. You saved my bacon on them claims. That snooping Dutch Professor tipped them jumpers off that I'd promised my wife not to shoot, but I guess when they see you come rambling up the gulch they begin to feel like Davey Crockett's coon.

"'Don't shoot, Davey,' he says, 'I know you'll get me.' And he came right down off the limb." Old Bunker laughed uproariously and slapped Denver on the back, after which he took him over to the house and announced a guest for dinner.

"Sit down, boy, sit down," he insisted hospitably as Denver spoke of going home to dress, "you're company just the way you are. As Lord Chesterfield says: 'A clean shirt is half of full dress.' And a pair of overalls, I reckon, is the rest of it. Say, did you hear what Murray said when we took Dave over there, looking like something that the cat had brought in?

"'My Gawd,' he says, 'what has happened to the mine?'

"That was something like a deacon that I worked for one time when he was fixing to paint his barn. He slung a ladder on an old, rotten rope and sent me up on it to work and about half an hour afterwards the rope gave way and dropped me, ladder and all, to the ground. The deacon was at the house when he heard the crash and he came running with his coat-tails straight out.

"'Goodness gracious!' he hollered, 'did you spill the paint?'

"'No,' I says, 'but I will!' And I kicked all his paint-cans over.

"Well, old Murray is like that deacon; you touch his pocket and you touch his heart—he's always thinking about money. He'd been planning for months to slip in and jump these claims and here you come along and do the assessment work and knock him out of five of 'em. The boys say he's sure got blood in his eye and is cussing you out a blue streak. That's a nice gun you got off of Dave—how many notches has it got on the butt? Only three, eh? Well, say, if he ever sends over to ask for it I've got another one that I'll loan you. You want to go heeled, understand? Murray's busy right now bossing those three shifts of miners that are driving that adit tunnel, but when he gets the time he'll leave his glass eye on a fence post and come over to see what we're doing. Didn't you ever hear about Murray's glass eye?

"Well, they say he lost his good one looking for a dollar that he dropped; but here's the big joke about the fence-post. He got his start down in the valley, raising alfalfa and feeding stock, and he always hired Indians whenever he could because they spent all their time-checks at the store. A Mexican or a white man might hold out a few dollars, or spend the whole wad for booze; but Indians are barred from getting drunk and they've only got one use for money. Yes, they believe it was made to spend, not to bury alongside of some fence-post. And speaking of fence-posts brings me back to the point—Old Murray had a bunch of big, lazy Apaches working by the day cleaning out a ditch. He was down there at daylight and watched 'em like a hawk, but every time he'd go into town the whole bunch would sit down for a talk. Well, he had to go to town so one day he called 'em up and made 'em a little talk.

"'Boys,' he says, 'I've got to go to town but I'm going to watch you, all the same. Sure thing, now,' he says, 'you can laugh all you want to, but I'll see everything that you do.' Then he took out his glass eye and set it on a fence-post where it looked right down the ditch, and started off for town. You know these Apaches—superstitious as hell—they got in and worked like niggers. Kinder scared 'em, you see, ain't used to glass eyes; but there was one old boy that was foxy. He dropped down in the ditch where the eye wouldn't see him and crept up behind that fence-post like a snake, and then he picked up an empty tin can and slapped it down over the eye. There was a boy over at the ranch that saw the whole business and he says them Indians never did a lick of work till they saw Bible-Back's dust down the road. Pretty slick, eh, for an Indian? And some people will try to tell you that the untutored savage can't think.

"Well, that's the kind of an hombre that we're up against—he'd skin a flea for his hide and taller. As old Spud Murphy used to say, he'd rob a poor tumble-bug of his ball of manure and put him on the wrong road home. He's mean, and it sure hurt his feelings to have you hop in and win back your mine. And knocking Dave on the head took the pip out of these other jumpers—I'm looking for the whole bunch to fade."

"Well, they might as well," said Denver, "because their claims are not worth fighting for and there's a Miners' Committee going to call on 'em. I'm going along myself in an advisory capacity, and my advice will be to beat it. And if you'll take a tip from me you'll hire a couple of miners and put them to work on your claims."

"I'll do it to-morrow," agreed Bunker enthusiastically. "I've got a couple of nibbles from some real mining men—not some of these little, one-candle power promoters but the kind that pay with certified checks—and if I can open up those claims and just get a color of copper I'm fixed, boy, that's all there is to it. Come on now, let's go in to dinner."

The memory of that dinner, and of the music that followed it, remained long in Denver's mind; and later in the evening, when the lights were low and her parents had gone to their rest, Drusilla sang the "Barcarolle" from Hoffmann. She sang it very softly, so as not to disturb them, but the look in her eyes recalled something to Denver and as he was leaving he asked her a question. It was not if she loved him, for that would be unfair and might spoil an otherwise perfect evening; but he had been wondering as he listened whether she had not seen him that first time—when he had slipped down and listened from the shadows.

And when he asked her she smiled up at him tremulously and nodded her head very slowly; and then she whispered that she had always loved him for it, just for listening and going away. She had been downcast that night but his presence had been a comfort—it had persuaded her at last that she could sing. She had sung the "Barcarolle" again, on that other night, when he had stepped out so boldly from the shadows; but it was the first time that she loved him for it, when he was still a total stranger and had come just to hear her sing. There was more that she said to him and when he had to go she smiled again and gave him her hand, but he did not suggest a kiss. She was keeping that for him, until she had been to New York and run the gauntlet of the tenors.

This was the high spot in Denver's life, when he had stood upon Parnassus and beheld everything that was good and beautiful; but in the morning he put on his old digging clothes again and went to work in the mine. He had seen her and it was enough; now to break out the ore and win her for his own. For he was poor, and she was poor, and how could she succeed without money? But if he could open up his mine and block out a great ore body then her claims and Bunker's, that touched it on both sides, would take on a speculative value. They could be sold for cash and she could go East in style, to take lessons from the ten-dollar teacher who had influence with directors and impresarios. Denver put in a round of holes and blasted his way into the mountain; but as he came out in the evening, dirty and grimed and pale from powder sickness, Drusilla paled too and almost shrank away. She had strolled up before, only to hear the clank of his steel and the muffled thud of his blows; and now as she stood waiting, attired as daintily as a bride, the dream-hero of her memories was banished. He was a miner again, a sweaty, toiling animal, dead to all the finer things of life; but if Denver read her thoughts he did not notice, for he remembered what Mother Trigedgo had told him.

Two weeks passed by and Labor Day came near, when all the hardy miners foregathered in Globe and Miami and engaged in the sports of their kind. A circular came to Denver, announcing the drilling contests and giving his name as one of the contestants; then a personal letter from the Committee on Arrangements, requesting him to send in his entry; and at last there came a messenger, a good hard-rock man named Owen, to suggest that they go in together. But Denver was driving himself to the limit, blasting out ore that grew richer each day; and at thought of Bible-Back Murray, waiting to pounce upon his mine, he sent back a reluctant refusal. Yet they published his name, with the partner's place left vacant, and advertised that he would participate; for on the Fourth of July, with Slogger Meacham for a partner, he had won the title of champion.

The decision to go was forced upon him suddenly on the day before the event, though he had almost lost track of time. Every morning at day-break he had been up and cooking, after breakfast he had gone to the mine; and, between mucking out the tunnel and putting in new shots, the weeks had passed like days. But when he went to Bunker on the eighth of September and asked for a little more powder Bunker took him to the powder-house and showed him a space where the boxes of dynamite had been. Then he took him behind the counter and showed him the money-till and Denver awoke from his dream.

In spite of the stampede and the activity all about them the whole Pinal district was not producing a cent, and would not for months to come. Every dollar that was spent there had to come in from the outside, and the men who held the claims were all poor. Even after driving off the jumpers and regaining their lost claims the majority had gone home after merely scratching up their old dumps in a vain pretense at doing the assessment work.

The promoters were not buying, they were simply taking options and waiting on Murray's tunnel; and until he drove in and actually tapped the copper ore there would be no steady boom. He had organized a company and was selling a world of stock, even using it to pay off his men: and it was whispered about that his strike was a fake, for he still refused to exhibit the drill cores. But whether his strike was a bona fide discovery or merely a ruse to sell stock, the fact could not be blinked that Denver and Bunker Hill had reached the end of their rope. They were broke again and Denver set out for Globe, leaving Bunker to hold down his claim.



CHAPTER XXII

THE ROCK-DRILLING CONTEST

The main street of Globe was swarming with men, from the court-house square down past the viaduct to where the Bohunks dwelt. And the men were all miners, deep-chested and square-shouldered, but white from working underground. They were gathered in knots before the soft-drink emporiums that before had all been saloons and as Denver rode in they shouted a hoarse welcome and followed on to Miners' Hall. There the Committee of Arrangements was sitting in state but when Denver strode in a huge form bulked up before him and Slogger Meacham grinned at him evilly. Two months before, on the Fourth of July, they had been partners in the winning team; but now Meacham had taken on with a Cornishman from Miami and they counted the money as good as won.

"What are you doing here?" demanded the Slogger insolently, "do you think you're going to compete?"

"Danged right I am, if the judges will let me," answered Denver shoving resolutely past; and at sight of their lost champion the committee brightened up, though they glanced at each other anxiously. But what they wanted was a contest, something that would bring out the crowd and make the great day a success, and they waited upon Denver expectantly.

"Well, here's where you get left then," spoke up Meacham with a sneer, "the entries were closed at noon."

"Oh, hell!" cursed Denver and was turning to go when the chairman called him back.

"Just a minute," he said, "didn't you send in your entry? I believe we've got it here, somewhere." He began to fumble industriously through a pile of papers and Denver caught his breath. For a moment he had seen his dreams brought to nothing, his last chance at the prize-money gone; but at this tentative suggestion on the part of the chairman he suddenly took heart of grace. They wanted him to compete, it had been advertised in all the papers, and they were willing to meet him half-way. But Denver was no liar, he shook his head and sighed, then turned back at a sudden thought.

"Maybe Tom Owen made the entry?" he burst out eagerly, "he was over to see me, you know."

"That was it!" exclaimed the chairman as if clutching at a straw, "say, where is that blank of theirs, Joe?"

"Search me," answered Joe, "it's around here, somewhere. Oh, I know!" And he went out into the back room. "Ain't this it?" he inquired returning with a paper and the chairman snatched it away from him.

"Yes," he said, "how'd it get out there? Well, no matter—that's all right, Mr. Russell!"

"No it ain't!" blurted out Meacham making a grab for the paper; but the chairman struck away his hand.

"You keep out of this!" he said. "What d'ye think you're trying to do? You keep out or I'll put you out!"

"It's a flim-flam!" raged Meacham, "you're trying to job me. He never made no entry."

"I never claimed to," retorted Denver boldly and Meacham turned on him, his pig eyes blazing with fury.

"I'll fix you, for this!" he burst out hoarsely, "I'll get you if I have to kill you. You robbed me once, but you won't do it again; so I give you fair warning—pull out!"

"You robbed me!" came back Denver, "and these boys all know it. But I fought you fair for the whole danged roll——"

"You did naht!" howled Meacham, "you had a feller with ye——"

"Well, I'll fight you right now, then," volunteered Denver accommodatingly but the Slogger did not put up his hands.

"That's all right," he said backing sullenly away, "but remember what I told you—I'll git ye!"

"You'll git nothing!" returned Denver and laughed him out the door, though there were others who muttered warnings in his ears. Slogger Meacham was a fighter as well as a driller and his flight with the prize-money was not the first time that he had lapsed from the ways of strict rectitude. He had killed a man during the riots at Goldfield and had been involved in several ugly brawls; but his record as a bad man did not deter Denver from opposing him and he went out to hunt up Owen.

Tom Owen was a good man, and he was also a good driller, but there was one thing that Denver held against him—he had been a drinking man when Arizona was wet. And a man who has drunk, no matter when, is never quite the same in a contest. He has lost that narrow margin of vital force, those last few ounces of strength and stamina which win or lose at the finish. Yet even at that he was a better man than Meacham, who had laid down like a yellow dog. Denver remembered that too and when he found his man he told him they were due to win. Then he borrowed some drills and a pair of eight-pound hammers and they went through a try-out together. Owen was quick and strong, he made the changes like lightning and struck a heavy blow; but when it was over and he was rolling a cigarette Denver noticed that his hand was trembling. The strain of smashing blows had over-taxed his nerves, though they had worked but three or four minutes.

"Well, do the best you can," said Denver at last, "and for cripes sake, keep away from this boot-leg."

There was plenty of it in town on this festive occasion, a nerve-shattering mixture that came in from New Mexico and had a kick like a mule. It was circulating about in hip pockets and suit-cases and in automobiles with false-bottomed seats, and Denver knew too well from past experience what the temptation was likely to be; yet for all his admonitions when he met Owen in the morning he caught the bouquet of whisky. It was disguised with sen-sen and he pretended not to notice it but his hopes of first money began to wane. They went out again to the backyard of an old saloon where a great block of granite was embedded and while their admirers looked on they practiced their turn, for they had never worked together. A Cornish miner, a champion in his day, volunteered to be their coach and at each call of: "Change!" they shifted from drill to hammer without breaking the rhythm of their stroke.

"You'll win, lads," said the Cornishman, patting them affectionately on the back and Denver led them off for their rub-down.

The band began to play in the street below and the Miners' Union marched past, after which they banked in about a huge block of granite and the drilling contests began. The drilling rock was placed on a platform of heavy timbers at the lower side of the court-house square, and the slope above it and the windows of all the buildings were crowded with shouting miners. First the men who were to compete in the single-jack contests mounted the platform one by one; and the sharp, peck, peck, of their hammers made music that the miners knew well. Then, as their holes were cleaned out and the depth of each measured, the first team of double-jackers climbed up to the platform amid the frantic plaudits of the crowd. The announcer introduced them, they laid out their drills and the hammer-man poised his double-jack; then at the word from the umpire they leapt into action, striking and turning like men gone mad.

There were five teams entered, of which Denver's was the last, but when Meacham and his partner were announced as the next contestants his impatience would not brook further delay. With his own precious drills tied securely in a bundle and Owen and the coach behind him he fought his way to the base of the platform and sat down where he could watch every blow. They came on together, a team hard to match; Meacham stripped to the waist, his ponderous head thrust forward, the muscles swelling to great knots in his arms. His partner wore the heavy, yellow undershirt of a miner, his trousers draped low on his hips; and to hold them up he had a strand of black fuse twisted loosely in place of a belt. He was a hard, hairy man, with grim, deep-set eyes and a jaw that jutted out like a crag and as he raised his hammer to strike Denver saw that he was out to win.

"Go!" called the umpire and the hammer smote the drill-head till it made the blue granite smoke; and then for thirty seconds he flailed away while Slogger Meacham turned the short starter-drill.

"Change!" called their coach and with a single swoop Meacham flung his drill back into the crowd and caught up his hammer to strike. His partner dropped his hammer and chucked in a fresh drill—smash, the hammer struck it into the rock—and so they turned and struck while the ramping miners below them looked on in envious amazement. As each drill was thrown out it was brought back from where it fell and examined by the quick-eyed coach, and as he called off the half minutes he announced their probable depth as indicated by the mud marks on the drills. Across the block from the two drillers knelt a man with a rubber tube who poured water into the churning hole; and at each blow of the hammer the gray mud leapt up, splashing turner and hammer-man alike.

At the end of five minutes they were down fifteen inches, at ten they still held their pace; but as Denver glanced doubtfully at his coach and Owen the sound of the drilling changed. There was a grating noise, a curse from the turner, and as he flung out the drill and thrust in another a murmur went up from the crowd. They had broken the bit from the brittle edge of their drill and the new drill was grinding away on the fragment, which dulled the keen edge of the steel. The quick ears of the miners could sense the different sound as the drill champed the fragment to pieces, and when the next change was made the mud-marks on the drill showed that over an inch had been lost. A team working at top speed averaged three inches to the minute, driving down through hard Gunnison granite; but Meacham and his partner had lost their fast start and they had yet four minutes to go. The tall Cornishman's eyes gleamed—he struck harder than ever—but Meacham had begun to lose heart. The accident upset him, and the grate of the broken steel as the drill bit down on chance fragments; and as his coach urged him on he glanced up from his turning with a look that Denver knew well. It was the old pig-eyed glare, the look of unreasoning resentment, that he had seen on the Fourth of July.

"He's quitting," chuckled Owen when Meacham rose to strike; but when the hole was measured it came to forty-three and fifteen-sixteenths of an inch. The big Cornishman had done it in spite of his partner, he had refused to accept defeat; and now, with only two more teams to compete, they led by nearly an inch.

"You can beat it!" cried Denver's coach, "I've done better than that myself! Forty-four! You can make forty-six!"

"I'm game," answered Denver, "but it takes two to win. Do you think you can stick it out, Tom?"

"I'll be up there, trying," returned Owen grimly and Denver nodded to the coach.

The next team did no better, for it is a heart-breaking test and the sun was getting hot, and when Denver and Owen mounted up on the platform a hush fell upon the crowd. Denver Russell they knew, but Owen was a new man; and a drilling contest is won on pure nerve. Would he crack, like Meacham, as the end approached, or would he stand up to the punishment? They looked on in silence as Denver spread out his drills—a full twenty, oil-tempered, of the best Norway steel, each narrower by a hair than its predecessor. The starter was short and heavy, with an inch-and-a-quarter bit; and the last long drill had a seven-eighths bit, which would just cut a one-inch hole. They were the best that money could buy and a famous tool-sharpener in Miami had tempered their edges to perfection. Denver picked up his starter, all the officials left the platform, and Owen raised his hammer.

"Are the drillers ready?" challenged the umpire. "Then go!" he shouted, and the double-jack descended with a smash. For thirty seconds while the drill leapt and bounded, Denver held it firmly in its place, and at the call of "Change!" he chucked it over his shoulder and swung his own hammer in the air. Owen popped in a new drill, the hammer struck it squarely and the crowd set up a cheer. Denver was working hard, striking faster than his partner; and in every stroke there was a smashing enthusiasm, a romping joy in the work, that won the hearts of the miners. He was what they had been before drink and bad air had sapped the first freshness of their strength, or dust and hot stopes had broken their wind, or accidents had crippled them up—he was a miner, young and hardy, putting his body behind each blow yet striking like a tireless automaton.

"Change!" cried the coach, his voice ringing with pride; and as the drill came flying back he shouted out the depth which was better than three inches for the minute. At five minutes it was sixteen, at ten, thirty-three; but at eleven the pace slackened off and at twelve they had lost an inch. Tom Owen was weakening, in spite of his nerve, in spite of his dogged persistence; he struck the same, but his blows had lost their drive, the drill did not bite so deep. At every stroke, as Denver twisted the long drill loose and turned it by so much in the hole, he raised it up and struck it against the bottom, to add to the weight of the blows. The mud and muck from the hole splashed up into his face and painted his body a dull gray, but at thirteen minutes they had lost their lead and Tom Owen was striking wild. Then he missed the steel and a great voice rose up in mocking, stentorian laughter.