"Ho! Ho!" it roared, and Denver knew it well—it was Slogger Meacham, exulting.

"Here—you turn!" he said flinging out his drill, and as Owen sank down on his knees by the hole Denver caught up his double-jack and struck. For a half minute, a minute, he flailed away at the steel; while Owen, his shoulders heaving, turned the drill like clock-work and gasped to win back his strength.

"Thirteen and a half!" announced the coach at last and then he shouted: "Change!"

"No—turn!" panted Denver, never missing a stroke; and Owen sank back to his place by the hole while the battery of blows kept on.

"Fourteen!" proclaimed the coach, "you're about an inch behind. How about it—do you want to change?"

"No—turn!" choked Denver. "I'll finish it—turn!" And as Owen straightened his back Denver struck like a mad-man while the sweat poured down in a shower. The official umpire leapt up on the platform to toll off the last sixty seconds, but the rise and fall of Denver's body was faster by far than his count. A frenzy seemed to seize him as the half minute was called and Owen slipped in their last drill; and with hoarse, coughing grunts he smashed it deeper and deeper while the miners surged forward with a cheer.

"Fifty-eight—fifty-nine—sixty!" cried the umpire, slapping him sharply on the back to stop, and Denver fell like dead across the stone. His great strength had left him, completely, on the instant; and when he raised his head there was a grinning crowd around him as his coach was measuring the last drill.

"The poor, dom fool!" he exclaimed commiseratingly, "and to think of him wurruking like thot. He's ahead by two inches and more."



CHAPTER XXIII

THE HEART OF HIS BELOVED

There was a celebration that day which warmed Denver's heart and sent Slogger Meacham cursing out of the camp, but as soon as it was over and he had his prize money in his hand Denver remembered his unguarded claim. Bunker Hill was there, of course, but the spiteful Professor had heralded his pledge afar; and a man who has promised his wife not to fight is ill-fitted to herd a mine. No, the Silver Treasure lay open for Dave or Murray to jump, if they felt like contesting his claim; and, weak as he was, Denver took no rest until he was back where he could fight for his own. He rode in late and slept like the dead, but in the morning he was up and down at the store as soon as Old Bunk came out.

"I win!" he announced holding up the roll of bills, "first money—can you get me some powder?"

"W'y, you lucky fool!" exclaimed Bunker admiringly, "seems like nothing can keep you down. Sure I'll get your powder, and just to show you what I can do—how's that for a healthy little roll?" He drew out a roll of bills twice the size of Denver's and fingered them over lovingly. "A thousand dollars," he murmured, "for an option on half the Lost Burro. A party came up yesterday and took one look at it and grabbed it right off the bat, and as soon as old Murray gets in to his ore they're going to capitalize the Burro for a million. Fine name that, for stock-selling—known all over the world, in England, Paris and everywhere—but I made 'em come through with a thousand dollars cash, so Drusilla could have a good stake. She's thinking of going East, soon."

"'S that so?" said Denver, trying to take it all in, "are these parties going to do any work?"

"Well, that's an unfair question, as Pecos Edwards used to say when they asked him if all Texans was cow-thieves; but you know how these promoters work. There'll be lots of work done; but mostly by lawyers, and publicity men and such. There's a whole lot of water in the workings of the Lost Burro that'll have to be pumped out first, and then there's a little job of timbering that'll cost a world of money. No, I sold them that mine on the ore in your tunnel—I will say, it shows up splendid. If you'd've been here yesterday you might have made a deal that would——"

"Not on your life!" broke in Denver, "I don't sell to anybody. But say, but what did they think of my mine?"

"Think!" exclaimed Bunker, "they stopped thinking right here, when I showed 'em that big vein of copper! They went crazy, just like lunatics; because it ain't often, I'm telling you, that you find sixty-per-cent copper on the surface."

"Not in a fissure vein—no," agreed Denver emphatically, "I wouldn't sell out for a million. Did those promoters take away any samples?"

"Well, yes; a few," responded Bunker apologetically, "I didn't think you'd object."

"Why, of course not," answered Denver, "it'll advertise the district and bring in some outside people. And now that I've got another stake I'm going to sack my ore and make a trial shipment to the smelter. But you bet your boots, after what Murray put over on me, I'm going to have some assaying done first."

"Yes, and keep some samples," advised Bunker wisely. "Keep a sample out of every bag."

"I'll just mix that ore up," said Denver cautiously, "and cut it down, the way they do at the mill. Throw out every tenth shovel and mix 'em up again and then cut the pile down smaller until you've got a control, like the ore brokers take at the smelter. And then I'll send a sample to the assayer—say, there's Drusilla over there, trying to call you."

"She's trying to call you," answered Bunker Hill shortly and went on into the store.

"Well, be sure and order that powder," shouted Denver after him. "And say, I'll want the rest of those ore-sacks."

"All right," replied Bunker and Denver turned to the house where Drusilla was waiting on the porch.

"Did you hear the news?" she asked dancing ecstatically to and fro; as if she were a Delilah, leading the Philistine maidens in the "Spring Song," and he were another Samson. "I'm expecting to go East now, soon."

"Good!" exclaimed Denver. "Well, I won't see you much then—I'm going to work in the mine."

"Yes, isn't it grand?" she cried. "Everything is coming out fine—but you must come down to dinner to-night. I'm going to sing, just for you."

"I'll be there," smiled Denver, and then he stopped. "But let's not make it to-night," he said, "I'm dead on my feet for sleep."

"Well, sleep then," she laughed, "and get rested from your contest—I'm awfully glad you won. And then——"

"Nope, can't come to-night," he answered soberly, "I want to get that ore sacked to-day. And I'm stiff as a strip of burnt raw-hide."

"Well, to-morrow night," she said, "unless you don't want to come. But you'll have to come soon or——"

"Oh, I want to come, all right," interposed Denver hastily, "you know that, without telling. But my partner played out on me before the end of the contest and I had to finish the striking myself. And then I rode hard to get back here, before Dave or some gun-man jumped my claim."

"Then to-morrow night," she smiled, "but don't you forget, because if you do I'll never forgive you."

She danced away into the house and Denver turned in his tracks and went to look over his ore-sacks. They were old and torn, what was left of a big lot that Bunker had got in a trade; but Denver picked out the best and wheeled them up to his dump, where his picked ore lay waiting for shipment. He had a big lot, much larger than he had thought, and it was just as it had been shot down from the breast. Some was silver-lead; and there was copper to boot, though that would hardly do to ship. Yet at thirty cents a pound copper was almost a precious metal, and a report from the smelter would be a check. He would know from that how the ore really ran and how much he would be penalized for the zinc. So he picked out the best of it and broke it up fine, for the rough chunks would not do to sack; and before he had more than got started with his sampling the sun had gone down behind the ridge. And he was tired—too tired to eat.

There was music that night at the big house below but Denver could not hold up his head. Nature had drugged him with sleep, like a romping child that takes no thought of its strength, and in the morning he woke up in a sort of stupor that could not be worked off. Yet he worked, worked hard, for McGraw had arrived and the ore must be loaded that day; so they threw in together, Denver sacking the heavy ore and McGraw wheeling it out to the wagon. They toiled on till dark, for McGraw started early and the work could not be put off till to-morrow; and when it was over Denver staggered up to his cave like an old and outworn man. He was reeking with sweat, his hands were like talons, the ore-dust had left his face gray; and all he thought of was sleep. For a moment he roused up, as if he remembered some new duty—something pleasant, yet involving further effort—and then his candle went out. He fell asleep in his chair and when he awoke it was only to stumble to his bed.

The sun was over the Leap when he opened his heavy eyes and gazed at the rude squalor of his cave. The dishes were unwashed, the floor was dirty, a long-tailed rat hung balanced on the table-edge—and he was tired, tired, tired. He heaved himself up and reached for the water-bucket but he had forgotten to fill it at the creek. Now he grabbed it up impatiently and started down the trail, every joint of his body protesting, and when he had climbed back he was weak from the effort—his bank account with Mother Nature was overdrawn. He was worn out, at last; and his poor, tired brain took no thought how to make up the deficit. All he wanted was rest, something to eat, a drink of water. A drink of water anyway, and sleep. He drank deep and bathed his face, then sank back on the bed and let the world whirl on.

It was late in the day when he awoke again and hunger was gnawing his vitals; but the slow stupor was gone, he was himself again and the cramps had gone out of his limbs. He rose up luxuriously and cut a can of tomatoes, drinking the juice and eating the fruit, and then he lit a fire and boiled some strong coffee and cooked up a great mess of food. There was two cans of corn and a can of corned beef, heated together in a swimming sea of bacon grease and eaten direct from the frying-pan. It went to the spot and his drooping shoulders straightened, the spring came back into his step; yet as he cleaned up the dishes and changed to decent clothes the weight of some duty seemed to haunt him. Was it McGraw? No, he had loaded the last sack and sent him on his way. It was Drusilla—she had been going to sing for him.

Denver stepped to the door and looked down at the house and his heart sank low at the thought. They had invited him to dinner and he had forgotten to come, he had gone home and fallen asleep. And no one had come to call him—or to inquire what had kept him away. A heavy guilt came over him as he gazed down at the house with its broad porch and trailing Virginia creepers, the Hills would take it very ill to have their invitation ignored. Old Bunk had told him the time before, when he had invited him in to dinner: "Now, for the last time, Denver——" and it would take more than mere words to ever mend that breach. Denver paced back and forth, undecided what to do, and at last he decided to do nothing. As the sun went down he ate another supper and drugged his sorrows with sleep.

The next morning he rose early and shaved and bathed and put on his last clean shirt, and then he walked down to the town; but the store was locked, there was no voices from the house, only a smoke from the kitchen stove. He went on to his mine and looked it over, and as he passed the Professor leered out at him; there was something that he knew, some bad news or spiteful gossip, for he found pleasure only in evil. Denver came back down the street, that was now as deserted as it had been before the stampede, and once more the Professor looked out.

"Vell," he said, "so you haf lost your sveetheart!" And he chuckled and shut the door softly.

Denver stopped and stood staring, hardly crediting the news, yet conscious of the sinister exulting. The Professor was glad, therefore the news was bad; but what did he mean by those words? Had Drusilla gone away or had she thrown him over for neglecting to keep his engagement? She had probably spoken her mind as she watched for him at the doorway and the Professor had been out there, eavesdropping.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded at last but the Professor only tittered. Then he dropped the heavy bar across his door and Denver took the hint to move on. He went down past the house and looked it over hopefully, but as no one came out he pocketed his pride and knocked, like a hobo battering the door for a meal, Mrs. Hill came out slowly as if preoccupied with other things, but when he saw her eyes he knew she had been crying and that Drusilla had really gone.

"I'm sorry," he began and then he stopped; there was nothing that he could say. "Has Drusilla gone?" he asked at length and Mrs. Hill answered him, almost kindly.

"Yes," she said, "she was summoned by a telegram. Her father took her down this morning."

He stood thinking a minute, then he shook his head regretfully and started off down the steps.

"She was sorry not to have seen you," she added gently but Denver made no reply. He was weak again now and inadequate to life; he could only crawl back like some dumb, wounded animal, to the sheltering gloom of his cave. But as he sat there stolidly, now trying to make some plan, now endeavoring to become reconciled to his fate, a rage swept over him like a storm-wind that shakes a tree and he burst into gusty oaths. The fates had turned against him, his horoscope had come to nothing; he had followed the admonitions of Mother Trigedgo and this was the result of her advice. She had told him to beware how he revealed his affection, but nothing about what to do when he had fallen asleep while his beloved sang only for him.

He drew out the Oraculum, by which the Man of Destiny had ordered the least affairs of his life, and read down through the thirty-two questions. Only once on each day could he consult the mystic oracle, and once only in each month on the same subject, lest the fates be outworn by his insistence. At first it was Number Thirteen that appealed to his fancy:

"Will the FRIEND I most reckon upon prove faithful or TREACHEROUS?" But he knew without asking that, whatever her failings, Drusilla would never prove treacherous. No, since he had taken her for his friend he would never question her faithfulness; Number Twenty-six was more to his liking:

"Does the person whom I love, LOVE and regard me?"

He spread out a sheet of paper on his littered table and dashed off the five series of lines, and then he counted each carefully and made the dots at the end—two dots for the two lines that came even and one for those that came odd. The first two came odd, the next two even, the last one odd again; and under that symbol the Oraculum Key referred him to section B for his answer. He turned to the double pages with its answers, good and bad, and his brain whirled while he read these words:

"Thy heart of thy beloved yearneth toward thee."

He closed the book religiously and put it away, and his heart for the moment was comforted.



CHAPTER XXIV

COLONEL DODGE

Denver doubted it, himself, for human nature is much the same in man and woman and Drusilla had been sorely slighted; but the Oraculum had said that her heart was yearning towards him and the Book of Fate had always spoken true. Perhaps women were different, but if it had been done to him, he would have called down black curses instead. Yet women were different, one could never guess their moods, and perhaps Drusilla would forgive him. Not right away, of course, but after her blood had cooled and he had written a proper letter. He would let it go awhile, until he had framed up some excuse or decided to tell her the truth, and in the meantime there was plenty of work to do that would help him forget his sorrow. There was his mine, and McGraw had brought up some powder.

There was something in the air which seemed to whisper to Denver of portentous happenings to come, and as he was sharpening up his steel for a fresh assault upon the ore-body a big automobile came into town. It stopped and a big man wearing a California sombrero and a pair of six-buckle boots leapt out and led the way to the Lost Burro. Behind him followed three men attired as gentlemen miners and as Denver listened he could hear the big man as he recited the history of the mine. Undoubtedly it was the buyer of the Lost Burro Mine, with a party of "experts" and potential backers who had come up to look over the ground; yet something told Denver that there was more behind it all. He felt their eyes upon him. They spent a few minutes looking over the old workings, and then they came stringing up his trail.

"Good afternoon, sir," hailed the promoter, "are you the owner of this property? Well, I'd like with your permission to show my friends some of your ore—why, what's this, have you hauled it away?"

"Yes, I shipped it out yesterday," answered Denver briefly and the big man glanced swiftly at his friends.

"Well, I'm Colonel Dodge—H. Parkinson Dodge—you may have heard the name. I'm your neighbor here on the south—we've taken over the Lost Burro property. Yes, glad to know you, Mr. Russell." He shook hands and introduced his friends all around, after which he came to the point. "We've been looking at the Lost Burro and one of the gentlemen suggested that it might be well to enlarge our property. That would make it more attractive to worth-while buyers and at the same time prevent any future litigation in case our ore-bodies should join. You understand what I mean—there's such a thing as apex decision and of course you hold the higher ground. Well, before we do any work or tie up our money we would like to know just exactly where we stand in relation to surrounding properties. What price do you put on your claim?"

"No price," answered Denver. "I don't want to sell. Are you thinking of opening up the Lost Burro?"

"That will all depend," hinted the Colonel darkly, "upon the attitude of the people in the district. If we meet with encouragement we intend to form a company and spend hundreds of thousands of dollars; but if not, why we will charge up our option money to profit and loss and seek out a less backward community. What is your lowest price on your claim?"

"A million dollars—cash," responded Denver cheerfully. "Now you come through and make me an offer."

"Well," began the Colonel, and then he stopped and glanced suggestively at the tunnel. "We'd like to look it over first."

"Fair enough," replied Denver and, giving each a candle, he led them into the tunnel. They looked the ore over, making indifferent comments and asking permission to take samples, and then Colonel Dodge took one of his experts aside and they conferred in muffled tones.

"Er—we'd rather not make an offer just now," said the Colonel at last; and in a silent procession they returned to the daylight, leaving Denver to follow behind. The atmosphere of the group was now reeking with gloom but after a long conference the Colonel came back, summoning up the ghost of a smile. "Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Russell," he began apologetically, "we saw some of your ore before we came up and we were all of us most enthusiastic. The copper in particular was very promising but the gentleman I was talking with is our consulting engineer and he advises me not to buy the property."

"All right," answered Denver, "you don't have to buy it. I never saw one of these six-buckle men yet that wouldn't knock a good claim." He turned back angrily to his job of tool-sharpening and the Colonel followed after him solicitously.

"Don't misunderstand me," he said, "there's nothing I'd like better than to buy in this neighboring property—if I could get it at a reasonable figure; but Mr. Shadd advises me that your ore lies in a gash-vein, which will undoubtedly pinch out at depth."

"A gash-vein!" echoed Denver, "why the poor, ignorant fool—can't you see that the vein is getting bigger? Well, how can it be a gash-vein when it's between two good walls and increasing in width all the time? Your friend must think I'm a prospector."

"Oh, no," protested the Colonel smiling feebly at the joke, "but—well, he advises me not to buy. The fact that the ore is so rich on the surface is against its continuance at depth. All gash-veins, as you know, are very rich at the surface; so in this case the fact is against you. But I tell you what I will do—just to protect my other property and avoid any future complications—I'll give you a thousand dollars for your claim."

"Whooo!" jeered Denver, "I'll get more than that for the ore I just sent to the smelter. No, I'm no thousand-dollar man, Mr. Dodge. I've got a fissure vein and it's increasing at depth, so I guess I'll just hold on a while. You wait till old Murray begins to ship!"

"Ah—er—well, I'll give you fifteen hundred," conceded the Colonel drawing out his check-book and pen. "That's the best I can possibly do."

"Well save your check then, because I'm a long ways from broke. What d'ye think of that for a roll?" Denver drew out his roll of prize money, with a hundred dollar bill on top, and flickered the edges of the twenties. "I guess I can wait a while," he grinned. "Come around again, when I'm broke."

"I'll give you a thousand dollars down and nine thousand in six months," burst out the Colonel with sudden vehemence. "Now it's that or absolutely nothing. If you try to hold me up I'll abandon my option and withdraw entirely from the district."

"Sorry to lose you, old-timer," returned Denver genially, "but I guess we can't do business. Come around in about a month."

A sudden flash came into the Colonel's bold eyes and he opened his mouth to speak—then he paused and shut his mouth tight.

"Not on your life, Mr. Russell," he said with finality, "if I go I will not come back. Now give me your lowest cash price for the property. Will you accept ten thousand dollars?"

"No, I won't," answered Denver, "nor a hundred thousand, either. I'm a miner—I know what I've got."

"Very well, Mr. Russell," replied Colonel Dodge crisply and, bowing haughtily, he withdrew.

Denver looked after him laughing, but something about his stride suddenly wiped away the grin from Denver's face—the Colonel was going somewhere. He was going with a purpose, and he walked like a man who was perfectly sure of his next move—like a man who has seen a snake in the road and turns back to cut a club. It was distinctly threatening and a light dawned on Denver when the automobile turned off towards Murray's camp. That was it, he was an agent of Murray.

Denver sharpened up his steel and put in a round of holes but all that day and the next his uneasiness grew until he jumped at every sound. He felt the hostility of Colonel Dodge's silence more than any that words could express; and when, on the second day, he saw Professor Diffenderfer approaching he stopped his work to watch him.

"Vell, how are you?" began the Professor, trying to warm up their ancient friendship; and then, seeing that Denver merely bristled the more, he cast off his cloak of well-wishing. "I vas yoost over to Murray's camp," he burst out vindictively, "and Dave said he vanted his gun."

"Tell 'im to come over and get it," suggested Denver and then he unbuckled his belt. "All right," he said handing over the gun and cartridges, "here it is; I don't need it, anyhow." The Professor blinked and looked again, then reached out and took the belt doubtfully.

"Vot you mean?" he asked at last as his curiosity got the better of him, "have you got anudder gun somevhere? Dot Dave, he svears he vill kill you."

"That's all right," replied Denver, "just give him his gun—I'll take him on any day, with rocks."

"How you mean 'take him on?'" inquired the Professor all excitement but Denver waved him away.

"Go on now," he said, "and give him his gun. I guess he'll know what I mean."

But if Chatwourth understood the hidden taunt he did not respond to the challenge and Denver's mind reverted to H. Parkinson Dodge and his flattering offers for the mine. Ten thousand dollars cash, from a mining promoter, was indeed a princely sum; better by far than the offer of half a million shares that went with Bunker's option. For stock is the sop that is thrown to poor miners in lieu of the good hard cash, but ten thousand dollars was a lot of money for a promoter to pay for a claim. It showed that there were others beside himself who believed in the value of his property, yet who this Colonel Dodge was or who were his backers was a question that only Bunker could answer. Denver waited in a sweat, now wondering if Bunker would speak to him, nor exulting in the offer for his mine; and when at last he saw Bunker Hill drive in he threw down his tools and hurried towards him.

But Bunker Hill was surly, he barely glanced at Denver and went on caring for his horses; and Denver did not crowd him. He waited, and at last Old Bunk looked up with jaw thrust grimly out.

"Well?" he said, and Denver forgot everything but the question that was on his tongue.

"Say," he burst out, "who is this Colonel Dodge that came up and bought your mine? Is he working for Murray, or what?"

"Search me," grumbled Bunker, "I got his thousand dollars, and that's about all I know."

"He was up here to see me the same day you left, with a whole load of six-buckle experts; and say, he offered me a check for ten thousand dollars if I'd sell him the Silver Treasure claim. And when I refused it he got into his machine and went right over to Murray's. I'll bet you you're sold out to Bible-Back."

"Well, he's stuck then," said Bunker. "I guess you haven't heard the news—Murray's closed down his camp for good."

"He has!" exclaimed Denver, and then he laughed heartily. "He's a foxy old dastard, isn't he?"

"You said it," returned Bunker. "Never did have any ore. Just pretended he had in order to sell stock and recoup what he'd lost on the drilling. They're offering the stock for nothing."

"Who's offering it?" demanded Denver suddenly taking the matter seriously. "I'll bet you it's nothing but a fake!"

"All right," shrugged Bunker, "but I met a bunch of miners and they were swapping stock for matches. Old Tom Buchanan down at Desert Wells won't accept it at any price—that shows how much it's a fake."

"Aw, he pulled that once before," answered Denver contemptuously, "but he don't fool me again. Like as not he's made a strike and is just shutting down so he can buy back the stock he sold."

Bunker looked up and grunted, then gathered together his purchases and ambled off towards the house.

"That's all you think about, ain't it?" he said at parting. "I'll mention it when I write to Drusilla."

"Oh—oh, yes," stammered Denver suddenly reminded of his dereliction, "say, how did she happen to go? And I want to get her address so I can explain how it happened—I wouldn't have missed seeing her for anything!"

"No, of course not," growled Bunker, "not for anything but your own interests. You can go to hell for your address."

"Why, what do you mean?" demanded Denver; but as Bunker did not answer he fell back and let him go on.



CHAPTER XXV

THE ANSWER

There are some kinds of questions which require no answers and others which answer themselves. Denver had asked Bunker what he meant when he refused Drusilla's address and intimated that he was unworthy of her friendship, but after a gloomy hour in the deepening twilight the question answered itself. Bunker had taken his daughter across the desert, on her way to the train and New York, and his curt remarks were but the reflex of her's as she discussed Denver's many transgressions. He thought more of mines and of his own selfish interests than he did of her and her art, and so she desired to hear no more of him or his protestations of innocence. That was what the words meant and as Denver thought them over he wondered if it was not true.

Drusilla had greeted him cordially when he had returned from Globe and had invited him to dinner that same night, but he had refused because he needed the sleep and begrudged the daylight to take it. And the next day he had worked even harder than before and had forgotten her invitation entirely. She was to sing just for him and, after the singing, she would have told him all her plans; and then perhaps they might have spoken of other things and parted as lovers should. But no, he had spoiled it by his senseless hurry in getting his ore off with McGraw; and now, with all the time in the world on his hands, the valley below was silent. Not a scale, not a trill, not a run or roulade; only silence and the frogs with their devilish insistence, their ceaseless eh, eh, eh. He rose up and heaved a stone into the creek-bed below, then went in and turned on his phonograph.

They were real people to him now, these great artists of the discs; Drusilla had described them as she listened to the records and even the places where they sang. She had pictured the mighty sweep of the Metropolitan with its horse-shoe of glittering boxes; the balconies above and the standing-room below where the poor art-students gathered to applaud; and he had said that when he was rich he would subscribe for a box and come there just to hear her sing. And now he was broke, and Drusilla was going East to run the perilous gauntlet of the tenors. He jerked up the stylus in the middle of a record and cursed his besotted industry. If he had let his ore go, and gone to see her like a gentleman, Drusilla might even now be his. She might have relented and given him a kiss—he cursed and stumbled blindly to bed.

In the morning he went to work in the close air of the tunnel, which sadly needed a fan, and then he hurled his hammer to the ground and felt his way out to daylight. What was the use of it all; where did it get him to, anyway; this ceaseless, grinding toil? Murray's camp had shut down, the promoters had vanished, Pinal was deader than ever; he gathered up his tools and stored them in his cave, then sat down to write her a letter. Nothing less than the truth would win her back now and he confessed his shortcomings humbly; after which he told her that the town was too lonely and he was leaving, too. He sealed it in an envelope and addressed it with her name and when he was sure that Old Bunk was not looking he slipped in and gave it to her mother.

"I'm going away," he said, "and I may not be back. Will you send that on to Drusilla?"

"Yes," she smiled and hid it in her dress; but as he started for the door she stopped him.

"You might like to know," she said, "that Drusilla has received an engagement. She is substitute soprano in a new Opera Company that is being organized to tour the big cities. I'm sorry you didn't see her."

"Yes," answered Denver, "I'm sorry myself—but that never bought a man anything. Just send her the letter and—well, goodby."

He blundered out the door and down the steps, and there stretched the road before him. In the evening he was as far as Whitlow's Well and a great weight seemed lifted from his breast. He was free again, free to wander where he pleased, free to make friends with any that he met—for if the prophecy was not true in regard to his mine it was not true regarding his friends. And how could any woman, by cutting a pack of cards and consulting the signs of the zodiac, predict how a man would die? Denver made himself at home with a party of hobo miners who had come in from the railroad below, and that night they sat up late, cracking jokes and telling stories of every big camp in the West. It was the old life again, the life that he knew and loved, drifting on from camp to camp with every man his friend. Yet as he stretched out that night by the flickering fire he almost regretted the change. He was free from the great fear, free to make friends with whom he would; but, to win back the love of the beautiful young artist, he would have given up his freedom without a sigh.

His sleep that night was broken by strange dreams and by an automobile that went thundering by, and in the morning as they cooked a mulligan together he saw two great motor trucks go past. They were loaded with men and headed up the canyon and Denver began to look wild. A third machine appeared and he went out to flag it but the driver went by without stopping; and so did another, and another. He rushed after the next one and caught it on the hill but the men pushed him roughly from the running board. They were armed and he knew by their hard-bitten faces that it was another party of jumpers.

"Where are you going?" he yelled but they left him by the road without even a curse for an answer. Well, he knew then; they were going to Final, and Murray had fooled him again. Denver had suspected from the first that Murray's shutdown was a ruse, to shake down the public for their stock; and now he knew it, and that if his mine was jumped again it would be held against all comers. Another automobile whirled by; and then came men that he knew, the miners who owned claims in the district.

"What's the matter?" he called but they would not stop to talk, simply shouted and beckoned him on. Denver started, right then, without stopping for breakfast or to pick up his hobo's pack; and soon he caught a ride with a party of prospectors whose claims he had once freed from jumpers.

"It's a big strike!" they clamored, hauling him in and rushing on. "Old Murray struck copper in his tunnel! Rich? Hell, yes!" And they gave him all the details as the machine lurched along up the road.

Murray had struck another ore-body, entirely different from the first one—the copper had come out the drill-holes like pure metal—and then he had shut down and rushed the machine-men away before they could tell of the strike. But they had got loose down in Moroni and showed the drill-dust and every man that saw it had piled into his machine and joined the rush for Murray's.

"Jumped again!" muttered Denver and when he arrived in Pinal he found his mine swarming with men. They had built a barricade and run a pipe line down the hill to pump up water from the creek, and when he appeared they ordered him off without showing so much as a head. And he went, for the swiftness of the change had confused him; he was whipped before he began. There was no use to fight or to put up a bluff, the men behind the wall were determined; and while, according to law, they held no title the law was far away. It was a weapon for rich men who could afford to pay the price; but how could he, a poor man, hope to win back his claim when it was held by Bible-Back Murray? He went down to the store, where the Miners' Meeting was assembled, and beckoned Bunker aside.

"Mr. Hill," he said, "you promised me one time to give me the loan of a gun. Well, now is the time I need it."

"Nope," warned Bunker, "you ain't got a chance. Them fellers are just up here to get you."

"Well, for self-defense!" protested Denver, "Dave sent word he'd kill me."

"Keep away, then," advised Bunker, "don't give him no chance. But if them fellers should jump on you, just run to my house and I'll slip you the old Injun-tamer."

Denver went out on the street, now swarming with traffic, and looked up toward his mine; and as he gazed he walked up closer until he stopped at the fork of the trails. The men behind the wall were watching him grimly, without letting their faces be seen; but as he stood there looking they began to bandy jests and presently to taunt him openly. But Denver did not answer, for he divined their evil purpose, and at last he turned quietly away.

"Hey! Come back here!" roared a voice and Denver whirled in his tracks for he knew it was Slogger Meacham's. He was standing there now, looking across the barricade, and as Denver met his gaze he laughed.

"Ho! Ho!" he rumbled folding his arms across his breast and thrusting out his huge black mustache. "Well, how do you feel about it now?"

"Never mind," returned Denver and, leaving him gloating, he hurried away down the trail. Old Bunk was right, they had come there to get him, and there was no use playing into their hands; yet at thought of Slogger Meacham his hair began to bristle and he muttered half-formed threats. The Slogger had come to get him—and Dave Chatwourth was behind there, too—the whole district was dominated by their gang; but the times would change and with inrush of other men the jumpers would soon be out-numbered. It was better then to wait, to let the excitement die down and law and order return; and then, with a deputy sheriff at his back, he could eject them by due process of law. The claim was his, his papers were recorded and no lawyer could question their validity—no, the best thing was to let the jumpers rage, to say nothing and keep out of sight. That was all that he had to do.

But to avoid them was not so easy, for as the day wore on and no attempt was made to oust them, the jumpers walked boldly into town. At first it was Chatwourth, to buy some tobacco and break in on the Miners' Meeting; and then Slogger Meacham, a huge mountain of a man, came ambling down the street. He slouched down on the store platform and leered about him evilly, but Denver had retreated to his cave under the cliff and the Slogger returned to the mine. Then they came down in a body, Chatwourth and Meacham and all the jumpers; but though his mine was left open Denver refrained from going near it, for their purpose was becoming very plain. They were trying to inveigle him into openly opposing them, after which they would have a pretext for resorting to actual violence. But their plans went no further for he remained in retirement and the Miners' Meeting adjourned. Soon the street was deserted, except for their own numbers, and they returned to the mine with shrill whoops.

From his lookout above Denver watched them with a smile, for his nerve had come back to him now. Now that Murray had made his strike, and increased the value of the Silver Treasure by a thousand per cent over night, Denver's mind had swung back like a needle to the pole to his former belief in the prophecy. He had doubted it twice and renounced it twice, but each time as if by an act of Providence he was rebuked for his lack of faith. Now he knew it was so—that the mine would be restored and that only his dearest friend could kill him. So he smiled almost pityingly at the loud-mouthed jumpers and went boldly down the trail.

The hush of evening was in the air when he knocked at Bunker Hill's door and after a look about Old Bunk went back into the house and brought out a heavy pistol. It was an old-fashioned six-shooter of the Indian-tamer type—a single action, wooden-handled forty-five—and Bunker fingered it lovingly as he handed it over to Denver.

"For self-defense, understand," he said beneath his breath, "and look out, that bunch is sure ranicky."

"Much obliged," responded Denver and tested the action before he slipped the gun in its belt. He was starting for his cave, when from his cabin up the street the Professor came out and beckoned him.

"What do you want?" called Denver; then, receiving no answer, he strode impatiently up the street.

"Come in," urged the Professor touching his nose for secrecy, "come in, I vant to show you some-t'ing."

"Well, show it to me here," answered Denver but the Professor drew him inside the house.

"You look oudt vat you do," he warned mysteriously, "dem joompers are liable to see you."

"I should worry," said Denver and, whipping out the gun, he made the motions of fanning the hammer.

"Now, now," reproved Diffenderfer drawing back in a panic; and then he laughed, but nervously.

"Well, what do you want to show me?" demanded Denver bluntly. "Hurry up now—I hear somebody coming."

"Oh, nutting—come again!" exclaimed the Professor apprehensively. "Come to-morrow—I show you everyt'ing!"

"You'll show me now," returned Denver imperturbably, "I'm not afraid of the whole danged bunch. Come on, what have you got—a bottle?"

"Yoost a piece of copper from Murray's tunnel—Mein Gott, I hear dem boys coming!"

He sprang to the door and dropped the heavy bar but Denver struck it up and stepped out.

"What the hell are you trying to do?" he demanded suspiciously and the door slammed to behind him.

"Run! Run!" implored the Professor staring out through his peep-hole but Denver lolled negligently against the house. A crowd of men, headed by Slogger Meacham, were coming down the street; but it was not for him to fly. He had a gun now, as well as they, and his back was against the wall. They could pass by or stop, according to their liking; but the show-down had come, there and now.

They came on in a bunch down the middle of the street, ignoring his watchful glances; but as the rest trampled past Slogger Meacham turned his head and came to a bristling halt.

"Well," he said, "out for a little airing?" And the jumpers swung in behind him.

"Yes," answered Denver regarding him incuriously and the Slogger moved a step or two closer.

"You start anything around here," he went on significantly, "and you'll be airing the smoke out of your clothes. We got your number, see, and we're here to put your light out if you start to make a peep."

"Is that so?" observed Denver still standing at a crouch and one or two of the men walked off.

"Come on, boys," they said but Meacham stood glowering and Chatwourth stepped out in front of him. "I hear," he said to Denver, "that you've been making your brag that you kin whip me with a handful of stones."

"Never mind, now," replied Denver, "I'm not looking for trouble. You go on and leave me alone."

"I'll go when I damned please!" cried Chatwourth in a passion and as he advanced on Denver the crowd behind him suddenly gave a concerted shove. Denver saw the surge coming and stepped aside to avoid it, undetermined whether to strike out or shoot; but as he was slipping away Slogger Meacham made a rush and struck him a quick blow in the neck. He whirled and struck back at him, the air was full of fists and guns, swung like clubs to rap him on the head; and then he went down with Meacham on top of him and a crashing blow ringing in his ears. When he came to his senses he was stripped and mauled and battered, and a stranger stood over him with a gun.

"You're my prisoner," he said and Denver sat up startled.

"Why—what's the matter?" he asked looking about at the crowd that had gathered on the scene of the fight, "what's the matter with that jasper over there?"

"He's dead—that's all," answered the officer laughing shortly, "you hit him over the head with this gun."

"I did not!" burst out Denver, "I never even drew it. Say, who is that fellow, anyway?"

"Name was Meacham," returned the officer, "come on."



CHAPTER XXVI

THE COURSE OF THE LAW

As he lay in his cell in the county jail at Moroni it was borne in upon Denver that he was caught in some great machine that ground out men as a mill grinds grain. It had laid a cold hand on him in the person of an officer of the law, it had inched him on further when a magistrate had examined him and Chatwourth and his jumpers had testified; and now, as he awaited his day in court, he wondered whither it was taking him. The magistrate had held him, the grand jury had indicted him—would the judge and jury find him guilty? And if so, would they send him to the Pen? His heart sank at that, for the name of "ex-convict" is something that cannot be laid. No matter what the crime or the circumstances of the trial, once a man is convicted and sent to prison that name can always be hurled at him—and Denver knew that he was not guilty.

He had no recollection of even drawing his gun, to say nothing of striking at Meacham; and yet Chatwourth and his gang would swear him into prison if something was not done to stop them. They had come before the magistrate all agreeing to the same story—that Denver had picked a fight with his old enemy, Meacham, and struck him over the head with his six-shooter. And then they showed Denver's pistol; the one he had borrowed from Bunker, all gory with hair and blood. It was a frame-up and he knew it, for they had all been striking at him and one of them had probably hit Meacham; but how was he to prove to the satisfaction of the court that Murray's hired gun-men were trying to hang him? His only possible witness was Professor Diffenderfer, and he would not testify to anything.

In his examination before the magistrate Denver had called upon the Professor to explain the cause of his being there; but Diffenderfer had protested that he had been hiding in his cabin and knew nothing whatever about the fight. Yet if the facts could be proved, Denver had not gone up the street to shoot it out with the jumpers; he had gone at the invitation of this same Professor Diffenderfer who now so carefully avoided his eye. He had been called to the Professor's cabin to look at a specimen of the copper from Murray's tunnel; but as Denver thought it over a shrewd suspicion came over him that he had been lured into a well-planned trap. They had never been over-friendly so why should this Dutchman, after opposing him at every turn, suddenly beckon him up the street and into his cabin just as Chatwourth and his gang came down? And why, if he was innocent of any share in the plot, did Diffenderfer refuse to testify to the facts? Denver ground his teeth at the thought of his own impotence, shut up there like a dog in the pound. He was helpless, and his lawyer would do nothing.

The first thing he had done when he was brought to Moroni was to hire a second-rate lawyer but, after getting his money, the gentleman had spent his time in preparing some windy brief. What Denver needed was some witnesses, to swear to his good character, and Diffenderfer to swear to the facts; and no points of law were going to make a difference as long as the truth was suppressed. Old Bunk alone stood by him, though he could do little besides testifying to his previous good character. Day after day Denver lay in jail and sweated, trying to find some possible way out; but not until the morning before his trial did he sense the real meaning of it all. Then a visitor was announced and when he came to the bars he found Bible-Back Murray awaiting him.

"Good morning, young man," began Murray smiling grimly, "I was just passing by and I thought I'd drop in and talk over your case for a moment."

"Yes?" said Denver looking out at him dubiously, and the great man smiled again. He was a great man, as Denver had discovered to his sorrow, for no one in the country dared oppose him.

"I regret very much," went on Murray pompously, "to find you in this position, and if there's anything I can do that is just and right I shall be glad to use my influence. We have, as you know, here in the State of Arizona one of the most enlightened governments in the country; and a word from me, if spoken in time, might possibly save you from conviction. Or, in case of conviction, our prison law is such that you might immediately be released under parole. But before I take any action——" he lowered his voice—"you might give me a quit-claim for that mine."

"Oh" said Denver, and then it was that the great ray of light came over him. He could see it all now, from Murray's first warning to this last bold demand for his mine; but two months in jail had broken his spirit and he hesitated to defy the county boss. His might be the hand that held Diffenderfer back, and it certainly was the one that paid Chatwourth; he controlled the county and, if what he said was true, had no small influence in the affairs of the state. And now he gave him the choice between going to prison or giving up the Silver Treasure.

"What is this?" inquired Denver, "a hold-up or a frame-up?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," answered Murray curtly, "but if you're still in a mood for levity——" He turned away but as Denver did not stop him he returned of his own will to the bars.

"Now see here," he said, "this has gone far enough, if you expect to keep out of prison. I came down here to befriend you and all I ask in return is a clear title to what is already mine. Perhaps you don't realize the seriousness of your position, but I tell you right now that no power on earth can save you from certain conviction. The District Attorney has informed me that he has an airtight case against you but, rather than see your whole life ruined, I am giving you this one, last chance. You are young and headstrong, and hardly realized what you were doing; and so I say, why not acknowledge your mistake and begin life over again? I have nothing but the kindest feelings towards you, but I can't allow my interests to be jeopardized. Think it over—can't you see it's for the best?"

"No, I can't," answered Denver, "because I never killed Meacham and I don t believe any jury will convict me. If they do, I'll know who was behind it all and govern myself accordingly."

"Just a slight correction," put in Murray sarcastically, "you will not govern yourself at all. You will become a ward of the State of Arizona for the rest of your natural life."

"Well, that's all right then," burst out Denver, wrathfully, "but I can tell you one thing—you won't get no quit-claim for your mine. I'll lay in jail and rot before I'll come through with it, so you can go as far as you like. But if I ever get out——"

"That will do, young man," said Murray stepping back, "I see you're becoming abusive. Very well, let the law take its course."

He straightened up his wry neck, put his glass eye into place and stalked angrily out of the jail; and in the hard week that followed Denver learned what he meant, for the wheels of the law began to grind. First the District Attorney, in making his charge, denounced him like a mad-man; then he brought on his witnesses, a solid phalanx, and put them through their parts; and every point of law that Denver's attorney brought up he tore it to pieces in an instant. He knew more law in a minute than the lawyer would learn in a life-time, he could think circles around him and not try; and when Denver's witnesses were placed on the stand he cross-examined them until he nullified their testimony. Even grim-eyed Bunker Hill, after testifying to Denver's character, was compelled to admit that the first time he saw him he was engaged in a fight with Meacham. And so it went on until the jury filed back with a verdict of "Guilty of manslaughter."

Thus the law took its course over the body and soul of what had once been a man; and when it was over Denver Russell was a Number with eighteen years before him. Eighteen years more or less, according to his conduct, for the laws of the State of Arizona imposed an indeterminate sentence which might be varied to fit any case. As Murray had intimated, under the new prison law a man could be paroled the day after he was sentenced, though he were in for ninety-nine years. That was the law, and it was just, for no court is infallible and injustice must be rectified somewhere. After the poor man and his poor lawyer had matched their puny wits against those of a fighting District Attorney then mercy must intervene in the name of society and equalize the sentence. For the District Attorney is hired by the county to send every man to prison, but no one is hired to defend the innocent or to balance the scales of justice.

Denver went to prison like any other prisoner, a rebel against society; but after a lonely day in his cell he rose up and looked about him. Here were men like himself—nay, old, hardened criminals—walking about in civilian clothes, and the gates opened up before them. They passed out of the walled yard and into the prison fields where there were cattle and growing crops; and they came back fresh and earthy, after hours of honest toil with no one to watch or guard them. It was the honor system which he had read about for years, but now he saw it working; and after a week he sent word to the Warden that he would give his word not to escape. That was all they asked of him, his word as a man; and a great hope came over him and soothed the deep wound that the merciless law had torn. He raised his head, that had been bowed on his breast, and the strength came back into his limbs; and when the Warden saw him with a sledge-hammer in his hands he smiled and sent him up to the road-camp.



CHAPTER XXVII

LIKE A HOG ON ICE

A month had wrought great changes in the life of Denver Russell, raising him up from a prisoner, locked up like a mad dog, to the boss of a gang of road-makers. He was free again, as far as bolts and bars were concerned; all that kept him to his place was the word he had given and his pride as an honest man. And now he was out, doing an honest man's work and building a highway for the state; and by the irony of fate the road he was improving was the one that led to Pinal. For time had wrought other changes while he lay in prison and the rough road up the canyon was swarming with traffic going and coming from Murray's camp. It was called "Murray" now, and a narrow-gauge railroad was being rushed to haul out the ore. Teams and motor trucks swung by, hauling in timbers and machinery, auto stages came and went like the wind; and old Mike McGraw, who had hauled all the freight for years, looked on in wonder and awe.

Yes, Murray was a live camp, a copper camp with millions of dollars behind it; and Bible-Back himself was a king indeed, for he had tapped the rich body of ore. It was his courage and aggressiveness that had made the camp, and the papers all sounded his praise; but still he was not satisfied and as he passed by Denver Russell he glanced at him almost appealingly. Here was a man he had broken in order to get his way, and his efforts had come to nothing; for the Silver Treasure lay idle, waiting the clearing of its title before the work could go on. And Denver Russell, swinging his double-jack on a drill, never once returned the glance. He was stiff-necked and stubborn, though Murray had sent intermediaries and practically promised to get him a parole.

A legal point had come up, after Denver had been imprisoned, which Murray had failed to foresee; the fact that a convict is legally dead until he has served his term. He cannot transfer property or enter into a contract or transact any business whatever—nor, on the other hand, can his mining claims be jumped. As a ward of the State his property is held in trust until his term has expired. Then he gains back his identity, if not his citizenship; and with the passing of his number and the resumption of his name he can enter into contracts once more. Murray's lawyer had known all this, but Murray had not; and when he suggested a suit to quiet title to the Silver Treasure old Bible-Back received a great blow. After all his efforts he found himself balked—his work must even be undone. Denver Russell must be pardoned, or at least paroled, and as the price of his freedom he must give his word not to contest the title to his mine. No papers would be necessary, in fact they would not be legal; but if his word would prevent him from escaping from the road-camp it would keep him from claiming his mine.

Murray attended to the matter himself, for he was in a fever to begin work; and then Denver Russell struck back—he refused to apply for parole. Though he was pleasant and amenable, never breaking the prison rules and holding his gang to their duty, when the kindly parole clerk offered to present his case to the Board he had flatly and unconditionally refused. The smouldering fire of his resentment had blazed up and overmastered him as he sensed the hidden hand of his enemy, and he had cursed the black name of Murray. That was the beginning, and now when Murray passed, his glance was almost beseeching. The price of silver was going up, there were consolidation plans in sight, and Denver's claim apexed all the rest—Murray pocketed his pride and, after a word with the guard, drew Denver out of hearing of the gang.

"Mr. Russell," he said trying to appear magnanimous, "that offer of mine holds good. I'll get you a parole to-morrow if you'll give me a quit-claim to your claim."

"How can I give you a quit-claim?" inquired Denver defiantly, "a convict can't give title to anything!"

"Just give me your word then," suggested Murray suavely and Denver laughed in his face.

"You glass-eyed old dastard," he burst out contemptuously, "I know what you're up to, too well. You're trying to get me paroled so you can take my mine away from me and I won't dare to raise a hand. But I'll fool you, old-timer; I'll just serve my term out and then—well, I'll get back my mine."

"Is that a threat?" demanded Murray but Denver only smiled and toyed with his heavy hammer. "Because if it is," went on Murray, "just for self-protection, I'll see that you don't get out."

"No, it isn't a threat," answered Denver quietly. "If I wanted to kill you I'd swing this sledge and knock you on the head, right now. No, I don't intend to kill you; but a man would be a sucker to play right into your hands."

"What do you mean?" asked Murray trying to argue the matter, but Denver refused to indulge him.

"Never mind," he said, "you railroaded me to the Pen', but by grab you can't get me out. I'll just show you I'm as independent as a hog on ice—if I can't stand up I'll lay down."

"Then you intend, just to spite me, to remain on in prison when you might be a free man to-morrow? I can't believe that—it doesn't seem reasonable."

"Well, I can't stand here talking," answered Denver impatiently and went off and left him staring.

It certainly was unbelievable that any reasoning creature should prefer confinement and disgrace to freedom, but the iron had burned deep into Denver's soul and his one desire now was revenge. He had been deprived of his property and branded a convict by this man who boasted of his powers; but, like a thrown mule, if he could not have his way he could at least refuse to get up. He was down and out; but by a miracle of Providence, a hitch in the wording of the law, the slave-driver Murray could not proceed with his chariot until this balky mule got up. Denver knew his rights as a prisoner of the state and his status before the law; and bowed his head and took the beating stubbornly, punishing himself a hundred times over to thwart his enemy's plans. As he worked on the road old friends came by and tried to argue him out of his mood, even Bunker Hill suggested a compromise; but he only listened sulkily, a slow smile on his lips, a gleam of smouldering hatred in his eyes.

So the winter passed by and as spring came on the road-gang drew near to Murray. From the hills above their camp Denver could see the dumps and hoists, and the mill that was going up below, and as the ore-trains glided by on the newly finished narrow-gauge he picked up samples of the copper. It was the same as his vein, a brassy yellow chalcopyrites with chunks of red native copper, and he forgot the daily heart-ache and the ignominy of his task as he contemplated the wealth that awaited him. Yes, the mine was still his, though he was herded with common felons and compelled to build a road for Murray; it was his and the law would protect him, the same law that had sent him to prison. And he was a prisoner by choice now for both the warden and the parole clerk had recommended him heartily for parole.

They treated him like a friend, like a big, wrong-headed boy who was still sound and good at heart; and he knew that when he went to them and applied for a parole they would recommend it at once to the Board. But he was playing a deep game, one that had come to him suddenly when Murray had suggested a parole, for by refusing to accept his freedom he made the state his guardian and the receiver of his coveted property. It was safe, and he could wait; and when the time was ripe he could apply to the Governor for a pardon. A pardon would remove the taint of dishonor and restore him to honest citizenship; but a paroled man was known for an ex-con everywhere—he might as well be back in the road-gang. Yet it was hard on his pride when the automobiles rushed past and the passengers looked back and stared, it was hard to have the guard always watching the gang for fear that some crook might decamp; and only the thought that he was working out his destiny gave him courage to play out his hand.

But how wonderfully had the prophecy of Mother Trigedgo been justified by the course of events! Not a year before he had come over the Globe trail in pursuit of Slogger Meacham, and had discovered the Place of Death. It rose before him now, a solid black wall, and within its shadow lay the mine of the prophecy, the precious Silver Treasure. He had chosen the silver treasure, and the yellow chalcopyrites had added its wealth of copper. And now he but awaited the end of his long ordeal and the reward of his courage and constancy. Both the silver and gold treasures were destined to be his; and Drusilla—but there he paused. Old Bunk had avoided him, Drusilla had not written; yet he had been careful not to reveal his affection. Not once had he asked for her, only once had he written; yet perhaps that one letter had defeated him. He had acknowledged his love, humbly admitted his faults, and begged her to try to forgive him. Even that might have cost him her love.

The spring came on warmer, all the palo verde trees burst out in masses of brilliant yellow, the mezquites hung out tassels of golden fuzz and the giant cactus donned its crown of orange blossoms. Even the iron-woods flaunted bloom and the barren, sandy washes turned green with six-weeks grass. It was a time when rabbits gamboled, when mockingbirds sang by moonlight and all the world turned young. Denver chafed at his confinement, one of his Mexicans broke his parole, the hobo miners went swinging past; and just as the last of his courage was waning Bunker Hill came riding down the road. He was on his big bay, yet not out after cattle—he was coming straight towards him. Denver caught his breath, and waited.



CHAPTER XXVIII

PAROLE

"Mornin', Denver," said Bunker Hill, "here's a letter that come for you—I forgot to send it down."

He fumbled in his pocket and Denver's heart stood still, but it was only his check from the smelter. He slipped it into his shirt without even glancing at the big total and looked up at Bunker expectantly.

"Well?" he prompted and Old Bunk twisted in the saddle before he began to talk.

"How much did you get for your shipment?" he inquired but Denver shrugged impatiently.

"What do I give a damn?" he demanded. "What's up? What you got on your mind?"

"Big stuff," replied Bunker, "but I want you to listen to me—they's no use running off at the head."

"Who's running off at the head? Go on and shoot your wad. Is it something about my mine?"

"Yes—and mine," answered Bunker. "I don't know whether you know it, but your property apexes the Lost Burro. And another thing, silver has gone up. But Pinal is just as dead as it was a year ago. The whole camp is waiting on you."

"Well, what do you want me to do? Get a parole and give Murray my mine?"

"No, just get a parole—and then we'll get you a pardon. I'll tell you, Denver, the Dutchman has begun to talk and it seems he saw your fight. He's told several people that you never pulled your gun, just struck out at the crowd with your fists. And if hints and winks count for anything with him he knows who it was that killed Meacham. He says he was hit from behind. I've tried everything, Denver, to make that Dutchman talk or put something down on paper; but he's scared so bad of Murray, and mebbe of his gun-men, that he won't say a word, unless he's drunk. Now here's the proposition—old Murray has had you railroaded, and he's sure going to squeeze you until you let go of that claim. Why not sell out for a good price, if he'll make the Professor talk and help get you a pardon from the Governor? You know the Governor, he'll pardon most anybody, but you've got to give him some excuse. Well, the Professor has got the evidence to get you out to-morrow—if Murray will just tell him to talk."

"What d'ye call a good price?" inquired Denver suspiciously. "Did Murray put you up to this?"

"No!" snapped Bunker, "but he named ten thousand dollars as the most he could possibly give. He owns the Colonel Dodge's interest in the Lost Burro Mining Company now."

"Your pardner, eh?" sneered Denver. "Well, where would I get off if I took this friendly tip? I'd lose my mine, that's worth a million, at least; and get ten thousand dollars and a parole. A paroled man can't locate a claim—nor an ex-convict, neither. The Silver Treasure is the last claim that I'll ever get; and I'm going to hold onto it, by grab!"

"You're crazy," declared Bunker, "didn't I say we'd get you a pardon? Well, a pardon restores you to citizenship—you can locate all the claims you want."

"Yes, sure; if I'm pardoned! But I know that danged Dutchman—he wouldn't turn a hand to get me out of the Pen' if you'd give him a hundred thousand dollars. He's got it in for me, for not buying his claim when I took the Silver Treasure from you; and more'n that, he's afraid of me, because if I ever get out——"

"Oh, don't be a dammed fool all the rest of your life," burst out Bunker Hill impatiently. "If you'd quiet down a little and quit fighting your head, maybe your friends would be able to help you. I might as well tell you that I've been to the Governor and told him the facts of the case; and he's practically promised, if the Professor will come through, to give you a full pardon with citizenship. Now be reasonable, Denver, and quit trying to whip the world, and we'll get you out of this jack-pot. Give old Murray your mine—you can never law it away from him—and take your ten thousand dollars; then move to another camp and make a fresh start where there's nobody working against you. Of course I'm Murray's pardner—he put one over on me—but at the same time I reckon I'm your friend. Now there's the proposition and you can take it or leave it—I ain't going to bother you again."

"Nope, it don't look good to me," answered Denver promptly, "there's too many ifs and ands. And I'll stay here till I rot before Bible-Back Murray will ever get that mine from me. He hired that bunch of gun-men to jump my claim twice when he had no title to the mine, and then he hired Chatwourth and Slogger Meacham to get me in the door and kill me. They made a slight mistake and got the wrong man, then sent me to the Pen' for murder. That's the kind of a dastard you've got for a pardner but you can tell him I'll never give up. I'll fight till I die, and if I ever get out——"

"Yes, there you go again," burst out Bunker Hill bitterly, "you ain't got the brain of a mule. If I wasn't to blame for loaning you that gun and leaving you out of my sight, I'd pass up your case for good. But I didn't have no better sense than to slip you my old six-shooter, and now Mrs. Hill can't hardly git over it so I'll give you another try. My daughter, Drusilla, is coming home next week and she hasn't even heard about this trouble. Now—are you going to stay here and meet her as a convict, or will you come and meet her like a gentleman. This ain't my doin's—I'd see you in hell, first—but Mrs. Hill says when you get out on parole we'll be glad to receive you as our guest."

Denver stopped and considered, smiling and frowning by turns, but at last he shook his head mournfully.

"No," he muttered, "what will she care for a poor ex-con? No, I'm down and out," he went on to Bunker, "and she'll hear about it, anyhow. It's too late now to pretend I'm a gentleman—my number has burned in like a brand. All these other prisoners know me and they'll turn me up anywhere; if I go to the China Coast one of 'em would show up, sooner or later, and bawl me out for a convict. No, I'm ruined as a gentleman, and old Murray did it; but by God, if I live, I'll teach him to regret it—and he won't make a dollar out of me. That claim is tied up till John D. Rockefeller himself couldn't get it away from me now; and it'll lay right there until I serve out my sentence or get a free pardon from the Governor. I won't agree to anything and——"

He stopped abruptly and looked away, after which he reached out his hand.

"Well, much obliged, Bunk," he said, trying to smile, "I'm sorry I can't accommodate you. Just thank Mrs. Hill for what she has done and—and tell her I'll never forget it."

He went back to his work and old Bunk watched him wonderingly, after which he rode solemnly away. Then the road-making dragged on—clearing away brush, blasting out rock, filling in, grading up, making the crown—but now the road-boss was absent minded and oblivious and his pride in the job was gone. He let the men lag and leave rough ends, and every few moments his eyes would stray away and look down the canyon for the stage. And as the automobiles came up he scanned the passengers hungrily—until at last he saw Drusilla. There was the fluttering of a veil, the flash of startled eyes, a quick belated wave, and she was gone. Denver stood in the road, staring after her blankly, and then he threw down his pick.

"Send me back to the Pen'" he said to the guard, "I'm going to apply for parole."



CHAPTER XXIX

THE INTERPRETATION THEREOF

After all his suffering, his oaths, his refusals, his rejection of each friendly offer, Denver had changed his mind in the fraction of a second when he saw Drusilla whirl past. He forgot his mine, the fierce battles, the prophecy—all he wanted was to see her again. Placed on his honor for the trip he started down the road, walking fast when he failed to catch a ride, and early the next morning he reported at the prison to apply for an immediate parole. But luck was against him and his heart died in his breast, for the Board of Prison Directors had met the week before and would not meet again for three weeks. Three weeks of idle waiting, of pacing up and down and cursing the slow passage of time; and then, perhaps, delays and disappointments and obstructions from Bible-Back Murray. He sat with bowed head, then rose up suddenly and wrote a brief letter to Murray.

"Get me a pardon," he scrawled, "and I'll give you a quit-claim. This goes, if you do it quick."

He put it in the mail, with a special delivery stamp, and watched the endless hours creep by. She was there in Pinal, running her scales, practicing her exercises, singing arias from the operas at night; and he was shut in by the gray concrete walls where the guards looked down from the towers. He could not trust himself now outside of the yard, his nerve was gone and he would head for Pinal like a homing bird to its mate. And then it came, quicker than he had ever thought or hoped for, though he had offered the Silver Treasure in return for it—a full pardon from the Governor, with his citizenship restored and a letter expressing confidence in his innocence. Denver clutched it to his breast and started out across the desert with his eyes on distant Pinal.

It lay in the shadow of Apache Leap, that blue wall that loomed to the east, and he hardly stopped to shake hands with the Warden in his haste to get out on the road. There he stopped the first automobile that was going up the canyon and demanded a ride as his right, and so earnest was his manner that the driver took him in and even speeded up his machine. But at the fork of the ways, where the new road turned off to Murray, Denver thanked him and got off to walk. The sun was low but he did not hurry—he had begun to doubt his welcome. A hot shame swept over him at his convict's shirt, his worn shoes and battered hat; and he wondered suddenly if it was not all a mistake, if he had not thrown his mine away. She was an opera singer now, returning from a season which must have given her a taste of success—what use would she have for him?

Up the wash to the west, where the automobile road went, a big camp had sprung up in his absence; but when he topped the hill and gazed down on Pinal nothing had changed, it was just the same. The street was broad and empty, the houses still in ruins, his cave still there across the creek; and from the chimney of Bunker's house a column of smoke mounted up to show that supper was being cooked. Yes, it was the same old town that he had entered the year before when Old Bunk had taken him for a hobo; but now he was hobo and ex-convict both, though the pardon had restored him to citizenship. His broad shoulders drooped, he turned back and crossed the creek and slunk like a thief to his cave.

The door was chained but he wrenched it open and slipped in out of sight. Bunker Hill had closed up the cave and covered all his things, and his bed was spread with clean, white sheets; the floor was swept and the dishes washed, and he knew whose hands had done it. It was Mrs. Hill's, that kindest of all women; who had even invited him to their home. Denver started a fire and cooked a hasty supper from the canned goods that were left in his boxes and then he looked down on the town. The sun had set now and a single bright star glowed solemnly in the west, but the valley was silent except for the frogs that made the air palpitate with their chorus. Old Bunk came out and went over to the store; someone struck a chord in the house, and as Denver listened hungrily a voice rose up, clear and flute-like, yet somehow changed.

It was her's, it was Drusilla's, and yet it was not; the year had made a change. There was a difference in her singing; a new note of tenderness, of yearning, of sadness, of love. Yes, he recognized it now, it had the quality of the Cradle Song that she had listened to so enviously on his phonograph. She had caught it, at last, that secret, subtle something which gives Schumann-Heink her power; and which comes only from love—and suffering. Denver rose up, startled; he had not thought of it before, but Drusilla must have suffered, too. Not as tragically as he but in other ways, fighting her way against the whole world. He went in hastily and lit his lamp but even when he was dressed his courage failed him and he bowed his head on the table. He dared not face her—now.

The singing had ceased, the frog chorus seemed to mock him, to din his convict's shame into his ears; but as he yielded to despair a hand fell on his shoulders and he looked up to see Drusilla. She was more beautiful than ever, dressed in the soft yellow gown that she had worn when first he saw her, but her eyes were reproachful and near to tears and she drew her hand away.

"What is it?" she asked. "Can't you ever care for me? Must I make every single advance? Oh, Denver, after I'd come clear home to see you—why wouldn't you come down to the house?"

He roused up startled, unable to comprehend her, his mind in a whirl of emotions.

"I was afraid you didn't want me," he said at last and she sank down on the bench beside him.

"Not want you?" she repeated. "Why, haven't I done everything to get you out of prison? Didn't I go to the Professor and beg and plead with him and sing all my German songs; didn't I go to the Governor and take him with me, and go through everything to have you pardoned?"

"Pardoned!" burst out Denver and then he stopped and shook his head regretfully. "No," he said, "I wish you had, though. I traded my mine for it—to Murray!"

"Why, Denver!" she cried, "you did nothing of the kind. I got you that pardon myself! And then, after all that—and after I'd played, and sung, and waited for you—you wouldn't even come down to see me!"

"Why, sure I would!" he protested brokenly, "I'd do anything for you, Drusilla! But I was afraid you wouldn't want me. I've been in prison, you know, and it makes a difference. They call me an ex-con now."

"No, but Denver," she entreated, "surely you didn't think—why, we asked you to come and stay with us."

"Yes, I know," he said but the sullen look had come back; he could not forget so soon. "I know," he went on, "but it wouldn't be right—I guess we've made a mistake. I wanted to see you, Drusilla; I gave everything I had, just to get here before you went——"

"Did you really?" she asked taking him gently by the hand and looking deep into his eyes, "did you give up your mine—for me?"

"Just to see you," answered Denver, "but after I got here——"

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she sighed, "and you haven't lost your mine. I got to the Governor first."

"You did?" he cried and then he sat up and the old fire came back into his eyes. "That's right," he laughed, "you must have beat him to it—I thought that pardon came quick! This'll cost old Murray a million."

"No, you haven't lost your mine," she went on, smiling curiously. "You think a lot of it, don't you?"

"Well, I don't know," grumbled Denver, "whether I do or not now. I believe that mine was a Jonah. I believe I made a mistake and chose the wrong treasure—I should have taken the gold."

"Oh, Denver!" she beamed, "do you really think so? I've always just hated that mine. I've always had the feeling that you thought more of it than you did of me—or anybody."

"Well, I did," confessed Denver, "it seemed to kind of draw me—to make me forget everything else. And Drusilla, I'm sorry I didn't come down—that night when you went away."

"It was the mine," she frowned, "I believe it was accursed. It always came between us. But you must sell it now, and not work for a while—I want you to entertain me."

"I'll do it!" exclaimed Denver, "I'll sell out for what I can get and then we can be together. How did you get along on your trip?"

"Oh, fine!" she burst out radiantly, "Oh, I had such luck. I was only the understudy, and doing minor parts, when the soprano was taken ill in the second act and I went in and scored a triumph. It was 'Love Tales of Hoffmann' and when I sang the 'Barcarolle' they recalled me seven times! That is they recalled us both—it's sung as a duet, you know."

"Um," nodded Denver and listened in glum silence as she related the details of her premier. "And how about those tenors?" he asked at last, "did any of 'em steal my kiss?"

"No—or that is—well, we won't talk about that now. But of course I have to act my parts."

"Oh, sure, sure!" he answered rebelliously and a triumphant twinkle came into her eyes.

"Do you still believe in the prophecy?" she asked, "and in all that Mother Trigedgo told you? Because if you do, I've got some news—you won't die until you're past eighty."

"I won't?" challenged Denver and then he stopped and waited as she smiled back at him mischievously.

"She's a nice old woman," went on Drusilla demurely, "but I wouldn't take her too seriously. She told me, for instance, that I'd give up a great career in order to marry for love. Yes, I went over to see her, myself."

"But what about me?" demanded Denver eagerly, "did she say I'd live till I was eighty?"

"Yes, she did; and she told me some other things, including the color of your eyes. But don't you see, Denver, that you made a mistake when you took what she said so seriously? Why, you wouldn't even speak to me or let us be friends for fear that I'd rise up and kill you; and now it appears that it was all a mistake and you're going to live till you're eighty."

"Well, all the same," responded Denver sighing and stretching his great arms, "I'm awful glad she said it. And a man could live to be eighty and still be killed by his friend. No, I believe that prophecy was true!"

"Very well," she assented, "but you don't need to worry about our friendship, and that's the principal thing. I just did it to set your mind at rest."

"Yes, it was true," he went on rousing up from a reverie, "but I was wrong—I should have taken the gold."

"Is that all you think of?" she asked impatiently, "is there nothing but silver and gold?"

"Yes, there is," he acknowledged, "but—say, Drusilla I'm going to buy out the Dutchman. I believe that stringer of his is rich."

"What stringer?" she demanded looking up from her own musings and then she nodded and sighed. "Yes, I know," she said, "you're back at your mining—but you promised you'd think only of me. I may not be here long and you want to be nice to me; because I almost hated you, once. Now listen, Denver, and let me interpret—don't you know you've got everything wrong?"

"No!" declared Denver, "it has all come out perfectly. I've lived clear through it, already. Only I chose the wrong treasure and so I lost them both and suffered a great disgrace. I should have taken the gold."

"No; listen Denver," she went on patiently, "and don't always be thinking of things. A golden treasure isn't necessarily of gold, it might be even—me."

"You?" echoed Denver and then he clutched his hands and stared about him wildly.

"Why, yes," she answered evenly, "haven't you noticed my hair? Other men are not so blind—and one of them said it reminded him of fine-spun gold. Yes, I was the golden treasure in the shadow of Apache Leap, but all you could think of was mines. The mine was your silver treasure, and you had to choose between us—and you always chose the mine. No matter how I sang, or did up my hair or came around where you were at work; you always went into that black, hateful hole, and I used to go home and cry. But—no, listen, Denver—when you saw me come back, and you wanted to see me, and there was no other way to do it; then you threw away your mine and told Murray to take it—and I knew that you really loved me. You loved me even more than your mine, and so you won us both. Do you like your golden treasure?"

"I was a fool!" moaned Denver but she stroked his rumpled hair and raised his face from his hands.

"We've both of us been foolish," she whispered, "I nearly hated you once, and nearly gave your kiss to a tenor. But—oh Denver, I'll never sing with those men again! I know you wouldn't like it."

"No, I wouldn't," he admitted, "and if you'll only——"

"There it is," she interrupted, giving him the long-treasured kiss. "I saved it just for you."

THE END