Silver and Gold: A Story of Luck and Love in a Western Mining Camp
“Have you seen my burros?” demanded the old man, half defiantly, “I can’t find dose rascals nowhere. Ah, so; here’s a stranger come to camp! Good morning, I’m glad to know you.”
“Good morning,” returned Big Boy glancing doubtfully at Bunker Hill, “my name is Denver Russell.”
“Oh, excuse me!” spoke up Bunker with a sarcastic drawl, “Mr. Russell, this is Professor Diffenderfer, the eminent buttinsky and geologist.”
“Ah–so!” beamed the Professor overlooking the fling in the excitement of the meeting, “I take it you’re a mining man? Vell, if it’s golt you’re looking for I haf a claim up on dat hill dat is rich in auriferous deposits.”
“Yes,” broke in Bunker giving Big Boy a sly wink, “you ought to inspect that tunnel–it’s unique in the annals of mining. You see the Professor here is an educated man–he’s learned all the big words in the dictionary, and he’s learned mining from reading Government reports. We’re quite proud of his achievements as a mining engineer, but you ought to see that tunnel. It starts into the hill, takes a couple of corkscrew twists and busts right out into the sunshine.”
“Oh, never mind him!” protested the Professor as Bunker burst into a roar, “he will haf his choke, of course. But dis claim I speak of─”
“And that ain’t all his accomplishments,” broke in Bunker Hill relentlessly, “Mr. Diffenderfer is a count–a German count–sometimes known as Count No-Count. But as I was about to say, his greatest accomplishments have been along tonsorial lines.”
A line of pain appeared between the Professor’s eyes–but he stood his ground defiantly. “Yes,” went on Bunker thrusting out his jaw in a baleful leer at his rival, “for many years he has had the proud distinction of being the Champion Rough-Riding Barber of Arizona.”
“Vell, I’ve got to go,” murmured the Professor hastily, “I’ve got to find dem burros.”
He started off but at the plank across the creek he stopped and cleared his throat. “Und any time,” he began, “dat you’d like to inspect dem claims─”
“The Champeen–Rough-Riding–Barber!” repeated Old Bunk with gusto, “he won his title on the race-track at Tucson, before safety razors was invented.”
“Shut up!” snapped the Professor and, crossing the plank with waspish quickness, he went squattering off down the creek. Yet one ear was turned back and as Bunker began to speak he stopped in the trail to listen.
“He took a drunken cowboy up in the saddle before him,” went on Bunker with painful distinctness, “and gave him a close shave while the horse was bucking, only cutting his throat three times.”
“You’re a liar!” yelled the Professor and, stamping his foot, he hustled vengefully off down the trail.
“Say, who is that old boy?” enquired Big Boy curiously, “he might know where I’d find that gold.”
“Who–him?” jeered Bunker, “why, that old stiff wouldn’t know a chunk of gold if he saw it. All he does is to snoop around and watch what I’m doing, and if he ever thinks that I’ve picked up a live one he butts in and tries to underbid me. Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll get you a horse and show you all over the district, and any claim I’ve got that you want to go to work on, you can have for five hundred dollars. Now, that’s reasonable, ain’t it? And yet, the way things are going, I’m glad to let you in on it. If you strike something big, here I’ve got my store and mine, and plenty of other claims, to boot; and if there’s a rush I stand to make a clean-up on some of my other properties. So come up to the house and meet my wife and daughter, and we’ll try to make you comfortable. But that old feller─”
“Nope,” said Big Boy, “I think I’d rather camp–who lives in those cave-houses up there?”
He jerked his head at some walled-up caves in the bluff not far across the creek and Old Bunk scowled reproachfully.
“Oh, nobody,” he said, “except the rattle-snakes and pack-rats. Why don’t you come up to the house?”
“I don’t need to go to your house,” returned Big Boy defiantly. “I’ve got money to buy what I need.”
“Yes, but come up anyway and meet my wife and daughter. Drusilla is a musician–she’s studied in Boston at the celebrated Conservatory of Music─”
“I’ve got me a phonograph,” answered Big Boy shortly, “if I can ever get it over here from Globe.”
“Well, go ahead and get it, then,” said Bunker Hill tartly, “they’s nobody keeping you, I’m sure.”
“No, and you bet your life there won’t be,” came back Big Boy, starting off, “I’m playing a lone hand to win.”
CHAPTER VI
THE ORACULUM
The palpitating heat lay like a shimmering fleece over the deserted camp of Pinal and Denver Russell, returning from Globe, beheld it as one in a dream. Somewhere within the shadow of Apache Leap were two treasures that he was destined to find, one of gold and one of silver; and if he chose wisely between them they were both to be his. And if he chose unwisely, or tried to hold them both, then both would be lost and he would suffer humiliation and shame. Yet he came back boldly, fresh from a visit with Mother Trigedgo who had blessed him and called him her son. She had wept when they parted, for her burdens had been heavy and his gift had lightened her lot; but though she wished him well she could not control his fate, for that lay with the powers above. Nor could she conceal from him the portion of evil which was balanced against the good.
“Courage and constancy will attend you through life’” she had written in her old-country scrawl; “but in the end will prove your undoing, for you will meet your death at the hands of your dearest friend.”
That was the doom that hung over him like a hair-suspended sword–to be killed by his dearest friend–and as he paused at the mouth of Queen Creek Canyon he wished that his fortune had not been told. Of what good to him would be the two hidden treasures–or even the beautiful young artist with whom he was destined to fall in love–if his life might be cut off at any moment by some man that he counted his friend? When his death should befall, Mother Trigedgo had not told, for the signs had been obscure; but when it did come it would be by the hand of the man that he called his best friend. A swift surge of resistance came over him again as he gazed at the promised land and he shut his teeth down fiercely. He would have no friends, no best of friends, but all men that he met he would treat the same and so evade the harsh hand of fate. Forewarned was forearmed, he would have no more pardners such as men pick up in rambling around; but in this as in all else he would play a lone hand and so postpone the evil day.
He strode on down the trail into the silent town where the houses stood roofless and bare, and as he glanced at the ancient gallows-frame above the abandoned mine fresh courage came into his heart. This city of the dead should come back to life if what the stars said was true; and the long rows of adobes now stripped of windows and doors, would awaken to the tramp of miners’ boots. He would find two treasures and, if he chose well between them, both the silver and the gold would be his. But neither wily Bunker Hill nor the palavering Professor should pull him this way or that; for Mother Trigedgo had given him a book, to consult on all important occasions. It was Napoleon’s Oraculum, or Book of Fate; and as Denver had glanced at the key–with its thirty-two questions covering every important event in human life–a thrill of security had passed over him. With this mysterious Oraculum, the Man of Destiny had solved the many problems of his life; and in question thirteen, that sinister number, was a test that would serve Denver well:
“Will the FRIEND I most reckon upon prove faithful or treacherous?”
How many times must that great, aloof man have put some friend’s loyalty to the test; and if the answer was in the negative how often had he avoided death by foreknowledge of impending treachery! Yet such friends as he had retained had all proved loyal, his generals had been devoted to his cause; and with the aid of his Oraculum he had conquered all his enemies–until at last the Book of Fate had been lost. At the battle of Leipsic, in the confusion of the retreat, his precious Dream Book had been left behind. Kings and Emperors had used it since, and seeresses as well; and now, after the lapse of a hundred years, it was published in quaint cover and lettering, for the guidance of all and sundry. And Old Mother Trigedgo, coming all the way from Cornwall, had placed the Book of Fate in his hands! There was destiny in everything, and this woman who had saved his life could save it again with her Oraculum.
Denver turned to the Mexican who, with two heavily-packed mules, stood patiently awaiting his pleasure; and with a brief nod of the head he strode down the trail while the mules minced along behind him. Past the old, worked-out mine, past the melted-down walls of abandoned adobe ruins, he led on to the store and the cool, darkened house which sheltered the family of Andrew Hill; but even here he did not stop, though Old Bunk beckoned him in. His life, which had once been as other people’s lives, had been touched by the hand of fate; and gayeties and good cheer, along with friendship and love, had been banished to the limbo of lost dreams. So he turned across the creek and led the way to the cave that was destined to be his home.
It was an ancient cavern beneath the rim of a low cliff which overlooked the town and as Denver was helping to unlash the packs Bunker Hill came toiling up the trail.
“Got back, hey?” he greeted stepping into the smoke-blackened cave and gazing dubiously about, “well, it’ll be cool inside here, anyway.”
“Yes, that’s what I figured on,” responded Denver briefly, and as he cleaned out the rats’ nests and began to make camp Old Bunk sat down in the doorway and began a new cycle of stories.
“This here cave,” he observed, “used to be occupied by the cliff-dwellers–them’s their hand-marks, up on the wall; and then I reckon the Apaches moved in, and after them the soldiers; but when the Lost Burro began turning out the ore, I’ll bet it was crowded like a bar-room. Them was the days, I’m telling you–you couldn’t walk the street for miners out spending their money–and a cliff-house like this with a good, tight roof, would bring in a hundred dollars a night, any time that it happened to rain. All them melted-down adobes was plumb full of people, the saloons were running full blast, and the miner that couldn’t steal ten dollars a day had no business working underground. They took out chunks of native silver as big as your head, and it all ran a thousand ounces to the ton, but even at that them worthless mule-skinners was throwing pure silver at their teams. They had mounted guards to ride along with the wagons and keep them from stealing the ore, but you can pick up chunks yet where them teamsters threw them off and never went back to find ’em.
“Did you ever hear how the Lost Burro was found? Well, the name, of course, tells the story. If one of these prospectors goes out to find his burros he runs across a mine; and if he goes out the next day to look for another mine he runs across his burros. The most of them are like the old Professor down here, they wouldn’t know mineral if they saw it; but of course when they grab up a chunk of pure silver and start to throw it at a jackass they can’t help taking notice. Well, that’s the way this mine was found. A prospector that was camping here went up on that little hill to rock his old burro back to camp and right on top he found a piece of silver that was so pure you could cut it with your knife. That guy was honest, he gave the credit to his burro, and, if the truth was known, half the mines in the west would be named after some knot-headed jackass. That’s how much intellect it takes to be a prospector.”
“No, I’ll tell you what’s the matter with these prospectors,” returned Denver with a miner’s scorn, “they do everything in the world but dig. They’ll hike, and hunt burros and go out across the desert; but anything that calls for a few taps of work they’ll pass it right up, every time. And I’ll tell you, old-timer, all the mines on top of ground have been located long ago. That’s why you hear so much about ‘Swede luck’ these days–the Swede ain’t too lazy to sink.
“That’s my motto–sink! Get down to bed-rock and see what there is on the bottom; but these danged prospectors just hang around the water-holes and play pedro until they eat up their grub-stakes.”
“Heh, heh; that’s right,” responded Bunker reminiscently, “say, did you ever hear of old Abe Berg? He used to keep a store down below in Moroni; and there was one of these old prospectors that made a living that way, used to touch him up regular for a grub-stake. Old Abe was about as easy as Bible-Back Murray when you showed him a rich piece of ore and after this prospector had et up all his grub he’d drift back to town for more. But on the way in, like all of them fellers, he’d stop at some real good mine; and after he’d stole a few chunks of high-grade ore he’d take it along to show to Abe. But after a while Old Abe got suspicious–he didn’t fall for them big stories any more–and at last he began to enquire just where this bonanza was, that the prospector was reporting on so favorable. Well, the feller told him and Abe he scratched his head and enquired the name of the mine.
“‘Why, I call it the Juniper,’ says the old prospector kind of innocent; and Abe he jumped right up in the air.
“‘Vell, dat’s all right,’ he yells, tapping himself on the chest, ‘but here’s one Jew, I betcher, dat you von’t nip again!’ Get the point–he thought the old prospector was making a joke of it and calling his mine the Jew-Nipper!”
“Yeah, I’m hep,” replied Russell, “say who is this feller that you call Bible-Back Murray–has he got any claims around here?”
“Claims!” repeated Bunker, “well, I guess he has. He’s got a hundred if I’ve got one–this whole upper district is located.”
“What–this whole country?” exclaimed Denver in sudden dismay, “the whole range of hills–all that lays in the shadow of the Leap?”
“Jest about,” admitted Bunker, “but as I told you before, you can have any of mine for five hundred.”
“Oh hell,” burst out Denver and then he roused up and a challenge crept into his voice. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that he’s kept up his assessment work? Has he done a hundred dollars worth of work on every claim? No, you know danged well he hasn’t–you’ve just been doing lead-pencil work.”
“That’s all right,” returned Bunker, “we’ve got a gentlemen’s agreement to respect each others monuments; and you’ll find our sworn statements that the work has been done on file with the County Recorder.”
“Yes, and now I know,” grumbled Russell rebelliously, “why the whole danged district is dead. You and Murray and this old Dutchman have located all the ground and you’re none of you doing any work. But when a miner like me blows into the camp and wants to prospect around he’s stuck for five hundred dollars. How’m I going to buy my powder and a little grub and steel if I give up my roll at the start? No, I’ll look this country over and if I find what I want─”
“You’ll pay for it, young man,” put in Bunker Hill pointedly, “that is, if it belongs to me.”
“Well, I will if it’s worth it,” answered Russell grudgingly, “but you’ve got to show me your title.”
“Sure I will,” agreed Bunker, “the best title a man can have–continuous and undisputed possession. I’ve been here fifteen years and I’ve never had a claim jumped yet.”
“Who’s this Bible-Back Murray?” demanded Denver, “has he got a clean title to his ground?”
“You bet he has,” replied Bunker Hill, “and he’s got my name as a witness that his yearly assessment work’s been done.”
“And you, I suppose,” suggested Denver sarcastically, “have got his name, as an affidavit man, to prove that your work has been done. And when I look around I’ll bet there ain’t a hole anywhere that’s been sunk in the last two years.”
“Yes there is!” contradicted Bunker, “you go right up that wash that comes down from them north hills and you’ll find one that’s down twelve hundred feet. And there’s a diamond drill outfit sinking twenty feet a day, and has been for the last six months. At five dollars a foot–that’s the contract price–Old Bible-Back is paying a hundred dollars a day. Now–how many days will that drill have to run to do the annual work? No, you’re all right, young man, and I like your nerve, but you don’t want to take too much for granted.”
“Judas priest!” exclaimed Russell, “twelve hundred feet deep? What does the old boy think he’s got?”
“He’s drilling for copper,” nodded Bunker significantly, “and for all you and I know, he’s got it. He’s got an armed guard in charge of that drill, and no outsider has been allowed anywhere near it for going on to six months. The cores are all stored away in boxes where nobodv can get their hands on them and the way old Bible-Back is sweating blood I reckon they’re close to the ore. But a hundred dollars a day–say, the way things are now that’ll make or break old Murray. He’s been blowing in money for ten or twelve years trying to develop his silver properties; but now he’s crazy as a bed-bug over copper–can’t talk about anything else.”
“Is that so?” murmured Denver and as he went about his work his brain began to seethe and whirl. Here was something he had not known of, an element of chance which might ruin all his plans; for if the diamond drill broke into rich copper ore his chance at the two treasures would be lost. There would be a big rush and the price of claims would soar to thousands of dollars. The country looked well for copper, with its heavy cap of dacite and the manganese filling in the veins; and it was only a day’s journey in each direction from the big copper camps of Ray and Globe. He turned impulsively and reached for his purse, but as he was about to plank down his five hundred dollars in advance he remembered Mother Trigedgo’s words.
“Choose well between the two and both shall be yours. But if you choose unwisely, then both will be lost and you will suffer humiliation and shame.”
“Say,” blurted out Denver, “your claims are all silver–haven’t you got a gold prospect anywhere?”
“No, I haven’t,” answered Old Bunk, his eye on the bank-roll, “but I’ll accept a deposit on that offer. Any claim I’ve got–except the Lost Burro itself–for five hundred dollars, cash.”
“How long is that good for?” enquired Russell cautiously and Bunker slapped his leg for action.
“It’s good for right now,” he said, “and not a minute after!”
“But I’ve got to look around,” pleaded Denver desperately, “I’ve got to find both these treasures–one of silver and one of gold–and make my choice between them.”
“Well, that’s your business,” said Bunker rising up abruptly. “Will you take that offer or not?”
“No,” replied Denver, putting up his purse and Old Bunk glanced at him shrewdly.
“Well, I’ll give you a week on it,” he said, smiling grimly, and stood up to look down the trail. Denver looked out after him and there, puffing up the slope, came Professor Diffenderfer, the eminent buttinsky and geologist.
CHAPTER VII
THE EMINENT BUTTINSKY
That there was no love lost between Bunker Hill and Professor Diffenderfer was evident by their curt greetings, but as they began to bandy words Denver became suddenly aware that he was the cause of their feud. He and his eight hundred dollars, a sum so small that a shoestring promoter would hardly notice it; and yet these two men with their superfluity of claims were fighting for his favor like pawn-brokers. Bunker Hill had seen him first and claimed him as his right; but Professor Diffenderfer, ignoring the ethics of the game, was out to make a sale anyway. He carried in one hand a large sack of specimens, and under his arm were some weighty tomes which turned out to be Government reports. He came up slowly, panting and sweating in the heat, and when he stepped in Bunk was waiting for him.
“O-ho,” he said, “here comes the Professor. The only German count that ever gave up his title to become an American barber. Well, Professor, you’re just the man I’m looking for–I want to ask your professional opinion. If two white-bellied mice ran down the same hole would the one with the shortest tail get down first?”
The Professor staggered in and sat down heavily while he wiped the sweat from his eyes.
“Mr. Russell,” he began, ignoring the grinning Bunker, “I vant to expound to you the cheology of dis country–I haf made it a lifelong study.”
“Yes, you want to get this,” put in Bunker sotto voce, “he knows every big word in them books.”
“I claim,” went on the Professor, slapping the books together vehemently, “I claim dat in dis district we haf every indication of a gigantic deposit of copper. The morphological conditions, such as we see about us everywhere, are distinctly favorable to metalliferous deposition; and the genetic influences which haf taken place later─”
“Well, he’s off,” sighed Bunker rising wearily up and ambling over towards the door, “so long, Big Boy, I’ll see you to-morrow. Never could understand broken English.”
“Dat’s all righd!” spat back the Professor with spiteful emphasis, “I’m addressing my remarks to dis chentleman!”
“Ah–so!” mimicked Bunker. “Vell, shoodt id indo him! And say, tell him about that tunnel! Tell him how you went in until the air got bad and came out up the hill like a gopher. Took a double circumbendibus and, after describing a parabola─”
“Dat’s all righd!” repeated the Professor, “now–you think you’re so smart–I’m going to prove you a liar! I heard you the other day tell dis young man here dat dere vas no golt in dis district. Vell! All righd! We vill see now–joost look! Vat you call dat now, my goot young friend?” He dumped out the contents of his canvas ore-sack and nodded to Denver triumphantly. “I suppose dat aindt golt, eh! Maybe I try to take advantage of you and show you what dey call fools gold–what mineralogists call pyrites of iron? No? It aindt dat? Vell, let me ask you vun question den–am I righd or am I wrong?”
“You’re right, old man,” returned Denver eagerly as he held a specimen to the light; and when he looked up Bunker Hill was gone.
“You see?” leered the Professor jerking his thumb towards the door, “dot man vas trying to do you. He don’t like to haf me show you dis golt. He vants you to believe dat here is only silver; but I am a cheologist–I know!”
“Yes, this is gold,” admitted Denver, wetting the thin strip of quartz, “but it don’t look like much of a vein. Whereabouts did you get these specimens?”
“From a claim dat I haf, not a mile south of here,” burst out the Professor in great excitement; and while Denver listened in stunned amazement he went into an involved and sadly garbled exposition of the geological history of the district.
“Yes, sure,” broke in Denver when he came to a pause, “I’ll take your word for all that. What I want to know is where this claim is located. If its inside the shadow of Apache Leap, I’ll go down and take a look at it; but─”
“But vat has the shadow of the mountain to do with it?” inquired the Professor with ponderous dignity. “The formation, as I vas telling you, is highly favorable to an extensive auriferous deposit─”
“Aw, can the big words,” broke in Denver impatiently, “I don’t give a dang for geology. What I’m looking for is a mine, in the shadow of that big cliff, and─”
“Ah, ah! Yes, I see!” exclaimed the Professor delightedly, “it must conform to the vords of the prophecy! Yes, my mine is in the shadow of Apache Leap, where the Indians yumped over and were killed.”
“Well, I’ll look at it,” responded Denver coldly, “but who told you about that prophecy? It kinder looks to me as if─”
“Oh, vell,” apologized the Professor, “I vas joost going by and I couldn’t help but listen. Because dis Bunker Hill, he is alvays spreading talk dat I am not a cheologist. But him, now; him! Do you know who he is? He is nothing but an ignorant cowman. Ven dis mine vas closed down I vas for some years the care-taker, vat you call the custodian of the plant; and dis Bunker Hill, ven I happened to go avay, he come and take the job. I am a consulting cheologist and my services are very valuable, but he took the job for fifty dollars a month and came here to run his cattle. For eight or ten years he lived right in dat house and took all dat money for nothing; and den, when the Company can’t pay him no more, he takes over the property on a lien. Dat fine, valuable mine, one of the richest in the vorld, and vot you think he done with it? He and Mike McGraw, dat hauls up his freight, dey tore it all down for junk! All dat fine machinery, all dem copper plates, all the vater-pipe, the vindows and doors–they tore down everything and hauled it down to Moroni, vere they sold it for nothing to Murray!