The Man from the Bitter Roots

by Caroline Lockhart

  XI

  THE GHOST AT THE BANQUET

  T. Victor Sprudell's dinner guests were soon to arrive, and Mr.Sprudell's pearl gray spats were twinkling up and down the corridor ofBartlesville's best hotel, and back and forth between the privatedining-room and the Room of Mystery adjoining, where mechanics ofvarious kinds had been busy under his direction, for some days.

  But now, so far as he could see, everything was in perfect working orderand he had only to sit back and enjoy his triumph and receivecongratulations; for once more Mr. Sprudell had demonstrated hisversatile genius!

  The invited guests came, all of them--a few because they wanted to, andthe rest because they were afraid to stay away. Old Man "Gid" Rathburn,who cherished for Sprudell the same warm feeling of regard that he hadfor a rattlesnake, occupied the seat of honor, while John Z. Willetts, alocal financier, whose closet contained a skeleton that Sprudell byindustrious sleuthing had managed to unearth, was placed at his host'sleft to enjoy himself as best he could. Adolph Gotts, who had thecontract for the city paving and hoped to renew it, was present for thesole purpose, as he stated privately, of keeping the human catamount offhis back. Others in the merry party were Abram Cone and Y. Fred Smart.

  The dinner was the most elaborate the chef had been able to devise, thedomestic champagne was as free as the air, and Mr. Sprudell, stimulatedby the presence of the moneyed men of Bartlesville and his privateknowledge of the importance of the occasion, was keyed up to his best.Genial, beaming, he quoted freely from his French and Latin phrase-bookand at every turn of the conversation was ready with appropriateverse--his own, mostly.

  This was Mr. Sprudell's only essay at promoting, but he knew how it wasdone. A good dinner, wine, cigars; and he had gone the ingenious guildof money-raisers one better by an actual, uncontrovertible demonstrationof the safety and value of his scheme.

  His personal friends already had an outline of the proposition, with thepromise that they should hear more, and now, after a dash through"Spurr's Geology Applied to Mining," he was prepared to tell them allthat their restricted intelligences could comprehend.

  When the right moment arrived, Mr. Sprudell arose impressively. In anattentive silence, he gave an instructive sketch of the history ofgold-mining, beginning with the plundering expeditions of Darius andAlexander, touching lightly on the mines of Iberia which the Romanwrestled from the Carthagenians, and not forgetting, of course, theconquest of Mexico and Peru inspired by the desire for gold.

  When his guests were properly impressed by the wide range of hisreading, he skillfully brought the subject down to modern mines andmethods, and at last to his own incredible good fortune, after hardshipsof which perhaps they already had heard, in securing one hundred andsixty acres of valuable placer-ground in the heart of a wild andunexplored country--a country so dangerous and inaccessible that hedoubted very much if it had ever been trod by any white foot beside hisown and old "Bill" Griswold's.

  The climax came when he dramatically announced his intention of making astock company of his acquisition and permitting Bartlesville's leadingcitizens to subscribe!

  Mr. Sprudell's guests received the news of the privilege which was to beaccorded them in an unenthusiastic silence. In fact his unselfishkindness seemed to inspire uneasiness rather than gratitude inBartlesville's leading citizens. They could bring themselves to swallowhis dinners, but to be coerced into buying his mining stock was adecidedly bitter dose.

  Well-meaning but tactless, Abe Cone expressed the general feeling, whenhe observed:

  "I been stung once, already, and I ain't lookin' for it again."

  To everyone's surprise Abe got off unscathed. In fact Mr. Sprudelllaughed good-naturedly.

  "Stung, Abe--that's the word. And why?" He answered himself. "Becauseyou were investing in something you did not understand."

  "It _looked_ all right," Abe defended. "You could see the gold stickin'out all over the rock, but I was 'salted' so bad I never got enough todrink since. I don't understand this placer-mining either, when it comesto that."

  Adolph Gotts, who had been a butcher, specializing in sausage, before hebecame a city contractor, was about to say the same thing, when Sprudellinterrupted triumphantly:

  "Ah, but you will before I'm done." It was the moment for which he hadwaited. "Follow me, gentlemen."

  He threw open the door of the adjoining room with a wide gesture, hisface radiant with elation.

  The company stared, and well it might, for at a signal a miniatureplacer mine started operation.

  The hotel porter shovelled imported sand into a sluice-box through whicha stream of water ran and at the end was the gold-saving device inventedby Mr. Sprudell which was to revolutionize placer-mining!

  The sand contained the gold-dust that represented half of Bruce'slaborious summer's working and when Sprudell finally removed his coatand cleaned up the sluice boxes and the gold-saving machine, the residueleft in the gold-pan was enough to give even a "'49'er" heart failure.

  His triumph was complete. There was a note of awe even in Old Man "Gid"Rathburn's voice, while Abe Cone fairly grovelled as he inquired:

  "Is it all like that? Where does it come from? How did it git into thatdirt?"

  Mr. Sprudell removed his eyeglasses with great deliberation and pursedhis lips:

  "In my opinion," he said weightily--he might have been an eminentgeologist giving his opinion of the conglomerate of the Rand banket, orAgricola elucidating his theory of vein formation--"in my opinion thegold found in this deposit was derived from the disintegration ofgold-bearing rocks and veins in the mountains above. Chemical andmechanical processes are constantly freeing the gold from the rocks withwhich it is associated and wind and water carry it to lower levels,where, as in this instance, it concentrates and forms what we callplacers."

  Mr. Sprudell spoke so slowly and chose his words with such care that thecompany received the impression that this theory of placer deposit washis own and in spite of their personal prejudice their admiration grew.

  "As undoubtedly you know," continued Mr. Sprudell, tapping his glassesjudicially upon the edge of the sluice-box, "the richest gold in allalluvial deposits--"

  "What is an alluvial deposit?" inquired Abe Cone, eagerly.

  Mr. Sprudell looked hard at Abram but did not answer, one reason beingthat he wished to rebuke the interruption, and another that he did notknow. He reiterated: "The richest gold in all alluvial deposits is foundupon bed-rock. This placer, gentlemen, is no exception and while it ispay-dirt from the grass roots and the intermediate sand and gravelabundantly rich to justify their exploitation by Capital, it is uponbed-rock that will be uncovered a fortune to dazzle the mind of man!

  "Like myself, you are practical men--you want facts and figures, andwhen you invest your money you want to be more than reasonably sure ofits return. Gentlemen, I have in the hands of a printer a prospectusgiving the values of the ground per cubic yard, and from this data Ihave conservatively, very conservatively, calculated the profits whichwe might reasonably anticipate. You will be startled, amazed, bewilderedby the magnitude of the returns upon the investment which I am givingyou the opportunity to make.

  "I shall say no more at present, gentlemen, but when my prospectus isoff the press I shall place it in your hands--"

  "Gemman to see you, suh."

  "I'm engaged."

  "Said it was important." The bell boy lingered.

  Sprudell frowned.

  "Did he give no name?"

  "Yes, suh; he said to tell you Burt--Bruce Burt."

  Sprudell grew a curious, chalky white and stood quite still. He felt hiscolor going and turned quickly lest it be observed.

  Apologetically, to his guests:

  "One moment, if you please."

  He remembered that Bruce Burt had warned him that he would come back andhaunt him--he wished the corridor was one mile long.

  There was nothing of the wraith, or phantom, however, in thebroad-shouldered figure in a wide-brimmed Stets
on sitting in the officewatching Sprudell's approach with ominous intentness.

  With a fair semblance of cordiality Sprudell hastened forward withoutstretched hand.

  "I'm amazed! Astonished--"

  "I thought you would be," Bruce answered grimly, ignoring Sprudell'shand. "I came to see about that letter--what you've done."

  "Everything within my power, my friend--they're gone."

  "Gone! You could not find them?"

  "Not a trace." Sprudell looked him squarely in the eye.

  "You did your best?"

  "Yes, Burt, I did my best."

  "Well," Bruce got up slowly, "I guess I'll register." His voice andface showed his disappointment. "You live here, they said, so I'll seeyou in the morning and get the picture and the 'dust'."

  "In the morning, then. You'll excuse me now, won't you? I have a littledinner on."

  He lingered a moment to watch Bruce walk across the office and henoticed how he towered almost head and shoulders above the clerk at thedesk: and he saw also, how, in spite of his ill-fitting clothes soobviously ready-made, he commanded, without effort, the attention andconsideration for which, in his heart, Sprudell knew that he himself hadto pay and pose and scheme.

  A thought which was so strong, so like a conviction that it turned himcold, flashed into his mind as he looked. If, by any whim of Fate, HelenDunbar and Bruce Burt should ever meet, all the material advantageswhich he had to offer would not count a straw's weight with the girl hehad determined to marry.

  But such a meeting was the most remote thing possible. There were nearerbridges to be crossed, and Sprudell was anxious to be rid of his gueststhat he might think.

  When Bruce stepped out of the elevator the next morning, Sprudellgreeted him effusively and this time Bruce, though with no greatenthusiasm, took his plump, soft hand. From the first he had a feelingwhich grew stronger, as the forenoon waned, that Sprudell was "ridingherd on him," guarding him, warding off chance acquaintances. It amusedhim, when he was sure of it, for he thought that it was due toSprudell's fear lest he betray him in his role of hero, though it seemedto Bruce that short as was their acquaintance Sprudell should know himbetter than that. When he had the young man corralled in his office atthe Tool Works, he seemed distinctly relieved and his vigilance relaxed.He handed Bruce his own letter and a roll of notes, saying with a smilewhich was uncommonly gracious considering that the money was his own:

  "I suppose it won't make any difference to you that your gold-dust hastaken on a different form."

  "Why, no," Bruce answered. "It's all the same." Yet he felt a littlesurprise. "But the letter from 'Slim's' sister, and the picture--I wantthem, too."

  "I'm sorry," Sprudell frowned in perplexity, "but they've been mislaid.I can't think where I put them, to save my soul."

  "How could you misplace them?" Bruce demanded sharply. "You kept themall together, didn't you? I _wanted_ that picture."

  "It'll turn up, of course," Sprudell replied soothingly. "And when itdoes I'll get it to you by the first mail."

  Bruce did not answer--there seemed nothing more to say--but there wassomething in Sprudell's voice and eyes that was not convincing. Brucehad the feeling strongly that he was holding back the letter and thepicture, but why? What could they possibly mean to a stranger? He waswrong in his suspicions, of course, but nevertheless, he was intenselyirritated by the carelessness.

  He arose, and Sprudell did likewise.

  "You are going West from here?"

  Bruce answered shortly:

  "On the first train."

  Sprudell lowered his lids that Bruce should not see the satisfaction inhis eyes.

  "Good luck to you, and once more, congratulations on your safe return."

  Bruce reluctantly took the hand he offered, wondering why it was thatSprudell repelled him so.

  "Good-bye," he answered indifferently, as he turned to go.

  Abe Cone in his comparatively short career had done many impulsive andill-considered things but he never committed a worse _faux pas_ thanwhen he dashed unannounced into Sprudell's office, at this moment,dragging an out-of-town customer by the arm.

  "Excuse me for intrudin'," he apologized breathlessly, "but my friendhere, Mr. Herman Florsheim--shake hands with Mr. Sprudell, Herman--wantsto catch a train and he's interested in what I been tellin' him of thatplacer ground you stumbled on this fall. He's got friends in thatcountry and wanted to know just where it is. I remember you saidsomething about Ore City bein' the nearest post-office, but whatrailroad is it on? If we need any outside money, why, Herman here--"

  Bruce's hand was on the door-knob, but he lingered, ignoring the mosturgent invitation to go that he ever had seen in any face.

  "I'm busy, Abe," Sprudell said so sharply that his old friend stared."You _are_ intruding. You should have sent your name."

  Bruce closed the door which he had partially opened and came back.

  "Don't mind me," he said slowly, looking at Sprudell. "I'd like to hearabout that placer--the one you stumbled on last fall."

  "We'll come another time," Abe said, crestfallen.

  Bruce turned to him:

  "No, don't go. I've just come from Ore City and I may be able to tellyour friend something that he wants to know. Where _is_ your placerground, Sprudell?"

  Sprudell sat down in his office chair, toying with a desk-fixture, whileBruce shoved both hands in his trousers' pockets and waited for him tospeak.

  "Burt," he said finally, "I regret this unpleasantness, but the fact isyou did not comply with the law--you have never recorded and you arelocated out."

  "So you've taken advantage of the information with which I trusted youto jump my ground?" Bruce's eyes blazed into Sprudell's.

  "The heirs could not be found, you were given up for dead, and in anyevent I've not exceeded my rights."

  "You have no rights upon that ground!" Bruce answered hotly, "Mylocations were properly made in 'Slim's' name and my own. The samplingand the cabin and the tunnel count for assessment work. I had notabandoned the claim."

  "Nevertheless, my engineer informs me----"

  "Your engineer?" A light dawned.

  "Wilburt Dill--pity you did not meet him, a bright young chap--"

  "I met him," Bruce answered grimly. "I shall hope to meet him again."

  "No doubt you will," Sprudell taunted, "if you happen to be there whenwe're putting up the plant. As I was saying, Mr. Dill's telegram, whichcame last night, informs me that he has carried out my instructions, andtherefore, individually, and as the President of the Bitter Root PlacerMining Company, I now control one hundred and sixty acres of ground upand down the river, including the bar upon which your cabin stands."Sprudell's small, red mouth curved in its tantalizing smile.

  "You'll never hold it!" Bruce said furiously.

  "The days of gun-plays have gone by," Sprudell reminded him. "And youhaven't got the price to fight me in the courts. You'd better lay downbefore you start and save yourself the worry. What can you do? You haveno money, no influence, no brains to speak of," he sneered insultingly,"or you wouldn't be down there doing what you are. You haven't a singleasset but your muscle, and in the open market that's worth aboutthree-fifty a day."

  Bruce stood like a mute, the blood burning in his face. Even toward"Slim" he never had felt such choking, speechless rage as this.

  "You Judas Iscariot!" he said when he could speak. "You betrayed myhospitality--my trust. Next to a cache robber you're the meanest kind ofa thief I've ever known. I've read your story in the newspaper, and sohas the old man who saved your rotten life. We know you for the lyingbraggart that you are. You made yourself out a hero when you were aweakling and a coward.

  "You're right--you tell the truth when you twit me with the fact that Ihave no money no influence, perhaps no brains--not a single asset, asyou say, but brute strength; yet somehow, I'll beat you!" He steppedcloser and looking deep into the infantile blue eyes that had grown ashard as granite, reiterated--"_Somehow I'm going to win!
_"

  To say that Abe Cone and Mr. Herman Florsheim departed is notenough--they faded, vanished, without a sound.

  Sprudell's eyes quailed a little beneath the fierce intensity of Bruce'sgaze, but for a moment only.

  "I've heard men talk like that before." He shrugged a shoulder andlooked Bruce up and down--at his coat too tight across the chest, at hissleeves, too short for his length of arm, at his clumsy miner's shoes,as though to emphasize the gulf which lay between Bruce's condition andhis own. Then with his eyes bright with vindictiveness and his hatefulsmile of confidence upon his lips, he stood in his setting of affluenceand power waiting for Bruce to go, that he might close the door.