Silver and Gold

by Coolidge, Dane

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

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

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

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

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

  “I’ll be up there, trying,” returned Owen grimly and Denver nodded to the coach.

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

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

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

  “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, P
aris 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 l
ocked, 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.