CHAPTER XI
THE LADY OF THE SYCAMORES
A weight like that of Pelion and Ossa seemed lifted from Denver'sshoulders as he hurried down from Apache Leap and, with his wallet inhis hip pocket, he strode straight to Bunker's house. The eagle hadchosen for him, and chosen right, and the last of his troubles was over.There was nothing to do now but buy the claim and make it into amine--and that was the easiest thing he did. Pulling ground was hisspecialty--with a good man to help he could break his six feet aday--and now that the choice had been made between the treasures he wastingling to get to work.
"Here's your money," he said as soon as Bunker appeared, "and I'd liketo order some powder and steel. Just write me out a quit-claim for thatground."
"Well, well," beamed Bunker pushing up his reading glasses and countingover the roll of bills, "this will make quite a stake for Drusilla. Comein, Mr. Russell, come in!"
He held the door open and Denver entered, blinking his eyes as he camein from the glare. The room was a large one, with a grand piano at oneend and music and books strewn about; and as Bunker Hill shouted for hiswife and daughter Denver stared about in astonishment. From the outsidethe house was like any other, except that it was covered with vines; buthere within it was startling in its elegance, fitted up with everyluxury. There was a fireplace with bronze andirons, massive furniture,expensive rugs; and the walls were lined with stands and book-shelvesthat overflowed with treasures.
"Oh Drusilla!" thundered Bunker and at last she came running, boundingin through the garden door. She was attired in a filmy robe, caught upfor dancing, and her feet were in Grecian sandals; and at sight ofDenver she drew back a step, then stood firm and glanced at her father.
"Here's that five hundred dollars," said Bunker briefly and put the rollin her hand.
"Oh--did you sell it?" she demanded in dismay "did you sell that NumberOne claim?"
"You bet I did," answered her father grimly, "so take your money andbeat it."
"But I told you not to!" she went on reproachfully, ignoring Denverentirely. "I told you not to sell it!"
"That's all right," grumbled Bunker, "you're going to get your chance,if it takes the last cow in the barn. I know you've got it in you to bea great singer--and this'll take you back to New York."
"Well, all right," she responded tremulously, "I did want just one morechance. But if I don't succeed I'm going to teach school and pay everydollar of this back."
She turned and disappeared out the garden door and Bunker Hill reachedfor his hat.
"Come on over to the store," he said and Denver followed in a daze. Shewas not like any woman he had ever dreamed of, nor was she the woman hehad thought. In the night, when she was singing, she had seemed slenderand ethereal with her swan's neck and piled up hair; but now she wasdifferent, a glorious human animal, strong and supple yet with the linesof a girl. And her eyes were still the eyes of a child, big and roundand innocently blue.
"Here comes the Professor," muttered Bunker gloomily, as he unlocked theheavy door, "he's hep, I reckon, the way he walks."
The Professor was waddling with his queer, duck-like steps down themiddle of the deserted street and every movement of his gunboat feet waseloquent of offended dignity.
"Vell," he began as he burst into the store and stopped in front ofDenver, "I vant an answer, right avay, on dat property I showed you theudder day. I joost got a letter from a chentleman in Moroni inquiringabout an option on dat claim and----"
"You can give it to him," cut in Denver, "I've just closed with Mr. Hillfor that Number One claim up the crick."
"So!" exploded the Professor, "vell, I vish you vell of it!" And heflung violently out the door.
"Takes it hard," observed Bunker, "never was a good loser. You want towatch out for him, now--he's going over to report to Murray."
"So that's the combination," nodded Denver. "I was over there yesterdayand Murray knew all about me--gave me a tip not to buy this property."
"Danged right he's working for him," returned Old Bunk grimly. "He runsto him with everything he hears. It's a wonder I haven't killed thatlittle tub of wienies--he crabs every trade I start to make. What's thematter with Old Bible-Back now?"
"Oh, nothing," answered Denver, "but if it's all the same to you I'dlike to just locate that ground. Then I'll do my discovery work and ifthere ever comes up a question I'll have your quit-claim to boot."
"Suit yourself," growled Bunker, "but I want to tell you right now I'vegot a perfect title to that property. I've held it continuously forfifteen years and----"
"Give me a quit-claim then; because Murray questions your title and Idon't want to take any chances. He says you haven't kept up your work."
"He does, hey!" challenged Bunker thrusting out his jaw belligerently,"well, I'd like to see somebody jump me. I'm living on my property, andpossessory title is the very best title there is. By grab, if I thoughtthat Mormon-faced old devil was thinking of jumping my ground----" Hewent off into uneasy mutterings and wrote out the quit-claim absently;then they went up together and, after going over the lines, Denverrelocated the mine and named it the Silver Treasure.
"Think you guessed right, do you?" inquired Bunker with a grin. "Well, Ihope you make a million. And if you do you'll never hear no kick fromme--you've bought it and paid my price."
"Fair enough!" exclaimed Denver and shook hands on the trade, afterwhich he bought some second-hand tools and went to work on a trail. Nota hundred feet down-stream from where the vein cropped out, the maintrail crossed to the east side of the creek, leaving the mine on theside of a steep hill. A few days' work, while he was waiting for hispowder, would clear out the worst of the cactus and catclaws and givehim free access to his hole. Then he could clean out the open cut, setup a little forge and prepare for the driving of his tunnel. The sun wasblazing hot, not a breath of wind was stirring and the sweat splashedthe rocks as he toiled; but there was a song in Denver's heart that madehis labors light and he hummed the "Barcarolle" as he worked. She wasscornful of him now and thought only of her music; but the time wouldcome when she would know him as her equal, for a miner can be an artist,too. And at swinging a double-jack or driving uppers Denver Russell wasas good as any man. He worked for the joy of it and took pride in hiscraft--and that marks the true artist everywhere.
Yet now that his sale had been consummated and he had the money heneeded, Bunker Hill suddenly lost all interest in Denver and retiredinto his shell. He had invited Denver once to come down to his house andshare the hospitality of his home; but, after Denver's brusque, almostbrutal refusal, Old Bunk had never been the same. He had shown Denverhis claim and stated the price and told a few stories on the side, buthe had shown in many ways that his pride had been hurt and that he didnot fully approve. This was made the more evident by the careful way inwhich he avoided introducing his wife; and it became apparent beyond adoubt in that tense ecstatic minute when Drusilla had come in from thegarden.
Then, if ever, was the moment when Denver should have been introduced;but Bunker had pointedly neglected the opportunity and left him still astranger. And all as a reward for his foolish words and his refusal ofwell-meaning hospitality. Denver realized it now, but his pride wastouched and he refrained from all further advances. If he was not goodenough to know Old Bunker's family he was not good enough to associatewith him; and so for three days he lived without society, for theProfessor, too, was estranged. He passed Denver now with eyes fixedstraight ahead, refusing even to recognize his presence; and, cut offfor the time from all human intercourse, Denver turned at last to hisphonograph.
The stars had come out in the velvety black sky, the hot stillness ofevening had come, and from the valley below no sound came up but theeerie, _eh_, _eh_, _eh_, of tree toads. They were sittingby the stream and in cracks among the rocks, puffing out their pouchedthroats like toy balloons and raising, a shrill, haunting chorus. Theirthin voices intermingled in an insistent, unearthly refrain as if thespirits of the dead had come again t
o gibber by the pool. Even thescales and trills of Drusilla had ceased, so hot and close was thenight.
Denver set up his phonograph with its scrollwork front and patent filingcases and looked over the records which he had bought at great expensewhile the other boys were buying jazz. He was proud of them all but theone he valued most he reserved for another time. It was the "Barcarolle"from "Les Contes D' Hoffmann," sung by Farrar and Scotti, and he put oninstead a tenor solo that had cost him three dollars in Globe. Then aviolin solo, "Tambourin Chinois," by some man with a foreign name; andat last the record that he liked the best, the "Cradle Song," bySchumann-Heink. And as he played it again he saw Drusilla come out andstand in the doorway, listening.
It was a beautiful song, very sweet, very tender, and sung with thefeeling of an artist; yet something about it seemed to displeaseDrusilla, for she turned and went into the house. Perhaps, hearing thesong, she was reminded of the singers, stepping forward in a blare oftrumpets to meet the applause of vast audiences; or perhaps again shefelt the difference between her efforts and theirs; but all the nextday, when she should have been practicing, Drusilla was strangelysilent. Denver paused in his work from time to time as he listened forthe familiar roulades, then he swung his heavy sledge as if it were afeather-weight and beat out the measured song of steel on steel. Hepicked and shoveled, tearing down from above and building up the trailbelow; and as he worked he whistled the "Cradle Song," which was runningthrough his brain. But as he swung the sledge again he was conscious ofa presence, of someone watching from the sycamores; and, glancing downquickly he surprised Drusilla, looking up from among the trees. She methis eyes frankly but he turned away, for he remembered what the seeresshad told him. So he went about his work and when he looked again hislady of the sycamores had fled.
Silver and Gold: A Story of Luck and Love in a Western Mining Camp Page 11