Old Misery/Chapter 7

OM TOBIN, beguiled into a truce on a solemn promise of a long and soul-satisfying battle later, finally consented to participate in Old Misery's scheme. His rôle was not onerous and consisted of keeping Pretty Soon Jim away from Grass Valley until the mountain man advised to the contrary. Having signed the pact with a drink, Old Misery made a hurried trip to his camp in the hidden hollow.

Old Miguel came from his darkened doorway, bowed low and gave respectful greetings to Senor Comandante. Bill Williams lumbered forth for a chew of tobacco. The cubs, seemingly grown much during their master's brief absence, were ready with a rough welcome.

“Where's the young folks?” asked Old Misery.

“The senorita is near, somewhere. The young senor went with the two miners.”

As her grandfather finished speaking the girl Maria came running from the pines and with a little cry seized Old Misery by the arm and swung back and forth.

“You young limb,” growled Old Misery as he patted her high-piled coils of blue-black hair, “how you behaved yourself since I was gone?”

She threw out both hands in a little gesture of weariness and answered:

“There is no monte. There is one man, my grandfather. There are the animals. The squirrels fight each day with El Carpentero. It is hard to do wrong up here.”

“Sounds like you was sorry and was wanting excitement. Young Yank been behaving?”

And he stared at her sharply.

She shrugged her shoulders and complained:

“He is all ice. Yankee-e Snow fills his heart. He is a mos' polite caballero. Such cold people, those Yankee—es!”

Old Misery surveyed her flushed face and lively eyes thoughtfully and muttered:

“More sense in him then I'd believed. Knew 'nough to clear out and dodge temptation.”

He dismissed her with a pat on the shapely head and walked to Gilbert's cabin.

TO Bill Williams at his side he confessed:

“You're right, Bill; it won't do to leave 'em alone too much. He may be cold-blooded, but she's all fire, and even ice will melt. The younker's medicine is from Wakantanka to make him see the danger of living alone with that young streak of scarlet in this holler. But you know, Bill, it was a case of have to. I'll take him with me next time. Got to go down the ridge for a day or two. No; you'd best stay here and look after things such as them cubs.”

In the cabin he procured a hammer and a pick and hid them in the pines up the slope. It was dark when he returned and found the girl Maria had cooked his supper. After eating he went to the cabin and found the story book that told of the three amazing Frenchmen and took it back to the fire and threw on pine cones. As he worked his way laboriously through page after page his pipe went out and he did not know it. At last his watery eyes called a halt, and he restored the book to the cabin shelf and rolled in his blankets by Bill Williams' side.

“Bill,” he sleepily confided, “I begin to like the big feller most. Young blood is all right, but luck helped him a heap. Big feller is sorter slow and thick-headed and ain't as wakan as the bookish galoot that gits writings from young women, but he's most like us humans. And stronger'n hell. But don't ever try to read it, Bill, less you find it set down in a Dakota winter-count. Damnest trail you ever see. Every t'other word is a brier or a bramble or a boulder. It's climb up and fall down. Lost my bearings a thousand times and had to guess at lots of landmarks. But I got the drift. I'd like to tell Jim Bridger that yarn. He'd swear I was as bad a liar as folks said he was when he told about his first trip to the Yallerstone Valley.”

In the morning he was up early and cooked his own breakfast. He called for Maria, and she came running, hungry for companionship.

He told her:

“I'm going up back a piece. Be gone all day. I'd take the younker along but he ain't come in. Wanter go along with me, or stay here?”

He was sure from the flashing light in her eyes that she would be for the adventure up the ridge.

She sighed and explained:

“I mus' stay. My grandfather is ver' bad in his mind. Ching-a-ling come two days ago and talked with him. Something Ching-a-ling said made him bad in his mind. Since then he spen' much time making his long knife ver' sharp.”

“That yaller breed come here again when I'm not to home and I'll heave him so far he won't strike till he hits Marysville. Be a good gal and don't bedevil the younker.”

“He is so ver' polite he would not know if one tried to bedeveel him,” she demurely replied. “You will come back, when?”

“To-night, if Tunkan, the Big Rock Medicine, helps me.”

And securing his rifle, he called to Bill Williams and entered the timber. He thrust the hammer through his belt, tied the pick on the bear's broad back and followed along the slope to the upper end of the hollow.

Soliloquizing on various problems that puzzled him, he would break off to endorse imaginary comments from the bear.

“Bill, never was a more wakan word spoke, and here's a chaw of terbacker for the same. You're dead right; human lives are just so many broken trails. They seem to start from nowhere and run wild. Seasons come roun' reg'lar 'nough. Some medicine fixes it so's seed is scattered and trees spring up, but we poor humans start from nowhere and travel blind. As you say, Bill, there must be some medicine that straightens out crooked trails and patches out broken ones till they git somewhere.”

He worked his way some distance up the ridge until he could look down on the timber flanking the slopes of Grass Hollow. He halted in a thick growth of ever greens and ate a cold lunch and fed his companion. Then for fifteen minutes he studied the country below him.

Satisfied that he had that portion of the ridge to himself, he passed through the evergreens into a narrow defile overhung with bush growth and followed it up until it opened into a cuplike depression. Surrounding this to the height of a hundred feet rose the naked walls of rock. Through it trickled a tiny stream of icy water, fringed with grass. In ages past the rivulet must have been a rushing, brawling stream, strong enough to eat a channel through the hollow. Bill Williams curled up on the warm turf and fell asleep.

Old Misery advanced toward the upper end of the depression and fell to work with his pick. He detested the task although he was working in ancient alluvial soil and encountered no obstacles. He had brought no shovel with him and was forced to paw out the loose dirt with his hands. At last he exclaimed aloud in relief and straightened to glance about. Bill Williams still slept and he knew the bear would never slumber if a two-legged intruder was near.

Working more carefully the mountain man proceeded to uncover a pocket of small nuggets, round and worn just as they had been left by the vanished torrent ages before. He put them in a bag and estimated their value at about two hundred dollars.

He was impatient to call it a day and be returning down the ridge, but with a groan decided:

“Mustn't half-do it. Ain't so hard as cracking rock for t'other parcel of dust. Got to have 'nough for a mess.”

And he resumed digging and kept at it until he found another pocket and enough of the nuggets to make the total value of his work more than five hundred dollars.

Concealing the pick at the lower end of the depression, he spoke to the bear and descended the ridge. As he entered the upper end of Grass Hollow he could hear the stentorian voice of Weymouth Mass commenting on the fortunes of gold possessed by the different ancients mentioned in sacred and profane history. His voice was that of a schoolmaster, and the mountain man could picture the small audience scattered around him. Moving along back of the cabins, he halted by the third and spied on the group. Gilbert was sprawled near the fire, the light revealing a woebegone face. The girl Maria sat behind him, pretending to be an eager listener, but with her slumbrous gaze often resting on the melancholy youth. Sailor Ben, flat on his back, was asleep. Weymouth Mass, seated cross-legged, was gesticulating with one brawny arm while the other was rolling up the long beard.

“—and that's why no mining was carried on in the whole world for two hundred years after Mohammed appeared. That proves it's mighty hard on placer-men when some one tries to cram and jam a new religion down their throats. The first man to coin gold was Darius, one of the old kings. All the way round the Horn I primed myself on the history of money till some one stole my books. Money's a good thing, young man, if you use it right. It didn't spoil Isaac, or David, or Abraham, or Job, and they was all thrifty, well-to-do folks. But if we ain't careful what we do in getting it, or what we do after we get it, it's a bad thing. So it's spoiled lots of folks. I haven't any doubt that a foolish use of money is meant by the 'harlot' mentioned in Proverbs, where it says: “She hath cast down many wounded. Yea, many strong men have been slain by it.

“Now it would be mighty bad for Sailor Ben snoring there to have all the gold he'd like to have. He'd begin a watch below decks and stay drunk till he died. Worst of all is the wicked rich. Doesn't God say of them, “Go to now, ye rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you'? Just see how love of money worked mischief to Judas and Ananias, and Achan and Gehazi. So we don't want to be like them, young man.”

Old Misery now advanced. Gilbert leaped to his feet and fairly embraced him.

After the greetings were over the mountain man seriously asked:

“Weymouth, have your medicine tell me this: Will a decent amount of gold hurt Pretty Soon Jim? I heard some of your powwow 'bout gold. And you know Jim.”

Weymouth Mass pursed his lips and pondered deeply, and finally decided:

“Jim Pipps is a most unfortunate man without gold. I can't see as it would make him any worse off to have some. He'd never use it to hurt any one but himself; and some one's sure to cheat him out of it before he went far doing that. But he never will get hold of any gold, Misery. Some folks is foreordained to get it; some ain't.”

Sailor Ben awoke with a snort and staggered to his feet to roll sleepily away to the third cabin.

Weymouth Mass rose to follow him, pausing only to inform Old Misery:

“His luck is beginning to crop out. Ain't mentioned rum only twice to-day. Led me to some dry diggings, and I panned out eight or ten colors. Not much in itself, but proves his luck is waking up. Mighty soon he'll nose out a pay streak, a fat one! Inside of a month he'll hound a vein right back to the mother-lode. But I have to watch him like a cat, or old Satan will be tempting him to quit the deck and steal down below.”

As he strode after the sailor the girl Maria rose and smoothed out her skirt and with a quizzical glance at the sober-faced Vermonter suggested:

“Senor Gilbert is one who would not be spoil' by too much gold now he says he will not gamble again.”

“No, never again!” cried Gilbert. “Old Misery, when do I begin to earn day wages and begin paying back?”

“You've been earning 'em right along,” was the prompt reply. “Stop fretting. I do that for this whole outfit. 'Cording to what Weymouth said once it took the Almighty six whole days to make this world. You oughter be willing to work a season to make up for your fool mistakes. I want you to go down the ridge with me to-morrer. Maria, you make out a grub-list. I'll take the mule and leave Bill Williams at home. We'll start early.”

“You go away; you come back; you go away,” muttered the girl. “Only Maria and her grandfather, Senor Squirreel and El Carpentero stay. Is it not? Do I never go down the ridge again and see people and hear them talk?”

Old Misery hesitated; then admitted:

“That's a good talk. You oughter see something besides this holler. My medicine tells me there ain't no danger in your taking a peek at the world below. I picked this up in Nevada City. Some sort of a show at Grass Valley. No harm in your dropping down there to see it two nights from now. Keep clear of Nevada as folks they still speak about the woman monte dealer of the El Dorado. You can make the valley late in the afternoon and come part way up the ridge after the show bu'sts up and camp.”

As he talked he pulled from his shirt a soiled handbill announcing the appearance of the “Beautiful and Famous Lola Montez as Julia in The Hunchback.”

Gilbert's steamer acquaintance Roger was cast as “Master Walter.”

“By George! I'd like to see her on the stage!” cried Gilbert. “She must be a very clever woman. You'll like her, Maria.”

“I do not theenk I care to see it or her,” the girl surprised the two men by announcing.

She ran to her cabin, and Old Misery tossed the handbill on the fire and muttered:

“I can tell what an Injun, or a bar, or a buf'ler is likely to do. But only Taku Wakan can say what a woman will do. Anyway, younker, you can see it, as Grass Valley is where I'm bound for. They've been asking 'bout a young Englisher in Nevada City, but the trail was blind. It'll be all right for you to go along with me. How long was China-a-ling here?”

Gilbert shook his head, explaining:

“I was out with Weymouth when he called. Didn't see him. One day I forgot about not being allowed be hind old Miguel's cabin, and cut through the pines. Got an awful scare. He stood there in the shadows, big hat almost hiding his face, his cloak muffled around him; and he had a long knife in his hand. I don't think he saw me, but his ears told him where I was. He never said a word; neither did I. Maria laughed at me when I told her. She scares me at times. She's the kind that would never forgive any one she got mad at.”

“Comanches 'n' gineral run of Injuns that way. Have no idee of forgiveness. Do 'em a bad turn and only blood will rub it out. Pines back of the cabin is Miguel's medicine-place. Keep clear of it. No; the gal wouldn't forgive any one she got mad at.”

He carried the thought with him as he went to the ledge to say good night to Bill Williams; and he muttered:

“She'd never forgive anybody she loves if her love wa'n't give back to her. Ruther bring up a whole tribe of panthers then one woman.”

Avoiding Nevada City, they arrived at Grass Valley late in the afternoon.

Old Misery directed:

“You take this grub-order to the store man and tell him I'll pay when I call for it. I'll take the mule to the stable. You'll prob'ly find me at Burton's Eating-House.”

Gilbert took the list, made out by Maria, and noticed it called for flour, tea, beans, saleratus powders, sugar, coffee, codfish, potatoes, dried apples and a can of molasses. After leaving it at the store he set out to find the theater before rejoining Old Misery. He would have been content with walking around the structure had he not glimpsed Phelps parting from a woman at the door. The woman was Lola Montez and as Phelps walked away Gilbert advanced to make himself known.

There was diffidence in his bearing, and he felt much embarrassed as Miss Montez stared at him haughtily and without a sign of recognition. He was attempting to find an excuse for retiring when she happened to observe that Phelps had turned and was watching her. The transformation of her cold face was quite remarkable. Warmth and welcome beamed in her wonderful eyes, and the straight, hard mouth became soft and smiling as she stretched forth both hands. The cordiality of her greeting threatened to complete the young man's gawky confusion, but when she linked her arm in his and insisted he escort her to her boarding-place he was ready to proclaim her divine.

She did the talking, chatting gaily and rapidly and recalling their meeting on the boat as something precious bestowed on them by a kindly fate. He was not in love. Too well was he remembering one of the Walker girls back home. But he was hungry for companionship and a bit of womanly sympathy. He had invited sympathy from Maria, only to draw back, fearing an outburst of her volcanic nature would consume him. But Miss Montez was less primitive. She was older and safer.

When they turned in at her boarding-place she saw Phelps still watching them; and she cooed and exclaimed nothings while Gilbert struggled with monosyllables.

Just as he was conquering his bashfulness and was eager to talk Phelps turned away, and the actress suddenly became reserved and casually inquired:

“Mr. Phelps is a very successful man, they tell me.”

“He's said to be worth a million. When I saw your name on the play-bill—”

“You must not come in. It would not be proper. Good-by.”

“But I may see you again,” he pleaded. “I'm coming to the theater to-night. At least I'll see you once more.”

She made some nice calculations. Phelps would be there. He was one who enjoyed flying near the candle, but not too near. She suspected he assumed an air of proprietorship when talking with men.

With a rare smile she patted his arm and half-promised:

“Perhaps you shall see me to talk to me. You poor boy, you are lonely. I can see that. But my work tires me much. If I'm too nervous I shall refuse to speak to you. But if I'm not whimsy I shall let you walk home with me. Now trot along before folks begin to talk.”

Marveling at having found such a friend—such a fine, handsome, attention-compelling woman—Gilbert almost swaggered as he slowly made for the eating-house. He wished the distance were greater, that he might have more time to enjoy his thoughts. Suddenly his way was barred, and, returning to earth, he beheld Phelps, the millionaire ledge man. When he last saw Phelps the man was good-natured and smiling although disappointed at not finding gold in Grass Hollow. This was a different Phelps, hard of visage and hostile of eye.

“Hold your hosses a minute, Ounce-Diggings. How do you come to know Miss Montez?” he curtly demanded.

The tone more than the question irritated the Vermonter.

“What business is that of yours?” he countered.

“Now, see here, my young greenhorn; none of that to Phelps of Grass Valley. 'Specially when you're in Grass Valley,” warned the miner.

“You've no right to ask me how I happened to know any one,” hotly returned Gilbert.

“I have every right,” insisted Phelps. “Miss Montez has just the same as said she would be my wife.”

Gilbert was nonplused. Added to his sense of shame was his sense of loss. Friendship with the charming actress was denied him. In a dull sort of a way he wondered why, if pledged to Phelps, she could have as good as promised him the pleasure of escorting her home. In Vermont engaged couples were very punctilious in their deportment. Both man and woman shut out the world on surrendering to love. Gilbert began to feel as if he had been caught trying to steal that which belonged to another. His demeanor changed from resentment to a desire to exonerate himself.

“We met at San Francisco when boarding the boat. To-day she happened to remember me. Said I might do as juvenile in her company. One of her company, Mr. Roger, introduced me to her.”

Phelps' stormy brow cleared.

“Of course. I might have known,” he murmured. “Lola is bound to have many admirers and friends.” Then with a flash of jealousy he added, “But from now on I'm keeping cases on 'em.” Apologetically he hastily went on: “I didn't just mean that. But so few women out here, good women. And so many men. Don't mention anything I've said to her. Stage folks are finicky, I dare say. Different from other folks. And you probably won't see her to speak to her again anyway. I don't mean to say I've filed my claim on her yet, but she's as good as said it's to be a partnership for life.”

“I'm not interested,” stiffly rejoined Gilbert. “We only met while traveling to Sacramento. If she's good enough to notice me I can't run away.”

“Of course not,” slowly agreed Phelps, furtively eying him. “Any time you feel like earning mighty good wages, I have a fat job for you. Not hard work, either. That's what I really stopped you to say. You're still with that queer old coot?”

“I'm with one of the best men on earth. He's called Old Misery.”

“No harm meant. Fine old man,” hurriedly agreed Phelps.

“And now I must go and find him. He came down to buy supplies,” and Gilbert hurried on.

When he turned a corner he glanced back, and there was Phelps, looking after him.

“Darned fool's jealous,” chuckled Gilbert; and somehow the thought was no longer displeasing.

Surely it was something of a compliment to have attracted the attention of such a wonderful woman as Lola Montez. Then he all but bumped into the girl Maria.

She was a day ahead of the time set by Old Misery. As he gaped at her in surprise a round spot of red glowed in each cheek and there was a peculiar fixed look in the half-closed eyes.

Before he could collect his wits and inquire how she happened to be in town a day early she was saying in a low voice:

“Senor Gilbert loses no time in running to fin' his lady-love.”

“Nonsense, Maria. I scarcely know the lady.”

“Lady? Nombre de Dios!”

And with hands on her hips she threw back her head and closed her eyes to the hot sunshine and laughed shrilly.

Suddenly sobering, she thrust her head forward and hissed:

“She is a play-acting woman. She is a living lie-e!”

The last was fairly hissed between the small white teeth.

Gilbert blinked and defended himself:

“Well, even so. What's that to me? What do I care?”

Instantly she was all smiles, and her beautiful eyes were very friendly.

“Senor Gilbert is a Yankee-e. He looks on life too sober. He theenks every one means what is said. The play-acting senorita is to marry a ver' rich man, Senor Don Phelps. Sol She marries a ver' rich mine, ver' much gold. She is not for a young Americano—who owes much gold.”

“You don't need to tell me that,” he bitterly cried. “It was your cursed monte game that took the gold. No, no, Maria. That was cowardly for me to say. No blaming the woman. I was a fool. That's all. But while I'm mighty green there's no danger of my falling in love out here.”

“Oh-o! So?” she whispered, drawing back from him. “Senor Gilbert is so ver' hard to please.”

And although the red lips remained piquantly pouting the eyes were hostile.

“Don't make me out worse than I am,” he pleaded. “How can I look any honest woman in the face after what I've done? It's impossible. I'm a ruined man.”

She smiled delightedly and softly reminded him:

“You can look a woman in the face if she is not too hones'. Is it not? Si. If a woman takes gold she did not own to her ugly grandfather she is not too hones'. What does love care about being hones'?”

His face burned hotly. He had never dreamed that a woman could take the initiative in love-making. It was not maidenly. It was abnormal. A back-home girl would die before she would advance a step prior to her lover's avowal. He was positive of that much.

“I must go and find Old Misery,” he told her. “I am keeping him waiting.”

“You are a ver' bold caballero,” she observed with a little sneer, and yet with a touch of pathos in her voice. Then very sprightly, “But luck is in your face, senor, if you be lucky in love. If not, there is danger. Adios.”

And she was flitting on through the hot sunlight and causing men to turn their heads and look after her and her red slippers and red stockings.

With his thoughts somewhat mixed and his state of mind disagreeable Gilbert entered Burton's and stared about for several moments before realizing his patron was not there. The room was practically deserted.

A large fat man behind a long counter lazily inquired:

“Lost your hat, sonny?”

Gilbert decided the inquiry was intended to be ironical, for he was wearing his hat. However, he was in no mood to resent trifles.

“I'm looking for Old Misery from up the ridge,” he explained.

The fat man came to his feet and earnestly advised him:

“Then go through the back door and run as fast as you can, or you'll find him. He's two doors below, drunker'n a blind owl and hunting for something tough to chaw on. Thank God he took a notion to quit this place. But you run toward Nevada City and you'll lose him.”

Saddened that his friend should be a victim of weakness, but feeling no fear of him, Gilbert returned to the street. Three men violently erupted through a doorway. One landed on his hands and knees and scrambled around the corner of the building without bothering to get on his feet. From inside the saloon rang out the well-known war-whoop of the mountain man on a spree. Gilbert advanced to the door and waited a moment to accustom his eyes to the shadowy interior.

Old Misery stood at the bar alone, his long knife sticking in a slab before him. He held a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. Several men seated at tables along the wall were pretending to be engrossed in card games. The bartender, rather wild of eye, was torn between a desire to quit his post and wisdom's prompting to pacify his unwelcome customer by catering to his whims. The mirrors behind the bar had cost much money.

Old Misery saw Gilbert as the latter started for the bar, and roughly demanded:

“What do you want in this den of sin?”

“You,” said Gilbert without being conscious of having spoken. Then he found himself at the old man's side, and removing the bottle and glass from his hands and plucking the knife from the bar.

He heard himself saying:

“He's had enough. What's the score?”

“Score? Good lord! Nothing! And welcome to go,” exclaimed the bartender.

“Come!” commanded Gilbert, clapping a hand on Misery's shoulder. “A little sleep will fix you all right.”

The mountain man made curious sounds in his throat, flung a small nugget on the bar and meekly permitted the young man to escort him from the place. As they took to the street the doorway behind them was filled with surprised faces.

“Lodging-house right above eating-house,” Misery informed in a muffled voice.

“Good. But you know you oughtn't to do this way. Some day, when you've had too much some one will harm you.”

The mountain man was seized with a coughing spell. After Gilbert had pounded him on the back he managed to mumble:

“You're wakantanka. Your medicine's stronger than the neck-hide of a buf'ler. Show me a bunk. I'll be all right in the morning. Mind's sorter filled with fog. Prob'ly water in some of that whisky—You come down here to go—to see—”

“I was going to the theater. I will stay with you.”

“No, siree! I'll sleep like a baby till morning. I'm saying it on a pipe.”

Postponing his decision until after he had eaten, Gilbert saw his charge tucked into a bunk and the rifle and medicine-bag checked at the small desk. Then he hurried back to the eating place for his supper. The trip was a ghastly disappointment. He was homesick for Grass Hollow; for any place except this.

He was not conscious of the fat proprietor's hovering attentions and the double portions heaped upon his plate. He was oblivious to the staring and whispering his presence seemed to excite among the other diners. Finally he was aroused by the proprietor creasing his fat stomach against the edge of the counter as he leaned forward to whisper:

“Sonny, how'n hell did you do it?”

Gilbert stared at him blankly.

The man elucidated, “Taming that old he-bear. Gitting that old hellion to bed. Bartender below told me you snaked him away. Boys spied a bit at the bunkhouse. But how'n hell did you do it?”

“I thought he had had enough, and told him so. I don't see why it should interest anybody,” Gilbert answered as he endeavored to mend his broken train of melancholy thoughts.

“Not interest anybody!” ponderously cried the proprietor, tossing up his hands helplessly. “Good lord! A man has a heaven-given gift and let's on as how it don't interest nobody! Fellers, that beats the Dutch" Then to Gilbert he eagerly offered. “Your gifts interests me to the tune of eight dollars a day. All you do is just loaf in here and hint to folks when it's time they was leaving. Eight dollars a day, your meals and bunk and washing. When any one can make that old hellion back down—”

“See here!” broke in Gilbert, beginning to realize such characterizations were unwholesome: “none of that. He's my friend.”

“I'm born dumb, sonny. You can't pick no argument with me. Your friend is a ark-angel, and nothing less. Have some more hash? Steak? Eggs? Coffee? Any thing. No charge. I owe it to you. I figger you saved me about eight hundred dollars' worth of mirrors. That old—gentleman—let on he was going to drop in here later and learn me how to run a eating-house. Wish you'd come here and live.”

Gilbert paid his score without understanding much of the talk. Nor did he try to understand it. The fat man impressed him as being drunk or crazy. That a man, starting to leave ahead of him, should skip to one side with grotesque haste and give him the right of way, impressed him fleetingly as being a bit of crude horse-play.

To kill the time he bought a New York Herald, the favorite with northern men, and then balanced his purchase with a New Orleans Delta, the first choice of southerners. Thus armed he returned to the bunkhouse and read until it was time for the theater to open. Then he tried to decide whether it would be wise to leave his patron. The proprietor, as if possessing a mind-reading gift, assured him the old man had slept all the time during his absence and would wake up sober.

“Anyway, I won't let him get out if he wants to,” he added.

“Then I'll go. I won't be gone long,” decided Gilbert.

Before leaving he went to the bunk and placed his hand on the sleeper's forehead in search of fever symptoms. The forehead was cool and moist. He took his newspapers to the theater.

When attempting to pay his way in he found himself facing Roger, who grinned broadly and informed:

“Money's no good. Queenie says you're her guest to—night.

This was an unexpected courtesy and he felt a flash of pleasure. Then he saw Phelps' gloomy face just inside the door and knew he had overheard Roger's words and was resenting Miss Montez's display of favoritism. As Gilbert passed through the doorway the mine-owner curtly remarked:

“You git in free. I have to pay.”

Making no reply Gilbert secured a seat under a lamp and resumed reading. Scarcely a dozen were present when he opened his papers, and he managed to lose himself until the house filled and the play began. From the moment when the curtain rose he was in a new world. He was greatly fascinated and charmed by the girlish innocence of Julia before she was brought to London to marry Sir Thomas Clifford. It seemed impossible that Julia's guardian, the hunchback, could be the man who, in another world, had passed him in free. But his heart was torn with fear when Julia became a votary of pleasure, threw over Clifford and pledged herself to that wretch, the Earl of Rochdale.

As it did seem the miserable wedding must take place he wanted to cry out for her to withdraw. Then he went limp and happy as the girl came to her senses and implored the hunchback to prevent the marriage. He cheered wildly when it transpired that Walter was the girl's father, the real Earl of Rochdale, and all the time had wanted his daughter to marry Clifford.

He was only half-freed from illusion as he edged his way to the door and the real world. Lola Montez was the most wonderful woman in the world. He knew it. She was not the sweetest and most desirable, however, as the girl back home must always be that. It was incredible that the famous Montez had paused to bestow smiles on him. She would never do it again; and he stumbled into the street.

Some one jostled against him and said something, but the young man's mind was back in London and his eyes were reviewing the rivalry between the dissipated impostor and honest Clifford.

“Wake up! Asleep or dead?” impatiently repeated Roger, tugging his arm. “Lola says you're to walk home with her. Here she comes.”

Before he could adjust his mind to Roger returned to life, minus his deformed back, Miss Montez was sweeping down on him from the doorway, ignoring the admiring glances of her worshipers, and beaming upon him in a most amiable manner. Like one in a dream he found himself squiring her to her boarding-house. She may have seen Phelps following some distance behind, undoubtedly did see him, but Gilbert did not. Nor did he see the girl Maria standing in a doorway, watching with burning eyes, as they passed close to her.

He never recalled that they talked much. He was bewildered by her condescension in accepting him as an escort. But there was no sentiment in it. It was much as if he had been requested by one of the Fine Arts—say, Music, Painting, or Sculpture—to beau it home. For simple heart-interest it was too lofty and remote to compare with the ecstatic human joy of walking beside a maid from singing-school on a crisp Vermont winter night. It was distinction. One might feel that way while being knighted, yet return to kiss a serving-maid.

He said “good night” as one who completes a tremendous bit of ritual. She said something that sounded like “stupid” and closed the door ungently. Then Gilbert recalled Old Misery and became objective. He almost ran to the bunkhouse and was greatly relieved to find his charge still asleep.

“Ain't moved a muscle since you went,” sleepily informed the man at the desk.

Gilbert took one of his newspapers and wiped fresh mud off the moccasins, but never paused to wonder how it got there. He turned in and endeavored to analyze his feelings and emotions. Out of the welter of impressions emerged the stark reminder that Joseph Gilbert had dropped from sight and that the east and singing-schools were sealed against him.

Then he opened his eyes and found it was morning and that Old Misery was genially urging him to stir his lazy bones and make ready for breakfast.

Back of the mountain man stood two strangers. One was tall, and cadaverous of face. His long features were accented by a thin, wiry beard. He looked to be rather simple. Indubitably he had had a hard time in life as his hand trembled as it caressed the whiskers and his eyes were weak and watery. The other man was short and stocky of build, and of a brick-red complexion that suggested he had been baked by the sun. His eyes, while inflamed, were belligerent, and stared stonily at the young man. Like Old Misery he wore buckskin and was carrying a rifle.

“May do, but his fur's scurcely prime yet,” he told Old Misery.

From his steady gaze Gilbert suspected he was the object of the remark. Yet this seemed very illogical. Only animals had fur.

“Just a mild snifter to settle my nerves,” the tall man pleaded.

“Not even a smell till you've ate your breakfast and worked four hours on that new claim of yours,” Old Misery firmly replied. “This is the young feller I spoke of. Younker, this tall sucker is Pretty Soon Jim. Just made his fortune by buying a rich claim. This old he-devil is Tom Tobin, who let's on he can lick any man in the mountains but me.”

“But you?” exploded Tobin. “Remember your promise, you old landmark. And next time you bite me—”

“You're mistook, Tom. And I've said it a hundred times,” solemnly interrupted Misery. “I was trying to sound—”

“Yah! And your teeth 'slipped,'” growled Tobin. “But this ain't no place to settle it. Let's git busy and have this mining over with.”

“That's medicine talk. The claim is s'posed to be very rich—”

“Richer than spatter!” cried Pretty Soon Jim.

“And I'm sorry I can't go along and see the big chunks of pure gold come out the dirt. But Tom and the younker will go with you, Jim. They won't let any one jump your claim. And if any one tries to buy it Tom'll see you git a good figger and—”

“Sell? Sell that claim?” shrilly cried Pretty Soon. “I'd as soon think of selling my granddad!”

Old Misery grabbed him by the front of his shirt and growled:

“Now you hark to me. If any one makes a offer that Tom says is good you snap it up, or you'll not go back home. By this time some of Murieta's band has heard about gold-slugs being fetched into this valley. If he goes to cutting up, Tom, stick your knife right through his in'ards.”

“I'll cut him up wakan way, just like a Dakota cuts up a buf'ler,” was the gruff assurance.

Confused by this exchange of advice and threats and not having the slightest idea as to what it related Gilbert hurriedly washed and dressed. Old Misery had all the appearance of being sober except that his talk was irrational. But, also, was the talk of the stranger's puzzling. The three of them appeared to be in a hurry and, accompanied by Gilbert, were soon in the eating-house and ordering their breakfast.

Gilbert was greatly annoyed by the proprietor's secret signals to him. He interpreted them to be a plea for him to hold his friends in check. Old Misery developed an inclination to chuckle and laugh, which might be taken as symptoms of imbecility. Tobin for most of the time remained dour and silent, but there were moments when a wide grin split his homely face and his inflamed eyes lighted with a warmth of humanism.

As they were filing out to the street Old Misery drew Gilbert to one side and hurriedly explained:

“Tom and Pretty Soon are going to tap a claim and see how it pans out. Think you'd better go along with them, but you're your own boss. You can tell me all about it afterwards. I'll get the mule and be packing the grub. Find me at the store.”

Gilbert scented a stratagem to get him out of the way until the interrupted spree could be resumed.

His eyes put the question, and with a foolish grin the mountain man promised:

“Just simon-pure business from now on, younker. Won't tech a drop. Mizzle along and don't fret. I'll yet do credit to your bringing up.”

“After this funny business is over there's that little argument 'tween you and me, Misery,” mumbled Tobin.

“All right, all right, old hoss-fly. I'll comb you so good next time we git to fooling that folks will travel all the way from the Snake River to look down on what's left of you. That's a promise.”

And he hurried away, laughing as if vastly amused.

Tobin stared at Gilbert for a few moments, then smiled slightly, and said:

“You must be all right if Old Misery takes to you. Great old cuss. Couldn't ask for a stouter friend— But, damn him Say what he will, he bit my ear a-purpose at Illinoistown.”

“He never could do such a thing!” indignantly denied Gilbert.

Tobin swallowed, breathed hard, then meekly surrendered:

“I pass. You win. Hi, you Pipps. Come away from that saloon winder. We'll mosey down to that claim of yours and watch you earn a honest four-bits. Signs look like lots of folks is keen to see you work.”

Armed with pick and shovel Pretty Soon Jim led the way for a mile from the business center. Trailing along some distance behind the three men came a score or more of citizens. Phelps brought up the rear with a group of personal friends. Until he glimpsed Gilbert he had laughed much. The young man's presence dulled his sense of the humorous, however.

Arriving at the claim Tobin seated himself and lighted his pipe and remarked to Gilbert: “From what I've heard this is pretty rich.”

A snicker ran through the line of men grouped along the opposite side of the claim. Pretty Soon Jim jumped into the hole, some six feet in diameter, and commenced extracting several tiny nuggets in the sides.

He called out to Tobin: “Thicker than spatter!”

The onlookers cast off all restraint and shouted in glee. Pretty Soon paused and stared at them; whereat they laughed more uproariously. One man pounded Phelps on the back and declared he could not be beat for “funning.” The Georgia man, vastly amused, told a neighbor that it was the clumsiest bit of “salting” he had ever seen. The free gold was soon collected and Pretty Soon began shoveling from the sides.

After some minutes of work he stopped and commented: “Appears to be farther apart than I'd supposed.”

This threw the spectators into a paroxysm of laughter. Phelps grinned modestly under a shower of compliments.

Tobin softly suggested to the perplexed Pipps: “Take a whack at the bottom.”

Pretty Soon seized the pick, struck a dozen mighty blows, and then began excavating. The onlookers were too weak by this time to make more than gurgling sounds. After half a dozen shovelfuls Pretty Soon gave a hoarse cry and dropped on his knees. The miners summoned more laughter; but Phelps, who knew he had not salted the bottom of the hole, craned his neck and peered down to detect what had aroused Pretty Soon's emotion.

“Oh, lord! Oh, lord! Look here, fellows!” wailed Pretty Soon.

“The man's stuck the pick in his foot!” cried Gilbert.

“He was using the shovel,” corrected Tobin, rising.

“Look here! Bed of an old river! Reg'lar nest of them! Just like tiny little eggs! Rich as spatter? I wouldn't sell it for a million!”

“Hold on there! What are you yapping like that for?” cried Phelps, running to the edge of the hole and making to drop in.

But Tobin pushed him back, growling,

“This is private property. Welcome to watch the man's good luck but don't use that tone of voice while on his land, or jump down in there to bother him. Ain't that right, Pipps? You don't want this cheap-looking cuss bothering you, do you?”

Still on his knees and pawing out the pocket of smooth, worn river nuggets, Pipps cast a glance up at the two men and cried:

“Good lord! Don't lay a hand on him! Why, he's Mr. Phelps, that sold me this claim. If it wa'n't for him I'd only have twenty-seven hundred dollars to my name! He's more'n welcome to watch. It's just as you vowed, Mr. Phelps. It's lousy with nuggets. No fine stuff. All in pockets worn deep into the old river bed. Jump down and take a peek.”

With a snarl Phelps leaped into the hole and roughly pushed Pretty Soon back and examined the pocket carefully. He could scarcely credit his senses. What he had believed to be a worthless claim was resting within two feet of an ancient river bed.

“Try it again,” he huskily urged.

Pretty Soon swung the pick and then fell to shoveling. He soon uncovered a second pocket. It was larger than the first. By this time the hole was fringed several deep by excited miners, and there was no laughter now in the strained, gold-hungry faces.

“Good lord!” yelled the Georgia man. “It makes to the north. It runs under old Hicks' abandoned claim!”

And he turned and ran as if only speed could save his life. The adjoining claim had been used as a dump for two years.

Others took the hint and endeavored to outrace the Georgia miner.

While Phelps wiped the sweat from his forehead and stared stupidly at the nuggets Tobin refilled his pipe and lazily remarked:

“Always the way. Man digs a hole a few feet deep, then quits, when ten minutes' more work would fetch him a fortune. Go ahead, Jim. Next pocket oughter pan out a bushel.”

“Stop! Wait a minute!” gasped Phelps, raising a trembling hand. “I sold this claim. I'll buy it back. I sold it for a song. I'll buy it back for a good price.”

“More he uncovers the more you'll pay,” chuckled Tobin.

“No! I don't have to have it. I've got enough without it. But it was mine. I was a fool to sell. I'll buy it back if you'll sell now, Jim.”

Pretty Soon did not wish to sell. For the first time in his life, aside from finding the one small pocket below Coloma, he was realizing his dreams of digging up wealth. Gold in pockets' Each pocket richer than the preceding one! He visualized the ancient river bed leading him up into the foot-hills, up to the ridge of the mother-lode, where even the most avaricious must weary of digging up huge chunks of pure gold. He stood staring at Phelps.

Phelps had trouble with his breathing.

“I'll buy it back if you'll sell now,” he managed to repeat.

Tobin reached down and slapped a hand on Phelps' shoulder and said: “No place to make a bargain. Git out. Talk to me. What I say, Pipps will do. I'm his friend. He's easy to best in a bargain. If he wants to sell I'm going to see he gits a decent price. And a square chance to clean up this claim if he wants to hold it. You talk with me.”

Phelps hesitated, then climbed from the hole and went aside while Tobin stayed to talk rapidly and earnestly to Pipps. While waiting Phelps twisted his hands and clawed at his throat, and all but exploded because of the curses he inwardly was hurling at his own stupidity.

“Jim, you must sell and go home, or you'll never have a cent. I'm repeating Old Misery's talk. I'm talking for him. We agreed on that figger and added to it what you paid for the claim. Now go ahead and name your price. Don't hear anything he says till he says yes."

Pretty Soon, sad of countenance for a millionaire in the making, beckoned for Phelps to join him, and wearily informed:

“My friend says I ain't fit to stay out here. He says this is my chance to go home, and that a little is as good for me as a million. Maybe he's right.”

“God has blessed you in giving you such a friend,” fervently cried Phelps. “Right? Never was a righter word said. Why, Jim, some one would jump this claim. or git you drunk and cheat you inside of a week.

“If I had my say I wouldn't sell for a million,” bitterly assured Pretty Soon.

“Ha! ha! You're a wild boy. But I know how you feel. As it is, Jim, what'll you take?”

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it I want my twenty-six hundred back—”

“Done! It's no more'n right you should have it back.”

“And thirty thousand dollers to boot.”

“Thir-thirty thousand!” spluttered Phelps. “Why, you only paid twenty-six hundred.”

“But you own a rich ledge that didn't cost you anything. You just located. Anyway, that's the figure, unless some of the men coming on the run, are willing to pay more.”

“But it's ridiculous! Ask your friend there—”

“That's his figure for sixty seconds,” snapped out Tobin. “I want this man on a stage bound for the bay; then on a boat sailing for home. With thirty-two thousand in the 'spress office to meet him back home, and six hundred to travel on, he can go back like a king. That's his figger and he won't lower it. And the minute is most up.”

The miners were quite close, some carrying picks and shovels, and all betraying the madness of a gold stampede.

“I'll dig a little more,” suggested Pretty Soon, jumping down into the hole. “Maybe I'll uncover such a big nest—”

“Drop that pick and climb out! You've sold it to me for thirty-two thousand, six hundred dollars. These two men are witnesses to the bargain. We'll go back to town and I'll deposit the price to your credit in the express office,” shouted Phelps.

“Well, Jim, I 'low a bargain's a bargain. He took you up at the price named. Mebbe our young friend here,” and he glanced at Gilbert, “is thinking it's pretty works we didn't hold out for fifty thousand—”

“None of that! I bought at his figure. Here, Wilks, Thomas, Gardner! Stand guard over this claim. I've bought it. Now we'll fix up the other end of the business.”