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THE UP GRADE




[Illustration: “The candle in the niche behind her cast a dim light over
the soft curves of Jean’s cheeks”]




                              THE UP GRADE

                                   BY
                             WILDER GOODWIN

                          WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
                            CHARLES GRUNWALD

                                 BOSTON
                       LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
                                  1910

                           _Copyright, 1910_,
                      BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY

                          _All rights reserved_

                        Published, January, 1910

                             Fifth Printing

                 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.




TO MY MOTHER

MAUD WILDER GOODWIN




ILLUSTRATIONS


    “The candle in the niche behind her cast a dim light
      over the soft curves of Jean’s cheeks”                 _Frontispiece_

                                                                      PAGE

    “The girl was kneeling beside him”                                  36

    “‘It seems like as if you was bitten, Mr. Loring,’ said Hankins”   125

    “No one quite dared to lead an attack upon Knowlton, who stood
      his ground beside the body”                                      241




THE UP GRADE




CHAPTER I


Stephen Loring sat on the edge of the sidewalk, his feet in the gutter.
He was staring vacantly at the other side of the street, completely
oblivious of his surroundings. No one would select a Phœnix sidewalk as
an attractive resting-place, unless, like Loring, he were compelled by
circumstances over which he had ceased to have control.

“Here, ‘Hombre’! How are you stacking up? Do you want a job?”

With an uncertain “Yes,” Loring arose from the sidewalk, before looking
at the man who addressed him. Turning, he saw a brisk, sandy whiskered
man about forty-five years of age, who fairly beamed with efficiency, and
whose large protruding eyes seemed to see in every direction at once.

The questioner looked only for a second at the man before him. The face
told its own story—the story of a man who had quit. The tired eyes half
apologized for the lines beneath them.

“Easterner,” decided the prospective employer, “since he wears a belt
and not suspenders.” The stranger extended his hand in an energetic
manner, and continued: “My name is McKay. The Quentin Mining Company, up
in the hills, want men. They sent me down to round up a few. You are the
forty-first man, and the boss bet me that I would only get forty.”

Loring’s head was still swimming as the result of a period of drunkenness
which only lack of funds had brought to a close. By way of answer he
merely nodded wearily and murmured: “My name is Loring.”

His taciturnity in no wise discouraged his interlocutor, for the
latter paused merely to wipe the perspiration from his forehead with a
handkerchief which might possibly once have been white. Then, slipping
his arm through Loring’s, he went on with his communications: “The boss
bet me I would lose half the men I got, but they will have their troubles
trying to lose me. Come right along down to the station! I have them all
corralled there with a friend watching them. I don’t suppose you have
such a hell of a lot of packing to do,” he drawled, looking at Loring’s
disheveled apparel with a comprehending smile. “I went broke myself once
in ’Frisco. Why, Phœnix is a gold mine for opportunities compared with
that place! I’ll set you up to a drink now. There is nothing like it to
clear your head.”

During this running fire of talk, McKay had convoyed Loring to a
saloon. The proprietor was sitting listlessly behind a roulette wheel,
idly spinning it, the while he made imaginary bets with himself on the
results, and was seemingly as elated or depressed as if he had really
won or lost money. Observing the entrance of the two men, he rose and
sauntered over behind the bar.

“What will you have, gents?”

“I guess about two whiskies,” answered McKay. “Will you have something
with us?”

“Well, I don’t mind if I do take a cigar,” answered the barkeeper, as,
after pouring their drink, he stretched his arm into the dirty glass
case. Then he aimed an ineffectual blow with a towel at the flies on the
dirty mirror, and returned to his wheel.

McKay wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and licked the last
drops of whisky from his mustache. Then again taking Loring by the arm,
he stepped out into the street. The heat, as they walked toward the
railroad tracks, was terrific. The dusty stretch of road which led to the
station shimmered with the glare. No one who could avoid it moved. In the
shade of the buildings, the dogs sprawled limply. Now and then riders
passed at a slow gait, the horses a mass of lather and dusty sweat. One
poor animal loped by, driven on by spur, with head down, and tail too
dejected to switch off the flies.

Loring watched him. “I think,” he mused, “that that poor horse feels as I
do. Only he has not the alleviating satisfaction of knowing that he is to
blame for it himself.”

The station platform was crowded with battered specimens of Mexican
peons, chattering in high-pitched, slurred syllables. Their swarthy
faces immeasurably irritated Stephen. Three white men, standing a little
apart, looked rather scornfully at the crowd. The only difference in
their appearance, however, was that while each of the white men had two
suspenders, the overalls of each of the Mexicans were supported by only
one. It would have been hard to gather together a more bedraggled set of
men than these were; but McKay counted them with loving pride.

“Forty-one! All here!” he exclaimed. “Hop aboard the train, boys; we’re
off!”

“Railway fare comes out of your first two days’ work,” he exclaimed
cheerfully to Loring.

The train was of the “mixed” type that crawls about the southwest. A
dingy, battered, passenger coach trailed at the end of a long line
of freight cars, which were labeled for the most part with the white
circle and black cross of the “Atcheson, Topeka and Santa Fé.” The men
scrambled aboard, the engine grunted lazily, protestingly, and the long
train slowly started. Until the train was well under way, McKay stood
with his broad back against the door, his hand lying nonchalantly but
significantly on a revolver beneath his vest, then, with a contented
smile, he dropped into a seat.

Loring had no hat. In Arizona, a man may go without his trousers, and be
called eccentric. To go without a hat is ungentlemanly. Consequently the
three other white men whom McKay had collected kept themselves aloof,
and Stephen, crawling into a seat beside a voluble Chinaman, dozed off
in misery, wondering whether the murmuring buzz that he heard was in
his head, or in the car wheels. The Chinaman looked down at Stephen’s
unshaven face and matted hair, and grinned pleasantly.

“He allee samee broke,” he murmured to himself, crooning with pleasure.

For six hours the train had been plowing its way across the desert,
backing, stopping, groaning, wheezing. The blue line of the hills seemed
little nearer than in the morning. Only the hills behind seemed farther
away. Now and then, far out in the sage-brush, a film of dust hung low
in the air, telling of some sheep outfit driving to new grazing lands.
On the side of the train next Loring, a trail followed the line of the
telegraph poles. Wherever the trail crossed the track and ran for a while
on the opposite side, Stephen felt a childish anger at it, for otherwise
he could amuse himself by counting the skeletons of horses and cattle,
which every mile or so made splatches of pure white against the gray
white of the dust. The passengers slouched in the hot seats, rolling
countless cigarettes with the dexterity which marks the Southwesterner,
drawing the string of the “Durham” sack with a quick jerk of the teeth,
at the close of the operation. The air of the car reeked with smoke. At
each little station-shed new men joined the crowd, being received with
looks of silent sympathy and invariably proffering a request for the
“makings.” When this was received, they resignedly settled on the torn
black leather of the seats, trying to accomplish the impossible feat of
resting their necks on the edge of the backs without cramping their legs
against the seats in front of them.

The train stopped suddenly with a jerk which was worse than usual, as
if the engine had stumbled over itself. The brakeman, a target for many
jests, hurried through the car.

“What have we stopped for now?” drawled McKay. “To enjoy the scenic
effect?”

“Horse runned along ahead of the engine and bust his leg in the trestle,”
laconically answered the brakeman.

“The son-of-a-gun! Now, the critter showed durned poor judgment, didn’t
he?”

The brakeman swore mildly, and disappeared. In a few minutes he returned,
carefully spat in the empty stove, and the train casually moved on again.

Seeing a paper lying in the aisle, as he walked down the car, the
brakeman stooped and picked it up. His eye fell upon a large red seal,
and much elaborate writing. With a puzzled expression he read the
document.

    “UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. DEPARTMENT OF STATE.

    “To all whom these presents may concern, Greeting. I, the
    undersigned, Secretary of State, of the United States
    of America, hereby request all whom it may concern to
    permit—Stephen Loring—a citizen of the United States, safely
    and freely to pass, and in case of need to give him all lawful
    aid and protection.”

“It must be a passport,” he thought. “First one I ever seed, though. I
wonder who might Stephen Loring be.”

His eye fell upon the appended description:

    “Age, 23 yrs., 4 mos.
    Stature, 6 ft. 1.
    Forehead, Broad.
    Eyes, Brown.
    Nose, Irregular.
    Mouth, Wide.
    Chin, Medium.
    Hair, Black.
    Complexion, Ruddy.
    Face, Square.”

He looked about at the men in the car until his eye fell on Stephen.

“That’s him, all right,” he thought. “I should say it would be sort of
inconvenient to have such a good description to fill!”

He went to Stephen and touched him on the shoulder. “Hey, stranger, I
reckon this belongs to you.”

Loring, surprised, took the proffered paper. Then he felt in the pocket
of his coat.

“I think it must have fallen out of my pocket. Much obliged!” he
exclaimed.

It was an old passport, expired ten years since, but Stephen carried it
about with him as a means of identification in case of accident.

“How did you know that this was mine?” he asked the brakeman from idle
curiosity.

The man pointed with an exceedingly dirty thumb to the description.

“I ain’t no detective, but I reckon that fits pretty well.” Then he
nodded to Loring and walked away.

Loring glanced idly at the passport as it lay open on his knee. As he did
so he wondered what the friends who knew him ten years back, at the time
when that document was issued, would say to his appearance now. “Wild
oats gone to seed. I guess that about describes me,” he murmured, with a
grim smile, as he folded the passport and slipped it back into the frayed
lining of his pocket. Dissipation and wreck do not change the color of
a man’s eyes, the shape of his forehead or the outline of his face, so
that it had still been possible to recognize Loring by his old passport.
Had it been a description of his personality instead of his measurements,
no one could have recognized the original. Mathematically it is but the
difference of an inch from a retreating chin to one thrust forward;
artistically a very slight touch will turn frank eyes into hopeless
ones; philosophically the turning of the corners of the lips downward
instead of upward may change the whole viewpoint of life. Experience is
mathematician, artist, and philosopher combined, and it had accomplished
all these changes in Stephen Loring.

Through the parting kindness of friends, most of the men had some food,
which they proceeded to chew with noisy satisfaction. Loring began to
feel cravings. The Chinaman beside him was gnawing at a huge ham sandwich
with a very green pickle protruding from between the edges of the bread.
He eyed Loring, then turned to him and asked: “You hab bite? My name Hop
Wah. I go cook for the outfit. Me heap fine cook,” solemnly added the
celestial.

Loring gratefully shared the food.

The men in the car, who until now had been rather morose and silent,
began to cheer up, and to sing noisily. Loring lazily wondered why, until
he saw several black bottles passed promiscuously about. McKay handed his
own flask to Loring.

“Have another drink!” he said, “there is nothing like it for a hang-over.”

Loring took a deep pull at the flask.

“Hey, Chink, have some?” continued McKay.

Wah smiled and shook his head.

“Don’t drink, eh? Well, I’ll bet then that you are strong on dope,” said
McKay, as he returned the flask to his pocket.

Night began to turn the color of the hills to a rich cobalt. Now and
then the train crawled past shacks whose evening fires were beginning
to twinkle in the dusk. Little camps scattered in the niches of the
foothills showed gray and blurred. Jagged masses of rock, broken by
cuts and hollows, now overshadowed the train. Giant cacti, growing at
impossible angles from pinnacles and crevasses, loomed against the sky
line. As the hills shut in, the roar of the train echoed of a sudden
louder and louder where the desert runs flat as a board to the hills, and
then with no transition becomes the hills.

“Only fifteen miles more now, boys,” sang out McKay; “but it may take two
hours,” he added under his breath.

Cheered by this announcement, one of the Mexicans groped under his seat
and produced a large nondescript bundle, which, after sundry cuttings
of string, and unwrapping of paper, resolved itself into a guitar.
Then, after fishing in his pockets, he produced a mouth-organ with two
clamps attached. Loring, for want of better occupation, watched him.
The man deftly fastened the harmonica to the edge of the guitar. Then
slinging the dirty red guitar ribbon over his neck, he played a few
warning chords. When the attention of all was fixed upon him, he bent
his head over the mouth-organ, and strumming the guitar accompaniment
with sweeping strokes, rendered a selection that had once been “A Georgia
Camp-Meeting.” The applause being generous, the artist threw himself
into the spirit of his performance.

“Thees time—with variations,” he exclaimed excitedly. And they were
variations!

McKay regarded his flock with genial interest.

“Ain’t he the musical boy, though?” he observed to Loring.

“Playing those two together is quite a trick,” thought Loring; “I must
learn it.” Then he realized that he could not even play either singly.
Such impulses and awakenings were frequent with him. Constructively he
felt himself capable of doing almost anything. The ridiculousness of his
thought aroused him from his lethargy, and he began to hum softly the
tune that car wheels always play.

At eight o’clock the engine gave a last exhausted wheeze, and stopped.
“Quentin. All ashore!” called out McKay.

The men took their bundles from the racks, crowded down the aisle, and
out to the rickety station platform, where the ticket agent, lantern in
hand, looked at them wonderingly.

“I didn’t lose a man on the trip,” McKay said to the agent, in answer to
the latter’s query of “What in _hell_?” “Well, boys,” went on McKay, “it
is ten miles to where we camp, and there ain’t no hearses, so I guess
we’ll have a nice little moonlight stroll.”

The station settlement of Quentin consisted of a few scattered tents,
and of five saloons, with badly spelled signs. One shack bore in large
letters the proud legend: “Grocery Store.” It had evidently been adopted
as a residence, for in smaller letters beneath the sign was painted:
“This ain’t no store—Keep out!” Loring, with lazy amusement, read this
evidence of a shiftlessness greater than his own.

The crowd began to gravitate toward the saloons. “Hey, other way there!”
shouted McKay, for he well knew that if the crowd began drinking there,
very few would reach camp. A big Mexican, who had been imbibing heavily
on the train, lurched toward the saloons, bellowing: “Me much _mal’
hombre_. I take a drink when I damn please!”

“You much _mal’ hombre_, eh?” said McKay, smiling. “Then take that!” He
stepped up to the man, and let drive a blow from one shoulder that almost
broke the mutineer’s jaw. The man staggered, then turned and ran, but up
the trail. The other men howled with laughter, then they picked up their
blanket rolls and bundles, and laughing and singing started up the trail,
where the deep shadows of the tall suwaras made black streaks against the
white porphyry of the projecting cliffs.

Loring and Hop Wah followed at the end of the procession, the former
consoling himself for his lack of blankets by thinking how much easier
walking was without them; the latter cheerfully singing a song of which
verse, chorus, and _envoi_ were: “La la boom boom! La la boom boom!” If
this were lacking in originality, it was at least capable of infinite
repetition, and it turned out to be Wah’s one musical number.

Mile after mile up the trail toiled the straggling line, the Mexicans
calling loudly to each other, or mocking with jeering whoops the
unfortunates who slipped on the loose stones. McKay, chuckling to himself
with pleasure, led the little band. He was thinking of the expressions of
praise and surprise, of the congratulations upon the successful outcome
of his expedition, which would be bestowed upon him in camp.

Immediately ahead of Loring walked the three other white men of the
collection. The volubility of their cursing, as they stumbled along,
caused McKay to drop back to them. After the customary greeting of “Well,
gents, how are you stacking up?” he began to probe into the cause of
their discontent.

“What’s the work, boss, anyhow?” they asked.

“Can you ‘polish’ the head of a drill?” asked McKay. He inquired as a
matter of form, for one glance at their slouching shoulders and their
thin chests had given him his answer. “Can’t?” he observed cheerfully.
“Well, I guess your work will be ‘mucking’ on a narrow gauge railway
grade that we are building.”

“Mucking!” growled one. “Ain’t there nothing else that we can do besides
scratch around with a pick and shovel?”

“Well, Sullivan, it is that at first. Later, if I can get you a job out
at the main camp, I will. It is sort of hard on you fellows to have to
grub with all these ‘Mex’ at the road camp; but as soon as you get a
little ‘time’ saved up you can start in buying your own stuff and messing
together.”

“Save up ‘time’!” exclaimed Sullivan. “Hell! There ain’t no use savin’
anything in this Gawd-forsaken country.”

“Well, cheer up, anyway!” laughed McKay. “Here is the ground where the
road camp lies.” Several camp-fires blazed suddenly out of the darkness.
Around them many shadowy figures were grouped. These gathered with
interest about the newcomers, noisily commenting upon their appearance.
“Here we are, boys. The tents ain’t down here yet; but sleeping out
of doors is powerful healthy. Sure Mike!” he added, poking a grinning
Mexican boy in the ribs. “_Seguro Miguel!_ Nothing like it, is there,
Pedro?”

“How about the rattle-bugs, Boss?” asked Sullivan, the malcontent.

“There ain’t no rattlesnakes out in April. Besides, if there was, they
would not bite your carcass,” answered McKay, irritated by the man’s
attitude of continual grumbling.

The men all busied themselves unrolling their blankets and looking
for sheltered places in which to sleep. Loring was not accustomed to
construction camps. He thought that for the white men, at least, sleeping
accommodations must have been provided.

“Where can I sleep?” he asked McKay.

The latter grinned from one big ear to the other. “Say,” he drawled,
“that’s good! Your hot bath ain’t ready though. Haven’t got any blankets,
have you?” he added, relenting a bit. “Better crawl in with some one
to-night. To-morrow, when I come down here from the copper camp, I’ll
bring you a pair. I guess you won’t skip till you have done enough work
to pay for them, as you won’t have money enough to vamos. And, say, I’ve
got a swell hat that I will give you. It ain’t respectable or refined
like not to have one.”

The rough kindness touched Loring deeply, and he began to thank him
warmly.

McKay uttered a brisk good night and turned to walk up the trail which
led to the main camp, two miles beyond. The Mexican whom the boss had
knocked down at the station stepped suddenly forward. Expecting trouble,
Loring jumped to his feet. He heard McKay say: “I guess the señorita
won’t think much of your beauty now, will she, Manuel? I’ll send the
doctor down in the morning to fix up that face of yours.” The Mexican,
instead of rushing at McKay, exclaimed excitedly: “Oh, boss, you just
like a father to me!”

Still smiling at the sudden change of temper Loring lay down on the
ground, and tried to sleep. The knife-like cold of the Arizona night made
him shiver. Striving to keep warm, he rolled from side to side. Suddenly,
from out of the darkness near him, he heard a soft laugh: “Hey, me
bludder, Hop Wah got plenty blankets. Roll here!” Gratefully he crawled
in between the Chinaman’s blankets. Wah looked at him curiously. “La la
boom boom,” he crooned to himself. “Heap lot whisky.” Then he turned over
and went peacefully to sleep.

Loring lay rigidly upon his back. Conscience, remorse, and a rock
beneath his fourth rib, all kept him awake. The stars did not answer his
half-framed questions, so he shut his eyes. It is hard to think when the
eyes are closed, so he opened them again. It was a very simple question
that he reiterated to the shadows, to the embers of the fire, and to
the drone of the Gila river. It consisted of one word—“Why?” There was
no need of his asking any one except himself; but he put off as long as
possible asking the one person who could answer, for he KNEW why. His
friends had always been so ready to make excuses for his shortcomings,
that in graciousness he could do no less than acquiesce. But in spite
of the veil with which memory surrounds facts, when a man lies awake at
night he is likely to see them as they are.

That both of Stephen’s parents had died when he was a child was no answer
to the question which he asked of the fire and the river. His uncle had
educated him with an affectionate insight which no parent could have
bettered. That he had not all along realized what he was doing was no
answer. A keen judge of men, Loring was an inspired critic of himself. It
was not lack of ambition that had dragged him down, for always there had
been a longing for those things which were not within his grasp. There
was no inherent vice in his character. There was courage, loyalty, and
kindness. There was only one thing lacking—some power to drive the whole.

Most people are either led or pushed through life. But there are some
whose motive power must come from within.




CHAPTER II


At half-past six the next morning the whistle in the upper camp blew
long and clear. It is a strange fact that the dispassionate whistle in
the morning is the brutal enemy of labor, calling its victims to the
struggle; but that at noon it is impartial and cheerful. It then attempts
the rôle of referee in the great game between labor and capital and, like
a good umpire, favors neither. Yet the same whistle at night, when it
calls the game off, becomes the warm ally of the workman, encouraging him
openly with promise of rest and supper. It is then as if it said to him:
“I was compelled to be impartial. That is my duty; but frankly, now that
it is over, I am glad that you have won.”

Loring opened his eyes as he heard the morning whistle, and, at first a
little dazed, looked about him. Then he rose and stretched himself. Every
bone in his body ached as the result of the night on the hard ground.
All around him men were yawning sleepily as they crawled out of their
blankets. Close beside the camp ran the tawny Gila river. Stephen walked
down to the bank, and kneeling on a small rock which lay half afloat in
the ooze mud, endeavored to wash. Then, refreshed, if not much cleaner,
he made his way to the cook tent. Here under a fly stretched on poles
were four long tables, heaped with tin plates and condensed milk cans.
The monotony of the table furnishings was broken by a few dingy cans,
decorated with labels of very red tomatoes, which served as sugar and
salt holders. The old inhabitants of the camp were noisily greeting the
newcomers, pounding on their cups and whistling whenever they perceived
some old acquaintance.

The labor of the Southwest is of a very vagrant quality. A man merely
works until he has money enough to move. Each time that he moves he
spends all his money on a celebration, so that his wanderings, though
frequent, are not long in duration. Thus many of these men had met
before, around the smelters in Globe, in the Tucson district, or north in
the Yavapai.

Loring found a place on one of the rickety benches, and looked toward
the coffee-bucket. Sullivan, who was opposite to him, growled gloomily:
“Say, the grub is rank. This coffee is festered water.” The description,
though not an appetizing one with which to begin a meal, was not without
truth. In varying degree it might have been applied to the rest of the
breakfast, from the red, tasteless frijollas to the stew, which consisted
of a few shreds of over-cooked meat, in the midst of a nondescript mass
of questionable grease.

As Loring had finished eating what he could of the meal, and was
contemplating borrowing some tobacco, the foremen, who, as etiquette
demands, had eaten their breakfast in a group apart from the men, began
to look at their watches, and to stir about actively.

“Hurry up now, boys! Out on the grade—quick! _Vamos!_ Only five minutes
more now!” they called.

The tools of the old workmen were scattered along the grade, where each
had dropped them at the end of the previous day’s work. The newcomers
were marched single file, through the tool-house, where each picked out
his implements, then started off to the place assigned him. Loring,
not from altruism, but because he did not know the difference which
well chosen tools make in a long day’s toil, made no effort to grab. In
consequence he emerged from the shed supplied with a split shovel, and a
dull, loose-headed pick. A foreman beckoned him to a place on the grade,
opposite to the cook tent. He immediately started to swing his pick.

“Don’t be in such a hell of a hurry!” called Sullivan, “you’ll have
plenty to do later.”

The seven o’clock whistle blew sharply. “Lope her, boys!” sang out the
section foreman. All talking stopped abruptly, and the click of picks,
swung with steady blows, and the rasp of shovels echoed all along the
grade. Loring, new to “mucking,” swung his pick with all the strength of
his back, bringing it down, with rigid full arm strokes, upon the rocky
soil. The foreman noticed this with amusement. “He’ll bust in an hour,”
he thought; but he only said: “Loosen your grip a bit or you’ll get
stone-bruises.” Then he passed on up the line, to tell a Mexican, who had
already stopped to light a cigarette, that “this ain’t no rest cure.”

Hop Wah from the depths of the cook tent perceived Loring’s energetic
labors, and called out to him: “Hey, me bludder, no swing like that!
No damnee use. Just let him pick fall!” Stephen nodded gratefully, and
complied with the practical advice. He worked steadily, only pausing to
exchange his pick for a shovel, whenever he had broken enough earth, or
loosened some large stone. “Surely,” he thought, “I can keep this up for
ten hours. Here, at last, is a job that I can do.”

Stephen Loring had never in his life “made good.” He had started well
on many ventures, and then given out. His friends had at first been
intensely admiring, and had predicted great things for him; but gradually
they had given him up as hopeless. They would have lent him money
cheerfully; but a determination not to borrow was one of his few virtues.
In consequence, having fallen stage by stage, he was now reduced to being
a day laborer, a “mucker,” watched by a foreman to see that he did not
shirk. If the same method had been applied to him earlier, it might have
been his salvation. As it was, he had sunk beneath the current.

The next hour seemed to Loring twice as long as the first. His wrist
pulsed with agony from the jar of the blows. He was compelled to wrap
his handkerchief around his right hand, as he had worn great blisters
sliding it up and down the pick handle. The sweat, as it rolled down from
his forehead, made his cheeks smart. Every few minutes he was forced to
rest. At ten o’clock the time-keeper came to him, and, drawing a shabby
brown book from his pocket, entered Stephen’s name on the rolls. Then he
drew from his pocket and handed to Loring a brass tag, like a baggage
check. “Your number is four fifty-three; keep this now!”

Stephen looked at the tag for a second, then slipped it into his pocket.
It did not jangle against anything. He leaned on his pick handle for
a moment, and with mild interest listened to the time-keeper, as he
accosted the Mexican who was working next to him.

“Eh, _hombre_! What’s your name? _Cómo se llama?_”

The foreman spoke sharply to Stephen, and with the blood rising slightly
to his temples at the rebuke, he fell to work again.

Loring possessed a strong imagination and he had solaced many a hardship
by either planning for pleasanter occupations in the future, or vividly
reconstructing worse ones in the past. But imagination is a dangerous
plaything. The men working on either side of him thought of nothing,
except perhaps some solution of the great problem of the human race,
how to make the greatest possible show of work with the least effort.
Stephen, however, was accompanied in his work by imagination. To-day it
was of a sort which was neither subtle nor pleasant. It began by saying
to him: “You are healthy. You will probably live for thirty years or
more. They will be pleasant years, won’t they? There are three hundred
and sixty-five days in a year, so if you work ten hours a day for thirty
years, perhaps you may grow used to work. Work is a great companion, is
it not, Stephen? It is unfortunate,” finished imagination glibly, “that
you must do this forever.”

Loring spoke aloud in answer to his imagination, timing his syllables to
the already shortened strokes of his pick. “Not forever?”

“Well,” rejoined imagination, “I see no alternative, do you? And what
is more,” added the Devil who at this moment was operating imagination,
“_You_ are not even building the railroad. All _you_ are doing is moving
rocks. _Any one_ can move rocks.”

By noon time Stephen was limp and exhausted. The hour’s respite seemed to
him to go by like a flash, and he started upon the afternoon’s work in a
hopeless frame of mind, his muscles stiffened instead of rested by the
short relaxation.

After an hour’s labor, he moved to a place where the ground was soft, and
for a while his delight in this supported him. It is little things such
as this which make the epochs in a day of manual labor. As he toiled on
grimly, in a few short hours, he had reversed his views on Socialism.

“Of course the laborer is the chief factor in production,” he murmured
wearily to himself, as he grew more and more dizzy.

At three o’clock, McKay, with a surveying party, reached the section of
the grade where Loring was working. Stephen watched him, as he stooped
over the level and waved his hand up and down. He heard him shout “O. K.
back sight! Ready fore sight!” Then “O. K. fore sight! _’Sta ’ueno!_” and
somehow the cheery tones braced Loring for his work.

McKay, as he came up, nodded cheerfully: “I left that hat for you in
the cook tent,” he said; “it will make you look like a real man!” Then
noticing the agonized swings of the pick, he looked at Loring quizzically.

“Say, I reckon you ain’t done this sort of thing for some time, have you?
I guess a short spell at flagging wouldn’t discourage you. Go up to the
tool-house, and get a white flag that you’ll find there. Then go up to
that point back there, where the wagon road crosses the grade. I’ll put
another flagman on the point below, and when he waves, you stop anything
that comes along. In a few minutes we are going to “shoot” all along
here, and I don’t want to blow up any teams or people that are going up
to the copper camp.”

Loring dropped his pick with alacrity, and started for the tool-shed.
As he walked back along the grade, he looked with curious interest at
the men who were still working. Somehow their labors seemed a part of
himself. His back ached sympathetically as they stooped to their work.
At the shed he found the dirty white rag and stick which served for
flagging. Then he hurried to his place. He passed Sullivan, who waved
joyously to him.

“The boss has set me flagging, too. Gee, what a graft! Me for a nap, as
soon as they start to shoot. There won’t any teams go by, when they hear
the shots, and I can get a good sleep.”

“You had better not,” answered Loring. Then, feeling that it was none of
his business, he went on to the place which McKay had assigned to him.
He seated himself on a large rock, from which he could see far in all
directions. He was at the end of the grade nearest to the copper camp,
and he could see the great iron chimneys of the smelter, protruding above
the hills to the north, belching forth black smoke against the brilliant
blue of the sky. “The whole country looks as if it had been made with
a hack-saw,” he mused, as he looked at the jagged rocks and irregular
mountains about him. “I would give a great deal to see something green
besides this accursed cactus; but I suppose that grass and civilization
go together.”

Then, watching for a signal, he fixed his eyes on the point of rock where
Sullivan was stationed. After a few minutes he saw, against the brown
background of the rocks, a spot of white move quickly up and down. He
immediately ran out into the road, and stopped a line of coke teams that
was coming down from the camp. The drivers merely threw on their brakes,
and let the thin-boned, almost transparent horses tug uselessly at the
traces, until they discovered the vainness of the effort. Then horses,
like drivers, relapsed into the comatose acceptance of conditions, which
in the land of the cactus becomes part of man and beast. McKay came up on
horseback, calling out to the first of the drivers: “Hold your horses!
The e-l-ephants are about to pass!” The Mexican, just as though he had
understood, grinned, then again dozed off.

One by one, far down the grade, little puffs of smoke began to curl at
the places where the drillers’ gangs had been working. The men, howling
in mock terror, came tearing past the place where Loring and McKay were
standing. They would run several hundred yards further than safety
required in order to delay by a few moments their return to work when
the blasting was finished. As the men surged by, McKay, in spite of his
disgust, grinned.

“Trust a Mex to find some way to shorten work,” he said to Loring. In
rapid succession the “shots” began to go off; whole sections of the
cliffs seemed to swell, then gave forth a fat volume of smoke, and
finally burst, hurling fragments of brown-black rock against the sky
line. Then, a fraction of an instant later, the dull, muffled boom
carried to the ear.

“Regular bombardment, ain’t it!” exclaimed McKay. “Wo-op! duck!” As a
large jagged piece of shale came whizzing over their heads he and Loring
simultaneously dropped to the ground.

“Ain’t it funny?” said McKay, as they got to their feet again. “Now time
and again these things won’t go fifty feet, then all of a sudden they
chase a fellow who is a quarter of a mile away.”

The heaviest “shot” of all was to be fired in a place near Loring’s
position, where a deep spur of black diorite protruded across the grade.
During five days gangs had been drilling on this spur, so that its face
was honeycombed with ten deep holes, for diorite is almost as hard
as iron, and to make any impression upon it requires an immense load
of powder. McKay himself had superintended the loading, patting the
charges firmly down with the tamping rod, until, as he expressed it, he
had enough powder there to “blow hell up to heaven.” They had waited to
fire these “shots” until the last of the others had exploded, and now
the little group of men who were nearest began to look everywhere for
shelter. The waiting teams were backed up close against the ledge, while
the drivers crawled underneath the wagons for protection. Loring and
McKay stood beside a large boulder, behind which they could drop when the
explosion came. Into every niche men crawled, waiting for the shock.

The foreman bent over the first fuse, and a wisp of thin blue smoke arose
at the touch of his hand.

“Hope he ain’t cut the fuses too long,” growled McKay anxiously. “If
one of those loads misses fire, it won’t be safe to work in this
neighborhood.” The foreman stepped quickly from fuse to fuse, and spurt
after spurt of smoke began to curl from the rock, some hanging low, some
rising. The foreman stooped over one of the fuses for a second time.

“It’s missed!” exclaimed McKay. “No, he’s got it. Hey, _beat_ it!
Quick!” he shouted, as the thin smoke began to turn from whitish-blue to
yellow-brown. The foreman ran back a up the grade towards them.

“The damned fool!” breathed McKay. “Like as not he’ll kill himself, and
it will take me a week to find another man who can shoot the way he can.
About thirty seconds more, and that rock is going to jump!”

Loring raised his eyes. Far down the grade, beyond the point, he saw a
speck. The speck grew larger and became a horse and rider.

McKay saw it too. “Sullivan will warn him,” he said tersely. “My God!” he
yelled, “it’s a woman, and her pony is running away.”

Loring made a jump into the grade and dashed towards the smoke. The
yellow-brown turned to the black-brown that just precedes an explosion.
It poured forth from the ground like a volcano.

“He can’t even reach the ‘shots,’” gasped McKay. “Oh, my God, where was
the other flagman! Only fifty yards more—He must make it!—He will!—He’s
reached the spot; he’s past it. He will—God, and there’s ten shots
there!” Even as he spoke the surface of the earth belched forth rumbling
thunder and burst into fragments. McKay dropped flat on the ground,
behind the sheltering boulder. A great cloak of brown smoke punctured
with huge black rocks shut out the scene. Then, with dull, splashing
thuds, the rocks began to fall into the muddy river which dragged itself
along beside the grade. First came a few solemn splashes as the large
rocks fell, then faster, a very hailstorm of fragments, as the smaller
pieces showered down. The Mexicans were cursing frantically, adding to
the roar a shrill pitch.

The first three “shots” went off in lightning succession. A pause, then
two more.

“Five!” yelled McKay.

Then three more “shots” boomed deeply. McKay and the foreman knelt behind
the boulder, pale, breathing hard, striving to guess what lay behind that
wall of smoke. Another pause, then a terrific report.

“Nine, only one more!” shouted the foreman. They waited ten seconds,—no
other shot. Then ten seconds more. They rose to their feet and started
forward. “Two must have gone off at once,” yelled McKay. Another roar,
and they had barely time to reach cover before the shower of rocks again
fell.

“_Ten!_ Come on!” roared McKay. The rocks had hardly fallen, before he,
followed by a dozen others, was rushing through the smoke to what he knew
must be beyond. The grade was blocked with great masses of rock, and by
the time they had climbed over these barriers, the smoke had cleared.

They found Loring lying on his face, his right hand still grasping the
bridle of the dead horse. The girl was kneeling beside him. As McKay
reached her side, he recognized the daughter of the manager of the mine.
He raised her to her feet, while as if dazed by the miracle he repeated:
“You ain’t hurt, Miss Cameron? You ain’t hurt?” She shook herself
free from him, then knelt again by Stephen, trying to stanch with her
handkerchief the blood that was flowing from a great cut in his temple.
She looked up at McKay with an anxious appeal in her eyes. “Is he dead?”
she asked.

[Illustration: “The girl was kneeling beside him.” _Page 36_]

McKay bent over, and opening the rough shirt felt Loring’s heart. “No,
he’s alive still, but he’s pretty close to gone,” he answered. He
untwisted the tight clenched fingers from the bridle, and half raised
the unconscious body. It lay limp in his arms. He turned to one of the
foremen who were gathered around.

“Smith, get a horse and ride like hell for the company doctor!” The man
was off for the corral in an instant.

“Now, Miss, you just leave him to us!” went on McKay. “See now, your
skirt is getting all blood.”

For reply, she raised Loring’s head gently and placed it in her lap.
“Now, send some one for blankets and water,” she directed.

“_Agua_, hey, _ag-ua_!” shouted McKay, and in a minute a little
pale-faced water boy came stumbling up with a bucket of muddy water.
McKay looked on in wonder while the girl deftly washed the dirt from the
wounds.

“She has her nerve,” he thought. “There ain’t nothing like a woman.”

One of the Mexicans came back from the cook tent with a blanket, and upon
this they gently lifted Stephen. Then four men carried him to the nearest
tent. Jean walked beside them, holding her wet handkerchief tightly
against Loring’s forehead, in vain attempt to stop the bleeding. They
laid him on the ground, inside the tent.

“Now you must go, Miss Cameron,” implored McKay. “I’ll send you up to
camp in one of the teams. Your father would never forgive me if I let you
stay. Why you are as pale as—”

The girl interrupted him decisively. “Are there any cloths here for
bandages?”

He looked hopelessly around the tent with its pile of dirty quilts.

“I don’t see anything,” he murmured.

Jean seized the soft white stock about her neck, and with a quick tug
tore it off. “This will do,” she breathed, as she placed the impromptu
bandage about Loring’s head.

“Now tie this! I can’t pull it tightly enough.”

McKay drew the ends of the bandage together, and clumsily knotted them.
Then he thought of his one universal remedy. Meekly turning to Jean he
asked: “How about some whisky for him?” She nodded, and he drew a flask
from his pocket. With strong fingers he pried open Stephen’s jaws, and
poured the whisky down his throat. The stimulant brought a slight color
to the mask-like face.

“I guess he would sure enjoy this some, if he were conscious,” thought
McKay grimly. The men had been sent back to work, and only he and Miss
Cameron knelt in the tent by Stephen, feeling anxiously for the slow
heart-beats in the big helpless frame. Then came the pound of horses’
hoofs on the road, the sliding sound of a pony flung back in full career
upon his haunches, and the doctor stood pulling open the flaps of the
tent. Jean rose to her feet.

“I shall only be in the way now,” she said, and stepped outside into the
vivid sunlight.




CHAPTER III


Two weeks had passed since the accident. Loring, whose life had been at
first despaired of, was gaining fast in strength, and enjoying the first
real comfort that he had known in months. As he lay quietly on the hard
canvas cot, the rough company hospital seemed to him a dream of luxury.

His cot had been placed close to the door, where he could look out over
the little camp. The early morning light brought the whiteness of the
tents scattered about the plateau into clear contrast with the shadowy
brownness of the surrounding mountains, while in the sunlight the yellow
pine framework of the intermingled shacks sparkled brightly. The smelter
pounded away steadily, great wreaths of smoke pouring from its chimneys,
the blast sucking and breathing like some huge driven beast. Intermingled
with the sound was the clanging rasp of shovels, as the smelter stokers
piled coke into the furnace. Over on the far mountain a wood-laden burro
train was picking its way slowly down the trail. In the thin morning
air the tinkle of the bells on the animals’ necks and the sharp calls
of the drivers carried clear across the valley. Close by the smelter,
in the midst of the coal dust and cinders, stood a jaded horse, with a
harness made of chains. For two days it had fascinated Loring to see
the deft way in which the driver hooked this horse to the glowing slag
pots, and drove him along the narrow track that led out on the slag dump.
With the childishness of the sick, he harbored a deep grudge against
the shack, behind which the horse, with his molten load, would always
disappear. This prevented his seeing the operation of dumping the slag,
which he felt must be highly interesting. At the other side of the
doorway he could just see the corner of a newly finished shack. He looked
a bit gloomily at the completed building, for it had been delightful to
watch the carpenters at work upon it. In two days the whole house had
been finished, even to the tin roofing. This tin roofing, by the way,
had brought Stephen much joy, for the carpenter’s assistant had laid
the plates from top down, instead of beginning at the bottom, so that
the joints would overlap and be water-tight. In consequence the whole
roofing had been ripped off and done over again.

The morning shift was just going to work, and the hurrying groups of men
passed the door on their way up to the mine. At the watering-trough each
stopped, and plunging his canteen deep into the water, held it there
until the burlap and flannel casing was saturated, ensuring a cooling
drink for them during their work. Loring laughed at himself when he found
himself wishing that they would not all wear blue denim overalls.

Little water boys struggled past, each with a pole, like a yoke across
his shoulders, from either end of which hung a bucket. The men greeted
them as they passed, with calls of “Go-od boy!” “_Bueno muchacho!_”
Several of the men, as they passed, greeted Stephen with shy exclamations
of “_Eh, amigo—Cóm’ estamos?_” Then they went on to their work beneath
the ground. Loring was touched by these inquiries for his welfare, and
smiled in a friendly fashion at each.

Loring’s smile had been one of his worst enemies, for it had so often
prevented people from telling him what they thought of him. It combined
a sensitiveness which was unexplained by the rather heavy molding of
his chin, with a humor which only one who had carefully studied his eyes
would be prepared for. It was an exasperating smile to those who did not
like him, for it possessed a quality of goodness and strength to which
they thought he had no right as an accompaniment to his character. On the
other hand, it was one of the attributes which most strongly attracted
his friends. It was not an analytical smile, so it put him in touch with
unanalytical people, yet it had a certain deprecating twist which could
convey a hint of subtlety.

When the seven o’clock whistle blew, Loring thought of the gang at the
road camp lined up for ten hours of relentless toil, and he breathed deep
in contentment.

“It is great to be laid up for a respectable cause,” he thought. Memories
of the times that he had spent at an old university in the East came to
him. He looked about him at the rough, bare boards, at the eight canvas
cots, at the lumps on three of them, where, wearing the inevitable pink
or sky blue undershirt, lay sick Mexican miners. He amused himself by
mentally filling with his old-time associates each of the empty cots. “I
wish they were all here,” he half exclaimed. Then it occurred to him
that this was not a very kindly wish. Loring heard the murmur of voices
outside the door, and listened attentively. He recognized the voice of
the company doctor. “It must be time for the morning clinic,” he thought
to himself. Then he listened to the brisk questioning and prescribing.

“You feeling much _mal’_? Well, not so much whisky next time; get to
work!”

Stephen heard a low-voiced question from some one. Then again the
doctor’s decided answer: “Of course not! Hospital fee does not pay for
crutches. What do you want for a dollar, anyhow?”

He listened with interest as each man described his symptoms or his
needs. “It makes me feel almost well to hear about all those things,” he
reflected. The broad shoulders and cheerful smile of the doctor appeared
in the doorway, and with heavy footsteps the owner of these two pleasant
possessions approached Loring.

“Feeling pretty good this morning?” asked the doctor.

Stephen answered that he was.

“That’s fine,” exclaimed the doctor. “At one time you were a pretty
tough case. I thought we’d have the trouble of a funeral in camp. Swell
affairs they are, here. But say, did you ever see a funeral in Phœnix?
Why, they _trots_ ’em in Phœnix!”

Loring expressed his admiration for such a spirit of activity, while the
doctor was propping him up in bed, and adjusting the bandages.

“I guess you won’t have to work for some days,” remarked the doctor. “It
is lucky you did one day’s work, as it just pays for your hospital fee
and medicine.”

“Hard luck, doctor,” laughed Stephen, “but that had to go for traveling
expenses.” Hearing light footsteps on the porch outside, the doctor went
to the door. Loring heard him answer some question.

“Well, Miss Cameron, I guess it won’t kill him to see you. It may even be
good for him. Come in by all means!”

Loring looked up and saw framed in the doorway, like a picture, a girl
frank of eyes and fresh of coloring. A little Scotch cap was perched on
the waves of her tawny hair. Her gown was of dark blue, relieved at neck
and throat by bands of white, and girdled by a ribbon of red and blue
plaid. Across her arms lay a sheaf of yellow and red wild flowers such
as creep into abundant life among the forbidding rocks. The vision seemed
to bring a new tide of life and vigor to Loring. He forgot his weakness
and raised himself for a moment on his elbow; but the effort was too much
for him, and he sank back exhausted on his pillow.

The girl hesitated for an instant. Then she stepped quickly over to his
cot.

“This is Miss Cameron, Loring,” explained the doctor; “she has come to
thank you for what you have done.”

The girl impulsively bent over him, and took his big, weak hand in her
own small, strong one.

“Oh, I am glad that you are better. I would have come before to see you,
but the doctor would not allow it.”

Loring looked malevolently at the doctor.

“How can I thank you?” she went on.

So fascinated was Stephen by the eager breathless way in which she spoke,
that he hardly understood what she was saying. With difficulty he raised
himself again on his elbow. “Why it was all in the day’s work of a
flagman,” he said. “There is nothing at all for which to thank me.”

She shook her head in denial. “It is not in the day’s work of a flagman
to risk his life for someone whom he has never seen,” she said quickly.
“There is nothing that I can say which can possibly express my gratitude;
but you do know, don’t you?” As she spoke she looked at him appealingly.

Stephen murmured something, he scarcely knew what, in reply, and was
conscious of wishing vaguely that the doctor would not look at him.

Miss Cameron laid her armful of flowers beside him. As she dropped the
red and yellow sheaf, Stephen noticed the delicate modeling of her wrist,
and smiled appreciatively. “When you are better, my father will see you,”
continued the girl. “He will reward you, and—” With her usual quick
intuition she noticed the shade of annoyance on his face. “That is,” she
went on rather slowly, “he will do what he can for you.”

“Thank you,” said Loring, “but I think that in two or three weeks I shall
be able to work again.”

“I am afraid if I let you talk any more, you won’t ever be able to work,”
interrupted the doctor.

“I will come again to-morrow,” said Jean. “If there is anything that you
want, you must let us send it to you. Good-bye, and thank you!” Her
voice as she spoke had the quality of sympathy.

He watched her for a moment as she stopped by the other cots, inquiring
in pretty broken Spanish for the welfare of the occupants. “Hang it,” he
thought, “I wish she would not look at that Mexican in just the way that
she looked at me!” With his eyes he followed her as long as he could,
then when the tents shut her from view, he closed his eyes and imagined
that she was still near.

He picked up the flowers and buried his face in them. Their sweetness
brought up a wave of memories of the past, of things that he had thrown
away. He bit his lip hard and under his breath swore bitterly at himself.
Then the fragrance of the flowers soothed him, and he lay back on his
pillow thinking of the girl who had brought them. She seemed so strange
a figure in the life of Quentin, so aloof, so unrelated! He could not
adjust her to her setting. At last it occurred to him that it was not
necessary for him to adjust her—in fact that she and her setting were
none of his business.

Then tired, with the flowers still crushed in his hand, he fell asleep to
the accompaniment of the monotonous pound of the smelter. He dreamed of
days gone by, yet through it all, vaguely, intangibly, there drifted a
girl, the tenderness of whose eyes was blended with the impersonality of
pity.

As they walked together across the camp, Miss Cameron remarked to the
doctor: “It is strange how the rough life here seems to train men. He
seemed to be almost a gentleman.”

Doctor Kline smiled in an amused fashion.

“There’s a lot here, Miss Cameron, who seem ‘almost a gentleman,’ and
they are not the best kind, either. In fact they come pretty near to
being the worst. Arizona is not the graveyard of reputations. It’s the
hell that comes after that. Men drift here from every corner of the
world, and from every sort of life. The undercurrent here is full of
derelicts. Nobody questions about the past or the future here. They just
drift, and it is not so very long before most of them sink.”

In the course of forty years of varied experience, Dr. Kline had never
made so long a speech. He stopped short, and, flushing, looked quickly at
Miss Cameron to see if she were laughing at him. Her serious expression
reassured him, and he looked at her again; only this time it was for the
purpose of admiration.

They had reached the door of her father’s house. It was called a house
and not a shack, partly as a matter of etiquette, being the manager’s
dwelling, and partly because it had a porch. Also it possessed the added
grandeur of two small wings, which were joined to the one-story, central
building.

Jean said good-bye to the doctor and went into the house. Her father was
busy at his desk with some large blue prints of the workings; but he
stopped when she entered.

“How is the man getting along?” he asked. “I hope that the poor devil
isn’t laid up so that he can never swing a pick again.”

“He is much better,” answered Jean, as she dropped into a big chair
beside her father’s desk, “but, Father, do these men do nothing else all
their lives beside swing picks?”

Her father smiled, amused at the earnest manner. “Well, my dear, they are
likely to do so, unless they develop aptitude for ‘polishing’ the head
of a drill, as they say here. In other words, become miners, instead of
‘muckers,’ in which case they get their three dollars a day instead of
two. The difference in social position, however, which I suppose is what
you mean, is not very great.”

“I thought that the West was a place where men rose fast from the ranks,
where the opportunities for success lay at each man’s feet,” said Jean
thoughtfully.

“That is partially true,” replied her father; “but you must remember
steadiness is needed as much here as anywhere, and that is a quality
which most men, of a type such as I judge this Loring to be, have not.
Also to reach success here they have to swim through a river of whisky,
and most of them drown in transit.”

Jean sat for a moment in silence, the sun playing tricks of light
and shade across the ripples of her hair and in the depths of her
level-gazing eyes.

At length she exclaimed suddenly: “Why is it that they all drink?”

“Why?” echoed her father. “I have been so occupied with the result that
I have had no time to consider the cause. The fact is—they have no
other form of relaxation here. Besides, when men work seven days a week
all the year round, after a while they reach a point where they must
do something to break the tedium, and drinking whisky is a convenient
method.”

“Then why do you make them work on Sunday?” asked Jean. “Why not let them
rest on that day?”

Her father laughed. “Well, it doesn’t sound logical after what I have
just said, but if they get Sunday to rest, they are all so drunk that we
have not enough men on Monday to start the mines. We tried it once. I
suppose that the only explanation of the way the men drink here is that
they do. I think it is a germ in the air.”

Mr. Cameron turned again to his work. Jean sat silently beside him
watching the firm lines with which he traced new winzes, drifts, and
cross-cuts on the prints, the precision with which he wrote his comments
on the borders.

It was a strong face which bent over the table, strong, stern, and
telling of a Scotch ancestry in which Mr. Cameron took great pride, for
had not one of his forefathers fought in the army of the Lord of the
Isles, and another been a faithful follower to the end of the hopeless
Stuart cause!

Clearly loyalty was a tradition of their race, and typical of that
allegiance which still made all Scotch things dear to these two
descendants of the old Highlanders, which led the father to hang on the
bare walls of his cabin the shield of the Camerons with its armorial
bearings of “or, three bars gules,” and impelled Jean to wear a Scotch
cap, and always, somewhere about her dress, a touch of the red and blue
Cameron plaid.

Now, as Jean stood at her father’s side, it was easy to see the family
likeness, for all the softening of age and sex, which had changed the
lines of his face to the curves of hers. The same spirit looked out from
both pairs of eyes, and if ever there should come a conflict of wills
between the two, there would be as pretty a fight as once happened at
Inverlochie, when Cameron and the Lord Protector fell foul of each other.

Jean Cameron had been only a month in Quentin. She had begged to join
her father and he had consented, although he had assured her that she
would dislike the life. But from the first she had loved the place and
everything about it. The atmosphere of crude labor, the men thrusting
down into the mountains and drawing out the green-crusted ore, the rides
across the trails, had brought her a sense of exhilaration.

She had expected to find in the West the romance of freedom, of wildness,
of the natural type. Instead, she had found, and it was infinitely more
fascinating, the romance of work, of risk borne daily as a matter of
course, not from love of danger, but because it meant bread. To a girl
of her keen perception there was a meaning in it all. It was the first
glimpse that she had ever had of a world where the little things of life
had no existence and where the big things were the little things.




CHAPTER IV


During his convalescence, Stephen had many callers. Mr. Cameron paid him
a short visit, and briskly and efficiently expressed his gratitude. At
least this was the way in which Loring characterized it to himself, after
his departure. From motives of kindness, most of the foremen and men from
the office force came in to see him; from motives of self-interest, the
visits were generally repeated, for Loring combined a drollness, a vein
of narrative, and a wide range of experiences.

McKay was one of those who dropped in frequently to discuss the affairs
of the camp in short, jerky sentences, which alternated with the puffs
from his stubby black pipe. Stephen, by a great amount of reticence as
to his own personal affairs, had won McKay’s respect as a wise man. He
was by nature of an exuberant temperament; but experience had taught him
that taciturnity was the best way to acquire a reputation for solidity
in a community. About four years previous to this time, when he had
embarked in life in the West, the first man under whom he had worked had
commented upon his garrulous propensities rather caustically. His words:
“You don’t want to talk too much in this world, young feller; it ain’t
pleasant,” had been borne in upon Loring to the great improvement of his
character. McKay had once in the course of a discussion of different
men’s capabilities expressed the Western view very tersely. He had said:
“The wisest man I ever knew was a fellow in Nogales. I never heard him
open his mouth once!”

Loring’s visitors, however, were not all of such a character. Every
morning Miss Cameron came into the hospital and greeted Stephen with
a gay smile that made pain seem a base currency with which to pay for
such happiness. He had come to look forward to the few minutes during
which she talked to him as the oasis of his day. As time went on, his
thoughts of her grew more absorbing. A man when convalescent can, with
the greatest of ease, fall in love with an abstract ideal, so that when a
very charming concrete example was near, the process of dreaming speedily
crystallized to a point where Stephen found himself very much in love.
For many hours after one of her visits he lay staring at the ceiling,
trying to find some adjective by which to describe her. Failing in his
direct search, he fell back on the method of question and answer. Was she
beautiful? he asked himself. It was many years since he had seen women of
her class, and it was hard for him to find a comparative standard. He was
certain that she was a joy to look upon. Had she sympathy? Her kindness
to the sick Mexicans in the hospital was a ready answer to that question.
Was she feminine? She had a quality of comradeship and companionship
combined, which previously he had only associated with men. Yet back of
it was a latent coquetry, and unconsciously it piqued him to feel that
towards him there was no trace of it. Strive as he would, he could find
no word which could fit all the opposing sides of her character, her
aloof frankness, her subtle force.

“Fall-in-love-withable-ness,” he reflected, “is not a recognized word,
and yet it is the one that describes her.”

At last came the days when with effort at first, then with ease, he could
stroll from shack to shack about the camp. He often spent his time
in the assay office, watching the assayer tend the delicate balances,
or precipitate the metal from the various shades of blue liquid which
stood on the ledge by the window in neat rows of test-tubes. Then there
was the _tienda_, where, sitting on a box in the corner, he could watch
the Mexicans as they crowded up to the bookkeeper’s window, loudly
calling out their numbers, and asking for coupons. The air in the store
was always thick with the smell of “_Ricorte_” or “_Pedro_” tobacco.
There were also in the glass cases gaudy tinfoil-wrapped cigars, “_Dos
Nationes_,” which the more lavish and wealthy purchased, and which added
a slightly more expensive hue to the smoky atmosphere. Often, too, he
would loaf about the draughting-room, where at first he amused himself by
drawing exceedingly impressionistic sketches on the bits of paper that
were scattered about.

Stephen possessed that rare quality of being able to loaf without being
in the way. His loafing added a pleasant background to work that others
were doing, instead of being an irritant. Gradually he came to helping
Duncan, the surveyor, to check up his figures, and, much to the latter’s
surprise, in speedy fashion worked out logarithms for him. Loring as
a subordinate always did so well that it made his incompetency, when
given responsibility, doubly disappointing. Duncan, whose mathematical
methods were, though no doubt safer, far slower, grew to have an
excessive opinion of Loring’s ability, and expressed it about the camp.
He often questioned Stephen as to where he had acquired his knowledge of
logarithms; but Loring always told him that he had merely picked it up at
a way station on the journey of life. As curiosity about others rarely
goes deep in Arizona, the subject had been finally taken for granted, and
dropped.

One day while Stephen was working with Duncan, Mr. Cameron entered the
room, and said abruptly: “Well, Loring, are you about ready for work?”

“Yes,” said Stephen, “I was going to work for Mr. McKay again to-morrow.”

Mr. Cameron paused for a moment, and looked him over carefully. He
noticed the clear light of the eyes, and he was pleased. He noticed the
indecisive lines at the corners of the mouth, hesitated, and almost
imperceptibly shook his head. Years of experience had taught him to read
men’s faces well. This was the first which he had ever liked, and yet not
quite trusted. The combination of feeling puzzled him.

Loring had begun to flush a trifle under the sharp scrutiny, before Mr.
Cameron again spoke.

“I was thinking of giving you a position on the hoist. The man on Number
Three is going to quit to-morrow.” Mr. Cameron said “quit,” with a little
snap of the jaw, that left no doubt as to why the man was going to leave.
“Do you know anything about the work?” he went on.

Loring’s “No, but I think perhaps I can learn,” seemed to irritate Mr.
Cameron, who exclaimed: “Good Lord, man! ‘think perhaps you may be able
to learn.’ ‘Think perhaps!’ Here you are going to have men’s lives in
your hands. It is no place for a man who thinks ‘perhaps.’ Still I will
try you. You will receive three dollars and a half for eight hours, and
overtime, extra. At that the work is not hard. You can go up to the shaft
now. Colson, the man whom you are going to try to replace, is on shift,
and he will teach you what he can. You go on the pay-roll to-morrow.”
Cutting short Stephen’s thanks, Mr. Cameron abruptly left the office.

Duncan began to chuckle quietly.

“It is damned lucky for you, Loring, that you didn’t go on much further
with your theories of ‘thinking perhaps.’ I don’t know where you were
before you came here, and I don’t care; but here it will help you some to
remember that it is only what you _do_ know or _can_ do that counts.”

Stephen took cheerfully this good advice, and after securing his hat,
he stretched himself comfortably in the doorway, then started up the
hill to the mine. In the hot glare he climbed the tramway which led
from the hungry ore cribs by the smelter to Number Three hoist. He was
still weak, and the climb tired him considerably. Several times, in the
course of the few hundred yards, he stopped and rested. As many times
more he was compelled to step to one side of the track in order to let
the funny, squat, little ore cars whiz by him, the brake cable behind
them stretching taut, and whining with the peculiar note of metal under
tension. When at last, tired and out of breath, he reached the hoist
box, Colson gave him a sour greeting.

“Damned boiler leaks like a sieve. Have to keep stoking her all the time.
Engine is always getting centered. Wish you joy! It’s the worst job I
ever tackled.”

In answer to Loring’s request for instructions, Colson slowly wiped his
hands on a bit of oily waste, and having taken a fresh chew of tobacco,
proceeded to explain the working of the drum hoist, and the signal code.

For the rest of the afternoon, under Colson’s supervision, Stephen
managed the clutch that governed the cable, and at the ever recurring
clang of one bell, ran the ore buckets with great speed up the shaft.
Whenever the signal of three bells, followed by one, rang out, he brought
the buckets slowly and decorously to the surface, for that told of a
human load. Loring, in spite of apparent clumsiness, possessed a great
amount of deftness, and he was soon running the hoist fairly well,
although the jerks with which the engine was brought to a standstill told
the miners that a new and inexperienced hand was at the clutch.

At half-past three the men of the shift began to signal to come to the
surface. Loring asked Colson how, when the shift did not end till four,
this was allowed. Colson explained that as the mine was non-Union, and
employed mostly Mexican labor, the piece work system was in use. When
the men had filled a certain number of buckets, they could come to the
surface regardless of the time. The result had been that more work was
accomplished than formerly, while the miners had shorter hours.

“That is all very pleasant,” reflected Stephen, “if the company, having
seen how active the men can be, does not increase the number of buckets
required.”

Shortly before four o’clock they were relieved by the engineer for the
next shift, who undertook the task of lowering the waiting men. Then
Colson and Loring, picking up their coats, walked slowly down the hill
into the camp. At the smelter Loring parted with Colson and walked over
to his own quarters. Since his dismissal from the hospital, he had been
sharing a tent with one of the shift bosses—a man about whom Stephen knew
little except the fact that he was named Lynn, and that he never washed.
The company rented tents with board floors, for two dollars a month, so
that when the quarters were shared, household expenses were not large.

As Loring threw back the wire-screened door of the tent, Lynn, from
within, greeted him with mild interest.

“I hear they are goin’ to try you on Number Three. Now over where I used
to work in Black Eagle, they wouldn’t let a green man even smell the
hoist. It ain’t safe, nor legal. But I suppose the Boss had to give you
_some_ job. All wrong, though.”

Loring kept discreet silence in answer to this, and after fetching a
bucket of water, proceeded to wash with many splashes. This annoyed Lynn,
who grunted: “How can a man do any work with you wallowin’ round like a
herd of steers?” Then he returned to his previous occupation of poring
over location papers for some claims of his “up yonder.” These claims
were the joke of the camp, on account of their remoteness from any known
ore vein, yet Lynn, unaffected by the waves of exultation or depression
which from time to time swept through the camp, year by year persisted in
doggedly doing his assessment work.

In Arizona almost every man, no matter what his occupation or station,
has “some claims up in the hills.” These claims furnish the romance
of his life, for always beneath the grimmest present lies the golden
“perhaps” of a rich strike.

Stephen sat on the edge of his cot, rolling a cigarette and watching
Lynn’s profile.

“There are some people,” he meditated, “who would not look cheerful if
they were paid so much a smile.” When Lynn had finished his papers, he
rose with solemn deliberative slowness, took down a black felt hat from a
wooden peg on the tent pole, transferred his toothpick from the left side
of his mouth to the right, and slouched towards the door.

“Come on over to grub!” he called back. Loring joined him, and together
they walked over to the company mess.

As they picked their way along the sordid road, Stephen looked at the
dirty houses of the Mexicans with a feeling of repulsion. They were built
from all the refuse that could be gathered: old sheet iron, quilts,
suwara rods, a few boards, broken pieces of glass and tarred paper.
A broken-down wagon, on one wheel, lurching in a dissipated fashion
against a boulder, added to the disreputability of the tin-can-strewn
road. While he and Lynn were plodding moodily along, Stephen suddenly
heard behind him the clatter of horses’ hoofs. He turned. The scene no
longer seemed sordid, for riding up the road was Miss Cameron. Around her
rode five or six little girls,—the camp children,—their legs, too short
to reach the stirrups, stuck in the leathers, their hair flying in all
directions, while their stiff little gingham dresses fluttered in the
breeze. Jean, riding a gray pony, sat clean limbed and lithe across the
saddle. The deep full modeling of breast and thigh, the proud carriage
of the shoulders, and the easy swing of her body to the lope of the
horse—all bespoke high health and keen enjoyment. Her khaki skirt fell on
either side in yellow folds against the oiled brown of the saddle. She
wore no hat, and the sunlight struck clear and sparkling upon her tawny
hair. Her color was fresh from the sting of the wind.

Stephen stepped aside to let the little cavalcade pass; but Miss Cameron
reined in her pony, and smilingly greeted him and his companion. Her
convoy of little girls bade her a grateful “good-bye,” and scattered to
their homes in the various parts of the camp.

“You seem to be a ‘Pied Piper of Hamelin,’” remarked Stephen, looking up
at her. Lynn for some reason appeared uneasy.

“No, I don’t decoy them,” she answered. “In fact, I try hard to get away
from them, but they are not allowed to ride alone in the valley, and
consequently whenever they see my pony saddled they swarm about me like
bees and cannot be shaken off. Are you sure that you are strong enough to
be out of the hospital?” Miss Cameron added, scrutinizing Stephen with
friendly solicitude.

Loring was busying himself with the problem of whether her eyes were
really gray or blue. He gathered his wits together however to answer that
he was growing better steadily.

“Well, good night, and be sure to continue to get better!” The girl shook
the reins of her pony, and galloped off towards the corral.

Lynn could no longer contain himself.

“Look a-here, Loring. I don’t know where you was brought up, but Miss
Cameron is a lady, if ever I seed one, and whar I come from, gentlemen
don’t call ladies ‘Pi-eyed Pipers.’”

Stephen, with a start, came out of his wistful mood, then almost
collapsed with laughter. Lynn stalked along in silent wrath, not speaking
another word until they entered the mess room.

It was half-past five, and the room was still crowded, though that many
had come and gone was attested by the pools of coffee on the zinc tables,
the bread crumbs on the floor, and the great piles of dirty dishes. In a
mining camp five o’clock is the fashionable supper hour, and he who comes
late has cause to rue it. Loring and his companion cleared places for
themselves, and after the necessary preliminaries of wiping their cracked
plates on their sleeves, and obtaining their share from the great bowl of
stew in the center of the table, they proceeded to eat in businesslike
silence. There had been a time when such surroundings would have taken
away Stephen’s appetite, but that was far away. The proprietor walked
frequently up and down the room, answering mildly the contumely heaped
upon the food. He carried a large bucket from which he replenished the
coffee cups. Stephen quickly reached the dessert stage of the meal, and
the proprietor set that course before him. It consisted of two very
shiny canned peaches, floating in a dubious juice.

The man who owned the eating house was of a quiet, depressed nature
developed by years of endeavor to please boarders’ appetites at one
dollar a day and make a profit of seventy-five cents. Ordinarily dessert
consisted of one canned peach. Loring’s double allowance was a silent
tribute to the fact that he did not rail at the food as did the others,
and to the fact that once, when the purveyor had “spread himself” and
served canned oysters, Stephen had thanked him. This had been the third
time that the man had been thanked in all his life, and he stowed it away
in his strange placid brain.

When Stephen had finished his meal, he rose and joined the group of
men, who, as customary after supper, were lounging on the steps. The
proprietor, wearing his usual apologetic smile, soon joined them.

“Pretty good supper, boys?” he remarked tentatively.

Some one in the crowd moaned drearily. “Say, I know what good food
is. I used to eat up at the Needles, at a place so swell they give
Mexicans pie. Reg’lar sort of Harvey house, that was.” The proprietor,
still smiling, sadly withdrew, and the crowd returned to its former
occupations: commenting on the thin ponies of the Mexicans who galloped
by, and trying to catch the eyes of the señoritas as they strolled past,
arm in arm, seemingly stolid alike to the attentions and to the jests of
the men.

Many of the Indians, who had been brought from the San Carlos Reservation
to work on the railway grade, were in camp to make their simple purchases
of supplies. Stephen noticed with disgust the way the braves sat astride
their ponies with indolent grace, while beside them walked the squaws,
with the papooses slung in blankets over their shoulders.

“Good example of the ‘noble redman,’ isn’t it!” he exclaimed to McKay.

“Well, what can you expect?” chuckled the latter. “You know in their
marriage ceremony the brave puts the bit of his pony in the mouth of his
prospective bride. Sort of a symbol of equality and companionship between
man and wife, I reckon.”

As the twilight turned to dusk, the group gradually dissolved, till
Loring alone was left on the steps. It was peaceful there, and as he
drew on his old black pipe, a healthy feeling of contentment permeated
him. He felt that he could do his new work well. His last lessons, he
thought, had taught him concentration. He saw himself working up again
to a position of power. For some reason that even to himself was only
vaguely defined, he felt that now it was all infinitely worth while. As
for drink, he merely thought of it as an episode of the past. Stephen’s
worst fault lay in not grappling with his enemies until they had him by
the throat. As he sat smoking and dreaming, he was aroused by a cheerful
salutation.

“Howdy, me bludder? Me bludder, he feel fine?”

Stephen looked up to see Hop Wah standing in the road before him. With
his derby hat, yellow face, coal black pig-tail, and with a five-cent
cigar drooping from one corner of his mouth Wah was a strange combination
of Occident and Orient.

“Fine, thanks!” answered Loring, “but what are you doing up here in camp
now, Wah?”

Wah proudly puffed at his cigar, and blew a wreath of gray smoke from
between his flat lips.

“Me cook for the company here, now. Makee pie ebbrey day. Oh, lubbly,
lubbly pie! Me bludder come to back door, and I give him some. Oh,
lubbly, lubbly pie! Goodee bye. Goodee bye, me bludder!” Then Wah
departed in the direction of the _tienda_, marching cheerfully along to
his old refrain: “La, la, boom, boom; la, la, boom, boom.”

“The crazy Chinaman!” laughed Stephen. “He certainly enjoys life,
though.” Loring rose and knocked out the ashes of his pipe on the steps.
Then he walked towards his tent. They were just dumping the slag from
the smelter, and he watched the glowing slag pot shoot along the track
in front of him. As if by magic it checked at the end of the heap, and
poured its molten, flashing stream far over the embankment. The whole
camp glowed with a clear, all-suffusing orange light. The outline of the
surrounding mountains loomed out blue-black. The glow faded to dull red,
then dwindled to a mere thread of light, then disappeared, and all was
dark again.

During the next two months, with a concentration of which he had never
before thought himself capable, Stephen slaved at learning his task. To
feel that in his hands lay the lives of the sixteen men of the shift
gave him a sense of responsibility, which in all his former work had been
completely lacking. He was so faithful in the performance of his duties
that even the critical Mr. Cameron was secretly pleased, while Jean
watched with growing interest her father’s experiment, and felt that at
last Loring had ceased to drift.

Stephen, on his part, carried in his heart one memory which shortened
his working day, gladdened his leisure hours, and left no time for vain
regrets. This was the thought of one evening which he had spent at Mr.
Cameron’s house, on the occasion of a “Gringo” dance, whereto all the
workers in camp, except the Mexicans, had been bidden, in celebration of
Washington’s birthday.

Often did Stephen recall the flag-draped room, the Mexican orchestra,
which in color resembled a slice of strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate
ice-cream. He remembered the lantern-lighted porch, its lamps blending
with the soft darkness of the southern night, hung with its own lanterns
of stars.

But all these were only a background of his real memories, which were
the warm touch of Jean’s hand, as he had held it in the dance for five
blessed minutes, and the sound of her voice as she had talked with him on
the porch, in the brief intervals when the guests had gathered around the
musicians, to invoke the “Star Spangled Banner” and urge that long might
it “Wa-a-ave!”

What they had talked about Stephen scarcely knew; but he had a confused
impression that under the commonplaces of their talk had lurked, on her
part, a hint of friendship which made his dreams perhaps not quite so
wild, for he recognized in her something softly invincible which once
having given friendship would never withdraw it, though the skies fell.
In fact, while Loring was playing cards over the mess table one evening,
Jean was putting her friendship to the proof in another quarter of the
camp.

“Father, he is a gentleman.” Jean made this remark after a period
of silence, during which she had sat on the porch of the shack,
contemplating the moon as it rode high in the unclouded sky.

“Who is a gentleman? The man in the moon?” As he asked the question,
Mr. Cameron withdrew his cigar from his mouth, and pulled the smoke in
leisurely rings into the air.

“No,” Jean answered, “not the man in the moon; the man on the hoist,
Stephen Loring.”

“What made you think of him?”

“I met him this afternoon in the valley. That put him into my head.”

“Well, I advise you to take him out again.”

“Not at all. I shall keep him there. He interests me, because he is a
gentleman.”

“What are the hall-marks of a gentleman?”

“Oh,” said Jean slowly, “there are a hundred little signs which cannot be
suppressed. A deacon may turn into a horse thief, or a millionaire into
a beggar; but once a gentleman, always a gentleman. Mr. Loring tries to
hide it; but he cannot. Oh, haven’t you noticed the difference?”

“Between Loring and the other men? No, I cannot say that I have. But I am
not particularly interested in the question whether my hoist engineers
are gentlemen.”

“Don’t you think you ought to be?”

“Why?”

Jean clasped her hands around her knee and looked out over the dim hills
bathed in the mist of the moonlight. After a while she said: “It must be
very lonely for a gentleman in a camp like this.”

“If you are thinking of Loring,” said her father, “he is busy all day and
he can go to the mess in the evening.”

“The mess!” exclaimed Jean scornfully. “Yes, fine place for a gentleman,
where the men chew tobacco and drink whisky all the evening, and tell
stories as long as they are broad!”

“All terribly offensive no doubt to a sensitive soul like your Mr.
Loring,” answered Mr. Cameron. “Perhaps,” he added with fine sarcasm,
“you would like to have him take his meals with us.”

“Yes, I would like to ask him here sometime. It is good in you to think
of it,” replied his daughter calmly.

“It cannot be done, Jean. It cannot be done,” Mr. Cameron said with
decision. “Discrimination among the men breeds discontent. I think that
we have done full enough for Loring as it is.”

“Do you?” Jean responded, with the audacity of a hot temper. “Well, I do
not; but then it was my life that he saved, and perhaps that makes me see
the thing differently. I am thinking that when a man saves your life you
cannot get rid of the obligation by throwing him a job, as you might toss
a bone to a dog. I am thinking that he has some claim on the life that he
has given back, and that the other person should spend a little of it in
doing something for him.”

“And, pray, what has his being a gentleman to do with all this?” asked
Mr. Cameron, whose wrath took the form of sarcasm. “Suppose that Colson
or Lynn had saved your life, would you have wished to have him at the
house?”

“Neither of them would have wished to come.”

“That is not honest, Jean. You know that they would; but you would never
ask them, except to one of your camp dances. You would not if they had
saved your life twenty times.”

“I should try to do something for them, something that they would like;
but if people are not of your kind there is no use in inviting them.
There is no kindness in it in the end.”

“Perhaps,” said her father, “there would prove to be no kindness in the
end in what you wish to do for Loring.”

“Very well. There is no use in arguing with a Scotchman; but I warn
you that I shall make it up to him in friendliness. The other men can
scarcely object to that.”

With these words Jean rose from the steps and, passing through the door,
entered the little living-room where she picked up a guitar from the
window-seat, and to its accompaniment began to sing in a low voice. What
was the song she chose? Why, it was “Jock o’ Hazeldean.” If ever a song
expressed flat mutiny it is that one, and it lost nothing in expression
from Jean Cameron’s rendering, from the beginning where the heroine
refuses to be commanded or cajoled, to the last line where “She’s o’er
the border and awa’ wi’ Jock o’ Hazeldean.”

Mr. Cameron was justified in being angry; but who could resist a voice
like Jean Cameron’s? Evidently not Jean’s father, for when the girl
came out again and smiling laid her hand upon his shoulder, Mr. Cameron
relaxed the grimness of his expression.

“Well, well, lassie, we will see what can be done for your gentleman
engineer,” he said encouragingly; “but don’t be ‘o’er the border and
awa’’ with Jock, till we know a little more about him, and about what is
thought of him in Hazeldean.”




CHAPTER V


“Oh, Loring. Have you heard the news?” Stephen, on his way to breakfast,
on the morning of the Fourth of July, stopped until McKay joined him.

“No. What is the matter?”

“There is to be a half holiday to-day,” went on McKay.

“The devil there is! I did not know that such things existed this side of
heaven.”

“In which case you would never see one,” laughed McKay. “But to-day there
is to be one. In my opinion, we owe it to Miss Cameron’s influence with
her father. Every one can knock off work at twelve o’clock. Look at the
notice!”

On the office wall, beneath the usual “_No Entrada—Oficina_,” was a big
placard which conveyed the news in English and Spanish. Stephen read it
with satisfaction.

“I think that will make breakfast taste rather well. What is your
opinion, Mac?”

“That comes pretty close to my jedgments,” answered McKay. “Hey, Wah,
you crazy Chinaman; quit hammering that gong!”

This last was addressed to Hop Wah, who was standing on the porch of the
eating house, hammering with a railroad spike upon an iron gong.

“Me hab to. Else me lazy pig bludders allee late. La, la, boom, boom!
Breakfas’. Nice hot cakes. Oh, lubbly, lubbly cakes; eggs this mornin’.
Goodee canned eggs. Oh, lubbly; la, la”—Wah fled precipitately into the
kitchen, as Loring and McKay made gestures of killing him.

They were the first at the mess, and while the sleepy stragglers filed
in, one by one, they ate their oatmeal in comfort. They took a lazy
pleasure in watching the surprise, and listening to the ejaculations,
with which the news of the half holiday was received. “Thin Jim,” who
always presided at the head of the table, on account of his so-called
“boarding house arm,” which enabled him to be of vast service as a
waiter, professed to be so astounded at the news as to be incapable of
performing his duties.

“What with a dance on Washington’s birthday, and a half holiday to-day,
why, we’re becomin’ sort of a leisure class,” he remarked.

“Well, look out that you don’t deteriorate under the strain,” laughed
Loring. “Has any one a match?” The only real system in all Loring’s
habits of life was his custom of rising early enough to have time for a
smoke between breakfast and work.

In the afternoon the camp was alive with shouts and hilarity. On the slag
dump two baseball games were in progress, of such excitement that the
umpires had early withdrawn; while some one had established in the gulch
an impromptu shooting gallery, whence the quick rattle of reports told of
financial success.

Stephen sat with Duncan on the steps of the assay office while the latter
checked up his figures for the morning’s work.

“The ore from Number Three is running six per cent these days,” he
exclaimed, as he tossed his note-book into the office.

Together they watched the trail leading out from the camp, down which
rode little groups of horsemen, lounging in the saddle. The smoke from
their cigarettes trailed thinly blue behind them.

“There goes domesticity for you, Steve!” said Duncan. He pointed to a
family group riding by. Old Tom Jenkins, the smelter boss, with his
wife, was starting for a trip to the river. Three children were strung in
various attitudes across their saddles.

“It seems as if every one were going for a ride,” commented Stephen.
“Shall we fall in line with the popular amusement?”

“I haven’t got a horse,” answered Duncan, “and all the company _caballos_
will be out to-day. I heard old Hodges down at the corral after lunch
cursing like a pirate at the amount of saddling that he had to do. Right
in the midst of his growling, Miss Cameron came along, and wanted a
horse. The old man pretty nearly fell over himself trying to accommodate
her. There’s something about her that seems to affect people that way.
Quite a convenient trait, I should think!”

Stephen agreed silently, and in his mind added considerably more, then
strode off to the corral for his pony.

As he slung the saddle across his horse’s back and cinched the girth, he
fumbled a little, for his mind was not upon the task, but upon a certain
curl, which defying combs or hairpins, waved capriciously at the turn of
a girl’s neck.

Horses, however, have little sympathy with sentiment, and while
Loring tugged absent-mindedly at the straps, the little beast puffed
and squealed, trying to arrange for a comfortable space between his
round, gray belly and the girth. Stephen, placing his left hand on the
head-piece, and his right on the pommel, swung himself into the saddle,
in spite of the pony’s antics. Soon he was loping out of camp, and down
towards the river. The clear sunshine struck his neck beneath his broad
hat; the alkali dust tasted smoky and almost invigorating.

As he left the camp behind him, he laughed and sang softly to himself,
beating with his unspurred heel the time of his song against his pony’s
ribs. He blessed the extravagance which had led him to invest half a
month’s pay in “_Muy Bueno_,” as the horse was christened to indicate
the owner’s assurance that he was “very fine.” Leaning forward, Loring
playfully pulled “_Muy Bueno’s_” ears. The pony shook its head in
annoyance. This was no holiday for him.

After a short distance the ground began to rise, and the pony, with
lowered head, buckled to his task, resolutely attacking the trail which
zig-zagged up the steep mountainside.

Half way up the rise stood a saloon. As Loring approached it, he heard
roars of laughter. In it there was that quality which only liquor can
produce. As he drew nearer he could see the reason for the laughter.
Before the saloon was a girl on horseback, her pony balking, and flatly
refusing to proceed. The doorway was full of half drunken miners, calling
out advice of varied import. The saloon keeper, himself a bit flushed,
called out: “She’s got Tennessee Bob’s old pony. He never would go by
here without taking a drink, and I reckon the horse sort of inherited the
habit.”

Stephen took in the situation at once. Riding up quickly, he cut the
stubborn pony across the flank with his quirt. The animal quivered for a
moment, then as another stinging blow fell, galloped on up the trail.

“Hell, Loring! what you want to do a thing like that for? Funniest thing
I’ve seen in a month,” growled a man in the crowd.

Stephen only waved his hand in answer and rode on after the girl, whom
he had no difficulty in recognizing. A couple of hundred yards of hard
riding brought him up with her.

Jean’s cheeks were still crimson, but it was as much from laughter as
embarrassment.

“Really, Mr. Loring,” she exclaimed, half breathlessly, “you seem to be
always in the position of a rescuer.”

“Your horses do seem to have a taste for adventure,” he replied. “Perhaps
I may be allowed to accompany you on your ride this afternoon,” continued
Stephen. “There might, you know, be other saloons which your pony was in
the habit of visiting.”

“I think it would be safer,” assented Jean.

They were nearing the crest of the hill, and the trail broadened so that
they could ride abreast. A bevy of quail flushed suddenly up from the
ground, strumming the air sharply. A little further on, a jack-rabbit
jumped into the center of the trail, looked about, then dove into the
underbrush. To a mind in its normal condition, these things were but
commonplaces. To Stephen it seemed as if all nature were in an exuberant
mood. The very creak of the leather, or ring of steel, as now and then
one of the horses’ hoofs struck on stone, fell in with the tenor of his
spirits. There are few men who could ride over the Arizona hills with
Jean Cameron and doubt the gloriousness of existence.

At the summit they drew rein to breathe the horses. Before them lay the
valley of the “Dripping Spring Wash.” For miles the belt of white sand
in the bottom stretched away darkened with clumps of drab sage-brush,
or with tall wavy lines which they knew must be cactus. Whiter than the
sand, far out in the valley, a tent gleamed. Here and there a few moving
specks betokened range cattle. Framing it all were great mountains, as
irregular and barren as floe ice,—blue, purple, and brown, with streaks
of yellow where the hot rays of the sun struck upon bare earth. All the
detail of the rocky contour showed in the clear air. The mountains at
the end of the valley, forty miles away, seemed as distinct as if within
a mile. In silence the riders sat their horses, looking straight before
them.

“I never knew how big life could be until I saw Arizona,” exclaimed Jean.

“I never knew how big life could be until—”

“Until what, Mr. Loring?”

Loring’s answer was to guide the horses into the trail that led down to
the Wash.

In a short while they reached the bottom, and rode out into the valley,
where wandering “mavericks,” or faggot-laden burros had pounded
innumerable hard paths.

Jean shook the bridle of her horse, and calling back over her shoulder,
“Shall we run them?” was off in a flash. Stephen, urging on his pony,
soon caught up with her, and side by side they galloped hard up the
valley. Leaning forward in his saddle, he could watch the rich color rush
across the girl’s face, as the speed set her blood dancing. Her head
was tossed backward, throwing out the clean molded chin, and perhaps
emphasizing the hint of obstinacy concealed in its rounded finish. Her
bridle hand lay close on the horse’s neck, the small gloved fingers
crushing the reins. From the amount of attention that Loring was, or
rather was not, paying to his horse, he richly deserved a fall; but the
fates spared him. Perhaps they, too, were engaged in watching the girl.

With a sigh, Jean pulled her horse down to walk.

“That was splendid! Why can’t one always be riding like that?”

Loring looked at her, amused by the exuberance of her spirits.

“A bit hard on the horses as a perpetual thing, otherwise perfect,” he
answered.

She turned to him suddenly. “Have you no enthusiasms?”

“I used to have,” answered Stephen, “but they were not of exactly the
right kind. In fact they made me what I am.”

“What are you?” she asked, looking at him directly.

“A failure—and rather worse, because I am a poor failure. There is just
enough left in me to make me realize the truth, but not enough to compel
me to do anything about it.”

Jean thought for a minute, then, with sincere pity in her face, she
asked, “Why?”

Stephen had resolved never to speak of his past, of the golden
opportunities lost, of the friends who would have helped if they could;
but as he looked at her, at the slightly parted lips, at the frank
sympathy that shone from her face, he knew that here was some one who
could understand and perhaps help.

Slowly at first, controlling the breaks in his voice, then more evenly,
he told her of start after start, of the relatives who had disowned him,
of drifting and drifting. “Now, here I am, running a hoist! Well, it is
probably the best thing of which I am capable and I owe it to you and
your father that I have so good a place. I have been tried and found
wanting in almost every way the Lord could invent, and,” he tried rather
unsuccessfully to smile, “I think I am down and out.”

Jean reached out her hand to him, and pressed his warmly, with the proud
confidence of not being misunderstood.

“Mr. Loring, I do not believe it. You may have been and done all that you
say, but you have still the battle ahead of you. I owe my life to you.
You risked yours to save me. I will not let you go on throwing yourself
away, without trying to help you. I thank you for what you have told me.
I think that I understand. It is hard perhaps for a girl to realize the
truth; but I do so want to help you! Here in Arizona you have a fresh
chance. Go on and win—and never forget that I am going to stand by you.”

Stephen set his teeth and looked straight ahead of him. Every nerve
within him tingled with the desire to bow his head over the small hand
that lay on his, to crave, he knew not what. Then he lifted his head and
looked at her. “I will try—and God bless you!”

So absorbed had the man and girl been in their talk, that they had
failed to realize that the soft, swift night of Arizona was overtaking
them. Clouds too were gathering in the west and obscuring the sunset
before its time. Jean noticed it at length and took alarm.

“We must turn and ride fast,” she said hastily. “My father will be
worried if we are late. I think I remember this path which cuts into the
trail again farther on and is a shorter way. Let us take it!”

Without waiting for Loring’s assent, she dashed off to the left. Stephen
followed her with some misgiving. He had known too much of the devious
windings of these half-beaten paths and would have chosen the longer way
around in confidence of its proving the shorter way home.

On and on they rode in the gathering darkness till at length they could
scarcely see a yard ahead of them, and were forced to drop the reins on
the necks of the ponies, realizing that in such a situation instinct is
a far safer guide than reason. Loring took the lead, and rode slowly and
cautiously, peering about him in the vain hope of discovering the right
way. At length his pony balked suddenly and threw back its ears. “Stop!”
Stephen called back, as he slipped hastily from the saddle and took a
step forward to investigate the cause of “_Muy Bueno’s_” fright. One step
was enough, for it showed him that the ground dropped off into space at
his very feet. “Whew!” he whistled softly to himself. Then aloud he said:
“I am afraid, Miss Cameron, that you must dismount. Wait and let me help
you!” But before he could reach her the girl was out of her saddle and at
his side. She saw their danger and paled at its nearness. Then she said
quietly: “Of course it is my fault; but we need not talk about that now.
The question is, what are we going to do?”

“The only thing we can do is to grope our way back by the way we have
come, and hope by good luck to reach the main trail again. If the moon
would only come up, we might at least get our bearings,” said Loring.

“We ought to be somewhere near the Bingham mine,” Jean reflected aloud.
“Mr. Bingham is a friend of my father’s and we have ridden over to supper
in his camp once or twice. But I don’t know—I have lost all faith in my
skill as a pilot.”

Loring took hold of the bridles and turned the ponies. Then mounting,
they rode into the darkness, where a slight thread of openness seemed
to show their path. Time and time again the horses, sure-footed as they
were, stumbled and went down on their knees, only to pick themselves up
with a shake and a plunge. Wandering cattle had beaten so many blind
paths through the chaparral or between the rocks that the riders were
often forced to stop and retrace their way, searching for new openings.
Stephen was afraid. It was a new sensation for him to have any dread
of the uncertain; but every time that Miss Cameron’s horse slipped or
hesitated he turned nervously in the saddle on the lookout for some
accident to her. His was a nature which danger elated, but responsibility
depressed. Had he been alone he would have rejoiced in the stubbornness
of the way, in the rasp of the cactus as his boots scratched against
it, in the uncertain sliding and the quick checking of his horse; but
now they worried him, so intent was he on the safety of the girl with
him. He knew that only good fortune could find their way for them before
sunrise and he prayed for good fortune in a way that made up for his past
unbelief in such a thing.

Jean’s cheerfulness and acceptance of conditions only made it harder for
him, as, with every sense alert, he led the way towards what he hoped was
their goal.

And fear was not the only emotion that struck at his heart. Mingled with
his anxiety was a rushing glow of happiness, of fierce exultation such as
he had never experienced in his life. The fact that under his care, alone
in the Arizona night, was the girl whom he loved, thrilled and shook
him. The soft note of confidence in her voice, her unconscious appeal to
him for protection, made the stinging blood rush to his face, made him
crush the bridle in a grip as of a vise. “Alone!” he murmured. “Is there
in God’s world any such aloneness as two together when the world is a
countless distance away, when each second is precious as a lifetime!” His
voice, when he spoke to her, sounded to him dry and forced. It was only
by superhuman control that when he guided her horse to the right or left
he did not cry out his need of her. Yet through all the electric silence
he knew that he had no right to speak of love, no right even to love
her. His mood was of that intensity which cares not for its reaction on
others. Through it all he did not think or imagine that she could care;
and yet he was happy, happy with that joy of a great emotion so sweeping
as not to know pain from pleasure and not to care. For the first time in
his life he realized what it was to live, not to think or to care, but to
_live_.

And she? She could not have been a woman and not have known, even though
the imprisoned words had not escaped; but from knowing to caring is a
very long road, and not only has it many turnings, but often it doubles
upon itself.

After an hour of this blind riding, they suddenly found themselves
following a well-beaten track. A tip of bright gold appeared from behind
the black mountains, then a crescent, then a semicircle, and almost
before they realized it the trail was flooded with the splendor of the
full-rounded moon. As they watched, they were startled by the soft thud
of a horse’s hoofs behind them. Stephen, a bit uneasy as to the newcomer,
wheeled his horse sharply to meet him, and slipped his riding gauntlet
from his right hand, prepared to shoot or to shake as the occasion might
necessitate. He was greatly surprised, when the stranger drew abreast of
them, to hear him exclaim in a cheerful bass voice: “Miss Cameron! How
did you come here?”

“That is just what we want to know. The only thing we want to know more
is how to get out by any other way than past the cliff which we almost
rode over in the darkness. This is Mr. Loring, Mr. Bingham, one of the
hoist engineers at Quentin. Darkness overtook us while we were riding,
and I thought that I knew a short cut. I did not, it seems, and here we
are.”

“Yes, and a mighty narrow escape you had if you were up by the divide
yonder. It drops off a good five hundred feet. Cleverness of your horses,
I suppose. Positively uncanny the instinct of those little beasts! Well,
as it happens, you have been riding only a few rods from the path which
you were looking for, only that winds around the divide, and not over it.
I am on my way to our camp just below here. You’ll stop to supper with
us, of course,” he added, as the lights of his camp suddenly twinkled
from behind a spur in the hills.

“Not to-night, thank you,” Jean answered. “I am afraid that my father
will be worried as it is, and would soon be scouring the mountains for
us.”

“It might look a little as if you’d run off together,” Mr. Bingham
chuckled with obtuse humor. Suddenly Jean, who had been all gratitude,
felt that she could, with great pleasure, see him go over the cliff
which they had avoided. She would have liked to reply to his remark with
something either jocular or haughty; but instead she was conscious of a
stiff, shy pause, broken by Loring’s query as to how the ore was running
in the Bingham mine.

“Decidedly he is a gentleman,” reflected Jean, and then the scene of her
talk with her father flashed over her,—the porch, the living-room, the
guitar, the song “She’s o’er the border and awa’ wi’ Jock o’ Hazeldean.”

Suddenly she laughed aloud. Both men turned in their saddles to see what
could have caused her sudden mirth. “Only an echo,” Jean explained. “It
sounded like a girl’s voice. It is gone now. Don’t stop!”

Mr. Bingham seemed so grieved to have them pass the camp without
dismounting that Jean, realizing that a neglect of his proffered
hospitality would wound him unnecessarily, consented to take a cup of
coffee. Mrs. Bingham brought it to them with her own hands, talking
to them eagerly as they drank it. Mr. Bingham drew out his flask and
offered it to Stephen; but with a glance at Jean, he declined it and the
girl noted the sacrifice with satisfaction.

The coffee finished, Jean and Loring bade a hasty farewell to their
hosts, who grieved over their parting with that true Western hospitality
born of the desolate hills, the long reaches of sparsely populated
country, and the loneliness of camp life.

The horses were tired; but their riders had no notion of sparing them,
and rode as fast as the roughness of the trail permitted. Mr. Bingham’s
ill-timed words had jarred upon their companionship, and the horses’
hoofs alone broke the silence which had fallen between them.

It was eleven o’clock when they reached Quentin, and Mr. Cameron was
pacing the porch impatiently, peering out into the blackness where the
moonlight pierced it, as they rode up to the shack.

“We are all safe, father; we merely took a wrong turning,” Jean called
aloud as they drew rein.

“Yes,” observed Mr. Cameron with a stubborn ring in his voice. “I was
afraid that you had.”

Jean perceived her father’s frame of mind instantly, and the Cameron in
her rose to meet the Cameron in him.

“We have spent a very agreeable afternoon, however,” she said in clear,
determined tones; “at least I have, so I can scarcely regret our
adventure, though I am sorry to have caused you anxiety.”

To Loring’s surprise, instead of slipping out of her saddle as she had
done before, she waited for him to lift her down. As he did so, she felt
his lips brush her sleeve. It was done after the fashion of a devotee,
not of a lover, yet the girl’s pulses bounded with a sense of elation and
power. She held a man’s soul in her hands. Yes, she knew now with a sense
of certainty what she had only suspected before,—that Loring loved her.
How she felt herself, how much response the man’s passion had power to
call out in her, she took no time to think; but she resolved to use this
new power for his good. It should be the beginning of better things than
he had ever known. Oh, yes, love could do anything. She had always heard
that.

That night Loring, too, would have sworn that the turning point in his
life had come, that never again could he prove unworthy of the trust in
him which had shone from Jean Cameron’s eyes and pulsed in the strong
clasp of her hand. A woman’s faith had saved other men worse than he. Why
could he not surely rely upon its power to save him, too?

One who knew him well might have answered: “Because you are both
too strong and too weak to be saved by anything from without. Your
regeneration, if it comes, will come from no such gentle approaches
and soft appeals, but through the stress and storm of deep experience,
through the struggle and agony of overwhelming remorse. So it must be
with some men.”




CHAPTER VI


From the time of their ride together, Jean’s thoughts were much more
occupied with Loring than they had been before. The consciousness of
her father’s opposition was an added stimulus, partly by reason of
her inherited obstinacy, and partly because she felt that Loring was
misunderstood, and all her loyalty was engaged in his behalf. She felt a
pride in having discovered what she thought were his possibilities, and
she was determined that the world should acknowledge them too. In the
face of Mr. Cameron’s disapproval she did not venture to ask Loring to
the house; but whenever they met in the camp or on the road she made a
point of stopping to talk with him and inquiring how things were going at
the hoist.

It must be set down to Loring’s credit that none of these meetings were
of his planning, for as his love for her deepened, as it did day by
day, he felt more and more keenly the barriers which he himself had
raised between them. He felt how far wrong he had been in assuming that
his life had been wholly his own and that his failures could touch no
one but himself. He did not dare to construct the future, but clung to
the present with realization of its blessings. He felt a glow of pride
in Jean’s friendship for him, and a steady reliance on her faith in
him. Week after week went by and the fiber within him strengthened. The
belief in the worthwhileness of life came to him with a splendid rush of
conviction that was not to be denied.

The depth of happiness is, unfortunately, however, no criterion of its
duration. One evening the stage, after depositing at the office its
load of mail and newcomers, lurched jerkily up the incline that led to
Mr. Cameron’s house, instead of being driven to the corral as usual.
Loring watched it and his spirits dropped like a barometer. An incident
may easily depress high spirits, though it takes an event to raise low
ones. The event which had raised his spirits to-day was a meeting with
Jean Cameron while Mr. Cameron was inspecting Number Three shaft. Jean
had accompanied her father to the hoist and Loring had been able to talk
with her for a longer time than usual. The incident that had depressed
was merely a slight break in the routine. He did not usually notice the
stage. Why should he do so now? What was more natural than that Mr.
Cameron should have some visitor?

“Probably one of the directors of the company, or some official,” Stephen
reflected. “Perhaps that was why that new saddle was sent down to the
corral.”

Loring shortened his day by dividing it into periods. A period consisted
of the time required to raise ten buckets of ore. At the end of each
period he permitted himself to glance over his shoulder, where just
beyond the corner of the ore cribs he could see the porch of Mr.
Cameron’s house. Now and then he was rewarded by a glimpse of Jean
reading or talking to her father. Loring was very honest with himself and
never before the requisite amount of work was accomplished did he give
himself his reward. This morning he had gone through the usual routine,
lowered the day’s shift and patiently waited to hoist the first result
of their labor. It had been a severe strain on his subjective integrity,
when, after he had raised nine buckets of ore, the expected tenth
turned out to be merely a load of dulled drills sent up to be sharpened.
Exasperated, he watched while the “nipper” boys unloaded the drills
and put in the newly sharpened sets which they had brought from the
blacksmith’s. One little fellow either unduly conscientious, or with a
wholesome dread of the wrath of the mine foreman, laboriously counted the
new drills from the short “starters” to the six- and seven-foot drills
that complete the set.

“Oh, they’re all right, Ignacio,” called Stephen. “Chuck them in! _’Sta
’ueno._”

The next time his hopes were fulfilled, and bucket number ten appeared
on the surface. As soon as it was clear of the shaft and swung onto
the waiting ore car, Stephen turned for his long-desired glance. Tied
to the fence in front of Mr. Cameron’s house was another horse beside
Jean’s pony, which he knew so well. As he looked, the door opened and
Jean appeared. She was too far away for him to distinguish her features
and yet she seemed to him to have an air of buoyancy which he had not
before remarked. A man stepped out of the doorway behind her. His tan
riding-boots were brilliant with a gloss that is unknown in a world
where men shine their own shoes. The sunlight positively quivered upon
them. Jean and the stranger mounted, and as they rode nearer to the hoist
Stephen observed that the man was singularly good-looking, but “too sleek
by half,” he growled vindictively, as he turned to his work again.

The stranger turned out to be a young cousin of Mr. Cameron’s, ostensibly
in camp to see “western life”; but Stephen had his own opinion as to
that. In a week Loring disliked the cousin, in a fortnight he loathed
him, and all without ever having exchanged a word with the dapper youth.
A man who by necessity is compelled to wear a flannel shirt and trousers
frayed by tucking within high boots, is always prone to consider a better
dressed man as dapper. For a week Stephen had not had a chance to speak
with Miss Cameron. The cousin, “Archibald Iverach,” as the letters which
Loring saw at the post-office indicated to be his name, may not have been
intentionally responsible; but to his shadow-like attendance on Jean,
Loring attributed the result and accordingly prayed for his departure.
“To be sure he is her guest; but that is no reason why he should have
too good a time,” he reflected gloomily. “She must be enjoying his visit
or she would not keep him so long.”

Had Loring overheard a conversation which took place at Mr. Cameron’s
table the day before Iverach’s return to the East, he would have felt
his affection for that gentleman still more increased. The conversation
had turned upon the types of men in camp. Iverach’s estimate of them had
been as disparaging as theirs of him. The only men with whom he had come
in contact had annoyed him as having no place in his neatly constructed
world. “Cheap independence” was the phrase that he had used to describe
their manner. He had good cause to know this independence for one day he
had addressed McKay in a rather lofty fashion, and what McKay had said in
return could only be constructed from a careful and diligent reading of
the unexpurgated parts of all the most lurid books in the world combined.
The retort had been worthy of a territory where the championship swearing
belt is held by one who can swear between syllables. His remarks had
reflected on Iverach’s parentage on the male and female sides, it had
enlarged on his past, expatiated on his probable future, dilated upon
his present. The pleasantest of the places that awaited him, according
to McKay, was hotter than Tombstone in August. His looks and character
had been described in a way that had surpassed even McKay’s fertile
imagination. Iverach had always imagined that he would fight a man for
using such language to him; yet for some reason he had not hastened
to express offense. He was not a coward; but he was not adventurous
nor easily aroused to anger when it might have unpleasant results.
Consequently to-day, when he finished his remarks about the men whom he
had seen by observing that they were “the scum of the earth,” he was
guilty of no conscious exaggeration.

Mr. Cameron paid no attention to his cousin’s remarks. He had rarely
found them rewarding and therefore with his usual Scotch economy he
declined to waste interest upon them. Jean, however, for some reason took
the trouble to continue the discussion.

“Have you met a man named Loring, one of the hoist engineers?” she asked
quietly.

Iverach looked up suddenly. “Loring? What is his first name?”

“Stephen.”

“I have not met him here; but if he is the man I think he is, I happen to
have heard something of him in the East. A friend of his asked me to keep
an eye out for him if I came to any of the camps in Arizona. In fact,
he told me to keep two eyes open for him, one to find him with, and the
other to look out for him after I had found him. He intimated that Loring
was not a reliable character, to say the least.”

“A friend of his, did you say?”

“I judged that he had been at one time, but from the trend of his
conversation his friendship must have been a thing of the dim past. Among
other pleasant things about Loring he told me that—”

“Did he say anything about his ability as a hoist engineer? That, I
think, is the only thing with which we are concerned here,” interrupted
Jean. “You know, Archie, there is a proverb to the effect that ‘a man’s
past is his own.’”

“Then all I can say is that Loring is not to be envied his ownership,”
Iverach went on, ignoring the danger signal of Jean’s slightly
contemptuous manner. “And as for discussing his past, I cannot see any
harm in repeating what every one knows about a man.”

Ordinarily Mr. Cameron was the most fair-minded of men, and judged people
by what he knew of them, not by what he heard; but he had a particular
antipathy to Loring, caused by dislike of his type, and also he was not
sorry to have Jean hear a few truths about the man whose companionship he
dreaded for her as much as he resented her championship of him.

“What was it you were going to say about Loring?” he asked of Iverach, as
he handed him a cigar.

Iverach paused to clip it carefully with a gold cigar-cutter that hung
from his watch-chain. “Of course it is only hearsay that I am repeating—”
Archibald began hesitatingly.

“Then why repeat it?” asked Jean ironically.

“Oh, the most interesting things in the world are those that you accept
on hearsay,” he laughed. “I forget the details of Loring’s history,
but this friend intimated that Loring, when engaged to his guardian’s
daughter, borrowed large sums of money from the guardian, and—well,
neither the engagement nor the money ever materialized and Stephen
Loring is not much sought after in that neighborhood. I met the girl
once,” he went on, “and I don’t blame Loring. She was the kind of young
woman whose eyes light up only over causes; but the money part of the
story, if true, is rather an ugly fact. Dexterity with other people’s
money is not an agreeable form of deftness.”

“Utterly contemptible,” snapped Mr. Cameron, flicking the ashes from his
cigar onto the table with a prodigal gesture, only to brush them onto an
envelope with the afterthought of an exact nature.

Jean rose and walked toward the door.

“At what time do you ride this afternoon?” her cousin called after her.

“Thanks,” replied Jean, without turning, “but I shall not be able to ride
this afternoon, I am intending to spend the time in making a pair of
curtains for this window. I do not like the view of the hoist.”

Iverach’s face fell, for he was leaving Quentin the next day, and he had
counted much upon this last interview. “Can’t the curtains wait until
to-morrow?” he remonstrated.

“No, they must be finished at once,” replied Jean with decision.

“Why this burst of domestic energy?” queried Mr. Cameron. “You know that
you have not taken a needle in your hand since you have been in the camp.”

“I intend to change my habits in many ways,” Jean responded, pressing her
lips together firmly.

“I beg of you not to change at all,” said Iverach. “It is impossible to
improve a perfect person. However, since you are in the domestic mood, I
wonder if you would take pity on a helpless bachelor and take a stitch in
my riding-gloves for me?”

“Riding-gloves are a luxury, while curtains are a necessity,” replied
Jean firmly. “However, if you will give the gloves to me, I will see that
our Chinaman mends them. There is nothing that he cannot do.”

For some minutes after Jean had left the room, her cousin contemplated
the end of his cigar. It was hard for him to twist her expressions into
denoting a mood favorable to his complacency, so he spent an unpleasant
half hour. At last, giving up all hope of her reappearance, he moodily
set forth alone on his ride. He realized that in the Western setting he
did not appeal to Jean Cameron, and only hoped that when she should
return to the East, his deficiencies would be less apparent, while his
advantages would show more clearly. He therefore concluded to defer
putting his fate to the touch until circumstances should prove more
propitious.

The curtains took some time in the making. Jean sewed them with a
preoccupied elaboration such as she was not accustomed to bestow upon
such tasks. She had been startled by the effect of her cousin’s words
upon her, and now stared at the hem of the curtains with a slight frown.
She had thought her interest in Stephen to be purely abstract and
impersonal, and yet it was not pleasant to think of the person in whom
she was even abstractly interested as having been concerned in a dubious
financial transaction. It certainly added interest to the problem of
his regeneration; but nevertheless it abated the zeal for solving that
problem, by making it seem not worth while.

Stephen rejoiced when the day came for Iverach to leave Quentin. He
hoped that now his relations with Miss Cameron would be resumed. He was
amazed to see how much he had come to rely on his glimpses of her as the
inspiration of his existence. The first time that he saw her, however,
she passed him with a cool nod in which it would have been hard for any
one to find encouragement or inspiration. When this coolness was repeated
on several occasions he was puzzled. Then he made up his mind that the
underlying reason was the cousin, and in this he was certainly correct,
though not in the way he supposed. For the first time he began to realize
that the work at the hoist was monotonous.

The Devil has three great allies, natural depravity, aimless activity,
and ennui, and this last is his most trusted, subtle, and reliable agent,
especially when coupled with depression.




CHAPTER VII


For three days it had been raining in camp, and the roads were mired
with brownish red ’dobe mud. In the tents the little stoves failed to
dry the reeking air. The ponies looked miserable, human beings hopeless.
Men tracked into the office, wet and disgusted, their dirty “slickers”
dripping little pools of water wherever they stood. The rain fell with
a dull rattle on the galvanized iron roofing, steady, relentless. Even
the “shots” from the workings sounded dull and dejected in the heavy
atmosphere. Every one was irritable and in an unpleasant frame of mind.

Rain in Arizona is rare; but when it does come it is the coldest,
wettest, slimiest rain in the world. It rains from above, from below,
from the side. It dissolves rubber; it takes the heat from fire.
Water-tight buildings are mere sport for it. It rains in big drops that
splash, in fine drizzle that penetrates, in sheets that drench. The soft
rock melts and becomes mud. The dirt dissolves and becomes quicksand.
Empty gulches become torrents; small streams become rivers. Even the
“Gila monsters,” those slimy, mottled, bottle-eyed, lizard-shaped
reptiles, give up in despair, while mere man has no chance at all for
happiness and comfort.

Stephen came back from his work at the hoist, soaked to the skin, and
sick. To add to his discouragement he found orders to work a double
shift waiting for him in his tent—the engineer of the eleven o’clock,
or “graveyard,” shift being incapacitated. He threw himself down on his
cot, cursing the squeak of the rusty springs. His feet felt like moist
lumps of clay. The dampness of his shirt sent a numb feeling through his
stomach. Lynn, his tent-mate, was on shift, so there was nothing to do
but stare at the one ornament of the tent, a battered tin alarm clock,
which, ticking with exasperating monotony, hung from the ridge-pole of
the tent. The sole reading matter at hand was an old copy of the Denver
_Post_. Stephen knew this almost by heart; but he picked it up and began
to reread it.

“Be a Booster! Get the convention for your city! Don’t go to sleep!”

The words, in flaming red and black headlines, irritated him. Throwing
the paper aside, he amused himself by drawing his fingernail along the
wet canvas of the tent, and watching the water ooze through the weave.
Occasionally from outside he could hear the cursing of the coke wagon
drivers, and the merciless crack of their whips. In his mind he could see
almost as well as if he had been outside, the six quivering, straining
horses, their haunches worn raw by the traces, the creaking wagon, up to
its hubs in mud, and the slipping of the rusty brake shoes.

As he lay there in quiet misery, with renewed strength the utter
hopelessness of his life came to him. It was not so much the thought of
the present that crushed, but the knowledge that for years a life like
this was all that lay before him. The ride of three odd months ago with
Jean Cameron had awakened him to visions of things that lay beyond him.

He shivered with cold, and pulled the dirty red blanket up over him.
Uncalled for, the thought of the saloon up on the hill came into his
mind. He imagined himself leaning against a bar, the edge fitting
comfortably into his side, drinking warm drinks, and feeling that life
was worth while. He tried to drive the thought away. It was useless.

Jean Cameron for months now had been his idol, had seemed to him to
represent his better self. With an effort he brought her face before him.
The vision was all blurred. Her eyes seemed to look away from him. She
seemed intangible, unreal, compared with the comfort which he knew that
drink would bring.

“What is the use, anyhow?” he murmured to himself.

He turned irresolutely upon his cot, then he jumped up and out onto the
floor.

“Oh, damn it, I will!” he exclaimed.

He jammed his hat down over his eyes, struggled into his drenched
“slicker,” and started out into the muddy road. As he waded down to the
corral, his boots squashed in sodden resentment.

Loring for a moment wavered irresolute while he was saddling his pony.

“I won’t,” he muttered.

But even as he said it, he gave the last turn to the cinch knot, and
swung into the saddle.

Moodily he rode up the trail. It rained harder than ever. The pony
slipped, slid, and scrambled. Stephen sat in the saddle, stiff as an
image. His face was drawn with lines that were not pleasant to look
upon. The corners of his mouth were drawn hard down, telling of tightly
clenched teeth.

When he reached the saloon he dismounted, hastily tied his horse to a
bush, and went in. In one corner of the shack a stove was burning warmly.
The pine boards of the flooring were smooth and white.

The bar, which was made of packing boxes covered with oiled cloth, ran
the whole length of the room on the right-hand side from the door. At
the left-hand side were a couple of small green baize-covered tables.
By these were seated several Mexicans, all more or less drunk. They
were singing noisily. Along the wall behind the bar ran a shelf which
supported a large array of bottles. Behind these, in imitation of the
cheap gaudiness of a city saloon, was a long, cracked mirror. Two Colt
revolvers lying grimly on the shelf gave a delicate hint to guests to
behave themselves, and to pay their bills.

The Mexicans looked in a stupid, vacant way at Loring, then went on with
their singing. The barkeeper was leaning against the wall, biting the
end from a cigar, and at the same time whistling. This accomplishment
was made possible by the fact that two front teeth were missing. It was
rumored that in addition to smoking and whistling, he could curse and
expectorate, all at the same time.

The possessor of these remarkable accomplishments greeted Stephen in a
friendly fashion. They had often before met in the camp, when Hankins
came down from the saloon for supplies.

“Well, now, Mr. Loring, I’m glad to see you. Mean weather out, ain’t it?
First time you’ve been up to our diggings, I guess,” he said, while he
gripped Stephen’s hand with a crushing grasp.

“Yes, this is the first time I have had a chance to drop in,” rejoined
Loring.

Some one rode up to the door, and with heavy tread, and jangling of
spurs, came stamping into the saloon.

“How are you stacking up, Jackie?” asked Hankins of the newcomer. “Say,
Mr. Loring, I want you to know my partner; Mr. Jackson, shake hands with
Mr. Loring.” The introduction accomplished, he stepped back behind the
bar.

“What are you goin’ to have to drink, gents? This one is on the house.”

“Thanks! Whisky for me, please,” answered Loring.

“Whisky? All right. I have some pretty good stuff here. No more kick to
it than from a little lamb. Have some too, Jackie? I thought so.”

Hankins poured the golden fluid into three gray-looking glasses.

“Regards, gents!” he said in a businesslike tone of voice, raising his
glass as he spoke.

“Regards,” echoed Loring, emptying his glass at a gulp.

The whisky sent a warm glow through his frame.

“That was good,” he said, in a judicial tone of voice. “Now won’t you
gentlemen take something with me?”

“Well, I don’t care if I do,” answered Hankins.

The same formula, “Regards,” was repeated.

Loring leaned in comfort against the bar. The attitude, unfortunately,
was not strange to him. Time and time again, on Stephen’s invitation, the
glasses were refilled, while every now and then Hankins insisted, “One
on the house.” After the first two drinks, however, the latter and his
partner drank only beer, while Loring continued to drink straight whisky.
The other men had one by one departed, so that Loring and his companions
were left alone.

Stephen’s face began to burn. He caught a glimpse of himself in the
mirror that hung behind the bar. Somehow the dull-eyed, white face which
looked back at him seemed to have no connection with the radiant creature
that he felt himself to be.

At this juncture Jackson made a suggestion.

“What do you say to a little game, gents?”

“By—all—means,” exclaimed Loring, emphasizing each word as if it were the
last of the sentence.

Hankins, stooping behind the bar, brought up a pack of cards.

“Here’s an unopened deck,” he said. With queer little side look at his
partner, he went on. “I’ll get even with you for our last game, Jackie.”

Stephen, with footsteps that came down very hard, walked over to one of
the tables. Then he stopped.

“I—haven’t—got—much—money—here,” he said. He enunciated with the heavy,
precise diction of a man who knows, but will not believe that he is drunk.

“That’s all right,” said Jackson. “Your I. O. U. goes with us. We ain’t
like a boardin’-house keeper I used to know in Los Angeles, who had a
sign hung out over his place: ‘We only trust God.’”

Stephen and Jackson sat down at the table, and the latter began to
shuffle the cards vigorously.

“Another whisky, please,” called Stephen to Hankins. He spoke as if a
“whisky please” were a special sort of drink.

“A beer for me too,” called Jackson. Hankins brought the drinks on a
little tin tray. Before taking each glass from it, he mechanically
clicked the bottom against the edge of the tray.

Stephen fumbled in his pocket for change.

“Don’t pay now,” drawled Jackson. “Drinks is on the game. Winner shells
up for the pleasure he has had.”

Hankins joined them at the table, remarking as he sat down: “What’s the
chips wuth?” He nodded assent to Stephen’s rather indistinct answer.

“Freeze-out? Play till some one goes broke? Let her drive, Jackie!”

Jackson dealt with rapid precision, emphasizing each round by banging his
own card down hard on the table. All looked at their hands, while the
dealer drawled softly: “Kyards, gents? Kyards—three for you, Mr. Loring?”

For three hours they played. Every little while Hankins rose, and brought
more drinks.

“On the game, gents, on the game!” he exclaimed each time.

Sometimes one was ahead, sometimes another, but no one had any decided
advantage. Stephen played mechanically. The voices of the other men
seemed to him far away, and indistinct.

Then the luck changed, and Loring began to win steadily. His success
drew him on. He played recklessly, but by some sport of fate continued
to win. He had a stiff smile upon his lips, and was evidently playing
blindly.

“Say, Hankie, I guess we are being bitten,” remarked Jackson dryly.

“It sure looks that way. Mr. Loring here is a great player. We didn’t
know what we were up against, did we?”

In his maudlin condition these words delighted Stephen. With only a pair
of threes in his hand he pulled in a stack of chips, on which the others
had dropped out.

Hankins was shuffling, preparatory to his deal. As he twisted the cards
in his fingers, he gave a vivid, if immoral, account of his last trip to
Tucson. Loring’s head was swimming, but he caught the words: “She was the
stuff all right, all right.”

Suddenly Jackson jumped to his feet, and stood as if listening intently.

“I guess your _caballo_ must be loose, Mr. Loring; seems to me I hear him
sort of stamping round outside. Did you hitch him tight?”

Loring staggered to the door and looked out. From the blackness came a
gust of wind and rain that cooled his flushed forehead.

“I think he’s all right. Can’t see anything at all. Must have been wind
you heard. Big, big wind outside.”

During his absence from the table, Hankins had dealt. Stephen picked up
his cards. At first he could not distinguish them. They seemed to be all
a blur of color. Then it slowly dawned upon him that he held four kings
and a jack. His head reeled with excitement.

“Any objection to raising limit?” he asked eagerly, with an unconcealed
look of triumph upon his face.

“Wa-al, of course, if you want to, we’ll come along, just to make the
game interesting,” drawled Jackson; “I guess you have us stung all right.
Only one card for you? Gawd, you must have a fat hand!”

Loring kept raising and raising, until he reached the limit of all that
he owned in the world. Then, for drunk or sober, he was no man to bet
what he did not have, he called. Throwing his cards face upwards upon the
table, he reached unsteadily for the huge pile of chips.

“F-Four kings!” he shouted exultantly. “I—think—they are good.”

[Illustration: “‘It seems like as if you was bitten, Mr. Loring,’ said
Hankins.” _Page 125_]

Jackson looked at Stephen’s half-shut eyes, at the heavy way his elbow
rested on the table, and smiled. Then with a broad wink at Hankins, he
exclaimed.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Ain’t this the luck! Here’s four aces! By Gawd!”

“It seems like as if you was bitten, Mr. Loring,” said Hankins. “Great
game that was. Well, gents, have another drink now on the house.”

Stephen, in a dazed manner, took his drink, then dimly there came into
his mind his orders to work night shift.

“What—whatsh the time?” he asked.

“It’s close to ten,” answered Jackson.

The faint idea kept crawling in Loring’s mind: “Night shift, hoist, must
go.” He plunged out into the darkness, and tried to drag himself into the
saddle.

When he had gone the two other men roared with laughter.

“That was easy,” exclaimed Jackson, “but I guess we had better look after
him a bit now, or he will be in trouble.” They went out after Stephen,
and found him still trying to climb into the saddle. Each time that he
tried, he almost succeeded, then he swayed, and fell back onto the muddy
ground. The pony, under these unusual proceedings, was growing restive.
They lifted Stephen onto the horse. He lurched, and almost fell off on
the other side.

“Easy now. You’re all right,” said Jackson.

Taking the pony by the bridle he led him into the saloon. With Loring
swaying in the saddle, the horse walked listlessly up to the bar, while
Hankins playfully pulled his tail.

“Great pony, that, Mr. Loring; he knows a good place, all right. He’ll
take you down the trail fine as can be. He’s a wise one, for sure.”

They led the pony to the door again, the hoofs creaking strangely on the
wooden floor.

“Look out for your head, Mr. Loring! That’s good. _Á Dios_—good night!”

From the trail Loring’s voice carried back. He was singing at the top of
his lungs.

“Full right up to his ears!” ejaculated Hankins. “I hope he don’t fall
off and break his neck.”

Meanwhile the faithful little horse trudged steadily down the trail,
carrying his helpless master. There are few Arizona horses which do not
understand the symptoms indicated by a limp weight in the saddle, and
meaningless tugs on the bridle.

The camp, save for the flare by the smelter, was unlit. The pony went
straight to the corral, past all the dark, silent tents and shacks. The
sound of the hoof-beats echoed very clearly in the stillness. At the
corral Loring tried to dismount, and fell from the saddle hard. The shock
roused his consciousness.

“Must be near ’leven. What, what wash I going—going to do at ’leven? Oh,
yes. Hoist, extra shift.” Leaving the poor pony standing still saddled in
the rain, he started up the hill for the hoist.

Reaching the steps of the deserted _tienda_, he sat down and supported
his head with his hands.

“I _guess_ I must be—a bit—tight,” he thought.

The world began to whirl, to drop suddenly, to rise, to twist. He bit his
lips and pressed his knuckles hard against his temples.

“Must sober up!” he kept repeating to himself.

Sweat broke out all over him. He became ghastly ill. Lying at full length
in the muddy road, before the steps, he did not notice the rain that
beat down upon him. Gradually he began to lose consciousness.

The whistle blew dull and discordant for the eleven o’clock shift.




CHAPTER VIII


As the echo of the whistle died away, Loring raised himself, and
staggered to his feet. Not realizing what he did, he groped his way
onward up the hill. As he passed the men hurrying home from the last
shift, he noticed, as in a dream, the way in which the wet clothes
clung to their skins, the heavy folds accentuated by the glare of the
occasional electric light.

Hughson, in the hoist shed, was cursing volubly at his delay in coming.
As soon as he saw Loring he grabbed his coat, and calling out a hurried
imprecation, started down the hill.

Stephen had scarcely stepped to his place by the drum, when the indicator
clanged sharply one bell. Mechanically he threw his weight against the
lever, and shot the first bucket of ore mined by the shift high into the
dim light, almost into the tripod framework upon which the cable hung.

Uncomprehendingly, he watched the figures outside bang down the iron
coverings over the shaft, and wheel the clanking ore car onto the tracks
beneath the suspended bucket. The men seemed to Loring to be possessed
of magical deftness as they unshackled the full bucket, and clamped the
swinging hook through the bar of the empty one. The loaded ore car bumped
groaningly off on its journey down to the cribs, the iron coverings
opened, and a voice called: “Lower!”

At times Stephen’s head cleared somewhat, and he noticed every detail in
the hoist shed. He stared at the way the shadows from the one electric
light fell on the rough boards. The water jug in the corner, the
disordered tool box, the little pile of oily waste by the boiler, all
photographed themselves on his eye. He noticed the great pile of beams in
the back of the shed, the timbering for the new shaft, lettered with huge
blue stencils, and watched with interest the flare in the furnace when
the Mexican stoker threw fresh armfuls of mesquite wood upon the fire.

Then again all was whirl, and he was obliged to grip his stool to keep
from falling. His hand clung to the control lever with damp, clinging
pressure.

Every few minutes the gong would sound, telling that another load of ore
was waiting to be raised. Once he ran the “skip” so high above the shaft,
that it crashed into the framework. It seemed to be some one entirely
disconnected with himself who fumbled with the winch, and lowered the
bucket again, until the shrill: “O. K.! _’Sta ’ueno!_” from the darkness
outside told of the proper level. Between the striking of the bells,
Stephen puzzled over the meaning of the white painted bands on the cable,
which should have told him at what level the bucket was.

The time seemed to drag endlessly. Still the buckets continued to come.
Just outside the door of the shed he could see the peg board that
indicated the tally of buckets raised. He swore at it bitterly. “Why
can’t the checker put in two pegs at a time, until the board is full, and
the shift finished?” he thought.

Whenever the winch was in motion, the grating roar of the cable winding
in or out seemed to be inside his own head. Steadily he became more and
more bewildered. His will was rapidly losing the desperate fight for
control. Once he fell off his stool.

There was a slight delay in the work. The next bucket was slow in being
signaled.

“What lazy men—what lazy men!” he murmured.

Then clear and sharp rang the signal: “Clang—Clang—Clang——Clang!” Loring
was too dazed to remember that three bells before the one to hoist was
the signal for “man on the bucket.” The one bell telling to raise, or two
to lower, had conveyed their meaning automatically to him. The sudden
change was incomprehensible.

“Clang—Clang—Clang——Clang!” again the indicator rang. This time with a
sharp, insistent sound.

“Perhaps they want it to come up fast. Oh, very, very fast,” was the
thought that came to him, and he threw the lever all the way over.
Fascinated, he watched the cable tearing past him on the drum.

“Funny—they—should—signal—that—way,” he spoke aloud.
“Perhaps—they—are—drunk—too.”

Faster and faster whirled the reel. The mark for the four hundred level
flashed by. Almost in an instant the marking for the three hundred
followed. The blur of white upon the cable, telling that the bucket was
only two hundred feet below the surface seemed to come within a second.
He did not see the marking for the last hundred feet.

Suddenly, out of the bowels of the earth shot the bucket. For a sixtieth
of a second two figures, standing on the edge, were outlined. Loring
heard a shriek, half drowned in a crash and roar, as the bucket, with its
human freight, was hurled against the overhead supports.

He smiled foolishly, and hopelessly fingered the lever.

Outside, by the shaft mouth, all was in wild confusion. Shouts, curses,
hoarse whispers, all were intermingled. Then came the sound of feet,
tramping in unison, and men entered the shed carrying a—thing—its head
driven into its shoulders. Loring looked—stared—then he knew.

Like a knife cutting into the mist of dizziness came realization. The
truth burned its way into his mind, and sobered him.

“My God!” he sobbed. “The signal was for men on the bucket.” It
flashed upon him what had happened. The men, standing upon the edge
of the bucket, holding onto the cable, had been dashed into the tripod
framework, which overhung the shaft mouth, a scant ten feet above the
ground.

Shaking, as with ague, he stepped outside to the shaft.

A crowd of Mexicans were jabbering. The voices of several Americans
carried above the soft slur of the Spanish. Some one was holding lantern
over the mouth of the shaft, and cautiously peering down. Up the hill
came the sound of running feet.

“Here’s the Doc, now!” called some one.

They showed Dr. Kline the body on the floor of the hoist box. He merely
glanced at it, then picking up a burlap sack laid it over the head.

“Where is the other man?” he asked curtly.

Some one, with a quick gesture, pointed towards the shaft. “Down there.”

A small, close set ladder, for use in case of emergency, ran down the
shaft. Down this two of the Americans started to climb. The group
by the edge watched breathlessly, while the light of their lantern
dropped—dropped—dropped.

For the first twenty feet the lantern illuminated the greasy sides of the
shaft, bringing out clearly the knots and chinks in the boards. Then the
light shrank into the darkness, became a mere dot. After a long minute
the dot began to sway back and forth. But so far down was it that it
seemed to have a radius only of inches.

“They have found him,” breathed McKay, who had reached the scene. On the
iron piping of the shaft pump tapped dully the signal to lower slowly.
Loring started for his place at the engine.

“Get to hell out of here! You’ve done enough harm for one night.”

Hughson, with his white night-shirt half out of his trousers, his boots
unlaced, and his eyes still heavy from sleep, shoved him aside and took
hold of the lever. Slowly he lowered the “skip.” It seemed to Loring an
hour before it reached the bottom.

Then again on the pipe, for the bellrope was broken, was rapped the
signal. “One—one—one——one.” In the night air the clank of the taps on the
metal sounded ghostly.

Slowly the bucket came to the surface. The two men who had descended were
holding in it a swaying figure. Many hands lifted the figure gently to
the ground. The doctor bent over it, then shook his head.

“Nothing doing,” he said dryly, and they laid the body beside the other.

A commanding voice echoed through the group. It was Mr. Cameron’s.

“Where is Loring?” he asked decisively.

Stephen, in the background, turned away, and, with a face like chalk
etched with acid, stumbled down the hill. Complete agony possessed him.
Hitherto, when he had failed, he had hurt himself alone. Now he was
little better than a murderer. Drunk on duty, when men’s lives were
dependent upon him!

By some blind instinct he found his way to his tent, pulled back the
flap, and entered. Lynn was snoring quietly in his corner. His boots lay
on the floor, strange shapes in the dark. The alarm clock standing on the
table close by his head ticked softly and monotonously.

Loring gasped for breath, swayed, and fell unconscious upon his cot.

The bodies of the two miners had been carried to the hospital, and with
Hughson in charge of the hoist, the ore buckets were again coming up,
when Mr. Cameron and McKay left the scene of the accident and through the
darkness groped their way down the hill.

“Some one told me that he’d seen Loring drinking this evening,” said
McKay.

“That explains all,” answered Mr. Cameron gruffly. “I should have known!
I should have known! After the experience with men that I have had, to
put a man like Loring in a position of responsibility! I am the one
who is to blame for this. And yet he did seem to have pulled himself
together. This will finish him, though. Mark me, McKay, before this he
has been going to hell with the brakes on. Now he will run wild. Two men
dead! That is a rather heavy reckoning for Mr. Stephen Loring to settle
with himself. If I did not owe so much to him, I would have him in prison
for to-night’s work.”

McKay nodded solemnly.

“I liked him a lot. I thought that he had different stuff in him. As you
say, this will probably finish his chances; but it may,” he hesitated,
“it may make a man out of him. If this don’t, God himself can’t help him.”

“What were the names of the men?” asked Mr. Cameron.

“Marques was one. He used to work for me. The other was a new man, Duran,
or Doran, some one said was his name.”

“Were they married?” queried Mr. Cameron.

“No.”

“That is a blessing. Well, good night, McKay. I shall see Loring in the
morning.”

“Good night,” answered McKay, and he added under his breath: “I think I’d
rather not be Loring in the morning. Too bad! Too bad!”

There was a light in Mr. Cameron’s house. As her father tramped up the
steps Jean threw open the door and came towards him. Her hair fell in
waves over her dressing-gown. The candle in her hand threw its light into
eyes which asked an anxious question from beneath their arching brows.

“Father, what is the matter?” Jean exclaimed, as Mr. Cameron advanced.

“There has been an accident at Number Three hoist,” answered Mr. Cameron.

Jean drew a quick sharp breath. “Is Mr. Loring hurt?” she asked, bending
forward to look into her father’s face.

Mr. Cameron looked at her hard. Then a grim humor glinted in his eyes as
he answered: “Loring hurt? Well—not—exactly.”

Without a word Jean turned and led the way into the living-room, where
the hastily lighted lamp flared high, leaving a smooch of smut on the
chimney and casting bright reflections on the rough planks of the board
wall. The girl walked calmly to the table and lowered the wick of the
lamp. Then she tossed back the masses of her hair, and turning sharply to
her father she uttered one word: “Well?”

“Well!” echoed Mr. Cameron, throwing himself into a chair by the
fireplace. “Well! I should say that was a curious word to describe
to-night’s doings.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mean? I mean that your Mr. Loring is a damned scoundrel.”

“I do not believe it. You speak too harshly. You are angry.”

“Hum! Perhaps.”

Jean stood with downcast eyes. Suddenly she raised them like a condemned
man about to receive his sentence.

“What has he done?”

“He has murdered two Mexicans.”

Jean shivered and drew the folds of her dressing gown closer about her.
“Mr. Loring murderer! Impossible!”

“Nothing is impossible to a man when he is drunk.”

“Oh, he was drunk, was he? At the shaft, suppose.”

The note of relief in Jean’s tone seemed to add the last touch to Mr.
Cameron’s exasperation.

“Do you think it was any excuse that Loring was drunk on duty with men’s
lives in his hands? You women have a queer code.”

“No,” observed Jean, “it is not an excuse. It is an explanation. That I
can understand. The other I could not.”

“Yes, and I can understand it, too. It means that I was a fool for
trusting him. I should never have done it, never!”

Jean Cameron stole around to the back of her father’s chair and leaned
over till her face almost touched his. “Remember,” she said in a low
tone, “if he has lost two lives, he saved one.”

“Damn me! Am I likely to forget it?” Mr. Cameron answered, shaking off
his daughter’s hands which had been laid lightly on his shoulders.
“Why else did I take him on as hoist engineer? It was paying a debt,
so I thought. But I had no right to pay at other men’s risk; and after
all I had done for him he could not have the decency to keep sober on
duty—well, it is too late to think of that now.”

Jean turned away and twisted the curling ends of her hair slowly about
her finger ends. “Tell me just what happened,” she said unsteadily.

“It is a short story,” her father answered gruffly. “Two men in the cage
at the bottom of the mine signaled to raise—engineer, drunk, sets lever
at top speed. If you cannot imagine what happened, you may take a lantern
and go over yonder to see.”

Jean sank shuddering on the window-seat and buried her head in the
cushions. Her silence calmed her father’s wrath as her speech had stirred
it. “There, there!” Mr. Cameron said soothingly, as he walked across to
the window and stroked the bowed head. “It is nothing for you to be so
downhearted about, my lass. You had nothing to do with it.”

Still the girl lay motionless.

“Come, come, Jean! It is all over now for those poor fellows, and as for
Loring, you will never see him again.”

The figure on the window-seat stirred slightly, and from the pillows a
muffled voice asked tremulously, “What will be done to him?”

“That depends,” answered Mr. Cameron, “on whether the Mexicans decide on
a demonstration between now and to-morrow morning.”

“Oh!” cried Jean, suddenly sitting up and wheeling about with pale cheeks
and flashing eyes, “they dare not. You would never allow it. Why are
there no men guarding him? It is as bad as murder.”

“Not quite,” her father replied slowly. “Besides, if the Mexicans were
drunk, you could not hold them responsible. That would be—what is
it?—‘Not an excuse, but an explanation.’ However, Loring is safe enough
for to-night, and I promise you he will be far away by to-morrow.”

With these words Mr. Cameron thrust his hands into his pockets, and
rising, strode up and down the room, the boards creaking under his slow
tread. His daughter leaned against the window, staring out into the night.

“Oh!” she whispered, as if to some presence palpable though invisible,
“how could you? How could you do it after what you promised me?” Then she
turned her head and caught sight of her father’s resolute back.

“He is rather a lovable person,” she said, with a little catch in her
voice. “Don’t you think he will feel badly enough without much being
said to him about—about the accident?” Her father laughed a short,
uncompromising laugh.




CHAPTER IX


The next morning Stephen awoke with a start, conscious that some one was
standing beside his cot, as he lay fully dressed outside the blankets.
Mr. Cameron was looking down upon him. When he struggled to his feet,
Loring’s mind was all confused. He ran his hand through his matted hair.

“Where am I?” he murmured.

Mr. Cameron’s face was set decisively. It was easy to see from which
parent Jean had inherited the modeling of the lower portion of her face.

“Come outside, Loring!” There was a chill incisiveness in the words which
shocked Stephen into recollection. He followed Mr. Cameron out of the
tent.

The bright, early morning sunlight made his hot eyeballs water, and he
blinked uncomfortably. His knees shook from weakness so that he leaned
against the fence beside his tent. Such absolute misery possessed him
that he could not think. His brain was numb. His mouth felt as if all
the moisture had been baked out of it.

Mr. Cameron looked him over carefully and contemptuously, then fumbled in
his waistcoat pocket, and produced a cigar. Eyeing Loring all the while,
he slowly bit off the end, and lighted the cigar. Before he spoke, he
took several deliberate puffs. It was a good cigar; but the rich smell of
the fumes made Loring turn a shade whiter.

“Well, Loring, I suppose you know what this means for you?” began Mr.
Cameron slowly. “A rather nice piece of work of yours, on the whole. Two
men killed by your efficiency! I do not suppose that there is any use in
asking you if you were drunk?” There was very little of the question in
Mr. Cameron’s voice.

Stephen gripped the fence hard, then shook his head.

“I do not like to dismiss you, Loring, for I am in your debt for saving
my daughter’s life.” Judging from his expression as he said this, the
thought of the debt did not greatly please Mr. Cameron.

Stephen looked out over the mountains. His eyes were glistening with
moisture—and this time it was not caused by the glare. It cut him to the
quick that the man who was so righteously dismissing him should be the
father of the girl whom he loved. In a bitter moment there flashed before
his mind the vision of all his broken resolutions, of his now useless
plans for success. The whole fabric, which in the past months he had
woven for himself, he suddenly saw torn to shreds.

Mr. Cameron’s next words were lost to Stephen. It was some seconds before
he could again focus his attention. When he caught up the thread, Mr.
Cameron was saying: “I had hoped better things from you, Loring. I should
have known better, that when a man is a drifter, such as you are, there
is no hope. Still I had hoped! Well, I was wrong. Here is your pay check,
for what is due to you. That is all.”

Mr. Cameron turned and walked towards the office. Stephen stood looking
dumbly after him, with the check fluttering loosely in his fingers.
McKay, going by on his way to work, saw him, and came up to him. He held
out his hand in sympathy.

“Damn it, Steve, I’m sorry for you! You ain’t worth a damn; but I like
you.”

Stephen looked at him in silence. His only conscious thought, as he
gripped McKay’s hand, was the mental reiteration: “I am worth a damn, I
am worth a damn.”

McKay went on in friendly solicitude: “Of course, it ain’t none of my
business, Steve, but if I was you I’d beat it pretty quick. Just at
present the friends of those men ain’t losing any love on you. I think if
I was in your boots the Dominion trail would look pretty good to me. It’s
about up to you to _vamos_.”

“I will go,” said Loring. “It isn’t that I fear what these Mexicans may
do, because I don’t care. But I can’t stand it here. Good-bye, Mac! You
have been a good friend to me. I know I deserved to be fired. Deserved a
lot worse; but Mac,” he added desperately, “I will make good somewhere!”

McKay almost imperceptibly shook his head, then smiled and again extended
his hand.

“Well, anyhow, buck up, Steve! I’ve got to get down to work now.
Good-bye, and good luck!”

“Wait just a minute!” Loring called after him.

McKay turned, and Stephen held out his newly received pay check.

“Will you be kind enough to give this to Hankins up at the saloon, when
you get time? I owe it to him, and to his partner.”

“You certainly did do things up in great shape last night, Steve,” said
McKay, as he took the check, after Stephen had endorsed it with a shaking
hand. “Got cheated, I suppose?”

“Rather,” answered Loring.

“It is strange,” thought McKay to himself, as he walked away, “with
fellows like these saloon keepers. You could give them everything that
you have, and no matter what happened they would keep it safely for you.
But play cards and they’ll stick it into you for keeps.”

Re-entering his tent, Stephen began to put his few belongings into a
saddle-bag. His packing was not a long operation. He looked rather
wistfully about the little tent, which had grown to seem to him almost
a home. Then, slinging the bag over his shoulder, he started for the
corral.

It was still very early, and few people were about. One or two of the
Mexican teamsters were at the corral, sleepily kicking their horses into
the traces. These looked at Stephen blackly, for in a mining camp news
travels very fast.

Stephen’s hands shook so that he had great difficulty in forcing the
bit into the restive jaws of his pony. At last, however, “_Muy Bueno_”
was saddled, and led out into the road. As Loring was putting up the
corral bars again, a bare-footed little Mexican girl came pattering past.
Stephen had often befriended her in small ways, so now she greeted him
with shy warmth.

“_Buenos dies, amigo!_” she chattered.

The little child’s greeting started the tears to his eyes. Fumbling in
his pocket, from among his few coins, he brought out a quarter. With a
dismal attempt at a smile, he tossed it to her.

“Eh, Señorita Rosa, here is two bits for you, _dos reales_, buy candy
with big pink stripes.”

The child ran up to him and gratefully seized his hand with both of her
grimy little paws. He cut short her repeated thanks with a quick “_No hay
de que_,” and swung into the saddle.

“_Á Dios_,” he called to her. Then slowly he rode to the watering-trough.
“_Muy Bueno_” buried his nose deep in the cool water, and drank with
great gulps. Stephen could feel the barrel of the pony swell beneath the
cinch. When he could hold no more, “_Muy Bueno_” raised his head from the
trough questioningly, the drops of water about the gray muzzle glistening
in the sun. Stephen pressed the reins against the horse’s neck, and
turned him towards the Dominion trail, which showed as a ribbon of white
upon the hills to the eastward.

Close behind him he heard a familiar voice singing an old song: “La, la,
boom, boom. La, la, boom, boom.” The last word was sung with unusual
emphasis, serving as a salutation and hail.

Wah, beaming with his usual joyousness, was trotting towards him.

“Hey, me bludder, me bludder. You gettee canned! Oh, me bludder, you
allee samee fool gettee drunk. You beat it to Dominion? Me bludder welly
wise! La, la, boom, boom!” Wah concluded his outburst with a peal of
laughter.

Stephen looked down solemnly at him.

“Damned funny, isn’t it, Wah?”

“Oh, me bludder, me bludder!”—Wah could get no further, before another
paroxysm of laughter overcame him. Recovering somewhat, he produced from
his blouse a greasy looking package.

“Me bludder get nothing to eat before he come to Dominion. Wah bring him
pie, oh, lubbly, lubbly pie.”

Stephen was deeply touched by the Chinaman’s kindness. He shook his hand
warmly.

“I had forgotten all about food. Good-bye, Wah, and thank you a lot.”

“Oh, me bludder, wait one minnie moming. I have note. Missee Cameron, she
send me bludder a note!”

Wah, with some labor, produced from his pocket a little envelope, and
handed it to Loring.

“Oh, lubbly, lubbly note! Oh, lubbly—”

“Shut up, Wah!” flared Stephen. White as death, he took the note from
Wah, and slipped it inside his shirt. He could not trust himself to read
it.

“Please thank her, Wah, and—” He could say no more. Slowly he turned his
horse, and rode towards the hills.

Wah walked away, murmuring beneath his breath: “La, la, boom, boom, me
poor bludder. He must habee hellee headache. La, la, boom, boom.”

Stephen soon reached the place on the trail where was situated the old
deserted “Q” ranch. A rusty iron tank by the shanty bore the crudely
painted sign: “Water, Cattle 10 cts. per head. Horses 25 cts.” Beside the
tank, however, in what had evidently formerly been an empty bed, gushed a
clear stream of water. Stephen smiled when he saw how nature had thwarted
the primitive monopoly.

Dismounting, he lifted the saddle from his horse’s back. Then he deftly
hobbled him, and left him to eat what grass there was by the rocky
stream bed, within a radius which he could cover with his fore legs tied
together. Stephen then seated himself on the ground, propped the saddle
behind his back, and proceeded to light a pipe, and to think. All the
events of the past few hours had come upon him with such rapidity that he
had had no time for reflection.

Seated there in the open, beneath the vivid blue sky, with no sound but
that of the softly, coolly running water near, all the scene of the
accident loomed clearly before him, far more clearly than it had done
in the morning when he had still been in the camp, and surrounded by the
routine of life there. The very warmth of the sunlight, which should have
made a man’s heart bound with the joy of living, merely added to the
blackness of his mood.

He was very nervous, and smoked with quick, hard puffs. Once his pony
started at something. The sound brought Loring to his feet, all of a
quiver. He sat down again, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with
an excited gesture. Gripping his hands together hard, he thought the
situation over and over. The more he thought of it, the worse it seemed.
This was not a case which could be called the result of negligence, or
drifting. It came very close to crime, and he knew it. Stephen Loring
was a man who, when he sat in judgment upon himself, was unflinching. He
weakened only when it came to carrying out the sentence which the court
imposed. He thought of Miss Cameron, as she had been on the ride which
they had taken together; then of what she must think of him now. This
brought a flush of shame to his cheeks.

Suddenly he recalled the note which Wah had brought to him, and he took
it reverently from his blouse. It was the first time that he had ever
seen her handwriting. His name was written upon the envelope in clear,
decided letters, which coincided well with the character of the writer.
Stephen looked at the writing, with an infinite tenderness softening the
lines on his face. He started to tear open the envelope, then suddenly he
stopped.

“I won’t,” he exclaimed, half aloud. “I will not read it until I am
worthy to do so, or until I have a great need of it.” Reluctantly he slid
the note back into his blouse. Then, coloring, he pushed it over to his
left side. His heart seemed to beat more strongly, more manfully, for the
companionship.

He had eaten no breakfast, and began to be conscious of a great hunger.
He ate, down to the last crust, the pie which Wah had given to him. It
was as good as its maker had claimed it to be.

There is nothing in the world equal to food for restoring self-respect,
and Stephen, having eaten, began to see the world more normally.
Tightening his belt, he took a long drink from the stream, then saddled
“_Muy Bueno_” and started again on his way.

All the afternoon he rode continually up hill, till towards five o’clock
he struck the Dominion divide, and timber. The air here, in contrast to
the valley below, was cold, and Loring, only thinly dressed, shivered.
Several times cattle “outfits” passed him on the trail. Men were driving
in from the range scraggly bunches of steers, to be fattened before
selling. Once he did not pull his horse out of the trail in time, and
sent a bunch of frightened cattle stampeding into the underbrush. He was
so engrossed in his thoughts that he hardly noticed the cursing which he
received from the ranchmen.

At dusk, beside the trail, he saw a bright fire in front of a tent. Two
men, occupied in frying bacon, and boiling coffee, were seated before it.
The smell that arose from the cooking appealed strongly to Stephen, and
he reined in his horse.

“Howdy, stranger! Making for Dominion?” one of the men called out.
“Well, you won’t get there for some time yet. It is twelve miles from
here. Better let us stake you to a meal. Come from Quentin, do you? Me
and my pardner was going there to-morrow.”

Stephen, with alacrity, accepted the proffered hospitality.

“Much obliged, friend,” he said. “I’m pretty well broke, and I was not
expecting to get anything to eat to-night.”

“Don’t worry about that. You shan’t go by our outfit hungry. We ain’t
made that way. There was a cuss I knowed once,” continued one of Loring’s
hosts, “up in Cochise County. I was broke, flat busted, when I was there,
and I asked him to stake me to a meal, and say, the mean skunk wouldn’t
come through at all. Said I could ‘watch him eat.’ Now what do you think
of that?” As he recalled the crime against hospitality, the man kicked
vigorously at one of the logs on the fire.

Loring listened, with due sympathy, to the tale, the while he eyed with
hopeful glances the coffee-pot, at the edge of which a yellow foam soon
appeared, serving as signal that the meal was ready.

“Sorry we can’t give you flapjacks,” remarked one of the men, as he
lifted the bacon off the fire. “Pardner here makes swell ones, but we’re
pretty low on our grub outfit now. Hope we can get work at Quentin. Any
jobs floating round loose there?”

Stephen slowly filled his tin cup with coffee, and paused, after the
western fashion, to blow into it a spoonful of condensed milk, before he
answered.

“I am not sure,” he said, “but I think that there is a vacancy on one of
the hoists. I think they fired a man there recently.”

“That’s good for us,” exclaimed one of the men. “Wish they’d fire some
more!” Stephen did not continue the discussion.

After a quiet smoke beside the embers of the fire, Stephen rose, and
thanking his hosts warmly, prepared to leave. As he was mounting he
happened to feel a flask that was in his pocket. He remembered vaguely
having filled it the night before. Reaching down from the saddle he held
out the flask.

“Have a drink, gentlemen?” he asked.

One of the men took the flask in his hands, almost reverently.

“I don’t know that I won’t,” he said. He took a long pull, then handed
the flask to his partner.

“Regards!” drawled the latter.

The words brought to Loring a bitter train of memories.

“Keep the damned stuff if you want it. I am through with it,” he said.
Then, with a quick good night, he rode off.

The men, in mild wonder, looked after him for a moment. Then they
relighted their pipes, and settled themselves by the fire.

“Mighty nice chap, that,” remarked one, “but he must feel powerful bad
about something to give away good whisky like that.”

It was nearly nine o’clock in the evening when Stephen rode into
Dominion. The main street was brightly lighted, and as it was Saturday
night, the sidewalks were crowded with people walking restlessly up and
down. The shop windows glowed attractively. Through several open doors
he could see men gathered about pool tables. The bright lights by the
cinematograph theater showed clearly the faces of the passing crowd.

Dominion had passed from the camp into the town stage, as was evinced
by the liberal scattering of brick houses among those of wooden
construction. Many horsemen were passing in the street. Fresh from the
hills, Loring felt almost dazed by this renewed contact with established
humanity.

His first care was to seek a stable for “_Muy Bueno_.” Seeing in one of
the side streets a livery sign, he entered the place and tied his pony
among the long line of horses in the shed. Then, after saying to the
proprietor: “Hay and not oats,” he walked out into the street.

“I hope the confounded expensive little beast won’t order champagne for
himself,” he thought. “He is almost clever enough to do so.”

As he walked slowly along, he mentally calculated his resources. Three
dollars in cash. Nothing in credit. A few cents Mexican in prospect. He
would have to sell the pony and saddle to complete the payment of his
poker debt.

A group of men, thoroughly drunk, passed by, singing noisily. Idly,
Stephen followed after them, until they came to the little creek that
runs through the center of the town. Across the creek, high above the
dark, silent water, lay a narrow swinging bridge. One of the group of men
called out: “Let’s go across the bridge of sighs to Mowrie’s.” The others
noisily assented and soon Loring could hear the bridge ahead of him
creaking beneath their weight. He stood for a moment, hesitating, staring
at the lights across the bridge, then he deliberately followed.

The opposite shore of the creek was lined with “cribs” and shanties
stretched in a long, sodden row along the bank. From many of them came
the brazen notes of gramophones in a jarring discord of popular tunes.
Women’s voices were mixed with the music, in shrill unpleasant laughter.
A board walk ran before the close built houses, and up and down this
tramped throngs of men, talking noisily, singing, swearing. The faces of
some group or other were now and then visible, as some one scratched a
match to light a cigarette.

Women of almost every nationality on the globe stood in the doorways,
French, Japanese, Negroes, Swedes, all dressed in flaunting kimonas. They
called to the men in the crowd, exchanged jests, or leaned idly against
the door-posts, staring fixedly into the faces of the men. From many of
the places a bright light streamed out across the water. The shutters of
several were drawn.

In strange contrast to the scene, in one of the houses some one was
singing in a clear tenor voice, which sounded as sweet and pure as if it
had been in a choir. For a moment the murmur of voices and tramp of feet
ceased, as people paused to listen.

Stephen walked slowly down the street. A woman in one of the darker
doorways called out to him. He stopped, bit his lip hard.

“Why not? What is the use, now?” he thought.

He ran up the steps and opened the door. Inside, half a dozen painted
women were drinking with the men there. The proprietress beckoned to him
to enter.

Then like a veil, before his eyes dropped a cloud of memory. He saw the
shed at the hoist, two bodies laid limply on the ground; figures moving
in dim lantern light.

He staggered out into the street, drew a deep breath and strode back
across the bridge.

“I am through with this sort of thing for good,” he muttered. “I owe the
world too big a debt of reparation now. But I will pay it.”

For the first time in his life, Loring’s smile was a smile of power, that
power which rises sometimes from a supreme sorrow, sometimes from supreme
holiness, sometimes, as now, springing from the black soil of crime; but
bespeaking the discipline which has learned to control passion, to bring
desire to heel, and to make a man master of himself despite all the
devils that this world or the next can send against him.

He had learned his lesson at last, learned it at the cost of two lost
lives, and the cost to himself of an overshadowing remorse which he could
never escape, let the future hold what it would. But he had learned it.




CHAPTER X


After three days of fruitless search for work, Stephen’s outlook upon
life grew very gloomy. Dominion was over-supplied with laborers. In
looking backward, Stephen felt that he had applied for every sort of
position from bank president to day laborer, but everywhere the answer
had been the same: “Sorry, but we have nothing for you. We are even
turning off our old workmen.”

In the West, in time of prosperity, positions and opportunities of every
sort go begging. In time of depression there is no harder place in which
to get work.

To make matters worse, Stephen from principle had always refused to
affiliate himself with one of the labor organizations, and in Dominion
the power of the Union is paramount. Once he had almost persuaded the
foreman at one of the smelters to put him on the rolls; but when the fact
had appeared that he was a non-Union man the official had changed his
mind.

“I can’t risk it. It is all wrong; but if I was to hire you to-day, why
to-morrow I wouldn’t have three men working.” This had been his final
answer.

Shortly after this experience, Loring had been approached by a delegate
who had tried to persuade him to join the Miners’ Union. The delegate
had enumerated the advantages, and they were many,—a sick benefit of ten
dollars a week, friends wherever he should go, work at high wages, and a
seventy-five dollar funeral when he died. The delegate had asked Stephen
if it were fair that when the Union, by concerted action, had brought
about the prevailing high scale of wages, outsiders should both share
the advantage, and yet weaken the Union position by working contrary
to the fixed scale. At the end, as a peroration, the man had cited the
possibilities of crushing capital at the polls, arguing with the general
point of view of such men, that the chief aim of capital was to crush
labor.

“You needn’t pay your dues until you get your first month’s wages,” he
had concluded.

Stephen had begun to feel that perhaps his anti-Union convictions had
been prejudiced, for the man had clearly shown many good arguments. Then
the delegate, seeing that Stephen was weakening, had thought to clinch
the matter. Changing his manner, he had shaken his finger in Loring’s
face and said: “If you don’t join the Union, we’ll see to it that you
don’t get a job in the territory. We’ll send your picture to every camp
in Arizona, and life will be hell for you. There was a man only last week
who wouldn’t join. He is in the hospital now, and, by Gawd, he will stay
there for a while.”

“That settles it,” Loring had answered.

The man had become all smiles again.

“I thought you would see it that way,” he had rejoined.

“I think that you misunderstand me,” had been Stephen’s reply. “I would
not join your Union if you hired me to do so. As a matter of fact, the
Miners’ Union here is not a true labor union. It is a thugs’ Union, and
the sooner all honest workingmen find it out, the better for the cause of
Unionism throughout the country.”

The scuffle that had ensued had resulted in Loring’s favor, but it had
not helped him to find work.

One morning, rather from want of occupation than from any definite
expectations, Stephen took his place in the post-office at the general
delivery window. He was greatly surprised when, in answer to his inquiry,
the clerk slipped a letter through the grating. It bore the Quentin
postmark; but the writing was unfamiliar. Stephen walked across the room,
and leaning in the doorway opened the letter with curiosity. It was from
Mr. Cameron, and ran in this fashion:

                                          “QUENTIN, September 20th.

    “STEPHEN LORING.

    “DEAR SIR: I suppose that you realize how final your actions
    here must be in regard to any trust being placed in you. I
    shall say no more upon the subject. The fact remains that
    unfortunately I am in your debt.”

Stephen read this sentence over several times before continuing:

    “I feel bound to make one more effort to repay you, which must
    be regarded as final. I have interests in several companies in
    Montana, and I will offer you a position with one of them, on
    the understanding that you will never come into my way again
    or—”

here several words were scratched out

    “You must realize how unpleasant it is for my daughter to be
    under any obligation to a man, who, to put the matter plainly,
    is a worthless drunkard. In offering this position to you, I
    may as well say that this is the only motive which actuates me.
    The position is one in which no responsibility is involved,
    being merely clerical. The pay would be sufficient to maintain
    you as long as you remain steady. The condition I impose would
    be absolute.

                           “Yours truly,

                                               “DONALD H. CAMERON.”

Stephen noticed with interest the character of the signature.

“I don’t believe that man ever failed at anything,” he thought. “There
is only one thing that he never learned, and that is how to deal with a
failure.”

It was the noon hour, and the various whistles told of lunch, for some.
Stephen read the letter over and over.

“Why not accept the offer?” he questioned. Mr. Cameron could certainly
feel no more disrespect for him than he did now, and the blatant fact
that he was hungry and without work forced itself upon his attention.

“It means another chance,” he muttered, and now that he was sure of
himself, he knew that a chance meant success. He thrust the letter into
his pocket.

“Hang it, I’ll take him up,” he thought. “I have been everything else; I
may as well be a grafter.”

As he slid his hand out of his coat pocket, he felt another envelope.
He pulled it out, and looked longingly at it. It was Jean’s note. He
hesitated, then tore it open.

“I need it now, if ever I shall,” he said to himself. There was only a
line, signed with Jean’s initials.

    “_I still believe in you._”

Stephen read it with bowed head. His shoulders shook. The paper danced up
and down before his eyes. Over and over he read the note. Unconsciously
he stretched out his hand, as if to press in gratitude and devotion the
hand of some one before him. At length, with a start, he came to himself.
He returned the note to his pocket, and in a determined fashion walked up
to a man who was standing near him.

“I would like to borrow two cents for a stamp,” he said.

The stranger roared with laughter.

“Well, you are broke! Say, friend, I’ll stake you to a meal, if you’re
that hard up.”

Stephen shook his head: “No, thank you. I have still my coat, which I can
pawn; but I am much obliged for the stamp.”

He found an odd envelope lying on a table. Going over to the desk, he
addressed this to Mr. Cameron. Then taking from the waste basket a sheet
of paper, he wrote quickly upon it five words:

    “I’m damned if I will.”

He put on the stamp with a hard pound of his fist, and threw the letter
into the mail-box. Then, with his heart beating joyously, he walked out
of the post-office. Inside his coat a note lay warm against his heart.

On the corner stood a pawnbroker’s shop. The brightness of the gilding
upon the three balls showed that it was a successful one. The place was
crowded with men who were disposing of everything that duty, a mild sense
of decency, or necessity did not for the moment require. Loring entered
the shop, and elbowing his way to the desk, laid down his coat. The
proprietor picked it up, prodded the cloth with his thumb-nail, shook his
head over the worn lining, then said:

“Two bits on that.”

Stephen silently took the proffered quarter, and went out.

“That means one meal, anyhow,” he thought.

A gaudy sign attracted his attention: “Chinese-American Restaurant”—“All
you can eat for two bits.”

“I think that they do not lose much on their sign,” he reflected when, a
few minutes later, seated at a counter, he gnawed at some bread and stew,
and drank bitter coffee. “Any man who ate more than a quarter’s worth
would die.”

Having eaten, he sauntered over to the cashier’s window and nonchalantly
slid his quarter across the counter. Then no longer a capitalist, but
also no longer hungry, he stepped out into the street again. He looked
to right and left wondering in what direction to turn his footsteps.
The sight of a crowd in front of the post-office determined him. He
questioned a man on the outskirts of the group, and found that the
excitement was caused by a telegram, the contents of which was posted in
the window. Working his way through the crowd, Loring reached a position
whence he could make out the notice. The telegram was from the governor
of Sonora, the Mexican province which lay just across the line from
Dominion.

    “Outbreak of Yaquis. No troops near. Would deeply appreciate
    help from Dominion.”

The crowd was laughing and cheering.

“Me for Old Mexico!” called one.

“Perhaps we’ll all be generals,” shouted another.

The news had spread like wild-fire, and from every direction appeared
groups of men, armed with Winchesters, shotguns, or Colts. All were
rushing toward the Southern Pacific station. Stephen hurried up the
street to a gun store, and by dint of hard persuasion obtained from the
proprietor an old Spencer forty-five calibre, single shot carbine.

“It will at least make a noise,” thought Loring. He joined a group of men
who were on their way to the train.

“I might as well go to Mexico as anywhere,” he reflected. “My
responsibilities are not heavy just at present.”

Within half an hour after the receipt of the telegram in Dominion, three
hundred men, all armed to the teeth, were at the station. For in a region
where the sheriff’s posse is one of the regular forms of entertainment,
there are many men who joyously start upon an expedition of this kind.

A cheer arose from the crowd when Harry Benson, at one time the captain
of the “Arizona Rangers,” appeared upon the scene, clearing a way for
himself by the adept fashion in which he spat tobacco juice.

“Going along, Harry? Good boy,” some one called. “You ought to have
brought all the Rangers with you.”

“See here,” answered Benson, “this ain’t in no wise official business.
This is sort of a pleasure excursion.” There was a howl of laughter at
this, then as the engine whistle blew sharply, all scampered for places
in the “special” which the railway company had provided.

A man who was on the front platform of one of the cars began to sing a
song—a very popular song, of which the verse and chorus were unprintable,
but very singable. With men hanging out of the windows, standing on the
roofs of the cars, and with platforms and steps jammed, the train pulled
out of the station, headed for the Mexican Line, only fifteen miles away.

Half an hour brought them to the border. Here were waiting the governor
of Sonora and many Mexicans, who cheered excitedly as the train drew into
the station. Benson, by unanimous consent, was acting as director-general
of warfare. As the train slowed down, he jumped to the platform. A
Mexican official resplendent in uniform and gold braid, in strange
contrast to the motley throng following at Benson’s heels, stepped
forward to greet him. Benson sang out cheerfully: “Hello, here we are;
what is there for us to do?”

While the official was explaining the situation, he looked a bit
anxiously at the crowd, hoping that when the trouble was over, they would
all depart from the province of Sonora with the same celerity with which
they had come. It certainly was a hard-looking aggregation.

The Governor talked earnestly with Benson, speaking excellent English. “I
do not know what to do. According to the laws, no armed force can enter
our territory. It is a bad precedent. And yet we need help. There are no
troops near Los Andes where the raiders are feared. Yet the laws are very
strict, and as an officer of the law I must not let them be broken. The
law says plainly: ‘No armed force.’ What shall I do?” The Governor was in
despair over the situation.

Benson saved the day.

“Look here, Gov,” he said. “I used to be an officer of the law myself.
A man must conform strictly to the laws; I know all about it. But,” he
added, with a wink, “we’re here, just sort of a disorganized party as
happened to meet on the train. We was all going hunting near Los Andes,
and we sort of came over without formalities.”

The Governor’s face beamed with happiness at this solution.

“It is _magnifico_! And as the custom-house cannot appraise so many
weapons at once, you are permitted to carry them, gentlemen. In bond, of
course, in bond,” he added hastily.

“Yesterday we had news from the hills that the Yaquis were raiding
again,” he said to Benson. “Two prospectors were killed, not fifty miles
from Los Andes. A bridge on the main line is down. The troops cannot be
there for twenty-four hours.”

Benson nodded comprehendingly. “Same old trouble, ain’t it? I wonder
these Yaquis wouldn’t get tired. We’ll fix them up good for you if they
come.”

These formalities of international law having been settled, all again
boarded the train, and a slow hour’s run toward the west brought them to
Los Andes.

The inhabitants of this sleepy little town of Old Mexico thronged about
the station and welcomed their prospective rescuers with enthusiasm.
Loud cries of “_Vivan Los Americanos!_” echoed from end to end of the
platform, as the men swarmed out of the train.

Soon the men were assigned to quarters in the various houses and shops.
The plaza before the cathedral in the center of the town became, for
probably the first time in its existence, a scene of activity.

As Benson was completing the disposition of his men, a Mexican ranch
owner rode up to him.

“The Señor is the _comandante_?” he asked in broken English.

“Sure, Mike, _Seguro Miguel_—Fire away!” answered Benson.

The ranchman looked puzzled, then commenced to explain his errand. His
ranch, it appeared, was situated some twenty miles outside the town, in
the direction from which the Yaquis were expected, and his ranchmen were
all absent upon the range. He asked for five or six men to defend his
_hacienda_:

Benson waved his hand airily, in feeble imitation of the Mexican’s grand
manner: “_’Sta ’ueno_, you shall have them.”

Turning, he saw Loring, who had been listening to the talk. Benson was
accustomed to judging men quickly, and he was rarely deceived. A quick
survey of Loring’s face satisfied him.

“He is no quitter, anyhow,” he thought, “and at present his moral
character don’t matter.” He called to Loring: “Say, you Mr.
What’s-your-name, you get four other men and go with this chap to his
ranch!”

“Have you _caballos_ for them here?” Benson asked the ranchman.

“Sí, sí, I can procure them at once,” exclaimed Señor Hernandez. “And my
gratitude, it is eternal.”

“Never mind that,” said Benson, turning away.

A very short while sufficed for Stephen to find four volunteers to
accompany them, and within an hour the little party was riding out of
the town to the southward, where lay the ranch and the threatened pass.
The country was desolation itself, rocky ground covered with layers of
dust and sand. All was gray in color. The little clusters of sage-brush,
all dried and lifeless in the heat, made no change in the gray hue. The
road was merely a track across the desert, beaten by chance horsemen or
cattle. Along this the horses scuffled, sending up clouds of alkali dust
into the air for the benefit of the riders who were behind.

Stephen rode beside Señor Hernandez, speaking only in short sentences, to
answer or ask some question. The leather of the saddles, beneath the sun,
was burning hot.

After four hours of riding, just as the sun was beginning to drop behind
the foothills, they saw before them in the desert a large patch of green,
as vivid as if painted upon the ground, fresh and succulent, amidst the
desolation of the plain.

“My alfalfa crop!” exclaimed the Señor, pointing with pride. “We have
irrigated. Much water. Big crop. _He aqui la casa_—there, behind the
alfalfa.”

Stephen saw rise, as if by magic, a long one-story structure of
adobe, so much the color of the earth as to have been till now almost
indistinguishable. Beside the house was a large brush corral. So
perfectly was all blended with the landscape, that not until they were
very near did Loring appreciate the great size of the building.

At the corral they dismounted and unsaddled.

“Better carry the saddles up to the house!” said Loring to the men, who
had hung them over the corral bars. So, carrying their guns and saddles,
they all walked up to the house.

Here they were received by the ranchman’s wife, a striking Spanish beauty.

“It is Señora Hernandez,” said the Mexican, with justifiable pride. The
Señora showed the men the rooms where they were to sleep. Stephen, as
commander, was given the largest room.

Pepita was very well pleased with the appearance of the defender whom her
husband had selected, for in spite of his flannel shirt and dusty boots,
Loring was not bad to look upon.

In a few moments, Stephen re-entered the main room. The Señora was there,
leaning against one of the easements. The scarf that was thrown over her
head added to her charms, and lent a subtlety to her dark beauty. As
Stephen walked across the room toward her, he admired her greatly.

“By George! She is a beauty,” he exclaimed under his breath. Then
answered a voice within him: “Yes, but at thirty, she will be fat, oh,
very fat.”

As the Señora turned to greet him, the first voice made answer: “Yes, but
it will be at least twelve years before she is thirty.”




CHAPTER XI


While Stephen was talking with the Señora, a gong in an inner room
clanged.

“It is the time for our evening meal, Señor,” she said, with a pretty
little Spanish accent. After Loring had perjured his soul by swearing
that he was loath to change his occupation for the pleasure of eating,
she smiled at him mockingly, and led the way into the dining-room.

The Hernandez ranch was the largest in the Los Andes region, and the
house was furnished and decorated in an elaborate manner. The walls of
the dining-room were hung with gay pictures, and the table, set for
supper, boasted several pieces of silver.

Señor Hernandez presided at the table with true Latin hospitality, and
Stephen, his previous protestations to the contrary notwithstanding, did
full justice to the excellent fare, at the same time keeping up a lively
conversation with the Señora. The men with him ate vigorously, the only
break in their steady eating being caused by glances at the pretty
Mexican girl who served the meal.

After supper, Stephen and the Señor went outside, and walked about the
ranch, studying the possibilities of defense in case of trouble. At
Stephen’s suggestion, they led the horses from the corral, and picketed
them behind the house, as the first thought of any marauders would
undoubtedly be to raid the corral.

Like most adobe houses, the ranch house consisted of a main building,
with two wings running at right angles, thus enclosing three sides of a
court. All the windows of the ground floor had iron shutters, fastening
on the inside. The ground about the building was as flat as a board, and
was broken only by the lines of the irrigation ditches which ran amidst
the alfalfa fields.

“If we station a man to watch upon the roof,” said Stephen, as they
returned to the house, “it will be all the precaution that we need
to take. On a clear night such as this, a man can see far in every
direction.”

“It will be well,” answered the Señor. “And, this door here, it is a
heavy one. It will be hard to break down.”

“I don’t believe that it will come to that,” laughed Stephen. “I don’t
believe that we shall have any trouble at all.”

“I pray not,” answered Señor Hernandez. His was not a nature which was
exhilarated by prospective danger.

When they re-entered the main room, Stephen glanced quickly from the
Señora to her husband.

“It is strange,” he said to himself, “how a little swarthy man like
that could have won such a beauty for a wife. I suppose, though, that
if she really loves him, she does not care if his ears are a bit like
an elephant’s, his eyes too close together, and his nose as thin as a
razor.” The husband of a pretty woman is not likely to have his charms
exaggerated by other men.

They spent the evening smoking and talking. The Señora rolled cigarettes
with the greatest deftness, and the smile with which she administered the
final little pat did much to enhance the taste of the tobacco.

At ten o’clock the Señora rose, and after calling the servant to light
the men to their rooms, bade them good night.

It had been agreed that Stephen should stand the first watch. He
insisted that the Señor, tired as he was from two sleepless nights of
worry, should not share his vigil.

Having exchanged his carbine for one of his host’s Winchesters, Loring
mounted the ladder that ran from the hallway of the second story to the
roof. It was a perfect night. The heavens were glittering with stars, and
all was silent. Not a breath of air came from across the desert to cool
the copings, which were still warm from the day’s heat.

Stephen leaned his rifle against the chimney, then felt in his pockets
for a little sack of coarse “Ricorte” which some one in the town had
given to him. He filled his pipe carefully, packing the tobacco down with
his forefinger, till all was even; then striking a match, he held it far
from him, until the blue flame of the sulphur burned to a clear yellow.
He held the match to his pipe until the bowl glowed in an even circle of
fire, and the smoke drew through the stem in rich, full clouds. Then,
picking up his rifle again, he began a careful lookout over the plain
towards the pass.

A fact which greatly facilitates the building of air castles, is that,
unlike most buildings, they need no foundations. The castles which
Stephen built that night, as he paced up and down the roof, biting
hard on his pipe-stem, would have done credit to a very good school of
architecture. The general design may be imagined from the fact that time
and time again he drew from his pocket a little crumpled envelope, and
holding it close to the glow of his pipe, read and reread it. Once he
carried it to his lips, and with a feeling almost as of sacrilege, kissed
it. Then he turned sharply, for on the roof behind him he heard light
footsteps and the tinkle of a woman’s laughter.

“Oh, but Señor Loring is a faithful lover,” exclaimed Pepita, stepping
toward him.

Even in the darkness, Stephen felt himself blushing up to his hair. He
stammered, then laughed: “I plead guilty, but I am not generally like
that.”

“It does no harm,” she murmured softly. “And the Señorita, does she also
care so much?”

“Not in the least,” answered Stephen. “The Señorita does not even know
that I care.”

“Oh, you think so? Women are not so—how do you say—? so blind,” laughed
the Señora. “But you have not asked me why I am here, Señor.”

“No,” answered Stephen rather bluntly. In the light of his reveries of
the past hour he felt rather ashamed of the little flirtation that he had
carried on after dinner with the Señora.

“You need not be embarrassed,” she went on, laughing at his stiffness.
“It was not to see the gallant Señor that I came, though no doubt there
are many who—”

Loring silenced her with an imploring gesture.

“No, I came to see if all were well. I was afraid that I heard noises,”
she confessed.

“All right, so far,” said Stephen. “I do not think that we shall have any
trouble.”

“Then I will again go down,” she said.

Stephen walked with her over to the ladder, and bowing low over her hand,
whispered a low “_Buenas noches!_” As he helped her to the ladder, he
looked into her eyes rather curiously. He could not understand their
expression.

When she had her foot upon the uppermost rung, she said good night to
him. Then, as he turned, she said, half shyly: “The letter, Señor; you
will watch the _carta_ of the Señorita well?”

Laughing softly, yet not altogether gaily, she ran down the ladder.

“My husband, he is good,” she reflected. “Ah, very good, but he is as
homely as a—monkey.”

Wiping two little tears from the corners of her eyes, she stepped quickly
back into her room.

The time passed very slowly for Stephen. The clock in the courtyard below
struck two. His rifle barrel began to feel cold in his fingers, as he
fought against sleep. The night had grown thicker, and he could no longer
see far out into the distance.

“It will be morning soon,” he thought. “I don’t believe that the Yaquis
mean business this time.”

Even as he spoke, his ear caught a low sound. Then there was a silence.
Doubtingly, he leaned far out over the wall, and listened intently. Again
he heard the sound; again it ceased. Then once more it arose and became
continuous,—very soft, but insistent, a solid, dull, irregular thud, as
of many hoofs beating upon soft ground. The blood in Stephen’s face
boiled with quivering excitement. The hoof-beats came nearer and nearer,
then stopped. The next sound that he heard was a grating click by the
corral, as of some one slipping down the bars. He thought with lightning
rapidity: “A shot will be the best way to awaken the men.”

Almost instantly afterwards he saw against the gray-white of the opposite
side of the court a shadow, then another and another. Kneeling behind the
coping, he covered the leader with his rifle.

The click of the action as he cocked his Winchester sounded to him
preternaturally loud. He dropped the muzzle of his rifle a fraction of
an inch until the first shadow drifted across the sights. He fired, and
the shadow dropped. The flash of his rifle was answered from the dark by
a dozen spurts of flame. All around him the bullets whined, or clicked
against the dry adobe, sending great chips flying in all directions.
Three times Loring fired, lying with the butt of his rifle cuddled close
against his cheek. Would the men below never hear!

As the vague shapes rushed across the court for the door with a shrill
yell, five knife-like jets of flame shot from the windows, and the
reports echoed staccato in answer to the fusillade from the courtyard.
The leaders of the Yaquis had almost reached the shelter of the doorway,
but the angle windows fairly spat fire as the defenders emptied their
repeaters. Unable to face the withering fire the raiders wavered, then
fell back to the line of the irrigation ditches, whence they sent a rain
of bullets against the windows of the houses. The tinkle of breaking
glass on all sides was mingled with the reports of the rifles. The
surprise had been complete for the Yaquis, as they had expected to find
the ranch unprotected.

As soon as this first attack was repulsed, Stephen ran to the ladder and
jumped down to join the others. His rifle barrel was burning hot from the
rapidity of his fire.

He found the men all gathered in one room. It was a strange looking group
which the flashes of the rifles revealed in the smoky air, half dressed,
kneeling by the shutters, shooting viciously out into the darkness, at
the blurred things in the ditches. A bullet whistled by Stephen’s ear as
he entered the room, and with a dull spat buried itself in the plaster
behind him.

“Easy on the cartridges, boys!” he called. “They may rush again.” His
advice was well called for, as in their excitement the men were firing
wildly.

“It is lucky that there are no windows in the back of the house,” he
exclaimed to Señor Hernandez.

The latter was engaged in trying to make himself an inconspicuous target.

There was the sound of footsteps at the door of the room and a blinding
glare of light, as Pepita entered, carrying a large lamp. Stephen
snatched it from her and hurled it out the window through the splintered
panes. But its work had been done. One of the men by the window sobbed,
staggered to his feet, and leaned out into the night, shaking his fist
towards the ditches. Then he fell face downward across the ledge, where
for an instant he was silhouetted by the last flicker of the lamp below.
Loring flung himself upon him and dragged him back into the room, but
not before the body was riddled with bullets. Stephen felt the sting of
several as they grazed his clothes, by some miracle leaving him unhurt.

“_Dios!_” gasped the woman.

“Lie down!” shouted Loring, forcing her to the floor. Then he took the
dead man’s place by the shutter, and began to fire methodically.

Encouraged by their success, the Yaquis again swarmed forward. The
whiplike crack of five Winchesters checked them before they were within
the courtyard.

The black of the night began to turn to gray-blue with the hint of dawn.
The figures in the ditches stirred, and as they began to run for their
ponies, the defenders fired into them with telling effect. Then, in
contrast to the previous rattle of shots, came the sound of the hoofs of
a hundred ponies, scampering back up the trail.

“All over!” called out Stephen. Rising from his knees, he leaned out
of the casement, and sent one more shot towards the flying Yaquis. It
brought no response.

They carried Haskins, the man who had been shot, into the next room, and
laid him on the bed. He was quite dead. The Señora followed, sobbing.
Wildly she turned to Stephen as he tried to comfort her.

“You, Señor—you do not know what it is to kill, by madness, by folly.”

“Not know?—I—not know?” Stephen smiled a smile that was not good to see,
as he broke off.

“Good God!” he thought, “had it left no trace on him, that haunting
vision of two corpses flung twisted and out of shape on the wreckage of
timber, those two things that had been men sent out of life by his guilty
hand? Had it not lived with him by night and refused to be put aside by
day? Had they not risen up in the dark hours and called him by a name
from which he shrank like a blow, and now this woman told him he could
not know what it meant to kill a man!”

He put his hands in his pockets, bowed his head, and walked slowly back
into the other room.

The light breaking fast in the eastern sky, showed a disheveled scene.
Mattresses were scattered on the floor, the bedding was thrown about the
room, all of the windows were smashed. By each casement was a pile of
empty brass cartridge shells. By one window was a mess of something red.
The air was stale, and filled with acid-tasting powder smoke.

Loring went downstairs, and slipping back the bolts on the heavy door,
stepped out into the cool of the early morning. Outside everything seemed
in strange order, compared with the scene that he had left. He started on
a tour of investigation about the ranch. The ditches amidst the alfalfa
showed no trace of the death-dealing occupants of an hour before. As
he walked around the corner of an outbuilding, he stumbled over a body
which the Yaquis had overlooked in their flight. The Indian’s stiff,
square shoes lay with their toes unbending in the dust. The blue denim of
the overalls and the buckle of the suspenders showed the trademark of a
Chicago firm! A bullet hole was clean through the middle of the swarthy,
bronze-colored forehead. Even through the rough clothing, the flat,
rangey build of the man was evident. The hair, falling forward in the
dust, was coarse and black.

“Poor devil!” thought Stephen. “He has ridden on his last raid.”

He walked quietly away from the body, and went back to the house.
“Everything is all right,” he reported.

Soon the stove was lighted, and coffee boiling. The men were laughing and
telling stories. The Señor strode up and down, twisting his little spikes
of mustachios, and exclaiming upon the valor of the defense.

When they sat down to breakfast, there was a seat too many at the table.
Loring thought of the silent form in the room above, and for a moment
felt weak. Then, shaking off his depression, he entered into the general
hilarity. Time after time, the servant passed the great platter of dry
_tortillas_. The big cakes tasted delicious to the tired men.

As they finished breakfast, the sound of a bugle call sent every one to
the window. Outside was a troop of Mexican cavalry, hot on the trail of
the Yaquis. Señor Hernandez invited the officers to enter, and while he
pressed whisky upon them, gave a voluble account of the fight. He spoke
in such rapid Spanish that Stephen could understand little; but from the
frequent sweeping gestures, he judged that the story lost nothing in the
telling.

The officers remained but a short while, then remounted, and rode at a
sharp trot towards the hills.

“I wonder that the government does not send enough troops to wipe out
these fellows. These cavalry will only drive them back into the hills,
and in a few months they will again swoop down upon the outlying towns
and ranches, just as they have been doing for the past ten years,”
thought Stephen.

After breakfast, Loring prepared to return to Los Andes. The others had
accepted the invitation of Señor Hernandez to stay for a few days as his
guests. A spirit of restlessness pervaded Stephen, and prevented him from
remaining.

The Señor was to arrange to send home Haskins’s body.

“He came from Trinidad, he always said. Guess he had folks there,” one of
the men had volunteered.

Just as Loring was mounting, Pepita ran forward, and whispered something
to him.

He shook his head in reply.

“Try and see!” was her rejoinder.

The thought which she had put into his head made the long ride back to
Los Andes pass very quickly.

The town had resumed its normal appearance. The loafers were again
stretched upon the steps of the little stores or on the pavements. Those
who were not rolling cigarettes were comfortably asleep.

“_Los Americanos vamos_,” was the answer to Stephen’s inquiries.

After leaving his borrowed horse at a stable, he wandered idly towards
the plaza. Now that the reaction had come, he felt very tired. Spying a
bench beneath some palm trees, he stretched himself upon it, and in the
security of him who has nothing, dozed peacefully.

A mosquito, buzzing vapidly about his head, caused him to exert himself
to the extent of a few useless blows. A wagon, rumbling down the street,
caused him to look up. Then after these two exhibitions of energy, he
fell soundly asleep.




CHAPTER XII


Towards ten o’clock in the evening Stephen directed his steps to the
railroad station, and seating himself on a side-tracked flat car, kicked
his heels over the edge, and smoked his last pipeful of tobacco. He
jangled some keys in his pocket, pretending to himself that they were
money. It was bad enough, he reflected, to be “broke” in the States,
where he could talk the language; but here—He looked disconsolately at
the throng of Mexicans who were on the platform. “_Buenos dies_, and _que
hora?_ although I am sure I pronounce them well, will not take me very
far in the world,” he thought. “It does not matter much where I go; but
I certainly must go somewhere. I will board the first freight train that
appears, whether it is going north, south, east or west.”

Having come to this determination, he jumped down from the car, and
walking over to the bulletin board, ran his finger down the time-table.

“Nine o’clock—train for La Punta. Well, that’s gone. Hello! Here we
are—eleven P. M. express for the City of Mexico. I wonder what that
asterisk means. Oh, yes, Pullmans only. That would be infinitely more
pleasant than the brake-beams of a freight,” he mused, “and for me it
would be equally cheap.”

Stephen was a novice at the art of “beating it,” but he possessed two
very valuable assets, a keen observation and a vivid imagination. Having
thus resolved to travel in state, he returned to his flat car, and set
about planning ways and means. A few minutes of solemn thought gave him
his first conclusion: that at this time of year the southbound trains
would not be running full.

“Therefore there will be many vacant berths,” he thought.

A few more puffs upon his pipe gave him the next link in his plan.
“Whether empty, or full, the Pullman company has all the berths down.”

Thought number three: “At night they make long runs, without stopping.
Therefore,” thought Stephen, “once on board, and safely tucked in an
upper berth, I can travel until morning without being discovered and
thrown off the train.”

“Now comes the second part of my problem: how to get on the train and
into my berth without being discovered.” He shut his eyes, and visualized
a train standing at the station. “Where would the porters stand?” he
asked himself.

He thought hard, and remembered that at night the porters generally stand
at opposite ends of their cars, so that every alternate set of steps is
unguarded.

“Now,” he reflected, “if the berths are down, the curtains will be drawn,
therefore there will be little light from the car windows, to bring me
into prominence, and the passengers will probably be asleep. All will go
well, if the vestibule doors are not locked. But generally on hot nights
they are unlocked. Anyhow, I must risk it.”

As he mused over his plan giving it the final touches, the express for
the City of Mexico thundered into the station.

With a grating of brakes, and a squish of steam, the heavy train sobbed
itself to a stop, the engine dropping from the fire-box a stream of
glowing coals between the gleaming steel rails, and blowing forth steam
from the exhaust.

“Here’s my train,” thought Loring. “It looks very comfortable.”

He slipped his pipe into his pocket, and stepping back into a shadowy
corner, awaited his opportunity.

From the platform arose an irregular murmur of voices, such as always
attends the arrival of a train at night. That murmur which, to the
passengers lying half awake, sounds so far away, and unreal! He heard the
bang and thump of trunks being thrown out of the baggage car. A party
of tourists, weighted down with hand-luggage, hurried by him. Even as
he thought, the white-jacketed porters stood with their little steps
alternately at the right and left ends of their respective cars, so that
in the long train there were three unguarded platforms.

A man was rapidly testing and oiling the car wheels. His torch flared
yellow-red against the greasy brown of the trucks, and made queer shadows
dance on the red varnished surface of the cars.

Stephen tried to make out the name of the car nearest to him. The first
four gilt letters showed clearly in the torchlight: “ELDO”—The man with
the torch moved nearer. “ELDORADO,” spelled Stephen. “Perhaps the name is
a delicate hint to me from Fate.”

The inspector passed on up the train, hitting ringing blows on the wheels
with his short, heavy mallet. He tested the last car, then stepped back
from the train, swinging his torch around his head as a signal to the
engineer.

“It must be now or never,” thought Loring. But which platform to try!
At that instant, from the car opposite him, came a great puff of white
steam, for a moment almost obscuring the steps from view.

Loring darted forward, and jumped upon the train platform. Anxiously he
thrust his shoulder against the vestibule door. It was unlocked. As he
gained the vestibule, the car couplings tightened with a jerk, and the
train clumsily started. He took a hasty glance down the interior of the
car. At the opposite end the porter was closing the vestibule door. The
aisle was clear.

Stephen stepped quickly into the car, pulled back the curtain of the
nearest section, and stepping on the lower berth, caught hold of the
curtain bar, and with one pull swung himself up. In the process, he
inadvertently stepped on the fat man in the lower berth. Stephen knew
that he was fat, because he felt that way. The man swore sleepily, and
twitched the curtain back into place.

“I think that I won’t put my boots out to be cleaned to-night,” said
Loring to himself. “It would be tactless.” Then he pulled the blankets
up over him, rolled over close to the far side of the berth, and fell
asleep, lulled by the hum of the car wheels, pounding southward fifty
miles an hour.

Tired out by his vigil of the night before, Stephen slept until it was
late. He awoke with a start to find that it was broad daylight. Sleepily
he tried to think where he was. His eye fell on the dome of polished
mahogany above him, upon the swaying green curtain, and the swinging
bellrope. Then he recalled the situation. For a few moments he lay back,
blissfully comfortable. His weary muscles were grateful for the rest.
Then he roused himself, and peered cautiously out from between the
curtains. While he was looking up and down the dusty stretch of carpet in
the aisle, the colored porter rapped hard on the woodwork of the lower
berth, and proceeded to awake the occupant.

“Last call for breakfast, number twelve, last call; half-past nine, sir,
half-past nine.”

Stephen curbed a childlike desire to reach over and pull the kinky hair
of the darky.

“I am sure that he would think that I was a ghost,” he laughed to himself.

He could hear the man below him turn over heavily, then grunt, and begin
to dress.

“I think I also had better arise,” reflected Loring. He watched the
porter until the latter was at the far end of the car, then dropping
his feet over the edge of the berth he slid out onto the swaying floor,
almost into the arms of the amazed Pullman conductor, who at that instant
had entered the car.

“Where did you get on?” gasped the brass-buttoned official. “I didn’t
know that there was an ‘upper’ taken in this car.”

“At Los Andes,” answered Stephen, “I was rather tired, so I thought I
would not bother you at the time.”

The conductor looked hard at Stephen, and took in at a glance his ragged
clothes, dirty shoes, and flannel shirt; then he grinned.

“That was mighty considerate of you, stranger; now let’s have your
ticket. We have almost reached our next stop.”

Stephen pretended to feel in his pockets, though he well knew that it was
useless. The other people in the train were beginning to stare.

“To be put off a train would be far pleasanter in imagination than in
reality,” flashed across Stephen’s mind.

“Hurry up, now,” repeated the conductor. “Where is your ticket?”

“I haven’t any,” Loring blurted out.

“Come on, now, no nonsense! fork up!” insisted the conductor.

“I would gladly, if I had any money,” rejoined Stephen, then with seeming
irrelevancy, he added: “How far is it from here to the ‘City’?”

“It is about seven hundred miles,” answered the conductor, “but I am sure
you will find it a delightful walk.”

“Last call for breakfast in the dining-car. Last call,” again echoed
through the car.

“Better hurry, sir,” said the porter, not realizing the situation, as he
passed Stephen.

“Thank you,” said Loring, with a grim smile. “But I think I will refrain
from eating this morning.”

A rather heavy faced man, who was sitting near by, laughed audibly.
Stephen became the center of interest for the passengers. For them,
the little scene was a perfect bonanza, serving to break the monotony
of the trip. Loring was conscious of the stare of many eyes, about as
effectually concealed behind books and magazines as is an ostrich with
its head in the sand.

“Come out into the vestibule with me!” said the conductor, rather
gruffly. Stephen followed him in silence. When they were on the platform,
the conductor turned and looked at him squarely. Loring noticed that
there could be kind lines about the close-set jaw.

“See here,” began the former, “you don’t look to me like a man who is
often working this sort of game. I guess you must be sort of up against
it, ain’t you?”

Stephen bowed his head slowly, in non-committal agreement.

“Now I don’t like to see a man down and out,” went on the conductor,
“unless he is the kind that deserves to be, and you ain’t. Besides,
you’re from the States like I am, and so, though I’d lose my job if it
were found out, the company is going to set you up to this ride free.”

Stephen’s face lighted with gratitude, as he grasped the man’s hand, and
thanked him.

“When did you have anything to eat last?” asked the conductor suddenly.

“Not since yesterday morning,” answered Stephen.

“Well, you go right into that car” (he pointed forward with his thumb)
“and eat. I’ll make it all right with the dining-car people.”

“That is too much,” said Loring. “I can’t”—

The conductor cut him short. “Some time when you have the money, you can
pay me back. If you don’t ever have it, don’t worry. No, you mustn’t
thank me any more. It is just that you are an American, and I don’t like
to see a fellow from the States up against it in this Godforsaken land.”

As Loring walked through the train, his blood tingled with the pride of
race and citizenship, tingled with the glow that comes or should come
to every man, when he realizes the strength of the great brotherhood
to which he belongs: realizes that when things are stripped to
their elemental facts, and the veneer of international courtesy and
friendliness removed, he is standing shoulder to shoulder with his
countrymen against the world.

When at last the train drew into the “City,” Stephen said a warm good-bye
to his benefactor, then followed the line of passengers out into the
street. With no definite purpose in mind, he wandered up and down the
city, staring idly into the shop windows. By accident, he found himself
in a great plaza. He was pleased with the gaiety.

“If it were not for economic distress, I should be very well off,” he
thought. “I must get work somewhere, and immediately.”

He walked up one of the side streets, looking at all the signs, hoping
that one might give him a clew. For a long time he saw nothing helpful,
and he was on the brink of discouragement, when his eye was attracted
by a large gilt umbrella on the next corner, hung out over the street.
Beneath it was a Spanish sign to the effect that umbrellas could be
bought, sold, or repaired within. In the window was a large placard: “We
speak English.”

“If I were skilful with my hands,” thought Loring, “I might get a job
repairing here; but I am not skilful with my hands.”

He stood reflecting, his hands deep in his pockets. An idea soon came to
him, for he had always been more resourceful than successful.

He walked boldly into the shop, and approached the proprietor. The man
began to assume the smile with which he welcomed prospective buyers,
noticed Loring’s clothes, and checking the smile, waited in silence for
him to speak. Stephen, unabashed, smiled in a most friendly fashion, and
a few words of comment upon the admirable situation of the shop, and the
excellence of the stock, quite won the owner’s confidence. After a few
moments of conversation, in a guile-free manner he asked: “And do you do
much repairing here?”

“No,” the proprietor admitted, “very little. Most of my business is to
buy and sell.”

“It seems strange that in a big city such as this there should be no
demand for repairs?”

Stephen made the statement a question by the rising inflection. He spoke
with the hesitating assurance which had made so many people trust him.

The proprietor shook his head in answer: “No, there is no demand.”

“Is it not that people do not think, perhaps, do not know of your place?”

“Very likely you are right,” answered the storekeeper. He was pleased by
the stranger’s interest in his business.

Then Loring played his high card.

“Suppose that you had an active English-speaking agent, who would go to
the offices and homes of the American and English colony, and collect
umbrellas to be repaired, then would not your business flourish?”

The shop owner grasped the plan, but not with both hands.

“Y-e-s,” he answered slowly. In dealing with an American he felt that he
must be on his guard.

“Well,” continued Stephen, “I am such a man, very efficient (Heaven help
me!) and reliable (It won’t!). For a commission, no pay in advance, but
for a commission of say ten cents for each umbrella, I will collect for
you.” The umbrella man consented half reluctantly. The matter was soon
arranged, and Loring hastened forth upon his rounds.

By six o’clock, after many strange experiences, and rebuffs, he had
managed to collect ten umbrellas. Gaudy red, somber black, two green
ones, and one white. All were in advanced stages of decrepitude. He had
pleaded with the owners to let them be restored, as if each umbrella had
an “inalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

With his odd collection bundled under his arms, Loring started on his
return to the store. Greatly pleased with the success of his scheme, he
strolled along talking to himself, and not noticing where he was going.

Walking in the opposite direction to Loring on the same sidewalk was
another man. His quick, decisive steps and the slightly deprecating
glance which he cast at any thing of beauty in the windows of the
shops that he passed proclaimed him an American. The expression on his
face varied from amusement to scorn as he glanced at things that were
different from those in the States. There was in his whole manner that
good-humored toleration of the best achievements of another nation that
marks the travelling American. The sidewalk was narrow, and the heavy
shoulders of this man overshadowed half the distance across. He was
covering a good yard at a stride, which was all the more remarkable as
the most of his height was above the waist. Had he been a girl, his
hair would have been called auburn where it showed beneath his hat.
Being a man, it may be truthfully said that it matched the bricks of the
building he was passing. His eyes, which were as round as the portholes
of a ship, betokened a degree of honesty and kindness which matched
well with the general effect of strength and homeliness given by his
whole appearance. The energy of all his motions was a sharp contrast to
Loring’s lazy stroll. At the second that he reached Loring, his eyes were
uplifted in wondering curiosity at the bright colors of the roof tiles.
His preoccupation, combined with Loring’s absorption, made a collision
inevitable. And the inevitable, as usual, took place.

“I beg your pard—” began Stephen, raising his eyes.

“Stephen Loring!” exclaimed the stranger. “Where in the devil did you
come from?”

“Baird Radlett!” called Stephen, as if stupefied.

They shook hands warmly. Radlett was an old friend of Stephen’s, one who
had been an intimate in the days before Loring’s misfortunes.

“Come on, Steve, we’ll go and get a drink,” said Radlett.

Loring shook his head. “Not for me, thanks,” he answered.

“Phew!” whistled Radlett. “Since when?” he involuntarily exclaimed. Then
for the first time he took notice of the strange load which Loring was
carrying.

“What on earth, Steve?” he asked, pointing to the umbrellas.

In the old days Loring had been well off, Radlett rich, and it hurt
Stephen to explain his abject poverty. He hesitated a moment, then
unblushingly replied:

“Why you see, Baird, I am on a sort of house-party here, and the weather
being fine, I thought that I would take all the girls’ umbrellas around
to be fixed.”

Radlett stared in amazement, then both broke into shouts of laughter, as
the ridiculousness of the excuse struck them simultaneously.

“See here, Steve, I know that you are in hard luck. Come down to my hotel
with me, and we will talk things over,” said Radlett. Putting his arm
affectionately through Loring’s, he dragged him, protesting, along with
him. As they walked, Stephen explained the matter of the umbrellas, while
Radlett listened amused, but a bit saddened.

“To think of dear old Steve Loring reduced to peddling umbrellas!” he
said to himself.

On their way, they came to the gilt sign of the umbrellas.

“I must leave these here,” said Loring.

Radlett tactfully waited outside, while Stephen entered and deposited
the results of his collection. The proprietor, who, when released from
Stephen’s winning conversation, had begun to feel rather worried, was
surprised and delighted at the success of the mission. He opened the
cash drawer, and handed to Stephen a silver dollar. Stephen wrote down
the addresses of the umbrella owners, then with his new earned dollar
clinking lovingly against the keys in his pocket, he rejoined Radlett.

They walked briskly to the hotel where Radlett was staying, and stepping
into the smoking room, were soon comfortably ensconced in two big leather
armchairs, placed in an out-of-the-way corner of the room.




CHAPTER XIII


Radlett pounded upon the nickel bell on the smoking table, and ordered
two cigars. Stephen bit the end of his cigar hastily, while Radlett
produced a clipper from his pocket, and carefully cut the end of his.
These unconscious actions portrayed well the differences in their
characters. Drawing a match from the white earthenware holder, Baird
scratched it on the rough surface, and then held the light to Stephen’s
cigar.

“Mine is lighted, thank you, Baird,” said Loring, and through blue
circles of smoke he watched Radlett light his own cigar.

“I had almost forgotten what a stocky old brute Baird was,” he mused. “I
do not think, though, that I could ever forget that dear old face. Of all
the faces that I ever knew his is the homeliest, and the kindest! If he
poked that long jaw of his out at me, and looked at me with those honest
eyes, he might tell me that black was white, and I should fight the man
who said that it was not true.”

Radlett also utilized those first moments of silence brought about by
a good cigar, an old friend, and a comfortable chair, to make a few
observations of his own.

“In five years, Steve has changed a great deal,” he thought. “Five years
of failure, and drifting, such as I judge these to have been, leave
their mark on any man, definitely and indefinitely. Imagine Loring, the
fastidious, in those clothes five years ago! And then the old frank
manner has become a bit hesitant. He seems always on the defensive.
Poor old chap, he must have had some pretty hard blows. The old light
in his eyes is no longer there; but after all he has that same quality
of winning appeal, of humor and of latent strength, which nothing can
obliterate, which always has made and always will make every one who
knows him hope for the best, and pardon the worst.” At the conclusion of
his reflections, Baird’s eyes were damp.

Stephen smoked slowly, as one would sip a rare old wine. Then, taking the
cigar from his mouth, he held it before his eyes, twirling the label
slowly around, and looking at it appreciatively.

“It is eleven months since I smoked a good cigar, Baird; perhaps you
can guess how this one tastes to me,” said Loring softly, almost as if
talking to himself. Then he relapsed again into silence.

Radlett puffed vigorously on his cigar, then said: “Steve, it is your own
fault that you are not smoking good cigars all the time.”

“Perhaps it is,” answered Loring; “but the fact remains, and eleven
months is a long time out of one’s life to lose such happiness.”

“The last time that I heard of you, you were in Chicago,” remarked
Radlett. “Some one told me that you had a good position there. What
happened to you?”

“Fired,” was the laconic answer.

“Did you deserve to be?”

“Yes.”

One of the things that Loring’s friends held dearest in him was the fact
that he never shirked the truth in the matter of his delinquencies. His
own word on the matter was final. In the old days Loring’s deficiencies
had been among his most charming attributes. People had always spoken
hopefully of “When he buckles down.” Now the “When he will,” had become
“Now that he has not,” and his deficiencies were not so charming.

Radlett smoked on imperturbably. When he again spoke, his voice was thick
with smoke.

“What was your last position?”

“Hoist engineer, Quentin Mining Company.”

Again the query: “Why did you leave?”

“Fired,” repeated Stephen, flushing savagely. Then looking Radlett in the
eyes, he added: “I was drunk, and through my fault two men were killed.”

Leaning forward, Radlett laid his hand on Loring’s shoulder, and gripped
it tightly with his strong fingers.

“Steve, old man, I am sorry for you. I know what this must mean to you.
You were always the most kind-hearted fellow on earth, and I can see how
this has crushed and saddened you. I’m—I’m damned sorry—but, Steve, you
needed it. It will be the making of you, Steve. We have all been wanting
to help you, and we could not; you would not let us. You have lost almost
everything in the world,—your money, your position, your family. You
have lost prize after prize which you might have won; and all these
things have not held you. You still had that quality of drifting. You
used to think,—I remember well how we used to talk it over,—that love
would hold a man. It won’t. If you have tried it, you know”—Loring
breathed hard—“if you have not, then you have been spared one more blow.
You never had, or could have had, religion; I don’t know what that might
have done for you.” Radlett was speaking fast now, and though he struck
hard, Loring never flinched.

“You always knew that you were hurting yourself by what you did; but that
did not check you,” went on Radlett. “You had, I remember, a creed of
ethics in which, so you said, you logically believed. You know how much
good that has done you.

“Steve, I am as sorry for you as if you were myself—yes, sorrier.” In the
intensity of their grasp, his fingers almost crushed Loring’s shoulder.
“I know what it seems to you, the feeling of guilt, and of remorse; but
you deserved it and you needed it. The one thing that could have stopped
your drifting was to find that your destiny and actions are inextricably
tangled with those of other men. Now that you have learned that by
drifting you may sink other ships, you won’t drift. I know you, Steve,
and I swear it. This has been your salvation.” Radlett stopped short, and
sank back into his chair.

Stephen sat looking sternly into the smoke. There were deep lines beneath
his eyes, showing dark against his pallor, for so great was the tumult
within him that even through his heavy tan his face showed white. When he
spoke it was as a man who opens his mouth, and does not know whether the
words that he speaks are loud or soft.

“You are right, Baird. I was wrong, and Baird, I’ve thrown over
everything in the world that I cared about. There was a girl, Baird; you
were right about that, too. She believed in me, even though she did not
care. I cared for her more than for anything that I have ever dreamed of
in the world. She was everything to me, Baird, and I promised her that I
would make good. I broke my word. It was the only thing that I had not
broken before. Well, my love for her did not check me.

“But since that—that—murder,” he spoke now from deep in his chest, “I
have gripped myself; I have found myself. I am going to work up again,
Baird. I can,—I am on the up grade. I am sure of it. It is a hard
struggle, but the fight of it makes it all the more worth while. It will
be hard, and it will take time; but I can do it.”

Radlett stared out of the window for a few moments, as though deeply
absorbed in watching a passing carriage. Letting his eyes travel back to
Loring, he asked: “Did you ever hear of the Kay mine? I think that it was
situated near where you were last working.”

Stephen nodded. He was relieved at the change from the tenseness of the
conversation, and a little ashamed of the emotion which he had shown.
“Yes,” he answered, “it was only fifteen or twenty miles from Quentin.
An English syndicate bought it some time ago. They brought out polo
ponies, dog-carts, and heaven knows what besides, to gladden their hearts
while in exile. I rode there only a few weeks ago, and looked over the
place. The mine has been shut down for a year. It is a wonder that they
were ever able to open it in the first place, with all the nonsense that
they had. A man whom I saw there told me that the English managers had
spent two days in arguing where to put the ‘baths in the houses of the
tenantry.’ I hear that the mine has just been sold again.”

Radlett grinned from ear to ear at the thought of the effect on the
community of a remark about the “tenantry.”

“Still,” went on Loring, “almost everybody says that it is a very rich
property, and would have paid well if it had only been worked properly.
The indications were very good for a big vein.”

Radlett beat a tattoo with his fingers on the arms of his chair.

“I have just bought the mine,” he said.

Stephen looked at him in surprise.

“I thought,” he said, “that you were only interested in railroads.”

“That is true; but this is a sort of ‘flyer.’ I had the chance to buy the
property very cheaply, and the expert whom I sent to look at it reported
it as good, if it were properly managed. I must get as manager a man whom
I can absolutely trust, as I shall have no time to supervise the work
personally. Stephen, will you take the position?”

Loring sat up straight in his chair.

“I am not the man for the place,” he said; “I know very little about
mining, and besides—”

“Leave out the ‘besides’,” answered Radlett. “That is over with. I would
trust you now as soon as any man living. As for the knowledge of mining,
you will not require any. There is a good mine foreman there who can
attend to that. What I want is a man to organize and run the plant, to
make it a paying producer. It needs a man who understands men, more than
a man who understands mining. The ore is there. The men to get the ore
will be there; but there must be a head for the whole system. You know,
better than I do, that a new mine means a new community to be governed.
It needs a man who will see that for every copper cent that goes into the
ground, two copper cents come out, a man who will see that the machinery
which is ordered arrives on time. It needs a man who will pick the right
subordinates and will give them pride in their work. It needs a man who
will get the labor, and keep it there. That is what I want you for,
Steve. You can do the work. Now will you?”

Two voices seemed to whisper in Loring. One was of pride, the other was
of pride in himself. The voice of pride whispered: “He is your friend,
and is offering this to you from charity.” The other voice, aggressive
and self-reliant, whispered: “You can do the work well. It needs a _man_,
and you are capable of doing it.”

“Baird,” he said brokenly, “I will. I can’t thank you; it is far too big
a chance to be acknowledged by mere thanks. But I will do my best for
you, and if I fail, it will be because I am not a big enough man, and not
because I have not tried.”

“The thanks will be from me to you, when the Kay is the biggest producer
in Pinal County,” responded Radlett. “If you do your best, it will be
the best that can be done. Don’t think that it is from friendship that
I offer you this. I always keep friendship and business apart, and I am
offering this to you because you are the man that I need.” Radlett took a
large leather covered note-book from his pocket.

“Here are the details of the proposition,” he said, and for almost an
hour he read aloud a list of figures and estimates. Loring listened,
keenly alert, and questioned and criticised with an insight which
surprised Radlett, who several times looked up in approval at some
suggestion. When he had finished, he closed the book, and said: “The
acting manager will start you on your work. The mine was opened last
week, but everything there is still at sixes and sevens. When do you
think that you can start north?”

“I will take the eleven o’clock train to-night,” answered Stephen,
decidedly, “only—”

“By the way,” said Baird, in a matter of fact manner, “you had better
draw your first month’s salary in advance. There will be a great many
things that you need to get.” He wrote a check and gave it to Loring.
“They will cash this for us at the office. I shall telegraph to-night
to the mine, telling them to expect you; also to the company in Tucson,
telling them to honor your drafts.”

Radlett rose and looked at his watch. “It is eight o’clock and I am as
hungry as a bear, and,” he added, with a twinkle in his eyes, “if you
can leave that house-party of yours, where the girls have such charming
umbrellas, we might dine together before you start.”

They entered the dining-room, where the orchestra was playing gaily,
and settled themselves at a table glowingly lighted with candles under
softened shades.

“Doesn’t this seem like old times, Steve?” said Radlett, while he carved
the big planked steak which they had ordered. Throughout the meal, time
and again the phrase: “Do you remember?” was repeated, recalling hosts
of memories, both sad and gay. The intimacy between Radlett and Loring
had been of such depth and woven with so many bonds that the years in
which they had been separated made no difference in their complete
companionship. They were not forced to fall back on the past on account
of lack of sympathy and mutual interest in the present, as is so often
the case; but rather they looked backward as one might open a much loved
book, the interest of which increases as the covers wear out, and in
which the delight is intensified when some congenial soul has shared its
moods, and its laughter. Through all the conversation, Radlett, with an
inborn tact unexpected in a man whose manner was so bluff, skilfully
recalled Stephen’s successes, and dwelt upon them in an endeavor to
raise that self-confidence in Loring which had been shaken to its core.
Stephen’s failures were recalled by Stephen himself, whose recollection
of them was undimmed though his perspective on them had changed. So
quickly did the time pass that it was with a start that they both heard
the clock in the hall outside strike ten, in a deliberate, impersonal
fashion. In answer to a question from Radlett, Loring shook his head.

“No, I have no preparations to make. If the city with no history is
happy, then certainly the person with no possessions to bother him should
be content.”

So they smoked in quiet companionship until it was time to leave for the
station. Baird saw Loring on board the train, and they parted after a
silent, firm handshake, which gave strength to one and conviction to the
other.




CHAPTER XIV


In six months after Loring had taken charge, the Kay mine was producing
on a paying basis. What those six months had accomplished was little
short of marvelous. At the time of the arrival of the new manager,
everything had been in an extreme state of disorganization. Unused
machinery stood uncovered and rusting. The pumps were hardly more than
holding the water in the shafts. No new timbering had been put in place
to supplant the old, which was dangerously rotten. The costly electric
lighting plant had been almost ruined by neglect. Discord had been
reigning between the various heads of departments, and discord in a
community in which there is no recreation, and from which there is no way
of escape, is a dangerous element.

When Loring had assumed control, in explanation of failures each worker
had murmured complaints of others. At the mess there had been gloomy
silence, in contrast to the joviality which had prevailed at the old
mess in Quentin. Distrusted and disliked, Loring had firmly pursued his
course until that course was justified, and the criticism and hatred had
turned to respect and admiration. He had worked night and day, attending
to everything himself. Loring was tireless in his enthusiasm, and he had
inspired the men under him to do their work better than they knew how.
The result was that by this time, the system of a well-built machine
had supplanted the previous chaos. And though it was far from a perfect
machine, each day was adding to its efficiency.

The nervous irritability of the mess had been relieved by the arrival
of an old friend. One day Hop Wah had drifted into Stephen’s office
and after announcing solemnly: “Me canned, too,” had stood waiting
expectantly until Loring had ordered him installed as assistant cook in
the company eating-house. Within a week after this the meals had become
joyous occasions. Wah would dance from man to man as he served the
meals, murmuring insults which pleased even the insulted, and provoked
roars of laughter at the victim’s expense. When he had some particularly
bold insult to deliver, he would sing it from the kitchen window. The
singing lent impersonality and the distance safety. Soon the refrain and
interlude of his old song, “La, la, boom, boom,” were as well known, and
as popular in Kay, as they had been in Quentin.

Radlett had told Loring that there would be much work for him to do, and
he had not been guilty of exaggeration. Night after night the electric
light beneath the green tin reflector in the office had burned until well
into the morning. Then a watcher might have seen it go out suddenly,
before a tired man turned the key in the office door.

The increase of efficiency in the work at the Kay mine was due to one
thing,—the ceaseless vigilance of Stephen Loring, and the outward
circumstances were only the manifestation of the changed conditions
within himself. One who had known Loring, the failure, would scarcely
have recognized Loring, the success. The chin line no longer drooped, his
smile showed honest pride in the goodness of his work, his movements were
alert, his head thrown back. His skin was ruddy and his eyes clear, yet
the marks about his mouth showed traces of the struggle through which
he had passed, and there were new lines of care lying in furrows across
his forehead. He had aged under responsibility, and something of the old,
lazy charm which had endeared him to his friends was gone; but a stranger
looking at him would have appreciated at once that here was a man of
force, one who meant to be master, and who was fitted to be.

It is possible that the change in his dress contributed as much as the
more subtle developments, for Loring, in his blue suit, soft white shirt,
and well-oiled tan boots, was a very different looking man from the
shabbily clothed wanderer who had sought work last year in Phœnix.

On one autumn afternoon Stephen sat at the desk in his office, engaged
in dictating a report to the directors of the Company. Above the rattle
and click of the typewriter his voice rose and fell monotonously: “The
construction work alone is behind. Within the workings three new stopes
have been opened since last report, at positions marked on the enclosed
print. The ore in these has been running high, averaging”—(he paused
and glanced at the assayers’ report lying on the table beside him)
“averaging twelve per cent copper. If the contact vein continues to
run in its present direction, the ore from the new stopes which we are
opening may be reached cheaply by means of winzes from the three hundred
foot level.” Loring verified this carefully from the foreman’s report,
then nodded to the stenographer to proceed. “The cost of production has
been reduced five per cent in the last month. If the present favorable
prices for the coke continue, I hope to reduce this still more. I enclose
for the first time a detailed statement of expense distributed per
department, made possible by the new system of bookkeeping which has been
adopted.” Here he paused. “That is all for the present,” he said.

Then he picked up the construction report and with a frown reread it.
“That is bad work,” he murmured. “With all the men whom Fitz had under
him, he should have done better, and accomplished more.”

“Oh, Reade!” he called to the stenographer who had gone into the back
room, “come back here! I have something to add to that report.”

The stenographer came in, and again took his place before the typewriter.

“Owing to the slowness of the work on the exterior construction, I have
found it necessary to dispense with the services of Mr. Fitz.”

Reade looked up in surprise. “Are you going to ‘can’ him?”

Stephen made no answer, but continued to dictate: “I have secured the
services of a very good man, who until recently has been at the head of
that work in the Quentin Mining Company and who, I think, will fill the
position very satisfactorily.” “That is all, Reade.”

The stenographer left the room, whistling softly. “He sure acts with
precision,” murmured Reade, as he closed the door. “When Fitz answered
back at mess the other night, I knew he’d get into trouble. The Boss
never speaks twice, and now that the men understand his ways, he don’t
need to.”

A short half-hour after Loring had finished his letter the stage from the
northward drew up outside the office door, and a passenger descended from
it. Loring opened the window, looked out, and recognized his old friend
McKay.

“Prompt as usual!” thought Loring. “I did not expect him until to-morrow
or the day after; but I like his coming so soon. Promptness means
efficiency.”

Loring smiled when he heard McKay tell the driver to charge the trip to
the Company. “Mac has not much to learn of business methods in the west,”
Loring chuckled, as he hastened to resume his seat at the desk. A little
later he heard a thump, as McKay dropped his bag on the porch, and then
he heard him asking for the manager. Some one directed the stranger to
the office, and Loring heard the creak of his boots on the stairs.

Stephen, for he had a streak of vanity in his nature, lighted a cigar,
and pretended to be very busy over some papers. After a moment he looked
up, to find McKay staring in such open-mouthed astonishment that it
seemed as if his teeth were in danger of falling back down his throat.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” he finally ejaculated. “What are _you_ doing
here?”

“I am the manager,” said Stephen in a dignified manner. Then he could
keep a sober face no longer, and burst into a laugh, in which McKay,
though in a dazed and uncertain manner, joined.

Stephen jumped up from his chair and shook hands with his old boss. McKay
continued to swing his arm up and down, as though this grip were his one
hold upon the world of realities.

“You! How on earth did it happen? You must have been a heap wiser than I
thought!” exclaimed McKay.

The only danger of being thought wise is that one is tempted to prove it;
but Stephen safely avoided this danger.

“Anyhow, Mac,” he answered, “here I am and here I hope I’ll remain, and
there is a lot of work for you to do here. Things have been allowed to
deteriorate to such an extent that it takes more time to rebuild than it
must have taken to construct the whole plant. Fortunately we have the
original plans designed by the people who had opened the mine, and though
they are no key to what has been done, they give a pretty good idea of
what was meant to be done.” As he spoke he pulled a roll of blue prints
out from the desk drawer, and drawing up a chair beside him for McKay, he
started to outline the work.

As he watched the unerring way in which McKay’s clumsily shaped finger
followed the designs, stopping at each questionable point and rubbing
back and forth over it with the determined questioning of a hand
competent to remedy defects, Loring thanked heaven for the fact that the
Quentin Company, their rush of early work over, had parted with such a
man. The very twitching of the corners of McKay’s mustache, as he pored
over the papers, showed a personality teeming with success and energy.
After an hour of hard work Stephen pushed back his chair from the desk
and rolled up the prints.

“I’m afraid, Mac,” he said, “that you are going to be very busy here. You
see I know how good a man you are. But I also realize that after your
journey you must eat, and that you will want to see your quarters.”

He called Reade into the room and introduced him. “Take Mr. McKay and
show him where he is to live. Put him in that new shack on the right-hand
side of the road.” With a sudden recollection of McKay’s treatment of
him on that first night at Quentin, Stephen went on with a broad grin:
“To-night I will send you over some blankets. You can pay for them out
of your first month’s pay, and to-morrow I will let you have an old straw
hat of mine.”

McKay smiled sheepishly, as he stood twirling his rusty black felt hat
in his fingers. Accustomed as he was to the sudden changes which Arizona
brings about in men’s fortunes, Loring’s meteoric rise was too great a
problem for him to solve. He could not adjust himself to the miraculous
change which had been wrought in the life of the man before him. He could
only stand speechless and gaze at the marvel, and then drop his eyes
again to the baggy knees of his best trousers.

Stephen took pity on him in his bewilderment and interrupted his
reflections: “If you can start in to work after lunch, I will have Mr.
Fitz, the man who is leaving, show you what little he has done. You had
better take a microscope to see it with.”

McKay followed Reade out of the office, his efficient, right-angled and
non-complex mind in a whirl.

“_Steve Loring_, manager of the Kay mine! I certainly will be damned.
_Him_ running all this!” He gazed stupefied at the ordered confusion of
the busy camp before him. “_Steve Loring!_ Phew!”

And all the time the man of whom McKay was thinking with admiring envy
sat before his desk, his head sunk upon his folded arms in an attitude of
profound dejection.

To McKay, Loring seemed to have reached the highest level of the up grade
in being the manager of a successful mine. What more could any man wish?
But to Loring all that he had achieved was as nothing.

The sight of McKay had brought back with photographic vividness all the
familiar things and scenes of the old days at Quentin,—the smelter,
the dip in the hills, the hoist, “_Muy Bueno_,” and then, in spite of
himself, above them all rose the face of Jean Cameron, Jean as she had
looked bending over his cot in the hospital with the sheaf of flowers
across her arm, Jean smiling at him as she passed the hoist, Jean
stretching out her hand to him on that never-to-be-forgotten ride through
the soft Arizona night.

With a sudden pang he realized that all success would be as dust and
ashes unless he could bring it to her and say: “Whatever I have won, it
was all for you. My only pride is that whether you ever know it or not,
I have at last justified your faith in me. Oh, Jean,” he murmured, “it
is not success or power or money that I want. It is you, dear, you, you,
you!”




CHAPTER XV


At four o’clock that afternoon, since it was Saturday, the men were paid
off for the week. No pay day will ever be satisfactory to the recipients
until that happy state of affairs is reached when each man himself
decides on the amount which is due him. Even then there will be some who
will leave the pay-window with the discontented feeling that they have
cheated themselves.

The bookkeeper, from his grated window, gave out the pay checks to the
line of Mexican laborers who, displaying their brass number tags, passed
before him. He kept up a running fire of argument. Over and over he was
obliged to explain the amounts of the checks.

“The mess bill comes out of you.”

“You had twenty dollars’ worth of coupons at the store.”

“No, you only worked five days this week.”

“Hospital fee is twenty-five cents.”

These were fair samples of the innumerable arguments which he
was compelled to go through with every week. And in spite of all
explanations, the poor miners would walk away from the window, looking
with dejected, unbelieving eyes at the small figures of their checks. Men
of this class can never realize that if out of wages of ninety dollars a
month they spend seventy-five for food and store coupons, the balance due
to them is not ninety dollars, but fifteen.

As usual on pay day afternoon, in the road before the office, little
groups of men were arguing excitedly among themselves, discussing
the manner in which they were “cheated.” The dejected droop of their
shoulders was accentuated by the quick, jerky movements of their arms as
they gesticulated.

Knowlton, the deputy sheriff, who was assigned to Kay, sat on the steps
before the office door. He was rolling a cigarette, seemingly unconscious
of the noisy crowd. But pay day was always likely to cause trouble, and
he was prepared for it.

[Illustration: “No one quite dared to lead an attack upon Knowlton, who
stood his ground beside the body.” _Page 241_]

The group of excited men augmented fast, as little knots of miners
were paid off, and found awaiting them a willing audience of their
grievances. A word will fire a crowd of this kind as quickly as a fuse
will set off a charge of giant powder.

Knowlton watched them closely, out of the corner of his eye. He saw one
of the leaders in the discussion stoop down and pick up a large rock.

“Hey, Rigas! Drop that, quick!” he shouted.

For answer the rock crashed through the glass of the office window.

Knowlton waded into the midst of the crowd, and seized Rigas by the
collar, almost hurling him off his feet. His rough tactics generally
overawed his prisoners, but Rigas had been drinking, and fought. The
crowd began to close in.

Knowlton dropped his hand to the point where the suspenders joined his
belt and whipped out his “automatic.” Raising it in the air, he swung
it down with all his strength upon Rigas’s head. There was a stunning
report, and the miner lay upon the ground, with a hole two inches wide
through his forehead. The crowd, muttering angry curses, drew back. No
one quite dared to lead an attack upon Knowlton, who stood his ground
beside the body, his still smoking gun in his hand. The camp doctor came
up on the run, having heard the sound of the report. Kneeling beside the
body, he gave short and incisive directions.

“Valrigo, Peres, Gonzales, and Escallerra; you four carry him over to the
hospital!”

The four men whom he had designated bent over and clumsily raised the
inanimate body.

“No, no,” said the doctor, “don’t let his head hang back. Here,
Valencella! Come and hold up his head. That is right. Now slowly with
him, boys; easy, don’t jolt him!”

The doctor walked beside the bearers, his hand on Rigas’s heart, which
for a wonder was still beating. Behind them fell in a sullen, straggling,
pushing procession of the other men, watching the blood drip from Rigas’s
head.

Then Knowlton turned, and walked slowly into the office. As he entered,
the volume of curses changed from a mutter to a roar. He found Loring on
his knees, locking the combination of the safe.

“Well, Mr. Loring, I’ve done it now. I’ve killed Rigas. These damned
automatics! You can beat a man over the head for a week with a Colt
without its going off.”

“Too bad!” said Stephen calmly, rising from his knees. “But the character
of Rigas was not such that he will be a great loss to the world. He was
always causing some sort of mischief.”

“It ain’t Rigas that I am worrying about,” said the deputy. “It’s the
rest of them.”

“How long can you hold them in check?” asked Stephen.

“If they were sober, I could hold them until hell froze, but they have
just been paid off, and by night they will all be drunk. Then there will
be trouble. It has been brewin’ for a week. Some agitator chap has been
talking it up to them about the way the Company was stealing from them. I
don’t jest know what we had better do,” he concluded, while he fingered
his gun nervously, and looked to Loring for guidance.

“Rigas is dead, you said?” asked Stephen.

“Well, not exactly. He might as well be, though. A forty-five calibre
hole through your head ain’t healthy. If he ain’t dead now, he won’t
live more than a few hours. And when he does die—!” Knowlton broke off
gloomily.

“What are you going to do about it, Mr. Loring?”

“We can only wait,” answered Loring. “We must not let them see that we
are anxious.”

“Ain’t you going to do _nothing_?” Knowlton looked at Loring in perfect
amazement.

Stephen smiled, and shook his head. “No, I am going to supper. I would
advise you to eat at the mess to-night, instead of at your shack. I am
afraid that at present you are not exactly popular.”

He walked off towards the eating-house, while Knowlton stood looking
after him blankly.

“He don’t realize that in about three hours after those men get to
drinking, the Kay mine won’t exist. If we had a real man in charge here,
we might do something about it. He thinks, I suppose, that because the
men like him there won’t be trouble. Hell! and I used to think he had
sense!” Knowlton almost snorted in his rage.

At supper every man was keyed to a high pitch of excitement. There were
only about twenty white men in camp, and though they were well armed,
the Mexicans outnumbered them more than fifteen to one. Stephen alone
refrained from joining in the flurry of question and conjecture which
whirled about the table. Although he seemed unmoved, a close observer
would have noticed that he gripped his knife and fork almost as if they
had been weapons. Wah slid his plate of soup before him, at the same time
patting him on the shoulder with affectionate interest.

“Me bludder like one owl,” he said.

“Hey, Wah, this soup is rotten!” called a young fellow from the end of
the table.

“Oh, lubbly, lubbly soup!” chanted Wah. “Lubbly, me bludder, lubbly.”

“I’m not your bludder, Wah,” answered the man politely. “I would rather
have an ape for a brother than you.”

“You me bludder, allee samee, allee samee.” Saying which, Wah disappeared
into the kitchen, only to stick his head a moment later through the
connecting window, and call: “Oh, you pig-faced Swede, Oh, you pig-faced
Swede! La, la, boom, boom!”

But even Wah was unable to break the tension that surrounded the supper.
As the men were lighting their pipes at the close of the meal, from
the gulch behind the camp where were the saloons, came the sound of a
fusillade of shots and a burst of shrill yelling.

“The game is on,” thought Loring.

As the noise outside became louder, Stephen said to the men: “I want all
you fellows to get your guns and go over into the office to guard the
safe. Go as quietly as you can so as not to stir things up. Keep quiet in
there and don’t shoot unless you are compelled to. We have just issued
some new stock, and if there is news of any fighting here the value will
go all to pieces. We must just wait, and keep quiet. Remember a fight
means almost ruin, and we have got to avoid it.”

Knowlton looked quickly over to McKay, and nodded. Both were experienced
men, and they knew that now was no time to think of stock values, but
of actually saving the mine, and the lives of the white men there. They
knew that serious trouble was intended, as since the shooting, every
outlet of the camp had been guarded by Mexicans. They knew that the only
chance, not for avoiding a fight, but for avoiding a massacre, lay in
an immediate attack on the Mexicans, before they were completely out of
hand. And Loring was thinking of stock values! Still, they remembered
that he was inexperienced, and they set down to indecision what seemed
like criminal folly. As for McKay, he had known Loring to fall once
before, and he was not hopeful for the outcome.

“Knowlton,” continued Loring, “you had better stay here with me. It won’t
do for the miners to think that you are hidden.”

“Well, I won’t be,” exclaimed Knowlton decisively. “There is only one
thing in this world that I am afraid of, and that is a fool!”

The men hurried to their tents to procure their firearms. From the window
of the mess Stephen watched them, as one by one they returned and slipped
into the darkened office. Then he stepped out on the porch, and seated
himself beneath the full glare of the hanging electric light. Knowlton,
with a dogged expression on his face, seated himself on the steps.
Another man came and joined them. It was McKay.

“Let me stay here with you, Steve,” he said gruffly.

“Thank you!” replied Stephen. Then he relapsed into silence.

Sitting with his watch beside him on the arm of the chair, and smoking
furiously, his eye traveled to Knowlton, and dwelt on the brown oiled
butt of the latter’s “automatic,” an odd-shaped lump against the white of
his shirt.

“That was the first time I ever killed a man by accident,” murmured
Knowlton, half to himself. “The Doc said after supper that Rigas might
possibly live another hour.”

“An hour, did you say?” asked Loring. Then again he sat in silence,
staring intently at his watch.

“Quarter past eight. He has lived more than an hour since supper.”

From the valley, seven miles away, came softly the whistle of the evening
train. The noise in camp was continually increasing in volume. Groups of
miners went by the mess shouting, singing, and whooping derisively. Every
now and then the babel of voices was punctuated by shots fired in rapid
succession as some one emptied his gun in the air.

By the hospital a silent group was waiting, waiting for Rigas to die.

The men on the porch watched that sinister mass with apprehension. The
effect was far more suggestive than that of the noisier portion of the
camp.

Suddenly the mass of men by the hospital stirred, heaved, and moved. From
a hundred throats came a dull roar.

“Rigas is dead,” said Loring, shutting his watch with a snap.

The crowd of men by the hospital began to roll towards the mess. As a
huge swell rolls in from the sea, so the black mass, swaying, rising,
falling, swept on. As it drew nearer, the white of the men’s faces stood
out in the glare of the electric lights even as the foam upon that wave.

“Put out the porch lights!” yelled Knowlton.

“I am manager here, and they stay lit,” shouted Loring back to him.

Even as the surf curls before breaking and sweeping up the beach, so the
wave of men seemed to rise and draw itself together, before surging up
the steps.

Stephen had stepped forward to the edge of the steps in front of
Knowlton. He raised his fist for silence, and such was the compelling
force in his eyes that for a moment he was obeyed. But as he started to
speak, a great hiss arose from the crowd, like the sound of escaping
steam from some giant locomotive. Loring gripped the railing of the porch
hard, and again shouted something.

“God, he’s crazy!” yelled Knowlton to McKay. “He is going to try and
argue.” Knowlton’s hand lay tightly on the gun in his belt.

“Steve has lost his head again,” thought McKay bitterly. “I might have
known that he didn’t have the stuff in him.”

A bottle whizzed by Loring’s ear, breaking with a crash against the
wall behind him. For an instant the sound of breaking glass caught the
attention of the crowd.

“You want the money in the safe?” shouted Loring.

“_Sí_, _sí_, yes, _sí_, yes, _sí_!” roared the crowd, in a mixture of two
languages.

The sound lulled for a second. Stephen waved his keys in the air. “You
shall have it.”

The shouting was wilder than before, and echoed from end to end of the
camp.

“Coward!” moaned McKay, sickened by such an exhibition. Some one in the
crowd fired at Loring, luckily with drunken aim. The bullet kicked up
the dust at the foot of the steps. Knowlton jumped to his feet, and
leveled his gun at the crowd.

“Sit down!” roared Stephen. Not knowing why he did so, Knowlton lowered
his gun and sank again into his chair.

“Do you want Knowlton?” shouted Loring, pointing to the deputy beside
him. As he spoke, he glanced at his watch, which lay in his hand. His
face was reeking with sweat.

“Do you want Knowlton?” he shouted again.

The howl that went up from the mob was as if from the throats of
blood-hungry beasts.

Knowlton’s face was white; but his eyes showed their scorn of Loring. He
looked at him in contempt, and looking, to his surprise, saw the tense
lines of his face light with the gleam of victory.

“You want Knowlton?” he shouted for the last time. “Then come and take
him!”

As the mob surged up the steps, a body of horsemen charged them fiercely
from behind. Right and left galloped the riders, beating the mob over the
heads with their Winchesters, or cutting them with their quirts, riding
down men beneath the weight of their horses. The mob scattered and fled
in every direction. The leader of the horsemen swung out of the saddle in
front of the steps, and Winchester in hand, walked up to Loring.

“Are you Mr. Loring?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Stephen.

“Well, it seems as if we were just in time—not much too early, are we? We
just got your telegram in Dominion in time to raise a big posse, and pack
them onto the evening train. It was about the liveliest job that I ever
did, and I reckon it is one of the best,” said the sheriff, surveying the
scene with satisfaction. “How did the trouble start anyhow?” he asked.

Stephen explained rapidly. At the conclusion, the sheriff turned to
Knowlton: “Killed him by accident, eh? Too bad you didn’t have the
pleasure of meaning to. Now I guess we’d better clean up the camp a bit,
hadn’t we, Mr. Loring?”

Stephen agreed, and the sheriff sent his deputies in groups of twos and
threes, to raid the tents of the Mexicans, and gather in their arms.

Knowlton approached Loring in a stupefied manner.

“When could you have telegraphed?” he asked. “They have been guarding the
roads ever since the shooting.”

Stephen smiled. “When you jumped into that crowd, Knowlton, I sent Reade
out through the back window of the office to send a telegram for help,
and to get horses for them ready at the station camp.”

A light broke over McKay’s face. Walking up to Loring, he laid his hand
on his shoulder.

“By God, Steve, I am proud of you!” he said. Then turning to the arc
light which hung from the ceiling of the porch, he addressed it softly:
“And _that’s_ the man we fired!”




CHAPTER XVI


In the middle of the following September, Radlett arrived in Tucson from
the East. He was on his way to pay his first visit to his property in
Kay, since Stephen had taken charge. As he signed his name on the hotel
register, his eye was caught by the names of the arrivals of the day
before.

“Donald Cameron.”

“Miss Cameron.”

A flush came to his cheeks and a light to his eyes as he looked steadily
at the page. Strange what power a written word may have to stir a man to
the depths of his being! As Radlett read the names, he felt the years
slip away from him. Five, six years was it since that summer at Bar
Harbor when he and Jean Cameron had climbed together about the cliffs of
the spouting horn or, staff in hand, had explored Duck Brook or floated
idly in his canoe around the islands in the harbor? Like Loring he had
dreamed his dream of what might be. By the end of the summer he knew it
was only a dream of what might have been. He carried away with him an
ideal, an aching heart, and a knot of ribbon of the Cameron plaid. But
he was a man of too much force and energy to spend his life in bewailing
the past. He had shut the knot of ribbon in a secret drawer, set the
ideal in a shrine, and flung his heart into business with such success
that to-day, while he was still a young man, he was already a power to be
reckoned with in the financial world, while a golden career opened ahead
of him.

A man so loyal in his friendship could not be other than loyal in his
love; but he had put the possibility of winning Jean Cameron definitely
out of his mind, and he would have sworn that the years had reduced the
fever of his feeling to a genial tranquillity of friendship, when now at
the very sight of her name on a hotel register, all his philosophy was
put to flight and he was conscious only of a burning desire to see her
once more.

Being a man of action, he wasted no time on reminiscence; but inquired in
quick incisive terms whether Mr. Cameron and his daughter were still at
the hotel. Learning that they were, he sent up his card. Then he lighted
a cigarette and walked the floor of the lobby, smoking nervously till the
bell-boy returned to say that Mr. Cameron would be glad to receive him in
his private sitting-room. Before following the boy, Radlett stopped at
the desk to arrange for his room and get his key.

“How good a room do you wish, sir, and how long will you stay?”

“The best you have, and as long as I choose,” Radlett answered with
characteristic brevity. A moment later he stood before the door of the
Camerons’ sitting-room, which opened at his knock to reveal Mr. Cameron’s
bristling red head in the foreground, and in the background a figure in a
traveling dress of gray cloth, with a hat to match and a knot of plaided
ribbon under the brim.

At sight of Radlett, Jean rose, smiling, but with a slight consciousness
in her manner, a consciousness resulting from the remembrance of a
painful scene, the hope that the man before her had quite forgiven and
the slighter hope, a mere faint ashamed shadow of a hope, that he had not
quite forgotten.

Her mind must have been quickly set at rest on that point, for such
a rush of feeling swept over Radlett that he could scarcely make his
greetings intelligible. Mr. Cameron gave him a firm grip, and Jean held
out a gray gloved hand which Radlett clasped tremulously. Mr. Cameron
looked at the man and girl as they stood talking together, and the longer
he looked the better he liked the combination.

“There would be a son-in-law to be proud of,” he thought, naturally
enough perhaps considering him in that relation first. “Baird Radlett
has everything that a girl could ask,—a hard head, a long purse, a free
hand and an endless stock of common sense. And then, if I had him to help
me, what a property I could build up! He used to seem devoted to Jean.
But she could not have refused him—no, and by heaven she should not.”
(Mr. Cameron liked to keep up even to himself the illusion that he was a
tyrannical parent whose will was law.) “Rather different this man from
Loring! Jean must see that. If she does not, she must be made to see it.
I was afraid at one time that she might be foolish enough to fall in love
with Loring; but I took it in time—I took it in time. Yet she is too
efficient not to make some one big mistake in her life. We Camerons all
do it sooner or later. If it is not one thing it is another—misdirected
energy, I suppose—” Then aloud, in answer to a question from Radlett as
to how he happened to be in that part of the world: “Why, about a year
and a half ago I became interested in a mine in Arizona which was not
being run properly, and so for the present I am giving up my time to
managing it myself.”

“And have you too become a mining engineer?” Radlett asked of Jean.

“Not quite,” she laughed.

“Jean came rather near it at first,” added her father; “but I think that
now she is half tired of the life out here. It has not the charm for her
that it had at first.”

“I should think not!” exclaimed Radlett emphatically. “Do you mean that
you have spent a whole year out in the hills here?” he asked Jean.

“Yes,” she answered. “This trip marks the first time that I have been
back to the East since last fall; but I have not yet become such a savage
that I can dispense with afternoon tea. I hope you will join us,” she
added.

“Yes, with thanks,” Radlett answered. Up to this moment he had never
found any use for Tucson. Now he discovered that it existed to hold a
tea-table and Jean Cameron.

“What brings you to Tucson, Baird?” she asked, while the waiter laid the
cloth.

“I am in the mining business myself, in a small way,” he rejoined. “Last
year I bought a property in Pinal County on speculation. I am going up
to visit it now for the first time. I do not really need to go. In fact
I shall probably do more harm than good. I have a manager up there who
has accomplished wonders. He has made the mine pay in six months after he
took control. As far as I can learn, he has done practically everything
himself, from mining the ore to putting it on the cars. I bought the mine
at a big risk, and now it is about the most satisfactory investment that
I own.”

“I wish that I had such a man to put in charge of Quentin. When I am not
there the whole plant seems to go to pieces.”

“Quentin!” exclaimed Radlett in surprise. “Is that the name of your
property?”

“It is,” said Mr. Cameron. “Why? Had you ever heard of it?”

Radlett opened his lips to speak; but the arrival of the tea turned the
subject of conversation for the moment. As he watched Jean pouring the
tea all thoughts of mines and business vanished from Radlett’s mind. He
wondered how he had ever existed throughout the years in which he had not
seen her.

While Jean Cameron talked to Radlett, she glanced at him over her teacup
with that interest which a girl naturally bestows upon a man who might
have been a part of her life had she so willed it. In the past year the
standards by which she judged men had changed considerably. She had much
more regard for the qualities of steadiness and determination which Baird
possessed than she had felt at the time when she refused him. From her
widened experiences she had learned that ability without reliability was
useless. Perhaps, too, now that disappointment in her new surroundings
had set in, she looked back with more tenderness upon those who had
peopled her life in the East.

The talk ranged over many scenes and people familiar to them all, then
gradually drifted to the plans of each for the future. Baird’s mind had
been working fast. Seeing Jean for an hour had made him wish to see her
for many more hours, and by the time that he had finished his second cup
of tea, he had evolved a plan by which he hoped to achieve that end. If
he could persuade Mr. Cameron, when on his way to Quentin, to stop over
at Kay, and to make an expert report on the property, it would enable
him to have at least a week more with Jean. Turning to Mr. Cameron, he
approached him on the subject.

“I wish very much that I could persuade you to stop over and examine
my property for me. If you had the time I should greatly value your
professional opinion.”

“Where is your mine situated?”

“At Kay,” answered Radlett. “I think it is on the direct route to
Quentin.”

“So you are the man who bought that property. I had not heard who owned
it.”

“Yes,” said Baird. “Now do you think that you could possibly spare four
or fives days to investigate the place for me?”

“I do not know whether I can possibly spare the time,” reflected Mr.
Cameron, half aloud. If it had been any man besides Radlett, Mr. Cameron
would have refused at once, as he had for some time given up all such
work. But he was glad to do a favor to Baird, and also he felt that he
would like to have him and Jean thrown together for a while. “Still
I can get in touch with Quentin, and if they need me there I can get
there at short notice. Yes, I think that I can take the time. I shall be
interested to see how the mine is doing with this wonderful new manager
of yours. Frankly, it never used to be much good.”

“Don’t be discouraging, Father!” said Jean. “You might at least be an
optimist until you have seen Baird’s mine.”

“If your father should be a pessimist after seeing it, I should certainly
give up the mine, I have such respect for his judgment.”

Mr. Cameron expanded under the compliment. “By the way, did you not have
a big riot or something up there this spring? I read about it, I think,
in the Eastern papers. They said that there had been a race riot in Kay
which, but for the coolness and nerve of the manager, would have been a
desperate outbreak.”

“Yes, there was a desperate state of affairs,” answered Radlett, and he
proceeded to give an account of the riot, the details of which he had
learned through a postscript added by Reade to one of Loring’s reports.
When he reached the part of the story which told how the manager had
held the mob at bay until the arrival of the deputies, both Jean and
her father exclaimed with approval. Jean’s eyes were shining with the
enthusiasm which she always felt for a brave act well carried out.

“And,” said Radlett in conclusion, “since then there has not been a hint
of trouble in the camp. In fact a labor agitator came up there last
month, and the men themselves ran him out of camp.”

“You certainly have a wonderful man there,” said Mr. Cameron. “If I had
chanced upon him first, you would never have had him. If there is one
thing on which I pride myself, it is my power to read character at first
sight. I should have snapped up a man like that in no time. What is his
name?”

“His name,” said Radlett, “is Stephen Loring.” He watched Mr. Cameron
closely as he uttered the name, and was amused to see the expression of
blank dismay and astonishment upon that gentleman’s face.

“Loring! Stephen Loring!” cried Mr. Cameron, completely taken aback.

“Stephen Loring,” repeated Radlett doggedly.

“Why, we dismissed him from Quentin for—”

“Father, don’t!” ejaculated Jean suddenly. Her cheeks burned, while her
eyes pleaded with her father to spare Loring’s past. Radlett looked at
her with a quick glance of appreciation.

“It is all right, Jean,” he said. “Loring told me all about it himself.”

“He told you,” queried Mr. Cameron incredulously, “about the accident,
about his drunkenness and all; and after that you put him in charge of
the mine? How could you?”

“I believed in him,” replied Radlett quietly, “and he has justified my
belief. I have known him all my life, and I trust and respect him.”

“You say that he has made good with you?” inquired Mr. Cameron sharply.

“He has.”

Mr. Cameron was a man of honest enthusiasms, but of equally honest
hatreds. When man had once failed him, he was loath to believe that there
could be good in him.

“I hope you will find that he keeps it up,” was all that he said. He did
not say it with complimentary conviction, either.

“He will,” Radlett answered shortly.

Jean was moved by Baird’s faithful defense of his friend.

“It is characteristic of you to stand by him as you have done,” she said,
“and if ever a man needed a good friend, it was Mr. Loring.”

“You knew him well?” asked Radlett, with surprise. From what Loring had
told him of his position in camp, he had not imagined that he would know
Miss Cameron personally at all.

“He saved my life,” answered Jean. Her voice was soft, but there was a
hint of challenge in the glance that she sent toward her father.

“Saved your life!” ejaculated Radlett. “He never said anything to me
about that. Just like him! He told me only of his failures.”

“You have known him all your life. What was he?” asked Mr. Cameron.
“Another case of a worthless fellow whom every one liked?”

“He never was worthless,” said Baird. “Only until now he never showed
what he was worth, and never was there a man whom his friends loved so
much, to whom they forgave so much, and from whom they continued to hope
so much.”

“He took a peculiar way of showing his worth with me,” remarked Mr.
Cameron. “Really now, Radlett, killing men by your carelessness is a
pretty serious thing. And from what I can gather, I judge that for the
past few years his life has been far from creditable; that he has been
getting into trouble of some sort all the time. His record shows that he
has been permanently inefficient and frequently drunk.”

“Yes, it is all true,” answered Baird, “but in all those years he was
being hammered and forged, and in the end the experience has strengthened
him. The things that he has gone through, even the wrong things which he
has done, all have molded his character, and for the better. It was a big
risk, a big chance, but by it the metal in him has been turned to steel.”

“Is not that rather an expensive process by which to obtain a product
like Loring?” asked Mr. Cameron dryly.

“I hope very much that when you see what Loring has done at Kay, you will
change your mind,” said Radlett. “I understand of course what you must
feel about him; but I think that he has wiped his slate clean. If two
lives were lost through him at Quentin, by preventing a fight at Kay he
has saved twenty.”

“Not to mention saving my life,” added Jean, rising.

“That alone should extenuate everything,” said Radlett earnestly.

He looked after Jean as she left the room to dress for dinner, admiring
her proud, erect carriage, and devoutly thankful that he should have
several days in which to be with her.

When she had gone, the two men resumed their seats, and proceeded to
discuss the plans and business arrangements for Mr. Cameron’s prospective
visit to Kay. But even while he was talking, Mr. Cameron’s decision
in regard to the visit was wavering, and later, as he went upstairs,
he shook his head and said to himself: “No, I can’t do it. Under the
circumstances that visit is an impossibility.”

That night, when they had come upstairs from dinner, he went to Jean’s
door and knocked.

“Jean,” he called.

“Yes, Father.”

“Can you come into my sitting-room? I want to talk with you.”

They returned to his sitting-room, and Jean seated herself while her
father walked slowly up and down the room.

“I have been thinking about our going with Baird up to his mine. I told
him that we would go; but if this fellow Loring is the manager there, I
do not think that we can. I shall tell Baird that we find it impossible.”

“Why?” asked Jean, although she well knew the reason.

“Why?” echoed her father irritably. “Do you remember the insulting letter
which he wrote to me after my offer of help to him at Dominion? Do you
think it would be a pleasure to meet him again with that letter in mind?”

“You never told me what you wrote in your letter to him,” replied Jean,
parrying the question.

“I offered him work in the north because I said we were under obligation
to him for saving—That is, to repay my debt to him.”

“I suppose that you made no conditions?”

“Only that he should never cross our path again,” responded her father.
“Of course I felt bound to tell him what I thought of him.”

“In other words,” exclaimed Jean with spirit, “you insulted him, and now
are angry that he was gentleman enough to refuse your offer. When he
was practically starving, as Baird told me he was, he refused to take
advantage of an unwilling obligation. Is that why you do not want to go
to Kay?” There was pride in the quiver of her nostrils, and pity in her
eyes, as she spoke.

Mr. Cameron, like many strong men, was at a disadvantage in an argument
with his daughter. Her strength of will was as great as his, and with it
she combined an intuitive knowledge of whither to direct her questions,
as a good fencer instinctively knows the weak points in his opponent’s
defense.

“You are trying to put me in the wrong, Jean,” said her father testily,
“but the fact remains that we cannot go.”

“The fact remains, Father, that you owe it to yourself to go, not only
because you have promised Baird” (here she scored a strong point, for the
keeping of his word was her father’s great pride), “but because you owe
it to Mr. Loring to atone for the wrong that you did him.”

Mr. Cameron was in a quandary. On the one side was his desire not to see
Loring again or to have Jean meet him; on the other was the fact that
he had promised Radlett and that he wished to have him and Jean thrown
together. With his usual bluntness he asked his daughter: “Jean, have you
thought much of Loring since he left Quentin?”

“A great deal, Father.”

“Often?”

“Very often.”

“Damn me! I was afraid of it. But you may as well understand now that I
absolutely forbid your thinking of him any more.”

“Be careful, Father, that you do not add to my real interest the
fictitious one of defiance which has always been strong in the Cameron
blood. What I have been thinking all these months about Mr. Loring is
that he is a man to whom we are under deep obligation, and one to whom
you have been unjust.”

“I thought,” said Mr. Cameron helplessly, and foolishly allowing his
attack to be changed to defense, “that I had done everything possible
for Loring. I do not wish to be thought ungrateful to any man; but that
letter—”

Jean was touched and coming over to her father, put her arms around him
saying: “Can’t you see, Father dear, that the letter he sent to you was
the only one which a gentleman could write under the circumstances.”

“Perhaps so, perhaps,” answered Mr. Cameron. “And anyhow,” he went on
rather weakly, “I have promised Baird, and Jean, I want you to see more
of him. He is, I think, of all the men whom I know, the best and the most
trustworthy. He told me that some time ago you refused to marry him.”

“Yes,” said Jean.

“Have you ever changed at all? Do you not like him better than you did?
He is the man of all others whom I should rather see you marry.”

“I always liked him and I like him better than ever now,” replied Jean,
with her usual frankness. “Only it would take me at least a week to fall
in love with him,” she added laughing, as she kissed her father and bade
him good night.

That evening she sat up until it was late, thinking. She had begun to
see life in the West rather differently since her first rose-colored
impressions. She was beginning to realize the facts that her father had
quoted to her. The shoddiness of that life had begun to make itself felt.
She had believed in Loring with all the trust to which a reserved nature
yields itself when it becomes impetuous, and his complete failure had
been a deep shock to her. She had not forgotten him, however, though,
had she analyzed her thoughts, she would have been puzzled to know why
he had not passed from her memory. Now that he was to be brought into
her life again, her thought of him grew deeper and more personal. She
opened her trunk and drew out of it her journal of the past year. For an
hour she sat reading over the pages, and there were certain pages which
she reread. When she closed the book it was close to midnight. She sat
staring out of the window, thinking, wondering. The light in her eyes
was like the harbor lights veiled by night mist to the mariner homeward
bound,—now flashing clear and lambent, now dim, brilliant with the
seaward flash or soft in the afterglow.

At length she rose as one tired of thinking; but as she brushed out the
long waves of her hair she hummed softly the old refrain:

    “Young Frank is chief of Errington
    And lord o’ Langly Dale—
    His step is first in peaceful ha’
    His sword in battle keen—
    But aye she let the tears doon fa’
    For Jock o’ Hazeldean.”




CHAPTER XVII


In the weeks which followed the settling of the trouble in the camp,
Kay flourished and grew. Great trainloads of supplies were daily dumped
on the platform of the railway station, to be checked off and sorted,
before the final haul up to camp. The old rough road to the station had
become hard and smooth by the continual pounding of the heavy, six-mule
wagons. Under McKay’s master direction, the framework bridges on the
route had been replaced by substantial structures. Wherever a cañon or
gulch opened, sluice boxes had been buried beneath the road surface, so
that a heavy rain no longer meant washouts and consequent stoppage of
coke and supplies. The coke teams struggled back to the railroad almost
as heavily laden with matt, as on the upward trip they had been with
coke. Each day saw new framework houses built, and new families settling
their possessions. Wagons were driven into camp laden with battered
stoves, broken chairs, a stray dog or two, and in general the household
belongings of new settlers; for the growth of the “lilies of the field”
is as nothing compared with that of a prosperous mining camp. Each day
the office was filled with men clamoring for lumber: “Only a little,
Boss! Just to put in a flooring. We can get along with two boards on the
sides. Anything just so as we can get settled.” And Loring sat behind
his desk, speaking with kindly but evasive words, telling each that the
Company longed to build him a perfect palace, but that under the present
conditions he must wait.

For fast as lumber was hauled into camp, still faster came the need
for it for mine timbering, for storehouses, and for a thousand and one
necessities. The construction work had been rushed to completion. The
huge new ore cribs were a triumph of McKay’s ingenuity, built by a clever
system of bracing from the unseasoned lumber that had been at hand, and
supporting with perfect safety the enormous strain to which they were
subjected. The Company was rapidly becoming the controlling factor in the
copper output of the district.

It was the time for the arrival of the evening mail and the office was
full of men and tobacco smoke. McKay had pre-empted the safe and sat on
the top of it, clanking his heels against the sides. His sandy colored
hair matched the color of the pine boards of the wall against which he
was propped. The draughting tables carried their load of men, as did each
of the well-worn chairs, and the three-legged stool. A babel of voices
prevailed. Every now and then Reade opened the door from the back office,
and poking his head into the room with a disgusted expression upon his
face, called out: “Soft pedal there, soft pedal! How in hell can a man do
any work with you fellows raising such a racket?”

Stephen, as usual sat at his roll-top desk in the corner, his feet up on
the slide, both hands in his pockets, the while he rocked his pipe gently
up and down in his teeth. One of the clerks was telling with becoming
modesty of his social triumphs in Phœnix at the “Elks” ball. The audience
listened with the listless attention of those whose curiosity hangs heavy
on their hands.

“I was the candy kid, all right,” remarked the narrator.

His fervid discourse was interrupted by a drawl from some one in the
background. “I reckon that some time you must have drunk copiouslike of
the Hassayampeh River.”

A machinery drummer who was in the office cocked up his ears, thinking
that perhaps behind the allusion lay a doubtful story.

“What’s that about the river?” he asked. “I never heard of that.”

“Why, they say,” answered the first speaker, “that whoever drinks of the
Hassayampeh River can’t ever tell the truth again so long as he lives.”

“And also,” added McKay; “that no matter where he drifts to, he is sure
to wander back again to the old territory; that he’ll die in Arizona.”

“How was that story ever started?” Loring asked.

“The valley of the Hassayampeh was one of the first trails into the
ore country,” answered McKay, “and the lies that emanated from the
camps along that river was of such a fearful, godless and prize package
variety that they made the old river famous. There was a fellow in camp
here only the other day was telling me about prospectin’ down there
in seventy-three. He said all they had to eat was fried Gila monster.
I guess that was after he’d drunk the water though,” finished McKay
reflectively.

“The territory sure has gone off since those days,” said a cattleman who
had ridden into camp for his mail. “Only last year down near Roosevelt I
shot two Mexicans, and say, it cost me a hundred dollars for negligence,”
he went on indignantly, “and the sons of guns warn’t wurth more than
twelve dollars and two bits apiece.”

“You are right about the way Arizona is going to hell,” said the mine
foreman. “I don’t know as any of you fellows ever knowed ‘Teeth’ Barker.
Anyhow, next to what his father must have been, he was the ugliest
creature that ever lived on this earth. All of his teeth just naturally
stuck out like the cowcatcher of an engine. Well, in spite of that, he
always was a good friend of mine. Least he used to be.

“About six months ago I was up to Jerome, and they was telling about
an accident there. A man no one knowed at all was killed, but a fellow
said he had the ugliest tusks he ever seed. I knew at once that must
be Barker. They said they’d planted him up on the knoll, and so,”
continued the foreman sadly, “and so, although it was a powerful hot
day, I struggled up to the knoll with a nice piece of pine board, and a
jack-knife, and I sort of located ‘Teeth’ with a handsome monument and an
exaggerated epitaph.

“I came down as hot as the devil, and steps into a saloon to get a drink,
when who should walk up to me but ‘Teeth’ Barker himself!

“‘You’re dead,’ said I.

“‘Do I look like it?’ he asked. He got sort of hot under the collar about
it, too.

“Well, the long and short of it all was that I had gone and taken all
that trouble with a tombstone for a stranger.

“‘The least that you can do, “Teeth” Barker,’ said I, ‘is to come up and
see that beautiful monument I erected over you. It took as much trouble
to make as a year’s assessment work.’

“Well, he didn’t see it that way. Said he wouldn’t go up there if I was
to pay him. And that was after I had taken all that trouble! Gratitude!
There ain’t no such thing any more in Arizona,” concluded the foreman.

Story after story was put forth for the edification of the crowd until
the grating of wheels outside told of the arrival of the stage. A moment
later heavy footsteps resounded on the porch, and the burly stage-driver,
with two great mail-sacks slung over his shoulder, swung into the office.

“Evening, gents!” he called in answer to the general salutation.
He stepped over to Stephen’s desk and threw down a little bunch of
envelopes. “Four telegrams,” he said.

Loring rapidly slit open the envelopes, laying the telegrams on one side,
and after running through the contents, began to sort the mail.

“Any passengers?” he asked the driver.

“Yes, six. Drummers mostly. They are over there eating now. There was two
men and a lady; but they stopped to eat supper at the station. They will
be up later.”

“It’s lucky Mrs. Brown built those new sleeping quarters to her place;
she’ll be running a regular hotel here soon,” said the driver, as he
swung on his heel and tramped out to unharness his horses.

Stephen sorted the mail rapidly, and deftly scaled the letters to the
fortunate recipients.

“That is all,” he said, as he tossed the last. Every one left the office
with the exception of McKay who, with a woebegone expression on his face,
lingered behind.

“What is the matter?” asked Loring.

“Nothing,” answered McKay gruffly.

“Well, how is this?” said Stephen, taking from his pocket a letter which
was addressed in large square characters to McKay. “You see she did not
forget you, after all.”

McKay blushed to the roots of his hair, then opened the letter with
seeming nonchalance.

“It seems to me that you have a pretty steady correspondent there,” said
Stephen, while he straightened up his desk preparatory to the evening’s
work. “I have handed you a letter like that every night this week.” McKay
colored even more, then stretched out his hand. “Shake, Steve! I am going
to get spliced. I have been meaning to tell you before this.”

Loring jumped up and pounded him on the back.

“You gay winner of hearts, who is she?”

“Do you remember Jane Stevens, back at Quentin? Well, it’s her.”

Loring’s eyes twinkled. “How did you ever get the nerve?” he asked.

At the thought of his audacity, the perspiration broke out on McKay’s
forehead.

“Well she had me plumb locoed. I remember once a horse had me buffaloed
the same way,” he explained. “I was scared, scared blue, Steve; but
finally I got up my nerve and thought I’d go and break my affections to
her gentle and polite like. So one day I rode over to their place,—you
know where it is was, just south of the Dominion trail,—and I thought
I’d go to see her brother Charlie and fix it up with him. When I reached
their shack she came to the door looking as neat as a partridge and with
a sort of smile hidden somewhere in her face, and—and I’ll be damned if I
didn’t kiss her right then without any formalities.”

“That was the simplest solution of the problem, wasn’t it?” laughed
Stephen. “When are you going to be married?”

“Oh, soon, I guess; but I wish it could be managed as simply as these
Mexicans do. And how about you, Steve?” continued McKay. “You ain’t been
took this way yourself, have you? Not that woman you was telling me about
in Mexico.”

Loring shook his head. “Unfortunately she was a married woman.”

“I sort of thought,” went on McKay, “that you and Miss Cameron was—”

“Well, you thought wrongly,” interrupted Loring sharply. “I never expect
to see Miss Cameron again.”

There came a ripple of laughter from the doorway, and looking up quickly
he saw Jean and her father walk into the office. Behind them stood Baird
Radlett.

“What a hospitable form of welcome!” exclaimed Miss Cameron, smiling at
him frankly.

For a moment Loring swayed in his chair, then he rose stiffly, as a man
in a trance. He stared at Jean with an absorption that was almost rude,
as if there were nothing in the universe beyond her. There lay a hint of
laughter in the gray depths of her eyes.

“What is the matter?” asked Radlett. “Are you surprised to see us? Didn’t
you get my letter?”

“It is probably in to-night’s mail which haven’t opened yet,” answered
Loring, still half dazed.

“Mr. Cameron has consented to come and make a report on the property for
me,” explained Baird.

Mr. Cameron came forward and held out his hand. “Mr. Loring, I have heard
of the splendid work that you have done here. I want to congratulate
you.” This little speech was a hard one for Mr. Cameron to make; but he
was a man who, when he had once made up his mind to the right course,
followed it to the end.

The expression of pride in Stephen’s face turned to one of appreciation,
and he shook Mr. Cameron’s hand with a firm, grateful pressure. But all
the while he was looking at Jean longingly, worshipingly, all unconscious
of the intensity of his gaze, as a man who for days has been in the
desert without water looks upon the sudden spring. In all the months that
he had thought of her, dreamed of her, she had never seemed to have the
beauty, the potential tenderness, which marked her now when she stood
before him, her look telling him that she was proud of what her friend
had been and done.

To Radlett, looking at them both, came a sudden suspicion, and a sudden
despair.

Jean, at Loring’s request, seated herself at his desk, in the big
revolving chair, and while playing absent-mindedly with the papers on the
desk, kept up a laughing discussion with Baird.

Loring, at the other side of the room, was answering Mr. Cameron’s
businesslike questions as to the grade of the ore, the force, the cost
of production, accurately and fast, as though almost every faculty in
his body and mind were not concentrated upon the girl who seemed to be
having such an interesting talk with Radlett. Finishing his talk with
Mr. Cameron, Loring left the office to arrange for sleeping quarters for
the visitors. In a few minutes he returned with the announcement that
all was ready, and led the way to the long, low building next the mess,
whose many rooms, opening on a broad porch, served as accommodations for
strangers in camp.

Loring walked beside Miss Cameron, doing his best to talk unconcernedly
of every-day matters, but the hoarseness of his voice betrayed him.

“I am very sorry to have to offer you such rough quarters,” he said to
Jean, as they reached the house, “but they are the best that we have. In
another month we hope to have something more comfortable to give to our
guests.”

“In another month, Stephen, you will have an up-to-date city constructed
here,” exclaimed Radlett, with an almost reluctant enthusiasm.

At the steps Stephen and Radlett said good-night to the others, and
walked slowly back to Stephen’s quarters, which they were to share.

Loring sat on the edge of his cot, and smoked slowly while he watched
Baird unpack his valise, and with the method of an orderly nature put
everything away in the rough chest of drawers, or on the black iron
hooks which protruded from the wall. Espying a tin of expensive tobacco
neatly packed amidst a circle of collars, Stephen pounced upon it, and
knocking out the contents of his pipe, proceeded to fill it with the new
mixture. Radlett finished his unpacking, and recovering the tobacco can
from Loring, filled his own pipe. Then he tipped a chair back against the
wall, and sitting in it, regarded Loring for a moment in silence.

“Stephen,” he remarked after a few seconds, “you have done a good piece
of work. I knew that you would.”

Loring’s irrelevant answer was to the effect that the tobacco which
he had stolen was good. It was an odd characteristic of this man that
though his nature contained many streaks of vanity, praise for work
which he knew was good embarrassed him. At length he began to appreciate
the ungraciousness of his response to Radlett’s advances, and leaning
forward, with his elbows on his knees, he said: “You cannot guess what it
means to me, Baird, to have you say things like that, to be patted on the
back and made to feel as if I had done something, and that by a man who
has succeeded in everything to which he has turned his hand, who has won
all the big prizes of life.”

Radlett drew back into the shadow where the lamplight could not reveal
the expression of his face.

“All the prizes in life?” he queried with scornful emphasis. “No, not all
by a damn sight. You see, Stephen, I feel as if Fate had stood over me
with a deuced ironical smile, and said: ‘You shall have your every wish
in life—except the one thing that you want most of all—the one thing
that would make you happy.’”

“Hm,” murmured Loring, shaking out the embers from his pipe and gazing
into the empty bowl. “With any one else I should say that meant a woman;
but with you it could not be.”

“Why not with me as well as with any other man?”

“Because there is no woman alive who would be fool enough to refuse you.”

“Bless your heart, Stephen! It is only your blind loyalty that makes you
think me irresistible.”

“Do you mean that there really is a woman so benighted? What is she
thinking of?”

“I imagine,” answered Radlett slowly, “that you might change that ‘what’
to _whom_.”

“You would have me believe that knowing you, she prefers some one else?”
asked Loring incredulously. “Why, Baird, it is impossible.”

“By no means. I think I know the man.”

Loring’s blood boiled. “Who is the brute?” he cried out. “Tell me and I
will kill him, break his neck, shoot him.”

Baird smiled wryly, blew a cloud of smoke toward the roof, and observed:
“If I were you, Stephen, I would do nothing rash. But come, we have
talked long enough of me and my affairs. Let us talk now about you and
yours! Suppose, for instance, you tell me why you turned the color of a
meerschaum pipe when Miss Cameron appeared in the doorway to-night.”

Loring started and looked quickly at Radlett. “You noticed that, did you?
Well, you have quick eye and a gift for drawing conclusions, but they may
not always be right.”

“Not always, no; but this time they are, aren’t they? Be honest, Stephen,
are you or are you not in love with Jean Cameron?”

“Excuse me, but that can not interest you to know.”

“Perhaps not, and perhaps it is a damned impertinence to inquire, but
after all an old friendship gives some privileges.”

“Of course it does!” exclaimed Stephen, tilting down his chair. He walked
across the room to Radlett’s seat and stood behind him. “See here, Baird.
I did not want to speak of this thing because I was afraid of breaking
down and making an ass of myself generally. You don’t know what it is to
be placed as I am. When you asked a girl to marry you, you had something
to offer her, whether she had the sense to take it or not. You offered
her a clean life, a fortune honorably made, an untarnished name, while
I,—why even if there were the remotest chance that Miss Cameron would
look at me, I should be a brute to ask her. The more I cared for her, the
less I could do it. So you see, for me it must be ‘the desire of the moth
for the star.’ A man must abide by the consequences of his acts; he must
take his medicine, and if mine is bitter, it may do me all the more good
only—only I cannot talk about it. Good night!”

Radlett did not answer; but long after Stephen was asleep, or pretended
to be, Baird lay staring at the rafters. “To lay down his life for his
friend,” he said to himself. “That would not be the hardest thing. To lay
down his love! I wonder if I am man enough to do it.”




CHAPTER XVIII


During the week which the Camerons spent in camp at Kay, it was
amusing to notice the change in the appearance of the men at the mess.
Dilapidated flannel shirts and khaki trousers the worse for wear had been
supplanted at supper time by self-conscious black suits and very white
ties. The camp barber made enough money to tide him over many months.

Mr. Cameron had spent a very busy week, examining with Loring all the
details of the work, and daily his respect had grown for the man whom he
had so despised. The evening before the last which she was to spend in
Kay, Jean announced her intention of visiting the “workings” with her
father when he should go the next day. Loring said that it was not safe;
her father protested; Radlett argued with her, and as the net result of
all she appeared the following morning with her determination unchanged.

The porch of the mess a few minutes before breakfast time was always
crowded. Men on their way back from the night shift made a practise of
stopping to exchange a few words. It was a quieter gathering than in
the evening, for ahead lay the prospect of a long day’s work. Yet an
air of comfort always prevailed. The five minutes before breakfast made
a precious interval in which to loaf, a delightful time when one could
stretch himself against the wall and bask in the sunlight.

Jean and her father came up to the veranda with a friendly “good
morning” to those who were gathered there. A few of the loiterers talked
respectfully to Mr. Cameron, whose fame as a mining expert was a wide
one, and Jean quickly became the center of a large group of men, eager to
point out to her the different mountains, the Grahams in the distance or
the long sharp ridges of the neighboring range. They called her attention
to the mist hanging low in the valley, curling softly in the farthest
recesses. The mine foreman, usually the most shiftlessly dressed man in
camp, twitched his polka-dotted tie into place when he thought that Miss
Cameron’s attention was absorbed by the landscape.

Stephen came across from his quarters among the last. He waited a moment
before joining the group about Miss Cameron; and his eyes employed that
moment in fixing a picture indelibly on his mind. As Jean leaned lightly
against the wall, in her dress of white linen crash, she made a picture
which no one who saw could forget. Her gray eyes were clear with the
reflection of the morning light, and the sun searched for and illuminated
the subtle tints of her hair. She had a pretty way of speaking as though
everything she said were a simple answer to a clever question. Men liked
that. They thought her appreciative.

She looked up to notice Loring’s glance upon her, and answered his “good
morning” lightly. “You need not speak as though you were surprised, Mr.
Loring,” she said, “I may have been late to breakfast five out of my six
days, but that is no sign that it is a habit with me. Besides, you know
that to-day I am to visit the mine.”

“So you are still determined?” he asked. “Really, Miss Cameron, it is not
very safe. There might be an accident of some sort, and,” he went on,
looking at her gown, “you will ruin your dress.”

“Do you fancy that I travel with only one?” Jean queried smiling. “It may
be so, but not even my vanity shall deter me; I really must go.”

Just then Wah appeared on the veranda, and began to pound with his
railroad spike on the iron triangle which, as at Quentin, served for a
dinner gong.

“La, la, boom, boom! Breakfast!” he shouted, amidst the din which he was
creating. “Me bludder, Steve, he almost late. La, la, boom, boom! Hot
cakes, hot cakes; oh, lubbly hot cakes, oh, lubbly, lubbly—!”

In the midst of his song he caught sight of Jean, and stopping his
pounding he beamed upon her.

“Goodee morning, missee, goodee morning! Missee on time this morning; how
it happen?”

McKay angrily told him to shut up, but Miss Cameron stopped the rebuke,
assuring Wah that his reproaches had been well deserved.

Several minutes after the others had begun their meal, Radlett appeared
at breakfast, still struggling against sleepiness. Not even the clear
early morning air had thoroughly aroused him. Breakfasts at half-past six
were a distinct and not wholly appreciated novelty to Baird. He slipped
into his place beside Jean, and endeavored to parry her banter upon his
indolence. Stephen, at his side of the table, was occupied in dispensing
the platter of “flap jacks,” which Wah, beaming with appreciation of
their excellence, had set before him to serve.

“At what time do we visit the mine?” asked Jean across the table.

“As soon after breakfast as you and your father are ready,” answered
Stephen. “The air is much better early in the day, before they have begun
to shoot down there. But I wish that you would change your mind about
going.”

Jean turned to the mine foreman for assistance.

“It is perfectly safe, isn’t it, Mr. Burns? I know that all my father and
Mr. Loring think is that I shall be in the way.”

Burns laboriously protested against such an idea, and clumsily promised
to look after her safety.

In the minutes that preceded the seven o’clock whistle, one by one the
men straggled off to their work, nodding respectfully to Jean and her
father as they left, and calling out parting gibes at Wah. By the time
that the whistle blew, the line of ponies picketed to the fence before
the mess had disappeared, and the community was at work.

As soon after breakfast as Mr. Cameron had smoked his morning cigar,
he joined Radlett and Loring, and with Miss Cameron all walked up to
the mouth of the nearest shaft. Burns met them at the shaft house, and
selected from the pile of oilskins a “slicker” for Miss Cameron. She
struggled helplessly with the stiff button-holes, and Loring was obliged
to button the coat for her. His fingers, though stronger than hers, were
not much more efficient, owing to their trembling.

“Where are the candles, Burns?” asked Loring.

Burns pointed to a box in one corner of the shaft house. Stephen took out
a half dozen, and handed one to each of the visitors. He put a broken one
into the spike candle holder which he carried, and slipped the others
into his capacious pockets.

The “skip” shot up and was unloaded. “All ready!” called Burns, steadying
the bucket by the level of the shaft mouth. Jean stepped forward and
looked at the bucket just a bit askance. Loring showed her how to place
her hands on the heavy iron links above the swivel, and how to stand on
the edge of the bucket with her heels over the edge.

“Look out that your skirt does not hit against the side of the shaft!”
was his final injunction.

“Can we go down now?” he asked Burns.

“One second,” answered the foreman. “There is a load of sharpened drills
to go down with us.”

In a moment the little “nipper” appeared with his armful of drills, and
with a ringing clatter dropped them into the bottom of the bucket.

“I think we had better take Mr. Cameron to the four hundred level right
away,” said Stephen to Burns. “I want him to see that new stope. The air
isn’t very bad there, is it?”

“No, it’s pretty fair.”

“All right. Lower away, four hundred!” called Loring to the hoist
engineer, at the same time swinging himself onto the bucket beside the
others.

The skip began to drop slowly down the timbered shaft. For the first
twenty-five or thirty feet it was fairly light, and Jean could see the
joints in the rough-grained, greasy boards. Then all became dark. She
clutched the cable tightly and half closed her eyes. The water began to
drip down hard from above, spattering sharply on their oilskins. Loring,
close beside her, whispered: “All right. Just hold on tightly, Miss
Cameron! Great elevator, isn’t it?”

Even while Loring spoke, a chill struck to his heart. What if the hoist
engineer failed in his duty! What if the bucket crashed into the black
depths that lay below them, or shot wildly upward to be caught in the
timbers at the top! What if Jean Cameron were to be snatched away as
_those others_ had been, through the wanton carelessness of the man
in charge above! Would any punishment be black enough for him? Would
eternity be long enough for him to make a decent repentance?

By the vigor of the answer which his heart made to the question, Loring
sensed the pang of remorse which had gnawed at his conscience without
ceasing ever since that awful night. “That was what you did.” The words
said themselves over and over in his ear as the bucket slid downward.

The air began to turn from the pure clear atmosphere of the mountains to
the heavy close humidity of the mine, murky even in its blackness.

“One hundred level,” explained Stephen, as the bucket dropped past a
candle which flickered dully in a smoky hole in the side of the shaft,
the entrance to the drift which was even blacker than the shaft itself.

As they reached the lower levels, the water poured down faster. The
bucket swung and twisted and Jean leaned an imperceptible trifle closer
to Loring. He steadied her with his arm, although it may not have been
strictly necessary for safety.

The bucket suddenly stopped and hung lifelessly steady.

“Here we are, four hundred foot level,” called Loring. “Please stay just
where you are, Miss Cameron, and we will help you off.” He swung himself
onto the landing stage after the others, and taking both of Jean’s hands
in his, guided her safely into the drift.

She stood for a moment completely confused, unable to make out anything.
Loring leaned out into the shaft, and pulling the bell cord, signaled to
have the bucket raised again. Then he took Jean’s candle, and biting off
the wax from about the wick, lighted it and his own, holding them under
a small protecting ledge of rock. To Jean’s unaccustomed eyes the little
flickerings made small difference in the darkness. She stepped into a
pool of water that lay in the middle of the drift, wetting her boots to
the ankles.

“Careful!” said Loring, taking her by the arm. “Keep your eyes on Burns’s
candle ahead there. I will see that you don’t fall.”

For a couple of hundred yards they walked on straight ahead down the
drift. Jean’s eyes began to grow accustomed to the gray blackness, and
now, when the roof of the tunnel grew suddenly lower, she stooped almost
by instinct.

“Look out for the winze, Miss!” called back Burns.

“All right!” answered Loring. “This runs to the next level, a hundred
feet down,” he explained, as he helped Jean to cross the plank which
bridged a black chasm. She noticed the rails of a little track which ran
beneath their feet, and almost as she was on the point of asking its
purpose, from far ahead in the darkness came a shrill, weird whistle, and
a heavy rumble.

Loring caught her and held her back against the side wall as a “mucker”
ran past, wheeling a heavy ore car towards the shaft and whistling as
warning to clear the track. She began to feel the effects of the powder
fumes in the air, and it made her head heavy and drowsy. She felt that
she had come into a new, supernatural universe, where all was noisy,
dark, and strange.

At last the drift broadened out into a large, irregular-shaped chamber.

“Esperanza stope,” said Loring to Miss Cameron. “Here is where they have
struck the contact vein, where the porphyry changes to limestone.” He
held his candle close to the dark wall of rock, and she could see the
green crusting betokening the copper.

“This will assay pretty close to ten per cent, won’t it, Burns?” asked
Loring.

“It ran to twelve, yesterday,” answered the foreman.

They stood still for a moment. All about them, as in the crypt of some
vast cathedral, were specks of light, showing through the dense air,
the candles of the miners. Now and then in the blur there appeared a
distorted shape, as some one moved before a candle. Through all, loud,
insistent, steady, rang the clink-clang, clink-clang, clink-clang of
the drills and hammers, as a dozen miners drove home the holes into the
breast of the stope, the tapping of the cleaning rods, as they spooned
out the mud, and the rattle of shovels on rock, as the “muckers” loaded
the ore cars. Mixed with these sounds was a sharp hissing, as the miners
drew in their breath, swaying back for the driving blow on the heads of
the drills. As she grew accustomed to the dim light, Jean could make out
the miners who were nearest to her, as, in teams of two, stripped to the
waist, their bodies shiny with sweat, they battered on the walls. Faintly
the lines of grim archways began to grow out of the dark, where rough
pillars had been left to support the roofing. Far off, up a cross-cut,
she could see more candles swaying. Two men near her were toiling at a
windlass, raising the water from a new winze. She leaned against the
wall, and something rattled tinnily. It was a pile of canteens, all warm
with the heat of the air.

Jean gasped with the very wonder of the scene. To the others it was
merely the commonplace of their work.

Burns called out to Loring: “We are going to take Mr. Cameron through to
the new stope. It is pretty hard climbing getting through to there. I
guess the lady had better wait here with you, Mr. Loring.”

The voices of the rest of the party sounded faint and far away. Jean
watched the light of their candles sway and dip, as they walked off down
a tunnel, then disappear as a supporting pillar hid them from view.

Loring led her to one side of the stope, and drove the spike of his
candle stick into a niche in the soft rock wall. He pointed to a pile of
loose ore.

“We can sit here until your father returns. They are not working this end
of the stope now,” he said.

She nodded and seated herself with her back against the wall. Silent,
with her chin propped firmly in her clenched hands, she strained her eyes
to look at the dim lights and shadows at the other end of the stope, and
watched the shadows grow into things, as she stared. Far beneath her, in
the solid rock, she heard faint indistinct taps. A trifle awed by the
mystery she turned to Loring.

“What is that sound?” she asked.

“Those are ‘Tommy knockers,’” he answered gravely. “They are the ghosts
of men who were killed in an explosion here, tapping steadily for help.”

“Really?” she asked, half laughing.

“It might be,” answered Loring, “but the fact of it is that those are men
drilling on the next level. The sound now and then carries clear through
the rock.”

The candle in the niche behind her cast a dim light over the soft curves
of Jean’s cheeks, rising delicately above the rough yellow oilskin
coat. Loring beside her, looked down at her intently. Turning, she
inadvertently brushed against his sleeve, and he quivered as though it
had been a blow. The silence was growing oppressive with significance.
Suddenly Jean broke it, saying: “Mr. Loring, I may not have another
opportunity of speaking with you alone while we are in Kay. I must use
this chance to tell you what pleasure it has given me to hear of your
achievements here, of your courage in the riot and of—” Jean paused and
seemed to choose her words carefully, “of your victory.”

“Oh,” answered Stephen, with an attempt at ease, while all the time his
heart was beating like a trip-hammer, “I suppose Baird has been talking
about me; but you must not take him too literally. There is no libel law
against flattery, and so men speak their minds about their friends as
freely as they would like to do about their enemies. Miss Cameron,” he
said suddenly, “I have never thanked you for the note which you sent me
when I left Quentin. But you must know how grateful I felt. I did not
deserve your trust; but I cannot tell you how it helped me.”

She shook her head slowly, and when she spoke her voice was very soft. “I
am glad if it helped you, but you would have won your fight without it, I
think.” Her tone held a shadow of question.

“The whole struggle would not have seemed worth while without that, and
without the truest friend in the world to help. Miss Cameron, Baird
Radlett came to me when I had fallen as low as a man could fall. He and
your note saved me.”

“No,” answered Jean, “you saved yourself. I think you were saved from the
time of that dreadful night at Quentin, only you did not know it.”

The roar of an ore car rushing by drowned her voice. A moment later
Stephen spoke in a hard, dry tone. “I am not sure,” he said, “that I know
exactly what salvation means. If it means that I am not likely to make a
beast of myself any more, or murder any more men, I am glad to believe it
is so; but after all what does it matter to me? I have lost my chance,
thrown it away, and life cannot hold anything particularly cheerful for
me after that.”

“No, no!” Jean exclaimed with a swift inexplicable pang at her heart.
“You must not say that. There are chances ahead in life for every one.”

“Yes, chances; but not _the_ chance.”

“Am I _the_ chance?” Jean asked, in a voice so low that it could scarcely
be heard above the echoes.

Loring bowed his head, with such dejection in his bearing as struck to
the heart of the girl beside him. Jean had been thinking, thinking hard.
The quick throbbing in her temples attested to the intensity of her mood.
She knew in that instant that she cared for the man at her side; but how
much? Enough to run the risk?

“Mr. Loring,” she said at length slowly, as if weighing her words, “I
know that you care for me; but, and it is hard to say”—she laid her hand
on his arm and tried to meet his eyes—“but I don’t quite trust you.” She
felt his arm stiffen and quiver, but she went on, although her voice
broke: “I know that you are brave. I owe my life to that.” She paid no
attention to the gesture with which he waved aside all obligation. “I
respect you more than I can say for the fight that you have made against
habit, only—”

“Only?” echoed Stephen slowly.

“Only—oh, can’t you see that if I were to marry you and all the time
there were in my heart a doubt, even though the merest shadow, that
neither of us could be happy?”

Loring crushed between his fingers a piece of the soft ore and let the
fragments trickle to the ground before he spoke. “It is more than year
now, Jean. Must the shadow last forever? Is what I have done to remain
forever unpardoned?” He spoke with the slowness of an advocate who knows
his case is lost, yet fights to the end.

“It is not that, Stephen. I could forgive almost anything that you have
done. But there is one thing that you have done, that try as I would,
I could never forget. Stephen, let me ask it of you. What is the most
essential quality of all in a—a—friend?”

“Honesty,” answered Loring, without a moment’s hesitation.

“And suppose you knew that a friend had utterly fallen from honesty?”

“I should then feel that the word “friend” no longer applied.”

Loring was dazed. He did not know of her cousin’s story of his dishonesty
in his relations with his guardian. He thought only of the promise he
had made to her on their ride in Quentin and the manner in which he had
broken it. “Yes,” he went on slowly, “I suppose when a man breaks his
solemn word he shatters forever the mold of his character.”

“I want you to understand that it is only because I cannot forget that
one thing, that my trust in you is not absolute.”

Loring straightened himself, and for a second turned his head away.
“That,” said he, “is why I said I had lost _the_ chance.”

A wave of pity swept over Jean. “And yet, Stephen,” she whispered, “I—”

“Oh, Steve! Where are you?” came from out of the darkness. “We are going
up now. Mr. Cameron thinks we have a fine strike there.”

Stephen helped Jean to her feet. Then silently he led the way back to the
shaft.




CHAPTER XIX


Inanimate things, the poets to the contrary, do not share human moods.
When Loring returned to his desk in the office the typewriter, instead
of showing the least sympathy, behaved abominably. Ordinarily the letter
“J” on a well-constructed machine is on the side, and little used. But
this afternoon it seemed to insist on beginning every word, and the
effect on the business letters which should have been composed was
not beneficial. But this is perhaps explained by the few terse words
concluding the pamphlet of directions which accompanied the machine:
“No machine ever made is _fool proof_.” So Loring had the extra task of
carefully proofreading all his letters. Being in love always has one of
two effects on a man’s work. He either does twice as much work half as
well, or half as much work twice as well; but no man truly in love has
been able to reverse these, and double both his zeal and efficiency. This
kind of inspiration has a singular disregard for detail, and when it
does deign to notice the minute side of things, it magnifies them to such
an extent that the ultimate aim is likely to be obscured. As proof of the
above statement, between luncheon and supper time, Stephen accomplished
twice his usual amount of work with a little less than half his customary
efficiency.

His work done, Loring banged the cover onto the typewriter with a little
more force than was necessary, for if inanimate things cannot share
moods, they are still delightful objects on which to vent overwrought
feelings. Stephen’s hat was on the table behind the swivel chair, and
it was characteristic of him that he used great exertion to secure it
without rising, twisting the chair into positions which defied all the
laws of gravity. Having set the soft hat at its accustomed slightly
tilted angle, he lit his pipe and frowned at the garish appearance of
the yellow oak of his desk. Then he rose with the indecisive motion of
one who, when on his feet, wonders why he has left his chair. Ordinarily
Stephen was a trifle late at supper on account of staying to lock up the
office, and to-night from an illogical dread of the thing which he half
longed for, half wished to avoid, a talk with Jean, he did not reach the
table until all the others had left.

Wah glided in from the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee which he set
before Stephen, together with the choicest selections from the supper
which he had as usual saved for him. When Loring rose from the table,
leaving the larger portion of his meal uneaten, Wah looked at him
reproachfully from the inscrutable depths of his slanting eyes.

Baird Radlett, Jean, and a few others were still gathered on the porch
when Stephen stepped outside. They were gazing intently down the valley
to the westward at the glorious afterglow in the sky, where, but an
instant before, the red rim of the sun had flashed before dipping behind
the hills. All were silent with that quietness which is brought forth by
moments of absolute beauty. Loring’s step and voice aroused them, and
all save Jean turned quickly. Baird saw a color in Jean’s cheeks far
richer and softer than the deep rose hue in the skies. He glanced quickly
from her to the man standing above her, who was looking down at her with
adoration in his gaze. For one second his love for the girl battled with
his friendship for the man, and Radlett realized the full bitterness
of the sacrifice that he was making. Then friendship conquered, and he
comprehended and sympathized with the sorrow which to-night made Loring’s
face look singularly old.

Stephen stayed with them only a few minutes before returning to the
office to play the old, old game of burying thought beneath routine.

Radlett and Jean were left alone on the steps. Baird watched Stephen
until he was hidden by the angle of the office.

“Loring,” he said suddenly, turning to Jean, “has been working fifteen
hours a day for the last six months. He cannot stand it. I am afraid for
him.”

“Afraid for his—for his—” she hesitated moment, “for his health?”

“Yes, and only for his health,”, answered Radlett decisively. He rose to
his feet as if to gain strength for what he was going to say. Then he
seated himself again on the step beside her. Drawing a deep breath he
began: “Jean, you are not looking well, either.”

Jean murmured something about the fatigue of the journey from the East.

“No,” said Radlett firmly, “it is not that. It is something deeper than
that. You know it is, and I know it, too, so let there be no concealments
between us!”

“What do you know? How do you know it?” Jean stammered.

“A man knows some things by instinct,” Radlett answered. “I think I
should have found this out before long, anyhow; but your face, dear, is
not good at concealments, and when I saw your eyes, which had been sad
from the time we met in Tucson, suddenly light at the sight of Loring in
the office here, when heard the little catch in your voice (Jean, I know
every tone of your voice by heart) and when I saw and heard you, I knew!”

“Oh, Baird!”

“Never mind,” exclaimed Radlett, “we will not talk of that any more.
I only wanted you to understand that we must be quite frank with each
other, and that thus everything will come out right. Now tell me how
things stand with you.”

“How can I, Baird? To you, of all people?”

“You can and you must, just because I am I and you are you, and your
happiness concerns me more than anything in the world. You love Stephen
Loring. You are miserable about him. Why?”

“I will tell you,” answered Jean slowly, looking intently out into the
darkness. “I will tell you why I am afraid for him, because you are his
friend as you are mine, and you will understand. I am afraid that it is
only for my sake that he has made his reform, and I told him to-day that
I did not quite trust him, and that—oh, Baird, you must understand!”

Radlett bowed his head in grave assent. “Yes, I understand.”

“But,” Jean went on, “if you think that this will cause him to fall
again, I cannot bear it; for Baird, I do care for him, and if this is his
last chance, I will give it to him.”

Radlett grasped her hand firmly in his own and bent over her. No crisis
of his life had ever taxed his self-control like this.

“Jean,” he said slowly, “he does not need you. Do you suppose that if
he did I should think him worthy the great gift of your love?” Baird’s
voice broke, in spite of himself; but he controlled it and went on:
“Stephen has fought his fight and won it as it must be won—_alone_. Do
you know what he has been since he left your father? Do you know of the
way he behaved in that fight in Mexico, of the way in which he has saved
the mine here, of the strength, the powers, the self-discipline that
he has shown. It must be something stronger than his love for a woman
that will save such a man as Loring, when he has once started down hill.
Stephen had that ‘something stronger.’ God help him, it cut to the bone!
Since that accident, Loring has never been quite his old self. I am
afraid he never will be, that he will always be under a cloud, but Jean,
it saved him. He has won his fight without you, and for that reason he
is worthy of you.” Baird felt the fingers in his own tighten in their
grasp. “Jean,” he went on, “you know how I have cared for you ever since
we were children, and how, although you did not care,” he cut short her
protestation quickly, “and how although you did not care in that way, I
love you now above anything on earth.”

The tears gathered hot in Jean’s eyes.

“You know that as I told you a moment ago your happiness is the highest
thing in the world to me, and I say to you: if you love Stephen, marry
him. If you do not love him, then I am sorry for him, but I am not afraid
for him. I am proud of him.”

“He must be a man, Baird, to have such a friend as you.”

A deep silence fell between them. Then Radlett rose suddenly, for he knew
his endurance could stand no more. He bent over her hand and kissed it
tenderly. Then with a heart-rendingly cheerful “good night,” he strode
off into the darkness towards his quarters.

For an hour Jean sat on the steps, watching the lights of the camp, as
one by one they were extinguished, until one light alone burned. It was
in the window of the office. There she knew a man was working steadily
and bravely, and her heart beat irregularly as the realization came, that
it was the man whom with her whole heart she loved and trusted for all
the future, whatever might have been the past. The hot blood came surging
into her cheeks only to recede and leave them pale.

Rising, she walked slowly across to the office. She hesitated a moment,
her hand on the door-knob, then throwing back her head proudly, she
opened the door softly and entered. Her bearing was that of a soldier who
surrenders without prejudice to his pride.

Loring was bending over his work and did not see her as she stood in
the doorway. She watched his pen toiling over the paper before him. The
drooping dejection in his whole attitude cried out to her of his need for
her.

“Stephen!” she half whispered.

The man jumped to his feet, startled by the sound of the voice of which
he had been thinking. He turned to her, his face white and tense with the
strain of wonder and surprise. In three steps he crossed the room to her.

“Is anything wrong?” he exclaimed anxiously.

“Yes, something is wrong,” she answered, looking steadily into his eyes.
“I was wrong. I told you that I did not trust you. I do.”

“Jean,” he gasped, half suffocated. “Do you mean that after I had broken
my word to you at Quentin, you could possibly forgive?”

“I forgave that at the time.”

His face was drawn with the conflict between an impossible hope and a
desperate fear.

“That was the only time in my life that I ever broke my word, Jean, but
breaking it to you made it impossible for you to believe in me. You told
me so this morning, and I realized it. You forgive me that now,” he
cried, with a sudden flash of intuition, “because you are afraid that in
losing you, I shall lose myself again. Jean, though you are all there is
in life for me, I will not let you sacrifice yourself to your splendid
sympathy. Dearest, can’t you see that, as you said; if there were a
shadow of doubt on your mind you could never be happy with me?”

“It was not what you think which made me say I did not trust you. It was
something, Stephen, which I know would be impossible in the man you are
now. I could not put your dishonesty to your guardian out of my mind,
until I realized that that was no more a part of the Stephen Loring I
know now than the faults which I had forgiven.”

Loring looked at her in amazement. “My dishonesty towards my guardian?”
he exclaimed. “Jean, dear, what do you mean?”

“I was told,” she said sadly, “that you had borrowed heavily from him,
and never returned the loan; but we can pay it back together,” she went
on bravely.

“Jean, every cent that I ever borrowed, I paid him when I came into my
own money. I don’t know or care where you heard the story, but the only
part of it that is true is that I did abuse his good nature and ask him
to advance me out of his own fortune the amount that he held in trust for
me.” The impossible hope conquered the fear in his face. He seized both
of her hands in his and spoke breathlessly.

“Jean, dearest, was that why you did not trust me?”

She looked up at him with her eyes glowing with a new feeling. The love
that had sprung from pity had grown into the love based on pride.

“Do not let us talk of that now,” she whispered, “but of the
present—and—and the future!”

Stephen drew her to him with a passion which only those who have
despaired can feel. He bowed his head and kissed her as for months he had
dreamed of doing. He trembled violently as his lips met hers; trembled
with wonder, with adoration, with perfect happiness. He held her tightly
in his arms, as though afraid that all was not real, that he might yet
lose her, as if he drew strength and life from the heart that beat
against his own.

The present redeemed the past and glorified the future. Through sin
and shame, through failure and humiliation, he had at last found his
strength, and before him in golden promise stretched the up grade.




_Mr. Oppenheim’s Latest Novel_

THE ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE

_By_ E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

Illustrated by Will Foster. Cloth. $1.50


Mr. Oppenheim’s new story is a narrative of mystery and international
intrigue that carries the reader breathless from page to page. It is the
tale of the secret and world-startling methods employed by the Emperor
of Japan through Prince Maiyo, his close kinsman, to ascertain the real
reasons for the around-the-world cruise of the American fleet. The
American Ambassador in London and the Duke of Denvenham, an influential
Englishman, work hand in hand to circumvent the Oriental plot, which
proceeds mysteriously to the last page. From the time when Mr. Hamilton
Fynes steps from the _Lusitania_ into a special tug, in his mad rush
towards London, to the very end, the reader is carried from deep mystery
to tense situations, until finally the explanation is reached in a most
unexpected and unusual climax.

No man of this generation has so much facility of expression, so many
technical resources, or so fine a power of narration as Mr. E. Phillips
Oppenheim.—_Philadelphia Inquirer._

Mr. Oppenheim is a past master of the art of constructing ingenious plots
and weaving them around attractive characters.—_London Morning Post._


LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS

34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON




_By the Author of “The Kingdom of Earth”_

PASSERS-BY

_By_ ANTHONY PARTRIDGE

With illustrations by Will Foster. Cloth. $1.50


This new novel by Anthony Partridge, whose absorbing romance, “The
Kingdom of Earth,” met with instant favor, has London for its scene.
But when you have read it you will admit that real London, as well as
imaginary Bergeland, is a source of fascinating romance.

The heroine of “Passers-By” is a street singer, Christine, who comes to
London accompanied by Ambrose Drake, a hunchback, with a piano and a
monkey. The fortunes of these two are strangely linked with those of an
English statesman, the Marquis of Ellingham, who in his youth has led a
wild and criminal career in Paris as the leader of a band of thieves and
gamblers, the Black Foxes. Here is the material for a thrilling tale in
which mystery breeds adventure and culminates in love.

The first chapter plunges the reader into an interest-compelling maze
of events, and the attention is held to the end by a series of dramatic
situations and surprises.

Mr. Partridge is now reckoned among the favorite novelists of the day.
His first book was “The Distributors,” the story of a great London
mystery. Then came “The Kingdom of Earth,” one of the popular novels of
1909. “Passers-By” is his third book.


LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS

34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON




_By the Author of “Aunt Jane of Kentucky”_

THE LAND OF LONG AGO

_By_ ELIZA CALVERT HALL

Illustrated by G. Patrick Nelson and Beulah Strong

12mo. Cloth. $1.50


The book is an inspiration.—_Boston Globe._

Without qualification one of the worthiest publications of the
year.—_Pittsburg Post._

Aunt Jane has become a real personage in American literature.—_Hartford
Courant._

A philosophy sweet and wholesome flows from the lips of “Aunt
Jane.”—_Chicago Evening Post._

The sweetness and sincerity of Aunt Jane’s recollections have the same
unfailing charm found in “Cranford.”—_Philadelphia Press._

To a greater degree than her previous work it touches the heart by its
wholesome, quaint human appeal.—_Boston Transcript._

The stories are prose idyls; the illuminations of a lovely spirit shine
upon them, and their literary quality is as rare as beautiful.—_Baltimore
Sun._

MARGARET E. SANGSTER says: “It is not often that an author competes with
herself, but Eliza Calvert Hall has done so successfully, for her second
volume centred about Aunt Jane is more fascinating than her first.”


LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS

34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON




_Sidney McCall’s New American Novel_

RED HORSE HILL

_By_ SIDNEY McCALL

Author of “Truth Dexter,” “The Breath of the Gods,” etc.

12mo. Decorated Cloth. $1.50


A dramatic story, big and splendid in theme, and handled in masterly
style.—_Albany Times-Union._

Fresh, vigorous, wholesome, well written.... Holding the absorbed
interest from first page to last.—_Chicago Record Herald._

The best work Mrs. Fenollosa has given us. It will be one of the
best read and most talked about books of the year. It is intensely
human.—_Springfield Union._

The reader must be dull, indeed, who is not stirred and thrilled by this
book, even in the light of a human document.—_Lilian Whiting in New
Orleans Times-Democrat._

A story of emotion, intensely dramatic, and told with the constructive
skill and power of narrative which Sidney McCall has evidenced so
effectively in her earlier novels.—_Brooklyn Eagle._

A story of the Southland which promises in a way to do as much for the
white slave of to-day as did “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” for the black man.
Besides the problem of child labor in the mills there is a love story
and romance that keeps the attention of the reader to the very end.—_St.
Louis Globe Democrat._


LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS

34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON