Silver and Gold: A Story of Luck and Love in a Western Mining Camp. Coolidge Dane
of corkscrew twists and busts right out into the sunshine.”
“Oh, never mind him!” protested the Professor as Bunker burst into a roar, “he will haf his choke, of course. But dis claim I speak of─”
“And that ain’t all his accomplishments,” broke in Bunker Hill relentlessly, “Mr. Diffenderfer is a count–a German count–sometimes known as Count No-Count. But as I was about to say, his greatest accomplishments have been along tonsorial lines.”
A line of pain appeared between the Professor’s eyes–but he stood his ground defiantly. “Yes,” went on Bunker thrusting out his jaw in a baleful leer at his rival, “for many years he has had the proud distinction of being the Champion Rough-Riding Barber of Arizona.”
“Vell, I’ve got to go,” murmured the Professor hastily, “I’ve got to find dem burros.”
He started off but at the plank across the creek he stopped and cleared his throat. “Und any time,” he began, “dat you’d like to inspect dem claims─”
“The Champeen–Rough-Riding–Barber!” repeated Old Bunk with gusto, “he won his title on the race-track at Tucson, before safety razors was invented.”
“Shut up!” snapped the Professor and, crossing the plank with waspish quickness, he went squattering off down the creek. Yet one ear was turned back and as Bunker began to speak he stopped in the trail to listen.
“He took a drunken cowboy up in the saddle before him,” went on Bunker with painful distinctness, “and gave him a close shave while the horse was bucking, only cutting his throat three times.”
“You’re a liar!” yelled the Professor and, stamping his foot, he hustled vengefully off down the trail.
“Say, who is that old boy?” enquired Big Boy curiously, “he might know where I’d find that gold.”
“Who–him?” jeered Bunker, “why, that old stiff wouldn’t know a chunk of gold if he saw it. All he does is to snoop around and watch what I’m doing, and if he ever thinks that I’ve picked up a live one he butts in and tries to underbid me. Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll get you a horse and show you all over the district, and any claim I’ve got that you want to go to work on, you can have for five hundred dollars. Now, that’s reasonable, ain’t it? And yet, the way things are going, I’m glad to let you in on it. If you strike something big, here I’ve got my store and mine, and plenty of other claims, to boot; and if there’s a rush I stand to make a clean-up on some of my other properties. So come up to the house and meet my wife and daughter, and we’ll try to make you comfortable. But that old feller─”
“Nope,” said Big Boy, “I think I’d rather camp–who lives in those cave-houses up there?”
He jerked his head at some walled-up caves in the bluff not far across the creek and Old Bunk scowled reproachfully.
“Oh, nobody,” he said, “except the rattle-snakes and pack-rats. Why don’t you come up to the house?”
“I don’t need to go to your house,” returned Big Boy defiantly. “I’ve got money to buy what I need.”
“Yes, but come up anyway and meet my wife and daughter. Drusilla is a musician–she’s studied in Boston at the celebrated Conservatory of Music─”
“I’ve got me a phonograph,” answered Big Boy shortly, “if I can ever get it over here from Globe.”
“Well, go ahead and get it, then,” said Bunker Hill tartly, “they’s nobody keeping you, I’m sure.”
“No, and you bet your life there won’t be,” came back Big Boy, starting off, “I’m playing a lone hand to win.”
CHAPTER VI
THE ORACULUM
The palpitating heat lay like a shimmering fleece over the deserted camp of Pinal and Denver Russell, returning from Globe, beheld it as one in a dream. Somewhere within the shadow of Apache Leap were two treasures that he was destined to find, one of gold and one of silver; and if he chose wisely between them they were both to be his. And if he chose unwisely, or tried to hold them both, then both would be lost and he would suffer humiliation and shame. Yet he came back boldly, fresh from a visit with Mother Trigedgo who had blessed him and called him her son. She had wept when they parted, for her burdens had been heavy and his gift had lightened her lot; but though she wished him well she could not control his fate, for that lay with the powers above. Nor could she conceal from him the portion of evil which was balanced against the good.
“Courage and constancy will attend you through life’” she had written in her old-country scrawl; “but in the end will prove your undoing, for you will meet your death at the hands of your dearest friend.”
That was the doom that hung over him like a hair-suspended sword–to be killed by his dearest friend–and as he paused at the mouth of Queen Creek Canyon he wished that his fortune had not been told. Of what good to him would be the two hidden treasures–or even the beautiful young artist with whom he was destined to fall in love–if his life might be cut off at any moment by some man that he counted his friend? When his death should befall, Mother Trigedgo had not told, for the signs had been obscure; but when it did come it would be by the hand of the man that he called his best friend. A swift surge of resistance came over him again as he gazed at the promised land and he shut his teeth down fiercely. He would have no friends, no best of friends, but all men that he met he would treat the same and so evade the harsh hand of fate. Forewarned was forearmed, he would have no more pardners such as men pick up in rambling around; but in this as in all else he would play a lone hand and so postpone the evil day.
He strode on down the trail into the silent town where the houses stood roofless and bare, and as he glanced at the ancient gallows-frame above the abandoned mine fresh courage came into his heart. This city of the dead should come back to life if what the stars said was true; and the long rows of adobes now stripped of windows and doors, would awaken to the tramp of miners’ boots. He would find two treasures and, if he chose well between them, both the silver and the gold would be his. But neither wily Bunker Hill nor the palavering Professor should pull him this way or that; for Mother Trigedgo had given him a book, to consult on all important occasions. It was Napoleon’s Oraculum, or Book of Fate; and as Denver had glanced at the key–with its thirty-two questions covering every important event in human life–a thrill of security had passed over him. With this mysterious Oraculum, the Man of Destiny had solved the many problems of his life; and in question thirteen, that sinister number, was a test that would serve Denver well:
“Will the FRIEND I most reckon upon prove faithful or treacherous?”
How many times must that great, aloof man have put some friend’s loyalty to the test; and if the answer was in the negative how often had he avoided death by foreknowledge of impending treachery! Yet such friends as he had retained had all proved loyal, his generals had been devoted to his cause; and with the aid of his Oraculum he had conquered all his enemies–until at last the Book of Fate had been lost. At the battle of Leipsic, in the confusion of the retreat, his precious Dream Book had been left behind. Kings and Emperors had used it since, and seeresses as well; and now, after the lapse of a hundred years, it was published in quaint cover and lettering, for the guidance of all and sundry. And Old Mother Trigedgo, coming all the way from Cornwall, had placed the Book of Fate in his hands! There was destiny in everything, and this woman who had saved his life could save it again with her Oraculum.
Denver turned to the Mexican who, with two heavily-packed mules, stood patiently awaiting his pleasure; and with a brief nod of the head he strode down the trail while the mules minced along behind him. Past the old, worked-out mine, past the melted-down walls of abandoned adobe ruins, he led on to the store and the cool, darkened house which sheltered the family of Andrew Hill; but even here he did not stop, though Old Bunk beckoned him in. His life, which had once been as other people’s lives, had been touched by the hand of fate; and gayeties and good cheer, along with friendship and love, had been banished to the limbo of lost dreams. So he turned across the creek and led the way to