My "Pardner" and I. Emerson Willis George
at the Banner were asking questions of one another as to what had transpired between Vance and the chief, but no one seemed to know anything about it, except that a new man was on duty and Vance absent.
At half past eleven o’clock that night the dramatic critic hurried in from the street and passed word around among the coterie that a surprise was waiting for them over at Thompson’s cafe. Thompson’s is, and has been for many years, a favorite resort for newspaper men. Vance Gilder was well known to the manager as a member of the Banner staff, and when that afternoon he requested that a lunch something better than the ordinary be prepared, he was assured that everything would be in readiness.
The dramatic critic ushered his associates into a private room precisely at twelve o’clock. Vance was in waiting, and a warm greeting was exchanged. The religious editor declared that he believed a conspiracy of gigantic proportions had been laid to entrap the meek and lowly, but, nevertheless, he took his place with alacrity at the table to enjoy the modest but excellent feast prepared for the occasion.
A few bottles of rare old wine added interest to the surprise which Vance had so cleverly arranged. After the glasses had been tilled and drained, the political editor moved that an explanation was in order.
“My friends,” said Vance, “the most important disclosure I have to make is that my salary has been raised to $60 a week.”
The religious editor said, “By Gad,” and fell from his chair, declaring that his nerves were so unstrung that it would require another glass of wine to restore them. After Vance had carefully narrated his interview with the chief, he received the hearty congratulations of his associates. Each vied with the others in wishing him unbounded success as a western correspondent for the Banner. "I understand,” said the political editor, after clearing his throat with a glass of wine, “that the west is teeming with opportunities in a political way; and I would not be surprised,” he added, “if the Honorable Vance Gilder would be the next thing we hear of, as mayor of some municipality in the Rocky Mountain region, or possibly as a member of Congress from the Third District.”
“Or still better,” observed the religious editor, “president of one of those bonanza gold mines that advertise themselves as being the greatest dividend paying properties in the world.”
“What’s the matter,” said the police reporter, “of being moderate in your expectations? Suppose Vance secures the position of judge of the police court in one of those western towns, where from a dozen to twenty drunks and brawls occur every twenty-four hours – ye gods! what a country for rich morsels of crime!”
It was conceded by all that Vance would have abundant opportunity for making investments here and there in the growing west that would materially increase his financial prospects.
“Sixty dollars,” said the dramatic critic, as he finished his third glass of wine, “is quite a step up, but evidently a mere bagatelle to the ‘pick-ups’ on the side, in a new country that is just developing like the west is at the present time.”
That Vance was one of the luckiest fellows living was the verdict of all his associates. After the lunch had been disposed of and a good-night glass of wine drunk to Vance’s success, he bade his companions good-night, and was soon being driven rapidly up Eighth Avenue to Central Park, west.
On reaching his room he began to feel more than ever that he had awakened to find himself famous, and that a great honor had been thrust upon him.
His gratitude to his chief was unbounded, but like the young and ambitious everywhere, his own personal advancement in a financial sense was a consideration not to be overlooked. While he knew personally very little about the Western country, the many allusions of his companions to the rare opportunities which awaited him in the new world he was about to visit filled him with a vague, indescribable sense of importance.
As he retired for the night, he assured himself that Gold Bluff, Idaho, would be one of his objective points, and hoped he would be there when the shaft reached the 300 foot level. He was beginning to share the old miner’s enthusiasm and confidence in Gray Rocks.
He drifted away into a restful sleep, while visions of a lovely girl in early womanhood, with beautiful blue eyes, “gentle grace and sovereign sweetness,” rose in a mist before him, and he dreamed he was at Gold Bluff.
CHAPTER V. – AN ODD CHARACTER
A TRIP from New York to the inter-mountain country of the west, with the present railroad facilities of palatial Pullmans and dining cars, is now an every-day affair. The traveler is surrounded by every comfort. Vance Gilder was more than ever in love with the change, as the cars rumbled on through dell and forest, across broad stretches of beautiful valley country, and ever and anon rushing over an iron bridge that spanned some beautiful stream of water, some of them calm and peaceful, and others rushing madly along, breaking into white spray over rocky ripples, and then hurrying on again as if they were running a race with time.
As he approached the Rocky Mountain country, and for the first time in his life gazed upon that mighty range of Nature’s towering masonry, he was almost intoxicated with the new sights to be seen on the “crown of the continent.”
Notwithstanding his enjoyment of the new and varied scenery, he was glad enough to abandon the cars at Butte City, after four days and nights of continuous riding.
Butte City is said to be, not only the greatest mining camp in Montana, but the greatest in the world. They boast of the many millions that are brought to the light of day by the magic wand of the miner’s pick. Vance found lodging at the Mercury Hotel, and early the next morning, after breakfasting heartily, started for a walk.
The town is built on a side-hill, gently rising from the depot grounds westward to a very considerable elevation. He paused now and then to inspect the architecture of some of the buildings, and then looked away toward the smelter districts, at the black clouds of smoke which the chimneys were belching forth, and falling over the city like a veil of mourning.
Presently he was accosted by an individual of grizzly beard and good-matured countenance, who said: “Hello, pard; how d’ye do? Sizin’ up these diggins’ be ye?”
As Vance eyed his questioner rather critically and acknowledged the salutation, the fellow reached him a card which bore the name “Hank Casey.” While Vance was glancing at the card, his new acquaintance said:
“I reckon you be from down east? I come from thar a long time ago. You’ll notice from my card that I’m in the real estate business; also have some fine minin’ propositions.”
“Yes,” replied Vance, “I am from the east, but do not know as I care to make any investments.”
“Well, now, look’ee? here, stranger. I ‘spect I might give you a pinter or two that may not come amiss. This ‘ere town is chuck up full of dead beats and black legs, who make it their business to run every new feller in that comes from down east. Now Hank Casey do a straight-for’ard, legitimate business – that’s me,” said he, as he tucked his thumbs into the armholes of his vest and straightened himself to his fullest height.
Vance was amused by this odd character, and determined to learn from him what he could concerning Butte City and the claims made for it. He therefore asked, “What population have you and what are your resources?”
“Over fifty thousand people, above an’ below. You see, thar’s several thousand of us in this town below ground, workin’ away with shovel an’ pick. I reckon as how you’ll see a fair sample of our miners if you’re on the streets tonight. As for resources – why, pardner, thar’s no end to ‘em. We took out mighty near forty million dollars from our mines last year, an’ thar’s ore enough in sight to keep on minin’ at the same rate for a hundred years to come. What d’ye think o’ that?”
Vance replied that it certainly was a most extraordinary statement.
“What other towns have you in this state,” asked Vance.
“None to speak of,” was the prompt reply. “Butte City is the pertest town in any o’ these western diggings. Thar’s not another town in Montana as can tech one side of us, for