IV.—A SQUARE MEAL
SUGAR is a fattening product, and the Consolidated Beet Sugar Company waxed fat and prospered. Its shares stood high on the Stock Exchange, and the members of the syndicate to whom Jack Steele had sold his portion were exuberantly grateful to the young man for the opportunity he had given them. His reputation of possessing a keen financial brain was enhanced by the forming of this company; for it was supposed that it was he who had induced Amalgamated Soap to take it up. It was erroneously surmised that the great Peter Berrington and his colleagues had been so much impressed with Steele's genius in the wheat deal, where he was opposed to them, that they now desired the co-operation of this rising young figure in the commercial world. No hint of the momentary death-struggle in the board-room of the bank had ever leaked out through the solid doors. Steele was now one of the men to be counted upon in the large affairs of the western metropolis. Everything he touched was successful. Personally he was liked, and great social success might have been his had he cared for society, which he did not. He was commonly rated as being worth anywhere from six to ten millions, and the world looked upon him as the most fortunate of men. It did him no harm to be thought to enjoy the backing of the powerful Peter Berrington, and probably not more than half-a-dozen men knew that such was far from being the case. He did not bask in Peter's smile, but rather shivered in his shadow.
The one man who had no delusions on the subject was John Steele himself. For the second time he had been entirely victorious over Nicholson and the gigantic coterie behind him; but this, strange as it may appear, gave him no satisfaction. If he had won the determined fight through his own superior skill, or because of some great display of mental power, he might have rested more at his ease. Had that been the case, he would have awaited the next onslaught with more equanimity than he at present possessed; but he knew that his victory came to him through chance—chance multiplied again and again. It was chance that his partner had been out of his room when the messenger-boy brought the telegram. It was chance that Steele had opened the telegram. It was chance that he knew a man who could decipher it before it was too late for him to take action on the information it carried. After these three lucky throws of the dice, he had to admit to himself that he handled the situation with diplomatic success; but it disturbed him to remember that all his vigilance would have proved unavailing had not pure luck stood his friend. Yet, after all, the initial mistake was Nicholson's, who should not have sent a cipher telegram to the office of the man he intended to destroy. Nicholson presumably did not know that his agent was actually housed with Steele, and it was a mistake on Metcalfe's part not to have furnished his chief with this information. But even putting the best face upon the matter, he could not conceal from himself the large part that chance had played in his salvation.
This never-lifted shadow of the silent Peter Berrington began to produce its effect upon him. He became timorous—afraid to venture in any large concern. He knew he was wasting time in pottering with small affairs—street railways in outside towns, the inaugurating of electric light here and there, and such enterprises, which furnished only a moderate revenue to an enterprising speculator. Time and again he refused chances involving large amounts which turned out tremendously lucrative to the promoters, but which he had been afraid to touch, fearing the grip of Peter Berrington's unseen hand on his throat. He began to acquire the unexpected reputation of being an over-cautious capitalist, and finally well-known people, who had much admiration for him, ceased to come to his office with their schemes. Steele laughed uneasily to himself as he thought that Peter Berrington might perhaps accomplish his purpose by the gradual wearing down of his courage. Of course, the fact that a project became successful was no proof that the hand of Nicholson was not concealed somewhere within its intricacies to clutch at John Steele if he had become involved. He tried to shake off this depression, and once or twice plunged rather recklessly, only to become nervous before the climax arrived and sell out, sometimes at a small profit and sometimes at a loss.
At last he came to the conclusion that it was not Peter Berrington at all, nor his shadow, that was affecting him, but the usual breakdown which afflicts strenuous business men in the stimulating atmosphere of a great American city.
"My nerve's gone; that's what's the matter with me," he said to himself. "I must go and rough it for a summer in the mountains, or else take a trip to some spa in Europe. If I keep on like this, I shall be utterly useless in a live city like Chicago."
He consulted several of his friends—many of them, in fact—and told them he was feeling far from fit. His complaint was common enough, and every man to whom he spoke suggested a remedy. Some advised the plunging into dissipation at a fashionable health resort, and some recommended various medicinal springs in Europe which would work wonders; but the majority counselled him to take rod and gun, and get into the Rocky Mountains, camp out, and live like an Indian.
"Then," they said jocularly, smiting him on the back, "you'll be all right, and come back yearning for scalps on the Stock Exchange."
The newspapers mentioned the fact that John Steele was going into the Rockies to hunt and fish and camp out for a month or two to recover tone.
It was at this interesting juncture that Miss Alice Fuller called to see him. Now, John Steele was the most susceptible of men, and one reason he had for not mixing in society was because he knew he would surely fall a victim to the first designing pretty girl who laid a trap for him—if, indeed, pretty girls ever do lay traps for men said to possess from six to ten millions. His weakness in this line was exemplified by his impetuous proposal to Miss Dorothy Slocum in the environs of Bunkerville, as has already been stilted. But Miss Alice Fuller was not the commonplace young person Dorothy Slocum had been. He often thought of his proposal to Dorothy with a shudder, and accounted it a narrow escape, which, indeed, it was not, for Dorothy was thoroughly devoted to her station-master, and never gave even a thought to Mr. Jack Steele of Chicago.
Alice Fuller was a blonde, and she brought in with her to the conventional private office of John Steele, with its extremely modern fittings of card indexes, loose-leaf ledgers, and expanding office furniture, an air of breezy freshness that told of the mountainous west. Although dressed as any Chicago woman might be, there was, nevertheless, something about her costume which suggested the riding of mountain ponies and even the expert handling of a rifle.
The glory of a woman is her hair, and in truth Miss Fuller's golden tresses were glorious enough, but her eyes were the most distinguished and captivating features of a face sufficiently beautiful to attract attention anywhere. They were of a deep, translucent blue, darkening now and then into violet, like a pair of those limpid mountain lakes in the Rockies whose depths are said to be unfathomable. It was impossible to look into those honest orbs without trusting the clear purity of the soul behind them, and Jack, whose nerves were wrong, almost shivered with apprehension when they were turned full upon him.
"Lord save me!" he thought with a gasp, "if this girl wants to sell shares in the most bogus company afloat, I'm her victim. Jack, Jack, if your bank account is to remain intact, now is the time to play St. Anthony."
But aloud he said calmly enough—
"Pray be seated, madam," and she sank gracefully into a chair some way from the flat-topped desk behind which he was entrenched, although small protection the barricade afforded him against such artillery as a handsome young woman might bring to bear upon the position.
"It is so good of you to see me," said the girl. "I have read much of you in the newspapers, and I know that your time is valuable, so I shall take up as little of it as may be necessary to explain my business."
Somehow this remark, although only introductory sparring, disappointed young Mr. Steele. Nearly every stranger he met said the same thing in almost identical words. They all referred to his newspaper reputation, of which he was exceedingly tired, and nearly everyone spoke of the value of his time, promised not to encroach upon it, and then stayed for hours if they were permitted.
"My time is of little value at the present moment, Miss Fuller, because I am doing nothing. For some months past I have been rather out of health, and, in fact, within a few days I expect to leave Chicago."
"Yes," she rejoined, "I saw that also in the papers. I read that you intended to go west among the mountains. Is that true?"
"Such are my present intentions, but they are always liable to change. A man who is fighting his own nerves is rather capricious, you know."
"Like a woman," laughed Miss Alice. "Well, it is on account of the statement in the Press that I am here. I have been meditating calling upon you for a long time, but it appears we have no mutual friends who could give me an introduction, and so, seeing you were about to leave the city, I said to myself: 'It's now or never.' The reference to the mountains struck me as a lucky omen. You know we women are rather superstitious, Mr. Steele, and I think it was that even more than your impending departure which gave me courage to venture up here."
"I am very glad you came," said Jack Steele gallantly, "and I shall be more than pleased if there is anything I can do for you."
"My father is the owner of a gold-mine in the Black Hills. Do you know anything of mines, Mr. Steele?"
Jack slowly shook his head. The mere mention of a gold-mine did something to clarify his brain from the glamour that was befogging it.
"I know nothing whatever about mines, Miss Fuller, excepting the fact that more gold has been sunk in gold-mines than has ever been taken out of them."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear you say that," replied the girl, with a slight tremor of apprehension in her voice, "and, furthermore, I do not in the least believe it to be true. Nothing can be more lucrative than a good gold-mine, for its product is one of the few things taken from the earth which does not fluctuate in value. With copper, or silver, or iron, you are dependent on the market; not so with gold."
"You are a very eloquent advocate, Miss Fuller. Where is your father?"
The girl looked up quickly at this sudden change of subject, and once more Jack fell under the fascination of those enchanting eyes.
"My father? He is in Chicago."
"Then, Miss Fuller, the best plan will be to have him call upon me, and we can discuss the mine together."
"Alas!" said the young woman, with a mournful droop of the head, "if that had been possible, I should not have been here. My father at the present moment is very ill and quite unable to discuss business with anyone. You are going from the city to the mountains in search of health. He has come from the mountains to the city on the same quest. The gold-mine is at once our hope and our despair. If it can be properly worked, we are certain it will produce riches incalculable; but it takes money to make money, and my father knows no wealthy friends, nor has he wealth himself for the preliminary outlay. We are somewhat like King Midas, in danger of starving with gold all around us."
"Has the mine been opened, or is it only a prospective claim?"
"At the present moment there are from sixteen to twenty miners working upon it. The shaft, I believe, is something like a hundred feet deep, and one or two short galleries have been run. The ore assay is extremely rich: I have not the figures with me, but can easily bring them; and the reports are better and better as the miners proceed."
"If that be the case, Miss Fuller, I see no reason why you should lack for capital."
"There are a hundred reasons, but one is sufficient. Every capitalist shuns a gold-mine. They speak just as you spoke a moment ago. Then, you see, our lives having been spent in the west, we know very few eastern people, and those few have no money. The great difficulty is not in proving the wealth of the mine, but in getting a capitalist to listen. If you promise to listen, I shall undertake to prove to you that this is one of the most valuable properties in the world."
"Well, Miss Fuller, I am listening; but, as I told you, I know nothing whatever about gold-mines, and, indeed, am rather afraid of them. If the mine is producing ore in paying quantity, why does not your father have that ore crushed?—I suppose they could do that in the neighbourhood, or at Denver, or wherever the nearest mining town is—and with the product keep himself and pay his men?"
"That is exactly what he has done, Mr. Steele, and a ruinous thing it is to do. If it were not for that, we should have had to give up the struggle long ago. But there are no mines within miles of us, and we are two days and a half's journey from the nearest railway. Ore is bulky and heavy, and the transport alone, over those mountain roads, which are not roads at all, and scarcely even paths, is at once slow and expensive. Railway freight is high, and when it gets to the reducing-plant, we have to take exactly what is given us, because beggars cannot be choosers. We need machinery at the mouth of the pit, and whoever will furnish the money for that machinery is sure to reap a rich reward."
"Nevertheless" protested Jack, but the girl interrupted him, her eyes aglow with fervour.
"You promised to listen, you know, There is another point I wish to put before you. The ore is very rich, and if we ship much of it, there is bound to be inquiry as to where it came from. Now, my father has been able to stake out only a comparatively small claim. If once it becomes known where this ore originates, there will be the usual rush. The rush is ultimately inevitable in any case, but my father is anxious to be fully secure before it comes."
"I'll tell you what I'll do, Miss Fuller," said Jack in a burst of enthusiasm, "I'll give you a thousand dollars; and if you make money out of your mine, you can repay me at your leisure."
Miss Alice Fuller slowly shook her golden head.
"I could not accept money in that way," she said. "It is like the giving of charity when a pathetic tale is told. Besides, a thousand dollars would be of no particular use: it would not purchase the stamp-mills, nor freight them to the mine. In two months, or three, we should be just where we are now, and the thousand dollars would be gone."
"What is it, then, you wish me to do, Miss Fuller?"
"I wish our transaction to be upon a sane business basis, and I don't want you to offer me a thousand dollars, or twenty thousand dollars, or two hundred thousand dollars again."
"I beg your pardon. I had no thought of charity or anything of the sort when I made my offer."
"I am sure you hadn't," said the girl, with a naïve confidence which Jack found very charming. "I'll tell you what I came to propose. You are going to the mountains in any case. Very well, go to the Black Hills: there you will find the air pure and bracing; there are wild mountains and sparkling streams, and everything that a tired city man could wish. I want you to camp near our mine and investigate it thoroughly. If you are so satisfied with it as to justify the risk, I wish you to be prepared to buy a half share for three hundred thousand dollars."
John Steele drew a long breath.
"My purpose in going to the mountains was to get away from business, and not to take upon myself a new anxiety: to fish and shoot, not to pore over gold-bearing ore."
"Are you an enthusiastic sportsman, then?"
"Not at all. I was too busy when I was young to indulge in such recreation, and too poor. Since then I have become busier still."
"And too rich?" suggested the girl, with a smile.
"A man is never too rich, I am afraid."
"If you are not an enthusiastic sportsman, two days in the woods will prove more than enough for you. After that comes boredom, and a yearning for the ticker and the morning newspaper."
"I more than half believe you're right," said Jack ruefully.
"Of course I am right. Now, if you camp out beside the mine, you would have something to interest you. Don't bother about it for the first week. There is plenty of shooting and fishing in the neighbourhood."
"I hate to get two and a half days away from a telegraph-wire."
"Then you had better leave mountains alone and stay in Chicago."
Jack laughed.
"You are a very clever young lady, Miss Fuller, and I wonder you haven't made that gold-mine a success on your own."
"I am doing it now," she said with a flash almost of defiance from her eyes.
Again the young man laughed.
"Are you?" he said. "You women have us at a disadvantage when you talk business, but I am going to get right down to plain facts, and speak to you as if you were your own brother. You won't be offended?"
"Not in the least."
"Very well. Do you know what a salted mine is?"
"Certainly. I thought you said you knew nothing of mines? A salted mine is one in which rich ore has been planted for the cheating of fools."
"An admirable definition, Miss Fuller. Well, in the matter of mines I'm a fool, and a salted mine would take me in as a gold brick on State Street would delude an Illinois farmer."
"Then induce an expert to go with you—a mining expert who knows pay-ore when he sees it."
"I am more distrustful of mining experts than of salted mines."
The girl sighed.
"I suppose all faith has left Chicago?"
"It has—in gold-mines."
"Now, Mr. Steele, I'll talk to you as if you were your own sister. Have you ever done a stroke of useful toil since you were born?"
"Oh, yes; I worked on a railway."
"Very well. Go to the Black Hills and take a miner's outfit with you. Become for the time one of my father's employés—or, rather, boss of the gang, if you like. Go into that mine, and direct them where they are to run the next level, and follow that level for a month, working with the men and keeping clear of the blasts. After you have penetrated a month in any direction you please, take the ore from the last blast and have it assayed. A mine can't be salted under those conditions. If that whole mountain is salted with gold, you'd better buy it."
"No one can gainsay the honesty of that, Miss Fuller; but, to tell you the truth, I dread the two and a half days' journey from the railway."
"You don't need to. I will be your guide."
"What!" cried Jack, in amazement.
"I'll take you from the railway to the Hard Luck mine. Will you go?" she demanded with a touch of defiance.
"Go!" he cried, discretion struggling with enthusiasm. "Of course I'll go. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. But, then, on the other hand—you see—well—to speak quite frankly, for a young lady to—to, as one might say, journey across the plains"
"Yes, I know, I know. You are talking now, not to my brother, as you remarked a while ago, but to my brother's sister. All my life I have had not only to take care of myself, but of my father as well. This project is a matter of vital importance to me, and I cannot allow it to fail merely because the rules of Society would frown on what I intend to do. I shall take with me my own tent, and an old man who was in my father's employ long before I was born. This is a cold business deal, and no other consideration is going to enter into it. So let us brush aside every other consideration and come down to plain facts. You offered me a thousand dollars, and I refused it. If you will now give me the necessary money, which may be anything from two hundred dollars upwards, depending on what you want to take with you, I shall go at once to Pickaxe Gulch, which is the nearest railway station to the Hard Luck mine, and will collect what transport we need. There I shall await your coming. Do you intend to take any servants with you?"
"I shall be accompanied by Sam Jackson, a negro man, who is the best cook in this town."
"Very well, you will need a horse for him, and one for yourself; I shall need two horses: that's four. Then if you will give me an idea of the number of tents and boxes you require, I shall secure mules enough to carry them. We shall want two or three men to look after the mules, and you must give me a week at least to get this cavalcade together. Sometimes there are neither animals nor men at Pickaxe Gulch, but I intend to telegraph at once and secure whatever transport is available."
Jack Steele smiled his appreciation of the capability displayed by the fearless young woman, opened his drawer, and took out a cheque-book.
"Shall we say five hundred dollars?" he asked, looking across at her. "You must leave some money with your father, you know."
"Five hundred will be ample," she replied decidedly, and he wrote a cheque for that amount.
Later on in his life Jack Steele remembered that demand for money with admiration. It was just one of those little points where a less subtle person than Miss Fuller would have made a mistake, deluded by success in getting him to promise to make the trip. But the young woman was evidently shrewd enough to know that after she left he would wonder, she having pleaded poverty, where the money came from to pay for so long a railway journey and at the same time provide for an ailing father at home. He always regarded that request for expenses as the culminating climax of a well-thought-out plan.
When John Steele stepped down from the sleeping-car in the early morning at Pickaxe Gulch, he found Alice Fuller the sole occupant of the platform. She welcomed him with the cordiality of good comradeship. Her costume differed rather strikingly from the apparel she wore in his office. She reminded him of one of those reckless female riders he had seen at Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, and he was forced to confess that the outfit suited her to perfection. She was even more attractive than when he had first seen her, and he could hardly have believed that possible. Before he ventured to compliment the young woman on her appearance, she complimented him on his.
"You are already looking very much better than you did in the city."
"Yes!" he cried jubilantly. "Your visit did me ever so much good; and, besides that, I am now out from under Peter's shadow."
"‘Peter's shadow?’" she repeated. "What is that? The shadow of a mountain?"
"In a way, yes," laughed Jack, "and a gold-producing mountain at that. I have been a pretty anxious man these many months past; but now, whether it is the exhilaration of the air in the west, or the prospect" he hesitated a moment, then continued—"of this journey, I am quite my own man once more."
Without reply she led the way to the dusty road which ran between two rows of roughly built shanties.
"Have you had breakfast?" she asked.
"No."
"I thought you might not have an opportunity to get anything to eat on the train, as it stops here so early, and I have ordered a meal for you at the one tavern in this place, which is far from being first-class. However, you possibly can endure such a repast for once, and then we can get on our way as soon as possible."
"Oh, the cuisine of the west is no surprise to me," said Steele. "I've had a good deal of experience with it in my time."
They walked up the street together, the negro cook following and carrying Steele's valise. At the tavern the caravan was collected, and more than ever the resemblance to the Wild West Show struck him. The boxes had been sent on some days ahead, and were now securely fastened to the backs of the mules. Four saddle-horses were tied to the rude pillars of the verandah. Steele went inside the building and partook of the breakfast, such as it was, and ten minutes later the procession started north.
Their route lay across the plain, and during the forenoon the party traversed a road of sorts, reasonably well defined. In the horizon loomed low mountains, which did not seem perceptibly nearer when a halt was called by the side of a stream to prepare lunch. Steele was more accustomed to a street-car than to the back of a horse, but the way was level, and the horse developed none of those buck-jumping peculiarities which Jack, in his eastern ignorance, had always associated with the steeds of the far west. His business heretofore had never taken him away from a line of railways, and where it had been necessary to make a road journey, the jaunt was accomplished in some sort of vehicle. However, he soon became accustomed to his new method of locomotion, and succeeded better than he had anticipated.
Miss Fuller proved a most expert horse-woman, and her superb attitude in the saddle still further enslaved this ardent young man, who began to think he had never really lived until now. He was rather disappointed, but rendered none the less eager, to find that he was not getting as much of her company as he had hoped. In the beginning they rode side by side in front of the cavalcade, to be out of the dust which the mule train raised. But every now and then she wheeled her horse round and allowed the procession to pass her, scanning each animal and its burden with an eye of an expert, seeing that everything was in order. When Steele expressed admiration of her capability, Miss Fuller told him she had many times been in full charge of a similar expedition going or coming from the mine; and once when he complained of lack of companionship, she informed him that success depended a great deal on the first few hours of the march, and she had to see that none of the animals fell lame, and that no burden shifted to cause a mule to lag behind its fellows.
"To-morrow," she said, "we will be among the foothills, and even this afternoon we shall be free of the road and the dust. Then, if everything is going well, I may find plenty of time to talk to you, for I see you are anxious to learn more about the mine before you reach it."
Jack threw a free-hearted laugh on the echoless air. Any little incident seemed now a fit subject for boisterous laughter. The clear atmosphere was as exhilarating as wine, and there was the further intoxicant of the girl's alluring presence.
Lunch by the side of the stream more than made amends for the unattractive breakfast. The efficient Jackson had caused each of the numerous boxes to be numbered, and he began on Number One, which his master said was a very good thing to look after. He produced a portable stove, and with a handful of coke performed miracles in the desert. It was soon evident that Jack Steele had no intention of starving himself while he wandered in the wilderness. He took from its straw envelope a bottle of prime champagne, a drink which doubtless had never quenched thirst on that particular route before. Miss Fuller partook of the wine but sparingly, and lifted her glass when he proposed the toast of success to the expedition, thrilling him as she did so with those enthralling eyes of hers, and the young man began to wonder whether he actually saw heaven in their depths, or was looking at a desert mirage through an atmosphere of sparkling wine.
He persuaded her to linger after the cavalcade had moved on, saying they would overtake it at a gallop, and the young woman, with scarcely concealed reluctance, acquiesced. He threw himself full length at her feet and gazed up at her, while she watched, with a suggestion of frown on her smooth brow, the procession lessening in the distance. He lit a cigarette, with her permission, and began the sort of conversation which a young man in the early stages of fascination is apt to indulge in. At first it seemed to him her thoughts were elsewhere, which was not in the least flattering to a person who was doing his best. On his chiding her for this, she drew a sharp breath and cast a glance upon him which he fancied was the reverse of friendly. It was veiled an instant after, and then, with something like a sigh, she appeared to accept the situation.
At this presaging of victory, Jack Steele's conscience began to trouble him. He guessed why she appeared so changeable. Her father's future and her own depended on the good-will of the young man stretched at her feet. She was anxious not to offend him, and yet her reluctance to remain alone with him, her absent-minded look, and the slight frown that now and then marred her brow, were hints that his attentions proved unwelcome. Jack surmised that any undue compliments or any too palpable indulgence in sentiment at this particular moment might prove disastrous to ultimate success. The resigned air with which she endeavoured to face a tête-à-tête not to her liking touched his pride, and also made him rather ashamed of himself for taking advantage of one who in the circumstances was helpless. He admired and respected women, but did not in the least understand them. Nearly all his dealings hitherto had been with men, and with men he knew what he was about, and could hold his own in any company, but with a pretty woman he felt awkward and inept. He wondered if he could put this girl at her ease by telling her he had quite made up his mind to finance the mine, whether it proved all she said or the reverse. Yet she might regard this statement as merely an unblushing bid for her preference, for she knew that until he had examined the mine any such avowal would be made merely because he thought it would please her. While these thoughts ran through his mind, a silence had fallen between them, which, however, the girl appeared not to notice, for her eyes were fixed on the distant mountains. She was quite startled by the suddenness with which he sprang to his feet.
"Miss Fuller," he cried, "I see you are anxious to be off towards the hills, and it is selfish of me to detain you here."
He held out his hand to her and helped her up. She smiled very sweetly and said—
"I think it is time we were on our way again. We have further to go than you suspect before we reach the regular camping-ground."
He had reason to congratulate himself on his intuition, for during that journey she was kinder to him than she had ever been before, as if anxious to make up for her former coldness.
The sun had gone down ere they reached the halting-station for the night. They were now on an elevated plateau among the hills, and an impetuous torrent near by gave forth the only sound that broke the intense stillness. Tents were pitched, horses and mules tethered, and Jackson set out a dinner which their keen appetites made doubly memorable. Night came down, and the moon rose gloriously in the east. Time and place were ideal for a lovers' meeting, but the adage which intimates that luck with gold does not run parallel with luck in love, proved true in this instance. Immediately after partaking of the excellent coffee Jackson had brewed, the young woman rose and held out her hand, pleading fatigue.
"I must bid you 'Good night,’" she said shortly.
"Oh! won't you stay a little while and enjoy this unexampled moonlight? It seems as if I had never seen the moon before."
The young woman smiled wanly, but shook her head.
"I'm really very tired," she explained. "I have had a week of it at that awful hotel in the Gulch. It is fearfully noisy at night with drinking cowboys and miners, and so I have had scarcely any sleep for a long while. If I have proved a dull companion to-day, that is the reason, and I am sure you will excuse me now."
"Miss Fuller, you could not be dull if you tried. I am sorry you should have had so much trouble on my account at that terrible station. I should have sent a man, but I did not know the horrors of the place before seeing it. Pray forgive my selfishness."
"Oh, that was really nothing. I am quite accustomed to the life; but, somehow, the first night in the mountains always leaves me stupid and drowsy."
"To-morrow night, then," he said very quietly, "we may perhaps view the moonlight together."
"To-morrow night," she murmured and was gone.
Jack Steele threw himself into the canvas camp-chair, and, reclining, gazed on the moonlit plain below and listened to the roar of the torrent. Dreamily he fancied himself floating in the seventh heaven of bliss.
Next morning the camp was early astir, for a long day of mountaineering lay ahead. The party numbered seven, all told, there being three men of peaceable demeanour, but rough aspect, in charge of the pack-train. At no time during that day did Jack have an opportunity of speaking with Miss Fuller alone. They could not ride together, as the mountain path was too narrow. After dinner, at the final camping-place, a wild spot in a profound valley, where Jack saw with dismay the moon would not be visible, the girl seemed as loth to keep him company as had been the case the night before. She laughed somewhat harshly, he thought, when he complained that she must have known they could not see the moon.
"You can study its rays on the northern peaks," she said. "Who would ever have expected a modern financier to yearn for the moon?"
"A modern financier is but a man, after all," protested Steele.
"I have sometimes doubted it," replied the girl cynically.
"Well, Miss Fuller, if you will sit down again, even in the absence of moonlight, I think I can remove your doubts."
She stood there hesitating for a few moments, but it was too dark to see the expression on her face. Finally she sat down in the chair from which she had risen.
"I am seated," she said; "but not to talk of moonlight, merely to tell you that I intend to go no farther. To-morrow morning we bid 'Good-bye' to each other. You go north, and I go south."
"Oh, I say!" cried Jack reproachfully, "that's contrary to contract. You promised to lead me to the mine."
"I know I did; but it is always a woman's privilege to change her mind. Perhaps you will understand I do not wish to influence you at all in the decision you may come to about the mine."
"Would it make you abjure your cruel resolve if I informed you that I have quite determined to invest in the mine if it gives any show of success, which I am sure it will do from what you have told me about it?"
"The mine must plead its own cause," she said, with an indifference that amazed him. "You have no real need of me as a guide, for the three men I engaged know the route as well as I do. They have been over it often enough. I am really very anxious about my father. He promised to telegraph me at Pickaxe Gulch, but has not done so. I sent a despatch the day before you arrived, but no reply came, and it may be waiting for me now at the office there."
"Why not send back one of the men?"
"Because of my own anxiety. I fear the telegram may call me to his side. I think you will understand now why I have been distraught while in your company."
"Miss Fuller, believe me, I am very sorry to hear that this worry has been hanging over you. If I had known, I should have proposed our remaining at Pickaxe Gulch until you had heard from your father. I fear my own conduct and conversation may have added to your discomfort."
"Oh, no, no," said the girl quickly, rising again.
"Will you accept this trifle from me?"
He spoke hurriedly, and took from his waistcoat pocket something that she knew to be a ring, for even in the dim light it sparkled as if fire were playing from its facets.
"I'd rather not," she replied, stepping backwards.
"It will bind you to nothing—nothing at all. It is simply to keep me in your memory until we next meet."
"Oh, I shall never forget you!" she cried, in a tone of bitterness that startled him.
"It is a mere trinket," he urged, "and I bought it for you before I left civilisation. If you do not accept it, I shall throw it into the darkness of the valley yonder."
"That would be foolish, even for you!"
"Why, Miss Fuller, such a remark has a very dubious sound. What do you mean by it? Do you think I am foolish?"
"Oh, I don't think anything at all of either you or your folly. I tell you I merely want to get away."
"Won't you take the ring with you?"
She stood for a long while with head bowed.
"I don't suppose it makes any difference one way or the other," she said at last.
"Of course it doesn't. I told you it wouldn't."
"Very well, I shall take the ring, if you will accept a much cheaper and more significant present from me in the morning."
"I shall accept anything you like to give me, Miss Fuller, gratefully, in the morning or at any future time."
"I wonder," was all her comment, as she took the ring and instantly disappeared.
Somehow this night held none of the glamour that distinguished the previous evening. The depth of the profound shadows surrounding him was merely emphasised by the touch of cold moonlight on the hilltops far away. Jack wondered if the exhilarating effect of the atmosphere had departed, leaving him sober again. He felt strangely depressed, and although he immediately entered his tent and flung himself, dressed as he was, upon his canvas cot, he found it difficult to fall asleep. It was after midnight before he dozed off, and then his slumber was troubled and uneasy. Towards morning, however, a kind of stupor descended upon him, leaving him dreamless and lost to the world. This was broken by a sharp and angry voice, whose meaning did not at first reach his consciousness, but the sentence lingered in his awakening mind and at last became clear to him, as an image comes out during the gradual development of a photographic plate.
"I tell you I will not leave until I bid 'Good-bye' to Mr. Steele."
It was Alice Fuller's voice, and in an instant the young man was on his feet and out of the tent. It was just daylight, grey and chill, but already the camp was astir and the young woman in her saddle.
"Did you call me?" he cried.
"No," she answered; but he seemed to detect a tremor of fear in her voice.
"I thought I heard you say you wished to bid 'Good-bye' to me!"
"You must have been dreaming. But I do wish to bid you 'Good-bye.’"
Two of the muleteers stood near, and the old attendant, mounted, had already started slowly on his way. Jack sprang to her side, and as he came to a stand by her horse, she stooped and slipped a small box into his coat pocket.
"Good-bye! good-bye!" she cried somewhat boisterously, with an exclamation that seemed to be half sob and half laugh. "Go back to your tent at once and brush your hair. It's enough to frighten anyone," and now she laughed with unnecessary vehemence, the near mountains echoing the peal with a strange mocking cadence that sent a chill up the spine of one listener.
"What does this mean?" he asked himself.
The man at the bridle turned the horse's head towards the distant railway, and the other smote the animal on the flank.
"Let go my horse!" commanded Miss Fuller savagely. The man slouched away. She touched the horse with her heel and galloped off, while Steele stood in a daze watching her. Only once she looked round, then made a quick motion to the pocket of her jacket and disappeared round the ledge of rock. Jack remembered the packet she had dropped into his pocket, and imagining her gesture might have reference to that, walked back to his tent to examine the present so surreptitiously given him, remembering that she had said the night before it would be more significant than the ring he had given her. It was a little, square parcel, tied in a bit of newspaper with a red string. He whisked this off, and held in his hand a box of white metal. Opening the box, he saw within it a simple cake of soap!
Jack Steele held this on his open palm, gazing at it like one hypnotised.
"My God!" he groaned at last, "soap—Amalgamated Soap! Peter Berrington and Nicholson! Trapped, as I am a fool and a sinner! These muleteers are the real chiefs of this expedition. They saw Alice Fuller weakening; but she weakened too late, and now they have sent her away. What's the object of all this? It is too fantastic to imagine that Nicholson supposes he can exact all I possess as ransom. Even the Black Hills are not the mountains of Greece. What is it, then? Murder? That's equally incredible, and yet possible. Here am I, unarmed, rifles in the boxes, no one with me but a cowardly nigger. Walked right into the trap with my eyes open, like a gaping idiot! Well, Jack Steele, you deserve all you will get. Let's see what it is."
He strode out of the tent. The negro was preparing breakfast. The three men stood in a group together, talking, but they looked round and became silent as he approached.
"I have changed my mind," said Steele; "we're going back to the railway."
"Oh, no, we're not," said one of the men, stepping forward, and taking a revolver from his hip-pocket; "we're going on to the mine."
"Is there a mine?" asked Jack, with a sneering laugh.
"Oh, there's a mine all right enough, and they're waiting for you there."
"Who?"
"You'll find out about twelve o'clock to-day."
"See here, boys," said Steele persuasively, "I'll make you three the richest men in this part of the country if you'll accompany me safely back to the railway."
"We've heard that kind of talk before," replied the man, "and have had enough of it. You tell that to the boss of the gang at the mine; and whatever he says, we'll agree to."
"Yes, but at the mine. How many are there, by the way?"
"You'll see when you reach the spot."
"Well, even if there's one more, he divides the loot with you. You can make better terms with me now than you can at the mine."
"Chuck it, stranger. There ain't no use giving us any more taffy. You're going on to the mine."
"All right," said Jack, turning on his heel. "I'll have breakfast first. Is the coffee ready, Jackson?"
"Yes, sir."
Jack sat down at the collapsible table and enjoyed a hearty meal.
At noon they reached the mine, which was there sure enough, and a dozen gaunt, wild-eyed men, who were sitting round, stood up when the riders came into sight. They gave no cheer when they saw the captive, nor did their attitude of listless, bored indifference change a particle as Steele stopped his horse and dismounted.
"Here's the goods," said the leader of the muleteers, and the boss of the mining gang nodded, but made no reply.
"Good day, gentlemen," began Steele, a smile coming to his lips in spite of the seriousness of the crisis, as he thought that this sombre, silent gang in the midst of the mountains bore a comical resemblance to the gnomes in "Rip Van Winkle" when that jovial inebriate appeared amongst them. "I take it, sir, that you are leader here, and I think there has been some mistake. During to-day's journey I have been forced to travel to this mine against my will. You seem to have been expecting me. Now, what's up?"
"You'll be, in about ten minutes," said the leader. "Dakota Bill, where's your rope?"
"Here it is," said Bill, stepping forward and exhibiting a slip-noose at the end of about thirty feet of stout line.
"Now, stranger, if you've got any messages to leave your friends, we'll give you ten minutes to write or say them."
"I've no messages, thank you, but I have a lively curiosity to know what all this means."
"Oh, of course you've no suspicion about what it means, have you?"
"No, I have not."
"You never saw your mine before, did you?"
"It isn't my mine."
"I knew you'd say that. Well, now, we've been left here for four months without a markee of pay. For the last month we would have starved if it hadn't been for Dakota Bill's good work with a rifle; but even the game has fled from this accursed place, and now we are starving. You're the man responsible, and you know it. We've sworn to hang you, and we're going to hang you."
"My dear sir, your statement is definite and concise, without being as illuminating as I should like. A mistake has been made, of which I am the innocent victim. You are the victims, too, for that matter; because, after all, it is not a mistake, but a conspiracy. I can see, however, that nothing I may say will mitigate the situation in the slightest degree. I shall, therefore, not indulge in useless declamation. Three things are fixed: I am the owner of this mine; I have cheated you out of your pay for four months; therefore I am to be hanged. There comes into my mind at this moment something I have read somewhere about hangings at Newgate prison in England. They drop a man, then all concerned go at once to enjoy what is called the 'hanging breakfast.' The gruesomeness of such a proceeding fastened the item in my mind. Let's have a 'hanging lunch.’"
"Stranger, as I understand your remarks, the person turned off didn't attend that breakfast."
"No, he didn't."
"Very well, stranger, we'll look after the lunch when you're strung up."
"But, excuse me, the victim had a hearty breakfast before he was hanged. Now, I beg to point out to you that I drank my coffee just about daylight this morning, and ever since I've travelled over the worst set of mountains it has ever been my privilege to encounter. I'm as hungry as a bear. I therefore insist on your lunching with me, and I shall give you a meal such as you wouldn't better at the Millionaire's Club. Before I left home, six manufacturers of portable stoves insisted on my accepting one each, in the hope of getting an unsolicited testimonial. I shall leave the stoves with you, and trust you will recommend them to your friends. I don't need them where I'm going."
"No," said one of the party, "they'd melt there."
"Now, Jackson," cried Steele enthusiastically, "set up the whole six stoves. You've got to cook dinner for the party. But, meanwhile, open some of those boxes of new sardines with the trimmings on, which they've just sent across to us from Brittany. A little caviare also may be a novelty in this district. I think we've plates enough to go round. If not, use saucers or the tins. Gentlemen, I take it you don't need an appetiser, but what will you drink before we begin?"
"I admit, stranger, you're a mighty plausible cuss, and we expected that; but you don't palaver this crowd. There's no drinking till after the ceremony."
For the first time there was a murmur of disapproval at this, but the leader held up his hand.
"See here, you fellows," he said, "we've got to deal with a pretty slippery customer. You know what them city men are. Now, there's no drinking till after the performance; you hear me. I'd string him up this moment, only we'd scare his cook white, and then we'd have to eat things raw."
Jackson handed round sardines and other tempting extras, while Steele put the collapsible table on its legs and opened various boxes, from one of which he took out a case of champagne, and another of Scotch whisky. Then, getting a large pitcher which had been intended as the water-holder of his tent, he poured two bottles of Scotch whisky into it, followed by bottle after bottle of champagne until the jug was full. Meanwhile the busy negro had got the six stoves ablaze, and the appetising smell that came from the utensils over the fires made the starving miners oblivious to everything else. The first course was devoured in silence.
"Although you may not care to consume intoxicating liquors—and I quite agree with you that it is best to keep sober—I hope you nave no objection to temperance drinks. Who'll have some cider?"
"Cider?" said the leader "Have you got any?"
"Here's a pitcher full."
"That's all right. Pour it out. I wish you had brought beer instead. We'd risk beer."
"Oh, well, you can risk the cider. I'm sorry I haven't any beer," and, hungry as he was, the young man himself poured out full glasses to each.
"By jiminy crickets!" cried the leader, "that's the best cider I ever tasted."
"It's the very best cider made in this country," said Steele earnestly, "and thank goodness, I've got plenty of it."
As course after course was served, and bumper after bumper was drunk, the geniality of the crowd rose and rose, until Steele at last saw he could possibly make terms with them, but he resolved not to chance that. He determined to leave them so drunk that none could move; then he would depart at his leisure. Under the exhilarating effects of the mixture he poured out, all objections to intoxicating liquor fled from the jovial assemblage, and Jackson now opened whisky bottle after whisky bottle. The miners were laughing, singing, weeping on each other's necks, utterly oblivious to owners of mines, lack of pay, lynching, or anything else, when Steele and Jackson mounted their horses, the coloured cook leading one of the mules laden with provisions ample for a week's journey.
When Jack Steele reached Pickaxe Gulch, he never thought he would be so glad to see a pair of rails again. He felt like throwing his arms round the neck of the station-master, but instead, asked that rough diamond if there was any news.
"No, not much," replied the station-master, "except that Peter Berrington, the billionaire, is dead."
"Thank God!" fervently ejaculated Steele, to the astonishment of the station-master.
"Yes," said the official, "he's gone where his money won't do him no good. Found dead in his chair in his office in New York, two days ago. There's the paper, if you want to read about it."
Steele went in and possessed himself of the paper.
"By Jove!" he muttered, as he gazed at the big, black headlines. "He or his system sent a man to death when he should have been preparing for death himself. That's as it should be. Thank goodness the shadow has lifted!"
John Steele forgot the words of Shakespeare—
The evil that men do lives after them.