Blount was fully informed now of the terms of his contract and of the source of his sudden wealth, but there was no way of reaching the buyer.

A great war was on, every minute was precious--and every ounce of the tungsten was needed. The munitions makers could not pause for a single day in their mad rush to fill their contracts. The only ray of hope that Blount could see was that the price had broken to sixty dollars a unit.

Wiley's contract called for eighty-four, throughout the full year--but suppose he should lose his mine. And suppose Blount should win it. He could offer better terms, provided always that the buyer would accommodate him now. Suppose, for instance, that the fat daily checks should cease coming during the life of the lease. That could easily be explained--it might be an error in book-keeping--but it would make quite a difference to Wiley. And in return for some such favor Blount could afford to sell the tungsten for, say, fifty-five dollars a unit.

Blount was a careful man. He did not trust his message to the wires, nor did he put it on paper to convict him; he simply disappeared--but when he came back Wiley's lawyer was waiting with a check. It was for twenty thousand dollars, and in return for this payment the lawyer demanded all of Blount's stock. Four hundred thousand shares, worth five dollars apiece if the bond and lease should lapse, and called for under the option at five cents! In those few short days, while Blount had been speeding East, Wiley had piled up this profit and more--and now he was demanding his stock!

"No!" said Blount, "that option is invalid because it was obtained by deception and fraud, and therefore I refuse to recognize it."

"Very well," replied the lawyer, who made his living out of controversies, and, summoning witnesses to his offer, he placed the money in the hands of the court and plunged into furious litigation. It was furious, in a way, and yet not so furious as the next day and the next pa.s.sed by; for the lawyer was a business man and dependent upon the good will of Blount. It was a civil suit and, since Wiley could not appear to state his case in Court, it was postponed by mutual consent.

It had come over Wiley that, as long as he stood guard, no accident would happen at the mine; but he was equally convinced that, the moment he left it, the unexpected would happen. So, since Blount had elected to fight his suit, he let the fate of his option wait while he piled up money for his _coup_. As an individual, Blount might resist the sale of his stock; but as President of the Company he and his Board of Directors had given Wiley a valid bond and lease and, acting under its terms, Wiley still had an opportunity to gain a clear t.i.tle to the mine.

What happened to the stock could be thrashed out later, but with the Paymaster in his possession he could laugh his enemies to scorn--and he did not intend to be jumped! For who could tell, among these men who swarmed about him, which ones might be hired emissaries of Blount; and, once he was out of sight, they might seize the mine and hold it against all comers.

It was a thing which had been done before, and was likely to be done again; and as the days slipped by, bringing him closer to the end, he looked about for some agent. Had he a man that he could trust to hold the mine, while he went into town to gain t.i.tle to it? He looked them all over but, knowing Blount as he did, and the weakness of human nature, he hesitated and decided against it. No, it was better by far that _he_ should hold the mine--for possession, in mining, is everything--and send someone to pay over the money. That would be perfectly legal, and anyone could do it, but here again he hesitated.

The zeal of his lawyer was failing of late--could he trust him to make the payment, in a town that was owned by Blount? Would he offer it legally and demand a legal surrender, and come out and put the deed in his hand? He might, but Wiley doubted it.

There was something going on regarding the payments for his shipments which he was unable to straighten out over the 'phone, and his lawyer was neglecting even that. And yet, if those checks were held up much longer it might seriously interfere with his payment. He had wired repeatedly, but either the messages were not delivered or his buyer was trying to welch on his contract. What he wanted was an agent, to go directly to the buyer and get the matter adjusted. Wiley thought the matter over, then he 'phoned his lawyer to forget it and wrote direct to an express company, enclosing his bills of lading and authorizing them to collect the account. When it came to collecting bills you could trust the express company--and you could trust Uncle Sam with your mail--but as to the people in Vegas, and especially the telephone girl, he had his well-established doubts. His telegraphic messages went out over the 'phone and were not a matter of record and if she happened to be eating a box of Blount's candy she might forget to relay them. It was borne in upon him, in fact, more strongly every day, that there are very few people you can trust. With a suitcase, yes--but with a mine worth millions? That calls for something more than common honesty.

The fight for the Paymaster, and Wiley's race against time, was now on every tongue, and as the value of the property went up there was a sudden flurry in the stock. Men who had h.o.a.rded it secretly for eight and ten years, men who had moved to the ends of the world, all heard of the fabulous wealth of the new Paymaster and wrote in to offer their stock. Not to offer it, exactly, but to place it on record; and others began as quietly to buy. It was known that the royalties had piled up an accruing dividend of at least twenty cents a share; and with the sale of it imminent--and a greater rise coming in case there was no sale--there would be a further increase in value. It was good, in fact, for thirty cents cash, with a gambling chance up to five dollars; and the wise ones began to buy. Men he had not seen for years dropped in on Wiley to ask his advice about their stock; and one evening in his office, he looked up from his work to see the familiar face of Death Valley Charley.

"h.e.l.lo there, Charley," he said, still working. "Awful busy. What is it you want?"

"Virginia wants her stock," answered Charley simply and blinked as he stood waiting the answer. There was a war on now between the Huffs and Holmans into which Wiley's father had been drawn; and since Honest John had repudiated his son's acts and disclaimed all interest in his deal, Charley knew that Wiley was bitter. He had cut off the Widow from her one source of revenue but, when she had accused him of doing it for his father, Wiley had forgotten the last of his chivalry. Not only did he board all his men himself but he promised to fire any man he had who was seen taking a meal at the Widow's. It was war to the knife, and Charley knew it, but he blinked his eyes and stood firm.

"What stock?" demanded Wiley, and then he closed his lips and his eyes turned fighting gray. "You tell her," he said, "if she wants her stock, to come and get it herself."

"But she sent me to get it!" objected Charley obstinately.

"Yes, and I send you back," answered Wiley. "I gave her that stock twice, and I made it what it is, and if she wants it she can come and ask for it."

"And will you give it to her?" asked Charley, but Wiley only grunted and went ahead with his writing.

It was apparent to him what was in the wind. The Widow had written to demand of his father some return for the damage to her business; and Honest John had replied, and sent Wiley a copy, that he was in no ways responsible for his acts. This letter to Wiley had been followed by another in which his father had rebuked him for persecuting Mrs. Huff, and Wiley had replied with five pages, closely written, reciting his side of the case. At this John Holman had declared himself neutral and, beyond repeating his offer to buy the Widow's stock, had disclaimed all interest in her affairs. But now, with her stock still in Blount's hands and this last source of revenue closed to her, the Widow was left no alternative but to appeal indirectly to Wiley. What other way then was open, if she was ever to win back her stock, but to get back Virginia's shares and sell them to raise the eight hundred dollars? Wiley grumbled to himself as Death Valley Charley turned away and went on writing his letter.

It had been a surprise, after his break with Virginia, to discover that it left him almost glad. It had removed a burden that had weighed him down for months, and it left him free to act. He could protect his property now as it should be protected, without thought of her or anybody; and he could board his own men and keep the gospel of hate from being constantly dinned into their ears. They were honest, simple miners, easily swayed by a woman's distress, but equally susceptible to the lure of gold; and now with a bonus after the minimum of work they were tearing out the ore like t.i.tans. They were loyal and satisfied, greeting his coming with a friendly smile; but if Virginia got hold of them, or her venomous mother, where then would be his discipline?

He was deep in his work when a shadow fell upon his desk and he looked up to see--Virginia.

CHAPTER XXV

VIRGINIA REPENTS

"I came for my stock," said Virginia coolly as she met his questioning eye and Wiley turned and rummaged in a drawer. The stock was hers and since she came and asked for it--he laid it on the desk and went ahead with his work. Virginia took the envelope and examined it carefully, but she did not go away. She glanced at him curiously, writing away so grimly, and there was a scar across his head. Could it be--yes, there her rock had struck him. The mark was still fresh, but he had given her the stock; and now he was privileged to hate her. That wound on his head would soon be overgrown and covered, but she had left a deeper scar on his heart. She had hurt his man's pride; and now he had hurt hers, and humbled her to ask for her stock. He looked up suddenly, feeling her eyes upon him, and Virginia drew back and blushed.

"Oh--thank you," she stammered and turned to go, and yet she lingered to see what he would say.

"You're welcome," he answered evenly, and took a fresh sheet of paper, but she refused to notice the hint. A sense of pique, of wonder at his politeness and half-resentment at his obliviousness of her presence, drew her back and she leaned against his desk.

"What are you writing?" she asked as he glanced at her inquiringly. "Is it a letter to that squaw?"

A sudden twitch of pa.s.sion pa.s.sed over his face at this reference to a dark page in their past and he drew the written sheet away.

"No," he said, "I happened to remember a white girl----"

"What?" burst out Virginia before she could check herself and he curled his lip up scornfully.

"Yes," he nodded, "and she seems to think I'm all right."

"Oh," she said and turned away her head with a painful twisted smile.

Somehow she had always thought--and yet he must have met other girls--he was meeting them all the time! She tried to summon her anger, to carry her past this fresh stab, but the tears rose to her eyes instead.

"I--we'll be going away soon," she went on hurriedly. "That is, if he gives us back our stock. Do you think he'll do it, Wiley? You know--the plan you spoke of. We're going to sell this stock to a broker and then pay Mr. Blount back."

"I don't know," mumbled Wiley, and humped up over his letter, but it did not produce the effect he had hoped for.

"Well--I'm sorry I hurt you," she broke out impulsively, rebuked by the long gash in his hair, "but you shouldn't have tried to stop me! I wasn't doing you any harm--I just came up there that night to see what was going on. And I did see Stiff Neck George, you can smile all you want to, and he had something heavy in his hand."

She ran on with her explanation, only to trail off inconclusively as she saw his face growing grim. He did not believe her, he did not even listen; he just sat there patiently and waited.

"Are you waiting for me to go?" she asked, smiling wanly, but even then he did not respond. There had been a time, not many weeks ago, when he would have risen up and offered her a chair; but he had got past that now and seemed really and sincerely to prefer his own company to hers.

"I thought you might help us," she went on almost tearfully, "to get back our stock from Blount. It was nice of you to tell me, after the way I acted; but--oh, I don't know what it was that came over me! And I never even thanked you for telling me!"

A cynical smile came into Wiley's eyes as he sat back and put down his pen, but even after that she hurried on. "Yes, I know you don't like me--you think I tried to wreck your mine and turned all your men against you--but I do thank you, all the same. You--you used to care, Wiley; but anyhow, I thank you and--I guess I'll be going now."

She started for the door but he did not try to stop her. He even picked up his pen, and she turned back with fire in her eyes.

"Well, you might say something," she said defiantly, "or don't you care what happens to me?"

"No; I don't, Virginia," he answered quietly, "so just let it go at that. We can't get along, so what's the use of trying? You go your way and let me go mine."

"Oh, I know!" she sighed, "you think I'm ungrateful--and you think I just came for my stock. But I didn't, altogether; I wanted to say I'm sorry and--oh, Wiley, _do_ you think he's alive?"

"Who?" he asked; but he knew already--she was thinking about the Colonel.

"Why, Father," she ran on. "I heard you that time when you got old Charley drunk. Do you think he's really alive? Because if he is!" She raised her eyes ecstatically and suddenly she was smiling into his.

"Because if he is," she said, "and I can find him again--oh, Wiley; won't you help me find him?"

"I'll think about it," responded Wiley, but his eyes were smiling back and the anger had died in his heart. After all, she was human; she could smile through her tears and reach out and touch his rough hand, and he could not bring himself to hate her. "After I pay for the mine," he suggested gently. "But now you'd better go."

"Oh, no," she protested, "please tell me about it. Is he hiding in the Ube-Hebes? Oh, you don't know how glad I was when I heard you talking with Charley--I never did think he was dead. He sent me word once, not to worry about him, but--the Indians said he had died. That is--well, they said if it hadn't been for that sandstorm they would surely have found the body. And he'd thrown away his canteen, so he couldn't have had any water; and there wasn't any more for miles. He was lost, you know, and out of his head; and heading right out through the sand-hills.

Oh, it's awful to talk about it, but of course we don't know for certain; and it might have been somebody else. Don't you think it was some other man?"

"I don't know," answered Wiley, and sat staring straight ahead as she ran on with her arguments and entreaties. After all, what did he have to base his belief upon, except the babblings of brain-cracked Charley? They had found the Colonel's riding-burro, and his saddle-bags and papers, besides his rifle and canteen; and the Shoshone trailers had followed the tracks of a man until they were lost in the drifting sand-hills. And yet Charley's remarks, and his repeated attempts to get across the valley with some whiskey; there was something there, certainly, upon which to build hope--and Virginia was very insistent.

"Yes, I think it was another man," he said at length. "Either that or your father escaped. He might have lost one canteen and still have had another, or he might have found his way to some water-hole. But from the way Charley talks, and tries to cover up his breaks, I feel sure that your father is alive."