"Get in!" called the driver throwing the door open hospitably; and in an hour's time Denver was set down in Moroni, but with the fever still hot in his brain. His first frenzy had left him, and the heat madness of the desert with its insidious promptings to violence; but the sense of injustice still rankled deep and he headed for Murray's store. It was a huge, brick building crowded from bas.e.m.e.nt to roof with groceries and general merchandise. Busy clerks hustled about, waiting on Mexicans and Indians and slow-moving, valley ranchers; and as Denver walked in there was a man there to meet him and direct him to any department. It showed that Bible-Back was efficient, at least.

"I'd like to see Mr. Murray," announced Denver shortly and the floor-walker glanced at him again before he answered that Mr. Murray was out. It was the same at the bank, and out at his house; and at last in disgust Denver went down to the station, where he had been told his ore was lying. The stifling heat of the valley oppressed him like a blanket, the sweat poured down his face in tiny streams; and at each evasion his anger mounted higher until now he was talking to himself. It was evident that Murray was trying to avoid him--he might even have started back to the mine--but his ore was there, on a heavily timbered platform, where it could be transferred from wagon to car without lifting it up and down. There was other ore there too, each consignment by itself, taken in by the store-keeper in exchange for supplies and held to make up a carload. The same perfect system, efficiency in all things--efficiency and a hundred per cent profit.

Denver leapt up on the platform and cut open a sack, but as he was pouring a generous sample of the ore into his handkerchief a man stepped out of the next warehouse.

"Hey!" he called, "what are you doing, over there? You get down and leave that ore alone!"

"Go to h.e.l.l!" returned Denver, tying a knot in his handkerchief, and the man came over on the run.

"Say!" he threatened, "you put that ore back or you'll find yourself in serious trouble."

"Oh, I will, hey?" replied Denver with his most tantalizing smile.

"Whose ore do you think this is, anyway?"

"It belongs to Mr. Murray, and you'd better put it back or I'll report the matter at once."

"Well, report it," answered Denver. "My name is Denver Russell and I'm taking this up to the a.s.sayer."

"There's Mr. Murray, now," exclaimed the man and as Denver looked up he saw a yellow automobile churning rapidly along through the dust. Murray himself was at the wheel and, sitting beside him, was another man equally familiar--it was Dave, his hired gun-man.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Russell?" demanded Murray with asperity and Denver became suddenly calm. Old Murray had been hiding from him, but they had summoned him by telephone, and he had brought along Dave for protection. But that should not keep him from having his way and forcing Murray to a show-down.

"I just came down for a sample of that ore I sent you," answered Denver with a sarcastic grin. "McGraw said you claimed it was no good, so I thought I'd have it a.s.sayed."

"Oh," observed Murray and for a minute he sat silent while Dave and Denver exchanged glances. The gun-man was slight and insignificant looking, with small features and high, boney cheeks; but there was a smouldering hate in his deep-set eyes which argued him in no mood for a jest, so Denver looked him over and said nothing.

"Very well," said Murray at last, "the ore is yours. Go ahead and have it a.s.sayed. But with the price of silver down to forty-five cents I doubt if that stuff will pay smelter charges. I'll s.h.i.+p it, if you say so, along with this other, if only to make up a carload; but it will be at your own risk and if the returns show a deficit, your mine will be liable for the balance."

"Oh, that's the racket, eh?" suggested Denver. "You've got your good eye on my mine. Well, I'd just like to tell you----"

"No, I haven't," snapped back Murray, his voice harsh and strident, "I wouldn't accept your mine as a gift. Your silver is practically worthless and there's no copper in the district; as I know all too well, to my sorrow. I've lost twenty thousand dollars on better ground than yours and ordered the whole camp closed down--that shows how much I want _your_ mine."

He started his engine and glided on to the warehouse and Denver stood staring down the road. Then he raised his sample, tied up in his handkerchief, and slammed it into the dirt. His mine was valueless unless he had money, and Murray had abandoned the district. More than ever Denver realized how much it had meant to him, merely to have that diamond drilling running and a big man like Murray behind it. It was indicative of big values and great expectations; but now, with Murray out of the running, the district was absolutely dead. There was no longer the chance of a big copper strike, such as had been rumored repeatedly for weeks, to bring on a stampede and make every claim in the district worth thousands of dollars as a gamble.

No, Pinal was dead; the Silver Treasure was worthless; and he, Denver Russell, was broke. He had barely the price of a square meal. He started up-town, and turned back towards the warehouse where Murray was wrangling with his hireling; then, cursing with helpless rage, he swung off down the railroad track and left his broken dreams behind him.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE HAND OF FATE

The swift hand of fate, which had hurled Denver from the heights into the depths of dark despair, suddenly s.n.a.t.c.hed him up out of the abyss again and whisked him back to Globe. When he walked out of Moroni his mind was a blank, so overcome was his body with heat and toil and the astounding turns of his fortune; but at the next station below, as he was trying to steal a ride, a man had dropped off the train and dragged him, w.i.l.l.y nilly, into his Pullman. It was a mining superintendent who had seen him in action when he was timbering the Last Chance stope, and in spite of his protests he paid his fare to Globe and put him to work down a shaft.

At the bottom of this shaft was millions of dollars worth of copper and level after level of expensive workings; and some great stirring of the earth was cutting it off, crus.h.i.+ng the bottle off at the neck. Every night, every s.h.i.+ft, the swelling ground moved in, breaking stulls and square-sets like tooth-picks; and now with solid steel and quick-setting concrete they were fighting for the life of the mine. It was a dangerous job, such as few men cared to tackle; but to Denver it was a relief, a return to his old life after the delirium of an ugly dream. Even yet he could not trace the flaw in his reasoning which had brought him to earth with such a thump; but he knew, in general, that his error was the common one of trying to run a mine on a shoestring. He had set up in business as a mining magnate on eight hundred dollars and his nerve, and Bible-Back Murray had busted him.

Upon that point, at least, Denver suffered no delusion; he knew that his downfall had been planned from the first and that he had bit like a sucker at the bait. Murray had dropped a few words and spit on the hook and Denver had s.h.i.+pped him his ore. The rest, of course, was like shooting fish in the Pan-handle--he had refused to buy the ore, leaving Denver belly-up, to float away with other human debris. But there was one thing yet that he could not understand--why had Murray closed down his own mine? That was pulling it pretty strong, just to freeze out a little prospector and rob him of a ton or two of ore; and yet Denver had proof that it was true. He had staked a hobo who had come over the trail and the hobo had told him what he knew. The diamond drill camp was closed down and all the men had left, but the guard was still herding the property. And the hobo had seen a girl at Pinal. She was easy to look at but hard to talk to, so he had pa.s.sed and hit the trail for Globe.

Denver worked like a demon with a gang of Cousin Jacks, opposing the swelling ground with lengths of railroad steel and pouring in the concrete behind them; but all the time, by fits and s.n.a.t.c.hes, the old memories would press in upon him. He would think of Mother Trigedgo and her glowing prophecies, which had turned out so wonderfully up to a certain point and then had as suddenly gone wrong; and then he would think of the beautiful artist with whom he was fated to fall in love, and how, even there, his destiny had worked against him and led him to sacrifice her love. For how could one hope to win the love of a woman if he denied her his friends.h.i.+p first? And yet, if he accepted her as his dearest friend, he would simply be inviting disaster.

It was all wrong, all foolish--he dismissed it from his mind as unworthy of a thinking man--yet the words of the prophecy popped up in his head like the memories of some evil dream. His hopes of sudden riches were blasted forever, he had given up the thought of Drusilla; but the one sinister line recurred to him constantly--"at the hands of your dearest friend." Never before in his life had he been without a pardner, to share his ramblings and adventures, but now in that black hole with the steel rails coming down and death on every hand, superst.i.tion overmastered him and he rebuffed the hardy Cornishmen, refusing to take any man for his friend. Nor would he return to Mother Trigedgo's boarding house, for her prophecies had ruined his life.

He worked on for a week, trying to set his mind at rest, and then a prompting came over him suddenly to go back and see Drusilla. If death must come, if some friend must kill him, in whose hands would he rather entrust his life than in those of the woman he loved? Perhaps it was all false, like the rest of the prophecy, the gold and silver treasures and the rest; and if he was brave he might win her at last and have her for more than a friend. But how could he face her, after all he had said, after boasting as he had of his fortune? And he had refused her friends.h.i.+p, when she had endeavored to comfort him and to exorcise this fear-devil that pursued him. He went back to work, determined to forget it all, but that evening he drew his time. It came to ninety dollars, for seven s.h.i.+fts and over-time, and they offered him double to stay; but the desire to see Drusilla had taken possession of him and he turned his face towards Pinal.

It was early in the morning when he rode out of Globe and took the trail over the divide; and as he spurred up a hill he overtook another horseman who looked back and grinned at him wisely.

"Going to the strike?" he asked and Denver's heart leapt, though he kept his quirt and spurs working.

"What strike?" he said and the man burst into a laugh as if sensing a hidden jest.

"That's all right," he answered, "I guess you're hep--they say it runs forty per cent copper."

"How'd _you_ hear about it?" inquired Denver, fis.h.i.+ng cautiously for information. "Where you going--over to Pinal?"

"You're whistling," returned the man, quite off his guard. "Say, stake me a claim when you get there, if old Bible-Back hasn't jumped them all."

"Say, what are you talking about?" demanded Denver, suddenly reining in his horse. "Is Murray jumping claims?"

"Never mind!" replied the man, shutting up like a clam, and Denver spurred on and left him.

There was a strike then in Pinal, Old Murray had tapped the vein and it ran up to forty per cent copper! That would make the claim that Denver had abandoned the week before worth thousands and thousands of dollars.

It would make him rich and Bunker Hill rich and--yes, it would prove the prophecy! He had chosen the silver treasure and the gold treasure had been added to it--for the copper ore which had come in later was almost the color of gold. As old Bunk had said, all these prophecies were symbolical, and he had done Mother Trigedgo an injustice. And there was one claim that he knew of--yes, and four others, too--that Murray would never jump. That was his own Silver Treasure and the four claims of Bunker's that he had done the annual work on himself.

Denver's heart leapt again as he raced his horse across the flats and led him scrambling with haste up the steep hills, and before the sun was three hours high he had plunged into the box canyon of Queen Creek. Here the trail wound in and out, crossing and recrossing the shrunken stream and mounting with painful zigzags over the points; but he rioted through it all, splas.h.i.+ng the water out of the crossings as he hurried to claim his own. The box canyon grew deeper, the walls more precipitous, the creek bottom more dark and cavernous; until at last it opened out into broad flats and boulder patches, thickly covered with alders and ash trees. And then as he swung around the final, rocky point he saw his own claim in the distance. It was nothing but a hole in the side of the rocky hillside, a slide of gray waste down the slope; but to him it was a beacon to light his home-coming, a proof that some dreams do come true. He galloped down the trail where Drusilla and he had loitered and let out an exultant whoop.

But as Denver came opposite his mine a sinister thing happened--a head rose up against the black darkness of the tunnel and a man looked stealthily out. Then he drew back his head like some snake in a hole and Denver stopped and stared. A low wall of rocks had been built across the cut and the man was crouching behind it--Denver jogged down and turned up the trail. A glimpse at Pinal showed the streets full of automobiles and a huddle of men by the store door, and as he rode up towards his mine Bunker Hill came running out and beckoned him frantically back.

"Come back here!" he hollered and Denver turned and looked at him but kept on up the narrow trail. The mine was his, without a doubt, both by purchase and by a.s.sessment work done; and he had no fear of dispossession by a jumper who was so obviously in the wrong.

"h.e.l.lo, there!" he hailed, reining in before the tunnel; and after a minute the man rose up with his pistol poised over his shoulder. It was Dave, Murray's gun-man, and at sight of his enemy Denver was swept with a gust of pa.s.sion. From the moment he had first met him, this narrow-eyed, sneering bad-man had roused all the hate that was in him; but now it had gone beyond instinct. He found him in adverse possession of his property and with a gun raised ready to shoot.

"What are _you_ doing here?" demanded Denver insolently but Chatwourth did not move. He stood like a statue, his gun balanced in the air, a thin, evil smile on his lips, and Denver gave way to his fury.

"You get out of there!" he ordered. "Get off my property! Get off or I'll put you off!"

Chatwourth twirled his gun in a contemptuous gesture; and then, like a flash, he was shooting. He threw his shots low, between the legs of the horse, which reared and whirled in a panic; and with the bang of the heavy gun in his ears, Denver found himself headed down the trail. A high derisive yell, a whoop of hectoring laughter, followed after him as he galloped into the open; and he was fighting his horse in a cloud of dust when Bunker Hill and the crowd came up.

CHAPTER XIX

THE MAN-KILLER

"Did he hit ye?" yelled Bunker when Denver had conquered his pitching horse and set him back on his haunches. "h.e.l.l's bells, boy, I told you to stay out of there!"