"You robbed _me_!" came back Denver, "and these boys all know it.

But I fought you fair for the whole danged roll----"

"You did naht!" howled Meacham, "you had a feller with ye----"

"Well, I'll fight you right now, then," volunteered Denver accommodatingly but the Slogger did not put up his hands.

"That's all right," he said backing sullenly away, "but remember what I told you--I'll git ye!"

"You'll git nothing!" returned Denver and laughed him out the door, though there were others who muttered warnings in his ears. Slogger Meacham was a fighter as well as a driller and his flight with the prize-money was not the first time that he had lapsed from the ways of strict rect.i.tude. He had killed a man during the riots at Goldfield and had been involved in several ugly brawls; but his record as a bad man did not deter Denver from opposing him and he went out to hunt up Owen.

Tom Owen was a good man, and he was also a good driller, but there was one thing that Denver held against him--he had been a drinking man when Arizona was wet. And a man who has drunk, no matter when, is never quite the same in a contest. He has lost that narrow margin of vital force, those last few ounces of strength and stamina which win or lose at the finish. Yet even at that he was a better man than Meacham, who had laid down like a yellow dog. Denver remembered that too and when he found his man he told him they were due to win. Then he borrowed some drills and a pair of eight-pound hammers and they went through a try-out together.

Owen was quick and strong, he made the changes like lightning and struck a heavy blow; but when it was over and he was rolling a cigarette Denver noticed that his hand was trembling. The strain of smas.h.i.+ng blows had over-taxed his nerves, though they had worked but three or four minutes.

"Well, do the best you can," said Denver at last, "and for cripes sake, keep away from this boot-leg."

There was plenty of it in town on this festive occasion, a nerve-shattering mixture that came in from New Mexico and had a kick like a mule. It was circulating about in hip pockets and suit-cases and in automobiles with false-bottomed seats, and Denver knew too well from past experience what the temptation was likely to be; yet for all his admonitions when he met Owen in the morning he caught the bouquet of whisky. It was disguised with sen-sen and he pretended not to notice it but his hopes of first money began to wane. They went out again to the backyard of an old saloon where a great block of granite was embedded and while their admirers looked on they practiced their turn, for they had never worked together. A Cornish miner, a champion in his day, volunteered to be their coach and at each call of: "Change!" they s.h.i.+fted from drill to hammer without breaking the rhythm of their stroke.

"You'll win, lads," said the Cornishman, patting them affectionately on the back and Denver led them off for their rub-down.

The band began to play in the street below and the Miners' Union marched past, after which they banked in about a huge block of granite and the drilling contests began. The drilling rock was placed on a platform of heavy timbers at the lower side of the court-house square, and the slope above it and the windows of all the buildings were crowded with shouting miners. First the men who were to compete in the single-jack contests mounted the platform one by one; and the sharp, _peck_, _peck_, of their hammers made music that the miners knew well.

Then, as their holes were cleaned out and the depth of each measured, the first team of double-jackers climbed up to the platform amid the frantic plaudits of the crowd. The announcer introduced them, they laid out their drills and the hammer-man poised his double-jack; then at the word from the umpire they leapt into action, striking and turning like men gone mad.

There were five teams entered, of which Denver's was the last, but when Meacham and his partner were announced as the next contestants his impatience would not brook further delay. With his own precious drills tied securely in a bundle and Owen and the coach behind him he fought his way to the base of the platform and sat down where he could watch every blow. They came on together, a team hard to match; Meacham stripped to the waist, his ponderous head thrust forward, the muscles swelling to great knots in his arms. His partner wore the heavy, yellow unders.h.i.+rt of a miner, his trousers draped low on his hips; and to hold them up he had a strand of black fuse twisted loosely in place of a belt. He was a hard, hairy man, with grim, deep-set eyes and a jaw that jutted out like a crag and as he raised his hammer to strike Denver saw that he was out to win.

"Go!" called the umpire and the hammer smote the drill-head till it made the blue granite smoke; and then for thirty seconds he flailed away while Slogger Meacham turned the short starter-drill.

"Change!" called their coach and with a single swoop Meacham flung his drill back into the crowd and caught up his hammer to strike. His partner dropped his hammer and chucked in a fresh drill--_smash_, the hammer struck it into the rock--and so they turned and struck while the ramping miners below them looked on in envious amazement. As each drill was thrown out it was brought back from where it fell and examined by the quick-eyed coach, and as he called off the half minutes he announced their probable depth as indicated by the mud marks on the drills. Across the block from the two drillers knelt a man with a rubber tube who poured water into the churning hole; and at each blow of the hammer the gray mud leapt up, splas.h.i.+ng turner and hammer-man alike.

At the end of five minutes they were down fifteen inches, at ten they still held their pace; but as Denver glanced doubtfully at his coach and Owen the sound of the drilling changed. There was a grating noise, a curse from the turner, and as he flung out the drill and thrust in another a murmur went up from the crowd. They had broken the bit from the brittle edge of their drill and the new drill was grinding away on the fragment, which dulled the keen edge of the steel. The quick ears of the miners could sense the different sound as the drill champed the fragment to pieces, and when the next change was made the mud-marks on the drill showed that over an inch had been lost. A team working at top speed averaged three inches to the minute, driving down through hard Gunnison granite; but Meacham and his partner had lost their fast start and they had yet four minutes to go. The tall Cornishman's eyes gleamed--he struck harder than ever--but Meacham had begun to lose heart. The accident upset him, and the grate of the broken steel as the drill bit down on chance fragments; and as his coach urged him on he glanced up from his turning with a look that Denver knew well. It was the old pig-eyed glare, the look of unreasoning resentment, that he had seen on the Fourth of July.

"He's quitting," chuckled Owen when Meacham rose to strike; but when the hole was measured it came to forty-three and fifteen-sixteenths of an inch. The big Cornishman had done it in spite of his partner, he had refused to accept defeat; and now, with only two more teams to compete, they led by nearly an inch.

"You can beat it!" cried Denver's coach, "I've done better than that myself! Forty-four! You can make forty-six!"

"I'm game," answered Denver, "but it takes two to win. Do you think you can stick it out, Tom?"

"I'll be up there, trying," returned Owen grimly and Denver nodded to the coach.

The next team did no better, for it is a heart-breaking test and the sun was getting hot, and when Denver and Owen mounted up on the platform a hush fell upon the crowd. Denver Russell they knew, but Owen was a new man; and a drilling contest is won on pure nerve. Would he crack, like Meacham, as the end approached, or would he stand up to the punishment?

They looked on in silence as Denver spread out his drills--a full twenty, oil-tempered, of the best Norway steel, each narrower by a hair than its predecessor. The starter was short and heavy, with an inch-and-a-quarter bit; and the last long drill had a seven-eighths bit, which would just cut a one-inch hole. They were the best that money could buy and a famous tool-sharpener in Miami had tempered their edges to perfection. Denver picked up his starter, all the officials left the platform, and Owen raised his hammer.

"Are the drillers ready?" challenged the umpire. "Then _go_!" he shouted, and the double-jack descended with a smash. For thirty seconds while the drill leapt and bounded, Denver held it firmly in its place, and at the call of "Change!" he chucked it over his shoulder and swung his own hammer in the air. Owen popped in a new drill, the hammer struck it squarely and the crowd set up a cheer. Denver was working hard, striking faster than his partner; and in every stroke there was a smas.h.i.+ng enthusiasm, a romping joy in the work, that won the hearts of the miners. He was what they had been before drink and bad air had sapped the first freshness of their strength, or dust and hot stopes had broken their wind, or accidents had crippled them up--he was a miner, young and hardy, putting his body behind each blow yet striking like a tireless automaton.

"Change!" cried the coach, his voice ringing with pride; and as the drill came flying back he shouted out the depth which was better than three inches for the minute. At five minutes it was sixteen, at ten, thirty-three; but at eleven the pace slackened off and at twelve they had lost an inch. Tom Owen was weakening, in spite of his nerve, in spite of his dogged persistence; he struck the same, but his blows had lost their drive, the drill did not bite so deep. At every stroke, as Denver twisted the long drill loose and turned it by so much in the hole, he raised it up and struck it against the bottom, to add to the weight of the blows. The mud and muck from the hole splashed up into his face and painted his body a dull gray, but at thirteen minutes they had lost their lead and Tom Owen was striking wild. Then he missed the steel and a great voice rose up in mocking, stentorian laughter.

"Ho! Ho!" it roared, and Denver knew it well--it was Slogger Meacham, exulting.

"Here--you turn!" he said flinging out his drill, and as Owen sank down on his knees by the hole Denver caught up his double-jack and struck.

For a half minute, a minute, he flailed away at the steel; while Owen, his shoulders heaving, turned the drill like clock-work and gasped to win back his strength.

"Thirteen and a half!" announced the coach at last and then he shouted: "Change!"

"No--_turn_!" panted Denver, never missing a stroke; and Owen sank back to his place by the hole while the battery of blows kept on.

"Fourteen!" proclaimed the coach, "you're about an inch behind. How about it--do you want to change?"

"No--turn!" choked Denver. "I'll finish it--_turn_!" And as Owen straightened his back Denver struck like a mad-man while the sweat poured down in a shower. The official umpire leapt up on the platform to toll off the last sixty seconds, but the rise and fall of Denver's body was faster by far than his count. A frenzy seemed to seize him as the half minute was called and Owen slipped in their last drill; and with hoa.r.s.e, coughing grunts he smashed it deeper and deeper while the miners surged forward with a cheer.

"Fifty-eight--fifty-nine--_sixty_!" cried the umpire, slapping him sharply on the back to stop, and Denver fell like dead across the stone.

His great strength had left him, completely, on the instant; and when he raised his head there was a grinning crowd around him as his coach was measuring the last drill.

"The poor, dom fool!" he exclaimed commiseratingly, "and to think of him wurruking like thot. He's ahead by two inches and more."

CHAPTER XXIII

THE HEART OF HIS BELOVED

There was a celebration that day which warmed Denver's heart and sent Slogger Meacham cursing out of the camp, but as soon as it was over and he had his prize money in his hand Denver remembered his unguarded claim. Bunker Hill was there, of course, but the spiteful Professor had heralded his pledge afar; and a man who has promised his wife not to fight is ill-fitted to herd a mine. No, the Silver Treasure lay open for Dave or Murray to jump, if they felt like contesting his claim; and, weak as he was, Denver took no rest until he was back where he could fight for his own. He rode in late and slept like the dead, but in the morning he was up and down at the store as soon as Old Bunk came out.

"I win!" he announced holding up the roll of bills, "first money--can you get me some powder?"

"W'y, you lucky fool!" exclaimed Bunker admiringly, "seems like _nothing_ can keep you down. Sure I'll get your powder, and just to show you what _I_ can do--how's that for a healthy little roll?" He drew out a roll of bills twice the size of Denver's and fingered them over lovingly. "A thousand dollars," he murmured, "for an option on half the Lost Burro. A party came up yesterday and took one look at it and grabbed it right off the bat, and as soon as old Murray gets in to his ore they're going to capitalize the Burro for a million. Fine name that, for stock-selling--known all over the world, in England, Paris and everywhere--but I made 'em come through with a thousand dollars cash, so Drusilla could have a good stake. She's thinking of going East, soon."

"'S that so?" said Denver, trying to take it all in, "are these parties going to do any work?"

"Well, that's an unfair question, as Pecos Edwards used to say when they asked him if all Texans was cow-thieves; but you know how these promoters work. There'll be lots of work done; but mostly by lawyers, and publicity men and such. There's a whole lot of water in the workings of the Lost Burro that'll have to be pumped out first, and then there's a little job of timbering that'll cost a world of money. No, I sold them that mine on the ore in your tunnel--I will say, it shows up splendid.

If you'd've been here yesterday you might have made a deal that would----"

"Not on your life!" broke in Denver, "I don't sell to anybody. But say, but what did they think of my mine?"

"Think!" exclaimed Bunker, "they stopped thinking right here, when I showed 'em that big vein of copper! They went crazy, just like lunatics; because it ain't often, I'm telling you, that you find sixty-per-cent copper on the surface."

"Not in a fissure vein--no," agreed Denver emphatically, "I wouldn't sell out for a million. Did those promoters take away any samples?"

"Well, yes; a few," responded Bunker apologetically, "I didn't think you'd object."

"Why, of course not," answered Denver, "it'll advertise the district and bring in some outside people. And now that I've got another stake I'm going to sack my ore and make a trial s.h.i.+pment to the smelter. But you bet your boots, after what Murray put over on me, I'm going to have some a.s.saying done first."

"Yes, and keep some samples," advised Bunker wisely. "Keep a sample out of every bag."

"I'll just mix that ore up," said Denver cautiously, "and cut it down, the way they do at the mill. Throw out every tenth shovel and mix 'em up again and then cut the pile down smaller until you've got a control, like the ore brokers take at the smelter. And then I'll send a sample to the a.s.sayer--say, there's Drusilla over there, trying to call you."

"She's trying to call you," answered Bunker Hill shortly and went on into the store.

"Well, be sure and order that powder," shouted Denver after him. "And say, I'll want the rest of those ore-sacks."