"All right," replied Bunker and Denver turned to the house where Drusilla was waiting on the porch.

"Did you hear the news?" she asked dancing ecstatically to and fro; as if she were a Delilah, leading the Philistine maidens in the "Spring Song," and he were another Samson. "I'm expecting to go East now, soon."

"Good!" exclaimed Denver. "Well, I won't see you much then--I'm going to work in the mine."

"Yes, isn't it grand?" she cried. "Everything is coming out fine--but you must come down to dinner to-night. I'm going to sing, just for you."

"I'll be there," smiled Denver, and then he stopped. "But let's not make it to-night," he said, "I'm dead on my feet for sleep."

"Well, sleep then," she laughed, "and get rested from your contest--I'm awfully glad you won. And then----"

"Nope, can't come to-night," he answered soberly, "I want to get that ore sacked to-day. And I'm stiff as a strip of burnt raw-hide."

"Well, to-morrow night," she said, "unless you don't want to come. But you'll have to come soon or----"

"Oh, I want to come, all right," interposed Denver hastily, "you know that, without telling. But my partner played out on me before the end of the contest and I had to finish the striking myself. And then I rode hard to get back here, before Dave or some gun-man jumped my claim."

"Then to-morrow night," she smiled, "but don't you forget, because if you do I'll never forgive you."

She danced away into the house and Denver turned in his tracks and went to look over his ore-sacks. They were old and torn, what was left of a big lot that Bunker had got in a trade; but Denver picked out the best and wheeled them up to his dump, where his picked ore lay waiting for s.h.i.+pment. He had a big lot, much larger than he had thought, and it was just as it had been shot down from the breast. Some was silver-lead; and there was copper to boot, though that would hardly do to s.h.i.+p. Yet at thirty cents a pound copper was almost a precious metal, and a report from the smelter would be a check. He would know from that how the ore really ran and how much he would be penalized for the zinc. So he picked out the best of it and broke it up fine, for the rough chunks would not do to sack; and before he had more than got started with his sampling the sun had gone down behind the ridge. And he was tired--too tired to eat.

There was music that night at the big house below but Denver could not hold up his head. Nature had drugged him with sleep, like a romping child that takes no thought of its strength, and in the morning he woke up in a sort of stupor that could not be worked off. Yet he worked, worked hard, for McGraw had arrived and the ore must be loaded that day; so they threw in together, Denver sacking the heavy ore and McGraw wheeling it out to the wagon. They toiled on till dark, for McGraw started early and the work could not be put off till to-morrow; and when it was over Denver staggered up to his cave like an old and outworn man.

He was reeking with sweat, his hands were like talons, the ore-dust had left his face gray; and all he thought of was sleep. For a moment he roused up, as if he remembered some new duty--something pleasant, yet involving further effort--and then his candle went out. He fell asleep in his chair and when he awoke it was only to stumble to his bed.

The sun was over the Leap when he opened his heavy eyes and gazed at the rude squalor of his cave. The dishes were unwashed, the floor was dirty, a long-tailed rat hung balanced on the table-edge--and he was tired, tired, tired. He heaved himself up and reached for the water-bucket but he had forgotten to fill it at the creek. Now he grabbed it up impatiently and started down the trail, every joint of his body protesting, and when he had climbed back he was weak from the effort--his bank account with Mother Nature was overdrawn. He was worn out, at last; and his poor, tired brain took no thought how to make up the deficit. All he wanted was rest, something to eat, a drink of water.

A drink of water anyway, and sleep. He drank deep and bathed his face, then sank back on the bed and let the world whirl on.

It was late in the day when he awoke again and hunger was gnawing his vitals; but the slow stupor was gone, he was himself again and the cramps had gone out of his limbs. He rose up luxuriously and cut a can of tomatoes, drinking the juice and eating the fruit, and then he lit a fire and boiled some strong coffee and cooked up a great mess of food.

There was two cans of corn and a can of corned beef, heated together in a swimming sea of bacon grease and eaten direct from the frying-pan. It went to the spot and his drooping shoulders straightened, the spring came back into his step; yet as he cleaned up the dishes and changed to decent clothes the weight of some duty seemed to haunt him. Was it McGraw? No, he had loaded the last sack and sent him on his way. It was Drusilla--she had been going to sing for him.

Denver stepped to the door and looked down at the house and his heart sank low at the thought. They had invited him to dinner and he had forgotten to come, he had gone home and fallen asleep. And no one had come to call him--or to inquire what had kept him away. A heavy guilt came over him as he gazed down at the house with its broad porch and trailing Virginia creepers, the Hills would take it very ill to have their invitation ignored. Old Bunk had told him the time before, when he had invited him in to dinner: "Now, for the last time, Denver----" and it would take more than mere words to ever mend that breach. Denver paced back and forth, undecided what to do, and at last he decided to do nothing. As the sun went down he ate another supper and drugged his sorrows with sleep.

The next morning he rose early and shaved and bathed and put on his last clean s.h.i.+rt, and then he walked down to the town; but the store was locked, there was no voices from the house, only a smoke from the kitchen stove. He went on to his mine and looked it over, and as he pa.s.sed the Professor leered out at him; there was something that he knew, some bad news or spiteful gossip, for he found pleasure only in evil. Denver came back down the street, that was now as deserted as it had been before the stampede, and once more the Professor looked out.

"Vell," he said, "so you haf lost your sveetheart!" And he chuckled and shut the door softly.

Denver stopped and stood staring, hardly crediting the news, yet conscious of the sinister exulting. The Professor was glad, therefore the news was bad; but what did he mean by those words? Had Drusilla gone away or had she thrown him over for neglecting to keep his engagement?

She had probably spoken her mind as she watched for him at the doorway and the Professor had been out there, eavesdropping.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded at last but the Professor only t.i.ttered. Then he dropped the heavy bar across his door and Denver took the hint to move on. He went down past the house and looked it over hopefully, but as no one came out he pocketed his pride and knocked, like a hobo battering the door for a meal, Mrs. Hill came out slowly as if preoccupied with other things, but when he saw her eyes he knew she had been crying and that Drusilla had really gone.

"I'm sorry," he began and then he stopped; there was nothing that he could say. "Has Drusilla gone?" he asked at length and Mrs. Hill answered him, almost kindly.

"Yes," she said, "she was summoned by a telegram. Her father took her down this morning."

He stood thinking a minute, then he shook his head regretfully and started off down the steps.

"She was sorry not to have seen you," she added gently but Denver made no reply. He was weak again now and inadequate to life; he could only crawl back like some dumb, wounded animal, to the sheltering gloom of his cave. But as he sat there stolidly, now trying to make some plan, now endeavoring to become reconciled to his fate, a rage swept over him like a storm-wind that shakes a tree and he burst into gusty oaths. The fates had turned against him, his horoscope had come to nothing; he had followed the admonitions of Mother Trigedgo and this was the result of her advice. She had told him to beware how he revealed his affection, but nothing about what to do when he had fallen asleep while his beloved sang only for him.

He drew out the Oraculum, by which the Man of Destiny had ordered the least affairs of his life, and read down through the thirty-two questions. Only once on each day could he consult the mystic oracle, and once only in each month on the same subject, lest the fates be outworn by his insistence. At first it was Number Thirteen that appealed to his fancy:

"Will the FRIEND I most reckon upon prove faithful or TREACHEROUS?" But he knew without asking that, whatever her failings, Drusilla would never prove treacherous. No, since he had taken her for his friend he would never question her faithfulness; Number Twenty-six was more to his liking:

"Does the person whom I love, LOVE and regard me?"

He spread out a sheet of paper on his littered table and dashed off the five series of lines, and then he counted each carefully and made the dots at the end--two dots for the two lines that came even and one for those that came odd. The first two came odd, the next two even, the last one odd again; and under that symbol the Oraculum Key referred him to section B for his answer. He turned to the double pages with its answers, good and bad, and his brain whirled while he read these words:

"Thy heart of thy beloved yearneth toward thee."

He closed the book religiously and put it away, and his heart for the moment was comforted.

CHAPTER XXIV

COLONEL DODGE

Denver doubted it, himself, for human nature is much the same in man and woman and Drusilla had been sorely slighted; but the Oraculum had said that her heart was yearning towards him and the Book of Fate had always spoken true. Perhaps women _were_ different, but if it had been done to him, he would have called down black curses instead. Yet women were different, one could never guess their moods, and perhaps Drusilla would forgive him. Not right away, of course, but after her blood had cooled and he had written a proper letter. He would let it go awhile, until he had framed up some excuse or decided to tell her the truth, and in the meantime there was plenty of work to do that would help him forget his sorrow. There was his mine, and McGraw had brought up some powder.

There was something in the air which seemed to whisper to Denver of portentous happenings to come, and as he was sharpening up his steel for a fresh a.s.sault upon the ore-body a big automobile came into town. It stopped and a big man wearing a California sombrero and a pair of six-buckle boots leapt out and led the way to the Lost Burro. Behind him followed three men attired as gentlemen miners and as Denver listened he could hear the big man as he recited the history of the mine.

Undoubtedly it was the buyer of the Lost Burro Mine, with a party of "experts" and potential backers who had come up to look over the ground; yet something told Denver that there was more behind it all. He felt their eyes upon him. They spent a few minutes looking over the old workings, and then they came stringing up his trail.

"Good afternoon, sir," hailed the promoter, "are you the owner of this property? Well, I'd like with your permission to show my friends some of your ore--why, what's this, have you hauled it away?"

"Yes, I s.h.i.+pped it out yesterday," answered Denver briefly and the big man glanced swiftly at his friends.

"Well, I'm Colonel Dodge--H. Parkinson Dodge--you may have heard the name. I'm your neighbor here on the south--we've taken over the Lost Burro property. Yes, glad to know you, Mr. Russell." He shook hands and introduced his friends all around, after which he came to the point.

"We've been looking at the Lost Burro and one of the gentlemen suggested that it might be well to enlarge our property. That would make it more attractive to worth-while buyers and at the same time prevent any future litigation in case our ore-bodies should join. You understand what I mean--there's such a thing as apex decision and of course you hold the higher ground. Well, before we do any work or tie up our money we would like to know just exactly where we stand in relation to surrounding properties. What price do you put on your claim?"

"No price," answered Denver. "I don't want to sell. Are you thinking of opening up the Lost Burro?"

"That will all depend," hinted the Colonel darkly, "upon the att.i.tude of the people in the district. If we meet with encouragement we intend to form a company and spend hundreds of thousands of dollars; but if not, why we will charge up our option money to profit and loss and seek out a less backward community. What is your lowest price on your claim?"

"A million dollars--cash," responded Denver cheerfully. "Now you come through and make me an offer."

"Well," began the Colonel, and then he stopped and glanced suggestively at the tunnel. "We'd like to look it over first."

"Fair enough," replied Denver and, giving each a candle, he led them into the tunnel. They looked the ore over, making indifferent comments and asking permission to take samples, and then Colonel Dodge took one of his experts aside and they conferred in m.u.f.fled tones.

"Er--we'd rather not make an offer just now," said the Colonel at last; and in a silent procession they returned to the daylight, leaving Denver to follow behind. The atmosphere of the group was now reeking with gloom but after a long conference the Colonel came back, summoning up the ghost of a smile. "Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Russell," he began apologetically, "we saw some of your ore before we came up and we were all of us most enthusiastic. The copper in particular was very promising but the gentleman I was talking with is our consulting engineer and he advises me not to buy the property."

"All right," answered Denver, "you don't have to buy it. I never saw one of these six-buckle men yet that wouldn't knock a good claim." He turned back angrily to his job of tool-sharpening and the Colonel followed after him solicitously.

"Don't misunderstand me," he said, "there's nothing I'd like better than to buy in this neighboring property--if I could get it at a reasonable figure; but Mr. Shadd advises me that your ore lies in a gash-vein, which will undoubtedly pinch out at depth."

"A gash-vein!" echoed Denver, "why the poor, ignorant fool--can't you see that the vein is getting bigger? Well, how can it be a gash-vein when it's between two good walls and increasing in width all the time?