Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1168
“It’ll take a ten-ton stamp mill to work this mine.” ‘Ten-ton!” ejaculated Kalispel. “How on earth could such a mill be gotten here?”
“Packed in on mules. It can be done. It must be done.... An’ now you see why we must sell out, or sell a half interest, at least. We have no money.”
“Why not keep the quartz mine secret, while we work all this placer mine for ourselves?” asked Kalispel. “Then afterward sell out or finance the job ourselves?”
“Thet’s a big idee,” agreed Jake.
“It may be a good idee, but it’s not good business. We want action. We’d risk everythin’ to keep this quartz mine a secret. Because sooner or later, while we are workin’ the placers, other miners will drift in. The Bitter Root range an’ the Lemhi are full of them.”
“Well, let them drift,” declared Kalispel. “We can take care of ourselves an’ hang on to our holdin’s. All the time we’ll be diggin’ gold while keepin’ our best secret. Then, when we are forced to show our hand, all right. An’ the situation will be precisely the same as it is now.”
Jake agreed with Kalispel, and they argued with Sam. But he was obdurate, and at length out of deference to his superior experience and judgment they let him have his way. Whereupon they fell to discussing the other aspects of the case. Sam finally worked out a plan. He would stay in the valley, guarding the quartz mine, while working the placers along the stream. Jake and Kalispel were to trace the best trail possible out of the mountains and then make their way to Boise, where they would exhibit their quartz finding to prominent mining-men, and consider no less than a hundred thousand dollars for a half interest, the contracting parties to furnish the mill, have it packed in, and work the mine. If a good deal could not be consummated at Boise, they were to proceed to Challis and Salmon. Sam said he could stretch food supplies for a month and it would be necessary for one of the brothers, at least, to pack in before the expiration of that time. They settled all before going to bed at a late hour.
Kalispel could not sleep at once. His mind was full. It seemed that the unlucky star under which he had always ridden had marvelously brightened. And while he lay there the old mountain rumbled its faint deep thunder of warning.
On the following morning Kalispel and Jake, driving three lightly packed burros, headed up the valley on their important mission. Sam accompanied them as far as his quartz vein, which was located in an outcropping ledge of rock at the edge of the bench where it merged into the mountain. Jake, who did not like this separation, strode gloomily along without looking back. Kalispel, however, at a curve of the stream, turned to wave good-by. But Sam had already forgotten them. His red-shirted frame bent over his precious gold-bearing ledge.
Jake had been given the task of lining a trail that could be used later by a heavily-packed train of mules. Wherefore he kept to the watercourse. They found that the narrow valley did not box at all, but wound to the south, grading to a rough pass between forest-patched mountain summits. They headed the stream, and by noonday had worked to the divide from which an elk trail descended under beetling cliffs. It led to a wide valley through which ran the Middle Fork branch of the Salmon river. It was a wide, swift, shallow stream. They crossed with difficulty, finding the icy water and slippery rocks hard to contend with. They camped on the opposite bank, where a roaring fire, dry clothes, and hot food dispelled the discouragement that had attended the inception of this doubtful journey.
Next day they zigzagged up a vast mountain slope, covered with thick white grass, and picturesque for its numerous patches of black fir. Elk and deer scarcely took the trouble to move out of their path. Once on the summit of this range Jake encountered obstacles to the much-desired, easily-graded trail to the southwest. He made a false start and was compelled to return and more carefully study the baffling maze of sharp peaks and dark canyons. In the end he led around a mountain, from the higher shoulder of which, before sunset of that day, he pointed out to his brother the valley of the main Salmon, the town of Challis, the Lemhi mountains and to the south rolling, gray country that opened into the purple range.
It took three days to grade out a trail down to Challis. The brothers camped on the outskirts of the little town. After supper Jake made inquiries, and to his dismay ascertained that a stage for Boise did not leave until Saturday, and that the supplies needed must be brought from Salmon, sixty miles down the river.
Jake was a thoughtful man that night round the camp fire. Finally he unburdened himself.
“Lee, I didn’t like leavin’ Sam alone in thet hole. An’ we can’t go on to Boise, make this minin’ deal, an’ come back to Sam inside of a month. So here’s what we’ll do. I’ll go on to Boise alone.... Don’t worry. I won’t lose the quartz an’ I’ll be shore nobody gets a hunch about it. Reckon I’ll not need more’n a few dollars till I make the deal. So you can have this money. You go to Salmon an’ buy three more burros, an’ all the supplies you can pack on them, an’ rustle back to Sam.... What you think of my idee?”
“It’s a damn good one,” replied Lee. “By the time I get to Salmon a week will be gone. It’ll take a couple of days to outfit there. An’ with six burros all loaded down, an’ allowin’ for the steep grades an’ rough ground on that trail we worked out on — why Jake, even with good luck I couldn’t nake it back to Sam in two weeks.”
“You shore couldn’t. Say a month. An’ then you’ll beat any cowpunchin’ job you ever had.... Wal, it’s settled, an’ I’m relieved.”
Late afternoon of the second day, on the way down the river, Kalispel came to where the Salmon made a wide, slow bend. The several hundred acres of land inclosed by the stream in that circling constituted the ranch he had seen from a mountain-top on the way in. From that far point he had made out several groves of cottonwoods, the wide, flat, brown and green fields, the fringe of trees bordering the river, the sheltered log cabin under the lea of the hill. But at close range this ranch appeared the finest prospect he had ever encountered. The soil was fertile. He crossed several brooks on his way toward the log cabin. On each side of the river sloped up endless acreage of grazing-land. Kalispel thrilled with his resolve to own that ranch.
A settler named Olsen lived there with his small family. Lee had supper with him and talked casually.
“Been prospectin’,” he explained. “Don’t care for it much. But I like ranchin’. Could you use a good cowman?”
“Huh! Got more work than I can do. Couldn’t pay wages, though. Fact is I’d like to sell out.”
“That’s interestin’. What’d you take?”
“I’d hate to have some real money shoved at me,” replied the settler, tersely.
“So? — well, if I strike pay dirt I’ll come back an’ shove some at you.”
Next day, late, Kalispel trudged footsore and weary into Salmon. He had been there several times and he liked the place. It had been a mining-town for years and ha’d seen more than one gold boom. Even in dull times Salmon was a bustling center, being a distributing point between towns over the Montana line and those west into Idaho as far as Boise. Salmon resembled other Western mining-towns in its one long, wide, main street, but off this thoroughfare it reminded Lee of some of the hamlets back in Missouri.
He found pasture for his burros, and made a deal to secure three more, including pack-saddles. Then he repaired to the main street and a lodging-house he knew. When former acquaintances failed to recognize him, Kalispel decided that he must be a pretty dirty, bearded, ragged, hard-looking customer. The best he could do that night was to wash and shave, which helped mightily; but he seriously appreciated the fact that he must make a most advantageous deal in buying the supplies so that he would have money enough left for a new outfit. His boots had no soles and his trousers hung in tatters. He recalled a girl whose acquaintance he had made on a former sojourn in Salmon — what was her name? — and he could not present himself to her in this scarecrow garb.
Kalispel put on his coat, then had to remove it because he had slipped one arm through a rent instead of the sleeve. This was another rueful reminder of his poverty. He did not care about his appearance or even comfort while out on the range or in the wilds, but here in town among people he did not like his poverty. He blew out the lamp and left his room.
In the yellow flare of a hall lamp he saw two figures at the head of the stairway — a young woman standing with her back toward him, facing a man who had started down the steps and was looking back.
“Dad, please don’t leave me alone. I—” she was entreating, in a voice that would have arrested Kalispel even if her small, dark, graceful head had not.
“You’ll be all right, Sydney,” replied the man, with a laugh. “You’re out West now and must look after yourself. I want to talk to some miners. Go to bed.”
He stamped on down the rickety stairway. The girl partly turned as Kalispel passed her and he caught a glimpse of a pale, clean-cut profile, striking enough in that poor light to make him want to turn and stare. But he resisted the desire and went quickly down, wanting to get another look at the father of that girl. He caught an odor of rum. There was a barroom connected with this lodging-house, but there was no doorway opening into it from the hall. Kalispel followed the man outside, where at the street corner under the yellow lights he met several men in rough garb, evidently waiting for him.
Kalispel approached them. “Howdy men,” he said, genially. “I’m a stranger hereabouts. Where can I eat?”
“Reckon I’ve seen you before,” replied one, a keen-eyed, hard-visaged Westerner who apparently missed nothing in Kalispel’s make-up, especially not the gun hanging low.
“Yeah? All the same I’m a stranger an’ hungry,” retorted Lee, as he returned the searching scrutiny.
“Young fellow, there’s a good restaurant a few doors below,” replied the man Lee wanted a second glance at. He was beyond middle age, a handsome man with lined, weak face and dark eyes full of havoc. His frame was not robust and his garb betokened the tenderfoot.
“Thanks. Would you have a bite with me?” returned Kalispel.
“I had mine early.”
“Say, cowpuncher, mozy along, will you?” broke in another of the trio of Westerners. He had a lean sallow face, a long drooping mustache, and eyes that burned in the shadow of his sombrero.
That was sufficient to ignite the spark always smoldering in Lee’s spirit.
“Why shore I’ll mozy along — when I get ready,” he replied, curtly.
“Ain’t you thet Kalispel cowboy late of Montana?” queried the man who had first spoken, as with a slight gesture he silenced his lean-jawed companion.
“Yeah, I happen to be that cowboy — Kalispel Emerson.”
“Wal, no offense meant,” rejoined the other, hurriedly. “We jest want to talk business to Mr. Blair hyar. An’ time’s pressin’.”
Kalispel did not trouble to reply. He fixed piercing eyes upon the tenderfoot, who appeared to sense something amiss, but could not gather what. “Excuse me, Mr. Blair, if I give you a hunch, usin’ the advice I just heard you give your daughter. You’re out West now an’ must look after yourself.”
With that pointed speech Kalispel wheeled to pass on down the street. “Dog-gone!” he soliloquized. “They’ll fleece the socks off that tenderfoot.... An’ the wolf-jawed hombre — wherevd I ever see him? Gambler, I’ll bet.... Well, it’s none of my mix. I’ve trouble of my own. But that girl — now—”
Kalispel went into the restaurant to go about appeasing his ravenous hunger. He had not had a square meal for so long that he felt like a starved bear. His quick eye surveyed the assembled males, not one of which was a cowman. From long habit Kalispel always looked for that uncertain quantity. He fell to conversing with a miner and soon forgot the Blair incident. Then, in a few moments, he was attending to savory food set before him.
Then Kalispel, cheerful and responsive to exciting surroundings, strode out to see the town. How many nights had he ridden in off the range to make up for the monotony of a rider’s life! But a voice cautioned him to remember the importance of his mission. No bucking the tiger — not a single drop of red liquor! This somewhat subdued his exuberance. Still, he would have a look, anyhow, and to that end he made the rounds of the saloons, the gambling-dens and dance-halls, winding up at the Spread Eagle, a composite resort at the edge of town on the bank of the river. This place was in full blast, and as Kalispel went into the big barnlike, gaudily-decorated dance-hall, full of smoke and the merry roar of music and dancers, he experienced a thought that had come to him many a time before — it would be well for him to have an anchor. He liked this sort of fling, which he argued would be all right, if it were not for the drink and fights and worse that seemed to attend a lonesome cowboy’s infrequent visits to town.
Presently, at the end of a dance, he saw a girl detach herself from a burly dancer, to make her way in his direction. Kalispel had observed that, besides himself, there was not a young fellow in the hall. And this girl was hardly more than sixteen. She was little in stature, pretty in a birdlike way, with golden hair, and certainly was most inadequately clothed for such a cool night. She accosted Kalispel with a query as to where she had met him before.
“Gawd only knows, sweetheart. I’m shore a rollin’ stone.”
“You’re not one of these mining galoots?” she asked, quickly. “I’ll bet you’re a grub-line cowpuncher out of a job.”
“Plumb center, little girl. Gosh! but you’re smart. An’ you know the range, too.”
“Put on your hat, unless you want to dance with me. I’m not used to bareheaded men,” she returned, testily, while she fastened penetrating blue eyes on him.
“I’d like to dance with you, but I’m too much of a ragamuffin.”
“That’s no matter. Come on.”
“Besides, I’ve no money to buy drinks.”
“I don’t want to drink. I can’t stand much. I hate these club-footed, rum-soaked miners who slobber over me and paw me.... And I kind of like you, cowboy.”
“Dog-gone it, I like you too,” replied Kalispel, dubiously, feeling a wave of the old loneliness surge over him.
She was about to put a hand on his arm when a pale-faced, sombre-eyed man, approaching from behind Kalispel, with a slight gesture of authority, sent her hurriedly away.
“Young fellow, you’ll excuse me,” he said, coldly. “Nugget is much in demand.”
“Nugget?” queried Kalispel, slowly.
“Yes, Nugget. Nobody knows her real name.”
“Ah-huh. Suppose I take this act of yours as an insult. Your Spread Eagle is open to all.”
“Certainly, but not over cordial to tramps.”
“Your mistake, mister, an’ damned risky,” flashed Kalispel, changing to a menace the bitter range had fostered in him. “If I had intended to dance with your Nugget — an’ she asked me to — you’d be dancin’ to dodge hot bullets with your feet, right this minute.”
Whereupon Kalispel lunged out of the glaring hall into the cold, dark night. It was getting late and the street was no longer crowded. He took to its center and made for his lodging-house. A familiar old sensation assailed him, a weakening, a sinking down, always in the past the precursor to a drinking debauch and a period of oblivion. But this had to be battled now. His status had changed. There was fortune to be made and happiness to achieve. In that clarifying passionate moment of vision he saw the future, and it was like a picture, beautiful and golden and rosy.
He reached the tavern. Men were passing in and out of the crowded noisy saloon. Kalispel went into the hall and up the rickety stairway. The lamp burned brightly on the landing of the second floor. As he turned toward his door he heard a low agitated voice, “Get out — of here!”
He stopped short. That Blair girl, whom her father had called Sydney! A man’s voice, hurried and sibilant, answered her. “Sssch! Some one will hear. Listen to me—”
“No! Get out of my room!” she cried, her voice poignant with anger and fear.
Kalispel saw that her door was ajar. In two long strides he reached it and with forceful hand shoved it open violently. The act disclosed a tall man starting back from this sudden intrusion, and a white-faced girl, with dark eyes distended in fear, in the act of slipping off her bed. She was clad in a long nightgown and with one hand held the edge of a blanket to her breast. A lighted lamp stood on a little table close to her bed; a book lay face open on the floor.
“Pardon, Lady,” said Kalispel, curtly. “Did I hear you order some one from your room?”
“Yes — you did,” she replied, poignantly.
“All a mistake. I got in the wrong room,” spoke up the man, with a short laugh that betrayed little concern for this intruder but considerable annoyance at the intrusion. He had to brush by Kalispel to get out the door.
“It was not a mistake,” spoke up the girl, hotly. “He came in. I asked if it were Dad. He saw me — in bed — reading. I ordered him out Twice! But he — he came toward me.”
“Aw, nonsense!” rasped the man, halted by her accusation to confront Kalispel. He had bold eyes that gleamed, a protruding, clean-shaven jowl, a forceful presence. “She’s a tenderfoot, scared silly because I happened to open her door instead of mine.”
“Ah-huh. Why didn’t you step out quick when you saw the lady in bed?” demanded Kalispel.
“I was going to.”
“Say, I heard her order you out. Twice!”
“Look here, are you questioning me, you—”
“Not any more,” interrupted Kalispel. “But I’ll take a whack at you.”
A sharp left-handed blow sent the man staggering back off his balance. He might have gained his equilibrium, but Kalispel leaped after him and swung a terrific right to that prominent jaw. The sudden blow knocked him against the railing, which gave way with a crack. He went down the stairway, to fall with a resounding crash to the floor below. The jar that accompanied the crash brought the trample of heavy boots and excited voices of men entering below.
