The Blue Goose
by Frank Lewis Nason · English · Gutenberg #31485 · 375,079 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Blue Goose
Author: Frank Lewis Nason
Release date: March 3, 2010 [eBook #31485]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31485
Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLUE GOOSE ***
Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
The BLUE GOOSE
FRANK LEWIS NASON
AUTHOR OF TO THE END OF THE TRAIL
COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY
McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.
NEW YORK
Published, March, 1903, R
Second Impression
* * * * *
"_So I prophesied as I was commanded: and as I prophesied, there was a
noise and behold a shaking, and the bones came together bone to bone._
"_And, lo, the sinews and the flesh came upon them, but there was no
breath in them._
"_Son of man, prophesy unto the wind. Come from the four winds, O
breath, and breathe upon these that they may live._
"_And the breath came into them and they lived._"
To
MY FRIEND OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS,
CHARLES EMERSON BEECHER,
who, with infinite skill and patience, has breathed the breath of life
into the dry bones of Earth's untold ages of upward struggle, who has
made them speak of the eternity of their past, and has made them
prophesy hope for the eternity to come, this book is dedicated by the
author.
CONTENTS
I. THE BLUE GOOSE
II. THE OLD MAN
III. ÉLISE
IV. THE WATCHED POT BEGINS TO BOIL
V. BENNIE OPENS THE POT AND FIRMSTONE COMES IN
VI. THE FAMILY CIRCLE
VII. MR. MORRISON TACKLES A MAN WITH A MIND OF HIS OWN AND A MAN WITHOUT
ONE
VIII. MADAME SEEKS COUNSEL
IX. THE MEETING AT THE BLUE GOOSE
X. ÉLISE GOES FORTH TO CONQUER
XI. THE DEVIL'S ELBOW
XII. FIGS AND THISTLES
XIII. THE STORK AND THE CRANES
XIV. BLINDED EYES
XV. BENDING THE TWIG
XVI. AN INSISTENT QUESTION
XVII. THE BEARDED LION
XVIII. WINNOWED CHAFF
XIX. THE FLY IN THE OINTMENT
XX. THE RIVER GIVES UP ITS PREY
XXI. THE SWORD THAT TURNS
XXII. GOOD INTENTIONS
XXIII. AN UNEXPECTED RECRUIT
XXIV. THE GATHERING TO ITS OWN
XXV. A DIVIDED HOUSE
XXVI. THE DAY OF RECKONING
XXVII. PASSING CLOUDS
THE BLUE GOOSE
CHAPTER I
_The Blue Goose_
"_Mais oui!_ I tell you one ting. One big ting. Ze big man wiz ze glass
eyes, he is vat you call one slik stoff. Ze big man wiz ze glass eyes."
"The old man?"
"Zat's him! One slik stoff! _Écoutez!_ Listen! One day, you mek ze gran'
trip. Look hout!" Pierre made a gesture as of a dog shaking a rat.
The utter darkness of the underground laboratory was parted in solid
masses, by bars of light that spurted from the cracks of a fiercely
glowing furnace. One shaft fell on a row of large, unstoppered bottles.
From these bottles fumes arose, mingled, and fell in stifling clouds of
fleecy white. From another bottle in Pierre's hands a dense red smoke
welled from a colourless liquid, crowded through the neck, wriggled
through the bar of light, and sank in the darkness beneath. The darkness
was uncanny, the fumes suffocating, the low hum of the furnace forcing
out the shafts of light from the cracks of the imprisoning walls
infernally suggestive.
Luna shivered. He was ignorant, therefore superstitious, and
superstition strongly suggested the unnatural. He knew that furnaces and
retorts and acids and alkalies were necessary to the refinement of gold.
He feared them, yet he had used them, but he had used them where the
full light of day robbed them of half their terrors. In open air acids
might smoke, but drifting winds would brush away the fumes. Furnaces
might glow, but their glow would be as naught in sunlight. There was no
darkness in which devils could hide to pounce on him unawares, no walls
to imprison him. The gold he retorted on his shovel was his, and he had
no fear of the law. In the underground laboratory of Pierre the element
of fear was ever present. The gold that the furnace retorted was stolen,
and Luna was the thief. There were other thieves, but that did not
matter to him. He stole gold from the mill. Others stole gold from the
mine. It all came to Pierre and to Pierre's underground furnace. He
stood in terror of the supernatural, of the law, and, most of all, of
Pierre. In the darkness barred with fierce jets of light, imprisoned by
walls that he could not see, cut off from the free air of open day,
stifled by pungent gases that stung him, throat and eye, he felt an
uncanny oppression, fear of the unknown, fear of the law, most of all
fear of Pierre.
Pierre watched him through his mantle of darkness. He thrust forward his
head, and a bar of light smote him across his open lips. It showed his
gleaming teeth white and shut, his black moustache, his swarthy lips
parted in a sardonic smile; that was all. A horrible grin on a
background of inky black.
Luna shrank.
"Leave off your devil's tricks."
"_Moi?_"
Pierre replaced the bottle of acid on the shelf and picked up a pair of
tongs. As he raised the cover of the glowing crucible a sudden
transformation took place. The upper part of the laboratory blazed out
fiercely, and in this light Pierre moved with gesticulating arms, the
lower part of his body wholly hidden. He lifted the crucible, shook it
for a moment with an oscillatory motion, then replaced it on the fire.
He turned again to Luna.
"Hall ze time I mek ze explain. Hall ze time you mek ze question.
_Comment?_"
Luna's courage was returning in the light.
"You're damned thick-headed, when it suits you, all right. Well, I'll
explain. Last clean-up I brought you two pounds of amalgam if it was an
ounce. All I got out of it was fifty dollars. You said that was my
share. Hansen brought you a chunk of quartz from the mine. He showed it
to me first. If I know gold from sulphur, there was sixty dollars in it.
Hansen got five out of it."
Pierre interrupted.
"You mek mention ze name."
"There's no one to hear in this damned hell of yours."
"_Non_," Pierre answered. "You mek mention in zis hell. Bimby you mek
mention," Pierre gave an expressive upward jerk with his thumb, then
shrugged his shoulders.
"I'll look out for that," Luna answered, impatiently. "I'm after
something else now. I'm getting sick of pinching the mill and bringing
the stuff here for nothing. So are the rest of the boys. We ain't got no
hold on you and you ain't playing fair. You've got to break even or this
thing's going to stop."
Pierre made no reply to Luna. He picked up the tongs, lifted the
crucible from the fire, and again replaced it. Then he brought out an
ingot mould and laid it on a ledge of the furnace. The crucible was
again lifted from the fire, and its contents were emptied in the mould.
Pierre and Luna both watched the glowing metal. As it slowly cooled,
iridescent sheens of light swept over its surface like the changing
colours of a dying dolphin. Pierre held up the mould to Luna.
"How much she bin?"
Luna looked covetously at the softly glowing metal. "Two hundred."
"_Bien._ She's bin ze amalgam, ze quart', ze hozer stoff. Da's hall."
Luna looked sceptical.
"That's too thin. How many times have you fired up?"
"Zis!" Pierre held up a single emphasizing finger.
"We'll let that go," Luna answered; "but you listen now. One of the
battery men is off to-night. I'm going to put Morrison on substitute.
He's going to break a stem or something. The mortar's full to the dies.
We're going to clean it out. I know how much it will pan. It's coming to
you. You divide fair or it's the last you'll get. I'll hide it out in
the usual place."
"Look hout! Da's hall!"
The other laughed impatiently.
"Getting scared, Frenchy? Where's your nerve?"
"Nerf! Nerf!" Pierre danced from foot to foot, waving his arms. "_Sacré
plastron!_ You mek ze fuse light. You sit on him, heh? Bimeby, pretty
soon, you got no nerf. You got noddings. You got one big gris-spot on ze
rock. Da's hall." Pierre subsided, with a gesture of intense disgust.
Luna snapped his watch impatiently.
"It's my shift, Frenchy. I've got to go in a few minutes."
"_Bien!_ Go!" Pierre spoke without spirit. "Mek of yourself one gran'
_folie_. _Mais_, when ze shot go, an' you sail in ze air, don' come down
on ze Blue Goose, on me, Pierre. I won't bin here, da's hall."
Luna turned.
"I tell you I've got to go now. I wish you'd tell me what's the matter
with the old man."
Pierre roused himself.
"Noddings. Ze hol' man has noddings ze mattaire. It is you! You! Ze hol'
man, he go roun' lak he kick by ze dev'. He mek his glass eyes to shine
here an' twinkle zere, an' you mek ze gran' chuckle, 'He see noddings.'
He see more in one look dan you pack in your tick head! I tol' you look
hout; da's hall!"
Luna jammed his watch into his pocket and rose.
"It's all right, Frenchy. I'll give you another chance. To-day's
Thursday. Saturday they'll clean up at the mill. It will be a big one. I
want my rake-off. The boys want theirs. It all comes to the Blue Goose,
one way or another. You think you're pretty smooth stuff. That's all
right; but let me tell you one thing: if there's any procession heading
for Cañon City, you'll be in it, too."
Cañon City was the State hostelry. Occasionally the law selected
unwilling guests. It was not over-large, nor was it overcrowded. Had it
sheltered all deserving objects, the free population of the State would
have been visibly diminished.
Pierre only shrugged his shoulders. He followed Luna up the stairs to
the outer door, and watched the big mill foreman as he walked down the
trail to the mill. Then, as was his custom when perturbed in mind,
Pierre crossed the dusty waggon trail and seated himself on a boulder,
leaning his back against a scrubby spruce. He let his eyes rest
contentedly on a big, square-faced building. Rough stone steps led up to
a broad veranda, from which rose, in barbaric splendour, great sheets of
shining plate-glass, that gave an unimpeded view of a long mahogany bar
backed by tiers of glasses and bottles, doubled by reflection from
polished mirrors that reached to the matched-pine ceiling.
Across the room from the bar, roulette and faro tables, bright with
varnish and gaudy with nickel trimmings, were waiting with invitations
to feverish excitement. The room was a modern presentation of Scylla and
Charybdis. Scylla, the bar, stimulated to the daring of Charybdis across
the way, and Charybdis, the roulette, sent its winners to celebrate
success, or its victims to deaden the pain of loss.
At the far end of the room a glass-covered arcade stood in advance of
doors to private club-rooms. At the arcade an obliging attendant passed
out gold and silver coins, for a consideration, in exchange for crumpled
time-checks and greasy drafts.
Pierre grinned and rubbed his hands. Above the plate glass on the
outside a gorgeous rainbow arched high on the painted front. Inscribed
within, in iridescent letters, was: "The Blue Goose. Pierre La Martine."
Beneath the spring of the rainbow, for the benefit of those who could
not read, was a huge blue goose floating aimlessly in a sheet of bluer
water.
This was all of the Blue Goose that was visible to the eyes of the
uninitiated; of the initiated there were not many.
Beneath the floor was a large cellar, wherein was a fierce-looking
furnace, which on occasion grew very red with its labours. There were
pungent jars and ghostly vessels and a litter of sacks, and much
sparkling dust on the earthen floor. All this Pierre knew, and a few
others, though even these had not seen it.
Beneath the shadow of the wings of the Blue Goose dwelt a very plain
woman, who looked chronically frightened, and a very beautiful girl who
did not. The scared woman was Madame La Martine; the unscared girl
passed for their daughter, but about the daughter no one asked questions
of Pierre. About the Blue Goose, its bar, and its gaming-tables Pierre
was eloquent, even with strangers. About his daughter and other things
his acquaintances had learned to keep silence; as for strangers, they
soon learned.
Obviously the mission of the Blue Goose was to entertain; with the
multitude this mission passed current at its face value, but there were
a few who challenged it. Now and then a grocer or a butcher made gloomy
comments as he watched a growing accumulation of books that would not
prove attractive to the most confirmed bibliophile. Men went to the Blue
Goose with much money, but came out with none, for the bar and roulette
required cash settlements. Their wives went in to grocers and butchers
with no money but persuasive tongues, and came forth laden with spoils.
Pandora could raise no taxes for schools, so there were none. Preachers
came and offered their wares without money and without price, but there
were no churches. For the wares of the preachers flushed no faces and
burned no throats, nor were there rattles even in contribution boxes,
and there was no whirr of painted wheels. Even the hundred rumbling
stamps of the Rainbow mill might as well have pounded empty air or
clashed their hard steel shoes on their hard steel dies for all the
profit that came to the far-away stockholders of the great Rainbow mine
and mill.
So it came to pass that many apparently unrelated facts were gathered
together by the diligent but unprosperous, and, being thus gathered,
pointed to a very inevitable conclusion. Nothing and no one was
prosperous, save Pierre and his gorgeous Blue Goose. For Pierre was a
power in the land. He feared neither God nor the devil. The devil was
the bogie-man of the priest. As for God, who ever saw him? But of some
men Pierre had much fear, and among the same was "the hol' man" at the
mill.
CHAPTER II
_The Old Man_
After leaving the Blue Goose Luna went straight to the superintendent's
office. He was nettled rather than worried by Pierre's cautions. Worry
implied doubt of his own wisdom, as well as fear of the old man.
Superintendents had come to, and departed from, the Rainbow. Defiant
fanfares had heralded their coming, confusion had reigned during their
sojourn, their departure had been duly celebrated at the Blue Goose.
This had been the invariable sequence. Through all these changes Pierre
was complacently confident, but he never lost his head. The bottles of
the Blue Goose bar were regularly drained, alike for welcoming and for
speeding the departing incumbent at the Rainbow.
The roulette whirred cheerfully, gold and silver coins clinked merrily,
the underground furnace reddened and dulled at regular periods, and much
lawful money passed back and forth between the Blue Goose and its
patrons. Not that the passing back and forth was equal; Pierre attended
to that. His even teeth gleamed between smiling lips, his swarthy cheeks
glowed, and day by day his black hair seemed to grow more sleek and
oily, and his hands smoother with much polishing.
Pierre read printed words with ease. That which was neither printed nor
spoken was spelled out, sometimes with wrinkling of brows and narrowing
of eyes, but with unmistakable correctness in the end. From the faces
and actions of men he gathered wisdom, and this wisdom was a lamp to his
feet, and in dark places gave much light to his eyes. Thus it happened
that with the coming of Richard Firmstone came also great caution to
Pierre.
The present superintendent blew no fanfares on his new trumpet, he
expressed no opinion of his predecessors, and gave no hint of his future
policy.
Mr. Morrison, who oiled his hair and wore large diamonds in a
much-starched, collarless shirt while at the bar of the Blue Goose,
donned overalls and jumpers while doing "substitute" at the mill, and
between times kept alive the spirit of rebellion in the bosoms of
down-trodden, capitalist-ridden labour. Morrison freely voiced the
opinion that the Rainbow crowd had experienced religion, and had sent
out a Sunday-school superintendent to reform the workmen and to count
the dollars that dropped from beneath the stamps of the big mill. In
this opinion Luna, the mill foreman, concurred. He even raised the ante,
solemnly averring that the old man opened the mill with prayer, sang
hallelujahs at change of shift, and invoked divine blessing before
chewing his grub. Whereat the down-trodden serfs of soulless
corporations cheered long and loud, and called for fresh oblations at
the bar of the Blue Goose.
All these things Luna pondered in his mind, and his indignation waxed
hot at Pierre.
"The damned old frog-eater's losing his nerve; that's what! I ain't
going to be held up by no frog-spawn."
He opened the office door and clumped up to the railing.
The superintendent looked up.
"What is it, Luna?"
"Long, on number ten battery, is sick and off shift. Shall we hang up
ten, or put on Morrison?"
The superintendent smiled.
"Is it Morrison, or hang up?" he asked.
The question was disconcerting. The foreman shifted his footing.
"Morrison is all right," he said, doggedly. "He's a good battery man.
Things ain't pushing at the Blue Goose, and he can come as well as not."
"What's the matter with Morrison?" The superintendent's smile broadened.
The foreman looked puzzled.
"I've just been telling you--he's all right."
"That's so. Only, back east, when a horse jockey gets frothy about the
good points of his horse, we look sharp."
The foreman grew impatient.
"You haven't told me whether to hang up ten or not."
"I'm not going to. You are foreman of the mill. Put on anyone you want;
fire anyone you want. It's nothing to me; only," he looked hard, "you
know what we're running this outfit for."
The foreman appeared defiant. Guilty thoughts were spurring him to
unwise defence.
"If the ore ain't pay I can't get it out."
"I'll attend to the ore, that's my business. Get out what there is in
it, that's yours." He leaned forward to his papers.
The foreman shifted uneasily. His defence was not complete. He was not
sure that he had been attacked. He knew Morrison of the Blue Goose. He
knew the workings of the mill. He had thought he knew the old man. He
was not so sure now. He was not even sure how much or how little he had
let out. Perhaps Pierre's words had rattled him. He shifted from foot to
foot, twirling his hat on his fingers. He half expected, half hoped, and
half waited for another opening. None came. Through the muffled roar of
the stamps he was conscious of the sharp scratch of the superintendent's
pen. Then came the boom of the big whistle. It was change of shift. The
jar of the office door closing behind him was not heard. At the mill he
found Morrison.
"You go on ten, in Long's place," he said, gruffly, as he entered the
mill.
Morrison stared at the retreating foreman.
"What in hell," he began; then, putting things together in his mind, he
shook his head, and followed the foreman into the mill.
The superintendent was again interrupted by the rasping of hobnailed
shoes on the office floor and the startled creak of the office railing
as a large, loose-jointed man leaned heavily against it. His trousers,
tucked into a pair of high-laced, large-eyed shoes, were belted at the
waist in a conspicuous roll. A faded gray shirt, rolled up at the
sleeves, disclosed a red undershirt and muscular arms. A well-shaped
head with grey streaked hair, and a smooth, imperturbable face was
shaded by a battered sombrero that was thrust back and turned squarely
up in front.
The superintendent's smile had nothing puzzling now.
"Hello, Zephyr. Got another Camp Bird?"
"Flying higher'n a Camp Bird this time."
"How's that?"
"Right up to the golden gates this time, sure. It's straight goods. St.
Peter ain't going to take no post-prandial siestas from now on. I'm
timbering my shots to keep from breaking the sky. Tell you what, I'm
jarring them mansions in heaven wuss'n a New York subway contractor them
Fifth Avenue palaces." Zephyr paused and glanced languidly at the
superintendent.
Firmstone chuckled.
"Go on," he said.
"I've gone as far as I can without flying. It's a lead from the golden
streets of the New Jerusalem. Followed it up to the foot of Bingham
Pass; caught it above the slide, then it took up the cliff, and
disappeared in the cerulean. Say, Goggles, how are you off for chuck?
I've been up against glory, and I'm down hungrier than a she-bear that's
skipped summer and hibernated two winters."
"Good! Guess Bennie will fix us up something. Can you wait a few
minutes?"
"I think I can. I've been practising on that for years. No telling when
such things will come in handy. You don't object to music, Goggles?"
"Not to music, no," Firmstone answered, with an amused glance at Zephyr.
Zephyr, unruffled, drew from his shirt a well-worn harmonica.
"Music hath charms," he remarked, brushing the instrument on the sleeve
of his shirt. "Referring to my savage breast, not yours."
He placed the harmonica to his lips, holding it in hollowed hands. His
oscillating breath jarred from the metal reeds the doleful strains of
_Home, Sweet Home_, muffled by the hollow of his hands into mournful
cadences.
At last Firmstone closed his desk.
"If your breast is sufficiently soothed, let's see what Bennie can do
for your stomach."
As they passed from the office Zephyr carefully replaced the harmonica
in his shirt.
"I'd rather be the author of that touching little song than the owner of
the Inferno. That's my new claim," he remarked, distantly.
Firmstone laughed.
"I thought your claim was nearer heaven."
"The two are not far apart. 'Death, like a narrow sea, divides.' But my
reminiscences were getting historical, which you failed to remark. I
ain't no Wolfe and Pierre ain't no Montcalm, nor the Heights of Abraham
ain't the Blue Goose. Pierre's a hog. At least, he's a close second. A
hog eats snakes and likewise frogs. Pierre's only got as far as frogs,
last I heard. Pierre's bad. Morrison's bad. Luna ain't. He thinks he is;
but he ain't. I'm not posting you nor nothing. I'm only meditating out
loud. That's all."
They entered the mill boarding-house. Bennie, the cook, greeted Zephyr
effusively.
"Goggles invited me to pay my respects to you," Zephyr remarked. "I'm
empty, and I'm thinking you can satisfy my longing as nothing else can
do."
Zephyr addressed himself to Bennie's viands. At last he rose from the
table.
"To eat and to sleep are the chief ends of man. I have eaten, and now I
see I am tired. With your consent, uttered or unexpressed, I'll wrap the
drapery of my bunk around me and take a snooze. And say, Goggles," he
added, "if, the next time you inventory stock, you are shy a sack of
flour and a side of bacon, you can remark to the company that
prospectors is thick around here, and that prospectors is prone to evil
as the sparks fly upward. That's where the flour and bacon are going. Up
to where St. Peter can smell them cooking; leastways he can if he hangs
his nose over the wall and the wind's right."
CHAPTER III
_Élise_
Bennie was an early riser, as became a faithful cook; but, early as he
usually was, this morning he was startled into wakefulness by a jarring
chug, as Zephyr, with a relieved grunt, dropped a squashy sack on the
floor near his bunk. Bennie sprang to a sitting posture, rubbing his
sleepy eyes to clear his vision; but, before he could open his eyes or
his mouth beyond a startled ejaculation, Zephyr had departed. He soon
reappeared. There was another chug, another grunt, and another
departure. Four times this was repeated. Then Zephyr seated himself on
the bunk, and, pushing back his sombrero, mopped his perspiring brow.
"What the--" Bennie started in, but Zephyr's uplifted hand restrained
him.
"The race is not to the swift, Julius Benjamin. The wise hound holds his
yap till he smells a hot foot. Them indecisive sacks is hot footses,
Julius Benjamin; but it isn't your yap, not by quite some."
"What's up, Zephyr?" asked Bennie. "I'm not leaky."
"Them gelatinous sacks," Zephyr went on, eyeing them meditatively, "I
found hidden in the bushes near the mine, and they contain mighty
interesting matter. They're an epitome of life. They started straight,
but missed connections. Pulled up at the wrong station. I've thrown the
switch, and now you and me, Julius, will make it personally conducted
the rest of the trip."
"Hm!" mused Bennie. "I see. That stuff's been pinched from the mill."
"Good boy, Julius Benjamin! You're doing well. You'll go into words of
two syllables next."
Zephyr nodded, with a languid smile.
"But, to recapitulate, as my old school-teacher used to say, there's
thousands of dollars in them sacks. The Rainbow ain't coughing up no
such rich stuff as that. That rock is broken; ergo, it's been under the
stamps. It's coarse and fine, from which I infer it hasn't been through
the screens. And furthermore----"
Bennie interrupted eagerly.
"They've just hung up the stamps and raked out the rich stuff that's
settled between the dies!"
"Naturally, gold being heavier than quartz. Julius Benjamin, you're fit
for the second reader."
Bennie laughed softly.
"It's Luna or Morrison been robbing the mill. Won't Frenchy pull the
long face when he hears of your find?"
Zephyr made no farther reply than to blow _There'll Be a Hot Time_ from
pursed lips as he rolled a cigarette.
"So there will be," Bennie answered.
"Not to-night, Bennie." Zephyr was puffing meditative whiffs in the air.
"Great things move slowly. Richard Firmstone is great, Benjamin; leave
it to him."
Bennie was already dressed, and Zephyr, throwing the stub of his
cigarette through the open window, followed him to the kitchen. He ate
his specially prepared breakfast with an excellent appetite.
"I think I'll raise my bet. I mentioned a sack of flour and a side of
bacon. I'll take a can of coffee and a dab of sugar. St. Peter'll
appreciate that. 'Tis well to keep on the right side of the old man.
Some of us may have occasion to knock at his gate before the summer is
over. You've heard of my new claim, Bennie?"
Bennie made no reply. Between packing up Zephyr's supplies, attending to
breakfast for the men, and thinking of the sacks of stolen ore, he was
somewhat preoccupied.
Zephyr stowed the supplies in his pack and raised it to his shoulder.
Bennie looked up in surprise.
"You're not going now, are you?"
Zephyr was carefully adjusting the straps of his pack.
"It looks pretty much that way, Benjamin. When a man's got all he wants,
it's time for him to lope. If he stays, he might get more and
possibly--less."
"What will I do with these sacks?" Bennie asked hurriedly, as Zephyr
passed through the door.
Zephyr made no reply, further than softly to whistle _Break the News to
Mother_ as he swung into the trail. He clumped sturdily along,
apparently unmindful of the rarefied air that would ordinarily make an
unburdened man gasp for breath. His lips were still pursed, though they
had ceased to give forth sound. He came to the nearly level terrace
whereon, among scattered boulders, were clustered the squat shanties of
the town of Pandora.
He merely glanced at the Blue Goose, whose polished windows were just
beginning to glow with the light of the rising sun. He saw a door open
at the far end of the house and Madame La Martine emerge, a broom in her
hands and a dust-cloth thrown over one shoulder.
Pierre's labours ended late. Madame's began very early. Both had an
unvarying procession. Pierre had much hilarious company; it was his
business to keep it so. He likewise had many comforting thoughts; these
cost him no effort. The latter came as a logical sequence to the former.
Madame had no company, hilarious or otherwise. Instead of complacent
thoughts, she had anxiety. And so it came to pass that, while Pierre
grew sleek and smooth with the passing of years, Madame developed many
wrinkles and grey hairs and a frightened look, from the proffering of
wares that were usually thrust aside with threatening snarls and many
harsh words. Pierre was not alone in the unstinted pouring forth of the
wine of pleasure for the good of his companions and in uncorking his
vials of wrath for the benefit of his wife.
Zephyr read the whole dreary life at a glance. A fleeting thought came
to Zephyr. How would it have been with Madame had she years ago chosen
him instead of Pierre? A smile, half pitying, half contemptuous, was
suggested by an undecided quiver of the muscles of his face, more
pronounced by the light in his expressive eyes. He left the waggon trail
that zig-zagged up the steep grade beyond the outskirts of the town,
cutting across their sharp angles in a straight line. Near the foot of
an almost perpendicular cliff he again picked up the trail. Through a
notch in the brow of the cliff a solid bar of water shot forth. The
solid bar, in its fall broken to a misty spray, fell into a mossy basin
at the cliff's foot, regathered, and then, sliding and twisting in its
rock-strewn bed, gurgled among nodding flowers and slender, waving
willows that were fanned into motion by the breath of the falling spray.
Where the brook crossed the trail Zephyr stood still. Not all at once.
There was an indescribable suggestion of momentum overcome by the
application of perfectly balanced power.
Zephyr did not whistle, even softly. Instead, there was a low hum--
_But the maiden in the garden
Was the fairest flower of all._
Zephyr deliberately swung his pack from his shoulders, deposited it on
the ground, and as deliberately seated himself on the pack. There was an
unwonted commotion among the cluster of thrifty plants at which Zephyr
was looking expectantly. A laughing face with large eyes sparkling with
mischievous delight looked straight into his own. As the girl rose to
her feet she tossed a long, heavy braid of black hair over her shoulder.
"You thought you would scare me; now, didn't you?" She came forth from
the tangled plants and stood before him.
Zephyr's eyes were resting on the girl's face with a smile of quiet
approbation. Tall and slender, she was dressed in a dark gown, whose
sailor blouse was knotted at the throat with a red scarf; at her belt a
holster showed a silver-mounted revolver. An oval face rested on a
shapely neck, as delicately poised as the nodding flowers she held in
her hand. A rich glow, born of perfect health and stimulating air,
burned beneath the translucent olive skin.
Zephyr made no direct reply to her challenge.
"Why aren't you helping Madame at the Blue Goose?"
"Because I've struck, that's why." There was a defiant toss of the head,
a compressed frown on the arching brows. Like a cloud wind-driven from
across the sun the frown disappeared; a light laugh rippled from between
parted lips. "Daddy was mad, awfully mad. You ought to have seen him."
The flowers fell from her hands as she threw herself into Pierre's
attitude. "'Meenx,'" she mimicked, "'you mek to defy me in my own house?
Me? Do I not have plenty ze troub', but you mus' mek ze more? _Hein?_
Ansaire!' And so I did. So!" She threw her head forward, puckered her
lips, thrusting out the tip of her tongue at the appreciative Zephyr.
"Oh, it's lots of fun to get daddy mad. 'Vaire is my whip, my dog whip?
I beat you. I chastise you, meenx!'" The girl stooped to pick up her
scattered flowers. "Only it frightens poor mammy so. Mammy never talks
back only when daddy goes for me. I'd just like to see him when he comes
down this morning and finds me gone. It would be lots of fun. Only, if I
was there, I couldn't be here, and it's just glorious here, isn't it?
What's the trouble, Zephyr? You haven't said a word to me all this
time."
"When your blessed little tongue gets tired perhaps I'll start in.
There's no more telling when that will be than what I'll say, supposing
I get the chance."
"Oh, I knew there was something I wanted especially to see you about."
The face grew cloudy. "What do you think? You know I was sixteen my last
birthday, just a week ago?" She paused and looked at Zephyr
interrogatively. "I want to know where you are all the time now. It's
awfully important. I may want to elope with you at a moment's notice!"
She looked impressively at Zephyr.
Zephyr's jaw dropped.
"What the mischief----"
Élise interrupted:
"No, wait; I'm not through. Daddy got very playful that day, chucked my
chin, and called me _ma chère enfant_. That always means mischief.
'Élise bin seexten to-day, heh? Bimeby she tink to liv' her hol' daddy
and her hol' mammy and bin gone hoff wiz anodder feller, _hein_?' Then
he made another dab at my chin. I knew what he meant." She again assumed
Pierre's position. "'What you say, _ma chérie_? I pick you hout one nice
man! One ver' nice man! _Hein?_ M'sieu Mo-reeson. A ver' nice man. He
ben took good care _ma chérie_!'"
Zephyr was betrayed into a startled motion. Élise was watching him with
narrowed eyes. There was a gleam of satisfaction.
"That's all right, Zephyr. That's just what I did, only I did more. I
told daddy I'd just like M'sieu Mo-reeson to say marry to me! I told
daddy that I'd take the smirk out of M'sieu Mo-reeson's face and those
pretty curls out of M'sieu Mo-reeson's head if he dared look marry at
me. Only," she went on, "I'm a little girl, after all, and I thought the
easiest way would be to elope with you. I would like to see M'sieu
Mo-reeson try to take me away from a big, strong man like you." There
was an expression of intense scorn on her face that bared the even
teeth.
Zephyr was not conscious of Élise. There was a hard, set look on his
face. Élise noted it. She tossed her head airily.
"Oh, you needn't look so terribly distressed. You needn't, if you don't
want to. I dare say that the superintendent at the mill would jump at
the chance. I think I shall ask him, anyway." Her manner changed. "Why
do they always call him the old man? He is not such a very old man."
"They'd call a baby 'the old man' if he was superintendent. Do they say
much about him?" Zephyr asked, meditatively.
"Oh yes, lots. M'sier Mo-reeson"--she made a wry face at the name--"is
always talking about that minion of capitalistic oppression that's
sucking the life-blood of the serfs of toil. Daddy hates the old man.
He's afraid of him. Daddy always hates anyone he's afraid of, except
me."
Zephyr grunted absently.
"That's so." Élise spoke emphatically. "That's why I'm here to-day. I
told daddy that if I was old enough to get married I was old enough to
do as I liked."
In spite of his languid appearance Zephyr was very acute. He was getting
a great deal that needed careful consideration. He was intensely
interested, and he wanted to hear more. He half hesitated, then decided
that the end justified the means.
"What makes you think that Pierre hates the old man?" he ventured,
without changing countenance.
"Oh, lots of things. He tells Luna and M'sieu Mo-reeson"--another wry
face--"to 'look hout.' He talks to the men, tells them that the 'hol'
man ees sleek, ver' sleek, look hout, da's hall, an' go slow,' and a lot
of things. I'm awfully hungry, Zephyr, and I don't want to go down for
breakfast. Haven't you got something good in your pack? It looks awfully
good." She prodded the pack with inquisitive fingers.
Zephyr rose to his feet.
"It will be better when I've cooked it. You'll eat a breakfast after my
cooking?"
Élise clapped her hands.
"That will be fine. I'll just sit here and boss you. If you're good, and
you are, you know, I'll tell you some more about M'sieu. Suppose we just
call him M'sieu, just you and me. That'll be our secret."
Zephyr gathered dry sticks and started a fire. He opened his pack, cut
off some slices of bacon, and, impaling them on green twigs, hung them
before the fire. A pinch of salt and baking powder in a handful of flour
was mixed into a stiff paste, stirred into the frying-pan, which was
propped up in front of the fire. He took some cups from his pack, and,
filling them with water, put them on the glowing coals.
Élise kept up a rattling chatter through it all.
"Oh, I almost forgot. Daddy says M'sieu is going to be a great man, a
great labour leader. That's what M'sieu says himself--that he will lead
benighted labour from the galling chains of slavery into the glorious
light of freedom's day." Élise waved her arms and rolled her eyes. Then
she stopped, laughing. "It's awfully funny. I hear it all when I sit at
the desk. You know there's only thin boards between my desk and daddy's
private room, and I can't help but hear. That coffee and bacon smell
good, and what a lovely bannock! Aren't you almost ready? It's as nice
as when we were on the ranch, and you used to carry me round on your
back. That was an awful long time ago, though, wasn't it?"
Zephyr only grunted in reply. He pursed his lips for a meditative
whistle, thought better of it, took the frying-pan from its prop, and
sounded the browning bannock with his fingers.
_For the babbling streams of youth
Grow to silent pools of truth
When they find a thirsty hollow
On their way._
He spoke dreamily.
"What are you talking about?" Élise broke in.
"Oh, nothing in particular. I was just thinking--might have been
thinking out loud."
"That's you, every time, Zephyr. You think without talking, and I talk
without thinking. It's lots more fun. Do you think I will ever grow into
a dear, sober old thing like you? Just tell me that." She stooped down,
taking Zephyr's face in both her hands and turned it up to her own.
Zephyr looked musingly up into the laughing eyes, and took her hands
into his.
"Not for the same reasons, I guess, not if I can help it," he added,
half to himself. "Now, if you'll be seated, I'll serve breakfast." He
dropped the hands and pointed to a boulder.
Élise ate the plain fare with the eager appetite of youth and health.
From far down the gulch the muffled roar of the stamps rose and fell on
the light airs that drifted up and down. Through it all was the soft
swish of the falling spray, the sharp _blip! blip!_ as points of
light, gathered from dripping boughs, grew to sparkling gems, then,
losing their hold, fell into little pools at the foot of the cliff. High
above the straggling town the great cables of the tram floated in the
air like dusty webs, and up and down these webs, like black spiders,
darted the buckets that carried the ore from mine to mill, then
disappeared in the roaring mill, and dumping their loads of ore shot up
again into sight, and, growing in size, swept on toward the cliff and
passed out of sight over the falls above.
Across the narrow gulch a precipice sheered up eight hundred feet, a
hard green crown of stunted spruces on its retreating brow, above the
crown a stretch of soft green meadow steeply barred with greener
willows, above the meadow jagged spires of blackened lava, thrust up
from drifts of shining snow: a triple tiara crowning this silent priest
of the mountains.
To the east the long brown slide was marked with clifflets mottled as
was Joseph's coat of many colours, with every shade of red and yellow
that rusting flecks of iron minerals could give, brightened here and
there with clustered flowers which marked a seeping spring, up and up,
broken at last by a jagged line of purple that lay softly against the
clear blue of the arching sky.
To the west the mountains parted and the vision dropped to miles of
browning mesa, flecked with ranchers' squares of irrigated green. Still
farther a misty haze of distant mountains rose, with the great soft bell
of the curving sky hovering over all.
Zephyr ate in a silence which Élise did not care to break. Her restless
eyes glanced from Zephyr to the mountains, fell with an eager caress on
the flowers that almost hid the brook, looked out to the distant mesa,
and last of all shot defiance at the blazing windows of the Blue Goose
that were hurtling back the fiery darts of the attacking sun.
She sprang to her feet, brushing the crumbs from her clothes.
"Much obliged, Mr. Zephyr, for your entertainment." She swept him a low
courtesy. "I told you I was out for a lark to-day. Now you can wash the
dishes."
Zephyr had also risen. He gave no heed to her playful attitude.
"I want you to pay especial attention, Élise."
"Oh, gracious!" she exclaimed. "Now I'm in for it." She straightened her
face, but she could not control the mischievous sparkle of her eyes.
There was little of meditation but much decision in Zephyr's words.
"Don't let Pierre tease you, persuade you, frighten you, or bulldoze you
into marrying that Morrison. Do you hear? Get away. Run away."
"Or elope," interrupted Élise. "Don't skip that."
"Go to Bennie, the old man, or to anyone, if you can't find me."
"What a speech, Zephyr! Did any of it get away?"
Zephyr was too much in earnest even to smile.
"Remember what I say."
"You put in an awful lot of hard words. But then, I don't need to
remember. I may change my mind. Maybe there'd be a whole lot of fun
after all in marrying M'sieu. I'd just like to show him that he can't
scare me the way daddy does mammy. It would be worth a whole box of
chips. On the whole I think I'll take daddy's advice. Bye-bye, Zephyr."
She again picked up her scattered flowers and went dancing and skipping
down the trail. At the turn she paused for an instant, blew Zephyr a
saucy kiss from the tips of her fingers, then passed out of sight.
A voice floated back to the quiet figure by the fire.
"Don't feel too bad, Zephyr. I'll probably change my mind again."
CHAPTER IV
_The Watched Pot Begins to Boil_
Of all classes of people under the sun, the so-called labouring man has
best cause to pray for deliverance from his friends. His friends are, or
rather were, of three classes. The first, ardent but wingless angels of
mercy, who fail to comprehend the fact that the unlovely lot of their
would-be wards is the result of conditions imposed more largely from
within than from without; the second, those who care neither for lots
nor conditions, regarding the labourer as a senseless tool with which to
hew out his own designs; the third, those who adroitly knock together
the heads of the labourer and his employer and impartially pick the
pockets of each in the general _mêlée_ which is bound to follow.
The past _were_ is designedly contrasted with the present _are_, for it
is a fact that conditions all around are changing for the better;
slowly, perhaps, but nevertheless surely.
The philanthropic friend of the labourer is learning to develop
balancing tail-feathers of judgment wherewith to direct the flights of
wings of mercy. The employer is beginning to realise the beneficial
results of mutual understanding and of considerate co-operation, and the
industrious fomenter of strife is learning that bones with richer marrow
may be more safely cracked by sensible adjustment than with grievous
clubs wielded over broken heads.
Even so, the millennium is yet far away, and now, as in the past, the
path that leads to it is uphill and dim, and is beset with many
obstacles. There are no short cuts to the summit. In spite of
pessimistic clamours that the rich are growing richer and the poor
poorer, frothy yowls for free and unlimited coinage at sixteen to one,
or for fiat paper at infinity to nothing, the fact remains that, whereas
kings formerly used signets for the want of knowledge to write their
names, licked their greasy fingers for lack of knives and forks, and
starved in Ireland with plenty in France, the poorest to-day can, if
they will, indite readable words on well-sized paper, do things in
higher mathematics, and avoid the thankless task of dividing eight into
seven and looking for the remainder.
Potatoes are worth fifty cents a bushel. Any yokel can dig a hole in the
ground and plant the seed and in due time gather the ripened tubers. The
engineer who drives his engine at sixty miles an hour, flashing by
warning semaphores, rolling among coloured lights, clattering over frogs
and switches, is no yokel. Therefore, because of this fact, with the
compensation of one day he can, if he so elects, buy many potatoes, or
employ many yokels.
Had Sir Isaac Newton devoted to the raising of potatoes the energy which
he gave to astronomy, he might have raised larger potatoes and more to
the hill than his yokel neighbour. But, his conditions having been
potatoes, his reward would have been potatoes, instead of the deathless
glory of the discovery and enunciation of the law of gravity. The
problem is very simple after all. The world has had a useless deal of
trouble because no one has ever before taken the trouble to state the
problem and to elaborate it. It is just as simple as is the obvious fact
that _x_ plus _y_ equals _a_.
There is a possibility, however, that we have been going too fast, and
have consequently overlooked a few items of importance. We forgot for
the moment, as often happens, that the factors in the problem are not
homogeneous digits with fixed values, but complex personalities with
decided opinions of their own as to their individual and relative
importance, as well as pugnacious tendencies for compelling an
acceptance of their assumptions by equally pugnacious factors which
claim a differential valuation in their own favour. This consideration
presents a somewhat different and more difficult phase of the problem.
It really compels us to defer attempts at final solution, for the time
being, at least; to make the best adjustment possible under present
conditions, putting off to the future the final application, much on the
same principle that communities bond their present public possessions
for their own good and complacently bestow upon posterity the obligation
of settling the bills. Considered in this light, the end of the struggle
between capital and labour is not yet. Each is striving for the sole
possession and control of things which belong to neither alone. Each
looks upon the other not as a co-labourer but as a rival, instead of
making intelligent and united effort for an object unattainable by
either alone. If capital would smoke this in his cigar and labour the
same in his pipe, the soothing effects might tend to more amicable and
effective use of what is now dissipated energy.
However, universal panaceas are not to be hoped for. The mailed fist
puts irritating chips upon swaggering shoulders, and the unresentful
turning of smitten cheeks is conducive to a thrifty growth of gelatinous
nincompoops.
The preceding _status quo_ existed in general at the Rainbow mines and
mill, besides having a few individual characteristics peculiarly their
own. Miners and millmen, for the most part recent importations from all
countries of Europe, had come from the realms of oppression to the land
of the free with very exaggerated notions of what freedom really was.
The dominant expression of this idea was that everyone could do as he
pleased, and that if the other fellow didn't like it, he, the other
fellow, could get out. The often enunciating of abstract principles led
to their liberal application to concrete facts. In this application they
had able counsel in the ambitious Morrison.
"Who opened these mountain wilds?" Morrison was wont to inquire, not for
information, but for emphasis. "Who discovered, amidst toils and dangers
and deprivations and snowslides, these rich mines of gold and silver?
Who made them accessible by waggon trail and railroads and burros? Who
but the honest sons of honest toil? Who, when these labours are
accomplished, lolls in the luxurious lap of the voluptuous East, reaping
the sweat of your brows, gathering in the harvest of hands toiling for
three dollars a day or less? Who, but the purse-proud plutocrat who sits
on his cushioned chair in Wall Street, sending out his ruthless minions
to rob the labourer of his toil and to express his hard-won gold to the
stanchless maw of the ghoulish East. Rise, noble sons of toil, rise!
Stretch forth your horny hands and gather in your own! Raise high upon
these mountain-peaks the banner of freedom's hope before despairing eyes
raised from the greed-sodden plains of the effete East!"
Whereat the sons of toil would cheer and then proceed to stretch forth
hands to unripened fruits with such indiscriminating activity that both
mine and mill ceased to yield expenses to the eastern plutocrat, and
even the revenues of the Blue Goose were seriously impaired, to the
great distress of Pierre.
These rhodomontades of Morrison had grains of plausible truth as nuclei.
The workmen never, or rarely, came in personal contact with their real
employers. Their employers were in their minds men who reaped where
others had sown, who gathered where they had not strewn. The labourer
gave no heed to costly equipment which made mines possible, or at best
weighed them but lightly against the daily toil of monotonous lives.
They saw tons of hard-won ore slide down the long cables, crash through
the pounding stamps, saw the gold gather on the plates, saw it retorted,
and the shining bars shipped East. Against this gold of unknown value,
and great because unknown, they balanced their daily wage, that looked
pitifully small.
The yield of their aggregate labour in foul-aired stopes and roaring
mill they could see in one massive lump. They could not see the
aggregate of little bites that reduced the imposing mass to a tiny
dribble which sometimes, but not always, fell into the treasury of the
company. They would not believe, even if they saw.
For these reasons, great is the glory of the leaders of labour who are
rising to-day, holding restraining hands on turbulent ignorance and
taking wise counsel with equally glorious leaders who are striving to
enforce the truth that all gain over just compensation is but a sacred
trust for the benefit of mankind. These things are coming to be so
to-day. But so long as sons of wealth are unmindful of their
obligations, and so long as ignorance breathes forth noxious vapours to
poison its victims, so long will there be battles to be fought and
victories to be won.
Thus was the way made ready for the feet of one of the labourer's
mistaken friends. Morrison was wily, if not wise. He distinguished
between oratory and logic. He kindled the flames of indignation and
resentment with the one and fed them with the other. But in the
performance of each duty he never lost sight of himself.
Under the slack management of previous administrations, the conditions
of the Rainbow mine and mill had rapidly deteriorated. In the mine a
hundred sticks of powder were used or wasted where one would have
sufficed. Hundreds of feet of fuse, hundreds of detonators, and pounds
of candles were thrown away. Men would climb high in the mine to their
work only to return later for some tool needed, or because their
supplies had not lasted through their shift. If near the close of hours,
they would sit and gossip with their fellow-workmen. Drills and hammers
would be buried in the stope, or thrown over the dump. Rock would be
broken down with the ore, and the mixed mass, half ore and half rock,
would be divided impartially and sent, one-half to the dump and one-half
to the mill.
At the mill was the same shiftless state of affairs. Tools once used
were left to be hunted for the next time they were wanted. On the night
shift the men slept at their posts or deserted them for the hilarious
attractions of the Blue Goose. The result was that the stamps, unfed,
having no rock to crush, pounded steel on steel, so that stamps were
broken, bossheads split, or a clogged screen would burst, leaving the
half-broken ore to flow over the plates and into the wash-sluices with
none of its value extracted.
Among the evils that followed in the train of slack and ignorant
management not the least was the effect upon the men. If a rich pocket
of ore was struck the men stole it all. They argued that it was theirs,
because they found it. The company would never miss it; the company was
making enough, anyway, and, besides, the superintendent never knew when
a pocket was opened, and never told them that it was not theirs. These
pilfered pockets were always emptied at the Blue Goose. On these
occasions the underground furnace glowed ruddily, and Pierre would stow
the pilfered gold among other pilfered ingots, and would in due time
emerge from his subterranean retreat in such cheerful temper that he had
no heart to browbeat the scared-looking Madame. Whereupon Madame would
be divided in her honest soul between horror at Pierre's wrong-doing and
thankfulness for a temporary reprieve from his biting tongue.
The miners stole supplies of all kinds and sold them or gave them to
their friends. Enterprising prospectors, short of funds, as is usually
the case, "got a job at the mine," then, having stocked up, would call
for their time and go forth to hunt a mine of their own.
The men could hardly be blamed for these pilferings. A slack land-owner
who makes no protest against the use of his premises as a public
highway, in time not only loses his property but his right to protest as
well.
So it happened at the Rainbow mine and mill that, as no locks were
placed on magazines, as the supply-rooms were open to all, and as no
protest was made against the men helping themselves, the men came to
feel that they were taking only what belonged to them, whatever use was
made of the appropriated supplies.
These were some of the more obvious evils which Firmstone set about
remedying. Magazines and supply-rooms were locked and supplies were
issued on order. Workmen ceased wandering aimlessly about while on
shift. Rock and ore were broken separately, and if an undue proportion
of rock was delivered at the mill it was immediately known at the mine
and in unmistakable terms.
The effect of these changes on the men was various. Some took an honest
pride in working under a man who knew his business. More chafed and
fumed under unwonted restrictions. These were artfully nursed by the
wily Morrison, with the result that a dangerous friction was developing
between the better disposed men and the restless growlers. This feeling
was also diligently stimulated by Morrison.
"Go easy," was his caution; "but warm it up for them."
"Warm it up for them!" indignantly protested one disciple. "Them fellers
is the old man's pets."
Morrison snorted.
"Pets, is it? Pets be damned! It's only a matter of time when the old
man will be dancing on a hot stove, if you've got any sand in your
crops. The foreman's more than half with you now. Get the union
organised, and we'll run out the pets and the old man too. You'll never
get your rights till you're organised."
At the mill, Firmstone's nocturnal visits at any unexpected hour made
napping a precarious business and visits to the Blue Goose not to be
thought of.
The results of Firmstone's vigilance showed heavily in reduced expenses
and in increased efficiency of labour; but these items were only
negative. The fact remained that the yield of the mill in bullion was
but slightly increased and still subject to extreme variations. The
conclusion was inevitable that the mill was being systematically
plundered. Firmstone knew that there must be collusion, not only among
the workmen, but among outsiders as well. This was an obvious fact, but
the means to circumvent it were not so obvious. He knew that there were
workmen in the mill who would not steal a penny, but he also knew that
these same men would preserve a sullen silence with regard to the
peculations of their less scrupulous fellows. It was but the grown-up
sense of honour, that will cause a manly schoolboy to be larruped to the
bone before he will tell about his errant and cowardly fellow.
Firmstone was well aware of the simmering discontent which his rigid
discipline was arousing. He regretted it, but he was hopeful that the
better element among the men would yet gain the ascendant.
"He's square," remarked one of his defenders. "There was a mistake in my
time, last payroll, and he looked over the time himself." "That's so,"
in answer to one objector. "I was in the office and saw him."
"You bet he's square," broke in another. "Didn't I get a bad pair of
boots out of the commissary, and didn't he give me another pair in their
place? That's what."
If Morrison and Pierre had not been in active evidence Firmstone would
have won the day without a fight.
CHAPTER V
_Bennie Opens the Pot and Firmstone Comes in_
Firmstone was late to breakfast the day of Zephyr's departure, and
Bennie was doing his best to restrain his impatience. When at last the
late breakfaster appeared, Bennie's manner was noticeably different from
the ordinary. He was a stanch defender of the rights of the American
citizen, an uncompromising opponent of companies and trusts, a fearless
and aggressive exponent of his own views; but withal a sincere admirer
and loyal friend of Firmstone. Bennie knew that in his hands were very
strong cards, and he was casting about in his mind for the most
effective mode of playing them.
"Good morning, Bennie," Firmstone called out, on entering the
dining-room.
Bennie returned the greeting with a silent nod. Firmstone glanced at the
clock.
"It is pretty late for good morning and breakfast, that's a fact."
Bennie disappeared in the kitchen. He returned and placed Firmstone's
breakfast before him.
"What's the matter, Bennie?" Firmstone thought he knew, but events were
soon to show him his mistake.
"Matter enough, Mr. Firmstone, as you'll soon find." Bennie was getting
alarming.
Firmstone ate in silence. Bennie watched with impassive dignity.
"Is your breakfast all right?" he finally asked, unbendingly.
"All right, Bennie. Better than I deserve, pouncing on you at this
hour." He again looked up at the clock.
"Come when you like, late or early, you'll get the best I can give you."
Bennie was still rigid.
Firmstone was growing more puzzled. Bennie judged it time to support his
opening.
"I'm an outspoken man, Mr. Firmstone, as becomes an American citizen. If
I take an honest dollar, I'll give an honest return."
"No one doubts that, Bennie." Firmstone leaned back in his chair. He was
going to see it out.
Bennie's support was rapidly advancing.
"You know, Mr. Firmstone, that I have my opinions and speak my mind
about the oppression of the poor by the rich. I left my home in the East
to come out here where it was less crowded and where there was more
freedom. It's only change about, I find. In the East the rich were
mostly Americans who oppressed the dagoes, being for their own good; but
here it's the other way. Here's Mike the Finn, and Jansen the Swede, and
Hansen the Dane, and Giuseppe the dago, and Pat the Irishman the boss of
the whole dirty gang. Before God I take shame to myself for being an
honest man and American born, and having this thieving gang to tell me
how long I can work, and where I can buy, with a swat in the jaw and a
knife in my back for daring to say my soul is my own and sticking to it
against orders from the union."
"Thunder and Mars, Bennie! What's the matter?"
Bennie's reserves came up with a rush. He thrust open the door of his
room and jerked a blanket from the sacks which Zephyr had left there.
Firmstone gave a low whistle of surprise.
"There's matter for you, Mr. Firmstone."
"Where under the sun did you get these?" Firmstone had opened one of the
sacks and was looking at the ore.
"I didn't get them. Zephyr got them and asked me to see that you had
them. There's a man for you! 'Twas little white paint the Lord had when
he came West, but he put two good coats of it on Zephyr's back."
Firmstone made no reply to Bennie's eulogy of Zephyr. He closed and
retied the opened sacks.
"There's mighty interesting reading in these sacks, Bennie."
"Those were Zephyr's words, sir."
"That ore was taken from the mill last night. Luna was on shift, Long
was sick, and Luna put Morrison in his place." Firmstone looked at
Bennie inquisitively. He was trying his facts on the cook.
"That's so, sir," remarked Bennie. "But you'll never make a hen out of a
rooster by pulling out his tail-feathers."
Firmstone laughed.
"Well, Bennie, that's about the way I sized it up myself. Keep quiet
about this. I want to get these sacks down to the office some time
to-day." He left the room and went to the office.
Luna reported to the office that night as usual before going on shift.
Firmstone gave a few directions, and then turned to his work.
Shortly after twelve Luna was surprised at seeing the superintendent
enter the mill.
"Cut off the feed in the batteries."
The order was curt, and Luna, much bewildered, hastened to obey.
Firmstone followed him around back of the batteries, where automatic
machines dropped the ore under the stamps. Firmstone waited until there
began to come the sound of dropping stamps pounding on the naked dies,
then he gave orders to hang up the stamps and shut down the mill. This
was done. The rhythmic cadence of the falling stamps was broken into
irregular blows as one by one the stamps were propped up above the
revolving cams, till finally only the hum of pulleys and the click of
belts were heard. These sounds also ceased as the engine slowed and
finally stopped.
"Shall I lay off the men?" asked the foreman.
"No. Have them take out the screens."
This also was done, and then Firmstone, accompanied by Luna, went from
battery to battery. They first scraped out the loose rock, and
afterward, with a long steel spoon, took samples of the crushed ore from
between the dies. The operation was a long one; but at length the last
battery was sampled. Firmstone put the last sample in a sack with the
others.
"Shall I carry the sack for you?" asked Luna.
"No. Start up the mill, and then come to the office." Firmstone turned,
and, with the heavy sack on his shoulder, left the mill.
There were a hundred stamps in the mill. The stamps were divided into
batteries of ten each. Each battery was driven separately by a belt from
the main shaft. There was a man in attendance on every twenty stamps.
Firmstone had taken samples from each battery, and each sample bore the
number of the battery. He had taken especial care to call this to Luna's
attention.
The foreman saw to replacing the screens, and, when the mill was again
started, he went to the superintendent's office. He knew very well that
an unpleasant time awaited him; but, like the superintendent, he had his
course of action mapped out. The foreman was a very wise man within a
restricted circle. He knew that the battle was his, if he fought within
its circumference. Outside of the circle he did not propose to be
tempted. Firmstone could not force him out. Those who could, would not
attempt it for very obvious and personal reasons. Luna was aware that
Firmstone knew that there was thieving, and was morally certain as to
who were the thieves, but lacked convincing proof. This was his
protecting circle. Firmstone could not force him out of it. Morrison and
Pierre knew not only of the thieving, but the thieves. They could force
him out, but they would not. Luna was tranquil.
Luna saw Firmstone in the laboratory as he entered the railed enclosure.
He opened the railing gate, passed through the office, and entered the
laboratory. Firmstone glanced at the foreman, but he met only a stolid
face with no sign of confusion.
"Pan these samples down."
Without a word Luna emptied the sacks into little pans and carefully
washed off the crushed rock, leaving the grains of gold in the pans.
Eight of the pans showed rich in gold, the last two hardly a trace.
Firmstone placed the pans in order.
"What do you make of that?" he asked, sharply.
Luna shook his head.
"That's too much for me."
"What batteries did these two come from?" Firmstone pointed to the two
plates.
"Nine and Ten," the foreman answered, promptly.
"Who works on Nine and Ten?"
"Clancy day and Long night," was the ready answer.
"Did Long work last night?"
"No. He was sick. I told you that, and I asked you if I should put on
Morrison. You didn't say nothing against it."
"Did Nine and Ten run all night?"
"Except for an hour or two, maybe. Nine worked a shoe loose and Ten
burst a screen. That's likely to happen any time. We had to hang up for
that."
"You say you can give no explanation of this?" Firmstone pointed to the
empty pans.
"No, sir."
"Look this over." Firmstone went to his desk in the office and Luna
followed him. He picked up a paper covered with figures marked "Mine
Assays, May," and handed it to the foreman.
Luna glanced over the sheet, then looked inquiringly at Firmstone.
"Well?" he finally ventured.
"What do you make of it?" Firmstone asked.
Luna turned to the assay sheet.
"The average of two hundred assays taken twice a week, twenty-five
assays each time, gives twenty-five dollars a ton for the month of May."
Luna read the summary.
Firmstone wrote the number on a slip of paper, then took the sheet from
the foreman.
"You understand, then, that the ore taken from the mine and sent to the
mill in May averaged twenty-five dollars a ton?"
"Yes, that's right." Luna was getting puzzled.
"Very good. You're doing well. Now look at this sheet." Firmstone handed
him another paper. "Now read the summary."
Luna read aloud:
"Average loss in tailings, daily samples, May, two dollars and
seventy-five cents a ton."
"You understand from this, do you not, that the gold recovered from the
plates should then be twenty-two dollars and twenty-five cents a ton?"
"Yes, sir." Luna's face was reddening; beads of perspiration were oozing
from his forehead.
"Well, then," pursued Firmstone, "just look over this statement. Read it
out loud."
Luna took the paper offered him, and began to read.
"What do you make out of that?" Firmstone was looking straight into the
foreman's eyes.
Luna tried his best to return the look, but his eyes dropped.
"I don't know," he stammered.
"Then I'll tell you. Not that I need to, but I want you to understand
that I know. It means that out of every ton of ore that was delivered to
this mill in May thirteen dollars and forty-five cents have been
stolen."
Luna fairly gasped. He was startled by the statement to a cent of the
amount stolen. He and his confederates had been compelled to take
Pierre's unvouched statements. Therefore he could not controvert the
figures, had he chosen. He did not know the amount.
"There must have been a mistake, sir."
"Mistake!" Firmstone blazed out. "What do you say to this?"
He pulled a canvas from the sacks of ore that had been brought to the
office. He expected to see Luna collapse entirely. Instead, a look of
astonishment spread over the foreman's face.
"I'll give up!" he exclaimed. He looked Firmstone squarely in the face.
He saw his way clearly now. "You're right," he said. "There has been
stealing. It's up to me. I'll fire anyone you say, or I'll quit myself,
or you can fire me. But, before God, I never stole a dollar from the
Rainbow mill." He spoke the literal truth. The spirit of it did not
trouble him.
Firmstone was astonished at the man's affirmations, but they did not
deceive him, nor divert him from his purpose.
"I'm not going to tell you whom to let out or take in," he replied. "I'm
holding you responsible. I've told you a good deal, but not all, by a
good long measure. This stealing has got to stop, and you can stop it.
You would better stop it. Now go back to your work."
That very night Firmstone wrote a full account of the recovery of the
stolen ore, the evils which he found on taking charge of the property,
the steps which he proposed for their elimination. He closed with these
words:
"It must be remembered that these conditions have had a long time in
which to develop. At the very least, an equal time must be allowed for
their elimination; but I believe that I shall be successful."
CHAPTER VI
_The Family Circle_
On the morning of Élise's strike for freedom, Pierre came to breakfast
with his usual atmosphere of compressed wrath. He glanced at his
breakfast which Madame had placed on the table at the first sound which
heralded his approach. There was nothing there to break the tension and
to set free the pent-up storm within. Much meditation, with fear and
trembling, had taught Madame the proper amount of butter to apply to the
hot toast, the proportion of sugar and cream to add to the coffee, and
the exact shade of crisp and brown to put on his fried eggs. But a man
bent on trouble can invariably find a cause for turning it loose.
"Where is Élise?" he demanded.
"Élise," Madame answered, evasively, "she is around somewhere."
"Somewhere is nowhere. I demand to know." Pierre looked threatening.
"Shall I call her?" Madame vouchsafed.
"If you know not where she is, how shall you call her? Heh? If you know,
mek ansaire!"
"I don't know where she is."
"_Bien!_" Pierre reseated himself and began to munch his toast savagely.
Madame was having a struggle with herself. It showed plainly on the
thin, anxious face. The lips compressed with determination, the eyes
set, then wavered, and again the indeterminate lines of acquiescent
subjection gained their accustomed ascendency. Back and forth assertion
and complaisance fled and followed; only assertion was holding its own.
The eggs had disappeared, also the greater part of the toast. Pierre
swallowed the last of his coffee, and, without a look at his silent
wife, began to push his chair from the table. Madame's voice startled
him.
"Élise is sixteen," she ventured.
Pierre fell back in his chair, astonished. The words were simple and
uncompromising, but the intonation suggested that they were not final.
"Well?" he asked, explosively.
"When are you going to send Élise away to school?"
"To school?" Pierre was struggling with his astonishment.
"Yes." Madame was holding herself to her determination with an effort.
"To school? _Baste!_ She read, she write, she mek ze figure, is it not
suffice? Heh?"
"That makes no difference. You promised her father that you would send
her away to school."
Pierre looked around apprehensively.
"Shut up! Kip quiet!"
"I won't shut up, and I won't keep quiet." Madame's blood was warming.
The sensation was as pleasant as it was unusual. "I will keep quiet for
myself. I won't for Élise."
"Élise! Élise! Ain't I do all right by Élise?" Pierre asked,
aggressively. "She have plenty to eat, plenty to wear, you tek good care
of her. Don't I tek good care, also? Me? Pierre? She mek no complain,
heh?"
"That isn't what her father wanted, and it isn't what you promised him."
Pierre looked thoughtful; his face softened slightly.
"We have no children, you and me. We have honly Élise, one li'l girl,
_la bonne_ Élise. You wan' mek me give up _la bonne_ Élise? _P'quoi?_"
His face blazed again as he looked up wrathfully. "You wan' mek her go
to school! _P'quoi?_ So she learn mek _teedle, teedle_ on ze piano? So
she learn speak gran'? So she tink of me, Pierre, one li'l Frenchmens,
not good enough for her, for mek her shame wiz her gran' friends? Heh?
Who mek ze care for ze li'l babby? Who mek her grow up strong? Heh? You
mek her go school. You mek ze gran' dam-zelle. You mek her go back to
her pip'l. You mek me, Pierre, you, grow hol' wiz noddings? Hall ze res'
ze time wiz no li'l Élise? How you like li'l Élise go away and mek ze
marry, and w'en she have li'l children, she say to her li'l children,
'_Mes enfants, voila!_ Pierre and Madame, _très bon_ Pierre and Madame,'
and _les petits enfants_ mek big eyes at Pierre and Madame and li'l
Élise? She say, '_Pauvres enfants_, Pierre and Madame will not hurt you.
_Bon_ Pierre! _Bonne_ Madame!'" Pierre made a gesture of deprecating
pity.
Madame was touched to the quick. Starting tears dimmed the heavy eyes.
Had she not thought of all this a thousand times? If Pierre cared so
much for li'l Élise how much more reason had she to care? Li'l Élise had
been the only bright spot in her dreary life, yet she was firm. Élise
had been very dear to her in the past, but her duty was plain. Her voice
was gentler.
"Élise is not ours, Pierre. It is harder to do now what we ought to have
done long ago."
Pierre rose and walked excitedly back and forth. He was speaking half to
himself, half to Madame.
"Sixtin year 'go li'l Élise mammy die. Sixtin year! She no say, 'Madame
Marie, tek my li'l babby back Eas' to my friend, _hein_? No. She say,
'Madame Marie, my poor li'l babby ain' got no mammy no mo'. Tek good
care my poor li'l babby.' Then she go die. We mek good care of ze li'l
Élise, me and you, heh? We sen' away Élise? _Sacré non!_ Nevaire!"
Pierre stopped, and looked fiercely at Madame.
"Yes," answered Madame. "Her mammy asked me to care for her little baby,
but it was for her father. When her father died he made you promise to
give her to her friends. Don't I know how hard it is?" Her tears were
flowing freely now. "Every year we said, 'She is yet too young to go.
Next year we will keep our promise,' and next year she was dearer to us.
And now she is sixteen. She must go."
Pierre broke in fiercely:
"She shall not! Sixtin year? Sixtin year she know honly me, Pierre, her
daddy, and you, her mammy. What you tink, heh? Élise go school in one
beeg city, heh? She mek herself choke wiz ze brick house and ze stone
street. She get sick and lonesome for ze mountain, for her hol' daddy
and her hol' mammy, for ze grass and ze flower."
"That is for her to say. Send her away as you promised. Then"--Madame's
heavy eyes grew deep, almost beautiful--"then, if she comes back to us!"
Pierre turned sullenly.
"She is mine. Mine and yours. She shall stay."
Madame's tears ceased flowing.
"She shall go." Her temerity frightened her. "I will tell her all if you
don't send her away."
Pierre did not explode, as she expected. Instead, there was the calm of
invincible purpose. He held up one finger impressively.
"I settle hall zis. _Écoutez!_ She shall marry. Right away. Queek. Da's
hall." He left the room before Madame had time to reply.
Madame was too terrified to think. The possibility conveyed in her
husband's declaration had never suggested itself to her. Élise was still
the little baby nestling in her arms, the little girl prattling and
playing indoors and out, on the wide ranch, and later, Madame shuddered,
when Pierre had abandoned the ranch for the Blue Goose, waiting at the
bar, keeping Pierre's books, redeeming checks at the desk, moving out
and in among the throng of coarse, uncouth men, but through it all the
same beautiful, wilful, loving little girl, so dear to Madame's heart,
so much of her life. What did it matter that profanity died on the lips
of the men in her presence, that at her bidding they ceased to drink to
intoxication, that hopeless wives came to her for counsel, that their
dull faces lighted at her words, that in sickness or death she was to
them a comfort and a refuge?
What if Pierre had fiercely protected her from the knowledge of the more
loathsome vices of a mining camp? It was no more than right. Pierre
loved her. She knew that. Pierre was hoarding every shining dollar that
came to his hand. Was he lavish in his garnishment of the Blue Goose? It
was only for the more effective luring of other gold from the pockets of
the careless, unthinking men who worked in mines or mills, or roamed
among the mountains or washed the sands of every stream, spending all
they found, hoping for and talking of the wealth which, if it came,
would only smite them with more rapid destruction. And all these little
rivulets, small each one alone, united at the Blue Goose into a growing
stream that went no farther. For what end? Madame knew. For Pierre, life
began and ended in Élise. Madame knew, and sympathized with this; but
her purpose was not changed. She knew little of life beyond the
monotonous desolation of a western ranch, the revolting glamour of a
gambling resort, where men revelled in the fierce excitement of
shuffling cards and clicking chips, returning to squalid homes and to
spiritless women, weighed down and broken with the bearing of many
children, and the merciless, unbroken torture of thankless, thoughtless
demands upon their lives. Madame saw all this. She saw and felt the
dreary hopelessness of it all. Much as she loved Élise, if it parted her
from all that made life endurable she would not shrink from the
sacrifice. She knew nothing of life beyond her restricted circle, but
anything outside this circle was a change, and any change must be for
the better.
"She shall marry. Right away." Pierre's words came to her again with
overwhelming terror. Overwhelming, because she saw no way of averting
the threatened blow.
From behind, Madame felt two soft hands close on her straining eyes, and
a sympathetic voice:
"Has daddy been scolding you again? What was it about this time? Was it
because I ran away this morning? I did run away, you know."
For reply Madame only bowed her head from between the clasping hands
that for the first time had distress instead of comfort for her groping
soul. She did not pray for guidance. She never thought of praying. Why
should she? The prisoned seed, buried in the dank and quickening soil,
struggles instinctively toward the source of light and strength. But
what instinct is there to guide the human soul that, quickened by
unselfish love, is yet walled in by the Stygian darkness of an ignorant
life?
Madame's hands were clinched. Her hot eyes were dry and hard. No light!
No help! Only a fierce spirit of resistance. At length she was conscious
of Élise standing before her, half terrified, but wholly determined. Her
eyes moistened, then grew soft. Her outstretched arms sought the girl
and drew her within their convulsive grasp.
"My poor Élise! My poor little girl, with no one to help her but me!"
"What is it, mammy? What is it?"
Madame only moaned.
"My poor little Élise! My poor little girl!"
Élise freed herself from the resisting arms.
"Tell me at once!" She stamped her foot impatiently.
Madame sprang to her feet.
"You shall not marry that man. You shall not!" Her voice rose. "I will
tell you all--everything. I will, if he kills me. I will! I will!"
The door from the saloon was violently opened, and Pierre strode in. He
pushed Élise aside, and, with narrowed eyes and uplifted hand,
approached his wife.
"You will? You will, heh?"
The threatening blow fell heavily, but upon Élise. She thrust forth her
hands. Pierre stumbled backward before the unexpected assault. His eyes,
blazing with ungoverned fury, swept around the room. They rested upon a
stick. He grasped it, and turned once more toward Madame.
"You will! You will! I teach you bettaire. I teach you say 'I will' to
me! I teach you!" Then he stopped. He was looking squarely into the
muzzle of a silver-mounted revolver held in a steady hand and levelled
by a steady eye.
Pierre was like a statue. Another look came into his eyes. Youth toyed
with death, and was not afraid. Pierre knew that. At threatening weapons
in the hands of drink-crazed men Pierre smiled with scorn. The bad man
stood in terror of the law as well as of Pierre. But when determined
youth laid hold on death and shook it in his face Pierre knew enough to
stand aside.
Élise broke the tense silence.
"Don't you ever dare to strike mammy again. Don't you dare!"
Without a word Pierre left the room. He had loved Élise before with as
unselfish a love as he could know. But hitherto he had not admired her.
Now he rubbed his hands and chuckled softly, baring his teeth with
unsmiling lips.
"A-a-ah!" he breathed forth. "_Magnifique! Superb! La petite diable!_
She mek ze shoot in her eye! In ze fingaire! She bin shoot her hol' man,
her hol' daddy, _moi!_ Pierre." Pierre thoughtfully rubbed his smooth
chin. "_La petite diable!_"
Poor Madame! Poor Pierre! The dog chases his tail with undiminished
zest, and is blissfully rewarded if a straggling hair but occasionally
brushes his nose. He licks his accessible paws, impelled alone by a
sense of duty.
CHAPTER VII
_Mr. Morrison Tackles a Man with a Mind of His Own and a Man without
One_
Mr. Morrison was a slick bird--in fact, a very slick bird. It was his
soul's delight to preen his unctuous feathers and to shiver them into
the most effective and comfortable position, to settle his head between
his shoulders, and, with moistened lips, to view his little world from
dreamy, half-closed eyes. This, however, only happened in restful
moments of complacent self-contemplation. He never allowed these moods
to interfere with business. He had broached the subject of marriage to
Pierre, and Pierre had of course fallen in with his views. The fact that
Élise evidently loathed him disturbed no whit his placid mind. He was in
no hurry. He assumed Élise as his own whenever he chose to say the word.
He regarded her in much the same way as a half-hungered epicure a
toothsome dinner, holding himself aloof until his craving stomach should
give the utmost zest to his viands without curtailing the pleasure of
his palate by ravenous haste. He served Pierre with diligence and
fidelity. The Blue Goose would sooner or later come to him with Élise.
He had ambitions, political especially, not acquired, but instinctive.
Not that he felt inspired with a mission to do good unto others, but
that others should do good unto him, and also that the particular kind
of good should be of his own choosing. He knew very well the
temperaments of his chosen constituency, and he adapted himself to their
impressionable peculiarities. To this end he dispensed heavily padded
gratuities with much ostentation on selected occasions, but gathered his
tolls in merciless silence. He did this without fear, for he knew that
the blare of the multitude would drown the cries of the stricken few.
Mr. Morrison had long meditated upon the proper course to take in order
best to compass his ends. The unrest among the employees of the Rainbow
Company came to him unsought, and he at once grasped the opportunity.
The organisation of a miners' and millmen's union would be an obvious
benefit to the rank and file; their manifestation of gratitude would
naturally take the very form he most desired. To this end before the
many he displayed the pyrotechnics of meaningless oratory, in much the
same manner as a strutting peacock his brilliant tail; but individuals
he hunted with nickel bullets and high-power guns. On various occasions
he had displayed the peacock tail; this particular afternoon he took
down his flat-trajectoried weapon and went forth to gun for Bennie.
Bennie had washed the dinner dishes, reset his table, prepared for the
coming meal, and now, as was his custom, was lying in his bunk, with an
open book in his hands, prepared to read or doze, as the spirit moved
him.
Mr. Morrison appeared before him.
"Howdy, Bennie! Taking a nap?"
"I'm taking nothing but what's my own." Bennie looked meaningly at
Morrison.
Morrison slipped into what he mistook for Bennie's mood.
"You're wise, if you get it all. Many's the ignorant devil that takes
only what's given him and asks no questions, worse luck to him!"
"You'll do well to go on," remarked Bennie, placidly. "There's many that
gets more, and then damns the gift and the giver."
"And just what might that mean, Bennie?" Morrison looked a little
puzzled.
"It means that, if more got what they deserved, 'twould be better for
honest men." Bennie was very decided.
Morrison's face cleared. He held out his hand.
"Shake!" he said.
Bennie took the proffered hand.
"Here's hoping you'll come to your own!" he remarked, grimly.
The clasped hands each fell to its own. Morrison's hands went to his
pocket as he stretched out his crossed legs with a thankful look on his
face.
"I'm not specially troubled about myself. I've had fairly good luck
looking out for Patrick Morrison, Esq. It's these poor devils around
here that's troubling me. They get nipped and pinched at every turn of
the cards."
"It's God's truth you're talking. And you want to help them same poor
devils?"
"That's what."
"Then listen to me. Smash your roulette and faro. Burn down the Blue
Goose, first taking out your whisky that'll burn only the throats of the
fools who drink it. Do that same, and you'll see fat grow on lean bones,
and children's pants come out of the shade of the patches."
Morrison lifted his hat, scratching his head meditatively.
"That isn't exactly what I'm at."
"Eagles to snowbirds 'tis not!" put in Bennie, aside.
Morrison gave no heed to the interruption.
"Every man has the right to spend his own money in his own way."
"The poor devils get the money and the Blue Goose furnishes the way,"
Bennie again interpolated.
Morrison was getting uneasy. He was conscious that he was not making
headway.
"You can't do but one thing at a time in good shape."
"You're a damned liar! At the Blue Goose you're doing everyone all the
time."
Morrison rose impatiently. The nickel bullets were missing their billet.
He began tentatively to unfold the peacock's tail.
"You see," he said, "it's like this. In union is strength. What makes
the rich richer? Because they hang together like swarming bees. You pick
the honey of one and you get the stings of all. Learn from the rich to
use the rich man's weapons. Let us poor workingmen band together like
brothers in a common cause. Meet union with union, strength with
strength. Then, and only then, can we get our own."
"It took more than one cat to make strings for that fiddle," Bennie
remarked, thoughtfully. "Just what might that mean?"
Morrison again looked puzzled. He went back to his bullets.
"To be specific," he spoke impressively, "as things stand now, if one
workingman thinks he ought to have more pay he goes to the company and
asks for it. The company says no. If he gets troublesome, they fire him.
If one man works in a close breast with foul air the company tells him
to go back to his work or quit. It costs money to timber bad ground. One
poor workman's life doesn't count for much. It's cheaper for the company
to take chances than to put in timber." He paused, looking sharply at
Bennie.
"You're talking sense now. How do you propose to help it?"
Morrison felt solid ground beneath his feet.
"Do as I said. Learn from the rich. Unite. If the men are not getting
fair wages, the union can demand more."
Bennie lifted an inquiring finger.
"One word there. You want to organise a union?"
"That's it. That's the stuff." Morrison was flatteringly acquiescent. "A
company can turn down one man, but the union will shove it up to them
hard."
"If one man breaks five tons of ore a day, and another man breaks only
one, will the union see that both get the same pay?"
"A workingman is a workingman." Morrison spoke less enthusiastically. "A
man that puts in his time earns all that he gets."
Bennie looked musingly at the toes of his boots.
"The union will equalise the pay?"
"You bet it will!"
"They'll make the company ventilate the mines and keep bad ground
timbered?"
"They'll look after these things sharp, and anything else that comes
up."
"The union will run the company, but who'll run the union?"
Morrison waxed enthusiastic.
"We'll take our turn at bossing all right. Every man in the union stands
on the same floor, and when any of the boys have a grievance the
president will see them through. The president and the executive
committee can tie up the whole camp if the company bucks."
"Is the union organised?" asked Bennie.
"Not yet. It's like this." Morrison's voice had a tinge of patronage.
"You see, I want to get a few of the level-headed men in the camp worked
up to the idea; the rest will come in, hands down."
"Who have you got strung?"
"Well, there's Luna, and----"
"Luna's a crowd by himself. He's got more faces than a town-clock
telling time to ten streets. Who else?"
"There's Thompson, the mine foreman----"
"Jim Thompson? Don't I know him now? He'll throw more stunts than a
small boy with a bellyful of green apples. Who else?"
Morrison looked a little sulky.
"Well, how about yourself. That's what I'm here to find out."
Bennie glared up wrathfully.
"You'll take away no doubts about me, if my tongue isn't struck by a
palsy till it can't bore the wax of your ears. When it comes to bosses,
I'll choose my own. I'm American and American born. I'd rather be bossed
by a silk tile and kid gloves than by a Tipperary hat and a shillalah,
with a damned three-cornered shamrock riding the necks of both. It's a
pretty pass we've come to if we've got to go to Irish peat-bogs and
Russian snow-banks to find them as will tell us our rights and how to
get them, and then import dagoes with rings in their ears and Hungarians
with spikes in their shoes to back us up. Let me talk a bit! I get my
seventy-five dollars a month for knowing my business and attending to
it, because my grub goes down the necks of the men instead of out on the
dump; because I give more time to a side of bacon than I do to
organising unions. And I'll tell you some more facts. The rich are
growing richer for using what they have, and the poor are growing poorer
because they don't know enough to handle what they've got. Organise a
union for keeping damned fools out of the Blue Goose, and from going
home and lamming hell out of their wives and children, and I'll talk
with you. As it is, the sooner you light out the more respect I'll have
for the sense of you that I haven't seen."
Morrison was blazing with anger.
"You'll sing another tune before long. We propose to run every scab out
of the country."
"Run, and be damned to you! I've got a thousand-acre ranch and five
hundred head of cattle. I've sucked it from the Rainbow at seventy-five
a month, and I've given value received, without any union to help me.
Only take note of this. I've laid my eggs in my own nest, and not at the
Blue Goose."
Morrison turned and left the room. Over his shoulder he flung back:
"This isn't the last word, you damned scab! You'll hear from me again."
"'Tis not the nature of a pig to keep quiet with a dog at his heels."
Bennie stretched his neck out of the door to fire his parting shot.
Morrison went forth with a vigorous flea in each ear, which did much to
disturb his complacency. Bennie had not made him thoughtful, only
vengeful. There is nothing quite so discomposing as the scornful
rejection of proffers of self-seeking philanthropy. Bennie's indignation
was instinctive rather than analytical, the inherent instinct that puts
up the back and tail of a new-born kitten at its first sight of a
benevolent-appearing dog.
Morrison had not gone far from the boarding-house before he chanced
against Luna.
Morrison was the last person Luna would have wished to meet. Since his
interview with Firmstone he had scrupulously avoided the Blue Goose, and
he had seen neither Morrison nor Pierre. His resolution to mend his ways
was the result of fear, rather than of change of heart. Neither Morrison
nor Pierre had fear. They were playing safe. Luna felt their
superiority; he was doing his best to keep from their influence.
"Howdy!"
"Howdy!" Luna answered.
"Where've you been this long time?" asked Morrison, suavely.
Luna did not look up.
"Down at the mill, of course."
"What's going on?" pursued Morrison. "You haven't been up lately."
"There's been big things going on. Pierre's little game's all off." Luna
shrank from a direct revelation.
"Oh, drop this! What's up?"
"I'll tell you what's up." Luna looked defiant. "You know the last lot
of ore you pinched? Well, the old man's got it, and, what's more, he's
on to your whole business."
Morrison's face set.
"Look here now, Luna. You just drop that little _your_ business. It
looks mighty suspicious, talking like that. I don't know what you mean.
If you've been pulling the mill and got caught you'd better pick out
another man to unload on besides me."
"I never took a dollar from the mill, and I told the old man so. I----"
But Morrison interrupted:
"You've been squealing, have you? Well, you just go on, only remember
this. If you're going to set in a little game of freeze-out, you play
your cards close to your coat."
Luna saw the drift of Morrison's remarks, and hastened to defend
himself.
"It's gospel truth. I haven't squealed." He gave a detailed account of
his midnight interview with Firmstone, defining sharply between his
facts and his inferences. He finally concluded: "The old man's sharp.
There isn't a corner of the mine he doesn't know, and there isn't a
chink in the mill, from the feed to the tail-sluice, that he hasn't got
his eye on." Luna's mood changed from the defensive to the assertive.
"I'll tell you one thing more. He's square, square as a die. He had me
bunched, but he give me a chance. He told me that I could stop the
stealing at the mill, that I had got to, and, by God, I'm going to, in
spite of hell!"
Morrison was relieved, but a sneer buried the manifestation of his
relief.
"Well," he exclaimed, "of all the soft, easy things I ever saw you're
the softest and the easiest!"
Luna only looked dogged.
"Hard words break no bones," he answered, sullenly.
"That may be," answered Morrison; "but it doesn't keep soft ones from
gumming your wits, that's sure."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean just this. You say the old man had you bunched. Well, he's got
you on your back now, and roped, too."
Luna answered still more sullenly:
"There's more'n one will be roped, then. If it comes to a show-down,
I'll not be alone."
"All right, Mr. Luna." Morrison spoke evenly. "When you feel like
calling the game just go right ahead. I'm not going to stop you."
Luna made no immediate reply. Morrison waited, ostentatiously
indifferent. Luna finally broke the silence.
"I don't see how the old man's got me roped."
"Well, now you're acting as if you had sense. I'll tell you. I'm always
ready to talk to a man that's got sense. Just answer a few straight
questions. In the first place, you've been stealing from the mill."
"I tell you I haven't," broke in Luna; "but I can tell you who has." He
looked sharply at Morrison.
Morrison waved his hand with wearied endurance.
"Well, you're foreman at the mill. If there's been stealing, and you
know your business, you know where it was done and how it was done. If
you don't know your business what are you there for, and how long are
you going to stay? You say yourself the old man is sharp, and he is. How
long is he going to keep either a thief or a fool in your place?"
"I'm not a thief," Luna answered, hotly. "I'm not a fool, either, and
I'm not going to be made one any longer by you, either."
"If you're not a fool listen to me, and keep quiet till I'm through."
Morrison leaned forward, checking his words with his fingers. "The old
man's sharp, and he's got you roped, any turn. There's been stealing at
the mill. You say this. You're foreman there. It doesn't make any
difference whether you stole or someone else. They hold you responsible.
The old man's got the cards in his hands. The men saw him come in the
mill, shut down, and take samples to back him up."
"Well, what of it?"
"What of it, you fool! This is what of it. He's got you just where he
wants you. You'll walk turkey from now on, according to his orders. If
there's any dirty work to be done you'll do it. You squeal or you kick,
and he'll start the whole slide and bury you."
"I'm not obliged to do any dirty work for him or any other man. Not even
for you. I can quit."
"And get another job?" Morrison asked, mockingly.
"That's what."
"Let me just point out a few things. You get mad and quit. Call for your
time. Pack your turkey and go to another mill. They will ask your name.
Then, 'Excuse me a minute.' Then they'll go to a little book, and
they'll find something like this, 'Henry Luna, mill man, foreman Rainbow
mill. Richard Firmstone, superintendent. Discharged on account of
stealing ore from the mill.' Then they'll come back. 'No place for you,
Mr. Luna,' and you'll go on till hell freezes, and that little record of
yours will knock you, every clip. When you wear the skin off your feet,
and the shirt off your back, you'll come back to the Rainbow, and Mr.
Firmstone will politely tell you that, if you've walked the kick out of
you, he'll give you another try."
Luna was open-eyed. He had grasped but one thing.
"What little book are you talking about?" he asked.
"It's known as the Black List, little lambie. You'll know more about it
if you keep on. Every company in Colorado or in the United States has
one. You'll run up against it, all right, if you keep on."
Luna had vague ideas of this powerful weapon; but it had never seemed so
real before. He was growing suspicious. He recalled Firmstone's words,
"I've told you a good deal, but not all by a good long measure." They
had seemed simple and straightforward at the time, but Morrison's
juggling was hazing them.
"What's a fellow to do?" he asked, helplessly.
"Nothing alone, except to take what's given you. You stand alone, and
you'll be cut alone, worked overtime alone, kicked alone, and, when it
gets unendurable, starve alone. But, if you've got any sense or sand,
don't stand alone to get kicked and cuffed and robbed by a company or by
a bunch of companies. Meet union with union, strength with strength,
and, if worst comes to worst, fight with fight. Us workingmen have
things in our own hands, if we stand together." Morrison was watching
the foreman narrowly. "And there's another thing. When a long-toothed,
sharp-nosed, glass-eyed company bull-dog puts up a padded deck on a
workingman, he'll have the backing of the union to put him down."
"The union ain't going to take up no private grievance?" Luna spoke,
half questioningly.
"They ain't, heh? What's it for, then? Bunching us up so they can pick
us off one by one, without hunting us out like a flock of sheep. That
ain't the union." Morrison paused, looking keenly at Luna. "There's no
use scattering. There's nothing as skittish as a pocketful of dollars in
a dress suit. If there's a grievance, private or common, go to the
company in a bunch. Remonstrate. If that don't work, strike, fight,
boycott! No weapons? The poor man's dollar will buy rifles and
cartridges as quick as a rich man's checks. We've got this advantage,
too. Rich men have to hire men to fight for them; but, by God, we can
fight for ourselves!"
Luna's thick wits were vibrating betwixt fear and vengeance. He had all
the ignorant man's fear of superior brains, all the coward's sneaking
resentment of a fancied imposition. He could see that fear had blinded
his eyes to the real but covert threat of Firmstone's words. Here was
his chance to free himself from Firmstone's clutches. Here his chance
for revenge.
Morrison was watching him closely.
"Are you with us, or are you going down alone?"
Luna held out his hand.
"I'm with you, you bet!"
"Come up to the Blue Goose some night when you're on day-shift. We'll
talk things over with Pierre."
Then they parted.
CHAPTER VIII
_Madame Seeks Counsel_
There are many evil things in the world which are best obviated by being
let severely alone.
The clumsy-minded Hercules had to be taught this fact. Tradition relates
that at one time he met an insignificant-looking toad in his path which
he would have passed by in disdain had it not been for its particularly
ugly appearance. Thinking to do the world a service by destroying it he
thumped the reptile with his club, when, to his surprise, instead of
being crushed by the impact, the beast grew to twice its former size.
Repeated and heavier blows only multiplied its dimensions and ugliness,
until at length the thoroughly frightened hero divested himself of his
clothing with the intention of putting an end to his antagonist. His
formidable club was again raised, but before it could descend, he was
counselled to wait. This he did, and to his greater surprise the ugly
beast began to shrink, and finally disappeared.
Pierre had no convenient goddess to instruct him in critical moments, so
he depended on his own wit. Of this he had inherited a liberal portion,
and this by diligent cultivation had been added to manyfold. So it
happened that after Madame's surprising exhibition of an unsuspected
will of her own, and her declaration of her intention to enforce it,
Pierre had studiously let her alone.
This course of action was as surprising to Madame as it was
disconcerting. The consequences were such as her wily husband had
foreseen. Encountering no externally resisting medium, its force was
wasted by internal attrition, so that Madame was being reduced to a
nervous wreck, all of which was duly appreciated by Pierre.
This particular instance, being expanded into a general law, teaches us
that oftentimes the nimble wit of an agile villain prevails against the
clumsy brains of a lofty-minded hero.
Madame had had long years of patient endurance to train her in waiting;
but the endurance had been passive and purposeless, rather than active,
and with a well-defined object. Now that an object was to be attained by
action the lessons of patient endurance counted for naught. Instead of
determined action against her open revolt, Pierre had been smilingly
obsequious and non-resisting.
She knew very well that Pierre had been neither cowed into submission
nor frightened from his purpose; but his policy of non-interference
puzzled and terrified her. She knew not at what moment he might confront
her with a move that she would have neither time nor power to check. In
this state of mind day after day passed by with wearing regularity. She
felt the time going, every moment fraught with the necessity of action,
but without the slightest suggestion as to what she ought to do.
Pierre's toast might be burned to a crisp, his eggs scorched, or his
coffee muddy, but there was no word of complaint. Regular or irregular
hours for meals were passed over with the same discomposing smiles. She
did not dare unburden her mind to Élise, for fear of letting drop some
untimely word which would immediately precipitate the impending crisis.
For the first time in her life Élise was subjected to petulant words and
irritating repulses by the sorely perplexed woman.
One evening, after a particularly trying day during which Élise had been
stung into biting retorts, an inspiration came to Madame that rolled
every threatening cloud from her mind.
The next morning, after long waiting, Pierre came to the dining-room,
but found neither breakfast nor Madame, and for the best of reasons.
With the first grey light of morning, Madame had slipped from the door
of the Blue Goose, and before the sun had gilded the head of Ballard
Mountain she was far up the trail that led to the Inferno.
Zephyr was moving deliberately about a little fire on which his
breakfast was cooking, pursing his lips in meditative whistles, or
engaged in audible discussion with himself on the various topics which
floated through his mind. An unusual clatter of displaced rocks brought
his dialogue to a sudden end; a sharp look down the trail shrank his
lips to a low whistle; the sight of a hard knob of dingy hair, strained
back from a pair of imploring eyes fringed by colourless lashes, swept
his hat from his head, and sent him clattering down to Madame with
outstretched hands.
"You're right, Madame. You're on the right trail, and it's but little
farther. It's rather early for St. Peter, it's likely he's taking his
beauty sleep yet; but I'll see that it's broken, unless you have a
private key to the Golden Gates, which you deserve, if you haven't got
it." His address of welcome had brought him to Madame's side.
Her only reply was a bewildered gaze, as she took his hands. With his
help she soon reached the camp, and seated herself in a rude chair which
Zephyr placed for her.
Zephyr, having seen to the comfort of his guest, returned to his
neglected breakfast.
"It takes a pretty cute angel to catch me unawares," he glanced at
Madame; "but you've got the drop on me this time. Come from an
unexpected direction, too. I've heard tell of Jacob's vision of angels
passing up and down, but I mostly allowed it was a pipe dream. I shall
have to annotate my ideas again, which is no uncommon experience,
statements to the contrary notwithstanding." Zephyr paused from his
labours and looked inquiringly at Madame.
Madame made no reply. Her bewildered calm began to break before the
apparent necessity of saying or doing something. Not having a clear
perception of the fitting thing in either case, she took refuge in a
copious flood of tears.
Zephyr offered no impediment to the flow, either by word or act. He was
not especially acquainted with the ways of women, but being a close
observer of nature and an adept at reasoning from analogy, he assumed
that a sudden storm meant equally sudden clearing, so he held his peace
and, for once, his whistle.
Zephyr's reasoning was correct. Madame's tears dried almost as suddenly
as they had started. Zephyr had filled a cup with coffee, and he
tendered it deferentially to Madame.
"A peaceful stomach favours a placid mind," he remarked, casually;
"which is an old observation that doesn't show its age. From which I
infer that it has a solid foundation of truth."
Madame hesitatingly reached for the proffered coffee, then she thought
better of it, and, much to Zephyr's surprise, again let loose the
fountains of her tears. Zephyr glanced upward with a cocking eye, then
down the steep pass to where the broken line of rock dropped sheer into
Rainbow Gulch where lay Pandora and the Blue Goose.
"About this time look for unsettled weather," he whispered to himself.
Zephyr had dropped analogy and was reasoning from cold facts. He was
thinking of Élise.
Tears often clear the mind, as showers the air, and Madame's tears, with
Zephyr's calm, were rapidly having a salubrious effect. This time she
not only reached for the coffee on her own initiative, but, what was
more to the purpose, drank it. She even ate some of the food Zephyr
placed before her.
Zephyr noted with approval.
"Rising barometer, with freshening winds, growing brisk, clearing
weather."
Madame looked up at Zephyr's almost inaudible words.
"How?" she ventured, timidly.
"That's a fair question," Zephyr remarked, composedly. "The fact is, I
get used to talking to myself and answering a fool according to his
folly. It's hard sledding to keep up. You see, a fellow that gets into
his store clothes only once a year or so don't know where to hang his
thumbs."
Madame looked somewhat puzzled, began a stammering reply, then, dropping
her useless efforts, came to her point at once.
"It's about Élise."
Zephyr answered as directly as Madame had spoken.
"Is Élise in trouble?"
"Yes. I don't know what to do." Madame paused and looked expectantly at
Zephyr.
"Pierre wants her to marry that Morrison?"
Madame gave a sigh of relief. There was no surprise in her face.
"Pierre says she shall not go to school and learn to despise him and me.
He says she will learn to be ashamed of us before her grand friends. Do
you think she will ever be ashamed of me?" There was a yearning look in
the uncomplaining eyes.
Zephyr looked meditatively at the fire, pursed his lips, and,
deliberately thrusting his hand into the bosom of his shirt, drew forth
his harmonica. He softly blew forth a few bars of a plaintive melody,
then, taking the instrument from his lips, began to speak, without
raising his eyes.
"If my memory serves me right, I used to know a little girl on a big
ranch who had a large following of beasts and birds that had got into
various kinds of trouble, owing to their limitations as such. I also
remember that that same little girl on several appropriate occasions
banged hell--if you will excuse a bad word for the sake of good
emphasis--out of two-legged beasts for abusing their superior kind. Who
would fly at the devil to protect a broken-winged gosling. Who would
coax rainbows out of alkali water and sweet-scented flowers out of hot
sand. My more recent memory seems to put it up to me that this same
little girl, with more years on her head and a growing heart under her
ribs, has sat up many nights with sick infants, and fought death from
said infants to the great joy of their owners. From which I infer, if by
any chance said little girl should be lifted up into heaven and seated
at the right hand of God, much trouble would descend upon the Holy
Family if Madame should want to be near her little Élise, and any of the
said Holies should try to stand her off."
Madame did not fully understand, but what did it matter? Zephyr was on
her side. Of that she was satisfied. She vaguely gleaned from his words
that, in his opinion, Élise would always love her and would never desert
her. She hugged this comforting thought close to her cramped soul.
"But," she began, hesitatingly, "Pierre said that she should not go to
school, that she should marry right away."
"Pierre is a very hard shell with a very small kernel," remarked Zephyr.
"Which means that Pierre is going to do what he thinks is well for
Élise. Élise has got a pretty big hold on Pierre."
"But he promised her father that he would give back Élise to her
friends, and now he says he won't."
"Have you told Élise that Pierre is not her father?"
"No; I dare not."
"That's all right. Let me try to think out loud a little. The father and
mother of Élise ran away to marry. That is why her friends know nothing
of her. Her mother died before Élise was six months old, and her father
before she was a yearling. Pierre promised to get Élise back to her
father's family. It wasn't just easy at that time to break through the
mountains and Injuns to Denver. You and Pierre waited for better times.
When better times came you both had grown very fond of Élise. A year or
so would make no difference to those who did not know. Now Élise is
sixteen. Pierre realizes that he must make a choice between now and
never. He's got a very soft spot in his heart for Élise. It's the only
one he ever had, or ever will have. Élise isn't his. That doesn't make
very much difference. Pierre has never had any especial training in
giving up things he wants, simply because they don't belong to him. You
haven't helped train him otherwise." Zephyr glanced at Madame. Madame's
cheeks suddenly glowed, then as suddenly paled. A faint thought of what
might have been years ago came and went. Zephyr resumed: "As long as
Élise is unmarried, there is danger of his being compelled to give her
up. Well," Zephyr's lips grew hard, "you can set your mind at rest.
Élise isn't going to marry Morrison, and when the proper time comes,
which will be soon, Pierre is going to give her up."
Madame had yet one more episode upon which she needed light. She told
Zephyr of Pierre's threatened attack, and of Élise's holding him off at
the point of her revolver. She felt, but was not sure, that Élise by her
open defiance had only sealed her fate.
Zephyr smiled appreciatively.
"She's got her father's grit and Pierre's example. Her sense is rattling
round in her head, as her nonsense is outside of it. She'll do all right
without help, if it comes to that; but it won't."
Madame rose, as if to depart. Zephyr waved her to her seat.
"Not yet. You rest here for a while. It's a hard climb up here and a
hard climb down. I'll shake things up a little on my prospect. I'll be
back by dinner-time."
He picked up a hammer and drills and went still farther up the mountain.
Having reached the Inferno, he began his work. Perhaps he had no thought
of Jael or Sisera; but he smote his drill with a determined emphasis
that indicated ill things for Pierre. Jael pinned the sleeping head of
Sisera to the earth. Sleeping or waking, resisting or acquiescent,
Pierre's head was in serious danger, if it threatened Élise.
Zephyr loaded the hole and lighted the fuse, then started for the camp.
A loud explosion startled Madame from the most peaceful repose she had
enjoyed for many a day.
After dinner Zephyr saw Madame safely down the worst of the trail.
"Pierre is not all bad," he remarked, at parting. "You just _restez
tranquille_ and don't worry. It's a pretty thick fog that the sun can't
break through, and, furthermore, a fog being only limited, as it were,
and the sun tolerably persistent, it's pretty apt to get on top at most
unexpected seasons."
Madame completed the remainder of her journey with very different
emotions from those with which she had begun it. She entered the back
door of the Blue Goose. Pierre was not in the room, as she had half
expected, half feared. She looked around anxiously, then dropped into a
chair. The pendulum changed its swing. She was under the old influences
again. Zephyr and the mountain-top were far away. A thousand questions
struggled in her mind. Why had she not thought of them before? It was no
use. Again she was groping for help. She recalled a few of Zephyr's
words.
"Élise isn't going to marry Morrison, and Pierre's going to give her
up."
They did not thrill her with hope. She could not make them do so by oft
repeating. Confused recollections crowded these few words of hope. She
could not revivify them. She could only cling to them with blind,
uncomprehending trust, as the praying mother clings to the leaden
crucifix.
CHAPTER IX
_The Meeting at the Blue Goose_
An algebraic formula is very fascinating, but at the same time it is
very dangerous. The oft-times repeated assumption that _x_ plus _y_
equals _a_ leads ultimately to the fixed belief that a is an attainable
result, whatever values may be assigned to the other factors. If we
assign concrete dollars to the abstract _x_ and _y_, _a_ theoretically
becomes concrete dollars as well. But immediately we do this, another
factor known as the personal equation calls for cards, and from then on
insists upon sitting in the game. Simple algebra no longer suffices;
calculus, differential as well as integral, enters into our problem, and
if we can succeed in fencing out quaternions, to say nothing of the
_nth_ dimension, we may consider ourselves fortunate.
Pierre was untrained in algebra, to say nothing of higher mathematics;
but it is a legal maxim that ignorance of the law excuses no one, and
this dictum is equally applicable to natural and to human statutes.
Pierre assumed very naturally that five dollars plus five dollars equals
ten dollars, and dollars were what he was after. He went even further.
Without stating the fact, he felt instinctively that, if he could tip
the one-legged plus to the more stable two-legged sign of
multiplication, the result would be twenty-five dollars instead of ten.
He knew that dollars added to, or multiplied by, dollars made wealth;
but he failed to comprehend that wealth was a variable term with no
definite, assignable value. In other words, he never knew, nor ever
would know, when he had enough.
Pierre had started in life with the questionable ambition of becoming
rich. As foreman on a ranch at five dollars a day and found, he was
reasonably contented with simple addition. On the sudden death of his
employer he was left in full charge, with no one to call him to account,
and addition became more frequent and with larger sums. His horizon
widened, the Rainbow mine was opened, and the little town of Pandora
sprang into existence. Three hundred workmen, with unlimited thirst and
a passion for gaming, suggested multiplication, and Pierre moved from
the ranch to the Blue Goose. Had he fixed upon a definition of wealth
and adhered to it, a few years at the Blue Goose would have left him
satisfied. As it was, his ideas grew faster than his legitimate
opportunities. The miners were no more content with their wages than he
with his gains, and so it happened that an underground retort was added
to the above-ground bar and roulette. The bar and roulette had the
sanction of law; the retort was existing in spite of it. The bar and
roulette took care of themselves, and incidentally of Pierre; but with
the retort, the case was different. Pierre had to look out for himself
as well as the furnace. As proprietor of a saloon, his garnered dollars
brought with them the protection of the nine points of the
law--possession; the tenth was never in evidence.
As a vender of gold bullion, with its possession, the nine points made
against rather than for him. As for the tenth, at its best it only
offered an opportunity for explanation which the law affords the most
obviously guilty.
Morrison allowed several days to pass after his interview with Luna
before acquainting Pierre with the failure to land their plunder. The
disclosure might have been delayed even longer had not Pierre made some
indirect inquiries. Pierre had taken the disclosure in a very different
manner from what Morrison had expected. Morrison, as has been set forth,
was a very slick bird, but he was not remarkable for his sagacity. His
cunning had influenced him to repel, with an assumption of ignorance,
Luna's broad hints of guilty complicity; but his sagacity failed utterly
to comprehend Pierre's more cunning silence. Pierre was actively
acquainted with Morrison's weak points, and while he ceased not to
flatter them he never neglected to gather rewards for his labour. If the
fabled crow had had the wit to swallow his cheese before he began to
sing he would at least have had a full stomach to console himself for
being duped. This is somewhat prognostical; but even so, it is not safe
to jump too far. It sometimes happens that the fox and the crow become
so mutually engrossed as to forget the possibility of a man and a gun.
Late this particular evening Luna entered the Blue Goose, and having
paid tribute at the bar, was guided by the knowing winks and nods of
Morrison into Pierre's private club-room, where Morrison himself soon
followed.
Morrison opened the game at once.
"That new supe at the Rainbow is getting pretty fly." He apparently
addressed Pierre.
Pierre bowed, in smiling acquiescence.
"Our little game is going to come to an end pretty soon, too."
"To what li'l game you refer?" Pierre inquired, blandly. Pierre did not
mind talking frankly with one; with two he weighed his words.
Morrison made an impatient gesture.
"You know. I told you about the old man's getting back that ore."
Pierre rubbed his hands softly.
"Meestaire Firmstone, he's smooth stuff, ver' smooth stuff."
"He's getting too smooth," interrupted Luna. "I don't mind a supe's
looking out for his company. That's what he's paid for. But when he
begins putting up games on the men, that's another matter, and I don't
propose to stand it. Not for my part."
"He's not bin populaire wiz ze boy?" inquired Pierre.
"No."
Pierre chuckled softly.
"He keeps too much ze glass-eye on ze plate, on ze stamp, heh?"
"That's not all."
"No," Pierre continued; "he mek ze sample; he mek ze assay, hall ze
time."
"That's not all, either. He----"
"A--a--ah! He bin mek ze viseete in ze mill in ze night, all hour, any
hour. Ze boy can't sleep, bin keep awake, bin keep ze han'--" Pierre
winked knowingly, making a scoop with his hand, and thrusting it into
his pocket.
Luna grinned.
"At ze mine ze boy get two stick powdaire, four candle, all day, eh? No
take ten, fifteen stick, ten, fifteen candle, use two, four, sell ze
res'?" Pierre again winked smilingly.
"You're sizing it up all right."
"_Bien!_ I tol' you. Ze hol' man, he's bin hall right. I tol' you look
out. Bimeby I tol' you again. Goslow. Da's hall."
Morrison was getting impatient.
"What's the use of barking our shins, climbing for last year's birds'
nests? The facts are just as I told you. The old man's getting too fly.
The boys are getting tired of it. The question is, how are we going to
stop him? If we can't stop him can we get rid of him?"
"I can tell you one way to stop him, and get rid of him at the same
time," Luna broke in.
"How is that?" asked Morrison.
"Cut the cable when he goes up on the tram."
"Will you take the job?" Morrison asked, sarcastically.
Luna's enthusiasm waned under the question.
"Such things have happened."
"Some odder tings also happens." Pierre slipped an imaginary rope around
his neck.
Morrison passed the remark and started in on a line of his own.
"I've been telling Luna and some of the other boys what I think. I don't
mind their making a little on the side. It's no more than they deserve,
and the company can stand it. It doesn't amount to much, anyway. But
what I do kick about is this everlasting spying around all the time.
It's enough to make a thief out of an honest man. If you put a man on
his honour, he isn't going to sleep on shift, even if the supe doesn't
come in on him, every hour of the night. Anyway, a supe ought to know
when a man does a day's work. Isn't that so?" He looked at Luna.
"That's right, every time."
"Then there's another point. A man has some rights of his own, if he
does work for $3 a day. The old man is all the time posting notices at
the mine and at the mill. He tells men what days they can get their pay,
and what days they can't. If a man quits, he's got to take a time-check
that isn't worth face, till pay-day. Now what I want to know is this:
Haven't the men just as good a right to post notices as the company
has?" Morrison was industriously addressing Pierre, but talking at Luna.
Pierre made no response, so Luna spoke instead.
"I've been thinking the same thing."
Morrison turned to Luna.
"Well, I'll tell you. You fellows don't know your rights. When you work
eight hours the company owes you three dollars. You have a right to your
full pay any time you want to ask for it. Do you get it? Not much. The
company says pay-day is the 15th of every month. You have nothing to say
about it. You begin to work the first of one month. At the end of the
month the company makes up the payroll. On the 15th you get pay for last
month's work. The 15th, suppose you want to quit. You ask for your time.
Do you get your pay for the fifteen days? Not much. They give you a
time-check. If you'll wait thirty days you'll get a bank-check or cash,
just as they choose. Suppose you want your money right away, do you get
it?" Morrison looked fixedly at Luna.
Luna shook his head in reply.
"Of course not. What do you do? Why, you go to a bank, and if the
company's good the bank will discount your check--one, two, three, or
five per cent. Your time amounts to $60, less board. The bank gives you,
instead of $60, $57, which means that you put in one hard day's work to
get what's your due."
"The law's done away with time-checks," objected Luna.
"Oh, yes, so it has. Says you must be paid in full." Morrison called on
all his sarcasm to add emphasis to his words. "So the company complies
with the law. It writes out a bank-check for $60, but dates it thirty
days ahead, so the bank gets in its work, just the same."
Luna glanced cunningly from Morrison to Pierre.
"It strikes me that the Blue Goose isn't giving the bank a fair show. I
never cashed in at the bank."
"What time ze bank open, eh?" Pierre asked, languidly.
"Ten to four." Luna looked a trifle puzzled.
"_Bien!_ Sunday an' ze holiday?" pursued Pierre.
"'Tain't open at all."
"_Très bien!_ Ze Blue Goose, she mek open hall ze time, day, night,
Sunday, holiday."
"Well, you get paid for it," answered Luna, doggedly.
"Oh, that isn't all," Morrison interrupted, impatiently. "I just give
you this as one example. I can bring up a thousand. You know them as
well as I do. There's no use going over the whole wash." There was no
reply. Morrison went on, "There's no use saying anything about short
time, either. You keep your own time; but what does that amount to? You
take what the company gives you. Of course, the law will take your time
before the company's; but what does that amount to? Just this: You're
two or three dollars shy on your time. You go to law about it, and
you'll get your two or three dollars; but it will cost you ten times as
much; besides, you'll be blacklisted."
It may appear that Morrison was training an able-bodied Gatling on a
very small corporal's guard, and so wasting his ammunition. The fact is,
Morrison was an active dynamo to which Luna, as an exhausted battery,
was temporarily attached. Mr. Morrison felt very sure that if Luna were
properly charged he would increase to a very large extent the radius of
dynamic activity.
Inwardly Pierre was growing a little restless over Morrison's zeal. It
was perfectly true that in the matter of paying the men the company was
enforcing an arbitrary rule that practically discounted by a small per
cent. the men's wages; but the men had never objected. Understanding the
reason, they had never even considered it an injustice. There was no
bank at Pandora, and it was not a very safe proceeding for a company,
even, to carry a large amount of cash. Besides, the men knew very well
that the discount did not benefit the company in the least. An
enforcement of the law would interfere with Pierre's business. If Pierre
found no butter on one side of his toast, he was accustomed to turn it
over and examine the other side before he made a row. Recalling the fact
that last impressions are the strongest, he proceeded to take a hand
himself. He turned blandly to Luna.
"How long you bin work in ze mill?" he asked.
"About a year."
"You get ze check every month?"
"Why, yes; of course."
"How much he bin discount?"
"Nothing."
"_Bien!_ You mek ze kick for noddings?"
"I don't know about that," remarked Luna. "The way I size it up, that's
about all that's coming my way. It's kick or nothing."
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," called Morrison.
The door swung open, and the mine foreman entered.
"Why, howdy, Jim? You're just the fellow we've been waiting for. How's
things at the mine?"
"Damned if I know!" replied Jim, tossing his hat on the floor. "The old
man's in the mix-up, so I don't know how much I'm supposed to know."
"What are you supposed to know?" Morrison was asking leading questions.
"Well, for one thing, I'm supposed to know when a man's doing a day's
work."
"Well, don't you?"
"Not according to the old man. He snoops around and tells me that this
fellow's shirking, and to push him up; that that fellow's not timbering
right, doesn't know his business, that I'd better fire him; that the
gang driving on Four are soldiering, that I'd better contract it."
"Contract it, eh?"
"Yes."
"Did you?"
"I had to!"
"How are the contractors making out?"
"Kicking like steers; say they ain't making wages."
"Who measures up?"
"The old man, of course."
"Uses his own tape and rod, eh?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Oh, nothing; only, if I were you, I'd just look over his measures. You
never heard of tapes that measured thirteen inches to the foot, did you?
Nor of rods that made a hole three feet, when it was four?"
"What are you feeding us?" the foreman asked, in surprise.
"Pap. You're an infant. So's the gang of you."
"What do you mean?"
"Just this." Morrison looked wearied. "Thirteen inches to the foot means
eight and one-third feet to the hundred. That is, it's likely the
contractors are doing one hundred and eight feet and four inches, and
getting pay for a hundred. No wonder they're kicking. That's $75 to the
good for the company."
"I never thought of that," replied the foreman.
"I don't know that it's to be wondered at," answered Morrison. "After a
man's pounded steel all day and got his head full of powder smoke, he's
too tired and sick to think of anything. How are you coming on with the
organisation?"
"Oh, all right. Most of the boys will come in all right. Some are
standing off, though. Say they'd as soon be pinched by the company as
bled by the union."
"Oh, well, don't trouble them too much. We'll attend to them later on.
It's going to be a bad climate for scabs when we get our working clothes
on."
"It means a strike to get them out."
To this sentiment Luna acquiesced with an emphatic nod.
"Strike!" ejaculated Morrison. "That's just what we will do, and pretty
soon, too!" He was still smarting with the memory of Bennie's words.
Pierre again took a hand.
"Who mek ze troub', heh? Meestaire Firmstone. I bin tol' you he's smooth
stuff, ver' smooth stuff. You mek ze strike. _P'quoi?_ Mek Meestaire
Firmstone quit, eh? _Bien!_ You mek ze strike, you mek Meestaire
Firmstone keep his job. _P'quoi?_ Ze company say Meestaire Firmstone one
good man; he mek ze boy kick. _Bien!_ Meester Firmstone, he stay."
"He'll stay, anyway," growled Morrison, "unless we can get him out."
Pierre shook his head softly.
"Ze strike mek him to stay."
"What do you propose, then?" asked Morrison, impatiently.
"Meestaire Jim at ze mine bin foreman. Meestaire Luna at ze mill bin
foreman. Slick men! Ver' slick men! An' two slick men bin ask hol'
Pierre, one hol' Frenchmans, how mek for Meestaire Firmstone ze troub'."
Pierre shook his head deprecatingly. "Mek one suppose. Mek suppose ze
mill all ze time broke down. Mek suppose ze mine raise hell. _Bien!_
Bimeby ze company say, 'Meestaire Firmstone bin no good.'"
"Frenchy's hitting pay dirt all right," commented Luna. "That's the
stuff!"
Pierre rose to his feet excitedly.
"_Bien!_ Ze mill broke down and ze mine blow hup. Bimeby ze company say,
'Meestaire Firmstone mek _beaucoup_ ze troub' all ze time!' _Bien!_ Ze
steel get hin ze roll, ze stamp break, ze tram break, ze men kick. Hall
ze time Meestaire Firmstone mek ze explain. _Comment!_ 'Meestaire
Firmstone, you ain't bin fit for no superintend. Come hoff; we bin got
anodder fel'.'"
Luna expressed his comprehension of Pierre's plan. He was seconded by
the mine foreman. Morrison was not wholly enthusiastic; but he yielded.
"Well," he said, "warm it up for him. We'll give it a try, anyway. I'd
like to see that smooth-faced, glass-eyed company minion dancing on a
hot iron."
The assembly broke up. The very next day the warming process began in
earnest.
CHAPTER X
_Élise Goes Forth to Conquer_
Élise had been environed by very plebeian surroundings. Being ignorant
of her birth-right, her sympathies were wholly with her associates. Not
that as yet they had had any occasion for active development; only the
tendencies were there. In a vague, indefinite way she had heard of kings
and queens, of lords and ladies, grand personages, so far above common
folk that they needs must have mongrel go-betweens to make known their
royal wills. Though she knew that kings and queens had no domain beneath
the eagle's wings, she had absorbed the idea that in the distant East
there was springing up a thrifty crop of nobilities who had very royal
wills which only lacked the outward insignia. These, having usurped that
part of the eagle's territory known as the East, were now sending into
the as yet free West their servile and unscrupulous minions.
This was common talk among the imported citizens who flocked nightly to
the Blue Goose, and in this view of the case the home-made article
coincided with its imported fellows. There were, however, a few
independents like Bennie, and these had a hard row of corn. By much
adulation the spirit of liberty was developing tyrannical tendencies,
and by a kind of cross-fertilization was inspiring her votaries with the
idea that freedom meant doing as they pleased, and dissenters be damned!
On this evening Élise was in attendance as usual at the little arcade,
which was divided from the council-room by a thin partition only.
Consequently, she had overheard every word that passed between Pierre
and his visitors. She had given only passive attention to Morrison's
citation of grievances; but to his proposed plan of action she listened
eagerly.
Her sympathies were thoroughly enlisted over his proposed strike more
than over Pierre's artful suggestion of covert nagging. Not that she
considered an ambushed attack, under the circumstances, as
reprehensible, but rather because open attack revealed one's personality
as much as the other course concealed it. The first year only of
humanity is wholly satisfied, barring colic, with the consciousness of
existence. The remaining years are principally concerned with impressing
it upon others.
Élise was very far from possessing what might be termed a retiring
disposition. This was in a large measure due to a naturally vivacious
temperament; for the rest, it was fostered by peculiarly congenial
surroundings. In this environment individuality was free to express
itself until it encountered opposition, when it was still more freely
stimulated to fight for recognition, and, by sheer brute force, to push
itself to the ascendant. This being the case, Élise was sufficiently
inspired by the exigencies of the evening to conceive and plan an
aggressive campaign on her own account. Being only a girl, she could not
take part either in Morrison's open warfare, or in Pierre's more
diplomatic intrigues. Being a girl, and untrammelled by
conventionalities, she determined upon a raid of her own. Her objective
point was none other than Firmstone himself. Having come to this
laudable conclusion, she waited impatiently an opportunity for its
execution.
Early one morning, a few days later, Élise saw Firmstone riding
unsuspiciously by, on his way to the mine. Previous observations had
taught her to expect his return about noon. So without ceremony, so far
as Pierre and Madame were concerned, Élise took another holiday, and
followed the trail that led to the mine. At the falls, where she had
eaten breakfast with Zephyr, she waited for Firmstone's return.
Toward noon she heard the click of iron shoes against the rocks, and,
scattering the flowers which she had been arranging, she rose to her
feet. Firmstone had dismounted and was drinking from the stream. She
stood waiting until he should notice her. As he rose to his feet he
looked at her in astonished surprise. Above the average height, his
compact, athletic figure was so perfectly proportioned that his height
was not obtrusive. His beardless face showed every line of a
determination that was softened by mobile lips which could straighten
and set with decision, or droop and waver with appreciative humour. His
blue eyes were still more expressive. They could glint with set purpose,
or twinkle with quiet humour that seemed to be heightened by their
polished glasses.
Élise was inwardly abashed, but outwardly she showed no sign. She stood
straight as an arrow, her hands clasped behind her back, every line of
her graceful figure brought out by her unaffected pose.
"So you are the old man, are you?" The curiosity of the child and the
dignity of the woman were humorously blended in her voice and manner.
"At your service." Firmstone raised his hat deliberately. The dignity of
the action was compromised by a twinkle of his eyes and a wavering of
his lips.
Élise looked a little puzzled.
"How old are you?" she asked, bluntly.
"Twenty-eight."
"That's awfully old. I'm sixteen," she answered, decisively.
"That's good. What next?"
"What's a minion?" she asked. She was trying to deploy her forces for
her premeditated attack.
"A minion?" he repeated, with a shade of surprise. "Oh, a minion's a
fellow who licks the boots of the one above him and kicks the man below
to even up."
Élise looked bewildered.
"What does that mean?"
"Oh, I see." Firmstone's smile broadened. "You're literal-minded.
According to Webster, a minion is a man who seeks favours by flattery."
"Webster!" she exclaimed. "Who's Webster?"
"He's the man who wrote a lexicon."
"A lexicon? What's a lexicon?"
"It's a book that tells you how to spell words, and tells you what they
mean."
Élise looked superior.
"I know how to spell words, and I know what they mean, too, without
looking in a--. What did you call it?"
"Lexicon. I thought you just said you knew what words meant."
"I didn't mean big words, just words that common folks use."
"You aren't common folks, are you?"
"That's just what I am," Élise answered, aggressively, "and we aren't
ashamed of it, either. We're just as good as anybody," she ended, with a
toss of her head.
"Oh, thanks." Firmstone laughed. "I'm common folks, too."
"No, you aren't. You're a minion. M'sieu Mo-reeson says so. You're a
capitalistic hireling sent out here to oppress the poor workingman. You
use long tape-lines to measure up, and short rods to measure holes, and
you sneak in the mill at night, and go prying round the mine, and
posting notices, and--er--oh, lots of things. You ought to be ashamed of
yourself." She paused in breathless indignation, looking defiantly at
Firmstone.
Firmstone chuckled.
"Looks as if I were a pretty bad lot, doesn't it? How did you find out
all that?"
"I didn't have to find it out. I hear M'sieu Mo-reeson and Daddy and
Luna and lots of others talking about it. Daddy says you're 'smooth,
ver' smooth stuff,'" she mimicked. Élise disregarded minor
contradictions. "'Twon't do you any good, though. The day is not far
distant when down-trodden labour will rise and smite the oppressor.
Then----" her lips were still parted, but memory failed and inspiration
refused to take its place. "Oh, well," she concluded, lamely, "you'll
hunt your hole all right."
"You're an out-and-out socialist, aren't you?"
"A socialist?" Élise looked aghast. "What's a socialist?"
"A socialist is one who thinks that everyone else is as unhappy and
discontented as he is, and that anything that he can't get is better
than what he can. Won't you be seated?" Firmstone waved her to a
boulder.
Élise seated herself, but without taking her eyes from Firmstone's face.
"Now you're making fun of me."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"What makes you think so?"
"Because you sit there and grin and grin all the time, and use big words
that you know I can't understand. Where did you learn them?"
"At school."
"Oh, you've been to school, then, have you?"
"Yes."
"How long did you go to school?"
"Ten or twelve years, altogether."
"Ten or twelve years! What an awful stupid you must be!" She looked at
him critically; then, with a modifying intonation, "Unless you learned a
whole lot. I know I wouldn't have to go to school so long." She looked
very decided. Then, after a pause, "You must have gone clear through
your arithmetic. Zephyr taught me all about addition and division and
fractions, clear to square root. I wanted to go through square root, but
he said he didn't know anything about square root, and it wasn't any
use, anyway. Did you go through square root?"
"Yes. Do you want me to teach you square root?"
"Oh, perhaps so, some time," Élise answered, indifferently. "What else
did you study?"
"Algebra, trigonometry, Latin, Greek." Firmstone teasingly went through
the whole curriculum, ending with botany and zoology.
Élise fairly gasped.
"I never knew there was so much to learn. What's zoo--what did you call
it--about?"
"Zoology," explained Firmstone; "that teaches you about animals, and
botany teaches you about plants."
"Oh, is that all?" Élise looked relieved, and then superior. "Why, I
know all about animals and plants and birds and things, and I didn't
have any books, and I never went to school, either. Do all the big folks
back East have to have books and go to school to learn such things? They
must be awful stupids. Girls don't go to school out here, nor boys
either. There aren't any schools out here. Not that I know of. Mammy
says I must go to school somewhere. Daddy says I sha'n't. They have no
end of times over it, and it's lots of fun to see daddy get mad. Daddy
says I've got to get married right away. But I won't. You didn't tell me
if girls went to school with you."
"No; they have schools of their own."
Élise asked many questions. Then, suddenly dropping the subject, she
glanced up at the sun.
"It's almost noon, and I'm awfully hungry. I think I'll have to go."
"I'll walk down with you, if you'll allow me."
He slipped his arm through the bridle and started down the trail. Élise
walked beside him, plying him with questions about his life in the East,
and what people said and did. Firmstone dropped his teasing manner and
answered her questions as best he could. He spoke easily and simply of
books and travel and a thousand and one things that her questions and
comments suggested. Her manner had changed entirely. Her simplicity,
born of ignorance of the different stations in life which they occupied,
displayed her at her best. Her expressive eyes widened and deepened, and
the colour of her cheeks paled and glowed under the influence of the new
and strange world of which he was giving her her first glimpse.
They reached the Blue Goose. Firmstone paused, raising his hat as he
turned toward her. But Élise was no longer by his side. She had caught
sight of Morrison, who was standing on the top step, glowering savagely,
first at her, then at Firmstone.
Morrison was habilitated in his usual full dress--that is, in his
shirt-sleeves, unbuttoned vest, a collarless shirt flecked with
irregular, yellowish dots, and a glowing diamond. Just now he stood with
his hands in his pockets and his head thrust decidedly forward. His
square, massive jaw pressed his protruding lips against his curled
moustache. His eyes, narrowed to a slit, shot forth malignant glances,
his wavy hair, plastered low upon a low forehead and fluffed out on
either side, flattened and broadened his head to the likeness of a
venomous serpent preparing to strike.
Élise reached the foot of the stone steps, shot a look of fierce
defiance at the threatening Morrison, then she turned toward Firmstone,
with her head bent forward till her upturned eyes just reached him from
beneath her arching brows. She swept him a low courtesy.
"Good-bye, Mr. Minion!" she called. "I've had an awfully nice time."
She half turned her head toward Morrison, then, as Firmstone lifted his
hat in acknowledgment, she raised her hand to her laughing lips and
flung him a kiss from the tips of her fingers. Gathering her skirts in
her hand, she darted up the steps and nearly collided with Morrison, who
had deliberately placed himself in her way.
She met Morrison's indignant look with the hauteur of an offended
goddess. Morrison's eyes fell from before her; but he demanded:
"Where did you pick up that--that scab?" It was the most opprobrious
epithet he could think of.
Élise's rigid figure stiffened visibly.
"It's none of your business."
"What have you been talking about?"
"It's none of your business. Is there any more information you want that
you won't get?"
"I'll make it my business!" Morrison burst out, furiously. "I'll----"
"Go back to your gambling and leave me alone!" With unflinching eyes,
that never left his face, she passed him almost before he was aware of
it, and entered the open door.
Could Morrison have seen the change that came over her face, as soon as
her back was toward him, he might have gained false courage, through
mistaking the cause. Loathing and defiance had departed. In their place
were bewildering questionings, not definite, but suggested. For the
first time in her life her hitherto spontaneous actions waited
approbation before the bar of judgment. The coarse, venomous looks of
Morrison ranged themselves side by side with the polished ease and
deference of Firmstone.
As she passed through the bar-room long accustomed sights were, for the
first time, seen, not clearly, but comparatively. In the corridor that
led to the dining-room she encountered Pierre. She did not speak to him.
The quick eyes of the little Frenchman noted the unwonted expression,
but he did not question her. At the proper time he would know all.
Meantime his concern was not to forget.
Élise opened the door of the dining-room and entered. Madame looked up
as the door closed. Élise stood with distant eyes fixed upon the
pathetically plain little woman. Never before had she noticed the
lifeless hair strained from the colourless tan of the thin face, the
lustreless eyes, the ill-fitting, faded calico wrapper that dropped in
meaningless folds from the spare figure. Madame waited patiently for
Élise to speak, or to keep silence as she chose. For a moment only Élise
stood. The next instant Madame felt the strong young arms about her,
felt hot, decided kisses upon her cheeks. Madame was surprised. Élise
was fierce with determination. Élise was doing penance. Madame did not
know it.
Élise left Madame standing bewildered, and darted upstairs to her little
room. She flung herself on her bed and fought--fought with ghostly,
flitting shadows that elusively leered from darker shades, grasped at
fleeting phantoms that ranged themselves beside the minatory demons,
until at last she grew tired and slept.
Élise had left the Blue Goose in the morning, a white-winged, erratic
craft, skimming the sparkling, land-locked harbours of girlhood. She
returned, and already the first lifting swells beyond the sheltering bar
were tossing her in their arms. She had entered the shoreless ocean of
womanhood.
Pierre passed from the corridor to the bar-room. He glanced from the bar
to the gaming-tables, where a few listless players were engaged at
cards, and finally stepped out upon the broad piazza. He glanced at
Morrison, who was following Firmstone with a look of malignant hatred.
"Meestaire Firmstone, he bin come from ze mine?"
"To hell with Firmstone!" growled Morrison. He turned and entered the
saloon.
Pierre followed him with knowing eyes.
"To hell wiz Firmstone, heh?" He breathed softly. "_Bien!_"
Pierre stood looking complacently over the broken landscape. Much
understanding was coming to him. The harmlessness of the dove radiated
from his beaming face, but the wisdom of the serpent was shining in his
eyes.
CHAPTER XI
_The Devil's Elbow_
If Firmstone had flattered himself that his firm but just treatment of
Luna in the case of the stolen ore had cleared his path of difficulties
he would have been forced by current events to a rude awakening. He had
been neither flattered nor deceived. He knew very well that a prop put
under an unstable boulder may obscure the manifestation of gravity; but
he never deceived himself with the thought that it had been eliminated.
The warming-up process, recommended by Pierre, was being actively
exploited. Scarcely a day passed but some annoying accident at the mine
or mill occurred, frequently necessitating prolonged shut-downs. Day by
day, by ones, by twos, by threes, his best men were leaving the mine.
There was no need to ask them why, even if they would have given a
truthful answer. He knew very well why. Yet he was neither disheartened
nor discouraged. He realised the fact clearly, as he had written to his
Eastern employers that it would take time and much patient endeavour to
restore order where chaos had reigned so long undisturbed. There was
another element impeding his progress which he by no means ignored--that
was the Blue Goose.
He had no tangible evidence against the resort beyond its obvious
pretensions. He had no need of the unintentional but direct evidence of
Élise's words that the habitués of the Blue Goose there aired their
grievances, real or imagined, and that both Pierre and Morrison were
assiduously cultivating this restlessness by sympathy and counsel. He
was morally certain of another fact--that the Blue Goose was indirectly,
at least, at the bottom of the extensive system of thieving, in offering
a sure market for the stolen gold. This last fact had not especially
troubled him, for he felt sure that the careful system of checks which
he had inaugurated at the outset would eventually make the stealing so
dangerous that it would be abandoned.
So far in the history of the camp, when once the plates were cleaned and
gold, as ingots, was in possession of the company, it had been perfectly
safe. No attempts at hold-ups had ever been made. Yet Firmstone had
provided, in a measure, safeguards against this possibility. The ingots
had been packed in a small steel safe and shipped by stage to the
nearest express office, about ten miles distant. Shipments had not been
made every day, of course. But every day Firmstone had sent the safe,
loaded with pigs of lead. The next day the safe was returned, and in it
was the agent's receipt. Whether the safe carried gold or lead, the
going and the returning weight was the same. If the safe carried gold
enough lead was added by the express agent to make the returning weight
the same. This fact was generally known, and even if a stage hold-up
should be attempted, the chances were thirty to one that a few pounds of
lead would be the only booty of the robbers.
This afternoon Firmstone was at his office-desk in a meditative and
relieved frame of mind. He was meditative over his troubles that, for
all his care, seemed to be increasing. Relieved in that, but an hour
before, $50,000 in bullion had been loaded into the stage, and was now
rolling down the cañon on the way to its legitimate destination. His
meditations were abruptly broken, and his sense of relief violently
dissipated, when the office-door was thrust open, and hatless, with
clothing torn to shreds, the stage-driver stood before him, his beard
clotted with blood which flowed from a jagged cut that reached from his
forehead across his cheek.
Firmstone sprang to his feet with a startled exclamation. The driver
swept his hand over his blood-clotted lips.
"No; 'tain't a hold-up; just a plain, flat wreck. The whole outfit went
over the cliff at the Devil's Elbow. I stayed with my job long's I
could, but that wa'n't no decades."
Firmstone dragged the man into his laboratory, and carefully began to
wash the blood from his face.
"That's too long a process, gov'ner." The driver soused his head into
the bucket of cold water which Firmstone had drawn from the faucet.
"Can you walk now?" Firmstone asked.
"Reckon I'll try it a turn. Been flyin', for all I know. Must have been,
to get up the cliff. I flew down; that much I know. Lit on a few places.
That's where I got this." He pointed to the cut.
Firmstone led the man to his own room adjoining the office, and opening
a small chest, took out some rolls of plaster and bandages. He began
drying the wound.
The office-door again opened and the bookkeeper entered.
"Go tell Bennie to come down right away," Firmstone ordered, without
pausing in his work.
Satisfied that the man's skull was not fractured, he drew the edges of
the wound together and fastened them with strips of plaster. A few
minutes later Bennie, followed by Zephyr, hurriedly entered the office.
Paying no attention to their startled exclamations, Firmstone said:
"I wish you would look after Jim. He's badly hurt. He'll tell you about
it. You said at the Devil's Elbow?" turning to the driver.
Zephyr glanced critically at the man; then, making up his mind that he
was not needed, he said:
"I'll go along with you. Are you heeled?"
Firmstone made no audible reply, but took down his revolver and
cartridge-belt, and buckled them on.
"'Tain't the heels you want; it's wings and fins. They won't be much
good, either. The whole outfit's in the San Miguel. I followed it that
far, and then pulled out." The driver was attempting to hold out gamely,
but the excitement and the severe shaking-up were evidently telling on
him.
Firmstone and Zephyr left the office and followed the wagon-trail down
the cañon. Neither spoke a word.
They reached the scene of the wreck and, still silent, began to look
carefully about. A hundred feet below them the San Miguel, swollen by
melting snows, foamed and roared over its boulder-strewn bed. Near the
foot of the cliff one of the horses was impaled on a jagged rock; its
head and shoulders in the lapping water. In mid-stream and further down
the other was pressed by the current against a huge rock that lifted
above the flood. No trace of the stage was to be seen. That, broken into
fragments by the fall, had been swept away.
The spot where the accident occurred was a dangerous one at best. For
some distance after leaving the mill the trail followed a nearly level
bench of hard slate rock, then, dipping sharply downward, cut across a
long rock-slide that reached to the summit of the mountain a thousand
feet above. On the opposite side a square-faced buttress crowded the
trail to the very brink of the cañon. The trail followed along the foot
of this buttress for a hundred feet or more, and at the edge it again
turned from the gorge at an acute angle. At the turning-point a cleft,
twenty feet wide, cut the cliff from the river-bed to a point far above
the trail. A bridge had spanned the cleft, but it was gone. The accident
had been caused by the giving way of the bridge when the stage was on
it.
"Well, what do you make of it?" Firmstone turned to Zephyr and Zephyr
shook his head.
"That's a superfluous interrogation. Your thinks and mine on this
subject under consideration are as alike as two chicks hatched from a
double-yolked egg."
"This is no accident." Firmstone spoke decidedly.
Zephyr nodded deliberately.
"That's no iridescent dream, unless you and I have been hitting the same
pipe."
"The question is," resumed Firmstone, "was the safe taken from the stage
before the accident?" He looked at Zephyr inquiringly.
"That depends on Jim Norwood." Zephyr whistled meditatively, then spoke
with earnest decision. "That safe's in the river. The Blue Goose has
been setting for some time. This ain't the first gosling that's pipped
its shell, and 'tain't going to be the last one, either, unless the nest
is broken up."
"That's what I think." Firmstone spoke slowly. "But this is a dangerous
game. I didn't think it would go so far."
"It's up to you hard; but that isn't the worst of it. It's going to be
up to you harder yet. They never reckoned on Jim's getting out of this
alive." Zephyr seated himself, and his hand wandered unconsciously to
his shirt. Then, changing his mind, he spoke without looking up. "You
don't need this, Goggles, but I'm going to give it to you, just the
same. You're heavier calibre and longer range than the whole crowd. But
I am with you, and there are others. The gang haven't landed their
plunder yet, and, what's more, they aren't going to, either. I'll see to
that. You just _restez tranquille_, and give your mind to other things.
This little job is about my size."
Firmstone made no reply to Zephyr. He knew his man, knew thoroughly the
loyal sense of honour that, though sheltered in humourous, apparently
indifferent cynicism, was ready to fight to the death in defence of
right.
"I think we might as well go back to the mill. We've seen all there is
to be seen here."
They walked back in silence. At the office-door Zephyr paused.
"Won't you come in?" asked Firmstone.
"I think not, dearly beloved. The spirit moveth me in sundry places. In
other words, I've got a hunch. And say, Goggles, don't ask any
embarrassing questions, if your grub mysteriously disappears. Just
charge it up to permanent equipment account, and keep quiet, unless you
want to inquire darkly whether anyone knows what's become of that fellow
Zephyr."
"Don't take any risks, Zephyr. A man's a long time dead. You know as
well as I the gang you're up against. I think I know what you're up to,
and I also think I can help you out."
Firmstone entered the office with no further words. It was the hardest
task of many that he had had, to send a report of the disaster to the
company, but he did not shrink from it. He made a plain statement of the
facts of the case, including the manner in which the bridge had been
weakened to the point of giving way when the weight of the stage had
been put upon it. He also added that he was satisfied that the purpose
was robbery, and that he knew who was at the bottom of the whole
business, that steps were being taken to recover the safe; but that the
conviction of the plotters was another and a very doubtful proposition.
Above all things, he asked to be let alone for a while, at least. The
driver, he stated, had no idea that the wrecking of the stage was other
than it appeared on the face, an accident pure and simple. The letter
was sealed and sent by special messenger to the railroad.
One thing troubled Firmstone. He was very sure that his request to be
let alone would not be heeded. Hartwell, the Eastern manager of the
company, was a shallow, empty-headed man, insufferably conceited. He
held the position, partly through a controlling interest in the shares,
but more through the nimble use of a glib tongue that so man[oe]uvred
his corporal's guard of information that it appeared an able-bodied
regiment of knowledge covering the whole field of mining.
If Firmstone had any weaknesses, one was an open contempt of flatterers
and flattery, the other an impolitic, impatient resentment of patronage.
There had been no open breaks between the manager and himself; in fact,
the manager professed himself an admiring friend of Firmstone to his
face. At directors' meetings "Firmstone was a fairly promising man who
only needed careful supervision to make in time a valuable man for the
company." Firmstone had strongly opposed the shipping of bullion by
private conveyance instead of by a responsible express company. In this
he was overruled by the manager. Being compelled to act against his
judgment, he had done his best to minimise the risk by making dummy
shipments each day, as has been explained.
The loss of the month's clean-up was a very serious one, and he had no
doubt but that it would result in a visit from the manager, and that the
manager would insist upon taking a prominent part in any attempt to
recover the safe, if indeed he did not assume the sole direction. The
opportunity to add to his counterfeit laurels was too good to be lost.
In the event of failure, Firmstone felt that no delicate scruples would
prevent the shifting of the whole affair upon his own shoulders.
Firmstone had not made the mistake of minimising the crafty cunning of
Pierre, nor of interpreting his troubles at the mine and mill at their
obvious values. Cunningly devised as was the wreck of the stage, he felt
sure that there was another object in view than the very obvious and
substantial one of robbery. With the successful wrecking of the stage
there were yet large chances against the schemers getting possession of
the safe and its contents. Still, there was a chance in their favour. If
neither Pierre nor the company recovered the bullion, Pierre's scheme
would not have miscarried wholly. The company would still be in
ignorance of the possibilities of the mine. Firmstone arranged every
possible detail clearly in his mind, from Pierre's standpoint. His
thorough grasp of the entire situation, his unwearying application to
the business in hand made further stealing impossible. Pierre was bound
to get him out of his position. The agitation inaugurated by Morrison
was only a part of the scheme by means of which this result was to be
accomplished. A whole month's clean-up had been made. If this reached
the company safely, it would be a revelation to them. Firmstone's
position would be unassailable, and henceforth Pierre would be compelled
to content himself with the yield of the gambling and drinking at the
Blue Goose. Whether the bullion ever found its way to the Blue Goose or
not, the wrecking of the stage would be in all likelihood the
culminating disaster in Firmstone's undoing.
Firmstone's indignation did not burn so fiercely against Pierre and
Morrison--they were but venomous reptiles who threatened every decent
man--as at the querulous criticisms of his employers, which were a
perpetual drag, clogging his every movement, and threatening to
neutralise his every effort in their behalf. He recalled the words of an
old and successful mine manager:
"You've got a hard row of corn. When you tackle a mine you've got to
make up your mind to have everyone against you, from the cook-house
flunkey to the president of the company, and the company is the hardest
crowd to buck against."
Firmstone's face grew hard. The fight was on, and he was in it to win.
That was what he was going to do.
Zephyr, meantime, had gone to the cook-house. He found Bennie in his
room.
"How's Jim?" he asked.
"Sleeping. That's good for him. He'll pull out all right. Get on to
anything at the bridge?" Bennie was at sharp attention.
"Nothing to get on to, Julius Benjamin. The bridge is gone. So's
everything else. It's only a matter of time when Goggles will be gone,
too. This last will fix him with the company." Zephyr glanced slyly at
Bennie with the last words. "The jig is up. The fiddle's broke its last
string, and I'm going, too."
Bennie's eyes were flaming.
"Take shame to yourself for those words, you white-livered frog-spawn,
with a speck in the middle for the black heart of you! You're going?
Well, here's the bones of my fist and the toe of my boot, to speed you!"
"You'll have to put me up some grub, Benjamin."
"Grub! It's grub, is it? I'll give you none. Stay here a bit and I'll
grub you to more purpose. I'll put grit in your craw and bones in your
back, and a sup of glue, till you can stand straight and stick to your
friends. Lacking understanding that God never gave you, I'll point them
out to you!"
Zephyr's eyes had a twinkle that Bennie's indignation overlooked.
"The Lord never passed you by on the other side, Julius. He put a heavy
charge in your bell-muzzle. You're bound to hit something when you go
off. If He'd only put a time-fuse on your action, 'twould have only
perfect. Not just yet, Julius Benjamin!" Zephyr languidly lifted a
detaining hand as Bennie started to interrupt. "I'm going a long journey
for an uncertain time. This is for the public. But, Julius, if you'll
take a walk in the gloaming each day, and leave an edible bundle in the
clump of spruces above the Devil's Elbow you'll find it mysteriously
disappears. From which you may infer that I'm travelling in a circle
with a small radius. And say, Julius, heave over some of your wind
ballast and even up with discretion. You're to take a minor part in a
play, with Goggles and me as stars."
"It's lean ore you're working in your wind-mill. Just what does it
assay?" Bennie was yet a little suspicious.
"For a man of abundant figures, Julius, you have a surprising appetite
for ungarnished speech. But here's to you! The safe's in the river.
There's fifty thousand in bullion in the safe that's in the river. The
Blue Goose crowd is after the bullion that's in the safe that's in the
river. Say, Julius Benjamin, this is hard sledding. It's the story of
the House that Jack Built, adapted to present circumstances. I'm going
to hang out in the cañon till the river goes down, or till I bag some of
the goslings from the Blue Goose. Your part is to work whom it may
concern into the belief that I've lit out for my health, and meantime to
play raven to my Elijah. Are you on?"
"Yes, I'm on," growled Bennie. "On to more than you'll ever be. You have
to empty the gab from your head to leave room for your wits."
CHAPTER XII
_Figs and Thistles_
Though Zephyr had not explained his plan of operations in detail,
Firmstone found no difficulty in comprehending it. It was of prime
importance to have the river watched by an absolutely trustworthy man,
and Firmstone was in no danger of having an embarrassing number from
whom to choose. A day or two of cold, cloudy weather was liable to occur
at any time, and this, checking the melting of the snow, would lower the
river to a point where it would be possible to search for, and to
recover the safe.
It was with a feeling of relief that he tacitly confided the guarding of
the river to Zephyr. While he offered no opposition to Zephyr's carrying
out his scheme of having his mysterious disappearance reported, he was
fully satisfied that it would not deceive Pierre for an instant.
Firmstone, however, was deceived in another way. It was a case of
harmless self-deception, the factors of which were wholly beyond his
control. His reason assured him unmistakably that Hartwell would start
at once for Colorado on learning of the loss of the bullion, and that
the manager would be a hindrance in working out his plans, if indeed he
did not upset them entirely.
Firmstone's confidence in his ability to emerge finally triumphant from
his troubles came gradually to strengthen his hope into the belief that
he would be let alone. A telegram could have reached him within a week
after he had reported the loss, but none came. He was now awaiting a
letter.
The bridge had been repaired, and travel resumed. A meagre account of
the accident had been noted in the Denver, as well as in the local
papers, but no hint was given that it was considered otherwise than as
an event incidental to mountain travel. The miraculous escape of the
driver was the sole item of interest. These facts gratified Firmstone
exceedingly. Pierre was evidently satisfied that the cards were in his
own hands to play when and as he would. He was apparently well content
to sit in the game with Firmstone as his sole opponent. Firmstone was
equally well content, if only----
There came the sharp click of the office gate. Inside the railing stood
a slender man of medium height, slightly stooped forward. On his left
arm hung a light overcoat. From a smooth face, with a mouth whose thin
lips oscillated between assumed determination and cynical half-smiles, a
pair of grey eyes twinkled with a humorously tolerant endurance of the
frailties of his fellow-men.
"Well, how are you?" The gloved right hand shot out an accompaniment to
his words.
Firmstone took the proffered hand.
"Nothing to complain of. This is something of a surprise." This was true
in regard to one mental attitude, but not of another. Firmstone voiced
his hopes, not his judgment.
"It shouldn't be." The eyes lost their twinkle as the mouth straightened
to a line. "I'm afraid you hardly appreciate the gravity of the
situation. The loss of $50,000 is serious, but it's no killing matter to
a company with our resources. It's the conditions which make such losses
possible."
"Yes." Firmstone spoke slowly. The twinkle was in his eyes now. "As I
understand it, this is the first time conditions have made such a loss
possible."
The significance of the words was lost on Hartwell. The possibility of a
view-point other than his own never occurred to him.
"We will not discuss the matter now. I shall be here until I have
straightened things out. I have brought my sister with me. Her physician
ordered a change of air. Beatrice, allow me to introduce my
superintendent, Mr. Firmstone."
A pink and white face, with a pair of frank, blue eyes, looked out from
above a grey travelling suit, and acknowledged the curt introduction.
"I am very happy to meet you." Firmstone took the proffered hand in his
own.
Miss Hartwell smiled. "Don't make any rash assertions. I am going to be
here a long time. Where are you going, Arthur?" She turned to her
brother, who, after fidgeting around, walked briskly across the room.
"I'll be back directly. I want to look after your room. Make yourself
comfortable for a few minutes." Then addressing Firmstone, "I suppose our
quarters upstairs are in order?"
"I think so. Here are the keys. Or will you allow me?"
"No, thanks. I'll attend to it." Hartwell took the keys and left the
room.
Firmstone turned to Miss Hartwell.
"What kind of a trip did you have out?"
"Delightful! It was hot and dusty across the plains, but then I didn't
mind. It was all so new and strange. I really had no conception of the
size of our country before."
"And here, even, you are only a little more than half way across."
"I know, but it doesn't mean much to me."
"Does the altitude trouble you?"
"You mean Marshall Pass?"
"Yes. In part, but you know Denver is over five thousand feet. Some
people find it very trying at first."
"Perhaps I might have found it so if I had stopped to think. But I had
something else to think of. You know I had a ridiculous sensation, just
as if I were going to fall off the world. Now you speak of it, I really
think I did gasp occasionally." She looked up smilingly at Firmstone. "I
suppose you are so accustomed to such sights that my enthusiasm seems a
bore."
"Do you feel like gasping here?"
"No; why do you ask?"
"Because you are a thousand feet higher than at Marshall Pass, and here
we are three thousand feet below the mine. You would not only have the
fear of falling off from the world up there, but the danger of it as
well."
Miss Hartwell looked from the office window to the great cliff that rose
high above its steep, sloped talus.
"I told Arthur that I was going to see everything and climb everything
out here, but I will think about it first."
"I would suggest your seeing about it first. Perhaps that will be
enough."
Hartwell bustled into the room with a preoccupied air. "Sorry to have
kept you waiting so long."
Miss Hartwell followed her brother from the room and up the stairs.
"Make yourself as comfortable as you can, Beatrice. I gave you full
warning as to what you might expect out here. You will have to look out
for yourself now. I shall be very busy; I can see that with half an
eye."
"I think if Mr. Firmstone is one half as efficient as he is agreeable
you are borrowing trouble on a very small margin." Miss Hartwell spoke
with decided emphasis.
"Smooth speech and agreeable manners go farther with women than they do
in business," Hartwell snapped out.
"I hope you have a good business equipment to console yourself with."
Hartwell made no reply to his sister, but busied himself unstrapping her
trunk.
"Dress for supper as soon as you can. You have an hour," he added,
looking at his watch.
Hartwell did not find Firmstone on re-entering the office. He seated
himself at the desk and began looking over files of reports of mine and
mill. Their order and completeness should have pleased him, but, from
the frown on his face, they evidently did not.
Firmstone, meanwhile, had gone to the cook-house to warn Bennie of his
coming guests, and to advise the garnishing of the table with the
whitest linen and the choicest viands which his stores could afford.
"What sort of a crowd are they?" Bennie inquired.
"You'll be able to answer your own question in a little while. That will
save you the trouble of changing your mind."
"'Tis no trouble at all, sir! It's a damned poor lobster that doesn't
know what to do when his shell pinches!"
Firmstone, laughing, went to the mill for a tour of inspection before
the supper hour. Entering the office a little later, he found Hartwell
at his desk.
"Well," he asked, "how do you find things?"
Hartwell's eyes were intrenched in a series of absorbed wrinkles that
threw out supporting works across a puckered forehead.
"It's too soon to speak in detail. I propose to inform myself generally
before doing that."
"That's an excellent plan."
Hartwell looked up sharply. Firmstone's eyes seemed to neutralise the
emphasis of his words.
"Supper is ready when you are. Will Miss Hartwell be down soon?"
Miss Hartwell rustled into the room, and her brother led the way to the
cook-house.
Bennie had heeded Firmstone's words. Perhaps there was a lack of
delicate taste in the assortment of colours, but scarlet-pinks, deep red
primroses, azure columbines, and bright yellow mountain sunflowers
glared at each other, each striving to outreach its fellow above a
matted bed of mossy phlox. Hartwell prided himself, among other things,
on a correct eye.
"There's a colour scheme for you, Beatrice; you can think of it in your
next study."
Bennie was standing by in much the same attitude as a suspicious
bumble-bee.
"Mention your opinion in your prayers, Mr. Hartwell, not to me. They're
as God grew them. I took them in with one sweep of my fist."
Miss Hartwell's eyes danced from Firmstone to Bennie.
"Your cook has got me this time, Firmstone." Hartwell grinned his
appreciation of Bennie's retort.
They seated themselves, and Bennie began serving the soup. Hartwell was
the last. Bennie handed his plate across the table. They were a little
cramped for room, and Bennie was saving steps.
"It's a pity you don't have a little more room here, Bennie, so you
could shine as a waiter."
"Good grub takes the shortest cut to a hungry man with no remarks on
style. There's only one trail when they meet."
Hartwell's manner showed a slight resentment that he was trying to
conceal. "This soup is excellent. It's rather highly seasoned"--he
looked slyly at Bennie--"but then there's no rose without its thorns."
"True for you. But there's a hell of a lot of thorns with the roses, I
take note. Beg pardon, Miss!"
Miss Hartwell laughed. "You have had excellent success in growing them
together, Bennie."
"Thank you, Miss!" Bennie was flushed with pleasure. "I've heard tell
that there were roses without thorns, but you're the first of the kind
I've seen."
Bennie had ideas of duty, even to undeserving objects. Consequently,
Hartwell's needs were as carefully attended to as his sister's or
Firmstone's, but in spite of all duty there is a graciousness of manner
that is only to be had by a payment in kind. Bennie paraded his duty as
ostentatiously as his pleasure, and with the same lack of words.
Hartwell noted, and kept silence.
Hartwell looked across to the table which Bennie was preparing for the
mill crew.
"Do you supply the men as liberally as you do your own table,
Firmstone?"
"Just the same."
"Don't think I want to restrict you, Firmstone. I want you to have the
best you can get, but it strikes me as a little extravagant for the
men."
Bennie considered himself invaded.
"The men pay for their extravagance, sir."
"A dollar a day only, with no risks," Hartwell tendered, rather stiffly.
"I'll trade my wages for your profits," retorted Bennie, "and give you a
commission, and I'll bind myself to feed them no more hash than I do
now!"
The company rose from the table. For the benefit of Miss Hartwell and
Firmstone, Bennie moved across the room with the dignity of a
drum-major, and, opening the door, bowed his guests from his presence.
CHAPTER XIII
_The Stork and the Cranes_
In spite of Élise's declaration that she would see him again, Firmstone
dropped her from his mind long before he reached his office. She had
been an unexpected though not an unpleasant, incident; but he had
regarded her as only an incident, after all. Her beauty and vivacity
created an ephemeral interest; yet there were many reasons why it
promised to be only ephemeral. The Blue Goose was a gambling, drinking
resort, a den of iniquity which Firmstone loathed, a thing which, in
spite of all, thrust itself forward to be taken into account. How much
worse than a den of thieves and a centre of insurrection it was he had
never stated to himself. He, however, would have had no hesitancy in
completing the attributes of the place had he been asked. The fact that
the ægis of marriage vows spread its protecting mantle over the
proprietor, and its shadow over the permanent residents, would never
have caused a wavering doubt, or certified to the moral respectability
of the contracting parties. Firmstone was not the first to ask if any
good thing could come out of Nazareth, or if untarnished purity could
dwell in the tents of the Nazarenes. It occasionally happens that a
stork is caught among cranes and, even innocent, is compelled to share
the fate of its guilty, though accidental, associates.
Thus it happened that when Élise, for the second time, met Firmstone at
the falls he hardly concealed his annoyance. Élise was quick to detect
the emotion, though innocence prevented her assigning it its true
source. There was a questioning pain in the large, clear eyes lifted to
Firmstone's.
The look of annoyance on Firmstone's face melted. He spoke even more
pleasantly than he felt.
"Well, what I can do for you this time?"
"You can go away from my place and stay away!" Élise flashed out.
Firmstone's smile broadened.
"I didn't know I was a trespasser."
"Well, you are! I had this place before you came, and I'm likely to have
it after you are gone!" The eyes were snapping.
"You play Cassandra well." Firmstone was purposely tantalising. He was
forgetting the cranes, nor was he displeased that the stork had other
weapons than innocence.
Élise's manner changed.
"Who is Cassandra?"
The eager, hungry look of the changing eyes smote Firmstone. The
bantering smile disappeared. It occurred to him that Élise might be
outdoing her prototype.
"She was a very beautiful lady who prophesied disagreeable things that
no one believed."
Élise ignored the emphasis which Firmstone unconsciously placed on
_beautiful_. She grew thoughtful, endeavouring to grasp his analogy.
"I think," she said, slowly, "I'm no Cassandra." She looked sharply at
Firmstone. "Daddy says you're going; Mo-reeson says you're going, and
they put their chips on the right number pretty often."
Firmstone laughed lightly.
"Oh, well, it isn't for daddy and Morrison to say whether I'm to go or
not."
"Who's this Mr. Hartwell?" Élise asked, abruptly.
"He's the man who can say."
"Then you are up against it!" Élise spoke with decision. There was a
suggestion of regret in her eyes.
"These things be with the gods." Firmstone was half-conscious of a lack
of dignity in seeming to be interested in personal matters, not intended
for his immediate knowledge. Several times he had decided to end the
episode, but the mobile face and speaking eyes, the half-childish
innocence and unconscious grace restrained him.
"I don't believe it." Élise looked gravely judicial.
"Why not?"
"Because God knows what he's about. Mr. Hartwell doesn't; he is only
awfully sure he does."
Firmstone chuckled softly over the unerring estimate which Élise had
made. He began gathering up the reins, preparatory to resuming his way.
Élise paid no attention to his motions.
"Don't you want to see my garden?" she asked.
"Is that an invitation?"
"Yes."
"You are sure I'll not trespass?"
Élise looked up at him.
"That's not fair. I was mad when I said that."
She turned and hurriedly pushed through the matted bushes that grew
beside the stream. There was a kind of nervous restlessness which
Firmstone did not recall at their former meeting. They emerged from the
bushes into a large arena bare of trees. It was completely hidden from
the trail by a semicircle of tall spruces which, sweeping from the cliff
on either side of the fall, bent in graceful curves to meet at the
margin of the dividing brook. Moss-grown boulders, marked into miniature
islands by cleaving threads of clear, cold water, were half hidden by
the deep pink primroses, serried-massed about them. Creamy cups of
marshmallows, lifted above the succulent green of fringing leaves, hid
the threading lines of gliding water. On the outer border clustered
tufts of delicate azure floated in the thin, pure air, veiling modest
gentians. Moss and primrose, leaf and branch held forth jewelled fingers
that sparkled in the light, while overhead the slanting sunbeams broke
in iridescent bands against the beaten spray of the falling water. The
air, surcharged with blending colours, spoke softly sibilant of visions
beyond the power of words, of exaltation born not of the flesh, of
opening gates with wider vistas into which only the pure in heart can
enter. The girl stood with dreamy eyes, half-parted lips, an unconscious
pose in perfect harmony with her surroundings.
As Firmstone stood silently regarding the scene before him he was
conscious of a growing regret, almost repentance, for the annoyance that
he had felt at this second meeting. Yet he was right in harbouring the
annoyance. He felt no vulgar pride in that at their first meeting he had
unconsciously turned the girl's open hostility to admiration, or at
least to tolerance of himself. But she belonged to the Blue Goose, and
between the Blue Goose and the Rainbow Company there was open war.
Suppose that in him Élise did find a pleasure for which she looked in
vain among her associates; a stimulant to her better nature that
hitherto had been denied her? That was no protection to her. Even her
unconscious innocence was a weapon of attack rather than a shield of
defence. She and she alone would be the one to suffer. For this reason
Firmstone had put her from his mind after their first meeting, and for
this reason he had felt annoyance when she had again placed herself in
his path. But this second meeting had shown another stronger side in the
girl before him. That deep in her nature was an instinct of right which
her surroundings had not dwarfed. That this instinct was not to be
daunted by fear of consequences. She had evidently come to warn him of
personal danger to himself. This act carried danger--danger to her, and
yet she apparently had not hesitated. Perhaps she did not realise the
danger, but was he to hold it of less value on that account? Was he to
accept what she gave him, and then through fear of malicious tongues
abandon her to her fate without a thought? The idea was revolting, but
what could he do? His lips set hard. There must be a way, and he would
find it, however difficult. In some way she should have a chance. This
chance must take one of two forms: to leave her in her present
surroundings, and counteract their tendencies by other influences, or,
in some way, to remove her from the Blue Goose.
Firmstone was deeply moved. He felt that his course of action must be
shaped by the calmest judgment, if Élise were to be rescued from her
surroundings. He must act quickly, intelligently. If he had known of her
real parentage he would have had no hesitancy. But he did not know. What
he saw was Élise, the daughter of Pierre and Madame. To him they were
her parents. Whatever opportunities he offered her, however much she
might desire to avail herself of them, they could forbid; and he would
be helpless. Élise was under age; she was Pierre's, to do with as he
would. This was statute law. Firmstone rebelled against it
instinctively; but it was hopeless. He knew Pierre, knew his greed for
gold, his lack of scruple as to methods of acquiring it. He did not know
Pierre's love for Élise; it would not have weighed with him had he
known. For he was familiar with Pierre's class. Therefore he knew that
Pierre would rather see Élise dead than in a station in life superior to
his own, where she would either despise him or be ashamed of him. It was
useless to appeal to Pierre on the ground of benefit to Élise. This
demanded unselfish sacrifice, and Pierre was selfish.
Firmstone tried another opening, and was confronted with another danger.
If Pierre suspected that efforts were being made to weaken his hold on
Élise there was one step that he could take which would forever thwart
Firmstone's purpose. He had threatened to take this step. Firmstone's
pulses quickened for a moment, then calmed. His course was clear. The
law that declared her a minor gave her yet a minor's rights. She could
not be compelled to marry against her own wishes. Élise must be saved
through herself. At once he would set in motion influences that would
make her present associates repugnant to her. The strength of mind, the
hunger of soul, these elements that made her worth saving should be the
means of her salvation. Should Pierre attempt to compel her marriage,
even Firmstone could defeat him. Persuasion was all that was left to
Pierre. Against Pierre's influence he pitted his own.
"Where is Zephyr?" Élise broke the silence.
"Why do you ask?" The Blue Goose was in the ascendant. Firmstone was
casting about for time. The question had come from an unexpected
direction.
"Because he is in danger, and so are you."
"In danger?" Firmstone did not try to conceal his surprise.
"Yes." Élise made a slightly impatient gesture. "It's about the stage.
They will kill him. You, too. I don't know why."
"They? Who are they?"
"Morrison and Daddy."
"Did they know you would meet me to-day?"
"I don't know, and I don't care."
"You came to warn me?"
"Yes."
Firmstone stretched out his hand and took hers.
"I cannot tell you how much I thank you. But don't take this risk again.
You must not. I will be on my guard, and I'll look out for Zephyr, too."
He laid his other hand on hers.
At the touch, Élise looked up with hotly flaming cheeks, snatching her
hand from his clasp. Into his eyes her own darted. Then they softened
and drooped. Her hand reached for his.
"I don't care. I can take care of myself. If I can't, it doesn't
matter." Her voice said more than words.
"If you are ever in trouble you will let me know?" Firmstone's hand
crushed the little fingers in a tightening grasp.
"Zephyr will help me."
Firmstone turned to go.
"I cannot express my thanks in words. In another way I can, and I will."
CHAPTER XIV
_Blinded Eyes_
An old proverb advises us to be sure we are right, then go ahead. To the
last part of the proverb Hartwell was paying diligent heed; the first,
so far as he was concerned, he took for granted. Hartwell was carrying
out energetically his declared intention of informing himself generally.
He was accumulating a vast fund of data on various subjects connected
with the affairs of the Rainbow Company, and he was deriving great
satisfaction from the contemplation of the quantity. The idea of a
proper valuation of its quality never occurred to him. A caterpillar in
action is a very vigorous insect; but by means of two short sticks
judiciously shifted by a designing mind he can be made to work himself
to a state of physical exhaustion, and yet remain precisely at the same
point from whence he started.
Hartwell's idea was a fairly laudable one, being nothing more nor less
than to get at both sides of the question at issue individually from
each of the interested parties. Early and late he had visited the mine
and mill. He had interviewed men and foremen impartially, and the amount
of information which these simple sons of toil instilled into his
receptive mind would have aroused the suspicions of a less self-centred
man.
Of all the sources of information which Hartwell was vigorously
exploiting, Luna, on the whole, was the most satisfactory. His guileless
simplicity carried weight with Hartwell, and this weight was added to by
a clumsy deference that assumed Hartwell's unquestioned superiority.
"You see, Mr. Hartwell, it's like this. There's no need me telling you;
you can see it for yourself, better than I can tell it. But it's all
right your asking me. You've come out here to size things up generally."
Luna was not particularly slow in getting on to curves, as he expressed
it. "And so you are sizing me up a bit to see do I know my business and
have my eyes open." He tipped a knowing wink at Hartwell. Hartwell
nodded, with an appreciative grin, but made no further reply. Luna went
on:
"You see, it's like this, as I was saying. Us labouring men are sharp
about some things. We have to be, or we would get done up at every turn.
We know when a boss knows his business and when he don't. But it don't
make no difference whether he does or whether he don't, we have to stand
in with him. We'd lose our jobs if we didn't. I'm not above learning
from anyone. I ain't one as thinks he knows it all. I'm willing to
learn. I'm an old mill man. Been twenty years in a mill--all my life, as
you might say--and I'm learning all the time. Just the other day I got
on to a new wrinkle. I was standing watching Tommy; he's battery man on
Five. Tommy was hanging up his battery on account of a loose tappet.
Tommy he just hung up the stamp next the one with the loose tappet, and
instead of measuring down, he just drove the tappet on a level with the
other, and keyed her up, and had them dropping again inside of three
minutes. I watched him, and when he'd started them, I up and says to
Tommy, 'Tommy,' says I, 'I'm an old mill man, but that's a new one on
me!' Tommy was as pleased as a boy with a pair of red-topped,
copper-toed boots. It's too bad they don't make them kind any more; but
then, they don't wear out as fast as the new kind. But, as I was saying,
some bosses would have dropped on Tommy for that, and told him they
didn't want no green men trying new capers."
Luna paused and looked at Hartwell. Hartwell still beamed approbation,
and, after casting about for a moment, Luna went on:
"You see, a boss don't know everything, even if he has been to college.
Most Eastern companies don't know anything. They send out a boss to
superintend their work, and they get just what he tells them, and no
more. None of the company men ever come out here to look for themselves.
I ain't blaming them in general. They don't know. Now it's truth I'm
telling you. I'm an old mill man. Been in the business twenty years, as
I was telling you, and your company's the first I ever knew sending a
man out to find what's the matter, who knew his business, and wa'n't too
big to speak to a common workman, and listen to his side of the story."
It was a strong dose, but Hartwell swallowed it without a visible gulp.
Even more. He was immensely pleased. He was gaining the confidence of
the honest toiler, and he would get the unvarnished truth.
"This is all interesting, very interesting to me, Mr. Luna. I'm a very
strict man in business, but I try to be just. I'm a very busy man, and
my time is so thoroughly taken up that I am often very abrupt. You see,
it's always so with a business man. He has to decide at once and with
the fewest possible words. But I'm always ready to talk over things with
my men. If I haven't got time, I make it."
"It's a pity there ain't more like you, Mr. Hartwell. There wouldn't be
so much trouble between capital and labour. But, as I was saying, we
labouring men are honest in our way, and we have feelings, too."
Luna was getting grim. He deemed that the proper time had arrived for
putting his personal ax upon the whirling grindstone. He looked fixedly
at Hartwell.
"As I was saying, Mr. Hartwell, us labouring men is honest. We believe
in giving a fair day's work for a fair day's pay, and it grinds us to
have the boss come sneaking in on us any time, day or night, just like a
China herder. He ain't running the mill all the time, and he don't know
about things. Machinery won't run itself, and, as I was saying, there
ain't no man knows it all. And if the boss happens to catch two or three
of us talking over how to fix up a battery, or key up a loose
bull-wheel, he ain't no right to say that we're loafing and neglecting
our business, and jack us up for it. As I said, Mr. Hartwell, the
labouring man is honest; but if we're sneaked on as if we wasn't,
'tain't going to be very long before they'll put it up that, if they're
going to be hung for sheep-stealing, they'll have the sheep first,
anyway."
Luna paused more for emphasis than for approbation. That he could see in
every line of Hartwell's face. At length he resumed:
"As I said, that ain't all by a long shot. There's all sorts of
pipe-dreams floating around about men's stealing from the mine and
stealing from the mill. But, man to man, Mr. Hartwell, ain't the
superintendent got a thousand chances to steal, and steal big, where a
common workman ain't got one?" Luna laid vicious emphasis on the last
words, and his expression gave added weight to his words.
To do Hartwell simple justice, dishonesty had never for an instant
associated itself in his mind with Firmstone. He deemed him inefficient
and lacking a grasp of conditions; but, brought face to face with a
question of honesty, there was repugnance at the mere suggestion. His
face showed it. Luna caught the look instantly and began to mend his
break.
"I'm not questioning any man's honesty. But it's just like this. Why is
it that a poor labouring man is always suspected and looked out for, and
those as has bigger chances goes free? That's all, and, man to man, I'm
asking you if that's fair."
Luna's garrulity was taking a line which Hartwell had no desire to
investigate, for the present, at least. He answered directly and
abruptly:
"When a man loses a dollar, he makes a fuss about it. When he loses a
thousand, he goes on a still hunt."
Luna took his cue. He winked knowingly. "That's all right. You know your
business. That's plain as a squealing pulley howling for oil. But I
wasn't telling you all these things because you needed to be told.
Anyone can see that you can just help yourself. I just wanted to tell
you so that you could see that us labouring men ain't blind, even if
everyone don't see with eyes of his own the way you're doing. You are
the first gentleman that has ever given me the chance, and I'm obliged
to you for it. So's the men, too."
Hartwell felt that, for the present, he had gained sufficient
information, and prepared to go.
"I'm greatly obliged to you, Mr. Luna, for the information you and your
men have given me." He held out his hand cordially. "Don't hesitate to
come to me at any time."
Hartwell had pursued the same tactics at the mine, and with the same
results. He had carefully refrained from mentioning Firmstone's name,
and the men had followed his lead. Hartwell made a very common mistake.
He underrated the mental calibre of the men. He assumed that, because
they wore overalls and jumpers, their eyes could not follow the pea
under the shell which he was nimbly manipulating. In plain English, he
was getting points on Firmstone by the simple ruse of omitting to
mention his name. There was another and far more important point that
never occurred to him. By his course of action he was completely
undermining Firmstone's authority. There is not a single workman who
will ever let slip an opportunity to give a speeding kick to a falling
boss on general principles, if not from personal motives. Hartwell never
took this factor into consideration. His vanity was flattered by the
deference paid to him, never for a moment dreaming that the bulk of the
substance and the whole of the flavour of the incense burned under his
nose was made up of resentment against Firmstone, nor that the waning
stores were nightly replenished at the Blue Goose. Had Hartwell remained
East, as devoutly hoped by Firmstone, it is all but certain that
Firmstone's methods would have averted the trouble which was daily
growing more threatening.
Hartwell had occasionally dropped in for a social drink at the Blue
Goose, and the deferential welcome accorded to him was very flattering.
Each occasion was but the prologue to another and more extended visit.
The open welcome tendered him by both Pierre and Morrison had wholly
neutralised the warnings embodied in Firmstone's reports. He was certain
that Firmstone had mistaken for deep and unscrupulous villains a pair of
good-natured oafs who preferred to make a living by selling whisky and
running a gambling outfit, to pounding steel for three dollars a day.
In starting out on the conquest of the Blue Goose, Hartwell acted on an
erroneous concept of the foibles of humanity. The greatness of others is
of small importance in comparison with one's own. The one who ignores
this truth is continually pulling a cat by the tail, and this is
proverbially a hard task. Hartwell's plan was first to create an
impression of his own importance in order that it might excite awe, and
then, by gracious condescension, to arouse a loyal and respectful
devotion. Considering the object of this attack, he was making a double
error. Pierre was not at all given to the splitting of hairs, but in
combing them along the line of least resistance he was an adept.
Hartwell, having pacified the mine and the mill, had moved to the
sanctum of the Blue Goose, with the idea of furthering his benign
influence. Hartwell, Morrison, and Pierre were sitting around a table in
the private office, Hartwell impatient for action, Pierre unobtrusively
alert, Morrison cocksure to the verge of insolence.
"Meestaire Hartwell will do me ze honaire to mek ze drink?" Pierre
inquired.
"Thanks." Hartwell answered the question addressed to him. "Mine is
brandy."
"A-a-ah! Ze good discrimination!" purred Pierre. "Not ze whisky from ze
rotten grain; but ze _eau-de-vie_ wiz ze fire of ze sun and ze sweet of
ze vine!"
Morrison placed glasses before each, a bottle of soda, and Pierre's
choicest brand of cognac on the table.
"Help yourself," he remarked, as he sat down.
Sipping his brandy and soda, Hartwell opened the game.
"You see," he began, addressing Pierre, "things aren't running very
smoothly out here, and I have come out to size up the situation. The
fact is, I'm the only one of our company who knows a thing about mining.
It's only a side issue with me, but I can't well get out of it. My
people look to me to help them out, and I've got to do it."
"Your people have ze great good fortune--ver' great." Pierre bowed
smilingly.
Hartwell resumed: "I'm a fair man. I have now what I consider sufficient
knowledge to warrant me in making some radical changes out here; but I
want to get all the information possible, and from every possible
source. Then I can act with a perfectly clear conscience." He spoke
decidedly, as he refilled his glass.
"Then fire that glass-eyed supe of yours," Morrison burst out. "You
never had any trouble till he came."
Hartwell looked mild reproach. Morrison was going too fast. There was a
pause. Morrison again spoke, this time sullenly and without raising his
eyes.
"He's queered himself with the men. They'll do him if he stays. They
ain't going to stand his sneaking round and treating them like dogs.
They----"
"Mistaire Mo-reeson speak bad English, ver' bad." Pierre's words cut in
like keen-edged steel. "On ze odder side ze door, it not mek so much
mattaire."
Morrison left the room without a word further. There was a look of
sullen satisfaction on his face. Hartwell smiled approvingly at Pierre.
"You've got your man cinched all right."
"Hall but ze tongue." Pierre shrugged his shoulders, with a slight wave
of his hands.
"Well," Hartwell resumed, "I want to get at the bottom of this stage
business. Fifty thousand doesn't matter so much to us; it's the thing
back of it. What I want to know is whether it was an accident, or
whether it was a hold-up."
"Feefty tousand dollaire!" Pierre spoke musingly. "She bin a lot of
monnaie. A whole lot." Pierre hesitated, then looked up at Hartwell.
"Well?" Hartwell asked.
"How you know she bin feefty tousand dollaire hin ze safe?"
"Mr. Firmstone advised me of its shipment."
"_Bien!_ Ze safe, where she bin now?"
"In the river."
"A-a-ah! You bin see her, heh?"
"No. The water's too high."
"When ze wattaire bin mek ze godown, you bin find her, heh?"
"I suppose so."
"_Bien!_ Mek ze suppose. When ze wattaire mek ze godown, you not find ze
safe?"
To some extent, Hartwell had anticipated Pierre's drift, but he
preferred to let him take his own course.
"It would look as if someone had got ahead of us."
Pierre waved his hand impatiently. "Feefty tousand dollaire bin whole
lot monnaie. Big lot men like feefty tousand dollaire, ver' big lot.
Bimeby somebo
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