CHAPTER XXIII.
Houston and Rutherford, on retiring to their room, after the breaking up of the picnic party, donned their slippers and smoking jackets, and having lighted their cigars, and slipped into the easiest possible attitudes, prepared to devote the next few hours to a confidential tete-a-tete. The next day Rutherford would start on his journey to the coast, and naturally there were many topics of mutual interest to be discussed on this, their last night together for a number of weeks.
Houston felt that the time had come for taking Rutherford into his confidence regarding his own work and plans, for it was evident that Van Dorn had posted his brother, and Rutherford would soon learn the truth from him, if in no other way. For a while Rutherford talked of his brother.
“I knew he was intending to come west this summer, and I expected to meet him in some of the cities along the coast, but I supposed he would return by one of the southern routes. I’m awfully glad he has decided to come back this way,” he added, “for I would enjoy it of course, to come around and see you again, and then, I’d like to have you meet Mort. He and I are not a bit alike, but I think he’s a splendid fellow, and I think you and he will like each other.”
“I haven’t a doubt of it, Ned,” Houston replied, with an air of confidence rather surprising to his friend; “in fact, I think I will be as glad to meet him as you yourself;” then, as Rutherford’s eyes expressed considerable wonder at such unexpected cordiality, he continued:
“I’ve been thinking, for some time, Ned, that the friendship you have shown for the low-salaried clerk and bookkeeper whom you met on your way out here, deserves some degree of confidence in return, and this evening seems to be the best time for giving you a little explanation regarding the man whom you have called your friend for the last few weeks.”
“Why, certainly, if you wish,” Rutherford replied, with slight embarrassment, “but then, it isn’t at all necessary, you know; that is, unless it is your choice, for your salary or your position doesn’t cut any figure with me. Whatever your circumstances may be, I know as well as I need to know that you are a gentleman; anybody can see that, and I have told my brother so.”
“I am much obliged to you, Ned,” Houston answered, with difficulty restraining a smile, “but I am going to begin by saying that your brother knows me a great deal better than you do.”
Rutherford’s face expressed so much astonishment, that it resembled nothing so much as an exaggerated exclamation point. Houston continued:
“I have never in my life known what it was to have an own brother, but the one who for many years has held that place in my heart is Morton Rutherford, and I think he will tell you that of all his class mates, there was not one with whom he was upon more intimate, confidential terms, than Everard Houston, of New York.”
“Everard Houston! Great Scott!” exclaimed Rutherford, springing to his feet, “why I remember that name well; he was Mort’s best friend. You don’t mean to say you are the same? Why, I thought you said you were from Chicago!”
“I was from Chicago, when you met me,” answered Houston, smiling, “but I had come from New York less than ten days before.”
“Well, by Jove!” said Rutherford, walking up and down the room, “I am floored completely! If you had once said you were from New York, I might have suspected who you were, but Chicago! and then,” here he stopped and gazed at his friend with a comical look of perplexity, “why, Everard Houston was the nephew and adopted son of W. E. Cameron.”
“Certainly,” assented Houston.
“Well then, what in thunder,––if I may ask the question,––are you doing out here with this confounded Buncombe-Boomerang mining company?”
“That is just what I wished to tell you to-night,” Houston replied, “but we must talk low, for walls sometimes have ears,” and placing a chair for his friend near his own, he proceeded to tell him of his object in coming out to the mining camp, of the work which he had accomplished, and of his plans for what yet remained to be done. Rutherford listened with much interest, deepening into admiration for his friend.
“And now,” said Houston, in conclusion, “you will see why I could not very well reveal my identity to you when we first met. I knew you as soon as I saw your card, but I was a stranger in this part of the country, with a certain role to play, uncertain of success, and, not knowing what difficulties or obstacles I might meet, thought there would be less danger of unexpected complications, if you thought me just what I appeared to be.”
“You thought about right, too,” said Rutherford, “for I’m awfully careless about anything of that kind, always putting my foot in it, you know; and I don’t see how you ever could come out here, a perfect stranger, and carry everything along as smoothly as you have. Well, I remember I was awfully mixed there on the train, when you told me you had come out here to work for that company, for I thought all the time that if you were not a gentleman, then I never saw one; and it’s lucky I did have sense enough to think of that, or I might have made a confounded chump of myself.”
“You would have cut me, would you?” asked Houston, laughing, “I was looking out for that, and would have considered it a rich joke if you had.”
“Rather too rich, I should say,” said Rutherford, coloring. “Mort has always ridiculed me for that sort of thing, and told me I’d make a precious fool of myself some day; I don’t intend to be snobbish, though he says I am, but that’s just my way somehow, unless I happen to like a person. Mort is different from me; he will get along with all sorts of people, you know, but I never could.”
“You are all right,” answered Houston, “you are a little conscious of your blue blood now and then, but as you grow older you will think less about that, and you have as good a heart as Morton, when a person is fortunate enough to find it.”
“Say,” said Rutherford, suddenly, “if you and Mort were class mates, you must have known Van Dorn.”
“Certainly,” said Houston, smilingly watching the blue coils of smoke from his cigar, “and when I first saw him with the Winters party, I knew my little game was up, unless I got my work in very expeditiously,” and he described the little pantomime which took place in the office shortly after Van Dorn’s arrival, much to the amusement of Rutherford, who exclaimed:
“Great Scott! but you fellows played that game well, no one ever would have dreamed that you had known each other.”
Houston then told of the plan for Van Dorn’s coming in a few weeks, and later, for the arrival of Mr. Cameron with Lindlay.
“Oh,” Rutherford exclaimed, “now I see why Mort is so anxious to get here at just about a certain time; he knows all about this, and wants to be in at the death himself; well, that suits me exactly. But say, old fellow, isn’t this going to be a pretty nasty piece of business for you about that time?”
“It would be if any one should get hold of this before the right time comes, but I do not anticipate any trouble, because I intend to be so guarded that nothing regarding my work will be known or suspected until my uncle is here, and we have them securely trapped.
“It will require a cool head and a level one to carry this thing through, and accomplish what you have undertaken,” said Rutherford thoughtfully, as he took one or two turns up and down the room, “and I guess you are the right one for the work. Van Dorn will be just the one to help you, too, he’s pretty cool and quick-witted himself, but I should think you would both need a third party, somebody who has been on the ground for a long time and who understands all about the working of these things.”
“It would be of great assistance to us, and I intend to keep a look-out, and if it is possible to find such a person, and one whom we can trust at the same time, I shall secure him.”
“Well, I’m sure I wish you success, and I shall be anxious to hear from you while I’m gone, and know how you are coming on.”
They smoked silently for a few moments, then Rutherford said:
“By the way, Houston, how about the congratulations I told you some time ago I was ready to offer whenever the occasion required; are they in order now? or shall I reserve them until my return?”
“They are in order whenever you choose to offer them,” Houston replied quietly.
“Indeed! well, I’m glad to hear it, I thought it about time. I congratulate you most heartily, and tender you both my sincerest wishes for your happiness. I tell you what, old fellow, I think you’ve found a splendid woman, and I think, too, that you are wonderfully suited to each other. Seems strange, doesn’t it? to think of a pair like you two, finding each other in a place like this!”
“It is rather unusual, I admit,” said Houston.
“Yes,” added Rutherford, “taking into consideration all the surroundings, and the why and wherefore of your coming here, I think it borders on the romantic.”
A moment later he asked, “Does Miss Gladden know what you are doing out here?” Houston shook his head, in reply.
“Doesn’t she know who you really are?”
“Not yet,” Houston answered, “no one out here knows any more about that than you did two hours ago.”
“Whew!” said Rutherford, “she will be slightly surprised when she finds that old Blaisdell’s clerk and bookkeeper has a few cool millions of his own, won’t she?”
“I hope she will not object to the millions,” said Houston with a smile, “but I have the satisfaction of knowing that they were not the chief attraction; she cares for me myself, and for my own sake, not for the sake of my wealth, and I am just old fashioned enough to consider that of first importance.”
“And when will she learn your secret? not until the closing scene of the last act?”
“I cannot tell just when,” Houston answered, “that will of course depend a great deal upon circumstances.”
Rutherford then became confidential regarding his own hopes for the future, and gave Houston a description of his fiancee, and a brief history of their acquaintance and engagement.
“Grace is all right,” he said in conclusion, “but her father is inclined to be a little old-fogyish, thinks we are too young for any definite engagement, and wants me to be permanently established in some business before we are married, and all that; when I can’t see what in the deuce is the difference so long as I have plenty of stuff. So the upshot of it all was that he and his wife took Grace to Europe, and they’re not coming back until the holidays, and if, by that time, we have neither of us changed our minds, and I am settled in business and all that sort of thing, we can be married. There’s no danger of our changing our minds, so that’s all right, but I declare I don’t see the use of a fellow’s tying himself down to some hum-drum business, when there’s no need of it.”
“It isn’t a bad idea though to find some business for which you are adapted, and stick to it,” was Houston’s reply; “that was the advice my uncle gave me when I returned from college, and he offered me the choice of going into business with himself, or selecting something else that I liked better.”
“Grace’s father wants me to go in with him, but excuse me; if I went into business with any one, it would be somebody nearer my own age, where I’d have about as much to say as the other fellow, not an old man, and my father-in-law, in the bargain.”
“You may find something you will like, within the next few months,” said Houston, with a peculiar smile; “By the way, Morton used to say he was going to stick to journalistic work; how is he succeeding?”
“Splendidly; you know he is one of the associate editors of the Dispatch, then he contributes regularly to several of the leading magazines, and lately he has some work of his own on hand besides, a work on some sort of scientific research: yes, he has succeeded well.”
So long did their conversation continue, that when they at last went to rest, it was nearly time for the surrounding peaks, standing like huge sentinels against the dark, eastern sky, to catch the first faint flush of the approaching day.
They were a little late in making their appearance in the breakfast room. Miss Gladden and Lyle were awaiting them, but the others had gone. There was time for only a hasty breakfast before the team, going to the Y for supplies, which had been engaged to take Rutherford to the morning train, was at the door.
“Well,” said the latter, having seen his baggage safely aboard, including the familiar square case containing his precious cameras, “I’ve had a delightful time here, and I’m awfully glad I’m coming back again.”
“So are we, Mr. Rutherford,” said Miss Gladden, “and we will be very glad to welcome your brother also, and do all in our power to make his visit a pleasant one.”
“It is doubtful whether he will ever want to leave here,” Rutherford responded, “for he appreciates anything of this kind even more than I do. He’ll grow wild over these mountains. Well, Miss Maverick,” he continued, shaking hands with Lyle, “I thank you for all you’ve done to make my visit so pleasant, and I’m glad that we will only say good-bye for a little while.”
“I am also,” she replied, “and I wish you a pleasant journey and a speedy return.”
“This is not ‘good-bye,’ Mr. Rutherford,” said Miss Gladden, extending her hand, “it is only ‘au revoir.’”
“That is right,” he answered, then added in low tones, “Miss Gladden, I have already congratulated Mr. Houston, and I hope you will accept my congratulations and best wishes also. I think almost as much of him as of my own brother, and I could not wish either of you any happier fortune than I believe you will find in each other.”
In a few moments Houston and Rutherford were riding rapidly down the canyon. At the office, where Houston had to prepare some orders for the driver, he and Rutherford took leave of each other.
“Be good to yourself, old fellow,” said Rutherford, “and keep us posted just how you are coming on; and say,” he added, lowering his voice, “I’ll keep you posted of our whereabouts, and if anything should happen, and you need help, wire us and we’ll be here by the next train; you can count on two brothers now, instead of one, you know.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
A day or two after the departure of Rutherford, Miss Gladden, having learned from Lyle at what hour Jack usually completed his day’s work, set forth upon her visit to the cabin. She felt that her errand might prove embarrassing both to Jack and herself; she wished to obtain some clue regarding Lyle’s parentage; at least, to learn what his suspicions, or possible knowledge might be concerning the matter, and taking into consideration the contingency that she might be his own child, whose existence he had kept secret for reasons of his own, it was a subject which would require very delicate handling.
She found Jack at the cabin, and alone, and his courteous greeting, containing less formality and more cordiality and friendliness than on the former occasion, made her task seem far less difficult. He ushered her into the pleasant little sitting-room, and she noted even more particularly than on her former visit, the exquisite taste betrayed, not only in the furnishings of the room, but in their very arrangement.
After chatting a few moments regarding the little circle of friends at the house, in whom he seemed to take more interest than she would have expected from a man of his secluded life, the conversation naturally turned to Lyle, and Miss Gladden said:
“I have wished to see you regarding her because you seem to be the only one among those living here who appreciates her ability, or cares for her welfare; and you have known her and her surroundings so long, I believed you could give me some suggestions and advice regarding what is best to be done for her, even now, while she remains here.”
“I have taken a great interest in the child ever since I have known her,” Jack replied, “and I am only too glad that she has found another friend, and that friend a lady; and if I can assist, by suggestion or otherwise, I shall be most happy to do so.”
“I asked your opinion the other evening,” continued Miss Gladden, “as to taking her east with me, but there were other matters pertaining to her welfare, on which I wished your opinion and advice, but I could not so well speak of them before her, so I asked for this interview.”
Miss Gladden hesitated a moment, almost hoping that Jack might make some remark which would give her a cue as to the best method for her to pursue in seeking the information she desired, but his attitude was that of respectful attention, and he was evidently waiting for her to proceed.
“I have felt attracted toward Lyle from the first,” she began slowly, “not alone by her wondrous beauty and grace of manner, but even more by her intelligence and intellectual ability, her natural refinement and delicacy, which, considering her surroundings, seemed to me simply inexplicable. From the very first, she has been to me a mystery, and as I become better acquainted with her, the mystery, instead of being lessened, is only deepened.”
She paused, but he offered no comment, only bowed gravely for her to continue.
“I could not, and I cannot yet, understand how one like her could ever have been born, or could exist in such surroundings as hers; and the fact that she has existed here, her beautiful nature untainted, unsullied by the coarseness, the vulgarity and the immorality about her, to me seemed an indication that she was of an altogether different type, born in another and far higher sphere. I saw she was unhappy, and I determined to win her confidence, and in so doing, from a vague suspicion I have gradually arrived at a firm conviction that Lyle is not the child of those whom she calls her parents.”
Jack manifested no surprise, neither was there anything in his manner to indicate that this was a subject upon which he had any knowledge. He simply asked very calmly,––almost indifferently it seemed to Miss Gladden,––
“Have you discovered any direct evidence in support of this conviction that she is not their child?”
“No tangible evidence,” replied Miss Gladden, “nothing, of course, that could be called proof, but there are what I consider very strong indications.”
“Are the indications on Lyle’s part, or on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Maverick?” inquired Jack.
“On both sides,” replied Miss Gladden, “I have very little to say regarding Mrs. Maverick; she is a kind-hearted woman, and seems to treat Lyle with consideration and some degree of affection; there is very little of the latter, but perhaps it is all of which she is capable, for I should think life with that brute would quickly crush out all the affection, if not all the intelligence, in a woman’s nature; but the neglect and ill treatment of Maverick himself towards Lyle surely indicate that she is no child of his.”
“Your remark regarding Mrs. Maverick might be still more applicable to him, that he is incapable of anything like affection or kindness.”
“Of course he is,” replied Miss Gladden quickly, “but I can not conceive of a man being quite so low as to be without even animal instincts; I cannot believe that a father would insult and degrade his own daughter as he has Lyle, and as he would continue to do, if he were not restrained through fear of his wife.”
For the first time, Jack started. “Fear of his wife, did you say, Miss Gladden? Pardon me, but I think that brute fears neither God, man nor devil, and how you can assert that he is in fear of his wife, whom he has always abused mercilessly, I cannot imagine.”
“It is a fact, nevertheless; for one morning after he had been exceedingly abusive and insulting in his language toward Lyle, Mrs. Maverick told her that he was, in some way, in her power, and that it should never occur again; and it never has.”
Jack rose, and began to pace the room.
“Did you hear her say that, Miss Gladden?”
“No, Lyle told me of it.”
“Had Lyle any idea of what she meant by it?”
“She did not seem to have; nothing was ever said regarding that phase of the subject; she only seemed relieved that Mrs. Maverick promised to prevent a repetition of her father’s abuse of her.”
Jack seated himself. “You spoke of some reasons on Lyle’s part for your conclusions; what were they?”
Miss Gladden then told him of Lyle’s strange impressions and of her dream, but made no allusion to the photograph, wishing to reserve that until later.
Jack looked thoughtful. “I wonder that she has never spoken to me regarding this dream,” he said at length.
“She told me she had not had the dream so often since having been occupied with her studies and reading, probably that accounts for her not speaking of it; lately she says it has returned.”
Both were silent for a while, then Miss Gladden asked:
“Do you not think these dreams and impressions are indications of an early life, far different from this?”
“I do,” he replied gravely.
“That was my opinion,” then, determined to get some expression from him, she continued:
“I am so attached to her, so desirous, if possible, to rescue her from this wretched life, that I am anxious to get some clue as to her true parentage; that is why I have come to you, her friend. I thought possibly you might be able to aid me in getting some evidence, or some information regarding her early history.”
Miss Gladden was watching Jack keenly, to note if her words produced any effect on that immobile face. She was not disappointed: he started, almost imperceptibly, and as he fixed his dark eyes upon her own, she noticed, as never before, how keen and piercing, and how eloquently beautiful they were. Miss Gladden’s eyes did not drop before his searching gaze; she was determined that he should read only sincerity and candor in their depths, and make his answer accordingly. When he spoke, his voice was unlike its usual smooth, even tone; it was tender and deep, full of some strange emotion, and reminded her wonderfully of her lover.
“Miss Gladden, may I ask,––for I believe you will answer me truthfully and candidly,––what ever led you to suppose that I could give you any information regarding Lyle’s early history?”
“I will answer you candidly, as you wish,” she replied; “the thought first occurred to me of coming to you for advice regarding Lyle, simply because I regarded you as her best friend, in fact, until I came, her only friend. Then a remark accidently dropped by Lyle, as to what you had once said of her singing, that it reminded you of but one voice which you had heard, but that you did not like to hear her, led me to think that perhaps she was in some way connected with some one you had known, and that possibly that was the reason for the special interest you took in her welfare.
“Then there was something more, in connection with her dream,” and she told him how Lyle had at last identified the pictured face which seemed so familiar to her, as the dream-face of her childhood, and how immediately after the dream had returned.
“After she told me this,” continued Miss Gladden, “you will see that I naturally concluded that the face was that of her mother; that her mother, her parents, and probably her early life were known to you; and I will frankly admit, that except that it seemed incredible that you would allow her to remain in these surroundings, if my hypothesis were correct, I would have believed that you were her father, and that grief from bereavement or separation, had caused you to choose this life for yourself and her.”
Jack had again risen and was slowly pacing the room. Miss Gladden could read no sign of displeasure in his face, though she detected indications of some powerful emotion, and of acute suffering. He seemed battling with old-time memories, and when at last he seated himself and began speaking, there was a strange pathos vibrating through the forced calmness of his voice, and the piercing eyes, now looking so kindly into her own, had in their depths such hopeless sadness, that Miss Gladden’s heart was stirred by a pity deeper than she had ever known, for she instinctively felt that she was in the presence of some great, despairing sorrow.
With a smile of rare sweetness and beauty, he said: “Your candor and frankness deserve confidence in return, and I will give it so far as it is within my power to do so, and yet I fear that you will be disappointed. Your surmises are incorrect in many respects, and yet contain a great deal of truth, and I will try, so far as possible, to be as frank with you as you have been with me. In the first place, I must say to you, that regarding Lyle’s true parentage, whether or not she is the child of the Mavericks, I know, positively, nothing more than do you, yourself.”
He smiled as he noted Miss Gladden’s look of astonishment, and continued:
“Like you, I have my suspicions that she is not their child, and have had them since first seeing her, years ago. As in your case, my suspicions long ago changed to conviction, and my convictions are probably even deeper than yours, for the reason, that in form, in feature, in voice and manner, in every expression and gesture,” his voice trembled for an instant, but he controlled it, “she is the exact counterpart of another; some one whom I knew in a life as remote, as far from this as it is possible to conceive. But I have no direct proof, not a shadow of tangible evidence with which I could confront Maverick and denounce him with having stolen the child, and, knowing him as I do, I know that for Lyle’s sake, until I have some such proof, it were better to remain silent.”
“Pardon me for interrupting you,” Miss Gladden exclaimed, “but that is a contingency that never entered my mind, that Lyle had been stolen from her parents! That is far worse than anything I had dreamed of.”
“Nevertheless, if she is not their child, she was stolen, and just in proportion as the former is improbable, the latter is probable, almost certain. You will now see wherein your supposition that my interest in her was due to her connection in my mind with some one I had formerly known, was correct. I took a special interest in her for this reason; it was a pleasure to teach her, to note her mind expanding so rapidly, to watch her as she developed physically and mentally; every day growing more and more like the one I had known. I enjoyed tracing the resemblance day by day, though it often caused me almost as much pain as pleasure,––but when I heard her sing, that was too much,––it was more than I could bear,––it was like compelling some lost soul in purgatory to listen to the songs of paradise.”
There was a tremor in Jack’s voice, and he paused, touched even more deeply by the sympathetic tears glistening in the beautiful eyes full of such tender pity, than by the bitter memories passing before his own mind.
“What has perplexed me most,” he continued, “is the fact that Lyle has seemed unable to recall anything relating to her early childhood. I have tried in every way to arouse her memory, and that was my chief object in allowing her to see the photograph of which she told you; but, as she often says, the first few years of her life seem to be only blank. I cannot account for that.”
“Still,” said Miss Gladden, “these dreams of hers show that there are memories there, and something may yet recall them to her mind.”
“That has been my hope,” he replied, “that is what I have been waiting for all these years, for her mind to recall some incident, or some individual, that would furnish the needed proof as to her parentage.”
“Do you think,” asked Miss Gladden, after a pause, “that it would be wise to give Lyle a hint of our suspicions?”
“I have thought it might be well, if possible, to arouse her own suspicions by some process of reasoning on her part, not by any suggestions of ours.”
“May I inquire whether those whom you consider her true parents are still living?”
“They both died many years ago.”
“Then, if her identity could be proven beyond a doubt, would there be any one to give her such a home as she ought to have?”
“Yes, there are those who would be only too glad to give her such a home as very few have the good fortune to possess.”
“And have they never made any inquiry for her?” Miss Gladden asked in surprise.
“They have no idea that she is living; her parents died under peculiar circumstances, and she was supposed to have died at the same time.”
“Then ought we not,” said Miss Gladden thoughtfully, “both for her sake and theirs, to let them know that she is living, and help them to find her?”
“Unless they could see her for themselves,” he replied, “they would probably be rather skeptical, and require very positive proof regarding her claims, they have believed her dead for so many years. But even though I may have known Lyle’s mother, I am not in communication with her friends, and would not be the proper person to present her claims to them.”
For a few moments, Miss Gladden sat silently watching the play of the light and shade on the mountain side across the ravine, opposite the cabin, as the shadows cast by the light, floating clouds, followed each other in rapid succession.
Jack seemed to be thinking deeply, and when he at last spoke, it was with great deliberation:
“For a long time, as I have become more and more convinced of Lyle’s identity, I have been anxious to have her taken away from these surroundings, and placed in the home to which I believe she has a right; but without tangible evidence with which to establish her claims, and also to prove Maverick’s guilt, I could think of no feasible plan, nothing that did not seem likely to result in failure, and leave Lyle possibly in a worse condition than at present. I will now say to you, Miss Gladden, in confidence, that I think before very long, the way will be opened for Lyle to find the home and friends that I consider are really hers. Through information given me in confidence, I have learned that some of those whom I believe to be most closely related to her and who would be most interested in her, did they know of her existence, will in all probability be out here on business this summer; if they do not recognize Lyle, I shall be greatly disappointed.”
Miss Gladden’s face expressed the delight she felt. “Is it possible?” she exclaimed, “Why, I cannot conceive of anything lovelier! If she has been stolen all these years, and her people unconscious of her very existence, to have them appear on the scene, and recognize and claim her, will seem like a beautiful bit of fiction interwoven in our prosaic, every-day life, or like the closing scene in some drama, where the wrongs at last are all made right. To think what happiness it will bring to them, to her and to us!”
Jack’s face grew strangely serious. “I shall be glad for her sake;” he replied, then added: “Sometimes, Miss Gladden, wrongs are righted only at a terrible cost, and what seems to you like the closing of a peaceful drama, may prove a tragedy to those who are concerned in it.”
Then, before she could reply, he said, in a different tone, as though to change the conversation:
“It will not be best to mention what I have told you to any one; there is no knowing what course Maverick might pursue if he had a hint of it, for he is a desperate man; but if there is any way in which Lyle’s mind could be carried back and made to recall something of her past life, I wish it might be done.”
Miss Gladden had risen, preparatory to taking leave. Having given a searching glance around the room, she turned toward Jack, saying wistfully:
“Am I asking too much? Could I see the photograph which you allowed Lyle to see?”
For an instant Jack hesitated; then he replied, “I am willing you should see it, but you must not expect me to say anything concerning that picture or myself. I have spoken to you in confidence regarding Lyle, but I can go no further.”
“I will not ask it,” she replied.
Without a word, he went to a small trunk, concealed by a fine bear-skin, and taking therefrom the picture, silently handed it to Miss Gladden.
She uttered a low cry of surprise, and then stood for some time intently studying the lovely face in every detail. When she returned the picture to Jack’s hands, there were tears in her eyes, as she exclaimed, “How beautiful! and how like Lyle!”
“I hoped she would see the resemblance,” he replied.
“It seems almost incredible that she did not,” answered Miss Gladden, “except for the fact that she has the least self-consciousness of any one I ever saw; it is doubtful if she would recognize her own picture.”
For a long time Jack stood watching Miss Gladden, as, having thanked him for the interview, she walked slowly up the winding road. His eyes grew strangely wistful and tender, very unlike their ordinary expression, and a smile, sad but sweet, played about the usually stern lips.
“He has chosen well,” he murmured at length, “they are well suited to each other; Heaven grant nothing may ever mar their happiness!” and with a heavy sigh, he turned and entered the cabin.
CHAPTER XXV.
As Miss Gladden slowly followed the winding canyon road on her return from the little cabin, the thoughts flashing through her mind very strongly resembled the lights and shadows which she had watched chasing each other across the mountain side. While she had gained very little direct information, Jack’s theories had strengthened her own convictions, though placing the matter in a slightly different light. She had a very vivid imagination, and looked forward with anticipations of keenest pleasure to the coming of Lyle’s friends,––whoever they might be––and their probable recognition of her; and yet she could not forget Jack’s words regarding the terrible cost which might be involved, resulting in possible tragedy, and an indefinable dread seemed at times to overshadow all other thoughts, and perplex her. Not dreaming, however, that the words could refer to herself, or those in whom she was most deeply interested, she tried to banish this feeling by planning what course would be best to pursue regarding Lyle, and determined to confide the whole matter to Houston, and ask his advice. So absorbed was she in her own thoughts and plans, that not until she had nearly approached the house, did she observe the presence of strangers.
A party of eight or ten ladies and gentlemen, including three or four tourists from the east, had come out from Silver City. They had come with wagons, bringing a large tent which was to be put up for those who could not be accommodated in the house. They proved to be very pleasant people, and during the ensuing ten days of their stay, Miss Gladden and Lyle seldom saw each other apart from their guests. There were numerous excursions to various points of interest, moonlight rides on the lake and impromptu dances.
Houston at this time was more than usually occupied, as the day after the arrival of the camping party, Mr. Blaisdell unexpectedly appeared upon the scene. He arrived quite early in the morning, having been brought by special train from the Y. He found Houston alone in the office, and greeted him with a cordiality quite surprising to the latter, considering his taciturn, dissatisfied manner when at the mines a few days before. He seemed in no hurry to leave the office, but remained talking for some time concerning business affairs at Silver City.
“I may want you to run over there, just for a day, while I’m here,” he said at length, “for I expect to remain out here for about a week. By the way, Houston, I hear you pitched into old Hartwell one night, over there at the hotel, for some remarks he made about the company.”
“Ah,” said Houston, “how did you hear of that?”
“There was a friend of mine there, who overheard Hartwell’s talk, and afterward saw you go up and speak to him. Having seen you in our office, he had a little curiosity as to what was going on. He said Hartwell cursed you up hill and down, but that you were so damned cool the old fellow couldn’t rattle you. Hartwell told him afterward that you threatened to compel him to substantiate all he had said, and he was glad that the old fellow, for once, found somebody that wasn’t afraid of him.”
“Oh, no,” said Houston, quietly, “I didn’t see any reason for being afraid.”
“Well,” said Mr. Blaisdell, “I liked your spirit all right, but then, men like Hartwell are not worth paying any attention to. He is interested in another company, so of course he tries to run down ours, and he has a certain clique that he has persuaded to think just as he does. I never think it best to notice any of his remarks.”
“If he had simply made a few remarks,” said Houston in reply, “I would of course have let them remain unnoticed, but he had continued his harangue for nearly an hour before I spoke to him, so I thought it as well to have a word with him myself.”
“Oh, that was all right, perfectly right on your part, only I have adopted the policy of letting barking dogs alone.”
After a little further conversation, Mr. Blaisdell looked over the books, and finding everything in satisfactory shape, remarked:
“You seem to have familiarized yourself very thoroughly with the work so far as you have gone, and in a very short time. You will doubtless remember, Mr. Houston, that when we engaged you, you were told that we should probably need your services later at the mines, in assisting the general superintendent. Morgan’s work is increasing lately, and I have been thinking that I would much prefer to have a trustworthy person like yourself, assist him, even if we have to employ another bookkeeper, than to put on an entirely new man at the mines. I am going out to the mines this afternoon, to see how Morgan is getting along, and I think that to-morrow we will close the office, and you had better go out with me, and I will show you the work that I wish you to have charge of there. It probably will not take all your time, you will still be in the office more or less, at least enough to superintend the work in case I bring out a new man. He will simply work under your direction and supervision, the responsibility will all devolve upon you.”
For the next day or two, Houston’s time was spent at the mines, familiarizing himself with the underground workings, and becoming acquainted with the different classes and grades of ore, and the various methods of mining and reducing the same.
This was just the opportunity for which Houston had been waiting, and he entered upon his new work with a zest and enthusiasm that delighted Mr. Blaisdell, and even won the esteem of Morgan. On the second day, to Houston’s great joy, he was given charge, under Morgan, of what was known as the “Yankee” group of mines, containing the Yankee Boy, the Yankee Girl and the Puritan, the three most valuable mines in which the New York company was interested.
In passing through one of these mines, Houston noticed two miners working together with wonderful precision and accuracy, and on looking at them closely, recognized in one of them, the man whom Rutherford had pointed out to him on the train from Valley City, and of whom he had heard Miss Gladden speak as Lyle’s friend. The man seemed to pay little attention to his being there, and on coming out, Houston inquired of Mr. Blaisdell concerning him.
“I can tell you nothing about him,” replied Mr. Blaisdell, “except that he and his partner, the Irishman, are the two most expert miners we have. They live by themselves, and refuse to mingle with the other men, consequently they are not very popular among the miners, but of course that cuts no figure with us, so long as they are skilled workmen.”
The next day, Houston went to Silver City, on business for Mr. Blaisdell, and while there, sent the following message over the wires, to Van Dorn:
“Everything in readiness; bring machinery at once.”
Upon his return to the mining camp to enter upon his new duties, Houston resolved to make a careful study of the men working under him, both foremen and miners, for the purpose of determining whether there were among them any whom he could trust sufficiently to seek from them whatever assistance might be necessary for himself and Van Dorn in their future work.
Accordingly, for the first few days, he spent considerable time in the mines, apparently examining the workings, but in reality watching the men themselves. Among some of them he saw black looks and scowls, and heard muttered comments regarding himself: “Git onto the dude!” “D’ye see the tenderfoot?” “Thinks he’s goin’ to boss us, does he? we’ll show him a trick or two.” These were mainly from Maverick’s consorts, and men of their ilk, ignorant and brutal. Houston paid no attention to their remarks or frowns, but continued his rounds among them, conscious that he was master of the situation, meanwhile giving instructions to the foreman who accompanied him. As he passed and repassed Jack and Mike, working together with almost the automatic precision of machinery, he stopped to watch them, attracted partly by admiration for their work, and partly by a slight interest in the man who had been his fellow passenger, and concerning whom he had heard such various reports.
During the slight pause in their work, the Irishman eyed him curiously, with indications of his native drollery and humor betraying themselves in his mirthful face; he seemed about to speak, but Jack, with set, stern features, was ready, and the work continued without a word. In that brief interim, however, Jack had fixed one of his keen, piercing glances upon Houston, which the latter returned with one equally searching, and though not a muscle relaxed in that immobile face, covered with dust and grime, yet a strange thrill of mutual sympathy quivered and vibrated through the soul of each man, and Houston knew that he had found a friend.
“There is a man among a thousand,” he thought as he walked away, “a man of honor, in whom one could place unbounded confidence; no wonder Lyle has found him such a friend!”
At the next pause in their work, Mike’s feelings found expression:
“Begorra! but the young mon is progressin’ foinely, to be put over the loikes of us, and bein’ as how most loikely he niver sit foot in a moine, till comin’ out into this counthry!”
Jack’s face had grown strangely set and white: “We are to be his friends, remember that, Mike,” he said, in a voice unnaturally stern.
“Frinds!” exclaimed the astonished Mike, “Be-dad! and whin did I iver know ye to make frinds with ony of owld Blaisdell’s men befoor?”
“Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut, Mike,” was Jack’s only reply as he again began work, and Mike had nothing to do but to follow his example.
CHAPTER XXVI.
In a short time Houston had become perfectly familiar with his new surroundings. He was thoroughly at home in the underground workings, readily finding his way in the labyrinth of shafts, tunnels and cross-cuts extending for miles in all directions, and connecting the various mining claims one with another.
He knew the name and face of nearly every man employed in the various shifts, and by his keen perception and insight, was able to form a very correct estimate of their character and standing in that little community. Though no words had been exchanged between himself and Jack beyond those of the most commonplace greetings, yet his respect for the man, and confidence in him, increased with each day, and was plainly indicated by his manner toward him whenever they met.
As he watched the men, in his frequent rounds through the mines, most of their faces were to him as an open book, on some of whose pages he read histories of misfortune and loss, or crime and shame in the past, and on others, of eager ambitions and bright hopes for the future. There were men with gray hair and bowed forms, whose dull eyes and listless step told of hopeless, irretrievable loss; men of intelligence and ability whose recklessness or whose despondency told of some living sorrow, worse than death; there were some whose stealthy, shrinking gait and watchful, suspicious glance bespoke some crime, unknown to their fellows, but which to themselves seemed ever present, suspended, like the sword of Damocles, above their heads.
But even to Houston, Jack remained a mystery, and as he noted the powerful, athletic form, the profile of patrician beauty, perfect as though chiseled in marble, the hair and beard black and glossy as the raven’s wing, though touched with silver here and there, he found himself unable to read the history of that life.
“There is a man,” he soliloquized, “my equal, if not my superior, in birth, in education, in intellectual ability; how came he here? What has wrecked his life?”
But the dark, piercing eyes, turned on him for an instant, gave no answer to his query.
As he and Morgan, their day’s work completed, were returning to the house, Houston made some inquiries regarding the men, and from the information given by Morgan concerning some of them, found his own judgment of them correct.
“And who is the man called ‘Jack,’ who works with the Irishman?”
“Heaven knows, I don’t, nor nobody else,” replied Morgan; “he came here about six or seven years ago, I guess, at least; he was here when I came, and was considered an expert then. He never would have anything to say to the other men, and always lived by himself till the Irishman came; he was another queer sort of duck and was a first-class miner, too, so him and Jack has worked together and lived together ever since, but Jack is boss.”
“Are they the only miners living by themselves?” asked Houston.
“The only single men; there’s six or seven of ’em that are married and have families, like Maverick; they have very good shacks, furnished by the company, but all the single men, excepting them two, live at the quarters. By the way, have you ever been down to the quarters?”
“No,” replied Houston, “but I should like very well to visit them.”
“All right, we’ll go to-night if you like; I go down there myself once in a while and listen to their stories; they’ve most of ’em had some queer experiences, and they can spin as many yarns as a lot of sailors, any time.”
Later in the evening, Houston, having excused himself to the ladies in general, and Miss Gladden in particular, accompanied by Morgan, was on his way to the miners’ quarters. The latter were situated but a short distance from the office, on the road to the mines, and consisted of two boarding houses and four bunk houses. Farther down the road were the stables for the horses used in hauling supplies; also blacksmith and carpenter shops, and a storehouse.
A rather novel scene presented itself to Houston as he approached. Scattered about on the ground, and loafing in the door-ways in all attitudes and positions, were over a hundred men, of various ages, classes and nationalities, but principally Cornishmen, or, in western vernacular, “Cousin Jacks.” Many of them were strangers to him, being employed in other mines than those with which he was familiar, but among them were many of his own men. From the door-way of one of the bunk houses came the strains of a violin, while in another, a concertina shrieked and groaned, and from all directions came the sound of ribald songs, coarse jests and boisterous laughter. Here and there were groups of men engaged in playing poker or seven-up, where little piles of silver and gold were rapidly changing hands, to the accompaniment of muttered oaths. At one side, Maverick and a few kindred spirits seemed trying to outrival one another in profanity and obscenity, while at some distance from them, was a large company of the better class of men, some lounging against trees and rocks, some sitting or lying at full length on the ground, but all listening with unmistakable interest, to a man, gray and grizzled, with a weather-beaten but kindly face, who evidently was entertaining the crowd with tales of his own early life.
As Houston and Morgan approached, the speaker stopped; some of the men half rose from their recumbent positions out of respect for the “new boss,” and all eyed him rather curiously, though not unkindly. Houston recognized many of his own men among them, and greeted them with a pleasant “Good evening, boys.”
“Hullo, Billy,” said Morgan, addressing the old miner, “what do you know to-night?” then noting that he was watching Houston with a half smile on his rugged face, he added, “Thought I’d bring the boss down to see you and the rest of the boys to-night.”
“Good evenin’ boss,” responded the old fellow, while a merry smile twinkled in his eyes, “I expect this is your first visit to a reg’lar, genuwine minin’ camp?”
“My first, perhaps, but not my last,” said Houston, with a winning smile.
“That’s right,” said the old man approvingly, as he proceeded to refill his pipe; “I’ve been a watchin’ you, off and on, down there at the mines, bein’ as I’d heerd you was a tenderfoot, and I must say you’ve took a holt as if you was an old hand at the job.”
“Oh, yes,” Houston replied, “with a little determination, a person can pick up anything of that kind easily. I think, with a little practice, I could make a pretty successful miner; it would require grit and stick-to-it-ativeness, that’s all.”
“‘Grit and stick-to-it-ativeness,’ that’s good,” said the old miner, highly pleased, “well, you seem to have plenty of ’em both, and plenty of good muscle, too,” with an admiring glance at Houston’s fine, athletic form.
“See here, Billy,” said Houston pleasantly, after chatting a few moments, “when we came, it looked very much as though you were telling stories to the crowd here, and the boys all seemed very much interested; now we want you to go on with your story, we would enjoy it as much as the rest.”
“Let me see,” said Billy, “I don’t remember just where I was, but I guess I’d finished as you come up.”
“Never mind, you can start another,” said Houston.
“Yes, Billy, give us another,” chimed in the boys.
“Go ahead, pardner,” added Morgan, “spin us a yarn, that’s what we came for.”
“I was only tellin’ the boys about the old days when I came out to the mines, and for the first few years after,” Billy began.
“Those must have been interesting times,” said Houston.
“Int’restin’? I should say so! You fellows don’t know nothin’ about minin’ compared to them days; I tell you, things was lively then. I was there at Leadville when it was opened up, and you couldn’t get anybody to look at you without payin’ ’em a good, round sum for it; couldn’t get a place to roll yourself in your blanket and lie on the floor short of five or ten dollars; folks bought dry goods boxes and lived in ’em. Then I was down here when they opened up the Big Bonanza mine, in Diamond gulch, not far from Silver City. I tell you boys, them was high old times, everything was scarce and prices was high,––flour was a hundred dollars a sack, and potatoes seventy-five dollars a bushel,––but money was plenty,––or gold dust,––we didn’t have no money, everything was paid for in gold dust. ’Twas pretty tough in them days, too, everybody went armed to the teeth, and guns and knives was used pretty free.”
“Was that in the days of the vigilantes?” asked Houston.
“Yes, they come along soon after, they had to. There was desperate characters here, but the vigilantes made short work of ’em, they didn’t even give ’em time to say their prayers. I tell you, the gambling houses and the dance halls, and all them places was lively in them days. There wasn’t many words over a game, if any quarrels come up, they was settled pretty quick with the revolver or bowie knife.”
“There must have been some high stakes played in those days,” Houston remarked.
“High? well, yes, rather; I’ve seen men sit down to a game worth anywhere from fifty to two or three hundred thousand, and get up without a cent in the world.”
The old man paused to relight his pipe, and having puffed reflectively for a few moments, settled himself with the air of a man who has a long story to tell, and the surrounding miners evidently so understood it, for they shifted their positions accordingly, and prepared to listen.
“Speakin’ of gamblin’,” he began, “puts me in mind of something that happened among the camps on the other side of the range, nigh onto fifteen years ago. A gang of us boys was in Dandy Jim’s gambling hall one night. The place was crowded, I remember, and we was all tryin’ to make our fortunes on the high card. Some of us was dead broke, but them that hadn’t the stuff borrowed from them that had, sure of better luck next time. They was all so deep in the game that none of ’em noticed a seedy-lookin’ chap who come in, kinder quiet like, and set down to the faro table and began to play. I guess I was the only one who noticed him, and at first, I couldn’t make him out, but after a bit, I remembered him as ‘Unlucky Pete.’ That man had a history. When I first saw him, some eight or ten years before that night, he had just come west with his wife, a pretty little woman, and had a good team of horses and a new wagon. He was a reg’lar border character, and whenever a new country was opened up for settlement, him and his wife was the first on the ground, ready to make a run to secure a home. Pete was prosperous, till one night, in a quarrel over a game of cards, he killed his man, and from that time his luck changed. He secured one or two good claims, but lost title to them; he lost his horses, and as fast as he bought other horses, they died or was stolen, and everything went against him. He wandered from one country to another, but bad luck met him at every turn. The last I seen him was some two years before; then him and his wife and two or three babies was goin’ over the country in an old, broken-down wagon. The wheels was held together with wire and ropes, and the canvas top was in rags and tatters; the horses was the poorest, skinniest creatures you ever see, and him and his wife looked off the same piece.
“Well, somehow or ’nuther, I knew him that night, though he looked harder than ever, and had an old slouched hat down over his face. He looked like a man that was pushed pretty close to the wall, and had got down to his last nickel. Well, he set down there to the table, and threw a silver dollar on the high card; then pulled that old hat down clean over his eyes, and never spoke, or looked one way or another. The high card won, and the dealer paid the bet, and pushed the money over to Pete, but he never stirred.
“Well, that high card kep’ a winnin’ till there was a big pile of money there, but Pete, he never stirred, no more’n a stone. The dealer, he got mad and begun to swear, but Pete didn’t move.
“‘Somebody wake that fool up,’ says he, with an oath.
“A fellow sittin’ next to Pete shook him, and then tore off his hat. Well, boys, I’ll never forget that sight, it makes me sort o’ shiver now, when I think of it; there set a dead man at the table before that pile of gold.
“The dealer started to rake in that pile o’ money, but about a dozen revolvers was p’inted at him, and he decided not to be in too big a hurry about it.
“‘What’s the use anyway?’ says he, ‘the man’s dead and the money’s no good for him, and besides, nobody knows who he is.’
“‘I do,’ says I, jumpin’ up.
“‘And I,’ says another fellow, ‘the man just come into camp a day or two ago, and his family’s starvin’.”
“Well, we bundled that money up pretty sudden, and a half a dozen of us started to find the folks; we found ’em, too, but the wife was dead, starved to death, and the children wouldn’t have lasted much longer. The oldest, a girl about eight years old, told that they had nothin’ to eat for two days, and her father found the dollar, and started down to the store for food, but soon after he left the cabin, the mother died.
“We buried Pete and his wife in one grave, and then with the pile of money we got good homes for the children, and some of it was to be used in givin’ ’em a good eddication, and the last I heerd, they was comin’ on well. But I’ve never set down to a game sence, that I haven’t thought of the night I played faro, with a dead man at the table.”
At the conclusion of the old miner’s story, a little suppressed thrill of excitement ran through his audience. Morgan, who had seemed restless and ill at ease, rose to go, and Houston, finding it much later than he supposed, after a few pleasant words with the boys, bade them good night, and hastened after Morgan, who was already sauntering up the road a little way in advance.