Bostwick arrived in Goldite at three in the afternoon, dressed in prison clothes. He came on a freight wagon, the deliberate locomotion of which had provided ample time for his wrath to accumulate and simmer. His car was forty miles away, empty of gasolene, stripped of all useful accessories, and abandoned where the convicts had compelled him to drive them in their flight.
A blacker face than his appeared, with anger and a stubble of beard upon it, could not have been readily discovered. His story had easily outstripped him, and duly amused the camp, so that now, as he rode along the busy street, in a stream of lesser vehicles, autos, and dusty horsemen, arriving by two confluent roads, he was angered more and more by the grins and ribald pleasantries bestowed by the throngs in the road.
To complicate matters already sufficiently aggravating, Gettysburg, Napoleon C. Blink, and Algy, the Chinese cook, from the Monte Cristo mine, now swung into line from the northwest road, riding on horses and burros. They were leading three small pack animals, loaded with all their earthly plunder.
The freight team halted and a crowd began to congregate. Bostwick was descending just as the pack-train was passing through the narrow way left by the crowd. His foot struck one of the loaded burros in the eye. The animal staggered over against the wall of men, trampling on somebody's feet. Somebody yelled and cursed vehemently, stepping on somebody else. A small-sized panic and melee ensued forthwith. More of the animals took alarm, and Algy was frightened half to death. His pony, a wall-eyed, half-witted brute, stampeded in the crowd. Then Algy was presently in trouble.
There had been no Chinese in Goldite camp, largely on account of race prejudice engendered and fostered by the working men, who still maintained the old Californian hatred against the industrious Celestials. In the mob, unfortunately near the center of confusion, was a half-drunken miner, rancorous as poison. He was somewhat roughly jostled by the press escaping Algy's pony.
"Ye blank, blank chink—I'll fix ye fer that!" he bawled at the top of his voice, and heaving his fellow white men right and left he laid vicious hands on the helpless cook and, dragging him down, went at him in savage brutality.
"Belay there, you son of a shellfish!" yelled Napoleon, dismounting and madly attempting to push real men away. "I'll smash in your pilot-house! I'll—— Leave me git in there to Algy!"
Gettysburg, too, was on the ground. He, Bostwick, and a hundred men were madly crowded in together, where two or three were pushing back the throng and yelling to Algy to fight.
Algy was fighting. He was also spouting most awful Chinese oaths, sufficient to warp an ordinary spine and wither a common person's limbs. He kicked and scratched like a badger. But the miner was an engine of destruction. He was aggravated to a mood of gory slaughter. He broke the Chinaman's arm, almost at once, with some viciously diabolical maneuver and leaped upon him in fury.
In upon this scene of yelling, cursing, and fighting Van rode unannounced. He saw the crowd increasing rapidly, as saloons, stores, hay-yard, bank, and places of lodging poured out a curious army, mostly men, with a few scattered women among them—all surging eagerly forward.
Algy, meantime, in a spasm of pain and activity, struggled to his feet from the dust and attempted to make his escape. Van no more than beheld him that he leaped from his horse and broke his way into the ring.
When he laid his hand on the miner's collar it appeared as if that individual would be suddenly jerked apart. Algy went down in collapse.
"Why don't you pick on a man of your color?"
Van demanded, and he flung the miner headlong to the ground.
A hundred lusty citizens shouted their applause.
Little Napoleon broke his way to the center. Gettysburg was just behind him. Van was about to kneel on the ground and lift his prostrate cook when someone bawled out a warning.
He wheeled instantly. The angered miner, up, with a gun in hand, was lurching in closer to shoot. He got no chance, even to level the weapon. Van was upon him like a panther. The gun went up and was fired in the air, and then was hurled down under foot.
Two things happened then together. The sheriff arrived to arrest the drunken miner, and a woman pushed her way through the press.
"Van!" she cried. "Van—oh, Van!"
He was busy assisting his partners to escort poor Algy away. He noted the woman as she parted the crowd. He was barely in time to fend her off from flinging herself in his arms.
"Oh, Van!" she repeated wildly. "I thought you was goin' to git it sure!"
"Don't bother me, Queenie," he answered, annoyed, and adding to Gettysburg, "Take him to Charlie's," he turned at once to his broncho, mounted actively, and began to round up the scattered animals brought into camp by his partners.
He had barely ridden clear of the crowd when his glance was caught by a figure off to the left.
It was Beth. She was standing on a packing case, where the surging disorder had sent her. She had seen it all, the fight, his arrival, and the woman who would have clasped him in her arms.
Her face was flushed. She avoided his gaze and turned to descend to the walk. Then Bostwick, in his convict suit, stepped actively forward to meet her.
Van saw the look of surprise in her face, at beholding the man in this attire. She recoiled, despite herself, then held forth her hand for his aid. Bostwick took it, assisted her down, and they hastily made their escape.
The one retreat for Beth was the house where she was lodging. She went there at once, briefly explaining to Bostwick on the way how it chanced she had come the day before. What had happened to himself she already knew.
Bostwick was a thoroughly angered man. He had seen the horseman in the fight and had hoped to see him slain. To find Beth safe and even cheerful here annoyed him exceedingly.
"Have you lodged a complaint—done anything to have this fellow arrested?" he demanded, alluding to Van. "Have you reported what was done to me?"
"Why, no," said Beth. "What's the use? He did it all in kindness, after all."
"Kindness!"
"Of a sort—a rough sort, perhaps, but genuine—a kindness to me—and Elsa," she answered, flushing rosily. "He saved me from——" she looked at the convict garb upon him, "—from a disagreeable experience, I'm sure, and secured me the very best accommodations in the town."
They had almost come to her lodgings. Bostwick halted in the road, his gun-metal jaw protruding formidably.
"You haven't already begun to admire this ruffian—glorify this outlaw?" he growled, "—after what he did to me?"
"Don't stop to discuss it here," she answered, beholding Mrs. Dick at the front of the house. "I haven't had time to do anything. You must manage to change your clothes."
"I'll have my reckoning with your friend," he assured her angrily. "Have you engaged a suite for me?"
They had come to the door of the house. Beth beheld the look of amazement, suspicion, and repugnance on the face of Mrs. Dick, and her face burned red once more.
"Oh, Mrs. Dick," she said, "this is Mr. Bostwick, of whom I spoke." She had told of Bostwick's capture by the convicts. "Do you think you could find him a room?"
"A room? I want a suite—two rooms at least," said Bostwick aggressively. "Is this a first-class place?"
"It ain't no regular heaven, and I ain't no regular Mrs. Saint Peter," answered Mrs. Dick with considerable heat, irritated by Bostwick's personality and recognizing in him Van's "smoke-faced Easterner." She added crisply: "So you might as well vamoose the ranch, fer I couldn't even put you in the shed."
"But I've got to have accommodations!" insisted Bostwick. "I prefer them where my fiancée—where Miss Kent is stopping. I'm sure you can manage it someway—let someone go. The price is no object to me."
"I don't want you that bad," said Mrs. Dick frankly. "I said no and I'm too busy to say it again."
She bustled off with her ant-like celerity, followed by Bostwick's scowls.
"You'll have to give up your apartments here," he said to Beth. "I'll find something better at once."
"Thank you, I'm very well satisfied," said Beth. "You'll find this town quite overcrowded."
"You mean you propose to stay here in spite of my wishes?"
"Please don't wish anything absurd," she answered. "This is really no place for fastidious choosing—and I am very comfortable."
A lanky youth, with a suitcase and three leather bags, came shuffling around the corner and dropped down his load.
"Van told me to bring 'em here with his—something I don't remember," imparted the youth. "That's all," and he grinned and departed.
Bostwick glowered, less pleased than before.
"That fellow, I presume. He evidently knows where you are stopping."
Beth was beginning to feel annoyed and somewhat defiant. She had never dreamed this man could appear so repellant as now, with his stubble of beard and this convict garb upon him. She met his glance coldly.
"He found me the place. I am considerably in his obligation."
Bostwick's face grew blacker.
"Obligation? Why don't you admit at once you admire the fellow?—or something more. By God! I've endured about as much——"
"Mr. Bostwick!" she interrupted. She added more quietly: "You've been very much aggravated. I'm sorry. Now please go somewhere and change your clothing."
"Aggravated?" he echoed. "You ought to know what he is, by instinct. You must have seen him in a common street brawl! You must have seen that woman—that red-light night-hawk throwing herself in his arms. And to think that you—with Glenmore in town—— Why isn't your brother here with you?"
Beth was smarting. The sense of mortification she had felt at the sight of that woman in the street with Van, coupled with the sheer audacity of his conduct towards herself that morning, had already sufficiently shamed her. She refused, however, to discuss such a question with Bostwick.
"Glen isn't here," she answered coldly. "I trust you will soon be enabled to find him—then—we can go."
"Not here?" repeated Bostwick. "Where is he, then?"
"Somewhere out in another camp—or mining place—or something. Now please go and dress. We can talk it over later."
"This is abominable of Glen," said Bostwick. "Is McCoppet in town?"
She looked her surprise. "McCoppet?"
"You don't know him, of course," he hastened to say. "I shall try to find him at once." He turned to go, beheld her luggage, and added: "Is there anyone to take up your things?"
She could not bear to have him enter her apartment in this awful prison costume.
"Oh, yes," she answered. "You needn't be bothered with the bags."
"Very well. I shall soon return." He departed at once, his impatience suddenly increased by the thought of seeking out McCoppet.
Beth watched him going. A sickening sense of revulsion invaded all her nature. And when her thoughts, like lawless rebels, stole guiltily to Van, she might almost have boxed her own tingling ears in sheer vexation.
She entered the house, summoned Elsa from her room, and had the luggage carried to their quarters. Then she opened her case, removed some dainty finery, and vaguely wondered if the horseman would like her in old lavender.
Van, in the meantime, had been busy at the hay-yard known as Charlie's. Not only had Algy's arm been broken, by the bully in the fight, but he had likewise been seriously mauled and beaten. His head had been cut, he was hurt internally. A doctor, immediately summoned by the horseman, had set the fractured member. Algy had then been put to bed in a tent that was pitched in the yard where the horses, mules, cows, pyramids of merchandise, and teamsters were thicker than flies on molasses.
Gettysburg and Napoleon, quietly informed by Van of the latest turn of their fortune, were wholly unexcited by the news. The attack on Algy, however, had acted potently upon them. They started to get drunk and achieved half a load before Van could herd them back to camp.
Napoleon was not only partially submerged when Van effected his capture; he was also shaved. Van looked him over critically.
"Nap," he said, "what does this mean?—you wasting money on your face?"
Napoleon drunk became a stutterer, who whistled between his discharges of seltzer.
"Wheresh that little g-g-g-(whistle) girl?" he answered, "—lit-tle D-d-d-d-(whistle) Dutch one that looksh like—looksh like—quoth the r-r-r-r-(whistle) raven—NEVER MORE!"
Van divined that this description was intended to indicate Elsa.
"Gone back to China," said he. "That shave of yours is wasted on the desert air."
Gettysburg, whose intellect was top heavy, had the singular habit, at a time like this, of removing his crockery eye and holding it firmly in his fist, to guard it from possible destruction. He stared uncertainly at both his companions.
"China!" said he tragically. "China?"
"Hold on, now, Gett," admonished Van, steering his tall companion as a man might steer a ladder, "you don't break out in the woman line again or there's going to be some concentrated anarchy in camp."
"No, Van, no—now honest, no woman," said Gettysburg in a confidential murmur. "I had my woman eye took out the last time I went down to 'Frisco."
"You're a l-l-l-(whistle) liar!" ejaculated Napoleon.
"What!" Gettysburg fairly shrieked.
"Metaphorical speakin'—meta phor-f-f-f-f-f-(whistle) phorical speakin'," Napoleon hastened to explain. "Metaphor-f-f-f-(whistle)-phorical means you don't really m-m-m-m-(whistle) mean what you say—means—quoth the r-r-r-r-r-(whistle) raven—NEVER MORE!"
Van said: "If you two old idiots don't do the lion and the lamb act pretty pronto I'll send you both to the poor house."
They had entered the hay-yard, among the mules and horses. Gettysburg promptly reached down, laid hold of Napoleon, and kissed him violently upon the nose.
Napoleon wept. "What did I s-s-s-s-(whistle) say?" he sobbed lugubriously. "Oh, death, where is thy s-s-s-s-(whistle) sting?"
Evening had come. The two fell asleep in Algy's tent, locked in each other's arms.
Bostwick effected a change of dress in the rear of the nearest store. A rough blue shirt, stout kahki garments and yellow "hiking" boots converted him into one of the common units of which the camp throng was comprised. He was then duly barbered, after which he made a strenuous but futile endeavor to procure accommodations for the night.
There was no one with leisure to listen to his tirade on the shameful inadequacy of the attributes of civilization in the camp, and after one brief attempt to arouse civic indignation against Van for his acts of deliberate lawlessness, he perceived the ease with which he might commit an error and render himself ridiculous. He dropped all hope of publicly humiliating the horseman and deferred his private vengeance for a time more opportune.
Wholly at a loss to cope with a situation wherein he found himself so utterly neglected and unknown, despite the influential position he occupied both in New York and Washington, he resolved to throw himself entirely upon the mercies of McCoppet.
He knew his man only through their correspondence, induced by Beth's brother, Glenmore Kent. Inquiring at the bank, he was briefly directed to the largest saloon of the place. When he entered the bar he found it swarming full of men, miners, promoters, teamsters, capitalists, gamblers, lawyers, and—the Lord alone knew what. The air was a reek of smoke and fumes of liquor. A blare of alleged music shocked the atmosphere. Men drunk and men sober, all were talking mines and gold, the greatness of the camp, the richness of the latest finds, and the marvel of their private properties. Everyone had money, everyone had chunks of ore to show to everyone else.
At the rear were six tables with layouts for games of chance. Faro, "klondike," roulette, stud-poker, almost anything possibly to be desired was there. All were in full blast. Three deep the men were gathered about the wheel and the "tiger." Gold money in stacks stood at every dealer's hand. Bostwick had never seen so much metal currency in all his life.
He asked for McCoppet at the bar.
"Opal? Somewhere back—that's him there, talkin' to the guy with the fur on his jaw," informed the barkeeper, making a gesture with his thumb. "What's your poison?"
"Nothing, thank you," answered Bostwick, who started for his man, but halted for McCoppet to finish his business with his friend.
The man on whom Bostwick was gazing was a tall, slender, slightly stooped individual of perhaps forty-five, with a wonderful opal in his tie, from which he had derived his sobriquet. He was clean-shaved, big featured, and gifted with a pair of heavy-lidded eyes as lustreless as old buttons. He had never been seen without a cigar in his mouth, but the weed was never lighted.
Bostwick noted the carefulness of the man's attire, but gained no clue as to his calling. To avoid stupid staring he turned to watch a game of faro. Its fascinations were rapidly engrossing his attentions and luring him onward toward a reckless desire to tempt the goddess of chance, when he presently beheld McCoppet turn away from his man and saunter down the room.
A moment later Bostwick touched him on the shoulder.
"Beg pardon," he said, "Mr. McCoppet?"
McCoppet nodded. "My name."
"I'd like to introduce myself—J. Searle Bostwick," said the visitor. "I expected to arrive, as I wrote you——"
"Glad to meet you, Bostwick," interrupted the other, putting forth his hand. "Where are you putting up?"
"I haven't been able to find accommodations," answered Bostwick warmly. "It's an outrage the way this town is conducted. I thought perhaps——"
"I'll fix you all right," cut in McCoppet. "Are you ready for a talk? Nothing has waited for you to come."
"I came for an interview—in fact——"
"Private room back here," McCoppet announced, and he started to lead the way, pausing for a moment near a faro table to cast a cold glance at the dealer.
"Wonderfully interesting game," said Bostwick. "It seems as if a man might possibly beat it."
There might have been a shade of contempt in the glance McCoppet cast upon him. He merely said: "He can't."
Bostwick laughed. "You seem very positive."
McCoppet was moving on again.
"I own the game."
He owned everything here, and had his designs on two more places like it, down the street. He almost owned the souls of many men, but gold and power were the goals on which his eyes were riveted.
Bostwick glanced at him with newer interest as they passed down the room, and so to a tight little office the walls of which were specially deadened against the transmission of sound.
"Have anything to drink?" inquired the owner, before he took a chair, "—whiskey, wine?"
"Thanks, no," said Bostwick, "not just yet." He took the chair to which McCoppet waved him. "I must say I'm surprised," he admitted, "to see the numbers of men, the signs of activity, and all the rest of it in a camp so young. And by the way, it seems young Kent is away."
"Yes," said the gambler, settling deeply into his chair and sleepily observing his visitor. "I sent him away last week."
Bostwick was eager.
"On something good for the—for our little group?"
"On a wild goose séance," answered McCoppet. "He's in the way around here."
"Oh," said Bostwick, who failed to understand. "I thought——"
"Yes. I culled your thought from your letters," interrupted his host drawlingly. "We might as well understand each other first as last. Bostwick—are you out here to work this camp my way or the kid's?"
Bostwick was cautious. "How does he wish to work it?"
"Like raising potatoes."
"And your plan is——"
"Look here, do I stack up like a Sunday-school superintendent? I thought you and I understood each other. I don't run no game the other man can maybe beat. Didn't you come out here with that understanding?"
"Certainly, I——"
"Then never mind the kid. What have you got in your kahki?"
"Our syndicate to buy the Hen Hawk group——" started Bostwick, but the gambler cut in sharply.
"That's sold and cold. You have to move here; things happen. What did you do about the reservation permit?"
Bostwick looked about the room furtively, and edged his chair a bit closer.
"I secured permission from Government headquarters to explore all or any portions of the reservation, and takeassistantswith me," he imparted in a lowered tone of voice. "I had it mailed to me here by registered post. It should be at the post-office now."
"Right," said McCoppet with more of an accent of approval in his utterance. "Get it out to-day. I've got your corps of assistants hobbled here in camp. They can get on the ground to-morrow morning."
Bostwick's eyes were gleaming.
"There's certainly gold on this reservation?"
"Now, how can anybody tell you that?" demanded McCoppet, who from his place here in Goldite had engineered the plan whereby his and Bostwick's expert prospectors could explore every inch of the Government's forbidden land in advance of all competitors. "We're taking a flyer, that's all. If there's anything there—we're on."
Bostwick reflected for a moment. "There's nothing at present that our syndicate could do?"
"There'll be plenty of chances to use ready money," McCoppet assured him, rising. "You're here on the ground. Keep your shirt on and leave the shuffling to me."
Bostwick, too, arose. "How long will young Kent be away?"
"As long as I can keep him busy out South."
"What is he doing out South?"
"Locating a second Goldite," said the gambler. "Keeps him on the move." He threw away his chewed cigar, placed a new one in his mouth, and started for the door. "Come on," he added, "I'll identify you over at the postoffice and show you where you sleep."
Less than a week had passed since Bostwick's arrival in Goldite, but excitement was rife in the air. Despite the angered protests of half a thousand mining men, the Easterner, with four of the shrewdest prospectors in the State, had traversed the entire mineral region of the reservation in the utmost security and assurance. Five hundred men had been forced to remain at the border, at the points of official guns. A few desperate adventurers had crept through the guard, but nearly all were presently captured and ejected from the place, while Bostwick—granted special privileges—was assuming this inside track.
The day for the opening of the lands was less than two weeks off—and the news leaked out and spread like a wind that the "Laughing Water" claim had suddenly promised amazing wealth as a placer where Van and his partners were taking out the gold by the simplest, most primitive of methods.
The rush for the region came like a stampede of cattle. An army of men went swarming over the ridges and overran the country like a plague of ants. They trooped across the border of the reservation, so close to the "Laughing Water" claim, they staked out all the visible world, above, below, and all about Van's property, they tore down each others' monuments, including a number where Van had located new, protective claims, and they builded a tent town over night, not a mile from his first discovery.
At the claim in the cove the fortunate holders of a private treasury of gold had lost no time. In the absence of better lumber, for which they had no money, Van and his partners had torn down the shaft-house, made it into sluices, and turned in the water from the stream. That was all the plant required. They had then commenced to shovel the gravel into the trough-like boxes, and the gold had begun to lodge behind the riffles.
The cove became a theatre of curiosity, envy, and covetous longings. Men came there by motor, on horses, mules, and on foot to take one delirious look and rush madly about to improve what chances still remained. The fame of it swept like prairie fire, far and wide. The new-made town began at once to spread and encroach upon all who were careless of their holdings. Lawlessness was rampant.
At the cabin on the "Laughing Water" claim Algy, the Chinese cook, was still disabled. Gettysburg was chief culinary artist. Napoleon hustled for grub, the only supplies of which were over at Goldite—and expensive. All were constantly exhausted with the labors of the day.
Despite their vigilance they awoke one morning to see a brand-new cabin standing on the claim, at the top of a hill. A man was on the rough pine roof, rapidly laying weather paper. Van beheld him, watched him for a moment, then quietly walked over to the site.
"Say, friend," he called to the man on the roof, "you've broken into Eden by mistake. This property is mine and I haven't any building lots to sell."
The visiting builder took out a huge revolver and laid it on a block. He said nothing at all. Van felt his impatience rising.
"I'm talking to you, Mr. Carpenter," he added. "Come on, now, I don't want any trouble with neighbors, but this cabin will have to be removed."
"Go to hell!" said the builder. He continued to pound in his nails.
"If I go," said Van calmly, "I'll bring a little back. Are you going to move or be moved?"
"Don't talk to me, I'm busy," answered the intruder. "I'm an irritable man, and everything I own is irritable, understand?" And taking up his gun he thumped with it briskly on the boards.
"If you're looking for trouble," Van replied, "you won't need a double-barreled glass."
He turned away and the man continued operations. When he came to the shack Van selected a hammer and a couple of drills from among a lot of tools in the corner.
To his partner's questions as to what the visitor intended he replied that only time could tell.
"Here, Nap," he added, fetching forth the tools, "I want you to take this junk and go up there where the neighbor is working. Just sit down quietly and drill three shallow holes and don't say a word to yonder busy bee. If he asks you what's doing, play possum—and don't make the holes too deep."
Napoleon went off as directed. His blows could presently be heard as he drilled in a porphyry dike.
His advent puzzled the man intent on building.
"Say, you," said he, "what's on your programme?"
Napoleon drilled and said nothing.
The carpenter watched him in some uneasiness.
"Say, you ain't starting a shaft?"
No answer.
"Ain't this a placer? Say, you, are you deef?"
Napoleon pounded on the steel.
"Go to hell!" said the builder, as he had before, "—a man that can't answer civil questions!"
He resumed his labors, pausing now and then to stare at Napoleon, in a steadily increasing dubiety of mind.
In something less than twenty minutes he had done very little roofing, owing to a nervousness he found it hard to banish, while Napoleon had all but completed his holes. Then Van came leisurely strolling to the place, comfortably loaded with dynamite, of which a man may carry much.
With utter indifference to the man on the roof he proceeded to charge those shallow holes. As a matter of fact he overcharged them. He used an exceptional amount of the harmless looking stuff, and laid a short fuse to the cap. When he turned to the builder, who had watched proceedings with a sickening alarm at his vitals, that industrious person had taken on a heavy, leaden hue.
"You see I went where you told me," said Van, "and I've brought some back as I promised. This shot has got to go before breakfast—and breakfast is just about ready."
"For God's sake give a man a chance," implored the man who had trespassed in the night. "I'll move the shack to-morrow."
"You won't have to," Van informed him, "but you'd better move your meat to-day."
He took out a match, scratched it with quiet deliberation and lighted the end of the fuse.
"For God's sake—man!" cried the carpenter, and without even waiting to climb from the roof he rolled to the edge in a panic, fell off on his feet, and ran as if all the fiends of Hades were fairly at his heels.
Van and Napoleon also moved away with becoming alacrity. Three minutes later the charge went off. It sounded like the crack of doom. It seemed to split the earth and very firmament. A huge black toadstool of smoke rose up abruptly. Something like a blot of yellowish color spattered all over the landscape. It was the shack.
It had moved. The smoke cloud drifted rapidly away. On the hill was a great jagged hole, lined with rock, but there was nothing more. The cabin was hung in lumber shreds on the stunted trees for hundreds of feet in all directions. With it went hammers, saws and a barrel of nails whose usefulness was ended.
Gettysburg, aproned, and fresh from his labors at the stove, came hastening out of the cabin to where his partners stood, in great distress of mind.
"Holy toads, Van!" he said excitedly, "it must have been the shot! I've dropped an egg—and what in the world shall I do?"
"Cackle, man, cackle," Van answered him gravely. "That's a mighty rare occurrence."
"And two-bits apiece!" almost wailed poor Gettysburg, diving back into the cabin, "and only them four in the shack!"
That was also the day that Bostwick came out upon the scene. He came with his prospectors, all the party somewhat disillusionized as to all that fabled gold upon the Indian reservation.
Some word of the wealth of the "Laughing Water" claim had come to Searle early in the week. He did not visit the cabin or the owners of the cove. For fifteen minutes, however, he sat upon his horse and scanned the place in silence. Then out of his newly-acquired knowledge of the boundaries of the reservation the hounds of his mind jumped up a half-mad plan. His cold eyes glittered as he looked across to where Van and his partners were toiling. His lips were compressed in a smile.
He rode to Goldite hurriedly and sought out his friend McCoppet. When the two were presently closeted together where their privacy was assured, a conspiracy, diabolically insidious, was about to have its birth.
"You're back pretty pronto," drawled the gambler, by way of an opening remark. "Found something too big to keep hidden?"
"That reservation is a false alarm, as Billy and the others will tell you," answered Bostwick, referring to McCoppet's chosen prospectors. "The rush will prove a farce."
"You've decided sudden, ain't you?" asked McCoppet. "There's a good big deck there to stack."
"We've wasted time and money till to-day." Bostwick rose from his chair, put one foot upon it, and leaned towards the gambler as one assuming a position of equality, if not of something more. "Look here, McCoppet, you asked me the day I arrived what sort of a game I'd come to play. I ask you now if you are prepared to play something big—and—well, let us say, a trifle risky?"
"Don't insult my calling," answered the gambler. "I call. Lay your cards on the table."
Bostwick sat down and leaned across the soiled green baize.
"You probably know as much as I do about the 'Laughing Water' claim—its richness—its owners—and where it's located."
McCoppet nodded, narrowing his eyes.
"A good dog could smell their luck from here."
"But do you know where it lies—their claim?" insisted Bostwick significantly. "That's the point I'm making at present."
"It's just this side of the reservation, from what I hear," replied the gambler, "but if there's nothing on the reservation even near the 'Laughing Water' ground——"
Bostwick interrupted impatiently: "What's the matter withthe 'Laughing Water' being on the reservation?"
McCoppet was sharp but he failed to grasp his associate's meaning.
"But it ain't," he said, "and no one claims it is."
Bostwick lowered his voice and looked at the gambler peculiarly.
"No one claims ityet!"
McCoppet threw away his cigar and took out a new one.
"Well? Come on. I bite. What's the answer?"
Bostwick leaned back in his chair.
"Suppose an accredited surveyor were to run out the reservation line—the line next the 'Laughing Water' claim—and make an error of an inch at the farthest end. Suppose that inch, projected several miles, became about a thousand feet—wouldn't the 'Laughing Water' claim be discovered to be a part of the Indian reservation?"
McCoppet eyed him narrowly, in silence, for a moment. He had suddenly conceived a new estimate of the man who had come from New York.
Bostwick again leaned forward, continuing:
"No one will be aware of the facts but ourselves—therefore no one will think of attempting to relocate the 'Laughing Water' ground, lawfully, at six o'clock on the morning of the rush. But we will be on hand, with the law at our backs, and quietly take possession of the property, on which—as it is reservation ground—the present occupants are trespassing."
McCoppet heard nothing of what his friend was saying. All the possibilities outlined had flashed through his mind at Bostwick's first intimation of the plan. He was busy now with affairs far ahead in the scheme.
"Culver, the Government agent and surveyor is a dark one," he mused aloud, half to himself. "If only Lawrence, his deputy, was in his shoes—— Your frame-up sounds pretty tight, Bostwick, but Culver may block us with his damnable squareness."
"Every man has his price," said Bostwick, "—big and little. Culver, you say, represents the Government? Where is he now?"
McCoppet replied with a question: "Bostwick, how much have you got?"
Bostwick flushed. "Money? Oh, I can raise my share, I hope."
"You hope?" repeated the gambler. "Ain't your syndicate back of any game you open, with the money to see it started right?"
Bostwick was a trifle uneasy. The "syndicate" of which he had spoken was entirely comprised of Beth and her money, which he hoped presently to call his own. He had worked his harmless little fiction of big financial men behind him in the certainty of avoiding detection.
"Of course, I can call on the money," he said, "but I may need a day or so to get it. How much shall we require?"
McCoppet chewed his cigar reflectively.
"Culver will sure come high—if we get him at all—but—it ought to be worth fifty thousand to you and me to shift that reservation line a thousand feet—if reports on the claim are correct."
It was a large sum. Bostwick scratched the corner of his mouth.
"That would be twenty-five thousand apiece."
"No," corrected McCoppet, "twenty thousand for me and thirty for you, for equal shares. I've got to do the work underground."
"Perhaps I could handle what's his name, Culver, myself," objected Bostwick. "The fact that I'm a stranger here——"
"And what will you do if he refuses?" interrupted the gambler. "Will you still have an ace in your kahki?"
Bostwick stared.
"If he should refuse, and tell the owners——"
"Right. Can you handle it then?"
Bostwick answered: "Can you?"
"It's my business to get back what I've lost—and a little bit more. You leave it to me. Keep away from Culver, and bring me thirty thousand in the morning."
Bostwick was breathing hard. He maintained a show of calm.
"The morning's a little bit soon for me to turn around. I'll bring it when I can."
McCoppet arose. The interview was ended. He added:
"Have a drink?"
"I'll wait," said Bostwick, "till we can drink a toast to the 'Laughing Water' claim."
McCoppet opened the door, waved Bostwick into the crowded gaming room, and was about to follow when his roving gaze abruptly lighted on a figure in the place—a swarthy, half-breed Piute Indian, standing in front of the wheel and roulette layout.
Quickly stepping back inside the smaller apartment, the gambler pulled down his hat. His face was the color of ashes.
"So long. See you later," he murmured, and he closed the door without a sound.
Bostwick, wholly at a loss to understand his sudden dismissal, lingered for a moment only in the place, then made his way out to the street, and went to the postoffice, where he found a letter from Glenmore Kent. Intent upon securing the needed funds from Beth with the smallest possible delay, he dropped the letter, unread, in his pocket and headed for the house where Beth was living. He walked, however, no more than half a block before he altered his mind. Pausing for a moment on the sidewalk, he turned on his heel and went briskly to his own apartments, where he performed an unusual feat.
First he read the letter from Kent. It was dated from the newest camp in the desert and was filled with glittering generalities concerning riches about to be discovered. It urged him, in case he had arrived in Goldite, to hasten southward forthwith—"and bring a bunch of money." Glenmore's letters always appealed for money—a fact which Bostwick had remembered.
The man sat down at his table and wrote a letter to himself. With young Kent's epistle for his model, he made an amazingly clever forgery of the enthusiastic writer's chirography, and at the bottom signed the young man's name.
This spurious document teemed with figures and assertions concerning a wonderful gold mine which Glenmore had virtually purchased. He needed sixty thousand dollars at once, however, to complete his remarkable bargain. Only two days of his option remained and therefore delay would be fatal. He expected this letter to find his friend at Goldite and he felt assured he would not be denied this opportunity of a lifetime to make a certain fortune. He would, of course, appeal to Beth—with certainty of her help from the wealth bequeathed her by her uncle—but naturally she was too far away,
Glenmore was unaware of the fact that his sister had come to the West. Bostwick overlooked no details of importance. Armed with this plausible missive, he went at once to Mrs. Dick's and found that Beth was at home.