To Gordon's mind Hazel Mallinsbee attached far greater importance to her father's presence on the veranda than the incident warranted. It did not seem to him that there was the least necessity for his being there at all. Truth to tell, the matter appeared to him to be a perfect nuisance. He had rather liked Silas Mallinsbee when he had met him under somewhat distressing circumstances in the town. Now he felt a positive dislike for him. His strong, keen, benevolent face made no appeal to his sympathies now whatsoever.
Besides, it did not seem right that any man who claimed parentage of such a delightful daughter as the girl at his side should slouch about in a pair of old trousers tucked into top-boots and secured about his waist by a narrow strap. And it seemed positively indecent that he should display no other upper garment than a cotton shirt of such a doubtful hue that it was impossible to be sure of its sanitary condition.
However, he allowed none of these feelings betrayal, and replied appropriately to Hazel's excited announcement. He was glad, later, he had exercised such control, for their arrival at the house was the immediate precursor of an invitation to share their midday meal, which had already been placed on the table by the silent, inscrutable Hip-Lee, the Chinese cook and general servitor in this temporary abode.
The horses had been housed and fed in the temporary stable at the back of the house, and a committee of three had sat upon Sunset's injury and prescribed for and treated it. Now they were indoors, ready for the homely meal set out for them.
Hip-Lee moved softly about setting an additional place at the table for the visitor. Silas Mallinsbee was lounging in the doorway, looking out across the veranda. Hazel was superintending Hip-Lee's efforts. Gordon was endeavoring to solve the problem of the rapid and unexpected happenings which had befallen him since his arrival, and at the same time carry on a conversation with the rumbling-voiced originator of Snake's Fall boom.
"At one time I guessed I'd bumped right into the hands of the Philistines," he said. "That's when I was—er arriving. Since then a Samaritan got busy my way and dumps me right down in the heart of the Promised Land, which just now seems to be flowing with milk and honey. I set out to view the dull black mountains of industry, and instead I arrive at the sparkling plains of delightful ease. Mr. Mallinsbee, you certainly have contrived to put me under enormous obligation."
Gordon's eyes were pleasantly following the movements of the girl's graceful figure about the plain but neat parlor. "I suppose all offices in the West are not like this, because——"
Mallinsbee rumbled a pleasant laugh.
"Office?" he said, without turning. "That's jest how Hazel calls it. Guess she's got notions since she finished off her education at Boston. She's got around with a heap of 'em, includin' that suit she's wearin'. Y'see, she's my foreman hoss-breaker, and reckons skirts and things are—played out. Office? Why, it's just a shack. Some time you must get around out an' see the ranch house. It's some place," he added with simple pride.
Hazel went up to her father and pretended to threaten him by the neck.
"See, Daddy, you can just quit telling about my notions to—folks. Anyway"—she turned her back to Gordon—"I appeal to you, Mr. Van Henslaer, isn't an office a place where folks transact big deals and make fortunes?"
"That's how folks reckon when they rent them," said Gordon. "Of course, I've known folks to sleep in 'em. Others use 'em as a sort of club smoking lounge. Then they've been known to serve some men as a shelter from—home. I used to have an office."
Silas Mallinsbee turned from his contemplation of the horizon. He was interested, and his shrewd eyes displayed the fact.
Hazel clapped her hands.
"And what did you use it for?" she demanded quizzically.
"I—oh, I—let's see. Well, mostly an address from which to have word sent to folks I didn't want to see that—I was out. I used to find it useful that way."
Mallinsbee's chuckle amused Gordon, but Hazel assumed an air of judicial severity.
"A spirit not to be encouraged." Then, at the sound of her father's chuckle, "My daddy, you are as bad as he. Now food's ready, so please sit in. We can talk easier around a table than when people are dreaming somewhere in the distance on the horizon, or walking about a room that isn't bigger than the bare size to sit in. Anyway, Mr. Van Henslaer, this office is for business. I won't have it disparaged by my daddy, or—or anyone else. It serves a great purpose so far as we're concerned." Then she added slyly, "You see, we're in the throes of the great excitement of making a huge pile, for the sheer love of making it. Aren't we, Daddy, dear?"
Silas Mallinsbee looked up from the food he was eating with the air of a man who only eats as a matter of sheer necessity.
"Say, Mr. Van Henslaer," he said in his deep tones, "I've been a rancher all my life. Cattle, to me, are just about the only things in the world worth while, 'cept horses. I've never had a care or thought outside 'em, till one day I got busy worrying what was under the ground instead of keeping to the things I understood above the ground. Y'see, the trouble was two things," he went on, smiling tenderly in his daughter's direction. "One was I'd fed the ranch stoves with surface coal that you could find almost anywheres on my land, and the other was the fates just handed me the picture of a daughter who caught the dangerous disease of 'notions' way down east at school in Boston. Since she's come along back to us I've had coal, coal, coal all chasin' through my head, an' playing baseball with every blamed common-sense idea that ever was there before. Wal, to tell things quick, I made a mighty big pile out of that coal just to please her. We didn't need it, but she guessed it was up to me to do this. But that didn't finish it. This gal here couldn't rest at that. She guessed that pile was made and done with. She needs to get busy in another direction. Well, she gets to work, and has all my land on the railroads staked out into a township, and reckons it's a game worth playing. The other was too dead easy. This time she reckons to measure her brains and energy against a railroad! She reckons to show that we can match, and beat, any card they can play. That's the reason of this office."
Hazel laughed and raised an admonishing finger at the smiling face and twinkling eyes of her father.
"What did I tell you, Mr. Van Henslaer?" she cried. "Didn't I say he was just a scallywag? Oh, my great, big daddy, I'm dreadfully, dreadfully ashamed and disappointed in you. I'm going to give you away. I am, surely. There, there, Mr. Van Henslaer, sits the wicked plotter and schemer. Look at him. A big, burly ruffian that ought to know better. Look at him," she went on, pointing a dramatic finger at him. "And he isn't even ashamed. He's laughing. Now listen to me. I'm going to tell you my version. He's a rancher all right, all right. He's been satisfied with that all his life, and prosperity's never turned him down. Then one day he found coal, and did nothing. We just used to talk of it, that was all. Then another day along comes a friend, a very, very old friend and neighbor, whom he's often helped. He came along and got my daddy to sell him a certain patch of grazing—just to help him out, he said. He was a poor man, and my big-hearted daddy sold it him at a rock-bottom price to make it easy for him. Three months later they were mining coal on it—anthracite coal. That fellow made a nice pile out of it. He'd bluffed my daddy, and my daddy takes a bluff from no man. Well, say, he just nearly went crazy being bested that way, and he said to me—these were his words: 'Come on, my gal, you and me are just goin' to show folks what we're made of. If there's money in my land we're going to make all we need before anyone gets home on us. I'm goin' to show 'em I'm a match for the best sharks our country can produce—and that's some goin'.' There sits the money-spinner. There! Look at him; he's self-confessed. I'm just his clerk, or decoy, or—or any old thing he needs to help him in his wicked, wicked schemes!"
Mallinsbee sat chuckling at his daughter's charge, and Gordon, watching him, laughed in chorus.
"I'm kind of sorry, Mr. Mallinsbee, to have had to listen to such a tale," he said at last, with pretended seriousness, "but I guess you're charged, tried, convicted and sentenced. Seeing there's just two of you, it's up to me to give the verdict Guilty!" he declared. "Have you any reason to show why sentence should not be passed upon you? No? Very well, then. I sentence you to make that pile, without fail, in a given time. Say six months. Failing which you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that you have assisted in the ruin of an innocent life."
In the midst of the lightness of the moment Gordon had suddenly taken a resolve. It was one of those quick, impulsive resolves which were entirely characteristic of him. There was nothing quite clear in his mind as to any reason in his decision. He was caught in the enthusiasm of his admiration of the fair oval face of his hostess, whose unconventional camaraderie so appealed to his wholesome nature; he was caught by the radiance of her sunny smile, by the laughing depths of her perfect hazel eyes. Nor was the manner of the man, her father, without effect upon his responsive, simple nature.
But his sentence on Silas Mallinsbee had caught and held both father's and daughter's attention, and excited their curiosity.
"Why six months?" smiled Hazel.
"Say, it's sure some time limit," growled Mallinsbee.
Gordon assumed an air of judicial severity.
"Is the court to be questioned upon its powers?" he demanded. "There is a law of 'contempt,'" he added warningly.
But his warning was without effect.
"And the innocent's ruin?" demanded Hazel.
The answer came without a moment's hesitation.
"Mine," said Gordon. And his audience, now with serious eyes, waited for him to go on.
Hip-Lee had brought in the sweet, and vanished again in his silent fashion. Then Gordon raised his eyes from his plate and glanced at his host. They wandered across to and lingered for a moment on the strong young face of the girl. Then they came back to his plate, and he sighed.
"Say, if there's one thing hurts me it's to hear everybody telling a yarn, and my not having one to throw back at 'em," he said, smiling down at the simple baked custard and fruit he was devouring. "Just now I'm not hurt a thing, however, so that remark don't apply. You see, my yarn's just as simple and easy as both of yours, and I can tell it in a sentence. My father's sent me out in the world with a stake of my own naming to make one hundred thousand dollars in six months!"
He was surprised to witness, the dramatic effect of his announcement. Hazel's astonishment was serious and frankly without disguise. But her father's was less marked by outward expression. It was only obvious from the complete lack of the smile which had been in his shrewd eyes a moment before.
"One hundred thousand dollars in six months!" Hazel exclaimed. She had narrowly escaped scalding herself with the coffee Hip-Lee had just served. She set her cup down hastily.
"Guess your father's takin' a big chance," said Mallinsbee thoughtfully.
But their serious astonishment was too great a strain for Gordon. He began to laugh.
"It's my belief life's too serious to be taken seriously, so the chance he's taken don't worry me as, maybe, it ought," he said. "You see, my father's a good sportsman, and he sees most things the way every real sportsman sees 'em—where his son's concerned. Morally I owe him one hundred thousand dollars. I say morally. Well, I guess we talked together some. I—well, maybe I made a big talk, like fellows of my age and experience are liable to make to a fellow of my father's age and experience. Then I sort of got a shock, as sometimes fellows of my age making a big talk do. In about half a minute I found a new meaning for the word 'bluff.' I thought I'd got its meaning right before that. I thought I could teach my father all there was to know about bluff. You see, I'd forgotten he'd lived thirty-three more years than I had. Bluff? Why, I'd never heard of it as he knew it. The result is I've got to make one hundred thousand dollars in six months or forfeit my legitimate future." Then he added with the gayest, most buoyant laugh, "Say, it's a terrible thing to think of. It's dead serious. It's as serious as an inter-university ball game."
The lurking smile had returned to Mallinsbee's eyes, and Hazel frankly joined in Gordon's laugh.
"And you've come to Snake's Fall to—to make it?" she cried.
"I can't just say that," returned Gordon.
"No." Mallinsbee shook his head, and the two men exchanged meaning glances. Then the old man went on with his food and spoke between the mouthfuls. "You had an office?"
"Sure. You see, I was my father's secretary."
"Secretary?" Mallinsbee looked up quickly.
Gordon nodded.
"That's what he called me. I drew the salary—and my allowance. It was an elegant office—what little I remember of it."
The old man's regard was very nearly a broad laugh.
"Say, you made a talk about an 'innocent's' life gettin' all mussed up?"
Gordon nodded with profound seriousness.
"Sure," he replied. "Mine. I don't guess you'll deny my innocence." Mallinsbee shook his head. "Good," Gordon went on; "that makes it easy. If you don't make good I lose my chance. I'm going to put my stake in your town plots."
The rancher regarded him steadily for some moments. Then—
"Say, what's your stake?" he inquired abruptly.
Gordon had nothing to hide. There was, it seemed to him, a fatal magnetism about these people. The girl's eyes were upon him, full of amused delight at the story he had told; while her father seemed to be driving towards some definite goal.
"Five thousand dollars. That and a few hundred dollars I had to my credit at the bank. It don't sound much," he added apologetically, "but perhaps it isn't quite impossible."
"I don't guess there's a thing impossible in this world for the feller who's got to make good," said Mallinsbee. "You see, you've got to make good, and it don't matter a heap if your stake's five hundred or five thousand. Say, talk's just about the biggest thing in life, but it's made up of hot air, an' too much hot air's mighty oppressive. So I'll just get to the end of what I've to say as sudden as I can. I guess my gal's right, I'm just crazy to beat the 'sharps' on this land scoop, and I'm going to do it if I get brain fever. Now it's quite a proposition. I've got to play the railroad and all these ground sharks, and see I get the juice while they only get the pie-crust. I'm needing a—we'll call him a secretary. Hazel is all sorts of a bright help, but she ain't a man. I need a feller who can swear and scrap if need be, and one who can scratch around with a pen in odd moments. This thing is a big fight, and the man who's got the biggest heart and best wind's going to win through. My wind's sound, and I ain't heard of any heart trouble in my family. Now you ken come in in town plots so that when the boom comes they'll net you that one hundred thousand dollars. You don't need to part with that stake—yet. The deal shall be on paper, and the cash settlement shall come at the finish. Meanwhile, if need be, for six months you'll put in every moment you've got on the work of organizing this boom. Maybe we'll need to scrap plenty. But I don't guess that'll come amiss your way. We'll hand this shanty over for quarters for you, and we'll share it as an office. This ain't philanthropy; it's business. The man who's got no more sense than to call a bluff to make one hundred thousand dollars in six months is the man for me. He'll make it or he won't. And, anyway, he's going to make things busy for six months. You ain't a 'sharp' now—or I wouldn't hand you this talk. But I'm guessin' you'll be mighty near one before we're through. We've got to graft, and graft plenty, which is a play that ain't without attractions to a real bright feller. You see, money's got a heap of evil lyin' around its root—well, the root of things is gener'ly the most attractive. Guess I've used a deal of hot air in makin' this proposition, but you won't need to use as much in your answer—when you've slept over it. Say, if food's through we'll get busy, Hazel."
Mrs. James Carbhoy was in bed when she received her morning's mail. Perhaps she and her millionaire husband were unusually old-fashioned in their domestic life. Anyway, James Carbhoy's presence in the great bedstead beside her was made obvious by the heavy breathing which, in a less wealthy man, might have been called snoring, and the mountainous ridge of bedclothes which covered his monumental bulk.
A querulous voice disturbed his dreams. He heard it from afar off, and it merged with the scenes he was dwelling upon. A panic followed. He had made a terrible discovery. It was his wife, and not the president of a rival railroad, who was stealing the metals of a new track he was constructing as fast as he could lay them.
He awoke in a cold sweat. He thought he was lying in the cutting beside the track. His wife had vanished. He rubbed his eyes. No, she hadn't. There she was, sitting up in bed with a sheaf of papers in her hand. He felt relieved.
Now her plaint penetrated to his waking consciousness.
"For goodness' sake, James," she cried, "quit snoring and wake up. I wish you'd pay attention when I'm speaking. I'm all worried to death."
The multi-millionaire yawned distressingly.
"Most folks are worried in the morning. I'm worried, too. Go to sleep. You'll feel better after a while."
"It's nothing to do with the morning," complained his wife. "It's—it's a letter from Gordon. The poor boy writes such queer letters. It's all through you being so hard on him. You never did have any feeling for—for anybody. I'm sure he's suffering. He never talked this way before. Maybe he don't get enough to eat; he don't say where he is either. Perhaps he's just nowhere in particular. You'd better ring up an inquiry bureau——"
"For goodness' sake read the letter," growled the drowsy man. "You're making as much fuss as a hen with bald chicks."
Mrs. Carbhoy withered her husband with a glance that fell only upon the back of his great head. But she had her way. She meant him to share in her anxiety through the text of the, to her, incomprehensible letter. She read slowly and deliberately, and in a voice calculated to rivet any wandering attention.
"DEAREST MUM:
"There's folks who say that no man knows the real meaning of luck, good or bad, till he takes to himself a wife. This may be right. My argument is, it's only partially so. There may be considerable luck about matrimony. For instance, if any fool man came along and married our Gracie he'd be taking quite a chance. Her native indolence and peevishness suggest possibilities. Her tongue is vitriolic in one so young, as I have frequently had reason to observe. This would certainly be a case where the man would learn the real meaning of luck. But there wouldn't be a question. His luck would be out—plumb out. Jonah would have been a mascot beside him.
"This is by the way.
"I argue luck can be appreciated fully through channels less worrying. When luck gets busy around its coming is kind of subtle. It's sudden, too; kind of butts in unnoticed, sometimes painfully, and generally without shouting. Maybe it happens with a bump or a jar. Personally I'm betting on the 'bump' play. A bump of that nature got busy my way when I arrived here. I now have a full appreciation of luck. Quite as full an appreciation as the man would who married our Gracie. But in my case I guess it's good luck. This isn't going to tell you all that's in my mind, but, seeing I haven't fallen for fiction yet, I guess I won't try to be more explicit. Luck, in my present position, means the coming responsibility of success. You might hand this on to the old Dad.
"Talking of the old Dad, it seems to me that, for a delicate digestion, baked custard and fruit have advantages over ice-cream as a sweet. This again is by the way.
"In my last letter I gave you a few first impressions on arrival at my destination. Now, if you'll permit, I'll add what I might call the maturer reflections of a mind wide awake to life as it really is, and to the inner meaning of those things which are so carefully hidden from one brought up in luxury, as I have been. One of the 'dead snips' this way is that cleverness and wisdom are often confused by the ignorant. Cleverness don't mean wisdom, and—vice versa. For instance, loafing idly down a main street six inches deep in a dust that would shame a blizzard when the wind blows, with a blazing sun scorching the marrow of the spine till it's ready to be spread out on toast, escorted by an army of disgusting flies moving in massed formation, and not knowing better than to drive your soul to perdition through the channel of extreme bad language, don't suggest cleverness. Yet there may surely be a deal of wisdom in it if it only keeps you from doing something a heap more foolish. Maybe this don't sound altogether bright, but there's quite a deal in it. Think it out. Another thought is that learning's quite a sound proposition. For instance, a superficial knowledge of geology may come mighty handy at unexpected moments. A knowledge of this served me at a critical moment only to-day. So you see an intimate acquaintance with sharp flints, collected—the acquaintance, not the flints—during my time as the possessor of an automobile, which the Dad provided me with and for the upkeep of which he so kindly paid, has likely had more influence upon my future life than the best talk ever handed out by a Fifth Avenue preacher ever would have done. I have no thought of being irreverent. I am merely handing you a fact. People say that missed opportunities always make you hate to think of them in after life. For my part, I've generally figured this to be the philosophic hot air of a man who's getting old and hates to see youth around him, or else the chin mush of some fool man who's never had any opportunities, talking through the roof of his head. I kind of see it different now. You gave me the opportunity of studying all the beauties of the world seen through an artist's life. I guessed at the time that would be waste of precious moments that might be spent chasing athletics. It's only to-day I've got wise to what a heap I've lost in twenty-four years. Colors just seemed to me messy mixtures only fit to spoil paper and canvas with. Well, to-day I've hit on something in the way of color that's just about set me crazy to see it all the time. It's a sort of yellowy, greeny brown. That don't sound as merry as it might, but to me it talks plenty. It's just the dandiest color ever. I discovered it out on a 'long, lone trail'—that's how folks talk in books—where the surroundings weren't any improvement on just plain grass. Say, Mum, I guess that color is great. It gets a grip on you so you don't seem to care if a local freight train comes along and dissects your vitals, and chews them up ready for making a delicatessen sausage. When I die I'll just have to have my shroud dyed that color, and my coffin fixed that way, too.
"This isn't so much of a passing thought as the others. Guess some folks might figure it to be a disease. Maybe the old Dad would. Well, I shan't kick any if I die of it.
"Talking of Art, I'm just beginning to get a notion that curves are wonderful, wonderful things. These days of mechanical appliances I've always regarded drawing such things by hand as positively ridiculous. I don't think that way now. If I could only draw the wonderful curves I have in mind now, why, I guess I'd go right on drawing them till the birds roosted in my beard and my bones were right for a tame ancestral skeleton.
"The daylight of knowledge is sort of creeping in.
"I've learned that frame houses have got Fifth Avenue mansions beat a mile, and the smell of a Chinee can become a dollar-and-a-half scent sachet in given circumstances. I've learned that real sportsmanship isn't confined to athletics by any means, and a lame chestnut horse can be a most friendly creature. I've discovered that one man of purpose isn't more than fifty per cent. of two, when both are yearning one way. I'm learning that life's a mighty pleasant journey if you let it alone and don't worry things. It's no use kicking to put the world to rights. It's going to give you a whole heap of worry, and, anyway, the world's liable to retaliate. Also I'd like to add that, though I guess I'm gathering wisdom, I don't reckon I've got it all by quite a piece.
"Having given you all the news I can think of I guess I'll close.
"Your affectionate son,"GORDON.
"P.S.—My remarks about Gracie are merely the privileged reflections of a brother. When she grows up I dare say she'll be quite a bully girl. It takes time to get sense.
"G."
"I don't understand it, anyway," sighed Gordon's mother, as she laid the letter aside. "You'll have to get him back to home, James. He's suffering. We'll send out an inquiry——"
She broke off, glancing across at the mass of humanity so peacefully snoring at the far side of the bed, and, after a brief angry moment, resigned herself to the reflection that men, even millionaires, were perfectly ridiculous and selfish creatures who had no right whatever to burden a poor woman's life with the responsibility of children.
It was characteristic of Gordon to act unhesitatingly once a decision was arrived at. The consideration of Silas Mallinsbee's generous offer was the work of just as many seconds as it took the rancher to make it in. Though, verbally, it was left for a decision the next day, Gordon had no doubts in his mind whatever as to the nature of that decision.
When he returned to McSwain's sheltering roof, when another meal had been devoured in the evening, when the soup-like contents of the wash-trough had been stirred in the doubtful effort of cleansing himself, when the busy flies had gone to join the birds in their evening roost, he betook himself to his private bathroom, and sat himself upon his questionable bed and gave himself up to reflection, endeavoring to apply some of the wisdom he believed himself to have already acquired.
But the application was without useful effect.
He began by an attempt to review the situation from a purely financial standpoint, and in this endeavor he stretched out his great muscular limbs along his bed, and propped his broad back against the wall with a dogged do-or-die look upon his honest face.
At once a mental picture of Hazel Mallinsbee obscured the problem. He dwelt on it for some profoundly pleasant moments, and then resolutely thrust it aside.
Next he started by frankly admitting that Mallinsbee's offer left him a certain winner all along the line—if things went right. Good. If things went wrong—but they couldn't go wrong with those wonderful yellowy brown eyes of Hazel's smiling encouragement upon him. The thought was absurd.
Again for some time his problem was obscured. But after a few minutes he set his teeth and attacked it afresh.
Of course, if things did go wrong he was done—absolutely finished. His six months would have expired, his stake would have melted into thin air. His whole future—— But he would have spent six months at Hazel's side, working upon something that was obviously very dear to her brave and loyal heart. What more could a man desire?
He felt his great muscles thrill with a mighty sense of restrained effort. Was there any thought in the world so inspiring as that which had the support of the most wonderful creature he had ever met for its inspiration? He thought not. His pulses stirred at the bare idea of being Hazel Mallinsbee's companion all those weeks and months. Of course it would mean nothing to her. She was far too clever, and—and altogether brainy to give him a second thought. But he felt he could help her. He felt that to go back home with the knowledge that he—he had been one of the prime factors in her achieving the hope of her life would not be without compensations. Compensations? He wondered what form such compensations took. They certainly would need to be considerable for the loss of such a companionship.
He thought of the vision he had seen upon the trail. The beautifully rounded figure. The graceful movements, so obviously natural. Then those eyes, and——
He smiled and abandoned all further attempt to consider seriously the offer he had received. What was the use? His good fortune was certainly running in a strong tide. To attempt to steer a course was to fly in the face of his own luck. No, he would swim with it, let it take him whither it might. Meanwhile, Hazel had promised to meet him on the morrow, and show him the great coal seam, after which he was to interview her father, and have supper at the—office. Forthwith he hastily retired to his nightly game of hide-and-seek amongst the hummocks of flock in his disreputable bed, that the long hours of night might the more speedily merge into a golden to-morrow.
The next day Gordon, at an early hour, spent something over fifty dollars on a pair of ready-made riding-breeches and boots. For once in his life he felt that the faithful Harding had been found wanting. Somehow, in arriving at this conclusion, he had forgotten the episode of the five-cent-cigar man. Anyhow, the purchase had to be made, since it was necessary to ride out to the coal seams.
It was during the time spent on these matters an incident occurred which caused him some irritation. He saw in the distance, as he was making his way to the principal store, the pale-faced, sickly-looking creature who had accosted Hazel the day before. The sight of the man put him into a bad temper at once, and he forthwith gave the storekeeper all the unnecessary trouble he could put him to.
Then, on returning to his hotel, he discovered the man in the office talking to Peter McSwain. His swift temper left him utterly without shame, and he stood and stared at the object of his dislike, taking him in from head to foot with profoundly contemptuous eyes.
Somehow his inspection made him feel glad he disliked the man. He was a broad-chested person with aggressively cut clothes. His black hair was obviously greased, and his general cast of features suggested his Hebrew origin. Gordon had no grudge against him on this latter score. It was not that. It was the narrow, shifty eyes, the hateful way in which he smoked his cigar, with its flaming band about its middle. It was the loud coarse laugh and general air of impertinent arrogance that set his back bristling. And this—this had spoken to Hazel Mallinsbee only the day before.
He deposited his parcels in his bathroom, and returned to the office to find McSwain by himself. He had no hesitation in satisfying his curiosity.
"Say," he demanded, in a crisp tone. "Who was that rotten-looking 'sharp' you were yarning to when I came in?"
Peter's amiable expression underwent the most trifling change.
"Guess I lost ten thousand dollars talkin' that way once," he said, smelling cautiously at one of his own cigars.
Gordon promptly snapped back.
"Maybe I've lost more than that. But it don't cut any ice. Who was he?"
Peter smiled as he lit his cigar.
"David Slosson. Guess he's chief robber for the railroad company. You've seen him. Are you scared any? Say, we've been waitin' to hear him talk two days now. I guess you could hand us a bunch of emperors, an' kings, an' princes, an' dust over 'em a sprinkling of presidents, but I don't reckon you'd stir a pulse among us like the coming of that man did to this city. That feller's right here to put the railroad in on this land scoop. When he's fixed 'em the way he wants we'll hear from the railroad."
Gordon's eyes were thoughtful.
"Chief grafter, eh? He surely looks it."
"Some of 'em do," agreed Peter. "It's my belief the best of 'em don't, though," he added reflectively. "Yet he surely ought to be right. Railroads don't usual graft with anything but the best. He was talkin' pretty, too."
"Pretty? More than he looked," snorted Gordon. Then he began to laugh. "Say, you and I are pretty well agreed about miracles. I sort of feel it'll have to be one of them miracles if the time don't come when I knock seventeen sorts of stuffing out of that man. I feel it coming on like a disease. You know, creeping through my bones, and getting to the tips of my fingers. I'd like to spoil his store suit in the mud, and beautify his features with your 'hoss' soap, and drown 'em in—well, what's in your washing-trough."
Peter's smile was cordial enough at the forcefulness of his young guest. He had not forgotten that Gordon was a friend of Mallinsbee.
"I wouldn't play that way till we see how he's buying," he said cautiously.
"Play?" Gordon laughed and shook his head. "Well, perhaps you're right. It certainly will be some play."
After midday dinner Gordon set out on one of Mike Callahan's horses to keep his appointment with Hazel Mallinsbee. All his ill-humor of the morning was forgotten, and he looked forward with unalloyed pleasure to his afternoon, which was to culminate in his entering into his agreement with her father.
Hazel was waiting for him on the veranda of the office. Her horse, a fine brown mare, was standing ready saddled. Gordon noted the absence of Sunset, and understood, but he noted also that her smile of welcome was lacking something of the joyous spirit she had displayed the night before.
"Sunset off duty?" he inquired, as he came up and leaped out of the saddle to assist her.
Hazel scorned his assistance. She was in the saddle almost before he was aware of her intention.
"Sunset's father's," she said. "The Lady Jane is my saddle horse. She's the most outrageous jade on the ranch. That's why I like her. Every moment I'm in the saddle she's trying to get the bit between her teeth. If she succeeded she'd run till she dropped." Then, with a deliberate effort, she seemed to thrust some shadow from her mind as they set off at a brisk canter. "You know, father's just dying to show you the ranch. He's quite quaint and boyish. He takes likes and dislikes in the twinkle of an eye, and before all things in his life comes his wonderful ranch. I'll tell you a secret, Mr. Van Henslaer. The day you—arrived, after he'd told me just how you had arrived, he said, 'I'd like to get that boy working around this lay out. I like the look of him. He don't know a lot, but he can do things.' He's certainly taken one of his wonderful, impulsive fancies to you. He's very shrewd, too."
Gordon laughed.
"Now I wonder how I ought to take that. I'm all sorts of a fool, but I can hit hard. That's about his opinion of me, eh?"
Hazel's eyes were slyly watching him. She shook her head.
"That's not it," she smiled back. "You don't know my daddy. He might say that, but there's a whole lot of other thoughts stumbling around in his funny old head. If he wants you he thinks you can do more than hit hard."
The humor of it all got hold of Gordon.
"Good," he cried, with one of his whole-hearted laughs. "Now I'll let you into a secret. This is a great secret. One of those secrets a feller generally hangs on tight to because he's half ashamed of it. I can do more than hit hard!"
Then he became serious, and it was the girl's turn to find amusement.
"You see, I've been raised in a bit of a hothouse. Maybe it's more of a wind shelter, though. You know, where the rough winds of modern life can't get through the crevices and buffet you. That's why I fell for that sharp on the train. That's why I bumped head first into Snake's Fall. That's why your daddy thinks I don't know a lot. But I tell you right here I've got to make that hundred thousand dollars in six months, and I'm going to do it by hook or crook, if there's half a smell of a chance. I've no scruples whatsoever. I justmustmake it, or—or I'll never face my father ever again. Do you get me? Whatever you have at stake in this land proposition, it's just nothing to what I have. And you'll know what I mean when I say it's just the youthful pride and foolish egoism of twenty-four years. Say, do you know what it means to a kid when he's dared to do some fool trick that may cost his life? Well, that's my position, but I've done the daring for myself. My mood about this thing is the sort of mood in which, if I couldn't get that money any other way, I'd willingly hold up a bullion train."
The girl nodded. For a moment she made no attempt to answer him. She was gazing out ahead at a point where signs of busy life had made themselves apparent. Something of the shadow that had been in her eyes at their meeting had returned. Gordon was watching them, and a quick concern troubled him.
"Say," he observed anxiously. "You're—worried. I saw it when I came up."
The girl endeavored to pass his inquiry off lightly.
"Worried?" she shook her head. "The anxieties of the business are on my poor daddy's shoulders, and will soon be on yours. They're not on mine."
But Gordon was not easily put off. He edged his horse closer to her side.
"But youareworried," he declared doggedly. Then he added more lightly, "I'll take a chance on it. It's—a man. And he's got a sort of whitewash face, and black, shoe-shined hair. He's got a nose you'd hate to run up against with any vital part. As for his clothes, well—a blind man would hate to see 'em."
The girl turned sharply.
"What makes you think that way?"
Gordon smiled triumphantly.
"Guess I've been trying to impress you with the fact that foolishness—like beauty—is only skin deep. The former applies to me. The latter—well, I guess I must have just read about—that."
"If you're not careful you'll convince me," Hazel laughed.
"That's one of the things I'm yearning to do."
"You're talking of David Slosson," she challenged him.
Gordon nodded.
"The railroad's—chief grafter."
"And a hateful creature."
"Who's started right away to—annoy you—from the time he got around Snake's Fall."
A great surprise was looking back into Gordon's eyes.
"You're guessing. You can't know that," Hazel said, with decision.
"Maybe. Say,"—Gordon's eyes were half serious, half smiling—"a girl don't push her way past a man when he's talking to her if—he isn't annoying her."
"Then you saw him stop me on Main Street yesterday?"
"Sure." Then, after a pause, Gordon went on, "Say, tell me. We're to be fellow conspirators."
Just for one moment Hazel Mallinsbee looked him straight in the eyes. She was thinking, thinking swiftly. Nor were her thoughts unpleasant. For one thing she had realized that which Gordon had wished her to realize—that he was no fool. She was seeing that something in him which doubtless her father had been quick to discover. She was thinking, too, of his direct, almost dogged manner of driving home to the purpose he had in view, and she told herself she liked it. Then, too, all unconsciously, she was thinking of the open, ingenuous, smiling face of his. The handsome blue eyes which were certainly his chief attraction in looks, although his other features were sound enough. She decided at once that for all these things she liked him and trusted him. Therefore she admitted her worries.
"Yes," she said, "it's David Slosson—and your description of him is too good. He's been here two days. He came here the day before you. He came out to see father directly he arrived, but, as you know, father was away. I had to see him. And it wasn't pleasant. Maybe you can guess his attitude. I don't like to talk of it. He took me for some silly country girl, I s'pose. Anyway I got rid of him. Then he saw me yesterday." Suddenly her face flushed, and an angry sparkle shone in her eyes. "His sort ought to be raw-hided," she declared vehemently. Then, after a pause, in which she choked her anger back, "We got a note from him this morning to say he'd be along this afternoon. Father's going to see him. And I was scared to death you wouldn't get along in time. That's why I was waiting ready for you, and hustled you off without seeing father. I was scared the man would get around before we were away. I haven't said a word to my daddy. You see he'd kill him," she finished up, with a whimsical little smile.
Gordon was gazing out ahead at the great coal workings they were now approaching. But though he beheld a small village of buildings, and an astonishing activity of human beings and machinery, for the time, at least, they had no interest for him.
"I knew I was up against that man directly I saw him peeking into that store after you," he said deliberately. "Miss Mallinsbee, I'm going to ask you all sorts of a big favor. We three are going to work together for six months. Well, any time you feel worried any by that feller, don't go to your daddy, just come right along to me. I guess it would puzzle more than your daddy to kill him after I've done with him. I don't guess it's the time to talk a lot about this thing now. I don't sort of fancy big talk that way, anyhow. All I ask you is to let me know, and to be allowed to keep my own eyes on him."
Hazel shook her head.
"I don't think I can promise you anything like that," she said seriously. "But I—thank you all the same. You see, out here a girl's got to take her own chances, and I'm not altogether helpless that way." Then she definitely changed the subject and pointed ahead. "There, what do you think of it?"
"Think of it? Why, he's a low down skunk!" cried Gordon fiercely, unable any longer to restrain his feelings.
"I wasn't speaking of him. It!" the girl laughed. "The coalpits."
"Oh!" There was no responsive laugh from Gordon. Then he added with angry pretense of enjoyment, "Fine!"
For nearly two hours they wandered round the embryonic coal village, examining everything in detail, and not without a keen interest. The place, hidden away amongst the higher foothills, was a perfect hive of industry. Great masses of machinery were lying about everywhere, waiting their turn for the attention of the engineers. Wooden buildings were in the course of construction everywhere. A small army of miners and their wives and children had already taken up their abode, and the men were at work with the engineers in the preparatory borings already in full operation.
Even to Gordon's unpracticed eye there was little doubt of the accuracy of the information he had received relating to Snake's Fall. Here there was everything required to provoke the boom he had been warned of. Here was an evidence that the boom would be a genuine one built on the solid basis of great and lasting commercial interest. Long before they started on their return journey he congratulated himself heartily upon the accident which had brought him into the midst of such an enterprise, and thanked his stars for the further chance which had brought him into contact with the train "sharp," and so with Silas Mallinsbee.
It was getting on towards the time for the Mallinsbees' evening meal when the little frame house once more came within view. There was a decided charm in its isolation. On all sides were the undulations of grass which denoted the first steps towards the foothills. There was a wonderful radiance of summer sheen upon the green world about them, and the brightness of it all, and the pleasantness, set Gordon thinking of the pity that all too soon it would be broken up almost entirely by those black and gloomy signs of man's industry when the resources of the old world have to be tapped.
However, he was content enough with the moment. The sky was blue and radiant, the earth was all so green, and the wide, wide world opened out before him in whatever direction he chose to gaze. While beside him, sitting her mare with that confident seat of a perfect horsewoman, was the most beautiful girl in all the world, a girl in whose companionship he was to spend the next six months. The gods of Fortune were very, very good to him, and he smiled as the vision of his sportsman father flashed through his mind.
But his moments of pleasant reflection were abruptly cut short.
Hazel had suddenly raised one pointing arm, and a note of concern was in her voice.
"Look," she cried. "Something's—upset my daddy."
Gordon looked in the direction of the house.
Silas Mallinsbee was pacing the veranda at a gait that left no doubt in his mind. It was the agitated walk of a man disturbed.
"What's the matter?" demanded Gordon, with some concern.
"It looks like—David Slosson," said Hazel, in a hard voice.
They rode up in silence, and the girl was the first to reach the ground.
"Daddy——" she began eagerly.
But her father cut her short. The flesh-tinted patch, which Gordon had almost forgotten, which he used to cover his left eye with, was thrust up absurdly upon his forehead. His heavy brows were drawn together in an angry frown. His tufty chin beard was aggressively thrust, his two great hands were stuck in the waist of his trousers, which gave him further an air of truculence.
"Say," he cried, his deep, rolling voice now raised to a pitch of thunder, "it's taken me fifty-six years to come up with what I've been chasing all my life. Say, I've spent years an' years huntin' around to find something meaner than a rattlesnake. Guess I come up with him to-day."
"David Slosson," cried Hazel, her eyes wide with her anger.
Her father waved her aside as she came towards him.
"No, don't you butt in. I've got to let off hot air, or—or—I'll bust."
He paced off down the little veranda, and came back again. Then he stood still, and suddenly brought one great fist down with terrific force into his other palm.
"Gee, but it's tough. Say, you ever tried to hold a slimy eel?" he cried, glaring fiercely into Gordon's questioning eyes. "No? It's a heap of a dirty and unsatisfact'ry job, but it ain't as dirty as dealing with Mr. David Slosson, nor half as unsatisfact'ry. You can stamp your heel on it, and crush it into the ground. With David Slosson you just got to talk pretty and fence while you know he's got you beat all along the line, an' all the time you're just needin' to kill him all to death. Of all the white-livered bums. Say, if only the good God would push him right into these two hands an' say squeeze him. Say——" He held out his two clenched fists as though he were wringing out a sponge.
Gordon raked his hair with one hand.
"Do you need to worry that way, Mr. Mallinsbee? I owe him some myself."
The old man glared for some moments. Then a subtle smile crept into his eyes. Hazel saw it, and seized the opportunity.
"Let's get right inside and have food. You can tell us then, Daddy. You see, Mr. Van Henslaer's one of our confederates now. He's come along to tell you so."