CHAPTER VI
Bill Hinckley, pallid, unshaven, tremulous with drink, his drooping lower lip destroying whatever intelligence of expression he might have had when sober, blinked across the table at Harrison, and with his tattered coat sleeve wiped the maudlin tears from his staring, bloodshot eyes.
"I'm damn much obliged, Jack," he quavered, "you're good frien' to me always, an' I'll never forget it, never. I thought I was down 'n out for good, 'n would have been, too, 'f 'twan't for you. You're good frien', Jack, an' I'll never forget it, never."
Harrison eyed him with some disgust. "Ah, cut out the thanks, Bill," he said good-naturedly. "This ain't charity; it's business. We need a watchman, an' if you've got sense enough to keep sober there ain't no reason why you can't hold down the job as well as the next man. It ain't my doings, anyway; it's Gordon's. He's puttin' up the stuff, an' he asks me if I've got any friend I think'll be partial to the job. That's how you come in. But you want to get out of this place pretty damn quick. You've got two days to sober off in, an' then it's up to you whether you make good on your job or not. So you want to make a break out of here right away now. Rum shops ain't healthy for you. Get the idea?"
He rose, and Hinckley obediently enough followed suit, although into his drink-sodden brain hardly a word of Harrison's explanation and caution had penetrated. He had a chance at a job, and Harrison had got it for him; those were the two ideas he had absorbed, and those only, and his last words to Harrison were a repetition of his old refrain, "You're good frien' to me, Jack, an' I'll never forget it, never."
The week which Gordon had proposed for the consideration of the question of the capital stock had become first two, and then three, without any definite agreement being reached. The old man stood firm. Ten thousand shares, par one hundred; that he had determined upon as the proper thing, and to move him one share or one dollar in either direction seemed apparently a task impossible of achievement. To Gordon, therefore, fell the lot of yielding gracefully, and while he did not at once abandon his position outright, he did take pains to make it clear both to Mason and to Harrison that any arrangement in reason would be satisfactory to him. Thus complete good feeling was restored among the three, each tacitly assuming that some kind of an understanding would be reached whenever Gordon was ready to say the word.
Certain much needed improvements, indeed, Gordon insisted upon having made at once; for the mine's sake, as he phrased it, and not for his own. Not the least of these was the appointment of Bill Hinckley as watchman, and in Hinckley's welfare Gordon from the first showed a most kindly interest. Not only did he fit him out with a suit of clothes, a cartridge belt and revolver, but further he did what he could to arouse the drunkard's self-respect, smoothing out occasional dissensions between Mason and Hinckley, and sometimes even, when bound towards the mine, taking Hinckley's lunch pail down to him, and stopping for a pipe and a friendly chat.
Small wonder that he soon numbered Hinckley, along with most of the rest of the township, among his devoted admirers. With high and low alike, indeed, throughout the county, Gordon, as time went on, had reinforced his first good impression, gained by force of arms, by showing equal aptitude for the gentler arts of peace. Alike in the town of Seneca, among the scattered mountain claims, and in Jim Mason's little cabin itself, he was soon a welcome visitor, honestly liked, respected and looked up to.
And all this time, for all his different activities, for all the seeming aimlessness of many of his expeditions and conversations, Gordon, far underneath the surface, was working ceaselessly, steadily, relentlessly, toward one desired end; with Jim Mason's cabin as the scene, and the members of Jim Mason's household as the involuntary actors, in the drama whose final act he was seeking to hasten to its end.
With honest, open-minded Jack Harrison he had been on the best terms from the first; with Jim Mason progress had been slower, but progress it had been, for all that. And while the old man's grunts and occasional dry chuckles meant to Gordon little in the way of cordiality or good-will, to Ethel Mason and to Harrison they were a source of constant wonderment, revealing, as they did, depths of good-humor in the crusty old man of which they had never even dreamed. With the girl herself Gordon found his wits kept busy in a spirited warfare of words, for apparently to Ethel Mason his every action was a subject for criticism, his every word an opening for a shaft of wit, barbed for the most part, too, with a sarcasm keen and fine; and yet, for all their contention, under the surface both felt a mutual—perhaps both alike would have paused, at a loss for the precise word—liking, regard, attraction, perchance even a word of deeper meaning still.
From the first, indeed, they had been thrown much in each other's company. Many a long ride Gordon had been forced to take over the winding, solitary mountain roads, and what more natural than that he should ask Ethel Mason to go with him as companion and guide. And then, on days when business did not intrude itself, what again more natural than the transition to rides and walks with pleasure and not business as their aim.
One place especially possessed for Gordon an irresistible attraction,—beyond the pass, down in the lowland between the mountains, where the brown of the marsh, dotted with many a quiet pond and reedy pool, stretched far away on either hand, far as the eye could reach, losing itself at last against the dim, smoky outline of the distant hills. The river, a narrow ribbon of brightest blue, flowing peacefully along through the valley in many a winding curve, spread gradually out, just under the shadow of Burnt Mountain, into a long, shallow, sedgy lagoon, the stopping place for innumerable hosts of chattering wild-fowl, winging their leisurely way along on their journey to the southward. Hither it was that Gordon loved to come, and hither it was, on a crisp fall afternoon, that he and Ethel Mason, driving over the mountain from Seneca, had come, intent upon the evening flight.
The sun still hung, an hour high, above the horizon. A big green-headed mallard drake winged his way lazily from the marsh over toward the pond, noted with pleased interest the little flock of his companions feeding near the shore, turned, set his wings, and glided gently downward through the crisp, dry stillness of the keen October air. A puff of white smoke darted from the clump of reeds, there was a crack like the sharp snap of a whip lash; the drake's head jerked suddenly back over his body, and with a mighty splash fell stone dead into the quiet waters of the pond. The little ripples spread away until they touched the shore, a few feathers floated softly downward on to the quiet surface, the smoke wreathed slowly heavenward, dissolving against the clear blue sky, and all was still again.
Lying back at ease in the little blind skilfully hidden on the shore, Gordon leisurely took the gun from the girl's hand, snapped it open, slipped in a fresh cartridge, and with a slow smile of admiration handed it back to her again.
"Ethel," he said, "you certainly can shoot. I've never heard of a girl killing ducks the way you can. It's really remarkable."
The girl nodded indifferently. "Yes," she answered listlessly; "I can shoot, and fish, and ride a horse, and cook, and keep house, and that's all. That makes a great life for a girl, doesn't it? And all the things I'd really like to do, the things that make any girl's life pleasant, why, I've never had a chance at one of them—and I suppose I never shall."
Gordon gazed steadily at the girl as she sat looking out over the pond, the little sixteen-gage across her knees. For the hundredth time he noted the slender perfection of her lithe young figure, the faultless profile, the delicate, almost childlike beauty of every feature. And he did not take his eyes away.
"The things you'd really like to do," he repeated. "I'm afraid, Ethel, you're just like nine-tenths of the rest of the world, not knowing when you're well off. What could you want better than this?"—he waved his hand toward the quiet waters of the pond, the level marsh beyond, the pleasant valley stretching away to meet the distant hills, and above them the huge mountain towering up against the sky. "And you'd leave the life you're living—for what? Suppose you had all the money you wanted, suppose this very minute you were free absolutely to act as you pleased, now what would you really do?"
The girl gazed dreamily away over the valley. "All the money I wanted," she mused; "oh, I don't know. First of all, I'd get straight away from here. I'm sick to death of it all. I'd go right to some big city, where I could see all the things I've always wanted to see, and buy all the things I've always wanted to buy. Clothes, first, of course, and jewels and things; and theaters, and the opera, and an automobile. Oh, I could spend the money all right; you needn't worry about that."
Gordon laughed. "I believe you," he said. "I'd like to watch you doing it, and I believe I'll have a chance to, some day. I don't know how good it's going to be for you, but if you'll have patience a little while longer, till this deal about the mine goes through, you'll have money enough. There's no question about that."
The girl shook her head disbelievingly. "For the last five years," she said, "I've been hearing about the money we were going to get out of the mine some day. Now I've got so that when I see it—real, true money—I'll believe it; and not a minute before."
Gordon smiled. "This time," he said, "things are really going through. I'm willing to admit that your father is about the toughest proposition to do business with that I've ever come across. I'm used to getting my own way, myself, but I can always see the other fellow's side, and come to some sort of a compromise; but your father—good heavens, he doesn't know what the word compromise means. I've given in to him practically on every detail of the whole agreement, and when, at the very end of everything, there's one little point that I'm anxious to have my way about, why, no, he won't give in on that, either, and if I don't like it, I can go back East without the mine, or go to another place he mentioned. That's compromise for you, with a vengeance."
The girl laughed in thorough enjoyment. "What is it you can't agree about?" she queried.
"Why," answered Gordon, "it's about the question of the capital stock. It's a little technical, perhaps, to explain to you, but the result is that where he wants to make one dollar, I want to make five. Doesn't my way sound the best?"
The girl laughed again, but, withal, glanced at him shrewdly. "Of course it does," she answered lightly, "much the best; but I suppose in the end you've got to give in to him, just the same; that is, if you want the mine."
Gordon sighed. "Yes, I suppose so," he assented, "but don't let him know it, just the same. I'm still holding out on a bluff. But I've as good as made up my mind. The mine's really a wonder; it's too good a chance to let go, even though it's got to be run on your father's somewhat old-fashioned ideas."
There was a moment's silence. Then the girl spoke again. "You've waked them up a little, anyway," she observed. "Didn't Jack tell me you were going to keep Hinckley for a watchman?"
Gordon nodded. "We surely are," he answered. "I did manage to persuade the old man about that. Oh, and that reminds me, too; there's something else I meant to ask him about that. Isn't there another opening of some old claim that comes out near our fifth level somewhere?"
The girl nodded in turn. "Sure," she answered "Abe Peters started a claim before the one he's got now that does come out right on the fifth level, but we bought the land afterwards; it wasn't any use to him. You wouldn't need any watchman there."
"No," assented Gordon; "I guess that's right. I had an idea it was on Peters' land. I don't suppose any one could get down it, anyway."
The girl laughed outright. "Of course they could," she cried; "but they couldn't do any harm to the claim. It seems to me you're awfully green about mining for such a smart man as they say you are."
Gordon did not seem in the least offended. On the contrary, he laughed with the utmost good nature. "I'll admit it," he said; "but I'm not nearly so green when it comes to the stock market end of things, and that's what concerns you most, after all. You wait about six months, and you'll be spending money hand over fist; see if you don't."
The girl pondered. "I don't suppose," she said, at last, "that the old man would let me go off traveling alone. Maybe I'll have the money, but no chance to blow it in."
Gordon laughed. "Of course," he said, with mock seriousness, "what you really need is a husband to take you around and give you a good time. I think I know a man that would like the job first-rate, too."
The girl nodded. "I know of several myself," she answered coolly, "but I suppose you mean Jack, don't you?"
"Yes," said Gordon, "I mean Jack. It's quite evident to any one. Joking aside, though, Jack's a mighty good fellow, and he's been a mighty good friend to your father. It isn't one man in a hundred that would stick the way he has. If your father's made a will, or ever does make one, you really ought to remind him to fix Jack all right in it. It's a curious thing, but as a man grows older, he sometimes forgets things like that altogether."
The girl shrugged her shapely shoulders. "A will," she echoed. "He'd never take the trouble to make a will. He's pretty healthy yet. And as long as you've got it all fixed that I'm to marry Jack, it'll be all right, anyway."
Gordon laughed. He found the girl distinctly amusing. "I wonder," he said idly, "how Jack will like taking a spending trip around the country. Not very much, I fancy. I imagine he's more for the happy fireside act, isn't he?"
The girl laughed, too. "I think you're awfully good," she said, "to take so much trouble over my affairs. I think you're right, too. I never thought of it before. I don't believe I'll take Jack, after all."
"I wonder, now," ventured Gordon, "if any of the others—"
The girl shook her head. "No, not a bit better," she answered. "I'll tell you, though, what you might do. You might break off your engagement with that girl back East you've been telling me about, and then ask me. I'm not sure but what you'd do pretty well. You've got money, they say, and that's a good deal. Of course, you're rather conceited, but then you're not bad-looking. On the whole—"
Gordon cut her short. "I beg off," he cried; "a joke's a joke, but you're rather rubbing it in. I tried to be funny with the wrong person; I'll admit it. Speaking of Rose, though; that reminds me again—I'm going to see if I can't persuade her to come out here soon; it's taking so much longer to get things in shape than I thought it would, and I was wondering—do you suppose you'd mind asking her to stay with you? The hotel, to be frank, is pretty near the limit, and then there'd be a chaperon, too, while if you invited her—"
The girl nodded. "Sure," she said; "glad to. I'd really like to see—"
She stopped abruptly. A pair of black ducks swung swiftly across the decoys, and like a flash the gun leaped to her cheek. The two quick reports sounded almost as one, and the two ducks struck the water, dead. The girl rose.
"Come on," she cried, "that makes our dozen. We've got to be getting back home."
By the time Gordon had launched the little skiff and brought the ducks ashore, she had deftly harnessed the horse to the old buggy, and stood waiting for him. Tossing the ducks under the seat, he stood back for her to get in, and then, with a sudden impulse, stepped forward again, blocking her path. Very dainty, very charming, she stood there with a little smile of understanding on her lips.
"Ethel," he whispered.
She made no answer. A sudden gust of passion shook him. He took one quick step forward, and clasped her in his arms. "Ethel," he whispered hoarsely, "suppose there wasn't any other girl."
With a glance enticing beyond words, she raised her eyes to his. "Oh, but there is," she answered, and yet she made no move to free herself, and in another moment their lips met.
