CHAPTER XVII
WHEN REASON SWINGS
Dick suddenly crumpled the sheet of paper, and put it in his pocket.He lifted himself, as a man distracted, from the chair in which he hadbeen sitting, gripping the arms with hands that were tenselyresponding to an agony of spirit. He almost lurched forward as hestepped to the little steps leading down from the porch, and into theworn trail, hesitated at the forks leading to mess-house or assayoffice, and then mechanically turned in the latter direction, it beingwhere the greater number of his working hours were passed.
"Where you goin'?" the voice of his partner called, as he plungedforward.
He had to make a determined attempt to speak, then his voice broke,harsh and strained, through dry lips:
"Assay office."
He did not look back, but went forward, with limp hands and totteringknees, turning neither to right nor left. The whole world was a haze.The steadfast mountain above him was a cynical monster, and dimly, inthe shadow of the high landmark, he discerned a change, sinister,gloating, and leering on him and his misery. The soft voices of themen of the day shift returning from their voluntary task, the staccatoexhaust of the hoisting engine bringing up a load of ore from therefound lead, the clash of a car dumping its load of waste, and theroar of the Rattler's stamps, softened by distance, blended intodiscordance.
He entered the assay-house like a whipped dog seeking the refuge ofits kennel, threw himself on a stool before the bench, leaned his headinto his hollowed arms, and groaned as would a stricken warrior ofolden days when surrendering to his wounds.
This, then, explained it all--that sequence of events, frustrating,harrying, baffling him, since the first hour he had come to the mineof the Croix d'Or. The rough suggestion of Bully Presby on the firstday, discouraging him; the harsh attitude; the persistent attempts todishearten him and buy him out; the endeavor to buy half the propertyfrom, and remove the backing, of Sloan, without which he could not goon; the words of the watchman, who doubtless had discovered BullyPresby's secret theft, blackmailed him as much as he could, and,dying, cursed him; but, hating the men of the mine more, had withheldthe vital meaning of his accusation. Perhaps Presby had beeninstrumental in Thompson's strike. But no, that could scarcely be,although, in the light of other events in that iniquitous chain, itmight be possible. That he had any part in the dynamiting of the damor power-house, Dick cast aside as unworthy of such a man. The strong,hard, masterful, and domineering face of Bully Presby arose before himas from the darkening shadows of the room, and it seemed triumphant.
He lifted his head suddenly, thinking, in his superacute state ofmind, that he had heard a noise. He must have air! The assay office,with its smell of nitric acid, its burned fumes, its clutter of brokencupels and slag, was unbearable. He arose from the stool so suddenlythat it went toppling over to fall against the stacked cruciblesbeneath the bench which lent their clatter to the upset. He steppedout into the night. It was dark, only the stars above him dimlybetraying the familiar shapes of mountains, forests, and buildingsaround. Up in the bunk-house some man was wailing a verse of "EllaRe," accompanied by a guitar, and the doleful drone of the hackneyedchorus was caught up by the other men "off shift." But, nauseating asit was to him, this piebald ballad of the hills, it contained oneshrieking sentence: "Lost forevermore!" That was it! Joan was lost!
He looked up at the superintendent's quarters, which had been hishome, and saw that its lights were out. Bill, he conjectured, alwayshard working and early rising, had tumbled into his bed, unconsciousof this tragedy. He struck off across the gulch, and took the trail hehad so frequently trodden with a beating heart, and high and tenderhope. It led him to the black barrier of the pipe line, the placewhere first he had met her, the sacred clump of bushes that had heldand surrendered to him the handkerchief enshrined in his pocket, theslope where she had leaned down from her horse and kissed him in theonly caress he had ever received from her lips, and told him that heshould be with her in her prayers.
Reverently he caressed with his hands the spot where she had so oftensat on a gray old bowlder, flat-topped. His heart cried for one moresight of her, one more caress, one more opportunity to listen to hervoice before he dealt her the irrevocable wound that would end itall.
Not for an instant did he waver. The tempter, whispering in his ear,told him that he could conceal his knowledge, advise Sloan to sell,take his chance with Joan, and let the sleeping dog lie, foreverundiscovered. It told him that Sloan was admittedly rich beyond hisneeds, and that with him the Croix d'Or was merely a matter ofsentiment, and an opportunity of bestowing on the son of his old-timefriend a chance to get ahead in the world.
But back of it all came the inexorable voice of truth, telling Dickthat there was but one course open, and that was reparation; that tohis benefactor he owed faith and loyalty; that Presby must pay, thoughhis--Richard Townsend's--castles crumbled to dust in the wreckage ofexposure. He must break the heart and faith of the girl who loved him,and whom, with every fiber of his being, he loved in return.
She would stand in the world as the daughter of a colossal thief! Nota thief of the marts, where crookedness was confused with shrewdnessfar removed from the theft of the hands; but a thief who had burrowedbeneath another man's property, and carried away, to coinage, hisgold. Between Bully Presby and the man who tunneled under a bank toloot the safe, there was no moral difference save in the romance ofthat mystic underground world where men bored like microbes for theirspoil.
"Joan! Joan! Joan!" he muttered aloud, as if she were there to hearhis hurt appeal.
It was for her that he felt the wound, and not for Bully Presby, herfather. For the latter he spared scant sympathy; but it was Joan whowould be stricken by any action he might take, and the action must betaken, and would necessarily be taken publicly.
Under criminal procedure men had served long terms behind bars forless offenses than Presby's. Others had made reparation throughpayment of money, and slunk away into the shadows of disgrace to avoidhandcuffs. And the fall of Presby of the Rattler, as a plunderer, wasone that would echo widely in the mining world where he had moved, astalwart, unbending king. Not until then had Dick realized how highthat figure towered. Presby, the irresistible, a thief, and fightingto keep out of the penitentiary, while Joan, the brave, the loving,the true, cowered in her room, dreading to look the world in theface.
And he, the man who loved her, almost accepted as her betrothed, withthe ring even then burning in his pocket, was the one who must dealher this blow!
He got up and staggered through the darkness along the length of theline, almost envying the miserable dynamiter, who had died abovethe remnant of wall, for the quiet into which he had been thrust.If the train bringing him homeward had been wrecked, and his lifeextinguished, he could have saved her this. The Cross would havebeen sold. She might have grieved for him, for a time, but woundswill heal, unless too deep. He stood above the abyss where daylightshowed ruins, and knew that the destruction of the dam, heavy a blowas it had seemed when inflicted, was nothing as compared to thisruin of dreams, of love, and hope.
"Dick! Dick! What is it, boy?" came a soft voice from the night,scarcely above a whisper. "Can't you tell me, old man? Ain't we stillpardners? Just as we uster be?"
He peered through the darkness, roused from his misery in thestillness of the hour, and the night, by the appeal. Dimly hediscerned, seated above him on the abutment, a shape outlined againstthe stars. It threw itself down with hard-striking feet, and cametoward him, and he knew it was not a phantom of misery. It camecloser to where he stood on the brink of the blackness, and laid ahand on his shoulder, put it farther across and held him, as tenderlyas father might have held, in this hour of distress.
"I've been follerin' you, boy," the kindly voice went on. "I saw thatsomethin' had got you. That you were hard hit! I've been near you forthe last two or three hours. I don't know as I'd have bothered younow, if I hadn't been afraid you'd fall over. Let's go back,Dick--back to the mine."
r /> It seemed as if there had come to him in the night a strong support.Numbed and despairing, but with a strange relief, he permitted Bill tolead him back over the trail, and at last, when they were standingabove the dim buildings below, found speech.
"It's her," he said. "It's for her sake that I hate to do it. It'sJoan!"
"Sit down here by me," the big voice, commiserating, said. "Here onthis timber. I've kept it to myself, boy, but I know all about her. Istood on the bank, where I'd just gone to hunt you, on that day shereached down from the saddle. I knew the rest, and slipped away. Youlove her. She's done somethin' to you."
"No!" the denial was emphatic. "She hasn't! She's as true as thehills. It's her father. Look here!"
He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the crumpled sheet, and struck amatch. Bill took the letter in his hands and read, while the nightitself seemed pausing to shield the flickering flame. With hurriedfingers he struck another match, and the light flared up, exposing hisfrowning eyebrows, the lights in his keen eyes, the tight pressure ofhis firm lips.
He handed the letter back, and for a long time sat silently staringbefore him, his big, square shoulders bent forward, and his hatoutlined against the light of the night, which was steadilyincreasing.
"I see how it is," he said at last. "And it's hard on you, isn't it,boy? A man can stand anything himself, but it's hell to hurt those wecare for."
The sympathy of his voice cut like a knife, with its merciful hurt.Dick broke into words, telling of his misery, but stammering as strongmen stammer, when laying bare emotions which, without pressure, theyalways conceal. His partner listened, motionless, absorbing it all,and his face was concealed by the darkness, otherwise a greatsympathy would have flared from his eyes.
"We've got to find a way out of this, Dick," he said at last, with asigh. And the word "we" betrayed more fully than long sentences hiscompassion. "We must go slow. Somehow, I reckon, I'm cooler than youin this kind of a try-out. Maybe because it don't hit me so close tohome. Let's go back, boy, back to the cabin, and try to rest. Thedaylight is like the Lord's own drink. It clears the head, and makesus see things better than we can in the night--when all is dark. Let'stry to find a way out, and try to forget it for a while. Did you everthink how good it all is to us? Just the night, coming along everyonce in a while, to make us appreciate how good the sun is, and howbright the mornings are. It ain't an easy old world, no matter howhard we try to make it that; because it takes the black times to makeour eyes glad to watch the sunrise. Let me help you, old pardner.We've been through some pretty tight places together, and somehow,when He got good and ready, the Lord always showed us a way out."
He arose on his feet, stretched his long muscular arms, and starteddown the hill, and Dick followed. There was not another wordexchanged, other than the sympathetic "good-night" in which they hadnot failed for more than seven years, and outside the stars wanedslowly, the stamp mill of the Rattler roared on, and the Croix d'Orwas unmoved.
The daylight came, and with it the boom of the night shift setting offits morning blasts, and clearing the way for the day shift that wouldfollow in sinking the hole that must inevitably betray the dishonestyof the stern mine master at the foot of the hill. Dick had not slept,and turned to see a shadow in the door.
"Don't you get up, Dick," Bill said. "Just try to rest. I heard youtumblin' around all the night. You don't get anywhere by doin' that. Aman has to take himself in hand more than ever when there's big thingsat stake. Then's when he needs his head. You just try to get somerest. I'll keep things goin' ahead all right, and there ain't no callto do nothin' for a week or ten days--till we get our feet on theground. After that we'll find a trail. Don't worry."
Through the kindly tones there ran confidence, and, entirelyexhausted, Dick turned over and tried to sleep. It came to him atlast, heavy and dreamless, the sleep that comes beneficently to thosewho suffer. The sun, creeping westward, threw a beam across his face,and he turned restlessly, like a fever-stricken convalescent, androlled farther over in the bed.
The beam pursued him, until at last there was no further refuge, andhe sat up, dazed and bewildered, and hoping that all had been anightmare, and that he should hear the cheery note of the whistletelling him that it was day again, and calling the men of the Croixd'Or to work.
It was monstrous, impossible, that all should have changed. It was butyesterday that he had returned to the mine with finances assured,confidence restored, and the certainty that Joan Presby loved him, andcould come to his side when his work was accomplished.
He looked at his watch and the bar of sunlight. It was four o'clock,and the day was gone. Everything was real. Everything was horrible. Hecrawled stiffly from his bed, thrust his head into the cold water ofthe basin, and, unshaven, stepped out to the porch and down thetrail.
The plumes of smoke still wreathed upward from two stacks. Bill wasstill driving downward unceasingly. The mellow clang of the smith'shammer, sharpening drills, smote his ears, and the rumble of the cars.The cook, in a high, thin tenor, sang the songs with which hehabitually whiled away his work. Everything was the same, save him!And his air castles had been blown away as by the wind.
In a fever of uncertainty, he stood on the hillside and thought ofwhat he should do. He believed that it was his duty to be the one tobreak the harsh news to Joan, and wondered whether or not she might befound at the tryst. He remembered that, once before when he had notappeared, she had ridden over there in the afternoon. Perhaps,expecting him, and being disappointed, she might be there again.
He hurried down the slope, and back up across the divide and along thetrail, his hopes and uncertainties alone rendering him certain thatshe must be there, and paused when the long, black line shone dullyoutlined in its course around the swelling boss of the hill. Heexperienced a thrill of disappointment when he saw that she was notwaiting, and, again consulting his watch feverishly, tramped backwardand forward along the confines of the hallowed place.
At last, certain from the fresh hoof marks on the yielding slope, thatshe had come and gone, he turned, and went slowly back to the mine. Hehad a longing to see his partner, and learn whether or not Mathews,with that strange, resourceful logic of his, had evolved some way outof the predicament. But Bill was nowhere in sight. He was not in theoffice, and the mill door was locked. The cook had not seen him; andthe blacksmith, busy, stopped only long enough to say that he thoughthe had seen the superintendent going toward the hoisting-house.
"Have you seen Bill?" Dick asked of the engineer, who stood at hislevers, and waited for a signal.
"He's below," the engineer answered, throwing over an arm, andwatching the cage ascend with a car of ore.
It trundled away, and Dick stepped into the cage. The man appearedirresolute, and embarrassed.
"He'll be up pretty soon, I think," he ventured.
"Well, I'll not wait for him," Dick said. "Lower away."
The man still stood, irresolute.
"Let her go, I said," Dick called sharply, his usual patience oftemper having gone.
"But--but----" halted the engineer. "Bill said to me, when he wentdown, says he: 'You don't let any one come below. Understand? I don'tcare if it's Townsend himself. Nobody comes down. You hold the cage,because I'll send the shift up, and 'tend to the firing myself.'"
For an instant Dick was enraged by this stubbornness, and turned witha threat, and said: "Who's running this mine? I don't care what hesaid. You haven't understood him. Lower away there, I say, and bequick about it!"
The rails and engine room slid away from him. The cage slippeddownward on its oiled bearings, as if reluctant, and the light abovefaded away to a small pin-point below, and then died in obscurity, asif the world had been blotted out. Only the sense of falling told himthat he was going down, down, to the seven-hundred-foot level, andthen he remembered that he had no candle. The cage came to a halt, andhe fumbled for the guard bar, lifted it, and stepped out.
Straight ahead of him he saw a dim glow of light. W
ith one hand onthe wall he started toward it, approached it, and then, in thehollow of illumination saw something that struck him like a blow inthe face. The hard, resounding clash of his heels on the rockunderfoot stopped. His hands fell to his sides, as if fixed in anattitude of astonishment. Standing in the light beyond him stoodJoan, with her hands raised, palms outward.
"Stop!" she commanded. "Stop! Stay where you are a moment!"
Amazed and bewildered, he obeyed mechanically, and comprehended ratherthan saw that, crouched on the floor of the drift beyond, his partnerknelt with a watch in his hand, and in a listening attitude. Suddenly,as if all had been waiting for this moment, a dull tremor ran throughthe depths of the Croix d'Or. A muffled, beating, rending sound seemedto tear its way, vibrant, through the solid ledge. He leaped forward,understanding all at once, as if in a flash of illumination, what thewoman he loved and his partner had been waiting for. It was the soundof the five-o'clock blasts from the Rattler, as it stole the ore frombeneath their feet. It was the audible proof of Bully Presby's theft.
"Joan! My Joan!" he said, leaping forward. "I should have spared youthis!"
But she did not answer. She was leaning back against the wall of thetunnel, her hands outstretched in semblance of that cross whose namewas the name of the mine----as if crucified on its cross of gold. Theflaring lights of the candles in the sticks, thrust into the crevicesaround, lighted her pale, haggard face, and her white hands thatclenched themselves in distress. She looked down at the giant who wasslowly lifting himself from his knees, with his clear-cut faceupturned; and the hollows, vibrant with silence, caught her whisperedwords and multiplied the sound to a sibilant wail.
"It's true!" she said. "It's true! You didn't lie! You told the truth!My father--my father is a thief, and may God help him and me!"