Buffalo Roost Part 21

"No, lad, not to-day. I don't know as I ever will."

"Tell me all about the trouble between you and my uncle. How does it happen that he holds the key to this lock instead of you? Mother told me you had the key?" questioned Willis.

"I did once, but when I refused to let him enter, he came with a hacksaw and removed the lock, placing this great bra.s.s one in its stead. Your uncle was the only person with your father when he died, except the nurse, and he has always claimed that Bill turned all his mining property over to him. He offered to buy me out, but I refused to sell.

"Nearly a year after your father's death, I learned from a nurse in the hospital that in his last moments your father called for me, but Williams told him that I was badly hurt. He told your uncle that the real gold vein had been uncovered by the fatal blast, and that I was to be sure to work it for your sake and your mother's. Williams promised to tell me.

I tried to get the nurse to go into court and swear to her statement, but she refused, and I found out afterward that Williams had bought her off.

I went and looked at the tunnel; then he broke in, took samples, and, I believe, found them good. He locked the door with this lock, and since the day of the accident I have never seen inside. I have never wanted to.

I don't know, but I have always been determined that he should not plunder your father's possessions. At the time of the accident he came into possession of all your father's papers. He let the a.s.sessments run out on the Cheyenne claim, and then jumped it for his own. Only last month he sold that claim to Beverly H. Pembroke for a consideration of eight thousand dollars.

"He hates me, because he knows that one more move on his part and I'll place the matter in the hands of the law. I believe that he once hired an outlaw to kill me, but was unsuccessful. I can't prove it, but the facts look so. I have been afraid ever since I knew you were here that your mother, as the rightful heir to the property, would play into his hands.

I feared he would offer to sell her share of this mine for her and, in reality, buy it himself. He could then, according to law, force me to sell my share or to buy his. If I refused to sell, he would ask a very large sum for his, and in that way force me to his bargain. His working the tunnel on the other side of the d.y.k.e this fall and winter is more to scare me into believing he will get the gold anyway, and that I may as well sell, than anything else. I have learned that they are having a great deal of trouble in their tunnel. It's very shaly and keeps caving from above. If he spent as much time and money caring for his sick wife as he has on this mine, she might have gotten well."

Willis had been listening with breathless interest.

"Go on," he begged. "Tell me all about everything, from the very beginning."

"Lad, it's a long, long story. I'll do that later. Let's not talk any more about it now."

"O, I must know about it. Don't stop. Tad, you can't possibly know what all this means to me." Tad rose and snapped the new lock in place on the door, while Old Ben cursed under his breath.

"Of all the tarnal idiots," he was saying; "I never seed a man so sot in his ways. Tad, ain't ye even goin' to peek inside?"

"No, Ben, not to-day. Perhaps some day," returned the old prospector, "and perhaps never."

Willis jumped to his feet. "Not to-day, Tad? Not to-day? Do you mean you aren't going into the mine. Well, I am, even if you aren't. I don't leave this spot until I see the inside for myself. Give me the key. Ham and I will go in alone."

"O, I wish you wouldn't. It's dangerous, and I am sure the story of the gold is only a notion. Your father was out of his mind when he died, and the gold he told about was just one of his dreams. I worked with him that day, and I saw no special signs of gold."

"Yes, but that varmit, Williams, has seed signs," muttered Ben. "He went in an' brought out samples; he knows, an' you only think you do."

Willis held out his hand for the key, and Ben urged him on. Tad looked far away over the snowy hills, then up the quiet valley, so peaceful in its white robes, and at last down to the little cabin below. There his gaze rested.

"My, but it hardly seems fourteen years since I built that shanty," he said. "How happy I was then! Fourteen years brings strange things into a man's life. My boy, I hope you will never get the gold fever. Steer clear of it."

"But Tad, I have it already," replied Willis, "and I am following where it leads me."

Tad looked at him, and a strange, sad expression came to his face.

"How much you talk like your father, and you're so like him, too! I'm sorry."

He reached deep into his trousers' pocket, pulled out the key, then got slowly to his feet. Twice he changed his mind; but Willis persisted, and at last he yielded. The new lock opened easily, but not so the great log door. Its hinges were rusted from the storms of many seasons. As Willis pulled hard, the old hinges groaned, as if regretting that they were to be disturbed after so long a rest. As the door swung back, and the mouth of the tunnel was disclosed, Tad caught Willis by the arm and held him.

"Wait, my boy," he said, "you must let the old place air out. Remember, it has been bottled up a long time. I'll wager a light won't even burn in there just now."

"Have you a candle?" asked Willis, his tone betraying his excitement.

"I'll get some," volunteered Ham, and off he started down the trail for the cabin.

The tunnel was a round, irregular hole a little higher than a man's head, and in width it varied with the width of the d.y.k.e. The floor had been covered with rough-hewn planks to make the pus.h.i.+ng of the loaded wheelbarrows easier. These old planks were black and wet, but still quite sound. As they stood, waiting for Ham to return, Tad told Willis something more of the early history of the mine:

"You see, the d.y.k.e seems to follow an ancient crevice in the granite, which runs straight in for a hundred and fifty feet, then turns abruptly to the west. Here it widens out, and just at that point the strata s.h.i.+fts and is folded. We found a small quant.i.ty of quartz just there. The day of the accident I was replacing some of the floor planks near the entrance and your father was preparing to make a series of blasts on the new strata. I was to help him shoot them when he was ready. He was very pleased at the new outcropping of quartz, and was very anxious to open up the vein before we quit work for the day. The farther in you go, the more shaly the black rock seems to get, and in some places we were forced to roof the drift with mine props in order to keep the ceiling up. I was bending over, chopping the end of a plank, when I was violently knocked down. In falling I struck my head against the rough wall, cutting myself badly over the left eye. I struggled to my feet dazedly, the blood streaming down over my face. I had mined long enough to know just what had happened. In some way your father had prematurely set off his blast.

I started toward him, but the heavy powder smoke drove me back. I dropped to my knees to get the air--it's always best near the floor--and in a moment a second explosion came. I s.n.a.t.c.hed the jug of water and began crawling toward Bill on all fours. I called again and again, but no answer came. When I finally reached him I felt faint and sick. I found him nearly completely buried in a heap of stone. He was unconscious, and never spoke to me again. After two hours of tremendous effort, I was able to lift his poor, broken body in my arms and carry it out. I was thankful then that he was unconscious and could not feel the pain. By night I got him to the cabin, and at once set off for Ben's. We came back by lantern light that night, and led the old horse. We spent the rest of the night building a crude litter of poles and blankets, and as soon as it was light we fastened one end of the stretcher to the horse, a pole on either side of him, and each one of us carried a pole at the other end. It took an hour for us to get down to the canyon road. In twelve hours your father died. He regained consciousness just long enough to talk with Williams briefly. What he said at that time I have never been able to find out.

"Then followed the awful years of lonesomeness for me, made worse by the always-present knowledge that I should have been the one to shoot those blasts and not your father. I wrote your mother fully concerning the accident, but never received a reply, so have had no word of you since that time. I've told you how your uncle tried to get possession of the mine. When I would not sell, he hounded my every step until at last I left the city and went to work for the D. & P.W. as fireman. I went through the city often, but very rarely stopped off. But it seems I came just often enough to keep your uncle too frightened to carry out his plan concerning the tunnel."

Ham was returning up the trail now, and soon the candles were lighted.

Tad took the lead, followed by Willis, Ham and Old Ben bringing up the rear. A little inside the entrance, and to one side, a small room had been cut in the solid granite for a store-room. Here were the tools of the mine--two wheelbarrows, several shovels and picks, a large lantern, and several boxes of powder. What had once been a heavy coil of hemp rope was now a very comfortable rat's nest. Several old stone drills had been driven into the crevices for hooks, and on them hung old burlap sacks, a coil of heavy wire, two old slouch hats, and a man's coat.

Tad had bared his head as he entered. He slowly led the way down the narrow lane without a word. A little farther in they came to a very rusty ax, leaning against the wall, and Willis guessed that it had never been moved from where Tad had last used it. The large, blackened chips were scattered over the floor, and the great plank lay where he had last worked on it. Tad was very cautious now, trying the props overhead every few feet, to see if they were safe. Willis was walking as if in a dream; he was stepping very softly and his head was bowed. This was the very path his father had trod. He fancied he heard his cheery voice now, as he came and went with load after load of rock. He fancied how he must have felt as he worked day by day, ever surer of the fortune that was to be his. He found himself wondering how his life's course might have been changed if that golden dream had come true. The tunnel turned abruptly to the west, and Tad moved more cautiously still. Presently Tad halted and pointed to a heap of rock on the floor, "It was there, lad," he said very quietly, and that was all. Willis stooped and placed his hand on the place for a second. Tad noticed that his face was white and drawn and his eyes were very big. He let him stay for an instant, then took him gently by the arm and led him out.

Old Ben made a hasty examination of the rocks on the floor, then of the exposed vein. He handed the candle to Ham, and, drawing from his pocket a heavy cold chisel, he carefully knocked off some choice pieces of the ore and placed them in his pocket, muttering to himself all the while. When he had satisfied himself, he turned, took the candle, and started out, motioning Ham to precede him.

"Best gold quartz I've seed in many a year," he said softly, "only Tad will never believe it." Ham understood. Ahead of them, down the narrow black pa.s.sage, they saw Tad's light disappear.

"They have stepped into the tool-room, boy," said Ben, "an' every tarnal one o' them implements is nearly sacred to Tad. Let's not disturb 'em."

He blew out his light and leaned against the wall of the tunnel, pulling Ham back with him.

In a few minutes they were surprised to hear loud exclamations and the moving of the old iron wheelbarrows. Ahead they could see the light of the opening, so Old Ben started again toward the entrance.

"Guess that memorial service must be all over, from the racket they're makin' with them tarnal carts," he said.

When they reached Willis, they found him carefully going through the pockets of the musty old coat hanging upon the wall. The cloth had fairly rotted in the moisture. Tad was holding the treasures as Willis removed them from the pockets. To Tad's surprise, there was inside the coat an old vest. They were no doubt the clothes Mr. Thornton had worn the day of the accident. In one vest pocket was Bill's gold watch, in another a musty pocketbook and a badly worn note-book that had mildewed in the moisture. There were three letters in the outside coat pocket. Willis took one, moist and rotten as it was, from the envelope and noticed they were from his mother, and were probably the last ones she had written.

Willis's hand shook violently and two great tears glistened in his eyes.

In the other outside pocket was a strange tin tube, perhaps a foot in length, with a removable lid at either end. The tube was rusted red and the ends sealed tight with rust. Willis handed the tube to Tad, a question on his lips.

"Thank G.o.d," Tad was saying to himself, "thank G.o.d, he didn't do it.

I've often thought I'd kill him if he had."

"If who had what?" questioned Willis.

"Don't ask me, lad, not now--I'll tell you some time, perhaps. Come, let's go. This air is very bad, and I'm just a little sick." He linked his arm through Willis's, and together they walked out into the cold morning air. Ben and Ham followed. When they were outside, Tad swung the door shut and locked it. Then, with a note of triumph in his voice, he said:

"There, Williams can have the place for all I care," and he held the queer tin tube in his hand before them.

"Open it," urged Willis. Tad turned to him.

"My boy, there has never been a day in the past half-dozen years that I have not wondered what became of that tin tube. Many times, after hours of reasoning, I have decided that your uncle stole that tube from your father's belongings. I have done the man an injustice. From my firm belief that he had taken the tube came my great dislike for him. You have never seen the contents of that can, lad, but your mother has. At one time they were very valuable, and I have no doubt that even now that can contains a small fortune for you--"

"But--" interrupted Willis. Tad paid no attention to him, and went on:

"The contents of that tube will place your father among the greatest of mining engineers and give his name the honor it has always been ent.i.tled to--"

"But Tad--"

"When your father conceived that idea it was impractical. He was too far ahead of the times. But to-day, lad, it means that every mine dump in the Cripple Creek region will be worked over again and the gold removed at a trifling expense, for in that tube are the blueprints of the greatest electrical ore-roasting machine in the world." He took his knife from his pocket and slowly and carefully pried off the rusty lid. The blue roll slid out into his hand. The moisture had not penetrated the can, and the sketches were as good as the day they were made. Willis took them in his hand and proudly turned them over and over, then he placed them again in the can with the remark, "Tad, these things all belong to mother. I wonder what she'll say?"

Tad broke into a pleased little laugh, and the old smile that had made him so many friends in the years gone by came back to his grizzled face.

"Lad, you're rich to-day, and I am better satisfied. Those plans will bring you and your mother a goodly sum. It lifts a great burden from a poor, worthless prospector's mind." Willis did not know the true meaning of the words, but Old Ben did, and it was now his turn to talk.