Silver and Gold: A Story of Luck and Love in a Western Mining Camp. Coolidge Dane

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СКАЧАТЬ grimly, “that’s what you always say. But you hear me, now; I’m through. Don’t you feed another man.”

      He turned to his daughter for support, but his bad luck had just begun. Drusilla was shading her eyes from the sun and staring up the trail.

      “Oh, here comes another one,” she cried in a hushed voice and pointed up the creek. He stood at the mouth of the black-shadowed canyon where the trail comes in from Globe–a young man with wind-blown hair, looking doubtfully down at the town; but when he saw them he stepped boldly forth and came plodding down the trail.

      “Oh, not this one!” pleaded Mrs. Hill when she saw his boyish face; but Bunker Hill thrust out his jaw.

      “Every one of ’em,” he muttered, “the whole works–all of ’em! You women folks go into the house.”

      CHAPTER II

      BIG BOY

      He was a big, fair-haired boy, blue-eyed and clean limbed, and as he came down the trail there was a spring to his step that not even a limp could obliterate; and at every stride the great muscles in his chest played and rippled beneath his shirt. He was a fine figure of a man, tall and straight as an Apollo, and yet he was a hobo. Never before had Bunker Hill seen a better built man or one more open-faced and frank, but he came down the trail with the familiar hobo-limp and Bunker set his jaws and waited. It was such men as this, young and strong and full of blood, who had kept him poor for years. Hobo miners, the most expert of their craft, and begging their grub on the trail!

      “Good morning,” nodded Hill and squinted down his eyes as the young man boggled at his words.

      “Good morning,” replied the hobo and then, after a pause, he straightened up and came to the point. “What’s the chance to get a little something to eat?” he inquired with a twisted smile and Bunker Hill sprang his bomb.

      “Danged poor,” he returned, and as the hobo blinked he spoke his piece with a rush. “I’ve got a store over there where you can buy what you want; but I’ve quit, absolutely, feeding every hobo that comes by and batters my door for grub. I’m an old man myself and you’re young and strong–why the hell don’t you get out and work?”

      “Never you mind,” answered the hobo, his eyes glowing angrily; and as Old Bunk went on with his tirade the miner’s lip curled with scorn. “That’s all right, old-timer,” he broke in with cold politeness–“no offense–don’t let me deprive you. I don’t make a practice of battering on back doors. But, say, I’m looking for a fellow with a big, black mustache–did you see him come by this way?”

      “Did I see him?” yelled Hill flying into a fury, “well you’re danged whistling I did! He came in last night and bummed his supper–my wife had to cook it special–and I gave him his bed and breakfast; and this morning when he left he didn’t even say: ‘Thanks!’ That’s how grateful these hoboes are! And when I went out to pick up his blankets a thumping big purse dropped out!”

      “Holy Joe!” exclaimed the hobo looking up with sudden interest, “say, how long ago did he leave?”

      “Not half an hour! No, not ten minutes ago–and if my wife hadn’t been there to hold me down I’d have run him till he dropped. And when I opened that purse it was full of money–there was eight hundred and twenty-five dollars–and him trying to tell me he was broke!”

      “That’s him, all right,” declared the hobo. “Well, so long; I’ll be on my way.”

      He started off down the trail at a long, swinging stride, then turned abruptly back.

      “I’ll get a drink,” he suggested, “if there’s no objection. Don’t charge for your water, I reckon.”

      It was all said politely and yet there was an edge to it which cut Old Bunk to the quick. He, Bunker Hill, who had fed hoboes for years and had never taken a cent, to be insulted like this by the first sturdy beggar that he declined to serve with a meal! He reached for his gun, but just at that moment his wife laid a hand on his arm. She had not been far away, just up on the porch where she could watch what was going on, and she turned to the hobo with a smile.

      “Mr. Hill is just angry,” she explained good-naturedly, “on account of that other man; but if you’ll wait a few minutes I’ll cook you some breakfast and─”

      “Thank you, ma’am,” returned the miner, taking off his hat civilly, “I’ll just take a drink and go.”

      He hurried back to the well and, picking up the bucket, drank long and deep of the water; then he threw away the rest and with practiced hands drew up a fresh bucket from the depths.

      “You’d better fill a bottle,” called Bunker Hill, whose anger was beginning to evaporate, “it’s sixteen miles to the next water.”

      The hobo said nothing, nor did he fill a bottle, and as he came back past them there was a set to his jaw that was eloquent of rage and disdain. It was the custom of the country–of that great, desert country where houses are days’ journeys apart–to invite every stranger in; and as Bunker Hill gazed after him he saw his good name held up to execration and scorn. This boy was a Westerner, he could tell by his looks and the way he saved on his words, perhaps he even lived in those parts; and in a sudden vision Hill beheld him spreading the news as he followed the long trail to the railroad. He would come dragging in to Whitlow’s Wells, the next station down the road, so weak he could hardly walk and when they enquired into his famished condition he would unfold some terrible tale. And the worst of it was that the boys would believe it and repeat it to all who passed. Men would hear in distant cow camps, far back in the Superstitions, that Old Bunk had driven a starving man from his door and he had nearly perished on the desert.

      “Hey!” called Bunker Hill taking a step or two after him, “wait a minute–I’ll give you a lunch.”

      “You can keep your lunch,” said the man over his shoulder and strode doggedly on up the hill.

      “Gimme something to take to him,” rapped out Hill to his wife, but the hobo’s sharp ears had caught the words and he wheeled abruptly in his tracks.

      “I wouldn’t take your danged lunch if it was the last grub on earth,” he shouted in a towering rage; and while they stood gazing he turned his back and passed on over the hill.

      “Let ’im go!” grumbled Bunker pacing up and down and avoiding his helpmeet’s eye, but at last he ripped out a smothered oath and racked off down the street to his stable. This was an al fresco affair, consisting of a big stone corral within the walls of what had once been the dancehall, and as he saddled up his horse and rode out the narrow gate he found his wife waiting with a lunch.

      “Don’t crush the doughnuts,” she murmured anxiously and patted his hand approvingly.

      “All right,” he said and, putting spurs to his horse, he galloped off over the hill.

      The old town of Pinal lay on a bench above the creek bed, with high cliffs to the east and north; but south and west the country fell off rapidly in a series of rolling ridges. Over these the road to the railroad climbed and dipped with wearisome regularity until at last it dropped down into the creek-bed again and followed its dry, sandy course. Not half an hour had passed from the time the second hobo left till Old Bunk had started after him, yet so fast had he traveled that he was almost to the creek bed before Bunker Hill caught sight of him.

      “Ay, Chihuahua!” he ejaculated in shrill surprise and СКАЧАТЬ