Silver and Gold. Coolidge Dane

was a matter for the future to decide, but as he dwelt on his problem a sudden ray of hope roused Bunker Hill from his reverie. Speaking of money, the ex-hobo, walking along in front of him, had over eight hundred dollars in his hip pocket–and he claimed to be a miner!

      “Say!” began Bunker as they came in sight of town, “d’ye see those old workings over there? That’s the site of the celebrated Lost Burro Mine–turned out over four millions in silver!”

      “Yeah, so I’ve heard,” answered Big Boy wearily, “been closed down though, for twenty years.”

      “I’m the owner of that property,” went on Bunker pompously. “Andrew Hill is my name and I’d be glad to show you round.”

      “Nope,” said the future prospect, “I’m too danged tired. I’m going down to the crick and rest.”

      “Come up to the house,” proposed Bunker Hill cordially, “and meet my wife and family. I’m sure 22Mrs. Hill will be glad to see you back–she was afraid that something might happen to you.”

      The hobo glanced up with a swift, cynical smile and turned off down the trail to the creek.

      “I see you’ve got your eye on my roll,” he observed and Bunker Hill shrugged regretfully.

23CHAPTER IV

       CASH

       Table of Contents

      It was evident to Bunker Hill that no common measures would serve to interest this young capitalist in his district; and yet there he was, a big husky young miner, with eight hundred dollars in his pocket. That eight hundred dollars, if wisely expended, might open up a bonanza in Pinal; and in any case, if it was spent with him, it would help to pay the freight. Old Bunk chopped open a bale of hay with an ax and gave his horse a feed; and, after he had given his prospect time to rest, he drifted off down towards the creek.

      The creek at Pinal was one of those vagrant Western streams that appear and disappear at will. Where its course was sandy it sank from sight, creeping along on the bed-rock below; but where as at Pinal the bed-rock came to the surface, then the creek, perforce, rushed and gurgled. From the dark and windy depths of Queen Creek Canyon it came rioting down over the rocks and where the trail crossed there was a mighty sycamore that almost dammed its course. With its gnarled and swollen roots half dug from their crevices by the tumultuous violence of cloudbursts, it clung like 24an octopus to a shattered reef of rocks and sucked up its nourishment from the water. In the pool formed by its roots the minnows leapt and darted, solemn bull-frogs stared forth from dark holes, and in a natural seat against the huge tree trunk Big Boy sat cooling his feet. He looked younger now, with the blood washed off his face and the hard lines of hunger ironed out, and as Bunker Hill made some friendly crack he showed his white teeth in a smile.

      “Pretty nice down here,” he said and Bunker nodded gravely.

      “Yes,” he said, “nice place for frogs. Say, did you ever hear the story about Spud Murphy’s frog farm? Well Spud was an old-timer, awful gallant to the ladies, especially when he’d had a few drinks, and every time he’d get loaded about so far he’d get out an old flute and play it. But it sounded so sad and mournful that everybody kicked, and one time over at a dance when Spud was about to play some ladies began to jolly him about it.

      “ ‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ says Spud, ‘there’s a story connected with that flute. The only time I ever stood to make a fortune I spoiled it by playing that sad music.’

      “ ‘Oh, tell us about it,’ they all says at once; so Spud began on his tale.

      “It seems he was over around Clifton when some French miners came in and, knowing their weakness, Spud dammed up the creek and got ready to have a frog farm. He sent back to Arkansaw and 25got three carloads of bull-frogs–thoroughbreds old Spud said they was–and turned them loose in the creek; and every evening, to keep them from getting lonely, he’d play ’em a few tunes on his flute. Well, they were doing fine, getting used to the dry country and beginning to get over being homesick, when one night Murph went up there and played them the Arkansaw Traveler.

      “Well, of course that was the come-on–Old Spud stopped his story–and finally one lady bit.

      “ ‘Yes, but how did you lose your fortune?’ she asks and Spud he shakes his head.

      “ ‘By playing that tune,’ he says. ‘Them frogs got so homesick they started right out for Arkansaw–and every one perished on the desert.’ ”

      “Huh!” grunted Big Boy, who had been listening intolerantly. “Say, is that all you do–sit around and tell stories for a living? Why the hell don’t you git out and work?”

      “Well, you got me again, kid,” admitted Old Bunk mournfully, “I’m sure sorry I made you that talk. But I was so doggoned sore at that pardner of yours that I kinder went out of my head.”

      “Well, all right,” conceded Big Boy, “if that’s the way you feel about it there’s no use rubbing it in, but you certainly lost out with me. My hands may be big, but I never broadened my knuckles by battering on other people’s back doors. At the same time if I have to ask a man for a meal I expect to be treated civil. When I’m working around town and a miner strikes me for a stake I give him a 26dollar to eat on, and if I happen to be broke when I land in a new camp I work my face the same way. That’s the custom of the country, and when a man asks me why I don’t work─”

      “Aw, forget it!” pleaded Bunker, “didn’t I ask your pardon? Didn’t my wife tell you why I said it? But I’ll bet you, all the same, if you’d fed as many as I have you’d throw a fit once in a while, yourself. Here’s the whole camp shut down, only one outfit working and they’re just running a diamond drill–and at the same time I have to feed every hobo that comes through, whether he’s got any money or not. How’d you like to buy your grub at these war-time prices and run a hotel for nothing, and at the same time keep up the assessment work on fifteen or twenty claims? Maybe you’d get kind of peevish when a big bum laid in his blankets and wouldn’t even get up for breakfast!”

      “Ah, that man Meacham!” burst out Big Boy scornfully. “Say do you know what that yap did to me? We were drilling pardners in the double-jack contest–it was just yesterday, over in Globe–and in the last few minutes he began to throw off on me, so I had to win the money myself. Practically did all the work, and while they were giving me a rub-down afterwards he collected the money and beat it. I’d put up every dollar I had in side bets, and the first prize was seven hundred dollars; but he collected it all and then, when I began looking for him, he took out over this trail. Well, I 27was so doggoned mad when I found out what he’d done that I didn’t even stop to eat, and I followed him on the run until dark. When I ran out of matches to look for his tracks I laid down and slept in the trail and this morning when I got up I was so stiff and weak that I couldn’t hardly crawl. But I caught the big jasper and believe me, old-timer, he’ll think twice before he robs me again!”

      “He will that,” nodded Bunker, “but say, tell me this–ain’t half of that money his?”

      “Not a bean!” declared Big Boy. “We fought for the purse, the winner to take it all. He saw I was weak or he’d never have stood up to me–that’s why he was so sore when he lost.”

      “I’d never’ve let him hurt you!” protested Old Bunk vehemently, “I had my gun on him, all the time. And if I’d had my way you’d never have fought him–I’d have taken the purse away from him.”

      “Yes, that’s it, you see–that’s what he was fishing for–he wanted you to make it a draw! But I knew all the time I could lick him with one hand–and I did, too, and got the money!”

      “You did danged well!” praised Bunker roundly, “I never see a gamier fight; but I thought at the end he sure had you beat–you could hardly hold up your hands.”