Silver and Gold. Coolidge Dane

but how could a graveyard cast a shadow–they’re always on level ground. No, I’m telling you, boy, that there cliff is the place–lemme tell you how it got its name. A long time ago when the Indians were bad they had a soldiers’ post right here where this town stands, and they kept a lookout up on the Picket Post butte, where they could heliograph clear down to Tucson. Well, every time a bunch of Indians would go down out of the hills to raid some wagon-train on the trail this lookout would see them and signal Tucson and the soldiers would do the rest. It got so bymeby the Indians couldn’t do anything and at last Old Cochise got together about eight hundred Apaches and came over to wipe out the post. It looked easy at the time, because there was less than two hundred men, but the major in command was a fighting fool and didn’t know when he was whipped. The Apaches all gathered up on the top of those high cliffs–it’s flat on the upper side–and one night when their signal fires had burned down the soldiers sneaked around behind them. And then, just at dawn, they fired a volley and made a rush for the camp; and before they knowed it about two hundred Indians had jumped clean over the cliff. They killed the 35rest of them–all but two or three bucks that fought their way through the line–and now, by grab, you couldn’t get an Indian up there if you’d offer him a quart of whiskey. It’s sure bad medicine for Apaches.”

      “Isn’t it wonderful!” exclaimed Big Boy, “there’s no use talking–this sure is the place of death. And say, next time you go over to Globe you go and see Mother Trigedgo–I just want to tell you what she did!”

      “All right,” sighed Old Bunk, who preferred to talk business, and he settled down to listen.

      “This Mother Trigedgo,” began Big Boy, “isn’t an ordinary, cheap fortune-teller. Those people are all fakes because they’re just out for the dollar and tell you what they think you want to know. But Mother Trigedgo keeps a Cousin-Jack boarding house and only prophesies when she feels the power. Sometimes she’ll go along for a week or more and never tell a fortune; and then, when she happens to be feeling right, she’ll tell some feller what’s coming to him. Those Cousin Jacks are crazy about what she can do, but I never went to a seeress in my life until after we had that big cave. I’m a timber man, you see, and sometimes I take contracts to catch up dangerous ground; and the best men in the world when it comes to that work are these old-country Cousin Jacks. They’re nervy and yet they’re careful and so I always hire ’em; but when we were doing this work down in the stope of the Last Chance, they began talking about 36Mother Trigedgo. It seems she’d told the fortune of a boy or two–they were all of them boarding at her house–and she was so worried she could hardly cook on account of them working in this mine. It was swelling ground and there were a lot of old workings where the timbering had given way; and to tell you the truth I didn’t like it myself, although I wouldn’t admit it.”

      “Well, it was the twenty-second of April, and all that morning we could hear the ground working over head and when it came noon we went up above, as we says, for a breath of fresh air. But while we were eating, there was a Cousin Jack named Chambers fetched up this old talk about Mother Trigedgo, and how she’d predicted he’d be killed in a cave if he didn’t quit working in the stope; and when our half-hour’s nooning was up he says: ‘I’ll not go down that shaft!’

      “We were all badly scared, because that ground was always moving, and finally we agreed that we’d take a full hour off and work till five o’clock. Well, we waited till after one before we went to the collar and just as I was stepping into the cage the whole danged stope caved in!”

      “Well, sir, I went back to my room and got every dollar I had and gave Mother Trigedgo the roll. I could easy earn more but if I’d been caught in that cave they’d never even tried to dig me out. That was the least I could do, considering what she’d done for me; but Mother Trigedgo took on so much about it that I told her it was to have my 37fortune told. Well, she tried the cards and dice and consulted the signs of the Zodiac; and then one day when she felt the power strong she poured a little water in my hand. That made a kind of pool, like these crystal-gazers use, and when she looked into it she began to talk and she told me all about my life. Or that is, she told me what she thought I ought to know, and gave me a copy of the Book of Fate that Napoleon always consulted. And here it ain’t three months till I make this journey west and find the place she prophesied.”

      “Yes, and silver, too!” added Old Bunk portentously, “she hit it, down to a hickey. And now, if you’d like to inspect those claims─”

      “No, hold on,” protested Big Boy still pondering on his fate, “I’ve got to find these treasures myself. And one of them was of gold. What’s the chances around here for that?”

      “Danged poor,” grumbled Bunker as he saw his hopes gone glimmering, “don’t remember to have seen a color. But say, old Bible Back is drilling for copper and that’s a good deal like gold. Same color, practically, and you know all these prophecies have a kind of symbolical meaning. A golden treasure don’t necessarily mean gold, and I’ve got a claim─”

      “Say, who’s that up there?” broke in Big Boy uneasily and Old Bunk looked around with a jerk.

      An old, white-haired man, wearing a battered cork helmet, was peering over the bank and when he perceived that his presence was discovered he 38came shuffling down the trail. He was a short, fat man, in faded shirt and overalls; and on his feet he wore a pair of gunboat brogans, thickly studded on the bottom with hob-nails. A space of six inches between the tops of his shoes and the worn-off edge of his trousers exposed his shrunken shanks, and he carried a stick which might serve for cane or club as circumstances demanded. He came down briskly with his broad toes turned out in grotesque resemblance to a duck and when Bunker Hill saw him he snorted resentfully and rose up from his seat.

      “Have you seen my burros?” demanded the old man, half defiantly, “I can’t find dose rascals nowhere. Ah, so; here’s a stranger come to camp! Good morning, I’m glad to know you.”

      “Good morning,” returned Big Boy glancing doubtfully at Bunker Hill, “my name is Denver Russell.”

      “Oh, excuse me!” spoke up Bunker with a sarcastic drawl, “Mr. Russell, this is Professor Diffenderfer, the eminent buttinsky and geologist.”

      “Ah–so!” beamed the Professor overlooking the fling in the excitement of the meeting, “I take it you’re a mining man? Vell, if it’s golt you’re looking for I haf a claim up on dat hill dat is rich in auriferous deposits.”

      “Yes,” broke in Bunker giving Big Boy a sly wink, “you ought to inspect that tunnel–it’s unique in the annals of mining. You see the Professor here is an educated man–he’s learned all the big 39words in the dictionary, and he’s learned mining from reading Government reports. We’re quite proud of his achievements as a mining engineer, but you ought to see that tunnel. It starts into the hill, takes a couple of corkscrew twists and busts right out into the sunshine.”

      “Oh, never mind him!” protested the Professor as Bunker burst into a roar, “he will haf his choke, of course. But dis claim I speak of─”

      “And that ain’t all his accomplishments,” broke in Bunker Hill relentlessly, “Mr. Diffenderfer is a count–a German count–sometimes known as Count No-Count. But as I was about to say, his greatest accomplishments have been along tonsorial lines.”

      A line of pain appeared between the Professor’s eyes–but he stood his ground defiantly. “Yes,” went on Bunker thrusting out his jaw in a baleful leer at his rival, “for many years he has had the proud distinction of being the Champion Rough-Riding Barber of Arizona.”

      “Vell, I’ve got to go,” murmured the Professor hastily, “I’ve got to find dem burros.”

      He started off but at the plank across the creek he stopped and cleared his throat. “Und any time,” he began, “dat you’d like to inspect dem claims─”

      “The Champeen–Rough-Riding–Barber!” repeated Old Bunk with gusto, “he won his title on the race-track at Tucson, before safety razors was invented.”