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  “But–why you told me yourself─”

  “I never told you anything!” burst out Virginia tearfully. “You just jump at everything like a flea. And now you’ll tell everybody, and Wiley’ll say I did it, and─”

  “Virginia Huff!” cried her mother, dramatically, “are you in love with that–thief?”

  “He is not! No, I am not! Oh, I wish you’d quit talking to me–I tell you he never told me anything!”

  “Well, for goodness sake!” exclaimed the Widow pityingly, and stalked off to think it over.

  “You, Charley!” she exclaimed as she found Death Valley on the gallery pretending to nail up a box, “you leave those things alone. Well, that’s all right; we’ve changed our minds and now we’re going to stay.”

  “That’s good,” replied Charley, laying his hammer aside, “I’ve been telling ’em so for days. It’s coming everywhere; all the old camps are opening up, but Keno will beat them all.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” assented the Widow absently, and as she bustled away to begin her unpacking, Death Valley looked at Heine and leered.

  “Didn’t I tell you!” he crowed and, scuttling back to get his six-shooter, he went out and began re-locating claims. That was the beginning. The real rush came later when the pumps began to throb in the Paymaster. A stream of water like a sheet of silver flowed down the side of the dump and as if it’s touch had brought forth men from the desert sands, the old-timers came drifting in. Once more the vacant sidewalks resounded to the thud of sturdy hob-nailed boots; and along with the locaters came pumpmen and miners to sound the flooded depths of the Paymaster.

  It was a great mine, a famous mine, the richest in all the West; within twenty months it had produced twelve million dollars and the lower levels had never been touched. But what was twelve million to what it would turn out when they located the hidden ore-body? On its record alone the Paymaster was a world-beater, but the ground had barely been scratched. Even Samuel Blount, who was cold as a stone and had sold out the entire town, even he had caught the contagion; and he was talking large on the bank corner when Holman came back through town.

  Wiley drove in from the north, his face burned by sun and wind and his machine weighed down with sacks of samples, but when he saw the crowd, and Blount in the middle of it, he threw on his brakes with a jerk.

  “Hello!” he hailed. “What’s all the excitement? Has the Paymaster made a strike?”

  All eyes turned to Blount, who stepped down ponderously and waddled out to the auto. He was a very heavy man, with his mouth on one side and a mild, deceiving smile; and as he shook hands perfunctorily he glanced uneasily at Wiley, for he had heard about the tax-sale.

  “Why, no,” he replied, “no strike as yet. How’s everything with you, Mr. Holman?”

  “Fine and dandy, I guess,” returned Wiley civilly. “Where did all these men jump up from?”

  “Oh, they just dropped in, or stopped over in passing. Do you still take an interest in mines?”

  “Well, yes,” responded Wiley. “I’m a mining engineer, and so naturally I do take quite an interest. And by the way, Mr. Blount, did it ever occur to you that the Paymaster has been sold for taxes? Oh, that’s all right, that’s all right; I didn’t know whether you’d heard about it–do you recognize my title to the mine?”

  “Well,” began Blount, and then he smiled appeasingly, “I didn’t just know where to reach you. Of course, according to law, you do hold the title; but I suppose you know that the stockholders of the company have five years in which to buy back the mine. Yes, that is the law; but I thought under the circumstances–the mine lying idle and all–you might be willing to waive your strict rights in the interests of, well, harmony.”

  “I get you,” answered Wiley, glancing at the staring onlookers, “and of course these gentlemen are our witnesses. You acknowledge my title, and that every bit of your work is being done on another man’s ground; but, of course, if you make a strike I won’t put any obstacles in your way. I’m for harmony, Mr. Blount, as big as a wolf; but there’s one thing I want to ask you. Did you or did you not employ this Stiff Neck George to act as guard on the mine? Because two months ago, after I’d bought in the Paymaster for taxes, I went over to inspect the ground and Stiff Neck George─”

  “Oh, no! Oh dear, no!” protested Blount vigorously. “He was acting for himself. I heard about his actions, but I had nothing to do with them–I never even knew about it till lately.”

  “But was he in your employ at the time of the shooting, and did you tell him to drive off all comers? Because─”

  “No! My dear boy, of course not! But come over to my office; I want to talk with you, Wiley.”

  The banker beamed upon him affectionately and, shaking out a white handkerchief, wiped the sudden sweat from his brow; and then Wiley leapt to the ground.

  “All right,” he said, “but let’s go and see the mine first.”

  He strapped on his pistol and waited expectantly and at last Blount breathed heavily and assented. Nothing more was said as they went across the flat and toiled up the trail to the mine. Wiley walked behind and as they mounted to the shaft-house his eyes wandered restlessly about; until, at the tool-shed, they suddenly focussed and a half-crouching man stepped out. He was tall and gnarly and the point of his chin rested stiffly on the slope of his shoulder. It was Stiff Neck George and he kept a crook in his elbow as he glanced from Blount to Wiley.

  “How’s this?” demanded Wiley, putting Blount between him and George, “what’s this man doing up here?”

  “Why, that’s George,” faltered Blount, “George Norcross, you know. He works for me around the mine.”

  “Oh, he does, eh?” observed Wiley, in the cold tones of an examining lawyer. “How long has he been in your employ?”

  “Oh, since we opened up–that’s all–just temporarily. This gentleman is all right, George; you can go.”

  Stiff Neck George stood silent, his sunken eyes on Wiley, his sunburned lips parted in a grin, and then he turned and spat.

  “Eh, heh; hiding!” he chuckled and, stung by the taunt, Wiley stepped out into the open. His gun was pulled forward, his jaws set hard, and he looked the hired man-killer in the eye.

  “Don’t you think it,” he said, “I know you too well. You’re afraid to fight in the day-time; you dirty, sneaking murderer!”

  He waited, poised, but George only laughed silently, though his poisonous eyes began to gleam.

  “What are you doing on my ground?” demanded Wiley, advancing threateningly with his pistol raised. “Don’t you know I own this mine?”

  “No,” snarled Stiff Neck George, coming suddenly to a crouch, “and, furthermore, I don’t give a damn!”

  “Now, now, George,” broke in Blount, “let’s not have any words. Mr. Holman holds the title to this claim.”

  “Heh–Holman!” mocked George, “Honest John’s boy–eh?” He laughed insultingly and spat against the wind and Wiley’s lip curled up scornfully.

  “Yes–Honest John,” he repeated evenly. “And it’s a wonder to me you don’t take a few lessons and learn to spit clear of your chin.”

  “You shut up!” snapped George as venomous as a rattlesnake. “Your damned old father was a thief!”

  “You’re a liar!” yelled Wiley and, swinging his pistol like a club, he made a rush at the startled gunman. His eyes were flashing with a wild, reckless fury and as Stiff Neck George dodged and broke to run he leapt in and placed a fierce kick. “Now you git, you old dastard!” he shouted hoarsely and as George went down he grabbed him by the trousers and sent him sprawling down the dump. Sand, rocks and waste went avalanching after him, and a loose boulder thundered in his wake, until, at the bottom George scrambled to his feet and stood motionless, looking back. His head sank lower as he saw Wiley watching him and he slunk down closer to the ground, then with the swiftness of a panther that has marked down its prey he turned and skulked away.

  “That’s bad business, Wi
ley,” protested Blount half-heartedly and Wiley nodded assent.

  “Yes,” he said, “he’s dangerous now. I should have killed the dastard.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER IX

  A Peace Talk

  While his blood was pounding and his heart was high, Wiley Holman went down into his mine. He rode down on the bucket, deftly balanced on the rim and fending off the wall with one hand, and when he came up he was smiling. Not smiling with his lips, but far back in his eyes, like a man who has found something good. Perhaps Blount surprised the look before it had fled for he beamed upon Wiley benevolently.

  “Well, Wiley, my boy,” he began confidentially as he drew him off to one side, “I’m glad to see you’re pleased. The gold is there–I find that everyone thinks so–all we need now is a little co-operation. That’s all we need now–peace. We should lay aside all personal feelings and old animosities and join hands to make the Paymaster a success.”

  “That’s right, that’s right,” agreed Wiley cheerfully, “there’s nobody believes in peace more than I do. But all the same,” he went on almost savagely, “you’ve got to get rid of old George. I’m for peace, you understand, but if I find him here again–well, I’ll have to take over the property. He’s nothing but a professional murderer.”

  “Yes, I know,” explained Blount, “he’s a dangerous man–but I don’t like to let an old man starve. He’s got a right to live the same as any of us, and, since he can’t work–well, I gave him a job as watchman.”

  “Well, all right,” grumbled Wiley, “if you want to be charitable; but I suppose you know that, under the law, you’re responsible for the acts of your agents?”

  “That’s all right, that’s all right,” burst out Blount impatiently, “I’ll never hire him again. He refused to obey my orders and─”

  “Andhe tried to kill me!” broke in Wiley angrily, but Blount had thrown up both hands.

  “Oh, now, Wiley,” he protested, “why can’t we be reasonable? Why can’t we get together on this?”

  “We can,” returned Wiley, “but you’ve got to show me that you’re not trying to jump my claim.”

  “Oh, you know,” exclaimed Blount, “as well as I do that a tax sale is never binding. The owners of the property are given five years’ time─”

  “It is binding,” corrected Wiley, “until the property is bought back–and I happen to be holding the deed. Now, here’s the point–what authority have you got for coming in here and working this property?”

  “Well, you may as well know,” replied Blount shortly, “that I own a majority of the stock.”

  “Aha!” burst out Wiley. “I was listening for that. So you’re the Honest John?”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Blount and, seeing the anger in his eyes, he hastened to head off the storm. “No, now listen to me, Wiley; it’s not the way you think. I knew your father well, and I always found him the soul of honor; but I never liked to say anything, because Colonel Huff was my partner, too. So, when this trouble arose, I tried to remain neutral, without joining sides with either. It pained me very much to have people make remarks reflecting upon the honesty of your father, but as the confidant of both it was hardly in good taste for me to give out what I knew. So I let the matter go, hoping that time would heal the breach; but now that the Colonel is dead─”

  “Aha!” breathed Wiley and Blount nodded his head lugubriously.

  “Yes,” he said, “that is the way it was. Your father was absolutely honest.”

  “Well, but who sold the stock, and then bought it back–and put all the blame on my father?”

  “I can’t tell you,” answered Blount. “I never speak evil of the dead–but the Colonel was a very poor business man.”

  “Yes, he was,” agreed Wiley, and then, after a silence: “How did it happen that you got all his stock?”

  “Well, on mortgages and notes; and now as collateral on a loan that I made his widow. I own a clean majority of the stock.”

  “Oh, you do, eh?” observed Wiley and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully while Blount looked mildly on. “Well, what are you going to do?”

  “Why, I’d like to buy back that tax deed,” answered Blount amiably, “and get control of my property.”

  “Oh,” said Wiley, and looked down the valley with eyes that squinted shrewdly at the sun. “All right,” he agreed, “just to show you that I’m a sport, I’ll give you a quit-claim deed right now for the sum of one hundred dollars.”

  “You will?” challenged Blount, reaching tremulously for his fountain pen and then he paused at a thought. “Very well,” he said, but as he filled out the form he stopped and gazed uneasily at Wiley. Here was a mining engineer selling a possessory right to the Paymaster for the sum of one hundred dollars; while he, a banker, was spending a hundred dollars a day in what had proved so far to be dead work. “Er–I haven’t any money with me,” he suggested at length. “Perhaps–well, perhaps you could wait?”

  “Sure!” replied Wiley, rising up from where he was seated, “I’ll wait for anything, except my supper. Where’s the best place to eat in town, now?”

  “Why, at Mrs. Huff’s,” returned Blount in surprise. “But about this quit-claim, perhaps a check would do as well?”

  “What, are the Huffs still here?” exclaimed Wiley, starting off. “Why, I thought─”

  “No, they decided to stay,” answered Blount, following after him. “But now, Wiley, about this quit-claim?”

  “Well, gimme your check! Or keep it, I don’t care–I came away without my breakfast this morning.”

  He strode off down the trail and Blount pulled up short and stood gazing after him blankly, then he shouted to him frantically and hurried down the slope to where Wiley was waiting impatiently.

  “Here, just sign this,” he panted. “I’ll write you out a check. But what’s the matter, Wiley–didn’t the mine show up as expected?”

  Wiley muttered unintelligibly as he signed the quit-claim which he retained until he had looked over the check. Then he folded up the check and kissed it surreptitiously before he stored it away in his pocketbook.

  “Why, yes,” he said, “it shows up fine. I’ll see you later, down at the house.”

  Blount sat down suddenly, but as Wiley clattered off he shouted a warning after him.

  “Oh, Wiley, please don’t mention that matter I spoke of!”

  “What matter?” yelled back Wiley and at another disquieting thought Blount jumped up and came galloping after him.

  “The matter of the Colonel,” he panted in his ear, “and here’s another thing, Wiley. You know Mrs. Huff–she’s absolutely impossible and–well, she’s been making me quite a little trouble. Now as a personal favor, please don’t lend her any money or help her to get back her stock; because if you do─”

  “I won’t!” promised Wiley, holding up his right hand. “But say, don’t stop me–I’m starving.”

  He ran down the trail, limping slightly on his game leg, and Blount sat down on a rock.

  “Well, I’ll be bound!” he puffed and gazed at the quit-claim ruefully.

  The tables were all set when Wiley re-entered the dining-room from which he had retreated once before in such haste, and Virginia was there and waiting, though her smile was a trifle uncertain. A great deal of water had flowed down the gulch since he had advised her to keep her stock, but the assayer at Vegas was worse than negligent–he had not reported on the piece of white rock. Therefore she hardly knew, being still in the dark as to his motives in giving the advice, whether to greet Wiley as her savior or to receive him coldly, as a Judas. If the white quartz was full of gold that her father had overlooked–say fine gold, that would not show in the pan–then Wiley was indeed her friend; but if the quartz was barren and he had purposely deceived her in order to boom his own mine–she smiled with her lips and asked him rather faintly if he wanted his supper at once.

  But if Virginia was still a Huff, remembering past treacheries and living in th
e expectancy of more, the Widow cast aside all petty heart-burnings in her joy at the humiliation of Stiff Neck George. Leaving Virginia in the kitchen, to fry Wiley’s steak, she rushed into the dining-room with her eyes ablaze and all but shook his hand.

  “Well, well,” she exulted, “I’ll have to take it back–you certainly did boot him good. I said you were a coward but I was watching you through my spy-glass and I nearly died a-laughing. You just walked right up to him–and you were cursing him scandalous, I could tell by the look on your face–and then all at once you made a jump and gave him that awful kick. Oh, ho, ho; you know I’ve always said he looked like a man that was watching for a swift kick from behind; and now–after waiting all these years–oh, ho ho–you gave him what was coming to him!”

  The Widow sat down and held her sides with laughter and Wiley’s grim features, that had remained set and watchful, slowly relaxed to a flattered grin. He had indeed stood up to Stiff Neck George and booted him down the dump, so that the score of that night when he had been hunted like a rabbit was more than evened up; for George had sneaked up on an unarmed man and rolled down boulders from above, but he had outfaced him, man to man and gun to gun, and kicked him down the dump to boot. Yes, the Widow might well laugh, for it would be many a long day before Stiff Neck George heard the last of that affair.

  “And old Blount,” laughed the Widow, “he was right there and saw it–his own hired bully, and all. Say, now Wiley, tell me all about it–what did Blount have to say? Did he tell you it was all a mistake? Yes, that’s what he tells everybody, every time he gets into trouble; but he can’t make excuses to me. Do you know what he’s done? He’s tied up all my stock as security for eight hundred dollars! What’s eight hundred dollars–I turned it all in to get the best of my diamonds out of pawn. It made me feel so bad, seeing that diamond ring of yours; I just couldn’t help getting them out. And now I’m flat and he’s holding all my stock for a miserable little eight hundred dollars!”