Shadow Mountain

CHAPTER I
The Last of Ten Thousand

Under the rim of Shadow Mountain, embraced like a pearl of great price by the curve of Bonanza Point and the mined-out slope of Gold Hill, the deserted city of Keno lay brooding and silent in the sun. A dry, gusty wind, swooping down through the northern pass, slammed the great iron fire-doors that hung creaking from the stone bank building, caught up a cloud of sand and dirt and, whirling it down past empty stores and assay offices, deposited it in the doorways of gambling houses and dance halls, long since abandoned to the rats. An old man, pottering about among the ruins, gathered up some broken boards and hobbled off; and once more Keno, the greatest gold camp the West has ever seen, sank back to silence and dreams.

A round of shots wakened the echoes of Shadow Mountain; a lonely miner came down the trail from Gold Hill, where in the old days the Paymaster had turned out its million a month; and then, far out across the floor of the desert on the road that led in from the railroad, there appeared an arrow-point of dust. It grew to a racing streak of white, the distant purring of the motor gave way to a deep-voiced thunder and as the powerful car glided swiftly up the street the doors of old houses opened unexpectedly and the last of ten thousand looked out.

There were old men and cripples, left stranded by the exodus; and prospectors who had moved into the vacant houses along with the other desert rats; but out on the gallery of the old Huff mansion–where the creepers still clung to the lattice–there was a flutter of white and a girl came out with a kitten in her arms. In the days of gold–when ten thousand men, the choice spirits of two hemispheres, had tramped down this same deserted street–the house of Colonel Huff, the discoverer of the Paymaster, had been the social center of Keno. And so it was still, for the Widow Huff remained; but across the front of the hospitable gallery where the Colonel had entertained the town, a cheap cloth sign announced meals fifty cents and Virginia, his daughter, was the waiter. She stood by the sign, still high-headed and patrician, and when the driver of the car saw her he came to a sudden stop. He was long and gaunt, with deep lines around his mouth from bucking the wind and dust and after a moment’s hesitation he threw on his brake and leapt out.

“Did you want something?” she asked and, glancing warily about, he nodded and came up the steps.

“Yes,” he said, still eying her doubtfully, “what’s the chance for something to eat?”

“Why, good,” she answered with a suspicion of a smile. “Or–well, come in; I’ll speak to mother.”

She showed him into the spacious dining room, where the Colonel had once presided in state, and hurried into the kitchen. The young man gazed after her, looked swiftly about the room and backed away towards the door; then his strong jaw closed down, he smiled grimly to himself and sat down unbidden at a table. The table was mahogany and, in a case against the wall, there was a scant display of cut glass; but the linen was worn thin and the expensive velvet carpet had been ruined by hob-nailed boots. Heavy workingmen’s dishes lay on the tables, the plating was worn from the knives, and the last echoing ghost of vanished gentility was dispelled by a voice from the kitchen. It was the Widow Huff, once the first lady of Keno, but now a boarding-house cook.

“What–a dinner now? At half-past three? And with this wind fairly driving me crazy? Well, I can’t hireanybody to keep such hours for me and─”

There was a murmur of low-voiced protest as Virginia pleaded his cause and then, as the Widow burst out anew, the young man pushed back his chair. His blue eyes, half hidden beneath bulging brows, turned a steely, fighting gray, his wind-blown hair fairly bristled; and as he listened to the last of the Widow’s remarks his lower lip was thrust up scornfully.

“You danged old heifer,” he muttered and then the kitchen door flew open. The baleful look which he had intended for the Widow was surprised on his face by Virginia and after a startled moment she closed the door behind her.

“Why–Wiley Holman!” she cried accusingly and a challenge leapt into his eyes.

“Well?” he demanded and gazed at her sullenly as she scanned him from head to foot.

“I knew it,” she burst out. “I’d know that stubborn look anywhere! You double up your lip like your father. Honest John!” she added sarcastically and brushed some crumbs from the table.

“Yes–Honest John!” he retorted. “And you don’t need to say it like that, either. He’s my father–I know him–and I’ll tell you right now he never cheated a man in his life.”

“Well, he did!” she flared back, her eyes dark with anger, “and I’ll bet–I’ll bet if my father was here he’d–he’d prove it to your face!”

She ended in a sob and as he saw the tears starting the son of Honest John relented.

“Aw, Virginia,” he pleaded, “what’s the use of always fighting? He’s gone now, so let’s be friends. I was just going by when I saw you on the gallery, and I thought–well, let’s you and I be friends.”

“What? After old Honest John robbed Papa of the Paymaster, and then hounded him to his death on the desert?”

“He did nothing of the kind–he never robbed anybody! And as for hounding your father to his death, the Old Man never even knew about it. He was down on the ranch, and when they told him the news─”

“Yes, that’s you,” she railed, stifling back her sobs, “you can always prove an alibi. But you’d better drift, Mr. Holman; because if mother knows you’re here─”

“Well, what?” he demanded, truculently.

“She’ll fill you full of buckshot.”

“Pah!” he scoffed and snapped his fingers in the air, after which he lapsed into silence.

“Well, she will,” she asserted, after waiting for him to speak, but Wiley only grunted.

“Wait till I get that dinner,” he said at last and slumped down into a chair. He muttered to himself, gazing dubiously towards the kitchen, and turned impatiently to look at some specimens in a case against the wall. They were the usual chunks of high-grade gold ore, but he examined one piece with great care.

“Where’d you get this?” he asked, holding up a piece of white rock, and she sighed and brushed away her tears.

“Over on the dump,” she answered wearily. “That’s all Paymaster ore. Don’t you think you’d better go?”

“Never ran away yet,” he answered briefly and balanced the rock in his hand. “Pretty heavy,” he observed, “I’ll bet it would assay. Have you got very much on the dump?”

“What–that?” she cried, snatching the specimen away from him and bursting into a nervous laugh. “That assay? Well, you are a greenie–it’s nothing but barren white quartz!”

“Oh, it is, eh?” he rejoined and gazed at her hectoringly. “You seem to know a whole lot about mineral.”

“Yes, I do,” she boasted. “Death Valley Charley teaches me. I’ve learned how to pan, and everything. But that rock there–that’s the barren quartz that the Paymaster ran into when the values went out of the ore. Old Charley knows all about it.”

“Yes, they all do,” he observed and as his lip went up her eyes dilated suddenly in a panic.

“Oh, you went to that school–I forgot all about it–where they study about the mines! Are you in the mining business now?”

“Why, yes,” he acknowledged, “but that doesn’t make much difference. I find I can learn something from most everybody.”

“Well, of course, then,” she stammered, “I shouldn’t have said that; but the whole Paymaster dump is covered with that heavy quartz, and everybody knows it’s barren. Are you just looking around or─”

She hesitated politely and as he reached for another specimen she noticed a ring on his finger. It was of massive gold and, set in clutching claws, there were three stupendous diamonds. Not imitation stones nor small, off-colored diamonds, but brilliants of the very first water, clear as dew, yet holding in their hearts the faintest suggestion of blue.

“Oh!” she gasped, and as he did not seem to notice, she drew her skirts away with a flourish. “I’m surprised,” she mocked, “that you condescend to speak to us–of course you own your own mines!”

“Nope,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders at her sarcasm, “I’m nothing but a prospector, yet. And you don’t need to be so surprised.”

“No!” she retorted, giving way to swift resentment. “I guess I don’t–when you consider how you got your money. Here’s Mother out cooking for you, and I’m the waiter; and you’re traveling around in racing cars with thousand-dollar rings on your hands. But if old Honest John hadn’t sold all his stock while he was advising my father to hold on─”

“He did not!”

“Yes, he did! He did, too! And now, after Father has been lost in Death Valley, and we have come down to this, your father writes over and offers to buy our stock for just the same as nothing. That’s myring you’re wearing, and the money that paid for it─”

“Oh, all right then,” he sneered, stripping off the ring and handing it abruptly over to her, “if it’s your ring, take it! But don’t you say my father─”

“Well, he did,” she declared, “and you can keep your old ring! It won’t bring back my father–now!”

“No, it won’t,” he agreed, “but while we’re about it I just want to tell you something. My father went broke, buying back Paymaster stock from friends he’d advised to go in–and he’s got the stock to prove it–and when he heard that the Colonel was dead he decided to buy in your mother’s. He mortgaged his cows to raise the money for her and then that old terror–I don’t care if she is your mother–she slapped him in the face by refusing it. Well, he didn’t like to say anything, but you can tell her from me she don’t have to cook unless she wants to! She can sell–or buy–a hundred thousand shares of Paymaster any day she says the word; and if that isn’t honest I don’t know what is! I ask you, now; isn’t that fair?”

“What, at ten cents a share? When it used to sell for forty dollars! He’s just trying to get control of the mine. And as for offering to buy or sell, that’s perfectly ludicrous, because he knows we haven’t any money!”

“Well, what doyou want?” he demanded irritably, and then he thrust up his lip. “I know,” he said, “you want your own way! All right, I’ll never trouble you again. You can keep right on guarding that hole-in-the-ground until you dry up and blow away across the desert. And as for that old she-devil─”

He paused at a sudden slam from the kitchen, and Virginia’s eyes grew big; but as he rose to face the Widow Huff he slipped the white rock into his pocket.

CHAPTER II
The Shotgun Widow

The Widow Huff was burdened with a tray and her eye sought wildly for Virginia but when she glimpsed Wiley moving swiftly towards the door she set down his dinner with a bang. The disrespectful epithet which he had applied to her had been lost in the clatter of plates, but the moment the Widow came into the room she sensed the hair-trigger atmosphere.

“Here!” she ordered, taking command on the instant. “Come back here, young man, and pay me for this dinner! And Virginia Huff, you go out into the kitchen–how many times do I have to speak to you?”

Virginia started and stopped, her resentful eyes on Wiley, a thin smile parting her lips.

“He said─” she began, and then Wiley strode back and slapped down a dollar on the table.

“Yes, and I meant it, too,” he answered fiercely. “There’s your pay–and you can keep your mine.”

“Why, certainly,” responded the Widow without knowing what she was talking about, “and now you eat that dinner!”

She pointed a finger to the tray of food and looked Wiley Holman in the eye. He wavered, gazing from her to the smiling Virginia, and then he drew up his chair.

“I’ll go you,” he said and showed his teeth in a grin. “You can’t hurt my feelings that way.”

He lifted the T-bone steak from the platter and transferred it swiftly to his plate and then, as he fell to eating ravenously, the Widow condescended to smile.

“When I go to the trouble of cooking a man a steak,” she announced with the suggestion of a swagger, “I expect him to stay and eat it.”

“All right,” mumbled Wiley, and glancing fleeringly at Virginia, he went ahead with his meal.

The Widow looked over her shoulder at her daughter and then back at the stranger, but as she was about to inquire into the cause of their quarrel she spied his diamond ring. She approached him closer under pretext of pouring out some water and then she sank down into a chair.

“That is a very fine ring,” she stated briefly. “Worth fifteen hundred dollars at the least. Haven’t I seen you somewhere, before?”

“Very likely,” returned Wiley, not venturing to look up, “my business takes me everywhere.”

“I thought I recognized you,” went on the Widow ingratiatingly; “you’re a mining man, aren’t you, Mister–er─”

“Wiley,” he answered, and at this bold piece of effrontery Virginia caught her breath.

“Ah, yes, I remember you now,” said the Widow. “You knew my husband, of course–Colonel Huff? He passed away on the twentieth of July; but there was a time, not so many years ago, that I wore a few diamonds myself.” She fixed her restless eyes on his ring and heaved a discontented sigh. “Virginia,” she directed, “run out into the kitchen and clean up that skillet and all. I declare, you do less and less every day–are you a married man, Mr. Wiley?”

Without awaiting the answer to this portentous question, Virginia flung out into the kitchen and, left alone, the Widow drew nearer and her manner became suddenly confidential.

“I’d like to talk with you,” she began, “about my husband’s mine. Of course you’ve heard of the famous Paymaster–that’s the mill right over east of town–but there are very few men that know what I do about the reasons why that mine was shut down. It was commonly reported that Colonel Huff was trying to get possession of the property, but the truth of the matter is he was deceived by old John Holman and finally left holding the sack. You see, it was this way. My husband and John Holman had always been lifelong friends, but Colonel Huff was naturally generous while Holman thought of nothing but money. Well, my husband discovered the Paymaster–he was led to it by an Indian that he had saved from being killed by the soldiers–but, not having any money, he went to John Holman and they developed the mine together. It turned out very rich and such a rush you never saw–this valley was full of tents for miles–but it was so far from the railroad–seventy-four miles to Vegas–that the work was very expensive. The Company was reorganized and Mr. Blount, the banker, was given a third of the promotion stock. Then the five hundred thousand shares of treasury stock was put on the market in order to build the new mill; and when the railroad came in there was such a crazy speculation that everybody lost track of the transfers. My husband, of course, was generous to a fault and accustomed to living like a gentleman–and he invested very heavily in real estate, too–but this Mr. Blount was always out for his interest and Honest John would skin a dead flea.”

“Honest John!” challenged Wiley, looking up from his eating with an ugly glint in his eye, but the Widow was far away.

“Yes, Honest John Holman,” she sneered, without noticing his resentment. “They called him Honest John. Did you ever know one of these ‘Honest John’ fellows yet that wasn’t a thorough-paced scoundrel? Well, old John Holman he threw in with Blount to deprive Colonel Huff of his profits and, with these street certificates everywhere and no one recording their transfers, the Colonel was naturally deceived into thinking that the selling was from the outside. But all the time, while they were selling their stock and hammering down the price of Paymaster, they were telling the Colonel that it was only temporary and he ought to support the market. So he bought in what he could, though it wasn’t much, as he was interested in other properties, and then when the crash came he was left without anything and Blount and Holman were rich. The great panic came on and Blount foreclosed on everything, and then Mr. Huff fell out with John Holman and they closed the Paymaster down. That was ten years ago and, with the litigation and all, the stock went down to nothing. The whole camp went dead and all the folks moved away–but have you ever been through the mine? Well, I want you to go–that ground has hardly been scratched!”

Wiley Holman glanced up doubtfully from under his heavy eyebrows and the Widow became voluble in her protests.

“No, sir,” she exclaimed, “I certainly ought to know, because the Colonel was Superintendent; and when he had been drinking–the town was awful, that way–he would tell me all about the mine. And that was his phrase–he used it always: ‘That ground has hardly been scratched!’ But when he fell out with old John Holman he–well, there was an explosion underground and the glory-hole stope caved in. They cleaned it out afterwards and hunted around, but all the rich ore was gone; but I’m just as certain as I’m sitting here this minute the Colonel knew where there was more! He never would admit it–he was peculiar, that way, he never would discuss his business before a woman. But he wouldn’t deny it, and when he had been drinking–well, I know it’s there, that’s all!”

She paused for her effect but Mr. Wiley, the mining man, was singularly unimpressed. He continued eating in moody silence and the Widow tried the question direct.

“Well, what do you think about it?” she demanded bluffly. “Would you like to consider the property?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he answered impersonally. “I’m on my way up north.”

“Well, when you come back, then. Since my husband is gone I’m so sick and tired of it all I’ll consider any offer–for cash.”

“Nope,” he responded, “I’m out for something different.” Then to stem the tide of her impending protest, he broke his studious silence. “I’m looking for molybdenum,” he went on quickly, “and some of these other rare metals that are in demand on account of the war. Ever find any vanadium or manganese around here? No, I guess they’re all further north.”

He returned to his meal and the Widow surveyed him appraisingly with her bold, inquisitive eyes. She was a big, strapping woman, and handsome in a way; but the corners of her mouth were drawn down sharply in a sulky, lawless pout.

“Aw, tell me the truth,” she burst out at last. “What have you got against the property?”

A somber glow came into his eyes as he opened his lips to speak, and then he veiled his smouldering hate behind a crafty smile.

“The parties that I represent,” he said deliberately, “are looking for a mine. But the man that puts his money into the Paymaster property is simply buying a lawsuit.”

“What do you mean?” demanded the Widow, rousing up indignantly in response to this sudden thrust.

“I mean, no matter how rich the Paymaster may be–and I hear the whole district is worked out–I wouldn’t even go up the hill to look at it until you showed me the title was good.”

The Widow sat and glowered as she meditated a fitting response and then she rose to her feet.

“Well, all right, then,” she sulked, “if you don’t want to consider it–but you’re missing the chance of your life.”

“Very likely,” he muttered and reached for his hat. “Much obliged for cooking my dinner.”

He started for the door, but she flew swiftly after him and snatched him back into the room.

“Now here!” she cried, “I want you to listen to me–I’ve got tired of this everlasting waiting. I waited around for ten years on the Colonel, to settle this matter up, and now that he’s gone I’m going to settle it myself and get out of the cussed country. Maybe I don’t own the mine, but I own a good part of it–I’ve got two hundred thousand shares of stock–and I could sell it to-morrow for twenty thousand dollars, so you don’t need to turn up your nose. There must be something there after all these years, to bring an offer of ten cents a share; but I wouldn’t take that money if it was the last act of my life–I just hate that Honest John Holman! He cheated my husband out of everything he had–and yet he did it in such a deceitful way that the Colonel would never believe it. I’ve called him a coward a thousand times for tolerating such an outrage for an instant, and now that he’s gone I’m going to show Honest John that he can’t put it over me!”

She shook her head until her heavy black hair flew out like Medusa’s locks and then Wiley laughed provokingly.

“All right,” he said, “but you can’t rope me in on your feuds. If you want to give me an option on your stock in the company for five or ten cents a share I may take a look at your mine. But I’ll tell you one thing–you’ll sign an agreement first to leave the country and never come back. I’m a business man, working for business people, and these shotgun methods don’t go.”

“Well, I’ll do it!” exclaimed the Widow, passing by his numerous insults in a sudden mad grab at release. “Just draw up your paper and I’ll sign it in a minute–but I want ten cents a share!”

“Ten cents or ten dollars–it makes no difference to me. You can put it as high as you like–but if it’s too high, my principals won’t take it. I can’t stop to inspect it now, because I’m due up north, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You give me an option on all your stock, with a written permission to take possession, and if the other two big owners will do as much I’ll come back and consider the mine. But get this straight–the first time you butt in, this option and agreement is off!”

“What do you mean–butt in?” demanded the Widow truculently, and then she bit her lip. “Well, never mind,” she said, “just draw up your papers. I’ll show you I’m business myself.”

“Huh!” he grunted and, whipping out a fountain pen, he sat down and wrote rapidly at a table. “There,” he said tearing the leaf from his notebook and putting it into her hands, “just read that over and if you want to sign it we’ll close the deal, right here.”

The Widow took the paper and, turning it to the light, began a labored perusal.

“Memorandum of agreement,” she muttered, squinting her eyes at his handwriting, “hmm, I’ll have to go and get my glasses. ‘For and in consideration of the sum of ten dollars–to me in hand paid by M. R. Wiley,’ and so forth–oh well, I guess it’s all right, just show me where to sign.”

“No,” he said, “let me read it to you–you ought to know what you’re signing.”

“No, just show me where to sign,” protested the Widow petulantly, “and where it says ten cents a share.”

“Well, it says that here,” answered Wiley, putting his finger on the place, “but I’m going to read it to you–it wouldn’t be legal otherwise.”

He wiped the beaded sweat from his brow and glanced towards the kitchen door. In this desperate game which he was framing on the Widow the luck had all come his way, but as he cleared his throat and commenced to read Virginia came bounding in. She was carrying a kitten, but when she saw the paper between them she dropped it on the floor.

“Virginia!” cried her mother, “go and hunt my glasses. They’re somewhere in my bedroom.”

“All right,” she responded, but when she came back she glanced inquiringly at the paper.

“You can go now,” announced the Widow, adjusting her glasses, but Virginia threw up her head.

“Do you know who that is?” she demanded brusquely, pointing an accusing finger at Wiley.

“Why–er–no,” returned the Widow, now absorbed in the agreement.

“Well, all right,” she said after a hasty perusal, “but where’s that sum of ten dollars? Now you hush, Virginia, and go–into–the–kitchen! Now, it says right here–oh, where is that place? Oh yes, ‘the receipt whereof is hereby acknowledged’! Virginia!”

She stamped her foot, but Virginia’s blood was up and she made a grab at the paper.

“Now, listen!” she screamed, stopping her mother in her rush. “That man there is Wiley Holman! Yes–Holman! Old Honest John’s son! What’s this you’re going to sign?”

She backed away, her eyes fixed on the agreement, while the Widow stood astounded.

“Wiley Holman!” she shrieked, “why, you limb of Satan, you said your name was Wiley!”

“It is,” returned Wiley with one eye on the door, “the rest of my name is Holman.”

“But you signed it on this paper–you wrote it right there! Oh, I’ll have the law on you for this!”

She clutched at the paper and as Virginia gave it to her mother she turned an accusing glance upon Wiley.

“Yes, that’s just like you, Mr. M. R. Wiley,” she observed with scathing sarcasm. “You were just that way when you were a kid here in Keno– always trying to get the advantage of somebody. But if I’d thought you had the nerve─” She glanced at the paper and gasped and Wiley showed his teeth in a grin.

“Well, she crowded me to it,” he answered with a swagger. “I’m strictly business–I’ll sign up anybody. You can just keep that paper,” he nodded to the Widow, “and send it to me by mail.”

He winked at Virginia and slipped swiftly out the door as the Widow made a rush for her gun. She came out after him, brandishing a double-barreled shotgun, just as he cranked up his machine to start.

“I’ll show you!” she yelled, jerking her gun to her shoulder. “I’ll learn you to get funny with me!”

She pulled the trigger, but Wiley was watching her and he ducked down behind the radiator.

Clank, went the hammer and with a wail of rage the Widow snapped the other barrel.

“You, Virginia!” she cried in a terrible voice, “have you been monkeying with my shotgun?”

The answer was lost in a series of explosions that awoke every echo in Keno, and Wiley Holman leapt into his machine. He jerked off his brake and stepped on the foot throttle but as he roared off up the street he waved a grimy hand at Virginia.