The Gold Girl Read online

  CHAPTER VI

  BETHUNE PAYS A CALL

  It was past noon when Patty sank into the chair beside her table andglanced about her with a sigh of satisfaction. Warm June sunlightstreamed through the open door and lay in a bright oblique patch uponthe scrubbed floor. The girl's glance strayed past the door and restedwith approval upon the little flat across the creek where a neat pileof panels replaced the broken sheep corral. She had spent hours inuntwisting the baling wire with which they had been fastened to theposts and dragging them to the pile, and other hours in chopping asupply of firewood, and picking up the cans and broken bottles andpitching them into the deep ravine of a side coulee. Also she hadbuilt a little reservoir of rocks about her spring, and had found timeto add a few touches to the interior of the cabin. "It's just as homeyand cozy as it can be," she murmured, as her eyes strayed from thelittle window where the colored chintz curtain stirred lightly in thebreeze, to the neatly arranged "dressing table" that she had contrivedwith the aid of four light packing boxes and a bit of figuredcretonne. Another packing case, covered to match, served as a stool,and upon the wall above the table hung a small mirror. Four or fiveprints, looking oddly out of place, hung upon the dark logwalls--pictures that had always hung in her room at Aunt Rebecca's,and which she had managed to crowd into one of the trunks. A fondimagination had pictured them adorning the walls of her "apartment"which was to be located in a spacious wing of the great Watts ranchhouse. "I don't care, I'm glad there wasn't any big ranch house," shemuttered. "It's lots nicer this way, and I'm absolutely independent.We prospectors can't hope to be regular in our habits--and I've alwayswanted a house of my very own. Ten times better!" she exclaimedvehemently. "There won't be anybody to ask me every day or two if I'vemade my strike yet? And how much gold I brought back to-day? And allthe other fool questions that seem so humorous to questioners andhearers, but which hurt and sting and rankle when you're sick at heartwith disappointment, and gritting your teeth to keep up your courageand your belief in yourself. Oh I know! Daddy didn't know I knew, butI did--how it hurt when the village wits would slyly wink at eachother as they asked their cruel questions. Even when I was a littlegirl I knew, and I could have _killed_ them!" Her glance rested uponthe canvas covered pack that lay in the corner at the foot of thebunk. "There are his things--his outfit, they call it here. I'm goingto examine it." The sack of stiff oiled canvas, with its contents, washeavy, but the girl dragged it to the middle of the floor andsquatting beside it, stared in dismay at the stout padlock and thechain that threaded a set of grommets. She was about to search for thekey among the contents of her father's pockets which she had placed inthe tray of her trunk, when her eye fell upon a thin slit close alongthe edge of the hem that held the grommets--a slit that, pulled wide,disclosed an aperture through which the contents of the sack could beeasily removed but withal so cunningly contrived as to escape casualinspection. With an angry exclamation the girl stared at the gapinghole. "Someone has cut it!" she cried. "He doesn't seem to have takenmuch, though. It's about as full as it can be." She began hurriedlyto remove the contents, piling them about her upon the floor. "Iwonder if--if he left any papers, or note books, or maps, or thingsthat would enable anyone to locate the claim? If he did," shemuttered, peering into the empty sack, "they're gone, now."

  One by one, she returned the belongings, handling them tenderly, now,and examining them lovingly, and many an article was returned to thesack, wet with its splash of hot tears. "Here's his coffee pot, andhis plate, and frying pan, and his old pipe--" the pipe she did notreplace, but put it with the other things in her trunk. "Andhere--why, it's a revolver and a belt of cartridges--like VilHolland's! And a hat like his, too! And I thought he was a desperadobecause he wore them!" She jumped to her feet and, hurrying to themirror, tried on the hat, pinching the crown into a peak, tilting itthis way and that, and arranging and rearranging the soft roll brim."It fits!" she cried, delighted as a child, and then with eyessparkling, picked up the belt with its row of yellow cartridges andits ivory handled six gun dangling in the holster. Buckling the beltabout her waist, she laughed aloud as the buckle tongue came to rest afull six inches beyond the last hole. "I'll look just as desperate ashe does, now--except for his old jug. Daddy didn't have any jug, andI'm glad--that's where the difference is--it's the jug. But, I wish hehad had one of those black horn effects for his scarf." She knottedthe brilliant red scarf with its zigzag border of yellow, about herneck, and snatching a small pair of scissors from the dressing table,removed the heavy belt, and proceeded to bore a tongue hole at thepoint she had marked with her finger nail. So engrossed she became inthe work, that she failed to hear the approach of horses' feet, andstarted violently at the sound of a voice from the doorway. "Permitme." The six shooter thudded to the floor, and sweeping the hat fromhis head, Monk Bethune crossed the room, and replaced it upon thetable. He smiled as he noticed the scar left upon the thick leather bythe scissor points; and repeated. "Permit me, please." He drew apenknife from his pocket, and picked up the belt. "A knife is so muchbetter."

  Ashamed of having been startled, Patty smiled. "Yes, please do. I hadno idea it was so tough, or that scissors could be so dull."

  Deftly twirling the penknife, Bethune bored a neat hole in theleather. "There should be several holes," he smiled, "for there areoccasions in the hill country when one fails to connect with thecommissary, and then it is that the tightening of the belt answers thepurpose of a meal." Drilling as he talked, he soon finished the taskand held up the belt for inspection. "Rod Sinclair's gun," hecommented, sorrowfully. "And Rod's scarf, and hat, too. Ah, there wasa man, Miss Sinclair! I doubt if even you yourself knew him as I knewhim. You must ride and work with a man, in fair weather and foul; youmust share his hardships, and his disappointments, yes and his joys,too, to really know him." A look of genuine affection shone from theman's eyes as he stood drawing his fingers gently along the rims ofthe shiny cartridges. He seemed to be speaking more to himself than tothe girl. His manner, the look in his eyes, the very tone of hisvoice, were so intrinsically honest in their expression of unboundedsympathy with his subject, and his mood fitted so thoroughly with herown, that the girl's heart suddenly warmed toward this man who spokeso feelingly of her father. She flushed slightly as she rememberedthat upon the occasion of their previous meeting, his words hadengendered a feeling of distrust.

  "You knew him--well?" she asked.

  "Like a brother. For two years we have worked together in our searchfor the mother lode that both believed lay concealed deep within thebosom of these hills. A dozen times during those two years our hopeshave risen, as only the hopes can rise, of those who seek gold. Adozen times it seemed certain that at last we had reached our goal.But, always it was the same--a false lead--shattered hopes--and afresh start. Those were the times, Miss Sinclair, that your fathershowed the stuff that was in him. He was a better man than I. It washis Spartan acceptance of disappointment, his optimism, and hisunshaken faith in ultimate success, that kept me going. I suppose itis my French ancestry that is responsible for my lack of just thequalities that made your father the man he was. I lacked hisstability--his balance. I had imagination--vision, possibly greaterthan his. And under the stimulus of apparent success, my spirits wouldrise to heights his never knew. But I paid for it--no one knows howbitterly I paid. For when apparent success turned into failure, minewere depths of despair he never descended to. At first, before Ilearned that his disappointment was as bitter as my own, his smilingacceptance of failure, used to goad me to fury. There were times Icould have killed him with pleasure--but that was only at first.Before we had been long together God knows how I came to depend onthose smiles. Then, at last, we struck it--and poor Rod--" The man'svoice which had dropped very low, broke suddenly. He cleared histhroat and turning abruptly, stared out the door toward the greensweep of pines on the mountain slopes.

  There was a long silence during which the words kept repeatingthemselves in the girl's brain. "_Then, at last, we struck it._" Whatdi
d he mean? His back was toward her, and she saw that the muscles ofhis neck worked slowly, as though he were swallowing repeatedly.

  When at last she spoke, her voice sounded strangely dull to her ownears. "Do you mean that you and my father were partners, and that youknow the location of his mine?"

  Bethune faced her, laying the belt gently upon the table. "Partners?"He repeated the word as though questioning himself. "Hardly partners,I should say. We were--it is hard to define the exact relationshipthat existed between Rod Sinclair and me. There was never anyagreement of partnership, rather a sort of tacit understanding, thatwhen we struck the lode, we should work it together. Your father knewvastly more about rock than I, although I had long suspected theexistence of this lode. But extensive interests to the northwardprevented me from making any continued search for it. However, I foundtime at intervals to spend a month or six weeks in these hills, and itwas upon one of these occasions that we struck up the acquaintancethat ripened into a sort of mutuality of interest. Neighbors are fewand far between in the hill country, and those not exactly of the typethat attract men of education. I think each found in the other a manof his own stripe, and thus a friendship sprang up between us thatgradually led to a merging of interests. His were by far the mostvaluable activities in the field, while I, from time to time, advancedcertain funds for the carrying on of the work.

  "But let us not talk of business matters. Time enough for that." Hestepped to the doorway and glanced down the creek. "Here comes Clenand we must be going. While he stopped at Watts's to reset a shoe Irode on to inquire if there is any way in which I may serve thedaughter of my friend.

  "Oh-ho! I see Clen is carrying something very gingerly. He hasprevailed upon the good Mrs. Watts to sell him some eggs. A greatgourmand--but a good fellow at heart. I think a great deal of Clen,even though it was he who----"

  "But tell me, before you go," interrupted the girl. "Do you know thelocation of my father's mine?"

  Bethune turned from the door, smiling. Patty noticed with surprisethat the dark, handsome features looked almost boyish when he smiled.There had been no hint of boyishness before, in fact something ofbaffling inscrutability in the black eyes, gave the man an expressionof extreme sophistication. "Do not call it a mine," he laughed. "Atleast, not yet. A mine is a going proposition. If your father actuallysucceeded in locating the lode, it is a strike. Had he filed, it wouldbe a claim. Had he started operation it would be a proposition--butnot until there is ore on the dump will it be a mine."

  "If he actually succeeded!" cried Patty. "I thought you said----"

  The man interrupted with a wave of the hand. "So I did, for I believehe did succeed. In fact, knowing Rod Sinclair as I did, I am certainof it."

  "But the location of the--the strike," she persisted, "do you knowit?"

  Bethune shook his head sadly. "Had your father filed the claim, allwould have been well. But, who am I to question Rod's judgment? For onthe other hand, if he had filed, word of the strike would have spreadbroadcast, and the whole hill country would immediately have beenoverrun by stampeders--those vultures that can scent a gold strike forfive thousand miles. No one knows where they come from, and no oneknows where they go. It was to guard our secret from these thatprompted your father not to file. We had planned to establish ourfriends on the adjoining claims, and thus build up a syndicate of ourown choosing. So he did not file, but it was through no fault of histhat I remain ignorant of the location, but rather it was the resultof a combination of unforeseen circumstances. You shall judge foryourself.

  "I was deep in the wilds of British Columbia, upon another matter,when Rod unearthed the lode, and, not knowing this, he hastened atonce to my camp. He found Clen there and after expressingdisappointment at my absence, sat down and hurriedly sketched a map,and taking from his pocket a photograph, he wrapped both in a pieceof oilskin, and handed them to Clen, with instructions to travel nightand day until he had delivered the packet to me. He told him that hehad located the lode and was hurrying East to procure the necessarycapital and would return in the early spring for immediate operation."Bethune paused and, with his eyes upon the Englishman who wasdismounting, continued:

  "Poor Clen! He did his best, and I do not hold his failure againsthim, for his was a journey of hardship and peril such as few men couldhave survived. Upon receiving the packet he started within the hour.That night he camped at the line, and that night, too, came the firstsnow of the season. He labored on next day to the railway and took atrain to Edmonton, and from there, to Fort George, where he succeededin procuring an Indian guide for the dash into the wilderness beyondthe railway. The early months of last winter were among the mostterrible in the history of the North. Storm after storm hurtled out ofthe Arctic, and between storms the bitter winds from the barrens tothe eastward roared with unabated fury. Yet Clen and his guide pushedon, fighting the cold and the snow. Up over the Height of Land, to theHudson Bay Post at the head of the Parsnip, where I was making myheadquarters, and where I had lain snowbound for ten days. It wasduring the descent of Crooked River, a quick water, treacherousstream, whose thin ice was covered with snow, that the accidenthappened that cost me the loss of the location, and nearly cost Clenhis life. The Indian guide was mushing before, bent low with theweight of his pack, and head lowered to the sweep of the wind. Clenfollowed. At the head of a newly frozen rapid, the Englishman suddenlybroke through and was plunged into the icy waters. Grasping the ice,he managed to draw himself up so that his elbows rested upon the edge,and in this position he called again and again to the guide. But theIndian was far ahead, his ears were muffled in his fur cap, and thewind roared through the scrub, drowning Clen's voice. The icy watersnumbed him and sucked at his body seeking to drag him to his doom. Theheavy pack was dragging him slowly backward, and his hold upon the icewas slipping. Then, and not until then, Clen did what any other manwho possessed the strength, would have done. He worked the knife fromhis belt and cut the straps of his pack sack. In an instant itdisappeared beneath the ice, and with it the location of yourfather's strike. Relieved of the weight upon his shoulders, Clen had afighting chance for his life, but it is doubtful if he would have wonhad it not been that the Indian, missing him at last, returned in thenick of time, and with the aid of a loop of _babiche_, succeeded indrawing him from the water. The rest of the day was spent in dryingClen's clothing beside a miserable fire of brushwood, and the next daythey made Fort McLeod, more dead than alive."

  "Lord" Clendenning had dismounted, deposited his precious basket ofeggs upon the ground, and stood in the doorway as Bethune concludedhis narrative. When the man ceased speaking the Englishman shook hishead sadly. "Yes, yes, it seemed to me then, as I clung to the edge ofthe bloomin' ice, freezin' from my feet up, that my only chance was inbein' rid of the pack. But, I've thought since that maybe if I'd heldon just a few minutes longer, the bloody Injun would have got there intime to save both me an' the pack to boot."

  "There you go again!" exclaimed Bethune, with a trace of impatience inhis voice. "How many times have I told you to quit thisself-accusation. A man who covered fifty miles on horseback, sevenhundred on the train, and then nearly a hundred a-foot, underconditions such as you faced, has nothing to be ashamed of in thefailure of his mission. It is your loss as well as mine, for you alsowere to have profited by the strike. It is possible, however, that allwill be well--that Miss Sinclair has her father's original map, and aduplicate of the photograph, or better yet, the film from which theprint was made."

  Pausing he glanced at the girl significantly, but she was gazing pasthim--past Clendenning, her eyes upon the giant up-sweep of the hills.He hurried on, "So now you have the whole story. I had not meant tospeak of it, to-day. Really, we must be going. If I can be of serviceto you in any way, Miss Sinclair, I am yours to command. We will dropin again, after you have had time to get used to your surroundings,and lay our plans for the rediscovery of the mother lode." Smiling hepointed to the canvas bag upon the floor. "Your father's pack sack,"he said. "I s
hould know it in a thousand. He devised it himself. It isa clever combination of the virtues of several of the standard packs,and an elimination of the evils of all." He stooped closer. "What'sthis? You should not have cut it! Couldn't you find the key? If not,it would have been a simple matter to file a link of the chain, andleave the sack undamaged." He laughed, shortly. "But, that, I suppose,is a woman's way."

  "I did not cut it. It was cut before it came here. My father left itin Mr. Watts's care and he stored it in the barn. Look at the edges,it is an old cut."

  "So it is!" exclaimed Bethune, as he and Lord Clendenning bent closeto examine it. "So it is. I wonder who--" Suddenly he ceased speaking,and stood for a moment with puckered brows. "I wonder," he muttered."I wonder if he would have dared? Yes, I think he would. He knew ofRod's strike, and he would stop at nothing to steal the secret."

  "I don't believe Mr. Watts, nor any of the Wattses cut that pack,"defended the girl.

  "Neither do I. Watts has his faults, but dishonesty is not one ofthem. No. The man who cut that pack, was the man who carried itthere----"

  "Vil Holland!" exclaimed Lord Clendenning. "My word, d'ye think he'ddare? Yes, Watts told us that he brought in the pack because Sinclairwas in a hurry. The bloody scamp! He should be jolly well trounced!I'll do it myself if I see him, so help me Bob, I will!"

  Bethune turned to the girl. "You have examined his effects. Was thereevidence of their having been tampered with?"

  "I'm sure I don't know. If he left any papers or maps or things likethat in there it most certainly has been tampered with, for they arenot there now."

  The man smiled. "I think we are safe in assuming that there were nomaps or papers of value in the outfit. Your father was far too shrewdto have left anything of the sort to the tender mercies of VilHolland. By cutting the pack Vil merely gave evidence of hisunscrupulous methods without in any way profiting by it. And, as forthe map and photographs in your possession, I should advise you tofind some good hiding place for them and not trust to carrying themabout upon your person." Swiftly Patty glanced at the speaker. Thatlast injunction, somehow, did not ring quite true. But he had turnedto the door, and a moment later when he faced her to bid her adieu,the boyish smile was again curling his lips, and he mounted and rodeaway.