_ CHAPTER XVII. BROKE
McGraw, the freighter, was a huge, silent man from whom long years on the desert had almost taken the desire for speech. He came jangling up the road, his wagons grinding and banging, his horses straining wearily in their collars; and as Denver ran to meet him he threw on the brakes and sat blinking solemnly at his inquisitor.
"Where's my powder?" demanded Denver looking over the load, "and say, didn't you bring that coal? I don't see that steel I ordered, either!"
"No," said McGraw and then, after a silence: "Murray wouldn't receive your ore."
"Wouldn't receive it!" yelled Denver, "why, what was the matter with it--did the sacks get broke going down?"
"No," answered McGraw, "the sacks were all right. He said the ore was no good."
"Like hell!" scoffed Denver, "that ore that I sent him? It would run a thousand ounces to the ton!"
McGraw wrinkled his brows and looked up at the sun.
"Well," he said, "I guess I'll be going."
"But--hey, wait!" commanded Denver, scarcely believing his ears, "didn't he send me any grub, or anything?"
"Nope," answered McGraw, "he wouldn't give me nawthin'. He said the ore was no good. Come, boys!" And he threw off the brakes with a bang.
The chains tightened with a jerk, the wheelers set their feet; then the lead wagon heaved forward, the trail-wagon followed and Denver was alone on the road. His brain was in a whirl, he had lost all volition, even the will to control his wild thoughts; until suddenly he burst out in a fit of cursing--of Murray, of McGraw, of everything. McGraw had been a fool, he should have demanded the supplies anyway; and Murray was just trying to job him. He knew he was broke and had not had the ore assayed, and he was taking advantage of the fact. He had refused the ore in order to leave him flat and compel him to abandon his mine; and then he, Murray, would slip over with his gun-man and take possession himself. Denver struck his leg and looked up and down the road, and then he started off for Moroni.
It was sixty miles, across a scorching desert with only two wells on the road; but Denver arrived at Whitlow's an hour after sunset, and he was at Desert Wells before dawn. A great fire seemed to consume him, to drive him on, to fill his body with inexhaustible strength; and, against the advice of the station man, he started on in the heat for Moroni. All he wanted was a show-down with Bible-Back Murray, to meet him face to face; and no matter if he had the whole county in his pocket he would tell him what he thought of him. And he would make him take that ore, according to his agreement, or answer to him personally; and then he would return to Pinal, where he had left Drusilla crying. But he could not face her now, after all his boasting and his tales of fabulous wealth. He could never face her again.
The sun rose up higher, the heat waves began to shimmer and the landscape to blur before his eyes; and then an automobile came thundering up behind him and halted on the flat.
"Get in!" called the driver throwing the door open hospitably; and in an hour's time Denver was set down in Moroni, but with the fever still hot in his brain. His first frenzy had left him, and the heat madness of the desert with its insidious promptings to violence; but the sense of injustice still rankled deep and he headed for Murray's store. It was a huge, brick building crowded from basement to roof with groceries and general merchandise. Busy clerks hustled about, waiting on Mexicans and Indians and slow-moving, valley ranchers; and as Denver walked in there was a man there to meet him and direct him to any department. It showed that Bible-Back was efficient, at least.
"I'd like to see Mr. Murray," announced Denver shortly and the floor-walker glanced at him again before he answered that Mr. Murray was out. It was the same at the bank, and out at his house; and at last in disgust Denver went down to the station, where he had been told his ore was lying. The stifling heat of the valley oppressed him like a blanket, the sweat poured down his face in tiny streams; and at each evasion his anger mounted higher until now he was talking to himself. It was evident that Murray was trying to avoid him--he might even have started back to the mine--but his ore was there, on a heavily timbered platform, where it could be transferred from wagon to car without lifting it up and down. There was other ore there too, each consignment by itself, taken in by the store-keeper in exchange for supplies and held to make up a carload. The same perfect system, efficiency in all things--efficiency and a hundred per cent profit.
Denver leapt up on the platform and cut open a sack, but as he was pouring a generous sample of the ore into his handkerchief a man stepped out of the next warehouse.
"Hey!" he called, "what are you doing, over there? You get down and leave that ore alone!"
"Go to hell!" returned Denver, tying a knot in his handkerchief, and the man came over on the run.
"Say!" he threatened, "you put that ore back or you'll find yourself in serious trouble."
"Oh, I will, hey?" replied Denver with his most tantalizing smile. "Whose ore do you think this is, anyway?"
"It belongs to Mr. Murray, and you'd better put it back or I'll report the matter at once."
"Well, report it," answered Denver. "My name is Denver Russell and I'm taking this up to the assayer."
"There's Mr. Murray, now," exclaimed the man and as Denver looked up he saw a yellow automobile churning rapidly along through the dust. Murray himself was at the wheel and, sitting beside him, was another man equally familiar--it was Dave, his hired gun-man.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Russell?" demanded Murray with asperity and Denver became suddenly calm. Old Murray had been hiding from him, but they had summoned him by telephone, and he had brought along Dave for protection. But that should not keep him from having his way and forcing Murray to a show-down.
"I just came down for a sample of that ore I sent you," answered Denver with a sarcastic grin. "McGraw said you claimed it was no good, so I thought I'd have it assayed."
"Oh," observed Murray and for a minute he sat silent while Dave and Denver exchanged glances. The gun-man was slight and insignificant looking, with small features and high, boney cheeks; but there was a smouldering hate in his deep-set eyes which argued him in no mood for a jest, so Denver looked him over and said nothing.
"Very well," said Murray at last, "the ore is yours. Go ahead and have it assayed. But with the price of silver down to forty-five cents I doubt if that stuff will pay smelter charges. I'll ship it, if you say so, along with this other, if only to make up a carload; but it will be at your own risk and if the returns show a deficit, your mine will be liable for the balance."
"Oh, that's the racket, eh?" suggested Denver. "You've got your good eye on my mine. Well, I'd just like to tell you----"
"No, I haven't," snapped back Murray, his voice harsh and strident, "I wouldn't accept your mine as a gift. Your silver is practically worthless and there's no copper in the district; as I know all too well, to my sorrow. I've lost twenty thousand dollars on better ground than yours and ordered the whole camp closed down--that shows how much I want
your mine."
He started his engine and glided on to the warehouse and Denver stood staring down the road. Then he raised his sample, tied up in his handkerchief, and slammed it into the dirt. His mine was valueless unless he had money, and Murray had abandoned the district. More than ever Denver realized how much it had meant to him, merely to have that diamond drilling running and a big man like Murray behind it. It was indicative of big values and great expectations; but now, with Murray out of the running, the district was absolutely dead. There was no longer the chance of a big copper strike, such as had been rumored repeatedly for weeks, to bring on a stampede and make every claim in the district worth thousands of dollars as a gamble.
No, Pinal was dead; the Silver Treasure was worthless; and he, Denver Russell, was broke. He had barely the price of a square meal. He started up-town, and turned back towards the warehouse where Murray was wrangling with his hireling; then, cursing with helpless rage, he swung off down the railroad track and left his broken dreams behind him. _