Books: THE PROSPECTOR
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RALPH CONNOR >> THE PROSPECTOR
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Shock hesitated.
"Do not disappoint me," said the old man, taking hold of Shock's
hand eagerly with his two hands so thin and worn and trembling.
"Promise me," he said.
"I promise," said Shock solemnly.
"I want you to follow this trail, to stake out this claim, to
register it in your name for my daughter, and to develop or dispose
of this mine in the way that may seem best to yourself. I trust you
entirely. I have watched you carefully through these months, and
have regained my faith in my fellow men and my faith in God through
knowing you. I will die in peace because I know you will prove true,
and," after a pause, "because I know God will receive a sinful,
broken man like me. You promise me this, Mr. Macgregor?" The old man
in his eagerness raised himself upon his elbow and stretched out his
hand to Shock.
"Once more," said Shock, in a broken voice, "I promise you, Mr.
Mowbray. I will do my best to carry out what you desire, and so may
God help me!"
The old man sank quietly back on his couch. A smile spread over his
face as he lay with closed eyes, and he breathed, "Thank God! I can
trust you as if you were my son."
"Hark!" he said a moment afterwards in an anxious whisper. "There is
someone near the tent." The doctor hurried out, and found Crawley in
the neighbourhood of the tent gathering some sticks for the fire. He
hastened back.
"It is only Mr. Crawley," he said, "getting some wood for the fire."
A spasm of fear distorted the old man's face.
"Crawley!" he whispered, "I fear him. Don't let him see--or know.
Now take these things--away. I have done with them--I have done with
them! You will give my love--to my daughter," he said to Shock after
some moments of silence.
"She is here," said Shock quietly.
"Here! Now! I feared to ask. God is good. Yes, God is good."
The doctor stepped out of the tent. The old man lay with eager eyes
watching the door.
Swiftly, but with a step composed and steady, his daughter came to
him.
"Father, I am here," she said, dropping on her knees beside him.
"My daughter!" he cried with a sob, while his arms held her in a
close embrace. "My daughter! my daughter! God is good to us."
For a long time they remained silent with their arms about each
other. Shock moved to the door. The girl was the first to master her
emotions.
"Father," she said quietly, "the doctor tells me you are very ill."
"Yes, my daughter, very ill, but soon I shall be better. Soon quite
well."
The girl lifted up her face quickly.
"Oh, father!" she cried joyfully, "do you think--" The look on her
father's face checked her joy. She could not mistake its meaning.
She threw herself with passionate sobs on the ground beside him.
"Yes, my daughter," went on the old man in a clear, steady voice,
"soon I shall be well. My life has been for years a fevered dream,
but the dream is past. I am about to awake. Dear child, I have
spoiled your life. We have only a few precious hours left. Help me
not to spoil these for you."
At once the girl sat up, wiped her eyes, and grew still.
"Yes, father, we will not lose them."
She put her hand in his.
"You make me strong, my daughter. I have much to say to you, much to
say to you of my past."
She put her fingers on his lips gently.
"Is that best, father, do you think?" she said. looking lovingly
into his face.
He glanced at her in quick surprise. She was a girl no longer, but a
woman, wise and strong and brave.
"Perhaps you are right, my daughter. But you will remember that it
was for you I lived my lonely life, for you I pursued my fevered
quest. You were all I had left in the world after I had laid your
mother in her grave. I feared to bring you to me. Now I know I need
not have feared. Now I know what I have missed, my daughter."
"We have found each other, dear, dear father," the girl said, and
while her voice broke for a moment in a sob her face was bright with
smiles.
"Yes, my daughter, we have found each other at length. The doors of
my heart, long closed, had grown rusty, but now they are wide open,
and gladly I welcome you."
There was silence for some minutes, then the old man went on,
painfully, with ever-shortening breath. "Now, listen to me
carefully." And then he told her the tale of his search for the Lost
River, ending with the eager exclamation: "And last year I found it.
It is a mine rich beyond my fondest hopes, and it is yours. It is
yours, my daughter."
"Oh, father," cried the girl, losing herself for a moment, "I don't
want the mine. It is you I want."
"Yes, my daughter, I know that well, but for the present it is not
the will of God that I should be with you, and I have learned that
it is good to trust to Him, and without fear I give you, my
daughter, to His care."
Again the girl grew steady and calm.
"Call Mr. Macgregor and the doctor, my dear," her father said.
"These gentlemen alone," he continued when they had come to him,
"hold my secret. Even Perault does not know all. He knows the valley
which we explored last year, but he does not know it is the Lost
River. Mr. Macgregor has promised to see the claim staked. Perault
will guide him to it."
"This paper," taking a packet from his breast, "is my will. In it a
full disposal is made of all. Now I will sign it."
The paper was duly signed and witnessed. With a sigh of content the
old man sank back upon his bed.
"Now all is done. I am well content."
For some time he lay with closed eyes. Then, waking suddenly, he
looked at Shock and said: "Carry me out, Mr. Macgregor. Carry me out
where I can see the trees and the stars. Through long years they
have been my best friends. There, too, I would lie in my long
sleep."
They made a bed of boughs and skins for him before the camp-fire,
and out into the dry, warm night Shock carried him. In the wide
valley there still lingered the soft light of the dying day, but the
shadows were everywhere lying deeper. Night was rapidly drawing up
her curtains upon the world. The great trees stood in the dim light
silent, solemn, and shadowy, keeping kindly watch over the valley
and all things therein. Over the eastern hill the full moon was just
beginning to rise. The mingled lights of silver and gold falling
through the trees lent a rare, unearthly loveliness to the whole
scene.
The Old Prospector, reclining on his couch, let his eyes wander over
the valley and up through the trees to the sky and the stars, while
a smile of full content rested on his face.
"It is a lovely night, dear father," said his daughter, quick to
interpret his thought.
"Yes, my daughter, a rare night. Often have I seen such nights in
this very spot, but never till to-night did their full joy enter my
heart. My life was one long, terrible unreality. To-night the world
is new, and full of loveliness and all peace."
Then he lay in long silence. The doctor came near, touched his
wrist, listened to the beating of his heart, and whispered to his
daughter, "It will not be long now."
The old man opened his eyes. "You are near, my daughter," he said.
"Yes, father, dear, I am here," she replied, pressing his hand
between hers.
"Could you sing something, do you think?"
The girl drew in her breath sharply as with a sob of pain.
"No," said her father. "Never mind, my daughter. It is too much to
ask."
"Yes, yes, father, I will sing. What shall I sing?"
"Sing Bernard's great hymn, 'The world is very evil.'"
It was a hymn she had often sung for him, selecting such of its
verses as were more familiar, and as expressed more nearly the
thought in their hearts.
As she began to sing the doctor passed out beyond the firelight to
the side of the tent. There he found Stanton, with his head bowed
low between his knees.
"My boy," said the doctor, "that is very beautiful, but it is very
hard to bear."
"Yes," said Stanton. "I'm a baby. I would like to help her, but I
cannot."
"Well, my boy, she needs no help that either you or I can give."
Perault, the half-breed, and Crawley sat in silence at the other
side of the fire. Shock remained near, the girl, wondering at her
marvellous self-control. Verse after verse she sang in a voice low,
but clear and sweet. As the refrain occurred again and again,
"O sweet and blessed country, the home of God's elect,
O sweet and blessed country that eager hearts expect,
Jesus, in mercy bring us to that dear land of rest,"
the only change was that the song rose a little clearer and fuller
and with deeper tone.
After she had finished the camp lay in perfect silence.
"Are you asleep, father, dear?" his daughter said at length, but
there was no reply. She touched his hands and his face.
"Father!" she cried in a voice of awe and fear, but still there was
no reply.
The doctor came hastily into the light, looked into the old man's
face, and said: "He is gone."
With a long, low, wailing cry the girl laid herself upon the ground
by her father's side and put her arms around him. They all gathered
about the couch, with the doctor and Shock standing nearest.
"Poor child!" said the doctor softly. "This is a sad night for her."
"Yes," said Shock, in a voice quiet and steady. "For her the night
is sad, but for him the day has dawned and there shall be night no
more."
There, in that wide valley where the yellow pine needles lie deep
and where morning and evening the mingling lights fall softly
through the overarching boughs, they laid the Old Prospector to rest
under the pines and the stars that had been his companions for so
long.
XV
EJECTED AND REJECTED
In the main room of the Old Prospector's house some ten or twelve
stern-faced men had gathered. The easy, careless manner that was
characteristic of the ranchers and cowboys of the district had given
place to an air of stern and serious determination. It was evident
that they had gathered for some purpose of more than ordinary
moment. By common consent Sinclair, a shrewd and fair-minded Scotch
rancher who possessed the complete confidence of every man in the
company, both for his integrity and his intelligence, was in the
chair.
"Where is Mr. Macgregor?" he enquired.
"Gone to the Fort," answered The Kid. "He is on duty there to-
morrow. He wished me to say, however, that he has no desire to push
this matter, as far as he is personally concerned, but that if the
committee thinks the public good demands his presence and his
testimony he will appear on Monday."
"He ought to be here," said Sinclair, and his tone almost conveyed a
reproof.
"He'll come if he's wanted, I guess," drawled out Ike, quick to take
his friend's part.
"Well, then let us proceed. Let us get the facts first," said
Sinclair. "Stanton, we would like to hear what you have to say."
"Well," said The Kid, "there is not much that I have to tell, but I
shall begin at the beginning and give you all I know." Stanton's air
of boyish carelessness had quite disappeared, his voice took a
deeper tone than usual, his manner was grave and stern.
"It was six days ago that I happened to call at the Old Prospector's
house."
"To see the preacher, I guess," interrupted Ike gravely, winking at
Macnamara, who responded with a hearty "Ha! ha! Of course!"
"Quit that, Ike," said Sinclair sternly. "We have got business on
hand."
"As I was saying," continued the Kid; with heightened colour, "I
called at the Old Prospector's house and found Miss Mowbray in a
state of great anxiety in regard to Mr. Macgregor. She told me how
the doctor had come to see Mr. Macgregor about a week before, in
great excitement, and had informed him that Carroll and Crawley had
set off for the mountains two days before, and how, upon hearing
that, Mr. Macgregor and Perault had hastily followed, having with
them about a week's provisions."
"What reason did Miss Mowbray assign for this?" enquired Sinclair.
"Well, I suppose it's no secret, now," said The Kid, with some
hesitation. "The Old Prospector, you know, before his death had made
a very rich find, but died without staking his claim. The secret of
its location he entrusted to Mr. Macgregor and the doctor. The
doctor, in a fit of drunkenness, gave the secret away to Carroll and
Crawley, who, leaving him incapable from drink, set off at once to
stake the claim."
"Hold on, Mr. Stanton," said Sinclair. "We must be careful. How do
you know their purpose in setting off for the mountains?"
"Well, I think--"
"But," interrupted Sinclair, "we must have statements of fact only."
"Dat's so!" cried Perault excitedly. "Dem feller try to get de Ole
Boss show dat mine, for sure. Crawley he's try to mak de Ole Boss
tell. I hear heem, me. Dem feller want dat mine bad."
"All right, Perault," said Sinclair quietly. "That doesn't prove
they went to stake that claim. Go on, Stanton."
"Well," continued The Kid, "I set off at once, and on my second day
out I met these two men, Mr. Macgregor and Perault, exhausted with
travelling and faint with hunger."
"Guess you'd better tell how you found them, Kid," said Ike, who had
heard the story before.
"Well, gentlemen," continued The Kid, his voice shaking, "it was a
pretty tough sight, I can tell you. I first saw them a long way down
the trail. Mr. Macgregor was carrying Perault on his back and
evidently walking with great difficulty. When I came up to them I
found Perault was almost, if not quite, insensible, and Mr.
Macgregor in the last stages of exhaustion." The Kid paused a few
moments to steady his voice. Low, deep oaths were heard on every
side, while Perault, still weak and nervous from his recent terrible
experience, was sobbing audibly.
"I had plenty of grub," continued The Kid. "I did my best for them
and helped them home. That is all I have to say."
A deep silence fell upon the group of men.
"Now, Perault," said Sinclair, "tell us your story."
Perault tried to steady his voice, but, failing utterly, broke into
passionate weeping, Sinclair waiting in grave silence for him to
recover. Macnamara, the soft-hearted big Irish rancher, was quietly
wiping his eyes, while the other men were swearing terrible oaths.
"Give him a drink," drawled Ike. "Too much water aint good for no
man."
Half a dozen flasks were immediately offered. Perault drank, and,
after a few moments, began his tale.
"I can' spik much, me," he said, "when I tink how dat beeg feller
pack me on hees back twenty mile, I fin' bad pain here," striking
his breast, "and den I can' spik at all." And again the little
Frenchman's voice broke down in sobs.
"Take time, Perault," said Sinclair gravely. "We want to know all
about it. Begin at the beginning and tell it in your own way." The
grave tone, even more than the whisky he had drunk, steadied
Perault, and he began again.
"Dat's twelve or tirteen day, now. De Preachere, dat Prospector, I
call heem, he's jus' lak de Ole Boss, for sure--de Prospector he's
sen' dat ole fool doctor, for me queek. I come and fin' de
Prospector he's ver' mad; mos' awful mad; never see heem lak, dat
before. 'Perault,' he say, 'get ponee and grub queek. We go for de
Los' Reever.'"
"By gar! He's mak me scare. I get ponee an' grub and get off queek,
toute suite, right away. Well, we go two day hard and come to de
camp where de Ole Boss he's die, den we climb over de montin. De
Prospector he's got map and show me trail. Oui, I know him bon, fus
rate. 'Perault,' he say, 'you min' las' year de Ole Boss he's fin'
good mine way up in de valley?' `Oui, for sure.' 'You know de
trail?' Oui, certainment.' 'Den,' he say, 'we go dere.' Nex' day we
strike dat trail and go four or five mile. We come to dat valley--
Mon Dieu! dere's no valley dere. We come back and try once more--dat
blank valley, she's no dere. De Prospector he look much on dat map.
'Where dose tree peak?' he say. 'Dere sure 'nuff, one, two tree. Dat
valley she's right on line of dose peak.' 'Sure,' I say. 'I see heem
myself she's gone now for sure! Ah! Voila! I see! Beeg slide feel
dat valley up! By gar! Dat's so, dat montin she's half gone, dat
valley he's full up. Mon Dieu! De Prospector he's lak wil' man.
'Perault,' he say, 'I promise de ole man I go for fin' dat mine.'
'All right, boss,' I say, 'me too.' We make cache for grub, we
hobble de ponee and go for fin' dat mine. Dat's one blank hard day.
Over rock and tree and hole and stomp he's go lak one deerhoun.'
Next day he's jus' same. For me, I'm tire' out. Well, we come home
to camp, slow, slow, hungree, sorefoot--by gar! Sacre bleu! Dat
cache she broke up, de grub he's gone! Mon Dieu! dat's bad--four or
five day walk from home and no grub at all."
"What did you think, Perault?" asked Sinclair. "Did you see signs of
any beast, bear or mountain lion?"
"Sure, dat's what I tink fus' ting, but de Prospector he's walk
aroun' quiet and look everyting. 'Perault, dat's fonee ting,' he
say. 'Where dose can' meat, eh?' By gar! days so, de bear he can'
eat dose can' meat, not moche!"
"Not likely, not bein' a goat," put in Ike drily.
"Well, we look aroun' ver' close, no scratch, no track. By gar! days
no bear, for sure--dat's one bear on two leg."
"I think," said Sinclair gravely, "that there is no doubt of that.
The question is, who did it? Gentlemen, it has been proved that
these two men, Carroll and Crawley, were away during the week when
this crime took place. We do not know where they were, but we must
be fair to them. We may have our opinions about this, but in fixing
the responsibility of this crime we must be exceedingly careful to
deal justly with every man. I suggest we call Carroll."
Carroll came to the meeting without hesitation, and with him,
Crawley.
"We will take you in a few minutes," said Sinclair to Crawley.
"Now," he continued to Carroll, when Crawley had been removed, "we
would like to know where you were last week."
"That's nobody's blank business," said Carroll.
An angry murmur arose from the crowd.
"Carroll, this thing is too serious for any bluffing, and we are
going to see it through. It is fair that you should know why we ask.
Let me give you the facts we have found out." Sinclair gave a brief
resume of the story as gathered from Stanton and Perault. As Carroll
listened his face grew white with fury.
"Does any blank, blank son of a horse thief," he cried, when
Sinclair had done, "say I am the man that broke open that cache? Let
him stand up forninst me and say so." He gnashed his teeth in his
rage. "Whin Tim Carroll goes to git even wid a man he doesn't go
behind his back fur it, and yez all know that! No," he cried,
planting his huge fist with a crash upon the table, "I didn't put a
finger on the cache nor his ponies ayther, begob!"
"All right, Carroll, we are glad to hear it," said Sinclair, in a
cold, stern voice. "You needn't get so wild over it. You cannot
frighten us, you know. Every man here can give an account of his
doings last week--can you?"
"I can that same," said Carroll, somewhat subdued by Sinclair's tone
and manner. "I am not afraid to say that we went up to see a mine we
heard of."
"You and Crawley, you mean?" said Sinclair quietly.
"Yes," continued Carroll, "and that's fair enough, too; and we
hunted around a week fur it, an' came back."
"Did you find your mine?" asked Sinclair.
"We did not, and it's a blank, blank fool I was to listen to the
yarn of the drunken old fool of a doctor."
"Thank you, Carroll. Now, I do not think myself that you touched
that cache."
"If he did, he will swing for it," said a voice, cool and
relentless, in the crowd.
Carroll started a little as he heard that voice.
"You shut up!" said Ike.
"Now, Carroll, we want you to answer a few questions," continued
Sinclair. "Mr. Crawley brought you to the camp where the Old
Prospector died--is that right?"
"He did."
"And then you went east from that point over the mountain?"
"We did, and I am telling you we was looking for that mine we heard
of."
"All right," said Sinclair. "How long did you stay in that
neighbourhood?"
"A week or so."
"Did you see Mr. Macgregor or Perault while you were there?"
"That's none of your business."
"You'd better answer, Carroll."
"It'll be your business pretty blank soon!" drawled the voice again.
"Shut up!" said Ike. "Give him a chance."
"I think you'd better answer," said Sinclair quietly. "You've
nothing to hide, I suppose?"
"I haven't," said Carroll defiantly. "We did see them two walking
around, and we soon knew, too, that they didn't know any more than
ourselves about that mine. Thin we came away."
"Did you see their camp?"
"We did. We passed it by."
"Did you stop and speak to them?"
"No, we did not; for the good reason they weren't there."
"Did you examine the camp or touch anything?"
"Nivir a touch, so help me God!" said Carroll, with great
earnestness.
"Then did you and Crawley come away together?"
"We did."
"Where did you camp that night?"
"Over the mountain beyant, forninst the Old Prospector's grave."
"And you came straight home next day?"
"We did, except for a luk at a couple of prospects we knew of."
"Oh! How long did that take you?"
"It tuk me about a day, and Crawley a little less, I'm thinkin'."
"How was that, Carroll?" enquired Sinclair.
"Well, he tuk one gulch and I tuk the other, and he got through
before me, and the next day we came home; and that's the truth of
it, so help me."
"Then you were never separated from each other except for that one
day?"
"That's true." There was no mistaking the sincerity and honesty of
Carroll's manner.
"Any further questions to ask, gentlemen?"
"How long did you stop at Mr. Macgregor's camp when you was passing
by?" asked Ike.
"Don't be so blanked smart, Ike!" said Carroll, in savage scorn.
"I'm telling you that I didn't stop a fut. We saw their camp and
their ponies and we went sthraight past."
"Didn't stop to light your pipe or nothing?" enquired Ike.
"Blank your blank ugly mug!" roared Carroll, "do you mean to say,--"
"Oh, nothing," said Ike quietly. "Just wanted to know how long you
stopped?"
"And I am tellin' you we didn't sthop atall, atall, not a fut of us!
We didn't go near their camp within fifty yard."
"Not fifty yards, eh? Well, that's strange."
Carroll poured out a volley of oaths.
"You're sure about that fifty yards, Carroll?" asked Ike, in
insinuating tones.
"I didn't pace it, you blanked fool! but I'll swear it wasn't more
than thirty."
"You're dead sure about that thirty yards, Carroll?" persisted Ike.
"I am that, and if you want to say anything more come outside!" said
Carroll, glaring wildly at his interlocutor.
"Oh, thanks, I'm comfortable," said Ike mildly, as he, sat lack in
his chair. "Hope you are the same."
"That will do, Carroll," said Sinclair. "I am sure we all feel much
obliged to you for your straightforward answers. If we want you
again we'll send for you."
"And I'll come," said Carroll, with another oath, passing out of the
room.
"Now," said Sinclair, "we'll have Crawley."
In a few moments Crawley came in, smiling and self-confident, with
plenty of nerve, an abundance of wit, and a most ingenuous manner.
He met the chairman's questions with ready assurance and
corroborated the story told by Carroll. He would frankly acknowledge
that he had heard about the Lost River. Indeed, he had been more or
less interested in it for some years and, though he did not take
much stock in the doctor's word, still he declared that his own
interests and the interests of Miss Mowbray, and indeed of all
concerned, demanded that the thing was worth looking into. They
visited the locality indicated by the doctor; they spent a week in
exploration, but could find no trace of such a valuable mine as the
doctor had described; and they had come away not very much
disappointed; they had hardly expected any other result. They had
seen Mr. Macgregor's camp, but they had not approached it; they
passed by at some distance, leaving everything undisturbed.
"You camped that night near the Old Prospector's grave?" asked
Sinclair.
"Yes."
"The next day you set off for home?"
"Exactly."
"You and Carroll were always together?"
"Certainly."
"You came home by the same trail and without any other
explorations?"
Here Crawley hesitated a moment. "Well, yes, except that we ran up a
gulch to look at some rocks."
"Oh! Did you find anything?"
"Well, we think so," said Crawley pleasantly.
"You went both together up the gulch? You were never separated?"
"We went together, yes."
"Any further questions, gentlemen?"
For a time there was no response, then Ike came slowly forward to
the table and stood by Crawley's side.
"You did not go near that cache?"
"No," said Crawley firmly.
"Are you mighty sure about that? Better be sure."
"I am positive we did not go within twenty or thirty yards," said
Crawley defiantly.
"All right, Crawley," drawled Ike, "better have a pipe now." And as
he spoke he threw down a tobacco pouch on the table.
Crawley turned pale, gripped at the table to stead himself, gazed at
the pouch lying before him for a few moments and then enquired in a
voice that shook in spite of all that he could do: "Who gave you--
where did you get that?"
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