CHAPTER XIII.—THE STAGE RIDE.
HE following morning Vance forwarded to the Banner office a two column article, which he considered the finest of all his western letters.
The chief was at Buzzard’s Bay enjoying a much needed rest, when Vance’s letter was received. The assistant managing editor did little more than glance over the manuscript and observe to the dramatic critic, as he hung the copy on the hook, that “Young Gilder was sending in some excellent articles from the Northwest.” The article was headed “Two Honorable Exceptions.” It proceeded, in a most logical manner, to give the output of precious metals from the mining town of Butte City.
His statistics were carefully revised, showing there was five times as much capital per capita in the mining camp of Butte City, with her 50,000 people, as in the cities of New York, Philadelphia or Boston.
Vance had spent a good deal of time in preparing the article, and every statement was supplemented with irrefragable proof. The latter half of the article was devoted to Waterville and the agricultural resources of the Thief River Valley. The exports of surplus crops had increased from 100 carloads per annum to 3,000 carloads in four years’ time, and a clever comparison was drawn between the farmers of eastern and New England states and the farmers of the great Thief River Valley, showing that for a given amount of labor, the farmer in the Thief River Valley received at least three dollars where the eastern farmer received only one.
The wonderful water power in the rapids of the Thief River, where the new town of Waterville was building, was also dwelt upon, as well as the centrality of location of the new city—not only from a local standpoint, but as to the entire northwestern section of the United States. The yield of wheat and other cereals was briefly referred to, all showing that Gilder had been most painstaking in preparing the article.
The managing editor, at Buzzard’s Bay, was enjoying his morning smoke when the Banner was laid on his table. Glancing it over leisurely, his eye caught the head-lines, “Two Honorable Exceptions.” In a moment he was all animation. His cigar was permitted to go out in his general neglect of everything else, in devouring every sentence and word of the article. He then paced back and forth across his room and swore like a pirate, declaring he would not have had the article appear in the columns of the Banner for $10,000.
“Just to think,” said he, “the very thing I sent that young fool of a Gilder into the west to accomplish, he has in this one article spoiled forever. Half a dozen of my friends have been asking me about mining investments in Butte City. I have pleaded ignorance, but assured them we had sent a trusty man to inspect the merits of such investments, and they could expect reliable information in the columns of the Banner. Here it is, and a pretty mess he has made of it. He has,” continued the managing editor, angrily, “completely lost his head; only one thing will bring him to his senses, and that is a prompt dismissal from the Banner force.”
Accordingly he wired the assistant managing editor, directing him to notify Mr. Gilder by letter that his services were no longer required. He also instructed his assistant to send the clearest headed man on the force immediately to Butte City, Montana, and Waterville, Idaho, and have an article for the coming Sunday issue that would entirely counteract the effect of Mr. Gilder’s communication.
While these arrangements were being made at the Banner office, Vance was preparing to return to Butte City by way of Waterville, in order to make some investigations and secure additional information for his next letter to the Banner.
The old miner, Ben Bonifield, had assured him they would reach the 300 foot level by the following Saturday night, and Vance promised to return to Gold Bluff early the following week. Vance waited over one stage in order to travel in the one driven by Steve Gibbons.
As a special mark of distinction to Vance, Gibbons invited him to a seat on the top of the stage. As they were whirled away from the beautiful little village of Gold Bluff, the sun was beginning to gild with gold the eastern hills. Vance felt it was a sight never to be forgotten. The evening before starting he was at the Bonifields. When Louise said good-bye, with the sweet truthfulness of youth, and assured him that she would be lonely when he was gone, he felt like declaring then and there, he would stay forever if she would but make the request. She gave Vance a letter of introduction to her sister Virginia, whom Vance promised to call upon as soon as possible after reaching Waterville.
Steve Gibbons was in his element on top of the stage coach.
He chatted away in a vivacious manner, recounting various reminiscences of the different mountain gorges, here and there, where fine specimens of float rock had been discovered at different times. Again he would tell of some thrilling adventure with the Indians, and marvelous hair-breadth escapes. Gibbons invariably figured in these narratives as one of the principal characters. Presently he said:
“I don’t reckon you met Grim, did you?”
“Rufus Grim?” said Vance; “yes, I had the pleasure of meeting him only a few days ago.”
“I ‘spect,” said Gibbons, “that Rufus Grim is the biggest scoundrel unhung in these diggins. He thinks he’s mighty pert, but Hank Casey and me ‘ll teach him afore long that other people can be a mighty sight perter than what he is. The only hearty, overgrown regret that I’ve never been able to get rid of is that I didn’t twist his neck ten years ago.”
“What grievance have you,” asked Vance, “against Mr. Grim? One would naturally suppose the owner of the richest mine in the Fish River Mining District would be respected instead of disliked.” Steve Gibbons pushed his sombrero back from his forehead, as if to relieve his pent up feelings, swung his long whip twice around his head, and made the welkin ring as he cracked it over the backs of his dappled leaders.
He then expectorated a vigorous “pit-tew” of tobacco juice, and said: “I reckon one can’t always judge by appearances. When Steve Gibbons says that Rufus Grim is a scoundrel, he is a pretty good jedge of what he is sayin’, and he mighty near means what he says, pardner. Somebody’s goin’ to be jerked out of the kinks ‘fore long, and—’twixt ourselves—I think that somebody is Rufus Grim. Hank Casey an’ me are old pards, and we’ve employed B. Webster Legal. He’s the corporation attorney for the Waterville Town Company. You won’t be takin’ no chances, pardner, of bettin’ your last dollar that old Grim will think somebody’s after him with a sharp stick and a diamond drill in the end of it ‘afore B. Webster Legal gets through with him. I tell you, Jedge Legal is a cuss in the court room. He can whip his weight in wild-cats in a law suit. Of course, I don’t mean that he’s goin’ to leave the Town Company; he’ll never do that as long as a lot can be sold—he says so his-self. Hank and I hev made a bargain with him, and old Grim is goin’ to be ousted. The Peacock belongs to Hank Casey and me. What do you think of that?”
“I assure you,” replied Vance, “you interest me very much. I supposed Mr. Grim was the owner of the Peacock.”
Again Steve Gibbons’ long whip cracked like a pistol shot over the backs of his horses. Presently he said:
“I don’t tell everybody, pardner, but I ‘spect it makes no difference with you. You see, when Rufus Grim came to Gold Bluff some fifteen years ago, he was so darnation poor he couldn’t buy a meal of victuals. Hank and I had staked out the Peacock.
We had found some mighty rich float rock in that part of the mountain, and knew the precious stuff was not very far away. We ‘grub-staked’ Grim and put him to work on wages, and while he was workin’, he struck a ‘pocket’ and found free gold—a regular vault full of yellow stuff. He commenced his treachery by stealin’ every grain of it, and then cleverly walled up that part of the shaft and continued diggin’ in the opposite direction, endeavorin’ to get as far away from the place where he had made the discovery as possible. Well, by and by Hank Casey and me got tired of payin’ out money, and we sold out the Peacock for a mere song to Grim. Soon after, the name of Rufus Grim was known all over the mountain district as a bonanza king. He organized an immense company, and owns most of the stock himself. Within six months after we were defrauded of our rights in the Peacock, he was a rich man, and has been gettin’ richer ever since. Hank Casey and me have a whole lot of evidence. B. Webster Legal says if we can prove what we claim, that we have got a lead pipe cinch on the Peacock. The papers are bein’ drawn up, and things are goin’ to be sizzlin’ hot for Rufus Grim before many moons go over his head.”
Vance expressed much surprise and sympathy at the injustice he had sustained.
“Say, pardner,” said Steve, “I kind o’ reckon you’re shinin’ up a little toward old Bonifield’s gal, ain’t you?” and he nudged Vance in the ribs with his elbow.
The question was so unexpected that Vance hardly knew how to reply. “I hope,” replied Vance, “that I am not in disfavor with the young lady, or her father either. I own an interest in Gray Rocks.”
“The dickens you do!” said Steve Gibbons. “Well, if there’s any man in these mountains, pardner, who ought to strike it, old Ben Bonifield is the one. He’s been stickin to Gray Rocks for a good many years, and is one of the squarest men in the Fish River Minin’ District, while that gal of his—-why, she is the gem of all these diggins. I did think J. Arthur Boast had the inside track on the Bonifield ranch, but here lately I ‘lowed as maybe Boast was playin’ second fiddle; but then you can’t tell how a game is goin’ to end until the last card is played.”
Vance made no reply, but ground his teeth in silent anger at the mention of Boast’s name.
It was late that night when they arrived at Waterville.