“Well, to-morrow night,” she said, “unless you don’t want to come. But you’ll have to come soon or─”
“Oh, I want to come, all right,” interposed Denver hastily, “you know that, without telling. But my partner played out on me before the end of the contest and I had to finish the striking myself. And then I rode hard to get back here, before Dave or some gun-man jumped my claim.”
“Then to-morrow night,” she smiled, “but don’t you forget, because if you do I’ll never forgive you.”
She danced away into the house and Denver 204turned in his tracks and went to look over his ore-sacks. They were old and torn, what was left of a big lot that Bunker had got in a trade; but Denver picked out the best and wheeled them up to his dump, where his picked ore lay waiting for shipment. He had a big lot, much larger than he had thought, and it was just as it had been shot down from the breast. Some was silver-lead; and there was copper to boot, though that would hardly do to ship. Yet at thirty cents a pound copper was almost a precious metal, and a report from the smelter would be a check. He would know from that how the ore really ran and how much he would be penalized for the zinc. So he picked out the best of it and broke it up fine, for the rough chunks would not do to sack; and before he had more than got started with his sampling the sun had gone down behind the ridge. And he was tired–too tired to eat.
There was music that night at the big house below but Denver could not hold up his head. Nature had drugged him with sleep, like a romping child that takes no thought of its strength, and in the morning he woke up in a sort of stupor that could not be worked off. Yet he worked, worked hard, for McGraw had arrived and the ore must be loaded that day; so they threw in together, Denver sacking the heavy ore and McGraw wheeling it out to the wagon. They toiled on till dark, for McGraw started early and the work could not be put off till to-morrow; and when it was over Denver staggered 205up to his cave like an old and outworn man. He was reeking with sweat, his hands were like talons, the ore-dust had left his face gray; and all he thought of was sleep. For a moment he roused up, as if he remembered some new duty–something pleasant, yet involving further effort–and then his candle went out. He fell asleep in his chair and when he awoke it was only to stumble to his bed.
The sun was over the Leap when he opened his heavy eyes and gazed at the rude squalor of his cave. The dishes were unwashed, the floor was dirty, a long-tailed rat hung balanced on the table-edge–and he was tired, tired, tired. He heaved himself up and reached for the water-bucket but he had forgotten to fill it at the creek. Now he grabbed it up impatiently and started down the trail, every joint of his body protesting, and when he had climbed back he was weak from the effort–his bank account with Mother Nature was overdrawn. He was worn out, at last; and his poor, tired brain took no thought how to make up the deficit. All he wanted was rest, something to eat, a drink of water. A drink of water anyway, and sleep. He drank deep and bathed his face, then sank back on the bed and let the world whirl on.
It was late in the day when he awoke again and hunger was gnawing his vitals; but the slow stupor was gone, he was himself again and the cramps had gone out of his limbs. He rose up luxuriously and cut a can of tomatoes, drinking the juice and eating the fruit, and then he lit a fire and boiled 206some strong coffee and cooked up a great mess of food. There was two cans of corn and a can of corned beef, heated together in a swimming sea of bacon grease and eaten direct from the frying-pan. It went to the spot and his drooping shoulders straightened, the spring came back into his step; yet as he cleaned up the dishes and changed to decent clothes the weight of some duty seemed to haunt him. Was it McGraw? No, he had loaded the last sack and sent him on his way. It was Drusilla–she had been going to sing for him.
Denver stepped to the door and looked down at the house and his heart sank low at the thought. They had invited him to dinner and he had forgotten to come, he had gone home and fallen asleep. And no one had come to call him–or to inquire what had kept him away. A heavy guilt came over him as he gazed down at the house with its broad porch and trailing Virginia creepers, the Hills would take it very ill to have their invitation ignored. Old Bunk had told him the time before, when he had invited him in to dinner: “Now, for the last time, Denver─” and it would take more than mere words to ever mend that breach. Denver paced back and forth, undecided what to do, and at last he decided to do nothing. As the sun went down he ate another supper and drugged his sorrows with sleep.
The next morning he rose early and shaved and bathed and put on his last clean shirt, and then he walked down to the town; but the store was 207locked, there was no voices from the house, only a smoke from the kitchen stove. He went on to his mine and looked it over, and as he passed the Professor leered out at him; there was something that he knew, some bad news or spiteful gossip, for he found pleasure only in evil. Denver came back down the street, that was now as deserted as it had been before the stampede, and once more the Professor looked out.
“Vell,” he said, “so you haf lost your sveetheart!” And he chuckled and shut the door softly.