“Say, what are you talking about?” demanded Denver, suddenly reining in his horse. “Is Murray jumping claims?”
“Never mind!” replied the man, shutting up like a clam, and Denver spurred on and left him.
There was a strike then in Pinal, Old Murray had tapped the vein and it ran up to forty per cent copper! That would make the claim that Denver had abandoned the week before worth thousands and thousands of dollars. It would make him rich and Bunker Hill rich and–yes, it would prove the prophecy! He had chosen the silver treasure and the gold treasure had been added to it–for the copper ore which had come in later was almost the color of gold. As old Bunk had said, all these prophecies were symbolical, and he had done Mother Trigedgo an injustice. And there was one claim that he knew of–yes, and four others, too–that Murray would never jump. That was his own Silver Treasure and the four claims of Bunker’s that he had done the annual work on himself.
Denver’s heart leapt again as he raced his horse across the flats and led him scrambling with haste up the steep hills, and before the sun was three hours high he had plunged into the box canyon of Queen Creek. Here the trail wound in and out, 159crossing and recrossing the shrunken stream and mounting with painful zigzags over the points; but he rioted through it all, splashing the water out of the crossings as he hurried to claim his own. The box canyon grew deeper, the walls more precipitous, the creek bottom more dark and cavernous; until at last it opened out into broad flats and boulder patches, thickly covered with alders and ash trees. And then as he swung around the final, rocky point he saw his own claim in the distance. It was nothing but a hole in the side of the rocky hillside, a slide of gray waste down the slope; but to him it was a beacon to light his home-coming, a proof that some dreams do come true. He galloped down the trail where Drusilla and he had loitered and let out an exultant whoop.
But as Denver came opposite his mine a sinister thing happened–a head rose up against the black darkness of the tunnel and a man looked stealthily out. Then he drew back his head like some snake in a hole and Denver stopped and stared. A low wall of rocks had been built across the cut and the man was crouching behind it–Denver jogged down and turned up the trail. A glimpse at Pinal showed the streets full of automobiles and a huddle of men by the store door, and as he rode up towards his mine Bunker Hill came running out and beckoned him frantically back.
“Come back here!” he hollered and Denver turned and looked at him but kept on up the narrow trail. The mine was his, without a doubt, both by 160purchase and by assessment work done; and he had no fear of dispossession by a jumper who was so obviously in the wrong.
“Hello, there!” he hailed, reining in before the tunnel; and after a minute the man rose up with his pistol poised over his shoulder. It was Dave, Murray’s gun-man, and at sight of his enemy Denver was swept with a gust of passion. From the moment he had first met him, this narrow-eyed, sneering bad-man had roused all the hate that was in him; but now it had gone beyond instinct. He found him in adverse possession of his property and with a gun raised ready to shoot.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Denver insolently but Chatwourth did not move. He stood like a statue, his gun balanced in the air, a thin, evil smile on his lips, and Denver gave way to his fury. “You get out of there!” he ordered. “Get off my property! Get off or I’ll put you off!”
Chatwourth twirled his gun in a contemptuous gesture; and then, like a flash, he was shooting. He threw his shots low, between the legs of the horse, which reared and whirled in a panic; and with the bang of the heavy gun in his ears, Denver found himself headed down the trail. A high derisive yell, a whoop of hectoring laughter, followed after him as he galloped into the open; and he was fighting his horse in a cloud of dust when Bunker Hill and the crowd came up.