Philip gave him Drew’s Leadville address, and then went to climb the ladder-like stair to the room with the dirty window, where he flung himself upon the unmade bed without stopping to undress, and fell asleep almost in the act. When next he opened his eyes the room was pitchy dark and Bromley was shaking him awake.
“What’s happened?” he gasped, as Bromley struck a match to light the lamp; and then: “Good God, Harry!—have you let me waste a whole day sleeping?”
“Even so,” was the cheerful reply. “I’ll tell you about it while you’re sticking your face into a basin of cold water. To make it short—the way you did this morning—the cat’s out of the bag. This whole town knows that there has been a big gold strike made on the other side of the range. What it hasn’t found out yet is who made the strike, or where it is located. Mr. Drew put me on.”
“Good Lord!” Philip groaned. “And we’ve lost hours and hours!”
“They’re not lost; they’ve only gone before. Friend Drew is responsible. He said, since the news had got out, we would better wait until after dark to make our start, and then take the road as quietly as we could; so I let you sleep. So far, as nearly as Mr. Drew could find out, we haven’t been identified as the lucky discoverers.”
“That will follow, as sure as fate!” Philip predicted gloomily.
“Maybe not. While there’s life there’s hope. I’ve paid our bill here at the hotel, and we’ll go to a restaurant for supper. Everything is done that needed to be done; claim recorded, grub-stake bought, jacks packed and ready to move, and a couple of tough little riding broncos, the horses a loan from Mr. Drew, who pointed out, very sensibly, that we’d save time and shoe-leather by riding in, to say nothing of leg weariness. Drew has one of his hired men looking out for us at the livery stable where the horses and jacks are put up, and this man will give us a pointer if there is anything suspicious in the wind. If you are ready, let’s go.”
As unobtrusively as possible they made their way down the steep stair to pass out through the office-bar-room. As they entered the smoky, malodorous public room Philip thought it a little odd that there were no card players at the tables. A few of the evening habitués were lined up at the bar, but most of them were gathered in knots and groups about the rusty cast-iron stove in which a fire had been lighted. With senses on the alert, Philip followed Bromley’s lead. There was an air of palpitant excitement in the place, and, on the short passage to the outer door, snatches of eager talk drifted to Philip’s ears; enough to make it plain that the new gold strike was responsible for the group gathering and the excitement.
“I’ll bet a hen worth fifty dollars that Hank Neighbors—that big cuss leanin’ up ag’inst the bar—knows who struck it, and whereabouts it’s located,” was one of the remarks that he overheard; and, glancing back from the door, he saw the man to whom the reference was made—a tall, loose-jointed man, with deep-set, gloomy eyes and a curling brown beard that masked something more than half of his face.
Upon leaving the hotel, Bromley led the way down Harrison Avenue toward a restaurant not far from the stable where their outfit waited for them. With the mining excitement now at its most populous height, and the sidewalks filled with restless throngs of men, there was curiously little street disorder; this though the saloons, dance-halls and gaming rooms of a wide-open mining-camp city were running full blast, their garishly lighted entrances lacking even the customary slatted swing doors of concealment. For the greater part, the crowds were good-natured and boisterously hilarious; and where the not too infrequent drunken celebrator came weaving along, the sidewalk jostlers gave him room, shouting such encouragements as “Walk a chalk, old boy!” or “Go it while you’re young—when you’re old you can’t!” One of the staggerers who bumped against Philip and his partner was repeating monotonously: “’Rah for Jimmie Garfield—canal boy, b’gosh—nexsht presh’dent!” an exotic injection of the politics of a campaign year into an atmosphere as remote as that of another planet from matters political or governmental.