The Lost Cabin Mine

by Frederick Niven

We gathered from the remarks of the sheriff that these four men had been camped down-hill a little way for three days, out of sight of the waggon track, awaiting our coming. Slim had evidently, after securing the waggon, picked them up.

"That violinist," said Apache Kid to me, "that Slim mentioned to the Molly Magee boss by way of a threat, is rather a notable figure here. He was leader of an orchestra in Paris, embezzled money, bolted out here and up at the Molly Magee gets his three and a half dollars a day of miner's wages and keeps his hands as soft as a child's. He could n't tap a drill on the head two consecutive times to save his life."

"What do they keep him for, then?" I asked. "And why do they pay him?" though really I was not much interested in violinists at the time and wondered how Apache Kid could talk at all or do else than long for getting well out of this grievous pass that he was in. And, from his own lips, I knew he thought his condition serious.

"Well," said he, "the reason why gives you an idea of how very stiff a miner's lot is in some places. The Molly Magee mine is a wet mine, very wet, and it lies in a sort of notch on the hill where the wind is always cold. Crossing from the mine to the bunkhouse men have been known to take a pain in the back between the shoulder-blades, bend forward, and remark on the acuteness of it and be dead in three hours—of pneumonia. It's a wet mine and a cold hill. This violinist is just a Godsend to the owners. Instead of having to be content with whoever they can get to work the mine for them they have the pick of the miners of the territory; even most of the muckers in the mine are really full-fledged miners, but are yet content to take muckers' wages—and all because of this violinist. He plays to them, you see, and his fame has gone far and wide over the territory. The Molly Magee, bad mine though she is, with a store of coffins always kept there, never lacks for miners. That's what they keep our violinist for."

But we were jolting well down-hill now and soon caught glimpses of Baker City between the trees.

"I reckon you better lie down in the bottom of that there waggon," said the sheriff, looking round, his left hand resting on his horse's quarters. "When they see you it might rouse them."

"Sir!" said Apache (it was the first word he had spoken, apart from his talk with me, since the guard joined us), "I 'm innocent of this charge, and I want to live to disprove it, not for my own honour alone. For many reasons, for many reasons I want to disprove it. But I 'm damned if I grovel in the bottom of a waggon for any hobo in Baker City!"

The sheriff said not a word in reply, just nodded his head as though to say, "So be it, then," stayed his horse till the waggon came abreast, leant from his saddle and spoke a word to Slim, who suddenly emitted a yell that caused the horses to leap forward.

The guard on either side had their Winchesters with the butts on their right thighs—and so we went flying into Baker City, the sheriff again spurring ahead; so we whirled along, with a glimpse of the Laughlin House, dashed down that street, suddenly attracting the attention of those who stayed there, and they, grasping the situation after a moment's hesitation, came pounding down on the wooden sidewalks after us.

So we swept into Baker Street, where a great cry got up, and men rose on the one-storey-up verandahs of the hotels and craned out to look on us; and the throng ran on the sidewalks on either side.