The man’s eyes had lost their grin. They were the eyes of the real man.
“It’s—devil’s luck. I’ve said it all along. Only ther’s sech plaguey knowalls around they won’t believe it. Buck now—I got nothing against Buck. He’s a good citizen. But he’s got a streak o’ yeller in him, an’ don’t hold with no devil’s luck. Maybe you remember.” He grinned unpleasantly into the girl’s eyes.
She remembered well enough. She was not likely to forget the manner in which Buck had come to her help. She flushed slightly.
“What do you mean by ‘a streak of yellow’?” she demanded coldly.
“It don’t need a heap of explaining. He’s soft on mission talk.”
Joan’s flush deepened. This man had a mean way of putting things.
“If you mean that he doesn’t believe in—in superstitions, and that sort of thing, if you mean he’s just a straightforward, honest-thinking man—well, I agree with you.”
Beasley was enjoying the spectacle of the warmth which prompted her defense. She was devilish pretty, he admitted to himself.
“Maybe you feel that way,” he said, in a tone that jarred. “Say,” he went on shrewdly, “I’m no sucker, I’m not one of these slobs chasin’ gold they’re eager to hand on to the first guy holdin’ out his hand. I’m out to make a pile. I had a claim in the ballot. Maybe it’s a good claim. I ain’t troubled to see. Why? I’ll tell you. Maybe I’d have taken a few thousand dollars out of it. Maybe a heap. Maybe only a little. Not good—with all these slobs around.” He shook his head. “I figured I’d git the lot if I traded. I’d get the show of all of the claims. See? The ‘strike’ ain’t goin’ to last. It’s a pocket in the hill, an’ it’ll peter out just as dead sure as—well as can be. An’ when it’s petered out there’s going to be jest one feller around here who’s made a profit—an’ it ain’t one of those who used the sluice-boxes. No, you can believe what you like. This ‘strike’ was jest a devil’s laugh at folks who know no better. An’ master Buck has handed you something of devil’s luck when he made you take that gold.”
There was something very keen about this man, and in another Joan might have admired it; but Beasley’s mind was tainted with such a vicious meanness that admiration was impossible.