It was but two or three days later that the partners, coming from the assay-house to the mess late, discovered a stranger talking to the men outside under the shade of a great clump of tamaracks that nestled at the foot of a slope. They passed in and sat down at their table, wondering who the visitor could be. The cook’s helper, a mute, served them, and they were alone when they were attracted by a shrill, soft hiss 172 from the window. They looked, and saw Bells Park. Nothing but his head, cap-crowned, was visible as he stood on tiptoe to reach the opening.
“I told you to look out,” he said warningly. “Old Mister Trouble’s come. Don’t give anything. Stand pat. A walkin’ delegate from Denver’s here. God knows why. Look out.”
His head disappeared as if it were a jack-in-the-box, shut down; and the partners paused with anxious eyes and waited for him to reappear. Dick jumped to his feet and walked across to the window. No one was in sight. He went to the farther end of the mess-house and peered through a corner of the nearest pane. Out under the tamaracks the stranger was orating, and punctuating his remarks with a finger tapping in a palm. His words were not audible; but Dick saw that he was at least receiving attention. He returned to the table, and told Bill what he had seen. The latter was perturbed.
“It looks as if we were goin’ to have an argument, don’t it?” he asked, voicing his perplexity.
“But about what?” Dick insisted. “We pay the union scale, and, while I don’t know, I believe there isn’t a man on the Cross that hasn’t a card.”
“Well,” replied his partner, “we’ll soon see. Finished?”
As they walked to the office, men began to hurry across the gulch toward the hoist, others toward the mill, and by the time they were in their cabin the whistle blew. It was but a minute later that they heard someone striding over the porch, and the man they assumed to be the walking delegate entered. He was not of the usual stamp, but appeared intent on his errand. Save for a certain air of craftiness, he was representative and intelligent. He was quietly dressed, and gave the distinct impression that he had come up from the mines, and had known a hammer and drill––a typical “hard-rock man.”
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am representing the Consolidated Miners’ Association.”
He drew a neat card from a leather case in his pocket, and presented it, and was asked to seat himself.