Kitabı oku: «Silver and Gold: A Story of Luck and Love in a Western Mining Camp», sayfa 13
CHAPTER XXVI
THE COURSE OF THE LAW
As he lay in his cell in the county jail at Moroni it was borne in upon Denver that he was caught in some great machine that ground out men as a mill grinds grain. It had laid a cold hand on him in the person of an officer of the law, it had inched him on further when a magistrate had examined him and Chatwourth and his jumpers had testified; and now, as he awaited his day in court, he wondered whither it was taking him. The magistrate had held him, the grand jury had indicted him–would the judge and jury find him guilty? And if so, would they send him to the Pen? His heart sank at that, for the name of “ex-convict” is something that cannot be laid. No matter what the crime or the circumstances of the trial, once a man is convicted and sent to prison that name can always be hurled at him–and Denver knew that he was not guilty.
He had no recollection of even drawing his gun, to say nothing of striking at Meacham; and yet Chatwourth and his gang would swear him into prison if something was not done to stop them. They had come before the magistrate all agreeing to the same story–that Denver had picked a fight with his old enemy, Meacham, and struck him over the head with his six-shooter. And then they showed Denver’s pistol; the one he had borrowed from Bunker, all gory with hair and blood. It was a frame-up and he knew it, for they had all been striking at him and one of them had probably hit Meacham; but how was he to prove to the satisfaction of the court that Murray’s hired gun-men were trying to hang him? His only possible witness was Professor Diffenderfer, and he would not testify to anything.
In his examination before the magistrate Denver had called upon the Professor to explain the cause of his being there; but Diffenderfer had protested that he had been hiding in his cabin and knew nothing whatever about the fight. Yet if the facts could be proved, Denver had not gone up the street to shoot it out with the jumpers; he had gone at the invitation of this same Professor Diffenderfer who now so carefully avoided his eye. He had been called to the Professor’s cabin to look at a specimen of the copper from Murray’s tunnel; but as Denver thought it over a shrewd suspicion came over him that he had been lured into a well-planned trap. They had never been over-friendly so why should this Dutchman, after opposing him at every turn, suddenly beckon him up the street and into his cabin just as Chatwourth and his gang came down? And why, if he was innocent of any share in the plot, did Diffenderfer refuse to testify to the facts? Denver ground his teeth at the thought of his own impotence, shut up there like a dog in the pound. He was helpless, and his lawyer would do nothing.
The first thing he had done when he was brought to Moroni was to hire a second-rate lawyer but, after getting his money, the gentleman had spent his time in preparing some windy brief. What Denver needed was some witnesses, to swear to his good character, and Diffenderfer to swear to the facts; and no points of law were going to make a difference as long as the truth was suppressed. Old Bunk alone stood by him, though he could do little besides testifying to his previous good character. Day after day Denver lay in jail and sweated, trying to find some possible way out; but not until the morning before his trial did he sense the real meaning of it all. Then a visitor was announced and when he came to the bars he found Bible-Back Murray awaiting him.
“Good morning, young man,” began Murray smiling grimly, “I was just passing by and I thought I’d drop in and talk over your case for a moment.”
“Yes?” said Denver looking out at him dubiously, and the great man smiled again. He was a great man, as Denver had discovered to his sorrow, for no one in the country dared oppose him.
“I regret very much,” went on Murray pompously, “to find you in this position, and if there’s anything I can do that is just and right I shall be glad to use my influence. We have, as you know, here in the State of Arizona one of the most enlightened governments in the country; and a word from me, if spoken in time, might possibly save you from conviction. Or, in case of conviction, our prison law is such that you might immediately be released under parole. But before I take any action─” he lowered his voice–“you might give me a quit-claim for that mine.”
“Oh” said Denver, and then it was that the great ray of light came over him. He could see it all now, from Murray’s first warning to this last bold demand for his mine; but two months in jail had broken his spirit and he hesitated to defy the county boss. His might be the hand that held Diffenderfer back, and it certainly was the one that paid Chatwourth; he controlled the county and, if what he said was true, had no small influence in the affairs of the state. And now he gave him the choice between going to prison or giving up the Silver Treasure.
“What is this?” inquired Denver, “a hold-up or a frame-up?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” answered Murray curtly, “but if you’re still in a mood for levity─” He turned away but as Denver did not stop him he returned of his own will to the bars.
“Now see here,” he said, “this has gone far enough, if you expect to keep out of prison. I came down here to befriend you and all I ask in return is a clear title to what is already mine. Perhaps you don’t realize the seriousness of your position, but I tell you right now that no power on earth can save you from certain conviction. The District Attorney has informed me that he has an airtight case against you but, rather than see your whole life ruined, I am giving you this one, last chance. You are young and headstrong, and hardly realized what you were doing; and so I say, why not acknowledge your mistake and begin life over again? I have nothing but the kindest feelings towards you, but I can’t allow my interests to be jeopardized. Think it over–can’t you see it’s for the best?”
“No, I can’t,” answered Denver, “because I never killed Meacham and I don t believe any jury will convict me. If they do, I’ll know who was behind it all and govern myself accordingly.”
“Just a slight correction,” put in Murray sarcastically, “you will not govern yourself at all. You will become a ward of the State of Arizona for the rest of your natural life.”
“Well, that’s all right then,” burst out Denver, wrathfully, “but I can tell you one thing–you won’t get no quit-claim for your mine. I’ll lay in jail and rot before I’ll come through with it, so you can go as far as you like. But if I ever get out─”
“That will do, young man,” said Murray stepping back, “I see you’re becoming abusive. Very well, let the law take its course.”
He straightened up his wry neck, put his glass eye into place and stalked angrily out of the jail; and in the hard week that followed Denver learned what he meant, for the wheels of the law began to grind. First the District Attorney, in making his charge, denounced him like a mad-man; then he brought on his witnesses, a solid phalanx, and put them through their parts; and every point of law that Denver’s attorney brought up he tore it to pieces in an instant. He knew more law in a minute than the lawyer would learn in a life-time, he could think circles around him and not try; and when Denver’s witnesses were placed on the stand he cross-examined them until he nullified their testimony. Even grim-eyed Bunker Hill, after testifying to Denver’s character, was compelled to admit that the first time he saw him he was engaged in a fight with Meacham. And so it went on until the jury filed back with a verdict of “Guilty of manslaughter.”
Thus the law took its course over the body and soul of what had once been a man; and when it was over Denver Russell was a Number with eighteen years before him. Eighteen years more or less, according to his conduct, for the laws of the State of Arizona imposed an indeterminate sentence which might be varied to fit any case. As Murray had intimated, under the new prison law a man could be paroled the day after he was sentenced, though he were in for ninety-nine years. That was the law, and it was just, for no court is infallible and injustice must be rectified somewhere. After the poor man and his poor lawyer had matched their puny wits against those of a fighting District Attorney then mercy must intervene in the name of society and equalize the sentence. For the District Attorney is hired by the county to send every man to prison, but no one is hired to defend the innocent or to balance the scales of justice.
Denver went to prison like any other prisoner, a rebel against society; but after a lonely day in his cell he rose up and looked about him. Here were men like himself–nay, old, hardened criminals–walking about in civilian clothes, and the gates opened up before them. They passed out of the walled yard and into the prison fields where there were cattle and growing crops; and they came back fresh and earthy, after hours of honest toil with no one to watch or guard them. It was the honor system which he had read about for years, but now he saw it working; and after a week he sent word to the Warden that he would give his word not to escape. That was all they asked of him, his word as a man; and a great hope came over him and soothed the deep wound that the merciless law had torn. He raised his head, that had been bowed on his breast, and the strength came back into his limbs; and when the Warden saw him with a sledge-hammer in his hands he smiled and sent him up to the road-camp.
CHAPTER XXVII
LIKE A HOG ON ICE
A month had wrought great changes in the life of Denver Russell, raising him up from a prisoner, locked up like a mad dog, to the boss of a gang of road-makers. He was free again, as far as bolts and bars were concerned; all that kept him to his place was the word he had given and his pride as an honest man. And now he was out, doing an honest man’s work and building a highway for the state; and by the irony of fate the road he was improving was the one that led to Pinal. For time had wrought other changes while he lay in prison and the rough road up the canyon was swarming with traffic going and coming from Murray’s camp. It was called “Murray” now, and a narrow-gauge railroad was being rushed to haul out the ore. Teams and motor trucks swung by, hauling in timbers and machinery, auto stages came and went like the wind; and old Mike McGraw, who had hauled all the freight for years, looked on in wonder and awe.
Yes, Murray was a live camp, a copper camp with millions of dollars behind it; and Bible-Back himself was a king indeed, for he had tapped the rich body of ore. It was his courage and aggressiveness that had made the camp, and the papers all sounded his praise; but still he was not satisfied and as he passed by Denver Russell he glanced at him almost appealingly. Here was a man he had broken in order to get his way, and his efforts had come to nothing; for the Silver Treasure lay idle, waiting the clearing of its title before the work could go on. And Denver Russell, swinging his double-jack on a drill, never once returned the glance. He was stiff-necked and stubborn, though Murray had sent intermediaries and practically promised to get him a parole.
A legal point had come up, after Denver had been imprisoned, which Murray had failed to foresee; the fact that a convict is legally dead until he has served his term. He cannot transfer property or enter into a contract or transact any business whatever–nor, on the other hand, can his mining claims be jumped. As a ward of the State his property is held in trust until his term has expired. Then he gains back his identity, if not his citizenship; and with the passing of his number and the resumption of his name he can enter into contracts once more. Murray’s lawyer had known all this, but Murray had not; and when he suggested a suit to quiet title to the Silver Treasure old Bible-Back received a great blow. After all his efforts he found himself balked–his work must even be undone. Denver Russell must be pardoned, or at least paroled, and as the price of his freedom he must give his word not to contest the title to his mine. No papers would be necessary, in fact they would not be legal; but if his word would prevent him from escaping from the road-camp it would keep him from claiming his mine.
Murray attended to the matter himself, for he was in a fever to begin work; and then Denver Russell struck back–he refused to apply for parole. Though he was pleasant and amenable, never breaking the prison rules and holding his gang to their duty, when the kindly parole clerk offered to present his case to the Board he had flatly and unconditionally refused. The smouldering fire of his resentment had blazed up and overmastered him as he sensed the hidden hand of his enemy, and he had cursed the black name of Murray. That was the beginning, and now when Murray passed, his glance was almost beseeching. The price of silver was going up, there were consolidation plans in sight, and Denver’s claim apexed all the rest–Murray pocketed his pride and, after a word with the guard, drew Denver out of hearing of the gang.
“Mr. Russell,” he said trying to appear magnanimous, “that offer of mine holds good. I’ll get you a parole to-morrow if you’ll give me a quit-claim to your claim.”
“How can I give you a quit-claim?” inquired Denver defiantly, “a convict can’t give title to anything!”
“Just give me your word then,” suggested Murray suavely and Denver laughed in his face.
“You glass-eyed old dastard,” he burst out contemptuously, “I know what you’re up to, too well. You’re trying to get me paroled so you can take my mine away from me and I won’t dare to raise a hand. But I’ll fool you, old-timer; I’ll just serve my term out and then–well, I’ll get back my mine.”
“Is that a threat?” demanded Murray but Denver only smiled and toyed with his heavy hammer. “Because if it is,” went on Murray, “just for self-protection, I’ll see that you don’t get out.”
“No, it isn’t a threat,” answered Denver quietly. “If I wanted to kill you I’d swing this sledge and knock you on the head, right now. No, I don’t intend to kill you; but a man would be a sucker to play right into your hands.”
“What do you mean?” asked Murray trying to argue the matter, but Denver refused to indulge him.
“Never mind,” he said, “you railroaded me to the Pen’, but by grab you can’t get me out. I’ll just show you I’m as independent as a hog on ice–if I can’t stand up I’ll lay down.”
“Then you intend, just to spite me, to remain on in prison when you might be a free man to-morrow? I can’t believe that–it doesn’t seem reasonable.”
“Well, I can’t stand here talking,” answered Denver impatiently and went off and left him staring.
It certainly was unbelievable that any reasoning creature should prefer confinement and disgrace to freedom, but the iron had burned deep into Denver’s soul and his one desire now was revenge. He had been deprived of his property and branded a convict by this man who boasted of his powers; but, like a thrown mule, if he could not have his way he could at least refuse to get up. He was down and out; but by a miracle of Providence, a hitch in the wording of the law, the slave-driver Murray could not proceed with his chariot until this balky mule got up. Denver knew his rights as a prisoner of the state and his status before the law; and bowed his head and took the beating stubbornly, punishing himself a hundred times over to thwart his enemy’s plans. As he worked on the road old friends came by and tried to argue him out of his mood, even Bunker Hill suggested a compromise; but he only listened sulkily, a slow smile on his lips, a gleam of smouldering hatred in his eyes.
So the winter passed by and as spring came on the road-gang drew near to Murray. From the hills above their camp Denver could see the dumps and hoists, and the mill that was going up below, and as the ore-trains glided by on the newly finished narrow-gauge he picked up samples of the copper. It was the same as his vein, a brassy yellow chalcopyrites with chunks of red native copper, and he forgot the daily heart-ache and the ignominy of his task as he contemplated the wealth that awaited him. Yes, the mine was still his, though he was herded with common felons and compelled to build a road for Murray; it was his and the law would protect him, the same law that had sent him to prison. And he was a prisoner by choice now for both the warden and the parole clerk had recommended him heartily for parole.
They treated him like a friend, like a big, wrong-headed boy who was still sound and good at heart; and he knew that when he went to them and applied for a parole they would recommend it at once to the Board. But he was playing a deep game, one that had come to him suddenly when Murray had suggested a parole, for by refusing to accept his freedom he made the state his guardian and the receiver of his coveted property. It was safe, and he could wait; and when the time was ripe he could apply to the Governor for a pardon. A pardon would remove the taint of dishonor and restore him to honest citizenship; but a paroled man was known for an ex-con everywhere–he might as well be back in the road-gang. Yet it was hard on his pride when the automobiles rushed past and the passengers looked back and stared, it was hard to have the guard always watching the gang for fear that some crook might decamp; and only the thought that he was working out his destiny gave him courage to play out his hand.
But how wonderfully had the prophecy of Mother Trigedgo been justified by the course of events! Not a year before he had come over the Globe trail in pursuit of Slogger Meacham, and had discovered the Place of Death. It rose before him now, a solid black wall, and within its shadow lay the mine of the prophecy, the precious Silver Treasure. He had chosen the silver treasure, and the yellow chalcopyrites had added its wealth of copper. And now he but awaited the end of his long ordeal and the reward of his courage and constancy. Both the silver and gold treasures were destined to be his; and Drusilla–but there he paused. Old Bunk had avoided him, Drusilla had not written; yet he had been careful not to reveal his affection. Not once had he asked for her, only once had he written; yet perhaps that one letter had defeated him. He had acknowledged his love, humbly admitted his faults, and begged her to try to forgive him. Even that might have cost him her love.
The spring came on warmer, all the palo verde trees burst out in masses of brilliant yellow, the mezquites hung out tassels of golden fuzz and the giant cactus donned its crown of orange blossoms. Even the iron-woods flaunted bloom and the barren, sandy washes turned green with six-weeks grass. It was a time when rabbits gamboled, when mockingbirds sang by moonlight and all the world turned young. Denver chafed at his confinement, one of his Mexicans broke his parole, the hobo miners went swinging past; and just as the last of his courage was waning Bunker Hill came riding down the road. He was on his big bay, yet not out after cattle–he was coming straight towards him. Denver caught his breath, and waited.
CHAPTER XXVIII
PAROLE
“Mornin’, Denver,” said Bunker Hill, “here’s a letter that come for you–I forgot to send it down.”
He fumbled in his pocket and Denver’s heart stood still, but it was only his check from the smelter. He slipped it into his shirt without even glancing at the big total and looked up at Bunker expectantly.
“Well?” he prompted and Old Bunk twisted in the saddle before he began to talk.
“How much did you get for your shipment?” he inquired but Denver shrugged impatiently.
“What do I give a damn?” he demanded. “What’s up? What you got on your mind?”
“Big stuff,” replied Bunker, “but I want you to listen to me–they’s no use running off at the head.”
“Who’s running off at the head? Go on and shoot your wad. Is it something about my mine?”
“Yes–and mine,” answered Bunker. “I don’t know whether you know it, but your property apexes the Lost Burro. And another thing, silver has gone up. But Pinal is just as dead as it was a year ago. The whole camp is waiting on you.”
“Well, what do you want me to do? Get a parole and give Murray my mine?”
“No, just get a parole–and then we’ll get you a pardon. I’ll tell you, Denver, the Dutchman has begun to talk and it seems he saw your fight. He’s told several people that you never pulled your gun, just struck out at the crowd with your fists. And if hints and winks count for anything with him he knows who it was that killed Meacham. He says he was hit from behind. I’ve tried everything, Denver, to make that Dutchman talk or put something down on paper; but he’s scared so bad of Murray, and mebbe of his gun-men, that he won’t say a word, unless he’s drunk. Now here’s the proposition–old Murray has had you railroaded, and he’s sure going to squeeze you until you let go of that claim. Why not sell out for a good price, if he’ll make the Professor talk and help get you a pardon from the Governor? You know the Governor, he’ll pardon most anybody, but you’ve got to give him some excuse. Well, the Professor has got the evidence to get you out to-morrow–if Murray will just tell him to talk.”
“What d’ye call a good price?” inquired Denver suspiciously. “Did Murray put you up to this?”
“No!” snapped Bunker, “but he named ten thousand dollars as the most he could possibly give. He owns the Colonel Dodge’s interest in the Lost Burro Mining Company now.”
“Your pardner, eh?” sneered Denver. “Well, where would I get off if I took this friendly tip? I’d lose my mine, that’s worth a million, at least; and get ten thousand dollars and a parole. A paroled man can’t locate a claim–nor an ex-convict, neither. The Silver Treasure is the last claim that I’ll ever get; and I’m going to hold onto it, by grab!”
“You’re crazy,” declared Bunker, “didn’t I say we’d get you a pardon? Well, a pardon restores you to citizenship–you can locate all the claims you want.”
“Yes, sure; if I’m pardoned! But I know that danged Dutchman–he wouldn’t turn a hand to get me out of the Pen’ if you’d give him a hundred thousand dollars. He’s got it in for me, for not buying his claim when I took the Silver Treasure from you; and more’n that, he’s afraid of me, because if I ever get out─”
“Oh, don’t be a dammed fool all the rest of your life,” burst out Bunker Hill impatiently. “If you’d quiet down a little and quit fighting your head, maybe your friends would be able to help you. I might as well tell you that I’ve been to the Governor and told him the facts of the case; and he’s practically promised, if the Professor will come through, to give you a full pardon with citizenship. Now be reasonable, Denver, and quit trying to whip the world, and we’ll get you out of this jack-pot. Give old Murray your mine–you can never law it away from him–and take your ten thousand dollars; then move to another camp and make a fresh start where there’s nobody working against you. Of course I’m Murray’s pardner–he put one over on me–but at the same time I reckon I’m your friend. Now there’s the proposition and you can take it or leave it–I ain’t going to bother you again.”
“Nope, it don’t look good to me,” answered Denver promptly, “there’s too many ifs and ands. And I’ll stay here till I rot before Bible-Back Murray will ever get that mine from me. He hired that bunch of gun-men to jump my claim twice when he had no title to the mine, and then he hired Chatwourth and Slogger Meacham to get me in the door and kill me. They made a slight mistake and got the wrong man, then sent me to the Pen’ for murder. That’s the kind of a dastard you’ve got for a pardner but you can tell him I’ll never give up. I’ll fight till I die, and if I ever get out─”
“Yes, there you go again,” burst out Bunker Hill bitterly, “you ain’t got the brain of a mule. If I wasn’t to blame for loaning you that gun and leaving you out of my sight, I’d pass up your case for good. But I didn’t have no better sense than to slip you my old six-shooter, and now Mrs. Hill can’t hardly git over it so I’ll give you another try. My daughter, Drusilla, is coming home next week and she hasn’t even heard about this trouble. Now–are you going to stay here and meet her as a convict, or will you come and meet her like a gentleman. This ain’t my doin’s–I’d see you in hell, first–but Mrs. Hill says when you get out on parole we’ll be glad to receive you as our guest.”
Denver stopped and considered, smiling and frowning by turns, but at last he shook his head mournfully.
“No,” he muttered, “what will she care for a poor ex-con? No, I’m down and out,” he went on to Bunker, “and she’ll hear about it, anyhow. It’s too late now to pretend I’m a gentleman–my number has burned in like a brand. All these other prisoners know me and they’ll turn me up anywhere; if I go to the China Coast one of ’em would show up, sooner or later, and bawl me out for a convict. No, I’m ruined as a gentleman, and old Murray did it; but by God, if I live, I’ll teach him to regret it–and he won’t make a dollar out of me. That claim is tied up till John D. Rockefeller himself couldn’t get it away from me now; and it’ll lay right there until I serve out my sentence or get a free pardon from the Governor. I won’t agree to anything and─”
He stopped abruptly and looked away, after which he reached out his hand.
“Well, much obliged, Bunk,” he said, trying to smile, “I’m sorry I can’t accommodate you. Just thank Mrs. Hill for what she has done and–and tell her I’ll never forget it.”
He went back to his work and old Bunk watched him wonderingly, after which he rode solemnly away. Then the road-making dragged on–clearing away brush, blasting out rock, filling in, grading up, making the crown–but now the road-boss was absent minded and oblivious and his pride in the job was gone. He let the men lag and leave rough ends, and every few moments his eyes would stray away and look down the canyon for the stage. And as the automobiles came up he scanned the passengers hungrily–until at last he saw Drusilla. There was the fluttering of a veil, the flash of startled eyes, a quick belated wave, and she was gone. Denver stood in the road, staring after her blankly, and then he threw down his pick.
“Send me back to the Pen’” he said to the guard, “I’m going to apply for parole.”
