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CHAPTER V
MOTHER TRIGEDGO
“Well, I’ll tell you,” confided Big Boy, moving closer to Old Bunk and lowering his voice mysteriously, “I know you’ll think I’m crazy, but there’s something to that stuff. Maybe we don’t understand it, and of course there’s a lot of fakes, but I got this from Mother Trigedgo. She’s that Cornish seeress, that predicted the big cave in the stope of the Last Chance mine, and now I know she’s good. She tells fortunes by cards and by pouring water in your hand and going into a trance. Then she looks into the water and sees a kind of vision of all that is going to happen. Well, here’s what she said for me–and she wrote it down on a paper.
“‘You will soon make a journey to the west and there, in the shadow of a place of death, you will find two treasures, one of silver and the other of gold. Choose well between the two and─”
“By grab, that’s right, boy!” exclaimed Old Bunk enthusiastically, “she described this place down to a hickey. You came west from Globe and when you went by here the shadow was still on those hills; and as for a place of death, Apache Leap got its name from the Indians that jumped over that cliff. Say, you could hunt all over Arizona and not find another place that came within a mile of it!”
“That’s right,” mused Big Boy, “but I was thinking all the time that that place of death would be a graveyard.”
“Sure, but how could a graveyard cast a shadow–they’re always on level ground. No, I’m telling you, boy, that there cliff is the place–lemme tell you how it got its name. A long time ago when the Indians were bad they had a soldiers’ post right here where this town stands, and they kept a lookout up on the Picket Post butte, where they could heliograph clear down to Tucson. Well, every time a bunch of Indians would go down out of the hills to raid some wagon-train on the trail this lookout would see them and signal Tucson and the soldiers would do the rest. It got so bymeby the Indians couldn’t do anything and at last Old Cochise got together about eight hundred Apaches and came over to wipe out the post. It looked easy at the time, because there was less than two hundred men, but the major in command was a fighting fool and didn’t know when he was whipped. The Apaches all gathered up on the top of those high cliffs–it’s flat on the upper side–and one night when their signal fires had burned down the soldiers sneaked around behind them. And then, just at dawn, they fired a volley and made a rush for the camp; and before they knowed it about two hundred Indians had jumped clean over the cliff. They killed the rest of them–all but two or three bucks that fought their way through the line–and now, by grab, you couldn’t get an Indian up there if you’d offer him a quart of whiskey. It’s sure bad medicine for Apaches.”
“Isn’t it wonderful!” exclaimed Big Boy, “there’s no use talking–this sure is the place of death. And say, next time you go over to Globe you go and see Mother Trigedgo–I just want to tell you what she did!”
“All right,” sighed Old Bunk, who preferred to talk business, and he settled down to listen.
“This Mother Trigedgo,” began Big Boy, “isn’t an ordinary, cheap fortune-teller. Those people are all fakes because they’re just out for the dollar and tell you what they think you want to know. But Mother Trigedgo keeps a Cousin-Jack boarding house and only prophesies when she feels the power. Sometimes she’ll go along for a week or more and never tell a fortune; and then, when she happens to be feeling right, she’ll tell some feller what’s coming to him. Those Cousin Jacks are crazy about what she can do, but I never went to a seeress in my life until after we had that big cave. I’m a timber man, you see, and sometimes I take contracts to catch up dangerous ground; and the best men in the world when it comes to that work are these old-country Cousin Jacks. They’re nervy and yet they’re careful and so I always hire ’em; but when we were doing this work down in the stope of the Last Chance, they began talking about Mother Trigedgo. It seems she’d told the fortune of a boy or two–they were all of them boarding at her house–and she was so worried she could hardly cook on account of them working in this mine. It was swelling ground and there were a lot of old workings where the timbering had given way; and to tell you the truth I didn’t like it myself, although I wouldn’t admit it.”
“Well, it was the twenty-second of April, and all that morning we could hear the ground working over head and when it came noon we went up above, as we says, for a breath of fresh air. But while we were eating, there was a Cousin Jack named Chambers fetched up this old talk about Mother Trigedgo, and how she’d predicted he’d be killed in a cave if he didn’t quit working in the stope; and when our half-hour’s nooning was up he says: ‘I’ll not go down that shaft!’
“We were all badly scared, because that ground was always moving, and finally we agreed that we’d take a full hour off and work till five o’clock. Well, we waited till after one before we went to the collar and just as I was stepping into the cage the whole danged stope caved in!”
“Well, sir, I went back to my room and got every dollar I had and gave Mother Trigedgo the roll. I could easy earn more but if I’d been caught in that cave they’d never even tried to dig me out. That was the least I could do, considering what she’d done for me; but Mother Trigedgo took on so much about it that I told her it was to have my fortune told. Well, she tried the cards and dice and consulted the signs of the Zodiac; and then one day when she felt the power strong she poured a little water in my hand. That made a kind of pool, like these crystal-gazers use, and when she looked into it she began to talk and she told me all about my life. Or that is, she told me what she thought I ought to know, and gave me a copy of the Book of Fate that Napoleon always consulted. And here it ain’t three months till I make this journey west and find the place she prophesied.”
“Yes, and silver, too!” added Old Bunk portentously, “she hit it, down to a hickey. And now, if you’d like to inspect those claims─”
“No, hold on,” protested Big Boy still pondering on his fate, “I’ve got to find these treasures myself. And one of them was of gold. What’s the chances around here for that?”
“Danged poor,” grumbled Bunker as he saw his hopes gone glimmering, “don’t remember to have seen a color. But say, old Bible Back is drilling for copper and that’s a good deal like gold. Same color, practically, and you know all these prophecies have a kind of symbolical meaning. A golden treasure don’t necessarily mean gold, and I’ve got a claim─”
“Say, who’s that up there?” broke in Big Boy uneasily and Old Bunk looked around with a jerk.
An old, white-haired man, wearing a battered cork helmet, was peering over the bank and when he perceived that his presence was discovered he came shuffling down the trail. He was a short, fat man, in faded shirt and overalls; and on his feet he wore a pair of gunboat brogans, thickly studded on the bottom with hob-nails. A space of six inches between the tops of his shoes and the worn-off edge of his trousers exposed his shrunken shanks, and he carried a stick which might serve for cane or club as circumstances demanded. He came down briskly with his broad toes turned out in grotesque resemblance to a duck and when Bunker Hill saw him he snorted resentfully and rose up from his seat.
“Have you seen my burros?” demanded the old man, half defiantly, “I can’t find dose rascals nowhere. Ah, so; here’s a stranger come to camp! Good morning, I’m glad to know you.”
“Good morning,” returned Big Boy glancing doubtfully at Bunker Hill, “my name is Denver Russell.”
“Oh, excuse me!” spoke up Bunker with a sarcastic drawl, “Mr. Russell, this is Professor Diffenderfer, the eminent buttinsky and geologist.”
“Ah–so!” beamed the Professor overlooking the fling in the excitement of the meeting, “I take it you’re a mining man? Vell, if it’s golt you’re looking for I haf a claim up on dat hill dat is rich in auriferous deposits.”
“Yes,” broke in Bunker giving Big Boy a sly wink, “you ought to inspect that tunnel–it’s unique in the annals of mining. You see the Professor here is an educated man–he’s learned all the big words in the dictionary, and he’s learned mining from reading Government reports. We’re quite proud of his achievements as a mining engineer, but you ought to see that tunnel. It starts into the hill, takes a couple of corkscrew twists and busts right out into the sunshine.”
“Oh, never mind him!” protested the Professor as Bunker burst into a roar, “he will haf his choke, of course. But dis claim I speak of─”
“And that ain’t all his accomplishments,” broke in Bunker Hill relentlessly, “Mr. Diffenderfer is a count–a German count–sometimes known as Count No-Count. But as I was about to say, his greatest accomplishments have been along tonsorial lines.”
A line of pain appeared between the Professor’s eyes–but he stood his ground defiantly. “Yes,” went on Bunker thrusting out his jaw in a baleful leer at his rival, “for many years he has had the proud distinction of being the Champion Rough-Riding Barber of Arizona.”
“Vell, I’ve got to go,” murmured the Professor hastily, “I’ve got to find dem burros.”
He started off but at the plank across the creek he stopped and cleared his throat. “Und any time,” he began, “dat you’d like to inspect dem claims─”
“The Champeen–Rough-Riding–Barber!” repeated Old Bunk with gusto, “he won his title on the race-track at Tucson, before safety razors was invented.”
“Shut up!” snapped the Professor and, crossing the plank with waspish quickness, he went squattering off down the creek. Yet one ear was turned back and as Bunker began to speak he stopped in the trail to listen.
“He took a drunken cowboy up in the saddle before him,” went on Bunker with painful distinctness, “and gave him a close shave while the horse was bucking, only cutting his throat three times.”
“You’re a liar!” yelled the Professor and, stamping his foot, he hustled vengefully off down the trail.
“Say, who is that old boy?” enquired Big Boy curiously, “he might know where I’d find that gold.”
“Who–him?” jeered Bunker, “why, that old stiff wouldn’t know a chunk of gold if he saw it. All he does is to snoop around and watch what I’m doing, and if he ever thinks that I’ve picked up a live one he butts in and tries to underbid me. Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll get you a horse and show you all over the district, and any claim I’ve got that you want to go to work on, you can have for five hundred dollars. Now, that’s reasonable, ain’t it? And yet, the way things are going, I’m glad to let you in on it. If you strike something big, here I’ve got my store and mine, and plenty of other claims, to boot; and if there’s a rush I stand to make a clean-up on some of my other properties. So come up to the house and meet my wife and daughter, and we’ll try to make you comfortable. But that old feller─”
“Nope,” said Big Boy, “I think I’d rather camp–who lives in those cave-houses up there?”
He jerked his head at some walled-up caves in the bluff not far across the creek and Old Bunk scowled reproachfully.
“Oh, nobody,” he said, “except the rattle-snakes and pack-rats. Why don’t you come up to the house?”
“I don’t need to go to your house,” returned Big Boy defiantly. “I’ve got money to buy what I need.”
“Yes, but come up anyway and meet my wife and daughter. Drusilla is a musician–she’s studied in Boston at the celebrated Conservatory of Music─”
“I’ve got me a phonograph,” answered Big Boy shortly, “if I can ever get it over here from Globe.”
“Well, go ahead and get it, then,” said Bunker Hill tartly, “they’s nobody keeping you, I’m sure.”
“No, and you bet your life there won’t be,” came back Big Boy, starting off, “I’m playing a lone hand to win.”
CHAPTER VI
THE ORACULUM
The palpitating heat lay like a shimmering fleece over the deserted camp of Pinal and Denver Russell, returning from Globe, beheld it as one in a dream. Somewhere within the shadow of Apache Leap were two treasures that he was destined to find, one of gold and one of silver; and if he chose wisely between them they were both to be his. And if he chose unwisely, or tried to hold them both, then both would be lost and he would suffer humiliation and shame. Yet he came back boldly, fresh from a visit with Mother Trigedgo who had blessed him and called him her son. She had wept when they parted, for her burdens had been heavy and his gift had lightened her lot; but though she wished him well she could not control his fate, for that lay with the powers above. Nor could she conceal from him the portion of evil which was balanced against the good.
“Courage and constancy will attend you through life’” she had written in her old-country scrawl; “but in the end will prove your undoing, for you will meet your death at the hands of your dearest friend.”
That was the doom that hung over him like a hair-suspended sword–to be killed by his dearest friend–and as he paused at the mouth of Queen Creek Canyon he wished that his fortune had not been told. Of what good to him would be the two hidden treasures–or even the beautiful young artist with whom he was destined to fall in love–if his life might be cut off at any moment by some man that he counted his friend? When his death should befall, Mother Trigedgo had not told, for the signs had been obscure; but when it did come it would be by the hand of the man that he called his best friend. A swift surge of resistance came over him again as he gazed at the promised land and he shut his teeth down fiercely. He would have no friends, no best of friends, but all men that he met he would treat the same and so evade the harsh hand of fate. Forewarned was forearmed, he would have no more pardners such as men pick up in rambling around; but in this as in all else he would play a lone hand and so postpone the evil day.
He strode on down the trail into the silent town where the houses stood roofless and bare, and as he glanced at the ancient gallows-frame above the abandoned mine fresh courage came into his heart. This city of the dead should come back to life if what the stars said was true; and the long rows of adobes now stripped of windows and doors, would awaken to the tramp of miners’ boots. He would find two treasures and, if he chose well between them, both the silver and the gold would be his. But neither wily Bunker Hill nor the palavering Professor should pull him this way or that; for Mother Trigedgo had given him a book, to consult on all important occasions. It was Napoleon’s Oraculum, or Book of Fate; and as Denver had glanced at the key–with its thirty-two questions covering every important event in human life–a thrill of security had passed over him. With this mysterious Oraculum, the Man of Destiny had solved the many problems of his life; and in question thirteen, that sinister number, was a test that would serve Denver well:
“Will the FRIEND I most reckon upon prove faithful or treacherous?”
How many times must that great, aloof man have put some friend’s loyalty to the test; and if the answer was in the negative how often had he avoided death by foreknowledge of impending treachery! Yet such friends as he had retained had all proved loyal, his generals had been devoted to his cause; and with the aid of his Oraculum he had conquered all his enemies–until at last the Book of Fate had been lost. At the battle of Leipsic, in the confusion of the retreat, his precious Dream Book had been left behind. Kings and Emperors had used it since, and seeresses as well; and now, after the lapse of a hundred years, it was published in quaint cover and lettering, for the guidance of all and sundry. And Old Mother Trigedgo, coming all the way from Cornwall, had placed the Book of Fate in his hands! There was destiny in everything, and this woman who had saved his life could save it again with her Oraculum.
Denver turned to the Mexican who, with two heavily-packed mules, stood patiently awaiting his pleasure; and with a brief nod of the head he strode down the trail while the mules minced along behind him. Past the old, worked-out mine, past the melted-down walls of abandoned adobe ruins, he led on to the store and the cool, darkened house which sheltered the family of Andrew Hill; but even here he did not stop, though Old Bunk beckoned him in. His life, which had once been as other people’s lives, had been touched by the hand of fate; and gayeties and good cheer, along with friendship and love, had been banished to the limbo of lost dreams. So he turned across the creek and led the way to the cave that was destined to be his home.
It was an ancient cavern beneath the rim of a low cliff which overlooked the town and as Denver was helping to unlash the packs Bunker Hill came toiling up the trail.
“Got back, hey?” he greeted stepping into the smoke-blackened cave and gazing dubiously about, “well, it’ll be cool inside here, anyway.”
“Yes, that’s what I figured on,” responded Denver briefly, and as he cleaned out the rats’ nests and began to make camp Old Bunk sat down in the doorway and began a new cycle of stories.
“This here cave,” he observed, “used to be occupied by the cliff-dwellers–them’s their hand-marks, up on the wall; and then I reckon the Apaches moved in, and after them the soldiers; but when the Lost Burro began turning out the ore, I’ll bet it was crowded like a bar-room. Them was the days, I’m telling you–you couldn’t walk the street for miners out spending their money–and a cliff-house like this with a good, tight roof, would bring in a hundred dollars a night, any time that it happened to rain. All them melted-down adobes was plumb full of people, the saloons were running full blast, and the miner that couldn’t steal ten dollars a day had no business working underground. They took out chunks of native silver as big as your head, and it all ran a thousand ounces to the ton, but even at that them worthless mule-skinners was throwing pure silver at their teams. They had mounted guards to ride along with the wagons and keep them from stealing the ore, but you can pick up chunks yet where them teamsters threw them off and never went back to find ’em.
“Did you ever hear how the Lost Burro was found? Well, the name, of course, tells the story. If one of these prospectors goes out to find his burros he runs across a mine; and if he goes out the next day to look for another mine he runs across his burros. The most of them are like the old Professor down here, they wouldn’t know mineral if they saw it; but of course when they grab up a chunk of pure silver and start to throw it at a jackass they can’t help taking notice. Well, that’s the way this mine was found. A prospector that was camping here went up on that little hill to rock his old burro back to camp and right on top he found a piece of silver that was so pure you could cut it with your knife. That guy was honest, he gave the credit to his burro, and, if the truth was known, half the mines in the west would be named after some knot-headed jackass. That’s how much intellect it takes to be a prospector.”
“No, I’ll tell you what’s the matter with these prospectors,” returned Denver with a miner’s scorn, “they do everything in the world but dig. They’ll hike, and hunt burros and go out across the desert; but anything that calls for a few taps of work they’ll pass it right up, every time. And I’ll tell you, old-timer, all the mines on top of ground have been located long ago. That’s why you hear so much about ‘Swede luck’ these days–the Swede ain’t too lazy to sink.
“That’s my motto–sink! Get down to bed-rock and see what there is on the bottom; but these danged prospectors just hang around the water-holes and play pedro until they eat up their grub-stakes.”
“Heh, heh; that’s right,” responded Bunker reminiscently, “say, did you ever hear of old Abe Berg? He used to keep a store down below in Moroni; and there was one of these old prospectors that made a living that way, used to touch him up regular for a grub-stake. Old Abe was about as easy as Bible-Back Murray when you showed him a rich piece of ore and after this prospector had et up all his grub he’d drift back to town for more. But on the way in, like all of them fellers, he’d stop at some real good mine; and after he’d stole a few chunks of high-grade ore he’d take it along to show to Abe. But after a while Old Abe got suspicious–he didn’t fall for them big stories any more–and at last he began to enquire just where this bonanza was, that the prospector was reporting on so favorable. Well, the feller told him and Abe he scratched his head and enquired the name of the mine.
“‘Why, I call it the Juniper,’ says the old prospector kind of innocent; and Abe he jumped right up in the air.
“‘Vell, dat’s all right,’ he yells, tapping himself on the chest, ‘but here’s one Jew, I betcher, dat you von’t nip again!’ Get the point–he thought the old prospector was making a joke of it and calling his mine the Jew-Nipper!”
“Yeah, I’m hep,” replied Russell, “say who is this feller that you call Bible-Back Murray–has he got any claims around here?”
“Claims!” repeated Bunker, “well, I guess he has. He’s got a hundred if I’ve got one–this whole upper district is located.”
“What–this whole country?” exclaimed Denver in sudden dismay, “the whole range of hills–all that lays in the shadow of the Leap?”
“Jest about,” admitted Bunker, “but as I told you before, you can have any of mine for five hundred.”
“Oh hell,” burst out Denver and then he roused up and a challenge crept into his voice. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that he’s kept up his assessment work? Has he done a hundred dollars worth of work on every claim? No, you know danged well he hasn’t–you’ve just been doing lead-pencil work.”
“That’s all right,” returned Bunker, “we’ve got a gentlemen’s agreement to respect each others monuments; and you’ll find our sworn statements that the work has been done on file with the County Recorder.”
“Yes, and now I know,” grumbled Russell rebelliously, “why the whole danged district is dead. You and Murray and this old Dutchman have located all the ground and you’re none of you doing any work. But when a miner like me blows into the camp and wants to prospect around he’s stuck for five hundred dollars. How’m I going to buy my powder and a little grub and steel if I give up my roll at the start? No, I’ll look this country over and if I find what I want─”
“You’ll pay for it, young man,” put in Bunker Hill pointedly, “that is, if it belongs to me.”
“Well, I will if it’s worth it,” answered Russell grudgingly, “but you’ve got to show me your title.”
“Sure I will,” agreed Bunker, “the best title a man can have–continuous and undisputed possession. I’ve been here fifteen years and I’ve never had a claim jumped yet.”
“Who’s this Bible-Back Murray?” demanded Denver, “has he got a clean title to his ground?”
“You bet he has,” replied Bunker Hill, “and he’s got my name as a witness that his yearly assessment work’s been done.”
“And you, I suppose,” suggested Denver sarcastically, “have got his name, as an affidavit man, to prove that your work has been done. And when I look around I’ll bet there ain’t a hole anywhere that’s been sunk in the last two years.”
“Yes there is!” contradicted Bunker, “you go right up that wash that comes down from them north hills and you’ll find one that’s down twelve hundred feet. And there’s a diamond drill outfit sinking twenty feet a day, and has been for the last six months. At five dollars a foot–that’s the contract price–Old Bible-Back is paying a hundred dollars a day. Now–how many days will that drill have to run to do the annual work? No, you’re all right, young man, and I like your nerve, but you don’t want to take too much for granted.”
“Judas priest!” exclaimed Russell, “twelve hundred feet deep? What does the old boy think he’s got?”
“He’s drilling for copper,” nodded Bunker significantly, “and for all you and I know, he’s got it. He’s got an armed guard in charge of that drill, and no outsider has been allowed anywhere near it for going on to six months. The cores are all stored away in boxes where nobodv can get their hands on them and the way old Bible-Back is sweating blood I reckon they’re close to the ore. But a hundred dollars a day–say, the way things are now that’ll make or break old Murray. He’s been blowing in money for ten or twelve years trying to develop his silver properties; but now he’s crazy as a bed-bug over copper–can’t talk about anything else.”
“Is that so?” murmured Denver and as he went about his work his brain began to seethe and whirl. Here was something he had not known of, an element of chance which might ruin all his plans; for if the diamond drill broke into rich copper ore his chance at the two treasures would be lost. There would be a big rush and the price of claims would soar to thousands of dollars. The country looked well for copper, with its heavy cap of dacite and the manganese filling in the veins; and it was only a day’s journey in each direction from the big copper camps of Ray and Globe. He turned impulsively and reached for his purse, but as he was about to plank down his five hundred dollars in advance he remembered Mother Trigedgo’s words.
“Choose well between the two and both shall be yours. But if you choose unwisely, then both will be lost and you will suffer humiliation and shame.”
“Say,” blurted out Denver, “your claims are all silver–haven’t you got a gold prospect anywhere?”
“No, I haven’t,” answered Old Bunk, his eye on the bank-roll, “but I’ll accept a deposit on that offer. Any claim I’ve got–except the Lost Burro itself–for five hundred dollars, cash.”
“How long is that good for?” enquired Russell cautiously and Bunker slapped his leg for action.
“It’s good for right now,” he said, “and not a minute after!”
“But I’ve got to look around,” pleaded Denver desperately, “I’ve got to find both these treasures–one of silver and one of gold–and make my choice between them.”
“Well, that’s your business,” said Bunker rising up abruptly. “Will you take that offer or not?”
“No,” replied Denver, putting up his purse and Old Bunk glanced at him shrewdly.
“Well, I’ll give you a week on it,” he said, smiling grimly, and stood up to look down the trail. Denver looked out after him and there, puffing up the slope, came Professor Diffenderfer, the eminent buttinsky and geologist.
