that night Power returned. He was so tired that he had practically to be carried to bed; but he contrived to tell the storekeeper that Jake should remain in Bison at his (Power’s) expense until certain business conditions had developed. Next day he was too exhausted to take any exercise; but sat in the veranda after breakfast, smoking and chatting with the habitués, whose varied surmises he shared, when a stranger whizzed through the township in the buggy, vanished in the direction of the Gulch, and returned with equal celerity of movement a couple of hours subsequently.
“Looks like a lawyer,” said some wiseacre. “Them fellers air allus on a hair-trigger when a mortgage falls in.”
“Is Willard’s time up?” inquired another man.
“Thar was talk about it afore this dry spell kem an’ cleared him out. Of course – ”
The speaker stopped suddenly. He was on the point of alluding to Nancy’s marriage, when he remembered that Power was present, and, in such circumstances, it is safe to assume that a gathering of rough western miners will display more real courtesy and consideration for the feelings of others than may be forthcoming in far more pretentious circles.
“No need to trip your tongue on my account,” laughed Power, reaching lazily for a glass of milk and seltzer. “You were going to say, I suppose, that when Mr. Willard’s daughter married a rich man the mortgage difficulty would disappear.”
“Somethin’ like that, Derry,” was the answer.
“Did you ever hear the amount of the mortgage?”
“Five thousand, I was told.”
Power laughed again. “Five thousand!” he cried. “Surely Nancy Willard cost more than that! Why, Marten gave me that amount as a rake-off on one job I put through for him this spring.”
The words were bitter as gall, though uttered in a tone of quiet banter. None spoke in reply. Each man there had seen Power and the girl scampering together through Bison on their ponies so often that the two were marked down by good-natured gossip as “made for each other.” Sympathy now would be useless and misplaced; so there was silence for awhile, until a safer and collectively interesting topic was broached by MacGonigal.
“Kin anybody here tell me what’s going on at the mill?” he asked suddenly.
The “mill,” as the agency through which many thousands of tons of low-grade telluride ore were transmuted weekly into a certain number of ounces of gold and silver, was the breath of life to Bison. If it stopped, the greater part of the little town’s inhabitants was aware instantly of bare cupboards and empty pockets. Work might cease at the mines for varying periods without causing vital harm to the community; but the metal pulses of the mill must beat with regularity, or Bison suffered from a severe form of heart disease. Consequently, there was no rush to volunteer information; though some of those present had had their suspicions that all was not as it should be with the giant whose clamant voice rang ever in their ears.
“Some books and things was carted from the office to Denver a-Wednesday,” said the know-all who had spoken about the mortgage.
“Why?”
The storekeeper’s tone was ominous, and the other man grinned uneasily.
“Guess it’s what they call an audit,” he said.
“Thar’s been two audits a year fer ten years at Bison, an’ the books hev never gone ter Denver afore.”
“Page has been nosin’ around, too, like as if he was takin’ stock,” put in a feeder, whose task it was to guide and shovel ore into the rolls.
“Page oughter know what’s in the mill by this time,” said MacGonigal, and indeed, the personage under discussion being the manager, the statement was almost excessively accurate.
“Thar was talk in the papers awhile sence about some new process fer treatin’ low-grade ores,” commented the feeder, apropos of nothing in particular. Then he seemed to wake into cheerful activity. “But what’s the use o’ meetin’ trouble halfways?” he cried. “Goldarn it! people said the mines was peterin’ out more’n a year ago, an’ we’re workin’ full spell this yer week… Who’s fer a fizz? I go on at six, an’ I hev to eat a line fust.”
That evening, before the store filled with the day men, and Power alone was listening, MacGonigal was more outspoken.
“I’ve a notion that the mill is goin’ ter close down, Derry,” he said glumly.
“Probably, for a time,” said Power.
Such prompt agreement was unexpected; but MacGonigal passed it without comment.
“Nit – fer good. They lost the main vein a year last Christmas, an’ the treatin’ of ounce ore has been a bluff whiles they s’arched high an’ low beyond the fault. No, Derry, Bison is busted. Me for Denver tomorrow, an’ any fellar kin hev this store at a vallyation, wid a good rake-off, too – dang it!”
Power was smoking placidly, and the gloomy prophecy of his friend did not appear to disturb him. He even affected to ignore the sigh with which MacGonigal turned away after gazing at him with an expression akin to dismay; for the stout man had the constitutional dislike of his kind to change, and the store had yielded a steady income since the inception of Bison.
“Say, Mac,” said Power after a long pause, “if you were to dig deep down into your pants, how much could you ante up?”
“Eight thousand dollars, ef I kep’ a grubstake,” came the instant response.
“And what is the mill worth?”
“It cost the best part of a hundred an’ fifty thousand.”
“I asked you what it is worth.”
“What it’ll fetch.”
“Can you figure it out?”
“There’s on’y the movable plant. A lot of money is sunk in cyanide vats, an’ rails, an’ buildin’s. Guess, when you come ter whittle it down ter rolls an’ engines, less the cost of takin’ ’em ter pieces an’ fixin’ ’em anywhar, you’d git ’em fer twenty thousand.”
“And plenty, too, for a mill erected ten years ago to deal with high-grade ore. You see, Mac, the scientific treatment of rich ores has developed so rapidly of late that the Bison mill is practically a back number; while we know that it cannot compete with the low-grade extractions now practised in Cripple Creek and at Leadville. No, you must cut down your estimate. When you buy that mill, Mac, you shouldn’t spring a cent beyond fifteen thousand, and begin by offering ten. At best, it would only form a nucleus for real work.”
“Me – buy – the – mill!” MacGonigal permitted himself to be astounded to the point of stupefaction.
“Yes, that is what will happen. But not a word of this to anyone. Start in and sell the store, by all means; provided you fix its value on the basis of live business, likely to improve.”
“Derry, air you wool-gatherin’, or what?”
“Unless I am greatly mistaken, Mac, you and I will gather as much wool during the next twelve months as we are likely to need for the remainder of our lives. I may be wrong, of course, but you will be perfectly safe. You will grab the mill at its breaking-up price, and you should
