like a gentleman–and he invested very heavily in real estate, too–but this Mr. Blount was always out for his interest and Honest John would skin a dead flea.”
“Honest John!” challenged Wiley, looking up from his eating with an ugly glint in his eye, but the Widow was far away.
“Yes, Honest John Holman,” she sneered, without noticing his resentment. “They called him Honest John. Did you ever know one of these ‘Honest John’ fellows yet that wasn’t a thorough-paced scoundrel? Well, old John Holman he threw in with Blount to deprive Colonel Huff of his profits and, with these street certificates everywhere and no one recording their transfers, the Colonel was naturally deceived into thinking that the selling was from the outside. But all the time, while they were selling their stock and hammering down the price of Paymaster, they were telling the Colonel that it was only temporary and he ought to support the market. So he bought in what he could, though it wasn’t much, as he was interested in other properties, and then when the crash came he was left without anything and Blount and Holman were rich. The great panic came on and Blount foreclosed on everything, and then Mr. Huff fell out with John Holman and they closed the Paymaster down. That was ten years ago and, with the litigation and all, the stock went down to nothing. The whole camp went dead and all the folks moved away–but have you ever been through the mine? Well, I want you to go–that ground has hardly been scratched!”
Wiley Holman glanced up doubtfully from under his heavy eyebrows and the Widow became voluble in her protests.
“No, sir,” she exclaimed, “I certainly ought to know, because the Colonel was Superintendent; and when he had been drinking–the town was awful, that way–he would tell me all about the mine. And that was his phrase–he used it always: ‘That ground has hardly been scratched!’ But when he fell out with old John Holman he–well, there was an explosion underground and the glory-hole stope caved in. They cleaned it out afterwards and hunted around, but all the rich ore was gone; but I’m just as certain as I’m sitting here this minute the Colonel knew where there was more! He never would admit it–he was peculiar, that way, he never would discuss his business before a woman. But he wouldn’t deny it, and when he had been drinking–well, I know it’s there, that’s all!”
She paused for her effect but Mr. Wiley, the mining man, was singularly unimpressed. He continued eating in moody silence and the Widow tried the question direct.
“Well, what do you think about it?” she demanded bluffly. “Would you like to consider the property?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he answered impersonally. “I’m on my way up north.”
“Well, when you come back, then. Since my husband is gone I’m so sick and tired of it all I’ll consider any offer–for cash.”
“Nope,” he responded, “I’m out for something different.” Then to stem the tide of her impending protest, he broke his studious silence. “I’m looking for molybdenum,” he went on quickly, “and some of these other rare metals that are in demand on account of the war. Ever find any vanadium or manganese around here? No, I guess they’re all further north.”
He returned to his meal and the Widow surveyed him appraisingly with her bold, inquisitive eyes. She was a big, strapping woman, and handsome in a way; but the corners of her mouth were drawn down sharply in a sulky, lawless pout.
“Aw, tell me the truth,” she burst out at last. “What have you got against the property?”
A somber glow came into his eyes as he opened his lips to speak, and then he veiled his smouldering hate behind a crafty smile.
“The parties that I represent,” he said deliberately, “are looking for a mine. But the man that puts his money into the Paymaster property is simply buying a lawsuit.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the Widow, rousing up indignantly in response to this sudden thrust.
“I mean, no matter how rich the Paymaster may be–and I hear the whole district is worked out–I wouldn’t even go up the hill to look at it until you showed me the title was good.”
The Widow sat and glowered as she meditated a fitting response and then she rose to her feet.
“Well, all right, then,” she sulked, “if you don’t want to consider it–but you’re missing the chance of your life.”
“Very likely,” he muttered and reached for his hat. “Much obliged for cooking my dinner.”
He started for the door, but she flew swiftly after him and snatched him back into the room.
“Now here!” she cried, “I want you to listen to me–I’ve got tired of this everlasting waiting. I waited around for ten years on the Colonel, to settle this matter up, and now that he’s gone I’m going to settle it myself and get out of the cussed country. Maybe I don’t own the mine, but I own a good part of it–I’ve got two hundred thousand shares of stock–and I could sell it to-morrow for twenty thousand dollars, so you don’t need to turn up your nose. There must be something there after all these years, to bring an offer of ten cents a share; but I wouldn’t take that money if it was the last act of my life–I just hate that Honest John Holman! He cheated my husband out of everything he had–and yet he did it in such a deceitful way that the Colonel would never believe it. I’ve called him a coward a thousand times for tolerating such an outrage for an instant, and now that he’s gone I’m going to show Honest John that he can’t put it over me!”
She shook her head until her heavy black hair flew out like Medusa’s locks and then Wiley laughed provokingly.
“All right,” he said, “but you can’t rope me in on your feuds. If you want to give me an option on your stock in the company for five or ten cents a share I may take a look at your mine. But I’ll tell you one thing–you’ll sign an agreement first to leave the country and never come back. I’m a business man, working for business people, and these shotgun methods don’t go.”
“Well, I’ll do it!” exclaimed the Widow, passing by his numerous insults in a sudden mad grab at release. “Just draw up your paper and I’ll sign it in a minute–but I want ten cents a share!”
“Ten cents or ten dollars–it makes no difference to me. You can put it as high as you like–but if it’s too high, my principals won’t take it. I can’t stop to inspect it now, because I’m due up north, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You give me an option on all your stock, with a written permission to take possession, and if the other two big owners will do as much I’ll come back and consider the mine. But get this straight–the first time you butt in, this option and agreement is off!”
“What do you mean–butt in?” demanded the Widow truculently, and then she bit her lip. “Well, never mind,” she said, “just draw up your papers. I’ll show you I’m business myself.”
“Huh!” he grunted and, whipping out a fountain pen, he sat down and wrote rapidly at a table. “There,” he said tearing the leaf from his notebook and putting it into her hands, “just read that over and if you want to sign it we’ll close the deal, right here.”
The Widow took the paper and, turning it to the light, began a labored perusal.
“Memorandum of agreement,” she muttered, squinting her eyes at his handwriting, “hmm, I’ll have to go and get my glasses. ‘For and in consideration of the sum of ten dollars–to me in hand paid by M. R. Wiley,’ and so forth–oh well, I guess it’s all right, just show me where to sign.”
“No,”
