a glass of brandy, and held out his hand.
“Put it there, young man,” he said impressively. “I’m the only man here who’s working alone, and I’ve got a claim as good as any of them, right next to those lucky devils who’ve been panning out nuggets all day. I’ve got a shanty all to myself, and there’s heaps of room for you. Blarmed if I didn’t take a fancy to you the moment you came in! Plank down the coin, and we’re pards.”
“What’s the figure? I ain’t no blooming Vanderbilt, you know; be easy.”
Mr. Hamilton meditated.
“I’ll take two hundred dollars, and you take a third of the swag, or five hundred, and go yer halves. That’s liberal.”
On the banks of the Blue River the men toiled hard by day, and slept heavily at night. But high above their heads, in the little wooden shanty at the head of the gorge, that dull, sickly light shone steadily on.
X. A DEBAUCH AND A TRAGEDY
Mr. Hamilton was drunk, fiercely and unmistakably drunk. There could be no doubt about it, although he betrayed none of the usual signs of plebeian intoxication. He was not shouting or singing, or displaying any violent signs of affection for his boon companion and partner. He was not—in a word—maudlin. He sat on a wooden bench with his hands on his knees and his chin thrust forward; whilst opposite to him, as though fascinated by the fierce glare of those red, bloodshot eyes, Mr. Skein was indulging in a very hollow affectation of thoroughly enjoying himself. With his hands in his pockets, and his sallow cheeks flushed by his very moderate share of the empty bottle which lay between them, he was feebly essaying to sing the chorus of a popular comic song:
“Oh, my, tell ‘em to stop!
Such was the cry of Maria
When she cried ‘Whoa!’
They said Let her go!’
And—”
“Shut up that d—d row, you blithering idiot!”
Mr. Skein closed his jaws with a snap.
“What’s the matter with it?” he asked feebly. “I know I haven’t got much of a voice, but that’s no reason why you should snarl a fellow’s head off.”
“Much of a voice! It’s like the squeak of a hell-cat,” Mr. Hamilton remarked between his teeth. “Turn your rat’s face this way. I’m drunk, and you know it. Now, hark ‘ee. What the hell do you mean by sitting there and asking me questions about my private affairs, eh?”
“I—I didn’t mean any harm,” faltered Skein, with chattering teeth. “I’ve told you all about myself.”
“All about yourself! Yes, and it sounded like a blooming pack of lies,” growled the other. “Bah! what do I care about you and your pettifogging, crawling little life? Sit up, man, and pull yourself together. Don’t crouch there and look at me out of the corners of your eyes, as though I were going to eat you.”
“You’re such an odd fellow, Jim. You’re—”
“Ay, you’ll find I’m odd before you’ve done with me. Pick up that bottle. Is it empty?”
Skein turned it upside down. Not a drop trickled out. Mr. Hamilton expressed his disappointment with a savage growl.
“Open that cupboard.”
Skein obeyed promptly.
“There’s a black bottle there, half full, unless you’ve been guzzling it on the sly. Out with it.”
Skein’s head and shoulders disappeared in the recess. In a moment he produced the bottle and passed it over. Mr. Hamilton handled it for awhile with affection, passing his hands up and down it with affectionate gentleness. Then he raised it to his lips, and held it there while it gurgled seven times. As he set it down he caught his partner’s eye watching him timidly. He held out the bottle to him.
“Drink,” he commanded.
Skein took the bottle, raised it to his lips, and set it down. Mr. Hamilton scowled. He had been listening for the gurgle, and there had been none. Naturally he felt annoyed.
He got up with some difficulty, and seized the bottle with one hand, and the back of his partner’s head with the other.
“Now, drink,” he shouted thickly. “Drink, you puling idiot! No shamming. Down with it like a man.”
With a trembling hand Skein guided the neck of the bottle to his mouth. Instantly it was held there like a vice. The raw, fierce spirit poured down his throat as hot as liquid fire. He coughed, spluttered, yelled. The tears streamed down his cheeks, and he grew purple to the forehead. Then with a mighty laugh Mr. Hamilton withdrew his hand, and, carrying the bottle with him, resumed his seat.
“Hark ‘ee, Christopher,” he said, frowning till his thick eyebrows met, and his eyes glowed underneath them like pieces of live coal. “You know I’m drunk. You’ve shirked the bottle yourself on purpose. You’ve been asking me questions—pumping me, by thunder, just as though I was some commonplace idiot to be turned inside out by a sick-faced insect like you. Perhaps you didn’t mean anything. Better for you that you didn’t. Perhaps I’m suspicious. Dare say I am. I don’t mind telling you this much, you miserable young cub. I’m low down, low down as hell, but I’ve been a gentleman, and an English gentleman, too, and hunted and shot, and had my town place and country place, and seen more of life than you’ve ever heard or read of. And I’m not quite done yet. I’ve got the disposal of a huge estate and a great name in my hand at this very moment. Ha, ha, ha! It’s a fine thing! There’s a man in the old country who trembles and turns pale at the mention of my name. He’s a proud man, too, one of the old sort, but you go to him and tell him that Jim Hu—Hamilton’s outside to have a word with him, and, Lord, how he’d flop!”
Mr. Skein was himself again. His teeth had ceased to chatter, and his bead-like eyes were sparkling. He seemed to have forgotten even his fear.
“Why don’t you bleed him?” he whispered.
Mr. Hamilton laughed softly. It was an evil laugh. Even his admiring partner drew a little further away. It was a laugh which suggested a good many things, but certainly not mirth.
“Ay, why don’t I?” he said. “Well, I’ll tell you, pard. You ain’t a bad little sort, and you wouldn’t try any games on me, I don’t think. I’m a bit hasty with my shooting irons when I’m roused. You remember that, my kid, and if you don’t want daylight letting into your body, keep a still tongue in your ugly head. Now I’ll tell you. I was in England—not very long ago—never mind how long. There are two of them; one don’t know, the other does. I was fixing things up when I got into a row—never mind what sort—it was a hell of a row, though! I had to bolt. Out here a man’s life more or less don’t count. Lord, it’s the sort of place to be jolly in, this is! But I’ve written to those chaps. I’m going to run ‘em up, one against the other. Christopher, my boy, if you were pards with me here,” he clapped his hand upon his chest, “your fortune would be made. But you ain’t, you see.”
Skein
