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
