My "Pardner" and I

CHAPTER XI. – OWNER OF THE PEACOCK MINE

THE next morning Vance was up at an early hour for a morning walk. He followed the winding road up the hill-side toward Gray Rocks. The air was fresh and invigorating; the sun was just rising over the eastern mountains. Robins and mountain thrushes were twittering gaily their morning songs. He mentally compared the stifled life so prevalent in the great cities to the healthful and exhilarating prospect about him.

A shadow flitted across his mind. It was J. Arthur Boast’s inquiry in regard to Louise Bonifield. “But why should I be so ready to come to her rescue? What right have I to be her champion? They may be old acquaintances, but they certainly are not friends. She is too noble a character to form an alliance of friendship with such an individual as Boast. He is critical, cold, calculating, and, I believe, unprincipled.”

Walking on in an aimless way, he followed a path that led by Gray Rocks on toward the Peacock. Presently he saw a well-dressed man in middle life walking toward him. There was an unmistakable look of good living and prosperity – a general air of superiority about him. His round, fat face was smooth shaven, except a bristly dark moustache. His nose was large and obtrusive. In his shirt front glistened a diamond of great value, while its counterpart reflected the morning sun from a massive ring on one of his fat, short fingers.

“Good morning,” said he.

Vance returned the salutation, and presently the pompous stranger introduced himself as Rufus Grim, owner of the Peacock.

“Yes, I have heard of you,” replied Vance.

"You’re the young man from New York, I reckon,” said Grim.

“New York is my home.”

“Yes, I have heard about you. I rather expected you over to see me. I assure you, Mr. Gilder,” he went on, “it would afford me great pleasure to show you through the Peacock. She is a fine piece of property, I can tell you; none better. If you’ll walk down this way a little we can see the old prospect shaft where the precious metal of the Peacock was first discovered.”

Vance readily consented, and presently they came to an old, open shaft near the brow of the mountain overlooking the village of Gold Bluff and the valley below.

“Here,” said Rufus Grim, with a wave of his fat hand, “is where I commenced prospecting fifteen years ago. I was one of the pioneers in this mining camp. Sometimes I did not know where the next meal was coming from, but I worked on, day after day; first for wages, and then for an interest in what, at the time, was looked upon as a labor and money losing investment. I stuck to it; the other fellows didn’t. Finally I bought out the other fellows, and if you have heard very much about the history of Gold Bluff and the prosperity of her mines, of course you have heard about me. In fact,” he said, with vulgar braggadocio, “the history of the Peacock and my own are so interwoven that you couldn’t very well hear of one and not know all about the other.”

“Yes,” replied Vance, “I have heard a great deal of you. Mr. Grim, and am delighted to have the pleasure of knowing you personally.”

“Yes, I presume,” said Grim, as he looked away toward the valley that nestled beneath their feet, “I presume you’ve heard a great deal about Rufus Grim that is not true, and precious little to my credit. I have not a doubt but what the busy-bodies of Gold Bluff have told you that old, worn-out story about Steve Gibbons and Hank Casey, and how unjustly I treated them; but I can tell you,” he continued with warmth, “there’s not a word of truth in all that you may have heard. No, sir, I have climbed the ladder step by step and built up my own fortune, and whatever I am to-day, I have nobody to thank but myself.”

“I assure you,” said Vance, “I have heard nothing particularly to your discredit. In fact, I have heard next to nothing at all, except that you were the owner of the Peacock, and that it is a paying property.”

Rufus Grim looked at Vance at first as if he doubted him, and then expressed his surprise that no one had told him what a mean man he was. “If you get acquainted with that young scoundrel, Boast, he’ll tell you quick enough – a miserable story; how I cheated Casey and Gibbons out of their share of the mine; but I say it’s false,” he continued, as he brought his fat hands down together, “not a word of truth in any of their statements. No, sir. You see,” he went on, turning to the old prospect shaft, “I have put a wall around this so that it may be preserved. It gratifies me to come here occasionally and think over the hard times of my prospecting life and the change that has come. It came, sir, because I made it come. Yonder is my home,” said he, waving his hand toward an elegant residence located in the suburbs of the village, with beautiful grounds about it. “If there is any better in the Fish River mining district, I don’t know it.”

"You’re home,” said Vance, “is certainly a lovely looking place.”

“You are at liberty,” said Grim “to come and see me whenever you desire. I can’t promise you more than this, that you will be welcome.” Grim made this last remark as if he was bestowing a great favor upon a stranger within the gates of Gold Bluff; indeed, one might have imagined him Lord Mayor of some municipality granting the freedom of the city to some favored guest.

Vance thanked him for the invitation. With a stately bow to Vance, Grim turned and walked toward the works on the Peacock, and Vance returned to the hotel refreshed from his walk, and interested in the fragments of the story he had heard from the owner of the Peacock.

At the appointed hour he called for Louise, and, together, they walked briskly toward Silver Point Lake.

Louise was all animation and life, and thought nothing of the two miles’ walk which lay before them.

Indeed, she had followed these mountain paths from her early childhood, and felt less fatigue after a tramp of a half-dozen miles than many a city belle after walking a half-dozen blocks.

It might be well to explain that Louise’s mother was a lady of great culture and refinement, and belonged to one of the oldest families of Baltimore. She died when Louise was only four years old. A spinster sister of Colonel Bonifield tried to persuade her brother to give up his daughters while he was leading a life in the mountains, and let than be reared to womanhood at the old Bonifield home in Virginia, but Ben Bonifield could not do this. The loss of his wife was a severe blow, and to part with his daughters, Virginia and Louise, could not be thought of. Therefore, Aunt Sully had accepted her brother’s invitation to make her home in the mountains, and take upon herself the care and training of her brother’s children.

Aunt Sally was a lady in the olden time possessed of uncommon gifts and a finished education, not only in classical literature, but also in music and painting. Louise had proven a more apt scholar than her elder sister, Virginia. Aunt Sally had been a most painstaking instructress, and her wards had grown up with minds enriched and cultured, while their physical development was in keeping with the wild freedom of a health-sustaining mountain country.

In her later years, however, Aunt Sally had become greatly dissatisfied with her brother and his attachment for Gray Rocks, and she had developed a querulous disposition, which, at times, was very annoying to Ben Bonifield. She lost no opportunity to express her opinion that “he was fooling his time away” while working on Gray Rocks.

As Vance and Louise walked along that morning toward Silver Point Lake, he could not help glancing at the ruddy glow on the fair cheeks of his companion. He listened to her childish talk of the many excursions which she had made with her father far over some of the tallest mountains that lav before them, and of numerous “fish frys” they had enjoyed at Silver Point Lake.

While he listened to the sweet music of her voice, he mentally speculated as to what sort of a friendship, if any, could possibly exist between such a fair creature and J. Arthur Boast. Presently, looking up at Vance with her large blue eyes, she said:

“We may have company at the lake.”

“Why, how is that?” inquired Vance in some surprise.

“I received a note,” replied Louise, “from Bertha Allen, inviting me to go horseback riding to-day. In my reply I explained my previous engagement with you. Just before starting this morning I received a note from her saying that she and her cousin, Arthur Boast, would try to join our fishing party. Of course,” she said, with a sweet little laugh, “you do not know who Bertha Allen is. Bertha Allen,” she went on, “is Mr. Rufus Grim’s step-daughter. Mr. Grim married Mrs. Allen when Bertha was a girl in her early teens. Mrs. Allen is Colonel Boast’s sister, and Bertha and Arthur are, therefore, cousins.”

Vance did not fancy the prospect of meeting Boast, and felt that his happiness for the day would certainly be very incomplete if Boast was to be one of the fishing party.

“I have met Mr. Boast,” said Vance, with just a tinge of resentment in his voice.

“I hope you like him,” said Louise, as she turned her lovely face toward him with a pleading look in her eyes.

“May I ask you why you hope so?” asked Vance, in almost a defiant tone.

There was no maidenly blush on Louise’s cheeks as she replied with the simplicity of a child:

“Why, Mr. Gilder, there is hardly anybody that likes Arthur, and I sometimes feel sorry for him. Mr. Grim says very hard things about him, and no one seems to be his friend.”

“Perhaps he is unworthy,” replied Vance.

For a moment Louise was silent, and then said:

“The judgment of the world, Mr. Gilder, is often at fault. We may judge with a degree of accuracy art, music, fame, or power, but it is hardly wise to apply the same rule to a human being.”

CHAPTER XII – TROUT FISHING

A RRIVING at the lake by a circuitous path, they found themselves on the banks of a lovely sheet of water, several hundred feet wide and perhaps a mile in length. The distinct reflection of the foliage, trees and mountains, which rose several hundred feet on the opposite side, made a double picture of enchanting loveliness.

“We have been waiting for you,” said Bertha Allen, in a flute-like voice. She was a cooing sort of a young lady, with a dainty lisp, which she evidently regarded as becoming. She embraced Louise and gave her one of her sweetest kisses, and in a half sotto voice lisped, “how beautiful you look to-day!”

Vance was presented, and Bertha honored him with one of her stateliest bows. There was no alternative, as Boast extended his hand and observed that he had met Mr. Gilder before, but to accept the situation and make the best of it.

Vance saw in Bertha Allen a young lady of about five and twenty, rather tall and slender, with a wasp-like waist. She had a small head and face, with heavy braids of dark brown hair, which corresponded with her long eyelashes of a dark hue. Her eyes never looked straight at anyone, but she continually practiced a bewitching habit of shy observation, evidently considering it fascinating. Her mouth was small, and a noticeable dimple was in her chin. There was a delicate pink upon her cheeks, which Vance noticed as the day wore on, did not come and go, but remained as one of her permanent features. There was a poetry in her movements, however, which admirably fitted her slow, soft tone of lisping-speech. Her slender form was robed in a pretty costume of pink, with black lace and ribbons. It was a costume of frills and laces, coquetishly arranged, making her graceful figure more symmetrical in arrangement. There were puffings here and there, which concealed defects, if any existed, and revealed her womanly charms to the best advantage. She talked a good deal, and called Louise her own “dear darling.” Here every sentence was a lisp, and she told Cousin Arthur he was “simply horrid to kill the poor worms in baiting the hooks.”

Vance noticed that Roast was ready at any time to neglect his stylish cousin to engage in conversation with Louise. He found himself interpreting Bertha Allen’s attempts to entertain and interest him, as the act of an accomplice, to enable Boast to have a tete-a-tete with Louise. There was consolation, however, in the fact that he did not believe Louise favored Arthur Boast’s attentions.

“How Arthur and Louise are enjoying themselves!” lisped Bertha Allen, in a sweet, confiding way, to Vance.

“Do you think their enjoyment is superior to ours?” asked Vance.

“No more than mine,” she replied demurely, “but possibly more than yours.” This was followed by a silvery little laugh.

“I fear I am not very entertaining,” said Vance.

"On the contrary, Mr. Gilder,” replied Bertha, “I think you are a very charming companion. Are you from Virginia?” she asked.

“No; my people were from Virginia. I was born and reared in New York City.”

“The Bonifields are Virginians. They seem to think,” continued Bertha, “that all good people come from Virginia or Baltimore. I sometimes wish I had been born in Virginia.”

"I never noticed that peculiarity,” replied Vance, “in either Colonel Bonifield or his daughter.”

“Oh, I don’t mean, Mr. Gilder, they are affected. Don’t you think I am horrid to go on talking this way to you? But really, is not Louise one of the sweetest little darlings in the world?”

Vance was bored, but turning toward Bertha Allen and smiling at her pretty up-turned face, replied:

“You ask me so many questions, Miss Allen, that I do not know which to answer first.”

She looked archly at Vance, and said: “Do not answer either of them, for I know I would be dissatisfied with your reply. Is not that a beautiful botanical specimen? Really, Mr. Gilder,” she continued, “I sometimes do not know what I am saying. I know you will think me awfully stupid.”

The well modulated and lisping voice of Bertha Allen possessed a charm of its own, and Vance found himself interested in studying the difference between the sweet, simple, unaffected Louise, and the affected, calculating Miss Allen.

“Don’t you think, Mr. Gilder, that Louise has great individuality?”

“I believe her to be a most exemplary young lady,” replied Vance, “and possessed of a good mind.”

“Oh, you think that, do you?” said Bertha, lisping and laughing like the silvery tones of a flute. “You are not the only one, Mr. Gilder, that thinks that way. I mean Cousin Arthur. Oh, he’s awfully smitten.”

“Indeed!” replied Vance.

“What a beautiful picture,” said Bertha presently. “The waters mirror the trees and the mountains so distinctly. Let us look over the bank at our own reflections.”

“Permit me to hold your hand,” said Vance, “and I will prevent your falling. There – can you see yourself?”

“Oh, just splendidly!” lisped Bertha, “it is clear as a French plate mirror. Shall I support you, Mr. Gilder, while you look?”

“No, thank you,” replied Vance, “I am not fond of looking at homeliness. I would rather look at you.”

“Oh, Mr. Gilder, you men are such flatterers! I thought better things of you.”

“And why of me?” asked Vance, teasingly.

“Louise has spoken of you so many’ times,” she replied, “and in such flattering terms, that I was very anxious to meet you. Indeed, I had quite made up my mind that you were different from other men. Let us turn down this way, Mr. Gilder. Let me see – what was I saying? I thought you must be different; but I guess men are all about alike.”

“I feel highly honored,” replied Vance, “to think that Miss Bonifield should have spoken of me at all.”

Bertha stopped and looked at Vance for a moment in silence, and then said:

“Men are so conceited. There is no sentiment, I assure you, in Louise.”

“Your frankness is quite charming, Miss Allen.”

“Oh, do you think so?” said Bertha, with a sweet lisp.

“Yes: and as to Miss Bonifield, I beg to differ from you. She certainly possesses in a high degree that sentiment peculiar to the children of nature. She loves all that is natural, and in the tenderness of her heart, pities the assumed.”

"How unfortunate, Mr. Gilder,” said Bertha, “that love is not reciprocal.”

Before Vance could reply, Louise called to them and soon after she and Boast came up, declaring the day had been a great success. Arthur and Vance divided the catch equally, and soon with their baskets swinging from their shoulders, they started for home. Bertha was profuse in her invitations to Mr. Gilder to call, and he promised to do so. He was quite glad, however, when they finally separated and he had Louise all to himself.

“I hope you have enjoyed the day as much as you anticipated, Mr. Gilder,” said Louise.

“If I am anything,” replied Vance, “I am frank; and therefore confess I would have enjoyed it far more without Boast and his pretty cousin.”

“I knew you would think her pretty,” said Louise; “everyone does.”

“And do you think she is pretty?” asked Vance.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Louise, “I have seen no one, even in your great city of New York, half so handsome as Bertha.”

“You are certainly generous in your compliments,” said Vance.

“Bertha has such a sweet way about her, and she always makes one feel so at his ease.”

Before Vance had time to reply, Colonel Bonifield waved his pipe and blew out a cloud of smoke as an act of welcome to the returning fishermen. Vance displayed his long string of speckled beauties, and the Colonel assured him they had made a great success. “I have been thinkin’ of yo’ all day,” he continued, “and had half a mind, upon my honor I did, suh, to come oveh and help yo’ out.” Soon after. Vance took leave of the Bonifields, and started for the hotel. His respect for generous-hearted Louise was increasing. “Yes,” said Vance to himself, “she is a child of nature. She does not know how to dissemble, and her heart is too pure to be resentful.” His pleasant reverie was broken by encountering Boast at the hotel, who had arrived a little before him.

His shoes had been exchanged for polished ones, yet he complained about his negligee appearance, and stooped to brush the least speck of dust or cigar ashes that might have found lodgment on his trousers or coat sleeves, and kept assuring Vance that he knew he “looked rougher than a miner.”

As a matter of fact, he was spotlessly at-attired, as was his custom. Even in his office at Waterville, he seemed backward about doing any business, for fear of soiling his hands in ink, or getting his desk out of order. Stepping into the bar-room of the hotel, they found seats near an open door, and Vance determined to gain as much information as he could from what Boast might have to say. As they seated themselves, Vance said:

“I met Mr. Grim this morning.”

“Oh. did you?” replied Boast. “There is a man,” he continued, “that ought to be hung. He’s a robber!”

“A robber?” asked Vance.

“Yes. Fifteen years ago,” continued Boast, “my father was the richest man in this part of Idaho. He was engaged then as now in the cattle and horse ranching business. He owns a very large ranch three miles from here down the valley. Grim came to the mining camp without a dollar in his pocket and worked by the day. An opportunity presented itself for him to steal from his associates. He not only stole everything in sight, but by fraud and misrepresentation secured possession of the Peacock.

“He is an ignorant old boor.

“Ten years ago he married my aunt, the widow Allen, who is fully fifteen years his senior. He wanted a position in society and a home. My aunt is a stickler on all that’s polite, but notwithstanding her training and all of old Grim’s wealth, she has been unable to gild him over with even an appearance of culture, learning or decency. I never call at his house. They own perhaps the finest residence in the state of Idaho. If you will talk with Rufus Grim half an hour, it will be a wonder if he does not tell you that I am the biggest scoundrel outside the penitentiary; and it is all because my cousin Bertha is my friend. Sometimes I think he is afraid I will marry her. I believe he is in love with Bertha himself, and is only waiting for my aunt to die. It may be unwise for me to talk so plainly, Mr. Gilder, but when I think of that old reprobate, I become desperate.”

There was certainly no half insinuation in this statement, but rather a fiendish denunciation of the rich miner.

“I think,” said Boast, “we’d better have something to drink. I have a bottle in my pocket, but you are not very sociable, and I don’t presume you will drink with me.”

“No,” said Vance, “I am just as much obliged, but I do not feel the need of any stimulant this evening.”

"I have abstained all day,” said Boast, “out of respect for the ladies.” His voice began to sound piping, and his restless eyes no longer looked squarely at Vance, but confined themselves to side-long glances, as if he were trying to discover what his feelings were toward his cousin and Miss Louise. “They are pretty fair specimens, eh, for the mountains? The ladies, I mean; the ladies.”

Vance answered in the affirmative.

“My cousin is terribly taken with you, Mr. Gilder; if she was not my cousin I would feel jealous of you.” As Vance made no reply, Boast continued: “I know I am going down hill at a pretty rapid rate, all on account of this red liquor.” Tipping up the bottle, he took a swallow, coughed immoderately afterward, and made wry faces, as if he were mentally damning all the “red liquor” to perdition.

“There’s only one thing that will ever save Bertha Allen, and that is for old Grim to die. My aunt would inherit the wealth, and of course, in that event, Bertha would be an heiress. At present, she is entirely dependent upon his generosity. I understand,” continued Boast, “Colonel Bonifield has about reached the 300 foot level. If I have one hope greater than another, it is that he will strike it ten times richer than old Grim ever did. In that event,” he continued, while he furtively glanced at Vance, “there will be another heiress in Gold Bluff.”

That night, after Vance found the seclusion of his room, he worked far into the early hours of morning, finishing a letter to the Banner, a letter full of decided opinions.

CHAPTER XIII. – THE STAGE RIDE

THE following morning Vance forwarded to the Banner office a two column article, which he considered the finest of all his western letters.

The chief was at Buzzard’s Bay enjoying a much needed rest, when Vance’s letter was received. The assistant managing editor did little more than glance over the manuscript and observe to the dramatic critic, as he hung the copy on the hook, that “Young Gilder was sending in some excellent articles from the Northwest.” The article was headed “Two Honorable Exceptions.” It proceeded, in a most logical manner, to give the output of precious metals from the mining town of Butte City.

His statistics were carefully revised, showing there was five times as much capital per capita in the mining camp of Butte City, with her 50,000 people, as in the cities of New York, Philadelphia or Boston.

Vance had spent a good deal of time in preparing the article, and every statement was supplemented with irrefragable proof. The latter half of the article was devoted to Waterville and the agricultural resources of the Thief River Valley. The exports of surplus crops had increased from 100 carloads per annum to 3,000 carloads in four years’ time, and a clever comparison was drawn between the farmers of eastern and New England states and the farmers of the great Thief River Valley, showing that for a given amount of labor, the farmer in the Thief River Valley received at least three dollars where the eastern farmer received only one.

The wonderful water power in the rapids of the Thief River, where the new town of Waterville was building, was also dwelt upon, as well as the centrality of location of the new city – not only from a local standpoint, but as to the entire northwestern section of the United States. The yield of wheat and other cereals was briefly referred to, all showing that Gilder had been most painstaking in preparing the article.