BUT Corliss did go back to see her, and before the day was out. A little bitter self-communion had not taken long to show him his childishness. The sting of loss was hard enough, but the thought, now they could be nothing to each other, that her last impressions of him should be bad, hurt almost as much, and in a way, even more. And further, putting all to the side, he was really ashamed. He had thought that he could have taken such a disappointment more manfully, especially since in advance he had not been at all sure of his footing.
So he called upon her, walked with her up to the Barracks, and on the way, with her help, managed to soften the awkwardness which the morning had left between them. He talked reasonably and meekly, which she countenanced, and would have apologized roundly had she not prevented him.
“Not the slightest bit of blame attaches to you,” she said. “Had I been in your place, I should probably have done the same and behaved much more outrageously. For you were outrageous, you know.”
“But had you been in my place, and I in yours,” he answered, with a weak attempt at humor, “there would have been no need.”
She smiled, glad that he was feeling less strongly about it.
“But, unhappily, our social wisdom does not permit such a reversal,” he added, more with a desire to be saying something.
“Ah!” she laughed. “There’s where my Jesuitism comes in. I can rise above our social wisdom.”
“You don’t mean to say,—that—?”
“There, shocked as usual! No, I could not be so crude as to speak outright, but I might finesse, as you whist-players say. Accomplish the same end, only with greater delicacy. After all, a distinction without a difference.”
“Could you?” he asked.
“I know I could,—if the occasion demanded. I am not one to let what I might deem life-happiness slip from me without a struggle. That” (judicially) “occurs only in books and among sentimentalists. As my father always says, I belong to the strugglers and fighters. That which appeared to me great and sacred, that would I battle for, though I brought heaven tumbling about my ears.”
“You have made me very happy, Vance,” she said at parting by the Barracks gates. “And things shall go along in the same old way. And mind, not a bit less of you than formerly; but, rather, much more.”
But Corliss, after several perfunctory visits, forgot the way which led to Jacob Welse’s home, and applied himself savagely to his work. He even had the hypocrisy, at times, to felicitate himself upon his escape, and to draw bleak fireside pictures of the dismal future which would have been had he and Frona incompatibly mated. But this was only at times. As a rule, the thought of her made him hungry, in a way akin to physical hunger; and the one thing he found to overcome it was hard work and plenty of it. But even then, what of trail and creek, and camp and survey, he could only get away from her in his waking hours. In his sleep he was ignobly conquered, and Del Bishop, who was with him much, studied his restlessness and gave a ready ear to his mumbled words.
The pocket-miner put two and two together, and made a correct induction from the different little things which came under his notice. But this did not require any great astuteness. The simple fact that he no longer called on Frona was sufficient evidence of an unprospering suit. But Del went a step farther, and drew the corollary that St. Vincent was the cause of it all. Several times he had seen the correspondent with Frona, going one place and another, and was duly incensed thereat.
“I’ll fix ’m yet!” he muttered in camp one evening, over on Gold Bottom.
“Whom?” Corliss queried.
“Who? That newspaper man, that’s who!”
“Aw—general principles. Why’n’t you let me paste ’m that night at the Opera House?”
Corliss laughed at the recollection. “Why did you strike him, Del?”
“General principles,” Del snapped back and shut up.
But Del Bishop, for all his punitive spirit, did not neglect the main chance, and on the return trip, when they came to the forks of Eldorado and Bonanza, he called a halt.
“Say, Corliss,” he began at once, “d’you know what a hunch is?” His employer nodded his comprehension. “Well, I’ve got one. I ain’t never asked favors of you before, but this once I want you to lay over here till to-morrow. Seems to me my fruit ranch is ’most in sight. I can damn near smell the oranges a-ripenin’.”
“Certainly,” Corliss agreed. “But better still, I’ll run on down to Dawson, and you can come in when you’ve finished hunching.”
“Say!” Del objected. “I said it was a hunch; and I want to ring you in on it, savve? You’re all right, and you’ve learned a hell of a lot out of books. You’re a regular high-roller when it comes to the laboratory, and all that; but it takes yours truly to get down and read the face of nature without spectacles. Now I’ve got a theory——”
Corliss threw up his hands in affected dismay, and the pocket-miner began to grow angry.
“That’s right! Laugh! But it’s built right up on your own pet theory of erosion and changed riverbeds. And I didn’t pocket among the Mexicans two years for nothin’. Where d’you s’pose this Eldorado gold came from?—rough, and no signs of washin’? Eh? There’s where you need your spectacles. Books have made you short-sighted. But never mind how. ’Tisn’t exactly pockets, neither, but I know what I’m spelling about. I ain’t been keepin’ tab on traces for my health. I can tell you mining sharps more about the lay of Eldorado Creek in one minute than you could figure out in a month of Sundays. But never mind, no offence. You lay over with me till to-morrow, and you can buy a ranch ’longside of mine, sure.”
“Well, all right. I can rest up and look over my notes while you’re hunting your ancient river-bed.”
“Didn’t I tell you it was a hunch?” Del reproachfully demanded.
“And haven’t I agreed to stop over? What more do you want?”
“To give you a fruit ranch, that’s what! Just to go with me and nose round a bit, that’s all.”
“I do not want any of your impossible fruit ranches. I’m tired and worried; can’t you leave me alone? I think I am more than fair when I humor you to the extent of stopping over. You may waste your time nosing around, but I shall stay in camp. Understand?”
“Burn my body, but you’re grateful! By the Jumpin’ Methuselah, I’ll quit my job in two minutes if you don’t fire me. Me a-layin’ ’wake nights and workin’ up my theory, and calculatin’ on lettin’ you in, and you a-snorin’ and Frona-this and Frona-that——”
“That’ll do! Stop it!”
“The hell it will! If I didn’t know more about gold-mining than you do about courtin’——”
Corliss sprang at him, but Del dodged to one side and put up his fists. Then he ducked a wild right and left swing and side-stepped his way into firmer footing on the hard trail.
“Hold on a moment,” he cried, as Corliss made to come at him again. “Just a second. If I lick you, will you come up the hillside with me?”
“And if I don’t, you can fire me. That’s fair. Come on.”
Vance had no show whatever, as Del well knew, who played with him, feinting, attacking, retreating, dazzling, and disappearing every now and again out of his field of vision in a most exasperating way. As Vance speedily discovered, he possessed very little correlation between mind and body, and the next thing he discovered was that he was lying in the snow and slowly coming back to his senses.
“How—how did you do it?” he stammered to the pocket-miner, who had his head on his knee and was rubbing his forehead with snow.
“Oh, you’ll do!” Del laughed, helping him limply to his feet. “You’re the right stuff. I’ll show you some time. You’ve got lots to learn yet what you won’t find in books. But not now. We’ve got to wade in and make camp, then you’re comin’ up the hill with me.”
“Hee! hee!” he chuckled later, as they fitted the pipe of the Yukon stove. “Slow sighted and short. Couldn’t follow me, eh? But I’ll show you some time, oh, I’ll show you all right, all right!”
“Grab an axe an’ come on,” he commanded when the camp was completed.
He led the way up Eldorado, borrowed a pick, shovel, and pan at a cabin, and headed up among the benches near the mouth of French Creek. Vance, though feeling somewhat sore, was laughing at himself by this time and enjoying the situation. He exaggerated the humility with which he walked at the heel of his conqueror, while the extravagant servility which marked his obedience to his hired man made that individual grin.
“You’ll do. You’ve got the makin’s in you!” Del threw down the tools and scanned the run of the snow-surface carefully. “Here, take the axe, shinny up the hill, and lug me down some skookum dry wood.”
By the time Corliss returned with the last load of wood, the pocket-miner had cleared away the snow and moss in divers spots, and formed, in general design, a rude cross.
“Cuttin’ her both ways,” he explained. “Mebbe I’ll hit her here, or over there, or up above; but if there’s anything in the hunch, this is the place. Bedrock dips in above, and it’s deep there and most likely richer, but too much work. This is the rim of the bench. Can’t be more’n a couple of feet down. All we want is indications; afterwards we can tap in from the side.”
As he talked, he started fires here and there on the uncovered spaces. “But look here, Corliss, I want you to mind this ain’t pocketin’. This is just plain ordinary ’prentice work; but pocketin’”—he straightened up his back and spoke reverently—“but pocketin’ is the deepest science and the finest art. Delicate to a hair’s-breadth, hand and eye true and steady as steel. When you’ve got to burn your pan blue-black twice a day, and out of a shovelful of gravel wash down to the one wee speck of flour gold,—why, that’s washin’, that’s what it is. Tell you what, I’d sooner follow a pocket than eat.”
“And you would sooner fight than do either.” Bishop stopped to consider. He weighed himself with care equal to that of retaining the one wee speck of flour gold. “No, I wouldn’t, neither. I’d take pocketin’ in mine every time. It’s as bad as dope; Corliss, sure. If it once gets a-hold of you, you’re a goner. You’ll never shake it. Look at me! And talk about pipe-dreams; they can’t burn a candle ’longside of it.”
He walked over and kicked one of the fires apart. Then he lifted the pick, and the steel point drove in and stopped with a metallic clang, as though brought up by solid cement.
“Ain’t thawed two inches,” he muttered, stooping down and groping with his fingers in the wet muck. The blades of last year’s grass had been burned away, but he managed to gather up and tear away a handful of the roots.
“What’s the matter?” Corliss asked.
“Hell!” he repeated in a passionless way, knocking the dirt-covered roots against the pan.
Corliss went over and stooped to closer inspection. “Hold on!” he cried, picking up two or three grimy bits of dirt and rubbing them with his fingers. A bright yellow flashed forth.
“Hell!” the pocket-miner reiterated tonelessly. “First rattle out the box. Begins at the grass roots and goes all the way down.”
Head turned to the side and up, eyes closed, nostrils distended and quivering, he rose suddenly to his feet and sniffed the air. Corliss looked up wonderingly.
“Huh!” the pocket-miner grunted. Then he drew a deep breath. “Can’t you smell them oranges?”