The Winds of Chance Part 64

"Some French feller mak' lucky strike, eh?" 'Poleon was not greatly interested. "Where de place is? Who dis Frenchman?"

"It's a high bar somewhere above El Dorado--a mountain of pay gravel--an old river-bed or something. They say it's where all the gold came from, the mother lode. You can see it right at the gra.s.s roots--"

'Poleon started and his mouth opened; then he shook his head.

"By Gar! Dat's fonny! I seen gravel up dere, but me--I'm onlucky.

Never I quite get not'in'; always I'm close by when 'noder feller mak' strike."

Pierce still managed to control himself enough to explain: "They were shooting dead timber down into the gulch and they wore the snow off where the rim cropped out. It happened to be staked ground right there." Pierce's excitement, the odd light in his dancing eyes, bore to 'Poleon a significance. "Some Frenchman had taken it up, so they called it Frenchman's Hill."

Doret's blank, confounded stare caused the speaker finally to blurt out: "Good Heavens! man, wake up! I'm trying to break the news gently that you're a millionaire--the Frenchman of Frenchman's Hill. I don't want you to faint. First time in history a miner ever left his claim and another fellow came along--"

Doret uttered a feeble cry and rose to his feet. "Ma soeur!" he exclaimed. "She's got claim up dere--I stake it for her. For me, I don' care if I lose mine--plenty tam I come jus' so close as dis; but if dem feller jump her groun'--"

"Wait, wait! There's no question of anything like that. n.o.body has jumped your claim, or hers, either. The law wouldn't let 'em. I wonder if she knows--Why, she CAN'T know! I left her not two hours ago--"

"She don' know?"

Pierce shook his head. "She doesn't dream. I wish I'D known. I'd have loved to tell her."

'Poleon Doret gazed fixedly, curiously at the speaker. He nodded his head. A peculiar, set, hopeless look crept into his eyes; his broad shoulders sagged wearily. He had traveled far and swiftly on this young man's affairs; he had slept but little; and now a great fatigue mastered him. Oddly enough, too, that fierce, consuming desire to see Rouletta which had hourly gnawed at him was gone; all at once he felt that she was quite the last person he wished to face. This weakness, this smallness of spirit, was only temporary, he a.s.sured himself; it would soon pa.s.s, and then he would find the strength to go to her with his customary smile, his mask in place. Now, however, he was empty, cheerless, frightened by the portent of this new thing. It could have but one significance--it meant that he would lose his "sister," that she would have no further need of him.

Well, that was all right. It was something like this that he had worked for. Why cherish a mean envy of this happy boy? Why permit a narrow selfishness to mar this supreme moment?

Doret was not a grudging giver; he straightened himself finally, and into his tired eyes there came the gleam that Phillips had been waiting for.

"Bien!" he breathed. "My li'l bird goin' wear de plumage she deserve. She's goin' be reech an' happy all her life. By golly!

Dat's nice, for fac'. I feel lak gettin' drunk."

"She'd never stand for that."

"I spec' you tol' her you an' me is pardners on dis Frenchman'

Hill, eh? An' she's glad 'bout dat--"

"Oh, see here!" Pierce's tone changed abruptly. "Of course I didn't tell her. That's cold; it's off. D'you think I'd permit--"

The boy choked and stammered. "D'you imagine for a minute that I'd let you go through with a proposition like that? I understand why you made it--to get me away from the life I've been leading. It was bully of you, but--well, hardly. I'm not that sort. No, I've laid off the old stuff, absolutely--straightened out. I've lived ten years in the last ten days. Wait and see. 'Poleon, I'm the happiest, the most deliriously happy man you ever saw. I only want one thing. That's work and lots of it--the harder the better, so long as it's honest and self-respecting. What d'you think of that?"

"W'at I t'ink?" the woodsman said, warmly. "I t'ink dat's de bes'

news of all. Mon ami, you got reecher pay-streak in you as Frenchman' Hill, if only you work 'im hard. But you need pardner to get 'im out." He winked meaningly. "I guess mebbe you fin' dat pardner, eh?"

Pierce flushed; he nodded vigorously and laughed in the purest, frankest joy. "You're a good guesser. A partner--life partner! I-- She--Oh, my Lord! I'm overflowing! I'm--Funny thing, I've never said a word to her; she doesn't know--"

"Ho, ho!" cried the elder man.

"Oh, she does know, of course. If she didn't I wouldn't feel as I do, but we've never actually mentioned it. I've got to prove myself, understand? It came to me of a sudden, struck me all in a heap, I can tell you. I saw what a fool I'd made of myself. What a d.a.m.nable thing chance is, anyhow! It makes you, breaks you; carries you along and leaves you stranded finally, then sweeps you on again. Fortunately, she's big enough to understand and make allowances. If she weren't, I'd die. I wouldn't want to live and not make good. It's ecstasy and it's--pain. I'm frightened, too, at my own unworthiness--" Abruptly the speaker's voice ceased and he bowed his head.

'Poleon wet his dry lips and essayed to speak, but he could find nothing to say. Of course Rouletta was big enough to understand and make allowance for any human shortcomings. She was the sanest, the most liberal, the most charitable of girls. And it was true, too, that love came unbidden. He had learned that, to his cost. It was pretty hard to stand quietly and lend a sympathetic ear to this lucky devil; it took an effort to maintain a smile, to keep a friendly gaze fixed upon Phillips' face. The big fellow was growing weary of forever fighting himself. It would be a relief to get away and to yield to his misery.

But with a lover's fatuous absorption in his own affairs Pierce resumed: "I've been thinking lately how I came to this country looking for Life, the big adventure. Everything that happened, good or bad, was part of a stage play. I've been two people in one--the fellow who did things and the fellow who looked on and applauded--actor and audience. It was tremendously interesting in an unreal sort of way, and I jotted everything down mentally. I was stocking up with experience. Understand? Well, the whole thing has suddenly become very different. I'm not in the gallery now, not in the theater at all, not acting. And I thank G.o.d for it. I don't imagine that I make myself plain in the least--"

Evidently he had not; evidently, too, his auditor's mind had strayed slightly, for the latter said:

"I s'pose you t'inkin' all at once 'bout gettin'--marry, eh?"

Phillips paled; he uttered a panicky denial. "Not yet! Oh no--!

That is, I've THOUGHT about it a good deal--can't think of anything else--but it's too early yet. I'm in no position; I must make good first."

"For why it's too early? Mebbe dis gal goin' tak' lot of fun in he'p you mak' good."

"I wonder--"

"Sure t'ing. All women is lak dat. You goin' t'ink of her after dis, not yourse'f. She's got money--"

"Oh yes. That makes it hard, still--"

"Wal, you ain't broke, my frien', not wit' half interes' in Discovery on Frenchman' Hill."

"Once and for all," Pierce protested, in extreme agitation, "I tell you I won't take it. My Lord! that's generous! You're a princely fellow, Doret, but--the most you can give me is a job.

Work? Yes, I'll eat that up."

"All right. We talk 'bout dat 'noder tam. Now, mebbe so she lak hear de lates' news from you. Dere's plenty for tellin' her--'bout Joe McCaskey an' all de res'. You can spoke now, lak hones' man.

Sapre! Don' you s'pose she's waitin' to hear you say you love her?

An' how you goin' mak' big success? By Gar! I keeck you out dis cabin if you keep her waitin' some more!"

With a cry, half of trepidation, half of exultance, Phillips crushed his cap upon his head. "I--I've a notion to. I can ALMOST say it; anyhow, I can say enough so she'll understand. Gad! I will! I just needed you to stiffen me up." Fiercely he wrung the woodsman's hand, and, forgetful of all else but his new determination, moved toward the door. "Thanks for all you've done for me, old man, and all you've offered to do."

"Frenchman' Hill is nice place for two nestin' doves--fine place for sing an' be happy," the other reminded him.

In a choking voice Pierce exclaimed: "You're a prince, Doret, and I won't forget! A prince!"

He was gone; the cabin door had slammed shut with a crash. 'Poleon sank to a seat and with a long sigh bowed his head.

It was over; he had done his bit. For a long while he remained there inert, his patient, haggard face bent, his eyes fixed upon the floor. He felt very old, very much used up, and the labor of thinking was unbearable. When the fire had died and a chill had crept into the room he roused himself to note that it had grown dark. Manifestly, this would not do; there was the problem of living still to face. Sooner or later this very evening he must go to Rouletta and pretend to a joyousness he could never again know.

That meant more smiles, more effort; it would take all he had in him to carry it off, and, meanwhile, the more he let his mind dwell upon her the more unbearable became his thoughts. This solitude was playing tricks with him. Enough of it! He must get out into the lights; he must hear voices and regain the mastery of himself through contact with sane people. Perhaps in the saloons, the restaurants, he could absorb enough laughter to make safe the mockery he purposed; perhaps it would enable him to stamp a grin upon his features.

But his impulse was futile; in spite of himself he shrank from people and hid himself un.o.btrusively in a corner of the first place he entered. He was hurt, wounded, sick to death; he longed to creep away somewhere and be alone with his pain.

In order that he might the sooner be free to do so, he rose finally and slunk out upon the street. It would soon be time for Rouletta to go to work. He would get it over with.

Cap in hand, his heart beating heavily at the prospect of merely seeing her, he came on noiseless soles to her door. He could hear her stirring inside, so he took a deep breath and rapped softly.

She uttered a cry when she saw him standing there; then a sudden pallor crept into her cheeks, a queer constraint enveloped her.

Nevertheless, she put both her hands in his and drew him across the threshold. She said something which neither of them understood.

'Poleon's ears were roaring, but after a few moments he discovered that she was gently chiding him. Where had he been? Why had he delayed so long, knowing all the time that she was dying to see him and to hear his story? He could not understand her embarra.s.sment, her shyness, the fact that she seemed hurt.

"Wal, I'm tucker' out wit' travelin'," he declared. "Dat's hardes'

trip ever I mak'. You hear 'bout 'im, eh?--'bout how McCaskey tell de truth?"