MY “PARDNER” AND I

The breaking of a twig in some vast forest, or the dull echo of a miner’s pick in a rugged mountain canyon, alike suggest the solitude of Nature. The unwritten history of mining prospectors who search for yellow gold, or the advance guards of our civilization in the rich valleys of the West, are replete-with interest and dramatic incident. The “boom” town builder also plays a most conspicuous part in this unwritten drama.

There are no frayed-out remnants of a former greatness to be found on the frontier. A man sells for his intrinsic worth—no more, no less. Conditions that made men great in former generations are here active. and develop manhood in its highest form.

There is hardly a cross-road hamlet without its hotel, and usually a “Dick Ballard” presides. “Brainy men.” such as composed the Waterville Town Company, may be found wherever a new town is building, while a “Rufus Grim” is usually the autocrat of the mining camp.

The old “Colonel” represents a class of sturdy miners whose untiring labor occasionally gives to the world the golden keys of some fabulously rich discovery; while the greater number dedicate their lives to a fruitless search for hidden treasures, and finally die of disappointment and a broken heart.

“Louise,” in her unswerving devotion to her father, is a specimen of superior womanhood whose duplicate may be found in many a ranchman’s home throughout the nestling valleys of our y re at West.

Sometimes I imagine I was with “J. Arthur Boast” in his hiding place when he wrote that last letter and saw the spectral ghost that ever kept him company. The retribution perhaps was just, yet my sympathy lingers around the old prospect shaft.

Many of my readers will doubtless desire to express their criticism of GRAY ROCKS. Nothing will afford me more pleasure than to receive just criticisms, for it will at least enable me to escape similar errors in other stories that I am now engaged in writing.

Sincerely,

WILLIS GEORGE EMERSON.

ELM REST, August 20, 1894.

No. 1363 Central Park Boulevard, Chicago.

PARTIAL LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

I. The Mr. Gilder for Whom I am Looking is a Much Older Gentleman..[14]
II. He Clasped Vance’s Hand Warmly.................................[21]
III. A Letter Was Handed to Him....................................[30]
IV. My Salary Has Been Raised,.....................................[37]
V. Hello, Pardner! How D’.e Do.....................................[41]
VI. He Offered Vance Some Havanas,.................................[50]
VII. This ‘ere Town is Comin’ Out of the Kinks in Fine Shape.......[60]
VIII. He Forgot Time,..............................................[68]
IX. I Am Going to Give Him a Piece of My Mind......................[76]
X. Vance Turned and Saw J. Arthur Boast............................[82]
XI. “You’re the Young Man, I Reckon,” Said Grim, “From New York,"..[87]
XII. Don’t You Think I Am Horrid to Go on Talking this Way to You?.[96]
XIII. The Stage Ride..............................................[108]
XIV. Gentlemen, We Deliberate Upon the Destiny of Waterville......[114]
XV. Vance Was Presented to Miss Virginia Bonifield,...............[124]
XVI. We Have Cross-cut Into Whar’ the Vein Ought to Be............[135]
XVII. “Lost Your Position?” Said Louise, with Unmistakable Concern[143]
XVIII. Vance Handed Marcus Donald a Copy..........................[151]
XIX. They Are the Brainiest Lot of Men This Country Has Produced..[162]
XX. They Started Pell-mell Down the Mountain Load.................[171]
XXI. You Will Not Be Angry With Father, Will You?.................[179]
XXII. There Are Times, When It’s Necessary to Put My Foot Down....[189]
XXIII. “Yes,” Whispered Bertha, “I Love You So Much,”.............[207]
XXIV. A Dark Form Crouched Near,..................................[215]
XXV. Where Is the Powder?.........................................[228]
XXVI. A Guilty Conscience Needs No Accuser........................[236]
XXVII. Such Tender Things of Earth Are Sanctified in Heaven.......[256]

CHAPTER I.—VANCE GILDER.

ANCE GILDER had an ambition. It was to be a great journalist.

The sunshine that gleamed in at his western windows disclosed most luxurious apartments—indicating refinement and culture. The bric-a-brac; the leathern walls stamped with gilt; the frieze of palm-leaves; the chandelier; the richly carved book-case, filled with tawny-covered volumes; the upright piano, and a guitar which stood sentinel-like in a retired corner; together with India rugs and tiger skins on the floor before an open grate, half hidden by a large Japanese fan—bespoke wealth as well as refined taste.

Seated at an open escritoire with writing materials before him, on the evening of a June day, was Vance Gilder.

He was not more than twenty-five, of medium height, dark brown hair, soft and wavy as the silk of Indian corn, large brown eyes, a clear complexion, an aquiline nose, and a rather heavy, dark moustache, which in part hid a well-formed mouth.

Before him lay numerous packages of papers, but they were not claiming his attention. He was perusing a billet-doux written in a lady’s hand.

There was a refinement and gentleness in his face, while his dress and surroundings indicated a serious elegance, rich but unaffected.

“Who can she be?” was the exclamation that escaped him as he again read the letter which he held in his hand.

Tossing it down, he walked back and forth across the room with measured strides.

Stopping before the mantel, he lighted a cigar. “Louise Bonifield,” he ejaculated, between puffs of smoke, which he blew away in rings toward the ceiling, “where have I met her?

Where have I seen that name?”

Walking back to the escritoire, he took up the letter and read aloud:

Murray Hill Hotel, June 18.

Kind Sir:

Father and I arrived in the city last night. He wishes me to call on you at three o’clock this afternoon; business of special importance to himself.

Respectfully,

LOUISE BONIFIELD.

To Vance Gilder, Esq.

“No,” he said aloud, “I do not remember Miss Louise Bonifield. It is doubtless very stupid of me, and all that, but if ever I even heard the name before, it certainly has passed from my memory. She says three o’clock,” and glancing at the French time-piece which helped to make up the furniture of his room, he saw it was preparing to strike the hour of three.

Scarcely had the sound of the mellow cathedral bell died away, when the door-bell clanged out like a harsh echo of the clock’s last stroke.

The servant brought in a card bearing the name of “Louise Bonifield,” and received instructions to admit the visitor at once.

The rustling of skirts was soon heard in the hallway.

With the deportment of a queen, she accepted the proffered chair and raised to Vance’s face a pair of laughing blue eyes that might be dangerous. The parting of her rosy lips displayed her ivory teeth to advantage, while her evident embarrassment tinged with pink her beautiful cheeks.

“I called,” she stammered, “to see Mr. Vance Gilder.”

“At your service,” he replied, bowing low.

“But really, sir, are you Mr. Gilder?”

“I believe,” he replied, “that I enjoy the doubtful honor of that appellation.”

The half-hesitation of the visitor as she stood in the open door might have suggested momentary confusion, but reassurance seemed to assert itself as she complied with the melodious invitation of Vance Gilder to enter and be seated.

This vision of loveliness that entered the bachelor apartments of Vance Gilder might have been eighteen years old, but certainly no more. In stature she was of medium height, rather slender, and sustained herself "It must be,” she faltered, with increasing embarrassment, “all a mistake.”

Vance Gilder, with all his boasted matter-of-fact principles, was wonderfully interested in his fair visitor. She evidently was a stranger in the city, or a skilled actress. In referring to her afterwards, he spoke of her as a “dream of loveliness.”

He was too chivalrous to permit his visitor’s embarrassment to increase if he could help it and quickly assured her that it was not a very serious mistake, and asked in what way he could serve her, at the same time saying he regretted exceedingly that he did not answer the description of the Vance Gilder for whom she was seeking.

“The Mr. Gilder for whom I am looking,” said his fair visitor, “is a much older gentleman than you. He visited father some three years ago, at Gold Bluff, Idaho, and owns an interest in Gray Rocks, my father’s mine. My father is very anxious to meet Mr. Gilder; in fact, we have come all the way from Idaho expressly for that purpose. He would have called in person, but was taken ill last evening—so ill, indeed, that we found it necessary to summon a physician. We are stopping at the Murray Hill Hotel. I fear my father will be greatly disappointed.”

A shade of sadness stole over the usually buoyant face of Vance Gilder.

“I think I understand,” said he. “I bear the name of my father, who, after spending several months in the mining districts of Idaho, went to California, where he remained over a year, endeavoring to regain his health. He returned home a little less than two years ago and died within two months after his arrival.

“As his living representative, and in honor of his memory,” said he, with feeling, “if there is any way in which he could have served you or your father, had he lived, I will volunteer, to the extent of my ability, to act in his stead.”

“It certainly is very kind of you,” she replied, “but I am distressed at this intelligence, and know my father will be also. We learned to think a great deal of Mr. Gilder during his few months’ stay at Gold Bluff. You can certainly do my father a great service by calling on him.”

“I shall take great pleasure,” said Vance, in his earnest way, “in doing so. I am employed on the Banner, and my duties will prevent me calling before tomorrow at ten o’clock, but at that hour, tell your father he may expect me.”

She had risen while he was speaking, and with a face full of sympathy and kindness, thanked him for his promise; and before he realized what was transpiring, the hall door closed and she was gone.

The house from which she had taken her leave was one of the best overlooking Central Park, in New York City. Vance Gilder, the elder, was a man of great determination of character, and had accumulated a fortune while yet in the prime of life. He built for himself this house. It was surrounded by elegantly kept gardens and velvet lawns.

He retired from business late in the ‘60’., intending to devote himself to his wife and only son, then a mere child, and his library. Scarcely a year of such enjoyment was allowed him before his wife sickened and died, leaving him his son and his fortune. It was hardly more than natural that he should lavish a great deal of attention and wealth upon his child.

As his son grew to manhood, his father discovered a recklessness and extravagance which was sadly at variance with those economic principles which he himself had so studiously practiced. Vance stood fairly well in his classes, and after graduating at Princeton, went abroad, visiting the principal cities of Europe, and spending money in such a lavish way that at the expiration of a year his father summoned him home and remonstrated with him severely on his manner of living and his expensive habits.

Piqued at the rebuke, he quarreled with his father, and started out to make his way in the world alone. The estrangement was of short duration, however, and soon after the reconciliation he secured a position on the __Banner_ _, and assiduously devoted himself to the study of journalism. He gave up his follies and fast living, and found more enjoyment in his work on the Banner than he had ever found in swell dinners and midnight carousals at his club.

CHAPTER II.—THE OLD MINER.

ROOM in which we have introduced Vance Gilder to the reader, in the home overlooking Central Park, had been his from childhood, and furnished by his father in its present luxurious style, as a reward for his devotion to the profession of journalism.

His father had invested his income in real estate, and in the lapse of years found himself possessed of a fortune many times greater than he had ever anticipated. He traveled a great deal over the west, and at Gold Bluff, Idaho, he found in Ben Bonifield, the owner of Gray Rocks, a playmate of his youth.

Ben Bonifield had staked out a claim which he called “Gray Rocks,” and had worked away for several years with pick and shovel, believing that some day he would “strike it rich”—and from the output of other mining properties in that vicinity, it seemed as if his expectations might be realized some day.

He deeded a half interest in his mine to the elder Gilder, in consideration of certain moneys advanced him to develop the property. This one investment was the only one that Mr. Gilder ever made outside of New York City, and it is quite probable that in making this one it was not so much an investment as a desire to assist his boyhood’s friend. The deed which Ben Bonifield gave had been duly recorded, but in his travels on the Pacific coast he had in some way mislaid it, and on his return to New York City he had died without ever having mentioned the matter to his son. When his father died, Vance was bowed down with grief, while the old Scotch house-keeper and her husband could not have mourned more sincerely had the elder Gilder been related by the nearest ties of blood.

Vance found his father had not only left a fortune, but also a will. The date of this instrument showed that it was executed during the months of their estrangement, and had never been changed. The important part of the will, for this narrative, was a clause limiting Vance to an annuity of $5,000, provided he remained at the old homestead and gave employment and a home to the Scotch house-keeper and her husband; but the title to the vast property which he owned was not to pass into his custody until he was forty years of age.

To the credit of the son, it can be said that he entertained no enmity towards his father because of this provision, but regarded it as simple justice. In the meantime, he devoted himself with more energy than ever to his profession, was economical in his habits, and had the consolation of knowing that he was being advanced from time to time on the Banner, until he was now regarded as one of the most trusted men on that great journal.

To be a member of the Banner staff of newsgatherers was a position to be envied by those similarly employed on less imposing journals. His associates—the city editor, the religious editor, the dramatic critic, the police reporter, and the heads of several other departments—were in the habit of discussing the topics of the times from a strictly democratic standpoint, with the regularity with which day follows night.

The “old man,” or managing editor, could not take a deeper interest in the columns of the Banner than did his faithful coterie of assistants. The managing editor prided himself on his ability to recognize and command intellectual forces.

With the breaking of the dawn anew paper, filled with news deftly gathered from the four corners of the earth, was ushered into life, teeming with the world’s history of a day, to be discussed by the banker, the politician, and the professional and non-professional classes over the breakfast-table. Each issue was a daily history possessing a soul and character distinctly its own, which collectively made up the policy of one of the greatest journals of New York City. Before high noon of each day a newspaper has generally served its purpose—dies; is a thing of the past, and the record of events found in its columns becomes ancient history.

The following morning at ten o’clock, agreeable to his promise, Vance Gilder was at the Murray Hill Hotel, and sent up his card to Ben Bonifield. Instead of receiving in his room, the old gentleman joined Vance in the lobby. He was a typical character—once seen, never forgotten. An old Virginian by birth and education, he still retained the courtly polish of one of the southern aristocracy, which many years of mining life had not been able to wholly destroy. In stature he was fully six feet, and rather portly; his oval face was smooth-shaven, save an iron-gray moustache. He wore his hair rather long, and the rim of his black felt hat was broad as a sombrero. His Prince Albert coat of broad-cloth was of old-time date, and suggested a revival of ancient gentility.

“Glad to see yo’, suh; am delighted to meet a son of my old friend, Colonel Gilder.”

He clasped Vance’s hand warmly, and his face was full of sympathy as he referred to the recent information he had received concerning Mr. Gilder’s death. They soon found seats in a retired corner of the lobby, and after assuring Vance that he had entirely recovered from his recent illness, the old gentleman plunged into business.

“Yo’ know, of cou’se, that yo’r father owned a one-half interest in Gray Rocks?”

“No, I was not aware of the fact until your daughter named it to me yesterday,” replied Vance.

“Yo’ su’prise me, suh, yo’ really do,” said the old miner, “but it is true, nevertheless, and the deed is on record; and what is mo’, suh, Gray Rocks is destined to be the richest gold mine in Idaho. Yo’ see, I have been workin’ away on Gray Rocks for seven years—kep’ right at it, winter an’ summer, and while I have not ‘struck it’ yet, I am positive, suh, that if I had a little mo’ money to push the work, my most sanguine expectations would be mo’ than re’lized. We are now on the 200 foot level, but it seems, suh, it is not deep enough. A most wonderful showin’, in my opinion, suh, will be made when the 300 foot level is reached, and we have cross-cut into the vein.”

“I am not very well versed in regard to mining, in fact know next to nothing about it, but of course, as I am a half owner in a gold mine, I am naturally interested in having it developed.”

“Well, suh,” said the old gentleman, “yo’ see I am. I know all about mines. Yes, suh, I assure yo, on my honor, that I can tell ‘pay dirt’ as far as I can see it, suh, if I am sixty-five years old, Yo’ see, suh,” continued the old miner, “let us suppose this table is the top of the mountain. Now, where I place this ink-stand, is Gray Rocks; just beyond, here where I lay this pen-stalk, is the Peacock mine. It joins us directly on the nawth. The Excelsior is at this point, where I lay my eye-glasses, directly south of Gray Rocks. Both of them, suh, are payin’ immense dividends, and befo’ a year, with proper management, Gray Rocks will be doin’ the same. When he learned, suh, that I only had a half interest, he refused to talk with me any mo’ about it. He said he wanted all or none. Confidentially, Mr. Gilder, I consider old Grim the most ill-mannered man in the Fish River minin’ district, and us miners, suh, usually form a pretty correct idea of mankind in gene’l. I have been minin’ it now fo’ over thirty years, and while I have never ‘struck it’ yet, I assure yo’ on my word, suh, that I have mo’ confidence in Gray Rocks to-day than ever befo’.”

“Of course, Col. Bonifield,” said Vance, “I know nothing about your technical expressions of ‘sinking-shafts,’ ‘cross-cutting,’ and all that sort of thing, but I remember now of my father speaking of you on several occasions, and I doubt not, if he were living, he would gladly assist you in any way in his power. Personally, my means are limited, but if your wants are not too great, I will gladly give you my assistance.”

“Give me yo’re hand, suh! Why, Mr. Gilder, yo’re a gentleman that I’m proud to meet, suh.

“What we must do, suh, is to sink the shaft on Gray Rocks to a 300 foot level, and we will cross-cut into a vein of wealth, suh, that will make yo’ rich as a Vanterbilt. Yes, suh; take my word fo’ it. Now,” he continued, “there is old Grim; he owns a majority of the stock in the Peacock, and he wanted to buy out Gray Rocks, but of the old school, belonging to one of the oldest and proudest families of Virginia—yes, suh. Now, you have a half interest in Gray Rocks, and if yo’ can furnish the money, Mr. Gilder, to sink the shaft to the 300 foot level, I will go back to Gold Bluff and immediately commence the work—and mind, Mr. Gilder, I give yo’ my word that yo’ will never lose a dollar; no, suh, Gray Rocks is a sure winner. The claim is patented and our title is perfect; but we must do mo’, suh; we must sink our shaft, and it costs money to sink shafts, and a pow’ful sight of hard work into the bargain, suh. I came to New York especially to see yo’re father and have him help me by advancin’ a little mo’ money. He paid me $1,000, suh, fo’ a half interest in Gray Rocks. I told him, and I tell yo’ now, it will bring yo’ a million. Yes, suh, I pledge yo’ my word it will.”

The old gentleman’s words, his enthusiasm, his southern courtliness, and his unmistakable belief in Gray Rocks, carried Vance quite away, in anticipation of his half-ownership in a gold mine. He mentally computed the amount of money he had in the bank, and felt that he would willingly check out his last half-dollar to sink the shaft on Gray Rocks to a 300 foot level.

He had to his credit in the Chemical National Bank some fifteen thousand dollars, and finally ventured to ask about how much it would take to do the work.

“Why, yo’ see, suh,” replied the old miner, “the mo’ a fellow has, the quicker he can sink a shaft. Now, I could get along at present with, say $1,500, but $2,000 would be betteh, and $2,500 would be a great plenty.”

“Very well,” replied Vance, “I’ll advance you $2,500, and can bring it to you within a couple of hours.”

The old gentleman was highly delighted with Vance’s ready acquiescence in the matter, and shook his hand warmly, assuring him that he was a very true Virginian. Taking his leave, he quitted the hotel, and in less than two hours paid to Col. Bonifield $2,500.

The old gentleman was very urgent for Vance to remain and lunch with him.

“My Louise, suh,” he said, “will be delighted to see yo’.

Now, suh, there’s one girl in a thousand. I call her a diamond in the rough, suh. She stays by the old man, and has just as much faith in the ultimate outcome of Gray Rocks as I have, I sometimes think, suh, that I ought not to keep her away so far from civil’zation, so to speak, among the mountains; but she says, ‘We will wait until we strike it.’ I assure yo’, suh, she is a wonderful comfort to me.”

Vance endeavored to persuade the old gentleman to bring his daughter and stop at his house for a few days, but the old miner explained that his stay could not be prolonged; that he was impatient to begin work on the mine, sinking the shaft to the 300 foot level, and then commence cross-cutting. He insisted that he must start for Gold Bluff by the evening train.

Ascending to the ladies’ parlor, Vance waited until the old miner brought his daughter to bid him good-bye. As she came into the room on the arm of her stately father, Vance had hard work to convince himself that such a queenly girl as stood before him could have grown to such loveliness among the mountains of the northwest.

CHAPTER III.—THE BANNER FORCE.

GREAT metropolitan journal like the Banner, has a tendency to swallow up individual characteristics in its own self-importance. A man may be ever so clever with his pen, and contribute the most readable articles day after day and year after year, and yet not one reader in ten thousand has any idea whose composition he is perusing.

Vance Gilder was only one of the force, and yet he was a favorite with his associates. He sometimes dreamed of promotion, and the time when he would be a correspondent of note, or possibly at the head of some important department on that great paper. Visions of special work which would call him not only to different parts of his own country, but to foreign parts as well, charmed him into contentment and renewed energy.

Only once during his connection with the Banner had he made anything like a “hit.” He had on one solitary occasion succeeded in “scooping” the other New York journals in a most masterly manner. Indeed, to Vance belonged the credit of having completely humiliated the other dailies with an article under flaming headlines and double-leaded. As a compensation, he was sent for by the chief, and received that august person’s special thanks. This was a mark of distinction, for it was seldom that he paid compliments. On the other hand, if the work was not up to the standard, the staff generally heard from him in a volley of profanity that caused them to doubt the permanency of their positions.

On the night after Ben Bonfield started for Gold Bluff, Vance found himself thinking a great deal about Gray Rocks. To a young man of twenty-five, fifteen years seems a long time to wait for the possession of one’s property. There is a certain fascination about the idea of owning a gold mine, and this charm had taken possession of Vance to a degree far beyond that which he was willing to admit, and between the lines of copy, he speculated on the future and built many castles in the air.

The half interest which his father owned in Gray Rocks had not been named in the will, and as Vance was his only heir, it naturally occurred to him that in case the old miner should “strike it rich,” he would find himself with a handsome competency long before his fortieth birthday.

For the first time during the years of his connection with the Banner, a feeling of dissatisfaction stole over him, and he was glad Colonel Bonfield had been so prompt in returning to Gold Bluff, for he felt the work of sinking the shaft on Gray Rocks should be commenced at the earliest possible moment. There was also a feeling of regret deep down in his heart that he had not had an opportunity to know more of the fair Louise, the remembrance of whose laughing blue eyes and perfect freedom from affectation hovered near him with a distinctness that he had never before experienced with any of his young lady friends. He was in this state of mind when the police reporter came in and declared that he was disgusted with the scarcity of crime.

“I say, Vance,” saidhe, “it’s getting to be a pretty pass when a fellow has to rummage all over the city for a few crumbs of accidental deaths, street brawls and shooting affairs.”

Before Vance had time to reply, the religious editor commenced swearing about the uninteresting sermons he was compelled to write of late.

The dramatic critic observed that lie presumed writing sermons was a rather stupid business, but if the reading public could endure them, the religious editor ought to be able to, at $60 a week.

The religious editor said, “by Gad! old boy, you’re about right,” and begged a cigarette of the dramatic critic, declaring that he did not know with whom he would rather smoke than a representative of the footlights. He then slapped Vance on the shoulder in a jocular way, and asked him what made him so quiet.

“Scoops are scarce,” replied Vance, without lifting his eyes from the copy he was revising.

“Scarce!” chimed in the city editor, “I should say so. We have not had such a thing as a ‘scoop’ about the office for six months.”

“Journalism,” observed the dramatic critic, “is, without question, the king of professions. Here we see life in its every phase.”

“I am beginning to think,” said Vance, “that journalism is a drudgery without hope or reward.”

“You astonish me,” replied the religious editor. “Why, Vance,” he continued, knocking the ashes from his cigarette, “a fellow with as bright a future in the profession as you have, making such a remark as that, causes me to think you are growing cynical. Think of the opportunities which journalism affords.”

“What opportunities,” replied Vance, “have I, or you, or any other members of the staff, excepting those we have no right to take advantage of? I freely admit that there is a fascination about the profession of journalism; an influence, if you please, that holds us in the rut, much the same as the current of a mighty river—always drawing everything into the center where the current is swiftest—but the individuality of the most talented among us is completely lost in the great octopus that we are daily and nightly striving with our best efforts of brawn and brain to keep supplied with news.”

“Bravo!” shouted the police reporter. “There is not an ordinary prize-fighter in the land but has more individual reputation than any of us. Vance is about right in his position.”

At this juncture of their conversation, a note was handed to Vance. It was a polite request to report at the chief’s private room at ten o’clock the next morning. After hastily glancing over it, Vance read it aloud.

“I say, Vance, old boy, that’s a little rough; and still,” continued the religious editor, between vigorous puffs of his cigarette, “it may be a step up.”

It was an open question with members of the force whether a formal summons into the presence of the chief, without any intimation of the nature of the interview, was a good omen or otherwise.

“Possibly,” responded Vance, “but I rather surmise it is a step out.”

“The evil is sufficient unto the day thereof,” observed the dramatic critic. “It is twelve o’clock, boys; let us adjourn to the ‘realm of pie,’ and there we will discuss the unlooked-for summons.”

A half dozen as jolly young fellows as could be found anywhere, were soon seated in a private room at Thompson’s cafe, partaking of the reporter’s stereotyped lunch. As a result of their deliberations, there were many hopeful expressions made for the benefit of Vance. There was an under-current, however, of unmistakable belief, which Vance was not slow to perceive and share, that his interview with the chief would not result satisfactorily.

The dramatic critic soon drifted to the leeward of the question, and with almost forced vivaciousness recounted the latest hit of a jolly little soubrette dancer at Madison Square Gardens. His description was not only interesting, but a welcome diversion from the somber subject that might mean a separation of Vance from the staff. The religious editor took up the cue where the dramatic critic let go, and commenced swearing in newspaper parlance about the unsatisfactory work he was doing in his department.

The police reporter came in for a description of a “knock-out” he had witnessed in the Bowery, and for the edification of his associates, explained the difference between a “shoulder-strike” and an “undercut.”

On returning to their respective posts of duty, there was but little said, but it was noticeable that Vance was bid good night with more consideration than usual.

As Vance hurried along toward the elevated road, his thoughts were again filled with that demure little Louise, a product of the great mountains of the west. With her had come a hope—perhaps only a visionary one—stimulated by the enthusiasm of the old miner. He did not pause to analyze the sustaining hope which he experienced; he only knew that it took off the keen edge of anxiety which otherwise he would have felt concerning his coming interview with the chief.

CHAPTER IV—A SUPPER PARTY.

T TEN O’.LOCK the following morning, Vance sent in his card to the chief, and was immediately admitted to his presence. “Good morning, Mr. Gilder.”

“Good morning, sir,” was Vance’s prompt reply.

“I sent for you,” said the chief, as he industriously looked over a bundle of papers on his desk, “To discuss a matter I have had in mind for some time.”

“Yes, sir,” was Vance’s laconic reply.

The chief having found the paper he evidently had been searching for, motioned Vance to be seated, and turning to him, asked:

“Have you ever traveled much in the west?”

“Have never been west of Buffalo.”

“Your work,” observed the chief, “has been very satisfactory—I may say, especially so—and it is the policy of the Banner not only to reward those who have talent, but also to keep pace with the times, and give its readers reliable information upon all questions of moment and importance. The great Northwest has been opening up for the last half century. There have been booms and counter-booms out in that country, spasmodically, for many years, and a great many fortunes have been lost by ill advised investors, but I am not personally familiar with anyone who has bettered his condition in western speculations. Just at the present time the northwest is attracting, as you are doubtless aware, considerable attention, and the effort to popularize it by the western press, seems unabating. Our eastern people, even some of the oldest families of New York, are becoming poisoned with the virus of western investments. My private opinion is that instead of receiving dividends on these holdings, they will lose principal and all.

“We want,” said he, “a level-headed correspondent in that western country. Mark, I say level-headed, for the reason that not infrequently an eastern man, especially if he is unacquainted with the wonderland of the west, loses his head, figuratively speaking, and becomes won over by the fairy tales of prospective wealth, as told by the average real estate boomer.

“You, Mr. Gilder,” said the chief, eying Vance with great directness, “have been selected for this important position of trust. I might,” he continued, as if it were an afterthought, “modify my remarks by saying there are some places in the west worthy of credence, possessing real merit; but in nine cases out of ten, the new towns that are ringing up throughout the north western portion of the United States are, in my judgment, intangible as moonshine. In short, there is entirely too much capital flowing from the east into those wildcat western speculations, and we desire to give a series of letters descriptive of that country to the readers of the Banner, containing the facts stripped of all allurement, and dissuade them from such unstable investments as are daily being made.

"I deem,” continued the chief, “these few suggestions necessary for your good in governing the character of your correspondence from that western country to the columns of the Banner. I shall expect you to be ready tomorrow evening, and start on the six o’clock train. As you will probably be away for some time, it would be well for you to arrange your private affairs accordingly.

Call tomorrow at eleven o’clock, and I will have ready the necessary credentials, transports and instructions.”

Vance bowed his acquiescence and turned to go, when the chief said, “By the way, instead of $40 a week, your present salary, you will receive $60 and expenses, which doubtless will be satisfactory.”

Vance attempted to express his appreciation of the confidence that had been reposed in him, of so important an undertaking; but the chief waved him to silence and muttered something about “time being money,” and at once turned to other affairs that were awaiting his attention.

That afternoon Vance was not found among the staff, and a new man occupied his chair. He called on Thomas Patten, Esq., the attorney who had represented the Gilder family for many years, and named in his father’s will as trustee, and explained to him his promotion, telling him he would start for the west the next evening.

His old associates at the Banner were asking questions of one another as to what had transpired between Vance and the chief, but no one seemed to know anything about it, except that a new man was on duty and Vance absent.

At half past eleven o’clock that night the dramatic critic hurried in from the street and passed word around among the coterie that a surprise was waiting for them over at Thompson’s cafe. Thompson’s is, and has been for many years, a favorite resort for newspaper men. Vance Gilder was well known to the manager as a member of the Banner staff, and when that afternoon he requested that a lunch something better than the ordinary be prepared, he was assured that everything would be in readiness.

The dramatic critic ushered his associates into a private room precisely at twelve o’clock. Vance was in waiting, and a warm greeting was exchanged. The religious editor declared that he believed a conspiracy of gigantic proportions had been laid to entrap the meek and lowly, but, nevertheless, he took his place with alacrity at the table to enjoy the modest but excellent feast prepared for the occasion.

A few bottles of rare old wine added interest to the surprise which Vance had so cleverly arranged. After the glasses had been tilled and drained, the political editor moved that an explanation was in order.

“My friends,” said Vance, “the most important disclosure I have to make is that my salary has been raised to $60 a week.”

The religious editor said, “By Gad,” and fell from his chair, declaring that his nerves were so unstrung that it would require another glass of wine to restore them. After Vance had carefully narrated his interview with the chief, he received the hearty congratulations of his associates. Each vied with the others in wishing him unbounded success as a western correspondent for the Banner. "I understand,” said the political editor, after clearing his throat with a glass of wine, “that the west is teeming with opportunities in a political way; and I would not be surprised,” he added, “if the Honorable Vance Gilder would be the next thing we hear of, as mayor of some municipality in the Rocky Mountain region, or possibly as a member of Congress from the Third District.”

“Or still better,” observed the religious editor, “president of one of those bonanza gold mines that advertise themselves as being the greatest dividend paying properties in the world.”

“What’s the matter,” said the police reporter, “of being moderate in your expectations? Suppose Vance secures the position of judge of the police court in one of those western towns, where from a dozen to twenty drunks and brawls occur every twenty-four hours—ye gods! what a country for rich morsels of crime!”

It was conceded by all that Vance would have abundant opportunity for making investments here and there in the growing west that would materially increase his financial prospects.

“Sixty dollars,” said the dramatic critic, as he finished his third glass of wine, “is quite a step up, but evidently a mere bagatelle to the ‘pick-ups’ on the side, in a new country that is just developing like the west is at the present time.”

That Vance was one of the luckiest fellows living was the verdict of all his associates. After the lunch had been disposed of and a good-night glass of wine drunk to Vance’s success, he bade his companions good-night, and was soon being driven rapidly up Eighth Avenue to Central Park, west.

On reaching his room he began to feel more than ever that he had awakened to find himself famous, and that a great honor had been thrust upon him.

His gratitude to his chief was unbounded, but like the young and ambitious everywhere, his own personal advancement in a financial sense was a consideration not to be overlooked. While he knew personally very little about the Western country, the many allusions of his companions to the rare opportunities which awaited him in the new world he was about to visit filled him with a vague, indescribable sense of importance.

As he retired for the night, he assured himself that Gold Bluff, Idaho, would be one of his objective points, and hoped he would be there when the shaft reached the 300 foot level. He was beginning to share the old miner’s enthusiasm and confidence in Gray Rocks.

He drifted away into a restful sleep, while visions of a lovely girl in early womanhood, with beautiful blue eyes, “gentle grace and sovereign sweetness,” rose in a mist before him, and he dreamed he was at Gold Bluff.

CHAPTER V.—AN ODD CHARACTER.

TRIP from New York to the inter-mountain country of the west, with the present railroad facilities of palatial Pullmans and dining cars, is now an every-day affair. The traveler is surrounded by every comfort. Vance Gilder was more than ever in love with the change, as the cars rumbled on through dell and forest, across broad stretches of beautiful valley country, and ever and anon rushing over an iron bridge that spanned some beautiful stream of water, some of them calm and peaceful, and others rushing madly along, breaking into white spray over rocky ripples, and then hurrying on again as if they were running a race with time.

As he approached the Rocky Mountain country, and for the first time in his life gazed upon that mighty range of Nature’s towering masonry, he was almost intoxicated with the new sights to be seen on the “crown of the continent.”

Notwithstanding his enjoyment of the new and varied scenery, he was glad enough to abandon the cars at Butte City, after four days and nights of continuous riding.

Butte City is said to be, not only the greatest mining camp in Montana, but the greatest in the world. They boast of the many millions that are brought to the light of day by the magic wand of the miner’s pick. Vance found lodging at the Mercury Hotel, and early the next morning, after breakfasting heartily, started for a walk.

The town is built on a side-hill, gently rising from the depot grounds westward to a very considerable elevation. He paused now and then to inspect the architecture of some of the buildings, and then looked away toward the smelter districts, at the black clouds of smoke which the chimneys were belching forth, and falling over the city like a veil of mourning.

Presently he was accosted by an individual of grizzly beard and good-matured countenance, who said: “Hello, pard; how d’ye do? Sizin’ up these diggins’ be ye?”

As Vance eyed his questioner rather critically and acknowledged the salutation, the fellow reached him a card which bore the name “Hank Casey.” While Vance was glancing at the card, his new acquaintance said:

“I reckon you be from down east? I come from thar a long time ago. You’ll notice from my card that I’m in the real estate business; also have some fine minin’ propositions.”

“Yes,” replied Vance, “I am from the east, but do not know as I care to make any investments.”

“Well, now, look’ee? here, stranger. I ‘spect I might give you a pinter or two that may not come amiss. This ‘ere town is chuck up full of dead beats and black legs, who make it their business to run every new feller in that comes from down east. Now Hank Casey do a straight-for’ard, legitimate business—that’s me,” said he, as he tucked his thumbs into the armholes of his vest and straightened himself to his fullest height.

Vance was amused by this odd character, and determined to learn from him what he could concerning Butte City and the claims made for it. He therefore asked, “What population have you and what are your resources?”

“Over fifty thousand people, above an’ below. You see, thar’s several thousand of us in this town below ground, workin’ away with shovel an’ pick. I reckon as how you’ll see a fair sample of our miners if you’re on the streets tonight. As for resources—why, pardner, thar’s no end to ‘em. We took out mighty near forty million dollars from our mines last year, an’ thar’s ore enough in sight to keep on minin’ at the same rate for a hundred years to come. What d’ye think o’ that?”

Vance replied that it certainly was a most extraordinary statement.

“What other towns have you in this state,” asked Vance.

“None to speak of,” was the prompt reply. “Butte City is the pertest town in any o’ these western diggings. Thar’s not another town in Montana as can tech one side of us, for money, marbles, or chalk. To be sure,” he went on, in a condescending tone, “we have lots o’ towns in this ‘ere state, sech as they be; lots o’ minin’ camps, but they are merely blacksmith-shops-on-the-crossroads,’ compared with Butte City. D’ye see that Corner lot over thar’. Five years ago I owned the ground whar’ that buildin’ stands. I bought it for $300, held it just thirteen months, and sold it for $4,000 spot cash.”

“Why that was an immense profit,” said Vance, with more interest than he had yet manifested in Hank Casey’s description of Butte City. Hank Casey smiled contentedly and expectorated an accumulation of tobacco juice with a resounding “pit-tew” on the side walk, and said: “You call that a good profit? Why, pardner, I bought stock in the Blackbird mine at twelve cents a share when the company was fust organized, and now its worth $300 a share and payin’ an immense dividend monthly. That’s what I call a good investment; but as fer that speck,” said he, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the corner lot, “that don’t amount to nothin’.”

“Do you know where Gold Bluff, Idaho, is?” asked Vance.

“I reckon I ought to know,” replied the boomer; “me an’ Steve Gibbons were the fust prospectors in that ‘neck o’ the woods.’ Steve an’ I claim to own the Peacock, but old Rufus Grim, the biggest scoundrel in Idaho yes, the biggest in this whole minin’ country claims to own it, and has got possession, and I’ve learned, in this western country ‘specially, that possession is not only nine points of the law, but mighty near ten. Of course, a gold mine like the Peacock is a mighty handy thing to have in the family, but as a general rule, they’re mighty unsartin. Give me a silver or copper mine every time.”

Vance assured his new-found acquaintance that he was under many obligations for the information received, and said he hoped to meet him again. Hank Casey, however, was not to be disposed of in this way, and walked along with Vance. Presently he called his attention to some vacant lots across the street.

“D’ye see them lots over thar? I can sell you one o’ them fifty-foot lots at $3,500. an I’ll bet diamonds against peanuts it’ll be a rich buy at $10,000 before two years. By the way, stranger, what’s the matter with you takin a leetle ‘flyer’ in Butte City dirt? Buy a few lots, stop here with us for six months, sell ‘em out agin for 100 per cent, profit, an’ that’ll pay all the expenses of your western trip. See? said he, touching Vance gently in the ribs with his elbow.

“Yes; I see,” said Vance, “I see very clearly, or would, were it not for the smoke. It smells like sulphur. Does it come from some of your mills or smelters?”

“Now, look’ee here, pard, you’re just like every other down-easter. They’re always kickin’ ‘bout this smoke.

Now, let me tell you; if we didn’t have that ‘ar smoke we wouldn’t have any Butte City, and besides, it kills the bacteria, molecules, an’ all that sort o thing. It’s mighty healthy here, I can tell you, an’ a mighty pert town into the bargain.”

Vance coughed immoderately, but Hank Casey who was acclimated, assured him that he was at that moment breathing the healthiest air that ever his lungs were filled with.

In the course of their walk, the boomer kept up a constant conversation, explaining different points of interest, pointing out the different mining properties in sight and telling their names, until Vance felt that he had been very fortunate in falling in with one so conversant with Butte City. At parting, Vance bade his new-found friend good day, and promised to call at his office before leaving the city.

When he returned to the hotel, he commenced his first letter to the Banner, but it was not finished until late that night. When it appeared in the great New York journal it surprised, in point of brilliancy and interest, even his warmest friends. His descriptions were so vivid and lifelike, and his characters so droll, and withal teeming with information, that a score of letters came to the managing editor, assuring him of the great pleasure and profit they had experienced in its perusal. Of course, Vance knew nothing of this at the time, but devoted himself with unceasing diligence in searching out reliable information, and then training it into weekly letters.

Butte City began to impress him as a place of more importance than he had at first thought. He learned that almost one million of dollars was paid out monthly to the miners alone, and they, as a class, are “hail fellows well met,” who believe in the doctrine of keeping money in constant circulation.

He noticed in many of the mercantile houses that when the day clerks went off duty at six o’clock in the evening, another set of clerks came on, and the shops and stores, by the aid of brilliant electric lights, continued business twenty-four hours out of the day the year around.

Vance frequently thought of his conversation with the managing editor, and what he had said about western towns and the over-enthusiastic town boomer. In Hank Casey he felt he had found a typical character that fully came up to all the managing editor had inferred, and had frequently used him as an inspiration, but was becoming more and more convinced that Butte City was one of those solid, substantial places which the managing editor had classed as exceptions to the rule.

CHAPTER VI—THE TOWN BOOMER.

BOUT TWO WEEKS after Vance Gilder arrived in Butte City, he noticed one morning that everybody was talking about a new town, and each was asking the others what they thought about it. Glancing at the hotel register, he saw the name, Homer Winthrop, of Waterville, Idaho.

In looking over the Butte City Miner and the Inter-Mountain Blade, both healthy dailies and well edited, he was somewhat astonished to find a full-page advertisement in each of the papers, setting forth in blazing splendor the great Thief River Valley, and signed by Homer Winthrop as agent, announcing that he would be at the Mercury Hotel for a short time, and inviting those who were interested in investing a little money in a purely agricultural city, to come early and “get in on the ground floor.”

The advertisement represented Waterville as being in the midst of the great Thief River Valley, with the largest water power in the country, surrounded by an agricultural district of two million acres of the richest land the sun ever shone down upon. He termed the new town of Waterville the “City of Destiny,” and said the price of town lots would quadruple in a few years’ time.

Vance was at once interested. “Here,” said he to himself, “is a genuine town boomer, and as the fellow is stopping at this hotel, it will be an easy matter to learn just how this boom business is operated. It will make an excellent article for the Banner.”

Accordingly, about eleven o’clock that forenoon he called to see the irrepressible town boomer and hear what sort of a marvelous story he had to tell about Waterville.

He was quickly admitted into a reception room by a young gentleman who assured him that Mr. Winthrop would soon be at leisure, and begged him to be seated, calling his attention to the numerous maps on the walls, one of which covered nearly the entire side of the room.

Winthrop’s young assistant seemed to know his business, and at once commenced the preliminary skirmish of interesting Vance in the great Thief River Valley, and especially town lots in Waterville; but as Vance did not evince any inclination to purchase, the young fellow endeavored to so impress him by calling his attention to the advertisements in the morning papers. Every once in a while he would tip-toe over to the door where the great town-boomer, Homer Winthrop, was holding a private conversation with a would-be purchaser. He would put his ear to the keyhole and listen for a moment, and then come tip-toeing back and assure Vance Mr. Winthrop would soon be at leisure.

Presently the door opened and a gentleman in miner’s garb came out, and Vance was immediately shown in. As he entered the private room of Homer Winthrop, he involuntarily paused to study, if but for a moment, the face of the man who had arrived in Butte City late the night before, and now had everyone in the place agog over the prospects of a new town that had just been laid out on paper in the Thief River Valley.

Homer Winthrop, with all the easy grace of a Chesterfield, motioned his visitor to a seat, pushing a box of very superior Havanas toward him, and invited him to join him in burning a weed. He was a man above the average height, inclined to be rather slender, and possessed a rather good looking face, beaming with good nature and apparent frankness; a pair of intelligent dark eyes that laughed and smiled with as much expression as the face, changeable, however, into intenseness and earnestness seldom met with; a broad, intellectual forehead; a rather square chin, indicating great determination of character. To this add a luxuriant head of dark hair, and moustache, otherwise a clean-shaven face, and the reader will have a fair idea of his appearance.

He was evidently an adept in reading human nature, and knew his man on sight; had seen much of western life—and yet it required no second interview to discover in him the polished manners and easy grace of one who has seen much of refinement and culture. He could have entered into the gaieties of a reception in a Fifth Avenue mansion with as little effort as he had stirred up a city of 50,000 people in a few hours over the magnificent prospects of a new town that was just budding into existence.

Vance accepted the proffered cigar, and they easily engaged in conversation. They discussed the great out put of ore from the mines of Butte City, and the wonderful development of the western country during recent years; the magnificent mining properties that had been opened up; and, in fact, nearly everything except Waterville and the great Thief River Valley. Homer Winthrop with the skill of a tactician, narrated incidents and legends of different miners who had devoted a lifetime in searching for the precious metal and finally “struck it rich” in some out-of-the-way, unexpected place.

Vance finally inquired in regard to the new town of Waterville, and was not a little surprised at the conservative reply he received, wholly devoid of any enthusiasm.

“Oh,” said Winthrop, “we have a very excellent agricultural country in the valley. We are building our new town of Waterville on the rapids of the Thief River. It has, perhaps, the greatest water power of any inland city in the United States. Many believe a great citv will eventually be built at that point. We also have a great deal of capital invested in the construction of irrigating canals, reclaiming the valley lands from their present arid condition and converting them into productive farms.” He also went on, in a voice full of rhythm that was almost musical in its intonation, explaining in a modest way why many people believed in the future of the place, touching on the numerous natural resources that were apparent to everyone sufficiently interested to visit the valley and see for himself.

Vance was deeply interested in Homer Winthrop’s appearance, and later found himself charmed with his new acquaintance more than he cared to admit, even to himself. On taking his leave, he promised to call again the next day. As Vance stepped into the reception room, he found it almost filled with miners and tradesmen who were waiting for an interview’ with Mr. Winthrop, and he rightly guessed that a profitable business was being done.

In thinking over his interview with the town boomer of Waterville, Vance was compelled to admit that he was one of the most attractive individuals with whom he had ever come in contact. That afternoon he finished a letter to the Banner, but it contained no reference to Waterville.

The result of his second interview was that he accepted an invitation to visit the new town, which was some two hundred miles distant. Agreeable to this arrangement, they left Butte City early one morning, and that evening reached Waterville.

Vance was not particularly attracted by the general appearance and “lay” of the new town site. It appeared crude and unfinished, and abounded with sage brush and sand. The waters of the rapids, however, in their mad rushing as they went foaming down the narrows like race horses, impressed him with a belief that nothing had been overdrawn in regard to this great natural power, which had been idling its time away for centuries.

Homer stood by his side on the rocky bank, but said nothing.

Presently Vance looked up and said: “What a wonderful power is going to waste in these rapids!”

“It will soon be harnessed,” replied Winthrop, “and this vast power utilized in many manufacturing enterprises. I do not feel,” he continued, “that I am over-estimating facts, Mr. Gilder, when I say there is power enough here to turn every spindle in every woolen mill and factory in the United States.”

“My only surprise,” replied Vance, “is that these waters have not been put to use long before this.”

That night at the hotel Vance felt he was indeed “roughing it.” He rose in the morning feeling but little refreshed, and sat down to a very unpalatable breakfast, and immediately afterwards started with Homer Winthrop on a drive through the valley.

The farmers were busy harvesting their grain, and on inquiry they learned the yield of wheat was from forty to seventy bushels to the acre, and that oats yielded from sixty to one hundred bushels to the acre. Vance was greatly astonished, and became almost enthusiastic over the agricultural possibilities of the valley.

“Why,” said he, “Mr. Winthrop, there is no question but this is destined to be one of the richest agricultural valleys in the world. In my work on the Banner I have had occasion to look up statistics on grain products, and if these farmers are telling the truth in regard to the yield of their crops, there is no other place like it in the United States.”

A moment after, he was chagrined to think he had given way to such a burst of enthusiasm. It would have been better for him to remain a listener, and allow Winthrop to grow enthusiastic in praise of the country. Winthrop, however, took no advantage of Vance’s earnestness.

The day was a perfect one; the sun was shining, and yet there was a cool, invigorating breeze sweeping gently down from the snow-capped Tetons. Driving rapidly and pleasantly along, they at last found themselves near the foot-hills on a slight elevation overlooking the valley to the west. Alighting from the carriage, Vance followed Winthrop’s lead, and soon they found themselves on a table rock, at a sufficient elevation to see for many miles to the north, south and west. For a few minutes Vance contemplated the sight in silence, and then said: “This is indeed a grand sight.” Turning to Winthrop, he continued:

“I have seen many beautiful sights—the Green and White Mountains of New England, the Cumberland of Virginia, and the mighty Rocky Mountains through Colorado but standing here on the foot hills, with the mountains rising behind us to the sky, with their hoary crests even on this July day capped with snow, and these mountain streams, foaming cataracts, all shimmering in the sunshine, making sweet and restful harmony in their ceaseless flow, surpasses anything I have ever seen. The valley itself looks like a vast green sward stretching before us like a map. The yellow shocks of golden grain in the farming districts are suggestive of what may be in years to come. No man can look upon such a promising picture and not be convinced of the commercial importance which will attend the development of this valley.”

During Vance’s outburst of ecstacy, Homer Winthrop said nothing, merely acquiescing, in a modest way, to all Vance expressed.

Returning to Waterville, they partook of a sumptuous repast, which Winthrop had ordered especially prepared, Consisting principally of mountain trout, caught that morning in the Thief River.

After lunch Vance accepted an invitation to smoke and walk out over the town site.

“This,” said Winthrop, “is block fourteen of Eagle’s addition. You see it is less than three blocks from the center of the town. It is one of the choicest blocks we have. If you want me to give you some advice, Mr. Gilder, I will do so, and say, buy a few of these lots. The price is only $100 each, and, in my judgment, they will be worth $500 before five years from to-day.”

Vance looked away into the distance at the farm lands, and the music of the sickle was borne lazily to him by a gentle breeze; then he turned his gaze toward the river, where the roaring waters were crowding down the rapids, proclaiming in thundering tones that Waterville was an exception to the rule. After a little he turned to Homer Winthrop and said: “I have been advised to keep clear of these new towns. The person who gave me this advice told me there were a few honorable exceptions to the rule. I must believe, from what I have seen, that Waterville is an exception. I will take twenty-five of these lots, and you may fix up the deed for them as soon as possible.”

The deed and abstract were delivered to Vance that afternoon, and his check for $2,500 was duly deposited in Homer Winthrop’s pocket.

“I may have been foolish,” said Vance, “to act so hastily in this matter.”

Winthrop turned to him, and placing a hand on either shoulder, looked squarely into his companion’s eyes, and said:

“My belief, Mr. Gilder, is that you have acted wisely, and if you will keep these lots five years, you will thank me for suggesting the advisability of making the purchase. I have but one request to make—that you will wait five years before passing judgment on my advice.”

“Your request is cheerfully granted,” replied Vance with great earnestness, and the two men clasped hands, and a bond of friendship was thereby woven.

CHAPTER VII.—A VISIT TO WATERVILLE

NEW WESTERN TOWN is usually provided with a public square, and the business houses and shops are arranged along the four sides of it in sentinel-like position, the corner lots going at a premium, and where the most substantial buildings are erected. Waterville, however could not boast of a public square, but it had two iron bridges spanning the Thief River.

A large stone grist mill had been built on the side of the river opposite the town, and on the elevated ground beyond, it was said the State Agricultural College was to be built.

It was a favorite pastime with the real estate agents to sit on the depot platform, and while waiting for the incoming trains, to whittle pine sticks into shavings, telling of the different manufactories, state institutions, colleges and asylums, etc., that would be located in the near future at Waterville.

That evening after Vance had made his purchase of town lots he strolled away by himself across the great iron bridge, and gave himself up to meditation. Had he acted wisely? Would Waterville after all prove a “boom town” and his investment a losing one? Was Homer Winthrop, with his suave manners and great earnestness, which at times seemed to carry conviction to the hearts of all who heard him express himself, the noble specimen of manhood he appeared to be, or were his fascinations merely the arts of the ordinary skilled western boomer? Would the managing editor approve his action in purchasing lots in such a new and undeveloped place as Waterville?

It is a common experience with mankind, that after a doubtful transaction has been consummated, we can deliberate with far more intentness of thought than before the trade was made.

A peculiarity of a western town is its plentifulness of real estate agents, who seem to travel in swarms, and find an abiding place in the town that promises the greatest activity.

After a reaction sets in and hard times overtake them, this peculiar class usually pick up their “ink-horns” and fly, as from a pestilence.

Another peculiarity is, that if a trade is made with a “tender-foot” everyone in the village usually knows of it in a very few hours.

As Vance was returning from his walk he was met on the outskirts of the village by a number of this class of hangers-on, who make their living by selling town lots on commission. Each one was desirous of saying “just a word” to Vance in private.

The story of one was practically the story of all. They advised him to stop and think what he was losing by not buying more property in Waterville. One particularly long, lank individual, who wore a sombrero and high-topped boots, assured him that “the opportunity of a lifetime was at that very minute knocking at his door; it might never come again.”

“You might go away from Waterville,” said he, “and come back here in a few mouths’ time, and you’ll find the town lots I can sell you to-day for a mere song, going at ten times the price that you can buy them for now. My name is Steve Gibbons, and I presume I am doing the biggest real estate business in Waterville. I sell more lots than any other half dozen agents in town. You’ve made a great mistake, Mr. Gilder,” said he, “in buying of the Town Company. Of course, this is confidential, but if you had come to me instead of buying of Winthrop, I could have saved you big money.”

“What do you mean by ‘the company’.” asked Vance.

“Why, you see, the Waterville Town Company own mighty near all the property in town.

That man Winthrop is a member of the company. Now, while I have not as many lots for sale as the Town Company, my prices beat them all holler.”

“Do you think,” asked Vance, “that Mr. Winthrop charged me too much for my lots?”

“Think!” said Steve Gibbons, “think? why, pardner, all the agents in town are laughin’ about it; he took you in.”

Vance bit his lips, and mentally concluded to investigate very thoroughly before he quit Waterville.

“You see,” Gibbons went on, “all us fellers are down on the Town Company. We don’t like corporations, nohow; they don’t give us honorable-intentioned fellers a fair chance. We are the men that’s buildin’ up this here town—givin’ it the bone, and the sinew, and the standin’, so to speak. Don’t you see?”

“Yes,” said Vance, “I understand,” and begging to be excused, he turned and walked away from the “honorable-intentioned” Steve Gibbons, and soon after sought the privacy of his own room in the Ballard House.

Dick Ballard was a Grand Army man, and kept the only hotel of any importance in Waterville. The only thing first-class about it was the price for lodging. Immediately after the average traveler settled his bill at the Ballard, there was generally a half-distinct impression in his mind that he had been stopping at a first-class hotel, but the remembrance of three kinds of meat cooked in the same kettle was not easily forgotten.

As Vance sat in his room, in anything but a pleasant frame of mind, there came a gentle knock on his door. He quickly admitted his visitor, and found it was Dick Ballard, the proprietor.

“I reckon,” said he, as soon as he stepped in, “you’ll be one of us by and by. Bought property already, and a mighty good buy you’ve made of it, too. Oh, you know a good thing when you see it; you bet yer life you do.”

“Do you think,” said Vance, “the lots I purchased were reasonable at the price?”

“I should say so; yes, sir, mighty cheap. This here town is comin out of the kinks in fine shape. We’ll have a drum corps in our State militia before another year; you bet we will. I presume you know we have the finest drilled company at Waterville, outside the regular army, in the state?”

“I have been told,” said Vance, “that I paid too much for the property. I am more interested in learning the truth or untruth of the statement than I am about your militia company.”

“Who told you that:” asked Ballard, with indignation. As Vance did not answer, the hotel proprietor went on to say: “I’ll bet it was J. Arthur Boast. Now, look’ee here, Mr. Gilder, you can’t believe everything these fellers tell you.”

The truth of this remark pressed itself on Vance so forcibly, and his indignation getting the better of him, he turned upon Dick Ballard and said bitterly:

“Who in thunderation can I believe?”

“You can believe me, sir, and I’ll produce prima facie evidence of everything I say. This town is all right; your investment is a good one, and the man who says it is not is surely trying to stick his nose into other people’s business—but, say, hold on a minute,” said Ballard, as if he had forgotten something, “will you take a drink?” and he produced a bottle from his pocket.

“No, thank you,” said Vance.

“Well, if you don’t mind, I will,” said the landlord, as he proceeded to treat himself to a liberal portion of the contents of his bottle.

“Now,” said he, as he sat down smacking his lips, “everything I tell you is prima facie. I know how it is; some of these fellows have been trying to make you dissatisfied with your purchase. I am not selling town lots. My business is to run this hotel and see that everybody has a fair deal.”

“Who is the Town Company?” asked Vance.

“The Town Company, sir, consists of some of the most remarkable men in this country. They are strong men, brainy men; they are hustlers; and I,” said Ballard, rising to his feet, “I am their friend. This man, Homer Winthrop,” he went on, “carries more gray matter about on his brain than all the shark real estate agents in Waterville put together. He is one of the company, but you’ll see them all before long; and when you do, I know you’ll agree with me in saying they are the cleanest cut lot of men on the continent. Winthrop is a great man, but there are others in the company that are a mighty sight stronger than he is. They are all men of honor, and their integrity is prima facie.”

“Prima facie” seemed to be a favorite expression of Dick Ballard’s. After he had delivered himself in the strongest language at his command, he treated himself to another drink and retired.

Vance sat far into the night, looking out at his window into the mellow moonlight, listening to the ceaseless roar of the waters and the yelping coyotes in the distance, which were answered by half a dozen dogs in different parts of the town. At times he regretted his purchase, and again he felt it must, in the very nature of things, increase many times in value in a few years.

The moon came up the eastern sky, and seemed to hang in space like a ball of fire, beckoning him to return to his eastern home before disaster overtook him. The three great Tetons of the mountain range bearing their name stood out in bold relief, throwing long, menacing shadows directly towards him. The shimmering of the soft moonbeams glistened on the restless waters of the musical river, whose alluring song of promise and power was wafted to him on the night wind.

CHAPTER VIII.—AT THE MINE

HE next morning Vance was rather late in rising. Soon after he had taken his seat at the breakfast table, he was joined by an individual small in stature but tastily dressed. His eyes were restless, and he seemed on the point of making an observation several times before he finally did so.

“Very pleasant morning,” said he, looking up at

Vance and then hastily glancing at the sunshine that streamed in at the window.

“Yes, delightful,” was Vance’s reply.

Presently the stranger observed: “Sunny days are the rule, cloudy days the exception, at Waterville. At least that’s my experience during a year’s sojourn among the good people of this village.” There was a quaking sound in the fellow’s voice that attracted Vance’s attention, because it was different from others more than because there was anything charming about it. Vance wondered if this individual was not also in the real estate business. It seemed as if every one with whom you come in contact was a real estate agent. He was on the point of asking him what line of business he was engaged in, when the fellow, looking up from his plate, said, “Real estate is my line. My office is just across the street; you can see my sign from the window.” Looking out at the window, Vance saw a large real estate sign, with gold letters on a black back-ground, bearing the name of “J. Arthur Boast.”

“You are Mr. Boast, I presume,” said Vance, turning from the window.

“J. Arthur Boast, at your service.”

Half an hour later Vance Gilder was seated in the real estate office of J. Arthur Boast, looking over his special bargain list; not with a view of buying, but rather to gain information.

Boast talked a great deal, and in his fawning, insinuating manner, advised Vance, without saying so in so many words, to keep his eyes open when dealing with the Town Company. After Vance had carefully scanned his list of town lots, he was better satisfied than ever with his purchases.

Taking a bottle from his desk, Boast held it up toward the sunlight, and asked Vance if he would have some “red liquor.” Vance declined with thanks. Boast walked back and forth with the bottle in his hand, and in a quaking voice, meant to be confidential, told Vance that he had got to quit drinking; that red liquor was getting an awful hold on him. He seemed to be desirous of giving the impression that he was a hard drinker. Finally he poured out some of the contents of the bottle into a glass, and drank it down at one swallow. Afterwards he seemed quite wretched and his eyes were filled with tears. Vance concluded, notwithstanding all he had said against himself, that J. Arthur Boast was not a drinking man.

“That liquor is all right,” said Boast; “a very superior article, but it is a little early in the day for me to commence. It always half strangles me in the morning.”

As Vance was seeking information from which he could draw his own conclusions, he gave Boast all the opportunities possible to express himself in regard to Waterville and its people.

The fellow said nothing positive, yet there was an evil vein of insinuation in all that he did say not only in regard to the Waterville Town Company and every other real estate agent, but also against everybody in the town generally. Vance very much disliked the fellow, and afterwards learned that he was universally disliked and shunned by everyone in Waterville.

Instead of returning to Butte City with Winthrop that afternoon, Vance remained in Waterville, and arranged to take the early stage next morning for Gold Bluff, which was located some sixty miles northwest of Waterville, in the Fish River Mining District. He arrived in that Idaho mining town late the following night, registered at the Bluff House, and after a late supper retired to his room for a much needed rest.

The next morning he found, on inquiry, that Ben Bonifield’s mine was located about half a mile from town upon the mountain side, and he at once started out in that direction, to see how the work on the shaft, bound for the 300 foot level, was progressing.

The town of Gold Bluff was cozily nestled in a little valley, with abrupt mountains lowering away to the sky on either side of it. The mountains were covered with spruce and pine and mountain poplars up to the snow line, above which the barren rocks rose majestically towards the heavens. A refreshing stream meandered its course through the town, on one side of which were stores and shops, and on the other residences. Vance noticed that some of them were of modern architecture and neatly painted, while others were primitive in the extreme—relics of early mining; days. The town was rather quaint and picturesque, and made more so by a profusion of shade trees.

“Good morning,” said Vance, as he came up to Ben Bonifield, who, in miner’s costume, was working vigorously away at the frame-work of the shaft over Gray Rocks. The old man looked up with an astonished air, and said:

“Good mawnin’, suh.” Then, recognizing his visitor, he threw down his hammer and gave Vance’s hand such a squeeze in his powerful grasp that it almost made him cry out with pain.

“Why, suh,” cried the old miner, “I am almost pa’alyzed to see yo’. I am indeed, suh. Mr. Gilder, I welcome yo’ suh, to Gold Bluff and to Gray Rocks. Here, suh, are our possessions,” waving his hand toward the shaft. “Immediately upon my return from the city, Mr. Gilder, we commenced work in earnest, suh, and befo’ many weeks, I am proud to say, suh, we will reach the 300 foot level and be ready to cross-cut into the vein, suh. Yo’ don’t know,” said the old miner, again taking Vance’s hand, “how proud I am—yes, proud, suh, proud to be honored with a visit from yo’, I very much desire that yo’ pu’son’lly inspect the mine; and there is no better time than the present.”

Vance entered heartily into the tour of inspection, and at the old miner’s invitation, went down in the bucket, where the miners were at work. The old gentleman kept him there until he had explained everything to the minutest detail, and when Vance at last reached the top of the shaft he felt he had a far better idea of sinking shafts on mines than ever before.

“Come,” said the old miner, “my Louise will be most delighted to see yo’, suh; she will indeed.” Then turning, he gave some instruction to his foreman, telling him he would not return that afternoon, and together the old gentleman and Vance walked down the mountain side to the village of Gold bluff.

The old miner’s residence was a modest one, situated well back from the street, near some huge boulders—a natural pyramid of rocks, while a beautiful little spring of water flowed from near its base. There was a very pretty yard in front, filled with growing evergreens and mountain ash.

“I planted these trees myself, suh,” said the old miner, “years ago. They remind me of my old Virginia home. I was the fust one to set out shade trees in Gold Bluff; yes, still, the fust one.”

As Vance entered the yard, he paused a moment to contemplate the beauty and home-like appearance of the yard, and Ben Bonifield’s home, with its wide porches in front literally covered with honeysuckles, ivy, and vining roses.

Vance found Louise dressed as a mountain maid, instead of the fashionable young lady who had called on him in his New York home. She was not such a woman as poets rave about, and yet, withal, there was a grace—a charm—about her, that commanded admiration. Her hair, in the sunlight, was like one beautiful sheen of gold, with little ringlets here and there; her complexion was pink and white, and when under deep excitement a ruddy glow would mantle her cheeks. Her nose, while well formed, neither large nor small, was quite ordinary. Her mouth was a perfect Cupid’s bow, with lips like two red cherries. As Vance conversed with her that afternoon, he forgot the hair, forgot the delicately formed, rosy lips, forgot even the glow of pink which came and went over her fair cheeks, in looking into her talking eyes—so clear, so blue, and yet to trustful; even forgot the long brown lashes that fringed them with gentle protection. Her eyes were the crowning feature of her expressive face, which may not have been a beautiful one in the parlance of fashion, yet it was one that a student of human nature would term a face of intelligence; and after all, to the cultured, is there aught more beautiful?

As Vance sat with the old miner and his daughter on the porch of their cozy dwelling that afternoon, he forgot time. The sun went down behind the western mountains, leaving the beauty of an afterglow reflected on the waters of the mountain brooklet. The moon that was climbing up over the eastern hills threw its rays aslant through the clinging roses that grew in profusion about the porch. A feeling of peace, and possibly a dangerous contentment, stole into his heart, and he murmured a thanksgiving to the fates. The unseen, potent force that binds us all, sooner or later, with a silken cord, was thonging him to a future destiny.

CHAPTER IX.—THE STAGE DRIVER.

ROM Gold Bluff Vance sent to the Banner one of his strongest descriptive letters. The inspiration of the new west, with its gorges, mountains, beautiful valleys and gurgling streams abounding with trout, tinged its every sentence.

His vivacious style, which had won for him the place he occupied on the Banner, was reinforced with the new and intoxicating sights of the picturesque. For two weeks he did little else than tramp through valleys, following up mountain streams on fishing jaunts, and felt that he was “roughing it” in a most delightful fashion. One night, coming in from a long tramp far up in the mountains, he found a large bundle of mail awaiting him that had been forwarded from Butte Citv. Among his letters was one from the chief, which read as follows:

Banner Office,

New York City, July

Dear Sir:

Your letters to the Banner, in one sense of the word, are all and even more than I expected. They are giving excellent satisfaction. As yet you have expressed no decided opinion in regard to the desirability of Western investments.

My ideas are to educate our readers against unstable investments. Nine out of every ten of the mining shafts in Montana, in my judgment, have had more money put into them than ever has or ever will be taken out. You will also find many Western towns where they are selling lots at from one to two hundred dollars each, which, in reality, would be expensive property to own at the government price of $1.25 per acre. Of course, there are, perhaps, a few honorable exceptions.

To Vance Gilder, Esq.

Respectfully,

J. R. S., Chief.

When one is seeking an excuse for his convictions, especially if they are as strong as Vance’s had become in regard to Butte City and Waterville, the one little sentence, “Of course, there are, perhaps, a few honorable exceptions,” in the chief’s letter saves him a great deal of worry. Vance was too light hearted to be cast down by the half-criticism of the class of correspondence he was sending in.

He had an engagement that evening with Louise Bonifield and her father; indeed, his was a standing invitation at the Bonifields’, and almost every afternoon since his arrival at Gold Bluff found him at their mountain home.

As he started from the hotel he was accosted by a familiar voice: “Hello, pard; how d’ ye do?” and Steve Gibbons thrust out his long arm to shake Vance’s hand in western fashion. He still wore his sombrero and high-topped boots.

Vance assured Gibbons that he was delighted to see him.

“I knew you would be,” said Gibbons, “You see, I have given up the real estate t business clown at Waterville, and am turned stage driver. Of course, every man in this ‘ere country is lookin’ for promotion. I don’t reckon I’m any smarter than other people, but I’ve had my eye on this job for several months; but you can bet your life them other real estate agents didn’t know nothin’ about it. I tell you, pardner, it’s a mighty elevatin’ position to drive a six-horse team through these deep mountain gorges in all kinds of wind and weather. Had to give a mighty stout bond, too, for we handle all the express matter, and there’s a good deal of gold dust hauled down from this ‘ere camp.”

Vance was glad to meet anyone, however slight the acquaintance had been, and in the course of their conversation Steve Gibbons confessed to him that he was “givin’ it to him just a leetle” in regard to the town lots which Vance had purchased of the Town Company.

“You see,” said he, “the facts are, the Town Company of Waterville has made that ‘ere town, and are still makin’ it. It’s a mighty pert place, and is growin’ perter all the time.”

Vance mentally wondered if all the “honest intentioned” fellows of Waterville would talk in the same way about the Town Company if they were occupying positions where their interests were no longer adverse to the Company’s.

“Then you don’t think I paid too much for my lots?” asked Vance, looking up with a quizzical expression.

“No,” said Steve Gibbons, “them lots are all right, pardner, and will make you a barrel if you hold on to ‘em. They sold ‘em to you cheap enough. That was just a leetle competition talk I was givin’ you that night down at Waterville. Business is business, you know, when you are sellin’ town lots, and a man has got to talk for hisself. I really did want to sell you some lots, that’s a fact, ‘cause I wanted to rake in the commission; but it’s all over with now. I have throwed up the whole darned business of sellin’ lots since I was promoted. Old Dick Ballard,” said he, “is jest as prima facie as ever, and says his company is the finest drilled militia in the state. By the way,” he continued, “the Town Company has had a meetin’, and the people are feelin’ mighty good jess now’.”

“How’s that?” asked Vance.

“Oh,” replied Gibbons, “about once a month the Town Company have a meetin’, and pass resolutions, declar’ dividends and get up a new’ prospectus of different manufacturin’ enterprises that’s goin’ to be built thar; also, of colleges and state institutions that will be located at Waterville this comin’ year, and that always makes the people feel high-spirited for the next week or ten days, anyhow. Most of the people go on a spree after one o’ them encouragin’ meetin’s.”

“I presume,” said Vance, “that Homer Winthrop is one of the leading spirits of the Company.”

“He is one of the Company,” said Gibbons, as he filled his pipe and lit it, “but he lacks a good deal, I can tell you, of bein’ the biggest toad in the puddle. There’s old Colonel Alexander, he’s the fellow that lays out the plans on a gigantic scale. Then there’s General Ira House. I ‘spect he has the biggest reputation of any town boomer on the western half of the continent—I allow as what he has. And when you’re talkin’ about smart ones, you don’t want to forget B. Webster Legal; he’s the corporation attorney, and you can bet your last half dollar the company will never run agin’ any shoals as long as he stands at the wheel and writes up contracts. Oh, he’s a hummer, and no mistake.”

“It’s reported down thar’ that half a dozen different railroad companies are tryin’ mighty hard to get him for their attorney, but he saws, ‘Not much; I have cast my fortune with my friends and with Waterville, and I’ll stick by the enterprise as long as a town lot can be sold.’.rdquo;

“The Town Company is mighty cute,” he went on, “they never have any law suits, ‘cause their contracts are drawn up with knots tied knee deep all over the fellow they’re dealin’ with.”

It is probable that Steve Gibbons would have gone on indefinitely had not Vance begged to be excused, pleading a previous engagement. They bade each other good night, Gibbons starting for the stables to look after his horses, and Vance walked leisurely along toward the Bonifield’s home.

That afternoon Louise had accepted his invitation to go on a fishing jaunt some day during the week to a place called Silver Point Lake, some two miles away.

Her simplicity of manner and frankness, though possessing, withal, a demure humor, which was one of her charming characteristics, had greatly fascinated him.

They were standing on the cottage porch in the soft summer twilight, while a mountain breeze was tossing the ringlets of Louise’s hair about, as if coquetting with them. Vance was studying her face while she was looking far away toward the western mountains, where the sun had left a reddened glow on the sky, which, he said, was a promise of fair weather for the fishing excursion the next day. Presently, a creaky voice commenced calling:

“Louise! Louise! where is your par?” and before Vance’s fair companion could explain, a woman well advanced in years came out on the porch, and seemed surprised at seeing Vance, and eyed him critically.

“Aunt Sally,” said Louise, “this is Mr. Gilder, papa’s friend. Mr. Gilder, this is my Aunt Sally, father’s sister.”

Aunt Sally acknowledged the introduction with a stately bow. Her apparel was of the fashion of a quarter of a century ago.

“Am very glad to see you, suh,” she said, addressing Vance. “I understand you are interested with my brother in his mine. I can give you, Mr. Gilder, some very excellent advice; I can, indeed, suh, but I will defer it until some other time.” Then turning to Louise, she said, “Do you know where your par’s gone?”

“I do not,” replied Louise, sweetly, “I think he will be here in a few moments.”

“I just allow he’s grub-stakin’ some of them pesky prospectin’ miners again,” cried Aunt Sally. “Mr. Gilder,” she continued, “I have to watch over my brother very closely, I do, indeed, suh. He’s been plantin’ money all over these mountains for many years, but there’s no crop ever been harvested. I allow I’ll give him a piece of my mind when he comes home.” Saying this, she turned and disappeared into the house. Louise was evidently confused, and regretted her aunt’s words, while Vance was at a loss to understand the import of the spinster s remarks.

"I am very sorry, Mr. Gilder,” said Louise—and he noticed she was trembling like a frightened bird—“sorry that Aunt Sally should so far forget herself as to speak so before a stranger.”

Vance declared there was no reason for being disturbed, but Louise was not wholly reassured by his words. “I know papa will be very angry with Aunt Sally.”

“There surely is no cause for that,” replied Vance.

"You see,” said Louise, “mamma died when Virginia and I were little girls, and Aunt Sally has been a mother to us. Ever since papa commenced work on Gray Rocks she has continually opposed him. She says he will never find a dollar s worth of gold if he sinks his shaft a thousand feet. I sometimes think she has influenced sister Virgie. Sister is away from home now, teaching school at Waterville. I do not know whether papa is wrong or not, but if he is, then I am also, for I believe with all my heart that some time papa will find the wealth he has so persistently labored for so many years. And I sincerely hope,” she continued, laying her hand on Vance’s arm and looking pleadingly up into his face, “that you will not be influenced by anything that Aunt Sally may have said, will you?”

Vance was only human; he could not withstand such an appeal, If doubts had ever come to him, the trembling girl at his side, by her looks and words, had put them to flight. “No,” he replied, “my faith is as firm as the rocks in your father’s mine.”

CHAPTER X.—PROPERTY HAS GONE UP.

MMEDIATELY after breakfast the following morning, Vance was waited upon by Col. Bonifield. The old miner bore a troubled expression on his face. Vance invited him to his room.

“Mr. Gilder,” said the old miner, as he raised himself to his full height, and with the dignity of a general addressed Vance: “I assure yo’, suh, I am greatly pained at the uncalled fo’ remarks which my sister made in yo’r presence last evening; I am indeed, suh.

“I assure you,” replied Vance, “there is no occasion to refer to the matter at all. I assured your daughter, and I now assure you, that I have every confidence in the mine, and will continue to have until you yourself have sufficient reason to shake your faith. I certainly cannot say more, and under the circumstances could not say less.”

“Mr. Gilder,” said the old miner, “yo’, suh, are a very honorable gentleman, and I am very proud of my partnership with yo’. I am indeed, suh. In regard to my sister—in her younger days, I assure yo’, she was one of the most rema’kable women of Virginia; yes, suh, a vehy rema’kable woman. She certainly has been a true sister to me, suh, and a faithful mother to my daughters, but in some way she disbelieves in Gray Rocks, and would yo’ believe it, suh, she has gone so far at times as to intimate that I am crazy as a March hare in regard to ever ‘strikin’ it rich’ on our minin’ property; yes, suh, she certainly has said some vehy bitter things against Gray Rocks, but fo’ all that, she is a vehy rema’kable woman, even to this day. Yes, suh, quite rema’kable.”

“I now have a matter, Mr. Gilder,” he continued, “of vehy great importance to discuss with yo.” Vance offered the old miner a cigar, which he accepted, and soon they were discussing the “important matter,” which of course referred to Gray Rocks.

“We are not far away, Mr. Gilder, from the 300 foot level. Our machinery and pumps, suh, have been workin’ rema’kably well. Two weeks mo’ and our shaft will be finished; yes, suh, finished. Then we will cross-cut, and my opinion is, it will be well fo’ yo’ to remain in Gold Bluff and be ready to send in yo’r resignation as cor’spondent of that New York paper; yes, suh that is my advice. It is only proper, suh, that yo’ should enjoy the riches that await yo’.”

“But supposing, Col. Bonifield,” said Vance, “supposing that you do not find any pay ore when you crosscut into the vein, as you say; in that event, I suppose you agree with me that it would be a pretty good idea for me to hold my position on the Banner?”

“Of cou’se, suh,” replied the old miner, “but there is but one chance in ten thousand that we won’t strike it. I admit of this one chance against us, suh, fo’ the sake of argument alone. Mr. Grim is now takin’ out of the Peacock some of the richest ore I ever saw in my life, he is indeed, suh—and his mine joins ours, as yo’ know, directly on the nawth.”

Vance was silent for a few moments, and then said: “In the event, Col. Bonifield, we do not strike it; what then? Will you be discouraged?”

“No, suh; if we fail at the 300 foot level, suh, and yo’ can furnish the money, we will start the next mornin’ fo’ the 400 foot level; but I assure yo’, suh, I have no idea yo ‘ll have to furnish any mo’ money. Gray Rocks is a sure winner; it is indeed, suh. The oldest miners in the camp say that if we stick to Gray Rocks it will be worth mo’ in five years than Rufus Grim’s Peacock mine. When I was yo’r age, Mr. Gilder,” he continued, blowing a cloud of smoke away out of the window toward Gray Rocks, “I could not have stuck to that property year after year as I have been doin’. Why suh, it took a quarter of a century’s experience fo’ me to learn that a rollin’ stone gathers no moss’. it did indeed, suh. Now I have observed the fellows that strike it, in nine cases out of ten, are the ones who follow up and hold on after they once strike a trail. Why, suh, if yo’ had seen the float rock that I found befo’ stakin’ out Gray Rocks, yo’ would know why I believe there is an entire hill full of wealth over yonder.”

While they were talking there came a gentle rap on the door. Vance called out for them to “come in. The door opened, and a boy sidled into the room with a letter in his hand and asked for Col. Bonifield.

“At yo’r service, suh,” said the old miner’ rising with much dignity. “Thank yo’, suh,” said he, taking the letter. The boy took himself off, closing the door behind him, while the colonel, adjusting his glasses, read aloud the address, “Miss Louise Bonifield.”

Dropping his glasses from his eyes, he placed the letter in his pocket and said: “Mr. Boast has evidently returned to Gold Bluff.”

“Mr. Boast, did you say?” asked Vance.

“Yes, suh, Mr. Boast—a young man in whom I have only the slightest confidence. His full name is J. Arthur Boast. His father, Colonel Boast, lives on a ranch about three miles from here.”

Vance could never explain why, but the unfavorable opinion he had formed of J. Arthur Boast while at Waterville was in the twinkling of an eye changed to hatred. Soon after, Colonel Bonifield took his departure, and Vance commenced preparing for his next day’s fishing-jaunt. His door had been left ajar, and presently he heard a squeaky, ill-omened voice that he well remembered.

“How do you do, Mr. Gilder?”

Vance turned and saw J. Arthur Boast standing at his door. “How do you do,” said Vance, rather abruptly.

“I did not expect to find you at Gold Bluff,” said Boast in an insinuating tone of voice.

“Why not?” said Vance; without deigning to look up.

“Oh, you eastern fellows, and newspaper men in particular, never stay very long in one place. So you’ve met my old mining friend, Colonel Bonifield?”

“Yes,” replied Vance.

“I presume you’ve met his daughter, Miss Louise?” As he made this remark he looked out of the corners of his restless eyes in a manner that was intended to be cunning Vance was full of resentment, and dared not trust himself to make and immediate reply. Presently Boast continued: “They are old friends, of mine; a most respectable family. I used to live in Gold Bluff; may live here again. One can’t say what may happen, you know.”

“I thought,” said Vance, “you were in love with Waterville.”

“One’s in love where one’s possessions are, don’t you see?”

Vance did not reply to the question, but busied himself with his fishing tackle. Presently Boast took a bottle from his pocket, and said:

“Will you have a drink of red liquor Vance replied in the negative.

“Well, I suppose,” said Boast, “I ought not to drink so much. The truth is, I am a pretty devilish hard citizen. I am drinking entirely too much of the stuff, but no one takes interest enough in me to tell me so; yet I know I’m going to the bad. The habit is formed and what is a fellow going to do about it?”

He waited some time for a reply, but as Vance made none, he proceeded to pour out a small portion of the contents of the bottle into a glass, and then added some water to it and stood looking out of the window.

“Won’t you be seated?” asked Vance.

“Thank you, I believe I will,” replied Boast, and sat down with the glass of liquor in his hand, and said nothing for several minutes. He acted as if he dreaded the ordeal of swallowing the portion, but felt it would not do to set it aside after all he had said in regard to being a hard drinker. Finally he gulped it down at a single swallow, and then drank a great quantity of water immediately afterward. He strangled considerably and his eyes became very red, and evidently was glad the trial was over. Presently he said:

“Mr. Gilder, there are things going to happen down at Waterville in the next ninety days that will surprise everyone. Some very large manufacturing enterprises wall soon be located there.”

“That certainly is very welcome news,” replied Vance, “as a property owner in the new city, I am naturally interested in its development.”

"Property has gone up ten per cent since you were there.”

“Is that so?” said Vance, looking up in some surprise. “Of course,” Boast continued, “I am selling my special bargain list at the same old prices, but the Company and other real estate agents who have desk room here and there over the town, are trying very hard to inflate prices. I am holding them level, however, and intend to keep on doing so. I don’t propose having Waterville killed by a lot of town boomers, who are trying to get prices away above intrinsic values.”

“It is very fortunate,” replied Vance, “that Waterville has such a conservative citizen as yourself.”

“It’s very complimentary for you to say so, I am sure,” replied Boast. “Of course. Mr. Gilder, I would not say anything detrimental about anyone.”

“Certainly not,” replied Vance. The tenor of his conversation was decidedly wicked in its insinuations; indeed, one to hear him talk would naturally think the destiny of Waterville rested entirely with J. Arthur Boast. Presently, in a high, creaking voice, he said:

“How do you like Miss Louise?”

“Miss Louise?” repeated Vance, with a perplexed look on his face.

“Yes, Miss Louise Bonifield. How do you like her? Pretty fair specimen for the west, ain’t she?”

“My likes and dislikes,” said Vance, “are hardly to be taken into consideration. One seldom forms an opinion until he is acquainted. Of course, there are exceptions to the rule. I have known people for a very short time, and yet instinctively taken a great dislike to them. Miss Bonifield,” continued Vance, without looking up, "has the appearance of a lady of refinement and culture, but as my observations have been limited, I can hardly say more than that I am well pleased with both the young lady and her father.” At this Vance prepared to leave the room.

“You’d better drink with me,” said Boast, taking up his bottle again.

“I am liable to drink every drop of this liquor before I let up, and you’d only be doing me a kindness by dividing it up with me a little.”

“No, thank you,” replied Vance. “Very well,” said Boast “I shall remain in Gold Bluff several days, and hope to see you often.”

Vance closed the door after Boast had left his room, and the one word, “Scoundrel!” hissed through his teeth.

CHAPTER XI.—OWNER OF THE PEACOCK MINE.

HE 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.

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.

HE 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.

The managing editor, at Buzzard’s Bay, was enjoying his morning smoke when the Banner was laid on his table. Glancing it over leisurely, his eye caught the head-lines, “Two Honorable Exceptions.” In a moment he was all animation. His cigar was permitted to go out in his general neglect of everything else, in devouring every sentence and word of the article. He then paced back and forth across his room and swore like a pirate, declaring he would not have had the article appear in the columns of the Banner for $10,000.

“Just to think,” said he, “the very thing I sent that young fool of a Gilder into the west to accomplish, he has in this one article spoiled forever. Half a dozen of my friends have been asking me about mining investments in Butte City. I have pleaded ignorance, but assured them we had sent a trusty man to inspect the merits of such investments, and they could expect reliable information in the columns of the Banner. Here it is, and a pretty mess he has made of it. He has,” continued the managing editor, angrily, “completely lost his head; only one thing will bring him to his senses, and that is a prompt dismissal from the Banner force.”

Accordingly he wired the assistant managing editor, directing him to notify Mr. Gilder by letter that his services were no longer required. He also instructed his assistant to send the clearest headed man on the force immediately to Butte City, Montana, and Waterville, Idaho, and have an article for the coming Sunday issue that would entirely counteract the effect of Mr. Gilder’s communication.

While these arrangements were being made at the Banner office, Vance was preparing to return to Butte City by way of Waterville, in order to make some investigations and secure additional information for his next letter to the Banner.

The old miner, Ben Bonifield, had assured him they would reach the 300 foot level by the following Saturday night, and Vance promised to return to Gold Bluff early the following week. Vance waited over one stage in order to travel in the one driven by Steve Gibbons.

As a special mark of distinction to Vance, Gibbons invited him to a seat on the top of the stage. As they were whirled away from the beautiful little village of Gold Bluff, the sun was beginning to gild with gold the eastern hills. Vance felt it was a sight never to be forgotten. The evening before starting he was at the Bonifields. When Louise said good-bye, with the sweet truthfulness of youth, and assured him that she would be lonely when he was gone, he felt like declaring then and there, he would stay forever if she would but make the request. She gave Vance a letter of introduction to her sister Virginia, whom Vance promised to call upon as soon as possible after reaching Waterville.

Steve Gibbons was in his element on top of the stage coach.

He chatted away in a vivacious manner, recounting various reminiscences of the different mountain gorges, here and there, where fine specimens of float rock had been discovered at different times. Again he would tell of some thrilling adventure with the Indians, and marvelous hair-breadth escapes. Gibbons invariably figured in these narratives as one of the principal characters. Presently he said:

“I don’t reckon you met Grim, did you?”

“Rufus Grim?” said Vance; “yes, I had the pleasure of meeting him only a few days ago.”

“I ‘spect,” said Gibbons, “that Rufus Grim is the biggest scoundrel unhung in these diggins. He thinks he’s mighty pert, but Hank Casey and me ‘ll teach him afore long that other people can be a mighty sight perter than what he is. The only hearty, overgrown regret that I’ve never been able to get rid of is that I didn’t twist his neck ten years ago.”

“What grievance have you,” asked Vance, “against Mr. Grim? One would naturally suppose the owner of the richest mine in the Fish River Mining District would be respected instead of disliked.” Steve Gibbons pushed his sombrero back from his forehead, as if to relieve his pent up feelings, swung his long whip twice around his head, and made the welkin ring as he cracked it over the backs of his dappled leaders.

He then expectorated a vigorous “pit-tew” of tobacco juice, and said: “I reckon one can’t always judge by appearances. When Steve Gibbons says that Rufus Grim is a scoundrel, he is a pretty good jedge of what he is sayin’, and he mighty near means what he says, pardner. Somebody’s goin’ to be jerked out of the kinks ‘fore long, and—’twixt ourselves—I think that somebody is Rufus Grim. Hank Casey an’ me are old pards, and we’ve employed B. Webster Legal. He’s the corporation attorney for the Waterville Town Company. You won’t be takin’ no chances, pardner, of bettin’ your last dollar that old Grim will think somebody’s after him with a sharp stick and a diamond drill in the end of it ‘afore B. Webster Legal gets through with him. I tell you, Jedge Legal is a cuss in the court room. He can whip his weight in wild-cats in a law suit. Of course, I don’t mean that he’s goin’ to leave the Town Company; he’ll never do that as long as a lot can be sold—he says so his-self. Hank and I hev made a bargain with him, and old Grim is goin’ to be ousted. The Peacock belongs to Hank Casey and me. What do you think of that?”

“I assure you,” replied Vance, “you interest me very much. I supposed Mr. Grim was the owner of the Peacock.”

Again Steve Gibbons’ long whip cracked like a pistol shot over the backs of his horses. Presently he said:

“I don’t tell everybody, pardner, but I ‘spect it makes no difference with you. You see, when Rufus Grim came to Gold Bluff some fifteen years ago, he was so darnation poor he couldn’t buy a meal of victuals. Hank and I had staked out the Peacock.

We had found some mighty rich float rock in that part of the mountain, and knew the precious stuff was not very far away. We ‘grub-staked’ Grim and put him to work on wages, and while he was workin’, he struck a ‘pocket’ and found free gold—a regular vault full of yellow stuff. He commenced his treachery by stealin’ every grain of it, and then cleverly walled up that part of the shaft and continued diggin’ in the opposite direction, endeavorin’ to get as far away from the place where he had made the discovery as possible. Well, by and by Hank Casey and me got tired of payin’ out money, and we sold out the Peacock for a mere song to Grim. Soon after, the name of Rufus Grim was known all over the mountain district as a bonanza king. He organized an immense company, and owns most of the stock himself. Within six months after we were defrauded of our rights in the Peacock, he was a rich man, and has been gettin’ richer ever since. Hank Casey and me have a whole lot of evidence. B. Webster Legal says if we can prove what we claim, that we have got a lead pipe cinch on the Peacock. The papers are bein’ drawn up, and things are goin’ to be sizzlin’ hot for Rufus Grim before many moons go over his head.”

Vance expressed much surprise and sympathy at the injustice he had sustained.

“Say, pardner,” said Steve, “I kind o’ reckon you’re shinin’ up a little toward old Bonifield’s gal, ain’t you?” and he nudged Vance in the ribs with his elbow.

The question was so unexpected that Vance hardly knew how to reply. “I hope,” replied Vance, “that I am not in disfavor with the young lady, or her father either. I own an interest in Gray Rocks.”

“The dickens you do!” said Steve Gibbons. “Well, if there’s any man in these mountains, pardner, who ought to strike it, old Ben Bonifield is the one. He’s been stickin to Gray Rocks for a good many years, and is one of the squarest men in the Fish River Minin’ District, while that gal of his—-why, she is the gem of all these diggins. I did think J. Arthur Boast had the inside track on the Bonifield ranch, but here lately I ‘lowed as maybe Boast was playin’ second fiddle; but then you can’t tell how a game is goin’ to end until the last card is played.”

Vance made no reply, but ground his teeth in silent anger at the mention of Boast’s name.

It was late that night when they arrived at Waterville.

CHAPTER XIV.—THE TOWN COMPANY’. MEETING.

ARLY the next morning Dick Ballard rapped on Vance’s door, and being admitted, greeted him warmly, and assured him he was mighty glad to see him again.

“There’s goin’ to be a meetin’ of the Town Company.”

“Is that so?” said Vance.

“Yes; the hul kit and bilin’ of ‘em are here,” replied Ballard. “There’s Colonel Alexander, Homer Winthrop, General Ira House and his brother, Jack House, B. Webster Legal and Marcus Donald. Donald is the resident director of the Town Company.” Vance said he would be glad to meet them.

“Well, you’ll see the keenest lot of men,” said Ballard, “this here country has ever pulled together. Every one of ‘em is a strong man and a hustler from the word go. What I say about ‘em you’ll find is prima facie.” After a little, Dick Ballard winked one eye at Vance and said: “I feel a bottle in my pocket, and I wouldn’t wonder a mite there was suthin’ in it that wouldn’t taste bad. A little spirits is mighty good for a feller when he has had a hard day’s ride.”

Vance assured him that he was much obliged, but was thoroughly refreshed by his night’s rest, and a light breakfast was all he wanted.

“We usually,” replied Ballard, “accommodate fellows that want that kind of a breakfast; in fact, some of our breakfasts are too darned light. I’ll go down and see what I can skirmish up for you.”

At the door Dick Ballard turned and said, “Oh, yes, have you heard the news?”

“No, I do not remember of having heard anything of a startling character,” replied Vance.

“Well, by Ned, I supposed you had heard all about it,” said Ballard, as he leaned against the door and looked wise.

“Well, what is it?” queried Vance.

“Well, sir, our militia company has got a new snare drum, and, gosh all fish hooks! but she is a rat-tat-tat-to-or from away back!” The door closed and Old Dick Ballard retreated, merrily whistling “Away down in Dixie.”

After breakfast, Vance was escorted to the Town Company’s office, where he met the different members of the company. Each vied with the other in showing him courtesies.

“I presume,” said Homer Winthrop, as they drew a little aside from the others, “that you have never met as remarkable men as you see in my associates.” He looked radiant, inserted his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, and continued:

“Colonel Alexander is possessed of one of the richest brains of any man I ever knew. Our attorney, Mr. Legal is a star of the first magnitude in his profession, and can whip a small army in a lawsuit, while Gen. Ira House has a reputation superior to any man in the Rocky Mountains as a town builder. Now, if he,” continued Winthrop, “should go into the midst of a desert and say, ‘Here a great city shall be built,’ you would make no mistake in taking a ‘flyer’ on some dirt in that vicinity. Then there is Jack House, the General’s brother, who is, in his specialty, a most remarkable man. He is sometimes called ‘the Conspirator’ of our gang, because of his ability to set up jobs on the enemy and down ‘em.”

“By Jove, look,” said Winthrop, pointing out of the window, while his face became animated, “do you see that young lady on the other side of the street? That’s Miss Virgie Bonifield, and I venture to say she’s one of the loveliest girls in the Rocky Mountains.”

“I have a message for her, sent by her sister,” replied Vance. “I will be under many obligations if you’ll introduce me to the young lady.”

“With pleasure,” replied Winthrop, “as soon as the town meeting adjourns we will call upon her.”

The meeting was called to order, with Colonel Alexander in the chair.

The chairman cleared his throat several times with marked vehemence, and said:

“Gentlemen, we have again met to deliberate upon the destiny of Waterville and the great Thief River Valley. It is no small matter for gigantic intellects to thus assemble as a deliberative body, to arrange, by resolutions or otherwise, questions of great moment. The leading question to-day, gentlemen, is that of mind over matter. We have said to one another, ‘Waterville shall become a great city;’ our united efforts are concentrated in this work. The story of the bundle of sticks is as true to-day as when the fable was first written.

“The wealth, gentlemen, of our united intellects is bearing down in concentrated rays against every opposition, and with hammer and tongs we are reaching out in every direction, and are making one of the grandest campaigns the country has ever witnessed. Gentlemen, what is the pleasure of this meeting?”

The Colonel’s earnestness could not be doubted. When he sat down he fondled his gold-headed cane with apparent tenderness, as if he were ashamed of the way he had abused it in emphasizing his remarks by punching it into the floor in a most merciless fashion.

B. Webster Legal, addressing the chairman, said: “I am proud again to meet my distinguished associates as a deliberative body. For the benefit of our beloved citizens of Waterville, who are crowding into this room of deliberation, and standing in front of the windows eagerly listening to the important proceedings of this meeting, I will say that only men in the broadest term—men with an abundance of gray matter clinging to their brains—could possibly have accomplished the feats which have characterized the acts of the Waterville Town Company from its organization up to the present time. I feel, Mr. President and gentlemen, that our untiring efforts are about to be crowned with a success little dreamed of by the most hopeful.

“From a legal point of view, I am proud to assure you that the Waterville Town Company is in a most safe and healthy condition. I have frequently observed, and will again say, I am not a seller of lots, but I assure each and every one of you that I am here to stay by this company as long as a lot can be sold. So far as legal knots are concerned, I will untie them; or, failing to do so, will, with the sharp edge of the law, cleave them asunder.”

The attorney’s remarks were greeted with applause as he sat down.

The chairman jarred the frail building by again clearing his throat, and requested C. Webster Legal to make a report of the assets of the Waterville Town Company.

"Mr. Chairman,” said B. Webster Legal, “I have recently looked over the list of property owned by the Waterville Town Company, and find that we have assets amounting to some two millions of dollars.”

As the attorney sat down there was a satisfied look upon his face suggestive of the millionaire.

The chairman looked over his spectacles and said, “Gentlemen, you have heard, and no doubt with pardonable elation, the statement of our honored associate, Judge Legal. There are eight of us,” he continued, “and two millions means a quarter of a million each. Within two years, sirs, these assets will have doubled in value. There are men whose statements I would not rely implicitly upon without discounting them—say, fifty or seventy-five per cent—but, gentlemen, when it comes to downright conservatism, why, my level-headed friend the Judge takes the jackpot. Yes, sir, I undertake to say, gentlemen, he is the king bee of us all in cutting square into the heart of a proposition, and analyzing it with a precision that is truly remarkable; and when he says two millions, I have no hesitancy, gentlemen, in staking my reputation that it is three millions if it is a cent.”

As the chairman sat down he looked carefully at his gold-headed cane again to make sure it had sustained no injury.

Marcus Donald, the resident Town Company’s director, addressed the meeting, and said:

“Mr. Chairman, I never felt so rich in my life as I do at the present moment. I regret that my ancestors are not alive to rejoice with me in the prosperity I am now enjoying. There is a reason in this contemplated prosperity. First, the great natural opportunities in this wonderful valley, and, second, the unity of action on the part of the members of our Town Company.

“I have here a small matter to which I wish to call the directors’ attention.

It is a livery bill of some eighty dollars that is past due, and, perhaps, we had better arrange for it.”

Judge Legal rose to a point of order. He said that such small details as paying livery bills had no place in the deliberations of this body of men. “It is the duty of the auditing committee to first approve and then look after the payments of small items like expense bills.”

Director Donald stated in reply that B. Webster Legal was a member of the auditing committee as well as himself, and, doubtless, knew the bill had been approved of long ago, but that there were no funds with which—

“Order!” shouted the chairman, punching his goldheaded cane vigorously into the floor. “I sustain the point of order made by this corporation’s attorney. Let us now proceed with the deliberations of weighty and progressive questions.”

Gen. Ira House sat propped back in his chair in a retired corner of the room, and until now had maintained silence, save the fetching and labored puffs of his cigar, which almost completely enveloped him in a cloud of smoke. As he straightened himself up, he pushed his chair in front of him, elevated one foot to the seat and rested his left elbow on his elevated knee. He wore an expression on his face becoming a philosopher. "Mr. Chairman,” said he, “it seems to me we’re drifting.” He looked wise and waited a moment for his remark to take effect. “Drifting,” he continued, “is weakness. If we drift, we scatter; if we scatter, we fall. Now, gentlemen,” he continued, “we must not drift. There are important business matters awaiting our attention. I hold in my hand a letter from a party who wants to know if Waterville would not be a good place to start a foundry. Now, gentlemen, do we want a foundry at Waterville, or do we not? That is the question before this meeting.”

As Gen. House sat down, the crowd cheered him lustily, stamped their feet, clapped their hands, and cries of “Good!”

“That’s business!” “That’s the talk!” were heard on all sides among the citizens who were listening with bated breath to the proceedings of the Town Company’s meeting.

“I move,” said Jack House, “that we want a foundry at Waterville, and resolutions to that effect be prepared, inviting the party, whoever he is, to locate his foundry here.”

“Order, gentlemen!” shouted the chairman, again clearing his throat. “Mr. Secretary, please record in the minutes of this meeting, if there are no objections, the unanimous vote in favor of the foundry, and prepare a set of elaborate resolutions, which we will sign, inviting the party making the inquiry to come at once to Waterville and locate his foundry.”

The throng of citizens broke into cheers at this announcement, and the word was soon passed through the throng to the outer circle, that a foundry was to be located at Waterville. Presently, three cheers and a tiger were proposed for the new foundry, and the deliberations of the Town Company were necessarily delayed until the cheering had ceased.

Marcus Donald, addressing the chairman, said: “I have received a communication from the owners of a sash, blind and door factory, who seem quite desirous of casting their lot with us. I suggest the importance of taking official notice of their communication.”

The throng of citizens waited almost breathlessly, and with a fair degree of patience, to see what was to be done in regard to the sash, blind and door factory. Judge Legal moved that the suggestion offered by Director Donald be acted upon, and that a resolution favoring the sash, blind and door factory be voted upon. As he sat down, three other directors seconded the motion.

“You have heard the question,” said the chairman. “Unless there is some opposition, we will regard it as carried unanimously.” He looked over his spectacles a moment, and as no one offered an objection, he brought his gold-headed cane down with a sharp rap upon the floor, and said “Carried!”

Again the word was passed from citizen to citizen onto the waiting mob without, that Waterville was to have a sash, blind and door factory. Again huzzas and cheering rent the air, and impeded, to a certain degree, the deliberations of the Town Company’s meeting.

At this juncture, a clerk of the local bank—the only one that Waterville could boast of—presented himself and asked permission to address the directors.

“What is the nature of your business, young man?” asked Col. Alexander, clearing his throat threateningly and looking hard at the clerk over his spectacles.

"I have a sight draft for $50, drawn on the Waterville Town Company for printing stock certificates.”

The chairman and his seven colleagues came to their they cried, almost in unison. Several of the directors shouted, “Mr. Chairman! Mr. Chairman!” at the top of their voice, but in his indignation the chairman failed to take notice of them.

Presently a silence, caused by sheer consternation, succeeded the first burst of surprise. Judge Legal, mounting a chair, said:

“Mr. Chairman! I move you that article 57 of our by-laws be copied and certified to under our corporate seal and delivered to this young gentleman, that he may return it with the sight draft. Here is the wording of article 57: ‘Further, that this corporation, the Waterville Town Company refuses to honor or pay sight drafts from any and all sources.’.rdquo;

“You have heard the question,” said the excited chairman, bringing his cane down with great vehemence. “Do I hear a second?”

“We all second it.”

Silence having been restored, Judge Legal again addressed the chair:

“Mr. Secretary,” said the chairman, “record the question as carried unanimously.”

“Mr. Chairman,” said he, “in the future all printing by the Waterville Town Company will be sent to another printing establishment.”

“Unless there is opposition, we will consider the question as carried unanimously,” said the chairman. At this juncture the chairman took the floor, and addressing the directors, said:

“There are times when, notwithstanding the power of our united intellects, questions of a very exasperating nature confront us, and, momentarily, we are at a loss to know just what to do; but it is only momentarily—we meet every crisis. It takes us a very short time to decide; and, with us, decision is action.

“In my experience I have observed that, occasionally, storms of opposition sweep down upon men like an irresistible avalanche. At such times it is well to retreat to some protected place and let the storm tire itself out—beat itself into exhaustion, so to speak—until its very protest becomes a dead silence. Refreshed with the rest we have had, we may then safely sally forth, and, with renewed vigor, arrange a flank movement on the enemy, and everlastingly choke opposition into a corpse.”

When the chairman sat down he motioned Vance to his side, and said, sotto voce: “Was not that a master stroke, Mr. Gilder? Do not we meet and dispose of questions that would simply stump any ordinary body of men into inaction? Opposition does not faze us; no sir, we know our rights, and are here to fight for them.”

The citizens were very much elated over the prospects of a foundry and a sash, blind and door factory at Waterville. Their gratitude to the Town Company was very marked, and was evidenced by three hearty cheers and many huzzas. Presently the meeting of the Town Company adjourned, and then there was much clapping of hands and more cheering. Each member of the company crowded around Vance and shook him warmly by the hand, and assured him they had had one of the most profitable meetings that had ever taken place.

CHAPTER XV.—MISS VIRGINIA BONIFIELD.

|ANCE had become so thoroughly interested during his first visit to Waterville, that he was prepared, in a degree, to share in a general way the enthusiasm of the citizens and the members of the Waterville Town Company which prevailed after the meeting adjourned.

Buoyant with hope of the future, without hardly understanding why, and with a blind belief that his investment would yield him a splendid return, he began to feel that it was indeed a lucky day when the chief of the Banner sent him to the northwest, and still luckier when he fell in with the members of the Waterville Town Company.

That afternoon, accompanied by Homer Winthrop, he called on Miss Virginia Bonifield.

That young lady received her callers with a cultured grace and dignity that would have done honor to even one who had seen much more of the world. She was rather tall and a pronounced brunette. Her well poised head was in keeping with her graceful figure. One could not say she was strikingly beautiful, but there was something in her face as well as manner that made one forget to desire her different than the interesting person she was. Both vivacious and intelligent, she possessed the rare charm, in her conversation, of reflecting the mood of those about her. Addressing Vance, she said:

“Louise has written me so much about you that I have been quite impatient to form your acquaintance. I presume that papa is still working away on Gray Rocks?”

“Yes,” replied Vance, “he will soon reach the 300 foot level.”

"And the old story will be told again, I dare say,” said Virginia, laughing.

“Miss Virginia is not an enthusiast,” said Winthrop, “in regard to untold millions that have not yet been discovered in mining shafts.”

“My observations,” retorted Virginia, “have caused me to be less sentimental, if not more practical, than my good sister Louise.”

“I fear,” said Vance, “you do not share in your father’s belief in regard to the future of Gray Rocks?”

“I am a Bonifield,” replied Virginia, “and believe implicitly in my father; and, in my way, love him as tenderly, I dare say, as any daughter ever loved a parent, but sometimes I fear he is mistaken—but, to change the subject,” she continued, “how do you like the west?”

“I am very favorably impressed with what I have seen. In the east we have many brilliants that are not diamonds; in the west we have many rough ashlars that are diamonds unpolished.”

“Thank you,” replied Virginia, “I consider that a compliment.”

“It is our intention,” said Winthrop, “to claim Mr. Gilder as a western man before another year; and if Waterville continues to grow, as we expect it will, we may persuade him to edit our first daily paper.”

Soon after, they rose to go. “I shall hope,” said Miss Virginia, “that I will be honored by a call from you whenever you are in Waterville.”

“Thank you,” replied Vance, “it will afford me great pleasure.”

Winthrop remained behind a few moments, while Vance walked up and down the sidewalk. The sun was well toward the western horizon. A bluish haze lay against the mountains in the distance. It was an Indian summer afternoon, full of quiet rest, with a gentle, invigorating mountain breeze as a constant tonic.

Presently Winthrop joined him, and they hurried down to the depot, for it was nearing train time, and they had arranged to travel together to Butte City.

“How are you impressed with Miss Bonifield?” asked Winthrop.

“Quite favorably,” replied Vance. “She is, however, an entirely different type from her sister, Miss Louise; indeed, I can discover no family resemblance. Miss Louise is quite fair, while Miss Virginia is a decided brunette.”

Soon after, the train came in, and they secured comfortable seats in a Pullman. As the train started, Vance looked out of the window at the turbulent waters in the river, and asked Winthrop where the foundry, and sash, blind and door factory would be located.

“We have not decided as yet,” replied Winthrop. “That will be an easy matter to arrange when the party or parties are ready to commence building.”

“I presume you are selling a good many lots?” said Vance.

“Well, yes,” replied Winthrop, hesitatingly. “We are interesting a good many people; and it takes people to build a city. Where a man’s possessions are, his heart is generally not far away.”

“I should judge from your complimentary remarks about Miss Virginia Bonifield, and the delightful expression of your face when we called this afternoon, that your heart abides quite permanently at Waterville.” Winthrop seemed confused and looked out of the window. Presently lie said:

“Miss Bonifield is one of the most practical young ladies it has ever been my good fortune to meet. She is a most exemplary young lady, and the good people of Waterville hold her in high esteem. This is her second year in the public school at that place.”

“I judge from her remarks,” said Vance, “that her faith is very limited in her father’s mine.”

“Yes,” replied ‘Winthrop, “I consider her the most practical member of the Bonifield family.”

Vance blushed scarlet and turned resentfully in his seat toward Winthrop. “Ho! ho!” said Winthrop, laughing, “I was merely expressing my own private opinion. I see, without your saying it, that your opinion is quite different. How fortunate it is that all men, especially you and I, Mr. Gilder, are not of the same opinion. This very difference of opinion,” Winthrop went on, “may, as the months come and go, weld our friendship more and more firmly.”

Vance saw that he had betrayed his feelings, and good-naturedly observed that he always was quite partial to blondes. “I presume,” he went on, “when I become editor of the first daily paper in Waterville, you will, doubtless, be president of some great banking house.”

“I hope so,” replied Winthrop, thoughtfully. “If many people are interested in our new town it will help us in more ways than one. They will ultimately move to Waterville, erect homes, and engage in business; but we must not be impatient and expect too much for the first year, or the second, for that matter. ‘Rome was not built in a day.’ I fully believe,” continued Winthrop, “that parties purchasing lots at the present prices will receive most excellent returns on their investments. You see,” continued Winthrop in a confidential way, “the Waterville Town Company was compelled to go into debt very heavily at the time it commenced its operations, but by persistent and continued efforts on the part of various members of the company, we have greatly reduced the indebtedness, and if the sale of lots continues for a week longer we will, probably, not owe a dollar.

We will then divide our property, each member receiving a deed for his respective share.”

Winthrop seemed so happy in anticipation of the joyful time when the company’ would be out of debt, and was so confidential and frank in regard to the matter, that Vance, hardly knowing why, found himself deeply interested in the work of selling lots, and suggested to Winthrop that he would write to some of the members of the Banner force who were particular friends of his, and advise them to send on their surplus earnings for investment.

The town boomer was at once on the alert, and, in not an over-anxious way, heartily advised the step. Accordingly, that night at the hotel in Butte City, Vance wrote a letter to his friends advising an investment in Waterville.

The dramatic critic, the religious editor, the police reporter, and the heads of the several departments of the Banner at once acted on Vance’s advice. They knew nothing of the chief’s action in regard to Vance’s dismissal. They wired Vance, authorizing him to sight draft them for $2,500, and invest the proceeds in town lots in Waterville.

He at once complied with the instructions, turned the money over to Winthrop, and instructed him to forward the deeds to his friends in New York city.

He was not a little gratified to find his last letter to the Banner copied in full by the Intermountain Blade and the Butte City Miner, with editorials referring to the article as particularly able, and to the writer as having the “courage of his convictions.”

The article had a most salutary effect on Homer Winthrop’s lot selling enterprise, and during the next few days he sold more Waterville town lots than his most sanguine expectations had caused him to hope for.

Toward the last of the week Vance left Butte City for Gold Bluff, via Waterville. He had in his possession additional data and statistics to support and corroborate his recent letter to the Banner.

At first the west was distasteful to him, but as he became better acquainted with its customs and habits he began to recognize the true manhood that is not unfrequently found under the miner’s garb.

There is an uncouth, whole-soul generosity met with on the frontier of which the effete easterner knows nothing.

Arriving at Waterville the following morning too late for the Gold Bluff stage, he was compelled to put in another day at Waterville. Remembering Miss Virginia Bonifield’s invitation, he called on her that evening, and was most hospitably received. In the course of their conversation she said:

“I understand, Mr. Gilder, that you are interested with my father in Gray Rocks I hope you did not misunderstand me or my motive when I spoke discouragingly of my father’s mining prospects.”

“May I ask,” said Vance, “what reason you have for your pessimistic views, if I may term them such?”

“I presume,” she replied, a little nettled, “they are about as tangible and equally hard to explain as those of an optimist. I have a presentiment that father will never find what he is looking for in the Gray Rocks mine. My sister, Louise, encourages faith in what to me seems a mad belief.”

“Your sister may be right,” replied Vance.

“My greatest hope,” she replied, “is that I am wrong and that my sweet sister is right; but I really fear, Mr. Gilder, you will never see your money again that you have been investing with my father.”

“I cannot doubt your sincerity,” replied Vance, “but I am glad to have more faith than you have.”

“Why should I have any faith,” she replied. “Have I not seen my father clinging to that false hope year after year, and every day resulting in a fresh disappointment? Long ago I made up my mind that Aunt Sally is about right. She says that father has been planting money with different prospectors all over the mountains, and none of it has ever found its way back. She also predicts that father will work away on Gray Rocks until he dies, and never have his hopes realized. I love my father tenderly, and feel very sorry for him. A stranger cannot understand his personal charms and grandeur as one of his family. He is certainly one of the sweetest characters in the world. His persuasive powers, as you evidently have reason to know, are very great, and I feel it my duty to thus warn you for your own protection. Papa is so sane on everything else excepting Gray Rocks, and is so foolish about that, notwithstanding his many years of lost labor.”

“If your father has a ‘wheel in his head’ on the subject of Gray Rocks, I must admit that I, too, have one in mine,” replied Vance.

The blush that overspread Virginia’s face suggested that she felt keenly the rebuke.

“Pardon me, Mr. Gilder,” said she, “I had forgotten that I am not ‘my brother’s keeper’. I promise never to refer to the subject again.”

That evening, after Vance had taken leave of Miss Virginia Bonifield, he experienced a strange unrest and dissatisfaction, and while he did not admit it to himself, the glamour of his day-dreams had been broken.

Presently, as he walked along, the face of Louise came before him, and, in a moment, he forgot his unsatisfactory evening; forgot hope’s broken glamour, and basked again in the alluring belief that the future held no clouds for him.

It was late when he reached the hotel.

Looking through the window, he saw old Dick Ballard, who was alone in the barroom entertaining himself with an evening drill.

He carried a long, iron poker at “carry arms,” and was marching back and forth with military tread. Arriving at the end of the room, he would call out “Halt! About face! March!”

Vance was very much amused at old Dick Ballard’s pantomime drill, but finally opened the door and walked in. The transformation scene was wonderful. Old Dick Ballard was vigorously poking in the stove, notwithstanding it was a July night.

“Hello, Mr. Gilder,” said he, looking up, “I saw a mighty big rat run in this stove a minute ago, and I am after it.”

“Better charge your entire militia company on the enemy,” said Vance, laughing.

“Oh, you saw me, did you,” said Ballard. “I was jes’ drillin’ up a little for dress parade. Well, pardner, I’ll set ‘em up, and you say nothin’ about it.”

Vance declined to be entertained, but Ballard drank copiously from his ever ready bottle.

“I tell you, Waterville’s got it and no mistake,” said he, putting his bottle carefully away.

“Got what,” asked Vance, as he turned to go to his room.

“Got the crack military company of the state,” replied Ballard. “You ought to see ‘em drill once. There is nothin’ in New York city or anywhere else can tech one side of ‘em for big money.”

CHAPTER XVI.—THE OLD COLONEL’. DISAPPOINTMENT.

HE FOLLOWING morning Vance took the stage for Gold Bluff. As he neared that little mining town, he found himself experiencing an impatience once more to see Louise Bonifield that was strangely at variance with any former sensation of his life. It seemed to him the stage coach was traveling at a snail’s pace, and even the good natured, “honest intentioned” Steve Gibbons, with all his droll talk of frontier adventure, failed to interest him. Arriving at the hotel, he found the old miner, Ben Bonifield, waiting for him.

“Am delighted to see yo’, Mr. Gilder; I am indeed, suh. I presume yo’r almost famished; pow’ful tiresome ridin’ in a stage coach all day, suh. After yo’ have refreshed yo’self, I shall be pleased to join yo’ in yo’r room. I have a matteh of vehy great impo’tance to discuss with yo’, suh.”

“All right,” said Vance, in his cheeriest tones. “I trust Miss Louise is well?”

“Quite well, suh; quite well, thank yo’.”

As Vance ate his supper a satisfied feeling of contentment with the whole world intruded itself upon him. His advancement in his profession was certainly gratifying. He had received several valuable hints while in Butte City in regard to a new silver mining company that was about to be organized, in which he was thinking seriously of investing a little money. The price was only ten cents a share, which he had been assured, on what seemed to him very excellent authority, would be worth a dollar a share before twelve months’ time. His investment at Waterville was certainly a good one, and he heartily believed Col. Bonifield had good news to tell him about Gray Rocks. In addition to this, he was once more near Louise, that fair vision of loveliness, whose tender blue eyes seemed ever near him. He dropped a coin into the hand of the waiter as he rose from the table, and stopped in the hallway to caress a lovely little child which he found playing hide-and-seek with an older companion, and then made each a present of money with which to buy bon-bons. He hummed softly to himself the air of an old love song as he went leisurely to his room.

Soon after, he was enjoying a choice Havana with Col. Bonifield sitting in a chair opposite him, smoking his briar-root, blowing blue rings of smoke leisurely toward the ceiling. Vance was animated, and spoke glowingly of the prospects of Waterville. Presently Col. Bonifield said:

“Mr. Gilder, we have reached the 300 foot level, suh,” and then lapsed into silence.

“Have you cross-cut into the vein yet?” asked Vance.

“Mr. Gilder,” said the old miner, as he rose from his chair and walked back and forth in a stately manner, “we have cross-cut, suh, into where the vein ought to have been, but it is not there, suh. I must confess to yo’, suh, that I am greatly disappointed, but the disappointment, I am sure, suh, is only tempoary. Of course it is much richer, suh, than it was at the 200 foot level, but it is not rich enough, suh, to work, by a pow’ful sight.”

This information was a great disappointment to Vance, for he had fully shared the old miner’s belief that they would strike the rich ore at the 300 foot level.

“I will admit, Col. Bonifield, that I am somewhat disappointed, and of course you are. Under the circumstances, what do you advise?”

"Yo’ honor me, suh, indeed yo’ do, Mr. Gilder, to ask my advice, because, suh, I know my advice is good. Whether yo’, Mr. Gilder, will so regard it, remains to be seen. If yo’ can furnish about four thousand dollars mo’ money, I will start to-morrow mornin’ fo’ the 400 foot level, and we will then cross-cut, suh, into a vein of pow’ful rich ore. I assure yo’, suh, I never was mo’ sincere in my life than I am in makin’ this statement, suh.”

Vance possessed the confidence of youth, and his belief in Gray Rocks was not to be shaken at the first disappointment, while before him rose up, as from a mist, the pleading face of Louise, and he fancied she was asking him to still believe in her father.

He took his check book from his pocket and wrote a check for $4,000, and signing it, handed it to the old miner, saying: “How long, with the present force of men, will it take to reach the 400 foot level?”

“My dear Mr. Gilder,” said the colonel, accepting his check, and clasping his hand, “yo’ quite ovehpow’r me, yo’ do indeed, suh. Yo’ may have been bawn in the nawth but yo’ are a Virginian still at heart, with the warm blood cou’sin’through yo’r veins I think, suh, that within three or fou’ mouths we can reach the fou’ hund’ed foot level. I told yo’r father that Gray Rocks was a sure winner, and I am proud, suh, to repeat the statement to you.”

“I don’t know,” said Vance, “whether you will strike it at the four hundred foot level or not, but I assure you, Colonel Bonifield, that I have every faith in your sincerity, and I am anxious to develop the mine as rapidly as possible. If my investment should prove a total loss, I assure you I would never hold you responsible.”

“I am gettin’ along in years, Mr. Gilder,” said the Colonel, “and while I have not struck it yet, I have every confidence, suh, that we will if we stay by Gray Rocks. My little Louise, of cou’se, was disappointed like myself. We both feared, suh, yo’ would be veihy much disappointed; and I assure yo’, suh, we cared a great deal mo’ about yo’r disappointment than we did about our own. To tell yo’ the truth, suh, that little girl of mine had mo’ faith in yo’r looking at this matteh philosophically than I did; but,” continued the Colonel, pressing Vance’s hand, “I misjudged yo’, Mr. Gilder, I did indeed, suh, and I apologize fo’ it.”

After Colonel Bonifield had taken his departure, Vance commenced looking over his accumulated mail. The first thing that claimed his attention was a copy of the Banner containing his article, “Two Honorable Exceptions.” He read it carefully through again with evident pride. Not a word or a single sentence had been cut out. This was gratifying to him, and seemed proof that the managing editor had confidence in his ability to select the wheat from the chaff. He laid down the paper and began opening his letters. Presently the song he was humming died on his lips. He sat upright and stared at a letter which he held in his hand. It read as follows:

Banner Office, New York City.

DEAR SIR:—

I am directed by the managing editor to advise you that your services are no longer required. Enclosed find check in payment of your salary to date.

J Respectfully,

J. M. M.,

Ass’t Managing Editor.

To Vance Gilder, Esq.

He arose from his chair and rapidly paced the room, while great beads of perspiration stood on his forehead. What had he done to merit such humiliation? The idea that it might be a practical joke for a moment found lodgment in his thoughts, but he quickly dismissed the hallucination. Again he took up the paper and re-read the article, “Two Honorable Exceptions.” He endeavored logically to think out a solution of his dismissal.

The more earnestly he thought over the situation, the more distinctly he remembered the prejudiced views the chief seemed to entertain in regard to western enterprises and investments. “He certainly wants the truth,” soliloquized Vance, “and I will stake my life there is not a sentence in this article,” and he struck the paper vigorously with his hand, “but what is true. The article might almost be regarded as an advertisement for the great mining camp of Butte City, yet it was news, and not nearly so strong as it might be and still keep within the bounds of truth. The same is equally true as to what I have said in regard to the agricultural and other resources of Waterville.”

He sat far into the night, discussing with himself this unlooked for calamity. Once, and only once, did the idea occur to him that possibly the chief had sent him into the northwest to systematically destroy confidence concerning western investments. He was too honorable, however, to harbor the thought, and quickly dismissed it as too contemptible to be entertained. The only consolation he could find—and that was certainly a very meager one—was that in all probability a letter of explanation would soon come, that would clear away the misunderstanding. In the meantime he would patiently wait, keeping his own counsel.

He looked over his check book, and found he had, all told, some six thousand dollars to his credit, besides the four thousand dollars he had that evening given to Colonel Bonifield. He sat by his window and considered the advisability of returning at once to New York and demanding an explanation. Such a course would take him away from Gold Bluff, from Gray Rocks, and from Louise.

CHAPTER XVII.—An AWAKENING.

ANCE GILDER was not of a morose nature. The following morning he ate as hearty a breakfast as ever, and while smoking his morning cigar, acknowledged to himself that he had fallen in love with the picturesque scenery of the mountains, rivers, valleys and everything about him was restful, while an alluring contentment stole into his heart. He congratulated himself that he was far away from the hot and crowded metropolis of the Atlantic seaboard. Here, far removed from “the busy marts of men,” and the restless commotion of commerce and traffic, he could rest and wait.

The day passed quickly by; the afternoons and evenings usually in the society of Louise. They were bewildering days in their completeness. The night claimed the day all too soon when in her society.

He was surprised, after the first shock of disappointment had passed away, to find how indifferent he was becoming in regard to the loss of his position on the Banner.

One morning he awakened to a keen sense of incompleteness where completeness had dwelt. Also around Gold Bluff, he covered a vein of discontent where contentment had reigned supreme. His love of the mountains, the rivers, and the picturesque scenery was but a prelude of promise, thumbing sweetly of the great, unselfish love awakened in him for Louise.

This unrest dated from a certain evening when Louise first sang for him. He was quite entranced by the full, rich volume of her contralto voice.

She began by striking the chords in a hesitating way; but presently the genius of her musical nature seized her with its wonderful power, and she sang with wild abandon:

‘We seemed to those who saw us meet

The casual friends of every day;

His courtesy was frank and sweet,

My smile was unrestrained and gay.

But yet, if one the other’s name

In some unguarded moment heard,

The heart you thought so free and tame

Would flutter like a frightened bird.”

As she sang Vance gave himself up to the intoxication of the moment. His soul broke through the barriers and went out to hers, and as the song died on her lips, and the music ceased with a few reluctant farewell chords, he knew that a great and tender love had sprung up in his heart—a love that was not for a day, but for all time.

“Miss Bonifield,” said Vance, with emotion, “you are, indeed, a constant surprise to me. Your playing is certainly superb, while your voice; not only soft and musical, but has great range. To hear you sing fills me with a longing to be a better man.”

“Thank you,” said Louise, “I seldom play or sing excepting for papa. Your compliment, however, is highly appreciated.”

“As long as I remain in Gold Bluff I hope I will be privileged in hearing you sing occasionally.”

“We will promise not to ostracize you altogether, Mr. Gilder,” said Louise, laughingly, “but may I ask how long you expect to remain with us?” There was just enough hesitation in the question to suggest interest.

“I do not know,” replied Vance. “I presume you think it is strange that I have remained as long as I have. To be frank with you, Miss Bonifield, I have lost my position on the Banner.”

“Lost your position!” said Louise, with unmistakable concern.

“I am indeed sorry,” replied Vance, “whether it is a misfortune or not. I had an offer to-day to take charge of the Gold Bluff Prospector, and am thinking seriously of accepting.”

“You quite astonish me,” said Louise, “but I know papa will be delighted if you conclude to remain permanently in Gold Bluff.”

“Of course,” said Vance thoughtfully, “there is quite a difference between the New York Banner and the Gold Bluff Prospector—one a cosmopolitan daily and the other a country newspaper without any special circulation. It would only be profitable to me as I increased its circulation and its importance to advertisers. I shall not decide for a few days. I may receive some explanation from the Banner that will put a different light upon my dismissal.”

“I have almost made up my mind that I should like to remain in Gold Bluff,” continued Vance, looking inquiringly at Louise. “My confidence in Gray Rocks is growing daily, and I believe it is only a question of a short time until your father’s efforts will be crowned with success.”

“Mr. Gilder,” replied Louise, feelingly, “I thank you for your confidence and faith in my father. It seems that nearly every one disbelieves in his final success. I cannot tell why, yet my faith is unbounded. Even sister Virgie has lost hope, and at times papa is greatly discouraged because sister and Aunt Sally talk as they do; but I am sure in time he will be able to fully prove how mistaken they are in their judgment.”

As Vance rose to go he took her hand and said “Miss Bonifield, you certainly are a noble daughter, and your father is pardonable for wishing to keep you with him in this western country. I am beginning to understand what a great strength and support you must be to him.”

“Thank you,” replied Louise, “I am sure you overestimate the assistance I am to my father, but my greatest pride is in doing something that will add to his comfort, and I am sure papa cannot want me with him more than I wish to remain.”

Vance had become accustomed to Louise’s frankness of speech, yet he received a shock that thrilled him with delight when she said, “I shall be very happy, Mr. Gilder, if you conclude to remain in Gold Bluff. You have no idea how lonesome I should be if you were to go away.”

Vance’s heart beat wildly, and something seemed to rise up in his throat as he attempted to thank her. The expression of his face evidently betrayed his feelings, for she quickly drew away, and with a formality that was new to Vance she bowed stiffly and said “Good night.” After leaving the Bonifield’s home, he followed the road which led up the mountain side toward Gray Rocks. The moon, large and round, was just lifting itself above the eastern horizon. He walked on past the shaft, where the night force of men were busy working away toward the 400 foot level, and soon found himself near the old prospect shaft on the Peacock. The valley where the little city of Gold Bluff nestled was far beneath him. He saw a light glimmering from one of the windows in the Bonifield home, and interpreted it as a beacon of hope.

He repeated over and over again Louise’s words relative to his remaining in Gold Bluff.

“Yes,” said he, “I will remain, no matter what the explanation may be from the Banner office,” and filled with this decision, he returned to his hotel.

One evening, about a week after receiving the letter dismissing him from the Banner force, the mail brought a copy of that great New York paper. Vance eagerly perused it to see if it contained his last communication. No, it had been rejected, but in its stead he found an article entitled “Two Western Towns.” It was a three-column article devoted to Butte City and Waterville. It referred in the most vindictive manner to the members of the Waterville Town Company, and classed them as a lot of town site boomers. It warned eastern people not to be caught and misled by such wildcat speculations as were offered by them in the great Thief River Valley.

It said the valley was one immense lava bed, interspersed with sage brush thickets, alkali swamps and basalt plains. The wonderful water-power, it claimed, was an absolute myth; and, in fact, the printed statements in the circulars of these “town boomers” were deliberate lies. Another thing which eastern investors should bear in mind, the paper went on to say, was the fact that the property which had been platted into town lots was still government land. The town company had no title, and, perhaps, never would have. It branded the whole enterprise as the most gigantic confidence game that had ever been perpetrated on an unsuspecting public.

It further said the swindling operations of these irresponsible and restless town boomers of Waterville were only exceeded in point of adroitness by the mining operations in and around Butte City, Montana. The article said the mountain sides at Butte City were perforated with prospect holes, where hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of dollars of eastern people’s money had been expended by local managers in riotous living and debauchery, and claimed that it was a safe estimate to say that for every thousand dollars put into prospect shafts in and about Butte City, not more than one dollar had been taken out.

It spoke of the inhabitants of both Butte City and Waterville as plebians of the lowest sort and condition of life.

The worst cut of all to Vance, however, was the closing paragraph, where it stated that it was the habit of promoters of these western towns to bribe indiscriminately correspondents of eastern papers, and that many were weak enough to fall, which was not only unfortunate for the journal publishing these flattering falsehoods, but a base injustice to the eastern investor, who was led captive with his savings into western “booms” through the machinations of unprincipled correspondents.

If Vance had been nonplussed on receipt of the assistant’s letter, he was now stunned. He thought very little about his own investment in Waterville, but rather, what would his old associates on the Banner think of him? He regarded the article as a direct thrust at himself and his integrity.

After waiting a few days and receiving no further communication from the Banner office, and feeling too much humiliation to write to his city friends until time had dulled the blow, he concluded to go to Waterville and see if he could not make arrangements with the Town Company whereby he could return at once the money invested by his old associates in Waterville town lots.

The more he thought over the refuting article in the Banner the more indignant he became. “There is not a manufacturer or other institution in the east rich enough,” said he to himself, “to stand such wholesale boycotting as this western country is constantly subjected to by the eastern press. It is not conservatism; it is downright injustice. I have not been long in the west, it is true, but my respect for it and its people is growing. Even Chicago, with all her greatness, energy and achievements, is belittled by the boycotting press of the east!

“By birth I am a Gothamite, and by education I am an eastern man, but my patriotism for America and all that is American has never prevented me from turning up my trousers when there is a heavy fog in London?”

CHAPTER XVIII.—VANCE RETURNS TO WATERVILLE.

T was on an October morning that Vance started for Waterville. A light frost the night before had made the air sharp and crisp. The frost disappeared, however, before the genial warmth of the rising sun, while the russet leaves grew brownerer and as the wind stirred them, sang brokenly of old age.

October is the scenic month in the mountains. You seem to stand in Nature’s picture gallery. The box-alder leaves are as changeable in color as a blushing maiden. From the low foothills on up the sides of the mountains to the timber line, the elms, the box-alders, and poplars grow in profusion. The leaves vary in color from the deepest green to the brightest scarlet, the most golden yellow, or the somberest brown. The colors are intermingled in this gorgeous panoramic scene with a charm and beauty that baffles the most skilled artist’s touch to reproduce on canvas.

Vance was seated beside Steve Gibbons on the top of the stage coach, as they whirled along in meditative silence. The evening before Louise had sung for him. It was music fit for the gods—so rich, so deep, so plaintively low, so fascinating. He could see her even now, standing on the wide old porch as she bade him good-bye. The mild October breeze that stirred the ringlets of her golden hair seemed laden with worshipers of hope for Vance, the lover, and he interpreted her every word and smile as a token reciprocal of his own deep love.

Presently Vance was brought back from his day dreams to the present by Steve Gibbons remarking:

“Things ain’t so powerful brisk down at Waterville jes’ now.”

“Why, how is that?’ asked Vance.

“Oh, I dunno,” replied Gibbons, as he waked up his leaders with a spirited crack of his whip, “can’t say jes’ what is the matter. But I can tell ye one thing, pardner,” he went on, “I’m mighty glad I’m not in the real estate business. In my opinion, them real estate agents down thar will be jumpin’ sideways for a sandwich before the winter’s over.”

Vance was noticeably depressed by Gibbons’ remarks. He was going to Waterville for the express purpose of disposing of his New York friends’ property, in which they had invested on his recommendation. He cared very little about his own investment. He was willing to wait, or even to lose it all, if he could only prevent them from sustaining loss on their purchase.

It was late that night when they reached Waterville. Vance was delighted to find that Homer Winthrop was registered at the hotel. They met the following morning at the breakfast table. The conduct of the usually polite and entertaining Winthrop was changed to a sternness for which Vance was at a loss to account. As they arose from the table, Vance went out with Winthrop and asked him how he was progressing in the lot selling business.

“How am I progressing?” repeated Winthrop, as he turned and looked coldly at Vance. “I am through. I have left Butte City for good.”

“Why, how is that?” asked Vance in some surprise. Winthrop was silent for a moment, and then replied: “It is rather strange, Mr. Gilder, for you to ask such a question after writing the article you did for that New York paper. The Inter Mountain Blade and the Butte City Miner both copied the letter. It is hardly necessary for me to observe,” he went on, “that it rendered it impossible for me to sell another lot in Butte City. Those who had purchased became so infuriated that I deemed it best for personal safety to leave the town.”

Saying this, Winthrop turned abruptly and left Vance, who was for a moment unable to make a reply. Homer Winthrop’s words both astonished and chilled him.

A little later he visited the Town Company’s office, where he found Marcus Donald, the resident director, and Homer Winthrop in deep consultation. Donald was a man of commanding presence. His associates often remarked that Marcus Donald’s face was worth $10,000 in an important trade of any kind. He was dignified and commanding in appearance, and when one talked with him, the most skeptical fell into the habit of believing every word that fell from his lips. Vance discovered that he was not wanted, but he determined to vindicate himself, and said:

“Gentlemen, pardon me for interrupting, but I must ask your indulgence for a few moments. I wish you would read this article. I am humiliated enough without any further complications or misunderstandings.”

He handed Marcus Donald a copy of the Banner. Donald adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles and read aloud the entire article, “Two Western Towns.” When he had concluded, Vance turned toward Winthrop.

“Is that the letter you referred to?”

“Why, yes,” said Winthrop, “but how is this?” said he, picking up the paper. “The Butte City papers published only that part of the article referring to Waterville; but how came you to write such a letter at all, Mr. Gilder? You certainly know there is not a syllable of truth in it from beginning to finish.”

Vance looked first at Winthrop and then at Donald, and replied, “I did not write it.” He then proceeded to give them a history of his dismissal.

“This was written,” tapping the paper with the back of his hand, “evidently to counteract the influence and effect of what I had written the week before.”

My "Pardner" and I (Gray Rocks): A Story of the Middle-West