The silver prince

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Bart McGlory’s Luck Turns i

II. A Scrap of Paper

Chapter I

P ERCHED on a rocky shoulder of a precipitous hillside Terry McGlory was staring across a deep valley to the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. It was the end of the day. The mountains rose, dim and mysterious, out of fast-deepening evening shadows.

It would have taken very little to send him pitching headlong for a thousand feet or more, but he was a mountain boy, accustomed to dizzy heights, and without the least concern for his safety, he kicked his dangling heels against the wall of rock. The vast perspective that lay before him of range after range

i of towering peaks stirred his imagination. But he was neither poet nor artist — merely a hard-headed boy of sixteen who was traveling a rough road through life — and it was not the beauty of the scene that impressed him but its practical possibilities. He could see eighty, perhaps a hundred miles away, and he knew that somewhere between him and the farthest rim of peaks there must be huge, unknown hordes of gold and silver. Some of it would be discovered, a little bit at a time, year after year, by roving prospectors; but what tons of it there must be, how much more than those hunters of riches would ever find. If only a man knew just where to go to swing his pick in all that stretch of mountains!

“Gee! If I only knew!” the boy cried. His voice rang out over the valley, for there was no human being within hearing and he could give his most secret thoughts to the wind as loudly as the spirit prompted. The only ears that might catch them would not understand

— for example, the long ones that belonged to the three pack burros, which were standing as motionless as statues a few feet behind him, which indeed were always standing motionless except when kicked and prodded.

“If pop only had some way of knowing,” brooded Terry, “he’d clean up a million in no time. But, like as not, he’ll go ranging round through these hills the rest of his life and find nothing more’n a measly pocket now and then. Funny thing luck is. Pop’s, been roaming round hereabouts nigh twenty years picking up no more’n a bare living — sometimes not even that. But somebody else that had never been out in this country before in his life might stumble across a big vein of the stuff the very first day. Huh!”

In disgust with the ways of life he picked up a stone as big as his fist and hurled it backward over his shoulder. Quite by chance it struck one of the burros. The animal shifted his ear a trifle — the only sign of life 3 he had shown in an hour — then continued to stare out over the valley.

“Take a lot more’n that to make you stop dreamin’, hey, Sancho?” called Terry, tossing a pebble at him. Sancho stirred not a hair. With his long ears thrust forward, he seemed completely absorbed in his study of the view. Sancho was not a temperamental animal. Nothing ever had excited him ; nothing ever would. He was certainly not a diverting or sociable companion, and now that it was growing dark Terry began to feel lonely. Putting two fingers into his mouth, he gave a long, piercing whistle. From somewhere far off came an answering “Wow!”. A few moments and a sandy-haired, bob-tailed dog, his nose as muddy as a rooting pig’s, came tearing out of the shadows.

“Where’s that dad of mine, Red?” inquired Terry. “You seen him?”

“Wow!” answered Red, wagging his stump of a tail and springing at the boy.

“ ’Bout time he was back, Red. He’s pretty late. Sing out for him. Tell him to hurry up.”

Red lifted his long nose into the air and gave a long-drawn, dismal howl. But there was no answer except the echoes in the hills.

“Well, it’s supper time, and I guess I’d better be getting busy,” said Terry, as he began to pile some wood together for a fire. After the wood was ablaze he went to the spot where he had stored the grub, took out a chunk of bacon and some beans, and began to prepare the meal.

“Funny what’s keeping pop,” mused Terry* “Must have made an extra long hike to-day.”

While the bacon hissed in the pan Red went to sleep before the fire, which shed a ruddy, cheerful glow into the dark. Except for the crackling of the flames, it was still as death. Over the tops of the pines hung a white crescent moon. The firelight played on Terry’s 5 weather-browned face and black hair as he bent over his work.

Some slight sound disturbed Red, and he sat up, staring into the dark. Terry gave his whole attention to listening, but he could hear nothing but a wind which was rising in the valley. The dog’s ears proved keener, for after a moment a man without a hat and with a prospector’s pick and shovel swung across his shoulders emerged from the trees — a round-shouldered, gray-bearded man, whom Red rushed joyfully forward to greet.

There was something strange about Bart McGlory that night, as Terry was quick to realize when his father stepped into the light of the fire. The old man had never been so silent before on returning from his trips through the hills. Always he had had some cheery greeting for the boy. But now he said not a word. Terry noticed that his father’s hands were trembling and that there was a feverish glitter in his eyes.

“What happened, pop?” asked the boy anxiously.

The man stepped closer, and grasped his son’s arm nervously.

“I’ve struck it, Terry!” he cried hoarsely. “I’ve struck it rich this time. It’s the real thing at last, boy. Look here!”

Bringing from his pocket a handful of quartz, he held the bits of rock close to the fire, where they glistened brightly in the light. They were chock full of silver. Again his shaking fingers dipped into his pocket and brought out some gleaming white sheets of the pure metal, the silver float which is usually discovered by the prospector before he comes upon what it indicates, the silver vein in the solid rock.

Terry stared stupidly at the glittering handful. It seemed too strange to be true, this sudden vision of wealth. Disturbing doubts took hold of him. He knew enough about his father’s calling to recognize at once what rich 7 samples they were, but he know that such promising surface indications had led many a time to bitter disappointment.

“May peter out quick like the rest of ’em did,” he said.

“Not this time, son,” his father assured him. “It’s a six-foot vein, and I’ve seen enough of it to know it’ll hold out. Finest lode I ever set eyes on. It’ll run a thousand dollars a ton. It’s a wonder. I’ll be a rich man, Terry — a rich man after all these years of grubbing.”

Bart McGlory’s voice broke into a sob, and he covered his face with his hands. The sudden realization of the dream of a lifetime had overwhelmed him. Never before had Terry seen him in such a state of nervous exhaustion. His face was haggard, his shoulders more bent than ever; even speaking seemed to cost him an effort. Indeed he had not been well for months, and he had been warned more than once that the time had come to give up his hard life in the hills far out of reach of a doctor. Coupled with the boy’s bewilderment over the surprising news his father had brought was a deep pity for the old man to whom tardy fortune seemed to have brought only a bitter realization that it had come too late. He was getting near the end of his rough life, his wife had died in wretched poverty, and now, old, tired and disillusioned, riches could bring him little pleasure. Yet — and old Bart thrilled with the thought — they could bring him the satisfaction of providing for his son.

Bart scarcely touched the supper, and Terry watched him anxiously. The old man had grown silent, but there was still the feverish glitter in his eyes. He shivered, and crept closer to the fire.

“I dunno what’s come over me, son,” he said at last, “but I’m cold as ice, and weak as a cat. Guess I’m too old to stand such a surprise. Too much for my nerves. But I got to get back to that lode first thing in the 9 morning and make ready to put in my claim.”

After they had rolled themselves in their blankets Terry lay awake until far into the night staring up at the new moon and the brilliant stars and listening to the soughing of the wind through the pines. He felt as if he never would get to sleep with his mind in such a whirl of excitement over the discovery of the lode.

Along toward morning he heard his father stirring restlessly in his blankets and muttering to himself. In the gray of the dawn he was awakened by the old man calling to him.

“I’m sick, Terry. I’m burning up with fever. We got to pull out of here quick so I can get to a doctor.”

The old man seemed to have aged ten years during the night. It was only with a great effort that he struggled to his feet. Unsteadily he stood staring out into the hills, and Terry, fearing his father was about to fall, ran up to give him a sustaining arm.

io

“You can never make it, pop,” said the boy* “It’s too long a trip. Better stay here till you’re stronger.”

But Bart McGlory shook his head.

“I know I ought to stay, son,” he said, “for I haven’t even staked out that claim. But I’ve got to go. I’ll die if I stay here. I’ll hang on to one of the burros, and I’ll make it somehow. I got to make it without a hat, Terry. So excited that I left mine down on the lode.”

So that morning they turned their backs on the fortune that lay waiting for them in the hills, and set out on the long trail.

Chapter II

I N one of the brand-new log buildings, which had been hastily constructed in Willow Creek Gulch after Nick Creede’s discovery of the Holy Moses mine brought the first rush of prospectors, Joe Teed published his weekly newspaper, The War Whoop . In his shirt sleeves, with a green shade over his eyes to keep out the glare of the sun and an extra pencil sticking out of his thick, bristly mop of hair, this journalistic pioneer was sitting at his desk writing rapidly, pausing now and then to exchange a few words with McWhorter, the printer, whose press, type fonts, and make-up tables shared with the editorial desk the only room the building contained.

Though they were newcomers at Willow Creek, for nobody, unless it was Creede himself, had been there more than a few months, the two men had been associated for years, and both knew from long experience the trials and dangers of getting out a newspaper in a raw mining camp. In appearance they were as different as two men could well be. Mc- Whorter was tall, thin and narrow-shouldered, with an expression of chronic melancholy. The editor and publisher was short and fat, and his face radiated good cheer in spite of the ugly furrow of an old bullet wound across his cheek, a mark left by a peevish subscriber who had objected to certain liberties that had been taken in putting his private affairs into print.

Suddenly the door flew open with a bang. Instantly Joe dropped his pencil, and reached for a six-shooter, which lay conveniently near at hand beside his pile of copy paper. On discovering that his caller was peaceable old 13

“Doc” Calaway, he dropped the revolver, swung back in his chair, put his feet on the desk and prepared to be sociable.

The “doc” found a chair for himself, wiped the dust from it with a large red handkerchief, and sat down heavily with his back to the door.

“If you’d turn your desk around so you wouldn’t be facing the sun you wouldn’t have to mar your beauty with that there eye-shade,” he observed as he stroked his gray Dundreary whiskers.

The editor of The War Whoop gave a contemptuous snort. “Yeah,” he returned dryly. “I might not be wearin’ an eye-shade, but before long I’d be wearin’ wings as like as not and playin’ a harp. You got some things to learn about the newspaper business, doc. Take it from me it would, be a blame fool editor that would sit with his back to the door. When a subscriber drops in to shoot 14 the place up I want to see him before he begins.”

“Oh! So that’s it.”

The “doc” glanced anxiously over his shoulder and twisted his chair around so that he might keep a corner of his eye on the door.

“Got any news, doc?” It was Joe’s stock question, which he put to everybody he met.

“Well, I got some,” the “doc” replied. “Old Bart McGlory blew into the gulch to-day as sick as a poisoned cat. How he ever got here is beyond me. Come from way up over the range. No horse to carry him; nothing but his burrors. Had a ragin’ fever for days, so his boy told me, so I filled him up to the gills with quinine. Remember that boy of his down at Del Norte? Some kid. But the most interesting thing is this, Joe — the old man’s a little off in his head and he’s been ravin’ about a big strike he’s made.”

The editor stiffened up in his chair. “Where’d he make it?” he demanded.

“Search me, Joe,” replied the “doc.” “With all his crazy talk he’s foxy enough not to let that out. Maybe there’s nothing to it — just a wild notion that’s come with his fever — but it’s worth thinking about.”

“What does the kid say?”

“Not a blamed word. Can’t get a thing out of him. And that’s why I think maybe they’ve struck something.”

“Anybody heard about it?”

“Doc” Calaway grinned. “When a feller drifts into this gulch with three burrors and goes ravin’ all the way along the trail that he’s struck it rich I guess it ain’t going to be a secret very long,” he answered dryly.

“Where are they?”

“Over at Effie Morrow’s. The girl’s got a big heart and she’ll be as good as a daughter to Bart.”

Joe got up and unhooked his coat from the wall. “Guess I’ll stagger over there and see 16

’em,” he said. “You can stay here, doc, and cheer yourself up talkin’ with Mac.”

The editor slipped into his coat, dropped his revolver into his pocket, and walked out. As he stepped into the outer air he heard the creek booming under its covering of ice and snow, which had held out late against the spring thaws.

He hurried along the rough trail, which was the thoroughfare for the unsightly buildings that had been crowded into the deep, narrow gulch, until he came to a one-story log house half surrounded by willows. A sign over the door announced “Meals Fifty Cents.”

Joe Teed pushed the door open unceremoniously, and stepped inside. A very pretty, black-haired, red-cheeked girl, who, in spite of her businesslike expression, could not possibly have been more than twenty, was scouring dishes in a corner.

“Hello, Mr. Teed!” she called.

“Hello, Effie,” returned the editor. “Where’s the sick man?”

The girl pointed to the closed door of an inner room. “He’s getting a sound sleep,” she said. “And he certainly needs it. He was all in.”

Joe stared hard at the door of the closed room. “The kid in there, too?” he inquired.

Effie nodded. “He sticks to his father like a burr,” she said.

The editor reached for a chair, and, placing it in front of the girl, sat down and leaned toward her, preparatory to seeking confidential information. “Heard anything about old Bart making a strike?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

Effie Morrow gave a little laugh, showing even, pearly teeth, which added to her charms.

“How could I help hearing it?” she said. “He keeps repeating it over and over again — like a crazy man with only one idea. But

I doubt if it means anything. He’s not right in his head.”

“What does he say?” persisted Joe.

“Why, there’s not much sense to it — just rambling talk,” returned Effie. “But he keeps saying, ‘They call Nick Creede the silver king; but I’m the silver king now — and my boy’s the silver prince. I’m richer than Nick Creede ever dreamed of being.’ ”

For a moment Joe stared at her with his mouth open and amazement in his eyes.

“He’s the silver king now, and his boy’s the silver prince,” he repeated. “Huh! Don’t sound very sensible, does it? If he’s richer than Creede he’s sure made a whopping big strike, and it don’t seem possible that anybody could find anything better than the Holy Moses or the Amethyst. But — say, Effie, what do you think about all this? Isn’t there just a chance that it’s so? S’posin’ we have got a new silver king and that young Terry’s a silver prince?”

Effie laid her hand on Joe Teed’s knee, and, bending toward him, looked him squarely in the eyes.

“I wouldn’t tell this to anybody but you, Mr. Teed,” she said. “But there is a chance that it’s so.”

So startled was the editor by this suggestion that he bounced a few inches from his chair, and his eyes dilated. “By the great horn spoon, Effie!” he cried. “What do you know, anyhow?”

“I don’t know anything for certain,” she answered, “but I’ve been putting two and two together and drawing conclusions. It’s the boy that makes me think the old man’s story may not be all a dream. In the first place, he won’t let anybody question his father; second; he won’t say anything about the strike himself one way or the other. He’s got a long head, that boy. Why should he be so secretive about this if there’s nothing in it?”

“Search me,” said the editor blankly.

“I’ve got a notion of the reason,” continued Effie. “They’re just down from the mountains. If they found anything, where’s the claim been filed? Not here — that’s certain. And there’s no filing office in the direction they came from. If old Bart’s made a strike he hasn’t filed his claim.”

“Thunder!” exclaimed Joe. “I never thought of that. He hasn’t filed his claim! And if anybody finds out where he’s made his strike he loses everything!”’

“That’s it,” said Effie. “Now you know as well as I do why you mustn’t breathe a word to a living soul of what I’ve been trying to figure out. This camp would go wild if they really believed Bart’s ravings. In fact some folks are pricking up their ears already. And if any of ’em knew he’d made a strike and hadn’t filed it — well!” She raised her hands to emphasize what would be the consequences.

Thinking deeply over what he had learned, the editor set out for his office. But, as he turned into the trail, his admiration for Effie Morrow interrupted his chain of thoughts.

“Wonderful girl, that,” he mused. “Came here a few weeks ago without a hundred dollars to her name. Went into debt for her shack. And now she’s serving a hundred meals a day. She’ll be rich sometime. But she oughtn’t to be alone nights in a tough camp like this, and it’s just as well she’s taken in Bart and the kid. They’re better than no protection at all.”

He had gone scarcely a stone’s throw, when, happening to glance backward, he caught sight of a man, who was turning into the willows behind Effie’s cabin.

“Jim Mora!” exclaimed Joe. “Toughest man in camp. What’s he doing round there, anyhow?”

He pondered the matter for a moment, shook his head doubtfully, and continued his way to the newspaper office.

From the shelter of the willows Jim Mora, two-gun fighter and mining camp “bad man,” watched the editor pass out of sight. Then he proceeded to make a careful inspection of the outside of Effie Morrow’s home. Very cautiously he peered in, first at one window, then at another; then stood for some time listening* straining his ears to catch any conversation that might be going on within.

Late that night Bart McGlory awoke from a long sleep.

“Terry!” he called.

The boy stepped to the bedside.

“I guess I must have been talkin’ a little wild on the trail to-day, hey, son?” said the old man. “Went a little off in my head. But I’m all right now. That long sleep did the trick. Mind’s as clear as a bell. 7 ’

Terry studied his father’s face, and was convinced. There was no longer a sign of delirium in the clear, bright eyes, though they were still burning with fever.

“See here, son,” said Bart. “I know what my condition is as well as anybody — better. And I shouldn’t wonder if I wasn’t going to pull through. I’m an old man, and I’m pretty sick — sicker than I’ve ever been in my life. If I should die I want that strike of mine to go to you, and you’ve got to keep mum about it. Don’t trust anybody — unless — yes, you can trust Effie Morrow. I know an honest girl when I see her, and I know she’s got sense enough to keep her mouth shut, too.”

Reaching for his coat, he took out a piece of paper and a pencil, and, leaning over to the little table that stood beside the bed, began to draw a rough diagram.

“Now watch me,” he commanded.

Terry followed the drawing as it slowly developed.

“Here’s where we made camp,” said Bart feebly, his voice rising scarcely above a whisper. “And this is the way I went. Down into the valley this way, to this point, where there’s a ledge of rocks. From there turn south, following the ledge for three hundred feet or so. Here are three pine trees growing out of the rocks. Climb the ledge when you get to them. Here, at the top, turn south again till you come to where the ledge breaks in two. Then down fifty feet, and here, at the bottom, is an old tree growing between two bowlders. North thirty paces from that you’ll come to the edge of my strike. Keep this paper sewed in your clothes — and never let anybody see it. It’ll make you rich some day. But you’re too young yet. Wait till you’ve grown a little older — and then go to it.”

A scarcely perceptible sound at the window suddenly turned Terry’s attention from the elaborate diagram.

“What’s that!” he cried, staring at the dark panes.

As he looked the window was slowly raised, and Jim Mora’s face appeared in the opening. Instantly old Bart’s thin, trembling hand shot out and clutched the paper. He knew Mora 25 and what sort of a man he was, and he realized, too, what he had come for.

Holding a six-shooter very carefully, so that it covered old Bart, Mora climbed into the room.

“I want that paper,” he said, as he stepped toward the bed.

At the same instant Terry sprang toward the table and brought his hand down upon the flame of the candle, snuffing it out and putting the room into pitchy darkness.

Chapter III

D EAD silence fell for a moment with the darkness. Then a slight sound came to Terry’s ears — his father’s heavy breathing, as if the old man had fallen asleep exhausted by the shock of Mora’s attempt to rob him of the one thing that he had to show for a lifetime of struggling.

Terry’s mind was working very fast. He realized that Mora’s eyes, as well as his own, would soon become accustomed to the darkness, and that not unlikely the intruder would be able to discern then enough of his surroundings to put him in control of the situation.

At first Terry had been able to see nothing

— nothing but ink blackness; but now slowly 27 several things were creeping into his vision, the shadowy bulk of the bed, the faint outline of the window, the feeble glimmer of light from outside, which threw a ghostly aureole upon the wall.

Fumbling in his pocket, he found a match. He was about to strike it, when the thought came to him that doing so would immediately give Mora the advantage. If he should strike a light Mora would see him at once, while his own discovery of where Mora was would not be so quick.

He realized, too, that Mora surely had matches with him, being a heavy smoker, and that he must have been reasoning along the same line as to the folly of lighting one. The desperado had to deal with only a sick man and a boy, but if he should stand with a light in his hand he would be an easy mark in case either of the two had a gun.

The truth was that both father and son were unarmed; but there was a rifle under 28

Bart McGlory’s bed. The idea of shooting a man was not to Terry’s liking, but he knew he would prefer to do even that than to see his father robbed of the fortune that lay waiting up in the hills.

So, going down on his hands and knees, he crept very slowly and silently toward the bed. His shoulder brushed against it, and he wormed his way underneath, spreading his hands out before him feeling for the weapon.

He found it at last, and was groping his way cautiously out with it when it struck with a loud clang against the leg of the bed.

He heard Mora coming toward him; the next moment found himself struggling with him. He was no match for Mora, who was trying to get possession of the gun. For a time, aided by the darkness, Terry succeeded in keeping his hold on the weapon, but he knew it was a question of only a few moments at most when it would be wrested from him, and then Mora, who must be certain by now 29 that old Bart was out of the reckoning, would be able to do as he pleased.

Terry was getting tired, and his grasp on the gun was weakening as Mora tugged at it, when the short, sharp bark of a dog sounded outside. Terry knew that bark. Red had arrived, back from one of his rambles in the hills. And Red knew already that trouble was stirring that needed his attention, for he was growling angrily as he drew nearer.

“Red!” cried Terry breathlessly. “Red! Help!”

For an instant a dark form appeared in the dim light of the open window, and the dog came leaping into the room.

An Irish Terrier — and that was Red’s breed — is one of the best-natured of dogs as a rule; but when his blood is roused to the fighting point, look out for him. A born fighter through and through, this sandy-haired, long-nosed, sturdy little beast, ready to give up his life rather than admit defeat 30 but sure to make his foe pay dearly for it. And he doesn’t stop for an instant to consider, doesn’t care, how formidable his antagonist may be. Bull-dog, mastiff, or man, the spunky Irish Terrier pitches in, and stays, no matter how great the odds against him.

So Red, true to his courageous race, pitched in, caring nothing whether Mora was armed or weaponless, big or little. Red never worried his long, flat head with such considerations when he faced an enemy.

Barely in time, Mora threw up an arm to keep the dog from his throat. Over this arm Red’s teeth, the long, white, powerful teeth of a dog in the prime of life, closed like a steel trap.

Bellowing with pain, Mora struggled to his feet, dragging Red up with him. The man swung his free right fist to the dog’s head with all his force, but Red hung on. Again the fist struck him, then opened and caught his jaws, prying them apart. Red dropped to 3i the floor; but Mora was free only an instant, for the determined beast immediately seized him by the leg.

Terry could see very little of what was going on, but he knew that Mora would surely draw his revolver and shoot Red if he could not shake him off. The boy had lost his gun, Mora having wrenched it from his hands just as the dog sprang into the room. It might be lying somewhere on the floor, but there was no time to search for it.

His only chance to save Red was to grab him and drag him away. Groping for the dog, he seized him by the collar, clasped a hand over the animal’s nose, pulled him off, and drew him away as far from danger as the size of the room allowed.

“I’m going to kill that cur!” growled Mora.

A shot rang through the room; a bullet whizzed over Red, and bored a hole in the 32 wall. Red barked, struggling to get away, furious to renew the fight