partnership prospecting than you had. In fact," he said, with a
reassuring laugh, "you'd have had a better right to share in my claim,
coming there as you did at that moment, than they. Why, if I'd have
known what the thing was worth, I might have put you in--only it wanted
capital and some experience." He was glad that he had pitched upon that
excuse (it had only just occurred to him), and glanced affably at
Collinson. But that gentleman said soberly:--
"No, you wouldn't nuther."
"Why not?" said Key half angrily.
Collinson paused. After a moment he said, "'Cos I wouldn't hev took
anything outer thet place."
Key felt relieved. From what he knew of Collinson's vagaries he
believed him. He was wise in not admitting him to his confidences at
the beginning; he might have thought it his duty to tell others.
"I'm not so particular," he returned laughingly, "but the silver in
that hole was never touched, nor I dare say even imagined by mortal man
before. However, there is something else about the hollow that I want
to tell you. You remember the slipper that you picked up?"
"Yes."
"Well, I lied to you about that; I never dropped it. On the contrary,
I had picked up the mate of it very near where you found yours, and I
wanted to know to whom it belonged. For I don't mind telling you now,
Collinson, that I believe there WAS a woman in that house, and the same
woman whose face I saw at the window. You remember how the boys joked
me about it--well, perhaps I didn't care that you should laugh at me
too, but I've had a sore conscience over my lie, for I remembered that
you seemed to have some interest in the matter too, and I thought that
maybe I might have thrown you off the scent. It seemed to me that if
you had any idea who it was, we might now talk the matter over and
compare notes. I think you said--at least, I gathered the idea from a
remark of yours," he added hastily, as he remembered that the
suggestion was his own, and a satirical one--"that it reminded you of
your wife's slipper. Of course, as your wife is dead, that would offer
no clue, and can only be a chance resemblance, unless"-- He stopped.
"Have you got 'em yet?"
"Yes, both." He took them from the pocket of his riding-jacket.
As Collinson received them, his face took upon itself an even graver
expression. "It's mighty cur'ous," he said reflectively, "but looking
at the two of 'em the likeness is more fetchin'. Ye see, my wife had a
STRAIGHT foot, and never wore reg'lar rights and lefts like other
women, but kinder changed about; ye see, these shoes is reg'lar rights
and lefts, but never was worn as sich!"
"There may be other women as peculiar," suggested Key.
"There MUST be," said Collinson quietly.
For an instant Key was touched with the manly security of the reply,
for, remembering Uncle Dick's scandal, it had occurred to him that the
unknown tenant of the robbers' den might be Collinson's wife. He was
glad to be relieved on that point, and went on more confidently:--
"So, you see, this woman was undoubtedly in that house on the night of
the fire. She escaped, and in a mighty hurry too, for she had not time
to change her slippers for shoes; she escaped on horseback, for that is
how she lost them. Now what was she doing there with those rascals,
for the face I saw looked as innocent as a saint's."
"Seemed to ye sort o' contrairy, jist as I reckoned my wife's foot
would have looked in a slipper that you said was GIV to ye," suggested
Collinson pointedly, but with no implication of reproach in his voice.
"Yes," said Key impatiently.
"I've read yarns afore now about them Eyetalian brigands stealin'
women," said Collinson reflectively, "but that ain't California
road-agent style. Great Scott! if one even so much as spoke to a
woman, they'd have been wiped outer the State long ago. No! the woman
as WAS there came there to STAY!"
As Key's face did not seem to express either assent or satisfaction at
this last statement, Collinson, after a glance at it, went on with a
somewhat gentler gravity: "I see wot's troublin' YOU, Mr. Key; you've
bin thinkin' that mebbee that poor woman might hev bin the better for a
bit o' that fortin' that you discovered under the very spot where them
slippers of hers had often trod. You're thinkin' that mebbee it might
hev turned her and those men from their evil ways."
Mr. Key had been thinking nothing of the kind, but for some obscure
reason the skeptical jeer that had risen to his lips remained unsaid.
He rose impatiently. "Well, there seems to be no chance of discovering
anything now; the house is burnt, the gang dispersed, and she has
probably gone with them." He paused, and then laid three or four large
gold pieces on the table. "It's for that old bill of our party,
Collinson," he said. "I'll settle and collect from each. Some time
when you come over to the mine, and I hope you'll give us a call, you
can bring the horse. Meanwhile you can use him; you'll find he's a
little quicker than the mule. How is business?" he added, with a
perfunctory glance around the vacant room and dusty bar.
"Thar ain't much passin' this way," said Collinson with equal
carelessness, as he gathered up the money, "'cept those boys from the
valley, and they're most always strapped when they come here."
Key smiled as he observed that Collinson offered him no receipt, and,
moreover, as he remembered that he had only Collinson's word for the
destruction of Parker's draft. But he merely glanced at his
unconscious host, and said nothing. After a pause he returned in a
lighter tone: "I suppose you are rather out of the world here. Indeed,
I had an idea at first of buying out your mill, Collinson, and putting
in steam power to get out timber for our new buildings, but you see you
are so far away from the wagon-road, that we couldn't haul the timber
away. That was the trouble, or I'd have made you a fair offer."
"I don't reckon to ever sell the mill," said Collinson simply. Then
observing the look of suspicion in his companion's face, he added
gravely, "You see, I rigged up the whole thing when I expected my wife
out from the States, and I calkilate to keep it in memory of her."
Key slightly lifted his brows. "But you never told us, by the way, HOW
you ever came to put up a mill here with such an uncertain
water-supply."
"It wasn't onsartin when I came here, Mr. Key; it was a full-fed stream
straight from them snow peaks. It was the earthquake did it."
"The earthquake!" repeated Key.
"Yes. Ef the earthquake kin heave up that silver-bearing rock that you
told us about the first day you kem here, and that you found t'other
day, it could play roots with a mere mill-stream, I reckon."
"But the convulsion I spoke of happened ages on ages ago, when this
whole mountain range was being fashioned," said Key with a laugh.
"Well, this yer earthquake was ten years ago, just after I came. I
reckon I oughter remember it. It was a queer sort o' day in the fall,
dry and hot as if thar might hev bin a fire in the woods, only thar
wasn't no wind. Not a breath of air anywhar. The leaves of them
alders hung straight as a plumb-line. Except for that thar stream and
that thar wheel, nuthin' moved. Thar wasn't a bird on the wing over
that canyon; thar wasn't a squirrel skirmishin' in the hull wood; even
the lizards in the rocks stiffened like stone Chinese idols. It kept
gettin' quieter and quieter, ontil I walked out on that ledge and felt
as if I'd have to give a yell just to hear my own voice. Thar was a
thin veil over everything, and betwixt and between everything, and the
sun was rooted in the middle of it as if it couldn't move neither.
Everythin' seemed to be waitin', waitin', waitin'. Then all of a
suddin suthin' seemed to give somewhar! Suthin' fetched away with a
queer sort of rumblin', as if the peg had slipped outer creation. I
looked up and kalkilated to see half a dozen of them boulders come,
lickity switch, down the grade. But, darn my skin, if one of 'em
stirred! and yet while I was looking, the whole face o' that bluff
bowed over softly, as if saying 'Good-by,' and got clean away somewhar
before I knowed it. Why, you see that pile agin the side o' the
canyon! Well, a thousand feet under that there's trees, three hundred
feet high, still upright and standin'. You know how them pines over on
that far mountain-side always seem to be climbin' up, up, up, over each
other's heads to the very top? Well, Mr. Key, I SAW 'EM climbin'! And
when I pulled myself together and got back to the mill, everything was
quiet; and, by G--d, so was the mill-wheel, and there wasn't two inches
of water in the river!"
"And what did you think of it?" said Key, interested in spite of his
impatience.
"I thought, Mr. Key-- No! I mustn't say I thought, for I knowed it. I
knowed that suthin' had happened to my wife!"
Key did not smile, but even felt a faint superstitious thrill as he
gazed at him. After a pause Collinson resumed: "I heard a month after
that she had died about that time o' yaller fever in Texas with the
party she was comin' with. Her folks wrote that they died like flies,
and wuz all buried together, unbeknownst and promiscuous, and thar
wasn't no remains. She slipped away from me like that bluff over that
canyon, and that was the end of it."
"But she might have escaped," said Key quickly, forgetting himself in
his eagerness.
But Collinson only shook his head. "Then she'd have been here," he
said gravely.
Key moved towards the door still abstractedly, held out his hand, shook
that of his companion warmly, and then, saddling his horse himself,
departed. A sense of disappointment--in which a vague dissatisfaction
with himself was mingled--was all that had come of his interview. He
took himself severely to task for following his romantic quest so far.
It was unworthy of the president of the Sylvan Silver Hollow Company,
and he was not quite sure but that his confidences with Collinson might
have imperiled even the interests of the company. To atone for this
momentary aberration, and correct his dismal fancies, he resolved to
attend to some business at Skinner's before returning, and branched off
on a long detour that would intersect the traveled stage-road. But
here a singular incident overtook him. As he wheeled into the
turnpike, he heard the trampling hoof-beats and jingling harness of the
oncoming coach behind him. He had barely time to draw up against the
bank before the six galloping horses and swinging vehicle swept heavily
by. He had a quick impression of the heat and steam of sweating
horse-hide, the reek of varnish and leather, and the momentary vision
of a female face silhouetted against the glass window of the coach!
But even in that flash of perception he recognized the profile that he
had seen at the window of the mysterious hut!
He halted for an instant dazed and bewildered in the dust of the
departing wheels. Then, as the bulk of the vehicle reappeared, already
narrowing in the distance, without a second thought he dashed after it.
His disappointment, his self-criticism, his practical resolutions were
forgotten. He had but one idea now--the vision was providential! The
clue to the mystery was before him--he MUST follow it!
Yet he had sense enough to realize that the coach would not stop to
take up a passenger between stations, and that the next station was the
one three miles below Skinner's. It would not be difficult to reach
this by a cut-off in time, and although the vehicle had appeared to be
crowded, he could no doubt obtain a seat on top.
His eager curiosity, however, led him to put spurs to his horse, and
range up alongside of the coach as if passing it, while he examined the
stranger more closely. Her face was bent listlessly over a book; there
was unmistakably the same profile that he had seen, but the full face
was different in outline and expression. A strange sense of
disappointment that was almost a revulsion of feeling came over him; he
lingered, he glanced again; she was certainly a very pretty woman:
there was the beautifully rounded chin, the short straight nose, and
delicately curved upper lip, that he had seen in the profile,--and
yet--yet it was not the same face he had dreamt of. With an odd,
provoking sense of disillusion, he swept ahead of the coach, and again
slackened his speed to let it pass. This time the fair unknown raised
her long lashes and gazed suddenly at this persistent horseman at her
side, and an odd expression, it seemed to him almost a glance of
recognition and expectation, came into her dark, languid eyes. The
pupils concentrated upon him with a singular significance, that was
almost, he even thought, a reply to his glance, and yet it was as
utterly unintelligible. A moment later, however, it was explained. He
had fallen slightly behind in a new confusion of hesitation, wonder,
and embarrassment, when from a wooded trail to the right, another
horseman suddenly swept into the road before him. He was a powerfully
built man, mounted on a thoroughbred horse of a quality far superior to
the ordinary roadster. Without looking at Key he easily ranged up
beside the coach as if to pass it, but Key, with a sudden resolution,
put spurs to his own horse and ranged also abreast of him, in time to
