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SATURDAY. JUNE 13.
The Land of Broken Promises
A Stirring Story of the
Mexican Revolution
A story of border Mexico, vivid,
Intense, such as has never before
been written, Is this one of Ameri
can adventurers into the land of
manana. Texan, mining engineer,
Bpanish senor and senorita, peon,
Indian, crowd Its chapters with
clear-cut word pictures of busi
ness, adventure and love, against
a somber background of wretched
armies marching and counter
marching across a land racked by
revolution and without a savior.
CHAPTER I.
The sTow-rolllng wlnter’3 sun rose
coldly, far to the south, riding up
from behind the saw-toothed Sierras
of Mexico to throw a silvery halo on
Gadsden, the border city. A hundred
miles of desert lay In its path—a waste
of broken ridges, dry arroyos, and
sandy plains—snd then suddenly, as
If by magic, the city rose gleaming in
the sun.
It was a big city, for the West, and
swarming with traffic and men. Its
broad main street, lined with brick
buildings and throbbing with automo
biles, ran from the railroad straight to
the south until, at a line, it stopped
short and was lost in the desert.
That line which marked the sudden
end of growth and progress was the
border of the United States; the desert
was Mexico. And the difference was
not in the land, but in the government.
As the morning air grew warm and
the hoar frost dripped down from the
roofs the idlers of the town crept
forth, leaving chill lodgings and stale
saloons for the street corners and the
sun.
Against the dead wall of a big store
the Mexicans gathered in shivering
groups, their blankets wrapped around
their necks and their brown ankles
bare to the wind. On another corner
a bunch of cowboys stood clannishly
aloiof, eying the passing crowd for oth
ers of their kind.
In this dun stream which flowed
under the morning sun there were min
ing men, with high-laced boots and
bulging pockets; graybeards, with the
gossip of the town in their cheeks;
hoboes, still wearing their eastern
capg and still rustling for a quarter to
eat on; somber-eyed refugees and sol
diers of fortune from Mexico—but
idlers all, and each seeking bis class
and kind.
If any women passed that way they
walked fast, looking neither to the
right nor to the left; for they, too, be
ing so few, missed their class and
kind.
Gadsden had become a city of men,
huge-llmbed and powerful and with a
questing look in their eyes; a city of
adventurers gathered from the ends of
the world. A common calamity had
driven them from their mines and
ranches and glutted the town with
men, for the war wae on in Mexico
and from the farthermost corners of
Sonora they still came, hot from some
new scene of murder and pillage, to
add so the general discontent.
As the day wore on tho crowd on
the bank corner, where the refugees
made their stand, changed its com
plexion, grew big, and stretched far up
the street. Men stood in shifting
groups, talking, arguing, gazing mood
ily at those who passed.
Here were hawk-eyed Texas cattle
men, thinking of their scattered herds
at Mababi or El Tig re; mining men,
with idle prospects and deserted mines
as far south as the Rio Yaqul; milk
men. ranchers and men of trades; all
driven In from below the line and all
chafing at the leash. While a hundred
I petty chiefs stood out against Madero
and lived by ransom and loot, they
must cool their heels In Gadsden and
wait for the end to come.
Into this seething mass of the dis
possessed, many of whom had lost a
fortune by the war, there came two
more, with their faces still drawn and
red from hard tiding through the cold.
They stepped forth from the marble
entrance of the big hotel and swung
off down the street to see the town.
They walked slowly, gazing into the
strange faces In the vague hope of
finding some friend; and Gadsden, not
to be outdone, looked them over curi
ously .wondered whence they had
come. 1
The bunch of cowboys, etlll loitering
on the corner, glanced scornfully at
the smaller man, who sported a pair
of puttees—and then at the big man'a
feet Finding them encased in pros
pector's shoes thejl stared dumbly at
his wind-burned face and muttered
among themselves.
He was tall, and broad across the
shoulders, with far-eeeing blue eyes
and a mop of light hair; and be walked
on his toes, stiff-legged, swaying from
his hips like a man on horseback. The
rumble of comment rose up again as
he racked past and then a cowboy
voice observed:
"HI bet ye he's a cow-punch!"
The big man looked back at them
mockingly out of the corner of his eye
.and went on without a word,
c. l ii? Ife* of cowboys that they
can tell another puncher at a glance,
but they are not alone in this —there
are other crafts that leave their mark
and other men ae shrewd. A group of
mining men took one look at the
smaller man, noting the candle-grease
on his corduroys and the intelligence
In his eyes; and to them the big man
was no more than a laborer—or a
shift-boss at most—and the little man
was one of their kind. Every line in
his mobile face spoke of intellect and
decision, and as they walked it was he
who did the talking while the big man
only nodded and smiled.
They took a turn or two up the
street, now drifting into some clamor
oue saloon, now standing at gaze on
the sidewalk; and as the drinks began
to work, the little man became more
and more animated, the big man more
and more amiable in his assent and
silence.
Then they passed the crowd of refu
gees they stopped and listened, com
menting on the various opinions by an
exchange of knowing smiles. An old
prospector, white-haired and tanned to
a tropic brown, finally turned upon a
presumptuous optimist and the little
man nodded approvingly ae he hoard
him express his views.
"You can say what you please,” the
prospector ended, "but I’m going to
keep out of that country. I've knowed
them Mexicans for thirty years now
and I'm telling you they’re gifting
treacherous. It don’t do no good to
have your gun with you—they’ll shoot
you from behind a rock—and if they
can’t git you that way, they’ll knife
you in your sleep. *
"I’ve noticed a big change In them
paisanos since this war come on. Be
fore Madero made his break they used
to be scared of Americans—thought if
they killed one of ue the rest would
cross the border and eat ’em up. What
few times they did tackle a white man
he generally give a good account of
himself, too, and I’ve traveled them
trails for years without hardly know
ing what it was to be afraid of any
body; but I tell you it’s entirely dif
ferent over there now."
“Sure! That’s right!” spoke up tae
little man, with spirit “You’re talk
ing more sense than any man on the
street. I guess I ought to know —I’ve
been down there and through it all —
and it’s got so now that you can’t trust
any of ’em. My pardner and I came
clear from the Sierra Madres, riding
nights, and we comp pretty near know
ing—hey, Bud?”
“That’s right,” observed Bud, the
big man, with a reminiscent grin, “I
begin to think them fellers would get
us, for a while!”
"Mining men?” inquired the old
prospector politely.
"Working on a lease,” said the little
man briefly. “Owner got scared out
and let us in on shares. But no more
for muh—this will hold me for quite
a while, I can tell you!”
"Here, too,” agreed the big man,
turning to go. “Arizona is good enough
for me—-come on, Phil!”
“Where to?” The little man drew
back half resentfully, and then he
changed his mind. “All right,” he said,
falling into step, “a gin fizz for mine!"
"Not on an empty stomach,” ad
monished his pardner; “you might get
lit up and tell somebody all you know.
How about something to eat?”
“Good! But where 're you going?”
The big man was leading off down a
side street, and once more they came
to a halt.
"Jim s place—it’s a lunch-counter,”
he explained laconically. "The hotel's
all right, and maybe that was a break
fast we got, but I get hungry waiting
that way. Gimme a lunch-counter,
where I can wrop my legs around a
stool and watch the cook turn ’em
over. Come on—l been there before."
An expression of pitying tolerance
came over the little man's face as he
listened to this rhapsody on the quick
lunch, but he drew away reluctantly.
"Aw, come on, Bud,” he pleaded.
“Have a little class! What’s the use
of winning a stake If you've got to eat
at a dog-joint? And besides —say, that
was a peach of a girl that waited on
us this morning! Did you notice her
hair? She was a pippin!”
The big man waggled bis hand re
signedly and started on his way.
“All right, pardner,” he observed;
“if that's the deal she’s probably look
ing for you. 11l meet you in the room.”
“Aw, come on!” urged the other, but
his heart was not in it, and be turned
gaily away up the main street.
Left to himself, the big man went on
to his lunch-counter, where be ordered
oysters, "A dosen in the milk." Then
he ordered a beefsteak, to make up
for several he had missed, and asked
the cook to fry it rare. He was Just
negotiating for a can of pears that had
caught his eye when an old man came
in and took the stool beside him, pick
ing up the menu with trembling hand.
"Give me a cup of coffee,” be said to
the waiter, “and”-he gased at the bill
of fare carefully—“and a roast-beef
sandwich. No, Just the coffee!” he
corrected, and at that Bud gave him a
look. He was a small man, shabbily
dressed end with scraggy whiskers,
and his nose was very red.
=By DANE COOLIDGE=
Author of
■THE FIGHTING FOOL,” “HIDDEN WATERS,"
“THE TEXICAN,” Etc.
Illustrations by DON J. LAVIN
A. Munsey.)
(Copyright, 1914, by
“Here,” called Bud, coming to an In
stant conclusion, “give Tm his sand
wich; I’ll pay for It!”
“All right,” anwered the waiter, who
was no other than Sunny Jim, the pro
prietor, and, whisking up a sandwich
from the sideboard, he set it before
the old man, who glanced at him In
silence. For a fraction of a second he
regarded the sandwich apathetically;
then, with the aid of his coffee, he
made away with it and slipped down
off his stool. . ,
“Say," observed the proprietor, as
Bud was paying bis bill, “do you know
! who that old-timer was?”
! “What old-timer?” Inquired Bud,
who bad forgotten his brusk benefac
tion.
“Why, that old feller that you treat
ed to the sandwich.”
“Oh —him! Some old drunk around
town?” hazarded Bud.
“Well, he’s that, too,” conceded
Sunny Jim, with a smile. “But lemma
tell you, pardner, If you had half the
rocks that old boy’s got you wouldn’t
need to punch any more cows. That’s
Henry Kruger, the mgn that Just sold
the Cross-Cut mine for fifty thousand
cash, and he’s got more besides.”
“Huhl” grunted Bud, “he sure don’t
look it! Say, why didn't you put me
wise? Now I've got to hunt him up
and apologize.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” assured the
proprietor; “he won’t take any offense.
That’s Just like old Henry—he’s kinder
queer that way.”
“Well, I’U go and see him, anyway,"
said Bua. “He might think I was
hutting in.”
And then, going about his duty with
philosophical calm, he ambled off, stiff
legged, down the street.
CHAPTER 11.
It was not difficult to And Henry
Kruger In Gadsden. The barkeepers,
those efficient purveyors of informa
tion and drinks, knew blm as they
: knew their thumbs, and a casual round
of the saloons soon located him In the
back room of the Waldorf.
“Say,” began Bud, walking bluffly
up to him, “the proprietor of that res
taurant back there tells me I made a
"We All of Ue Make Our Mletakee."
mistake when I insisted on paying for
your meal. I Jest wanted to let you
know—"
‘‘Oh, that's all right, young man,"
returned Old Henry, looking up with
a humorous smile; "we all of us make
our mistakes. I knowed you didn’t
mean no offense and so I never took
none. Fact Is, I liked you all the bet.
ter for It This country Is getting set.
tied up with a class of people that
never give a nickel to nobody. You
paid for that meal like It was nothing,
an<* never so much as looked at me.
Bit down, sit down—l want to talk to
you!"
They sat down by the stove and fell
Into a friendly conversation In which
nothing more was said of the late In*
advertence, but when Bud rose to go
the old man beckoned him back.
“Hold on,” he protested; “don't go
off mad. I want to have a talk with
you on business. You seem to be a
pretty good young fellosr—maybe we
can make some dicker. What are you
looking for In these parts?”
"Well,” responded Bud, “some kind
of a leasing proposition, I reckon. Me
and my psrdner Jest come In from
Mexico, over near the Chihuahua line,
and we don’t hardly know what w#
do want yet."
“Yes, I’ve noticed that partner of
yours,” remarked Henry Kruger dryly.
“He's a great talker. I wss listening
to you boys out on the street there,
having nothing else to do much, and
being kinder on the lookout for a man,
anyway, and it struclem* I liked your
line of talk best.”
"You're easy satisfied, then," ob
served Bud, with a grin, "I norer said
• hardly."
AUGUSTA HERALD, AUGUSTA, GA.
• That s it,” returned Kruger signifi
cantly; “this Job I’ve got calls for a
man like that.”
Well, Phil's all right,” spoke up
Bud, with sudden warmth. “We been
pardners for two years now and he
never give nothing away yet! He
talks, but he don’t forget himself. And
the way lie can palaver them Mexicans
is a wonder.”
“Very likely, very likely,” agreed
Kruger, and then he sat a while In
silence.
“We got a few thousand dollars with
us, too,” volunteered Bud at last. “I’m
a good worker, If that’s what you want
—and Phil, he’s a mining engineer.”
“Um-m,” grunted Kruger, tugging at
his beard, but he did not come out
with his proposal.
“I tell you,” he said at last. "I’m
not doing much talking about this
proposition of mine. It’s a big thing,
and somebody might beat me to it.
You know what I am, I guess. I’ve
pulled off some of the biggest deals in
this country for a poor man, and I
don't make many mistakes—not ahout
mineral, anyway. And when I tell you
that this lw rich —you’re talking with a
man that knows.”
He fixed his shrewd, blue eyes on
the young man’s open countenance
an,d waited for him to speak.
‘‘That's right,” he continued, as Bud
finally nodded non-committally; “she’s
sure rich. I’ve had an eye on this
proposition far years—Just waiting for
the right time to come. And now it’s
come! All I need is the man. It
ain’t a dangerous undertaking—least
wise I don’t think It Is —but I got to
have somebody I can trust. I’m willing
to pay you good wages, or I’ll let you
In on the deal—but you’ll hare to go
down Into Mexico.”
■Nothin’ doing!” responded Bud
with instant decision. "If It’s in Ari
zona I’ll talk to you, brt no more Mex
ico for me. I’ve got something pretty
good down there myself, as far as that
goes.”
“What’s the matter T’ inquired Kru
ger, set back by the abrupt refusal;
“scared V‘
“Yes, I’m scared," admitted Bud,
and he challenged the old man with
his eyes.
“Must have had a little trouble,
then ?”
“Well, you might call It that,” agreed
Bud. “We been on the dodge for a
month. A bunch of revoltosos tried to
get our treasure, and when we skipped
out on ’em they tried to get us."
“Well,” continued Kruger, “this
proposition of mine Is different. You
was over in the Sierra Madres, where
the natives are bad. These Sonora
Mexicans ain't like them Chihuahua
fellers —they're Americanized. I’ll tell
you, If It wasn’t that the people would
know me I’d go down after this mine
myself. The country’s perfectly quiet.
There’s lots of Americans down there
yet, and they don’t even know there Is
a revolution. It ain't far from the rail
road, you see, and that makes a lot of
difference.”
He lowered his voice to a confi
dential whisper as be revealed the ap
proximate locality of his bonanza, but
Bud remained unimpressed.
“Yes,” he said, “we was near a rail
road—the Northwestern—and seemed
like them red-flaggers did nothing else
but burn bridges and ditch supply
trains. When they finally whipped ’em
off the whole bunch took to the hills.
That’s where we got It again.”
"Well,” argued Kruger, “this rail
road of ours la all right, and they run
a train over It every day. The con
centrator at Fortuna”—he lowered hie
voice again—"hasn't been shut dpwn a
day, and you’ll be within fifteen miles
of that town. No,” he whispered; “I
could get a hundred Americana to go
in on this tomorrow, as far’s the revo
lution’s concerned. It ain’t dangerous,
hut 1 want somebody I can trust.”
"Nope," pronounced Bud, rising pon
derously to his feet; “If it was this
side the line I’d stay with you till the
hair slipped, on anything, but—”
“Well, let’s talk It over again some
time,” urged Kruger, following him
along out “It ain’t often I get took
with a young feller the way I was with
you, and I believe we can make It yet
Where are you staying In town?”
“Up at the Cochise." sajd Bud.
“Come on with me—l told my pardner
I'd meet him there.”
They turned up the broad main
street and passed In through the pol
ished stone portals of the Cochise,"a
hotel eo spacious In Its Interior and so
richly appointed in its furnishings that
a New Yorker, waking up there, might
easily Imagine himself on Fifth ave
nue.
It was hardly a place to be looked
for In the West, and as Bud led the
way across the echoing lobby to a pair
of stuffed chairs he had a vague feel
ing of being In church. Stained-glass
windows above the winding stairways
let In a soft light, and on the tower
ing pillars of marble were emblazoned
prlckly-pears as an emblem of the
West. From the darkened balconies
above, half-seen women looked down
curiously as they entered, snd In the
broad lobby below were gathered the
prosperous citizens of the land.
There were cattlemen, still wearing
their boots and overalls, the better to
attend to their shipping; mining men,
Just as they had come from the hills;
| and others more elegantly dressed—
but they all had a nod for Henry Kru
ger. He was a man of mark, os Bud
j could see in a minute; hut It he hnd
other business with those who hailed
him he let it pass and took out a rank
brier pipe, which he puffed while Bud
smoked a cigarette.
They were sitting together in a
friendly silence when Phil came out of
the dining room, but as he drew near
the old man nodded to Bud and went
i over to apeak to the clerk.
“Who was that old-timer you were
talking to?” inquired Phil, as he sank
down in the vacant chair. “Looks like
I the-morulng-after with him, don’t it?”
”Um,’’ grunted Bud; “reckon It is
Name's Kruger.”
“What—the mining man?”
“That’s right.”
“Well,” exclaimed Phil, “what in the
world was he talking to you about?”
“Oh, some kind of a mining deal,”
grumbled Bud. "Wanted me to go
down into Mexico!"
“What’d you tell him?" challenged
the little man, sitting up suddenly in
his chair. “Say, that old boy’s got
rocks!”
“He can keep ’em for all of me,” ob
served Bud comfortably. "You know
what I think about Mexico.”
“Sure; but wbat was his proposi
tion? What did he want you to do?”
“Search me! He was mighty mys
terious about it. Said he wanted a
man he could trust”
“Well, holy Moses, Bud!” orfed Phil,
“wake up! Didn't you get his proposi
tion?”
"No, he wasn’t talking about It. Sold
it was a good tiling and he’d pay mo
well; qr let me In on the deal; but
; when he hollered Mexico I quit I’ve
got a plenty.’’
“Yes, ' 'it—” the little man choked
and could say no more. “Well, you’re
one Jim dandy business man, Bud
Hooker 1” he burst out at last “You’d
let—’’
“Well, wbat’s the matter?” demand
ed Hooker defiantly. “Do you want to
go back into Mexico? Nor me, neither!
What you kicking about?”
“You might have led blm on and
got the scheme, anyway. Maybe
there’s a million In It. Come on, let’s
go over and talk to him. I’d take a
chance, If It was good enough-”
“Aw, don’t be a fool, Phil,” urged
the cowboy plaintively. “We've got no
call to hear his scheme unless we want
to go In on It. Leave him alone snd
he’ll do something for us on this side.
Oh, crlpes, what’s the matter with
you ?”
He heaved himself reluctantly np
out of his chair and moved over to
where Kruger was sitting.
“Mr. Kruger,’’ he said, as the old
man turned to meet him, "I’ll make
you acquainted with Mr. Ds Lancey,
.my pardner. My name’s Hooker.”
"Glad to know you, Hooker,” re
sponded Kruger, shaking him by the
hand. “How'do, Mr. De Lancey.”
He gave Phil a rather crusty nod as
be spoke, but De Lancey wub dragging
up another chair and failed to notice.
“Mr. Hooker was telling me about
some proposition you had, to go down
into Mexico,” he began, drawing up
closer while the old man watched him
from under his eyebrows. “That's one
tough country to do business in right
now, but at the same time—”
“The country’s perfectly quiet,” put
In Kruger—"perfectly quiet.”
“Well, maybe so,” qualified De Lan
cey; "but when it comes to getting In
supplies—”
“Not a bit of trouble In the world,”
said the old man crabbedly. “Not a
bit."
“Well,” came baok De Lancey,
"what’s the matter, then? What Is
the proposition, anyway?”
Henry Kruger blinked and eyed him
Intently.
‘‘l’ve stated the proposition to Hook
er,” he said, "and he refused It That’s
enough, ain’t it?”
De Lancey laughed snd turned away.
“Well, yes, I guess It Is.” Then, In
passing, he said to Bud: “Go ahead
and talk to him.”
He walked away, lighting & cigarette
and smiling good-naturedly, and the
old-timer turned to Bud.
“That’s a smart man you’ve got for
a pardner,” he remarked, "A smart
man. You want to look out,” be added,
“or he’ll get away with you."
"Nope,’ sold Hud. “You don't know
him like I do. He’s straight as s die.”
“A man can be straight and still get
away with you,” observed the veteran
shrewdly. “Yes, Indeed." He paused
to let this bit of wisdom sink in, and
then he spoke again.
“You’d better quit—while you’re
lucky,” he suggested. "You quit and
come with me,” he urged, “and If we
strike it I’ll make you a rich man. I
don’t need your pardner on this deal.
I need Just on* man that can keep bis
bead shut. Listen now; I'll tell you
what it Is.
"I know whsre there’s s lost mine
down In Mexloo. If I’d tell you the
name you'd know It In a minute, and
It’s free gold, too. Now there’s a fel
low that had that land located for ten
years, but he couldn’t find the lead.
D'ye see? And when this second revo
lution came on he let It go—he neg
lected to pay his mining taxes and let
it go back to the government And
now all I want is a quiet man to slip
In snd denounce that land snd open
up tha lead. Here, look at this!”
He went down into bis pocket and
brought out a buckskin sack, from
which be banded over a piece of wall
worn quartz.
"That’s the rock,” he said. "She
runs four hundred dollars to the ton, 1
and the ledge Is eight Inches wide be
tween the wails. Nica ors, eh? And
she lays between shale and porphyry.”
His eyes sparkled as he carefully
replaced the specimen, and then he
looked up at Bud.
“I’ll let you in on that,” he said,
“half and half—-or I'll pay two hundred
dollars a month and a bonus. You
alone. Now how about it?”
For a moment Hooker looked at him
as if to read his thoughts, then be
shook his head and exhaled his smoke
regretfully.
“Nope,” he said. “Me and Phil are
pardners. We work together."
“I’ll give you three hundred!" cried
Kruger, half rising in his chair.
"Nope,” grunted Bud, "we’re pard
ners.”
“Huh!” snorted the mining man,
and flung away in disgust. But as Ue
■l'll Give Yoti Throe Hundred!” Cried
Kruger.
neared the door a new thought struck
him and he came as quickly back.
"You can do what you please about
your pardner," he said. "I'm talking
to you I Now—will you think about
ltr
“Bure!” returned Hooker.
“Well, then,” snapped Kruger, “meet
me at the Waldorf In au hour I”
CHAPTER 111.
On the untrammeled frontier, where
most men are willing to pass for what
they are without keeping up any
“front,” much of the private business,
as well as the general devilment, le
transacted In the back rooms of sa
loons. The Waldorf was nicely fur
nished In this regard.
After a drink at the har, in which
Do Lancey and Hooker Joined, Henry
Kruger led the way casually to the
rear, and in a few moments they were
safely cloeoted.
“Now," began Kruger, as he took a
seat by the table and faced them with
snapping eyes, “the first thing I want
to make plain to you gentlemen is. If
I make any deal today It’s to be with
Mr. Hooker. If you boys are pardners
you can talk It over together, but I
deal with one man, and that’s Hooker.
“All right?" he Inquired, glancing at
De Lancey, and that young man
nodded Indulgently.
“Very well, then,” resumed Kruger,
"now to get down to business. This
mine that I'm talking about Is located
down here in Sonora within three
hours’ ride of a big American camp.
It Isn’t any old Spanish mine, or lost
padre layout; it’e a well-defined ledge
running three or four hundred dollars
to the ton —and I know right where It
1», too.
“What I want to do Is to establish
the title to It now, while this revolu
tion Is going on, and make a bonanza
out of It afterward. Of course, It you
boys don't want to go back into Mex
ico, that settles it; but If you do go,
and I let you In on the deal, you've got
to see It through or I’ll lose the whole
thing. So make up your minds, and
if you say you’ll go, I want you to stick
to It!”
“Well go, all right,” spoke up De
Lancey, "If It’s rich enough.”
“How about you?” Inquired Kruger,
turning Impatiently on Bud; “will you
go?”
“Yes, I’ll go,” answered Bud sullen
ly. “But I ain’t stuck on the lob," he
added. “Jest about get it opened up
when a bunch of rebels will Jump in
and take everything we’ve got.”
"Well, you get a title to it and pay
your taxes and you can come out,
then,” conceded Henry Kruger.
"No,” grumbled Hooker, "If I go 111
stay with It.” He glanced at his pard
ner at this, but he, for one, did not
seem to be worried.
"I’U try anything—once I” he ob
served with a sprightly sir, and Bud
grinned sardonically at the well-worn
phrase.
“Well,” said Kruger, gating inquir
ingly from ons to the other, "la It a
go? Will you shake hands on it?”
“What’s the proposition?" broke la
De Lancey eagerly.
"The deal is between me and
Hooker,” corrected Kruger. "I’ll give
him three hundred a month, or an
equal share In the mine, expenses to
be shared -between us.”
"Make It equal shares,” said Hook
er, holding out his hand, "and I’U give
halt of mine to Phil.”
“AU right, my boy I” cried the old
men, suddenly clapping him on the
shoulder, ‘Til go you—snd you'll never
regret It,” he added significantly.
Then, throwing off the air of guarded
secrecy which had characterized hit
actions so tar, be sat down end began
to talk.
"Boys," he said, ‘Tm feeling lucky
today or I’d never have closed this
deal. I’m letting you In on one of the
biggest things that's ever been found
in Sonora. Just to show you how good
It is, here’s my smelter receipts for
eight hundred pounds of picked ore—
one thousand and twenty-two dollars!:
That’s the first and last ore that’s ever
been shipped from the old Eagle Tall.
I dug it out myself, and sacked it
and shipped it; and then some of them
crooked Mexican officials tried to beat
ue out of my title and I blowed up the
whole works with dynamite I
"Yes, sir, clean as a whistle! I had
my powder stored away in the drift,
and the minute I found out I was
euchred I laid a fuse to it and brought
the whole mountain down. That was
ten years ago, and old Aragon and
the agente mineral have had the land
located ever since.
"I bet they’ve spent five thousand
pesos trying to find that lead, but be
ing nothing but a bunch of Ignorant
Mexicans, of course they never found
nothing. Then Francisco Madero
comes In and fires the agente mineral
off his job and old Aragon lets the land
revert for taxes. I’ve got a Mexican
that keepß mo posted, and ever since
he sent me word that the title had
lapsed I've been crazy to relocate that
claim.
"Well, now, that don’t look so bad.
does It?” he asked, beaming paternally
at Bud. “There ain’t a man in town
that wouldn’t have Jumped at the
chance. If I was where I could talk
about It, but that’s Just what I couldn’t
do. I had to find some stranger that
wouldn’t sense what mine I was talk
ing about and then git him to go In oa
It blind.
“Now here's the way I’m fixed,
boys,” he exclaimed, brushing his un
kempt beard and smiling craftily.
“When I dynamited the Eagle Tail it
was mine by rights, but Cipriano Ara
gon—he’s the big Mexican down at old
Fortune —and Morales, the mineral
agent, had buncoed me out of the title,
"80, according to law, 1 blowed up
their mine, and If I ever showed up
down there I reckon they’d throw me
into JalL And If at any time they find
out that you're working for me, why,
we’re ditched—that’s alii They’ll put
you out of business. So, after we’ve
made our agreement and I've told you
what to do, I don’t want to hear a
word out of you—l don’t want you to
come near me, nor even write me a
letter—Just go ahead the best you can
until you win out or go broke.
"It ain’t a hard proposition,” he
continued, “If you keep your mouth
shut, but If they tumble, It’ll be a fight
to a flnieh. I’m not saying this for
you. Hooker, because I know you're
safe; I'm saying it for your pardner
here. You talk too much, Mr. De Lan
cey,” he chided, eying him with sud
den severity. "I’m afraid of ye!”
“Ail right,’ broke in Hooker good
naturedly, “I reckon we understand.
Now go ahead and tell us where this
mine Is and who there Is down there
to look out for.”
'The man to look out for,” an
•wered Kruger with venom, “Is Cipri
ano Aragon. He’s the man that bilked
me out of the mine once, and he'll do
It again if he can. When I went down
there—lt was ten years and more ago
—I wasn’t on to those Spanish ways of
hla, and he was so dog-goned polite
and friendly I thought I could trust
him anywhere.
"He owns a big raneh and mescal
still, runs cattle, works a few placers,
sends out pack-trains, and hag every
Mexican and Indian in the country in
debt to him through hla store, so if he
happens to want any rough work done
there’s always somebody to do It
"Well, Just to show you how he did
me, I got to nosing round those old
Spanish workings east of Fortuna and
finally I run across the ledge that I’m
telling you about not far from aa
abandoned shaft But the Mexicaa
mining laws are different from ours,
and an American has lots of trouble
anyway, so I made a trade with old
Aragon that he should locate the claim
for me under a power of attorney.
Didn’t know him then like I do now.
The papers had to be sent to Moctw
zuma and Hermoslllo, and to the City
of Mexico and back, and while I was
waiting around I dug in on this lead
and opened up the prettiest vein of
quartz you ever saw in your life.
Here’s a sample of it. and it’s sure
rich."
He handed De Lancey the familiar
piece of quartz and proceeded with his
story.
"That ore looked so good to me that
I couldn’t wait—l shipped it before I
got my title. And right there I made
my mistake. When Aragon saw the
gold In that rock he just quietly rw
corded the concession In bis own name
and told me to go to blazes. That’s
the greaser of It! So I blew the whole
mine up and hit for the border. That's
the Dutch of It, I reckon," he added
grimly. "Anyway, my old man was
Dutch."
Ho paueed, smiling over the mem
ory of his misplaced credulity, and
Hooker and De Lancey Joined in s
hearty laugh. From the town bum
that he had firat seemed this shabby
little man had changed In their eyes
until now be was a border Croesus,
the mere recital of whose adventures
conjured up In their minds visions of
gold and hidden treasure,
(To Be Continued Tomorrow.)
EVERY DAY
Is Bargain Day
In the WANTS
FIVE