On this higher ledge, slightly beyond a shallow intersecting gorge
shadowed by low-growing cedars, two men reclined upon a rock-dump,
gazing carelessly off six hundred feet sheer down into the gloomy
depths of the canyon below. Just beyond them yawned the black opening
of their shaft-hole, the rude windlass outlined against the gray
background of rock, while somewhat to the left, seemingly overhanging
the edge of the cliff, perched a single-roomed cabin of logs
representing home. This was the "Little Yankee" claim, owners William
Hicks and "Stutter" Brown. The two partners were sitting silent and
idle, a single rifle lying between them on the dump. Hicks was tall,
lank, seamed of face, with twinkling gray eyes, a goat's beard dangling
at his chin to the constant motion of his nervous jaws; and Brown,
twenty years his junior, was a young, sandy-haired giant, limited of
speech, of movement, of thought, with freckled cheeks and a downy
little moustache of decidedly red hue. They had been laboriously
deciphering a letter of considerable length and peculiar illegibility,
and the slow but irascible Stutter had been swearing in disjointed
syllables, his blue eyes glaring angrily across the gully, where
numerous moving figures, conspicuous in blue and red shirts, were
plainly visible about the shaft-hole of the "Independence," the next
claim below them on the ledge. Yet for the moment neither man spoke
otherwise. Finally, shifting uneasily, yet with mind evidently made up
for definite action, Hicks broke the prolonged silence.
"I was thinkin' it over, Stutter, all the way hoofin' it out yere," he
said, chewing continually on his tobacco, "but sorter reckoned ez how
yer ought ter see the writin' furst, considerin' ez how you're a full
partner in this yere claim. It sorter strikes me thet the lawyer hes
give us the straight tip all right, an' thar 's no other way fer
gittin' the cinch on them ornary fellers over thar," and the speaker
waved his hand toward the distant figures. "Yer see, it's this yere
way, Stutter. You an' I could swar, of course, thet the damned cusses
hed changed the stakes on us more 'n onct, an' thar 's no doubt in our
two minds but what they 're a-followin' out our ore-lead right now,
afore we kin git down ter it. Hell! of course they are--they got the
fust start, an' the men, an' the money back of 'em. We ain't got a
darn thing but our own muscle, an' the rights of it, which latter don't
amount ter two bumps on a log. Fer about three weeks we 've been
watchin' them measly skunks take out our mineral, an' for one I 'm
a-goin' ter quit. I never did knuckle down ter thet sort, an' I 'm too
old now ter begin. The lawyer says ez how we ain't got no legal proof,
an' I reckon it's so. But I 'm damned if I don't git some. Thar ain't
a minin' engineer in San Juan that 'll come up yere fer us. Them
fellers hes got 'em all on the hip; but I reckon, if we hunt long
'nough, we kin find some feller in Colorado with nerve 'nough to tackle
this yere job, an' I 'm a-goin' out gunnin' for jist that man."