Failure

: The Man From The Bitter Roots

Smaltz was a liar, as he said, but Bruce knew that he had told the truth

regarding Banule's work. He confirmed the suspicions and fears that had

been in Bruce's mind for months. Therefore, when he said quietly to

Banule--"You'd better go up the hill!" there was that in his voice and

eyes which made that person take his departure with only a little less

celerity than Smaltz had taken his.



It remained for B
uce to gather up Banule's scattered tools, drain the

pumps, and nail the pump-house door. When he closed the head gate and

turned the water back into Big Squaw Creek, removed the belting from the

pulleys in the power-house and shut the place up tight, he felt that it

was much like making arrangements for his own funeral.



At last everything was done and Porcupine Jim, who had stayed on a day

or so to help, was waiting for Bruce to finish his letter to Helen

Dunbar so he could take it up the hill. Jim sat by the kitchen stove

whistling dismally through his teeth while Bruce groped for words in

which to break the news of his complete failure.



If only he could truthfully hold out some hope! But there was not the

slightest that he could see. Harrah was out of it. The stockholders had

lost both confidence and interest in him and his proposition and would

sell out, as they had notified him they would do if the season's work

was a failure--and consider themselves lucky to have the chance. It was

a foregone conclusion that Sprudell would shortly own the controlling

stock.



There was nothing for it but the blunt truth so Bruce wrote:



Sprudell boasted that he would down me and he has. Villainy,



incompetency and carelessness have been too strong a combination

for my inexperience to beat.



I've failed. I'm broke. I've spent $40,000 and have nothing to

show for it but a burned-out plant of an obsolete type.



You can't imagine how it hurts to write these words. The

disappointment and humiliation of it passes belief. No one who

has not been through an experience like it could ever, even

faintly, understand.



I grow hot and cold with shame when I look back now and see my

mistakes. They are so plain that it makes me feel a fool--an

ignorant, conceited, inexperienced fool. I've learned many

lessons, but at what a price!



You'll see from the enclosed paper what I was up against. But it

does not excuse me, not in the least. Thinking myself just, I

was merely weak. A confiding confidence in one's fellowman is

very beautiful in theory but there's nothing makes him more

ridiculous when it's taken advantage of. When I recall the

suspicious happenings that should have warned me from Jenning's

incompetency to Smaltz's villainy I have no words in which to

express my mortification. The stockholders cannot condemn me

more severely for my failure than I condemn myself.



You are the beginning and end of everything with me. All my

hopes, my ambitions, my life itself have come to centre in you.

It was the thought that it was for you that kept me going when I

have been so tired doing two men's work that I could scarcely

drag one foot after the other. It made me take risks I might

otherwise never have dared to take. It kept me plodding on when

one failure after another smashed me in the face so fast that I

could not see for the blackness.



I never dreamed that love was like this--that it was such a

spur--such an incentive--or that it could add so to the

bitterness of failure. For I do love you, Helen; I see now that

I have loved you from the time I saw you with Sprudell--further

back than that, from the time I shook your picture out of that

old envelope.



I'm telling you this so you'll know why my tongue ran away with

my judgment when I talked so much to you of my plans and

expectations, hoping that in spite of the great disappointment

my failure will be to you, it will make you a little more

lenient.



I have failed so completely that I don't even dare ask you if

you care the least bit for me. It's presumptuous to suggest it--

it seems like presuming because you have been kind. But even if

such a miracle could be, I have nothing to offer you. I don't

mean to quit but it may be years before I get again the chance

that I had down here.



I love you, Helen, truly, completely: I am sure there will never

be any one else for me. If only for this reason won't you write

to me sometimes, for your letters will mean so much in the days

that are ahead of me.



When he had finished, Bruce gave Jim the letter and paid him off with

the check that took the last of his balance in the bank.



From the doorway of the shack he watched the Swede climb the hill,

following him with his eyes until he had rounded the last point before

the zig-zag trail disappeared into the timber on the ridge. A pall of

awful loneliness seemed to settle over the canyon as the figure passed

from sight and as Bruce turned inside he wondered which was going to be

the worst--the days or nights. His footsteps sounded hollow when he

walked across the still room. He stopped in the centre and looked at the

ashes overflowing the hearth of the greasy range, at the unwashed

frying-pan on the dirty floor, at the remains of Jim's lunch that

littered the shabby oilcloth on the table. A black wave of despair

swept over him. This was for him instead of cleanliness, comfort,

brightness, friendly people--and Helen Dunbar. This squalor, this bare

loneliness, was the harsh penalty of failure. He put his hand to his

throat and rubbed it for it ached with the sudden contraction of the

muscles, but he made no sound.



* * * * *



One of the pictures with which Bruce tortured himself was Helen's

disappointment when she should read his letter. He imagined the

animation fading from her face, the tears rising slowly to her eyes. Her

letters had shown how much she was counting on what he had led her to

expect, for she had written him of her plans; so the collapse of her

air-castles could not be other than a blow.



And he was right. The blunt news was a blow. In one swift picture

Helen saw herself trudging drearily along the dull, narrow road of

genteel poverty to the end of her days, sacrificing every taste, and

impulse, and instinct to the necessity of living, for more and more as

she thought her freedom closer the restrictions of economic slavery

chaffed.



But as she read on, her face grew radiant and when she raised the letter

impulsively to her lips her eyes were luminous with happiness. He loved

her--he had told her so--that fact was paramount. It overshadowed

everything else, even her disappointment. The conditions against which

she rebelled so fiercely suddenly shrank to small importance. It was

extraordinary how half-a-dozen sentences should change the world! She

was so incredibly happy that she could have cried.



In her eagerness, she had read the first of Bruce's letter hastily so

she had not grasped the full significance of what he had written of the

part in his failure that Sprudell had played. It was not until she read

it again together with Smaltz's confession, that it came to her clearly.

When it did she was dumfounded by the extent of Sprudell's villainy, his

audacity, the length to which his mania for revenge would take him. It

was like a plot in one of his own preposterous melodramas!



And was he to be allowed to get away with it? Were his plans to work out

without a hitch? she asked herself furiously. She realized that Bruce's

hands were tied, that the complete exhaustion of his resources left him

helpless.



She sat at her desk for a long time, mechanically drawing little designs

upon a blotter. Wild impulses, impractical plans, followed each other in

quick succession. They crystallized finally into a definite resolve, and

her lips set in a line of determination.



"I don't know how much or how little I can do, but, T. Victor Sprudell,"

Helen clenched a small fist and shook it in the direction in which she

imagined Bartlesville lay, "I'm going to fight!"



If much of Helen's work was uncongenial it at least had the merit of

developing useful traits. It had given her confidence, resourcefulness,

persistency and when she was aroused, as now, these qualities were of

the sort most apt to furnish the exultant Sprudell with a disagreeable

surprise.



* * * * *



It was not such a difficult matter as Helen had thought to get from the

investors a thirty days' option upon their stock. In the first place

they were frankly amused and interested by her request; and, in the

second, while Sprudell had succeeded in shaking their confidence in

Bruce he had not inspired any liking for himself. Besides, he had not

been able to conceal his eagerness and they felt that his offer would

keep. It was unusual and quite outside their experiences, but in these

days of women architects, legislators, financiers, who could tell where

the sex would turn up next? So at a meeting of the stockholders it was

agreed that it would do no harm to "give the girl a chance" though they

made no secret of the fact that they had little expectation that she

would be able to take up the option.



When it was secure and she had obtained leave of absence from the

office, Helen felt that the hardest part of the task she had assigned

herself was done. To acquaint Bruce's father with Sprudell's plot and

enlist him on Bruce's side seemed altogether the easiest part of her

plan. She had no notion that she was the brilliant lady-journalist to

whom the diplomat, the recluse, the stern and rock-bound capitalist,

give up the secrets of their souls, but she did have an assured feeling

that with the arguments she had to offer she could manage Bruce's "Dad."



Therefore on the monotonous journey west her nerves relaxed and with a

comfortable feeling of security she rehearsed her case as she meant to

present it, which was to conclude with an eloquent plea for help. It

seemed to her that in spite of the years of estrangement it would be the

most natural thing in the world for Burt, when he heard all the facts,

to rush to the rescue of his son. Of the result she really entertained

no doubt.



But she was reckoning without John Burt. Reasoning that would apply to

nearly any other man did not at all fit Bruce's father. Helen had the

sensation of having run at full speed against a stone wall when Burt

came toward her slowly, leading his saddle-horse through one of the

corrals near the unpretentious ranch-house, which she had reached after

a long drive.



The amenities to which she was accustomed were not, as the phrase is,

John Burt's long suit. He did not raise his hat, extend a hand, or

evince the slightest interest by any lighting of the eye. With his arm

thrown across his saddle he waited for her to begin, to state her

business and be gone.



The broad backs of ten thousand cattle glistened in the sun as they fed

inside the John Burt ranch, but owing to his seedy appearance their

owner was frequently mistaken for his own hired man. Self-centred, of

narrow views, strong prejudices, saving to penuriousness, whatever there

was of sentiment, or warm human impulse, in his nature, seemed to have

been buried with Bruce's mother. He had not re-married, but this was the

only outward evidence by which any one could know that the memory of

"his Annie" was as green as the day she died. He never spoke of her nor

of his son, and Burt's life seemed to have for its aim the piling up of

dollars faster than his neighbors.



Helen grasped something of his character in her swift appraisement. As

she returned his impersonal gaze she realized that to him she was simply

a female--a person in petticoats who was going to take up his time and

bore him until he could get rid of her. She was not accustomed to a

reception of this kind; it disconcerted her, but chiefly the magnitude

of her task loomed before her.



The sudden, unexpected fear of failure threw her into a panic. The

feeling which came upon her was like stage-fright. In the first awkward

moment she could scarcely remember why she had come, much less what she

had intended to say. But he was too indifferent to notice her confusion

and this helped her somewhat to recover her presence of mind.



When she mentioned the distance she had travelled to see him he was

entirely unimpressed and it was not until she mentioned Bruce's name

that he appeared to realize that she was not an agent trying to sell him

a book. Then Helen saw in his eyes his mental start;--the look of

resignation vanished and his black brows, so like Bruce's, contracted in

a frown.



"He's alive then," Burt's voice was hard.



Helen nodded.



"I've come to see you on his behalf."



"Oh, he's in trouble." His voice had an acid edge. "He wants me to help

him out."



"In trouble--yes--but I'm not sure he'd forgive me if he knew I had

come."



"Still sore, is he?" His features stiffened.



"Not sore," Helen pleaded, "but--proud."



"Stubborn"--curtly--"mulish. But why should you come to me?"



"Why shouldn't I? You're his father and he needs a helping hand just now

more perhaps than he ever will again."



"Being his father is no reason, that I can see. He's never written me a

line."



"And you've never tried to find him," Helen retorted.



"He had a good home and he ran away. He was fourteen--old enough to know

what he was doing."



"Fourteen!" repeated Helen scornfully throwing diplomacy to the winds at

his criticism of Bruce, "Fourteen!--and you judged him as though he

were a man of your own age and experience!"



"I made $20 a month and my board when I was fourteen."



"That doesn't prove anything except a difference in ambition. You wanted

the $20 a month and Bruce wanted an education."



"He owed me some respect." Burt declared obstinately. At the moment he

and Bruce looked marvellously alike.



"And don't you think you owed him anything?" Helen's cheeks were

flaming. The last thing she had expected was to quarrel with Bruce's

father, but since she was in it she meant to stand her ground. She had

made a muddle of it she felt, and her chances of success were slim

indeed. "Don't you think a child is entitled to the best chance for

happiness and success that his parents can give him? All Bruce asked was

an education--the weapon that every child has a right to, to enable him

to fight his own battles. I had the best education my parents could

afford and at that I'm not bowed down with gratitude for the privilege

of struggling merely to exist."



She expected him to reply with equal heat but instead he ignored her

argument and with a return to his former manner as though his flare-up

of interest had passed, asked indifferently:



"What's he done?"



"Nothing to be ashamed of," Helen answered vigorously, "and everything

to be proud of. He's put up a plucky fight but the odds are too strong

against him and he's going to lose unless you come to the

rescue--quick."



Burt combed the horse's mane with his fingers.



"What's he in--what's he doing?" There was no personal interest in the

question.



Helen hesitated for a second, knowing instinctively the effect her

answer would have upon him--then she replied with a touch of defiance:



"Mining."



"Minin'!" His tone was full of disgust, much as though she had said

gambling or burglary. "I might have known it would be some fool thing

like that. No, ma'am," harshly, "by writin' first you might have saved

yourself the trip for not a dollar of my money ever has or ever will go

into any minin' scheme. I don't speculate."



"But Mr. Burt--" Helen began pleadingly. She had a panicky feeling that

she was going to cry.



"It's no use arguin'," he interrupted. "He can't get me into any

wild-cat minin' scheme--"



"It isn't a wild-cat mining scheme," Helen defended hotly.



Burt went on--



"If he wants to come home and help me with the cattle and behave himself

now that he's fooled away his time and failed--"



"But he hasn't failed." Helen insisted with eager impatience. "He won't

fail if----"



"Well he's hard up--he wants money----" Burt spoke as though the fact

were a crime.



"A good many men have been 'hard up' and needed money before they

succeeded," Helen pleaded. "Surely you know that crises come in nearly

every undertaking where there isn't unlimited capital, obstacles and

combinations of circumstances that no one can forsee. And if you knew

what Bruce has had to fight----"



Helen had expected of course to tell Bruce's father of the placer

properties and his efforts to develop them. She had thought he would

have a father's natural pride in what Bruce had accomplished in the face

of dangers and difficulties. She had intended to tell him of Sprudell,

to show him Smaltz's confession, and the options which would defeat

Sprudell's plotting, but in the face of his narrow obstinacy, his deep

prejudices, she felt the futility of words or argument. She had not for

a moment counted upon such opposition; now she felt helpless, impotent

before this armor of hardness.



"I don't care what he's had to fight. I'd just as soon put my money in

the stove as put it in a mining scheme. There's two things I never do,

young lady, and that's speculate and go on people's notes."



"But, Mr. Burt," she begged hopelessly, "If you'd only make an

exception--just this once. Go to him--see for yourself that all he needs

is a helping hand across this one hard place."



"I got on without any helping hands. Nobody saw me across hard places.

I've told you the only way that he can expect to get anything from me."



"Then it's useless, quite, quite useless for me to say any more?" Helen

was struggling hard to keep her voice steady to the end. "No matter what

the circumstances may be you refuse to do anything for Bruce?"



"That's the size of it--unless he comes back. There's plenty for him to

do here." His tone was implacable and he was waiting with a stolid

patience for her to go.



"I'm sorry if I've bored you and I shan't inflict you any more. Please

remember that Bruce knew nothing of my coming. I came upon my own

responsibility. But his success meant so much to him--to me that I--that

I----" she choked and turned away abruptly. She dared not even say

good-bye.



Burt remained standing by his horse looking after her straight, slender

figure as she walked toward the gate. His face was still sphinx-like but

there was a speculative look in his shrewd eyes. Bruce's success "meant

so much to her," did it? That, then, was why she had come. The distance

she had travelled for the purpose of seeing him had not impressed him in

the least before.



Helen was halfway to the gate when she stopped to replace the rubber

that stuck in the muddy corral and slipped from her heel. Her chin was

quivering, her sensitive lips drooped and, feeling that Burt was looking

at her, she raised her eyes to his. They were brimming full of tears.

She looked for all the world like a sorrowful, disappointed, woe-begone

little girl of not more than ten or twelve.



The unconscious pathos of some look or pose grips the heart harder than

any spoken word and so it was that this unstudied trick of expression

found the vulnerable spot in Burt's armor--the spot which might have

remained impervious indefinitely to any plea. It went straight to his

one weakness, his single point of susceptibility, and that was his

unsuspected but excessive fondness for little girls.



The distinct picture that was firmly fixed in his unimaginative mind

before Bruce was born was still there; the picture of that little girl

with flaxen hair that had blue ribbons in it, with a laughing mouth that

had tiny sharp teeth like pearls, and who was to come dancing to meet

him with her arms outstretched each time that he rode into the yard.

That the dream was never realized was one of the real disappointments of

Burt's life. Inexplicably he saw that little girl again as he looked at

Helen's upturned face with its quivering chin and swimming, reproachful

eyes.



John Burt had a queer feeling of something wilting, crumbling inside of

him, something hard and cold giving way around his heart. He could not

have explained it, it was not his way to try, but he took an impulsive

step toward her and called out:



"Wait a minute! Go on in the house till I put up my horse, I'll hear

what you have to say."



More

;