Millions!

: The Man From The Bitter Roots

Would the car never come--would it never come! Helen walked once more to

the corner from the shelter of a building in one of the outlying mill

districts where an assignment had taken her.



The day was bitterly cold with a wind blowing which went through her

coat and skirt as though they were light-weight summer clothing. She

held her muff against her cheek and she peered up the street and the

dark backgrou
d accentuated the drawn whiteness of her face with the

pinched, blue look about her mouth and nostrils. The girl was really

suffering terribly. She had passed the chattering stage and was enduring

dumbly, wondering how much longer she could stand it, knowing all the

time that she must stand it as there was no place to go inside and

missing the car which ran at half hour intervals meant missing the

edition. She was paid to stand it, she told herself, as she stamped

her feet which were almost without feeling. The doctor's emphatic

warning came to her mind with each icy blast that made her shrink and

huddle closer to the wall of the big storage building. Exposure, wet

feet, were as suicidal in her condition as poison, he had told her. She

could guard against the latter but there was no escape from the former

if she would do her work conscientiously for long, cold rides and waits

on street corners were a recognized part of it.



She could not afford even to dress warmly. There was absolutely nothing

but fur that would keep out such penetrating wind and cold as this, and

anything at all presentable was beyond her means.



"And they tell us, these smug, unctuous preachers warming their shins

before their study fires, that living is a privilege, and we should be

grateful to the Almighty for being allowed to go through things like

this! I can't see it!" she declared to herself in angry rebellion. "I

haven't one thing on earth to look forward to--unless--" her hand

tightened on a letter inside her muff--"unless I take a way out which,

in the end, might be worse."



Sprudell's note had come by special delivery from the Hotel Strathmore

just as she was leaving the office, so she had not stopped to answer it.

He had made several trips from Bartlesville since their first meeting,

under the pretext of business, but it did not require any great acumen

to discover that he came chiefly to see her.



Now, thinking that it might divert her mind from her misery, Helen

turned her back to the wind and drew out his note for a second reading.

One would scarcely have gathered from her expression as she turned the

pages that she was reading a cordial dinner invitation.



Everything about it grated upon her--and the note was so eminently

characteristic. She observed critically the "My dear Miss Dunbar," which

he considered more intimate than "Dear Miss Dunbar." She disliked the

round vowels formed with such care that they looked piffling, and the

elaborately shaded consonants. The stiffness, the triteness of his

phraseology, and his utter lack of humor, made his letters dull reading

but most of all his inexact use of words irritated her--it made him seem

so hopeless--far more so than bad spelling. She even detested the

glazed note paper which she was sure was a "broken lot" bought at a

bargain in a department store.



"To-night I have a matter of supreme importance to impart," she read,

"make every effort to join me. The evening may prove as eventful to you

as to me, so do not disappoint me, Mignonne."



"Mignonne!" Her lips curled. "Idiot! Imbecile! Ignoramus!"

Savagely--"Donkey!"



She leaned a shoulder against the cold bricks of the warehouse, her head

drooped and a tear slipped down her cheek to turn to frost on the dark

fur of her muff.



Helen was too analytical and she had had the opportunity of knowing and

observing men in too many walks of life not to have by this time a

fairly good insight into Sprudell's character. At least she understood

him to the extent of reading his motives and interpreting his actions

with tolerable accuracy. She tried to be charitable and endeavored not

to dwell upon the traits which, in the light of his lover's attitude,

made him ridiculous. When she received tender offering of stale

fruit-cake and glucose jam from a cut-rate grocer, large boxes of candy

from an obscure confectioner, and other gifts betraying the penurious

economy which always tempered his generosity, she endeavored to assure

herself that it came merely from the habit of saving in small ways which

many self-made men had in common. She dwelt resolutely upon his

integrity, upon the acumen which had made him a business success; yet in

her heart she could not help likening him to a garment of shoddy

material aping the style of elegance. While endeavoring to palliate

these small offenses Helen knew perfectly that they were due to the

fact that he was innately what was known in the office vernacular as a

"cheap skate," striving to give the impression of generosity at a

minimum of expense.



Helen had grown sensitive about her cough and shrank from comment upon

it. She did her best to stifle it and she herself spoke of it lightly;

but to-day, when she came into the warm air of the office after the

nightmare of a wait on the corner and the long, cold ride afterward, it

set her coughing violently, so violently that it attracted the attention

of her neighbor, who called over the partition jocularly but with a note

of seriousness in his voice--



"We'll have to ship you to Colorado, Miss Dunbar, if you go on like

that!"



Helen caught her clasped hands quickly to her breast, a trick she had

when startled.



"Yes?" she answered lightly but her expression was frightened.



People were noticing! It was the last straw needed. When she laid out

her most becoming frock that evening it was the white flag of

capitulation. The odds were too heavy--she felt she must surrender

before it was too late. While she dressed her hair with more than usual

care she scrutinized her face closely for that indefinable look which

conveys to the initiated a hint of something deeper-seated than the

languor of fatigue.



If Helen had cared at all for Sprudell's approbation she would have had

the reward for her pains in the pleased, self-satisfied air of

proprietorship with which he followed her to the table he had reserved

in the fashionable restaurant of the Hotel Strathmore. He missed none of

the interested looks directed at her as she passed, and glowed with

satisfaction.



"If they notice her like this in a city," he thought triumphantly,

"she'll make 'em sit up in Bartlesville!" Sprudell's cup of happiness

seemed running full.



"You're looking great to-night," he whispered as they sat down.



"Fine feathers--" she smiled slightly--"my one good gown."



"My dear, you can have a hundred--a thousand!" he cried extravagantly.

"It's up to you!"



She studied him curiously, wondering what had happened. He was tremulous

with suppressed excitement; his high spirits were like the elation of

intoxication and he ordered with a lavishness which made him

conspicuous.



But Sprudell was indifferent to appearances, seeming to survey the world

at large from the height of omnipotence and it seemed to Helen that

every objectionable trait he had was exaggerated, twice enlarged under

the stimulus of this mysterious, exalted mood. His egotism loomed

colossal, he was oblivious to everything and everybody but himself, else

he could not have failed to see the growing coldness in her eyes.



Helen herself had little appetite, so while Sprudell partook of the

numerous dishes with relish she inspected him anew from the critical

viewpoint of the woman who intends to marry without love. As she

dissected him it occurred to her that Sprudell exemplified every petty

feminine prejudice she had. She disliked his small, red mouth, which had

a way of fixing itself in an expression of mawkish sentimentality when

he looked at her, and there was that in the amorous, significant light

in his infantile blue eyes which sickened her very soul. She

disapproved of his toddling walk, his fat, stooped shoulders, his spats

and general appearance of over-emphasized dapperness. The excessive

politeness, the elaborate deference which he showed her upon occasions,

exasperated her, and it was incredible, she thought, that a part in a

man's back hair should be able to arouse such violence of feeling. But

it did. She hated it. She loathed it. It was one of her very strongest

aversions. She had always hoped never even to know a man who parted his

back hair and now she was going to marry one.



She tried to imagine herself going through life making a pretense of

taking his learning and his talents seriously, of refraining carefully

from calling attention to his errors or correcting his misstatements, of

shielding him from the ridicule which his pedantry must bring upon him

when he mingled with his superiors, smoothing over smarts when he

bullied and "talked down," without convincing his adversaries--as Helen

had seen other women do. But could she do it? When it came right down

to brass tacks, she asked herself, could she exchange herself, her

freedom, her individuality, all the years to come if many were spared

her, for the chance to get well and for relief from anxiety about food

and clothes and shelter?



To marry Sprudell meant immunity from freezing on street corners, from

mental and physical exhaustion, from the rebuffs which were a part of

her work and which hurt far worse than anyone guessed because she could

never regard them as impersonal. Women were making such exchanges every

day and with less excuse--for luxury or position merely--but could she

do it?



Must she grow into an old woman without a single romance in her life?

That much seemed every woman's right. What had she done that the Fates

should "have it in for her" like this? She clenched her hands under the

shelter of the tablecloth. This thing she had made up her mind to do

seemed such a horrid, sordid, vulgar end to youth and sentiment.



Sprudell meanwhile was revolving in his mind the best method of

imparting effectively and dramatically the news which was burdening him.

He considered beginning with a Latin quotation from his Vest-Pocket

Manual--"Labor omnia vincit"--or something like that--but ended, when

he felt the right moment had arrived, by stating the fact bluntly and

abruptly:



"I'm going to be as rich as Croesus."



Helen looked up, to see his red lower lip trembling with excitement.



"My dear," solemnly, "I shall have fabulous wealth."



Undoubtedly he was in earnest. She could see that from the intensity

shining in his eyes. Wonderingly she took the pamphlet which he withdrew

from its envelope and passed to her, watching her face eagerly as she

read.



PROSPECTUS OF THE BITTER ROOT

PLACER MINING COMPANY



proclaimed the outside page, and the frontispiece contained a picture of

seven large mules staggering up a mountain trail under a load of bullion

protected by guards carrying rifles with eight-foot barrels.



"That illustration is my idea," he said proudly.



"It's very--very alluring," Helen conceded. "And you are interested?"



"Interested!" gleefully, "it's all mine! Wait till you go on."



The first paragraph of the text read:



We have, with infinite hardship and difficulties and a large

personal expense, secured absolute legal ownership, and physical

possession, of eight placer claims, making 160 acres of the

richest, unworked placer ground in the United States.



THE PROPERTIES



Queen of Sheba No. 1:--Area about 15 acres.



Section 1--600 x 300 feet. Examined by the best obtainable

placer experts and under the most favorable conditions money

could afford. Prospect Shaft No. L:--Through natural, clean sand

and fine river gravel. Depth of pit 10 feet. Every foot showed

gold in paying quantities. A four foot streak, extremely rich,

passes through this section. Red-rock was not reached but the

values increase with depth, as is usually true.



Average workable depth of this section 60 ft.

Average assay .6235 per cubic yard.

600 x 300 x 60----400,000 cu. yds. @ .6235 $249,400

Estimated cost of working 5 cents per cu. yd. 20,000

--------

Estimated Net Profit $229,000



"That's one of the poor claims," he explained carelessly, "we probably

won't bother with it."



"The yardage of 'The Pot of Gold' and claims 'Eureka' 1 and 2 totalled

millions, while the leanest next to 'The Queen of Sheba,' yielded a net

profit of $700,000."



Then the monotony of facts and figures was varied by another

illustration showing a miner in hip-boots and a sou'wester blithely

handling a giant which threw a ten-inch stream into a sand-bank.



"I drew the rough sketch for that and the artist carried out my ideas."

Sprudell wished to convey the impression that along with his many other

gifts he possessed artistic talent, had he only chosen to develop it.



Helen read at random:



Numerous prospect holes, cuts and trenches fully corroborate the

value of the ground. There are rich streaks and spots yielding

25 cts. to 50 cts. to the pan of what area the Giant alone will

tell. Every surface foot yields gold in paying quantities. It is

pay-dirt from the grass-roots. While we confine our estimates to

the actual ground examined, nevertheless we are certain the real

wealth lies on bed-rock.



The home claim with its rustic log cabin provides a delightful

home for those interested in the enterprise, supplying comforts

and luxuries which money cannot purchase in large cities. Game

and fish in greatest abundance infest its door-yard. We have

seen fifty grouse and twenty mountain sheep within three hundred

feet of the doorway. Bear may be had at any time for the going

after.



It must be borne in mind, all of these placers are the ancient

beds of a least two separate periods of a great river,

consequently, bed-rock will undoubtedly reveal fabulous wealth

which cannot be uncovered in an examination. It would be useless

to attempt to exaggerate the possibilities of these properties.

The plain, simple facts are far more potent than unestablished

fiction could possibly be.



All the claims we have described represent virgin ground,

something seldom found, now, anywhere in the U. S. There is not

a wagon track in the whole valley. It has heretofore been too

difficult of access to tempt capital to come in here. We have

changed the whole situation. Our Saw-mill, which we now have in

operation, is the wonder of the place, and is, of course, our

salvation, for without that, of course, we could not construct

flumes to put water upon our placer ground.



We have partially constructed a wagon road to shorten and make

less arduous the difficult trip into this paradise.

Nevertheless, it is a paradise, when once within its charmed

environments. Gold is the commonest product there.



This is quite sufficient.



The confidential details which accompany this prospectus will

make known our financial requirements.



We know we have a great fortune in sight, but, hidden away in

the greater depths are unknown possibilities of fabulous riches,

for this great river is noted for its richness on bed-rock.

Millions have been taken out of its sand with the crudest

devices.



We have demonstrated our good faith and our confidence in the

worth of these properties by a personal expenditure

approximating fifty thousand dollars in cash.



We have taken every legal precaution and necessary physical step

to insure an absolutely safe and profitable investment.



We are now ready, and desire, to finance a close corporation,

with a limited capital, to operate this property on a scale

BEFITTING ITS IMPORTANCE.



Helen closed the pamphlet and passed it back. She knew nothing of mining

and had no reason to doubt its truth or Sprudell's honesty. Not only the

facts but the magnitude of the possibilities as he had outlined them

were bewildering. He might, indeed, become as rich as Croesus and, she

thought, how like a tyrant he would use his power!



"Well?" He looked at her, exultant, gloating. For the moment he had the

appearance of a person whose every wish had been granted. His eyes

blazed with excitement, his face was crimson. Dazzled, intoxicated by

the prospect of his great wealth, he felt himself omnipotent, immune

from the consequences of rude manners and shameless selfishness, safe

from criticism among the very rich. He felt a wild, reckless impulse to

throw the cut-glass rose-vase on the floor--and pay for it.



"Well?" he repeated arrogantly. He felt so sure of her, for what woman

who earned her own living would refuse what he now could offer! He was

impatient for her to say something that would show how much she was

impressed.



And still Helen did not answer. Looking at him as he bared himself in

his transport, the realization came swiftly, unexpectedly that she could

not marry him if to refuse meant the beginning of sure starvation on the

morrow! Not because she was too honorable, too conscientious, to marry

without love in her present circumstances, but because it would be an

actual impossibility for her to marry Sprudell.



It was not a question of honor or conscience, of mental uncongeniality,

temperamental differences, or even the part in his back hair; it was, as

she realized, a case of physical repulsion pure and simple.



From her first acquaintance with him she had shrunk involuntarily from

the touch of his hand, the slightest contact; when he sat beside her in

taxicabs and at the theatre she invariably had been unpleasantly

conscious of his nearness. She was convinced now that her reluctant feet

would have refused to carry her to the altar, and her tongue to answer

according to her bidding.



If she had been less strong in her likes and dislikes, less violent in

her prejudices, she might have forced herself to dwell upon the

advantages over her present position and come to accept the situation

with something like serenity. But she was too strong a character to

adapt herself complacently to a livelong, intimate association with a

person so genuinely, so uncontrollably, physically repugnant to her as

was Sprudell.



Psychologically, it was curious--no doubt there were women in the world

who had, or did, or might, adore Sprudell; but for herself she

understood clearly now that the single kindly feeling she had for him

was the gratitude she felt she owed him.



"I congratulate you," she said finally. "It is a remarkable story--most

romantic! Money is power--there never was anything truer--Listen!" She

raised a finger. "Isn't that your name? Yes; the boy is paging you."



Sprudell ostentatiously opened the telegram which was brought to him,

secretly pleased at seeming to be thus pursued by the requirements of

his large business interests; but his frown of importance and air of a

man with weighty matters to decide was wasted upon Helen, who was

watching a lively party of men making its way to a nearby table reserved

for six.



Sprudell read:



The original locator has beat us to the water-right. Applied by

wire while I was snowed up. Advise making best terms possible

with him. Letter follows.

Dill.



He looked as if some one had struck him in the face.



Helen was still watching the advancing party. She murmured, with a smile

of amusement, as Sprudell laid the telegram down:



"Here, coming in the lead, is our unfailing news supply--Winfield

Harrah. You've heard of him no doubt. Behind him, the big one--that huge

chap with the black eyes, is the mysterious Samson from the West who

whipped the 'Spanish Bull-dog.' 'The Man from the Bitter Roots' I think

they call him."



Subconsciously, Sprudell heard what she was saying and his eyes followed

hers. The start he gave caused her to turn her head quickly. His face

was more than colorless, it was chalky even to the lips.



"Burt!" He exclaimed involuntarily, "Bruce Burt!" He could have bitten

his tongue out the instant after.



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