quarries?”
“Aye, silver there. And that scoundrel Jarvin…”
“Old Mike Jarvin?”
“Yes.”
“But Mike and his whiskey bottle…”
“Listen a minute!” called Ross Hale.
Through the evening, above the rumble of big wheels and the creaking of axle-trees, he heard the floating voice of a husky-throated singer who bellowed forth an ancient ditty to the effect that a blue-eyed girl was waiting for him in Mayo, and the oceans and the mountains could not keep him from her.
“It’s Jarvin,” murmured Peter, still smiling and shaking his head with delight. “I thought that the old villain had drunk himself to death long ago, for sure. But there he is, and he sounds as strong as ever.”
“Stronger, because now he digs the money that he spends out of the ground. And he has the full charge of the quarry and the mine.”
“He has it all?”
“Every bit.”
“But what became of old Sam Debney?”
“That’s what a lot of folk would be curious to know. But all that was ever seen of Debney was his body, smashed up among the rocks where he’d fallen. And a handy place up above from which he could of fallen…or been pushed.”
“Murder,” Peter Hale said sternly. “Murder, I say.”
“The whole county says the same thing, but there was no proof. We know that old Debney was murdered by Mike Jarvin. But what difference does that make so long as we can’t prove anything? Jarvin has all the mine. Makes more money every month. Has a bank pretty near filled with it, I suppose, and, he’s got forty men and boys working for him.”
“Forty!”
“Yes, sir, that’s what I said. And he pays them off once a month. He’s carting the payroll up with him now.”
“A wonder that he isn’t robbed.”
“Who would do that?”
“Why, the Buttrick brothers or some of the other handy murderers and thieves in this county. We used to have plenty of them.”
“We did”—his father nodded—“and none better than the ones that you named first. The Buttrick brothers are as mean and as shifty as any thugs that ever breathed, and the reason that old Mike Jarvin ain’t been robbed, and won’t be robbed, is that he’s got Lefty Buttrick’s Colts on the one side of him and Dan Buttrick’s rifle on the other side of him. And he keeps on paying them so well that they can’t afford to cut his throat. He hates them because he has to pay them so much, and they hate him because hedon’t pay them more. But he can’t get rid of them…he’s afraid to. And, they won’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. Y’understand?”
“It’s a very pretty picture,” Peter Hale agreed.
“Ain’t it, though? Once a month we hear the singing of that swine rolling up the road, carrying four or five thousand dollars in gold along with him, and the Buttricks, you can be sure, are right along with him, watching the pig sleep and keeping care of him.”
Peter watched the tail light of the wagon wind out of view, although the rumbling of the wheels still echoed distinctly. Then he gathered up the wood that he had cut and swung himself with uncanny adroitness toward the kitchen steps. His father marveled, seeing him pass. It was plain to him that Peter, after the dreadful accident that had disabled him, must have bent his mind seriously and scientifically to repairing the damage that he had sustained by using the only substitutes that remained to him, namely, a good set of wits and his giant strength above the hips. He had used his athletic training to prepare himself, and he had used his trained brain to study the problems and the way to master them. Now he went with faultless accuracy up the kitchen steps, supporting a mountainous load of wood such as Ross Hale himself could never have managed.
Peter led the way into the darkening house and stood like a lame Colossus before the stove and cooked the dinner, while his father lurked in corners, trying to make cheerful conversation, only to discover, as other and more
“Aye, silver there. And that scoundrel Jarvin…”
“Old Mike Jarvin?”
“Yes.”
“But Mike and his whiskey bottle…”
“Listen a minute!” called Ross Hale.
Through the evening, above the rumble of big wheels and the creaking of axle-trees, he heard the floating voice of a husky-throated singer who bellowed forth an ancient ditty to the effect that a blue-eyed girl was waiting for him in Mayo, and the oceans and the mountains could not keep him from her.
“It’s Jarvin,” murmured Peter, still smiling and shaking his head with delight. “I thought that the old villain had drunk himself to death long ago, for sure. But there he is, and he sounds as strong as ever.”
“Stronger, because now he digs the money that he spends out of the ground. And he has the full charge of the quarry and the mine.”
“He has it all?”
“Every bit.”
“But what became of old Sam Debney?”
“That’s what a lot of folk would be curious to know. But all that was ever seen of Debney was his body, smashed up among the rocks where he’d fallen. And a handy place up above from which he could of fallen…or been pushed.”
“Murder,” Peter Hale said sternly. “Murder, I say.”
“The whole county says the same thing, but there was no proof. We know that old Debney was murdered by Mike Jarvin. But what difference does that make so long as we can’t prove anything? Jarvin has all the mine. Makes more money every month. Has a bank pretty near filled with it, I suppose, and, he’s got forty men and boys working for him.”
“Forty!”
“Yes, sir, that’s what I said. And he pays them off once a month. He’s carting the payroll up with him now.”
“A wonder that he isn’t robbed.”
“Who would do that?”
“Why, the Buttrick brothers or some of the other handy murderers and thieves in this county. We used to have plenty of them.”
“We did”—his father nodded—“and none better than the ones that you named first. The Buttrick brothers are as mean and as shifty as any thugs that ever breathed, and the reason that old Mike Jarvin ain’t been robbed, and won’t be robbed, is that he’s got Lefty Buttrick’s Colts on the one side of him and Dan Buttrick’s rifle on the other side of him. And he keeps on paying them so well that they can’t afford to cut his throat. He hates them because he has to pay them so much, and they hate him because hedon’t pay them more. But he can’t get rid of them…he’s afraid to. And, they won’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. Y’understand?”
“It’s a very pretty picture,” Peter Hale agreed.
“Ain’t it, though? Once a month we hear the singing of that swine rolling up the road, carrying four or five thousand dollars in gold along with him, and the Buttricks, you can be sure, are right along with him, watching the pig sleep and keeping care of him.”
Peter watched the tail light of the wagon wind out of view, although the rumbling of the wheels still echoed distinctly. Then he gathered up the wood that he had cut and swung himself with uncanny adroitness toward the kitchen steps. His father marveled, seeing him pass. It was plain to him that Peter, after the dreadful accident that had disabled him, must have bent his mind seriously and scientifically to repairing the damage that he had sustained by using the only substitutes that remained to him, namely, a good set of wits and his giant strength above the hips. He had used his athletic training to prepare himself, and he had used his trained brain to study the problems and the way to master them. Now he went with faultless accuracy up the kitchen steps, supporting a mountainous load of wood such as Ross Hale himself could never have managed.
Peter led the way into the darkening house and stood like a lame Colossus before the stove and cooked the dinner, while his father lurked in corners, trying to make cheerful conversation, only to discover, as other and more
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