Part 14 (1/2)

”Exactly,” said Mr. Crow.

Mr. Bacon shot a significant look at Mr. Bonaparte, and that worthy put his hand suddenly to his mouth.

”Well, that's what we're here for, Mr. Crow--to get that gold out of the earth. If our estimates are correct--or, I should say, if our investigations establish the fact that it is a real vein and not merely a little pocket, there ought to be a million dollars in that piece of land of yours. Now, let me see. Just how much land do you own up there, Mr. Crow?”

”I own derned near all of it,” said the marshal promptly. ”'Bout seventy-five acres, I should say.”

”Nothing but timberland, I a.s.sume--judging from what we have been able to observe.”

”All timber. Never been cleared, 'cept purty well down the slope.”

”And it is about five miles as the crow flies from Tinkletown, eh?”

”I ginerally say as the wild goose flies,” said Mr. Crow, somewhat curtly.

”Well, you have heard the proposition I bring from my employers in New York City. Think it over tonight, Mr. Crow. Then, we will meet tomorrow morning at your office to complete our plans. I shall be prepared to hand you a draft for two hundred dollars to bind the bargain. What time do you reach your office?”

”Ginerally some'eres between six and a quarter-past.”

”My G.o.d!” muttered Mr. Bonaparte.

”We will be there at six-fifteen,” said Mr. Bacon firmly. ”Good evening, Mr. Crow.”

Far in the night, Mrs. Crow peevishly mumbled to her bedfellow: ”What ails you, Anderson Crow? Go to sleep!”

”Never mind, never mind. I can't tell you, so don't pester me. All I ast of you is to wake me at five if I happen to oversleep.”

”Well, of all the--do you suppose I'm goin' to lay awake here all night waitin' for five o'clock to----”

”How in thunder do you expect me to go to sleep, Eva, if you keep jabberin' away to me all night long like this? Ding it all to gosh, here it is after one o'clock an' you still talkin'. Don't do it, I say.

Don't ast another question till five o'clock, an' then all you got to do it to ast me if I'm awake.”

”Umph!” said Mrs. Crow.

Messrs. Bacon and Bonaparte were an hour and forty minutes late.

It was nearly eight o'clock when the two gentlemen came hurrying around the corner into Sickle street, piloted by Alf Reesling, the town drunkard.

A long, important-looking cigar propitiated Mr. Crow, and after Mr.

Reesling and other citizens had been given to understand that the strangers were figuring on buying all the timber on Crow's Mountain, the three princ.i.p.als set forth in Anderson's buckboard.

In due time they arrived at the top of the ”Mountain.” Now Crow's Mountain was no mountain at all. It was a thickly wooded hill that had achieved eminence by happening to be a scant fifty feet higher than the knolls surrounding it. From the low-lying pastures and grain-fields to the top of the outstanding pine that reared its blasted storm-stripped tip far above its fellows, the elevation was not more than three hundred feet. Nevertheless, it was the loftiest hill in all that region and capped Anderson Crow's agricultural possessions.

Just before the Boggs City National Bank at the county seat closed that afternoon Mr. Crow appeared at the receiving-teller's window. He deposited two hundred dollars in currency. Mr. Bacon had decided that a draft on New York might excite undue curiosity.

”If people were to get wise to what we are really after up here on this mountain, Mr. Crow,” said he, ”it would play hob with everything. If it gets out that we are after gold--why, the price of land would be so high we couldn't--”

”Lot of these hayseeds been wantin' to sell fer years, the derned rubes,” broke in Anderson, pityingly.