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Updated: June 8, 2025
Someone might be making a hurried and disgusted exit from Pedro's. He looked quietly around him. After his immersion in the thick darkness of the house, the outer night seemed clear and the stars burned low through the thin mountain air. Denver's face was black under the shadow of his hat. "How are you, kid shaky?" he whispered. Shaky? It surprised Terry to feel that he had forgotten about fear.
Denver at once appropriated a chair and seated himself in his usual noiseless way. When he rearranged the silver which the waiter placed before him, there was not the faintest click of the metal. And Terry noted, too, a certain nice justness in every one of Denver's motions.
Hay Denver's life had been a very broken one, and her record upon land represented a greater amount of endurance and self-sacrifice than his upon the sea. They had been together for four months after their marriage, and then had come a hiatus of four years, during which he was flitting about between St. Helena and the Oil Rivers in a gunboat.
She chattered on, trying subtly to ensnare him, but Denver's heart was now of adamant and he failed to respond to her approaches. It was not too late yet to heed the words of the prophecy, and he drilled on in thoughtful silence. "Don't you get lonely?" she burst out at last, "living all by yourself in that cave?
The sun was blazing hot, not a breath of wind was stirring and the sweat splashed the rocks as he toiled; but there was a song in Denver's heart that made his labors light and he hummed the "Barcarolle" as he worked. She was scornful of him now and thought only of her music; but the time would come when she would know him as her equal, for a miner can be an artist, too.
She was keeping that for him, until she had been to New York and run the gauntlet of the tenors. This was the high spot in Denver's life, when he had stood upon Parnassus and beheld everything that was good and beautiful; but in the morning he put on his old digging clothes again and went to work in the mine. He had seen her and it was enough; now to break out the ore and win her for his own.
He laid a hand on Denver's arm. "Send a stenographer, and put my statement in the paper." But Denver did not warm to the idea. "My dear fellow, you seem to forget that all the evidence was pretty thoroughly sifted at the time, every possible clue followed up. The public would have been ready enough then to believe that you murdered old Lenman you or anybody else.
Exact data on this matter are not available. I shall content myself with quoting a statement by Mrs. Ida Husted Harper : "That 'immoral' class," said Mrs. Harper, "is a bogey that has never materialised in States where women have the suffrage. Those women don't vote. Indeed, Denver's experience has been interesting in that respect.
"Y'u bet," agreed Missou. "We'll last about three minutes when the stampede begins." The scream of an engine pierced the night. Denver's face lit. "Make it five minutes, Missou, and Mac is safe. At least, I'm hoping so awful hard. Miss Helen wired for the militia from Sheridan this nothing. Chances are they're on that train. I couldn't tell you earlier because she made me promise not to.
Denver's heart leapt again as he raced his horse across the flats and led him scrambling with haste up the steep hills, and before the sun was three hours high he had plunged into the box canyon of Queen Creek.
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