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Updated: June 10, 2025
If you'd 'a' come by the road, you'd 'a' seen the sign." The partners looked at each other for an instant, and the younger man, ignoring the elder's apparent wrath, said: "Well, I suppose the best thing we can do is to leave the burros here and go and see Presby, and get this man of his called off." "You'll leave no burros here!" asserted the watchman, recovering his combativeness.
Certainly! Didn't you know that all this time?" "No!" he blurted. "There is a Dorothy Presby, and a " "Dorothy Presby!" She doubled over in a gust of mirth. "The daughter of the lumberman over on the other side. Oh, this is too good to keep! I must tell her the next time I see her. After all these months, you still thought "
Dick walked out, scarcely knowing whether to feel grateful for the churlish advice or to resume his wonted attitude of self-reliance and hold himself unprejudiced by Presby's condemnation of the Croix d'Or. He wondered if Bully Presby suspected him of having been friendly with the mob of drunken ruffians at the road house, but he had been given no chance to explain.
Also that there are some women and children over there who may have a hard time of it. Will you see to it that this goes to the right channels, and regard it as confidential? I don't want to appear to be a philanthropist on even a small scale. Presby." Pinned to the letter was a check. It was for ten thousand dollars. Bill lifted it in his fingers, scanned each word, then handed it to Mrs.
Once, as they passed the familiar scene of his tryst with Miss Presby, now ages past, Dick bit his lips, and suppressed a moan like that of a hurt animal. Bitterly he thought that now she was more unattainable, and his dreams more idle than ever they had been. And the first sight of the reservoir confirmed it. To a large extent, the reservoir of the Cross was artificial.
This Presby I'm talkin' about ain't no kin of his. He's too white. He owns all them sawmills on the other side of the Cross peak, about four miles from here. Got a railroad of his own. Worth about a billion, I reckon." Dick's momentary interest subsided, but he heard the old man babbling on: "I worked for him once, when Dorothy was a little bit of a kid. Him and me fought, but he's a white man.
He knows more than I do. And say," he added, taking a step toward Bully Presby, and suddenly appearing to concentrate himself with all his muscles flexed as if for action, "I've mined for thirty-five years. And I've met some miners. And I've never met one who had as little decency for the men on the next claim, or such bullying ways as you've got."
But knowing what I am, I should far rather be what I am, the owner of the High Light, a sordid den, than to be you, the owner of the Rattler, the man they call Bully Presby!" To their astonishment he leaned his head back and laughed, deeply, from his chest, as if her anger, her scorn, her bitter denunciation, had all served to amuse him. It was as if she had flattered him by her characterizations.
A man came to a window in a picketed wicket as he entered, and said briskly: "Well?" "I want to see Mr. Presby," Dick answered, wasting no more words than had the other. "Oh, well, if nobody else will do, go in through that door."
It was but yesterday that he had returned to the mine with finances assured, confidence restored, and the certainty that Joan Presby loved him, and could come to his side when his work was accomplished. He looked at his watch and the bar of sunlight. It was four o'clock, and the day was gone. Everything was real. Everything was horrible.
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