The Claim Jumpers: A Romance | Page 7

curly-haired
young man named Fay. Fay had clear blue eyes, which seemed always
to mock you. He could think up more diabolical schemes in ten minutes
than the rest of the men in as many hours. Bennington came shortly to
hate this man Fay. His attentions had so much of the gratuitous! For a
number of days, even after the enjoyment of novelty had worn off, the

Easterner returned bravely to Spanish Gulch every afternoon for the
mail. It was a matter of pride with him. He did not like to be bluffed out.
But Fay was always there.
"Tender _foot!_" the latter would shriek joyously, and bear down on
the shrinking de Laney.
That would bring out the loafers. It all had to happen over again.
Bennington hoped that this performance would cease in time. It never
did.
By a mental process, unnecessary to trace here, he modified his first
views, and permitted Old Mizzou to get the mail. Spanish Gulch saw
him no more.
After all, it was quite as good Western experience to wander in the hills.
He did not regret the other. In fact, as he cast in review his research in
Wild West literature, he perceived that the incidents of his town visits
were the proper thing. He would not have had them different--to look
back on. They were inspiring--to write home about. He recognised all
the types--the miner, the gambler, the saloon-keeper, the bad man, the
cowboy, the prospector--just as though they had stepped living from
the pages of his classics. They had the true slouch; they used the
picturesque language. The log cabins squared with his ideas. The
broncos even exceeded them.
But now he had seen it all. There is no sense in draining an agreeable
cup to satiety. He was quite content to enjoy his rambles in the hills,
like the healthy youngster he was. But had he seen it all? On reflection,
he acknowledged he could not make this statement to himself with a
full consciousness of sincerity. One thing was lacking from the
preconceived picture his imagination had drawn. There had been no
Mountain Flowers. By that he meant girls.
Every one knows what a Western girl is. She is a beautiful creature,
always, with clear, tanned skin, bright eyes, and curly hair. She wears a
Tam o' Shanter. She rides a horse. Also, she talks deliciously, in a

silver voice, about "old pards." Altogether a charming vision--in books.
This vision Bennington had not yet realized. The rest of the West came
up to specifications, but this one essential failed. In Spanish Gulch he
had, to be sure, encountered a number of girls. But they were
red-handed, big-boned, freckled-faced, rough-skinned, and there wasn't
a Tam o' Shanter in the lot. Plainly servants, Bennington thought. The
Mountain Flower must have gone on a visit. Come to think of it, there
never was more than one Mountain Flower to a town.
CHAPTER III
BENNINGTON HUNTS FOR GOLD AND FINDS A KISS
One day Old Mizzou brought him a blue-print map.
"This y'ar map," said he, spreading it out under his stubby fingers,
"shows the deestrict. I gets it of Fay, so you gains an idee of th' lay of
the land a whole lot. Them claims marked with a crost belongs to th'
Company. You kin take her and explore."
This struck Bennington as an excellent idea. He sat down at the table
and counted the crosses. There were fourteen of them. The different
lodes were laid off in mathematically exact rectangles, running in many
directions. A few joined one another, but most lay isolated. Their
relative positions were a trifle confusing at first, but, after a little
earnest study, Bennington thought he understood them. He could start
with the Holy Smoke, just outside the door. The John Logan lay
beyond, at an obtuse angle. Then a jump of a hundred yards or so to the
southwest would bring him to the Crazy Horse. This he resolved to
locate, for it was said to be on the same "lode" as a big strike some one
had recently made. He picked up his rifle and set out.
Now, a blue-print map maker has undoubtedly accurate ideas as to
points of the compass, and faultless proficiency in depicting bird's-eye
views, but he neglects entirely the putting in of various ups and down,
slants and windings of the country, which apparently twist the north
pole around to the east-south-east. You start due west on a bee line,

according to directions; after about ten feet you scramble over a fallen
tree, skirt a boulder, dip into a ravine, and climb a ledge. Your starting
point is out of sight behind you; your destination is, Heaven knows
where, in front. By the time you have walked six thousand actual