The Cross-Cut | Page 3

It killed your mother--every day since her death I have been
haunted by that fact; my prayer is that it may not kill you, spiritually, if
not physically. Therefore is it not better that it remain behind a cloud
until such time as Fortune may reveal it--and hope that such a time will
never come? I think so--not for myself, for when you read this, I shall
be gone; but for you, that you may not be handicapped by the
knowledge of the thing which whitened my hair and aged me, long
before my time.
If he lives, and I am sure he does, there is one who will hurry to your
aid as soon as he knows you need him. Accept his counsels, laugh at
his little eccentricities if you will, but follow his judgment implicitly.
Above all, ask him no questions that he does not care to answer--there
are things that he may not deem wise to tell. It is only fair that he be
given the right to choose his disclosures.
There is little more to say. Beamish will attend to everything for you--if
you care to go. Sell everything that is here; the house, the furniture, the

belongings. It is my wish, and you will need the capital--if you go. The
ledgers in the safe are only old accounts which would be so much
Chinese to you now. Burn them. There is nothing else to be afraid of--I
hope you will never find anything to fear. And if circumstances should
arise to bring before you the story of that which has caused me so much
darkness, I have nothing to say in self-extenuation. I made one
mistake--that of fear--and in committing one error, I shouldered every
blame. It makes little difference now. I am dead--and free.
My love to you, my son. I hope that wealth and happiness await you.
Blood of my blood flows in your veins--and strange though it may
sound to you--it is the blood of an adventurer. I can almost see you
smile at that! An old man who sat by the window, staring out; afraid of
every knock at the door--and yet an adventurer! But they say, once in
the blood, it never dies. My wish is that you succeed where I
failed--and God be with you!
Your father.
For a long moment Robert Fairchild stood staring at the letter, his heart
pounding with excitement, his hands grasping the foolscap paper as
though with a desire to tear through the shield which the written words
had formed about a mysterious past and disclose that which was so
effectively hidden. So much had the letter told--and yet so little! Dark
had been the hints of some mysterious, intangible thing, great enough
in its horror and its far-reaching consequences to cause death for one
who had known of it and a living panic for him who had perpetrated it.
As for the man who stood now with the letter clenched before him,
there was promise of wealth, and the threat of sorrow, the hope of
happiness, yet the foreboding omen of discoveries which might ruin the
life of the reader as the existence of the writer had been blasted,--until
death had brought relief. Of all this had the letter told, but when Robert
Fairchild read it again in the hope of something tangible, something
that might give even a clue to the reason for it all, there was nothing. In
that super-calmness which accompanies great agitation, Fairchild
folded the paper, placed it in its envelope, then slipped it into an inside
pocket. A few steps and he was before the safe once more and reaching

for the second envelope.
Heavy and bulky was this, filled with tax receipts, with plats and
blueprints and the reports of surveyors. Here was an assay slip, bearing
figures and notations which Robert Fairchild could not understand.
Here a receipt for money received, here a vari-colored map with lines
and figures and conglomerate designs which Fairchild believed must
relate in some manner to the location of a mining camp; all were aged
and worn at the edges, giving evidence of having been carried, at some
far time of the past, in a wallet. More receipts, more blueprints, then a
legal document, sealed and stamped, and bearing the words:
County of Clear Creek, ) ss. State of Colorado. )
DEED PATENT.
KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS: That on this day of our
Lord, February 22, 1892, Thornton W. Fairchild, having presented the
necessary affidavits and statements of assessments accomplished in
accordance with--
On it trailed in endless legal phraseology, telling in muddled,
attorney-like language, the fact that the law had been fulfilled in its
requirements, and that the claim for which Thornton Fairchild had
worked was rightfully his, forever. A