The Cross-Cut | Page 4

longer statement full of figures,
of diagrams and surveyor's calculations which Fairchild could neither
decipher nor understand, gave the location, the town site and the
property included within the granted rights. It was something for an
attorney, such as Beamish, to interpret, and Fairchild reached for the
age-yellowed envelope to return the papers to their resting place. But
he checked his motion involuntarily and for a moment held the
envelope before him, staring at it with wide eyes. Then, as though to
free by the stronger light of the window the haunting thing which faced
him, he rose and hurried across the room, to better light, only to find it
had not been imagination; the words still were before him, a sentence
written in faint, faded ink proclaiming the contents to be "Papers
relating to the Blue Poppy Mine", and written across this a word in the
bolder, harsher strokes of a man under stress of emotion, a word which

held the eyes of Robert Fairchild fixed and staring, a word which
spelled books of the past and evil threats of the future, the single,
ominous word:
"Accursed!"
CHAPTER II
One works quickly when prodded by the pique of curiosity. And in
spite of all that omens could foretell, in spite of the dull, gloomy life
which had done its best to fashion a matter-of-fact brain for Robert
Fairchild, one sentence in that letter had found an echo, had started a
pulsating something within him that he never before had known:
"--It is the blood of an adventurer."
And it seemed that Robert Fairchild needed no more than the
knowledge to feel the tingle of it; the old house suddenly became stuffy
and prison-like as he wandered through it. Within his pocket were two
envelopes filled with threats of the future, defying him to advance and
fight it out,--whatever it might be. Again and again pounded through
his head the fact that only a night of travel intervened between
Indianapolis and St. Louis; within twelve hours he could be in the
office of Henry Beamish. And then--
A hurried resolution. A hasty packing of a traveling bag and the
cashing of a check at the cigar store down on the corner. A wakeful
night while the train clattered along upon its journey. Then morning
and walking of streets until office hours. At last:
"I 'm Robert Fairchild," he said, as he faced a white-haired,
Cupid-faced man in the rather dingy offices of the Princess Building. A
slow smile spread over the pudgy features of the genial appearing
attorney, and he waved a fat hand toward the office's extra chair.
"Sit down, Son," came casually. "Need n't have announced yourself. I
'd have known you--just like your father, Boy. How is he?" Then his
face suddenly sobered. "I 'm afraid your presence is the answer. Am I

right?"
Fairchild nodded gravely. The old attorney slowly placed his fat hands
together, peaking the fingers, and stared out of the window to the grimy
roof and signboards of the next building.
"Perhaps it's better so," he said at last. "We had n't seen each other in
ten years--not since I went up to Indianapolis to have my last talk with
him. Did he get any cheerier before--he went?"
"No."
"Just the same, huh? Always waiting?"
"Afraid of every step on the veranda, of every knock at the door."
Again the attorney stared out of the window.
"And you?"
"I?" Fairchild leaned forward in his chair. "I don't understand."
"Are you afraid?"
"Of what?"
The lawyer smiled.
"I don't know. Only--" and he leaned forward--"it's just as though I
were living my younger days over this morning. It doesn't seem any
time at all since your father was sitting just about where you are now,
and gad, Boy, how much you look like he looked that morning! The
same gray-blue, earnest eyes, the same dark hair, the same strong
shoulders, and good, manly chin, the same build--and look of
determination about him. The call of adventure was in his blood, and he
sat there all enthusiastic, telling me what he intended doing and asking
my advice--although he would n't have followed it if I had given it.
Back home was a baby and the woman he loved, and out West was
sudden wealth, waiting for the right man to come along and find it.

Gad!" White-haired old Beamish chuckled with the memory of it. "He
almost made me throw over the law business that morning and go out
adventuring with him! Then four years later," the tone changed
suddenly, "he came back."
"What then?" Fairchild was on the edge of his chair. But Beamish only
spread his hands.
"Truthfully, Boy, I don't know. I have guessed--but I won't tell you
what. All I know is that your