“Not a chance,” replied Holley. “She hasn’t any use for marriage. ‘The last resort of feeble minds’ is what she calls it.”
“Is that so?”
“Never coop her up in a kitchenette, she told me, after the life of freedom she’s enjoyed.”
“Then why did she go and get engaged to this guy?”
“What guy?”
“Wilbur—or whatever his name is. The lad who gave her the ring.”
Holley laughed—then was silent for a minute. “I don’t suppose she’ll like it,” he said at last, “but I’m going to tell you, anyhow. It would be a pity if you didn’t find out. That emerald is an old one that belonged to her mother. She’s had it put in a more modern setting, and she wears it as a sort of protection.”
“Protection?”
“Yes. So every mush-head she meets won’t pester her to marry him.”
“Oh,” said Eden. A long silence. “Is that the way she characterizes me?” asked the boy finally.
“How?”
“As a mush-head.”
“Oh, no. She said you had the same ideas on marriage that she had. Refreshing to meet a sensible man like you, is the way she put it.” Another long silence. “What’s on your mind?” asked the editor.
“Plenty,” said Eden grimly. “I suppose, at my age, it’s still possible to make over a wasted life?”
“It ought to be,” Holley assured him.
“I’ve been acting like a fool. Going to give good old Dad the surprise of his life when I get home. Take over the business, like he’s wanted me to, and work hard. So far I haven’t known what I wanted. Been as weak and vacillating as a—a woman.”
“Some simile,” replied Holley. “I don’t know that I ever heard a worse one. Show me the woman who doesn’t know what she wants—and, knowing, fails to go after it.”
“Oh, well—you get what I mean. How much farther is it?”
“We’re getting there. Five miles more.”
“Gad—I hope nothing’s happened to her.”
They rattled on, closer and closer to the low hills, brick red under the rays of the slowly rising moon. The road entered a narrow canyon; it almost disappeared, but like a homing thing Horace Greeley followed it intuitively.
“Got a flashlight?” Eden inquired.
“Yes. Why?”
“Stop a minute, and let me have it. I’ve an idea.”
He descended with the light, and carefully examined the road ahead. “She’s been along here,” he announced. “That’s the tread of her tyres—I’d know it anywhere—I changed one of them for her. She’s—she’s up there somewhere too. The car has been this way but once.”
He leaped back beside Holley, and the car sped on, round hairpin turns, and along the edge of a precipice. Presently it turned a final corner, and before them, nestled in the hills, was the ghost city of Petticoat Mine.
Bob Eden caught his breath. Under the friendly moon lay the remnants of a town, here a chimney and there a wall, street after street of houses crumbled now to dust. Once the mine had boomed and the crowd had come, they had built their homes here where the shafts sank deep; silver had fallen in price, and the crowd had gone, leaving Petticoat Mine to the most deadly bombardment of all, the patient, silent bombardment of the empty years.
They rode down Main Street, weaving in and out among black, gaping holes that might have been made by bursting shells. Between the cracks of the pavements, thronged once on a Saturday night, grew patches of pale green basket-grass. Of the “business blocks” but two remained, and one of these was listing with the wind.
“Cheery sight,” remarked Eden.
“The building that’s on the verge of toppling is the old Silver Star Saloon,” said Holley. “The other one—it never will topple. They built it of stone—built it to stand—and they needed it too, I guess. That’s the old jail.”
“The jail,” Eden repeated.
Holley’s voice grew cautious. “Is that a light in the Silver Star?”
“Seems to be,” Eden answered. “Look here—we’re at rather a disadvantage—unarmed, you know. I’ll just stow away in the tonneau, and appear when needed. The element of surprise may make up for our lack of a weapon.”
“Good idea,” agreed Holley, and Eden climbed into the rear of the car and hid himself. They stopped before the Silver Star. A tall man appeared suddenly in the doorway, and walked briskly up to the car.
“Well, what do you want?” he asked, and Bob Eden thrilled to hear again the thin, high voice of Shaky Phil Maydorf.
“Hello, stranger,” said Holley. “This is a surprise. I thought old Petticoat was deserted.”
“Company’s thinking of opening up the mine soon,” returned Maydorf. “I’m here to do a little assaying.”
“Find anything?” inquired Holley casually.
“The silver’s pretty well worked out. But there’s copper in those hills to the left. You’re a long way off the main road.”
“I know that. I’m looking for a young woman who came up here this morning. Maybe you saw her.”
“There hasn’t been anyone here for a week, except me.”
“Really? Well, you may be mistaken. If you don’t mind, I’ll have a look round—”
“And if I do mind?” snarled Shaky Phil.
“Why should you—”
“I do. I’m alone here, and I’m not taking any chances. You swing that car of yours around—”
“Now, wait a minute,” said Holley. “Put away that gun. I come as a friend—”
“Yeah. Well, as a friend you turn and beat it. Understand.” He was close to the car. “I tell you there’s nobody here—”
He stopped as a figure rose suddenly from the tonneau and fell upon him. The gun exploded, but harmlessly into the road, for Bob Eden was bearing down upon it hard.
For a brief moment, there on that deserted street before the Silver Star, the two struggled desperately. Shaky Phil was no longer young, but he offered a spirited resistance. However, it was not prolonged, and by the time Holley had alighted Bob Eden was on top and held Maydorf’s weapon in his hand.
“Get up,” the boy directed. “And lead the way. Give me your keys. There’s a brand-new lock on that jail door, and we have
