Phoenix tribune., 1922-08-26

and without divulging his where
abouts. l did it. Eight years or so
later saw him in Indianapolis. He
gave me more money-enough for
eleven or twelve years"
"And that was ten years ago7" Rob-
ert Fairchild's eyes were reminiscent
II remember-I was only a kid. He
sold off everything he had. except the
house."
Henry Beamish walked to his safe
and fumbled there a moment, to re-
turn at last with few slips of paper
Here's the answer" he said qui-
etly. "the taxes are paid until 1922"
Robert Fairchild studied the re-
ceipts carefully-futilely. They told
him nothing The lawyer stood look
Ing down upon him; at last he laid a
hand on his shoulder.
Boy" came quickly, 81 know just
about what you're thinking. I've spent
a few hours at the same kind of a job
myself. and I've called old Henry
Beamish more kinds of a fool than
you can think of for not coming right
out fiat-footed and making Thornton
tell me the whole story But some way
when I'd look into those eyes with the
fire all dead and ashen within them,
and see the lines of an old man in his
young face, / just couldn't do It'll"
$50 you can tell me nothing?"
I'm afraid that's true-in one way.
In another I'm fund of information.
Tonight you and l will go to Indian
apolis and probate the Willis simple
enough; I've had it in my safe for ten
years. After that, you become the
owner of the Blue Poppy mine, to do
with as you choose"
But"
Don't ask my advice, Boy.
haven't any. Your father told me
what to do If you decided to try your
luck-and silver's at $129 1t means
a lot of money for anybody who can
produce pay ore-unless what he said
about the mine pinchlng out was
true"
Again the thrill of new thing
went through Robert Fairchilds veins
something he never had felt until
twelve hours before; again the urge
for strange places, new scenes, the
fire of the hunt after the hidden
wealth of sIlver-seamed hills. Robert
Fairchild's life had been a plodding
thing of books and accounts, of high
desks which as yet had failed to stoop
his shoulders, of stuffy offices which
had been thwarted so far in their grip
at his lung power; the long walk in
the morning and the tired trudge
hOmeward at night. But the recoil
had not exerted itself against an office
cramped brain, dusty ledger-filled
life that suddenly felt itself crying
out for the free, open country, without
hardly knowing what the term meant
Old Beamish caught the light in the
eyes, the quick contraction of the
hands, and smiled.
"You don't need to tell me, Son."
he said slowly. II can see the symp-
toms. You've got the fever-you're
going back to work that mine. Per
haps," and he shrugged his shoulders,
'it's just as well But there are GER
tain things to remember"
Name them"
"Ohadi is thirty-eight miles from
Denver. That's your goal. Out there,
they'll tell you how the mine caved in,
and how Thornton Fairchild, who had
worked it, together with his two men,
Harry Harkins, a -Cornishman, and
'Sissle' Larsen, Swede, left town late
one night for Cripple Creek-and that
they never came back That's the
story they'll tell you. Agree with it.
Tell them that Harkins. as far as you
know, went back to Cornwall, and
that you have heard vaguely that Lar
sen later followed the mining game
farther out west"
SIS it the TRUTH"
''How do know? It's good enough
people shouldn't ask questions. Tell
nothing more than that-and be care
full of your friends. There is one
man to watch-if he is still alive.
They call him 'Sduint' Rodaine. and
.1fftllha