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Mine with the Iron Door

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<h2>CHAPTER II AT THE ORACLE STORE</h2> <div class="blockquot">“My Gawd! Hit’s enough t’ drive a decent man plumb loony, a-tryin’ t’ figger hit out.” </div> “YES, sir,” said the Lizard, “I’m a-tellin’ ye that them thar Pardners an’ their gal—Marta her name is—are th’ beatenest outfit ye er ary other man ever seed. Ain’t nobody kin figger ’em out, nohow. They’ve been here nigh about five year, too. Me an’ paw an’ maw, we been here eight year ourselves—comin’ this fall. Yes, sir, they’re sure a queer actin’ lot.” The Lizard had so evidently made his introductory remarks for my benefit that some sort of acknowledgment was unquestionably due. “What are they, miners?” “Uh-huh, they’re a-workin’ a claim—makin’ enough t’ live on, I reckon—leastways they’re a-livin’. But that ain’t hit—hit’s that thar gal of theirn.” He shook his head and heaved a troubled sigh. “Law, law!” And no one could have failed to mark the eager viciousness of the Lizard’s expression as the loose-mouthed creature ruminated on the delectable gossip he was about to offer. “Ye see hit’s like this: Them two old-timers had{8} this here gal with ’em when they first come into th’ cañon down yonder. She was a kid—’long ’bout fourteen, then. An’ there ain’t nobody kin tell fer sure who she is, ner whar she come from. They say as how old Bob an’ Thad found her when they was a-prospectin’ onct down on th’ border somewhares—tuck her away from some Mexican outfit er other. Mebby hit’s so an’ mebby hit ain’t. But everybody ’lows as how she ain’t come from no good sort nohow, ’cause if she had why wouldn’t the Pardners tell hit? An’ take an’ look at this dad-beatin’ father arrangement—take their names fer instance: one is Bob Hill, t’other is Thad Grove, an’ what’s the gal’s name but Marta Hillgrove—Hill-Grove—d’ye ketch hit? An’ one week old Bob he’ll be her pappy, an’ th’ next week old Thad he’s her paw, an’ the gal she jist naterally ’lows they both her daddies. My Gawd! Hit’s enough t’ drive a decent man plumb loony a-tryin’ t’ figger hit out.” The Lizard’s friends laughed. “Oh, ye kin laugh, but I’m a-tellin’ ye thar’s somethin’ wrong somewhars an’ I ain’t th’ only one what says so neither. Won’t nobody over here in Oracle have nothin’ t’ do with her. Will they?” He turned to the loungers for confirmation. “She’s a plumb beauty, too, an’ a mighty cute little piece—reg’lar spitfire, if ye git her started—an’ smart—say, she bosses them pore old Pardners till they’re scared mighty nigh t’ death of her—an’ proud—huh—she’s too all-fired proud to suit some of us.{9}” The crowd grinned. “The Lizard, he sure ought to know,” said one. “How about it, Lizard?” came from another. “You been a-tryin’ t’ make up t’ her ever since she moved into your neighborhood, ain’t you?” “Ye all don’t need to mind about me,” retorted the Lizard, with a vicious leer. “My day’ll happen along yet. Ye notice I ain’t drawed what Chuck Billings got.” “Chuck Billings,” he continued for the benefit of any one who might not be well versed in Cañada del Oro history, “he was one of George Wheeler’s punchers, an’ he tuck up with her one evenin’ when she was a-comin’ home from Saint Jimmy’s, an’ I’ll be dad-burned if her old prospectin’ daddies didn’t work on Chuck ’til George jist naterally had t’ send him int’ th’ hospital at Tucson. Chuck he ain’t never showed up in this neighborhood since neither. I heard as how George told him if he did get well an’ dast t’ come back he’d take a try at him hisself.” “Good for George!” “Heh? What’s that?” “Does George Wheeler live in the Cañada del Oro, too?” “Naw, Wheeler he’s got a big cow ranch jist back here from Oracle a piece. George he rides all th’ cañon country though—him an’ his punchers. An’ us folks down in th’ cañon we go through his hoss pasture when we come up here t’ Oracle fer anythin’. George an’ his wife they’re ’bout th’ only{10} folks what’ll have any truck with that pardnership gal. But shucks, George an’ his wife they’d be good t’ anybody. Take Saint Jimmy an’ his maw now, they have her ’round of course.” “Saint Jimmy is your minister, I suppose?” “He’s what?” “A minister—clergyman, you know—a preacher.” “Oh, ye mean a parson—Shucks! Naw, Saint Jimmy he’s jist one of these here fellers what’s everybody’s friend. He lives with his maw up on th’ mountain ’bove Juniper Spring, ’bout three mile from Wheeler’s ranch, jist off th’ cañon trail after ye come up into th’ hills. A little white house hit is. You kin see hit easy from most anywheres. His real name’s Burton. He’s a doctor, er was ’fore he got t’ be a lunger. He was a-livin’ back East when he tuk sick. Then him an’ his maw they come t’ this country. He’s well enough here, ’pears like; but they do say he dassn’t never leave Arizona an’ go back t’ his doctorin’ agin like he was. He’s a funny cuss—plays th’ flute t’ beat anythin’. You kin hear him ’most any time of a pretty evenin’. He’ll roost up on some rock on th’ side of th’ mountain somewhares an’ toot away ’til plumb midnight; but he won’t never play when ye ask him, ner fer any of th’ dances we have over here in Oracle neither. I heard George Wheeler say onct as how Saint Jimmy war right smart of a doctor back t’ his home whar he come from. You see, Saint Jimmy he’s been a-teachin’ this here gal of th’ Pardners book larnin’.{11}” The Lizard opened his wide mouth in a laugh which showed every yellow tooth in his head. “I’ll say he’s a-teachin’ her. I’ve seed ’em together up on th’ mountains an’ in th’ cañon more’n onct—book larnin’—huh! Ye don’t need t’ take my word fer hit neither—ye kin ask anybody ’bout what decent folks thinks of Marta Hillgrove. She——“ How much more the Lizard would have said on his favorite topic will never be known for at that moment a man appeared in the open doorway of the store. Not one of the group of loungers spoke, but every eye was turned on the man who stood looking them over with such cool contempt. He was dressed in the ordinary garb of civilization, but his dark, impassive countenance, with the raven-black hair and eyes, was not to be mistaken. The man was an Indian. Presently, without a word, the red man stepped past the loungers and walked away up the road. Silently they watched until the Indian was out of sight. The Lizard drew a long breath. “That thar’s Natachee. He’s Injun. Lives all alone somewheres in th’ mountains, away up at th’ head of th’ Cañada del Oro. He’s one of them thar school Injuns. Talks like a reglar book when he wants t’, but mostly he won’t say nothin’ t’ nobody. Wears white clothes all right, like ye see, when he has t’ come t’ town fer anythin’; but out in th’ mountains he goes ’round jist like all th’ Injuns used to. Which goes t’ show, I claim, that{12} an Injun’s an Injun no matter how much ye try t’ larn him.” “That’s right,” agreed one of the listeners. “He’s a real sociable cuss, ain’t he?” commented another with a grin. “Him an’ Saint Jimmy’s friendly enough,” said the Lizard, “an’ I know th’ old Pardners claim he ain’t no harm. But I ain’t havin’ no truck with him myself. This here’s a white man’s country, I say.” A chorus of “You bet!” “That’s what!” and “You’re a-shoutin’!” approved the Lizard’s sentiments. Then another voice said: “Do you reckon this here Natachee really knows anything about that old lost mine in the cañon, like some folks seem to think?” The Lizard wagged his head in solemn and portentous silence, signifying that, however ready he might be to talk about the Pardners’ girl, the Mine with the Iron Door was not a subject to be lightly discussed in the presence of a stranger.{13} <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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