Part 2

“See here!” he broke out suddenly.

“When I slipped you a tip to take a flier in Apex Crown I didn’t mean for you to jump into the market with both feet! Confound you, Bowen, what’s back of this? Why are you buying stock all over California?”

Bowen’s eyes twinkled as he surveyed his visitor.

“Guess you’re on the wrong track, Dickover,” he drawled. “When you told me about Apex Crown, I figured you were handing me a bum steer. I haven’t bought a share of the stuff. Straight!”

“What? You mean it?” Dickover said.

Bowen laughed easily. “I’ll prove it. I haven’t ten dollars to my name, and if the hotel wanted me to pay my bill I’d have to work it out in jail. I’d look fine going around buying stock, I would!”

There was no doubting his words. Dickover mopped his round face.

“Damn it!” he said. “Who’s doing it?”

“How much is it worth to you to know? I can tell you before ten o’clock.”

“You can? What d’ you know about it?”

“A friend of mine holds a block of ten thousand shares. Was offered twenty cents for it yesterday. Asked my advice, then transferred the stock to me to be held or sold on my judgment.”

“Ten thousand shares, eh?” Dickover’s eyes narrowed. “Give you thirty.”

“I’m not selling. Do you want to know who’s buying, or don’t you? How much for my information? I’ll find out who wants this block—if you offer enough. I owe a bill here.”

Dickover grunted. Then he emitted a falsetto chuckle.

“Five hundred. Waiting for you at ten o’clock.”

“And your interest in the property?”

Dickover grunted, turned, and left the room.

Bob Bowen hastened down to breakfast. He had learned that the magnate was keenly interested in Apex Crown—wanted to buy it himself. Why? The only plausible explanation was that Apex Crown had broken into a rich lode, and from his knowledge of the place Bowen thought this unlikely.

At eight forty-five Bowen was striding toward the Crothers Building. He had plenty to puzzle him, but refused to let himself be puzzled. He needed that five hundred dollars and needed it very much.

He went straight to Miss Ferguson’s office, and found her just arrived. She greeted him with patent surprise, but with a smile that left no doubt of his welcome.

“Has that broker been here yet?” demanded Bowen bluntly.

“That broker? Oh, no! He didn’t say what time he’d be here for his answer.”

“He didn’t need to. I figure that nine o’clock will fetch him, and if you don’t mind, I want to sit around on the chance.”

The girl looked away from him a moment, looked at the window, frowningly.

“Of course I don’t mind,” she said at last. “Only—I don’t want you to lose your temper with him—”

Bowen laughed frankly, a boyish laugh that was good to hear on his lips.

“I never had any temper,” he said. “I’m the mildest little fellow you ever did see, Miss Ferguson! Honest. I’m a business man. Now, suppose you sit down and let me dictate a letter to Judge Lyman. I don’t mean to send it, but I mean your broker friend to hear me dictating. When he comes in, nod and smile and tell him to wait.”

The girl sat down before her machine and slipped a sheet of paper into the roll.

“All ready?” asked Bowen. “Then shoot!”

“My dear Judge:

“I’m here in the big town and having the time of my life. Them are the exact words. I yesterday met your erstwhile stenographer, Miss Ferguson, who has an office of her own and deserves it. I don’t know of any one I’d sooner have met—”

Bowen paused, meeting the girl’s eyes on his. “That’s all right,” he said hurriedly. “I’m writing the judge. Confidential letter. Go ahead!”

Smiling a little, the girl leaned forward. At that instant, however, the office door opened and a man appeared framed in the opening. Bowen gave him a casual glance. Miss Ferguson looked up and smiled—a bit frostily.

“I’ll be through this letter in a moment,” she said, “and shall be at liberty then. Just take a chair, please. Yes, Mr. Bowen?”

“Paragraph,” said Bowen, now staring past her at the window. He was conscious that the stranger had taken a chair. “You got that property location all straight now?”

Miss Ferguson glanced up quickly, caught Bowen’s vacant expression, and smothered the surprise in her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “All ready.”

Bowen proceeded with his dictation, apparently ignoring the listener.

“For these two holdings of mine—the Sunburst and the Golden Lode—I want more money than has been offered me as yet. They are, of course, low-grade ore, and if I can get rid of them at a reasonable figure, I shall do so at once.

“However, I have an appointment with Mr. Dickover at ten o’clock, and have good reason to believe—”

There came a sudden interruption—from the stranger.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, stepping forward. “Of course I couldn’t help overhearing your dictation, sir. May I ask if you are Mr. Robert Bowen of Tonopah?”

Bowen gave him a slow stare. “I am.”

“By George! It’s lucky I met you, then. I arrived from Tonopah myself a couple of days ago, and have been trying to connect with you. My name’s Henderson. While at Tonopah I looked over your holdings, among others; and if you’d consider an offer on them—”

Bowen drew a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end, and lighted it. He surveyed Henderson with indecision.

“I don’t know you, Mr. Henderson,” he observed coolly. “I don’t want to sell those two properties, but I happen to need cash—in a hurry. My samples and assayers’ reports are at the hotel—”

“I remember the properties very well,” broke in Henderson. “I know you by reputation, and I know your ground by personal examination. Frankly, Mr. Bowen, I’m bucking the Dickover interests in a certain direction. If you’ll give me an option—”

“Nothing doing!” snapped Bowen with finality. “Dickover is talking cold cash. Of course my ore is nothing wonderful—”

Henderson produced a check-book. “I’ll give you a check for five thousand to cover both claims,” he said quickly. “Not a cent more. Yes or no?”

“Now, I like your way of doing business!” said Bowen cordially. “That’s what I call a man’s way. Five thousand wins. Got any legal forms around, Miss Ferguson? Are you a notary?”

“I have and I am,” said the girl quietly.

Twenty minutes later, with a witness called in from next door, Henderson was the owner of the Sunburst and Golden Lode claims. Bowen picked up the check for five thousand and handed it to Miss Ferguson.

“I don’t know you, Henderson,” he said quietly, “and I need cash badly. Further, I have an engagement in half an hour with Dickover and this must be settled one way or the other. So, Miss Ferguson, kindly step around the corner to the bank and cash this check for me. Good thing you deal with a local bank, Henderson.”

“I’ll go right with the young lady,” spoke up Henderson. “I can facilitate the cashing of the check, perhaps.”

“No,” said Bowen, his gray eyes suddenly icy. “No. You stay here, Henderson. I want to have a little private conversation with you.”

Henderson looked at him hard. Bowen’s tone had not been nice; but then, Bowen seemed to be on the inside, and private conversation was an alluring bait.

“Well—” he hesitated.

“You’d better stay,” said Bowen calmly. Then he rose and stepped outside the door as Miss Ferguson left. He closed the door again and spoke to the girl in a low voice.

“Cash that check, then run up to the Palace and wait for me, will you? Please!”

The girl nodded. Her eyes sought his with a mischievous gleam. “You won’t hurt him?”

“Hurt him? Great Jehu! I should say not! Why, he’s Dickover’s confidential agent!”

IV—BOWEN HOLDS THE ACE.

Bob Bowen reentered the office, closed the door, set his chair against it, and sat down. Then he regarded the surprised and frowning “broker.”

Mr. Henderson was a man to be seen once and remembered. He had a large nose, thin slits of black hawk-eyes, shaggy black brows, and a thin red line of mouth under a closed-clipped mustache. An able man, a forceful man, an unscrupulous man, this confidential agent of the magnate Dickover! Bowen, however, did not appear to be much impressed.

“You wonder why I’m sitting against the door, Mr. Henderson?” he drawled, chewing at his cigar. “For the obvious reason. To keep you from getting out.”

Henderson stiffened. He was startled and taken aback. But Bowen continued his drawl without observing the agitation of the impeccably dressed agent.

“There’s silver,” he ruminated, “and silver. Bar-silver used to be forty-seven; now it’s over ninety and still climbing. A low-grade ore that cost eight dollars a ton to produce a few months ago and gave back eight dollars, was no good. Now, however, it gives back eight dollars’ profit and is a paying proposition. Those claims I sold you are that kind.

“Some day, and I guess it isn’t very far off, folks are going to discover a chemical process that will take a zinc-silver ore and separate the zinc and the silver. An ore of that kind to-day, isn’t worth a tinker’s dam. If that chemical process is discovered, it will be worth millions. And tucked up in my sleeve I’ve got a property just like that.”

Henderson rose impressively.

“See here, Bowen,” he observed, “I don’t see what you’re driving at, but if you mean that I can’t leave this room—”

“You can leave it pretty quick,” drawled Bowen. “But remember one thing! I’d like nothing better than to mix it with you! I’m just itching to hold you in a corner and pound off that big nose of yours; so don’t start anything unless you want me to finish it.”

“What do you mean talking to me like that?” snarled Henderson angrily. “A moment ago you sold me two claims, and now—”

“And now, having concluded business before pleasure, I’m talking. Miss Ferguson has transferred her block of Apex Crown to me.”

Henderson’s eyes narrowed. He started to speak, and bit back the words.

“That’s right, don’t get hasty,” and Bowen grinned exasperatingly. “Took you by surprise, did it? Thought I didn’t know you, eh? Well, I had sort of figured out that you might be you, and when you stepped in the door I knew it _was_ you. Picking up low-grade silver properties, are you? I don’t suppose that by any stretch of friendship you’d tell me why you’re picking them up?”

Henderson’s face went livid with anger.

“So you cut in ahead of me!” he rasped. “You got that little fool of a girl to hand over the stock—”

“Just one minute, Henderson!” Bowen lifted his hand. “I’ve got a terrible temper. It doesn’t work very hard, not every day; but to hear names and epithets applied to honest women is something that sets it on a hair-trigger. Now, if I were you, Henderson, I’d just speak names and leave out the adjectives. Do you get me? Get me right off the jump?”

Henderson swallowed hard. It was plain to see that he was seething internally. But he knew men; that was his business. He looked into Bowen’s gray eyes, and controlled himself.

“What do you want?” he said slowly, his voice low and tense. “What are you driving at? Trying to force a bigger price for that stock out of me?”

“Nope,” returned Bowen cheerfully. “But it isn’t nice for a big man like you to come in here and try to threaten and browbeat a girl into giving away all she’s got in the world. It’s going to get you badly beaten up one of these days. However, now that you’re dealing with me you might prove reasonable. How much will you give for that Apex Crown?”

“Thirty,” growled Henderson.

“Buyin’ for Dickover or yourself?” asked Bowen softly.

The agent uttered a lurid curse. Bowen rose and kicked away his chair, and opened the door.

“I thought so,” he remarked cheerfully. “Well, I guess that check’s cashed, so I’ll mosey along. You needn’t wait here for Miss Ferguson; she won’t be back for quite a spell. And don’t come down in my elevator; wait till I’m out of the way. And say—when you do come, shut the door after you, will you? So-long.”

Bowen closed the door softly and strode off to the elevator. On the way down, he glanced at his watch. It was nine fifty.

“Lots of time,” he thought. “I’ll see Dickover, then meet the little lady.”

At two minutes before the hour he inquired at the desk for Dickover, and was sent up to the latter’s suite. He found Dickover declaiming to a private secretary, who admitted him and then retired discreetly. Bob Bowen dropped into a chair beside Dickover’s table and accepted the cigar shoved at him.

“I like your cigars,” he observed pleasantly. “The flavor is a little strong for my taste, but it’s real tobacco. And then the label is pretty. Don’t know when I’ve ever seen a prettier one—”

“Confound you!” snapped the fat man. “What d’ you know?”

“Well, I’m thirty years old, pretty near, and you’d be surprised to find how much I’ve learned in the last decade of that time! Experience is—”

“Damn your experience!” exploded Dickover. “Do you know who’s buying Apex Crown?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

For answer, Dickover seized a check from the table and held it out. It was for five hundred dollars.

“Thanks.” Bowen stuffed it carelessly into his pocket. “Since seeing you this morning I’ve become fairly rich, and this will add a trifle to the pile. Your agent, Henderson, is the man after Apex Crown. Just offered thirty for the stock I hold.”

The fat features of Dickover purpled with anger. But he suppressed his emotion, drew another cigar from his pocket, and lighted it.

“I rather suspected it, Bowen,” he squeaked more calmly. “Of course you didn’t sell him the stock?”

“No. I’ll sell it to you if you want it.”

“Huh! How much you want?”

“Five dollars a share.”

Dickover abandoned the subject, after an apoplectic choke.

“Tell you what, Bowen; that tip of yours sent me up to Tonopah in a hurry. I looked up Henderson and fired him—fired him good and hard. The confounded crook! Now I need another man to take his place. A man I can trust, and a man who can be trusted. Ten thousand a year if the man makes good.”

“Too bad you didn’t look around at Tonopah,” said Bowen innocently. “I know heaps of good men up that way. You should have gone to Judge Lyman or Tom Jerkens or some of those men and had ’em pick you out a nice responsible party for that job. They know everybody up there. Where do you get these cigars? Think I’ll buy me a box.”

Dickover smoked for a moment in silence. Then he laughed.

“I did snoop around up there, Bowen,” he remarked at last. “What kind of a cuss are you? This morning you couldn’t pay your hotel bill; and now you turn down a ten-thousand-dollar job!”

Bob Bowen sighed.

“Well, I do say that it’s tempting. It’s just that, Dickover. But now I’ve got responsibilities, such as that Apex Crown stock.”

“Huh! Well, you know those mines you told me about—the Sunburst and the Golden Lode? I looked ’em up in Tonopah. How much you want for ’em both?”

Bowen looked up, genuinely startled. “You want to _buy_?”

“Uhuh. If the price is right.”

Bowen grinned. “Say, this is pretty rich! Listen here. An hour ago I was talking with Henderson, and talking soft. Somehow he got the notion that you were waiting here to buy those two claims off me. Savvy? He jumps into the breach with five thousand, which is now mine. The claims are his—”

Dickover purpled with indignation.

“You sold out to him; that dirty yellow dog? What the jumping devils do you mean by it? Why didn’t you sell to me—”

“Now, you just pour some ice-water over your scalp and cool off.” Bowen’s long, lean forefinger shot out at him. “How the jumping devils did I know you wanted to buy those claims? How did I know you wanted _any_ low-grade stuff? In yesterday’s paper you said you did _not_ want it—you’ve never touched it before—”

Dickover waved his hand in helpless resignation.

“Oh, shut up, Bowen! Let me think, will you?”

For a space the two men smoked in silence. Dickover’s fat features were tensed in frowning thought. To Bowen but one thing was patent: the magnate was now after low-grade silver ores. If he had not sold those two claims to Henderson in such a hurry! He had certainly been hoist with his own petard that time!

The thought made him chuckle. At the sound, Dickover began to speak slowly.

“Bowen, you say you want five dollars for that Apex Crown? Now, I’ll speak frankly. Apex Crown will be worth five dollars—but not for a few years. For the past week my men have been secretly buying it in at two cents; and now I want that block of yours. That or nothing! I’ll offer you par, one dollar, for that stock. If you refuse, I’ll wash my hands of the whole mess and throw what I’ve bought on the market at the present price. Speak quick! If I take the mine, it goes up in value. If I don’t take it, it’s dead.”

Bowen stared at his cigar.

He did not doubt that Dickover was in earnest. And suddenly a light broke upon him. It was vague and foggy, but it was light.

“See here!” He leaned forward earnestly. “I’ll put this Apex Crown offer up to my friend—she’s a lady. I’ll go to my own room and call her up. In the mean time, you get Tonopah over long-distance. Anybody there you’d trust down to the ground?”

Dickover, eying him, nodded. “Judge Lyman is my local attorney there and is one of the best men I know in the world.”

“That goes for me. Well, you want low-grade ores of big body and zinc-silver mixture; same as the Apex Crown and Sunburst and Golden Lode, eh? All right. Now, I’ve had an ace up my sleeve for some years. I’ve called it the Big Bony, and it’s located down Rhyolite way. The ore runs zinc-silver strong, just like these others; only Big Bony has it in large quantities.

“Until about ten minutes ago, Dickover, that group of claims was not worth a cuss. To you, if my guess is right, it’s now worth all the money I need in my business—say thirty thousand dollars. Judge Lyman knows all about it; has had assayers report on it, has visited the place himself with me, and owns a bunch of claims the other side of it. You call up Lyman before I come back.”

“Yes?” prompted Dickover as Bowen paused. The magnate was keen-eyed, attentive.

“That ore, I believe, is what you want. It’s really worth a big bunch more than thirty thousand; but I’m needing thirty thousand bad, right now! Will you buy it at that?”

Dickover reached for the desk telephone. “I’ll talk to Lyman. His word is good for all the money I own.”

“Good! I’ll be back pretty soon.”

Bob Bowen sought his own room and requested the office to page Miss Ferguson, who was somewhere about the parlors.

While waiting, he strode up and down savagely. Ten thousand dollars meant a fortune to this girl! If the offer was rejected, Dickover would carry out his word and flood the market with Apex Crown. Sooner than make Henderson rich, he would smash Apex Crown and Henderson together.

The telephone jingled. Bowen caught up the receiver and heard Miss Ferguson’s voice.

“This is Bob Bowen speaking, Miss Ferguson. I’ll be down in a few minutes. Dickover has made me an offer of ten thousand for your stock, and I want your advice.”

He heard the girl’s voice catch. “Ten—ten thousand!”

“Yep. What I want to know is this: Do you want me to play safe on this stock or do you want me to handle it as I would my own? I warn you, there’s a vast difference between the two! I can’t warn you too seriously.”

She did not reply at once. Bowen waited until waiting grew intolerable.

“Hello! Are you there, Miss Ferguson?”

“Yes. I—I was thinking. Please, Mr. Bowen, handle that stock entirely as if it were your own. I’ll take the chance!”

“Good! Thank Heaven for your courage! I’ll be down presently.”

He had quite forgotten the five thousand which she bore for him.

Bowen returned to Dickover’s rooms in no great haste; talking with Tonopah would take time as well as money. But when he entered, he found Dickover giving his private secretary some instructions. “And rush the papers here!” concluded the magnate. “With witnesses.”

“Well?” Bowen dropped into a chair, as if casually. “Did you get Lyman yet?”

“The boy’s making out the papers now. I’ll buy. What did your lady friend say?”

Bowen felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. The game was won—almost!

“One thing at a time,” he said, laughing. “Let’s clean the Big Bony off the slate, then clean off the Apex Crown.”

“Uhuh. One thing I meant to tell you, Bowen. Keep your eye peeled for Henderson! That fellow is bad medicine when he’s crossed, and I judge by your manner that you have crossed him some this morning.”

“I did, I hope,” Bowen chuckled. The magnate grunted non-committally.

In ten minutes the ownership of the Big Bony group of claims was transferred from Bob Bowen to Dickover. The secretary and witnesses departed. Bowen pocketed the magnate’s check for thirty thousand dollars.

“You lost another thirty on that deal,” said Dickover complacently.

“I’ll clean up fifty with the thirty I got,” retorted Bowen. The other chuckled.

“I’ll gamble that you do, at that! Well, about the Apex Crown—”

“We hang on to it.”

The eyes of the two men met and held for a long moment.

“Then,” Dickover’s fist crashed down on the table, “you’ll go smash! All or nothing is my motto. In three days you won’t get three cents for that stock—and what’s more, you never will get three cents for it!”

Bowen rose, his lips curving in a smile.

“Maybe. Well, I’m glad to ’ve met you. Hope we meet again.”

“Same here.” The two men shook hands. Dickover extended another cigar. “Smoke up on me after lunch, Bowen. Sorry you’re going smash with that block of Apex Crown!”

“I’ll be sorry if I do,” said Bowen cryptically. “So-long!”

V—BOWEN TAKES A PARTNER.

Without comment, Bowen took the flat packet Miss Ferguson handed him, dropped into the big plush chair beside her, and glanced at his watch.

“Eleven o’clock. Time to talk before lunch.” He glanced around and found they were in no danger of eavesdroppers. Then, with leaping pulses, he told the girl of his conversations with Henderson and Dickover.

“And I refused Dickover’s offer,” he concluded bluntly, “and accepted his threat to smash the stock. He’ll do it, too. By this time he’s sent orders to his brokers to sell it, to smash the market flat.”

The girl’s eyes were steady on his.

“I’m content,” she said curtly. “But please explain. You’ve some scheme?”

“You’ve said it. _Some_ scheme! Do you mind if I smoke? My nerves are jumpy, and they’ll be worse before they’re better.”

She made a gesture of impatient assent. He lighted Dickover’s parting gift and for a space sat in silence, his face deeply lined in thought.

“I’ve got to make this clear to you,” he said at last slowly. “You know anything about low-grade silver ores?”

“Very little.”

“They’re low-grade because they are mixed with lead or zinc, hold a small proportion of silver, and yield very small profit. The separation of the silver and zinc is difficult. A hyperstatic process has been invented, but if a chemical process could be found, it would be cheaper and better; besides, it would make a yield of zinc as well as of silver. And to-day both zinc and silver are soaring. You understand?”

She nodded quickly. “And—and you think such a process has been found?”

A gleam of admiration sprang into Bowen’s gray eyes. For the first time, he smiled his likable, boyish smile.

“Great Jehu, there is nothing slow about you!” he breathed. “Yes. My guess—and mind this, it’s no more than a guess—is that Dickover has advance information that this chemical process is now a verity. You see? It is probably workable on ores of a certain silver-zinc combination. I deduce this from the fact that the Apex Crown, the two holdings I sold Henderson, and the Big Bony I sold Dickover are of almost the same identical ore properties. Only such a discovery would get Dickover after low-grade ores.”

She was leaning forward now, her eyes shining like twin stars.