Buffalo Bill's Girl Pard; Or, Dauntless Dell's Daring

Nate Bernritter, or “Bern,” as he was usually called when not referred to as “the old man,” was in an unpleasant frame of mind.

He was superintendent in charge of the mining, milling and cyaniding at the Three-ply Gold-mine, but the cares of his official position could not wholly have accounted for the perplexed frown on his brow, the hunted look in his eyes, or the fierce, spasmodic clenching and unclenching of his big, brown hands.

Pacing the narrow confines of his office and chewing savagely on an unlighted cigar, he muttered to himself, over and over again, his voice a husky and hopeless whisper:

“We’re at the end of our rope; McGowan has taken the one step that will put the kibosh on us. Had we better duck out of here between two days and get across the Mexican border, or stay and try and brazen the matter out?”

He stopped before a window. Leaning against the wall, he looked out dejectedly.

The “plant” of the Three-ply lay below him, in the bottom of the scarred and blistered valley.

Off to the right was the bunk-house and chuck-shanty. Several rods below the bunk-house was the ten-stamp mill, throbbing with the roar of the great stamps pounding out the gold. To the left of the mill were rows of big wooden tanks, where the mill “tailings” were treated with cyanid of potassium; and to the left of the tanks again, was the little adobe laboratory where the man--Jacobs by name--who had charge of the cyaniding, made his tests and did the assaying, refined mill, and cyanid bullion, and ran it into molds.

Teamsters were hauling ore to the mill, miners were coming and going between the shaft-house and the blacksmith-shop, Mexicans were hovering over the tops of the cyanid-tanks, dumping into them wheelbarrow-loads of “tailings,” and everywhere was a scene of the utmost activity.

Bernritter’s moody eyes took no account of all the bustle and energy which spelled success for the Three-ply plant and prosperity for its owner, Patrick McGowan. Bernritter’s unofficial affairs were in a tangle, and his everlasting ruin seemed imminent.

When men betray an employer’s trust and do evil and dishonest things, they must expect to have an uneasy conscience. But it was more than an uneasy conscience that troubled Bernritter: His fears told him that he was face to face with exposure and punishment, unless he made some move for his own safety.

As he stared absently through the window, a buxom girl of twenty strolled into his range of vision. Her sleeves were rolled up, she wore an apron, and her course was taking her from the laboratory by the tanks toward the chuck-shanty.

Her name was Frieda Schlagel. As might be suspected by the name, and further guessed from her appearance, she was German. Frieda and her mother did the cooking for the camp.

It was not the girl, however, who claimed Bernritter’s attention, but a man--likewise a German--who was walking beside her and awkwardly playing the gallant.

The man was a comical specimen for a lover. He looked like a fall pippin balanced on a couple of toothpicks. An “Old Country” cap rested on the back of his head, there was a long pipe in his teeth, and he wore a California poppy in his buttonhole.

As he walked, he tried to take the girl’s hand, and more than once attempted to put his arm about her ample waist. The girl, laughing the while, slapped her suitor’s face and, finally, knocked the pipe out of his mouth.

There was humor in the situation, had Bernritter been in a mood to see it. But he was not. From the herr and the fraulein the super’s eyes wandered to the laboratory, near which was secured a horse, saddled, bridled, and with saddle-bags in place.

The horse was fresh from the corral. Bernritter knew it belonged to the Dutchman, and that the Dutchman was about to leave camp, and was taking his farewell of Frieda.

A glimmer shot into the super’s eye as a treacherous plan formed itself in his brain. Alert and resourceful at once, he stepped to the office door, called a passing Mexican, and told him to send Jacobs to the office immediately.

When Jacobs--a slender man with a hint of Jewish origin in his face--entered the office, a moment later, he found Bernritter smoking his cigar and sitting in front of his desk.

“You sent for me?” queried Jacobs, with an odd, furtive glance of the eyes.

“I did, Jacobs,” answered Bernritter. “Shut the door, pull a chair close up, and sit down.”

Jacobs, plainly nervous, obeyed the super’s orders.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You know, I suppose, that McGowan is determined to find out what becomes of the bullion he has been losing.”

“It is but natural,” returned Jacobs, drumming on the chair-arms with his fingers.

Significant glances passed between himself and Bernritter.

“You’re running out a bar of cyanid bullion this morning, aren’t you?” queried Bernritter.