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 Chapter 6: Designing with Field Programmable Gate Arrays
6.1 (a) 4 Cells, if N is used as the clock enable. When N = 1 then
X0+ = S' D0 + S X1 (3 variable function) (two 3 variable functions
X1+ = S' D1 + S X2 (3 variable function) will fit into one cell)
If the clock enable is not used each bit requires a separate cell: 8 cells total.
X0+ = N S' D0 + N S X1 + N' X0 (5 variable function)

(b)

(c) X function generator output = X0+ = S' D0 + S X1

Y function generator output = X1+ = S' D1 + S X2

6.2 (a) QA0+ = En (Ld U + Ld' QA0') + En' QA0 = En (X) + En' QA0
QA1+ = En (Ld V + Ld' (QA0  QA1) + En' QA1 = En (Y) + En' QA1

(b)

X = Ld U + Ld' QA0'
Y = Ld V + Ld' (QA0  QA1)

6.3 (a) Q2+ = EN' Q2 + EN (Ld D2 + Ld' Q3)

Q1+ = EN' Q1 + EN (Ld D1 + Ld' Q2)

123
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 Q0+ = EN' Q0 + EN (Ld D0 + Ld' Q1)
(b) Two cells

(c) Y = Ld D3 + Ld' Si
X = Ld D2 + Ld' Q3

6.4 (a) The next state equation of Q1 can be implemented using the X function generator with the inputs
R, S, Q1, and Q2. The next state equation of Q2 can be implemented using the Y function
generator with the inputs T, Q1, and Q2. The output P can be implemented using the Z function
generator with the inputs T (C input) and the X function generator.

(b)

6.5 (a) M = S2'S1'S0'I0 + S2'S1'S0I1 + S2'S1S0'I2 + S2'S1S0I3 + S2S1'S0'I4 + S2S1'S0I5 + S2S1S0'I6 + S2S1S0I7

The 8-to-1 MUX can be decomposed into seven 2-to-1 MUXes, and implemented in four Figure
6-1(a) logic blocks.

124
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 M = S2'MX + S2MY
Mx = S1'M1 + S1M2
MY = S1’M3 + S1M4
M1 = S0'I0 + S0I1
M2 = S0'I2 + S0I3
M3 = S0'I4 + S0I5
M4 = S0'I6 + S0I7

The X and Y functions for each block each implement one 2-to-1 mux as labeled:

125
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 (b) Three 2-to-1 MUXes (or a 4-to-1 mux) can be implemented in each Figure 6-3 logic block. In
total, three blocks are required to implement seven 2-to-1 MUXes. The X, Y, and Z function
generators for each block implement a 2-to-1 MUX as labeled:

(c) Each function generator used implements a 2-to-1 mux, and has the same LUT contents:
0, 1, 0, 1, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0, 1, 0, 1, 0, 0, 1, 1

(d) Each function generator used implements a 2-to-1 mux

X and Y LUT4s have 0, 0, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1
Z LUT3s have 0, 0, 1, 1, 0, 1, 0, 1 (Consider C as MSB, Y as LSB)

126
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6.6 (a) module Figure6_1a(X_in, Y_in, clk, CE, Qx, Qy, X, Y, XLUT, YLUT);
input [1:4] X_in, Y_in;
input clk, CE;
input [0:15] XLUT, YLUT;
inout X, Y;
output Qx, Qy;

reg Qx, Qy;

wire [1:4] X_Index, Y_Index;

initial begin
Qx = 1'b0;
Qy = 1'b0;
end

assign X_Index = {X_in[4], X_in[3], X_in[2], X_in[1]};

assign Y_Index = {Y_in[4], Y_in[3], Y_in[2], Y_in[1]};
assign X = XLUT[X_Index];
assign Y = YLUT[Y_Index];

always @(posedge clk)

begin
if(CE == 1'b1) begin
Qx <= X;
Qy <= Y;
end
end
endmodule

(b) module LUT_Mux(I0, I1, I2, I3, S0, S1, M);

input I0, I1, I2, I3, S0, S1;
output M;

wire Qx1, Qy1, Qx2, Qy2, MM;

wire [1:4] in1, in2, in3;
wire M1, M2, Mout;

assign in1 = {I0, I1, S0, 1'b0};

assign in2 = {I2, I3, S0, 1'b0};
assign in3 = {M1, M2, S1, 1'b0};
assign M = Mout;

Figure6_1a B0(in1, in2,1'b0, 1'b0, Qx1, Qy1, M1, M2,

16'b0101001101010011,
16'b0101001101010011);
Figure6_1a B1(in3, 4'b0000, 1'b0, 1'b0, Qx2, Qy2, Mout, MM,
16'b0101001101010011,
16'b0000000000000000);
endmodule

6.7 (a) module Figure6_3(X_in, Y_in, clk, CE, C, Qx, Qy, X, Y, XLUT, YLUT,
ZLUT,
SA, SB, SC, SD);
input [1:4] X_in, Y_in;
input clk, CE, C;
input [0:15] XLUT, YLUT;
input [0:7] ZLUT;
input SA, SB, SC, SD;
output X, Y;
output reg Qx, Qy;

127
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 initial begin
Qx = 1'b0;
Qy = 1'b0;
end

wire [1:4] X_Index, Y_Index;

wire [1:3] Z_Index;
wire X_int, Y_int, Z_int;
wire MuxA, MuxB, MuxC, MuxD;

assign X_Index = {X_in[4], X_in[3], X_in[2], X_in[1]};

assign Y_Index = {Y_in[4], Y_in[3], Y_in[2], Y_in[1]};
assign Z_Index = {Y_int, X_int, C};
assign X_int = XLUT[X_Index];
assign Y_int = YLUT[Y_Index];
assign Z_int = ZLUT[Z_Index];

assign MuxA = (SA == 1'b0)? X_int : Z_int;

assign MuxB = (SB == 1'b0)? X_int : Z_int;
assign MuxC = (SC == 1'b0)? Y_int : Z_int;
assign MuxD = (SD == 1'b0)? Y_int : Z_int;

assign X = MuxB;
assign Y = MuxD;

always @(posedge clk)

begin
if(CE == 1'b1) begin
Qx <= MuxA;
Qy <= MuxC;
end
end

endmodule

(b) module Code_Converter(X, clk, Z);

input X, clk;
output Z;

wire Q1, Q2, Q3, Zout;

wire [3:0] D_in;
wire T1, T2, T3, T4;

assign in = {X, Q1, Q2, Q3};

assign Z = Zout;

Figure6_3 B0(D_in, D_in, clk, 1'b1, 1'b0, Q3, Q2, T1, T2,
16'b0001111111000000,
16'b0110000001000000, 8'b00000000, 1'b0, 1'b0, 1'b0,
1'b0);
Figure6_3 B1(D_in, D_in, clk, 1'b1, 1'b0, Q1, T3, T4, Zout,
16'b1010001110000000,
16'b1010010110011000, 8'b00000000, 1'b0, 1'b0, 1'b0,
1'b0);
endmodule

6.8 (a) A 4-to-16 decoder requires 16 outputs, and each function needs no more than 4-variables. 8
Figure 6-1 (a) logic blocks are required.

(b) X-Function LUT: 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0

Y-Function LUT: 0, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0
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6.9 (a) 4 logic blocks are required, 8 LUT4’s (See Figure 3-6 for truth table).
a = n7 + n6 + n5 +n4
b1 = n5'n4' (n3 + n2)
b = n7 + n6 + b1
c1 = n5 + n4'n3 + n4'n2'n1
c = n7 + n6'c1
d1 = n3 + n2 + n1 + n0
d2 = n7 + n6 + n5 + n4
d = d 2 + d1

(b) F = a, X3 = n7, X2 = n6, X1 = n5, X0 = n4 G = b1, Y3 = n5, Y2 = n4, Y1 = n3, Y0 = n2

X3 X2 X1 X0 F Y3 Y2 Y1 Y0 G
0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1
0 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 1 1
0 0 1 0 1 0 0 1 0 1
0 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 1 1
0 1 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 0
0 1 0 1 1 0 1 0 1 0
0 1 1 0 1 0 1 1 0 0
0 1 1 1 1 0 1 1 1 0
1 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 0
1 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 1 0 1 0 0
1 0 1 1 1 1 0 1 1 0
1 1 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 0
1 1 0 1 1 1 1 0 1 0
1 1 1 0 1 1 1 1 0 0
1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 0

6.10 Expanding F around X6 results in 4 variable functions which can be realized using one function
generator each.

F = X6 (X1' X2 X3 + X2 X3' X4' + X2 X3 X4') + X6' (X2' X3' X4 + X2 X3' X4' + X3' X4 X5) + X7
F = X6 (F1) + X6' (F2) + X7

For block one: X LUT has inputs X1, X2, X3, and X4 and realizes F1 = X1' X2 X3 + X2 X3' X4' + X2 X3
X4'.
Y LUT has inputs X2, X3, X4, and X5 and realizes F2 = X2' X3' X4 + X2 X3' X4' + X3' X4 X5

For block two: X LUT has the outputs of block one’s X LUT (F 1) and Y LUT (F2), X6, and X7 as
inputs. The X LUT realizes F = X6 (F1) + X6' (G1) + X7. The Y LUT is unused.

6.11 Expanding Q+ around U Q results in 4 variable equations which can be realized using one function
generator each.

Q+ = U Q (V' W + X' Y + V W') + U' Q' (V X' Y' + V' Y + X Y + V' X)

Q+ = U Q (Xfunc) + U' Q'(Yfunc)

Mark connections in a manner similar to Problem 6.1’s solution.

For block one: X LUT has inputs V, W, X, and Y and realizes V' W + X' Y + V W'
Y LUT has inputs V, X, and Y and realizes V X' Y' + V' Y + X Y + V' X

129
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 For block two: X LUT has U, Q, and block one’s Xfunc and Yfunc as inputs and realizes
Q+ = U Q (Xfunc) + U' Q'(Yfunc)

6.12 To realize the next-state equations, we need to use at least four Kintex logic slices (Figure 6-13).
One Kintex logic slice is ¼ CLB. Therefore, only 1 CLB is needed.

6.13 One cell. Expanding around X5 results in 4 variable equations which can be realized using one
function generator each and X5 can be used as the C input.

X = X5 (X1' X2' X3' X4' + X1 X2 X3 X4) + X5' (X6 X7' X8' X9 + X6' X7 X8 X9')
Xfunc = (X1' X2' X3' X4' + X1 X2 X3 X4)
Yfunc = (X6 X7' X8' X9 + X6' X7 X8 X9')
Zfunc = X5 (Xfunc) + X5' (Yfunc)

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6.14

6.15 (a) Expanding Z around Y results in 4 variable equations which can be realized using one function
generator each.
Z = Y (V W' X + U' V' W) + Y' (V W' X + T V' W)
Z = Zfunc = Y (Xfunc) + Y' (Yfunc)
131
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 Implement internal logic cell connections in a manner similar to Problem 6.12 Solution with U,
V, W, and X as inputs to the X-function generator, T, V, W, and X as inputs to the Y-function
generator and Y as the C input.

(b) The original equation can be implemented as follows:

Block 1: X-LUT has inputs U, V, W, X and realizes V W' X + U' V' W

Y-LUT has inputs T, V, W, X and realizes V W' X + T V' W

Block 2: X-LUT has Y and Block 1’s Xfunc and Yfunc as inputs and realizes Z = Y (Xfunc) + Y'
(Yfunc)
Y-LUT is unused

6.16 F = X6 (X1' X2 X3' X4 + X2' X4' + X3 X4 X5 + X1 X3) + X6' (X2' X3' X4 + X2 X4 + X3' X4 + X1 X3)

6.17 Y = a'b'Y00 + a'bY01 + ab'Y10 + abY11

Y00 = Ya=0,b=0 = cde'f + c'def

Y01 = Ya=0,b=1 = cde'f + cdef ' + c'de'f
Y10 = Ya=1,b=0 = cde'f + cd 'ef '
Y11 = Ya=1,b=1 = cde + cde'f + cdef ' + cd 'e'f

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6.18 Y = e'f ' Y00 + e'f Y01 + ef ' Y10 + efY11

Y00 = 0
Y01 = abcd
Y10 = a' bc'd ' + b'c'
Y11 = ab'cd + a'bc'd'

6.19 (a) Y = a' (bc'd'e + b'c'e) + a (b'cd'e + b'c'e + bcde) = a' (Y1) + a (Y2)
Y1 = bc'd'e + b'c'e
Y2 = b'cd'e + b'c'e + bcde

(b)

133
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 (c)
bcde Y1 (Xfunc) Y2 (Yfunc)
0000 0 0
0001 1 1
0010 0 0
0011 1 1
0100 0 0
0101 0 1
0110 0 0
0111 0 0
1000 0 0
1001 1 0
1010 0 0
1011 0 0
1100 0 0
1101 0 0
1110 0 0
1111 0 1

a Xfunc Yfunc Zfunc

000 0
001 0
010 1
011 1
100 0
101 1
110 0
111 1

6.20 (a) Eight LUTs are required. Each bit of the adder requires one LUT to generate the sum and one
LUT to generate the carry-out.

(b) Four LUT4s are required. Each bit of the adder requires one LUT4 to generate the sum.
Dedicated carry chain logic generates the carry-out.

134
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 (c) When Su is 1, the circuit should add a to the 2’s complement of b by inverting each bit of b and
setting bit 0’s Cin to.

Each bit will have the same output function:

Su ai bi Cin Outi
0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 1 1
0 0 1 0 1
0 0 1 1 0
0 1 0 0 1
0 1 0 1 0
0 1 1 0 0
0 1 1 1 1
1 0 0 0 1
1 0 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 0
1 0 1 1 1
1 1 0 0 0
1 1 0 1 1
1 1 1 0 1
1 1 1 1 0

Outi = Su'ai'bi'Cin + Su'ai'biCin' + Su'aibi'Cin' + Su'aibiCin + Suai'bi'Cin' + Suai'biCin + Suaibi'Cin +

SuaibiCin'

135
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 136
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6.21 (a) 14 cells total.

(b) 14 cells total: 6 for adders and 8 for AND gates but propagation delay is less.

6.22 (a) Z = A'(BC 'D ' EF ' + B'C 'E ' F + BC ' E ' F ') + A(B'CD ' E ' F + B'C ' E ' F + BCDE)
Z = A'(Z0) + A(Z1)

Z0 = D'(Y00) + D(Y01)
Y00 = BC ' EF ' + B'C ' E ' F + BC ' E ' F
Y01 = B'C ' E ' F + BC ' E ' F '

Z1 = D'(Y10) + D(Y11)
Y10 = B'C ' E ' F + B'CE ' F
Y11 = B'C ' E ' F + BCE

137
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exceedingly impressionistic sketches on the bits of paper that were
scattered about.
Stephen possessed that rare quality of being able to loaf without
being in the way. His loafing added a pleasant background to work
that others were doing, instead of being an irritant. Gradually he
came to helping Duncan, the surveyor, to check up his figures, and,
much to the latter’s surprise, in speedy fashion worked out
logarithms for him. Loring as a subordinate always did so well that it
made his incompetency, when given responsibility, doubly
disappointing. Duncan, whose mathematical methods were, though
no doubt safer, far slower, grew to have an excessive opinion of
Loring’s ability, and expressed it about the camp. He often
questioned Stephen as to where he had acquired his knowledge of
logarithms; but Loring always told him that he had merely picked it
up at a way station on the journey of life. As curiosity about others
rarely goes deep in Arizona, the subject had been finally taken for
granted, and dropped.
One day while Stephen was working with Duncan, Mr. Cameron
entered the room, and said abruptly: “Well, Loring, are you about
ready for work?”
“Yes,” said Stephen, “I was going to work for Mr. McKay again to-
morrow.”
Mr. Cameron paused for a moment, and looked him over carefully.
He noticed the clear light of the eyes, and he was pleased. He
noticed the indecisive lines at the corners of the mouth, hesitated,
and almost imperceptibly shook his head. Years of experience had
taught him to read men’s faces well. This was the first which he had
ever liked, and yet not quite trusted. The combination of feeling
puzzled him.
Loring had begun to flush a trifle under the sharp scrutiny, before
Mr. Cameron again spoke.
“I was thinking of giving you a position on the hoist. The man on
Number Three is going to quit to-morrow.” Mr. Cameron said “quit,”
with a little snap of the jaw, that left no doubt as to why the man
was going to leave. “Do you know anything about the work?” he
went on.
Loring’s “No, but I think perhaps I can learn,” seemed to irritate
Mr. Cameron, who exclaimed: “Good Lord, man! ‘think perhaps you
may be able to learn.’ ‘Think perhaps!’ Here you are going to have
men’s lives in your hands. It is no place for a man who thinks
‘perhaps.’ Still I will try you. You will receive three dollars and a half
for eight hours, and overtime, extra. At that the work is not hard.
You can go up to the shaft now. Colson, the man whom you are
going to try to replace, is on shift, and he will teach you what he
can. You go on the pay-roll to-morrow.” Cutting short Stephen’s
thanks, Mr. Cameron abruptly left the office.
Duncan began to chuckle quietly.
“It is damned lucky for you, Loring, that you didn’t go on much
further with your theories of ‘thinking perhaps.’ I don’t know where
you were before you came here, and I don’t care; but here it will
help you some to remember that it is only what you do know or can
do that counts.”
Stephen took cheerfully this good advice, and after securing his
hat, he stretched himself comfortably in the doorway, then started
up the hill to the mine. In the hot glare he climbed the tramway
which led from the hungry ore cribs by the smelter to Number Three
hoist. He was still weak, and the climb tired him considerably.
Several times, in the course of the few hundred yards, he stopped
and rested. As many times more he was compelled to step to one
side of the track in order to let the funny, squat, little ore cars whiz
by him, the brake cable behind them stretching taut, and whining
with the peculiar note of metal under tension. When at last, tired
and out of breath, he reached the hoist box, Colson gave him a sour
greeting.
“Damned boiler leaks like a sieve. Have to keep stoking her all the
time. Engine is always getting centered. Wish you joy! It’s the worst
job I ever tackled.”
In answer to Loring’s request for instructions, Colson slowly wiped
his hands on a bit of oily waste, and having taken a fresh chew of
tobacco, proceeded to explain the working of the drum hoist, and
the signal code.
For the rest of the afternoon, under Colson’s supervision, Stephen
managed the clutch that governed the cable, and at the ever
recurring clang of one bell, ran the ore buckets with great speed up
the shaft. Whenever the signal of three bells, followed by one, rang
out, he brought the buckets slowly and decorously to the surface, for
that told of a human load. Loring, in spite of apparent clumsiness,
possessed a great amount of deftness, and he was soon running the
hoist fairly well, although the jerks with which the engine was
brought to a standstill told the miners that a new and inexperienced
hand was at the clutch.
At half-past three the men of the shift began to signal to come to
the surface. Loring asked Colson how, when the shift did not end till
four, this was allowed. Colson explained that as the mine was non-
Union, and employed mostly Mexican labor, the piece work system
was in use. When the men had filled a certain number of buckets,
they could come to the surface regardless of the time. The result
had been that more work was accomplished than formerly, while the
miners had shorter hours.
“That is all very pleasant,” reflected Stephen, “if the company,
having seen how active the men can be, does not increase the
number of buckets required.”
Shortly before four o’clock they were relieved by the engineer for
the next shift, who undertook the task of lowering the waiting men.
Then Colson and Loring, picking up their coats, walked slowly down
the hill into the camp. At the smelter Loring parted with Colson and
walked over to his own quarters. Since his dismissal from the
hospital, he had been sharing a tent with one of the shift bosses—a
man about whom Stephen knew little except the fact that he was
named Lynn, and that he never washed. The company rented tents
with board floors, for two dollars a month, so that when the quarters
were shared, household expenses were not large.
As Loring threw back the wire-screened door of the tent, Lynn,
from within, greeted him with mild interest.
“I hear they are goin’ to try you on Number Three. Now over
where I used to work in Black Eagle, they wouldn’t let a green man
even smell the hoist. It ain’t safe, nor legal. But I suppose the Boss
had to give you some job. All wrong, though.”
Loring kept discreet silence in answer to this, and after fetching a
bucket of water, proceeded to wash with many splashes. This
annoyed Lynn, who grunted: “How can a man do any work with you
wallowin’ round like a herd of steers?” Then he returned to his
previous occupation of poring over location papers for some claims
of his “up yonder.” These claims were the joke of the camp, on
account of their remoteness from any known ore vein, yet Lynn,
unaffected by the waves of exultation or depression which from time
to time swept through the camp, year by year persisted in doggedly
doing his assessment work.
In Arizona almost every man, no matter what his occupation or
station, has “some claims up in the hills.” These claims furnish the
romance of his life, for always beneath the grimmest present lies the
golden “perhaps” of a rich strike.
Stephen sat on the edge of his cot, rolling a cigarette and
watching Lynn’s profile.
“There are some people,” he meditated, “who would not look
cheerful if they were paid so much a smile.” When Lynn had finished
his papers, he rose with solemn deliberative slowness, took down a
black felt hat from a wooden peg on the tent pole, transferred his
toothpick from the left side of his mouth to the right, and slouched
towards the door.
“Come on over to grub!” he called back. Loring joined him, and
together they walked over to the company mess.
 As they picked their way along the sordid road, Stephen looked at
the dirty houses of the Mexicans with a feeling of repulsion. They
were built from all the refuse that could be gathered: old sheet iron,
quilts, suwara rods, a few boards, broken pieces of glass and tarred
paper. A broken-down wagon, on one wheel, lurching in a dissipated
fashion against a boulder, added to the disreputability of the tin-can-
strewn road. While he and Lynn were plodding moodily along,
Stephen suddenly heard behind him the clatter of horses’ hoofs. He
turned. The scene no longer seemed sordid, for riding up the road
was Miss Cameron. Around her rode five or six little girls,—the camp
children,—their legs, too short to reach the stirrups, stuck in the
leathers, their hair flying in all directions, while their stiff little
gingham dresses fluttered in the breeze. Jean, riding a gray pony,
sat clean limbed and lithe across the saddle. The deep full modeling
of breast and thigh, the proud carriage of the shoulders, and the
easy swing of her body to the lope of the horse—all bespoke high
health and keen enjoyment. Her khaki skirt fell on either side in
yellow folds against the oiled brown of the saddle. She wore no hat,
and the sunlight struck clear and sparkling upon her tawny hair. Her
color was fresh from the sting of the wind.
Stephen stepped aside to let the little cavalcade pass; but Miss
Cameron reined in her pony, and smilingly greeted him and his
companion. Her convoy of little girls bade her a grateful “good-bye,”
and scattered to their homes in the various parts of the camp.
“You seem to be a ‘Pied Piper of Hamelin,’” remarked Stephen,
looking up at her. Lynn for some reason appeared uneasy.
“No, I don’t decoy them,” she answered. “In fact, I try hard to get
away from them, but they are not allowed to ride alone in the valley,
and consequently whenever they see my pony saddled they swarm
about me like bees and cannot be shaken off. Are you sure that you
are strong enough to be out of the hospital?” Miss Cameron added,
scrutinizing Stephen with friendly solicitude.
Loring was busying himself with the problem of whether her eyes
were really gray or blue. He gathered his wits together however to
answer that he was growing better steadily.
“Well, good night, and be sure to continue to get better!” The girl
shook the reins of her pony, and galloped off towards the corral.
Lynn could no longer contain himself.
“Look a-here, Loring. I don’t know where you was brought up, but
Miss Cameron is a lady, if ever I seed one, and whar I come from,
gentlemen don’t call ladies ‘Pi-eyed Pipers.’”
Stephen, with a start, came out of his wistful mood, then almost
collapsed with laughter. Lynn stalked along in silent wrath, not
speaking another word until they entered the mess room.
It was half-past five, and the room was still crowded, though that
many had come and gone was attested by the pools of coffee on the
zinc tables, the bread crumbs on the floor, and the great piles of
dirty dishes. In a mining camp five o’clock is the fashionable supper
hour, and he who comes late has cause to rue it. Loring and his
companion cleared places for themselves, and after the necessary
preliminaries of wiping their cracked plates on their sleeves, and
obtaining their share from the great bowl of stew in the center of
the table, they proceeded to eat in businesslike silence. There had
been a time when such surroundings would have taken away
Stephen’s appetite, but that was far away. The proprietor walked
frequently up and down the room, answering mildly the contumely
heaped upon the food. He carried a large bucket from which he
replenished the coffee cups. Stephen quickly reached the dessert
stage of the meal, and the proprietor set that course before him. It
consisted of two very shiny canned peaches, floating in a dubious
juice.
The man who owned the eating house was of a quiet, depressed
nature developed by years of endeavor to please boarders’ appetites
at one dollar a day and make a profit of seventy-five cents.
Ordinarily dessert consisted of one canned peach. Loring’s double
allowance was a silent tribute to the fact that he did not rail at the
food as did the others, and to the fact that once, when the purveyor
had “spread himself” and served canned oysters, Stephen had
thanked him. This had been the third time that the man had been
thanked in all his life, and he stowed it away in his strange placid
brain.
When Stephen had finished his meal, he rose and joined the
group of men, who, as customary after supper, were lounging on the
steps. The proprietor, wearing his usual apologetic smile, soon joined
them.
“Pretty good supper, boys?” he remarked tentatively.
Some one in the crowd moaned drearily. “Say, I know what good
food is. I used to eat up at the Needles, at a place so swell they give
Mexicans pie. Reg’lar sort of Harvey house, that was.” The
proprietor, still smiling, sadly withdrew, and the crowd returned to its
former occupations: commenting on the thin ponies of the Mexicans
who galloped by, and trying to catch the eyes of the señoritas as
they strolled past, arm in arm, seemingly stolid alike to the
attentions and to the jests of the men.
Many of the Indians, who had been brought from the San Carlos
Reservation to work on the railway grade, were in camp to make
their simple purchases of supplies. Stephen noticed with disgust the
way the braves sat astride their ponies with indolent grace, while
beside them walked the squaws, with the papooses slung in blankets
over their shoulders.
“Good example of the ‘noble redman,’ isn’t it!” he exclaimed to
McKay.
“Well, what can you expect?” chuckled the latter. “You know in
their marriage ceremony the brave puts the bit of his pony in the
mouth of his prospective bride. Sort of a symbol of equality and
companionship between man and wife, I reckon.”
As the twilight turned to dusk, the group gradually dissolved, till
Loring alone was left on the steps. It was peaceful there, and as he
drew on his old black pipe, a healthy feeling of contentment
permeated him. He felt that he could do his new work well. His last
lessons, he thought, had taught him concentration. He saw himself
working up again to a position of power. For some reason that even
to himself was only vaguely defined, he felt that now it was all
infinitely worth while. As for drink, he merely thought of it as an
episode of the past. Stephen’s worst fault lay in not grappling with
his enemies until they had him by the throat. As he sat smoking and
dreaming, he was aroused by a cheerful salutation.
“Howdy, me bludder? Me bludder, he feel fine?”
Stephen looked up to see Hop Wah standing in the road before
him. With his derby hat, yellow face, coal black pig-tail, and with a
five-cent cigar drooping from one corner of his mouth Wah was a
strange combination of Occident and Orient.
“Fine, thanks!” answered Loring, “but what are you doing up here
in camp now, Wah?”
Wah proudly puffed at his cigar, and blew a wreath of gray smoke
from between his flat lips.
“Me cook for the company here, now. Makee pie ebbrey day. Oh,
lubbly, lubbly pie! Me bludder come to back door, and I give him
some. Oh, lubbly, lubbly pie! Goodee bye. Goodee bye, me bludder!”
Then Wah departed in the direction of the tienda, marching
cheerfully along to his old refrain: “La, la, boom, boom; la, la, boom,
boom.”
“The crazy Chinaman!” laughed Stephen. “He certainly enjoys life,
though.” Loring rose and knocked out the ashes of his pipe on the
steps. Then he walked towards his tent. They were just dumping the
slag from the smelter, and he watched the glowing slag pot shoot
along the track in front of him. As if by magic it checked at the end
of the heap, and poured its molten, flashing stream far over the
embankment. The whole camp glowed with a clear, all-suffusing
orange light. The outline of the surrounding mountains loomed out
blue-black. The glow faded to dull red, then dwindled to a mere
thread of light, then disappeared, and all was dark again.
 During the next two months, with a concentration of which he had
never before thought himself capable, Stephen slaved at learning his
task. To feel that in his hands lay the lives of the sixteen men of the
shift gave him a sense of responsibility, which in all his former work
had been completely lacking. He was so faithful in the performance
of his duties that even the critical Mr. Cameron was secretly pleased,
while Jean watched with growing interest her father’s experiment,
and felt that at last Loring had ceased to drift.
Stephen, on his part, carried in his heart one memory which
shortened his working day, gladdened his leisure hours, and left no
time for vain regrets. This was the thought of one evening which he
had spent at Mr. Cameron’s house, on the occasion of a “Gringo”
dance, whereto all the workers in camp, except the Mexicans, had
been bidden, in celebration of Washington’s birthday.
Often did Stephen recall the flag-draped room, the Mexican
orchestra, which in color resembled a slice of strawberry, vanilla, and
chocolate ice-cream. He remembered the lantern-lighted porch, its
lamps blending with the soft darkness of the southern night, hung
with its own lanterns of stars.
But all these were only a background of his real memories, which
were the warm touch of Jean’s hand, as he had held it in the dance
for five blessed minutes, and the sound of her voice as she had
talked with him on the porch, in the brief intervals when the guests
had gathered around the musicians, to invoke the “Star Spangled
Banner” and urge that long might it “Wa-a-ave!”
What they had talked about Stephen scarcely knew; but he had a
confused impression that under the commonplaces of their talk had
lurked, on her part, a hint of friendship which made his dreams
perhaps not quite so wild, for he recognized in her something softly
invincible which once having given friendship would never withdraw
it, though the skies fell. In fact, while Loring was playing cards over
the mess table one evening, Jean was putting her friendship to the
proof in another quarter of the camp.
 “Father, he is a gentleman.” Jean made this remark after a period
of silence, during which she had sat on the porch of the shack,
contemplating the moon as it rode high in the unclouded sky.
“Who is a gentleman? The man in the moon?” As he asked the
question, Mr. Cameron withdrew his cigar from his mouth, and pulled
the smoke in leisurely rings into the air.
“No,” Jean answered, “not the man in the moon; the man on the
hoist, Stephen Loring.”
“What made you think of him?”
“I met him this afternoon in the valley. That put him into my
head.”
“Well, I advise you to take him out again.”
“Not at all. I shall keep him there. He interests me, because he is
a gentleman.”
“What are the hall-marks of a gentleman?”
“Oh,” said Jean slowly, “there are a hundred little signs which
cannot be suppressed. A deacon may turn into a horse thief, or a
millionaire into a beggar; but once a gentleman, always a
gentleman. Mr. Loring tries to hide it; but he cannot. Oh, haven’t you
noticed the difference?”
“Between Loring and the other men? No, I cannot say that I have.
But I am not particularly interested in the question whether my hoist
engineers are gentlemen.”
“Don’t you think you ought to be?”
“Why?”
Jean clasped her hands around her knee and looked out over the
dim hills bathed in the mist of the moonlight. After a while she said:
“It must be very lonely for a gentleman in a camp like this.”
“If you are thinking of Loring,” said her father, “he is busy all day
and he can go to the mess in the evening.”
 “The mess!” exclaimed Jean scornfully. “Yes, fine place for a
gentleman, where the men chew tobacco and drink whisky all the
evening, and tell stories as long as they are broad!”
“All terribly offensive no doubt to a sensitive soul like your Mr.
Loring,” answered Mr. Cameron. “Perhaps,” he added with fine
sarcasm, “you would like to have him take his meals with us.”
“Yes, I would like to ask him here sometime. It is good in you to
think of it,” replied his daughter calmly.
“It cannot be done, Jean. It cannot be done,” Mr. Cameron said
with decision. “Discrimination among the men breeds discontent. I
think that we have done full enough for Loring as it is.”
“Do you?” Jean responded, with the audacity of a hot temper.
“Well, I do not; but then it was my life that he saved, and perhaps
that makes me see the thing differently. I am thinking that when a
man saves your life you cannot get rid of the obligation by throwing
him a job, as you might toss a bone to a dog. I am thinking that he
has some claim on the life that he has given back, and that the
other person should spend a little of it in doing something for him.”
“And, pray, what has his being a gentleman to do with all this?”
asked Mr. Cameron, whose wrath took the form of sarcasm.
“Suppose that Colson or Lynn had saved your life, would you have
wished to have him at the house?”
“Neither of them would have wished to come.”
“That is not honest, Jean. You know that they would; but you
would never ask them, except to one of your camp dances. You
would not if they had saved your life twenty times.”
“I should try to do something for them, something that they would
like; but if people are not of your kind there is no use in inviting
them. There is no kindness in it in the end.”
“Perhaps,” said her father, “there would prove to be no kindness in
the end in what you wish to do for Loring.”
 “Very well. There is no use in arguing with a Scotchman; but I
warn you that I shall make it up to him in friendliness. The other
men can scarcely object to that.”
With these words Jean rose from the steps and, passing through
the door, entered the little living-room where she picked up a guitar
from the window-seat, and to its accompaniment began to sing in a
low voice. What was the song she chose? Why, it was “Jock o’
Hazeldean.” If ever a song expressed flat mutiny it is that one, and it
lost nothing in expression from Jean Cameron’s rendering, from the
beginning where the heroine refuses to be commanded or cajoled,
to the last line where “She’s o’er the border and awa’ wi’ Jock o’
Hazeldean.”
Mr. Cameron was justified in being angry; but who could resist a
voice like Jean Cameron’s? Evidently not Jean’s father, for when the
girl came out again and smiling laid her hand upon his shoulder, Mr.
Cameron relaxed the grimness of his expression.
“Well, well, lassie, we will see what can be done for your
gentleman engineer,” he said encouragingly; “but don’t be ‘o’er the
border and awa’’ with Jock, till we know a little more about him, and
about what is thought of him in Hazeldean.”
 CHAPTER V
“Oh, Loring. Have you heard the news?” Stephen, on his way to
breakfast, on the morning of the Fourth of July, stopped until McKay
joined him.
“No. What is the matter?”
“There is to be a half holiday to-day,” went on McKay.
“The devil there is! I did not know that such things existed this
side of heaven.”
“In which case you would never see one,” laughed McKay. “But to-
day there is to be one. In my opinion, we owe it to Miss Cameron’s
influence with her father. Every one can knock off work at twelve
o’clock. Look at the notice!”
On the office wall, beneath the usual “No Entrada—Oficina,” was a
big placard which conveyed the news in English and Spanish.
Stephen read it with satisfaction.
“I think that will make breakfast taste rather well. What is your
opinion, Mac?”
“That comes pretty close to my jedgments,” answered McKay.
“Hey, Wah, you crazy Chinaman; quit hammering that gong!”
This last was addressed to Hop Wah, who was standing on the
porch of the eating house, hammering with a railroad spike upon an
iron gong.
“Me hab to. Else me lazy pig bludders allee late. La, la, boom,
boom! Breakfas’. Nice hot cakes. Oh, lubbly, lubbly cakes; eggs this
mornin’. Goodee canned eggs. Oh, lubbly; la, la”—Wah fled
precipitately into the kitchen, as Loring and McKay made gestures of
killing him.
 They were the first at the mess, and while the sleepy stragglers
filed in, one by one, they ate their oatmeal in comfort. They took a
lazy pleasure in watching the surprise, and listening to the
ejaculations, with which the news of the half holiday was received.
“Thin Jim,” who always presided at the head of the table, on account
of his so-called “boarding house arm,” which enabled him to be of
vast service as a waiter, professed to be so astounded at the news
as to be incapable of performing his duties.
“What with a dance on Washington’s birthday, and a half holiday
to-day, why, we’re becomin’ sort of a leisure class,” he remarked.
“Well, look out that you don’t deteriorate under the strain,”
laughed Loring. “Has any one a match?” The only real system in all
Loring’s habits of life was his custom of rising early enough to have
time for a smoke between breakfast and work.
In the afternoon the camp was alive with shouts and hilarity. On
the slag dump two baseball games were in progress, of such
excitement that the umpires had early withdrawn; while some one
had established in the gulch an impromptu shooting gallery, whence
the quick rattle of reports told of financial success.
Stephen sat with Duncan on the steps of the assay office while the
latter checked up his figures for the morning’s work.
“The ore from Number Three is running six per cent these days,”
he exclaimed, as he tossed his note-book into the office.
Together they watched the trail leading out from the camp, down
which rode little groups of horsemen, lounging in the saddle. The
smoke from their cigarettes trailed thinly blue behind them.
“There goes domesticity for you, Steve!” said Duncan. He pointed
to a family group riding by. Old Tom Jenkins, the smelter boss, with
his wife, was starting for a trip to the river. Three children were
strung in various attitudes across their saddles.
“It seems as if every one were going for a ride,” commented
Stephen. “Shall we fall in line with the popular amusement?”
 “I haven’t got a horse,” answered Duncan, “and all the company
caballos will be out to-day. I heard old Hodges down at the corral
after lunch cursing like a pirate at the amount of saddling that he
had to do. Right in the midst of his growling, Miss Cameron came
along, and wanted a horse. The old man pretty nearly fell over
himself trying to accommodate her. There’s something about her
that seems to affect people that way. Quite a convenient trait, I
should think!”
Stephen agreed silently, and in his mind added considerably more,
then strode off to the corral for his pony.
As he slung the saddle across his horse’s back and cinched the
girth, he fumbled a little, for his mind was not upon the task, but
upon a certain curl, which defying combs or hairpins, waved
capriciously at the turn of a girl’s neck.
Horses, however, have little sympathy with sentiment, and while
Loring tugged absent-mindedly at the straps, the little beast puffed
and squealed, trying to arrange for a comfortable space between his
round, gray belly and the girth. Stephen, placing his left hand on the
head-piece, and his right on the pommel, swung himself into the
saddle, in spite of the pony’s antics. Soon he was loping out of
camp, and down towards the river. The clear sunshine struck his
neck beneath his broad hat; the alkali dust tasted smoky and almost
invigorating.
As he left the camp behind him, he laughed and sang softly to
himself, beating with his unspurred heel the time of his song against
his pony’s ribs. He blessed the extravagance which had led him to
invest half a month’s pay in “Muy Bueno,” as the horse was
christened to indicate the owner’s assurance that he was “very fine.”
Leaning forward, Loring playfully pulled “Muy Bueno’s” ears. The
pony shook its head in annoyance. This was no holiday for him.
After a short distance the ground began to rise, and the pony,
with lowered head, buckled to his task, resolutely attacking the trail
which zig-zagged up the steep mountainside.
 Half way up the rise stood a saloon. As Loring approached it, he
heard roars of laughter. In it there was that quality which only liquor
can produce. As he drew nearer he could see the reason for the
laughter. Before the saloon was a girl on horseback, her pony
balking, and flatly refusing to proceed. The doorway was full of half
drunken miners, calling out advice of varied import. The saloon
keeper, himself a bit flushed, called out: “She’s got Tennessee Bob’s
old pony. He never would go by here without taking a drink, and I
reckon the horse sort of inherited the habit.”
Stephen took in the situation at once. Riding up quickly, he cut the
stubborn pony across the flank with his quirt. The animal quivered
for a moment, then as another stinging blow fell, galloped on up the
trail.
“Hell, Loring! what you want to do a thing like that for? Funniest
thing I’ve seen in a month,” growled a man in the crowd.
Stephen only waved his hand in answer and rode on after the girl,
whom he had no difficulty in recognizing. A couple of hundred yards
of hard riding brought him up with her.
Jean’s cheeks were still crimson, but it was as much from laughter
as embarrassment.
“Really, Mr. Loring,” she exclaimed, half breathlessly, “you seem to
be always in the position of a rescuer.”
“Your horses do seem to have a taste for adventure,” he replied.
“Perhaps I may be allowed to accompany you on your ride this
afternoon,” continued Stephen. “There might, you know, be other
saloons which your pony was in the habit of visiting.”
“I think it would be safer,” assented Jean.
They were nearing the crest of the hill, and the trail broadened so
that they could ride abreast. A bevy of quail flushed suddenly up
from the ground, strumming the air sharply. A little further on, a
jack-rabbit jumped into the center of the trail, looked about, then
dove into the underbrush. To a mind in its normal condition, these
things were but commonplaces. To Stephen it seemed as if all nature
were in an exuberant mood. The very creak of the leather, or ring of
steel, as now and then one of the horses’ hoofs struck on stone, fell
in with the tenor of his spirits. There are few men who could ride
over the Arizona hills with Jean Cameron and doubt the gloriousness
of existence.
At the summit they drew rein to breathe the horses. Before them
lay the valley of the “Dripping Spring Wash.” For miles the belt of
white sand in the bottom stretched away darkened with clumps of
drab sage-brush, or with tall wavy lines which they knew must be
cactus. Whiter than the sand, far out in the valley, a tent gleamed.
Here and there a few moving specks betokened range cattle.
Framing it all were great mountains, as irregular and barren as floe
ice,—blue, purple, and brown, with streaks of yellow where the hot
rays of the sun struck upon bare earth. All the detail of the rocky
contour showed in the clear air. The mountains at the end of the
valley, forty miles away, seemed as distinct as if within a mile. In
silence the riders sat their horses, looking straight before them.
“I never knew how big life could be until I saw Arizona,” exclaimed
Jean.
“I never knew how big life could be until—”
“Until what, Mr. Loring?”
Loring’s answer was to guide the horses into the trail that led
down to the Wash.
In a short while they reached the bottom, and rode out into the
valley, where wandering “mavericks,” or faggot-laden burros had
pounded innumerable hard paths.
Jean shook the bridle of her horse, and calling back over her
shoulder, “Shall we run them?” was off in a flash. Stephen, urging on
his pony, soon caught up with her, and side by side they galloped
hard up the valley. Leaning forward in his saddle, he could watch the
rich color rush across the girl’s face, as the speed set her blood
dancing. Her head was tossed backward, throwing out the clean
molded chin, and perhaps emphasizing the hint of obstinacy
concealed in its rounded finish. Her bridle hand lay close on the
horse’s neck, the small gloved fingers crushing the reins. From the
amount of attention that Loring was, or rather was not, paying to his
horse, he richly deserved a fall; but the fates spared him. Perhaps
they, too, were engaged in watching the girl.
With a sigh, Jean pulled her horse down to walk.
“That was splendid! Why can’t one always be riding like that?”
Loring looked at her, amused by the exuberance of her spirits.
“A bit hard on the horses as a perpetual thing, otherwise perfect,”
he answered.
She turned to him suddenly. “Have you no enthusiasms?”
“I used to have,” answered Stephen, “but they were not of exactly
the right kind. In fact they made me what I am.”
“What are you?” she asked, looking at him directly.
“A failure—and rather worse, because I am a poor failure. There is
just enough left in me to make me realize the truth, but not enough
to compel me to do anything about it.”
Jean thought for a minute, then, with sincere pity in her face, she
asked, “Why?”
Stephen had resolved never to speak of his past, of the golden
opportunities lost, of the friends who would have helped if they
could; but as he looked at her, at the slightly parted lips, at the frank
sympathy that shone from her face, he knew that here was some
one who could understand and perhaps help.
Slowly at first, controlling the breaks in his voice, then more
evenly, he told her of start after start, of the relatives who had
disowned him, of drifting and drifting. “Now, here I am, running a
hoist! Well, it is probably the best thing of which I am capable and I
owe it to you and your father that I have so good a place. I have
been tried and found wanting in almost every way the Lord could
invent, and,” he tried rather unsuccessfully to smile, “I think I am
down and out.”
Jean reached out her hand to him, and pressed his warmly, with
the proud confidence of not being misunderstood.
“Mr. Loring, I do not believe it. You may have been and done all
that you say, but you have still the battle ahead of you. I owe my life
to you. You risked yours to save me. I will not let you go on
throwing yourself away, without trying to help you. I thank you for
what you have told me. I think that I understand. It is hard perhaps
for a girl to realize the truth; but I do so want to help you! Here in
Arizona you have a fresh chance. Go on and win—and never forget
that I am going to stand by you.”
Stephen set his teeth and looked straight ahead of him. Every
nerve within him tingled with the desire to bow his head over the
small hand that lay on his, to crave, he knew not what. Then he
lifted his head and looked at her. “I will try—and God bless you!”
So absorbed had the man and girl been in their talk, that they had
failed to realize that the soft, swift night of Arizona was overtaking
them. Clouds too were gathering in the west and obscuring the
sunset before its time. Jean noticed it at length and took alarm.
“We must turn and ride fast,” she said hastily. “My father will be
worried if we are late. I think I remember this path which cuts into
the trail again farther on and is a shorter way. Let us take it!”
Without waiting for Loring’s assent, she dashed off to the left.
Stephen followed her with some misgiving. He had known too much
of the devious windings of these half-beaten paths and would have
chosen the longer way around in confidence of its proving the
shorter way home.
On and on they rode in the gathering darkness till at length they
could scarcely see a yard ahead of them, and were forced to drop
the reins on the necks of the ponies, realizing that in such a situation
instinct is a far safer guide than reason. Loring took the lead, and
rode slowly and cautiously, peering about him in the vain hope of
discovering the right way. At length his pony balked suddenly and
threw back its ears. “Stop!” Stephen called back, as he slipped
hastily from the saddle and took a step forward to investigate the
cause of “Muy Bueno’s” fright. One step was enough, for it showed
him that the ground dropped off into space at his very feet. “Whew!”
he whistled softly to himself. Then aloud he said: “I am afraid, Miss
Cameron, that you must dismount. Wait and let me help you!” But
before he could reach her the girl was out of her saddle and at his
side. She saw their danger and paled at its nearness. Then she said
quietly: “Of course it is my fault; but we need not talk about that
now. The question is, what are we going to do?”
“The only thing we can do is to grope our way back by the way
we have come, and hope by good luck to reach the main trail again.
If the moon would only come up, we might at least get our
bearings,” said Loring.
“We ought to be somewhere near the Bingham mine,” Jean
reflected aloud. “Mr. Bingham is a friend of my father’s and we have
ridden over to supper in his camp once or twice. But I don’t know—I
have lost all faith in my skill as a pilot.”
Loring took hold of the bridles and turned the ponies. Then
mounting, they rode into the darkness, where a slight thread of
openness seemed to show their path. Time and time again the
horses, sure-footed as they were, stumbled and went down on their
knees, only to pick themselves up with a shake and a plunge.
Wandering cattle had beaten so many blind paths through the
chaparral or between the rocks that the riders were often forced to
stop and retrace their way, searching for new openings. Stephen was
afraid. It was a new sensation for him to have any dread of the
uncertain; but every time that Miss Cameron’s horse slipped or
hesitated he turned nervously in the saddle on the lookout for some
accident to her. His was a nature which danger elated, but
responsibility depressed. Had he been alone he would have rejoiced
in the stubbornness of the way, in the rasp of the cactus as his boots
scratched against it, in the uncertain sliding and the quick checking
of his horse; but now they worried him, so intent was he on the
safety of the girl with him. He knew that only good fortune could
find their way for them before sunrise and he prayed for good
fortune in a way that made up for his past unbelief in such a thing.
Jean’s cheerfulness and acceptance of conditions only made it
harder for him, as, with every sense alert, he led the way towards
what he hoped was their goal.
And fear was not the only emotion that struck at his heart.
Mingled with his anxiety was a rushing glow of happiness, of fierce
exultation such as he had never experienced in his life. The fact that
under his care, alone in the Arizona night, was the girl whom he
loved, thrilled and shook him. The soft note of confidence in her
voice, her unconscious appeal to him for protection, made the
stinging blood rush to his face, made him crush the bridle in a grip
as of a vise. “Alone!” he murmured. “Is there in God’s world any
such aloneness as two together when the world is a countless
distance away, when each second is precious as a lifetime!” His
voice, when he spoke to her, sounded to him dry and forced. It was
only by superhuman control that when he guided her horse to the
right or left he did not cry out his need of her. Yet through all the
electric silence he knew that he had no right to speak of love, no
right even to love her. His mood was of that intensity which cares
not for its reaction on others. Through it all he did not think or
imagine that she could care; and yet he was happy, happy with that
joy of a great emotion so sweeping as not to know pain from
pleasure and not to care. For the first time in his life he realized
what it was to live, not to think or to care, but to live.
And she? She could not have been a woman and not have known,
even though the imprisoned words had not escaped; but from
knowing to caring is a very long road, and not only has it many
turnings, but often it doubles upon itself.
After an hour of this blind riding, they suddenly found themselves
following a well-beaten track. A tip of bright gold appeared from
behind the black mountains, then a crescent, then a semicircle, and
almost before they realized it the trail was flooded with the splendor
of the full-rounded moon. As they watched, they were startled by
the soft thud of a horse’s hoofs behind them. Stephen, a bit uneasy
as to the newcomer, wheeled his horse sharply to meet him, and
slipped his riding gauntlet from his right hand, prepared to shoot or
to shake as the occasion might necessitate. He was greatly
surprised, when the stranger drew abreast of them, to hear him
exclaim in a cheerful bass voice: “Miss Cameron! How did you come
here?”
“That is just what we want to know. The only thing we want to
know more is how to get out by any other way than past the cliff
which we almost rode over in the darkness. This is Mr. Loring, Mr.
Bingham, one of the hoist engineers at Quentin. Darkness overtook
us while we were riding, and I thought that I knew a short cut. I did
not, it seems, and here we are.”
“Yes, and a mighty narrow escape you had if you were up by the
divide yonder. It drops off a good five hundred feet. Cleverness of
your horses, I suppose. Positively uncanny the instinct of those little
beasts! Well, as it happens, you have been riding only a few rods
from the path which you were looking for, only that winds around
the divide, and not over it. I am on my way to our camp just below
here. You’ll stop to supper with us, of course,” he added, as the
lights of his camp suddenly twinkled from behind a spur in the hills.
“Not to-night, thank you,” Jean answered. “I am afraid that my
father will be worried as it is, and would soon be scouring the
mountains for us.”
“It might look a little as if you’d run off together,” Mr. Bingham
chuckled with obtuse humor. Suddenly Jean, who had been all
gratitude, felt that she could, with great pleasure, see him go over
the cliff which they had avoided. She would have liked to reply to his
remark with something either jocular or haughty; but instead she
was conscious of a stiff, shy pause, broken by Loring’s query as to
how the ore was running in the Bingham mine.
 “Decidedly he is a gentleman,” reflected Jean, and then the scene
of her talk with her father flashed over her,—the porch, the living-
room, the guitar, the song “She’s o’er the border and awa’ wi’ Jock o’
Hazeldean.”
Suddenly she laughed aloud. Both men turned in their saddles to
see what could have caused her sudden mirth. “Only an echo,” Jean
explained. “It sounded like a girl’s voice. It is gone now. Don’t stop!”
Mr. Bingham seemed so grieved to have them pass the camp
without dismounting that Jean, realizing that a neglect of his
proffered hospitality would wound him unnecessarily, consented to
take a cup of coffee. Mrs. Bingham brought it to them with her own
hands, talking to them eagerly as they drank it. Mr. Bingham drew
out his flask and offered it to Stephen; but with a glance at Jean, he
declined it and the girl noted the sacrifice with satisfaction.
The coffee finished, Jean and Loring bade a hasty farewell to their
hosts, who grieved over their parting with that true Western
hospitality born of the desolate hills, the long reaches of sparsely
populated country, and the loneliness of camp life.
The horses were tired; but their riders had no notion of sparing
them, and rode as fast as the roughness of the trail permitted. Mr.
Bingham’s ill-timed words had jarred upon their companionship, and
the horses’ hoofs alone broke the silence which had fallen between
them.
It was eleven o’clock when they reached Quentin, and Mr.
Cameron was pacing the porch impatiently, peering out into the
blackness where the moonlight pierced it, as they rode up to the
shack.
“We are all safe, father; we merely took a wrong turning,” Jean
called aloud as they drew rein.
“Yes,” observed Mr. Cameron with a stubborn ring in his voice. “I
was afraid that you had.”
 Jean perceived her father’s frame of mind instantly, and the
Cameron in her rose to meet the Cameron in him.
“We have spent a very agreeable afternoon, however,” she said in
clear, determined tones; “at least I have, so I can scarcely regret our
adventure, though I am sorry to have caused you anxiety.”
To Loring’s surprise, instead of slipping out of her saddle as she
had done before, she waited for him to lift her down. As he did so,
she felt his lips brush her sleeve. It was done after the fashion of a
devotee, not of a lover, yet the girl’s pulses bounded with a sense of
elation and power. She held a man’s soul in her hands. Yes, she
knew now with a sense of certainty what she had only suspected
before,—that Loring loved her. How she felt herself, how much
response the man’s passion had power to call out in her, she took no
time to think; but she resolved to use this new power for his good. It
should be the beginning of better things than he had ever known.
Oh, yes, love could do anything. She had always heard that.
That night Loring, too, would have sworn that the turning point in
his life had come, that never again could he prove unworthy of the
trust in him which had shone from Jean Cameron’s eyes and pulsed
in the strong clasp of her hand. A woman’s faith had saved other
men worse than he. Why could he not surely rely upon its power to
save him, too?
One who knew him well might have answered: “Because you are
both too strong and too weak to be saved by anything from without.
Your regeneration, if it comes, will come from no such gentle
approaches and soft appeals, but through the stress and storm of
deep experience, through the struggle and agony of overwhelming
remorse. So it must be with some men.”
 CHAPTER VI
From the time of their ride together, Jean’s thoughts were much
more occupied with Loring than they had been before. The
consciousness of her father’s opposition was an added stimulus,
partly by reason of her inherited obstinacy, and partly because she
felt that Loring was misunderstood, and all her loyalty was engaged
in his behalf. She felt a pride in having discovered what she thought
were his possibilities, and she was determined that the world should
acknowledge them too. In the face of Mr. Cameron’s disapproval she
did not venture to ask Loring to the house; but whenever they met
in the camp or on the road she made a point of stopping to talk with
him and inquiring how things were going at the hoist.
It must be set down to Loring’s credit that none of these meetings
were of his planning, for as his love for her deepened, as it did day
by day, he felt more and more keenly the barriers which he himself
had raised between them. He felt how far wrong he had been in
assuming that his life had been wholly his own and that his failures
could touch no one but himself. He did not dare to construct the
future, but clung to the present with realization of its blessings. He
felt a glow of pride in Jean’s friendship for him, and a steady reliance
on her faith in him. Week after week went by and the fiber within
him strengthened. The belief in the worthwhileness of life came to
him with a splendid rush of conviction that was not to be denied.
The depth of happiness is, unfortunately, however, no criterion of
its duration. One evening the stage, after depositing at the office its
load of mail and newcomers, lurched jerkily up the incline that led to
Mr. Cameron’s house, instead of being driven to the corral as usual.
Loring watched it and his spirits dropped like a barometer. An
incident may easily depress high spirits, though it takes an event to
raise low ones. The event which had raised his spirits to-day was a
meeting with Jean Cameron while Mr. Cameron was inspecting
Number Three shaft. Jean had accompanied her father to the hoist
and Loring had been able to talk with her for a longer time than
usual. The incident that had depressed was merely a slight break in
the routine. He did not usually notice the stage. Why should he do
so now? What was more natural than that Mr. Cameron should have
some visitor?
“Probably one of the directors of the company, or some official,”
Stephen reflected. “Perhaps that was why that new saddle was sent
down to the corral.”
Loring shortened his day by dividing it into periods. A period
consisted of the time required to raise ten buckets of ore. At the end
of each period he permitted himself to glance over his shoulder,
where just beyond the corner of the ore cribs he could see the porch
of Mr. Cameron’s house. Now and then he was rewarded by a
glimpse of Jean reading or talking to her father. Loring was very
honest with himself and never before the requisite amount of work
was accomplished did he give himself his reward. This morning he
had gone through the usual routine, lowered the day’s shift and
patiently waited to hoist the first result of their labor. It had been a
severe strain on his subjective integrity, when, after he had raised
nine buckets of ore, the expected tenth turned out to be merely a
load of dulled drills sent up to be sharpened. Exasperated, he
watched while the “nipper” boys unloaded the drills and put in the
newly sharpened sets which they had brought from the blacksmith’s.
One little fellow either unduly conscientious, or with a wholesome
dread of the wrath of the mine foreman, laboriously counted the
new drills from the short “starters” to the six- and seven-foot drills
that complete the set.
“Oh, they’re all right, Ignacio,” called Stephen. “Chuck them in!
’Sta ’ueno.”
The next time his hopes were fulfilled, and bucket number ten
appeared on the surface. As soon as it was clear of the shaft and
swung onto the waiting ore car, Stephen turned for his long-desired
glance. Tied to the fence in front of Mr. Cameron’s house was
another horse beside Jean’s pony, which he knew so well. As he
looked, the door opened and Jean appeared. She was too far away
for him to distinguish her features and yet she seemed to him to
have an air of buoyancy which he had not before remarked. A man
stepped out of the doorway behind her. His tan riding-boots were
brilliant with a gloss that is unknown in a world where men shine
their own shoes. The sunlight positively quivered upon them. Jean
and the stranger mounted, and as they rode nearer to the hoist
Stephen observed that the man was singularly good-looking, but
“too sleek by half,” he growled vindictively, as he turned to his work
again.
The stranger turned out to be a young cousin of Mr. Cameron’s,
ostensibly in camp to see “western life”; but Stephen had his own
opinion as to that. In a week Loring disliked the cousin, in a fortnight
he loathed him, and all without ever having exchanged a word with
the dapper youth. A man who by necessity is compelled to wear a
flannel shirt and trousers frayed by tucking within high boots, is
always prone to consider a better dressed man as dapper. For a
week Stephen had not had a chance to speak with Miss Cameron.
The cousin, “Archibald Iverach,” as the letters which Loring saw at
the post-office indicated to be his name, may not have been
intentionally responsible; but to his shadow-like attendance on Jean,
Loring attributed the result and accordingly prayed for his departure.
“To be sure he is her guest; but that is no reason why he should
have too good a time,” he reflected gloomily. “She must be enjoying
his visit or she would not keep him so long.”
Had Loring overheard a conversation which took place at Mr.
Cameron’s table the day before Iverach’s return to the East, he
would have felt his affection for that gentleman still more increased.
The conversation had turned upon the types of men in camp.
Iverach’s estimate of them had been as disparaging as theirs of him.
The only men with whom he had come in contact had annoyed him
as having no place in his neatly constructed world. “Cheap
independence” was the phrase that he had used to describe their
manner. He had good cause to know this independence for one day
he had addressed McKay in a rather lofty fashion, and what McKay
had said in return could only be constructed from a careful and
diligent reading of the unexpurgated parts of all the most lurid books
in the world combined. The retort had been worthy of a territory
where the championship swearing belt is held by one who can swear
between syllables. His remarks had reflected on Iverach’s parentage
on the male and female sides, it had enlarged on his past,
expatiated on his probable future, dilated upon his present. The
pleasantest of the places that awaited him, according to McKay, was
hotter than Tombstone in August. His looks and character had been
described in a way that had surpassed even McKay’s fertile
imagination. Iverach had always imagined that he would fight a man
for using such language to him; yet for some reason he had not
hastened to express offense. He was not a coward; but he was not
adventurous nor easily aroused to anger when it might have
unpleasant results. Consequently to-day, when he finished his
remarks about the men whom he had seen by observing that they
were “the scum of the earth,” he was guilty of no conscious
exaggeration.
Mr. Cameron paid no attention to his cousin’s remarks. He had
rarely found them rewarding and therefore with his usual Scotch
economy he declined to waste interest upon them. Jean, however,
for some reason took the trouble to continue the discussion.
“Have you met a man named Loring, one of the hoist engineers?”
she asked quietly.
Iverach looked up suddenly. “Loring? What is his first name?”
“Stephen.”
“I have not met him here; but if he is the man I think he is, I
happen to have heard something of him in the East. A friend of his
asked me to keep an eye out for him if I came to any of the camps
in Arizona. In fact, he told me to keep two eyes open for him, one to
find him with, and the other to look out for him after I had found
him. He intimated that Loring was not a reliable character, to say the
least.”
“A friend of his, did you say?”
“I judged that he had been at one time, but from the trend of his
conversation his friendship must have been a thing of the dim past.
Among other pleasant things about Loring he told me that—”
“Did he say anything about his ability as a hoist engineer? That, I
think, is the only thing with which we are concerned here,”
interrupted Jean. “You know, Archie, there is a proverb to the effect
that ‘a man’s past is his own.’”
“Then all I can say is that Loring is not to be envied his
ownership,” Iverach went on, ignoring the danger signal of Jean’s
slightly contemptuous manner. “And as for discussing his past, I
cannot see any harm in repeating what every one knows about a
man.”
Ordinarily Mr. Cameron was the most fair-minded of men, and
judged people by what he knew of them, not by what he heard; but
he had a particular antipathy to Loring, caused by dislike of his type,
and also he was not sorry to have Jean hear a few truths about the
man whose companionship he dreaded for her as much as he
resented her championship of him.
“What was it you were going to say about Loring?” he asked of
Iverach, as he handed him a cigar.
Iverach paused to clip it carefully with a gold cigar-cutter that
hung from his watch-chain. “Of course it is only hearsay that I am
repeating—” Archibald began hesitatingly.
“Then why repeat it?” asked Jean ironically.
“Oh, the most interesting things in the world are those that you
accept on hearsay,” he laughed. “I forget the details of Loring’s
history, but this friend intimated that Loring, when engaged to his
guardian’s daughter, borrowed large sums of money from the
guardian, and—well, neither the engagement nor the money ever
materialized and Stephen Loring is not much sought after in that
neighborhood. I met the girl once,” he went on, “and I don’t blame
Loring. She was the kind of young woman whose eyes light up only
over causes; but the money part of the story, if true, is rather an
ugly fact. Dexterity with other people’s money is not an agreeable
form of deftness.”
“Utterly contemptible,” snapped Mr. Cameron, flicking the ashes
from his cigar onto the table with a prodigal gesture, only to brush
them onto an envelope with the afterthought of an exact nature.
Jean rose and walked toward the door.
“At what time do you ride this afternoon?” her cousin called after
her.
“Thanks,” replied Jean, without turning, “but I shall not be able to
ride this afternoon, I am intending to spend the time in making a
pair of curtains for this window. I do not like the view of the hoist.”
Iverach’s face fell, for he was leaving Quentin the next day, and he
had counted much upon this last interview. “Can’t the curtains wait
until to-morrow?” he remonstrated.
“No, they must be finished at once,” replied Jean with decision.
“Why this burst of domestic energy?” queried Mr. Cameron. “You
know that you have not taken a needle in your hand since you have
been in the camp.”
“I intend to change my habits in many ways,” Jean responded,
pressing her lips together firmly.
“I beg of you not to change at all,” said Iverach. “It is impossible
to improve a perfect person. However, since you are in the domestic
mood, I wonder if you would take pity on a helpless bachelor and
take a stitch in my riding-gloves for me?”
“Riding-gloves are a luxury, while curtains are a necessity,” replied
Jean firmly. “However, if you will give the gloves to me, I will see
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