It is dangerous to start rumors against even the soundest of banks, because our present-day finance is no more than a house of cards built precariously on Public Confidence. No bank can pay interest, or even do business, if it keeps all its money in the vaults; and yet in times of panic, if a run ever starts, every depositor comes clamoring for his money. Public confidence is shaken–and the house of cards falls, carrying with it the fortunes of all. The depositors lose their money, the bankers lose their money; and thousands of other people in nowise connected with it are ruined by the failure of one bank. Hence the committee of Blackwater citizens, with blood in their eye, which called on John C. Calhoun.

Since the loss of his mine Wunpost had turned ugly and morose; and his remarks about Eells, and especially about his bank, were nicely calculated to get under the rind. He was waiting for the committee, right in front of the bank; and the moment they began to talk he began to orate, and to denounce them and everything else in Blackwater. What was intended as a call-down of an envious and 260destructive agitator threatened momentarily to turn into a riot and, hearing his own good name brought into question, Judson Eells stepped quickly out and challenged his bold traducer.

“W’y, sure I said it!” answered Wunpost hotly, “and I don’t mind saying it again. Your bank is all a fake, like your danged tin front; and you’ve got everything in your vault except money.”

“Well, now, Mr. Calhoun,” returned Judson Eells waspishly, “I’m going to challenge that statement, right now. What authority have you got for suggesting that my cash is less than the law requires?”

“Well,” began Wunpost, “of course I don’t know, but-”

“No, of course you don’t know!” replied Eells with a smile, “and everybody knows you don’t know; but your remarks are actionable and if you don’t shut up and go away I’ll instruct my attorney to sue you.”

“Oh, ‘shut up,’ eh?” repeated Wunpost after the crowd had had its laugh; “you think I’m a blow-hard, eh? You all do, don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” He paused impressively, reached down into several pockets and pointed a finger at Eells. “I’ll bet you,” he said, “that I’ve got more money in my clothes than you have in your whole danged bank–and if you can prove any different I’ll acknowledge I’m wrong by depositing my roll in your bank. Now–that’s fair enough, ain’t it?”

He nodded and leered knowingly at the gaping crowd as Eells began to temporize and hedge.

261“I’m a blow-hard, am I?” he shouted uproariously; “my remarks are actionable, are they? Well, if I should go into court and tell half of what I know there’d be two men on their way to the Pen!” He pointed two fingers at Eells and Phillip Lapham and the banker saw a change in the crowd. Public confidence was wavering, the cold fingers of doubt were clutching at the hearts of his depositors–but behind it all he sensed a trap. It was not by accident that Wunpost was on his corner when the committee of citizens came by; and this bet of his was no accident either, but part of some carefully laid scheme. The question was–how much money did Wunpost have? If, unknown to them, he had found access to large sums and had come there with the money on his person, then the acceptance of his bet would simply result in a farce and make the bank a byword and a mocking. If it could be said on the street that one disreputable prospector had more money in his clothes than the bank, then public confidence would receive a shrewd blow indeed, which might lead to disastrous results. But the murmur of doubt was growing, Wunpost was ranting like a demagogue–the time for a show-down had come.

“Very well!” shouted Eells, and as the crowd began to cheer the committee adjourned to the bank. Eells strode in behind the counter and threw the vault doors open, his cashier and Lapham made the count, and when Wunpost was permitted to see the cash himself his face fell and he fumbled in his pockets.

262“You win,” he announced, and while all Blackwater whooped and capered he deposited his roll in the bank. It was a fabulously big roll–over forty thousand dollars in five hundred and thousand dollar bills–but he deposited it all without saying a word and went out to buy the drinks.

“That’s all right,” he said, “the drinks are on me. But I wanted to know that that money was safe before I went in and put it in the bank.”

It was a great triumph for Eells and a great boost for his bank, and he insisted in the end upon shaking hands with Wunpost and assuring him there was no hard feeling. Wunpost took it all grimly, for he claimed to be a sport, but he saddled up soon after and departed for the hills, leaving Blackwater delirious with joy. So old Wunpost had been stung and called again by the redoubtable Judson Eells, and the bank had been proved to be perfectly sound and a credit to the community it served! It made pretty good reading for the Blackwater Blade, which had recently been established in their midst, and the committee of boosters ordered a thousand extra copies and sent them all over the country. That was real mining stuff, and every dollar of Wunpost’s money had been dug from the Sockdolager Mine. Eells set to work immediately to build him a road and to order the supplies and machinery, and as the development work was pushed towards completion John C. Calhoun was almost forgotten. He was gone, that was all they knew, and if he never came back it would be soon enough for Eells.

263But there was one who still watched for the prodigal’s return and longed ardently for his coming, for Wilhelmina Campbell still remembered with regret the days when their ranch had been his goal. No matter where he had been, or what desperate errand took him once more into the hills, he had headed for their ranch like a homing pigeon that longs to join its mates. The portal of her tunnel had been their trysting place, where he had boasted and raged and denounced all his enemies and promised to return with their scalps. But that was just his way, and it was harmless after all, and wonderfully exciting and amusing; but now the ranch was dead, except for the gang of road-makers who came by from their camp up the canyon.

For her father at last had consented to build the road, since Wunpost had disclaimed all title to the mine; but now it was his daughter who looked on with a heavy heart, convinced that the money was accursed. She had stolen it, she knew, from the man who had been her lover and who had trusted her as no one else; only Wunpost was too proud to make any protest or even acknowledge he had been wronged. He had accepted his loss with the grim stoicism of a gambler and gone out again into the hills, and the only thought that rose up to comfort her was that he had deposited all his money in the bank. Every dollar, so they said; and when he had bought his supplies the store-keeper had had to write out his check! But anyway he was safe, for now everybody knew that he had no money on his person; 264and when he came back he might stop at the ranch and she could tell him about the road.

It was being built by contract, and more solidly than ever, and already it was through the gorge and well up the canyon towards Panamint and the Homestake Mine. And the mud and rocks that the cloudburst had deposited had been dug out and cleared away from their trees; the ditch had been enlarged, her garden restored and everything left tidy and clean. But something was lacking and, try as she would, she failed to feel the least thrill of joy. Their poverty had been hard, and the waiting and disappointments; but even if the Homestake Mine turned out to be a world-beater she would always feel that somehow it was his. But when Wunpost came back he did not stop at the ranch–she saw him passing by on the trail.

He rode in hot haste, heading grimly for Blackwater, and when he spurred down the main street the crowd set up a yell, for they had learned to watch for him now. When Wunpost came to town there was sure to be something doing, something big that called for the drinks; and all the pocket-miners and saloon bums were there, lined up to see him come in. But whether he had made a strike in his lucky way or was back for another bout with Eells was more than any man could say.

“Hello, there!” hailed a friend, or pseudo-friend, stepping out to make him stop at the saloon, “hold on, what’s biting you now?”

“Can’t stop,” announced Wunpost, spurring on 265towards the bank, “by grab, I’ve had a bad dream!”

“A dream, eh?” echoed the friend, and then the crowd laughed and followed on up to the bank. Since Wunpost had lost in his bet with Eells and deposited all his money in the bank he was looked upon almost with pride as a picturesque asset of the town. He made talk, and that was made into publicity, and publicity helped the town. And now this mad prank upon which he seemed bent gave promise of even greater renown. So he had had a bad dream? That piqued their curiosity, but they were not kept long in doubt. Dismounting at the bank, he glanced up at the front and then made a plunge through the bank.

“Gimme my money!” he demanded, bringing his fist down with a bang and making a grab for a check. “Gimme all of it–every danged cent!”

He started to write and threw the pen to the floor as it sputtered and ruined his handiwork.

“Why, what’s the matter, Mr. Calhoun?” cried Eells in astonishment, as the crowd came piling in.

“Gimme a pen!” commanded Wunpost, and, having seized the cashier’s, he began laboriously to write. “There!” he said, shoving the check through the wicket; and then he stood waiting, expectant.

The cashier glanced at the check and passed it back to Eells, who had hastened behind the grille, and then they looked at each other in alarm.

“Why–er–this check,” began Eells, “calls for forty-two thousand, eight hundred and fifty-two dollars. Do you want all that money now?”

266“W’y, sure!” shrilled Wunpost, “didn’t I tell you I wanted it?”

“Well, it’s rather unusual,” went on Judson Eells lamely, and then he spoke in an aside to his cashier.

“No! None of that, now!” burst out Wunpost in a fury, “don’t you frame up any monkey-business on me! I want my money, see? And I want it right now! Dig up, or I’ll wreck the whole dump!”

He brought his hand down again and Judson Eells retired while the cashier began to count out the bills.

“Here!” objected Wunpost, “I don’t want all that small stuff–where’s those thousand dollar bills I turned in? They’re gone? Well, for cripes’ sake, did you think they were a present?”

The clerk started to explain, but Wunpost would not listen to him.

“You’re a bunch of crooks!” he burst out indignantly. “I only deposited that money on a bet! And here you turn loose and spend the whole roll, and start to pay me back in fives and tens.”

“No, but Mr. Calhoun,” broke in Judson Eells impatiently, “you don’t understand how banking is done.”

“Yes I do!” yelled back Wunpost, “but, by grab, I had a dream, and I dreamt that your danged bank was broke! Now gimme my money, and give it to me quick or I’ll come in there and git it myself!”

He waited, grim and watchful, and they counted out the bills while he nodded and stuffed them into his shirt. And then they brought out gold in government-stamped sacks and he dropped them between 267his feet. But the gold was not enough, and while Eells stood pale and silent the clerk dragged out the silver from the vault. Wunpost took them one by one, the great thousand dollar sacks, and added them to the pile at his feet, and still his demand was unsatisfied.

“Well, I’m sorry,” said Eells, “but that’s all we have. And I consider this very unfair.”

“Unfair!” yelled Wunpost. “W’y, you doggone thief, you’ve robbed me of two thousand dollars. But that’s all right,” he added; “it shows my dream was true. And now your tin bank is broke!”

He turned to the crowd, which looked on in stunned silence, and tucked in his money-stuffed shirt.

“So I’m a blow-hard, am I?” he inquired sarcastically, and no one said a word.