New York seemed strange to Brent for several days after his arrival. Life itself impressed him as unnatural and unreal. More than once he became suspicious that memory was playing him a trick, and he half felt that he ought not himself to believe the story of the last half-year, a story he was sure nobody else would credit on the security of his mere assertion.
Resolved as he was not to share his secret, he was a little puzzled at first as to the best practical course for turning his present resources into available cash. After making some general inquiries, he decided that the most direct method would be best. He would take his boxes of gold to the Mint, have the metal coined under the terms of the Free Coinage of Gold Act, and make no explanations to anybody. He presumed that so large a deposit of virgin gold might cause some comment at the Mint, but the sum was not great enough to be of general business importance and there seemed to be no reason for fearing any widespread curiosity or inquiry.{86}
He hired for a month a small room in the basement of an office building in one of the less busy down-town streets. His twenty small, amazingly heavy boxes were safely stored there within a week of his arrival in the city. He then undertook the tedious and by no means easy task of separating the gold from the covering of sand with which he had disguised it. He did this in order that he might meet the requirements of the Mint and offer only the clean and pure metal. He grew heartily tired of the job before he had finished it, for it occupied him several hours daily for a full fortnight. At last it was completed and the cases were shipped to Philadelphia.
Brent went with them. He had them transferred from the express car to a truck, got into the wagon himself and with two or three truckmen drove to the Mint. He was directed to the proper department for the reception of gold bullion, and he asked the clerk in charge where he should deliver a quantity of gold for coinage.
“I will take it here,” responded the functionary.
“It is outside in a wagon; shall I have it brought in here?” asked Brent.
The reply was in the affirmative, and in a few moments two brawny men staggered in with a small box between them. The clerk seemed much surprised by the great weight of the burden, and re{87}marked with interest that it was evidently a very valuable ingot.
“Have we got to bring ’em all in this way?” inquired one of the truckmen, wiping his forehead.
“Are there any more?” asked the clerk in surprise.
“Yes, twenty of them, and they weigh four hundred pounds apiece, if an ounce.”
The Mint official dropped his routine, red-tape manner and became a very much astonished man.
“Do these boxes contain pure gold?” he exclaimed, turning to Brent.
“Yes, I believe so,” was that individual’s matter-of-fact reply. “There are about four tons of it.”
The first box was taken behind the counter. The clerk, still agitated, produced a screw-driver at Brent’s request, and the cover was taken off.
“Nuggets and dust, not bullion,” said the government employee, taking up a little in his hand and examining it critically. “Yes, and wonderfully pure. Four tons! Almost two and a half millions.”
When he had mastered his astonishment, the clerk told the truckmen that they might take the team to the entrance of the bullion reception department and deliver their load direct, without bringing it into the office. Then he excused himself for a moment and returning presently he invited Brent to visit the director of the Mint, who was in the building.{88}
The owner of millions in virgin gold was greeted with much respect by the head of Uncle Sam’s money-coining establishments. He asked several questions about the remarkable deposit, all of which Brent answered except one as to the source of the newborn wealth. This he respectfully explained he was unable to disclose. He requested the director to use his good offices to prevent as far as possible any unnecessary publicity in connection with the reception of so unusual a quantity of gold from private hands. The director promised to take such precautions as could be taken, and after waiting some time for his weighing receipt, Brent withdrew.
A few days later, the young man had on deposit to his credit in the Chemical National Bank of New York, the substantial sum of $2,445,152 in cash. Then he set about the detailed work called for by his agreement with Fraser. He found it necessary to have such a vault as was needed for the safe storage of the treasure specially constructed. He bought a suitable site on a quiet street south of Fourteenth Street and west of Broadway, and a large force of men was speedily at work in the construction.
A little figuring made it plain that storage capacity equivalent to at least 36,000 cubic feet would be required for the reception of six thousand tons of gold packed in such boxes as he intended using. The{89} vault or vaults, as he designed and finally ordered them, measured in their internal dimensions eighty feet long, forty feet wide, and twelve feet high. It was an expensive undertaking. The contract price for the construction of granite, steel, and cement, to be completed within five months, was $250,000.
Early in April, Brent contracted for the manufacture of twenty-four thousand boxes similar in most respects to those he had had made in Buenos Ayres. They were to be twenty inches long, thirteen inches wide, and ten inches deep, external measurement, and they were designed to contain five hundred pounds each of gold. Lined with iron and held together by screws, it was hardly possible that any ordinary rough handling would injure such a receptacle sufficiently to disclose its contents.
These matters disposed of, Brent found himself with two or three months of almost idle time on his hands. He would have preferred to spend it among the strange people and scenes he expected soon to revisit, but New York was not unattractive even during the suspense under which he labored. When was the metropolis of the New World ever unattractive to a young man with money and with tastes not yet jaded by indulgence?
As the time approached for making preparations for his long journey south, he made inquiries in vain for{90} a steamship suitable for the trip. He required a boat of at least nine thousand tons, and aside from the well-known Atlantic greyhounds and a few men-of-war, few ships of that size existed. It began to appear that only by chartering some famous liner at an enormous expenditure would he be able to keep his appointment in the Patagonian harbor. He was averse to taking so bold a step, chiefly because of the danger of publicity which it involved. It would be impossible to withdraw a well-known crack flyer from her regular Atlantic service at the height of the passenger season and to send her off on a mysterious voyage without attracting much public attention and curiosity.
There seemed to be no other course open, and Brent was about to make to the American line an offer of three quarters of a million for three months’ use of their steamer New York, when he learned of the arrival from Bremen of a giant cargo steamship, the Richmond, on her first voyage. She was a crack boat of her kind, 9,580 tons, twin screws, enormous cargo capacity, and built very much on the lines of the ill-fated Naronic. Brent lost no time in putting himself in communication with the representatives of her owners. His negotiations were easily successful, and an offer of four hundred thousand dollars secured possession of the great boat from August till mid-November.{91}
In addition to the twenty-four thousand queer little boxes which puzzled the crew very much, Brent put on board a considerable miscellaneous cargo for the benefit of his Patagonian friends. He kept in mind, however, Casimiro’s wise warning and included little or nothing of the luxuries of civilization.
On the morning of August 4, the Richmond cleared for Rio Janeiro, with Brent as the only passenger. The run to Rio was easily made in eighteen days. The steamer was re-coaled and again sailed under papers providing for a cruising trip, touching at coast points. Brent had endeavored as far as possible to prevent any idea of mystery getting possession of the officers or crew of the ship. He had said that he was going to trade with some of the natives farther south and that he had arranged to take back to New York a cargo of ore or gold-bearing placer gravel. After leaving Rio, he pointed out the destination on the general chart to the captain and produced his private chart of the natural harbor in which they would find shelter.
Approaching the coast on the morning of August 30, Brent soon recognized the rugged topography about the entrance to his unnamed harbor. The ship proceeded with the greatest caution. She felt her way with constant soundings. Brent had warned the captain that the chart which he supplied had been made{92} with some haste and not the greatest thoroughness. After creeping along almost inch by inch for fully three hours, the Richmond reached what seemed to be a safe anchorage at a little greater distance from the shore, as Brent remembered it, than the schooner had stopped on his previous visit.
While the ship was slowly seeking her moorings, Brent examined the shore searchingly with a powerful glass. He could discover no sign of life, not a trace of the presence of a human being. A nervous apprehension began to rise within him when the anchor had been dropped and only the wild and desolate coast appeared to welcome him. He dreaded to discover the fate of his Patagonian friends, his partner in the treasure-quest, and the vast prize itself which he had come to bear away. As soon as the steamer was at rest, he asked for a small boat and a couple of sailors to row him ashore. Soon he entered the little cove where he had first landed and where he had left the raft and its precious load eight months before. His forebodings increased as he grounded upon the narrow beach and stepped ashore without discovering anything to suggest the previous presence of man. There were not even logs or driftwood from abandoned rafts. The empty boxes which he had landed from the schooner had disappeared. There was simply a silent, desolate, narrow beach, with almost a precipice rising back of it.{93}
Concealing his agitation, Brent directed the boatmen to wait for him and sought the natural trail leading to the higher land above. This he found and hastily followed up the steep ascent. A few minutes’ hard climbing brought him to the beautiful bit of pasture-land where he had first met the native Indians, and made acquaintance with the remarkable qualities of Patagonian horses and horsemanship. The little plain was deserted. Its verdure in the cool spring air was not as luxuriant as it had been under the warm summer sun of the previous December.
The young man looked about in dismay. The solitude appalled him. Not even a bird-note made the silence less oppressive. He began to fancy himself the victim of a delusion. The uncanny impression that the record in his mind of the past year had no material existence returned to torment him. His common sense came to his rescue after a little, and he tried to consider reasonably the cause of this desolation, where he had expected to find life and activity. That something had gone wrong was almost certain, but he could only conjecture what it might be. He sat down upon a rock to think the matter over, but his meditations brought him little satisfaction.
It occurred to him presently that the time fixed for his coming with the steamer was the 1st of September, which was still two days off. It had, however, been{94} no absolute appointment for a set day and hour, and he felt sure that Fraser and many of the natives, according to the plans at the time of his departure, would be in the vicinity for days if not weeks before the time. There seemed nothing for him to do but to wait. He would at least take no step, he decided, until the 1st of September had passed. Perhaps then he would undertake to visit overland the wonderful valley in order to seek the solution of the mystery. He dreaded such a journey. He had no horses or means of getting them, and he doubted very much if he could make his way on foot, unguided, to the spot where the gold had lain. It would be a difficult and perilous undertaking under any circumstances.
He banished from his manner as far as possible all symptoms of perturbation and made his way back to the steamer. He told the captain that they were likely to make a long stay in the harbor, and that no one from on board must be allowed at any time to land near the mouth of the river which he had just visited. The natives, he explained, would resent the intrusion of white men at that point, and any violation of their wishes would interfere with trading and might lead to trouble. Then Brent composed himself with as much patience as he could command to wait for some indication from the shore. The next day passed without a sign, and nobody left the ship. Anxious use of{95} strong field-glasses directed toward all parts of the land-locked bay discovered nothing.
Late that night, Brent decided that if the next day should pass without any solution of the mystery, he would attempt the ascent of the river upon which he had made one almost fatal trip. He had on board the Richmond a powerful naphtha launch, which he had expected to use for towing rafts or small lighters from the shore alongside the steamer. He believed this craft might succeed in forcing a passage through even the swiftest part of the river, up to the original treasure-bed in the mountain-locked valley. At all events, it was worth trying, and the young man succeeded in sleeping upon his resolution.
The next morning brought no communication from the shore, and Brent ordered the launch made ready for a cruise. He was watching the men at work upon it, just before noon, when the second officer called to him suddenly that a boat was approaching the steamship from the shore. Brent hurried to the side. He saw a canoe containing three men rapidly nearing the ship. The two at the paddles were native Patagonians, the third Brent recognized instantly as Casimiro. He motioned to the chief to bring the canoe to the foot of the ladder at the side of the steamship, and in a few moments the old man was on deck, receiving Brent’s greetings with the grave native dignity pecul{96}iar to himself. The great ship upon which he stood evidently impressed the Patagonian deeply. He looked about him, forward, aft, aloft, at the immense smoke-tunnel, at the height above the water where he stood, and then shook his head in dumb marvel.
Brent waited a moment for his surprise to pass off and then pressed with some anxiety his inquiries for Fraser. The old man’s face changed instantly. His awe became sadness, and again his head shook silently, this time with the dejection of grief.
“Tell me,” exclaimed Brent in much alarm, speaking in Spanish, “is my friend dead?”
Slowly the old man replied in broken Spanish phrases: “I bring you saddest grief. It is true. The good white cacique is dead. He fell fighting for my people, fighting for the accursed gold.”
The news overwhelmed the young man. The blow was so unexpected, in spite of his vague forebodings, that it unmanned him. He leaned against a stanchion, silent and pale. He was unable to ask for the particulars of the tragedy. Casimiro looked on in manifest sympathy with the other’s genuine grief. Presently he invited the young man to go with him to the shore, promising to give him there the whole history of events during his absence.
Brent went with him at once, asking no questions. The canoe took them, not to the little cove where they had{97} landed before, but to the opposite side of the river’s mouth, some rods farther away. The country here seemed as deserted as the opposite bank, and there was the same rugged, forbidding coast-line. Casimiro led the way, and a few minutes’ rough walk brought them to another concealed camp, situated somewhat similarly to that which Brent had first visited. But the young man felt neither surprise nor interest in what he saw. He went at once with the chief to the temporary hut which the latter occupied. Brent sat down upon a pile of skins and for the first time asked Casimiro to tell him his story.
The old Patagonian’s narrative was not long, as he told it. The limitations of a strange tongue prevented any elaboration of detail. The story as he gave it to Brent was less complete than even the brief version of it which follows:
After Brent’s departure in January, the work of emptying the old river-bed of its remaining store of gold and transporting it to the coast had been pushed vigorously and systematically. Fraser’s practical suggestions and superintendence had simplified the task wonderfully. He had sought to float as much of the gold as possible to the river-mouth before the advent of winter should make the operation difficult and dangerous. After he had thoroughly instructed the natives in raft-building, he made a trip{98} with a large treasure-load, as Brent had done. He examined with Casimiro the facilities for concealing the gold on the shore, and decided as a precaution against possible discovery that half the treasure should be buried on the bank of the stream opposite the little cove. He had then returned to the treasure valley and had devoted himself with great energy to the severe task in hand.
Rapid progress was made and only one serious mishap occurred. This happened at almost the exact spot where Brent’s gold-seeking career had almost ended with his life. Some undiscoverable cause, perhaps a local deluge at the sources of the stream, had considerably swollen the current. The swift water carried one of the rafts too near the rocky bank. The end of a log touched the flinty wall. In an instant the ponderous mass was a scattered procession of drift-wood. The millions of treasure which it had borne sank into dark depths whence only another convulsion such as rent the divided mountain could resurrect it. One of the raftsmen was crushed to death, the others clung to the floating timber until they were borne to smoother water and could swim ashore.
In April, Fraser made another trip to the coast. Work at both ends of the line was making excellent progress. More than half the gold which had been recovered and stored when he and Brent arrived in{99} Treasure Valley had been safely carried to the shore. Most of it had been buried in the new spot which had been selected, opposite their first landing-place. That which was yet to come down the river, it was intended to conceal in the sands of the little cove. The native camp was transferred for this purpose to the small plateau where the two white men had first seen it.
Soon after the camp was stirring one morning, Fraser and the Indians alike were startled by the sound of firearms coming from the direction of the beach below the plateau. The Scotchman seized a rifle, shouted to the natives to arm themselves and follow him, and then ran hastily down the narrow path toward the shore. The Indians, including Casimiro, who were soon on the heels of their leader, saw him stop just before reaching the bottom of the trail and motion them to approach cautiously. They did so and they saw a sight which filled them with alarm and rage. Five of their fellows, who had gone early to the shore, lay dead upon the sand. A raft had been moored upon the beach the day before and the work of unloading its treasure had been begun. Most of its burden of gold still lay naked upon the timbers. Around this were now gathered a dozen white men and another Indian, who, Casimiro explained in a savage whisper to Fraser, was the renegade member of the tribe whose treachery they had feared.{100}
The white men seemed to be in wildest excitement over the heap of treasure before them. Disregarding all prudence, they had flung down their rifles, and now they knelt beside the gold and madly plunged their hands into the shining pile. Some of them began frantically to fill their pockets with the yellow nuggets. Presently, judging by their movements, one or two of them suggested bringing the two boats, in which they had come and which lay upon the beach near by, to the side of the raft and loading them with gold.
By this time the Indians concealed along the secret path were no longer to be held back from avenging their murdered comrades. Casimiro by a few signs to his followers and a word or two to Fraser ordered an attack while the white adventurers were still crazy with the fever of gold. They began creeping quietly nearer the beach, when the Indian on the raft caught sight of a movement among the rocks and shouted a warning to his white companions. At the same moment that the invading party picked up their guns, Fraser, Casimiro, and fifty Patagonians sprang toward them only fifty yards away. There was a double volley of rifle shots. Five of those on the raft fell and three of the attacking party. There was no more shooting. The eight men remaining on the raft tried to reach their boats. Access by land was cut off.{101} They threw themselves into the water and tried to swim toward them. Instead of swimming they sank from sight. Two of them never rose again. The other three tore off their gold-loaded coats and rose to the surface. It was only a choice of deaths for them. Instantly they were seized by revengeful hands and the blue water was reddened with their blood.
The traitor died by Casimiro’s own hand. He had been wounded by the first discharge of firearms. He leaped to his feet when the avenging party reached the raft and faced them, knife in hand. The chief was in the van. He motioned to the others to stand back and, himself a picture of vengeance, rejuvenated and implacable, sprang upon the doomed man. The defiance of the wretch at bay seemed at the last moment to change to terror. He cringed. The yellow heap which was to have been the prize of his treachery was literally the pillow upon which he drew his last breath.
It was not a fight but a slaughter. In five minutes it was over. Not one of the invaders remained alive. Casimiro for the first time missed the Scotchman. He looked quickly from one to another of the prostrated forms upon the beach and raft, and then ran swiftly to a figure lying upon the sand, where the volley from the raft had met the charging Patagonians. The Scotchman lay upon his face. Casimiro turned him.{102} A groan relieved the worst fears, and he sought to revive the wounded man. Fraser regained consciousness presently, but shook his head in answer to the look in the chief’s face. A ball had passed through his body just below the breast-bone, and the injured man knew his case was hopeless. He protested against being moved, and the Indians brought skins for a softer couch and tried to ease his sufferings where he lay.
The dying man gave little thought to himself. He asked eagerly about the result of the short battle. He suggested sending to reconnoiter at once in order to ascertain whence the invaders came and whether there were more of them. Casimiro told him a small ship lay anchored in the harbor, but she seemed to be deserted. Then the sufferer advised the removal of all the gold in the cove to the hiding-place on the opposite side of the river. He reminded Casimiro of his promise to carry out the agreement with Brent in case of his own misfortune, and urged the thorough execution of the original plan as the only safeguard against such tragedies as they had just witnessed.
Casimiro acquiesced sadly in all the dying man said, and when the end came rather suddenly at the last, he closed the eyes of his stanch ally and friend with a grief as deep as he would have felt for any of his own kindred.{103}
“Tell the lad,” said Fraser just before the end, “that his responsibility will be greater than mine—greater than I could have borne—greater than any man bears to-day. I love the lad. He will be true.”
The struggle to exorcise the curse which the presence of gold meant to the Patagonians went on more earnestly than ever after this. Some feeling of rebellion against the heavy labor which the task imposed quite disappeared after the tragic demonstration of the dangers lurking in the useless treasure which encumbered their land. The ship in which the white men had come proved to be quite deserted. The Indians took it outside the harbor and sank it in the sea. The two or three loads of gold which had been landed in the little cove were taken to the opposite bank of the river. All the remaining gold had been brought from Treasure Valley, safely landed and concealed, and all trace of treasure or anything else unusual had been removed nearly a month before Brent’s arrival. Casimiro had simply waited for the hour when he understood Brent was to appear and then he had presented himself.
Brent gleaned the principal points in this history from Casimiro’s narration. His grief over his friend’s fate quite destroyed for the time all interest in the treasure which had been the primary cause of it. There arose, in fact, a revulsion in his mind against{104} this gold which for him would always be blood-stained, a sinister and evil treasure. He talked long with the old man about his dead friend, and Casimiro strove to satisfy his thirst for knowledge of the man they both had loved with an affection not less strong than a brother’s.
When Casimiro turned at last to the work still at hand, Brent brought himself to the subject with the greatest aversion. He explained very briefly his facilities for shipping the gold, and it was agreed to begin work on the morrow. It was a comparatively simple task. The position of the steamship was changed a few rods to facilitate the work, and then the unloading of the cargo and boxes went on rapidly from day to day. All the work, except placing the goods upon the floats at the ship’s side and hoisting the loaded boxes of gold on board, was done by the Indians. No one from the ship except Brent was allowed to step foot ashore at the point where the cargo was landed and the mysterious boxes were reshipped. The crew of the Richmond marveled much at the extraordinary weight of the small cases when they came back from the shore. A rumor gained currency among them that the boxes contained quicksilver ore, and ignorant as the men were of such subjects this report quite satisfied their curiosity.
On the 3d of October, the Richmond’s cargo was{105} all on board, and instead of appearing to be in ballast only she sank deep in the water under the small but heavy load. Brent had a last and affectionate interview with Casimiro, who seemed to consider that the service was on Brent’s part and not on his own in carrying away the gold. The young man arranged for the annual delivery of a cargo of supplies in December midsummer, and then just at noon, with steam up, the Richmond startled the echoes and sent terror to the hearts of the Patagonians with a tremendous blast of her whistle. A few moments later she was under way, creeping slowly out into the ocean and then turning her prow to the north.
The steamer’s cargo was so heavy that she was unable to carry a full supply of coal. She put in again at Rio Janeiro to partially refill her bunkers. Otherwise the voyage to New York was without stop or unusual incident. Sandy Hook was sighted on the 2d of November, and the steamer lay at quarantine that night while Brent went up to the city to arrange for docking.
The only point which gave the young man any anxiety was the customs inspection. His cargo was not dutiable, so that he would be guilty of no fraud upon the government in failing to declare its real nature. He was also confident that if the arrival of such a vast quantity of gold should transpire through{106} a custom-house declaration, it would inflict a great and unnecessary calamity upon the business world. His conscience felt justified, therefore, in resorting to the same expedient which he had adopted on landing his small consignment of gold a few months before. Fortune seemed to favor him, for the same inspector came aboard who had examined his boxes before. He remembered the occasion, and his examination this time was almost as superficial as the first.
This ordeal passed and the ship docked near the foot of West Tenth Street. Brent felt that the worst of his difficulties were over. He found the vault completed to his satisfaction, and the work of storing his strange cargo therein was begun at once.