Harley had a certain following, but the general feeling towards him
was one of contempt. Most men recognized that he was nothing but a
self-seeker, and there were few who trusted him. He did his best to
achieve popularity, but his efforts were too obvious. Bill Warden's
breezy indifference held an infinitely greater appeal in the eyes
of the crowd.
Harley's resignation was of his own choosing. He declared himself in need
of a rest, and no one attempted to persuade him otherwise. His day was
over, and Warden's succession to the post seemed an inevitable sequence.
As Hill sardonically remarked, there was no other competitor for the
chieftainship of that band of cutthroats.
For some reason he had postponed his departure till after Hill's official
visit to Trelevan. He and Warden shared the largest house in the miners'
colony in Barren Valley. It was close to the mine at the end of the
valley, and part of it was used as the manager's office. It overlooked
the yellow torrent and the black wall of mountain beyond--a savage
prospect that might have been hewn from the crater of a dead volcano.
A rough track led to it, winding some twenty feet above the stream, and
up this track Fletcher Hill drove the two visitors on the evening of the
day succeeding their arrival at Trelevan.
There was a deadness of atmosphere between those rocky walls that struck
chill even to Adela's inconsequent soul.
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