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diff --git a/18116-8.txt b/18116-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e7731fb --- /dev/null +++ b/18116-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11721 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Freebooters of the Wilderness, by Agnes +C. Laut + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Freebooters of the Wilderness + + +Author: Agnes C. Laut + + + +Release Date: April 4, 2006 [eBook #18116] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FREEBOOTERS OF THE +WILDERNESS*** + + +E-text prepared by Al Haines + + + +THE FREEBOOTERS OF THE WILDERNESS + +by + +AGNES C. LAUT + +Author of +"The Conquest of the Great Northwest," "Lords of the North," etc. + + + + + + + +New York +Moffat, Yard and Company +1913 +Copyright, 1910, by +Moffat, Yard and Company +New York +Published September, 1910 +Second Printing, October, 1910 + + + + + +CONTENTS + + +PART I + +CHAPTER + + I TO STRADDLE OR FIGHT + II AN INTERLUDE THAT CAME UNANNOUNCED + III THE CHALLENGE TO A LOSING FIGHT + IV STACKING THE CARDS + V THE CHOICE THAT COMES TO ALL MEN + VI WHEREIN ONE PLAYS AN UNCONSCIOUS PART + VII WHILE LAW MARKS TIME, CRIME SCORES + VIII A VICTIM OF LAW'S DELAY + IX EIGHT INTO MIGHT + X THE HANDY MAN GETS BUSY + XI SETTING OUT ON THE LONG TRAIL + XII THE MAJESTY OF THE LAW VEILS ITSELF + XIII THE MAN ON THE JOB + XIV ON THE GAME TRAIL + XV THE DESERT + XVI BITTER WATERS + XVII WHERE THE TRACKS ALL POINT ONE WAY + + +PART II + + XVIII WITHOUT MALICE + XIX BALLOTS TOR BULLETS + XX A FAITH WORKABLE FOR MEN ON THE JOB + XXI THE HAPPY AND TRIUMPHANT HOME-COMING + XXII A DOWNY-LIPPED YOUTH IN GRAY FLANNELS + XXIII IT AIN'T THE TRUTH I'M TELLIN' YOU: IT'S + ONLY WHAT I'VE HEERD + XXIV I AM UNCLE SAM + XXV THE QUESTION IS--WHICH UNCLE SAM? + XXVI THE AWAKENING + XXVII THE AWAKENING CONTINUED + XXVIII THE UNITED STATES OF THE WORLD + + + + +FOREWORD + +I have been asked how much of this tale of modern freebooters is true? +In exactly which States have such episodes occurred? Have vast herds +of sheep been run over battlements? Have animals been bludgeoned to +death; have men been burned alive; have the criminals not only gone +unpunished but been protected by the law-makers? Have sheriffs "hidden +under the bed" and "handy men" bluffed the press? Have vast domains of +timber lands been stolen in blocks of thousands and hundreds of +thousands of acres through "dummy" entrymen? Have the federal law +officers been shot to death above stolen coal mines? Have Reclamation +Engineers, and Land Office field men, and Forest Rangers undergone such +hardships in Desert and Mountain, as portrayed here? Have they not +only undergone the hardship, but been crucified by the Government which +they served for carrying out the laws of that Government? In a word, +are latter day freebooters of our Western Wilderness playing the same +game in the great transmontane domain as the old-time pirates played on +the high seas? Is this a true story of "the Man on the Job" and "the +Man on the Firing Line" and "the Man Higher Up" and the Looters? + +I answer first that I am not writing of twenty years ago, or yesterday, +or the day before yesterday, but _to-day_, the Year of our Lord +1909-1910 in the most highly civilized country the world has ever +known; in a country where self-government has reached a perfection of +prosperity and power not dreamed by poet or prophet. The menace to +self-government from such national influences at work need not be +described. The triumph of such factors in national life means the +wresting of self-government from the people into the hands of the few, +a repetition of the struggle between the Robber Barons of the Middle +Ages and the Commoners. + +It seems almost incredible that such lawlessness and outrage and +chicanery can exist in America--many of the outrages would disgrace +Russia or Turkey--yet every episode related here has ten prototypes in +Life, in Fact; not of twenty years ago, or yesterday, or the day before +yesterday, _but to-day_. For instance, the number of sheep destroyed +is given as fifteen thousand. The number destroyed in two counties +which I had in mind when I wrote that chapter, by actual tally of the +Stock Association for the past six years, is sixty thousand. Last year +alone, five thousand in one State suffered every form of hideous +mutilation--backs broken, entrails torn out; fifteen hundred in an +adjoining State had their throats cut; three men were burned to death; +one herder in a still more Northern State was riddled to death with +bullets. + +Or to take the case of the timber thefts, I refer to two hundred +thousand acres in California. I might have referred to a million and a +half in Washington and Oregon. + +Or referring to the mineral lands, I mention two thousand acres of +coal. I might have told another story of fifty thousand acres, or yet +another of three hundred thousand acres of gold and silver lands. When +I narrate the shooting of a man at the head of a coal shaft, the +stealing of Government timber by the half million dollars a year +through "the hatchet" trick, or the theft of two thousand acres by +"dummies," I am stating facts known to every Westerner out on the spot. + +In which States have these episodes occurred? Take an imaginary point +anywhere in Central Utah. Describe a circle round that point to +include the timber and grazing sections of all the Rocky Mountain +States from Northern Arizona to Montana and Washington. The episodes +related here could be true of any State inside that circle except (in +part) one. Such forces are at work in all the Mountain States except +(in part) one. That one exception is Utah. Utah has had and is having +tribulations of her own in the working out of self-government; but, for +reasons that need not be given here, she has kept comparatively free of +recent range wars and timber steals. + +This story was suggested to me by a Land Office man--one of the men on +the firing line--who has stood the brunt of the fight against the +freebooters for twenty years and wrested many a victory. I may state +that he is _still_ in the Service and will, I hope, remain in it for +many a year; but these episodes are hinged round the Ranger, rather +than the Land Office or Reclamation men, because, though the latter are +fighting the same splendid fight, their work is of its very nature +transitory--dealing with the beginning of things; while the Ranger is +the man out on the job who remains on the firing line; unless--as my +Land Office friend suggested--unless "he gets fired." As to the +hardships suffered by the fighters, to quote one of them, "You bet: +only more so." + +Just as this volume goes to press, comes word of fires in Washington, +Oregon, Idaho and Montana, destroying dozens of villages, hundreds of +lives and millions of dollars worth of property in the National +Forests; and it is added--"the fires are incendiary." Why this +incendiarism? The story narrated here endeavors to answer that +question. + +The international incidents thinly disguised are equally founded on +fact and will be recognized by the dear but fast dwindling fraternity +of good old-timers. The mother of the boy still lives her steadfast +beautiful creed on the Upper Missouri; and the old frontiersman still +lives on the Saskatchewan, one of the most picturesque and heroic +figures in the West to-day. I may say that both missionaries support +their schools as incidentally revealed here, without Government aid +through their own efforts. Also, it was the stalwart man from +Saskatchewan who was sent searching the heirs to the estate of an +embittered Jacobite of 1745; and those heirs refused to accept either +the wealth or the position for the very reasons set forth here. +Calamity's story, too, is true--tragically true, though this is not +all, not a fraction of her life story; but her name was not Calamity. + + + + +PART I + +THE MAN ON THE JOB + + + + +FREEBOOTERS OF THE WILDERNESS + + +CHAPTER I + +TO STRADDLE OR FIGHT + +"Well," she asked, "are you going to straddle or fight?" + +How like a woman, how like a child, how typical of the outsider's +shallow view of any struggle! As if all one had to do--was stand up +and fight! Mere fighting--that was easy; but to fight to the last +ditch only to find yourself beaten! That gave a fellow pause about +bucking the challenge of everyday life. + +Wayland punched both fists in the jacket pockets of his sage-green +Service suit, and kicked a log back to the camp fire that smouldered in +front of his cabin. If she had been his wife he would have explained +what a fool-thing it was to argue that all a man had to do was fight. +Or if she had belonged to the general class--women--he could have met +her with the condescending silence of the general class--man; but for +him, she had never belonged to any general class. + +She savored of his own Eastern World, he knew that, though he had met +her in this Western Back of Beyond half way between sky and earth on +the Holy Cross Mountain. Wayland could never quite analyze his own +feelings. Her presence had piqued his interest from the first. When +we can measure a character, we can forfend against surprises--discount +virtues, exaggerate faults, strike a balance to our own ego; but when +what you know is only a faint margin of what you don't know, a siren of +the unknown beckons and lures and retreats. + +She had all of what he used to regard as culture in the old Eastern +life, the jargon of the colleges, the smattering of things talked +about, the tricks and turns of trained motions and emotions; but there +was a difference. There was no pretence. There was none of the +fire-proof self-complacency--Self-sufficiency, she had, but not +self-righteousness. Then, most striking contra-distinction of all to +the old-land culture, there was unconsciousness of self--face to +sunlight, radiant of the joy of life, not anaemic and putrid of its own +egoism. She didn't talk in phrases thread-bare from use. She had all +the naked unashamed directness of the West that thinks in terms of life +and speaks without gloze. She never side-stepped the facts of life +that she might not wish to know. Yet her intrusion on such facts gave +the impression of the touch that heals. + +The Forest Ranger had heard the Valley talk of MacDonald, the Canadian +sheep rancher, belonging to some famous fur-trade clans that had +intermarried with the Indians generations before; and Wayland used to +wonder if it could be that strain of life from the outdoors that never +pretends nor lies that had given her Eastern culture the red-blooded +directness of the West. To be sure, such a character study was not +less interesting because he read it through eyes glossy as an Indian's, +under lashes with the curve of the Celt, with black hair that blew +changing curls to every wind. Indian and Celt--was that it, he +wondered?--reserve and passion, self-control and yet the abandonment of +force that bursts its own barriers? + +She had not wormed under the surface for some indirect answer that +would betray what he intended to do. She had asked exactly what she +wanted to know, with a slight accent on the--you. + +"Are you going to straddle or fight?" + +Wayland flicked pine needles from his mountaineering boots. He +answered his own thoughts more than her question. + +"All very well to say--fight; fight for all the fellows in the Land and +Forest Service when they see a steal being sneaked and jobbed! But +suppose you do fight, and get licked, and get yourself chucked out of +the job? Suppose the follow who takes your place sells out to the +enemy--well, then; where are you? Lost everything; gained nothing!" +She laid her panama sunshade on the timbered seat that spanned between +two stumps. + +"Men must decide that sort of thing every day I suppose." + +"You bet they must," agreed the Ranger with a burst of boyishness +through his old-man air, "and the Lord pity the chap who has wife and +kiddies in the balance--" + +"Do you think women tip the scale wrong?" + +"Of course not! They'd advise right--right--right; +fight--fight--fight, just as you do; but the point is--can a fellow do +right by them if he chucks his job in a losing fight?" + +The old-mannish air had returned. She followed the Ranger's glance +over the edge of the Ridge into the Valley where the smoke-stacks of +the distant Smelter City belched inky clouds against an evening sky. + +"Smelters need timber," Wayland waved his hand towards the pall of +smoke over the River. "Smelters need coal. These men plan to take +theirs free. Yet the law arrests a man for stealing a scuttle of coal +or a cord of wood. One law for the rich, another for the poor; and who +makes the law?" + +They could see the Valley below encircled by the Rim-Rocks round as a +half-hoop, terra-cotta red in the sunset. Where the river leaped down +a white fume, stood the ranch houses--the Missionary's and her Father's +on the near side, the Senator's across the stream. Sounds of mouth +organs and concertinas and a wheezing gramaphone came from the Valley +where the Senator's cow-boys camped with drovers come up from Arizona. + +"Dick," she asked, "exactly what is the Senator's brand?" + +"Circle X." + +"A circle with an X in it?" + +The Ranger stubbornly permitted the suspicion of a smile. + +"So if the cattle from Arizona have only a circle, all a new owner has +to do is put an X inside?" + +"And pay for the cattle," amplified Wayland. + +"Or a circle with a line, put another line across?" + +"And hand over the cash," added the Ranger. + +"Or a circle dot, just put an X on top of the dot?" + +"And fix the sheriff," explained the irrelevant [Transcriber's note: +irreverent?] Ranger. + +"And the Senator has all the appointments to the Service out here?" + +"No--disappointments," corrected Wayland. + +They were both watching the grotesque antics of a squirrel negotiating +the fresh tips of a young spruce. The squirrel sat up on his hind legs +and chittered, whether at the Senator's brands or their heresy it would +be hard to tell; but they both laughed. + +"Have you room on the Grazing Range for so many cattle?" + +"Not without crowding--" + +"You mean crowding the sheepmen, off," she said. + +"What is the use of talking?" demanded Wayland petulantly. "Neither +you nor I dare open our mouths about it! Tell the sheriff; your ranch +houses will be burnt over your ears some night! Everybody knows what +has happened when a sheep herder has been killed in an accident, or +hustled back to foreign parts; but speak of it--you had better have cut +your tongue out! Fight it: you know what happened to my predecessors! +One had a sudden transfer. Another got what is known as the +bounce--you English people would call it the sack. The third got a job +at three times bigger salary--down in the Smelter. + +"It's all very well to preach right--right--right, Eleanor; and +fight--fight--fight; and 'He who fights and runs away, _May_ live to +fight another day'; but what are you going to do about it? I sweat +till I lay the dust thinking about it; but we never seem to get +anywhere. When we had Wild Bills in the old days, we formed Vigilant +Committees, and went out after the law breakers with a gun; but now, we +are a law-abiding people. We are a law-abiding age, don't you forget +that! When you skin a skunk now days, you do it according to law, +slowly, judiciously, no matter what the skunk does to you meantime, +even tho' it get away with the chickens. Fact is, we're so busy +straining at legal gnats just now that we're swallowing a whole +generation of camels. We don't risk our necks any more to put things +right--not we; we get in behind the skirts of law, and yap, yap, yap, +about law like a rat terrier, when we should be bull dogs getting our +teeth in the burglar's leg. + +"You know whose drovers are rustling cattle up North from Arizona? You +know who pays the gang? So do I! You don't know whose cattle those +are: so don't I! To-morrow when they are branded fresh, they'll be the +Senator's; and what are you sheep people going to do with this crowd +coming in from the outside? The law says--equal rights to all; and you +say--fight; but who is going to see that the law is carried out, unless +the people awaken and become a Vigilant Committee for the Nation? Tell +Sheriff Flood to go out and round up those rustlers: he'll hide under +the bed for a week, or 'allow he don't like the job.' Senator Moyese +got him that berth. He's going to hang on like a leech to blood. + +"Now, look down this side! Do you know a quarter section of that big +timber is worth from $10,000 to $40,000 to its owners, the people of +the United States? Do you know you can build a cottage of six rooms +out of one tree, the very size a workman needs? The workmen who vote +own those trees! Do you know the Smelter Lumber Company takes all for +nothing, half a million of it a year? Do you know that Smelter, +itself, is built on two-thousand acres of coal lands--stolen--stolen +from the Government as clearly as if the Smelter teams had hauled it +from a Government coal pit? Do you know there isn't a man in the Land +Office who hasn't urged and urged and urged the Government to sue for +restitution of that steal, and headquarters pretend to be doubtful so +that the Statute of Limitations will intervene?" + +On the inner side, the Ridge dropped to an Alpine meadow that billowed +up another slope through mossed forests to the snow line of the Holy +Cross Mountains. What the girl saw was a sylvan world of spruce, then +the dark green pointed larches where the jubilant rivers rioted down +from the snow. What the man saw was--a Challenge. + +"See those settlers' cabins at an angle of forty-five? Need a sheet +anchor to keep 'em from sliding down the mountain! Fine farm land, +isn't it? Makes good timber chutes for the land looters! We've to +pass and approve _all_ homesteads in the National Forests. You may not +know it; but those _are_ homesteads. You ask Senator Moyese when he +weeps crocodile tears 'bout the poor, poor homesteader run off by the +Forest Rangers! If the homesteader got the profits, there'd be some +excuse; but he doesn't. He gets a hired man's wages while he sits on +the homestead; and when he perjures himself as to date of filing, he +may get a five or ten extra, while your $40,000 claim goes to Mr. +Fat-Man at a couple of hundreds from Uncle Sam's timber limits; and the +_Smelter City Herald_ thunders about the citizen's right to homestead +free land, about the Federal Government putting up a fence to keep the +settler off. That fellow--that fellow in the first shack can't speak a +word of English. Smelter brought a train load of 'em in here; and +they've all homesteaded the big timbers, a thousand of 'em, foreigners, +given homesteads in the name of the free American citizen. Have you +seen anything about it in the newspaper? Well--I guess not. It isn't +a _news_ feature. We're all full up about the great migration to +Canada. We like to be given a gold brick and the glad hand. Of +course, they'll farm that land. One man couldn't clear that big timber +for a homestead in a hundred years. Of course, they are not +homesteading free timber for the big Smelter. Of course not! They +didn't loot the redwoods of California that way--two hundred thousand +acres of 'em--seventy-five millions of a steal. Hm!'" muttered +Wayland. "Calls himself Moyese--Moses! Senator Smelter! Senator +Thief! Senator Beef Steer--" + +She laughed. "I like your rage! Look! What's that mountain behind +the cabin doing?" + +"Shine on pale moon, don't mind me," laughed Wayland; but suddenly he +stopped storming. + +The slant sunlight struck the Holy Cross Mountain turning the snow +gullies pure gold against the luminous peak. Just for a moment the +white cornice of snow forming the bar of the apparent cross flushed to +the Alpine glow, flushed blood-red and quivering like a cross poised in +mid-air. An invisible hand of silence touched them both. The sunset +became a topaz gate curtained by clouds of fire and lilac mist; while +overhead across the indigo blue of the high rare mountain zenith slowly +spread and faded a light--ashes of roses on the sun altar of the dead +day. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +AN INTERLUDE THAT CAME UNANNOUNCED + +Wayland stopped storming. His cynical laugh came back an echo hard to +his own hearing. Was It speaking the same mute language to her It had +spoken to him since first he came to the Holy Cross? The violet +shadows of twilight slowly filled with a primrose mist, with a rapt +hush as of the day's vespers. The great quiet of the mountain world +wrapped them round as in an invisible robe of worship. + +Always, as the red flush ran the spectrum gamut of the yellows and +oranges and greens and blues and purples to the solitary star above the +opaline peak, he had wanted to wait and see--what? He did not know. +It had always seemed, if he watched, the primrose veil would lift and +release some phantom with noiseless tread on a ripple of night wind. +In his lonely vigils he used to listen for all the little bells of the +nodding purple heather to begin ringing some sort of pixie music, or +for the flaming tongues of the painter's flower to take voice in some +chorus that would beat time to the rhythm of woodland life fluting the +age-old melodies of Pan. + +You would look and look at the winged flames of light swimming and +shimmering and melting outlines in the opal clouds there, till almost +it became a sort of Mount of Transfiguration, of free uncabined +roofless night-dreams camped beneath the sheen of a million stars. + +You would listen and listen to the mountain silence--rare, hushed, +silver silence--till almost you could hear; but until to-night it had +always been like the fall of the snow flake. You could never be quite +sure you heard, though there was no mistaking a mass of several million +years of snow flakes when they thundered down in avalanche or broke a +ledge with the boom of artillery. + + +Now, at last--was it the end of a million years of pre-existence +waiting for this thing? Now, at last, Wayland realized that the quiet +fellowship, the common interests, the satisfaction of her presence, the +aptitude their minds had of always rushing to meet halfway on the same +subject, had somehow massed to a something within himself that set his +blood coursing with jubilant swiftness. + +He looked at the rancher's daughter. What had happened? She was the +same, yet not the same. Her eyes were awaiting his. They did not +flinch. They were wells of light; a strange new light; depth of light. +Had the veil lifted at last? The welter of sullen anger subsided +within him. The wrapped mystery of the mountain twilight hushed +speech. What folly it all was--that far off clamor of greed in the +Outer World, that wolfish war of self-interest down in the Valley, that +clack of the wordsters darkening wisdom without knowledge! As if one +man, as if one generation of men, could stay the workings of the laws +of eternal righteousness by refusing to heed, any more than one man's +will could stop an avalanche by refusing to heed the law of the +snowflake! + + +Calamity, the little withered half-breed woman, slipped in and out of +the Forester's cabin tidying up bachelor confusion. The wind suffed +through the evergreens in dream voices, pansy-soft to the touch. The +slow-swaying evergreens rocked to a rhythm old as Eternity, Druid +priests standing guard over the sacrament of love and night. From the +purpling Valley came the sibilant hush of the River. Somewhere, from +the branches below the Ridge, a water thrush gurgled a last joyous note +that rippled liquid gold through the twilight. + +Life might have become the tent of a night in an Eternity--a tent of +sky hung with stars; the after-glow a topaz gate ajar into some +infinite life. Then Love and Silence and Eternity had wrapped them +round as in a robe of prayer. He was standing above the dead +camp-fire. She was leaning forward from the slab seat, her face +between her hands. With a catch of breath, she withdrew her eyes from +his and watched the long shadows creep like ghosts across the Valley. + +What he said aloud in the nonchalant voice of twentieth century youth +keeping hold of himself was-- + +"Not bad, is it?" nodding at the opal flame-winged peak. "Pretty good +show turned on free every night?" + +A meadow lark went lifting above the Ridge dropping silver arrows of +song; and a little flutter of phantom wind came rustling through the +pine needles. + +"I don't suppose," she was saying--he had never heard those notes in +her voice before: they were gold, gold flute notes to melt rock-hard +self-control and touch the timbre of unknown chords within--"I don't +suppose anything ever was accomplished without somebody being willing +to fight a losing battle. Do you?" Wayland stretched out on the +ground at her feet. + +"Eleanor, do you know, do you realize--?" + +"Yes I know," she whispered. + +And somehow, unpremeditated and half way, their hands met. + +"Something wonderful has happened to us both to-night." + +The sheen of the stars had come to her eyes. She could not trust her +glance to meet his. A compulsion was sweeping over her in waves, +drawing her to him--her free hand lay on his hair; her averted face +flushed to the warmth of his nearness. + +"I don't suppose, Dick, that right ever did triumph till somebody was +willing to be crucified. Men die of vices every day; women snuff out +like candles. What's so heroic about a man more or less going down in +a good game fight--?" + +He felt the tremor in her voice and her hands, in her deep breathing; +and his manhood came to rescue their balance in words that sounded +foolish enough: + +"So my old mountain talks to you, too? I'll think of that when I'm up +here in my hammock alone. Oh, you bet, I'll think of that hard! What +does the old mountain lady say to you, anyway? Look--when the light's +on that long precipice, you can sometimes see a snow slide come over +the edge in a puff of spray. They are worst at mid-day when the heat +sends 'em down; and they're bigger on the back of the mountain where +she shelves straight up and down--" + +And her thought met his poise half way. + +"What does the old mountain say? Don't you know what science says--how +the snow flakes fall to the same music of law as the snow slide, and +it's the snow flake makes the snow slide that sets the mountain free, +the gentle, quiet, beautiful snow flake that sculptures the granite--" + +"The gentle, quiet--beautiful thing," slowly repeated the Ranger in a +dream. "That sounds pretty good to me." + +He said no more; for he knew that the veil had lifted, and the +voiceless voices of the night were shouting riotously. The wind came +suffing through the swaying arms of the bearded waving hemlocks--Druid +priests officiating at some age-old sacrament. Then a night-hawk +swerved past with a hum of wings like the twang of a harp string. + +"Look," she said, poking at the sod with her foot. "All the little +clover leaves have folded their wings to sleep." + + +Old Calamity passed in and out of the Range cabin. Wayland couldn't +remember how from the first they had slipped into the habit of calling +each other by Christian names. It was the old half-breed woman, who +had first told him that the Canadian, Donald MacDonald, the rich sheep +man, had a daughter travelling in Europe. One day when he had been +signing grazing permits in the MacDonald ranch house, he had caught a +glimpse of a piano, that had been packed up the mountains on mules, +standing in an inner sitting room; and the walls were decorated with +long-necked swan-necked Gibson girls and Watts' photogravures and +Turner color prints and naked Sorolla boys bathing in Spanish seas. +That was the beginning. She had come in suddenly, introduced herself +and shaken hands. + + +And now Wayland felt a dazed wonder how in the world they two in the +course of half an hour--the first half hour they had ever been alone in +their lives--had come to deciding "straddle or fight"; but that was the +unusual thing about her. She got under surfaces; but, until to-night +on the Holy Cross Mountain, he had been able to laugh at his own new +sensations, to laugh even at an occasional sense of his tongue turning +to dough in the roof of his mouth. + +"Look, what is that behind your shoulder, Dick?" + +"Oh, that," said the Forest Ranger, "that is a well known, game old +elderly spinster lady commonly called the Moon; and that other on the +branch chittering swear words is nothing in the world but a Douglas +squirrel hunting--I think he is really hunting--a flea to mix in his +spruce tips as salad." + +"Do you know what he is saying?" + +"Of course! Cheer up! Cheer up! Chirrup! He's our Master +Forester--caches the best seed cones for us to steal." + +But when he turned back, she had freed her hands, and slipped to the +other side of the slab seat; and Wayland--inconsistent fellow--went all +abash when they had both got hold of themselves and were once more back +to life with feet on solid earth. + +"And is it straddle or--fight?" + +She had put on her panama sunshade and was looking straight and +steadily in his eyes. The Ranger met the look, the eager look slowly +and deliberately giving place to determined masterdom. + +"If that is a challenge, I'll take it!" Then he added; and his face +went hot as her own: "As to the freebooters of the Western Wilderness +ripping the bowels out of public property out here, I'll accept that +challenge, too! We'll put up a bluff of a fight, anyway!" + +"I didn't mean that, Dick." She was looking over the edge of the +Ridge. "I couldn't give a precious gift conditionally if I wanted to, +Dick. It would surely give itself before I could stop it. Isn't that +always the way? I wanted you to feel I would be with you in the fight +if I could. They are late. Father and the missionary, Mr. Williams, +and his boy were to have been here an hour ago. I heard them talking +of your struggle against the big steals, and came up here before them +to wait. They are coming to see about changing the sheep from the Holy +Cross Range to the Rim Rocks." + +"I can hear 'em coming," Wayland leaned over the precipice. "They are +coming up the switch back now. They have a turn or two to take--we +have a few minutes yet--Eleanor, best gifts come unasked: perhaps, +also, they go unsent. Listen, I couldn't Hope to keep the gift unless +I jumped in this fight for right; but it's a man's job! I mustn't +desert because of the gift! I mustn't take the prize before I finish +the job! I want you to see that--always that I mind my p's and q's and +don't swerve from that resolution. If I deserted and went down from +the Ridge to the Valley, from hard to easy, I wouldn't be worthy of--do +you understand what I am trying to say to you?" + +"Not in the least. You wouldn't be worthy of what?" + +"Of you," said Wayland. + +"Gifts?" It was the falsetto of a boy's voice from the trail below the +Ridge. "Who's talkin' of gifts and things?" + +They heard the others ascending. Her woman instinct caught at the +first straw to hand. "Photogravures, Fordie, three more to-day. They +are Watts--" + +"He has to round the next turn! Never mind! He didn't hear," +interjected Wayland irritably. + +"All the same," she said, "I'm going to send one of those pictures up +to you for the cabin. There is Hope sitting on top of the World, eyes +bandaged, harp strings broken--" + +"Don't send that one! Jim-jams enough of my own up here! I want my +Hope clear-eyed even if she has to go it blind for a bit as to you--" + +"Then there's Faith sheathing her sword--" + +"Not putting away the Big-Stick," interrupted Wayland. + +"Then you'll have to take the Happy Warrior--" + +"I forget that one: I've been up here four years, you know?" + +"It's the Soldier asleep on the Battle-Field--" + +"You mean the picture of the girl kissing the man in his sleep--Yes, +that will do all right for me. You can send that one--" + +And the Missionary's boy came over the edge of the Ridge trail in a +hand spring. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE CHALLENGE TO A LOSING FIGHT + +"Hullo, Dick! Who is talking of pictures and things?" The high +falsetto announced the Missionary's boy of twelve, who promptly turned +a hand spring over the slab bench, never pausing in a running fire of +exuberant comment. "Get on y'r bib and tucker, Dickie! You're goin' +t' have a s'prise party--right away! Senator Moses and Battle Brydges, +handy-andy-dandy, comin' up with Dad and MacDonald! Oh, hullo, Miss +Eleanor, how d' y' get here ahead? Did y' climb? We met His Royal +High Mightiness and His Nibs goin' to the cow-camp. Say, Miss Eleanor, +I don't care what they say, I'm goin' to take sheep all by my lonesome +this time, sure; goin' t' ride Pinto 'cause he's got a big tummy t' +keep him from sinking when he swims. You needn't laugh, it's so! You +ask Dad if a tum-jack don't keep a horse from sinkin'! Say--" sticking +forward his face in a whisper--"Senator oughtn't to sink--eh?" + +"You don't swim sheep unless you're a pilgrim," admonished Wayland; but +at that moment, the Senator himself came over the edge of the Ridge, +bloused and white-vested and out of breath, a bunch of mountain flowers +in one hand, his felt hat in the other; and three men bobbed up behind, +Indian file, over the crest of the trail, the Missionary, Williams, +stepping lightly, MacDonald swarthy and close-lipped, taking the climb +with the ease of a mountaineer, Bat Brydges, the Senator's newspaper +man, hat on the back of his head, coat and vest and collar in hand, +blowing with the zest of a puffing locomotive. + +"Whew!" The Senator dilated expansively and sank again. "Here we are +at last! You here, Miss Eleanor? Evening--Wayland! Night to you, +Calamity! How is the world using you since you stopped tramping over +the hills?" Calamity shrank back to the cabin. "I thought this trail +hard as a climb to Paradise. Now, I know it was," and the gentleman +wheezed a bow to Eleanor that sent his neck creasing to his flowing +collar and set his vest chortling. + +"What! No flowers--either of you? You leave an old fellow like me to +gather flowers and quote 'What so rare as a day in June' and all that? +What's that lazy rascal of a Forest fellow doing? I would have spouted +_yards_ of good poetry when I was his age a night like this. Hasn't +Wayland told you the flowers are the best part of the mountains in +June? Pshaw! Like all the rest of them from the East--stuffed full of +college chuck--can't tell a daisy from an aster! Takes an old stager +who never had your dude Service suits on his back to know the secrets +of these hills, Miss Eleanor. Has he told you about the echo? No, +I'll bet you, not; nor the gorge in behind this old Holy Cross; nor the +cave? Pshaw! See here,"--showing his bunch of wild flowers--"if you +want to know what a sly old sphinx Dame Nature is and how she's up to +tricks and wiles and ways, snow or shine, you get these little flower +people to whisper their secrets! Whenever I find a new kind on the +hills, I mark the place and have roots brought down in the fall. Now +this little mountain anemone is still blooming on upper slopes. Little +fool of a thing thinks it's April 'stead of June, paints her cheeks, +see?--like an old girl trying to look young--" + +"But she has a royal white heart," interposed Eleanor. + +The Senator looked up to the face of the rancher's daughter and +laughed, a big soft noiseless laugh that shook down inside the white +vest. + +"Typical of a woman, eh? Here, take 'em! Why am I an old bachelor? +Now, here's the wind flower; opens to touch o' the wind like woman to +love; find 'em like stars on the bleakest slopes--that's like a woman, +too, eh? And like a woman, they wither when you pick 'em, eh? And see +these little cheats--pale people--catch flies--know why they call 'em +that? Stuck all over with false honey to snare the moths--stew the +poor devils to death in sweetness--eh, now, isn't that a woman for +you?" Spreading his broad palms, the Senator shook noiselessly at his +own facetiousness. + +"They keep the real honey for the royal butterflies," suggested Eleanor. + +"Exactly! What chance on earth for an old bumble bee of a drudge like +me without any wings and frills and things, all weighted down with +cares of state?" And Moyese mopped the moisture from a good natured +red face, that looked anything but weighted down by the cares of state. +"You know, don't you," he added, "that the flies actually do prefer +white flowers; bees t' th' blue; butterflies, red; and the moths, +white?" + + +So this was the manner of man representing the forces challenging to +the great national fight, a lover of flowers paying tribute to all +things beautiful; good-natured, smiling, easy-going, soft-speaking; the +embodiment of vested rights done up in a white waist-coat. Soldiers of +the firing line had fought dragons in the shape of savages and white +bandits in the early days; but this dragon had neither horns nor hoofs. +It was a courtly glossy-faced pursuer of gainful occupations according +to a limited light and very much according to a belief that freedom +meant freedom to make and take and break independent of the other +fellow's rights. In fact, as Eleanor looked over the dragon with its +wide strong jaw and plausible eyes and big gripping hand she very much +doubted whether the conception had ever dawned on the big dome head +that the _other_ fellow had _any_ rights. The man was not the +baby-eating monster of the muck-rakers. Neither was he a gentleman--he +had had a narrow escape from that--the next generation of him would +probably be one. He gave the impression of a passion for only one +thing--getting. If people or things or laws came in the way of that +getting, so much the worse for them. + +Strident laughter blew up on the wind from the cow camp of the Arizona +drovers in the Valley. + +"Rough rascals," ejaculated Moyese fanning himself with his hat. "I +wish you wouldn't wander round too much alone when these drover fellows +are here from Arizona. Birds of passage, you know? Sheriff can't +pursue 'em into another State! When it's pay day, whiskey flows pretty +free--pretty free! Wish you wouldn't wander alone too much when +they're up this way." + +"Mr. Senator, I move we come to business, and leave poetry and flowers +and palaver out of it--" + +The Senator turned suavely and faced the impatient sheep-rancher. + +"To be sure! Let us get down to business, MacDonald, by all means; but +before we go any farther, let me ask you a straight question! Clearing +the field before action, Miss Eleanor! Bat come over here and +entertain Miss Eleanor. Miss MacDonald, this is my man +Friday--Brydges, Miss MacDonald: it's Brydges, you know, sets us all +down fools to posterity by reporting our speeches for the newspapers." + +Brydges winked as he got his limp collar back to his neck. It wasn't +his part to tell how many speeches came in reported before delivered; +how many were never delivered at all. + +The Senator had stopped fanning himself. He was caressing his shaven +chin and taking the measure of the rancher; a tall man, straight and +lithe as a whip, lean and clean-limbed and swarthy. + +"MacDonald, why don't you take out your naturalization papers so you +can vote at election? In the eyes of the law, you're still an alien." + +"Alien? What has _that_ to do with paying grazing fees for sheep on +the Forest Range?" MacDonald's black eyes closed to a tiny slit of +shiny light. "Mr. Senator," he said tersely, "how much do you want?" + +Mr. Senator refused to be perturbed by the edge of that question. + +"You ask Wayland how much the grazing fee is. You know it's my belief +there ought to be no grazing fee. We stockmen can take care of +ourselves without Washington worrying--" + +"Yes," interrupted Williams, "you took such good care of the sheep +herders last spring, some of you put them to eternal sleep." + +"We're not living in Paradise or Utopia," assented Moyese. "We can +take care of our own. Men who won't listen to warning must look out +for stronger arguments; and it's a great deal quicker than carrying +long-drawn legal cases up to the Supreme Court. You sheepmen are +asking us to take care of you. I'm asking MacDonald to vote so he can +take care of us. Majority rules. What I'm trying to get at is which +side you are on! We're not taking care of neutrals and aliens--" + +"Aliens." The low tense voice bit into the word like acid. "And I +suppose you're not taking care of pea-nut politicians either. My +ancestors have lived in this country since 1759. Mr. Senator, how many +generations have your people lived in this country?" + +Eleanor became conscious that a question had been asked fraught with +explosion; but the Senator smiled the big soft voiceless smile down in +his waist-coat as if not one of the group knew that memories of the +ghetto had not faded from his own generation. + +"We're not strong on ancestry out West," he rubbed his whiskerless +chin. "It goes back too often to--" he looked up quietly at MacDonald, +"to bow and arrow aristocracy, scalps, in fact; but as for myself," if +a little oily, still the smile remained genial, "for myself, from what +my name means in French, I should judge we were Hugenots--what do you +call 'em?--Psalm singing lot that came over in that big boat, growing +bigger every year; boat that brought all the true blues over here; +Mayflower--that's what I'm trying to say--all our ancestors came over +in the Mayflower--" + +The sheep rancher's thin lips slowly curled in a contemptuous smile. +"Then I guess my ancestors on one side of the house were chanting war +whoops to welcome you--" + +Bat Brydges uttered a snort. Eleanor puckered her brows as at news. +The Senator was fanning himself again with his hat. Even Wayland was +smiling. He had heard political opponents of Moyese say that dynamite +wouldn't disturb the Senator. "Only way you could raise him was yeast +cake stamped with S: two sticks through it." + +Certainly--Eleanor was thinking--there was some good in the worst of +dragons. St. George had put his foot on one ancient beast. Wasn't it +possible to tame this one, to tame all modern dragons, put a bit in +their mouths and harness them to good nation building? + +"Girt round with mine enemies, Miss Eleanor," he laughed, "and I slay +them with the jaw bone of an ass." + +The white waist-coat chortled; and she laughed. This dragon didn't +spout flame but gentle ridicule, which was elusive as quicksilver +slipping through your fingers. + +"The point is," explained the Ranger, coming forward, "the sheep have +almost grazed off up here; at least, far as we allow them to graze--" + +"Besides, it's too cold for the lambs," effervesced the Missionary's +boy, bouncing out of the woods. + +"Shut up, Fordie," ordered Williams, holding aloof. + +"Mr. MacDonald and Mr. Williams want to transfer from this Divide to +the Mesas above the Rim Rocks," continued Wayland. + +"Well, Mr. Forest Ranger, _that_ is _your_ business! The Rim Rocks are +National Forest, tho' to save my life, I have never seen _one_ tree on +those Mesas. What in the world they are in the National Forest for, I +don't know! You know very well I think there oughtn't to be any +National Forests--each State look after its own job. Have you issued +the grazing permits, Wayland? I don't see that it's _any_ of _my_ +business." + +The Senator had leisurely seated himself on the slab. Eleanor knew now +why he wielded such power in the Valley. He was human: he was the man +in the street: something with red blood giving and taking in a game of +win and lose among men. In a word, she had to acknowledge, the Dragon +of the Valley was decidedly likable; and behind the genial front were +the big hands that would crush; behind the plausible eyes, the craft +that would undermine what the hands could not crush. Anaemic teachers +and preachers might as well throw paper wads at a wall as attempt to +dislodge this man with argument. Right was an empty term to him. +Might he understood; not right. + +He sat waiting for them to go on. She remembered afterwards how he +made them play down from the first; and how, all the time that he was +watching them, plans of his own were busy as shuttles in behind the +plausible eyes. + +"The point," continued Wayland, "is to get fifteen-thousand sheep up +there." + +"Fifteen-thousand." It was the number, not the getting there that +touched him. + +"A deep stone gully runs between the Holy Cross and the bench of the +Rim Rocks," explained the Missionary. "Look--behind the cabin--you can +see where the cut runs through the timber, a notch right in the saddle +of the sky line." + +"How many of those fifteen-thousand are yours, Mr. Missionary?" + +The Senator was gazing down in the Valley. Just for a second, Eleanor +thought the genial look hardened and centred. + +"About two-thousand, Senator! I've just brought a thousand angoras in +to see if we can't teach weaving to the Indians. It would mean a good +deal if we could teach them to be self-supporting--" + +"It would mean the loss of a lot of possible patronage to this Valley," +said the Senator absently. "Are you still determined not to accept +Government aid?" + +"Absolutely sir: my work is to Christianize these Indians, not just +leave them educated savages." + +"Hm," from the Senator. "What do you suppose they think we are?" + +"I don't see very well how I can train them to be honest men if, out of +every dollar assigned to aid the Indian school, sixty cents goes to +Government contracts and party heelers?" + +"Hm!" Moyese was stroking his bare chin with a crookt forefinger. "I +suppose if I were the story-book villain, I'd say 'yes, you must teach +'em to be honest'; but I don't. Fact is, Mr. Missionary, if you go +into the ethics of things, you're stumped the first bat: who gave us +their land, in the first place? This whole business isn't a golden +rule job: it's an iron proposition; and if I were an under-dog beaten +in the game by the law that rules all life, I'd take half a bone rather +than no meat. I make a point of never quarreling with the conditions +that existed when I came into the world. I accept 'em and make the +best of 'em; and I advise _you_ to do the same." + +"You can't take the contracts of a bargain-counter to regulate the +things of the spirit, Mr. Senator." + +"Oh, as for things of the spirit," deprecated the Senator, smiling the +big soft smile that lost itself down in his vest; and he spread his +broad palms in suave protest, "don't please quote spirit to me! I have +all I can do managing things right here on earth. To put it briefly, +far as this sheep business is concerned, if you can't get the sheep +across the saddle between the Holy Cross and the Rim Rocks, you want to +bring 'em along the trail through my ranch?" + +"That's it," assented Wayland. "I've issued grazing permits for the +Upper Range: and it only remains to get your permission to drive them +across the land that is not Forest Range." + +The Senator crossed his legs and hung his hat on one knee. + +"As I make it out, here's our situation! I ask MacDonald here, who is +the richest sheepman west of the Mississippi, what's he willing to do +for the party. Far as I can see without a telescope or microscope, he +doesn't raise a finger--won't even take out papers so he can vote! I +ask Parson Williams here what he is willing to do for the party; and he +objects to his copper-gentry taking a free-for-all forty cents on the +dollar. Then, you both come asking me to pass fifteen-thousand sheep +across my ranch to the Rim Rocks, though they ruin the pasture and +there isn't room enough for all the cattle, let alone sheep. I hate +'em! I'm free to say I hate 'em! Every cattleman hates the sheep +business. We haven't Range enough for our cattle, let alone sheep and +this fool business of fencing off free pasturage in Forest Reserves. +And your sheep herders never make settlers. You know how it is. We'd +run your sheep to Hades if we could! We aren't all in the missionary +business like Williams. We are in for what we can get; and this nation +is the biggest nation on earth because all men are free to go in for +all they can get. The sheep destroy the Range: and I'm cattle! You +neither of you raise a hand to help the party; and I'm a plain party +man; yes, I guess, Miss Eleanor--I'm a spoilsman, all right; and you +come asking favors of me. It isn't reasonable; but I'll tell you what +I'll do. I'll show you that I'm ready to meet you in a fair half-way! +MacDonald, you and Williams and the Kid, there, go along and see if +that saddle can be crossed, here to the Rim Rocks. If it can't, you +can come down through the Valley and pass your sheep up through my +ranch. I guess it's light enough yet for you to see. The gully is not +five minutes away. Bat, you go off and entertain Miss Eleanor. I want +to talk to Wayland here." + + +Wayland was in no mood for straddling, for palaver, for "carrying water +on both shoulders." He was weary to death of talk and compromise and +temporize and discretionize and all the other "izes" by which the +politicians were hedging right and wrong and somehow euchring the many +in the interests of the few and transforming democracy into plutocracy. +Besides, memory that merged to conscious realization was playing in +lambent flames through his whole being round the form of the figure +against the skyline of the Ridge. + + +The light of the cow-boy camp blinked through the lilac mist of the +Valley. A veil impalpable as dreams hovered over the River. The boom +and roll of a snow cornice falling somewhere in the Gorge behind the +Holy Cross came in dull rolling muffled thunder through the spruce +forests. Had her eyes flashed it in that recognition of love; or had +she said it; or had the thought been born of the peace that had come? +It kept coming back and back to Wayland as the boom of falling snow +faded, _as if one man or generation of men, could stay the workings of +the laws of eternal righteousness by refusing to heed, any more than a +man could stop an avalanche by refusing to heed the law of the +snowflake_! + +He heard the wordless chant that the suff of the evening wind sang; +that the storm wind of the mountains shouted in spring as from a +million trumpets; that the dream winds of the ghost mornings forerunner +of fresh life for the sons of men whispered, singing, chanting, +trumpeting the message that snowflake and avalanche told: yet beside +him on the slab seat sat a man who heard none of those voices, and knew +no law but the law of his own desire to get. + +The Ranger drew a deep breath of the pervading fragrance, a tang of +resin and balsam, a barky smell of clean earth-mould and moss, an odor +as of some illusive frankincense proffered from the vesper chalices and +censer cups of the flower world. + +"Great thing to be alive night like this," opened the Senator. Then he +pulled down his waist coat and pulled up his limp spine and wheeled on +the slab seat facing the Ranger. Very quietly, in a soft even voice he +was reasoning-- + +"We have been fighting each other for four years now?" + +"We certainly have, Mr. Senator." + +"You're a good fighter, Wayland! I like the way you fight! You fight +square; and you fight hard; and you never let up." + +No answer from the Forest Ranger. + +"I wouldn't really have enough respect for you to say what I am going +to say, if you hadn't fought exactly as you have fought--" + +What Wayland was saying to himself was what Moyese would not have +understood: it was a foolish, quotation about the Greeks when they come +bearing gifts. + +"But my dear fellow, we differ on fundamentals. You are for Federal +authority. I am for the Federal authority everlastingly minding its +own business most _severely_, and the States managing their own +business! I am for States Rights. The Federal Government is an +expensive luxury, Wayland. It wastes two dollars for every dollar it +gives back to the country. There's an army of petty grafters and party +heelers to be paid off at every turn! All the States want is to be let +alone. + +"For three years, Wayland, you have been fighting over those +two-thousand acres of coal land where the Smelter stands. You say it +was taken illegally. I know that; but they didn't take it! It was +jugged through by an English promoter--" + +"Just as foreign immigrants are jugging through timber steals to-day," +thought Wayland; but he answered; "I acknowledge all that, Senator; but +when goods are stolen, the owner has the right to take them back where +found; and that land was stolen from the U. S. Reserves--ninety-million +dollars worth of it." + +"I know! I know! But what have _you_ gained? _That_ is what I ask! +Federal Government has blocked every move you have made to take action +for these lands, hasn't it? Very soon, the Statute of Limitations will +block _you_ altogether." + +The Senator shifted a knee. Wayland waited. + +"You have gained nothing--less than nothing: you have laid up a lot of +ill will for yourself that will block your promotion. Been four years +here, haven't you, at seventy-five dollars a month? I pay my cow men +more; and _they_ haven't spent five years at Yale. Now take the timber +cases. You hold the Smelter shouldn't take free timber from the +Forests?" + +"No more than the poorest thief who steals a stick of wood from a +yard--" + +"Pah! Poor man! Dismiss that piffle from your brain! What does the +poor man do for the Valley? Why does any man stay poor in this land? +Because he is no good! We've brought in thousands of workmen. We've +built up a city. We have developed this State." + +"All for your own profit--" + +"Exactly! What else does the poor man work for? But I'm not going to +argue that kindergarten twaddle of the college highbrows, Wayland. I'm +out for all I can make; so is the Smelter; so are you; but the point is +you've fought this timber thing; you have filed and filed and filed +your recommendations for suit to be instituted; so have the Land Office +men; have they done any good, Wayland? Has your boasted Federal +Government, so superior to the State, taken any action?" + +"No," answered Wayland, "somebody has monkeyed with the wheels of +justice." + +"Then, why do you distress yourself? You have played a losing game for +four years, cut your fingers on those same wheels of justice. Quit it, +Wayland! What good does it do? Come over to the right side and build +up big industries, big development! I've watched you fighting for four +years, Wayland! You are the squarest, pluckiest fighter I've ever +known. But you can't do a thing! You can't get anywhere! You're +wasting the best years of your life mouthing up here in the Mountains +at the moon; and who of all the public you are fighting for, my boy, +who of all the public gives one damn for right or wrong? If we turn +you down, who is going to raise a finger for you? Answer that my boy! +They are paying you poorer wages now than we pay any ignorant foreigner +down in the Smelter; that's a way the dear people have of caring for +their ownest! Chuck it, Wayland! Chuck it! Waken up, man; look out +for number one; and, in the words of the illustrious Vanderbilticus, +let the public be d--ee--d! Come down to my ranch where you'll have a +chance to carry out your fine ideas of Range and Forest! Hell, what +are you gaining here, man? A sort o' moral hysterics--that's all! +It's all very well for those Down Easterners, who have lots of money +and are keen on the lime light, to go spouting all over the country +about running the Government the way you'd run a Sunday School." The +Senator had become so tense that he had raised his voice. "Chuck those +damfool theories, Wayland! Chuck them, I tell you! Get down to +business, man! What are you howling about timber for posterity for? +If you don't look alive, you'll go lean frying fat for posterity! Oh, +rot, the thing makes me so tired I can't talk about it! Come down to +my ranch. I want a thorough man! I want a man who can fight like the +devil if he has to and handle that gang in the cow camp with branding +irons! I want 'em run out, do you hear? They're blackguards! I want +a man that's a man; and, for pay, you can name your own price. I'll +want a partner as I grow older. And don't you do any fool rash thing +that I'll have to fight and down you for! I like _you_, Wayland--" + +Then three things happened instantaneously. Wayland glanced up. +Eleanor MacDonald was looking straight into his eyes. And the sheep +rancher's choppy voice was saying to the Missionary, "Some men go up in +the mountains to fish for trout; but others stay right down in the +Valley and grow rich catching suckers." + +"We can't cross that gully," shouted the boy. "We, can't cross it +nohow! We got to cross the ranch trail to go up to them Rim Rocks." + +"Why, all right, Fordie," the Senator rose, kicking the folds from the +knees of his trousers, "if you boss the job, Fordie, I'll let you cross +the ranch! You'll take a few of the herders up with you? And you'll +not let the sheep spread over the fields? Better do it towards evening +when it's cool for the climb! All right, we'll call that a bargain! +Fordie's on the job to pass the sheep up the trail; and just to show +you I'm fair, here is Miss Eleanor for my witness, you can drive the +whole bunch over my ranch! Good night, all! Everybody coming now? +Come on! We'll lead the way, Miss Eleanor. It's getting dark. I'll +pad the fall if anybody behind trips. Good night, Wayland; think that +offer of mine over? Not coming, Brydges? All right, give Wayland a +piece of your mind, as a newspaper man, about this business! Night! +Good night, Calamity!" + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +STACKING THE CARDS + +Bat straddled the slab and lighted his pipe. + +"Old man been giving you some good advice?" + +"I don't know whether you'd call it good or not. Let's heap the logs +on, Brydges, and make the shadows dance." + +Brydges did some hard thinking and let the Ranger do the heaping. + +"Sort of razzle-dazzler, MacDonald's daughter; she's a winner; but you +can't get at her! Sort of feel when she's talking to you as if her +other self was 'way down East. Wonder what the old curmudgeon brought +her back here for? If she'd let down her high airs a peg, she'd have +every fellow in the Valley on a string. She could have Moyese's scalp +now if she wanted it--all that's left of it?" + +"You can bunk inside! I'll take the hammock." Wayland emerged from +the cabin trailing a gray blanket and a lynx skin robe. Bat continued +to emit smoke in puffs and curls and wreaths at the top of the trees. + +"How many acres do you patrol, Dickie?" + +"About a hundred-thousand." + +"Is that all? How many horses does the Govment allow?" + +"None! Buy our own!" + +"Great Guns! And you're loyal to that kind of Service? It's bally +loyal I'd be! Why, Moyese allows me the use of any bronch on his +ranch; and, when there's a quick turn to be made, it's a motor car. +Why don't you let me send you up a couple of Moyese's nags? You could +pasture 'em here and get their use for nothing. I could do that right +off my own responsibility. Need be no connection with the old man." + +"Bat," said the Ranger, "did you stay up here to say that to me?" + +"I don't know whether I did or not; but, now that I _am_ here, I say it +anyway; and I say a whole lot more--don't be a bally fool and buck into +a buzz-saw! Why don't you take the Senator's offer? Holy Smoke! What +are you gaining stuck up here in a hole of a shack that's snowed ten +feet deep all winter? What's the use of fighting the Smelter thieves, +and the Timber thieves, and the Dummy homesteaders, and all that? You +can't buck the combination, Dick! It isn't only Moyese! He's a mere +tool himself in this game. It's the Ring you're up against, and you +can chase yourself all your life round that Ring, and never get +anywhere. The big dubs at Washington, the politicians, they are only +spokes themselves in that wheel. If you buck into that wheel, you get +yourself tangled into a pulp; and if any of those dubs down in +Washington thinks he won't fit into the Ring, why he'll find himself +broken and jerked out so quick he won't know what has happened till he +sees the Wheel going round again with a new spoke in his place." + +"Bat, did you stay up here to say that to me?" + +"No, I did not." With a twig Bat pushed down the tobacco in his pipe. +"I stayed up here, if you want to know, because we were on our way to +the cow camp when the parson and his kid joined us. I guess every man +has his limit. That cow-camp gang is mine. I want to live a little +longer; and I don't want to know things that might make it useful for +me to die. When Moyese wants to deal with that gang, he can go it +alone." + +"Brydges," said Wayland, "you have given me some frank advice. _I'm_ +going to reciprocate. You know what is going on out here. You know +why that Arizona gang comes up here. You know why we can't touch +them--they are off the Range of the Forest. You know about the stolen +coal for the Smelter Ring, thousands of acres of it; and the stolen +timber limits for the Lumber Ring, millions of acres of them. If the +public knew, Bat, we'd win our fight. It would be a walk over. Every +man jack of them would lie down, and stay put. Why don't you tell in +your paper? Why don't you tell the truth when you send the dispatches +East? If you did, Bat, we could clean out the gang in a month. Why +don't you play the game a man should play? Every newspaper man likes a +clean sporty fight; and no knifing in the back. Why don't you put up +that fight for us, now, Brydges, and stop giving us side jabs?" + +Brydges' pipe fell from his teeth. + +"Wayland--what in hell--do you think--I'm working for?" + + +There was a big silence. + +The look of masterdom came back to Wayland's face; but he paused, +looking straight ahead in space. Perhaps he was looking for the hard +grip of the next grapple. He had a curious trick at such times of +clinching his teeth very tight behind open lips; and the pupil of his +eye became a blank. + +"You are at least sincere, Brydges," he said. Bat gathered up his +shattered pipe. + +"I'm not a past-master, _yet_," he said. "I haven't reached the point +where I can believe my own lies; so I don't tell 'em and get caught. +I've dug down in the mortuaries of other men too often--long as a man +doesn 't believe his own lies, he's on guard and doesn't get caught. +It's when he comes ping against a buzz-saw and finds it's a fact that +he has to pay or back down or lose out. You can't budge a fact, damn +it! Thing always shows the same!" + +Bat had found the pieces of his pipe. Fitting the meerschaum to the +wood, he had gained confidence and was going ahead full steam. + +"Saw 'Macbeth' in Smelter City Theatre last night. 'Member the place +where he says 'Thou canst not say I did it?' Well, that's the +beginning of the end for that old boy; fooled himself that time. If +he'd remembered that, though he didn't do it with his own hand, he did +do it all the same, he wouldn't have believed his own lie and got all +tangled up. One of the first things Moyese told me when I went on his +paper was never to monkey with the dee-fool who wastes time justifying +himself: do it and go ahead! Fact is, Dick, I look on a newspaper man +same as I do a lawyer: he has his price; and he finds his market for +his wares; and it's none of his business what his private convictions +are of the right or wrong. He's paid to defend or attack like a +lawyer; and he goes ahead--" + +"And doesn't pretend he's fooling the public by giving news, eh, Bat? +Brydges, if you argue that fashion, you must excuse me if I grin." + +"Who's the old party talking to your road gang down by the white tent?" +asked Brydges, pointing where the Range sloped down to the Homestead +Settlement and a long canvass bunk house marked the domicile of the +road hands for the Forests. + +"Oh, no, you don't get away from the argument so easily, Bat! You make +the Senator's job and your job and public service all round a bunco +game, a bunco game with marked cards; while we Service and Land fellows +act the decent sign for a blind pig--" + +"Hullo, he's coming up," interrupted Brydges. "Seems your night for +deputations, Wayland! Looks like a parson! By George, I didn't know +Senator had his drag net out for parsons as dummy entrymen! Nothing +like imparting quality! By George, hanged if I know--he looks like a +peddler--has a pack horse--" + +"Peddler o' th' Gospel, Son! Good eé-vening to you, Gentlemen." + +The newcomer sang out greeting in a high thin falsetto that belied the +ruddy youth of shaven cheeks and accorded more with his masses of white +hair. + +"Is this the Ranger place perched on top o' th' warld? Y'r workmen in +the white tent told me A'd find a short trail here-by t' th' next +Valley. 'Tis y'r Missionary Williams A'm seekin'; A thought if A'd +push on, push on, an' cat-er-corner y'r mountain here, A'd strike y'r +River by moonlight! So A have! So A have! But it's Satan's own waste +o' windfall 'mong these big trees! Such a leg-breakin' trail A have +na' beaten since A peddled Texas tickler done up in Gospel hymn books +filled wi' whiskey--" + +"Well--I'll--be--hanged," slowly ejaculated Mr. Bat Brydges. "Come +far?" he asked aloud, fumbling his brain for a clue. + +The old man, emerging from the timbers, took off his hat and swabbed +the sweat from his brow. Then he righted the saddle on his broncho. + +"Eh, woman, do A scare y'?" This to Calamity, just turning down the +Ridge trail with a dun gray blanket filled with odds and ends on her +shoulders, when the padded thud of the pack horse coming through the +heavy timber was followed by the stalwart form of the newcomer. Face +and form were frontiersman; vesture, clerical; but Old Calamity trotted +back to the Range cabin. + +"Come far, did y' ask? More or less, more or less. A've come farther +on unholier missions. We'd call it a nice bit snow-shoe run in the old +days. Two months since A left Saskatchewan! We've taken our time, +Bessie an' me--" caressing the mare with resounding slaps. "We're not +so young as we were, Bessie an' me, when we sarved Satan hot-foot back +an' forth these same trails till by the Grace o' God we broke halter +from Hell for holier trail--" + +"Better loosen up and berth here for to-night," suggested the Ranger. +"The Ridge trail is steep going, down grade, after dark for a +stranger--" + +"Stranger?" The old man trumpeted a laugh that would have done credit +to a megaphone. "Stranger, my kiddie boy? A've known these Rocky +Mountain States when, if ye owned these pairts an' had a homestead in +Hell, y'd rent y'r residence here and take up quiet life the other +place! A knew these trails before y' were born, from Mexico to +MacKenzie River, wherever men had a thirst. A've travelled these +trails wi' cook stoves packed full o' Scotch dew, an' the Mounted +Police hangin' t' m' tail till A scuttled the Boundary. Good days--rip +roaring days for the makin' of strong men! We were none o' y'r cold +blooded reptile calculatin' kind! May we fight valiant for God now as +we wrestled for the Devil then! Oh, to be young again an' not spill +life in wassail! to give the blows for right instead of wrong! Man, +what a view y' have here--what a view! Minds me of the days A was +bridge building in the Rockies--" + +"Then you've been in these mountains before?" asked Brydges; but the +old frontiersman refused to take the bait and rambled on in his reverie. + +"What a view! Th' vera kingdom of earth at y'r feet! The river +wimplin'--wimplin'--wimplin' wi' a silver laugh over the stones, an' +the light violet as a Scotch lass's eye! An' the green fields of +alfalfa--Have y' ever noticed how th' light above the alfalfa turns +purple? An' y'r Rim Rocks roasted fire red by the heat. 'Tis the same +view A've gazed on many a time when A was young." He drew a deep sigh +of the longing that only the passing frontiersman knows. "'Tis like if +the Devil came tempting to-day, 't would be such a place as this! +Many's the time He came to us in them old days, lawless days! 'Tis +different to-day. He'd not bait men savage naked now. The kingdoms of +the earth, he'd offer--wealth an' success--wealth an' success--the +fetish o' sons o' men to-day. 'Twould not be simple cards for drink +y'd play! Bigger stakes--bigger stakes, boys! He'd bait men's souls +wi' bigger stakes! If I were young I'd take his bet an' play for the +biggest stakes outside o' Hell--" + +"Hey? What is that?" queried Brydges; and he winked at Wayland. "We'd +been talking of a bunco game when you came up." + +"Y' had, had you?" The old frontiersman measured Brydges through and +through. "Well, judging from y'r brass an' the up-and-coming kind of +it, A'm thinking y'r stakes would be pea-nuts under little shells! +'Tis bigger stakes I'd play for if I had m' life to live over--" + +"What?" asked Wayland curiously. + +Mr. Bat Brydges was revising his inventory of the old "duffer." +Wayland was laughing openly. The old man had become oblivious of both, +with a triangling of sharply intersected lines between his brows and +tense compression of the lips-- + +"The--fate--o'--this--land," he ripped out in hammer raps, "the fate of +this land, boys, with all time lookin' on since ever Time began! Y're +the fiery furnace of all the world's hopes and fears, of all earth's +people, of all poets' dreams; an' God only knows what a mess o' slag +y're turning out! Y'r muck rakers are belching y'r failures to the +four corners of earth! Justice perverted! Courts in fee to the +highest bidder! More murders--murders in this fresh new clean land +than all the stew pots o' filth the old nations have brewed in a +thousand years; and murders unpunished! Y'r Government--the great +world experiment--is it the wull o' the people, or the wull of a gilded +clique o' tricksters?" + +The old man stretched out his hands above the Valley. "What are ye +doing with y'r freedom, the freedom that the children o' light prayed +for and fought for and died for? When there's one law for the rich and +another for the poor, when ye have to bribe y'r own self-elected rulers +to do y'r wull, where is y'r freedom different from the freedom in +France before the Revolution? Is it not written 'my house shall be for +all nations; but ye have made it a den of thieves?' Ye have what all +the nations of the earth have bled for, what prophets have prayed for, +and patriots died for; and all the world is looking on asking, +sneering, scoffing, saying ye pervert the Ark o' the Covenant of God, +saying lawlessness stalks under y'r banners, saying y' wrest the +judgment to the highest bidder, aye to the supreme fountain head o' y'r +courts! The fate o' this land, boys! Them's the stakes I'd play for, +if I had lusty blows to spare. I'd up--I'd up--I'd strip me naked of +every back-thought and expediency and self-interest and hold-back! I'd +hurl the lie--in the teeth--of a scoffing world--I'd show all nations +o' time that the people, the plain common good people, can keep the law +sound as the Ark o' the Covenant of God; and--and--I'd hurl y'r traitor +leaders--y'r Judas Iscariots huckstering the land's good for paltry +silver--I'd hurl y'r grafters an' y'r heelers an' y'r bosses an' y'r +strumpet justices, who sell a verdict like a harlot, I'd hurl them to +the bottom of Hell! An' may Hell be both deep and hot--old fashioned +extra for the pack of them!" + +He shook his trembling fist at the vacuous air. "Fight--right--might! +I'd paint the words in letters o' blood till they awakened this land +like the fiery cross of old! I'd fight--fight--fight till they had to +kill every man o' my kind before I'd down! Before I'd see y'r law +outraged, y'r courts perverted, y'r justice bartered and hawked and +peddled from huckster to trickster, from heeler to headman, from +blackmailer to high judge--but A didna mean to break loose. Y'r fair +scene stirred m' blood; and A'm an old man; and A love the land. A was +born West. A'm none of y'r immigration boomsters who goes in a Pullman +car, then tells the world all about--Now, which way to y'r Missionary +Williams?" + +Bat flushed; but he did not laugh. Oddly enough, he forgot the +feature-story. Wayland rose and came forward and involuntarily held +out his hand. + +"I wish you'd stay for the night," he said. "A good many of us feel +the way you do; but like you, we're all up in air. Sawing the air +doesn't saw wood. A good many of us are in the fight right now; but, +unless we get somewhere, we're going to feel as if we were carving wind +mills. Suppose you put up here for the night? Besides, it's pretty +late to go down. Trail switches sharply--" + +The old frontiersman heard absently. + +"An old man's broodings," he ruminated. + +"I'd call 'em D. T.'s," muttered Brydges. + +"Don't fear for my bones on the trail." He came back from his reverie +as from a journey. "A'm the old breed that doesn't break. 'Tis you +young brittle fellows all bred to pace and speed and style needs look +to y'r goin's. Which way do A turn at the foot of the Ridge? +One--two--three--A see four lights. Which is the Mission?" + +"If you insist on leaving, Sir, there is an Indian woman here going +down to the MacDonald ranch--" + +"MacDonald, did you say?" + +"The next place along the River is the Mission. Here, Calamity, show +this stranger which way to go, will you?" + +But Calamity had already bolted for the Ridge trail. + +"Stranger? She doesn't look to me exactly like a stranger. Looks +precious like one of our Saskatchewan half-breeds! Haven't A seen you +before, my good woman? A'm Jack Matthews, who carried the mail for the +Company at the Big House; by an' by contractor, then by the Grace o' +God missionary to the Cree! Haven't A seen you, girl? Was it '85 at +the Agency House when Wandering Spirit--" + +"Non sabe," snapped Calamity, setting off down the trail at a run paced +to keep the reverend traveller behind till she reached the last loop. +Drawing her shawl over her face, she paused with her back to the +frontiersman. To the left blinked the lights of the sheep ranch house +and the Mission, to the right the cow-boy camp and the dead glare of +the white buildings belonging to the Senator. + +"Viola! dat vay!" The woman deliberately pointed to the cow-boy camp; +then vanished in the darkness. + +"Mighty quick wench! A have seen you before, my sly minx, and A'll see +you some more," he said staring after the fading form. + + +Then he headed his mare for the cow-boy camp below the cliff. Half a +dozen men lounged round a smudge fire. The old man paused to sort out +the scene; the box of a gramaphone laid out for a card table, a bottle +of whiskey in the centre, two empty bottles with candles stuck in the +necks for lights, a dull smudge fire, four rough fellows sprawling on +the ground, one with corduroy velveteen trousers, an old white pack +horse nosing windward of the smoke; one figure with sheepskin chaps to +his waist, thumbs in his belt, standing erect with back to the trail; +and face in light, a shaven face with a strong jaw and oily geniality, +a corpulent form in a white vest, putting a pocket book in a breast +pocket. + +The old frontiersman took hold of his mare's bridle. + +"'Tis hardly what you'd look for in a Missionary outfit, Bessie." + +"You'll leave for the South at once?" + +The question commanded. The old frontiersman listened. + +"Hoof express, Sir," promised the sheep-skin leggings. + +"And mind you I know nothing about it, Jim. I'm not to be told. I +take care of you without you knowing about it. I _expect you_ to take +care of us--" the white waist coat became at once impressive and +anxious. + +"That's all right, Colonel. I understand! We'll crowd 'em to beat +Hell; and they'll go it blind. If it's coming dark, they'll shut their +eyes and go over blind. I defy Sheriff Flood, himself, if he's +standing on the spot to make a case--" + +"You need have no fear of Sheriff Flood _ever_ being on the spot. +He'll be busy under his bed that night; but look out for these Federal +puppy-boy Forest Ranger fellows! Finish up off the confounded National +Range. Finish up before they reach the National Range." + +"And the Mexican herders?" asked the sheep skin chaps with a flourish +of his band above the fire that showed the flash of a diamond on the +little finger. + +The white vest spread deprecating hands. + +"That's your business, Jim! Make a clean sweep of the herd; but see +that no harm comes to the boy." + + +The old frontiersman headed his broncho silently back on the trail. + +"Night birds hatching snake eggs. A'm really between two minds to go +back and crack their addled heads." + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE CHOICE THAT COMES TO ALL MEN + +"Did you notice anything?" demanded Brydges, as the old stranger went +down the Ridge trail. "She knows English as well as you do; and she is +a French breed. Why did she put on to be Mexican? What did she sneak +for? Whole thing cussed queer. What do you make of it? Matthews? +Matthews? I recall that name. Fellow by that name wrote our paper to +know if any Canadian settlers had come here! Say, Wayland, the old man +pricked up his ears at MacDonald's name--spoke of Rebellion Days." + +"Oh, shut it off, Bat! What in the world has a travelling half-cracked +ranting old evangelist to do with the MacDonald family? He'll land on +the Mission for a week or two free like the rest of 'em! He'll likely +preach Hell-fire to Indians, who'll not know a word of what he says +till Mr. Williams gives him a call to move on--" + +"All the same," retorted Bat, disappearing inside the cabin. + + +Wayland passed a bad night, the worst he had known on the Holy Cross, +contending with what comes to all lives, and to many lives many times. + +The Ranger had absorbed the average amount of Sunday school pabulum +that floats round in the mental atmosphere of all youth, that, if you +keep on doing right and doing it hard, things will turn out all right +in the end. Well, he told himself bluntly, he _had_ been doing right +and doing it hard, just as hundreds of the Land Office field men and +Land Office attorneys had been doing right in their vain endeavour to +stop public loot;--and things had turned out all wrong. What did his +four years' fight stand for, anyway? Marking time, that was all. +Nothing accomplished except the wasting of four years of his own life; +and, while that may be small enough in the sum total of things, where a +thousand seeds go to waste for one that bears fruit, it is +overwhelmingly big to the individual man. If he had been the one and +only failure of the Civil Service workers, he could have accused +himself and taken the Senator's advice to "chuck" the fool-theory of +men in public service fighting for right; but he was only one of a +multitude of men, paid public money to prevent the looting of public +property; whose work was blocked, non-suited, pigeon-holed, bluffed, +hampered, or, worst of all, carried up to investigating committees +whose sole purpose was to conceal and wear the public out with +interminable wrangles over technicalities that were irrelevant. + +Better men than he had fought doggedly only to be downed. There was +the Land Office man in Oregon dismissed for the slip of a wrong entry +in his field book because he had quite unintentionally unearthed the +frauds of a member of the land-loot ring who happened to be a +congressman. There was the Federal attorney hounded from his home city +because he prosecuted bribe-givers and objected to being shot while on +duty in the court room. There was that other Federal Law man, shot at +the shaft of a coal mine stolen from public lands. There was the Army +Engineer demoted from his life work because he fought for a free harbor +for a great city and offended the railroad fighting to keep that harbor +closed. There were the two Forest Service men dismissed for giving +facts to the public. Then, there was the Alaska Case--Wayland laughed; +and the laugh was a little bitter. Surely the crowning farce of all: +that had gone up easily to investigation with a blare of trumpets and a +flare of news headlines. That was the easiest of all. + +It made good politics, yet--it was so involved in technicalities, while +it offered a bit of by-play to the gallery, that there had never from +the first, even for the fraction of an instant, been the faintest hope +of anything but confusion emerging from the investigation; but it +played into the game without hurting anybody. If they had really +wanted to investigate, why didn't they take a case in which there were +no technicalities of law, the looted red-lands of California, for +instance; or the half-million of timber openly stolen each year for a +certain smelting ring; or the two thousand acres of coal where Smelter +City itself was built; or the shooting of the Federal Law Officer down +at that other coal mine? These cases involved no "twilight zone" of +dispute as to law, in which the "system" and the "ring" could hide. +Every Government man knew the evidence was plain and complete in these +cases: yet they were pigeon-holed, let lapse for the Statute of +Limitations to bar action. Why? + +Wayland sat down on the slab seat, and the personal reasons came +trooping against his resolutions like the scouts of an oncoming host. + +To begin with, he could make more money outside the Service. The +Government men were paid less than foreign ditch-diggers; but then, +which of the men remained in the Service for money? He ran his mind +over half a dozen fellows in the Agricultural Department who had +increased the nation's wealth by hundreds of millions a year. They +were working at salaries less than a Wall Street Junior clerk or office +girl. The question of salary didn't come in as an argument. That +could be dismissed. But there was the bitter fact, he was +accomplishing absolutely nothing by continuing the struggle, nothing +more than a woman yoked to a Silenus hoping to reform him when he daily +grew worse under her eyes. The Government had blocked him. The party +had blocked him. What was the pith of it all, anyway? _Should those +who had the power be given the legal right to take what they cared to +seize_? It was the same old question that had split every country up +into revolution. And closest of all, keenest of all arguments, the new +influence that had come into his life, possessing it, obsessing it. He +might put her out of his thoughts as a possibility. That would not +dull the edge of his own hunger. By staying on he barred all +possibility of ultimate happiness, perhaps her happiness: yet, if he +abandoned the fight for right, he would be unworthy of her. Sooner or +later she would know, and, though she might remain mute, was she the +one to make semblance of what she did not feel? If the light died from +her eye, it would die from his life. He was not a Silenus to guzzle +hog-like over husks when the life had gone. Besides--Wayland laughed +aloud--the idea of her nature permitting a Silenus near enough to +breathe the same atmosphere that she breathed was inconceivable. There +was one chance--one chance only--Get the issue before the People, +squarely, fairly, openly before the People; awaken the People; mass the +law of the snow flake to the mighty rush of the avalanche; let the +People know, force the People to pronounce the verdict. Wayland +thought of Bat inside the cabin--, and laughed bitterly. He rose and +began pacing the edge of the Ridge. There he was, back in the old +hopeless circle. + +Her touch had wrapped him in a vision world; but across the clearness +of the vision now somehow obtruded the quiet cynicism, the genial scoff +of the Senator's arguments, leaving fierce physical unrest and confused +cross-currents of desire. A mist seemed to blurr all life. The +hemlocks no longer chanted riotous gladness. There was a dirge +to-night of futility, monotonous age-old eons of useless effort, the +useless fall of the forest giant to the dry rot of slug and insect. It +was as if Wayland's spirit stood back and listened to the conflicting +contentions of two other men, the one who wanted to breast the stream +and the one who wanted to go with the current; one full of blind, +red-blood courage, the other full of cold white-corpuscled argument; +one a zealous sportsman playing the game for the game's zest, the other +a quitter because he foresaw no gain. + +Not a doubt of it; it was a doleful business, this being stuck half-way +up between heaven and earth cut off from everything but renunciation. +_Why_, was he doing it? What was to be gained? It would have +surprised Wayland if he had disentangled out of his own weltering +thoughts the fact that he had never weighed _gain_ as an argument +before Moyese talked. He had never known the coward's fear of loss. +What was it they had said to him? 'Blocked at every turn,'--'Has your +boasted Federal Government taken any action?'--'This is the Service you +are loyal to,'--'Who of the public gives one damn for right or wrong?' +Had it really come to that? Was that the seat of the trouble? Did the +public care? 'Go lean frying fat for posterity?' All those voices +strident, scoffing; then, part of the night's voiceless voices, that +other undertone--'Nothing accomplished without somebody fighting a +losing battle,'--'What so heroic about a fighter more or less going +down beaten?' It was nothing heroic at all unless you happened to be +the fighter. And what was the sense of accepting a challenge to a +losing battle? 'I want a man who can fight like the Devil.' Well, +that was what the whole world wanted--always had needed and wanted; and +he and hundreds of other Government fellows were applicants for just +such a fighting job. What was it that comical old sermonizing duffer +had ranted about? Oh, yes! If the Devil (of course, there wasn't a +Devil), if the Devil came tempting to-day 'twould be such a place as +this.' 'Etches, he would proffer as of old,' 'the biggest gamble of +all,' 'play for the biggest stake outside of Hell,' 'The Fate . . . of +the Land . . . with all Time looking on . . . since ever Time began,' +'all the World looking on . . . asking . . . keep sacred as the +Covenant of God . . . The stakes I'd play for . . . if I were +young . . . I'd up . . . I'd up . . . I'd up . . . stripped naked of +very hold-back . . . I'd hurl the lie in the teeth of a scoffing +world. I'd hurl y'r traitor leaders huckstering the land's good for +silver. . . . Fight . . . right . . . might . . . I'd paint the words +in letters of blood till they awakened the land. . . . I'd fight . . . +fight . . . fight till they had to kill every man of my kind before I'd +down . . .' + +The old man had been like the storm wind of the mountains hurling off +the dead leaves of thought. Wayland paused in his pacing. The opal +peak emerged from pearl gray cloud wrack; a silver cross, translucent, +unreal, luminous, a thing of dreams winged with silver light beneath a +solitary star, eternal as God. And the night wind through the pines, +that had sounded so doleful but a moment before, became the jubilant +clicking of countless castanets, the castanets of the long pine +needles, sounding a triumphant chant to the touch of invisible hands. + + +Wayland stopped pacing. He almost stopped thinking. The +consciousness, the realizing sense of her presence, of her touch, of a +something more than her touch, of her being enveloping his in some +ethereal fire, went over the Ranger in fiercely tender flood tides; +this time, not in tumultuous confused desire, but in waves of strength, +in visions from which the mists had vanished, daring that laughed with +gladness over life. There were no longer two Waylands in conflict, +with one sneering and looking on. "A house divided against itself +shall fall." There was only one, with the blood of mothers in his +veins, whelmed by a consciousness that reached back far as the +consciousness of the race. Somehow, his simple manhood, the +inheritance in his blood of men and women, who had loved, fused the +conflict of his nature to a singleness of purpose and won peace now. + +What he said was: "Come on, my friend, the enemy! I'm right here on +the job; nailed, you bet, long as she does it! Just to come alive is +worth being crucified." + +"Hullo," bawled a towsled head through the cabin window. "Aren't you +going to turn in? It's exactly twelve o'clock! Darn it all! Don't +make a sleep-walking Lady Macbeth tragedy out of it! Chuck the bally +thing and come on down to the Valley! Why do you waste your life +pretending you are Providence steering the whole earth? Chuck it, +Dickie! If you were in town, I'd give you a cocktail! Got anything up +here?" + +Wayland went to sleep to dream one of those dreams that envelop day +with rain-bow mist. He dreamed that the amethyst gates of the sun had +swung ajar flooding life with countless charioteers each carrying a +golden spear, and as they advanced over the clouds to earth, all the +little purple heather bells that had hung their heads during the night +to keep out the dew, all the waxy chalices of the winter-greens pale +and faint with passion, all the bells nodding to the wind, began +ringing--ringing ten thousand golden bells; and the painter's brush, +multicolored dazzling knee-deep in the Alpine meadows, flaunted +countless torches of carmine flame to welcome back the day. Then, +suddenly, it wasn't a sound of bells at all. It was her voice, her +voice with the golden note and the liquid break that came when he had +surprised Love in her eyes; and it wasn't the warmth of the Sun's +fan-shaped shafts at all; it was the warmth of her lips in the face of +the picture she had promised--the face above "the Warrior." When he +awakened, a sprig of everlasting that he had stuck in the band of his +Alpine hat had blown across his face. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +WHEREIN ONE PLAYS AN UNCONSCIOUS PART + +Watch a snow flake as it falls! Gentle is too rough a word for the +motion. It floats, a crystal cob-web shot with the glint of +sun-jewels; tangible but melting to your touch, evanescent and +translucent as light; conceived of the wind that bloweth where it +listeth and the gossamer clouds of a vague somewhere. + +Waveringly, noiselessly, so noiselessly it comes that you do not catch +the rustling flutter with your ear, but with a sixth sense of motion. +And it transforms, bewitches, beautifies what it touches. I suppose if +such an evanescent thing were told that it and it alone had been the +age-old, time-immemorial sculptor of the granite rocks; that it and it +alone--to paraphrase the words of the scientists--had rolled away the +door from the sepulchers of the eternal rocks and turned a planet into +a sensate earth pulsing with growth--I suppose if a snow flake were +told such heresy, it would die of its own amaze. + +This, _apropos_ of nothing in particular, unless you happen to +understand from the catagory of your own experiences. + +It was her first love-letter; and, because she did not know she was +writing a love-letter she wrote out of the fulness of an overflowing +heart. Also the hour was the precise hour when consciousness of her +presence had gone over Wayland in flood tides of fierce tenderness. +That may have been a mere coincidence. I set it down because such +coincidences daily touch life. + +Here is the letter. + + +_Twelve O'clock_. + +Are you a 'vision fugitive,' O Ranger Man? Do you know that I have +seen you less than ten times and really known you less than a month? +Is it a dream? What happened? I did not mean to do it. I did not +want it. I did not ask it. Why has it come? You said 'best gifts +came unasked; perhaps, they also go unsent!' This one can never go, +Dick. I've been weaving it in and out for three whole hours, (no, not +_thinking_, I _think_ of other people,) weaving it in and out of every +strand of me. I know now I have been waiting for it a billion years; +ages and ages ago when you and I were cave people or desert runners +like the 20,000 B. C. skeleton in the British Museum; and in the +shuffle of atoms, we got apart. We shall never stray again; for I have +locked last night in my heart. Yesterday I could look up at the +Mountain, and what I saw was the snow cross, cold and far away. +To-night I look up. The Mountain is still there but not the same--what +I feel is--_you_; and you are not far away. I am warm with happiness, +delirious when I let myself _stop_ thinking. + +I have tried to sleep but cannot. Your old Mountain has been talking +again. I can see the Cross here from my window and the lone star above +the peak; and I know that you see too. If I touched the telephone, I +might speak to you; but I can write more frankly than I'd ever have +courage to speak, and I must say it. It is all tumult. I do not +understand, but Hope is strumming her strings--I hear them every time +the wind comes down from the Ridge. Here is the Watts' 'Happy +Warrior,' and Dick--listen--I didn't mean it as a token when I offered +to send it up. I meant it as a rallying cry; but now that you take it +as a token, I can't say that it isn't; only I really didn't mean to +push you over the edge of things as I did. I didn't mean to go over +the edge myself. If I had heard Senator Moyese talk, I couldn't have +been so childish and ignorant. It was like urging you to jump a +precipice and break your neck. I know now what the fight means. It +isn't just the Valley. It's the Nation. I hadn't any right to let my +(here a word was crossed and blotted) feeling shove you over. Yet if +you jump yourself, I'll not pull a gossamer thread to draw back. I +haven't any right. + +You know how it has always been with me--whisked away to the convent at +Quebec when I was four, sent to that New York finishing school to get +what Father called 'world-sense knocked into my religion.' Well, they +were knocks all right. Then England and Switzerland and my Father's +orders to come back, and how lonely and apart he always seems. I don't +understand. What did Moyese mean to-night when he spoke of +'bow-and-arrow aristocracy'? Will you believe me that is the first I +have ever heard of it? Who is Calamity? Will you tell me if you know? +Why are we so apart from all the people of the Valley? What is a +'squaw man'? When I think, I am afraid for having let you become so +interwoven. I did not mean to. It is wholly my fault. The thoughts I +hardly knew myself must have been weaving up into this. They often do. +Father and Mr. Williams leave at daybreak for the Upper Pass. I did +not mean to write so much, but our old Mountain has come from under a +cloud. Anyway, I had to explain, no, I mean write. Explanations never +do explain; but here's the picture of 'The Warrior.' + +"E. MacD." + + +Going to the French window of her bedroom, Eleanor called down to old +Calamity's room below. To her surprise, the half-breed woman on the +instant poked her head above the balcony railing of the basement +quarters. + +"Going to the Ridge to-morrow, Calamity?" + +"Oui, Mademoiselle, surement," pattered Calamity softly in that Cree +patois which is neither French nor Indian. + +"Then, take this up to Mr. Wayland, please!" + + +As she withdrew to her room, Eleanor became conscious that she could +not remember a day since she had come back to the Valley when the Cree +half-breed had not been within call or sight. The girl suddenly +pressed both hands to her eyes. What had Moyese meant? + +Once among the pillows, she fell into the life-bathing sleep of the +great mountain ozone-world. Was it a dream; or had Calamity come +stealing through the French window to stand at the foot of her bed? +Waking to a burst of sunlight across her face, Eleanor could not tell +in the least whether the memory of the half-breed woman standing in the +shadows were dream or reality. The sun was coming over the Rim Rocks +in a fan-shaped shield of spear shafts; and every single shaft wafted +down thoughts that refused to lie quiet. Shafts that have a trick of +turning your heart into a target can't be shut out by armor proof. + +Daylight restored her poise. Her first instinct was to recall the +letter; but Calamity had already set off for the Ridge. The thought +hardly took form, but the shadow haunted her. If It were true, he +would surely never let her work round the ranch houses of the Valley. +Breakfast passed as usual, alone in the big raftered dining room after +the ranch hands had gone, the lame German cook for the camp wagons +hobbling in and out with the dishes. Stage had passed long since and +the mail lay at her place, where the German had spread a white square +above the oilcloth of the long bench table; but letters and papers +remained unopened. + +Perhaps, after all, those midnight thoughts had been morbid as midnight +thoughts often are. It might be that the Valley was apart from them, +not they apart from the Valley. Who were the neighbors from whom her +father stood aside? There was the Senator in the white house across +the River. Well, the Senator spent the most of his time in Smelter +City forty miles away, and in Washington. Then, there were the +Williams of the Mission House with their only boy and eighty or a +hundred Indian children; gentlefolk keeping up the amenities of refined +life, spreading the contagion of beautiful example like an irrigation +plot widening slowly over arid sage brush. Surely her father was held +in esteem by them; and they stood for all that was best in the Valley. +Below the ranch houses came what was known as "the English Colony," a +scattering of young bachelors playing at ranching, whose rendezvous was +the pretty Swiss chalet known as "the Rookery," where a wonderful +little young-old lady with red wig and hectic flush dispensed lavish +hospitality and canned music and old port behind the eminent +respectability of a stool-pigeon in the person of a card-loving +husband. The lady's husband called himself "colonel." The Valley +called him one of those "no-good Englishmen"; but the Valley may have +been mistaken; for even to the ranch house had come tales of outraged +honor in the person of the "no-good husband" bursting in on games of +cards with wild charges which only the payment of big money could +suppress--suppress you understand, purely for the sake of the lady: +outraged honor could accept no atonement. Then the lady would flit for +the winter to those beauty doctors of Paris and New York, who operate +on wrinkles and lay up muniments for fresh campaigns; and the "colonel" +would betake himself to resorts where balm is accorded wounded honour; +while loose-mouthed, simple-eyed young fellows went East for the winter +lighter as to purse, wiser as to the ways of paying for pleasure. +Altogether, it was not surprising her father kept apart from "the +English Colony," Eleanor reflected. She passed out to the piazza +spanning all sides of the ranch house. + + +It was a sun-bathed, sun-kissed, sun-fused world. The River flowed +liquid silver jubilant and singing. The morning mists rolled up +primrose spangled with jewels, while over all lay such light as +hypnotized the senses into a sort of dazzled dream world. Ashes of +roses! There were no ashes here. It was the rose, itself; a world +veiled in gold mist, wind-blown, flame-fired of joy, little cressets of +fire edging every ridge. The sheep browsing in the Valley, the +fleece-clouds herding mid the winds of the upper peaks, you hardly knew +which shone whiter. The burnished mountain with its silver cross and +wings of light, opal about the peaks, melting in fading lines about the +base, with the middle distances lost in gashed purple shadows, might +have been a thing of airy fancy. So might the dark forested Ridge +where the evergreens stood sentinels among wisps of cloud. And +everywhere, all pervasive, sifting through the shadows of silvered pine +needles and trembling poplars, permeated the cinnamon smell of the +barky forest world, resinous of balsam, spicy with the tang of life. + +She could see the mountain streams where they laughed down the Ridge in +wind-tattered spray. With the glass, too, she could see a little blue +wreath of man-made smoke curling up from the evergreens; and waves of +happiness, absurd warm glowing happiness, broke over her, the sheer +gladness of being alive. Whatever sinister thing kept her father +apart, it was here she belonged--she knew it now--to the great spacious +life-stimulating West; to the world resinous with imprisoned sunbeams; +not to the lands of sky shut out by twenty story roofs and pea-soup +fogs and sickly anaemic views of life. Life was good. She drank of it +and called it good as in creation's prime. + +Once she called Central up on the telephone. Central answered that the +Ridge line had been cut. Such duties as men's hands could not do round +ranch houses, she finished in a dream, turning with a touch the house +into a home; flowers for the middle of the big table, dishes +pitchforked down replaced in order, corner cobwebs speared with a +duster on a broom, Navajo rugs uncurled and squared, stale cooking +expelled from littered shelves, flies pursued to the last ditch, breaks +in the mosquito wire round the piazza tacked up, heaps of mended socks +and overalls sent out to the bunk house for the ranch hands, milk cans +buried--it had always been one of the absurdities she was going to +reform, that people used canned milk in a cow country; but, +unfortunately, the obstacle to that reform was that cows could not be +milked on horseback. + +After mid-day meal, she ensconced herself in a steamer chair on the +piazza facing the mountain; but her book lay face downward. It was a +book on coniferous trees. She had thought the Valley monotonous when +she had first come back. Now she knew it never remained the same for +two whole hours. The dazzling white of morning had given place to the +yellow glow of afternoon. The River that had flowed quicksilver now +swept seaward pure amber rilled with gold. The fleece clouds herded by +wandering winds had massed to towering cumulus where the sheet +lightnings played; and the Mountain where the silver snow-cross had +glistened in the morning seemed to have changed perspective, to have +retreated and withdrawn to a weird upper world. You no longer saw the +wind-blown cataracts. Purpling shadows, palpable sabling mournful +ghost-forms, folded and wrapped the Ridge with here and there shafts of +slant light, yellow as bars of gold. You could no longer hear the +rampant roar of streams disimprisoned from snow by mid-day sun. With +the slant light came the sibilant hush, the quiet tangible. + + +She reclined very still in the steamer chair. Life and love and +mystery wrapped her round, the great reverie of the race, the ecstasy +of devotees that sent to death and crusade in the Middle Ages, the +lovelight of life brooding warm and radiant. She no longer saw the +shining pageant of sunlight on the argent fields of an infinite +universe; the sparks and spangles of light in silver cataracts; a world +veiled in gold mist, flame-fired of joy, little cressets of rose edging +every sky-line. She was possessed, obsessed, bathed, enveloped in a +flame of new life. If she thought at all, 'twas in the symbol of the +old Apostle, "in Him we live and move and have our being." She +recalled that God had been defined in the consciousness of the race as +Love. Deep draughts of new existence whelmed her. No longer life +coursed somnolent through unconscious veins. Life ran riotous of +gladness tingling to a living joy so poignant it became pain. Was it +fool-joy born of swifter pulse and time-old inheritance in the flesh? +Was it the rhapsody of self-hypnotism, which ancients would have called +vision? Of such dreams does creation spring full born and enfleshed. +Of such dreams does heroism laugh at death. Of such dreams does life +invest the daily round with rain-bow mist, with the spectrum gamut of +all the colors that blend to the pure white light of daily life. As a +lense splits up light, so love had brought out the hidden colors of +existence, of eternity; as she dreamed, eternity itself seemed short. + +Then came the restlessness that had shaken Wayland on the Ridge the +night before, the fire that tests the vessel; and whether the life go +to pieces depend on whether the vessel be both strong and clean. Yet +she was not afraid. She remembered their talk the night before of the +snow flake falling to the same law as the avalanche; and was she not +also a part of the Great Law? + +She knew he could not be free till six. She must not go up to the +Ridge. Last night, she had gone heedlessly. She could never go so +again. Then, she realized why the Missionary's wife had linked her +fate with Williams'--a frail bit of china putting itself to the coarse +uses of earthenware--washing, scrubbing, sandpapering three generations +of morals and bodies to make an ideal real. It was Wayland who had +first described Mrs. Williams in that metaphor: "a piece of Bisque or +Dresden," he had said, "and what those lousy Indians need is a wooden +wash tub with lots of soft soap." Then, she wanted to see Mrs. +Williams, to study her with this new knowledge. + +A picket fence in imitation of a home in the East ran round the Mission +House. Pitiful attempts at gardening lined the gravel entrance, +periwinkle dried up in the blazing Western sun, sickly scented +geraniums that shrivelled to the night frost, altheas that did better +but refused to bloom. "They don't transplant East to West, any better +than they do West to East. Better follow the Senator's advice and +domesticate our Western ones." Then, the whimsical thought came +perhaps that was what her father had done with her. + +The drone of a man's voice from the Mission Parlor surprised her; for +Mr. Williams had gone off with her father to the Upper Pass. + +"Here is Miss Eleanor, herself! We were just speaking about you, +Eleanor! This is an old friend of your father's, Mr. Matthews from +Saskatchewan!" + +A little woman in gray drew Eleanor inside the Mission Parlor, a little +woman with a white transparent skin trenched by lines of care, but +somehow, when you looked twice, they were lines of beauty chiseled by +time. She was garbed in gray and her hair was almost white, but, from +the first time Eleanor had looked at her hands, the girl wanted to kiss +and cover them with her own--they were such beautifully kept hands but +so gnarled and misshapen with toil. There had been only one child; but +there were eighty Indian children in the Mission School. Had the love +dream paid toll for such toil--Eleanor had asked herself when first she +had seen the Missionary's wife. Now she knew that, whether the love +dream paid toll or not, love would do and was doing the same thing time +without end and everywhere. + +Then, she became aware of the massive form of a man topped by an +enormous head of white hair rising in links and hinges from a chair in +the corner till his figure towered above the little woman. + +"So this--is Eleanor--MacDonald? Well, well, well!" + +He was shaking hands at each word. "A knew your grandfather well. +Many's the time we have raced the dogtrains down MacKenzie River an' +the canoes down the Saskatchewan! 'Twas your grandfather set the +bagpipes skirling when Governor Simpson used to come galloping down the +Columbia in the forties with his paddlers splitting the wind, a dark +fearsome man, child, but a brave one, tho' his heart was hard as his +hand, and his hand was iron--Bras de Fer, Arm of Iron, the Indians +called him; for his left hand, he lost in a duel; and his false hand +was a true hand of iron metal that made many a lazy voyageur bite the +dust. Bless me, but you are a MacDonald to your dainty feet--" holding +her off from him at arm's length. "Eyes true to pedigree, and the +curly hair, and the short upper lip, the only one of all the MacDonalds +that's kept the race type. 'Tis good to see you! A'm right glad to +see you! A'm gladder than you know-" + +Eleanor did not wait for any second thought. "And did you know my +mother's people, too?" + +The old man sat back in his corner. "No, A cannot say A did! A had +left the Company an' was building railway bridges in the Rockies when +your father left Canada." + +She felt the hot flush mount. + +"Such an absurd thing, Eleanor," Mrs. Williams was explaining. "Mr. +Matthews came by the Holy Cross last night. Mr. Wayland told Calamity +to show him which way to turn; and she sent him the wrong way, to the +cow-boy camp, you know! He had to sleep out all night at our very +door. Such a shame! That put him so late that he missed Mr. Williams. +You know they have gone to the Upper Pass and can't possibly be back +for weeks--excuse me, some of my school people seem to want me," and +she flitted from the room. To Eleanor, her life seemed a constant +flitting at the beck of bootless duties, nagging duties that only an +expert time keeper of Heaven could credit. + +"Yes! Sent me a mile along the road in the wrong direction--into a +nest of mid-night birds. A nice bunch o' beauties, too, hatching some +Devil plot to ruin the poor sheepmen! A man in a white vest was there, +who by the same token didn't belong; tho' A'm no so sure he was any +better than his company. They didn't see _me_! A didna' just speak to +_them_, but A heard them plain enough,--'leave for the South at once;' +and 'crowd 'em to beat Hell,' and 'send 'em over without a push' an' +'see that no harm comes to the boy'--Eh, why, what is the matter?" + +Eleanor had sprung forward with white lips. + +"It's Fordie! He's taking the sheep to the Rim Rocks with the Mexican +herders. Don't frighten his mother! It may not be too late! He may +not have reached the Rim--" + +"Let's telephone that Ranger fellow?" + + +Then, it all dawned on her, the deadly, suave, incredibly malicious +pre-planned thing! + +"The wires had been cut since morning," she said. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +WHILE LAW MARKS TIME, CRIME SCORES + +They did not tell the boy's mother. + +The German cook hitched the fastest bronchos to the yellow buckboard +with the front wheel brake; and, the old frontiersman flourishing the +reins, they had whisked off for the Ridge trail before Mrs. Williams +could return to the Mission Parlor. + +"The Ranger will be able to tell whether the sheep have passed down the +Ridge," she explained. + +The old man caught the light on her face as she spoke the name. It was +like the flash in the dark that betrays a diamond, or the scintilla of +light through the leaves that tells of an Alpine lake; but he made no +comment except to the ponies. + +"Go it, little ones! Make time! Split the wind! Show y'r heels! +Tear the air to tatters! there!" And he whirled the whip with the +skill of all the old Adam stirring within him, while the buckboard went +forward with a bounce. + +"We can't take the wagon up yon Ridge trail--" + +"No, but I can climb straight up and not mind the switch back, if +you'll wait." + +He muttered some commonplace about "true Westerner;" and, springing +out, she had gone scrambling up the slope avoiding delay of the zig-zag +by climbing almost straight. + +Quizzically, the old man gazed after her; the first hundred feet were +easy, a mossed slope with padded foot-hold. Then came steep ground +slippery with pine needles; but the mountain laurel and ground juniper +gave hand grip; and she swung herself up past the third tier of the +switch back where the Ridge arose a rock face and trees with two +notches and one blaze marked the lower bounds of the National Forests. +Here he saw her run along the bridle trail marked by one notch and one +blaze: then, she was swinging over moraine slopes to the fifth bench of +the trail. There she disappeared round a jut of rock--he remembered a +mountain spring trickled out at this place bridged by spruce poles. +Then he noticed that the cumulous clouds which had been flashing sheet +lightning all afternoon, were massing and darkening and lowering closer +over the Valley, with zig-zag jags of live fire down to the ground and +sounds more like the crack of a whip or splinter of wood than thunder. +The cliff swallows dipped almost to the grass; and the flowers were +hanging their heads in miniature umbrellas. All the trembling poplars +and cotton-woods seemed to be furled waiting. Then, the lower side of +the slate clouds frayed in the edge of a sweepy garment to sheets and +fringes of rain. A little tremor ran through the leaves. The horses +laid back their ears. + +"We'll get it," said the old man tightening the reins. + + +She had paused for breath round the buttress of a gray crag when she +noticed the churn of yeasty blackness blotting out the Valley and felt +the hushed heat of the air. A jack rabbit went whipping past at long +bounds. The last rasp of a jay's scold jangled out from the trees. +Then, she heard from the hushed Valley, the low flute trill of a blue +bird's love song. Ever afterwards, either of those bird notes, the +scurl of the jay or the golden melody of the blue warbler, brought her +joyous, terrible thoughts, too keen to the very quick of being for +either words or tears; for a horseman had turned the crag leading his +broncho. It was the Ranger in his sage green Service suit wearing a +sprig of everlasting in his Alpine hat. + +"Why, I've been trying to get you by telephone all day," he said, "but +the wires are cut--" + +In the light of the sudden strength on his face, she forgot the +brooding storm, the impending horror. + +"Has Fordie brought the sheep down?" + +"Yes, ages ago; he passed at noon with the whole bunch, fifteen +thousand of 'em, strung along the trail from the top of the Ridge to +the bottom. Don't you see how they skinned every branch? That's why +the cattlemen hate 'em! Ford will be on the Rim Mesas now. Why; +anything wrong?" + +She did not remember till afterwards how it was she had met both his +hands with her own as she repeated the old frontiersman's report. She +knew, if time stopped and storm split the welkin, it would be all the +same. She felt the heat hush come up from the Valley, felt the +quivering pause of the waiting air, the noiseless flutter of the +foliage, the awed quiet, then the exquisite tingling pain of her own +being,-- + +"Eleanor, look at me! Look in my eyes! Look up at me--" + +She felt the rush of her being to meet and blend and fuse in the flame +of his love. Then, she looked up. His eyes drank hers in one poised +moment of delirious recognition, of tempestuous tenderness. The world +swam out of ken. All but the fluted melody of the blue bird; and she +knew they must always sound together, the trill and the rasp, the blue +bird and the jay, the true and the false, love and its counterfeit. + +"We go into this fight together," he said very quietly, "And forever!" +He placed the sprig of everlasting in her hand. "You can count me on +the firing line." + +Then he had thrown the reins over his broncho's neck, headed the horse +back up the Ridge and was slithering down the steep slope giving her +hand-hold as of steel-springs. So short was the interval, it could not +be measured in time. Yet it had rivetted eternity. She saw the +rolling clouds of ink writhing up the Valley turning everything to +blackness: yet she did not know it. The little flutter of air changed +to whiplashes and puffs of wind that curled the black hair forward over +her unhatted face in a frame. Wayland looked at her and felt his +masterdom going to those same winds; for the pace had painted her ivory +cheeks, not rose color, but the deep flame of the wild flower. Some +day, perhaps,--no matter; he set his teeth and screwed the whipcord +muscles taut; for the moraine stones had begun to roll, and there was a +zig-zag flash of lightning that sent fire balls sizzling over the rock. +He braced her to the leap down the steep sliding moraine, and felt the +frenzy of joy from her touch. + +"There! We took the jump together! You didn't push me over the edge +of things," he said, as their feet touched the pine needle slope. + +This time, the lightning came with a ripping splintering rocking echo. + +"It's like Love and Life racing in the picture," she laughed back and +they bounded into the buckboard, Wayland standing braced behind the +seat, "to stop her kiting down the hill if we break loose," he said; +she, forward with the driver, feet braced to the iron foot-rest, hands +holding the seat-guard. Then, the brim of his felt hat flapping, the +bronchos' ears laid back, necks craned out, the old man whirling the +whip, they were off for the Rim Rocks. The breaking storm, the +whipping winds, the wild pace, the rush of the fringed rain, seemed a +part of the furious exaltation breaking the bounds of her own +consciousness. + +"Cross the ford, Sir," shouted the Ranger bending forward, "it's +shorter than the bridge;" and her hair tossed in his face as the +buckboard splashed into the River and bounced up the far side with hind +wheels swaying. + +"Are y' all right, there?" called the old driver over his shoulder. + +"Stay with it," yelled Wayland, "straight ahead where the road cuts the +Rim Rocks." + +"We're splitting the air all right," shouted the old man. "Ye mind y' +talked of sawing air. Split it, man, an' y'll get somewhere." + +Up a hummock, down a ravine, over a fallen log with a hurdle jump that +threatened to break the buckboard's back. + +"Are ye there yet?" called the old man. + +"Split the wind, Sir," shouted Wayland; and the rig went rattling up +the red earth road of the Rim Rocks not a wheel's width from the edge. + +"We're leaving the storm behind; look back," she said. + +Up the Valley swept the rains in a wall of whipped spray jagged by the +zig-zag streaks of lightning. + +"Hold on till we turn the next switch back," warned the Ranger. The +buckboard wheeled a point as he spoke and the bronchos floundered to a +fagged trot. They saw it coming: the rain wall, frayed at the edge to +a fringe, the wind lashing their faces, the red rocks of the +battlements jutting through the cloud wrack spectral and ominous. A +toothed edge of rock above, then a belt of cloud cut by the darting +wings of the countless swallows. + +The trees of the Ridge across the Valley seemed to bend and snap. +There was a funnelling roar, sucking up earth and air, trees and +brushwood; whips and lashes and splintering crashes of rain and wind +and jagged light-lines; the bronchos cowering against the inner wall of +the trail. Then the funnelling wind tore the pinnacled rock tops clear +of the billowing mist. + +"There goes your hat, Sir," cried Wayland as the black felt went +sailing down the precipice. + +"What's that!" demanded the old man, springing from the seat and +pointing upward with his whip. + + +Over the edge of the sky line, on the rimmed red battlements, jumping, +jumping, jumping; as sheep jump at shearing time from the hot center to +the cool outside, or over the backs of one another in winter cold, when +the outer line jumps to the huddled center; came the herd in a gray +woolly shapeless whirling mass! Shouts, cries, shrill bleatings, storm +muffled bang, bang and thud of guns! Just for an instant, emerged from +the mist on the skyline of the battlements the figure of a man in +sheep-skin chaps, a riderless white horse, shadows of other men, the +sheep in a living torrent pouring over into the nothingness of mist; +then a boy, a little boy, riding hatless, craning far forward over the +neck of his pinto pony, shouting, waving, screaming, trying to head the +sheep back from the precipice edge! + +"The dastard coward, blackguard Hell-hatched hounds!" roared the old +man, shaking his impotent fist. Then he funnelled his hands and +shouted the lad's name. + +It happened in the twinkling of an eye. The man in the +sheep-skin-chaps clubbed his rifle at the galloping pony. The pinto +reared, flung back, pitched over the edge of the Rim Rocks. Then the +cloud blot, earth and air sponged into the wet blur of a washed slate, +shrieking furies of peltering rain, a roar of the hurricane wind, a +blinding flash, the air torn to tatters! The cloud burst hurled down +in sheets, the red clay road runnelling flood torrents. Wayland had +caught her under shelter of the rock wall. The old man hurtled to the +heads of the shivering bronchos, gripping both bridles. A splintering +crash that rocketted from crag to crag and rumbled below their feet; +and the thing was over quick as it had come. The funnelling whirl of +clouds eddied over the Pass behind the Holy Cross Mountain; the opal +peak radiant and dazzling above the Valley; the air a burst of yellow +sunlight quivering in the smoking rain mist; the red battlement rocks +above dripping and bare; and somewhere a song sparrow trilling to the +tinkle of the subsiding waters. A roil of cloud rolled from below. + +The sound came first, smothered and pain-piercing; then the old +frontiersman had uttered something between a curse and a groan. She +sprang from shelter and looked over the edge. Jumbled at the foot of +the pinnacled red rocks heaved a writhing mass, a weltering maimed +horror. On the outer edge, arms under head, face to sky, tossed +backwards, lay the body of the boy beside the pinto pony, the neck of +the horse broken under in the fall, the child pitched beyond the mass +by the double turn of his falling horse. + + +For a moment none of the three uttered a word. She was trembling so +that she could not speak. There were tears in the old man's eyes. To +Wayland's face had come a look. It was like the blue flash of a pistol +shot. The pupils of his eyes had focussed to pin points of fire. He +moistened his lips. + +"May Hell be both deep and hot!" he said. + +It was the cry of the primal man beneath all the culture of the schools +that disprove Hell; the cry of human red-blooded manhood against all +the white-corpuscled sickly sentimentality that ever sacrifices +innocence on the altar of guilt. + +While the Law marked time, the swift feet of crime had not paused nor +slackened pace. While the Law argued, learnedly, disputatiously, with +the handing up and the handing down of inane decisions, Crime scored; +and Who or What tallied? The men round the fire the night before in +the cow-camp, the men of "the bunco game" had stacked cards and played +trump; but unfortunately, they had jumbled the white-vested fighter's +orders about the boy. The cattlemen had taken care of themselves after +a code not honored by the law of nations. + + +Also, they had gone into the fight together: the one who saw the right +but did not understand the fight; the one who understood the fight but +sometimes lost his vision of the right; and the one who saw in the +fight for right, not the quarrel of a Valley, or a Faction, or a Ring, +but the saving of the Nation, the repudiation of a world lie, the +welding of right and might into an eternal harmony. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +A VICTIM OF LAW'S DELAY + +For years, Eleanor could not let herself remember the details of that +night. We like to persuade ourselves that by some miraculous chance, +some trickery of fate, good may come in a vague somehow out of evil; +contrary to the proofs from the beginning of time that good fruit never +yet grew from evil seed. The girl was too honest for such fetish +faith. She could not turn up the whites of her eyes in a pious +resignation that it had been the will of God evil should triumph. So +she shut out the details of the horror from mind's memory and set her +teeth, knowing well that when lewd horrors triumph it is not because +the God of the Universe is a fool but because the powers for right have +not fought valiant as the powers for evil. + +She remembered the Ranger had tossed a revolver to the old frontiersman +and Matthews had gone tearing up the slippery clay of the Mesa road +ripping out oaths of his unregenerate days that he would have "the +scoundrels' scalps if he had to tear them off with his own hands." +Somehow, Wayland had headed the draggled horses round on the narrow Rim +Rock trail. + +"Go down and break the news to his mother. I'll get the body," he had +said; and she had driven the buckboard down with her foot on the wheel +brake. Not a soul appeared around the Senator's place as she passed +the white square of fenced buildings. All the mosquito doors were +hooked. Everything looked deserted; branding irons lying in disorder +round the k'raal. The River had swollen too turbulent for fording and +she had crossed the white bridge--she remembered she had crossed at a +gallop contrary to the little notice tacked on the board railing. +Then, the horses steaming from rain had stopped in front of the Mission +gate and Mrs. Williams had come out "wondering about Fordie in the +storm." With her back to the waiting mother, Eleanor had spent an +unconscionable time tying the ponies, trying to control her own +trembling lips and threshing round for some way to tell the untenable. +She remembered the roil of the raging waters, the floating star +blossoms on the muddy swirl, the light sifting in beaten rain dust +through the silver pine needles, the curve and dip of the joyous +swallows. Then, she had followed the little white haired lady into the +Mission Parlor. + +Almost hysterically, that saying of an old profane writer came to mind, +"God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb;" and all her inner being was +shouting in rebellion "Does He, Does He?" Then she shut the door. She +knew very well how she ought to have broken the news with the pious +platitudes that everything is for the best, with the whitewashed lies +that every damnable tragedy is a blessing in disguise, that every +devil-dance of fool circumstance is beneficent design, that disease is +really health in a mask and sin a joke, a misnomer, that crime is +really a trump card up Deity's sleeve to play down some wonderful trick +of good; but--was it the Indian strain in her blood back many +generations? She could not mouthe the hollow mockery of such +sophistries in the presence of Death. + + +"Eleanor--what is it? Why do your eyes look so strange?" + +The little woman clasped both the girl's hands and gazed questioningly +up in her face. At the same moment, she began to tremble. She tried +to ask and faltered; a tremor pulsed in the upper lip. Then the +grand-daughter of the man of the iron hand had gathered the little +white haired lady in her arms as if to ward the blow. + +"The outlaws drove Fordie over the Rim Rocks with the herd," she said. + +"Is he dead? Is he dead?" + +The little woman had drawn her body up its full height. + +Eleanor tried to answer. The words would not come from her lips. She +nodded. There again she had to shut the door of memory; for, when we +break the news, it isn't the news we break; it's the news breaks us. + +After what seemed an interminable quiet, Mrs. Williams was asking +through dry tearless sobs: + +"What does it all mean? Have we not given our whole lives to God? How +could this thing happen--to an innocent child? There isn't any justice +or right in this whole world." + +"We must _not_ be quiescent any more, Mrs. Williams. We must fight. +We have such a habit of letting things go, and things let go--go wrong. +It isn't God's fault at all: it's us--us humans: it's our fault. Every +one of us ought to have been ready to die to prevent crime; and we've +been letting things go. We mustn't be quiescent any more. We must +fight wrongs and evils. And much more;" the girl in tears, the little +woman fevered, red-eyed, gazing with glazed look into dark spaces, +kneading her clasped hands together. Once the door opened and the +shawled head of the old half-breed woman poked in. + +"Ford?" Calamity asked. + +"Go 'way, Calamity," whispered Eleanor. + +She saw the little woman rise slowly. + +"He is murdered," Mrs. Williams said, "he is murdered just as truly as +if Moyese had cut his throat with his own hand." It was not for months +after, that Eleanor recalled the look on Calamity's face as the Indian +woman heard those frenzied words. Then Mrs. Williams broke in +uncontrollable sobbing. "Leave me! Go out--all of you. Leave me +alone!" + +Eleanor shut the door and led the dazed Indian children from the outer +hall. In the Library, opposite the Mission Parlor, she found old +Calamity sitting on the floor with the shawl over her head. The +half-breed woman sat peering through the shawl as Eleanor lighted the +hanging lamp. No Indian will mention the name of the dead. She +fastened her eyes on Eleanor, snakily, sinister, never shifting her +glance. + +"What is it, Calamity?" + +"Is dat true? Senator man he keel heem--keel leetle boy?" she asked +slowly. + +Eleanor thought a moment. + +"Yes, it is entirely true," she said, never heeding the import of her +words to the superstitious mind of the Indian woman. + +A little hiss of breath came from the crouching form. She rose, drew +the shawl round her head and at the door, turned. + +"Dey take mine," she said, "and now dey keel heem, an' white man, he +yappy--yappy--yappy; not do--not do any t'ing! He send for Mount' +P'lice, mabee no do anyt'ing unless Indian man . . . he keel." The +little hiss of breath again and a cunning mad look in the eyes. + +"Go 'way Calamity! Go home to our ranch house!" + +By and by, came Wayland. She knew why he had come after dark, carrying +the slender body against his shoulder. A white handkerchief had been +thrown over the face; and she saw that he held the arms tightly to hide +the fact that both had been broken in the fall. The rains had matted +the curly hair and brought a strange rose glow to the cheeks. There +again--Eleanor had to shut the doors of memory; for they had carried +him in together. The wind was not tempered to the shorn lamb; and it +is the living, not the dead, who beat against the Portals of Death. + +They kept watch together, she and Wayland, in the Library across from +the closed door of the Mission. Parlor, black-eyed Indian urchins +peeping furtively from the head of the stairs till bells rang lights +out. Then silence fell, stabbed by the creak of floor, the swing of +door, the click and rustle of the cotton wood leaves outside. + +There was a slight patter of rain-drip from the eaves somewhere. A +gate swung to the wind; and, from across the hall, they could hear the +driven footsteps pacing up and down the parlor. Then, the +drip,--drip,--was broken by longer blanks, and stopped. The cotton +wood leaves ceased to rustle and flutter. Only the twang of the night +hawk's wing hummed through the stillness; and the distracted tread no +longer paced the Mission Parlor. When Eleanor came back from across +the hall, she shut the Library door softly. + +"She is praying," she said. + +Wayland had been extemporizing a morris chair into a lounge with his +Service coat for a pillow. He threw a navajo rug across. Then, he +faced her. The look of masterdom had both hardened and softened. She +did not know that the hunger-light of her own face hardened that +hardness; and she gazed through the darkened window to hide her tears. +He stood beside her with his arms folded. A convulsive shudder shook +her frame. Wayland tightened his folded arms. Sympathy is so easy. +The sense of her nearness, of her trust, of the warm living fire of her +love was pushing him not over the precipice but into the battle, out +beyond the firing line. What did one man matter in this big fight +anyway? They heard the sibilant hush of the River flood-tide; and the +warm June dark enveloped them as in a caress. They could see the sheet +lightning glimmer on the bank of cumulous clouds behind the Holy Cross. +The humming night-hawk, up in the indigo of mid-heaven, uttered a +lonely, far, fading call, as of life in flight; and a rustle of wind, +faint as the brushing of moth wings, passed whispering into silence. + +"You don't really think death is the end of all, do you?" she asked. + +Wayland could not answer. If she had looked, she would have seen his +face white and his eyes shining with a strange new light. He drew back +a little in the dark of the window casement, with his hand on the sill. +It touched hers and closed over it. Then, somewhere from the dark came +a night-sound heard only in June, the broken dream-trill of a bird in +its sleep. When she spoke, her voice was low, keyed as the dream-voice +from the dark. + +"Where did the spray of flowers you gave me come from?" + +"Sprig I'd stuck in my hat band." + +"Was that all? Didn't you mean to tell me more?" + +"It's a pearl everlasting blossom," answered Wayland. + +She waited. He heard the slow ticking of his own watch. + +"I was dreaming of your face," he blundered out, "and when I wakened, +the thing had blown down on--the hammock." It was a clumsy subterfuge; +and he knew that her thought meeting his half-way divined his dream. + +The wind passed whispering into silence. He felt the quiver of the +pine needles outside, trembling to the touch of wind and night. The +sense of her nearness, of her trust, of the warm living fire of her +love swept over him unstemmed; and, when she turned and looked in his +eyes, he caught her in his arms and held her there with a fierce +tenderness, her face thrown back, the veins of her throat pulsing to +the touch of wind and night, her lips parted, her lashes hiding her +eyes. + +"Tell me that you are mine," he whispered. + +She did not answer for a moment. Then she lifted her eyes. He drank +their light as a thirsty man might drink waters of life. Neither +spoke. The rustling wind passed whispering. The June dark enveloped +them in the warm caress of the night. By the dim flare of the library +lamp he saw her lips trembling. + +"Tell me," he commanded. + +"Do I need to tell you?" + +"Yes, yes! I must have a seal of memory for the dark future," and his +tongue poured forth such utterances as he had not dreamed men could use +but in prayer. "I must know from your own lips." + +He felt the tremor, felt the two hands rise to frame his face, felt the +catch and take of breath, heard the broken notes of gold. + +"Then, take it," she said. + +He bent over her lips in an exquisite torture that could neither give +nor take enough till she struggled to free herself, when he crushed her +the closer, and kissed the closed eyes and the forehead and the hair +and the pulsing throat. Then he opened his arms. + +She sank on the morris chair and hid her face in her hands. They +neither of them spoke nor heard very much but the pounding of their own +hearts. Wayland gazed out in the dark at the shiny flood-tides of the +river. She had not meant--she had meant always to be free; she had not +meant to mingle her life currents in the destiny of others. + +The door opened suddenly. It was old Calamity, red-shawled and +stooping. + +"Missa Vellam say not for vait no longer, Mademoiselle! She aw' right. +She say t'ank you now for to go home!" + +Eleanor rose with a shuddering sigh + +"Come then, Calamity," she said. + +Wayland walked with her to the ranch house, the old half-breed woman +pattering behind. The gray dawn-light lay on the river mistily. At +the gate, she turned. + +"Has Mr. Matthews come back yet, Calamity?" + +Calamity gave a vigorous shake of her head. + +"I am going up to the Rim Rocks at once to see what's become of him. +Go on in, Calamity; I want to speak to Miss MacDonald! Forgive me," he +pleaded. "I had no right. I have no right to anything till I have +cleaned up this damnable hell-work. I must not leave duty till I have +fought this thing out; and I must not drag you in; but I wanted--" he +paused; "I couldn't help it." + +She trembled, but she took refuge in neither the subterfuge nor the +pretence of the Eastern woman. + +"It was yours," she said. + +Wayland's eyes flashed their gratitude. "It's so God-blessed +beautiful, Eleanor; it's so wonderfully beautiful I mustn't spoil it +with my man hands! I couldn't believe it true without the memory +you've given me; but you must keep me in line! Now that I have that +memory in my heart I'll drink it, and hike for the firing line! My +place isn't here; you must never let me break my resolution again." + +"I never will," interrupted Eleanor. + +"We've got to fight this thing to the last ditch! If the innocent may +be done to death by our law makers; if murder can be planned and +carried out unpunished; there's an end to our democracy! Last year it +was a little school teacher strangled down in the Desert; nobody +punished, because that would have interfered with a voting gang on +election day. This year, it's Fordie. _If these crimes had been +committed under a monarchy, the people would have tanned the hide of +the king into boot leather_! Last year it was the little school +teacher. This year it's Fordie. Tomorrow, it may be any man, woman or +child in the Valley. If they'd keep their crimes among their own kind, +there would be some excuse for this let-alone policy; but when freedom +to do what a man likes means freedom to push crime into your life and +mine, freedom to deprive others of freedom, it's time the Nation jumped +on somebody! We've got to fight this damnable thing to the last ditch, +Eleanor!" + +"Good luck and God speed," she said without looking up; and she turned +without once looking back, and walked up the slab steps of the rustic +entrance to the ranch house. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +RIGHT INTO MIGHT + +Don't wait for Mr. Matthews and me. We are setting out on the Long +Trail. It is the Long Trail this Nation will have to travel before +Democracy arrives. It is the Trail of the Man behind the Thing; and +we'll not quit till we get him. You remember what our old visitor said +about "splitting the air to get somewhere." We are going to quit +"sawing the air" and "split it to get somewhere." We are going to set +out after the Man; the little codger first, as a foot print on the Long +Trail to the lair of the Man Higher Up. + +You cannot stab a lot of things to life as you did last night and the +night before, and then expect them to lie quiet and be the same. You +have sent me forth on the Long Trail, Eleanor; and I shall hunt the +better because you have stabbed me alive and will never let me go to +sleep again. I thank you; and yet, I can't thank you, mine _Alder +Liefest_--look up and see what that means in old Saxon--Yours in Life +and Death and Always and Out Beyond. + + Dick. + + +I have ordered a wreath from Smelter City for Fordie. Find it hard to +stop writing and go from you; but the darned old Mountain doesn't look +the same; it's all draped out in such "dam-phool 'appiness" that I am +glad in the shadow of Death. + + Dick. (2nd) + + +Don't forget every day dawn and sunset, I come to renew the Seal. Ever +study Algebra in college? Then look up what this means. + + Dick. (nth) + + +And because she had graduated from girl to woman between sunset and +daydawn of that Death Watch, she kissed the last signature, right in +the midst of the German cook's dishes, set all higgeldy-piggeldy on the +oilcloth top instead of the linen cover, owing to the distraction of +the night's tragedy. It was his first love letter; and because it was +his first, he did not know it was a love letter. He had written it on +the pages of a field note book. On the reverse side, were figures of +triangulations and scaled timbers, which Eleanor fingered lovingly +because the dumb signs seemed to connect her life with his +before--before what? Ask those who know! + +The note was lying at her breakfast place when she came out from a +sleepless night, a night that seemed to pass swinging between the gates +of Life and the gates of Death, with phantoms on the trail between, of +Love so terrible its glory blinded her, of Crime so dark its shadow +obscured her faith in God. For hours, she had lain quivering to the +consciousness of that moment when Life leaped up to meet and blend with +Life in Love. For hours, she had lain quivering to the consciousness +of Crime stalking satyr-faced amid the shadows of Life, Greed and +Murder and Lust, hiding beneath suave words, behind conventionality, +draped in all the broad phalacteries of law, ready to leap fanged at +the throat of Innocence in a Land of Let-Alone; and she emerged from +the conflict of these two forces no longer what would be called a +Christian, no longer a Quiescent, no longer a Let Alone. She emerged +knowing that Democracy must become a joke, and Christianity the +laughing stock of the ages, unless Right could be made over into Might. + +Then, she found the Ranger's note at her late breakfast--it was a +shockingly late breakfast, it was after the noon hour--the note saying +that he had set out on the Long Trail that the Nation must travel, the +trail of the Man behind the Thing, the Man Higher Up. It was as it had +been from the first with him, the meeting half-way of their thoughts +from different beginnings; and she kissed the signature with a gesture +that played havoc with the breakfast dishes and sent Calamity +snivelling and muttering from the kitchen. The ignorant half-breed's +knowledge of life among the miners of the Black Hills and the shingle +men of the Bitter Boot saw-mills didn't admit explanations of love that +kissed signatures and impelled tears. + + +And yet while revolution convulsed two souls you could have gone from +end to end of the Valley that week or to every cabin on the Homestead +Claim of the Ridge and not heard a living soul speak one word of the +tragedy on the Rim Rocks. Were they moral cowards? I don't think so. +Wasn't it more of that spirit of Let Alone? If you had mentioned the +terrible episode to a casual settler, he would have given you a blank +look and remarked "that he hadn't heard." + +The story set down here, I could not myself have learned if a chance +ramble over the foot hills of the Rim Rocks had not led one day to a +solitary little grave, surrounded by a picket fence marked by the +figure of a kneeling child carved in rough sand stone. As the guest of +the Mission School, I made the mistake of asking the mother, herself, +whose grave that was. Women, who are neither politicians nor politic, +have a plain way of uttering harsh facts. She did not speak about the +author of her boy's death in soft words, that little white haired +mother. She used a term oftener heard in the purlieus of criminal +courts. "To think," she exclaimed bitterly, "to think that Fordie, +descended from generations of Williams who have pioneered and fought +for and built up this country since ever the first Williams landed in +Boston in 1666, was done to death by this murderer, this truckster, +this political trickster, this outcast from the European gutters, this +huckster of lazaretto morals and bawd houses, who is overturning our +Nation with his oiled villainies and peddler ways! No, we have never +taken Government aid and we never shall! I like to know that my Indian +girls are safe." What more she added, I do not relate; for an angered +mother has a way of uttering terrible truths. + +To-day, if you visit that grave on the crest of the saddle back, you +will find it flanked by two others, a man's on one side with the figure +of a trader carved in sandstone by the Indians; on the other, old +Calamity's with a plain granite slab; though I have heard strict people +say her body ought not to have been laid there because of the vagrant +character of her early life. + + +Indian boys from the school had shaped the coffin and carved the figure +for the stone. A girlish teacher read the Church Services for the +dead; and the children's voices rose a thin tremulous treble in the +funeral hymn around the grave. Wild flowers covered the casket, pearl +everlasting and the wind flower and the white Canada violet and the +painter's brush vari-colored as a flame; and a wreath had come up from +Smelter City. + +Sights and sounds that have been a setting for sorrow, haunt the mind. +After that day, Eleanor could never hear the hammer of the woodpecker, +the lone cry of circling hawk, the whistling of the solitary mountain +marmot, without hearing also the thin treble of the Indian pupils +breaking and silencing on that funeral hymn till only the mother's +voice sang clarion to the end. She heard the low melting trill of the +blue bird and the wrangling rasp of the jay--true and counterfeit, +peace and discord--had God put right and wrong in the world for the +friction of the conflict between, to develop souls? Had one been set +over against the other, like light and shadow, to train the spiritual +eye to know? + + +Then, the Indian boys began to lower the casket. One young pall bearer +faltered and slipped his hold; it was the little white haired mother's +hand steadied the rope that lowered, and slowly lowered, out of sight +for ever. Then one of the girl teachers dropped in a great bunch of +mountain laurel. Eleanor succeeded in leading the mother away. + +Were the amethyst portals still ajar to the infinite life; or did the +shadow of the Cross, of the time-old ever-recurring crucifixion, darken +the vista of a glad future? The Indian children filed in through the +gate of the Mission school. At the gate, the mother looked up the +Saddle back. She had no time for the pampered luxury of self conscious +grief. She had directed the making of the coffin and the carving of +the sandstone and had led the funeral hymn to the end; but now she +looked back. Ashes of roses across the sky, creeping phantom shadows, +and in her heart, the sombre presence of the after-desolation which +neither faith nor fortitude casts out. She would go to sleep dull with +the woe of it and dream depressed of its loneliness, to waken heavy +with the memory. Then, by and by, would come the peace that the dead +send, which is not forgetfulness. But now she looked back, looked back +with the wrench that was the tearing of flesh and spirit asunder. +Above the new-made grave, across those topaz sunset gates, stood the +figure of the native woman, shawl thrown from her head reaving the long +black hair; and from the hill crest came such a long low cry as might +have been a ghost echo of all the age-old world sorrows. Eleanor felt +the quick twitch on her arm. Without a word, without a tear, the boy's +mother had fainted. + +"We ought to have looked out for that," explained one of the girl +teachers from the school. "We ought to have left Calamity home. She +has always done that since they took her child away." + +"Had she a child?" asked Eleanor. + +"Yes; and they took it away when she went insane." + +Eleanor slept with the leaves of the field-book under her pillow that +night; but she slept the heavy dreamless sleep of baffled hope. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE HANDY MAN GETS BUSY + +If you think the Senator had had anything to do with the terrible +events of the Rim Rocks, you are jumping to conclusions and must surely +have failed to follow the activities of Mr. Bat Brydges the morning +after the tragedy. + +The first newspaper office that the handy man visited was owned by the +Senator. That was easy. Bat went into the reporters' long room where +the typewriters usually clicked. This morning they were silent. The +men were out on their assignments. The news editor was taking a +message over the telephone. Bat sat down on the table and waited. The +news editor was thin-faced and nervous and alert and immaculately +groomed. Bat was round-faced and sleepy-eyed--tortoise-shell eyes--and +all that prevented his suit from looking positively slovenly was that +his own ample avoirdupois filled every wrinkle. + +The news editor adjusted his glasses to his nose and answered, "Yes, +Yes," impatiently over the telephone. + +"It's a parson," he explained with an irritable snap of his black eyes +towards Bat. + +Bat smiled sleepily. "Thinks you're hungering and thirsting for news +of his flock, does he?" + +"No, blank it," snapped the news editor. + +"It's another kind of flock that's worrying us this morning." + +Bat's smile faded to a sly haze in his sleepy eyes. + +"What has the old boy got to say?" + +"How do you know he is old?" snapped the news editor. + +Bat didn't volunteer on that point. + +"Ask him what his name is," suggested Brydges. + +"What did you say the name was? Matthews--Matthews--is that it? Wait, +please!" The news-editor put his hand over the mouth piece of the +telephone. + +"Know anything about him, Bat?" + +"I should say I do! Choke it off! He's staying with Missionary +Williams at the Indian School, and you know about how much love is lost +between Williams and Moyese." + +"But we can't possibly suppress this, Bat. It will be all over the +country." + +"Better see whose ox is gored," advised Brydges. + +"But we've got to get this, Brydges! The stage driver's told one of my +men, already! Every bar-room buffer in the country side will know it +by night." + +"Then you had better get it straight," advised Bat. + +The news-man looked in space through eyes narrowed to an arrow. Bat +watched sleepily. "If we choke this old chap's account off, can you +give one to us?" + +"Got it in my pocket! I've just come in on the stage!" + +"I thought you came down in a motor with the Senator? Didn't he take +the morning limited for Washington?" + +"Well, the darn thing broke down so often it was bad as the stage. +Anyway, I've got the story for you--" + +"Senator O. K. it?" The news-man hung the telephone receiver up, still +keeping his hand over the mouth piece. + +"Lord, no!" Bat slid off the table, tore the sheets from his note book +and handed the story of the Rim Rocks across to the editor. + +"What do you take the Senator for? He knows nothing about it; but it's +in his constituency, and I guess his own paper should see that the +account which goes in is straight." + +The news-editor hoisted his foot to the seat of a chair and stood +racing his eyes through sheet after sheet of Brydges's copy. Bat +lighted a cigar, put his hands in his pockets and pivoted on his heels. +There was the squeak, squeak, squeak of a child's new boots coming up +the first flight of stairs; and a squeak, squeak, squeak up the second +flight of stairs; and a little girl, not twelve years old, resplendent +in such tawdry finery as might have stepped out of an East End London +pawn shop, presented herself framed in the doorway of the reporter's +room. She plainly belonged to the immigrant section of Smelter City. +The news-editor never took his eyes from Bat's copy. They were eyes +made for drilling holes into the motives behind facts. Bat emitted a +whistle that was a laugh. + +"Hullo," he said. "I knew they were coming on younger every year; but +I didn't know we had gone into the kindergarten business yet. You +don't want a job? Now don't tell me you want a job?" + +The little person lifted a pair of very sober eyes beneath the brim of +some faded plush headgear. + +"Is thus th' rha-porther's room?" + +"Sure! you bet!" Bat wheeled on both heels. The little person looked +at him very steadily and solemnly. + +"A' wannt," she said in that mongrel dialect of German-American and +Cockney-English, "A wawnt an iteem." + +"Sure," says Bat, "nothing easier." + +"Wull thur be eny chaarge?" + +"Not for ladies," says Bat, saluting, hand to hat, and grinning more +sleepily than ever. + +"Then, A wull guve it t' y': wull y' write it, sor?" + +"Sure!" Bat squared himself to one of the reporters' high desks. + +"Mestriss Leez-y O'Fannigan," dictated the little publicity agent. + +"Miss O'Funny Girl," with a look to his fat cheeks as of a bag blown +full of air. + +"No Sor, O'Fan-ni-gan-" + +"Perhaps," said Bat, "You'd like to know we're in the same boat, except +that you're seeking exactly what I'm trying to avoid, Miss O'Finnigan?" + +"Wull dance t' night--" continued the little publicity seeker. + +"Will she dance in her copper-toe boots?" asks Bat. + +"Wull dance at the H---- i-o-f lodge meetin' at--" + +"That'll do, get her out of this," ordered the news-man. "It grows +worse every day. Every damphool thinks the world is aching for an +interview with himself, from the mining fakirs to the Shanty Town +brats: it's seeped down to the kids. You go home, kid, and tell your +mother to spank you special extra--" + +They heard the fat little legs stumping down the stairs. "That kid +belongs to Shanty Town. She dances for the bar room buffers now; +she'll dance later, like you and me, Bat, for bigger bluffers. Freedom +of the press! Damn it, I'm sick of the bunco game, Bat--" + +"Draw it easy," drawled Bat. "If you're sick of it, it's dead easy to +get out. I guess the kid is doing the same thing as you and me: 'Give +us this day our daily bread.' How's the story? Will you give it a +flare head?" + +"Will there be any charge?" ironically repeated the news-man. + +"Not for Moyese," smiled the handy man sleepily, "and say, if I were +you, I'd do one of two things, get rid of my conscience or get a tonic +for my nerves." + +The telephone rang. The news-man ran to the receiver and a moment +later slammed it back on the hook. + +"Old frump, giving namby pamby talks on woman's influence in politics +without votes." The news editor spat aimlessly. + +Bat tapped the story of the Rim Rocks with his pencil. "Well," he +asked. + +"We'll give this flare." + +The news man put heavy underscores in blue beneath the words TEN +THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD, BY THE VALLEY CATTLE ASSOCIATION FOR PROOF OF +THE PERPETRATORS OF LAST NIGHT'S VILE CRIME. + +"We'll put this in red! God! The Senator is an artist! I like having +to lick the hand that leashes me." + +"And feeds you, eh?" added Bat. + +Beneath the flare heading followed a statement of facts (more or less) +to the effect that in an altercation between the drovers of some +outside cattlemen and the herders belonging to the MacDonald ranch, the +sheep herd had been hustled--("I like your alliterations, Bat, it gives +flavor of quality," commented the news-man with a snap of his black +eyes,) too close to the edge of the Rim Rocks with the unintended and +tragical result that several hundred sheep had been shoved over the +battlements. ("What I like specially is what you don't give," +commented the news-man.) + +There was not a word about broken backs and slashed lambs and +disemboweled ewes; nor of what had been found on the Upper Mesas. As a +sort of addendum it was stated that a boy belonging to the Mission +school had lost his life in the melee. + +"Anyway, we're in style! Way to tell a thing now adays is to turn all +around it, and not tell anything at all. Auto suggestion, eh, Bat?" + +Bat's fat cheeks blew up in the explosion of a bursting paper bag. +"You bet it's auto all right. If you'd heard the old man talking all +the way down on the iniquity of the thing: he kept it going harder than +the buzz wagon." + +"Better inform a breathlessly eager public that he's gone to +Washington?" + +"Here, I've got that, too! He dictated that straight, 'for the express +purpose of taking up the whole question of eliminating the grazing +areas from the National Forests when it will be possible for the State +authorities to protect the live stock interests,'" Bat handed across +the second item. + +"What in thunder have the National Forests to do with the Rim Rock +massacre?" The newsman looked up through his glasses. + +"And who in thunder is going to ask that?" + +Bat tapped the last item sharply with his pencil. "They'll read _that_ +and they'll read the other, and I'll bet dollars to doughnuts nine men +out of ten will begin jawing and spouting and arguing that if there +were _no_ National Forests, there would be no Range Wars. If they draw +a false impression, that's the public's look out. If we weren't +dealing with damphools, we couldn't fool 'em." + +"But it didn't happen on the National Forests." + +"But it's only the tenth man who will stop to think that out. You put +in one of those big middle page cartoons--National Forests with the +Federal sign board, KEEP OFF, the sheep being massacred inside the sign +board and the State sheriff unable to go in and stop it--" + +"But you didn't say massacred! You said they accidently went over the +edge." + +"But it's only the tenth man will stop to think that. You run the +cartoon, see?" said Bat, and, though he asked it as a question, if +sounded final. The news-man went tearing back to the front editorial +rooms. Bat went whistling down stairs, two steps at a bounce. At the +half-way landing, he paused. + +"Say," he yelled up, "you can use the same old cartoon; 'Keep Off the +Grass,' you know." + +"Eh?--right," crossly from the front room. + +"And say?" + +The news-man came out and leaned over the upper railing. + +"Don't forget to take that tonic for your nerves." + +The news-man told Bat to go any where he pleased; but it was all in the +day's work with Mr. Bat Brydges. He didn't go. The handy man went +straight across to the paper in opposition. The news-man went back to +the front room and stood thinking. He didn't curse Bat nor emit fumes +of the sulphurous place to which he had invited Brydges. He was +contemplating what he called his "kids"; and he was figuring the next +payment due on the Smelter City lots in which he had been speculating. +Evidently, these were the news-man's tonic; for he at once did what he +described as "bucking it" and called down the speaking tube for the +press man to put on the old cartoon. + +The opposition paper required more finesse on the part of the handy +man. Bat strolled as if it were a matter of habit into the telegraph +editor's room, where he lolled back in one of the two empty chairs. It +was still early and the wires were silent. Bat laid one cigar at the +editor's place and took a fresh one for himself. + +"Hullo, Bat," bubbled the telegraph man, dashing from the composing +room in his shirt sleeves, "We've just been having a yell of an +argument about the elements of success." He seated himself and whipped +out a match to light the cigar. Bat was clicking his cigar case open +and shut. This editor was all nerves too. Nerves seemed to go with +the job; but these nerves were not jangled. He leaned back in his +swing chair with one boot against the desk. "What makes a man +successful, anyway? It isn't ability. Your news-man across the way +could buy our office out with brains; but gee whitaker, he's worse than +a dose of bitters! Now take your Senator, he hasn't either the +education or the brains of lots of our cub reporters, here!" He paused +nibbling his cigar end. "Yet, he's successful. We aren't, except in a +sort of doggon-hack-horse way. You're next to the old man, Bat, what +do you say makes him successful?" + +Bat clicked the cigar case shut and put it in his pocket. + +"Two things: he's a specialist; he delivers the goods no other man can +deliver; and he doesn't fool any time away by bucking into a buzz saw, +fighting windmills and that sort of thing, way you fellows 'agin the +Government' do." + +The telegraph man removed his cigar. + +"What do you mean by 'delivers the goods no other man can deliver'? Do +you mean the pork barrel?" + +"No," said Bat, "I don't, though the pork barrel is a d--ee--d +essential part of the game. Here's what I mean; when you came to this +Valley, there was nothing doing. We had mines; but we hadn't a +smelter! Well, Senator got the coking coal for a smelting site and the +big developers came in. Other men couldn't, wouldn't or didn't dare to +do it! He did it. He delivered the goods and got the big fellows +interested." + +"He stole 'em, those coal lands. He jugged 'em thro' Land Office +records with false entries." The telegraph man had lowered his voice. + +"We don't call 'em stolen when it's been the making of the Valley." + +"No, because the Smelter is a sacred cow mustn't be touched for the +sake of the grease." + +"Then, there was nothing doing in lumber; big fellows wouldn't come in +and develop. Well, Moyese got 'em the timber tracts for a song. Other +men couldn't, wouldn't or didn't dare. He delivered the goods--" + +"The courage of the highwayman," commented the wire editor with a puff. + +"We don't call it that when it helps the Valley," corrected the handy +man. + +"No, it's another sacred bovine; mustn't be touched for fear of the +axle grease. See? I've got a list of 'em--public lands, through +freights, water power, smelter, lumber deals," the telegraph man opened +his table drawer and held out a scrawled list. "If you call that +delivering the goods, I call it filling the barrel. What's the other +factor for success?" + +"Not bucking into a buzz saw. The world is mostly made of barkers and +builders. You fellows spend all the time barking. Then you wonder +there's nothing to show in the way of a building." + +The telegraph wires began to click and the girl operator came in with +some tissue sheets. + +"Fight in Frisco--that goes," commented the telegraph editor dashing in +the "ands" and "buts" and the punctuation. He stuck the slip on the +printer's hook. "Wedding in Newport--" + +"That goes," laughed the handy man, "There's no sacred cow about that." + +The telegraph man wrote headings for the dispatches and stuck them on +the hook for the printer's boy. + +"Speaking of sacred cows, it isn't exactly cows, but it's in the stock +line all right--what do you know about that business last night up on +Rim Rocks? Stage driver has been blazing it all round town--" + +"Stage driver's a liar," emphatically declared Brydges. + +"Been trying to get the news for an hour; the wires are cut. Can't get +'em by phone. Think I'll send a man up to-night with a photographer." + +"Oh, I wouldn't," drawled Bat sleepily. "It isn't worth it. I've just +come down. Whole row's over. You can't get a dub in the Valley to +open his mouth. Same old gag we've used for the last ten years, +'heavily armed band of masked men,' 'scene like a butcher's shambles,' +and that guy of a sheriff 'scouring the hills for the miscreants.' +I'll bet he's under his bed scared blue." + +"Who did it?" + +"Same old gang of outside grazers, drovers who skipped the State line. +I succeeded in getting their names after a good deal of trouble." + +"You did, did you? Then give us a stick about it, will you? Date it +special at the Rim Rocks! Trouble is, if I do send a man up, business +office will kick at the expense account; for there's nothing in it; and +that kind of news hurts the Valley." + +So Mr. Bat Brydges wrote forty lines of two paragraphs in which he +warned the public that this sort of thing had to stop; the West would +not stand for interference from outside cattlemen who were trying to +wrest the range away from local grazers. There followed the names of +six men concerned in the Rim Rock fray. Whose names they were, neither +Bat nor anyone else knew. Also Mr. Sheriff Flood was not described as +"a guy" nor pictured as reposing under his bed. He might have been a +walking arsenal of defence for the Valley. According to Mr. Bat +Brydges, Sheriff Flood was busy on the case and had wired the +authorities of the adjoining States to be on the look out for the +guilty parties. There followed a description of the guilty parties +photographed accurately from Mr. Bat Brydges's retina. + + +The third newspaper office was the least easy for the handy man's +tactics. The editor was an independent of the fiery order. Bat +avoided the editor and tackled a young reporter at the noon hour. + +"What do you say to a spin in the 40 h. p. to-night?" he asked. + +"What's on?" + +The youth was reading an ink-smudged galley proof. + +Bat sat down on the desk where he could read over the other's shoulder. +The proof reeked of "gore" and "shambles" and "heavily armed masked +men" and rifle shots thick as hail stones with a sheriff careening over +the Mesas at break neck speed slathered with zeal for law. + +"What reforms are you jollying along now?" asked Bat. + +"We'll jolly you fellows when this comes out." + +"I've always said if I were his Satanic Majesty and wished to defeat +the goody-goodies, I wouldn't bother fighting 'em! I'd take an +afternoon nap and let them buck themselves by their lies and +bickerings." + +The youth ran his eye down the galley proof. + +"Who filled you up with this dope?" Brydges lowered his voice to an +altogether amused and very confidential key. + +"What's the matter with it?" + +"Matter? There's nothing right about it." + +"Goes all the same. Got snap! It's good stuff." + +"Stuffing, you mean," corrected the handy man. "Say, where ever did +you get it? Talk of stuff? Somebody has mistaken you for a spring +chicken." + +"Got it straight. It's all right! Fellow from the English colony--" + +"English Colony? Those Rookeries--Mother Carey's chickens. Do you +know what that Rookery gang is? A lot of gambling toughs, remittance +doughheads--" + +"That doesn't spoil a ripping good story! I'm going to wire a column +to Chicago." + +"No, you're not," contradicted Brydges. "That kind of thing hurts the +State more than ten thousand dollars will advertise it. You go over +your advertising columns my boy--" + +"All right! It's up to you?" + +Bat whistled and swung the galley proofs between his knees. + +"Doesn't matter what you say out here. Everybody knows your rag sheet +will contradict to-morrow what you say to-day in headings red and long +as a lead pencil. You'll contradict in a little hidden paragraph +tucked away among the ads., and I guess we know which are the ads. out +here; but, if you want any more dope on inside stuff, don't you send +that East! You have applied for a job on our paper twice. If you want +one, don't you send that East! What do they pay you, anyway?" + +The youth paused to estimate; and youth's hopes are ever high. + +"That's worth a hundred to me!" + +"No, you don't! They pay you six and ten and sometimes two, but it's +worth a hundred if you keep it out, nice crisp little bills, my boy. +Call for you to-night at five; but don't you play that story up." + +It was then and there Bat showed himself a past master. He sauntered +out of the office humming. + +"Say, Brydges," called the youth, "what's wrong with this account, +anyway?" + +"All wrong," reiterated Brydges stepping back. "Wasn't a man lost his +life. Wasn't a man on the Range at the time, only a kid got in the way +of a stampede! Here, I'll give it to you straight! I've just come +down from the Valley! You tell what happened down in Mesa and Garfield +counties ten years ago, and up in Wyoming last spring! Give it to the +other States. Don't give your own State a black eye! Come on out and +have something with me, and I'll fix you up as we feed." + +So when the Independent's fiery columns came out with red scare heads +and gory recital full of reference to "something rotten in the State of +Denmark" and "damnable rascality," there was only one emasculated +innocuous column given to the local event, but seven columns were +steeped with the bloody details of sheep massacres and stock raids and +Range Wars in other states in "the good old gun-toting days." + + +Bat's last act that day was to send a telegram care of the East-bound +Limited to Senator Moyese. It read, "All local papers out highly +gratulatory references your efforts to punish guilty parties." + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +SETTING OUT ON THE LONG TRAIL + +In the half light of mist and dawn, the Ranger ascended the Ridge trail. + +Life was at flood-tide. Thought focussed to one point of consciousness +set on fire of its own rays. He walked as one unseeing, unhearing, +hardened to singleness of purpose, heedless of the steepness of the +climb, of his blood leaping like a mountain cataract, of his muscles +moving with the ease of piston rods; heedless of all but the warmth of +the glow enveloping his outer body from the flame burning within. + +He did not follow the zig-zag Ridge trail but clambered straight up the +face of the slope, following pretty much the short cut-off they had +taken the night before. He came to the crag where the spruce logs +spanned the tinkling water course. There was a gossamer scarf of cloud +hanging among the mosses of the trees. The peak came out opal fire +above belts of clouds. The sage-green moss spanning the spruces turned +to a jewel-dropped thing in a sun-bathed rain-washed world of flawless +clouds and jubilant waters. He drew a deep breath. The air was tonic +of imprisoned sunlight and resinous healing. Was each day's birth the +dawn to new being? + + +It was here he had met her the night before. Waves of consciousness, +tender delirious consciousness, flooded and surprised him. He had +asked for a seal of memory. He knew now it would never be a memory: it +would be consciousness, ever-living, ever present; a compulsion not to +be controlled because it was not his own; and never to be quenched +because it burned within. If he had been a weakling, the seal would +have been a seal to self; but because an elemental war for right was +winnowing the self out of him, he knew it was a seal to service. + +Day-dawn marked the creation of a new world; and That had opened the +doors for him to a life that no telling could have revealed. Would it +be the same with the Nation? Would this struggle open the doors to a +new life; or would the powers that stood for law and right go on +marking time inside the firing line, while the powers that stood for +wrong and outrage held their course rampant, unchecked; straining the +law not to protect right but to extend wrong; perverting the courts; +stealing where they chose to steal; killing where they chose to kill; +deluging the land with anarchy by sweeping away law, just as surely as +the removal of the sluice gates would set loose flood waters? + +He ascended the rest of the dripping Ridge trail in a swing that was +almost a run. + +Below the Ranger cabin on the Homestead Slope stood the large oblong +canvas bunk house of the road gang employed by the Forest Service. + +"Hi--fellows," shouted Wayland, shaking the tent flap. "All hands up!" +And he ordered the foreman to send the road gang to skin and burn and +bury what lay at the foot of the battlements. As the Rim Rocks lay a +few feet outside the bounds of the National Forests, it will be seen +that Wayland _had stopped marking time behind the law and gone out +beyond the firing line_. If it isn't clear to you how the Ranger was +exceeding the authority of the law, then read the Senator's speeches +about "the Forest and Land Service men going outside their jurisdiction +employing Government men to do work which was not Government Service at +all." + +The Ranger saddled his own broncho for himself and a horse belonging to +one of his assistants for the old frontiersman, who must be some where +on the upper Mesas. To each saddle he fastened a Service hatchet and a +cased rifle. Then, he caught one of the mules of the road gang for the +pack saddle. Going inside the cabin, he furbished together such +provisions as his biscuit box shelves afforded, a sack containing half +a ham, a quarter bag of flour, one tin of canned beans, a tobacco pouch +filled with tea, another pouch with sugar on one side of the dividing +leather and salt in the other. Then, he cinched a couple of cow-boy +slickers over the pack saddle, and, in place of the green Service coat +which he had left at the Mission, donned a leather jacket, took a last +look to see if a water-proof match case were in the inside pocket, ran +back to the cabin for a half-flask of brandy, and an extra hat, and +with the other horse and the pack mule in front, he mounted his pony +and set out for the Rim Rocks. It will be seen this was not the +equipment of a man who intended to remain marking time. + + +Just for a second, he pondered which path to follow. It would take an +hour to go down the Ridge trail, cross the Valley and ascend the +terra-cotta road of the Rim Rocks. Couldn't he jump his horses over +the gully that cut between the Holy Cross and the Upper Mesa? He +headed his horse into the tangle of hemlock and larch, the mule +trotting ahead snatching bites of dogwood and willow from the edge of +the dripping trail, the Ranger riding as Westerners ride, glued to the +leather, guiding by the loose neck rein instead of the bit, with a wave +of his hand to keep the little mule in line. + +A turn to the left through a thicket of devil's club brought him where +the Ridge overlooked the River. Wayland reined up sharply. A pile of +logs scaled and marked with the U. S. stamp lay where the slightest +topple would send them over a natural chute into the River. He had not +scaled those logs: neither had his assistants. There was no record of +them on the books. Of course, he had heard the chop and slash at the +settlers' cabins, but homesteaders don't farm on the edge of a vertical +precipice unless they are a lumber company; and logs tossed over that +precipice to the River were destined for only one market, Smelter City. +Then he remembered giving a permit to a Swede settler of the Homestead +Slope to take out windfall and dead tops for a little portable gasoline +engine; but the permit didn't cover this area. + +"Having stopped stealing half a million from the Bitter Boot, they've +started their dummies in here." He looked at the gashed timber-slash +as a thrifty man looks at wantonness and waste; it was a gaping wound +in the forest side, old and young trees alike hacked down, the stumps +of the big trees, not eighteen inches low as the regulations provided, +but three and four and five feet high of waste to rot and gather +fungus, the biggest of the giant spruce cut from a scaffolding nine +feet from the ground, leaving wasted lumber enough to build a house. + +"This was done when I was away on my last long patrol," reflected +Wayland. The slash of brushwood and wasted tops lay higher than his +horse's head. "A fine fire-trap for the fall drought," thought Wayland +angrily. "One spark in that tinder pile in a high wind; and there +would be no forests left on Holy Cross." + +What did it mean, this open defiance, not of himself, (he was a mere +cog in the big wheel; so was the entire Forest Service,) this open +defiance of law; this open theft of Government property? Connected +with the outrage of the Range War, and the Senator's advice for him to +stop suing for restitution of the two-thousand acres of coal lands, and +the handy-man's urgent arguments for him "to chuck the fight and come +down to the Valley," the Ranger knew well enough what the pile of +stolen logs stamped with a counterfeit Government hatchet meant; +stamped, of course, by some poor ignorant dummy foreigner. The Ring +were setting their hired tools on to the fight. And far away in the +East--yes it was the East's business to see what went on in the +West--were myriads of wage-earners forced to pay exorbitantly for coal +and wood and lumber and house rent because of this wanton waste; this +seizing fraudulently by the few of the property belonging to the many. +If they had thrown down the challenge, assuredly he was taking it up! +What would the people do about it, he wondered, when they came to know? +Would any power on earth waken the people up to do something, and stop +talking? _A Roman ruler had fiddled while his imperial city burned. +What was the many-headed ruler of the great republic doing, while +enemies burned and cut and slashed and wasted in wantonness the +property of the public for the enrichment of the Ring_? + + +The Ranger touched his horse to a gallop and jumped all three animals +through the criss-cross of wind-fall and slash, coming out on the edge +of the rock chasm that cut the Upper Mesas off from the Holy Cross. +The gully crumbled on the near side and shelved on the far, twenty feet +deep and fifty wide, altogether not very jumpable, the Ranger thought. +He zig-zagged in and out among the larches along the margin of the rock +cut-way, noting "dead tops" ripe for the axe, pines where the squirrels +had cached cone seed at the root, spruce logs gone to punk with alien +seedlings coming up from the dead trunk, yellow ant-eaten wood-rot +ripped open by some bear hunting the white eggs; noting, above all, the +wonderful flame of the painter's brush, spikes with the tints of the +rainbow, like Indian arrows dipped in blood, knee-deep, multi-colored, +fiery, dyed in the very essence of sunglow, humming with bees and alive +with butterflies, lives of a summer in the aeon of ages that the snow +flakes had taken manufacturing soil out of granite, silt out of snow. + +"The little snow flake gets there all right," reflected Wayland. "It +takes time; but she carves out her little snow flake job all the same, +and the rocks go down before her! Guess if we follow the law, we're +hitched up with the stars all right." + + +He reined up and caught at a pine bough. A sight to hold the eye of +any forester held his; the enormous trunk of a fallen giant, a dozen +dwarfs growing from its punk, spanned the gully. Wayland slid off his +horse. The great trunk lay destitute of lesser branches to the tip on +the far side of the chasm like great characters that discard mannerisms. + +The Ranger struck his Service axe into the trunk. The bark held firm, +though he heard the ring of the dry-rot at the heart that had brought +the old giant crashing down to become food for the scrubs and pigmies +of the forest. Wayland picked out two spindly birches. Quick strokes +brought them down. Walking out on the dead trunk, he threw a birch on +each side as a guard rail, affording fence, not protection, to the +wavering faith of a shy horse, "all a feeling of security to steady a +giddy head," he reflected. He led the little pack mule; and the +bronchos followed. A moment later, he was galloping through the +larches and low juniper that fringed the Mesas above the Rim Rock +trail, the mule huff-huffing to the fore snatching mouthfuls on the +run. Then, with a lope, Wayland's broncho leaped out on the bare +sage-grown Mesas, the mule with ears pointed, nose high, heading +straight for the white canvas-top of a tented wagon. + +For a moment, the light blinded Wayland's sight; for the sun had come +up in an orange fan; and the sky was not blue: it shone the dazzling +silver of mercury. Against the high rarefied air came in view the +figure of a man, grotesquely exaggerated, head and shoulders first, +then body, riding a heavy horse, saddleless, hatless, coatless, white +of hair, heels pressed to his horse's flanks, bent far over the +animal's neck as Indians ride, galloping for the Rim Rock trail, or a +second jump from the battlements. + +Wayland stood up in his stirrups and with hands trumpeted uttered a +yell. The rider jerked his horse to a rear flounder, waved +frantically, then split the air-- + + +"Glory be to the powers--but--A'm glad to see you! A've headed them +off from the South trail. We've got them, Wayland, the low dastard +scoundrels! We've got them trapped like rats in a trap! They're in +the Pass if you've a man in the Valley with spirit enough to get out +with a gun!" He stopped for breath as the two horses floundered +together. + +"We haven't," answered Wayland. + +"They jumped the gully! Man alive, y' ought t' seen them jump the +gully! A slammed them right down into the bottom of it. A would to +God 't had been to the bottomless pit. The same gentry A saw that +night under your Ridge, saving his High Mightiness. The evil fellow +wi' the sheep hide leggings, an' the one armed blackguard in the +cow-boy slicker, an' the corduroy dandy wi' the red tie, an' four more +of them same card-sharp gentry. A rode 'long the top of y'r gully an' +poured six bullets after 'em! Man alive! A heard the fellow in the +yellow slicker yell bloody murder when A fired! A'm hopin'--God +forgive me--A've nipped him in the other arm an' brought him winged t' +th' throne o' Grace! They followed the gully bed behind y'r Mountain, +the white horse same as yon night under y'r Ridge, limpin', the one +armed man rockin' in the saddle an' spittin' out blasphemous filth for +th' others to wait. A've kept guard all night, yellin' an' howlin' +like a vigilantee, knowin' they're not the gentry to run into the arms +of them good old-time neck-tie com'tees; an' not dreamin' A hadn't +another cartridge to my name!" The old man swabbed the sweat from his +brow. + +"A left m' coat and togs back at yon chuck wagon!" Wayland noticed he +was riding stocking soled. + +"I have an extra hat for you here." Wayland tossed the soft felt from +the pocket of his leather coat. + +"Oh, A saw 'em plain enough; same ill-lookin' six that y'r hell-kite +laws hatch on a bad frontier! Make no mistake. Yon white vest is at +the bottom o' this deviltry! Who is he, Wayland?" + +Wayland related the visit of a white-vest to his Ridge cabin; and they +trotted forward towards a sheep wagon. + +"How did y' come up here?" asked the old frontiersman. + +"Where did you get that horse?" retorted the Ranger. + +"One of the chuck wagons' teams--" + +"Herders all right?" asked Wayland. He knew what the answer must be; +the same answer that had been disgracing the West these twenty years. + +The old man jerked his horse to a dead stop, drew himself erect and +looked straight at the Ranger. + +"Wayland, man, is this Russia--or Hell? Is there another country in +the world calls itself civilized would allow four herder men to be +burned to death? Does the country know what is doing? Do you know +what happened? Do you know that last wagon is left there only because +the rains put out the fire? Y'll find the iron tires of the other +wagons with skeletons of men chained to the wheels. A came up just as +they were settin' aboot firin' the second wagon. They'd ripped all the +flour bags open and loosed the horses. This one, A caught full pelther +down the trail." + +The old man shook his head. + +They trotted their horses across the Mesas in silence towards the +glaring white canvas wagon. Broken harness, half-burned spokes, the +charred hub of a wheel, snapped whiffle-trees, the white dust of +scattered flour littered the ground. A brown scorch of flame up the +back of the tent above the remaining wagon marked where the rains had +extinguished the fire. A smouldering ill-smelling ash heap told the +fate of the other wagons. + +"Hell-devilish work, hell-devilish work! Th' beasts of the field +couldna' conceive such baseness, Wayland! 'Tis the work o' devils +spawned by harpies! They say there is no devil to-day! Hoh!" The old +man puffed the heresy from his pursed lips. "The beasts don't prey on +their own 'cepting the rats that starve; but, man, there's no +explanation of his self-destruction 'cepting the old fashioned one, +Wayland. 'He was possessed by a devil.'" + +The Ranger had dismounted and was prodding the ash-heap with his heavy +boot sole. Then, he gave the embers a smart flap with his whip. The +blackened hub of a wheel went circling out. Suddenly, Wayland turned +away his face, white and nauseated, hardened to resolution granite as +the rocks. Eyeless sockets of a skeleton face protruded from the +ashes; and on the ground were stains which the rains had not washed +out. It was then Wayland noticed the bloody thumb marks round the +canvas front of the wagon seat where the driver had been dragged down. + +For a little time neither man spoke. But, was it not the natural +ending of brutality unleashed of law; of crime left alone by the good? + + +"To mutilate thousands of sheep was damnable enough," said Wayland; +"but--this?" + +The old frontiersman had picked up coat and boots flung aside the night +before. He stood holding by his horse's mane looking down. "And this +is a white man's land," he said. "To this have y' prostituted freedom +bought by th' blood of saints an' martyrs? Not in th' heat o' passion, +but for filthy gain, has a free people come to this? _The heads o' +kings fell on the bloody block for less crime in days not so soft +spoken as these_. Is y'r freedom, freedom to right or to wrong? Is it +to send y'r Nation smash over the precipice? Wayland, _is this +Democracy_?" + +The Ranger did not answer for a moment. + +"No," he said quietly, "it isn't Democracy any more than your Robber +Barons were Monarchy! Don't you make that mistake; this is Anarchy, +the Anarchy of unrestrained greed! You fought it in your plundering +Scotch Robber Barons long ago! We have to fight it to-day in our +plundering plutocrats!" + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +THE MAJESTY OF THE LAW VEILS ITSELF + +"Do you mean me to believe," the old frontiersman drew himself up to +the full height of British superiority to everything outside the island +of its own circumscribed knowledge, "do you mean me to believe that if +any of these poor herders had escaped as witnesses, we'd not have been +able to send these blackguard murderers to the gallows?" + +The Ranger had signalled for some of the road gang to ascend from below +the battlements to keep guard till the coroner could come. The little +pack mule to the fore, Wayland and Matthews were picking the way slowly +down the terra cotta trail of the Rim Rocks. + +"It does not make the slightest difference in the world what you or I +believe, Sir! The facts are unless you could offer a witness money +enough to take him out the United States and to keep him for the rest +of his life, he would develop a good-forgetter, or else the same old +gag--'been blind folded,' 'didn't see,' and so on, and on, and on; you +can't blame them! I'll bet if every one of the herders had escaped +instead of festering there in the ash heap, they'd all be legging it +out of the country far and fast as they could go." + +The little mule came to a stand at a bend in the switch back; and the +old evangelist sat ruminating silently on his broncho. + +"Y' have a sheriff?" + +Wayland laughed. + +"He's like the Indian flies; a no-see-him. He'll ride over the hills +for weeks and if he tumbles over the top of his prisoner, he can't find +his man!" + +The old Britisher looked doubtfully at Wayland, as much as to say, "I +don't believe you." + +"You're no temptin' me to take the law into our own hands?" + +Again Wayland laughed. + +"My dear sir, you don't understand! I don't want to drag you into this +at all! For ten years, _the powers that stand for law in this country +have been marking time behind the firing line; while the other fellow +got away with the goods_. They have been marking time while Crime +scored, and what you call the Devil kept tally." + +The old man nodded his head approvingly. + +"That's all true!" + +"You ask me if I intend to break the law? No, Sir, I do not; but _I do +intend to carry the law out beyond the firing line. The thief strains +the law to get away with the goods; I am going to strain the law to get +them back. The murderer strains the law to protect his damned useless +neck; I'm going to strain the law to break his neck_. Unless," he +added, "I break my own neck doing it." + +The old man had drawn down his brows. "A don't just like the sound of +it; what's your plan?" + +"To go out with a gun till I get them; the way your own Mounted Police +do up in Canada! _I'm going to quit monkeying with technicalities in +the twilight zone . . . and go out . . . after the man_." + +The old Britisher sat thinking: "Wayland, if A was managing this thing, +first thing A'd do would be blow such a blast on your local press, the +authorities would _have_ to sit up, then--A'd go after your sheriff if +A had to tackle the coward by the scruff of his scurvy neck, A'd make +him ashamed . . . _not_ . . . to act." + +"All right, Sir! Manage this thing . . . manage it just as you would +behind your hide-bound British laws! We'll pass the Senator's ranch in +ten minutes. You can telephone down to 'The Smelter City Herald.' +I'll get something ready to eat while you telephone. Then, we'll go +right along to the sheriff." + +They kicked their ponies lightly into a trot and came to the Senator's +k'raal before the noon hour. Two or three of the ranch hands loitered +casually out to the road. All were in blue over-alls and shirt sleeves +but one; and he was in knickerbockers. + +"That's the foreman, ask him!" + +"'Twould oblige me t' have the use of your telephone?" + +The man in the knickerbockers tilted his hat at a rakish angle, stuck a +tooth-pick in the corner of his mouth, put his thumbs in his jacket arm +holes, shot Wayland a quick look of questioning, grinned at the old man +and nodded towards a white pergola standing apart from the veranda of +the ranch house. + +"Find it there," he indicated, "drop a nickel--then, ring!" + +"Did you see that look?" gritted the old Britisher between his teeth, +as the fellow sauntered away with elaborate indifference. + +"Yes, but looks don't go with a jury." + +"Neck-tie was effective with the likes of him in my day!" + +For the third time, Wayland uttered the same sardonic laugh. What was +happening to the old Britisher to change his point of view? + +"I'll go on down to the River and prepare grub." + +What Wayland was thinking, he did not say; but _what_ was passing in +the brain of the law-loving old Britisher that the rakish tilt of the +hat, the insolent angle of the tooth-pick, the spread of a man's thumbs +and feet--could break through hide-bound respect for law and elicit +reference to the court of the old-time neck-tie? + +At the River, the Ranger loosened the saddle girths and put a small +kettle to boil above a fire of cottonwood chips and grass. Then he +took out his note book and wrote the note to Eleanor which he gave to +one of the road gang for Calamity. The note said: "We are setting out +on the Long Trail . . . the Long Trail this Nation will have to travel +before Democracy arrives . . . the trail of the Man behind the Thing +. . . the Man Higher Up." How did the Ranger know what was going on up +at the telephone in the pergola, where British respect for law was at +one end of the wire and the handy man of the Valley at the other? + +There was no bitterness in the quizzical smile with which he awaited +the old man's return; for as he lay back on the ground watching the +fire burn up, the letter brought again, not memory, but consciousness +of that seal to service, he wondered half vaguely could she know, could +she realize, did a woman _ever_ realize what her love meant to a man. +She could surely never have given such full draughts of life, of +wondrous new revealing consciousness, unless they were drinking +together from the same perennial, ever-new, ever-surprising +spring! . . . He did not hear the footsteps till the old man spoke-- + +"A somehow--didna' seem--to get--them clear! They answered; then--they +didna' answer! _Smelter City Herald_--ye said? 'Twas strange--'twas +vera strange--A got an answer plain asking my name--then central said +'ring off! ring off! can't get them, wire out of order'!" + +This time, Wayland did not laugh. Had not the wires been out of order +since first he began to ring the bells of his little insignificant +place to a Nation's alarm? + + +They ate their bannocks--'Rocky Mountain dead shot' Westerners call the +slap-jacks--in silence. While the old man still pondered mazed and +dumb, the Ranger dabbled the cups and plates in the River and recinched +the pack saddle, the little mule blowing out his sides and groaning to +ease the girth, the bronchos wisely eating to the process of +reharnessing. The Britisher's reverence for law dies hard. Wayland +saw the wrestle and kept silent. A deep low boom rolled dully through +the earth in smothered rumblings and tremblings like distant thunder. + +"What's that, Wayland?" + +"Only the snow slides loosened by the noon-thaw slithering down the +Pass of Holy Cross;" and somehow, he could not but think of what she +had said . . . the law of the snow flake sculpturing the rocks. + +The horses cropped audibly over the grasses--waiting. The little mule +looked back--also waiting. A whelming impulse, part of the spirit to +drink of her inspiration, part of the flesh to drink of her touch--came +over him to ride down to the ranch house, the MacDonald ranch house, to +see her--just once before setting out on the Long Trail. + +"Well," he said; "which way, Mr. Matthews?" + +The old Britisher moved thoughtfully towards his broncho. + +"We'll try y'r sheriff--at least, we'll try him _first_." + +And again the Ranger laughed. + +"Don't laugh, man! D' y' know what it means when men are driven +outside the line of law?" + +The horses waded in midstream and reached down drinking, champing on +their bits. + +"Well--what does it mean?" + +He saw the blue of the mountain stream swirl and whirl and eddy over +the sun-dyed pebbles, singing the law of the far mountain snows. + +"God knows," answered the old man slowly. "It means disrupture. We +slew our kings in olden times; but ye are a many headed king in this +land! It means--perhaps, ye call it Anarchy to-day." + + +The yellow noon-day light sifted through the cottonwoods jewel-spangled +on the crystal blue River. The Ranger always knew the character of the +mountains from the River: silty and milky-blue from glaciers; crystal +and green-blue from the snow. And they rode away up the Valley from +the ranch houses towards the Pass, out beyond the bounds of the +National Forests with the trees marked two notches and one blaze; +gradually up the narrowing trail fringed by the shiny laurel bushes; +with the mountains closing closer and the spiced balsam odor raining on +the air a sifted gold dust of sunlight. At intervals, came the dull +rumble of the snow slide, the far reverberation, the echo of the law of +the snow flake rolling away the stone; the smash of the great law +drama, the titans behind the mountains. + + +It was one of those frequent mountain formations where a Valley seems +to terminate in a blank wall. You turn a buttress of rock, and you +find the sheer wall opening before you in a trail that climbs to a +notch on the sky line between forested flanks. The notch of blue is a +Pass. + +"Anyway, Mr. Matthews, we are splitting the air, now! We are doing +more than sawing air." + +They had put their horses to a sharp trot along the trail winding up +the River. The water was gurgling over the polished pebbles with +little leaps and glints of fire. Presently, the mountains had closed +behind them. The River was tumbling with noisy rush in a succession of +cascades, and the trail wound back from the rocky bank through circular +flats or what were locally known as "bottoms." + +"Sheriff live this way?" shouted Matthews; for the roar of the little +stream filled the canyon. + +"Has a ranch at the foot of the Pass." + +"It won't be wasting time, anyway," said the old Britisher. + +Again, Wayland smiled. If it would _not_ be wasting time; then, they +were already in pursuit of the outlaws. What was it in the insolent +look of the Senator's ranch hand that had suddenly dashed the doughty +Briton's reverence for the instrument of the law? + +A barb wire fence tacked to spindly cottonwood trees marked the line of +an irregular homestead; and the Ranger swung into a gate extemporized +from barb wire on two adjustable posts. Behind the gate, stood a log +shack; on the windows, cheap lace curtains; behind the lace curtains, a +vague movement of peeping faces and a querulous termagant voice: "I +ain't a goin' to have you mixed up in no scrap; so there, Dan Flood!" + +Wayland dismounted and knocked on the door with his riding stock. It +opened on an anaemic sulphur face with blond hair screwed in curl +papers over a full row of gold headlights where an enterprising dentist +had engrafted as much of Klondike as possible. + +"Sheriff Flood in?" the Ranger raised his hat. + +"Oh, how j' do, Mr. Wayland." All the curl papers nodded like clover +tops in the wind, while the coy brows arched, and an inviting smile +played round the simpering headlights. "No, he ain't! Dan ain't in!" +The curl papers nodded again and the gold teeth simpered again. + +"Is he--_home_?" The word home came out with the force of a bullet. + +"No, he ain't home! Mr. Flood ain't home! The sheriff was called +'way! Is there any message?" + +Wayland stood back and watched the fray. The old man gazed full at the +frowsy apparition in the doorway. If dagger looks could have stabbed +her, the lady would have dropped dead stuck full of as many daggers as +a cushion is of pins. The gold headlights suffered eclipse behind a +pair of tightly perked lips; and one hand darted hold of the door knob. + +"Yes," he said, looking fixedly at the deep V of ash-colored skin where +the lady had turned back the neck of her pink wrapper in imitation of +gowns seen in the Sunday supplement of "The Smelter City Herald." +"There was murder done on the Rim Rocks last night! There's festering +bodies lying on top of yon Mesas! 'Tis a job for the sheriff, not for +an outsider--" + +"Yes, Sir," said the gold headlights, "I think he's gone to see about +it." + +He had looked her slowly over again from the blondine hair and the +ash-colored V of unclean skin and waistless slop of slattern wrapper to +clock work stockings and high heeled slippers. + +"A ha' ma doubts he's sprintin' fr' the back door this minute! Are ye +the sheriff's--woman?" and oddly enough the lady didn't flush; but the +faintest gloss came over the saffron skin--of what? It was the same +nonchalant, wordless insolence that had played in the eyes of the man +who had come out from the Senator's ranch. + +"Yes, Sir, I'll deliver your message a' right," flickered the +headlights reassuringly. + +The old man stood stolidly and scorched the lady's eyes. + +"How long since y'r sheriff thing set out? Did he break loose by the +back door?" + +"There ain't no back door," snapped the headlights; and the front door +slammed in their faces. Wayland burst in a peal of laughter. + +"'Tis no laughing matter! 'Tis bad enough t' depend on that broken +reed of a dastard coward sheriff hidin' under the bed! A've a mind to +go back an' have him oot; but that--pot ash pate--" what else the old +man called her was more truthful than elegant for an expurgated age. +They replaced the post of the barbed wire gate in its loop and mounted +their horses. + +"Well, Sir?" asked Wayland. "I don't wish to offend your British sense +of law; but which way now?" + +The old man left the reins hanging on the broncho's neck. The horses +began cropping the grass. The Ranger was fumbling at his stirrup. + +"A'm sore puzzled, Wayland! 'Tis not in the blood of a British born to +go _outside_ law. Y'r no thinkin' that; are y', Wayland?" + +"I am saying nothing! The law protects them in their lawlessness. It +doesn't protect us in our lawfulness. The American citizen is the +law-maker. There is only one thing for an American citizen to do--get +to work and enforce his laws--" + +"Then--God's name, Wayland, go ahead and do it! Take the lead! A'll +follow! This trail go behind the mountain?" + +"Yes, it brings us round behind! They have the start of us by three +hours; but they'll camp to-night somewhere along the Lake Behind the +Peak. Beyond that, there are some mighty bad slides. These rains have +loosened snows. They'll hardly cross the slides beyond the lake but by +daylight. If we can reach the lake to-day, we'll have a chance at 'em." + +"Wayland, A'm on the last lap of _my_ trail! It doesn't matter what +happens to me; but have you thought what might happen when we catch up +on them? Those fellows are out to kill. We are out to arrest. Have +you thought what that might mean at close quarters?" + +"It's close quarters I'm seeking," said Wayland, "though it's hardly +fair to drag you into the fight. All I want is a man as a witness +who's got red blood that won't turn yellow. This Nation has been +cowering behind the line of law, while the looters and skinners have +disarmed our very firing line. It's time somebody risked his neck to +reverse the order--" + +"Git epp," said the old man roughly to his broncho. + +The little pack mule took to the trail ears back at an easy lope; and +the riders set off up the Pass at the rocking-chair trot of the +plains-horseman. Gradually, the mountains crowded closer, in +weather-stained rock walls, with a far whish as of wind or waters +coming up from the canyon bottom; the sky overhead narrowing to a cleft +of blue with the frayed pines and hemlocks hanging from the granite +blocks, fragile as ferns against the sky. You looked back; the rocks +had closed to a solid wall; you looked down; the river filling the +canyon with a hollow hush had dwarfed to a glistening silver thread +with the forest dwarfed banks of moss. It was a sombre world, all the +more shadowy from that cleft of blue over head where an eagle circled +with lonely cry. + +The Pass was like the passage of birth and death from life to larger +life. On the other side of the mountain lay the sun-bathed Valley and +the Ridge with its silver cataracts and the opal peak with the +glistening snow cross. This side, the Mountain in the Valley of the +Shadow became giant beveled masonry, tier on tier, criss-crossed and +scarred by the iced cataracts of a billion years--no sound but the +raucous scream of the lone eagle, the hollow hush of the far River, the +tinkling of the water-drip freezing as it fell. Then, where the cleft +of blue smote the rocks with sunlight, the doors of the mountains would +open again to larger life in another Valley. + +The horses were no longer trotting. They were climbing and blowing and +pausing where the trail of the Pass took sharp turns, back and forward, +up and up, till the eagle was circling below. Both men had dismounted +and were walking Indian file to the rear, Wayland carrying his own +cased rifle. The trail was now running along the edge of an escarpment +no wider than a saddle, sheer drop below, sheer wall above. + +"How would they come out from the gully on this trail, Wayland? I have +been watching for the tracks. They're not ahead of us." + +"Gully ends in a blind wall above. As I make it, they'd push their +nags up and come down on the Pass trail somewhere below the precipice +ahead. We can take our time; I have been watching. There are no +tracks ahead. The trail above is worse than this. Devil takes care of +his own; or they would have broken their necks long ago coming back and +forward. We'll let 'em go down to the lake first. They'll go into the +trap. It's a lake mostly ice this time of the year. There's an old +punt sometimes used by hunters. It'll take them an hour to cross with +their horses. We'll let them camp at the lake. We could pot them +there, if we had a sheriff worth his salt." + +"'Tis a great trail, Wayland! Minds me of my days building bridges in +the Rockies! 'Tisn't just a matter o' courage to follow these +precipice trails: it's temperament! 'Tis something in the pit o' the +stomach! A mind one of our best engineers; he could meet Chinese +navvies with their knives out: couldn't cross one of the precipices to +save his life without blinders like a horse: we had to blindfold him so +he wouldn't know till he'd crossed. How deep do you call it here?" + +"About 7,000 feet drop, I think. This is the top of the Pass. We go +down after we leave the precipice! See--? the horses know it! They +are taking their top-turn rest." + + +The two men glanced below. In the shadowed depths, they could see the +River tearing down a white fume, a pantherine thing leaping--leaping--; +and the hollow roar of water filled the canyon with a quiver that was +tangible. Far below, the eagle flew lazily, lifting and falling to the +throb of the canyon winds. Suddenly, the air was cut by a piercing +whistle. Both men jumped. + +"It's only a marmot." The Ranger pointed over his shoulder to the +little gray beast sitting on the face of the rock. "Curious place, +this Pass! There is an echo here--if it were not that we don't want to +announce ourselves, I'd let you hear it. If you yell or sing, you can +hear the thing dancing along that opposite wall--Kind of uncanny, the +echo voice, in the mist here sometimes." + +But the whistle of the marmot had also startled the horses. The tired +pack mule gave a hobbling jump and came to a stand. A stone no larger +than a horse-shoe kicked loose, tottered on the edge, and went bounding +over. It struck the tier of rock below with clattering echo, displaced +another stone twice its size, then bounced--bounced--and a slither of +slaty rock the size of a house wrenched out--shot into mid-air with +crash and sharp clappering echoes--Then the Pass was filled with the +thundering roll. They saw it sink--sink--sink and fade, while the echo +still rocketted amid the rock tops--sink--sink--sink--no larger than a +spool in the purple shadows, till with a plunge it disappeared. + +"Whew, it _would_ be going if one went over." The old man mowed the +sweat from his forehead and drew a breath. + +On the instant, the hollow chasm of the canyon split to the crash of a +rifle shot that rocketted and quaked and repeated in splintering +echoes; and a bullet pinged at Wayland's feet. + +"That's splitting the air for you--Wayland." + +"Drop down, Sir," urged the Ranger, pulling the old frontiersman to +shelter of the upper rocks. "They have come out above. They have +heard that cursed stone. That's only a chance shot to learn where we +are. They can't come behind. They have got to go down ahead--" + +"And the fat's in the fire; for my rifle's gone with the horse," +deplored the old man woefully; for mule and bronchos had galloped along +the trail with the clatter of a cavalcade through the canyon. Wayland +handed the old man his own rifle and took the six shooter from his belt +beneath the leather coat. + +"They won't understand this pursuit at all," explained Wayland. +"Sheriff Flood is the guarantee of safety for any criminal in the +country side. They'll think it a citizens' posse. Where this trail +comes down at the end of the precipice is a crag. Will you hide behind +that, sir? I'll go above and head them down. I'm not asking you to +risk your life. They'll not see you till they gallop down." + +"But you are risking your own life if you go up?" + +"So does the fellow who has slipped on a banana peel," said Wayland. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +THE MAN ON THE JOB + +The two men proceeded along the precipice trail of the Pass. The +shouting river below boisterous from the full flood of noon-day thaw +began to hush. By the shadows, the Ranger knew that the afternoon was +waning. The echoes from the shot still rocked in sharp crepitating +knocks as of stone against stone, fainter and fading. Then a quiver of +wind met their faces. The chasm opened to the fore like a gate, or a +notch in the serrated ridge of the sky-line; and the precipice trail +dropped over the edge of the crag to the scooped hollow of a slope +where rock slide or avalanche had plowed a groove in the bevelled +masonry of the precipice. + +"This is the place," indicated Wayland. + +From the shoulder of the higher slope came a little narrow indurated +trail scarcely a hand's width, marked by the cleft foot-prints of a +mountain goat. Where the path came down to the main trail of the Pass, +jutted a huge rock left high and dry on its slide to the bottom of the +gorge. + +"Keep behind the other side of that, sir! They can't possibly see you." + +"How do you know that trail comes from the Ridge gully? Looks to me +like a goat track." + +"Because I built it! You can see the N. F. trail sign--one notch and +one blaze on that scrub juniper. Up on the Mesas, we were _off_ the +Forests. Here, we are back on them. You may not know it, sir; but +this canyon is part of the region Moyese wants withdrawn for +homesteads. You could homestead a reservoir for Smelter City here--pay +a German or a Swede three-hundred to sit on this site--then sell for a +couple of million to the Smelter City gang. They would get the suckers +in the East to buy the bonds to pay for it. A fellow in the Sierras +located a hundred water power sites that way." + +The old Britisher was not following the Ranger's reasoning in the least. + +"Then, if we are really on the National Forests, that is your +territory, and we have the legal right to make an arrest?" + +Wayland laughed outright. If you don't see why, then you do not know +the stickling of a Briton's sense of law and a Scotchman's conscience. +Matthews took up his station behind the rock that abutted on the trail. + + +He saw the Ranger hasten back along the face of the precipice, stop +where the rock offered foothold and begin slowly climbing almost +vertically. At first, it was going up the tiers of a broken stone +stair. Then, the weathered ledge gave place to slant shale. He saw +Wayland dig his heels for grip, grasp a sharp edge overhead, and hoist +himself to the overhanging branch of a recumbent pine; then, scramble +along the fallen trunk to a ledge barely wide enough for footing. +Along this, he cautiously worked, face in, hand over hand from rock +block to rock block, sticking fingers among the mossed crevices, +fumbling the pebbles from the slate edges, and so round out of sight +behind a flying buttress of masonry and back in view again a tier +higher. + +Just once, the watcher felt a tremor for the rash climber. Wayland's +head was on a level with the crest of another ledge, his face to the +rock, his left hand gripping a shoot of mountain laurel, his right +groping the upper rocks. The old man saw the shrub jerk loose, moss, +roots and all--he held his breath for the coming crash--it was all +over. Wayland's left arm flung out to ward off the spatter of small +stones; then, the right arm had clutched the spindly bole of a creeping +juniper--his body lurched out, hung, swayed, lifted; and the Ranger +disappeared among the shrubbery of the upper trail. + +The old man took a deep breath. + +"And this is the Man on the Job," he said. He drew behind his shelter +and waited. "The same breed o' men after all, in different harness." + +He had not noticed before, but there, ahead, where the black chasm of +the Pass opened portals to the sunny blue of another valley, lay a +lake, the Lake Behind the Peak, spangled with light, marbled like onyx +or malachite, with the sheen of a jewel. Almost at his feet below, the +near end of it lay. He could have tossed a pebble into it, +seven-thousand feet below, where the white foaming river came ramping +through a great pile of moraine that dammed up this end of the Pass to +the width of a bridle trail. The outlaws would have to cross the lake +to escape from the Pass; and almost, he thought, he saw the old punt at +the far end, which Wayland had said hunters sometimes used. + +The white butterflies flitted past his hiding place out to the light of +the sun. The eagle was soaring strong-winged, swerving and lifting and +falling in an insolence of languid power. The silent Pass quivered to +the throb of waters. But what was doing with the Ranger? Not a sound +came from the upper trail but the tinkle of hidden springs down the +rocks. He knew if he uttered a shout, the echo would take up his call. +An hour passed: two hours. Ghost shadows came creeping into the +canyon. The butterflies had fluttered out to the blue portal where the +rocks opened doors to the sun. The rampant roar of the river was +quieting to the hollow hush. The old man rose, walked along the +precipice, came back to his shelter, sat, stood up, examined the rifle, +looked ahead where the horses had wandered on, fidgeted, and bemoaned +the years that prevented pursuit up the rock face. He knew by the +light and the hush that it must be almost five o 'clock. + + +And at five o'clock in the ranch house back in the Valley, Eleanor was +lying in her room with her face buried in Wayland's note, praying as +only the young pray, with the worst and the best of their nature in the +prayer; for where such love comes, all goes into the incense of the +fire that goes up from the altar--the best and the worst of the inmost +heart: an apotheosis of "give-me" and an utter abandonment of +"let-me-give." By and by, when we grow older, we leave both the "give +me" and the "let-me-give" to God. + +The old man knew it must be almost six o'clock; for the light came +aslant the gap and the chill of the upper snow crept down from the +mountain. A pretty business this, it seemed to him: twenty miles back +of beyond; horses sent on at random ahead; a gang of murderers in +hiding above--Matthews walked boldly along the precipice trail, saw the +eagle below circling, still circling; heard a hawk skirr and scold from +a dead branch--Then, he deliberately pointed his voice to the rock wall +of the echo across the gorge and let out a yell that split the +welkin--A thousand--ten thousand--multitudinous eldritch laughing +echoes came jibbering and mumbling and giggling and shrilling back from +the rock, filling the Pass with chattering, knocking sounds that +skipped from stone to stone. + +Instantly, a shot, a shout, a bang, the rocking crash of echoes--mixed +with ear-splitting, rocketting shots--a crunch of feet--the old man +dashed to the hiding of his crag. A spurt of gravel mid showers of +dust and snorting of horses--Not on the trail at all but almost over +his back, slithered and slid and bunched horses and men, pell mell, the +white horse leading the way braced back on its haunches, the fellow in +the yellow slicker rumbling a volcano of lurid curses--The outlaws had +not followed the goat track at all but jumped sheer from the higher +slope to the Pass trail. + + +Shouting "Stop!--Stop!--I command you in the name of the State to +stop--!" the old man sprang to the middle of the trail flourishing the +rifle above his head. + +"State be damned," yelled the fellow in the oil-skin slicker. Never +pausing, turning only to shoot at wild random, the outlaws had +tumbled--stumbled--slid down the slatey slope for the lake. + +There was the pound--pound--the huffing of saddle leather--and a horse +came spurring along the Pass trail at reckless gallop. The old man +flung himself athwart--a rider in sheep-skin leggings, hat far back, +came round the rock at break neck pace looking over his shoulder as if +pursued--One jump--the old frontiersman had the horse's bridle! The +shock threw the beast's hind legs clear over the edge jarring the rider +almost to the animal's neck. Next--the old man was looking down the +barrel of the outlaw's big repeater--With a mighty swing, Matthews +clubbed his rifle on the other's wrist. He might have scruples as to +law and conscience; but he knew how and when and where to hit, did the +Briton with the Scotch-Canadian blood. Also he knew when to let +go--There was a flash--the rock splintering crash of echo, the +whinnying scream and leap of the horse shot by the falling +weapon--Rider and beast hurtled backwards, the man's foot caught to one +stirrup--There was the crackling of slate and shale--the gash and rasp +and wrench of loosening rock masses sliding--down--down--down and yet +down, with knocking echoes; with laughter of terrified scream from the +echo rock across the gorge--pound and plunge from ledge to ledge--the +horse's body turning twice as it struck and bounced out--a cloud of +dust--the shout, the blasphemy, the cry of rage, then the shrill scream +of death terror that echoed and echoed--The old man looked down! There +was a pounding of the stones--a faint far rebound and the darkness +below swallowed over a fading swirl at the bottom of the canyon. He +heard, he thought, he heard the engulfing gurgle of the waters, while +the shrill scream still jibbered and faded along the echo ledge. + +"By violence ye lived--by violence ye die--over the precipice ye go as +ye sent the mangled boy to the bloody death!" + +Then the Ranger was tumbling down the goat track in a slither of shale. + +"Come on--that was well done, sir! Wish we'd sent them all over to the +very bottom of Hell--! I'd stalked that fellow apart from the others +when you signaled--come on--we'll catch the rest at the lake--there's a +fellow wounded--you must have nipped one when you shot this +morning--join me at the lake," and leaving Matthews to follow by the +foot trail, the delirious Ranger went tearing exultant down the stone +slide. Water-muffled shots sounded from the lake. Wayland paused in +his head-long descent. The five outlaws were shoving the punt from the +shore with the bronchos swimming in tow. The stolen wagon horses, lay +shot on the shore. One of the outlaws was being supported by the +others. It was the man in the yellow slicker. + + +A great wave went over Wayland of something he had never before known. +It pounded at his temples. It set his heart going in a force pump. It +blew his lungs out, and set the whip cord muscles itching to go--to +go--he wanted to shout with joy of power--power that pursued and caught +and crushed--and trembled with overplus of intoxicated strength--He +knew if he could lay his hand on Crime at that moment he could crush +the life out of the thing's throat; and there was a parchedness that +was not thirst, a tingling to clinch that Criminal Thing menacing the +Nation, to clinch and strangle it to a death not honored in the code of +white-corpuscled anaemic study-chair reformers. + + +"Well," he said, as the other came limping down to the shore, "I didn't +think there could be enough of the savage in me to enjoy a manhunt." + +The old Briton looked queerly at the young fellow. + +"A'm beginnin'--," he said slowly, "A'm beginnin' to understand y'r +lynch law in this country--an' the _why_." + +"What do you make of it?" asked Wayland, too excited to notice the +other's abstraction. + +"A'm beginnin' to understand if y' monkey with the law much longer in +this land, the whole Nation will go locoed like you, Wayland--with a +blood thirst for righteousness--a white passion for the square +deal--an' God pity--that day!" + +The fugitives had reached the far shore of the lake, landed and were +riding off when a second thought seemed to bring one man back to the +water's edge. He stooped, heaved up a rock, threw it through the +bottom of the old punt. + +"You'll have to do better than that to keep me from crossing," said +Wayland. + +The fellow was aiming his rifle. Wayland and Matthews jumped behind +the big hemlocks. + +"He's fulling a skin bag wi' water." + +"Then, they intend to cross the Desert," inferred Wayland; "but they'll +have to go farther to slip me." + +One of the riders was scanning back with a field glass. + +"Looking for number six--Of all the colossal effrontery--they are +actually going to speak." + +The fellow nearest shore lowered his rifle and trumpeted both hands. + +"Speak louder--can't hear ye." Matthews had gone to the edge of the +lake. The answer came faint and muffled. + +"Where's--our--pardner--?" + +"Hold up y'r hands--all five," roared back Matthews. + +The arms of all but the hurt man went above heads, hands facing. + +"Y'll find y'r man's carcass in the bloody mess where ye sent the +sheep--! d' y'--see yon eagle?--'Tis pickin' his bones--" roared +Matthews through funnelled palms; and both jumped back to the shelter +of the hemlocks. The outlaws drew together to confer. + +"They don't believe us," said Wayland. "They'll camp in the timber +over there for the night and wait. All right, my friends! You'll not +have to wait long; no longer than it takes you, sir, to find our pack +mule and the stray bronchs, while I build a raft. We can't cross the +lower end for the moraine; and we can't cross the upper end for the +ice; and it's too cold to risk swimming." + + +Matthews had headed the horses and pack mule back from an open glade +and hobbled their fore feet. Then Wayland began chopping down small +trees. They saw the figures of the outlaws against the twilight of the +gap ride away from the far margin of the lake. Then only did the +Ranger build a little fire behind the biggest hemlocks, an Indian's +tiny chip fire, not "the big white-man's blaze." On this, they cooked +their supper, lake trout hauled out while they waited, and flap jacks, +with a tin plate for a frying pan. + +"Anyway," said the Ranger wiping the smoke tears from his eyes, "the +smoke keeps off the mosquitoes." + +"Mosquitoes, pah! That shows y're Yale for all y'r good work this day! +A have no seen one yet." + +Wayland's answer was to light his pipe. "It's either bear's grease, or +smoke between bites," he laughed. + + +They had unsaddled horses and were sitting on a log watching the +animals crop through the deep grasses. + +The frontiersman uttered a sigh. "'Tis like a taste of the good old +days, the days well nigh gone for ever; the smell of the bark fire; an' +th' tang of the kinnikinick; an' the cinnamon cedars; and the air like +champagne; an' the stars prickin' the crown o' the hoary old peaks like +diamonds; an' the little waves lappin' an' lavin' an' whisperin' an' +tellin' of the woman y' luve. An' care? Care, man? There wasna' a +care heavier than dandelion down. 'Twas sleep like a deep drink, an' +up an' away in the mornin', chasin' a young man's hopes to the end o' +the Trail! A suppose th' Almighty meant t' anchor men, or He wouldna' +permit the buildin' of toons! Once A was in New York! A did na' see +but one patch o' sunlight twenty stories overhead! Th' car things +screeched an' rulled an' the folks--the wimmen wi' awfu' stern wheeler +hats, an' the men--hurryin'--hurryin'!--Wayland, d' they get it? +There's only twenty-four hours in a day--they can't catch any more by +hurryin'--what are they hurryin' for? Do they get it--what they're +hurryin' for? Do they get anywhere? D' they sit down joyous at night? +A heard some laugh--It was not joyous! Do they get anything down there +in the awfu' heat?" + +Wayland laughed. "I don't know," he said. "Care isn't light as +dandelion fluff! I'll bet on that." + +The roar of waters below the moraine softened and quieted. There was a +chorus of little waves lipping and whispering among the reeds. A whole +aeon of resinous sunbeams breathed their essence through the dark from +the spicy evergreens. One need not attempt to guess of what Wayland +was thinking. He had forgotten his companion's presence till the old +man spoke. + +"A suppose, Wayland, you are only one of an army of kiddie boys on the +job out here?" + +Wayland absently roused himself. + +"Land Service and Reclamation men have tougher jobs and less glory. +All we have to do is sit tight and it's a pretty good place to sit +tight in--this out-door world. Different with the other fellows! +They're hamstrung by the red tape of office, or blackguarded by some +peanut politician who is scoring an opponent! There was Walker down at +Durango, shot examining a coal fraud. He was a Land Office man; and +his murderers have not even been punished. Then, there were the two +chaps, who ran the rapids before the Gunnison Tunnel could be built; +though that's been exaggerated with a lot of magazine hog-wash to make +a fellow sick! Biggest job there was the engineer's work. Do you know +he drove that six mile tunnel from both ends and, when the two ends +met, they were not two inches off? Hog-wash and dish-water hacks +spread themselves in the magazines all over those chaps running the +rapids! You've run ten times worse rapids, yourself, on Saskatchewan +and MacKenzie hundreds of times. Yet those chaps--not one of +them--noted the wonder of a tunnel driven from both ends coming out +exactly even. Why, the poor ignorant foreign workmen cried when they +met from both ends, got hold of one fellow's wrist through the mud wall +and pulled him through bodily, cried like kids at the victory of it! +Your town hack didn't know what it meant to be a sand hog under ground +for years and come through to daylight like that. The ignorant +foreigner knew. I guess a good dozen of 'em had sacrificed their lives +to the work. They knew the quiet engineer fellow had conquered the +earth; and that fellow doesn't get the salary of a Wall Street +stenographer--a way Uncle Sam has. They'd give such a man a title and +a fifty thousand a year pension in England or Germany. + +"Then, there was Fessenden, unearthed a lot of fraud in Oregon and got +himself crucified--got the bounce; had broken his health in that sort +of thing; got fired because he proved up that some smug politicians had +caused the death of an old couple by jumping their homestead claim and +driving them to penury. Then, there was Carrington. He was on the +Desert Reclamation Project; took his bride in on their honeymoon; +hundreds of miles from the railroad. She was delicate--lungs; poor +fellow thought perhaps camp life would cure her. She died there in the +heat. Two or three of the men gave up their jobs to help bring the +body out." Wayland land paused, lost in thought. "They got the body +out all right; but, the horror of it, Carrington went off his head! +Know an engineering chap tramped the Sierras for a hundred miles dogged +by a spotter from one of the railroads--but what's the use of talking +about it? These things have to be done; and these are the men on the +job." + +"The Men on the Job," slowly repeated Matthews, "the men we make earls +and premiers of in Britain; but who of your big public cares one jot? +Time you wakened up as a Nation." + +"You are using almost the same words as Moyese. He says the public +doesn't care a damn, wouldn't raise a hand to stand for the rights of +one of us, pays us less than dagoes earn. I guess Moyese doesn't +understand our point of view, can't take in why we keep at it." + +The wind came through the trees a phantom harper. The little waves +lapped and whispered. The pine needles clicked pixy castanets; and the +moon beams sifted through the trees a silver dust. + +"Why do you? Why do you keep on the job?" asked the old man. + +"Hanged if I know," answered Wayland uncomfortably. + +"A saw a man on the job to-day risk his life twice and think no more +about it than if he had been out for a walk. If a man in England, if a +man in Germany, if a man in Italy, yes by thunder, Wayland, if a man on +the job in pagan Turkey had done what you did to-day, he'd be given a +V. C. accordin' to the Turk, and a title and a pension for life." + +"I don't despair of a cross myself, when Moyese hears what happened +to-day. It'll be a double cross with a G. B.; but, speaking of cross, +as we have to cross the lake, don't you think you'd better snatch a +little sleep?" + +And so the two men, one representing the chivalry of the old West, the +other the chivalry of the new, stretched out to sleep with coats for +pillows, while the flood-waters went singing through the stones, and +the little waves came lipping and whispering, and the low boom of the +snow slides rolled through the chambered hollows of canyon and gorge. +Absurd, wasn't it, but the Ranger was not dreaming about the bevelling +trowel of the titan mountain gods? He went to sleep dreaming of the +star visible from the other side of the Holy Cross, dreaming dreams +that men and women have dreamed since time began; of drinking, +drinking, and drinking yet again, of life and love and blessedness from +the fount of human lips; of the seal that should be the seal to +service, not to self; of the gates ajar to a new life like the notch of +sky where the rocks of the Pass opened portals to the blue valley. +Would he have dreamed less joyously if he had known that the portals of +the Pass led to the avalanche and the desert and the alkali death? Who +shall say that love did not pay the toll? And in him rioted the +savagery of the fighter who wanted to seize his foe by the throat. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +ON THE GAME TRAIL + +The dull boom of a snow-cornice tumbling over some high cliff on the far +side of the lake awakened the Ranger to the chill darkness of mountain +night just before dawn. The moon had sunk behind the sky-line of the +peaks; and the little lake laving among the reeds lay inky in the shadow +of the heavy mist. + +Wayland listened. The deep breathing of the horses round the ashes of +the mosquito smudge guided him across to saddles. He placed saddles, +pack trees and provisions on the raft. Then, he wakened the old man and +pulled the grunting horses to their feet. A little riffle, half wind, +half light, stirred the lake mist, revealing glare patches of snow +reflection in the water. + +"Hoh! man, but y'r old peaks have a nip in the air at three in the +mornin'!" Matthews came down to the raft chaffing his hands. "That's a +job worthy a woodsman," he observed, holding the halter reins while the +Ranger got a couple of long poles. + +A dozen saplings had been mortised to a couple of cottonwoods. + +"They may take water; but they'll not sink; and they'll not tip," +declared Wayland. + +Reeds and willows had been used in place of nails. Two or three of the +logs were spliced to grip the end cottonwoods firmly. The two men +stepped on the raft. + +"Why didn't you go round the upper end?" + +"Ice," answered Wayland. + +"Too deep for poling in the middle?" asked Matthews. + +"That's why I'm going to creep along shore." + +"It'ull keep y' in the shadows." + +With a prod of his pole, Wayland shoved off, and the frontiersman +lengthened out the leading lines for the horses. The Ranger smiled +whimsically to find the reverse side of Holy Cross peak, up-side down in +the water, and he set to figuring out what sort of triangular lines +thought-waves must follow to connect his thought of that peak etched in +the bottom of the lake with her thought on the other side of a peak up in +the sky. + +"Steady, man! Slow up! There's a fallen tree with its rump stuck +ashore! A' don't want to warp ye in by snaggin' round; an' that mule +brute is thinkin' o' sittin' down." + +The bronchos had plunged to the cold dip with deep grunts, but the mule +braced his legs and brayed at the morning. The frontiersman said things +between set teeth that might have been objurgations to the soul of Satan +or the race of mules. Wayland shoved on the pole. The mule pulled. The +logs of the raft began to creak. "Look out, sir, we're splitting! Let +that doggon brute go--" + +And the raft swerved out, the horses swimming, the freed mule plunging +along the wooded shore, Wayland thrusting his long pole deep, almost to +his hand-grip, to find bottom. + +"There's a nasty under current from the upper river," he said. + +"Let her go, there--! let her go t' th' current--tack her an' the current +wull swerve ye int' the other side! More men lose their lives by poling +too hard than lettin' go! Catch the current and let her go." + +The old man had twisted the halter ropes under his feet. He seized a +pole and swerved the raft to the current, pointing in to the other side. +They could hear the roar of the wild mountain stream pouring a maelstrom +down from the glare ice and snow of the upper meadows. The next plunge +of the pole missed bottom. There was a yielding creak of logs. The raft +poised, and spun round. + +"Let her go, man! We'll wriggle her in below!" + +"Then loose your halter ropes, they're pulling us round." + +They tossed the ropes free. Wayland waved his pole to head the bronchos +across. They heard the mule squealing at the head of the lake. + +"She can't sink--wriggle her round, Wayland!" + +The raft spun twice to the under-pull, took an inch or two of water, and +swirled into the quiet shadows of the far shore. + +"Minds me of that story of Napoleon! Do you carry bridges in y'r +pockets, too, Wayland?" asked the old man, as the Ranger gave a long prod +that sent the raft grating ashore. + +"What story?" asked Wayland. + +"Oh, Boney came to a river too deep for swimming cavalry. General +ordered engineer fellow to get 'em across! Man began to draw maps. When +he came to Napoleon with his blue print plans, he found a common soldier +fellow had pontooned 'em all across!" + +"Did the big fellow get a leg up on his job; or did the soldier fellow +get the bounce for going outside regulations?" + +"That is possible, too." The old man was handing off the saddles and +camp kit. + +"If you'll wait here, sir, I'll go along for the horses! I don't know +the trails along on this side! It's outside the N. F!" + + +There was no moonlight to guide him; but there was the wall of blue sky +where the mountains opened; and he followed up the lake shore with a +sense of feel more than sight for one of those little indurated game +tracks that would lead back over the stones to the trail that the outlaws +had seemed to follow. If you think it an easy thing to walk over a pile +of moraine by the obscure light preceding dawn--try it! The great +moraines flank the mountains in petrified billows stranded on the shores +of time from the ice ages, in stones from the size of a spool to a house. +Step on the small stones; and they roll, bringing down the whole bank in +a miniature slide under your feet! Pick your way over the sharp edges of +the big rocks; and the glazed moisture is slippery as ice; but he, whose +foot hold fumbles, has no business in the mountain world; and the Ranger +swung from crest to crest of the pointed rocks, safely shrouded in the +lake mist, guided solely by the blank glare of sky between the mountain +walls. + +He could hear the tinkle of waters down the ledges on his right; and the +little flutter of wind riffling through the Pass sucking up the mists +forewarned dawn. He had climbed the roll of stone slowly, picking each +step, for, perhaps, two-hundred feet, when that trail sense of _feel_ +made him stoop to examine the ground. The roll of moraine he had climbed +met another stone billow; and between the two ran a groove, a little +narrow hardened tracing where the tracks of game going to and from +watering place had packed and worked in between the rolling pebbles the +ice dust of a million years. + +This, then, was the trail that the outlaws must have followed away from +the lake. He stooped to examine closer. There were horse tracks. Had +his own horses stumbled up from the lake along this trail? It would lead +back to the camp fire of the night before. Better reconnoitre while +there was still the hiding of the mist. + +He looked back. The lake was obliterated by the mist curling up; but +above he could see the black rocks of the precipice trail as if the Pass +behind had closed its doors against retreat; and was it imagination, or +did he see, an eagle soaring, strong-winged, majestically out from the +rocks in curves of insolent power? Memory of the nauseating horror came +over him in a physical wave; and curiously enough, he kept hearing the +soft voice of the Senator's scoffing question: "Who of the public gives +one damn?" It was easier sitting smug inside the firing line. He knew +men in the Service who would call him a fool for going out on this +present quest; and he knew others whose jealousy would say it was all +done for self-advertising; and he knew also that he might be dismissed +for going out beyond the letter in order to fulfil the spirit of the law; +but preceding the horror of the precipice trail, was that other memory of +the dead boy lying at the foot of the Rim Rocks beside the writhing mass +of mutilated sheep. + +The Ranger followed along the game trail. Who was it had said that the +only difference between charcoal and diamond was that one was soft and +the other hard? Was that what ailed the Nation? Had the fine edge of +citizenship dulled? Was the Nation losing the fine edge of distinction +between right and wrong? + +Another little flutter of wind set the restless mists boiling. + +"Strange it is hot so early," thought Wayland. Fir trees stood out from +the shifting gray haze. Among them, did he see shadows moving? They +might be deer coming down to water. Involuntarily, he stepped behind +some alder brush off the trail. Another flutter of wind thinning the +turbid mist. There was a whiff of camp smoke. Through the mist, he +could make out figures not a hundred yards away--five horses ready for +travel, four men clumsily lifting a fellow in cow-boy slicker into his +saddle. The man fell forward over the pummel. The group seemed +undecided what to do. Then, picked out--distinct--deliberate--coming +over the stones from the lake side--leisurely, lazily, careful, soft +footsteps with rests between--The Ranger would not have been surprised to +see the missing outlaw limp from the mist--Then, the head of his own +errant mule bobbed forward, and another roll of mist came up from the +lake. Wayland caught the trailing halter, headed the amazed little +animal back down the goat track with an urgent kick and sprang after it +to a clatter of rolling stones. When the clamor sank, he heard the pound +of hoofs as the outlaws galloped in the other direction. Five paces +farther, he found both the bronchos nosing consolingly round the mule. +Wayland emitted a deep breath of relief. If he had waited five minutes +longer at the raft, they would have had his horses. It was all in the +difference between being on the wrong and the right side of five minutes. + +"Y' don't need t' tell me we're goin' South an' down--We might be goin' +to the bottomless pit. The wind's like a furnace." + +"Off the Desert," explained the Ranger. + +The sun had risen high above the peaks. The mists had receded to belts +and wisps of cloud against the forests. Waters tumbling wind-blown from +the ledges were swelling to a chorus. Little cross bills and jays that +had come round the breakfast camp still followed the pack train. + +"As this is off y'r National Forests, A suppose y' couldn't have jumped +into the bunch an' arrested every man-jack of 'em?" + +"Not without being a target for five shots while they would have been +targets for only one." + +"We'd have strung 'em up in the good old days, an' sent for the sheriff +to clean up the remnants." + +They had left the goat track and dipped down a shaggy green hollow +between mountains that seemed to slope to lakes of pure light above a +blue open plain. + +"Any citizen can arrest a law breaker whereever found. Our badge is +supposed to increase that privilege; but the crime was committed just a +stone's throw _off_ the grazing ground in the National Forests. We'd +have to turn our prisoners over to Sheriff Flood. How long do you think +he'd keep 'em in custody? They'd escape while he was having an attack of +'look-the-other-way--'" + +"Your idea to run 'em aground in their own State?" + +"Not necessary to go so far. Run them across _this_ State line--then +catch them off guard in some of these canyons or arroyos. Turn them over +to a sheriff who doesn't owe his bread and butter to Moyese. He'll have +to hold them till Williams and MacDonald come down to testify. By that +time, I fancy we'll hear from people who have been losing stock all the +way up from Arizona. Moyese will be keeping mighty quiet." + +"Meanwhile, Mr. White-vest, who planned all this deviltry--he goes free! +These are only the poor rowdy tools for--" + +"For the Man Higher Up," finished Wayland. + +"Wayland, who is this white-vested anarchist, this vested-righter who +subverts your laws?" + +"His name is Legion, sir! That's what's the matter! These hide-bound +vested righters are only vested righters when the rights don't happen to +belong to some other man." The Ranger related the incidents of the visit +to the Ridge. + +The old man rode along in silence. + +"And from what you say," finished Wayland, "he evidently didn't mean any +harm to come to the boy; but that is always the way with this cursed +system. You're law breaking law-makers, your divine-right-king-crooks +out here--don't _plan_ crime. They only plan to have their own way. +It's like a man breaking down a dam to get a little water. When the +floods burst through the break, he thinks it isn't his fault." + +"That's what some of our Scotch kings thought; we took their heads off +just the same." + +"Well, if we can get our people wakened up, we'll take a few heads off, +too, at election time." He touched his pony to a brisk trot across the +meadow, following the mule as it dodged in and out among the larches, up +over a saddle back and down again thwarting a long bare hollow. + + +Wayland saw the light come sifting in gold dust. Somehow, the warmth of +it swept round him in a consciousness of that night on the Ridge. It was +like the snow flakes she talked about, sculpturing the rocks, shaping +destiny. Would the day ever come when they two could ride forth +adventuring happiness together? The hammer of a woodpecker, the resinous +tang of the gold-dust air, the shaking of the evergreen needles like +gypsy tambourines--filled him with an absurd sense of the joy of life; +and he could never drink the joy of these things without thinking of her; +for the consciousness of her presence, of the warm glow of her love, +enveloped all now, permeated his being, a life inside his life, blended +of his own. + +"A don't like the way that mule o' yours keeps lookin' ahead with both +ears, Wayland! It's all-fired quiet here, for noon-hour when the streams +should be shouting. There is something mighty queer and still in this +air. Yon saucy woodpecker has quit drillin'! Hold back a bit! A'm +goin' ahead! A've known these mountains longer than you have," and +curving through the brushwood, the old frontiersman came out ahead of the +pack leader. + +The little mule had undoubtedly followed a kind of trail. Though the +grasses were saddle-high, punky logs showed the fresh rip of shod horses. +Little mossy streams betrayed roiled water and stones over-turned. Then, +the path emerged from the trees so abruptly you could have drawn a line +along the edge of the timber, out to a great hollowed slope, wind-blown, +bare of rocks, clear of trees as if levelled by a giant trowel; hushed, +preternaturally hushed, the Ranger thought as he came up abreast and +glanced to the top of the long slope where the snows glistened over the +edge of the rocks heavy and white. + +"This is what we heard last night! See, Wayland, the snow up there has +been breakin'! It sags! Got its fore feet forward for a race down one +of these days!" + +Both men became aware of something portentous and heavy in the silence: +it was mid-day; but there was no noon-time shout of disimprisoned waters. +Not a crossbill, not a jay, neither eagle nor hawk, showed against the +azure fields of sky and snow. A little riffle as of waiting fluttered +through the grasses and leaves. Wayland was looking with dumb amazement +at the great field of laurel in bloom across the slope; three or four +miles of it, leaves of green wax in the sun, flowers passion pale, +motionless, waiting; what was it he missed? The insect life; there were +neither butterflies nor bees rifling the fields of honey bloom; the +flowers, acres and acres of them, stood passion pale, motionless +waiting--waiting what? Then, there was a singing in his ears, a weird +strange undertone to the hush of the forest behind them. His breath came +heavy. The old man was speaking in a muffled voice. + +"See, boy, there are three men on the other side! They are signalling." + +Wayland came alive out of his strange trance. + +"It isn't to us they are signalling. Move back quick, out of sight, sir; +see! there's a man half way across, the fellow in the yellow slicker! +There's some one on foot holding him in his saddle! What ever are they +waving so frantically for?" + +Involuntarily, both men had wheeled the ponies back in the screen of +trees, when the old man cried out: "What in blazes ails your mule?" + +The little animal had jumped sideways. + +"Get back, quick! for God's sake, Wayland! A know the signs from the +Canadian Rockies. It isn't _us_ they are signalling. It's the snow; +it's coming, Wayland!" + +The words were smothered by a tremor grinding through the hollow hush. +There was a split, a splintering, a dull boom of titanic weight falling, +miles away. They saw the puff of snow dust fly up in a toss of mist over +the face of the distant upper crags. Then, a grinding tore the earth; +something white glistening viscous crumpled--coiled with untellable +furious speed, shaggy and formless, out from the upper peaks--coiled and +writhed out like a giant python in titanic torture. For an instant, for +less than the fraction of an instant, it poised and coiled and looped as +a great white snake in and out among the far upper meadows: then ruptured +free with ear splitting wrench. The air was ripped to tatters. The +forest, the rock wall, the foundations of the universe gave way; the huge +hemlocks were tossing and bending like feathers; the upper forests +toppled and spilled like an inverted matchbox. Then the whole world, +earth, air, rocks, forest, shot down in a blinding rush, in a viscous +torrent of titanic fury. The surface of the mountain crumpled up and +peeled in a sliding mass. + + +Wayland came to himself hurled back a hundred feet knocked flat by an +invisible blow. The old frontiersman lay clinging to a prone trunk +spitting blood and gasping for air. The animals were scrambling to their +feet saddles twisted, bridles broken. + +"'Twas the concussion of the air! A'm not hurt, not a feather o' my head +hurt! A've seen it before in the Rockies! Look back," he panted. + +When the Ranger turned, the clouds of dust were settling, though the +earth still rocked. A hundred feet of snow lay across the trail in a +wall. Huge trees had been torn from the roots, sucked in, twisted and +torted like straws. + +"Look," reiterated the old frontiersman. + +Against the rock trail on the other side of the snow slide, three men +stood waving frantically. From the time the falling cornice of snow had +tossed up in a puff of smoke ten miles away to the fell stroke of the +titanic leveller of the ages--not ten seconds had passed. It would have +been an even bet that the men on the other side had been caught in the +middle of their sentences, in the middle of their signalling. As for the +injured man and his companion--Wayland looked down the mountain slope. +The snow slide had shot to the bottom and gone quarter way up the other +side. + +"'Twill be safer now to cross to the other side! We can go up above the +snow slide and cross by the bare rocks!" + +But Wayland was unheeding. What was it about snow flakes massing to a +momentum that bevelled the granite and rolled away the rocks for the +resurrection to a new life? Would it be so some day with the Nation? +Would the quiet workers, the pure thinkers, the faithful citizens mass +some day to sweep away the lawlessness, the outrage, the crime, the +treachery, the trickery, the shame, the sham of self-government's +failures; to roll away the stone for the resurrection to a new Democracy? +'High brows,' 'dreamers,' 'ghost walkers,' 'barkers,' 'biters,' +'muck-rakers!' Oh, he knew the choice names that lawless greed cast at +such as he; but a greater than he had said something about the meek and +the inheritance of the earth; and there lay the work of the snow flake +across the trail. + +"I suppose," he remarked absently, "it's our duty to go down and dig +those dead duffers out." + +"Nothing o' the kind. They'll keep cold storage till the crack o' doom, +and after that 'tis an ice pack they'll need. The snow's too clean a +grave for the likes o' them! The Lord has hewn out a path through the +sea! Sound the loud timbrel and on!" + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +THE DESERT + +Four days had passed since they stood on the edge of the snow slide and +gazed across at three outlaws on the far side under the crag waving +frantically where their belated comrades had been buried under the +avalanche. When the outlaw drovers had turned and galloped into the +blue slashed gully of the opposite mountain, the Ranger had observed +that their only remaining pack horse was white, an old dappled white +running with a limp. + +It had taken the better part of three days to cross above the wreckage +of snows and forest. They had camped for two nights within a stone's +throw of the upper glaciers. Wayland could see the reflection of the +stars in the ice at night, and count the layers of the century's +snow-fall that harked back, each layer a year's fall, to the eras +before Christ. + +"The little snow flake has been on the job a long time," he said to the +old preacher. + +Matthews didn't understand. "Can't make out why it's so hot when we're +high up!" + +"The wind is off the Desert," said Wayland. + +"Mountains in a desert?" + +"That's the same as asking if you ever have summer in Saskatchewan." + +The frontiersman looked more puzzled than ever. + + +Wild longings to seize the day's joy came to the Ranger. If the snow +flake typified law sculpturing the centuries, law was a process not of +a life time, not of a century, but aeons of centuries; and flesh, +spirit, humanity's brevity cried out for the trancing joys of the +present. If law took billions of years to sculpture its purpose, +grinding down the transient lives in its way?--When Wayland came to +that _impasse_, he used to get off and walk. He did not know, and it +was well he did not know, she was pacing her room two hundred miles +back on the other side of the Divide, praying that he might succeed in +one breath, that he might come back in another, and praying always that +they might both be strong. + +Every mile was a mile deeper into the eternity of her love . . . he +knew that; but he also knew that the fulfilment of duty meant +renunciation. Was it the cry of the flesh? Wayland scoffed the +thought. Flesh in the frontier West doesn't take the trouble to wear +fig-leaf signs. It is blazoning, bold, unashamed, known for what it +is; but there is no confusion of values. He who wills takes what he +wills and wears the mark. Wayland had been long enough away from the +confused values of more civilized lands to know belladonna eyes from +starlight; and he knew what his being craved was not carrion. It was +what harmonizes both flesh and spirit, and lifts the temporal to +eternity. Eternity . . . he laughed again. Eternity was too short; +and that was what renunciation meant, giving up a citadel against all +the harking cares and hells of hate in life. + + +Where they had picked up the fugitives' trail again on the fourth day +from the snow slide, the Ranger had taken stock of provisions. We none +of us know just how long the Trail is to be when we set out. Flour and +tea enough for a month's travel: of bacon and canned beans, only a +day's supply remained. + +"Yes, on your life, forward, long as there's a mouthful left . . . push +on," Matthews had urged. + +Wayland expostulated: "Do you know what Desert travel means?" + +"No, an' care less! If y' want to get anywhere, ye don't set out to +turn back! Dante's inner circle was ice! A've had that! Now, A'll +take a nip of his outer circle and try your blue blazing Desert." + +"It'll be blue all right, sir! You'll know it when you come to it by +the shadows being blue instead of black." + + +And always, the trail had grown rockier, the forests more scattered, +the trees scantier and dwarfed, till the way led from clump to clump of +scrub pinon amid red buttes and sand hummocks. And always, the valleys +widened and lifted to higher table lands, blasted and shrivelled and +tremulous of heat, till the mountains lay on the far sky-line silver +strips flecked with purple, like shores to an ocean of pure light. And +always, it was the trail of fleeing horsemen they followed, with one +track running aside from the others picking the softest places. + +"Only one pack horse and that lame," Wayland pointed to the foot +prints. "That means they must have provisions cached some where on the +way. If we can tire them out before they can reach their cache, we've +got 'em." + + +Once, where the way led between flanking foot hills, the tracks dipped +into a mountain stream and didn't come up on the other side. "Hoh!" +commented the old man, "that's easy; you'll take the right and A'll +take the left; and where the hills lift up ahead, A'm thinking you'll +find the tracks plain." + +All the same, Wayland noticed Matthews frequently moistening his +parched lips; and the lakes of light ahead lay a wavering looming veil. +A mile farther on, the ripped punk of a dead pinon betrayed the passing +of the fugitives. When Wayland dismounted to examine the marks, he +stepped on a small cactus. They picked up a trail that led over rocky +mesas and dipped suddenly into the deep dug-way of a dry gravel bed. +The sand walls of the dead stream afforded shelter from the sun, and +the two riders spurred their bronchos to a canter led by the pack mule. +The sand banks spread, widened, opened; and the mule stopped, both ears +pointing forward like a hunting dog. They rode forward to find +themselves looking down on an ocean of light, shimmering orange colored +light, with the mountains trembling on the far sky line silver strips +necked by purple and opal. The old frontiersman mowed the sweat from +his brows and gazed from under shade of his level hand. + +"Sun's like a shower o' red hot arrows," he said. + +The sand lay fine as sifted ashes dotted with clumps of bluish-green +sage brush and greasewood. A bleached ox-skull focussed the light with +a glaze that stabbed vision. The ashy earth, the dusty sage brush, the +orange sand hills, the silver strip on the far sky line flecked by the +purple and opal loomed and wavered and writhed in a white flame. + +"Do you see the bluish shade to the shadows?" asked Wayland. + +The old man was still shading his eyes from the white heat. "Do A see +mountains, Wayland?" + +"Certainly, you do! Did you think the Desert flat as the sea?" + +"That's just it! If A see mountains, then A see water too! It keeps +wavering." + +"By which you may know _it isn't water_," warned Wayland. + +"Wayland, A' don't believe you!" + +He had dismounted as he spoke and proceeded down the yellow sands to a +pit at the foot of the rolling slope. Wayland saw him halt, again +shade his eyes from the sun glare, and stoop. On his knees, he looked +again and rose. He came up the slope shaking his head. "Y'd swear it +was water at y'r very feet till you bent down." + +"Till you changed the angle of reflection . . . eh? and then the water +vanished, sir." + +Both men had thrown their coats across the rear of the saddles. +Matthews now knotted a large handkerchief round his neck. There was +not a cloud, nor the shadow of a cloud for shade. It was a wilted, +shrivelled, heat-flayed, fire-blasted world of arid desolation; +trenched by the dry arroyos; sifted by the hot winds fine as flour; +with rings and belts and wavering layers of heat--heat from the orange +sun edged red by the Desert dust of the atmosphere--heat from the wind +off some white flamed furnace--heat from the ochre shifting sands +panting to the loom and writhe of the blue-flamed air, and over all a +veil, was it blue or lilac or lavender? tinted as of rainbow mists. +For a little while, neither spoke. Each knew what the dusty dead +orange earth, the smoking sand hills, the sifted volcanic ash, the +burnt oil smell of shrivelled growth, meant to unprepared travellers. + +"I wish, sir," said Wayland, "I wish you would turn back here and let +me go on alone; I really do!" + +"What! turn tail like a whipped dog an' scuttle at first danger? Go to +blazes, my boy! Do you think y'r beasts will stand crossing before +sunset?" + +"It's about as easy going ahead as standing still. If we only had a +water canteen, it wouldn't be such a fool-thing to risk." + +The wind flayed them with hot peppering sand. + +"If we took time to go back for one now, this wind would wipe out the +tracks." + +"What's yon splash o' dust goin' over the roll o' th' hill?" + +Beyond the quiver of the dusky heat, they could see the drift of ash +dust eddying to the wind like dirty snow. + +"I wish, sir, you would turn back here," urged Wayland; but Matthews +was not heeding. He had gathered up the broncho's reins. + +"Time to be moving," he said. "'Tis my observation, Wayland, that the +devil gets away from the saint because, he'll always ride one faster. +Many's the time when A've been pressed in the old days, when if the man +behind had just ridden the one bit harder that he thought he couldn't, +just not sagged where he nagged, he'd ha' got me, Wayland! When y' +pace two men, one ridin' with the devil behind him, and the other jog +trotting with a dumpy comfortable conscience, 'tis a safe bet which +will win." + +There was the clitter clatter of the horses' hoofs over the lava rocks; +the padded beat of the easy plains lope as they left the lava for the +ashy silt; then no sound but the swash of saddle leather along trail +marks that cut the crusted silt like tracks in soft snow. The wind had +been flaring a steady torrid white flame. Now it began to come in +puffs and whirls that beat the air to dust of ashes and sent the sand +foaming in the wave lines of a yellow sea. The mule no longer ambled +ahead with ears pointed. He shuffled through the ash with dragging +steps; and the sage brush crackled brittle where the trail led out from +the silt across the baked earth. The heat waves writhed and throbbed +through the atmosphere, a flame through a sieve, with a scorch of +burning from the ground and clouds of dust like smoke. + +"I think I'll get off and walk," said Wayland, suiting the action to +the word. "I hope those blackguards are counting on camping at a +spring to-night." + +They plodded on for another half hour before Matthews answered. + +"Do you think they did it intentionally? A mean, do y' think they +lured us here to get rid of us?" + +Wayland paused and thought. + +"It's all the same whether they did or not . . . now! What was it you +said about a man chased by the devil setting a good live pace? They +have to find water. They know where water is. We don't! Only safety +is to follow." + +"Queer how y' keep imaginin' ye hear wimplin' brooks! When A let +myself go, A keep hearin' the tinkle o' y'r rills back in the +mountains! A keep seein' the blue false water waverin' up to my feet +an' recedin' again! Isn't there a fellow in mythology, Wayland, died +o' thirst in water because when he reached to drink it, it kept +waverin' away?" + +"That fellow had travelled in the Desert," answered Wayland. + +He aimed his revolver at a green rattlesnake lying under a sage brush. +The sun glinted from the steel barrel. The snake coiled and raised its +head. "See," said Wayland, "the snake takes aim. The light sort of +hypnotizes it. The greenest tenderfoot couldn't miss it." + +"How far d' y' call it across?" + +"Two to four days straight: eleven to twenty if you take it diagonally. +As I make it, they are steering due West for one of the deep cut ways +to take 'em South under shade." + +"Shade would taste pretty good to me, Wayland." + +Wayland looked back at his companion. What he thought, he did not say; +but he mounted at once and hastened pace. + +"Once we find a spring, we'll travel at night," he said. + +A condor rose from the rocks and circled away with slow lazy sweep of +wings. + +"You would wonder what they could find to eat here, if it were not for +the snakes and the lizards." + +"Perhaps, we'll _not_ wonder so much before we finish." + +Wayland looked at the old frontiersman again. He was riding heavily, +sagged forward, with one hand on the high pommel of the Mexican saddle. + +"Talk about the heroes o' cold in the North," he said. "'Tis easy! +Y'r cold buoys a man up! This stews the life out before ye have a +fightin' chance! Y' could light a match on these saddle buckles." + +"I think I see sand hills ahead. If there's any shade, we'll rest till +twilight." + +The lava rocks rolled to a trough of sand; and the light lay a +shimmering lake in the alkali sink. + +"Is that what y' call a false pond?" + +"No, I hope you'll not see any false ponds this trip! False pond is in +your head or your eye; and the harder you ride, the faster it runs. +Let's get out of this wind!" + +Wayland noticed the horses paw restlessly and nose at the gravel when +they crossed the dry bed of a spring stream. + +"Think y' could dig down to water with y'r axe, Wayland?" + +The Ranger pointed to the wide cracks in the baked earth, dry as flour +dust deep as they could see. The mule led the way at a run up the next +sand roll. + +"Think he smells water, Wayland?" + +Another broad mesa rolled away to the silver strip of mountain on the +sky line; but the fore ground broke into slabs and blocks of red stone. +Wayland examined the trail. It twisted in and out among the rocks +towards more broken country. + +"There may be a canyon leading South over there," he pointed. + +"Y' might try for a spring beneath that big rock. Looks green at the +bottom." + +A mist as of primrose or fire tinged the lakes of quivering light lying +on the ochre-colored mesas. The sun hung close to the silver strip of +mountain exaggerated to a huge dull blood-red shield. + +"Wayland, is this desert light red or is it that A'm seein' red?" + +The Ranger looked a third time at his companion. The old man sat more +erect; but his eyes were blood shot. A puff of wind, a lift and fall +and drift of sand, the wind met them in a peppering shower of hot shot. + +"Is that a rain cloud comin' up?" + +Wayland glanced back. The heavy dust rose a red-black curtain above +the flame-crested ridges of orange sand. + +"You're a churchman, sir! You should know! Ever read in Scripture of +the cloud by day and the pillar by night? Ever think what that might +mean on the scorching Red Sea job when Moses led a personally conducted +tour through the desert?" + +"Dust?" queried the preacher. + +"By Harry," cried Wayland, "that mule _does_ smell water." + +The little beast had set off for the red rock at a canter. Wayland's +horse followed at a long gallop. The broncho of the old clergyman with +the heavier man lurched to a tired lope. They felt the eddies of dust +as they tore ahead, saw the rainless clouds gathering low and gray far +behind, saw the sun lurid through the whirls of red silt, saw the dust +toss up among the lava beds like snow in a blizzard, then the sand +storm broke, the dry storm of rainless clouds and choking dust flaying +the air in rainless lightning. They gave the ponies blind rein and +shot round the sheltered side of the great red rock into one of those +hidden river beds that trench below the surface of the desert in +cutways and canyons. It was dry. + +"The shadow of a great rock in a weary land," quoted the old man +sliding from his horse exhausted. + +Foot prints of men and horses punctured the moist silt of the river +bottom. The little mule was kicking and squealing where the red rock +came through the clay bank. Down the terra cotta ledge trickled a tiny +rill not so large as a pencil. Wayland was chopping a deep mud hole in +the river-bottom up which slowly oozed a yellow pool. + +"Don't drink that, sir," he ordered. + +The old frontiersman was stooping to lave up a handful of the muddy +fluid. + +"Don't drink that if you want to get out alive! Wait, I have something +in the pack!" + +He threw the cinch ropes free from the mule, pulled out the sacks of +flour and bacon and coffee. "Here we are." He drew out the only can +of beans and punctured the end with his knife. + +"If you will satisfy your thirst with that juice, I'll catch the +trickle down the rock while we rest; but you must never drink this +alkali sink stuff." + +Leaving the horses nuzzling the muddy pool, the Ranger stuck his jack +knife into a crevice of the ledge and hung the small kettle where it +would catch the drip. Matthews was examining the tracks. + +"Not more than an hour or two old, an' A'm thinking, Wayland, we've +fooled them out of water!" + +"They'll keep to the shelter of the cutway long as this dust storm +lasts." + +Wayland was following down the tracks. + +The sun had sunk behind the silver strip of mountain reddening the heat +lakes and the Desert air. Across the mesas, the silt dust and sand +drift still whirled in fitful gusts; but the air no longer carried the +scorch of burning oil. The sky that had blazed all day in fiery brass +darkened and closed near to earth, a throbbing thing of the Desert +night brooding over life: a oneness of space rimmed round by the red +sky line. + + +"Hullo," exclaimed Wayland, pointing to the bank. "We are not so far +behind: there is the freshly opened cache." + +Where the cutway caved to a hollow lay a hole littered with empty cans +and canvas bags. + +"Not much value left, eh? Hold on, Wayland, this might be useful." +Matthews had picked up a skin water bag. It was full of tepid water. + +"They're harder pressed than I thought. They've had water stored here. +They'll rest somewhere in the cutway to-night. We'll likely run them +down before morning if our horses can stand it." + +Back at the rock, the Ranger was cooking their supper over a fire of +withered moss and pinon chips, keeping the old man's mind off his +fevered thirst by calling attention to the tricks of Desert growth to +save water. + +"You see the cactus turns its leaves into water vats with spikes to +keep intruders off; and the greasewood stops evaporation by a varnish +of gum. I'm sun-veneered all right. I don't sweat all my moisture +out--" + +"Better varnish me, then, before ye take me out again." + +Less than a pint of water had seeped into the little kettle; and this +they used for their tea, mixing the flour with the stale water from the +mud pool. Then, they lighted pipes and lay back to rest. + +Wayland had placed the kettle back under the drip of the ledge. + +"A can understand Moses smitin' the rocks for a spring; and such a wind +as we had to-day blowin' the Red Sea dry," observed the old man +dreamily. + +"I guess if you get any miracle down to close quarters, you'll sort it +out all right without busting common sense," returned Wayland. + +He wasn't thinking of the day's hardships. + +The silver strip of the far mountains had faded; first, the purple +base; then, the melting opal summit. At last, the restless wind had +sunk. The red rocks of the mesa darkened to spectral shapes. The +heat, the scorch, the torrid pain of the day had calmed to the soft +velvet caress of the indigo Desert night. Twice, the Ranger dozed off +to wake with a start, with a sense of her hand warning danger. Always +before, the thought of her had come in an involuntary consciousness +whelmed of happiness; but to-night, was it . . . fear? + +He rose and looked about. Two of the horses lay at rest. The mule +stood munching near. The old frontiersman slept heavily, his face +troubled and upturned to the sky. Wayland noticed the livid tinge of +the lips, the shadows round the eye sockets, the protuberance of veins +on the backs of the old man's hands. The sky seemed to come down lower +as the red twilight darkened; and he could hear not a sound but the +crunch of the grazing mule and the slow drop, drop, drop of the water +seeping from the terra cotta ledge. The stars were beginning to prick +through the indigo darkness. In another hour, it would be bright +enough to travel by starlight; and the Ranger lay back to rest, +slipping into a dusky realm as of half consciousness and sleep; but for +the nervous ticking of his watch, and the slow drop, drop, drop; then +sleep with a dream face wavering through the dark; then the watch tick +scurrying on again; then a hand touched him! Wayland sprang to his +feet half asleep. He could have sworn she was, standing there; but the +form faded. The pack mule had flounced up with a cough. A white horse +stood between the banks of the arroyo. There was a steel flash in the +dark, the rip of a quick shot, and the kettle bounced from the ledge +with a jangling spill. + +"What's that?" yelled the old frontiersman, jumping for the horses. + +Wayland was pumping his repeater into the darkness; but the clatter of +hoof beats down the dry gravel bed answered the question. + +"It's the signal for us to get up," answered the Ranger. "I don't mind +the blackguard's bad aim so much as I do the upset of that kettle. +Every drop of water is spilled." + +"A'm thinkin' 'twas the kettle they aimed at, and not us, my boy!" + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +BITTER WATERS + +But for all that the outlaws seemed hard pressed, they succeeded in +keeping ahead. The velvet dark of the night in the arroyo had given +place to a sickly saffron dawn. Where the cut-way widened and lost +itself in an alkali sink, the hoof prints of the fugitives' horses led +out again to the open country of gray torrid earth dotted by sage brush +and greasewood. The yellow sky met the ochre panting earth in a +tremulous heat mist of wavering purple; and against that sky line, a +swirl of dust marked the receding figures of the riders. + +"There they go, Wayland! It's a case of who lasts out now! If we can +only keep pushing them ahead, this heat wull do the rest." + +The old man shaded his eyes as he gazed across the desert dawn. + +"Queer way y'r mountains here keep shiftin' an' mufflin' an' meltin' +their lines! They're here one minute about a mile away, then as you +look, they've a trick of movin' back! That dust against the sky line +is about ten miles off as A make it in this high rare air; an' they're +goin' mighty slow! We've played 'em out." + +"Yes; but they have played us out! Let us get off and have breakfast. +If that small wren coming out of the cactus could speak, it might tell +us where to find water." + + +They had camped one noon hour at a Desert pool beneath a cottonwood, +where the putrid carcass of a dead ox polluted air and water. The +Ranger whittled the cottonwood branches for a small chip fire, and he +boiled enough water to fill the skin bag for the next day's travel; but +a high wind was blowing, restless, nagging, gusty, pelting ash dust in +their eyes, and not to lose the trail, they had pressed on through the +sweltering heat of mid-day. Wayland's muscles had begun to feel +hardened to the dryness of knotted whip cords. His skin had bronzed +swarthy as an Indian's. He was beginning to rejoice in the vast +spacious relentless Desert with its fierce struggle of life against +death; the cactus, the greasewood, the brittle sage brush, all matching +themselves against the heat-death. Was there a thing, beast or bush, +not armed with the fangs of protection and onslaught? Wayland looked +at his leather coat. It had been jagged to tatters by thorn and spine. +Silent, too; the struggle was silent and insidious and crafty as death. +Who could guess where the water-pools lay beneath the dry gravel beds; +or why the cactus fortified its storage of moisture in bristling spear +points; the greasewood and pinon with thorns and resin; the sage brush +with a dull gray varnish that imprisoned evaporation? The very crust +above the earth of ash and silt conspired to hide the trail of wolf and +cougar; and wolf and cougar, wren and condor, masked in colors that hid +their presence. Twice Wayland had almost stumbled on a wolf sitting +motionless, gray as the ash, watching the horsemen pass; pass where? +Was it down the Long Trail where the tracks all point one way? Yet the +fierceness, the craft, the relentless cruelty of the silent struggle +matched his own mood. He felt the stimulus of the high dry sun-fused +tireless air. He began to understand why the Desert prophets of the +East, who camped on sand plains rimmed round and round by an unbroken +sky line, had been the first of the human race to grasp the idea of the +Oneness of God. And was it not the Desert prophets, who had preached a +God relentless as he was merciful; and the retribution that was fire? +Well, Wayland ruminated, who should say that they were wrong? If the +God who created the Desert, was the God of life; but there, his thought +had been broken by coming on the withered carcass beside the yellow +pool. + +"They can't keep going on in this heat! We'll run 'em down if we can +only keep going," Wayland had said; as they set out again in the +blistering wind; but to his dying day, he will never forget the +traverse of the Desert in that mid-day sun. To his dying day he will +never see the spectrum colors of white light split by a prism, or the +spectrum colors of a child's soap bubble, without living over the +tortures of that afternoon, for the air, whipped to dust by the +hurricane wind, acted as a prism splitting the white flame of light to +lurid reds and oranges and yellows and violets. + + +Now, on this second morning before the stars had faded to the orange +sunrise coming up through the lavender air in a half fan, the heat had +thrown riders and horses in a sweltering sweat; and the nagging wind +had begun driving ash dust in eyes and skin like pepper on a raw sore. +Matthews' ruddy face had turned livid; his blood-shot eyes were dark +ringed. The horses travelled with heads hung low. Spite of the sun, +it was a cloudy sky, but whether rain clouds or dust clouds, they could +not tell. Towards noon, they could see against the purple mountains +the red tinged clouds fraying out to a fringe that swept the sky. + +"A thought it never rained in the Desert in summer, Wayland?" + +"It doesn't." + +"What's that ahead?" + +"Rain; but if you look again, you'll see it doesn't reach the sky line! +It's sucked up and evaporated before it hits the dust. . . ." + +Towards the middle of the afternoon, the horses were resting in the +shade of a reddish butte. Both men had dismounted. Wayland did not +notice what was happening till he glanced where the blue shadow of the +rock met the wavering glare of the sand. The old man had stooped to +one knee and had twice laved his hand down to the wavering margin of +blue light and bluer shadows. + +"Fooled you again, did it?' asked the Ranger, throwing the saddle from +his own pony, strapping the cased rifle to his shoulder and carrying +the hatchet in the crook of his elbow. + +"Better let me give you a drink from the water bag; it's hot and stale; +but it will keep you from seeing water at your feet till we find +another spring." + +The old man drank from the neck of the water bag and wiped his mouth +with his hand. + +"Queer effect y'r heat has on a North man, Wayland! D' y' know what +A'd be doing if A let myself?" + +"Drinking those blue shadows again?" + +"No, sir, A'd be babbling and babbling about the sea! A fall asleep as +we ride; an' when A wake from a doze, 'tisn't the sea of sand, 'tis the +sea o' water that's about me! The yellow sea o' York Fort up Hudson +Bay way where A took the boats from Saskatchewan." + +Wayland helped him to mount. + +"Aren't y' goin' to ride y'rself?" + +"No," answered Wayland. "I'm going to keep one horse fresh. Best this +one to-day: then we'll change off and rest yours to-morrow. Those +fellows can't go any faster than we do. This heat will beat them out +if we can't. I'll make those blackguards glad to drink horse-blood." + +Then, they moved forward again, Wayland leading on foot, the little +pack mule to the rear, both horses stumbling clumsily, raising clouds +of dust; breathing hard, with heaving flanks. + +That night, they halted in broken country . . . more red buttes; +hummocks of red; silt crust trenched by the crumbly cutways of spring +freshets; sand hills billowing to a brick red sky, where the sun hung a +dull blaze. There were tracks of the fleeing drovers having paused for +a rest in the same place. It was a pebble bottom hot and dry. Wayland +scooped under with his Service axe and an ooze of clay water seeped +slowly up forming a brackish pool. He had to hold the little mule back +from fighting the horses for that water. When the animals had drunk, +he filled the water bag with the settlings. Towards three in the +morning, the soft velvet pansy blue Desert dark broke to a sulphur +mist. Wayland saddled horses and mule and wakened the old frontiersman. + +"Eh, where's this?" He came to himself heavily. "Wayland, is this +hell-broth of a sulphur stew doin' me? Has y'r Desert got me, Wayland?" + +"No, sir, when the Desert gets you, it gets you raving mad with fever. +Chains won't hold you! This soggy sleep is all right. Long as you +sleep, you'll keep your head!" + +All the same, the Ranger noticed that the old man ate scarcely any +breakfast. For those people who think that the Ranger's life consists +of an easy all day jog-trot, it would be well to set down exactly of +what that breakfast consisted. It consisted of slap jacks made with +water sediment. Both men were afraid to draw on the water from the +skin bag for tea. + + +They passed dead pools that day, places where Desert travellers had +stuck up posts to mark a spring; but where the Service axe failed to +find water below the saline crust. Then, Wayland knew why the sulphur +dust drift moved so slowly against the horizon. The outlaws _had not_ +found water. Horses and men were fagging. A velveteen coat had been +thrown aside to lighten weight; from the dust markings one horse seemed +to have fallen; and the load had been lightened still more by casting +off half sacks of flour and some canvas tenting; but the tracks of the +lame horse picking the soft places along the trail showed drops of +blood. Had it cut itself on the glassy lava rocks; or was it the hoof? +A little farther ahead, the same horse had fallen again to its knees, +rolling over headlong; and the other tracks doubled back confusedly +where the riders had come to help. + +The Ranger smiled, though the yellow heat danced in blood clots before +his blistered vision. He had had to put the old frontiersman back on +his horse three times. The stirrup was wrong; or the saddle was +slipping; or . . . what alarmed Wayland was each time he had stopped, +the old man was stooping as if to follow the wavering outline of +invisible water. Then, when the Ranger tried to count how many days +they had been out, he found he couldn't. He had lost track: the days +had slipped into nights and the nights into days; and he suddenly +realized that his head pounded like a steel derrick; that the crackling +of the dry sage brush leaves snapped something strung and irritable in +his own nerves. There was no longer a drowsy hum in his ears. It was +a wild rushing. + +Once, the horses shuffled to a dead stop. Wayland looked up from the +dancing sand at his feet. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. + +"I keep thinking I see a white horse lagging behind that dust drift. +What puzzles me is whether they are trying to _get out_ of the Desert +or _lose_ us in it. While we are seeing them, you can bet they are +seeing us! There hasn't been a yard for a mile back, where the hoof +tracks weren't bloody. They'll lose a horse if they keep on to-day: +then, they'll be without a packer; but if they are plumb up against it, +why don't they face round and fight? They are three to our two? They +could hide behind any of these sand rolls and pot us crossing the +sinks; but if they are not at the end of their tether, why don't they +hustle and get out of sight? If they aren't played out, they could +outride us in half a day." + +The old man was shading his eyes and gazing across the sun glare. +Wayland noticed that he was steadying himself in the saddle by the +pummel. + +"Is my eye playing me tricks, Wayland; or do A see something stuck on +yon bush along the way? First glance, it looks like the leaf of a note +book. Keep looking, it might be a tent a couple of miles away. That +used to happen when we were buildin' bridges in the Rockies. Surveyors +crossing upper snows would stick up a message in neck of a ginger ale +bottle: then, when we'd come along with the line men after trampin' the +snow for hours, we'd mistake the thing for a man with a white hat till +we almost tumbled over the bottle. Is it the Desert playin' me tricks, +Wayland; or do A see something? Look, . . . where that bit of brush +grows against the lava rock there." + +Wayland's glance ran along the trail; and for an instant, the writhing +sun glare played the same trick with his own vision. Something a dirty +white quivered above the black lava table like the loose canvas top of +a tented wagon. The Ranger side-stepped the trail for a different +angle of refraction. The object blurred, then reappeared, a leaf from +a note book not thirty yards away. Wayland went quickly forward. He +was aware as he walked that the shrivelled earth heaved and sank so +that he had the sensation of staggering. It was a dirty leaf from a +note book fouled by the Desert winds and lodged in the sage brush. +Then, he looked twice. It was not lodged. It was stuck down in the +branches secure against the wind. The ranger pulled the thing off. +The under side showed tobacco stains. On the upper were scrawled in +heavy pencil; _By. 20 ml du est if yu don't cath upp hit itt est flagg +midnite frate carrie yu mine sitty_. + +"Railway twenty miles due East," translated Wayland. "That is probably +true. I think there is a branch line runs a hundred miles in to Mine +City. If you don't catch up, hit it East, flag the midnight freight, +she'll carry you to Mine City. Well? What do you make of it? Did +they leave it; or did some body else? If it had been there long, the +wind would have torn it to tatters." + +"Let me see it." The old man turned it over in his hand. "Evidently +left to direct the man back in the Pass; they don't believe he's dead." + +The Ranger took it back and read it over. "If they're lagging back for +the missing man, why didn't they leave a message sooner? Trail doesn't +fork here. Why did they leave word here?" + +"There really is a railway somewhere here, Wayland?" + +"There must be if one knew where to find it." + +Matthews smiled. "Then, A take it this is a gentle hint to go off and +lose ourselves trying to find it." + +Wayland's eyes rested on the slow-moving dust cloud against the horizon. + +"Then it is a case of who lasts out!" He looked at his white haired +companion. "But there's no call for you to risk _your_ life on the +last lap of the race. It's not your job. It means another day; +perhaps, two. If you'd take my horse, it's fresher, and the water bag, +you could ride out to the railroad to-night. Those fellows are not +good for many miles more unless they hit a spring. Let me go on alone, +sir." + +"Alone?" The old man's face flushed furious, livid. . . . "Git epp!" + + +Up a sand bluff, heaving to the heat waves; down a slither of ash dust; +then, across the petrified black lava roll; down to a saline sink, +white and blistering to the sight; over a silt bank crumbly as flour; +and on and yet on; across the dusty sage-smelling parched plain . . . +they moved; always following the tracks; tracks confused and doubling +back as if the hind horse lagged; with blood drip and shuffling +dragging hoofs; always keeping the dust whirl of the fore horizon in +view; on and on, but speaking scarcely at all! + +The Ranger again had that curious sensation of the earth slipping away +from his foot steps. He had thrown away his leather coat early in the +morning. Now be found himself tearing off the loose red tie round the +flannel collar of the Service suit; and he pulled himself sharply +together recognizing the fevered instinct to strip off all hampering +clothing. It was as much a heat-death symptom as sleep forbodes frost +death. He did not walk in a daze as the old man rode, half numbness, +half drowse. He walked with a throb--throb--throb in his temples like +the fall of water. He wanted to run; to strip himself as an athlete +for a race; and all the time, he kept walking as if the heaving earth +went writhing away from each step. + +"Don't y' think ye better open that pack, an' get a drink for y'rself, +my boy?" + +Wayland was pausing in the shadow of a sand butte, and the old man had +ridden up. + +"Want it for yourself?" + +"Not a drop." + +"Better keep it for the horses, then; if we can keep them going to the +next spring, they'll carry us out. Anything the matter with me that +you ask that?" + +"Oh no; A thought A saw you wave y'r arms." + +The Ranger looked at the elder man. He was riding leaning forward +heavily; and the dust had trenched deep fatigue lines in the hollow +beneath his eyes and from the nostrils to the mouth. Wayland didn't +retort that the frontiersman's speech had sounded guttural and muffled. +He was not sure it was _not_ the fault of his own ears. + + +They worked slowly to the crest of the sand roll, zig-zagging to break +the steepness. An ash-colored shadow skulked along the tracks of the +outlaw trail. The little mule gave a squealing hind kick. The shadow +looked back: it was a coyote, scenting the tracks of the drovers' lame +horse. It went loping over the sand a blurr of gray. + +"Curious thing that, Wayland! Notice the antics of the mule? Always +see that in a range bred beast, centuries of ham stringing." + +The Ranger did not answer. The sand was no longer heaving in waves. +It was running, sliding like the glossy surface of the sea. The throb +of his temples, the slide of the sand, the lakes of light, light and +crystal pools, that ran away as you came up, all brought visions of +water. The dust cloud on the sky line dipped and disappeared behind a +ridge of rolling sand. + +There was the drowsy swash of saddle leather and the padded chug of +dragging feet and the hum, the hypnotic hum, of the heat that drowsed +from delirium to sleep. + + +"I think," said Wayland, "this seems a pretty good jumping-off place +for a rest." + +The afternoon was waning. They were under shelter of a sand bank from +the wind and sun. + +"A think, Wayland, this is nearly my jumping off place altogether." + +Matthews spoke feebly. On pretense of steadying the fagged broncho, +the Ranger helped him to dismount. Then, Wayland unsaddled and drew +the water bag from the pack trees. He handed it over to the old man. +Matthews pushed it aside: "Keep it for yourself to-morrow. If y' find +no spring, y'll need the water to-morrow; but A'll take y'r flask of +brandy if y' don't mind?" + +"That's a fool thing to take in the heat, sir." + +"'Tis if y' intend to live, Wayland; but A'm at the end of this Trail. +A'd like a bit strength t' tell y' a thing or two before . . . as we +rest! Don't waste any water on flap jacks." + +The mule lay rolling in the sage brush. The two horses stood with +lowered heads chacking on the bit and pawing. Wayland saw the brandy +flush mount to the purplish pallor of the old man's face. + +"Wayland, this is _my_ jumping off place! A'm at the end of the Track. +The Trail where the tracks all point one way. 'Tis na' sensible y'r +hangin' back for me! If y'll take the fresh horse an' go on alone, +y'll get out! If the railroad is only thirty miles due East, y' can +make that. We'll rest a bit here, then after sundown we'll ride on; +an' in the dark A'll drop back. If it hurts y' t' think of it, A'll +head my horse due East for the railroad! Y'll go on, Wayland! Y'll +not turn back for me!" + +It took the Ranger a moment to realize what the old frontiersman was +trying to say. "I think you'd better take another drink of that +brandy," he said. "It seems to me a fool thing to let a good man die +for the sake of catching three outlaw blackguards." + +"'Tis not for the sake o' three blackguards!" The words came out with +a rap. "'Tis to vindicate justice, 'tis to uphold law, an' till every +good citizen is willin' to lay down his life hounding outrage to th' +very covert o' Hell, t' die protectin' law an' justice an' innocence +an' right, y'r Nation wull be ruled by paltroons an' cowards an' +white-vested blackguards! Go; go on; go on to the end till ye fall and +rot! If th' Devil takes to the open an' the saints take to cover, +whose goin' t' fight the battle for right? The Armageddon o' y'r +Nation? 'Tis easy t' be a good citizen when the bands are playin' an' +the cannon roarin'. 'Tis harder in times o' peace to fight the battle +o' the lone man! These outlaws, these blackguards, these cut throats, +they're only the tools of the Man Higher Up! Get them, then go on for +the Man Higher Up! Leave me, when A drop back in the dark to-night; if +A'm in my senses, A'll shout a bravo and give y' a wave! Y'r the Man +on the Job, the Nation's job! 'Tis not by bludgeons and bayonets, 'tis +by ballots and brains y'll fight this battle out; and fight y' must or +y'r freedom will go the way o' the old world despotisms down in a +welter. A wish y'd go to the top o' the bank and have a look ahead." + + +An absurd sense of power, of resolution from despair, of will to +do--suddenly swept over the Ranger. He forgot his fatigue. Months +afterwards, a fellow student who had become a professor in psychology +explained to him that it was a case of consciousness dipping suddenly +down to the sublimal reservoirs of unconscious strength that lie in +humanity; but then, Wayland had left two factors of explanation untold: +first, that the dying trumpet call of the old warrior missionary had +opened the doors of consciousness to that night on the Ridge of the +Holy Cross; second, that the setting sun tinging all the buttes and +hummocks and plains with rose flame somehow tinctured his being with +consciousness of her, consciousness of the life drafts he had taken +from her lips that night of the Death Watch. + +He went across to the pack trees. Picking up the cross trees and +blankets, he laid them on the ground as a pillow. + +"If you will rest here, sir, I'll go above and have a look." + + +From the top of the sand bank, the Ranger looked down to see the old +man lying with his face to the sky, his head pillowed on the saddle +blankets, sound asleep. He looked across the Desert. The sun had sunk +behind the azure strip of the mountain sky line. The billows of lava, +black and glazed, the ashy silt pink-tinged to the sun-glow, the +heaving orange sands . . . lay palpitating infinite almost with a +oneness that was of God. Wayland was not given to prayers. Perhaps, +like all men of action, he tried to make his life a prayer. Somehow, +something within him prayed wordlessly now . . . not for exceptional +advantage in the game of life, not for remission of the laws of Nature, +not for miracle, but for aptitude to play the game according to rules. +His wordless prayer did not end in an "amen." It ended in a little +hard laugh. As though Right were such a simple business as just +personally being good! or an insurance policy against damnation and +guarantee for salvation! What was it the old man had said? Your right +must be made into might . . . that was the game of life: the saving of +the Nation: the good old-fashioned square deal no matter which party +cut the cards. Right made Might, Might made Right; that was what the +Nation wanted! + +Then, it came again, the touch, the consciousness, the will to power, +to do, to fight and overcome. He rose and looked across the Desert. A +puff of dust, a swirl and eddy of riders, resolved itself through the +terra cotta mist to the forms of three men going over the crest of the +sand roll against the red sun-wrack of the sky line; three figures far +apart, riding slowly, crawling against the face of the distant sky; one +man in advance bent over his pummel; a second rider with a pack horse +in tow pulling and dragging on the halter rope, the pack horse white +and lame, stopping at every step, the man crunched, huddling fore done, +down in his saddle; then dragging far to the rear, just cresting the +sky line as the other two disappeared, swaying from side to side, a +ragged wreck lying almost forward on his horse's neck; was he being +deserted? + +Wayland uttered a jubilant low whistle and tumbled down the sand bank +to his camp kit. + + +The wind was at lull and the velvet air palpitating as a human pulse. +The after-glow lay on the orange sands cresting all the ridges with +cressets of flame. Wayland was riding bare backed. + +"When we sight them, I want you to drop back, sir! The Desert's got +them. They haven't the resistance of dead fish left. If we cut across +this sink, as I make it, we'll save a couple of miles and almost meet +them on the other side of the next ridge." + +When Wayland had wakened the old frontiersman, he had babbled +inconsequently about the sea. Mixing brandy with the last of the +sediment water, Wayland got him into the saddle. There were queer +splotches of blood under the skin on the backs of his hands; but when +the brandy relieved his fatigue, he stopped babbling of the sea and +spoke coherently. + +"Y' mind the man, whose wife died in the Desert, Wayland?" + +His horse stumbled. The Ranger snatched at the bridle and jerked it up. + +"Yes," said Wayland. + +"Vera noble of the woman; 'tis all right on _her_ record, Wayland; but +what do y' think o' th' man?" + +"But in this case, the man took her in to save her life." + +"A wasn't thinking of _his_ case," answered the other bluntly. "A was +thinking of _yours_." + +The horse stumbled again. This time, the Ranger kept hold of the +bridle rein. + +"A didna' just mean t' tell y', Wayland; but A want y' t' know before A +drop back. A saw it in her eyes, Wayland, yon night she went up the +Ridge trail, and oh, man, A was loth to speak: she would cheer y' on in +y'r work, A thought, perhaps--perhaps, the Lord might be playin' an ace +card an' A'd no be trumpin' my partner's tricks; but 'tisn't so; +Wayland, 'tisn't so! This Desert hell proves me wrong. She isna for +y', man; no man can ask a woman to come into a fight that may mean +this! It's a man's job, Wayland; an' the man who would drag a woman +into the sufferin' of it isn't worthy of her . . . isn't the man to do +the job. Oh yes, A know, a woman's love is ready to jump in the fire +an' all that. Hoh! The man's love that'll let her is poor stuff, +Wayland, base metal, kind o' love to burn all away to dross an' ashes +when the fires come! Her's will come out pure gold thro' it all, but +man alive, Wayland, think o' her when she finds his as dross; an' if he +lets her sacrifice hers for his, 'tis dross!" + +Wayland grew suddenly hot all over. He could not bring himself to name +her, much less indulge in the cheap confessional of tawdry loose held +affection. He had heard men discuss their love affairs: men who could +discuss them hadn't any; theirs was the sense reflex of the frog that +kicks when you tickle its nerve-end. He rode on unspeaking. + +"Y'll be tellin' y'rself 'tis too sacred to mouthe--with an old fellow +like me. All right! We'll say it is _too_ sacred; but that minds me +of a Cree rascal on my Reserve, an old medicine man, always talkin' of +his sacred medicine bag; well, one day when he was good an' far away, +good an' plenty drunk, A took a peep into his medicine bag; there was +nothin' inside but a little snake that hissed; an' him beatin' the big +drum! Hoh! sacred? + +"Y'll be tellin' me y'r passion vows are stronger than life or death? +Hoh! Y'd be a poor man if love wasn't stronger than death without any +vows and big drum! Y'll be tellin' me y've warned her not t' link her +life up wi' y'rs, to help y' resist an' all that; well, while y'r +playin' y'r high and mighty self-sacrifice, did y'r manhood melt in the +love light o' her eyes?" + +Wayland jerked his horse roughly to a dead stop. "Mr. Matthews, for +what reason are you saying all this?" + +"A'll tell y' that too! A've come for her, Wayland. A've come to take +her back to her people. Y' don't understand, her father is a MacDonald +of the Lovatt clan--came out with Wolfe's regiment in 1759." + +"In 1759?" repeated Wayland. "I heard her father say that very year." + +"Yes, and a dark doursome race they are. Lovatt: Fraser MacDonald was +his name; fought under Wolfe and joined the up country furhunters. +When he came back from his hunting one year, he found his wife had +eloped with an officer of the regiment; so he took to the north woods +an' married an Indian girl and his son was the man o' the iron arm, the +piper for little Sir George in the thirties, who blew the bag pipes up +Saskatchewan and over the mountains and down the Columbia and all round +them lakes where y'r Holy Cross Forest is. They were a' dark fearsome +men in their loves and hates. This man married late in life, he had +two sons, Angus of Prince Albert an' your Donald here. He never saw +his father alive. The Lovatt estates have been restored by law; but +the line is bred out, down to a little old lady whose waitin' me up at +my Mission on Saskatchewan. She came huntin' heirs. Angus had married +an Indian woman; he'll never go back, nor his sons. They're livin' +under a tent to-day. What would they do wi' a castle and liveried +servants and tenants an' things? Donald, y'r sheep king man, married a +white girl. Some time after '85 she left him for the part he took in +the Rebellion. She died after the child's birth; and the father +claimed the daughter. He's known they'd have to come for his daughter +some day, spite of his part in the Rebellion; and that was no such +shameful thing as y' might think, if y've lived long enough in the +West, t' understand! He has educated the daughter for the place. As A +guess, she knows nothing of it, doesn't know who her mother was, or why +her father had to leave Canada. A guessed that much when y'r Indian +woman sent me the wrong road from the Ridge trail, that night! She +doesn't even know who that Indian woman is." + +"You came--for her?" repeated Wayland slowly. The night on the Ridge +came back to him! Calamity's fear when the old frontiersman arrived; +Bat's threat to expose something; Eleanor's perturbed letter; the +father's half furtive defiant existence. He was too proud to ask more +than the other cared to tell, too loyal to pry into any part of her +life that she could not willingly share with him. He sat gazing into +the mystic afterglow of the Desert, a flame of fire over a lake of +light. It was as the old man had said, he had asked her to strengthen +his resolution; and he drank in the love light of her eyes as he asked. +He had vowed himself to a life apart and then his humanity, his +weakness, his need had sealed the vow of renunciation in the fires that +forged eternally their beings into one. But this, this was the Hand +from Outside on which we never reckon and which always comes; the +Destiny Thing which Man's Will denies, wrenching the forging asunder. +Was it right for him to risk their lives farther in the Desert now; it +affected her life now; and that was exactly what his common sense had +foreseen: the fighter must fight alone. Love might send forth; but +love must not be suffered to draw back. + +"Why do you tell me all this?" + +The old man moistened his lips before speaking. "If A don't go out, +Wayland, A want y' t' see that her father's told, that she's taken +back. When A saw the love light in her face come out like stars and +her breath break when A spoke of you as a Ranger fellow, when A saw +that, A thought, no matter what A thought. If y' married her, d' y' +think y' could go off on the firing line; d' y' think y' would if y' +knew y'd left her in danger? They'd strike at you through her, Wayland +. . . it would be the end of free fightin'. A ask no promise. 'Tis +enough A've told y'. Drive on!" + + +They moved slowly up the sand ridge, the Ranger a little ahead, +oblivious of the livid blue of the old man's lips and the drag on the +bridle rope till a quick jerk ripped the line from his loose hold; and +he glanced back to see the other's horse stagger, flounder up again, +waver and sink with a sucking groan. Wayland sprang just in time to +catch the old frontiersman. He tore the saddle from the fallen broncho +and cinched it on his own horse. Then he lifted Matthews, protesting, +to the fresh mount, "till we reach the next rest place," he said, tying +the halter rope of the pack mule to the saddle pommel. "Go on, I'll +come." + + +Wayland waited till the horse and mule passed over the crest of the +sand bank; then, he took out his revolver. A shudder ran through the +fallen horse. The Ranger's hand trembled. He stroked its neck. "Poor +devil; it's none of your affair either. I wonder how the God of the +game will square it with the dumb brutes?" + +He ran his left hand down the white face of the broncho. It hobbled as +if to stagger up, and sank back dumb, faithful, trying to the end, one +fore knee bent to rise, the neck outstretched. Wayland's right hand +went swiftly close between eye and ear. He shot, in quick succession, +three times, his hand fumbling, his sight turned aside. + + +Neither spoke as they advanced down the other side of the sand ridge, +the Ranger steadying himself with a hand to the mule's neck. The bank +dipped to a white alkali pit where the light lay in dead pools, gray in +the twilight, quivering with heat, layers of blue air above ashes of +death. For the second time that day, the sand colored thing skulked +across the trail. Wayland took hold of both bridles and led down, the +old man wakening as from a stupor. The alkali pit lay perhaps a mile +distant, gray and fading in the red light. + + +"Wayland, is that water?" + +"Where? I can't see it." + +"There, at the foot of the hill." + +"With trees up side down? No, sir! It may be mirage of water miles +away, carried by the rays of this twilight; but if you can see it and +the horses can't smell it, you can bet on a false pool!" + +But the little mule had jerked free with a low squeal. + +"A tell you, Wayland, there is water;" and he began babbling again +inconsequently of the sea, running his words together incoherent, half +delirious. + +"Go on and see, then! I'll follow! If there's water, look out for the +drovers." + +Wayland let go his hold of the bridle. Horse and mule shot down the +sand bank. He saw them shoulder neck and neck along the white alkali +bottom, then break to a gallop, the old man hanging to the pommel; then +all disappeared round the end of the bank. Wayland slithered down the +sand slope and dashed to the top of the next hill breathless. Below +lay the glister of water, real water and no mirage, glassy, gray and +sinister. The Ranger uttered a yell; then paused in his head-long +descent. + +The pony had plunged in belly deep; the mule had lowered its head; the +old man was kneeling at the brink. Wayland saw him lave the water up +with his hand: then throw it violently back. All at once, the grip of +life snapped. Matthews was lying motionless on the sand. The horse +was chocking its head up and down; the mule was stamping angrily with +fore feet roiling the pool bottom. It had been one of the salt sinks +that lie in the depressions of the Desert. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +WHERE THE TRACKS ALL POINT ONE WAY + +Wayland poured the last very driblets of water sediments from the skin +bag. This, he forced past the old man's lips. Then he drew the +unconscious form back on the saddle blankets, loosened the neck of the +shirt, laved the temples and wrists with the salt water, tore strips of +canvas from the tent square, wet that and laid it on the old man's +forehead. He ran his hand inside the shirt and felt the heart. It was +still beating, beating furiously, with faint flutterings, then +accessions of fresh fury. The lips were black and swollen. The eyes +were sunken; and the veins stood out in deadly clear purplish +reticulation with splotches of transfused blood under the shrivelled +skin of the hands. Then, he raised the old white head from the pack +trees,--brave old warrior for right going down the Trail where the +Tracks All Point One Way--, and somehow got a mouthful of brandy past +the clinched teeth. The breath came fast and faint like the heart +beats. Once, the eyes opened; but they were glazed and unseeing. +Wayland laid the old head on the pillowed pack trees, fitting rest for +frontiersman of the wilderness; then he stood up to think! A terrible +passion of tenderness, of question, of defiance to God, rushed through +his thoughts. The animals take their tragedies dumb and uncomplaining. +Man alone has not learned the futility of shouting impotent reproaches +at a brazen sky. + + +The Ranger unsaddled the pony. Then he tethered the mule and broncho +by separate ropes to the boulders. He placed the brandy flask by the +old man's right hand. He thought a moment. Then he laid the loaded +rifle close to the same hand. + +The eyes were still staring wide open unseeing. The purple lips began +babbling wordless words, words of the sea, words that ran into one +another inarticulate. Wayland stooped and took the left hand in his +own palm. It was cold and heavy, a thing detached from life; and the +purple swollen lips were still babbling in inarticulate whispers. +Should he leave him to die there alone; or go forth to seek; seek what? + +The Ranger stooped and pressed his lips to the blood-blotched back of +the faithful shrivelled old hand. He did not shed a tear. We weep +only when we are half hurt. + + +Wayland seized the Service axe and uncased his own rifle. Then in +words that were not worshipful, not bending his knees, but standing +with his hat off, he uttered what may have been a prayer, or may have +been blasphemy. I leave you to judge: "By God, if there is a God, why +doesn't He waken up? If there is a God, does _He_ stand for right? Is +there such a thing as Right; or is Right the dream of fools? I want to +know! If there is a God, I want God to speak out clear and plain, +right now, in plain facts, so I can understand, and not so blamed long +ago that a plain fellow can't make out what's the right thing to do." + +It was one thing to pray under the rose-colored windows of a college +chapel, and another thing to pray under the yellow, brazen Desert sky. +There was only the dreadful Desert silence, with the rattle from the +laboured breathing of the unconscious man. If there was no God, then +the fight for Right was the futility of fools: Right was only the Right +of the strong to prey upon the weak, till the weak became in turn +strong enough to prey; and that meant anarchy. If Right was right as +two and two make four in Heaven or Hell, then _where_ was the God from +whom Right, laws of Right emanated, guiding the unwise as laws of +gravity guide the stars? + +He didn't know that he had been staggering from physical weakness as he +climbed the ridge of sand. There was the fresh horse. _One of them_ +might escape in a night by riding it to death. Then, there was the +possibility of the railroad being within reach. One of them might go +out to the railroad, _but not both_. The old frontiersman had passed +the point of being able to ride; and a very few hours would probably +witness the end of his life. He could tie the old man to the fresh +horse, but the slow pace that would be necessary would sacrifice both +their lives. There was another possibility: the fresh man on the fresh +horse. That way out did not enter Wayland's mind; but he did ask +himself _why_ the outlaws had not come down to the false pool. Why had +they gone on? They were as near the end of their tether as he was of +his. + +Then he became suddenly conscious that he had eaten almost nothing for +twenty-four hours and that the quivering air darkening to night rolled +above the yellow sands in a way not caused by heat. Was it saddle wear +or exhaustion that he stumbled as he walked? He looked at the silver +strip of mountains above the westering sky. A fore-shortening haze +swam into his sight. There was the mountain flecked with silver. Then +it had gone into a milky black and pools, pools of water, fringed by +the pines of the North, hung in the blue haze of mid-air, +fore-shortening, shifting like a blurred sieve into the silver strip of +mountain and milky blot, then back again, pools of crystal water, cool +mountain lakes, this time with the trees up side down and figures among +the trees. He knew by the trees being up side down, though he was +dreaming of laughing as he drank and drank, that it must be a mirage! +Then he came to himself wondering how in the world he was sitting on +the sand bank. And why hadn't he kept the tea leaves to put on his +eyes in case of heat inflammation? Then, it tripped almost under his +feet, you understand _he_ did not trip, he had struck at it with his +Service axe--the wolf thing tracking the red stain of the outlaws' +trail along the base of the sand bank out across the ash colored silt +sands. He watched it pausing, where the wind had eddied the dust in +serpentine lines over the tracks, sniffing the air, loping across the +break, and on out again at a run, nose down to earth: a blot against +the sky; the burned out sulphur sky above an earth of embers and ashes. +Was it a mirage; or was he going delirious; or had he fallen asleep to +dream her face framed in the blur of the purpling haze, receding from +him, drawing him with the shine of the stars in her eyes, drawing him +with the warmth of their first passion kiss on her lips? He would rise +from his grave, and follow her from death, if she wove such spells, +whether of dreams or delirium or mirage! The Ranger found himself +stumbling across the baked silt and lava rocks, stripped of his hat and +his boots, stripped like a marathon runner, vaguely conscious that he +ought to have kept those tea leaves for that burn in his eyes, that the +silver strip of the mountain was there just ahead; now a crystal pool +of the cool mountain lake in mid air; now her face had vanished into +the blue haze. Suddenly, winged things flappered up with raucous +protest. The coyote had skulked over the edge of the lava dip; not the +burnt-oil earth-scorched Desert smell, but the shrivelled putridity of +flesh smote and nauseated his senses. The white pack horse of the +outlaw drovers lay dead across the trail at his feet, a pool of clotted +blood darkening the ashy sand. Its throat had been cut. . . . + +The Ranger drew off, rubbed his eyes and looked again. The crumbly +silt had been trampled all round the dead horse. So they, too, were +dying of thirst on the Desert. Which way to follow now? There were +the hoof prints across the open level; but forking from the main trail +was another track: that of a man dragged or dragging or crawling +forward on his hands and knees. Had they deserted the third man; or +had the third man dropped back from them to cut his horse's throat? +The Ranger laughed aloud, a harsh cracked laugh; he knew he was +delirious. The Lord had played an ace and he wouldn't trump His trick +by going after the trail of the man who had crawled away to die. There +was a Deity of retribution at least, whether God or demon: he had vowed +he would make those blackguards drink horse blood! + +If he hounded along the trail, perhaps he might overhaul the other two. +Then, then if he did perish in the Desert, he would not have perished +for naught! It was then, the earth performed the acrobatic feat of +heaving up, and he fell! This time, he knew he had fallen. It was no +trip. He was down and out and done for; and he knew it. He rose to +his knees steadying himself on his Service axe. Then, it came again, +the silver strip of mountain on the sky line with the cool lakes and +the blue haze, and her face, the face in the Watts' picture of "the +Happy Warrior," weaving the spell, receding from him, drawing him with +the love light in her eyes and the passion kiss on her lips, beckoning, +beckoning; he would rise and follow her from the dead if she beckoned +with that light in her eyes. She was receding _not_ along the trail of +the fleeing Desert runners, but down the dragged track of the body that +had crawled to the foot of a sand bank. Wayland never knew whether he +staggered or crept down the trail of the dragged body away from the +hoof prints of the drovers' horses across the alkali sink; but between +him and the silver strip of mountain on the far skyline, above the +yellow sand so hot to his palms, beckoned her face, the love light in +her eyes, weaving the spell. Then the coyote had bounded into the air, +and the red-combed Desert condors, the scavengers of an outcast world, +rose from their quarry; and Wayland, fevered, delirious, laughing, +crying, kneeled over the body of a man lying on his face with his +bloody hand clutched in death grip round an upright post driven into +the alkali bottoms, a post with a drinking cup hung on the notched +crotch, the Desert sign of a water spring beneath the drifted sands. + +Wayland pushed the body aside. The man's face was red-smeared. He was +dead. Wayland had to unlock the clutched fingers from the post. +Somewhere, from the submerged consciousness of forgotten college lore +came memory that the water table lay ten feet deep beneath the Desert +silt. The Ranger slid down the sand drift and was chopping, hacking, +digging, into the side of the bank, thanking God; God _was_ on the job +after all; scooping the sand drift out with his naked hand, burrowing +at the earth as the animals of the wilderness-struggle tear in maddened +thirst for the hidden life beneath the sand death. He heard the suck +and gurgle of the water, not the joyous silver laugh of Northern +springs, but the sullen coming of water compelled; and his lips were at +the sand; drinking, drinking, drinking. Then, he suddenly remembered +her face. He looked up. Gone the silver strip of shining mountain; +gone the mirage of the crystal pool; darkness, velvet pansy darkness of +the Desert night; and an earth bat winged past his face. Even as he +drank he felt the puff and whirl of the wind rising; he laughed. He +felt the cool water trickle and settle and pool in the sand hole. Then +he laved his temples and wrists, and laughed softly, and called a low +long tremulous call; that foolish Saxon word he had told her to look up +in the dictionary. + +The wind might blow great guns, and wipe out the fugitive trail. He +would go no farther. The wind would attend to the other two men. He +had found water: he had found life. God had played the trick; and he +had not trumped the ace; four of the six outlaws dead, and the last two +hastening to the alkali death across the Desert sands. He drank again, +this time from the cup, sip by sip, slowly, then in deep draughts of +God-given waters. + + +He didn't thank God in so many words, or in testimony to pass muster at +a prayer meeting; but he paused twice on his way back to the saline +sink to say: "He's on the job. You bet He's on the job!" He spent the +rest of the week nursing the old frontiersman back to life. + + + + +PART II + +THE MAN HIGHER UP + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +WITHOUT MALICE + +The Senator sat in his office with his hat on the back of his head and +a U. S. Geological Survey map spread out on the desk in front of him. +Bat stood sleepily at attention on the other side of the desk with his +hat in his hand. It was a sweltering July afternoon in Smelter City, +the air athrob with the derricks and the trucks and the cranes and the +pulleys and the steam hoists and the cable car tramway run up and down +the face of Coal Hill by natural gravitation. The light was dusky +yellow from the smelter smoke; and loafers round the transcontinental +railroad station across the street chose the shady side of the +building, where they sat swinging their legs from the platform and +aiming tobacco juice with regularity and precision in the exact centre +of the gray dusty road. + +The Senator wore a pair of pince nez glasses. He looked up over the +top of them through the yellow sun-light of the open street door. + +"Declare, Brydges, the damned rascals are too lazy to brush the flies +off," he observed of the brigade of loafers across the street. + +Bat threw a glance over his shoulder at the coterie of loafers, and +brought his drowsy tortoise-shell glance back to the map lying before +the Senator. + +"I guess the flies won't bother 'em long as they vote right, Mr. +Senator." + +Moyese was slowly turning and turning the thick stub of a crayon pencil +between his thumb and fore finger. Bat knew that trick of +absent-minded motion always presaged senatorial sermonizing, just as +the soft laugh down in the crinkles of the white vest forewarned +danger. ("When I see the tummy wrinkles coming, I always feel like +telling the other fellow to get the button off his fencing sword--You +bet _that_ means business," Bat often confided to the newseditor.) + +"Brydges, this country is rapidly lining up two opposing sides: +fighting lines, too, by George! Mobocracy _versus_ Plutocracy! I'm +only a cog in the wheel, myself, a mere marker for the big counters, my +boy; but if I have to put up with the tyranny of one or t'other, I'm +damned if I don't prefer the tyranny of the rich to the tyranny of the +poor, any day! _Why_, is any man poor in this country, Brydges? +Because he's a damned incompetent unfit swinish hog, too lazy to plant +and hoe his own row; so he gets the husks of the corn while the +competent man gets the cob--the cob with the corn on, you bet, number +one, Silver King, Hard, seventy cents a bushel! If I have to put up +with one or t'other, I'm damned if I don't prefer the tyranny of +knowledge to the tyranny of ignorance! One butters your bread, anyway, +and sometimes puts some jam on with the butter. The other snivels and +whines and begs a crust from the other fellow's table, and snaps at the +hand that gives him the crust, and spends the time in self-pity that he +should spend in work! Look at that row of free-born American citizens, +kings in disguise, Brydges! Not a damned man of them ever did a stroke +of honest work in his life except on election day, when we line 'em up; +and damn it, aren't we right, to line 'em up? What kind of rule are +you going to get from that kind of rulership if some one doesn't jump +in and group it and direct it; yes, by George, and _compel_ it to keep +in line and vote right, just as a general licks his recruits in shape +on pain of court martial? Think any battle would ever be won, Brydges, +if the commanding officer hadn't the power of a despot? He makes +mistakes. Of course, he makes mistakes! So do we! But we're keeping +those damned rascals in line for the good of the country; and so, I +say, the plutocrats who are being cursed from one end of the country to +the other to-day, are playing the same part in modern life as the big +war chiefs of the Middle Ages. They are marshalling the forces; +leading the advance; conquering the countries with commerce that the +old war chiefs used to conquer with arms; building up, constructing, +amassing, concentrating in trust and combine all the scattered +abilities of men, who would be powerless individually; and we use our +tools, that parcel of beauties out there, same as the old war chiefs +used their blackguard mercenaries! It's cheaper for us to buy 'em than +be bossed by 'em, a darn sight cheaper, Brydges; for us to swing 'em +into a bunch and control 'em than be blackmailed by 'em, Brydges! If +every penny grafter didn't hold up the corporation, every damned little +squirt of a county supervisor and road contractor and town councilman, +if they didn't hold the corporation up for blackmail way the highwaymen +of old used to hold up the lone traveller, if they didn't hold us up +for blackmail, Brydges, it wouldn't be necessary for us to man that +gang across the way on voting day! + +"Freedom, pah!" The Senator had stopped swirling the stub pencil. He +reached forward to a jar of roses on his desk. "Equality? Pah! Dream +of fools, Brydges! Doesn't exist! Never did exist! Never can exist! +Know how we develop Silver King Corn that gives ninety bushels to the +acre instead of old thirty bushel yield?" + +Bat had sat down, still sleepily watchful through the tortoise-shell +eyes, but a bit wilted in the heat. Some of the men swinging corduroy +and blue jean legs from the station platform evidently perpetrated a +pleasantry; for there was a loud guffaw, and a shower of tobacco wads +into the middle of the road. + +"Know how we get high grade corn, high grade rose like this American +Beauty: in fact, high grade anything? Well, I'll tell you. It's the +same process that brings out high grade men. You go into a field of +corn. You pick out best specimens. You keep that for seed, special +care, special fine ground, special careful cultivation. You let the +others go, feed 'em to the hogs, understand, Bat? It's the same with +the roses, and the same with men; and now where's your fine theory of +all men equal?" + +As Bat did not care to remind the Senator that his own career from the +ghetto up contradicted all this fine philosophy, he left the question +unanswered. + +Moyese pushed the glasses up on his nose and returned to the map. + +"How many homesteaders did you succeed in nabbing out of that last +train-load?" + +"About a hundred, Senator! I've got the list of 'em here . . . haven't +counted, but think it will tally up about a hundred." + +"What are they, Germans?" + +"No, Swedes." + +Moyese laughed. "Thrifty beggars will job round and earn double while +they're operating for us! Got good big families, Bat?" + +It was the turn of the handy man to laugh. "I filed one fellow and +eight kids for one hundred and sixty acres each." + +"You didn't contract to pay each of the little olive branches +three-hundred?" + +"Lord, no! If the dad sits tight till we prove up entry, he's to get +three-hundred! No fear of his blabbing. He can't speak a word of +English; and when I told the woman, through the interpreter that we pay +their fare out and each of the kids would get a five, why, she kissed +my hand and slobbered gratitude all over me." + +"Wayland won't be quite so grateful for that bunch." + +"Oh, I didn't file that batch in the N. F. You bet, that's a little +too obvious! I put 'em in the Pass, lower end of the Pass, not by a +damn sight, I didn't put 'em in the N. F.! I thought Smelter people +wanted us to secure that Pass for a dam; and I bunched 'em all in just +above the Sheriff's place!" + +"That's good! The Sheriff proves up this year; and if you get this +bunch in behind, that corks the Pass up pretty effectually! Where are +the bounds of the Forest there?" + +Bat drew his fore-finger along the map. "Along the red line, here: +just to the trail through the canyon." + +"Good: now what about the timber claim along the Gully? That's in the +Forests, Brydges. I want to force a contest on that; the Swede fellow +has cut the logs under his permit; but I'd like to make that doubly +sure before we go to trial. If we can get a double cinch on that, +we'll knock the claim of the Forestry Department to keep homesteaders +out into a cocked hat." + +Bat's sleepy eyes emitted sparks and his good natured smile widened to +an open grin. + +"The Swede happened to use a U. S. Forest hatchet when he cut those +logs," he said. "I told him to be sure and stamp the butt end of each +log U. S., duly inspected," he said. + +Moyese dropped the map and the pencil and his heavy hand with a thud on +the desk and laughed noiselessly down into the creases of his fat +double chin and into the wrinkling rotundity of his white vest. + +"And to cinch it," continued Brydges, "as the fellow's permit didn't +cover the Gully, I got some blanket railway scrip for an Irishman, +O'Finnigan, Shanty Town, and planked it on the Gully. You see, +Senator, by law the settlers _can_ go in on the National Forests +wherever it has been surveyed and declared agricultural land; but they +can't go in and get title till it is surveyed and passed. But you can +plaster the railway scrip _where it is unsurveyed_. That's the little +joker somebody tucked in when the scrip railway act was passed. I +guess by the time they have red-taped and trapesed round and wrangled +those two tangles of title out, the logs will be safe down the River; +and I guess that will about see the finish of Wayland before the coal +cases come up--" + +"That's it, Brydges." Moyese had lowered his voice. "What about +Wayland? Have you found out anything? Where the devil is he? He +isn't on his patrol! He hasn't been at the Ridge for three weeks. He +hasn't been at the Ridge since I left for Washington. If we could +prove how he's been using Government time," he paused to reflect. +"_That_ might be shortest way out! Did you find out anything at the +MacDonald Ranch?" + +Bat threw a precautionary glance over his shoulder towards the door +opening on the street. Then he rose, walked across the office, shut +the door, came back and drawing his chair close to the desk opposite +the Senator, sat down astride with his feet tucked back one round each +hind leg. + +"Yes, I did; and no again, I didn't! It's just as it may strike you! +As a news man, I know _how_ this kind of yarn would be taken by the +public." + +"Oh, come on with it, Brydges!" Moyese had pushed back and was holding +the edge of the desk with his hands. Mr. Bat Brydges recognized that +while the creases of good-nature crinkled at the chin, the jaws and the +hands had locked. + +"Your newsman got this despatch from Mine City: you see it's pretty +vague: 'bodies of two men found forty miles from branch of P. & O. +Line, thought to be drovers overcome by heat and thirst.' I wired for +more particulars; but the railway hands had shovelled the bodies under." + +"Brydges," interrupted Moyese sharply, "I'm going to tell you +something; and you put it in your pipe and smoke it; and don't waste +time running off on false clues. You leave that to women and +sissies--to the she-male man! Now listen, _a man can't lose himself in +the Desert: He can't lose himself in the Wilderness_. If he's a +damphool, he can get lost, but he can't lose himself, he can't hide in +the wilderness, not ever! He can lose himself in a city in one week. +He could drop out of sight right here in Smelter City; but he can't go +into the wilds and not come out again and people not know it. Somebody +sees him go in, and somebody doesn't see him come out; and there you +are! It's the same in the wilds as at the North Pole: you can't cook +up a fake. Man who goes into the wilds is a marked man till he comes +out. Every man, who meets him, takes a turn round to look at him; and +he's going to keep looking till the fellow comes out. Now, you take +this case. Wayland had on his Service Badge. If he had been one of +those two, the fact would have been flashed right down to Washington. +Now tell me facts, not rumors; exactly what did you find out?" + +When his chief began in that dictatorial fashion, Bat let his facts go +in a running fire: + +"Well, Flood saw him with his own eyes going up the Pass with that old +Canadian duffer the morning, the morning," Bat paused, manifestly +unable to specify which morning. + +"Yes, the morning _after_," added the soft, even voice of Moyese. "And +the snow slide filled the Pass up to the neck, forty-eight hours later. +Yes, I know; but Wayland was too good a mountain man to be caught by a +slide." + +"I told Flood to get out and examine that slide, anyway! He said +'twasn't any use, this hot weather would clean it up in a couple of +weeks. He was going up the Pass when I left for the Valley yesterday." + +"What did you find out at the Ridge?" + +"That's where the milk is in this cocoanut," answered Bat. "He hasn't +passed one night _at_ the Ridge since the night we were all up! You +remember _who_ was at the Cabin, night we went up? Well, keep that in +mind; when I went across to MacDonald's Ranch to express your regret +over this accident, found old man wasn't home. He's expected back from +the Upper Pass by train this week: seems he has been arranging new +grazing ground for another herd up there. You know how MacDonald house +is laid out? Big room as you enter; then a sort of back sitting room +for," Bat smiled queerly, a smile that said nothing, yet +subterraneously conveyed out to daylight one of those under currents of +thought that flows only in the dark, "for the lady. Well, sir, chill +blasts of North Pole were tropical zephyrs compared to what I got from +that MacDonald gurl." + +"I thought her name was Miss MacDonald," suggested the Senator, softly. +He had lowered his chin and was looking over his eye glasses at Brydges. + +"Hold on, Mr. Senator! I am coming to that! Her father has been away +a month. I found out from Calamity and the road gang that Wayland +hasn't been at the Cabin since that night I was there; and Gee +Whittiker," Brydges laughed sleepily, the same smile that said nothing +but came up from the subterranean under current, "he _was_ a bear with +a sore head that night; spent most of the night prancing the Ridge. +Well, a fellow can't exactly stand on one leg and then on t'other all +through a call. She didn't ask me to sit down. Said her father was +coming home by Smelter City and you could have the pleasure of +conveying your sympathy personally: kept standing herself all the time; +kept looking from me to the door. Well, sir, while she was looking +_through_ the door behind me, I was looking _through_ the door behind +her." And as Bat said it, he looked away. "Wayland's Range coat was +hanging in that inner room." + +Bat smiled slowly and sleepily; then openly grinned as who should say +"now the cat _is_ out"; but when he turned to Moyese, his chief had +whirled in the swing chair and was sitting with hands clasped under his +hat, and the back of his head towards Brydges. + +A glossy smile had come over Bat's face that is not good to see on man, +woman, child or beast; and it is the same kind of smile on all four, +not laughter, nor light, not definite enough to be malicious, nor +pointed enough to be self accusatory, nor direct enough to be +challenged and repudiated; a smile untellably familiar--a Satyr-faced +thought looking through a veil, somehow sinuously suggestive, saying +nothing at all, yet conveying the physical sensation of pus from an +ulcerous thing; and strangely enough, there are blow-fly natures that +prefer pus to nectar. + +If Brydges had not been so absorbed in the jocularity of his own +sensations, he would have observed that his chief remained singularly +silent. + +"Oh, I don't suppose he's there all this time." Bat rushed to the +defence of the absent, (Heaven bless such defenders). "That old +Canadian duffer, who seems to have hitched up with him on the Rim Rocks +accident, your ranch foreman saw 'em pass together at noon; tried to +telephone 'Herald,' but I choked _that_ off; that old fellow once wrote +our paper to know about Canadian settlers here. He recognized Calamity +and talked about old North West Rebellion days. It's my theory he's +here about something that's been hushed up! Like dad, like daughter," +Bat pronounced. + +"It's my theory when MacDonald comes back from the Upper Pass, Wayland +and the old fellow will turn up about the same time. Haven't been able +to learn what it is; but I'll bet dollars to doughnuts, they are all +absent on the same trail. If we let go a broadside, they'll have to +come out with the truth to shut us off; and there is where we are going +to get him; see? I've got another theory, too." + +"What's that?" asked the Senator, without turning. + +"It is, if he sees we're going to involve her, he'll quit." + +Moyese didn't answer. He rose from his chair and walked to a rear +window, where he stood looking out. Did he credit what he had heard? +Was it a recital of facts, or a distortion of facts through a tainted +mind? Did Brydges, himself, believe what he had tried to convey? Or +was his job to obtain certain results at any cost: and was this part of +the cost? Ask yourself that of the tainted news you read every day. +Ask why those who recognize the lie do not brand it as such; why those +who are uncertain do not verify before they repeat and credit; and you +will probably have some clue to the little melodrama of dishonor +enacted in the office of a legal luminary at Smelter City that +sweltering hot July day. When you come to observe it, Bat's recital +contained nothing that might not have been posted in eminent +respectability on a church warden's door. Like fresh fruit passed +through a mouldy cellar, the facts came from the medium of the narrator +with the unclean contagion of cellar mould. The next narrator would +not pass on the facts. He would pass on the cellar rot. + +"If we served up those two stories together hot," emphasized Bat, "we'd +about cut the throat of any opposition to our interests in the Valley? +He'd quit! I'll bet before he'd see her involved, he'd jump his job!" + +When the Senator turned his face to the handy man, he was very sober. +He stood looking over the tops of his glasses boring into Bat's face. + +"It's a pity," he said. + +"Yes, it's too bad: one hates to have one's faith in human nature all +balled out this way; but you never know what kind of a fact you're +going ping up against where a woman is concerned." Something in the +Senator's look stopped Bat mid-way. + +"Brydges, I thought I told you never to meddle with the damphool who +makes excuses for what he's going to do. Never do anything, unless you +have some end worth while in view; then, if it's worth while, do it, +damn it, and don't waste time excusing the means! Now, I'll have +nothing to do with this; mind that, Brydges. You do it off your own +responsibility. If MacDonald were one of our party, I wouldn't make +use of it, if it were ten times over and over true. You'll have to be +very careful how you use that, at all! It's effective. I don't deny +it's very effective; but it's a pity! If you use that at all, you'll +have to use it so it's not libelous." + +"Libelous?" burst out the handy man wakening up suddenly, scratching +his tousled head and trying to make head or tail of orders that said +'do it' and 'don't do it' in one breath. "I can write it without a +name so every man in the State will know who it is: give it as a joke; +fetch in Calamity as the mother of the whole mess; the call of the +blood, you know; reversion to type! They'll have to prove that the +intent was malice before they can get a judgment. They'll have to come +out with the truth before they can prove libel. It isn't libelous if +it's done as a joke without malice." + +Moyese had flung himself down in his chair with a blow of his clenched +fist on the desk, when the opening of the office door stopped the oath +of disgust on his lips; and Eleanor MacDonald stood framed in the +yellow light shining in from the hot street. For a moment, the +transition from sun to shade blinded her. Then, she saw who was with +the Senator. Brydges sprang up waiting to return her recognition. She +made no sign. She walked over where he was standing. The Senator had +half risen from his desk. Was it the spirit of the ancestral Indian in +her eyes; or of the Man with the Iron Hand? Brydges' oily gloss went +to tallow under her look. Moyese knew looks that drilled; and Brydges +himself could bore behind for motives; but this look was not a drill: +it was a Search Light; and the handy man--well, perhaps, it was the +heat--the handy man suddenly wilted. + +"You can go, Brydges," ordered Moyese. + +"All right! See you again about that, Senator!" Brydges grabbed up +the loose notes from the desk and bolted, banging the door behind him. + +The Senator's face seemed at once to age and trench with lines. He +motioned her to the vacated chair and remained bending forward over his +desk till she had seated herself. Then, he sat down, suddenly +remembered his hat, and laid it off. If she had sunk forward on the +desk weeping; if she had made a sign of appeal; he would have gone +round and caressed her and petted her and told her she must _stop_ +Wayland. His whole manhood went out to comfort her, to stand between +her and what? . . . Was it the drive of those wheels of which he was a +cog? But when she looked across the desk, the eyes had no appeal, the +Search Light had turned on him. + +"You must excuse me if you heard what I was saying, when you came in, +Miss Eleanor; but it was a G-- doggon lie! I had been angered: I had +been angered very much; and that's a bad thing on a hot day." He was +slipping back to the usual suavity. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +BALLOTS FOR BULLETS + +It was Calamity, who had carried the trouble-making coat across from +the Mission Library to the MacDonald Ranch House. Eleanor had found it +in the big living room that day after she had read the note saying he +was setting out "on the Long Trail, the trail this Nation will have to +follow before Democracy arrives; the trail of the Man behind the +Thing." Somehow, she lost interest in her reading and her driving, and +spent the most of that first week after the funeral in the steamer +chair on the Ranch House piazza. Were the topaz gates of the sunset +still ajar to a new infinite life; or did satyr faces haunt the shadows +of the trail, satyr faces of the Greed that had plotted the bloody +villainy of the Rim Rocks? She had thought she knew joy before, joy +that rapt her from life in a race reverie. Now, she knew joy, tense as +pain; and the consciousness never left her. It was there; beside, +inside, above, all round, an enveloping atmosphere to everything she +thought and said and did. She could not read; for while her eyes +passed _over_ the lines, that consciousness danced in flames _between_ +the lines. She tried to forget herself in her work--in the sorting of +the littered shelves, in the mending for the ranch hands absent with +her father in the Upper Pass; but It was there just the same, at her +elbow; in behind the commonplace weaving rainbow mists, a shadowy deity +of thought all pervasive as ether. Before, she had been as one +standing in front of the up-lifted veil. Now, she knew she had passed +in behind the veil, and could not if she would come out to the former +place. Life symbols empty of meaning before, suddenly became +allegorical of eternity--the bridal veil, the orange wreaths, the ring +typical of the infinite, the vows of service, the angel of the drawn +sword on the back trail. Yet she knew she had promised to keep him +resolute, standing strong to his work, unflinching because of her. + +It was, perhaps, typical of those ancestral traits that fear for him +never once entered her thoughts. His work was on the firing line; and +had she not _once_ said that a life more or less did not matter? That +was before his life had become her life. That is, fear for him did not +enter her waking thoughts. It was different when she slept. Then the +uncurbed thoughts hovered like the face in the picture of "the Sleeping +Warrior." One night as she sat in the steamer chair, a cold wind came +down from the Pass. The cook explained it was because of the snow +slide that had filled up the canyon. + +"Calamity," she called, "bring me out something to put round my +shoulders; don't bring a shawl: I hate shawls!" + +And Calamity, perfectly naturally, brought out Wayland's coat. Eleanor +did not laugh; for she knew it was only since Calamity had stopped +roving the Black Hills that she had exchanged male attire for the +Indian woman's insignia of good conduct, a shawl. She waited till +Calamity had pattered down to the basement. Then, she slipped into the +coat with a queer little laugh that would have played havoc with +Wayland's resolutions, and running her hands up the long dangling +sleeve ends, lay back to a reverie that could hardly be called thought. +It was consciousness, delirious foolish consciousness, possible only to +youth; and the consciousness slipped into a drowse between sleeping and +waking. It was--where was it? In the shadow realms of wonderful dream +consciousness, his face, the face in "the Happy Warrior"; but not her +face: instead was the evil fellow seen that night in the storm on the +Rim Rocks clubbing his gun at Fordie's pinto pony through the mists; +only he wasn't clubbing it at Fordie; he was aiming at Wayland; and +there was the white horse. She wakened herself with her cry. That +happened to be the night Wayland had camped in the Desert arroyos. + +One afternoon, Sheriff Flood had called to know if her father had come +back and what "he intended to do about it." Incidentally, he mentioned +that the Forest Ranger had gone through the Pass that led to the +Desert: there had been a snow slide; but he "guessed" the Ranger was +"too cute a mountain man to be caught." That night, she shivered as +she sat in the steamer chair; and she drew Wayland's coat around her; +but it was not to delirious thoughts. When she fell asleep, she saw +him lying on his face in the Desert; and she called him, and called +him, and never could reach him, and awakened herself with her own +calling. Wayland's professional friend, who was a psychologist, +explained both incidents as auto suggestion from the coat awakened by +the uneasiness of the unconscious fears; an explanation that explains +by saying x is y. + +At all events, she never again used the coat; and having nothing to +conceal, didn't conceal it, which is the most damning evidence you can +offer to a tortuous mind. She hung the coat in the apartment off the +big living room. Then, the despatch came out about the two bodies +found in the Desert. The same mail brought a letter from her father +asking her to meet him at Smelter City; and there at the Ranch House +gate stood Mr. Bat Brydges, handy man of the Valley, quizzing the ranch +hands, quizzing the German cook, quizzing Calamity at the very foot of +rustic slab steps that ran up from the basement. + +"What is he after, Calamity?" + +The half breed woman had dashed up the back stairs to Eleanor's room. + +"He want t' know if Waylan--Ranga fellah--has ever stay here, dis +house--he ever go back Cabin House--tepee on hill--night dey keel +leetle boy?" + +Even then, Eleanor did not realize the drift of the handy man's +activities. She thought perhaps, he, too, might be anxious about +Wayland. + +"What did you tell him, Calamity?" + +"I tell heem," Calamity dropped her soft patois to a guttural, "I tell +heem, y' go Hell!" + +"Ca-lam-ity?" rebuked Eleanor. + +But what was it in the gentleman's jaunty air, in the smile of the +sleepy tortoise-shell eyes, in the play of a self-conscious dimple +round the fat double chin? Eleanor had not passed from her own +apartment to the big living room before a repulsion that she could not +define swept over her in a physical shudder; and Mr. Bat Brydges' +report to the Senator of that interview had been fairly accurate. She +did not know that she had not greeted him with the common courtesy due +a caller, that she had stood looking past him to the open door, that +she had left him standing first on one leg then on the other till Bat +had been forced to terminate the interview; and she had not the +faintest conception of what her own feeling of repulsion meant. He had +scarcely gone before she wished she had asked him about those two +bodies found in the Desert. As a matter of fact, she called up the +"Smelter City Independent." The editor could give her no details. He +asked her very particularly who was inquiring; and having nothing to +conceal, she did not conceal it. He allayed her fears in almost the +words that the Senator had used to lay Bat's suspicions, if the bodies +had been those of Government men, the Ranger's Badge would have been +found and the news flashed all over America. + +"Oh, thank you, so much! You know the sheep lost on the Rim Rocks +belonged to our ranch; and I wouldn't like to think that he had lost +his life defending our interests." + +Then something odd occurred with the telephone. She distinctly heard +the voice at the other end telling somebody that, "Brydges was up there +now." Then, the voice was assuring her, "They would let her know if +they heard anything more." + +Eleanor rang off with a sense of relief; and yet with a sickening +feeling, of what? It was the same feeling she had had when Brydges +came in with his jaunty air. + + +She was standing at the Ranch House gate waiting for the stage to +Smelter City. Calamity had carried down the yellow suit case. The +words came from Eleanor's lips before she thought; or she could never +have asked the question: + +"Calamity, who was it took your little baby away?" + +The suit case fell from the Indian woman's hand. + +"D' pries'," she said, "Father Moran." + +Eleanor thought a moment, racking her memory in vain for that name in +her convent life of Quebec. She was digging her toe in the dust of the +road. + +"Was that before or after you went to the Black Hills, Calamity?" + +But Calamity had gone without a word; and the stage came whipping +across the bridge from the Moyese Ranch; a double-tandem stage driven +by a bronzed fellow with one arm, whose management of the reins +absorbed Eleanor so that she forgot to notice the fat form hoisting her +suit case to the roof. Then, she was inside; and the door had swung +shut; and the fat form squeezed in next to the door; and she was lost +in her own thoughts oblivious of her close packed neighbors till the +stage stopped again with a jerk, and the sharp edge of a black +cart-wheel-hat decorated with plumes enough for an undertaker's wagon +cut a swath that threatened to slice off one of Eleanor's ears. + +"I beg your pardon," said Eleanor. + +"Oh, I guess tha' wuz my fault," and a mouthful of gold teeth above an +ash colored V of neck and below the most wonderful straw stack of wheat +colored hair simpered up at Eleanor from beneath the black +cart-wheel-hat; simpered and ended up in a funny little tittering +laugh. Eleanor took a quick glance at her neighbors, all men but the +cart-wheel-hat to one side and a little young-old lady opposite with a +hectic flush, and very protuberant hard mouth and beady little brown +eyes. Eleanor noticed the brown eyes were accompanied by red hair, and +she recognized the presiding genius of the English Colony. + +"A beautiful morning for a ride down the Valley," remarked Eleanor +absently. + +"What? I beg your pardon? Did you speak to me?" + +It wasn't the words. It was the hard tone of surprise. + +"We're in luck to have such a morning to ride down," amplified Eleanor. + +"Yes," said the lady with the hectic flush; and Eleanor felt the gold +teeth simpering beneath the undertaker's plumes. + +What was it? Eleanor took a second look at the two women, and +recognized both, the Sheriff's wife and the English lady. They were +arrayed gorgeously, her neighbor across in lavender silk, her elbow +traveller in black with a profusion of cheap lace round the ash colored +V of exposed skin: Eleanor wished the woman had powdered all the way +down. She, herself, had come garbed for the dust of stage travel, a +broad brimmed English sailor and a kakhi duster motoring coat. Was it +because she was not garbed as the others that they rebuffed her +friendly overtures, she wondered. At the next stop, she passed out to +go up and ride on the driver's seat, manifestly an impossible feat for +ladies in lavender and undertaker's plumes. A fat hand reached forward +to shove the door open. It was Bat Brydges'. She nodded her thanks, +and the handy man bowed with a sweep of his hat naming her aloud for +the whole stage to hear. If a look could have blasted Mr. Bat Brydges, +he would have been dissolved in gaseous matter from the expression that +passed over the face under the sailor hat. She heard the hilarity +break bounds inside as she mounted the driver's seat; and felt very +much as you have felt when you have come out of the clatter of the +orchestra pit where you have chanced to sit next to a musk-scented +neighbor. + + +But she forgot the lavender grandee and the gold teeth and the +undertaker's plumes, as she sat on the upper seat with the one-armed +driver behind the double tandem grays. The sun was coming up over the +Rim Rocks in a half fan of fire; and the light was on the Ridge; and +all the silver cataracts tossing down the sheer wall shone wind-blown +spray against the evergreens. The Valley widened as it dropped to the +leap and fume and swirl of the foaming river; and the double tandem +grays kept step with a proud chacking up of heads and bristling of +arched necks and movement of thigh and shoulder muscles under satin +skin like shuttles. + +"You must be very proud of your beautiful horses," she said to the +driver. + +The driver 'lowed he was: that 'un dappled on the rump there, that 'un +was foaled, let me see? year o' the rush to the Black Hills, with a +squirt of chewing tobacco over the front wheel and a damn't, and +another squirt and more damn't's; and before Eleanor realized the +one-armed driver had asked her if she wouldn't like to learn to drive +double tandems; and she had the reins in her hands; and the double +tandem grays took the bit in their teeth to show what double tandem +grays and ample oats could do. + +"How-do," called the driver with a squirt of tobacco over the front +wheel at a rancher loping across the trail. "How-do; y' are up early, +y' son of a gun! What d' y' know?" + +"Senator's goin' t' stand again this fall," called the man. + +The driver emitted another damn't in true Western style just as +innocently as an Easterner says "Oh, yes, indeed," or an Englishman +says "My word." In fact Eleanor lost count of the damn't's. + +"How ever do you manage it?" she asked shifting the reins. + +"With my one arm, y' mean?" The stage driver laughed and aimed more +chewing tobacco at that innocent front wheel; and the question drew out +such a story of heroism in spite of the damn't's and the tobacco squids +as made her proud of human clay, just as she had been ashamed of human +something or other inside the stage with the lavender silk and the gold +teeth and Bat's frozen tallow smile. + +"Why, it was the year o' the Kootenay rush, ye mind? No, ye don't +mind, ye weren't born then, were y'? Damn't," and a punctuation in +tobacco. "Wall, 'twas in the early days 'fore we had steam hoists an' +things." (Another punctuation mark--a good big one.) "We was usin' an +old hand hoist. Guess the shaft was about hundred feet down--straight +down, an' we was gettin' in the pay streak, bringin' up barrels o' rock +showin' more color every load. Wall, them loads was hauled up to the +dumps by a hand hoist y' onderstand, kind of winch, like y' turn a +handle in old fashioned down East wells. Wall--" (Another punctuation +mark and another dip for ink, so to speak, from the plug in the hand of +the one-armed driver.) "boys were all down under. Say--'twas in the +days when ol' Calamity was runnin' the hills. Know Calamity? She was +a wild 'un in _her_ day; an' they say MacDonald, the rich sheep man, +has kind o' sorter given her a home these late years. Wall--I ain't +the one t' say he shouldn't. Her morals weren't much better in them +days than the crazy patch quilts ladies used to make down East when I +was a boy; but she's settled down I hear; an' I ain't the one to say +MacDonald don't deserve credit for what he's done. She saved many a +poor miner's life from the Indians in them ol' days, saved 'em by a +shave, carried 'em in on her shoulder to the Deadwood Hospital, or +nussed 'em well on the spot, an' all the while, she wazn't no better +than she ought t' be; wazn't there a woman in Scripture like that? +Kind o' seems to me the church folks forgets that Rahub gurl! +Wall--'twas about those days." (More showers of damn't's and tobacco +on that front wheel.) "Boys was all under. Big load of rock was +comin' up. I waz man at the hoist, man on the easy job that day. +Wall--wad y' believe it, the damn thing bruk--bruk plum whoop an' +started spinnin' round back side first with the load o' rock an' the +boys under comin' up the ladder. I yelled for a kid we had workin' +round to get me a jack wrench, a hand spike, Hell, any ol' thing to +stop her kitin' that load o' rock down on the boys! Kid stood gopin' +there an' sayin' 'What d'y' say?' Say,--damn't--an' that load o' rock +goin' plumb down on the boys, heavy enough to smash 'em to pulp. There +weren't nothin' handy near 'cept me, so I jumped this here arm that you +find missin' right into the wheel! It stopped her all right, the load +didn't fall on the boys; and they got up all right by the ladder; +but--say, mebbe the cogs o' that damn wheel didn't do a thing to my +arm. Say--the doctor didn't need to amputate it. That winch did him +out o' his job." + +"You mean," said Eleanor, slowing the grays to a reluctant walk down +grade, while the driver clamped the front wheel brake with his foot, +"you mean because there was no crowbar, or anything to stop the hoist +flying backwards and killing the men under the load of rock, you mean +because there was no crowbar, you jumped into the wheel, yourself?" + +"Sure," said the man astonished at her question; and because Eleanor +was a true Westerner and didn't mind the tobacco squids and the +damn't's in the least (where they belonged) she gave that one-armed +driver a look that would have made any man proud: only the one-armed +driver didn't see it. + +"They took up a purse an' wanted to give me a perscription--damn't, but +I told 'em t' turn it in t' the Horspital. Any man w'd a' done same +for a yellow dog. What d'y' want t' give a fellow a medal for not +bein' stinkin' coward?" + + +Eleanor laughed. It was a happy silver laugh like the light on the +Ridge cataracts. Somehow, the one-armed stage driver with his +unconscious heroism and equally unconscious profanity gave her a sense +of the big wholesome unconscious outdoor world, just as the lavender +silks and undertaker's plumes and tallow smile inside smothered her +with a drugged sense of heavy unwholesome musk. The one-time miner did +not know it; but what Eleanor was saying to herself was--"So much bad +in the best of us and so much good in the worst of us." Then she +thought of the Senator and his genial smile and his voice soft as a +woman's, and his love of flowers. He, too, must have his vein of +heroism, if one could only find it. She thought and thought as the +tandem grays arched their necks at the sound of the tramway bells in +the nearing city; thought and thought, vague wordless thoughts full of +hope; vague womanish thoughts that women have thought since time began +of finding that magic vein of heroism in the Man that is to transmute +slag into gold, hog into human, and greed into generosity, and lust +into love; thought and thought the gentle womanish hoping-against-hope +thoughts that women have worn out their lives thinking and enslaved +their bodies and pawned their souls. If only one could find _that_ +vein in the Senator, the battle would be won without the letting of +blood and smashing of reputations; as if peace without victory were +ever worth while since time began. + +Then, the stage was rattling over the pressed brick pavement of Smelter +City; and the tandem grays were pretending to shy at the electric cars; +and the one-armed driver came near expectorating his entire internal +anatomy out of sheer joy and pride in the arched necks and the frail +driver with the black curls under the broad brimmed English sailor hat +handling the reins. She had pulled off her heavy buckskin gloves; and +she never knew how absurdly like matches her fingers looked to the big +one-time miner beside her; nor how the exhilaration brought the tints +of the painters' flower to her cheeks and the light of the Alpine pools +to her eyes. Every man on the street turned and looked back, while the +gold teeth inside blinked with self conscious certainty that _they_ did +it; and the lavender silks wore a peculiarly cynical smile. Loafers +sat up and followed the stage with eager eyes far as they could see it +and said, "By Gawd--whose gurl is that?" Oh, Mr. Bat Brydges intended +every bar room buffer and loafer in the State should know, 'whose girl' +that was before night. Everything was fair in love and war; and Bat +considered he had run down a case of both. According to his lights, he +had; but his lights were smutty and in need of trimming. + +The stage dropped the gold teeth at a dentist's office, and the +lavender silks at a manicure's 'studio,' I believe she called it; and +Bat swung off while the coach was still moving; and Eleanor reluctantly +gave up the reins at the transcontinental station. + +"Thank you so much. I don't know when I have had as good a time," she +said, giving the stage driver the sensation of a king in disguise. + +And, of course, the transcontinental was late. When was it not late, +when you were in a hurry? + +"How late?" + +"Four hours, last report," the operator answered. + +She sent her suit case across to the hotel, and shopped, and loitered +up and down the platform. It was not until afterwards she remembered +one of the loafer brigade dangling legs from the station platform +looking over his shoulder with an evil smile. + +"Say--d' y' see the evening paper?" he had asked. "That's her;" and +there was a laugh that somehow sent her back inside the station feeling +vaguely uneasy. + +"I think I'll telephone them up at the Ranch not to keep dinner +waiting," she said to the operator. + +He was reading the paper. He looked at her a moment before answering. +If a human face could have been expressed in a punctuation mark, that +agent's face should have been drawn in a big question mark, with the +eyes put somewhere in the hook, and the neck growing longer and longer +as he looked. + +"Public telephone right across the road," he said. + +In avoidance of the loafers' looks, she had walked unheeding straight +into the Senator's office. Her first instinct was to withdraw. Then, +she saw Brydges; and that curious sensation of repulsion obsessed her. +She literally shot the handy man in full retreat with one glance. +Then, the joy of the ride down, the heroism of the driver, came back. +Perhaps it was the jar of roses, but the thought came what if _she_ +could find that vein of heroism in the Senator. When women risk their +souls on that "if" and the souls of friends and children; is it vanity, +I wonder, or is it the will o' the wisp light that lights erring feet +to darkness? + +She thought more highly of the Senator that he did not offer to shake +hands, just as most of us would think more highly of Judas Iscariot if +he had not kissed Christ. Being a Westerner, she had the Westerner's +horror of a maverick sporting the brand of a thoroughbred. The Senator +took off his glasses and sat tapping them above the U. S. Geological +Survey map. + +"I trust," he began, "that my man expressed to you my deep regret--my +deep distress over--" + +"Don't . . . please, don't," interrupted Eleanor, with a passionate +break in her voice. "I know you are honest, Senator Moyese, honest to +what you believe is right; and I don't want you to feel that you have +to lie because I am a woman." + +The Senator opened his mouth, took a breath, and shut it again. + +She understood him well enough to know that if he had to toy with his +glasses for a twelve month, he would wait for her to play down first. +Yet she recognized the instinct of his manhood to rescue the confusion +of her embarrassment when he put forward his hand casually and +said--"See my roses, Miss Eleanor? They are a new variety of American +Beauties. See, each petal has a white veining? Know how those roses +are produced? Ages and ages of poor trash worthless common roses have +been sacrificed to produce this perfect type." + +"That's your theory of life, isn't it?" she asked, vaguely conscious +that the dragon was disarming her anger. + +"Isn't it nature's?" asked Moyese gently. "The fit survive because +they are fit; the exceptional; the few; while the worthless go to +waste?" + +Before Eleanor realized, she had lost all consciousness of self and was +pleading passionately leaning forward across the desk. + +"Isn't Christ's theory better, Senator, to make all the unfit into fit? +Isn't Christ's theory the theory of science? Science aims to make a +whole field of perfect corn; not just one perfect cob. I know that; +for I read it in your speech at the opening of the Agricultural +College. If we keep on sacrificing the interests of the many to the +interests of the few, aren't we working back to savagery, Senator?" + +The Senator drew the finest of the roses from the jar. "It's a matter +of taste, perhaps, Miss Eleanor; but I prefer this to a whole jarful of +scrubs." + +"Then you are not working for democracy. It's just as Mrs. Williams +says, all you foreign multimillionaires are subverting our Nation by +working for old fashioned despotism in disguise; sacrificing the many +to the few." + +"Oh, does Mrs. Williams say that?" asked Moyese reflectively, pushing +back from the desk and clasping his hands round one knee. "That may +be; republicanism doesn't necessarily mean letting the blockheads rule! +It may mean giving equal opportunity for the fit men to come to the top +and rule. Did you come in to talk over these things with me, Miss +Eleanor? I must make a convert of you; it would win over Wayland and +Williams and your father." + +"No, I didn't. I came in here by mistake. The operator told me I'd +find a public telephone across the road; and I wasn't noticing where I +was going, and I came in here; but all the way down, I had been +thinking of you, Senator Moyese. I kept thinking if you could only be +made to see the New Day that is dawning, perhaps you would meet it half +way. I rode in the driver's seat coming down; and he told me how he +lost his arm; Senator, think of the hero in him?" + +"And you thought there might be some of the hero in me, too?" Moyese +laughed, the noiseless genial laugh creasing his chin and his white +vest. + +"While you laugh, you are letting your rose wither." + +He handed the rose to her. "Yes, I know that fellow. I was in the +Kootenay when he lost his arm, torn out all bloody right from the +shoulder socket; had to pry the cogs up to get him out. They collected +a purse of a thousand for him; but he wouldn't take a cent: handed it +over to the hospital. Something in that fellow bigger than self kind +of popped out and surprised himself." + +She noticed him looking at the wall clock as he talked, but not being a +business woman did not know what that meant. + +"There's something bigger than self with us all, Senator; and we have +to work for it." + +"My dear child, do you think you need to tell an old stager that?" He +was kicking the creases out of his trousers. This time, she could not +mistake the signal, and felt her womanish idealism of mining for the +hidden vein of heroism both childish and cheapening. She rose and +placed the flower back on the desk. + +"There's something bigger than you or me, my dear," he went on, +"something for which every man worth his salt must work and fight, and +which a woman does not understand." + +"And that is?" + +"His party," said Moyese. + +"But Senator, there is something bigger than party, and if a man works +against That, he'll injure his party." + +"And that is?" + +"His Nation," said the girl. + +Moyese gave her a quick sharp look that was not unkindly. In fact, +Eleanor could read that it was lonely, irritated, isolated. + +"My dear," he said, coming round where she stood, "we differ on +fundamentals. The whole nation to-day is divided on fundamentals. I'm +no mealy mouth to curse plutocracy in order to please the mob. +Plutocracy fills the workman's dinner pail and keeps the mills going +and opens the mines and builds the railroads. Mobocracy, your grubby +corn cob and trashy roses, that, what does it do? Mouthe and mouthe +and try to pull down what is above it! It will have to be fought out! +No? It will not be another French Revolution! _Our bullets are +ballots, nowadays_; and the American people get exactly the form of +Government which they want. If they want another form, it remains with +them to fight for it. The umpire of all is fact--Miss Eleanor; and the +facts of each side will have to be fought out; the better man will win; +be sure of that! _The facts that are facts not fictions will win, with +ballots for bullets_. For my part, I'll not dodge the issue; and I +hope you'll not think me any the less of the hero for that?" + +He had extended his hand as he talked, and to her surprise, she found +herself taking it when with a wave of revulsion, the memory of the +Ridge and the Rim Rocks came back. + +"And government is a mere game of politics?" she said. "And politics +resolves itself into brute force; and a murder more or less doesn't +matter? Fordie, I suppose, would be classed as one of the scrubs +sacrificed for this perfection of party?" + +His hand dropped hers as if she had struck him. + +"You did not know that you were overheard? 'See that no harm comes to +the boy.' You did not mean Fordie to be murdered; but they were to +crowd the sheep over 'to beat Hell,' 'the sheep were to go it +blind'--my father's and Mr. Williams' property was to be sacrificed to +build up the fortune of the cattle barons: they too, I suppose, are +scrubs sacrificed among the many for the wealth of the one, who happens +to be yourself. You broke the law; but because you did not order +Fordie's murder, you think the blood guiltiness from that broken law +does not rest upon you. You say it must all be fought out. You force +the fight--" + +He raised his hand to stop her. She remembered afterwards how ashy +white and aged his face became. He walked to the door and opened it. +She passed out. So that was to what her womanish mining for the vein +of the ideal heroism had led. She had been politely shown out. It was +as Wayland had said: there was no middle course; and it was also as the +Senator had said, it must be fought out, and the bullets were to be +ballots. + +The Senator slammed his door shut and snapped the yale lock. Then he +noticed the rose she had left, and tossed it in the spittoon. + +"Thank God," he ejaculated fervently as he sank back in the swing +chair, "_Thank God women are not in politics. There is always +something to be thankful for_." + +Then, an idea seemed to strike him. He rang the telephone with fury, +and it didn't improve his temper to hear the saucy little central +informing her elbow mate that "that ol' fellah wuz burnin' the wire up +alive." + +"Is that 'The Herald'? Brydges there? That you, Brydges? Listen, the +night you were up on the Ridge, have you any perfect proof that Wayland +didn't go down when you were asleep? Eh? You turned in at ten; and +you found him still stamping about at twelve? Is that it? What? No? +Don't be a damphool, _cut that out_. Of course, he didn't go down to +the Ranch House. Cut that whole scandal thing out. There's nothing in +it; but I think we can locate our missing knight errant. Understand? +He's got to be smashed? What? _You had printed the scandal story +before you ever came in to me at all_? Dictated it right in to the +typo machines? In the 'Independent'? Oh, well, I'm glad it didn't go +in the 'City Herald'? But it did go in; one evening paper?" Then the +wrath of the strong man broke bounds. If he had been a stage villain +the curtain drop would have fallen on a red faced gentleman pounding +the desk, tearing at the telephone, hurling his chair about the office +and generally, as the saucy little central remarked, "eating the wire +up alive." + + +When Brydges' chief indulged in explosives that necessitated the repair +of furniture the next day, the handy man always stood strictly and +silently at attention. He knew the meaning of the stage thunder: it +was the trick of the Indian medicine man, who fires guns to bring down +rain. Bat knew that the fulminations were of a piece with all the +other orders to do and not to do, an effort to get results while +diverting the thunderbolt from the rain maker's head; for by one of +those strange contingencies that Shakespeare defines as an opportunity +of evil, when the handy man had gone to the 'Herald,' the news editor +chanced to be out. Bat crossed to the 'Independent's' office. It +lacked but half an hour of the time to lock up the press, and on +condition that the story should be "a scoop," Bat was sent out to the +composing room to dictate straight to the printer, standing over the +linotype machine. + +What was "the story" that he dictated? If you know where to look, you +can see its prototype seven times a week. It was written jocularly; +oh, it was exceedingly funny with all sorts of veiled references to +naughtiness that couldn't be printed, pretty naughtiness, you +understand, the kind you wink at, as was to be expected from a little +beauty, a brunette, chic, etc. (I forget how many French words Bat +tucked in: he had to look 'em up in the French-English appendix to +Webster's Dictionary as the proof came off the galley), the well known +daughter of the richest sheep rancher in the Valley. "The story" was +headed: "Pretty Scandal in Peaceful Valley." Bat played "the human +interest" feature for all it was worth; also the trick of suspended +interest. It began by informing the public that a pretty scandal was +disturbing a certain Valley not a hundred miles from the Rim Rocks, the +essential details of which could not be given, would probably _never_ +be printed, for obvious reasons. Then followed a solid paragraph of +nonsense verse inserted as prose; about a Ranger-man, Ranger-man, +running away, 'Cause pa-pah, dear pa-pah comes home for to-day; But his +Lincoln green coatie the Ranger forgot; And pa-pah, dear pa-pah came +home raging hot; The Ranger-man, Ranger-man was still on the run, For +pa-pah, dear pa-pah was out with a gun, He'd heaved up his war club and +jangled his spear, And swore by my halidom what doth that coat here, +etc., etc. Any school boy could have trolled off yards of the same +drivelling cleverness; and Eleanor's innocent telephone call was, of +course, lugged in. + +There followed a garbled account of poor Calamity's errant days among +the miners of the Black Hills. The account had no reference to her +heroism in the early mining days, when she roved in man's attire over +the hills to rescue wounded miners from the Sioux. It set forth only +her blazoning sins; evidently on the assumption that carrion is +preferable to meat. And then tucked ingeniously into this account was +veiled mention of a rich sheepman, too well known to need naming, who +was evidently making reparation for the errors of his youth by +according to the mother as good treatment as the daughter under the +same roof. Not a name was mentioned except Calamity's. I trust it is +obvious to you that it was not libelous, because it was without malice. +In fact, if you want to know the ear marks of a handy man's "story," +look out for the smart gentlemen in veiled references without any facts +which can be transfixed by either a pin or a handspike. When you find +the innuendo without the handhold of fact, lick your lips if you are +keen on carrion; for I promise that you have come on a morsel. + +Bat did even better than the clever story dictated straight to the typo +in the composing room. Always in the West, there flit in and out what +we Westerners used to call "floaters," gentlemen (and ladies) who come +in on a pullman car and go out on a pullman car and sometimes venture +as far away from safety as a hotel rotunda, then syndicate their +impressions of the West, in the East, and gravely correct twenty year +Westerners with twenty minute impressions. I don't believe on the +whole, as Westerners, we like them very much; but obviously, one +doesn't kill a mosquito with a hammer. + +Bat caught such a floater on the delayed transcontinental express. He +was seeing the West through a car window. The East will not see the +jocularity of that fact. The West will, though it may smile with a +twist. Bat's floater was working for a Chicago boomster, who had +issued a magazine to boom Western real estate, suburban lots seven +miles from a flat car, which was all there was of the city. For +exactly fifteen dollars (when the floater's impressions came out, I +made exact inquiries as to what Bat had paid him; and it seemed to me +that floater sold himself very cheap) the travelling impressionist took +over Bat's story of "the Pretty Scandal in Peaceful Valley" and +rehashed it with the name MacDonald given as Macdonel, and syndicated +the scandal against the Forest Service throughout the East. + + +The transcontinental express had made up lost time and came roaring in +just as the stage rattled up to the platform. MacDonald and Williams +stepped off the observation car. Eleanor shook hands. + +"You know about the sheep?" she asked. + +"Yes, we have your letter," answered MacDonald. "That's why we stayed +so long buying grazing ground in the Upper Pass." + +"Here, boy." He bought an evening paper; and helped Eleanor inside the +stage. Then he mounted to the top with Williams. There were only +three other occupants in the stage, the lady of the lavender silks, the +gold teeth, and a workman, sodden drunk and drowsy, in the upper +corner. The lady of the lavender silks had a complexion that looked as +if it had been dipped in a fountain of perennial youth. She was +leaning over the evening paper which the undertaker plumes had +evidently shown her. The heat had not improved Eleanor's stiff linen +collar and the dust had certainly not added to the style of her kakhi +motor coat. It was not until afterwards she remembered how both the +heads flew apart from the evening paper the moment she entered the +stage. + +"Have you had a pleasant day shopping, my dear?" It was the lavender +silk with the hard mouth actually breaking in a smile. It was the "my +dear" that struck Eleanor's ear as odd. The manner said plainly as +words could say "You weren't before; but you _are_ now." + +"Oh, it was rather hot," answered Eleanor quietly. + +"Y're on the wrong soide. Y're in the sun. If y'll sit over b'side +off me, my dear gurl--" + +Eleanor nearly exploded. 'Girl' was the limit: 'lady' would have been +worse; 'woman' was good enough for her; but, 'gurl.' It was the +manner, the proprietary manner, you are one of us _now_: what had +happened? She did not answer. She raised her eye lashes and looked +the speaker over from the undertaker's plumes and the gold teeth and +the ash colored V of skin to the clock-work stockings and high heeled +slippers. Then, the stage was stopping violently and her father +appeared on the rear steps at the door. She had never seen him look +so. His eyes were blazing. It was not until afterwards she remembered +how the lavender silks had crushed the evening paper all up and sat +upon it. + +"There is a little girl up on the seat with the driver. You'll find it +pleasanter there going up the Valley." + +She remembered afterwards, while her father gave her a hand up the +front wheel, a voice inside the stage exclaimed: "Say, thought they wuz +goin' to be fireworks. If Dan'd read that in th' paper 'bout me, he'd +a gone on awful." + +"Oh, no, he's a thoroughbred all right, if it is part Indian." + +Then her father and Williams had gone down inside the stage; and she +was left with the driver and a diminutive little bit of humanity, that +looked as if it had escaped from one of the rag shops of Shanty Town. +She wore a tawdry thing on her head with bright carmine ostrich plumes +that had lost their curl in the rain. A red plush cape was round her +shoulders; and Eleanor could hardly believe her eyes--she had not seen +them since she went through the East End of London--they were copper +toed boots. + +"M' name is Meestress Leezie O'Finnigan. What's y'rs?" demanded the +little old face. + +Eleanor didn't answer. She was trying to think what had changed the +driver's friendly manner. He had neither greeted her nor proffered the +reins. And now, oh, philosopher of the human heart, for each of us is +a philosopher inside, answer me: why did the driver, who was a bit of a +hero, and the lavender silk, who was an adventuress, and the gold +teeth, who was a slattern, neither pure nor simple, why did each and +all eagerly believe the evil, so vague it had not been stated, written +by an unknown blackmailer, in the face of the reputation of purity +sitting beside them? + +"M' father uz down inside," continued the child. "He's sleep. We're +goin' t' live on th' Ridge. D' y' know what a Ridge iz? We're goin' +t' be waal-thy--m' father says so. He says we won't have a thing t' do +but sit toight an' whuttle un' sput, un' whuttle un' sput fur three +years, then the com'ny wull huv t' pay us what he asks. He says they +think they'll pay him off fur three hun'red; but he says he _knows_, he +does; un' he's goin' t' hold 'em up fur half. Unless they give him +half he'll tell--" + +"What?" asked Eleanor, suddenly wakening up to the meaning of the +chatter. "What is your father?" + +"He's trunk jes' now," said the child. Then she reached her face up to +Eleanor's confidentially. The little teeth were very unclean and the +breath was very garlicky, indeed. "He's goin' t' be a dummy," she +whispered with a gurgle of childish glee, "un' he says he'll easily +hold 'em up for twenty thousand without doin' a thing fur five years +but whuttle un' sput." + +"A dummy? Oh," said Eleanor. + +Even the driver relaxed enough to flick the tandem grays with his whip +and permit a twisted smile to play round the tobacco wad in his cheek. + + +They ate their late supper in the Ranch House by lamp light, her father +scarcely uttering a word, the evening paper still sticking out of his +coat pocket. + +"I know this sheep affair has been a horrible, hideous loss," she said. +"Is that what's worrying you, father?" + +MacDonald shoved back from the table. + +"Pah, that's nothing," he said. + +He stood waiting till the German cook had removed the dishes. Then he +drew the paper from his pocket. + +"There's something here I'm sorry you'll have to know," he said. "You +won't understand how low the meaning of most of it is; but I'm sorry +they hit you to try and hurt me." + +He threw himself down in a big leather chair. She took the paper +mechanically and sat on the arm of the chair to read. She read slowly +and deliberately to the end. Then she re-read both columns; and the +paper fell from her hands. She did not know it, but the same +suppressed fury was blazing in her face as she had seen on his at the +stage door. + +"So that is what was doing when I went to the Senator's office this +afternoon to plead with him that things could not go on in the old +plundering way. That is what his man's visit meant here the other day +to express sympathy with you for the loss of the sheep? Now I +understand what the loafers at the station meant, and the driver's +unfriendliness, and those unclean women; and to think they framed it +all out of that innocent coat. You know, father, Mr. Wayland had +carried Fordie down from the Rim Rocks. We carried the body in +together." + +"Where is Wayland?" asked MacDonald; and she poured out the full story +of all that had happened. I hope, gentle reader, you will please to +observe that if the father had viewed the facts of that recital through +the same tainted mind as Mr. Bat Brydges, a breach would have occurred +that neither time nor regret could have bridged. I confess when I see +breaches occur that wrench lives and break hearts through love +harboring suspicion, I don't think the love is very much worth the +name. You can't both have your plant grow, and keep tearing up the +roots to see if they are growing. You can't both throw mud in a spring +and drink out of a well of love undefiled. If love grows by what it +feeds on, so does suspicion. He did not once look up questioningly to +her eyes. Instead, he reached up and took hold of her hand. For the +first time in their lives, father and daughter came together. + +"But there is one thing you are mistaken about, father. They did not +hit me, to hurt you. They hit me, to stop Dick Wayland." + +"Why, what difference can you make to Wayland?" + +She hid her face on his shoulder. + +"I love him," she said. + + +When the German cook came in with the washed dishes, father and +daughter still sat in the big arm chair; and you may depend on it, that +flunky carried out to the ranch hands, guzzling over the evening paper +in the bunk house, a proper report of a heart broken father and a +repentant daughter; for when we look out on the world, do we see the +world at all; or do we see the shadows of our own inner souls cast out +on the passing things of life? + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +A FAITH WORKABLE FOR MEN ON THE JOB + +"The point is," said Wayland, "though, we have driven out this nest of +beauties, we have no guarantee another nest won't take their place; and +so we're not much farther ahead than before, with the chances I'll be +called down for exceeding my duties." + +"And y'll keep on bein' where y' were before till y' get the Man Higher +Up," interrupted Matthews. + +They had camped among the red firs where the Desert crossed the State +Line and merged from cut rocks to broken timber. It was seven weeks +since they had set out from the Upper Mesas of the Rim Rocks, four +weeks since they had left the saline pool. Man and beast, fagged to +the point of utter exhaustion, retraced steps slower than fresh hunters +on an untried trail. Also, going down, they had followed hard wherever +fugitives led. Coming back, they struck across to the Western Desert +road, and travelled from belt to belt of the irrigation farms, with +their orange-green cottonwood groves and bluish-green alfalfa fields +and little match box houses stuck out of sight among peach orchards. +The parched-earth, burnt-oil smell gave place to the minty odor of hay +in wind rows, with the cool water tang of the big irrigation ditch +flowing liquid gold in the yellow August light. One evening, Matthews +looked back to the looming heat waving and writhing above the orange +sands beneath a sky of lilac and topaz round a sunset flowing from a +dull red ball of fire. Far ahead, the edges of forested mountain cut +the heat haze with opal winged light above what might have been peaks +or clouds. + +"'Tis beautiful, Wayland, y'r lone Desert world; but man alive, it's +sad! Y' call some the Painted Desert, don't ye? 'Tis like a painted +woman, Wayland, vera beautiful, vera fair to look on an' allurin', but +a' out o' perspective; an' Wayland, the painted woman is always a bit +lonely in the bottom o' her soul spite o' harsh laugh. So is the +Desert wi' its harsh silence. Those as like to be shrivelled up wi' +thirst, may have it! A'm a plain man!" + +Then one morning, the opal swimming above the smoke haze of the North +shone,--was it the shape of a cross? + +"Wayland, man, look!" + +The old frontiersman had taken off his hat. + +"Man alive, open y'r throat an' let out a yell." + +"I'm too busy drinking in the air," answered Wayland. + +And they both laughed. The mule and the broncho stood pointing their +ears forward. Wayland's mare, which he had bought at one of the +irrigation farms, lifted up her neck and whinnied. It was at that +irrigation farm operated by a retired newspaper man from Chicago--they +had got a reading of the first newspaper seen since leaving the Valley +and learned that the bodies of the two remaining fugitive outlaws had +been found by the railway navvies. Wayland thoughtfully removed his +Forest Service medallion. Men do not question each other over much in +the West. They had passed on unquestioning and unquestioned, Wayland a +disguised figure in his new ready-to-wear kakhi, not a sign of the +Forest Service about them, but the green felt hat still worn by the old +preacher, and the hatchets fastened to the saddles. + +"How many Holy Cross Mountains have y' in the West, Wayland?" + +"Three that I know of." + +"That's ours, isn't it?" + +"Yes, it's ours: the old priests and explorers scattered the name round +pretty thick in the old days." + +"How far do you make it?" + +"About a hundred miles, perhaps more!" + +"Been a pilot to the priests and explorers for centuries?" + +"I guess so, sir." + +"Wayland, may it be so t' th' Nation, now! Y've got a wilderness an' a +Red Sea an' a Dead Sea an' a devilish dirty lot o' travellin' to do on +th' way t' y'r promised land; an' A'm thinkin', man, y've wasted a lot +o' time on the trail worshippin' th' calf; an' God knows who is y'r +Moses." + + +They camped that night among the evergreens with red fir branches for +beds, the first beds they had known for seven weeks, with the needled +end pointing in and the branch end out, "unless y' want t' sleep on +stumps," the old preacher had admonished the bed maker. And during the +night, the wind sprang up shaking all the pixie tambourines in the +pines and the hemlocks, and setting the poplars and cottonwoods +clapping their hands. A spurt of moisture hit the old man's face. + +"Man alive, but is that rain?" he asked. Wayland laughed. "Only a +drop from a broken pine needle; but rain would taste good, wouldn't it?" + +"D' y' smell it? Smell hard! It's like cloves." + +Wayland laughed. He had had all these sensations of coming back from +South to North before. + +The next night, they camped beside a chorus of waterfalls, joyous, +gurgling, laughing silver water, not the sullen silent blood red +streams of the Desert that flow without a sound but the plunk of the +soft bank corroding and falling in. They could not talk. They lay in +quiet, listening to the tinkle and trill and treble of the silver flow +over the stones; to the little waves lipping and lisping and lapping +through the grasses; and when the moon came up, every rill showed a +silver light. Wayland was thinking,--need I tell what he was thinking? +Was he thinking at all; or was he drinking, drinking, drinking life +from a fountain of memory immanent as present consciousness? He tossed +restlessly. He sat up with his face in his hands. When he turned, the +old man had risen and was stripping. + +"A'm goin' t' find a pool an' go in, Wayland. Dry farmin' may be good +for crops; but this dry bath business o' y'r Desert,--'tis not for a +North man. Better come along! If A can find it to my neck, y'll need +a cant hook to get me out 'fore daylight!" + + +They had come back from their plunge and were spreading the slickers +above the fir branches for bed, when Matthews began to talk in a low +dreamy voice, more as a man thinking out loud than one uttering a +confessional. It was the first word of religion the Ranger had heard +him utter. Wayland had really come to wonder when the old preacher +prayed. When he came to know him better, he realized that a good man +may pray standing on his feet, or striding to duty, readily as on prone +knees. + +"'Tis like the water o' life, Wayland! Men laugh at that phrase +to-day! Oh, A know vera well, we've no time for an old or a new +dispensation nowdays. We're too busy wi' the golden calf, an' the +painted woman, an' th' market place, an' th' den o' thieves; an' when +th' vision faileth, the people perish! 'Ye shall have a just balance +an' a just ephah'; 'an' take away y'r offerings an' y'r burnt offerings +an y'r gifts, saith the Lord of Hosts.' Ram _that_ down the throat of +y'r church-buildin' thieves, an' y'r bribe-givin' pirates, who steal a +billion out o' th' Nation's pocket, then take out an insurance policy +against a Hell, they're no so sure doesn't exist, by givin' back a +million t' th' people they've plundered! Tell me y'r old +dispensation's past? A could preach a sermon from th' oldest book in +the Bible w'ud burn up Fifth Avenue an' have y'r churches sendin' in a +call for the p'lice t' cart me away t' a lunatic asylum! Ah, yes, A +know they'll tell y' A'm not learned an' don't know Hebrew! No; but A +know th' language o' th' man on the street; an A know life; an' A know +God; an' A know how to putt righteousness in the end o' my doubled +fist; which is what th' world is wantin'. Y'r learned men, what are +they do in' for th' man on the street? 'Darkening counsel without +knowledge,' while the people go gropin' in the dark for light. + +"Y' wonder how a man, who was a whiskey smuggler an' a gambler an' a +contractor, who could skin the Devil, comes to be a preacher, Wayland; +a missionary t' th' Cree?" + +"Yes, I have wondered, sometimes," confessed Wayland. "I could not +just reconcile you with the poverty-stricken, down-in-the-mouth--" + +"Don't say 'poverty-stricken', Wayland! A'm . . . rich. A've _never_ +known want! God has taken care of me since A put it squarely up to +Him! A've my wife! A've my children! A've my ranch; an' my ranch +pays for the school! A've never known want! Why, man, thirty dollars +a year is more than A need for m' clothes! A'm rich! What wud A be +doin' goin' among a lot o' kiddie boys t' study Hebrew when A know the +language o' the man on the street; an' A know God? 'Twas the bishop's +idea t' have me come t' College at forty years o' age an' potter t' +A-B-C an' white collar an' clerics buttoned up the back an' a' the +rest." The old frontiersman laughed. "Poh! What for wud A waste m' +years doin' that? A'd wasted forty servin' the Devil. A'd no more +years t' waste. A must be up, up, up an' doin', Wayland, the way y'r +up an' doin', for the Nation. A'd earned m' livin' when A served th' +Devil! A would earn m' livin' when A served God; an' as A spoke th' +Cree, A tackled them first; an' now we're buildin' our hospital. + +"How did it happen, y' ask?" The old frontiersman sat down on a log. +"God knows! A don't! A can no more tell y', Wayland, what happened t' +me, than y' cud tell a man what comin' off th' Desert an' bathin' in a +cool mountain stream was like; no more than y' cud tell what happened +t' y', when y' first looked in her eyes an' read, love! God, man, it +_was_ love! That's what happened t' me! A all of a sudden got t' see +what life meant when ye bathed in love. God looked into m' eyes, +Wayland, that was it! An' all th' dirt o' me shrivelled up an' th' mud +in m' manhood, way yours did when y' looked in her eyes! A needed +washin', Wayland, that was it, an' then A saw Him on the Cross as y' +see _that_--yon Cross there in the sky. 'Sense o' sin!' Man alive, +A'd never heard them words till that night." + +"What night?" asked Wayland, quietly. + +"Oh, 'twas a hot night, Wayland, my boy; an' hot for more reasons than +one. Th' tin horns an' the plugs an' the toots had come up t' our +construction camp, an' of a Monday mornin' after Sunday's spree, y' cud +count fifty dead navvies, Chinks an' Japs an' dagoes, washed down th' +river after gamblers' fights an' chucked up in the sands o' Kickin' +Horse! Well, a lot o' big fellows o' th' railway company had come +thro' that day on the first train. There was Strathcona, who was plain +Donald Smith in them days, an' Van Horn, who was manager, an' Ross, who +was contractor! A'd been workin' m' crews on the high span bridge, +there,--y' don't know,--well no matter, 'tis the highest in the Rockies +an' dangerous from a curve! A didn't want that train load o' directors +to risk crossin': wasn't safe! M' crew hadn't one main girder placed; +but Ross was a headstrong dour man; an' Smith--Smith wud a' sent a +train thro' Hell in them days to prove that railway could be built. +Full lickety smash their train came onto that bridge o' mine off the +sharp curve: the dagoes went yellow as cheese wi' fear, th' Chinks +chattered in their jaws, an' the Japs: well the Japs hung on to the +girder an' the cranes. A saw th' bridge heave an' swerve, an' th' +girder went smashin' to th' bottom o' yon creek bed so far below y' +could scarcely see the water; Ross was ridin' wi' th' engineer. Ross +kept his head, ordered them to throw throttle open. All that saved +that train load o' directors was th' train got across before th' weight +smashed thro'; way a quick skater can cross thin ice. Man alive, but A +was mad, riskin' m' crew o' two hundred workmen for a train load o' +rash directors! Th' train stopped! A dashed up! Ross opened out, his +throttle was full open: so was mine; an' th' steam an' smoke escapin' +from yon big mogul,--well, Wayland, them was my unregenerate days! A +may as well confess, Wayland, A gave him back all he'd given with +sulphur thrown in extra; till Donald Smith poked his head out o' th' +private car callin', 'Go on, Ross! Go on, what are you delayin' for?' +Well, then, three of us contractors and th' company doctor was summoned +to th' coast next week. We were all so mad at the fool rashness, we +had our resignations in our pockets. They had our pay checks ready; +but when they saw all four of us had our resignations written, well, +everybody took a cool breath; an' A think mebbee th' wise little man o' +that private car sent across something to help us wash away bitter +memories! Anyway, 'twas a hot night, Wayland! Y' couldn't drink one +of the four under th' table; an' we had cashed our checks at the pay +car! A was playin' wi' th' doctor for partner! Mebbee, it was that +little night cap from the private car, mebbee, well, in an hour or two, +three month's wages for four men was in the middle o' that table; an' +mebbee th' loafers in that saloon didn't sit up! Mebbee, somebody from +that private car didn't saunter in t' look us four fools over! Wayland +man, we won it all, th' doctor an' me! Th' other two wanted to play on +their watches, they wud a' pawned th' clothes off their backs; but we +wouldn't let them! We gave 'em back enough to grub stake 'em back to +their job! Then some one says, th' vera words: A can hear them yet, +'Let's go across an' hear those damned evangelists: there's a white +faced whiskers, an' a little clean shaved jumpin' jack skippin' all +over the backs o' the church seats pretendin' he's Henry Ward Beecher +an' sayin' in a fog horn voice, 'I like that.' Let's go an' raise Hell. + +"Wayland, man, we went across! 'Twas all true, there was the white +faced fat man; an' there was the little clean chopped chap jumpin' all +over the backs o' th' seats; an' there was a lot o' snivellin' Saints +in Israel, women that cry an' sissie men that get converted an' +converted at every meetin'! Man, Wayland, A'd like to dump th' job lot +o' such folks out in a cesspool! They do religion more harm than the +Devil! They're about as like what fightin' Christians ought to be as a +spit wad's like a bullet! Well, we went in with a whoop; but God +wasn't out for the sissies that night, Wayland: he was out with a gun +for red blood men! He got us, Wayland! That's all! 'Twasn't the poor +puny preachers, perhaps 'twas th' music: th' fat one cud sing, but when +we came out the doctor was cryin'; poor fellow he killed himself in D. +T.'s later; an' A was all plugged up wi' cold in m' head blowin' m' +nose! 'Boys,' says I, 'here's where I get off. Here's y'r money back. +A've put up a pretty good fight for the Devil so far an' A've earned m' +way! Now, A'm goin' t' fight for God an' earn m' way!' They didn't +want to take the money back. They didn't believe it. A finished my +job on the railroad, then A slummed it in th' cities, this was when the +bishop tried to turn me school boy at forty, an' to dig in y'r +graveyard o' theology; that was before m' brother was bishop and why, A +hiked for Indians, Wayland! A know the Cree tongue, an' A know the +need o' decency in th' tepees, an' A know the trick o' puttin' +Christianity into th' end o' m' fist on white blackguards! An' that's +all." + +"Is that all?" repeated Wayland; and he gave the old frontiersman the +same kind of a look, Matthews had given him that day going up the face +of the Pass precipice. + +"Yes, that's all there was to it; an' A could no more tell y' what +happened, Wayland, than y' could tell a man what happened when y' +jumped in that pool an' got washed clean! Better try it, Wayland!" + +They sat late listening to the gurgle and trill and tinkle of the water +slipping over the stones. Neither man said anything more, nor mouthed, +nor kneeled, nor amened, nor did save as men among men do and say: but +somehow Wayland had never felt so sure of the God, who was Love and +whose Love washed men clean, being, as he told himself, 'on the job.' +It may not have been religion; and it may not have been theology; but I +think it was the workable conviction that many a fighting man +incorporates into his life. Perhaps, it was what Christians call +Belief, only we have so slimed that good word over with hypocrisy that +it's hard for fighting working men among men, women among women, people +on the job, to mine down to the exact business sense of those old +religious terms. 'Slimed with hypocrisy?' Yes, good friends, 'slimed +with hypocrisy.' Have you not known men and women, legions of them, +who shouted their fire-proof Belief, Belief, Belief, their +fire-insurance Belief that was to roof them from rain of fire and act +as an umbrella against the results of their own misdeeds; who +underscored their Bibles, and prayed long and loud, and proclaimed +themselves right, when every day, every act of every day, every +leastermost act of very hour, shouted blasphemous denial of what so +ever is lovely and pure and unselfish and Christlike; whose influence +damned and injured and blighted every life it touched? You must not +blame business men and women for wanting a workable faith, a faith that +will deliver the goods on the job. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +THE HAPPY AND TRIUMPHANT HOME-COMING + +They were up before sunrise following along a rock trail against the +face of a mountain through the morning mists, when they turned a sharp +crag and came suddenly on one of those flower slopes bevelled out of +the forests by snow or ice. The slant sunlight met their faces, and +the mists were lifting in a curtain, with a riffle of wind that ran +through the grasses like the ripple of waves to the touch of unseen +feet. The slope lay literally a field of gold, spikes and umbels of +gold--the gold of yellow midsummer light dyed in the asters and +sunflowers and great flowered gaillardias and golden rod, with an odor +of dried grasses or mint or cloves. + +"By George," cried Wayland, "you'd not believe it! Only seven weeks; +look!" + +Matthews looked but apparently did not see. + +"Don't you see? It's the place where the snow slide slumped down!" + +"But where in the name o' conscience is all yon snow; and where's th' +bodies, Wayland?" + +"Washed down to the bottom of the Lake Behind the Peak by this time; or +you may find a great rock pile at the foot of the slope." + +"A'm thinkin' they'll lie quiet till the crack o' doom, Wayland; but, +but do y' no' see a tent back in yon larches across th' slide, man, +where the thing knocked us both sprawlin'?" + +"By George, yes, I do! Wonder if they're homesteading this next? It's +off the N. F." + +They put their ponies to an easy lope across the slope and came on a +tepee tent with the flap laced tight and no sign of life, but a horse +lazily floundering up beside a large fallen log, an empty whiskey +bottle on the log, and a man's boot leg protruding from beneath the +tent skirt. + +"A'm wonderin' if there's a leg in that boot, Wayland." + +"It's the sheriff's horse," said Wayland. + +"It is, is it? And this is off y'r Forest Range; an' y'r not +responsible for what A may be tempted to do?" + +The old frontiersman literally avalanched off his broncho and made a +dash at the tent flap, frapping it loudly with the flat of his hand. + +"Here you--anybody inside?" + +No response came from the owner of the leg. + +"Here you, waken up." Matthews caught hold of the leg and pulled and +pulled. There was a splutter of snorts, and, 'what in Hell's,' and the +fat girth of an apple-shaped body ripped the tent pegging free and came +out under the tepee skirt followed by another leg, and two oozy hands +flabbily clawing at the grass roots to stop the unusual exit. One hand +held a flat flask and the air became flavored with the second-hand +fumes of a whiskey cask. The sheriff rolled over after the manner of +apple-shaped bodies and sat up on the end of his spine rubbing his +eyes. Then, he recollected the dignity of his office and got groggily +to his feet, steadying himself by clutches at the tent flap. Then, he +emitted a hiccough. "'Scuse m'," he said thickly. "I'm not well, thas +ish not really well! Will one of y' pleash gimme a drink o' water? I +been chasin' those damn-cow-boy-outlawsh seven weeks sclean 'cross +Shate Sline, I'm dead beat out. Thas you, ain't it Wayland? Kindsh o' +you both come after me! Saw y' pash tha' day y' called t' door! Wife +tol' me to hide--not risk m' life, women 're all thas way; skeary; +skeary. Well, I bin out ever shince y' pashed! I nearly got 'em, too! +I caught 'em right in here day after shnow slide had 'em cornered! +Gosh, bullets was pretty thick fur about half-an-hour; bu' I cud'nt +chross Shtate Line." Something in the old frontiersman's widening eyes +and glowering brows stopped the flow of valor; and Sheriff Flood +dragged his exhausted virtue across to the log with some difficulty as +to knees and elbows, got himself turned round and seated. + +"Y' been out huntin' them seven weeks?" + +"Yes, seven weeks!" His articulation had cleared a little. "Please +gimme m' gun, Wayland!" + +"Y' saw them? Y're sure y' saw them?" + +"Saw them?" Sheriff Flood laughed in a thin little squeaking laugh. +"Gosh A'mighty, I--I fought--them single handed for a whole half day; I +think I got one! Least ways, there's a powerful smell som'pin dead +comin' up below the Pass Trail. It's too steep to go down to see. I +wish I knew." + +"Ye wish ye knew? Ye do--do you? 'Tis a wish bone instead of a back +bone the likes of you have; and it was too steep to see?" Matthews +megaphoned a laugh that echoed loud and long and scornful from the +rocks. "I saw a man who was no sheriff climb both up an' down that +place too steep for the likes o' you to see; and he climbed to do more +than see! 'Twas half an hour y' fought them th' first version? Now +'tis raised to half a day. A'm thinkin' y' be applyin' to th' pension +bureau for a hero's triflin' remembrance! Hoh! An' y' saw us pass did +y'? An' y'r frowsy dyed-haired slattern wife told us y' were away? +An' 't will be a week y' fought 'em when y' tell it again; an' y' been +huntin' them seven weeks lyin' sodden drunk in y'r tent wi' a whiskey +keg from th' cellar o' y'r white-vested friend? Hoh?" + +He caught the flabby body by the collar, spinning the dignity of the +law round face down prone upon the log. "A'll not take my fist t' y' +as A wud t' a Man! Ye dastard, drunken, poltroon, coward, whiskey +sodden lout an' scum o' filth, an'," each word was emphasized by the +thud of the empty whiskey bottle wielded as a flail. + +"Look out, sir," warned Wayland, rolling from his horse in laughter, +"you'll hurt something, with that bottle." + +"Hurt something? N' danger on this wad of fat an' laziness an' lies." +(Thud . . . thump . . . and a double tattoo.) He threw the instrument +of castigation aside and spinning the hulk of flesh and sprawling legs +erect, began applying the sole of his boot. "A'll no take m' fist t' +y' as A wud t' a Man! A'll treat y' as A wud a dirty broth of a brat +of a boy with the flat o' my hand an' sole leather; y' scum, y' runt, +y' hoggish swinish whiskey soak o' bacon an' fat! 'Tis th' likes o' +you are the curse o' this country, y' horse-thief sheriff, y' +bribe-takin' blackguard guardian o' justice an' right! y' coward not +doin' th' crime y' self, but shieldin' them that do." + +The sheriff had uttered a splutter of filthy expletives at the first +blow, then a yell; now he was bellowing aloud, chattering with terror, +screaming to be, "let go, let go! I never done you no harm. I'll have +y'r life for this." + +"Y' will, will y'? Did y' ask for a drink? Wayland, wait for m' here!" + +The Ranger saw the white-haired frontiersman seize one sprawling leg +and the shirt front of the struggling limp thing in his hands. He +heard him plunging down through the tangle of windfall and brush. +There was a bellowing howl and a splash; and Wayland being altogether +human flesh and blood doubled up on the ground with laughter. + +"That'll cool him," remarked Matthews coming back very red of face and +sober, "an' it's not deep enough to drown." + +He tore open the tent flap and rolled out a small keg. There was a +sound of dregs still rinsing round inside. They could hear the bellows +from the brook. The majesty of the law had evidently crawled out on +the far side. + +"He's the kind o' brave man will slap children, an' call a boy a calf, +an' bully timid women, an' knock down little Chinks and dagoes! Oh, A +know his kind o' thunder-barrel bravery, that makes the more noise the +emptier and bigger it is--they're thick as louse ticks under the slimy +side of a dirty board in this world, Wayland; an' they're thick in the +girth an' thicker in the skull." Matthews had taken one of the Forest +axes from the saddle. He left the whiskey keg in kindling wood. + +"He's camped dead beat on the State line, all right, Wayland," said the +irate old frontiersman as they mounted their ponies. "He'll have at +least some scars to prove his story, but A'm no thinkin' he'll boast +round showin' them marks o' glory! 'Tis some satisfaction for my +thirst back in the Desert." + +"I thought it was about here, on our way out, that a law-loving Briton, +I know, gave me a sermon about exceeding law, taking the law in our own +hands?" + +"Hoh!" said the old man. + + +And the Sheriff's tent was not the only one seen on the way back to the +Ridge. Where the Pass widened to the Valley above the Sheriff's +homestead, they came on a huge miner's tent boarded half way up as for +winter residence, with eight tow-headed half-clad urchins thumb in +mouth staring out from the open mosquito wire door. There was a smell +of onions and frying pork. + +"What! a homestead, here, Wayland? D' y'r homesteaders farm on th' +perpendicular, or the level; an' what will they grow on these rocks?" + +The Ranger had reined in his pony and was running his glance up the +precipice face for the posts marking the bounds. + +"What do they grow? Water-power, I guess! I'm looking for the lines. +The fellow has his posts in for a wire fence; he couldn't get a hundred +and sixty acres on the level; and the posts run up the face, by George +he's blanketed a cool square mile, mostly on the up and down." + +"Your territory, Wayland?" + +The Ranger had turned looking back up the Pass. + +"The trail marks the lower bounds of the N. F., but this fellow's line +runs clear up above the trail. If you bunch this fellow's claim with +the Sheriff's, they've got forty miles of the Pass corked up: no way to +bring the timber above down but by the River; and they've got the +River; and if possession is nine points in the law, they've got our +Forest road besides. We'll have to give that fellow warning and if he +doesn't move, break his fence down." + +"Gutt dae." A big burly Swede came forward from the miner's tent. + +"Are you one of the new settlers?" asked Wayland. + +"Yaw! A gott pig--varm! Tra--vor--years mak' pig money liffin' y'ere! +Mae voman, Ae send her vork citie; Ae build mae house y're!" + +"All these children yours?" + +"Yaw!" The man smiled bigly, incredulous that any one could doubt. + +"Have you filed for a homestead for each of them?" + +"Yaw!" The man smiled more pleased than ever, indicating the numerous +olive branches by a wave of his hand. "Gott gutt pig varm! Pat, Pat +Prydges . . . he sae he pay mae voman, one-huntred; mae, two huntred; +mae chil'en . . ." he smiled again, bigly and blandly, "mabbee, five, +ten. Yaw--?" + +"One hundred and sixty acres each: twelve hundred acres for the kids, +not one of age, a quarter section to the man!" Then turning back from +Matthews to the foreign settler. + +"You've got a thundering big farm?" + +"Yaw! Ae mak' a pig yob of itt!" + +"By George, I should think you do make a big job of it! This is the +way those two-thousand acres of coal lands were swiped! Are you the +fellow I gave a permit to cut timber up on the Ridge? What did you +change your homestead for?" + +The Swede stood smiling showing all his white teeth and wrinkling his +nose and absorbing the meaning of the Ranger's questions into his skull. + +"Pat did utt," he said. + +"Who? Oh, Bat!" He looked at Matthews. "Do you mind riding back over +the Pass trail; so we can go to the Ridge by the Gully, the way the +outlaws escaped? I want to see where this fellow's upper lines run." + + +They rode back in silence almost all the way, coming up to the top +shoulder of the precipice where the outlaws had come tumbling down on +Matthews' hiding place a few weeks before. Wayland followed the lines +of the newly planted posts, where the wire had not yet been strung. + +"There is not the slightest doubt," he burst out, "this has been done +to force a test case! Well, they'll get it." + +"Wayland, is there no way of letting the public know what is going on? +A bet the people of this State don't know!" + +"It's against the rule to give out information any more," answered +Wayland. + +"Man alive--is this Russia? Y' mind me of Indians in the conjurors' +tent: they tie the medicine man hand and foot and throw him into a +tent; and he's t' make the tent shake. Only the devil-Indians can do +it. They tie y' hand an' foot, then they expect y' to serve the +Nation." + +"No," corrected Wayland, "they tie us hand and foot to keep us _from_ +serving the Nation." + + +And the Swede's tent was not the only one they saw, as the reader well +knows. Coming along the Gully on the Ridge crest, Wayland looked for +the pile of illegally-taken saw logs. They were gone. There was +nothing left but a timber skid, and the dry slash and a pile of saw +dust emitting the odor of imprisoned fragrance in the afternoon heat; +but a few yards back from the pile of saw dust stood a tepee tent with +the flap hooked up; and in the opening, a wide-eyed diminutive child +with a very old face and a very small frame, that looked for all the +world to Wayland like a clothes rack in a pawn shop covered with +colored rags. + +"Waz ye wantin' me faather?" + +As the reader is aware this little person never lacked speech. + +"H's away! H's gone t' th' citie for th' throuble that's comin' on +about th' mine, y' onderstand? He's wan o' th' men t' be on hand if +there's throuble." + +"Are you one of the new settlers'?" + +"Yes, sor! M' name's Meestress Leezie O'Finnigan! We're come upp t' +live three years, mebba four, m' faather says we may fool 'em on less +than five; an' we're goin' to be wal-thy, an' we won't hev' a thing t' +do but sit toight an' whuttle an' sput an'," it was the same story, she +had told Eleanor. + +"What trouble in the mines?" asked Wayland. + +"In the coal mines, sor! There's a gen'leman come from Waashington, +an' soon as the Ranger's been found, there's been goin's on, sor, bad +goin's ons, soon as th' Ranger's back, their expectin' throuble; un' m' +faather's gone down for to be there, he saz." + + +"Well?" said Wayland, as they rode on towards the Cabin. + +"They've been busy, Wayland! They've been busy, man! You're in the +thick of it! More power t' y'r elbow! We've got the first licks in on +th' sheriff's carcass." + +"And six dead men to the good," added Wayland dryly, "only I guess they +don't go into the reports, they are missing!" + +As they approached the Cabin, a young man in gray flannels and sailor +hat sat up in the hammock, looked twice at Wayland, got up and came +forward. + +"Are you Wayland?" he asked, with a contemptuous glance at the Ranger's +disguised suit. + +"That's my name." + +The young fellow handed him a letter stamped from the head department +at Washington. It stated that the bearer was a Federal attorney sent +out to investigate the Smelter City Coal Claims and any other matters +bearing on the contests of the Holy Cross. The letter was +couched--Wayland thought--with peculiar frigidity, as though he and not +the coal claimants were the guilty party to an undecided contest. Then +he glanced back at the bearer: an incredibly young and inexperienced +youth--not more than twenty-two or three, barely out of a law school. + +"Glad to see you, sir," said Wayland, "Been waiting long?" + +The young fellow gave him a side wise look. + +"About a week." + +"I'm sorry to have delayed you; but one of the most important cases we +have ever had called me away. I had intended to go down to Washington +and explain the whole situation." + +The young man smiled very faintly, and was it, contemptuously? "A good +deal needs explaining," he remarked. + +"I hope you made yourself at home in the Cabin?" + +"On the contrary, I'm with Moyese! I have arranged to have the coal +cases examined this week. The claimants declare the coal is not worth +a farthing, and this case is seriously disturbing the title to the land +where the Smelter stands." + +"You're a geologist, of course?" asked Wayland innocently. + +"No, I'm from the law department. We considered this more a case of +legality of title than coal values. The Company has kindly consented +to let us examine the mine this week." + +"Kindly consented? By George, I like that condescending kindness from +pirates and thieves!" + +"But there are two sides to this question, Mr. Ranger: what good does +coal do locked up in the earth? The country wants coal developed." + +"Exactly," answered Wayland, "and not stolen and locked up in a great +trust and rings that jack the prices sky-high! The law was passed to +keep these pirates from stealing coal with dummies, to let the +individual who hadn't money to hire dummies go in and develop. If +you'll walk along the Ridge here, you'll see another of the contested +cases. The forests are open to homesteading wherever the land is +agricultural; but you can hardly call land agricultural that's a sheer +drop of 1,000 feet, though the big trees growing on it would each build +a house of six rooms. If you'll walk along, you'll see where the +'dummy' business has begun the same game as in the Bitter Boot." + +The young bureaucrat turned short on his heel and strolled down the +Ridge Trail, with an air that only a bureaucrat, a very young +bureaucrat, and a very cheap one could possibly wear. + +"Well, A 'm--A 'm d--danged." + +Wayland burst out laughing. + +"Do you suppose that little kindergarten ass thought he had come and +caught me off duty?" + +The old man stood dumfounded. It was such a happy and triumphant +home-coming for a Man on the Job, who had risked his life for seven +successive weeks solely in the cause of Right. Matthews slammed his +hat on the ground, and stamped upon it, and clenched his teeth to keep +in the words that seemed to want to hiss out. + + +"Man alive. A'd like t' spank him!" + +Wayland laughed. + +"I guess he's staying with our white-vested friend," he said, as he +pulled the saddles off the animals and gave them a slap heading down to +the drinking trough; but when he turned, Calamity stood in the door of +the Cabin holding out a letter. He forgot to greet her; for the +handwriting was Eleanor's. He tore the envelope open devouring the +words in his eagerness; then his face clouded. + +"What in thunder does it all mean? Listen. + + +'Dear Dick: I don't know when you will come home, but as soon as you +do, you will learn of something abominable that has been published. +I'm going to send Calamity up with this every day so she will be sure +to catch you first thing.' ("It's dated three weeks ago," interjected +Wayland.) 'They have struck at you through me. Don't mind, Dick. +They did it to make you stop. You will not stop, will you? It didn't +hurt me.' (Oh, brave beautiful liar! Does the Angel Gabriel take note +of such lies by women; and which side of the account does he put them +on?) 'Father says a fact is a hard nut to crack. You're not to take +any notice of this attack on me. You're not to flinch from the fight +for my sake or deflect a hair's breadth on my account. You know what +you said. Things have gone so far that crime is invading decent lives. +Well, it has invaded yours and mine; and you're not to slack one jot. +Dick, I command it. I command it in the name of that seal I gave you.' + +'E. MacD.'" + + +"What in thunder does it all mean?" reiterated Wayland. + +"What seal is that she speaks of? A'm thinkin' if you'll read that +pile of mail in there on the table, you'll find out." + +"Any ansher?" asked Calamity softly, by which, you may guess, dear +reader, that an Indian woman has a heart under her ribs as well as you. + +"Wait," said Wayland. + +He tore a sheet from his field book. This is what he wrote: + + +I shall obey you implicitly, my Alder Liefest. I don't know what it is +yet; but I'll not let it make any difference in the fight no matter +what it is. I have thought of that seal every day and night since I +left you, and all day and all night; and I couldn't have pulled through +this trip if I hadn't had that well of memory to drink from. You saved +my life, tho' you don't know it. Matthews will tell you: and you saved +his too. + +Dick. (nth.) + +P. S. There's a funny little kid up here, been left by her father in +one of the settlers' tents. She's the most pitiable little object I +ever saw. I think her father is a drunken tough from Shanty Town. She +oughtn't to be left up here alone near such a baby-eater as I am. I +wish you'd come up and see about her. If you don't come alone, get +Mrs. Williams, or my friend, Matthews. + + +Calamity went on down the Ridge and Wayland plunged at his mail. On +the very top of the pile lay a newspaper in a folder marked with red +"Important." Before the pole cat begins operations, he chooses his +target. For myself, I think discretion is better than valor in such a +case, and you would do well to retreat and let the little genus +Mephitis Mephitica infect the air for his own benefit; but Wayland did +not know what was coming and tore the paper open and read. Then he +flung it from him and stood looking with blazing eyes at the thing on +the floor. + +"Read it," he said. + +The old frontiersman got his glasses laboriously out of the case and +began to read. The sun was behind the Holy Cross, and he stood in the +door to get the light on the paper. When he had finished and looked +round, he saw Wayland sitting crunched forward with his face in his +hands. + +"Wayland, man," he slapped him twice on the shoulder, "look up, look up +at that picture on the wall above y'r bed." + +Wayland took his hands from his eyes. The Alpine glow struck through +the doorway against the picture on the wall, the picture she had had +Calamity bring down surreptitiously and had sent back framed, the +picture of the face above the Warrior. + +"Man alive, why w'd y' care for the devil's dirt and skunk stench and +snake venom, when y' have, when y' have That? She's a--a trump! She's +a thoroughbred! Man, y'd know she had th' blood o' Scottish kings and +queens in her veins. Y'll no go down to-night, Wayland, when y'r all +undone! 'Twould hurt her. A intended tellin' her to-night why A came; +but A'll not now! A'll not now! She must not run from this scandal. +She must face it down before she goes, but A'll go an' see her father +an' come back an' tell y'. Cheer up man! 'Tis part o'the fight." + +And for the only time in the struggle, Wayland let go; or rather--his +manhood got from under leash. You can be stoical all right when _you_ +get the blow. It's another thing to be stoical when the blow hits what +you love. When the curtain-drop fell on Moyese, it fell on a man +pounding the desk, kicking furniture, eating up the telephone, turning +the air blue. It fell on the Ranger sitting crunched in his chair +gazing through misty eyes at a picture painted by an artist, who was an +idealist. Was he down and out? Was Right the sport of fools? + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +A DOWNY-LIPPED YOUTH IN GRAY FLANNELS + +I suppose it was owing to the fact that she was woman and he was man +that she spent that first night of the home-coming in dumb hurt wonder +that he had not come immediately to her; and that he passed the night +in restless fevered fury, knowing well that you cannot both control +fire and fan it, fuse metals molten and expect them not to forge, keep +a resolution and break it. She had listened eagerly to the old +frontiersman's account of the adventures on the trail, up the Pass +precipice, crossing the snow slide and in the desert, where the Ranger +had refused to save his own life by abandoning his companion; and the +narrative lost nothing in Matthews' recital with his Scottish-Canadian +R's rolling out sonorous and strong, where he was moved to admiration +or anger. The sheep rancher sat silent through the stirring story with +only an occasional glint of fire from his black eyes gazing aimlessly +at the floor. + +"'Cast your bread upon the waters and after many days it shall return +to you again.' 'Minds me of what A saw you do for this woman you call +Calamity, in our old Rebellion Days." + +Eleanor was sitting on the arm of her father's leather chair. The +sheepman glanced up warningly, but Matthews was going ahead full steam. + +"We're both older than we were in those days, MacDonald, older an' +wiser, an' for m'self, A should add, a good bit steadier! You, y' were +always a sober-faced secret lad, MacDonald; an' till yon day in front +o' th' Agency house, A don't think, A hardly think, we men knew what a +devil was in y'! A can see y' yet as y' kicked th' gun out o' yon +blackguard's hand an' let him take the load o' buckshot square between +th' shoulders! 'Twas a handsome thing o' you to take th' poor buddy in +an' give her a shelter! How does she come to call herself Calamity?" + +MacDonald's foot came down on the floor with a clamp, and he rose. +"She didn't. 'Twas the miners in the Black Hills. She used to bring +in so many hard-luck chaps, shot up by the Sioux, bring 'em in on her +shoulders from the hills to the camp, that the boys got to calling her +Calamity. She had lost her good looks, and--" MacDonald shot a glance +of warning in the direction of his daughter--"and the same old story, I +guess; she was off the market! One of my trips to the mining camps up +state, I found her in a mess of rags picking crusts out of the garbage +barrels along a back lane! I brought her back with me. Gave her a +week's soak in the bath house--" he paused as if reflecting, "and that +it seems was foundation enough for the hog-wash that appeared in one of +the papers here. Suppose we take a walk as we discuss old days; they +were pretty wild days for discussion before a girl, who didn't know her +dad before she was born." + +And Eleanor went out on the Ranch House piazza off her room, while the +two frontiersmen strolled down the river. How different her outlook on +life was from two months before when reference to Calamity had called +up mingled fury and horror. Now that she understood, anything in this +Western Country might be possible, and understandable, and explainable. +She had his hurried pencil note where she could feel it, under her +locket; only the locket was outside above; and the fly leaf of that +field book was inside next. "Dick (nth)," he had signed himself; and +he had not come down. She could see the dark shadowy Ridge from her +piazza chair, and hear the subdued laughter and lipping of the waters, +and he was there--not a half hour's walk away--and he had not come. +There was a full moon. She could see its silver sheen on the River, on +the tremulous poplar leaves, sifting through the pine needles and in +opal wings round the far luminous cross of snow on the mountain. The +night hawks and the swallows dipped and darted and cut the air with +humming wings; and once the wire gate squeaked to some one entering. +Eleanor sprang up with her heart beating so that she could not speak; +but it was only a white hatted youth in light gray flannels asking +Calamity at the basement door "when MacDonald would be back." Did +Eleanor imagine it; or did the citified young person in the gray +flannels with the red necktie look up towards her hesitatingly, with +the suggestion of an ingratiating smile in the pale blue eyes, a +suggestion which she could not define but which somehow infuriated her? +Poor pale anaemic youth! He was not used to having his waiting smiles +met by the blaze of red fury that flashed to her eyes. + +"Calamity, if that person wants anything, tell him to go out to the +bunkhouse and see the foreman." + +Then, she sank back in her chair both glad and sorry in one breath that +Wayland had not been there. She shut her eyes to drink again of the +memories that had sustained her all these weeks; and felt the lift and +fall of the note his hand had written, pulsing to the rhythm of her +breathing; but the memories failed her. Memories were for absence; and +he was here; and he had _not_ come. If only he would come now, how she +would greet him, holding him unflinchingly to his resolution, of +course, and of course; but as a kind of second thought in the back of +her head, the under motive beneath all the clamor of light upper notes, +she knew to the inmost core of her being that she was wishing he would +come now because her father was out and she was alone and could greet +him as flesh and spirit, heart and mind, cried out to greet him; to +touch him; to spend themselves upon him in a fierce proud abandon of +love and gladness; to give and take, and give and take again, till, +till--what? Was this the way to keep him standing strong to his +resolutions? + +And shall we blame her? Does the beautiful thing we call life spring +from postulates and rules and mathematics; or from the spirit's altar +fires? And I confess I never see the thing we call vice but I wonder +did it not spring from the burning of the refuse heap, which poor +humans have mistaken for altar fires? + +She heard her father come in late, slamming the mosquito door behind +him, and pass across the dark living room to his own chamber without +saying good night. Once, she thought she saw a white sailor hat +through the cottonwood hovering along the road. Then, as she looked, +the white sailor seemed accompanied by a panama; and she crept into her +room with fevered hands and heavy heart, snacking the mosquito door +behind her. There was the companion bang of a door being hooked below, +old Calamity keeping watch as usual and only turning in, when she heard +Eleanor going to bed. Eleanor waited till all was quiet. Then, she +drew the burlap portiere across the mosquito door, and lighted her +candle, and began writing,--writing what? Was it some dildo of +oriental song she had read in Europe; was it the burden of some Indian +chant stirring vaguely in her unconscious blood; or was it but the +simple love cry of primitive Woman, of that woman who wandered round +about the streets of Jerusalem calling her lover? "My flesh cries out +to touch you, my beloved," she wrote; "my hands are hungry to touch +you, and my spirit is hungrier than my hands. When you were absent, I +drank of memories; but now, you are back, the shadow waters have gone; +I must have the living. If I could see you but once, I know this wild +longing would lie down and be quiet." She stopped writing. Would it? +Would it lie down and be quiet with just a look? A look would be a +deep drink of living waters, she knew that; but would it, would it lie +down and be quiet? She didn't intend ever to stop loving him. As long +as she loved him, and stayed where love could grow by what it fed on, +would it lie quiet? Was this keeping him strong to his resolution? + +She tore the paper to tiny atoms and burned the scraps bit by bit on +her metal paper knife above the candle. Then, she blew out the candle +and drew his soiled field-book leaf from her breast. She fell asleep +with her head on her arm, and her lips pressed to that fool-thing he +had signed at the bottom of his note, "Dick (the nth)," whatever that +meant. + +There was no mistaking it next morning at breakfast. She felt strung +and upset; and her father looked at her strangely; and Matthews was so +keen on covering the general embarrassment that he aimed too far in the +other direction, rattling off such a fusilade of Western stories that +they sounded hollow. She forgot her own confusion studying the two +men. How stooped her father looked! He looked, what was it? Like a +man who has waited a long time for something to come, and when it has +come, found himself too sad to seize it. His eyes looked as if he had +not slept; and Eleanor now observed that the frontiersman's sun-burned +nose had a suspicious shine at the end. If she had not been undone +from her own bad night, she would have helped their efforts to cover +embarrassment; but now a horrible thought came; a thought born of the +low innuendo in the scandal story; and the thought finished her. She +felt her self-control going and rose and fled round the end of the +table to her room. The old frontiersman stopped mid-way in his story +of the brats of Blackfoot boys stealing every stitch of his clothing +one day he was bathing in Lower Saskatchewan. Her father jumped to his +feet and threw out one arm to stop her. That finished Eleanor. He had +never done such a thing before. The only time he had ever shown +affection was that night when she had read the scandal in the paper and +he had reached up his hand and taken hers. Now, he held her in his +arms, bowed, broken, unspeaking. The tears came in a rain. She did +not hide her face after the manner of tenderly nurtured shrinking +women. She faced him with wide open lashes and brimming eyes and +burning defiance. + +"Father, you don't doubt me, too, do you?" + +"Doubt you? My God no, child! It's only I never knew how much I loved +you till I realized I might have to part with you." + +How strange and non-understanding and non-understandable these men +creatures were! Eleanor looked at him; and looked at him. Then she +threw her arms round his neck and kissed the dark sad silent face with +a frightened tender fervor; and do not laugh, dear reader; for it is +only on the stage that the graceful altogether elegant curtain-drop +comes; but the old frontiersman had somehow got himself outside the +screen door, and immediately on that kiss came through the mosquito +wire such a thunder clap of pulpit artillery as is the peculiar +prerogative of some large gentlemen when they blow their nose. +MacDonald and Eleanor both burst out laughing; and Eleanor noticed it +was a large red cotton one, two for ten they sold in Smelter City. + + +And all the while, Wayland sat crunched in the chair of the Cabin, +gazing and gazing at the face in the picture above "the Happy Warrior," +till the light faded from the Holy Cross and the moon beams struck +aslant the timbered floor, and Calamity's shadow stood in the doorway +with a basket on her arm. + +"Meesis Villiam send up y' supper," she said. + +Wayland ate mechanically. He did not know that he was bursting out +with angry words all through the meal. + +"To think, they'd stoop, they'd dare to splash their filth and hog-wash +on her skirts, to hurt me? Well, they've got me, Calamity? They've +got me, old girl! But they've got me in a way they don't expect! You +Indians knew the courts were a fraud and lie. They'd have cleared this +kind of blackguardism up with a knife. Well--so will I; but it will be +another kind of knife. You can't out-Herod a skunk; but you can bury +it, Calamity, eh, old girl? We'll bury 'em so deep next election, +they'll never see daylight: then we'll pile this pack of exposure on +'em so high they'll never get up again. We're out for scalps, +Calamity! No more fighting in the open, eh? We'll spring it on 'em +the way you Indians put a knife in a man's back." + +"Iss it Moy-eese, heem keel little boy?" asked Calamity softly. + +Something in the soft hiss of the words made the Ranger turn. There +was a mad look in the glint of the black eyes, and the hands were +kneading nervously in and out of the palms. + +"Yes, damn him, it is Moyese, who is at the bottom of all this +deviltry; but don't you worry, Calamity! We're going to get his scalp!" + +He paced the Ridge half the night planning his campaign. He would go +first thing in the morning and get that child's story of the mine and +the "dummy" entryman. Then, he would get that Swede's affidavit before +the thick-tow-head realized what he was after. Then, he would get a +trained geologist for the examination of the mine, not that flannelled +kindergartner, stuck full of bureaucratic self importance as he was of +ignorance. Then, he would surprise them by doing absolutely nothing +till election time, then "plunk" it all on them through the opposition +paper, and stand back, and take his dismissal! Oh, his midnight +thoughts raced, as yours and mine have raced, when we have been struck +by sorrow, or blackmail, or motiveless malice! He could not make sure +of it; but once as he paced near the Ridge trail he thought he +saw . . . was it a form in flannels accompanied by a figure resembling +Bat's sauntering slowly down to the Valley? + +When Wayland dwelt a moment on what such a conjunction of observers +might mean, his thoughts jumped. Could Brydges have done it? Back in +the Cabin, the face in the picture seemed sentient and shining in the +gloom. It was an absurd notion, of course; for the picture was a +shadowy thing in dark sepia; and there was no light but the silver +reflection of the moon from the Holy Cross. The Holy Cross,--what was +it she had said? Nothing worth while ever won without someone being +crucified? How absurdly small, how remotely contemptibly impossible, +the scandal thing seemed anyway, as though a skunk could obstruct the +avalanche of the massed snow flakes by sending up his malodorous stench +across the path of the Law! And he loved her and he had her love, and +he had known the highest blessedness of life, and nothing could take +the consciousness of it from him! Wayland went to sleep dreaming +fool-things about the face in the picture. Of course, you never +dreamed them, sleeping or waking. At break of day, he picked a sprig +of mountain flower, and did certain things to that framed picture, and +rode away to his day's work. + + +"Let's go up and see that little runt of an Irish lassie," Matthews had +suggested in the afternoon; and they were leisurely climbing the Ridge +Trail, the old frontiersman yarning and yarning of the dear good old +days; Eleanor thinking her own thoughts. They met a downy-lipped youth +in gray flannels and Mr. Bat Brydges wearing a panama hat and an +"Oh-I-know-it-all" air. Both dabbed at their hats to the old man; but +Matthews saw them not till they had passed when he stopped and turned +with a look over his shoulder and a grunt. Eleanor had not learned yet +what had happened to the Sheriff; but somehow the old frontiersman's +look gave her a satisfaction. Where a crag jutted out from the face of +the Ridge and some spruce saplings spanned a spring trickling down from +the rocks, Matthews stopped. This was the place! Old rascal! How did +he know? Has age ever been young? Eleanor did not know that he was +looking at her, did not know that her face was wrapped in mystery and +light. Suddenly he placed both hands on her shoulder. + +"Eleanor, y'r a magnificent woman! Y' don't mind me callin' y' a +woman?" + +It was his highest compliment. + +"Y're braver than my wife; an' she's the bravest o' them a'! D' y' +know that my wife came half way round the world t' marry me an' go +penniless to th' Indian Reserve? D' y' know when she found the Indians +sick, d' y' know she went East an' took a full four years' medical +course t' be able to attend them? D' y' know she goes all over the +Reserve day an' night an' for three hundred miles among th' settlers to +attend th' sick? But duty with us is easy. We're rich. Duty brought +us together! Duty's goin' t' push y' apart; an' y're not complainin'." + +Eleanor could not answer. What was there to say? They went on up the +Ridge Trail, Matthews still talking to let her think her own thoughts. +There was the story of the last great buffalo hunt at Battleford; of +his first buffalo hunt when he had broken away from the other hunters +in his early boyhood days and the buffalo bull had got him down in a +crack of the earth under its feet. And there was the story of his +first Synod Meeting, "when A came all wild an' woolley out o' the West! +My five brithers were there; they were a' preachers! One is the +bishop! Oh, A guess they were on needles an' pins for fear o' what A'd +do! A'd been in the West so long, A didn't know enough not to go +shirtsleeves down the streets o' Montreal! Well, been a hot day! +'Twas an evenin' meetin'! All the missionaries to th' Indians were +givin' experiences. One got up an' he wanted th' _dear sisters_ to +raise a little money to build a fence; a fence, y' understand? An' +another got up an' wanted th' _dear sisters_ t' have a sewin' bee, +gossip buzz, A call 'em, to raise a little money for the Lord t' build +a school. Losh! A stood it long as A could! Then A jumped up! 'Twas +a hot night, an' A'd ripped off m' coat! A'm no sure my collar hadn't +slumped t' a jelly, too! Says I, 'If y'r reverences will excuse a +plain Western man speakin' plain Western speech, A want t' say A don't +like t' hear strong well able-bodied men whinin' an' beggin' th' _dear +sisters_ t' help them.' Says I, 'If th' brothers will just peel off +their coats an' build their own fences, they'll find the Lord 'ull help +them without any whinin' an' beggin'! Peel off y' coats, an' y'r dude +duds,' says I, 'an' go t' work, an' don't insult God Almighty an' +disgust the women folk wi' that milk-sop bottle-baby rubber-ring talk.'" + +"What did the meeting say?" asked Eleanor, surprised out of herself. + +"Oh, A dunno that they said much at all! They kind o' stomped, tho'." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +IT AIN'T THE TRUTH I'M TELLIN' YOU: IT'S ONLY WHAT I'VE HEERD + +They were opposite the Cabin. Now, by all the tricks of stage-craft +and story-craft, the Ranger should have been standing posed in the +doorway; but he wasn't. So different is fact from fiction--so much +harder, always; so brutally inconsiderate of our desires; so much more +surprisingly beautiful than we can desire. The door stood open and +empty. + +"Wait! A want to leave a note," said Matthews. + +"May I look in and see what bachelor confusion is like?" asked Eleanor. + +She wanted to see if he had noticed the framed picture. Noticed--bless +you? The thing hung skugee on its nail; and there was a sprig of +mountain everlasting stuck in the wire; and Eleanor would really have +liked to see whether the glass above that picture were blurred. She +leaned over the couch examining it while Matthews wrote a note; and she +went hurriedly out of the door hot of face and happy. + +The old man's note read: _We're going along to the Ridge to see that +little Irish runt. If you chance back, will you happen along to see +the old man. I'll keep her till six._ + +"It ain't the truth I'm tellin' y': it's ownly what I've heerd." + +Meestress Lizzie O'Finnigan stood in the opening of the tent flap, a +lonely little face, a lonely little figure in her tawdry rags, a lonely +little soul in the great lone Forest, like a little mite lost in the +big universe, Eleanor thought. She was telling them about the +"Throuble expected at th' moine; an' faather bein' on hand t' take a +fist; an' th' gen'leman from Waashin'ton waitin' for the Ranger man t' +come back; an' th' goin's on raported in the paphers. Ah, h' waz a +baad man, wuz the Ranger, faather said." + +"Do _you_ read the paper, little one?" broke in Matthews. + +"_Nut_ the print, sor, but I do th' pitchers; an' th' murthers; an' +thim's all pitchered out plain so I can read! Faather sez he wun't +have his independence proposed upon; if th' don't give him twinty +thousan' fur settin' toight here, he'll peach; but about th' mine, th' +Ranger man iz expected t' make throuble, an' faather iz all powerful +quick with his fist, sor, 'specially when he's in drink; an' he's t' be +on hand. It ain't th' truth I'm tellin' y', sor; it's ownly what I've +heerd." + +"And if you sit tight here for five years, you are going to be +wealthy?" asked Eleanor, taking her by the hand and leading her out to +the woods. + +The unwonted act almost startled the little face. She looked up at +Eleanor questioningly. "Y's, mam, waal-thy," she said. "Faather sez +when we're waal-thy, he'll be a gen'leman an' Oil be a loidy." + +"All you need, to be a lady, or a gentleman is, to be wealthy? Is that +it?" asked the old frontiersman laughing. + +"Yes, sor," said the child solemnly, "Faather wull shure be a +gen'leman." + +"Do you like living here?" asked Eleanor. + +"No, mam, I don't think much of it! In Smelter City, there wuz +curcuses; an' elephants on _all_ the bills of fare; an' loidies dancin' +on th'r heads! Faather sez if I keep on dancin' as foine as I do now, +mebbie I'll be able t' dance on m' head; but I wouldn't like to dance +without any skeerts, wud y'?" + +"No, A wouldn't," answered the preacher quickly; and Eleanor laughed. + +It was all so ludicrously pathetic. They asked her if she would not +like to come down with them to the Indian School; and she looked +wistfully and did not answer. Oh, God of Little Children, where are +You? Are the Lambs outside the fold not Yours also? + +When they pointed out the creatures of the woods to her, they found she +did not know a squirrel from a chipmunk; and she pronounced the merry +chattering "odjus." When a cat bird came tittering on his tail, +squeaking out every imaginary note of gladness and the frontiersman +explained that this fellow sang only _after_ his family had been raised +whereas the other birds sang _before_, she said he "wazn't as +interestin' as th' elephants on the bill o' fare." + +"Let's see! There's three trails here about!" Matthews was cogitating +with his gaze on Eleanor. "There's the one across to the Upper Mesas; +an' there's one back behind over th' shoulder of the Holy Cross down to +the Lake Behind the Peak; an' there ought to be one between, runnin' up +to the snows! Think y'r good for climbin' over this windfall while A +carry this little puss on m' shoulder? Steer for the snow ahead! +Don't mind my laggin' back! Go on ahead an' wait for us! A'm goin' t' +see if A can't mine down to some gold beneath th' slime o' th' slums! +It's not in the course o' nature that any child should be blind t' this +world, Miss Eleanor, if A can open th' doors for her! Go ahead; an' if +y' find a good sittin' down place, just rest quiet an' wait for us an' +don't worry if we're long comin'! If A can't make her love God's big +play ground, A'm no preacher!" + +Eleanor laughed. Her last mining down to veins of gold had not been a +particular success. She looked back at the two; the massive thewed +frontiersman with the shock of white hair and ruddy cheeks and almost +boyish eyes; the little tawdry bundle of rags on his shoulder, with the +black hollow eyes full of nameless fear and nameless knowledge, and the +little old hard mouth with a dreadful tense sadness about the droop. +She heard the big genial voice with the roll of Scotch-Canadian +drawling out its r's, and the child's thin "Yes, Sor, m' Faather;" then +the child burst into a joyous laugh. Eleanor wondered what he could +have said to elicit that laugh. When she glanced back, the old +frontiersman had Lizzie standing on his outstretched hand holding to a +branch overhead peering in a deserted hawk's nest. Even as Eleanor +looked, the little future acrobat went scrabbling up into the tree with +another joyous laugh. + + +Then, with that spirit of the child, which possesses us all when we +give ourselves to the genii of the woods, Eleanor was following the +long lanes of light between the giant spruces--the long lanes of light +that lead on and on and on, ahead of you; out over the edge of the +world into the realms of dreams and holiday and joy, where there is no +Greed, and there is no Lust, and there is no nagging Care, and there is +no Motiveless Malice spoiling things. She looked up. The gray green +moss hung festooned from branch to branch; and the light sifted down a +tempered rain of gold; and all the shiny evergreens shook gypsy +castanets of joy to the riffling wind. She listened. The voices +behind had faded away; and the air was vibrant of voiceless voices, of +pixy tambourines beating the silence. There was a hush, the sibilant +hush of waters rushing down from the far snows of the Holy Cross; and a +flutter--the flutter of all the little leaves clapping their hands; and +a big voiceless voice of solemn undertone--the diapason of the pines +harping the age-old melodies to the touch of the wind's invisible +hands, melodies of the soul of the sea in the heart of the tree, of +strength and power and eternity. As she listened, she could fancy some +vast oratorio voicing the themes of humanity and the universe and God. + +Then all the little people of the woods came peeping through the +greenery surveying her, weighing her, examining her, testing her spirit +of good or ill. A little squirrel went scampering up one huge tree +trunk and down another, just a pace ahead, scouting for the other +pixies of the woods, till with a scurr-r-r and chitter--chipper--ee, he +whisked back in his tracks. "She's all right, people," he said. Then +a whisky jack flitted from branch to branch of the under brush--always +just a step ahead, not saying as much as was his custom, but peeking a +deal with head cocked from side to side. "No," said Eleanor, "I have +no camp crumbs: you go back." The little red crested cross bill +twittered in front of her from spray to spray of the purple fire weed +and fern fronds; then, concluded that she was only a part of this out +door world, anyway, and went back about his business on the trail +behind. Two or three times, there was a vague rustle in the leaves +that she couldn't localize--water ouzel in moss covert, or hawk babies +in hiding, or--or what? She couldn't descry. Then, suddenly, with a +hiss--ss and swear plain as a bird could swear, a little male grouse +came sprinting down the trail to stop her, ruff up, tail spread to a +fan, wings down, screaming at her in bad words "to stop! to stop! or +he'd pick her eyes out!" Eleanor naturally stopped. There was a +rustle and a flump; and a mother grouse whirred up with her brood--a +dozen of them Eleanor counted, was it a second family? babies just in +feather, clumsy and heavy of wing; and the little man ducked to hiding +among the dead leaves. Eleanor peered everywhere. There was not the +glint of an eye to betray hiding. She laughed and looked back for +Matthews and his little pupil. A turn of the lane shut off all view; +and again, she had that curious sensation of a vague movement back +among the evergreens. She glanced forward. The light was shut off by +a huge pile of windfall giant tree on tree, moss grown, with cypress +and alder shoots from the great, broad dead trunks, a pile the height +of a house. Passage round the ends of the up-rooted trunks led back +through the brushwood. Eleanor stepped to the lowest trunk and began +climbing over the pile by ascending first one trunk, then back up +another. Almost on the top, she paused. It was that same vague +rustling movement, too noiseless to be a noise, too evanescent for a +sound. She parted the screen of shrubbery growing from the prone +trunks and peered forward. + +The same lanes of gold-sifted light leading over the edge of the world +through the aisled evergreens, but at the end a glint as of emerald, +the sheen of water with the metal glister of green enamel, water +marbled like onyx or malachite, with the reflection of a snow cross and +dun gray shadows--shadows of deer standing motionless at the opening of +the aisled trees--come out from the forest at sundown to their drinking +place. Lane of light? It had been a lane of delight; and that was +what all life might be but for the Satyr shadows lurking along the +trail. There were two or three little fawns, just turning from ash +coat to ochre gray, nuzzling and wasting the water; and one of the year +old deer had turned its head and was sniffing the air looking back, a +poetry of motionless motion, all senses poised. Eleanor held her +breath. If only the other two would come: yet she had put back her +hand to warn them if they should come; and stood so, looking and +listening. She remembered afterwards by the nodding of the blue bells +she had known that the wind was away from the deer to her. There was a +quick step on the lowest log. She stretched back her hand to signal +quiet. The quick noiseless step came up the logs like a stair--winged +feet. She turned to see what effect this fairy scene would have on the +little denizen of the slums. + +It wasn't the frontiersman at all. It was the Ranger; and she had let +the screen of branches spring back with a snap; and the deer had leaped +in mid-air, vanishing phantoms; and her hands had met his half way; and +his eyes were shining with a light that blinded her presence of mind. +Then, he had drawn her to himself; and afterwards, when she had tried +to live it over again, she realized that she had lost count. + +Shall we let the curtain drop, dear reader? For you must remember you +are looking upon two sensible young people, who have resolved to keep +each other strong to their resolutions. He had planned exactly how he +would conduct himself when this meeting came; guarded, very guarded, so +guarded she must know he was keeping a grip for both. And she had +known exactly what she would do when he came: she would be frank, +perfectly frank and open; for had they not both taken the resolution? +And when she came to herself, it was as that night at the Death +Watch--her face thrown back and he was kissing the pulsing veins of her +throat, saying in a voice between a breath and a whisper--"When one has +ached in the Desert for seven weeks, one is pretty thirsty." + +"Let me go, dear! This wild happiness is a kind of madness." + +"Give me all you have for me in but one more!" He bent over her face; +when he released her, she was faint. + +He offered her hand-hold down over the tree trunks to the lake; and +when their feet touched solid earth again, took a grip of the situation +to relieve her embarrassment and began talking furiously of the Desert +ride and the dream face that had twice saved his life. Eleanor stopped +stock still. + +"Why, _that_ was my dream," she explained; and their hands met half way +and before she had finished telling, it had happened all over again. + + +They were standing on the margin of the lake. The sun was behind the +peak, and the wine glow lay on the snow cross, and the topaz gate was +ajar again to the new infinite life, and I think they were both a +little bit afraid. An old world poet has said something about fools +rushing in where angels fear to tread. The mountaineer expresses the +same thought in his own more picturesque and I think more poetic +vernacular, certainly it is a vernacular _next_ to life rather than +books. It is an axiom that "only the most blatant tenderfoot, the most +tumble-footed greenhorn, will monkey on the edge of a precipice." + +The marbled water shadows deepened to fire in the Alpine after glow; +and the little waves of the lake came lipping and lisping and laving at +their feet. + +"There is no use trying to tell about it or talk it out," burst out +Wayland. + +"Don't," said Eleanor. "Mr. Matthews told us much last night: and I'll +dig the rest out of him the next time I see him." + +"I'm not talking of the Desert. I'm talking of you. It's so +God-blessed beautiful, Eleanor! I used to think and think in the +Desert what this would be like; and it's so much more beautiful than +one could hope or guess. Don't you think there must be something in +God and Heaven and all that? Love is so much more beautiful than a +fellow could possibly think?" + +"Don't you think they'll be wondering about us?" asked Eleanor. + +"Pooh, no! Matthews told me to come on here and find you! He's just +back there a little way." + +"Did he plan this?" + +"Course! How do you suppose I knew where to find you? You see now why +I must not see you, if we are to keep our resolutions?" + +"Yes, I see! Let us go back." + +It was on the lake side of the logs that Wayland paused. + +"I don't _think_ they could see through those logs?" he said. + +Eleanor burst into a peal of laughter and ascended the fallen trunks as +if they had been stairs. + +They came on the other two sitting squat in the middle of the trail; +and if the windfall had been opaque, one of the two wore an expression +on his face as if he had guessed. He was tossing a handful of little +pebbles up from his palm and catching them on the backs of his knuckles. + +"We didn't make much o' the woods an' birds," he remarked with a +twisted smile, "but man alive, we can play jacks!" + +Don't smile, self superior reader! It takes some little time to +manufacture a snow slide out of snow flakes; and it may be the law that +it also takes some little time to manufacture a soul out of slime. + +Passing the Cabin, they again encountered a downy-lipped youth in gray +flannels accompanied by a fat gentleman with tortoise-shell eyes and a +tallow smile; but the jaunty dimples of the fat man, the supercilious +lift of the gray flannel's eyebrow--froze mid-way at sight of Meestress +Leezie O'Finnigan, who bowed to Bat with the gravity of a mother +superior. + +"It ain't the truth I'm tellin' y'": Lizzie was loquaciously going over +the story for the twentieth time, "It ain't the truth I'm tellin' y', +y' onderstand; it's ownly what I've heerd." + +The Ranger dropped out of the group at the Cabin. + +Bat stood bellicosely scowling at the three figures receding down the +Ridge Trail. + +"What in Hell is that old parson doing with that Shanty Town kid? He'd +better keep his oar out of this." + +"It's a free country," said Wayland dryly. "Can I do anything for you?" + +"We came up to notify you that the mine will be examined to-morrow," +announced the downy lips. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +I AM UNCLE SAM + +"So they would examine the mine to-morrow? So they had sprung the +examination of the coal veins before he could obtain a Government +Geologist, and the coal would be pronounced worthless, as the coal +involved in the Alaska cases was pronounced worthless by another +kindergartner when that contest was impending. Then, they would argue +and consider and send up briefs and send down decisions on the value of +the coal till the statutory time had expired and the law of limitations +would bar suit for restitution. Meanwhile, Smelter City Coking Company +were using half-a-million tons a year, and sending away as much again; +but on the word of an ignorant bureaucratic cub, the coal was to be +worthless and the brazen steal of public property to be sanctioned by +law. How much mineral land had been stolen in the very same way in the +last ten years, first homesteaded by 'the dummy' foreigner, then for +five, ten, one-hundred, two-hundred at most three-hundred dollars a +quarter section on false affidavit as to entry, length of residence, +age of homesteader, turned over to the Ring, whose sworn valuation of +the coal ran from $20,000 to $40,000 an acre?" Personally, Wayland, +as he thought it over, knew of fifty-thousand acres of coal so +stolen in Colorado and as much again in Wyoming; not to mention +three-hundred-thousand acres of gold and silver lands looted in the +South-West. + +_And the looters were the party shouting at the top of their voices +about "vested rights" and "attacks on property" and "demagoguery +producing national hysteria." Where was the respect due "the vested +rights" belonging to Uncle Sam? What about the piracy and plunder of +the property belonging to Uncle Sam? Why was it valor to throw a +burglar looting your house out by the neck, and "hysteria" to go after +a burglar looting Uncle Sam?_ + +Wayland had once asked Bat Brydges these questions. Bat had looked +pained at the Ranger's obtuseness. + +"Wayland," he had exclaimed, "who is Uncle Sam? I am Uncle Sam! You +are Uncle Sam! We are all Uncle Sam! That's the beauty of democracy! +This property you are howling about is yours and mine; and when we go +in and develop it, we are only taking what is our own." + +"What about the fellow who isn't in on a share?" + +"Share? Quit talking Socialism," Bat had commanded with a grand +gesture, leaving Wayland wondering _who_ were the real Socialists in +the Nation. + +It came to him as he watched the panama hat and the white sailor going +down the Ridge Trail that you can't argufy national problems; nor +compromise on them; nor enter on any treaty of peace but the peace that +is a victory. Brydges was Uncle Sam; and he thought one way. The +Ranger was Uncle Sam; and he thought another way. One was fighting for +the vested rights of the few. The other was fighting for the vested +rights of the many. It would have to be fought out, the fight would +have to come; and this coal case, like the Range War, was one of the +preliminary skirmishes to the Great National Contest. Would the +people, who were paying fifty cents, a dollar, a dollar-and-a-half +extra for every ton of coal bought, because the coal areas were being +brought under the domination of one Ring, understand and waken up and +rally to the fight? Or was it as Moyese had declared with the most +open and genial cynicism that "the public did not give one damn"? + + +The Ranger crossed over to the telephone and called up the MacDonald +Ranch. + +"That you, Mr. MacDonald? Matthews back yet? Oh, gone across to the +Mission School? No, nothing wrong: better not pay any attention to the +little Irish kid's babble of trouble at the mine! They'd hardly dare +that! Yes, I know they did on the Rim Rocks; but that was daring only +you and Williams: this would be daring the great Government of the +greatest Nation in the world! Oh, that doesn't bother me! The point +is--they haven't given me time to get a Government expert up here; and +this fellow is evidently a toady for Moyese. I want an extra witness +on the quality of that coal: want a witness to prove it's being used +and shipped and sold. Oh, no, not both of you, one will do, either you +or Matthews! All right; will you go down by the early stage? Better +not go down with me! I'm going to set out now; ride down the Forest +Service trail, camp in the woods and expect to reach Smelter City about +ten in the morning. If you leave by the six o'clock morning stage, +that will be plenty of time. All right, either one of you! Much +obliged! Good-by!" + + +An hour from the time Eleanor had left him, the Ranger was on his +horse. He did not go down the Ridge Trail. He followed the National +Forest Trail along the edge of the Ridge away from the Holy Cross Peak, +down the forested back of a long foot-hill sloping and flanking the +Valley almost to Smelter City. Locally, the sloping hill was known as +"a hog's back"; and it was where the hog's back poked its nose into the +Valley far below, that the tangle had occurred between the Forest +Service and the Smelter Ring. Mining was permitted in the National +Forests, of course; but the mining areas must be obtained according to +law, and paid for, and operated individually, not homesteaded by the +"dummies," then turned into a consolidated ring of coal owners. What +made this violation of law more flagrant than usual was the fact that +these homesteaded coal lands lay at an angle of almost ninety degrees +in a sheer wall; and it was an impossibility for any homesteader ever +to have put in residence on them. Homestead entry, term of residence, +proof and title, all exhibited fraud on the face of the records; and +there wasn't a man in the Government Service who did not know that. +What unseen hand had juggled entries, title and proof through? The +homesteaders had sold out long ago for a song, some for as little as +ten dollars a hundred and sixty acres. The Ring had possession; and as +every man in the Land Service knew, the Government had pigeon-holed all +recommendations for legal action to compel restitution. Would the +wheels of justice rest inert? Would the presiding deity of justice be +so blind, if some poor man, a poor man, who was also Uncle Sam, stole a +ton of coal from the Ring operating these mines? Why was it possible +to steal ninety-million dollars' worth of coal from the people, and not +permissible for one of the people to steal one ton of coal from the +Ring? These were the questions Wayland asked himself as he rode down +the hog's back for Smelter City. + + +The trail down the hog's back sloped gradually and cut fifteen miles +off the distance to Smelter City by the Valley Road. It was "the show" +trail of all the National Forests. When supervisors came to inspect, +or visitors from the East who wanted to give accounts of having roughed +it without losing an hour of sleep or carrying any scars of stump beds, +or when Congressional committees came from Washington for a champagne +junket to report on all they hadn't seen--Wayland always conducted them +down the hog's back trail that ran along the backbone of the Holy Cross +lower slope. He had built the trail, himself; much of it, with his own +hands; cut in the side of the forest mould and rock with an outer log +as guard rail; wide enough for two horses abreast and zig-zagging +enough to break the descent into a gradual drop and afford new vistas +at each turn, of the Valley below, of the Mesas above the Rim Rocks +across, and of the River looping and sweeping down to Smelter City. + +He used to dream, as he rode down the bridle path, of the day coming +when all the vast domain of National Forests would be like that trail; +not a stick of underbrush or slash as big as your finger; not a stump +above eighteen inches high; all the scaled logs piled neat as card +board boxes; open park below the resinous cinnamon-smelling lodge-pole +line and englemann spruce, hardly a branch lower on the trees than the +height of a man; and such a rain of tempered light from the clicking +pine needles and whorled spruces as might have come through the rose +window of a cathedral. A "show" picture of a properly conducted +National Forest has gone through all the magazines and newspapers--It +represents the piles of cordwood clean as piles of pencils, the trees +standing park-like with vistas and glades and opens beneath the tall +pinery. Wayland knew in his own heart that his Forest was better than +that "show" picture. No pictures could tell of the pine seedlings +stolen from a squirrel _cache_ scattered on the snows; the delicate +young pinery coming up among a protecting nursery of birch and poplar +and cottonwood. No picture could show "the dead tops" cut out; the +"cheesy" rotten heartwood burning on an altar of sacrifice to the deity +of the forest; the markings on "the dead tops" and ripe trees and trees +with broken top "leaders" for the lumberman to come and harvest. No +picture could give the jolly song of the cross-cut saw, the musical +ripping of the oiled blade through the huge logs, the odor of the +imprisoned sunbeams and flowers from the rain of the yellow saw-dust. +No picture could possibly tell you the life story of yon big tree, the +warrior of the woods who had beaten down all competitors and enemies +and wore his purple cones like the tasseled honor badges of a soldier, +with pendulous moving, plumy arms: yet to the eye of the Forester, the +life history was there, in the fluted grooved columnar bark, in the +knot scars where branches had been discarded to send the main trunk +towering above its fellows for light and air, in the wood rings, where +a branch had broken and fallen away in the struggle. Why, this noble +fellow had been a straggling sapling a thousand years before the birth +of Christ! Before Darius led his conquering hosts from realm to realm, +or ever Caesar knew life, or Christopher Columbus framed mast and spar +to discover America, this sun-crowned monarch had over-topped his +fellows, and met the challenge of the blasts of heaven, and drunk of +the wines of the dews of an immortal youth, and dieted on the ambrosial +ether of gods, and sent his seedling offspring sailing ten thousand +airy seas with the wind for master pilot and never a craft but the +gypsy parachute of a seed with wings shaken out from the cones purpling +to the autumn heat! + +Air ships? Had the modern world gone mad over air ships? This fellow +had been sending out whole navies of air ships for thousands of years; +seeding the mighty mountains; fighting all rivals; travelling on the +wings of the wind, and if consumed by fire, then, like the phoenix +springing to new life from the ashes, sending forth fresh armadas from +the pendant purplish cinnamon-scented cones split open by the heat and +so releasing fresh winged seeds! + +Wayland used to dream, as he rode down the hog's back trail, of the day +coming when all the National Forests would be a great park, the +people's playground, yielding bigger annual harvest in ripe lumber than +the wheat fields or the corn; yielding income for the State and health +for the Nation. Germany did it. Why couldn't America? Why not, +indeed; except that she had not exterminated her pirates of the public +weal, her freebooters of the wilderness, her slippery fingered +pick-pockets, who shouted "_I am Uncle Sam_," while they picked Uncle +Sam's pockets? + +Riding down the hog's back, you first left the larches and the junipers +below the snow line, the junipers beginning to show their berries, the +larches yellowing and shedding their golden shower to the approach of +autumn. Then, a turn of the trail; and you were among the hemlocks, +funereal and sombre in the distance, wonderfully lightened when you +were below them by the sage-green moss and the pale silver blue lining +on the under side of the leaves. Another turn or two, there came the +feathery sugar pine and the Douglas spruce--the monarchs of the +North-Western Forests--plume decked warriors carrying a glint of spears +with the scars of a thousand years and a thousand victories in the +wrinkled bark, with cones like tassels, and whorls like banners. You +could count these whorls, or the scars of the whorls; and you had their +years; and the bluish green shade was restful as the repose of age. +The smell of them, it was like incense; incense to the deity of the +woods; and when the wind blew, every old evergreen harped the age-old +melodies of Pan. And, oh, yes, there were warriors scarred from the +fight, fellows with corky arms and mottled streaks where the lightning +had struck and splintered. Only the cheesy-hearted, the warriors with +maggots and grubs manufacturing punk out of heart-wood, for all the +world like humans infected by evil thoughts, only the hollow hearted +came down to earth with a crash in the fray. + +Another turn, you were among the lodge-pole pines and englemann +spruce--pure park, Wayland always thought, the delight of a Forester's +heart; warm human open park places where you kept looking for deer +though you knew there weren't any. In riding down the backbone of the +Ridge, Wayland always planned to camp under the lodge pole pines; it +was so cool, so rain-proof and sun-proof, with an almost certainty of a +mountain stream somewhere near, and if you had eyes to see, a game +trail down to the stream. To-night, he went on down to the _Brulé_, a +cross section of the mountain swept by fire years before the Forest +Service had taken hold in the days when millmen had been permitted to +take out windfall and burn free, and all a millman had to do to become +a millionaire in free lumber was set the incendiary fire going to +create windfall. In his own district, Wayland knew two men who had +become rich in that way; but of course, _that_ was long ago. The +Forest men had cleared out the windfall and burn; and now, the deity of +the woods, Nature, was at work! By the moonlight, the Ranger could see +the pale chalky peach-bloom boles of the ghost birches, and the satiny +poplars and cottonwoods, turning gold to the approaching autumn but +going down gay, twinkling, laughing fellows to the year's death, +actually clapping their hands, shaking with glee, sending leaves down +in a rain of gold, which, it is to be hoped, the pixies picked up, the +pixies sailing the air in feather parachutes of flower and cone seed! +Wayland could see these airy ships between him and the silver +moonlight, dropping seeds--seeds--seeds; seeds of fire flower and +golden rod and hoary evergreen; shooting them out in tiny catapults; +sending them up in dandelion fluff and sky rockets; catching and +skimming the wind in airy canoes; tilting the winged sails to a whiff +and sailing, sailing, dropping the seeds of life for a thousand years! +And beneath the birches with the hundred eyes looking out from the +chalky faced bark, and the poplars laughing and shaking with glee, and +the cottonwoods showering down a rain of gold in their death; stood the +little pines seeded by the wind, nursed by the shade of the quick +growing trees. Who would be living and loving and fighting and hating +and winning and losing when these little fellows rose to toss and +flaunt their victory in the face of the sky? Was that the meaning of +life after all, the strength and thew, the valor and might of the fight +up? Then, it was not such a bad way with the Nation. The Nation would +be the better for this fight. Certain, it was, the better side would +win. Would it be the few like the sugar pine towering over its +fellows; or the many like the lodge pole pine and englemann spruce +standing in serried ranks of equal valor and power? + +And if you think he could take that ride without wishing to the "nth" +degree that she could be with him to share the joy, then, I assure you, +you don't know to what music those gay, twinkling, trembling gold +leaves above the _Brulé_ were beating time all night to the whisper of +the wind and rustle of the pixy parachutes sailing mid-air. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +THE QUESTION IS--WHICH UNCLE SAM? + +Before, it had been a race-reverie; a waiting, puzzled and uncertain +for the ways of life. Now, it was the joy of life, the fulfilment for +which life had been created and waited expectant; and whether the ways +were any plainer in the new light, there was no room for wonder in the +fulness of joy. Eleanor was glad the little bundle of tawdry loquacity +toddling between them kept up a constant stream of idle boastings on +the road to the Mission House, about being "waal-thy" and "Faather +shure bein' a gen'leman when they were waal-thy" and "herself as foine +as eny loidy in th' land," and more and more of the same, all the way +down the Ridge Trail; which was not so fatuous as it sounded, when it +voiced the convictions of a great many more people than the little +unwashed garlicky Shanty Town dancer. Eleanor wondered if the same +arguments applied to the culture of horses and pigs and potatoes--size +instead of sort, fulness of stomach not quality of head, area of +possession not area of service. + +The garrulous babble continued to the very doors of the Mission School, +and through the formalities of an absurdly formal introduction to Mrs. +Williams, and during the suppertime meal with the little Indian +children in the big dining room. Eleanor noticed how Lizzie's lips +pursed with contempt at the other children and the little stomach poked +out with arrogance and fulness as the boasting waxed. + +"That kind is the most hopeless of all," remarked Mrs. Williams in a +low voice, amused at the amazement on the faces of the Indian children. + +Yet Eleanor was glad. The babble gave her opportunity for withdrawal +in her own thoughts; and when she came back to the Ranch House with +Matthews, leaving Lizzie still boasting at the School, she hardly +noticed that her father stopped the frontiersman on the threshold, but +she passed out to the steamer chair on her own piazza. What was _It_? +Eleanor could not have answered if she had tried. She only knew that +she had drunk of the fulness of living, and that time could not rob her +of that consciousness. It was there, forever with her, breathing in +every breath, pulsing in the rhythm of her blood, "Closer than hands or +feet," as the Pantheistic poet has sung, immanent, enveloping, +possessory, obsessory, warm, living, a flooding realization of life, +giving tone to every touch of existence, like the strings of the violin +to the bow of the skilled musician. She wanted to sing; the long, low, +jubilant chant of womanhood which no poet has yet sung. By the joy of +it, she knew what the sorrow of it must be. By the purity, she +realized what the poisoning of the fountain springs of life could mean. +By the triumph, she realized what the defeat, the debasement could be. +She thought of love as a fountain spring, a spring into which you could +not both cast defilement and drink of waters undefiled; as an altar +flame fed with incense lighting the darkness; and one could no more +offend love with impurity, than cast the dung heap on the altar flame +and not expect blastment. She wanted to clap her hands as the gay, +twinkling cottonwoods were clapping theirs to the sunset; to dance and +beat gypsy tambourines as the pines were throbbing and harping and +clicking to the age-old melodies of Pan. She wanted--what was it? Had +the Israelitish women of old timed their joy to the rhythm of the +dance; or was it a later strain, the strain from the tribal woman of +the plains who heard a voice in the music of the laughing leaves, and +the throb of the river, and the shout of the sun-glinted cataract, and +the little lispings and whisperings of the waves among the reeds? The +stars came pricking out. Each hung a tiny censer flame to the altar of +night and holiness and mystery. She knew she could never again see the +stars come pricking through the purple dusk without feeling the stab of +joy that had wakened death to life when recognition had struck fire in +consciousness. She knew, then, there was no eternity long enough for +the joy of _It_, nor heaven high enough for the reach of _It_, nor hell +deep enough for the wrong of _It_. + + +There was a click of the mosquito wire door opening out on her piazza. +It was her father. + +"Matthews and I are going to take the fast team and the light buckboard +and drive down to Smelter City to-night. Will you be all right, +Eleanor?" + +"I? Oh, of course! Nothing wrong is there, Father?" + +"Nothing, whatever!" She remembered afterwards the shine and look of +lonely longing in the black eyes. "We have to be in Smelter City, +tomorrow; think it best to drive down in the cool of evening! Day +stage is a tiresome drive. You'll be all right, Eleanor?" + +If she could only have known, how she would have spent herself in his +arms; but it is, perhaps, a part of the irony of life that the best +service is silent; that the loudest service, like the big drum, is the +emptiest; only we never know the quality of that big drum till a +specially hard knock tests it. She remembered afterwards how he half +hesitated. He was not a demonstrative man, nor a handling one; only a +dumb doer of things next, regardless of consequences; and we don't +realize what that means till we are too old to pay tribute and they to +whom tribute is due have passed our reach. + +"I, oh, of course I'll be all right! Would you like a lunch or +something?" + +"No, never mind! Keep Calamity by you! Go to bed early, have a good +sleep! 'Night," he said. The mosquito door clicked and he had gone. +A moment later, the yellow buck board had rattled down the River road, +and her father did what he had never done before, he turned and lightly +waved his hat. + +If Eleanor could have known it, he was saying at that moment: + +"Matthews, you can fight the world, the flesh, and the devil; but you +can't fight against the stars." + +The old frontiersman didn't answer for a little. When he spoke, it was +very soberly: + +"No, when it's that, you'll work for the stars spite o' y'rself! Why, +A contrived the meetin' myself this vera afternoon; wha' d' y' think o' +that for an old fool? A'll be goin' back empty handed, an' all m' own +doin'!" + +"And I'll have built plans for twenty years on,--on the sands," and +MacDonald flicked the bronchos up with his whip. + +There was a long silence but for the crunch of the wheels through the +road dust. + +"MacDonald," said Matthews abruptly, "A'm goin' t' see this thing +thro'. A don't mean y'r daughter's love; th' angels o' Heaven have +that in _their_ own charge! A'm referrin' t' this mine thing! There's +evil brewin'! A'm goin' t' see this thing thro'; an' A make no doubt +y'r goin' to do th' same! A'm no wantin' t' pry into y'r affairs, +MacDonald; but--is y'r will made an' secure?" + +The sheep rancher flicked his whip at the bronchos and took firmer hold +of the reins. + +"Copper rivetted," he said. + + +We call _It_ clairvoyance; and we call _It_ intuition; and we call _It_ +instinct; and we might as well call it x, y, z for all these terms +mean. We do not know what they mean. Neither do we know what _It_ is. +We hear _It_ and obey _It_; and _It_ brings blessedness. In the din of +life's insistent noise, we sometimes do not hear _It_. That is, we do +not hear _It_ until afterwards when the curse has come. Then, we +remember that we did hear _It_, though we did not heed it. + +It was so with Eleanor after her father passed from the Ranch House +that night. Afterwards, she knew that she had noticed the wistful look +on his face; but the memory of it did not come to the surface of +thought till she heard the click of Calamity's door in the basement and +recollected his words; "Keep Calamity by you." Also, at that very +moment, a great gray racing motor car swerved out across the white +bridge from the Senator's ranch buildings and went spinning down the +Valley road, the twin lanterns before and behind cutting the dark in +the double sword of a great search light that etched the sheathed pine +needles and twinkling cottonwoods in black against a background of +gold. Eleanor was perfectly certain she saw the same two hats in the +back seat that had met Wayland at the Cabin that afternoon. + +"Calamity," she called down over the piazza railing. + +The native woman came up the piazza stairs on a pattering run. + +"Why has everybody gone down to Smelter City to-night? Is anything +wrong?" + +The Cree woman's shawl had fallen back from her head. She stood +kneading her fingers in and out of her palms. There was a strange wild +look in the dark eyes and her breathing labored. "It ees Moyese," said +Calamity slowly. "He 'xamin d' mine t'-morrow." + +"Why, Calamity, that is perfect nonsense! Moyese won't examine the +mine, at all! This young fellow from Washington is the one to examine +the mine?" + +Calamity continued to knit her fingers in and out. "All 'same," she +said, "Messieu Waylan', he telephone Messieu MacDonal' come 'mine help +him t'-morrow!" + +"Telephone my father? Why, how could he? I have been right here, +Calamity?" + +"You go see Missy Villam, leetle gurl," explained Calamity. "Messieu +Waylan' he ride down hog back trail woods all night, 'lone! He ring +ting--ling--says he go 'samin mine." + +Then, the child's babble, the looks of the two at the Cabin, her +father's wistful face, the quick departure of Matthews and himself, +followed almost immediately by Moyese's motor, confirmed Calamity's +incoherent account. Eleanor ran out to the telephone in the living +room, and rang for the Ranger's Cabin. There was no answer on the +local circuit, and Central at Smelter City could only say "They don't +answer! Try local!" + +Yet why should she feel such alarm? Had he not gone down to the +Desert, and come back, and she had not known fear? Was the fear for +her father? Was it her father's wistful look? What could she do? +Would he wish her to do anything? This, too, was on the Firing Line, +but reason how she would, she could not subdue her fears, nor keep the +tremor from her hands as she ran back to the bed room dimly lighted by +the candle above the desk at the head of the bed. + +"Calamity, you don't think there is any danger to Father?" + +Then Calamity did the strangest thing that ever Eleanor had seen her +do. She had thrown off the shawl. She had drawn herself up on +moccasined tip-toes, and seemed suddenly to have thrown off age and +abuse and disgrace and rags and sin, with her eyes fixed stonily on the +far spaces of her wrecked youth, the lids wide open, the whites +glistening, a mad look in the dilated pupils shining like fire; and her +fingers were knitting in and out of her palms. + +"M' man," she whispered, "dey keel heem, dey hang heem! M' babee, dey +take it away, d' pries' he sing--sing an' wave candle an' bury it in +snow. Leetle Ford, d' keel heem! D' punish Indian man, d' hang heem, +m' man! Moyese, he keel leetle Ford: he go free, not'ng hurt heem!" +She burst out laughing, low voiced cunning laughter. "I go see," she +said. "I ride down hog's back t' d' mine! I go see! Messieu +MacDonal'--He help me! I help heem! I go see," and before Eleanor had +grasped the import of the words, the woman had darted out into the +dark; and a moment later, Eleanor heard the basement door clang. There +was the pound-pound of a horse being pulled hither and thither, leaping +to a wild gallop, then the figure of Calamity bare-headed, riding +bareback and astride, cut the moonlight; and the ring of hoof beats +echoed back from the rocks of some one going furious, heedless up the +face of the Ridge towards the hog's back trail. + +Eleanor called up the Mission School telephone: Mr. Williams had heard +nothing; he didn't believe there was any cause for alarm; the child was +patently and plainly an astounding little liar! About Calamity? Oh, +yes, Eleanor was not to be alarmed! She had gone off in those mad fits +ever since her baby died up on Saskatchewan. It had been very +distressing; was in winter time, and she wouldn't release the dead +child from her arms; they had to take it from her by force; she always +came back after a week or two of wandering! Would Eleanor like some +one to come over and stay in the Ranch House? And Eleanor being a true +descendant of the Man with the Iron Hand flaunted personal fear; and +went back to a sleepless but not unhappy night in her room. Why did +the news that Calamity's child had died bring such a sense of relief? + + +How simply does life deck out her tragedies! There is no prelude of +low-toned plaintive orchestral music tuned to expectancy. There is no +thunder barrel; or if there is a thunder barrel, you may know that the +tragedy is theatrical and hollow in proportion to the size of its +emptiness. And there is no graceful curtain-drop between it and real +life, permitting you to rise from your place and go home happy. + +MacDonald was stepping into the bucket to descend the last shaft of the +mine when something on the edge of the _Brulé_ arrested his glance; in +fact, two things: one was Calamity coming out from the trail of the +hog's back through the young cottonwoods and poplars, riding bareback +and looking very mad, indeed; the other, was O'Finnigan from Shanty +Town on foot, staggering and mad as whiskey could make him, coming up +the narrow rock trail from Smelter City. + +"Go on," said MacDonald curtly to the others. "I'll keep the notes +safe up here, and give Sheriff Flood a hand at the hoist!" + +All had gone well, exceedingly well, in the examination of the mine. +It had begun sharp at twelve o'clock when the day shift came out with +their dinner pails. It will be remembered the Ridge sloped down to a +burnt area, known as the _Brulé_, overgrown with young poplars and +birches and yet younger pines. The _Brulé_ slanted down to a roll of +rock and shingle and gravel above the City known as Coal Hill. It was +on the face of this hill that the mines lay. You could see the black +veins coming out on the face of the cliff; and into the cliff +penetrated two parallel tunnels. Up and down from these tunnels +rattled the trucks on serial tramways to and from the Smelter, weaving +in and out of the tunnel mouths like shuttles, run by gravitation +pressure. If the mines were worthless, or worth only the five, ten, +and three-hundred dollars that the Ring had paid the "dummy" +homesteaders for each quarter section, these shifts of a hundred men at +a time, and trucks and tramways would have offered a puzzle to any one +but the downy-lipped youth, who had come to examine them. + +When Wayland arrived at the mine with Matthews and MacDonald, he found +the federal investigator on hand with Mr. Bat Brydges, who was out for +news features, and the news editor of the "Smelter City Herald," who +somehow gave the Ranger a look mingled of smothered anger and +friendliness. If Mr. Bat Brydges felt any embarrassment, he did not +show it. Indeed, the handy man would have felt proud of the very +things of which he had accused the Ranger; and it is to be doubted if +the door of decent shame remained open; if, indeed, the harboring of +thoughts like the flocking of the carrion bird to putridity does not +pre-suppose a kind of inner death. And as the party were donning blue +overalls to descend into the mine, who should come on the scene but Mr. +Sheriff Flood, "to see that ev'thing waz al' right," he explained, +exhibiting a protuberant rotundity due reverse of the compass that had +been most prominent when Wayland last saw him; and if the doughty +defender of the law felt any embarrassment, like the handy man, he did +not show it. Indeed, this mighty man of valor could truthfully be +described as fat of brain, fat of chops, fat of neck, and fattest of +all in the rotundity of this strutting stomach. In fact, he seemed +proud of that hummocky part of his anatomy and swung it round at you +and rested his hands clasped across it as he talked. + +"Jis' thought I'd happen along! Wife didn't want me to: women are all +skeery that way; but I jis' thought I'd happen along an' nut let her +know!" + +"All sorts o' things might chance in a mine, mightn't they?" cut in +Matthews with a twinkle of his eye more merry than good natured. + +The Sheriff smiled a sickly smile and ''lowed they could'; and +everybody walked into the lowest tunnel leaving the fire guard lanterns +outside; for this tunnel was lighted by electricity. As they all +walked in, the Sheriff was to the rear. + +"Here, you, Mr. Sheriff," Matthews blurted out, going to the rear of +the procession, "seems to me my place is kind o' back o' behind o' you." + +The Sheriff smiled a sickly smile and ''lowed it waz.' + +Wayland took the record of the mine's output per day. (It averaged a +net return of forty per cent. dividend on a capitalization of ninety +million.) Then, he took the record of what the Smelter could consume +per day. The difference must be used for shipment or storage. Wayland +did the counting and measuring. MacDonald jotted down the notes. The +downy-lipped youth proceeded along the tunnel with an air of supreme +contempt. It was as they were about to enter the second tunnel that +his superiority expressed itself. Matthews afterwards said it was +because the black water drip or coal sweat was seeping through the +overalls. + +"I don't see what we're delaying to take all these specific +measurements for anyway," he said. + +"Don't you?" asked Wayland. "Then I'll tell you! I have the affidavit +of the most of the 'dummies' that the homestead entries were +fraudulent! You could see that if you knew that men can't farm at an +angle of ninety! In case that fails, I want proof that this coal is so +valuable it is being shipped out. I want exact proofs of the exact +profits being made on the fraudulently acquired mines." + +"What's your idea? Shut 'em up from development for ever?" asked +Brydges belligerently. + +"Brydges," said Wayland, "when you find you can't throw your pursuer +off the trail by the skunk's peculiar trick of defence, I'd advise you +to try kicking sand in the public's eyes and drawing a rotten herring +across the trail! This time, I think you'll find, the public won't go +off the trail after the rotten herring. They'll keep on after the +thief." + +It was at that stage, Bat fell back abreast of the Sheriff, and +Matthews behind heard one of the two say, "Damn him, then, let him go +on and examine his bellyfull! It's his funeral; not ours!" + +Wayland not only examined the second tunnel above the first, but he +insisted on descending a shaft that had been sunk almost vertically +from the crest of Coal Hill to get a measurement of the veins, for +stoping, or cross cutting, or drifting or some such technical work, I +forget what; but the vertical shaft afforded estimates of the depth of +the veins. Because it was not a regular avenue of work but only of +examination, it had not been equipped with steam hoist and electric +light, but was furnished only with such old fashioned hand winch as the +stage driver had described to Eleanor. A huge bucket depended by cable +from the hand hoist. It was as they were all lighting lanterns and +stepping in, that MacDonald took a look at the hoist and noticed that +the Sheriff was to give a hand at the winch. + +"Not coming Brydges?" asked Matthews, who was already in the bucket. + +"Oh, I guess I'm a pretty heavy man to go in that." + +"Then, A guess you're afraid of what's goin' t' happen! We're not +goin' down, without you, m' boy." + +Bat winked at the Sheriff and clambered in. It was then something on +the edge of the _Brulé_ arrested MacDonald's glance; Calamity coming +through the cottonwoods mad and dishevelled, O'Finnigan reeling up from +the Smelter City trail mad with whiskey, waving a bottle and +shouting--"What's th' use o' anything? Nothing! I'm Uncle Sam! +Hoorah!" + +"Go on," ordered MacDonald curtly. "I'll keep the notes safe up here, +in my pocket, Wayland! I'll stay and give Sheriff Flood a hand at the +hoist!" + +The Sheriff looked for directions to Brydges. + +"Let her go," ordered Brydges with a glance back over his shoulder +towards the trail from Smelter City; and the winch creaked and groaned; +and the bucket fell with a bump; then a steady drop to the first vein. +When Matthews looked up, the slant of the shaft had cut off the sky. +Brydges didn't bother clambering out of the bucket. He was silent and +kept hold of the dependent cable. Suddenly, there was a rumble as of +the hoist flying backward, then the whip lash of a taut rope snapping, +and the cable whirled down in a coil round Brydges' head. + +"Gee whiz! This is a pretty mess! The cable's broke; and we can't get +up!" + +"What's that?" called Mathews. Wayland and the others were examining +the black wall of the shaft. + +Matthews flashed his hand lantern in Brydges' face. It was ashen +doughy, with sagged lips. "Wayland, have y' on y'r mountaineerin' +boots, the boots pegged wi' handspikes?" cried the old frontiersman. +"The cable's broken; and A like t' see y' shin for th' top soon as +possible!" + +Something in the voice must have caught the ear of the news editor; for +he turned back and flooded his lantern, first on Matthews' face, then +on Brydges'. + +"You'll climb easier if you pull off y'r overalls and fasten y'r +lantern in y'r hat, Wayland," he said in the same cutting voice he used +in the hurry and rush of the composing room. + +If Mr. Bat Brydges had been after a feature story, he had it then and +there; the tenebrous thick coal darkness; the drip-drip-drip of the +water-soak through the rock walls; Matthews' eyes blazing like coals of +fire in the dark, his lantern shining full on Brydges; the news editor +hatchet-faced, white of skin, with pistol point eyes, his lantern full +on Brydges; the downy-lipped youth white, terrified, chattering of +jaws, unable to speak a word, clutching to the edge of the bucket to +hide his trembling, his hat had fallen off, his lantern had fallen out +of his hand, and a great blob of black coal drip trickled from his +yellow hair down his cheek in front of his ear; and the handy man still +standing in the barrel, his face chalky and soggy like dough, with a +show of bluff, but unable to look a man in the face, gazing at his feet +in the bottom of the barrel: + +"Gawd, Wayland! Don't risk it! Don't climb! Wait a little! They'll +wind her up and drop another rope down to us and--" + + +The Ranger had begun climbing. They could see the shine of the lantern +in his hat against the black moist rock wall; up and up, slow, sure and +light of foot, swinging from side to side for hand grip; hands first +finding foot hold; then a leg up; and another foot hold. + +"Look out fellows," he warned once. "I might knock some of these small +rocks loose!" + +Then, the light of the lantern disappeared at a bend in the shaft. + +"It's a darned dangerous thing to do," pronounced the handy man thickly. + +Not one of the men answered a word, and the silence grew impressive by +what it didn't say. + + +Once Wayland had turned the bend of the shaft, the rest of the way up +was easy. Daylight was above, and the climb was a gradual slant over +uneven ridged rock; and with the grip of the pegs in his mountaineering +boots, he ascended almost at a run on all fours. + +"Hullo up-there," he called, "what's wrong?" + +There was no answer. He ascended the rest of the way winged and came +out hoisting himself from his elbows to his knees with a deep breath of +pure air above the surface. At first, daylight blinded him. He threw +the lantern from his hat and blinked the darkness out of his eyes. + +"It's all right fellows," he roared down the shaft, funnelling his +hands. + + +Then he looked. + +Sheriff Flood was not to be seen. Neither was MacDonald. There seemed +to be no one. The day shift were going back in the tunnels below. The +windlass handle hung prone as a disused well. It had not flown back +broken. The cable had been cut. Then, he heard a groan. It was +Calamity lying on her face at the foot of the windlass, weeping and +reaving her hair. Stretched on the grass a few paces back from the +windlass with two bloody bullet holes full in the soft of the temple, +lay MacDonald, the sheep rancher, beyond recall. + +Wayland stooped and felt for the heart. + +It was motionless. The body was chilling and stiffening. He looked +back at the face. There was almost a smile on the lips; and one hand +hung as if fallen from the windlass handle. A suspicion flashed +through Wayland's mind. He could hardly give it credence. It was +preposterous, unbelievable, like a page from the lawlessness of the +frontier a hundred years ago! Yet hadn't this thing happened in +California, and happened in Alaska? They would never dare to murder a +man conducting an investigation ordered by the great Government of the +greatest Nation on earth! Yet had they not tried to assassinate +representatives of the great Federal Government down in San Francisco, +and shot to death in Colorado a federal officer sent straight from +Washington? And these murders had not been committed by the rabble, by +the demagogues, by the anarchists. They had been pre-planned and +carried out by the vested-righter, in defiance of law, in defiance of +the strongest Government on earth and up to the present, in defiance of +retribution. + +Wayland tore open the coat and felt for the notes. They were gone. He +looked at Calamity. A darker suspicion came. Then, he caught the Cree +woman by the shoulder and threw her to her feet. + +"Calamity who did this?" + +"Th' trunk man, O'Finnigan! Flood, he lead heem up; an' t' trunk man +shoot, shoot quick close--lak dat," she said snapping her fingers round +behind Wayland's ear against the soft of his temple. + +Wayland's suspicions became a certainty. + +"They will blame you," he said, "do you understand me? They will prove +_you did_ it; and hang you! Ride for your life! Ride for Canada; and +hide!" + +Was he thinking of Calamity or Eleanor? But where was Flood; and where +was the drunken man? + +He fastened a stone to the end of the cut cable, and with a shout began +dropping it down and down from the windlass. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +THE AWAKENING + +By all the tricks of stage-craft and book-craft, of the copybook +headlines and platitudinous lies which we have had rammed down our +throats since childhood, virtue should have triumphed in the person of +the Ranger, because he fought regardless of consequences for right. +MacDonald, the sheep rancher, who went out of his way to enforce the +fair deal and the square deal, when he could very much more easily have +remained safely at home, a fire-insurance, bread-and-butter, +safety-guarantee Christian of the quiescent kind, MacDonald by all the +tricks of the-be-good-and-you-will-prosper doctrines, ought not to have +been shot down as he stood guard at the head of the mine shaft. + +A very great many years ago, a very great Man, in fact, the very +greatest moral teacher the world has ever known, declared that the +milk-and-water, neither-hot-nor-cold, quiescent, safety-guarantee type +of Christianity was a thing to be spewed out of the mouth; but that was +a very great many years ago. Time has softened the edge of that +passion for right. Perhaps, He didn't mean it! Perhaps, we have +permitted sentimentality to sand-paper down the fighting edge of +militant righteousness that goes out beyond the Safety Line! To be +sure, bread-and-butter goodness is an easier matter than risking hot +shot beyond the Safety Line; and perhaps, a sentimental Deity may be +persuaded to allow us a little jam on our bread and butter if we sit +tight on the safe side with a fire-insurance policy in the shape of a +creed! Personally, I wonder when we all take to joining the sit-tight, +safety-guarantee brigade, who is to stand on the outside guard? Or is +there any modern Fighting Line? Or does the Fighting Line belong to +the old Shibboleth legends of Canaanite and Jebusite and Perizzite and +God knows what other "ite"? I hear these ancient gentry preached about +and the heroes who smote them hip and thigh extolled. Personally, I am +a great deal more interested in the modern tussle for a promised land +than in those old time frays for a fertile patch in a sterile +wilderness; and I see the same call for the hero's fighting edge; and I +like the MacDonalds, who jump out from behind the Safety Line to fight +for right, though it bring but the bloody bullet holes in the soft of +the temple; and I like the Waylands, who take up the game trail to run +down crime though it bring the sword of dismissal dangling over their +own heads; and I like best of all the Matthews, who throw aside their +"skin-dicate contracts" to take up the game of playing as joyfully for +right as they have for wrong, "rich" (I wish you could have heard the +full way in which he said that word) "rich" on "thirty dollars a year +for clothes," spending self without stint, joyfully, unknowing of +self-pity, for the making of right into might, for the making of a +patch of human weeds into a garden of goodness. Only, I would put on +record the fact that each man's reward was not the hero's crown of +laurel leaves, but the crown that their great prototype wore upon the +Cross. + + +Eleanor could not understand why she had been formally notified to +attend the coroner's inquest till the drift of the questions began to +indicate that this investigation like many another was not an +investigation to _find out_ but an investigation to _hush up_, not a +following of the clues of evidence but a deliberate attempt to throw +pursuit off on false clues. In fact, there were many things about that +inquest which Eleanor could not fathom. Why, for instance was the +local district attorney not present? Why had the Smelter Coking +Company a special pleader present? Why was the great Federal +Government not represented by an attorney of equal ability, instead of +this downy-lipped silent and incredibly ignorant youth? Why was the +first session of the inquest adjourned till the burial of her father? +Why did the sheriff act as a mentor at the ear of the chief coroner? +Why did the justice of the peace acting as coroner listen to all +suggestions from the Smelter Company's attorney and the Sheriff, and +reject all suggestions from her father's friends? Why was the +stenographer instructed to erase some evidence and preserve other? +What was the ground of discrimination? If you doubt whether these +things are ever done, dear reader; then, peruse with close scrutiny the +first criminal trial that comes under your notice; and see if you think +that the term of the Old Dispensation 'wresting the judgment' has +become obsolete? You don't suppose those long-whiskered old patriarchs +openly took the bribe in hand and right before the claimants, tucked +the loose shekels into the wide phalacteries of holy skirts--do you? + + +Yet, there were certain features of that inquest which awakened strange +hope in her breast. It was held in the county court room; and the +crowd gathering to listen and hear somehow gave her a different +impression from the unwashed rabble that usually infests public courts +to feast on the carrion of criminal proceedings. Men predominated, of +course; but they were decent men, men of standing, not idlers and +blacklegs. As she passed up the aisle with Matthews and Mrs. Williams +to the front row of chairs where the news editor and Wayland and +Brydges and the youth from Washington were already seated, she heard a +man's voice say, "They've gone too far this time, by Jingo! It will +take more than wind-jamming to win next fall's elections with this +against them." + +"You bet there's an awakening," returned another voice. +"The-dyed-in-the-woollies don't realize yet; but they will waken up +after election day!" + +The news editor had only finished giving evidence; on the whole +immaterial testimony; for suspicions do not pass with juries and +coroners. + +"How was it you attended the examination of this mine?" was the last +question asked him. + +Considering the Smelter City lots, for which the news editor had yet to +pay and the "kiddies" which he had to support, it would have been an +easy matter for him 'to slink' that question. "A newspaper man's +pursuit of a good story" would have been answer enough to satisfy any +coroner; but the news editor did not give that answer. He took off his +glasses and polished the lenses with his handkerchief. Then, he put +them back on his nose and looked straight at the gentleman presiding. + +"May I answer that question in my own way, taking plenty of time?" he +asked. "I take it this inquest is being held to get at the real truth." + +The coroner said, "Go ahead!" + +The attorney for the Smelter City Coking Company sat up and whispered +something to Brydges. The handy man turned lazily round. "Yes," he +said, "one of our staff." + +The news editor cleared his throat, and a little sharp intersection of +lines bridged above his nose. + +"For some little time, it has been known in the Valley that a quiet +contest has been going on." + +The attorney for the Smelter City Coking Company jumped to his feet. + +"The witness should keep to a strict recital of fact, not rumors," he +interjected; and the downy-lipped representative of the Federal +Government said nothing about the privileges of a witness, or the +impropriety of a special pleader opening his mouth at an inquest. + +"Confine yourself to facts," ordered the coroner heavily. + +Wayland and Eleanor suddenly leaned forward. The news editor rubbed +his glasses and resumed in a low clear tense voice. How many of the +listeners had the faintest idea of what the recital cost him? + +"I take it the object of this inquest is to ascertain facts. If I am +to relate facts, I must repeat that for some little time it has been +known in the Valley that a quiet contest has been going on between the +people and certain interests which I do not need to name. It was well +known in our office that the miners on Coal Hill had openly boasted no +Washington man was going to get away with any facts about mining +operations. O'Finnigan of Shanty Town had boasted he had been brought +down from the Ridge for 'a surprise party' as he called it. For some +little time, as news editor I had been dissatisfied with the reports of +this whole struggle: they struck me as exceedingly biased and +untruthful; in fact what the reporters call 'doped news'; 'news doped +by outsiders for special reasons of their own.'" + +Bat's boot came down with a clump on the floor. The attorney was up +again, glaring at the coroner. The news editor cleared his throat. + +"So I determined to go and see this thing for myself--" + +"With the result," roared the attorney, "that you saw every facility +afforded for the most thorough examination of the mine." + +There was a shuffling of feet among the men at the back of the room. +More men seemed to be crowding in. + +"That," said the news editor aloud, sitting back beside Wayland, "That +effectually cooks my dough! See that you fellows do as well!" + +Eleanor was next questioned, most considerately and courteously. Twice +she was interrupted. The first time was when she repeated that her +father had said he expected no trouble whatsoever. + +"I would call your attention to the fact, Mr. Coroner, that the +deceased gentleman assured his daughter he expected no trouble +whatsoever," called out the attorney. + +The Sheriff leaned over and whispered to the coroner. + +"Did the half-breed woman known as Calamity leave the Ranch House the +night before the examination of the mine?" asked the coroner. + +It was when Eleanor was describing the mad look of Calamity that the +attorney again interrupted: + +"Mr. Coroner, out of respect to the memory of the deceased gentleman +and to the member of his family present, I ask that the stenographer +strike out the record of the insane woman's babblings! The fact is +established on the word of Miss MacDonald that the Indian woman set out +with the express intention of seeking her employer. What she intended +to do when she found him, we cannot know; for the woman was plainly +insane and her word is worthless." + +Bat wore a tallow smile. The attorney's expression became inscrutable. +Sheriff Flood's face shone as a new moon. The other faces were a +puzzled blank. + +"You want to check that," whispered the news editor to Wayland. +Matthews was being questioned. + +"Before A proceed t' answer y'r verra civil inquiries, Mr. Coroner, A +wud ask the privilege o' puttin' three questions!" + +"Go ahead, Sir!" + +"Why is the man O'Finnigan not here?" + +"Still drunk," answered the Sheriff. + +"Then, if A commit a crime, if A cut y'r throat, Mr. Coroner, all A +have t' do t' avoid awkward questions, is t' fill up? Verra well! Why +is the woman Calamity, herself, not here?" + +"Can't be found," called Wayland. + +"So that if A'm accused of a crime A know no more about than th' babe +unborn, all A've t' do t' rivet that crime on myself for life is not to +be found? Verra well--" + +"Sir," interrupted the coroner. + +"A wud ask why is that little Irish lassie not here?" + +Mrs. Williams explained that Lizzie, having exhausted the Indian +children with her boastings in two days, had lost interest in life and +run back to the slums. + +"A always did say if y' took a pig out o' a pen an' putt it in a +parlor, 'twould feel lonesome for its hogwash," exclaimed the old +frontiersman running a puzzled hand through his mop of white hair. +Matthews also was twice interrupted in his testimony. He was +explaining that he anticipated trouble about the mine from what had +already happened on the Rim Rocks when Wayland trod forcibly and +sharply on his foot; and all reference to the pursuit across the Desert +was omitted. The coroner, it seemed, did not want any details about +the Rim Rocks. The second interruption came when he began to quote +Mistress Lizzie O'Finnigan's words those afternoons on the Ridge. The +attorney sprang up: + +"As the child is an incorrigible liar and her father an incorrigible +drunkard, Mr. Coroner, I think it only fair to the Company that their +aspersions and reference to us be stricken off the records;" and the +coroner instructed the stenographer to erase all reference to Lizzie's +babbling. + +The old frontiersman sat back with a dazed feeling that while he had +expressed anticipation of trouble at the mine, he had failed to give +proof or reason for that anticipation. + +Brydges' evidence was innocuous to the very end. The Sheriff had +whispered something to the coroner. + +"Is there any reason why anyone in the Valley might harbor a grudge +against the sheep rancher?" asked the coroner. + +Brydges hesitated as one who could say much if he would. "Yes, there +is," he answered lowering his eyes and flushing dully. + +It was the attorney again who was on his feet. + +"Mr. Coroner, the dead cannot defend themselves. Out of respect to the +deceased gentleman and the member of his family present, I think that +line of enquiry ought not to be recorded or pursued." + +"The second time they have said that; what do they mean?" Eleanor asked +Mrs. Williams in a whisper. + +Matthews was hanging on to his chair to hold himself down and the news +editor had leaned across Eleanor to speak to Wayland: "Good God, +Wayland! Don't you see the drift? Can't you head that off?" + +"Leave 't' me," muttered the old frontiersman gripping his chair. + +"But you have given your evidence: Wayland is our only chance left. +Don't you see how they'll clinch it?" + +"Hold y'r head shut," ordered Matthews. + +Wayland was giving his evidence, as little as he could possibly give, +it seemed to Eleanor, from the time he had telephoned down to her +father to come and take corroborative proof of the value of the coal +mines. + +"You did not anticipate any trouble about the examination?" + +"None whatever," answered Wayland. He had described the examination of +the two tunnels and the preparation to go down the shaft when the +Sheriff again whispered to the coroner. + +"When MacDonald seemed to change his mind about going down the shaft, +was there anyone visible except the Sheriff?" + +"Not that I saw," answered Wayland; and he went on to describe the +cutting of the cable and the climb up the side of the shaft. + +Eleanor became suddenly conscious that tense stillness reigned in the +county court room. Some man standing behind the back benches shuffled +his feet and cleared his throat with an offensive "hem." The roomful +of people looked back angrily. The attorney had pencilled a line on a +scrap of paper and shoved it across in front of the coroner. Through +the open windows, Eleanor could see that a great concourse of people +was gathering outside. + +"When you found the body, was anyone else present at the top of the +shaft?" + +For the fraction of a second, Eleanor wondered if they meant to cast +suspicion on the Ranger. + +"Yes," answered Wayland, "the woman, Calamity was lying on the ground +sobbing to break her heart. No one else was visible." + +"You say the wound was such that it could not possibly have been +self-inflicted?" + +"You determined that for yourselves, when you examined the body," +answered Wayland. + +"Was the woman's position such that she might have shot him?" + +"The shot was in the right temple, close; close enough to scorch the +face! You have the record of that! The woman was kneeling on the +ground a little to the left facing him." + +"Did she carry a weapon?" + +"She did not." + +"How do you know she had not one concealed?" + +"Because I caught her by the shoulders and lifted her up and shook her +and said, 'Calamity, who did this?'" + +"What did she answer?" + +The attorney was on his feet with a bang of his fist on the table that +shut off the answer: + +"Mr. Coroner, this evidence has proceeded far enough to show that the +death of the deceased gentleman had absolutely no connection whatever +with the official examination of the mines. The dead cannot defend +themselves. Out of respect to the deceased and the member of his +family--" + +"That," interrupted Matthews, breaking from his chair, "is the third +time th' insinuation has been thrown out that MacDonald had things in +his life that wud na bear tellin'! A know his life: A know all his +life: ask me!" + +But the attorney and the coroner were in an endless wrangle as to law, +that was Hebrew to the listeners, and gave the roomful of spectators +ample time to imbibe the false impression that was meant to be +conveyed, and to pass it to the prurient crowd outside. After a half +hour of reading from authorities to prove that the answer was +inadmissible as evidence, and another half hour rattling off counter +authorities at such a rate the listeners could not possibly judge for +themselves, the coroner reserved decision as to whether that answer +could be admitted as evidence or not, coming as it did from a person +plainly of unsound mind. + +"What next happened?" + +"I tied a stone to the cut end of the cable and unrolled the rope on +the hoist and gave it a hard enough pitch to send the stone past the +bend in the shaft." + +"And when you turned to work the hoist and bring up the others?" + +"And when I turned to work the hoist, the Indian woman was nowhere to +be seen. The chances are she knew the guilty parties would try to +throw the blame--" + +"Mr. Coroner," shouted the attorney, "there can be no chances recorded +as evidence where the reputation of a gentleman, who cannot defend +himself, is concerned." + +"Good God," said the news editor under his breath. + +"Humph! A'll put a crimp in that! The Sheriff man is to give evidence +yet! Eleanor, y' better not wait! A'm goin' t' do some plain speakin' +t' y' father's honor, but 'tis not talk for a woman's ears! Y've heard +y'r father defamed." + +"Then, I'll wait and hear him cleared," she whispered to Mrs. Williams. +"Will you stay?" + + +The Sheriff had gone round in front of the table, not too near it for +obvious reasons; for the time of his revenge had come and his rotundity +protruded full blown and swelling. He told how MacDonald had refused +to go down the shaft. + +"Do you know any reason for that sudden change of mind?" + +"I don't know whether it's the reason or not; but somethin' happened +jes' as he had his leg up to climb in, _might a' made_ him change his +mind! Th' squaw come ridin' all bareheaded, an' mad as a hornet out o' +th' cottonwoods wavin' her hands roarin' crazy! Minit he seen her, he +quit goin' down: said he'd give me a hand at the hoist! I seen what +made him change his mind al' right! She waz ravin' mad, come rampin' +out, then, she seen me, an' kin' o' hiked back ahint the cottonwood; +but I seen her plain! Jes as we commenced unwindin' her--" + +"You mean the hoist?" + +"Yes, jes' as we began lettin' her down, I sees O'Finnigan come up from +Smelter City trail roarin' drunk, ugly drunk, yellin' 'Hell: he waz +Uncle Sam,' an' all that." + +"If y'll not admit the child's story of her father, why d' y' admit +this man's story of him?" demanded Matthews; but the coroner ignored +the interruption and the doughty defender of the law continued. + +"I put up with his drunken yellin' till I felt the bucket bump the +first level. Then I sez, 'Now, my gen'leman, hand over that bottle o' +tipperary, an' scat out o' this!' There it is," the Sheriff laid a +black square whiskey bottle on the desk. "He began jawin' an' cuttin' +up gineral. T' make a long story short, I took him by the scruff o' +th' neck and helped him down Smelter City trail an'-an'-an' I jugged +him: that's all; an' there he is yet! When I came back up, this had +happened." + +"When you arrested O'Finnigan for drunkenness, where was the woman, +Calamity?" + +"Hidin' back among th' cottonwoods! She'd slid off her horse! Jes' as +I turned down the trail, I looked back! She waz comin' peepin' out +from tree t' tree!" + +"How was MacDonald standing?" + +"He waz standin' with his back t' her, with his hand hangin' kind o' +loose from th' hoist waitin' for 'em t' ring th' bell t' let her down +t' next level!" + +There was a long silence. Eleanor had turned very white. The eyes of +the news editor emitted sparks. + +"I expected that," commented Wayland. + +"Y' d', did y'?" rumbled Matthews. "Then A 'll wager y 'll nut be +expectin' what A 'll spring!" + +The room suddenly filled with a rustling and whispering. Men were +demonstrating exactly how it had happened. The handy man's tallow +smile melted on his face; and the tortoise shell eyes looked sidewise +at Wayland. The look wasn't malicious; and it wasn't triumphant. It +was the look of a gambler saying, "Come on my four-flusher, beat that! +Show down!" The rabble outside deployed off the pavement across the +street back a whole block. Eleanor could hear the hum through the open +window. + +The attorney was leaning across the table conferring with the coroner. + +The coroner rapped the table and cried for "order." + +The room suddenly silenced. + +"Gentlemen, as this evidence will have to be handed in to the district +attorney for what action he deems best, I wish to ask one more +question. Mr. Sheriff, you know this Valley and the people in it well?" + +"I do, known it for twenty years." + +"Do you know of any reason why this woman Calamity would have shot or +wished to shoot, her employer, MacDonald?" + +The Sheriff changed a quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other. + +Eleanor leaned forward looking straight in his eyes. Bat was eyeing +Eleanor quizzically. (Had he constructed the evidence so skilfully +that he had come to believe it himself?) Matthews was almost tearing +the arms out of the chair where he sat. + +"Well," said Sheriff Flood clasping his hands in rest across his portly +person. "I guess squaw is same as any other woman in _one_ respect. I +guess she had same reason for shootin' MacDonal' as any other woman in +her place would o' had," and he looked up well pleased with himself at +the roomful. For a moment, there was deadly heavy silence; then the +hum of the crowd on the steps pouring the word out to those in the +street. + +"Ye lyin' scut[1]! Ye filthy cess pool o' dirt an' falsehood!" + +The old frontiersman had sprung from his place and smashed his chair in +twenty atoms on the table between the sheriff and the coroner. + +"Y'll not offend the deceased gentleman's memory? Y'll not offend his +daughter here? An' the dead can't defend themselves? An' y're all s' +verra delicate y're lettin' a stinkin' slanderous unclean unspoken +damnable hell-spawned lie go forth unchallenged t' blacken a dead man's +memory? Oh, A know y'r kind well! A've heard harlots lisp an' whisp' +an' half tell and damn by a lie o' th' eye! Y' are insinuatin' this +woman Calamity shot her master to avenge dishonor in her early life? +'Tis a lie! 'Tis a most damnable black an' filthy lie! She wud a' +died for MacDonald ten thousand times over if she could, because he had +long ago, before ever he came here, avenged _her_ dishonor." + +The coroner had sprung back from the table. The mighty man of valor, +who defended law, had precipitately put the space of overturned benches +between himself and the irate old frontiersman. Matthews suddenly +swung to face the spectators. + +"Men," he cried, "foul murder has been done; and this slander is t' +fasten guilt on a poor innocent outcast woman, t' send her a scapegoat +int' th' wilderness bearin' th' sins o' those higher up that A do na' +name; of y'r Man Higher Up, who is the curse o' this land! 'Twas in my +boyhood days on Saskatchewan! This woman, that y' have seen wander the +Black Hills sinnin' unashamed, was but a fair slip o' an Indian girl, +then, pure as y'r own girls in school! She married a little Indian +boy, Wandering Spirit o' the Crees at Frog Lake! The Indian Officer at +Frog Lake was a Sioux half-breed--he took her forcibly from Wandering +Spirit t' th' Agency House! 'Twas y'r sheep rancher, MacDonald, who +was fur trader then, went forcibly to th' Agency House, thrashed the +Agent, and brought her back to the Indian, Wandering Spirit! A was +passin' West by dog train to the Mountains when A stopped at the Agency +House! MacDonald had gone North. Little Wandering Spirit comes and +asks me t' interpret something he has to say t' th' Master--meanin' +that danged unclean Sioux beast. Says I, 'Wandering Spirit has +something not pleasant t' say t' you: Y' better get another +interpreter.' The officer says, 'Spit it out! Y' can't phase me.' +Boys, A spit it out. A gave it to him plain! The boy Indian stood in +the door o' th' Agency House holdin' a loaded dog-train whip hidden +behind his back. He was na' but half as big as the brute behind the +Government desk! He says, 'Tell the Master he must leave my wife +alone! If ever he comes near m' tepee again, A do to him like that,' +rolling a dead leaf t' powder 'tween his hands. The officer lets out a +roar o' filthy oaths! I hear the little Indian give a scream like a +hurt wild cat. 'He calls me a dog--a son of a dog,' he screams; an' +boys, with one leap he was over that counter with his dog whip; an' +what A did t' y'r Sheriff last week in the Pass is nothing to what that +bit of an Indian boy did t' yon bullying Agent! He thrashed him, an' +he thrashed him, an' he chased him bellowin' round the Agency House +till the blackguard's pants were ribbons an' the blood stripes reached +down an' soaked his socks. Boys, A went on to th' Mountains! When A +came back next year an' when MacDonald came back from MacKenzie River, +we found that Agent had had Little Wandering Spirit arrested by the +Mounted Police for assault an' battery, an' sentenced to a year in th' +penitentiary! 'Twas too late to undo the wrong! Th' girl, th' woman +y' know as Calamity, had gone insane from abuse! A helped to pry her +dead child from her arms! A helped the priest t' bury it in the snow! +Next year, was the Rebellion! Y'r sheepman an' his wife, Miss Eleanor +here was na' born then, had come down from the North. The Indians +loved him. They'd never touch _him_; but when the Rebellion broke out, +'twas Wandering Spirit went dancing mad for revenge from one end o' the +Reserve t' th' other! When the massacre came, the officer had tripped +the little Indian fellow to his face an' was pointin' the old muzzle +loader at the back o' his head to blow out his brains, when along comes +the MacDonald man an' kicks the gun from the bully's hand! Little +Wandering Spirit up an' he pours that muzzle loader into the officer's +face; an' he borrows another gun an' empties that in his face; and he +snatches a knife; an' what he left o' that brute y' could bury in a +coffin th' length o' y'r hand! 'Twas th' Indian's way o' vengeance; +but blame fell on MacDonald; an' when Wandering Spirit was hanged for +the murder, MacDonald fled from Canada; for his sympathies were with +the Indians, as every right feelin' man's were;[2] for back a +generation, there was Indian blood on the mother's side; but the Act o' +Amnesty has been passed this many a year; an' A'd come to take him back +to a fortune waitin' him in Scotland, to an inheritance when this +happened. + +"Y' know how he found her again, eatin' garbage in the Black Hills +where the miners had cast her off; how he gave her an asylum an' a +home; an' this is the man y'r fulthy sheriff poltroon coward says she'd +shoot! Men, men o' th' Nation, murder has been done here: coward +assassin murder on an innocent man! The notes on the mine have been +robbed from his pocket. Who planned this murder? Who shot MacDonald +by mistake? Who planned th' Rim Rocks outrage? Is it to this y' have +let y'r Democracy come? Is this y'r self government workin' worse +outrage than the despotism o' Russia? We'd have hanged our kings in +Scotland for less sin! France would a' tanned her rulers' hide into +moccasins for less! What are y' goin' to do about it." His shout rang +and rang through the court. "Will ye make of self-government a farce, +a screamin' shame, a shriekin' laughter in th' ears o' th' world?" + +There were cries of "Sit down! Sit down! Shut up! Go on! Who is the +old tow-head?" Then some one cried out "Moyese." Half the spectators +cheered. Half hissed. Then a voice yelled "Wayland! Wayland!" and +Eleanor felt the leap to her blood; for the crowd outside took up the +cry "Wayland, Wayland? What's the matter with Wayland?" + +The Sheriff and Coroner were on the table shouting for "order--order" +when some wag heaved under and upset table, sheriff, coroner and all. + +The last Eleanor saw before the news editor and Wayland pushed Mrs. +Williams and herself through a door behind the coroner's seat to a +taxicab that whirled them off to the hotel, was a wild sprawling of the +Sheriff coming down in mid-air. Bat Brydges and the downy-lipped +youth, chalky white as a dead birch tree, were letting themselves +hastily out through a back window. Matthews was being carried down the +aisle on the shoulders of a howling rabble of men and boys. His head +was bare; his coat was almost torn from his shoulders. His face was +passionate with jubilant laughter. "Yell, boys! Yell for Wayland," he +was urging. Could Eleanor have known what happened at the door, her +heart would have beat still faster. The old frontiersman brought her +word two hours later when he joined them at the hotel. + +"They hauled me out to th' steps o' th' court house," he said, "an' A +says 'Yell boys! Yell, Yell like Hell for Wayland!' An' they set me +down on th' steps an' began yellin' 'Speech! Speech!' A held up m' +two hands like this. 'Men,' says I, 'y' ask for a word! Well, A'll +give it t' you. A'll give it t' y' from the door o' y'r own sacred +court o' justice, which y' have seen profaned this day by injustice, +an' a lie, an' a bribe into th' bedlam o' a mob! Y' ask for a word. A +will give it y', _Men o' the United States o' the World_; Men o' +Liberty; Men o' Strength; the world has its eye on ye! What will y' +do? M' word is this t' all time: M' word is th' simple word o' the old +prophets that ye conned by heart at y'r mother's knee: Y' ha' seen the +author o' crime an' outrage an' murder tryin' to wrest the judgment, t' +pervert the court, to slander the dead, t' send into th' wilderness a +poor innocent scapegoat o' sin, to defile the vera presence o' death. +An' ye ha' seen a young man single-handed fightin' for right, to save +y'r land from the looters, an' y'r forests from the timber thieves, an' +y'r mines from the coal pirates! Y' ha' seen evil an' good an' the +fruits o' them! _Choose ye this day which ye will serve_!' Man alive, +Wayland, ye should a' heard them! They yelled like Hell for y'! They +yelled till they split the welkin! They yelled, Wayland, till A +couldna' keep th' tears from m' eyes; an' then, man alive, they yelled +more than ever! Whiles we were yellin' and riproarin' outside, y'r +brave Sheriff man, he gets the door shut an' locked, an' the windows +down, an' the shades all drawn; an' they brings in a verdict o' 'come +to his death by the hands o' parties unknown.' Oh, A'll warrant 'twill +be 'by the hands o' parties unknown.' They'll never more try t' fasten +that crime on poor old Calamity; tho' she's no so old when y' come t' +think o' it, except in her bein' sore sinned against." + +"I wonder if they'll try to come down on you for the disorder," asked +Wayland. + +The old frontiersman chuckled. "A wish t' God they would," he said. +"What A'm wonderin' is what y' fat Bat fellow's doin'?" + +"Oh, I can tell you that," answered the news editor. "Bat is singing +small! I'll bet you a five there won't be a line nor the fraction of a +line of all this in the local papers; nor as much as a blank space +about it in any other paper. My God, if I could only lay my hand on a +moneyed man who would back a paper thro' a fight like this and tell the +counting rooms to go to the Devil! I know a score of editors would +jump for the job and work their heads off! You needn't think we are +specially keen for eating dog on this kind of a job! 'Tisn't the men +inside the office bedevil us: 'tis y'r outside interest--" + +Eleanor gave him a quick queer look. She was learning to think fast +and decide quickly. But the news editor was quite right. Not a word +of the disgraceful attempt to pervert justice appeared in either the +local or any other paper. MacDonald's death was briefly recorded as +accidental and the coroner's verdict given in a four line paragraph. +Do not ask me the _why_ of this, dear reader; or I shall ask you the +why of a hundred other equally mysterious silences. Don't forget, as +Wayland has already informed you, there are other countries besides +Russia where everything is not given out to the press. And do not +curse the press! It is not the fault of the press in Russia. Is it +here? + + +[1] I can find no authority for the old frontiersman's use of the word +but in a certain Elizabethan dramatist; and as he uses the word "scut" +for the bobtail of a fleeing rabbit or sheep, perhaps the meanings of +the word as used are identical.--_Author_. + +[2] It need scarcely be explained these are the old frontiersman's +sentiments, not the writer's; but on investigation I found his +statement of facts as to what transformed little Wandering Spirit into +a blood-thirsty monster was absolutely true. This, of course, did not +justify the Rebellion, but helps to explain it, to explain why a +worthless scamp like Riel could rouse the peaceful natives to blood +thirst and rapine.--_Author_. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +THE AWAKENING CONTINUED + +It was all over, the inquest, the coroner's finding, the reading of the +will, the revelation of the real errand on which the old frontiersman +had come from Saskatchewan. The parting of the ways had come to her, +as it comes to us all. The death of her father had shut the door on +opportunity in the Valley; and the little old lady, waiting for +Matthews up in Prince Albert, Canada, to take her back to the +inheritance of her father's family in Scotland, opened elsewhere +another door of opportunity. As one door had swung shut, another had +swung open. Were we creatures of circumstances, as the fatalists +declared; or could we master and bend circumstances to human will? Was +her feeling of rebellion but the kicking of ructious heels against the +closed door of fate? Would time teach the futility of barking one's +shins in such fashion? Eleanor sat in the parlor of the suite of rooms +reserved by the Williams and herself. The Williams and Matthews had +gone out for the evening to some women's club meeting on missions. +Eleanor's nerves were too tension-strung for people to-night. They had +read her father's will that afternoon. The quiet man doing the duty +next and making no professions had left her secure against want; and +after the lawyer who read the will had gone, the Williams went out, and +Matthews had drawn his chair near to hers and told her the same story +of her father's people that he had told Wayland in the Desert. + +"They were a' dark fearsome men," he had said, telling her of the first +Fraser-MacDonald who fought with Wolfe at Quebec, and the Man of the +Iron Hand. "They were a' dark fearsome men; but of stainless honor, +child! Not a man of them left a bar sinister on th' scutcheon! Even +the man who married th' squaw, had a priest tie th' knot so that +children would come stainless t' life; but they were dark fearsome men, +undyin' in their hates an' unhappy in their loves. Y'r own mother's +people turned against y'r father for th' part he took in th' Rebellion." + +"Don't you think," asked Eleanor, "it's time one of the race broke the +spell of unhappy love?" + +"Aye, child! 'Tis why A'd take y' back t' th' little old lady waitin' +in Prince Albert, an' put y' in y'r own place in th' halls o' Scotland? +D' y' know there's been none o' y'r race direct t' occupy th' manor +since th' first Frazer fled from th' Jacobite Rebellion to French +Canada? 'Twas part o' his stubborn spirit that he fought for the +Nation that had cast him out." + +"Oh, I'm not interested in the Jacobites and Wolfe and things of the +past," interrupted Eleanor. "I want to live my life full in the +present." + +"Aye; an' 'tis because y're a Fraser-MacDonald of the Lovatt clan that +ye want t' live a full present! If you were an upstart new-rich, my +dear, y'd be sellin' y'r soul t' th' Devil an' y'r body t' some leprous +kite with ulcerous weddin' kisses for the privilege o' claimin' this +inheritance that's yours! There's a male decendant o' some collateral +line on th' place adjoinin' yours. Man alive, he's had th' pick o' +every pork packer's an' brewer's daughter; but he's waitin' th' little +lady who's his aunt t' come back from Prince Albert--" + +He knew the minute he had spoken that he had struck a false note. +Eleanor jumped from her chair. + +"Oh, bother the little lady at Prince Albert. Leave me, please! I +want to think--" + +He withdrew as far as the door. "Would y' like me to see y'r lawyer +man 'bout puttin' th' ranch lands o' th' Upper Pass on th' market, an' +settlin' up th' estate?" + +"No," answered Eleanor. "I'm not going to sell any of my father's +estate." + +And when Matthews withdrew to join the Williams at the missionary +meeting, she burst into tears. + +She went across to the window wondering about Wayland. She had not +seen him since early morning, before breakfast, when he called at the +sitting room door to arrange their return up the Valley next day. The +Williams and Matthews would go up in the buckboard. Would she ride +back up the hog's back trail with him? He would hire horses and riding +togs now if she would say? Yes, he knew it would be steep up grade; +but then, they could go it slow; he laughed as he said that. You see +the hog's back trail was fifteen miles shorter than the Valley road and +they could afford to go it slow; in fact, _very slow_. + +"Come on in," urged Eleanor, throwing open the parlor door. "The +Williams are not up, yet!" + +"That's why I came! No, I'll not come in: not much! I'm keeping +resolutions!" + +She had not understood the wistfulness beneath his forced gayety until +Matthews told her all that afternoon. + +"It will be our last ride: you'll come, won't you?" asked Wayland. + +She had promised. Then, she had spent a most miserable morning. Why +was it to be the _last_ ride? She had not cared to go out. Though the +papers had suppressed all details of the cowardly assassination, the +glare of publicity had been focussed too keenly on her for comfort by +that explosion of the old frontiersman in the court room. She had +remained in all morning watching the motley crowds of a frontier town +surge past the hotel windows down the dusty hot main street, with its +medley of fine brick blocks, and poor shacks, and saloons, and false +fronts--little unpainted restaurants and cigar stands and gambling +places of one-story, with a false timber wall running up a couple of +stories. + +"United States of the World," the old frontiersman had called this +country. Surely that was the true name of the wonderful new country +that had defied all traditions and mingled in her making the races from +every corner of the world! An immigrant train had come in. Eleanor +lifted the parlor window, and looked, and listened. Jap and Chinese +and Hindoo--strikingly tall fellows with turbaned head gear; negro and +West Indians and Malay; German and Russian and Poles and Assyrians. In +half an hour, she did not hear one word of pure English, or what could +be called American. Oh, it was good to be alive in this wonderful new +world under these wonderful new conditions working out the age-old +problem of right and wrong that had defied solution since time began! +She did not mind the crudity. And if I am to be frank, she did not +mind the rudity. It was not a boiled shirt-front, kid-glove world. In +fact, at that moment she saw her hero stage driver shooting out tobacco +squids at the innocent granolithic, which showed no target because so +many other contributors had preceded the stage driver. In fact, it was +not a world for a lady with a train, though Eleanor saw some trollopy +immigrant "ladies" emerging from a big tent on a back lot decked with +tawdry lace and sporting trains in inverse proportions to the +sufficiency of their "h's." Nor was it a perfumed world. She could +smell the reek of the whiskey saloons all down the street--eleven of +them, there were in a succession of twelve buildings; and the twelfth +building, if Eleanor had known it, was a gambling joint of the Chinese +variety that had iron shutters and iron doors and signs up for +"Gentlemen Only." Let us hope, dear reader, that "gentlemen only" +entered behind the dark of those iron doors! She could not help +wondering had the old day passed forever in the West. Was a new day +not dawning? What was to become of all these incoming people? Could +the cattle barons and the sheep kings and the land rings fence them off +the vast, broad, idle acres forever? + +Yet this was the world where her father had come penniless, a refugee +from miscarried justice, and had won out. It was the world where he +had been shot down by some miserable, criminal assassin, who, it was +more than likely, had mistaken him for Wayland. It was Wayland's +world, a world in the making. Well had Matthews designated it--The +United States of the World! More Jews than in Palestine; more Germans +than in Berlin; more Italians than in Rome; more Russians than in St. +Petersburg; more Canadians than in any four Canadian cities combined; +more descendants of the British than in the British Isles--the United +States of the World in the Making! Was it any wonder crime was +rampant; and Democracy rocked to the shock of collision and +miscalculation and inexperience; and Righteousness became a tacking to +progress, not a straight line, like the zig-zag of the ship making +headway all the time, but tacking back and forward to wind and current? +It was good to be alive and take part in the making of the United +States of the World! + +She had had breakfast and luncheon in her apartments. At mid-day, she +saw Wayland coming along the thronged main street. At every step, some +man stopped him to shake hands; and groups turned and gazed after him +as he passed, and spat their approval or disapproval with great +emphasis at the mottled pavement. Below the window, a big Swede +grabbed his two shoulders with the grip of a steam crane. + +"Say, you Vaylan', huh?" he asked. "Say, you a' right! You ever need +yob, Vaylan', you 'ply our union! Huh?" and he laughed, and went on; +and the tears welled to Eleanor's eyes. + +Then came the lawyer to read the will; and after the lawyer's +departure, Matthews had told her how she concerned his errand down from +the North; and when the door closed on Matthews, she burst into tears. + +She saw the street lights come twinkling out, and she did not turn on +the light of the sitting room chandelier. Did he love her at all; or +if he did, did he know what this waiting all day meant to a woman? +Then, it came to her in a flash, his wistful look in the morning behind +the forced gayety, his reference to the last ride, to keeping +resolutions. Was that resolution for the sake of his work at all; or +for her? Of course, Matthews had told him in the Desert; and with the +thought, the weight that had oppressed her rolled from her heart. She +jumped from her chair and uttered a low cry of happy laughter. + +"Oh, I'll soon make short work of that resolution," she vowed. + +Alas and alas! Samson straining his manhood for strength to shore up a +resolution, and here was a sharpening of scissors to shear him well! + +There was a knock on the door. She thought it the waiter coming up +with a late dinner and had called "come in," when the door opened, and +in the glare of light from the hall way stood the news editor, +embarrassed and hesitating. + +"Please come in." She pressed the electric button, shook hands with +him and shut the door. His air was at once apologetic and glad, but +all the bitterness and anger seemed to have gone. He stood holding his +soft felt hat in his hand and looking through his glasses, very +steadily and kindly, Eleanor thought. + +"Won't you sit down?" + +"We newspaper chaps should pretty nearly apologize for coming into your +presence, Miss MacDonald," he began. "I've wanted to tell you how we +fellows all regret that. I hope you know that kind of thing doesn't +come from inside the office. It comes from influences outside." + +He had seated himself shading his eyes from the light with his hand, an +old trick of his compositor days, and still looked at her in the same +friendly way. + +"Ever hear of the Down-East daily that black-guarded one of our +greatest presidents the very day he died? I've often wondered if the +public realized when that item appeared that not an editor on the staff +knew it was coming out, that when two of the editors read it, they +cried and went to pieces right there and then before their men for very +shame! Item had been sent straight to the composing room just before +the forms were locked up, by man who owned the paper. President had +refused him some public concession. Such things sometimes happen to +lesser folks than presidents." + +"Were you so kind as to come here to say all this to me?" asked Eleanor. + +"No, Miss MacDonald, I wasn't!" He blushed furiously, like a boy +caught in the act culpable. "Fact is, I'm keen to see Wayland, been +such a crush of men round him all day, haven't been able to get in a +word with him." + +It was her turn to blush furiously. + +"I didn't want him to go off up the Valley before I could get hold of +him. I wanted to have a shake with him. We're in the same boat now, +Miss MacDonald." + +"I don't the very least bit in the world understand what you are +saying." + +The news editor laughed and laid his hat on the onyx centre table +beneath the electric lights. + +"Why, we're both fired," he said. + +"Fired?" repeated Eleanor. + +This time he laughed aloud: "I don't mean fired out of a gun," he +explained. "We're fired out of our job. I knew after the inquest, I'd +get the sack," he went on, making light of it, "but the wire didn't +come till this morning." + +There were a lot of things the news editor didn't tell Eleanor just +here; and I beg of you, dear reader, to remember these things when you +execrate the press; for they happen every day to plain fellows, some of +them profane fellows, who make no professions and blow no trumpet. +When the news editor walked out of the office that morning, he owned, +besides the Smelter City lots, which were mortgaged to the hilt, and +six "kiddies," who had to be fed, precisely the five dollar bill in his +pocket, the clothes on his back and the duster coat that he carried out +on his arm. It was a mere detail, of course; but it was one of the +details he didn't tell Eleanor. When he had gone home and told his +wife, she had asked, "For Heaven's sake, Joe, what ever will we do, run +a fruit stand; or peddle milk?" Joe had answered the distracted +question with a lighter hearted laugh than she had heard for many a +day. Then he had gone off to catch Wayland. + +But Eleanor did not know all this. Her quick wit grasped one salient +fact. You think, perhaps, it was that Wayland had been dismissed? It +wasn't. + +"You mean that you have lost your position because of the evidence you +gave for us?" + +Then the news editor did what he always told his underlings not to do +and to do--"Never lie; but if you have to, lie like a gentleman." + +"Not at all, Miss MacDonald! I got fired because I told the truth! If +I had given evidence that was simply in your favor, I'd deserve to be +fired; but it was only a matter of somebody letting in a little honest +daylight. I told Wayland at the time that I'd cooked my dough! Funny +enough, the wire that came firing me this morning was immediately +followed by a wire from Washington announcing that he has been +dismissed for taking three weeks' absence without leave. We got it in +the neck together, Miss MacDonald, and I thought maybe Wayland would be +game enough to have a--a--a shake with me over it." + +"Yes, a shake," smiled Eleanor. "I'd like to mix it for you!" + +The news editor suddenly lost all shyness, burst out laughing, leaned +forward and shook hands. + +"Don't know whether you know it or not," he went on, "but about a month +ago one of those d--I beg your pardon, Miss MacDonald, Down-East +scribblerettes, that come out to see the West from a Pullman car window +and put things right, passed through here. Somebody got him and filled +him up pretty full with a lot of lies about Wayland--" + +"You mean Brydges gave him the facts?" asked Eleanor. + +"Well, maybe, Brydges may have had him out in the forty horse power +car! He sent a lot of awful rot East! That wasn't the worst of it. +You'd think the Eastern fellows would know the difference between a +maverick and a long-horn! He's been going round to the Eastern editors +giving them doped stuff, lies dated out here written right down in New +York! They've been hammering the Forest Service for the last month! +I'll bet that dough-head never put a foot in National Forests once +while he was West: rot about running off settlers, and shutting down +mines, and hampering lumbering operations, and low down personal stuff! +Anyway, between lies and dope, they've got Wayland! He's fired! I've +been trying to get hold of him all day. Your old man's phrase, 'United +States of the World,' kind of caught on with the crowd: they've kind of +wakened up! Funny thing, the way that happens to a crowd! Your +professional wind-jammer can orate till he busts his head, he never +knows it has happened till the crowd has got away from him! Been a +crush of men round Wayland all day, by G--, I beg your pardon--but if +he isn't drowned, 'twon't be their fault! They are talking of putting +him up as a candidate." + +"As a what?" exclaimed Eleanor. + +"Run for Congress," explained the news man. + +She had gone quickly forward to the window, righting a shade to hide +the flood of joy that surged up to her face. + +"Excuse me--Mr.----? But I don't know your name?" + +"My name? Oh, my name is--Legion," said the news editor dryly. + +"Well, what was it you said the other day," she had mustered courage to +turn and face him again, "what was it you said the other day about a +moneyed man backing an independent paper through this fight? Don't you +remember, after the inquest, Mr. Legion?" + +He uttered a shout of laughter, and she understood and laughed too. + +"Oh, the independent paper is floundering on the edge of failure. +They'll have to swing in line with the side that pays them best at +election time. One could buy up their debts now for a few thousand +dollars, perhaps not twenty thousand. Another fifty or so would swing +her off on an independent tack. There's been a great awakening. The +people have their ears down to the ground for the coming change, Miss +MacDonald; and the politicians don't know it! If we could swing her +off well, she'd be a paying concern in a year; then the politicians +could be d--I beg your pardon, the special interests could go to the +Devil! That's what I wanted to talk about to Wayland. He's the +winning horse! We haven't either of us got anything left to lose but +some frayed convictions, and by God," (this time, he did not notice he +had said it), "we'd invest 'em in an independent for all we're worth! +I'm hot; and I've an idea Wayland isn't just at milk and water +temperature; and the public isn't; and we'd have them! We'd force the +other crowd to yell at the top of their voices for reform inside of six +months. There's a lot about that Rim Rocks affair even the owners of +the sheep don't know; but why in the Devil am I telling all this to a +woman?" + +She had drawn her chair up to the table where he sat. + +"Because, I suppose, the woman wants to know. In case, you don't see +Wayland, do you mind giving me the exact figures about that independent +paper? We are all to go home together to-morrow. Let us put the +figures down. I can tell him the rest when the others are not about; +and do you know, I think I have heard him speak of some one who might +back this kind of scheme?" + +Oh, crafty woman! Do you think the kindly eyes behind those strongly +focussed glasses did not bore in behind your guarded words? Just once +did she interrupt his quick run of explanations. + +"Is your idea to run an altogether _staid_ journal, or a yellow one?" +she asked. + +He was plainly taken aback. He laid down his pencil. + +"If you were a man, I could explain that easier!" + +"Because, I'm done with the kind of goodness that's pickled and put +away in a self-sealer where it won't spoil like old-fashioned jam for +company," she said. + +The news editor's eyes opened very wide, indeed! She had said "_I'm +done_" quite as unconsciously as he had let slip words inadmissable in +polite converse. + +"It isn't piety done up in homoeopathic pills the world wants," she +went on. + +"No, it's punch," he broke in; "and what's the use of dickering with a +little two-for-a-cent high-brow, superior, exclusive, self-righteous +rag of a daily that will reach only a handful of sissy people? +Democracy is here; and it's here for keeps, the rule of the many good +or bad; and it's as your old parson said in the court room, it's _going +to be the United States of the World_. What's the use of issuing a rag +sheet that will preach to a little parlorful of sissies and high-brows? +You've got to get the crowd, and to educate 'em up to self-government, +to pelt 'em to a pulp with facts! You've got to get 'em if you take +them by the scruff of the neck, Miss MacDonald! While the churches and +the teachers and the preachers sit back self-superior and +self-sufficient, Miss MacDonald, where's the crowd? They're out in the +street! You've got to get 'em! You've got to get the facts before +'em! People curse the yellow journals! All right! But they reach an +audience of a million a day; every one of them; and your self-superior +journals don't touch ten-thousand! Miss MacDonald, which is having the +telling influence, for good or evil? Which is getting the crowd? Oh, +I know they publish pictures of pugilists' big toes and base ball +pitchers' thumbs the size of a half page; but if I could ram a moral +truth or a hard fact down the fool-public's throat on the very next +page by advertising it with a pugilist's big toe, I'd do it--you bet! +I'd take a leaf out of the Devil's note book and go him one better! +You ask whether I'd publish a yellow journal? Miss MacDonald, if I +could get the facts of exactly what is going on in this country before +the public, I wouldn't publish 'em yellow! I'd publish truth bloody +red!" + + +When the Williams and Matthews came in from the missionary meeting, +Eleanor was standing under the centre light leaning against the table +with her back to the door. + +"Feeling better, dear?" asked Mrs. Williams. + +"So much better that I'm going to bed to sleep every minute for the +first night for a week." + +"Surely," cried Williams clapping his hands. "A MacDonald never had +nerves." + +Matthews was trying to read her face as she shook hands saying +good-night. + +"No," she answered his look, shaking her head, "I must decide for +myself, Mr. Matthews." + +The three stood talking in the room she had left. + +"Do you think we ought to have told her?" asked Mrs. Williams +solicitously. + +"No! Leave Wayland t' tell her himself t'morrow! A make no doubt that +buckboard won't hold five people! Is it six o'clock we set out? A'm +longin' for m' own wee uns!" + +"One thing," declared Williams, throwing himself on a chair, "if +Wayland runs, I'm going to stump it for him! We've got to get busy, +Matthews! The old order changeth! We've got to keep up with the +procession!" + +If you had not known her utter conservatism as to all things pertaining +to women, you could not appreciate the response of the missionary's +wife. (She was an ultra-anti-suffragette.) + +"I am sure, my dear," she cried, "I know a couple of hundred people on +our summer circuit in the Upper Pass that I could make vote right." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +THE UNITED STATES OF THE WORLD + +"Wayland, for a man who's had his head cut off, you look uncommon +joyous, tho' you're a bit white about the chops." + +"Had a shave," answered Wayland dryly. + +The yellow buckboard was rattling over the pressed brick pavement of +Smelter City towards the suburbs. Williams was in the front seat with +Matthews, who was driving. Eleanor and Mrs. Williams were in the +second seat, with Wayland standing behind as he had stood that night +going up to the Rim Rocks. Behind trotted two range ponies with empty +saddles. + +"I thought, perhaps, you'd prefer driving out beyond the suburbs," he +had explained. "There's a good trail up to the hog's back opposite the +_Brulé_." + +They watched her leap down from the buckboard and mount the saddle, a +little awkward at first whether to put the right knee fore or aft, from +her Eastern training to a side saddle; and side saddles in the range +country are rare as low neck gowns and tuxedo coats; but once she had +caught the far stirrup, riding was riding. She had the pace, and the +two figures loped off up the burn for the hill known as the _Brulé_, +Wayland turning and waving his hat. + +"Now the Lord have mercy on your soul, Williams. This ride will settle +it; an' A'm not darin' t' hope which way it goes! A 'm not keen to go +back empty-handed with yon little old lady payin' m' expenses heavy an' +generous; but yet--but yet--" + +"Yet what?" asked Mrs. Williams, leaning forward between the two men. + +"Th' great joy comes only once; an' when it cam' t' me, A put a +handspike thro' it, an' kept it." + + +He had come to her that morning with a look on his face that she had +not dreamed a human face could wear. She wondered if all men crucified +for right won such joy. And he did not tread earth. He trod air. +Eleanor could not trust her eyes to meet his. She felt their light +burning to the centre of her soul. What was it? Was it renunciation? +The thought turned her faint. Her determination to break his +resolution seemed the cheap obtrusion of egotism on the great mission +of a devoted life. Then, going up the hog's back trail along the rim +of the Ridge, they were facing the Holy Cross Mountain. The glint of +the morning sun on the far snows shone like diamonds, a tiared jeweled +thing poised in mid-heaven like a crown held by invisible hands; the +base of the lower mountain outlines melting and losing edge in the +purple shadows; the crown only, shining diademed, winged with opal +light. + +"Look Dick," she said pointing with her riding crop, "do you remember +the night on the Ridge? Do you remember about the snow flakes massing +to the avalanche? It has--hasn't it? The Nation has wakened up." + +Wayland looked ahead. He couldn't answer. 'Remember the night on the +Ridge?' He had a lump in his throat and an ache at his heart from +never letting himself remember it. By that strange perversity, which +we all know in ourselves, he couldn't talk. The hundred and one things +he had wanted to ask, died on his lips in a dumbness of gladness. Of +course, you, dear reader, on the return of a husband or wife +(prospective or present), on the sudden appearance of friend or kith +have never been similarly affected. You didn't forget the questions +you had meant to ask till thousands of miles again separated you. + +It was good to leave the Valley road and go into seclusion and shelter +on the Forest trail; for a hurricane September wind was blowing, the +kind of Western wind that the Eastern woman with a big hat thinks is +possessed by ten thousand devils; the kind of wind that the Eastern +office man with sensitive eyes curses with tears that are not grief; +the kind of wind that makes the Westerner put screw nails in _his_ hat +and look out for the fire guard round wheat, stock and timber. + +Such a different home-going he had planned from this visitation of dumb +devils that obsessed them both! He used to dream at night in the +Desert of the day, perhaps, coming when they should set out together +adventuring a life joy in the Forests; _his_ Forests; when he would +show her the golden cottonwoods and the pale birches nursing the +pineries to strong maturity; and the fire blisters on the firs; and the +sugar blisters on the sugar pines; and the rain of green-gray tempered +light from the under side of the funereal hemlocks; and the park like +glades of the wonderfully straight and serried soldier ranks of the +engleman spruce and the lodge-pole pines; and the larches yellow as +gold dust to the touch of the alchemist autumn. He wanted to bring out +his violin some day with her and see if they could catch the exact tone +and pitch of the pines, when they began harping those age-old melodies +of Pan: they were harping them to-day in the high wind; he was sure it +was the same as the bass undertone of a big orchestra. Had she ever +noticed the way the seeds came fluffing out of the cinnamon cones and +the asters and the golden rod and the fire flower in September, for all +the world like fairies sailing pixie parachutes? People said that +autumn was sad, it presaged death! Did it? A Forester did not see it +so; he saw the triumphal procession of the years lighted to its +consummation by the flaming torches of ten thousand golden twinkling +gay, recklessly gay flowers and trees--the cottonwood and the poplar +and the larch, the cone flower and the golden rod and the aster! But +to-day, he could not say a word. They were no longer _his_ Forests. +He had been cast out from his life work--the continuity of a National +Life Work broken--because he had dared to interfere with the petty +plans of peanut politicians and public plunderers. + +"It is level here! Let us gallop out of this bare burn to the shelter +of the evergreens," she said. "I don't mind wind, but I'd just as soon +get under cover where it couldn't lash us so." + +And the horses came chugging and breathing hard up on the sheltered +trail below the evergreens. She reined her horse to the slowest of +walks. + +"Did you see the news editor before you left town?" she asked. + +"Yes, he came over to my hotel last night about twelve o'clock. He had +the biggest fool-scheme you ever heard of my running for Congress and +buying a paper to boost out the Ring and all that! Thunder, I don't +want to run! I've no ax to grind! I prefer to stay a free lance in +the fighting ranks!" + +"And do you think the fellows, who want to run and have an ax to grind, +do best for the Nation?" asked Eleanor. "Why wouldn't you run if the +people demanded it?" + +"There is the plain brutal fact that it takes money," explained +Wayland. "I haven't the ambition; and I have less money. I haven't +more than will set me up on some little one-horse irrigation farm. Oh, +I know some fool had been filling him up about my having rich friends +East, who would put up money for this campaign and finance a new kind +of newspaper for the Valley! I'd like to knock the fool's head off who +told him that! It's all a lie! Of course, I knew lots of moneyed +chaps at Yale; but thunderation, I'd have to want public office a good +deal harder than I do to go round cap in hand! Why, Eleanor, a fellow +who would do that wouldn't be worth shucks to represent the people." + +"Did you tell him that?" asked Eleanor. + +"Yes and more! I told him he was clean plumb fool-crazy! Why, +Eleanor, when that fellow was fired out of his job yesterday morning, +he hadn't ten dollars ahead in the world! I'm not a bank, myself; but +then I haven't a wife and kiddies. Do you know, Eleanor, that fellow +had more pluck than I would have had under the same circumstances? I +couldn't let the results of this kind of a fight come down on a woman." + +"What did he say when you told him he was crazy?" + +"Oh, went locoed clean out of his head, kicked my hat off the bed post, +took out a fiver, said, 'Wayland, that's my last! I'll bet it a +hundred odd you do the very thing I'm outlining tonight.'" + +"It was a safe bet," said Eleanor. "He had come to see me before he +went to you! I was the person, who told him you had a friend, who +would put up the money. I didn't tell him who the friend was; for it +happens to be myself. No: you needn't blow up, Dick; or drop dead of +apoplexy! He didn't come to tell me, or ask a woman's money! He had +come hunting you; and I pumped it out of him. He's a brick not to +mention my name to you. I like that in a man; and I am going to do it, +Dick; and you needn't blow up with rage! You can swear if it would +relieve pressure; but I am going to do it! I am going to do it at +once! Don't you see what a cowardly foolish thing it would be of you +to give up and slink into a hole just because you're defeated? It's +just what you said would happen that night on the Ridge. Don't you +remember, you said it was bound to be a losing fight; and I said it +didn't matter a bit if a man were crucified long as the cause won out? +Well, you sent me the note saying you had set out on the Trail and +would never quit till you got the Man Higher Up. How are you going to +get the Man Higher Up if you don't go right after him in the House and +the Senate? They've crucified you; and it's going to be the making of +you. Men don't destroy an opponent unless they fear him! If he's a +fool, they give him rope enough to hang himself; but if they fear him, +they slander him and blacken him and misrepresent him and try to +destroy him! Well, they've done all that to you and tried to destroy +you; and instead of destroying you, they've only made the people call +on you for a leader! Don't you see what a cowardly thing it would be +to slink away now because you are defeated? Why, that's the very time +a man can't afford to quit, and still call himself a man. No, don't +try to stop me! I lay awake all last night thinking it out! They'll +not have a chance to call you a woman-made man! I'll place a certain +amount with my lawyer for Mr. Williams. You know my father always +helped the Mission School more or less; and a woman is supposed to be +soft on Missions. Mr. Williams will loan it to the news editor. Only, +I may as well tell you, Dick, you are not going to be allowed to stop +now! You wrote me that a person couldn't stab certain things to life +and then expect them to lie quiet as if nothing had happened. That +cuts both ways. Men are pretty good egotists; but I wonder if you ever +thought what that means with me, with the people you have prodded up to +resent the Ring in the Valley here. Do you know Dick, if you would +quit now, I'd despise myself for ever having loved you." + +Wayland could not answer. His eyes had filled. He rode with his hand +on the pommel of the saddle. Her words had fallen like whiplashes. It +was true. You could not cut out and disconnect with life. He had +dreamed of this last ride as a sort of mid-heaven ecstasy; and behold, +instead of love's dream, the lifting kick to a limp spine. If only +one's friends would oftener give us that lifting kick instead of the +softening sympathy! If only they would brace our back bone instead of +our wish bone! + +Then, she turned to him with a sudden tenderness: "What a beast I am to +speak so to you when you've just had the blow of public dismissal on +top of five years' continuous grilling," and he saw that the flame in +her cheeks, in her eyes, was not anger but a gust of passionate love. + +"I can't thank you Eleanor," he said. "This is beyond thanks." + +"And your old editor man was so funny about it," she went on. "You +know Dick, I think he had really come round to the hotel to have a +consolation drink with you; and he almost let it out; but just at the +last moment he changed the word and said he'd come 'to shake' with you +on being dismissed together." + +"When do you leave?" asked Wayland dully. + +"I don't leave! I haven't the slightest intention of ever leaving this +Valley! Why, Dick, would you have me exchange this splendid big free +new life where men and women do things, for a parish existence--working +slippers for a curate and talking dress, Dick--dress like the Colonel's +wife, and chronicling what Shakespeare calls 'small beer'? I don't +intend ever to leave the Valley! Tennyson sung of 'the federation of +the world,' Dick! You and I are seeing it in the making! Think of the +fun of my staying and seeing it and having a finger in the making, just +a little quiet finger that nobody knows about but you and me! United +States of the World, Dick; and you are going after the Man Higher Up +just as you went after those blackguards into the Desert." She laughed +joyously, joyous as a child, swinging out her arms to the sweep of the +roaring Forest wind. "Don't look shocked. I'll not stay on alone at +the Ranch House for the Rookery to talk about! I'll insist on the +foreman marrying an aged house keeper for me; or I'll move over to the +Mission School; or--Oh, I'll plan out something; but I am not going to +leave the West." + +Wayland suddenly wheeled his horse across her way and faced her. "So +you've been trouncing the hide off my back for an hour or more to make +me believe all this doesn't mean renunciation? They splashed their +filthy hogwash on your skirts to foil me; and _that_ was nothing! The +fight was to go on just the same. I was not to stop because of any +injury that came to you. Then, they assassinated your father; and you +know as well as I do he was shot down by that drunken Shanty Town sot +in mistake for me; but the fight is to go on just the same. _That_, +too, is nothing if the cause be won. Now, you take a slice of your +fortune and slam it into the cause, backing me; and you renounce +everything that gives meaning to life for a woman, pretending that +renunciation is a privilege--" + +"It is," interrupted Eleanor, "if it weaves the thing worth while into +the warp and woof of your life so it can never be anything but a part +of you! Turn your broncho round here and ride along side of me. Look +at our Mountain ahead! It isn't a Cross: it's a Crown! Do you think +I'm going to push a crown away from myself for the sake of having a lot +of flunkeys in a land I don't know bending themselves in their middle +at me all my life?" She laughed joyously, flinging her arms wide to +the drive and toss of the rolling wind tunneling up the trail on their +backs. She had pulled off her hat and the wind tossed forward her hair +in a frame of curls round an enamel miniature that always haunted +Wayland. "I love it," she said, "the harder it blows, the harder I +want to ride! You remember that night coming down the Ridge in the +storm? It was like Love and Life! And smell the air, Dick! It has +all the sunbeams of the summer imprisoned, done up in balsam fir and +balm of gilead and spices! Exchange _this_ life in the open, here, in +the very thick of things doing, for that ancient tapestry plush +upholstery blue-book existence?" + +"I can't ask you, Eleanor! I haven't a thing on earth to offer but a +broken reputation and a lot of plans in the ditch! I ought never to +have let you know I loved you! I ought never to have let you care for +me! You know what you think and you know what I think of a man who +lets a woman give all. He isn't worthy of her. You know you have +never been out of my thoughts day or night since I met you, dear! I +couldn't have come through that Desert thing alive without you; and +I'll hold you in my heart every day of my life till I die." He had +taken off his hat and kicked the stirrups free and was riding with +loose rein. + +When a man tells a woman that he is down and out financially and dare +not ask her to marry him, do you think there is an end of it, dear +reader? Do you think a Silenus would hesitate and stickle and scruple +over a point of honor; though some of us have seen Silenus blunder into +a paradise which he promptly transformed into a sty? And do you think +the descendant of the Man of the Iron Hand thought anything less of her +lover for refusing to accept renunciation as his right? If Wayland +could have trusted himself to look at her, he would have seen that she +was riding with a whimsical smile. They came to a bend in the upward +climbing trail that overlooked the Valley and faced the opal shining +peak. + +"There goes the buckboard," remarked Wayland. + +"Dick," she said, "I'll write my lawyer about placing the loan in the +bank at once. You need not lose any time." + +"But, I can't take that, Eleanor! I haven't any security on earth to +offer you." + +"Oh, yes you have! I've thought all that out, too. You have the very +best security I ever want." + +"What?" asked Wayland incredulously. "Do you mean you trust to my +honesty? Good intentions aren't usually a banking proposition--" + +"You will do as security," she said. + +Was it the old mountain talking again; or was it the break in her +voice? Their eyes met. He had slipped from his horse. + +"Don't," she cried averting her eyes with a tremor in her voice. "I +couldn't bear This to be of Self! If I were a man, you'd shake hands +with me and call it a bargain. Look Dick! We're in the light of the +Cross! Shake hands with me! Is it a bargain?" + +His hands closed over both of hers. There were tears in his eyes. He +did not break out with any of the wild terms that had clamored and +clamored for utterance these weeks past. He did not say any of the +things that men and women say at such times in books and plays. They +paused so, she on horseback, he standing at her side, on the crest of +the Ridge gazing down on the Valley in the light of the Cross. + +"So my old Mountain is talking to you, too?" she said. "Do you +remember, Dick?" + +"It's so God-blessed beautiful, Eleanor," he answered. "I can't thank +you! If I lived a thousand years, I couldn't live out my thanks. I +could only put up a bluff of trying." + +"Dick the nth," she laughed whimsically, "Dick the nth for the United +States of the World." + +Suddenly he looked up at her. The lashes did not veil quick enough. +He caught the veil wide open. He had thought he knew before. Now, he +knew that he had but touched the outer margin of her love, of the +wealth of her nature, of the reach and grasp of her spirit. She felt +the grip of the strong hands closed over hers. + +"Mine alder-liefest," he whispered in the old clean unused phrase. + +"Is it a bargain?" + +"Bargain?" repeated Wayland. + +Then, they both laughed. She had him at such an obvious disadvantage. +I do not intend to tell how far the afternoon shadows had stretched out +when Eleanor exclaimed with a jump; "Dick: the buckboard is out of +sight." I do not think either of them as lovers of horses ever offered +adequate reason for having ridden their bronchos such a hard pace up +grade the last ten miles that the ponies came down the Ridge to the +Valley road a lather of sweat. + +"You are sure," he had asked as they came out of the evergreens, "that +you'll never regret?" + +"Mr. Matthews intended to leave to-morrow, Dick. Do you think you +could persuade him to stay over a day?" + + +It was Mrs. Williams who sensed something unusual as the ponies came +down one of the by-paths from the Ridge. + +"My dear, look at their faces! I do believe it has!" Then to Eleanor, +"Will you come in the rig? Are you tired?" + +"I think I shall," said Eleanor. + +"You've ridden y'r nags uncommon hard, Wayland," observed Matthews. + +Eleanor had ascended to the back seat. Wayland had tied the bridle +rein of her horse to the rear and was riding abreast of the front seat. + +"I wish you could make it convenient to put off your departure for a +day or two," began Wayland, very red. + +"Eh? What's that?" cried Matthews; and when he looked to the back seat +Eleanor and the little gray haired lady in plain back mourning bonnet +were going on as fool-women will, and Williams was risking a fall out +leaning over the seat shaking hands with Wayland. Somebody was +flourishing a red cotton handkerchief; two for ten cents, they sell +them in Smelter City. It was Williams who put a check to what Eleanor +called a 'loadful of idiots.' "The wind is blowing towards the snow," +he said; "but I don't like that column of smoke rising from the +Homestead slope in this high gale. That Irish sot went home roaring +drunk by the stage yesterday. What will you bet the fire didn't start +in the timber slash?" + +Wayland gave only one look. "It isn't my job any more," he said, "but +I can't stand seeing _that_." + +He was off at a gallop. They saw the sparks strike from the stones as +he turned up the Ridge Trail. + + +A week had passed. The fire had been put out with little damage except +from O'Finnigan's timber slash to the lake beneath the upper snows. A +new Ranger was in charge. As for O'Finnigan, like Calamity, he had +dropped as completely from the Valley's knowledge as if the earth had +swallowed him. The Valley, in fact, had given small thought to the mad +squaw or the drunken Irishman. The Valley had had other things to talk +about. There was the coming fall campaign, and Wayland's name as +reform candidate, and Wayland's quiet marriage to the daughter of the +dead sheep king. Eleanor and Wayland had gone round through the Pass +to the Lake Behind the Peak, where he had dreamed what form of +triangulation thoughts must take from the star in the water to the star +on the other side of the Holy Cross; where the little waves lipped and +lisped and laved the reeds; where they two could drink and drink unseen +of the joy of the waters of life before the opening of the political +battle. + +"Make him tell y' of all that happened in th' Pass when A was with +him," Matthews had called as they rode away up the narrowing trail to +the jubilant shouting of the canyon waters, the little mule leading the +pack ponies. + +Mrs. Williams stood on the upper piazza of the Mission School waving +and waving. The cottonwoods were raining down showers of gold; and the +pines were clicking their gypsy tambourines; and the golden torches of +countless yellow autumn flowers lighted the triumphal procession of the +year to its consummation. Against the opal crown of the Holy Cross +Mountain, the yellowed larches tossed flaming torches to the very sky. + +"They seem to be riding away to a world of dreams," said the little +lady in black. + + +Mr. Bat Brydges and Senator Moyese walked slowly and reflectively past +the Range Cabin towards the charred burn and timber slash of +O'Finnigan's abandoned homestead. + +"It's that damned rant the old fellow let off in the court room," said +Brydges. + +"Rant doesn't win elections, Brydges! It has to be fought out! Sooner +we accept the challenge and put 'em to bed for good, the better! Money +talks, Brydges!" + +"But that's just it, Senator! Money _does_ talk; and some body's money +has talked when the Independent sold out to Joe!" + +"Fool and his money soon parted, Brydges! Only, in this case, I've a +suspicion it's a _Her_! Never fear a known enemy, Brydges! It's the +unknown factors you want to look out for! F'r instance, there is this +sot of a drunken Shanty Town Irishman? What's become of him? Did he +burn himself, when he set fire to the slash?" + +They had paused opposite that fallen giant which bridged the Gully +where Wayland had laid the saplings to cross to the Rim Rocks. + +"That's a fine one; the fire didn't bring that one down! Been cheesy +heart wood! Wonder who placed the saplings for a bridge? Think I'll +cross and go down to the ranch by the Rim Rocks, Brydges!" + +"Then, excuse me, Mr. Senator! I go back _this_ way! Napoleon had +aversion to mice! I've an aversion to wire walking." + +He saw Moyese, hands in pockets, stroll along the great log bridging +the Gully. Mid-way, he paused as if in contempt of Brydges' timidity. +"Bark gives a little," he said, pressing his whole weight up and down +flexibly. + +"I wish you wouldn't do that, Senator," called Brydges. "Trunk looks +to me as if the fire had run through the punk!" + +Even as he spoke, he saw it happen, Calamity glide on the far end of +the log, utter a maniacal laugh, throw her shawl to the winds and bound +forward. + +"Go back, you she-devil! Look out, Senator! That log won't stand the +weight of two--" + +There was the flash of a knife in her hand. Moyese had jumped from the +stabbing onslaught--when he lost his balance: the tree crunched, bent, +doubled like a jack knife, and plunged in a swirl of smoke and dust to +the bottom of the Gully. It had been burnt through to the green mossed +outer bark. When Brydges looked fearfully over the bank, the Indian +woman had crushed below the log; and Moyese lay very still, his face to +the sky, his left hand in his pocket, his right hand thrown out as if +to ward a blow, gashed and bloody, whether from rock or knife cut, one +could not tell. + +I do not intend to repeat the "Smelter City Herald's" flare head +announcement of "the deplorable and tragical accident that cut short +one of the most promising political careers in the United States." +"Senator Moyese had long been accustomed to search the mountains in +autumn for seeds and roots of specimen flowers for his herbarium, of +which he had made a hobby. That reckless disregard of danger for which +he was famous, etc., etc." You'll find the salient features of it all +in "Who's Who." Pad that out with Mr. Bat Brydges' imagination and +devotion; and you will have an idea of the sorrow that convulsed the +"Smelter City Herald." + +The opposition paper opined "He would hardly have retained the +confidence of the Valley had he lived;" and the "Independent"--our old +friend, the news editor--paid him the straight out from the shoulder +compliment, "that he had died as he had lived, an uncompromising game +fighter to the end." + +What became of Mr. Bat Brydges? Bless you, my friend, do you need to +ask? He is shouting for Reform as loudly as his kind always shout when +the tide turns. What became of the scandal story? What becomes of any +scandal story? What becomes of the skunk's contribution to the gayety +of nations?--Buried in the memory of decent folks, long ago and +forgotten: in the memory of indecent folk, still hauled forth and +repeated and fondled under the tongue. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FREEBOOTERS OF THE WILDERNESS*** + + +******* This file should be named 18116-8.txt or 18116-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/1/1/18116 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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