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diff --git a/30558-h/30558-h.htm b/30558-h/30558-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5744e4b --- /dev/null +++ b/30558-h/30558-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9150 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en"> +<head> +<meta name="generator" content="eppg.rb 0.28 (28-Nov-2009)" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Claim Number One, by George W. (George Washington) Ogden</title> +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[*/ + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + + p {margin-top: 0.1em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: 0.1em;} + + div.text { } + div.text p { margin-top: 1ex; text-indent: 0 } + div.text p + p { margin-top: 0; text-indent: 1em } + div.bquote { font-size:0.9em; margin: 5px 5%; } + div.text div.bquote p { text-indent:0em; margin-bottom:3px; } + + p.center { text-align: center; } + p.caption { font-size:smaller; } + p.tp { font-size:1em; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-align:center; } + div.header { } + h1,h2 { text-align:center; font-weight:normal; } + h1 { font-size:1.6em; } + h1.pg { text-align:center; font-weight:bold; font-size:190%; } + h2 { font-size:1.4em; } + a { text-decoration: none; } + div.figcenter p { text-align: center; } + div.figcenter { text-align: center; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; } + span.h2fs { font-size:smaller; } + div.adpage { } + div.adpage p { text-indent: 0em; } + + table { margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both; } + td.c1 { text-align: right; padding-right:10px; vertical-align: top } + td.c2 { text-align: left; padding-right:40px; vertical-align: top } + td.c3 { text-align: right; vertical-align: bottom; } + hr.tb { border: none; border-bottom:1px solid black; width: 33%; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; } + + hr.pb { border: none; page-break-after: always; margin-top: 4em; } + .pagenum { display: none; } + .pncolor { color: inherit; } + + #img000 { width:450px } + + @media screen { + #img000 {width:22em} + hr.pb {margin:30px 0; width:100%; border:none; border-top:thin dashed silver;} + .pagenum {display: inline; font-size: x-small; text-align: right; text-indent: 0; + position: absolute; right: 2%; padding: 1px 3px; font-style: normal; + font-variant:normal; font-weight:normal; text-decoration: none; + background-color: inherit; border:1px solid #eee;} + .pncolor {color: silver;} + } + + .center { text-align: center; } + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} + /*]]>*/ +</style> +</head> +<body> +<h1 class="pg">The Project Gutenberg eBook, Claim Number One, by George W. (George Washington) Ogden, Illustrated by J. +Allen St. John</h1> + +<pre> +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 <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a> +</pre> + +<p>Title: Claim Number One</p> + +<p>Author: George W. (George Washington) Ogden</p> + +<p>Release Date: November 29, 2009 [eBook #30558]</p> + +<p>Language: English</p> + +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> + +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLAIM NUMBER ONE***</p> + +<p> </p> + +<h3 class="center">E-text prepared by Roger Frank<br /> +and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> +(http://www.pgdp.net)</h3> + +<p> </p> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<p> </p> + +<p> </p> + +<h1>CLAIM NUMBER ONE</h1> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='figcenter'><img src='images/illus-fpc.jpg' id="img000" alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'>The crowd parted and opened a lane for a dusty man on a sweat-drenched horse to pass.</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:2.2em;margin-bottom:20px;margin-top:20px;'>Claim Number One</p> + +<p class='tp' style=''>BY</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;margin-bottom:15px;'>GEORGE W. OGDEN</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;'>AUTHOR OF</p> + +<p class='tp' style='margin-bottom:30px;'>THE DUKE OF CHIMNEY BUTTE<br /> +TRAILS END, Etc.</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;'>FRONTISPIECE BY</p> + +<p class='tp' style=''>J. ALLEN ST. JOHN</p> + +<div style='margin:40px auto; text-align:center;'><img alt='emblem' src='images/illus-emb.png' /> +</div> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.1em;'>GROSSET & DUNLAP</p> + +<p class='tp' style='margin-bottom:10px;margin-bottom:20px;'> +PUBLISHERS        NEW YORK</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;'>Made in the United States of America</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style=''>Copyright</p> + +<p class='tp' style=''>A. C. McCLURG & CO.</p> + +<p class='tp' style=''>1922</p> + +<hr style= +'border:none; border-bottom:1px solid black; height: 1px; width: 10em; text-align: center; margin: 10px auto;' /> + +<p class='tp' style=''>Published May, 1922</p> + +<hr style= +'border:none; border-bottom:1px solid black; height: 1px; width: 10em; text-align: center; margin: 10px auto;' /> + +<p class='tp' style='margin-bottom:20px;'><i>Copyrighted in Great Britain</i> +</p> + +<p class='tp' style=''><i>Printed in the United States of America</i> +</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<table summary='TOC'> +<tr> +<td colspan='3' style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em;'>CONTENTS</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>I.</td> +<td class='c2'>Comanche</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_1'>1</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>II.</td> +<td class='c2'>Guests for the Metropole</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_2'>9</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>III.</td> +<td class='c2'>Unconventional Behavior</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_3'>21</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>IV.</td> +<td class='c2'>The Flat-Game Man</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_4'>46</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>V.</td> +<td class='c2'>Skulkers</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_5'>63</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>VI.</td> +<td class='c2'>The Drawing</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_6'>79</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>VII.</td> +<td class='c2'>A Midnight Extra</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_7'>104</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>VIII.</td> +<td class='c2'>The Governor’s Son</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_8'>122</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>IX.</td> +<td class='c2'>Double Crookedness</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_9'>140</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>X.</td> +<td class='c2'>Hun Shanklin’s Coat</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_10'>154</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>XI.</td> +<td class='c2'>Number One</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_11'>172</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>XII.</td> +<td class='c2'>The Other Man</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_12'>188</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>XIII.</td> +<td class='c2'>Sentiment and Nails</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_13'>206</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>XIV.</td> +<td class='c2'>“Like a Wolf”</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_14'>219</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>XV.</td> +<td class='c2'>An Argument Ends</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_15'>233</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>XVI.</td> +<td class='c2'>A Promise</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_16'>255</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>XVII.</td> +<td class='c2'>A Plan</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_17'>273</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>XVIII.</td> +<td class='c2'>The Strange Tent</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_18'>288</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>XIX.</td> +<td class='c2'>Crook Meets Crook</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_19'>304</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>XX.</td> +<td class='c2'>A Sudden Cloud</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_20'>325</a> +</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class='c1'>XXI.</td> +<td class='c2'>The Crisis</td> +<td class='c3'><a href='#link_21'>343</a> +</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.4em;'><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_1'></a>1</span>Claim Number One</p> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_1'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER I<br /> +<span class='h2fs'>COMANCHE</span></h2> +</div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>Coming to Comanche, you stopped, for Comanche was the end of the world. Unless, of course, you were one of those who +wished to push the boundary-line of the world farther, to make homes in the wilderness where there had been no homes, +to plant green fields in the desert where none had been before.</p> + +<p>In that case you merely paused at Comanche, like the railroad, to wait the turn of events.</p> + +<p>Beyond Comanche was the river, and beyond the river, dim-lined in the west, the mountains. Between the river and the +mountains lay the reservation from which the government had pushed the Indians, and which it had cut into parcels to be +drawn by lot.</p> + +<p>And so Comanche was there on the white plain to serve the present, and temporary, purpose of housing and feeding the +thousands who had collected there at the lure of chance with practical, impractical, speculative, romantic, honest, and +dishonest ideas and intentions. Whether it should survive to become a colorless post-office and shipping-station for +wool, hides, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_2'></a>2</span> and sheep remained for the future to decide. As +the town appeared under the burning sun of that August afternoon one might have believed, within bounds, that its +importance was established for good and all.</p> + +<p>It was laid out with the regular severity of the surveyor’s art. Behind the fresh, new railroad depot the +tented streets swept away pretentiously. In the old settlements–as much as two months before that day some of +them had been built–several business houses of wood and corrugated sheet-iron reared above the canvas roofs of +their neighbors, displaying in their windows all the wares which might be classified among the needs of those who had +come to break the desert, from anvils to zitherns; from beads, beds, and bridles to winches, wagons, water bottles, and +collapsible cups.</p> + +<p>At the head of the main street stood a hydrant, which the railroad company supplied with water, offering its +refreshment to all comers–to man, beast, and Indian, as well as to dusty tourists with red handkerchiefs about +their necks. Around it, where teams had been fed and the overflow of water had run, little green forests of oats were +springing, testifying to the fecundity of the soil, lighting unbelieving eyes with hope.</p> + +<p>“Just look what a little water will do!” said the locaters and town-site men, pointing with eloquent +gesture. “All this land needs, gentlemen, is a little water to make it a paradise!”</p> + +<p>On the right hand of the hydrant there was a bank, presenting a front of bricked stability, its boarded sides +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_3'></a>3</span> painted in imitation of that same resisting material, for the +comfort of its depositors perhaps, and the benefit of its credit before the eyes of the passing world. Well out in the +desert, among the hummocks of earth heaped around anchoring sage clumps, stood the Elkhorn Hotel. It was built of logs, +with a design toward the picturesque and an eye to the tourist class of adventurers who were expected to throng to the +opening. The logs had been cut along the river–they were that gnarled cottonwood which grows, leaning always +toward the northeast, in that land of bitter extremes–the bark stripped from them until they gleamed yellowly, +and fitted together with studied crudity. Upon the projecting end of the ridge-pole rode a spreading elk-prong, +weathered, white, old.</p> + +<p>And there was the Hotel Metropole. There always is a Hotel Metropole and a newspaper, no matter where you go. When +you travel beyond them you have penetrated the <i>Ultima Thule</i> of modern times. The Hotel Metropole was near the +station. It was picturesque without straining for it. Mainly it was a large, sandy lot with a rope around it; but part +of it was tents of various colors, sizes, and shapes, arranged around the parent shelter of them all–a circus +“top,” weathered and stained from the storms of many years. Their huddling attitude seemed to express a +lack of confidence in their own stability. They seemed a brood of dusty chicks, pressing in for shelter of the +mothering wing. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_4'></a>4</span></p> + +<p>All was under the direction of a small man with a cream-colored waistcoat and a most incendiary-looking nose. It +seemed tempting the laws of physics governing dry materials and live coals to bring that nose into the shelter of a +desert-bleached tent. But it was there, and it flared its welcome with impartial ardor upon all arrivals.</p> + +<p>The scheme of the Hotel Metropole was this: If you wanted a cot in a tent where each bed was partitioned from the +other by a drop-curtain of calico print, you could enjoy that luxury at the rate of two dollars a night in advance, no +baggage accepted as security, no matter what its heft or outward appearance of value. If you didn’t want to go +that high, or maybe were not so particular about the privacy of your sleeping arrangements, you might have a cot +anywhere in the circus-tentful of cots, spread out like pews. There the charge was one dollar. That rate chancing to be +too steep for you, you might go into the open and rest in one of the outdoor canvas pockets, which bellied down under +your weight like a hammock. There the schedule was fifty cents.</p> + +<p>No matter what part of the house you might occupy on retiring, you were warned by the wall-eyed young man who +piloted you to the cot with your number pinned on it that the hotel was not responsible for the personal belongings of +the guests. You were also cautioned to watch out for thieves. The display of firearms while disrobing seemed to be +encouraged by <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_5'></a>5</span> the management for its moral effect, and to be +a part of the ceremony of retiring. It seemed to be the belief in the Hotel Metropole that when a man stored a pistol +beneath his pillow, or wedged it in between his ribs and the side of the bunk, he had secured the safety of the +night.</p> + +<p>At the distant end of the main street, standing squarely across its center, stood the little house which sheltered +the branch of the United States land-office, the headquarters being at Meander, a town a day’s journey beyond the +railroad’s end. A tight little board house it was, like a toy, flying the emblem of the brave and the free as +gallantly as a schoolhouse or a forest-ranger station. Around it the crowd looked black and dense from the railroad +station. It gave an impression of great activity and earnest business attention, while the flag was reassuring to a man +when he stepped off the train sort of dubiously and saw it waving there at the end of the world.</p> + +<p>Indeed, Comanche might be the end of the world–didn’t the maps show that it <i>was</i> the end of the +world, didn’t the railroad stop there, and doesn’t the world always come to an abrupt end, all white and +uncharted beyond, at the last station on every railroad map you ever saw? It might be the end of the world, indeed, but +there was the flag! Commerce could flourish there as well as in Washington, D. C., or New York, N. Y., or Kansas City, +U. S. A.; even trusts might swell and distend there under its benign protectorate as in the <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_6'></a>6</span> centers of civilization and patriotism pointed above.</p> + +<p>So there was assurance and comfort to the timid in the flag at Comanche, as there has been in the flag in other +places at other times. For the flag is a great institution when a man is far away from home and expecting to bump into +trouble at the next step.</p> + +<p>Opposite the bank on the main street of Comanche were the tents of the gods of chance. They were a hungry-mouthed +looking lot that presided within them, taken at their best, for the picking had been growing slimmer and slimmer in +Wyoming year by year. They had gathered there from the Chugwater to the Big Horn Basin in the expectation of getting +their skins filled out once more.</p> + +<p>One could find in those tents all the known games of cowboy literature, and a good many which needed explanation to +the travelers from afar. There was only one way to understand them thoroughly, and that was by playing them, and there +seemed to be a pretty good percentage of curious persons in the throng that sweated in Comanche that day.</p> + +<p>That was all of Comanche–tents, hydrant, hotels, bank, business houses, and tents again–unless one +considered the small tent-restaurants and lodging-places, of which there were hundreds; or the saloons, of which there +were scores. But when they were counted in, that was all.</p> + +<p>Everybody in Comanche who owned a tent was on the make, and the making was good. Many of the <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_7'></a>7</span> home-seekers and adventure-expectant young men and women had been on the +ground two weeks. They had been paying out good money for dusty stage-rides over the promising lands which had been +allotted to the Indians already by the government. The stage people didn’t tell them anything about that, which +was just as well. It looked like land where stuff might be grown with irrigation, inspiration, intensity of +application, and undying hope. And the locaters and town-site boomers led their customers around to the hydrant and +pointed to the sprouting oats.</p> + +<p>“Spill a little water on this land and it’s got Egypt skinned,” they said.</p> + +<p>So the mild adventurers stayed on for the drawing of claims, their ideals and notions taking on fresh color, their +canned tomatoes (see the proper literature for the uses of canned tomatoes in desert countries frequented by cowboys) +safely packed away in their trunks against a day of emergency.</p> + +<p>Every one of them expected to draw Claim Number One, and every one of them was under the spell of dreams. For the +long summer days of Wyoming were as white as diamonds, and the soft blue mountains stood along the distant west beyond +the bright river as if to fend the land from hardships and inclemencies, and nurture in its breast the hopes of +men.</p> + +<p>Every train brought several hundred more to add to the throng already in Comanche–most of them from beyond the +Mississippi, many of them schemers, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_8'></a>8</span> most of them dreamers +ready to sacrifice all the endearments of civilization for the romance of pioneering in the West, beyond the limits of +the world as defined by the map of the railroad-line over which they had come.</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_2'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_9'></a>9</span> +<h2>CHAPTER II<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>GUESTS FOR THE METROPOLE</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>To Comanche there came that August afternoon, when it was wearing down to long shadows, a mixed company, drawn from +the far places and the middle distances east of Wyoming. This company had assembled in the course of the day’s +acquaintance on the last long, dusty run into the land of expectations.</p> + +<p>At dawn these people had left their comfortable sleeping-cars at Chadron, in the Nebraska desert, to change to the +train of archaic coaches which transported the land-seekers across the last stretch of their journey. Before that +morning the company had been pursuing its way as individual parts–all, that is, with the exception of the +miller’s wife, from near Boston; the sister of the miller’s wife, who was a widow and the mother of June; +and June, who was pasty and off-color, due to much fudge and polishing in a young ladies’ school.</p> + +<p>These three traveled together, as three of such close relationship naturally should travel. The widow was taking +June to Wyoming to see if she could put some marketable color in her cheeks, and the miller’s wife was going +along for a belated realization, at least partially, of youthful yearnings. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_10'></a>10</span></p> + +<p>Since seventeen the miller’s wife had longed to see the sun set behind a mountain with snow upon it, and to +see a cowboy with dust on his shoulders, like the cowboys of the western drama, come riding out of the glow, a speck at +first, and on, and on, until he arrived where she waited and flung himself from his panting horse, neckerchief awry, +spurs tinkling, and swept off his broad hat in salute. Beyond that point she had not dared to go since marrying the +miller, who had dust enough on <i>his</i> shoulders–unromantic dust, unromantic shoulders, goodness knows! But +that was her picture, all framed in the gold of her heart. She wanted to see the mountain with the sun behind it, and +the cowboy, and all, and then she could sigh, and go back to the miller and near Boston to await the prosaic end.</p> + +<p>For all of her thirty-eight years Mrs. Dorothy Mann was shy in proportion as her miller husband, the widely known J. +Milton Mann was bold. That he was a hard-mailed knight in the lists of business, and that he was universally known, +Mrs. Mann was ready to contend and uphold in any company. She carried with her in the black bag which always hung upon +her arm certain poems bearing her husband’s confession of authorship, which had been printed in the +<i>Millers’ Journal</i>, all of them calling public attention to the noble office of his ancient trade. Of course +the miller was not of the party, so we really have nothing more to do with him than we have with the rest of the throng +that arrived on the train with these singled-out adventurers. But <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_11'></a>11</span> his influence traveled far, like a shadow reaching out after the heart of his spare, pert, +large-eyed wife. She was not yet so far away from him that she dared move even her eyes as her heart longed.</p> + +<p>In the manner of the miller’s wife, there was a restraint upon the most commonplace and necessary intercourse +with strangers which seemed almost childish. She even turned in questioning indecision toward June’s mother +before taking a seat offered her by a strange man, feeling at the same time of the black bag upon her arm, where the +poems reposed, as if to beg indulgence from their author for any liberties which she might assume.</p> + +<p>June’s mother, Mrs. Malvina Reed, widow of that great statesman, the Hon. Alonzo Confucius Reed, who will be +remembered as the author of the notable bill to prohibit barbers breathing on the backs of their customers’ +necks, was duenna of the party. She was a dumpy, small woman, gray, with lines in her steamed face, in which all +attempts at rejuvenation had failed.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Reed was a severe lady when it came to respecting the conventions of polite life, and June was her +heart’s deep worry. She believed that young woman to be in the first stage of a dangerous and mysterious malady, +which belief and which malady were alike nothing in the world but fudge. When she turned her eyes upon June’s +overfed face a moisture came into them; a sigh disturbed her breast. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_12'></a>12</span></p> + +<p>By one of those strange chances, such as seem to us when we meet them nothing short of preconceived arrangement, +enough seats had been left unoccupied in the rear coach, all in one place, to accommodate a second party, which came +straggling through with hand-baggage hooked upon all its dependent accessories. It proved very pleasant for all +involved. There the June party scraped acquaintance with the others, after the first restraint had been dissolved in a +discussion of the virtues of canned tomatoes applied to the tongue of one famishing in the desert.</p> + +<p>First among the others was the bright-haired young woman from Canton, Ohio, whose gray eyes seemed older than +herself, lighting as if with new hope every time they turned to acknowledge a good wish for her luck in the new land. +It seemed at such moments as if she quickened with the belief that she was coming upon the track of something which she +had lost, and was in a way of getting trace of it again.</p> + +<p>She sat up straight-backed as a saint in a cathedral window, but she unbent toward June. June was not long in +finding out that she, also, was a product of grand old Molly Bawn, that mighty institution of learning so justly famed +throughout the world for its fudge; that her name was Agnes Horton, and that she was going to register for a piece of +land.</p> + +<p>Some five years before June had matriculated, Agnes Horton had stepped out, finished, from the halls of Molly Bawn. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_13'></a>13</span></p> + +<p>“She’s old,” confided June to her mother’s ear. “She must be at least +twenty-five!”</p> + +<p>Old or young, she was handsomer than any other woman on the train, and seemingly unaware of it as she leaned her +elbow upon the dusty window-sill and gazed out in pensive introspection upon the bleak land where glaciers had trampled +and volcanoes raged, each of them leaving its waste of worn stone and blackened ledge.</p> + +<p>And there was the school-teacher from Iowa; a long, thin string of a man, who combed his hair straight back from his +narrow, dished forehead and said “idear.” He was thinking seriously of sheep.</p> + +<p>And there was the commissary sergeant from Fort Sheridan, which is within the shadow of Chicago, German-faced, +towering, broad. He blushed as if scandalized every time a woman spoke to him, and he took Limburger cheese and onions +from his cloth telescope grip for his noonday lunch.</p> + +<p>And there was the well-mannered manufacturer of tools, who came from Buffalo, and his bald brother with him, who +followed the law. There was the insurance man from Kansas, who grinned when he wasn’t talking and talked when he +didn’t grin; and the doctor from Missouri, a large-framed man with a worn face and anxious look, traveling +westward in hope; and the lumberman from Minnesota, who wore a round hat and looked meek, like a secretary of a Y. M. +C. A., and spat tobacco-juice out of the window. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_14'></a>14</span></p> + +<p>All of these men, save the school-teacher and manufacturer, were more or less failures, one way or another. Take the +sergeant–Sergeant Schaefer, and Jake was the name in front of that–for example. He had failed in his +examination for advancement to a commission, and blamed the aristocracy of the army for it. He was disgusted with +military life; and to him a claim, especially Claim Number One, in the Indian Reservation of Wyoming, looked like a +haven of independence and peace.</p> + +<p>There was the bald lawyer, too; a young man old from his honest cares, a failure in the law because he could not +square his conscience with its practices. He was ready to quit it for an alfalfa-plot and a little bunch of fat +cattle–especially if he drew Number One.</p> + +<p>Horace Bentley sighed when he looked back upon his struggles with the world and the law. The law had been a saddle +that galled his back through many a heavy year. And his brother William, in need of a holiday from his busy factory, +had taken a month to himself to see “the boy,” as he called Horace, established in a new calling in the +high-minded, open-faced West.</p> + +<p>As for the insurance solicitor and lumberman, it must be owned that they were gamblers on the drawing. They meant to +register and hang around for the lottery. Then if they should draw Number One, or even anything up to a hundred, they +would sell out for what there was to be gained. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_15'></a>15</span></p> + +<p>With Dr. Warren Slavens it was quite different from the case of these purely adventurous speculators. Dr. Slavens +had been late in getting a start. It was not a difficulty peculiar to him alone that the start always seemed a +considerable distance ahead of him. Up to that time he had been engaged with merely the preliminaries, and they had +hobbled him and cumbered him, and heaped up continually such a mass of matter to be smoothed out of the way of his +going, that he never had struck a canter on the highway of life.</p> + +<p>Of all the disheartened, blue, and beaten men on that dusty train that dusty day, Dr. Warren Slavens, late of +Missouri, was without question the deepest down in the quagmire of failure. He hated himself for the fizzle that he had +made of it, and he hated the world that would not open the gates and give him one straight dash for the goal among men +of his size.</p> + +<p>He went frequently to the platform of the car and took a long pull at a big, black pipe which he carried in a +formidable leather case, like a surgical instrument, in his inner pocket. After each pull at it he returned with a +redder face and a cloudier brow, ready to snap and snarl like an under dog that believes every foot in the world is +raised to come down on his own ribs.</p> + +<p>But there was nobody on that train who cared an empty sardine-can for the doctor’s failures or feelings. +Nobody wanted to jab him in the ribs; nobody wanted to hear his complaint. He was wise enough to know it, in a way. So +he kept to himself, pulling his shoulders <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_16'></a>16</span> up in soldierly +fashion when he passed Agnes Horton’s place, or when he felt that she was looking at him from her station +directly behind his seat.</p> + +<p>At any rate, up to the neck as he was in the bog of failure, the doctor was going to Wyoming with a good many +practical advantages ahead of thousands of his fellows. Before turning doctor he had been a farmer’s boy; and he +told himself that, failing in his solid determination to get up to the starting-line in his profession, he believed he +could do pretty well at his older trade. But if he drew Claim Number One he meant to sell it for ten thousand +dollars–that being the current valuation placed on first choice–and go back home to establish himself in +dignity and build up a practice.</p> + +<p>The school-teacher hadn’t much to say, but his cast was serious. He expected to draw Number One, not to sell, +but to improve, to put sheep on, and alfalfa, and build a long barn with his name on the roof so that it could be read +from the railroad as the trains went by.</p> + +<p>June’s mother, being a widow, was eligible for the drawing. She also meant to register. If she drew Number +One–and she hadn’t yet made up her mind about the certainty of that–she intended to sell her +relinquishment and take June to Vienna for examination by an eminent physician.</p> + +<p>When anybody asked Agnes Horton what she intended to do with her winnings out of the land lottery, she only smiled +with that little jumping of hope in her eyes. It was a marvel to the whole party what a <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_17'></a>17</span> well set-up girl like her, with her refinement and looks and clothes, +wanted to fool her time away in Wyoming for, when the world was full of men who would wear their hands raw to smooth a +way for her feet to pass in pleasanter places. But all of them could see that in her heart the hope of Number One was +as big as a can of tomatoes–in cowboy literature–to the eyes of a man dying of thirst in Death Valley.</p> + +<p>Only the toolmaker, William Bentley–and he was gray at the curling hair which turned up at his broad +temples–smiled as if he held it to be a pleasant fantasy, too nebulous and far-away to be realized upon, when any +asked him of his intentions concerning Number One. He put off his questioners with a pleasantry when they pressed him, +but there was such a tenderness in his eyes as he looked at his pale, bald brother, old in honest ways before his time, +that it was the same as spoken words.</p> + +<p>So it will be seen that a great deal depended on Claim Number One, not alone among the pleasant little company of +ours, but in the calculations of every man and woman out of the forty-seven thousand who would register, ultimately, +for the chance and the hope of drawing it.</p> + +<p>At Casper a runner for the Hotel Metropole had boarded the train. He was a voluble young man with a thousand reasons +why travelers to the end of the world and the railroad should patronize the Hotel Metropole and no other. He sat on the +arms of passengers’ <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_18'></a>18</span> seats and made his argument, +having along with him a great quantity of yellow cards, each card bearing a number, each good for an apartment or a cot +in the open. By payment of the rate, a person could secure his bed ahead of any need for it which, said the young man, +was the precaution of a wise ginny who was on to his job. The train conductor vouched for the genuineness of the young +man’s credentials, and conditions of things at Comanche as he pictured them.</p> + +<p>It was due to Sergeant Jake Schaefer that the company organized to mess together. The hotel representative fell in +with the idea with great warmth. There was a large tent on the corner, just off Main Street, which the company could +rent, said he. A partition would be put in it for the privacy of the ladies, and the hotel would supply the guests with +a stove and utensils. June’s mother liked the notion. It relieved her of a great worry, for with a stove of her +own she could still contrive those dainties so necessary to the continued existence of the delicate child.</p> + +<p>So the bargain was struck, the sergeant was placed in charge of the conduct and supply of the camp, and everybody +breathed easier. They had anticipated difficulty over the matter of lodging and food in Comanche, for wild tales of +extortion and crowding, and undesirable conditions generally, had been traveling through the train all day.</p> + +<p>Comanche was quiet when the train arrived, for that was the part of the day when the lull between the <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_19'></a>19</span> afternoon’s activities and the night’s frantic reaping +fell. Everyone who had arrived the day previous accounted himself an old-timer, and all such, together with all the +arrivals of all the days since the registration began, came down to see the tenderfeet swallow their first impressions +of the coming Eden.</p> + +<p>The Hotel Metropole was the only public house in Comanche that maintained a conveyance to meet travelers at the +station, and that was for the transportation of their baggage only. For a man will follow his belongings and stick to +them in one place as well as another, and the proprietor of the Metropole was philosopher enough to know that. So his +men with the wagon grabbed all the baggage they could wrench from, lift from under, or pry out of the grasp of +travelers when they stepped off the train.</p> + +<p>The June party saw their possessions loaded into the wagon, under the loud supervision of Sergeant Schaefer, who had +been in that country before and could be neither intimidated, out-sounded, nor bluffed. Then, following their traveling +agent-guide, they pushed through the crowds to their quarters.</p> + +<p>Fortunate, indeed, they considered themselves when they saw how matters stood in Comanche. There seemed to be two +men for every cot in the place. Of women there were few, and June’s mother shuddered when she thought of what +they would have been obliged to face if they hadn’t been so lucky as to get a tent to themselves.</p> + +<p>“I never would have got off that train!” she declared. “No, I never would have brought my daughter +into any such unprotected place as this!”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Reed looked around her severely, for life was starting to lift its head again in Comanche after the oppression +of the afternoon’s heat.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Mann smiled. She was beginning to take a comprehensive account of the distance between Wyoming and the town +near Boston where the miller toiled in the gloom of his mill.</p> + +<p>“I think it’s perfectly lovely and romantic!” said she.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Reed received the outburst with disfavor.</p> + +<p>“Remember your husband, Dorothy Ann!” warned she.</p> + +<p>Dorothy Ann sighed, gently caressing the black bag which dangled upon her slender arm.</p> + +<p>“I do, Malvina,” said she.</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_3'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21'></a>21</span> +<h2>CHAPTER III<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>UNCONVENTIONAL BEHAVIOR</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>Their situation was somewhat beyond the seat of noisy business and raucous-throated pleasure. Mrs. Reed, while +living in an unending state of shivers on account of the imagined perils which stalked the footsteps of June, was a bit +assured by their surroundings.</p> + +<p>In front of them was a vacant plot, in which inoffensive horses took their siesta in the sun, awaiting someone to +come along and hire them for rides of inspection over the lands which were soon to be apportioned by lot. A trifle +farther along stood a little church, its unglazed windows black and hollow, like gouged-out eyes. Mrs. Reed drew a vast +amount of comfort from the church, and their proximity to it, knowing nothing of its history nor its present uses. Its +presence there was proof to her that all Comanche was not a waste of iniquity.</p> + +<p>Almost directly in front of their tent the road branched–one prong running to Meander, the county Seat, sixty +miles away; the other to the Big Horn Valley. The scarred stagecoaches which had come down from the seventies were +still in use on both routes, the two on the Meander line being reenforced by democrat wagons when there was an overflow +of business, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_22'></a>22</span> as frequently happened in those prosperous +times.</p> + +<p>Every morning the company assembled before the tent under the canvas spread to protect the cookstove, to watch Mrs. +Reed and Sergeant Schaefer get breakfast, and to offer suggestions about the fire, and admire June at her +toast-making–the one branch of domestic art, aside from fudge, which she had mastered. About that time the stage +would pass, setting out on its dusty run to Meander, and everybody on it and in it would wave, everybody in the genial +company before the tent would wave back, and all of the adventurers on both sides would feel quite primitive, in spite +of the snuffling of the locomotive at the railway station, pushing around freight-cars.</p> + +<p>The locomotive seemed to tell them that they should not be deceived, that all of this crude setting was a sham and a +pretense, and that they had not yet outrun the conveniences of modern life.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens appeared to be getting the upper hand of his melancholy, and to be drawing the comfort from his black +pipe that it was designed to give. Next to the sergeant he was the handiest man in the camp, showing by his readiness +to turn a full hand at anything, from paring potatoes to making a fire, that he had shifted for himself before that +day. The ladies all admired him, as they always admire a man who has a little cloud of the mysterious about him. Mrs. +Reed wondered, audibly, in the presence of June and Miss Horton, if he had deserted his wife. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_23'></a>23</span></p> + +<p>The others were full of the excitement of their novel situation, and drunk on the blue skies which strained the +sunlight of its mists and motes, pouring it down like a baptismal blessing. Even William Bentley, the toolmaker, romped +and raced in the ankle-deep dust like a boy.</p> + +<p>Sunrise always found the floating population of Comanche setting breakfastward in a clamoring tide. After that, when +the land-office opened at nine o’clock, the stream turned toward it, the crowd grew around it, fringing off into +the great, empty flat in which it stood–a stretch of naked land so white and gleaming under the sun that it made +the eyes ache. There the land-seekers and thrill-hunters kicked up the dust, and got their thousands of clerkly necks +burned red, and their thousands of indoor noses peeled, while they discussed the chances of disposing of the high +numbers for enough to pay them for the expense of the trip.</p> + +<p>After noonday the throngs sought the hydrant and the shade of the saloons, and, where finances would permit, the +solace of bottled beer. And all day over Comanche the heel-ground dust rose as from the trampling of ten thousand +hoofs, and through its tent-set streets the numbers of a strong army passed and repassed, gazing upon its gaudy lures. +They had come there to gamble in a big, free lottery, where the only stake was the time spent and the money expended in +coming, in which the grand prize was Claim Number One. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_24'></a>24</span></p> + +<p>“It looks to me,” said Horace Bentley, the bald lawyer, “like a great many people are going to be +bitterly disappointed in this game. More than forty thousand have registered already, and there are three days more +before the books close. The government circulars describing the land say there are eight thousand homesteads, all +told–six hundred of them suitable for agriculture once they are brought under irrigation, the rest grazing and +mineral land. It seems to me that, as far as our expectations go in that direction, we might as well pack up and go +home.”</p> + +<p>Four days in camp had made old-timers out of the company gathered under the awning before their tent, waiting for +the meal which Mrs. Reed and her assistants were even then spreading on the trestle-built table. There had been a +shower that afternoon, one of those gusty, blustery, desert demonstrations which had wrenched the tents and torn +hundreds of them from their slack anchoring in the loose soil.</p> + +<p>After the storm, with its splash of big drops and charge of blinding dust, a cool serenity had fallen over the land. +The milk had been washed out of the distances, and in the far southwest snowy peaks gleamed solemnly in the setting +sun, the barrier on the uttermost edge of the desert leagues which so many thousand men and women were hungry to +share.</p> + +<p>“Yes, it’s a desperate gamble for all of us,” Dr. Slavens admitted. “I don’t see any +more show of anybody in this party drawing a low number than I see <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_25'></a>25</span> hope for a man who stands up to one of the swindles in the gambling-tents over +there.”</p> + +<p>“Still,” argued Milo Strong, the Iowa teacher, “we’ve got just the same chance as anybody +out of the forty thousand. I don’t suppose there’s any question that the drawing will be fair?”</p> + +<p>“It will be under the personal management of the United States Land Commissioner at Meander,” said +Horace Bentley.</p> + +<p>“How do they work it?” asked June, perking up her head in quick interest from her task of hammering +together the seams of a leaky new tin cup. She had it over a projecting end of one of the trestles, and was going about +it like a mechanic.</p> + +<p>“Where did you learn that trick?” inquired the toolmaker, a look in his eyes which was pretty close kin +to amazement.</p> + +<p>“Huh!” said June, hammering away. “What do you suppose a college education’s good for, +anyway? But how do they manage the drawing?” she pressed.</p> + +<p>“Did they teach you the game of policy at Molly Bawn?” the lawyer asked.</p> + +<p>“The idea!” sniffed Mrs. Reed.</p> + +<p>Miss Horton smiled into her handkerchief, and June shook her head in vigorous denial.</p> + +<p>“I don’t even know what it is,” said she. “Is it some kind of insurance?”</p> + +<p>“It beats insurance for the man that runs the game,” said Strong, reminiscently. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_26'></a>26</span></p> + +<p>“All of the names of those who register will be taken to Meander when the registration closes,” +explained Horace. “There are half a dozen clerks in the little office here transcribing the names on to small +cards, with the addresses and all necessary information for notifying a winner. On the day of the drawing the forty +thousand-odd names will be put into a big hollow drum, fitted with a crank. They’ll whirl it, and then a +blindfolded child will put his hand into the drum and draw out Number One. Another child will then draw Number Two, and +so on until eight thousand names have come out of the wheel. As there are only eight thousand parcels of land, that +will end the lottery. What do you think of your chance by now, Miss Horton?”</p> + +<p>“Why, it looks fair enough, the way they do it,” she answered, questioning Dr. Slavens with her +eyes.</p> + +<p>He shook his head.</p> + +<p>“You can’t tell,” he responded. “I’ve seen enough crookedness in this tent-town in the +past four days to set my suspicions against everything and every official in it.”</p> + +<p>“Well, the drawing’s to be held at Meander, you know,” reminded William Bentley, the toolmaker, +“and Meander advertises itself as a moral center. It seems that it was against this town from the very +start–it wanted the whole show to itself. Here’s a circular that I got at Meander headquarters today. +It’s got a great knock against Comanche in it.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_27'></a>27</span></p> + +<p>“Yes, I saw it,” said the doctor. “It sounds like one crook knocking another. But it can’t +be any worse than this place, anyhow. I think I’ll take a ride over there in a day or so and size it +up.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I surrender all pretensions to Claim Number One,” laughed Mrs. Reed, a straining of color in her +cheeks.</p> + +<p>June had not demanded fudge once in four days. That alone was enough to raise the colors of courage in her +mother’s face, even if there hadn’t been a change in the young lady for the better in other directions. +Four days of Wyoming summer sun and wind had made as much difference in June as four days of September blaze make in a +peach on the tip of an exposed bough. She was browning and reddening beautifully, and her hair was taking on a trick of +wildness, blowing friskily about her eyes.</p> + +<p>It was plain that June had in her all the making of a hummer. That’s what Horace Bentley, the lawyer, owned to +himself as he told her mother in confidence that a month of that high country, with its fresh-from-creation air, would +be better for the girl’s natural endowments than all the beauty-parlors of Boston or the specialists of Vienna. +Horace felt of his early bald spot, half believing that some stubby hairs were starting there already.</p> + +<p>There was still a glow of twilight in the sky when lights appeared in the windowless windows of the church, and the +whine of tuning fiddles came out of its <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_28'></a>28</span> open door. Mrs. +Reed stiffened as she located the sound, and an expression of outraged sanctity appeared in her face. She turned to Dr. +Slavens.</p> + +<p>“Are they going to–to–<i>dance</i> in that building?” she demanded.</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid they are,” said he. “It’s used for dancing, they tell me.”</p> + +<p>“But it’s a church–it’s consecrated!” she gasped.</p> + +<p>“I reckon it’s worn off by this time,” he comforted. “It was a church a long, long time +ago–for Comanche. The saloon man across from it told me its history. He considered locating in it, he said, but +they wanted too much rent.</p> + +<p>“When Comanche was only a railroad camp–a good while before the rails were laid this far–a +traveling preacher struck the town and warmed them up with an old-style revival. They chipped in the money to build the +church in the fervor of the passing glow, and the preacher had it put up–just as you see it, belfry and all.</p> + +<p>“They even bought a bell for it, and it used to ding for the sheepmen and railroaders, as long as their +religion lasted. When it ran out, the preacher moved on to fresh fields, and a rancher bought the bell to call his +hands to dinner. The respectable element of Comanche–that is, the storekeepers, their wives, daughters and sons, +and the clerks, and others–hold a dance there now twice a week. That is their only relaxation.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a shame!” declared Mrs. Reed. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_29'></a>29</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t know,” said the doctor easily.</p> + +<p>“I’m <i>so</i> disappointed in it!” said she.</p> + +<p>“Because it represents itself as a church when it’s something else?” inquired the doctor softly. +“Well, I shouldn’t be, if I were you. It has really nothing to be ashamed of, for the respectable are +mightily in the minority in Comanche, I can tell you, madam–that is, among the regular inhabitants.”</p> + +<p>“Let’s go over and look on,” suggested William Bentley. “It may make some of you gloomy +people forget your future troubles for a while.”</p> + +<p>The party soon found that looking on exposed them to the contagion of sociability. They were such wholesome-looking +people at the gathering, and their efforts to make the visitors who stood outside the door feel at home and comfortable +were so genuine, that reserve dissolved most unaccountably.</p> + +<p>It was not long before June’s mother, her prejudices against such frivolous and worldly use of a church blown +away, was pigeoning around with William Bentley. Likewise Mrs. Mann, the miller out of sight and out of mind, stepped +lightly with Horace, the lawyer, the sober black bag doubled up and stored in the pocket of his coat, its handles +dangling like bridle-reins.</p> + +<p>June alone was left unpaired, in company with the doctor and Miss Horton, who asserted that they did not dance. Her +heels were itching to be clicking off that jolly two-step which the Italian fiddlers and harpist played with such +enticing swing. The school-teacher <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_30'></a>30</span> and the sergeant were +not with them, having gone out on some expedition of their own among the allurements of Comanche.</p> + +<p>But June hadn’t long to bear the itch of impatience, for ladies were not plentiful at the dance. Before +anybody had time to be astonished by his boldness, a young man was bowing before June, presenting his crooked elbow, +inviting her to the dance with all the polish that could possibly lie on any one man. On account of an unusually +enthusiastic clatter of heels at that moment, Dr. Slavens and Miss Horton, a few paces distant, could not hear what he +said, but they caught their breaths a little sharply when June took the proffered arm.</p> + +<p>“Surest thing you know,” they heard her eager little voice say as she passed them with a happy, +triumphant look behind.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens looked at Miss Horton; Miss Horton looked at the doctor. Both laughed.</p> + +<p>“Well, I like that!” she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he agreed, but apparently from quite a different angle, “so do I. It’s natural and +unaffected; it’s coming down to first principles. Well, I don’t see that there’s anything left for +you and me to do but use up some of this moonlight in a walk. I’d like to see the river in this light. +Come?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that would be unconventional!” she protested.</p> + +<p>But it was not a strong protest; more of a question perhaps, which left it all to him. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_31'></a>31</span></p> + +<p>“This is an unconventional country,” he said. “Look at it, as white as snow under this summer +moon.”</p> + +<p>“It’s lovely by night,” she agreed; “but this Comanche is like a sore spot on a clean skin. +It’s a blight and a disfigurement, and these noises they make after dark sound like some savage revel.”</p> + +<p>“We’ll put them behind us for two hours or so,” he decided with finality which allowed no further +argument.</p> + +<p>As they set off toward the river he did not offer her the support of his arm, for she strode beside him with her +hands swinging free, long step to his long step, not a creature of whims and shams, he knew, quite able to bear her own +weight on a rougher road than that.</p> + +<p>“Still it <i>is</i> unconventional,” she reflected, looking away over the flat land.</p> + +<p>“That’s the beauty of it,” said he. “Let’s be just natural.”</p> + +<p>They passed beyond the straggling limits of Comanche, where the town blended out into the plain in the tattered +tents and road-battered wagons of the most earnest of all the home-seekers, those who had staked everything on the hope +of drawing a piece of land which would serve at last as a refuge against the world’s buffeting.</p> + +<p>Under their feet was the low-clinging sheep-sage and the running herbs of yellow and gray which seemed so juiceless +and dry to the eye, but which were the provender of thousands of sheep and cattle that never <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32'></a>32</span> knew the shelter of fold or stable, nor the taste of man-grown grain or +fodder, from the day of their birth to the day of their marketing. Winter and summer alike, under the parching sun, +under the strangling drifts, that clinging, gray vegetation was the animals’ sole nutriment.</p> + +<p>Behind the couple the noises of Comanche died to murmurs. Ahead of them rose the dark line of cottonwoods which +stood upon the river-shore.</p> + +<p>“I want to take another look at the Buckhorn Cañon,” said the doctor, stalking on in his sturdy, +farm-bred gait.</p> + +<p>“It makes a fearful roar,” she remarked as they approached the place where the swift river, compressed +into the flumelike passage which it had whetted out of the granite, tossed its white mane in the moonlight before +plunging into the dark door of the cañon.</p> + +<p>“I’ve been hearing yarns and traditions about that cañon ever since I came here,” he told +her. “They say it’s a thousand feet deep in places.”</p> + +<p>“June and I came over here this morning,” said Agnes, “along with Sergeant Schaefer. He said he +didn’t believe that June could hike that far. I sat here on the rocks a long time watching it. I never saw so +much mystery and terror in water before.”</p> + +<p>She drew a little nearer to him as she spoke, and he put his hand on her shoulder in an unconscious movement of +restraint as she leaned over among the black boulders and peered into the hissing current. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33'></a>33</span></p> + +<p>“Do you suppose anybody ever went in there?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“They say the Indians know some way of getting through,” he replied, “but no white man ever went +into the cañon and came out alive. The last one to try it was a representative of a Denver paper who came out here +at the beginning of the registration. He went in there with his camera on his back after a story.”</p> + +<p>“Poor fellow! Did he get through–at all?”</p> + +<p>“They haven’t reported him on the other side yet. His paper offers a reward for the solution of the +mystery of his disappearance, which is no mystery at all. He didn’t have the right kind of footgear, and he +slipped. That’s all there is to it.”</p> + +<p>He felt her shudder under his hand, which remained unaccountably on her warm shoulder after the need of restraint +had passed.</p> + +<p>“It’s a forbidding place by day,” said she, “and worse at night. Just think of the despair +of that poor man when he felt himself falling down there in the dark!”</p> + +<p>“Moccasins are the things for a job like that,” he declared. “I’ve studied it all out; I +believe I could go through there without a scratch.”</p> + +<p>“What in the world would anybody want to do it for? What is there to be gained by it, to the good of +anybody?” she wondered.</p> + +<p>“Well, there’s the reward of five hundred dollars offered by the newspaper in Denver,” he +answered. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_34'></a>34</span></p> + +<p>“It’s a pitiful stake against such odds!” she scorned.</p> + +<p>“And all the old settlers say there’s gold in there–rich pockets of it, washed out of the ledges +in the sides of the walls and held by the rocks in the river-bed and along the margins. A nugget is picked up now and +then on the other side, so there seems to be ground for the belief that fortune waits for the man who makes a careful +exploration.”</p> + +<p>“He couldn’t carry enough of it out to make it worth while,” she objected.</p> + +<p>“But he could go back,” Dr. Slavens reminded her. “It would be easy the second time. Or he might +put in effect the scheme a sheep-herder had once.”</p> + +<p>“What was that?” she asked, turning her face up to him from her place on the low stone where she sat, +the moonlight glinting in her eyes.</p> + +<p>He laughed a little.</p> + +<p>“Not that it was much of a joke the way it turned out,” he explained. “He went in there to hunt +for the gold, leaving two of his companions to labor along the brink of the cañon above and listen for his signal +shout in case he came across any gold worth while. Then they were to let a rope down to him and he’d send up the +treasure. It was a great scheme, but they never got a chance to try it. If he ever gave any signal they never heard it, +for down there a man’s voice strained to its shrillest would be no more than a whisper against a tornado. You can +believe that, can’t you, from the way it roars and tears around out here?” <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_35'></a>35</span></p> + +<p>“All the gold that remains unmined wouldn’t tempt me a hundred feet down that black throat,” she +shuddered. “But what became of the adventurer with the scheme?”</p> + +<p>“He came through in time–they caught him at the outlet over there in the mountains. The one pocket that +remained in his shredded clothing was full of gold nuggets, they say. So he must have found it, even if he +couldn’t make them hear.”</p> + +<p>“What a dismal end for any man!”</p> + +<p>“A man could beat it, though,” said he, leaning forward in thoughtful attitude. “He’d need a +strong light, and moccasins, so he could cling to the rocks. I believe it could be done, and I’ve thought a good +deal about exploring it myself for a day or two past. If I don’t draw a low number I think I’ll tackle +it.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you attempt it!” she cried, clutching his arm and turning her white face to him +affrightedly. “Don’t you ever dare try it!”</p> + +<p>He laughed uneasily, his eyes on the black gash into which the foaming river darted.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t know; I’ve heard of men doing riskier things than that for money,” he +returned.</p> + +<p>Agnes Horton’s excitement and concern seemed to pass with his words. She propped her chin in her palms and sat +pensively, looking at the broken waters which reared around the barrier of scattered stones in its channel.</p> + +<p>“Yes, men sometimes take big risks for money–even <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_36'></a>36</span> the risk of honor and the everlasting happiness of others,” said she.</p> + +<p>It was like the wind blowing aside a tent-flap as he passed, giving him a glimpse of its intimate interior. That +little lifting of her reserve was a glance into the sanctuary of her heart. The melancholy of her eyes was born out of +somebody’s escapade with money; he was ready to risk his last guess on that.</p> + +<p>“Besides, there may be nothing to that story of nuggets. That may be just one of these western yarns,” +she added.</p> + +<p>“Well, in any case, there’s the five hundred the Denver paper offers, besides what I could make by +syndicating the account of my adventure among the Sunday papers. I used to do quite a lot of that when I was in +college.”</p> + +<p>“But you don’t need money badly enough to go into that place after it. Nobody ever needed it that +badly,” she declared.</p> + +<p>“Don’t I?” he answered, a little biting of bitter sarcasm in his tone. “Well, you +don’t know, my lady, how easy that money looks to me compared to my ordinary channels of getting it.”</p> + +<p>“It can’t be so very hard in your profession,” she doubted, as if a bit offended by his attitude +of martyrdom before an unappreciative world. “I don’t believe you have half as hard a time of it as some +who have too much money.”</p> + +<p>“The hardship of having too much money is one <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_37'></a>37</span> +which I never experienced, so I can’t say as to that,” he said, moved to smiles by the humor of it. +“But to understand what I mean by hardship you must know how I’ve struggled in the ruts and narrow +traditions of my profession, and fought, hoped, and starved. Why, I tell you that black hole over there looks like an +open door with a light inside of it compared to some of the things I’ve gone through in the seven years that +I’ve been trying to get a start. Money? I’ll tell you how that is, Miss Horton; I’ve thought along +that one theme so confounded long that it’s worn a groove in my brain.</p> + +<p>“Here you see me tonight, a piece of driftwood at thirty-five, and all for the want of money enough to buy an +automobile and take the darned-fool world by storm on its vain side! You can’t scratch it with a diamond on its +reasoning side–I’ve scratched away on it until my nails are gone.</p> + +<p>“I’ve failed, I tell you, I’ve botched it all up! And just for want of money enough to buy an +automobile! Brains never took a doctor anywhere–nothing but money and bluff!”</p> + +<p>“I wonder,” she speculated, “what will become of you out here in this raw place, where the need of +a doctor seems to be the farthest thing in the world, and you with your nerve all gone?”</p> + +<p>It would have reassured her if she could have seen the fine flush which this charge raised in his face. But she +didn’t even look toward him, and couldn’t have <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_38'></a>38</span> +noted the change if she had, for the moonlight was not that bright, even in Wyoming.</p> + +<p>“But I haven’t lost my nerve!” he denied warmly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, you have,” she contradicted, “or you wouldn’t admit that you’re a failure, +and you wouldn’t talk about money that way. Money doesn’t cut much ice as long as you’ve got +nerve.”</p> + +<p>“That’s all right from your view,” said he pettishly. “But you’ve had easy going of +it, out of college into a nice home, with a lot of those pink-faced chaps to ride you around in their automobiles, and +opera and plays and horse-shows and all that stuff.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” she admitted, a soft sadness in her voice. “But wait until you’ve seen somebody +drunk with the passion of too much money and crazy with the hunger for more; wait until you’ve seen a man’s +soul grow black from hugging it to his heart, and his conscience atrophy and his manhood wither. And then when it rises +up and crushes him, and all that are his with it––”</p> + +<p>He looked at her curiously, waiting for her to round it out with a personal citation. But she said no more.</p> + +<p>“That’s why you’re here, hoping like the rest of us to draw Number One?”</p> + +<p>“Any number up to six hundred will do for me,” she laughed, sitting erect once more and seeming to shake +her bitter mood off as she spoke.</p> + +<p>“And what will you do with it? Sell out as soon as the law allows?” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_39'></a>39</span></p> + +<p>“I’ll live on it,” dreamily, as if giving words to an old vision which she had warmed in her +heart. “I’ll stay there and work through the hope of summer and the bleakness of winter, and make a home. +I’ll smooth the wild land and plant trees and green meadows, and roses by the door, and we’ll stay there +and it will be–<i>home</i>!”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he nodded, understanding the feeling better than she knew. “You and mother; you want it +just that way.”</p> + +<p>“How did you know it was mother?” she asked, turning to him with a quick, appreciative little start.</p> + +<p>“You’re the kind of a woman who has a mother,” he answered. “Mothers leave their stamp on +women like you.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” said she.</p> + +<p>“I’ve often wanted to run away from it that way, too,” he owned, “for failure made a coward +of me more than once in those hard years. There’s a prospect of independence and peace in the picture you make +with those few swift strokes. But I don’t see any–you haven’t put any–any–<i>man</i> in +it. Isn’t there one somewhere?”</p> + +<p>“No,” simply and frankly; “there isn’t any man anywhere. He doesn’t belong in the +picture, so why should I draw him in?”</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens sighed.</p> + +<p>“Yes; I’ve wanted to run away from it more than once.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_40'></a>40</span></p> + +<p>“That’s because you’ve lost your nerve,” she charged. “You shouldn’t want to run +away from it–a big, broad man like you–and you must not run away. You must stay and fight–and +fight–and <i>fight</i>! Why, you talk as if you were seventy instead of a youth of thirty-five!”</p> + +<p>“Don’t rub it in so hard on that failure and nerve business,” he begged, ashamed of his hasty +confession.</p> + +<p>“Well, <i>you</i> mustn’t talk of running away then. There are no ghosts after you, are +there?”</p> + +<p>The moonlight was sifting through the loose strands of her gleaming hair as she sat there bareheaded at his side, +and the strength of his life reached out to her, and the deep yearning of his lonely soul. He knew that he wanted that +woman out of all the world full of women whom he had seen and known–and passed. He knew that he wanted her with +such strong need that from that day none other could come across the mirror of his heart and dim her image out of +it.</p> + +<p>Simply money would not win a woman like her; no slope-headed son of a ham factory could come along and carry her off +without any recommendation but his cash. She had lived through that kind of lure, and she was there on his own level +because she wanted to work out her clean life in her own clean way. The thought warmed him. Here was a girl, he +reflected, with a piece of steel in her backbone; a girl that would take the world’s lashings like a white elm in +a storm, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_41'></a>41</span> to spring resiliently back to stately poise after +the turmoil had passed. Trouble would not break her; sorrow would only make her fineness finer. There was a girl to +stand up beside a man!</p> + +<p>He had not thought of it before–perhaps he had been too melancholy and bitter over his failure to take by +storm the community where he had tried to make his start–but he believed that he realized that moment what he had +needed all along. If, amid the contempt and indifference of the successful, he’d had some incentive besides his +own ambition to struggle for all this time, some splendid, strong-handed woman to stand up in his gloom like the +Goddess of Liberty offering an ultimate reward to the poor devils who have won their way to her feet across the bitter +seas from hopeless lands, he might have stuck to it back there and won in the end.</p> + +<p>“That’s what I’ve needed,” said he aloud, rising abruptly.</p> + +<p>She looked up at him quickly.</p> + +<p>“I’ve needed somebody’s sympathy, somebody’s sarcasm, somebody’s soft hand–which +could be correctional on occasion–and somebody’s heart-interest all along,” he declared, standing +before her dramatically and flinging out his hands in the strong feeling of his declaration. “I’ve been +lonely; I’ve been morose. I’ve needed a woman like you!”</p> + +<p>Without sign of perturbation or offense, Agnes rose and laid her hand gently upon his arm. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_42'></a>42</span></p> + +<p>“I think, Dr. Slavens,” she suggested, “we’d better be going back to camp.”</p> + +<p>They walked the mile back to camp with few words between them. The blatant noises of Comanche grew as they drew +nearer.</p> + +<p>The dance was still in progress; the others had not returned to camp.</p> + +<p>“Do you care to sit out here and wait for them?” he asked as they stopped before the tent.</p> + +<p>“I think I’ll go to bed,” she answered. “I’m tired.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll stand sentry,” he offered.</p> + +<p>She thanked him, and started to go in. At the door she paused, went back to him, and placed her hand in her +soothing, placid way upon his arm again.</p> + +<p>“You’ll fight out the good fight here,” said she, “for this is a country that’s got +breathing-room in it.”</p> + +<p>She looked up into his face a bit wistfully, he thought, as if there were more in her heart than she had spoken. +“You’ll win here–I know you’ll win.”</p> + +<p>He reached out to put his arm about her, drawn by the same warm attraction that had pulled the words from him at the +riverside. The action was that of a man reaching out to lean his weary weight upon some familiar object, and there was +something of old habit in it, as if he had been doing it always.</p> + +<p>But she did not stay. He folded only moonlight, in which there is little substance for a strong man, even in +Wyoming. Dr. Slavens sighed as the tent-flap dropped behind her. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_43'></a>43</span></p> + +<p>“Yes; that’s what I’ve needed all the time,” said he.</p> + +<p>He sat outside with his pipe, which never had seemed so sweet. But, for all of its solace, he was disturbed by the +thought that perhaps he had made a blunder which had placed him in a false light with Miss Horton–only he thought +of her as Agnes, just as if he had the right. For there were only occasions on which Dr. Slavens admitted himself to be +a fizzle in the big fireworks of the world. That was a charge which he sometimes laid to himself in mortification of +spirit, or as a flagellant to spur him along the hard road. He had not meant to let it slip him aloud over there by the +river, because he didn’t believe it at all–at least not in that high-hoping hour.</p> + +<p>So he sat there in the moonlight before the tent, the noises of the town swelling louder and louder as the night +grew older, his big frame doubled into the stingy lap of a canvas chair, his knees almost as high as his chin. But it +was comfortable, and his tobacco was as pleasant to his senses as the distillation of youthful dreams.</p> + +<p>He had not attained the automobile stage of prosperity and arrogance, certainly. But that was somewhere ahead; he +should come to it in time. Out of the smoke of his pipe that dreamy night he could see it. Perhaps he might be a little +gray at the temples when he came to it, and a little lined at the mouth, but there would be more need of it then than +now, because his legs would tire more easily. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44'></a>44</span></p> + +<p>But Agnes had taken that foolishly blurted statement for truth. So it was his job henceforward to prove to Agnes +that he was not bankrupt in courage. And he meant to do it he vowed, even if he had to get a tent and hang out his +shingle in Comanche. That would take nerve unquestionably, for there were five doctors in the place already, none of +them making enough to buy stamps to write back home for money.</p> + +<p>Already, he said, he was out of the rut of his despondency; already the rust was knocked off his back, and the +eagerness to crowd up to the starting-line was on him as fresh again as on the day when he had walked away from all +competitors in the examination for a license before the state board.</p> + +<p>At midnight the others came back from the dance and broke the trend of his smoke-born dreams. Midnight was the hour +when respectable Comanche put out its lights and went to bed. Not to sleep in every case, perhaps, for the din was at +crescendo pitch by then; but, at any event, to deprive the iniquitous of the moral support of looking on their +debaucheries and sins.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens was in no mood for his sagging canvas cot, for his new enthusiasm was bounding through him as if he had +been given an intravenous injection of nitroglycerin. There was Wyoming before him, all white and virginal and fresh, a +big place for a big deed. Certainly, said Dr. Slavens. Just as if made to order for his needs. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45'></a>45</span></p> + +<p>So he would look around a bit before turning in, with his high-stepping humor over him, and that spot on his arm, +where her hand had lain, still aglow with her mysterious fire.</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_4'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_46'></a>46</span> +<h2>CHAPTER IV<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FLAT-GAME MAN</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>The noises of the tented town swelled in picturesque chorus as Dr. Slavens walked toward them, rising and trailing +off into the night until they wore themselves out in the echoless plain.</p> + +<p>He heard the far-away roll and rumble of voices coming from the gambling-tents; the high-tenor invitation of the +barkers outside questionable shows; the bawl of street-gamblers, who had all manner of devices, from ring-pitching to +shell-games on folding tables, which they could pick up in a twinkling and run away with when their dupes began to +threaten and rough them up; the clear soprano of the singer, who wore long skirts and sang chaste songs, in the +vaudeville tent down by the station.</p> + +<p>And above all, mingled with all–always, everywhere–the brattle of cornet and trombone, the whang of +piano, the wail of violin, the tinkle of the noble harp, an aristocrat in base company, weeping its own downfall.</p> + +<p>All of the flaring scene appeared to the doctor to be extremely artificial. It was a stage set for the allurement of +the unsophisticated, who saw in this strained and overdone imitation of the old West the romance of their expectations. +If they hadn’t found <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47'></a>47</span> it there thousands of them would +have been disappointed, perhaps disillusioned with a healthful jolt. All the reality about it was its viciousness, and +that was unquestionable.</p> + +<p>It looked as if gambling crooks from everywhere had collected at Comanche, and as if the most openly and notoriously +crooked of them all was the bony, dry-faced man with a white spot over the sight of his left eye, who conducted a +dice-game in the front part of the chief amusement-place of the town. This was a combination variety theater and +saloon, where free “living pictures” were posed for the entertainment of those who drank beer at the tables +at twenty-five cents a glass.</p> + +<p>Of the living pictures there were three, all of them in green garments, which hung loosely upon flaccid thighs. +Sometimes they posed alone, as representations of more or less clothed statuary; sometimes they grouped, with feet +thrust out, heads thrown back, arms lifted in stiff postures, as gladiators, martyrs, and spring songs. Always, whether +living or dead, they were most sad and tattered, famished and lean pictures, and their efforts were received with small +applause. They were too thin to be very wicked; so it appeared, at least.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens stopped in the wide-spreading door of this place to watch the shifting life within. Near him sat a young +Comanche Indian, his hair done up in two braids, which he wore over his shoulders in front. He <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48'></a>48</span> had an eagle feather in his hat and a new red handkerchief around his +neck, and he looked as wistful as a young Indian ever did outside a poem or a picture-film. He was the unwelcome guest, +whom no one might treat, to whom no one might sell.</p> + +<p>That was one of the first things strangers in Comanche learned: one must not give an Indian a drink of liquor, no +matter how thirsty he looked. And, although there was not a saloon-keeper in the place who would have considered a +moment before stooping to rob a dead man, there was not one who would have sold an Indian a bottle of beer. Such is the +fear, if not respect, that brave old Uncle Sam is able to inspire.</p> + +<p>But brave old Sam had left the bars down between his wards and the gamblers’ tables. It is so everywhere. The +Indian may not drink, but he may play “army game” and all the others where crooked dice, crooked cards, and +crooked men are to be found. Perhaps, thought the doctor, the young man with the eagle feather–which did not make +him at all invisible, whatever his own faith in its virtues might have been–had played his money on the one-eyed +man’s game, and was hanging around to see whether retributive justice, in the form of some more fortunate player, +would, in the end, clean the old rascal out.</p> + +<p>The one-eyed man was assisted by a large gang of cappers, a gang which appeared to be in the employ of the +gamblers’ trust of Comanche. The doctor had seen them night after night first at one game, then at <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_49'></a>49</span> another, betting with freedom and carelessness which were the envy of +the suckers packed forty deep around them. At the one-eyed man’s game just then they were coming and going in a +variety which gave a color of genuine patronage. That was an admirable arrangement, doubtless due to the one-eyed +man’s sagacity, which the doctor had noted the night before. For the game had its fascination for him, not +because the fire of it was in his veins, but because it was such an out-and-out skin game that it was marvelous how +fools enough could be found, even in a gathering like that, to keep it going.</p> + +<p>The living pictures had just passed off the stage, and it was the one-eyed man’s inning. He rattled his dice +in the box, throwing his quick glance over the crowd, which seemed reluctant to quit the beer-tables for his board. Art +was the subject which the gambler took up as he poured out his dice and left them lying on the board. He seemed so +absorbed in art for the moment that he did not see a few small bets which were laid down. He leaned over confidentially +and talked into the eyes of the crowd.</p> + +<p>“Art, gentlemen, is a fine thing for the human race,” said he. “You have just saw an elegant +exhibition of art, and who is there in this crowd that don’t feel a better man for what he saw?”</p> + +<p>He looked around, as if inviting a challenge. None came. He resumed:</p> + +<p>“Art in all its branches is a elegant fine thing, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_50'></a>50</span> +gentlemen. It raises a man up, and it elevates him, and it makes him feel like a millionaire. If I only had a dime, as +the man said, I’d spend it for a box of cigareets just to git the chromo-card. That’s what I think of art, +gentlemen, and that’s how crazy I am over it.</p> + +<p>“Now, if anybody here wants to bet me I ain’t got two eyes, I ain’t a goin’ to take him up, +for I know I ain’t, gentlemen, and I’ve knowed it for thirty years. But if anybody wants to bet me I +can’t throw twenty-seven––”</p> + +<p>This was the one-eyed man’s game. He stood inside the curve of a crescent-shaped table, which struck him +almost under the arms, his back to the wall of the tent. Players could surround him, almost; still, nobody could get +behind him. In that direction there always was a way out. He stood there offering odds of five to one to anybody who +wanted to bet him that he couldn’t himself, with his own hand and his own dice, throw twenty-seven. Any other +number coming out of the box, the one-eyed man lost.</p> + +<p>Examine the dice, gents; examine the box. If any gent had any doubts at all about the dice being straight, all he +had to do was to examine them. There they lay, gents, honestly and openly on the table before the one-eyed man, his +bony hand hovering over them caressingly.</p> + +<p>Gents examined them freely. Nearly every player who put money down–secure in that egotistical valuation of +one’s own shrewdness which is the sure-thing-man’s <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_51'></a>51</span> bank and goldmine and mint–rolled the dice, weighed them, eyed them sharply. Then they +bet against the one-eyed man–and lost.</p> + +<p>That is, they lost if he wanted them to lose. There were victims who looked promising for a fat sacrifice who had to +be tolled and primed and led on gently up to the block. At the right time the one-eyed man trimmed them, and he trimmed +them down to the short bones.</p> + +<p>His little boost for art finished–for the living pictures were art in which he had a proprietary interest, and +he could afford to talk for it once in a while–the one-eyed man cast his glance over his table and saw the small +bets. By some singular fortune all of the bettors won. They pocketed their winnings with grins as they pushed out among +the gathering crowd.</p> + +<p>Men began to pack thickly around the gambler’s crescent table, craning over shoulders to see what was going +on. He was making a great Wild-West show of money, with a large revolver lying beside it at his elbow. Seeing that the +young man who had carried June Reed off to the dance so intrepidly had made his way forward and was betting on the +game, Dr. Slavens pushed up to the table and stood near.</p> + +<p>The young fellow did not bear himself with the air of a capper, but rather with that of one who had licked a little +poison and was drunk on the taste. He had won two small bets, and he was out for more.</p> + +<p>There were no chips, no counters except cash. Of <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_52'></a>52</span> that +the young man appeared to have plenty. He held a cheerful little wad of it in his hand, so that no time might be lost +in taking advantage of the great opportunity to beat a man at his own game.</p> + +<p>The display of so much money on both sides held the crowd in silent charm. The young man was the only player, +although the one-eyed man urged others to come on and share the fortunes of his sweating patron, whose face was afire +with the excitement of easy money, and whose reason had evaporated under the heat.</p> + +<p>“At every roll of the dice my young friend adds to his pile,” said the gambler. “He’s got a +head, gents, and he knows how to use it. Look at ’im, gents, gittin’ richer at every roll of the dice! You +might as well have a share in all this here money and wealth, and you would be sharin’ it if you had the nerve of +my young friend.”</p> + +<p>The one-eyed man turned the dice out and lost again. There was a little movement of the crowd, a little audible +intaking of breath, a little crowding forward, like that of cattle massed in a pen.</p> + +<p>The suckers never did seem to get it through their heads, thought the doctor as he beheld their dumb excitement with +growing contempt, that the one-eyed man switched the dice on them just as often as he pleased between the table and the +box, by a trick which was his one accomplishment and sole capital. Without that deftness of hand the one-eyed man might +have <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_53'></a>53</span> remained a bartender, and a very sloppy and +indifferent one at that; but with it he was the king-pin of the gamblers’ trust in Comanche, and his graft was +the best in the town.</p> + +<p>“There it goes, gents!” he said, shaking his long, hound-shaped head with doleful expression of face. +“The tide of luck’s turned ag’in’ me. You can see that as plain as water in a pan, but they +ain’t one of you got the nerve to step up and help my young friend trim me.</p> + +<p>“You fellers know what you make me think of? Well, you make me think of a lot of little boys with ten cents to +spend on Fourth of July. You stand around with your fingers in your mouth, afraid you’ll see somethin’ you +like better if you let loose of your little old dime, and you hang on to it till the fun’s all over and the +ice-cream’s all gone.</p> + +<p>“But my young friend here–Now, now!” he remonstrated as the highly excited young man took up his +winnings, added them to the money which he held in reserve in his left hand, and placed the whole amount upon the +table. “Now you’re a comin’ it purty strong! Go easy, young feller, and give a old man with only one +eye and a game leg a chance. But you won’t do it; I can see that in the cast of your eye; you’re bound to +clean me out at one smack; that’s what you’re bound to do.”</p> + +<p>The one-eyed man shook the dicebox very carefully, as if mixing some rare prescription. Then he stopped <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_54'></a>54</span> shaking and held his hand over the mouth of the box, as if he expected +the cubes might jump up and join in his ruination while his head was turned.</p> + +<p>“Now, look-a here!” said he, addressing them generally. “I’ve traveled this wide world over +ever since I was a tender child, as the man said, and I never seen a chance like this to skin a feller slide by without +more’n one lone man havin’ sense enough and nerve enough to git in on it.</p> + +<p>“Do I see any more of your money, gents, before I roll the dice? Do I see any more of your money of the ream +and dominion of Uncle Sam, with the eagle a spreadin’ his legs, with his toes full of arrers, and his mouth wide +open a hollerin’ de-fiance and destruction ag’in’ his innimies on land and sea, wheresomever they may +be, as the feller said?</p> + +<p>“Do I see any more of your money, gents? Do I git sight of any more? Lowest bet’s one dollar, gents, and +you might as well git in on the finish and let the old man go up with a whoop. I’m game, gents; I go the limit. +Do I see any more of your money? Do I see any more?”</p> + +<p>He did. He saw considerably more than he had seen at one time since he opened the game in Comanche. He seemed +greatly affected by the sight, shaking his head with solemnity and casting his eye around with reproach.</p> + +<p>“That’s right! That’s right!” said he. “Sock it to a old feller when you’ve got +him down! That’s the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_55'></a>55</span> way of this cold world. Well, +all I ask of you, gents”–he paused in his request to shake the box again, holding it poised for the +throw–“is this: When you clean me I ask you to stake me, between you, to twenty-seven dollars. +Twenty-seven’s my lucky number; I was borned on the 27th day of Jannewarry, and I always bet on +twenty-seven.”</p> + +<p>He poured the dice upon the table, reaching for his pile of bills and gold as if to cash in on the winnings as he +set the box down, even while the dice were rolling and settling. But at that point the one-eyed man stayed his hand, +bending over the dice as if he could not believe his eye.</p> + +<p>“Well, bust me!” said he, sighing as if honestly disappointed in the throw. “M’ luck’s +turned! Dang me, fellers, if I didn’t win!”</p> + +<p>Without enthusiasm, still shaking his head sadly, he drew the winnings over the table, sorting the bills, shuffling +them into neat heaps, adding them to his enticing pile, which lay heaped upon a green cloth at his hand.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know why I stick to this game, gents,” said he, “for it’s all +ag’in’ me. I don’t win once in nine hundred times. This here’s more money than I’ve took +in at any one time since I come to Comanche, and it’s more’n I ever expect to take in ag’in if I stay +here forty-nine years.</p> + +<p>“But it’s in m’ blood to bet on twenty-seven. I can’t help it, boys. It’ll be the +ruination of me ag’in, like it’s ruined me many a time before; but I got to roll ’em! <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_56'></a>56</span> I got to roll ’em! And if anybody wants to git in, let him put +his money down!”</p> + +<p>The young man seemed a little dazed by the quick change of the gambler’s luck, but his reason had no voice to +speak against the clamor of his desires. He produced more money, bills of large denomination, and counted out a +thousand dollars, defiantly flourishing every bill. He whacked the pile down on the table with a foolishly arrogant +thump of his fist.</p> + +<p>“I’m with you to the finish,” he said, his boyish face bright with the destructive fire of chance. +“Roll ’em out!”</p> + +<p>Other players crowded forward, believing perhaps that the queer freak of fortune which had turned the +gambler’s luck would not hold. In a few minutes there was more money on the table than the one-eyed man had stood +before in many a day.</p> + +<p>Sorry for the foolish young man, and moved by the sacrifice which he saw in preparation, Dr. Slavens pressed against +the table, trying to flash the youth a warning with his eyes. But the physician could not get a look into the young +man’s flushed face; his eyes were on the stake.</p> + +<p>The one-eyed man was gabbing again, running out a continual stream of cheap and pointless talk, and offering the +dice as usual for inspection. Some looked at the cubes, among the number the young man, who weighed them in his palm +and rolled them on the table several times. Doubtless they were as straight as dice <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_57'></a>57</span> ever were made. This test satisfied the rest. The one-eyed man swept +the cubes into his hand and, still talking, held that long, bony member hovering over the mouth of the box.</p> + +<p>At that moment Dr. Slavens, lurching as if shoved violently from behind, set his shoulder against the table and +pushed it, hard and suddenly, against the one-eyed man’s chest, all but throwing him backward against the wall of +the tent. The gambler’s elbows flew up in his struggle to keep to his feet, and the hand that hovered over the +dicebox dropped the dice upon the board.</p> + +<p>Instantly a shout went up; instantly half a hundred hands clawed at the table to retrieve their stakes. For the +one-eyed man had dropped not five dice, but ten.</p> + +<p>He waited for no further developments. The tent-wall parted behind him as he dived through into the outer darkness, +taking with him his former winnings and his “bank,” which had been cunningly arranged on the green cloth +for no other purpose; his revolver and his dice, leaving nothing but the box behind.</p> + +<p>The young man gathered up his stake with nervous hands and turned his flushed face to the doctor, smiling +foolishly.</p> + +<p>“Thank you, old man,” he said. “Oh, yes! I know you now,” he added, offering his hand with +great warmth. “You were with her people at the dance.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” smiled the doctor. “How much did you lose?”</p> + +<p>“Say, I ought to have a nurse!” said the young man <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_58'></a>58</span> abjectly. “If you hadn’t heaved that table into the old devil’s ribs just +then he’d ’a’ skinned me right! Oh, about six hundred, I guess; but in ten minutes more he’d +’a’ cleaned me out. Walker’s my name,” he confided; “Joe Walker. I’m from +Cheyenne.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens introduced himself.</p> + +<p>“And I’m from Missouri,” said he.</p> + +<p>Joe Walker chuckled a little.</p> + +<p>“Yes; the old man’s from there, too,” said he, with the warmth of one relative claiming kinship +with another from far-away parts; “from a place called Saint Joe. Did you ever hear of it?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve heard of it,” the doctor admitted, smiling to himself over the ingenuous unfolding of the +victim whom he had snatched from the sacrifice.</p> + +<p>“They don’t only have to show you fellers from Missouri,” pursued Walker; “but you show +<i>them</i>! That’s the old man’s way, from the boot-heels up.”</p> + +<p>They were walking away from the gambling-tent, taking the middle of the road, as was the custom in Comanche after +dark, sinking instep deep in dust at every step.</p> + +<p>“What are you doing with all that money in a place like this?” the doctor questioned.</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s this way,” explained Walker with boyish confidence. “The old man’s going +to set me up in a sheep-ranch between here and Casper. We’ve got a ranch bargained for with six miles of +river-front, he sent me over here with five thousand dollars to cinch <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_59'></a>59</span> the business before the feller changed his mind.”</p> + +<p>“Why didn’t you bring a draft?” the doctor wondered.</p> + +<p>“Some of these sheepmen wouldn’t take government bonds. Nothing but plain cash goes with +them.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I didn’t think you had any particular use for even that, the way you’re slinging it +around!” said the doctor, with no attempt to hide the feeling he held for any such recklessness.</p> + +<p>“Looked that way,” admitted Walker thoughtfully. “But I’ve got to meet that sheepman here at +the bank in the morning, where he can have somebody that he’s got confidence in feel of the money and tell him +it’s genuine, and I’ll have to put up some kind of a stall to cover the money I lost. Guess I can get away +with it, somehow. Cripes! I sweat needles every time I think of what’d ’a’ happened to me if you +hadn’t showed us suckers that one-eyed feller’s hand!”</p> + +<p>“Well, the important thing now, it seems to me, is to hang on to what’s left till you meet that +rancher.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you worry!” rejoined Walker warmly. “I’m going to sit on the edge of that +little old bunk all night with my six-shooter in one hand and that money in the other! And any time in future that you +see me bettin’ on any man’s game, you send for the fool-killer, will you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, if I happen to be around,” promised the doctor.</p> + +<p>“I ought to know ’em; I was raised right here in <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_60'></a>60</span> Wyoming among ’em;” said Walker. “I thought that feller was square, or maybe +off a little, because he talked so much. He was the first talkin’ gambler I ever met.”</p> + +<p>“Talk is his trick,” Slavens enlightened him. “That was old Hun Shanklin, the flat-game man. +I’ve looked him up since I got here. He plays suckers, and nothing <i>but</i> suckers. No gambler ever bets on +Hun Shanklin’s game. He talks to keep their eyes on his face while he switches the dice.”</p> + +<p>Walker was gravely silent a little while, like a man who has just arrived at the proper appreciation of some grave +danger which he has escaped.</p> + +<p>“I’ve heard of Hun Shanklin a long time, but I never saw him before,” he said. “He’s +killed several men in his time. Do you suppose he knows you shoved his table, or does he think somebody back of you +pushed you against it?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t suppose he needs anybody to tell him how it happened,” replied the doctor a little +crabbedly.</p> + +<p>“Of course I’ve got my own notion of it, old feller,” prattled Walker; “but they were purty +thick around there just then, and shovin’ a good deal. I hope he thinks it happened that way. But I know nobody +shoved you, and I’m much obliged.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, forget it!” snapped Slavens, thinking of the six hundred dollars which had flown out of the young +fellow’s hand so lightly. Once he could have bought a very good used automobile for four hundred. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61'></a>61</span></p> + +<p>“But don’t you suppose–” Walker lowered his voice to a whisper, looking cautiously around in +the dark as he spoke–“that you stand a chance to hear from Hun Shanklin again?”</p> + +<p>“Maybe,” answered Slavens shortly. “Well, here’s where I turn off. I’m stopping at the +Metropole down here.”</p> + +<p>“Say!”</p> + +<p>Walker caught his arm appealingly.</p> + +<p>“Between you and me I don’t like the looks of that dump where I’ve got a bed. You’ve been +here longer than I have; do you know of any place where a man with all this blamed money burnin’ his hide might +pull through till morning with it if he happened to slip a cog and go to sleep?”</p> + +<p>“There’s a spare cot in our tent,” said the doctor, “and you’re welcome to it if you +feel that you can trust yourself in our company. We mess together in a sort of communistic fashion.”</p> + +<p>Walker was profuse in his gratitude.</p> + +<p>“I’ll feel easy among decent people!” he declared. “I’m mostly decent myself, and my +family’s one of the best in this state. Don’t you size me up by what you saw me do tonight, will +you?”</p> + +<p>“The best of us slip up once in a while,” Slavens said.</p> + +<p>Walker had some business of clearing his throat. And then:</p> + +<p>“Are you–that is–is <i>she</i>, related to you?” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_62'></a>62</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, no,” laughed the doctor. “I’m sorry she isn’t.”</p> + +<p>“She’s a peach; don’t you think so?”</p> + +<p>“Undoubtedly,” admitted the doctor. “Well, here we are–at home.”</p> + +<p>They stood outside a little while, their faces turned toward the town. It was quieting down now. Here and there a +voice was raised in drunken song or drunken yelp; here and there a pistol-shot marked the location of some silly fellow +who believed that he was living and experiencing all the recklessness of the untamed West. Now and then the dry, shrill +laughter of a woman sounded, without lightness, without mirth, as if it came from the lips of one who long, long ago, +in the fever of pain and despair, had wept her heart empty of its tears. Now and again, also, a wailing cornet lifted +its lone voice, dying away dimly like a disappearing light.</p> + +<p>“The wolves are satisfied for one night; they’ve stopped howling,” the doctor said.</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_5'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_63'></a>63</span> +<h2>CHAPTER V<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>SKULKERS</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>There remained but one day until chance should settle the aspirations of the dusty thousands who waited in Comanche; +one day more would see Claim Number One allotted for selection to some more or less worthy American citizen.</p> + +<p>The young man, Walker, had been received on a footing of fellowship into the commune of the circus-tent. He said +that he had concluded happily the arrangements for the purchase of the sheep-ranch, and that he intended to go and take +possession of it in a few days. Meantime, he appeared to be considerably shot up over June. In spite of Mrs. +Reed’s frowns, he hung around her like a hornet after a soft pear.</p> + +<p>There was considerable excitement in the camp of the communists that morning, owing to preparations which were going +forward for an excursion over the land where somebody’s Number One lay shrouded in green greasewood and gray +sage. For this important occasion Walker had engaged the most notable stage-driver in that part of the country, whose +turn it was that day to lie over from the run between Comanche and Meander.</p> + +<p>The party was to use his stage also, and carry lunch along, and make a grand day of it along the river, <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64'></a>64</span> trying for trout if conditions held favorable. Smith was the name of +the driver.</p> + +<p>Smith was smiling like a baker as he drove up, for Smith could not behold ladies without blushing and smiling. Smith +had the reputation of being a terror to holdup men. Also, the story was current in Comanche that he had, in a +bare-handed, single encounter with a bear, choked the animal to death. There was some variance over the particulars as +to the breed of bear, its color, age, size, and weight. Some–and they were the unromantic, such as habitually +lived in Wyoming and kept saloons–held that it was a black cub with a broken back; others that it was a cinnamon +bear with claws seven inches long; while the extremists would be satisfied with nothing short of a grizzly which stood +five feet four at the shoulders and weighed eighteen hundred pounds!</p> + +<p>But, no matter what romance had done for Smith, it could not overdo his ancient, green vehicle, with the +lettering,</p> + +<div style='margin:.5em auto; text-align:center;'>BIG HORN VALLEY<br /></div> + +<p>along its side near the roof. It was a Concord stage, its body swinging on creaking straps. It had many a wound of +arrowhead in its tough oak, and many a bullet-hole, all of which had been plugged with putty and painted over long +years ago for the assurance and comfort of nervous passengers, to whom the evidence of conflict might have been +disturbing. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65'></a>65</span></p> + +<p>Now that there was no longer any reason for concealment, the owners had allowed the paint to crumble and the putty +to fall away, baring the veteran’s scars. These were so thick that it seemed a marvel that anybody who took +passage in it in those perilous days escaped. In a sun-cracked and time-curled leather holster tacked to the seat at +Smith’s right hand, a large revolver with a prodigious black handle hung ready for the disciplining of bandits or +bears, as they might come across Smith’s way.</p> + +<p>Smith rounded up before the tent with a curve like a skater, bringing his four horses to a stop in fine style. No +matter how Smith’s parts might be exaggerated by rumor or humor in other ways, as a teamster he stood without a +peer between Cody and Green River. He leaped to the ground with surprising agility and set himself about arranging the +interior of the coach for the accommodation of his passengers. He was chewing on something which might have been +bear-meat or buckskin, from its apparent tenacious and unyielding nature.</p> + +<p>Agnes Horton was to ride on the box with Smith, for she had a camera and wanted to catch some views. Smith grew so +red over handing her up that Dr. Slavens began to fear lest he might take fire from internal heat and leave them with +only the ashes of a driver on their hands. But they all got placed without any such melancholy tragedy, with a great +many cries of “Oh, Mr. Smith!” here, and “Oh, Mr. Smith!” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_66'></a>66</span> there, and many head-puttings-out on the part of the ladies inside, and gallantries from Mr. +Walker and Mr. Horace Bentley, the lawyer.</p> + +<p>William Bentley, the toolmaker, with the basket of lunch upon his knees, showered the blessing of his kindly smile +upon them all, as if he held them to be only children. Mrs. Mann, her black bag on her arm, squeaked a little when the +coach lurched on the start, knocking her head and throwing her hat awry.</p> + +<p>Smith, proud of his load, and perhaps a little vain on account of so much unusual loveliness at his side, swung down +the main street with its early morning crowds. People waved at them the friendly signals of the highroad of adventure, +and June, in defiance of terrible eyebrows and admonishing pokes, waved back at them, her wild hair running over her +cheeks. So they set out in the bright morning to view the promised land.</p> + +<p>They struck off down the Meander stage-road, which ran for the greater part of its way through the lands awaiting +the disposition of chance. Mainly it followed the survey of the railroad, which was to be extended to Meander, and +along which men and teams were busy even then, throwing up the roadbed.</p> + +<p>To the north there was a rise of land, running up in benched gradations to white and barren distant heights; behind +them were brown hills. Far away in the blue southwest–Smith said it was more than eighty miles–there stood +the mountains with their <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_67'></a>67</span> clean robes of snow, while +scattered here and there about the vast plain through which they drove, were buttes of blue shale and red ledges, as +symmetrical of side and smooth of top as if they had been raised by the architects of Tenochtitlán for sacrifice +to their ugly gods.</p> + +<p>“Old as Adam,” said Smith, pointing to one gray monument whose summit had been pared smooth by the slow +knife of some old glacier. The sides of the butte looked almost gay in the morning light in their soft tones of blue +and red.</p> + +<p>“From appearances it might very well be,” agreed Agnes.</p> + +<p>She looked at Smith and smiled. There was the glory of untrammeled space in her clear eyes, a yearning as of the +desert-born on the far bounds of home. Smith drove on, his back very straight.</p> + +<p>“Older,” said he with laconic finality after holding his peace for a quarter of a mile.</p> + +<p>Smith spoke as if he had known both Adam and the butte for a long time, and so was an unquestionable authority. +Agnes was not disposed to dispute him, so they lurched on in silence along the dust-cushioned road.</p> + +<p>“That ain’t the one the Indian girl jumped off of, though,” said Smith, meditatively.</p> + +<p>“Isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>She turned to him quickly, ready for a story from the picturesque strangler of bears. Smith was looking <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_68'></a>68</span> between the ears of the off-leader. He volunteered no more.</p> + +<p>“Well, where is the one she jumped from?” she pressed.</p> + +<p>“Nowhere,” said Smith.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” she said, a bit disappointed.</p> + +<p>“Everywhere I’ve went,” said he, “they’ve got some high place where the Indian girl +jumped off of. In Mezoury they’ve got one, and even in Kansas. They’ve got one in Minnesota and Illinoy and +Idaho, and bend my eyebrows if I know all the places they ain’t got ’em! But don’t you never let +’em!take you in on no such yarns. Them yarns is for suckers.”</p> + +<p>Somehow Agnes felt grateful toward Smith, whose charitable purpose doubtless was to prevent her being taken in. But +she was sorry for the fine tradition and hated to give it up.</p> + +<p>“But <i>didn’t</i> one ever jump off a cliff or–anything?” she asked.</p> + +<p>Smith struck out with a free-arm swing and cracked his whip so loudly that three female heads were at once protruded +from the windows below.</p> + +<p>“What I want to know,” said he argumentatively, “is, who seen ’em jump?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” she admitted; “but I suppose they found their bodies.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you believe it!” depreciated Smith. “Indian maidens ain’t the jumpin’ +kind. I never seen one of ’em in my day that wouldn’t throw down the best feller <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69'></a>69</span> she ever had for a red umbreller and a dime’s worth of stick +candy.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry for the nice stories your knowledge of the Indian character spoils,” she laughed.</p> + +<p>“The thing of it in this country is, miss, not to let ’em take you in,” Smith continued. +“That’s what they’re out for–to take in suckers. No matter how wise you may be in some other +place, right here in this spot you may be a sucker. Do you git my words?”</p> + +<p>“I think so,” she responded, “and thank you. I’ll try to keep my eyes open.”</p> + +<p>“They’s places in this country,” Smith went on, for he liked to talk as well as the next one, once +he got under way, “where you could put your pocketbook down at the fork of the road with your card on top of it +and go back there next week and find it O. K. But they’s other places where if you had your money inside of three +safes they’d git at it somehow. This is one of that kind of places.”</p> + +<p>They had been dropping down a slope scattered with gray lava chunks and set with spiked soapweed, which let them to +the river level. Ahead of them, twisted cottonwoods and red willows marked the brink of the stream.</p> + +<p>“This is the first bench,” said Smith, “and it’s mainly good land. Before the books was +opened for registration the gover’ment give the Indians choice of a homestead apiece, and they picked off all +this land down here. Oh, well, on up the river they’s a little left, and <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_70'></a>70</span> if I draw a low number I know where to put my hand on a piece.”</p> + +<p>“It looks nice and green here,” said she, admiring the feathery vegetation, which grew as tall as the +stage along the roadway.</p> + +<p>“Yes, but you want to watch out for greasewood,” advised Smith, “when you come to pick land in +this country. It’s a sign of alkali. Pick that gray, dusty-lookin’ stuff. That’s sage, and where it +grows big, anything’ll grow when you git the water on it.”</p> + +<p>“But how <i>do</i> you get the water on this hilly land?” she asked.</p> + +<p>The question had been troubling her ever since she had taken her first look at the country, and nobody had come +forward with a satisfactory explanation.</p> + +<p>“You got to go up the river till you strike your level,” explained Smith, “and then you tap it and +take the water to your land.”</p> + +<p>“But if you’re on the ‘third bench’ that I hear them talking about so much–then what +do you do up there, a thousand or two feet above the river?”</p> + +<p>“You go back where you come from if you’re wise,” said Smith.</p> + +<p>When they reached the section which, according to Smith, had not all been taken up by the Indians already, the party +got out occasionally for closer inspection of the land. The men gravely trickled the soil through their fingers, while +the women grabbed at the sweet-smelling herbs which grew in abundance everywhere, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_71'></a>71</span> and tore their sleeves reaching for the clusters of bullberries, then turning red.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens and William Bentley tried for fish, with a total catch between them of one small trout, which was +carried in triumph to the place picked upon by Smith for the noonday camp. Smith would not trust the coffee to any hand +but his own, and he blackened up the pot shamefully, Mrs. Reed declared.</p> + +<p>But what did Smith care for the criticism of Mrs. Reed when he was making coffee for Agnes? What did he care, +indeed, for the judgment of the whole world when he was laying out his best efforts to please the finest woman who ever +sat beside him on the box, and one for whom he was ready to go any distance, and do any endeavors, to save her from +being made a sucker of and taken in and skinned?</p> + +<p>It was pleasant there by the river; so pleasant that there was not one of them but voted Wyoming the finest and most +congenial spot in the world, with the kindest skies, the softest summer winds, and the one place of all places for a +home.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” Smith remarked, tossing pebbles into the river from the place where he sat cross-legged on the +ground with his pipe, “it takes a hold of you that way. It goes to twenty below in the winter, sometimes, and the +wind blows like the plug had popped out of the North Pole, and the snow covers up the sheep on the range and smothers +’em, and you lose all you got down to the last chaw of t’backer. But you stick, some way, <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72'></a>72</span> and you forgit you ever had a home back in Indiana, where strawberries +grow.”</p> + +<p>“Why, don’t they grow here?” asked the miller’s wife, holding a bunch of red bullberries +caressingly against her cheek.</p> + +<p>“I ain’t seen a natural strawberry in fourteen years,” said Smith, more proud than regretful, as +if such a long abstinence were a virtue.</p> + +<p>“Natural?” repeated Mrs. Reed. “Surely you don’t mean that they manufacture them +here?”</p> + +<p>“They send ’em here in cans,” explained Smith, “pale, with sour water on ’em no more +like real, ma’am, than a cigarette’s like a smoke.”</p> + +<p>The men with pipes chuckled their appreciation of the comparison. Horace Bentley, with a fresh cigarette–which +he had taken out of a silver case–in his fingers, turned it, quizzically smiling as he struck a match.</p> + +<p>“It’s an imitation,” said he; “but it’s good enough for me.”</p> + +<p>The sun was slanting near the rough hills beyond the river when they started back to Comanche.</p> + +<p>“You’ve seen the best of the reservation,” explained Smith, “and they ain’t no earthly +use in seein’ the worst of it.”</p> + +<p>They were well along on the way, passing through a rough and outcast stretch of country, where upheaved ledges stood +on edge, and great blocks of stone poised menacingly on the brows of shattered cliffs, when Smith, <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_73'></a>73</span> who had been looking sharply ahead, pulled in suddenly and turned to +Agnes with apologetic questioning in his eyes. It seemed to her that he had something on his mind which he was afraid +to put into words.</p> + +<p>“What is it, Mr. Smith?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“I was just goin’ to say, would you mind goin’ inside and lettin’ that doctor man take your +place for a while?”</p> + +<p>Smith doubtless had his reason, she thought, although it hurt her pride that he should withhold his confidence. But +she yielded her place without further questioning, with a great amount of blushing over the stocking which a protruding +screwhead was responsible for her showing to Dr. Slavens as he assisted her to the ground.</p> + +<p>The sudden stop, the excitement incident to changing places, threw the women within the coach into a cackle.</p> + +<p>“Is it robbers?” demanded Mrs. Reed, getting hold of June’s hand and clinging to it protectingly +as she put her head out and peered up at Smith, who was sitting there stolidly, his eyes on the winding trail ahead, +his foot on the brake.</p> + +<p>“No, ma’am,” answered Smith, not looking in her direction at all.</p> + +<p>“What is it, then?” quavered Mrs. Mann from the other side of the stage.</p> + +<p>She could not see Smith, and the desolation of their surroundings set her fancy at work stationing dusty cowboy +bandits behind each riven, lowering stone. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74'></a>74</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, I <i>hope</i> it’s robbers!” said June, bouncing up and down in her seat. “That would +be just fine!”</p> + +<p>“Hush, hush!” commanded her mother, shaking her correctively. “Such a wicked wish!”</p> + +<p>Milo Strong, the teacher from Iowa, had grown very pale. He buttoned his coat and kept one hand in the region of his +belt. One second he peered wildly out of the windows on his side, the next he strained to see if devastation and ruin +were approaching from the other.</p> + +<p>“Smith doubtless had some very commonplace reason for making the change,” said William Bentley, making +room for Agnes beside him. “I expect Miss Horton talked too much.”</p> + +<p>With that the stage started and their fears subsided somewhat. On the box Smith was looking sharply at the doctor. +Then he asked:</p> + +<p>“Can you drive better than you can shoot, or shoot better than you can drive?”</p> + +<p>“I guess it’s about a stand-off,” replied the doctor without a ripple of excitement; “but I +was brought up with four mules.”</p> + +<p>Without another word Smith stood on the footboard, and Dr. Slavens slid along to his place. Smith handed the +physician the lines and took the big revolver from its pocket by the seat.</p> + +<p>“Two fellers on horseback,” said he, keeping his eyes sharply on the boulder-hedged road, “has +been dodgin’ along the top of that ridge kind of suspicious. No reason why any honest man would want to ride +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75'></a>75</span> along up there among the rocks when he could ride down here +where it’s smooth. They may be straight or they may be crooked. I don’t know. But you meet all kinds along +this road.”</p> + +<p>The doctor nodded. Smith said no more, but stood, one knee on the seat, with his pistol held in readiness for +instant action. When they reached the top of the ridge nobody was in sight, but there were boulders enough, and big +enough, on every hand to conceal an army. Smith nodded; the doctor pulled up.</p> + +<p>The stage had no sooner stopped than Walker was out, his pistol in hand, ready to show June and all her female +relatives so dear that he was there to stand between them and danger as long as their peril might last.</p> + +<p>Smith looked around carefully.</p> + +<p>“Funny about them two fellers!” he muttered.</p> + +<p>From the inside of the stage came June’s voice, raised in admiration of Mr. Walker’s intrepidity, and +her mother’s voice, commanding her to be silent, and not draw down upon them the fury of the bandits, who even +then might be taking aim at them from behind a rock.</p> + +<p>Nobody appearing, between whom and June he might precipitate himself, Walker mounted a rock for a look around. He +had no more than reached the top when the two horsemen who had caused the flurry rode from behind the house-size +boulder which had hidden them, turned their backs, crouching in their <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_76'></a>76</span> saddles as if to hide their identity, and galloped off.</p> + +<p>“Huh! Old Hun Shanklin’s one of ’em,” sniffed Smith, plainly disgusted that the affair had +turned out so poorly.</p> + +<p>He put his weapon back in its place and took the lines.</p> + +<p>“And that feller, he don’t have to go around holdin’ people up with a gun in his hand,” he +added. “He’s got a safer and surer game of it than that.”</p> + +<p>“And that’s no cross-eyed view of it, either,” Dr. Slavens agreed.</p> + +<p>Walker came over and stood beside the near wheel.</p> + +<p>“One of them was Hun Shanklin!” said he, whispering up loudly for the doctor’s ear, a look of deep +concern on his youthful face.</p> + +<p>Slavens nodded with what show of unconcern he could assume. For, knowing what he knew, he wondered what the gambler +was there for, and why he seemed so anxious to keep the matter of his identity to himself.</p> + +<p>When they arrived at Comanche the sun was down. Mrs. Reed hurried June indoors, all exclamations and shudders over +what she believed to have been a very narrow escape. Vowing that she never would go exploring around in that wild land +again, she whisked off without a word for Smith.</p> + +<p>The others shook hands with the driver, Agnes coming last. He took off his hat when it came her turn.</p> + +<p>“Keep your eyes skinned,” he advised her, “and <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_77'></a>77</span> don’t let ’em play you for a sucker. Any time you need advice, or any help that I +can give you, if I’m not here I’m on the road between here and Meander. You can git me over there by +telephone.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” said she warmly and genuinely, wondering why he should take such an +unaccountable interest in her.</p> + +<p>The others had gone about their business, thinking strongly of supper, leaving Smith and her alone beside the old +green stage.</p> + +<p>“But don’t ask for Smith if you call me up,” said he, “for that’s only my first name, +and they’s a horse-wrangler over there with that for his last. They might think you wanted him.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I didn’t know!” she stammered, all confusion over the familiarity that she had been taking +all day. “I didn’t know your other name–nobody ever told me.”</p> + +<p>“No; not many of ’em down here knows it,” he responded. “But up at Meander, at the barn, +they know it. It’s Phogenphole.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“But if you don’t like it,” added Smith, speaking with great fervor, and leaning toward her a +little eagerly and earnestly, “I’ll have a bill put through the Legislature down at Cheyenne and change +it!”</p> + +<p>They ate supper that evening by lantern-light, with the night noise of Comanche beginning to rise around them +earlier than usual. Those who were there for <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_78'></a>78</span> the reaping +realized that it would be their last big night, for on the morrow the drawing would fall. After the first day’s +numbers had been taken from the wheel at Meander, which would run up into the thousands, the waiting crowds would melt +away from Comanche as fast as trains could carry them. So those who were on the make had both hands out in Comanche +that night.</p> + +<p>They all wondered how it would turn out for them, the lumberman and the insurance agent–who had not been of +the party that day in Smith’s coach–offering to lay bets that nobody in the mess would draw a number below +five hundred. There were no takers. Then they offered to bet that all in the mess would draw under five hundred. Mrs. +Reed rebuked them for their gambling spirit, which, she said, was rampant in Comanche, like a plague.</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_6'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79'></a>79</span> +<h2>CHAPTER VI<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE DRAWING</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>As has been previously said, one must go fast and far to come to a place where there is neither a Hotel Metropole +nor a newspaper. Doubtless there are communities of civilized men on the North American continent where there is +neither, but Comanche was not one of them.</p> + +<p>In Comanche the paper was a daily. Its editor was a single-barreled grafter who wore a green mohair coat and dyed +whiskers. His office and establishment occupied an entire twelve-by-sixteen tent; the name of the paper was <i>The +Chieftain</i>.</p> + +<p><i>The Chieftain</i> had been one of the first enterprises of Comanche. It got there ahead of the first train, +arriving in a wagon, fully equipped. The editor had an old zinc cut of a two-storied brick business house on a corner, +which he had run with a grocery-store advertisement when he was getting out a paper in Tulsa, Oklahoma. This he now +made use of with impressive effect and inspiring display of his cheerful confidence in his own future and that of the +town where, like a blowing seed of cottonwood, he had found lodgment.</p> + +<p>He ran this cut in every issue at the top of what would have been his editorial column if there had been +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80'></a>80</span> time for him to write one, with these words:</p> + +<div style='margin:.5em auto; text-align:center;'>FUTURE HOME OF <span style='font-variant:small-caps;'>The +Chieftain</span> ON THE<br /> +CORNER THIS PAPER NOW OCCUPIES,<br /> +AS DESIGNED BY THE EDITOR AND<br /> +OWNER, J. WALTER MONG<br /></div> + +<p>From the start that Editor Mong was making in Comanche his dream did not appear at all unreasonable. Everybody in +the place advertised, owing to some subtle influence of which Mr. Mong was master, and which is known to editors of his +brand wherever they are to be found. If a business man had the shield of respectability to present to all questioners, +he advertised out of pride and civic spirit; if he had a past, J. Walter Mong had a nose, sharpened by long training in +picking up such scents; and so he advertised out of expediency.</p> + +<p>That being the way matters stood, <i>The Chieftain</i> carried very little but advertisements. They paid better than +news, and news could wait its turn, said the editor, until he settled down steadily into a weekly and had room for +it.</p> + +<p>But Mr. Mong laid himself out to give the returns from the drawing for homesteads, it being one of those rare +chances in which an editor could combine business and news without putting on an extra form. The headquarters of the +United States land-office for that territory being at Meander, the drawing was to take place there. Meander was sixty +miles farther along, connected <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_81'></a>81</span> with the railroad and +Comanche by stage and telephone. So, every hour of the eventful day, Editor Mong was going to issue an extra on +telephonic information from the seat of the drawing.</p> + +<p>On the day of the drawing, which came as clear and bright as the painted dreams of those who trooped +Comanche’s streets, there remained in the town, after the flitting entrants had come and gone, fully thirty +thousand expectant people. They were those in whom the hope of low numbers was strong. For one drawing a low number +must make his selection of land and file on it at Meander within a few days.</p> + +<p>In the case of the first number, the lucky drawer would have but three days to make his selection and file on it. If +he lapsed, then Number Two became Number One, and all down the line the numbers advanced one.</p> + +<p>So, in case that the winner of Number One had registered and gone home to the far East or the middle states, he +couldn’t get back in time to save his valuable chance. That gave big hope to those who expected nothing better +than seven or nine or something under twenty. Three or four lapses ahead of them would move them along, each peg adding +thousands to their winnings, each day running out for them in golden sands.</p> + +<p>By dawn the streets were filled by early skirmishers for breakfast, and sunrise met thousands more who, luggage in +hand, talked and gesticulated and blocked <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82'></a>82</span> the dusty +passages between the unstable walls of that city of chance, which soon would come down and disappear like smoke from a +wayside fire. The thousands with their bags in hand would not sleep another night beneath its wind-restless roofs. All +those who expected to draw Claim Number One were ready to take the stage or hire a special conveyance to Meander, or, +failing of their expectations in the lottery, to board the special trains which the railroad had made ready, and leave +for home.</p> + +<p>By nine o’clock it seemed to the waiting throngs that several ordinary days had passed since they left their +sagging canvas cots at daybreak to stand attendant upon the whim of chance. They gathered in the blazing sun in front +of the office of the paper, looking in at Editor Mong, who seemed more like a quack doctor that morning than ever +before, with his wrinkled coat-sleeves pushed above his elbows and his cuffs tucked back over them, his black-dyed +whiskers gleaming in shades of green when the sun hit them, like the plumage of a crow.</p> + +<p>For all the news that came to Comanche over the telephone-wire that day must come through the office of <i>The +Chieftain</i>. There was but one telephone in the town; that was in the office of the stage-line, and by arrangement +with its owners, the editor had bottled up the slightest chance of a leak.</p> + +<p>There would be no bulletins, the editor announced. Anyone desiring news of the drawing must pay twenty-five +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_83'></a>83</span> cents for a copy of the paper containing it. It was the +editor’s one great chance for graft, and he meant to work it until it was winded.</p> + +<p>The lottery was to open in Meander at ten o’clock; but long before that hour the quivering excitement which +shook the fabric of Comanche had reached the tent where Mrs. Reed mothered it over the company of adventurers. The +lumberman and insurance agent were away early; Sergeant Schaefer and Milo Strong followed them to the newspaper office +very shortly; and the others sat out in front, watching the long shadows contract toward the peg that June had driven +in the ground the day before at the line of ten o’clock.</p> + +<p>“Well, this is the day,” said William Bentley. “What will you take for your chance, +Doctor?”</p> + +<p>“Well, it wouldn’t take very much to get it this morning,” Dr. Slavens replied, peering +thoughtfully at the ground, “for it’s one of those things that grow smaller and smaller the nearer you +approach.”</p> + +<p>“I’d say twenty-five hundred for mine,” offered Horace.</p> + +<p>“Great lands!” exclaimed Mrs. Reed, blinking, as she looked out across the open toward the river. +“If anybody will give me three dollars for my chance he can take it, and welcome.”</p> + +<p>“Then you’d feel cheap if you won,” June put in. “It’s worth more than that even up in +the thousands; isn’t it, Mr. Walker?”</p> + +<p>Walker was warm in his declaration that it would <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_84'></a>84</span> be a +mighty small and poor piece of Wyoming that wouldn’t be worth more than that.</p> + +<p>“We haven’t heard from you, Miss Horton,” said William Bentley.</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid nothing would tempt me to part with my chance,” Agnes replied. “I hold it just +the reverse of Dr. Slavens. The longer I look at it the bigger it gets.”</p> + +<p>The doctor was the only one present who understood fully how much she had built around that chance. Their eyes met +as he looked across at her; he remembered what she had said of planting trees, and having roses beside her door.</p> + +<p>“It’s almost there!” cried June, looking at her stake.</p> + +<p>“Twenty minutes yet,” announced Horace, who sat with his watch in his palm.</p> + +<p>They were all bonneted and booted, ready for an expedition, although they had none in sight. It was as if they +expected Number One to come flying through the town, to be caught and held by the swiftest of foot, the one alert and +ready to spring up and dash after it.</p> + +<p>“Shall we go over to the newspaper office?” asked the doctor, looking across again and catching +Agnes’ eyes.</p> + +<p>June jumped up and accepted the proposal for all.</p> + +<p>“Oh, let’s do!” she exclaimed. “Let’s be there to get the very first word!”</p> + +<p>On the part of the ladies there was a dash into the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_85'></a>85</span> tent +to adjust their headgear before glasses and to renew the powder on their noses. While they were gone Horace Bentley, +the lawyer, stood with his watch exposed to his impatient eye.</p> + +<p>“In five minutes,” he announced as the ladies rejoined them, “they will draw the first name from +the wheel at Meander. I hope that it may be the name of someone in this party.”</p> + +<p>“I hope it will be yours,” said Dr. Slavens’ eyes as he looked earnestly at Agnes; and: +“Number Two would do very well for me in case your name came first,” her eyes seemed to answer him.</p> + +<p>But there was none by who knew what had passed between them of their hopes, so none could read the messages, even if +there had been any so curious as to try.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Mann was humming a little song as they started away toward the newspaper office, for she was tiring of Wyoming, +where she had not seen a single cowboy yet; and the prospect of returning to the miller was growing dear to her heart. +There was a quiet over Comanche that morning which seemed different from the usual comparative peace of that portion of +the day–a strained and fevered quiet, as of hushed winds before a gale. It took hold of even June as the party +passed through the main street, joining the stream of traffic which pressed in one direction only.</p> + +<p>They could not arrive within a square of the newspaper-tent, for the crowd around it was packed and dense; so they +stopped where there was breathing-space <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86'></a>86</span> among groups of men +who stood with their gripsacks between their feet, waiting for the first word.</p> + +<p>At five minutes past ten the editor of <i>The Chieftain</i> handed his printer a slip of paper, and the name of the +winner of Claim Number One was put in type. The news was carried by one who pushed through the throng, his hat on the +back of his head, sweat drenching his face. The man was in a buck-ague over the prospect of that name being his own, it +seemed, and thought only of drawing away from the sudden glare of fortune until he could collect his wits.</p> + +<p>Some people are that way–the timid ones of the earth. They go through life leaving a string of baited traps +behind them, lacking courage to go back and see what they have caught.</p> + +<p>More than two hundred names were in the first extra run off <i>The Chieftain’s</i> press at half-past ten. The +name of the winner of Number One was Axel Peterson; his home in Meander, right where he could step across the street +and file without losing a minute.</p> + +<p>Milo Strong, the schoolmaster from Iowa, drew Number Thirty-Seven. None of the others in the colony at the Hotel +Metropole figured in the first returns.</p> + +<p>They went back as silently as they had come, the doctor carrying the list in his hand. Before the tent stood the +lumberman and the insurance agent, their bags in their hands.</p> + +<p>“We’ve got just six minutes to catch the first train <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_87'></a>87</span> out,” said the insurance agent, his big smile just as wide as ever. “Good luck to +you all, and hope we meet again.”</p> + +<p>The lumberman waved his farewell as he ran. For them the gamble was off. They had staked on coming in below one +hundred, and they had lost. There was nothing more to hang around Comanche for, and it is supposed that they caught the +train, for they were seen there no more.</p> + +<p>There were several hundred others in that quick-coming and quick-going population whose hopes were dispersed by the +printed list. And so the town suffered a heavy drain with the departure of the first train for the East. The railroad +company, foreseeing the desire to be gone, had arranged a long string of coaches, with two engines hitched up and +panting to set out. The train pulled away with every inch of space occupied.</p> + +<p>All day the enterprising editor printed and sold extras. His press, run by an impertinent little gasoline engine, +could turn out eighteen hundred of those single-sheet dodgers in an hour, but it couldn’t turn them out fast +enough. Every time Editor Mong looked out of his tent and saw two men reading one paper he cursed his limited vision +which had stood in the way of putting sixty dollars more into a press of twice that capacity. As it was, the +day’s work brought him nearly three thousand dollars, money on the spot; no back subscriptions to worry over, no +cabbage or cordwood in exchange. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_88'></a>88</span></p> + +<p>When the drawing closed for the day and the last extra was off, more than three thousand numbers had been taken from +the wheel at Meander. The only one among the Metropole colony to draw after the first published list was Agnes Horton. +Claim Number Nine Hundred and Five fell to her lot.</p> + +<p>Claims that high were useless, and everybody knew it; so interest dropped away, the little gasoline engine popped +its last impertinent pop and subsided, and the crowds drifted off to get ready to depart as fast as trains could be +made up to haul them. Sergeant Schaefer, having failed of his expectations, felt a revival of interest in the military +life, and announced that he would leave on the first train out next morning.</p> + +<p>That night the price of cots suffered a dispiriting drop. Fifty cents would hire the most exclusive bed in the +phantom city of Comanche.</p> + +<p>As for Dr. Slavens, the day’s events had left him with a dazed feeling of insecurity. His air was cleared of +hope; he could not touch a stable bit of footing as far around him as he could reach. He had counted a good deal on +drawing something along in the early hundreds; and as the day wore along to his disappointment in that hope he thought +that he might come tagging in at the end, in the mean way that his cross-grained luck had of humiliating him and of +forcing the fact that he was more or less a failure before his eyes. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_89'></a>89</span></p> + +<p>No matter what he drew under three thousand, he said, he’d take it and be thankful for it. If he could locate +on a trickle of water somewhere and start out with a dozen ewes and a ram, he’d bury himself away in the desert +and pull the edges of it up around him to keep out the disappointments of the world. A man might come out of it in a +few years with enough money–that impenetrable armor which gives security even to fools–to buy a high place +for himself, if he couldn’t win it otherwise. Men had done well on small beginnings with sheep; that country was +full of them; and it was a poor one, indeed, that wasn’t able to buy up any ten doctors he could name.</p> + +<p>So Dr. Slavens ran on, following the lead of a fresh dream, which had its foundation on the sands of despair. When +the drawing had passed the high numbers which he had set as his possible lowest, he felt like sneaking away, whipped, +to hide his discouragement where there was no one to see. His confounded luck wouldn’t even grant him the +opportunity of burying himself out there in that gray sea of blowing dust!</p> + +<p>There was no use in trying to disguise the fact any longer; he was a fizzle. Some men were designed from the +beginning for failures, and he was one of the plainest patterns that ever was made. There was a place for Axel +Peterson, the alien, but there was no place for him.</p> + +<p>In spite of his age and experience, he did not understand that the world values men according to the <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_90'></a>90</span> resistance they interpose against it; according to the stamping down of +feet and the presenting of shoulders and the squaring arms to take its blows. Cowards make a front before it and get on +with amazing success; droves of poltroons bluster and storm, with empty shells of hearts inside their ribs, and kick up +a fine dust in the arena, under the cloud of which they snatch down many of the laurels which have been hung up for +worthier men. Success lies principally in understanding that the whole game is a bluff on the world’s part, and +that the biggest bluffer in the ring takes down the purse.</p> + +<p>But the timid hearts of the earth never learn this; the sentimentalists and the poets do not understand it. You +can’t go along sweeping a clear path for your feet with a bunch of flowers. What you need is a good, sound club. +When a hairy shin impedes, whack it, or make a feint and a bluff. You’ll be surprised how easily the terrifying +hulks of adversity are charmed out of the highway ahead of you by a little impertinence, a little ginger, and a little +gall.</p> + +<p>Many a man remains a coward all his life because somebody cowed him when he was a boy. Dr. Slavens had put his hands +down, and had stood with his shoulders hunched, taking the world’s thumps without striking back, for so many +years in his melancholy life that his natural resistance had shrunk. On that day he was not as nature had intended him, +but as circumstances had made him.</p> + +<p>It had become the friendly fashion in camp for the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_91'></a>91</span> +doctor and Agnes to take a walk after supper. June’s mother had frowned on the boldness of it, whispering to +June’s aunt. But the miller’s wife, more liberal and romantic, wouldn’t hear of whisperings. She said +their conduct was as irreproachable in that country as eating peas with a spoon.</p> + +<p>“I wish I was in her place!” she sighed.</p> + +<p>“<i>Dorothy Ann!</i>” gasped Mrs. Reed. “Remember your husband, Dorothy Ann!”</p> + +<p>“I do,” sighed the miller’s wife.</p> + +<p>“Well, if you <i>were</i> in her place you’d ask somebody to accompany you on your moonlight strolls, I +hope. I <i>hope</i> that’s what you’d do, Dorothy Ann.”</p> + +<p>“No,” answered the miller’s wife thoughtfully. “I’d propose. She’ll lose him if +she doesn’t.”</p> + +<p>On the evening of that day of blasted hopes the two of them walked away in the gloaming toward the river, with few +words between them until they left the lights of Comanche behind.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Strong is considerably elated over his luck,” said Agnes at last, after many sidling glances at his +gloomy profile.</p> + +<p>“That’s the way it goes,” Dr. Slavens sighed. “I don’t believe that chance is blind; I +think it’s just perverse. I should say, not counting myself, that Strong is the least deserving of any man in the +crowd of us. Look at old Horace Bentley, the lawyer. He doesn’t say anything, but you can see that his heart is +aching with disappointment.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_92'></a>92</span></p> + +<p>“I have noticed it,” she agreed. “He hasn’t said ten words since the last extra.”</p> + +<p>“When a man like that dreams, he dreams hard–and deep,” the doctor continued. “But how about +yourself?”</p> + +<p>She laughed, and placed a restraining hand upon his arm.</p> + +<p>“You’re going too fast,” she panted. “I’ll be winded before we get to the +river.”</p> + +<p>“I guess I was trying to overtake my hopes,” said he. “I’m sorry; we’ll go +slower–in all things–the rest of the way.”</p> + +<p>She looked at him quickly, a little curiously, but there was no explanation in his eyes, fixed on the graying +landscape beyond the river.</p> + +<p>“It looks like ashes,” said he softly, with a motion of the hand toward the naked hills. “There is +no life in it; there is nothing of the dead. It is a cenotaph of dreams. But how about your claim?”</p> + +<p>“It’s a little farther up than I had expected,” she admitted, but with a cheerful show of courage +which she did not altogether feel.</p> + +<p>“Yes; it puts you out of the chance of drawing any agricultural land, throws you into the grazing and +mineral,” said he.</p> + +<p>“Unless there are a great many lapses,” she suggested.</p> + +<p>“There will be hundreds, in my opinion,” he declared. “But in case there are not enough to bring +you <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_93'></a>93</span> down to the claim worth having–one upon which you +could plant trees and roses and such things?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll stick to it anyhow,” said she determinedly.</p> + +<p>“So this is going to be home?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Home,” she answered with a caressing touch upon the word. “I came here to make it; I +sha’n’t go away without it. I don’t know just how long it will take me, nor how hard it will be, but +I’m going to collect interest on my hopes from this country before I turn my back.”</p> + +<p>“You seem to believe in it,” said he.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps I believe more in myself,” she answered thoughtfully. “Have you determined what you are +going to do?”</p> + +<p>He laughed–a short, harsh expression of ironical bitterness.</p> + +<p>“I’ve gone through the mill today of heat and cold,” said he. “First, I was going to sell my +relinquishment for ten thousand dollars as soon as the law would allow, but by noon I had come down to five hundred. +After that I took up the notion of sheep stronger than Milo, from Iowa, ever thought of it. It took just one more extra +to put that fire out, and now the ashes of it aren’t even warm. Just what my next phantasy will be I can’t +say.”</p> + +<p>“But you’re going to stay here, aren’t you?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve thought of that, too. I’ve thought of making another try at it in a professional way. But +this is a big, empty country. Few people live in it and fewer die. I don’t know.” <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_94'></a>94</span></p> + +<p>“Well, you’re a doctor, not an undertaker, anyhow,” she reminded him.</p> + +<p>“Yes; I missed my calling,” he laughed, with the bitterness of defeat.</p> + +<p>“No,” she corrected; “I didn’t mean that. But perhaps at something else you might get on +faster here–business of some kind, I mean.”</p> + +<p>“If I had the chance!” he exclaimed wearily, flinging his hat to the ground as he sat beside her on a +boulder at the river’s edge. “I’ve never had a square and open chance at anything yet.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know, of course,” said she. “But the trouble with most of us, it seems to me, is +that we haven’t the quickness or the courage to take hold of the chance when it comes. All of us let so many good +ones get away.”</p> + +<p>Dusk had deepened. The star-glow was upon the river, placid there in its serene approach to the rough passage +beyond. He sat there, the wind lifting the hair upon his forehead, pondering what she had said.</p> + +<p>Was it possible that a man could walk blindly by his chances for thirty-five years, only to be grasping, +empty-palmed, after them when they had whisked away? For what else did his complainings signify? He had lacked the +courage or the quickness, or some essential, as she had said, to lay hold of them before they fled away beyond his +reach forever.</p> + +<p>There was a chance beside him going to waste tonight–a golden, great chance. Not for lack of <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_95'></a>95</span> courage would he let it pass, he reflected; but let it pass he must. He +wanted to tell her that he would be a different man if he could remain near her all the rest of his years; he longed to +say that he desired dearly to help her smooth the rough land and plant the trees and draw the water in that place which +she dreamed of and called home.</p> + +<p>But there was nothing in his past to justify her confidence in his future. Women worth having did not marry forlorn +hopes in the expectation of making a profit out of them by and by. He had no hearth to offer her; he had no thatch; he +had not a rood of land to lead a mountain stream across and set with the emerald and royal purple of alfalfa; not a +foot of greensward beside the river, where a yeaning ewe might lie and ease the burden of her pains. He had nothing to +offer, nothing to give. If he asked, it must be to receive all and return nothing, except whatever of constancy time +might prove out of his heart.</p> + +<p>If he had even a plan to lay down before her and ask her to share, it would be something, he thought; or a brave +resolve, like her own. But there was emptiness all around him; his feet could not find a square yard of solid earth to +shape his future upon. It was not that he believed that she cared for money or the material rewards of success, for she +had spoken bitterly of that. The ghosts of money’s victims were behind her; she had said as much the first time +they had talked of their hopes in that new land. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_96'></a>96</span></p> + +<p>There must be something in that place for him, as she had said; there must be an unimproved opportunity which Fate +had fashioned for his hand. Hope lifted its resilient head again. Before the morning he must have a plan, and when he +had the plan he would speak.</p> + +<p>“We’ll have to be breaking up camp in a day or two more,” Agnes said, disturbing the long silence +which had settled between them.</p> + +<p>“I suppose so,” he responded; “but I don’t know what the plans of the others are.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Strong is going to Meander in the morning,” she told him; “and Horace Bentley is going with +him, poor fellow, to look around, he says. William Bentley told me this evening that he would leave for home in a day +or two, and Mrs. Reed and her charges are waiting to hear from a friend of June’s who was in school with +her–I think she is the Governor’s daughter, or maybe he’s an ex-governor–about a long-standing +invitation to visit her in her summer home, which is near here, as they compute distances in Wyoming.”</p> + +<p>“And Schaefer is leaving in the morning,” reflected the doctor. “That leaves but you and me +unaccounted for. Are you going on to Meander soon?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; I want to be there to file when my time comes.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve thought of going over there to feel things out, too,” Dr. Slavens went on. “This place +will shrink in a few days like a piece of wet leather in the sun. They’ll have nothing left of it but the stores, +and no business to sustain them until the country around here <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_97'></a>97</span> is settled. That may be a long time yet. Still, there may be something around here for me. +I’m going to look into the possibilities tomorrow. And we’ll have at least another talk before we +part?”</p> + +<p>“Many more, I hope,” she said.</p> + +<p>Her answer presented an alluring lead for him to say more, but before he could speak, even if minded to do it, she +went on:</p> + +<p>“This has been a pleasant experience, this camping in the clean, unused country, and it would be a sort of +Persian poet existence if we could go on with it always; but of course we can’t.”</p> + +<p>“It isn’t all summer and fair skies here,” he reminded her, “any more than it is +in–well, Persia. Twenty below in winter sometimes, Smith said. Do you remember?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she sighed. “But it seems impossible.”</p> + +<p>“You wouldn’t believe this little river could turn into a wild and savage torrent, either, a few hundred +yards along, if you had nothing to judge it by but this quiet stretch,” he returned. “But listen to it down +there, crashing against the rocks!”</p> + +<p>“There’s no news of that rash man who went into the cañon for the newspaper?” Agnes +asked.</p> + +<p>“He must have lodged in there somewhere; they haven’t picked him up on the other side,” he said, a +thoughtful abstraction over him.</p> + +<p>“I hope you’ve given up the thought of trying to explore it?” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_98'></a>98</span></p> + +<p>“I haven’t thought much about it lately,” he replied; “but I’m of the same opinion. I +believe the difficulties of the cañon are greatly exaggerated. In fact, as I told you before, the reward posted by +that newspaper looks to me like easy money.”</p> + +<p>“It wouldn’t pay you if the reward were ten times as large,” she declared with a little +argumentative heat.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps not,” said he, as if he had but a passing and shallow interest in the subject.</p> + +<p>Sitting there bareheaded to the wind, which was dropping down coldly from the far mountains, he seemed to be in a +brooding humor.</p> + +<p>“The moon is late tonight,” he noted. “Shall we wait till it rises?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she answered, feeling the great gentleness that there was about him when he was in a serious +way.</p> + +<p>Why he had not been successful in the profession for which nature plainly had designed him she could not understand; +for he was a man to inspire confidence when he was at his best, and unvexed by the memory of the bitter waters which +had passed his lips. She felt that there would be immeasurable solace in his hand for one who suffered; she knew that +he would put down all that he had in life for a friend.</p> + +<p>Leaning her chin upon her palm, she looked at him in the last light of the west, which came down to them dimly, as +if falling through dun water, from some high-floating clouds. As if following in her thought something that had gone +before, she said: <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_99'></a>99</span></p> + +<p>“No; perhaps you should not stay in this big, empty country when there are crowded places in the world that +are full of pain, and little children in them dying for the want of such men as you.”</p> + +<p>He started and turned toward her, putting out his hand as if to place it upon her head.</p> + +<p>“How did you know that it’s the children that give me the strongest call back to the struggle?” he +asked.</p> + +<p>“It’s in your eyes,” said she. And beneath her breath she added: “In your heart.”</p> + +<p>“About all the success that I ever won I sacrificed for a child,” he said, with reminiscent sadness.</p> + +<p>“Will you tell me about it?”</p> + +<p>“It was a charity case at that,” he explained, “a little girl who had been burned in a fire which +took all the rest of the family. She needed twenty-two square inches of skin on her breast. One gave all that he could +very well part with––”</p> + +<p>“That was yourself,” she nodded, drawing a little nearer to him quite unconsciously.</p> + +<p>“But that was not half enough,” he continued as if unaware of the interruption. “I had to get it +into the papers and ask for volunteers, for you know that an average of only one in three pieces of cuticle adheres +when set into a wound, especially a burn. The papers made a good deal of it, and I couldn’t keep my name out, of +course. Well, enough school-children came forward to patch up three or four girls, and together we saved her. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_100'></a>100</span></p> + +<p>“No matter. The medical association of that city jumped me very promptly. The old chaps said that I had +handled the case unprofessionally and had used it merely for an advertisement. They charged unprofessional conduct +against me; they tried me in their high court and found me guilty. They dug the ground from under my feet and branded +me as a quack. They broke me, they tried to have my license to practice revoked. But they failed in that. That was +three years ago. I hung on, but I starved. So when I speak in what may seem a bitter way of the narrow traditions of my +profession, you know my reason is fairly well grounded.”</p> + +<p>“But you saved the little girl!”</p> + +<p>It was too dark for him to see her eyes. The tears that lay in them could not drop their balm upon his heart.</p> + +<p>“She’s as good as new,” said he cheerfully, fingering the inner pocket of his coat. “She +writes to me right along. Here’s a picture-card that followed me here, mailed from the home that the man who gave +his tough old hide to mend her found for her when she was well. She lives in Oklahoma now, and her sweet fortitude +under her misfortune has been a remembrance to sustain me over many a hungry day.”</p> + +<p>“But you saved the little girl!” Agnes repeated with unaccountable insistence, as if trying to beat down +the injustice of his heavy penance with that argument.</p> + +<p>And then he saw her bow her head upon her folded <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_101'></a>101</span> arms +like a little child, and weep in great sobs which came rackingly as if torn from the core of her heart.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens picked up his hat, put it on, got to his feet, and took a stride away from her as if he could not bear +the sight of her poignant sympathy. Then he turned, came back, and stooped above her, laying his hand upon her +hair.</p> + +<p>“Don’t do that!” he pleaded. “All that’s gone, all that I’ve missed, is not +worth a single tear. You must not make my troubles your own, for at the worst there’s not enough for +two.”</p> + +<p>She reached out her tear-wet hand and clung to his, wordless for a little while. As it lay softly within his palm he +stroked it soothingly and folded it between his hands as if to yield it freedom nevermore. Soon her gust of sorrow +passed. She stood beside him, breathing brokenly in the ebb of that overmastering tide. In the opening of the broad +valley the moon stood redly. The wind trailed slowly from the hills to meet it, as if to warm itself at its +beacon-fire.</p> + +<p>“You saved the little girl!” said she again, laying her warm hand for a moment against his cheek.</p> + +<p>In that moment it was well for Dr. Warren Slavens that the lesson of his hard years was deep within his heart; that +the continence and abnegation of his past had ripened his restraint until, no matter how his lips might yearn to the +sweets which were not his own, they would not taste. He took hold of himself with a rough hand, for the moonlight was +upon her trembling lips; <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_102'></a>102</span> it stood imprisoned in the +undried tears which lay upon her cheeks.</p> + +<p>The invitation was there, and the time, such as the lines of a man’s life are plotted to lead up to from the +beginning. But there was lacking too much on his part for an honest man to stoop and gather what presented. He might +have folded his arms about her and drawn her to his breast, as the yearning of his soul desired; he might have kissed +her lips and dispelled the moonlight from her trembling tears–and spoiled it all for both.</p> + +<p>For that would have been a trespass without mitigation, a sacrilege beyond excuse. When a man took a woman like that +in his arms and kissed her, according to his old-fashioned belief, he took from every other man the right to do so, +ever. In such case he must have a refuge to offer her from the world’s encroachments, and a security to requite +her in all that she yielded for his sake.</p> + +<p>Such he had not. There was no hearthstone, there was no roof-tree, there was no corner of refuge in all the vast, +gray world. He had no right to take where he could not give, although it wrenched his heart to give it up.</p> + +<p>He took the soft, warm hand which had bestowed its benediction on his cheek, and held it in childish attitude, +swinging at his side. No word was said as they faced back to the unstable city, their shadows trailing them, long and +grotesque, like the sins of men which <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_103'></a>103</span> come after them, +and gambol and grimace for all the world to see but those who believe them hidden.</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_7'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_104'></a>104</span> +<h2>CHAPTER VII<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>A MIDNIGHT EXTRA</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>Dr. Slavens sat on the edge of his cot, counting his money. He hadn’t a great deal, so the job was not long. +When he finished he tucked it all away in his instrument-case except the few coins which he retained in his palm.</p> + +<p>It would not last much longer, thought he. A turn would have to be made soon, or he must hunt a job on the railroad +or a ranch. Walker had talked a lot about having Dr. Slavens come in on the new sheep venture with him, on the +supposition, of course, that the physician had money. Walker had told him also a great deal about men who had started +in that country as herders, “running a band of sheep” on shares, receiving so much of the increase of the +flock year by year. Many of the richest sheepmen in that country had started that way only a few years before, so +Walker and others said.</p> + +<p>Perhaps, thought Dr. Slavens, there might be a chance to hook up with Walker under such an arrangement, put his +whole life into it, and learn the business from the ground up. He could be doing that while Agnes was making her home +on her claim, perhaps somewhere near–a few hundred miles–and if he could see a gleam at the farther end of +the undertaking <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_105'></a>105</span> after a season he could ask her to wait. +That was the best that he could see in the prospect just then, he reflected as he sat there with his useless +instrument-case between his feet and the residue of the day’s expenses in his hand.</p> + +<p>Agnes had gone into the section of the tent sacred to the women; he supposed that she was going to bed, for it was +nearly eleven o’clock. Strong and Horace were asleep in their bunks, for they were to take the early stage for +Meander in the morning. Walker and William Bentley and Sergeant Schaefer were out.</p> + +<p>The little spark of hope had begun to glow under Slavens’ breath. Perhaps Walker and sheep were the solution +of his life’s muddle. He would find Walker before the young man took somebody else in with him, expose the true +state of his finances, and see whether Walker would entertain a proposal to give him a band of sheep on shares.</p> + +<p>Like every man who is trying to do something that he isn’t fitted to, because he has failed of his hopes and +expectations in the occupation dearest to his heart, Slavens heated up like a tin stove under the trashy fuel of every +vagrant scheme that blew into his brain.</p> + +<p>Sheep was all that he could see now. Already he had projected ahead until he saw himself the complacent owner of +vast herds; saw the miles of his ranches; saw the wool of his flocks being trampled into the long sacks in his own +shearing-sheds. And all the time his impotent instrument-case shone darkly in the light of <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_106'></a>106</span> his candle, lying there between his feet at the edge of the canvas +bed.</p> + +<p>With a sigh he came back from his long flight into the future, and took up his instrument-case with caressing hand. +Placing it on his knees, he opened it and lifted the glittering instruments fondly.</p> + +<p>Of course, if he <i>could</i> make it go at his profession that would be the thing. It would be better than all the +sheep on Wyoming’s dusty hills. A little surgery somewhere, with its enameled table and white fittings, and +automobiles coming and going all day, and Agnes to look in at evening––. Yes, that <i>would</i> be the +thing.</p> + +<p>Perhaps sheep for a few years would help to that end. Even five years would leave him right in the middle stretch of +life, with all his vigor and all the benefit of experience. Sheep looked like the solution indeed. So <i>thinking</i>, +he blew out his candle and went out to look for Walker.</p> + +<p>At the door of the tent he stopped, thinking again of Agnes, and of the moonlight on her face as they stood by the +riverside, trembling again when the weight of the temptation which had assailed him in that moment swept over him in a +heart-lifting memory. Perhaps Agnes condemned him for refusing the opportunity of her lips. For when a woman expects to +be kissed, and is cheated in that expectation, it leaves her in censorious mood. But scorn of an hour would be easier +borne than regret of years. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_107'></a>107</span></p> + +<p>So he reflected, and shook his head solemnly at the thought. He passed into the shadows along the deserted street, +going toward the sounds which rose from beneath the lights beyond.</p> + +<p>Comanche appeared livelier than ever as he passed along its thronged streets. Those who were to leave as soon as +they could get a train were making a last reckless night of it; the gamblers were busy at their various games.</p> + +<p>The doctor passed the tent where Hun Shanklin had been stationed with his crescent table. Shanklin was gone, and +another was in his place with an army-game board, or chuck-a-luck, doing well with the minnows in the receding sea. +Wondering what had become of Shanklin, he turned to go down a dark little street which was a quick cut to the back +entrance of the big gambling-tent, where he expected to find Walker and go into the matter of sheep.</p> + +<p>Even at that moment the lights were bright in the office of <i>The Chieftain</i>. The editor was there, his green +coat wide open, exposing his egg-spattered shirt-front to all who stopped to look, and making a prodigious show of +excitement at the imposing-stone, where the form of the last extra of the day lay under his nervous hand.</p> + +<p>The printer was there also, his hair standing straight where he had roached it back out of his eyes with inky +fingers, setting type for all he was worth. In a little while those on the street heard the familiar bark of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_108'></a>108</span> little gasoline engine, and hundreds of them gathered to +inquire into the cause of this late activity.</p> + +<p>“Running off an extra,” said Editor Mong. A great, an important piece of news had just reached the +office of <i>The Chieftain</i>, and in a few minutes an extra would be on the streets, with the secret at the disposal +of every man who had two bits in his pants. Those were the identical words of that advance-guard of civilization and +refinement, Mr. J. Walter Mong.</p> + +<p>It was midnight when the circulator of <i>The Chieftain</i>–engaged for that important day only–burst +out of the tent with an armful of papers, crying them in a voice that would have been red if voices had been colored in +Comanche, it was so scorched from coming out of the tract which carried liquor to his reservoir.</p> + +<p>“<i>Ho-o-o!</i> Git a extree! Git a extree! All about the mistake in the winner of Number One! Git a extree! +<i>Ho-o-o-o!</i>”</p> + +<p>People caught their breaths and stopped to lean and listen. Mistake in the winner of Number One? What was that? The +parched voice was plain enough in that statement:</p> + +<p>“Mistake in the winner of Number One.”</p> + +<p>A crowd hundreds deep quickly surrounded the vender of extras, and another crowd assembled in front of the office, +where Editor Mong stood with a pile of papers at his hand, changing them into money almost as fast as that miracle is +performed by the presses of the United States Treasury. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_109'></a>109</span></p> + +<p>Walker and William Bentley bored through the throng and bought a paper. Standing under the light at a saloon door, +they read the exciting news. Editor Mong had cleared a place for it, without regard to the beginning or the ending of +anything else on the page, in the form which had carried his last extra of the day. There the announcement stood in +bold type, two columns wide, under an exclamatory</p> + +<p class='tp' style=''>EXTRA!</p> + +<p>William Bentley read aloud:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>Owing to a mistake in transmitting the news by telephone, the name of the winner of Claim Number One in +today’s land-drawing at Meander was omitted. The list of winners published heretofore in <i>The Chieftain</i> is +correct, with the single exception that each of them moves along one number. Number One, as announced, becomes Number +Two, and so on down the list.</p> + +<p>The editor regrets this error, which was due entirely to the excitement and confusion in the office at Meander, and +takes this earliest opportunity of rectifying it.</p> + +<p>The editor also desires to announce that <i>The Chieftain</i> will appear no longer as a daily paper. Beginning with +next Monday it will be issued as a four-page, five-column weekly, containing all the state, national, and foreign news. +Price three dollars a year in advance. The editor thanks you for your loyal support and patronage.</p> + +<p>The winner of Claim Number One is Dr. Warren Slavens, of Kansas City, Missouri. Axel Peterson, first announced as +the winner, drew Number Two.</p> +</div> + +<p>Editor Mong had followed the tradition of the rural school of journalism in leaving the most important feature of +his news for the last line. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_110'></a>110</span></p> + +<p>“Well!” said the toolmaker. “So our doctor is the winner! But it’s a marvel that the editor +didn’t turn the paper over to say so. I never saw such a botch at writing news!”</p> + +<p>He did not know, any more than any of the thousands who read that ingenuous announcement, that Editor Mong was +working his graft overtime. They did not know that he had entered into a conspiracy to deceive them before the drawing +began, the clerk in charge of the stage-office and the one telephone of the place being in on the swindle.</p> + +<p>Mong knew that the Meander stage would leave for Comanche at eight in the morning, or two hours before the drawing +began. It was the only means, exclusive of the telephone, by which news could travel that day between the two places, +and as it could carry no news of the drawing his scheme was secure.</p> + +<p>Mong had feared that his extras might not move with the desired celerity during the entire day–in which +expectation he was agreeably deceived–so he deliberately withheld the name of the winner of Number One, +substituting for it in his first extra the name of the winner of Number Two. He believed that every person in Comanche +would rush out of bed with two bits in hand for the extra making the correction, and his guess was good.</p> + +<p>Walker and Bentley hurried back to the Hotel Metropole to find that Sergeant Schaefer had arrived ahead of them with +the news. They were all up in <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_111'></a>111</span> picturesque +<i>déshabillé</i>, Horace with a blanket around him like a bald-headed brave, his bare feet showing beneath +it. The camp was in a state of pleasurable excitement; but Dr. Slavens was not there to share it, nor to receive the +congratulations which all were ready to offer with true sincerity.</p> + +<p>“I wonder where he is?” questioned Horace a little impatiently.</p> + +<p>He did not like to forego the ceremony, but he wanted to get back to bed, for a man’s legs soon begin to feel +chilly in that mountain wind.</p> + +<p>“He left here not very long ago,” said Agnes; “perhaps not more than an hour. I was just preparing +to go to bed.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a fine thing for him,” commented Sergeant Schaefer. “He can relinquish as soon as he +gets his papers for ten or twelve thousand dollars. I understand the railroad’s willing to pay that.”</p> + +<p>“It’s nice and comfortable to have a millionaire in our midst,” said June. “Mother, +you’d better set your cap for him.”</p> + +<p>“June Reed!” rebuked her mother sharply above the laughter which the proposal provoked.</p> + +<p>But under the hand of the night the widow blushed warmly, and with a little stirring of the treasured leaves of +romance in her breast. She <i>had</i> thought of trying for the doctor, for she was only forty-seven, and hope lives in +the female heart much longer than any such trifling term. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_112'></a>112</span></p> + +<p>They sat and talked over the change this belated news would make in the doctor’s fortunes, and the men smoked +their pipes, and the miller’s wife suggested tea. But nobody wanted to kindle a fire, so she shivered a little +and went off to bed.</p> + +<p>The night wore on, Comanche howling and fiddling as it never had howled and fiddled before. One by one the +doctor’s friends tired of waiting for him and went to bed. Walker, William Bentley, and Agnes were the last of +the guard; the hour was two o’clock in the morning.</p> + +<p>“I believe you’d just as well go to bed, Miss Horton,” suggested Bentley, “and save the +pleasure of congratulating him until tomorrow. I can’t understand why he doesn’t come back.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know it was so late,” she excused, rising to act on his plainly sensible view of it.</p> + +<p>“Walker and I will skirmish around and see if we can find him,” said Bentley. “It’s more +than likely that he’s run across some old friend and is sitting talking somewhere. You’ve no notion how +time slips by in such a meeting.”</p> + +<p>“And perhaps he doesn’t know of his good fortune yet,” she suggested.</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s all over town long ago,” Walker put in. “He knows all about it by this +time.”</p> + +<p>“But it isn’t like him to keep away deliberately and shun sharing such good news with his +friends,” she objected. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_113'></a>113</span></p> + +<p>“Not at all like him,” agreed Bentley; “and that’s what’s worrying me.”</p> + +<p>She watched them away until the gloom hid them; then went to her compartment in the tent, shut off from the others +like it by gaily flowered calico, such as is used to cover the bed-comforts of the snoring proletariat. It was so thin +that the light of a candle within revealed all to one without, or would have done so readily, if there had been any +bold person on the pry.</p> + +<p>There she drew the blanket of her cot about her and sat in the dark awaiting the return of Bentley and Walker. There +was no sleep in her eyes, for her mind was full of tumult and foreboding and dread lest something had befallen Dr. +Slavens in the pitfalls of that gray city, the true terrors and viciousness of which she could only surmise.</p> + +<p>Bentley and Walker went their way in silence until they came to the lights. There was no thinning of the crowds yet, +for the news in the midnight extra had given everybody a fresh excuse for celebrating, if not on their own accounts, +then on account of their friends. Had not every holder of a number been set back one faint mark behind the line of his +hopes?</p> + +<p>Very well. It was not a thing to laugh over, certainly, but it was not to be mended by groans. So, if men might +neither groan nor laugh, they could drink. And liquor was becoming cheaper in Comanche. It was the last big night; it +was a wake. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_114'></a>114</span></p> + +<p>“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Walker, “I don’t think we’d better look for him too +hard, for if we found him he wouldn’t be in any shape to take back there by now.”</p> + +<p>“You mean he’s celebrating his good luck?” asked Bentley.</p> + +<p>“Sure,” Walker replied. “Any man would. But I don’t see what he wanted to go off and souse +up alone for when he might have had good company.”</p> + +<p>“I think you’ve guessed wrong, Walker,” said Bentley. “I never knew him to take a drink; I +don’t believe he’d celebrate in that way.”</p> + +<p>Even if he had bowled up, protested Walker, there was no harm in it. Any man might do it, he might do it himself; in +fact, he was pretty sure that he <i>would do it</i>, under such happy conditions, although he believed a man ought to +have a friend or two along on such occasions.</p> + +<p>From place to place they threaded their way through the throng, which ran in back-currents and cross-currents, +leaving behind it upon the bars and gaming-tables an alluvium of gold. Dr. Slavens was not at any of the tables; he was +not reeling against any of the bars; nor was he to be seen anywhere in the sea of faces, mottled with shadows under the +smoky lights.</p> + +<p>“Walker, I’m worried,” Bentley confessed as they stood outside the last and lowest place of +diversion that remained to be visited in the town.</p> + +<p>“I tell you, it flies up and hits a man that way,” protested <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_115'></a>115</span> Walker. “Sheep-herders go that way all of a sudden after a year or two without a taste +of booze, sometimes. He’ll turn up in a day or two, kind of mussed up and ashamed; but we’ll show him that +it’s expected of a gentleman in this country once in a while, and make him feel at home.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, of course,” Bentley agreed, his mind not on the young man’s chatter nor his own reply. +“Well, let’s run through this hole and have it over with.”</p> + +<p>Inside the door four dusty troopers, on detached duty from the military post beyond Meander, sat playing cards. As +they appeared to be fairly sober, Walker approached them with inquiries.</p> + +<p>No, they hadn’t seen Dr. Slavens. Why? What had he done? Who wanted him?</p> + +<p>Explanations followed.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said a sergeant with service-stripes on his sleeve and a broad, blue scar across his cheek, +“if I’d ’a’ drawed Number One you bet you wouldn’t have to be out lookin’ for me. +I’d be up on the highest point in Comanche handin’ out drinks to all my friends. Ain’t seen him, +pardner. He ain’t come in here in the last two hours, for we’ve been right here at this table longer than +that.”</p> + +<p>They passed on, to look upon the drunken, noisy dance in progress beyond the canvas partition.</p> + +<p>“Not here,” said Walker. “But say! There’s a man over there that I know.”</p> + +<p>Bentley looked in that direction. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_116'></a>116</span></p> + +<p>“The one dancing with the big woman in red,” directed Walker.</p> + +<p>Bentley had only a glance at Walker’s friend, for the young man pulled his arm and hurried him out. Outside +Walker seemed to breathe easier.</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell you,” he explained. “It’s this way: I didn’t suppose he’d want +to be seen in there by anybody that knew him. You see, he’s the Governor’s son.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I see,” said Bentley.</p> + +<p>“So if we happen to run across him tomorrow you’ll not mention it, will you?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll not be advertising it that I was in there in very big letters,” Bentley assured him.</p> + +<p>“A man does that kind of a thing once in a while,” said Walker. “It bears out what I was saying +about the doctor. No matter how steady a man is, it flies up and hits him that way once in a while.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe you’re right,” yielded Bentley. “I think we’d just as well go to +bed.”</p> + +<p>“Just as well,” Walker agreed.</p> + +<p>The chill of morning was in the air. As they went back the crowds had thinned to dregs, and the lights in many tents +were out.</p> + +<p>“She thinks a lot of him, doesn’t she?” observed Walker reflectively.</p> + +<p>“Who?” asked Bentley, turning so quickly that it seemed as if he started.</p> + +<p>“Miss Horton,” Walker replied. “And there’s class to that girl, I’m here to tell +you!” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_117'></a>117</span></p> + +<p>Agnes, in the darkness of her compartment, strained forward to catch the sound of the doctor’s voice when she +heard them enter, and when she knew that he was not there a feeling which was half resentment, half accusation, rose +within her. Was she to be disappointed in him at last? Had he no more strength in the happy light of his new fortune +than to go out and “celebrate,” as she had heard the sergeant confidentially charging to Horace, like any +low fellow in the sweating throng?</p> + +<p>But this thought she put away from her with humiliation and self-reproach, knowing, after the first flash of +vexation, that it was unjust. Her fears rose towering and immense again; in the silence of the graying morning she +shivered, drawing her cold feet up into the cot to listen and wait.</p> + +<p>Walker and Bentley had gone quietly to bed, and in the stillness around her there was an invitation to sleep. But +for her there was no sleep in all that night’s allotment.</p> + +<p>The roof of the tent toward the east grew transparent against the sky. Soon the yellow gleam of the new sun struck +it, giving her a sudden warm moment of hope.</p> + +<p>It is that way with us. When our dear one lies dying; when we have struggled through a night hideous with the +phantoms of ruin and disgrace, then the dawn comes, and the sun. We lift our seamed faces to the bright sky and hope +again. For if there is still harmony in the heavens, how can the discord of the earth <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_118'></a>118</span> overwhelm us? So we comfort our hearts, foolishly exalting our +troubles to the plane of the eternal consonance.</p> + +<p>The sun stood “the height of a lance” when Agnes slipped quietly to the door of the tent. Over the gray +desert lands a smoky mist lay low. Comanche, stirring from its dreams, was lighting its fires. Here passed one, the +dregs of sleep upon him, shoulders bent, pail in hand, feet clinging heavily to the road, making toward the hydrant +where the green oats sprang in the fecund soil. There, among the horses in the lot across the way, another growled +hoarsely as he served the crowding animals their hay.</p> + +<p>Agnes looked over the sagging tent-roofs with their protruding stovepipes and wondered what would be revealed if all +were swept suddenly away. She wondered what fears besides her own they covered, silent in the pure light of day. For +Comanche was a place of secrets and deceits.</p> + +<p>She laid a fire in the tin stove and put the kettle on to boil. Horace Bentley and Milo Strong were stirring within +the tent, making ready for the stage, which departed for Meander at eight.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Mann, the miller’s wife, came out softly, the mark of the comb in her hair, where it had become damp at +the temples during her ablution. She looked about her swiftly as she stood a moment in the door, very trim and handsome +in her close-fitting black dress, with a virginal touch of white collar and a coral pin. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_119'></a>119</span></p> + +<p>Agnes was bending over a bed of coals, which she was raking down to the front of the stove for the toast–a +trick taught the ladies of the camp by Sergeant Schaefer–and did not seem to hear her.</p> + +<p>“Dr. Slavens hasn’t come back?” Mrs. Mann whispered, coming over softly to Agnes’ side.</p> + +<p>Agnes shook her head, turning her face a moment from the coals.</p> + +<p>“I heard you get up,” said Mrs. Mann, “and I hurried to join you. I know just how you +feel!”</p> + +<p>With that the romantic little lady put an arm around Agnes’ neck and gave her a hurried kiss, for Horace was +in the door. A tear which sprang suddenly leaped down Agnes’ face and hissed upon the coals before the girl could +take her handkerchief from her sweater-pocket and stop its wilful dash. Under the pretext of shielding her face from +the glow she dried those which might have followed it into the fire, and turned to Horace with a nod and smile.</p> + +<p>What was there, she asked herself, to be sitting there crying over, like a rough-knuckled housewife whose man has +stayed out all night in his cups? If he wanted to stay away that way, let him stay! And then she recalled his hand +fumbling at the inner pocket of his coat, and the picture post-card which he had handed her at the riverside.</p> + +<p>Still, it wasn’t a matter to cry about–not yet at least. She would permit no more disloyal thoughts. +There was some grave trouble at the bottom of Dr. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_120'></a>120</span> +Slavens’ absence, and she declared to herself that she would turn Comanche over, like a stone in the meadow of +which the philosopher wrote, and bare all its creeping secrets to the healthy sun, but that she would find him and +clear away the unjust suspicions which she knew were growing ranker in that little colony hour by hour.</p> + +<p>They all gathered to bid Sergeant Schaefer good-bye, for he was to rejoin them no more. June pressed upon him a +paper-bag of fudge, which she had prepared the day before as a surprise against this event. The sergeant stowed it away +in the side pocket of his coat, blushing a great deal when he accepted it.</p> + +<p>There was a little sadness in their hearts at seeing the soldier go, for it foretold the dissolution of the pleasant +party. And the gloom of Dr. Slavens’ absence was heavy over certain of them also, even though Sergeant Schaefer +tried to make a joke of it the very last thing he said. They watched the warrior away toward the station, where the +engine of his train was even then sending up its smoke. In a little while Horace and Milo followed him to take the +stage.</p> + +<p>There came a moment after the men had departed when Agnes and William Bentley found themselves alone, the width of +the trestle-supported table between them. She looked across at him with no attempt to veil the anxiety which had taken +seat in her eyes. William Bentley nodded and smiled in his gentle, understanding way. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_121'></a>121</span></p> + +<p>“Something has happened to him,” she whispered, easing in the words the pent alarm of her breast.</p> + +<p>“But we’ll find him,” he comforted her. “Comanche can’t hide a man as big as Dr. +Slavens very long.”</p> + +<p>“He’ll have to be in Meander day after tomorrow to file on his claim,” she said. “If we +can’t find him in time, he’ll lose it.”</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_8'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_122'></a>122</span> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE GOVERNOR’S SON</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>After a conference with Walker in the middle of the morning, Bentley decided that it would be well to wait until +afternoon before beginning anew their search for the doctor. In case he had been called in his professional +capacity–for people were being born in Comanche, as elsewhere–it would be exceedingly embarrassing to him +to have the authorities lay hands on him as an estray.</p> + +<p>“But his instrument-case is under his cot in the tent,” persisted Agnes, who was for immediate +action.</p> + +<p>“He may have had an emergency call out of the crowd,” explained Bentley.</p> + +<p>In spite of his faith in the doctor, he was beginning to lean toward Walker’s view of it. Slavens was big +enough to take care of himself, and experienced enough to keep his fingers out of other people’s porridge. +Besides that, there had to be a motive behind crime, and he knew of none in the doctor’s case. He was not the +kind of man that the sluggers and holdups of the place practiced upon, sober and straight as he always had been. Then +it must be, argued Bentley, that the doctor had his own reason for remaining away. His unexpected luck might have +unbalanced him and set him off on a celebration such as was common in such cases. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_123'></a>123</span></p> + +<p>“Very well,” agreed Agnes. “I’ll wait until noon, and then I’m going to the +police.”</p> + +<p>Being a regularly incorporated city, Comanche had its police force. There were four patrolmen parading about in +dusty <i>déshabillé</i> with prominent firearms appended, and a chief who presided over them in a little +box-house, where he might be seen with his coat off and a diamond in the front of his white shirt, smoking cigars all +day, his heels on the window-sill.</p> + +<p>As Dr. Slavens had not appeared at the time designated as her limit by Agnes, Bentley went with her to the +chief’s office to place the matter before him. It was well that they did not go there for sympathy, and +unfortunate that they expected help. The chief received them with disdainful aloofness which amounted almost to +contempt. He seemed to regard their appeal to him for the elucidation of the doctor’s mystery as an affront.</p> + +<p>The chief was a short man, who vainly believed that he could sustain his trousers in dignified position about his +hipless body with a belt. The result of this misplaced confidence was a gap between waistcoat and pantaloons, in which +his white shirt appeared like a zebra’s stripe.</p> + +<p>He was a much-bedizened and garnitured man, for all that he lacked a coat to hang his ornaments upon. Stones of +doubtful value and unmistakable size ornamented the rings upon his stocky fingers, and dangled in an elaborate +“charm” upon the chain of his watch. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_124'></a>124</span> The only +name they ever addressed him by in Comanche other than his official title was Ten-Gallon. Whether this had its origin +in his capacity, or his similarity of build to a keg, is not known, but he accepted it with complacency and answered to +it with pride.</p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon was the chief guardian of the interests of the gamblers’ trust of Comanche, which was responsible +for his elevation to office–for even the office itself–and which contributed the fund out of which his +salary came. It is a curious anomaly of civilization, everywhere under the flag which stretched its stripes in the wind +above the little land-office at Comanche, that law-breaking thrives most prosperously under the protection of law.</p> + +<p>Gambling in itself had not been prohibited by statute at that time in Wyoming, though its most profitable side +diversions–such as dropping paralyzing poisons in a man’s drink, snatching his money and clearing out with +it, cracking him on the head with a leaden billet, or standing him up at the point of a pistol and rifling +him–were, as now, discountenanced under the laws.</p> + +<p>But what profit is there in gambling if the hangers-on, the cappers, the steerers, and the snatchers of crumbs in +all cannot find protection under the flag and its institutions? That was what the gamblers’ trust of Comanche +wanted to know. In order to insure it they had the city incorporated, and put in a good, limber-wristed bartender as +chief of police. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_125'></a>125</span></p> + +<p>It was to that dignitary that Dr. Slavens’ friends had come with their appeal for assistance. There was +discouragement in the very air that surrounded the chief, and in the indifference with which he heard their report. He +looked at Agnes with the slinking familiarity of a man who knows but one kind of woman, and judges the world of women +thereby. She colored under the insult of his eyes, and Bentley, even-tempered and slow to wrath as he was, felt himself +firing to fighting pitch.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the chief, turning from them presently with a long gape, terminating in a ructatious sigh, +“I’ll shake out all the drunks in the calaboose this afternoon, and if your friend’s among ’em +I’ll send him on over to you. No harm could happen to him here in Comanche. He’d be as safe here, night or +day, as he would be playin’ tennis in the back yard at home.”</p> + +<p>The chief mentioned that game with scorn and curling of the lip. Then he gazed out of the window vacuously, as if he +had forgotten them, his mashed cigar smoking foully between his gemmed fingers.</p> + +<p>Bentley looked at Agnes in amazed indignation. When he squared off as if to read his mind to the chief she checked +him, and laid her hand on his arm with a compelling pressure toward the door.</p> + +<p>“That man’s as crooked as the river over there!” he exclaimed when they had regained the sunlight +outside the smoke-polluted office.</p> + +<p>“That’s plain,” she agreed; “and it doesn’t mitigate my fears for the doctor’s +safety in the least.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_126'></a>126</span></p> + +<p>“Walker and I were wrong in our opinion; something has happened to Slavens,” said Bentley.</p> + +<p>“Your opinion?” she questioned.</p> + +<p>“Well, I should say Walker’s rather,” he corrected. “I only concurred weakly along toward +the end. Walker has held out all the time that Slavens went out to hold a celebration all by himself.”</p> + +<p>“No; he didn’t do that,” said she calmly. “I thought so for a little while this morning, +too. But I know he didn’t. Do you suppose––”</p> + +<p>She stopped, as if considering something too extravagant to utter.</p> + +<p>“Suppose?” he repeated.</p> + +<p>“He talked a good deal about going into the cañon to clear up the mystery of that newspaperman and earn +the reward,” said she.</p> + +<p>Bentley shook his head.</p> + +<p>“He’d hardly start at night and without preparation.”</p> + +<p>“He seemed to be a man of peculiar moods. If it came over him suddenly and strongly in an hour of depression +he might even go to that desperate length. He believed the difficulties of the cañon were largely exaggerated, +anyhow. Once he told me that he would undertake to go through it with nothing more than a pair of moccasins and a +lantern. It was his theory that a man would need the moccasins for clinging to the rocks.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a queer notion,” said Bentley reflectively. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_127'></a>127</span></p> + +<p>“Do you think––” she began, halting her words again and looking at him with distended +eyes.</p> + +<p>“There’s no telling what a man might do when desperate and despondent,” he answered. “But I +don’t believe he’d go without leaving some word, or at least making some disposition of his property in +writing, in case he never returned. We’ll open his bags and see what we can find.”</p> + +<p>They hurried forward to carry out this intention.</p> + +<p>The doctor’s baggage consisted of his battered suitcase and the black bag which contained his instruments. +Neither was locked, but neither contained any word to explain where he had gone, nor to give support to the belief that +he had intended going anywhere.</p> + +<p>Walker, whom Bentley and Agnes rejoined at the camp, sat pondering the information supplied by the girl concerning +the doctor’s designs on the cañon.</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell you,” he declared at length, as if talking to himself, “that man had the nerve to +tackle it!”</p> + +<p>Agnes looked at him, her face quickening.</p> + +<p>“What do you know about him?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“I know,” said Walker mysteriously, with no intention of bringing his own indiscretions up for the +censure of June and her severe mother, “that he had courage enough to tackle anything. I’ve seen proof of +that right here in Comanche, and I want to tell you people that doctor wasn’t any man’s coward.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you for saying that,” blurted Agnes, wholly unintentionally, a glow of pride on her cheeks. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_128'></a>128</span></p> + +<p>Mrs. Reed and June looked at her, the widow with a severe opening of her mouth, out of which no sound came; June +with a smile behind her hand.</p> + +<p>Walker shook his head.</p> + +<p>“He had the courage,” said he, “but he had too much sense to try to go through that cañon. No +white man ever went in there and came out alive. And even if the doctor had wanted to go he wouldn’t have started +at night.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know that it would make much difference,” said Agnes. “It’s always night in +that terrible cañon.”</p> + +<p>“And that’s so, too,” Walker agreed. “I think I’ll go over there and take a look +around.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mind if Mr. Bentley and I go with you?” Agnes asked.</p> + +<p>“I was going to suggest it,” Walker replied, looking longingly at June.</p> + +<p>June asked permission with her eyes; Mrs. Reed nodded, having overcome her fears of Walker, owing to the substantial +credentials which he was able to show. Mrs. Mann put on her hat and slipped her black bag a bit farther up her arm, and +stood ready in a moment to join the expedition. Mrs. Reed was to remain alone in camp to watch things, for they had +been warned that morning by the hotel people against a band of visiting Indians, who picked up anything and everything +that was not anchored at least at one end. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_129'></a>129</span></p> + +<p>It was late in the afternoon; the sun was low when they reached the river. There wasn’t anything to be made +out of the footprints there. The mouth of the cañon had been visited by a great many tourists, some of whom had +ventured within a little way to bring out stones for mementos of their daring days of fearsome adventures in the +West.</p> + +<p>The party stood looking into the mouth of the narrow slit between the high-towering walls. Down there it was already +dark; the eye could pierce the gloom but a little way.</p> + +<p>“There are places in there where the sun never shines, even for a second a day,” Walker declared. +“And that water goes through there with power enough in it to grind a man’s bones against the rocks. There +must be a fall of more than a thousand feet.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t believe he went in there,” said Agnes with finality, after standing as if trance-bound +for a long time, gazing after the foam-white river as it roared into the echoing depths.</p> + +<p>“No,” Walker agreed. “He had too much sense for that.”</p> + +<p>They were all cheered and lightened by this conclusion. A daylight study of the terrors of the place was sufficient +to convince anybody that a man would have to be driven to desperate lengths before he would venture for the dubious +reward or narrow notoriety to be gained by following that wild river through its dark way. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_130'></a>130</span></p> + +<p>“I camped over at the other side one summer,” Walker told them as they turned away to go back to +Comanche, “and I used to pick up things that had come through–boards and things that people had dropped in +over at Meander. It pounds things up, I tell you!”</p> + +<p>“Did you ever pick up any gold on the other side?” asked June.</p> + +<p>“I never found a trace of any,” said Walker. “I think that’s all a sheep-herder’s +yarn.”</p> + +<p>They saw one of the police force in conversation with Mrs. Reed in front of the tent as they drew near, and hastened +forward in the hope that he had brought news of the missing man. Mrs. Reed received them with shocked expression, and a +gesture of the hands denoting hopelessness for the salvation of the world.</p> + +<p>“It’s scandalous!” she declared.</p> + +<p>The policeman, a carpenterly looking man full of sandy hairs, stood by, grinning.</p> + +<p>“What is it, Mother?” asked June.</p> + +<p>“I’ll not repeat what he says,” announced Mrs. Reed. “I +will–not–repeat–it!”</p> + +<p>They turned to the officer, who wore his tarnished badge–evidently bought after long service in a pawn-shop at +Cheyenne–pinned to his suspender at a point where he could turn his eye down on it whenever the longing, or a +desire to feed upon the pride of his official importance, overcame him.</p> + +<p>“I was tellin’ her that the chief sent me over to say that your friend, the doctor, was seen last night +at <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_131'></a>131</span> half-past two in the mornin’, jagged up so tight +he took two steps back’ards for every one he went ahead. The chief told me to tell you he was layin’ under +a tent somewhere, and that he’d be as safe as a calf in a barn. I hope that’s what you wanted to +know.”</p> + +<p>The policeman turned and went his dusty way after delivering his message from the chief, the wagon-spoke which he +carried at the end of a thong twirling at his wrist.</p> + +<p>Walker looked around with a little flash of triumph in his eyes, for a man likes to be vindicated in his opinion, +even at the expense of his friends’ honor. But the gust of pain and disappointment which he saw sweep over +Agnes’ face set him back with a sudden wrench.</p> + +<p>“Say,” said he with an assumption of indignation which he did not altogether feel, “I don’t +believe that!”</p> + +<p>“Nor I,” declared Bentley, with no need of assuming a part to say it. “I heard a man describing a +crook the other day. He said the fellow was so crooked that if you were to shoot him in the top of the head the bullet +would make seven holes in his body before it hit the ground. That’s the kind of a man that chief is.”</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s scandalous!” declared Mrs. Reed. “Even it he comes back, his conduct is simply +disgusting, and I’ll never permit him to address a word to my daughter again!” <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_132'></a>132</span></p> + +<p>Agnes had drawn a little apart from them. She had no heart to come to Dr. Slavens’ defense, although she knew +that the charge was calumnious. But it furnished her a sudden and new train of thought. What interest had the chief of +police in circulating such a report? Was the motive for Dr. Slavens’ disappearance behind that insidious attempt +to discredit him, and fasten a character upon him wholly foreign to his own?</p> + +<p>It was a matter worth looking into. Had Dr. Slavens incurred, somehow, the disfavor of the vicious element which was +the backbone of the place? And had he paid the penalty of such temerity, perhaps with his life?</p> + +<p>Thinking over the futility of a further appeal to the authorities there, and wondering where she could turn for +honest assistance beyond William Bentley, who could do no more than herself, Agnes walked away from the camp a short +distance, retracing the way they had come.</p> + +<p>“Of all the deluded, deceived creatures!” said Mrs. Reed.</p> + +<p>“Hush-sh-sh!” said the miller’s wife.</p> + +<p>It was almost sunset when Agnes, overtaking her thoughts, halted with a start to find that she had gone half the +distance back to the river. Hoping that they would not be waiting supper on her account, she turned and hurried +back.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, at camp there had been a little running-up <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_133'></a>133</span> +of excitement, occasioned by the arrival of the Governor’s son, who came on a commission from his mother and +sister, bearing a note of invitation to Mrs. Reed, her sister, Mrs. Mann, and June Reed.</p> + +<p>Jerry Boyle–for that was the name of the Governor’s son–was greatly surprised to find his friend, +Joe Walker, in the camp. But that only made it easier for him, he declared, seeing that Walker could vouch for him and +put him on unquestionable terms at once.</p> + +<p>“Just as if it were necessary!” exclaimed Mrs. Reed, glowing with pleasure. “And you the brother +of my daughter’s dearest friend!”</p> + +<p>Jerry Boyle seemed older by ten years than Walker. He was a tall man, with a little forward bend to him that gave +him an awkward cast. He was dark-skinned and big-nosed, with black eyebrows which met at its bridge and appeared to +threaten an invasion of that structure. Little sensitive, expressive ripples ran over his face as he talked, and that +was all the time. For Boyle was as voluble as a political press-agent.</p> + +<p>Bentley recognized him, even before he was introduced, as the man whom Walker had pointed out in the dance-house the +night before. He said nothing about that, but he smiled to himself when he recalled Walker’s anxiety to leave the +place. It was a sort of guilty honor, he thought, such as that which was anciently supposed to stand between +thieves.</p> + +<p>As Agnes approached, Boyle was in the middle of a story of his experiences in Comanche during the days <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_134'></a>134</span> of its infancy. Mrs. Reed, busy about the stove, had grown so deeply +interested that she stood with a lamb chop in her hand poised above the frying-pan, her face all smiles. Boyle was +seated on a low box, and some of the others were standing around him, hiding him from Agnes, who stopped near the stove +on catching the sound of the new voice. Mrs. Reed nodded reassuringly.</p> + +<p>“It’s the Governor’s son,” said she.</p> + +<p>Boyle caught sight of Agnes at that moment and jumped to his feet. Walker turned to introduce him.</p> + +<p>“No need,” said Boyle, striding forward to their great amazement, his hand outstretched. “Miss +Gates and I are old friends.”</p> + +<p>Agnes drew back with a frightened, shrinking start, her face very white.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon, sir!” she protested with some little show of indignation.</p> + +<p>“This is Miss Horton,” said Walker, coming to her rescue with considerable presence. “She’s +one of us.”</p> + +<p>Boyle stammered, staring in amazement.</p> + +<p>“I apologize to Miss Horton,” said he with something like an insolent emphasis upon the name. “The +resemblance is remarkable, believe me!”</p> + +<p>Agnes inclined her head in cold acknowledgment, as if afraid to trust her tongue, and passed on into the tent. Boyle +stared after her, and a feeling that there was something out of tune seemed to fall upon the party waiting there for +supper in the red sunset.<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_135'></a>135</span></p> + +<p>Boyle forgot the rest of his story, and the others forgot to ask him to resume it. He repeated something about +remarkable resemblances, and seemed to have fallen into a period of abstraction, from which he roused himself presently +with a short, grunting laugh.</p> + +<p>“I must be gettin’ on,” said he, arising and taking his cowboy hat from the table, where it lay +among the plates–to the great satisfaction and delight of Mrs. Mann, who believed that she had met a real +westerner at last.</p> + +<p>“Oh, stay for supper!” pleaded June.</p> + +<p>“You’ll get enough of me when you come out to the ranch,” he laughed, giving her cheek a brotherly +pinch.</p> + +<p>While Mrs. Reed would have resented such familiarity with June’s cheek on the part of Mr. Walker, or even Mr. +Bentley, she took it as an act of condescension and compliment on the part of the Governor’s son, and smiled.</p> + +<p>Walker went off down the street with Boyle, to speed him on his way. The Governor’s son was to send out to the +ranch, some forty miles distant, for a conveyance to carry Mrs. Reed and her party thither. It was to be there early on +the morning of the second day from that time, that being, for that country, only an easy day’s drive for a double +team to a democrat wagon.</p> + +<p>There was an uncomfortable air of uneasiness and constraint upon them during supper and afterward, a period usually +filled with banter and chatter, and shrill laughter from June. They were not able to get clear <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_136'></a>136</span> of the suspicion raised by Boyle’s apparent recognition of +Agnes and her denial that she was Miss Gates. The two older women especially seemed to believe that Agnes had been +guilty of some serious misdemeanor in her past.</p> + +<p>“He <i>wasn’t</i> mistaken in her identity,” whispered Mrs. Reed to Mrs. Mann when Agnes went in +for a wrap as the chill of night began to settle.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Mann, charitable and romantic as she was in her mild way, shook her head sadly.</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid he wasn’t,” said she.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry that I can’t take June away from here tomorrow,” lamented Mrs. Reed. +“There’s something hidden in that woman’s life!”</p> + +<p>Agnes had come out silently, as anyone must have come over that velvet-soft earth, which much trampling only made +the softer. In the gloom she stood just behind Mrs. Reed. That pure-minded lady did not know that she was there, and +was unable to see the rolling warning in her sister’s eyes.</p> + +<p>“Would you mind walking over to the stage-office with me, Mr. Bentley?” asked Agnes. “I want to +engage passage to Meander for tomorrow.”</p> + +<p>On the way to the stage-office they talked matters over between them. Her purpose in going to Meander was, +primarily, to enlist the sheriff of the county in the search for Dr. Slavens, and, remotely, to be there when her day +came for filing on a piece of land.</p> + +<p>“I made up my mind to do it after we came back <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_137'></a>137</span> +from the cañon,” she explained. “There’s nothing more to be hoped for here. That story the +police told us only strengthens my belief that a crime has been committed, and in my opinion that chief knows all about +it, too.”</p> + +<p>She said nothing of Boyle and the start that his salutation had given her. Whatever Bentley thought of that incident +he kept to himself. But there was one thing in connection with Boyle’s visit which he felt that she should +know.</p> + +<p>“The Governor’s son told Walker that he saw the doctor late last night in about the same condition as +that policeman described,” he said. “It came up when Walker asked Boyle to keep an eye open and let us know +if he happened to run across him.”</p> + +<p>“Well, in spite of the high authority, I don’t believe it,” said she with undisturbed +conviction.</p> + +<p>For a little while Bentley walked on beside her in silence. When he spoke there was the softness of reverence in his +voice.</p> + +<p>“If I had the faith of a good woman in such measure as that,” said he, “I’d think I was next +door to heaven!”</p> + +<p>“It is the being who inspires faith that is more admirable than the faith itself, it seems to me,” she +rejoined. “Faith has lived in many a guilty heart–faith in somebody, something.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he agreed gently. And then, after a little while: “Yes.” <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_138'></a>138</span></p> + +<p>“Will you be returning to the East soon?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“I’ve been thinking some of going on to Meander to get a fuller impression of this country and see how +the boy is getting on,” he replied.</p> + +<p>“Then go with me,” she invited.</p> + +<p>“I wondered if you had faith enough in me to ask me,” he laughed.</p> + +<p>There was an extra stage out the next morning, owing to the movement toward Meander of people who must file on their +claims within the next ten days. Smith was to drive it. He was in the office when they arrived.</p> + +<p>“I think I’ll assume the responsibility of taking the doctor’s two bags with me,” said +Bentley.</p> + +<p>She agreed that there was little use in leaving them behind. Walker was to go to his ranch the next day; the others +would break camp the following morning. There would be nobody to leave his possessions in charge of, except the +hotel-keeper, who had a notoriously short memory, and who was very likely to forget all about it, even if the doctor +ever returned.</p> + +<p>Bentley made arrangements for the transportation of that much excess baggage, therefore. The cost was reminiscent of +freight charges in the days of the Santa Fé Trail.</p> + +<p>“We’ll leave word for him at the hotel-office,” said he.</p> + +<p>As they came out of the stage-office a man was mounting a horse before the stable door, a group of <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_139'></a>139</span> stage employees around him. He galloped off with a flourish. The man +who had caparisoned his horse stood looking after him as he disappeared in the night.</p> + +<p>“That feller’s in a hurry–he couldn’t wait for the stage in the morning,” said Smith. +“He’s ridin’ relay to Meander tonight on our horses, and he’ll be there long before we start. +He’s the Governor’s son.”</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_9'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_140'></a>140</span> +<h2>CHAPTER IX<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>DOUBLE CROOKEDNESS</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>Comanche was drying up like a leaky pail. There remained only the dregs of the thronging thousands who had chopped +its streets to dust beneath their heels; and they were worked out, panned down to scant profit, and growing leaner +picking every day.</p> + +<p>The ginger was gone out of the barker’s spiel; the forced gaiety was dying out of the loud levees where the +abandoned of the earth held their nightly carousals. Comanche was in the lethargy of dissolution; its tents were in the +shadow of the approaching end.</p> + +<p>Most of the shows had gone, leaving great gaps in the tented streets where they had stood, their débris behind +them, and many of the saloons were packing their furnishings to follow. It had been a seasonable reaping; quick work, +and plenty of it while it lasted; and they were departing with the cream of it in their pouches. What remained ran in a +stream too thin to divide, so the big ones were off, leaving the little fellows to lick up the trickle.</p> + +<p>A few gambling-joints were doing business still, for men will gamble when they will neither eat nor drink. Hun +Shanklin had set up a tent of his own, the big one in which he had made his stand at the beginning having been taken +down. To make sure of police protection, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_141'></a>141</span> he had +established himself on Main Street, next door to headquarters.</p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon, the chief, now constituted the entire force, all his special officers having been dropped to save +expense to the municipality, since the population had begun to leak away so rapidly and the gamblers’ trust had +been dissolved.</p> + +<p>The chief slept until the middle of each afternoon. Then he went on duty in Hun Shanklin’s tent, where he +usually remained the rest of the day, his chair tilted back against the pole at the front end. It was generally +understood that he had a large interest in the game, which was the same old one of twenty-seven.</p> + +<p>On the side there was an army-game outfit at which a pimple-faced young man presided, small whiskers growing between +his humors where they had escaped the razor, like the vegetation of that harsh land in the low places, out of the +destroying edge of the wind. For army-game was held so innocuous in Comanche that even a cook might run it.</p> + +<p>It was the third day after the drawing, and the middle of the afternoon. That short-time had seen these many changes +in Comanche, and every hour was witnessing more. Mrs. Reed and her party had gone that morning in the wagon sent for +them from the Governor’s ranch. The Hotel Metropole, now almost entirely without guests for its many tents and +cots, was being taken down.</p> + +<p>The red-nosed proprietor was loading cots into a <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_142'></a>142</span> +wagon, his large wife, in a striped kimono with red ruffles at the sleeves and a large V of bare bosom showing, +standing in the door of the office-tent directing his labors in a voice which suggested a mustache and knee-boots. A +dangling strand of her greasy black hair swung in the wind across her cheek, at times lodging in the curve of it and +obscuring her eye. As the lady’s hands were both employed, one in holding up the train of her florescent garb, +the other in supporting her weight against the tent-pole, she had no free fingers to tuck the blowing wisp in place. +So, when it lodged she blew it out of the way, slewing her mouth around to do so, and shutting one eye as if taking +aim.</p> + +<p>All these employments left her no time for the man who had approached within a few feet of her and stood with an +inquiring poise as if asking permission to speak. She went on with her directing, and skirt-holding, and leaning +against the tent-pole, and blowing, without giving him a full look, although she had taken his appraisement with the +corner of her eye.</p> + +<p>The man was not of an appearance to inspire the hope of gain in the bosom of the hostess. His band-less slouch-hat +flapped down over his forehead and face, partly hiding a bandage, the sanguine dye of which told what it concealed. A +black beard of some days’ growth, the dust of the range caught in it, covered his chin and jowls; and a greasy +khaki coat, such as sheep-herders wear, threatened to split upon his wide shoulders every time he moved his arms. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_143'></a>143</span></p> + +<p>His trousers were torn, and streaked with the stain of rain and clay. He had pinned the rents about his knees +together, but he seemed so insecurely covered that a strong wind might expose him, or a sudden start burst his seams +and scant contrivances to shield his nakedness. He touched his hat in a moment when he caught the quick eye of the +landlord’s wife upon him again, and moved a little nearer.</p> + +<p>“Can you tell me, madam,” said he respectfully, “what has become of the party that was camped in +the tent around on the other side–four ladies and several men?”</p> + +<p>“We don’t lodge either sheep-herders or sheep-shearers unless they take a bath first,” said she, +turning from him disdainfully.</p> + +<p>“But I am neither a herder nor a shearer,” he protested, “although I may––”</p> + +<p>“May be worse,” she finished, though perhaps not in the way he intended.</p> + +<p>“Suit yourself about it,” he yielded. “I don’t want lodging, anyhow.”</p> + +<p>The landlord came staggering in with an armload of cheap bed-covers and threw them down where his dragoon of a wife +directed with imperious gesture.</p> + +<p>“Just look at all that money invested and no return!” she lamented.</p> + +<p>The battered stranger appealed to the landlord, repeating his question. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_144'></a>144</span></p> + +<p>“None of your business,” the landlord replied crabbedly. “But they’re gone, if that’ll +do you any good.”</p> + +<p>“Did they leave two grips–a suitcase and a doctor’s instrument-case–with you?” +inquired the man.</p> + +<p>“They left a pie-anno and a foldin’-bed, and a automobile and a safety-razor!” said the landlord, +looking reproachfully at his big wife, who was motioning him out to his labors again.</p> + +<p>“Or any word for Dr. Slavens?” the stranger pursued with well-contained patience.</p> + +<p>“What do you want to know for?” asked the woman, turning upon him suddenly.</p> + +<p>“Because the grips belonged to me, madam; I am Dr. Slavens.”</p> + +<p>The landlord looked at him sharply.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you’re the feller that went off on a drunk, ain’t you? I remember you now. Well, they +didn’t leave no grips here.”</p> + +<p>“And no word either that I know of,” added the woman.</p> + +<p>She swept Dr. Slavens with wondering eyes, for she had held a pretty good opinion of him before his sudden, and +evidently heavy, fall.</p> + +<p>“But where in this world have you been, man?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Nowhere in <i>this</i> world,” he answered. “I’ve been taking a little side-trip to +hell!”</p> + +<p>“You cert’nly look like it, mister!” the woman shuddered, closing the wide V at her bosom, the +flaring <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_145'></a>145</span> garment clutched in her great ring-encumbered +hand.</p> + +<p>“Will you tell me, then, about my friends?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Gone; that’s all we know,” said she.</p> + +<p>“Part went on the train, two or three days ago; some went on the stage; and the rest left in a wagon this +morning,” said the landlord.</p> + +<p>But he couldn’t tell who went on the train, the stage, or the wagon. It was none of his business, he said. +They paid their bill; that was all he knew, or cared.</p> + +<p>“May I take a look around the tent to see if they left any written word for me there?” the doctor +requested.</p> + +<p>“Go on,” said the woman, a little softening of sympathy coming into her hard eyes.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens went back to the tent, which stood as it had been left that morning when the last of the party went +away. The canvas under which their table stood stretched there hospitably still, and the stove with the morning’s +ashes cold upon its little hearth. Inside, the cots were all in place, but there was not a line of writing from any +friendly hand to tell him where they had gone, or where his property had been left.</p> + +<p>He walked toward the business part of the town and turned down Main Street, considering with himself what turn to +make next. His head bent in meditation, he passed along lamely, his hands in the pockets of his torn trousers, where +there was nothing, not even the thickness of a dime, to cramp his finger-room. Pausing <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_146'></a>146</span> in the aimless way of one who has no unfinished business ahead of +him, he looked around, marking the changes which had come upon the street during those few days.</p> + +<p>The litter of broken camp was on every hand; broken barrels, piles of boxes, scattered straw, bottles sown as +thickly upon the ground as if someone had planted them there in the expectation of reaping a harvest of malt liquors +and ardent spirits. Here the depression of a few inches marked where a tent had stood, the earth where the walls had +protected it from the beating feet showing a little higher all around; there in the soft ground was the mark of a bar, +the vapors of spilled liquors rising sharply in the sun.</p> + +<p>Bands of boys and camp-dregs, of whom he might have been one from his appearance, scraped and dug among the +débris, searching for what might have been dropped from careless or drunken hands and trampled out of sight. That +they were rewarded frequently was attested by the sharp exclamations and triumphant cries.</p> + +<p>Across from where he stood was the site of a large place, its littered leavings either already worked over or not +yet touched. No one scratched and peered among its trash-heaps or clawed over its reeking straw. Dr. Slavens took +possession of the place, turning the loose earth and heaped accumulations with his feet as he rooted around like a +swine. It must have been worked over and exhausted, he concluded, for it turned <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_147'></a>147</span> no glint of silver to the sun. Persisting, he worked across the space which the tent had +covered, and sat down on a box to rest.</p> + +<p>The sun was low; the tops of two tall, round tents across the way came between it and his eyes when he sat down. +That was the luck of some people, thought he, to arrive too late. The pay-dirt was all worked out; the pasturage was +cropped; the dry sage was all gathered and burned.</p> + +<p>No matter. A man had but one moment of life to call his own, wrote Marcus Aurelius. The moment just passed into the +score of time’s count, the moment which the hand of the clock trembles over, a hair’s breadth yet to +go–these are no man’s to claim. One is gone forever; the other may mark the passing of his soul. Only this +moment, this throb of the heart, this half-drawn breath, is a living man’s to claim. The beggar has it; the +monarch can command no more. Poor as he was, Dr. Slavens thought, smiling as he worked his foot, into the trampled +dust, he was as rich in life’s allotment as the best.</p> + +<p>The sole of his cut and broken shoe struck some little thing which resisted, then turned up white beneath his eye. +Broken porcelain, or bone fragment, it appeared. He would have pushed it aside with his toe; but just then it turned, +showing the marking of a die.</p> + +<p>Here was a whimsical turn of circumstance, thought he. An outcast die for a broken man, recalling by its presence +the high games of chance which both of them <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_148'></a>148</span> had played in +their day and lost, perhaps. It was a little, round-cornered die, its spots marked deep and plain. As it lay in his +hand it brought reminiscences of Hun Shanklin, for it was of his pattern of dice, and his size, convenient for hiding +between the fingers of his deceptive hand.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens rolled it on the box beside him. It seemed a true and honest die, for it came up now an ace, now trey; +now six, now deuce. He rolled it, rolled it, thinking of Hun Shanklin and Hun’s long, loose-skinned hand.</p> + +<p>For a place of wiles, such as Comanche had been and doubtless was still, it was a very honest little die, indeed. +What use would anybody have for it there? he wondered. The memory of what he had seen dice do there moved him to smile. +Then the recollection of what had stood on that spot came to him; the big tent, with the living pictures and variety +show, and Hun Shanklin’s crescent table over against the wall.</p> + +<p>That must have been the very spot of its location, with the divided wall of the tent back of him, through which he +had disappeared on the night that Walker lost his money and Shanklin dropped his dice. Of course. That was the +explanation. The little cube in Slavens’ palm was one of Shanklin’s honest dice, with which he tolled on +the suckers. He had lost one of them in his precipitate retreat.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens put the cube in his pocket and got up, turning the débris of the camp again with his foot, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_149'></a>149</span> watching for the gleam of silver. As he worked, a tubby +man with whiskers turned out of the thin stream of traffic which passed through the street and sat on one of the boxes +near at hand. He sat there wiping his face, which was as red and sweat-drenched as if he had just finished a race, +holding his hat in his hand, exclaiming and talking to himself.</p> + +<p>He was so self-centered in his overflowing indignation that he did not notice the man kicking among the rubbish just +a few feet away. Presently the little man drew out a roll of money and counted it on his knee, to look up when he had +finished, and shake his fist at the tent which stood shoulder-to-shoulder by the police station. The gesture was +accompanied by maledictions upon crooks and robbers, and the force of his expressions made necessary the use of the +handkerchief again. This the man took from his hat, which he held in his hand ready to receive it again like a dish, +and scrubbed his fiery face, set over with fiery whiskers and adorned with a fiery nose. When he had cooled himself a +bit he sat watching the doctor at his labor, lifting his eyebrows every time he blinked.</p> + +<p>“Lost something?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied the doctor, kicking away, not even looking at his questioner.</p> + +<p>“Well, if you dropped it out of your hand or through a hole in your pocket you’re lucky!” said the +little man, shaking his fist at the tent where his wrath appeared to center. “This place is full of crooks. +They’ll rob <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_150'></a>150</span> you when you’re asleep and +they’ll skin you when you’re awake, with both eyes open.”</p> + +<p>The doctor had nothing to add to this, and no comment to append. The man on the box put on his hat, with a corner of +handkerchief dangling from it over his ear.</p> + +<p>“You live here?” he inquired.</p> + +<p>“Yes; right now I do,” the doctor replied.</p> + +<p>“Well, do you know anything about a long, lean, one-eyed man that runs a dice-game over there in that +tent?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve heard of him,” said the doctor.</p> + +<p>“Well, he skinned me out of two hundred dollars a little while ago, blast his gizzard!”</p> + +<p>“You’re not the first one, and it’s not likely that you’ll be the last,” the doctor +assured him, drawing a little nearer and studying the victim from beneath his hanging hat-brim.</p> + +<p>“No; maybe not,” snapped the other. “But I’ll even up with him before I go away from +here.”</p> + +<p>“Would you be willing to risk ten dollars more on a chance to get it back?” asked the doctor.</p> + +<p>“Show me the man who can tell me how to do it, and watch me,” bristled the victim.</p> + +<p>“I know that man, and I know his scheme,” said the doctor, “and I’ve got one that will beat +it.”</p> + +<p>The whiskered man put his hand into the pocket where the remainder of his roll was stored, and looked at the +battered stranger with a disfavoring scowl. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_151'></a>151</span></p> + +<p>“How do I know you ain’t another crook?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“You don’t know, and maybe I am a crook in a small way. I’m in hard luck right now.”</p> + +<p>“What’s your scheme?”</p> + +<p>“That’s my capital,” the doctor told him. “If I had a few dollars I’d put it through +without splitting with anybody; but I haven’t a cent. I’ve been kicking this straw and trash around here +for the last hour in the hope of turning up a dime. I’ll say this to you: I’ll undertake to recover your +two hundred dollars for you if you’ll put up ten. If I get it back, then you are to give me twenty-five of it, +and if I win more I’m to keep all above the two hundred. And you can hold on to your ten dollars till we stand up +to the table, and then you can hold to my coat. I can’t get away with it, but I don’t guarantee, you +understand, that I’ll win.”</p> + +<p>The little man was thoughtful a spell. When he looked up there was the glitter of hope in his sharp scrutiny.</p> + +<p>“It’d take a crook to beat that old man’s game,” said he, “and maybe you can do it. As +long as I can hold on to the money I don’t see how I stand to lose it, and I’ve got a notion to go +you.”</p> + +<p>“Suit yourself,” said the doctor, turning again to his exploration of the straw.</p> + +<p>“Ain’t much in that,” commented the gambler’s victim, watching him with puzzled face.</p> + +<p>No comment from the searching man. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_152'></a>152</span></p> + +<p>“You’re a funny feller, anyhow, and I got a notion to take you up. Crook, heh?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, a sort of a tin-horn,” answered the doctor apparently indifferent about the whole matter.</p> + +<p>Slavens was working farther away now, so the man left his place on the box to draw within the range of confidential +conversation.</p> + +<p>“If I was to put up the ten, would you be willing to go over there now and put that scheme of yours in +motion?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“No; not now. There would be some preliminaries. In the first place, that old man knows me, although he might +not spot me at the first look in this rig. I’d have to get a pair of goggles to hide my eyes. And then there +would be supper.”</p> + +<p>“Sure,” agreed the little man. “I was going to ask you about that, anyhow.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you. The crowd will be thicker in there about ten o’clock tonight, and he’ll have more +money on the table. It will be better for me and for my scheme to wait till about that time. It’s a long shot, +partner; I’ll tell you that before you take it.”</p> + +<p>“One in five?” asked the man, looking around cautiously, leaning forward, whispering.</p> + +<p>“Not one in twenty,” discounted the doctor. “But if it goes, it goes as smooth as +grease.”</p> + +<p>The man stood considering it, looking as grave as a Scotch capitalist. Suddenly he jerked his head.</p> + +<p>“I’ll take it!” said he. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_153'></a>153</span></p> + +<p>Over a greasy supper, in a tent away out on the edge of things, they arranged the details of their plot against Hun +Shanklin’s sure thing. What scheme the doctor had in mind he kept to himself, but he told his co-conspirator how +to carry himself, and, with six small bills and some paper, he made up as handsome a gambler’s roll as could have +been met with in all Comanche that night. Out of the middle of its alluring girth the corner of a five-dollar note +showed, and around the outside Slavens bound a strip of the red handkerchief upon which the little man had mopped his +sweating brow. It looked bungling enough for any sheep-herder’s hoard, and fat enough to tempt old Hun Shanklin +to lead its possessor on.</p> + +<p>After he had arranged it, the doctor pushed it across to his admiring companion.</p> + +<p>“No,” said the little man, shaking his head; “you keep it. You may be a crook, but I’ll +trust you with it. Anyhow, if you are a crook, I’m one too, I reckon.”</p> + +<p>“Both of us, then, for tonight,” said the doctor, hooking the smoked goggles behind his ears.</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_10'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_154'></a>154</span> +<h2>CHAPTER X<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>HUN SHANKLIN’S COAT</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>Several sheep-herders, who had arrived late to dip into the vanishing diversions of Comanche, and a few railroad men +to whom pay-day had just supplied a little more fuel to waste in its fires, were in Hun Shanklin’s tent when Dr. +Slavens and his backer arrived.</p> + +<p>Shanklin was running off about the same old line of talk, for he was more voluble than inventive, and never varied +it much. It served just as well as a new lecture for every occasion, for the memory of suckers is even shorter than +their judgment.</p> + +<p>Gents were invited to step up and weigh the honesty of those dice, and gaze on the folly of an old one-eyed feller +who had no more sense than to take such long chances. If anybody doubted that he took long chances, let that man step +up and put down his money. Could he throw twenty-seven, or couldn’t he? That was the question, gents, and the +odds were five to one that he could.</p> + +<p>“I ain’t in this business for my health, gents,” he declared, pouring the dice out on his table, +shaking them, and pouring them again. “I’m a gambler, and I’m here to make money, and make it as easy +as I can; but if I’d been takin’ my pay in sheepskins since I’ve <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_155'></a>155</span> been in this man’s town I wouldn’t have enough of them to make me a coat. Live +and let live is my motto, and if you can’t let ’em live let ’em die.</p> + +<p>“Five times one dollar is five dollars, and five times five is twenty-five. Did any of you fellers ever make +that much in a minute? Look at them dice. Take ’em in your hand; roll ’em on the table. Don’t they +run true and straight? Twenty-seven comes up for you sometimes, and it comes up for me. But it comes up oftener for me +than it does for you, because I’ve got it charmed. That’s m’ lucky number. I was borned on the 27th +of Jannewarry, in Range 27, Township 27, twenty-seven mile from Turkey Trail, Montaney, where the wind blows circles +and the water runs up-hill.</p> + +<p>“You win, friend,” pushing stake and winnings to a sheep-herder who had ventured a dollar. “Five +times one is five.”</p> + +<p>Interest in the game began to show rising temperature; the infection of easy money was working through the +bystanders’ sluggish blood. Shanklin kept the score of loss and gain a little in his own favor, as he was able to +do from his years of practice, while still leaving the impression among the players that collectively they were +cleaning him out. Some who felt sudden and sharp drains dropped out, but others took their places, eyes distended, +cheeks flushed, money in hand.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens and his backer made their way to the front. Slavens noted that Shanklin was making an extraordinary +spread of money, which he had beside <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_156'></a>156</span> his hand in a little +valise. It was craftily disposed in the mouth of the half-open bag, which seemed crammed to the hinges with it, making +an alluring bait. The long, black revolver of Shanklin’s other days and nights lay there beside the bag asserting +its large-caliber office of protection with a drowsy alligator look about it.</p> + +<p>Slavens was as dirty and unwashed as the foulest in that crowd. His khaki coat bore a varnish of grease, his hat was +without band or binding, and the growth of beard which covered his face like the bristles of a brush gave him the +aspect of one who had long been the companion and warder of sheep upon the hills. With the added disguise of the +smoked-glass goggles, common to travelers in that glaring, dusty land, it would have required one with a longer and +more intimate acquaintance with him than Hun Shanklin could claim to pick him out of a crowd.</p> + +<p>Slavens pulled out his roll and stood against the table, holding it in his hand with a loutish display of excitement +and caution, as if unable to make up his mind whether to risk it on the game or not. When Shanklin saw it he began to +direct his talk with a view to charming it out of the supposed sheep-herder’s hand.</p> + +<p>With nervous fingers Slavens untied the strip of handkerchief, turned his back, and slipped off a dollar bill. This +he put on the table with a cautious leaning forward and a suspicious hovering over it with the hand, playing the part +so well that Shanklin’s sharp old eye was entirely deceived. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_157'></a>157</span></p> + +<p>“You win, friend,” said Shanklin, pushing five dollars across the table. “This is like +takin’ money away from a child.”</p> + +<p>There was some tolling to be done on both sides in that game. Slavens turned his back again, with a true pastoral +show of secrecy concerning his money, although he bungled it so that Shanklin could see him pulling the five-dollar +note from the middle of his roll, as if searching for the next smallest bill. This he put on the table.</p> + +<p>There was too much under his eye that throw for old Hun to let it get away. So the magic twenty-seven came rattling +out of the box, and Hun raked over his winnings with doleful face and solemn shaking of the head, according to his way. +He predicted feelingly that his luck could not last, and that the next time his number came up there would be only two +dollars on the table.</p> + +<p>From the little pile of one-dollar bills under his hand–the five which he had won and the one that he had +first staked–the doctor counted five slowly, and then counted it over again, to make sure. He won.</p> + +<p>The others were watching him as he pushed the twenty-five dollars out in the middle of the table with a defiant +snort. He crouched over his stake with guarding mien as old Hun took up the box and shook the dice. They fell near his +hand, scattering a little, rolling over to the edge of his money as they settled down. He had won again. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_158'></a>158</span></p> + +<p>This extraordinary luck seemed to turn the bettor’s head. He spread out his fingers, leaning lower over his +stake, as if to prevent its being swept away by violence or mistake.</p> + +<p>“I won, I tell you! I won!” said he.</p> + +<p>“You won, friend,” said Hun, counting out the money to him, a look of triumph in his greedy little eye. +For, according to all the signs, the poison was so deep in the supposed sheep-herder’s blood that nothing but the +loss of all his hoard would cool it again.</p> + +<p>Slavens nervously counted down twenty-five dollars again, keeping the remainder of his winnings in his hand, as if +ready to take chance on the jump.</p> + +<p>A man must have it given to him both ways in order to key him up to the right place, Hun Shanklin knew. All winning +would no more do than all loss. So this time the loaded dice were switched into the box, and the charmed number came +out again.</p> + +<p>“Hold on! Hold on!” protested the bettor as Shanklin started to sweep the money away with one hand and +gather in his tricky dice with the other. For Hun never left those dice any longer on the board than necessary.</p> + +<p>Slavens threw himself forward on the table, his elbows spread, scrutinizing the dice as if he had not yet figured +the total.</p> + +<p>“Yes; you win this time,” said he grudgingly, removing his hand from his stake, but dropping the money +which he clutched in his fist at the same time. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_159'></a>159</span></p> + +<p>With fatherly kindness Shanklin admonished him to hold on to his money, and helped him pick it up. And, sharp as his +old eye was, he did not see that one of his precious dice, hidden under a bill, had changed places with another, which +had waited that moment in the doctor’s hand.</p> + +<p>The others around the table had given the game over to the amazing sheep-herder who seemed to have so much cash. +They stood by, gaping and exclaiming, growing hotter and hotter with the fever all the time themselves, licking their +dry lips, feeling of their money, getting ready to pitch into it as soon as the film of chance had thickened a little +on their eyes, shutting out reason entirely.</p> + +<p>Slavens straightened up and gave his backer two gentle prods in the ribs, which was the signal agreed upon to let +the other know that the scheme was in working order, and that something was due to happen. He counted down one hundred +dollars and stood expectant, while Shanklin held his hand over the mouth of the dicebox and looked at him with +contemptuous reproach.</p> + +<p>“No, you don’t! No, you don’t!” said Hun. “If you want to play this man’s game +you got to shove up some money of your own. That money’s my money, and you’ve been shovin’ it on and +draggin’ it off so much I’m afraid you’ll wear it out if you keep on.</p> + +<p>“It’s mine, I tell you! Every cent of it’s mine! If you got any of your own put it up, and then +I’ll roll ’em. If you got a hundred to pile on top of that, or five <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_160'></a>160</span> hundred, or ten hundred, come on and pile it up. Then I’ll roll ’em. But I +ain’t a goin’ to stand here and speculate in my own money all night!”</p> + +<p>So there they were, caught in a blind cañon when they thought they were coming into the clear. That was an +unlooked-for and unprepared-for turn that Shanklin had given to their plans. Right when they had him unsuspectingly +loaded up so he could no more throw twenty-seven than he could fly, except by the tremendously long chance that the +good die would fall right to make up the count, he sat down on his hind legs and balked.</p> + +<p>Slavens was at the end of his rope. There appeared nothing for it but to withdraw the stake and sneak off with only +half of his backer’s loss of the afternoon retrieved. He was reaching out his hand to pull the money away, when +the little fellow with whiskers caught his arm.</p> + +<p>Slavens thought he read a signal in the touch, and turned as if to consult his roll again. As he did so the little +man thrust a comfortable wad of bills into his hand, and Slavens faced the table, counting down five one-hundred-dollar +bills.</p> + +<p>Hun Shanklin’s eye was burning the backs of those aristocrats of the currency as he lifted his box.</p> + +<p>“That’s more like it,” he commended. “I can play with a <i>gentleman</i> that carries them +things around with him all night, even if I lose at every throw.”</p> + +<p>“Hold on!” said the doctor as Hun was tilting the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_161'></a>161</span> box to throw. “Cover that money before you throw. I’ve got six hundred dollars +down there, and I want you to count out three thousand by the side of it.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I’ve got the money, friend, if that’s what you doubt,” said Shanklin, with a lofty +air of the injured gentleman.</p> + +<p>He drew a sheaf of bills from the valise and, in the stillness of awe which had come over the crowd, counted down +the required amount.</p> + +<p>“I’ve won fortunes, gentlemen, and I’ve lost ’em,” said Shanklin, taking up the box +again. “Keep your eye on the dice.”</p> + +<p>He was so certain of what would come out of the box that he reached for the money before the dice had settled, ready +to sweep it away. But a change came over his face, as of sudden pain, when he saw the result of the throw, and with a +little dry snort his hand shot out toward the revolver which lay beside his valise.</p> + +<p>The little man with whiskers, admirably cool, got there first. Hun Shanklin was looking into the end of his own gun, +and unloading, through the vent of his ugly, flat mouth, the accumulated venom of his life. He was caught in his own +trap by a sharper man than himself, a being that up to that minute he had believed the world could not produce.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens quickly gathered the money. The others around the table, blazing now in their desire to get a division +of fortune’s favors, put down their bets and called loudly for the gamekeeper to cover them. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_162'></a>162</span></p> + +<p>“Game’s closed,” Shanklin announced, shutting up his valise, into which he had tossed both dice +and box.</p> + +<p>He made a move as if to part the tent-wall behind him.</p> + +<p>“Hold on!” said the doctor, snatching off his goggles and pushing up the brim of his hat. +“I’ve got another score to settle with you, Shanklin. Do you know me now?”</p> + +<p>Shanklin didn’t wait to reply. He dropped to his knees just as Slavens reached for him, catching the collar of +his coat. In an instant the gambler was gone, but his coat was in Dr. Slavens’ hand, a circumstance from which +the assembled men drew a great deal of merriment.</p> + +<p>The chief of police, remiss in his high duty, should have been there to sustain Shanklin’s hand, according to +their gentlemanly agreement when the partnership was formed. He arrived too late. Shanklin was gone, and from the +turmoil in the tent the chief concluded that he had trimmed somebody in his old-fashioned, comfortable way. So his +duty, as he saw it in that moment, lay in clearing them out and dispersing them, and turning deaf ears to all squeals +from the shorn and skinned.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens and his friend had nothing to linger for. They were the first to leave, the doctor carrying +Shanklin’s coat under his arm, the pockets of his own greasy makeshift bulging with more money than he ever had +felt the touch of before. As they hurried <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_163'></a>163</span> along the dark +street away from the scene of their triumph, the little man with fiery whiskers did the talking.</p> + +<p>“Mackenzie is my name,” said he, all of the suspicion gone out of him, deep, feeling admiration in its +place, “and if you was to happen up to southern Montana you’d find me pretty well known. I’ve got +fifty thousand sheep on the range up there, average four dollars a head, and I’d hand half of ’em over to +you right now if you’d show me how you turned that trick. That was the slickest thing I ever saw!”</p> + +<p>“It wouldn’t do you any good at all to know how it was done,” said Slavens, “for it was a +trick for the occasion and the man we worked it on. The thing for us to do is to go to some decent, quiet place and +divide this money.”</p> + +<p>“Give me my two hundred and the stake,” said Mackenzie, “and keep the rest. I don’t need +money; I’ve got two national banks full of it up there in Montana now.”</p> + +<p>“Lord knows I need it!” said the doctor, beginning to sweat over the nearness to visions which he once +believed he should never overhaul.</p> + +<p>He stepped along so fast in his eagerness to come up with and lay hands on them that Mackenzie was thrown into a +trot to keep up.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know who you are or where you came from,” said Mackenzie, “but you’re not a +crook, anyhow. That money’s yours; you got it out of him as <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_164'></a>164</span> beautiful as I ever saw a man skinned in my day. But if you don’t want to tip it off, +that’s your business.”</p> + +<p>“It was a chance,” said the doctor, recalling a night beside the river and the words of Agnes when she +spoke of that theme, “and I had the sense and the courage for once to take it.”</p> + +<p>In the café-tent where they had taken their supper they sat with a stew of canned oysters between them, and +made the division of the money which the lost die had won. Mackenzie would accept no more than the two hundred dollars +which he had lost on Shanklin’s game, together with the five hundred and ten advanced in the hope of regaining +it.</p> + +<p>It was near midnight when they parted, Mackenzie to seek his lodging-place, Dr. Slavens to make the rounds of the +stores in the hope of finding one open in which he could buy a new outfit of clothing. They were all closed and dark. +The best that he could do toward improving his outcast appearance was to get shaved. This done, he found lodging in a +place where he could have an apartment to himself, and even an oil-lamp to light him to his rest.</p> + +<p>Sitting there on the side of his bed, he explored the pockets of Hun Shanklin’s coat. There were a number of +business cards, advertising various concerns in Comanche, which Shanklin had used for recording his memoranda; two +telegrams, and a printed page of paper, folded into small space. There was nothing more. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_165'></a>165</span></p> + +<p>The paper was an extra edition of <i>The Chieftain</i>, such as the doctor had grown sadly familiar with on the day +of the drawing. With a return of the heartsickness which he had felt that day, he unfolded it far enough to see the +date. It was the day of the drawing. He dropped the half-folded sheet to the floor and took up the telegrams.</p> + +<p>One, dated the day before, was from Meander. The other was evidently Shanklin’s reply, which perhaps had not +been filed, or perhaps was a copy. The first read:</p> + +<div style='margin:.5em auto; text-align:center;'>Can close with Peterson if you are sure he will be Number One.<br /> +Be certain on numbers N. W. quar. 6-12-33. Repeat.<br /> +<span style='font-variant:small-caps;'>Jerry.</span><br /></div> + +<p>The reply which Shanklin had written and perhaps sent, preserving a copy in his crafty, cautious way, was:</p> + +<div style='margin:0.5em 2em; text-align:justify;'>Peterson is Number One. N. W. quarter 6-12-33 is right.</div> + +<p>There was neither name nor address on the telegram, but it was easy to see that it was for “Jerry” at +Meander. Some deal was on foot, a crooked deal, no doubt, between Shanklin and somebody for something in which Peterson +and Number One––</p> + +<p>Hold on! Slavens sat up with a quickening of interest in those two words which he thought he never should feel +again. Peterson! That was the name of the winner of Number One. Certainly! Queer that he didn’t put two and two +together at the first glance, thought he. He wondered how much they were paying <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_166'></a>166</span> Peterson for his relinquishment, and what there was in the northwest quarter of Section Six, +Township Twelve, Range Thirty-three, that Hun Shanklin wanted to get his hands on.</p> + +<p>Well, it was interesting, at any rate, even though he didn’t draw himself. In a flash he thought of Agnes and +of her hopes, and her high number, and wondered whether she had gone to Meander to file. Slavens held up +Shanklin’s coat by the collar and ran through the pockets in the hope of finding something that would yield +further particulars.</p> + +<p>There was nothing else in the coat. It didn’t matter, he reflected; his interest in Claim Number One was gone +forever. He didn’t care who had it, or what was done with it, or whether Hun Shanklin and the man called Jerry +gave ten thousand dollars for it or ten cents.</p> + +<p>But that was a pretty good coat. It was a great deal better and more respectable than the one he had on, and it +looked as if it might come nearer fitting. True, Shanklin was a thin man; but he was wide.</p> + +<p>The doctor put on the garment. It was a very comfortable fit; the sleeves were a little long, but there was room +enough in the shoulders. Surprising, said he, how wide that old rascal was in the chest. He transferred his money to +Hun Shanklin’s pockets, chuckling at the thought that he was returning it whence it came. In conscience, said he, +if conscience required such a palliative, he had made restitution. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_167'></a>167</span></p> + +<p>On the floor at his foot lay the extra. In falling it had presented to his view the other side of the fold. The +ruled, double-column box, with the surrounding type lifted irregularly around it, attracted his attention. He picked it +up, sat again on the edge of the bed, and read his own name printed there as the winner of Number One.</p> + +<p>He couldn’t make it out. He turned the paper, looking again at the date. “Owing to a mistake in +transmitting the news,” he read. He got up and walked the length of his compartment, the paper in his hand. How +was that? Number One–he was the winner of Number One! How was that? How <i>was</i> that?</p> + +<p>There was fortune’s caper for you! Number One! And the time past–or but a few hours between then and the +limit–for stepping up and claiming it! And Hun Shanklin had a hand in it. Wait a minute–wait!</p> + +<p>Hun Shanklin, and a man called Jerry, and Peterson, the Swede. But Shanklin, who sent telegrams assuring somebody +that Peterson was Number One–Shanklin most of all. Slavens passed his hand with tentative pressure over the +soiled bandage which bound his brow, feeling with finger and thumb along the dark stain which traced what it hid from +sight. Shanklin! That would explain some things, many things. Perhaps all things.</p> + +<p>He stood there, counting on his fingers like a schoolboy, frowning as he counted. One–two–three. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_168'></a>168</span> The third day–that was the third day. And he was +Number One. And he had lost!</p> + +<hr class='tb' /> + +<p>Out in the office of the lodging-place a lamp burned smokily at the elbow of an old man who read a paper by its +light.</p> + +<p>“This should be the twenty-eighth, according to my reckoning,” said Slavens, appearing before him and +speaking without prelude.</p> + +<p>The old man looked up, unfriendly, severe.</p> + +<p>“You’re purty good at figures,” said he.</p> + +<p>He bumped his bony shoulders over his paper again.</p> + +<p>Undaunted, Slavens asked him the hour. The old clerk drew out a cheap watch and held it close to his grizzled +face.</p> + +<p>“Time for all honest men but me and you to be in bed, I reckon. It’s a quarter to one.”</p> + +<p>A quarter to one! Next morning–no; that very morning at nine o’clock, Peterson would step up to the +window of the land-office in Meander and file on Claim Number One–<i>his</i> claim–Dr. Warren +Slavens’ claim, the seed of his dead hope. That is, if the long chance that lay between him and that hour should +be allowed to pass unimproved.</p> + +<p>“Do you want to sell that watch?” asked the doctor suddenly.</p> + +<p>The old man looked up at him sharply, the shadow of his nose falling long upon his slanting paper.</p> + +<p>“You go to thunder!” said he. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_169'></a>169</span></p> + +<p>“No,” said Slavens without showing offense. “I want that watch for a few hours, and I’ll pay +you for it if you want to let me have it.”</p> + +<p>He drew out a roll of money as thick as the old man’s thin neck, and stood with it in his hand. The old man +slipped the leather thong from his buttonhole and laid the watch on the board in front of him.</p> + +<p>“It cost me a dollar two or three years ago”–what was a year to him in his fruitless life, +anyway?–“and if you want to give me a dollar for it now you can take it.”</p> + +<p>Slavens took up the timepiece after putting down the required price.</p> + +<p>“I paid for my bed in advance, you remember?” said he.</p> + +<p>The old clerk nodded, his dull eye on the pocket into which all that money had disappeared.</p> + +<p>“Well, I’m going out for a while, and I may not be back. That’s all.”</p> + +<p>With that the doctor passed out into the street.</p> + +<p>Eight hours between him and the last chance at Claim Number One–eight hours, and sixty miles. That was not +such a mighty stretch for a good horse to cover in eight hours–nothing heroic; very ordinary in truth, for that +country.</p> + +<p>With a clearly defined purpose, Slavens headed for the corral opposite the Hotel Metropole, beside which the man +camped who had horses for hire. A lantern burned at the closed flap of the tent. After a little <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_170'></a>170</span> shaking of the pole and rough shouting, the man himself appeared, +overalled and booted and ready for business.</p> + +<p>“You must weigh a hundred and seventy?” said he, eying his customer over after he had been told what a +horse was wanted for. “What’s your hurry to git to Meander?”</p> + +<p>“A hundred and eighty,” corrected the doctor, “and none of your business! If you want to hire me a +horse, bring him out. If you don’t, talk fast.”</p> + +<p>“I ain’t got one I’d hire you for that ride, heavy as you are,” said the man; “but +I’ve got one a feller left here for me to sell that I’d sell you.”</p> + +<p>“Let me see him,” said the doctor.</p> + +<p>The man came out of the straw-covered shed presently, leading a pretty fair-looking creature. He carried a saddle +under his arm. While the doctor looked the beast over with the lantern the man saddled it.</p> + +<p>“Well, how much?” demanded the doctor.</p> + +<p>“Hundred and fifty,” said the man.</p> + +<p>“I’ll give you a hundred, and that’s fifty more than he’s worth,” the doctor +offered.</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, seein’ you’re in such a rush,” the man sighed.</p> + +<p>As he pocketed the price he gave the directions asked.</p> + +<p>“They’s two roads to Meander,” he explained; “one the freighters use that runs over the +hills and’s solid in most all kinds of weather, and the stage-road, that follows the river purty much. It’s +shorter by a <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_171'></a>171</span> few miles and easier to foller; but +it’s got some purty loose ground here and there.”</p> + +<p>“Much obliged,” said the doctor, striking his heels to his horse’s sides and galloping off, +following the road which he had seen the stages take to Meander, in the days when Claim Number One was farther off even +than eight hours and sixty miles.</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_11'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_172'></a>172</span> +<h2>CHAPTER XI<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>NUMBER ONE</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>In Meander that morning people began to gather early at the land-office, for it was the first day for filing, and a +certain designated number, according to the rules laid down and understood before the drawing, must appear and make +entry on their chosen tracts.</p> + +<p>There had been a good deal of talk and excitement over the nonappearance in Meander of the man who drew the first +chance. The story had gone around, from what source nobody knew, that he would lapse, in which case Number Two would +become Number One, and all along the line would advance. Number One would have to be there to file first, as Number Two +could not be entered ahead of him, and if he did not step up to the window when it opened, his chance was gone +forever.</p> + +<p>The United States Government would accept no excuses; the machinery of its vast, admirable business could not be +thrown out of gear for an hour or a day, and stand idle while the clerks waited for the holder of Claim Number One to +come from some distant part and step into his own. So there was a good deal of nervousness and talking, and speculating +and crowding forward in the waiting line, as the hour for opening the office drew near. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_173'></a>173</span></p> + +<p>At the head of the line, holding a card with certain figures on it, stood Axel Peterson, a bony-faced man with lean, +high shoulders, engineer in the flour-mill at Meander. Peterson strained his long neck and lifted his chin as if his +loose collar bound him and choked his aspirations.</p> + +<p>It was a racking hour for Axel Peterson, who had been offered a sum which was riches to him if he would file on the +land described by the figures on the card, pay its purchase price to the government on the spot with the money provided +him for that purpose, and then step out. Already he had signed an agreement to make a deed to it. However, the land was +yet in the mists of uncertainty just ahead, beyond his grasp.</p> + +<p>For it was stipulated in his agreement that if the-holder of the first choice should appear in time to file, then +Peterson was to hand over the money which he carried in his pocket to purchase immediate title to the claim. In that +case, Jerry Boyle, the Governor’s son, who stood side by side with Peterson before the window and held +Peterson’s agreement to deed certain described lands in his hand; in that case Jerry Boyle would be free to open +negotiations with the holder of the first chance.</p> + +<p>There was no secret among those gathered to file regarding what was going forward at the head of the line. It was +generally understood, also, that others were on hand to grab the same piece of land as that which Boyle was so eager to +get into his possession. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_174'></a>174</span> Gold, some said. Others were +strong in the statement that it was coal and oil. At any rate there was another man present who had been active with +Peterson, but he had arrived too late. Boyle already had the Scandinavian down in writing.</p> + +<p>Milo Strong was in his place, hoping in his heart that Dr. Slavens would not appear, as the physician’s lapse +would set him one forward. Off to one side, among hundreds gathered to witness the filing on lands which would mean the +development of a great stretch of country around Meander, and thereby add to its prosperity and importance, were +William and Horace Bentley and Agnes.</p> + +<p>They watched the clerks in the land-office arrive and enter through the side door. A shelf had been arranged in one +of the front windows of the office, past which the entrants could file without going into the building. At nine +o’clock this window would be opened. It was before it that Peterson and Jerry were standing.</p> + +<p>William Bentley looked at his watch.</p> + +<p>“Seven minutes more,” he announced.</p> + +<p>“He’ll never come,” said Agnes, shaking her head sadly. “His chance is slipping +away.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve hoped right up to this minute that he would come,” said William, “but I drop out now. +It would have been such easy money for him, too.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; Boyle’s got that fellow tied up to relinquish to him the minute the entry is made,” Horace +added. “I know the lawyer who drew up the papers. It’s <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_175'></a>175</span> illegal all through, but they say Boyle’s got such a pull through his father that +anything he wants will go.”</p> + +<p>Until that hour Agnes had kept her faith in Dr. Slavens and her hope that he would appear in time to save his +valuable claim. Now hope was gone, and faith, perhaps, had suffered a tarnishment of luster.</p> + +<p>For that is the way of human judgment. When one whom we have expected to rise up out of the smoke of obscurity or +the fog of calumniation fails in what we feel to be his obligation to the world and ourselves–especially +ourselves–faith falters in its place, and gives way to reproach, bitter words, hot arraignments. There is no +scorn like the scorn of one who has been a friend.</p> + +<p>And still Agnes kept her faith that Dr. Slavens was blameless for his unexplained disappearance and prolonged +absence deep-anchored in her heart. But there was a surface irritation at that moment, a disposition to censure and +scold. For nothing short of death should keep a man away from the main chance of his career, thought she, and she could +not believe that he was dead.</p> + +<p>It was altogether disappointing, depressing. He should have come; he should have moved the encumbering obstacles out +of his way, no matter what their bulk. Not so much for his own sake maybe, when all was refined to its base of thought, +as for the redemption of her faith and trust.</p> + +<p>“I don’t care to stay and see them file,” said she, turning away. “I’ll get enough of +it, I suppose, when <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_176'></a>176</span> my turn comes, waiting in line that +way in the sun.”</p> + +<p>“There’s a special stage out for Comanche at eleven,” said William, his watch in his hand. +“If I can get a seat I’ll return on it. It’s time I was back in the shop.”</p> + +<p>“For,” he might have added if he had expressed his thoughts, “no matter what I think of you, +Agnes, I see that it would be useless for me to hang around and hope. Dr. Slavens has stepped into the door of your +heart, and there is no room for anybody else to pass.”</p> + +<p>But he left it unsaid, standing with his head bent as if in meditation, his watch in his hand.</p> + +<p>“Two minutes more,” he announced.</p> + +<p>“I’m moving from the hotel,” said she quickly, “to a room I’ve taken with a dear old +lady in a funny little house among the trees. It’s cheaper for me while I wait to file. I’ll see you to say +good-bye.”</p> + +<p>She hurried away, leaving the two men standing looking after her, Horace smiling, for he did not altogether +understand. William could see deeper. He knew that she was afraid lest her disappointment would burst out in tears if +she remained to see Axel Peterson square his elbows on the shelf before the window and make entry on Claim Number +One.</p> + +<p>A clerk within the office was pounding on the window-sash, for the paint which the building had been treated to in +honor of the occasion had gummed it fast. Axel Peterson, straining his long neck, swallowing dry gulps, looked to the +right, the left, the rear. The ends of his <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_177'></a>177</span> fingers were +fairly on Claim Number One; nobody was pressing forward to supplant him and take away his chance.</p> + +<p>Of course, in case Boyle could not induce the holder of the first chance, in the event that he <i>might</i> yet +come, to file on the coveted land, then there would be a chance left for Peterson. So Peterson knew–Boyle had +made that plain. But who could resist the amount Boyle was ready to give? Nobody, concluded Axel Peterson, feeling a +chill of nervousness sweep him as the window-sash gave and the window opened, showing the two clerks ready, with their +pens in hand.</p> + +<p>The preliminary questions were being asked; the card with Peterson’s signature on it was taken out of the file +for its identification–although he was personally known to everybody in the town–for no detail of caution +and dignity could be omitted on an occasion so important as that; Axel Peterson was taking his breath in short bites, +his hand trembling as he took up the pen to enter his name when that moment should arrive; his voice was shaking as he +answered the questions put to him by the clerk.</p> + +<p>There was a stirring down the line, and a crowding forward. From the outer rim of the people gathered to bear +witness to the important ceremony there rose a subdued shout, like the expression of wonder or surprise. The volume of +this sound increased as it swept toward the office. Those in the line, Axel Peterson first of all, saw a movement in +the crowd, saw it part <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_178'></a>178</span> and open a lane for a dusty man on +a sweat-drenched horse to pass.</p> + +<p>One of the clerks arranged the detail-map of the reservation before him with great deliberation, his pen ready to +check off the parcel of land when the entrant should give its description. The other spread the blank on the desk, +dipped his pen, and asked:</p> + +<p>“What tract do you wish to file on, Mr. Peterson?”</p> + +<p>The man on horseback had forged through the crowd and brought his stumbling beast to a stand not a rod away from +Axel Peterson’s side. Peterson had viewed the proceeding with a disturbing qualm. Boyle, as talkative before as a +washerwoman, now grew suddenly silent. His mouth stood open impotently; the gray of a sinking heart came over his face +as he looked long at the battered man, who had dropped the reins to the ground and was coming toward them on unsteady +legs.</p> + +<p>Then, in a flash, Boyle recovered his poise.</p> + +<p>“Quick! Quick!” he called to the clerk, thrusting an impatient hand through the window. “Give him +the paper and let him sign; you can fill in the numbers afterward!”</p> + +<p>The clerk owed his appointment to Boyle’s father when the latter was in Congress; so he was ready at heart to +obey. But it was an irregularity which might rebound with uncomfortable result. Thus he hesitated a few seconds, and as +he hesitated the road-stained horseman pushed in between Axel Peterson and the window. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_179'></a>179</span></p> + +<p>“You’re a little hasty,” said the man. “It’s a few seconds until nine yet, according +to my time. My name is Slavens, and I am Number One.”</p> + +<p>The people in the crowd pressed closer, closing around the tired horse, which stood with its head drooping, its +flaccid sides heaving. Jerry Boyle said nothing, but he put into his pocket the paper which he had been holding ready +in his hand for Axel Peterson’s signature the minute the entry should be made, and turned his back. A +black-visaged man with shifting, greasy eyes shouldered, panting, through the press of people and put his hand on +Slaven’s arm.</p> + +<p>“I’d like to have a word with you before you file,” he requested.</p> + +<p>Slavens looked at him severely from the shadow of his battered hat. The man lacked the bearing of one who inspires +confidence; Slavens frowned his disapproval of the approach.</p> + +<p>“It means money to you,” pressed the man, stretching out his hand and showing a card with numbers +penciled on it.</p> + +<p>Axel Peterson had stood gaping, his card with numbers on it also in his hand, held up at a convenient angle for his +eyes. Dr. Slavens had read them as he pushed Peterson aside, and the first two figures on the other man’s +card–all that Slavens could hastily glimpse–were the same. And, stranger still, they were the same as Hun +Shanklin had recorded in telegraphed reply to the request from Jerry that he repeat them. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_180'></a>180</span></p> + +<p>That was enough to show him that there was something afoot worth while, and to fortify him in his determination, +strong in his mind every mile of that long night ride, to file on that identical tract of land, come of it what +might.</p> + +<p>“I’ll talk to you after a while,” said he.</p> + +<p>Boyle said nothing, although the look he gave the forward man was blasting and not without effect. The fellow fell +back; something which looked like a roll of bills passed from Boyle’s hand to Axel Peterson’s, and with a +jerk of the shoulder, which might have been intended as a defiance to his rival or as an expression of resignation, +Boyle moved back a little into the crowd, where he stood whispering with his friends. Peterson’s face lit up +again; he swallowed and stretched his neck, wetting his dry lips with his tongue.</p> + +<p>The preliminaries were gone over again by the clerks with deliberate dignity; the card bearing the doctor’s +signature was produced, his identity established, and the chart of the reservation again drawn forward to check off the +land as he gave the description.</p> + +<p>“What tract have you selected, Dr. Slavens?” asked the clerk with the blank.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens drew from the pocket of his coat a crumpled yellow paper, unfolded it, and spread it on the shelf.</p> + +<p>“The northwest quarter of Section Six, Township Twelve, Range Thirty-three,” he replied, his eyes on Hun +Shanklin’s figures. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_181'></a>181</span></p> + +<p>Jerry Boyle almost jumped at the first word. As the doctor completed the description of the land he strode forward, +cursing in smothered voice.</p> + +<p>“Where did you get that paper?” he demanded, his voice pitched an octave above its ordinary key by the +tremulous heat of his anger.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens measured him coldly with one long, contemptuous look. He answered nothing, for the answer was obvious to +all. It was none of Boyle’s business, and that was as plain as spoken words.</p> + +<p>Boyle seemed to wilt. He turned his back to the winner of Number One, but from that moment he stuck pretty close to +Axel Peterson until something passed between them again, this time from Peterson’s hand to Boyle’s. +Peterson sighed as he gave it up, for hope went with it.</p> + +<p>Meantime a wave of information was running through the crowd.</p> + +<p>“It’s Number One,” men repeated to each other, passing the word along. “Number One got +here!”</p> + +<p>Hurrying to the hotel, Agnes was skirting through the thinner edges of the gathering at the very moment when Dr. +Slavens turned from the window, his papers in his hand. As he went to his weary horse and took up the reins, the +creature greeted him with a little chuckling whinny, and the people gave him a loud and hearty cheer.</p> + +<p>When the cheering spread to the people around her, Agnes stopped and asked a man why they did that. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_182'></a>182</span> She spoke a little irritably, for she was out of humor with people +who would cheer one man for taking something that belonged to another. That was the way she looked at it, anyhow.</p> + +<p>“Why, haven’t you heard?” asked the man, amazed, but enlarged with importance, because he had the +chance of telling somebody. “It’s Number One. He rode up on a horse just in the nick of the second and +saved his claim.”</p> + +<p>“Number One!” said she. “A horse!”</p> + +<p>“Sure, ma’am,” said her informant, looking at her queerly. “Here he comes now.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens passed within a few feet of her, leading his horse toward the livery stable. If it had not been that the +wind was blowing sharply, turning back the flapping brim of his old hat, she would have repudiated him as an impostor. +But there was no mistaking him, in spite of the strange clothing which he wore, in spite of the bloody bandage about +his head.</p> + +<p>And at the sight of that bandage her heart felt a strange exultation, a stirring leap of joy, even stronger than her +pity and her pain. For it was his vindication; it was the badge of his honor; it was his credentials which put him back +in the right place in her life.</p> + +<p>He had come by it in no drunken squabble, she knew; and he had arisen from the sickness of it to mount horse and +ride–desperately, as his condition told–to claim his own. Through the leagues of desert he had come, +through the unfriendly night, with what dim <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_183'></a>183</span> hope in his +breast no man might know. Now, sparing the horse that had borne him to his triumph, he marched past her, his head up, +like one who had conquered, even though he limped in the soreness of bruised body.</p> + +<p>People standing near wondered to see the tall, pale woman put out her hands with more than a mother’s pity in +her eyes, and open her lips, murmuring a name beneath her breath.</p> + +<p>The Bentleys, who had seen Dr. Slavens arrive, had not been able to force their way to him through the crowd. Now, +with scores of others, they followed him, to have a word with him after he had stabled his horse. As they passed Agnes, +William made his way to her.</p> + +<p>“He arrived in time!” he cried triumphantly, the sparkle of gladness in his honest eyes. “He has +justified your faith, and your trust, and your––”</p> + +<p>She put out both her hands, tears in her eyes, as he halted there, leaving unsaid what there was no need to say.</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell him where to find you,” said he, passing on.</p> + +<p>In her room at the hotel Agnes sat down to wait. Peace had come into her soul again; its fevered alarms were quiet. +Expectancy trembled in her bosom, where no fear foreshadowed what remained for him to say. Her confidence was so +complete in him, now that he had come, that she would have been satisfied, so she believed at that hour, if he had +said:</p> + +<p>“I was unable to come sooner; I am sorry.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_184'></a>184</span></p> + +<p>For love is content with little while it is young.</p> + +<p>Agnes thought of her prettiest dress, tucked away in the little steamer-trunk, and brought it out. It was not +extremely gay, but it was light in color and fabric, and gave a softness to the lines of the body, and a freshness of +youth. And one needs to look carefully to that when one is seven-and-twenty, she reflected.</p> + +<p>Her fingers fluttered over her hair; she swayed and turned before the glass, bringing the lines of her neck into +critical inspection. There was the turn of youth there yet, it comforted her to see, and some degree of comeliness. He +would come soon, and she must be at her best, to show him that she believed in him, and give him to understand that she +was celebrating his triumph over the contrary forces which he had whipped like a man.</p> + +<p>Faith, thought she, as she sat by the window and looked down upon the crowd which still hung about the land-office, +was a sustaining food. Without it the business of all the world would cease. She had found need to draw heavily upon it +in her years, which she passed in fleeting review as she looked pensively upon the crowd, which seemed floundering +aimlessly in the sun.</p> + +<p>All at once the crowd seemed to resolve into one personality, or to become but the incidental background for one +man; a tall man with a slight stoop, whose heavy eyebrows met above his nose like two black caterpillars which had +clinched in a combat to contest <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_185'></a>185</span> the passage. Here and +there he moved as if seeking somebody, familiarly greeted, familiarly returning the salutations.</p> + +<p>That morning she had seen him at the head of the line of men waiting to file on land, close beside Peterson, who +believed himself to be Number One. She had wondered then what his interest might be, and it was largely due to a desire +to avoid being seen by him that she had hurried away. Now he turned as if her thoughts had burned upon his back like a +sunglass, looked directly toward her window, lifted his hat, and smiled.</p> + +<p>As if his quest had come to an end at the sight of her, he pushed across the street and came toward the hotel. She +left the window, closing it hurriedly, a shadow of fear in her face, her hand pressed to her bosom, as if that meeting +of eyes had broken the lethargy of some old pain. She waited, standing in the center of the room, as if for a summons +which she dreaded to hear.</p> + +<p>The hotel at Meander had not at that day come to such modern contrivances as telephones and baths. If a patron +wanted to talk out on the one wire that connected Meander with the world and the railroad, he had to go to the +stage-office; if he wanted a bath he must make a trip to the steam laundry, where they maintained tubs for that +purpose. But these slight inconveniences were not all on one side of the house. For if a message came to the office for +a guest in his room, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_186'></a>186</span> there was nothing for the clerk to +do but trot up with it.</p> + +<p>And so it came that when Agnes opened her door to the summons, her bearing had no touch of fear or timidity. In the +hall she faced the panting clerk, who had leaped up the stairs and was in a hurry to leap down again.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Jerry Boyle asks if he may have the pleasure of seeing you in the parlor, Miss Horton,” said the +clerk.</p> + +<p>“Tell Mr. Boyle,” she answered with what steadiness she could command, “that I have an appointment +in a few minutes. I’m afraid that I shall not be able to see him before–before–tomorrow +afternoon.”</p> + +<p>That was enough for the clerk, no matter how near or how far it came to satisfying the desires of Jerry Boyle. He +gave her a stubby bow and heeled it off downstairs again, kicking up quite a dust in his rapid flight over the carpet +in the hall.</p> + +<p>As if numbed or dreaming, Agnes walked slowly about her room, touching here or there a familiar article of apparel, +and seeking thus to recall herself to a state of conscious reasoning. The events of the morning–the scene before +the land-office, her start back to the hotel, the passing of that worn, wounded, and jaded man–seemed to have +drawn far into the perspective of the past.</p> + +<p>In a little while William Bentley came up for his bag–for in that hotel every man was his own porter–and +called her to the door. He was off with Horace <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_187'></a>187</span> on the +eleven o’clock stage for Comanche. Next morning he would take a train for the East. Dr. Slavens sent word that he +would come to the hotel as soon as he could make himself presentable with a new outfit.</p> + +<p>“Horace will stay at Comanche a while to look around,” said William, giving her his card with his home +address. “If there’s anything that I can do for you any time, don’t wait to write if you can reach a +telegraph-wire.”</p> + +<p>If there was pain in his eyes she did not see it, or the yearning of hope in his voice, she did not hear. She only +realized that the man who filled her life was coming soon, and that she must light again the fires of faith in her eyes +to greet him.</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_12'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_188'></a>188</span> +<h2>CHAPTER XII<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE OTHER MAN</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>Dr. Slavens stood at the door of the parlor to meet her as she came toward him, a little tremor of weakness in her +limbs, a subconscious confession of mastery which the active feminine mind might have denied with blushing show of +indignation.</p> + +<p>The clothiers of Meander had fitted Slavens out with a very good serge suit. Tan oxfords replaced his old battered +shoes. A physician had dressed the cut on his forehead, where adhesive plaster, neatly holding gauze over the cut, took +away the aspect of grimness and gravity which the bloody bandage of the morning had imparted. For all his hard fight, +he was quite a freshened-up man; but there was a questioning hesitation in his manner as he offered his hand.</p> + +<p>Her greeting removed whatever doubt that William Bentley’s assurance of her fidelity might have left. She took +his hand between both her own and held it so a little while, looking into his eyes without the reservation of suspicion +or distrust.</p> + +<p>“We believed you’d come in time all along,” said she.</p> + +<p>“You believed it,” he replied softly, not the faintest light of a smile on his serious face; “and +I cannot weigh my gratitude in words. There is an explanation to be <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_189'></a>189</span> made, and I have saved it for you. I’m a beast to think of food just now, perhaps, but +I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday evening.”</p> + +<p>“You can tell me afterward, if you wish,” she said.</p> + +<p>Through the meal they talked of the others, of who had come to Meander, who had gone home; of June and her mother +and the miller’s wife. Nothing was said of the cause of his absence nor of his spectacular arrival just in the +second remaining to him to save his chance.</p> + +<p>“I noticed a road running up toward the mountain,” said he when they had finished. “Shall we walk +up that way?”</p> + +<p>Out past the little cultivated gardens, where stunted corn was growing in the futile hope that it might come to ear, +they followed the road which led into the mountain gorge. A rod-wide stream came plunging down beside the way, bursting +its current upon a thousand stones here and there, falling into green pools in which the trout that breasted its +roaring torrent might find a place to pant.</p> + +<p>Here, in an acre of valley, some remnant of glacier had melted after its slow-plowing progress of ten million years. +The smooth, round stones which it had dropped when it vanished in the sun lay there as thickly strewn as seeds from a +gigantic poppy-boll. And then, as the gorge-wedge narrowed, there were great, polished boulders, like up-peeping +skulls, and riven ledges against which Indian hunters had made their fires in the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_190'></a>190</span> old days. And on the tipping land of the mountainside, and the little strips where soil +lodged between the rocks, the quaking-asp grew thick and tall.</p> + +<p>There in a little nook among the trees, where trampling tourists had eaten their luncheon upon a flat stone and left +the bags and pickle-bottles behind them, they sat down. At that altitude the sunshine of an afternoon in late August +was welcome. A man whipping the stream for trout caught his tackle in some low branches not ten feet from where they +sat, and swore as he disentangled it. He passed on without seeing them.</p> + +<p>“That goes to illustrate how near a man may be to something, and not know it,” said the doctor, a smile +quickening his grave face for a moment. “This time yesterday I was kicking over the rubbish where a gambling-tent +had stood in Comanche, in the hope of finding a dime.”</p> + +<p>He stopped, looked away down the soft-tinted gorge as if wrapped in reminiscent thought. She caught her breath +quickly, turning to him with a little start and gazing at his set face, upon which a new, strange somberness had fallen +in those unaccounted days.</p> + +<p>“Did you find it?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“No, I didn’t,” he answered, coming out of his dream. “At that hour I knew nothing about +having drawn the first number, and I didn’t know that I was the lucky man until past midnight. I had just a +running jump at the chance then, and I took it.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_191'></a>191</span></p> + +<p>“And you won!” she cried, admiration in her eyes.</p> + +<p>“I hope so,” said he, gazing earnestly into her face.</p> + +<p>Her eyes would not stand; they retreated, and a rush of blood spread over her cheeks like the reserve of an army +covering its withdrawal from the field.</p> + +<p>“I feel like I had just begun to live,” he declared.</p> + +<p>“I didn’t see you arrive this morning,” she told him, “for I turned and went away from the +land-office when they opened the window. I couldn’t stand it to see that man Peterson take what belonged to +you.”</p> + +<p>He looked at her curiously.</p> + +<p>“But you don’t ask me where I was those two days,” said he.</p> + +<p>“You’ll tell me–if you want me to know,” she smiled.</p> + +<p>“When I returned to the Hotel Metropole, even more ragged and discreditable-appearing than I was when you saw +me this morning,” he resumed, “the proprietor’s wife asked me where I’d been. I told her I had +been on a trip to hell, and the farther that experience is behind me the stronger my conviction that I defined it +right.</p> + +<p>“When I left you that night after we came back from the river, I went out to look for young Walker, all +blazing up, in my old-time way of grabbing at things like a bullfrog at a piece of flannel, over what you had said +about a man not always having the sense and the courage to take hold of his chances when they presented. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_192'></a>192</span></p> + +<p>“Walker had talked to me about going in with him on his sheep-ranch, under the impression, I suppose, that I +had money to invest. Well, I hadn’t any, as you know, but I got the notion that Walker might set me up with a +flock of sheep, like they do in this country, to take care of on shares. I had recovered entirely from my +disappointment in failing to draw a claim, as I thought, knowing nothing about the mistake in telephoning the names +over.</p> + +<p>“I used to be quick to get over things that were based on hope that way,” he smiled, turning to her for +a second and scarcely noting how she leaned forward to listen. “Just then I was all sheep. I had it planned out +ten years ahead in that twenty minutes. When a man never has had anything to speculate in but dreams he’s +terribly extravagant of them, you know. I was recklessly so.</p> + +<p>“Well, I was going along with my head in the clouds, and I made a short cut to go in the back way of the +biggest gambling-tent, where I thought Walker might be watching the games. Right there the machinery of my recollection +jumps a space. Something hit me, and a volcano burst before my eyes.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I knew it! I knew it!” she cried, poignant anguish in her wailing voice. “I told that chief +of police that; I told him that very thing!”</p> + +<p>“Did you go to that brute?” he asked, clutching her almost roughly by the wrist.</p> + +<p>“William Bentley and I,” she nodded. “The chief <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_193'></a>193</span> wouldn’t help. He told us that you were in no danger in Comanche.”</p> + +<p>“What else?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Go on with the story,” said she.</p> + +<p>“Yes. I came back to semiconsciousness with that floating sensation which men had described to me, but which I +never experienced before, and heard voices, and felt light on my closed eyes, which I hadn’t the power to open. +But the first thing that I was conscious of, even before the voices and the light, was the smell of whisky-barrels.</p> + +<p>“Nothing smells like a whisky-barrel. It’s neither whisky nor barrel, but whisky-barrel. Once you have +smelled it you never forget. I used to pass a distillery warehouse on my way to school twice a day, and the smell of +whisky-barrels was part of my early education; so I knew.</p> + +<p>“From the noise of voices and the smell of the barrels I judged that I must be behind the stage of the +variety-theater tent, where they kept the stock of whisky for the bar. In a little while I was able to pick up the +identity of one of the voices. The other one–there were two of them near me–belonged to a man I +didn’t know. You have heard us speak, when we were back in camp, of Hun Shanklin, the gambler?”</p> + +<p>She nodded, her face white, her lips parted, her breath hanging between them as by a thread.</p> + +<p>“It was his voice that I heard; I was coming stronger every second. I made out that they were talking of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_194'></a>194</span> my undesirable presence in that community. Shanklin owed +me a grudge on account of a push that I gave his table one night when he was robbing a young fool with more money than +brains by his downright crooked game. That shove laid the old rascal’s scheme bare and kept him out of several +thousand dollars that night.</p> + +<p>“I supposed until last night that his sole object in assaulting me in the dark was to pay off this score; but +there was another and more important side to it than that. Shanklin and the fellow with him, whoever it was, knew that +I was the winner of Number One, and they wanted me out of the way.</p> + +<p>“I’m not clear yet in my mind just why; but they must have had some inside information ahead of others +in Comanche that I, and not Peterson, was the lucky man, as reported first. For that extra wasn’t out +then.”</p> + +<p>“It was all a swindle, the extra,” she hastened to explain. “That editor knew all the time who +Number One was. He held your name back just so he might sell a lot more papers. We found out about it after we came +here.”</p> + +<p>“Of course Shanklin was in with him some way. They’re all crooks,” the doctor commented.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps the other man was that wicked chief of police,” said she. “I wouldn’t consider him +above it.”</p> + +<p>“Nor I,” Slavens admitted. “But I don’t know; I never heard him speak. I thought I heard +that other voice this morning here in Meander, but I’m not sure. I’ll be listening. I must get on with my +yarn, and I <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_195'></a>195</span> warn you now that I’m going to tax your +credulity and try your confidence before I’m through.</p> + +<p>“I lay there gathering strength while they talked about putting me away, like a man who had been choked. I +couldn’t see them when I opened my eyes, for they were back of me somewhere, moving the barrels and boxes around. +There was a lantern standing on the ground near my head, and the thought came to me that if I could knock it over and +put it out I might make a stagger for the outside and get clear of them. So I upset it.</p> + +<p>“The thing didn’t go out. It lay on its side, burning away the same as ever, but the move I had made +tipped it off to them that I wasn’t all in. I heard Shanklin swearing as he came toward me, and I picked up what +strength I had, intending to make a fight for it. I wasn’t as brisk as I believed myself to be, unluckily, and I +had only made it to my knees when they piled on to me from behind. I suppose one of them hit me with a board or +something. There’s a welt back there on my head, but it don’t amount to anything.”</p> + +<p>“The cowards!” she breathed, panting in indignation.</p> + +<p>“I wish we could find a name in some language that would describe them,” said he; “I’ve not +been able to satisfy myself with anything that English offers. No matter. The next thing that I knew I was being +drenched with icy water. It was splashing over my head and running down my face, and the restorative <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_196'></a>196</span> qualities of it has not been overrated by young ladies who write +stories about fainting beauties for the magazines, I can hereby testify. It brought me around speedily, although I was +almost deaf on account of a roaring, which I attributed to the return circulation in my battered head, and sickened by +an undulating, swirling motion by which I seemed to be carried along.</p> + +<p>“I felt myself cramped, knees against my chin, and struggled to adjust my position more comfortably. I +couldn’t move anything but my hands, and exploration with them quickly showed me that I was in a box, rather +tight on sides and bottom–one of those tongue-and-groove cases such as they ship dry goods in–with the top +rather open, as if it had been nailed up with scraps. The water was splashing through it and drenching me, and I knew +in a flash, as well as if they had told me what they were going to do, what they had done. They had carted me to the +river and thrown me in.”</p> + +<p>“The cañon! The cañon!” said she, shuddering and covering her face with her hands. “Oh, +that terrible water–that awful place!”</p> + +<p>“But I am here, sitting beside you, with the sun, which I never hoped to see again, shining on my face,” +he smiled, stroking her hair comfortingly, as one might assuage the terror of a child.</p> + +<p>Agnes lifted her head in wondering admiration.</p> + +<p>“You can speak of it calmly!” she wondered, “and you went through it, while it gives me a chill of +fear <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_197'></a>197</span> even to think about it! Did you–come to shore +before you entered the cañon?”</p> + +<p>“No; I went through it from end to end. I don’t know how far the river carried me in that box. It seemed +miles. But the cañon is only two miles long, they say. The box floated upright mainly, being pretty well balanced +by my weight in the bottom, but at times it was submerged and caught against rocks, where the current held it and the +water poured in until I thought I should be drowned that way.</p> + +<p>“I was working to break the boards off the top, and did get one off, when the whole thing went to pieces +against a rock. I was rolled and beaten and smashed about a good bit just then. Arms were useless. The current was so +powerful that I couldn’t make a swimming-stroke. My chief recollection of those few troubled moments is of my +arms being stretched out above my head, as if they were roped there with the weight of my body swinging on them. I +supposed that was my finish.”</p> + +<p>“But you went through!” she whispered, touching him softly on the arm as if to recall him from the +memory of that despairing time.</p> + +<p>“I came up against a rock like a dead fish,” said he, “my head above water, luckily. The current +pinned me there and held me from slipping down. That saved me, for I hadn’t strength to catch hold. The pressure +almost finished me, but a few gasps cleared my lungs of water, and that helped some. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_198'></a>198</span></p> + +<p>“There is no need for me to pretend that I know how I got on that rock, for I don’t know. A man loses +the conscious relation with life in such a poignant crisis. He does heroic things, and overcomes tremendous odds, +fighting to save what the Almighty has lent him for a little while. But I got on that rock. I lay there with just as +little life in me as could kindle and warm under the ashes again. I might have perished of the chill of that place if +it hadn’t been that the rock was a big one, big enough for me to tramp up and down a few feet and warm myself +when I was able.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know how far along the cañon I was, or how long it was after day broke over the world +outside before the gray light sifted down to me. It revealed to me the fact that my rock of refuge was about midway of +the stream, which was peculiarly free of obstructions just there. It seemed to me that the hand of Providence must have +dashed me against it, and from that gleam I gathered the conviction that it was not ordained for me to perish there. I +could not see daylight out of either end of the cañon, for its walls are winding, and of course I had nothing but +a guess as to how far I had come.</p> + +<p>“There was no foothold in the cliffs on either hand that I could see, and the pounding of that heavy volume of +water down the fall of the cañon seemed to make the cliffs tremble. I had to get ashore against the cliff-side, +somehow, if I ever intended to get out, and I intended to get out, no two ways about it. I might drown <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_199'></a>199</span> if I plunged in, but I might not. And I was certain to starve if I +stuck to the rock. So I took off my coat, which the river had spared me, and let myself down from the lower end of the +rock. I had that rolling and thrashing experience all over again, still not quite so bad, for there was daylight to +cheer me every time my head got clear of the water.</p> + +<p>“There’s no use pulling the story out. I made it. I landed, and I found that I could work my way along +the side of the cliff and over the fallen masses by the waterside. It wasn’t so bad after that.</p> + +<p>“My hope was that I might find a place where a breach in the cliff would offer me escape that way, but there +was none. The strip of sky that I could see looked no wider than my hand. I saw the light at the mouth of the +cañon when it was beginning to fall dusk in there. I suppose it was along the middle of the afternoon.”</p> + +<p>“We were over there about then,” said she, “thinking you might have gone in to try for that +reward. If we only had known!”</p> + +<p>“You could have come over to the other end with a blanket,” said he, touching her hand in a little +communicative expression of thankfulness for her interest. “There is a little gravelly strand bordering the river +at that end. After its wild plunge it comes out quite docile, and not half so noisy as it goes in. I reached that strip +of easy going just as it was growing too dark for safe groping over the rocks, and when I got there my legs bent like +hot candles. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_200'></a>200</span></p> + +<p>“I crawled the rest of the way; when I got out I must have been a sight to see. I know that I almost +frightened out of his remaining wits a sheep-herder who was watering his flock. He didn’t believe that I came +through the cañon; he didn’t believe anything I said, not even when I told him that I was cold and +hungry.”</p> + +<p>“The unfeeling beast!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no; he was just about an average man. He had a camp close by, and let me warm and dry myself by his fire; +gave me some coffee and food when he saw that I wasn’t going to hurt him, but I don’t believe he shut an +eye that entire night. He was so anxious to get rid of me in the morning that he gave me an old hat and coat, and that +was the rig I wore when I returned to Comanche.”</p> + +<p>“The hotel-keeper gave you the message that we left?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“He was surly and ungracious, said he didn’t know where you were. I was of the opinion that you had +turned my baggage over to him, and that he found it convenient to forget all about it.”</p> + +<p>“We brought it here–it’s in my room now; and we told him when we left where we were going, Mr. +Bentley and I.”</p> + +<p>“Well, what little money I had was in my instrument-case,” said he. “So I was up against it right. +I knew there was no use in lodging a complaint against Shanklin, for I had no proof against him, and never <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_201'></a>201</span> could convince a jury that I was in my right mind if I should tell my +story in court. So I let that pass.”</p> + +<p>“It was a miraculous deliverance from death!” Agnes exclaimed, taking her breath freely again. Tears +mounted to her eyes as she measured Dr. Slavens’ rugged frame as if with a new interest in beholding a common +pattern which had withstood so much.</p> + +<p>He told her of meeting Mackenzie, and of finding the lost die; of the raid they had made by means of it on +Shanklin’s money; of his discovery of the midnight extra in the pockets of the gambler’s coat.</p> + +<p>“So there you have it all,” said he, smiling in embarrassment as if the relation of so much about +himself seemed inexcusable. “Anyway, all of the first part of the story. The rest is all on dry land, and not +interesting at all.”</p> + +<p>“But you hadn’t had time to look over the land; you didn’t know the good locations from the +worthless,” said she. “How did you pick out the claim you filed on?”</p> + +<p>“Well, there’s a little more of the story, it seems, after all. There was a plot between Shanklin and +another to file Peterson on a certain tract and then buy him out, I suppose.”</p> + +<p>He told her of the telegram signed “Jerry,” and of Shanklin’s reply.</p> + +<p>“So I concluded,” he said, “that if the land described by their numbers was valuable to them it +would be valuable to me. That my guess was good, I had <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_202'></a>202</span> +proof when I filed. The chap who was piloting Peterson up to the window, and who I suspect was the ‘Jerry’ +of the message, wanted to know where I got the figures. He wasn’t a bit nice about it, either.”</p> + +<p>A swift pallor overspread Agnes Horton’s face; a look of fright stood in her eyes.</p> + +<p>“Was he a tall man, dark, with heavy eyebrows?” she inquired, waiting his answer with parted lips.</p> + +<p>“That fits him,” said he. “Do you know him?”</p> + +<p>“It’s Jerry Boyle, the Governor’s son. He is Walker’s friend; Walker brought him to camp the +day after you disappeared. He had an invitation for Mrs. Reed and her party from his mother–you know they had +been expecting it. And he said–he said––”</p> + +<p>“He said––”</p> + +<p>“That is, he told Walker that he saw you–<i>drunk</i> at two o’clock that morning.”</p> + +<p>“Hum-m,” rumbled the doctor, running his hands through his hair. “Hum-m! I thought I knew that +voice!”</p> + +<p>He got to his feet in his agitation. Agnes rose quickly, placing her hand on his arm.</p> + +<p>“Was he the other man?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s a serious charge to lay against the Governor’s son,” he replied, “but +I’m afraid he was the other man.”</p> + +<p>There was such a look of consternation in her face that he sought to calm her. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_203'></a>203</span></p> + +<p>“He’s not likely to go any further with it, though,” Slavens added.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you don’t know him. You don’t know him!” Agnes protested earnestly.</p> + +<p>He searched her face with a quick glance.</p> + +<p>“Do you?” he asked, calmly.</p> + +<p>“There is something bad in his face–something hiding, it seems to me,” she said, without show of +conscious evasion.</p> + +<p>“I’ll call him, no matter what move he makes,” Slavens declared, looking speculatively across the +gorge. “Look how high the sun is up the wall over yonder. I think we’d better be going back.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’ve kept you too long,” she cried in self-reproach. “And to think you were in the +saddle all night.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; I lost the trail and rode a good many miles out of the way,” said he. “But for that +I’d have been on hand an hour sooner.”</p> + +<p>“Well, you were in time, anyway.”</p> + +<p>“And I’ve drawn blindly,” he laughed. “I’ve got a piece of land marked +‘Grazing,’ on the chart. It may be worth a fortune, and it may be worth twenty cents an acre. But I’m +going to see it through. When are you going to file?”</p> + +<p>“My number comes on the fifth day, but lapses may bring me in line tomorrow,” she answered. +“Smith, the stage-driver, knows of a piece adjoining the one he has selected for himself, if nobody ‘beats +him to it,’ <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_204'></a>204</span> as he says. He has given me the +numbers, and I’m going to take his word for it. About half of it can be irrigated, and it fronts on the river. +The rest is on the hills.”</p> + +<p>“I hope you may get it. Smith ought to know what’s good in this country and what isn’t. When you +have it you’ll lead on the water and plant the rose?”</p> + +<p>“And plant the rose,” she repeated softly.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you think,” he asked, taking her hand tenderly as she walked by his side, “that +you’d better let me do the rough work for you now?”</p> + +<p>“You are too generous, and too trusting in one unknown,” she faltered.</p> + +<p>The beat of hoofs around the sharp turn in the road where it led out into the valley in which Meander lay, fell +sharp and sudden on their ears. There the way was close-hemmed with great boulders, among which it turned and wound, +and they scarcely had time to find a standing-place between two riven shoulders of stone when the horseman swept around +the turn at a gallop.</p> + +<p>He rode crouching in his saddle as if to reach forward and seize some fleeing object of pursuit, holding his animal +in such slack control that he surely must have ridden them down if they had not given him the entire way. His hat was +blown back from his dark face, which bore a scowl, and his lips were moving as if he muttered as he rode. Abreast of +the pair he saw them where they stood, and touched his hat in salute. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_205'></a>205</span></p> + +<p>In the dust that he left behind they resumed their way. Dr. Slavens had drawn Agnes Horton’s hand through his +arm; he felt that it was cold and trembling. He looked at her, perplexity in his kind eyes.</p> + +<p>“That’s the man who stood with Peterson at the head of the line,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Yes; Jerry Boyle,” she whispered, looking behind her fearfully. “Let’s hurry on! I’m +afraid,” she added with the ineffectiveness of dissimulation, “that I’ve kept you from your sleep too +long. Together with your awful experience and that long ride, you must be shattered for the want of rest.”</p> + +<p>“Yet I could stand up under a good deal more,” he rejoined, his thoughts trailing Jerry Boyle up the +shadowy gorge. “But I was asking you, before that fellow broke in––”</p> + +<p>She raised her hand appealingly.</p> + +<p>“Don’t, please. Please–not now!”</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_13'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_206'></a>206</span> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>SENTIMENT AND NAILS</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>Vast changes had come over the face of that land in a few days. Every quarter-section within reach of water for +domestic uses had its tent or its dugout in the hillside or its hastily built cabin of planks. Where miles of unpeopled +desert had stretched lonely and gray a week before, the smoke of three thousand fires rose up each morning now, +proclaiming a new domain in the kingdom of husbandry.</p> + +<p>On the different levels of that rugged country, men and women had planted their tent-poles and their hopes. +Unacquainted with its rigors, they were unappalled by the hardships, which lay ahead of them, dimly understood. For +that early autumn weather was benignant, and the sun was mellow on the hills.</p> + +<p>Speculation had not turned out as profitable as those who had come to practice it had expected. Outside of the +anxiety of Jerry Boyle and others to get possession of the apparently worthless piece of land upon which Dr. Slavens +had filed, there were no offers for the relinquishment of homesteads. That being the case, a great many holders of low +numbers failed to file. They wanted, not homes, but something without much endeavor, with little investment and no +sweat. So they had passed on to prey upon the thrifty somewhere <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_207'></a>207</span> else, leaving the land to those whose hearts were hungry for it because it <i>was</i> land, +with the wide horizon of freedom around it, and a place to make home.</p> + +<p>And these turned themselves to bravely leveling with road-scrapers and teams the hummocks where the sagebrush grew, +bringing in surveyors to strike the level for them in the river-shore, plotting ditches to carry the water to their +fields. Many of them would falter before the fight was done; many would lose heart in the face of such great odds +before the green blessing of alfalfa should rise out of the sullen ground.</p> + +<p>Many a widow was there, whose heart was buried in a grave back East, and many a gray man, making his first +independent start. Always the West has held up its promise of freedom to men, and the hope of it has led them farther +than the hope of gold.</p> + +<p>About midway between Meander and Comanche, Agnes Horton was located on the land which Smith had selected for her. +Smith had retired from driving the stage and had established a sort of commercial center on his homestead, where he had +a store for supplying the settlers’ needs. He also had gone into the business of contracting to clear lands of +sagebrush and level them for irrigation, having had a large experience in that work in other parts of the state.</p> + +<p>Agnes had pitched her tent on the river-bank, in a pleasant spot where there was plenty of grazing for her horse. +Just across her line, and only a few hundred yards up-stream, a family was encamped, putting <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_208'></a>208</span> up a permanent home, making a reckless inroad among the cottonwoods +which grew along the river on their land. Across the stream, which was fordable there, a young man and his younger +wife, with the saddle-marks of the city on them, had their white nest. Agnes could hear the bride singing early in the +morning, when the sun came up and poured its melted gold over that hopeful scene, with never a cloud before its +face.</p> + +<p>Twenty miles farther along, toward Comanche, Dr. Slavens had pitched his tent among the rocks on the high, barren +piece of land which he had selected blindly, guided by Hun Shanklin’s figures. He was not a little surprised, and +at the same time cheered and encouraged, to find, when he came to locating it, that it was the spot where they had seen +Shanklin and another horseman on the afternoon of their stage excursion, when the two had been taken by Smith as men of +evil intent, and the doctor had been called to the box to handle the lines.</p> + +<p>His neighbors in the rich valley below him regarded him with doubt of his balance, and that was a current suspicion +up and down the river among those who did not know the story. But the politicians in Meander, and those who were on +hand before the filing began, who knew how Jerry Boyle had nursed Axel Peterson, and how he had dropped the +Scandinavian when the stranger rode up unexpectedly and filed on Number One, believed that the doctor had held inside +information, and that his claim was worth millions.</p> + +<p>But if the quarter-section contained anything of <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_209'></a>209</span> +value, there was no evidence of it that Dr. Slavens could find. It was about the crudest and most unfinished piece of +earth that he ever had seen outside the Buckhorn Cañon. It looked as if the materials for making something on a +tremendous pattern had been assembled there, thrown down promiscuously, and abandoned.</p> + +<p>Ledges of red rock, which seemed as if fires had scorched them for ages, stood edgewise in the troubled earth, their +seamed faces toward the sky. It was as if nature had put down that job temporarily, to hurry off and finish the river, +or the hills beyond the river, and never had found time to come back. Tumbled fragments of stone, huge as houses, +showing kinship with nothing in their surroundings, stood here thickly in a little cup between the seared hills, and +balanced there upon the sides of buttes among the streaks of blue shale.</p> + +<p>A little grass grew here and there in carpet-size splotches, now yellow and dry, while that in the valley was at its +best. Spiked plants, which looked tropical, and which were as green during the rigors of winter as during the doubtful +blessings of summer, stood on the slopes, their thousand bayonets guarding against trespass where only pressing +necessity could drive a human foot. Sheep-sage, which grew low upon the ground, and unostentatious and dun, was found +here, where no flocks came to graze; this was the one life-giving thing which sprang from that blasted spot. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_210'></a>210</span></p> + +<p>The lowest elevation on the doctor’s claim was several hundred feet above the river, from which he hauled the +water which he drank and used for culinary purposes. If there was wealth in the land and rocks, nature had masked it +very well indeed. The pick and the hammer revealed nothing; long hours of prying and exploring yielded no gleam of +metal to confirm his fast-shrinking belief that he had pitched on something good.</p> + +<p>His only comfort in those first days was the thought of the money which he had taken from Shanklin, with the aid of +the gambler’s own honest little die. That cash was now safe in the bank at Meander. There was enough of it, +everything else failing, to take him–and somebody–back to his own place when she was ready to go; enough to +do that and get the automobile, take the world on its vain side, and pull success away from it. He was able for it now; +no doubt of his ability to climb over any obstacle whatever remained after his wrestling match with the river in the +Buckhorn Cañon. There was no job ahead of him that he could even imagine, as big as that.</p> + +<p>Nobody had come forward to make him an offer for his place. Jerry Boyle had not appeared, nothing had been seen of +the man who accosted him at the window the morning he filed. Although he had remained in Meander two days after that +event, nobody had approached him in regard to the land which so many had seemed anxious to get before it came into +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_211'></a>211</span> his ownership. Boyle he had not seen since the evening +Dr. Slavens and Agnes met him in the gorge riding in such anxious haste.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the value of the claim, if value lay in it, was the secret of a few, and those few had joined forces to +starve out his courage and hope. If nobody came forward with a voluntary offer for the land, it never would be worth +proving up on and paying the government the price asked for it. All over that country there was better land to be had +without cost.</p> + +<p>As the days slipped past and nobody appeared with ten thousand dollars bulging his pockets, Slavens began to talk to +himself among the solitudes of his desert. He called himself a foremost example of stupidity and thick-headedness for +not giving ear to the man who wanted to talk business the day he filed on that outcast corner of the earth. Then, +growing stubborn, he would determine to pay the government the purchase price, clean up on it at once, and take title +to it. Then, if it <i>had</i> the stuff in it, they might come around with some sort of offer in time.</p> + +<p>No matter; he would stick to it himself until winter. That always was his final conclusion, influenced, perhaps, by +a hope that the roughness of winter would speedily convince “somebody” that roses and dreams of roses +belonged to the summer. He would have nothing more to pay on the homestead for a year. And much could happen in a year, +in a day; even an hour. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_212'></a>212</span></p> + +<p>Slavens had a good tent in a sheltered place, which he believed he could make comfortable for winter, and he meant +to send for some books. Meantime, he had tobacco to smoke and a rifle to practice with, and prospects ahead, no matter +which way the cat might jump.</p> + +<p>The doctor’s target practice was a strong contributing force to the general belief among his neighbors that he +was deranged. They said he imagined that he was repelling invaders from his claim, which would be valuable, maybe, to a +man who wanted to start a rattlesnake farm. But Slavens had a motive, more weighty than the pastime that this seemingly +idle pursuit afforded. There was a time of settlement ahead between him and Jerry Boyle for the part the +Governor’s son had borne in his assault. When the day for that adjustment came, Slavens intended to seek it.</p> + +<p>Concerning Shanklin, he was in a degree satisfied with what he had done. The loss of that much money, he believed, +was a greater drain on the old crook than a gallon of blood. Slavens felt that it hurt Shanklin in the gambler’s +one sensitive spot. There was a great deal owing to him yet from that man, in spite of what he had forced Shanklin to +pay, and he meant to collect the balance before he left that state.</p> + +<p>So the rifle practice went ahead, day by day, supplemented by a turn now and then with Hun Shanklin’s old +black pistol, which Mackenzie had turned over to Slavens as part of his lawful spoil.</p> + +<p>While Dr. Slavens banged away among his rocks, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_213'></a>213</span> not +knowing whether he was a victim of his own impetuosity or the peculiarly favored son of fortune, Agnes Horton, in her +tent beside the river, was undergoing an adjustment of vision which was assisting her to see startlingly things exactly +as they were. The enchantment of distance had fallen away. When she came to grips with the land, then its wild +unfriendliness was revealed, and the magnitude of the task ahead of her was made discouragingly plain.</p> + +<p>All over her cultivable strip of land which lay between the river and the hills, the gray sage grew in clumps, each +cluster anchoring the soil around it in a little mound. Through many years the earth had blown and sifted around the +sapless shrubs until they seemed buried to the ears, and hopeless of ever getting out again, but living on their gray +life in a gray world, waiting for the best.</p> + +<p>All of this ground must be leveled before it could receive the benefits of irrigation, and the surprising thing to +her was how much wood the land yielded during this operation. Each little sagebrush had at least twenty times as much +timber under the earth as it had above, and each thick, tough root was a retarding and vexatious obstacle in the way of +scraper and plow. Smith said it was sometimes necessary in that country to move three acres of land in order to make +one.</p> + +<p>But Smith was enthusiastically for it. He kept asserting that it paid, and pointed to the small bit of agricultural +land that there was in the whole expanse of that <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_214'></a>214</span> +reservation, for an example, to prove his point. There was room for other industries, such as mining and grazing, but +the man who could grow food and forage for the others was the one who would take down the money from the hook. That was +Smith’s contention.</p> + +<p>He told Agnes that she could lift enough water with a wheel in the river to irrigate a garden and more, but there +was no need of putting in the wheel until spring. The rains of that season would bring up the seed, and while it was +making the most of the moisture in the ground she could be setting her wheel.</p> + +<p>“A person’s got to plan ahead in this country,” said Smith. “You must know to a skinned +knuckle just what you’ll need a year, or five years, ahead here, if you ever make it go worth havin’. It +ain’t like it is back where you come from. There you can go it more or less hit-or-miss, and hit about as often +as you miss. Here you’ve got to know.”</p> + +<p>Smith was moving to organize the settlers along the river into a company to put in a canal which would water all +their land, the chief capital to be elbow-grease; the work to be done that fall and winter. Smith was indeed the head +and inspiration of all enterprise in that new place. People to whom that country was strange, and that included nearly +all of them, looked to him for advice, and regarded with admiration and wonder his aptness in answering everything.</p> + +<p>Agnes was doubtful of the future, in spite of her big, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_215'></a>215</span> +brave talk to Dr. Slavens in the days before the drawing. Now that she had the land, and a better piece of it than she +had hoped for, considering her high number, she felt weakly unfit to take it in hand and break it to the condition of +docility in which it would tolerate fruit-trees, vines, and roses.</p> + +<p>It cheered her considerably, and renewed her faith in her sex, to see some of the women out with their teams, +preparing their land for the seeding next spring. More than one of them had no man to lean on, and no money to hire one +to take the rough edge off for her. In that respect Agnes contrasted her easier situation with theirs. She had the +means, slender as they might be, indeed, to employ somebody to do the work in the field. But the roses she reserved for +her own hands, putting them aside as one conceals a poem which one has written, or a hope of which he is afraid.</p> + +<p>In the first few days of her residence on her land, Agnes experienced all the changes of mercurial rising and +falling of spirits, plans, dreams. Some days she saddled her horse, which she had bought under the doctor’s +guidance at Meander, and rode, singing, over the hills, exalted by the wild beauty of nature entirely unadorned. There +was not yet a house in the whole of what had been the Indian Reservation, and there never had been one which could be +properly called such.</p> + +<p>Here was a country, bigger than any one of several of the far eastern states, as yet unchanged by the art of man. +The vastness of it, and the liberty, would lay <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_216'></a>216</span> hold of +her at such times with rude power, making her feel herself a part of it, as old a part of it as its level-topped buttes +and ramparts of riven stone.</p> + +<p>Then again it frightened her, giving her a feeling such as she remembered once when she found herself alone in a +boat upon a great lake, with the shore left far behind and none in sight beyond the misty horizon. She seemed small +then, and inadequate for the rough struggle that lay ahead.</p> + +<p>Smith noted this, and read the symptoms like a doctor.</p> + +<p>“You’ve got to keep your nerve,” he advised, bluntly kind, “and not let the lonesomeness git +a hold on you, Miss Horton.”</p> + +<p>“The lonesomeness?” she echoed. It seemed a strange-sounding phrase.</p> + +<p>“It’s a disease,” Smith proceeded, “and I suppose you git it anywhere; but you git it harder +here. I’ve seen men take it, and turn gray and lose their minds, runnin’ sheep. After you once git over it +you’re broke. You wouldn’t leave this country for a purty on a chain.”</p> + +<p>“I hope I’ll not get it,” she laughed. “How do people act when they take the +lonesomeness?”</p> + +<p>“Well, some acts one way and some acts another,” said Smith. “Some mopes and run holler-eyed, and +some kicks and complains and talk about ‘God’s country’ till it makes you sick. Just like this +wasn’t as much God’s country as any place you can name! It’s all His’n when you come down to +the p’int, I reckon. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_217'></a>217</span> But how a woman acts when she +takes it I can’t so much say for I never knew but one that had it. She up and killed a man.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that was terrible! Did she lose her mind?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I don’t know but you could say she did. You see she married a sheepman. He brought her out here +from Omaha, and left her up there on the side of the mountain in a little log cabin above Meander while he went off +foolin’ around with them sheep, the way them fellers does. I tell you when you git sheep on the brain you +don’t eat at home more than once in three months. You live around in a sheep-wagon, cuttin’ tails off of +lambs, and all such fool things as that.”</p> + +<p>“Why, do they cut the poor things’ tails off?” she asked, getting the notion that Smith was having +a little fun at her expense.</p> + +<p>“They all do it,” he informed her, “to keep the sand and burrs out of ’em. If they let +’em.grow long they git so heavy with sand it makes ’em.poor to pack ’em. they say, I don’t know +myself; I’m not a sheepman.”</p> + +<p>“But why did she shoot a man? Because he cut off lambs’ tails?”</p> + +<p>“No, she didn’t,” said Smith. “She went out of her head. The feller she shot was a +storekeeper’s son down in Meander, and he got to ridin’ up there to talk to her and cheer her up. The +lonesomeness it had such a hold on her, thinkin’ about Omaha and houses, and pie-annos playin’ in every one +of ’em, that she up and run off with that feller when he promised to take her <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_218'></a>218</span> back there. They started to cut across to the U.P. in a +wagon–more than a hundred miles. That night she come to her head when he got too fresh, and she had to shoot him +to make him behave.”</p> + +<p>“Her husband should have been shot, it seems to me, for leaving her that way,” Agnes said.</p> + +<p>“A man orto stick to his wife in this country, specially if she’s new to it and not broke,” said +Smith; “and if I had one, ma’am, I’d <i>stick</i> to her.”</p> + +<p>Smith looked at her as he said this, with conviction and deep earnestness in his eyes.</p> + +<p>“I’m sure you would,” she agreed.</p> + +<p>“And I’d be kind to her,” he declared.</p> + +<p>“There’s no need to tell me that,” she assured him. “You’re kind to +everybody.”</p> + +<p>“And if she didn’t like the name,” Smith went on significantly, “I’d have it +changed!”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure she’d like it–she’d be very ungrateful if she didn’t,” Agnes +replied, somewhat amused by his earnestness, but afraid to show it. “I’m going to order lumber for my house +in a day or two.”</p> + +<p>Smith switched from sentiment to business in a flash.</p> + +<p>“Let me sell you the nails,” he requested. “I can give ’em to you as cheap as you can git +’em in Meander.”</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_14'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_219'></a>219</span> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>“LIKE A WOLF”</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>Agnes had been on her homestead almost a week. She was making a brave “stagger,” as Smith described all +amateurish efforts, toward cutting up some dry cottonwood limbs into stove-lengths before her tent on the afternoon +that Jerry Boyle rode across the ford.</p> + +<p>While she had not forgotten him, she had begun to hope that he had gone back to Comanche, and his sudden appearance +there gave her an unpleasant shock. He drew up near her with a friendly word, and dismounted with a cowboy swing to his +long body and legs.</p> + +<p>“Well, Agnes, you dodged me in Meander,” said he. “You’ve located quite a piece up the river +and off the stage-road, haven’t you?”</p> + +<p>“But not far enough, it seems,” she answered, a little weariness in her voice, as of one who turns +unwillingly to face at last something which has been put away for an evil day.</p> + +<p>“No need for us to take up old quarrels, Agnes,” he chided with a show of gentleness.</p> + +<p>“I don’t want to quarrel with you, Jerry; I never did quarrel with you,” she disclaimed.</p> + +<p>“‘Misunderstandings’ would be a better word then, I suppose,” he corrected. “But you +could have <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_220'></a>220</span> knocked me over with a feather when you +repudiated me over there at Comanche that day. I suppose I should have known that you were under an alias before I made +that break, but I didn’t know it, Agnes, believe <i>me</i>.”</p> + +<p>“How could you?” she said, irritably. “That was nothing; let it rest. But you understand that it +was for the sake of others that the alias was–and is–used; not for my own.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, Agnes. But what do you want to be wasting yourself on this rough country for? There are more +suitable places in Wyoming for you than this lonesome spot. What’s the object, anyhow?”</p> + +<p>“I am building here the City of Refuge,” said she, “and its solitude will be its walls.”</p> + +<p>“Ready for the time when <i>he</i> comes back, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>She nodded assent slowly, as if grudging him that share of the knowledge of her inner life.</p> + +<p>“Poor old kid, you’ve got a job ahead of you!” he commiserated.</p> + +<p>A resentful flush crept into her face, but she turned aside, gathering her sticks as if to hide her displeasure. +Boyle laughed.</p> + +<p>“Pardon the familiarity–‘vulgar familiarity’ you used to call it–Agnes. But +‘what’s bred in the bone,’ you know.”</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t matter so much when there’s no one else around, but it’s awkward before +people.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_221'></a>221</span></p> + +<p>“You wouldn’t marry me on account of my tongue!” said he with sour reminiscence.</p> + +<p>“It wasn’t so much that, Jerry,” she chided, “and you know it perfectly well.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, if a man does take a drink now and then––” he discounted.</p> + +<p>“But many drinks, and frequently, are quite different,” she reproved.</p> + +<p>“We’ll not fuss about it.”</p> + +<p>“Far from it,” she agreed.</p> + +<p>“I didn’t come down to open old matters, although I suppose you thought that was my intention when you +dodged me and stuck so close to that tin-horn doctor up at Meander.”</p> + +<p>“It’s comforting to know you haven’t come for–<i>that</i>,” said she, ignoring his +coarse reference to Slavens.</p> + +<p>“No; things change a good deal in four years’ time, even sentiment–and names.”</p> + +<p>“But it wouldn’t be asking too much to expect you to respect some of the changes?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t suppose,” he mused, “that many people around here care whether a man’s name +is the one he goes by, or whether it’s the one he gets his mail under at the post-office at Comanche. +That’s generally believed to be a man’s own business. Of course, he might carry it too far, but +that’s his own lookout.”</p> + +<p>“Are you on your way to Comanche?” she asked.</p> + +<p>Boyle motioned her to the trunk of the cottonwood whose branches she had been chopping into fuel, with <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_222'></a>222</span> graceful and unspoken invitation to sit down and hear the tale of his +projected adventures.</p> + +<p>“I’ve been wearing a pair of these high-heeled boots the past few days for the first time since I rode +the range,” he explained, “and they make my ankles tired when I stand around.”</p> + +<p>He seated himself beside her on the fallen log.</p> + +<p>“No, I’m not going to Comanche,” said he. “I came down here to see you. They gave me the +worst horse in the stable at Meander, and he’ll never be able to carry me back there without a long rest. +I’ll have to make camp by the river.”</p> + +<p>She glanced at his horse, on the saddle of which hung, cowboy fashion, a bag of grub which also contained a +frying-pan and coffeepot, she knew, from having seen many outfits like it in the stores at Comanche. A blanket was +rolled behind the high cantle. As for the horse, it seemed as fresh and likely as if it had come three miles instead of +thirty. She believed from that evidence that Jerry’s talk about being forced to make camp was all contrived. He +had come prepared for a stay.</p> + +<p>“I got into the habit of carrying those traps around with me when I was a kid,” he explained, following +her eyes, “and you couldn’t drive me two miles away from a hotel without them. They come in handy, too, in +a pinch like this, I’m here to tell you.”</p> + +<p>“It’s something like a wise man taking his coat, I suppose.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_223'></a>223</span></p> + +<p>“Now you’ve got it,” commended Boyle.</p> + +<p>“But Smith, who used to drive the stage, could have fixed you up all right,” she told him. +“He’s got a tent to lodge travelers in down by his new store. You must have seen it as you +passed?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; and there’s another crook!” said Boyle with plain feeling on the matter. “But I +didn’t come down here to see Smith or anybody else but you. It’s business.”</p> + +<p>He looked at her with severity in his dark face, as if to show her that all thoughts of tenderness and sentiment had +gone out of his mind.</p> + +<p>“I’m listening,” said she.</p> + +<p>“There’s a man down here a few miles spreadin’ himself around on a piece of property that belongs +to me,” declared Boyle, “and I want you to help me get him off.”</p> + +<p>She looked at him in amazement.</p> + +<p>“I don’t understand what you mean,” said she.</p> + +<p>“Slavens.”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Slavens? Why, he’s on his own homestead, which he filed upon regularly. I can’t see what you +mean by saying it belongs to you.”</p> + +<p>“I mean that he stole the description of that land at the point of a gun, that’s what I mean. It belongs +to me; I paid money for it; and I’m here to take possession.”</p> + +<p>“You’ve got your information wrong,” she denied indignantly. “Dr. Slavens didn’t steal +the description. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_224'></a>224</span> More than that, he could make it pretty +uncomfortable for certain people if he should bring charges of assault and intended murder against them, Mr. Jerry +Boyle!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, cut out that high-handshake stuff, Miss Agnes Horton-Gates, or Gates-Horton, and come down to brass +tacks! The time was when you could walk up and down over me like a piece of hall carpet, and I’d lie there and +smile. That day’s gone by. I’ve got wool on me now like a bellwether, and I’m shaggy at the flanks +like a wolf. I can be as mean as a wolf, too, when the time comes. You can’t walk up and down over me any +more!”</p> + +<p>“Nobody wants to walk up and down over you!” she protested. “But if you want to put Dr. Slavens +off that homestead, go and do it. You’ll not draw me into any of your schemes and murderous plots, and +you’ll find Dr. Slavens very well able to take care of himself, too!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, sure he can!” scoffed Boyle. “You didn’t seem to think so the time you turned Comanche +inside out hunting him, when he was layin’ drunk under a tent. I don’t know what kind of a yarn he put up +when he came back to you, but I’ve got the goods on that quack, I’ll give you to understand!”</p> + +<p>Boyle was dropping his polish, which was only a superficial coating at the best. In the bone he was a cowboy, +belonging to the type of those who, during the rustlers’ war, hired themselves out at five dollars a day, and +five dollars a head for every man they could kill. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_225'></a>225</span> Boyle +himself had been a stripling in those days, and the roughness of his training among a tribe of as desperate and +unwashed villains as ever disgraced the earth underlay his fair exterior, like collar-welts on a horse which has been +long at pasture.</p> + +<p>“I’m not under obligations to keep anybody’s secrets in this country when it comes to that,” +Boyle reminded her.</p> + +<p>“It couldn’t be expected of you,” she sighed.</p> + +<p>“You’re close to that feller,” he pursued, “and he’s as soft as cheese on you. All +right; pool your troubles and go on off together for all I care, but before you turn another wheel you’ll put the +crowbar under that man that’ll lift him off of that land; savvy? Well, that’s what you’ll +do!”</p> + +<p>“You can spread it all up and down the river that I’m living here under an assumed name, and you may +tell them anything else–all that is true–that you think you ought to tell, just as soon as you want to +begin,” she said, rising and moving away from him in scorn. “I’ll not help you; I couldn’t help +you if I would.”</p> + +<p>Boyle got up, his face in a scowl, and as she retreated toward her tent, followed her in his peggy, forward-tilting +cowboy walk.</p> + +<p>“Say,” he hailed, unveiling at once all the rudeness of his character, “come back here a minute +and take your medicine!”</p> + +<p>She paused while he came up. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_226'></a>226</span></p> + +<p>“Jerry,” said Agnes gently, turning upon him eyes full of sadness and lost hope, “get on your +horse and go away. Don’t force me to think worse of you than I have thought. Go away, Jerry; go away!”</p> + +<p>Boyle’s face was flushed, and his naturally pop-eyed expression was greatly aggravated by his anger. It seemed +that his eyes were straining to leap out, and had forced themselves forward until the whites showed beyond the +lids.</p> + +<p>“Yes, that Slavens is one of these men that’d eat hot rocks for the woman he loves,” he sneered. +“Well, it’s up to him to show how far he’ll go for you.”</p> + +<p>“It’s unworthy of even you, Jerry, to talk like that,” she reproved. “As far as I know, I am +nothing more to Dr. Slavens than any other friend. If you want his claim, why don’t you go down there and buy it, +as you were ready to buy it from Peterson if you could have filed him on it?”</p> + +<p>“Because I can get it cheaper,” said Boyle. “I’ll not give him ten cents for it. It’s +your job to go and tell him that I want him to go over to Meander and pay up on that land, and I’ll furnish the +money for it, but before he pays he must sign a relinquishment to me.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll not do it!” she declared.</p> + +<p>“If you won’t lead, I’ll have to try spurs, and I don’t like to do that, Agnes, for the sake +of old days.”</p> + +<p>“Forget the old days.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll go you,” said he. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_227'></a>227</span></p> + +<p>“There’s nothing that you can tell these people about me that will lower me much in their estimation. +None of them, except Smith, knows me very well, anyhow. I don’t care so much for their opinion, for I’m not +here to please them.”</p> + +<p>Boyle placed his hand on her shoulder and looked gravely into her face.</p> + +<p>“But if I was to show proof to the land commissioner that you’d got possession of a homestead here +through fraud and perjury, then where would you land?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“It isn’t true!” she cried, fear rising within her and driving away the color of courage which to +that moment had flown in her face.</p> + +<p>“It is true, Agnes,” he protested. “You registered under the name of Agnes Horton and made +affidavit that it was your lawful name; you entered this land under the same name, and took title to it in the +preliminaries, and that’s fraud and perjury, if I know anything about the definition of either term.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean to tell me, Jerry,” she faltered, “that I’d have to go to prison if Dr. Slavens +wouldn’t consent to save me by giving up his claim to you?”</p> + +<p>“Well, the disgrace of it would amount to about the same, even if a jury refused to send you up,” said +he brutally, grinning a little over the sight of her consternation. “You’d be indicted, you see, by the +Federal grand jury, and arrested by the United States marshal, and locked up. Then you’d be tried, and your +picture <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_228'></a>228</span> would be put in the papers, and the devil would +be to pay all around. You’d lose your homestead anyhow, and your right to ever take another. Then where would the +City of Refuge be?”</p> + +<p>“But you wouldn’t do it,” she appealed, placing her hand on his arm, looking into his face +beseechingly, the sudden weight of her trouble making her look old. “You wouldn’t do it, Jerry, would +you?”</p> + +<p>“Wouldn’t I?” he mocked disdainfully. “Well, you watch me!”</p> + +<p>“It’s a cowardly way to use an advantage over a woman!”</p> + +<p>“Never mind,” grinned Boyle. “I’ll take care of that. If that tin-horn doctor wants to toe +the line and do what I say to keep you out of a Federal pen, then let him step lively. If he does it, then you can stay +here in peace as long as you live, for anything I’ll ever say or do. You’ll be Agnes Horton to me as long +as my tongue’s in workin’ order, and I’ll never know any more about where you came from or what +passed before in your history than Smith down there.”</p> + +<p>Agnes stood with her head drooping, as if the blackmailer’s words had taken away the last shoring prop of her +ambition and hope. After a while she raised her white, pained face.</p> + +<p>“And if I refuse to draw the doctor into this to save myself?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Then I guess you’ll have to suffer, old kid!” said he. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_229'></a>229</span></p> + +<p>Boyle saw the little tremor which ran over her shoulders like a chill, and smiled when he read it as the outward +signal of inward terror. He had no doubt in the world that she would lay hold of his alternative to save herself and +her plans for others, as quickly as he, coward at heart, would sacrifice a friend for his own comfort or gain.</p> + +<p>Yet Agnes had no thought in that moment of sacrificing Dr. Slavens and his prospects, which the unmasking of +Boyle’s hand now proved to be valuable, to save herself. There must be some other way, she thought, and a few +hours to turn it in her mind, and reflect and plan, might show her the road to her deliverance. She did not doubt that +the penalty for what she had done would be as heavy as Boyle threatened.</p> + +<p>“So it’s up to you, handle first,” exulted Boyle, breaking her reflections. “I’ll ride +off down the river a little piece and go into camp, and tomorrow evening I’ll come up for your answer from +Slavens. It’s about twenty miles from here to his claim, and you can make it there and back easy if you’ll +start early in the morning. So it’s all up to you, and the quicker the sooner, as the man said.”</p> + +<p>With that, Boyle rode away. According to her newly formed habit, Agnes gathered her wood and made a fire in the +little stove outside her tent, for the day was wasting and the shadow of the western hills was reaching across the +valley.</p> + +<p>Life had lost its buoyancy for her in that past <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_230'></a>230</span> +unprofitable hour. It lay around her now like a thing collapsed, which she lacked the warm breath to restore. Still, +the evening was as serene as past evenings; the caress of the wind was as soft as any of the south’s slow +breathings of other days. For it is in the heart that men make and dismantle their paradises, and from the heart that +the fountain springs which lends its color to every prospect that lies beyond.</p> + +<p>Boyle’s dust had not settled before Smith came by, jangling a road-scraper behind his team. He was coming from +his labor of leveling a claim, skip one, up the river. He drew up, his big red face as refulgent as the setting sun, a +smile on it which dust seemed only to soften and sweat to illumine. He had a hearty word for her, noting the depression +of her spirit.</p> + +<p>After passing the commonplaces, a ceremony which must be done with Smith whether one met him twice or twenty times a +day, he waved his hand down the river in the direction that Boyle had gone.</p> + +<p>“Feller come past here a little while ago?” he asked, knowing very well that Boyle had left but a few +minutes before.</p> + +<p>“He has just gone,” she told him.</p> + +<p>“Jerry Boyle,” nodded Smith; “the Governor’s son. He ain’t got no use for me, and I +tell you, if I had a woman around the place––”</p> + +<p>Smith hung up his voice there as if something had crossed his mind. He stood looking down the valley in a +speculative way. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_231'></a>231</span></p> + +<p>“Yes?” she inquired, respectfully recalling him.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” repeated Smith. “If I had a woman around the house I’d take a shot at that feller as +quick as I would at a lobo-wolf!”</p> + +<p>Smith jangled on, his scraper making toadish hops and tortoise-like tips and amblings over the inequalities in the +way. She looked after him, a new light shining from her eyes, a new passion stirring her bosom, where his words had +fallen like a spark upon tinder.</p> + +<p>So that was the estimation in which men held Jerry Boyle–men like Smith, who moved along the lower levels of +life and smoothed over the rough places for others to pass by and by! It must be but the reflection of thought in +higher planes–“If I had a woman around the place!” Such then was the predatory reputation of Jerry +Boyle, who was capable of dishonorable acts in more directions than one, whose very presence was a taint.</p> + +<p>And he would ride back there tomorrow evening, perhaps after the sun had set, perhaps after darkness had fallen, to +receive the answer to his dishonorable proposal that she sacrifice her friend to save herself from his spite, and the +consequences of her own misguided act.</p> + +<p>“If I had a woman around the place!”</p> + +<p>The spark in the tinder was spreading, warming, warming, glowing into a fierce, hot flame. Like a wolf–like a +wolf–Smith would take a shot at him–like a wolf! Smith had compared him to a wolf; had said <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_232'></a>232</span> he could be as mean as a wolf–and if there was a woman around +the place!</p> + +<p>She went into the tent, the blood rising hot to her temples, beating, singing in her ears. The revolver which she +had brought with her on the doctor’s advice hung at the head of her cot. With it strapped around her she went +back to her stove, which she fed with a wild vigor, exulting in seeing the flames pour out of the pipe and the thin +sides grow red.</p> + +<p>“Like a wolf–like a wolf!”</p> + +<p>The words pounded in her mind, leaped through her circulation like quickening fire.</p> + +<p>“Like a wolf–if there was a woman around the house––”</p> + +<p>And a man like that was coming back, perhaps when the darkness had let down over that still valley, expecting her to +say that she had killed the hope of her dearest friend to shield herself from his smirched and guilty hand!</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_15'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_233'></a>233</span> +<h2>CHAPTER XV<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>AN ARGUMENT ENDS</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>Morning found Agnes only the more firmly determined to bear her troubles alone. Smith came by early. He looked +curiously at the revolver, which she still carried at her waist, but there was approval in his eyes. The sight of the +weapon seemed to cheer Smith, and make him easier in his mind about something that had given him unrest. She heard him +singing as he passed on to his work. Across the river the bride was singing also, and there seemed to be a song in even +the sound of the merry axes among the cottonwoods, where her neighboring settler and his two lank sons were chopping +and hewing the logs for their cabin. But there was no song in her own heart, where it was needed most.</p> + +<p>She knew that Jerry Boyle had camped somewhere near the stage-road, where he could watch her coming and going to +carry the demand on Dr. Slavens which he had left with her. He would be watching the road even now, and he would watch +all day, or perhaps ride up there to learn the reason when he failed to see her pass. She tied back the flaps of her +tent to let the wind blow through, and to show any caller that she was not at home, then saddled her horse and rode +away into the hills. It needed a day of solitude, she thought, to come <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_234'></a>234</span> to a conclusion on the question how she was to face it out with Jerry Boyle. Whether to stay +and fight the best that she was able, or to turn and fly, leaving all her hopes behind, was a matter which must be +determined before night.</p> + +<p>In pensive mood she rode on, giving her horse its head, but following a general course into the east. As her wise +animal picked its way over the broken ground, she turned the situation in her mind.</p> + +<p>There was no doubt that she had been indiscreet in the manner of taking up her homestead, but she could not drive +herself to the belief that she had committed a moral crime. And the doctor. He would drop all his prospects in the land +that he held if she should call on him, she well believed. He was big enough for a sacrifice like that, with never a +question in his honest eyes to cloud the generosity of the act. If she had him by to advise her in this hour, and to +benefit by his wisdom and courage, she sighed, how comfortable it would be.</p> + +<p>Perhaps she should have gone, mused she, pursuing this thought, to his place, and put the thing before him in all +its ugliness, with no reservations, no attempts to conceal or defend. He could have told her how far her act was +punishable. Perhaps, at the most, it would mean no more than giving up the claim, which was enough, considering all +that she had founded on it. Yes, she should have ridden straight to Dr. Slavens; that would have been the wiser course. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_235'></a>235</span></p> + +<p>Considering whether she would have time to go and return that day, wasted as the morning was, she pulled up her +horse and looked around to see if she could estimate by her location the distance from her camp. That she had +penetrated the country east of the river farther than ever before, was plain at a glance. The surroundings were new to +her. There was more vegetation, and marks of recent grazing everywhere.</p> + +<p>She mounted the hill-crest for a wider survey, and there in a little valley below her she saw a flock of sheep +grazing, while farther along the ridge stood a sheep-wagon, a strange and rather disconcerting figure striding up and +down beside it.</p> + +<p>Doubtless it was the shepherd, she understood. But a queer figure he made in that place; and his actions were +unusual, to say the least, in one of his sedate and melancholy calling. He was a young man, garbed in a long, black +coat, tattered more or less about the skirts and open in front, displaying his red shirt. His hair was long upon his +collar, and his head was bare.</p> + +<p>As he walked up and down a short beat near his wagon, the shepherd held in his hand a book, which he placed before +his eyes with a flourish now, and then with a flourish withdrew it, meantime gesticulating with his empty hand in the +most extravagant fashion. His dog, sharper of perception than its master, lay aside from him a little way, its ears +pricked up, its sharp nose lifted, sniffing the scent of the stranger. But it gave no alarm. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_236'></a>236</span></p> + +<p>Agnes felt that the man must be harmless, whatever his peculiarities. She rode forward, bent on asking him how far +she had strayed from the river. As she drew near, she heard him muttering and declaiming, illustrating his arguments of +protestation with clenched fist and tossing head, his long hair lifting from his temples in the wind.</p> + +<p>He greeted her respectfully, without sign of perturbation or surprise, as one well accustomed to the society of +people above the rank of shepherd.</p> + +<p>“My apparent eccentric behavior at the moment when you first saw me, madam, or miss, perhaps, most likely I +should say, indeed––”</p> + +<p>Agnes nodded, smiling, to confirm his penetration.</p> + +<p>“So, as I was saying, my behavior may have led you into doubt of my balance, and the consequent question of +your safety in my vicinity,” he continued.</p> + +<p>“Nothing of the kind, I assure you,” said she. “I thought you might be a–a divinity student +by your dress, or maybe a candidate for the legal profession.”</p> + +<p>“Neither,” he disclaimed. “I am a philosopher, and at the moment you first beheld me I was engaged +in a heated controversy with Epictetus, whose <i>Discourses</i> I hold in my hand. We are unable to agree on many +points, especially upon the point which he assumes that he has made in the discussion of grief. He contends that when +one is not blamable for some calamity which bereaves him or strips him of his possessions, grief is unmanly, regret +inexcusable. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_237'></a>237</span></p> + +<p>“‘How?’ say I, meeting him foot to foot on the controversy, ‘in case I lose my son, my +daughter, my wife–the wife of my soul and heart–shall I not grieve? shall I not be permitted the solace of +a tear?’</p> + +<p>“And Epictetus: ‘Were you to blame for the disease which cut them off? Did you light the fire which +consumed them, or sink the ship which carried them down?’</p> + +<p>“‘No,’ I answer; ‘but because I’m blameless shall I become inhuman, and close my heart +to all display of tenderness and pain?’</p> + +<p>“And there we have it, miss, over and over again. Ah, I am afraid we shall never agree!”</p> + +<p>“It is lamentable,” Agnes agreed, believing that the young man’s life in the solitudes had +unsettled his mind. “I never agree with him on that myself.”</p> + +<p>The philosopher’s hollow, weathered face glowed as she gave this testimony. He drew a little nearer to her, +shaking the long, dark, loose hair back from his forehead.</p> + +<p>“I am glad that you don’t think me demented,” said he. “Many, who do not understand the +deeper feelings of the soul, do believe it. The hollow-minded and the unstable commonly lose their small balance of +reason in these hills, miss, with no companionship, month in and month out, but a dog and the poor, foolish creatures +which you see in the valley yonder. But to one who is a philosopher, and a student of the higher things, this situation +offers room for the expansion of <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_238'></a>238</span> the soul. Mine has gone +forth and enlarged here; it has filled the universe.”</p> + +<p>“But a man of your education and capabilities,” she suggested, thinking to humor him, “ought to be +more congenially situated, it seems to me. There must be more remunerative pursuits which you could follow?”</p> + +<p>“Remuneration for one may not be reward for another,” he told her. “I shall remain here until my +mission is accomplished.”</p> + +<p>He turned to his flock, and, with a motion of the arm, sped his dog to fetch in some stragglers which seemed +straying off waywardly over the crest of the opposite hill. As he stood so she marked his ascetic gauntness, and noted +that the hand which swung at his side twitched and clenched, and that the muscles of his cleanly shaved jaws swelled as +he locked his teeth in determination.</p> + +<p>“Your mission?” she asked, curious regarding what it might be, there in the solitude of those barren +hills.</p> + +<p>“I see that you are armed,” he observed irrelevantly, as if the subject of his mission had been put +aside. “I have a very modern weapon of that pattern in the wagon, but there is little call for the use of it +here. Perhaps you live in the midst of greater dangers than I?”</p> + +<p>“I’m one of the new settlers over in the river bottom,” she explained. “I rode up to ask you +how far I’d strayed from home.”</p> + +<p>“It’s about seven miles across to the river, I should estimate,” he told her. “I graze up to +the boundary <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_239'></a>239</span> of the reservation, and it’s called +five miles from there.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you; I think I’ll be going back then.”</p> + +<p>“Will you do me the favor to look at this before you go?” he asked, drawing a folded paper from the +inner pocket of his coat and handing it to her.</p> + +<p>It was a page from one of those so-called <i>Directories</i> which small grafters go about devising in small cities +and out-on-the-edge communities, in which the pictures of the leading citizens are printed for a consideration. The +page had been folded across the center; it was broken and worn.</p> + +<p>“You may see the person whose portrait is presented there,” said he, “and if you should see him, +you would confer a favor by letting me know.”</p> + +<p>“Why, I saw him yesterday!” she exclaimed in surprise. “It’s Jerry Boyle!”</p> + +<p>The sheep-herder’s eyes brightened. A glow came into his brown face.</p> + +<p>“You do well to go armed where that wolf ranges!” said he. “You know him–you saw him +yesterday. Is he still there?”</p> + +<p>“Why, I think he’s camped somewhere along the river,” she told him, unable to read what lay behind +the excitement in the man’s manner.</p> + +<p>He folded the paper and returned it to his pocket, his breath quick upon his lips. Suddenly he laid hold of her +bridle with one hand, and with the other snatched the revolver from her low-swinging holster.</p> + +<p>“Don’t be alarmed,” said he; “but I want to know. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_240'></a>240</span> Tell me true–lean over and whisper in my ear. Is he your friend?”</p> + +<p>“No, no! Far from it!” she whispered, complying with his strange order out of fear that his insanity, +flaming as it was under the spur of some half-broken memory, might lead him to take her life.</p> + +<p>He gave her back the revolver and released the horse.</p> + +<p>“Go,” said he. “But don’t warn him, as you value your own life! My mission here is to kill +that man!”</p> + +<p>Perhaps it was a surge of unworthiness which swept her, lifting her heart like hope. The best of us is unworthy at +times; the best of us is base. Selfishness is the festering root of more evil than gold. In that flash it seemed to her +that Providence had raised up an arm to save her. She leaned over, her face bright with eagerness.</p> + +<p>“Has he wronged you, too?” she asked.</p> + +<p>He lifted his hand to his forehead slowly, as if in a gesture of pain. The blood had drained from his face; his +cheek-bones were marked white through his wind-hardened skin.</p> + +<p>“It’s not a subject to be discussed with a woman, sir,” said he absently. “There was a +wife–somewhere there was a wife! This man came between us. I was not then what I am today–a shepherd on the +hills.... But I must keep you here; you will betray me and warn him if I let you go!” he cried, rousing suddenly, +catching her bridle again. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_241'></a>241</span></p> + +<p>“No, I’ll not warn him,” Agnes assured him.</p> + +<p>“If I thought you would”–he hesitated, searching her face with his fevered eyes, in which red +veins showed as in the eyes of an angry dog–“I’d have to sacrifice you!”</p> + +<p>Agnes felt that she never could draw her weapon in time, in case the eccentric tried to take it away again, and her +heart quailed as she measured the distance she would have to ride before the fall of the ground would protect her, even +if she should manage to break his hold on the bridle, and gallop off while he was fetching his pistol from the +wagon.</p> + +<p>“I’ll not warn him,” said she, placing her hand on his arm. “I give you my sincere word that +I’ll do nothing to save him from what I feel to be your just vengeance.”</p> + +<p>“Go, before I doubt you again!” he cried, slapping her horse with his palm as he let go the bridle.</p> + +<p>From the tip of the hill she looked back. He had disappeared–into the wagon, she supposed; and she made haste +to swerve from the straight course to put another hill between them, in case he might run after her, his mad mind again +aflame with the belief that she would cheat him of his revenge.</p> + +<p>Agnes arrived in camp full of tremors and contradictory emotions. One minute she felt that she should ride and warn +Boyle, guilty as he might be, and deserving of whatever punishment the hand of the wronged man might be able to +inflict; the next she relieved herself <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_242'></a>242</span> of this impulse by +arguing that the insane sheep-herder was plainly the instrument of fate–she lacked the temerity, after the first +flush, to credit it to Providence–lifted up to throw his troubles between her and her own.</p> + +<p>She sat in the sun before her tent thinking it over, for and against, cooling considerably and coming to a saner +judgment of the situation. Every little while she looked toward the hills, to see if the shepherd had followed her. She +had seen no horse in the man’s camp; he could not possibly make it on foot, under two hours, even if he came at +all, she told herself.</p> + +<p>Perhaps it was an imaginary grievance, based upon the reputation which Boyle had earned for himself; maybe the poor, +declaiming philosopher had forgotten all about it by now, and had returned to his discourses and his argument. She +brewed a pot of tea, for the shadows were marking noonday, and began to consider riding down the river to find Boyle +and tell him of the man’s threat, leaving him to follow his own judgment in the matter. His conscience would tell +him whether to stand or fly.</p> + +<p>Strong as her resentment was against the man who had come into her plans so unexpectedly and thrown them in a +tangle, she felt that it would be wrong to her own honesty to conceal from him the knowledge of his danger. Perhaps +there remained manliness enough in him to cause him to withdraw his avaricious scheme to oust Dr. Slavens in return for +a service like that. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_243'></a>243</span> She determined at last to seek Boyle +in his camp.</p> + +<p>She brought up her horse and saddled it, took a look around camp to see that everything was in shape–for she +liked to leave things tidy, in case some of the neighbors should stop in–and was about to mount, when a +man’s head and shoulders appeared from behind her own cottonwood log. A glance showed her that it was the +sheep-herder. His head was bare, his wild hair in his eyes.</p> + +<p>He got to his feet, his pistol in his hand.</p> + +<p>“I watched you,” said he, sheathing the weapon, as if he had changed his mind about the use of it. +“I knew you’d go!”</p> + +<p>“But I didn’t intend to when I parted from you up there on the hill,” she declared, greatly +confused over being caught in this breach of faith with even a crazy man.</p> + +<p>“I considered that, too,” said the philosopher. “But I watched you. I’ll never be fool +enough to entirely trust a woman again. You all lie!”</p> + +<p>She wondered how he had arrived there so quickly and silently, for he gave no evidence of fatigue or heat. She did +not know the dry endurance which a life like his builds up in a man. Sheep-herders in that country are noted for their +fleetness. It is a common saying of them that their heels are as light as their heads.</p> + +<p>But there he was, at any rate, and her good intentions toward Boyle must be surrendered. Conscience had a palliative +in the fact that she had meant to go. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_244'></a>244</span></p> + +<p>“Heaven knows I have as little reason to wish him well as you!” said she, speaking in low voice, as if +to herself, as she began to undo the saddle girth.</p> + +<p>“Stay here, then,” said the sheep-herder, watching her with glistening eyes. “I’ll kill him +for both of us! Where is his camp?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” she replied, shuddering.</p> + +<p>The demented shepherd’s way of speaking of taking a human life, even though a worthless one, or a vicious one, +was eager and hungry. He licked his lips like a dog.</p> + +<p>“You said he was camped on the river. Where?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” she returned again.</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell you,” said he, staying her hand as she tugged on a strap. “Both of us will go! +You shall ride, and I’ll run beside you. But”–he bent over, grinding his teeth and growling between +them–“you sha’n’t help kill him! That’s for me, alone!”</p> + +<p>She drew back from his proposal with a sudden realization of what a desperately brutal thing this unstrung creature +was about to do, with a terrible arraignment of self-reproach because she had made no effort to dissuade him or place +an obstacle in the way of accomplishing his design. It was not strange, thought she, with a revulsion of self-loathing, +that he accepted her as a willing accomplice and proposed that she bear a hand. Even her effort to ride and find Boyle +had been half-hearted. She might have gone, she told herself, before the herder arrived. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_245'></a>245</span></p> + +<p>“No, no! I couldn’t go! I couldn’t!” she cried, forgetting that she was facing an unbalanced +man, all the force of pleading in her voice.</p> + +<p>“No, you want to kill him yourself!” he charged savagely. “Give me that horse–give it to me, +I tell you! I’ll go alone!”</p> + +<p>He sprang into the saddle, not waiting to adjust the stirrups to his long legs. With his knees pushed up like a +jockey’s, he rode off, the pointer of chance, or the cunning of his own inscrutable brain, directing him the way +Boyle had gone the evening before.</p> + +<p>His going left her nerveless and weak. She sat and watched him out of sight beyond the cottonwoods and willows, +thinking what a terrible thing it was to ride out with the cold intention of killing a man. This man was irresponsible; +the strength of his desire for revenge had overwhelmed his reason. The law would excuse him of murder, for in the +dimness of his own mind there was no conception of crime.</p> + +<p>But what excuse could there be for one who sat down in deliberation––</p> + +<p>Base Jerry Boyle might be, ready to sacrifice unfeelingly the innocent for his own pleasure and gain, ready to +strike at their dearest hopes, ready to trample under his feet the green gardens of their hearts’ desire; yet, +who should sit in judgment on him, or seek a justification in his deeds to–to–– Even then she could +not bring her thoughts to express it, although her wild heart had sung over it less than twenty-four hours before. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_246'></a>246</span></p> + +<p>A shiver of sickness turned her cold. With quick, nervous fingers she unbuckled the belt which held her revolver and +cartridges; she carried the weapon into the tent and flung it to the ground.</p> + +<p>At dusk the sheep-herder returned, with the horse much blown.</p> + +<p>“He had been there, but he’s gone,” he announced. “I followed him eastward along the +stage-road, but lost his trail.”</p> + +<p>He dismounted and dropped the reins to the ground. Agnes set about to relieve the tired animal of the burden of the +saddle, the sheep-herder offering no assistance. He stood with his head bent, an air of dejection and melancholy over +him, a cloud upon his face. Presently he walked away, saying no more. She watched him as he went, moodily and unheeding +of his way, until he passed out of view around a thicket of tangled shrubs which grew upon the river-bank.</p> + +<p>While her horse was relieving his weariness in contented sighs over his oats, Agnes made a fire and started her +evening coffee. She had a feeling of cleanness in her conscience, and a lightness of heart which she knew never could +have been her own to enjoy again if the crazed herder had come back with blood upon his hands.</p> + +<p>There was no question about the feeling of loneliness that settled down upon her with aching intensity when she sat +down to her meal, spread on a box, the lantern a yellow speck in the boundless night. A rod <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_247'></a>247</span> away its poor, futile glimmer against such mighty odds was +understood, standing there with no encompassing walls to mark the boundary of its field. It was like the struggle of a +man who stands alone in the vastness of life with no definite aim to circumscribe his endeavor, wasting his feeble +illumination upon a little rod of earth.</p> + +<p>We must have walls around us, both lanterns and men, rightly to fill the sphere of our designed usefulness; walls to +restrain our wastrel forces; walls to bind our lustful desires, our foolish ambitions, our outwinging flights. Yet, in +its way, the lantern served nobly, as many a man serves in the circle which binds his small adventures, and beyond +which his fame can never pass.</p> + +<p>From the door of her tent Agnes looked out upon the lantern, comparing herself with it, put down there as she was in +that blank land, which was still in the night of its development. Over that place, which she had chosen to make a home +and a refuge, her own weak flame would fall dimly, perhaps never able to light it all. Would it be worth the struggle, +the heart-hunger for other places and things, the years of waiting, the toil and loneliness?</p> + +<p>She went back to her supper, the cup which she had gone to fetch in her hand. The strength of night made her heart +timid; the touch of food was dry and tasteless upon her lips. For the first time since coming to that country she felt +the pain of discouragement. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_248'></a>248</span> What could she do against +such a great, rough thing? Would it ever be worth the labor it would cost?</p> + +<p>Feeble as her light was against the night, it was enough to discover tears upon her cheeks as she sat there upon the +ground. Her fair hair lay dark in the shadows, and light with that contrast which painters love, where it lifted in +airy rise above her brow. And there were the pensive softness of her chin, the sweep of her round throat, the profile +as sharp as a shadow against the mellow glow. Perhaps the lantern was content in its circumscribed endeavor against the +night, when it could light to such good advantage so much loveliness.</p> + +<hr class='tb' /> + +<p>“If I’d have put my hands over your eyes, who would you have named?” asked a voice near her ear, a +voice familiar, and fitted in that moment with old associations.</p> + +<p>“I’d have had no trouble in guessing, Jerry, for I was expecting you,” she answered, scarcely +turning her head, although his silent manner of approach had startled her.</p> + +<p>“Agnes, I don’t believe you’ve got any more nerves than an Indian,” he said, dropping down +beside her.</p> + +<p>“If one wanted to make a facetious rejoinder, the opening is excellent,” she said, fighting back her +nervousness with a smile. “Will you have some supper?”</p> + +<p>“I’d like it, if you don’t mind.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_249'></a>249</span></p> + +<p>She busied herself with the stove, but he peremptorily took away from her the office of feeding the fire, and +watched her as she put bacon on to fry.</p> + +<p>“Agnes, you ought to have been frying bacon for me these four years past–figuratively, I mean,” he +remarked, musingly.</p> + +<p>“If you don’t mind, we’ll not go back to that,” she said.</p> + +<p>Boyle made no mention of the purpose of his visit. He made his supper with ambassadorial avoidance of the subject +which lay so uneasily on her mind. When he had finished, he drew out his tobacco-sack and rolled a cigarette, and, as +it dangled from his lip by a shred of its wrapping, he turned to her.</p> + +<p>“Well?” he asked.</p> + +<p>She was standing near the lantern, removing the few utensils–the bacon had been served to him in the +pan–from her outdoor table. When she answered him she turned away until her face was hidden in the shadow.</p> + +<p>“I didn’t carry your message to Dr. Slavens as you ordered, Jerry.”</p> + +<p>“I know it,” said he. “What next?”</p> + +<p>“I guess it’s ‘up to you,’ as you put it. I’m not going to try to save myself at the +expense of any of my friends.”</p> + +<p>Boyle got up. He took a little turn away from the box whereon the lantern stood, as if struggling to maintain the +fair front he had worn when he appeared. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_250'></a>250</span> After a little +he turned and faced her, walking back slowly until only the length of the little stove was between them.</p> + +<p>“Have you considered your own danger?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“It wouldn’t help you a great deal here, among these rough, fair-minded people, to take an advantage +like that of a woman, especially when her transgression is merely technical and not intentional,” she +rejoined.</p> + +<p>“I wouldn’t have to appear in it,” he assured her.</p> + +<p>“Well, set the United States marshal after me as soon as you want to; I’ll be here,” she said, +speaking with the even tone of resignation which one commands when the mind has arrived at a determined stand to face +the last and worst.</p> + +<p>“Agnes, I told you yesterday that I was all over the old feeling that I had for you.”</p> + +<p>Boyle leaned forward as he spoke, his voice earnest and low.</p> + +<p>“But that was a bluff. I’m just as big a fool as I ever was about it. If you want to walk over me, go +ahead; if you want to–oh, rats! But I’ll tell you; if you’ll come away with me I’ll drop all of +this. I’ll leave that tin-horn doctor where he is, and let him make what he can out of his claim.”</p> + +<p>“I couldn’t marry you, Jerry; it’s impossible to think of that,” she told him gently.</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, that’s a formality,” he returned, far more in his voice than his words. +“I’ll say to you––”</p> + +<p>“You’ve said too much!” she stopped him, feeling <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_251'></a>251</span> her cheeks burn under the outrage which he had offered to her chaste heart. +“There’s no room for any more words between you and me–never! Go now–say no more!”</p> + +<p>She walked across the bright ring of light toward the tent, making a little detour around him, as if afraid that his +violent words might be followed by violent deeds.</p> + +<p>Boyle turned where he stood, following her with his eyes. The light of the lantern struck him strongly up to the +waist, leaving his head and shoulders in the gloom above its glare. His hands were in the pockets of his trousers, his +shoulders drooping forward in that horseback stoop which years in the saddle had fastened on him.</p> + +<p>Agnes had reached the tent, where she stood with her hand on the flap, turning a hasty look behind her, when a shot +out of the dark from the direction of the river-bank struck her ears with a suddenness and a portent which seemed to +carry the pain of death. She was facing that way; she saw the flash of it; she saw Jerry Boyle leap with lithe agility, +as if springing from the scourge of flames, and sling his pistol from the hostler under his coat.</p> + +<p>In his movement there was an admirable quickness, rising almost to the dignity of beauty in the rapidity with which +he adjusted himself to meet this sudden exigency. In half the beat of a heart, it seemed, he had fired. Out of the dark +came another leap of flame, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_252'></a>252</span> another report. Boyle walked +directly toward the point from which it came, firing as he went. No answer came after his second shot.</p> + +<p>Agnes pressed her hand over her eyes to shut out the sight, fearing to see him fall, her heart rising up to accuse +her. She had forgotten to warn him! She had forgotten!</p> + +<p>Boyle’s voice roused her. There was a dry harshness in it, a hoarseness as of one who has gone long without +water on the lips.</p> + +<p>“Bring that lantern here!” he commanded.</p> + +<p>She did not stand to debate it, but took up the light and hurried to the place where he stood. A man lay at his +feet, his long hair tossed in disorder, his long coat spread out like a black blotch upon the ground. Boyle took the +lantern and bent over the victim of his steady arm, growled in his throat, and bent lower. The man’s face was +partly hidden by the rank grass in which he lay. Boyle turned it up to the light with his foot and straightened his +back with a grunt of disdain.</p> + +<p>“Huh! <i>That</i> rabbit!” said he, giving her back the light.</p> + +<p>It did not require that gleam upon the white face to tell Agnes that the victim was the polemical sheep-herder, +whose intention had been steadier than his aim.</p> + +<p>Boyle hesitated a moment as if to speak to her, but said nothing before he turned and walked away.</p> + +<p>“You’ve killed him!” she called after him sharply. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_253'></a>253</span> “Don’t go away and leave him here like this!”</p> + +<p>“He’s not dead,” said Boyle. “Don’t you hear him snort?”</p> + +<p>The man’s breathing was indeed audible, and growing louder with each labored inspiration.</p> + +<p>“Turn him over on his face,” directed Boyle. “There’s blood in his throat.”</p> + +<p>“Will you go for Smith?” she asked, kneeling beside the wounded man.</p> + +<p>“He’s coming; I can hear the sauerkraut jolt in him while he’s half a mile away. If anybody comes +looking for me on account of this–coroner or–oh, anybody–I’ll be down the river about a quarter +below the stage-ford. I’ll wait there a day longer to hear from you, and this is my last word.”</p> + +<p>With that Boyle left her. Smith came very shortly, having heard the shots; and the people from up the river came, +and the young man from the bridal nest across on the other side. They made a wondering, awed ring around the wounded +man, who was pronounced by Smith to be in deep waters. There was a bullet through his neck.</p> + +<p>Smith believed there was life enough left in the sheep-herder to last until he could fetch a doctor from +Meander.</p> + +<p>“But that’s thirty miles,” said Agnes, “and Dr. Slavens is not more than twenty. You know +where he’s located–down by Comanche?”</p> + +<p>Smith knew, but he had forgotten for the minute, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_254'></a>254</span> so +accustomed to turning as he was to the center of civilization in that section for all the gentle ministrants of woe, +such as doctors, preachers, and undertakers.</p> + +<p>“I’ll have him here before morning,” said Smith, posting off to get his horse.</p> + +<p>The poor sheep-herder was too sorely hurt to last the night out. Before Smith had been two hours on his way the +shepherd was in the land of shades, having it out face to face with Epictetus–if he carried the memory of his +contention across with him, to be sure.</p> + +<p>The neighbors arranged him respectably upon a board, and covered him over with a blanket, keeping watch beside him +in the open, with the clear stars shining undisturbed by this thing which made such a turmoil in their breasts. There +he lay, waiting the doctor and the coroner, and all who might come, his earthly troubles locked up forever in his cold +heart, his earthly argument forever at an end.</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_16'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_255'></a>255</span> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>A PROMISE</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>Dr. Slavens rode in before dawn, more concerned about Agnes than about the person in whose behalf he had been +summoned. On the way he asked Smith repeatedly how the tragedy affected her; whether she was frightened or greatly +disturbed.</p> + +<p>“She’s as steady as a compass,” said Smith; and so he found her.</p> + +<p>Somewhat too steady, in fact. It was the steadiness of a deep and settled melancholy, through which his best efforts +could do no more than strike a feeble, weary smile.</p> + +<p>Immediately upon the death of the herder, one of the men had ridden to Meander and carried word to the coroner. That +official arrived in the middle of the forenoon, bringing with him the undertaker and a wagon. After some perfunctory +inquiries, the coroner concluded that an inquest was not necessary. He did not go to the trouble to find Boyle and +question him, but he looked with a familiar understanding in his piggish eyes at Agnes when she related the +circumstances of the tragedy.</p> + +<p>Coroners, and others who knew the Governor’s son, had but one measure for a woman who entertained Jerry Boyle +alone in her tent, or even outside it, at <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_256'></a>256</span> night. +Boyle’s associations had set the standard of his own morality, as well as that of his consorts. The woman from up +the river, and the little bride from across the ford, drew off together, whispering, after Agnes had told her story. +Presently they slipped away without a word.</p> + +<p>Even Dr. Slavens, cool and just-minded as he was, felt the hot stirring of jealous suspicion. It brought to his mind +unpleasantly the ruminations of his solitary days in camp among the rocks, when he had turned over in his mind the +belief that there was something of the past between Agnes and Boyle.</p> + +<p>He had not convicted her in his own judgment of any wrong, for the sincerity of her eyes had stood between him and +the possibility of any such conclusion. Now the thought that, after all his trust, she might be unworthy, smote +painfully upon his heart.</p> + +<p>When the others had gone away, after a little standing around, hitch-legged and wise, in close discussion of the +event, the doctor sitting, meantime, with Agnes in front of the tent, he spoke of the necessity of getting back to his +claim. She was pale after the night’s strain, although apparently unconscious of the obloquy of her neighbors. +Nevertheless, she pressed him to remain for the midday meal.</p> + +<p>“I’ve not been very hospitable, I’m afraid,” said she; “but this thing has stunned me. +It seems like it has taken something away from the prospect of life here.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_257'></a>257</span></p> + +<p>“Yes, it has taken something away,” he responded, gravely thoughtful, his look bent upon the ground.</p> + +<p>She sprang up quickly, a sharp little cry upon her lips as if from the shock of a blow from a hand beloved.</p> + +<p>“I saw it in their eyes!” she cried. “But you–but you! Oh–oh–I <i>trusted</i> +you to know!”</p> + +<p>“Forgive me,” he begged. “I did not mean to hurt you. Perhaps I was thinking of the romance and +the glamour which this had stripped away from things here. I think my mind was running on that.”</p> + +<p>“No,” she denied. “You were thinking like that little woman across the river with the fright and +horror in her big eyes. You were thinking that I am guilty, and that there can be but one answer to the presence of +that man in my camp last night. His notorious name goes before him like a blight.”</p> + +<p>“You’ll have to move your camp now,” as if seeking delicately to avoid the ghost that seemed to +have risen between them; “this place will have unpleasant associations.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; it cannot be reconsecrated and purified.”</p> + +<p>He stood as if prepared to leave. Agnes placed her hand upon his shoulder, looking with grieved eyes into his +face.</p> + +<p>“Will you stay a little while,” she asked, “and hear me? I want to part from you with your +friendship and respect, for I am entitled to both, I am worthy of both–if ever.” <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_258'></a>258</span></p> + +<p>“Let me move your stool out into the sun,” he suggested. “There’s a chill in the wind today. +Of course I’ll stay, and we’ll have some more of that excellent coffee before I go. You must teach me how +you make it; mine always turns out as muddy as a bucket of Missouri River water.”</p> + +<p>His cheerfulness was like that which a healthy man displays at the bedside of a dying friend–assumed, but +helpful in its way. He placed her folding canvas stool in the sun beyond the shadow of the tent and found a box for +himself. Thus arranged, he waited for her to speak.</p> + +<p>“Still, I am not sure of what I protested in regard to your friendship and respect,” said she after a +little brooding silence. “I am a fraud, taken at the best, and perhaps a criminal.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens studied her face as she paused there and looked away, as if her thoughts concentrated beyond the blue +hills in the west.</p> + +<p>“My name is not Horton,” she resumed, facing him suddenly. “It is Gates, and my father is in the +Federal penitentiary at Leavenworth.”</p> + +<p>“But there was no call for you to tell me this,” he protested softly.</p> + +<p>“Yes, every reason for it,” she averred. “The fabric of all my troubles rests on that. He was +president of a bank–you remember the scandal, don’t you? It was nation-wide.”</p> + +<p>He nodded. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_259'></a>259</span></p> + +<p>“I spoke to you once of the ghosts of money. They have worried me for four years and more, for nothing but the +ghosts are left when one loses place and consequence before the world. It was a national bank, and the charge was +misapplication of funds. He had money enough for all the sane uses of any man, but the pernicious ambition to be +greater assailed him, even old as he was.</p> + +<p>“He never said, and I never have held it so, that his punishment was unjust. Only it seemed to us unfair when +so many greater evildoers escape or receive pardons. You will remember, perhaps, that none of the depositors lost +anything. Wild as his schemes appeared, they turned out sound enough after a while, and everything was liquidated.</p> + +<p>“We gave up everything of our own; mother and I have felt the rub of hardship before today. The hardest of all +was the falling away of those whom we believed to be friends. We learned that the favors of society are as fickle as +those of fortune, and that they walk hand in hand.</p> + +<p>“No matter. Father’s term will expire in less than one month. He is an old, broken, disgraced man; he +never will be able to lift up his face before the world again. That is why I am here. Mother and I concluded that we +might make a refuge for him here, where he would be unknown. We planned for him to leave his name, and as much of his +past as he could shake off, behind him at the prison door. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_260'></a>260</span></p> + +<p>“It was no sacrifice for me. All that I had known in the old life was gone. Sneers followed me; the ghosts of +money rose up to accuse. I was a felon’s daughter; but, worse than that–I was poor! This country held out +its arms to me, clean and undefiled. When I got my first sight of it, and the taste of its free air in my nostrils, my +heart began to unfold again, and the cramped wrinkles fell out of my tired soul.”</p> + +<p>The sunshine was around them, and the peace of the open places. They sat for the world to see them, and there was +nothing to hide in the sympathy that moved Dr. Slavens to reach out and take the girl’s hand. He caressed it with +comforting touch, as if to mitigate the suffering of her heart, in tearing from it for his eyes to see, her hoarded +sorrow and unearned shame.</p> + +<p>“There is that freedom about it,” said he, “when one sees it by day and sunlight.”</p> + +<p>“But it has its nights, too,” she shuddered, the shadow of last night in her eyes.</p> + +<p>“Yet they all pass–the longest of them and the most painful,” he comforted her.</p> + +<p>“And leave their scars sometimes. How I came here, registered, drew a claim, and filed on it, you know. I did +all that under the name of Horton, which is a family name on mother’s side, not thinking what the consequence +might be. Now, in payment for this first breach of the law, I must at least give up all my schemes here and retreat. I +may be prosecuted; I may even go to prison, like my father did.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_261'></a>261</span></p> + +<p>“Surely not!” he protested. “Who is there to know it, to lay a charge against you?”</p> + +<p>“Such person is not wanting in the miserable plot of my life,” she answered. “I will reach him +soon in my sorry tale.”</p> + +<p>“Boyle!” Slavens said, as if thinking aloud. “He’s the man!”</p> + +<p>“You take the name from my mouth,” she told him. “He has threatened me with prosecution. Perjury, +he says it would be called, and prison would be the penalty.”</p> + +<p>“It might be so here,” he admitted.</p> + +<p>“I met Jerry Boyle about five years ago, when father was in Congress. His father was at that time Senator from +this state. We lived in Washington, and Jerry Boyle was then considered a very original and delightful young man. He +was fresh in from the range, but he had the polish of a university education over his roughness, and what I know now to +be inborn coarseness was then accepted for ingenuousness. He passed current in the best society of the capital, where +he was coddled as a butterfly of new species. We met; he made love to me, and I–I am afraid that I encouraged him +to do it at first.</p> + +<p>“But he drank and gambled, and got into brawls. He stabbed an attaché of the Mexican Legation over a +woman, and the engagement to marry him which I had entered into was broken. I was foolish in the first instance, but I +plead the mitigation of frivolity and <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_262'></a>262</span> youth. My heart was +not in it. I beg you to believe, Dr. Slavens, that my heart was not in it at all.”</p> + +<p>She looked at him with pleading sincerity, and from her eyes his heart gathered its recesses full of joy.</p> + +<p>“I need no further assurance of that,” he smiled.</p> + +<p>“You are generous. It was on the afternoon of the day that followed your disappearance from Comanche that +Boyle came into camp there. I had not forgotten him, of course, nor his influential position in this state; but I never +thought of meeting him there. It was a sickening shock to me. I denied his protestations of acquaintanceship, but it +passed off poorly with all of them who were present, except William Bentley, generous gentleman that he is.”</p> + +<p>“He is so,” testified Slavens.</p> + +<p>“I left Comanche because I was afraid of him, but he rode post the night that I engaged passage and beat me to +Meander; but he wasn’t hurrying on my account, as you know. He tried to see me there in Meander, but I refused to +meet him. The day before yesterday he came here and solicited my help in carrying out a scheme. I refused. He +threatened me with exposure and arrest on account of false entry and affidavit.”</p> + +<p>Agnes told then of her ride into the hills, the meeting with the herder, and subsequent events up to the shooting. +But she said nothing of Boyle’s base proposal to her, although her face burned at the recollection, giving +Slavens more than half a guess what was behind that virtuous flame. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_263'></a>263</span></p> + +<p>“And so, you poor little soul, all your plans for your City of Refuge are shattered because you refuse to +sacrifice somebody to keep them whole,” said he.</p> + +<p>“No matter,” she returned in that voice of abnegation which only a long marching line of misfortunes can +give a woman or a man command over. “I have decided, anyway, to give it up. It’s too big and rough and +lonesome for me.”</p> + +<p>“And that person whom you put up your heart and soul to shield,” he went on, looking steadily into her +face and pursuing his former thought, “has something in his possession which this man Boyle covets and thinks he +must have? And the cheapest and easiest way to get it is to make you pay for it in the violation of your honest +principles, if he can drive you to it in his skulking way?”</p> + +<p>She bowed assent, her lips tightly set.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said he. “Just so. Well, why didn’t Boyle come to me with his threats, the +coward!”</p> + +<p>“No, no!” she cried in quick fright. “Not that; it is something–something else.”</p> + +<p>“You poor dissembler!” he laughed. “You couldn’t be dishonest if you wanted to the worst way +in the world. Well, don’t you worry; I’ll take it up with him today.”</p> + +<p>“You’ll <i>not</i> give it up!” she exclaimed vehemently. “All your hopes are there, and +it’s yours, and <i>you’ll not</i> give it up!”</p> + +<p>“Never mind,” he soothed, again taking her hand, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_264'></a>264</span> which she had withdrawn to aid in emphasizing her protest. “I don’t believe +he’d carry out his threats about the United States marshal and all that.”</p> + +<p>“You’ll not give it up to him unless he pays you for it,” she reiterated, ignoring her own +prospect of trouble. “It’s valuable, or he wouldn’t be so anxious to get it.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” Slavens assented.</p> + +<p>“I’m going to leave here,” she hurriedly pursued. “It was foolish of me to come, in the +first place. The vastness of it bewildered me, and ‘the lonesomeness,’ as Smith calls it, is settling in my +heart.”</p> + +<p>“Well, where will you go?” he asked bewilderedly.</p> + +<p>“Somewhere–to some village or little farm, where we can raise poultry, mother and I.”</p> + +<p>“But I haven’t planned it that way,” Slavens smiled. “If you leave, what am I going to +do?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” she acknowledged, “unless–unless you come some time.”</p> + +<p>“Look here, Agnes,” said he, taking the matter entirely in hand. “When we leave this place, +we’ll leave together. I’ve arranged that all in my mind and intention. It’s all disposed of and +settled. Here comes Boyle now, I think.”</p> + +<p>Boyle left his horse standing a few rods distant and came over to where they sat.</p> + +<p>“You look comfortable,” he commented, as serene and unperturbed as if the load of one more human life on +his soul were a matter too light to be felt with inconvenience. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_265'></a>265</span></p> + +<p>“Very comfortable,” answered Slavens, rising stiffly. “We have nothing on our hands that common +water will not wash off.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that nut!” depreciated Boyle. “He’d talked around for a year or two about getting me. I +only beat him to it when he tried; that’s all.”</p> + +<p>“But there was another occasion–another attempt that didn’t turn out quite like you +intended,” said Slavens. “Do you remember me?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; you’re the tin-horn doctor that held a man up in Comanche and stole the coat off of his +back,” Boyle retorted with easy insolence.</p> + +<p>Agnes looked at the doctor imploringly, plainly begging him not to provoke Boyle to another outbreak of violence. +She was standing beside him, the fear and loathing which Boyle’s presence aroused undisguised in her frank +face.</p> + +<p>“It was an outrage against one of the honest men who tried to murder me,” said the doctor. “But, +vicious as it was, neither Shanklin nor you, his side-partner, has ever made a squeal. If it was a holdup, why +haven’t you sent one of your little sheriffs out after me?”</p> + +<p>“I’m no partner of Hun Shanklin’s!” denied Boyle.</p> + +<p>“Maybe you’ve parted company since the night you slugged me and nailed me up in that box for the river +to hide your work.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll make you prove that charge!” threatened Boyle hotly. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_266'></a>266</span></p> + +<p>“I can’t prove it,” admitted the doctor. “If I could, I’d have you in court tomorrow. +But you were one of them, and I want you to understand fully that I know it, and will treat you accordingly in any +private dealings that may come up between you and me.”</p> + +<p>“If you keep spoutin’ it around that I ever slugged you, I’ll pull you into court and make you +prove it! It’ll either be put up or shut up with you, mister!”</p> + +<p>“Whenever you’re ready,” invited Slavens.</p> + +<p>With somewhat more of ostentation than the simple act seemed to warrant, Boyle unbuttoned his coat, displaying his +revolver as he made an exploration of his vest-pockets for a match to light his cigarette.</p> + +<p>“Well, I guess you know what I’m here for?” Boyle suggested, passing his glance significantly from +one to the other of them.</p> + +<p>“Dr. Slavens is acquainted with your proposal,” said Agnes; “and it ought to be needless for me to +say that I’ll not permit him to make any concession to shield myself.”</p> + +<p>“Fine! fine!” said Boyle in mock applause, throwing his head back and snorting smoke.</p> + +<p>“In the first place,” said Slavens, “your bluff don’t go. Miss Gates has not broken any law +in registering and entering this land under an <i>alias</i>. There’s no crime in assuming a name, and no felony +in acquiring property under it, unless fraud is used. She has defrauded nobody, and you could not make a case against +her in a thousand years!” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_267'></a>267</span></p> + +<p>“I can get an indictment–that’s a cinch!” declared Boyle.</p> + +<p>“Go ahead,” said the doctor. “We’ve got some new blood in this country now, and we can find +a jury that you don’t own and control when it comes to trial.”</p> + +<p>“And after the indictment comes arrest and jail,” Boyle continued, overlooking the doctor’s +argument in the lofty security of his position. “It would make a lot of noisy talk, considering the family +reputation and all that.”</p> + +<p>“And the outcome of it might be–and I doubt even that–that Miss Gates would lose her +homestead,” Slavens supplied.</p> + +<p>“You don’t know the Federal judge in this district,” Boyle grinned. “Jail’s what it +means, and plenty of it, for the judge has to approve a bond, if you know what that means.”</p> + +<p>“Why don’t you pay Dr. Slavens for his homestead, as you were ready to pay that man Peterson if you +could have filed him on it?” Agnes asked.</p> + +<p>“Because it’s mine already,” said Boyle. “This man stole the description of that land, as I +have told you before, at the point of a gun.”</p> + +<p>“Then you lied!” Slavens calmly charged.</p> + +<p>Boyle hitched his hip, throwing the handle of his pistol into sight.</p> + +<p>“You can say that,” said he, “because I’ve got to have your name on a paper.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll never permit Dr. Slavens to sign away his <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_268'></a>268</span> valuable claim to you,” declared Agnes. “I’ll not +allow––”</p> + +<p>Slavens lifted his hand for silence.</p> + +<p>“I’ll do the talking for this family from now on,” said he, smiling reassuringly as he held her +eyes a moment with his own.</p> + +<p>He turned abruptly to Boyle.</p> + +<p>“And the fighting, too, when necessary. You keep that little gun in its place when you’re around me, +young man, or you’ll get hurt! One more break like that to show me that you’ve got it, and you and I will +mix. Just put that down in your book.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, all right, pardner!” returned Boyle with that jerky insolence which men of his kind assume when +they realize that they have been called, and called hard. He buttoned his coat.</p> + +<p>“And as far as Miss Gates is concerned, consider her out of this case,” said Slavens. “But I want +to have some private talk with you.”</p> + +<p>They walked over to the place where Boyle’s horse stood, and there, out of the hearing of Agnes, Slavens +sounded Jerry sharply on his intentions. It was plain that there was no bluff in Boyle; he meant what he threatened, +and he was small enough to carry it through.</p> + +<p>As an illustration of his far-reaching influence, Boyle pointed out to Slavens that nobody had approached the +physician with an offer to buy him out, although one had appeared anxious enough to open negotiations the day he filed. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_269'></a>269</span></p> + +<p>“When we tell a man to lay down in this part of the country, he lays down,” said Boyle; “and when +we order him to walk on his hind legs, he walks. Nobody will offer you any money for that place; it isn’t worth +anything to a soul on earth but me. You couldn’t sell out in a century. You’ll get that through your nut if +you hang around here long enough.”</p> + +<p>For a little while Slavens thought it over, walking away a few paces and appraising the situation studiously. +Suddenly he wheeled and confronted Boyle, leveling his finger at his face.</p> + +<p>“Your bluff don’t go, Boyle!” said he. “You’d just as well get on your horse and light +out; and if you want to bring it to a fight, then let it be a fight. We’ll meet you on any ground you +pick.”</p> + +<p>“You’re a fool!” snarled Boyle.</p> + +<p>“Then I’ll be a bigger one–big enough to call you to account before another day has passed over +your head for your part in that dirty work in Comanche that night. And I want to lay it off to you right now that all +the influence you can command in this state isn’t going to save you when I go after you!”</p> + +<p>Boyle picked up his bridle-reins and threaded his arm through them, standing so, legs wide apart, while he rolled a +cigarette. As it dangled between his lips and the smoke of it rose up, veiling his eyes, he peered narrowly through it +at the doctor.</p> + +<p>“There’s a man in the graveyard up at Cheyenne that made a talk like that one time,” he said. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_270'></a>270</span></p> + +<p>“I’ll have to take your word for that,” returned Slavens, quite unmoved. “I’ll meet +you at the hotel in Meander tomorrow morning at nine o’clock for a settlement, one way or the other.”</p> + +<p>“One way or the other,” repeated Boyle.</p> + +<p>He mounted his horse and rode away toward Meander, trailing a thin line of smoke behind him.</p> + +<p>Agnes hurried forward to meet Slavens as he turned toward her. Her face was bloodless, her bosom agitated.</p> + +<p>“I heard part of what you said,” she told him. “Surely you don’t mean to go over there and +fight him on his own ground, among his friends?”</p> + +<p>“I’m going over there to see the county attorney,” said he. “He’s from Kansas, and a +pretty straight sort of chap, it seemed to me from what I saw of him. I’m going to put this situation of ours +before him, citing a hypothetical case, and get his advice. I don’t believe that there’s a shred of a case +against you, and I doubt whether Boyle can bluff the government officials into making a move in it, even with all his +influence.”</p> + +<p>“And you’ll come back here and tell me what he says, no matter what his opinion may be, before you act +one way or another?”</p> + +<p>“If you wish it, although–Well, yes–if you wish it.”</p> + +<p>“I do, most earnestly,” she assured him.</p> + +<p>“You need a good sleep,” he counseled. “Turn in as soon as I’m gone, and don’t worry +about this. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_271'></a>271</span> There’s a good deal of bluff in +Boyle.”</p> + +<p>“He’s treacherous, and he shoots wonderfully. He killed that poor fellow last night without ever seeing +him at all.”</p> + +<p>“But I’m not going to take a shot at him out of the dark,” said he.</p> + +<p>“I know. But I’ll be uneasy until you return.”</p> + +<p>“There’s too much trouble in your face today for one of your years,” he said, lifting her chin +with rather a professional rebuke in his eyes. “You’ll have to put it down, or it will make you old. Go +right on dreaming and planning; things will come out exactly as you have designed.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” she agreed, but with little hope in her voice.</p> + +<p>Slavens saddled his horse after they had refreshed themselves with coffee. Agnes stood by, racked with an anxiety +which seemed to grind her heart. The physician thought of the pioneer women of his youth, of those who lived far out on +the thin edge of prairie reaches, and in the gloom of forests which groaned around them in the lone winds of winter +nights. There was the same melancholy of isolation in Agnes’ eyes today as he had seen in theirs; the same sad +hopelessness; the same hunger, and the longing to fly from the wilderness and its hardships, heart-weariness, and +pain.</p> + +<p>Her hand lay appealingly upon his shoulder for a moment before he mounted, and her face was turned up to him, +unspoken yearning on her lips. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_272'></a>272</span></p> + +<p>“Promise me again before you go that you will come back here before you relinquish your homestead to +Boyle,” she demanded. “Promise me that, no matter what the lawyer’s opinion may be, you’ll +return here before you do anything else at all.”</p> + +<p>“I promise you,” said he.</p> + +<p>When he had ridden a little way he halted his horse and turned in his saddle to look back. She was sitting there in +the sun, her head bowed, her hands clasped over her face, as if she wept or prayed. A little while he waited there, as +if meditating a return, as if he had forgotten something–some solace, perhaps, for which her lips had appealed to +his heart dumbly.</p> + +<p>Yet a sincere man seldom knows these things, which a trifler is so quick to see. He did not know, perhaps; or +perhaps he was not certain enough to turn his horse and ride back to repair his omission. Presently he rode on slowly, +his head bent, the bridle-reins loose in his hand.</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_17'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_273'></a>273</span> +<h2>CHAPTER XVII<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>A PLAN</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>The man who had supplied the horse-blanket for covering the dead sheep-herder had taken it away, but the board upon +which they had stretched him still lay under the tree where they had left it. There was blood on it where the wound had +drained, a disturbing sight which persisted in meeting Agnes’ eye every time she came out of the tent. She was +debating in her mind whether to throw the board in the river or split it up and burn it in the stove, when Smith came +along and claimed it.</p> + +<p>“Scarce as wood’s goin’ to be in this valley six months from now,” Smith remarked, rubbing +dust over the stain which did not appear to give him any qualms, “a man’s got to take care of it. +That’s a shelf out of my store.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t suppose you’ll ever put goods on it again.”</p> + +<p>“Sure. Why not?”</p> + +<p>“Well, not groceries, at any rate,” she ventured.</p> + +<p>“It won’t hurt canned goods,” Smith told her, turning it stain downward. “Doctor gone +back?”</p> + +<p>“He’s gone on to Meander on some business.”</p> + +<p>“Smart feller,” commended Smith. “If I had to have my leg took off I’d just as lief have +that man do it as any doctor I ever saw.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_274'></a>274</span></p> + +<p>“I’m sure he would appreciate your confidence,” she smiled.</p> + +<p>“Been acquainted with him a good while?” he wanted to know.</p> + +<p>“Only since I’ve been in this country. We met on the train coming to Comanche.”</p> + +<p>Smith sighed as if oppressed by a secret trouble, and cast his wise eye about the camp.</p> + +<p>“I wouldn’t leave them things around out here at night,” he advised, indicating some boxes of +supplies with which she was rather liberally provided. “Animals might git at ’em.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t mean bears?” she asked with lively concern.</p> + +<p>“No; not likely bears,” said he. “Badgers, more like. They’re awful thieves.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you for the advice. I meant to put them in today, but I’ve been so distracted by last +night’s awful events––”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I know,” Smith nodded. “I’ll put ’em in for you.”</p> + +<p>Smith stored the boxes within the tent. The exertion brought out the sweat on his red face. He stood wiping it, his +hat in his hand, turning his eyes to see how she regarded his strength.</p> + +<p>“I tell you, a woman needs a man to do the heavy work for her in a place like this,” he hinted.</p> + +<p>“I’m finding that out,” she laughed.</p> + +<p>Smith sat down comfortably on the box lately occupied <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_275'></a>275</span> +by Dr. Slavens. He buckled his hands over a knee and sat with that foot raised from the ground in a most ungainly, but +perhaps refreshing, attitude.</p> + +<p>“Thinkin’ about marryin’?” he asked.</p> + +<p>The frankness of the question relieved her of embarrassment. She smiled.</p> + +<p>“I suppose every woman thinks of that, more or less,” she admitted.</p> + +<p>Smith nodded, and slowly lowered his foot, looking up at her with sly confidence, as if discovering to her a mighty +secret which he had just become convinced she was worthy to share.</p> + +<p>“Well, so am I,” said he.</p> + +<p>It began to look like dangerous ground, but she didn’t know how to turn him. Thinking to try a show of +abstract interest, she told him she was glad to hear it.</p> + +<p>“There’s money to be made in this country,” he continued, warming up to his argument, “and I +know how to make it. Inside of five years I’ll be able to put up a house with a cupola on it, and a picket fence +in front, and grass in the yard, for the woman that marries me.”</p> + +<p>“I believe you will,” she agreed. “What kind of a noise does a bear make?”</p> + +<p>“Dang bears!” said Smith, disconcerted by having his plans thrown out of joint in such an abrupt +way.</p> + +<p>“I thought I heard one the night before last,” she went on. “I was afraid.”</p> + +<p>“No need to be,” he assured her. “Bears don’t <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_276'></a>276</span> come down here any more. What could a bear live on down here, I’d like to know? Snakes? +Well, bears don’t eat snakes.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” said she, enlightened.</p> + +<p>“There’s not a bear in a hundred miles of here,” he told her.</p> + +<p>“That’s comforting knowledge,” she said. “You’ve never told me about the big grizzly +that you killed. Was it long ago?”</p> + +<p>“Not so very long,” Smith replied, sighing as he saw himself led so far away from the subject nearest +his heart, and despairing of working his courage up to it again that day.</p> + +<p>“It was a big one, wasn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I got fifty dollars off of a feller for the hide.”</p> + +<p>“Tell me about it,” she requested.</p> + +<p>Inwardly she wished that Smith would go, so she might take a sleep, but she feared lest he might get back to the +subject of houses and wives if she allowed him to depart from bears, and the historic grizzly in particular.</p> + +<p>“Well, I’ll tell you. I didn’t kill that bear on purpose,” he began. “I didn’t +go out huntin’ him, and I didn’t run after him. If he’d minded his own business like I minded mine, +he’d be alive today for all I’m concerned.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it was an accident?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Part accident,” Smith replied. “I was a deputy game-warden in them days, and a cowboy on the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_277'></a>277</span> side, up in the Big Horn Valley. A gang of fellers in +knee-pants and yeller leggings come into that country, shootin’ everything that hopped up. Millionaires, I reckon +they must ’a’ been, countin’ their guns and the way they left game to rot on the ground. They killed +just to kill, and I tracked ’em by the smell of the carcasses behind ’em They made a sneak and got into +Yellowstone Park, and there’s where I collared ’em They was all settin’ around a fire one night when +I come up to ’em their guns standin’ around. I throwed down on ’em and one fool feller he made a grab +for a gun. I always was sorry for that man.”</p> + +<p>“What did you do to him?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Busted a diamond he had in a ring,” said Smith. “Well, they got fines, them fellers did, when I +marched ’em out of there, I’m here to tell you! If it’d been me that was judge I’d +’a’ sent ’em all to jail for life.</p> + +<p>“When I was comin’ back to the ranch from that trip I met that bear you’ve heard so much talk and +mostly lies, about. That bear he’s the most slandered bear that ever lived.”</p> + +<p>“Slandered?”</p> + +<p>“That’s it. He wasn’t wallered to death, choked to death, pounded to death, nor run down. He was +just plain shot in the top of the head.”</p> + +<p>“What a queer place to shoot a bear! How did you manage it?”</p> + +<p>“He managed it. He come under the tree where I was at.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_278'></a>278</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, I see.”</p> + +<p>“And that’s all there is to <i>that</i> yarn, ma’am. I got a man today that I can put on that work +of levelin’ off for you in the morning, if you want me to.”</p> + +<p>“I think we’ll let it stand a day or two,” she told him. “I’ll let you know when to +take it up again. I’ve got so much to think about right now that I just stand turning round and round.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, you do feel that way in a new place, sometimes,” Smith allowed. “Well, I guess I’ll +have to be goin’ on down to the store. Business is pickin’ up so fast I’ll have to keep open all the +time, not only evenin’s like I have been doin’.”</p> + +<p>“I’m glad to hear it,” said she.</p> + +<p>“Yes; I’ll have to hire a clerk, because I’ve got to ’tend to my outside work. I’ve +been paintin’ a sign to go over the front, and I tell you that name don’t look so bad when it’s in +print, neither.”</p> + +<p>“It isn’t a name to be ashamed of, I’m sure,” she cheered. “It’s just as good as +any other name, as far as I can see.”</p> + +<p>“Phogenphole has got a good many shanks to it when you come to write it, though,” reflected Smith. +“It looks a lot better printed out. I think I’ll git me one of these here typewritin’-machines. But +say! Stop in and take a look at that sign the first time you’re passin’; will you?”</p> + +<p>Agnes assured him that she would. Smith upended his board as if to go. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_279'></a>279</span></p> + +<p>“That feller, Boyle, he’s gone,” said he, nodding as if to confirm his own statement. “I saw +him ride off up the river an hour or so ago.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; I believe he went to Meander also.”</p> + +<p>“He’s a bad egg,” Smith continued, “and he comes out of a basket of bad eggs. His old man, +he’s doin’ more to keep this state down than anything you can name. He’s got millions–and when +I say millions, ma’am, I <i>mean</i> millions–of acres of government land fenced and set off to his own +use, and school lands, and other lands belongin’ to you and me and the high-minded citizens of this country, and +he don’t pay a cent for the use of ’em, neither. Taxes? That man don’t know what taxes is.”</p> + +<p>“Why do the people permit him to do it?”</p> + +<p>“People! Huh! He’s got rings in their noses, that’s why. What he don’t own he’s got +cowed. I tell you, I know of a town with three or four thousand people in it, and a schoolhouse as big as one of them +old-country castles up on a hill, that ranchers has to go forty miles around to git to. Can’t put a road through +Boyle’s land–government land, every inch of it. What do you think of that?”</p> + +<p>“I think a stop ought to be put to it, somehow.”</p> + +<p>“Sure it had! All of it’s subject to homestead entry, but it’s got a five-wire fence around it, +and thousands of sheep and cattle that the people of this country feed and bring up and fatten for nothing, for the +Hon. Mr. Boyle. More than one man’s been shot by Boyle’s <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_280'></a>280</span> fence-riders for tryin’ to homestead a piece of land he claims he’s got a lease +on. He ain’t got no lease, but that don’t matter.</p> + +<p>“There’s men settled here in this reservation that’s run up and down this state till they turned +gray tryin’ to locate on a piece of land. They’ve been hustled and humped along till they’ve lost +heart, most of ’em, and I reckon they doubt now whether they’re goin’ to be let stay here from one +day to another.</p> + +<p>“Cattlemen’s kicked ’em out of one place, sheepmen out of another, till this state ain’t got +no farms–the only thing that it needs. Yes, I tell you, when a man sets up ag’in’ a Boyle or any of +that crowd in this state, he’s due to lose. Well, say, don’t forgit to stop in and see that sign; will +you?”</p> + +<p>Agnes promised again to do so, and Smith departed, the sheep-herder’s cooling-board under his arm.</p> + +<p>With Smith’s going, the temperature of her spirits, which had risen a little to help her through with him, +suffered a recession. She looked about with the thought of finding another location for her camp, feeling that the +disturbing associations of the previous night never would allow her to spend a comfortable hour there again.</p> + +<p>Her homestead did not offer another spot with the advantages which she enjoyed right where she was. There the +river-bank was low, coming down as the stream did to a gravelly, fordable place, and there the trees offered shelter +against the summer sun, the thick-matted <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_281'></a>281</span> willows a break +for the winter winds. There was a home look about it, too, such as nature sometimes contrives in uninhabited places, +upon which the traveler lights with satisfaction and restful delight.</p> + +<p>She spent the remainder of the afternoon up and down her half-mile of river-bank, trying to choose between the next +likeliest spots, but she hadn’t much heart in the hunt. Perhaps it would be unwise to allow any affection to grow +for the place, one location or another, or for any hope to take deeper root than the sickly sprigs which she had +planted at the beginning.</p> + +<p>Drooping and weary, she returned to her tent when the sun was low, for the thought of sleep had left her with +Smith’s discussion of the blight of the Boyles upon that land. There appeared little use in trying to stand out +against the son of this great obstructionist who, with a few friends and servitors, had kept the state for years as +another man might keep his field. Others might look into the enclosure and see the opportunities which were being +wasted, but none might touch.</p> + +<p>If the gang were deprived of their chief weapon of menace, namely, the hold which the Federal laws had upon her, Dr. +Slavens might be able to withstand their covetous attempt to dispossess him of his valuable holdings. She knew that +Slavens would not stand by and see her indicted by the creatures of the Boyles, nor any more nearly threatened with the +disgrace of prison than she was at that hour. He would put down everything to save her, even now when the <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_282'></a>282</span> fruition of his hard-lived years was at hand.</p> + +<p>She sat in the failing sun, scooping a little furrow with the heel of her boot as she reflected. She still wore the +divided riding-skirt which she had worn the day before on her excursion into the hills, and with her leather-weighted +hat she looked quite like any other long-striding lady of the sagebrush. Sun and wind, and more than a week of +bareheaded disregard of complexion had put a tinge of brown on her neck and face, not much to her advantage, although +she was well enough with it.</p> + +<p>How was it, she wrangled in her mind, that the lines of their lives had crossed in that place, this +physician’s and hers? Perhaps it was only the trick of chance, or perhaps it was the fulfilment of the plan drawn +for them to live by from the first. But it seemed unfair to Dr. Slavens, who had made a discouraging beginning, that he +must be called upon to surrender the means of realizing on his ambition when he held them in his hand, and for no other +purpose than to save her, a stranger.</p> + +<p>It was unfair of fate to lay their lines so, and it would be doubly ignoble and selfish of her to permit him to make +the sacrifice. Dr. Slavens cared enough for her to ask her to marry him, and to expect her to marry him, although she +had given him no word to confirm such expectation. He had taken hold of that matter to shape it for himself, and he +intended to marry her, that was plain. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_283'></a>283</span></p> + +<p>Her heart had jumped and turned warm with a softness toward him when he spoke of “this family” so +naturally and frankly to Jerry Boyle. It seemed to her that those words gave her a dignity and a standing before the +world which all the shadows of her troubled life could not dim.</p> + +<p>But there were the shadows, there were the ghosts. She felt that it would be exceedingly burdensome to him to assume +the future of two aged people, besides that of her own. Marrying her would be marrying a family, indeed, for she had +wasted on that desert hope much of the small bit of money which the scraping and cleaning of their once great +properties had yielded. And there lay the scheme prostrate, winded, a poor runner in a rugged race.</p> + +<p>Of course, she might come clear of the tangle by permitting Dr. Slavens to surrender his homestead to Boyle; she +might do that, and impoverish him, and accept that sacrifice as the price of herself. For after the doctor had given up +his claim she could marry him and ride off complacently by his side, as heartless and soulless as anything which is +bought and sold.</p> + +<p>That’s all it would amount to–a downright sale, even though she did not marry the doctor. She would be +accepting immunity at the shameful price of a man’s biggest chance in all his days. It was too much. She +couldn’t do it; she never intended to do it; she couldn’t bring it around so that it would present an +honorable aspect from any angle. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_284'></a>284</span></p> + +<p>Evening came over the hills with a chill, which it gave to the cottonwoods as it passed them on the river-bank. +Their leaves trembled and sighed, and some were so frightened by the foreboding of winter in that touch that they lost +their hold upon the boughs and came circling down. In the tall grass which thrived rankly in that sub-irrigated spot +the insects of summer were out of voice. The choristers of the brushwood seemed to be in difficulties over the +beginning, also. They set out in shivering starts, and left off with jerky suddenness, as if they had no heart for +singing against this unmistakable warning that their summer concert season had come to its end.</p> + +<p>Agnes fired up her stove and sat by it, watching the eager sparks make their brave plunge into the vast night which +so soon extinguished them, as the world engulfs and silences streams and clouds of little men who rush into it with a +roar. So many of them there are who go forth so day by day, who avail, with all their fuss and noise, no more against +it than the breath of an infant against a stone.</p> + +<p>Sitting there with the night drawing in around her, she felt the cold truth in her heart about that place, and the +acknowledgment of it, which she had kept away from her up to that hour. It wasn’t worth while; she did not care +for it. Then and there she was ready to give it up and leave it to whoever might come after her and shape its roughness +into a home.</p> + +<p>There was a heaviness upon her, and a weight of <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_285'></a>285</span> +sadness such as comes out of the silent places of the night. It was such a wide and empty land for a young heart, and +its prospect was such a waste of years! The thought of refuge and peace was sweet, but there is refuge to be found and +peace to be won among men and the works of men; among books, and the softer ways of life.</p> + +<p>At that hour she was ready to give it up, mount her horse, and ride away. If giving it up would save Dr. Slavens his +hard-won claim, she would not hesitate, she told herself, to ride to Comanche that night and take the first train for +the East. But flight would not put her out of the reach of the Federal officials, and if she should fly, that would +only bring the spite of Boyle down upon her more swiftly and sharply than remaining there, facing him, and defying him +to do his worst.</p> + +<p>No; flight would be useless, because Jerry Boyle knew exactly where she would go. There was but one place; they +would follow her to it and find her, and that would be carrying trouble to a home that had enough of it as it stood. +There must be some other way. Was there no bond of tenderness in that dark man’s life which she could touch? no +soft influence which she might bring to bear upon him and cause him to release his rapacious hold?</p> + +<p>None. So far as she could fit the pieces of the past together she could fashion no design which offered relief.</p> + +<p>Agnes brought up her horse and gave it a measure <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_286'></a>286</span> of +oats near the tent for the sake of the companionship of its noise, and large presence in the lantern light. She thought +that even after she had gone to sleep there would be comfort in the sense of the animal’s nearness.</p> + +<p>And so, beside her stove, the lonely night around her, the dread ache of “the lonesomeness” in her +heart, she sat watching the sparks run out of the stovepipe like grains of sand running in a glass. Distance and hope +alike have their enchantments, she owned, which all the powers of reason cannot dispel. Hand to hand this land was not +for her. It was empty of all that she yearned for; it was as crude as the beginning.</p> + +<p>And out of the turmoil of this thought and heartache there came tears which welled copiously and without a sob, as +one weeps for things which have not been and cannot be; as one weeps for hopelessness. And the whisperings of memory +stirred in her heart, and the soft light of recollection kindled like a flame. Out of the past there rose a +face–and flash!</p> + +<p>A plan!</p> + +<p>There was something to be done now; there was hot blood in the heart again. In one moment the way had straightened +before her, and resolution had taken firm captaincy. With a pang of hunger she remembered that for a day she had +subsisted principally on coffee.</p> + +<p>After a hasty supper, sleep was necessary, and rest. The horse had finished its oats, and was now watching her +sudden activity with forward-thrown ears, its bright eyes catching the lantern-gleam as it turned its head. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_287'></a>287</span> Satisfied, apparently, that the bustle included no +immediate plans for itself, the animal lounged easily on three legs and went to sleep.</p> + +<p>Agnes stopped to give it a caressing pat as she went in. Sleep was the important thing now, for her plan called for +endurance and toil. But there was one little thing to be done tonight for which the early light of morning, in which +she must be stirring, might not suffice–just a little writing. It was quickly done, her suitcase held across her +knees serving for a desk.</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_18'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_288'></a>288</span> +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE STRANGE TENT</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>“Do nothing until I return,” ran her letter, which Dr. Slavens read by the last muddy light of day. +“I will hold you to a strict account of your promise to me that you would not act in this matter without first +returning here.”</p> + +<p>There was no word of where she had gone, no time fixed for her to return. He had found the envelope pinned to the +tent-cloth when he rode up, weary and grim, from his journey to Meander.</p> + +<p>Inside the tent all was in order. There stood her boxes of canned goods and groceries against the wall. There was +her cot, its blanket folded over the pillow and tucked in neatly to keep out the dust. She had not left hastily, it +appeared, although the nervous brevity of her note seemed to indicate the contrary. She had contrived herself a broom +of greasewood branches, with which she swept the space between stove and tent, keeping it clean down to hard earth. It +stood there as she had left it, handle down, as carefully placed as if it were a most expensive and important +utensil.</p> + +<p>Slavens smiled as he lifted it. Even in the wilderness a true woman could not live without her broom, a greater +civilizing influence, he thought, than the sword. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_289'></a>289</span></p> + +<p>He did not go inside the tent, but stood holding up the flap, looking around the dim interior. Her lantern stood on +a box, matches beside it, as if it had been left there ready to his hand in the expectation that he would come in and +make himself at home.</p> + +<p>It was not likely, he thought, that any of the neighbors could tell him where she had gone when she had not felt +like giving him that much of her confidence. But he went down to Smith’s, making casual inquiry, saying nothing +about the note which she had left, not taking that to be any of Smith’s concern.</p> + +<p>As always, Smith had been astir at an early hour. He had seen her pass, going in the direction of Comanche. She was +riding briskly, he said, as if she had only a short journey ahead of her, and was out of hail before he could push the +pan of biscuits he was working over into the oven and open the door. It was Smith’s opinion, given with his usual +volubility and without solicitation, that she had gone out on one of her excursions.</p> + +<p>“More than likely,” said the doctor. “I think I’ll go back up there and kind of keep an eye +on her stuff. Somebody might carry some of it off.”</p> + +<p>This unmalicious reflection on the integrity of the community hurt Smith. There was evidence of deep sorrow in his +heart as he began to argue refutation of the ingenuous charge. It was humiliating, he declared, that a man should come +among them and hold them in such low esteem. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_290'></a>290</span></p> + +<p>“In this country nobody don’t go around stealin’ stuff out of houses and tents,” he +protested. “You can put your stuff down on the side of the road and leave it there, and go back in a month and +find it. Sheepmen leave supplies for their herders that way, and I’ve known ’em to leave their pay along +with ’em Maybe it’d be a week or two before them fellers got around to it, but it’d be there when +they got there. There’s no such a thing as a tramp in this country. What’d a tramp live on here?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t question your defense of conditions as they were,” the doctor rejoined; “but +I’m looking at things as they are. There are a lot of new people in here, the country is becoming civilized; and +the more civilized men grow the more police and battle-ships and regiments of soldiers they need to keep things happy +and peaceful between them, and to prevent their equally civilized and cultured neighbors from stepping in from across +the seas and booting them out of their comfortable homes. You’ve got to keep your eyes on your suitcase and your +hand on your wallet when you sit down among civilized people, Smith.”</p> + +<p>“Say, I guess you’re right about that,” admitted Smith after some reflection. “I read in the +paper the other day that they’re goin’ to build three new battle-ships. Yes, I reckon things’ll +change here in this part of Wyoming now. It’ll be so in a year or two that a man can’t leave his pants +hangin’ out on the line overnight.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_291'></a>291</span></p> + +<p>“Yes, you’ll come to that,” the doctor agreed.</p> + +<p>“Pants?” pursued Smith reminiscently. “Pants? Well, I tell you. There was a time in this country, +when I drove stage from Casper to Meander, that I knew every pair of pants between the Chugwater and the Wind River. If +one man ever had come out wearin’ another feller’s pants, I’d ’a’ spotted ’em quick +as I would a brand on a stray horse. Pants wasn’t as thick in them days as they are now, and crooks wasn’t +as plentiful neither. I knew one old sheepman back on the Sweetwater that wore one pair of pants ’leven +years.”</p> + +<p>“That’s another of the inconveniences of civilization.”</p> + +<p>“Pants and pie-annos,” said Smith. “But I don’t care; I’ll put in a stock of both of +’em just as soon as folks get their houses built and their alfalfa in.”</p> + +<p>“That’s the proper spirit,” commended Slavens.</p> + +<p>“And insurance and undertakin’,” added Smith. “I’ll ketch ’em comin’ and +goin’.”</p> + +<p>“If you had a doctor to hitch in with you on the deal,” suggested Slavens.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter with you?” grinned Smith.</p> + +<p>“I’ll be cutting a streak out of here before long, I think.”</p> + +<p>“Soon as you sell that claim?”</p> + +<p>Slavens nodded.</p> + +<p>“Don’t let ’em bluff you on the price,” advised Smith. “They’re long on that +game here.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_292'></a>292</span></p> + +<p>Slavens answered as Smith doubtless expected, and with a show of the deepest confidence in his own sagacity, no +matter what feeling lay in the well of his conscience at that hour. He left Smith and went back to Agnes’ camp, +hoping to see a light as he drew near. There was none. As he carried no food with him, he was forced to draw on her +stores for supper.</p> + +<p>For a long time he lay upon his saddle, smoking beside the stove, turning over in his mind a thousand conjectures to +account for her sudden and unexplained absence. He was not worried for her safety, for he believed that she had gone to +Comanche, and that was a ride too long for her to attempt in a day. Doubtless she would set out on the return early in +the morning, and reach home about noon.</p> + +<p>It was well in the turn of the following afternoon when Slavens decided that he would wait in camp for her no +longer. Fears were beginning to rise in him, and doubt that all was with her as it should be. If she went toward +Comanche, she must return from Comanche; he might meet her on the way to his own camp. If not, in the morning he would +go on to Comanche in search of her.</p> + +<p>His horse, fresh and eager, knowing that it was heading for home, carried him over the road at a handsome gait. At +the first stage-station out of Comanche, a matter of twenty-five miles, and of fifteen beyond his camp, he made inquiry +about Agnes.</p> + +<p>She had passed there the morning before, the man <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_293'></a>293</span> in +charge said, measuring Slavens curiously with his little hair-hedged eyes as he stood in the door of his shanty, half a +cabbage-head in one hand, a butcher-knife in the other. Slavens thanked him and drew on the reins.</p> + +<p>“I’m breaking in on your preparations for supper.”</p> + +<p>“No; it’s dinner,” the man corrected.</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know that you’d come to six-o’clock dinners in this part of the country,” +the doctor laughed.</p> + +<p>“Not as I know of,” the cook-horse-wrangler said. “This dinner that I’m gittin’ ready, +stranger, is for tomorrow noon, when the stage comes by from Comanche. I always cook it the day before to be sure +it’ll be ready on time.”</p> + +<p>With that the forehanded cook turned and went back to his pot. As Slavens rode away he heard the cabbage crunching +under the cook’s knife as he sliced it for the passengers of the Meander stage, to have it hot and steaming, and +well soaked with the grease of corned beef, when they should arrive at noon on the morrow.</p> + +<p>Dusk was settling when the doctor reached his tent. Before he dismounted he rode to a little clear place among the +bewilderment of stones which gave him a view of half a mile, and he sat there looking a while down the stage-trail +toward Comanche. Beyond him a few hundred yards another tent had been planted. In front of it a man sat cooking his +supper over a little blaze. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_294'></a>294</span></p> + +<p>“Boyle lost no time in getting here,” muttered the doctor, turning to his own shelter and kindling a +fire on the ashes of other days.</p> + +<p>Ashes were graying again over the embers long after he had boiled his pot of coffee and put away his can of +warmed-over beans. Night was charged with a threat of frost, as is not uncommon in those altitudes at the beginning of +September. It was so chilly that Slavens had drawn a blanket over his back as he sat before his dying fire, Indian +fashion, on the ground, drawing what solace he could from his pipe.</p> + +<p>A sound of scrambling hoofs laboring up the sharp hill from the direction of Meander came to him suddenly, startling +him out of his reflections. His thought leaped to the instant conclusion that it was Agnes; he laid light fuel to the +coals, blowing it to quicken a blaze that would guide and welcome her.</p> + +<p>When the rider appeared an eager flame was laving the rocks in the yellow light, and Slavens was standing, peering +beyond its radius. A glance told him that it was not she for whom he had lighted his guiding fire. It was a man. In a +moment he drew up on the other side of the blaze and leaned over, looking sharply into Slavens’ face.</p> + +<p>“Hello!” he hailed loudly, as if shouting across a river.</p> + +<p>Slavens returned his bellowed hail with moderation, recognizing in the dusty traveler Comanche’s distinguished +chief of police, Ten-Gallon, of the diamond <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_295'></a>295</span> rings. +Slavens never had been able to feel anything but the most lively contempt for the fellow; now, since learning of +Ten-Gallon’s treatment of Agnes, and his undoubted hand in the plot of Hun Shanklin and Boyle against himself, +the doctor held him to be nothing short of an open enemy.</p> + +<p>“I’m lookin’ for a man by the name of Boyle,” announced Ten-Gallon. “Are you +holdin’ down camp for him?”</p> + +<p>“He’s on down the road a little way.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” said Ten-Gallon, “I know you now. You’re the feller that beat him to it. Well, I +had a complaint ag’in’ you for stealin’ a man’s coat over in Comanche.”</p> + +<p>“I’m out of your jurisdiction right now, I guess; but I’ll go down to Comanche and give you a +chance at me if you want to take it,” the doctor told him, considerably out of humor, what with his own +disappointment and the fellow’s natural insolence.</p> + +<p>The police chief of Comanche laughed.</p> + +<p>“I’d be about the last man to lay hands on you for anything you done to that feller, even if you’d +’a’ took his hide along with his coat,” said he.</p> + +<p>“Then the crime trust of Comanche must be dissolved?” sneered Slavens.</p> + +<p>“I don’t git you, pardner,” returned Ten-Gallon with cold severity.</p> + +<p>“Oh, never mind.”</p> + +<p>“You’re the feller that beat Boyle to it, too,” added <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_296'></a>296</span> the chief; “and I want to tell you, pardner, I take off my katy to you. You’re +one smart guy!”</p> + +<p>“You’ll find your man on down the road about a quarter,” directed Slavens, on whose ear the +encomiums of Ten-Gallon fell without savor.</p> + +<p>“I heard in Meander today that you’d sold out to Boyle,” said Ten-Gallon.</p> + +<p>“Well, you got it straight,” the doctor told him.</p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon slued in his saddle, slouching over confidentially.</p> + +<p>“Say, it ain’t any of my business, maybe, but how much did you git out of this pile of rocks?”</p> + +<p>“It isn’t any of your business, but I’ll tell you. I got more out of it than this whole blasted +country’s worth!” Slavens replied.</p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon chuckled–a deep, fat, well-contented little laugh.</p> + +<p>“Pardner,” said he admiringly, “you certainly are one smart guy!”</p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon rode on in his quest of Boyle, while Slavens sat again beside his fire, which he allowed to burn down to +coals.</p> + +<p>Slavens could not share the fellow’s jubilation over the transfer of the homestead to Boyle, for he had +surrendered it on Boyle’s own terms–the terms proposed to Agnes at the beginning. As he filled his big, +comforting pipe and smoked, Slavens wondered what she would say concerning his failure to return to her before signing +the relinquishment. There would be <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_297'></a>297</span> some scolding, perhaps +some tears, but he felt that he was steering the boat, and the return merely to keep his word inviolate would have been +useless.</p> + +<p>He reviewed the crowded events of the past two days; his arrival at Meander, his talk with the county attorney. +While that official appeared to be outwardly honest, he was inwardly a coward, trembling for his office. He was candid +in his expression that Boyle would make a case against Agnes if he wanted it made, for there was enough to base an +action upon and make a public showing.</p> + +<p>When it came to guarding that part of the people’s heritage grandiloquently described as “the public +domain,” the Boyles were not always at the front, to be sure. They had entered hundreds of men on the public +lands, paid them a few dollars for their relinquishment, and in that way come into illegal ownership of hundreds of +thousands of acres of grazing land. But all the big fish of the Northwest did it, said the county attorney; you +couldn’t draw a Federal grand jury that would find a true bill in such a case against a big landowner, for the +men in shadow always were drawn on the juries.</p> + +<p>Of course, when one of them turned against somebody else that would be different. In the case of the person whose +entry of lands was covered by the doctor’s hypothetical statement, and whose name was not mentioned between them, +the crime had been no greater than their own–not so great from a moral <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_298'></a>298</span> interpretation of the law. Cupidity prompted them; the desire for a home the other. Still, +that would have no weight. If Boyle wanted to make trouble, said the county attorney, he could make it, and plenty of +it.</p> + +<p>Seeing how far the shadow of the Boyles fell over that land, Slavens at once dismissed the notion that he had +carried to Meander with him of bringing some legal procedure against Boyle and Boyle’s accomplices on account of +the assault and attempted murder which they had practiced upon him. There could be no hope of an indictment if brought +before the grand jury; no chance of obtaining a warrant for the arrest of Shanklin and Boyle by lodging complaint with +the county attorney.</p> + +<p>Yet he took up that matter with the little lawyer, whose blond hair stood out in seven directions when Slavens told +him of the felonious attack and the brutal disposition of what they had doubtless believed to be his lifeless body. The +county attorney shook his head and showed an immediate disposition to get rid of Slavens when the story was done. It +was plain that he believed the doctor was either insane or the tallest liar that ever struck that corner of the +globe.</p> + +<p>“You couldn’t make a case stick on that,” said he, shifting his feet and his eyes, busying his +hands with some papers on his desk, which he took up in assumed desire to be about the duties of his office without +further loss of time. “All I can say to you on that is, when you get ready to leave the country, take a shot at +them. That’s about the only thing that’s left open for <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_299'></a>299</span> you to do if you want to even it up. This office can’t help you any.”</p> + +<p>And that was his advice, lightly offered doubtless, with no thought that it would be accepted and carried out; but +strange advice, thought Slavens, for the protector of the people’s peace and dignity to give. In case he should +take it, he would have to be ready to leave, that was certain.</p> + +<p>At his meeting with Boyle in the hotel at Meander on the appointed hour, Slavens found the Governor’s son more +arrogant and insistent than before. Boyle set a limit of noon for Slavens to meet his demand.</p> + +<p>“I’ve got everything greased,” he boasted, “and I’ll cut the string if you don’t +come up to the lick-log then.”</p> + +<p>He offered to take Slavens to interview the official in charge of the land-office if the doctor doubted that things +had not been set in motion to cause trouble for Agnes in the event of Slavens’ refusal to yield. While Slavens +believed this to be pure bluff, knowing that whatever influence Boyle might have with the person in question, the +official would be too wise to show his subserviency in any such manner, at the same time the doctor was well enough +convinced of Boyle’s great and pernicious influence without a further demonstration. He saw nothing to be gained +by holding out until he could return to Agnes and place the situation before her, if Boyle had been willing to forego +moving against her that long. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_300'></a>300</span></p> + +<p>They went to the land-office together, Boyle advancing the money to Slavens for the outright purchase of the land +under the provision of the act of Congress under which the reservation had been opened. Slavens immediately transferred +title to Boyle, drew the money which he had on deposit in the bank at Meander, and rode away with the intention of +quitting the state as soon as might be. How soon, depended upon the readiness of someone to go with him.</p> + +<p>Boyle had told him that he might take his own time about removing his possessions from the land; but it was his +intention, as he gloomed there by his low fire, to get them off the next day. In the morning, he intended to go to +Comanche, which was only ten miles distant, and try to find out what had become of Agnes. From there he would send out +a wagon to bring in his tent and baggage.</p> + +<p>He turned again in his mind every reason, tenable and untenable, that he could frame to account for Agnes’ +sudden and unexplained trip. He thought she probably had gone for her mail, or to send a telegram and receive a reply, +or for money, or something which she needed in camp. More than once he took up the probability that she had gone off on +some forlorn scheme to adjust their mutual affairs; but there was not a hook of probability to sustain the weight of +this conjecture, so with little handling it had to be put down as profitless.</p> + +<p>At the best she was gone, and had been gone now <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_301'></a>301</span> two +days–a long time for a trip to Comanche. He wondered if anything had happened to her on the way; whether she had +fled the state in precipitation, so that his homestead might be saved from Boyle. She was generous enough to do it, but +not so thoughtless, he believed, knowing as she must know the concern and worry to which he would be subject until he +could have word from her.</p> + +<p>But for Agnes’ return to round it out, Slavens’ adventure in that country had come to a close. Without +Agnes it would be incomplete, as without her there would be missing a most important part in the future pattern of his +life. He could not go without Agnes, although he had nothing yet of success to offer her.</p> + +<p>But that was on the way. The knocks which he had taken there in those few weeks had cracked the insulation of +hopelessness which the frost of his profitless years had thickened upon him. Now it had fallen away, leaving him light +and fresh for the battle.</p> + +<p>Agnes had said little about the money which Dr. Slavens had taken from Shanklin at the gambler’s own crooked +game. Whether she countenanced it or not, Slavens did not know. Perhaps it was not honest money, in every application +of the term, but it was entirely current, and there was a most comfortable sense in the feel of it there bulked in the +inner pocket of his coat. He had no qualms nor scruples about it at all. Fate had put it in his hands for the carrying +out of his long-deferred desires. If it hadn’t worked honestly <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_302'></a>302</span> for Shanklin, it was about to set in for a mighty reformation.</p> + +<p>But there was the trouble of Agnes’ absence, which persisted between him and sleep when he arranged himself in +his blankets. He turned with it, and sighed and worked himself into a fever of anxiety. Many times he got up and +listened for the sound of hoofs, to go back to his tent and tell himself that it was unreasonable to think that she +would ride by night over that lonely road.</p> + +<p>When morning began to creep in it brought with it a certain assurance that all was well with her, as daylight often +brings its deceptive consolation to a heart that suffers the tortures of despair in the dark. Sleep caught him then, +and held him past the hour that he had set for its bound. When he awoke the sun was shining over the cold ashes of his +last night’s fire.</p> + +<p>Slavens got up with a deeper feeling of resentment against Boyle than he ever had felt for any man. It seemed to +come over him unaccountably, like a disagreeable sound, or a chill from a contrary wind. It was not a pettish humor, +but a deep, grave feeling of hatred, as if the germ of it had grown in the blood and spread to every tissue of his +body. The thought of Boyle’s being so near him was discordant. It pressed on him with a sense of being near some +unfit thing which should be removed.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens never had carried arms in his life, and he had no means of buckling Hun Shanklin’s old revolver +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_303'></a>303</span> about him, but he felt that he must take it with him when +he left the tent. Big and clumsy as it was, he thrust it under the belt which sustained his trousers, where it promised +to carry very well, although it was not in a free-moving state in case an emergency should demand its speedy use.</p> + +<p>There would be no time for breakfast. Even then he should have been in Comanche, he told himself with upbraidings +for having slept so long. His horse had strayed, too. Slavens went after it in resentful mood. The creature had +followed the scant grazing to the second bench, an elevation considerably above its present site.</p> + +<p>Slavens followed the horse’s trail, wondering how the animal had been able to scramble up those slopes, +hobbled as it was. Presently he found the beast and started with it back to camp. Rounding the base of a great stone +which stood perched on the hillside as if meditating a tumble, Slavens paused a moment to look over the troubled slope +of land which had been his two days before.</p> + +<p>There was Boyle’s tent, with a fire before it, but no one in sight; and there, on the land which adjoined his +former claim on the south, was another tent, so placed among the rocks that it could not be seen from his own.</p> + +<p>“It wasn’t there when I left,” Slavens reflected. “I wonder what he’s +after?”</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_19'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_304'></a>304</span> +<h2>CHAPTER XIX<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>CROOK MEETS CROOK</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>Slavens was saddling his horse before his tent, his mind still running on the newcomer who had pitched to the south +of him, evidently while he was away. He was certain that he would have seen the tent if it had been there before he +left, for it was within plain view of the road.</p> + +<p>Well, thought the doctor, whoever the stranger was, whatever he hoped or expected of that place, he was welcome to, +for all that Slavens envied him. As for Slavens himself, he had run his race and won it by a nose; and now that he was +putting down the proceeds to appease what he held as blackmail, he had no very keen regrets for what he was losing. He +had passed through that. There would be the compensation––</p> + +<p>But of that no matter; that must come in its time and place, and if never, no matter. He would have the ease of +conscience in knowing that he had served her, and served her well.</p> + +<p>His horse was restive and frisky in the cool of the morning, making a stir among the stones with its feet. Slavens +spoke sharply to the animal, bending to draw up the girth, the stirrup thrown across the saddle.</p> + +<p>“Now, you old scamp, I’ll take this friskiness out of you in a minute,” said he, giving the horse +a slap <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_305'></a>305</span> under the belly as he reached to pull the stirrup +down.</p> + +<p>He drew back with a start as his eyes lifted above the saddle, and his hand dropped to the butt of the revolver +which he carried so clumsily in his belt. Hun Shanklin was standing there facing him, not above a dozen feet away, +grinning dubiously, but with what he doubtless meant for an expression of friendliness.</p> + +<p>The old gambler threw out his hands with a sidewise motion eloquent of emptiness, lifting his shoulders in a quick +little jerk, as if to say, “Oh, what’s the use?”</p> + +<p>“Kind of surprised you; didn’t I, Doc?” he asked, coming nearer.</p> + +<p>“What do you want here?” demanded Slavens harshly.</p> + +<p>“Well, not trouble,” replied Shanklin lightly. “If I’d come over for that, I guess I could +’a’ started it before now.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I suppose you could,” admitted Slavens, watching him distrustfully and feeling thankful, somehow, +that the horse was between them.</p> + +<p>“I saw you up on the hill after your horse, so I thought I’d come over and let you know I was +around,” said Shanklin. “Thought I’d tell you that I ain’t holdin’ any grudges if you +ain’t.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t see where you’ve got any call to. I never took a crack at you with a blackjack in the +dark!”</p> + +<p>“No, you didn’t, friend,” Shanklin agreed in his old easy, persuasive way. “And I never done +it to you. You owe the honorable Mr. Jerry Boyle for the red <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_306'></a>306</span> mark you’ve got on your forrid there. I’ll own up that I helped him nail you up +and dump you in the river; but I done it because I thought you was finished, and I didn’t want the muss +around.”</p> + +<p>“Well, it will all come out on the day of reckoning, I suppose,” said Slavens, not believing a word the +old scamp said.</p> + +<p>He knew that minute, as he had known all the time, that no other hand than Shanklin’s had laid him low that +night. Of this he was as certain in his own mind as if he had seen the gambler lift hand for the blow. Boyle had no +motive for it up to that time, although he had been quick to turn the circumstance to his advantage.</p> + +<p>“I thought Boyle’d dickered you out of this claim before now,” said Shanklin, looking around +warily.</p> + +<p>“He’s down the road here a little piece,” replied Slavens testily, “in company of another +friend of yours. You could have seen his tent as you came over if you’d looked.”</p> + +<p>“I just put up my tent last night,” Shanklin explained.</p> + +<p>Slavens took hold of his saddle-horn as if to mount, indicating by his action that the visit should come to an end. +Shanklin, who was not in the least sensitive on the matter of social rebuffs, did not appear to be inclined to accept +the hint. He shifted his legs, thrusting one of them forward in a lounging attitude, and dug in his trousers pockets +with his long, skinny hands.</p> + +<p>“Well, spit it out and have it over with!” snapped <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_307'></a>307</span> Slavens, feeling that there was something behind the man’s actions to which he had not +given words.</p> + +<p>“That was a purty good coat I left with you that night,” suggested Shanklin, looking up without the +slightest stirring of humor in his dry face.</p> + +<p>“You’re welcome to it, if that’s all,” said Slavens.</p> + +<p>“That’s all. I was kind of attached to that coat.”</p> + +<p>Slavens left him standing there and entered the tent, feeling that Shanklin was as irresponsible morally as a +savage. Evidently the inconsequential matter of an attempt at murder should not be allowed to stand between friends, +according to the flat-game man’s way of viewing life. It appeared that morning as if Shanklin had no trace of +malice in him on account of the past, and no desire to pursue further his underhanded revenge. Conscience was so little +trouble to him that he could sit at meat with a man one hour and stick a knife in his back the next.</p> + +<p>The coat was under a sack of oats, somewhat the worse for wrinkles and dust. Slavens gave it a shake, smoothed the +heaviest of the creases with his hand, and went out to deliver it to its owner.</p> + +<p>Shanklin was facing the other way, in the direction of his own camp. His attitude was in sharp contrast with the +easy, lounging posture of a few moments before. He was tense and alert, straining forward a little, his lean body +poised as if he balanced for a jump. There was a clattering on the small stones which strewed the ground thickly there, +as of somebody approaching, but <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_308'></a>308</span> the bulk of the horse was +between Slavens and the view, as the doctor stopped momentarily in the door of the low tent.</p> + +<p>Clearing the tent and standing upright, Slavens saw Boyle and Ten-Gallon coming on hurriedly. They had been to +Shanklin’s camp evidently, looking for him. From the appearance of both parties, there was something in the +wind.</p> + +<p>Boyle was approaching rapidly, Ten-Gallon trailing a bit, on account of his shorter legs perhaps, or maybe because +his valor was even briefer than his wind. Boyle seemed to be grinning, although there was no mirth in his face. His +teeth showed between his parted lips; he carried his right arm in front, crooked at the elbow, his fingers curved.</p> + +<p>Slavens saw that all thought of the coat had gone but of Shanklin’s mind. The old gambler did not so much as +turn his head. Slavens threw the coat across his saddle as Boyle came up.</p> + +<p>“Well, what have you got to say to it, you dirty old thief?” demanded Boyle, plunging into the matter as +if preliminaries were not needed between him and Shanklin.</p> + +<p>“You seem to be doin’ the talkin’,” returned Shanklin with a show of cold indifference, +although Slavens saw that he watched every movement Boyle made, and more than once in those few seconds the doctor +marked Hun’s sinewy right arm twitch as if on the point of making some swift stroke. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_309'></a>309</span></p> + +<p>Boyle stopped while there was yet a rod between them, so hot with anger that his hands were trembling.</p> + +<p>“That don’t answer me!” he growled, his voice thick in his constricted throat. “What have +you got to say to the way you double-crossed me, you old one-eyed hellion?”</p> + +<p>“Talk don’t hurt, Jerry, unless a man talks too much,” Shanklin answered mildly. “Now, if I +wanted to talk, I could mighty near talk a rope around your little white neck. I know when to talk and when to keep +still.”</p> + +<p>“And I know how to jar you loose!” threatened Boyle.</p> + +<p>Shanklin leaned toward the Governor’s son never so little, his left hand lifted to point his utterance, and +opened upon Boyle the most withering stream of blasphemous profanity that Slavens had ever heard. If there ever was a +man who cursed by note, as they used to say, Hun Shanklin was that one. He laid it to Boyle in a blue streak.</p> + +<p>“What do I owe you?” he began.</p> + +<p>Then he swung off into the most derogatory comparisons, applications, insulting flagellations, that man ever stood +up and listened to. His evident motive was to provoke Boyle to some hostile act, so that twitching right arm might have +the excuse for dealing out the death which lay at its finger-ends. Every little while the torrent of abuse broke upon +the demand, “What do I owe you?” like a rock in the channel, and then rushed on <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_310'></a>310</span> again without laying hold of the same epithet twice. If a man were +looking for a master in that branch of frontier learning, a great opportunity was at hand.</p> + +<p>Boyle leaned against the torrent of abuse and swallowed it, his face losing its fiery hue, blanching and fading as +if every word fell on his senses like the blow of a whip to the back. The Governor’s son watched every muscle of +Shanklin’s face as if to read the gambler’s intention in his eye, while his hand, stiff-set and clawlike, +hovered within three inches of his pistol-butt.</p> + +<p>Presently Shanklin stopped, panting like a lizard. Both men stooped a little lower, leaning forward in their eager +watchfulness. Neither of them seemed to be conscious that the world held any other object than his enemy, crouching, +waiting, drawing breath in nostril-dilating gasps.</p> + +<p>Boyle moved one foot slightly, as if to steady himself for a supreme effort. A little stone which he dislodged +tumbled down the side of a four-inch gully with a noise that seemed the sound of an avalanche. With that alarm +Shanklin’s arm moved swiftly. Like a reflection in a glass, Boyle’s arm moved with it.</p> + +<p>Two shots; such a bare margin between them that the ear scarcely could mark the line. Then one.</p> + +<p>Shanklin, his hands half lifted, his arms crooked at the elbow and extended from his sides, dropped his pistol, his +mouth open, as if to utter the surprise which was pictured in his features. He doubled limply at the knees, collapsed +forward, fell upon his face. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_311'></a>311</span></p> + +<p>Boyle put his hand to his breast above his heart, pressing it hard; took it away, turned about in his tracks as if +bewildered; swayed sickly, sank to his knees, and fell over to his side with the silent, hopeless, huddling movement of +a wild creature that has been shot in the woods.</p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon came from behind the tent, where he had been compressing himself into a crevice between two boulders. His +face was white, and down it sweat was pouring, drawn from the agony of his base soul. He went to the place where Dr. +Slavens knelt beside Boyle.</p> + +<p>“Cra-zy Christmas!” gasped he, his mouth falling open. Then again:</p> + +<p>“Cra-zy Christmas!”</p> + +<p>Slavens had gone to Boyle first, because there was something in the utter collapse of Shanklin which told him the +man was dead. As he stripped Boyle’s clothing off to bare the wound, Slavens ordered Ten-Gallon to go and see +whether the old gambler had paid his last loss.</p> + +<p>“I won’t touch him! I won’t lay a hand on him!” Ten-Gallon refused, drawing back in +alarm.</p> + +<p>Boyle was not dead, though Shanklin’s bullet had struck him perilously near the heart and had passed through +his body. With each feeble intake of breath blood bubbled from the blue mark, which looked like a little bruise, on his +chest.</p> + +<p>“Well, see if you can make a fire, then, and hurry <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_312'></a>312</span> about it! Get some water on to boil as fast as you can!” Slavens directed the nerveless +chief of police.</p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon set about his employment with alacrity while Slavens went over to Shanklin, turning his face up to the +sky. For a little while he stooped over Hun; then he took the gambler’s coat from the saddle and spread it over +his face. Hun Shanklin was in need of no greater service that man could render him.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens took off his coat and brought out his instrument-case. He gave Boyle such emergency treatment as was +possible where the gun-fighter lay, and then called Ten-Gallon to help take him into the tent.</p> + +<p>“Lord, he’s breathin’ through his back!” said Ten-Gallon. “He’ll never live till +we git him to the tent–never in this world, Doc! I knew a feller that was knifed in the back one time till he +breathed through his ribs that way, and he––”</p> + +<p>“Never mind,” said Slavens. “Take hold of him.”</p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon’s fire burned briskly, and the water boiled. Dr. Slavens sterilized his instruments in a pan of it, +and set about to establish the drainage for the wound upon which the slender chance of Boyle’s life depended. +Boyle was unconscious, as he had been from the moment he fell. They stretched him on the doctor’s cot. With the +blankets spread underfoot to keep down the dust, the early sun shining in through the lifted flap, Slavens put aside +whatever animosity he held against the man and went to work earnestly in an endeavor to save his life. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_313'></a>313</span></p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon showed a nervous anxiety to get away. He wanted to go after his horse; he wanted to go to Boyle’s +tent and get breakfast for himself; and then he pressed the necessity of his presence in Comanche to keep and preserve +the peace. But Slavens would not permit him to quit the tent until he could no longer be of assistance.</p> + +<p>It was not the wounded body of Jerry Boyle that the pot-bellied peace officer feared, but the stiffening frame of +Hun Shanklin, lying out there in the bright sun. Every time he looked that way he drew up on himself, like a snail. At +length Slavens gave him permission to leave, charging him to telephone to Meander for the coroner the moment that he +arrived in Comanche, and to get word to Boyle’s people at the earliest possible hour.</p> + +<p>There seemed to be nothing for Slavens to do but to forego his trip in quest of Agnes, and sit there in the hope +that she would come. Boyle could not be left alone, and Shanklin’s body must be brought up out of the gully and +covered.</p> + +<p>This ran through his mind in erratic starts and blanks as he bent over the wounded man, listening to his respiration +with more of a humane than professional fear that the next breath might tell him of the hemorrhage which would make a +sudden end of Boyle’s wavering and uncertain life.</p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon had been gone but a little while when Slavens heard him clattering back in his heel-dragging <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_314'></a>314</span> walk over the rocks. He appeared before the doctor with a lively +relief in his face.</p> + +<p>“Some people headin’ in here,” he announced. “Maybe they’ll be of some help to you. I +hated to go and leave you here alone with that feller”–jerking his head toward Shanklin’s +body–“for I wouldn’t trust him dead no more than I would alive!”</p> + +<p>“All right,” said Slavens, scarcely looking up.</p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon appeared to be over his anxiety to leave. He waited in front of the tent as the sound of horses came +nearer.</p> + +<p>“Stop them off there a little way,” ordered the doctor. “We don’t want any more dust around +here than we can help.”</p> + +<p>He looked around for his hat, put it on, and went out, sleeves up, to see that his order was enforced. Agnes was +alighting from a horse as he stepped out. A tall, slight man with a gray beard was demanding of Ten-Gallon what had +happened there.</p> + +<p>Relief warmed the terror out of her eyes as Agnes ran forward and caught Dr. Slavens’ hand.</p> + +<p>“You’re safe!” she cried. “I feared–oh, I feared!”</p> + +<p>A shudder told him what words faltered to name.</p> + +<p>“It wasn’t my fight,” he told her.</p> + +<p>“This is Governor Boyle,” said Agnes, presenting the stranger, who had stood looking at them with +ill-contained impatience, seeing himself quite forgotten by both of them in that moment of meeting. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_315'></a>315</span></p> + +<p>“I am sorry to tell you, sir, that your son is gravely wounded,” said Dr. Slavens, driving at once to +the point.</p> + +<p>“Where is he?” asked the Governor, his face pale, his throat working as if he struggled with anguish +which fought to relieve itself in a cry.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens motioned to the tent. The old man went forward, stopping when he saw his unconscious son and the bloody +clothing beside the cot. He put his hand to his forehead and stood a moment, his eyes closed. Then he went in and bent +over the wounded man.</p> + +<p>A sob of pity rose in Agnes’ throat as she watched him and saw the pain and affection upon his face. Presently +Governor Boyle turned and walked to the spot where Hun Shanklin’s body lay. Without a word, he lifted the coat +from the gambler’s face, covered it again, and turned away.</p> + +<p>“Bad company! Bad company!” said he, sadly shaking his head. “How did it happen, Doctor? You were +here? First”–he held up his hand, as if to check the doctor’s speech–“will he +live?”</p> + +<p>“Men have recovered from worse wounds,” responded the doctor. “There’s a chance for him, at +least.”</p> + +<p>He related, then, the circumstance of the meeting, the brief quarrel, and the fight, Ten-Gallon putting in a word +here and there, although his testimony was neither asked nor welcomed. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_316'></a>316</span></p> + +<p>“I don’t know what the cause of the quarrel was,” concluded the doctor. “Two days ago I +relinquished this claim to your son. He came here immediately and took possession.”</p> + +<p>“You–you relinquished!” exclaimed Agnes, disappointment in her voice, reproach in her eyes.</p> + +<p>“I am sorry that you relinquished it,” said the Governor. “This brave young woman rode all the way +to my ranch–almost a hundred miles–to save it to you. I was absent when she arrived, but I set out with her +at the earliest possible moment upon my return. We rode all night last night, sir, changing horses in Comanche this +morning.”</p> + +<p>“I am grateful to you, both of you, for the trouble and fatigue you have undergone in my behalf. But the case, +as your son urged it, sir, was beyond temporizing. Perhaps Miss Gates has told you?”</p> + +<p>The Governor nodded curtly, a look of displeasure on his face.</p> + +<p>“I can’t believe that Jerry meant it,” he protested. “It must have been one of his +jokes.”</p> + +<p>“I am sorry, then, that my idea of humor is so widely divergent from his!” said Dr. Slavens with deep +feeling.</p> + +<p>“Well, he’s paid for it. The poor boy has paid for his indiscretion,” said the old man sadly.</p> + +<p>He turned away and went a little space, where he stood as if in meditation.</p> + +<p>“You promised me that you’d do nothing until you <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_317'></a>317</span> returned and saw me,” Agnes charged. “And I had saved it for you! I had saved +it!”</p> + +<p>“You would have been too late,” returned the doctor sharply. “The machinery for your humiliation +was already in motion. I doubt whether even the Governor could have stopped it in another day without a great deal of +unpleasant publicity for you. Boyle meant to have this piece of land, and he got it. That’s all.”</p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon was fooling around the fire. He drew over toward the group as the Governor came back.</p> + +<p>“Can my son be removed from here?” the old man asked.</p> + +<p>The doctor said that he could not, without practically throwing away his slender chance for life.</p> + +<p>“Do for him what you can; you seem to be a capable man, sir; you inspire confidence in me,” said the +Governor, laying his hand appealingly on the doctor’s shoulder; “and if you can save him, I’ll pay +you twice what this infernal claim was worth to you!”</p> + +<p>“I’ve done all that can be done for him, without hope or expectation of reward,” said the doctor; +“and I’ll stick by him to the end, one way or another. We can care for him here as long as this weather +holds, just as well as they could in a hospital.”</p> + +<p>“Well, as far as what this claim’s worth goes,” put in Ten-Gallon, edging into the conversation, +“you don’t need to lose any sleep over that.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?” demanded Slavens, turning upon him sharply. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_318'></a>318</span></p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon stirred the dust with his toe, stooped and picked up an empty revolver-cartridge.</p> + +<p>“It ain’t worth that!” said he, presenting it in the palm of his hand.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what you’re driving at,” said the doctor, inclined to walk away and leave +him.</p> + +<p>“I mean that Hun Shanklin queered all of you,” said Ten-Gallon. “You had the wrong figgers, and +you filed on the wrong claim!”</p> + +<p>Pressed for an explanation of how he knew, Ten-Gallon told them that he had been Shanklin’s partner at the +beginning, and that Shanklin had deceived and cheated both him and Boyle.</p> + +<p>“Ah, then he did double-cross my son!” cried the Governor triumphantly, seizing this vindication for the +young man’s deed with avid eagerness.</p> + +<p>“He sure did,” Ten-Gallon agreed; “and he done it right! I know all about you”–nodding +to the doctor–“and what happened to you back of that tent in Comanche that night. Shanklin had it in for +you ever since you showed up his game the night that sucker feller was goin’ to put down that wad of money. +He’d been layin’ for you, one way and another, for a couple of days or so. You walked right into his hand +that night.”</p> + +<p>“I seemed to,” admitted Slavens with bitter recollection.</p> + +<p>“Shanklin knew about copper in these rocks over here––” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_319'></a>319</span></p> + +<p>“So it’s copper?” said Slavens, unable to restrain his words.</p> + +<p>“Copper; that’s what it is,” nodded Ten-Gallon. “But it ain’t on this claim, and +I’ll show that in a minute, too. Hun had been writin’ to Jerry about it, tryin’ to git up a company +to pay him for what he knew, so they could locate the man that drawed Number One there, see? Well, Hun, he’d +known about that copper a long time; he could go to it with his eyes shut. So he got the description of the land as +soon as the survey maps was out, and he offered to sell the location for five thousand dollars. He had samples of the +ore, and it run rich, and it <i>is</i> rich, richest in this state, I’m here to tell you, gentlemen.</p> + +<p>“But Jerry wouldn’t give him no five thousand for what he knew. So Hun he got some other fellers on the +string, and him and me was partners on the deal and was goin’ to split even on account of some things I knew and +was to keep under my katy.</p> + +<p>“Well, Hun sold the figgers of that land to Jerry for five hundred dollars in the end, and he sold it to them +other fellers for the same. When it come out that you was Number One, Doc–and us fellers knew that in the morning +of the day of the drawin’, for we had it fixed with Mong–Hun he tells Jerry that you’ll never sell +out for no reasonable price.</p> + +<p>“‘We’ll have to soak that feller,’ he says, ‘and git him out of the way.’ Jerry +he agreed to it, and they had men out after you all that day and night, but they <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_320'></a>320</span> didn’t git a chance at you. Then you walked right into old Hun’s hand. +Funny!” commented Ten-Gallon stopping there to breathe.</p> + +<p>“Very!” said the doctor, putting his hand to the tender scar on his forehead.</p> + +<p>He pushed back his hat and turned to the Governor.</p> + +<p>“Very funny!” said he.</p> + +<p>“Of course, Jerry, he was winded some when you put in your bill there ahead of him and Peterson that morning +and filed on the claim he had it all framed up to locate the Swede feller on. Jerry telephoned over to Comanche and +found out from Shanklin how you got the numbers, and then he laid out to start a fire under you and git you off. Well, +he done it, didn’t he?”</p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon leered up at Slavens with some of his old malevolence and official hauteur in his puffy face.</p> + +<p>“Go on with your story, and be careful what charges you lay against my son!” commanded the Governor +sharply.</p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon was not particularly squelched or abashed by the rebuke. He winked at Agnes as if to express a feeling of +secret fellowship which he held for her on account of things which both of them might reveal if they saw fit.</p> + +<p>“Shanklin, he closed up his game in Comanche three or four days ago and went over to Meander,” +Ten-Gallon resumed. “He never had split with me on that money he got for the numbers of this claim out of Jerry +and that other crowd. So I follered him. Yesterday <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_321'></a>321</span> +morning, you know, the land left over from locatin’ them that had drawed claims was throwed open to anybody that +wanted to file on it.</p> + +<p>“Well, the first man in the line was that old houn’ that’s layin’ over there with his toes +turnin’ cold. He filed on something, and when I collared him about the money, he throwed me down. He said he sold +the numbers of land that didn’t have no more copper on it than the palm of his hand, and he said he’d just +filed on the land that had the mines. He showed me the papers; then he hopped his horse and come on down +here.”</p> + +<p>“Incredible!” exclaimed the Governor.</p> + +<p>“It was like him,” Slavens corroborated. “He was a fox.”</p> + +<p>“I was goin’ to take a shot at him,” bragged Ten-Gallon, “but he was too fur ahead of me. He +had a faster horse than mine; and when I got here last night he was already located on that claim. The copper +mine’s over there where the old feller’s tent stands, I tell you. They ain’t enough of it on this +place to make a yard of wire.”</p> + +<p>“And you carried the story of Shanklin’s deception and fraud to my son,” nodded the Governor, +fixing a severe eye on Ten-Gallon, “and he sought the gambler for an explanation?”</p> + +<p>“Well, he was goin’ to haul the old crook over the fire,” admitted Ten-Gallon, somewhat uneasy +under the old man’s eye.</p> + +<p>The Governor walked away from them again in his <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_322'></a>322</span> +abstracted, self-centered way, and stood looking off across the troubled landscape. Dr. Slavens stepped to the tent to +see how the patient rested, and Ten-Gallon gave Agnes another wink.</p> + +<p>“Comanche’s dwindlin’ down like a fire of shavin’s,” said he. “Nobody +couldn’t git hurt there now, not even a crawlin’ baby.”</p> + +<p>Indignation flushed her face at the man’s familiarity. But she reasoned that he was only doing the best he +knew to be friendly.</p> + +<p>“Are you still chief of police there?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“I’m marshal now,” he replied. “The police force has been done away with by the mayor and +council.”</p> + +<p>“Well then, I still have doubt about the safety of Comanche,” she observed, turning from him.</p> + +<p>Governor Boyle approached Ten-Gallon and pointed to Hun Shanklin’s body.</p> + +<p>“You must do something to get that carcass out of camp right away,” he said. “Isn’t there a +deputy coroner at Comanche?”</p> + +<p>“The undertaker is,” said Ten-Gallon, drawing back at the prospect of having to lay hands on the body of +the man whom he feared in death as he had feared him in life.</p> + +<p>“Send him over here,” Governor Boyle directed.</p> + +<p>Ten-Gallon departed on his mission, and the Governor took one of the trodden blankets from in front of the tent and +spread it over Shanklin’s body, shrouding it completely. Dr. Slavens had lowered the flap of the <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_323'></a>323</span> tent to keep the sun from the wounded man’s face. When he came +out, Agnes met him with an inquiring look.</p> + +<p>“He’s conscious,” said the doctor. “The blow of that heavy bullet knocked the wind out of +him for a while.”</p> + +<p>“Will he–lapse again?” asked the Governor, balancing between hope and fear.</p> + +<p>“It isn’t likely. You may go in and speak to him now if you want to. But he must keep still. A little +exertion might start a hemorrhage.”</p> + +<p>Jerry Boyle lay upon his back, his bloodless face toward them, as they gathered noiselessly in the door of the tent. +His eyes were standing open, great and questioning, out of his pallor, nothing but the animal quality of bewilderment +and fear in their wide stare.</p> + +<p>Governor Boyle went in and dropped to his knees beside the cot. Dr. Slavens followed hastily, and placed his hand on +the wounded man’s breast.</p> + +<p>“You may listen,” said he; “but keep still.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t even try to whisper,” admonished the Governor, taking his son’s hand between his +own.</p> + +<p>“That’s all right, Governor,” replied the young man, his face quickening with that overrunning +little crinkling, like wind over water, which was his peculiar gift for making his way into the hearts of women and +men, unworthy as he was.</p> + +<p>“Be still!” commanded the old man. “I know what happened. There’s nothing to say now.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_324'></a>324</span></p> + +<p>“Did I get him?” whispered Jerry, turning his head a little and looking eagerly into his father’s +face.</p> + +<p>The Governor placed his hand over his son’s mouth, silencing the young man with a little hissing sound, like a +mother quieting her babe.</p> + +<p>Agnes turned away, the disgust which she felt for this savage spirit of the man undisguised in her face. Dr Slavens +cautioned the Governor again.</p> + +<p>“If he says another word, you’ll have to leave him,” said he. “This is one case where talk +will turn out anything but cheap.”</p> + +<p>He joined Agnes, and together they walked away from the scene of violence and death.</p> + +<p>“You’re tired to death,” said he. “I’m going to take possession of Boyle’s tent +down there for you, and you’ve got to take a long sleep. After that we’ll think about the +future.”</p> + +<p>She walked on beside him, silent and submissive, interposing no objection to his plan. They found the tent very well +equipped; he started to leave her there to her repose. She stood in the door with her hat in her hand, her hair in +disorder, dust over her dress and shoes.</p> + +<p>“Could you send word to Smith by the stage this morning and ask him to bring my things–tent and +everything–down here?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Then you’re not planning to go back there?” he asked, his heart jumping with hope.</p> + +<p>She shook her head, smiling wanly.</p> + +<p>“I can’t bear the thought of it,” said she.</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_20'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_325'></a>325</span> +<h2>CHAPTER XX<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>A SUDDEN CLOUD</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>Dr. Slavens went back to his camp, concluding on the way that it would be wise to have a complete understanding with +Governor Boyle in regard to taking further charge of his son’s case. If, after three days allowed for infection +to manifest itself, the wound remained healthy and clean, there would be little need of a doctor in constant +attendance. Young Boyle would be able to express his preference in the matter then, and Slavens did not want to act as +physician to him against his will.</p> + +<p>Governor Boyle was walking up and down like a sentry before the tent when Dr. Slavens came up.</p> + +<p>“He’s asleep,” said the father. “He seems to be pitifully weak for a man suffering from a +fresh wound; he dropped off as if he had fainted.”</p> + +<p>“When you consider that a bullet of that caliber, with the powder back of it that this one had, strikes +somewhere around a ton,” said the doctor, “it ceases to be a wonder that he is weak.”</p> + +<p>“It’s Heaven’s mercy that spared him!” declared the Governor, his voice troubled with +emotion.</p> + +<p>Slavens wondered at the deep affection which this man of so hard a repute could show for his son, and at the tie of +tenderness which plainly bound them. But <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_326'></a>326</span> precedent is not +wanting, as the doctor reflected, to establish the contention that some of the world’s greatest oppressors have +been good fathers, kind husbands, and tender guardians of the home.</p> + +<p>“Yes; Shanklin shot twice,” said Slavens. “It was his second one that hit, after he had been +mortally hurt himself.”</p> + +<p>“It was the hand of Providence that turned his aim!” said the Governor. “The old one-eyed villain +had the reputation of being the best shot in the Northwest. He provoked my son to draw on him, or tried to at +least–for I can’t believe that Jerry drew first–with the intention of putting him out of the +way.”</p> + +<p>“What do you propose to do about bringing another surgeon here?” asked Dr. Slavens.</p> + +<p>“Why, I hadn’t given it any serious thought,” answered Governor Boyle, looking at him quickly.</p> + +<p>“It would please me better to have you do so.”</p> + +<p>“But I have entire confidence in your ability to handle the case, sir. Your conduct in the matter has been +admirable, and I see no reason why you should not continue to attend my son until–the end, one way or the +other.”</p> + +<p>“You understand, Governor,” said Dr. Slavens gravely, searching the old man’s face with steady +eyes, “that there is no ground for good feeling or friendship between your son and me?”</p> + +<p>The Governor nodded, averting his face, as if the acknowledgment gave him pain or shame. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_327'></a>327</span></p> + +<p>“And in case that everything should not turn out to the happiest conclusion for him, I should not want to +stand the chance of blame.”</p> + +<p>“Quite sensible, but unnecessarily cautious, I tell you,” the Governor replied.</p> + +<p>“I have done all that a better surgeon could have done,” pursued the doctor, “and I am quite +willing to go ahead and do all that can be done until you can bring another physician here, to relieve me, or at least +satisfy you that I have not allowed any feeling of man to man to stand between physician and patient.”</p> + +<p>“Very well; I will telegraph to Cheyenne for a physician,” agreed the Governor, “since it is your +wish. But I am entirely satisfied with, and trustful of you, sir. That I desire you to understand plainly.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens thanked him.</p> + +<p>“I shall send for the other physician to act merely in an advisory capacity, and in no manner to relieve you +of the case unless you desire to be relieved. But I think it will be to your interest to stand by me. I feel that I am +under a certain obligation to you, more especially to Miss Gates, for my son’s––”</p> + +<p>“We will not discuss that, if you please,” Dr. Slavens interrupted.</p> + +<p>“At least I will stand by what I said to you a little while back,” the Governor said; “that is, in +the matter of remuneration, if you pull him through.”</p> + +<p>“All of that in its proper place,” said the doctor. “I am going back to Comanche now to send for +the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_328'></a>328</span> boy’s mother,” the Governor announced, +“and telegraph to Cheyenne for the doctor of whom I spoke. I have known him for many years. I’ll have some +more tents and camp-supplies sent out, and anything that you stand in need of which can be procured in +Comanche.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens gave him a list of articles needed in the patient’s case, and the Governor rode away. The +undertaker from Comanche arrived a little later, and took Hun Shanklin’s body up from the ground. When his wagon, +on its return to Comanche, had passed the tent where Agnes was trying to sleep, she got up and joined Dr. Slavens.</p> + +<p>“I couldn’t sleep,” she explained. “Every time I shut my eyes I could see that poor old +gambler’s body lying there with the coat over his face!”</p> + +<p>“I don’t feel either pity or pain in his case,” said the doctor; “or, when it comes to that, +for the other one, either.”</p> + +<p>“Well, you couldn’t have prevented it, anyway,” she sighed.</p> + +<p>“And wouldn’t have if I could,” he declared. “I looked on them as one poison fighting +another, as we set them to do in the human system. When one overcomes the other, and the body throws them both out, +health follows.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think Jerry will recover?”</p> + +<p>“There’s a chance for him,” he replied.</p> + +<p>“For his mother’s sake I hope he will,” she said. “I went to see her, remembering in the +midst of my <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_329'></a>329</span> distress her kind face and gentle heart. +I’m glad that I went, although my mission failed.”</p> + +<p>“No, nothing fails,” he corrected gently. “What looks to us like failure from our side of it is +only the working out of the plan laid down a long time ahead. We may never see the other side of the puzzle, but if we +could see it we’d find that our apparent failure had been somebody else’s gain. It’s the balance of +compensation. Your thought of Boyle’s mother, and your ride to appeal to her in my behalf, worked out in bringing +his father here at a time when Jerry needed him as he never may need him in his life again.”</p> + +<p>“It was a strange coincidence,” she reflected.</p> + +<p>“We call such happenings that for want of a better name, or for the short-sightedness which keeps us from +applying the proper one,” said he. “It’s better that you have concluded to give up the City of +Refuge. You’ll not need it now.”</p> + +<p>“It was a foolish undertaking, romantic and impossible, from the very beginning,” she owned. “I +never could have put it through.”</p> + +<p>“It would have carried many a heartache with it, and many a hard and lonely day,” said he. “And so +we are both back where we were, so far as landed possessions go in this country, at the beginning.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve lost considerable by my foolish dream,” she confessed with regret.</p> + +<p>“And I have gained everything,” he smiled, taking her hand in his. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_330'></a>330</span></p> + +<p>The world around them seemed to be too grave to look kindly on any love-passages of tenderness or kisses, or +triflings such as is the common way of a man with a maid. In that moment when hand touched hand she looked up into his +eyes with warm softness glowing in her own, and on her lips stood an invitation which his heart sprang to seize, like +an eager guest leaping through the portal of welcome.</p> + +<p>At that moment, when eye drew eye, heart warmed to heart, and lips trembled to meet, Jerry Boyle coughed as if blood +were mounting to his throat and cutting off his life.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens was at his side in a moment. It must have been the strangulation of an uneasy dream, for there was no +symptom of hemorrhage. The wounded man still slept, groaning and drawing the lips back from the teeth, as he had drawn +them in his passion when he came on that morning to meet his enemy with the intention in his heart to slay.</p> + +<p>But love shuddered and grew pale in the cold nearness of death. The kiss so long deferred was not given, and the +fluttering pulse which had warmed to welcome it fell slow, as one who strikes a long stride in a journey that has miles +yet to measure before its end.</p> + +<p>Governor Boyle was back in camp in the middle of the afternoon, and before night the tents and furnishings for +lodging the party comfortably arrived from Comanche. The Governor pressed Agnes, who was considering riding to Comanche +to find lodging, to <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_331'></a>331</span> remain there to assist and comfort +his wife when she should arrive.</p> + +<p>“We need the touch of a woman’s hand here,” said he.</p> + +<p>They brought Jerry’s tent and set it up for her. She was asleep at dusk.</p> + +<hr class='tb' /> + +<p>Mrs. Boyle arrived next morning, having started as soon as the messenger bearing news of the tragedy reached the +ranch. She was a slight, white-haired woman, who had gone through hardships before coming to prosperity on that +frontier, so the fifty-mile ride in a wagon was no unusual or trying experience for her.</p> + +<p>Whatever tears she had for her son’s sad plight she had spent on the rough journey over. As she sat beside him +stroking his heavy hair back from his pallid brow, there was in her face a shadow of haunting anxiety, as if the +recollection of some old time of terror added its pangs to those of the present.</p> + +<p>Her presence in camp, and her constant ministrations at her son’s side, relieved Dr. Slavens of considerable +professional anxiety, as well as labor. It gave him time to walk about among the gigantic stones which cast their curse +of barrenness over that broken stretch, Agnes with him, and make a further investigation of the land’s mineral +possibilities.</p> + +<p>“Ten-Gallon was telling the truth, in my opinion,” said he. “I have explored these rocks from line +to line of this claim, and I reached the conclusion a good <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_332'></a>332</span> many days ago that somebody had been misled in supposing it was worth money. It was nothing +but Boyle’s persistent determination to get hold of it that gave it a color of value in my mind.”</p> + +<p>“Still, it may be the means, after all, of yielding you as much as you expected to get out of it at the +first,” she suggested.</p> + +<p>He looked at her questioningly.</p> + +<p>“I mean the Governor’s declaration yesterday morning that he would pay you twice what you expected to +get out of it if you would save Jerry’s life.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, <i>that</i>!” said he, as if he attached little importance to it.</p> + +<p>“He’s a millionaire many times over,” she reminded him. “He can afford to do it, and he +should.”</p> + +<p>“I may be out of the case entirely before night,” he told her, explaining that another physician would +arrive on the first train from Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>“You know best,” said she, resigning hope for his big fee with a sigh.</p> + +<p>“Smith will come over with your tent and goods today, very likely,” said he, “and then we can +leave. I had planned it all along, from the time we used to take those moonlight walks to the river, that we should +leave this country together when it came our time to go.”</p> + +<p>“It would be wrong for you to waste your life here, even if you could make more money than elsewhere, when the +world with more people and more pain in it needs you so badly,” she encouraged him. <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_333'></a>333</span></p> + +<p>“Just so,” he agreed. “It’s very well for Smith to stay here, and men of his kind, who have +no broader world. They are doing humanity a great service in smoothing the desert and bringing the water into +it.”</p> + +<p>“We will leave it to them,” she said.</p> + +<p>They tramped across the claim until they came in sight of Hun Shanklin’s tent. Its flap was blowing in the +wind.</p> + +<p>“The old rascal came over to make friends with me,” said Slavens. “He claimed that he never lifted +his hand against me. There’s his horse, trying to make it down the slope to the river. I’ll have to catch +the beast and take that rope off.</p> + +<p>“There’s a man over there!” Agnes exclaimed. “Look! There among the rocks to the right of +the tent! I wonder who it is?”</p> + +<p>Slavens looked where she pointed, just as the man disappeared among the rocks.</p> + +<p>“It’s the Governor!” she whispered.</p> + +<p>“Looked like his coat,” he agreed.</p> + +<p>“Do you suppose he’s––”</p> + +<p>“Trying to locate old Shanklin’s mine,” he said. “That’s what he’s after. If +there’s copper on that piece the Governor will get it, even if his son doesn’t live to share with him. The +difference of a figure or two in the description of a piece of land might be revised on the books, if one had the +influence.”</p> + +<p>The doctor for whom Governor Boyle had sent arrived on the afternoon train from Cheyenne and <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_334'></a>334</span> reached the camp before sunset. He spoke in the highest terms of the +manner in which Dr. Slavens had proceeded, and declared that it would be presumptuous meddling for him, or anyone else, +to attempt to advise in the case.</p> + +<p>Agnes heard his commendation with triumph in her eyes, and Mrs. Boyle gave Dr. Slavens her blessing in a tearful +look. The doctor from Cheyenne took up his instrument-case and held out his hand with a great deal more respect in his +bearing toward the unknown practitioner than he had shown upon his arrival.</p> + +<p>“On vacation here?” he asked, puzzled to find any other excuse for so much ability running wild among +the rocks in that bleak place.</p> + +<p>“Something like that,” answered Slavens noncommittally.</p> + +<p>“When you’re passing through Cheyenne, stop off and see me,” giving Slavens a respectful +farewell.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens advanced several points in the appraisement of Governor Boyle, although, to do the Governor justice, he +had seen from the beginning that the wandering physician was a master. Boyle had been weighing men for what they were +worth, buying them and selling them, for too many years to place a wrong bet. He told Slavens that unlimited capital +was back of him in his fight for Jerry’s life, and that he had but to demand it if anything was wanted, no matter +what the cost.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens told him bluntly that his son was in a fix <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_335'></a>335</span> +where one man’s money would go as far as another’s to get him clear, and that it had very little weight in +the other end of the scales against the thing they were standing in front of, face to face.</p> + +<p>“Save him to me, Doctor! For God’s sake save him!” begged the old man, his face bloodless, the +weight of his unshored years collapsing upon him and bowing him pitifully.</p> + +<p>Again Slavens felt the wonder of this man’s softness for his son, but pity was tinctured with the thought that +if it had been applied in season to shaping the young man’s life, and his conscience, and his sense of justice, +it might have commanded more respect. But he knew that this was the opportunity to make the one big chance which the +years had been keeping from him. At the start Slavens had told the old man that his son had a chance for life; he had +not said how precariously it lay balanced upon the lip of the dark cañon, nor how an adverse breath might send it +beyond the brink. The weight of the responsibility now lay on him alone. Failure would bring upon him an avalanche of +blame; success a glorious impetus to his new career.</p> + +<p>He took a walk down to the river to think about it, and breathe over it, and get himself steadied. When he came back +he found Smith there, unloading Agnes’ things, soaking up the details of the tragedy with as much satisfaction as +a toad refreshing itself in a rain.</p> + +<p>Smith was no respecter of office or social elevation. If a man deserved shooting, then he ought to be shot, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_336'></a>336</span> according to Smith’s logic. As he made an excuse to +stay around longer by assisting the doctor to raise Agnes’ tent, he expressed his satisfaction that Jerry Boyle +had received part payment, at least, of what was due him.</p> + +<p>“But I tell you,” said he to the doctor in confidence, turning a wary eye to see that Agnes was out of +hearing just then. “I’m glad he got it the way he did. I was afraid one time that girl over there was +goin’ to let him have it. I could see it in her eye.”</p> + +<p>“You can see almost anything in a woman’s eye if your imagination is working right,” the doctor +told him, rather crabbedly.</p> + +<p>“You don’t need to believe it if you don’t want to,” returned Smith, somewhat offended, +“but I tell you that girl’d shoot a man in a minute if he got too fresh!”</p> + +<p>“I believe you’re right about that, Smith,” agreed the doctor, “so let’s you and I be +careful that we don’t get too fresh.”</p> + +<p>Smith said no more, but he kept turning his eye upon the doctor as he got his wagon ready to set off on his return, +with a good deal of unfriendliness in it. Evidently it had come into his mind only then that Dr. Slavens was assuming a +sort of proprietary air around Agnes.</p> + +<p>With his foot on the brake and his lines drawn up, Smith looked down and addressed her.</p> + +<p>“Well, I don’t suppose you’ll be back on the river for some time?” <span class= +'pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_337'></a>337</span></p> + +<p>“I expect it will be a long time,” she replied, evading exposition of her plans.</p> + +<p>“I’ll keep my eye on the place for you, and see that them fellers don’t cut down your +timber,” he offered.</p> + +<p>She thanked him.</p> + +<p>“When you come over that way, take a look at that sign on the front of my store,” said Smith, giving her +a significant, intimate glance. “The more you see that name in print the better you like it.”</p> + +<p>With that Smith threw off his brake so suddenly and violently that it knocked a little cloud of dust out of his +wagon, laid the whip to his team, and drove off with almost as grand a flourish as he used to execute when setting out +from Comanche on the stage.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Boyle left her son’s side, her husband relieving her, to see that Agnes was supplied with everything +necessary. She had pressed Agnes to remain with her–which was well enough in accord with the girl’s own +inclination–and help her care for her “little boy,” as she called him with fond tenderness.</p> + +<p>“Isn’t she sweet?” whispered Agnes, as Mrs. Boyle went to her own tent to fetch something which +she insisted Agnes must have. “She is so gentle and good to be the mother of such a wolf!”</p> + +<p>“But what did she think about her precious son going to turn the whole United States out after you because you +wouldn’t help him pull the plank out from under an unworthy friend?”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t tell her that,” said Agnes, shaking her <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_338'></a>338</span> head. “I told the Governor as we came over, and she isn’t to know that part of +it.”</p> + +<p>Their tents made quite a little village, and the scene presented considerable quiet activity, for the Governor had +brought a man over from Comanche to serve the camp with fuel and water and turn a hand at preparing the food. Agnes was +cook-in-extraordinary to the patient and the doctor. She and Slavens took their supper together that night, sitting +beside the fire.</p> + +<p>There they talked of the case, and the prospect of the fee, and of the future which they were going to fix up +together between them, as confidently as young things half their age. With the promised fee, life would be one way; +without it another. But everything was white enamel and brass knobs at the poorest, for there was confidence to give +hope; strength and love to lend it color.</p> + +<p>Striking the fire with a stick until the sparks rose like quail out of the grass, Dr. Slavens vowed solemnly that he +would win that fee or take in his shingle–which, of course, was a figurative shingle only at that time–and +Agnes pledged herself to stand by and help him do it as faithfully as if they were already in the future and bound to +sustain each other’s hands in the bitter and the sweet of life.</p> + +<p>“It would mean a better automobile,” said he.</p> + +<p>“And a better surgery, and a nicer chair for the consulting-room,” she added, dreaming with wide-open +eyes upon the fire. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_339'></a>339</span></p> + +<p>“And a better home, with more comfort in it for you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, as for that!” said she.</p> + +<p>“I’ve got my eye on a place with old elms in front of it, and moss on the shingles, and a well where you +pull the bucket up with a rope over a pulley,” said he. “I’ve got it all laid out and blooming in my +heart for that precious mother of yours. It is where mine used to live,” he explained; “but strangers are +in it now. We’ll buy them out.”</p> + +<p>“It will be such a burden on you. And just at the beginning,” she sighed. “I’m afraid, after +all, that I’ll never be coward enough to consent to it at the last.”</p> + +<p>“It’s out of your hands now, Agnes,” said he; “entirely out of your hands.”</p> + +<p>“It is strange how it has shaped out,” she reflected after a little silence; “better, perhaps, +than we could have arranged it if we had been allowed our own way. The one unfortunate thing about it seems to be that +this case is isolated out here in the desert, where it never will do you a bit of good.”</p> + +<p>“Except the fee,” he reminded her with a gentle smile.</p> + +<p>“Oh, the fee–of course.”</p> + +<p>“But there is a big hurdle to get over before we come to even that.”</p> + +<p>“You mean––”</p> + +<p>She looked at him with a start, the firelight catching her shining eyes. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_340'></a>340</span></p> + +<p>“The crisis.”</p> + +<p>“Day after tomorrow,” said she, studying the fire as if to anticipate in its necromancy what that day +offered to their hopes.</p> + +<p>The shadow of that grave contingency fell upon them coldly, and the plans they had been making with childlike +freedom of fancy drew away and grew dim, as if such plans never had been. So much depended on the crisis in Jerry +Boyle’s condition, as so much devolves upon the big <i>if</i> in the life of every man and woman at some +straining period of hopes and schemes.</p> + +<p>Words fell away from them; they let the fire grow pale from neglect, and gray ashes came over the dwindling coals, +like hoarfrost upon the bright salvia against a garden wall. Silence was over the camp; night was deep around them. In +Jerry Boyle’s tent, where his mother watched, a dim light shone through the canvas. It was so still there on that +barren hillside that they could hear the river fretting over the stones of the rapids below the ford, more than half a +mile away.</p> + +<p>After a while her hand sought his, and rested warm upon it as she spoke.</p> + +<p>“It was pleasant to dream that, anyway,” said she, giving up a great sigh.</p> + +<p>“That’s one advantage of dreams; they are plastic material, one can shape them after the heart’s +desire,” he answered.</p> + +<p>“But it was foolish of me to mingle mine with yours so,” she objected. “And it was wrong and +selfish. I <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_341'></a>341</span> can’t fasten this dead weight of my +troubles on you and drag you back. I can’t do that, dear friend.”</p> + +<p>He started at the word, laying hold of her hand with eager grip.</p> + +<p>“Have you forgotten the other word–is that all there is to it?” he asked, bending toward her, a +gentle rebuke in his trembling voice.</p> + +<p>“There is so much more! so much more!” she whispered. “Because of that, I cannot be so selfish as +to dream those splendid dreams again–wait,” she requested, as she felt that he was about to speak.</p> + +<p>“If I thought only of myself, of a refuge for others and myself, then I would not count the penalty which +would attach to you to provide it. But unless we win the Governor’s fee, my dear, dear soul, don’t you see +how impossible it will be for us to carry out even the most modest of our fond schemes?”</p> + +<p>“Not at all,” he protested.</p> + +<p>“It would drag you back to where you were before, only leaving you with a greater burden of worry and +expense,” she continued, unheeding. “I was rapt, I was deadened to selfish forgetfulness by the sweet music +of those dreams. I am awake now, and I tell you that you must not do it, that I shall never permit you to ruin your +life by assuming a load which will crush you.”</p> + +<p>“Agnes, the chill of the night is in your heart,” said he. “I will not listen to such folly! +Tomorrow, when the sun shines, it will be the same as yesterday. I have it all arranged; you can’t change it +now.” <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_342'></a>342</span></p> + +<p>“Yes. You took charge of me in your impetuous generosity, and I was thoughtless enough to interpose no word. +But I didn’t mean to be selfish. Please remember above it all that I didn’t mean to be selfish.”</p> + +<p>“I have it all arranged,” he persisted stubbornly, “and there will be no turning back. Tomorrow it +will not look so gloomy to you. Now, you’d better go to bed.”</p> + +<p>He rose as he spoke, gave her his hand, and helped her to her feet. As they stood face to face Agnes placed her hand +upon his shoulder gravely.</p> + +<p>“I am in sober earnest about this, Doctor,” said she. “We must not go on with any more planning +and dreaming. It may look as if I feared the future with you for my own sake, putting the case as I do, all dependent +on the winning of that fee. But you would not be able to swim with the load without that. It would sink you, and that, +too, after you have fought the big battle and won new courage and hope, and a new vision to help you meet the world. +Unless we weather the crisis, I must ride away alone.”</p> + +<p>“I’d be afraid of the future without you; it would be so bleak and lonesome,” said he simply. He +gave her good night before her tent.</p> + +<p>“And for that reason,” said he, carrying on his thought of a minute before, “we must weather the +crisis like good sailormen.”</p> +</div> + +<div class='header'> +<hr class='pb' /> +<a id='link_21'></a> <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_343'></a>343</span> +<h2>CHAPTER XXI<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE CRISIS</span></h2></div> + +<div class='text'> +<p>Brave words are one thing, and inflammation in a gunshot wound is another. Infection set up in Jerry Boyle’s +hurt on the day after that which the doctor had marked as the critical point in his battle for life.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens was of the opinion that the bullet had carried a piece of clothing into the wound, which it was not able +to discharge of itself. An operation for its removal was the one hope of saving the patient, and that measure for +relief was attended by so many perils as to make it very desperate indeed.</p> + +<p>The doctor viewed this alarming turn in his patient with deep concern, not so much out of sympathy for the sufferer +and his parents, perhaps, as on his personal account. The welfare of Jerry Boyle had become the most important thing in +life to him, for his own future hinged on that as its most vital bearing.</p> + +<p>Agnes was firm in her adherence to the plan of procedure which she had announced. She declared that, as matters +stood, she would not become a burden, with all her encumbrances, upon his slender resources. If mischance wrested the +promised fee out of his hands, then they must go their ways separately. She repeated her determination to abide by that +on the morning when Dr. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_344'></a>344</span> Slavens announced the necessity +of the operation.</p> + +<p>Slavens was hurt and disappointed. It seemed that his faith in her suffered a blighting frost.</p> + +<p>“In plain words,” he charged, “you will refuse to marry me because I am poor.”</p> + +<p>“There’s no other way to put it,” she admitted. “But I refuse only out of my boundless +esteem and tenderness for you and your success. I am putting down happiness when I do this, and taking up an additional +load of pain. But what peace or self-respect would ever be mine again if I should consent to add the burden of two +helpless old people to what you will have to carry on your own account?”</p> + +<p>“My back is broad enough to be Atlas to your little world,” he declared.</p> + +<p>“But there’s no use strangling success,” she argued. “It can’t be many years, at the +longest, until time and nature relieve my tottering charges of their dependence on me. If you would care to wait, and +if I might not be too old––”</p> + +<p>“If there’s nothing better for it, then we’ll wait,” he cut in almost sharply. “Do you +remember how I showed you to hold that cone?”</p> + +<p>She had consented to assist him in the operation to the extent of keeping the patient under the ether after he had +administered it.</p> + +<p>“This way,” said she, placing the cotton-filled paper cone over the nostrils.</p> + +<p>From the physician’s standpoint, the operation was <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_345'></a>345</span> entirely successful. A successful operation, as the doctor defines it, means that the doctor +gets what he starts after. Frequently the patient expires during the operation, but that does not subtract anything +from the sum of its success.</p> + +<p>In the case of Jerry Boyle the matter wore a brighter aspect all around. The doctor found the bit of coat-lining +which the bullet had carried in with it, and removed it. The seat of inflammation was centered around it, as he had +foreseen, and the patient was still alive, even though the greater part of the day had passed since the tormenting +piece of cloth was removed.</p> + +<p>The camp was hushed in the depression of despair. Until that day they had heard Mrs. Boyle’s hopeful voice +cheering her husband, upon whom the foreboding of disaster seemed to weigh prophetically. Sometimes she had sung in a +low voice as she watched beside her son. But now her courage seemed to have left her, and she sat in the tent with the +Governor, huddled like two old tempest-beaten birds hiding under a frail shelter which could not shield them from the +last bitter blow. They had given the care of their son over to the doctor and Agnes entirely, watching their coming and +going with tearful eyes, waiting for the word that would cut the slender stay of hope.</p> + +<p>On the afternoon of the second day after the operation, Agnes entered the tent and looked across the patient’s +cot into Dr. Slavens’ tired eyes. He shook his head, holding the sufferer’s wrist, his finger on the +fluttering <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_346'></a>346</span> pulse. It seemed to Agnes that Boyle had sunk +as deep into the shadow of the borderland as human ever penetrated and drew breath. From all appearances he was dead +even that moment, and the solemn shake of the head with which the doctor greeted her seemed to tell her it was the +end.</p> + +<p>She went to her own tent and sat in the sun, which still fell hot and bright. The Governor and his wife had let down +the flap of their tent, as if they could no longer bear the pain of watching. Tears came into Agnes’ eyes as she +waited there in the wreckage of so many human hopes; tears for the mother who had borne that unworthy son, but whose +heart was tender for him as if his soul had been without a stain; tears for the old man whose spirit was broken, and +tears for herself and her own dreams, and all the tender things which she had allowed to spring within her breast.</p> + +<p>After a long time Dr. Slavens came out of the hospital-tent and let the flap down after him. The sun was striking +long, slanting shadows across the barrens; the fire was dying out of its touch. Agnes’ heart sank as she saw the +doctor draw away a little distance, and then turn and walk a little beat, back and forth, back and forth, his head +bowed, his hands clasped behind him in an attitude of thorough disappointment and deep gloom. She got up and went to +him, a feeling that all was over.</p> + +<p>“Never mind,” she consoled, lifting her tear-streaked face to meet his haggard look. “You’ve +lost, but I <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_347'></a>347</span> have come to tell you that it makes no +difference between us. We will go on with our life together as we planned it; we will take up our dreams.”</p> + +<p>“Agnes, you have come in good time,” said he, lifting his hand to his forehead wearily.</p> + +<p>“I am not noble enough to sacrifice my happiness for your good,” she continued. “I am too weak and +common, and womanly frail for that. I cannot carry out my brave resolution, now that you’ve lost. We will go away +together, according to your plan, and I will live by your plan, always and forever.”</p> + +<p>“You have come in good time–in good time,” said he again, as one speaking in a daze.</p> + +<p>Then he drew her to his breast, where her head lay fair and bright, her straying hair, spread like a shattered +sunbeam, lifting in the young wind that came from the hills beyond the river.</p> + +<p>There she rested against the rock of his strength, his hand caressing her wild tresses, the quiver of her sobbing +breast stirring him like a warm and quickening draught.</p> + +<p>“You did well to come and tell me this,” said he, “for, as I love you, my dear, dear woman, I +would not have had you on the other terms. But I have not lost. Jerry Boyle has emerged from the shadow. He will +live.”</p> + +<hr class='tb' /> + +<p>After that day when his adventuring soul strayed so near the portal which opens in but one direction, Boyle’s +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_348'></a>348</span> recovery was rapid. Ten days later they loaded him into a +wagon to take him to Comanche, thence to his father’s home by rail.</p> + +<p>Young Boyle was full of the interest of life again, and his stock of audacity did not appear to be in the least +diminished by his melancholy experience. He treated Dr. Slavens on the footing of an old friend, and if there was any +shame in his heart at his past behavior toward Agnes, his colorless cheeks did not betray it.</p> + +<p>With the exception of one flying visit to the capital city of the state, Governor Boyle had remained in camp +faithfully since the day of the tragedy. But the slow days in those solitudes were galling to his busy mind once the +safety of his boy’s life was assured. He became in a measure dictatorial and high-handed in his dealings with the +doctor, and altogether patronizing.</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens considered his duty toward the patient at an end on the morning when they loaded him into the spring +wagon to take him to Comanche. He told the Governor as much.</p> + +<p>“He’ll be able to get up in a few days more,” said the doctor, “and inside of a month +he’ll be riding his horse as if daylight never had been let through him.”</p> + +<p>Governor Boyle took this announcement as the signal for him to produce his checkbook, which he did with considerable +ostentation and flourish.</p> + +<p>“How much did you expect to get out of this pile of rocks?” he asked the doctor, poising his +fountain-pen over the page. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_349'></a>349</span></p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens colored under the question, which came so sharply and indelicately, although he had rehearsed in his +mind for that moment an uncounted number of times. He said nothing, fumbling as he was for a reply.</p> + +<p>Jerry, lying back on his cot in the wagon, his head propped up, laughed shortly and answered for him.</p> + +<p>“It was about twenty thousand, wasn’t it, Doctor?”</p> + +<p>“Somewhere around there,” admitted Slavens, as if confessing some wild folly.</p> + +<p>“Well, I said I’d give you half as much as you expected to get out of it if you pulled Jerry through, +and I’m here to keep my word,” said the Governor, beginning to write.</p> + +<p>Agnes looked at the doctor, indignant amazement in her face. Then she turned to the Governor sharply.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon, Governor Boyle, but I was present when you made that promise; you said you’d pay him +<i>twice</i> as much as he hoped to get out of the claim if he saved Jerry’s life,” said she.</p> + +<p>Governor Boyle raised his eyes with a cold, severe look on his bearded face.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon!” said he with withering rebuke, which carried with it denial and challenge of proof. +That said, he bent to his writing again.</p> + +<p>Jerry Boyle laughed.</p> + +<p>“Oh, jar loose a little, Governor–be a sport!” he urged.</p> + +<p>“Here is my check for ten thousand dollars, Doctor,” said the Governor, handing the slip to Slavens; +“I <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_350'></a>350</span> consider that pretty good pay for two +weeks’ work.”</p> + +<p>The Governor mounted his horse, and gave the driver the word to proceed slowly to the station.</p> + +<p>“And if I croak on the road over the Governor’ll stop payment on the check,” said Jerry +facetiously.</p> + +<p>“Well, unless you get busy with that little gun of yours and somebody puts another hole through you on the +way,” the doctor assured him, “I’ll make it to the bank door with a perfectly good check in my +hand.”</p> + +<p>Young Boyle held out his hand in farewell, his face suddenly sober and serious.</p> + +<p>“The gun has been cached,” said he. “I promised mother I’d never sling it on a man again, +and I’m going to stick to it. I’m going to get a bill put through the Legislature making it a felony to +pack one, if it can be done. I’m cured, Doctor, in more ways than one.”</p> + +<p>The cavalcade moved off down the winding road. Agnes was ablaze with indignation.</p> + +<p>“The idea of that man going back on his solemn word, given in the very presence of death!”</p> + +<p>“Never mind; that’s the way he made his money, I suppose,” said the doctor. “I’ve got +more out of it than I ever expected to get without a row, and I’m going to make a line for that bank in Cheyenne +and get the money on his check before he changes his mind. He may get to thinking before he gets home that Jerry +isn’t worth ten thousand dollars.”</p> + +<p>As they rode up to the rise of the hill, Agnes reined in and stopped. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id= +'page_351'></a>351</span></p> + +<p>“Here is where we changed places on the coach that day when Smith thought there was going to be a +fight,” she recalled.</p> + +<p>“Yes, this is the place,” he said, looking around with a smile. “Old Hun Shanklin was up here +spying out the land.”</p> + +<p>“Smith called you to the box to help him, he told me later, because he picked you out as a man who would put +up a fight,” said she.</p> + +<p>“Well, let us hope that he made a good guess,” Slavens said, “for here’s where we take up +the racket with the world again.”</p> + +<p>“We changed places on the coach that day; you took the post of danger,” she reflected, her eyes roaming +the browning hills and coming back to his face with a caress in their placid depths.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said, slowly, gravely; “where a man belongs.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Slavens gathered up his reins to go, yet lingered a little, looking out over the gray leagues of that vast land +unfolded with its new adventures at his feet. Agnes drew near, turned in her saddle to view again the place of +desolation strewn over with its monumental stones.</p> + +<p>“This is my Gethsemane,” she said.</p> + +<p>“It was cursed and unholy when I came to it; I leave it sanctified by my most precious memory,” said he. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_352'></a>352</span></p> + +<p>He rode on; Agnes, pressing after, came yet a little way behind, content to have it so, his breast between her and +the world. And that was the manner of their going from the place of stones.</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='adpage'> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'>EDGAR RICE BURROUGH’S NOVELS</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-bottom:10px;'>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & +Dunlap’s list.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>TARZAN THE UNTAMED</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Tells of Tarzan’s return to the life of the ape-man in his search for vengeance on +those who took from him his wife and home.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>JUNGLE TALES OF TARZAN</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Records the many wonderful exploits by which Tarzan proves his right to ape kingship.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>A PRINCESS OF MARS</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Forty-three million miles from the earth–a succession of the weirdest and most +astounding adventures in fiction. John Carter, American, finds himself on the planet Mars, battling for a beautiful +woman, with the Green Men of Mars, terrible creatures fifteen feet high, mounted on horses like dragons.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE GODS OF MARS</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Continuing John Carter’s adventures on the Planet Mars, in which he does battle +against the ferocious “plant men,” creatures whose mighty tails swished their victims to instant death, and +defies Issus, the terrible Goddess of Death, whom all Mars worships and reveres.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE WARLORD OF MARS</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Old acquaintances, made in the two other stories, reappear, Tars Tarkas, Tardos Mors and +others. There is a happy ending to the story in the union of the Warlord, the title conferred upon John Carter, with +Dejah Thoris.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THUVIA, MAID OF MARS</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The fourth volume of the series. The story centers around the adventures of Carthoris, the +son of John Carter and Thuvia, daughter of a Martian Emperor.</p> + +<p class='tp' style='margin-top:10px;'>GROSSET & DUNLAP, <span style= +'font-variant:small-caps;'>Publishers,</span>NEW YORK</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='adpage'> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'>FLORENCE L. BARCLAY’S NOVELS</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-bottom:10px;'>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & +Dunlap’s list.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A novel of the 12th Century. The heroine, believing she had lost her lover, enters a +convent. He returns, and interesting developments follow.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE UPAS TREE</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A love story of rare charm. It deals with a successful author and his wife.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THROUGH THE POSTERN GATE</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The story of a seven day courtship, in which the discrepancy in ages vanished into +insignificance before the convincing demonstration of abiding love.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE ROSARY</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The story of a young artist who is reputed to love beauty above all else in the world, but +who, when blinded through an accident, gains life’s greatest happiness. A rare story of the great passion of two +real people superbly capable of love, its sacrifices and its exceeding reward.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The lovely young Lady Ingleby, recently widowed by the death of a husband who never +understood her, meets a fine, clean young chap who is ignorant of her title and they fall deeply in love with each +other. When he learns her real identity a situation of singular power is developed.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE BROKEN HALO</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The story of a young man whose religious belief was shattered in childhood and restored to +him by the little white lady, many years older than himself, to whom he is passionately devoted.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE FOLLOWING OF THE STAR</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The story of a young missionary, who, about to start for Africa, marries wealthy Diana +Rivers, in order to help her fulfill the conditions of her uncle’s will, and how they finally come to love each +other and are reunited after experiences that soften and purify.</p> + +<p class='tp' style='margin-top:10px;'>GROSSET & DUNLAP, <span style= +'font-variant:small-caps;'>Publishers,</span>NEW YORK</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='adpage'> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'>ETHEL M. DELL’S NOVELS</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-bottom:10px;'>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & +Dunlap’s list.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE LAMP IN THE DESERT</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The scene of this splendid story is laid in India and tells of the lamp of love that +continues to shine through all sorts of tribulations to final happiness.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>GREATHEART</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The story of a cripple whose deformed body conceals a noble soul.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE HUNDREDTH CHANCE</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A hero who worked to win even when there was only “a hundredth chance.”</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE SWINDLER</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The story of a “bad man’s” soul revealed by a woman’s faith.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE TIDAL WAVE</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Tales of love and of women who learned to know the true from the false.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE SAFETY CURTAIN</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A very vivid love story of India. The volume also contains four other long stories of equal +interest.</p> + +<p class='tp' style='margin-top:10px;'>GROSSET & DUNLAP, <span style= +'font-variant:small-caps;'>Publishers,</span>NEW YORK</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='adpage'> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'>ZANE GREY’S NOVELS</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-bottom:10px;'>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & +Dunlap’s list.</p> + +<p style='text-decoration:underline; margin-left:10%;margin-bottom:10px;'>THE MAN OF THE FOREST<br /> +THE DESERT OF WHEAT<br /> +THE U. P. TRAIL<br /> +WILDFIRE<br /> +THE BORDER LEGION<br /> +THE RAINBOW TRAIL<br /> +THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT<br /> +RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE<br /> +THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS<br /> +THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN<br /> +THE LONE STAR RANGER<br /> +DESERT GOLD<br /> +BETTY ZANE</p> + +<p style='text-decoration:underline; margin-left:10%;margin-top:10px;'>LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The life story of “Buffalo Bill” by his sister Helen Cody Wetmore, with +Foreword and conclusion by Zane Grey.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'>ZANE GREY’S BOOKS FOR BOYS</p> + +<p style='text-decoration:underline; margin-left:10%;margin-bottom:10px; text-align:left;'>KEN WARD IN THE JUNGLE<br /> +THE YOUNG LION HUNTER<br /> +THE YOUNG FORESTER<br /> +THE YOUNG PITCHER<br /> +THE SHORT STOP<br /> +THE RED-HEADED OUTFIELD AND OTHER BASEBALL STORIES<br /></p> + +<p class='tp'>GROSSET & DUNLAP, <span style='font-variant:small-caps;'>Publishers,</span>NEW YORK</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='adpage'> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'>JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD’S STORIES OF ADVENTURE</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-bottom:10px;'>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & +Dunlap’s list.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE RIVER’S END</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A story of the Royal Mounted Police.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE GOLDEN SNARE</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Thrilling adventures in the Far Northland.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>NOMADS OF THE NORTH</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The story of a bear-cub and a dog.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>KAZAN</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The tale of a “quarter-strain wolf and three-quarters husky” torn between the +call of the human and his wild mate.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>BAREE, SON OF KAZAN</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The story of the son of the blind Grey Wolf and the gallant part he played in the lives of +a man and a woman.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUM</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The story of the King of Beaver Island, a Mormon colony, and his battle with Captain +Plum.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE DANGER TRAIL</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A tale of love, Indian vengeance, and a mystery of the North.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE HUNTED WOMAN</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A tale of a great fight in the “valley of gold” for a woman.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE FLOWER OF THE NORTH</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The story of Fort o’ God, where the wild flavor of the wilderness is blended with the +courtly atmosphere of France.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE GRIZZLY KING</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The story of Thor, the big grizzly.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>ISOBEL</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A love story of the Far North.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE WOLF HUNTERS</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A thrilling tale of adventure in the Canadian wilderness.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE GOLD HUNTERS</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The story of adventure in the Hudson Bay wilds.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE COURAGE OF MARGE O’DOONE</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Filled with exciting incidents in the land of strong men and women.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>BACK TO GOD’S COUNTRY</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A thrilling story of the Far North. The great Photoplay was made from this book.</p> + +<p class='tp' style='margin-top:10px;'>GROSSET & DUNLAP, <span style= +'font-variant:small-caps;'>Publishers,</span>NEW YORK</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='adpage'> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'>ELEANOR H. PORTER’S NOVELS</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-bottom:10px;'>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & +Dunlap’s list.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>JUST DAVID</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The tale of a loveable boy and the place he comes to fill in the hearts of the gruff farmer +folk to whose care he is left.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A compelling romance of love and marriage.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>OH, MONEY! MONEY!</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Stanley Fulton, a wealthy bachelor, to test the dispositions of his relatives, sends them +each a check for $100,000, and then as plain John Smith comes among them to watch the result of his experiment.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>SIX STAR RANCH</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A wholesome story of a club of six girls and their summer on Six Star Ranch.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>DAWN</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The story of a blind boy whose courage leads him through the gulf of despair into a final +victory gained by dedicating his life to the service of blind soldiers.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>ACROSS THE YEARS</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Short stories of our own kind and of our own people. Contains some of the best writing Mrs. +Porter has done.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE TANGLED THREADS</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>In these stories we find the concentrated charm and tenderness of all her other books.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE TIE THAT BINDS</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Intensely human stories told with Mrs. Porter’s wonderful talent for warm and vivid +character drawing.</p> + +<p class='tp' style='margin-top:10px;'>GROSSET & DUNLAP, <span style= +'font-variant:small-caps;'>Publishers,</span>NEW YORK</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='adpage'> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'>“STORM COUNTRY” BOOKS BY GRACE MILLER WHITE</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-bottom:10px;'>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & +Dunlap’s list.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>JUDY OF ROGUES’ HARBOR</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Judy’s untutored ideas of God, her love of wild things, her faith in life are quite +as inspiring as those of Tess. Her faith and sincerity catch at your heart strings. This book has all of the mystery +and tense action of the other Storm Country books.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>It was as Tess, beautiful, wild, impetuous, that Mary Pickford made her reputation as a +motion picture actress. How love acts upon a temperament such as hers–a temperament that makes a woman an angel +or an outcast, according to the character of the man she loves–is the theme of the story.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE SECRET OF THE STORM COUNTRY</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The sequel to “Tess of the Storm Country,” with the same wild background, with +its half-gypsy life of the squatters–tempestuous, passionate, brooding. Tess learns the “secret” of +her birth and finds happiness and love through her boundless faith in life.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A haunting story with its scene laid near the country familiar to readers of “Tess of +the Storm Country.”</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>ROSE O’ PARADISE</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>“Jinny” Singleton, wild, lovely, lonely, but with a passionate yearning for +music, grows up in the house of Lafe Grandoken, a crippled cobbler of the Storm Country. Her romance is full of power +and glory and tenderness.</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-top:10px;'><i>Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular +Copyrighted Fiction</i> +</p> + +<p class='tp'>GROSSET & DUNLAP, <span style='font-variant:small-caps;'>Publishers,</span> NEW YORK</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='adpage'> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'>KATHLEEN NORRIS’ STORIES</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-bottom:10px;'>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & +Dunlap’s list.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>SISTERS.</i></span>Frontispiece by Frank Street.</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The California Redwoods furnish the background for this beautiful story of sisterly +devotion and sacrifice.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>POOR, DEAR, MARGARET KIRBY.</i></span>Frontispiece by George Gibbs.</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A collection of delightful stories, including “Bridging the Years” and +“The Tide-Marsh.” This story is now shown in moving pictures.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>JOSSELYN’S WIFE.</i></span>Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The story of a beautiful woman who fought a bitter fight for happiness and love.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>MARTIE, THE UNCONQUERED.</i></span>Illustrated by Charles E. +Chambers.</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The triumph of a dauntless spirit over adverse conditions.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE HEART OF RACHAEL.</i></span>Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers.</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>An interesting story of divorce and the problems that come with a second marriage.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE.</i></span>Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A sympathetic portrayal of the quest of a normal girl, obscure and lonely, for the +happiness of life.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>SATURDAY’S CHILD.</i></span>Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes.</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Can a girl, born in rather sordid conditions, lift herself through sheer determination to +the better things for which her soul hungered?</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>MOTHER.</i></span>Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A story of the big mother heart that beats in the background of every girl’s life, +and some dreams which came true.</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-top:10px;'><i>Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular +Copyrighted Fiction</i> +</p> + +<p class='tp'>GROSSET & DUNLAP, <span style='font-variant:small-caps;'>Publishers,</span> NEW YORK</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='adpage'> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'>BOOTH TARKINGTON’S NOVELS</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-bottom:10px;'>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & +Dunlap’s list.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>SEVENTEEN.</i></span>Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal young people of this +story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the time when the reader was Seventeen.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>PENROD.</i></span>Illustrated by Gordon Grant.</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>This is a picture of a boy’s heart, full of the lovable, humorous, tragic things +which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a finished, exquisite work.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>PENROD AND SAM.</i></span>Illustrated by Worth Brehm.</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Like “Penrod” and “Seventeen,” this book contains some remarkable +phases of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness that have ever been written.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE TURMOIL.</i></span>Illustrated by G. E. Chambers.</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his father’s plans +for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a fine girl turns Bibbs’ life from failure to success.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA.</i></span>Frontispiece.</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A story of love and politics,–more especially a picture of a country editor’s +life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love interest.</p> + +<p><span style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE FLIRT.</i></span>Illustrated by Clarence P. Underwood.</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The “Flirt,” the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl’s engagement, +drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a +stupid and unpromising suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister.</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-top:10px;'><i>Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular +Copyrighted Fiction</i> +</p> + +<p class='tp'>GROSSET & DUNLAP, <span style='font-variant:small-caps;'>Publishers,</span> NEW YORK</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='adpage'> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;'>THE NOVELS OF GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL LUTZ</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-bottom:10px;'>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & +Dunlap’s list.</p> + +<p style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE BEST MAN</i> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Through a strange series of adventures a young man finds himself propelled up the aisle of +a church and married to a strange girl.</p> + +<p style='text-decoration:underline'><i>A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS</i> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>On her way West the heroine steps off by mistake at a lonely watertank into a maze of +thrilling events.</p> + +<p style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE ENCHANTED BARN</i> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>Every member of the family will enjoy this spirited chronicle of a young girl’s +resourcefulness and pluck, and the secret of the “enchanted” barn.</p> + +<p style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE WITNESS</i> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>The fascinating story of the enormous change an incident wrought in a man’s life.</p> + +<p style='text-decoration:underline'><i>MARCIA SCHUYLER</i> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A picture of ideal girlhood set in the time of full skirts and poke bonnets.</p> + +<p style='text-decoration:underline'><i>LO, MICHAEL!</i> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A story of unfailing appeal to all who love and understand boys.</p> + +<p style='text-decoration:underline'><i>THE MAN OF THE DESERT</i> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>An intensely moving love story of a man of the desert and a girl of the East pictured +against the background of the Far West.</p> + +<p style='text-decoration:underline'><i>PHOEBE DEANE</i> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A tense and charming love story, told with a grace and a fervor with which only Mrs. Lutz +could tell it.</p> + +<p style='text-decoration:underline'><i>DAWN OF THE MORNING</i> +</p> + +<p style='text-indent:1em;'>A romance of the last century with all of its old-fashioned charm. A companion volume to +“Marcia Schuyler” and “Phoebe Deane.”</p> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:smaller;margin-top:10px;'><i>Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular +Copyrighted Fiction</i> +</p> + +<p class='tp'>GROSSET & DUNLAP, <span style='font-variant:small-caps;'>Publishers,</span> NEW YORK</p> +</div> + +<p> </p> + +<p> </p> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLAIM NUMBER ONE***</p> + +<p>******* This file should be named 30558-h.txt or 30558-h.zip *******</p> + +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/0/5/5/30558">http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/5/5/30558</a></p> + +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.</p> + +<p>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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