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                  THE PREACHER OF CEDAR MOUNTAIN

                    A TALE OF THE OPEN COUNTRY

                     BY ERNEST THOMPSON SETON

                   FRONTISPIECE BY CLARENCE ROWE


Garden City  New York
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1917

_Copyright, 1917, by_
Ernest Thompson Seton

_All rights reserved, including that of
translation into foreign languages,
including the Scandinavian_




[Illustration: "'You must choose between us. Is it Belle or Blazing
Star?'"]




PREFACE


Most of the characters in this tale are from life, and some of the main
events are historical, although the actual scenes and names are not
given. Many men now living will remember Fighting Bill Kenna and the
Horse Preacher, as well as the Fort Ryan races. These horse races are
especially well known and have been described in print many times. I did
not witness any of them myself, but listened on numerous occasions when
they were described to me by eye-witnesses. My first knowledge of the
secret try-out in Yellowbank Canyon was given to me years ago by Homer
Davenport, the cartoonist, with permission to use the same.

But all of these more or less historic events are secondary to the
intent of illustrating the growth of a character, whose many rare gifts
were mere destructive force until curbed and harmonized into the big,
strong machine that did such noble work in the West during my early days
on the Plains.

ERNEST THOMPSON SETON.




CONTENTS


Preface


BOOK I THE CHILD OF THE STABLE YARD

       I. The Home Land of Little Jim Hartigan

      II. The Strains That Were Mingled in Jim

     III. How He Lost His Father

      IV. The Atmosphere of His Early Days

       V. Little Jim's Tutors

      VI. Jim Loses Everything

     VII. He Gets a Much-needed Lesson


BOOK II THE CONVERSION

    VIII. The Conversion of Jim

      IX. Jim Hartigan Goes to College

       X. Escape to Cedar Mountain

      XI. A New Force Enters His Life

     XII. Belle Boyd

    XIII. Preacher Jim's First Sermon

     XIV. The Lure of the Saddle

      XV. Pat Bylow's Spree

     XVI. The New Insurance Agents

    XVII. Belle Makes a Decision and Jim Evades One

   XVIII. The Second Bylow Spree

     XIX. The Day of Reckoning

      XX. The Memorable Trip to Deadwood

     XXI. The Ordeal

    XXII. The Three Religions Confront Him


BOOK III THE HORSE PREACHER

   XXIII. Blazing Star

    XXIV. Red Rover

     XXV. The Secret of Yellowbank Canyon

    XXVI. Preparing for the Day

   XXVII. The Start

  XXVIII. The Finish

    XXIX. The Riders

     XXX. The Fire

    XXXI. Love in the Saddle


BOOK IV THE HORSE PREACHER AFOOT

   XXXII. The Advent of Midnight

  XXXIII. The Sociable

   XXXIV. Springtime

    XXXV. When the Greasewood is in Bloom

   XXXVI. Shoeing the Buckskin

  XXXVII. The Boom

 XXXVIII. When the Craze Struck

   XXXIX. Jim's Bet

      XL. The Crow Band

     XLI. The Pinto

    XLII. The Aftertime

   XLIII. Finding the Lost One

    XLIV. A Fair Rider

     XLV. The Life Game

    XLVI. What Next?

   XLVII. Back to Deadwood

  XLVIII. The Fork in the Trail

    XLIX. The Power of Personality

       L. The Call to Chicago

      LI. These Little Ones

     LII. The Boss

    LIII. The First Meeting

     LIV. The Formation of the Club


BOOK V THE CALL OF THE MOUNTAIN

      LV. In the Absence of Belle

     LVI. The Defection of Squeaks

    LVII. The Trial

   LVIII. In the Death House

     LIX. The Heart Hunger

      LX. The Gateway and the Mountain

     LXI. Clear Vision on the Mountain

    LXII. When He Walked with the King




BOOK ONE

THE CHILD OF THE STABLE YARD




CHAPTER I

The Home Land of Little Jim Hartigan


A burnt, bare, seared, and wounded spot in the great pine forest of
Ontario, some sixty miles northeast of Toronto, was the little town of
Links. It lay among the pine ridges, the rich, level bottomlands, and
the newborn townships, in a region of blue lakes and black loam that was
destined to be a thriving community of prosperous farmer folk. The
broad, unrotted stumps of the trees that not so long ago possessed the
ground, were thickly interstrewn among the houses of the town and in the
little fields that began to show as angular invasions of the woodland,
one by every settler's house of logs. Through the woods and through the
town there ran the deep, brown flood of the little bog-born river, and
streaking its current for the whole length were the huge, fragrant logs
of the new-cut pines, in disorderly array, awaiting their turn to be
shot through the mill and come forth as piles of lumber, broad waste
slabs, and heaps of useless sawdust.

Two or three low sawmills were there, each booming, humming, busied all
the day. And the purr of their saws, or the scream when they struck some
harder place in the wood, was the dominant note, the day-long
labour-song of Links. At first it seemed that these great, wasteful
fragrant, tree-destroying mills were the only industries of the town;
and one had to look again before discovering, on the other side of the
river, the grist mill, sullenly claiming its share of the water power,
and proclaiming itself just as good as any other mill; while radiating
from the bridge below the dam, were the streets--or, rather, the rough
roads, straight and ugly--along which wooden houses, half hidden by tall
sunflowers, had been built for a quarter of a mile, very close together
near the bridge, but ever with less of house and sunflower and more of
pumpkin field as one travelled on, till the last house with the last
pumpkin field was shut in by straggling, much-culled woods, alternating
with swamps that were densely grown with odorous cedar and fragrant
tamarac, as yet untouched by the inexorable axe of the changing day.

Seen from the road, the country was forest, with about one quarter of
the land exposed by clearings, in each of which were a log cabin and the
barn of a settler. Seen from the top of the tallest building, the sky
line was, as yet, an array of plumy pines, which still stood thick among
the hardwood trees and, head and shoulders, overtopped them.

Links was a town of smells. There were two hotels with their complex,
unclean livery barns and yards, beside, behind, and around them; and on
every side and in every yard there were pigs--and still more pigs--an
evidence of thrift rather than of sanitation; but over all, and in the
end overpowering all, were the sweet, pervading odour of the new-sawn
boards and the exquisite aroma of the different fragrant gums--of pine,
cedar, or fir--which memory will acknowledge as the incense to conjure
up again in vivid actuality these early days of Links.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was on a sunny afternoon late in the summer of 1866 that a little
knot of loafers and hangers-on of the hotels gathered in the yard of the
town's larger hostelry and watched Bill Kenna show an admiring world how
to ride a wild, unbroken three-year-old horse. It was not a very bad
horse, and Bill was too big to be a wonderful rider, but still he stayed
on, and presently subdued the wild thing to his will, amid the brief,
rough, but complimentary remarks of the crowd.

One of the most rapt of the onlookers was a rosy-cheeked, tow-topped boy
of attractive appearance--Jim; who though only eight years old, was
blessed with all the assurance of twenty-eight. Noisy and forward,
offering suggestions and opinions at the pitch of his piping voice, he
shrieked orders to every one with all the authority of a young lord; as
in some sense he was, for he was the only son of "Widdy" Hartigan, the
young and comely owner and manager of the hotel.

"There, now, Jim. Could ye do that?" said one of the bystanders,
banteringly.

"I couldn't ride that 'un, cause me legs ain't long enough to lap round;
but I bet I could ride _that_ 'un," and he pointed to a little foal
gazing at them from beside its dam.

"All right, let him try," said several.

"And have his brains kicked out," said a more temperate onlooker.

"Divil a bit," said big Bill, the owner of the colt. "That's the kindest
little thing that ever was born to look through a collar," and he
demonstrated the fact by going over and putting his arms around the
young thing's gentle neck.

"Here, you; give me a leg up," shouted Jimmy, and in a moment he was
astride the four-month colt.

In a yard, under normal kindly conditions, a colt may be the gentlest
thing in the world, but when suddenly there descends upon its back a
wild animal that clings with exasperating pertinacity, there is usually
but one result. The colt plunged wildly, shaking its head and
instinctively putting in practice all the ancient tricks that its kind
had learned in fighting the leopard or the wolf of the ancestral wild
horse ranges.

But Jim stuck on. His legs, it was true, were not long enough to "lap
round," but he was a born horseman. He had practised since he was able
to talk, never losing a chance to bestride a steed; and now he was in
his glory. Round and round went the colt, amid the laughter of the
onlookers. They apprehended no danger, for they knew that the youngster
could ride like a jackanapes; in any case the yard was soft with litter,
and no harm could happen to the boy.

The colt, nearly ridden down, had reached the limit of its young
strength, and had just about surrendered. Jim was waving one hand in
triumph, while the other clutched the fuzzy mane before him, when a new
and striking element was added to the scene. A rustle of petticoats, a
white cap over yellow hair, a clear, commanding voice that sent the men
all back abashed, and the Widdy Hartigan burst through the little
circle.

"What do ye mean letting me bhoy do that fool thing to risk his life and
limb? Have ye no sense, the lot of ye? Jimmy, ye brat, do ye want to
break yer mother's heart? Come off of that colt this holy minute; or
I'll--"

Up till now, Jim had been absolute dominator of the scene; but the
powerful personality of his mother shattered his control, dethroned him.

As she swept angrily toward him, his nerve for the time was shaken. The
colt gave a last wild plunge; Jim lost his balance and his hold, and
went down on the soft litter.

As it sprang free from its tormenter, the frightened beast gave vent to
its best instinctive measure of defense and launched out a final kick.
The youngster gave a howl of pain, and in a minute more he was sobbing
in his mother's arms, while one of the crowd was speeding for the
doctor.

Yes, the arm was broken above the elbow, a simple fracture, a matter of
a month to mend. The bone was quickly set, and when his wailing had in a
measure subsided, Jim showed his horseman soul by jerking out: "I could
have rode him, Mother. I'll ride him yet. I'll tame him to a finish, the
little divil."




CHAPTER II

The Strains That Were Mingled in Jim


Clearly one cannot begin the history of the French Revolution with the
outbreak of 1789. Most phenomena, physical and spiritual, have their
roots, their seeds, their causes--whatever you will--far behind them in
point of time. To understand them one must go back to the beginning or
they will present no logic or _raison d'être_. The phenomenon of James
Hartigan, the Preacher of Cedar Mountain, which is both a physical and a
spiritual fact, is nowise different, and the reader must go back with me
to some very significant events which explain him and account for him.

Little Jim's father was James O'Hartigan in Donegal. The change in the
patronymic was made, not by himself, but by the Government Emigration
Agent at Cork. When James, Sr. came forward to be listed for passage,
the official said: "Oh, hang your O's. I have more of them now than the
column will hold. I'll have to put you in the H's, where there's lots of
room." And so the weight of all the Empire was behind the change.

James Hartigan, Sr. was a typical Irish "bhoy," which is high praise. He
was broad and hearty, with a broad and hearty grin. He was loved and
lovable, blessed with a comely countenance and the joy of a humorous
outlook on life and its vicissitudes. You could not down Jimmy so low
that he might not see some bright and funny aspect in the situation.
This was not only a happy temperamental trait, but it also had a
distinct advantage, for in the moments of deepest self-invited
degradation he never forgot that somewhere ahead, his trail would surely
lead to the uplands once again.

He was what the doctors called "normal human," muscled far above the
average, heart action strong and regular. This combination often
produces two well-marked types--a high-class athlete and a low-class
drunkard. Often these are united in the same individual; or, rather, the
individual appears in the first rôle, until the second comes to
overmaster it. Such was Jimmy Hartigan, Sr., whose relation to the
Preacher may be labelled Cause Number One.

Those who knew her people said that the forbears of Katherine Muckevay
had seen better days; that the ancient royal blood of Ireland ran in her
veins; that the family name was really Mach-ne-veagh; and that, if every
one had his own, Kitty would be wearing a diamond tiara in the highest
walks of London importance. In ancient days, the Kings of Ulster used to
steal a bride at times from the fair-haired folk across the sea; maybe
that was where Kitty got her shining hair of dusty yellow-red, as well
as the calm control in times of stress, something the psychologists call
coördination, which is not a Celtic characteristic.

Of book learning Kitty had almost none, but she had native gifts. She
had wits, good looks, and a wealth of splendid hair, as well as a
certain presence which was her perpetual hedge of safety, even when she
took the perilous place of maid in the crude hotel with its bar-room
annex, whither the hand of Fate had brought her, an Irish immigrant, to
find a new life in the little town of Links. Kitty was Cause Number Two.

Jimmy did not chance to cross on the same ship. But the time had come;
and by chance, which is not chance at all, he drifted into the same
corner of Canada, and had not half a day to wait before he was snapped
up by a local farmer seeking for just such a build of man to swing the
axe and scythe upon his farm.

Farm life is dreary enough, at least it was in those days. It was hard
work from dawn to dusk, and even then the feeble, friendly glimmer of a
caged candle was invoked to win an extra hour or two of labour from the
idleness of gloom--hours for the most part devoted to the chores. The
custom of the day gave all the hired ones freedom Saturday night and all
day Sunday. Wages were high, and with one broad epidemic impulse all
these thriving hirelings walked, drove, or rode on Saturday night to the
little town of Links. Man is above all a social animal; only the
diseased ones seek solitude. Where, then, could they meet their kind?

The instinct which has led to the building of a million clubs, could
find no local focus but the bar-room. John Downey's "hotel" was the
social centre of the great majority of the men who lived and moved
around the town of Links. Not the drink itself, but the desire of men to
meet with men, to talk and swap the news or bandy mannish jokes, was the
attracting force. But the drink was there on tap and all the
ill-adjusted machinery of our modern ways operated to lead men on, to
make abstainers drink, to make the moderate, drunken.

If the life in Downey's stable, house, and bar were expanded in many
chapters, the reader would find a pile of worthless rubbish, mixed with
filth, but also here and there a thread of gold, a rod of the finest
steel, and even precious jewels. But this is not a history of the public
house. Downey's enters our list merely as Cause Number Three.

Those who study psychological causation say that one must find four
causes, accounting for place, matter, force, and time. The three already
given are well known, and I can only guess at the fourth, that referring
to the time. If we suppose that a sea pirate of a thousand years ago,
was permitted to return to earth, to prove that he had learned the
lessons of gentleness so foreign to his rapacious modes of thought, and
that, after a thousand years of cogitation in some disembodied state, he
was allowed to reassume the flesh, to fight a different fight, to raise
himself by battle with himself, we shall, perhaps, account for some of
the strangely divergent qualities that met in the subject of this story.
At least, let us name the ancient Sea-king as Cause Number Four.... And
conjunction of these four was affected in the '50s at Downey's Hotel,
when Jim Hartigan met Kitty Muckevay.

These were the strains that were mingled in little Jim; and during his
early life from the first glimpse we catch of him upon the back of the
unbroken colt, he was torn by the struggle between the wild, romantic,
erratic, visionary, fighting Celt, with moods of love and hate, and the
calmer, steady, tireless, lowland Scottish Saxon from the North who, far
less gifted, had far more power and in the end had mastery; and having
won control, built of his mingled heritages a rare, strong soul, so
steadfast that he was a tower of strength for all who needed help.




CHAPTER III

How He Lost His Father


The immediate and physical environment of Links was the far backwoods of
Canada, but the spirit and thought of it were Irish. The inhabitants
were nearly all of Irish origin, most of them of Irish birth, and the
fates had ruled it so that they came from all parts of the green isle.
The North was as well represented as the South, and the feuds of the old
land were most unprofitably transferred to the new.

Two days on the calendar had long been set aside by custom for the
celebration of these unhappy feuds; the seventeenth of March, which is
St. Patrick's Day, and the twelfth of July, on which, two hundred years
before, King William had crossed the river to win the famous Battle of
the Boyne. Under the evil spell of these two memorable occasions,
neighbours who were good and helpful friends, felt in honour bound to
lay all their kindness aside twice every year, and hate and harass each
other with a senseless vindictiveness.

At the time with which this chronicle has to do, Orange Day had dawned
on Links. No rising treble issued from the sawmills; the air was almost
free of their dust, and there were hints of holiday on all the town.
Farmers' wagons were arriving early, and ribbons of orange and blue were
fastened in the horses' headgear. From the backyard of Downey's Hotel
the thumping of a big drum was heard, and the great square piles of
yellow lumber near Ford's Mill gave back the shrilling of fifes that
were tuning up for the event. As the sun rose high, the Orangemen of the
Lodge appeared, each wearing regalia--cuffs and a collarette of sky-blue
with a fringe of blazing orange, or else of gold, inscribed with letters
and symbols.

The gathering place was in the street before the Lodge Hall, and their
number was steadily increased by men from the surrounding farms. The
brethren of the opposite faith, the Catholics--more often called
"Dogans" or "Papists"--were wisely inconspicuous. Had it been their day,
their friends, assembled from far places, would have given them numbers
enough for safety and confidence; but now the boys in green were, for
the most part, staying at home and seeking to avoid offence.

In the stable yard of Downey's Hotel, where Jim Hartigan--the father of
our hero--and several others of his Church were disconsolately looking
forward to a dreary and humiliating day, the cheery uproar of the
Orangemen in the bar-room could plainly be heard. James himself was
surprised at his restraint in not being there too, for he was a typical
Irish "bhoy" from the west coast, with a religion of Donegal colour and
intensity. Big, hearty, uproarious in liquor, and full of fun at all
times, he was universally beloved. Nothing could or did depress Jim for
long; his spirits had a generous rebound. A boisterous, blue-eyed boy of
heroic stature, he was the joy of Downey's, brim-full of the fun of life
and the hero of unnumbered drinking bouts in the not so very distant
past. But--two months before--Jim had startled Links and horrified his
priest by marrying Kitty Muckevay of the gold-red hair. Kitty had a rare
measure of good sense but was a Protestant of Ulster inflexibility. She
had taken Jim in hand to reform him, and for sixty days he had not
touched a drop! Moreover he had promised Kitty to keep out of mischief
on this day of days. All that morning he had worked among the horses in
Downey's livery stable where he was head man. It was a public holiday,
and he had been trying desperately to supply a safety valve for his
bursting energy. His excitible Irish soul was stirred by the murmur of
the little town, now preparing for the great parade, as it had been
stirred twice every year since he could remember, but now to the
farthest depths.

He had swallowed successfully one or two small affronts from the passing
Orangemen, because he was promise-bound and sober; but when one of the
enemy, a boon companion on any other day, sought him out in the stable
yard and, with the light of devilment in his eyes, walked up holding out
a flask of whiskey and said: "Hartigan! Ye white-livered, weak-need
papist, ye're not man enough to take a pull at that, an' tip the hat aff
of me head!" Hartigan's resolutions melted like wax before the flare of
his anger. Seizing the flask, he took a mouthful of the liquor and
spurted it into the face of the tormentor. The inevitable fight did not
amount to much as far as the casualties went, but what loomed large was
the fact that Hartigan had filled his mouth with the old liquid
insanity. Immediately he was surrounded by those who were riotously
possessed of it, and in fifteen minutes Jimmy Hartigan was launched on
the first drunken carouse he had known since he was a married man in
public disgrace with the priest for mating with a Protestant.

The day wore on and the pace grew faster. There were fun and fighting
galore, and Jimmy was in his element again. Occasional qualms there
were, no doubt, when he had a moment to remember how Kitty would feel
about it all. But this was his day of joy--mad, rollicking, bacchanalian
joy--and all the pent-up, unhallowed hilarity of the bygone months found
vent in deeds more wild than had ever been his before.

The Orangemen's procession started from their lodge, with three drums
and one fife trilling a wheezing, rattling manglement of "Croppies Lie
Down," whose only justification lay in the fact that it was maintaining
a tradition of the time; and Jimmy Hartigan, besieged in the livery yard
with half a dozen of his coreligionists, felt called upon to avenge the
honour of the South of Ireland at these soul-polluting sounds. Someone
suggested a charge into the ranks of the approaching procession, with
its sizzling band and its abhorrent orange-and-blue flags, following in
the wake of Bill Kenna, whose proud post was at the head of the
procession, carrying a cushion on which was an open Bible. The fact that
Bill was a notorious ruffian--incapable of reading, and reeling
drunk--had no bearing on his being chosen as Bible carrier. The Bible
fell in the dust many times and was accidentally trampled on by its
bearer, which was unfortunate but not important. Bill bore the emblem of
his organization and, being a good man with his fists, he was amply
qualified for his job.

But the sight of all this truculence and the ostentatious way in which
the little green flags were trampled on and insulted, was too much for
Jimmy and his inspired companions.

"Let's charge the hull rabble," was the suggestion.

"What! Six charge one hundred and twenty!"

"Why not?"

The spirit of Gideon's army was on them, and Jimmy shouted: "Sure,
bhoys, let's hitch to that and give it to 'em. Lord knows their black
souls need it." He pointed to a great barrel half full of whitewash
standing in a wagon ready for delivery next day at the little steamer
dock, where a coat of whitewash on the wharf and shed was the usual
expedient to take the place of lights for night work.

Thus it came about. The biggest, strongest team in the stable was
harnessed in a minute. The men were not too drunk to pick the best in
horses and harness. The barrel was filled brim-full with water and well
stirred up, so that ammunition would be abundant. Jimmy was to be the
driver; the other five were each armed with a bucket, except one who
found a force pump through which the whitewash could be squirted with
delightful precision. They were to stand around the barrel and dash its
contents right and left as Jimmy drove the horses at full speed down the
middle of the procession. Glorious in every part was the plan; wild
enthusiasm carried all the six away and set the horses on their mettle.

Armed with a long, black snake whip, Jimmy mounted the wagon seat. The
gate was flung wide, and, with a whoop, away went that bumping chariot
of splashing white. Bill Kenna had just dropped his Bible for the
eleventh time and, condemning to eternal perdition all those
ill-begotten miscreants who dared to push him on or help his search, he
held the ranks behind him for a moment halted. At this instant with a
wild shout, in charged Jim Hartigan, with his excited crew. There was
not a man in the procession who had not loved Hartigan the day before,
and who did not love him the day after; but there was none that did not
hate him with a bitter hate on this twelfth day of July, as he charged
and split the procession wide open.

The five helpers dashed their bewildering, blinding slush fast and far,
on every face and badge that they could hit; and the pump stream hit
Kenna square in the face as he yelled in wrath. The paraders were not
armed for such a fight. Men that could face bullets, knives, and death,
were dismayed, defeated, and routed by these baffling bucketfuls and the
amazing precision of the squirting pump.

Strong hands clutched at the bridle reins, but the team was plunging and
going fast. The driver was just drunk enough for recklessness; he kept
the horses jumping all down that Orangemen's parade. Oh, what a rout it
made! And the final bucketfuls were hurled in through the window of the
Orange Lodge, just where they were needed most, as Jimmy and his five
made their escape.

The bottle now went round once more. Shrieking with laughter at their
sweeping, bloodless victory, the six Papists saw the procession
rearrayed. Kenna had recovered and wiped his face with one coat sleeve,
his Bible with the other. The six dispensers of purity could not resist
it; they must charge again. Hartigan wheeled the horses to make the turn
at a run. But with every circumstance against him--speed and reckless
driving, a rough and narrow roadway beset with stumps--the wagon
lurched, crashed, upset, and the six went sprawling in the ditch. The
horses ran away to be afterward rounded up at a farm stable three miles
off, with the fragments of a wagon trailing behind them.

The anger of the Orangemen left them as they gathered around. Five of
the raiders were badly shaken and sobered, one lay still on the stones,
a deep and bloody dent in his head. The newly arrived, newly fledged
doctor came, and when after a brief examination, he said: "He's
dead--all right," there was a low, hollow sound of sympathy among the
men who ten minutes before would gladly have killed him. One voice spoke
for all the rest.

"Poor lad! He was a broth of a bhoy! Poor little Widdy Hartigan."




CHAPTER IV

The Atmosphere of His Early Days


There were many surprises and sharp contrasting colour spots on the map
of the "Widdy's" trail for the next nine years. With herself and the
expected child to make a home for after that mad Orange Day, she had
sought employment and had been welcomed back to the hotel where she had
ever been a favourite.

The little room above the kitchen which projected over the yard was her
only resting place. The cheapest, simplest of wooden furniture was all
it held. On a tiny stand, made of a packing case, was her Bible and,
hanging over it a daguerreotype of her husband--his frank, straight gaze
and happy face looking forth with startling reality. Outside and very
near, for the building was low, the one window looked upon the yard of
the hotel, with its horses, its loafers, its hens and its swine; while
just above the shutter's edge a row of swallows had their nests, where
the brooding owners twittered in the early summer morning, as she rose
with the sunrise and went about her work. A relief at first, the duties
Kitty had undertaken grew heavier with the months, till at last the
kindly heart of the owner's wife was touched, and a new _régime_ of rest
ensued.

Eight months after that fatal Orange Day, James Hartigan, Jr., was born
in the little room over the yard; and baby wailings were added to the
swallows' chirps and the squeals of pigs. Mother Downey, rough and
rawboned to the eye, now appeared in guardian-angel guise, and the
widow's heart was deeply touched by the big, free kindness that events
had discovered in the folk about her. Kitty was of vigorous stock; in a
week she was up, in a fortnight seemed well; and in a month was at her
work, with little Jim--named for his father and grandfather--in hearing,
if not in sight.

Then, quite suddenly, Mrs. Downey died. A big, gaunt woman, she had the
look of strength; but the strength was not there; and a simple malady
that most would have shaken off was more than she could fight. With her
husband and Kitty by the bed, she passed away; and her last words were:
"Be good--to--Kitty, John--and--Little Jim."

It was an easy promise for John Downey to give and a pleasant
undertaking to live up to. Before his wife had been dead three months,
John Downey had assured Kitty that she might become Mrs. Downey Number
Two as early as she pleased. It was not by any means the first offer
since her loss. Indeed, there were few free men in Links who would not
have been glad to marry the winsome, young, energetic widow.

But all her heart was on her boy, and until she could see that it was
best for him she would take no second partner. Downey's proposal was a
puzzle to her; he was a big, strong, dull, moderately successful,
unattractive man. But he had a good business, no bad habits, and was
deeply in love with her.

It was the thought of little Jim that settled it. Downey showed genuine
affection for the child. To give him a father, to have him well
educated--these were large things to Kitty and she consented. As soon as
the late Mrs. Downey should have been laid away for six months, the
wedding was to be and Kitty moved to other lodgings meanwhile. But
Fate's plans again disagreed with Kitty's. A few weeks after her
consent, the town was startled by the news that John Downey was dead. A
cold--neglect (for he did not know how to be sick), and pneumonia. The
folk of the town had much to talk of for a day, and the dead man's will
gave still higher speed to their tongues, for he had left the hotel and
all its appurtenances to Widdy Hartigan, as a life interest; after her
death it was to go to a kinsman. Thus, out of John Downey's grave there
grew a tree with much-needed and wholesome fruit.

Now Kitty was in a quandary. She was an abstainer from choice rather
than principle; but she was deeply imbued with the uncompromising
religion of her Ulster forbears. How could she run a bar-room? How could
she, who had seen the horror of the drink madness, have a hand in
setting it in the way of weak ones? Worst dilemma of all, how could she
whose religious spirit was dreaming of a great preacher son, bring him
up in these surroundings--yet how refuse, since this was his only
chance?

She consulted with her pastor; and this was the conclusion reached: She
would accept the providential bequest. Downey's would be an inn, a
hotel; not a bar-room. The place where the liquor was sold should be
absolutely apart, walled off; and these new rules were framed: No minor
should ever be served there, no habitual drunkard, no man who already
had had enough. Such rules in Canada during the middle of last century
were considered revolutionary; but they were established then, and, so
far as Kitty could apply them, they were enforced; and they worked a
steady betterment.

With this new responsibility upon her, the inborn powers of Kitty
Hartigan bloomed forth. Hers was the gift of sovereignty, and here was
the chance to rule. The changes came but slowly at first, till she knew
the ground. A broken pane, a weak spot in the roof, a leaky horse
trough, and a score of little things were repaired. Account books of a
crude type were established, and soon a big leak in the treasury was
discovered and stopped; and many little leaks and unpaid bills were
unearthed. An aspiring barkeeper of puzzling methods was, much to his
indignation, hedged about by daily accountings and, last of all, a thick
and double door of demarcation was made between the bar-room and the
house. One was to be a man's department, a purely business matter; the
other a place apart--another world of woollen carpets and feminine
gentleness, a place removed ten miles in thought. The dwellers in these
two were not supposed to mix or even to meet, except in the dining room
three times a day; and even there some hint of social lines was
apparent.

In former times the hotel had been a mere annex of the bar-room. Now the
case was reversed; the bar-room became the annex. The hotel grew as
Kitty's power developed. Good food temptingly served brought many to the
house who had no interest in the annex. Her pies made the table famous
and were among the many things that rendered it easy to displace the
brown marbled oilcloth with white linen, and the one roller towel for
all, with individual service in each room.

In this hotel world the alert young widow made her court and ruled as a
queen. Here little Jim slept away his babyhood and grew to consciousness
with sounds of coming horses, going wheels; of chicken calls and
twittering swallows in their nests; shouts of men and the clatter of tin
pails; the distant song of saw mills and their noontide whistles; smells
of stables mixed with the sweet breathings of oxen and the pungent odour
of pine gum from new-sawn boards.

And ever as he grew, he loved the more to steal from his mother's view
and be with the stable hands--loving the stable, loving the horses,
loving the men that were horsemen in any sort, and indulged and spoiled
by them in turn. The widow was a winner of hearts whom not even the wife
of Tom Ford, the rich millman and mayor of the town, could rival in
social power, so Jim, as the heir apparent, grew up in an atmosphere of
importance that did him little good.




CHAPTER V

Little Jim's Tutors


"Whiskey" Mason had been for more than three years with Downey. He was
an adroit barkeep. He knew every favourite "mix" and how to use the
thickest glasses that would ever put the house a little more ahead of
the game. But the Widow soon convinced herself that certain rumours
already hinted at were well-founded, and that Mason's salary did not
justify his Sunday magnificence. Mason had long been quite convinced
that he was the backbone of the business and absolutely indispensable.
Therefore he was not a little surprised when the queen, in the beginning
of her reign, invited him to resign his portfolio and seek his fortune
elsewhere, the farther off the better to her liking.

Mason went not far, but scornfully. He took lodgings in the town to wait
and see the inevitable wreck that the widow was inviting for her house.
For two months he waited, but was disappointed. The hotel continued in
business; the widow had not come to beg for his return; his credit was
being injured with excessive use; and as he had found no other work, he
took the stage to the larger town of Petersburg some thirty miles away.
Here he sought a job, in his special craft of "joy mixer" but, failing
to find that, he turned his attention to another near akin. In those
days the liquor laws of Canada provided a heavy fine for any breach of
regulation; and of this the informant got half. Here was an easy and
honourable calling for which he was well equipped.

       *       *       *       *       *

It has ever been law in the man's code that he must protect the place he
drinks in, so that the keepers of these evil joints are often careless
over little lapses. Thus Whiskey Mason easily found a victim, and within
three days was rich once more with half of the thousand-dollar fine that
the magistrate imposed.

He felt that all the country suddenly was his lawful prey. He could not
long remain in Petersburg, where he was soon well known and shunned. He
had some trouble, too, for threats against his life began to reach him
more and more. It was the magistrate himself who suggested
contemptuously, "You had better take out a pistol license, my friend;
and you would be safer in a town where no one knows you."

In those early days before his dismissal by Kitty, Mason's life and
Little Jim's had no point of meeting. Six years later, when he returned
to Links, Jimmy was discovering great possibilities in the stables of
the Inn. Mason often called at the bar-room where he had once been the
ruling figure, and was received with cold aloofness. But he was used to
that; his calling had hardened him to any amount of human scorn. He
still found a kindred spirit, however, in the stable man, Watsie Hall,
and these two would often "visit" in the feed room, which was a
favourite playground of the bright-haired boy.

It is always funny if one can inspire terror without actual danger to
the victim. Mason and Hall taught Jim to throw stones at sparrows, cats,
and dogs, when his mother was not looking. He hardly ever hit them, and
his hardest throw was harmless, but he learned to love the sport. A
stray dog that persisted in stealing scraps which were by right the
heritage of hens, was listed as an enemy, and together they showed Jim
how to tie a tin can on the dog's tail in a manner that produced
amazingly funny results and the final disappearance of the cur in a
chorus of frantic yelps.

These laboratory experiments on animals developed under the able tutors,
and Jim was instructed in the cat's war dance, an ingenious mode of
inspiring puss to outdo her own matchless activity in a series of wild
gyrations, by glueing to each foot a shoe of walnut shell, half filled
with melted cobbler's wax to hold it on. Flattered by their attentions
at first, the cat purred blandly as they fitted on the shoes. Jim's eyes
were big and bright with tensest interest. The cat was turned loose in
the grain room. To hear her own soft pads drop on the floor, each with a
sharp, hard crack, must have been a curious, jarring experience. To find
at every step a novel sense of being locked in, must have conjured up
deep apprehensions in her soul. And when she fled, and sought to scale
the partition, to find that her claws were gone--that she was now a
thing with hoofs--must have been a horrid nightmare. Fear entered into
her soul, took full control; then followed the wild erratic circling
around the room, with various ridiculous attempts to run up the walls,
which were so insanely silly that little James shrieked for joy, and
joining in with the broom, urged the cat to still more amazing evidences
of muscular activity not excelled by any other creature.

It was rare sport with just a sense of sin to give it tang, for he had
been forbidden to torment the cat, and Jim saw nothing but the funny
side; he was only seven.

It was a week later that they tried the walnut trick again, and Jim was
eager to see the "circus." But the cat remembered; she drove her teeth
deep into Hall's hand and fought with a feline fury that is always
terrifying. Jim was gazing in big-eyed silence, when Hall, enraged,
thrust the cat into the leg of a boot and growled, "I'll fix yer
biting," and held her teeth to the grindstone till the body in the boot
was limp.

At the first screech of the cat, Jim's whole attitude had changed.
Amusement and wild-eyed wonder had given way to a shocking realization
of the wicked cruelty. He sprang at Hall and struck him with all the
best vigour of his baby fists. "Let my kitty go, you!" and he kicked the
hostler in the shins until he himself was driven away. He fled indoors
to his mother, flung himself into her arms and sobbed in newly awakened
horror. To his dying day he never forgot that cry of pain. He had been
in the way of cruel training with these men, but the climax woke him up.
It was said that he never after was cruel to any creature, but this is
sure--that he never after cared to be with cats of any sort.

This was the end of Hall, so far as his life had bearing on that of
James Hartigan Second; for Kitty dismissed him promptly as soon as she
heard the story of his brutality.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of all the specimens of fine, physical manhood who owned allegiance to
Downey's Hotel, Fightin' Bill Kenna was the outstanding figure. He was
not so big as Mulcahy, or such a wrestler as Dougherty, or as skilled a
boxer as McGraw; he knew little of the singlestick and nothing of
knife- or gun-play; and yet his combination of strength, endurance and
bullet-headed pluck made him by general voice "the best man in Links."

Bill's temper was fiery; he loved a fight. He never was worsted, the
nearest thing to it being a draw between himself and Terry Barr. After
that Terry went to the States and became a professional pugilist of
note. Bill's social record was not without blemish. He was known to have
appropriated a rope, to the far end of which was attached another man's
horse. He certainly had been in jail once and should have been there a
dozen times, for worse crimes than fighting. And yet Bill was firmly
established as Bible bearer in the annual Orangemen's parade and would
have smashed the face of any man who tried to rob him of his holy
office.

Kenna was supposed to be a farmer, but he loved neither crops nor land.
The dream of his exuberant life was to be a horse breeder, for which
profession he had neither the capital nor the brains. His social and
convivial instincts ever haled him townward, and a well-worn chair in
Downey's bar-room was by prescriptive right the town seat of William
Kenna, Esq., of the Township of Opulenta. Bill had three other good
qualities besides his mighty fists. He was true to his friends, he was
kind to the poor and he had great respect for his "wurd as a mahn." If
he gave his "wurd as a mahn" to do thus and so, he ever made a strenuous
effort to keep it.

Bill was madly in love with Kitty Hartigan. She was not unmoved by the
huge manliness of the warlike William, but she had too much sense to
overlook his failings, and she held him off as she did a dozen more--her
devoted lovers all--who hung around ever hoping for special favour. But
though Kitty would not marry him, she smiled on Kenna indulgently and
thus it was that this man of brawn had far too much to say in shaping
the life of little Jim Hartigan. High wisdom or deep sagacity was
scarcely to be named among Kenna's attributes, and yet instinctively he
noted that the surest way to the widow's heart was through her boy. This
explained the beginning of their friendship, but other things soon
entered in. Kenna, with all his faults, was a respecter of women,
and--they commonly go together--a clumsy, awkward, blundering lover of
children. Little Jim was bright enough to interest any one; and, with
the certain instinct of a child, he drifted toward the man whose heart
was open to him. Many a day, as Kenna split some blocks of wood that
were over big and knotty for the official axeman, Jim would come to
watch and marvel at the mighty blows. His comments told of the
imaginative power born in his Celtic blood:

"Bill, let's play you are the Red Dermid smiting the bullhide bearing
Lachlin," he would shout, and at once the brightness of his mental
picture and his familiarity with the nursery tales of Erin that were
current even in the woods created a wonder-world about him. Then his
Ulster mind would speak. He would laugh a little shamefaced chuckle at
himself and say:

"It's only Big Bill Kenna splitting wood."

Bill was one of the few men who talked to Jim about his father; and,
with singular delicacy, he ever avoided mentioning the nauseating fact
that the father was a papist. No one who has not lived in the time and
place of these feuds can understand the unspeakable abomination implied
by that word; it was the barrier that kept his other friends from
mention of the dead man's name; and yet, Bill spoke with kindly
reverence of him as, "a broth of a bhoy, a good mahn, afraid of no wan,
and as straight as a string."

Among the occasional visitors at the stable yard was young Tom Ford,
whose father owned the mill and half the town. Like his father, Tom was
a masterful person, hungry for power and ready to rule by force. On the
occasion of his first visit he had quarrelled with Jim, and being older
and stronger, had won their boyish fight. It was in the hour of his
humiliation that Kenna had taken Jim on his knee and said:

"Now Jim, I'm the lepricaun that can tache you magic to lick that fellow
aisy, if ye'll do what I tell you." And at the word "lepricaun," the
Celt in Jim rose mightier than the fighting, bullet-headed Saxon. His
eager word and look were enough.

"Now, listen, bhoy. I'll put the boxing gloves on you every day, an'
I'll put up a sack of oats, an' we'll call it Tom Ford; an' ye must hit
that sack wi' yer fist every day wan hundred times, twenty-five on the
top side and siventy-five on the bottom side for the undercut is worth
more than the uppercut anny day; an' when ye've done that, ye're making
magic, and at the end of the moon ye'll be able to lick Tom Ford."

Jim began with all his ten-year-old vigour to make the necessary magic,
and had received Bill's unqualified approval until one day he appeared
chewing something given him by one of the men as a joke. Jim paused
before Bill and spat out a brown fluid.

"Fwhat are ye doing?" said Bill; then to his disgust, he found that Jim,
inspired probably by his own example, was chewing tobacco.

"Spit it out, ye little divil, an' never agin do that. If ye do that
three times before ye're twenty-one, ye'll make a spell that will break
you, an' ye'll never lick Tom Ford."

Thus, with no high motive, Kenna was in many ways, the guardian of the
child. Coarse, brutish, and fierce among men, he was ever good to the
boy and respectful to his mother; and he rounded out his teaching by the
doctrine: "If ye give yer word as a mahn, ye must not let all hell
prevent ye holding to it." And he whispered in a dreadful tone that sent
a chill through the youngster's blood: "It'll bring the bone-rot on ye
if ye fail; it always does."

It is unfortunate that we cannot number the town school principal as a
large maker of Jim's mind. Jim went to school and the teacher did the
best he could. He learned to read, to write and to figure, but books
irked him and held no lure. His joy was in the stable yard and the barn
where dwelt those men of muscle and of animal mind; where the boxing
gloves were in nightly use, the horses in daily sight, and the world of
sport in ring or on turf was the only world worth any man's devotion.

There were a dozen other persons who had influence in the shaping of the
life and mind of Little Jim Hartigan; but there was one that
overpowered, that far outweighed, that almost negatived the rest; that
was his mother. She could scarcely read, and all the reading she ever
tried to do was in her Bible. Filled with the vision of what she wished
her boy to be--a minister of Christ--Kitty sent him to the public
school, but the colour of his mind was given at home. She told him the
stories of the Man of Galilee, and on Sundays, hand in hand, they went
to the Presbyterian Church, to listen to tedious details that
illustrated the practical impossibility of any one really winning out in
the fight with sin.

She sang the nursery songs of the old land and told the tales of magic
that made his eyes stare wide with loving, childish wonder. She told him
what a brave, kind man his father had been, and ever came back to the
world's great Messenger of Love. Not openly, but a thousand times--in a
thousand deeply felt, deeply meant, unspoken ways--she made him know
that the noblest calling man might ever claim was this, to be a herald
of the Kingdom. Alone, on her knees, she would pray that her boy might
be elected to that great estate and that she might live to see him going
forth a messenger of the Prince of Peace.

Kitty was alive to the danger of the inherited taste for drink in her
son. The stern, uncompromising Presbyterian minister of the town, in
whose church the widow had a pew, was temperate, but not an abstainer;
in fact, it was his custom to close the day with a short prayer and a
tall glass of whiskey and water. While, with his advice, she had
entirely buried her doctrinal scruples on the selling of drink to the
moderate, her mother-heart was not so easily put to sleep. Her boy
belonged to the house side of the hotel. He was not supposed to enter
the saloon; and when, one day, she found an unscrupulous barkeeper
actually amusing himself by giving the child a taste of the liquid fire,
she acted with her usual promptitude and vigour. The man was given just
enough time to get his hat and coat, and the boy was absolutely
forbidden the left wing of the house. Later, in the little room where he
was born, she told Jim sadly and gently what it would mean, what
suffering the drinking habit had brought upon herself, and thus, for the
first time, he learned that this had been the cause of his father's
death. The boy was deeply moved and voluntarily offered to pledge
himself never to touch a drop again so long as he lived. But his mother
wisely said:

"No, Jim; don't say it that way. Leaning backward will not make you
safer from a fall; only promise me you'll never touch it till you are
eighteen; then I know you will be safe."

And he promised her that he never would; he gave his word--no more; for
already the rough and vigorous teaching of Bill Kenna had gripped him in
some sort. He felt that there was no more binding seal; that any more
was more than man should give.

When Jim was twelve he was very tall and strong for his age, and almost
too beautiful for a boy. His mother, of course, was idolatrous in her
love. His ready tongue, his gift of reciting funny or heroic verse, and
his happy moods had made him a general favourite, the king of the stable
yard. Abetted, inspired and trained by Kenna, he figured in many a
boyish fight, and usually won so that he was not a little pleased with
himself in almost every way. Had he not carried out his promise of two
years before and thrashed the mayor's son, who was a year older than
himself, and thereby taught a lesson to that stuck-up, purse-proud
youngster? Could he not ride with any man? Yes, and one might add, match
tongues with any woman. For his native glibness was doubly helped by the
vast, unprintable vocabularies of his chosen world, as well as by choice
phrases from heroic verse that were a more exact reflex of his mind.

Then, on a day, came Whiskey Mason drifting into Links once more. He was
making an ever scantier living out of his wretched calling, and had sunk
as low as he could sink. But he had learned a dozen clever tricks to
make new victims.

At exactly eleven o'clock, P.M., the bar-room had been closed, as was by
law required. At exactly eleven five, P.M. a traveller, sick and weak,
supported by a friend, came slowly along the dusty road to the door,
and, sinking down in agony of cramps, protested he could go no farther
and begged for a little brandy, as his friend knocked on the door,
imploring kindly aid for the love of heaven. The barkeeper was obdurate,
but the man was in such a desperate plight that the Widow Hartigan was
summoned. Ever ready at the call of trouble her kindly heart responded.
The sick man revived with a little brandy; his friend, too, seemed in
need of similar help and, uttering voluble expressions of gratitude, the
travellers went on to lodgings on the other side of the town, carrying
with them a flask in which was enough of the medicine to meet a new
attack if one should come before they reached their destination.

At exactly eleven ten, P.M., these two helpless, harmless strangers
received the flask from Widow Hartigan. At exactly eight A.M., the next
day, at the opening of the Magistrate's office, they laid their
information before him, that the Widow Hartigan was selling liquor out
of hours. Here was the witness and here was the flask. They had not paid
for this, they admitted, but said it had been "charged." All the town
was in a talk. The papers were served, and on the following day, in
court, before Tom Ford, the Mayor, the charge was made and sworn to by
Mason, who received, and Hall, who witnessed and also received, the
unlawful drink.

It was so evidently a trumped-up case that some judges would have
dismissed it. But the Mayor was human; this woman had flouted his wife;
her boy had licked his boy. The fine might be anything from one hundred
up to one thousand dollars. The Mayor was magnanimous; he imposed the
minimum fine. So the widow was mulcted a hundred dollars for playing the
rôle of good Samaritan. Mason and Hall got fifty dollars to divide, and
five minutes later were speeding out of town. They left no address. In
this precautionary mood their instincts were right, though later events
proved them to be without avail.

Just one hour after the disappearance of Mason, Kenna came to town and
heard how the Widow's open-hearted kindness had led her into a snare.
His first question was: "Where is he?" No one knew, but every one agreed
that he had gone in a hurry. Now it is well known that experienced men
seeking to elude discovery make either for the absolute wilderness or
else the nearest big city. There is no hiding place between. Kenna did
not consult Kitty. He rode, as fast as horse could bear his robust bulk
to Petersburg where Mason had in some sort his headquarters.

It was noon the next day before Bill found him, sitting in the far end
of the hardware shop. Mason never sat in the saloons, for the barkeepers
would not have him there. He did not loom large, for he always tried to
be as inconspicuous as possible, and his glance was shifty.

Bill nodded to the iron dealer and passed back to the stove end of the
store. Yes, there sat Mason. They recognized each other. The whiskey
sneak rose in trepidation. But William said calmly, "Sit down."

"Well," he continued with a laugh, "I hear you got ahead of the Widdy."

"Yeh."

"Well, she can afford it," said Bill. "She's getting rich."

Mason breathed more freely.

"I should think ye'd carry a revolver in such a business," said William,
inquiringly.

"Bet I do," said Mason.

"Let's have a look at it," said Kenna. Mason hesitated.

"Ye better let me see it, or----" There was a note of threat for the
first time. Mason drew his revolver, somewhat bewildered. Before the
informer knew what move was best, Kenna reached out and took the weapon.

"I hear ye got twenty-five dollars from the Widdy."

"Yeh." And Mason began to move nervously under the cold glitter in
Kenna's eyes.

"I want ye to donate that to the orphan asylum. Here, Jack!" Kenna
called to the clerk, "Write on a big envelope 'Donation for the orphan
asylum. Conscience money.'"

"What does it say?" inquired Bill, for he could not read. The clerk held
out the envelope and read the inscription.

"All right," said Bill, "now, Mason, jest so I won't lose patience with
you and act rough like, hand over that twenty-five."

"I ain't got it, I tell you. It's all gone."

"Turn out your pockets, or I will."

The whiskey sneak unwillingly turned out his pockets. He had fifteen
dollars and odd.

"Put it in that there envelope," said Bill, with growing ferocity. "Now
gum it up. Here, Jack, will ye kindly drop this in the contribution box
for the orphans while we watch you?" The clerk entered into the humour
of it all. He ran across the street to the gate of the orphan asylum and
dropped the envelope into the box. Mason tried to escape but Bill's
mighty hand was laid on his collar. And now the storm of animal rage
pent up in him for so long broke forth. He used no weapon but his fists,
and when the doctor came, he thought the whiskey man was dead. But they
brought him round, and in the hospital he lingered long.

It was clearly a case of grave assault; the magistrate was ready to
issue a warrant for Kenna's arrest. But such was Bill's reputation that
they could get no constable to serve it. Meanwhile, Mason hung between
life and death. He did not die. Within six weeks, he was able to sit up
and take a feeble interest in things about him, while Bill at Links
pursued his normal life.

Gossip about the affair had almost died when the Mayor at Petersburg
received a document that made him start. The Attorney General of the
Province wrote: "Why have you not arrested the man who committed that
assault? Why has no effort been made to administer justice?"

The Mayor was an independent business man, seeking no political favours,
and he sent a very curt reply. "You had better come and arrest him
yourself, if you are so set on it."

That was why two broad, square men, with steadfast eyes, came one day
into Links. They sought out Bill Kenna and found him in the bar-room,
lifting the billiard table with one hand, as another man slipped wedges
under it to correct the level. Little Jim, though he had no business
there at all, stood on the table itself and gave an abundance of orders.

"Are you William Kenna?" said the first of the strangers.

"I am that," said he.

"Then I arrest you in the Queen's name"; and the officer held up a paper
while the other produced a pair of handcuffs.

"Oi'd like to see ye put them on me." And the flood of fight in him
surged up.

He was covered by two big revolvers now, which argument had no whit of
power to modify his mood; but another factor had. The Widow who had
entered in search of Jim and knew the tragedy that hung by a hair, sped
to his side: "Now, Bill, don't ye do it! I forbid ye to do it!"

"If they try to put them on me, I'll kill or be killed. If they jist act
dacent, I'll go quiet."

"Will ye give yer word, Bill?"

"I will, Kitty; I'll give me word as a mahn. I'll go peaceable if they
don't try to handcuff me."

"There," said Kitty to the officers. "He's give his word; and if you're
wise, ye'll take him at that."

"All right," said the chief constable, and between them William moved to
the door.

"Say, Bill, ye ain't going to be took?" piped little Jim. He had watched
the scene dumbfounded from his place on the table. This was too much.

"Yes," said Bill, "I've give me word as a mahn," and he marched away,
while the Widow fled sobbing to her room.

That was the end of Kenna, so far as Jim was concerned. And, somehow,
that last sentence, "I've give me word as a mahn," kept ringing in Jim's
ears; it helped to offset the brutalizing effect of many other
episodes--that Fighting Bill should scoff at bonds and force, but be
bound and helpless by the little sound that issued from his own lips.

Bill's after life was brief. He was condemned to a year in jail for
deadly assault and served the term and came again to Petersburg. There
in a bar-room he encountered Hall, the pal of Whisky Mason. A savage
word from Bill provoked the sneer, "You jail bird." Kenna sprang to
avenge the insult. Hall escaped behind the bar. Bill still pursued. Then
Hall drew a pistol and shot him dead; and, as the Courts held later,
shot justly, for a man may defend his life.

It was a large funeral that buried Bill, and it was openly and widely
said that nine out of ten were there merely to make sure that he was
dead and buried. The Widow Hartigan was chief mourner in the first
carriage. She and Jim led the line, and when he was laid away, she had a
stone erected with the words, "A true friend and a man without fear." So
passed Kenna; but Jim bore the traces of his influence long and
deeply--yes, all his life. Masterful, physical, prone to fight and to
consider might as right, yet Jim's judgment of him was ever tempered by
the one thought, the binding force of his "wurd as a mahn."




CHAPTER VI

Jim Loses Everything


The Widow never forgot that her tenure of the hotel might end at any
time; and, thinking ever of Jim and his future, she saved what she could
from the weekly proceeds. She was a good manager, and each month saw
something added to her bank account. When it had grown to a considerable
size her friends advised her to invest it. There were Government bonds
paying five per cent., local banks paying six and seven, and, last of
all, the Consolidated Trading Stores paying eight and sometimes more--an
enterprise of which Tom Ford was head.

The high interest was tempting, and pride was not without some power.
Kitty was pleased to think that now she could go to the pompous Mayor as
a capitalist. So, creating with an inward sense of triumph the
impression of huge deposits elsewhere, she announced that she would take
a small block of stock in the C. T. S. as a nest-egg for her boy. Thus
the accumulations of ten years went into the company of which the Mayor
was head and guide. For a time, the interest was duly paid each half
year. Then came a crash. After the reorganization the Mayor continued in
his big brick house and his wife still wore her diamonds; but the
widow's hard-earned savings were gone. Kitty was stunned but game;
falling back on the strength that was inside, she bravely determined to
begin all over and build on a rock of safety. But fortune had another
blow in store for Jim. And it fell within a month, just as he turned
thirteen.

It was the end of the Canadian winter. Fierce frost and sudden thaw were
alternated as the north wind and the south struggled for the woods, and
the heat of work in the warm sun left many ill prepared for the onset of
bitter cold at dusk. Bustling everywhere, seeing that pigs were fed,
pies made, and clothes mended; now in the hot kitchen, a moment later in
the stable yard to manage some new situation; the Widow fell a victim to
pneumonia much as John Downey had done.

For three days she lay in fever and pain. Jim was scarcely allowed to
see her. They did not understand pneumonia in those days, and as it was
the general belief that all diseases were "catching," the boy was kept
away. The doctor was doing his best with old-fashioned remedies,
blisters, mustard baths, hot herb teas and fomentations. He told her she
would soon be well, but Kitty knew better. On the third day, she asked
in a whisper for Jim, but told them first to wash his face and hands
with salt water. So the long-legged, bright-eyed boy came and sat by his
mother's bed and held her hot hands. As he gazed on her over-bright
eyes, she said softly:

"My darling, you'll soon be alone, without friend or kith or kin. This
place will no longer be your home. God only knows where you'll go. But
He will take care of you as He took care of me."

For the first time Jim realized the meaning of the scene--his mother
was dying. She quieted his sobs with a touch of her hand and began
again, slowly and painfully:

"I tried to leave you well fixed, but it was not to be. The hotel will
go to another. This is all I have for you."

She drew a little cedar box from under the covers, and opening it,
showed him her Bible, the daguerreotype of his father and a later
photograph of herself.

"Jim, promise me again that you will never touch tobacco or liquor till
you are eighteen."

"Oh, mother, mother!" he wept. "I'll do anything you say. I'll promise.
I give you my word I never will touch them."

She rested in silence, her hand was on his head. When her strength in a
little measure came again, she said in a low tone:

"My wish was to see you educated, a minister for Christ. I hope it may
yet be so."

She was still a long time; then, gently patting his head, she said to
those around:

"Take him away. Wash him with salt and water."

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus it came about that the hotel which had been Jim's only home and
which he thought belonged to his mother, passed into the hands of John
Downey, Jr., nephew of the original owner. It was Mrs. John Downey who
offered the first ray of comfort in Jim's very bleak world. When she saw
the tall handsome boy she put her arms around him and said:

"Never mind, Jim, don't go away. This will always be home for you."

So the lad found a new home in the old house, but under greatly changed
conditions. The new mistress had notions of her own as to the amount of
education necessary and the measure of service to be returned for one's
keep. Jim was able to read, write, and cipher; this much was ample in
the opinion of Mrs. Downey, and Jim's school days ended. The
understanding that he must make himself useful quickly resulted in his
transference to the stable. A garret in the barn was furnished with a
bed for him, and Jim's life was soon down to its lowest level. He had
his friends, for he was full of fun and good to look upon: but they were
not of the helpful kind, being recruited chiefly from the hostlers, the
pugilists, and the horsemen. He had time for amusements, too; but they
were nearly always of the boxing glove and the saddle. Books had little
charm for him, though he still found pleasure in reciting the heroic
ballads of Lachlin, the Raid of Dermid, the Battle of the Boyne, and in
singing "My Pretty, Pretty Maid," or woodmen's "Come all ye's." His
voice was unusually good, except at the breaking time; and any one who
knew the part the minstrel played in Viking days would have thought the
bygone times come back to see him among the roystering crowd at
Downey's.

The next three years that passed were useless except for this, they
gifted Jim with a tall and stalwart form and shoulders like a grown man.
But they added little to the good things he had gathered from his mother
and from Fightin' Bill. At sixteen he was six feet high, slim and boyish
yet, but sketched for a frame of power. All this time his meagre keep
and his shabby clothes were his only pay. But Jim had often talked
things over with his friends and they pointed out that he was now doing
man's work and getting less than boy's pay. The scene that followed his
application for regular wages was a very unpleasant one; and John Downey
made the curious mistake of trying to throw young Jimmy out. The boy
never lost his temper for a moment but laughingly laid his two strong
hands on the landlord's fat little shoulders and shook him till his
collar popped and his eyes turned red. Then Jim grinned and said:

"I told ye I wasn't a kid anny more."

It was the landlady's good sense that made a truce, and after a brief,
stormy time the long-legged boy was reinstated at wages in the yard.

At seventeen Jim was mentioned among the men as a likely "bhoy." Women
in the street would turn to look in admiration at his square shoulders,
lithe swing, and handsome head. But the life he led was flat, or worse
than flat. The best that can be said of it is that in all this sordid
round of bar and barn he learned nothing that in any sort had power to
harm his rare physique. His language at times was the worst of its lurid
kind. His associates were coarse and drunken. Yet Jim lived with them in
all their ways and neither chewed, smoked, nor drank. How or why, none
understood. He said simply that he "didn't feel like he wanted to." With
the liquor it was a different matter. Here it was a question of
principle and his word to his mother helped him where by nature he was
weak. So he grew up, hedged about with a dignity that was in some sense
a foreshadowing of his destiny. But there was much dross to be burned
away and the two great passions that stood between Jim Hartigan and full
spiritual manhood had their roots in these early years at Downey's.
Later he matched his strength against theirs and with that struggle, in
which no quarter was asked or given, these pages are ultimately
concerned.




CHAPTER VII

He Gets a Much-needed Lesson


Many a man has been ruined by a high, unbroken level of success.
Intellectually it makes for despotism and a conviction of infallibility.
In the world of muscle, it creates a bully.

Young Jim was far from losing his interest in the ring, and he was
growing so big and strong that there were few in town who cared to put
on the gloves with him. All that Bill Kenna had taught him, and more,
was stored as valued learning. Kenna used to say, in his Irish vein:
"There is twelve rules for to conduct yourself right in a shindy; the
first is, get your blow in first; and, if ye live up to this, ye needn't
worry about the other iliven rules." Jim accepted this as fundamental
truth and thereby became the aggressor in nearly every brawl.

His boiling, boisterous, animal nature grew with his body and he
revelled in the things of brawn. He responded joyfully when he was
called on to eject some rowdy from the bar-room, and begetting
confidence with each new victory, he began to have a vast opinion of
himself. About this time a powerful rival of Downey's, known as the
Dummer House, claimed attention at the other end of town. One was
located to catch the inbound from the west; the other, those from the
east. And when the owners were not at war, they kept at best an armed
neutrality.

John Downey had delivered himself of some unhallowed hopes concerning
the rival house, and Jim, as he passed the opposition Inn on a certain
evening, had the picturesque devastations vividly in mind. It so
happened that a masting team of oxen was standing patiently outside
awaiting the driver who was refreshing himself at the bar. A masting
team consists of six to twelve strong, selected oxen, yoked two and two
to a mighty chain with which they can drag forth the largest pines that
are saved for masts. Jim's too-agile mind noted the several components
of a new and delightful exploit: a crowd of noisy teamsters in a log
house bar-room, a team of twelve huge, well-trained oxen on a chain, the
long, loose end of which lay near him on the ground. It was the work of
a minute to hook the chain around a projecting log of the house. A
moment more and he had the oxen on the go. Beginning with the foremost
pair, he rushed down the line, and the great, heaving, hulking
shoulders, two and two, bent and heaved their bulk against the strain.
The chain had scarcely time to tighten; no house could stand against
that power. The huge pine log was switched out at one end as a man might
jerk a corn cob from its crib. The other end, still wedged in its place,
held for a moment; but the oxen moved slowly on like a landslide. The
log was wrenched entirely away and the upper part of the building
dropped with a sullen "chock" to rest a little lower. There was a wild
uproar inside, a shouting of men, a clatter of glass, and out rushed the
flushed-faced rabble, astonished, frightened, furious to see the twelve
great oxen solemnly marching down the street, trailing the missing log,
the fragment of their house, while beside them, running, laughing,
hooting, was a long-legged boy.

Jim's intention had been to clear out, but the trick proved so
screamingly funny that he stood for a minute to enjoy the scene. Shelves
had fallen and glasses had broken, but no person had been hurt. There
was a moment's uncertainty; then with an angry shout the enraged patrons
of the Dummer House swept forward. Jim discreetly fled. In the centre of
the town friends appeared and in the street he turned to face his
pursuers. Jim had already proved himself one of "the best men in Links"
and it was with a new burst of hilarity that he wheeled about among his
backers to give them "all they wanted." Instead of the expected general
onslaught, a method new to Jim was adopted. The teamsters of the Dummer
House held back and from their ranks there issued a square-jawed,
bow-legged man, whose eye was cold, whose step was long and quick. With
the utmost deliberation he measured Jim with his eye. Then he growled:

"Come on, ye ill-born pup. Now ye'll get what ye desarve."

The sporting instinct was strong in the crowd and the two were left
alone to fight it out. It took very little time. Jim had made a
mistake--a serious one. This was no simple teamster, guileless of
training, who faced him, but a man whose life was in the outer circle of
the prize ring. The thrashing was complete, and effective for several
weeks. Jim was carried home and ever after he bore upon his chin a scar
that was the record of the final knockout from the teamster's iron fist.

The catastrophe had several important compensations. The owner of the
Dummer House decided that the boy was punished enough, and took no legal
proceeding against him. On his part, Jim began to think much more
seriously before giving reckless rein to his sense of humour. On the
whole, his respect for the rights of others was decidedly increased. His
self-esteem shrunk to more normal proportions and if he thought of the
incident at all it was to wish very earnestly that some day, somewhere,
he might meet the teamster again on more even terms.

Unfortunately these salutory results were negatived some six months
later by an event that took place in Downey's bar. It was Jim's
birthday; he was eighteen and he announced it with pride.

"And here's where ye join us," said several.

"No, I don't care about it," said Jim.

"Ye ain't promise bound now, are ye?"

"No," replied Jim, "but----"

"Make him a sweet one with syrup and just a spoonful of the crather to
take the curse off."

Refusing, protesting, half ashamed of his hesitation, Jim downed at a
gulp a fruity concoction, much to the delight of the assemblage. It was
not so bad as he had expected it to be and the crowd roared at the
expression on his face.

"Ye're a man for yourself now, lad," said a woodsman clapping him on the
shoulder. "Come boys, another round to Hartigan's health."

It could not be said of Jim that he was normal in anything. In a rare
and multiplied degree he had inherited the full muscling and robust
heart of his folk in both lines of forbears. It was a great inheritance,
but it carried its own penalty. The big animal physique holds a craving
for strong drink. Physical strength and buoyancy are bound up with the
love of bacchanalian riot. Jim had given his word to abstain from liquor
until he was of age; he had kept it scrupulously. Now he had tasted of
it the pendulum swung full to the other side. That was his nature. His
world might be a high world or a low world; whichever sphere he moved in
he practised no half-way measures.

From that eighteenth birthday Jim Hartigan waged ceaseless warfare
within himself. During the early days he was an easy victim. Then came a
shock that changed the whole aspect of his life, and later one stood
beside him who taught him how to fight. But until those events took
place, the town of Links knew him for what he was, a reckless,
dare-devil youth, without viciousness or malice, but ripe for any
extravagance or adventure. His pranks were always begun in fun though it
was inevitable that they should lead to serious consequences. It was
admitted by his severest critics that he had never done a cruel or a
cowardly thing, yet the constant escapades and drinking bouts in which
he was ever the leader earned him the name of Wild Jim Hartigan.

After each fresh exploit his abject remorse was pitiful. And so, little
by little, a great nature was purged; his spirit was humbled by
successive and crushing defeats. At first the animal rebound was
sufficient to set him on his feet unashamed. But during the fourth year
after his coming of age, an unrest, a sickness of soul took possession
of Jim and no wildness sufficed to lift this gloom. And it was in
frantic rebellion against this depression that he entered upon his
memorable visit to the Methodist revival.




BOOK II

THE CONVERSION




CHAPTER VIII

The Conversion of Jim


There was much excitement in Methodist circles that autumn. A preacher
of power had come from the east. The church was filled to overflowing on
Sunday, and a prayer meeting of equal interest was promised for
Wednesday night.

The people came from miles around and there were no vacant seats. Even
the aisles were filled with chairs when the Rev. Obadiah Champ rose and
bawled aloud in rolling paragraphs about "Hopeless, helpless,
hell-damned sinners all. Come, come to-day. Come now and be saved." A
wave of religious hysteria spread over the packed-in human beings. A
wave that to those untouched was grotesque and incomprehensible.

"Sure, they ain't right waked up yet," said one of Jim's half-dozen
unregenerate friends who had come to sit with him on the fence outside,
and scoff at the worshippers. Jim was silent, but a devil of wild deeds
stirred irritatingly within him. He looked about him for some supreme
inspiration--some master stroke. The crowd was all in the church now,
and the doors were closed tight. But muffled sounds of shouting, of
murmurings, of halleluiahs were heard.

"They're goin' it pretty good now, Jim," said another. "But I think you
could arouse 'em," he added, with a grin.

Standing by the church was a tall elm tree; near by was a woodshed with
axe, saw, and wood pile. Jim's eye measured the distance from trunk to
roof and then, acting on a wild impulse, with visions of folk in terror
for their bodies when they professed concern for nothing but their
souls, he got the axe, and amid the suppressed giggles and guffaws of
his chums, commenced to fell the tree. In twenty minutes the great trunk
tottered, crackled, and swung down fair on the roof of the crowded
building.

The congregation had reached a degree of great mental ferment with the
revival, and a long, loud murmuring of prayers and groans, with the
voice of the exhorter, harsh and ringing, filled the edifice, when with
a crash overhead the great arms of the tree met the roof. At first, it
seemed like a heavenly response to the emotion of the congregation, but
the crackling of small timber, the showering down of broken glass and
plaster gave evidence of a very earthly interposition.

Then there was a moment of silence, then another crack from the roof,
and the whole congregation arose and rushed for the door. All in vain
the exhorter tried to hold them back. He shrieked even scriptural texts
to prove they should stay to see the glory of the Lord. Another flake of
plaster fell, on the pulpit this time; then he himself turned and fled
through the vestry and out by the back way.

Jim's following had deserted him, but he himself was there to see the
fun; and when the congregation rushed into the moonlight it was like a
wasp's nest poked with a stick, or a wheat shock full of mice turned
over with a fork. The crowd soon understood the situation and men
gathered around the sinner. There was menace in every pose and speech.
They would have him up to court; they would thrash him now. But the
joyful way in which Jim accepted the last suggestion and offered to meet
any or all "this holy minute" had a marked effect on the programme,
especially as there were present those who knew him.

Then the exhorter said:

"Brethren, let me talk to this heinous sinner. Young man, do you realize
that this is the House of God, which you have so criminally destroyed?"

"The divil an' all it is," said Jim. "Sure, ye ain't got the cheek to
call a Methody shindy hall the House of God. I think ye ought to be
ashamed of yourself to give a lot of dacent farmers the hysterics like
yer doin'."

"Young man, the spirit of the Lord is mighty, and cometh like a strong
wind on the four corners of the house."

"Then why in the divil did ye blame me for it?" was the answer.

"Oh, son of Belial! Hell fire and eternal damnation, a portion in the
pit that burneth with fire, is the lot of those that desecrate the
sanctuary of the Most High. I tell you it were better for you that you
had never been born----"

"But sure, I am born; and it's mesilf that's aloive yet an' going
strong."

"Oh, unregenerate blasphemer----"

But a sudden cry and commotion interrupted the preacher.

"Here, lay her down, get some water."

A little girl had been hurt in the crush and now she had fainted. The
threats of the men had roused Jim to his joyful, battle enthusiasm. The
onslaught of the preacher had stirred his sense of humour; but the poor,
limp, and seemingly dead form of the little girl, a child whom he knew
and had often petted, was an attack he was ill-prepared to meet.

"There, see what you have done. It were better that a millstone were
hanged about your neck and that you were cast into the depths of the sea
than that you should have harmed this little one. Her blood be on your
head."

The mother was kneeling by the child, unwisely holding up its head. She
was praying intently; the air was full of religious fervour. "Oh, God,
spare my baby. Oh, God, be merciful."

Jim heard the words and they entered his soul like a two-edged sword.
All the fun of the incident was gone, and all the cruelty, the
unkindness, the wickedness, loomed large and larger. With his intense
nature, subject to the most violent reactions, the effect was profound.
It seemed to him, as he stood there, that a veil dissolved before his
eyes and that he saw himself and his life for the first time. There had
ever been two natures struggling in his soul, the calm and wise one of
his Ulster blood of placid Saxon stock, and that of the wild and fiery
Celt from Donegal, ready to fight, ready to sing, ever ready for fun,
but ever the easy prey of deep remorse in even measure with the mood of
passion that foreran and begot it.

Smitten from within and without, utter humiliation, self-accusation, and
abasement filled his soul. Jim sank to the ground by the little girl,
and wept in an agony of remorse.

"Young man," said the exhorter, "if God in His mercy has sent me here to
save your soul from eternal damnation by this hellish deed of yours,
then shall I rejoice and praise the Lord, that out of fire and brimstone
He can create a golden pathway."

The little girl now opened her eyes and with a cry of relief the mother
sought to lift her up, but had not the strength. Jim's mighty arms were
eager for service, and with that soft, limp little body against his
broad chest, her head on his shoulder, his heart was filled with
inexpressible emotion.

"Bring her in here," and the remnant of the congregation reassembled in
the church. In the very front was Jim, sitting by the mother with the
little girl between them. His head was bowed on his hands, his elbows on
his knees.

Then the exhorter began again. Full of scriptural texts charged with
holy fire, abounding in lurid thoughts of burning lakes, of endless
torment; gifted with the fluency that sometimes passes for logic and
makes for convincement, he dwelt on the horrors and the
might-have-beens. He shouted out his creeds of holiness, he rumbled in
his chest and made graphic mouthings. He played on all the emotions
until he found the most responsive, and then hammered hard on these. The
big broad shoulders before him shook, tears fell from the half-hidden
face. Then the preacher chanced to strike on the note, "your mother,"
and Jim Hartigan's breakdown was complete. He sobbed, "Oh, God, be
merciful to me, a sinner," and rising, staggered to a place on the
upraised bench--the seat of those who dared to hope for salvation--and
wept.

Carried away by his own vehemence, the exhorter wept, too. There was no
human being in the hall who could stand the overwhelming surge of
emotion. The congregation wept. Then Jim arose and in broken voice said:
"My mother's dying prayer was that I might join the Church and be a
witness for God. As sure as she is looking down on me now I promise that
I will join His people and niver rest till I have been made fit to stand
among those who bear His message. I give my word as a man."




CHAPTER IX

Jim Hartigan Goes to College


Hartigan never walked in the middle of the road. He was either in the
ditch or on the high place. Having "got religion" it was inevitable,
with his nature, that he should become a leader in the fold. That vision
of himself as a preacher, fully ordained, which had burst upon him at
the revival, filled his mind. His mother's last wish resounded in his
ears with all the imperative force of a voice from the grave and he was
emotionally ripe for such inner urgings.

The difficulties in the way of such a course would have daunted most
men; but Jim was going strong for the moment, and to him impossibilities
were mere trivialities. The Rev. Obadiah Champ, with others who were
proud of the new convert, took him before the Board of Deacons and there
Jim made his ambitions known. He was illiterate, friendless, penniless,
and already twenty-three. He had no taste for study or a life of
self-control; meekness and spirituality were as much to his liking now
as travelling on a bog is to a blooded horse.

But his magnificent presence, his glib Irish tongue, his ready wit, his
evident warmth and sincerity, were too much for the reverend bearded
ones of the Board. They were carried away, as most humans were, by his
personal charm. They listened with beaming faces. They cast significant
glances at one another. They sent Jim into another room while they
discussed his fate. In twenty minutes he was brought back to hear their
decision. "Yes, they would accept him as a chosen vessel to bear the
grace of God abroad among the people. They would educate him without
expense to himself. He might begin his college career at once."

In the ordinary course, Jim would have set to work with a tutor in Links
to prepare himself to enter Coulter College at the next term. But life
seemed to order itself in unusual ways when it was a question concerning
Jim. He had no home in Links; he had no money to pay a tutor; he was as
eager as a child to begin the serious work; and his ardour burnt all the
barriers away. He became at once an inmate of Coulter, a special protégé
of the president's, admitted really as a member of the latter's family,
and bound by many rules and promises. In preparation for his formal
entry he was required to devote six hours a day to study, and those who
knew him of old had given the president a hint to exact from Jim his
"wurd as a mahn" that he would do his daily task.

In looking back on those days Jim used to revile them for their
uselessness and waste. What he did not understand until life had put him
through the fire was that the months at Coulter broke him to harness. It
was beyond the wildest imagining that a youth brought up as Jim had been
should step from a life of boisterous carousing in a backwoods
settlement into a seminary and find congenial or helpful occupation
among books. And yet the shock, the change of environment, the
substitution of discipline for license and, above all, the heroic
struggle of the man to meet this new order of existence--these were the
things, the fine metals of a great soul, which life was hammering,
hammering into shape.

What this period meant to Jim no one but himself knew. The agony of
spirit and of body was intense. He had given his word to go through with
it and he did. But every instinct, every association of his old life led
his mind abroad. Every bird that flew to the roof or hopped on the lawn
was a strong attraction; every sound of a horse's hoof aroused his
wayward interest; and the sight of a horse sent him rushing
incontinently to the window. At the beginning, the football captain had
pounced on him as the very stuff he needed, and Jim responded as the
warhorse does to the bugle. He loved the game and he was an invaluable
addition to the team. And yet, helpful as such an outlet was for his
pent-up energy, his participation merely created new tortures, so that
the sight of a sweater crossing the lawn became maddening to him in the
hours of study. He had never liked books, and now as the weeks went by
he learned to loathe them.

It is greatly to be feared that in a fair, written examination with an
impartial jury, Jim Hartigan would have been badly plucked on his
college entrance. But great is the power of personality. The president's
wife behaved most uncollegiately. She interested herself in Jim; she had
interviews with the examiners; she discovered in advance questions to be
asked; she urged upon the authorities the absolute necessity of
accepting this promising student. The president himself was biased. He
hinted that the function of examiners was not so much to make absolute
measurement of scholastic attainments as to manifest a discretionary
view of possibilities, and to remember that examination papers were
often incapable of gauging the most important natural endowments of the
candidate; that sometimes when it was necessary to put a blood horse
over a five-barred gate, the wisest horseman laid the gate down flat.

The admonitions were heeded, the gate laid flat, and the thoroughbred
entered the pasture. But to Jim, caught up in the wearisome classroom
grind, the days held no glimmer of light. Of what possible value, he
asked himself again and again, could it be to know the history of
Nippur? Why should the cuneiforms have any bearing on the morals of a
backwoods Canadian? Would the grace of God be less effective if the
purveyor of it was unaware of what Sprool's Commentaries said about the
Alexandrian heresy? Was not he, Jim Hartigan, a more eloquent speaker
now, by far, than Silas McSilo, who read his Greek testament every
morning? And he wrote to the Rev. Obadiah Champ: "It's no use. I don't
know how to study. I'm sorry to get up in the morning and glad to go to
bed and forget it. I'd rather be in jail than in college. I hate it more
every day." But Jim had given his "wurd as a mahn" and he hammered away
sadly and sorrowfully as one who has no hope, as one who is defeated but
continues to fight merely because he knows not how to surrender.




CHAPTER X

Escape to Cedar Mountain


It is generally admitted that a college offers two main things, book
learning and atmosphere. Of these the latter is larger and more vital,
if it be good. If the college lose ground in either essential, the loss
is usually attributable to a leading set of students. Coulter was losing
ground, and the growth of a spirit of wildness in its halls was no small
worry to the president. He knew whence it sprang, and his anxiety was
the greater as he thought of it. Then a happy inspiration came. Jim's
dislike of books had intensified. He had promised to study for one year.
According to the rules, a student, after completing his first year,
might be sent into the field as an assistant pastor, to be in actual
service under an experienced leader for one year, during which he was
not obliged to study.

To Jim this way out was an escape from a cavern to the light of day, and
every officer of Coulter College breathed a sigh of relief as he packed
his bag and started for the West.

It was in truth a wending of the Spirit Trail when Jim set out; as if
the Angel of Destiny had said to the lesser Angel of Travel: "Behold,
now for a time he is yours. You can serve him best." Jim's blood was
more than red; it was intense scarlet. He hankered for the sparkling
cups of life, being alive in every part--to ride and fight and burn in
the sun, to revel in strife, to suffer, struggle, and quickly strike and
win, or as quickly get the knockout blow! Valhalla and its ancient
fighting creed were the hunger in his blood, and how to translate that
age-old living feeling into terms of Christianity was a problem to which
Jim's reason found no adequate answer. He talked of a better world, of
peace and harps and denial and submission, because that was his job. He
had had it drilled into him at Coulter; but his flashing eye, his mighty
sweeping hand, gave the lie to every word of meekness that fell from his
school-bound tongue. He longed for life in its fullest, best, most human
form. He was fiery as a pirate among the wild rowdies he had lived with
yet he had that other side--a child or a little girl could bully him
into absolute, abject submission.

Whoever knows the West of the late '70s can have no doubt as to where
the whirlpool of red-blooded life surged deepest, most irresistibly;
where the strong alone could live and where the strongest only could
win. In the Black Hills the strongest of the savages met the strongest
of the whites, and there every human lust and crime ran riot. It was not
accident but a far-sighted wisdom on the part of his directors that sent
Jim to Cedar Mountain.

This town of the Black Hills was then in the transition stage. The
cut-throat border element was gone. The law and order society had done
its work. The ordinary machinery of justice was established and doing
fairly well. The big strikes of gold were things of the past; now
plodding Chinese and careful Germans were making profitable daily wages;
and farmers were taking the places of the ranchmen. But there was still
a rowdy element in the one end of the town, where cowboy and miner left
their horses waiting for half the night, by the doors of noisy life and
riot. This was the future field of pastoral work selected for the Rev.
James Hartigan by elders wise in the testing of the human spirit.

All alone, Jim set forth on his three days' journey from Coulter, by way
of Toronto, Detroit, and Chicago, to the West, and seldom has a grown
man had so little knowledge of the world to rely upon. On the train he
met with a painted woman, whose smirks and overtures he did not
understand; and some farmer folk of simple kindness. In the coach, where
all slept on their seats at night, he was like another brother to the
little folks, and when a lumberjack, taking advantage of his size,
sought to monopolize two seats, whereby the old farmer was left
standing, Jim's mild and humorous "Sure, I wouldn't do that; it doesn't
seem neighbourly," as he tapped the ruffian's shoulder, put a new light
on the matter; and the lumberjack, after noting the shoulders of the
speaker, decided that it _wasn't_ neighbourly, and removed his feet.

Most of the passengers said "good-bye" at Chicago, and the rest at
Sidney Junction, where Jim changed cars for the last leg of the journey.

He had no sooner transferred himself and his bag to the waiting train
than there entered his coach five new passengers who at once attracted
his full attention--a Jesuit missionary and four Sioux Indians. The
latter were in the clothes of white men, the Jesuit in his clerical
garb. They settled into the few available places and Jim found himself
sharing his seat with the black-robed missionary.

All his early training had aimed to inspire him with hatred of the
papist, and the climax of popery, he believed, was a Jesuit. He had
never met one before, yet he knew the insignia and he was not at all
disposed to be friendly. But the black-robe was a man of the world,
blessed with culture, experience, and power; and before half an hour, in
spite of himself, Jim found himself chatting amicably with this arch
enemy. The missionary was full of information about the country and the
Indians; and Jim, with the avidity of the boy that he was, listened
eagerly, and learned at every sentence. The experience held a succession
of wholesome shocks for him; for, next to the detested papist, he had
been taught to look down on the "poor, miserable bastes of haythens,"
that knew nothing of God or Church. And here, to his surprise, was a
priest who was not only a kindly, wise, and lovable soul, but who looked
on the heathen not as utterly despicable, but as a human being who
lacked but one essential of true religion, the one that he was there to
offer.

"Yes," continued the missionary, "when I came out here as a young man
twenty-five years ago, I thought about the Indians much as you do. But I
have been learning. I know now that in their home lives they are a kind
and hospitable people. The white race might take them as models in some
particulars, for the widow, the orphan, the old, and the sick are ever
first cared for among them. We are told that the love of money is the
root of all evil; and yet this love of money, in spite of all the white
man can do to inculcate it, has no place at all in the Indian heart."

Jim listened in astonishment, first to hear the dreadful savages set so
high by one who knew them and had a right to speak, but chiefly to find
such fair-mindedness and goodness in one who, according to all he had
ever heard, must be, of course, a very demon in disguise, at war with
all who were not of his faith. Then the thought came, "Maybe this is all
put on to fool me." But at this point two of the Indians came over to
speak to the missionary. Their respectful but cordial manner could not
well have been put on and was an answer to his unspoken question.

"Are these men Catholics?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not yet," said the priest, "although I believe they are
influenced strongly. They observe some of the practices of the Church
and cling to others of their own."

"Their own what?"

"Well, I may say their own Church," said the father.

"Church? You call theirs a Church?" exclaimed Jim.

"Why not? Their best teachers inculcate cleanness, courage, kindness,
sobriety, and truth; they tell of one Great Spirit who is the creator
and ruler of all things and to whom they pray. Surely, these things are
truth and all light comes from God; and, even though they have not
learned the great story of the redemption, we must respect their faith
so far as it goes."

"And these are the 'beasts of heathen' I have always heard about."

"Oh, yes," said the missionary, "they have many habits that I hope to
see stamped out; but I have learned that my Church was wise when it sent
me, not to antagonize and destroy, but to seek for the good in these
people and fortify that as a foundation on which to build the true
faith."

"Well, this is all a great surprise to me," said Hartigan; and again his
deepest astonishment lay in the new knowledge of the papist, rather than
of the Indian.

They were several hours together. The missionary and his Indian friends
finally left the train at a station nearest their home in Pine Ridge and
Jim was left alone with some very new ideas and some old-time prejudices
very badly shaken.

The rest of the journey he sat alone, thinking--thinking hard.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was no one to meet him at the Cedar Mountain station when he
stepped out of the car--the last passenger from the last car, in the
last station--for at that time this was the north end of the track. All
his earthly belongings, besides the things he wore, were in a valise
that he carried in his hand; in his pocket he had less than five dollars
in money, and his letter of introduction to the Rev. Dr. Jebb of Cedar
Mountain.

In all his life, Jim had never seen a mountain, nor even a high hill;
and he stood gazing at the rugged pile behind the town with a sense of
fascination. It seemed so unreal, a sort of pretty thing with pretty
little trees on it. Was it near and little, or far and big? He could not
surely tell. After gazing a while, he turned to the railway agent and
said:

"How far off is that mountain top?"

"A matter of two miles," was the answer.

Two miles! It did not seem two hundred rods; and yet it did, for the man
on horseback half way there looked toy-like; and the distance grew as he
gazed. A rugged, rocky pile with white snow-ravines still showing in the
springtime sun, some scattering pines among the ledges and, lower, a
breadth of cedars, they were like a robe that hid the shoulders and
flanks of the mountain, then spread out on the plain, broken at a place
where water glinted, and later blended with the purple sage that lent
its colour to the view.

It was all so new and fairylike; "the glamour and dhrei that the banshee
works on the eyes of men," was the thought that came, and the Irish
tales his mother used to tell of fays and lepricauns seemed realized
before his eyes. Then, acting on a sudden impulse, he dropped his bag
and started off, intent on going up the mountain.

Swinging a stick that he had picked up, he went away with long, athletic
strides, and the motor engines of his frame responding sent his blood
a-rushing and his spirit bounding, till his joy broke forth in song, the
song of the singing prophet of Judea's hills, a song he had learned in
Coulter for the sweetness of the music rather than for its message:

    How beautiful upon the mountains
    Are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings,
    That publisheth peace,
    That bringeth good tidings of good,
    That publisheth salvation,
    That saith unto Zion,
    "Thy God reigneth."

And when he reached the cedar belt he knew that the railway man had
spoken the truth, but he held on up the ever-steepening trail, ceasing
his song only when he needed the breath to climb. A cottontail waved its
beacon for a minute before him, then darted into the underbrush; the
mountain jays called out a wailing cry; and the flicker clucked above.
Sharp turns were in the trail, else it had faced an upright cliff or
overshot a precipice; but it was easily followed and, at length, he was
above the cedars. Here the horse trail ended, but a moccasin path went
on. It turned abruptly from a sheer descent, then followed a narrow
knife edge to rise again among the rocks to the last, the final height,
a little rocky upland with a lonely standing rock. Here Jim turned to
see the plain, to face about and gasp in sudden wonder; for the spell of
the mountain seen afar is but a little echo of the mountain power when
it has raised you up.

He recalled the familiar words, not understood till now:

    "Thy mercies are like mountains great,
    Thy judgments are like floods."

He gazed and his breath came fast as he took in the thought, old
thoughts, yet new thoughts, strong and elusive, and wondered what he had
found.

Crossing the little upland, he approached its farther end and stood by
the pinnacle of rock that, like a lonely watchman, forever looked down
on the blue and golden plains. A mountain chipmunk stared at him,
flicked its tail, and dived under a flat ledge; a bird whose real home
was a thousand miles off in the north faced the upland breeze and sang
in its unknown tongue. Jim drew still nearer the rocky spire, rounded a
ledge, and faced an unexpected sight. In a little open lodge of willows,
bent and roofed with a canvas cover, sat an Indian youth, alone,
motionless, beside him was a pot of water, and between him and the tall
rock, a little fire, from which a tiny thread of smoke arose.

Hartigan started, for that very morning he had learned from the old
Jesuit enough about the Red-men to know that this was something unusual.
On the rock beyond the fire he saw, painted in red, two symbols that are
used in the Red-man's prayers: "the blessed vision" leading up to the
"spirit heart of all things." A measure of comprehension came to him,
and Father Cyprian's words returned in new force.

The lad in the little lodge raised a hand in the sign of "Stop," then
gently waved in a way that, in all lands and languages, means: "Please
go away." There was a soft, dreamy look in his face, and Jim, realizing
that he had entered another man's holy place, held back and, slowly
turning, sought the downward trail.

It came to him clearly now this was one of the interesting things told
him that morning by the Jesuit. This Indian boy was taking his
_hambeday_, his manhood fast and vigil; seeking for the vision that
should be his guide, he was burning his altar fire beside the Spirit
Rock.

As he retraced his steps the wonder of this new world enveloped Jim. At
the edge of the cedars he paused and, looking out over the great expanse
of green plumage, he said aloud: "All my life have I lived in the bottom
of a little narrow well, with barely a glimpse of the sky, and never a
view of the world. Now I am suddenly brought forth to see the world and
the bigness of the heavens, and the things I dimly got from books are
here about me, big, living, actual."

He was himself so much, could he be also a part of this wonder-world? It
seemed impossible, so wholly new was everything it held.




CHAPTER XI

A New Force Enters His Life


Back at the railway station, Hartigan looked for his bag where he had
dropped it, but it was gone. The agent, glancing across and divining his
quandary, said stolidly:

"I guess Dr. Jebb took it. Ain't you the party he's looking for? He said
'J. H.' was the initials. You'll find him at that white house with the
flowers just where the boardwalk ends."

Jim went down the road with alert and curious eyes and presented himself
at the white cottage. He found a grave and kindly welcome from Mrs.
Jebb--a stout, middle-aged, motherly person--and from the Rev. Josiah
Jebb, D.D., M.A., etc., pastor of the Methodist Church and his principal
to be for the coming year.

A gentle, kindly man and a deep scholar, Dr. Jebb had no more knowledge
of the world than a novice in a convent. His wife was his shield and
buckler in all things that concerned the battle with men and affairs;
all his thoughts and energies were for his pulpit and his books.

Failing health rather than personal fitness had to do with Dr. Jebb's
being sent to the hills. But the vast extent of territory in his charge,
the occasional meetings in places separated by long hard rides, together
with the crude, blunt ranch and farmer folk who were his flock--all
called for a minister with the fullest strength of youth and mental
power. It was to meet this need that the trustees of the church had sent
James Hartigan to supplement the labours of the Rev. Dr. Jebb. Thus
these two, diverse in every particular of bodily and mental equipment,
were chosen to meet the same religious problem.

The evening meal was spread by Mrs. Jebb herself, for their meagre
stipend did not admit of a helper; and Jim, with his hearty, rollicking
ways, soon won his accustomed place, a high place in their hearts. That
night he was invited to stay with them; but it was understood that next
day he would find permanent lodgings in the town. Not a complex task,
since, to quote Mrs. Jebb, "his hat covered his family, and three
hundred a year simplified the number of rooms."

Jim rose at six in the morning, lighted a fire in the kitchen stove--for
this is etiquette in the simple regions where servants are not and the
guest is as a son--and put on a full kettle of water. This also is
etiquette; it assumes that the family will not be up for some time. Had
it been near the breakfast hour, but half a kettle would have been
correct. Then he left the house, stick in hand, for a long walk. This
time he struck out in the direction of the open plains. The flimsy
little town was soon behind him, and the winding trail among the
sagebrush, went reaching out to the east. The pine woods of his native
country were not well stocked with life; the feathered folk were
inconspicuous there; but here it seemed that every bush and branch was
alive with singing birds. The vesper sparrows ran before his feet,
flashed their white tail feathers in a little flight ahead, or from the
top of a stone or a buffalo skull they rippled out their story of the
spring. The buffalo birds in black and white hung poised in the air to
tell their tale, their brown mates in the grass applauding with a rapt
attention. The flickers paused in harrying prairie anthills and
chuckling fled to the nearest sheltering trees. Prairie dogs barked from
their tiny craters; gophers chirruped or turned themselves into peg-like
watchtowers to observe the striding stranger.

But over all, the loud sweet prairie lark sang his warbling yodel-song
of the sun with a power and melody that no bird anywhere, in any land,
can equal. It seemed to Jim the very spirit of these level lands, the
embodiment of the awakening plains and wind, the moving voice of all the
West. And all about, as though responsive, the flowers of spring came
forth: purple avens in straggling patches; golden yellow bloom, with
blots and streaks of fluffy white; while here and there, as far as eye
could reach, was the blue-white tinge of the crocus flower, the queen of
the springtime flowers, the child of the sky and the snow.

The passionate youth in him responded to the beauty of it; he felt it
lay hold on him and he would have sung, but he found no words in all his
college-born songs to tell of this new joy. "I didn't know it _could_ be
so beautiful. I didn't know," he said again and again.

At the seven o'clock whistle of a mill he wheeled about toward the town,
and saw there, almost overhanging it, the mountain, bright in the
morning, streaked with white, lifting a rugged head through the
gray-green poncho of its cedar robe, a wondrous pile capped by the one
lone tower that watched, forever watched, above the vast expanse of
plains.

Jim was nearly back to the town when a horse and rig appeared coming
rapidly toward him. He heard a shout and saw a man run from a house to
look. The horse was going very fast and shaking his head; something was
wrong. As it came toward him he saw that the driver was a young girl.
She was holding with all her strength to the reins, but the horse, a
tall, rawboned creature, was past control. Horses Jim surely understood.
He stepped well aside, then wheeling as the runaway went past, he ran
his best. For a little while a swift man can run with a horse, and in
that little while Jim was alongside, had seized the back of the seat,
and, with a spurt and a mighty leap, had tumbled into the rig beside the
driver. Instantly she held the reins toward him and gasped:

"I can't hold him; he's running away." Then, as Jim did not at once
seize the reins, she hurriedly said: "Here, take them."

"No," he said with amazing calmness, "you _can_ control him. Don't be
afraid. You hurt yourself pulling; ease up. Keep him straight, that's
all."

The sense of power in his presence and matter-of-fact tone restored her
nerve. She slackened a little on the reins. The horse had believed he
was running away; now he began to doubt it. She had been telegraphing
terror along the lines, and now she began to telegraph control.

"Speak to him, just as you would if he were all right," said Jim in a
low voice.

The girl had been pale and scared-looking, but she responded to the
suggestion and talked to the horse.

"Good boy, good boy, Stockings; keep it up," just as though she had been
putting him to his utmost.

There was open fareway straight ahead and little to fear so long as the
horse kept in the road and met no other rig. In a quarter of a mile he
began to slacken his pace.

"Will you take the lines now?" the girl asked shyly.

"No, it isn't necessary, and the horse would feel the change and think
he had beaten you."

"My arms are tired out," she said rather querulously.

"Then ease up for a while. Don't pull so hard."

She did so and was surprised that the horse did not speed away. In a
quarter of a mile more the victory was won. She gave the usual signal to
stop and Stockings came gently to a pause.

"Now," said Jim, "if you like, I'll take the lines. The battle is over.
You have won. From now on you will be able to drive that horse; but if I
had taken the lines he would have felt the change; he would have felt
that he could boss you, and ever after he would have been a dangerous
horse for you to drive."

In the struggle, the horse had got one leg over the trace. Jim got out,
spoke to the big, strong brute, and did the firm-handed, compelling
things that a horseman knows. The tall creature stood a little trembly,
but submissive now, as the man unhooked the trace, adjusted all the
leathers, and then, with a word or two, adjusted the horse's mood.

"Shall I leave you now?" he asked.

"No," she said, "my arms are aching. I wish you would drive me home."

As he mounted the seat again and headed for the village, Jim had his
first chance to look at the girl beside him. If fear had paled her face
at all it was wholly overcome, for the richest glow of health was in her
cheeks and on her brow. She was beautiful he knew, with her brown hair
flying and brilliant colour, but these things did not entirely account
for a charm of which he was delightfully conscious. Her hands were a
little shaky from the struggle with the horse, but otherwise she was
fully recovered and self-possessed and talked in an animated if somewhat
nervous way about the adventure. In a land where rasping voices were the
rule, it was instantly to be noted that her voice was soft and low.

"Stockings is not a bad horse," she said, "except in one way; the lines
get under his tail. That always makes him back up and kick; then he got
his leg over the trace, was frightened, and ran away. He's the only one
of our horses that we have any trouble with. I was bound I'd drive him,
in spite of Pa; but I'm thinking now that Pa was right." Then, abruptly:
"I'm Miss Boyd; aren't you the new preacher?"

"Yes."

"I saw you at the station when you came yesterday."

"Sure, I didn't suppose a human being took notice of it," he laughed.

"Here's where I live. Will you come in?"

"No, thank you," he said; "I'm late now for breakfast at Dr. Jebb's." So
he tied the horse to the post, helped her from the rig, and with a
flourish of his stick and cap left her.

"The Rev. James Hartigan," she mused; "so that is Dr. Jebb's assistant."
Then in Stockings's ear: "I think I like him--don't you, old runaway?"




CHAPTER XII

Belle Boyd


Belle had been in the express office signing some receipts for goods
consigned to her father when Jim stepped from the train. He appeared
framed in the open doorway; six feet four, broad and straight, supple
and easy, with the head of a Greek god in a crown of golden curls, and a
dash of wild hilarity in his bright blue eyes that suggested a Viking, a
royal pirate. He was the handsomest man she had ever seen and when he
spoke it was with a slight and winsome Irish brogue that lent new charm
to a personality already too dangerously gifted.

It seemed to her that Nature had given him all the gifts there were for
man; and he was even better furnished than she perceived, for he had
youth, health, happy moods, magnetic power in face and voice, courage,
and the gift of speech. And yet, with all these unmeasured blessings was
conjoined a bane. To be possessed of the wild, erratic spirit of the
roving, singing Celt, to be driven to all ill-judged extremities, to be
lashed by passion, anger, and remorse, to be the battle ground of this
wild spirit and its strong rival, the calm and steadfast spirit of the
North--that was a spiritual destiny not to be discerned in a first
meeting; but Belle, keen and understanding, was to discover it very
soon.

Belle Boyd was an only child. Her father was a well-to-do trader; he had
had just enough schooling to give him a high notion of its value, and he
resolved to equip his child with the best there was in reach. This meant
an Illinois college. She entered at seventeen. Here many vague
aspirations of schoolgirl life took definite shape, and resulted in some
radical changes in her course of studies. Her mother had but one
thought--to prepare Belle for being a good wife to some one. Her views
on many subjects were to be left blank, so that she might at once adopt
those of her prospective husband. Her tentacles alone were well
considered in the maternal method, so that she could cling ivy-like to
her oak, stay up with him or go down with him; but help him to stand
up--no, never and not at all!

But Illinois was seething with a different thought in the late '70's.
There were women who boldly proclaimed that sex and mind had little
bearing on each other; that woman should train herself to be herself,
and to stand on her own feet; that when woman had the business training
of men, the widow and the unmarried woman--half of all women--would no
longer be the easy prey of every kind of sharper. These new teachers
were, of course, made social martyrs, but they sowed the seed and the
crop was coming on. That every woman should prepare herself to stand
alone in the world was the first article in their creed. This
crystallized an old and shapeless thought that had often come to Belle,
and the pointed application that she made was to focus her college
studies on a business training. Bookkeeping, shorthand, and exact
methods were selected for specialization; and when at the age of twenty
Belle was graduated and went home to Cedar Mountain, she had, in
addition to her native common sense, a disciplined attention that made
her at once a power in the circle of the church. It was her own idea to
take a business position at once. Her mother was absolutely opposed to
it. "Why should her child be sent to work? Were they not able to keep
her at home? What was the good of parents giving years to toil if not to
keep their children at home with them?" Mr. Boyd was more inclined to
see things Belle's way, and at length a compromise was reached by which
Belle became her father's bookkeeper and secretary, and for a time all
went well.

Then a new factor entered the case, one for which the reformer has not
yet found a good answer. The daily routine of the desk was assumed as a
matter of course; and Belle quickly got used to that and found abundant
mental diversion in other things and in hours of freedom. But her body
had less strength than her mind, and the close confinement of the office
began to tell. Her hands got thin, her cheeks lost their colour, her
eyes grew brighter. Mrs. Boyd began to worry, and sent secretly to
Illinois for bottles of various elixirs of life, guaranteed to put
health, strength, youth, and brains into anything. She also made foolish
and elaborate efforts to trick the daughter into eating more at meals,
or between meals, without avail. At this juncture a very capable person
took matters in hand. Dr. Peter Carson, family physician and devoted
friend, was consulted; his views were clear and convincing: Belle must
give up the office for a year at least; she needed fresh air and sun;
the more the better. Every girl in the Black Hills rides as a matter of
course, and Belle was at home on a broncho; but now it must be, not an
occasional run, but a daily ride in the hills--off for miles, till the
vital forces had renewed their strength.

For a month or more Belle rode and browned in the sun. The colour came
again to her cheeks, and zest to her life; and there also came a strong
desire to be in a business of her own. But it must be something out of
doors; it must be something of little capital; and something a woman
could do. Belle studied her problem with great care and presently there
began to arrive at the post office sundry catalogues of extraordinary
hens with unbelievable records as producers of eggs and of rapid-raising
broilers. The result was that the acre of ground behind the store was
cut up into poultry runs for the various strains of stock that Belle
decided on and that spring Belle launched out on her career as a poultry
farmer. There were Leghorns and Houdans for eggs, and Brahmas in another
yard for mothers. Four things conspired to make her venture a success.
She was the only one in Cedar Mountain with thoroughbred poultry, so
there was a large demand for high-class eggs for setting. The eggs that
for table use brought fifty cents a dozen were worth two dollars and a
half a dozen for hatching. Her store training had taught her to watch
the market reports in the papers, which arrived twice a week, and her
college training taught her to study hen hygiene. Last but not least,
she got their food for nothing.

On closing her books that autumn Belle found that on her investment of
$250 capital borrowed from her father, she had cleared $250, and had all
the capital to render back intact. She realized that while it was
possible to make 100 per cent, on small capital, the rate decreased
rapidly as the capital increased. She estimated that ten times as much
capital would only produce about 25 per cent, because the possibility of
personal management of every hen and every detail would grow
proportionately smaller, and it was this personal touch which counted.
Next, the sovereign advantages of grass range and table scraps must
diminish with each additional hen; and if she had paid herself an
adequate salary the profit would have been wiped out. Last, and perhaps
the most important to her, she was absolutely tied to the farm. She
could not be away one week without suffering loss. It was with
ill-concealed admiration that her father listened to a summary of these
conclusions; later, with the remarkable common sense that characterized
most of her ways, Belle seized a chance to sell out and lodge her money
in the local bank. But the venture had been a success in two respects.
It had helped her to health and it had given her business experience and
confidence.

The winter was now on, and Belle's outdoor activities were somewhat
circumscribed, for there is a real winter in the Black Hills. But she
was in robust health again and she turned her energies more and more to
church work. She was depended on to get up the "sociables," to plan the
entertainments, to invent new and happy games that would take them as
near as they dared go in the direction of dance and stage without
actually outraging the old-fashioned Methodist conscience by getting
there. It was Belle who entirely refurnished the parsonage in one
harmonious style by copying a mission chair and table from a picture,
and then inviting each of the boys to make a like piece, and each of the
girls to make a "drape" to match it. It was a sort of Noah's Ark trick,
this gathering in of things in pairs, but it succeeded originally--the
ark was full--and it succeeded now, for the parsonage was full; and it
will always succeed, for it is built on the old fundamental pairing
instinct.

Belle also imported and put in practical working the idea of a daily
school 'bus, which gathered up the twenty-odd children for ten miles
along the winter road and brought them on a huge hay rack to the Cedar
Mountain School in the morning, and took them back at night to their
homes. But in all these multiplied activities there was a secret
dissatisfaction. She felt that she was a mere hanger-on of the church, a
sort of pet cat to the parson's wife. She was not developing herself
independently, and she began secretly to outline a scheme which meant
nothing less than leaving home to take some sort of position on the west
coast. She had no fear for her success, but she was restrained by two
things: the question of health in case she could not find an outdoor
enterprise, and the sorrow her parents would feel over her--to their
thinking, unnecessary--departure.

For some time both in her school and church work Belle had been much
associated with John Lowe, the schoolteacher. He was considered a
well-meaning person, a dozen years older than herself, and had certain
pleasing qualities, a suave manner--almost too suave--and a readiness of
speech. He was fairly well educated, a good worker, a member of the
church, and had no obvious bad habits. His history was not known; in
fact, no one's history was known in those days of beginnings. Every one
had to be taken as he was found and often on his own statement.

Lowe soon became a devoted admirer of Belle; and Mrs. Boyd, seeing a
chance to beguile her daughter into settling down, did all she could to
bring them together, never losing a chance of praising Jack. He was just
what Belle needed as an executive help to realize much that she had
planned. As a public reciter he had some little prominence; as a
schoolteacher he was just a step nearer the world of brains than were
the other possible men in town, and by that much more acceptable; and
the inevitable result of propinquity was reached. The engagement of
Belle Boyd and Jack Lowe was announced.

There was no ardent love-making on either side, and sometimes Belle,
when left alone, would wonder why she was not more elated each time she
heard him coming; rather, she seemed to feel weighted by the attachment.
She reproached herself for this and as she strove to reach a more
satisfactory state of mind she found herself thinking with a sigh of
that free career she had planned in the business world. Mrs. Boyd's
maternal hopes were too nearly realized to leave her with any
discernment and Belle's father was too much wrapped up in business and
small politics, to see even the mountains that were beyond his back
yard; but another frequent visitor at the house was gifted with better
eyes and more knowledge of the world.

Dr. Carson had never felt attracted toward Lowe. Instinctively he
disliked him. He knew at the beginning that the teacher was much older
than he admitted. The facts that the Boyds were well-to-do and that
Belle was their only child offered, in his frame of mind, a suggestive
sidelight. There were two other things that to Carson seemed important:
one, that Lowe had rather obviously avoided any reference to his
previous place of residence; the other that at one of the sociables he
had amused them all by some exceedingly clever sleight-of-hand tricks
with cards--not playing-cards, of course--they were unmentionable--but
with a few business cards marked in a special way. Carson was sure he
knew in what school such manual dexterity had been acquired.

The doubts in Belle's mind had not yet taken definite form when a new
and unpleasant circumstance obtruded. More than once lately Lowe had
come to the house carrying the unmistakable odour of drink about him. It
was smothered with cloves and peppermint, but still discoverable.
Belle's ideas were not narrow, but this thing shocked and disgusted her,
chiefly because Lowe had repeatedly and voluntarily avowed himself as
flatly opposed to it. She was thus drifting along in perplexity, taking
the trail that her instincts said was not her trail, ever prompted to
cut across to the other fork which meant developing herself, and always
restrained by the fear of breaking with her people, when in the spring
of that year the local press announced the coming to Cedar Mountain of
the Rev. James Hartigan. And on the day after her meeting with him and
their unexpected adventure with the runaway, the parson's wife gave a
tea to introduce the young man to the congregation.

Jim's eyes met hers the moment she entered Jebb's parlour. His greeting
was a joyous one and Belle felt the colour mount in her cheeks as
Hartigan drew her aside to talk. There was something very stimulating
about him, she found--a thrill in his voice, his eyes, and his presence
that she had never experienced with Lowe.

A little later, Lowe himself arrived. Belle, as she turned to greet him,
got an unpleasant shock to note the contrast between the frank, boyish
face of the curly-haired giant and the thin features and restless eyes
of the man she had promised to marry. Her conscience smote her for
disloyalty; but in her heart she was not satisfied. Vague, unspoken,
half-realized criticisms of past months rose to fill her with disquiet.
A cumulative unhappiness in her association with Lowe took possession of
her. And, as she watched with a little thrill the meeting between Jack
and the Preacher, she read plainly on the face of her fiancé the
disapproval that even his practised art could not conceal. For her, the
meeting was portentous; it marked a turning-point; and as she thought of
it later she took a slightly guilty pleasure in the fact that without a
clash of words there was at once a clash of personalities, and that the
Preacher had dominated the scene.




CHAPTER XIII

Preacher Jim's First Sermon


The Sunday on which Jim first appeared in the pulpit will long be
remembered in Cedar Mountain. The "grapevine telegraph" had been working
hard so that all the world of that region had heard of the new preacher,
and curiosity to see him was responsible, more than anything else, for a
church filled with critical folk.

The sight of all the riot and wickedness about the Black Hills, the mad
striving after sudden gold, and the total lack of real joy in its use
after getting it, suggested to Jim a sermon founded on the proverb:
"Better is a dinner of herbs and contentment therewith, etc...." But,
for once in his life, Hartigan was a little abashed by the situation
and, reciting the verses from memory, he managed to get them mixed and
rendered them thus: "Better is a stalled ox and contentment therewith
than a dinner of herbs with a brawling woman." It made an unexpected
hit. Realizing his blunder, he smiled broadly and added:

"Well, if you have any doubts about Solomon's statement, you can have
none whatever about mine."

He then went on to preach a most extraordinary discourse in which fun,
wit, and humour were occasionally interspersed with allusions to the
subject matter. No arguments, no logic, were discoverable; but there
were plenty of amusing illustrations, a good deal that might better have
been left out, and the audience was highly amused though wholly
unedified.

"And how did ye like my sermon?" was the hearty greeting Hartigan gave
Belle Boyd next day, as they met on the boardwalk of Main Street. She
glanced up with a faint flush, looked down, then meeting his eyes
squarely she said:

"Some parts I liked, but much of it I did not."

This was an unexpected reply; Jim had quite looked for a burst of
admiration. In answer to his questions, Belle gave an analysis of the
sermon, as they walked along, pointing out the clay and the gold, and
the total lack of form.

His attitude, at first, had been superior and his tone frivolous. For,
strange to say, the gallantry so strong in his Irish blood is ever mixed
with, or maybe it is a mere mark of belief in, the superiority of the
male. But, before Belle had finished two things had happened--he was
much less sure of his sermon and was a little in awe of her. There could
be no doubt that she was right. Yes, those two stories would have been
better left out; an early paragraph should have been at the end, for it
was the summing up; and the illogical conclusion, which had no promise
in anything he said before, was weak, to say the least. Hartigan felt
much as he used to feel when his mother had called him into a detailed
account of some doubtful conduct.

"What are you going to give us next time?" inquired Belle.

"I thought of beginning a series of sermons on the bad habits of the
congregation--swearing, drinking, gambling, horse-racing, smoking, and
spitting. Last Sunday, right by the door in church, two men were smoking
their pipes and spitting on the floor. It seems to me that Revelations
XI:2 is about the right medicine for such conduct. This is the text:
'And he opened the bottomless pit and there arose a smoke out of the
pit,' Or Psalms XXXVII:20: 'The wicked shall perish ... into smoke shall
they consume away,' Then there is a passage in Jeremiah VII:30: 'They
have set their abominations in the house which is called by my name to
pollute it,' With these I think we have a good scaffolding to build on."

Belle looked puzzled and said nothing. Hartigan was waiting for her
approval. He wanted it.

"What do you think?" he asked, a decided note of anxiety creeping into
his question.

"I would not do it," was the answer.

"Why not?" said Jim instantly on the defensive. "Don't they need it, and
aren't they awfully weak on these things?"

"Yes, they are," said Belle, "but----"

"But what?"

"Mr. Hartigan," she replied as she stopped at her gate, "if you wanted a
rich man to help a poor widow, and went to him saying: 'You miserable
old skinflint, I know you are as greedy as the pit, but I demand it as a
human right that you help this poor woman out of your ill-gotten
abundance,' how much are you going to get? Nothing at all; and the truer
it is the less your chance. On the other hand, if you go to him and say:
'Mr. Dives, you are one of the few men in town who have the power to
help this woman. I know she is well worthy of help, for she's having a
hard struggle. Now, you had a struggle once and know what that means. It
made a keen, successful business man of you; but I know you are
kind-hearted and generous and that all you want is to be sure that the
case is genuine. Well, I can assure you it is. Will you not help her
with the rent till strawberry time, when she expects to get a little
money?' That way you will get something. He _has_ to become generous
when you _say_ he is; and I think that you will get more out of these
people if you assume that they are something good. Later, when they know
you better, you can put them right on their faults."

Hartigan stared at her with frankly admiring eyes.

"Well," he said, "you surely have the level head. You are right and I
will do as you say. But I wonder why you take all this trouble with me?"

Flushed and happy over her victory and very deeply moved by the look she
had seen on Jim's face, Belle realized the full meaning of her success
and took a woman's pride in the fact that this great, powerful,
self-confident, gifted man should in two short encounters completely
change about and defer to her judgment. There was a moment's silence in
which she sought to get her voice under control. Then she added:

"Will you let me know what you decide to preach on?"

"I will," said Jim, his eyes still on her face.

They had been standing at the door of the Boyd home. In that instant of
his dependence upon her Belle had been conscious of a very sweet and
precious bond between them. Without turning toward him, she touched his
arm lightly with her hand and went into the house.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jim's first effort had not encouraged Dr. Jebb to transfer much of the
pulpit service to the young man. Subsequently, he had a long talk with
him and pointed out some of the defects as Belle had done; also a number
of lapses which, though purely academic, he considered of prime
importance. Thus, more than a month elapsed before Jim was again called
to fill the pulpit.

Meanwhile, he had had many experiences of value in his widespread
congregation, among them the raising of a charitable fund for an
unfortunate neighbour, and he had become well acquainted with Jack
Shives, the blacksmith, a singular mixture of brusqueness and kindness.
Shives was a good citizen who did good work at the forge, but he was
utterly opposed to all creeds and churches. He made it a point to set
all the weight of his solid character against these, as well as the
power of his biting tongue.

As soon as Dr. Jebb asked him to take the pulpit, Jim called on Belle.

"Well, I'm to have another chance," he said, as with one hand he lifted
an armchair that Dr. Jebb could not have moved at all.

"Good," said she. "What is the subject to be?"

"I have three subjects I wish to treat," he began; "one, foreign
missions; the next is the revised version of the New Testament; and the
last is the secularizing influence of church clubs. Which do you say?"

Belle looked serious. At length she said:

"Maybe you can make something constructive out of these ideas. It
depends on how you handle them; but they seem to me far-off and
doubtful."

He looked the disappointment he felt and waited for her to go on.

"What was the _good_ thing that struck you most when you came among us?"

Hartigan gazed through the window at the round top of Cedar Mountain,
then at the frank face of the slim girl, and with a little outburst of
his real nature he cried:

"Bejabers, it was the kind way you all received me."

"All right, then; why not make _that_ your subject for the next sermon?
Let these people know that you think they are kind, and that they make
you feel it, and they will become kinder. Then, when you are established
in their hearts, you can talk about their faults. That will come later.
Since we must find a scripture text to hang your talk on, let's take
Ephesians IV:32: 'Be ye kind one to another, tender hearted, forgiving
one another even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you.'"

The sermon was duly outlined. The outline was brought for Belle to hear.
She was keenly interested because in some sense she was on trial; and
under the stimulating influence of her attention, Jim expanded the
outline to a whole sermon and preached it all to Belle then and there.
It was full of eloquent passages and wholesome lessons, but it was far
too long, as Belle insisted; and again there was a readjustment with the
result that on the following Sunday Hartigan delivered a brilliant
sermon on Kindness, the kindness he had received, the kindness that is
the heart of all true religion. The quaint humour, the vivid
presentation, and the every-day applications were new and true notes to
that congregation. It shocked some of the old-fashioned type, but the
reality it gave to religion was not lost, and the human interest and
sincerity of it held every mind. It cannot be given in full, but the
opening passages will illustrate Jim's theme and his method. After
reading the parable of the Good Samaritan, he said:

     "Now, friends, I have selected the story of the Good Samaritan for
     a starting point; and it's a good one, even if I never get back to
     it through the whole length of the sermon.

     "I want you to understand that here was a man who was a kind of
     outcast; he didn't go to church and he didn't know or care a cent
     about doctrines or creeds; his people were notorious for wine
     drinking so that it's more than likely he was often drunk, and it's
     ten to one he swore every time he got mad. But he was ready to lend
     a helping hand to _anybody_ that had need of him.

     "And I want you to note that the men who would not do a finger's
     tap to help were a holy priest with a big salary and a highly
     respectable church member in training for the ministry. So you see,
     the Lord selected these three to illustrate this point then, now,
     and for all time, that he had nothing but contempt for the
     coldblooded holy-rollers and that the ignorant outcast infidel was
     his sort because he had a kind heart.

     "Now, friends, we've all three kinds right with us all the time.
     Though I don't go much on mincing words, I won't specify the priest
     nor the Levite right here in Cedar Mountain; but I will make
     mention of the Good Samaritan.

     "Ye see, it wasn't exactly a case of being held up by robbers; but
     we had to raise enough to get the Hanky family out of their
     troubles when Jack Hanky broke his arm, his leg, his buggy, and his
     bank account all on one and the same unlucky day; and it was my job
     to raise the wind to help him weather the storm. Well, I went about
     as you all know, and got a little here and a little there; then
     squeezed out a little more from some of the dry sponges, and still
     was short. So I went to Jack Shives and he contributed more than
     any one else; and then, on top of that, he put Hanky's buggy in
     good shape without a cent of pay, and went down night after night
     to sit at his bedside and help him pass the long hours away.

     "Now the fact is, Jack Shives and I have had many a fight on
     religious questions. He swears and drinks all he wants to, which
     I'm bound to say isn't much. He jokes about the church and the
     preacher and every one that goes to church. He pokes fun at the
     hymn book and laughs at the Bible and every one that tries to
     follow it word for word. Jack thinks he's all kinds of an infidel;
     but he isn't. I have a notion of my own that he's a better
     Christian than he allows, better than a good many church members I
     could name. In fact, I believe if the Lord Jesus were to get off at
     Cedar Mountain from to-morrow's noon train, the first thing he
     would do would be to go to the post office and say: 'Can you tell
     me where Jack Shives, the blacksmith, lives? He's a particular
     friend of mine, he's done a lot of little odd jobs for me and I
     guess I'll put up at his house while I'm in Cedar Mountain.'"

And so he talked for the allotted time, translating the age-old truth
into terms of to-day and personal application. A few of the older folk
thought he treated some very serious subjects too lightly; they
preferred the sing-song tone so long associated with scripture texts.
Others had their doubts as to Jim's theology. His eulogy of the
blacksmith was a little too impulsive, but none had any question of the
thrilling human interest of his words and the completeness of his hold
on every one's attention. It was wholesome, if not orthodox; it drove
home with conviction; it made them laugh and cry; and it was a
masterpiece of the simple eloquence that was so much his gift and of the
humour that was the birthright of his race.

From that day forth the doubtful impressions created by Hartigan's first
appearance in the pulpit were wiped out and he was reckoned as a new and
very potent force in the community.




CHAPTER XIV

The Lure of the Saddle


One of the needs that Hartigan very soon became aware of in his
far-flung pastoral work was that of a good saddle horse. An income of
three hundred dollars a year will not maintain very much in the way of a
stable, but a horse had to be got, and the idea of looking for one was
exceedingly pleasant to him. It needed but the sight and smell of the
horse leathers to rouse the old passion bred and fostered in Downey's
stable. He loved the saddle, he knew horses as few men did, and had he
been ninety pounds lighter he would have made a famous jockey.

For many days he was able to put his mind on nothing else. He eagerly
took every chance to visit likely stock; he was never so happy as when
he was astride of some mettlesome animal, interpreting its moods as only
the born horseman can do, and drawing on the reserves of strength which
are closed to all but the expert rider. He responded in every fibre of
his great physique to the zest of this renewed experience of a loved and
lost stable life, and yet the very passion of his enjoyment appalled him
at times for it seemed to be in some sense a disloyalty to the new life
he had taken up and to draw him away from it.

In those days there were motley bands of immigrants crossing the plains
from the East, making for the Black Hills as an island of promise in the
great open sea, and one of these wanderers from far-off Illinois arrived
one evening with the usual outfit of prairie schooner, oxen, milch cow,
saddle horses, dogs, and children. Calamity had overtaken the caravan.
The mother had died; the father was disgusted with the country and
everything in it; and his one idea was to sell his outfit and get the
children back East, back to school and granny. At the auction, the
cattle brought good prices, but no one wanted the horses. They were
gaunt and weary, saddle-and spur-galled; one young and the other past
middle life. It was the young horse that caught Hartigan's eye. It was
rising three, a well-built skeleton, but with a readiness to look alert,
a full mane and tail, and a glint of gold on the coat that had a meaning
and a message for the horse-wise. The auctioneer was struggling to raise
a bid.

"Will any one bid on this fine young colt? All he needs is oats, and a
few other things."

A laugh went up, which was just what the auctioneer wanted, for
merriment is essential to a successful sale.

"Here now, boys, who will start him at five dollars? And him worth a
hundred."

It was too much for Hartigan. He raised his finger to the auctioneer.

"There, now, there's a preacher that knows a horse," he prattled away,
but no second offer came, and the colt was knocked down to Hartigan for
five greasy dollars.

"A good clean-down is worth a bushel of oats to a horse," is old stable
wisdom, "and a deal cheaper," as Hartigan added. Within the hour Blazing
Star, as the new owner named him from the star blaze in his forehead,
was rubbed and curry-combed as probably he never had been in his life
before. He was fed with a little grain and an abundance of prairie hay,
his wounds were painted with iodine and his mane was plaited. He was
handled from forelock to fetlock and rubbed and massaged like a
prizefighter who is out for mighty stakes.

"They are just like humans," Hartigan remarked to the "perchers" at
Shives's blacksmith shop. "All they need is kindness and common sense."

Before a month had gone, Hartigan was offered fifty dollars for the
colt; and this in a land where twenty-five dollars is the usual price
for a saddle horse. In truth, no one would have recognized this fine,
spirited young horse as the sorry jade that landed in the town a short
four weeks before. But Hartigan, who had a trainer's eye, said to Shives
and the "perchers":

"Wait for two months and then you will see something."

And they did. They saw the young Achilles riding down the street on the
wonderful chosen steed of all the herd. There were perfectly balanced
life and power in every move of both, the eagerness to up and do, the
grace of consummate animalism. They had seen many a fine man on a noble
horse, but never before had they beheld a picture so satisfying to both
eye and heart as that of the Preacher on his five-dollar steed.

Five miles from Cedar Mountain is Fort Ryan and to the south of it a
plain, where every year in the first week of July the Indians gather in
their tepees and the whites in tents and prairie schooners for a sort of
fair, in which are many kinds of sin on the largest scale. Herds of
horses are there, and racing is a favourite sport. It was here on the
Fourth of July that an Indian on a rough-looking buckskin pony had won,
over all the field that year, a purse containing five hundred dollars.
The whites, who had their racers set at naught, were ready for almost
any scheme that promised them revenge, and they made an ill-favoured and
sulky lot as they sat on the shady side of the movable saloon that
lingered still on the racing plain. Their eyes were pinched at the
corners with gazing at the sunlight, and their ragged beards were like
autumn grass. A horseman appeared in the distance, and ambled toward
them. This was a common enough sight, but the easy pace was pleasing to
the eye, and when he drew near these men of the saddle found a
horseman's pleasure in the clean-limbed steed so easily ridden.

"Guess it's the new preacher," said one with a laugh. "He's come down
from Cedar Mountain to save us from Hell, as if Hell could be any worse
than this."

Hartigan drew up to inquire the direction to a certain cabin and when he
learned the way he rode on.

"Looks to me like he would have made a cowboy, if they had ketched him
young."

"Do you see that horse? Ain't there some blood there?"

"Yes, there is," said Long Bill, "and it strikes me it is worth
following up. Let's have another look."

The group sauntered to where the Preacher was making a call and one of
them began:

"Say, mister, that's quite a horse you've got there; want to sell him?"

"No."

"Looks like a speeder."

"Yes, there's nothing in Cedar Mountain to touch him."

"Say, mister," said cattleman Kyle, "if he's a winner, here's your
chance to roll up a wad."

Hartigan stared and waited. The cult of the horse is very ancient, but
its ways are ever modern.

"You say he's a great speeder; will you try him against Kyle's horse?"
said Long Bill.

Jim looked a rebuff and shook his head.

"Oh, just a friendly race," the man went on; "Kyle thinks he has the
best American horse in town." And as various members of the party looked
more critically at Blazing Star and felt his limbs they became more
insistent.

When Jim had joined the Church, horse-racing was one of the deadly sins
he had abjured. So while he refused to enter a race, he was easily
persuaded to ride his horse against Kyle's for a friendly mile. Whether
begun as a race or not, it was in deadly earnest after the first fifty
yards and it proved just what they needed to know: that Kyle's horse,
which had been a good second best with the Indian, was a poor second in
the race with Blazing Star. With this essential information, Kyle asked
if he could hire Hartigan's horse for a brush with the Indian.

Hartigan went through a most painful struggle with his conscience. But
clearly "this was not a regular race." It was "just a sort of speed test
with an Indian pony like the one he had had with Kyle." He was not going
to ride in it. He would only rent his horse for wages. "Sure, every one
hires out his horse when he has a good one." So Blazing Star was hired
out to Kyle, and a new though unimportant race was arranged, for a
stake, otherwise the Indian would not have taken the trouble to ride.
The Red-men's black eyes looked keenly on as he measured the new horse.
Then the unexpected happened. Blazing Star was not accustomed to the new
jockey, the gentle ways that had fostered his speed were lacking. The
rider's idea was whip and spur and go from the start. The horse got
"rattled" and the Indian pony won. The defeat stirred Hartigan to a rage
such as he had not experienced in months. The unrest of his conscience
over the affair, coupled with his contempt and fury at the bad
horsemanship of the rider, set loose from his tongue a lurid torrent
blended of Links, Scripture, and Black Hills.

"Here, you jelly-backed cowpuncher, let me show you how to ride. Will
you ride again?" he shouted to the Indian, as the latter put the roll of
bills in his tobacco pouch.

The Indian shook his head.

"I will put that up twenty-five dollars to nothing," and Hartigan held
up the twenty-five dollars he had received as hire for his horse. Again
the Indian shook his head. "I'll give you that if you'll ride." Jim held
up a ten, "and double it if you win."

With a gesture, the Indian consented, received the bill, and put it with
the rest. They rode to the starting post, were unceremoniously started,
and Hartigan showed how much a man could do for a horse. In spite of his
rider's great weight that splendid beast responded to every word, and
when on the home run Hartigan used the quirt, Blazing Star seemed to
know it was merely a signal, not an insulting urge, and let himself go.
The Indian pony, too, was doing his utmost, but Blazing Star swept past
his opponent and led at the finish by more than a length; the race was
won; and Hartigan wakened up as a man out of a dream to face the awful
fact that he, a minister of the gospel, had not only ridden in a horse
race, but had gambled on the same.




CHAPTER XV

Pat Bylow's Spree


At the time of the incidents at Fort Ryan, Belle was away on a visit to
Deadwood. Otherwise, Hartigan would surely have consulted her and
profited by her calmer judgment in the matter of the race. As it was,
his torturing sense of moral iniquity led him to preach a sermon in
which he poured forth all the intensity of his nature. Quietly to drop
the subject was not his way; he knew that every one was talking about
it, so nothing would do but a public denunciation of himself, and all
that followed the race track.

The text he chose was: "My wounds stink, and are corrupt, because of my
foolishness" (Psalms XXXVIII:5). Jim's thought was that once the sinner
is saved, all his sins become peculiarly and especially repugnant to
him. They acquire nothing less than a stench in his nostrils, and
henceforth are as repellent as once they were attractive, no matter what
they may be; and he enumerated drunkenness, swearing, gambling, and
horse-racing. At mention of the last a smile spread over the faces of
the congregation. He noted it at once, and said:

"Yes, I know what you are thinking. You are wondering how I came to ride
my horse in a race at Fort Ryan. Well, it was the devil laid a snare for
me, and I fell in. But this I will say: I promise you I will never do
the like again, and if each of you will stand up now and give me the
same promise about your own particular besetting sin, then I'll feel
that we have made a great gain, and I will be glad I rode that race
after all."

In this land of the horse no one was long inclined to take the matter
seriously. A nature so buoyant as his could not long be downcast, and
Hartigan's sense of sin for his part in the race was soon put behind
him. Then happened an incident that gave him a chance to score a
triumph.

In a remote part of the valley some five miles back of Cedar Mountain
was Bylow's Corner, a group of three or four houses near the road, the
log cabins of homesteaders. These men had, indeed, few pleasures in
life. Their highest notion of joy was a spree; and every month or two
they would import a keg of liquor, generally of a quality unfit for
human consumption. The word had been passed around that Pat Bylow had
got a keg of the "real stuff," and the rest of the Corner assembled on a
certain Saturday night for an orgy, which it was expected would last
about two days. Word of it reached Hartigan, too, and he decided that
here was a glorious opportunity to save bodies and souls at once.
Without consulting any one he mounted Blazing Star, and in half an hour
was at the Corner. Tying his horse to a tree, he went to the house that
was the known meeting place. There were lights in the window and
boisterous noises issuing forth. At the door he stopped and listened;
rough voices were grumbling; there was an occasional curse, a laugh,
then a woman speaking shrilly; a minute's silence, during which the
sweet song of a night bird was heard in the dark bushes by the stream,
whereupon a hoarse, brutalized voice shouted:

"Oh, hurry up and start that bung, you act like a schoolgirl."

The Preacher knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again and much
louder. There was a moment's silence. Then a heavy voice:

"Who's there?"

"It's me," was the unhelpful reply.

A man moved to the door again demanding:

"Who's there?"

"It's a friend who wants to join you."

There was some discussion, then the door was cautiously opened. The man
inside got a glimpse of the tall form of the Preacher, let off a savage
snarl and oath, and attempted to slam the door. But he was not quick
enough; the Preacher got his foot in and pushed irresistibly. There were
curses from within and others came to help. But the Preacher was too
much for them; the door went back with a clatter and he stood in the
middle of the room. The rude log cabin held five men, three women, and a
table on which was a small keg of whiskey and some glasses. The keg had
not yet been opened, and the glasses were empty.

"What do you want here?" growled the biggest of the men, advancing
threateningly.

"Sure, I am here to spill that accursed stuff on the ground and hold a
prayer meeting in the hopes of saving your souls," was the answer.

"Get to h--l out of this and mind your own business," he said, fingering
an ugly knife he had snatched from the table.

Hartigan did not move. As the big brute edged in, not at all quickly,
for the fight was scarcely yet on, Hartigan landed a swift football drop
kick under the hand that held the knife. The weapon was dashed up to the
ceiling and stuck shivering in the logs, while its owner stumbled and
fell with a growl of pain, one hand hanging helpless. Two other men
rushed to the attack. They had no weapons, and the Preacher man[oe]uvred
to take them singly. With two chops and an undercut he laid them on
their backs, and the remaining men refrained from declaring war.

"Sure now," said the Preacher, as he looked calmly around, "I regret to
have the meeting open so unrestful, when it was my intention to start it
with a prayer, followed by a hymn with all of you joining in. But you
seemed to want it this way and, of course, I had to humour you. Now I
will begin by pouring out a drink offering on the altar of God."

He stepped toward the keg. It was unopened. He raised it in his hands
and dashed it down on the floor. It bounded up unhurt. Realizing his
purpose for the first time, the men gave vent to savage oaths backed by
an assertion of property rights. Then, seeing that he was undeterred,
they set upon him with a rush.

Jim, it must be confessed, found a new joy in that new attack. It gave
him a chance to work off his superabundant energy. The confined space of
the cabin was in his favour. He blocked all attempts to encompass him,
while his mighty arms did terrific execution, and when the finish came
it showed the would-be revellers lying around in various positions
eloquent of defeat.

"Sure, it's mighty sorry I am, but I have to tend to my job."

Going to the fireplace, and picking up one of the bricks used to support
the logs, he smashed in the head of the keg and spilled the odorous
contents on the floor. The final splash he threw toward the fire,
expecting to see it blaze into a blue flame, but it acted as water and
the room was filled with an evil stench. The Preacher knew what it
meant; his contemptuous "Humph!" expressed it all.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, as the tallest of the ruffians moved
to the door.

"You mind your own business. I am going home," was the answer.

"Come back and join us, we're going to have a prayer meeting," and Jim
stepped over to the door.

"Now get down on your knees, all of ye," and he himself kneeled. The
little man and two of the women followed his example.

"Get down on your knees!" the Preacher thundered to those standing. The
big fellow had got a stick of firewood for a weapon and, despite his
crippled right hand, was disposed to fight.

"Oh, ho! shillelah play," chuckled Hartigan, "that's an ould, ould game
with me."

He rose and picked up a leg of the table broken off during the struggle.
It was not a heavy club, but it was in skilful hands. There is one move
of the shillelah that the best experts have trouble to parry, that is
the direct thrust. The slash right and the slash left, the overhead or
the undercut have a simple answer; but the end-on straight thrust is
baffling. Jim knew this of old, and a moment later the big woodsman was
on the floor with a bloody nose, a sense of shock, and a disposition to
surrender.

"Now come, every one of ye, and join in our prayer meeting. Come on," he
beckoned to the other two, "or it will be me duty to knock sense into
ye."

And so he gathered that graceless group around him. Kneeling in their
midst, he prayed for help to make them see that he wanted to be their
friend, that he was acting for their interests, that he knew as well as
they did the hankering for drink.

"O Lord, you know. And I know that anyway that stuff was not whiskey at
all, at all; that it would not burn in the fire, and I'll bet it would
freeze if it were put out of doors"; and having contributed these expert
remarks, he closed with, "Amen."

"And now we will sing a hymn," and he led them in "Come to Jesus." But
it was not a success, so he fell back on the praying, which was his
specialty, and more than once his congregation joined in with an "amen."
Sulky Big Pat had to be threatened again, for he was of fighting stock;
but the prayer meeting closed without further hostilities and the orgy
had been made physically impossible. As he rose, Hartigan said in his
inimitable way:

"Now, friends, I want to apologize to you all for seeming uncivil, but
there are times when a man has to be a little abrupt, and if I have hurt
your feelings or annoyed you in any way I am very sorry for it, because
I'd rather be friends. Let's shake hands before I leave, and I will be
glad to see any of you in church."

Then a strange thing happened. The little man had shaken hands
effusively, the big one sulkily, but there was one there who took the
Preacher's hand warmly and in a husky voice said:

"Mr. Hartigan, I want you to know you have made me think different. I am
coming to church. I know you are right." Then turning to a woman by his
side: "This is my wife--she feels as I do."

"Thank you for coming to-night," said the woman. "You _will_ pray for
us, won't you? We will try; only it is terribly hard, once you have
taken on the habit."

"Sure, it's myself that knows it," said Hartigan. "I've been through it
all, I tell you."

There was a brotherly warmth in the Preacher's handclasp and in his
words as he turned to go out in the calm and beautiful blue night. The
Black Hills' coyotes howled and Blazing Star whinnied a mild
remonstrance at the long desertion. The Preacher mounted and as he swung
lightly down the wagon trail, he had a sense of joy, of triumph, of
uplift that had seldom been his. Here for the first time he had put his
great physical strength to the service of the new life. It was a
consecration, so to speak, of his bodily powers. And overtopping this
was another happiness, which, he was just beginning to realize,
completely filled his thoughts these days: the prospect of crowning each
day's adventures by telling them all to Belle.




CHAPTER XVI

The New Insurance Agents


Woman's suffrage was a disturbing question in the West of the '80's and
it had not by any means passed Cedar Mountain by. There was more than
one fiery dispute among the "perchers" of Shives's shop, where Jim was
very fond of dropping in. Indeed the smithy was the public forum of the
town.

Hartigan had very strong views, of the oldest and most conservative
type, on the sphere of woman--notwithstanding the fact that his mother
had been the capable leader of men. He did not say much about this; but
he assumed that the absence of his father was the sole cause of his
mother's dominance. He was fond of quoting St. Paul: "Let your women
keep silence in the churches ... it is a shame for women to speak in the
church" (I Cor. XIV:34-35), and from this he argued that silence was
woman's only duty in all public matters of administration, because it
accorded with her limitations.

Shives, being twice as old, was much less certain. He could cite
Cleopatra, Catherine of Russia, Catherine de' Medici, and other familiar
names to prove the woman's power; to which Hartigan replied:

"And a fine moral lot they were! Was ever power put to more devilish
use?"

This was a jibe and not an answer. But it caused a laugh, and that
always counts in debate. Then, with singular blindness to the fact that
he himself was at the time being guided by a certain young woman, Jim
issued his challenge:

"If you can show me a couple that started fair and square together on
equal footing and didn't end with the man as head and leader in
everything to do with fighting the battle of life, I'll give in--I'm
licked."

Two mornings later, Dr. Carson was standing outside his office door,
when he heard a quick stride on the boardwalk and the gay voice of the
Preacher singing "Roy's Wife of Aldivallock."

"The top of the morning to ye, Doc," was his cheery greeting; and the
doctor answered:

"Say, Jim, come here. I've got a good one for you. This is a brand-new
one." They walked down the boardwalk to the place where most of the
offices were and there read on a newly placed signboard the legend:

"John and Hannah Higginbotham, Insurance Agents."

"How is that?" said Carson, as he lit a cigar.

"Well, I'll be--surprised," was the answer.

As Jim looked in astonishment the door was opened and a dapper little
man with a fuzzy red beard appeared.

"Good morning, gentlemen, good morning!" he said, in a perfectly good
Yankee twang. "Can I do anything for you to-day in my line? Step in,
gentlemen; I'm John Higginbotham." They entered and, behind the desk,
sighted a stout woman of medium size, middle age, and moderately good
appearance.

"Hannah, these are two of our fellow townsfolk, calling. Excuse me,
gentlemen, I didn't get your names." He was enlightened and prattled on:
"Oh, Reverend Hartigan and Dr. Carson. Good! Healing for the body and
healing for the soul, and my healing is for the estate--happy trinity,
isn't it? Sit down, gentlemen."

"Can we do anything for you in our line?" said the buxom lady behind the
desk, in a strong, deep voice; and now Jim noticed for the first time
her square jaw and her keen eye that brightened as she spoke.

"Not at present, thank you," said Jim. "We are merely making a
neighbourly call."

"The fact is," said Dr. Carson, "the thing that stopped us this morning
was your new signboard."

"There! There! I told you so; I told you it was good business," said the
little man. "The first thing in commerce is to have a good article and
the next is to win the attention of the public. I felt sure it was a
good move."

"You've got the attention of the whole town at one stroke," said Carson.
"If you have the wares to follow it up----"

"Wares! My company is The Merchants' Mutual. It is the----"

Realizing that he had injudiciously turned on a hydrant, Carson said
heartily:

"Oh, yes, yes; of course; I should have known. Why, every one knows that
The Merchants' Mutual is one of _the_ companies. How did you come in, by
rail or by the trail?"

At this point, Hannah rose and, passing out of the door, gave a
momentary glimpse of a kitchen stove with pots and kettles boiling.

John smiled blandly, raised a flat hand with an oratorical gesture:

"Ah, that is an important question, and bears directly on the signboard.
You see, we came from Bootlebury, Massachusetts. Hannah's father was
quite a man in that town, and I worked my way up till I had a little
insurance office of my own and married Hannah. Well" (he didn't say
"well" and he didn't say "wall," but there isn't any in-between way to
spell it aright), "if I'd got all the insurance business in Bootlebury,
it would not have been horses and cushions, but I didn't get half of it,
and Hannah says, 'John, I think we'd getter go out West,' for, somehow,
she didn't want to stay in a place where folks said she'd had a 'come
down.'

"We'd had about ten years of it, and I had just about come to her way of
thinking when her dad died and left her quite well fixed. An' Hannah she
had quite an eye to biz; she worked at my office desk as much as she did
at the cook stove; an' now she says to me, 'Here is where we get out.'

"Every one was talking about the Black Hills then, and that was why we
headed this way. Well, we figured out that the railway fares from St.
Louis 'round to Sidney and north to the Hills were so much higher than
the steamboat fare from St. Louis to Pierre, that we could save enough
to buy a team of ponies and a buckboard at Pierre, and then cross the
Plains with the settlers going in and be ahead by the value of the team,
which would be needed in our country business anyhow."

"Time didn't count?" interrupted Carson.

"Not much; and we wanted to see the country."

"By George! I wish I'd been with ye," said Jim. "If only it had been a
saddle trip it would have been perfect."

"Perfect!" exclaimed the little man; "I wish you could have seen us. The
farther we went up that endless river of mud the worse it seemed; and
when we landed at Pierre it did seem the last of all creation.

"I didn't have much heart to buy the ponies, but Hannah kept with me and
never once seemed to feel discouraged. But when we crossed the river
with our outfit and really set out on the blank, bleak plains, I tell
ye, we felt heart-sick, sore, and lonesome--at least, I did."

At this moment Hannah came in from the kitchen and took the lead in
conversation.

"Has John been giving you an outline of our policy in the matter of
lapsing premiums and residuary annuities?"

"Now, Hannah," replied John, "I think that is a little too much like
business for friendly callers."

"Business is always in order in the office," was Hannah's retort.

"I understand," said John, "that the Methodists are very strong in Cedar
Mountain."

"Well, we think so," answered Hartigan.

"Good," said Higginbotham. "I have always felt that it was wisest to
associate myself with the church that was spiritually strongest. I am
not in sympathy with narrow views." He did not mention the fact that in
Bootlebury he had associated himself with the Unitarians for the same
reason.

A loud sizzling in the next room caused Hannah to spring up heavily and
return to the kitchen.

Jim was more interested in their venturesome trip across the Plains than
in reasons for doctrinal affiliation, and he steered the conversation by
saying:

"How did you come out on the Plains trip?"

And John bubbled on with a mixture of fun, pathos, and frank admiration
for his wife that appealed strongly to both hearers. His gift of
language was copious without being varied or clever, but his homely
phrases carried the thought.

"I'll not forget the morning of our journey. It was raining by the
bucketfuls. 'Well,' says I, 'for a semi-arid country this is going
some'; and I felt so homesick and sore, I said, 'Hannah, let's not go
any farther'; and Hannah she just looked at me and said, 'See here,
John, I've come out so far to go to the Black Hills and I'm going.'
Then, when the weather let up a little, we started out; and, after a
couple of hours we stuck in a muddy creek and were all day getting
across. Next day a couple more gullies just as bad, and the rain came
down till ever hole in the prairie was a pond; and I tell you I wished
I'd bought a boat instead of the buckboard. And the mosquitoes, oh, my!
Well, we floundered around about three days and got all our stuff wet
and half spoiled. Then we found we'd missed the way and had to flounder
three days back again. I tell you, I felt pretty much discouraged. Then
we saw something a-coming. It turned out to be a settler going back. He
said there was nothing but pond holes and bogs, the mosquitoes were
awful, the boom was bust, and the Sioux on the war path. I felt pretty
sick. That was a finisher; and when that man says, 'You better come back
with us,' I was for going. But Hannah, she just boiled up and she says,
'John Higginbotham, if you want to go back with that bunch of
chicken-hearts, you can go. I'm going to the Black Hills, if I have to
go alone.' I tried to make her see it my way, but she got into the
buckboard, gathered up the reins, and headed for the West. I had to get
in behind as best I could. We didn't talk much. We weren't on speaking
terms that day; and, at night, as we sat eating supper, it started to
raining worse'n ever, and I says, 'I wish we'd gone back.'

"'I don't,' she snapped, an' we never spoke till the morning.

"Then she called me to breakfast. I tell you, I never saw such a change.
The sun was up and the sky was clear. In a little while, we were out of
the sloughs and had no mosquitoes. Then we got a bad shake. A band of
horsemen came riding right at us. But they turned out to be U. S.
cavalrymen. They put us right on the road, and told us the Indian scare
was just fool talk, and had nothing back of it. After that, all went
fine and in two days we were in the Hills.

"I tell you, I felt different as we stood there at our last campfire,
and I says, 'Hannah, you're a wonder. You are the best of the outfit. It
was your money we started on. It was your grit kept me going on when I
was for quitting, and you are in every deal I make. You bet I'll let the
world know we are partners.' So that's why that signboard went up. Not a
bad ad I reckon, for no one sees it without taking notice; so, if
there's anything in our line you need, let me know."

As Carson and Hartigan walked down the street, the doctor said: "Well,
what do you think of Woman Suffrage now?"

Hartigan shrugged his big shoulders, gave a comical glance back at the
signboard, and replied:

"You've got me!"

It was indeed a poser for Jim; a shock to a deep-set prejudice.
Notwithstanding the fact that his mother had been a woman of power, the
unquestioned and able head in a community of men, he had unconsciously
clung to the old idea of woman's mental inferiority. In college he had
had that notion bolstered up with Scripture texts and alleged Christian
doctrine.

This was not the time or place, he felt, to discuss the principle of it,
and his natural delicacy would, in any case, have kept him from a free
expression; but later, in the blacksmith shop, that neutral territory of
free speech, they had it out. Higginbotham was there and was ready and
able to fight with Scriptural weapons. He pointed out that all the texts
quoted, such as: "Wives be in subjection to your own husbands in
everything, etc.," were from St. Paul, who was believed to have had a
painful history in such matters; whereas, St. Peter, admittedly a far
better authority, said: "Likewise, ye husbands, dwell with them, giving
honour to the wife."

"Which may or may not be sound doctrine," said John, "but I know my wife
brought me out here, it was her capital that set me up, she has a hand
in all business, so why not say so on the signboard?"

Cedar Mountain had its fill of fun and there were many venerable jokes
about "wearing the pants" and others about a spelling of "hen-pecked."
"Wasn't it 'Hannah-pecked' now?" And some there were, even women, who
condemned the innovation as godless; but all of these hostile comments
died away when folk came to know the pair and realize how justly they
were represented on the signboard: "John and Hannah Higginbotham,
Insurance Agents."




CHAPTER XVII

Belle Makes a Decision and Jim Evades One


It was late on Wednesday afternoon. Belle was working at the sewing
machine in the back room of the Boyd home when there was a familiar
knock at the front door. She was not unprepared for it and yet she
dreaded this inevitable interview. Lowe had been pointedly cold for some
time. He had been to the house only once in the past month and he had
made it quite plain that Hartigan was the objectionable figure in the
horizon. Belle realized that their relations had come to a crisis. She
had not admitted frankly to herself what she would do when this talk
took place, but in her heart there was not the slightest doubt.

At the sound of his step and knock she went into the parlour, closing
the door into the rear room to insure some measure of privacy, and then
admitted Jack. His greeting had the obvious air of a man who has been
wronged. For a while, with characteristic obliquity, he talked of his
school work. Belle sewed meanwhile, asking occasional questions. After a
quarter of an hour of this the conversation languished. Belle was
determined that he should open the subject himself, and in the awkward
pause that ensued she busied herself basting up a lining for her frock.
At last, clearing his throat, Lowe began:

"Belle, I've got something else to say to you."

She looked at him squarely, the direct gaze of her clear, dark eyes in
striking contrast with his close-lidded, shifting glance. He went on:

"I think that you and the new preacher are going too far and it had
better stop now."

"Just what do you mean, Jack? What do you accuse me of, exactly?"

From the very beginning of their friendship he had always writhed under
the directness of her mental processes. He was ever for evasion,
indirection; she for frank, open dealing in all things. He tried to
retreat.

"I'm not accusing you of anything."

"No, but of _something_," she replied with a faint smile. "What is it?"

"There's a lot of talk about town--about you and Hartigan. It makes me a
laughing stock. If we weren't engaged----"

Belle interrupted:

"That's just what I want to speak about. I've been wanting to have a
frank talk with you for some time, Jack, and we may as well have it now.

"I have always liked you and you have been awfully attentive and helpful
to me. I thought I was in love with you, but you know that when we had
our talk a year ago, I begged you not to make an announcement and when
you insisted on telling a few friends it was agreed that I was to have a
year to decide finally. That was why I never wore your ring." She drew a
box from her breast and held it out to him.

"We have both made a mistake, Jack. I made the worst one when I allowed
you to over-persuade me a year ago; but we are not going to spoil two
lives by going on with it."

Lowe's mind was not of particularly fine calibre. For some months,
whenever he faced the truth, he had realized that he would never marry
Belle. He was fond of her to the extent possible in a nature such as his
and he was keenly alive to the financial advantage of becoming Boyd's
son-in-law. His past history would not bear close inspection and
latterly some of his youthful vices had come to light and to life. He
knew only too well what a marriage into the Boyd family would do for his
fortunes, financially and socially, and a dull rage of several weeks'
nursing burned in him against Hartigan. As he took his hat to depart he
was foolish enough to speak what was in his mind. He uttered a silly
attack on the Preacher. It moved Belle and brought the colour to her
face. His bitter comments on their own relations had not called forth
any response from her, but this shaft went home, as he meant it should.
She controlled herself and merely remarked:

"I would not say that; it might get to his ears."

And so he departed.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was on that same afternoon that Hartigan had a new and, to him,
terrifying experience in the dangerous world of the emotions.

He had ridden forth to make a pastoral call at the Hoomer homestead, out
on the plain five miles northeast of Cedar Mountain. When first he
glimpsed the house among the low log stables, there were two women in
sight; when he came to the door and entered, there was but one, the
mother. Half an hour later, the daughter, Lou-Jane, appeared arrayed for
conquest. She was undeniably handsome, in spite of a certain coarseness
that made Hartigan subtly uneasy, though he could not have told why. She
was of the rare vigorous type that is said to have appeared in Ireland
after many survivors of the great Armada were washed ashore on the
rugged western coast. The mingling of the Irish and Spanish blood in her
had resulted in black eyes, black eyebrows, and red, or golden-red hair,
combined with a clear, brilliant Irish complexion. She was lively,
energetic, rather clever, and tremendously taken with the new preacher.

Jim was naturally shy with women, as most big men seem to be, and the
masterful Lou-Jane smote him with utter confusion. She prattled on about
the tea, about the church, the Rev. Dr. Jebb, the local people, the
farm, national politics, dry-farming, horses, cows and alfalfa, with the
definite purpose of finding out his interests. Getting the best response
on the topic of horses, she followed it up.

"You must come and see my pony. He's a beauty. I got first prize on him
as girl rider at the fair last year. I'm so glad you like horses."

She laid her hand on his arm a dozen times to guide him here or there;
she took his hand at last and held on, to his utter embarrassment, long
after he had helped her over a fence, and looked disappointed when she
got no flirtatious response. She led out her saddle pony and laughingly
said:

"Here, give me a hand."

Grasping her raised foot, he lifted her with a sweep to the pony's bare
back.

"My, you're strong," was her flattering comment, and she swung the
hackima and loped the pony round the field and back to the stable,
delighted to see in his eye a frank glow of admiration for her skill.

"Will you lift me down?" she said merrily; not that she had the least
need of help, but she liked to feel those strong arms about her; and as
he did so, she made herself quite unnecessarily limp and clinging.

Jim did not usually lack words, but Lou-Jane was so voluble that he was
completely silenced. At the stable, where Ma Hoomer was milking,
Lou-Jane delayed for a moment to whisper: "Stay here till I come for
you."

Then she tripped on with Jim at her heels. As they entered the house
Hartigan looked at his watch.

"Now please don't hurry," said Lou-Jane. "Ma'll be back in a few
minutes, then we'll have a cup of tea. Sit here; you'll find it more
comfortable," and she motioned to a sofa.

Sitting down beside him so that they were very close together and giving
the archest of smiles, she said:

"I wonder if I might ask you a question."

"Why, sure," said Jim, just a little uneasy at the warmth of the tone.
He had instincts, if not experience.

"Were you ever in love?" she said softly. Her arm, resting on the back
of the sofa, moved accidentally and lay across his shoulder.

"Why, no--I--no--I guess not," and Hartigan turned red and
uncomfortable.

"I wish you would let me be your friend," she continued. "I do like you
very much, you know. I want to be your friend and I can help you in so
many ways."

She leaned toward him, and Jim, being more terrified than he had ever
been, murmured something inarticulate about "not being a lady's man."
What he would have done to effect his escape he was never afterward able
to decide. A spell of helplessness was upon him, when suddenly a heavy
step was heard outside and Pa Hoomer's voice calling:

"Ma, Ma! Who's left that corral gate open?"

Lou-Jane sprang up, shook her bright hair from her flushed face, and
with a hasty apology went to meet her father. The Preacher also rose
with inexpressible relief, and, after a hurried farewell, he mounted and
rode away.




CHAPTER XVIII

The Second Bylow Spree


Woman to-day reverences physical prowess just as much as did her cave
forebears, and she glories in the fact that her man is a strong,
fighting animal, even though she recognizes the value of other gifts.

Belle was no exception to this human rule; and her eyes sparkled as she
listened to Jim's story of that unusual prayer meeting held in the Bylow
cabin. It was Hartigan's nature always to see the humorous side of
things, and his racy description of the big man with the knife, down on
his knees with one eye on the door and the other on the Preacher, was
irresistible, much funnier than the real thing. It gave her a genuine
thrill, a woman's pleasure in his splendid physical strength.

"Sure," he said with his faint delicious brogue, "it was distasteful to
have to annoy them, but there are times when one has to do what he
doesn't like."

Then he proceeded to a graphic account of the second ruffian smelling
the palms of his hands and squinting through his fingers, praying for
grace with his lips and for a club with his heart.

"I don't know what Dr. Jebb will say," she remarked at last, "but it
seems to me we must judge by results in this case."

Hypocrite that she was! Had she not that very week denounced the
opportunist doctrine that the end justifies the means? But in her
delighted eyes and glowing interest Jim found a vast reward.

Dr. Jebb was human and discreet. He smiled and said little about the
energetic methods of his assistant; and when next Sunday Charlie Bylow
and his wife appeared in church and later joined the group on the
anxious seat, he felt that the matter was happily ended as it had oddly
begun.

Exactly four weeks after the strenuous prayer meeting word reached the
Preacher in a rather pointed way that a keg of the "pizen juice" had
arrived on the evening train and was to be carried at once to Pat
Bylow's. Hartigan mounted his racer and sped thitherward at nightfall. A
half mile from Pat's house was Charlie's, and at the door was the owner,
apparently expecting to see him--though this circumstance did not
impress Hartigan.

"Can I do anything to help?" he asked.

Hartigan shook his head, laughed lightly, and rode on. At Pat's shanty
he tied his horse to the fence, stepped to the door, knocked, and,
without waiting, went in. A woman's voice shrilled:

"Pat, here's that ---- preacher again."

There were other voices, male and female, in the lean-to kitchen. Pat
came in and glared at the intruder. There was a rising fury in his
manner, but no evidence of drink.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Well, to be frank with you," said Hartigan, "I have reason for
suspecting an unhelpful indulgence is planned here for to-night, and I
was hoping that I might persuade you to reconsider it beforehand. And
sure we don't want to get agitated, and I don't want to use language
that might sound like disapproval."

He glanced around. There was no sight of any spree in prospect. A
glimpse of the kitchen showed only the preparations for an ordinary
meal, and Hartigan wondered whether or not there had been a mistake.
Could it be that he was the butt of a practical joke?

Pat was sulkily waiting, not knowing just what to say, when voices were
heard outside and heavy steps; then the door opened and in came three
men, the first carrying under his arm a barrel-shaped bundle. The
presence of the Preacher was obviously disconcerting to the new-comers.

"Gimme that," growled Pat. He seized the keg and was marching off with
it when Hartigan strode over in front of him.

"Hold on, Pat, let me see that."

Bylow exploded into a torrent of abusive profanity. Some of those
present had been witnesses of the previous affair, and realizing what
the pastoral visit might mean, they added their voices to the uproar.
The language was emphatic rather than concise. The women, too, gave free
rein to their tongues, but their observations reflected on their male
escorts more harshly than they did on any one or anything else.

However puzzled Hartigan might be by the complexities of the female
mind, the mental processes of the unlettered male were quite familiar to
him and he showed his comprehension by a simple challenge.

"Now, boys, I don't want to seem thoughtless or indelicate, but I want
you to know that I can lick the whole bunch of you with one hand tied
behind my back and the other in a sling. Not that I have any intention
of doing it, and I apologize to the ladies for mention of the subject,
but it may help us to an understanding. If you have not yet gathered my
meaning, I will put it simpler. I am here to stop this spree before it
begins."

At this moment there was a light shuffling step outside and the door
swung back revealing the small, familiar figure of Jack Lowe. A quick,
meaning look and some sort of indistinguishable signal passed between
Lowe and Pat, whereupon the latter at once placed the keg on the table.

"How do you do, Mr. Hartigan?" said Lowe. "I think we are here for the
same purpose."

"Maybe so," said Jim dryly, "I don't know. I'm here to remove temptation
from our friends, and before I leave I mean to spill that cursed stuff
on the floor."

"You are right," said Lowe, "absolutely right. Pat, let me have that
keg," and the schoolteacher proceeded to hammer around the bung, in the
way of the orthodox bung-starter. There were murmurs and strong words,
but he went on while Hartigan stood guard. The bung came loose, he
lifted it out, and put his nostrils to the hole.

"That's the real stuff, just as it dropped from the quill. Smell that,
Mr. Hartigan. Ain't that the real magollyon? But all the same here she
goes." He tipped the keg a little and some liquor spilled out.

"See that? You get the gold? I tell you, Mr. Hartigan, that green
rot-gut is poison, but you can tell when it's real by the shine. If it
is whiskey it shines yellow like corn, if it is vitriol it shines
green." He took a glass and filled it. "See the gold, and it smells like
corn tossel." He put it to his lips. "That's what puts heart in a man,
and makes him forgive his worst enemy.

"But here she goes." He spilled a little more on the ground. Then:

"You know, Mr. Hartigan, I am wholly in sympathy with this visit of
yours, but I don't go as far as you do. I've been talking to Pat and
he's a good sport. He realizes that you put up a fine fight that other
time and that you cleaned them up single-handed. He doesn't want any
further unpleasantness, but he doesn't see what right you have to keep
him and his friends from using a moderate amount of this keg. Is that
your idea, Pat?"

"An' what's the matter with it," growled Pat. "Why shouldn't I have one
or two drinks? No man gets drunk on that."

"There you are," said Lowe, turning to Hartigan, "that's in reason. Why
not have a drink all round and then talk it over?"

Hartigan was frankly puzzled by the turn of affairs. It seemed to be an
offer of peace, after a fashion, but he could not fit Lowe into the
scheme of things. He tried to read what was going on behind the
schoolteacher's shifty eyes, but the face was a mask. At last he said:

"If these men and women," and Hartigan let his eyes travel over the
faces about him, "could have stopped with one or two drinks I wouldn't
be here now. Ye take one or two, but that is only the beginning. I know
what drink is; I've been through it all, I tell ye, and there's no
stopping if it gets the hold on ye."

"Leave it to the d--d preachers and there wouldn't be nothin' left to do
in life," said Pat with a contemptuous sneer.

"Come now," said Lowe, eager to prevent hostilities. "You wouldn't
object to liquor if nobody took too much, would you, Mr. Hartigan?"

"No," said Jim with a grim smile, "but I'm not to be taken in by the
plausibilities of the Devil. That keg is going to be emptied."

"I'm with you to the finish there," said Lowe, "but what harm is there
in filling these small glasses so"; he emptied a moderate draught into a
row of tumblers set out upon the table.

"If Pat is willing to meet you half way and see this keg emptied on the
floor, you wouldn't refuse a small drink with him in his own house,
would you?"

Hartigan hesitated. He could not convince himself that the offer was
genuine. And yet if he actually saw, with his own eyes, the keg emptied
of its contents, what trick could there be? It seemed churlish to
refuse. Suppose the offer were made in good faith, by not refusing that
which in the male code is the sign of brotherhood and equality, he might
secure an influence for good with the elder Bylow. And Lowe seemed to
sense the thought, for he said, "If you take just a taste with these men
now, all will come to hear you preach next Sunday. Won't you, boys?" And
there was a grunt of assent. "All right; it's a bargain."

Jim was actually weighing the proposition--his old craving for drink was
not by any means eradicated. The sight of the liquor and the smell
roused an appetite that only an iron will had subdued. As he stood
uncertain, debating, Lowe said, "Hold on; we're a glass short. Never
mind, I'll find one"; and he hastened back into the lean-to kitchen and
returned with a glass, which was partly concealed by his hand till it
was filled with whiskey. Then he said, "If it was 'pizen juice' I
wouldn't let any one touch it; but this is the simple clear whiskey, as
you can prove for yourself. I wish we could send this to the hospital."

He offered it to Hartigan, who smelled it. Then Lowe said, "Well, here's
to the empty keg."

The seductive liquor was potent in his nostrils, even there it had
stimulation; and Hartigan, acting on a sudden impulse, drained the
glass, as the others drank in silence.

There said Lowe, "You see it is the mildest of the mild; it wouldn't
hurt a child." And he prattled away of truth and soberness, so that the
potion should have ample freedom for its work; till the planned and
subtle mixture should have time to dethrone Hartigan's reason, blind his
spirit, and unhinge his will. The ancient fury in his hot young blood
was all too ready to be aroused. Without a word, Lowe filled the glass
again and Jim, no longer his best self, but dazed and reckless, drank
with all the rest; then soon threw all restraint aside; and in the
bacchanalian orgy that followed fast and filled the night, he was the
stable-yard rowdy once again--loud and leading--but here let the curtain
fall--draw down the thickest, blackest veil.




CHAPTER XIX

The Day of Reckoning


The sun was high next day when the door of Pat Bylow's abode was opened,
and a man entered. The scene that met his eyes is better undescribed,
but to him it gave no shock. He came expecting to see it. In his hand he
carried a tin pail. There were men and women lying about the floor. He
stepped over them toward a tall form in soiled black clothes and knelt
beside it. Pouring some water on a cloth he laid it on the pale
forehead. The prostrate man opened his eyes and groaned.

"Mr. Hartigan," said the other. "It's me. It's Charlie Bylow. Won't you
be after having a drink of water?"

Hartigan raised himself on his elbow, peered out of his bloodshot eyes,
and drank eagerly. The cup was three times emptied.

"You better come over to my shanty and go to bed," said Charlie
seriously. The Preacher groaned:

"Oh! God what have I done? What have I done?" He clutched his throbbing
brow with both hands, as he rose and shakily followed Charlie.

"Oh! fool that I am. Oh, God! Ruined. All is ruined. I wish I were
dead!" he exclaimed. "Oh! God forgive me."

As they passed the fence where Blazing Star had been hitched, Hartigan
stopped and stared. Charlie said:

"It's all right, Mr. Hartigan, I took care of him. He is in the stable."

Coming to Bylow's house, Jim passed the entrance and went on to the
stable. With trembling hands he opened the door and hesitated. He half
expected Blazing Star to spurn and disown him. He was prepared for any
and every humiliation, but the long, joyous neigh that greeted him was a
shock, and a help.

"Oh! Blazing Star, if you only knew, you would not even look at me."

Charlie took the Preacher by the arm and led him to the house.

"Here, Mr. Hartigan, take off your clothes and go to bed. I will give
you a wet towel for your head and, by and by, I will bring you some
coffee."

"Oh! God be merciful, or strike me dead," and Jim broke down in an agony
of remorse. "This is the end. All I hoped for gone. I don't want to live
now."

"Mr. Hartigan, sure now I know how you feel. Ain't I been through it?
But don't be after making plans that are rash when you ain't just
yourself. Now go to bed and rest awhile," and his kind Irish heart was
wrung as he looked on the utter degradation of the manly form before
him, and the shocking disfigurement of the one-time handsome face.
Charlie and his wife left Hartigan alone. They shut the door and Charlie
went back to his brother's shanty to help the other victims of the orgy.

Jim tossed around uneasily, winning snatches of sleep, groaning,
talking, abasing himself.

"Oh, Belle!" he moaned aloud. "Will you ever look at me again? Oh, God!
And me a preacher."

Cedar Mountain was not so big but that every one knew everybody else's
business; and Mary Bylow understood when she heard the name "Belle." But
she didn't know just what to do. After an hour she again heard him.

"Oh! Belle, Belle, what will you say?"

Taking the hot coffee from the stove, Mrs. Bylow knocked at the door and
went in.

"Take this, it will make you feel better."

She hoped he would talk, but he didn't. He only thanked her feebly. Then
Charlie came back from his brother's shanty. He had remembered that, it
being Sunday, the Preacher would be missed and he saddled his horse to
set out for Cedar Mountain. As he left, his wife came out and said:

"While you are there, drop a hint to Belle Boyd," and Charlie nodded.

Arriving at Dr. Jebb's, Charlie explained the case to the pastor without
detail:

"Sure, Mr. Hartigan had a little accident at our corner last night and
sprained his ankle. My wife is nursing him, but he won't be able to
preach to-day."

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Well, it is all right, I will take both services,"
and the blind and gentle old man turned to his books.

Then Bylow rode to the Boyd home. Here, he realized, was a much more
difficult job. But he was determined to go into no details. It was Belle
who answered his knock. Charlie began:

"My wife told me to tell you that Mr. Hartigan got hurt last night. He
is at our house. He won't be in town to-day."

"What? Did he interfere in a spree?"

"Yes."

"Is he shot?"

"No."

"Is he wounded?"

"No, not exactly."

"What is the matter?"

"Only a general shakeup, he had a bad fall," and Bylow moved uneasily.

It was a simple matter to bluff a simple old clergyman, but it was
another thing altogether to mislead an alert young woman. Belle knew
there was something wrong--something more and different from what she
had been told.

"Is the doctor with him?"

"No."

"I will get the doctor and come at once."

"No, I wouldn't; at least, not till morning."

Bylow's manner roused Belle all the more to prompt action. Seeing that
all his explanations made things worse, Charlie abruptly left, mounted
his broncho, and went "rockity rockity" as the pony's heels went "puff,
puff" on the dusty trail around the hill and away.

The doctor was not to be found that morning and Belle found it hard to
await his return. In the meantime, some strange rumour must have reached
the town for in Sunday-school Belle met Eliza Lowe, the recently arrived
sister of the schoolteacher. The look on her face, the gleam in her eye,
were unmistakable. She had not yet learned of her brother's part in the
affair. Belle found herself avoiding the sister's gaze.

As the hours passed the conviction deepened in Belle that there was
something seriously wrong; she could feel it in the air. It was
something more than an accident to Hartigan. There was the indefinable
shadow of shame about it. The oppression became unbearable and on
leaving Sunday-school, she went down to the doctor's house. He had just
got in from a case near Fort Ryan and was eating a belated meal. Belle
went straight to the point:

"Dr. Carson, I want you to take me at once to Bylow's Corner."

"Why?"

"There's something wrong. Mr. Hartigan is in serious trouble. I don't
believe that he has fallen from his horse as they say. I want to know
the truth."

Her face was pale, her mouth was set. The doctor looked keenly at her a
moment and then, comprehending, said:

"All right, I will"; and in ten minutes the mudstained buckboard with a
fresh horse in it was speeding over the foot of Cedar Mountain on the
trail to Bylow's.

       *       *       *       *       *

While Belle was fretting under the delay and marshalling her forces for
the trip to the Corner, Hartigan lay in the quiet Bylow cabin and under
the influence of cold water, coffee, and a more collected mind,
gradually acquired some degree of composure. He had risen and dressed
and was sadly musing on the wreck of all his life which that one fiery
sip had brought about, when the thought of Blazing Star came to him. He
went eagerly to the stable and as he rubbed the animal down he found
help in the physical action. He hammered the currycomb on a log to clean
it before putting it in the box, then gazing to the eastward along the
trail that climbed around the shoulder of Cedar Mountain, he saw a
buckboard approaching. In the Black Hills one identifies his visitor by
his horse, and Jim recognized the Carson outfit. Sitting beside the
doctor was a woman in a light-coloured dress with a red parasol raised
above her. It smote him as no man's fist had ever done. He turned into
the stable, put saddle and bridle on Blazing Star, swung to the seat,
gave rein to the willing beast and, heading away from Cedar Mountain on
the Deadwood Trail, went bounding, riding, stricken, too hard hit and
shamed to meet the eyes of the woman whose praise he had come to value
as the best approval he might hope to win.

The doctor's buckboard came to the door, tied up, and the two occupants
went in.

"Where is your patient, Mrs. Bylow?"

The woman pointed to the bedroom door, went to it, knocked, opened it,
and finding the room empty said:

"He was here a few minutes ago. I expect he is out to the stable."

Belle sat down. The nervous strain of the past hours was telling on her.
She felt unstrung and vaguely depressed.

The doctor and Mary Bylow went to the stable. The empty stall, with no
sign of saddle, bridle, or preacher, were enough. They returned to the
house.

In answer to Belle's look the doctor made a gesture, and said simply:

"Gone."

"Where?"

The doctor shook his head and pointed northward.

"Please tell me all about it, Mrs. Bylow," said Belle.

"There is times to tell lies," said Mary naively, "but this ain't. I'll
tell you the whole truth," and she did in a quivering voice, while tears
ran from her eyes.

"Trapped, trapped," was Belle's only comment. "Where do you suppose he
went?"

"Not to Cedar Mountain," said Carson, "that's sure. No one passed us."

Charlie Bylow, coming into the cabin, heard the doctor's last comment.

"He was heading due north and going hard when last we saw him," was his
contribution.

"Dr. Carson, he's headed for Deadwood, and I'm going after him to bring
him back." Belle stood up with sudden decision. The need for action once
more present, all her strength responded.

The doctor shook his head. "I don't think you should go. You know what
all the town would say."

"You are going with me," was the answer.

"When?"

"Right now."

"Better go home first."

"And have a fight with my folks? No, no! We go now. I have an aunt in
Deadwood, you know!"

"It's forty-five miles, and we can't get there till midnight, even if my
horse holds out."

"We may overtake him before that," said Belle, though she knew quite
well they would not, for Hartigan would ride like a madman.

It had not been difficult to enlist Carson's sympathies. A sincere
friendship had sprung up between the boyish preacher and himself and
their total dissimilarity had made them congenial. Carson was amused in
his quiet way to note how exactly Belle was moving as he thought best
and surest, so now he merely added:

"Deadwood it is," and with a farewell word to the Bylows they were off.




CHAPTER XX

The Memorable Trip to Deadwood


It was a long, hard journey, and it was one o'clock in the morning
before they reached Deadwood. Every public house that could get a
license to sell liquor announced itself as a "hotel." Those few that
could not, made a virtue of their failure and flaunted a sign,
"Temperance House." The "wet houses" were on the main gulch, the "dry"
ones in off nooks, or perched on breezy hills. To the best of these
latter the doctor drove, had the luck to find the owner still on duty,
and secured a room for himself. Then they drove to the home of Belle's
aunt, Mrs. Collins. One has to take a hotel on its rules; but a relative
may be called up and inconvenienced at any time.

"Well, Auntie, it's Belle Boyd. I want you to take care of me till the
morning. I will tell you all about it later," this to the inquiring head
that emerged from an upper window. So Belle was left and the doctor went
to his hotel.

Up very early next morning, Belle went at once to the stable of the
Temperance House. Yes, there he was, Blazing Star, in all his beauty.
Then she went into the hotel and mounted guard in the little parlour.
Dr. Carson came down and was sent to sit out of doors. At length the
sound of the foot she awaited came from the stairs and she heard the
landlady say:

"There's some one in the parlour waiting for you." For a moment there
was no sound; then the footsteps approached.

Belle was at the window looking out, partly hidden by the cheap lace
curtains. As the Preacher entered, she turned fully toward him. Her back
was to the light and he did not immediately perceive her. Then with a
gasp:

"Belle!" and, sinking into a chair, he covered his face with his hands.

She went to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and stood there in
silence. The great broad shoulders began to shake under that soft touch.
There was no sound uttered for long, then, brokenly, his one refrain:
"Oh, Belle!"

She sat down beside him, and took his hand--the first time she had ever
done so--and waited in silence.

He wanted to tell her all, but found no words.

She said, "Never mind that now. Tell me what you are here for."

He tried again but in a wild, incoherent way. The sum of it all was that
he was "ruined, degraded, and lost. He would go down to the Big Cheyenne
and get a job as a cowboy."

"Now listen, Jim," she said. "You have made a bad mistake; but a man may
make one big, bad mistake and still be all right. It is the man that
goes on making a little mistake every day that is hopeless."

There was a long pause. Then she continued: "What is it you of all
people admire most in a man? Is it not courage to see things through, no
matter how black they look?"

In his then frame of mind Hartigan had expected drunkenness to be
singled out as the worst of all sins; there was a ray of comfort in this
other thought; he nodded and grunted an inarticulate assent.

"Jim, I don't doubt your courage. I know you too well, believe in you
too much. I want you to drop the idea of the Big Cheyenne. Turn right
around and go back to Cedar Mountain at once; and the sooner you get
there the easier it will be."

He shook his head, and sat as before, his face buried in his hands.
"I--cannot--do--it." He forced out the words.

"Jim Hartigan cannot--isn't brave enough?" she asked, her voice a little
tremulous with sudden emotion.

In all his life, he had never been charged with cowardice. It stung. Of
all things he most despised cowardice, and here it was, brought squarely
home to him. He writhed under the thought. There was a dead silence in
the little parlour.

Then Belle spoke: "Is this the only answer I am to have--after coming so
far?" she asked in a low voice.

Oh, blind, stupid, cowardly fool that he was! He had not thought of
that. How much was she braving for him! He was rated a man of courage
among his friends, yet now he was yielding to miserable cowardice.

Then his impulsive nature responded. He blurted out: "Belle, I will do
anything for you; I will do anything you tell me to." It was an
unconditional surrender, and the wise victor gave the honours of war to
the vanquished by changing the subject.

"Then come to breakfast," she said in a lighter tone and led him to Aunt
Collins's house, whither the doctor had already gone.

A day's rest, a forty-mile ride in the wind, a change of scene, good
friends, a buoyant disposition, a flush of youth, and Belle, absorbed in
all he did and said--who would not respond to such a concentration of
uplifting forces?

Hartigan's exuberance returned. His colour was back in his cheeks. His
eyes sparkled and his wit sparkled, too. He won the heart of Mrs.
Collins. She said he was "the beautifullest man she had ever seen." Even
John Collins, a plough- and wagon-dealer by trade, was impressed with
the mental gifts and manly appearance of the young preacher, and Belle
knew that the thing she had set out for was won.

Instead of discussing plans she announced them as if they were settled.
The doctor wished to stay a day or two in Deadwood, but that did not
suit Belle at all. She was quite clear about it. Her aunt must drive
back with her at once. The doctor and the Preacher must come, too, but
arrive a little later in Cedar Mountain. So they boarded their
buckboards, waved good-bye, and set their faces to the south.

The sun shone as it knows how in Dakota. The great pine-clad hills were
purple in the lovely morning haze as the little party left Deadwood that
day on the buffalo trail for Cedar Mountain. The doctor drove first in
his buckboard, not without misgivings, for the good horse had had little
rest since that forty-five mile drive. Next came the horseman on the
gold-red horse that men turned to look after. Last, the prairie
buckboard of the house of Collins with Aunt Anna driving and Belle at
her side.

The prairie larks sang from low perches or soared a little way in the
air to tell the world how glad they were on that bright summer morning.
The splendour of the hills was on all things, and Jim on Blazing Star
was filled with the glad tonic. For five miles they ambled along, and
when the doctor stopped at a watering place--he had been told to stop
there--the others caught up with him. Hereupon there was a readjustment,
and their next going found the Collins rig leading with Blazing Star
behind, and Belle with Hartigan in the second buckboard.

That was a drive of much consequence to two of the party. In that second
buckboard the fates laid plans, spun yarns, and rearranged many things.
Hartigan opened his heart and life. He told of his mother, of his happy
childhood; of his losses; of his flat, stale, unprofitable boyhood; of
Bill Kenna and his "word as a man"; of his own vow of abstinence, kept
unbroken till he was eighteen. He gave it all with the joyous side alone
in view, and when a pathetic incident intruded, the pathos was in the
things, not in the words of the narrator. The man had a power of
expression that would have made a great journalist. His talk was one
continuous entertainment, and lasted unbroken to the half-way house,
where they were to stay an hour for rest and food.

How sweet it is to tell one's history to a woman who takes in every word
as of large importance! How pleasant it is to confess to a keen and
sympathetic hearer. The twenty-five miles passed far too soon. It was
short, but long enough for large foundations to be laid.

Belle was only twenty-two, but hers was a wise head. Hartigan had spoken
freely about himself and thus had conferred in some large sort a right
to advise. She had deliberately constructed a new mood for his thoughts,
so that the horrors of the Bylow cabin were forgotten. The questions now
for him and for her were, how to set him right with the church, and how
begin all over again. Hartigan's idea was to go openly before the whole
congregation with a humble apology, and publicly promise to abstain from
drink forever. Belle vetoed this emphatically.

"Never rub your head in the mud," she said. "You make your peace with
God first, then with Dr. Jebb, and the deacons. Pay no attention to any
one else. There will be some talk for a while, but it will die away.

"You don't know the Black Hills as I do, Jim. People out here don't take
things quite so seriously as eastern folk. Many a western preacher
carries a flask of brandy as snakebite antidote or chill cure. Not long
ago I heard of a minister up north who was held for horse-stealing. Yes,
more than once. And how he explained it, I don't know: but he is
preaching yet. I don't mean to make light of these things, Jim, but I
want to keep you from a kind of reparation which will be more of a shock
to the people than what they now know. We must have some sense of
proportion. Since there was no public scandal, you will find that the
whole matter will be overlooked."

Belle was right; he knew she was; and later events proved it.

Most men propose when they find "the one woman"; but some don't. Many
marriages take place without any formal proposal. The man and the woman
come together and discover such sympathy, such need of each other, that
they assume much that remains unspoken. Nothing was said of love or
marriage on that journey from Deadwood, but James Hartigan and Belle
Boyd were conscious of a bond that happily and finally became complete.
Thenceforth he made no move without consulting her; thenceforth she had
no plans in which he was not more than half.

They were ten miles from Cedar Mountain when the last change was made.
Those who noted their arrival some while later saw Belle ride up the
Main Street with her aunt, and tie up at her father's door. Twenty
minutes later Hartigan rode beside the doctor's rig to his home, at the
other side of the town.




CHAPTER XXI

The Ordeal


Jim went at once to Dr. Jebb's to report. Mrs. Jebb opened the door,
greeted him with a hearty handshake, and was more than usually cordial.
Dr. Jebb was kind, but embarrassed. He offered Jim a chair and began
nervously:

"There was a rumour--there--that is--we missed you on Sunday."

Jim, with characteristic directness, said: "Doctor, I'll tell you all
about it." Just then there was a timid knock and Mrs. Jebb reappeared.
"May I be present, Jim?" she said. "I understand that you have something
to talk about, and you know, you were always my boy."

Dr. Jebb looked puzzled. Jim said: "If I can't trust you, who is there
left to trust?" And then told the story of his fall. He painted himself
not quite so black as he might have done the day before, but black
enough.

Dr. Jebb looked terribly worried and distressed. "I don't know what to
say," he kept repeating. "All my heart is with you, but my judgment
condemns you. I don't know what to say."

Then Mrs. Jebb spoke. "Now, Josiah, you know perfectly well that your
affections always were a safer guide than your judgment. There was no
bad intention on the part of the sinner--for we are all sinners--this
was just an unfortunate accident, and Jim shows in every possible way
his regret. There has been no public scandal, and so I think you had
better drop the whole thing and forget it. I know enough about Jim to
know that he has made out the worst possible case against himself."

"That may be," said Dr. Jebb, "but I fear we must bring the matter up
before the deacons, at least."

"As long as you don't make it public by bringing it before the church,"
said Mrs. Jebb, "all right."

Thus it was that Dr. Jebb sent out a notice, to such of the deacons as
he could not see personally, that a meeting was to be held at his house
that night.

In the same afternoon another interview took place in Cedar Mountain.
School-trustee Higginbotham was sitting in his office when the
schoolteacher came up the boardwalk and into the insurance office.

"Hello, Jack."

"Hello, John"; and the visitor sat down. Higginbotham glanced at him and
noticed that his face was drawn and his eyes "like holes burnt in a
blanket." His fingers trembled as he rolled a cigarette.

"Say, John," Lowe began nervously, "in case any rumour gets around that
the Preacher and I were a little reckless at Bylow's, you can contradict
it. At least there's nothing in it as far as I am concerned. I think the
Preacher must have taken some before I arrived. He showed the effects,
but not much."

"Hm," said Higginbotham. "You got there late?"

"Yes, you see we--that is, both of us--went there to stop that
spree--and we did, in a way, but things got a little mixed."

"How was that?"

"Well, I went there to help him and I did what I could for him, but they
had had some already. We spilled the keg on the floor and the fumes were
pretty strong and affected him a little. Didn't amount to much. I did
what I could. It was strong enough to affect me--unpleasantly, too. I
thought I'd just let you know in case there was anything said about it."

As soon as he was gone, Hannah appeared. Apparently, she had overheard
the conversation. "Well, did you catch on?"

"Partly; how did it strike you?"

"I think he is trying to save his own skin by dragging in the Preacher."

"I think so, too; but all the same, I won't use his story if it can be
dispensed with. The less we dig into this thing the better."

A little later the notice came from Dr. Jebb, inviting Deacon
Higginbotham to a meeting at his house that evening, for important
business. As he walked across the village Charlie Bylow stepped out from
a dark corner near Dr. Jebb's house.

"Say, Deacon," he began, "I've been waiting to see you. I know what is
on to-night. I want you to know it was a put-up job. It was the
schoolteacher worked it. The stuff was doped all right. The Preacher
went there to stop it as he did the other time, but they fooled him and
trapped him."

"Yes, I thought so," said the little deacon, "and how was it worked?"

"Well, I don't just exactly know. I haven't been on good terms with my
brother since I joined the church, so I don't go to his house any more;
but I heard some talk about its being the 'slickest thing ever.' I know
the Preacher went there to stop it and that they trapped him and that it
was Jack Lowe did it."

"Will you go before the deacons of the church and tell them that--if it
is necessary?"

"No," replied Bylow uneasily; "at least I don't want to go before any
meeting. I only know that's right; that's the way it happened; and I
don't want any one to blame Mr. Hartigan." Here Charlie abruptly ended
and went away.

Higginbotham turned back to his house. Hannah listened with the keenest
attention and then said: "It's easy to straighten it all out. I'll see
Belle and tell her to go to Jim at once and keep him from talking. You
know what he is when he gets going. He'll talk too much and spoil it
all." Thus these two loyal friends laid plans to screen him.

At Jebb's house, Higginbotham took the earliest occasion to warn Jim.

"Now don't talk. Simply answer one or two questions when asked and as
briefly as possible. 'Yes' or 'No' is enough. You know we've got to
satisfy the old Deacon Blight crowd somehow." And Jim promised to obey.

Dr. Jebb called the meeting to order and, at once, Higginbotham arose
and said: "Mr. Chairman, I think it would be better for Mr. Hartigan to
retire to another room." So Jim went out.

Dr. Jebb then gave a brief and rather halting account of a "certain
rumour reflecting on the sobriety of his assistant." Before he had more
than outlined the facts, Higginbotham jumped up:

"Dr. Jebb, you have alluded to a rumour. I call it a shameful
fabrication, with no basis in fact. I have made a thorough investigation
and am prepared, with two reliable witnesses, to prove that Mr. Hartigan
went to the Bylow cabin to prevent a disgraceful spree, as he did once
before. They had prepared by getting a keg of whiskey. This liquid sin,
if I may so call it, Mr. Hartigan spilled on the floor; unfortunately,
it was in a small, close cabin and the fumes affected his head so that
he was temporarily ill. These are the facts; and to prove them I have
two reliable witnesses. Call in Charlie Bylow and John Lowe." He looked
with a pretense of expectation toward the door; getting no response he
said: "Humph, not arrived yet. Well, we won't wait. In the meantime, I
must say that to my mind altogether too much has been made of this
accident and I am satisfied to dismiss the subject if the rest of the
deacons consent."

"No, I don't consent; I don't think we should," said Deacon Blight. "We
can't afford to have a scandal about our spiritual leader. Let's prove
it or disprove it right now."

And, acting on the majority vote, Dr. Jebb called Jim Hartigan to
appear. Dr. Jebb was supposed to be chairman, but Higginbotham was
irrepressible.

"I want to ask one or two questions," he called out; and, without
waiting for permission, he began: "Now, Mr. Hartigan, I understand that
you went to the Bylow Corner last Saturday night to prevent a whiskey
spree, as we know you have done before; that in some way the fumes of
the liquor entered your head and so overpowered you that you were ill
afterward; and that it was a painful surprise to you, as one well known
to be a teetotaller. Isn't that so?"

"Well, yes," said Jim, in some perplexity; "but it was this way----"

"Never mind the way of it," said Higginbotham emphatically. Then,
turning to the others: "I don't see that we need go any further."

"Hold on, hold on," said Deacon Blight; "I'd like to ask one or two
questions. You admit being under the influence of liquor at Bylow's?"

"Yes," was the reply.

"Were you ever under the influence of liquor before?"

"I was."

"Once, or more than once?"

"More than once," said Jim. He would have said "many times" but for a
scowl from Higginbotham.

"Oh, ho!" said the deacon. "When was that?"

"Before I was converted."

"Never since?"

"No; except last Saturday."

Here Dr. Jebb interrupted. "It seems to me that we need not follow the
subject any further than to inquire into the mental attitude of the
brother who fell into the snare. I know it is one of absolute contrition
now, especially as the affair was of the nature of an accident during
the discharge of his duty. It seems to me, therefore, that we should
accept his expression of penitence coupled with a promise to abstain so
long as he is here with us."

Jim volunteered to abstain for all time, but Higginbotham's moderate
counsels prevailed.

Deacon Blight thought that the transgressor should be suspended from
office pending a fuller investigation. Deacon Higginbotham thought that
it had already been more than fully investigated. Deacon Whaup had never
heard of the affair until this evening, but thought that Mr. Hartigan
ought to retire during further discussion.

As soon as Jim was outside, Higginbotham, fully determined to stop all
further talk, said: "Dr. Jebb, I move we accept the promise Mr. Hartigan
has given and table the whole matter. It is absurd to follow it further
in the light of what we know--making a big mountain of a very small
mole-hill."

Blight, however, didn't think so. He argued for delay and for stern
measures. Dr. Jebb put the motion and it was carried with but one
dissenting vote; and so the matter was officially closed. As they
dispersed, Dr. Jebb reminded them that the deliberations of the Board of
Deacons were to be considered strictly confidential.

And Jim went forth with strange and mixed feelings. He was grateful for
Higginbotham's determined protection and yet he would have held the
Board in higher respect if it had punished him severely. Such was the
nature of the ardent Celt.




CHAPTER XXII

The Three Religions Confront Him


Jack Shives's blacksmith shop, off the Main Street of Cedar Mountain,
was noted for two things: the sound, all-round work it turned out in the
smithy line, and the "perchers," an ever-present delegation of village
characters that sat chewing straws as they perched on the shop lumber.
Most of them came to hear old Shives talk, for Jack was a philosopher
and no subject was out of his field. Hartigan liked Shives, enjoyed the
shop with its smoke and flying sparks, and took a keen relish in the
unfettered debate that filled in the intervals between Shives's ringing
blows on the anvil.

Dr. Jebb thought himself a very up-to-date divine. He had tried to have
a sort of free discussion in his study Sunday nights after meeting, but
the restraint of parsondom was over it all. He was really a painfully
orthodox old person; all his up-to-dateness was within the covers of the
catechism, and the real thinkers kept away. Dr. Carson had better
success, but he was a bitter politician, so that all who differed from
him on national or local politics avoided his house. The blacksmith
shop, however, was open for all, and the real discussions of the village
were there. Shives had a masterful way of assuming the chairmanship, and
of doing the job well, often while pounding the anvil; sometimes an
effective punctuation of his remarks came in the hiss of hot iron thrust
in the tank, and Shives enjoyed the humour of obliterating his opponent
for the moment in a cloud of steam.

Jim Hartigan, with his genial, sociable instincts, was found in Shives's
shop more often than in the tiny room which, with the bed, table, and
books, was all he had in the way of home. Dr. Jebb was afraid to take
any large part in these deliberations. They were apt to discuss what he
considered the undiscussable foundations of the Church. But Dr. Carson
was one of the most strenuous of the debators.

"I tell you, there ain't a bit o' use o' your talking," said Shives. "If
I stick my finger in that fire, I'm a-going to get burnt and all the
prayers and repentance I can put up ain't a-going to wipe off that burn.
I've got to suffer for what I do just the same, whether I belong to
church or not."

"Sure, now," said Hartigan, "if I see your point, there is little to it.
You are talking about sin being its own punishment, which is true; but
suppose a doctor came along and by his work and skill saved you from
losing the finger altogether and in the end your finger was little the
worse and you were much the wiser--what about your theory then?"

"That is not the point. If it was the same thing, when I hurt my finger
I would only have to say, 'I repent; the Lord will take my punishment,'
and at once my finger would be restored as it was before."

"Well, that may be your Church's creed, but it isn't mine," said
Hartigan; and they wrangled till the blacksmith halted in his raking of
the coals, turned to Hartigan, and beating in the air with his coal rake
like a band leader with his baton, he said with punctuated emphasis: "My
creed tells me I must suffer for my own doings just as surely as if I
lay my finger on this anvil and hit it a crack with the hammer, and no
man can save me from that, and if you tell me that God is a wild beast
and merely wants a victim to punish, no matter who, then I want to know
where the justice comes in. There is not any greater wickedness than to
let the guilty escape, except it be to punish the innocent; and that's
the whole sum and substance of your religion, which was neatly summed up
by old Blue Horse down at Pine Ridge. After he had heard the missionary
explaining it for about the thousandth time, he said: 'Ho, me see now;
your God is my devil.'

"I tell you there's only one sum and substance of all religion that's
worth while, and that is to be a kind, decent neighbour, do your work,
and help others to do theirs. You will find that set forth, straight as
a string, in your own textbook, where it says, 'Love your neighbour as
yourself.'" And the blacksmith drew the radiant iron from the forge to
pound, pound, pound, amid the laughter that proclaimed the defeat of the
Preacher.

Hartigan was never strong on theology. At college he had neglected the
chance to learn the cut and parry in that strangest of all games, and
the puzzle for which he had no quick answer was that of the burnt
finger. In the smithy debates the answer had to be quick, or it was no
answer at all. He had lost the chance and was mortified to see the
verdict of the crowd against him.

"Jack," he said, "I want you to come to church and see how simple it all
is."

"Church. Huh! I think I see myself," said the blacksmith.

"That's not fair," said Hartigan. "You condemn church without going to
see what it is."

"Oh, I've been there a-plenty."

"When?"

"Twenty years ago."

"Oh, pshaw! It's all changed since then."

"Is it? That's a good one. I thought God's religion was unchangeable for
ever and ever. I tell you, young fellow, if you keep on working and
thinking you will wind up with a religion of common sense and kindness
which, as near as I can make out, is what the man Jesus did preach."

"Then why don't you come to hear it?" retorted Hartigan.

"Because ye don't preach it."

"That's not a fair way to put it," reiterated Hartigan.

"See here," said Shives, "I will go to church next Sunday and right
along, _if_ whenever you get off some fool statement that every one
knows is nonsense, you let me or some one get up and say, 'Now prove
that, or take it back before you go further.'"

Hartigan was worsted. He did not retreat, but he was glad of the
interruption furnished by a wild horse brought in to be shod. Here he
took the lead and showed such consummate horse sense in the handling of
the animal that the blacksmith growled, "If you'd put some of that into
your pulpit, I'd go to hear you."

As Jim mounted Blazing Star and rode away at an easy swing, all eyes
followed him, and the blacksmith growled: "'Homely in the cradle,
handsome on the horse,' they say. He must 'a' been a clock-stopper when
he was a kid. Pity to waste all that on a pulpiteer."

Later, the Preacher had a full discussion with Belle. The blacksmith had
dented Hartigan's armour in several places. Where was the justice in
punishing one being for another's sins? Even if the sufferer was
willing, it was still wicked injustice. How could repentance wipe out
the self-brought injury? These were among the puzzles. Dr. Jebb was his
natural helper, but the Preacher brought them first to Belle. She had
gone deeper and further than he had. She dreaded doctrinal discussion,
but at length said:

"Did you never hear of the transfusion of blood whereby a man may give
of his strength and, by suffering, save a friend from death? Did you
never hear of a man tottering and almost down who was found by a friend
at the right moment, helped to greater strength by mutual suffering, and
so restored to his balance before he went down to ruin?"

And the fervent answer was, "Yes, I have."

       *       *       *       *       *

New vistas were opened to them by this open-hearted talk--truly
communion--and as they rode through the gray-bloomed sage they followed
still the thought. Then he waved a hand and raised his face toward Cedar
Mountain with its column seeming small against the sky.

"I want you to see it, Belle. I want you to stand there with me and know
how much it means when your spirit is just right."

She swung her horse with his and they headed for the trail. He had
talked to her about it before, but he had felt a little disappointed
that her imagination was not stirred as his had been--that the mystery
and charm, the emotional awe, so easy for his Celtic blood, had not been
conjured up in her by his words. But he still had hopes that the feeling
of the far-up shrine would weave enchantment of its own; and he told her
of the second sight that the fay of his mother's land could give if one
sang a song of the one right pitch in the glen of the "very stone."

So they rode through the sage to the trailing cedar robe and followed
upward till the upper edge of the fragrant woods was reached. There they
tied the horses and climbed on foot to the upland. The grass among the
rocks was yellow now, and high gentians seized on the rare moment to
flaunt their wondrous blue against that perfect background. A flock of
autumn birds rose up and flew on, as the climbers, reaching the Spirit
Rock, paused and turned to look out over the golden plains to the east,
over the blue hills to the north, and into the purple glow that the
waning sunlight left on all the west.

Belle rejoiced in it for its material beauty and its wealth of colour;
and Jim, shyly watching her, said:

"Sometimes as I stand by this rock pinnacle and look over the plain, I
feel as if I were an ocean rover, high up in the lookout, peering over
the rough and tumbling sea. It possesses me with more than the power of
a dream." Then, after a pause: "See, here is where the Indian boy was
sitting as he kept his fast and vigil. I wonder what he saw. Some day,
Belle, I want to take that vigil. Do you remember that the prophets of
old always did so when they sought light? I am learning that the Indian
had some light, and to-day I have done as he would do, I have brought my
sacred medicine with me." He produced a little cedar box that his father
had made. He opened it and deeply inhaled its fragrance. "That is cedar,
Belle; it carries me back to other days when, under the cedar shingles,
my mother put her arm about me and prayed that I might find the Eternal
Guide."

He took out his mother's Bible, her photograph and the daguerreotype of
his father. These were his sacred relics, and with them was a bundle of
cedar twigs to keep the fragrance ever there--to keep continually with
them the power, through smell, to conjure up those days and thoughts of
her love. Belle took them reverently and gazed at the prim old pictures;
then she looked him squarely in the eyes, intensely for a moment, like
one who looks through a veil for the first time and sees a hidden
chamber unguessed before.

"Belle," he said, and his voice was a little husky; "if I had gone on to
the Big Cheyenne that time, I would have built a fire as soon as I had
the chance and burnt all these to ashes; and then what--God only knows,
for these were the vessels of my sanctuary; this was the ark of my
covenant, with the rod that budded, the tables of the law, and the
precious incense." She laid her hand on his in silent comprehension and
he went on. "All my life I have had two natures struggling within me;
and the destroyer would have won, and had won, when you turned the rout.
If you had not come to me in Deadwood I would surely have burnt these
relics. Now you understand. I couldn't speak about it down there; but up
here it is easy. Some time I may be missing for a couple of days. Do not
worry then; it will only mean I have gone up into my mountain. I am
seeking the light that comes from prayer and fasting and vigil in a high
place."

"I know those things as words," she said. "Just as we all learned them
in Sunday-school; but you make them as real as this mountain, a part of
my very life."

He replaced the relics in their cedar box and she realized that for the
first time she had had a glimpse of the deep and spiritual quality of
his soul.




BOOK III

THE HORSE PREACHER




CHAPTER XXIII

Blazing Star


The Angel of Destiny who had special charge of Jim had listed and
measured his failings and had numbered them for drastic treatment. The
brawling spirit of his early days, the proneness to drink, the bigoted
intolerance of any other mode of thought than his own, the strange
mistake of thinking physical courage the only courage, a curious
disregard for the things of the understanding--each was the cause of
bitter suffering. Each in its kind was alloy, dross, and for each the
metal had to pass through the fires and, purified, come forth.

Hartigan's love of sport was rooted deep in his nature and Fate gave it
a long fling. It took no cruel or destructive form, nor did it possess
him as a hate; but certain things held him in passionate allegiance, so
deep and so reckless that when their fever was upon him nothing else
seemed worth a thought. And the chiefest of these was his love of
horses. A noble thing in itself, a necessary vent, perhaps, for the
untamed spirit's love of untrammelled motion but it was inwrought with
dangers. Most men in the West in Hartigan's day--as now--were by nature
horse-lovers; but never, so far as Cedar Mountain knew, had there been a
man so horse-crazy as the Rev. James Hartigan. Already, he was known as
the "Horse Preacher."

It was seldom that an animal received so much personal care as Blazing
Star; it was seldom that a steed so worthy could be found; and the
results were for all to behold. The gaunt colt of the immigrant became
the runner of Cedar Mountain, and the victory won at Fort Ryan was the
first of many ever growing in importance.

You can tell much of a man's relation to his horse when he goes to bring
him from pasture. If he tricks and drives him into a corner, and then by
sudden violence puts on the bridle, you know that he has no love, no
desire for anything but service; in return he will get poor service at
best, and no love at all. If he puts a lump of sugar in his pocket and
goes to the fence, calling his horse by name, and the horse comes
joyously as to meet a friend, and with mobile, velvet lips picks the
sugar clean from the offering palm and goes willingly to saddle and bit,
then you know that the man is a horse man, probably a horseman; by the
bond of love he holds his steed, and will get from him twice the service
and for thrice as long as any could extort with spur and whip.

"Whoa, Blazing Star, whoa", and the gold-red meteor of the prairie would
shake his mane and tail and come careering, curvetting, not direct, but
round in a brief spiral to find a period point at the hand he loved.

"Ten times," said Colonel Waller, of the Fort, "have I seen a man so
bound up in the friendship of his dog that all human ties had second
place; but never before or since have I seen a man so bonded to his
horse, or a horse so nobly answering in his kind, as Hartigan and his
Blazing Star."

The ancients had a fable of a horse and a rider so attuned--so wholly
one--that the brain of the man and the power of the horse were a single
being, a wonderful creature to whom the impossible was easy play. And
there is good foundation for the myth. Who that has ridden on the polo
field or swung the lasso behind the bounding herd, can forget the many
times when he dropped the reins and signalled to the horse only by the
gentle touch of knee, of heel, by voice, by body swing, by _wishing_
thus and so, and got response? For the horse and he were perfectly
attuned and trained--the reins superfluous. Thus, centaur-like, they
went, with more than twice the power that either by itself possessed.

Fort Ryan where the Colonel held command, was in the Indian reserve and
five miles south of Cedar Mountain. The life of the garrison was very
self-contained, but Cedar Mountain had its allurements, and there were
some entertainments where civilian and soldier met. The trail between
was a favourite drive or ride and to Hartigan it became very familiar.

There was one regular function that had a strong hold on him. It took
place every other Saturday afternoon on the parade ground, and was
called general riding exercises, but was really a "stunt show" of trick
riding. After they began to know him, the coming of Hartigan with his
horse was hailed by all with delight. The evenings of these festal days
were spent in the gymnasium, when there was an athletic programme with
great prominence given to sword play, boxing, and singlestick, in which
Hartigan was the king; and here his cup of joy was full.

"Ain't it a shame to waste all that stuff on a preacher?" was the
frequent expression of the soldiers. Though what better use they would
have made of it, was not clear.

Many a dark night Hartigan rode home from the Fort after the evening's
fun was over leaving it entirely to his horse to select the road, after
the manner of the wise horseman. In mid-August there had been one of the
typical Black Hill storms. After a month of drought, it had rained
inches in a few hours. The little Rapid Fork of the Cheyenne was a broad
flood which carried off most of its bridges, including that on the trail
to the Fort. The rain had ceased the day before, but the flood had
subsided very little by Saturday night as Hartigan mounted Blazing Star
and set out for the fortnightly affair at Fort Ryan.

The sky was still blocked with clouds and at eight o'clock it was black
dark, so Hartigan left the selection of the trail, as a matter of
course, to Blazing Star. From the time of leaving the last light in
Cedar Mountain till they drew up under the first lantern at Fort Ryan,
Hartigan never saw the horse he was riding, much less the road he was
riding on: nor had he touched the reins or given by word or pressure of
knee any signal of guidance. The night was too black for his senses, but
he knew he was committing his way to senses that were of a keener order
than his own, and he rode as a child might--without thought of fear. He
could feel it when they were going down into the canyon of the Rapid
Fork, and at the bottom of the slight descent he heard the rush of
waters, and noted that Blazing Star lowered his head and snorted softly
more than once. He heard the tap of the hoofs on the timber of the
bridge, and then they ascended and came in a little while to the lantern
at the door of the gymnasium in the barracks.

"Hello, Hartigan! Where in the world did you come from?" was the cordial
greeting of Colonel Waller.

"Where could I come from but Cedar Mountain?"

"The deuce you did."

"Why not?"

"How did you cross the creek?"

"By the bridge."

"Oh, no, you didn't."

"I surely did," said the Preacher.

"Well, you didn't, because there isn't any bridge. It all went out last
night," was the Colonel's astounding answer.

"Be that as it may," said the Preacher, "I have come here direct from
Cedar Mountain. I left at eight o'clock and here I am, arrived by the
road at eight forty-five; and I crossed the Rapid Fork of the Cheyenne
on the bridge. I didn't see it. I didn't see my horse from start to
finish. I didn't see one inch of the road; but I heard it and felt it.
Anyway, I'm here."

That night the Preacher stayed at the Fort, but he was up at daylight.
So were the officers, for they had laid bets on this matter. They came
to the little canyon, the river, and the place of the bridge; the bridge
was gone; but, yes, surely there was one long stringer left. It had been
held by the bolt at one end, and the officer charged with repairing the
bridge had swung it back into place that very afternoon, and made it
firm to serve as a footbridge, though it was barely twelve inches wide.

There, plainly written in the soft earth, was the story of the crossing.
Blazing Star had descended the bank, and had missed the narrow stringer
by a yard. He had nosed along till he found it and had crossed over on
that with the delicate poise and absolute sense of certainty that would
have been destroyed had the rider tried to give a guiding hand. And the
end would have been sure death had Hartigan not trusted to his horse so
utterly. The best of steed and man had thus begot a creature on a higher
plane--in spirit and effect the centaur of the ancient tale.




CHAPTER XXIV

Red Rover


August was advancing with everything shaping for a great local event.
The Corn Dance of the Indians to celebrate the first of the new crop was
an old festival and brought hundreds of them together. In addition, the
government had selected September fifteenth for the semi-annual issue of
the treaty money. This was a coincidence of festivals that insured a
great attendance and at all such times horse-racing was the favourite
sport.

On the Fourth of July of that year the Indians had produced an
extraordinary buckskin cayuse which, in spite of its humble origin and
raw exterior, had proved speedy enough to defeat all opposition and
capture the big purse. Interest in the opportunity for revenge had grown
every day since, and the fact that each Indian family was to get one
hundred dollars in cash, enhanced the chances of a fat purse. A winning
horse was the first need of the ranchmen and they turned at once to
Hartigan and Blazing Star. They were much taken aback to receive from
him a flat refusal to enter or to let any one else enter Blazing Star
for a race. In vain they held out great inducements, possibilities of a
huge fortune, certainly of a big lump sum down in advance, or almost any
price he chose to ask for Blazing Star.

Hartigan's reply was an emphatic "No." And that was the end of it.

There was nothing for the whites to do but find another racer. There
certainly was no such horse as they needed in all the country; had there
been, they would have known it; and those who took the matter to heart
were planning a visit to Illinois or Kentucky even, where it was simply
a matter of money to get a blooded horse that would settle the issue.

While on a long hard trip for the spiritual help of brethren in the
South, Jim was left for a day at Chadron, Nebraska, a distributing point
for settlers coming to the Platte. With the instinct born of his Western
life, Jim made for the big horse corral, which is always on the
outskirts of a prairie town and where he knew he could pass a pleasant
hour or more. It was, as usual, crowded with horses of low and middle
class degree--some old and worn, some young and raw, many extraordinary
pintos, one or two mounts above the average of size or beauty, but
nothing to secure more than passing attention.

The scene in and about the corral held a great fascination for Jim.
There were cowboys and stable hands; farmers whose horses were in the
corral or whose homes were in the prairie schooners anchored on the
plain near-by; men were coming and going, and groups of children
rollicked about the camp fire.

As Hartigan looked on, a young fellow--whose soft, slow speech and
"r"-less words were certain proof of Southern birth--led from a stable a
tall, clean-limbed horse and, flopping into the saddle with easy
carelessness, rode away. As he passed, the horse's coat of bronze and
gold fairly rippled in the sun as the perfect muscles played beneath,
and the delight that Jim got, none but a horseman would understand. As
the lad cantered away to a camping group and returned, the Preacher had
a fair view. The horse might have been twin brother to his own, and he
did not need the rider's assurance that the steed was a "Kaintucky blood
all right."

In all the Western towns an interesting custom has grown up in the
matter of registering. The chief hotel is accepted as the social centre
and clubhouse, so that a man arriving in town, whether he puts up at the
hotel or not, goes to the register and enters his name. "Never fail to
register; it may be handy to prove an alibi," has become a saying. Jim
went to the hotel with an idea. He registered, glanced over the other
names and learned that Cattleman Kyle was then in town. It was easy to
find him in a place of this size, and after a brief search Jim hailed
him boisterously from afar:

"Say, Kyle, I've found what you are looking for."

"What's that?"

"A horse. A real horse. A winner."

"What? Are you willing to sell Blazing Star?"

"No!" was the forceful answer. "Come and see."

And Kyle did see. His eye kindled as he watched the glorious creature in
the sun.

"By jinks! He's all right. He's better than Blazing Star."

"Not on your life!" said Jim, with sudden heat, "but he's what you are
after."

They walked casually up to the young rider. Kyle began:

"Say, young fellow, is that horse for sale?"

"Yo' the fo'th pah'ty to-day to ask that," was the softly cooed answer.
"No, he ain't fo' sale."

"Looks to me like a Kentucky blood," said Kyle. "Are you going to keep
him in this country or ride him back?"

"Wall, I'm h'yah to stay, and I guess he stays with me."

"What are you going to feed him on? You can't get timothy or beans or
oats out here. He couldn't keep up on prairie hay; and, if you did try
it, he'd get the loco weed."

This was a good shot and the rider had no ready answer, so Kyle
continued. "How old is he?"

"Fo' last spring and sound as a bell; hasn't a fault," was the reply.

"Why don't you swap him for something that can stand the country?" said
Kyle. Then, as the Southerner did not reply, Kyle continued: "I'll give
you two steady young saddle horses raised in the country and proof
against pinkeye and loco weed."

"If you add about a thousand dollars, I might consider it," was the
response.

That was the beginning of bargaining, and the end was that the
Kentuckian got two native saddle horses and two hundred and fifty
dollars cash. Cattleman Kyle got the beautiful Red Rover and Jim
Hartigan experienced just a twinge of jealousy as he saw the new
champion and heard his praises sung. Kyle's intention had been to keep
Red Rover and rejoice in the beauty and power of the new possession; but
the problem of how to win the next race made every other consideration
secondary.

It is well known that a skilful trainer can knock twenty-five seconds
off a horse's mile time; or even more, if he can be trained on clean
oats and timothy hay. There were oats, hay and skilful trainers in the
cavalry barracks at Fort Ryan. There were none of these things at Kyle's
ranch on the Big Cheyenne; hence, after much debate, Red Rover was
transferred, without profit or loss, to Captain Wayne and was
thenceforth the central figure and chiefest hope of the Fort Ryan
stables.

Naturally, one of the first things to be done was to get a gauge on Red
Rover's speed by a race with Blazing Star. It was only a race "for fun,"
and Jim gave his place to a lighter man; but he watched with an
eagerness not easily expressed in words, and his heart swelled with
joy--yes, into his very throat--when it was made clear, that, while Red
Rover was good, Blazing Star was better.

All these things were events of the first magnitude to the horseman's
world that centred at Fort Ryan. The love of horses is common to most
men, but it is dominant in the West, and rampant in the mounted soldier.
The general interest of officers and men grew into a very keen and
personal interest as the training went on, and touched fever heat when
it was definitely announced that on Treaty Day, September fifteenth,
there was to be a race for a purse of one hundred dollars, as a nominal
consideration, and betting to any extent on the side. Meanwhile, word
was sent to the Pine Ridge Agency that the whites were not discouraged
by their defeat in July, but would come again with their horse in the
Corn Feast time for a new race.

Then, one fine morning in early August, a long procession of Indians
appeared on the hills, singing their marching songs, trailing their
travois and tepee poles. They set up their camp not far from Fort Ryan;
and soon, Red Cloud, with a few who were near him, rode in to call on
Colonel Waller. The latter received them on the piazza of his quarters,
and, after a smoke, learned that they had come to accept the challenge
to race their horses. When and where should it be? It was arranged that
on the fifteenth of September they should meet at Fort Ryan, and that
the race should come off on the two-mile course at the Fort. After
smokes, compliments and the exchange of some presents, Red Cloud
withdrew to his camp.

The following day, as his trainer was putting Red Rover through his
paces around the course, there was a group of Indians on their horses at
the racetrack; silent, attentive, watching every move. At dawn, the day
after, the sentry reported that a band of mounted Indians were on the
racetrack. From his window the Colonel watched them through a telescope.
He saw them studying the ground; and then a naked youth, on a spirited
buckskin, galloped round. It was easy for the Colonel to note the time
by his stop-watch and thus have a rough idea of the pony's flat speed on
the two miles. He was not surprised one way or the other. The time was
considerably over four minutes, which merely proved it to be an
ordinarily good horse. But, of course, he knew nothing of the handling;
was this top speed? or was the driver holding the horse in? In ten
minutes the Indians were gone.

The next day, a party rode out from Cedar Mountain to see the Indian
camp; and, leading the light-hearted procession, were Belle Boyd on her
pony and the Preacher on Blazing Star. It was not easy to see Red Cloud.
He was much wrapped up in his dignity and declined to receive any one
under the rank of "Soldier High Chief" (Colonel). But they found much to
interest them in the Sioux camp, and at length, were rewarded by seeing
the war chief come forth, mount his horse, and ride, with others, toward
the Fort. Turning aside, at the racetrack, Belle and Jim saw Red Rover
come forth for his morning spin. The Red men drifted to the starting
point, and just as the racer went away an Indian boy on a buckskin
broncho dashed alongside and kept there round the track. Whether it was
a race or not no one could say, for each rider was jockeying, not
willing to win or lose, and it had the appearance of a prearranged dead
heat. One of the officers called out: "Say, boys, that's their same old
buckskin cayuse. What do you make of it?"

It was the white jockey who replied: "If that's their speeder, it's a
cinch. I could have run away at any time."

A senior officer spoke up: "I kept tabs on it, and it's just the same
time practically as the Colonel took on his stop watch yesterday. We've
got them this time."

What the Indians learned was not revealed. But, next morning, Red Cloud
called upon the Colonel. He smoked a long while before he made clear
what he was after. "Did the Colonel want a fair race, or not?"

"Why certainly a fair race."

"Then send to Red Cloud a load of the white man's grass that has a tail
like a rat; and give him also some of the long white seed, a pile as
high as a man's knees, so that the pony might eat and be strong, and
make good race."

The Colonel's eyes twinkled. "Ho, ho!" he thought, "the crafty old
villain has been learning something."

Now though the Colonel of a frontier post has ample power, it would have
been very unwise of him to sell any stores to the Indian; he might,
however, without risk of censure, have given him the asked-for supply,
had he deemed it advisable. But why should he help the enemy's horse? So
he shook his head and said he was "not allowed to sell government
stores." And Red Cloud turned away, with an expression of scorn.

The next day, a minor chief tried to buy some oats from the stable man;
but, being refused, went off in silence; and, two days later, the Indian
Camp was gone.

The news soon spread abroad that the famous buckskin cayuse had been up
to go over the track, and that Red Rover had played with him. "It was a
cinch," they could win any money they liked; and then the betting became
crazy. The Indians have no idea of anything but an even bet, but that
was good enough. The day of the race there were to be fifty thousand
government dollars distributed among them; and every white man, soldier
or civilian, who could raise a little cash, was putting it up on a
certainty of doubling.

The days and all they held were a terrible strain on Jim Hartigan. How
he itched to be in it! Not once, but many times, he rode to Fort Ryan to
see Red Rover training; and more than once he rode around the track to
pace the Rover. His face, his very soul, glowed as he watched the noble
animal, neck and neck with his own fair steed. "The only horse that ever
had made Blazing Star let out."

Then, near the end, in very pride--he could not help it--he put Blazing
Star to it and let them see that while Red Rover might be good, he was
only second best after all.

"It wasn't racing," he explained to Belle, "it was just speeding up a
little. Sure, I want the white man's horse to win over that Indian pony.
It would never do to have the broncho win."

There seemed no probability of that; but there was one group of
interested white men who were not quite so satisfied. Cattleman Kyle and
all the ranchers on the Cheyenne wanted a sure thing; and there was no
way to make sure, but by a trial race that was a real race. So they used
the old-time trick of the white man who wishes to get ahead of the
Indian: they hired another Indian to help them.

There had always been war and hatred between the Crows and the Sioux.
The war was over for the present; but the Crows were very ready to help
any one against their former enemies. Enlisted by the ranchers the Crow
spies reported that the Sioux were training their horse not ten miles
away in a secluded secret canyon of the Yellowbank, a tributary of the
Cheyenne River. And thither by night, with all possible secrecy, went
Kyle with a dozen more. Among them was Hartigan. Why? Partly because
they wanted him along, for his knowledge of horses and jockeys, and
chiefly because he himself was mad to go, when he heard of it. The whole
colour of the adventure, the mere fact of its being an adventure, were
overpowering to his untamed twenty-five-year-old spirit.

They hid their horses in a distant valley; then, in the early dawn, they
followed their dusky guide to a little butte, where they made themselves
as comfortable as possible to await the sunrise.

"Well," said Jim, "considering I'm freezing to death an' mortal hungry,
and sitting on a bunch of cactus, and playing pick-pocket with another
man's secrets and ashamed of myself, I'm having a divil of a fine time!"
And they chattered and their teeth chattered, till a dog barked far
below, and they heard the coyotes singing back their long soft call; and
in the growing light they discovered an Indian tepee, with smoke issuing
from the vent hole. Near by was a rude corral. The smoke increased--then
grew less; soon sparks flew out; the light in the sky grew brighter; the
music of the coyotes died away; and, in a little while, the glory of the
sun was over the world.

Now they saw an old woman go forth to the corral and, following her, a
youth. Unfastening the rude gate, they entered; and the boy presently
rode forth on a beautiful buckskin pony, well made and spirited. Yes,
the very same one they had seen on the race track at Fort Ryan. They saw
him ridden to water; then, after a short canter, back to the corral.
Here they watched the old woman rub and scrub him down from head to
foot, while the boy brought in a truss of very good-looking hay from
some hidden supply. The old woman went carefully over the bundle,
throwing away portions of it. "She throw away all bad medicine plants,"
said the Crow. After half an hour, another Indian came forth from the
lodge and brought a bag of something for the pony. They could not see
what it was, but the Crow Indian said it was "white man's corn, the
little sharp kind that makes a horse's legs move very fast."

"Bedad, there's no mistaking that," said Hartigan; "they're training on
oats; an' that hay is too green for prairie grass and not green enough
for alfalfa. I wonder if they haven't managed to get some timothy for
their 'hope of the race!'"

The first important fact was that the cattlemen had discovered the
training ground of the Indian racer; the second that the Red men were
neglecting nothing that could help them to win. Now to be a complete
story of a good scouting, these watchers should have stayed there all
day, to see what the Indian methods were; but that would have been a
slow job. They were too impatient to wait. It was clear, anyway, that
the redskins had adopted all they could learn from the whites, and that
the buckskin cayuse was no mean antagonist. The Crow scout assured them
that every morning, an hour or so after eating, the pony was raced up to
"that butte, round and back here. Then, by and by, sun low, go again."

So, fully informed, the white spies retired; sneaked back to their
horses and in less than two hours were at Fort Ryan.

"Well, Colonel, we sure saw the whole thing," said Hartigan. "They are
not taking any chances on it. 'Tisn't much of a stable--nary a shingle
overhead--but they're surely training that buckskin; and it's
hand-picked hay they give him and sandpapered oats, worth gold; and they
don't neglect his coat; and by the same token it's out for a race they
are."

And now Kyle unfolded his plan to the Colonel. It was nothing less than
this: to send a half-breed trader to the Indian training camp with a
supply of whiskey, play on the weakness of the Red man till man, woman
and boy, and others if there were any, were stupid drunk; then have Red
Rover brought secretly, and at dawn, take the buckskin out of the
corral, put a jockey on each, develop the best speed of both horses
around the Indian training track, and so get an absolute gauge to guide
the betting.

At first, the Colonel demurred. "Was it quite honourable?"

"Why not? Didn't they come and run their horse against ours in a trial,
right here on the garrison track, without asking our leave? We are not
going to hurt the pony in any way."

The temptation was too much for human nature. The Colonel finally
agreed; and all that was needed was the working out of details. Hartigan
was eager to be one of the jockeys. "Sure it wasn't a real race in the
sense that stakes were up." The Colonel shook his head. "If you were
about one hundred pounds lighter we'd be glad to have you, but one
hundred and eighty pounds is too much for any horse."

It was no easy matter to get the right weight. The cavalrymen were all
too heavy; but an odd character had turned up, the second son of an
English baronet, a dissipated youth, barely a hundred pounds in weight;
an agglomeration of most weak vices, but thin, tough, and a born and
trained horseman. He was selected for one, and Little Breeches, a cowboy
of diminutive proportions, for the other. All the material was now in
sight for the scheme.




CHAPTER XXV

The Secret of Yellowbank Canyon


Lou Chamreau was of French and Indian blood, chiefly Crow Indian. For
twenty years he had been trading out of Pierre, Dakota, among the
western tribes. He spoke French and Crow perfectly, he knew a little
Sioux, and he was quite proficient in the universal Sign Language. Lou
had lost money on the July horse-race, and was quite ready to play the
white man's game.

On a certain afternoon in the latter part of August the trader might
have been seen driving a very rickety wagon along the rough trail
through the Badlands twenty miles to the eastward of Fort Ryan. Much
hard luck had pursued him, if one might judge by the appearance of his
outfit and from his story. In his extremity his teamster had left him
and he was travelling alone. It was just as he reached the
boulder-strewn descent into Yellowbank Creek that the climax came. The
wagon upset and, falling some twenty feet, was lodged between the
cutbanks in very bad shape. The horses were saved though the giving way
of the harness; and having hobbled and turned them out to graze, Lou
mounted a butte to seek for sign of help.

The sun was low in the west now; and across the glowing sky he noted a
thread of smoke. Within a few minutes it had been his guide to an Indian
tepee--a solitary tepee in this lone and little-known canyon of the
Yellowbank--and entering, he recognized an old acquaintance. After
sitting and smoking, he told of his troubles and asked the Red man to
come and help get the wagon out of the gully.

The Indian made the signs: "Yes, at sunrise."

Chamreau smoked for a time, then said: "I'm afraid I'll lose the 'fire
water' in that keg. It may be leaking under the wagon." To which the
Sioux warrior said:

"Let us go now."

The keg was found intact, and to obviate all risk, was brought to the
Indian camp. Chamreau deferred opening it as long as he could, so that
it was midnight before the "Cowboy's delight" was handed round, and by
three or four in the morning the camp was sunken in a deadly stupor.

According to the plan, Chamreau was to take a brand from the lodge and,
in the black night outside, make a vivid zigzag in the air a few times,
when his plot was obviously a success. But he became so deeply
interested in giving realism to his own share of the spree that he
forgot about everything else, and the rest of the scheme was omitted, so
far as he was concerned.

But with the dim dawn there arrived in camp a couple of horsemen, one an
Indian. The camp was dead. With the exception of a dog at the doorway
and a horse in the corral, there was none to note their arrival. The dog
growled, barked and sneaked aside. The Crow Indian hurled a stone with
such accuracy that the dog accepted the arrivals as lawful, and sat
down, afar off, to think it over.

The inmates of the lodge; man, woman, boy and Chamreau, were insensible
and would evidently remain so for many hours. The Crow Indian and Kyle
took brands from the fire and made vivid lightnings in the air. Within
ten minutes, a group of horsemen came trampling down the slope and up
the pleasant valley of the Yellowbank.

It was not without some twinges of conscience that Hartigan peeped into
the lodge to see the utterly degrading stupefaction of the poison, but
he was alone in feeling anything like regret. The rest of the party were
given over to wild hilarity. At once, they made for the corral. Yes,
there he was, really a fine animal, the buckskin cayuse that had proved
so important. And there, carefully protected, was a lot of baled timothy
hay and fine oats, brought there at great cost. It is not often that a
lot of jockeys and horsemen are so careful of the enemy's mount. They
handled that buckskin as if he had been made of glass, they watered him,
they groomed him, they gave him a light feed and walked him gently up
and down. Then, as the sun rose, he was taken for a short canter.

"He's pretty good," said the jockey as they came in, "but nothing
wonderful that I can see."

Meanwhile, Red Rover was also watered, fed, rubbed down, limbered up,
and after every loving, horse-wise care was spent on both animals, the
jockeys were given their mounts and headed for the starting point on the
two-mile course.

First they ambled easily around the track to study the ground. They
started together and ran neck and neck for a quarter of a mile, then
pulled rein, as this was a mere warm-up. Then they returned to the
starting post, and the cowboy jockey on the buckskin said: "Well, boys,
he's a good bronk, but I don't seem to feel any blood in him."

At the signal, they went off together, and behind them Captain Wayne,
the Preacher, and a dozen more white men who were interested. These
onlookers dropped behind as the racers went at high speed, but the view
was clear, even when afar. The tall sorrel horse was a little ahead, but
the buckskin displayed surprising power and speed. At the turning point
he was very little behind. And now, on the home run, was to be the real
trial. Would the bottom of the prairie pony overmatch the legs of the
blooded horse?

The spectators were assembled at the place half way down, to meet them
coming back, and follow close behind. It grew very exciting as both
horses developed their best speed, and as they came to the winning post,
it was clear to all that the buckskin had no chance in a fair race with
Red Rover. It was incidentally clear to Hartigan, and those near by,
that Red Rover had no chance against Blazing Star, even though the
latter bore a heavy load; but that was not the point of general
interest.

The serious business happily done, they tenderly groomed the buckskin
and returned him to the corral, gave him a good supply of hay and said
good-bye to the drunken Indians, the two-faced Chamreau, and the
glorious Yellowbank, with its lonely lodge, its strange corral and its
growlsome Indian dog.




CHAPTER XXVI

Preparing For the Day


They were a merry lot that galloped back to Fort Ryan that morning, and
a still merrier crowd that gathered at Cedar Mountain, when it was
whispered about that in a fair and square try-out the buckskin cayuse
was badly beaten by Red Rover. The white men had a dead sure thing. "Now
is the time, boys, most anything you like, raise money anyhow, you can't
go wrong on this. We've got the wily Red men skinned. Now we'll get our
money back and more." "Of course it's fair, anything's fair to get ahead
on a horse race." And as the tale was whispered round, it grew until it
would seem that Red Rover had cantered in, while the buckskin strained
himself to keep within a couple of hundred yards of the racer.

So the gossip went and one serious thing resulted: the training
slackened. Why bother when the horse was going to have a walk-over? The
Colonel was too much engrossed with other matters to do more than give
good advice. The trainer's laxity pervaded those about him, and Red
Rover was let down with all the rest. When they ran out of baled timothy
the shortage was not revealed till it occurred. This meant a week's
delay. The trainer, going to Cedar Mountain on a celebration, left an
underling in charge who knew no better than to stuff the horse with
alfalfa for a change, and a slight cold was the result. What the Colonel
said when he heard of it was not couched in departmental phraseology.

Gambling has always been a racial sin of the Indian. He did not drink or
horse-race or torture pioneers till the white man taught him; but gamble
he always did. And under the stimulus of great excitement and new stakes
the habit became a craze. Within a few days, Red Cloud appeared at the
Fort with a great retinue, a whole village complete when they camped,
and announced that he and his people had some fifty thousand dollars in
sight to stake on the race; which, of course, was to be a scratch race
for both. The soldiers, being very human, raised all they could--and
much that they couldn't, really--to cover this handsome sum. Red Cloud
then returned to his camp.

The next day he was back to say that, in case the whites had no more
money to bet, the Indians were willing to bet horses and saddles, goods,
etc., and thereupon a new craze possessed them. A government plough was
wagered against a settler's looking-glass, a hen and her chickens
against a buffalo robe, and many another odd combination. The Indians
seemed to go wild on the issue. At last the U. S. Indian Agent came to
the Colonel to protest.

"Colonel, I can manage these people all right if they are let alone, but
this horse race and the betting are upsetting everything. I suppose you
have a dead sure thing or you wouldn't be so reckless, but you are
making awful trouble for every one else, and I wish you'd put on the
brakes."

The Colonel either could not, or would not; for the excitement grew as
the day came near. As a last effort the Indian agent, one of the few who
were conscientiously doing their best for the Indians, went to Red Cloud
to protest and warn him that the whites were laying a trap for him and
his people and would clean them out of everything.

Red Cloud's eyes twinkled as he said: "Yes, they always do."

"I mean on the horse race; they will skin you; don't you know they've
had your horse out in a trial race with theirs, and that it's no race at
all?"

Again the Chief's eyes lighted up. He gave a little grunt and said.
"Mebbe so."

Hartigan suffered all the agonies of crucified instincts in this
excitement. He longed to be in everything, to bet and forecast and play
the game with them all. What would he not have given to be the selected
jockey, to smell the hot saddle every day, to hear the sweet squeak of
the leather or feel the mighty shoulder play of the noble racing beast
beneath him. But such things were not for him. He was shut in, as never
monk was held, from earthly joy; not by material bars and walls, but by
his duty to the Church, by his word as a man, by the influence of Belle.

She trembled in her thought for him at times, his racing blood was so
strong. She often rode by his side to Fort Ryan and watched him as he
looked on at the training of the Rover. His every remark was a comment
of the connoisseur. "Look at that, look at that, Belle. That's right, he
stopped to change his feet. He's a jockey all right. He ought not to do
that tap-tapping with the quirt--the horse doesn't understand it, it
worries him. I don't like to see a man knee-pinch a horse in that way;
it tells on a two-mile run. He's heavy-handed on the reins; some horses
need it, but not that one," and so on without pause.

Never once did his conversation turn on the Church or its work; and
Belle was puzzled and uneasy. Then, one day when she and Hartigan were
to have ridden out, he sent a note to say that he was in trouble.
Blazing Star was hurt. Belle went at once to the stable and there she
found the Preacher on his knees, in an armless old undershirt, rubbing
linament on to some slight bump on Blazing Star's nigh hock. A sculptor
would have paused to gaze at the great splendid arms--clean and white
and muscled like Theseus--massive, supple, and quick. Hartigan was very
serious.

"I don't know just what it is, Belle; it looks like a puff, but it may
be only a sting or a bot. Anyway, I'm afraid it's rest for a week it
means," and he rubbed and rubbed the embrocation in with force, while
Blazing Star looked back with liquid eyes.

This seemed like a misfortune, but it proved a blessing, for it kept
Hartigan out of the racing crowd for a week at a time when he was
skating on ice that was very, very thin.

As Saturday came, the Rev. Dr. Jebb received an unexpected call from a
very regular caller--the Rev. James Hartigan--to ask if Dr. Jebb would
kindly take both sermons on Sunday next. Blazing Star had a puff on his
nigh hock, inside, a little above the leg-wart; it might not amount to
much, but it required a good deal of attention every few hours, both day
and night, to prevent the possibility of its becoming serious from
neglect.




CHAPTER XXVII

The Start


September came, with all the multiplied glories of the Black
Hills--calm, beautiful weather in a calm and beautiful country. For days
back, there had been long strings of Indians, with their families and
camp outfits, moving down the trail between the hills, bound all for the
great raceground at Fort Ryan. Lodges were set up every day. Each of the
half-dozen tribes formed its own group. Ranchmen came riding in,
followed by prairie schooners or round-up wagons, for their camps;
motley nondescripts from Deadwood and places round about. There were
even folk from Bismarck and Pierre and, of course, all Cedar Mountain
and the soldiers from the Fort.

"Sure, I didn't know there _were_ so many people," was Hartigan's remark
to Belle, as they rode on the morning of the fifteenth about the camp
with its different kinds of life. Then, after a long pause and gaze
around, he added, in self-examining tone: "Faith, Belle, it seems to me
that, being a Preacher, I ought to get up and denounce the whole thing,
preach right now and evermore against it, and do all I can to stop it,
but--heaven help me if I am a hypocrite--I don't feel that way at all; I
just love it, I love to see all these people here, I love to see the
horses, and I wouldn't miss that race if it were the last thing on earth
I was to look on. Oh, I haven't been betting, Belle," he hastened to
explain as he saw the look of dread on her face. "I've kept clear of it
all, but God only knows what it means to me."

"Never fear, Belle," he went on, "I won't ride in a race, I won't bet;
I've given my word."

"Oh, Jim, you are a riddle; you are not one, you are two men; and they
fight the whole time. But I know the wiser one is winning and I think
the best friend you ever had was that big fellow that threatened you
with the 'bone-rot' if ever you broke your word. I believe in you more
and more," and impulsively she laid her hand on his with a warmth that
provoked such instant response that she smote her horse and swung
away--fearful of a situation for which she was not ready.

At three o'clock, an officer from the Fort rode over to Red Cloud's
lodge and notified him that in one hour the race was to begin. The
War-chief grunted.

At four, the crowd was dense around the track, and the country near
seemed quite deserted. Near the starting post, which was also the
finish, were a huge crowd and a small army of mounted men. Suddenly
shots were heard, and a great shout went up from the Indian camp; then
forth came Red Cloud, in all his war paint and eagle feathers, followed
by other warriors; and carefully led in the middle of the procession was
the famous buckskin cayuse, sleek, clean-limbed, but decorated with
eagle feathers in mane and tail, with furry danglers on his fetlocks and
a large red hand painted on each shoulder and hip. He had no saddle and
was led with an ordinary hackima of hair rope around his lower jaw. He
walked alertly and proudly, but showed no unusual evidence of pace or
fire.

Then a cannon boomed at the Fort, and from the gate there issued another
procession, soldiers chiefly, following their Colonel. First among them
came a bugler, the officers, then next a trooper, leading the white
hope--the precious Red Rover. His groomed and glossy coat was shining in
the sun; his life and power were shown in every movement as he pranced
at times, in spite of the continual restraint of his trainer, who was
leading him. On the other side, rode Peaches, the little English jockey.
It was a bitter pill to the Americans that they should have to trust
their fortunes to an English rider, but all their men were too heavy,
except Little Breeches, and, he, alas, had fallen into the hands of the
whiskey mongers. The ladies of the garrison rode close behind; and last,
came the regimental band, in full thump and blare. As they neared the
starting post, the band was hushed and the bugle blew a fanfare; then,
with the Colonel leading, the racer was taken to the starting post.

Red Cloud was there calmly waiting with his counsellors and braves and
the buckskin cayuse.

"Are you ready?" shouted Colonel Waller.

"Ho," said Red Cloud, and with an imperious wave of his hand he
indicated "Go ahead!"

The light racing pad was put on Red Rover, the jockey mounted and rode
him at a canter for a hundred yards and back, amid an outburst of
applause as the splendid creature showed his pace. Then the groom
approached and tightened the cinch.

The buckskin cayuse was brought to the front. Red Cloud made a gesture.
A sixteen-year-old boy, armed with a quirt, appeared; an Indian gave him
a leg up, and, naked to the breech clout on the naked horse, he sat like
a statue. Jim got a strange thrill as he recognized him for the
vigil-keeper of Cedar Mountain.

"Well," grumbled the Colonel, as he noted the jockey, "that's a
twenty-five pound handicap on us, but I guess we can stand it." Yet,
when they saw the two horses together, there was less disparity in size
than they had supposed. But there was something about the buckskin that
caught Hartigan's eye and made him remark: "It isn't going to be such a
walk-over as our fellows think." And the trainer of Red Rover, as he
noted the round barrel, clean limbs, and flaring nostrils of the
buckskin, had for a moment just a guilty twinge as he recalled how lax
he had been in the training after that run at Yellowbank Canyon.

But all was ready. The white men won the toss for choice and got the
inside track; not that it mattered very much, except at the turn. The
crowd was sent back to the lines, the riders held the racers to the
scratch and, at a pistol crack, they bounded away.

Those that expected to see something spectacular at the start were
disappointed. The English jockey leaned forward, touched Red Rover with
his whip, and alongside the Indian boy on the buckskin did the very same
thing. The Indian boy smiled and the Englishman responded, but in a
superior way. He felt it was almost unfair to run against such a child,
and in such a race, which wasn't a real race at all, in spite of the
heavy stakes.

Thus they rode side by side at a good pace for half a mile, during which
the buckskin drifted behind a little, now a length, now a length and a
half. Next the copper-coloured jockey touched him up and, before the
white man knew it, the bounding buckskin closed again and came right up,
but now on the inside track. If the Englishman had not felt so
confident, he would have stopped this well-known trick. It might not
have been easy, since there were no lines or posts except the turning
point, but it could have been prevented by deft man[oe]uvring. However,
the Indian was now abreast on the inside and as the Englishman watched
him he concluded that this child of nature was not so simple as he
looked. He comforted himself with the thought that the other would need
all he could get out of jockeying.




CHAPTER XXVIII

The Finish


The first mile was covered in good, but not remarkable time. Then they
came to the turning point. There was just the chance of changing places
here, for the inner horse had the disadvantage of the sharper turn, but
the Indian boy made sure by dropping back a half length and the turn was
made without a reverse. After them now with shouts of joy went all the
mounted men who had been waiting and rode in a thundering charge,
yelling and cheering. The white jockey knew now that he was not dealing
with a fool. The red boy, though not so well mounted, was just as good a
rider as himself, and twenty pounds lighter, besides being without
leathers, which raised the handicap to fully twenty-five pounds. In that
first half mile on the home stretch the buckskin still was head and neck
behind. Then the riders put forth all their skill and each did his best
to call forth every ounce of strength and every spurt of speed in his
mount.

The Indian boy let off his native yell and cried: "Ho,
Huya--Huya--Huya!" and the keen quirt flashed and the buckskin flew.

"Ho, Rover! good boy, git, git!" and the white man smote the shining
flank; and both the noble brutes responded as they had not done before.
The sense of play was gone. It was now the real and desperate race. The
gazing thousands ranged about knew that, and the mingled roar of all
their voices rose to a mighty booming sound.

"Ho, Rover! Run, boy, run!"

"Huya, Shunguna, Ho! Ho! Yeh! Yeh! Yeh!" and the redskin rider smote
hard those heaving flanks.

Flash, flash, those shadowy hoofs; thud, thud, upon the plain; the
buckskin's neck forged slowly on, now lapped the red-gold shoulder of
his foe. The redskin shrieked, the riding mob behind gave voice and rode
like madmen. The racers plunged and plunged, the riders lay down almost
to their necks, plying their quirts and shouting words of urge.

The buckskin still won inches on the race, but the Rover led. The last,
the final furlong was at hand. The riders yelled, the rabble yelled,
guns were fired in mad excitement, and all restraint was gone. It was
win--win--burst--die--but _win_! And never jockeys harder rode and never
horses better ran; the test was fair. Red Rover did his best, yet his
rival's legs in that last spurt moved as a rabbit's legs, a maze of
shadowy pounding limbs, and--sickening sight--the buckskin with the
copper rider forged still more ahead--a neck, half a length ahead--and
the race was _won_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Peaches was in tears. "Colonel," he said, in a broken voice, "it was
that twenty-five pound handicap did it; it wasn't fair."

The Colonel growled something about "a lot of fools to let up on the
training after that Yellowbank trial."

Hartigan was standing near; gloomy, but not so gloomy as the rest; and
when there came a chance to be heard, he said: "Colonel, once I see a
horse close to, in fair daylight, I can always remember him afterward.
I've been looking over their buckskin cayuse, and it's _not the same
one_ we raced in the Yellowbank."

The Colonel turned quickly around. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely certain," was the answer.

"My goodness--you are right. I distrusted the whole business from the
start. You are right; they fooled us on a stool-pigeon; this whole thing
was a put-up job. The simple Red man!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The "perchers" were gathered at the blacksmith shop next afternoon.
"Well," said Shives, "I've done fifteen dollars' worth of work to-day
and haven't taken in a cent." The audience grunted and he went on.
"Every tap of it was for broken-down bums trying to get out of
town--skinned by the simple Red man. Horses shod, tires set, bolts
fixed, all kinds of cripplements. All they want is help to get out, get
out; at any price get out. Well, it'll do you good, the whole caboodle
of ye. Ye started out to do, and got done--everlastingly soaked." The
blacksmith chuckled. "Serve you all right. I'm glad ye got it."

As Hartigan appeared, swinging a big stick and singing "The Wearing of
the Green," Shives asked: "Well, Jim, how much did you lose?"

"Nothing," sang Hartigan cheerfully; "I don't bet"; and he went on
singing, "'Tis the most distressful country this that ever yet was
seen."

"Lucky dog! All the sports round this neck o' the woods are ruined. They
say no gentleman will bet on a sure thing. H'm, maybe not. Well,
fellows, cheer up; no man ever yet was made, until he had been ruined a
couple of times; and all I hope is that the Reds will get up another
race and soak ye to the limit. Then maybe some o' ye will brace up and
be men; but I dunno."

"Guess they've soaked us to the limit now," was the general voice of
those assembled.

Poor Higginbotham had gone in rather strong for him, in spite of his
wife, and there was no blue sky in his world, or prospect of it.

Then they turned on Hartigan, who was going through the movements of
singlestick, on the open floor. "Was he white, or wasn't he? How could
he stand by and see the whole settlement skinned alive by Red Injins
when he had the game in his own hands? Why didn't he enter Blazing Star?
He didn't seem to take much interest in the affair, probably he wanted
the Red skins to win." The jibe stung Jim to the quick; he ceased his
exuberant exercise; the song died on his lips, and he strode away in
silence.




CHAPTER XXIX

The Riders


It is the continual boast of the cowboys that they are the best riders
on earth. It is the continual boast also of Cossack, Boer, Australian,
Gaucho, and all who live on and by the horse. And when we sift the claim
of each of those named we find that it is founded wholly on this, that
they can sit on the back of any steed, however wild, and defy all its
efforts to dislodge them. All their standards are designed to show the
power of the man to overpower the horse. But there is one very large
consideration that seems not to enter their consciousness at all, and
that is how to get the best out of the horse--to develop and utilize,
not crush its power. We undoubtedly find this idea best established in
the riding schools of Europe. In these grammar schools violence is
forbidden, almost unknown. For a man to fight with his horse would be a
disgrace; to abuse or over-ride him--a shame; to lade him with a
three-pound bit and a thirty-pound saddle--a confession of inability to
control or stay on. In every part of the world where the horse has been
developed, it has been in exact ratio with the creed of the riding
schools. No one that has seen both classes of riders can have a doubt
that the best horsemen in the world are those of Europe, who control the
horse with skill--not brute force. The cowboys are mere broncho-busters.

Hartigan had gathered not a little of true horse learning in his early
days, and he was disgusted now to see how lightly and cheaply the
westerner held his horse. "Break him down and get another" was the
method in vogue; and the test of a rider was, "Can he ride a horse to
death?" The thirty-pound saddle used was an evidence of the intent and a
guarantee of the result. As soon as he could afford it, Jim sent back to
Chicago for an English pad, the kind he was used to, and thus he cut his
riding weight down by nearly twenty pounds. Then there arrived at Fort
Ryan a travelling inspector, who spent a month teaching the men the
latest ideas in the care of horses. Among the tricks was the "flat
ambush." This is how it is done: With reins in the left hand, and that
hand in the mane at the withers, you stand at the nigh shoulder; lift
the nigh front foot in your right hand till the hoof is near the horse's
elbow; pull the horse toward you with the left hand in the mane; talk
gently; pull, and press. If your horse trusts you, he will gradually
bend over toward you; lower his body to the ground; and at last lie
flat, head and all, with the animal's legs away from you. Behind the
horse's body the rifleman may squat, shoot from cover, and have an ample
breastwork if the animal is trained to "stand the gun." It is a pretty
trick, though of less practical use than was expected. It is, however, a
quick measure of the horse's confidence in the rider; and it speaks well
for the 99th Cavalry that more than half the horses learned it in a
week. This was a new game to Hartigan, and he found a fresh joy in it as
an excuse for fussing around the stable and playing with his horse.

October came in with glory on the hills. The plains were golden in their
autumn grass, and on a wonderful day in the early part of the month
Hartigan and Belle went riding down the canyon.

Belle had a scheme for coördinating their church work with that of the
Baptists and Presbyterians, both represented now in their town of
fifteen hundred inhabitants. But before she could get it laid before
Jim, he was extolling the quick responsiveness of Blazing Star, and must
needs demonstrate the latest accomplishment the horse had learned. That
over, Belle resurrected her plan; but a gunshot at Fort Ryan switched
the current of his thoughts to the eventful race.

Belle changed the subject and unfolded a scheme for getting all the
Bylow children into the Cedar Mountain school the coming winter. They
had just come to a little twelve-foot cut-bank gully, and Jim exclaimed:
"Now, Belle, just watch him take it," and over they sailed, the
perfection of grace. "I tell you, Belle," he went on, "it was a great
idea to get that eastern pad. I've cut down my riding weight nearly
twenty pounds by dropping all that gear. Blazing Star can clear six
inches higher and go a foot farther in a jump, and I'll bet it gives him
one hundred feet in a mile run."

Again Belle harked back to the school project. "It could be done for
half the teacher's salary and every one of the neglected children might
get a chance. It all depends on the attitude that School Trustee
Higginbotham takes. My idea is to approach him through Hannah. She has a
mighty level head, and if you and Dr. Jebb----"

"Oh! look at this coyote!" ejaculated Hartigan. "I must give him a run";
and away he went. For half a mile there was an open flat, and the
superior speed of the horse reduced the distance, at a very rapid rate.
But the coyote reached a gully and disappeared with the quickness and
cleverness of its race. Hartigan came galloping back.

Belle was looking amused and also worried. "Oh, Jim," she said, "I don't
know what I am going to do with you. You won't talk Church, you won't
talk school, you won't talk shop. All your thoughts are centred on
horses, hunting--and coyotes," she added with a laugh.

"Sure, Belle, I never see a coyote run without thinking of a night I
spent on the Cheyenne, when that puling little English lord spent the
whole night shivering up a tree, to hear me and Little Breeches snoring
on the ground and he thought it was wolves eating us up, because a
little while before a coyote yelled in the bushes----" and again he was
off in a racy account of those thrilling moments.

"Jim," she said, "I am going to say nothing but 'yes' and 'no' for a
while, until you exhaust all your horse talk. Then I am going to make
one more effort."

"A jack rabbit, by the powers!" Sure enough, a big white jack leaped up
and darted away. A jack is speedier than a coyote, so Hartigan could not
resist. "Hi, Hi, Hi!" he shouted to Blazing Star; and with flat hand on
the croup, he raised the speed to top gear in a few jumps.

It was a fair sight to behold, and to many a cow-man it would have been
information. The jack rabbit, next to the antelope, is the speediest
quadruped on the plains. The cowboy does not try to follow the jack
rabbit, but the blooded racer did. In a quarter of a mile the horse was
nearly on him. He dodged like chain lightning--dodged as his life had
taught him to dodge before the coyote and the hawk. The horse slowed up;
the rabbit crossed a ridge; and when the rider reined upon the top, the
jack was no more seen.

But just ahead was a finer sight. A band of antelope sprang forward with
their white sterns shining. Of all the quadrupeds on the Plains, the
antelope is the speediest. The greyhound can catch the hare; but is left
a hopeless laggard by the swift-footed courser. No mounted Indian ever
dreamed of overtaking the antelope in open chase. In speed it stands the
highest in the West. Jim had often wished to match his steed against
these plains-born coursers; but, hitherto, although antelope were often
seen, they were protected by rough gullies or boulders or badger holes.
A band of antelope on a level, open stretch was a glorious chance.

Bending low over his horse's neck, he shouted: "Now, Blazing Star, go
it; ho! boy, go it!" and struck the flank behind for clear
interpretation. The horse sprang forth at speed. The bounding wild
things, just ahead, laid back their ears and went so fast that not a leg
was seen, only a whizzing, blurred maze. And Blazing Star took in the
thought and travelled faster and faster. The furlong start they had
began to shrink.

"Good boy!" the rider shouted in elation. "Go it! go it, Blazing Star!"
The antelope spurted--for a moment held their own; then, weakening at a
mile, they lost so fast that Jim yelled and swung his hat, and in a
little more the herd was overtaken. Fear seemed to rob them of power as
Blazing Star dashed in among them. The bright-eyed pronghorns swerved;
and the band split wide, and the horse dashed through. As he wheeled and
galloped back, he shouted: "You saw that, Belle? You saw it? It has
never been done before. In a fair race, on open stretch, they had two
hundred yards' start and I caught them in a mile. Now I know what
Blazing Star is. No creature on legs can beat him; no horse in the West
can match him."

In a little while the riders turned again to Cedar Mountain. Hartigan
led the way--and the talk. It was a stirring ride, but Belle's face wore
a worried look when he left her.




CHAPTER XXX

The Fire


Every new town in America has the same set routine of experience. It
springs up on land selected and laid out by a real estate speculator.
The flimsiest and most combustible of buildings are rushed up. When the
town has about five thousand inhabitants and these fire-trap buildings
are close enough to burn one another, a fire breaks out and sweeps the
whole thing away, destroying human lives, valuable stock, and priceless
records; after which begins the epoch of brick buildings and fire
prevention.

Cedar Mountain had not reached the size or compactness required for the
wipe-out when its baptism of fire took place. Hartigan was roused in the
night by a noise outside. Going to the window, he saw the sky filled
with the glare of fire. As quickly as possible, he dressed and ran
forth, becoming deeply agitated when he found that the fire was in the
hotel whose stable housed Blazing Star. It was with a dreadful heartsink
that he ran there. The stable was smoking, but not yet afire, and, with
a thankful heart, he hurried Blazing Star forth, got him away to a safe
place, and returned just in time to see the stable and all its immovable
contents go up in a ruddy roar as the hay and straw took fire.

There were no human lives lost; nor any dwellings other than the
hotel--for there was a clear space around that fire-trap and there had
been no wind--but it was a valid baptism of fire. It resulted in the
organization of a Volunteer Fire Brigade, and it also resulted in
Hartigan's determination to erect a stable of his own, where he could
have his horse under his eye, day and night. What he built was not a
large stable, only ten by twelve feet, of rough pine lumber, with
tar-paper weather-proofing and no floor, but he did it entirely with his
own hands at a material cost of twelve dollars; and he put his soul into
it. There were two stalls, one for Blazing Star and one for supplies.
There was much good-humoured jesting at the "Horse Preacher" while the
stable was building and the story went the rounds that he often used the
empty stall for a study, in preference to the silent little room in the
house. In any case, he hand-picked the hay to guard against the
poisonous loco-weed, and washed the oats, to shut out any possibility of
smut.

Immediately after the fire Higginbotham began to talk business to Jim. A
mutual affection had grown up and the little agent and his wife had
early become prominent in the church. As deacon, Higginbotham rendered
good service, although it was noted that his judgment was always best
after he had talked matters over at home. He was not averse to using his
church connection for business purposes. In fact, he had been heard to
say that the Church itself was chiefly a huge fire insurance company,
taking risks for the next world instead of this. On the morning after
the fire, he was up betimes to sail with the wind, to take advantage of
the stir-up that the public mind had got; and he secured a lot of new
business.

"Now, Mr. Hartigan, why don't you insure that horse of yours? Just think
where you would have been if you hadn't got him out in time last night.
Why, I knew a man who bought a horse for fifty dollars in the morning,
insured him for two hundred and fifty dollars at noon, and next night he
was burnt up. The very next day he got his check for two hundred and
fifty dollars. That's the way our company does business; all in
twenty-four hours."

The idea of a joyful profit out of Blazing Star's incinerated remains
was distinctly unpleasant, much like asking a mother to realize on her
baby, and Hartigan took out no policy, but it had the effect of making
him try to set a market value on the horse.

It was late in the season now, October was nearly gone; but still he and
Belle rode forth together.

"What is next Sunday's lesson?" was Belle's very usual question. "Well,"
said Hartigan, "I came across a text that filled me with joy. 'When
Amaziah, King of Judah, was murdered,' it says, 'They brought him upon
horses and buried him with his fathers in the city of Judah.'

"Brought him on horses. What a picture, Belle! Just think of that royal
stiff strapped square across the backs of four fine horses, all bridled
together, and then driven madly across the desert, through the land of
the freebooting Arabs, who would be more than apt to seize the corpse
and hold it for a ransom. What a race! You bet they had horses then!
They were Arab stock all right. I wonder no artist ever put that royal
funeral on canvas. How does it strike you, Belle?"

"Wild enough and picturesque enough for the Black Hills; but I don't
seem to get the lesson, I might almost add another text to your list: 'A
horse is a vain thing for safety.'" Then, suddenly, she said: "Have you
seen Colonel Waller lately?"

"No."

"Is it too far to ride there?"

"Not if you can stand it."

"I can; but I wish you'd tighten my cinch."

Jim was well pleased to be her groom; and, hauling on the strap, his hat
tipped off and his head touched her knee, she laid her hand on his head
and a thrill went through him. Belle knew the game and the risks, in
spite of her very old-fashioned parents. All along, she had held him
back to a certain line; even though it was clearly understood to both of
them and all their world that he was her avowed and accepted lover. She
gloried in his physical charm and power. She took a woman's pride in his
devotion, and maybe, most of all, in her sovereignty over him; she
realized more clearly than any one else, how completely he was her
plastic material. A mighty engine, indeed, he had need of a skilful
engineer. A splendid steed of rarest power and gift, his power and gift
were useless, even worse, without the deft control of the rider, who
should become in a sense his soul, as the captain is the soul of a great
ship. And Belle had come to know that the best work she could ever hope
to do was as the captain of this ship.

And what was to hinder? Belle knew; her soft brown eyes could see much
farther through the stone wall than could his piercing eyes of blue. She
estimated at its true potency the passion that now threatened to wreck
his career. A lover of horses always, an absolute worshipper of Blazing
Star, he was barely held in restraint by his promises and fears of
Church discipline, and Belle foresaw a time when his wild, impulsive
nature would break out. He would surely be swept away by the wild
currents of which the horse race is the vortex; and, having once lost
hold, he would go the pace, break all rules, and end...? She knew, but
dared not say.

Winter would soon be on them and, with that, the end of their happy
rides together on the plains. The different life enforced would put them
more apart--cut off these saddle _tête-à-têtes_, and with all the
happenings, past or future, in her mind Belle was ready for a woman's
game; the time had come to play it. That tightening of the cinch was not
by chance.

They rode a race for a mile and Jim gallantly held back his mount so
that she should keep the lead. They passed a slough along whose edge the
gentians still were blue; she wanted some, and when he brought them she
patted his hand, and gave the flowers an honoured place. Suddenly a
coyote appeared and she raced with him on its trail till it was lost to
view. She called forth all her horsemanship to match his, and make him
feel their perfect harmony; and as they rode side by side, she laid her
hand on his arm to call attention to some creature of the plains when at
other times she would merely have spoken. It thrilled and stirred him,
so he tried to follow up this willingness for touch. But she swung away
each time. Then at a later keep-your-distance hint she gaily held out a
hand to him and teased him by eluding his grasp. But not for long; with
a great spurt he swept upon her, seized the tantalizing hand now
accidentally bared, and the thrill of her touch, the joy of acceptation
in that tiny squeeze, went warmly kindling through him. His colour came,
his bright blue eyes grew brighter, he glowed in body and in spirit.
Never before had she seemed so absolutely fascinating; never before had
he felt how much she was to him, how wholly desirable and lovely she
was, how much his measure of all good things. But he was such a boy in
this side of life that he had never said one open word of love. He was
as shy as most youths are at sixteen.

They were half way to the Fort now, the level plain spreading for a mile
about them. There was no chance of interruption. Their horses had drawn
close together again. She said, "Look at the bruise on my hand from last
week's ride through the brush." He seized the hand; there was no bruise
to be seen, but he bent his head and fervently kissed the place.

"Jim, do you really care so much?" she asked, with a sidelong glance and
a little flush.

"Oh, Belle, you know--you must know----" And he choked.

"I wouldn't like to see you hold any other woman's hand that way." Their
horses' shoulders rubbed and she accidentally swayed toward him; she
seemed to lose her balance. In a minute his strong arms were about her;
a great emotion swept him and all his ardent soul was aflame. With
sudden abandon of all restraint, he showered on her lips a lover's
passionate kisses, and forced his unwonted tongue and lips to shape the
old refrain: "I love you; I love you; I love you better than my life."

She hid her burning face, but he held her tight, and the horses moved as
one.

"Will you, Belle? Will you be my wife? I can't do anything without you.
You have saved me from ruin. I can't do anything without you."

A jack rabbit sprang from under their feet, and Blazing Star, true to
his training, darted away; and so the pair were forced apart. But, in a
moment, Jim was back.

"Will you, Belle? Won't you take me?" He seized her hand and would have
sought her lips again, but she held him back.

"I will, Jim, on one condition. Will you promise?"

"Anything. I'll promise anything I have or can be. Tell me what it is,
Belle?"

"I will not tell you now; but I will before we get back to Cedar
Mountain. Now let us ride"; and she touched her pony with the quirt, and
led at a gallop which ended only at the house of Colonel Waller in Fort
Ryan.




CHAPTER XXXI

Love in The Saddle


"Here come Apollo and Psyche," said Mrs. Waller, as she glimpsed them
from the window. The Colonel was just leaving for his office and called
to them, "Good morning! Go on in; Mrs. Waller is at home. I'll be back
in half an hour."

Already there was a fire in the house, for the nights were chilly, and
when the Colonel returned, they were sitting around it in the parlour.

"I want to see the stable," said Belle, so forth they went together,
Hartigan with Mrs. Waller leading, and Belle with the Colonel. She
lingered till the others were out of easy hearing, then led up to the
subject of the horse race.

"It's a pretty sore subject yet," answered the Colonel. "Most of my men
are pinching their families on half pay to work off their debts to those
wily redskins."

"Do they have to pay?" said Belle.

"Well, these are debts of honour, you know, and in the man's code, that
puts them ahead of rent, clothing, food, or mortgages."

"I suppose the men have got a lesson that will cure them of gambling for
evermore?"

"Oh, no. Not at all. All they are thinking about now is where to get a
horse that can turn the tables."

"Seems to me like burning one's hand because one got a finger scorched."

"Well, that's the man of it," said the Colonel. "If we could get Jim to
run Blazing Star, the whole garrison would mortgage their lives for cash
to stake on it and win back all they had lost or risked."

"Well, he won't; I tell you that. But why don't you buy Blazing Star,
Colonel?"

"Because he won't sell. We've tried every way. I never saw a man so
daffy over his horse."

"What would you consider a fair price, Colonel?"

"Well, Jim gave five dollars for him, to begin with, and refused two
hundred and fifty dollars when he proved what stuff he had got. I should
say three hundred dollars would be a fair price, four hundred dollars a
good price and five hundred dollars an absolutely outside record
price--scaled wholly on the fact that he's the fastest horse on these
plains."

"Would _you_ give five hundred dollars?"

"Yes, I would. I'll give Hartigan five hundred dollars for Blazing Star
right now, in hard cash; but I don't say I'll hold it out very long.
Accidents will happen; winter is coming, and a bad wintering often ruins
a horse."

"Will you take the first chance to offer that to Hartigan? He'll refuse;
but say you'll leave it open for a week, and I think you'll get Blazing
Star."

The Colonel laughed a little, and wondered what was up. His wife, when
she heard of it, said: "Ho, ho! I know; they want to get married, and
that's the easiest way to raise the needful."

And thenceforth she took a motherly interest in the handsome couple.

Within half an hour the Colonel found the chance to make his offer; and
got what he expected, a flat refusal.

"Sure, Colonel, it would be like selling the hand off my arm or the soul
out of my body."

"Well, well," said the Colonel, "never mind. I won't take your answer
now; we'll leave it open for a week."

After the midday meal, Jim and Belle mounted and rode away. Jim thought
to take matters up where he had left off, but he found Belle inclined to
be shy and rather preoccupied. He made several ineffectual attempts to
get her to talk, but she always relapsed into silence. They were,
indeed, half-way back, when Hartigan began for the fifth time:

"You said you would tell me on the road back."

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me the condition on which you will have me."

He leaned over and put his arm around her. This time she did not elude
him. He clasped her and sought her lips and she allowed her head to sink
on his shoulder while he gathered the reins of both horses in his hand,
that they might not separate. She seemed content.

"You do care for me, don't you?" she whispered.

"Oh, Belle! I'd do anything for you. I'd give my life for you."

"You would? Anything?"

"Only try me."

"Would you give up the ministry if I asked you?"

"If--if--you thought it was right--I know it would be right. Yes, I'd do
it."

"Then I won't ask that. I'll put you to a smaller test. Will you face
it?"

"I'll promise now; I give you my word before you name it."

"Then this is what I ask--that you sell Blazing Star to Colonel Waller
right now, this very day."

"Oh, oh, Belle!" he said, feebly; "Blazing Star!"

"Yes, Jim, that is the condition. I love you, Jim; but you must choose
now between us. Is it Belle or Blazing Star?"

For a moment he seemed stunned but he tightened his arms about her, and
tense the answer came. "I can't do without you, Belle, I can't do
without you. I've given you my word. I take you on your terms."

"Oh, Jim!" and she broke down, passionately sobbing in his arms. "Oh,
Jim! You great, glorious, wonderful, blind Jim Hartigan, don't you know
that I love you? Don't you know I have thought it all out? Can't you see
where Blazing Star was taking you? It is not caprice; you will know some
day."

"I know, I know now. I'll do what you say."

"Then turn right around and go back to Fort Ryan." They turned; she led;
and they raced without pulling rein.

"Colonel, I've come to take your offer," said Hartigan.

"You're a wise man," said the Colonel. "Come into the office." He drew
up a check for five hundred dollars. Jim put it in his wallet and said
feebly, "He's yours. You'll be kind to him?" Then he covered his face
with his hands, and the tears splashed through his fingers to the floor.

"Never mind," said the Colonel, deeply touched. "He'll be treated like a
king. You'll see him in the race next summer and you'll see him win."

In all the blackness of that hour of loss that thought was the one gleam
of comfort in the realm of horse. Now he would see his racer on the
track. The Church held him, but held his horse no longer.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then the Angel of Destiny as he downward gazed, said to the Angel of the
Fire--and his voice trembled a little as he spoke--"Rejoice, for the
furnace was heated exceeding hot and the metal is shining brighter, far
brighter than before."




BOOK IV

THE HORSE PREACHER AFOOT




CHAPTER XXXII

The Advent of Midnight


The ride home after that fateful decision was an event to be remembered.
Jim was on a cavalry mount, loaned for the occasion. Belle felt that
since he had given up so much for her, it was her part now to prove how
good a bargain he had made; and she exerted all her powers to double her
ample hold on his love and devotion. She had no reason to question her
power; she had almost overmuch success. Jim wanted her to name the day,
but whatever her wishes might have been, her judgment held her back.

"Jim, dear love, don't you see? We must wait a long time. Your income is
barely enough for one. You are only a probationer with one year's leave
from college, and, at most, an extension of another year possible. What
little I can bring as my share of the 'combine' won't go very far."

"Well," said Jim, "I've got the cash to furnish our house with, anyway,"
and he slapped his hand on his wallet pocket. "I'll put that in the bank
till we need it."

"Good boy!" and Belle smiled happily.

Arrived at Cedar Mountain, Jim took the cavalry mount to the livery
stable; and three days later, the little stable he had built for Blazing
Star was torn down and carried away.

Jim was looking for a new mount, when one day Cattleman Kyle appeared in
the town, and they met for a few minutes at the blacksmith shop.

"Hello, Jim! What are you riding these days?" was his greeting.

"To tell the truth, I'm afoot, hard afoot," was the reply.

"Anything in sight?"

"Not yet."

"Come with me for a minute. I'm cutting down my saddle stock for the
winter. I've got a bunch of bronchos in the corral by the river. Have a
look at them."

Jim went rather reluctantly; his heart was still sore over Blazing Star,
and he was not ready yet to put another into the vacant place. After a
silent five minutes' walk, they reached the corral with fifty horses of
all colours, sizes, and shapes. Then Kyle said: "Jim, I've been
thinking, preachers ain't exactly broken-backed carrying their
spondulix. I kind o' think I owe ye something in the way of
possibilities for putting Blazing Star in hands which may be a big help
to me. So there's my bunch; you can go over them at your own time and
pick the best as a free gift."

"Ye mean it?"

"That's what I mean, and there's my hand on it," said Kyle. And it was
so. That was the way of the old-time cattleman. If he lived at all, his
money came in large chunks. He lived lavishly, and made a fortune, if
moderately lucky. So they were a generous lot; they were truly cattle
kings.

But the cattle king reducing his horse herd does not select his best
stock for the hammer; quite the reverse. Some would have called his
bunch the scrubs and tailings of the Circle K ranch. Hartigan knew that;
but he also knew that it must contain some unbroken horses and he asked
to see them. There were ten, and of these he selected the biggest. A man
of his weight must have a better mount than a pony. So the tall,
rawboned, black three-year-old was roped and handed over to the
Preacher. Kyle did not fail to warn him that "Midnight" had a temper.

"Faith, it's mesilf can see that," said Hartigan, "but he isn't broken
yet, and that means his temper isn't spoiled. And it's mesilf will bring
him to time, and he never will be broke. If your broncho-busters take
him in hand, they'll ride him in a week, but they'll make a divil of
him. I'll take him in hand and in three months I'll have him following
me round with tears in his eyes, just begging me to get on his back, and
go for a run."

Who that knows the horse will doubt it? Hartigan's first aim was to
convince the black colt that men were not cruel brutes, and that he,
Hartigan, was the gentlest and kindest of them all. And this he did by
being much with him, by soft talking, by never being abrupt, and by
bringing him favourite food. Not in a stable--it was a month before the
wild horse would consent to enter a stable--this first period of
training was all in a corral. Then came the handling. Midnight was very
apt to turn and kick when first a hand was laid on him, but he learned
to tolerate, and then to love the hand of his master; and when this
treatment was later reinforced with a currycomb, the sensation pleased
him mightily. The bridle next went on by degrees--first as a halter,
then as a hackimore, last complete with bit. The saddle was the next
slow process--a surcingle, a folded blanket and cinch, a double blanket
and cinch, a bag of oats and cinch and, finally, the saddle and rider.
It was slow, but it was steadily successful; and whenever the black
colt's ears went back or his teeth gave a rebellious snap, Jim knew he
was going too fast, and gently avoided a clash. Never once did he fight
with that horse; and before three months had passed, he was riding the
tall black colt; and the colt was responding to his voice and his touch
as a "broken" horse will never do.

"Yes," said Kyle, "I know all about that. It costs about twenty-five
dollars to learn a horse that way, and it costs about five dollars to
break him cowboy way. An average horse is worth only about twenty-five
dollars. The cowboy way is good enough for our job, so I don't see any
prospect of change till we get a price that will justify the
'training.'"

Belle was an intensely interested spectator of all this Midnight
chapter. She wanted Jim to get a good horse that he would love, but oh,
how she prayed and hoped he would not happen on another speeder! She
knew quite well that it was about one chance in ten thousand; but she
also knew that Jim could make a good horse out of mediocre material; and
it was with anxiety just the reverse of his that she watched the black
colt when first they rode together. He was strong and hard, but, thank
heaven, she thought, showed no sign of racing blood.

"Of course, he'll come up a little later, when I get him well in hand,"
Jim explained apologetically.

And Belle added, "I hope not."

"Why?" asked Jim in surprise.

"Because, you might ride away from me." And she meant it.




CHAPTER XXXIII

The Sociable


Christmas time with its free days and its social gatherings was at hand;
and the Church folk must needs respond to the spirit of the season with
a "sociable." In such a meeting, the young minister is king--that is the
tradition--and on this occasion it was easier than usual to crown the
heir apparent. At least twenty girls were making love to Jim, and he was
quite unconscious of it all, except that he thought them a little free,
and at length he recited an appropriate couplet from "The Solitude of
Alexander Selkirk": "They are so unaccustomed to man, their tameness is
shocking to me." He joked and laughed with all; but ever he drifted over
toward Belle, to consult, to whisper, to linger.

For such affairs there is a time-honoured and established programme that
was fairly well adhered to at least in the early part. They met at the
church parlours and gossiped; had a prayer, then more gossip; next
followed tea and cakes in a poisonous abundance, and more gossip. Now
the older preacher, as expected, read a chapter out of some safe story
book, amid gossip--harmless in the main, but still gossip. Next the
musical geniuses of the congregation were unchained. A perfectly
well-meaning young lady sang, "Be kind to your brother, he may not last
long," to an accompaniment of squeaks on the melodeon--and gossip. A boy
orator recited "Chatham's speech on American Independence," and received
an outburst of applause which, for a moment, overpowered the gossip.

Lou-Jane Hoomer, conspicuous for her intense hair and noisy laugh, had
been active in getting up the sociable, and now she contributed of her
talents by singing "Home, Sweet Home." About the middle of the second
period, according to custom, the preacher should recite "Barbara
Frietchie" to a whispering chorus of gossip. But Jim was brought up in a
land not reached by Barbara's fame and he made a new departure by giving
a Fenian poem--"Shamus O'Brien"--with such fervour that, for the moment,
the whisperers forgot to gossip.

Belle, as the manager of the affair, was needed everywhere and all the
time, but made no contribution to the programme. Lou-Jane scored such a
success with "Home, Sweet Home" that she was afterward surrounded by a
group of admirers, among them Jim Hartigan.

"Sure," he said, she "was liable to break up the meeting making every
one so homesick," and she replied that "it would never break up as long
as he was there to attract them all together."

John Higginbotham, with his unfailing insurance eye, pointed out that
the stove-pipe wire had sagged, bringing the pipe perilously near the
woodwork, and then gossiped about the robberies his company had
suffered. A game of rhymes was proposed. In this one person gives a word
and the next to him must at once match it with an appropriate rhyme.
This diversion met with little enthusiasm and the party lagged until
some one suggested that Jim recite. He chose a poem from Browning, "How
They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix." He put his very soul in
those galloping horses and wondered why the poet said so much about the
men and so little about the steeds. Dr. Jebb could not quite "see the
lesson," but the fire and power of the rendering gripped the audience.
Dr. Carson said, "Now you're doing real stuff! If you'd cut out all your
piffling goody talk and give us life like that, you'd have all the town
with you."

Lou-Jane was actually moved, and Belle glowed with pride to see her hero
really touching the nobler strings of human emotion--strings that such a
community is apt to lose sight of under cobwebs of long disuse but they
are there and ready to resound to the strong, true soul that can touch
them with music.

But what was it in the trampling horses that stirred some undiscovered
depth in his own heart? How came it that those lines drove fogbanks back
and showed another height in his soul, a high place never seen before,
even by himself? And, as those simple townfolk, stirred they knew not
how, all clamoured for another song, he felt the thrill that once was
his in the far-off stable yard of Links, when Denny Denard, brandishing
a dung-fork, chanted "The Raiding of Aymal." Now it all came back and
Hartigan shouted out the rede:

    "Haakon is dead! Haakon is dead!
    Haakon of the bronze-hilt sword is dead.
    His son's in his stead;
    Aymal, tall son of Haakon,
    Swings now the bronze-hilt sword of his father.
    He is gone to the High-fielden
    To the high pasture to possess the twelve mares of his father;
    Black and bay and yellow, as the herdsman drave them past him;
    Black and yellow, their manes on the wind;
    And galloped a colt by the side of each."

So he sang in a chant the saga-singer's tale of the king killing all the
colts save one that it might have the nursing of the twelve. His eye
sparkled and glowed; his colour mounted; his soul was so stirred with
the story that his spirit could fill the gaps where his memory failed.
The sense of power was on him; he told the swinging tale as though it
were in verity his own; and the hearers gazed intensely, feeling that he
sang of himself. It was no acting, but a king proclaiming himself a
king, when he told of the world won by the bronze sword bearer mounted
on the twelve-times-nourished stallion colt; and he finished with a
royal gesture and injunction:

    "Ho! ye, ye seven tall sons of Aymal,
    Comes there a time when face you many trails;
    Hear this for wisdom now;
    Twelve colts had I and all save one I slew.
    The twelve-times-nourished charger grew
    And round the world he bore me
    And never failed; so all the world was mine
    And all the world I ruled.
    Ho, children of the bronze-hilt sword,
    Take this for guiding creed:
    Pick out your one great steed
    And slay the rest and ride."

And when he smote the table with his fist the folk in that poor, simple
hall were hushed with awe. They had no words to clothe the thoughts that
came, no experience of their own to match them. There was a pauses--a
silence; a slow, uncertain sounding of applause. Carson glared half
hypnotized; then said to himself: "This is not Jim Hartigan; this is the
royal saga who sang."

What he clearly expressed, the others vaguely but deeply felt. As for
Belle, the passion and the power of it possessed her. She was deeply
moved--and puzzled, too. It was a side of Jim she had not known before.
Later, as they went home together hand on arm, she held on to him very
tightly and said softly: "Now I know that you are marked for big things
in the world."




CHAPTER XXXIV

Springtime


Have you seen the springtime dawn on the Black Hills? No? Then you have
never seen a real spring.

For long, dark, silent months the land has lain under a broad white
robe, the plains are levelled, hidden, and the whiteness of the high
spaces sweeps down to meet, on the lower hills, the sudden blackness of
the forest pine. And now you know why these are named Black Hills. Full
four white moons have waned; the blizzard wind has hissed and stung,
till the house-bound wonder if the days of spring will ever come. In
March, when the northward-heading crows appear, the sting-wind weakens,
halts; the sweet south wind springs up, the snow-robe of the plains
turns yellow here and there as the grass comes through, then lo! comes
forth a world of crocus bloom. The white robe shrivels fast now, the
brown pursues it up the mountain side till at the last there is nothing
left but a high-up snow-cap hiding beneath the pines, slowly dissolving
in a million crystal rills to swell the rolling Cheyenne far below. The
spring birds fill the air, the little ones that twitter as they pass,
and the great gold-breasted prairie lark that sings and sings: "The
Spring, the Spring, the glory of the Spring!" Then all the world is
glad, and stronger than the soft new wind, deeper than the impulse of
awakening flower bulbs, broader than the brightening tinge of green--is
the thrill of a world-wide, sky-wide joy and power, the exquisite
tenderness and yearning which if you know, you know; and if you do not
know it none can make you understand.

"O God of the blue and the green and the wind, oh, send me what my
spirit craves." That is the prayer, the unspoken prayer, of every
sun-wise creature in these days; and the wild things race and seek, and
search and race, not knowing what draws them ever on; but they surely
know when they find it, and then they are at rest.

And they rode, Belle and Jim, the big square man, and the maid with the
age-old light in her eyes, and they rejoiced in the golden plains. They
rode with the wild things of the plain, and though they talked of the
past and the future there was for them but one thing worth a thought,
the golden present in their golden youth.

"Oh, Belle, what fools we are! We talk of the past and of far-off days,
of the blessings that are ahead of us, and I know there is no better joy
than this, to ride and shout and be alive right now with you!"

Midnight had burgeoned out into a big strong horse; not swift, but
staunch and better fitted than the other for a rider of such weight. The
wound of losing Blazing Star had healed, and the scar it left was a
precious thing to Jim much as the Indian holds his Sun Dance scars as
proofs of fortitude unflinching.

Fort Ryan and all the plains were in a rosy light this spring. It was a
threefold joy to ride on Midnight, with Belle, and to visit Blazing Star
in his stall at the Fort. Hartigan felt a little guilty as the gentle
creature would come and nose about for sugar lumps while Midnight would
lay back his ears at the approach. Midnight had a temper, as was well
known; but it was never let forth, for the master that had so little
skill in handling men was adept with the horse.

These were very full days for Jim and Belle, though they took their
happiness in very different moods. There never was a grown man more
incapable of thought for the morrow than Hartigan; he was alive right
now, he would right now enjoy his life and Belle should be the crown.
But in her eyes even his imperception discovered a cloud.

"What is it, Belle? Why do you get that far-off troubled look?"

"Oh, Jim, you big, blind, childish giant; do you never think? You are
only a probationer with one year's leave. That year is up on the first
of May."

"Why, Belle darling, that's five weeks off. A world of things may happen
before that."

"Yes, if we make them happen, and I'm going to try."

"Well, Belle, this thing I know; if you set your mind to it I'd bet--if
I weren't a preacher--I'd bet there's not a thing could stand against
you."

"I like your faith, Jim; but 'faith without works is dead'; and that
means we must get up and rustle."

"What do you suggest?"

"Well, I have been rustling this long while back. I've been working Dr.
Jebb and Mrs. Jebb and anybody else I could get hold of, to have your
probation extended for another year. And the best news we have so far is
the possibility of another six months. After that, you must go back to
college to complete your course."

COLLEGE! Jim was thunderstruck. How many a man has all his dream of
bliss summed up in that one word--college? "Oh, if only I had money
enough to go to college!" is the cry of hundreds who hunger for the
things that college means; and yet, to Jim, it was like a doom of death.
College, with all the horror of the classroom ten times worse since
knowing the better things. College in the far-off East--deadly,
lifeless, crushing thing; college that meant good-bye to Belle, to life,
and red blood on the plains. Yes, he knew it was coming, if ever he gave
the horrid thing a thought; but now that it was close at hand the idea
was maddening. College was simply another name for hell. The effect of
the sudden thought on his wild, impulsive nature was one great surging
tide of rebellion.

"_I won't go!_" he thundered. "Belle, do you suppose God brought me out
here to meet you, and have you save me from ruin and help me to know the
best things on earth, just to chuck it all and go back to a lot of
useless rot about the number of wives the kings of Judah used to have,
or how some two-faced Hebrew woman laid traps for some wine-soaked
Philistine brute, and stuck the rotten loafer in the back with a kitchen
knife all for the pleasure and glory of a righteous God! I don't want
any more of it, Belle; _I won't go!_ You've told me often enough that my
instincts are better than my judgment, and my instincts tell me to stay
right here," and his face flushed red with passion.

"Dear boy! Don't you know I'm trying to help you? Don't you know I mean
to keep you here? You know that we can get anything we want, if we are
willing to pay the price, and _will_ have it. I mean to keep you here;
only I am trying not to pay too high a price."

She laid her hand on his. He reached out and put an arm about her. She
said nothing, and did nothing. She knew that he must blow off this
fierce steam, and that the reaction would then set in with equal force.

They rode for a mile in silence; she wanted him to speak first.

"You always help me," he said at last, heaving a great sigh. "You are
wiser than I am."

She gently patted his cheek. He went on: "What do you think I should
do?"

"Nothing for three days; then we'll see."

They galloped for half a mile, and every sign of worry was gone from his
face as they reined their horses in at the stable of Fort Ryan.




CHAPTER XXXV

When the Greasewood is in Bloom


Big things were in the air, as all the horsemen knew. Blazing Star had
wintered well and, being a four-and-a-half-year-old, was in his prime.
Red Rover in the adjoining stable was watched with equal care. Prairie
hay was judged good enough for the country horses; but baled timothy, at
shocking prices, was brought from Pierre for the two racers; and, after
a brief period of letdown on clover and alfalfa, the regular routine
diet of a race horse was begun, as a matter of course. Little Breeches
had left, chiefly because of unpleasant remarks that he continued to
hear in the stable. He had taken a springtime job among the cattle. So
Peaches, having no other string to his bow, allowed the officers "to
secure his services as second assistant trainer," as he phrased it, or,
as they with brutal simplicity put it, "as stable boy." He accepted this
gravely responsible position on the explicit understanding that
allusions to the late race were in bad taste.

Why should these two horses be so carefully trained? There was no race
on the calendar. No, but every one assumed that there would be a
challenge, and nobody dreamed of declining it. So, one day when all the
plains were spangle-glint with grass and bloom, the sentry reported
horsemen in the south, a band of Indians, probably Sioux. It was an hour
before they halted near the Fort, and Red Cloud, on a fine strong pony,
came with his counsellors around him to swing his hand in the free grace
of the sign talk, to smoke and wait, and wait and smoke, and then speak,
as before, on the Colonel's porch.

"Did the Soldier High Chief want a race this year?"

"Sure thing," was all the interpreter had to transmute.

"When?"

"As before."

"When the greasewood blooms, on the white man's big noisy wet Sunday?"
For the treaty money was to be paid that day. And Colonel Waller's eyes
lit up.

So it was arranged that the Fourth of July they should race as before on
the Fort Ryan track; the horses were to be named on the day of the race.
And Red Cloud rode away.

Jim Hartigan was present at that interview; he watched their every move,
he drank in every word, and he rode at a gallop till he found Belle.
"Belle, the race is on for the Fourth of July, they're going to enter
Blazing Star. Oh, glory be! I'll see that race; I'll see Blazing Star
show all the country how."

"Yes, unless you are sent back to college."

"Oh, Belle, that's a cruel one. Just as everything looks gay, you hand
me that," and his face clouded. He knew too well that there was little
likelihood of an extension; it was most unusual. Why should an exception
be made in his case?

"You know, Jim," she said very seriously, "we have been trying to move
the president of the college; and the fact that you are so much of a
favourite is additional reason for getting you back. The president has
turned us down."

"Well, Belle, I simply won't go."

"You mean you will break with the Church?"

"I'll avoid that as long as possible, but I won't go back--at least, not
now."

"Jim," she said, with a twinkle in her eye, "the president turned down
Dr. Jebb and John Higginbotham and you; but we were not licked. Mrs.
Jebb, Hannah Higginbotham, and myself went after the president's wife,
and this morning Dr. Jebb got a new mandate; not all we asked, but your
furlough is extended for six months more."

"Hooray! Whoop!" was the response.

"Yes, I thought so," said Belle. "That's why I asked Dr. Jebb to let me
break the news. For a serious divinity student, it's wonderful what a
good imitation you can give of a man who hates books."

"Well, now, Belle, you know, and I know, and all the world knows, I can
preach a better sermon than Dr. Jebb, although he has studied a thousand
books to my one and knows more in a minute of time than I can ever know
in a month of Sundays. And, if I go to college and learn to talk like
him, I'll put people to sleep in church just as he does. Hasn't the
attendance doubled since I came?" There was no question of that due in
part to the growth of the town, and partly also to Hartigan's winning
personality and interesting though not very scholarly sermons.

"All right," said Belle. "You are saved from the terrible fate for six
months. Be happy."

And he was. To such a buoyant soul a guarantee of six months' freedom
put slavery so very far away that it was easy to forget it.




CHAPTER XXXVI

Shoeing the Buckskin


Hartigan and the blacksmith were at it hard again.

"Look a' here," said Shives, "I want ye to notice all this here Church
business was faked up by that man Paul, or Saul, or whatever he called
himself; and the real disciples would have nothing to do with him. They
threw him down cold whenever he tried to mix in. Now if you chuck him
and stick to the simple kindness of the old-timers that really did sit
around with the Master--Paul _never even saw_ Him!--I'm willing to hear
ye. But a man that writes whole screeds about getting or not getting
married and what kind of frippery women have to wear on their heads,
well, I've got him sized up for a fellow that had a dressing down from
some woman and probably deserved all he got--and more."

It was a long speech for Shives and more than once John Higginbotham
tried to break in.

But Shives struck the anvil a succession of ringing blows which
overpowered all rival voices as effectively as any speaker's gavel could
have done. Then, turning suddenly on Higginbotham, he said, "See here,
_Deacon_" (and he stressed the "Deacon"), "if you take the trouble to
read a publication called the Bible, and in particular the early numbers
of the second volume, you'll find that the Big Teacher taught
socialism--and the real disciples did, too. It was that little lawyer
feller Paul that succeeded in twisting things around to the old basis of
'get all you can; there must always be rich and poor'; and it ain't a
bit of use your preaching to a man 'don't steal,' when his babies are
crying for bread. I know I'd steal fast enough; so would you, if you
were anything of a man. It would be your 'fore-God duty to steal; yes,
and murder, too, if there was no other way of feeding them that He gave
you to feed. And the law has no right to preach 'no stealing' when it
fixes it so you can't help stealing. If this yere government of ours was
what it pretends to be and ain't, it would arrange so every man could
get enough work at least to feed him and his folks and save himself from
starvation when he was sick or old. There wouldn't be any stealing then
and mighty little of any other crime.

"That's my opinion; and I tell you it was that way the Big Teacher
preached it in the beginning, as you can see plain enough. And the first
ring of disciples were honest socialists. It was that letter-writing
advance agent of the trusts that you call _Saint_ Paul, that managed to
get control of the company and then twisted things back into the old
ways. And in my opinion the hull bunch of you is crooks hiding behind
the name of a good man who threw you down cold when He was alive. And
the very words He used happens to be a verse I remember: 'Ye compass sea
and land to make one proselyte and when he is made ye make him twofold
more a child of hell than yourselves.'"

And the anvil rang, "clang, clang, clang!"

"Now, Shives," bawled Jim in his stentorian voice, "you haven't _begun_
to think. And every statement you make is wrong and none of your
quotations ever happened before; otherwise, I am quite willing to accept
everything you say. For example----"

"Hello! who's this?"

Up to the door of the blacksmith shop came riding a band of mounted
Indians. First of these was a middle-sized man with large square
features, a single eagle feather in his hair. Hartigan recognized at
once the famous War Chief, Red Cloud, the leader of all the Sioux.
Riding beside him was an interpreter, and behind him was a small boy,
mounted on a tall pony--buckskin, so far as one could tell, but so
shrouded in a big blanket that little of his body was seen; his head was
bedizened with a fancy and expensive bridle gear.

The whole shop turned to see. The interpreter got down and approaching
Shives, said, "You can shoe pony, when he ain't never been shod?"

"Sure thing," said Shives, "we do it every day."

"How much?"

"Five dollars."

"Do him now?"

"Yes, I guess so."

The interpreter spoke to Red Cloud; the Chief motioned to the boy, who
dropped from the blanketed pony and led it forward.

"Bring him in here," and Shives indicated the shop. But that was not so
easy. The pony had never before been under a roof, and now he positively
declined to break his record. Some men would have persisted and felt it
their duty to show the horse "who is boss." Shives was inclined to be
masterful; it was Hartigan who sized up the situation.

"He's never been under a roof, Jack. I wouldn't force him; it'll only
make trouble."

"All right; tie him out there." So the pony was tied on the shady side
of the shop.

Hartigan turned to the half-breed interpreter to ask, "What do you want
him shod for?" It was well known that the Indians did not shoe their
horses.

The half-breed spoke to Red Cloud, who was standing near with his men,
talking among themselves.

The Chief said something; then the interpreter replied, "By and by, we
race him, maybe on the Big Wet Sunday; prairie wet, so he go slow."

There was a general chuckle at this. Sure enough, the Fourth of July,
presumably the race day in mind, it nearly always rained; and for the
wet track they wanted their racer shod.

There are few short operations that take more horse management that the
first shoeing of a full-grown horse, especially a wild Indian pony.
Nearly everything depends on the handling and on the courage of the
pony. In nine cases out of ten, the pony must be thrown. On rare
occasions a very brave horse, of good temper, can be shod by a clever
farrier without throwing. But it takes a skilful shoer, with a strong
and skilful helper, for the assistant must keep one front foot of the
horse off the ground all the time the hind shoe is being put on, or the
shoer is liable to get his brains kicked out. As they were discussing
the need of throwing the pony, the interpreter said:

"Red Cloud no want him thrown. Chaska hold him." The bright-eyed boy
from the mountain top--yes, the same--came forward and, holding the
pony's head, began crooning a little song. The pony rubbed his nose
against him, recovered his calm, and thanks to Hartigan's help--for he
had volunteered eagerly to lend a hand--the operation progressed without
mishap. There were, however, one or two little tussles, in which the
great blanket slipped off the pony's back and showed a rounded,
beautiful barrel of a chest, hocks like a deer, and smooth, clean limbs;
a very unusually fine build for an Indian pony.

"By George! He's a good one," said Jim, and his heart warmed to the
brave pony. The falling of the blanket also showed some white spots,
left by ancient saddle galls. Hartigan, after a discriminating glance,
said:

"Say, boys, this is their racer all right. This is the famous Buckskin
Cayuse. He's a good one. Now you see why they want him shod."

What a temptation it was to the white men; how easy it would have been
for Shives to put one nail in a trifle deep, to send that pony forth
shod--well shod--but shod so that within the next ten miles he would go
lame, and in the race, a month ahead, fall far behind--if, indeed, he
raced at all. Yet, to his credit be it said that Shives handled that
pony as though it were his own; he gave him every care, and Red Cloud
paid the five dollars and rode away content.

Jim gazed after the little band as they loped gently down the street and
round the curve till a bank cut off the view. "Say, boys, this is
great," he said, "I wouldn't have missed it for anything. There's going
to be a real race this year."

There could be no question of that. The securing of Blazing Star was a
guarantee of a wonderful event if widespread interest and fine
horseflesh could make it so.




CHAPTER XXXVII

The Boom


With the definite assurance of Blazing Star being entered, every man in
Fort Ryan focussed his thoughts on how he might best turn the race to
account, wipe out the damage of the last defeat, and recoup his loss
with a double profit. They were very sorry for themselves, most of these
losers; especially sorry that they, who could really enjoy money and who
had actual need of so much, should lose their all to a lot of Indians
who neither sought nor cared for cash and whose only pleasure in the
race was the gambling spirit, the excitement of the game. This time the
whites were going to leave no stone unturned to make a "killing." Every
plan was discussed, and there were not lacking those who called Shives
by ugly names--behind his back--for not seizing on the chance, when it
was so easily in his hands, to put the Indian racer under shadow of a
sure defeat. But they made no such speeches when the Colonel was in
hearing.

Yet, after all, what did it matter? They had the ace in their hands now.
There was no horse on the plains could run with Blazing Star; and,
training with him, in the best of care, was the Red Rover, only a little
less swift than the Star, now that careful methods had brought him his
full-grown strength and speed. Microscopic studies were made of every
fact that seemed to furnish a gauge of the horses' powers, and this was
clear: Blazing Star was easily first; Red Rover would make a good
second; and the buckskin cayuse could not possibly do so well as the Red
Rover under the new training and lighter leather gear. Of course, the
horse was not to be named until the day and hour of the race, but it was
quite certain that the Indians would enter the Buckskin. Vague reports
there were of a wonderful pinto that the Red men had somewhere in
training; but the Crow spies could furnish no corroboration of the
report; and, in any case, the shoeing of the Buckskin was a guarantee
that the Indians meant to enter him.

From all of which there was but one logical conclusion. So the message
went forth through the length and breadth of Dakota, "Come on, we've got
a dead-sure thing. Come on, and bring all you can raise or borrow." It
is wonderful, the faith of the racetrack gamblers in a tip! Their belief
in the "hunch" is blind and absolute; hope never dies on the racetrack,
even though, once in a while, it goes into a very deathlike swoon.

Not merely Dakota responded to the chances of the coming race, but
Wyoming, Minnesota, Iowa, Nebraska, yes, even Illinois. And Cedar
Mountain post office began to have hopes of stepping up to a higher
round on the official scale, as the mail matter, registered and special,
poured in. Letters postmarked "Deadwood" came by the score; others from
Minneapolis and St. Paul were abundant; while, of course, there was the
usual grist from Custer City, Bismarck, Pierre, Sidney, Cheyenne, and
Denver. John and Hannah Higginbotham could not, owing to John's position
as Church deacon, take an active part in the gambling; but they invented
a scheme of insurance on a 50 per cent. premium basis which was within
the Church law, though, when translated into terms of the track, it was
merely a two-to-one bet on the field.

The autumn race had played havoc with so many savings funds and so much
actual cash in business that a great number of those badly hit had vowed
that they would never again go in; and they clung to their new resolve
through May and most of June. But, as the training went on and the talk
went around, and other men went in--all the wise ones, horse-wise,
talk-wise, and otherwise--the subtle fascination grew and, a month
before the race, the same old madness glamoured every mind; the same old
guiding star--so often proved a spook-fire, but this time surely a
star--was leading, hypnotizing, shining just ahead. The racing men once
obsessed, the world of half-way interest followed even faster, till near
the end of June, except for a few immune from principle or poverty, the
whole community of South and West Dakota had but one talk--the race, and
what they risked or hoped to make on it.

One must remember that the West has always been the land of boom. It is
filled with the energetic and enterprising who, by a natural process,
are selected from the peoples of the East; and the stuff such booms feed
on, grow on, and grow mighty on as they feed, is Hope. Every Westerner
knows that the land is full of possibility, opportunity--free, equal
opportunity multiplied; and he hopes that his name will be the next one
called by fortune. To respond to the call at whatever cost--to be ready
to respond--that is the condition of life worth while. A dozen bad
defeats are passing trifles if the glad call only comes and one fail not
to rise to it. So it is ever easy in a land of such undaunted souls to
start a boom. Hope never dies in the West.

Reader, I have ridden the Plains and seen many a settler living with his
family in one small, dirty room, constructed out of sods with a black
dirt roof, and dirt and dust on everything, on every side. I have seen
them with little food, pinched and sick and struggling with poverty and
famine. I have seen them in every dreadful circumstance of want and
wasting pain that could be named in the sum of horrors of the vilest
Eastern slum: and yet they made no bid for sympathy or help, or for a
moment lost their pride; for one great fundamental difference there was
between them and the slummers of the East: the prairie pioneer is
_filled with hope_! Hope gleams in his eye; he lives in a land of hope;
he was lured to the West by the blazing star of bright new Hope; just on
a little way it shines for him; and every sod upturned and every
posthole sunk, or seed put in, is turned or sunk or sown in the light of
strong, unfading hope. Just a little while, a few short months, maybe,
and he believes, he _knows_ his name will be the next one called.

O land of hope, land of the shining four-rayed star, long, long may you
remain the world's great vale of youth, where none grow old at heart or
pray for death, for none can ever wholly lose their glimpse of that
beckoning hope. The fountain of eternal youth springs up and gushes
'neath no other light.

O star of Hope! O blessed Lodestar of the soul! Long, long, yes, ages
long may you be there, swung in the sky for all the world to see and
know that while they live and _will_, there gleams a God-lit beacon in
the West, the light of the land of hope.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

When the Craze Struck


"Brethren and sisters," said Dr. Jebb, in the Wednesday meeting
established for general discussion, "I consider it my duty to speak
openly and officially in condemnation of this outbreak of the fearful,
soul-destroying vice of gambling that is sweeping over the land, over
the country, over the town, I might almost say over this congregation.
Never, in all my experience, has this inclination run so riotously
insane. Not men of the world merely, but members of the Church; and the
women and little children who can barely lisp the shameful word, are
betting on the race."

The reverend doctor had much more to say in fierce denunciation, but
Hartigan, while regretting the sinfulness of the habit, pointed out that
this was a land of few pleasures and a land of horses; and if, as was
natural, they sought to get their pleasure out of their horses, then
surely Dr. Jebb would not consign them all to hell for it, but take a
view more in line with the Christian charity of the Church.

Deacon Higginbotham rose to expound his theory of risk. Every man who
took a risk of profit or loss was gambling; and everybody did it, so all
were gambling, every one. "Now, see, we have a fire insurance risk on
the this church, which means the church is gambling against Providence.
So, clearly, the gambling itself is not a sin, it is the accessories of
gambling that make for evil. For example, if we gamble with cards,
sitting up all night in a stuffy room, drinking bad drinks, smoking bad
smokes, speaking bad words, neglecting our business, neglecting our
morals, hurting our health--then these things are bad. But, if we gamble
out in the sunlight, on a beautiful prairie, on beautiful horses--now
please don't mistake me; I'm not betting on the race----"

Here Hannah pulled his coat tail and he sat down. The fact of the matter
was, he had issued a number of insurance policies on the race, and was
quite ready to issue any number more.

It was well known that Dr. Jebb had invested his little savings in
Deadwood town plots; and when Dr. Carson rose and asked if any one
present had ever risked money on a probable rise in town plots--gambled,
in fact, on the chances of a boom--Dr. Jebb turned scarlet and Dr.
Carson laughed outright. Whereupon the Rev. James Hartigan whispered to
the Rev. Dr. Jebb, who nodded; and the Reverend James, standing up,
said: "Let us close the meeting with prayer."

If the Church--with all its immunities, safeguards, antitoxins,
influences, warnings, prophylactics, creeds, vows, exposures,
denunciations, traditions, and holy leaders--should become infected with
aggressive interest in the speed contest to the extent of outward and
visible material risk, what was likely to be the condition of the
ungodly? It is said that the real estate boom of Minneapolis and the
gold craze of Deadwood were psychological trivialities compared with the
sudden great boom in betting that set in during the last week of June at
the Black Hills; and the only reason why the wagering cataclysm was less
disastrous than it threatened to be was because it ended quickly.

Fifty thousand dollars of treaty money was in the hands of Red Cloud and
his people; fifty thousand more went to the Cheyennes under Howling
Bull. The ranchmen were ready with an equal sum, and Fort Ryan was not
far behind. By noon the fifty thousand dollars had been distributed to
the Indians; by one o'clock every cent of it was put up on the race in
equal bets. Who was to be stake holder? How much was each stake to be
held or awarded? These were problems of some intricacy in view of the
fact that the Indians could not read a word or trust any white man
except the Indian Agent and Father Cyprian, the Jesuit missionary, both
of whom declined to have any hand or part in the matter.

The plan devised by Red Cloud and accepted by the whites was as follows:
every pair of stakes was tied together and marked with two names, the
white man's and the Indian's--the latter's mark or totem being used.
They then were piled up in a lone tepee, half way between the Fort and
the Indian camp, and the tepee put under guard of an Indian and a white
soldier. The understanding was that as soon as the race was over the
winners should take possession of the lodge and distribute the contents
among themselves, as indicated by the marks.

There was nearly one hundred thousand dollars in cash piled up in that
Indian lodge in twin bunches. Of course, it was easy to arrange the
money that way, and possible to make bundles of robes, bridles,
beadwork, buckskin, pemmican, and weapons. It was even practical to pair
off ploughs and bureaux; but the difficulties became huge and complex
when horse was wagered against horse, or cow against cow, and even more
so when cow was put up against horse; for, obviously, they could not be
laid away in pairs, pending the decision; so that an elaborate sort of
tally stick was instituted with some success, but even so a number of
disputes ensued.

There was not a trooper who did not wager all the cash he had or could
by any means get. There was not an officer who was not dragged in by the
growing power of the craze. And daily, parties of Indians came to the
Fort to put up cash, or peer around to get a glimpse of the horses. The
whites made no attempt this time to spy on the Indians--their last
experience had not been very encouraging. Anyway, why should they? They
had all the cards in their hands. The shoeing of the Buckskin, the known
importation of oats and timothy, the absence of reliable proof that the
Indians had any other horse, were conclusive on that side; and on their
own, the Rover could beat the Buckskin, even as Blazing Star could beat
Rover; so, allowing for an accident, they had two winning horses to
choose from.

John Higginbotham, who represented the bankers of the little wooden Bank
of Cedar Mountain, had to send to Deadwood for a fresh supply of
mortgage blanks, an assistant inspector of risks, and all the cash they
could spare for the present need. Colonel Waller began to take alarm.
The men were mortgaging their pay for months ahead, although many were
still in debt from the autumn before. One young officer whose pay was
pledged for a year in advance did not hesitate to pledge for the
following year, so sure was he.

As early as the middle of June, the long lines of mounted men with
prairie schooners were seen crawling over the plain to northward and
eastward, while down the mountain roads came Indian bands in
ever-growing numbers. The authorities might well have taken alarm but
for the fact that the gathering was to be at Fort Ryan where there were
ample troops to deal with any possible situation. Then over the hills
from the south came Red Cloud with all his clan, and many more besides.
Mounted men in hundreds, with travois and different kinds of carts,
carrying tepees, provisions, household goods, and with them--straggling
off or driven by the mounted boys--were herds of prairie ponies, in
scores or even hundreds, the Red men's real wealth, brought now to
stake, they fondly hoped, against the horses of the regiment at Fort
Ryan. On the old camp ground by the river below the Fort, the Indians
pitched their village, and every day came others of their race to set up
lodges, and add to the lively scene. On the other side was a growing
canvas town of whites with every kind of sharper and blackleg that the
surrounding settlements could contribute from their abundant shady
population.

Prominent among the visitors at Fort Ryan was the Indian Commissioner,
with the local agent as his assistant. He opened a temporary office in
the barracks, and the morning of his arrival many a lively scene took
place as gorgeously dressed bucks, with wives and interpreter, gathered
there to receive their treaty money. Although the Colonel was careful to
exclude all liquor dealers and known sharpers from the Fort during the
issue of the cash, he could not exclude them from the Dakota prairie,
and they were hanging about everywhere with their unholy wares and
methods. Firewater was, of course, the most dangerous snare; but a great
deal of trick robbery was carried on with gaudy knick-knacks for which
unbelievable prices were asked and got. The Indians might have parted
with all their cash on that morning but for the need they felt of having
it to cover their bets on the race.

Red Cloud and his counsellors had been many times to Colonel Waller's
house. They had come with money bets, they had come with promises, and
now they came with horses, eager to bet horse against horse for the
mounts of all the regiment. The Indian chief did not understand the
Colonel's refusal until he was told that a mythical Great High Chief
named Unca-Sam was the owner of the cavalry mounts--that though Unca-Sam
was over a hundred years old, he was a young man yet and knew all that
was done in the West. Then it slowly dawned on Red Cloud that these men
were riding horses that did not belong to them; he despised them for it,
but his Indian honesty made him see how impossible it was to bet the
horses that they did not own. However, he managed to stake a throng of
ponies against the cattle of the ranchers, and thus the wealth of one
side was staked against that of the other.

Next morning saw many wagons come to the Fort, with squaws beside their
Indian drivers. They stopped at the Colonel's house, the covers were
removed, and great piles of beadwork, coats, leggings, moccasins,
baskets, war-clubs, and other characteristic things of Indian work were
revealed. It was made clear that these were offered as stakes; would the
whites match up the goods? In a spirit of fun, at first, the women of
the Fort, as well as the men, began offering household goods or personal
gear; a frying pan against a baby-bag, a pair of corsets against a
medicine flute, a bureau against a war bonnet. Then, bitten by the
craze, they kept on till everything was matched and all the goods tied
up in bundles, according to the established custom, to lie in the big,
special tepee under guard.

Another band of Red men followed with some tepees that they offered
against government tents and, on being refused, finally wagered them
against provender and hay. Each day there were new offers as groups of
Indians came to the Fort, so that as soon as an Indian outfit on wheels
came slowly up, it was quite understood that it was bringing new
material to put up on the race. It was toward the end of the time that
Red Cloud and his retinue came again, riding in much solemnity. Ignoring
all others, he went to Colonel Waller's house and, in his usual
deliberate way, after smoking, he began:

"Maybe so, you bet big?"

"Yes, indeed," was Waller's answer.

"Good. We bet all Dakota. You bet United States. Maybe so--yes?"

"No, no," laughed the Colonel.

"You win, we go away out west. We win, you all go back east. Maybe
so--yes?"

"No," said the Colonel. "I am only a little chief. The Great High Chief,
Unca-Sam, would not allow it."

Red Cloud smoked a while, then resumed:

"Heap afraid, maybe so?" Then, after a pause, "We bet Pine Ridge, you
bet Fort Ryan--yes?"

Again the Colonel had to protest that only the Great Father Unca-Sam
could deal in such matters; and Red Cloud grunted, "Heap scared," made a
gesture of impatience, and rode away.




CHAPTER XXXIX

Jim's Bet


Jim Hartigan had as little interest in money as any Indian. All the
things he loved and the pleasures he sought were the things that money
could not buy. He wanted to ride and race, be alive, to love and be
loved, to get the noblest animal joys, and soar a little--just a
little--in the realm of higher things. Money as a power had not been
listed in his mind, till a chance remark from Belle gave a wholly
different trend to his thoughts.

"Jim, if I had about a thousand dollars, I think I'd be tempted to risk
it. I'd go to Deadwood and start a produce commission business there."

That was all she said, and it was spoken lightly, but her words sank
deep in Hartigan's mind.

"A thousand dollars might, after all, spell heaven"; and he pondered it
long and hard. As mere business, it would not have held his thought an
hour; but as a way to bring the happy time more near, it filled his mind
for days, but he told her nothing of it. It was in the blacksmith shop
that the next step was suggested. John Higginbotham had the floor; as he
entered, Jim heard him say to some one in the crowd:

"I'm no betting man. As a deacon of the Church, I cannot countenance
betting. As an insurance agent, however, I am quite ready, in all
fairness, to negotiate your risk. You simply take out a policy on
the--ah--event, reflecting your judgment of the probabilities You pay
your premium--100 per cent, or whatever it is--and I, as your agent,
place this risk with some established company, or responsible person
sufficiently furnished with capital, to assume the liability. Then, as
in the case of fire, or marine, or other insurance, the event decides
the issue, and the insured draws his insurance in accordance with the
terms, less the modest 5 per cent, that I receive for my perfectly
legitimate trouble and expense."

Jim had never seen it in that light before; he rather liked the idea.
After all, he was heart and soul in the race His joy in Blazing Star was
hardly less than it had been; and why not manifest it in a way which
held in it the possibilities of the wealth he needed? Why not take out
an insurance policy on Blazing Star's winning? He thought of it more and
more, and a few days later when he was depressed for once, Belle out of
town, and the gloomy prospect of college before him, he drew his
precious five hundred dollars from the bank and took it to John
Higginbotham to deposit as his premium on insurance that the white men's
horse would win the race. He had a feeling that Belle would not approve.
But he did not tell her about it, for he wanted to surprise her when he
should walk proudly up and put in her hand the one thousand dollars that
would surely be his. He felt sure, but not happy; his judgment said "go
ahead"; his instincts called a halt; but he went ahead.

Next day he went to Higginbotham. Hannah was there and a look from the
deacon kept the Preacher quiet on the matter. When a chance came, the
former said: "'Tain't so easy now, Jim. Every one knows the white men's
horse is going to win, and there are no more even takers. I'm afraid the
best I can do is offer you a two hundred and fifty dollar insurance with
a five hundred dollar premium down, and your premium back, of course, if
you collect the insurance, less my regular commission."

"All right," said Jim, a little disappointed "let it go at that," and
away he went.

Hannah did not usually take a daily part in the office unless John was
away; but something about Hartigan's visit prompted her to look more
keenly through the books. It was her first knowledge of the new kind of
"insurance" and she and John talked it out.

"All the companies are doing it now. It's no risk for us. We'll get over
two thousand dollars in commissions anyhow." But Hannah was not content.
She went over every item and presently she came on Hartigan's five
hundred, offered two to one.

"Humph!" she said, "does Belle know about this insurance business?"

"I don't know," said John uneasily.

"She ought to know."

"If she makes him withdraw, we lose our 5 per cent.," said John, knowing
quite well that that would hit Hannah very hard.

"I don't care," said Hannah, "I'm going to tell her."

It gave Belle a decided shock. It also explained to her Jim's peculiar
behaviour during the last two days. Here was where his horse mania was
leading him. She was not deceived by the glib terms of "insurance," nor
as to the certainty of scandal, but she did not know what to do. Her
first impulse was to go direct to him; and yet, that would put her in
the position of a spy with a charge of treachery. No, that would be
stupid. It was such an assumption of mastery, and such an exposure of
Hannah's business impropriety as well that she hesitated; then, in a
flash, she said:

"Hannah, I have two hundred and fifty dollars of my chicken money in the
bank; I was saving it for something very different. I'll take that
'insurance.' But not a word at present of who it was that took it. If
you must give a name, say his insurance was taken up by 'Two Strikes.'"
And in her heart she thought: "It is not my road; it is not a good road;
but it is his road, and I'll take it till I bring him back."




CHAPTER XL

The Crow Band


Even far Montana heard the news, and, winding through the hills, there
came one day a band of Crows from their reservation on the Big Horn.
They came with only their light travelling tepees; and the intense
dislike in which they are held by the Sioux and Cheyennes was shown in
the fact that they camped far away in a group by themselves.

The Crows are noted for their beautiful lodges and their inveterate
habit of horse stealing. They also have this unique fact on their
record--that they have never been at war with the whites. They will
steal a white man's horses fast enough, but they have never tried to
take a white scalp. Their party consisted chiefly of men and a few
surplus horses. But for the lodges and a few women, it might have passed
for a war party.

The Crows are among the numerous claimants of the title "best horsemen
in the world." If reckless riding in dangerous places without being
thrown is good ground for the claim, then is the claim good; and it
becomes yet stronger in view of the fact that most of their riding is
barebacked. When they came to the Fort that day it was as though they
were riding for their lives. They were but a score and were admitted
without question. They paid their respects to Colonel Waller and then,
after smoking, announced that they had money and goods to bet on the
race. They were disappointed to find how much too late they were;
everything was already up. So they rode away.

They did not go near the Sioux and Cheyenne camp; not that there was
much danger of their suffering bodily harm, but they had been
unmistakably informed that they were not welcome, though the action went
no further than ignoring them. Next morning, when Blazing Star and Red
Rover were doing their turn, there were no keener onlookers than the
Crows. By look and grunted word they showed their appreciation of the
noble brutes.

The Chief came to the Fort to find out if the Colonel would sell Blazing
Star after the race.

"We give twenty horses," and he held up both hands twice.

"No."

"Three hands ponies," and they held up both hands spread three times.

"No, he is not for sale."

Late that day Red Cloud and Howling Bull came to Colonel Waller and,
after preliminaries, conveyed the information and warning: "All Crows
heap big thief. You watch him; he steal horse every time, heap no good."

The third of July came, and the plain looked like a city of tents. Many
traders were there to open temporary stores; and it is doubtful if any
single race in the Western world has attracted more people or created
intenser interest. The Cheyennes gave a great dance in honour of the
Sun. They invited all the Sioux to come, and the whites invited
themselves. Belle and Jim were there and saw much to please and much to
disgust them. The general impression was one of barbaric splendour,
weird chanting, noisy tom-toms, and hypnotic pulsation. It was mostly
repellent, but sometimes the rhythm stirred them, and provoked a
response which showed that the wild musicians were playing on instincts
and impulses that are as wide as humanity.

Most horsemen like to keep their training ground in some sort private;
but the garrison had given up all attempts at that, so far as Blazing
Star and Red Rover were concerned. Every one knew, every one was
interested, and each day there was an eager crowd waiting to feast their
eyes on the two splendid racers. And they were well worth it. Even Jim
had to acknowledge that Blazing Star was looking better now than ever
before.

"Look at that neck, Belle, see how it arches, see the clean limbs; isn't
he trained to perfection? If I only--if----" then he stopped himself.

As he fondly watched the horse with glowing eyes, he said: "Of course,
we don't know anything at all about where or how he was bred, but I
should say that that is a blood Kentucky, nearly pure--Kentucky gold
dust."

Among the spectators were the two Indian Chiefs in their warpaint--Red
Cloud of the Sioux, and Howling Bull of the Cheyennes. They spoke little
to each other, for neither knew the other's tongue; but they made little
gestures of the sign language, and any keen observer knowing it could
catch the ideo-signs: "Good, good; by and by; we see good race; brave,
swift," and so on. Later: "Yes, after one sleep. Rain heap, yes."

Jim watched them closely. "See that, Belle? he says: 'To-morrow it rain
heap,' I wonder how he knows. They call the Fourth of July the Big Wet
Sunday, because it usually rains then. I wonder how it will affect the
race."

"Jim, you said they had shod the buckskin cayuse in expectation of a wet
track."

"Yes; that's a mystery; how can they tell? The air is full of rumours,
anyway. Chamreau says that Red Cloud has been seeking everywhere for
fast horses. He had a man go as far as Omaha and another to Denver. Some
say he did pick up a racer, a half-blooded Kentucky--some that he had
got a wonderful pinto cayuse from Cheyenne; this latter is the more
persistent rumour, though Chamreau says he can't find any one who has
actually seen one or the other. Anyhow, no one knows what their entry
will be. We have a pretty good idea of ours"; and Hartigan smiled
proudly.

The two chiefs, with their followers, conversed earnestly, and with much
gesture. They looked and pointed at the Crow camp and the rain sign came
in many times, and emphatically. The old feud between the Sioux and the
Crows had broken out afresh in a trader's store. Two young men from the
opposing camps had quarrelled. They had drawn their knives, and each had
been wounded. These things were common talk, and Belle and Jim watched
the two chiefs ride toward the Crow camp with an eager curiosity to know
more about it. When the Red men were a mile away and within half a mile
of the Crow village, they followed at a good pace and reached the tepees
in the secluded corner in time to see the two visiting chiefs making an
address mainly by signs, as they sat on their horses. Chamreau was
there, and in answer to Jim's question translated Red Cloud's address to
the Crows thus:

"You make bad medicine so we lose race, we kill you." Then, indicating
Howling Bull, "He say, 'you make bad medicine, bring rain, I kill you.'"

Having delivered their ultimatum, the visiting chiefs turned haughtily
and rode to their own camp.

"I don't know just what they really did say," said Hartigan, "but if I'm
any judge of looks, there'll be trouble here if those Crows don't get
out."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was four o'clock in the morning of the Fourth of July when the
thunderbolt struck Fort Ryan. It was not very loud; it damaged no
building; but it struck the very souls of men. A thousand thunder claps,
a year's tornadoes in an hour, could not have been more staggering; and
yet it was only four words of one poor, wheezing Irish hostler at the
Colonel's window:

"Colonel! Colonel! For the love of God--come--come--come at
once--_Blazing Star is gone!_"

"_What?_" and the Colonel sprang up.

The reveille had sounded, the men were just rising; but one group there
was already about the stable talking with an air of intense excitement.
The Colonel went without waiting to dress--the officer of the day with
him. In terrible silence they hurried to the stable; there was Rover in
his box, whinnying softly for his morning oats; but the next--the box of
Blazing Star--was empty; and the far end, the outer wall, showed a great
new doorway cut. Beyond, out in the growing light, troopers rode to
every near-by lookout; but never a sign of horse did they see, or,
indeed, expect to see. The case was very clear; the horse was stolen,
gone clean away--their hope for the race was gone.

These were terrible moments for the hapless grooms and guards. Human
nature, in dire defeat, always demands a victim; and the grooms were
glad to be locked up in the guard house, where at least they were out of
the storm of the Colonel's wrath. As the light grew brighter a careful
study laid bare the plan of robbery. The stables formed, in part, the
outer wall of the quadrangle. They were roofed with pine boards, covered
with tar-paper on cedar corner posts; the walls, however, were of sods
piled squarely on each other in a well-known Western style, making a
good warm stable. It was a simple matter to take down quickly and
silently this outer wall from the outside, beginning at the top, and so
make another exit. This had been done in the dead of night. And the
track of the racer told the tale like a printed page.

A general alarm had gone forth; all the Fort was astir; and the army
scouts were by the case forced into unusual prominence. It was Al Rennie
spoke first:

"Colonel, it's a-going to rain, sure; it's liable to rain heavy. I
suggest we take that trail right away and follow before it's all washed
out."

"The quicker the better," said the Colonel.

Riding ahead on the trail like a hound went the old trapper-hunter-scout
with a band of troopers following. They had not gone a quarter of a mile
before the rain began to spit. But the line of the trail was clear and
it was easy for the practised eye to follow. It headed east for half a
mile, then, on a hard open stretch of gravel, it turned and went direct
for the Crow camp. Rennie could follow at a gallop; they rounded the
butte, cleared the cottonwoods, crossed the little willow-edged stream,
and reached the Crow camp to find it absolutely deserted!

The rain was now falling faster; in a few minutes it set in--a true
Dakota flood. The trail of Blazing Star--clear till then--was now wholly
wiped out. There was nothing but the unmarked prairie around them; and
the guide, with the troopers, soaked to the skin, rode back with the
forlorn tidings.




CHAPTER XLI

The Pinto


Under such a cloud of disaster men cared little what the weather was;
the deluge of rain seemed rather appropriate. There was even a hope that
it might rain hard enough to postpone the race. But at ten it stopped,
and by eleven it had cleared off wholly. The race was to be at noon.

Word had been sent to Red Cloud, asking for two days' postponement,
which was curtly refused. "White man heap scared maybe," was his
scornful reply.

The Colonel held a hasty council of war with his officers. Their course
was clear. In Red Rover they still had a winner and the race would come
off as announced; such a horse as Blazing Star could not long be
concealed; they would follow up the Crows and recover him in a few days.
So, after all, the outlook was not so very dark.

Already the plain was surging with life. Gaily-clad Indians were riding
at speed for the pleasure of speeding. Thousands of gaudy blankets--put
out to air in the sun--seemed to double the density, colour, and
importance of the camp. New wagons came with their loads, new life
developed; now came a procession of Indians singing their racing songs,
for the Indian has a song for every event in life; bodies of United
States troops were paraded here and there as a precautionary and
impressive measure; the number of Indians assembled, and their
excitability, began to cause the authorities some apprehension.

The Boyds were there in their democrat and had brought picnic food for
all day; but Hartigan was a special favourite at the Fort, and he, with
Belle, was invited to join its hospitable garrison mess, where social
life was in gala mood. It was an experience for Belle, for she had not
realized before how absolutely overwhelming a subject the horse race
could be among folk whose interests lay that way, and whose lives,
otherwise, were very monotonous. She was a little shocked to note that
every one of the wives at the table was betting on the race--in some
cases, for considerable money. The one restraining force in the case was
the absence of takers, since all were backing Red Rover.

An amusing incident occurred when, during the meal, a bead-eyed young
squaw entered the mess room and stood a little inside the door.

"What does she want?" asked the Colonel.

Then the interpreter: "She wants to bet on the race. She wants to bet
her baby against yours."

A pretty good proof of a sure thing, for no race loves its children more
than the red folk. An Indian has no compunction whatever in staking his
treaty money, which comes so easily and may as lightly go; he does not
hesitate to risk all his wealth, for after all wealth is a burden; he
will even wager his wife, if the game possesses him; but he is very shy
of staking his children. He does it on occasion, but only when he
considers it a foregone result--a certainty of winning.

The Indian Agent had many close conferences with the Colonel. He
strongly disapproved the whole racing excitement and plainly indicated
that he held the Colonel responsible. What would happen when these
excited fifteen hundred Sioux and Cheyenne warriors--not to speak of
some five thousand women and children--met defeat, was a serious
problem. Had the situation been sooner realized, the whites could have
organized into some sort of home defense. Red Cloud and Howling Bull, so
far as could be discerned, contemplated the scene, and the coming event,
with absolute composure.

Huge pools of water had blue-patched the racetrack after the downpour;
but these had drained off to a great extent, leaving the track a little
greasy perhaps, but quite usable; and Jim recalled with interest the
shoeing of the Buckskin. "This was what it was for; how did the heathens
know it was coming?" By mutual agreement, at length, the race was
postponed for two hours, which, under such a sun, would bring the track
back nearly to normal; and since the Indians had had the Buckskin shod,
it was the same for both. It was decided that the start should be made
when the sun was over Inyan Kara, the tallest of the hills in sight to
the west; this meant, as nearly as possible, at four o'clock.

At two o'clock all the world seemed there. There were mounted
Indians--men and women--by thousands, and at least a thousand mounted
whites besides the soldiers. The plain was dotted with life and colour
from far beyond the Indian camp to Fort Ryan; but the centre of all was
the racetrack; and camped alongside, or riding or sitting near, was the
thickest group of folk of both races, bound to lose no glimpse of the
stirring contest.

The delay made for new excitement; the nerve strain became greater as
each hour passed. The white soldiers did what they could to hold the
crowd, and the Indians called on their own "Dog Soldiers" or camp police
to do the same. Fortunately, it was a good-natured crowd; and the
absconding of the Crows had removed the largest element of risk, so far
as violence was concerned. Jim was ablaze with the wildest of them all.
He rode away and back at a gallop to work it off. Belle was too tired to
join these boisterous runs, so he rode alone at first. But another woman
rider was there; from the crowd Lou-Jane Hoomer spurred her bay, and
raced beside him. She was an excellent horsewoman, had a fine mount, and
challenged Jim to a ride. Handsome, her colour up, her eyes sparkling,
Lou-Jane could have ridden away, for she had the better mount, but she
didn't; she rode beside him, and, when a little gully called for a jump,
they jumped together, and found abundant cause for laughter. Twice they
went careering, then back to Belle, and when next Jim's itch for speed
and life sent him circling, Belle was rested enough to follow
everywhere.

At a quarter to two the bugle of the Fort was blown, and there issued
forth the proud procession with Red Rover in the middle, led beside his
jockey, who rode a sober pony. It was Little Breeches this time. There
is one thing that cannot be explained away, that is defeat. Peaches had
been defeated; his chance came no more.

Red Rover was magnificent, trained to a hair, full of life and fire. Of
all the beautiful things on earth, there is nothing of nobler beauty
than a noble horse; and Rover, in his clean-limbed gloss and tensity,
was a sight to thrill the crowds that were privileged to see him spurn
the earth, and arch his graceful neck, and curvet a little for the
subtle joy that comes of spending power when power is there in a very
plethora. Every white man's eye grew proudly bright as he gazed and
gloried in his champion and fear left all their hearts. At the starting
post, they swung about, Little Breeches mounted, and a mighty cheer went
up. "Ho, Red Cloud! Where's your horse? Bring on your famous Buckskin
now"; and the rumbling of the crowd was rising, falling, like the sound
of water in a changing wind.

Far down the valley, near the Ogallala Camp, a new commotion arose and a
wilder noise was sounding. There was the shrill chant of the "Racing
Ponies" with the tom-toms beating, and then Red Cloud's men came
trotting in a mass. As they neared the starting point, the rabble of the
painted warriors parted, and out of the opening came their horse, and
from the whites went up a loud and growing burst of laughter. Such a
horse as this they had never seen before; not the famous Buckskin, but
_the mysterious pinto pony_, wonderful, if weird trappings could make
him so. On his head he wore an eagle-feather war-bonnet; his mane was
plaited with red flannel strips and fluttering plumes; his tail was even
gaudier; around each eye was a great circle of white and another of
black; his nose was crossbarred with black and red; his legs were
painted in zebra stripes of yellow and black; the patches of white that
were native to his coat were outlined with black and profusely decorated
with red hands and horseshoes painted in vermilion; on his neck was a
band of beadwork, carrying a little bundle of sacred medicine; and,
last, he had on each ankle a string of sleigh-bells that jingled at each
prancing step. A very goblin of a horse! His jockey was, as before,
Chaska, the Indian boy, stripped to the breechclout, with an eagle
feather in his hair and a quirt hung on his wrist.

Never, perhaps, was a more grotesque race entry in all the West; and the
difference between the burnished form of Red Rover in his perfect trim,
and this demon-painted Pinto gave rise to an ever-growing chorus of
shouting, laughter, rough jibes, and hoots of joy.

Jim took in the Indian horse with the keenest of eyes. "Well, boys, he
may be only a pinto cayuse, but he's way ahead of their Buckskin. Look
at that action. Bedad, they've got him shod!"

The Pinto seemed as tall as Red Rover and, so far as trappings allowed
one to see, he was nearly as fine in build. Diverse feelings now surged
in the crowd. Many of the whites said, "Well, it was true after all, Red
Cloud, the old fox, he sent to Omaha, or maybe Illinois and bought a
racer. The shoeing of the Buckskin was a blind. Or maybe, at that time,
their racer had not been secured."

Old Red Cloud slowly rode by with his square jaw set, his eyes a little
tight, observing all; but he gave no sign of special interest.

With two such keen and nervous racers it was no easy matter to get a
fair start; but at length they were man[oe]uvred into line, side by
side. The pistol cracked and away they went, while all the crowd held
still, so very still for a moment that you could have heard for a
hundred yards the medicine song of the Indian boy:

"Huya! Huya! Shungdeshka, Shungdeshka! (Fly! Fly! my Eagle! Fly! my
Pinto Eagle!)" And that wild-eyed Indian pony sprang away as fast as the
blooded horse beside him. So far as any one could tell it was an even
match.

The white man had won the inside track again; and remembering how the
Indian boy had got that advantage in the last race, he was on the watch.
But nothing happened; the horses led off side by side, shoulder to
shoulder. At the turning post was a waiting throng that received them
with a cheer, to follow again in their wake, like madmen let loose on
hoofs. The horses seemed to thrill to the sound and bent to it faster.

Around the post they had swung, perforce in a large circle, and the
Pinto lost a good half length. Now Little Breeches saw his chance and,
leaning forward well, he smote with the quirt and pricked those bronzy
flanks, while Rover bounded--bounded to his limit.

But the Indian boy's magic song rang out again: "Huya Huya, Huya deshka!
Huya, Huya, Huya deshka! (Oh, Eagle, fly, fly Eagle, my Pinto fly!)" And
the Pinto seemed to unchain himself, as a hawk when he sails no more,
but flaps for higher speed. With thunderous hoofs the wild horse
splashed through a pool, came crawling, crawling up, till once again he
was neck and neck with the wonderful flying steed in the coat of gold.

Little Breeches shouted, "Hi! Hi! Hi!" and spurred and smote. Chaska
glanced at him and smiled, such a soft little smile. The eagle feather
in his hair was fluttering, and the smile was still on his lips as they
reached the last half mile. Then, in weird and mouthing tone, Chaska
sang of wind and wings:

    "Ho, Huya, Huya deshka,
    Huya, Huya, Huya deshka,
    Woo hiya, Woo hiya, Woo hiya,
    Unkitawa, Unkitawa, Ho!"

Strong medicine it must have been, for the Pinto thrilled, and bounded
double strong. The white man yelled and spared not lash nor spur. Red
Rover flinched, then sprang as he had never sprung before. But the demon
pony in the motley coat swung faster, faster, faster yet; his nostrils
flared; his breath was rushing--snorting--his mighty heart was pounding,
the song of the wind and the flying wings seemed to enter into his soul.
He double-timed his hoofbeats and, slowly forging on, was half a length
ahead. The white man screamed and madly spurred. Red Rover was at
topmost notch. The demon pony forged--yes, now a length ahead, and in
the rising, rumbling roar, passed on, a double length, and _in_. _The
race was won, lost, won lost_--the Pinto pony crowned; and the awful
blow had struck!




CHAPTER XLII

The Aftertime


The crack of doom will never hit Fort Ryan harder. When the thousand
painted Sioux came riding, yelling, wild with joy, shooting their rifles
in the air, racing in a vast, appalling hoof tornado down the long track
and then to the lodge of all the stakes, they went as men who are
rushing to save their own from some swift flood that threatens. But they
got an unexpected shock. The red sentry and the white sentry were
standing--sullen, for they were forced to miss the race. Still, the
result was clear.

The Sioux were each for claiming the bundle with his name. But the
soldier on guard, with fixed bayonet, ordered all the frenzied rabble
back.

"I don't know anything about your darned race, and here I stand till I
get orders from my officer."

It was the very impudence of his courage that saved him from what they
thought righteous vengeance. The Colonel came at once. The guard saluted
and withdrew and the Red men seized their spoils. And, strange to say,
among themselves they had not one dispute; none tried to overreach; each
knew his mark and claimed his own.

The whites were like men under a gallows doom.

"Stung, stung!" was all the Colonel had to say.

The Adjutant, an erratic officer, had lost half a year's pay. The
magnitude of the disaster was almost national, he felt, and sadly,
shyly, he said: "Will you have the flag at half-mast, Colonel?"

"No!" thundered the Colonel. "I'll be darned if the flag shall hang at
half-mast for anything less than the death of an American."

And the Rev. James Hartigan! He stared stonily before him as the race
was won.

Belle was at hand and she watched him closely. He turned deathly pale.

"What is it, Jim?" she said quietly, and laid her hand on his.

"Oh, Belle, this is awful."

"Why, Jim? Why should you care? It isn't as if it were Blazing Star.
We're sorry for all those men, of course; but maybe it's the best thing
for them. I think now they'll realize the curse and folly of racetrack
gambling."

"Oh, Belle, if you only knew," groaned Jim.

"Knew what, Jim dear? It seems to me those men are getting their
deserts. I know you and Dr. Jebb did all you could to hold them back,
and denounced all racing as it properly should be."

Jim turned his head away and pressing his forehead with his great
powerful hand, he groaned.

"Jim, dear boy, why do you take it so hard? Why should you worry? I'm
sorry for the women and children that will suffer for this, but I have
little pity for the men; the fools, _they_ knew what they were doing."

"Let's ride away," he said; and as he turned, he saw Red Cloud, calm and
dignified, on his horse watching wagon after wagon go by filled with
plunder, on its way to the Indian camp.

Jim and Belle rode away from the painful scene. She was leading for the
Fort; but he said, "I must see Higginbotham." She followed as he went to
the tent with the sign, "John & Hannah Higginbotham--Insurance." A
number of Indians were in and about, laughing merrily and talking in
their own tongue. Jim waited till the tent was clear, then dismounted.
Belle was for following, but Jim said, "Would you mind holding the
horses? I won't be a minute." His face was so drawn and sad that she was
deeply touched. She had meant to prick and lash him for a while yet, but
now in pity she forbore.

He entered. The Deacon was sitting at a little desk. Beside him was a
small safe; it was open, but nearly empty now.

"Well," said Jim gruffly, almost savagely, "what's to do?"

"Nothing," said the Deacon calmly. "You've lost. The Indians have been
here and got most of their plunder. Your five hundred is now the
property of a person named 'Two Strikes' who will, doubtless, call
presently and secure the indemnity, less my reasonable 5 per cent.
commission."

Jim turned in silence. As he joined Belle, she said, "Here, Jim, help me
down; I want a word with the Deacon."

Jim stammered, "I--well--ah----"

She paid no attention, but said, "Now lead the horses over there." When
he was safely away, she entered. The Deacon's eyes twinkled. "Good
afternoon, Two Strikes, you people have made a great killing."

"Yes," she said calmly; "I've come for my share."

He opened the safe, took out the last of the packets tied up in a
particular shape, and said in businesslike tone, "Two hundred and fifty
dollars premium, five hundred dollars insurance, 5 per cent, on
indemnity collected is twenty-five dollars; shall I hold it out?"

"No," she said; "I'll keep that bunch untouched. Here it is." She handed
him his twenty-five dollars, put the seven hundred and fifty dollars in
her side bag, and went forth. Jim stared at her in a frightened way as
she came.

"Belle," he said huskily, "what did he say?"

"Oh, nothing special. Judging from his looks, I don't think he's lost
any money."

"Did--did he tell you anything?"

"About what?"

"About me?"

"No. Why? Why do you look so terribly upset, Jim?" and mounting, she
rode off beside him.

"Oh, Belle, I can't lie to you. I'll tell you all about it. Belle, I put
up all I had, the money I got for Blazing Star. All we were to furnish
with. I wanted to hand you the money _you_ wanted. Calling it insurance
blinded me; the temptation was too much. I should have known better. Oh,
Belle, will you ever forgive me? I'm nothing but a gambler," and,
crushed with shame, he repeated, "I'm nothing but a criminal racetrack
gambler."

An overwhelming compassion swamped her. She leaned toward him and said
softly, "So am I, Jim, I'm just as bad as you are."

"What--what do you mean?"

"Jim, do you know the name of the Indian that got your stake?"

"Yes. He said it was 'Two Strikes.'"

"Jim, dear, I am 'Two Strikes.' Here is your money back; only it's our
money now, Jim darling. Now never a word of this to any human soul"; and
screened by the cottonwood trees, they fell sobbing in each other's
arms.




CHAPTER XLIII

Finding the Lost One


Colonel Waller had been telegraphing from Cedar Mountain to all
reachable parts of the North where the Crows were likely to be, without
getting one word of comfort. Then up to the door of his house the
morning after the devastating race came Red Cloud of the calm, square
face, and behind him riding, a dozen braves.

At precisely the right moment prescribed by etiquette, he opened: "Me
savvy now why you no run heap good horse."

"Humph!" said Waller.

"Didn't I tole you watch when Crow come?"

"Humph!" was the answer.

"You no got him back yet--no?"

"No," said the Colonel, with some asperity.

"Why? White scout no follow trail?"

"The rain wiped out all trail," was the answer.

"Your scout heap no good," said Red Cloud. Then, after a dozen slow
puffs at his pipe, during which he gazed blankly and far away, the
Indian said: "Ogallala very good scouts. Maybe so they find trail. What
you give for follow Crow? Maybe find, bring back your pony."

Without a doubt, this was the easiest way. The Ogallala scouts would
gladly pursue their ancient enemies and force them to give up the stolen
horse. These men knew which line the Crows would most likely take, and
could probably pick up the trail in a day. Prompt action was necessary.
The Indian bands were breaking up and going home laden with plunder,
their fresh trails would render it impossible to follow the trail of the
horse thieves. The Colonel's mind was quickly made up.

"Red Cloud," he said emphatically, "I'll give you two hundred and fifty
dollars cash if you find Blazing Star and bring him back here in good
condition within one week."

The Indian Chief smoked for a few puffs and said: "Seven suns, no good.
Crow country far away; one moon maybe."

Reckless riders like the Crows might easily ruin a horse in one month;
so, at length, a compromise was reached, whereby Red Cloud was to
receive two hundred and fifty dollars if within two-weeks; and one
hundred if a month passed before the return. Then the Sioux Chief rose
"to find his young men," and his party rode away.

It was nine the next morning when the sentry discovered a considerable
body of mounted Indians in the northeast, riding rapidly toward the
Fort. Had it been from the south, he would scarcely have made a report.
Before ten o'clock they had arrived. They numbered about fifty warriors
in full war paint. They were singing their war songs, and fastened to
their coup sticks were one or two terribly fresh-looking scalps. At
their head was Red Cloud. A hundred troopers were under arms, so they
did not hesitate to admit the Indians. The warriors passed through the
gate; then spreading out before the Colonel's house, their opening ranks
revealed the noble form of Blazing Star. Bestriding him was the boy
Chaska, his bright eyes and clear white teeth gleaming in a smile.

A mighty shout went up among the white men as the blooded racer was led
to the Colonel's office. One or two formalities, and the two hundred and
fifty dollars was paid over to Red Cloud. Blazing Star was hastily
examined, found in perfect trim, then handed over to the Irish hostler.

"You take him to the stable," was all the Colonel said, but he said it
in large capital letters and it was full of grim threats and reminder,
hostler Mike led the lost darling back to the stable where a crowd of
men were waiting.

Red Cloud crammed the new wealth into his tobacco pouch and rode away at
the head of his men.

Al Rennie felt sick with disgust that he should fail when the trail was
fresh, while the Sioux, on a washed-out trail, made such a showing in so
short a time. He was puzzled, too, by the scalps. The two he managed to
examine were not fresh. But he had to swallow his disgust.

All that day the Indian bands had been going off. Their camps were
breaking up; they were dispersing to their homes. The Plain was nearly
deserted that afternoon when hostler Mike took Blazing Star out into the
heat of the sun to give him the thorough washing and cleaning that he
surely needed. A minute later, Mike came rushing across the square to
the Colonel's office.

"Colonel, Colonel," he gasped, "come here, sir."

"What's the matter with you?" said the Colonel in a voice of wrath which
boded ill for a new blunder.

"Colonel, come at once. Come, it's Blazing Star."

There was a total lack of soldier decorum in the hostler's address. He
was so intensely excited that the Colonel overlooked the informality and
went quickly to where Blazing Star was standing tied to the washing
post.

"There, sir; look there--and there!" ejaculated Mike with growing
excitement, as he pointed to Blazing Star's legs. "And look at that!"
and he swept his bony finger round the big liquid eye of the racer. The
Colonel looked, looked closer, parted the hair, looked down to the roots
and saw _paint--red paint, white paint, black paint_--traces of
horseshoes, red hands, white patches and stripes; not much, but enough
to tell the tale.

Without a question, _Blazing Star was the Pinto that had won the race_!

The simple Red men knew that the Buckskin was overmatched, so they
secured the only horse on the plains that _could_ win. They drove the
Crows away at the right moment to leave a red herring trail. Then,
having captured the stakes, they calmly collected two hundred and fifty
dollars for restoring him to his owner. The simple Red men!

And when Jim Hartigan heard of it he yelled with joy. He laughed; he
almost cried. After all, his horse had won; his Blazing Star was the
steed of all the plains. He was tossed with different moods--regret and
joy, grim humour, sadness and madness; he was stirred to the depths; all
his primitive nature was set free. He did not sleep for hours, and when
the dawn was near, his boyhood memories filled his brain and he was back
in the livery stable garret once again, and repossessed of all his
boyhood's ways and words he softly swore himself to sleep.




CHAPTER XLIV

A Fair Rider


Life at Cedar Mountain had dropped to normal. Charles Bylow and his wife
were regular church members now, and no warmer, truer friends on earth
had Hartigan. Pat Bylow had gone to Deadwood seeking work on the railway
and it was said that his wife was still importing an occasional flask;
but no more sprees took place. Jack Lowe had left Cedar Mountain
abruptly after the Bylow affair. Higginbotham had spread the truth about
Lowe's part in the drugged liquor and the schoolteacher had received
pointed advice to leave the town. He lost no time. Dr. Carson and Jack
Shives were alternately confronting each other with abstruse problems;
John and Hannah Higginbotham were building an addition to their house
and getting a hired girl; and old man Boyd was worrying over a possible
extension of the road to Deadwood, which might seriously hurt his
business.

Jim found life very sweet as he grew into the hearts of the townsfolk
and came to know their perfectible qualities; he was acquiring a fine
reputation for pulpit oratory. Every Thursday and every Sunday afternoon
and evening were spent at the Boyds' as their accepted son-in-law to be.
On these occasions it was his keenest pleasure to lay his sermons and
plans before Belle for her criticism and approval. When they were not
together indoors, they were in the saddle together; all the world knew,
understood, and wished them joy.

The Hoomers had come to be prominent in the church now--at least, Ma
Hoomer and Lou-Jane had. It was Lou-Jane's doing. And Hartigan, after
long delay, felt bound to pay them a pastoral visit. Lou-Jane was
heartiness and propriety combined. She chatted gaily on every subject he
opened; showed no forwardness; was even shy when, after dinner, he sat
down near her. Her riding at the racetrack was vividly in his mind and
she blushed quite prettily when he referred to it in admiration.

"You should see my pony take a fence," she said.

"Well, sure; that's what I'd like to see," was the response.

"Some day soon, maybe."

"Why not now?" he inquired.

"I must help mother with the dishes."

And he thought: "Isn't she fine? I like a girl to consider her mother."
But he lingered and chatted till the dishes were washed; then he
suggested: "If I go out and saddle your pony, will you show me that
jump?"

"Certainly," she answered, with a merry laugh.

He went to the stable, saddled and brought the bay horse. Lou-Jane put
her foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle before he could offer
his help.

"Drop all the bars but the middle one." Hartigan did so, leaving only
the three-foot bar of the pasture. Lou-Jane circled off and cleared it
without an effort.

"Raise it one," she shouted.

He did so, and over she went.

"Again."

Now, at four feet, the pony rose and went over.

"Another," and he raised to four and a half feet. As before, she and her
pony sailed over like one creature.

"Again," and he raised it to five feet. The pony rose with just a hint
of effort. One front hoof touched, but he made the jump in triumph.
Lou-Jane laughed for joy and circled back, but, warned by that toe tap,
jumped no more. She leaped from the saddle before Jim could come near to
help and in his frank, beaming admiration she found what once she had
hungered for in vain.

As he rode away that day, his unvoiced thought was: "Isn't she fine--and
me misjudging her all the time! I'm ashamed of myself."

Lou-Jane watched him out of sight, waving a hand to him as he topped the
hill. The visit and Hartigan's open delight in her riding had stirred
her very much. Was it loyalty to Belle that led her to throw up a
barrier between herself and the Preacher? or was it knowledge that the
flowers are ever fairest in the fenced-in field? This much was sure, the
interest of passing attraction was giving place to a deeper feeling. A
feeling stronger every month. Lou-Jane was in the game to win; and was
playing well.

August, bright and fruit-giving, was passing; September was near with
its dryness, its payments on the springtime promises; and Belle, as she
gazed at the radiant sky or the skurrying prairie dogs that tumbled,
yapping, down their little craters, was tormented with the flight of the
glowing months. In October the young Preacher and she must say good-bye
for a long, long time, with little chance of any break till his course
was completed, and he emerged a graduate of Coulter. That was a gloomy
thought. But others of equal dread had come of late.

Hartigan was paying repeated pastoral calls at Hoomers' and last week
Jim and Lou-Jane had ridden to Fort Ryan together. It was a sort of
challenge race--on a dare--and Jim had told Belle all about it before
and after; but just the same, they had ridden there and back and,
evidently, had a joyful time.

Jim was a child. He always thought of himself as a coarse, cruel, rough
brute; but really he was as soft-hearted as a woman; and, outside of his
fighting mood, nothing pained him more than the idea of making any one
unhappy. His fighting moods were big and often; but they had existence
only in the world of men. He believed himself very wise in the ways of
life, but he had not really begun to see, and he was quite sublimely
unconscious of all the forces he was setting in motion by his evident
pleasure in the horsemanship of Lou-Jane Hoomer and in their frequent
rides together.

Lou-Jane had a voice of some acceptability and she was easily persuaded
to join the choir. A class in Sunday-school was added to her activities,
and those who believed the religious instinct to be followed closely by
another on a lower plane, began to screw up their eyes and smile when
Lou-Jane appeared with Jim.

The glorious September of the hills was waning when a landslide was
started by a single sentence from Lou-Jane. She had ridden again with
Jim to Fort Ryan. Her horse had cleared a jump that his had shied at.
Mrs. Waller had said to her across the table, half in fun and meaning it
every word:

"See here, I won't have you trifling with Mr. Hartigan's affections;
remember, he's preëmpted."

Lou-Jane laughed with delight. And, looking very handsome all the while,
she said with mock humility: "No one would consider me a rival."

Jim told Belle every word of it; he was simplicity itself in such
things; he didn't seem to have any idea of the game. He was wholly
oblivious of the little cloud which his anecdote left on her. It was a
little cloud, but many little clouds can make a canopy of gloom and
beget a storm. Then came the words. It was at one of the church evenings
in the parsonage--a regular affair, but not soaring to the glorious
heights of a sociable--that the words were uttered which wrought a
mighty change. Jim had alluded to the inevitable journey East in
October, not half a month ahead now, when Lou-Jane Hoomer announced "I'm
going East, too. My dad is giving me a trip back to Rochester to see
grandma," she said.

"Why, Rochester is just a little run across the lake from Coulter
College," exclaimed Jim.

"Maybe I'll see you when I am there," said Lou-Jane. "What fun!"

Every one applauded and Jim said: "Well, that would make a pleasant
change in the dreary grind."

Belle's only comment was, "How nice!" and she gave no sign of special
interest; but a close observer might have seen a tightening of her lips,
a sudden tensity of look. The merry chatter of the parlour ceased not
and she seemed still a factor in all its life, but the iron had entered
her very soul. She played her part as leader, she gave no outward sign
of the agony of fear that filled her heart, but she took the earliest
reasonable time to signal Jim and steal away.




CHAPTER XLV

The Life Game


Trump cards you must have to win in the life game; and you must know how
to play them, or a much poorer hand may beat you. You must know the
exact time to play your highest trump, and there is no general rule that
is safe, but Belle had a woman's instinctive knowledge of the game.

In two weeks Jim was to leave Cedar Mountain. Belle had reasoned with
him, coaxed him, cajoled him into seeing that that was the right trail
for him. He must complete his college course, then they could marry with
the sanction of the Church and be assured of a modest living. But the
rules were strict; no ungraduated student might marry. The inadequacy of
the stipend, the necessity for singleness of aim and thought, the
imperative need of college atmosphere--these were absolute. Viewed from
any standpoint, celibacy was the one wise condition for the untrained
student.

It had taken all of Belle's power to make Jim face the horror of those
classrooms in the far East; and from time to time his deep repulsion
broke into expression. Then she would let him rage for a while, chew the
bit, froth and rail till his mood was somewhat spent. And when the
inevitable reaction set in she would put her arm about him and would
show him that the hard way was surely the best way, and then paint a
bright picture of their future together when his rare gifts as an orator
should bring him fame, and secure a position in the highest ranks of the
Church. Thus she had persuaded him, holding out the promise that every
vacation should be spent with her; curbing her own affections, even as
she had curbed his, she walked the path of wisdom--determined,
resigned--in the knowledge that this was the way to win. And Jim had
come to face it calmly now, even as she had done. The minute details of
the plan were being filled in. Then came those little words from
Lou-Jane.

Had Jim been a worldly-wise person with many girl friends and a mouth
full of flattery for them all, Belle would have paid no attention to the
proposed visit of Lou-Jane to Rochester. Knowing Jim as she did, and
having a very shrewd idea of Lou-Jane's intentions, Belle realized that
this was a crisis, the climax of her life and hopes, that everything
that made her life worth while was staked on the very next move.

She said little as they walked home from the parsonage, but her hand,
locked in his arm, clung just a little more than usual, and he was moved
by the tenderness of her "Good-night."

Little she slept that night; but tossed and softly moaned, "That woman,
that coarse, common woman! How _can_ he see anything in her? She is
nothing but an animal. And yet, what may happen if he is East and she is
playing around, with me far away? It cannot be. I know what men are. Now
he is mine; but, if I let him go far away and she follows----

"It cannot be! It must not be--at any price, I must stop it. I must hold
him."

And she tossed and moaned, "At any price! At any price! I'd do
anything----"

The simple, obvious plan was to put him under promise never to see or
hear from Lou-Jane; but her pride and her instincts rebelled at the
thought. "What? Admit that there was danger from that creature? No,
no--why, that would have just the wrong effect on him; she would become
doubly interesting; no, that would not do. She would ignore
that--that--that snake. And then what?

"At any price, this must be stopped"; and out of the whirling maelstrom
of her thoughts came this: "If I cannot keep her from going, I'll go,
too!" How? In what capacity? Belle knew enough of his mind to be sure
that however the plan was carried out, it would shock his ideas of
propriety and be a losing game.

Lou-Jane was playing better than she was, and it maddened her ever more
as she realized that the present plans could end only in one way--the
way that she, at any price, must stop. And in the hours of tumult, of
reasoning every course out to its bitter end, this at length came clear:
There was but one way--that was _marry him now_. It was that or wreck
the happiness upon which both their lives had been built. And yet that
meant ruin to his whole career. She, herself, had told him so a hundred
times. "He must go back to college. He must not marry till his three
years were completed." These were her very words.

It seemed that ruin of his hopes was in one scale; ruin of hers in the
other. And she tried to pray for light and guidance; but there do seem
to be times when the Lord is not interested in our problems; at least,
no light or guidance of the kind she sought for came.

And she wrought herself up into a state of desperation. "At any price,
this must stop," she kept saying over and over. Every expedient was
turned in her mind and its outcome followed as far as she could; and
ever it came back to this--her hopes or his were to be sacrificed.

"_I will not let him go_," she said aloud, with all the force of a
strong will become reckless. "It would certainly be my grave; but it
need not be his. There are other colleges and other ways. I'm not afraid
of that. At any price, I must keep him. I'll marry him now. We'll be
married at once. That will settle it."

       *       *       *       *       *

The storm was over. The one plan was clear. That she would take--take
and win; but, oh, how selfish she felt in taking it! She was sacrificing
his career.

Yet ever she crushed the rising self-accusation with the "There are
other colleges and other ways. I'll open the way for that." That was the
sop to her inner judge, but the motive power was this: "At any price I
must hold him." And convinced that the time had come to play her highest
trump she fell asleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following morning found Belle fully prepared for energetic action.
She cleared the table and washed the dishes, putting them in their
accustomed places, and stopped suddenly with the last of the china in
her hand, wondering how long it would be before she held it again.
Upstairs, she quickly packed her hand-bag for "a one-night camp" and,
keeping ears and eyes alert, noted when at length her father had gone to
his office and her mother had settled to her knitting. Then she went to
her room and set about a careful toilet. The rebellious forelock was
curled on a hot slate pencil and tucked back among its kind. Over each
ear, she selected another lock for like elaboration. She put on her most
becoming dress and studied the effect of her two brooches to make sure
which one would help the most. She dashed a drop of "Violetta" on her
handkerchief and pinched her cheeks to heighten their colour and remove
the traces of the previous night's vigil. The beauty-parlour methods
were not yet known in Cedar Mountain.

Jim always dropped in for a chat in the morning and it was not long
before his cheery whistle sounded as down the street he came to the tune
of "Merry Bandon Town." In his right hand he twirled a stout stick in a
way that suggested a very practical knowledge of the shillelah. The
flush of health and of youth suffused his cheeks and mounted to his
forehead. All signs of worry over his impending fate were gone; indeed,
no worry could live long in his buoyant mind; its tense electric
chargement was sure death to all such microbes. Arrived at the Boyds',
he did not stop to open the five-foot gate. Laying his fingers on the
post, he vaulted over the pickets.

Belle met him on the porch. From somewhere back, Ma Boyd called out a
thin-voiced "good morning," as they went into the front room.

"My little girl looks pale to-day," he said, as he held her at arm's
length.

"Yes, I didn't sleep well. I wish I could get out for a few hours. Can't
you take me?"

"Sure, that's what I came for," he answered gaily.

"I don't feel much like riding, Jim. Can you get a good buckboard?"

"Why, yes, of course I can. Carson says I can have his double-harness
buckboard any time, ponies and all."

"Good! Just the thing. I want to go out to Bylow's Corner to make a
call, and maybe farther, if we can manage. I'll be ready by the time you
are here with the rig."

She went to her desk and wrote a note to her father. Somehow, mother
didn't seem to count.

     DEAR DAD: If I am not home to-night, I shall be with Aunt Collins.
     Lovingly, BELLE.

Then she put it in his tobacco jar, where he would be certain to see it
on coming home for dinner, and where Ma Boyd would never dream of
looking.

When Jim returned she carried a hand-bag: "Some things I need," and she
laughed happily as he lifted her into the rig and inquired if she wasn't
taking a trunk. Then away they went, as they had so many times before.

Youth and health, love and beauty; October and the Dakota Hills--what a
wonderful conjunction! The world can do no better to multiply the joy of
being alive. If either had a care, it was quickly buried out of sight.
Jim was in rollicking mood. Not a prairie dog sat up and shook its tail
in time to its voice, but Jim's humour suggested resemblances to some
one that they knew; this one looked like Baxter, the fat parson of the
Congregationalists; "that little one's name is likely Higginbotham; see
how Hannah makes him skip around. And there goes Lawyer Scrimmons," he
chuckled, as a blotched, bloated rattlesnake oozed along and out of
sight at the hint of danger. Two owls that gazed and blinked in silence
were named for a pair of fat twin sisters of their church; perfectly
well-meaning, but without a word of conversation or any expression but
their soulful eyes. And a solitary owl that gazed from the top of a post
straight up in the sky was compared to an old-time Methodist woman with
her eyes uplifted in prayer while the collection plate was shoved under
her nose.

Bylow's Corner was reached all too soon. As Jim was about to draw up
Belle said: "Let's go on farther; we can take them in on the road back.
Let's go as far as Lookout Mountain." And Jim was happy to go.

They were six miles from Cedar Mountain now, with no more houses by the
road for miles. Belle had fallen silent. It was all as she had planned,
but somehow the firm resolve of the night before seemed open to question
now. She gazed absently away over the level, toward a distant hillside,
and the smile faded from her lips. To his next light speech she barely
made response. He threatened to charge a "thank you ma'am" at high speed
if she didn't laugh. Then, getting no response, he burst out:

"What the divil is the matter with my little girl to-day? Have ye
anything on your mind, Belle?"

This was the fork in their trail: either she must tell him or give him
up. For a fraction of an instant she lived through the agony of doubt.
Then, with a certainty she had not thought possible, she said: "Yes,
Jim, I surely have."

"Well, shake it off, Belle. Let some other mind have it. Use mine, if
you'll allow that I have one."

"I haven't slept all night for thinking of it, Jim," she began.

"Thinking of what?"

"Your going away."

His face clouded; he became suddenly silent and she continued:

"Jim, dear, I've tried to keep my feelings out of it altogether; I've
argued it out, using nothing but my judgment, and it seemed the wise
thing for you to go back East to college. All my judgment says: 'send
him back'; but, oh, all my instincts say 'keep him here.'" She covered
both his hands with hers and put her cheek on them for a moment.

"I'm always trying to be wise, Jim, but I suppose I'm really very stupid
and very weak like most humans; and there come times when I feel like
kicking everything over and saying 'what's the use?' This time I'm going
to let my feelings hold the reins."

"Why, Belle darling! That sounds more like me than you."

"Jim, as I lay awake last night, a voice seemed to be sounding in my
heart: 'Don't let him go. If he goes, you'll lose him, you'll lose each
other.' Jim, do you suppose God brought you and me together in this way,
to be so much to each other, to be exactly fitted to round out each
other's life, to let us separate now?"

"Belle, I believe He sent me out here to meet you, and any one coming
between us is going against God."

"I know, Jim. And yet I have the feeling, which I can't shake off, that
as sure as you go back to college, I shall lose you."

"Then, by Heaven! I won't go; and that settles it, Belle. I'll chuck the
whole thing." And his forehead flushed with passion.

She dropped her face on her knees and shook in a paroxysm of weeping.
All the emotional side of her nature--so carefully repressed throughout
these weeks and months of struggle--swept away their barriers. Now that
she had spoken the fear that was in her heart, the reality of the danger
that threatened their happiness crushed her down. Jim threw his arm
around her. "Belle, Belle, I can't see you cry that way. Belle, don't!
We are not going to part."

It was long before she found her voice. In broken sounds she sobbed: "I
can't give you up now," and she leaned toward him though still she hid
her face.

"Belle, why do you talk of such a thing? You won't give me up, because I
won't let you. I won't go, Belle, that's settled."

Her only answer was to cling to him passionately. After a long silence,
during which the ponies dropped to a walk, she said half questioningly:

"Jim, we can't--give up all and--and--separate now."

"Belle darling," and Jim suddenly became calm and clear in thought, and
a strange new sense of power came on him as he gripped himself, "there
are times when a man must just take the bit in his teeth and break
through everything, and I'm going to do that now. There's just one way
out of this; we're half-way to Deadwood. Let's go right on and get
married. The college and everything else can go to the divil so long as
I can be with you.

"Will you agree to that?" he asked, lifting her head from his shoulder
and looking into her eyes.

"Jim," she said, pushing him gently away from her and leaning back so
that they occupied the sides of the wide seat, "let's be fair with each
other. For a long time you've had your fling at the hardship of going
back to Coulter while I have urged you to go. This is my fling at
it"--she smiled at him through her tears--"my rebellion, so perhaps
we're quits. But the problem still remains. I thought about it all last
night and I decided I could not let you go--that it meant the end of our
hopes. When you first asked me, up the road, I doubted my right to tell
you the fears I had. But, oh, Jim, it is _our_ happiness, _ours_, not
yours or mine alone. If we have that we can _make_ the rest come right.
If we lose that----"

"But we're not going to lose it," he cried, "if you'll only answer my
question, Will you marry me to-day if we go on to Deadwood?" He put out
his arms to her and she yielded with a happy sob to his ardour. Holding
her and pressing his lips to hers, he said simply: "I am very happy."

After a little while she took his head between her palms and looking
into his face with eyes that sought his spirit, as though she would
pledge her faith to his, she said: "You will never be sorry for this,
darling."

       *       *       *       *       *

At Lookout Mountain was the half-way house. They fed their horses,
rested an hour, and then sped on. At four o'clock they reached Deadwood.
Jim put up the horses at the little inn, whose parlour he remembered;
together they went to the jeweller's shop, purchased a ring, and then to
the mayor's office.

The great man was busy with affairs of State, but the world has a kindly
heart for lovers and the experienced official can recognize them afar.
He glanced over a crowd of many men advancing various claims, and said,
with a knowing smile, "Hello!"

"License," was all Jim said, and a subdued "Ha, Ha!" was the amused
response.

The mayor pulled out a drawer, produced a form, and rattled off the
usual questions: Name? Age? Married before? etc., filling it in; then
did the same for Belle. "Now stand up. You swear to the truth of each
and all of the statements?" Each of them raised a hand and swore.

"Want to finish it up now?" said the mayor.

"Yes."

"Put on the ring and hold her hand." Jim did so. The mayor stood up,
holding their clasped hands in his left. He raised his right and said:
"James and Belle, in accordance with the laws of the United States and
of the State of Dakota, I pronounce you man and wife." He signed the
paper, gave each in turn the pen to sign, and said, "Now I want another
witness."

"Sure, I'd like to be in on that there dokiment," said a rough voice.

"Can you write?"

"Bet your life I can."

A big heavy man came forward; the mayor handed him the pen; and, after
the word "Witness" he wrote, "Pat Bylow, of Cedar Mountain"; and then
with a friendly grin he offered his hand to the Preacher, and they
gripped hands for the first time.

"Two dollars, please," said the mayor.

Jim paid it, and he and Belle stepped forth as man and wife.




CHAPTER XLVI

What Next?


According to an ancient custom, the newly wed should cease from their
calling in life and disappear for a time, and the practice has long been
well honoured by observance. But Mr. and Mrs. Hartigan had large and
immediate problems to face. They breakfasted at Aunt Collins's and set
out at once for Cedar Mountain. Belle was quite aware, reasonably and
instinctively, that she must expect a reaction in Jim after the
emotional outburst that had led him so far from their sober plan of a
week before; and she exerted herself to fill every minute with the
interests of this new life they had begun. But she was not prepared for
something which did begin. From that hour of the great decision Jim
seemed bigger and stronger. She had been thinking of him as a promising
child. Now he was her equal in the world of affairs. He was growing
faster than she. They were near the edge of the town when she saw a
cottage with the sign up, "To let." It was very attractive in its fresh
paint and obviously it had just been finished.

"Jim, maybe that was made for us. Let's see it." They tied up the horses
and entered. It was indeed small. The Preacher had to stoop at the front
doorway and turn side-wise to enter the cellarway, but it was clean and
prettily placed with a view to the south, and had four rooms and cellar.

Belle gazed from the window through the gap between the hills and said,
"I wish I knew some things that I will know within a week"; then, after
a pause, "but I don't; let's go."

As they were getting into the buckboard Jim remembered having left
behind a package which Aunt Collins wished to send to her sister, Mrs.
Boyd. As they drove hastily back they met a new, strange sight in
Deadwood. A man in a sort of military uniform was marching along
carrying a big drum which he pounded rhythmically; behind him were a
dozen men and women in poke bonnets and blue skirts. Above them was a
flag inscribed "Salvation Army." They stopped to sing a hymn, and were
soon surrounded by a crowd of people who made scoffing remarks. The
leader prayed, and all joined in a warlike hymn punctuated by the
thunderous drum.

There can be no question of the power of the drum on simple and
primitive natures. Something in Jim responded to it at once. The
commonplace words of the commonplace leader were without power to move,
and the droning hymn was soporific rather than inspiring; but the
rhythmic thump, thump, thump, seemed to strike the chords of his being;
and a hypnotic tensity began. He gazed at the sad face of the fanatic,
and forgot everything else, till Belle roused him with a businesslike,
"Let's go, Jim."

Arrived at Cedar Mountain, they knew at once from the smiles and
greetings of a few friends whom they met that the town had heard the
news. They went to the Boyd home where Ma Boyd wept and feebly scolded,
then wept some more. Pa Boyd said "Humph!" Loading his pipe he smoked in
silence for five minutes and then began to laugh quietly. At length,
clapping Hartigan good-naturedly on the back, he observed: "Well, boys
will be boys. But I did think Belle was too level-headed and
businesslike to go off on a panicky proposition like this. Howsomever,
it's done; now the question is, what next? I can forgive; folks can
forgive, but the Church won't. Now what's next?"

Seeing that the home folks were well enough disposed, Jim didn't wait to
discuss details but set out alone to call on the Rev. Dr. Jebb. Mrs.
Jebb opened the door herself and looking up at the handsome face she
laid her hand on his arm with a pleased laugh and said: "Good for you!"

Dr. Jebb was very grave. "My dear boy, don't you see how serious it is?"

"Just as serious as it can be, doctor; I know that," and Jim laughed.

"But do you realize you have broken with the Church? You cannot go to
college now. You are out of a living. You must think about some other
means of livelihood."

"All of which I know, and knew when I took this step."

"As your pastor, I must chide you severely," said Jebb; "as your
superior officer, I must pay you the twenty-five dollars that is your
full and quit payment of salary up to October thirty-first; as the head
of this body in Cedar Mountain, I must notify you that your connection
with the congregation as assistant pastor is ended; as your brother in
Christ, I invoke God's blessing on your somewhat hasty action; and, as
your friend and Belle's, I offer you my poor help in whatsoever way I
can serve you." And as Jim took his leave, much touched by the old
doctor's gentleness, the pastor followed him to the door with his wife.
With one of his sudden happy impulses Jim stooped and kissed Mrs. Jebb
and the two old people were still in the doorway watching him as he
turned for a final wave at the gate.

The blacksmith shop was the next place of call. Not that Jim sought it,
but he couldn't well avoid it, and he was hailed by all as he came near.
Shives came forward in his characteristic way, holding out his hand.
"Wall, wall! Now I know you are human in spite of your job! You've gone
up about ten pegs in my scale."

Carson was there and met him with a broad grin. "So that's what you
borrowed my team for? Ho, ho! Well, I'll forgive you, if you bring them
back and promise not to get the habit."

After much well-wishing Jim started down the street. He had only gone a
short distance when the sound of some one running and calling his name
made him halt. It was Higginbotham who had hastened on the first news of
his arrival to make a business proposition. "Of course, I know, Jim,
that you are a capitalist, and Hannah and me have been thinking it would
be a good idea to establish a branch in Deadwood. Hannah is 'round
calling on Belle, to fix it up."

As indeed she was at that very moment. Jim got the whole project from
Belle on his return, but there were serious difficulties in the way of
Hannah's scheme. Jim had no taste or capacity for business. All Belle's
time would be needed for the household. Furthermore, Jim still felt that
the ministry was his calling. They pondered it long and discussed it
freely. Belle knew she could make the business a success, but it would
be by sacrificing many things that they had dreamed of and planned for
their first home. That night they kneeled down together and prayed for
the guidance of the Great Guide. Jim opened the Bible three times, with
his eyes closed, and laid his finger at hazard on a text, and these were
the three that decided his fate: Kings, XIX:20--And he said unto him Go
back again. 2 Thess. II:13--God hath from the beginning chosen you to
salvation. Daniel IV:35--According to his will in the army of heaven.

"There, Belle, could anything be plainer? We are ordered back to
Deadwood. I must join the Salvation Army."

Belle was torn between her business instincts, her religious training,
and her absolute devotion to her hero. But whatever the sum total, thus
much all things agreed on: they must get away from Cedar Mountain.
Whither? There seemed no answer but Deadwood.

The next day Mrs. Jebb gave a reception for the young people and Cedar
Mountain turned out strong. Three was the hour named, and at four the
parsonage was full. Belle was dressed in the simple gray that
intensified her colour, her brown eyes and gold-brown hair were shining;
standing at the end of the parlour she looked very lovely, and all Cedar
Mountain glowed with pride in her.

Jim was in his glory. He frolicked with everybody and was in the midst
of a gallant speech to Shives's daughter when some one tapped his arm
and dragged him off. It was John Higginbotham, anxious to get his scheme
more clearly into Jim's mind. "Not only was the main line of insurance
good, but everything pointed to a land boom soon in Deadwood. Once the
boom struck, the insurance could be temporarily sidetracked. Then,
allowing seven hundred and fifty dollars capital, of which five hundred
dollars could be invested in lots on 10 per cent. margin, this would
secure five thousand dollars' worth of lots, or fifty small lots at
present prices; in the ordinary course of the boom, this would speedily
reach fifty thousand dollars, when, of course, he would sell and----"

"Hartigan!" cried a voice. "Who, in Heaven's name, is concealing you?
Oh, here you are." It was Dr. Carson. "I've been thinking of you a lot
ever since this news broke and I've decided that you are more like a man
than a preacher. Why don't you cut out all this piffling holy talk and
go in for something you can do? Now, my theory is that each man can do
some one thing better than any one else; and, if he has the luck to have
that one thing for his life calling, he's going to make a success. You
know horses better than any man I know. You knew enough to steal my
team, for example, when you meant to elope."

"Now, see here," Hartigan objected.

"Don't interrupt me," said Carson. "Jim, this is my honest advice: get
out of this rotten little town. Go to Deadwood, or any other big, rotten
town, and start in on the horse business and something will happen worth
while."

Jim's eyes glowed. It was curious how the word "horse" fascinated him.
"I'll surely take the first two moves you advise: I'll get out of this
town and I'll go to Deadwood. But----" He stopped. He didn't say it, but
he had given his "wurd as a mahn" long ago that his life should be
devoted to the Church.

Little Peaches was there in a very high collar and sang, "Jerusalem the
Golden," till tears came to the eyes of the audience. As he began the
third score, Colonel Waller and his staff arrived. The old soldier's
eyes gleamed as he measured the tall, straight form of the Preacher.
"Well, Jim, can't I persuade you to enlist? We need a few like you."

"Sure, I'm enlisted now," was the reply, "and going to the front; and
when I am gone, don't forget my horse."

"Ha, ha! We are not likely to," said the Colonel. "The wisest thing you
ever did for yourself was when you sold him."

As the party began to break up Hannah Higginbotham plucked Jim's sleeve
and whispered: "If John comes chasing you with a scheme, don't pay any
attention to him. He'd try to talk business if you were both swimming
for your lives; but a week from now, we'll come to see you at Deadwood.
I've fixed it up with Belle."

As Jim waited for Belle, who was having a few last words with Mrs. Jebb,
Charlie Bylow came rather shyly forward with his wife. "Mr. Hartigan,
I've got a good team now; in case there is any moving to do, I'd like to
do it for you." And then as if he thought Jim might not understand he
said: "We owe a lot to you and we'd like a chance to pay it back."

There was one old acquaintance that did not turn up. That was Lou-Jane
Hoomer. Probably she was busy packing her trunk for the visit to
Rochester; at any rate, upon her return from the East, she joined the
Congregationalists, where she sang regularly in the choir and soon made
such an impression on the baritone that they found increasing comfort in
each other's company.




CHAPTER XLVII

Back to Deadwood


Two days later Jim and Belle were again on the Deadwood trail. It seemed
that each new chapter of their lives must begin on that trail. They were
in a new buckboard, the gift of Pa Boyd, driving Midnight in harness.
That same morning Charlie Bylow had left for Deadwood with his team and
wagon. The latter was loaded with gifts from Cedar Mountain friends,
some of them sufficiently absurd--for example, framed chromos, a parrot
cage, a home instructor in Spanish, and a self-rocking cradle--but there
was also a simple sufficiency of household furniture.

The buckboard overtook the wagon in the morning and arrived at Deadwood
by one o'clock. Jim was for going to the hotel and dining, but Belle
thought it better to see the estate agent first, and within half an hour
they had deposited the first month's rent for the white cottage. Strange
to tell, though the cottage had stood empty and uncalled for during the
previous six months, there were two other applications on the afternoon
that the Hartigans secured their lease.

Their furniture arrived late in the day, and those who have watched
newly-mated birds carry the sticks and straw of their first nest, will
understand the joy experienced by Belle and Jim in planning, arranging,
and rearranging this first home. Whether it is larger bliss to carry
sticks or to bill and coo cannot be guessed, and perhaps it does not
matter, for every stone in the perfect arch is bearing all the arch. The
first night in their own--their very own--home, with no one but
themselves, was a sweet contentment for the time and a precious memory
afterward. As they sat hand in hand looking from the little window down
the valley, where the golden west was blocked by the high, dark hill,
they knew calm for the first time after many days of tempest, and Jim's
fervent soul found words in the ancient text: "Truly the light is sweet;
and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun."

A very blessed thing is the sunrise on Deadwood. It means far more than
in most towns, for the shut-in-ness of the gulch makes night so very
night-like, and the gloom is king till the radiant one mounts to flood
the place with a sudden sunrise--a little late, perhaps, but a special
sunrise for the town.

It was their first real breakfast together. Jim rose and lighted the
fire in the stove. Belle made the coffee and fried the eggs. It was all
their own and there is something about such a breakfast that gives it
the nature of a sacrament, with youth and health, beauty and love,
assembled to assist, and a special angel of happiness to bless it with
his shining eyes.

As their talk turned to future plans, Jim's idea was to settle down,
find quarters for Midnight, then visit the Salvation Army barracks and
wait in the crowd till an opportunity to speak should occur. After that
he had no doubt his pulpit eloquence would open a way to secure an
appointment.

Belle's idea was totally different. "No, Jim, that won't do. If we enter
the town by the back door we'll always be back-door folk. I propose to
come in by the front way, and have a red carpet and a triumphal arch for
our entry. Don't do anything until I have tried a plan of mine.
Meanwhile, you look after Midnight."

Jim's curiosity was very large, but he smiled and asked no questions,
and Belle set out for a visit to Uncle Collins. "It has to be done just
right," she explained to that gentleman after an elaboration of her
idea. Belle knew instinctively that all their fate in Deadwood would
turn on the colour of their coming. Uncle Collins entered wholeheartedly
into the plan and that week, much to Jim's amazement, the local press
came out with a column article:

                 DISTINGUISHED ARRIVALS IN DEADWOOD

     Our townsfolk are to be congratulated on the latest increase to our
     population. The Rev. James Hartigan and his beautiful bride,
     formerly Miss Boyd, of Cedar Mountain, have yielded to the call of
     Deadwood and decided to make their home in the mining capital of
     Dakota. They have taken the White Cottage on Southview Avenue
     (Muggins & Mawlins Real Estate Company) and will be at home Friday
     afternoon.

     Dr. Hartigan was educated at Coulter College, Ontario, and won his
     spurs long ago as a pulpit orator. While devoting his life to the
     ministry, he is also a man of means and is likely to make important
     investments in Deadwood as favourable opportunities present
     themselves. In fact, it was largely the need of such opportunity
     that led to the selection of Deadwood as his future home.

     We are proud of the tribute to our promise as a town, and the
     distinguished couple will find us ready to greet them with a hearty
     welcome.

Jim laughed joyously as he read it in the paper next day. "Sure, Belle,
every word of it is true and everything it leaves you believing is a
lie. I never knew how far astray you could put folk by telling the
simple truth."

One or two meetings in the street and a few observations from Aunt
Collins, led Belle to expect some callers on Friday afternoon, but she
never dreamed of the reception that did take place. Fortunately she had
notice, an hour before, to treble the amount of tea provided; then, in a
flash, a great idea entered her head.

"Jim," she said, "this is going to be a very important event in our
lives, we are going to meet some people to-day who will shape all our
future. There will be men of business here and men high in the churches;
they will be sure to make you some sort of an offer, many offers of
different kinds. Encourage them, don't turn any of them down; but don't
definitely accept any of them. Now promise, Jim, you won't accept any of
them."

"I wouldn't dare," said Jim, "after this"--and he held up the local
paper with a grin. "I'm in the hands of my manager."

It was well for him that he agreed. Mrs. Collins was there to
assist--beaming with pride. Uncle Collins came late and looked bored and
uncomfortable. Belle was in her glory. She was of that delicate type
which changes much with varying circumstance, and now she seemed
radiantly beautiful. All the guests that day agreed that they were far
and away the handsomest couple that had ever come to Deadwood, and
surely they should have known, for all Deadwood came. The mayor came
because he felt a fatherly interest in the couple he had married; and
besides, they were an important accession to the population. "Hartigan,"
he began, "If I had your money I'd make a deal with the Northern
Pacific. I tell you their new president is a live wire. He's ready to
close on any good idea," etc., etc. The ministers came because they had
heard of Dr. Hartigan's accomplishments and wished to pay their
respects; and Dr. Hooper, of the Congregationalists, said he would be
glad if Dr. Hartigan would occupy his pulpit the coming Sunday. The Rev.
Dr. Mackenzie, of the Presbyterian Church, offered his pulpit; and so
did the Rev. Dr. Jowley, of the Evangelicals. To all of these Jim made
gracious and happy replies, deferring definite answer until he should be
able to consult his date book and complete certain other arrangements.

The Presbyterian also took the opportunity of privately whispering to
Dr. Hartigan that he, Dr. Mackenzie, had "just discovered a rare
business opportunity--a whole block of staked and patented gold claims
on the same lead as the 'Homestake'; the owner was compelled to sell out
owing to family troubles, and would take ten thousand dollars cash for
49 per cent. of the stock--an absolute certainty of a million within a
year! Dr. Mackenzie would turn over this unique and dazzling opportunity
to Dr. Hartigan for the modest sum of one thousand dollars, which was
less than 10 per cent., if expenses were included...." and so on, at
much length.

The head of the Bar-Bell Ranch called because he had heard of the famous
racer, Blazing Star, that was bred in the Hartigan stables, and he would
like Dr. Hartigan to visit him and see his horses.

The insurance companies also were represented, and Bob Davidson--he
declined at all times the "Mr."--managed to get in a word privately to
the effect that he hoped that the Reverend Hartigan would make no
business alliance until he had been to the Davidson office and seen the
possibilities of one or two little schemes that needed "only a very
little capital to pay----"

The reception lasted three hours and the account of it in the paper next
day covered several columns. The impression it left on Jim was pleasing,
but confusing. The single immediate and pleasant result was when the
local lumberman, learning that Hartigan wished to erect a stable for his
own team, volunteered to send round one thousand feet of the special
siding, of which he was exclusive agent, together with the necessary
amount of tar paper, on condition that the stable should bear the
signboard:

    -------------------------------------
    | SQUELCHE'S SPECIAL MATCHED SIDING |
    |     JOHN JOHNSON, SOLE AGENT      |
    -------------------------------------

So the siding came and Jim built the stable with his own hands and
gloried in every nail as he drove it. Midnight was thereupon withdrawn
from a livery stable and installed with due pride and pomp.




CHAPTER XLVIII

The Fork in the Trail


The reception was over. Jim and Belle had supped at Aunt Collins's and
were back again in the cottage, sitting by the kitchen stove, in which
Jim had just kindled a blazing fire, for the evenings were cold. They
were glad to be together again by themselves, and to talk things over.

Jim put a new block in the stove; then, sitting down, remarked: "For a
capitalist who contemplates buying up part of the town, securing a new
railroad, and cornering a township of gold ore, this is quite a modest
layout."

"Now while it's fresh," she replied, "let's have the whole thing;
especially the invitations." She took paper and wrote them down as he
recited them. Then, with a good deal of shrewdness, she proceeded to
appraise one by one.

The gold mine, the railroad, and the livery barn she treated with a
joyous laugh; she liked them as symptoms. The town lot matter was worth
looking into.

As for the invitations to preach, compared with the Presbyterians, the
Evangelicals were a larger body; but the Congregationalists, much
smaller, were more solid. The last had a fine church with a strong
membership of well-to-do men, but they also had an able preacher of
their own particular doctrines, so that Belle gave preference to the
Evangelicals.

"We must concentrate our big guns on them, Jim; get out your best
sermon, the one on 'Show thyself a man' (1 Kings II:2). Keep that for
the big crowd in the evening. Next Sunday, at the Congregational Church
you can give them the same thing, for it will be a different crowd; but
at night, why not give them your sermon on 'Kindness' that made such a
hit in Cedar Mountain."

"Well, where does the Salvation Army come in, Belle?"

"It doesn't come in just now"; and inwardly she hoped she might be able
to keep it out altogether. Play for time and hope for luck was her plan.
But she was secretly worried by the superstitious importance which he
attached to the three texts, picked at random from the Scripture that
day in Cedar Mountain, and by the interpretation he gave them. But she
thought it best to avoid the subject. First she sorted the invitations,
adjusted a desirable programme, and then sent a courteous reply to each,
accepting or declining. And it was done in such a way that none were
hurt and most were pleased. Then happened two of the accidents she had
prayed for. As Jim strode home about noon one day, he heard a rabble of
small boys jeering and shouting, "Holy Billy! Holy Billy! Salvation!
Salvation!" He turned to see them pursued by a fat, middle-aged man, who
after several attempts to drive them away, at length seized a pitch fork
from those exhibited outside a hardware store and, intent on revenging
himself, ran after the children. The youngsters fled, save one, who
fell; and the furious fat man made a vicious prod with the fork. It
might easily have proved fatal, but Jim was near enough to seize the
man's arm and wrest the fork from him. The fat man was white with rage.
He blustered a good deal and finally went off sputtering comically
although he used no cuss-words.

That evening Jim and Belle went to the Salvation Army barracks, with the
fixed intention of taking part in the worship as fully as might be
permitted. On their arrival Jim was utterly surprised to find that the
uniformed Captain in command was the fat little fury of the street
episode; and still more astonished when that rotund person peremptorily
ordered him out of the building. As the rest of the Salvationists
dutifully supported their Captain, Jim had no choice, and with a feeling
of sadness that was not shared by Belle, he turned out into the street.

There are many drives about Deadwood, but not many good roads. The
scenery, not the pavement, is the allurement; and in the morning, the
young couple took a short drive to learn the trails. They had not gone a
mile when they were brought to a standstill by a lumber wagon stuck in
the middle of the narrow road and quite immovable. It was not the weight
of the load or the fault of the road, but because one of the horses was
on strike--he baulked and refused absolutely to pull. Held up by the
blockade, on the other side, were two buggies with men and women.

The teamster was just a plain, every-day bungler. He began by urging the
obstinate horse with voice and whip; but at each fresh application the
creature merely laid back his ears, shook his head, and set his feet
more resolutely against all progress. At last the driver worked himself
into a rage. He lashed the horse with all his strength, the only effect
being to leave long lines on the animal's coat and cause him to kick out
frantically with his hind feet.

"Man alive!" said Jim, leaving Belle's side and walking forward, "that's
no way to handle a horse. Let me----"

A volume of abuse interrupted him. "You go on and mind your d--n
business," said the teamster. "I'm taking care of this." In
uncontrollable fury he beat the horse over the head with the butt end of
his whip till it broke in two.

"See here, if you don't stop that I'll take a hand in it!" shouted Jim,
thoroughly aroused.

The answer yelled back was not printable. It reflected not only on the
Rev. James Hartigan, but on all his ancestors. Then, in an instant, the
insane brute took a wooden hand-spike from his load and dealt the horse
a terrific blow on the head. The beast staggered, almost fell, but
recovered just as the driver, shouting, "I'll larn you!" landed another
blow and hauled back for a third that would have felled if not killed
the horse. But Jim got there first. He jerked the club out of the man's
hand and as the attack turned on himself, he laid the driver out with a
deft tap of the kind he knew so well. The other man with the load now
rushed at Jim to avenge his fallen leader. But it is easy to meet that
sort of onset when you know the game and have the muscle. The second
went down on top of the first teamster amid loud cheers from the men in
the buggies.

Five years before, in this country, Jim would certainly have been shot
within the first five minutes, but the law and order society had been
doing good work, and now men did not carry revolvers as of old, so
nature's weapons counted as firearms once had done.

"Jim!" called Belle feebly. "Let's go." He turned; she was ghastly pale,
as she held on to Midnight. She had never before seen men fight. She was
appalled and terrified.

"Dear child," he laughed, almost gleefully, "you're not used to it.
Don't take it so seriously. Sure it's fun and it's missionary work.
Don't be worried at seeing men tumbled over. As soon as those two fools
come to and stand on end, I'll show them how to drive a horse." He
straightened out the two men he had stunned, and then went to the
trembling horse.

As he laid his hand on its shoulder it shrank. He talked softly and
began to examine the harness. Sure enough, there was a mass of cockle
burrs caught in the long mane and wedged under the collar, so that every
pull of the harness drove the sharp spines into the animal's shoulder.
Jim loosened the collar, cut off the mass of burrs, sacrificed his
handkerchief to make a soft pad, and replaced the collar. Meanwhile, the
two teamsters were sitting up and looking on with little joy in their
faces.

"Now you two ignorant babes, I'll show you how to drive a horse that
you've made baulky; and I want you to know that there are not any baulky
horses; it's baulky drivers that make the trouble." He went to the
creature's head, talked to it, stroked its nose, blew in its nostrils,
and continued to talk till the ears no longer lay back at his touch.
Presently the eyes ceased rolling and the legs were not bracing
nervously.

"Now," said Jim softly, "will you be after pulling a little? Yes? Come
now," he coaxed wheedlingly, "come now," and he tightened the lines. But
the horse shook his head, showed temper as before, and held back.

"Oh, that's what ye want, is it?" said Jim. "All right, back up it is,"
and gently man[oe]uvring, he shouted: "Back!" Both horses backed. He
kept them backing, and by deft steering, held the wagon in the road.
Back they went steadily. Now the baulky horse indicated his willingness
to go on; but Jim wasn't ready. It was back, back, and back some more.
For a hundred yards he kept it up. At last, when he changed about and
gave the order to "Get up!" the one-time baulky horse was only too glad
to change his gear and pull his very best. Jim took the load up the
little hill, and on a quarter mile, where he waited for the original
teamsters to come up.

"There, now," said Jim as he handed over the lines to the sullen driver,
"you should have found that bunch of cockle burrs. It was all your
fault, not the horse's. And if he hadn't responded to the backing, I'd
have tied a pebble in his ear and left him for a few minutes to think it
over. Then he'd have gone all right; it never fails. I tell you there
aren't any baulky horses if they are rightly handled."

A cheer came from the buggies as the load of timber rolled away around
the hill. As Hartigan got in beside Belle the two rigs came by. The men
shouted, "Good for you! That was a fine job."

Jim blushed with pleasure; it was all so simple and familiar to him; but
when he turned to look at Belle, she was white and ill. "Let's go home,
Jim," she whispered. He looked at her in some surprise; then slowly it
dawned on him--she had never before seen the roughness of men fighting.
To him it was no more than the heavy sport of the football field. To her
it was brutality unloosed; it was shocking, disgusting, next to murder.
With mingled feelings of regret, amusement, and surprise he said, "Dear
heart, you take it all too seriously." Then he put his arm about her,
tender as a woman, and a few minutes later placed her gently in the
rocking chair in the white cottage.




CHAPTER XLIX

The Power of Personality


"Who is that?" said an elderly man in one of the buggies that passed
Hartigan after the adventure with the baulky horse.

"I think it's the new preacher," said the driver. "Anyhow, we can easily
see." They watched the buckboard with the black horse and saw it turn in
at the white cottage.

"My guess was right, Mr. Hopkins," said the driver. "I haven't been in
church for two years, but I'm going to hear that fellow preach next
Sunday, all right."

"Why don't you go to church?" said the older man, who by his dress and
manner was apparently some one of social importance.

"Oh, I dunno. I got out of the habit when I came out West," said the
driver.

"Why do you want to hear this man?"

"Well, he kind o' makes one think he's 'some punkins.' He's a real man.
He ain't just a sickly dough-lump as the bunch mostly is."

John Hopkins, President of the Dakota Flour and Milling Company, Regent
of Madison University, man of affairs, philosopher and patron of a great
many things, was silent for some time. He was pondering the question of
the day and the light just thrown on it. Why don't men go to church?
This Black Hills driver had answered: "Because the preachers are a bunch
of dough-lumps." Whatever this might mean, it was, at best, a backhanded
compliment to Hartigan. Yet, the driver was anxious to hear the new
preacher. Why? Because he was impressed with his personality. It all
resolved itself into that; the all-ruling law of personality. How wise,
thought Hopkins, was the Church that set aside rules, dogmas, and
scholastic attainments to make room for a teacher of real personality;
such was the Founder's power.

Along with the livery driver and a hundred more than the church could
hold, Hopkins went that night to the Evangelical Church to hear
Hartigan. The Preacher's choice of hymns was martial; he loved the
trumpets of the Lord. His prayers were tender and sincere; and his
sermon on kindness--human kindness, spontaneous, for its own sake, not
dictated by a creed--was a masterpiece of genuine eloquence. His face
and figure were glorified in his effort. The story of his active
sympathy with the injured horse had got about, and won the hearts of
all. They came ready to love him, and--responding to the warm, magnetic
influence--he blazed forth into the compelling eloquence that was native
to his Celtic blood. He was gentle and impassioned; he spoke as never
before. They heard him breathlessly; they loved his simple, Irish common
sense. He held them in the hollow of his hands. The half hour allotted
had been reached, and his story was told, and yet, not fully told. For a
moment he paused, while his eyes sought a happy face in the nearest pew.
Belle gently drew her watch. Mindful of their careful plan, he stopped
at the signal, raised his hands, and said, "Let us pray." With one great
sigh, the congregation kneeled before him, and with him, in body and
spirit, and prayed as they never before had prayed in Deadwood.

       *       *       *       *       *

After the service the young preacher came forward to meet the people. He
was uplifted and radiant with a sense of power, with all the magic
influence of the place and thought; and they crowded round him, many
with tears in their eyes.

An elderly man of polished manner pushed through the circle and shook
him by the hand. "I'm a stranger in town," he said; "here's my card. May
I call on you to-morrow?"

"Certainly," said the Preacher. And the stranger disappeared.

There was a holy joy enveloping the little white cottage that night as
they sat together reviewing the events of the day. "Don't you see, Jim,
how much better it was to stop then? It's a thousand times better to
have them go away saying: 'Why did he stop so soon?' rather than: 'Yes,
wonderful, inspiring; but too long.' They will now be keener than ever
to hear you. You never spoke so well before. Oh, my dear, I was never so
proud of you! Now I know, without a doubt, that you are a chosen vessel
of the Lord."

He held her in his mighty arms and kissed the gold-brown hair. "It's all
your doing, Belle. I'm a rudderless ship without you." Then, after a
long pause: "I'm thinking of my first visit to Deadwood."

She spoke no word, but pressed her frail face against the knotted
muscles of his great throat and gently stroked his cheek.




CHAPTER L

The Call to Chicago


"Get up, you lazy giant; the breakfast is ready," she called from the
dining room. In truth, he had been up to light the fire and chop some
wood, but was now reading in bed.

"Jim, I want you to be prepared for something very important to-day. I
have a presentiment that this means something." She held up the card
that had been presented after the service the evening before, and read:

     MR. JOHN HOPKINS,
    ENGLEWOOD, CHICAGO

"If he comes with a proposition, don't accept it off-hand. Ask for a
little while to consider."

Belle put on her smartest frock that morning and pressed Jim's trousers
and tied his necktie repeatedly till its form was right. With a very
critical eye she studied his appearance and her own, and that of the
house, from every angle. Why? Would any business man make note of such
things? Detailed note, no; perhaps not. But the sum total of such
trifles--expressing decorum, experience, worldly wisdom of the kind that
makes itself felt as tact, and judgment that is better than genius as
guarantee of success--would unquestionably produce its effect.

Promptly at ten thirty A.M., Mr. John Hopkins called. He apologized for
the unseemly hour, but said he was leaving town at noon. His first
impression of Belle was a very delightful one. He found her refined and
cultured and he recalled the advice of a certain old bishop: "Never give
a call to a clergyman unless you are satisfied to call his wife as
well." There was no use denying it, the wife was as important as the
preacher; she could build up or disrupt the congregation, and so she
made a double problem; that is why Rome ruled the wives out altogether.

Mr. Hopkins was a citizen of the world; he approached the object of the
visit gracefully, but without loss of time. The Evangelical Alliance
needed a man of personality and power to carry on its work in the slums
of South Chicago among the iron-workers. The church cared nothing about
creeds or methods--applied no gauge but results; the best result was a
diffusion of human kindness. The salary was twenty-five hundred a year,
with one week vacation at Christmas and one month at midsummer. He, John
Hopkins, as President of the Board of Deacons, was empowered to select a
man, and now made formal offer of the post to the Rev. James Hartigan.
Mr. Hartigan might have a week to decide; but Mr. Hopkins would greatly
prefer it if Mr. Hartigan could decide before noon that day when Mr.
Hopkins was leaving town. Until stage time he could be found at the
Temperance House.

He rose quickly to go. Belle asked if he would, at his convenience, put
the offer in writing, so that they might be clear as to details,
indicating whether it was understood to be by the year and permanent, or
for a time on approbation.

"I'll do that now," he replied. Taking the writing materials that she
brought, he wrote and signed the formal call, with the intimation that
it was for one year, subject to renewal.

As soon as their caller was safely gone, Jim picked up Belle in his arms
and, marching up and down with her as if she had been a baby, he fairly
gasped: "You are a wonder! You are a wonder! If I had gone my way, where
should I be now? A drunkard or a cowboy; maybe in jail; or, at best, a
doorkeeper in the Salvation Army. Oh, Belle, I swear I'll never pick a
trail or open my mouth--never do a thing--without first consulting you."
And the elation of the moment exploded into a burst of Irish humour.
"_Now_, please ma'am, what am I to do?"

"What are _we_ to do, you mean," retorted Belle. "Well, in view of the
fact that we haven't got the cash the folks here think we have, we must
do something. Twenty-five hundred dollars a year is an improvement on
three hundred a year, and as there is no other positive offer in sight,
I vote for accepting."

"That settles it. What right has a worm like me to vote?"

"That's a poor metaphor, Jim; try again."

"All right! The mighty Captain of this warship accepts the advice of the
insignificant pilot--who happens to know the channel. How is that?"

"It can't be done, Jim. I may help the guiding, but without you I'd have
nothing to guide. Each of us gives his best to the combine--each is a
half of the arch; not simply are we twice as strong together, but twenty
times as strong as we should be singly."

"Now for the call. Do you realize, Jim, that it means good-bye to the
prairies, good-bye to the hills, and good-bye to Midnight?"

Jim nodded and looked grave. Belle went on: "But it also means living
the life that you long ago elected to live--being a chosen instrument of
good to bring blessings to those whose lives are black with sorrow and
despair. It means giving up all the physical pleasures you love so
deeply and rightly; but it also means following the Master. Which is it
to be?"

"I know," he responded, "I know. But Belle, dear, I never had a moment
of doubt when I had to decide between Belle and Blazing Star; why should
I hesitate now when it's Midnight or Christ?"

So the letter was written and delivered forthwith at the Temperance
Hotel. One week later Belle and Jim were driving again toward Cedar
Mountain, headed for the railway which was to take them to Chicago. As
they swung down the trail Belle looked out on the familiar objects and
said:

"Here we are again at the beginning of a new chapter; and again it
starts on the old Deadwood trail."




CHAPTER LI

These Little Ones


It was a long but easy journey down south to the Union Pacific, and
finally east to Chicago. And when the young couple, whom the passengers
watched with much interest, arrived at the great city, they found half a
dozen men and women of importance awaiting them at the Union Station,
with more servants to assist them than they had pieces of luggage. Mr.
and Mrs. Hopkins, with their own carriage, were in attendance to offer
the hospitality of their house to the Rev. James Hartigan and his bride.
It was a long drive to Englewood; but everything that kind friends,
clear skies, and human forethought could do to make it pleasant was
fully done. For the time being, they were installed in the Hopkins
mansion--a veritable palace--and for the first time Jim had the chance
to learn how the rich folk really live. While it was intensely
interesting, he was eager to see the field of his future work. Belle,
however, agreed with their host and hostess that it would be worth while
to see a little of Chicago first.

The stockyards are either fascinating or intensely disgusting. The
Hartigans had their fill of them in five minutes. The Art Institute had
not yet been built, but there were museums and galleries and good music
in many places. Lincoln Park and the great rolling, gusty lake were
pleasant to behold; but to Jim, the biggest thing of all--the thing of
which the buildings and the crowds were mere manifestations--was the
vast concentration of human life, strife, and emotion--the throb and
compulsion of this, the one great heart of the West.

There was dirt in the street everywhere; there were hideous buildings
and disgusting vulgarities on every side, and crime in view on nearly
every corner; but still one had to feel that this was the vital spot,
this the great blood centre of a nation, young, but boiling with energy,
boundless in promise--a city with a vital fire in its heart that would
one day burn the filth and dross away and show the world the dream of
the noblest dreamers all come true--established, gigantic, magnificent.
There is thrill and inspiration--simple, natural, and earthy--in the
Canyon where the Cheyenne cut the hills; but this was a different thrill
that slowly grew to a rumble in Jim's heart as he felt the current
floods of mind, of life, of sin, of hope that flowed from a million
springs in that deep Wabash Canyon that carved in twain the coming city
of ten million hopes that are sprung from the drifted ashes of a hundred
million black and burnt despairs.

Hartigan had ever been a man of the saddle and the open field; but
gazing from the top of that tall tower above the station, sensing the
teeming life, the sullen roar, far below, he glimpsed another world--a
better thing, for it was bigger--which, in its folded mantle, held the
unborn parent, the gentler-born parent, of the mighty change--the
blessed cleanup that every wise man prays for and works to bring about.

What place were they to occupy in this maelstrom? Two ways were
open--one, to dwell in the dungeons and the horrors as poor among the
poor; the other, to come as different beings--as frequent visitors--from
another world. Jim, with his whole-souled abandon, was for the former;
but Belle thought that all he would gain in that way would be more than
offset by loss of touch with the other world. At that time those two
worlds were at war and she contended that his place was to stand between
the world of power and the world of need.

Their compromise was a little flat on the second floor of a house in
Englewood, near enough to the rolling Lake to afford a glimpse of it and
convenient to the open stretch that is now the famous Jackson Park.
Here, with pretty rugs and curtains and pictures of horses and hills,
they lined the home nest and gathered the best thoughts of the lives
they had lived. Here at all times they could come assured of peace and
rest.

Then came the meeting with the Board of Deacons, the preliminary visits
to the field of work, where the streets were full of misery and the slum
life rampant. A few short blocks away was another world--a world of
palaces. Jim had never before seen massed misery; he had never before
seen profligate luxury, and the shock of contrast brought to him the
sudden, overwhelming thought: "These people don't want preaching, they
want fair play. This is not a religious question, it is an economic
question." And in a flash: "The religious questions _are_ economic
questions," and all the seemingly wild utterances of old Jack Shives
came back, like a sudden overwhelming flood at the breaking of a dam. In
an instant he was staggering among the ruins of all in religious thought
that he had held holy.

When he reached their apartment that evening he was in a distraught
condition. For some time he paced up and down. At last he said: "I must
go out, Belle. I must walk alone." He spoke with intense emotion. He
longed for his mountain; there was but one thing like it near--the
mighty, moving lake. He put on his hat and strode away. Belle wanted to
go with him, but he had not asked her; her instinct also said "no";
besides, there was the physical impossibility of walking with him when
he went so striding. She sat down in the dusk to wonder--to wait.

He went to the lake shore. A heavy gale was blowing from the north and
the lake was a wild waste. It touched him as the sage plains did; and
the rough wind helped him by driving away all other folk afoot.
Northward he went, feeling, but seeing nothing, of the rolling waters.
Jack Shives with his caustic words came back to mind: "It's their
'fore-God duty to steal if their babies are hungry and they can't feed
them any other way." Jim had never seen these things before; now they
were the whole world; he had seen nothing else these slumming days. His
spiritual ferment was such that, one by one, all the texts he had read
came back as commentaries on this new world of terror. He recalled the
words of the Master: "Your Heavenly Father knoweth ye have need of these
things"; the fearful doom of those that "offend these little ones"; the
strict injunction to divide with the needy and care for the helpless;
and again, the words, "The Kingdom of heaven is within you"--not in a
vague, unplaced world after death, but here, now--and those who thought
that, by placating the custodians of costly edifices, they were laying
up "treasure in heaven" were blindly going to destruction.

He strode in the night with his brain awhirl. The old texts held for him
some new power: "Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness,
and all these things shall be added into you"; and again, "The kingdom
of heaven is within you"; "Sell all that thou hast and give to the
poor." In vain he sought for inspired words that would reestablish the
happy land beyond the grave that his teachers had ever pictured in set
phrase. Yet every word of the Master pointed the other way. "_Here_";
"_now_"; and "_first within_" was the kingdom. And the hollowness of all
the rich man's preachment--that the poor must suffer patiently in hope
of a reward beyond the grave--was more and more a hideous stratagem as
in his mind arose together two portrait types: the pinched, sullen,
suffering face of the slums and the bloated, evil face to be found on
the boulevard.

The mockery of it horrified as the immensity of it all swamped him. He
had no mind, no equipment, for the subtleties of theology, and his head
was a whirl of maddening contradictions, till the memory of his mother's
simple devotion came like a cooling drink in his fever: "Never mind
trying to reason it all out; you can't do it; no one can. Only ask what
would the Master have done?" Yes, that was easy. "Feed the hungry,
clothe the naked, visit the sick"; and turning, he wheeled homeward. The
upheaval of all foundations seemed less dreadful. He could not expect to
reason it all out. It was enough to do as the Master would have done;
and, whether it was the feeding of the multitude, the healing of the
lepers, the gentleness to the woman taken in adultery, or the helping of
the man who fell among thieves, there was no doctrine, no
preaching--only kindness shown as sympathy and physical help in their
troubles, here and now. The words of another childhood friend came back
to him--those of Fighting Bill Kenna. He used to say, "I don't care a
dom what he is, if he's a good neighbour." Yet the neighbour in question
was a papist and they were kind and friendly every day of the year,
except on those two set apart by the devil to breed hate. Kenna was
right where his heart led him and wrong where his creed was guide.

Hartigan could not have told why he went alone on that walk. He only
knew that in this crisis something cried out in him to be alone with the
simple big things. Why should the worldly-wise companion he had chosen
be left out? He didn't know; he only felt that he wanted no worldly
wisdom now. He wished to face the judgment day in his soul all alone. He
would not have done so a year before; but the Angel of Destiny had led
on an upward trail and now he was brought aside to the edge so that he
might look over, and down, and know that he was climbing.

       *       *       *       *       *

Belle met him at the door. Her face was anxious. But his look reassured
her. He took her on his knees as one might lift a child and, sitting
with his arm around her and gazing far away, he said: "I had a
landslide, Belle. All my church thought and training were swept away in
a moment. I was floundering, overwhelmed in the ruin, when I found a
big, solid, immovable rock on which I could build again. It was not the
Church, it was my mother gave it to me. She used to say: 'Don't try to
reason it all out; no one can. Only try to do as the Master would do';
what that is we are not always sure; but one who followed Him has told
us, 'Keep cool and kind and you won't go far astray.'"

She looked into his face and saw something that she had never seen there
before. The thought that flashed through her mind was of Moses and how
his countenance showed that a little while before he had talked with
God. She was awed by this new something he had taken on; and her
instinct hushed the query that arose within her. She only gripped his
hand a little and looking far away, said slowly: "There are times when
He comes to talk with His own. I think he wanted to walk with you alone
by the lake and talk, as He one time walked with His men on the shore of
Galilee."

"My mind is clear now, Belle," he continued, "if these people want me to
begin here merely as orthodox pulpit preacher, I must give up the post.
That is what I want to be, but this is not the time or place for it. If,
on the other hand, they will let me try to help those who need help, and
in the form in which they need it--well and good; I will do my best to
understand and meet the problems. But we must at once have a clear
understanding."

She put her arms about him and after a little silence said: "I am with
you to the finish, Jim. I know you have received a message and have
guidance as to how it should be delivered."

It was in the little flat, with sagebrush in the vases, that they
thought it out, and reached a solution that was the middle of the road.
The first presentation of his new understanding Jim made to the Board of
Deacons two days later. He said:

"When a man is swimming for his life, he does not want to discuss
politics. When a man's children are hungry, he can't be expected to
respect the law that prevents him from feeding them. When a man has no
property, you needn't look to him for a fine understanding of the laws
of property. When a man has no chance for lawful pleasures in life, he
cannot be blamed much for taking any kind that comes within reach. When
a man's body is starved, cold, and tormented, he is not going to bother
about creeds that are supposed to guide his soul."

"All of which we freely admit," said Mr. Hopkins, with characteristic
gravity. "The problems that you name are very real and grave, but they
are the problems of the nation. Rest assured that every man of force in
America to-day is aware of these things, and is doing all he can to meet
them squarely. Moreover, they are being met with success--slow, but
continued success.

"Are you prepared to outline the plan by which you would contribute to
the local solution of these national problems?"

Yes, Hartigan had it there on paper. "I must approach these people
through the things which they know they need. They don't feel any need
of a church, but they do feel the need of a comfortable meeting place
where the wholesome love of human society may be gratified. Their lives
are devoid of pleasure, except of the worst kinds. This is not choice,
but is forced on them; there is not a man, woman or child among them
that does not--sometimes, at least--hunger for better things--that would
not enjoy the things that you enjoy, if they had the chance. I want
harmless pleasures in abundance put within their reach.

"Man is an animal before he is a soul; so I would begin by providing the
things needful for a body. All men glory in physical prowess; therefore
I want a gymnasium, and with it, the natural accompaniments of bath
house and swimming tank. In short, I don't want a church; I want an
up-to-date People's Club, with a place for all and a welcome for all."

The deacons sat back and gazed at one another. "Well," said Deacon
Starbuck, president of the Stock Bank, "you surely have a clear-thinking
business head among your gifts."

There was a distinct split in the views of the Board. The older men
objected that this was an organization for propagating the Gospel of
Christ, not for solving economic problems, and proved with many
Scripture texts that we must "first of all seek the Kingdom of God and
His righteousness," after having secured which, the rest would follow.

But the younger men took Hartigan's view that it was no time to talk
politics to a man when he was swimming for his life. Fortunately,
Hopkins was able to stave off action, pending a fuller discussion, and
brought that on at once.

"Let us understand. Is the club to be a charity, a benevolence, or a
business proposition--that is, a free gift, a partly supported
institution, or a dollar-for-dollar bargain?"

The older men believed in charity. Jim opposed it as wrong in principle.
As a business proposition it was hopeless, at present; so he definitely
labelled it a "benevolence."

"All right," said Hopkins, "now how much money do you want, and how long
to make good?"

Again Jim referred to the paper in his hand.

"I want twenty-five thousand dollars cash to provide and equip a
temporary building; I want five thousand a year to run it, and I want
one thousand dollars a year salary paid to my wife, who is with me in
all things, and will give all her time to it. I want three years to make
good, that is to make a noticeable reduction in drink and crime, which
is the same thing, and this we shall gauge by the police records. By
that time I shall have fifteen hundred families in touch with the club,
paying dues to it. I shall stand or fall by the result. If I satisfy
you, I shall ask for a hundred-thousand-dollar building at the end of
that time."

"You say nothing about street sermons," said a plaintive old gentleman
with a long white beard and the liquid eyes of an exhorter.

"No, not one. I don't want them. I can work better indoors."

The president said, "Well, Mr. Hartigan, perhaps it would be well for
you to retire, in order that we may freely discuss your plan. As you
seem to have it on paper, would you mind leaving the document?" Jim
hesitated, glanced at it, then handed it to Mr. Hopkins. It was all in a
woman's hand.

In fifteen minutes, Jim was summoned to learn the decision. They
accepted, not unanimously, but they accepted his entire proposition,
with the exception of one item; they would not pay salary to or
officially recognize his wife. It was a bitter pill, and Jim's eyes were
brimming with tears and his face flushed at the injustice when he went
home to tell her. Poor little woman! Her lips tightened a trifle, but
she said: "Never mind, I'll work for it just the same. I'm afraid they
are still in the Dark Ages; but the light will come."




CHAPTER LII

The Boss


It had been a private dwelling, far out on the prairie once, but the
hot, steady lava flow of the great city had reached and split and swept
around the little elevated patch of grimy green with its eleven
despairing trees. A wooden house it was, and in the very nature of it a
temporary shift; but the committee--Hopkins, Hartigan, and Belle--felt
it worth looking into.

With the agent, these three went over it and discussed its possibilities
and the cost. Ten times in that brief talk did Hopkins find himself
consulting Belle when, in the ordinary process, he should have consulted
Hartigan. Why? No man raises himself to the power and pitch that Hopkins
had attained, without a keen, discriminating knowledge of human nature.
And he felt the fact long before he admitted it even to himself: "Yes,
he's a pair of giant wings, but she's the tail, all right." And he was
not displeased to find this original estimate justified by events.

The three years' lease was signed; and a bulletin board appeared on the
bravest of all the battered old trees at the front--the very battle
front. A gnarled and twisted cedar it was, and when a richer name than
"Club" was sought for the venture, it was this old tree that linked up
memory with itself and the house was named, not "The People's Club," as
at first intended, but "Cedar Mountain House"--the word "mountain" being
justified in the fact that the house was on a prairie knoll at least a
foot above the surrounding level.

The bulletin board displayed this to all passers-by:

    ---------------------------------------------------
    |              CEDAR MOUNTAIN HOUSE               |
    |                                                 |
    |                     Notice                      |
    |                                                 |
    |A Meeting to organize this Club will be held here|
    |on these premises Sunday afternoon next. Men and |
    |women who are interested are cordially invited.  |
    |                                                 |
    |                  REFRESHMENTS                   |
    ---------------------------------------------------

The Board of Deacons would have had a wrangle over each and every word
of that notice. That was why they never saw it till long afterward.

"Now what's going to happen?" said Hopkins.

"A few will come and act very shyly; but I've a notion the refreshments
will bring them," was Belle's guess.

"I am afraid we have omitted something of importance," said Jim. "We are
invading a foreign savage country without taking any count of the native
chiefs."

"What's your idea?" said Hopkins, sharply.

"I mean, we have arranged matters with the real estate man, and the
Church workers and the police; but we haven't taken the trouble to look
up the ward boss."

"We ignored the boss because we thought he was an enemy," said Hopkins.

"I'm not so sure about that," said Jim. "I've been talking with the
police sergeant, who knows him well. He says he's a queer mixture of
prizefighter and politician. He can protect anything he likes, and
pretty nearly drive out anything he doesn't like. Isn't it worth while
making a bid for his support? It may please him to be asked."

"Who is he?"

"Oh, a saloon-keeper, Irish, ex-pugilist. His name is Michael Shay. He's
easy to find," said Jim.

"Let's go now," said Hopkins. "But I'm afraid that this is where you
drop out, Mrs. Hartigan."

So they went down to the headquarters of the boss. It was an ordinary
Chicago saloon of less than ordinary pretensions. The plate-glass and
polished-mahogany era had not yet set in. The barkeeper was packing the
ice chest and a couple of "types" were getting their "reg'lar" as the
two strangers from another world entered. The build of Hartigan at once
suggested plain-clothes policeman, and the barkeeper eyed him
suspiciously. Hopkins spoke first:

"Is the boss in?"

The barkeeper made a gesture, pointing to the back room.

"May we see him?"

"I s'pose so." And again, with a jerk of the thumb, the back room was
indicated.

The two walked in. It was a small room, meanly furnished, with a square
table in the centre. Sitting by it were three men. Two were drinking
beer--one a small, thin man; the other a red-faced specimen with rotund
outline. The third and biggest was smoking a briarwood pipe. He was a
heavily built man with immense shoulders square jaw, and low, wrinkled
forehead; deep under his bushy eyebrows were two close-set, twinkling
gray eyes, which were turned on the visitors with a hostile stare.

"Is Mr. Michael Shay here?" asked Hopkins.

"I'm Mike Shay," said the smoker, without rising or removing his pipe;
"what do ye want?" There was a sullen defiance in the tone that showed
resentment at the different dress and manner of the strangers.

"We have come to ask for your support for the club we are going to open
in the old house down the street."

"Support nuthin'," was the gracious reply.

Hopkins began to explain that this was not to be a rival show--no drinks
would be sold; the idea was merely to found a place of amusement for the
people. The only effect on the boss was to evoke a contemptuous
"E-r-r-r!" and an injunction, in Chicago vernacular, to get out of that
as soon as they liked--or sooner. And, by way of punctuation, he turned
to expectorate copiously, but with imperfect precision at a box of
sawdust which was littered with cigar stumps. The interview was over--he
wished them to understand that. He turned to his companions.

Hartigan felt that it was his chance now. He began: "See here, now,
Michael Shay; you're an Irishman and I'm an Irishman----"

"Oh, g'wan!" and Shay rose to walk out the back way. As he did so, Jim
noticed fully, for the first time, the huge shoulders, the strong, bowed
legs, the gorilla-like arms; and the changing memory of another day grew
clear and definitely placed. There could be no doubt about it now; this
was bow-legged Mike, the teamster of seven years before.

At once, a different colour was given to Jim's thought and manner; no
longer cautious, respectful, doubtful, he began in his own more
boisterous way, "Say, Mike. I have a different matter to talk about
now."

Mike stopped and stared.

Jim proceeded. "Were you ever at Links, Ontario?"

"Maybe I was, an' maybe I wasn't. What's that to you?"

"Well, do you remember licking a young fellow there for jerking the roof
log out of the hotel with your masting team of oxen?"

"Bejabers, I do that"; and Mike's eyes twinkled for the first time with
a pleasant look.

"Well, Mike, I am that fellow; an' that's what ye gave me." Jim raised
his chin and showed an irregular scar.

"Well sure, that's the Gospel truth"; and Michael grinned. "By gosh,
that's the time I had to skip out of Chicago. A little election fuss ye
understand," and he chuckled. "Set down. What'll ye drink?" and the huge
hand swung two chairs within reach.

"No," said Jim. "I'm not drinking to-day; but I want to tell you that I
was only a kid when you licked me. I swore that some day I'd meet you
and have another try. Well, I've filled out some in the last seven
years, an' some day, when ye feel like it, we might put on the gloves
together."

Mike chuckled, "Now you're talking! What's the matter with right now?"
and he pointed to a room farther back. "But, say, ye ain't in training,
are ye?"

"No; are you?"

"No."

"Then come on."

Mike opened the next door and led the way into a larger room, with the
fixings of a regular boxing academy, followed by his friends and one or
two additional customers from the bar room.

Hopkins followed Hartigan, and was filled, apparently, with strange and
mixed emotions. "Really, Mr. Hartigan, as President of the Board of
Deacons, I must protest against this whole shocking procedure." Then, in
a different tone: "But, as a man, by jinks! I'm going to see it
through."

"Why not?" said Jim. "Sure it's simple and easy. In about three rounds,
I'll get him or he'll get me; then we'll shake hands and all be good
friends ever after. It couldn't have happened better."

Both men stripped to the waist, and the contrast was as great as the
resemblance. Broad, equally broad, and superbly muscled, the
saloon-keeper was, if anything, heavier, but there was just a suspicion
of bloat over all his frame. Jim was clean built, statuesque--a Jason
rather than a Hermes. He was by six inches taller, but the other had
just as long a reach. And, as the officious patrons of the "pub"
strapped on the gloves and made the usual preparation of wet sponge and
towel, it seemed in all respects an even match--in all respects but one;
Jim was twenty-odd, Mike was forty-odd.

The small man with a squeaky voice installed himself as timekeeper. He
struck the gong, and the boxers met. Jim always smiled and bared his
teeth while boxing. Mike was one of the bull-dog jaw; he kept his lips
tight shut, and his small eyes twinkled with every appearance of rage.

On the first round, the great experience of the pugilist enabled him to
land one or two heavy jolts, and when the gong sounded the time-limit,
Jim had got rather the worst of it.

The second round opened much like the first. Jim landed on Mike's under
jaw more than once; and Mike got in a body blow that was something to
think about.

It was the third round that told the tale. What chance in a fight has
forty-five against twenty-five? The extra weight of the prize fighter
was mere softness. His wind was gone; and half the time had not passed
before Jim landed under his left jaw the classic punch that Mike had one
time given him, and Mike went down like a sack of meal.

In five minutes, he was up and game, but the bout was over. The men
shook hands, and Michael, rapidly recovering his spirits, rumbled out of
his deep chest: "Bejabers, it's the first time in five years I've been
knocked out--and it was done scientific. Say, Hartigan, ye can put me
down for a member of your club; or yer church or whatever the dom thing
is an' I'll see ye get whatever ye need in the way of protection; an' if
ye want to sell any liquor on the sly, that'll be all right. You count
on Mike."

Then, with a singular clearing of hate and an access of good
feeling--psychological reactions which so often follow in the wake of a
finish fight--the men all shook hands and parted in excellent humour.

"By George!" said President Hopkins of the Board of Deacons, "I wouldn't
have missed that for a thousand dollars. It was perfectly bully--just
what we wanted! I've heard of things like this, but never really
believed they happened. It's a new side of human nature for me. I
wouldn't have missed it for--no, not for five thousand dollars."




CHAPTER LIII

The First Meeting


The notice on the old tree had been up a week. By Thursday there had
been no sign of response; on Friday Jim had had it out with the boss;
and Saturday morning the community seemed, in some subtle way, to be
greatly stirred by the coming event. Sunday afternoon there was a fairly
good assemblage of men and women in the large room of the rearranged old
house. Bow-legged Mike was not present; but the little man with the
squeaky voice--commonly known as "Squeaks"--was there to represent him,
as he did in divers ways and on different occasions in the ward.

Hartigan and Hopkins were on the platform. Belle sat at a small table to
act as recording secretary. Hopkins opened the meeting by introducing
Hartigan, who spoke as follows:

"My friends; we are assembled to discuss the formation of a club to
provide for the residents of this district such things as they need in
the way of a convenient social meeting place and whatever else is
desirable in a club. We have not fully worked out our plan, but this is
the main idea: the club will be called Cedar Mountain House; it will be
managed by five governors--two of them appointed by the men who own the
building lease; two of them elected by the people who join; these four
to elect a fifth as chairman of the board.

"The club is open to men and women twenty-one years of age; their
families come in free on their tickets. The dues are to be ten cents a
week, or five dollars a year. This covers the gymnasium, the lecture
hall, the library, and the baths. Now we are ready for any questions."

A very fat woman, with a well-developed moustache, rose to claim the
floor, and began: "I want to know----"

Hopkins interrupted: "As the Chair is not acquainted with all present,
will the speakers kindly announce their names?"

The woman made a gesture of impatience--evidently every one should know
_her_ name: "I am Dr. Mary Mudd, M. D., of Rush College, unmarried,
Resident Physician of the Mudd Maternity Home and the winner of the Mudd
medal for an essay on misapplied medicine. There! Now I want to know are
women eligible for office in this club?"

To which Hopkins replied: "Since women are admitted to membership and
pay dues, they are eligible for all offices."

"Well, now, I'm with you," said Dr. Mudd; and she sat down.

Now arose a thin, dark man with a wild shock of hair, a black beard, a
red tie and a general appearance of having _-ski_ at the end of his
name. "I vant to know do you hev to be religious your vay in dis cloob?"

"Kindly give your name," said the Chair.

"Veil, I'm Isaac Skystein; I'm a renovator of chentlemen's deteriorated
vearing apparel, and I vant to know of dis is a missionary trick, or do
it be a cloob vere von can talk de freedom of speech?"

"You do not have to belong to any Church," announced the Chairman.

"Vell; is it to be de religious talk?"

"Once a week, or maybe once a month, there will be a debate in this
hall, at which entire freedom of speech will be allowed."

"Dat mean I can get up an' say I doan take no stock in your dern
religion? I vant de freedom of de speeches, Ya!"

"It means that, at the proper time, each will have a chance to get up
and say exactly what he thinks within the decencies of debate."

"Vell, I tink I'll join for a vhile, anyvay."

Then a red-faced man introduced himself. "I'm Jack Hinks, teamster, and
I want to know if any drinks will be sold on the premises."

"No, sir; nothing intoxicating."

"I mean on the sly."

"No, sir: nothing, absolutely nothing."

"Well, Mike Shay tipped me off that it was to be 'wet' on the quiet."

"He made a mistake; this is to be a strictly teetotal club."

"That settles it. What's the good of a club where you can't have no fun?
Good night!" and out he went.

A lanky youth with unhealthy rings around his eyes and brown stains on
his thumb asked if there were to be boxing lessons and would Mr.
Hartigan tell them about the scrap between himself and Mike Shay.
Mothers asked if a baby corral would be instituted, to set the mothers
free for a few hours each day. A tall, pale young man with a Southern
coo, asked "whether Negroes were to be admitted." The Chair dodged by
saying: "That will be decided by the vote of the majority."

A male person, with a beard and a tremulous voice, asked what the club's
attitude would be toward the Salvation Army. Before the Chair could
reply, little Skystein jumped up and shouted: "Mr. Chairman, ve don't
vant 'em; dey's all feelin's an' no brains. You don't see no Chews in de
Salvation Army--it's too many emotions; de Chews got too much
intellects, ve don't vant----"

"I rule you out of order!" shouted the Chair. "Sit down! Now for your
question: The club will welcome the Salvationists as individual members.
It does not recognize them as a body."

A fat, unsuccessful-looking man, asked if it held out any chance for a
job; and a red-headed masculine person of foreign design rose to inquire
whether the bathing would be compulsory. A preliminary vote was
overwhelmingly in favour of the five-dollar dues, though a small
minority thought it should be free; a group of four persons believed
they should draw compensation for coming.

The meeting answered every expectation; it fully introduced the club and
its leaders; it demonstrated the views of the possible members, and gave
the Board of Deacons a new light on human nature. All the business of
definite organization was deferred to the next meeting, to take place
one week later.




CHAPTER LIV

The Formation of the Club


Foundation Sunday came, and with it a respectable crowd at the House.
There were some who had brought babies--which was unfortunate, but
unavoidable--and there were one or two men too hilarious for good
manners; but the crowd was, on the whole, good-natured and desirable.

Mike Shay was not there, although Jim had tried to get him; but Mike had
a curious diffidence about appearing in public. All his power was
underground, and all his methods behind the scenes. Squeaks was there to
keep an eye on things, and his little bleary, ferret eyes watched each
person and detail with cunning, if not with discernment.

It was made perfectly clear that only members in good standing had
votes.

"Vell, vot dot mean, dot good at stannin'? Don't ve vote settin' down?"
demanded Skystein.

"It means members whose dues are fully paid, and who are not under
indictment for serious breach of rules."

"I want to pay one year's dues for myself and Mr. Michael Shay," said
Squeaks; and he walked to the secretary and paid ten dollars. This
indorsement by the boss produced immediate results.

"I'll take a year's membership," said a big, coarse, red-faced man. And
he rolled up the aisle to deposit his five dollars, giving his name as
Bud Towler. Jim remembered him as the third person in the back room the
day he met Michael Shay. He had not seen him since.

So many more came up now, mostly to pay a month's dues, which was the
minimum, that Belle was worked hard and other business was stopped.

Then, when all who wished to pay and register had done so, the voice of
Squeaks was heard: "I have here a list of names that I want to propose
for charter membership," and he read off a list of twenty-five men, none
of them present. Bud Towler got up and seconded the lot; the Chair was
asked to put the names to immediate vote, as it was a charter meeting;
all were carried, and Squeaks came forward and paid twenty-five dollars
dues for the lot to cover the next ten weeks, that is, to the end of a
year.

Belle whispered to Hopkins as Squeaks retired. The Chair nodded, rose
and explained. "In drawing up our constitution, we deemed it best, in
the interests of democracy, to do all voting by ballot and to exclude
all proxies."

"Dot's right, dot's all right!" shouted Skystein.

"Mr. Chairman, I protest," came the wire-like voice of Squeaks; this
measure, would, naturally, mean the disfranchisement of every man whose
business happened to keep him away at election time. How much more
reasonable it would be for him to empower some trusted friend to
represent him and his views, etc., etc.

On the matter of the ballot he was not so strong, but he did think "that
the manly, straightforward way was for a voter to announce his vote and
not be ashamed of his principles. Of course, he was aware that there was
much to be said on the other side, but he was in favour of proxies and
open voting."

"So am I," shouted Towler. "We ain't got no right to rob a man of his
vote because he happens to be a night watchman."

"Ah, vat's de matter mit ye?" said Skystein. "Effery-body knows you an'
Squeaks is in cahoots to run de hull push cart."

There was a good chance of a row; but Hopkins explained that voting by
mail was a different thing from voting by proxy, and every member in
good standing would get the chance to vote by mail on important matters,
when he could not be present.

No one could long have been in that meeting without realizing that it
was a veritable microcosm--a little world in which were all the
struggling, rival elements, the good and evil forces of the big world.
Not a problem that was tormenting the country but was represented in
vital strength in that club group. It was full of lessons and grave
responsibilities.

They were now ready for the elections. Squeaks rose and said: "Since the
owners of the lease are to nominate two of the four governors, it would
clear things up if their nominations were made first and the club
elections afterward."

This at once confronted Hopkins with a problem. He had a free hand, but
he was puzzled, because while it was understood that he was to be
president and Hartigan the active governor on the spot, they had not
secured a third man who, as governor, could be counted on for a
continued whole-souled support. It was Dr. Mary Mudd that let the
daylight into this problem by rising to say:

"Mr. Chairman, I understand we are free to elect a woman to the board of
governors as well as to any other office."

Hopkins had not thought of that, but the broad principle had been
established and he replied "Yes."

"Very good," said Dr. Mudd, "now there's a chance for common sense as
well as decency."

In a flash, Hopkins got the answer to his own problem. Belle Hartigan
had steadily been winning his appreciation. His admiration for her
clear-headedness and business training was increased at each meeting. He
knew now pretty well how often her brain was behind Jim's actions. In
any event, the trial would be for only two and one-half months, when
elections were to take place for the new year. He bent toward her: "Will
you be one of the appointed governors for the rest of the year?"

"Yes."

Hopkins rose and announced that the owners of the lease appointed Mr.
and Mrs. Hartigan as the two governors to represent them.

This was warmly applauded, especially by the women--led by Dr. Mudd.
There followed some sharp electioneering and the members elected Squeaks
and Skystein to represent them. Dr. Mudd, who had been nominated,
demanded a recount of the votes, but the election was sustained. The
four governors then met and within five minutes agreed on Hopkins for
president. So the board was formed and for good or ill, the club was
launched--in the slum, of the slum, and for the slum--but with a long,
strong arm from the other world; an outside thing, but meant in kindly
help.




BOOK V

THE CALL OF THE MOUNTAIN




CHAPTER LV

In the Absence of Belle


Every citizen of South Chicago remembers the work of the Cedar Mountain
House; how it grew and prospered, and how the old building became too
small and an annex across the street was called for. How its greatest
strength lay in the monthly free discussion of _any subject_ approved in
advance by the governors. How the rival parties of Skystein and Squeaks
alternately pulled and pushed each other about. How musical genius was
discovered in abundance and an orchestra formed as well as a monthly
minstrel show. How pool tables were introduced and a restaurant started.
How the movement to introduce beer was defeated by a small majority.
How, after due discussion, they adopted some seemingly hard policies,
such as the exclusion of all Negroes and Chinamen. How Squeaks led an
abortive attempt to disqualify all Jews. How the gymnasium became the
focal centre of all the boys in the neighbourhood. How they organized a
strong-arm squad of a dozen club members who acted as police, and
without offense, because they were of themselves. At the end of the
first six months, the House had more than justified its existence. It
had nearly four hundred members and was doing work that in a higher
state of civilization would be the proper care of the government.

It would have been hard to say who was the chief. Belle had been the
planner and executor and now was not only a governor, but secretary and
head of the women's department, on a fair business basis. But the growth
of power in Jim was obvious. It had all been very new to his ways of
thinking and, after all, Links and Chicago have little in common. Belle
had a business training that was essential, and her quick judgment
helped at every turn for it is a fact that second-class judgment right
now is better than first-class judgment to-morrow. The full measure of
her helpfulness in bearing the burdens was made transparently clear by a
sudden crisis in their affairs. A telegram from Cedar Mountain arrived
for Belle.

     Mother very ill. Come at once--FATHER.

It was impossible for both to go, so Belle set off alone for Cedar
Mountain, leaving Jim in charge of the flock at the Mountain House.
Alone--he didn't think it possible to feel alone in such a crowd. His
work was doubled in the absence of Belle, although Dr. Mary Mudd gave
not a little help in the mothers' department. It was a good thing for
Jim to find out just how much he owed to his wife. There was a
continuous stream of callers at the office with requests or complaints.
These had all been met by Belle. She had an even poise, a gentle
consideration for all, and certain helpful rules that reduced the
strain, such as exact hours for work, one call at a time, and written
complaints only. Jim's anxiety to placate and smooth out led him to
undertake too much, and the result was a deluge of small matters of
which he had previously known nothing. The exasperating accumulation of
annoyances and attacks, in spite of all his best and kindest endeavours,
invoked a new light.

"Oh, if Belle were only here!" was his repeated thought. "I don't know
how she manages, but she does. It's mighty strange how few of these
annoyances came up when she was in the office." He began to realize more
and more her ability. "She has more judgment, more tact than any of us;
she has been meeting these things all along, and saving me from them by
settling them without me. Yes, she's wiser than I am in such matters."

So he wrote her of his troubles. He detailed many cases in point and
added: "We miss you awfully; every one in the House complains. I haven't
got your cleverness and tact. It seems as if I made enemies every time I
tried to make friends. Come back as soon as you can." And if the truth
must be told there was a little flush of pleasure and triumph in her
soul. "Now he knows what I have known so long." And who shall blame her
for gloating a little over the deacons who, in the beginning, were
unwilling to recognize her? But she had to send a discouraging reply.
For the angel of destiny said: "No, it is now time for him to walk
alone" and the telegram ran:

     Cannot come; Mother is very low.

After the first shock of disappointment he braced up, and, like a man
who has been retreating and who knows in his heart that he never meant
to make a stand as long as some one else could be depended on, he
upbraided himself and turned to face the fight. "There is a way of doing
it all, and I can do it." And in the resolve to win he found new
strength. In many small, but puzzling matters, he got guidance in the
practical sayings of men like Lincoln and Grant: "Be sure you are right,
then go ahead"; "Every one has some rights"; "In case of doubt, go the
gentle way"; "Never hunt for trouble." These were samples of the homely
wisdom that helped him and proved that the old proverbs are old wisdom
in shape for new use.

One man came to complain that a member had been drunk and disorderly at
a certain other place the night before. A year ago, Jim would have said
that it was a disgrace and that he would make a thorough investigation,
which would have meant assuming a special guardianship of each and every
member all the time. Wiser now, he said, "Since it was not on our
premises, we have no knowledge of the matter." On the other hand, it was
a serious affair when a member brought in a bottle of strong drink and
treated a number of weak friends until there was a wild orgy going on in
one of the rooms, in spite of official protests from those in charge.
This was clearly high treason; and repressing a disposition to gloss it
over, Hartigan expelled the principal and suspended the seconds for long
periods.

During a boyish contest in the gymnasium, a man somewhat in liquor,
shouted out a string of oaths at the youngsters. Jim rebuked him quietly
for using such language there, whereupon the man turned upon him with a
coarse insult and, misunderstanding the Preacher's gentleness, struck
him a vicious blow, which Jim only partly warded off. "If you do that
again, we may have to put you out," said Jim, inwardly boiling under the
double insult. Fortunately, the man's friends interfered now and got the
fellow away. For this Jim was most thankful. Afterward, he rejoiced
still more that he had restrained himself; and he knew Belle would flush
with pride at this victory over self, this proof of a growing
self-control.

Another week went by and again came word that Belle could not return for
perhaps ten days at the earliest. A dozen broils that Jim had been
postponing for Belle to arbitrate had now to be considered. Dr. Mary
Mudd was the leader of an indignant party of women to complain that
though the men were not more in numbers than the women they had
appropriated sixty out of the one hundred coat hangers.

Rippe, the tailor, was there to complain that Dr. Mary Mudd always
walked up the middle of the stairs, unlawfully delaying the traffic,
instead of keeping the proper right side. With his outstretched arms, he
illustrated the formidable nature of the barrier. Dr. Mudd retorted that
said Rippe had repeatedly smoked in the ladies' room, etc., etc. But
these were small matters easily adjusted. Two, much more serious, came
on him in one day.

First, he yielded to the temptation of having a beautiful banner hung on
the wall, because it was contributed and very decorative. It bore a
legend, "No popery." This was much in line with his private views, but
it made a great stir and cost them a score of members, as well as
incurring the dislike of Father O'Hara, hitherto friendly. His second
blunder was to allow the cook in the restaurant to put scraps of pork in
the soup, thereby raising a veritable storm among the many keen debaters
of the kosher kind, and causing the resignation of Skystein from the
board--temporarily at least.

It would have been much to Jim's taste to have an open war with Father
O'Hara and his flock. His Ulster blood was ready for just such a row.
And in his heart he believed pork and beans quite the best of foods. But
his opinions were not law; he had been learning many things. Others had
rights; and he won the disaffected back, one by one, by recognizing the
justice of their claims and by making kindly personal calls on each of
them.

Thus Jim Hartigan got a new knowledge of his own endowment and
discovered unsuspected powers. He had held his peace and triumphed in a
number of trying situations that two or three years before would have
ended in an unprofitable brawl. He had controlled his temper, that was a
step forward and he was learning to control those about him as well as
manage an organization. He had begun to realize his _prejudices_ and to
learn to respect the beliefs of others even when he thought them wrong.
The memory of Father Cyprian and the Sioux boy had helped him to deal
kindly and respectfully with Skystein and Father O'Hara.

Strange to say, it was a travelling Hindu who supplied him with the
biggest, broadest thought of all. This swarthy scholar was deeply imbued
with the New Buddhism of Rammohan Roy and, when asked for his opinion of
some Romanist practices, he remarked softly, but evasively, "My religion
teaches me that if any man do anything sincerely, believing that thereby
he is worshipping God, he _is_ worshipping God and his action must be
treated with respect, so long as he is not infringing the rights of
others."

Jim took a long walk by the lake that day and turned over and over that
saying of the Hindu in the library. The thing had surprised him--first,
because of the perfect English in the mouth of a foreigner, and
secondly, because of the breadth and tolerance of the thought. He
wondered how he could ever have believed himself open-minded or fair
when he had been so miserably narrow in all his ideas. Where was he
headed? All his early days he had been taught to waste effort on
scorning the ceremonials great and small of Jews, Catholics, yes, of
Baptists even; and now the heathen--to whom he had once thought of going
as a missionary--had come to Chicago and shown him the true faith.

Striding at top speed, he passed a great pile of lumber and sawdust. The
fresh smell of the wet wood brought back Links--and his mother, and a
sense of happiness, for he had given up "trying to reason it all out."
He was no longer sure, as he once was, that he had omniscience for his
guide. Indeed he was sure only of this, that the kindest way is the only
way that is safe.

There was daylight dawning in his heart, and yet, across that dawn there
was a cloud which grew momentarily more black, more threatening.
Paradoxical as it seemed, Jim was intensely unhappy over the abandonment
of the ministerial career. The enduring force of his word as a man was
only another evidence of the authentic character of that deep emotional
outburst which had pledged him openly to the service of Christ. The work
at the Cedar Mountain House for a while satisfied the evangelical hunger
of his ardent soul. It was good, it was successful, it was increasing in
scope; but of its nature it could never be more than secular; it was
social work in its best form--that was all. The work of which he
dreamed, and to which he had consecrated his life was the preaching of
the Gospel, and, as the months passed, an unrest--the like of which he
had hardly known--took possession of him. These last weeks of Belle's
absence had brought on one of his periodic soul-searchings and the gloom
of it was as thick as a fog when the mail brought word of Belle's
return. As he sat with her letter in his hand his mind went back to the
hills and the free days and he longed to go back--to get away from the
ponderous stolidity of this pavement world.

He met her at the station and her joyousness was as a shock to him. And
yet, how hungry he was for every least word of that lost life.

"Oh, Jim, it was glorious to ride again, to smell the leather and the
sagebrush. I just loved the alkali and the very ticks on the sagebrush.
I didn't know how they could stir one's heart."

His eye glowed, his breath came fast, his nostrils dilated and, as Belle
looked, it seemed to her that her simple words had struck far deeper
than she meant.

"And the horses, which did you ride?" he queried. "How is Blazing Star?
Are they going to race at Fort Ryan this year? And the Bylow boys, and
the Mountain? Thank God, men may come and go, but Cedar Mountain will
stand forever." He talked as one who has long kept still--as one whose
thoughts long pent have dared at length to break forth.

And Belle, as she listened, saw a light. "He is far from forgetting the
life of the Hills," she said to herself as she watched him. "He is
keener than ever. All this steadfast devotion to club work is the
devotion of duty. Now I know the meaning of those long vigils, those
walks by the lake in the rain--of his preoccupation. His heart is in
Cedar Mountain." And she honoured him all the more for that he had never
spoken a word of the secret longing.




CHAPTER LVI

The Defection of Squeaks


Michael Shay had come to the club in person once or twice, but did not
desire to be conspicuous. It was clear now that the club was not to be
the political weapon at first suspected. The boss had another
organization through which to hold and make felt his power; but the fact
that it pleased a number of his voters was enough to insure his support.

Squeaks, however, was quite conspicuous and present on all important
occasions; it was generally supposed that he was there in the interests
of Shay, but that was not clearly proven. It was obvious that the club
was not in any way lined up for or against Shay. It was, however,
believed by Belle that Squeaks was there in the interests of Squeaks and
none other.

This strange, small person had a small, strange history--so far as it
was known. A lawyer, he had been disbarred for disreputable practice,
and was now a hanger-on of the boss, a shrewd person, quite purchasable.
He was convinced that he was destined to be a great boss, and satisfied
that Cedar Mountain House would help his plans--which lay in the
direction of the legislature--hence he sought to identify himself with
it. For the present, also, he stuck to Shay.

The approved boss system of the time rested on a regiment of absolutely
obedient voters, who voted not once, but many times in as many different
wards as needed. They were thoroughly organized, and part of their
purpose was to terrorize independent voters, or even "remove" men who
developed power or courage enough to oppose them; so the "reliable
squad" was important. As their ranks contained many convicts or men
qualified for life terms, they were a dangerous and desperate lot. They
responded at once and cheerfully to any duty call, and one "removal" per
night would have probably been less than average for a boss-ruled city
in those days. For this they received protection; that is, the police
and the Courts were so completely in the scheme that it was sufficient,
on the arrest of a "reliable," if the boss sent word to the judge or
State's attorney "to be keerful" as this was "one of our boys." Promptly
a flaw would be discovered in the indictment and the case dropped.

The boss who derives power from such a machine must ever look out for
the appearance of a rival, hence Shay's early watchfulness of the club;
but that gave place to a friendly indifference. He was a man superior to
his class, in some respects; for, though brutal and masterful on
occasion, it was said that he never "removed" a rival. At most, he had
applied pressure that resulted in their discreetly withdrawing. And he
cared little for money. Most bosses are after either money or power or
both. Shay loved power. The revenues he might have made out of tribute
from those protected were not well developed, and most of what he
received he disbursed in generous gifts to those in his ward who needed
help. It was said that no man ever went hungry from Mike Shay's door,
which was perfectly true; and the reward that he loved above all things
was to be pointed out on the street or in the car as "Mike Shay." To
overhear some one say, "That's Michael Shay, the big Boss of the South
Ward," meant more to him a thousand fold than any decoration in the gift
of the greatest of Old-World potentates.

Hartigan learned that he could go to Shay at any time for a reasonable
contribution, after having made it clear that it was for some one in
distress--not for a church. The only return Shay ever asked was that Jim
come sometimes and put on the gloves with him in a friendly round. Most
of Shay's legal finesse was done through Squeaks. That small, but active
person was on the boards of at least twenty-five popular organizations,
and it was understood that he was there to represent the boss.
Extraordinary evidence of _some one's_ pull was shown when one day
Squeaks was elevated to the Bench. It was only as a police magistrate,
but he was now Judge Squeaks, with larger powers than were by law
provided, and he began to "dig himself in," entrench himself, make his
position good with other powers, in anticipation of the inevitable
conflict with Boss Shay. It became largely a line-up of political
parties; Squeaks had made a deal with the party in power at Springfield,
and gave excellent guarantees of substantial support--both electoral and
financial--before the keen-eyed myrmidons of Shay brought to the boss
the news that Squeaks had turned traitor.

Then the war was on; not openly, for Squeaks had scores of documents
that would, before any impartial jury, have convicted Shay of
manipulating election returns, intimidating voters, and receiving
blackmail. It was important to get possession of these documents before
they could be used. While the present party held power in State
politics, there would be no chance for Shay to escape. There were two
possibilities, however; one, that the election close at hand might
reverse the sympathies of those in power; the other, that Squeaks might
find it unwise to use the weapon in his hands.

Now was the Cedar Mountain House in peril, for Shay's support was
essential. At a word from him, the police might call the club a
disorderly house, and order it shut up. The fact that Squeaks was a
governor strengthened the probability of drastic action. On the other
hand, Squeaks as police magistrate, could restrain the police for a time
or discover flaws in as many indictments as were brought up. The
District Court could, of course, issue a warrant over the head of the
police magistrate; but the Court of Appeals was friendly to Squeaks and
would certainly quash the warrant; so that, for the time being the many
unpleasant possibilities simply balanced each other, and the club went
on in a sort of sulphurous calm like that before a storm.

Then came an exciting day at the club. By an unusual chance both Shay
and Squeaks met there and the inevitable clash came. Angry words passed
and Shay shouted: "Ye dirty little sneak, I'll fix ye yet!" Squeaks,
cool and sarcastic, said: "Why don't ye do it now?" Shay rushed at him
with a vigorous threat, and would have done him grievous bodily injury
but for the interference of Hartigan and others. Shay waited at the gate
for Squeaks, but the Judge slipped out the back way and disappeared.

It was Bud Towler who called on the Judge with a letter from Boss Shay,
demanding the return of certain personal papers and authorizing said Bud
to receive them. To which Judge Squeaks replied: "He better come for
them himself. He knows where I live. I'll be home every night this
week."

And thither that night with two friends went Shay. It was a very simple
lodging. These men habitually avoid display. The janitor knew all too
well who Shay was.

"Is Squeaks at home?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"I'm going up to see him, and if I lay him over my knee and spank him
till he squeals, ye needn't worry; it's nothing." Then up went Shay,
while his friends stayed below, one at the front of the house and the
other in the lane that commanded the back.

The trembling janitor heard the heavy foot go up the wooden stairs; he
heard a voice, then a crash as of a door forced open, then heavy steps
and a pistol shot. A window was opened behind the house, and _something_
was thumped down into the back yard. A little later, the boss came
hurriedly down the stairs. The timid janitor and his trembling wife saw
the big man step out with a bundle under his arm. Then all was still.

After twenty minutes of stupefaction, they began to realize that they
should go up to the Judge's room. They mounted the stairs together,
carrying a lamp. The door had, evidently, been forced. The room was in
some disorder; the drawers of the desk were open, and papers scattered
about. On one or two of the papers was fresh blood. The window was
closed, but not fastened; the end of the curtain under it seemed to give
proof that it had recently been opened. On the sill was more fresh
blood.

There was no sign of the Judge.

As they gazed about in horror, they heard a noise in the back yard and
looking out saw, very dimly, two men carrying off a heavy object, they
lifted it over the back fence and then followed, to disappear.

Schmidt, the janitor, was terror-stricken. Evidently, the Judge had been
murdered and his body was now being made away with. What was to be done?
If he interfered, the murderers would wreak their vengeance on him; if
he refrained, he would be blamed for the murder or at least for
complicity.

"I tink, Johann, dere's only one ting, and dat is go straight an' tell
de police," said his wife. As they stood, they heard a light foot on the
stairs. Their hearts stood still, but they peered out to see a woman in
a gray cloak step into the street, and they breathed more freely. Now
they rushed to the station house and told their tale in tears and
trembling.

The Police Captain was scornful and indifferent. Had there been but one
witness, he might have ordered him away; but two witnesses, intensely in
earnest, made some impression. He sent an inspector around to see. That
official came back to report the truth of the statement made by the
Schmidts, that the Judge's room was empty, upset, and had some blood
stains; but he attached little importance to the matter. He had,
however, locked up and sealed the door, pending examination.

Next morning, there was an attempt to hush the matter up, but a reporter
appeared in the interests of a big paper, and by a clever combination of
veiled threats and promises of support, got permission to see the room.
The reporterial instinct and the detective instinct are close kin, and
the newspaper published some most promising clues: The Judge was visited
at midnight by a man whom he had robbed and who had threatened to kill
him; a broken door, papers stolen, a scuffle, traces of human blood (the
microscope said so) in several places, blood on the window sill, a heavy
something thrown out of the window and carried off by two men, blood on
the back fence, and no trace of the Judge.

It was a strong case, and any attempt to gloss it over was rendered
impossible by the illustrated broadside with which the newspaper
startled the public.




CHAPTER LVII

The Trial


All Chicago remembers the trial of Michael Shay. It filled the papers
for a month; it filled folk's minds and mouths for two. Many a worse
murder had been quietly buried and forgotten, but this was too
conspicuous. The boss, facing a decline of his power, had undoubtedly
murdered the man he had begun to fear, and the parties in control of all
the machinery of justice were against the accused.

The case was thoroughly threshed out. Shay had openly threatened the
life of Squeaks; he had tried before to do him hurt; had gone with two
men to Squeaks's lodgings; had warned Schmidt that there was going to be
"a little fuss"; had broken open the door and got certain papers--his
own property, undoubtedly, but now splashed with blood; a shot had been
heard--a heavy something thrown from the back window and then carried
off by two men; blood on the floor, the sill and the back fence; and the
Judge had disappeared from the face of the earth. The case was clear,
the jury retired, but quickly brought in a verdict of guilty, although
at every point there was nothing but circumstantial evidence.

Jim Hartigan was one of the first friends to call on Shay after his
arrest, and Belle came soon after. They heard his story, which was
simple and straight: Squeaks was holding the papers which would be, at
least, damaging to Shay's property and reputation; he got them in
confidence and then defied Shay to come and take them. Shay decided it
would be well to take two witnesses and went, as planned, to Squeaks's
apartments. Finding the door locked and believing that Squeaks was
inside, he forced it open; the room was dark and no one was there. He
lighted the gas and rummaged through the desk for the papers that
belonged to him, paying no attention to any others. He saw blood on some
of the papers, but didn't know where it came from. As he was coming
away, he heard a pistol shot, either upstairs or outside, he didn't know
which. He knew nothing about anything thrown from the window. He got his
own property and came away.

Although every particle of evidence adduced by the prosecuting attorney
was circumstantial, it was very complete. Some juries would have felt
reasonable doubt, but no one could get over the facts that Shay had
threatened Squeaks's life and that Squeaks had disappeared after a visit
from Shay which left traces of blood in Squeaks's apartment. The trial
over, the verdict of guilty rendered, Shay was asked if he could offer
any reason why he should not be condemned. He rose and said: "Only that
I didn't do it. I never saw him from that time in the club a week
before."

Then the judge pronounced the awful words: "...Hanged by the neck till
you are dead." Shay sat stunned for a minute, then, when the jailor
tapped his shoulder, rose and walked silently forth to the cell of the
doomed.

It is the hour of trial that sifts out your friends. There were two at
least who followed every move in that crowded court room--Hartigan and
his wife. They had learned that the crude, brutal exterior of the
prizefighter held a heart that was warm and true. They had learned that
they could go to him with certainty of success when they wanted help for
some struggling man or woman in their ward. They knew that he would not
drive a bargain for his help, nor plaster his gift with religious
conditions. It was enough for him to know that a fellow-being was in
need and that he had the power to help him. Shay was a product of
submergence and evil system; he was wrong in his theories, wrong in his
methods, wrong in his life; but his was a big, strong spirit--ever kind.
And out of the strange beginnings there had grown a silent but real
friendship between the Hartigans and himself.

On the black day of the verdict and the sentence, Belle and Jim were
sadly sitting at home. "Jim," she said, "I know he didn't do it; his
story is so simple and sound. It's easy to get human blood if you have a
friend in the hospital; he is innocent. We know that Squeaks could
easily have access to a room upstairs; that bundle may have been thrown
out from the window merely as a part of a plot. Everything is against
Shay now because he is in wrong with the party; but, surely, there is
something we can do."

"His attorney asked for an appeal, but I am afraid it won't be
entertained; there is no new evidence--no reason for delay that they can
see or wish to see."

"That attorney has behaved very suspiciously, I think. Don't you think
the governor might intervene with at least a commutation?" she
suggested.

"The governor! His worst enemy," said Jim. "The governor's been after
him for years."

Hope seemed gone. They sat in silence; then she said: "Pray, Jim; maybe
light will come." And together they prayed that the God of justice and
mercy would send his light down among them and guide them in this awful
time. It was a short and simple prayer, followed by a long silence.

Belle spoke: "There is only one thing that can be done; that is find
Squeaks. I know he is living somewhere yet, gloating probably over the
success of his plan to get rid of Shay. I know he is alive, and we must
find him. We have one month to do it, Jim. We must find him."

Jim shook his head. "We've tried hard enough already. We've examined
every corpse taken out of the river or exposed at the morgue."

"Well; doesn't that help to prove that he is alive?"

"We've advertised and notified every police station in the country," Jim
continued.

"They don't want to find him, Jim; they're on the other side."

"I don't know what else to do."

"Jim, I've read enough and seen enough of human nature to know that, if
Squeaks is alive, he's not hiding in California or Florida or London;
he's right here in South Ward where he can watch things. It's my belief,
Jim, that he's been in the court room watching the trial."

Jim shook his head; but she went on. "This much I'm sure; he would hang
around his former haunts, and we should leave nothing undone to find
him."

They went first to Shay's attorney, but he dismissed the idea as
chimerical, so they dropped him from their plans. Together they set to
work, with little hope indeed, but it was at least better to be up and
doing. Judge Squeaks's office was small, easily entered and productive
of nothing. The police would give no information and seemed little
interested in the new theory. Squeaks's lodgings yielded nothing new,
but they found that Belle's theory was right; he had also had a room on
the floor above. The woman in the gray cloak had called on him once or
twice in the previous month and had come once since. She was a sort of
janitress, as she had a key and straightened up his room. There was no
hint of help in this. There was only one of his haunts that they had not
thoroughly examined, that was the club. There was no need for that, as
they knew every one that came and went, at least by sight.

Mrs. Hartigan was sitting in the club office at the back of the building
next day when Skystein came in, and sat down to go over some club
letters, officially addressed to him. As he read he made a note on each
and sorted them into three neat piles. Belle watched him with interest
that was a little tinged with shame. It is so human to consider a man
inferior if he does not speak your language fluently, and the early
impression they had gotten of Skystein gave them a sense of lofty pity.
But it did not last. At every board meeting they had found reason to
respect the judgment and worldly knowledge of the little Hebrew; those
keen black eyes stood for more than cunning, they were the lights of
intellect. Belle turned to him now. If any one knew the underworld of
the South Ward it was he, and what he didn't know he had means to find
out.

She openly, frankly, told him all she knew and suspected. He heard her
at first doubtingly, then with growing interest, then with a glare of
intense attention and conviction at last. His eyes twinkled knowingly as
she expressed her opinion of the attorney. Skystein uttered the single
word "fixed." Then he tapped his white teeth with his slender forefinger
and rose to get the membership roll. He looked over it, but got no help;
there was no one entered within the last few months that they could not
fully account for.

They sat gazing in silence through the window into the adjoining reading
room when an elderly woman came in and sat down. She wore a gray cloak
and large goggles.

"Who is she?" said Belle. "I've seen her often enough, but I don't
remember her name."

"Dat's Mrs. Davis: she's been coming only about five months. She was one
of Squeaks's members."

A ray of hope shot into Belle's brain. "This fits the description of
Squeaks's cleaning woman. She knows where he is hidden; she takes him
food and keeps him posted. She is here now for the news." The woman at
the desk raised her face; through the goggles and through that inner
window she saw the two gazing at her. She rose quickly, but without
hurry, and left the building. Skystein turned after her, without
actually running, but she had disappeared.

"That woman knows where Squeaks is hiding," said Belle. But what became
of her was a puzzle. They were confronted now by a stone wall, for there
was no trace of her. The old janitor at Squeaks's lodging had not seen
her for two weeks and she did not again appear at the club.

Michael Shay's religion so far as he had any, was of the Ulster type,
and Jim Hartigan was accepted as his spiritual adviser and allowed to
see him often. Jim and Belle agreed that it was well to tell him
everything in their minds, to keep alive the light of hope, or maybe get
from him some clue. Two weeks passed thus without a hint. Then, one
evening as Skystein came late to the club, he saw a woman go out. He
went to the desk and asked who it was. The register showed a strange
name, but the clerk thought it was the gray woman till she looked at the
name. Skystein rushed out as fast as possible, just in time to see a
gray-cloaked figure board the car. There was no hack in sight so he
leaped on the next car and followed. He was able to watch the car most
of the time, but saw only one woman leave it. She was in black. At
length, he got a chance to run forward and mount the first car. He
stayed on the platform and peered in. There was no gray-cloaked woman.
He asked the conductor, and learned that a woman had got on and taken
off her cloak till she went out again three blocks back. At once his
Hebrew wit seized these two ideas: she had deliberately turned her
cloak; she was eluding pursuit.

Skystein went back at once to the street where the black-cloaked woman
had descended. Of course, he saw nothing of her, but there was a peanut
vender of his own race, at the corner. Skystein stopped, bought a bag of
peanuts and began to eat them. Casually he asked the merchant if that
woman in gray bought peanuts there. The vender didn't seem to
comprehend, so Skystein addressed him in Yiddish; told him the woman was
a detective, and promised to give ten dollars for information as to
where she lived or what she was after. The expression on the peanut
man's face showed an eagerness to find out the facts with all possible
speed. But a week went by and he had nothing to report.

Meanwhile, Jim was at Joliet in daily conference with Shay, reporting to
him the success or ill success of the search; reporting, alas, how
little help they got from those who were supposed to forward the ends of
justice. Money was not lacking, but it would help little; if an open
campaign were conducted to find the man they believed to be in hiding,
it might put an insuperable obstacle in the way. The governor was
approached, but he was little disposed to listen or order a stay, least
of all when they had nothing but a vague theory to offer.

Four days more went by, and Skystein found the peanut man in high
excitement. He had seen the gray woman; she passed down his street and,
before he could follow, turned into a side street; he left his peanuts
and ran to follow, but got no second glimpse. She must have gone into
one of the near-by tenements. "Didn't Mr. Skystein orter pay for de
peanuts stole by de boys, as well as de reward."

Two days of life remained to Shay. Hope had died out of their hearts.
Hartigan was preparing him for the great change that is always a bitter
change when so approached. Belle still clung to hope. She posted herself
where she could view the street, and made judicious inquiries, but got
no help. The gray mantle was not a complete identification; the woman
might have a dozen mantles. She went to the police station to enlist
their cooperation. The Precinct Captain took no stock in the story and
refused to order a house-to-house search. Finally--for even police are
human--he promised to search any particular house when it was indicated,
and to give reasonable support to any move that was obviously in the
cause of justice.

The morning of the execution came and nothing had developed to revive
their hopes. Belle was on watch at the street corner when on the main
avenue an excitement occurred. A Savoyard with a dancing bear was
holding a public show and gathering in a few coins. An idea came to her;
she made her way through the crowd and said: "Here, is a dollar, if you
make him dance before every house on this street." The Savoyard smiled
blandly, bowed, pocketed the dollar and, leading the bear into the side
street that Belle had watched so long, began the droning song that
caused the animal to rear up and sway his huge, heavy body round and
round as he walked. All the world came forth to see, or peered from
upper windows; all the world was watching the strange antics of the
bear--all but one. Belle's keen brown eyes were watching the crowd,
watching the doorways, and watching, at length, the windows with
desperate eagerness for sign of the gray woman. There seemed to be no
gray woman; but, of a sudden, she saw a thing that stopped her heart.
Flat against the window of a second-floor room, and intently watching
the bear, was the pale, wizened, evil face of Squeaks!

Belle's hand trembled as she noted the house, the number and the very
room; then, passing quickly around the corner, she hailed a cab and
drove for life to the telegraph office, where she telegraphed Jim:

     "Hold up the execution for two hours; we have found Squeaks."
     (Signed) "BELLE"

Then away to the police station. "Captain, Captain, I've found Squeaks!
Come, come at once and get him."

"I have to know about it first," said he, calmly.

"Oh, Captain, there is no time to lose. It is ten o'clock now; the
execution is fixed for noon."

The Captain shook his head.

"Then telegraph the Governor," she begged.

"He wouldn't pay any attention to your say-so."

"Then come at once and see; I have a cab here."

The Captain and two men went with Belle. They entered the cab. "I'll
give you double fare to go your fastest," Belle said through her white,
compressed lips; and the kindly cabman, sensing something out of common,
'Said, "I'll do my best, miss."

In ten minutes, they were in the side street. The bear was gone, the
crowd was gone. The police entered without knocking, went to the second
floor, to the very door and then knocked. There was no answer. The
Captain put his shoulder to the door and forced it in. There, sure
enough, standing in an attitude of fear in a far corner was the thin
woman of the gray cloak.

"Where is Judge Squeaks? He was seen in this room half an hour ago."

"I don't know what you mean," and she covered her face with her skinny
hands and began to cry.

"You must come to the station at once," said the Captain. Then to Belle:
"Will you testify that this is the woman?"

Belle was white and trembling, but she walked up and said: "I will
testify that this is--" She reached forward, peering at the woman's
hidden face. Then seizing the loose hair, Belle gave one jerk, the wig
came off, and they were facing Judge Squeaks!

"My God!" was all the Captain had to say. "The telephone as quick as
possible! You hold him." He dashed down the stairs and made for the
nearest long distance wire. It was half an hour before they could
connect with Springfield, only to learn that the Governor had left for
Chicago and was expected to arrive there about noon.




CHAPTER LVIII

In the Death House


Shay sat calmly waiting as the big clock ticked his life away that
morning in the house of death at Joliet. At eleven o'clock, Hartigan
received Belle's telegram: "We have found Squeaks." He rushed to the
Sheriff with it. That officer was very sorry, but "no one except the
Governor had any right to order a stay."

"Why, sir," said Jim, "you are not going to hang an innocent man, when
here is proof of his innocence."

"There is no proof in that telegram. I don't know who "Belle" is. I get
my orders from the Courts. No one but the Governor can order a
reprieve."

Jim sent a telegram to Springfield only to learn, as Belle had done,
that the Governor had left for Chicago. He sent telegrams to every one
who had the power to help. He telegraphed Belle; he rushed to the
Sheriff to beg for God's sake but one hour's reprieve. He hurried to the
penitentiary to find another telegram from Belle:

     Pray without ceasing for an hour's delay. We have Squeaks now.

But the clock ticked on. He literally ran to Michael's cell; the jailer
opened the way. "Michael," he gasped, "we have found Squeaks; we know
you are innocent."

Michael was the calmest of all. "Whatever is God's will I'll take
without a grumble," he said, and sat smoking.

At a quarter to twelve the Sheriff appeared.

"Why, Sheriff, you are not going to--when you know the reprieve is on
the way. You are not going to let a technicality lead you into murder?"

"I have no change in my instructions," said the Sheriff, "and no proof
that any change is on the way."

"Why; this is monstrous," gasped Jim. "An hour's delay is all we ask, so
the Governor can be reached."

The Sheriff motioned the guard to move on, and Shay walked firmly
between the two officers. They came into the prison yard. There
assembled were a score of officials and newspaper men.

"Have you any final statement to make?" asked the State officials.

"Nothing, only that I am innocent and Squeaks is alive at this moment."

That was an old story--an old trick to win time. The officers were
preparing to act, when Hartigan pale and exultant, swinging the last
telegram before the Sheriff, re-read it and for the first time truly got
its meaning. He said: "Let us pray."

They kneeled down, all of them, in accordance with the ancient custom,
and Jim began to pray. His voice was broken and husky, but it grew
steadier as he appealed to the God of Justice and Mercy. He prayed and
prayed; the clock struck twelve, but still he prayed. "Pray without
ceasing," Belle's message had said. His gift of speech stood by him now;
a quarter of an hour passed and still he was pouring out petitions to
the throne of grace; another quarter of an hour and his voice was a
little weary, but he prayed on. Still another, and another, and the
clock struck one. All those men still kneeled, dead silent, except for a
low, sobbing sound from the little group farther off. The Sheriff waited
uneasily; he coughed a little and waited for a gap--but there was no
gap; Jim bared his heart to God that day. He prayed as he never did
before and all his bodily strength went into his prayer. At a quarter
past one, when he was still calling on the God of Life for help, the
Sheriff knew not what to do, for by the unwritten law the man of God had
a right to finish his prayer. At half past one, the Sheriff moved
uneasily and at length uttered a faint "Amen," as though to give the
signal to stop. As it had no effect he realized for the first time just
what Hartigan's desperation and iron will were leading him to do, he
took cover under the technicality and played the game with him. Shay
would have a chance as long as the Preacher's voice lasted. The party
all stood, hats off, except those around the condemned one. They still
kneeled, some of them, while others in bodily weariness, were frankly
sitting on the scaffold. And the Preacher prayed on. His voice was thick
and husky now; he could scarcely enunciate the words. The big clock
ticked and two was struck. Still Jim prayed, as one who hopes and clings
to any hope.

There were uneasy movements among the witnesses. The Sheriff said "Amen"
twice again, quite loudly so that no one else should interrupt, but he
was under a terrible strain. It was ten minutes after two when a shout
was heard from the outer office and a warden with a paper came running,
shrieking, "_Reprieve! Reprieve!_"

Jim turned to look and closed his prayer: "...and this we ask for
Jesus's sake"; then he fell flat upon the scaffold.

"I knew she would, I knew she would; Belle never failed me yet," were
the first words he uttered when he revived.

The Sheriff read the Governor's telegram to the crowd:

     "Reprieve Michael Shay for three days."

As they led him back to the house of death, which was to him a house of
resurrection, there was the whistle of a special train followed by the
clatter of a carriage approaching the gate. Whoever it was had the right
of entry. Hurried footsteps were heard, and short, low words. Then the
doors swung wide for--the Governor himself, John Hopkins, and Belle.
White fear was on their faces till they met a warder who knew.

"All right, sir; we got it in time."

"Thank God!"

"Yes, sir; two hours after the time fixed. But the minister was in the
middle of his prayer and he didn't seem to finish till it came."

The party entered the death house, and at once were ushered into the
room where Shay and Jim were sitting. Jim was weak and worn looking. The
warden announced, "The Governor." Jim rose, and in a moment, Belle was
in his arms. "I knew you would. I knew you would. I got your message. I
prayed without ceasing. I would have been at it yet."

Mike Shay, calm until now, broke down. Tears ran from his small gray
eyes, and clutching the soft hand of his deliverer, he murmured: "There
ain't anything I got too good for the Hartigans. Ye--ye--ye--oh, God
damn it! I can't talk about it!" and he sobbed convulsively.

The Governor shook his hand and said: "Michael Shay, I think the danger
is over so far as you are concerned; all will be well now that Squeaks
is found." Shay mumbled a "thank you." "Don't thank me," replied the man
of power. "You may thank the loyal friends who found the trap and found
the answer and found the Governor, when almost any other man or woman
would have given up."




CHAPTER LIX

The Heart Hunger


When the flood rushes over the meadow and tears the surface smoothness,
it exposes the unmoved rock foundation; when the fire burns down the
flimsy woodwork, it shows in double force the unchanged girders of
steel. Storm and fire in double power and heat had been Jim's lot for
weeks and, in less degree, for months. Now there was a breathing spell,
a time to stop and look at the things beneath.

It was a little thing that gave Belle the real key to a puzzle. It
occurred one afternoon in the apartment and Belle saw it from the inner
room. Jim thought he was alone; he did not know she had returned. He
stood before the picture of Blazing Star, and lifting down the bunch of
sage he smelt it a long time, then sighed a little and put it back.
Belle saw and understood. The rock foundation was unchanged; he loved
and longed for the things he had always loved, and the experiences of
these months had but exposed the granite beneath. The thought that had
been in her heart since the day he put the ring on her finger, rose up
with appalling strength. "He gave up everything for me. I taught him
that his duty lay through college and then made him give that up for
me." She had been quick enough to mark the little turnings of his spirit
toward the West when there were times of relaxation or unguardedness.
But she had hitherto set them down to a general wish to visit former
scenes rather than to a deep, persistent, fundamental craving.

Many little things which she had noted in him came up before her now,
not as accidental fragments, but as surface outcroppings of the deep,
continuous, everlasting granite rock, the real longing of his nature;
and the strength of its fixity appalled her. As she watched from the
outer room on that epochal afternoon, she saw him kneel with his face to
the western sky and pray that the way might be opened, that he yet might
fulfil the vow he made to devote his life to bearing the message of the
Gospel. "Nevertheless, not my will, but Thine be done."

He sat long facing the glowing West which filled his window and then
rose and walked into the inner room. He was greatly astonished to find
Belle there, lying on the bed, apparently asleep. He sat down beside her
and took her hand. She opened her eyes slowly as though
awakening--gentle hypocrite.

"I didn't know you were back," he said. She closed her eyes again as
though they were heavy with sleep. It was a small fraud, but it set his
mind at ease, as she meant it should.

After a time, she roused herself and began with enthusiasm: "Oh, Jim, I
have had such a clear and lovely dream. I thought we were back at Cedar
Mountain, riding again in the sagebrush, with the prairie wind blowing
through our very souls."

She watched his face eagerly and saw the response she expected. It came
in larger measure than she had looked for. "I felt as though I could do
anything," she went on, "go anywhere or take any jump; and just as I was
riding full tilt at the Yellowbank Canyon, you took me by the hand and
held me back; then I awoke and you _did_ have my hand. Isn't it queer
the way dreams melt into reality?" She laughed happily and went on as if
he were opposing the project: "Why not, Jim? You need a holiday; why
shouldn't we go and drink a long deep draught of life in the hills and
sage? I know we'll get a clearer vision of life from the top of Cedar
Mountain than we can anywhere else."

"It seems too good to be true," he slowly answered, and his voice
trembled. Less than half an hour ago he had prayed for this and suddenly
the way seemed plain, if not yet open.

The winter and spring had gone, and the summer was dying. In all this
time the Hartigans had carried their daily, hourly burden, without halt
or change. Whatever of hardship there was, came in the form of thwarted
plans, heart-cravings for things they felt they must give up. Jim made
no mention of his disappointments and, so far as he could, he admitted
his hunger neither to himself nor to Belle. It was merely a matter of
form, applying for a month's leave; this had been agreed on from the
beginning. The largest difficulty was in the fact that they must go
together--the head and the second head both away at once. But there
were two good understudies ready trained--Skystein and Dr. Mary
Mudd--with Mr. Hopkins as chairman to balance their powers. Michael Shay
too, came to offer gruffly and huskily his help: "If I can do anything,
like puttin' up cash, or fixin' anybody that's workin' agin you, count
on Mike." Then after a pause he added, a little wistfully: "I ain't got
many real friends, but I want to have them know I'm real, and I know the
real thing when I find it."

A conference was finally held and the management of the Club was turned
over to the chairman and his aides for a month. Jim and Belle were like
children on leave from boarding school. They packed in wild hilarity and
took the first train the schedule afforded for Cedar Mountain.




CHAPTER LX

The Gateway and the Mountain


August with its deadening heat was over; September, bright, sunny and
tonic, was come to revive the world. Rank foliage was shaking off the
summer dust, and a myriad noisy insects were strumming, chirping,
fiddling, buzzing, screeping in the dense undergrowth. It was evening
when they boarded the train for the West and took the trail that both
had taken before, but never with such a background of events or such an
eagerness for what was in the future. As the train roared through the
fertile fields of Illinois, with their cornfields, their blackbirds and
their myriads of cattle, red and white, the sun went down--a red beacon
blaze, a bonfire welcome on their pathway just before the engine--a
promise and a symbol.

It was near noon the next day when they reached the junction and took,
the branch line for the north. The first prairie-dog town had set Jim
ablaze with schoolboy eagerness; and when a coyote stood and gazed at
the train, he rushed out on to the platform to give him the hunter's
yell.

"My, how sleek he looked! I wonder how those prairie dogs feel as they
see him stalk around their town, like a policeman among the South
Chicago kids!"

When a flock of prairie chickens flew before the train he called, "Look,
look, Belle! See how they sail, just as they used to do!" As though the
familiar sights of ten months before were forty years in the past.

They were in the hills now, and the winding train went more slowly.
Animal life was scarcer here, but the pine trees and the sombre peaks
were all about. At five o'clock the train swung down the gorge with
Cedar Mountain before it, and Jim cried in joy: "There's our mountain;
there's our mountain!"

There was a crowd assembled at the station and as soon as Jim appeared a
familiar voice shouted, "Here he is!" and, led by Shives, they gave a
hearty cheer. All the world of Cedar Mountain seemed there. Pa Boyd and
Ma Boyd came first to claim their own. Dr. Jebb and Dr. Carson forgot
their religious differences in the good fellowship of the time, and when
the inner circle had kissed Belle and manhandled Jim to the limit of
custom, a quiet voice said: "Welcome back, Mr. Hartigan," and Charlie
Bylow grasped the Preacher's hand. "I brought my team so I could take
care of your trunks." There was only one small trunk, but he took the
check and would have resented any other man having hand or say in the
matter.

That evening the meal was a "welcome home," for a dozen of the nearer
friends were there to hear the chapters of their hero's life. Jim was in
fine feather and he told of their Chicago life as none other could have
done, with jest and sly digs at himself and happy tributes to the one
who had held his hand when comradeship meant the most.

A month of freedom, with youth, sounds like years. Many plans were
offered to fill the time. An invitation came from Colonel and Mrs.
Waller to spend three days at Fort Ryan. In a delicately worded
postscript was the sentence: "Blazing Star is well and will be glad to
feel your weight again."

"Blazing Star and Cedar Mountain!" shouted Jim as Belle read the letter
the next morning at breakfast. And then, much to Pa Boyd's amusement he
broke out in his lusty baritone:

    "'Tis my ain countree,
    'Tis my ain countree!'
    The fairest brightest land
    That the sun did ever see."

Midnight and the horse that had been Belle's were waiting in the stable.

"Now, where shall we go? Up Cedar Mountain, to Fort Ryan, or where?"
asked Belle as they saddled their mounts. His answer was not what she
expected. Cedar Mountain had ever been in his thought. "If only I could
stand on Cedar Mountain!" had been his words so many times. And now,
with Cedar Mountain close at hand, in sight, he said: "Let's ride
nowhere in particular--just through the sage."

They set off and veered away from Fort Ryan and any other place where
men might cross their path. The prairie larks sang about them their
lovely autumn song--the short, sweet call that sounds like: "_Hear me,
hear me! I am the herald announcing the King._" Fluttering in the air
and floating for a moment above the riders they carolled a wild and
glorious serenade that has no possible rendition into human notation.
After a hard gallop they rode in silence side by side, hand in hand,
while Jim gazed across the plain or watched the fat, fumbling prairie
dogs. But ever he turned his face and heart away from Cedar Mountain.

At first it had been to him but a mighty pile of rocks; then it had
grown to be a spot beloved for its sacred memories. It had become a
symbol of his highest hopes--the blessed things he held too good for
words. He was riding now in the lust of youthful force; he was dwelling
not in the past; or the hopeful far-ahead; he was in the living _now_,
and, high or low, his instinct bade him drink the cup that came.

As the sun went down, he drew rein and paused with Belle to gaze at the
golden fringe that the cedars made on the mountain's edge in the glow.
He knew it and loved it in every light--best of all, perhaps, in its
morning mist, when the plains were yet gray and the rosy dawn was
touching its gleaming sides. He was content as yet to look on it from
afar. He would seek its pinnacle as he had done before, but something
within him said: "No; not yet."

And the wise young person at his side kept silence; a little puzzled but
content, and waiting, wisely waiting.




CHAPTER LXI

Clear Vision on the Mountain


Kind friends and hearty greetings awaited the Hartigans at the Fort.
Colonel Waller, Mrs. Waller, and the staff received them as long-lost
son and daughter; and with the least delay by decency allowed they went
to the stable to see Blazing Star, still Fort Ryan's pride. The whinnied
welcome and the soft-lipped fumbling after sugar were the outward tokens
of his gladness at the meeting.

"He's the same as ever, Jim," said the Colonel, "but we didn't race last
summer. Red Cloud came as usual, but asked for a handicap of six hundred
yards, which meant that they had not got a speeder they could trust. We
had trouble, too, with the Indian Bureau over the whole thing, so the
affair was called off. As far as we know now, Blazing Star is the racer
of the Plains, with Red Rover making a good second. He's in his prime
yet; he could still walk a stringer on a black night, and while you are
here at the Fort he's yours as much as you want to use him."

Jim's cup was filled to overflowing.

Their midday meal over, a ride was in order; first around the Fort among
the men--Captain Wayne, Osier Mike, Scout Al Rennie--then out over the
sagebrush flat. "Here's the old battle ground of the horses; here's
where you chased the coyote, and here's where Blazing Star took you over
the single stringer bridge on that black night." It was less than a year
he had been away, and yet Jim felt like one who was coming back to the
scenes of his boyhood, long gone by. His real boyhood in far-away Links
was of another world. Fightin' Bill Kenna, Whiskey Mason, the Rev.
Obadiah Champ, the stable and the sawmills, his mother--they were
dreams; even Chicago was less real than this; and he rode like a
schoolboy and yelled whenever a jack rabbit jumped ahead of his horse
and jerked its white tail in quick zigzags, exactly as its kind had done
in the days when he lived in the saddle.

After dinner, by the log fire in the Colonel's dining room, Mrs. Waller
raised the question of their plans. "Now, children" (she loved to be
maternal), "what do you want to do to-morrow?"

There was a time when Belle would have spoken first, but there had been
a subtle, yet very real, change in their relationship. Jim was a child
three years before, dependent almost entirely on her; now she was less
his leader than she had been. She waited.

Gazing at the fire, his long legs straight out and crossed at the
ankles, his hands clasped behind his head, he lounged luxuriously in a
great arm chair. Without turning his gaze from the burning logs he
began:

"If I could do exactly what I wished----"

"Which you may," interjected Mrs. Waller.

"I'd saddle Blazing Star and Red Rover at seven o'clock in the morning
and ride with Belle and not come back till noon."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Mrs. Waller and the Colonel. "You children! You two
little, little ones! Well, we must remember that Belle is still a bride
and will be for another month, so we'll bid you Godspeed on the new
wedding trip and have your breakfast ready at half past six."

Early hours are the rule in a fort at the front, so the young folk were
not alone at breakfast. And when they rode away on their two splendid
horses, many eyes followed with delight the noble beauty of the pair--so
fitly mounted, so gladly young and strong.

"Now, where, Jim?" said Belle, as they left the gate and thundered over
the bridge at a mettlesome lope. And as she asked, she remembered that
that was the very question he used always to put to her.

"Belle" (he reined in Blazing Star), "I have been waiting till it seemed
just right--waiting for the very time, so we could stand again at our
shrine. Sometimes I think I know my way and the trail I ought to seek,
and sometimes I am filled with doubt; but I know I shall have the clear
vision if we stand again as we used to stand, above our world, beside
the Spirit Rock, on the high peak of our mountain."

And then, in the soft sign language of the rein let loose, the ribs
knee-nudged, they bade their horses go. Side by side they rode and swung
like newly mated honkers in the spring--like two centaurs, feeling in
themselves the power, the blood rush of their every bound. In less than
half an hour they passed the little town and were at the foot of Cedar
Mountain. The horses would have gone up at speed, but the riders held
them in, and the winding trail was slowly followed up.

The mountain jays flew round the pines before them as they climbed; an
eagle swung in circles, watching keenly; while, close at hand, the
squirrels dropped their cones to spring behind the trunks and chatter
challenge.

At the half-way ledge they halted for a breathing. Belle looked keenly,
gently into Jim's eyes. She was not sure what she saw. She wondered what
his thoughts were. The brightness of the morning, the joy of riding and
being, the fullness of freedom--these were in glowing reflex on his
face, but she had seen these before; yet never before had she seen his
face so tense and radiant. Only once, perhaps, that time when he came
home walking in the storm.

He smiled back at her, but said nothing. They rode again and in ten
minutes came to the end of the horse trail. He leaped from the saddle,
lifted her down, and tied the horses. With his strong hand under her
arm, he made it easy for her to climb the last steep path. A hundred
feet above, they reached the top, above the final trees, above the
nearer peaks, above all other things about them except the tall, gray
Spirit Rock. Below spread a great golden world; behind them a world of
green. The little wooden town seemed at the mountain's foot--Fort Ryan
almost in shouting hail, though it was six miles off; beyond, was the
open sea of sage, with heaving hills for billows and greasewood streaks
for foam.

Jim gazed in utter silence so long that she looked a little shyly at
him. His face was radiant, his eye was glistening, but he spoke no
words. The seat they had used a year before was there and he gently drew
her toward it. Seated there as of old, he put his arm about her and held
her to him. She whispered, "Make a fire." She had indeed interpreted his
thought. He rose, lighted a little fire on the altar at the foot of the
Spirit Rock, and the smoke rose up straight in the still air. It
ascended from the earth mystery of the fire to be lost in the mystery of
the above. How truly has it been the symbol of prayer since first man
kindled fire and prayed.

Jim took his Bible from his pocket and read from the metrical Psalm
CXXI:

    I to the hills will lift mine eyes,
      From whence doth come mine aid;
    My safety cometh from the Lord
      Who heaven and earth hath made.

"They always went up into the hills to pray, Belle, didn't they? The
fathers of the faith never went down into the valley when they sought
God's guidance. I don't know why, but I know that I don't feel the same,
away down there on the plains as I do up here. I see things more
clearly, I have more belief in Him and know He is near me.

"The clouds have been gathering in my mind pretty thick and dark; yes,
darker the last half year, Belle. I began to doubt myself as I never
did. Even when we were winning in our Chicago fight, I wondered whether
I was doing right. I couldn't see clearly, Belle, and then my doubt grew
stronger and even you could not understand; there was something within
that told me to go back to Cedar Mountain. Ever since we got here I have
been waiting for the moment when I could come to the mountain. From
here, a mile above the sea, I know that I shall see the way of wisdom. I
wonder if you know what that Rock means to me with that little thread of
smoke going up?

"Belle, men called Bill Kenna a ruffian and a brute. I guess he was,
too, but he had a brave, warm heart. His whole religion was to feed the
hungry and honour his word as a man. That was about all he taught me;
and he loved my mother--that's enough; it bit in deep. When I gave my
word as a man on that wild night four years ago when I heard the call, I
vowed that I would, from that time on, devote my strength to telling
others what I had found and try to make them find it, too. That was my
vow, Belle; I've tried to keep it. I gave up things out here because
they seemed to come between. I may be doing right in the city slum work,
but it is not what I set out to do; I am not keeping to the trail."

Poor Belle! The periods of vague unrest she had noted; that time of
fervent prayer; the reasons she had urged upon him for returning to
college, and the crisis in which she had forced him to give it up--all
now came back to her in quick succession. She remembered the weakness
that had so nearly ended all and how he had overmastered it--that
craving for drink, so strong from inheritance and from the evil habits
of his earliest manhood. Amid daily temptations of the Chicago life, it
had not seemed to touch him even as temptation. The horses that he loved
he had given up for principle. The surface plasticity he still showed
was merely the velvet that concealed the rod of steel and why he seemed
so weak she knew now, was that he was so young, so very immature, a man
in stature, a little happy child at heart. And the sting of sudden iron
hurt her soul.

To say that she was shamed by remorse would not be fair; but the sum of
her feelings was that he had given up all for her; she owed him
something to atone.

There is clear vision from the hilltop--the far-sight is in the high
place. The prophets have ever gone up into the high places for their
message. The uplift of Cedar Mountain was on his spirit and on hers. She
spoke softly, gravely, and slowly: "Jim, God surely brought me into your
life for a purpose and, if I am no help, then I have failed. As surely
as He sent us to Chicago to fight that fight and overcome the things
about as well as the things inside, He also sent us here to-day to show
our inmost souls, to get light on ourselves, to learn the way we must
go. I have learned, for my spirit's eyes are clearer now and here than
they ever were in my life before, and some things have come to me so
vividly that I take them as commands from Him who set this rock up here
and brought us in this frame of mind to see it. Jim, you must go back to
college; you must finish your course; you must carry out your vow and
consecrate yourself to spreading the gospel of His love."

Jim stared with glowing eyes as Belle went on: "I've thought it all out,
Jim. I know it is mine to open the way now, as once I closed it."

He clutched her in his arms and shook with a sudden storm of long
pent-up feeling, now bursting all restraint. He had no words; he framed
no speech; he was overwhelmed.

Why put it into words? They understood each other now. He had gone to
the city because that seemed the open way. He had taken up the purely
secular work of the club while his inmost soul cried out: "This is not
what you vowed; this is not the way to which you consecrated all your
life." It was for her sake he had turned aside, and now that she
announced the way of return, they came together as they never had; now
was she truly his in spirit as in law.

It was long before they spoke, and their words now were of other things.
The noon train was sounding at the bend; from the ledge below them
Blazing Star sent up a querulous whinny. Jim was calm again and Belle
was gently smiling, though her eyes still brimmed.

"We shall be late for the noon meal," he said, rising. For a moment they
stood before the Spirit Rock, and he said in words of the old, old Book:

    "He carried me away in the spirit to a great and high mountain."
    "It is good for us to be here."
    "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my
         help."

They walked hand in hand and silently down the crooked trail to the
horses. He lifted her to the saddle and kissed her hand only; but their
eyes met in a burning look and their souls met face to face. Then they
turned and rode the downward trail, and on the level plain gave free
rein to the horses so that they went like hounds unleashed and skimmed
the plain and leaped the gulch nor stayed till they reached the Fort and
the friendly door where the soldier grooms were waiting.

       *       *       *       *       *

They rode again the next day, circling the plain where the Indian race
had been run and pointing out familiar objects. Jim led the way to the
cottonwoods near where Higginbotham's "Insurance Office" had stood.

He stopped at the very spot and said: "Little girl, do you know what
happened here about a year ago?"

"What?" she answered, as though in doubt.

"Guess."

"I can't," she replied. She would not say it. If he wanted it said, he
must say it himself.

"It was here that I met 'Two Strikes.' Oh, what a blind fool I have
been! If God had only given me a little less body and a little more
brain! But it's all right. He knows best. He gave me you and I am
thankful for that."

"We understand each other better now, Jim, don't we? I know you were
only a child when I first saw you. You are a boy yet, but you will soon
be a man. Listen, Jim; I have not ceased to think it over since we stood
by the Spirit Rock. Do you remember what I said--you must go back to
college? I must open the way. And I will, Jim; I have it all planned
out. You must go back, not to Coulter, there are better colleges. They
do not all bar married men. There is one in Chicago; Chicago is our
gateway still. The Western Theological College is there. They will
accept your year at Coulter for entrance and one year's work. I think I
can get Mr. Hopkins to let me keep on with the Mountain House. My salary
and what we have saved will make us comfortable. I can help in all your
studies. In two years you will be through; then the Methodist Church, or
any other, will be glad to have you and the way will be open wide. I
will not fail you. You shall not fail to keep your word. And when we
know, as we cannot know now, you will see that God was guiding me. Maybe
He took you from Coulter because you were too young; surely He planned
for us and has led us at every turn in the trail. It seems crooked now,
but every rider in the hills knows that the crooks in the trail up Cedar
Mountain were made to elude some precipice or to win some height not
otherwise attainable; no other trail could end at the Spirit Rock, the
highest point, the calm and blessed outlook, the top of Cedar Mountain."

"Now, Belle, I understand. My heart told me to wait, then to go up the
mountain and find the thing I needed. I knew you would not fail; I knew
my mountain meant vision for you and me."




CHAPTER LXII

When He Walked With the King


He must have been a huge, unwieldy egotistical brute who said, "Big men
have ever big frames." He might have had Samuel Johnson, Walter Scott,
Lincoln or Washington in mind; but, standing ready there to hurl the
glib lie in his teeth, were Napoleon, Hamilton, St. Paul, Tamerlane, and
the Rev. Dr. Jo. Belloc, President of the Western Theological College in
Chicago. He was five feet high in his stockinged feet, thin and wiry,
with a large gray head, a short gray beard and keen gray eyes of
piercing intensity. When you saw him on the street, you hardly saw him
at all; when you met him in a crowded room, you felt that the spirit
behind those eyes was a strong one; and when you heard him speak, he
grew tall and taller in your eyes--you instinctively removed your hat,
for now you knew that a great man and teacher was here.

Why should such a one devote his power to mere denominationalism? Ah,
you do not understand. He answered thus to a hostile critic: "My friend,
the harvest is huge, the labourers are few; we need more, and many more
than we have. If they be of simple sort and not too strong, we teach
them the sweep and cut of the scythe, the width of the swathe, the
height of the stubble, the knot of the sheaf-band, all that is safe,
neither to waste the crop, nor their time, nor cut their fellow
harvesters in the legs. But, if we find a giant with his own mode, who
cuts a double swath, leaves ragged stubble, smashes oft his scythe, but
saves a wondrous lot of grain, we say: 'Praise God! You're doing well;
the rules are for the helpless as the fence is for the sheep; but you we
judge by your results; keep on.'"

Dr. Belloc was in his office when there came for an interview a man who
towered above him as they shook hands. The president motioned him to a
seat; then as he turned those piercing eyes on the comely countenance of
his caller, the prophet's description of the youthful David came to his
mind, "Now, he was ruddy and withal of a beautiful countenance and
goodly to look to."

"What can I do for you?" asked the big little man who filled the room,
but did not fill the chair.

Jim modestly stated that he believed he had a call to preach the Gospel
and he wished to enter college. Then, in answer to questions, he told
his story with simple sincerity and fervour. The keen gray eyes were
glowing like coals, and although no word was spoken by the man whose
soul looked through them, Jim felt his earnest, kindly spirit. He felt,
as never before, that "here is one who understands. Here is one in whom
I have absolute confidence. Here is one whom I should love to obey."

This leader stirred Jim to the depths. His best, his inmost soul came
forth to speak in response to the master mind; and the older man smiled
when he heard how the Preacher had hated the books at Coulter.
"Coulter," he said, "is a good old college, we accept their entrance;
but it is quite likely that our curriculum may more quickly win your
interest than theirs did."

As the president pondered the question that had brought them together,
the second part of the lines of Samuel's description of David rose in
his mind: "Arise and anoint him, for this is he." But the college had
its own way of saying these big things; documents, questions, boards,
had each a bearing on the matter, or a drop of ink to spend, and each
offered a delay to the decisive action that the President had then and
there resolved on. But they slowly ran their course and in the early
autumn Jim was back, a college boy, and Belle had taken up the ruler's
post at the Club.

It was easier every month for Jim to fight the battle with the books,
where before he had been badly beaten. No doubt he was helped by his
determination to win the fight and by Belle; but the two great reasons
were that he, himself, was more developed--had outgrown the childish
restlessness of the first attempt; and last but strongest of all, was
the compelling personality of the president. With what consummate tact
had he first offered to Jim's wild spirit the concrete, the simple, the
history of to-day, the things that clearly were of immediate use; and
later--much later, and in lesser degree--the abstruse, the doctrinal.
And when the younger mind of the student came to a place that seemed too
hard, or met a teacher who was deadening in his dullness, it needed but
a little heart-to-heart talk with the strong soul in the robe to brace
him up, to spur him on.

The president soon discovered Jim's love for heroic verse and at once,
by wise selection, made it possible to tie that up with books. When Jim
betrayed his impatience of fine-split doctrines, the president bade him
forget them and read the lives of Luther, Calvin, and Wesley--take in
the facts; the principles, so far as they had value, would take care of
themselves. Such methods were unknown to his former teachers. Such
presentation--vivid, concrete, human--was what he could understand, and
accept with joy.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two years went by. The first six months seemed slow; The last eighteen
all too rapid. Jim had won his fight, he had more than won, for he was
valedictorian of his class. The graduation class was much like any
other, as the world could see it, yet it differed, too. When the tall
form of the student speaker was left standing alone on the platform,
there were not lacking those who said: "Never before has one gone from
these halls so laden with good gifts; all, all seems showered on him."

In the audience, bound by closer ties than kinship, was one whose heart
was too full for any human utterance. For her it was the crowning of
their lives; had she not helped to make it possible?

After the set programme was over, Dr. Belloc handed to Jim an official
letter. It was a call to be the pastor of the church in Cedar Mountain.
Jim could not see the typed words for his tears and the president took
it from him to read aloud. As he listened to the words Jim's thought
turned to his mother, and in his heart he prayed: "O, God, grant this:
that she may see me now."

Reader of this tale, do you recall the history of Cedar Mountain--how
the church grew strong in the newly given strength? Those of many
diverse churches came, for they said: "We care not what the vessel's
shape that draws the blessed water from the well, so long as it be
always there and the water pure and plentiful." Then came the great gold
strike in the near hills; and the Preacher was troubled till he learned
that it had not touched his mountain. Another railway came, and the town
grew big and bigger yet. There were those that feared that their
Preacher might leave them, for the needs and calls of the great cities
are ever loud and forceful. They said: "Our town is not big enough for
such a man; he will surely go to the city." But it was not so; for the
city came to the man and mightily grew about him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two years after the return to Cedar Mountain, late in the day,
designedly late, two horses might have been seen ascending the crooked
trail through the cedars that mantled the mountain. Familiar forms were
these that rode. They had often taken this path before. The first was
the Preacher; the second, the woman that had held his hand. But in her
arms was another--the baby form of their first-born. This was their
first long ride together since he came, this was the elected trail; and,
as the big, red sun went down in the purple and gold of his curtains,
Jim took the baby and led the way up the last rough trail, to the little
upland, right to the Spirit Rock. The red symbols of the Indians had
been recently renewed; in a crevice was a shred of tobacco wrapped in
red-dyed grass. It was still a holy place, accounted so by those who
knew it.

From the bundle that he carried on his back, Jim took a handful of
firewood, a canteen of water, and a church baptismal bowl. He filled the
bowl and set it on the lowest ledge of the Spirit Rock. Before the rock
he lighted a little fire and, when it blazed, he dropped into the flames
the tobacco from the crevice. "That is what they wished done with it,"
he said in reverence. When the thread of smoke went up nearly straight
into the sky--an emblem of true prayer that has ever been--he kneeled,
and Belle beside him with the little one kneeled, and he prayed to the
God of the Mountain for continued help and guidance and returned thanks
for the little one whom they had brought that day to consecrate to Him.

Jim wished it. Belle willed it. His mother, he knew, would have had it
so. There seemed no better place than this, the holiest place his heart
had ever known. There was no better time than this, the evening calm,
with all the symbols of His Presence in their glory.

Belle handed the infant to Jim, who sprinkled water on its face,
baptizing it in the form of the Church, and then added: "I consecrate
thee to God's service, and I name thee William in memory of the friend
of my childhood, a man of wayward life, but one who helped to build
whatever there is in me of strength, for he never was afraid, and he
ever held his simple word as a bond that might not be broken."

     THE END




BOOKS BY ERNEST THOMPSON SETON


WILD ANIMALS I HAVE KNOWN, 1898

The stories of Lobo, Silverspot, Molly Cottontail, Bingo, Vixen, The
Pacing Mustang, Wully and Redruff.

THE TRAIL OF THE SANDHILL STAG, 1899

The story of a long hunt that ended without a tragedy.

BIOGRAPHY OF A GRIZZLY, 1900

The story of old Wahb from cubhood to the scene in Death Gulch.

LOBO, RAG AND VIXEN, 1900

This is a school edition of number one, with some of the stories and
many of the pictures left out.

THE WILD ANIMAL PLAY, 1900

A musical play in which the parts of Lobo, Wahb, Vixen, etc., are taken
by boys and girls.

THE LIVES OF THE HUNTED, 1901

The stories of Krag, Randy, Johnny Bear, The Mother Teal, Chink, The
Kangaroo Rat, and Tito, the Coyote.

PICTURES OF WILD ANIMALS, 1901

Twelve large pictures for framing (no text), viz., Krag, Lobo, Tito Cub,
Kangaroo Rat, Grizzly, Buffalo, Bear Family, Johnny Bear, Sandhill Stag,
Coon Family, Courtaut the Wolf, Tito and her family.

KRAG AND JOHNNY BEAR, 1902

This is a school edition of Lives of the Hunted with some of the stories
and many of the pictures left out.

TWO LITTLE SAVAGES, 1903

A book of adventure and woodcraft and camping out for boys telling how
to make bows, arrows, moccasins, costumes, teepee, war-bonnet, etc., and
how to make a fire with rubbing sticks, read Indian signs, etc.

MONARCH, THE BIG BEAR OF TALLAC, 1904

The story of a big California grizzly that is living yet.

ANIMAL HEROES, 1905

The stories of a Slum Cat, a Homing Pigeon, The Wolf That Won, A Lynx, A
Jack-rabbit, A Bull-terrier, The Winnipeg Wolf, and a White Reindeer.

BIRCH-BARK ROLL, 1906

The Manual of the Woodcraft Indians, first edition, 1902.

WOODMYTH AND FABLE, 1905

A collection of fables, woodland verses, and camp stories.

THE NATURAL HISTORY OF THE TEN COMMANDMENTS, 1907

Showing the Ten Commandments to be fundamental laws of all creation.

THE BIOGRAPHY OF A SILVER FOX, 1909 or Domino Reynard of Goldur Town,
with 100 illustrations by the author.

A companion volume to the Biography of a Grizzly.

LIFE HISTORIES OF NORTHERN ANIMALS, 1909

Said by Roosevelt, Allen, Chapman, and Hornaday to be the best work ever
written on the Life Histories of American Animals.

BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA, 1910

A handbook of Woodcraft, Scouting, and Life Craft including the
Birch-Bark Roll.

ROLF IN THE WOODS, 1911

The Adventures of a Boy Scout with Indian Quonab and little dog Skookum.
Over 200 drawings by the author.

THE ARCTIC PRAIRIES, 1911

A canoe journey of 2,000 miles in search of the Caribou. 415 pages with
many maps, photographs, and illustrations by the author.

THE BOOK OF WOODCRAFT AND INDIAN LORE, 1912

with over 500 drawings by the author.

THE FORESTER'S MANUAL, 1912

One hundred of the best-known forest trees of eastern North America,
with 100 maps and more than 200 drawings.

WILD ANIMALS AT HOME, 1913

with over 150 sketches and photographs by the author.

In this Mr. Seton gives for the first time his personal adventures in
studying wild animals.

MANUAL OF THE WOODCRAFT INDIANS, 1915

The fourteenth Birch-Bark Roll.

WILD ANIMALS WAYS, 1916

More animal stories introducing a host of new four-footed friends with
200 illustrations by the author.

THE INDIAN SIGN LANGUAGE (to be published later).




BY MRS. ERNEST THOMPSON SETON


A WOMAN TENDERFOOT, 1901

A book of outdoor adventures and camping for women and girls. How to
dress for it, where to go, and how to profit the most by camp life.

NIMROD'S WIFE, 1907

A companion volume, giving Mrs. Seton's side of the many camp-fires she
and her husband lighted together in the Rockies from Canada to Mexico.