The garrulous babble continued to the very doors of the Mission School, and through the formalities of an absurdly formal introduction to Mrs. Williams, and during the suppertime meal with the little Indian children in the big dining room. Eleanor noticed how Lizzie's lips pursed with contempt at the other children and the little stomach poked out with arrogance and fulness as the boasting waxed.

"That kind is the most hopeless of all," remarked Mrs. Williams in a low voice, amused at the amazement on the faces of the Indian children.

Yet Eleanor was glad. The babble gave her opportunity for withdrawal in her own thoughts; and when she came back to the Ranch House with Matthews, leaving Lizzie still boasting at the School, she hardly noticed that her father stopped the frontiersman on the threshold, but she passed out to the steamer chair on her own piazza. What was It? Eleanor could not have answered if she had tried. She only knew that she had drunk of the fulness of living, and that time could not rob her of that consciousness. It was there, forever with her, breathing in every breath, pulsing in the rhythm of her blood, "Closer than hands or feet," as the Pantheistic poet has sung, immanent, enveloping, possessory, obsessory, warm, living, a flooding realization of life, giving tone to every touch of existence, like the strings of the violin to the bow of the skilled musician. She wanted to sing; the long, low, jubilant chant of womanhood which no poet has yet sung. By the joy of it, she knew what the sorrow of it must be. By the purity, she realized what the poisoning of the fountain springs of life could mean. By the triumph, she realized what the defeat, the debasement could be. She thought of love as a fountain spring, a spring into which you could not both cast defilement and drink of waters undefiled; as an altar flame fed with incense lighting the darkness; and one could no more offend love with impurity, than cast the dung heap on the altar flame and not expect blastment. She wanted to clap her hands as the gay, twinkling cottonwoods were clapping theirs to the sunset; to dance and beat gypsy tambourines as the pines were throbbing and harping and clicking to the age-old melodies of Pan. She wanted—what was it? Had the Israelitish women of old timed their joy to the rhythm of the dance; or was it a later strain, the strain from the tribal woman of the plains who heard a voice in the music of the laughing leaves, and the throb of the river, and the shout of the sun-glinted cataract, and the little lispings and whisperings of the waves among the reeds? The stars came pricking out. Each hung a tiny censer flame to the altar of night and holiness and mystery. She knew she could never again see the stars come pricking through the purple dusk without feeling the stab of joy that had wakened death to life when recognition had struck fire in consciousness. She knew, then, there was no eternity long enough for the joy of It, nor heaven high enough for the reach of It, nor hell deep enough for the wrong of It.

There was a click of the mosquito wire door opening out on her piazza. It was her father.

"Matthews and I are going to take the fast team and the light buckboard and drive down to Smelter City to-night. Will you be all right, Eleanor?"

"I? Oh, of course! Nothing wrong is there, Father?"

"Nothing, whatever!" She remembered afterwards the shine and look of lonely longing in the black eyes. "We have to be in Smelter City, tomorrow; think it best to drive down in the cool of evening! Day stage is a tiresome drive. You'll be all right, Eleanor?"

If she could only have known, how she would have spent herself in his arms; but it is, perhaps, a part of the irony of life that the best service is silent; that the loudest service, like the big drum, is the emptiest; only we never know the quality of that big drum till a specially hard knock tests it. She remembered afterwards how he half hesitated. He was not a demonstrative man, nor a handling one; only a dumb doer of things next, regardless of consequences; and we don't realize what that means till we are too old to pay tribute and they to whom tribute is due have passed our reach.

"I, oh, of course I'll be all right! Would you like a lunch or something?"

"No, never mind! Keep Calamity by you! Go to bed early, have a good sleep! 'Night," he said. The mosquito door clicked and he had gone. A moment later, the yellow buck board had rattled down the River road, and her father did what he had never done before, he turned and lightly waved his hat.

If Eleanor could have known it, he was saying at that moment:

"Matthews, you can fight the world, the flesh, and the devil; but you can't fight against the stars."

The old frontiersman didn't answer for a little. When he spoke, it was very soberly:

"No, when it's that, you'll work for the stars spite o' y'rself! Why, A contrived the meetin' myself this vera afternoon; wha' d' y' think o' that for an old fool? A'll be goin' back empty handed, an' all m' own doin'!"

"And I'll have built plans for twenty years on,—on the sands," and MacDonald flicked the bronchos up with his whip.

There was a long silence but for the crunch of the wheels through the road dust.

"MacDonald," said Matthews abruptly, "A'm goin' t' see this thing thro'. A don't mean y'r daughter's love; th' angels o' Heaven have that in their own charge! A'm referrin' t' this mine thing! There's evil brewin'! A'm goin' t' see this thing thro'; an' A make no doubt y'r goin' to do th' same! A'm no wantin' t' pry into y'r affairs, MacDonald; but—is y'r will made an' secure?"

The sheep rancher flicked his whip at the bronchos and took firmer hold of the reins.

"Copper rivetted," he said.

We call It clairvoyance; and we call It intuition; and we call It instinct; and we might as well call it x, y, z for all these terms mean. We do not know what they mean. Neither do we know what It is. We hear It and obey It; and It brings blessedness. In the din of life's insistent noise, we sometimes do not hear It. That is, we do not hear It until afterwards when the curse has come. Then, we remember that we did hear It, though we did not heed it.

It was so with Eleanor after her father passed from the Ranch House that night. Afterwards, she knew that she had noticed the wistful look on his face; but the memory of it did not come to the surface of thought till she heard the click of Calamity's door in the basement and recollected his words; "Keep Calamity by you." Also, at that very moment, a great gray racing motor car swerved out across the white bridge from the Senator's ranch buildings and went spinning down the Valley road, the twin lanterns before and behind cutting the dark in the double sword of a great search light that etched the sheathed pine needles and twinkling cottonwoods in black against a background of gold. Eleanor was perfectly certain she saw the same two hats in the back seat that had met Wayland at the Cabin that afternoon.

"Calamity," she called down over the piazza railing.

The native woman came up the piazza stairs on a pattering run.

"Why has everybody gone down to Smelter City to-night? Is anything wrong?"

The Cree woman's shawl had fallen back from her head. She stood kneading her fingers in and out of her palms. There was a strange wild look in the dark eyes and her breathing labored. "It ees Moyese," said Calamity slowly. "He 'xamin d' mine t'-morrow."

"Why, Calamity, that is perfect nonsense! Moyese won't examine the mine, at all! This young fellow from Washington is the one to examine the mine?"

Calamity continued to knit her fingers in and out. "All 'same," she said, "Messieu Waylan', he telephone Messieu MacDonal' come 'mine help him t'-morrow!"

"Telephone my father? Why, how could he? I have been right here, Calamity?"

"You go see Missy Villam, leetle gurl," explained Calamity. "Messieu Waylan' he ride down hog back trail woods all night, 'lone! He ring ting—ling—says he go 'samin mine."

Then, the child's babble, the looks of the two at the Cabin, her father's wistful face, the quick departure of Matthews and himself, followed almost immediately by Moyese's motor, confirmed Calamity's incoherent account. Eleanor ran out to the telephone in the living room, and rang for the Ranger's Cabin. There was no answer on the local circuit, and Central at Smelter City could only say "They don't answer! Try local!"

Yet why should she feel such alarm? Had he not gone down to the Desert, and come back, and she had not known fear? Was the fear for her father? Was it her father's wistful look? What could she do? Would he wish her to do anything? This, too, was on the Firing Line, but reason how she would, she could not subdue her fears, nor keep the tremor from her hands as she ran back to the bed room dimly lighted by the candle above the desk at the head of the bed.

"Calamity, you don't think there is any danger to Father?"

Then Calamity did the strangest thing that ever Eleanor had seen her do. She had thrown off the shawl. She had drawn herself up on moccasined tip-toes, and seemed suddenly to have thrown off age and abuse and disgrace and rags and sin, with her eyes fixed stonily on the far spaces of her wrecked youth, the lids wide open, the whites glistening, a mad look in the dilated pupils shining like fire; and her fingers were knitting in and out of her palms.

"M' man," she whispered, "dey keel heem, dey hang heem! M' babee, dey take it away, d' pries' he sing—sing an' wave candle an' bury it in snow. Leetle Ford, d' keel heem! D' punish Indian man, d' hang heem, m' man! Moyese, he keel leetle Ford: he go free, not'ng hurt heem!" She burst out laughing, low voiced cunning laughter. "I go see," she said. "I ride down hog's back t' d' mine! I go see! Messieu MacDonal'—He help me! I help heem! I go see," and before Eleanor had grasped the import of the words, the woman had darted out into the dark; and a moment later, Eleanor heard the basement door clang. There was the pound-pound of a horse being pulled hither and thither, leaping to a wild gallop, then the figure of Calamity bare-headed, riding bareback and astride, cut the moonlight; and the ring of hoof beats echoed back from the rocks of some one going furious, heedless up the face of the Ridge towards the hog's back trail.

Eleanor called up the Mission School telephone: Mr. Williams had heard nothing; he didn't believe there was any cause for alarm; the child was patently and plainly an astounding little liar! About Calamity? Oh, yes, Eleanor was not to be alarmed! She had gone off in those mad fits ever since her baby died up on Saskatchewan. It had been very distressing; was in winter time, and she wouldn't release the dead child from her arms; they had to take it from her by force; she always came back after a week or two of wandering! Would Eleanor like some one to come over and stay in the Ranch House? And Eleanor being a true descendant of the Man with the Iron Hand flaunted personal fear; and went back to a sleepless but not unhappy night in her room. Why did the news that Calamity's child had died bring such a sense of relief?

How simply does life deck out her tragedies! There is no prelude of low-toned plaintive orchestral music tuned to expectancy. There is no thunder barrel; or if there is a thunder barrel, you may know that the tragedy is theatrical and hollow in proportion to the size of its emptiness. And there is no graceful curtain-drop between it and real life, permitting you to rise from your place and go home happy.

MacDonald was stepping into the bucket to descend the last shaft of the mine when something on the edge of the Brule arrested his glance; in fact, two things: one was Calamity coming out from the trail of the hog's back through the young cottonwoods and poplars, riding bareback and looking very mad, indeed; the other, was O'Finnigan from Shanty Town on foot, staggering and mad as whiskey could make him, coming up the narrow rock trail from Smelter City.

"Go on," said MacDonald curtly to the others. "I'll keep the notes safe up here, and give Sheriff Flood a hand at the hoist!"

All had gone well, exceedingly well, in the examination of the mine. It had begun sharp at twelve o'clock when the day shift came out with their dinner pails. It will be remembered the Ridge sloped down to a burnt area, known as the Brule, overgrown with young poplars and birches and yet younger pines. The Brule slanted down to a roll of rock and shingle and gravel above the City known as Coal Hill. It was on the face of this hill that the mines lay. You could see the black veins coming out on the face of the cliff; and into the cliff penetrated two parallel tunnels. Up and down from these tunnels rattled the trucks on serial tramways to and from the Smelter, weaving in and out of the tunnel mouths like shuttles, run by gravitation pressure. If the mines were worthless, or worth only the five, ten, and three-hundred dollars that the Ring had paid the "dummy" homesteaders for each quarter section, these shifts of a hundred men at a time, and trucks and tramways would have offered a puzzle to any one but the downy-lipped youth, who had come to examine them.

When Wayland arrived at the mine with Matthews and MacDonald, he found the federal investigator on hand with Mr. Bat Brydges, who was out for news features, and the news editor of the "Smelter City Herald," who somehow gave the Ranger a look mingled of smothered anger and friendliness. If Mr. Bat Brydges felt any embarrassment, he did not show it. Indeed, the handy man would have felt proud of the very things of which he had accused the Ranger; and it is to be doubted if the door of decent shame remained open; if, indeed, the harboring of thoughts like the flocking of the carrion bird to putridity does not pre-suppose a kind of inner death. And as the party were donning blue overalls to descend into the mine, who should come on the scene but Mr. Sheriff Flood, "to see that ev'thing waz al' right," he explained, exhibiting a protuberant rotundity due reverse of the compass that had been most prominent when Wayland last saw him; and if the doughty defender of the law felt any embarrassment, like the handy man, he did not show it. Indeed, this mighty man of valor could truthfully be described as fat of brain, fat of chops, fat of neck, and fattest of all in the rotundity of this strutting stomach. In fact, he seemed proud of that hummocky part of his anatomy and swung it round at you and rested his hands clasped across it as he talked.

"Jis' thought I'd happen along! Wife didn't want me to: women are all skeery that way; but I jis' thought I'd happen along an' nut let her know!"

"All sorts o' things might chance in a mine, mightn't they?" cut in Matthews with a twinkle of his eye more merry than good natured.

The Sheriff smiled a sickly smile and ''lowed they could'; and everybody walked into the lowest tunnel leaving the fire guard lanterns outside; for this tunnel was lighted by electricity. As they all walked in, the Sheriff was to the rear.

"Here, you, Mr. Sheriff," Matthews blurted out, going to the rear of the procession, "seems to me my place is kind o' back o' behind o' you."

The Sheriff smiled a sickly smile and ''lowed it waz.'

Wayland took the record of the mine's output per day. (It averaged a net return of forty per cent. dividend on a capitalization of ninety million.) Then, he took the record of what the Smelter could consume per day. The difference must be used for shipment or storage. Wayland did the counting and measuring. MacDonald jotted down the notes. The downy-lipped youth proceeded along the tunnel with an air of supreme contempt. It was as they were about to enter the second tunnel that his superiority expressed itself. Matthews afterwards said it was because the black water drip or coal sweat was seeping through the overalls.

"I don't see what we're delaying to take all these specific measurements for anyway," he said.

"Don't you?" asked Wayland. "Then I'll tell you! I have the affidavit of the most of the 'dummies' that the homestead entries were fraudulent! You could see that if you knew that men can't farm at an angle of ninety! In case that fails, I want proof that this coal is so valuable it is being shipped out. I want exact proofs of the exact profits being made on the fraudulently acquired mines."

"What's your idea? Shut 'em up from development for ever?" asked Brydges belligerently.

"Brydges," said Wayland, "when you find you can't throw your pursuer off the trail by the skunk's peculiar trick of defence, I'd advise you to try kicking sand in the public's eyes and drawing a rotten herring across the trail! This time, I think you'll find, the public won't go off the trail after the rotten herring. They'll keep on after the thief."

It was at that stage, Bat fell back abreast of the Sheriff, and Matthews behind heard one of the two say, "Damn him, then, let him go on and examine his bellyfull! It's his funeral; not ours!"

Wayland not only examined the second tunnel above the first, but he insisted on descending a shaft that had been sunk almost vertically from the crest of Coal Hill to get a measurement of the veins, for stoping, or cross cutting, or drifting or some such technical work, I forget what; but the vertical shaft afforded estimates of the depth of the veins. Because it was not a regular avenue of work but only of examination, it had not been equipped with steam hoist and electric light, but was furnished only with such old fashioned hand winch as the stage driver had described to Eleanor. A huge bucket depended by cable from the hand hoist. It was as they were all lighting lanterns and stepping in, that MacDonald took a look at the hoist and noticed that the Sheriff was to give a hand at the winch.

"Not coming Brydges?" asked Matthews, who was already in the bucket.

"Oh, I guess I'm a pretty heavy man to go in that."

"Then, A guess you're afraid of what's goin' t' happen! We're not goin' down, without you, m' boy."

Bat winked at the Sheriff and clambered in. It was then something on the edge of the Brule arrested MacDonald's glance; Calamity coming through the cottonwoods mad and dishevelled, O'Finnigan reeling up from the Smelter City trail mad with whiskey, waving a bottle and shouting—"What's th' use o' anything? Nothing! I'm Uncle Sam! Hoorah!"

"Go on," ordered MacDonald curtly. "I'll keep the notes safe up here, in my pocket, Wayland! I'll stay and give Sheriff Flood a hand at the hoist!"

The Sheriff looked for directions to Brydges.

"Let her go," ordered Brydges with a glance back over his shoulder towards the trail from Smelter City; and the winch creaked and groaned; and the bucket fell with a bump; then a steady drop to the first vein. When Matthews looked up, the slant of the shaft had cut off the sky. Brydges didn't bother clambering out of the bucket. He was silent and kept hold of the dependent cable. Suddenly, there was a rumble as of the hoist flying backward, then the whip lash of a taut rope snapping, and the cable whirled down in a coil round Brydges' head.

"Gee whiz! This is a pretty mess! The cable's broke; and we can't get up!"

"What's that?" called Mathews. Wayland and the others were examining the black wall of the shaft.

Matthews flashed his hand lantern in Brydges' face. It was ashen doughy, with sagged lips. "Wayland, have y' on y'r mountaineerin' boots, the boots pegged wi' handspikes?" cried the old frontiersman. "The cable's broken; and A like t' see y' shin for th' top soon as possible!"

Something in the voice must have caught the ear of the news editor; for he turned back and flooded his lantern, first on Matthews' face, then on Brydges'.

"You'll climb easier if you pull off y'r overalls and fasten y'r lantern in y'r hat, Wayland," he said in the same cutting voice he used in the hurry and rush of the composing room.

If Mr. Bat Brydges had been after a feature story, he had it then and there; the tenebrous thick coal darkness; the drip-drip-drip of the water-soak through the rock walls; Matthews' eyes blazing like coals of fire in the dark, his lantern shining full on Brydges; the news editor hatchet-faced, white of skin, with pistol point eyes, his lantern full on Brydges; the downy-lipped youth white, terrified, chattering of jaws, unable to speak a word, clutching to the edge of the bucket to hide his trembling, his hat had fallen off, his lantern had fallen out of his hand, and a great blob of black coal drip trickled from his yellow hair down his cheek in front of his ear; and the handy man still standing in the barrel, his face chalky and soggy like dough, with a show of bluff, but unable to look a man in the face, gazing at his feet in the bottom of the barrel:

"Gawd, Wayland! Don't risk it! Don't climb! Wait a little! They'll wind her up and drop another rope down to us and—"

The Ranger had begun climbing. They could see the shine of the lantern in his hat against the black moist rock wall; up and up, slow, sure and light of foot, swinging from side to side for hand grip; hands first finding foot hold; then a leg up; and another foot hold.

"Look out fellows," he warned once. "I might knock some of these small rocks loose!"

Then, the light of the lantern disappeared at a bend in the shaft.

"It's a darned dangerous thing to do," pronounced the handy man thickly.

Not one of the men answered a word, and the silence grew impressive by what it didn't say.

Once Wayland had turned the bend of the shaft, the rest of the way up was easy. Daylight was above, and the climb was a gradual slant over uneven ridged rock; and with the grip of the pegs in his mountaineering boots, he ascended almost at a run on all fours.

"Hullo up-there," he called, "what's wrong?"

There was no answer. He ascended the rest of the way winged and came out hoisting himself from his elbows to his knees with a deep breath of pure air above the surface. At first, daylight blinded him. He threw the lantern from his hat and blinked the darkness out of his eyes.

"It's all right fellows," he roared down the shaft, funnelling his hands.

Then he looked.

Sheriff Flood was not to be seen. Neither was MacDonald. There seemed to be no one. The day shift were going back in the tunnels below. The windlass handle hung prone as a disused well. It had not flown back broken. The cable had been cut. Then, he heard a groan. It was Calamity lying on her face at the foot of the windlass, weeping and reaving her hair. Stretched on the grass a few paces back from the windlass with two bloody bullet holes full in the soft of the temple, lay MacDonald, the sheep rancher, beyond recall.

Wayland stooped and felt for the heart.

It was motionless. The body was chilling and stiffening. He looked back at the face. There was almost a smile on the lips; and one hand hung as if fallen from the windlass handle. A suspicion flashed through Wayland's mind. He could hardly give it credence. It was preposterous, unbelievable, like a page from the lawlessness of the frontier a hundred years ago! Yet hadn't this thing happened in California, and happened in Alaska? They would never dare to murder a man conducting an investigation ordered by the great Government of the greatest Nation on earth! Yet had they not tried to assassinate representatives of the great Federal Government down in San Francisco, and shot to death in Colorado a federal officer sent straight from Washington? And these murders had not been committed by the rabble, by the demagogues, by the anarchists. They had been pre-planned and carried out by the vested-righter, in defiance of law, in defiance of the strongest Government on earth and up to the present, in defiance of retribution.

Wayland tore open the coat and felt for the notes. They were gone. He looked at Calamity. A darker suspicion came. Then, he caught the Cree woman by the shoulder and threw her to her feet.

"Calamity who did this?"

"Th' trunk man, O'Finnigan! Flood, he lead heem up; an' t' trunk man shoot, shoot quick close—lak dat," she said snapping her fingers round behind Wayland's ear against the soft of his temple.

Wayland's suspicions became a certainty.

"They will blame you," he said, "do you understand me? They will prove you did it; and hang you! Ride for your life! Ride for Canada; and hide!"

Was he thinking of Calamity or Eleanor? But where was Flood; and where was the drunken man?

He fastened a stone to the end of the cut cable, and with a shout began dropping it down and down from the windlass.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE AWAKENING

By all the tricks of stage-craft and book-craft, of the copybook headlines and platitudinous lies which we have had rammed down our throats since childhood, virtue should have triumphed in the person of the Ranger, because he fought regardless of consequences for right. MacDonald, the sheep rancher, who went out of his way to enforce the fair deal and the square deal, when he could very much more easily have remained safely at home, a fire-insurance, bread-and-butter, safety-guarantee Christian of the quiescent kind, MacDonald by all the tricks of the-be-good-and-you-will-prosper doctrines, ought not to have been shot down as he stood guard at the head of the mine shaft.

A very great many years ago, a very great Man, in fact, the very greatest moral teacher the world has ever known, declared that the milk-and-water, neither-hot-nor-cold, quiescent, safety-guarantee type of Christianity was a thing to be spewed out of the mouth; but that was a very great many years ago. Time has softened the edge of that passion for right. Perhaps, He didn't mean it! Perhaps, we have permitted sentimentality to sand-paper down the fighting edge of militant righteousness that goes out beyond the Safety Line! To be sure, bread-and-butter goodness is an easier matter than risking hot shot beyond the Safety Line; and perhaps, a sentimental Deity may be persuaded to allow us a little jam on our bread and butter if we sit tight on the safe side with a fire-insurance policy in the shape of a creed! Personally, I wonder when we all take to joining the sit-tight, safety-guarantee brigade, who is to stand on the outside guard? Or is there any modern Fighting Line? Or does the Fighting Line belong to the old Shibboleth legends of Canaanite and Jebusite and Perizzite and God knows what other "ite"? I hear these ancient gentry preached about and the heroes who smote them hip and thigh extolled. Personally, I am a great deal more interested in the modern tussle for a promised land than in those old time frays for a fertile patch in a sterile wilderness; and I see the same call for the hero's fighting edge; and I like the MacDonalds, who jump out from behind the Safety Line to fight for right, though it bring but the bloody bullet holes in the soft of the temple; and I like the Waylands, who take up the game trail to run down crime though it bring the sword of dismissal dangling over their own heads; and I like best of all the Matthews, who throw aside their "skin-dicate contracts" to take up the game of playing as joyfully for right as they have for wrong, "rich" (I wish you could have heard the full way in which he said that word) "rich" on "thirty dollars a year for clothes," spending self without stint, joyfully, unknowing of self-pity, for the making of right into might, for the making of a patch of human weeds into a garden of goodness. Only, I would put on record the fact that each man's reward was not the hero's crown of laurel leaves, but the crown that their great prototype wore upon the Cross.

Eleanor could not understand why she had been formally notified to attend the coroner's inquest till the drift of the questions began to indicate that this investigation like many another was not an investigation to find out but an investigation to hush up, not a following of the clues of evidence but a deliberate attempt to throw pursuit off on false clues. In fact, there were many things about that inquest which Eleanor could not fathom. Why, for instance was the local district attorney not present? Why had the Smelter Coking Company a special pleader present? Why was the great Federal Government not represented by an attorney of equal ability, instead of this downy-lipped silent and incredibly ignorant youth? Why was the first session of the inquest adjourned till the burial of her father? Why did the sheriff act as a mentor at the ear of the chief coroner? Why did the justice of the peace acting as coroner listen to all suggestions from the Smelter Company's attorney and the Sheriff, and reject all suggestions from her father's friends? Why was the stenographer instructed to erase some evidence and preserve other? What was the ground of discrimination? If you doubt whether these things are ever done, dear reader; then, peruse with close scrutiny the first criminal trial that comes under your notice; and see if you think that the term of the Old Dispensation 'wresting the judgment' has become obsolete? You don't suppose those long-whiskered old patriarchs openly took the bribe in hand and right before the claimants, tucked the loose shekels into the wide phalacteries of holy skirts—do you?

Yet, there were certain features of that inquest which awakened strange hope in her breast. It was held in the county court room; and the crowd gathering to listen and hear somehow gave her a different impression from the unwashed rabble that usually infests public courts to feast on the carrion of criminal proceedings. Men predominated, of course; but they were decent men, men of standing, not idlers and blacklegs. As she passed up the aisle with Matthews and Mrs. Williams to the front row of chairs where the news editor and Wayland and Brydges and the youth from Washington were already seated, she heard a man's voice say, "They've gone too far this time, by Jingo! It will take more than wind-jamming to win next fall's elections with this against them."

"You bet there's an awakening," returned another voice. "The-dyed-in-the-woollies don't realize yet; but they will waken up after election day!"

The news editor had only finished giving evidence; on the whole immaterial testimony; for suspicions do not pass with juries and coroners.

"How was it you attended the examination of this mine?" was the last question asked him.

Considering the Smelter City lots, for which the news editor had yet to pay and the "kiddies" which he had to support, it would have been an easy matter for him 'to slink' that question. "A newspaper man's pursuit of a good story" would have been answer enough to satisfy any coroner; but the news editor did not give that answer. He took off his glasses and polished the lenses with his handkerchief. Then, he put them back on his nose and looked straight at the gentleman presiding.

"May I answer that question in my own way, taking plenty of time?" he asked. "I take it this inquest is being held to get at the real truth."

The coroner said, "Go ahead!"

The attorney for the Smelter City Coking Company sat up and whispered something to Brydges. The handy man turned lazily round. "Yes," he said, "one of our staff."

The news editor cleared his throat, and a little sharp intersection of lines bridged above his nose.

"For some little time, it has been known in the Valley that a quiet contest has been going on."

The attorney for the Smelter City Coking Company jumped to his feet.

"The witness should keep to a strict recital of fact, not rumors," he interjected; and the downy-lipped representative of the Federal Government said nothing about the privileges of a witness, or the impropriety of a special pleader opening his mouth at an inquest.

"Confine yourself to facts," ordered the coroner heavily.

Wayland and Eleanor suddenly leaned forward. The news editor rubbed his glasses and resumed in a low clear tense voice. How many of the listeners had the faintest idea of what the recital cost him?

"I take it the object of this inquest is to ascertain facts. If I am to relate facts, I must repeat that for some little time it has been known in the Valley that a quiet contest has been going on between the people and certain interests which I do not need to name. It was well known in our office that the miners on Coal Hill had openly boasted no Washington man was going to get away with any facts about mining operations. O'Finnigan of Shanty Town had boasted he had been brought down from the Ridge for 'a surprise party' as he called it. For some little time, as news editor I had been dissatisfied with the reports of this whole struggle: they struck me as exceedingly biased and untruthful; in fact what the reporters call 'doped news'; 'news doped by outsiders for special reasons of their own.'"

Bat's boot came down with a clump on the floor. The attorney was up again, glaring at the coroner. The news editor cleared his throat.

"So I determined to go and see this thing for myself—"

"With the result," roared the attorney, "that you saw every facility afforded for the most thorough examination of the mine."

There was a shuffling of feet among the men at the back of the room. More men seemed to be crowding in.

"That," said the news editor aloud, sitting back beside Wayland, "That effectually cooks my dough! See that you fellows do as well!"

Eleanor was next questioned, most considerately and courteously. Twice she was interrupted. The first time was when she repeated that her father had said he expected no trouble whatsoever.

"I would call your attention to the fact, Mr. Coroner, that the deceased gentleman assured his daughter he expected no trouble whatsoever," called out the attorney.

The Sheriff leaned over and whispered to the coroner.

"Did the half-breed woman known as Calamity leave the Ranch House the night before the examination of the mine?" asked the coroner.

It was when Eleanor was describing the mad look of Calamity that the attorney again interrupted:

"Mr. Coroner, out of respect to the memory of the deceased gentleman and to the member of his family present, I ask that the stenographer strike out the record of the insane woman's babblings! The fact is established on the word of Miss MacDonald that the Indian woman set out with the express intention of seeking her employer. What she intended to do when she found him, we cannot know; for the woman was plainly insane and her word is worthless."

Bat wore a tallow smile. The attorney's expression became inscrutable. Sheriff Flood's face shone as a new moon. The other faces were a puzzled blank.

"You want to check that," whispered the news editor to Wayland. Matthews was being questioned.

"Before A proceed t' answer y'r verra civil inquiries, Mr. Coroner, A wud ask the privilege o' puttin' three questions!"

"Go ahead, Sir!"

"Why is the man O'Finnigan not here?"

"Still drunk," answered the Sheriff.

"Then, if A commit a crime, if A cut y'r throat, Mr. Coroner, all A have t' do t' avoid awkward questions, is t' fill up? Verra well! Why is the woman Calamity, herself, not here?"

"Can't be found," called Wayland.

"So that if A'm accused of a crime A know no more about than th' babe unborn, all A've t' do t' rivet that crime on myself for life is not to be found? Verra well—"

"Sir," interrupted the coroner.

"A wud ask why is that little Irish lassie not here?"

Mrs. Williams explained that Lizzie, having exhausted the Indian children with her boastings in two days, had lost interest in life and run back to the slums.

"A always did say if y' took a pig out o' a pen an' putt it in a parlor, 'twould feel lonesome for its hogwash," exclaimed the old frontiersman running a puzzled hand through his mop of white hair. Matthews also was twice interrupted in his testimony. He was explaining that he anticipated trouble about the mine from what had already happened on the Rim Rocks when Wayland trod forcibly and sharply on his foot; and all reference to the pursuit across the Desert was omitted. The coroner, it seemed, did not want any details about the Rim Rocks. The second interruption came when he began to quote Mistress Lizzie O'Finnigan's words those afternoons on the Ridge. The attorney sprang up:

"As the child is an incorrigible liar and her father an incorrigible drunkard, Mr. Coroner, I think it only fair to the Company that their aspersions and reference to us be stricken off the records;" and the coroner instructed the stenographer to erase all reference to Lizzie's babbling.

The old frontiersman sat back with a dazed feeling that while he had expressed anticipation of trouble at the mine, he had failed to give proof or reason for that anticipation.

Brydges' evidence was innocuous to the very end. The Sheriff had whispered something to the coroner.

"Is there any reason why anyone in the Valley might harbor a grudge against the sheep rancher?" asked the coroner.

Brydges hesitated as one who could say much if he would. "Yes, there is," he answered lowering his eyes and flushing dully.

It was the attorney again who was on his feet.

"Mr. Coroner, the dead cannot defend themselves. Out of respect to the deceased gentleman and the member of his family present, I think that line of enquiry ought not to be recorded or pursued."

"The second time they have said that; what do they mean?" Eleanor asked Mrs. Williams in a whisper.

Matthews was hanging on to his chair to hold himself down and the news editor had leaned across Eleanor to speak to Wayland: "Good God, Wayland! Don't you see the drift? Can't you head that off?"

"Leave 't' me," muttered the old frontiersman gripping his chair.

"But you have given your evidence: Wayland is our only chance left. Don't you see how they'll clinch it?"

"Hold y'r head shut," ordered Matthews.

Wayland was giving his evidence, as little as he could possibly give, it seemed to Eleanor, from the time he had telephoned down to her father to come and take corroborative proof of the value of the coal mines.

"You did not anticipate any trouble about the examination?"

"None whatever," answered Wayland. He had described the examination of the two tunnels and the preparation to go down the shaft when the Sheriff again whispered to the coroner.

"When MacDonald seemed to change his mind about going down the shaft, was there anyone visible except the Sheriff?"

"Not that I saw," answered Wayland; and he went on to describe the cutting of the cable and the climb up the side of the shaft.

Eleanor became suddenly conscious that tense stillness reigned in the county court room. Some man standing behind the back benches shuffled his feet and cleared his throat with an offensive "hem." The roomful of people looked back angrily. The attorney had pencilled a line on a scrap of paper and shoved it across in front of the coroner. Through the open windows, Eleanor could see that a great concourse of people was gathering outside.

"When you found the body, was anyone else present at the top of the shaft?"

For the fraction of a second, Eleanor wondered if they meant to cast suspicion on the Ranger.

"Yes," answered Wayland, "the woman, Calamity was lying on the ground sobbing to break her heart. No one else was visible."

"You say the wound was such that it could not possibly have been self-inflicted?"

"You determined that for yourselves, when you examined the body," answered Wayland.

"Was the woman's position such that she might have shot him?"

"The shot was in the right temple, close; close enough to scorch the face! You have the record of that! The woman was kneeling on the ground a little to the left facing him."

"Did she carry a weapon?"

"She did not."

"How do you know she had not one concealed?"

"Because I caught her by the shoulders and lifted her up and shook her and said, 'Calamity, who did this?'"

"What did she answer?"

The attorney was on his feet with a bang of his fist on the table that shut off the answer:

"Mr. Coroner, this evidence has proceeded far enough to show that the death of the deceased gentleman had absolutely no connection whatever with the official examination of the mines. The dead cannot defend themselves. Out of respect to the deceased and the member of his family—"

"That," interrupted Matthews, breaking from his chair, "is the third time th' insinuation has been thrown out that MacDonald had things in his life that wud na bear tellin'! A know his life: A know all his life: ask me!"

But the attorney and the coroner were in an endless wrangle as to law, that was Hebrew to the listeners, and gave the roomful of spectators ample time to imbibe the false impression that was meant to be conveyed, and to pass it to the prurient crowd outside. After a half hour of reading from authorities to prove that the answer was inadmissible as evidence, and another half hour rattling off counter authorities at such a rate the listeners could not possibly judge for themselves, the coroner reserved decision as to whether that answer could be admitted as evidence or not, coming as it did from a person plainly of unsound mind.

"What next happened?"

"I tied a stone to the cut end of the cable and unrolled the rope on the hoist and gave it a hard enough pitch to send the stone past the bend in the shaft."

"And when you turned to work the hoist and bring up the others?"

"And when I turned to work the hoist, the Indian woman was nowhere to be seen. The chances are she knew the guilty parties would try to throw the blame—"

"Mr. Coroner," shouted the attorney, "there can be no chances recorded as evidence where the reputation of a gentleman, who cannot defend himself, is concerned."

"Good God," said the news editor under his breath.

"Humph! A'll put a crimp in that! The Sheriff man is to give evidence yet! Eleanor, y' better not wait! A'm goin' t' do some plain speakin' t' y' father's honor, but 'tis not talk for a woman's ears! Y've heard y'r father defamed."

"Then, I'll wait and hear him cleared," she whispered to Mrs. Williams. "Will you stay?"

The Sheriff had gone round in front of the table, not too near it for obvious reasons; for the time of his revenge had come and his rotundity protruded full blown and swelling. He told how MacDonald had refused to go down the shaft.

"Do you know any reason for that sudden change of mind?"

"I don't know whether it's the reason or not; but somethin' happened jes' as he had his leg up to climb in, might a' made him change his mind! Th' squaw come ridin' all bareheaded, an' mad as a hornet out o' th' cottonwoods wavin' her hands roarin' crazy! Minit he seen her, he quit goin' down: said he'd give me a hand at the hoist! I seen what made him change his mind al' right! She waz ravin' mad, come rampin' out, then, she seen me, an' kin' o' hiked back ahint the cottonwood; but I seen her plain! Jes as we commenced unwindin' her—"

"You mean the hoist?"

"Yes, jes' as we began lettin' her down, I sees O'Finnigan come up from Smelter City trail roarin' drunk, ugly drunk, yellin' 'Hell: he waz Uncle Sam,' an' all that."

"If y'll not admit the child's story of her father, why d' y' admit this man's story of him?" demanded Matthews; but the coroner ignored the interruption and the doughty defender of the law continued.

"I put up with his drunken yellin' till I felt the bucket bump the first level. Then I sez, 'Now, my gen'leman, hand over that bottle o' tipperary, an' scat out o' this!' There it is," the Sheriff laid a black square whiskey bottle on the desk. "He began jawin' an' cuttin' up gineral. T' make a long story short, I took him by the scruff o' th' neck and helped him down Smelter City trail an'-an'-an' I jugged him: that's all; an' there he is yet! When I came back up, this had happened."

"When you arrested O'Finnigan for drunkenness, where was the woman, Calamity?"

"Hidin' back among th' cottonwoods! She'd slid off her horse! Jes' as I turned down the trail, I looked back! She waz comin' peepin' out from tree t' tree!"

"How was MacDonald standing?"

"He waz standin' with his back t' her, with his hand hangin' kind o' loose from th' hoist waitin' for 'em t' ring th' bell t' let her down t' next level!"

There was a long silence. Eleanor had turned very white. The eyes of the news editor emitted sparks.

"I expected that," commented Wayland.

"Y' d', did y'?" rumbled Matthews. "Then A 'll wager y 'll nut be expectin' what A 'll spring!"

The room suddenly filled with a rustling and whispering. Men were demonstrating exactly how it had happened. The handy man's tallow smile melted on his face; and the tortoise shell eyes looked sidewise at Wayland. The look wasn't malicious; and it wasn't triumphant. It was the look of a gambler saying, "Come on my four-flusher, beat that! Show down!" The rabble outside deployed off the pavement across the street back a whole block. Eleanor could hear the hum through the open window.

The attorney was leaning across the table conferring with the coroner.

The coroner rapped the table and cried for "order."

The room suddenly silenced.

"Gentlemen, as this evidence will have to be handed in to the district attorney for what action he deems best, I wish to ask one more question. Mr. Sheriff, you know this Valley and the people in it well?"

"I do, known it for twenty years."

"Do you know of any reason why this woman Calamity would have shot or wished to shoot, her employer, MacDonald?"

The Sheriff changed a quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other.

Eleanor leaned forward looking straight in his eyes. Bat was eyeing Eleanor quizzically. (Had he constructed the evidence so skilfully that he had come to believe it himself?) Matthews was almost tearing the arms out of the chair where he sat.

"Well," said Sheriff Flood clasping his hands in rest across his portly person. "I guess squaw is same as any other woman in one respect. I guess she had same reason for shootin' MacDonal' as any other woman in her place would o' had," and he looked up well pleased with himself at the roomful. For a moment, there was deadly heavy silence; then the hum of the crowd on the steps pouring the word out to those in the street.

"Ye lyin' scut[1]! Ye filthy cess pool o' dirt an' falsehood!"

The old frontiersman had sprung from his place and smashed his chair in twenty atoms on the table between the sheriff and the coroner.

"Y'll not offend the deceased gentleman's memory? Y'll not offend his daughter here? An' the dead can't defend themselves? An' y're all s' verra delicate y're lettin' a stinkin' slanderous unclean unspoken damnable hell-spawned lie go forth unchallenged t' blacken a dead man's memory? Oh, A know y'r kind well! A've heard harlots lisp an' whisp' an' half tell and damn by a lie o' th' eye! Y' are insinuatin' this woman Calamity shot her master to avenge dishonor in her early life? 'Tis a lie! 'Tis a most damnable black an' filthy lie! She wud a' died for MacDonald ten thousand times over if she could, because he had long ago, before ever he came here, avenged her dishonor."

The coroner had sprung back from the table. The mighty man of valor, who defended law, had precipitately put the space of overturned benches between himself and the irate old frontiersman. Matthews suddenly swung to face the spectators.

"Men," he cried, "foul murder has been done; and this slander is t' fasten guilt on a poor innocent outcast woman, t' send her a scapegoat int' th' wilderness bearin' th' sins o' those higher up that A do na' name; of y'r Man Higher Up, who is the curse o' this land! 'Twas in my boyhood days on Saskatchewan! This woman, that y' have seen wander the Black Hills sinnin' unashamed, was but a fair slip o' an Indian girl, then, pure as y'r own girls in school! She married a little Indian boy, Wandering Spirit o' the Crees at Frog Lake! The Indian Officer at Frog Lake was a Sioux half-breed—he took her forcibly from Wandering Spirit t' th' Agency House! 'Twas y'r sheep rancher, MacDonald, who was fur trader then, went forcibly to th' Agency House, thrashed the Agent, and brought her back to the Indian, Wandering Spirit! A was passin' West by dog train to the Mountains when A stopped at the Agency House! MacDonald had gone North. Little Wandering Spirit comes and asks me t' interpret something he has to say t' th' Master—meanin' that danged unclean Sioux beast. Says I, 'Wandering Spirit has something not pleasant t' say t' you: Y' better get another interpreter.' The officer says, 'Spit it out! Y' can't phase me.' Boys, A spit it out. A gave it to him plain! The boy Indian stood in the door o' th' Agency House holdin' a loaded dog-train whip hidden behind his back. He was na' but half as big as the brute behind the Government desk! He says, 'Tell the Master he must leave my wife alone! If ever he comes near m' tepee again, A do to him like that,' rolling a dead leaf t' powder 'tween his hands. The officer lets out a roar o' filthy oaths! I hear the little Indian give a scream like a hurt wild cat. 'He calls me a dog—a son of a dog,' he screams; an' boys, with one leap he was over that counter with his dog whip; an' what A did t' y'r Sheriff last week in the Pass is nothing to what that bit of an Indian boy did t' yon bullying Agent! He thrashed him, an' he thrashed him, an' he chased him bellowin' round the Agency House till the blackguard's pants were ribbons an' the blood stripes reached down an' soaked his socks. Boys, A went on to th' Mountains! When A came back next year an' when MacDonald came back from MacKenzie River, we found that Agent had had Little Wandering Spirit arrested by the Mounted Police for assault an' battery, an' sentenced to a year in th' penitentiary! 'Twas too late to undo the wrong! Th' girl, th' woman y' know as Calamity, had gone insane from abuse! A helped to pry her dead child from her arms! A helped the priest t' bury it in the snow! Next year, was the Rebellion! Y'r sheepman an' his wife, Miss Eleanor here was na' born then, had come down from the North. The Indians loved him. They'd never touch him; but when the Rebellion broke out, 'twas Wandering Spirit went dancing mad for revenge from one end o' the Reserve t' th' other! When the massacre came, the officer had tripped the little Indian fellow to his face an' was pointin' the old muzzle loader at the back o' his head to blow out his brains, when along comes the MacDonald man an' kicks the gun from the bully's hand! Little Wandering Spirit up an' he pours that muzzle loader into the officer's face; an' he borrows another gun an' empties that in his face; and he snatches a knife; an' what he left o' that brute y' could bury in a coffin th' length o' y'r hand! 'Twas th' Indian's way o' vengeance; but blame fell on MacDonald; an' when Wandering Spirit was hanged for the murder, MacDonald fled from Canada; for his sympathies were with the Indians, as every right feelin' man's were;[2] for back a generation, there was Indian blood on the mother's side; but the Act o' Amnesty has been passed this many a year; an' A'd come to take him back to a fortune waitin' him in Scotland, to an inheritance when this happened.

"Y' know how he found her again, eatin' garbage in the Black Hills where the miners had cast her off; how he gave her an asylum an' a home; an' this is the man y'r fulthy sheriff poltroon coward says she'd shoot! Men, men o' th' Nation, murder has been done here: coward assassin murder on an innocent man! The notes on the mine have been robbed from his pocket. Who planned this murder? Who shot MacDonald by mistake? Who planned th' Rim Rocks outrage? Is it to this y' have let y'r Democracy come? Is this y'r self government workin' worse outrage than the despotism o' Russia? We'd have hanged our kings in Scotland for less sin! France would a' tanned her rulers' hide into moccasins for less! What are y' goin' to do about it." His shout rang and rang through the court. "Will ye make of self-government a farce, a screamin' shame, a shriekin' laughter in th' ears o' th' world?"

There were cries of "Sit down! Sit down! Shut up! Go on! Who is the old tow-head?" Then some one cried out "Moyese." Half the spectators cheered. Half hissed. Then a voice yelled "Wayland! Wayland!" and Eleanor felt the leap to her blood; for the crowd outside took up the cry "Wayland, Wayland? What's the matter with Wayland?"

The Sheriff and Coroner were on the table shouting for "order—order" when some wag heaved under and upset table, sheriff, coroner and all.

The last Eleanor saw before the news editor and Wayland pushed Mrs. Williams and herself through a door behind the coroner's seat to a taxicab that whirled them off to the hotel, was a wild sprawling of the Sheriff coming down in mid-air. Bat Brydges and the downy-lipped youth, chalky white as a dead birch tree, were letting themselves hastily out through a back window. Matthews was being carried down the aisle on the shoulders of a howling rabble of men and boys. His head was bare; his coat was almost torn from his shoulders. His face was passionate with jubilant laughter. "Yell, boys! Yell for Wayland," he was urging. Could Eleanor have known what happened at the door, her heart would have beat still faster. The old frontiersman brought her word two hours later when he joined them at the hotel.

"They hauled me out to th' steps o' th' court house," he said, "an' A says 'Yell boys! Yell, Yell like Hell for Wayland!' An' they set me down on th' steps an' began yellin' 'Speech! Speech!' A held up m' two hands like this. 'Men,' says I, 'y' ask for a word! Well, A'll give it t' you. A'll give it t' y' from the door o' y'r own sacred court o' justice, which y' have seen profaned this day by injustice, an' a lie, an' a bribe into th' bedlam o' a mob! Y' ask for a word. A will give it y', Men o' the United States o' the World; Men o' Liberty; Men o' Strength; the world has its eye on ye! What will y' do? M' word is this t' all time: M' word is th' simple word o' the old prophets that ye conned by heart at y'r mother's knee: Y' ha' seen the author o' crime an' outrage an' murder tryin' to wrest the judgment, t' pervert the court, to slander the dead, t' send into th' wilderness a poor innocent scapegoat o' sin, to defile the vera presence o' death. An' ye ha' seen a young man single-handed fightin' for right, to save y'r land from the looters, an' y'r forests from the timber thieves, an' y'r mines from the coal pirates! Y' ha' seen evil an' good an' the fruits o' them! Choose ye this day which ye will serve!' Man alive, Wayland, ye should a' heard them! They yelled like Hell for y'! They yelled till they split the welkin! They yelled, Wayland, till A couldna' keep th' tears from m' eyes; an' then, man alive, they yelled more than ever! Whiles we were yellin' and riproarin' outside, y'r brave Sheriff man, he gets the door shut an' locked, an' the windows down, an' the shades all drawn; an' they brings in a verdict o' 'come to his death by the hands o' parties unknown.' Oh, A'll warrant 'twill be 'by the hands o' parties unknown.' They'll never more try t' fasten that crime on poor old Calamity; tho' she's no so old when y' come t' think o' it, except in her bein' sore sinned against."

"I wonder if they'll try to come down on you for the disorder," asked Wayland.

The old frontiersman chuckled. "A wish t' God they would," he said. "What A'm wonderin' is what y' fat Bat fellow's doin'?"

"Oh, I can tell you that," answered the news editor. "Bat is singing small! I'll bet you a five there won't be a line nor the fraction of a line of all this in the local papers; nor as much as a blank space about it in any other paper. My God, if I could only lay my hand on a moneyed man who would back a paper thro' a fight like this and tell the counting rooms to go to the Devil! I know a score of editors would jump for the job and work their heads off! You needn't think we are specially keen for eating dog on this kind of a job! 'Tisn't the men inside the office bedevil us: 'tis y'r outside interest—"

Eleanor gave him a quick queer look. She was learning to think fast and decide quickly. But the news editor was quite right. Not a word of the disgraceful attempt to pervert justice appeared in either the local or any other paper. MacDonald's death was briefly recorded as accidental and the coroner's verdict given in a four line paragraph. Do not ask me the why of this, dear reader; or I shall ask you the why of a hundred other equally mysterious silences. Don't forget, as Wayland has already informed you, there are other countries besides Russia where everything is not given out to the press. And do not curse the press! It is not the fault of the press in Russia. Is it here?

[1] I can find no authority for the old frontiersman's use of the word but in a certain Elizabethan dramatist; and as he uses the word "scut" for the bobtail of a fleeing rabbit or sheep, perhaps the meanings of the word as used are identical.—Author.

[2] It need scarcely be explained these are the old frontiersman's sentiments, not the writer's; but on investigation I found his statement of facts as to what transformed little Wandering Spirit into a blood-thirsty monster was absolutely true. This, of course, did not justify the Rebellion, but helps to explain it, to explain why a worthless scamp like Riel could rouse the peaceful natives to blood thirst and rapine.—Author.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE AWAKENING CONTINUED

It was all over, the inquest, the coroner's finding, the reading of the will, the revelation of the real errand on which the old frontiersman had come from Saskatchewan. The parting of the ways had come to her, as it comes to us all. The death of her father had shut the door on opportunity in the Valley; and the little old lady, waiting for Matthews up in Prince Albert, Canada, to take her back to the inheritance of her father's family in Scotland, opened elsewhere another door of opportunity. As one door had swung shut, another had swung open. Were we creatures of circumstances, as the fatalists declared; or could we master and bend circumstances to human will? Was her feeling of rebellion but the kicking of ructious heels against the closed door of fate? Would time teach the futility of barking one's shins in such fashion? Eleanor sat in the parlor of the suite of rooms reserved by the Williams and herself. The Williams and Matthews had gone out for the evening to some women's club meeting on missions. Eleanor's nerves were too tension-strung for people to-night. They had read her father's will that afternoon. The quiet man doing the duty next and making no professions had left her secure against want; and after the lawyer who read the will had gone, the Williams went out, and Matthews had drawn his chair near to hers and told her the same story of her father's people that he had told Wayland in the Desert.

"They were a' dark fearsome men," he had said, telling her of the first Fraser-MacDonald who fought with Wolfe at Quebec, and the Man of the Iron Hand. "They were a' dark fearsome men; but of stainless honor, child! Not a man of them left a bar sinister on th' scutcheon! Even the man who married th' squaw, had a priest tie th' knot so that children would come stainless t' life; but they were dark fearsome men, undyin' in their hates an' unhappy in their loves. Y'r own mother's people turned against y'r father for th' part he took in th' Rebellion."

"Don't you think," asked Eleanor, "it's time one of the race broke the spell of unhappy love?"

"Aye, child! 'Tis why A'd take y' back t' th' little old lady waitin' in Prince Albert, an' put y' in y'r own place in th' halls o' Scotland? D' y' know there's been none o' y'r race direct t' occupy th' manor since th' first Frazer fled from th' Jacobite Rebellion to French Canada? 'Twas part o' his stubborn spirit that he fought for the Nation that had cast him out."

"Oh, I'm not interested in the Jacobites and Wolfe and things of the past," interrupted Eleanor. "I want to live my life full in the present."

"Aye; an' 'tis because y're a Fraser-MacDonald of the Lovatt clan that ye want t' live a full present! If you were an upstart new-rich, my dear, y'd be sellin' y'r soul t' th' Devil an' y'r body t' some leprous kite with ulcerous weddin' kisses for the privilege o' claimin' this inheritance that's yours! There's a male decendant o' some collateral line on th' place adjoinin' yours. Man alive, he's had th' pick o' every pork packer's an' brewer's daughter; but he's waitin' th' little lady who's his aunt t' come back from Prince Albert—"

He knew the minute he had spoken that he had struck a false note. Eleanor jumped from her chair.

"Oh, bother the little lady at Prince Albert. Leave me, please! I want to think—"

He withdrew as far as the door. "Would y' like me to see y'r lawyer man 'bout puttin' th' ranch lands o' th' Upper Pass on th' market, an' settlin' up th' estate?"

"No," answered Eleanor. "I'm not going to sell any of my father's estate."

And when Matthews withdrew to join the Williams at the missionary meeting, she burst into tears.

She went across to the window wondering about Wayland. She had not seen him since early morning, before breakfast, when he called at the sitting room door to arrange their return up the Valley next day. The Williams and Matthews would go up in the buckboard. Would she ride back up the hog's back trail with him? He would hire horses and riding togs now if she would say? Yes, he knew it would be steep up grade; but then, they could go it slow; he laughed as he said that. You see the hog's back trail was fifteen miles shorter than the Valley road and they could afford to go it slow; in fact, very slow.

"Come on in," urged Eleanor, throwing open the parlor door. "The Williams are not up, yet!"

"That's why I came! No, I'll not come in: not much! I'm keeping resolutions!"

She had not understood the wistfulness beneath his forced gayety until Matthews told her all that afternoon.

"It will be our last ride: you'll come, won't you?" asked Wayland.

She had promised. Then, she had spent a most miserable morning. Why was it to be the last ride? She had not cared to go out. Though the papers had suppressed all details of the cowardly assassination, the glare of publicity had been focussed too keenly on her for comfort by that explosion of the old frontiersman in the court room. She had remained in all morning watching the motley crowds of a frontier town surge past the hotel windows down the dusty hot main street, with its medley of fine brick blocks, and poor shacks, and saloons, and false fronts—little unpainted restaurants and cigar stands and gambling places of one-story, with a false timber wall running up a couple of stories.

"United States of the World," the old frontiersman had called this country. Surely that was the true name of the wonderful new country that had defied all traditions and mingled in her making the races from every corner of the world! An immigrant train had come in. Eleanor lifted the parlor window, and looked, and listened. Jap and Chinese and Hindoo—strikingly tall fellows with turbaned head gear; negro and West Indians and Malay; German and Russian and Poles and Assyrians. In half an hour, she did not hear one word of pure English, or what could be called American. Oh, it was good to be alive in this wonderful new world under these wonderful new conditions working out the age-old problem of right and wrong that had defied solution since time began! She did not mind the crudity. And if I am to be frank, she did not mind the rudity. It was not a boiled shirt-front, kid-glove world. In fact, at that moment she saw her hero stage driver shooting out tobacco squids at the innocent granolithic, which showed no target because so many other contributors had preceded the stage driver. In fact, it was not a world for a lady with a train, though Eleanor saw some trollopy immigrant "ladies" emerging from a big tent on a back lot decked with tawdry lace and sporting trains in inverse proportions to the sufficiency of their "h's." Nor was it a perfumed world. She could smell the reek of the whiskey saloons all down the street—eleven of them, there were in a succession of twelve buildings; and the twelfth building, if Eleanor had known it, was a gambling joint of the Chinese variety that had iron shutters and iron doors and signs up for "Gentlemen Only." Let us hope, dear reader, that "gentlemen only" entered behind the dark of those iron doors! She could not help wondering had the old day passed forever in the West. Was a new day not dawning? What was to become of all these incoming people? Could the cattle barons and the sheep kings and the land rings fence them off the vast, broad, idle acres forever?

Yet this was the world where her father had come penniless, a refugee from miscarried justice, and had won out. It was the world where he had been shot down by some miserable, criminal assassin, who, it was more than likely, had mistaken him for Wayland. It was Wayland's world, a world in the making. Well had Matthews designated it—The United States of the World! More Jews than in Palestine; more Germans than in Berlin; more Italians than in Rome; more Russians than in St. Petersburg; more Canadians than in any four Canadian cities combined; more descendants of the British than in the British Isles—the United States of the World in the Making! Was it any wonder crime was rampant; and Democracy rocked to the shock of collision and miscalculation and inexperience; and Righteousness became a tacking to progress, not a straight line, like the zig-zag of the ship making headway all the time, but tacking back and forward to wind and current? It was good to be alive and take part in the making of the United States of the World!

She had had breakfast and luncheon in her apartments. At mid-day, she saw Wayland coming along the thronged main street. At every step, some man stopped him to shake hands; and groups turned and gazed after him as he passed, and spat their approval or disapproval with great emphasis at the mottled pavement. Below the window, a big Swede grabbed his two shoulders with the grip of a steam crane.

"Say, you Vaylan', huh?" he asked. "Say, you a' right! You ever need yob, Vaylan', you 'ply our union! Huh?" and he laughed, and went on; and the tears welled to Eleanor's eyes.

Then came the lawyer to read the will; and after the lawyer's departure, Matthews had told her how she concerned his errand down from the North; and when the door closed on Matthews, she burst into tears.

She saw the street lights come twinkling out, and she did not turn on the light of the sitting room chandelier. Did he love her at all; or if he did, did he know what this waiting all day meant to a woman? Then, it came to her in a flash, his wistful look in the morning behind the forced gayety, his reference to the last ride, to keeping resolutions. Was that resolution for the sake of his work at all; or for her? Of course, Matthews had told him in the Desert; and with the thought, the weight that had oppressed her rolled from her heart. She jumped from her chair and uttered a low cry of happy laughter.

"Oh, I'll soon make short work of that resolution," she vowed.

Alas and alas! Samson straining his manhood for strength to shore up a resolution, and here was a sharpening of scissors to shear him well!

There was a knock on the door. She thought it the waiter coming up with a late dinner and had called "come in," when the door opened, and in the glare of light from the hall way stood the news editor, embarrassed and hesitating.

"Please come in." She pressed the electric button, shook hands with him and shut the door. His air was at once apologetic and glad, but all the bitterness and anger seemed to have gone. He stood holding his soft felt hat in his hand and looking through his glasses, very steadily and kindly, Eleanor thought.

"Won't you sit down?"

"We newspaper chaps should pretty nearly apologize for coming into your presence, Miss MacDonald," he began. "I've wanted to tell you how we fellows all regret that. I hope you know that kind of thing doesn't come from inside the office. It comes from influences outside."

He had seated himself shading his eyes from the light with his hand, an old trick of his compositor days, and still looked at her in the same friendly way.

"Ever hear of the Down-East daily that black-guarded one of our greatest presidents the very day he died? I've often wondered if the public realized when that item appeared that not an editor on the staff knew it was coming out, that when two of the editors read it, they cried and went to pieces right there and then before their men for very shame! Item had been sent straight to the composing room just before the forms were locked up, by man who owned the paper. President had refused him some public concession. Such things sometimes happen to lesser folks than presidents."

"Were you so kind as to come here to say all this to me?" asked Eleanor.

"No, Miss MacDonald, I wasn't!" He blushed furiously, like a boy caught in the act culpable. "Fact is, I'm keen to see Wayland, been such a crush of men round him all day, haven't been able to get in a word with him."

It was her turn to blush furiously.

"I didn't want him to go off up the Valley before I could get hold of him. I wanted to have a shake with him. We're in the same boat now, Miss MacDonald."

"I don't the very least bit in the world understand what you are saying."

The news editor laughed and laid his hat on the onyx centre table beneath the electric lights.

"Why, we're both fired," he said.

"Fired?" repeated Eleanor.

This time he laughed aloud: "I don't mean fired out of a gun," he explained. "We're fired out of our job. I knew after the inquest, I'd get the sack," he went on, making light of it, "but the wire didn't come till this morning."

There were a lot of things the news editor didn't tell Eleanor just here; and I beg of you, dear reader, to remember these things when you execrate the press; for they happen every day to plain fellows, some of them profane fellows, who make no professions and blow no trumpet. When the news editor walked out of the office that morning, he owned, besides the Smelter City lots, which were mortgaged to the hilt, and six "kiddies," who had to be fed, precisely the five dollar bill in his pocket, the clothes on his back and the duster coat that he carried out on his arm. It was a mere detail, of course; but it was one of the details he didn't tell Eleanor. When he had gone home and told his wife, she had asked, "For Heaven's sake, Joe, what ever will we do, run a fruit stand; or peddle milk?" Joe had answered the distracted question with a lighter hearted laugh than she had heard for many a day. Then he had gone off to catch Wayland.

But Eleanor did not know all this. Her quick wit grasped one salient fact. You think, perhaps, it was that Wayland had been dismissed? It wasn't.

"You mean that you have lost your position because of the evidence you gave for us?"

Then the news editor did what he always told his underlings not to do and to do—"Never lie; but if you have to, lie like a gentleman."

"Not at all, Miss MacDonald! I got fired because I told the truth! If I had given evidence that was simply in your favor, I'd deserve to be fired; but it was only a matter of somebody letting in a little honest daylight. I told Wayland at the time that I'd cooked my dough! Funny enough, the wire that came firing me this morning was immediately followed by a wire from Washington announcing that he has been dismissed for taking three weeks' absence without leave. We got it in the neck together, Miss MacDonald, and I thought maybe Wayland would be game enough to have a—a—a shake with me over it."

"Yes, a shake," smiled Eleanor. "I'd like to mix it for you!"

The news editor suddenly lost all shyness, burst out laughing, leaned forward and shook hands.

"Don't know whether you know it or not," he went on, "but about a month ago one of those d—I beg your pardon, Miss MacDonald, Down-East scribblerettes, that come out to see the West from a Pullman car window and put things right, passed through here. Somebody got him and filled him up pretty full with a lot of lies about Wayland—"

"You mean Brydges gave him the facts?" asked Eleanor.

"Well, maybe, Brydges may have had him out in the forty horse power car! He sent a lot of awful rot East! That wasn't the worst of it. You'd think the Eastern fellows would know the difference between a maverick and a long-horn! He's been going round to the Eastern editors giving them doped stuff, lies dated out here written right down in New York! They've been hammering the Forest Service for the last month! I'll bet that dough-head never put a foot in National Forests once while he was West: rot about running off settlers, and shutting down mines, and hampering lumbering operations, and low down personal stuff! Anyway, between lies and dope, they've got Wayland! He's fired! I've been trying to get hold of him all day. Your old man's phrase, 'United States of the World,' kind of caught on with the crowd: they've kind of wakened up! Funny thing, the way that happens to a crowd! Your professional wind-jammer can orate till he busts his head, he never knows it has happened till the crowd has got away from him! Been a crush of men round Wayland all day, by G—, I beg your pardon—but if he isn't drowned, 'twon't be their fault! They are talking of putting him up as a candidate."

"As a what?" exclaimed Eleanor.

"Run for Congress," explained the news man.

She had gone quickly forward to the window, righting a shade to hide the flood of joy that surged up to her face.

"Excuse me—Mr.——? But I don't know your name?"

"My name? Oh, my name is—Legion," said the news editor dryly.

"Well, what was it you said the other day," she had mustered courage to turn and face him again, "what was it you said the other day about a moneyed man backing an independent paper through this fight? Don't you remember, after the inquest, Mr. Legion?"

He uttered a shout of laughter, and she understood and laughed too.

"Oh, the independent paper is floundering on the edge of failure. They'll have to swing in line with the side that pays them best at election time. One could buy up their debts now for a few thousand dollars, perhaps not twenty thousand. Another fifty or so would swing her off on an independent tack. There's been a great awakening. The people have their ears down to the ground for the coming change, Miss MacDonald; and the politicians don't know it! If we could swing her off well, she'd be a paying concern in a year; then the politicians could be d—I beg your pardon, the special interests could go to the Devil! That's what I wanted to talk about to Wayland. He's the winning horse! We haven't either of us got anything left to lose but some frayed convictions, and by God," (this time, he did not notice he had said it), "we'd invest 'em in an independent for all we're worth! I'm hot; and I've an idea Wayland isn't just at milk and water temperature; and the public isn't; and we'd have them! We'd force the other crowd to yell at the top of their voices for reform inside of six months. There's a lot about that Rim Rocks affair even the owners of the sheep don't know; but why in the Devil am I telling all this to a woman?"

She had drawn her chair up to the table where he sat.

"Because, I suppose, the woman wants to know. In case, you don't see Wayland, do you mind giving me the exact figures about that independent paper? We are all to go home together to-morrow. Let us put the figures down. I can tell him the rest when the others are not about; and do you know, I think I have heard him speak of some one who might back this kind of scheme?"

Oh, crafty woman! Do you think the kindly eyes behind those strongly focussed glasses did not bore in behind your guarded words? Just once did she interrupt his quick run of explanations.

"Is your idea to run an altogether staid journal, or a yellow one?" she asked.

He was plainly taken aback. He laid down his pencil.

"If you were a man, I could explain that easier!"

"Because, I'm done with the kind of goodness that's pickled and put away in a self-sealer where it won't spoil like old-fashioned jam for company," she said.

The news editor's eyes opened very wide, indeed! She had said "I'm done" quite as unconsciously as he had let slip words inadmissable in polite converse.

"It isn't piety done up in homoeopathic pills the world wants," she went on.

"No, it's punch," he broke in; "and what's the use of dickering with a little two-for-a-cent high-brow, superior, exclusive, self-righteous rag of a daily that will reach only a handful of sissy people? Democracy is here; and it's here for keeps, the rule of the many good or bad; and it's as your old parson said in the court room, it's going to be the United States of the World. What's the use of issuing a rag sheet that will preach to a little parlorful of sissies and high-brows? You've got to get the crowd, and to educate 'em up to self-government, to pelt 'em to a pulp with facts! You've got to get 'em if you take them by the scruff of the neck, Miss MacDonald! While the churches and the teachers and the preachers sit back self-superior and self-sufficient, Miss MacDonald, where's the crowd? They're out in the street! You've got to get 'em! You've got to get the facts before 'em! People curse the yellow journals! All right! But they reach an audience of a million a day; every one of them; and your self-superior journals don't touch ten-thousand! Miss MacDonald, which is having the telling influence, for good or evil? Which is getting the crowd? Oh, I know they publish pictures of pugilists' big toes and base ball pitchers' thumbs the size of a half page; but if I could ram a moral truth or a hard fact down the fool-public's throat on the very next page by advertising it with a pugilist's big toe, I'd do it—you bet! I'd take a leaf out of the Devil's note book and go him one better! You ask whether I'd publish a yellow journal? Miss MacDonald, if I could get the facts of exactly what is going on in this country before the public, I wouldn't publish 'em yellow! I'd publish truth bloody red!"

When the Williams and Matthews came in from the missionary meeting, Eleanor was standing under the centre light leaning against the table with her back to the door.

"Feeling better, dear?" asked Mrs. Williams.

"So much better that I'm going to bed to sleep every minute for the first night for a week."

"Surely," cried Williams clapping his hands. "A MacDonald never had nerves."

Matthews was trying to read her face as she shook hands saying good-night.

"No," she answered his look, shaking her head, "I must decide for myself, Mr. Matthews."

The three stood talking in the room she had left.

"Do you think we ought to have told her?" asked Mrs. Williams solicitously.

"No! Leave Wayland t' tell her himself t'morrow! A make no doubt that buckboard won't hold five people! Is it six o'clock we set out? A'm longin' for m' own wee uns!"

"One thing," declared Williams, throwing himself on a chair, "if Wayland runs, I'm going to stump it for him! We've got to get busy, Matthews! The old order changeth! We've got to keep up with the procession!"

If you had not known her utter conservatism as to all things pertaining to women, you could not appreciate the response of the missionary's wife. (She was an ultra-anti-suffragette.)

"I am sure, my dear," she cried, "I know a couple of hundred people on our summer circuit in the Upper Pass that I could make vote right."



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE UNITED STATES OF THE WORLD

"Wayland, for a man who's had his head cut off, you look uncommon joyous, tho' you're a bit white about the chops."

"Had a shave," answered Wayland dryly.

The yellow buckboard was rattling over the pressed brick pavement of Smelter City towards the suburbs. Williams was in the front seat with Matthews, who was driving. Eleanor and Mrs. Williams were in the second seat, with Wayland standing behind as he had stood that night going up to the Rim Rocks. Behind trotted two range ponies with empty saddles.

"I thought, perhaps, you'd prefer driving out beyond the suburbs," he had explained. "There's a good trail up to the hog's back opposite the Brule."

They watched her leap down from the buckboard and mount the saddle, a little awkward at first whether to put the right knee fore or aft, from her Eastern training to a side saddle; and side saddles in the range country are rare as low neck gowns and tuxedo coats; but once she had caught the far stirrup, riding was riding. She had the pace, and the two figures loped off up the burn for the hill known as the Brule, Wayland turning and waving his hat.

"Now the Lord have mercy on your soul, Williams. This ride will settle it; an' A'm not darin' t' hope which way it goes! A 'm not keen to go back empty-handed with yon little old lady payin' m' expenses heavy an' generous; but yet—but yet—"

"Yet what?" asked Mrs. Williams, leaning forward between the two men.

"Th' great joy comes only once; an' when it cam' t' me, A put a handspike thro' it, an' kept it."

He had come to her that morning with a look on his face that she had not dreamed a human face could wear. She wondered if all men crucified for right won such joy. And he did not tread earth. He trod air. Eleanor could not trust her eyes to meet his. She felt their light burning to the centre of her soul. What was it? Was it renunciation? The thought turned her faint. Her determination to break his resolution seemed the cheap obtrusion of egotism on the great mission of a devoted life. Then, going up the hog's back trail along the rim of the Ridge, they were facing the Holy Cross Mountain. The glint of the morning sun on the far snows shone like diamonds, a tiared jeweled thing poised in mid-heaven like a crown held by invisible hands; the base of the lower mountain outlines melting and losing edge in the purple shadows; the crown only, shining diademed, winged with opal light.

"Look Dick," she said pointing with her riding crop, "do you remember the night on the Ridge? Do you remember about the snow flakes massing to the avalanche? It has—hasn't it? The Nation has wakened up."

Wayland looked ahead. He couldn't answer. 'Remember the night on the Ridge?' He had a lump in his throat and an ache at his heart from never letting himself remember it. By that strange perversity, which we all know in ourselves, he couldn't talk. The hundred and one things he had wanted to ask, died on his lips in a dumbness of gladness. Of course, you, dear reader, on the return of a husband or wife (prospective or present), on the sudden appearance of friend or kith have never been similarly affected. You didn't forget the questions you had meant to ask till thousands of miles again separated you.