That autumn visit of Eva Thornhill glowed in Danvers' heart like the riotous colors in the gray landscape that precedes the frost of winter; for winter was coming, her visit was over, and Eva and her father were to leave for Fort Benton on the morrow. Danvers inwardly chafed under the secrecy imposed upon their engagement, and yet it would have been hard for him to have spoken of his love for Eva, even to the sympathetic Latimer.
But he longed to see more of her, to drink his fill of her beauty and fix her image in his memory that he might not famish in his loneliness during the dreary winter months when they should be separated.
Though it was hard to evade her father, EvaThornhill granted her lover a last interview. His reserve, now softened by his love, fascinated the girl, and the element of secrecy lent a romantic touch that did not lessen her enjoyment of the situation. Yet it was a relief to return to Fort Benton, where she could think it all over and avoid her father's anger at a possible discovery.
"You will write to me?" said Danvers eagerly, as he held her hands, in parting. "There are few mails in the winter, but some one will be coming up." He looked imploringly into her eyes, as she hesitated.
"Of course I'll answer your letters—Philip," she spoke the name deliberately, as though enjoying her right to the familiarity of its use. "And when shall I hear fromyou?"
"Always; whenever you will close your eyes and listen! It may be weeks before a freighter makes the trip; but without a written message you will know that I am thinking of you, loving you! Remember it, Eva!"
His arm drew her close, and the girl caught his ardor as she returned his good-bye kiss.
"I will, dear; oh, I will!" Sheclungto him and for a moment caught the glory of his vision. Real tears dimmed her eyes as her lover tenderly released her, and the man was satisfied.
That night Latimer had a long talk with his friend.
"You see, old man, I may as well go now, when the doctor and the Thornhills are returning to Fort Benton. It may be weeks before I have another chance."
Latimer, too! The thought sent a chill to the heart of the lieutenant, now doubly sensitive to the love of this only friend! He had long known that Latimer would return to his law practice in Fort Benton, but the time had never been set for his going.
"The years of outdoor life," continued Latimer, "have made a new man of me!" patting his chest, not yet so broad as Danvers'. "And if I am ever to go back to the law I must get about it before I forget all I ever knew." He gave his arguments with a half apology as if to soften the sharpness of his decision, which to his loyal heart seemed like a desertion of his friend.
Danvers was silent. He saw, more clearly than his companion, that the doctor's visit, the presence of Major Thornhill and his daughter, and the association with those of his own class, had roused in the Southerner a longing for the old life of civic usefulness, had drawn him back to his office, to his books and civilized associations.
"And if I get away to-morrow," went on Latimer, "I must pack up my few belongings in themorning, and shall not have time for much of a good-bye—you will understand, Phil?"
"Yes, indeed!" said Danvers, realizing that he had been too long silent. "Write to me when you can, Arthur. You know what the winters are up in this country."
They smoked in silence for an hour or more—that strange communion that men find gives greater sympathy than any speech. Then Danvers wrung the hand of his friend, and set out for the barracks.
Many sober faces clustered around Eva when she said good-bye next morning, but Burroughs' was not among them. He had said nothing of his humiliation, but had avoided meeting Miss Thornhill again. Her father was greatly dissatisfied; he thought that Eva's reception of the attention of other men had offended the trader, and he did not spare his blame for such a condition of things. Eva maintained her equanimity, feeling that she had done well to preserve the secret of her engagement, and to win Philip's pledge to silence.
Two months later Robert Burroughs sold out his trading-post, and he, too, prepared to return to the States. When he told Pine Coulee that she was to return to her father's lodge with the boy, he was, for the first time, afraid of thewoman. All her savage blood surged in protest; his offers to support their child were spurned. He was glad when the squaw was sullenly silent in the lodges of her tribe, and he determined never to come again to Macleod—to leave the past behind him. That was his dominant thought as he started out for Fort Benton, accompanied by his familiar, Wild Cat Bill.
Their life at Fort Macleod had been in many ways one of jeopardy. He had run incredible risks of exposure and ruin, but he had won, through sheer audacity and bravado. He smiled covertly as he recalled the fact that he, the greatest whiskey smuggler in the Whoop Up Country, was also the privileged friend of an unsuspecting, honorable, upright officer—Colonel Macleod. Even his hardened conscience pricked as he thought how he had deceived one who, with somewhat more of acumen, and somewhat less of belief in men, would have been most severe on his wrong-doing.
But that was over. To turn to less reprehensible and underhand ways would be easy, he was sure. Or, if he found that the old ways of accomplishing his purpose were more profitable, he would exercise them on bigger projects in Montana. He had made a fortune in the Whoop Up Country. Now he intended to increase it in the development of Montana's resources. He proposed to marry and rear a family, as became a prosperous and respected citizen.
Dreams of statehood were beginning to waken into hope of reality among the sturdy men who dwelt in the territory, and during this journey south Burroughs confided to Bill his ambition to sit in the United States Senate. Fortune had favored him so far. All that was necessary to further his ambitions was to be as shrewd and cautious as he had been hitherto, and all things should be his—with Bill's help. Bill listened—that was his rôle for the time being. But he thought well of the plans, and said so before his chief referred to quite another subject—Pine Coulee and the boy. Here Bill found no words.
Burroughs opined that the episode with Pine Coulee was nothing. She was a fool to expect him to continue their relations simply because there was a child. He would see that they did not suffer. Really Sweet Oil Bob felt a glow of self-approval as he talked. But few men in the Whoop Up Country gave a thought to the comfort of the squaws when they left them. And as for the children—let them go with their mothers! It was the easiest thing imaginable.
To Danvers it seemed that half the population of Fort Macleod was leaving, since Scar Faced Charlie had departed months before, and Toe String Joe had been dishonorably discharged andgone out of the country. Only the loyal O'Dwyer remained, and to him he sometimes spoke of Fort Benton friends. To Eva he wrote with every outgoing mail, and watched eagerly for a sign from her when a chance freighter should bring the Fort Benton mail. Then fever broke out in the barracks and Danvers spent his nights caring for the others and had little time for thought. His splendid constitution seemed able to bear any amount of fatigue, and he boasted that the loss of sleep was nothing—that he preferred to talk to some one—he had not enough to do to keep busy!
But he overestimated his strength, and when a mail was brought with no letter from Eva the disappointment and anxiety told on his already overtaxed constitution. O'Dwyer was the last to convalesce, and even he was no longer in need of constant attention. With the relaxing of the strain came Philip's utter collapse. The fever was on him, and for weeks he talked deliriously of English lanes, of his sister Kate, of his rise in the service, but never of Eva Thornhill. It was as if some psychic power guarded his lips and loyally preserved his secret.
The spring flowers were budding when he again breathed the outer air, and it was a gaunt figure which sat in the lee of the stockade one day inMay and took the package of letters brought from Fort Benton.
At last! Eva's first letter lay in his hand. He forgave her the long silence. The winter had been unusually severe and to the irregularity of the mails he ascribed his love's apparent defection. With trembling fingers he opened the thin envelope. The letter had no heading.
"I have told father of my promise to you. He refuses absolutely to sanction it and declares I shall never marry an Englishman. I now agree with father that it would be very unwise. I hate the army, and you say you will never leave it. It is best that we understand each other at once, and very fortunate that we agreed not to speak of our engagement. I have not heard from you in three months, and so I presume you are tired of it and as glad to break as I am."
"I have told father of my promise to you. He refuses absolutely to sanction it and declares I shall never marry an Englishman. I now agree with father that it would be very unwise. I hate the army, and you say you will never leave it. It is best that we understand each other at once, and very fortunate that we agreed not to speak of our engagement. I have not heard from you in three months, and so I presume you are tired of it and as glad to break as I am."
That was all. The dazed convalescent remembered that his letter was mailed the very day that he went to the hospital, and his promise of silence made it impossible to ask another to notify her of his condition. Fate's cruelty bit deep. The heartlessness of Eva's dismissal pierced his soul. Mechanically he took up a letter from his sister.
"Dear brother Philip," her letter began."We have written and written. What hasbecome of you these last months? Haven't you received the solicitor's letters or mine, telling you of father's sudden death, and the discovery that we are almost penniless—all the fortune gone?"
"Dear brother Philip," her letter began."We have written and written. What hasbecome of you these last months? Haven't you received the solicitor's letters or mine, telling you of father's sudden death, and the discovery that we are almost penniless—all the fortune gone?"
Danvers gasped, weakly, at the wealth of disaster. He had always regarded his father as an exceptionally acute man of business. And now.... The letters of which his sister Kate wrote had never reached him. The mail service was wretched, he knew; but it seemed incredible that such important letters should be lost. He turned to the other envelopes just received. Yes, there were three from the family solicitors, and one from Arthur Latimer. These from England had probably lain at Fort Benton all winter. Presently he read on:
"However, you no doubt have received them all by this time. I write this, in haste, to ask you to meet me at Fort Benton by the middle of June, as I shall come to America in time to take the first boat leaving Bismarck. I shall have about a hundred pounds when I start. I am determined to come to you."
"However, you no doubt have received them all by this time. I write this, in haste, to ask you to meet me at Fort Benton by the middle of June, as I shall come to America in time to take the first boat leaving Bismarck. I shall have about a hundred pounds when I start. I am determined to come to you."
With some expression of grief at their bereavement, and anticipation of seeing her brother, the letter closed.
Come up to the Whoop Up Country! His young, unsophisticated sister? She must not! He started up, thinking to send a rider to Fort Benton with a message to cable to London. But she would already have started. And how could he support her in England? How support her in any country on his small income, used as she was to every luxury? It was horrible! What to do! What to do! At last he took up Latimer's letter. At least here would be something to put heart into a fellow, he thought, hopefully. The bold handwriting seemed so like the light-hearted Southerner that a wan smile played over Philip's ghastly face. The smile faded to be replaced by agony as the sense of the words was absorbed—words leaping at him, fiendishly:
"Dear Old Chum—I am the happiest fellow alive. Eva Thornhill and I were married last week, and our only regret was that you could not be my best man. I spoke of it several times. How did this happen, you ask? Why, I was fortunate enough to fall heir to something like twenty-five thousand dollars this winter, and, after settling the question whether there was any understanding between you and Eva (she assured methere never had been) I sailed right in—and she is mine."Old boy! Eva's the dearest little piece of guilelessness in the world. She's told me all about Burroughs, and even confessed that she used to admire you; but she thought you very reserved. I have told how companionable you really are and how she should have captured you. But she shakes her pretty head and says that she is jealous of you—that I am fonder of you than of her! She's a rogue! I used to be dumbly jealous of the other fellows, knowing how poor I was. I had to keep myself well in hand, I tell you, especially when I used to see you two together. But if Eva had cared for you (how could she help it?) I'd have been the first one to congratulate you. We could not be rivals, could we, dear old man?"We are going East for the summer, and the doctor goes with us as far as St. Louis. Wish us well, Phil! Why haven't you written? I know it has been a bad winter and only two mails from Macleod, but I expected to hear at least once."I wish that you could find so ideal a wife as mine. Dear, innocent, truthful—what more can man ask?"
"Dear Old Chum—I am the happiest fellow alive. Eva Thornhill and I were married last week, and our only regret was that you could not be my best man. I spoke of it several times. How did this happen, you ask? Why, I was fortunate enough to fall heir to something like twenty-five thousand dollars this winter, and, after settling the question whether there was any understanding between you and Eva (she assured methere never had been) I sailed right in—and she is mine.
"Old boy! Eva's the dearest little piece of guilelessness in the world. She's told me all about Burroughs, and even confessed that she used to admire you; but she thought you very reserved. I have told how companionable you really are and how she should have captured you. But she shakes her pretty head and says that she is jealous of you—that I am fonder of you than of her! She's a rogue! I used to be dumbly jealous of the other fellows, knowing how poor I was. I had to keep myself well in hand, I tell you, especially when I used to see you two together. But if Eva had cared for you (how could she help it?) I'd have been the first one to congratulate you. We could not be rivals, could we, dear old man?
"We are going East for the summer, and the doctor goes with us as far as St. Louis. Wish us well, Phil! Why haven't you written? I know it has been a bad winter and only two mails from Macleod, but I expected to hear at least once.
"I wish that you could find so ideal a wife as mine. Dear, innocent, truthful—what more can man ask?"
Danvers pulled himself up from the bench,wondering why the day had grown so cold, where the sunshine had gone. He replaced Latimer's letter in its envelope, dully, slowly:
"'Truthful—innocent!'" he quoted. "Poor Arthur!" He laughed—a dreadful sound. Then he fell face downward—and so they found him.
A pale-faced youth looked with dilated eyes on the nearing town of Fort Benton. It was Philip Danvers, late second lieutenant of the North West Mounted Police of Canada. He had lived through the shock which the three letters had brought on his fever-weakened frame, and during his convalescence determined to leave the service and seek employment at Fort Benton. To his colonel alone he gave his reasons. His sister Kate was a delicate girl, unused to adversity. His pay was insufficient to support her, even if she could have lived at Fort Macleod. She must be safe-guarded. For three long, hard, lonely years he had dreamed of a commission, and now that he had secured it he must give it up, together with hope of further advancement. There was no alternative.
As the band played "The Girl I Left Behind Me" (invariably rendered when men in the English service change garrison), O'Dwyer stepped forward to say good-bye.
"Sure, Phil," he blubbered, "I'll lave the service 's soon's me time's up, now ye're gone! I'll folley ye to Fort Benton!"
Danvers turned tear-dimmed eyes away from his friend, from the low fort and the weather-beaten stockade, and resolutely denied himself the pain of looking back to catch the last flutter of the Union Jack as the long rise of land dipped toward the south. How often had he strained his eyes to see that symbol of his country as he returned from the various forays and hunting trips! But duty called! This was the only thought that he dared allow himself—and his sister, his sister! She had no one but him to look to, and in his loneliness she was a comforting thought, and worth all the sacrifice of his life's ambitions.
While he had lain unconscious, in his illness, she had arrived at the head of navigation, and had written him girlish, impatient letters. He knew that Latimer would look out for her if he and Eva had returned from their wedding trip, but he was sure they had not, and felt an equal relief that he need offer no congratulations. The doctor, too, Arthur had told him, was in St. Louis. He wondered how his sister had passed the time. Once she had mentioned meeting Burroughs, and he knew that she was living at the little hotel that he remembered. He was frantic to reach his destination and assume a brother's responsibilityfor the simple-hearted, yielding, young English girl, brought abruptly into the rough Western life.
As he drew near the growing town of Fort Benton he was astounded at the sight of what seemed quite a metropolis to his eyes, so long accustomed to the log buildings and the scant population of Fort Macleod.
As the road dipped over the bench and led into town he saw, riding to meet him—was it his sister?—and with her, Robert Burroughs!
But Danvers was on his feet, and as he assisted the girl to dismount she slid into his arms and put up her lips for a kiss.
When something like coherence was evolved from the rush of questions and answers, Kate turned shyly toward Burroughs, who still sat upon his horse.
She took her brother by the hand.
"Phil, dear, you have not spoken to Mr. Burroughs. He has told me so much of your life together in the Whoop Up Country, and what friends you are. He has been most kind to me. When I learned that you were ill, I was so alarmed—alone! But he—that is—I——"
"Why, it's this way, Danvers," interrupted Burroughs, speaking with more correctness than Phil had before heard him, and willingly taking the onus of explanation—his hour had come."Your sister couldn't go to Macleod, of course. She couldn't stay here, alone. You'll stay with the Police, no doubt; and, as Latimer and his wife are away, it fitted right in with my plans"—he paused to enjoy the dismay on Danvers' face—"to ask Kate to do me the honor of marrying me. You remember," he hastened to add, "don't you, that I once told you that you'd not only never marry Eva Thornhill, but that I'd marry your sister?"
The dark, exultant face flashed the same look of hate that greeted Philip on theFar West, and later gloomed through the dimly lighted trading-post on the night of the dance! With a groan Danvers realized, as he looked at his suddenly shrinking sister, that the sacrifice of his life's ambition had been in vain.
"What constitutes a state?. . . .Men who their duty know."
"What constitutes a state?
. . . .
Men who their duty know."
Philip Danvers, cattleman, nearing Fort Benton on his return from a round-up, found his thoughts reverting to the past. The spring day was like another that he remembered when he first caught sight of the frontier town more than a dozen years before. He noted the smoke of a railroad locomotive as it trailed into nothingness, and involuntarily he looked toward the Missouri River; but there was no boat steaming up the river, and the unfurrowed water brought a sadness to his face.
He recalled the doctor's vigorous opposition a few years previous, when the question of a railroad came before the residents of Fort Benton. Perhaps the doctor had been right in thinking thatthe river traffic would be destroyed, and with it the future of the town. Certainly his derided prophecy had been most literally fulfilled. Instead of becoming a second St. Louis, the village lay in undisturbed tranquillity, but little larger than when theFar Westhad brought the first recruits of the North West Mounted Police to its levees. To those who loved the place, who believed in it, the result caused by the changing conditions of Western life was well-nigh heartbreaking.
Instead of the terminus of a great waterway—the port where gold was brought by the ton to be shipped East from the territorial diggings; the stage where moved explorer, trader, miner and soldier—instead of being the logical metropolis of the entire Northwest, Fort Benton lay a drowsy little village, embowered in cottonwoods and dependent upon the cattlemen who made it their headquarters for shipping.
The lusty bull-whacker's yell, the mule-skinner's cry and the pop of long, biting whips were heard no more in the broad, sweeping curve of the Missouri. The levees were no longer crowded with bales of merchandise, piles of buffalo hides and boxes of gold. No steamers tied up to the rotting snubbing-posts; the bustle of the roustabouts, the oaths of the mates, the trader's activity had vanished forever, as irrevocably as the buffalo on theplains. Nothing in the prospect before him suggested to Danvers the well-remembered past except the old adobe fort on the water's edge. One bastion and a part of a wall recalled to the Anglo-American his first homesick night in the Northwest. Even the trading-posts on the river between Bismarck and Fort Benton were abandoned.
The man had altered as well. It was evident that the shy reserve of the Kentish youth had changed to the dignity of the reticent man. The military bearing remained; the eyes were steady and observant, as of old; but the youthful red and white of his face had been replaced by a clear tan, marked by lines of thought. In a country of bearded and seldom-shaved men, Philip's clean face added not a little to that look of distinction which had impressed the passengers on theFar Westand gained the first enmity of Robert Burroughs.
Danvers was still unmarried. At rare intervals he read the old clipping of the two souls separated and seeking each other, but the legend had grown dim. The romantic dreams of boyhood were gone. He doubted that his heart would ever be roused again; that the ph[oe]nix flame of love would rise from the ashes of what he knew had been but the stirring of adolescent blood when he fancied that he loved Eva Thornhill. The home life of others had not impressed him as adream fulfilled. The gradual disillusionment of the many was disheartening, and Latimer's worn, unhappy face was a constant reminder. Arthur Latimer! That blithe Southerner—believer in men—and women! Philip knew what had made him seek forgetfulness in the law and politics. The success of his friend, who had reached his goal, on the supreme bench, had gratified Danvers, and Latimer's enthusiasm and persistent belief in the ultimate good, when the builders and founders of the newly formed State should merge personal desires into one—one that had the best good of all for its incentive, tempered his dislike for American politics.
Not long after the round-up, Philip Danvers received a call from Wild Cat Bill, now known in Montana as the Honorable William Moore. His ability to promote big enterprises, whether floating a mining company or electing a friend to the legislature, was publicly known, and Danvers wondered silently what had brought the politician from Helena to the semi-deserted town of Fort Benton, and induced him to favor him with a call.
"Yes, Danvers," volunteered the affable Moore, "I just thought I'd take a few days off and see what the old place looked like."
Danvers noticed that he had dropped the vernacular, though his speech was characteristic of the West.
"It's always a pleasure to go back to the early days, when we roughed it together," Bill went on.
Philip doubted the pleasure. He recognized this sentiment as a very recent acquisition in the Honorable William Moore, and waited for further enlightenment as to the real purpose of the visit.
"The old bunch turned out pretty well, after all," Moore commented. "Robert Burroughs is a millionaire! Your sister was in luck, all right! And Bob was tickled to death when a baby came. A big girl by this time!"
A dangerous look—a look that made Wild Cat Bill remember the night of the dance at the trading-post—warned the Honorable William to drop personalities. The one fact that made the position of his sister tolerable to Danvers was the knowledge that Burroughs took pride in his wife and child and lavished his wealth upon them.
"And you and the doctor still cling to Fort Benton!" The next remark of the caller was spoken with commiseration. "Is the doctor still preaching its future?"
Danvers winced at what seemed a thrust at an old friend. "My cattle make it necessary for me to ship from Fort Benton and—I like the place," he acknowledged without apology.
"And Joe Hall—you recall Toe String Joe?"
There was ample reason why Philip Danvers should remember the disloyal trooper, dishonorably discharged.
"Queer idea of Joe's to enlist in the first place," continued Moore. "He made a much better miner. You're following his case in court, I suppose?"
A subtle change in expression made the cattleman aware that all his visitor's remarks had been preliminary to this one. It was, then, the famous case of Hall vs. Burroughs that for some reason Bill Moore thought worth a trip from Helena to discuss.
"Burroughs can't afford to lose that case," declared Moore.
"He'll lose it if Joe has fair play!" cried Danvers.
Philip felt no love for the recruit of early days, but his sense of justice asserted itself when he recalled the years that Burroughs had made a tool of Toe String Joe at Fort Macleod, and later robbed him of his mining claim at Helena. Burroughs had grub-staked him and secured a half interest. At a time when Joe was down sick, and hard pressed with debts, Burroughs rushed a sale with Eastern capitalists and forced Joe Hall to relinquish the claim for $25,000. When Joe discovered that it had brought$125,000, and that Burroughs had pocketed the difference, he went to law and won his suit. Burroughs had appealed, and now the case was before the Supreme Court.
"There are politics in the Supreme Court as well as elsewhere," ventured Moore, with a meaning look.
"It is usually thought otherwise, I believe."
"I don't know what's usually thought. I know it's a fact."
"Perhaps corruption can be found——"
"Perhaps!" sneered the caller. "I tell you politics is a matter of a-gittin' plenty while you're gittin'."
"I was not speaking of politics, but of corruption."
"What's the difference?" cynically. "Now, I say that Judge Latimer can be influenced."
"Indeed!"
"I'm thinking that it would be safe to approach him in this case of Bob's."
"Are you going to try it?" Danvers' tone continued impersonal.
The Honorable William Moore hurried on. He breathed as one having put forth more strength than was required—breathed as he had breathed when the detachment of Mounted Police rode up to the small trading-post where he had barely succeeded in concealing his smuggledwhiskey. He laughed a little, threw his cigar away and put his thumbs firmly together with fingers clasped—a familiar mannerism.
"See here, Danvers! This case mustn't go against Burroughs. Bob's a good fellow. He did what any one else would have done. He wasn't looking out for Joe Hall. He did all the head-work, and at the time Joe was satisfied with the price. Of course you know that Bob's going to run for United States Senator next winter. And he's not over popular in Montana; you know how it is, moneyed interest against labor (so the common herd think), and this case has made more talk than everything else put together that Bob ever did."
"Well?" Philip's eyes had a gleam that Moore did not care to meet. Perhaps he had been too confidential. He walked about the room, nervously, his right hand grasping the rear of his coat. At last he forced himself to say bluntly:
"If you'll go to Judge Latimer and tell him how you feel—that Burroughs is your brother-in-law—that sort of talk, and that if the case goes against Bob, Latimer'll never get re-elected to the supreme bench—oh, you know what to say. Anyway, if you'll do this you'll be twenty-five thousand dollars better off—that's all; and I tell you, you'll need the money before next winter is over if this drouth continues. Your cattle must be in badshape now. Just tell Latimer how you feel."
"How do you know how I feel about this case?" Danvers kept himself well under control, though he felt his blood pounding.
"It isn't so much what you feel as what you say."
Philip looked at the man.
"You haven't got the money, Bill."
"Haven't I?" boasted Moore. "Look at this!" He made a quick dive inside his coat. "Three packages of twenty-five thousand each!" He exulted as he displayed the bills. "They were handed to me just before I took the train, and——"
"Bill Moore," said the cattleman curiously, "did you think for a moment that I could be purchased?"
The Honorable Mr. Moore sparred.
"Or Arthur Latimer?" continued Danvers.
"What else am I here for?" cried Moore in a rage. "Every man's got his price. Latimer's poor as a church mouse. He's got a wife like a vampire. And as for you—I know cattle raising isn't all profit!"
"The trouble with you, Bill," said Danvers, dispassionately, "is that you judge every man by yourself. You can't understand a man like Judge Latimer—the thing would be impossible!"
"It's you who are judging by yourself! We allknow you're a fanatic—or used to be. I thought perhaps you'd gotten over some of those notions. I know Judge Latimer as well as you do. If we don't get him one way, we'll take another. We're goin' to win!"
Danvers made no reply. The Honorable William waited for a moment, and then put back the packages he had flung on the table. He looked his surprise; he could not understand how he had been foiled with no anger.
"You say you know my standards," began Danvers, slowly. "Then why did you come to me?"
"We had to make the try; nobody could influence Judge Latimer like you."
"But what good would the money do him?" questioned Danvers, unable to follow the reasoning of the politician. "It would be found out and Latimer would be ruined."
"Oh, no, it wouldn't." Moore was hopeful again.
"Why didn't you approach him yourself?" It was an afterthought.
"It looks more natural for you to be interested in your brother-in-law. Bob said to see you."
"So this is his method of beginning a campaign for a seat in the United States Senate!"
"We knew we could trust you!" replied Moore.
And Danvers knew that the man believed he was paying a sincere tribute.
More than a month after this conversation Judge Latimer also paid a visit to Fort Benton and straightway sought his dearest friend.
"I wanted to get away from business, from—everything that distracts one," he explained, "and I wanted to see you, Phil, and the doctor, and dear old sleepy Fort Benton again."
He looked worn and distracted—thinner than Philip remembered him, and in need of something more than physical relaxation.
"Are you quite well, Arthur?" asked Danvers solicitously. "I'm going to have the doctor over to give you a thorough examination, and I'll see that you carry out all his directions. You don't take a bit of care of yourself!"
But in the evening, after a day in the open air, he brightened, and under the old spell of comradeship he took on the boyish manner that had been so marked a characteristic.
"And how are all our friends at Helena?" inquired the doctor, after he had secured a favorable report of Eva and the baby. "All well, of course, or I should have heard from them!" he went on, with the geniality that Latimer remembered so well. "And little Arthur—he must be quite a lad now——"
"Six—and so proud of his new sister," replied the father, with a note of pride that Danvers marked with thankfulness. The tenderness in theman's eyes told him that this little son was the sole balm of a harrassed life, and he wondered if even this great compensation was adequate for all the man had given—and lost.
"Why didn't you bring the little chap with you?" questioned the doctor.
"I did think of it," confessed Latimer, "but this is a business trip chiefly, if I must own up to it. I want to talk over the situation with someone I know—someone I can trust."
"Anything special?" asked the doctor.
"Politics!" replied the judge. "The political pot is beginning to get a scum on the top, preparatory to boiling."
"How domestic a simile!" jeered the doctor.
Latimer laughed. "We've been without a maid lately, and I've had a chance to see the inside workings of a kitchen. Not that it's Eva's fault," he added hastily. "Maids are hard to get."
"H-m-m," assented the doctor, judicially, and soon the three were deep in Montana politics.
The probable nominees for state officials were gone over, and Danvers remarked:
"You are sure of re-election, Arthur."
"No, I'm not; not even of nomination," objected the judge. "The Honorable William Moore has been to see me——"
Danvers shot him a keen glance, and the doctor listened curiously.
"He was interested in the Hall and Burroughs case." Latimer hesitated, and a spot of color suddenly burned in his cheeks. "Moore evidently thought it necessary to come to me and ask that Burroughs havefair play!"
The doctor laughed. It was an opportunity to tease the boy he loved; not a serious impeachment of the character of the judge of the Supreme Court.
"He offered me a hundred thousand dollars if I'd take a rest! Suggested Europe!" The judge's voice trembled.
"The devil he did!" burst from the physician.
"He raised his price by the time he got to you," commented Danvers.
"What?" Latimer whirled, amazed, toward the speaker.
"When Moore asked me to intercede with you for Burroughs he had only twenty-five thousand for each of us."
"What does Burroughs think I am?" groaned the judge. "He should know me better than to send Moore on his dirty business, but nothing I could say made any impression. He left, telling me to think it over."
"Do you know if he tried the others?"
"No. I've not mentioned the matter to anyone—except Eva. I was so outraged that I had to speak to someone. And she—she doesn't understand. She would enjoy a trip to Europe, and I—I can't give it to her."
His two friends were silent, and presently Latimer went on.
"And all this means that when it comes time to go before the convention this fall I shall have Burroughs and his cohorts against me."
"You seem sure of his opposition," remarked Danvers. "The case isn't decided yet. If it is in favor of Burroughs——"
"The decision was handed down this morning. It was in favor of Hall."
"Good!" chorused Danvers and the doctor.
"The election will turn out all right for you, too," prophesied the doctor, "and especially with Danvers to help. The judge and I have been plotting against you for some time, Phil," he explained. "We want you to go into politics."
Danvers shook his head.
"Wait a minute," urged the doctor. "It's like this, Danvers. You're an American, as much as we are. You have taken out your naturalization papers. You never think of leaving Montana. You have a splendid cattle business, and you love Fort Benton almost as much as I do."
The cattleman smiled as the doctor outlined his position, and owned that he did love the country of his adoption.
"And here's poor Latimer struggling on aloneup there at Helena, while you and I devote our time to making a fortune——"
"What are you offered for lots in Fort Benton now, Doctor?" teased Latimer, with a flash of his old humor. "Let me explain, Phil," he said.
"I know it would be a sacrifice for you to leave your business here; you've made a success with your cattle, and I envy you the independent, care-free existence."
"You don't appreciate the difficulties with drouths and blizzards," put in Danvers, "to say nothing of competition and low prices."
"Nothing!" exclaimed Latimer, with a gesture of his hand that swept away such trivialities like mere cobwebs that annoy but do not obstruct the vision. "All this is nothing! It is the complications with men—the relations with people—that weary and sicken and break the heart! I've tried to put up a clean record, a straight fight; I've tried to give honest service, and it seems as if the odds were all against me!"
"What do you want?" asked Danvers, more moved at the sight of his friend's distress than the need of his country.
"We want to put you in the Legislature as the senator from Chouteau County!" cried Latimer, flushed and eager. "If only a better class of men would go into politics! I can't blame them forwanting to keep out, and yet what is our country coming to? What can one man do alone? If you or the doctor or men of that character were in office, it wouldn't be so hard a fight. And with you in Helena, Phil——"
The familiar name, in the soft voice of the Southerner, stirred the heart of Danvers like a caress. He was lonely, too—he had not realized how much so, till the hand of his friend was stretched out to him, not only for aid, but for companionship. His heart throbbed as it had not done since a woman fired his boyish imagination. In the long years on the range he had grown indifferent, and rejoiced in his lack of feeling. Now he was waking, he was ready to take up his work in the world of men, ready to open his heart at the call of one who would be his mate.
"I might be induced to run, since you put it so strongly," said Danvers, with a lightness that did not conceal from either of his friends the depth of his feeling.
"Thank you, Phil."
Danvers took the thin, nervous hand extended to him, and held it with a grasp that sent courage into the heart of Judge Latimer. It was a hand that had guided bucking bronchos and held lassoed steers, and the man weary with life's battles knew that a friend had come to his aid who would blench at no enemy.
"Do you need any more men?" inquired Danvers, with a tone of assurance and natural leadership that amazed them both.
"Do weneedthem? Can you produce any more? That is the question," said Latimer.
"There's always O'Dwyer, of course!" laughed Danvers.
"Is he as devoted as ever?" inquired Latimer.
"The same old worshipper," declared the doctor. "And, by George! now you speak of it, he wouldn't make a bad representative!"
The three men talked over the situation and planned a brief campaign, sending Arthur Latimer home, cheered and strengthened. Nevertheless, after they had said good-bye at the station, the doctor turned to Danvers with a heavy sigh.
"Latimer's heart is in bad condition. He's going to have trouble with it. And the nervous strain he lives under so constantly is more than I can reckon with. If he could rest at home—but I know how it was when they lived at Fort Benton!"
"Arthur has changed," said Danvers, sadly.
"I'll never forget," said the doctor, speaking more freely than ever before, "the time when Latimer first discovered that Eva did not care for him. He took it all to himself, and was broken-hearted because he had failed to keep her affections. Think of it!"
"Did she ever care for him?" Danvers could not resist asking.
"I hardly think so. I always had an idea that her heart—what there is of it—was captured by an army officer." He looked slyly at his companion as they walked through the gloom.
"Nothing so low in rank as a second lieutenant!" evaded Danvers.
"You were fortunate, after all, Philip, though it would have been better for Eva. She needed a master—and she took our gentle, sensitive, chivalrous Arthur! He will break; break like fine tempered steel when the strain becomes too great."