BARLEY HULLERS,” mused Hugh, when he awoke the next morning, “composed of chosen spirits, withboutonnihresof barley heads as an insignia of rank. I doubt not that if I were engaged in agricultural pursuits I should join them. But why, I wonder, did Major Hampton solicit me to identify myself with the order? The more I see of the old major the more I admire him, notwithstanding the half mystery that seems a part of him, and the contradictory elements in nis nature. Let me see—I have decided to ask Ethel Horton to be my wife.”
As he made his toilet he saw a reflection of his face in the mirror, and blushed as if he had been caught in the very act of preparing a declaration of love to Ethel. “Yes, it is a privilege and a duty. I can do no more than try; and then conscience urges me on.”
Arriving at the bank, he found a letter from Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton inviting him to the Grove for dinner that evening.
“I also received one,” said Captain Osborn, approaching Hugh’s desk. “I presume that the Hortons are giving a spread in honor of Lord Avondale.”
“Do you think it has any significance?” asked Hugh.
“Well, I am a little worried about it,” replied the captain. “They may announce Ethel’s engagement for all one knows, but, sir, I don’t believe it! No, sir, she is too sensible a girl and has too much American blood in her to be caught by an English title.”
“I hope you are right,” observed Hugh, sighing secretly, as he went on with his work.
That evening, on arriving at the Grove a little late, Hugh found not only the Osborns and Lord Avondale, but also Major Hampton and his daughter Marie.
Ethel Horton was all animation in helping her mother entertain, but Hugh’s quick eye detected a shade of sadness in her face. The light-hearted girl whom he had known in the first months of his residence in Kansas had to him now more the appearance of a conventional young woman of the world. Formalities had banished much of the girlish frankness of earlier days, leaving, indeed, only a trace.
Marie Hampton was attired in a beautiful evening gown of white silk, with a knot of La France roses at her corsage. Her beauty struck Hugh as never before. It aroused in him a sincere admiration. Her heavy bronzed tresses reflected the various shades of gold. As their eyes met a rich color flushed her cheeks. Hugh could not decide which outrivaled the other,—Ethel, the stately brunette, or Marie, the ideal blonde.
Mrs. Horton, in an elegant creation of Red-fern, was graciousness to every guest, while coquettish Mrs. Osborn appeared more youthful and girlish than ever. She smiled compassionately upon the captain and knowingly at Lord Avondale. She had a word of compliment for every one, and in many ways proved herself a most agreeable woman in the art of entertaining.
Lord Avondale, in his regulation black, roused himself above his usually dominating peculiarities, and seemed to be quite charmed with Ethel’s beauty, and to be genuinely interested in her.
Major Hampton had been discussing a painting when Hugh was announced, and, as he turned to receive him, Hugh was more than ever impressed with the grandeur of the man.
“What a rare specimen,” said he to himself, “of an American nobleman, both physically and intellectually.”
After the greetings, Hugh’s eyes sought Ethel’s with a hope that he might find some message in them, but they gave no response, and he was conscious of a chilled feeling at his heart.
John B. Horton, cattle king, was at his best. In his hearty frontier way he was the very prince of hosts. His black eyes beamed with good nature and hospitality.
“My friend Stanton,” said he, as he waved his hand toward the ladies, “lovelier specimens of the fair sex can’t be found. As for my daughter, you know, I am hardly an impartial judge—am so prejudiced in her favor. But look at Miss Marie,—why, her development completely astonishes me. I remember her as a little girl in short dresses, Stanton. It was only a little while ago, but now where can a young woman be found more queenly than she?”
Soon dinner was announced, and all seated themselves around a table both elegant and sumptuous. The conversation became animated. Ethel was especially vivacious, and won laurels in the repartee of the hour. Sometimes her laughing eyes would rest pointblank upon Hugh, and then again upon Lord Avondale.
As the dinner progressed, the Englishman turned his attention from Mrs. Osborn, much to her chagrin, and entered into a spirited conversation with Marie Hampton. The young woman proved herself a most brilliant conversationalist. Major Hampton looked beamingly upon his daughter, and smiled at her quick repartee, as if it were a personal compliment to himself and his instructions. Indeed, there was not a book in her father’s library with which she was not familiar. Her passion for study was gratified whenever she was not called to other employment. Before the dinner was half over the keen eyes of Mrs. Osborn had discovered what Hugh had never dreamed of,—that Marie Hampton was in love with him.
“The silly goose,” said Mrs. Osborn to herself, “he knows as little about affairs of the heart as a babe in swaddling-clothes.”
In Marie’s eyes Hugh was all that was noble, strong, and grand. She imagined that her secret was wholly hers; and she loved to pay him homage in silent girlish adoration. To Mrs. Osborn’s quick, experienced eyes, however, the rosebud was opening, and the warm, red petals were showing through the calyx of concealment which Marie was trying to throw around her adoration.
Lord Avondale announced that he expected to leave on the following day for Colorado, where, according to previous arrangements, he was to meet a party of English friends at Colorado Springs, and from there go hunting for Rocky Mountain sheep. Hugh fancied that he saw a pleased expression come to the face of his old friend, Captain Osborn; and a sigh of relief escaped his own heart at the thought of Lord Avondale really going away. He was glad not only on Ethel’s account, but also on account of the captain. He felt that the absence of this man might prevent complications in which Mrs. Lyman Osborn would be implicated.
“I am a little surprised,” observed Lord Avondale, “that you Americans don’t take the time to go shooting, when your mountains are so full of such excellent game. I regard shooting as rare sport—I do, indeed.”
“Our lives are rather busy ones,” replied Mrs. Horton, “but doubtless we would do well to imitate our English cousins and give ourselves more holidays. We Americans have seemingly fallen into the custom of sticking rather close to our business affairs, and you know it’s a hard thing to get out of a rut.”
“Quite true,” replied his lordship, “but all work, you know, and no play, makes Jack a dull boy.”
“Sometimes Jack is not so dull as he seems to be,” put in Captain Osborn.
“Of course, I meant nothing personal, you know,” said Lord Avondale, “for we are all aware that Americans are decidedly good business men,—quite sharp and thrifty, you know.”
“Some of them are,” observed Major Hampton, “but the masses are poor,—kept so by the sharpness of the few. Indeed, they are sadly in need of a protection which, at the present time, our laws do not afford.”
“It is not,” said Mrs. Osborn, “because our men cannot, but rather because they will not advise themselves of English ways and customs, and profit by the example.”
“Thank you,” said Lord Avondale, “that was a very clever speech, my dear Mrs. Osborn. I regard it as a compliment, I do indeed.”
“Habit and education,” said Mrs. Horton, “have much to do with our lives. Before I commenced visiting England, I entertained entirely different views from those I do to-day. At best, we Americans are but an offspring from the mother country, and the child should never cease to love and reverence the parent. I should have been greatly dissatisfied with myself had I permitted Ethel to be educated in the States.”
“My dear Mrs. Horton,” said Marie, looking up with a flushed face, “what text-books did Ethel study in England that cannot be found in America?”
“It’s not that!” exclaimed Lord Avondale, “it’s the surroundings, you know,—the absorbing of ideas peculiar to the English people, to which Mrs. Horton refers.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Horton, with her blandest smile, as she bowed to his lordship.
“I will not ask in what way they differ,” said Marie, “but I will ask in what way they are superior to the influences to be found in America?”
“Quite clever,” replied Lord Avondale, “quite clever, indeed. I could hardly answer the question you ask without also answering the one you say you will not ask.”
“Well,” persisted Marie, “I am waiting for the answer;” and a haughty expression came into her deep blue eyes.
“Ah! they’re so civil, don’t you know; the people in England are educated to respect their superiors, while the better class and the nobility are educated to be gentle toward inferiors.”
“But,” said Marie, “what if there were no class distinctions? Then may not Americans act toward each other the same as the better class and the nobility act toward one another? Are not Americans as civil as Englishmen?”
“Really, Miss Hampton,” said Lord Avondale, “I regret having been drawn into this discussion. I am quite willing to admit that in many parts of America the people are quite civil. Last winter I was in New Orleans. I found the people of the South remarkably civil,—much more so than the people of the Northern States.”
“And do you know the reason?” asked Marie with flashing eyes.
“No, really, Miss Hampton, I do not. I would be charmed if you would enlighten me, I really would—you know.” A supercilious smile overspread the face of Lord Avondale, while Marie’s handsome countenance glowed with an increased beauty in defending her country.
“That part of our country,” replied she, “New Orleans especially, was settled principally by the French, and the North by the English.”
“Ah! ah!—is that so?” stammered Lord Avondale. “I admit I am somewhat deficient in history, don’t you know.”
Captain Osborn laughed outright, much to the chagrin of his wife.
After they had returned to the parlors, both Mrs. Horton and Mrs. Osborn agreed that Marie had been shockingly rude to Lord Avondale. While they were talking of the affair in one corner, Ethel—sotto voce—was telling Marie that she was the dearest girl in the world, and that she loved her more than ever for having vanquished Lord Avondale.
Soon after, the guests took their departure, and the next day Lord Avondale left Meade on the stage-coach, to enjoy a few months’ shooting in Colorado.
THE Saturday afternoon following the dinner at the Hortons’ and Lord Avondale’s departure, several ranchmen, cattlemen, and townspeople were seated on the veranda of the hotel. They had been discussing local politics and venturing opinions as to the probable result of the coming election.
“I’m assoomin’ the only big money I’ve got to bet on the ‘lection,” said Bill Kinneman, “is on the proposition thet nobody kin tell fur sure jist how ‘t will come out. Mos’ every one’s jist guessin’ and strugglin’ in the coils uv error.”
This truism seemed to strike the humorous side of those present, and they guffawed their approval.
“I reckon,” said Dan Spencer, “a feller kin onbosom hisself an’ tell purty nigh as much ‘bout ‘lection, as they kin when Lord Avondale will be hoofin’ back inter these ‘ere diggin’s. Don’t like the English nohow.”
“What do you know about the English people, Dan Spencer?” asked Bill Mounce, the blacksmith, rather tartly. “Let me say to you the English are all right. My mother was born in England and I’ll fight for my mother and her people as quickly as I would for my father’s side of the family.”
“Bravo! Bravo!” shouted those listening.
“The facts are,” said Len Follick, a sturdy-looking farmer, “nearly every one of us can trace our lineage back to old England in one or the other branches of our family, and the idea of us condemning England because of a few Lord Avondales—more or less—is quite ridiculous.” Dan Spencer’s tooth was shaking around like a weathercock in a wind-storm, but before he could make reply the blacksmith said:
“Why, boys, look for instance at Seaton Cornwall. You all know him. He is one of the best citizens in the country. He’s English all over, but none of you ever heard him say a slighting word of this country or its flag.”
“Guess, Dan, you’ll hev to cave in; you’re sure’nuff locoed,” laughed Kinneman, “everybody knows Seaton Cornwall is one of the whitest fellers thet ever galloped over the range.”
“Say, what you fellers talkin’ ‘bout anyway?” asked Judge Lynn, coming up on the veranda.
“What’s we all talkin’ ‘bout?” said Dan Spencer, glad to turn the conversation, “why, we’s jist talkin’ ‘bout hoss-racin’, foot-racin,’ an’ ‘lections, wonderin’ who’d git the offices, an’ gen’rally stampedin’ our brains ‘round a whole lot. B’lieve you used to be a foot-racer, did n’t you, Judge? Can you run now?”
“Can I run? Well, I should say I could. Why, look ‘ere, Dan Spencer, jist you write to Ed Reimond back in Indiana, and ask him ‘bout the greatest foot-race ever pulled off on the banks of the Wabash. Hully gee, but in them days I had wings when there was a sprintin’ match on the boards. Course I hain’t run for many a year. I know how, though, bet yer life I do. Why, what’s the matter with you anyway, Dan? What are you snickerin’ that way for? Maybe you don’t believe I used to be a record breaker? Who can beat me? You say Bill Mounce can? Not on yer life. Mounce, you can’t touch one side o’ me on a foot-race—no, sirree.”
“No use gettin’ hostile, but I jist heerd him say he could,” rejoined Dan, grinning aggravatingly.
“Look ‘ere, Dan,” said the judge, with evident irritation, “our friend Mounce here may be a good blacksmith—guess he is—but he has n’t the p’ints for good speed. Now, I have, bet yer life I have; you jist ask Louis Boehler.”
The result of this conversation was a foot-race at four o’clock that afternoon, between the judge and the blacksmith, down in the valley of the Crooked Creek. From the enthusiasm of the spectators one might well have mistaken the affair for a Derby day race.
Bill Mounce was even more unfavorably proportioned for a sprinter than was Lynn. Mounce was short and stocky, and tipped the scales at 225 pounds; Lynn at 175 pounds. Judge Lynn, barring his great stomach, his little toy balloon-shaped face, pipestem legs, and a few other defective points, might possibly have possessed some of the characteristics of speed.
There were fully two hundred spectators lined up to see the race. These were divided about evenly between the farmers and cattlemen.
The cowboys began betting on Lynn. Even Dan Spencer “hedged” and then doubled. The farmers picked on Mounce as the winner, and the price for their wheat and barley was accordingly up for all takers.
When all was in readiness, the horse-shoer and the legal servant clasped hands and bent well over, each with an extended foot on the line. At the crack of a revolver away they sped, running, side by side, like two ice-wagons drawn by oxen—but stampeded.
It must not be supposed this race was any “ten second” affair. The timekeeper needed no stop-watch. Any old-fashioned clock, with wooden wheels, could have kept track of the seconds that passed in that hundred yard dash. Some said that the affair reminded them of a geological description of the movement of the glaciers. In time the race was ended, however—the blacksmith winning by about two feet. Mounce was greeted with huzzas. Lynn was broken-hearted—got drunk immediately and was hauled home in a farmer’s wagon.
This race was but a preliminary to greater things. It was simply a practice run compared with another sprinting contest between Mounce and Lynn, which took place some two weeks later—a contest still memorable in the annals of foot-racing in the Southwest.
Judge Lynn sent word to his cowboy backers that he was training nightly, and would put up the race of his life. While the judge was thus living in seclusion by day and practising by night, an evil report became noised about, that the judge had thrown the former race for the price of a gallon of whiskey. Few, however, believed the rumor.
Now, as the time for the second race drew near, interest became very great, and all the people interested in racing contests were on the tiptoe of expectation.
The place selected for the affair was in the valley, some two miles south of Meade, on the banks of the Manaroya. Here the sod had been removed and an ideal race-course made.
The day came on and was a perfect one. The valley lay like a basin, with its borders yellowed with countless sunflowers; a large drove of fatted cattle were peacefully grazing just below the racetrack, while the winding waters of the Manaroya cut the valley like a restless ribbon. Not less than two thousand people were present to witness the greatly advertised race. The interest may have been somewhat farcical with many, for, in truth, it could be little more, at best, than a “fat man’s race.”
Lynn himself had arrived early and had gone over the track carefully, surveying, apparently, every inch of it with all the critical acumen of a veteran in the business. He was clad in a long robe—a Cardinal Richelieu affair—that swept the ground. He was silent, even stoical, and this unnatural phase gave him an unusually wise appearance.
Seaton Cornwall, an Englishman loved by everybody who knew him, had been selected judge of the race. He, in turn, appointed a score or more of time-keepers, as if fearful that some error might occur in obtaining a new record in Western sprinting.
When all was apparently in readiness for the dash, some of the cowboys called Judge Lynn to one side for a conference. His backers withdrew and surrounded him. To the great throngs of spectators it was evident that the cattlemen had some special instructions for the judge, and so they had. One wild-looking fellow, Orth Hudson by name, with leather leggins, spurs, sombrero, and a brace of revolvers, acted as spokesman. “Judge Lynn,” he said, “on the other race, which ye pretendid to run, most of us fellers bet heavy and lost a month’s wages on ye. Some say as how ye throwed that race fur a gallon of whiskey. If ye did, you’se ought to be killed. Now, we’re still b’lievin’ in ye—money talks—an’ we’re goin’ to back ye agin an’ put up our last dollar on ye. We’re proposin’ to git every cent these ‘ere farmers hev got; but, Judge, it’s up to you—do ye savey? it’s up to you. We’re not lustin’ fur trouble, Judge, and I don’t like much to say it, but I has to, ‘cause I’s been picked out by the fellers to spechully tell ye plain that ye’ll win this ‘ere race or be shot. I tell ye this so there’ll be no mis-onderstandin’. We’re proposin’ to be ca’m, but if ye lose this ‘ere race, there’ll be a stampede ensue, an’ you’ll not last long to pester the landscape with yer explainin’ o’ things.”
Judge Lynn turned pale. “Gentlemen,” said he, “I’ll win this race or die.”
“Yes,” said the cowboys in chorus, “that’s what we’ve ‘greed on,” and they carelessly laid their drawn revolvers across the pommels of their saddles.
“Judge,” continued the spokesman, “we’re predictin’ if ye cross that ‘ere tape line behind Bill Mounce, we’ll fill ye fuller o’ holes than the top end of an old-fashioned tin pepper-box. Do you see?”
The judge saw. He was easily the worst scared man in the big Southwest at that very minute.
The cowboys wheeled their ponies around and galloped for position, and the judge, unattended, walked thoughtfully back to the starting-place, still retaining his distinguished robe.
Now, when time was called, the people were treated to a number not on the program—a sight that must ever remain vividly fixed in the recollection of every man who witnessed the incident. It was the judge. He stepped out from under his huge cloak, and behold “the little man in red”—he underwent, as if by magic, a strange metamorphosis. He was clad in a skin-tight suit of flaming red material, and looked a veritable Mephistopheles. The people saw the grotesqueness of his make-up, and sent up deafening yells.
The blacksmith looked upon his athletic rival and trembled. The fantastic attire of the judge was evidently driving terror into his heart.
Judge Linus Lynn had come to win, even if it took blood, or the appearance of it, to encompass his adversary’s defeat.
Now, the burly horse-shoer was attired in his usual clothing, save his leathern apron used at the forge had been laid aside. His feet were bare and his trousers rolled up to his knees.
Seaton Cornwall shouted, “Ready!” The contestants lined up. Lynn crouched so low for the start that his round head seemed to be on a line with his knees.
“Ready!” repeated Cornwall, and then a pistol-shot started the men away over the course. The report of the pistol silenced every tongue. Even the lazy cattle looked up in mild-eyed wonderment at the pranks of men.
Both sides of the track were patrolled by mounted cowboys with drawn revolvers. The rolling ball in red understood the meaning,—his eyes bulged out in awful effort.
At the end of twenty-five yards Lynn was leading Mounce by about seven feet—at fifty yards their relative positions were unchanged. The muscles of the blacksmith’s legs, below the knees, were knotted in terrible tension, and his teeth were clinched in desperation. At the end of seventy-five yards he was running nearly abreast with the figure in red. Both men were puffing like hedgehogs. Then the people shouted, each to his favorite, “Lay to,” “Lay to,” “Get there,”—and so they did—with a last mighty effort; but the horse-shoer “laid to” the better and won the race.
Lynn went madly on—nor looked back. Fifty shots were fired in the air. Visions of pepper-boxes floated before him. He was headed into the herd of cattle. Presendy he stopped and whirled about like magic. A bull, maddened by his fiery red attire, accepted the challenge like a Spanish bovine, and rushed toward him with fire in his eyes. The judge yelled in terror, and bounded away in awful fright, running as he had never run before. The bull was not a half dozen feet behind him, lunging in mad leaps, and bellowing a hoarse murderous roar, while his sharp horns were almost scraping the earth.
The people trembled with fear. The cowboys plunged their spurs deep into their ponies’ sides and galloped frantically to the rescue. They came alongside of the maddened bull and, quick as a flash, a score of bullets were buried in the bull’s heart, and he fell to the earth in the throes of sudden death.
It was all over in an instant, and then Lynn, seeing the danger was past, shouted, “Say, maybe you fellers think I was throwin’ that race with the bull, but I wasn’t. No, sirree. I was jist doing my level best and don’t you forget it.”
So ended the much talked of foot-race,—a contest that forever silenced Judge Lynn from talking of great sprinting exploits on the banks of the Wabash—or anywhere else.
THE Tuesday following the incident of the foot-race was election day. ThePatriotprophesied that, out of the three thousand probable votes cast in the county, fully sixteen hundred would be for the Populist ticket.
In private conversation Major Hampton confessed to Hugh that he really had no idea how the election would go. “You see, Stanton,” said he, “I am not a politician, although many believe me to be one. No, I am simply trying to use a political organization as a vehicle to carry into practice certain ideas emanating from truth, and which, practically applied, would better the condition of the masses. Politics with me is only a means to an end.”
They were in Hugh’s room at the hotel when this conversation occurred. The major walked back and forth across the room, as he talked in confidence with Hugh about the probable result of the election.
Hugh noticed that the lines in his old friend’s face would deepen at times like veritable hillside gullies that had been plowed deep by the waters of a mountain torrent. Then, again, when he approached his one absorbing, altruistic idea of helping the poor, lifting up the suffering and benefiting mankind by surrounding them with conditions that would enable them to help themselves,—at such times the deep lines and furrows would almost wholly disappear from his face, and it seemed illuminated from some great light within, a phosphorescent reflection from some mighty reservoir of molten gold—perhaps from the old major’s heart.
Election day came, and Democrats, Republicans, and Populists all turned out in force to try to elect their different candidates. Crops of all kinds had been remarkably good in every township of the county, and both the Democrats and Republicans said that good crops argued well for their success. They contended that hot winds and poor crops were necessary adjuncts to a triumph of Populism at the polls. Each of the three parties, as is usual at election time, claimed that it would elect its own candidates by rousing pluralities.
The day after election, when the returns were all in, the astonishing fact was developed that the Democrats and Republicans had divided the elective offices about equally, while the Populists had polled in the entire county only fifty-five votes.
ThePatriotcame out the next day with a double-leaded editorial, in which Major Hampton scathed pretending Populists in unsparing terms. The article was as follows:
“The remnant of the Spartan band numbers, all told, fifty-five souls. These do not glory in saying, ‘There are only a few of us left,’ but are bowed down in abject humiliation at the thought of the Pharisees and hypocrites, with whom, in the past, they have been associated. These traitors pledged their support at yesterday’s election. They sold out to the enemy—they have bartered their votes, their manhood, and their honor, like Judas of old, for a few pieces of silver. The bloated bondholder and coupon-clipper—even the millionaire, with his ill-gotten gains—are as princes compared with these Ishmaelites who have bartered away their very souls with their votes. Benedict Arnold, who attempted to betray his country, was not more despicable than the low, groveling traitor who sells his vote. The “Patriot” boldly proclaims the fact that if every one in the county who professed to believe in the doctrine of purity and progress had voted his avowed sentiments, the Populist ticket would have received a majority of the votes in the county. Instead, however, but fifty-five loyal men had the courage to cast ballots that upheld the ticket and platform of the people.“The editor of the “Patriot” desires to announce that he is about to embark in the ship “Argo” for a trip up Salt River; and like Jason, of heathen mythology, with his fifty-four companions, he expects to sail away, not in quest of a ‘golden fleece,’ but simply with a desire to breathe the pure air of self-respect. His good ship “Argo” shall be anchored where minorities are frequency stranded, away from the turbulent vicissitudes of political warfare.“LATER.”“Since writing the above, the editor of the “Patriot” has been confronted with a condition that may seriously interfere with his contemplated trip in the ship “Argo”, as the bark is limited in its capacity. Over twelve hundred subscribers of the “Patriot” have called, each one solemnly assuring the editor, in strictest confidence, that he was of the immortal fifty-five. The facts conflict somewhat with the statements made by this cloud of witnesses, but as most of our callers have renewed their subscriptions to the “Patriot” for another year, we have concluded to go on making a valiant fight on the side of right, with a hope and a prayer that the returns of next year’s election may show a different result.”
“The remnant of the Spartan band numbers, all told, fifty-five souls. These do not glory in saying, ‘There are only a few of us left,’ but are bowed down in abject humiliation at the thought of the Pharisees and hypocrites, with whom, in the past, they have been associated. These traitors pledged their support at yesterday’s election. They sold out to the enemy—they have bartered their votes, their manhood, and their honor, like Judas of old, for a few pieces of silver. The bloated bondholder and coupon-clipper—even the millionaire, with his ill-gotten gains—are as princes compared with these Ishmaelites who have bartered away their very souls with their votes. Benedict Arnold, who attempted to betray his country, was not more despicable than the low, groveling traitor who sells his vote. The “Patriot” boldly proclaims the fact that if every one in the county who professed to believe in the doctrine of purity and progress had voted his avowed sentiments, the Populist ticket would have received a majority of the votes in the county. Instead, however, but fifty-five loyal men had the courage to cast ballots that upheld the ticket and platform of the people.
“The editor of the “Patriot” desires to announce that he is about to embark in the ship “Argo” for a trip up Salt River; and like Jason, of heathen mythology, with his fifty-four companions, he expects to sail away, not in quest of a ‘golden fleece,’ but simply with a desire to breathe the pure air of self-respect. His good ship “Argo” shall be anchored where minorities are frequency stranded, away from the turbulent vicissitudes of political warfare.
“Since writing the above, the editor of the “Patriot” has been confronted with a condition that may seriously interfere with his contemplated trip in the ship “Argo”, as the bark is limited in its capacity. Over twelve hundred subscribers of the “Patriot” have called, each one solemnly assuring the editor, in strictest confidence, that he was of the immortal fifty-five. The facts conflict somewhat with the statements made by this cloud of witnesses, but as most of our callers have renewed their subscriptions to the “Patriot” for another year, we have concluded to go on making a valiant fight on the side of right, with a hope and a prayer that the returns of next year’s election may show a different result.”
A few evenings after the election, Bill Kinne-man and Dan Spencer and their three committeemen associates met in the old mill to divide their booty. As it was not the regular night for the Barley Hullers’ meeting, they had no fear of being molested.
“Say, Bill,” said one of the committeemen, “did you see the major’s editorial?”
“See it,” replied Kinneman, in a surly tone, “I surely did. Waal, Spencer, speekin’ wide-open like,” he continued, “it’s dang near time we hed thet report made.”
“All right,” replied he of the wabbling tooth, as he expectorated a vigorous pit-tew of tobacco juice toward a dark corner of the room, and stroked his short, stubby red beard with a greasy hand. “All right, boys. You see me an’ Bill onbosomed ourselves an’ whooped it up purty lively, an’ teched all the candidates as hard as we dared. All the Republican candidates an’ all the Democratic fellers snorted an’ cavorted ‘round an’ actooally threatened to stampede, but they fin’lly got genial an’ coughed up, or agreed to if they wuz ‘lected. When we come to the Populist candidates, nary a danged one of ‘em would give a cent, but some of ‘em talked mighty malignant like. You see they thought they had a spechul lead-pipe cinch, anyway, on the Barley Hullers’ votes, an’ put on superior airs, but that’s where they reckoned some porely an’ got left, see?” Whereupon all five of these stalwart committeemen laughed immoderately.
“Waal,” continued the tooth wabbler, “as soon as the returns of the ‘lection wuz in, me an’ Bill started out an’, bustin’ all over with p’liteness, tackled the fellers that wuz ‘lected,—part of ‘em Republicans an’ part of ‘em Democrats. You see we surely held a paper with their names to it, an’ they nach’ally had to cough up the money, ‘cause they’s afeard we’d blow on ‘em—leastways that’s what we told ‘em we’d do fur sure. Course we knowed too much to dun the fellers that wuz defeated. So here’s a thousan’ dollars fur you-alls, in long greens, to dervide up,—two hundred dollars apiece,—not so bad, eh?” The division was soon made, to the apparent satisfaction of all, and the conference broke up. When the other committeemen had gone, and Bill Kinneman and Dan Spencer were alone, Bill said:
“Look’e ‘ere, Dan, you reported a thousan’ dollars; how much did you sure’nuff git, now, on the squar? Be straight with yer pard, or somethin’ will happen. Yer personal’ty is liable to be scattered over the landscape. I’ve dun got the drap on you, an’ am feelin’ plenty hostile.” As he said this, he carelessly fingered his revolver.
“Course, Bill,” said Dan. “You see I collected sixteen hundred dollars. That leaves me an’ you three hundred dollars apiece more.”
“Waal, that’s more like it, an’ certainly prevents a misonderstandin’,” said Bill. “Course I nach’ally knew you wuz givin’ them jays a razzle-dazzle, but you cain’t razzle-dazzle me. I wish we could ‘a’ got along ‘thout ‘em, but as they usually do most of the kitchen work, an’ you an’ me git the big end of the boodle, I guess we’ve got no kick comin’.”
Presently they mounted their mustangs and started down the valley toward Meade.
“Say, Dan,” said Bill, “can you fur sure keep a secret?”
“Waal, if the court knows herself, I kin. What’s roamin’ ‘round permiscus-like on yer mind, Bill?”
“Waal, I ain’t got no partic’lar use fur thet Stanton feller. If I don’t miss my guess, he’s snoopin’ ‘round Major Hampton’s ranch.”
“What’s that to you, Bill?”
“Waal, speakin’ wide-open like, it’s a mighty sight to me, pard,” replied Bill. “I don’t intend Marie Hampton shall fall in love with thet highfalutin cuss, even if I’s got to scatter his nachalness over the landscape.”
“Put ‘er thar, Bill,” said Dan, extending his hand, and breathing hard on his restless tooth. “I don’t hev to hev a meetin’-house fall on me afore I see which way the wind’s a-blowin’. Thet Hugh Stanton is a kind o’ soopercilious, high-steppin’ chap, an’ if he goes to interferin’ with you, we’ll fix him as easy as rollin’ off a log. No use gettin’ peevish, Bill, but if his attitood is sort o’ pesterin’ you, jist say the word, an’ he’ll not be lustin’ fur trouble very long on this ‘ere range.”
“Do you mean it, pardner?”
“I surely do,” replied Dan.
“I don’t mind onbosomin’ myself,” said Kin-neman, “an’ sayin’ she’s the purtiest woman in the hull world, an’ I b’lieve the major ‘ill be favorable.”
“Course, Bill,” said Dan, “I’m married an’ hev nuthin’ to say, but if I wuz n’t you’d hev to speak up in meetin’ or you’d surely git left. Oh, I know a purty face when I sees it, an’ there ain’t nary a one on the range that compares with the major’s daughter.”
Kinneman’s swarthy face flushed with the greedy desire which he had long felt to possess Marie Hampton for his wife. Presently he said:
“Do you think I kin make it, Dan? I’m feelin’ a heap careless toward that ‘air Stanton feller.”
“Make it?” repeated Dan, “Course you kin. I’m assoomin’ you need n’t be afeerd of any man when it comes to sprucin’ up to a gal. If he’s got money an’ you ain’t, then it’s different agin,” and Dan Spencer leered at his companion with a wicked eye.
“Say, Dan,” Said Bill, “what would be yer attitood in a case of this ‘ere kind? Is moneybags to be respected more ‘n a man?”
“I’ll be hanged if I know fur sure,” replied Dan, as he scratched his chin, shut one eye, and breathed heavily against his big tooth. “If a man hangs ‘round an’ gits in the way betwixt you an’ sumthin’ you want, why, you’ve got to git him off the face of the airth, I reckon, even if an accidental shootin’ ensues.”
“Say, Dan,” said Bill, in a subdued voice, “I’ll bet big money you’re the nerviest feller I ever run agin’ on the range.”
“Waal,” said Dan, rather pleased at the compliment, “if there’s any money in it, jist try me.”
“Is that solid, Dan? Are you givin’ it to me straight?”
“Solid an’ straight, Bill, sure. Course it’s a heap o’ pressure to assoom; still, if the inducements are toomultuous ‘niff, I can sure git action on my artill’ry.”
“All right, I’ll not furgit yer promise. I may need you pow’rful suddin some o’ these ‘ere dark nights.”
“Waal, jist bring yer roll along when yer lookin’ fur me, an’ you’ll fin’ me dead game. Listen, what’s thet? Guess the major’s home sure ‘nuff, an’ playin’ on his fiddle.”
The two cowboys reined their ponies, and in silence listened to the melodious strains of the major’s violin. They were far down the valley from the major’s home, and the music seemed mellowed in the soft moonlight, and sweetened by the distance. He was playing “Home, Sweet Home,” with countless variations. The melody traveled lazily on the night currents, and, when it finally died away, trembled and rested like a benediction on the peace and quietude of the sleeping valley.
Soon Dan Spencer was galloping for his dug-out, east of Meade, and Bill Kinneman was heading his bronco across the prairie toward Horton’s ranch.
ALMOST a month had passed since Lord Avondale’s departure, and yet Hugh had not visited the Grove. He thought a great deal about Ethel, and he was conscious of a sense of relief now that the Englishman was gone.
One evening, about this time, he determined to pay the Hortons a visit. His reception was most cordial, and he fancied that there was more than usual of the old-time animation in Ethel’s eyes. An opportunity came during the evening, when they were alone, but he did not improve it as he had intended. He did not declare his love in words, though he felt confident that Ethel read his heart in his flushed face. Thus he procrastinated, day after day, until the weeks hastened into months, and the springtime of the year had come again.
During this time he saw much of the Hortons. The bond of friendship between the cattle king and himself had materially strengthened. Mr. Horton frequently warned him of the collapse, which he believed to be inevitable, of the hopes of all engaged in or dependent upon agricultural pursuits in Southwestern Kansas. At such times Hugh would listen patiently until the cattleman had finished, and then he would adroitly change the subject.
Both Major Hampton and Captain Osborn assured him that, while John Horton was doubtless perfectly sincere, yet the abundant yield of crops during the preceding years, and the entire absence of the hot winds, was proof, irrefragable, that the cattleman’s theory was wrong. They also believed that John Horton was sadly mistaken regarding the cattle thieves, who still continued their untiring and fearless raids. The claim of the cattlemen was that a coterie of farmers had banded themselves together for the profitable and yet dangerous business of cattle-stealing. John Horton was the heaviest loser, because his herds were so extensive. Captain Osborn’s views coincided with those expressed in thePatriot,—that the thieves were a band of cowboys acting under the direction of some able leader. Both these theories were freely discussed, while the cattle-stealing continued without interruption, and not the slightest clue was obtainable as to who did the lawless work.
The thieves knew, all too well, the punishment awaiting them if they should ever be captured, and its severity caused them to exercise the greatest caution.
There is an unwritten code on the frontier that a man may engage in a quarrel, and shoot and kill his adversary, provided both parties are armed and no unfair advantage is taken. If one has a number of such quarrels and each time “kills his man,” he then becomes a most formidable candidate for sheriff in his county. On the other hand, if two men quarrel and one comes upon the other stealthily and, without warning, shoots him in the back, the act is construed by this unwritten code of the West as being a cowardly murder. The assassin is usually taken to some “Dead Man’s Hollow” and shot to death. There is hardly a community on the frontier but has its “Dead Man’s Hollow,” where the “law” is administered at the hands of the vigilantes.
While this code prevents outside interference in a so-called “fair fight,” even though death may result to one of the parties, yet, if a cattle thief is caught, he must, without exception, pay the penalty with his life. Indeed, a thief is looked upon with less commiseration, if possible, than a cowardly murderer.
In the meantime, the winter months were gone, and spring was paying another visit to sunny Kansas. The boundless brown prairie was once more changed to a world of brightest green, and, far and wide, over the landscape were myriads of simple dandelions and modest daisies that danced to the wind like a vast constellation of twinkling stars.
The meadow-lark and the brown thrush had again returned to their summer home to herald the approach of another mating-time, but still Hugh Stanton had not declared his love to Ethel Horton, nor had Lord Avondale returned to pursue his wooing of the American heiress.
Hugh Stanton fancied that he detected a shadow of sorrow in the girl’s face, and in her voice; and a fear arose in his heart. Was she grieving because of Lord Avondale’s absence? His unselfish regard for Ethel was so keen that it caused him much pain. Over and over he assured himself that he would willingly surrender his own slight claim if in doing so he might add to her happiness.
One afternoon Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton came up from the Grove to see Mrs. Osborn. Even a casual observer could have told that the stately wife of the cattle king was unusually agitated. She mounted the Osborn steps and rang the bell in a nervous manner.
Soon after, these two friends were seated in Mrs. Osborn’s private room, engaged in earnest conversation.
“What shall I do, Lucy? What can I do? What ought I to do under the circumstances?”
“My dear Mrs. Horton,” replied her friend, suavely, “do not agitate yourself. It is the easiest thing in the world, I assure you, to arrange this seemingly unfortunate affair.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Lucy, whether it is easy or not. No one knows the half a mother endures with a marriageable daughter to look after.”
“Oh, fie!” Mrs. Osborn laughed, as she rang for her maid. The door opened, and, turning to the girl, she ordered a small bottle of Tokay, which was soon set before them. “Now, my dear, drink a glass of wine. It will strengthen your nerves.”
“You see, Lucy,” said Mrs. Horton, as she sipped her wine nervously, “this is the third letter Doctor Redfield has written. He seems so persistent.”
“You have it with you?” asked Mrs Osborn, as if she were asserting a fact.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Horton, as she took the letter from her bag and handed it to Mrs. Osborn, “I want you to put this with the others. Oh, dear! I feel so worked up over this affair; and to think of Lord Avondale’s misfortune! How long do you suppose it will be before he can again travel?”
Mrs. Osborn carefully scrutinized the handwriting on the letter. A diplomatic expression came over her beautiful face. “Yes, it is Doctor Redfield’s writing,” she affirmed, half to herself. “Oh, how long, did you ask, before Lenox dare travel? Perhaps a month; his physician tells me he has had a narrow escape. His broken arm—the result of his hunting trip in the mountains—was the least of his sufferings, poor fellow. A fever set in, he writes me, and for a while he was quite delirious. He will be here as soon as he can safely travel,—within a month, I am quite sure.”
“I shall be so glad when he returns,” sighed Mrs. Horton. “Ethel seems much more reconciled of late.”
“Indeed?” replied Mrs. Osborn.
“Oh, yes,” continued Mrs. Horton. “I was urging the advantage of a marriage with Lord Avondale the other day, and she replied, in a most indifferent manner, ‘Very well, mamma, I have ceased to care one way or the other, if it pleases you, I presume it ought to be acceptable to me.’ She then said something about being tired of life, and broke down in tears. Of course I consoled her as only a mother can.”
“Subdued at last!” cried Mrs. Osborn, triumphantly. “We may now hope to see merry old England again. Away!” she went on, exultingly, “away with American stupidity! We have outwitted her blond-mustached ‘brain-worker.’.rdquo; Mrs. Horton seemed to catch the spirit of her friend’s confidence. “Yes,” she ejaculated, “see England and our many friends; and, oh, to think how proud I am, Lucy, that my daughter is to be Lady Avondale. Why, it is quite enough to make the heart of any mother throb with ecstasy.”
“Indeed it is,” replied the designing Mrs. Osborn, “and you are entitled to so much credit for the clever ways in which you have managed it.”
“No, Lucy, you are deserving of the praise in this affair far more than myself,” replied Mrs. Horton. “Indeed, I could not have gotten on at all without you.”
“I certainly have done my utmost to serve you,” said Mrs. Osborn, in a sycophantic tone. “I feel sure you will always be grateful—and Ethel, too, won’t she?”
“Indeed, we shall,” replied Mrs. Horton, unhesitatingly.
“And I shall always be a welcome guest at Ethel’s English home?” Mrs. Osborn went on.
“Always!” replied Mrs. Horton. “Of course you will. Why ask such a question?”
“Oh, I know I shall be, I assure you,” she replied, demurely, “but then I wanted to hear you say so, don’t you know? Now there is only one serious phase in our program—Doctor Redfield.” She still held his letter addressed to Ethel.
“What would you advise, Lucy? You are so clever, and know so much better than I what is best to be done.”
“My dear Mrs. Horton, will you be guided by what I say, entirely?” She was standing near an elegantly carved escritoire as she spoke.
“Entirely, Lucy, I will do as you say,” replied Mrs. Horton. Quick as a flash Mrs. Osborn caught up an ivory paper-knife and tore away the envelope.
“Oh, Lucy!” cried Mrs. Horton, excitedly. “Don’t! don’t—I feel so guilty.”
“My dear, there is no turning back,” replied the cool and calculating Mrs. Osborn. “A title for Ethel is at stake. We must burn every bridge behind us.” Then, glancing at the letter, she read aloud:
“My own dear Ethel:—I lift up my voice for the third time, and call to you. Will you not answer? I am as one in a wilderness of doubt and sorrow. My heart tells me that you have not forgotten your promise—a promise that has stimulated me with sweetest hope all these weary months of waiting. One word, Ethel,—only one word; even if it is to say that you have forgotten me. With my heart’s tenderest love, I am all your own,“Affectionately,“Jack.”
“My own dear Ethel:—I lift up my voice for the third time, and call to you. Will you not answer? I am as one in a wilderness of doubt and sorrow. My heart tells me that you have not forgotten your promise—a promise that has stimulated me with sweetest hope all these weary months of waiting. One word, Ethel,—only one word; even if it is to say that you have forgotten me. With my heart’s tenderest love, I am all your own,
“Affectionately,
“Jack.”
“His devotion is quite amusing,” laughed Mrs. Osborn, as she seated herself before her escritoire and began writing. Presently, turning to Mrs. Horton, she said: “Here is your reply:”
“Dr. Jack Redfield,“Sir:—My daughter has referred your several rather amusing and absurd letters to me for reply, and desires me to say that your communications annoy her very much. As she is already betrothed to Lord Avondale, and will be married in a short time, you certainly cannot, if you possess any gentlemanly breeding, wish to intrude further upon her your unreciprocated attentions.“Respectfully.”
“Dr. Jack Redfield,
“Sir:—My daughter has referred your several rather amusing and absurd letters to me for reply, and desires me to say that your communications annoy her very much. As she is already betrothed to Lord Avondale, and will be married in a short time, you certainly cannot, if you possess any gentlemanly breeding, wish to intrude further upon her your unreciprocated attentions.
“Respectfully.”
“Oh, Lucy,” cried Mrs. Horton, half-hysterically, “I cannot sign such a letter; I cannot indeed. Let it go unanswered.”
“Just as you say,” she replied, while a tigerish look of hatred and disdain arose to her usually pretty face. “Perhaps,” she went on, in a low purring voice that required an effort to modulate, “it will be as well to dismiss all thought of Doctor Redfield. I am quite sure we shall never hear of him again.”
Soon after, Mrs. Horton took her leave and, as she drove slowly homeward, she was glad that she had not signed that awful letter. She sighed a little, as if a weight rested on her conscience. “I am truly glad,” she said to herself, “that Lord Avondale will soon be with us.”
Mrs. Osborn was provoked at her friend’s lack of courage in grappling with and crushing all possible danger. After the departure of Mrs. Horton, she read Jack Redfield’s letter again. Then she read the reply which she had prepared for Mrs. Horton to sign. “This letter ought to be sent,” she observed, “or I am no general.” Dipping her pen in the ink, she addressed an envelope to Dr. Jack Redfield, then—turning to the letter—she paused a moment. Her courage failed her, and she laid down the pen. Unlocking a small drawer of her escritoire, she took out a bundle of letters, and, selecting the topmost one, commenced reading. As she read one after another, a passionate light animated her beautiful face and eyes. “Lenox, dear Lenox!” she murmured. “Yes, I will do it.”
Taking up the pen, she hastily signed the name of Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton to the letter, then carefully enclosing it in the envelope, she went quickly out and posted it.
Thus, at the expense of conscience, she made an instalment payment on a title for Ethel Horton.