CHAPTER XVII.

"Some of the host have crossed the flood,And some are crossing over."

The choir was singing the words. Job thought again of the aged saint. He thought of Yankee Sam and that wild night when he died; of Tim, poor Irish Tim; and then of that sweet face in the plain wooden casket in the strange California city—his boyhood's idol—and the tears started to his eyes.

"Unto you therefore which believe, He is precious." That was the text. The preacher was beginning the sermon, and Job called back his thoughts and leaned forward to listen.

"I think the tears were streaming down Peter's face when he uttered these words. The memories of a lifetime crowded upon him. He was a young man back by the Lake of Gennesaret, and looked up to see Andrew's excited face and hear him say, 'Peter, brother, we have found the great man; we have found the Messiah.' He was by those same waters mending the nets, ready to push out for the day's toil, and lo! he heard a voice—oh, how wonderful it was!—there was authority in it, soul in it: 'Peter, come follow me,' and he dropped the nets, and went out to life's sea to fish for men. Ah, yes, I think as Peter wrote these words he remembered his solemn vows of loyalty, his ecstatic joy on the Mount of Transfiguration, and then, alas! his awful sin when he deserted Jesus in that dark terrible morning of the great trial. Oh, those bitter hours! Peter could not forget them."

Job trembled; he knew what the preacher meant, he knew how Peter felt.

"But," continued the speaker, "how sweet there came back to him the memory of another morning by the same Galilean waters, as he mused in the twilight, and heard the Savior call, not in anger but in love, 'Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me?' And back again, there where he had first loved Him, Peter came to the old life of love and loyalty. Memories of Pentecost, memories of life's trials and joys, ever transformed by the spiritual presence of his Master, made Peter cry from the depths of his soul, 'Unto you therefore which believe, he is precious.'"

And Job in his heart said, "Amen."

Then the preacher went on, showing how that which endears anything in this world to our hearts should make Jesus doubly precious. He talked of money—of the treasure of the Sierras, and how much one thought it would buy; but after all, how little of love and hope and faith it could bring into a heart—those things which alone last as the years go on.

It was a pathetic little story he told of a baby's funeral up in one of the lonely, forsaken, sage-bush deserts, where, alone with the broken-hearted father amid the bitter winds and snows of a bleak March morning, he laid the only babe of a stricken home to rest in the frozen earth, many miles from any human habitation; of how the father leaned over and said, as the box vanished into the ground, "Sing 'God be with you till we meet again,'" and how, as they sang it, out against the winter storm the light of heaven came into that man's face. "Tell me," the minister asked, as he leaned over the pulpit, "how much gold could buy the comfort afforded by that hymn and that hope?" And Job, thinking of the thousands he had handled at the Yellow Jacket, felt that that hymn was worth it all.

Then the preacher talked of diamonds and of the preciousness of Jesus; of the trinkets hid away in many an old trunk, precious because of memories that clustered around them; and Job thought of his mother's Testament. He said the life-memories that cluster around Jesus are more precious than any other; and Job said "Amen" to that. At last he talked of friends and how they are worth more than gold or diamonds or relics of the past; and Job thought of Aunty Perkins—why, there she was across the aisle, as intent as he; the sight of her face cheered him. Then he thought of Jane—where was she? Job looked furtively about, but could not see her. A little unrest filled his soul.

"No gold can buy so much pleasure for your poor heart, no diamond is rarer, no relic brings back sweeter memories, no friend sticks closer, than Jesus. The flood of time may sweep friends beyond your reach, the mighty Sierras may crumble to dust, old earth may sink into space, and you be alone with the stars and eternity, but it is written, 'I will not leave thee nor forsake thee.' Jesus will be with you for time and eternity. 'Unto you therefore which believe, he is precious.'"

Job heard Tony shout, "Hallelujah! Bress de Lawd!" and came very near following his example.

"He's the Lily of the valley,The Bright and Morning Star,"

rang out through the church, and voice after voice took it up:

"In sorrow He's my comfort,In trouble He's my stay,"

and when it came to that place—he could not help it—Job did murmur "Amen."

For a moment an overwhelming wave of emotion passed over his soul, then he found the congregation rising, heard like a chant the words, "If any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father," and the Communion Service had begun.

Just then the sun came in through a broken shutter, lighting the sacramental table with an almost supernatural glory, and Job felt a mighty love for the Savior fill his heart and almost unconsciously found himself singing with the congregation:

"Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of hosts,Heaven and earth are full of thy glory.Glory be to Thee, O Lord, most high! Amen."

When a little later he knelt at the altar with bowed head, as he heard the minister's voice saying, "The body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for thee," he resolved that from that hour, health, talent, manhood, all he could be at his best, should be given to God and to men.

At the close of the service Job saw Jane in the aisle before him, and walked to the door with her, talking as in the old days. He longed to say more, but did not. A thrill of happiness came into Jane's heart. Perhaps he did care for her after all, she thought.

"Marse Job, dar's a gemman wid a mighty fine hoss wants to hab de pleasure ob seeing de young marse," said Tony, poking his head inside the door on the Friday afternoon after Job came home.

The young man grasped his cap and hurried to the gate, finding there, to his surprise and consternation, the superintendent of the Yellow Jacket Mine sitting in his buggy. At sight of Job, he sprang out, extended his gloved hand to the lad, and proceeded to surprise him still more by saying that he had come after him, as they wanted him back; he felt sure he now knew who had taken the money, though he could not arrest the person; he was very sorry he had so greatly wronged Job; would raise his salary.

Job was greatly astonished. He expressed his thanks, but finally managed to stammerout that he really had had all he cared for of mining life, and did not want to leave the old ranch.

Then the man took his arm, and as they walked up and down together, he told Job there was trouble brewing at the mine; the men were reading all the news they could get about the great mining strike East, and a whole crowd stood in front of the store each evening between shifts, listening to agitators; the fellow Dean was talking strike on the sly to all the men, and he was afraid that under the passing excitement the best of the men would be duped by worthless leaders. So he wanted Job back; Job knew the men, they liked him, they would hear him; the company needed him, it must have him at any salary.

So Job went back to the Yellow Jacket with the memory of that home-coming to cheer him in the dark times that were to follow. When the next day the scowling men came one by one to the pay-window at the office, muttering about starvation wages, they looked surprised to see Job there. Some reached out their rough hands for a shake, and said, "Shure and it does me eyes good to see you, lad;" others only scowled the deeper; and one looked almost as if shot, forgot his pay, and turned and walked away muttering, "Bother the saint! He's forever in my way!"

It was just two weeks from that day that the storm broke at the Yellow Jacket Mine. A deep undertone of discontent and rebellion had filled the air during that time. Job had felt it more plainly than he had heard it. The superintendent had kept a calm, firm face, though Job knew he was anything but calm within.

It was just before Job had gotten ready on Saturday to shove up the pay-window and begin his weekly task, that a group of burly men, with O'Donnell, the boss of the eight-hundred-foot level, as spokesman, came in and desired to see the superintendent. Calmly that gentleman stepped up and wished to know what was wanted. Well, nothing in particular, was the reply; only they had a paper they wished him to sign. He took it and read it. It was a strange document, evidently prepared by O'Donnell himself. It read as follows:

"The Yellow Jacket Mining Company will Pay all men That work on the mine 20 pursent more To-day And all the time."

The superintendent folded up the paper, and, handing it back to the men, turned and walked into the office without a word.

"Here, boss!" cried O'Donnell, "yez didn't plant yer name on the paper! Ain't yez goin' to give the hands their dues?"

Then the superintendent turned and explained to the men that he could not sign any such agreement; had no authority to; only the directors in San Francisco and New York could authorize it; that the mine could not afford it; that the men had no complaint—it was only false sympathy with distant strikes which caused them to make this demand; that he would not sign such a document if he could.

The men left in a rage. At the noon shift all the hands came up from the mine; not one went down. The machinery stopped; not a wheel turned, not even the pumps that were so necessary to keep the lower levels from being flooded. At one o'clock the men began to come for their pay, not one doing so in the morning. Each demanded a raise of twenty per cent. on his wages, and, when this was refused by Job, threw his money back on the shelf, and walked out without a word.

Hour after hour it went on—a constant procession of determined men looking into Job's eyes, and each face growing harder, it seemed to him, than the one before. Some did not dare look him in the eye, but mumbled over the same well-learned speech which someone had taught them, and went away. They were the ones Job had befriended in distress.

Dan came in with head high in air, and talked as if he had never seen Job; hedemanded justice for such hard-worked fellows as himself and his father, and gave a long harangue about the oppressed classes, till the superintendent interposed and said:

"Mr. Dean, if you have any personal grievance, come to me individually. Do not blockade that window; take your money and go."

And Dan went off in a white rage, leaving the money behind him.

At six o'clock Job put on his coat and cap, and followed the superintendent and cashier to the door. There they found armed sentinels pacing all about the stone office building, and O'Donnell and his crowd waiting. They would be obliged, they were sorry to say, to inform them that the men had decided the "boss and his crew" should not go home till the "twenty per cent." was paid; that some food from the men's boarding-house would be sent them, and they would have to stay in the office till they came to terms.

There was no alternative. They were entrapped, and there was no escape. Grim faces looked at them from all sides.

Back into the office they turned and locked the doors, to open them only when a huge quantity of poor food that looked like the remains of the miners' dinner was handed in. Again they swung the iron doors to, barred them, and sat down for the night, with the unpleasant fact staring them in the face that they were besieged and helpless. Apparently they had not a friend in all the crowd that surged to and fro in the narrow streets. There was no way of letting the outside world know their plight.

What a night that was! At first the sound of excited voices and the distant harangues of saloon-steps orators, then all quieted down; there was not even the hum of the machinery—only the dull tramp of the guards without, and the far-away call, "Twelve o'clock and all's well," which told they had a picket line on the outer edge of the town.

Job at last fell asleep in a heap on the floor, with other sleeping forms about him. He dreamed of home and Jane, heard Tony shout "Bress de Lawd!" and awoke to find himself aching in every bone from the hard floor. The light had gone out. Outside all he could hear was tramp, tramp, tramp. Then he heard voices. They came nearer. He crept to the key-hole and listened.

"Let's burn the thing and kill 'em, and run the mine ourselves!" said one voice.

"Yer blockhead, don't yer know it's stone?" drawled another. "No, gentlemen, we'll fix 'em if they don't give us our dues to-morrow! We'll starve 'em out, and yer bet they'll sign mighty quick! We don't want their lives; we want justice, and—"

The voice died away in the distance. Job was sure it was Dan's.

Sunday came and went with no end of the siege. It was a long day in the office. The superintendent pored over the books, and pretended to forget he was a prisoner. They took down only the topmost shutters. Some of the clerks got out a pack of cards, and asked Job to take a hand. One said contemptuously, "Oh, you're a goody-goody, parson!" when he refused, but the others quickly silenced him in a way that showed their respect for Job. The cards dropped from their hands before long, and each seemed occupied with his own thoughts. Twice during the day "the gang" and O'Donnell presented themselves at the door with the paper, and were refused. Then all hands seemed to resign themselves to a genuine siege. On the whole it was quiet outside, except for the occasional jangle of voices and the sentry's pacing.

Towards night the uproar grew louder. The saloons were doing a big business, and the sound of rollicking songs and drunken brawls was in the air. Job grew restless and paced the office floor. About five o'clock a delegation came for someone to meet the men at a conference on the waste-heap back of the quartz mill. The superintendent refused to go, and asked Job to do so. "They dare not hurt you," he said.

So between two armed, burly guards, Job went to look into the face of the strangest audience he had ever seen. A solid throng they stood on the bare, flat hill that rounded off at one end of the cañon below. Irishmen, Swedes, Portuguese, Germans, Chinese, Yankees—all nationalities were there, in overalls and blue jumpers, puffing at long pipes, and wedged in a solid mass about an old ore car that served as platform. Dan was speaking; he was talking of the starving miners in "Colorady," and pointed to the office building, crying, "We'll show them bloated 'ristocrats how nice it feels to starve!" while a din of voices cried, "Hear! hear!"

Pushing their way to the flat-car, his muscular escorts hauled Job up and shouted:

"The parson, lads—Mr. Job. He's goin' to talk wid yez!"

"May the Holy Mother defind him!" cried a voice in the crowd. "He's the praist of me Tim!"

"The fraud!" cried another; "he's as bad as the rist! Nary a per cint. would he give me yesterday!"

"Hush, ye blatherskite!" hissed another. "Give the lad a chance; he's a-talkin'!"

Yes, Job was talking. He did his best. He expressed the utmost sympathy with the wrongs of every man, and reminded them that they had no truer friend in the Yellow Jacket than he. He had nursed their sick, buried their dead, had been one of them in all the struggles of their lives. Voice after voice in the crowd said, "That's so! Hear! Hear!" "Hurrah fer the lad!" cried another. "Three cheers for the little parson!"

Then he talked to them of the strike, and said every man had a right to quit work and the Union to strike, but no man or Union had the right to starve their fellow-beings; he spoke of the unreasonableness of this strike—the company here was not to blame for the troubles in Colorado; he reminded them that the times were hard and the cities crowded with idle men, yet the company had kept them busy and given them full wages; he urged them, if they must demand more, to go on with work and send a committee to present their claims to the directors.

Cheers and hisses grew louder and louder as he spoke. The storm grew fiercer and fiercer. Job saw it was of no use. A dozen voices were yelling, "On with the strike! Starve 'em out!" Someone—could it be Dan?—shouted:

"Hang the hypocrite!—coming here advising his betters! String him up!"

A loud hubbub followed. Job breathed a deep, silent prayer and stood firm. A tall, brawny man clambered up beside him and cried, as he brandished a pistol:

"Death to any mon that touches the kid! May all the saints keep him!"

Tim's father meant business. And through the angry mob he steered Job back to the office in safety.

When the supper was handed in at six, the men who brought it said that would be the last food till they signed the paper; the miners had voted to starve them out.

"Job, you'll have to go. No one knows this country as you do, and no one can do it but you."

It was the superintendent speaking. Huddled in a group the little company sat in the dark, looking death in the face. Surrender, death, or outside help, were the only alternatives. They could keep from starvation for a day more on the provisions they had. Someone must go through the lines and get help. They had decided that it was useless to call on the sheriff, for he could never raise a posse large enough to cope with this mob, now armed and well prepared. Troop A was on duty near Wawona, guarding the Yosemite Reservation. Someone must go and notify them, and telegraph to the Secretary of War and get orders for them to come tothe relief of the besieged men. It was a dangerous undertaking. Even if one could pass through the line around the office, would he ever be able to get through the streets alive? And then would he ever get past the outer picket?

Someone must take the risk. Someone must go, and perhaps die for the others. One of the clerks said he guessed Job was the best prepared. The superintendent urged him to go. Finally rising, Job said he knew both the way and the peril it meant, and he would make the attempt.

Not even to them did he tell the route he would take and the dangers he knew he must face. He had a plan, and if it succeeded there was hope; if it failed, there was no getting back. One silent prayer in the corner, and he crept softly and hastily through the half-open door, as the sentinel went down towards the other end of his beat.

There Job lay flat on the ground and waited to see who it was. In the dim twilight he descried, as the sentinel turned, no other than Tim's father. Job stole up to him, caught him before he cried "Halt!" and said:

"For Tim's sake, Mr. Rooney, let me through the lines. We will starve in there!"

"Job, me boy, is that ye!" whispered the guard. "Hiven bless ye! I wish I could let yez t'rough, but by the saints I can't! I've sworn that I wouldn't let a soul pass, and they said if a mon wint t'rough the line and me here, they'd finish me!"

Job pleaded, and the tears streamed from Pat Rooney's eyes, but he was firm; he had given his word, and he could not break it. But after what seemed to Job a long time, Pat said:

"Job, if ye'll promise me no mon but the one ye go to see shall see yez, and that ye'll come back to-morrow night and be here if the soldier boys come, so no one will know I let yez t'rough, I'll let yez go; and Job, I'll be at the ind of Sullivan's alley and pass yez; and then the next shift I'll be here, and ye'll get in safe."

Job promised. Many times afterward he wished he had not; but he made up his mind, as he slunk through, with Pat's "Hiven bliss ye!" following him, that only death should prevent him from keeping his word.

Just back of the office was the abandoned shaft where he had gone often to pray. Once he had sounded its sides, and suspected that it opened into the first level. If this was the case, and he could get into that, and from that into the next lower level, Job knew that the end of that one went clear through to the old half-finished drainage-tunnel which ran in from the cañon back of the quartz mill. Once in the tunnel he knew that he could reach the cañon, then get outside the lines and away.

It took but a moment to drop down the old shaft, which ran down but a few hundred feet on a steep slant. Then rapping softly on the wall, he thought he heard a hollow sound. There were voices above him. He kept still and lay down close against the side till they passed on. Then he dug a hole, inch by inch, till he could reach his arm through. No doubt this was the tunnel!

Finally, after what seemed hours—though it was not even one—Job had the opening almost large enough to crawl through. Then he struck the timbers—how was he to get through now? Well, just how, he never knew; but he did. He dropped down to the floor of the level, lit a little candle he had with him, ran along to the big shaft, and saw the ladder reaching down to the next level. Then he bethought himself that his light might be seen, so he blew it out. How could he get down the ladder in the dark? One misstep and—he shuddered at the thought. But he would dare it.

It was slow work, step by step; but at last he found an open space through the boards, reached out a little lower and felt the floor of the second level, and stepped off safe. Along the wooden rails laid for the ore-carshe felt his way, till he began to grow confused. He must have a light; surely no one could see it. Then he thought he again heard voices. He stood still. He could hear his heart beat. It was only the drip of water from the roof. He lit the candle and hurried on. The air was close and hot, but he never stopped. On down the long, dark cavern he made his way by the flickering light of the fast-dying candle.

At last he reached the spot where he was sure the drainage tunnel and the second level met. Again he dug and dug, using an old pick he found there. He tore at the hard earth with his fingers, till he found himself growing drowsy and faint. It was the foul air! He must get through the wall soon, or perish where he was. The candle was gone. Now it was a life-and-death struggle. He thought of that night in the snow and his awful dread of death. All was so different now. A great peace filled his soul. But he must not die; he must get through; other lives were in his care; starving men were awaiting him; his promise to Tim's father must be kept. At it he went again. He felt something give way, felt a breath of fresh air that revived him, lifted a silent thanksgiving to God, and crept through into the drainage tunnel.

The pickets on the banks above were calling, "Three o'clock and all's well," as Job crept silently down the cañon and made for the heavy timber of the mountain opposite.

The bugle had just sounded "taps" at Camp Sheridan, on the flat between the South Fork and the Yosemite Fall road, one mile east of Wawona. The southern hills had echoed back its sweet, lingering notes. The blue-coats had turned in. The officer of the guard was inspecting the sentries, when the guard on Post Number Four saw a haggard, white-faced young fellow, with hat gone, clothes torn, hands bleeding from scratches, pull himself up the bank of the creek, and at the sentry's "Halt!" look up with anxious appeal and ask for the captain.

That instinct which is sometimes quicker than thought told the guard this was no ordinary case. In two minutes the corporal was escorting Job to the headquarters tent. What a dilapidated object he was! For twenty long hours he had been working his way over the rear of Pine Mountain, down the steep sides of the Gulch, up that terrible jungle which even the red man avoids, over the great boulders and falls of the South Fork, and up the long miles through the primeval wilderness to where he knew the white tents of Camp Sheridan lay.

The captain could hardly believe Job's story. The officers marveled at the heroism of the boy. But he told it all without consciousness of self, begged them for God's sake to lose no time, and fell over limp and faint at the captain's feet.

When he came to, it was dawn, the troops were in the saddle, and the sergeant was reading this telegram:

"Proceed at once to the Yellow Jacket Mine and quell the riot and disorder.Lamont."

The horses were pawing the ground, the quartermaster was hurrying to and fro, the captain was buckling on his saber, and Job was lying on a cot in the surgeon's tent, while that good man was feeling his pulse.

Quick as he could, Job started up. "Are they off?" he cried.

"Yes, my boy; and you lie still. They'll settle those fellows over at the mine," was the reply.

"But, doctor, I must go! I promised Rooney! Let me go!"

"No, young man. You're plucky, but pluck won't do any more. A day or two here will fix you all right. Your pulse has been up to a hundred and four. You can't stir to-day."

Job was desperate. The bugle was sounding, the officers were shouting orders. Through the door of the tent and the grove of trees he could see troops forming.

"Send for the captain, doctor, please," he pleaded.

The captain came, heard Job's story, and shook his head.

Job was half frantic. What would Pat Rooney say? He begged the doctor with tears in his eyes. He beseeched the captain. At last they yielded. But how could he cross the line in the daytime? They would have to wait till night. Finally the captain said he would wait and send Job with a scout at dusk, and follow with the troops at midnight.

The bugle sounded recall, and the soldiers waited, so that Job could keep his promise. All that summer day as he lay on the cot, listening to the ripple of the spring, the neighing of the horses, the bugle-calls, and the coming and going of the men, he thought of those comrades shut in the store office without food, and waiting for relief which it must seem would never come.

Just at dusk, mounted behind a sturdy little trooper, and well disguised, Job started back. They passed around Wawona by a side trail; and, striking the main turnpike near its junction with the Signal Peak road, galloped on in the dark, fearing no recognition, and well prepared to meet anyone who demanded a halt. The light was burning in Aunty Perkins' window as they passed. It was after midnight when they crept slowly down the timber on the other side of Rattlesnake Gulch, and Job dismounted and stole on ahead.

A gloom rested on the Yellow Jacket. A few lights shone out of shanty windows and in saloons. The stars seemed to rest on the top of the smoke-stacks which rose like vast shadows in the distance. A low, far-off murmur of voices, now rising, now dying down, stole out on the clear night air.

Down Job crept, now on hands and knees, to the foot of Sullivan's alley. He heard a step. The sentry was coming. Job gave the call Pat and he had agreed upon—the sharp bark of a coyote. In an instant he saw a flash and heard a report, as a bullet whizzed past him. Then he heard voices:

"What was that, Jacob?"

"A leetle hund, I tinks."

"A hund? You shoot him not! You save bullets for bigger ting. See?"

Oh, where was Pat Rooney! It was fully an hour before the sentry's pace changed and the step sounded like Pat's. Again Job barked, and a hoot like an owl's replied. It was Tim's father! A few minutes, and Pat had clasped him to his heart, and told him the officers were still in the store office; that the men were desperate—they had been drinking heavily, and, he was afraid, before another night would burn the whole place. Would Job go back into the mine and take his chances?

Of course Job went. He slunk up the alley into a hidden passage-way he knew of back of the Last Chance Saloon, and kept in between the buildings till within a stone's throw of the office. There, wedged in between two old shanties, he had to wait two hours for Pat to get on the office beat. Oh, what a long night! Just ahead were the office and the starving men. Between them and their rescuer a Chinaman stalked, gun in hand, pig-tail bobbing in the night air, and eyes ever on the alert to see an intruder. In the bar-room Job could hear the talking. Dan Dean and O'Donnell were there. They were boasting that not a soul outside knew of the strike; that a late telephone to Gold City showed no one there knew; that the stage was still held at the stables; that there was no hope for "the boss and the tyrants." To-morrow they would sign that paper or take the consequences.

Job shuddered at the thought. Then he heard Dan chuckle over him. He "'lowed the biggest fun would be to see that pious fraud beg for mercy."

What if Dan knew he was listening, with only a board partition between them! Job hardly dared to breathe.

It was getting uncomfortably near dawnwhen Job heard another owl's hoot and stole past Pat Rooney up to the rear door of the old stone office, which opened softly in a few minutes as he gave the well-known private tap of the clerks. What a wretched, haggard lot of men rose excitedly to meet him! He hushed them to silence, told his story, and bade them rest and wait a few hours. Troop A would surely be here.

It was daybreak, the dawn of the Fourth of July, when the sound of a bugle aroused the miners of the Yellow Jacket. Some thought it was some patriotic Yankee, but the clang, clang, of the old bell at the stone tower, the calls of the sentries, the rush of hundreds of half-dressed, excited men down the street, told everyone that trouble was in the air.

It was all done so quickly that the miners hardly knew where they were. The guards were on the run, and a troop of cavalry, with a solid front, stood facing the yelling, yet terrified, mob of men who blockaded lower Main street. It was only a hundred against five hundred men; but it was order, discipline, authority, against disorder, tumult and a mob. All rules were forgotten, all their plans went for naught. Dan yelled in vain. O'Donnell grew red in the face as he screamed orders. "Forward, march!" rang out the captain's voice, and a hundred sabers rattled and a hundred horses started, and five hundred terror-stricken men, each forgetful of all but himself, started in a panic to retreat.

From the open door of the office, deserted at the first alarm by the guards, the imprisoned officers of the company saw the mob come surging up the street.

Before noon the Yellow Jacket was a military camp. The miners were the prisoners, disarmed, a helpless crowd, the larger part already ashamed of having been influenced by such a man as O'Donnell. Before nightfall the men had personally signed an agreement to go to work on the morrow at the old terms, and were allowed to depart to their homes. The saloons were emptied of their liquors and closed until military law should be relaxed, and the ringleaders were on their way to the county jail at Gold City.

The strike was over without bloodshed, and when the men came to their sober senses, went back to their tasks, and saw the folly of it all—saw how they had been duped by demagogues—they were grateful that somebody had dared to end the strike, and Job was the hero of the hour. The reaction that sweeps over mob-mind swept him back into his place as the idol of their hearts.

We have said the leaders of the strike were taken to Gold City. No, not all. One lay crippled and fever-stricken in Pat Rooney's shanty back of Finnegan's. Pat had found him when the mob rushed back, borne down by the men he was trying to stop, and trampled on by some of the cavalcade of horsemen as they swept up the street.

Hurried hither by Pat, Job entered the familiar hut to find himself face to face with Dan. All that long day he sat by the side of the delirious patient. The soldiers, when arresting the men, let Pat stay at Job's plea. The troop surgeon came and ordered Job away. "Sick enough yourself, without nursing this mischief-maker who's the cause of all this bad business," said he.

But no; Job would not go. Dan was bad. Dan was his enemy, but "Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, pray for them which despitefully use you," to Job meant watching by Dan Dean when his own head was aching and the fever was even then creeping upon him.

All night he sat there, bathing the head that tossed restlessly to and fro. He heard the delirious lad mutter, "Curse the pious crank! He'll get Jane yet!" then half rise, and say with a strange look in his eyes, "Stand fast, boys! Stand, ye cowards! It's justice we want!" and fall back exhausted. Yes, it was Job who stood by, praying withall his heart, as at daylight the doctor did what seemed inevitable if Dan's life was to be saved—amputated the crushed, broken right leg. Never again would he roam over the Sierras as he had when a boy. For the sins of those awful days Dan was giving part of his very life.

Once he opened his eyes and saw Job, and as he caught the meaning of it all, a queer look came over his face. Finally he muttered:

"Job, go away from me! I don't deserve a thing from you! I can stand the pain better than seein' you fixin' me!" and a hot tear stole down the blanched, hardened face.

But still Job stayed, as the delirium came back and the fever fought with the doctor for the mastery. Only when the danger line seemed past, and the noon bell was striking, Job passed out of the old shanty, up the street by the crowds of men going to the noon shift, heard the roar of the machinery, staggered in at the office door and fell across the hard floor.

They were harvesting the August hay on the Pine Tree Ranch before Job left his invalid chair on the rose-covered porch and mounted Bess for a dash down to the mill with some of his old-time vigor.

She stood in the cabin door, where the morning sunlight stole through the branches and vines and played around her head. Against the well-worn post of this plain, unpainted old hut she leaned with a far-away look in her eyes. Nineteen years ago to-day she was born here where the hills shut in Blackberry Valley and the trees roofed it over. From the stream yonder she had learned the ripple of childhood's laughter; up yonder well-worn trail she had climbed these long years, away to the great outside world—to the Frost Creek school and the Gold City church. It was over the same trail that, wearing shoes for almost the first time in her life, and attired in a black calico dress and a black straw hat which the neighbors had brought her, Jane had taken her father's rough hand, long years ago, one summer day, and followed her mother to the grave. Ten years she had done a woman's work to try and keep a home for Tom Reed.

How much longer would it be? The impulses and longings of a maiden's heart were stirring within her. Father's rough, good-natured kindness still cheered her lonely life, but the morning sun would kiss two graves in God's Acre yonder some day instead of one. The father's step was feeble and the years were going fast, and she would be alone. Alone? Ah, no, not alone, for the loving Christ was hers. Ever since the old Coyote Valley camp-meeting a new friendship, a new happiness, had come into her life. No one who knew her could doubt it. It had added to the natural frankness of her modest, unsophisticated nature a staunchness of character, a womanliness, and a nobility of soul that gave her the admiration and respect of all true hearts. Yet how few knew her! Like earth's rarest flowers, Jane Reed's life blossomed in this hidden dell unknown to the great world. She had the love of Christ in her soul, and yet she longed, she knew not why, for some strong human love to fill to its completeness the fullness of her heart.

So she stood that morning dreaming of love—the old, old dream of life. And who should it be? One of two, of course. No others had ever come close enough to pay court at the portal of her soul. Job or Dan—Dan or Job? Sooner or later her life must be linked with one or the other. Dan cared for her. How often he had said it!—almost till it seemed commonplace. But she had never said yes; yet somehow she enjoyed the thought that somebody cared for her, even if it was poor Dan. She was at his bedside yesterday, down in the long, lowhouse at the end of Dean's Lane, where they had brought him home from the Yellow Jacket. She had heard of it all at once—that Job was dangerously sick at the ranch, and Dan was crippled for life at the lane. She wanted to go to Job. Her eyes filled as they told her of his heroism. What a brave fellow! She brushed away the dust from the secret shrine in her heart and worshiped him anew.

She wanted to go to him. But what would he say? How forward, how unwomanly it would seem! Did he ever think of her? Ah! sometimes she thought so! But he was beyond her now; she could not go to him. But Dan would expect it. Poor Dan! He needed somebody to say a kind word. So she had gone. She had bathed his aching head; she had told him she was praying for him; she had left with him the blossoms picked at her door.

Dan or Job—which should it be? In the doorway she stood dreaming till the sun was between the tree-tops, and looked straight down the trail. All day at her tasks she dreamed on. Twice she took her bonnet and thought she would go to Job; then she hung it away again. There they stood at the doorway of her soul—Dan, crippled, helpless, selfish; a poor, wild, wandering boy. Job, strong, brave, the soul of honor, the manliest of men, a Christian in all that word means in a young man's life—her ideal.

There they stood on the threshold of her heart; and, lingering at sundown in the same old doorway, the tears filling her eyes, she took them both in—Dan to pity, comfort, cheer; Job to honor and to love. Job was hers; perhaps he would never know it, but that day she gave him the best a woman has—her first love.

The next two years came and went in Grizzly county without any events to be chronicled in the city press—no strikes or rich finds or stirring deeds; yet they were years that counted much in some lives.

Job went back to the mines, no longer behind the pay window, but as assistant superintendent. Never had so young a man had so responsible a place at the Yellow Jacket. The negotiations and intercourse with the outside world, and the complicated plans of a great company, were not his task. He was the soul of the mine. His it was to deal with the "hands," and stand between them and that intangible, soulless thing men call a corporation. He was the prophet of the company and priest pleading the needs of five hundred men at the doors of the directors. There was nothing in the laws of the company defining his position, and he could hardly have defined it himself. He only knew that he was there to make life a little brighter, home a little more sacred, the friction of business a little less, the higher part of manhood more valuable, to five hundred hard-working men of all creeds and races that lived on the bare mountain-side about the Yellow Jacket mine.

It was marvelous the changes that came. Personal influence and social power told as the days went by. The saloon-keepers felt it and grumbled, but the assistant superintendent was too great a favorite for them to dare say much. The Sunday work ceased. Every improvement for bettering the conditions under which the men worked was put in—better air-pumps; a large shaft-house with dressing-rooms for the men, to save them from going out while heated, to be exposed to winter's cold; a hospital for the sick; lower prices at the company's store; Finnegan's saloon enlarged and fitted up as a temperance club-house, with not a drop of liquor, but plenty of good cheer. Morethan once on Sundays Job talked to the men on eternal themes, from a spot where, on a never-to-be-forgotten Sunday, he had once faced a mob.

At last the company built a large, plain, attractive church, and the miners insisted on Job's being the "parson." But he firmly declined the honor. Yet he had his say about that church. He felt a wee bit of pride when, crowded to the doors with Scandinavians, Irishmen, Mongolians, Englishmen and Americans, with the Mexican and stalwart Indian not left out, he saw the preacher on the Frost Creek circuit and the priest from Gold City ascend the pulpit to dedicate it. It was to be for all faiths that point heavenward, all ethics that teach the mastery of self, all creeds that exalt Jesus Christ, all religions that really bind back to God. The company had said it; and the men knew that that meant Job.

It was a strange service. The Catholic choir sang "Adeste Fideles," and they all bowed and said the prayer of prayers. Some said "Our Father" and some "Paternoster," and they all meant the same. Job felt a strange thrill in his soul as all in the great audience joined in the last reverent "Amen." Both clergymen spoke, and when the preacher named the Savior, the Catholics crossed themselves; and when the priest said "Blessed Jesus," the Methodists responded "Amen." Both men caught the spirit of the hour; bigotry, creeds, conventionalities, were forgotten. They were face to face with hungry souls; with men who knew little of theology and ecclesiasticism, but much of actual life. God, sin, manhood, eternity, seemed very real to those speakers that day, and they made it plain to the tear-stained, sin-scarred faces that looked into theirs. When at last it was over and the priest had said "Dominus vobiscum" and the parson said "amen," Job slipped out of the rear door to escape the crowd and to pray for the Yellow Jacket and its five hundred men, while a voice whispered to his soul, "Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me."

These years had made great changes in Andrew Malden. Since that night-watch at Pine Tree Ranch, he had been a different man. Tony and Hans felt it; the mill men commented on it; the world of Gold City began to realize that the master of Pine Tree Mountain possessed a heart. The old town had more public spirit than for years, and everybody knew that it was "Judge" Malden, inspired by a life close to his own, who was back of all the improvements. But not everybody was pleased with his influence in public matters, and when the Board of Supervisors one spring refused to renew the license of the Monte Carlo, and passed an ordinance against gambling, all the baser element in Gold City united in bitter hatred against the one who they knew possessed the political power that brought these things to pass.

From that day Grizzly county saw an immense struggle for supremacy between righteousness and vice, in the persons of the two political leaders, Andrew Malden and "Col. Dick." Col. Dick was the most clerical-looking man in the community. Always dressed in immaculate white shirt, long coat and white tie, with his smooth face and piercing black eyes, no stranger would have dreamed, as he received his polite bow on the street, that this was the most notorious character in Grizzly county, the manipulator of its politics, the proprietor of its worst haunt, the most heartless man who ever stood behind a bar in a mining camp. But Richard Lamar—or, as all familiarly knew him, Col. Dick, in honor of his traditional war record—was all this. For nearly twenty years he had stood coolly behind that bar mixing drinks and planning politics. All men feared him. Only one man ever refused to drink with him, so far as is known, and then everybody who could, steered clear of jury duty on that case, and those who could not escape pronounced his death due to heart-failure.

The election the next year was the most hotly contested ever held in the county. Job used all the personal influence he had in the Yellow Jacket; Andrew Malden himself personally canvassed every house in the county where there was the slightest hope. Tony said, "Bress de Lawd! guess de old Marse and de gray team done gone de rounds, an' ebery dog in de county knows 'em!"

Dan, poor Dan, limping through the crowd on crutches, was Col. Dick's chief lieutenant, and used with the utmost shrewdness the "cash" which the saloon interest placed at his disposal. He knew by election day the price of every salable vote in the county. The night before election excitement ran high; a scurrilous sheet came out with cartoons of Andrew Malden and "Gambler Teale's kid." All the hard things that could be said were said. That night, before an audience that filled the old church and hung on the windows and packed the steps, Job made a speech which thrilled the souls of them all. He told his life story; told of what rum had done for him and his, told of Yankee Sam and the scene at his death, till hardened men wiped away the tears. No cut-and-dried temperance lecture was his. He talked of life as all knew it, of Gold City and facts no one could deny; talked till waves of deepest emotion passed over the crowd like the wind over grain on the far-reaching prairies. The meeting broke up with cheers and hisses, and men went out to face a fight at the polls that was talked of for many a long day afterward.

The ringing of the old church bell at dark on election day, the cheers sounding everywhere up and down the streets, the sour, scowling faces of Col. Dick and Dan as they slunk down the alley and in back of the Monte Carlo, told a story which thrilled the hearts of good citizens—that righteousness and good government had won.

That night, between midnight and dawn, Andrew Malden's lumber mill went up in flame and smoke. Who did it? No one knew; no one doubted. The north wind was blowing, and the mill hands worked vigorously, worked heroically—it meant bread and butter to them—but they could not save it. Only great heaps of ashes, twisted iron, a lone smoke-stack and great piles of ruined machinery, were left to tell the story, where for many years the whirl of industry had made music beside Pine Tree Creek.

Yet the man who had once sworn to shoot his enemy at sight uttered no complaint or showed the least spirit of revenge. He came and stood in the night air and watched the flames lick up the old mill, stood with the ruddy glow lighting up his furrowed face, and with never a word turned and went home.

Dan was drifting further and further into the downward life; and yet, strange to say, it had lost its charm for him. That night when the election failed and Col. Dick scored him for not doing his best, he parted company with the Colonel and the Monte Carlo. More and more strongly two passions ruled his life. One was love for Jane Reed; the love of a man conscious of his own utter badness for that holy life he secretly envies and outwardly scorns. The other was hatred for Job Malden, who, ever since he came upon the stage in the long ago, had stood between Daniel Dean and all his ambitions.

So the world moved on, the world of Grizzly county, hid away among the grand old mountains and lofty pines of the Sierras. Impulses were passing into deeds; actions and thoughts were crystallizing into character—character that should endure when the pines had passed into dust, when the mountains had tottered beneath the hand of the Creator, when earth itself had sunk into endless space and the story of Gold City had forever ended.

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