WITHIN less than a year of his leaving Keokuk to play football with the world, as Uncle Allen Miller had phrased it, Roderick Warfield had established himself in a sound financial position. So far he had not been made the “pig-skin” in life’s game. While he was filled with grateful feeling toward Buell Hampton, and recognized the noble generosity of his friend, he had at the same time the satisfaction of feeling that he had done at least a little toward earning a share in the proceeds derived from the carload of rich ore. And once he found his own mine, his father’s mine, it would be his turn to follow the golden rule and share liberally with those around him.
When he had handed in the Denver check at the local bank, he had already found a new deposit to his credit there—a sum of money to which he had never given a thought from the moment it was won. This was the $450 coming to him as the World’s Championship prize in the rough-riding and outlaw-busting competition at the frontier celebration. It was with intense delight that Roderick decided to apply this windfall to finally clearing off his New York liabilities. He felt like walking even a bit more erect than ever now that he would owe not a dollar in the world. After luncheon he returned to the bank and secured eastern drafts.
But there was a balance remaining, and Roderick at once thought of the lad who had not only suffered defeat in the contest but injury as well. Major Hampton had already undertaken the provision of clothes and other outfit for Scotty Meisch. Roderick thought for a moment; then he walked across to the Savings Bank and started an account in the cowboy’s name with a credit of $100. He carried the little pass-book with him to the hospital.
He found Scotty reclining in a long chair on the veranda. The invalid was convalescent, although looking pale from the unwonted confinement. His face brightened with joy when Roderick, looking down with a pleasant smile, patted him on the shoulder and gripped his hand.
“Gee, but it’s good to see you again,” murmured the boy. “It seems like a hell of a time since you were here. But I got the postcard you sent me from Denver.”
“Yes, Scotty, as I wrote you, Grant Jones and I, also the Major, have all been to Denver. We were called away unexpectedly or would have paid you a parting visit. But I’ve come around at once, you see. Grant Jones and I got back only this afternoon. Mr. Jones is going to take you over to Dillon next week. Meanwhile I have brought you this little book, old fellow.”
Scotty glanced at the pass-book, wonderingly and uncomprehendingly. He turned it over and over.
“An’ what’s this piece o’ leather goods for?” he asked.
“That means you’ve got $100 to your credit in the Savings Bank, Scotty—the consolation prize, you remember, in the broncho-busting contest.”
“Consolation prize be damned. There was no consolation prize.”
“Oh, yes, there was.”
“Not by a danged sight You’ve gone an’ done this, Warfield.”
“Well, I got the big money, and hasn’t the winner the right to give off a bit of it as a consolation prize? Just stuff that book in your pocket, Scotty, and may the hundred dollars soon roll up to a thousand, old fellow.”
“Great guns, but you’re powerful kind to me—all of you,” murmured the cowboy. There were tears in his eyes.
“And by the way, Scotty,” continued Roderick, talking gaily, “that reminds me, I’ve got to go across to Englehart’s store and take over that grand championship saddle he was showing in his window—Banker Buck Henry’s special prize, you remember. I had almost forgotten about it. Why, it’s mine—stamped leather, solid silver mounts, and all the gewgaw trimmings. How will I look riding the ranges with that sort of outfit?”
“You’ll look just grand,” exclaimed Scotty admiringly. “But you won’t use that on the range. It will be your courtin’ outfit.”
Scotty smiled wanly, while Roderick laughed in spite of himself. The invalid felt emboldened.
“Oh, she’s been over here every day during your absence,” he continued. “Gee, but she’s pretty, and she’s kind! And let me tell you somethin’ else. Barbara’s been a-visitin’ me too. Just think o’ that.”
“Ah, all the girls are good, Scotty—and Wyoming girls the best of all,” he added enthusiastically. There was safety in the general proposition.
“Barbara an’ I has made it all up,” continued the lad, still smiling, wistfully yet happily. “She’s dead stuck on that lawyer chap, Bragdon, and we shook hands over it. I wished her luck, and promised to vote for Bragdon at the election for state senator. An’ what do you think she did when I told her that?” he asked, raising himself in his chair.
“She said ‘Bully for you,’ I bet,” replied Roderick. “She did more. She kissed me—fair and square, she kissed me,” Scotty put his finger-tips to his forehead. “Oh, only there,” he added, half regretfully. “But I’ll never forget the touch of her lips, her sweet breath in my face.” And he patted the spot on his brow in appreciative reminiscence.
“That’s politics, as Jim Rankin would say,” laughed Roderick, more to himself than to the cowboy.
“Wal, it’s the sort o’ politics I like,” replied Scotty. “If she’d even only cuff my ears every time I voted, I’d be a repeater for Bragdon at the polls.”
“Well, we’ll both vote the Bragdon ticket, Scotty. A girl like Barbara Shields is worth making happy, all the time. And later on, old fellow, the proper girl will be coming along for you.”
“Looks as if she was comin’ along for you right now,” grinned Scotty, glancing toward the steps of the veranda.
And a moment later Roderick was shaking hands with another hospital visitor, gazing into Gail Holden’s blue eyes, and receiving her warm words of greeting over his safe return.
“We heard something about a fight near Walcott, you know, Mr. Warfield—about a mysterious carload of ore. Two hold-up men were killed, and your name was mentioned in connection with the affair. I felt quite anxious until Mr. Meisch received his postcard from Denver. But you never thought of writing to me,” she added, reproachfully.
“I did not dare,” murmured Roderick in a low tone intended only for her ears.
But Scotty heard and Scotty saw.
“This is the very hour the nurse says I’ve got to sleep,” he said. “You’d better be clearin’ out, War-field.”
“And me too?” asked Gail, laughingly.
“The pair o’ you,” replied the invalid, as he lay back languorously and closed his eyes.
“I guess we’d better be going,” laughed Roderick.
“Perhaps Mr. Meisch is awake enough yet,” said Gail, “to hear that I brought over a chicken for his supper.”
“Tell the nurse I’ll have it fried, please,” yawned Scotty, as, without opening his eyes, he turned over his head in slumberous fashion.
“Come away then, Miss Holden,” said Roderick. “I suppose you rode over on Fleetfoot. I’ll saddle Badger, and we’ll have a gallop across country.”
“No doggoned politics there,” exclaimed the cowboy, awaking suddenly, as he watched the handsome couple disappear. “That’s the real thing, sure.”
The summer days glided past. The Major had returned from New York and had quietly resumed his old life of benevolence among the poor. But soon there seemed to be no more poverty in or around Encampment. Roderick, keeping the mining town as his headquarters, made a series of expeditions into the mountains, systematically searching every range and every known canyon. He would be absent for several days at a time, sometimes with Jim Rankin for a companion, Grant Jones once or twice accompanying him, but latterly with Boney Earnest as hisfidus Achates.For Boney had severed his connection finally with the Smelter Company, after a quarrel with Grady that had ended in the blast furnace foreman knocking his employer down. Such is the wonderful independence that comes from a bank balance—even a secret bank balance that may not command the deference accorded to known financial prosperity.
Between his prospecting expeditions Roderick spent an occasional evening either at the Conchshell Ranch or at the Major’s, with a flying call now and then at the Shields home, especially when Grant was on one of his periodical visits to Encampment.
The month was now September. The rugged mountains still guarded their secret, and Roderick was beginning to fear that the quest for his father’s mine was indeed going to be a vain one. But there came an interlude to his range-riding and gold-dreaming. The state conventions were approaching. Even love became a minor matter to politics. The air was surcharged with electricity.
AT BREAKFAST table one morning Roderick noticed in theEncampment Heralda featured article about the forthcoming Republican convention.
“Oh, yes,” replied Grant, when Roderick called his attention to it, “this convention trouble has been brewing for some time. Personally, as you know, I am a Republican, even though my paper, theDillon Doublejack, is a dyed-in-the-wool Democratic organ.”
“What trouble,” asked Roderick, “can there possibly be about a county convention?”
“It’s a senatorial convention,” explained Grant. “There is an old saying,” he went on, “that every dog has his day. But unfortunately politically speaking there are more dogs than days, and when two or three contestants try to get in on the same day, why, somebody is going to get bitten. There is only one state senatorial job from this district but there may be half-a-dozen fellows who feel called upon to offer themselves upon the political altar of their country.”
“Have noticed a good many fellows down from the hills recently,” replied Roderick.
“Well, that’s politics,” said Grant. “They take a lay off from their work in the hills—come down here to fill up on free political whiskey furnished by the various candidates. Oh, take it from me,” said Grant, looking wise and shaking his head, “these delegates are a booze-fighting bunch for fair.”
For a moment or two the journalistic oracle busied himself with his toast and butter.
“You watch the columns of my paper,” he resumed. “I’m going to show up these whiskey drinking, habits of the delegates good and plenty in this week’s issue of theDoublejack.In the language of Jim Rankin I get a heap peevish with all this political foolishness. Still,” Grant went on, “I presume it is a part of the political machinery of the frontier. One thing,” he concluded, “we all become unduly excited in these ante-convention days.”
Political excitement had indeed waxed warm, and the little mining town had seemingly ceased to think about its mines, its great smelting plant, rich strikes in the hills and everything else—even the cattle men and the sheep men appeared to have forgotten their feuds together with their flocks and herds in the general excitement over the nomination for state senator from southern Carbon County.
Grant Jones in his Doublejack editorials made emphatic and urgent appeal to the people to remember the doctrines of the old Simon-pure Jacksonian democracy and agree upon a good Democratic nominee. With a split in the Republican ranks the chances were never better for the election of a Democratic senator. He pointed out that if Bragdon won the nomination the Carlisle clique would secretly knife the Bragdon forces at the polls by voting the Democratic ticket, and on the other hand if Carlisle should best Bragdon in the nominating contest then the Bragdon following would retaliate by supporting the Democratic nominee so as to defeat Carlisle in the end.
On the Republican side W. Henry Carlisle, the astute lawyer, was backed by the smelter interests, while Ben Bragdon, the eloquent, was supported by the antismelter forces generally and also by Earle Clemens, editor of theEncampment Herald,one of the best known and most highly respected party leaders in the state.
The so-called smelter interests were certainly discredited because of the domineering insolence of W. B. Grady and his unfair treatment of the men. Not only did Grady practice every sort of injustice upon the employees of the great smelting plant in all its various departments, but he also quarreled with the ranchmen in the valley whenever he had dealings with them even to the extent of buying a load of hay.
As convention day approached there was a noticeable feeling of unrest and nervousness. Factional strife was running at high tension.
The wise men of the party said they could plainly see that unless harmony in the Republican ranks obtained at the convention the nominee would be defeated at the polls, and that if Ben Bragdon’s nomination were insisted upon by his friends without in some way conciliating the Carlisle faction the Democrats would be almost certain to win at the following November’s elections.
It was pretty generally conceded that Ben Bragdon, controlled the numerical strength of the delegates, but the wiseacres would ask in their solicitude: “Is it wisdom to take such a chance? Does it not invite a split in the ranks of our party? In other words, does it not mean defeat for the Republican candidate on election day?”
Carlisle was a power to be reckoned with, and had a clannish, determined following in political affairs, and although he and his friends might be outnumbered and beaten in the nominating convention, yet what would follow if Bragdon’s nomination were forced upon them? What would be the result? Would not Carlisle’s following secretly slash the rival they had been unable to defeat at the nominating convention?
A “dark horse” seemingly was the only way out of the dilemma, and the more conservative delegates insisted that Bragdon and his friends must be brought to understand and recognize the possibilities of almost certain defeat unless harmony could be insured; otherwise Bragdon must be compelled to withdraw.
Early in the morning before the day named for the senatorial convention to assemble at Rawlins the delegates at Encampment and several hundred friends of the respective candidates started overland for the convention city.
There were two roads from Encampment to Rawlins—one that branched off from the so-called main road and went along the Platte River bottom. The distance by either route was about sixty miles. Carlisle and his following went one road, while Bragdon and his following traveled by the other road, both arriving at the hotel in Rawlins at the same time with panting horses. It was a mad race, each faction trying to show supremacy over the other even at the cost of horseflesh.
The delegates gathered in knots of three and four in the lobby of the hotel, in the barroom and in the private rooms during the afternoon and evening before convention day.
The trains had arrived from the East and the West, and the delegates from all over the senatorial district were present and ready for the fray that was certain to come off the following day—indeed, Rawlins, the county seat, was alive with politicians and the Ferris House, the leading hotel of the place, was a beehive of activity. The Democratic spectators were jubilant and made their headquarters at Wren’s saloon.
It was at the Ferris House that W. Henry Carlisle had opened his headquarters in opposition to Ben Bragdon. The Carlisle people said they had no alternative candidate. Any one of a score of men might be named in the district, each of whom would be satisfactory; in fact, anyone excepting Ben Bragdon, provided, of course, it was found that Carlisle could not be nominated, which they were far from conceding.
Bragdon and Carlisle had often before locked horns in hotly contested lawsuits up in the-hills, but in addition to their legal fights for supremacy there had been one special controversy that had resulted in a big financial loss for which each held the other responsible. It involved a bitter fight over a mining claim wherein both Bragdon and Carlisle had financial interests, and both had finally lost. It was a rich property and had by decree of the courts been awarded to a third party. But the decision did not lessen the feud. The impelling motive in their political contest was not half so much, perhaps, for the honor of being state senator as it was a consuming desire in the heart of each to best and lick the other.
Some of the delegates, even those who were inclined to be friendly to Bragdon’s candidacy, acknowledged that seemingly he had made no effort to pacify either Carlisle or his friends, and thus, in a way, had proven himself deficient as a political leader and standard-bearer for the party.
Others claimed that a reconciliation was impossible, that the breach was entirely too wide to be patched up at the eleventh hour. Still others were of the opinion that if the Bragdon forces would concede the chairmanship of the convention to Carlisle and his friends and thus give substantial evidence of a desire to harmonize and be friendly, past differences could be adjusted, with the result not only of Bragdon’s nomination but his election as well.
Those high in the leadership of the Bragdon forces laughed incredulously and scorned to consider such a compromising surrender, and further expressed their disbelief in the sincerity of Carlisle and his crowd even if the Bragdon following were willing to make such a concession.
“No,” said Big Phil Lee, Bragdon’s chief lieutenant, “I’m a Kentucky Democrat, boys, as you all know, but in this fight I’m for Bragdon—a Bragdon Republican—and we’ve got the whip-hand and by the Eternal we will hold it. We Bragdon fellows have already agreed upon a chairman and a secretary for both the temporary and permanent organizations of tomorrow’s convention, and we have selected Charlie Winter to name Bragdon in a nominating speech that will be so dangnation eloquent—well, it will simply carry everybody off their feet. He is the boy that can talk, you bet he is. Oh, you bet we’ve got ‘em licked, Carlisle and all his cohorts. And let me tell you something else,” continued Big Phil Lee, gesticulating, “we’ll hold them responsible for the final result. If Bragdon’s not elected, it will be because Carlisle and his gang knife him at the polls. Just let them do such a dirty contemptible piece of political chicanery and they’ll be marked men ever afterwards in this senatorial district, and not one of them could be elected even to the office of dog pelter.”
IT WAS just such talk as Big Phil Lee’s that kept the Bragdon forces lined up and defiant to the point of an open rupture and a total disregard for the minority, while the Democrats cheered Big Phil Lee’s remarks with enthusiastic hoorays.
The individual who really held the destiny of the party that year in the hollow of his hand and within the next few hours proved himself the Moses to lead all factions from the paths of bickering into the highway of absolute harmony, was the newspaper man, Earle Clemens. All through the evening hours the editor of theHeraldhad been a most eloquent listener. He was on good terms with everybody, jovial and mixed with all factions, and yet was scrupulously careful to avoid giving any expression of advice or stating an opinion. He had, however, been very outspoken in his editorial advocacy for harmony.
Earle Clemens was not only known and respected all over the state as an able newspaper man, but he was the possessor of a rich tenor voice that had delighted many an audience up in the hills, and then, too, he had composed the melody of the state song, entitled “Wyoming”—all of which tended to his great popularity and powerful influence.
While it was quite generally known that Clemens was perhaps closer in his friendship for Bragdon than any other man in the district, dating from way back when the generous-hearted young lawyer had helped Clemens at a time and in a way that money could not buy or repay, yet the editor of theHeraldhad all along insisted that unless the Bragdon sympathizers effected a reconciliation with the Carlisle crowd, it virtually meant, if Bragdon’s nomination were forced upon the convention, a Democratic victory at the coming November election.
In his last editorial, before the convention was to assemble, he had, in reply to Democratic newspaper gibes about a high old row which was likely to obtain at the oncoming Republican convention, branded the writers one and all as political falsifiers. He boldly announced that not a single discordant note would be heard when the Republican host came to nominate its standard bearer, and furthermore that the choice would be emphasized by a unanimous vote of the delegates. And in the final event the Republican candidate, he declared, would be elected by such an overwhelming popular vote that it would make the false Democratic prophets and bolting Republican malcontents, if there were any, “hunt the tall timber.”
The Democratic press in reply had said that the editor of theHeraldwas whistling to keep up his courage, and of course much amusement had been caused by the spirited controversy. So when the eventful day arrived fully as many Democrats journeyed to Rawlins to see the fun as there were Republican delegates. Of course, as good Democrats, they lost no opportunity to help embitter the two factions and widen the breach between the Bragdon and the Carlisle forces.
Editor Earle Clemens, however, had ideas of his own that he told to no one. The electric light was shining in his room long after midnight and his small hand typewriter, which he always carried in his grip, was busy clicking away—presumably writing copy for the columns of his paper. What really occurred however, was this: He wrote two letters on the hotel stationery—one addressed to Hon. Ben Bragdon, and the other addressed to Hon. W. Henry Carlisle, and the envelopes were marked private.
After the letters were duly typewritten, he placed an electric light under a pane of glass with which he had provided himself, elevating the glass by supporting the ends with a couple of books, and then from letters that he had at some former time received from both aspirants cleverly traced and signed the signature of W. Henry Carlisle to one letter and in like manner signed the signature of Ben Bragdon to the other letter—yes, brazen forgeries.
After inclosing them in their respective envelopes, he stole softly out into the hallway and slipped one under the door of Carlisle’s room and the other under the door of Bragdon’s room. Then he went downstairs and bribed the night clerk to call both Bragdon and Carlisle at sharp fifteen minutes before six o’clock. This done, Clemens hastened back to his own apartment for a few hours’ sleep, wondering as he disrobed if the “end would justify the means.”
“There is no question,” he said to himself as he climbed into the bed, “but that the Republican ox is in the ditch and heroic measures are necessary.”
The following morning, when W. Henry Carlisle was awakened by the night clerk calling out softly the hour of seven o’clock, he hastily arose and began dressing, but before he had half finished he spied the letter that had been pushed under his door. Picking it up, he broke the seal and this is what he read:
“My dear Carlisle:—
“It probably requires more bravery to make an apology and to ask to be forgiven than it does to settle differences between gentlemen by the now antiquated ‘code.’
“I here and now tender my apologies for any unkind words I may in the past have spoken derogatory to you, and as an evidence of my candor will pledge you the support of myself and friends for both temporary and permanent chairman at tomorrow’s convention, if you reciprocate this offer of a reconciliation.
“If you are big enough and broad enough and generous enough to accept this overture and desire to bury all past differences and from now on work in harmony together, each helping the other, as did Jonathan and David of old, why, the opportunity is offered, and we will let bygones be bygones.
“If you accept this apology, meet me at the hotel bar early tomorrow morning and merely extend your hand of friendship in greeting. I will understand; but please do not humiliate me by mentioning the fact, even to your best friends, that I have written this letter, and above all do not refer to it at our meeting tomorrow morning or at any future time. It is quite enough if these old differences are wiped off the slate between you and myself without commenting, or permitting comments to be made. I am not unmindful, Carlisle, that you are a great big able man and I want you to be my friend, and I wish to be yours. You have the power to make my nomination for state senator unanimous.
“I have the honor of subscribing myself
“Very sincerely yours,
“Ben Bragdon.”
Across the hall Ben Bragdon was also reading a letter, which was almost a duplicate of the one that Carlisle was perusing, except that the conditions were reversed. Carlisle, in his letter of apology, offered to support Bragdon for the nomination, provided the hatchet was buried and the Bragdon forces would support him for temporary and permanent chairman.
At the conclusion of the reading of these respective letters, each wore an exultant look of mastery on his face. For the time being at least all other differences were forgotten. In the hearts of both was the thought: “It’s mighty decent of him; he really is a bigger man than I thought.”
Carlisle was the first man to leave his room and going quickly downstairs passed hurriedly into the hotel bar, which at that early hour was deserted except for the immaculate, white-aproned bartender.
“What will it be this morning, Mr. Carlisle?” was the respectful inquiry of the attendant.
“Nothing just yet,” replied Carlisle, “I am waiting for a friend.”
A moment later Ben Bragdon came in, whereupon both of these skillful politicians vied in meeting each other more than half-way and extending the right hand of good fellowship in kindliest greetings.
“Guess we’re a little early,” stammered Bragdon in a futile attempt to appear at ease and free from embarrassment. They both laughed a little, and Carlisle remarked that fortunately the bartender was at his post even if the delegates were slow about getting started on the day’s work.
Just then the night clerk appeared and apologized for calling them so early. “Don’t know how it happened,” he stammered, “but I made a mistake of an hour. I called you gentlemen at six instead of seven. I hope you’ll not—”
“Oh, that’s all right,” exclaimed Bragdon and Carlisle in unison, as they good-naturedly waved him aside with their assurance that they were glad to be up and about.
“A couple of Martini cocktails,” said Bragdon to the attendant. The cocktails were soon before them and tossed off in a jiffy, with the mutual salutation of “Here’s how.”
“Come again, my man; make it half a dozen this time—three apiece,” said Carlisle, laughing and throwing down a twenty dollar gold piece. “Might as well have a good appetizer while we’re about it, and then we’ll relish our breakfast, good or bad.”
They chatted about the weather while the cocktails were being prepared. Finally the cocktails were pushed along the bar counter, three in front of each.
“All right,” said Bragdon, as they each lifted a glass. “Here’s to your good health!”
“Thanks,” said Carlisle, “but since we have three cocktails apiece before us, suppose we drink to the past, the present, and the future!”
“Good!” replied Bragdon, beaming with approval. “Splendid idea and happily put” He then ordered some of the highest priced cigars the house afforded and insisted on Carlisle filling his pockets, while he stowed away a goodly number himself.
Soon after the fourth cocktail disappeared, they started for the dining-room arm in arm, chatting away to one another like two old cronies who had just met after a long separation. They found seats at a table in a far corner and in their eagerness to say the right thing to one another took no notice that a few of the delegates were already at tables in different parts of the room. The delegates laid down their knives and forks and looked toward Bragdon and Carlisle in astonishment. Then they whispered among themselves, whereupon four or five left the room quietly and hastened with all speed to carry word to the other delegates, most of whom were still in their apartments.
The news spread like wildfire, and a general scramble followed in hurriedly dressing and rushing downstairs to witness with their own eyes such an unexpected turn in political affairs between two men who had been at daggers drawn.
Within a very short time the dining-room was well filled with delegates, but neither Bragdon nor Carlisle paid any attention; nor were they seemingly conscious that all eyes were turned upon them. Each was felicitating himself on the turn of events. Then, too, their amiability, as well as their appetites, had no doubt been whetted into keenest activity by the cocktails.
Ben Bragdon, after breakfast, gave orders that the Hon. W. Henry Carlisle was to be made both temporary and permanent chairman, and Carlisle likewise announced that the Hon. Ben Bragdon was to be nominated as senatorial candidate by acclamation; and each issued his instructions in such a matter-of-fact, yet stubbornly blunt fashion, that no one offered any objection or asked any questions.
The delegates looked at each other, nudged one another in the ribs and indulged in many a sly wink of suppressed amusement. But they all quickly recognized the political advantage insured by a coalition of the Bragdon and Carlisle forces, and the utter dismay this would cause in the camp of the Democrats. Therefore they all became “programme” men and took their orders meekly. So when the convention finally met and got down to business with Carlisle presiding, it at once proceeded to nominate Ben Bragdon by a unanimous vote.
Seemingly everybody cheered on the slightest provocation and everybody was in excellent good nature, and after the convention had completed its labors and adjourned, it was conceded to have been one of the most harmonious political gatherings ever held in the state. Thus was the prediction of Earle Clemens, the newspaper scribe, fulfilled to the very letter.
The convention over, the delegates drifted back to the Ferris House and not long after Big Phil Lee called at Clemens’ room. The editor was picking away at his typewriter, preparing a report for the columns of his paper. Grant Jones, Roderick Warfield, and two or three others were in the room, smoking and talking. But Clemens paid no attention, so intent was he on his work. Big Phil Lee, who without doubt had been Bragdon’s loudest shouter, said: “Say, Clemens, I compliment you on your prophetic editorials. I reckon you are writing another one. You said the convention would be harmonious, and how in the demnition bow-wows your prophecy happened to come true nobody knows. But it did.”
“Thanks,” replied Clemens, in his light-hearted jovial way, and then looking out of the window for a moment, added: “I say, Lee, don’t it beat hell what a little clever horse sense will accomplish at times in a political convention?”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Big Phil, quickly. “You seem to be posted. By gad! I think it’s high time I was taken into the inner councils myself and had the seemingly inexplainable made clear to me.”
“Search me,” replied Clemens in a subdued voice, as he bit the tip of another cigar and struck a match. “Neither Bragdon nor Carlisle has invited me into any of their secret conferences.”
Big Phil Lee looked a bit incredulous, shook his head in a nonplussed sort of way and said: “Well, so long, boys. I’m goin’ down to the hotel parlor where Bragdon is holding his reception. They are falling over one another congratulating Carlisle about as much as they are Bragdon.”
As the door closed behind him, Clemens looked up from his typewriter and said to Grant Jones, laughingly: “Say, Grant, remember what the Good Book says?”
“Says lots of things—what do you refer to?” asked Grant
Clemens replied: “Blessed are the peacemakers.”
Grant Jones came over close to him and said: “Look here, Clemens.” And he fixed him with his eyes as if searching for an answer to that which was veiled in mystery. But Clemens stood the ordeal and presently Jones burst out laughing: “It’s all right, Clemens, theHeraldhas sure put one over on theDoublejackthis time. I don’t know how it was done, and maybe I never will know. But take it from me, it was clever—damned clever!”
Clemens made no reply, but removing his cigar winked at Roderick Warfield who was sitting near, puffed rings of smoke toward the ceiling and afterwards whistled softly the air of “Wyoming,” the state song, even while he smiled the smile of a knowledge that surpasses understanding.
Delegates and sightseers, Republicans and Democrats, who had journeyed to see a hotly contested nomination, ostensibly for the state senate but really for political supremacy, were good-natured and jovial when they started on the return trip. Big Phil Lee shouted to Earle Gemens who was on the other stage and said: “We are such a happy family, I presume we will return on the same road instead of dividing and horse racing.”
Clemens and the other returning passengers on the hurricane deck laughed good-naturedly and said: “Sure, we will stick together from now on and fight the Democrats.” Presently the crowd commenced singing vigorously—if a bunch of discordant voices could be so described—various popular airs of the day.
That evening a reception was given Ben Bragdon at the hotel Bonhomme in Encampment, and the affair was presided over by W. Henry Carlisle. It was interpreted that the breach between these two attorneys had been effectually healed to the discomfiture of the Democrats. But no one save and except Earle Clemens knew how it had been brought about.
Roderick Warfield slipped away early from the scene of jubilation, and carried the glorious news to the Shields’ ranch that Ben Bragdon had been unanimously nominated. Barbara, with the flush of radiant joy on her face, could no longer deny the soft impeachment, and he boldly congratulated her on her coming wedding to the senator-elect for southern Wyoming.
THE following evening Roderick called at the Major’s home, and found a visitor there, a stranger yet very well known to him by reputation. This was no other than the Reverend Stephen Grannon, the travelling parson, of whose fame as a doer of good deeds at the cost of complete self-sacrifice and self-denial, Roderick had often heard.
“Delighted to see you, Roderick,” said the Major. “Come right in. You know, of course, the most noted man in the camp—the man with the saddle bags. What? Never met yet? Well, it is a great pleasure to me to make you two acquainted.”
After cordial greetings had been exchanged Major Hampton continued: “We have just been discussing some of the great problems of humanity. Pardon me, my dear friend, but I wish to say to Mr. Warfield that if I were called upon today to name the greatest humanitarian with whom I am acquainted I certainly should say—the Reverend Stephen Grannon.”
“You do me too much honor,” interposed the parson hastily. “You compliment me far too highly.” Major Hampton went on as if the Reverend Stephen Grannon had made no interruption: “The school of humanitarianism is small in number, but the combined results of their labors directed through the channels of service in the behalf of humanity bear the stamp of greatness. The sincere lover of his fellows recognizes that the poor of this world have borne and are still bearing the burdens of the race. The poor have built all the monuments along the world’s highway of civilization. They have produced all the wealth from the hills and from the soil The poor of the world have endured the hardships of conquering the wilds and erecting outposts on the border of civilization. Indeed they conquer everything except the fetters that bind them and hold them as an asset of great corporate power that is heartless and soulless and indifferent to the privations and sufferings of the individual.”
The Reverend Stephen Grannon gave it as his view that the mission of a humanitarian was not to hinder the world’s progress, nor even to prejudice anyone against the fortune gathering of the rich, but rather to dispell the darkness of injustice and assist the great army of the impoverished to a better understanding of their rights as well as their powers to conquer the evils that have throughout the ages crept into and clung to our civilization.
“Poverty,” he remarked, “is the cause of much misery and often the impelling motive to immorality and crime in many forms. Men often sell and barter their votes and birthrights in this free country to bribe givers—wily politicians—while our girls are not infrequently lured into selling their very souls for ribbons and the gaudiness and shams of the world.”
“What is the cure?” asked Roderick, greatly interested.
“The cure,” responded the preacher, “is the regeneration of mankind through the leavening and uplifting power of the principles taught by the humble humanitarian of Galilee, the great prince of righteousness.”
“Yes,” chimed in Major Hampton, “the Reverend Stephen Grannon has given you the solution for the problem. Add to this a higher education. The more highly educated the individual,” continued the Major, “the greater the crime if they break the law.”
“But,” said Roderick, “this is a free country and we have free schools. Why do not the poor have a better education?”
Reverend Grannon turned quickly to Roderick and replied: “You come with me to the twenty-odd mining camps, Mr. Warfield, surrounding this town of Encampment—come with me up in the hills where there are no schools—see the little children growing up in carelessness because of the impossibility on the part of their fathers and mothers to provide them with school privileges. In the school room the teacher becomes the overseer not alone of their studies but of their morals as well. Let me take you down in the mines,” he continued, speaking with great earnestness, “and see the boys from twelve years to twenty-one years working day after day, many of them never having had school privileges and therefore unable to read or write.”
He paused for just a moment, then resumed: “It brings to my mind what a very wise man once wrote. It was King Solomon, and among many other splendid truths he said: ‘The rich man’s wealth is his strong city; the destruction of the poor is their poverty.’.rdquo;
“Roderick,” said the Major as he lit his meerschaum and blew the smoke towards the ceiling, “my heart is very light tonight, for I have arranged with the assistance of the Reverend Stephen Grannon to help relieve this lamentable situation in those mining camps up in the mountains away from school privileges. I have recently taken the matter up with the county commissioners and have agreed to build twenty schoolhouses. Each schoolhouse will consist of two rooms. One will be for the smaller children during the day and also to serve as a night school for the young men and young women who are employed in manual labor during working hours. The other room is a library sufficiently large and spacious to accommodate the young men of each mining community and thus keep them away from saloons, brothels, and prize ring attractions. One hour each evening will be taken up by a reader and a regular course of entertaining books will be read aloud in a serial way. The books in the library will be loaned out on tickets and the usual library rules observed.”
“Splendid,” said Roderick, “that sounds practical to me.”
“It is practical,” said the Reverend Stephen Grannon, “and thanks to Major Buell Hampton this plan which I have cherished for so many years will soon be put into effect.”
Looking at his watch he turned to the Major and said: “By the way, Major, I have a couple of poor families to visit tonight. I have promised them, and they will be disappointed if I do not come.” He arose as he said this.
“My good friend,” replied Buell Hampton, “I am sorry you cannot remain longer with us, but I would not keep you from your duties.”
The Reverend Stephen Grannon put on his top coat, as the evenings were growing chilly, and after shaking hands took his departure.
When he was gone and the door closed, Major Hampton turned to Roderick and holding up one hand said reverently: “Of such is the kingdom of heaven. In all my lifetime, Roderick, I have never known another such splendid character. I have closely observed his work ever since I came to this camp. Perhaps in his entire lifetime he has not collected fifty dollars in money. He says he does not want money.”
“But he must have money to live on.”
“Above all money considerations,” said the Major, looking into the darkened corner of his living room, “he wants to save souls here on this earth so that he will have more jewels in his crown over yonder—these are his own words. There is not a family in the surrounding country that he is not acquainted with. If there is sickness he is the first one there. Where the greatest poverty abounds you will find him. He goes out and solicits alms for those in distress, but keeps nothing for himself excepting the frailest living. Go through the valley or up in the mountain gorges or still farther up in the mining camps where the snow never melts from the shady side of the log cabins, and you will find this noble character, Reverend Stephen Grannon, doing his good work for the poor—ministering to their wants and endeavoring to lift humanity into higher walks, physically, morally, and spiritually.”
“I am glad you have told me all this,” replied Roderick. “It increases my already high opinion of the parson.”
“He is a veritable shepherd among the people,” continued Major Hampton. “Reverend Grannon is the true flockmaster of Wyoming. The people are frequently unruly, boisterous, intemperate and immoral, yet he treats them with greatest consideration and seeks to persuade and lead them away from their sins and transgressions. Yes, he is a great flockmaster—he is well named The Flockmaster.”
Both were silent for a few moments. Then the Major, as if suddenly remembering something, looked up and said: “He tells me Scotty Meisch is getting along fine over in theDillon Doublejackprinting office.”
“I am glad to hear that,” exclaimed Roderick. “It is good to have saved at least one lad from going the way of those outlaws of Jack Creek. I have never forgotten that ghastly midnight scene—the massacred sheep and the burning herders’ wagons.”
“Well, what can you expect?” asked the Major. “When the social waters are poisoned at the fountain head, the whole course of the stream becomes pernicious. In this state of Wyoming the standard of political decency is not high. The people have no real leaders to look up to. The United States Senator, F. E. Greed, sets a pernicious example to the rising generation. He violates laws in scores of instances because of his greed and grafting proclivities, and his bribed supporters go on year after year supporting him. What the state needs is a leader. High-minded leaders are priceless. Their thoughts and their deeds are the richest legacy to a state or a community. Great leaders are beacon lights kindled upon the mountain peaks of the centuries, illuminating the mental and moral atmosphere of civilization. The history of the world—of a nation, of a state and of a community—is the story of their epochal deeds, while man’s advancement is only the lengthened shadow of their moral, spiritual and temporal examples. Leaders come up from the crowd, from among the poor and the lowly. They are immediately recognized by the great mass of the people and invariably crowned, although sometimes it is a crown of thorns that they are compelled to wear and endure for upholding priceless principles in their endeavor to lead humanity to a higher plane. However,” concluded the Major, “the world is growing better. The nimble-fingered, tilltapping, porch-climbing derelicts in politics and commercialism are becoming unpopular. The reprehensible methods in all avenues of life are being condemned instead of condoned—the goats are being cast out from among the sheep.”
“You interest me very much, Major,” said Roderick. “Your ideals are so high, your aims so decent and right, that it is a pleasure to hear you talk. I am a firm believer,” Roderick went on, “in the justice of the doctrine that all men are created free and equal.”
“It is a sad commentary,” replied Major Hampton, “in this land where liberty is cherished and our Government corner-stoned upon the theory that all men are free and equal, that even the soberest of us are compelled, my dear Roderick, to regard such affirmations as blasphemous. To illustrate: An employee in one of the big manufacturing combinations committed a burglary—almost petty larceny in its smallness—another case of Jean Valjean stealing bread for his children—and yet he was tried before an alleged court of justice and sent to the penitentiary for ten years. The head of the same institution pillaged multiplied millions from the poor in unjust and lawless extortions. When he was caught red-handed in his lawbreaking, instead of sharing a prison cell with the poor man our courts indulgently permitted this great highwayman six months’ time in which to reorganize and have legalized his methods of stealing.”
“Such rank injustice,” exclaimed Roderick, “makes my blood tingle with indignation. It is surely high time a determined crusade was led against the privileged classes.”
The Major made no reply but after a little, looking up from the open grate and turning to Roderick, he asked him if he was aware that the next day was the annual meeting of the stockholders of the Encampment Mine and Smelting Company.
“Oh, is it?” said Roderick. “Some time ago I noticed something in the newspapers about the meeting, but as it was of no particular moment to me I had forgotten it.”
“Yes,” said Major Hampton, “and I guess I will now tell you that I have been holding a secret from you.”
“That so?” exclaimed Roderick questioningly.
“You will remember,” the Major went on, “that I left you in Denver after we made the big ore shipment and that I was away for three or four weeks. Well, I went to New York, employed two or three big brokers down on Wall Street, and commenced buying Encampment Mine and Smelter Company stock on the exchange. Working jointly with a new friend I have discovered, a professional man of finance yet a true friend of humanity, I have absolute control of the stock today.”
“You have?” exclaimed Roderick. “You own a control of the stock in this great smelter and the Ferris-Haggerty mine?”
“Yes, the whole enterprise is virtually in our ownership. Well, something is going to happen tomorrow at the stockholders’ meeting which I fear will not be pleasant to certain individuals. But duty compels me to pursue a course I have mapped out. My chosen work in life is to serve the poor, yet in trying to fulfill this mission I harbor no resentful thoughts against the rich as a class nor do I intend for them any unfair treatment.”
“If the people only knew,” remarked Roderick, softly, “you are without doubt one of the richest men in this part of the country and yet you so honestly prefer the simple life.”
“There are two kinds of rich people,” continued the Major. “One class is arrogant and unfeeling; they hoard money by fair means or foul for money’s sake and for the power it brings. The other class use their wealth not to oppress but to relieve the worthy poor. Personally, Warfield, I do not regard the money which accident has made mine as being in any sense a personal possession. Rather do I hold it as a trust fund. Of course I am grateful. The money enlarges my opportunity to do things for my fellows that I wish to do.”
The Major paused a moment, then resumed: “Do you remember, Roderick, when I first told you, Jim Rankin and the others about my hidden mine that I said there were six men in the world whom I held in highest esteem?”
“I remember well,” assented Roderick.
“Well, five of you were present then—Tom Sun, Boney Earnest, and Grant Jones, with yourself and Jim. For the absent sixth one I specifically reserved a share in my prosperity, although at the time I withheld his name. Now you know it He is the one entitled to most consideration among us all—the Reverend Stephen Grannon.”
“Of course he is,” concurred Roderick, with hearty conviction. “He can do more good in the world than all the rest of us together, yourself excepted, Major.”
“At present, perhaps,” said Buell Hampton. “But let his shining example be an incentive to you all—to us all. Well, in a confidential way, I will tell you, Roderick, that when in New York I also purchased a large block of bonds that yields an income of something like $20,000 per year. This income I have legally turned over with proper writings to the Reverend Stephen Grannon, and already I think you will discover a vast improvement in the mining camps and throughout the valleys among the poor. For Stephen Grannon is a godly man and a true humanitarian.”
“My word, but that’s great—that’s grand!” murmured Roderick with deep enthusiasm. And he gazed at Buell Hampton’s noble soul-lit face admiringly.
The Major rose to his feet—his usual method of intimating that he wished to be alone. Roderick grasped his hand, and would have spoken further, but Buell Hampton interrupted him.
“Say no more, my dear boy. I am glad that you have been interested in what I had to say tonight. The veil was lifted and you saw me as I am—anxious to be of benefit to my fellows. I shall indeed be proud if you find these doctrines not merely acceptable to yourself, but in some degree at least stimulative in your acts toward the worthy poor and lowly as the years come and go.”
As Roderick walked slowly along the street deep in thought over Buell Hampton’s words, he came suddenly upon W. B. Grady and several well dressed strangers at a street corner. The visitors, he surmised, were eastern directors of the big smelting company who had come to Encampment for the stockholders’ meeting on the morrow.