AS the train rumbled along carrying Roderick back to Burlington, he was
lost in reverie and exultation. He was making plans for a mighty future,
into which now a romance of love was interwoven as well as the romance
of a mysterious gold mine awaiting rediscovery in some hidden valley
among rugged mountains. Yes; he would lose no further time in starting
out for Wyoming. The winning of the one treasure meant the winning
of the other—the making of both his own. As he dreamed of wealth
unbounded, there was always singing in his heart the name of Stella
Rain.
Next day he was aboard a westbound train, booked for Rawlins, Wyoming,
where, as his father’s letter had directed, he was likely to find
the old frontiersman, Jim Rankin; perhaps also the other “cronies”
referred to by name, Tom Sun and Boney Earnest At Omaha a young
westerner boarded the train, and took a seat in the Pullman car opposite
to Roderick. In easy western style the two fell into conversation, and
Roderick soon learned that the newcomer’s name was Grant Jones, that
he was a newspaper man by calling and resided in Dillon, Wyoming, right
in the midst of the rich copper mines.
“We are just over the mountain,” explained Jones, “from the town
of Encampment, where the big smelter is located.”
As the train sped along and they became better acquainted, Grant Jones
pointed out to Roderick a dignified gentleman with glasses and a gray
mustache occupying a seat well to the front of the car, and told
him that this particular individual was no other than the “Boss
of Montana”—Senator “Fence Everything” Greed. Jones laughed
heartily at the name.
“Of course, he is the U. S. Senator from Montana,” continued Jones,
soberly, “and his name is F. E. Greed. His enemies out in Montana
will be highly pleased at the new name I have given him—’Fence
Everything,’ because he has fenced in over 150,000 acres of Government
land, it is claimed, and run the actual home-settlers out of his fenced
enclosures while his immense herds of cattle trampled under foot and ate
up the poor evicted people’s crops. Oh, he’s some ‘boss,’ all
right, all right.”
“Why,” exclaimed Roderick, “that’s lawlessness.”
Grant Jones turned and looked at Roderick and said: “The rich are
never lawless, especially United States Senators—not out in Montana.
Why, bless your heart, they say the superintendent of his ranch is on
the payroll down at Washington at $1800 a year.
“Likewise the superintendent of the electric lighting plant which
Senator Greed owns, as well as the superintendent of his big general
store, are said to be on the government payroll.
“It has also been charged that his son was on the public payroll while
at college. Oh, no, it is not lawless; it is just a dignified form of
graft. Of course,” Jones went on with arched eyebrows, “I remember
one case where a homesteader shot one of the Senator’s fatted
cattle—fine stock, blooded, you know. It was perhaps worth $100. Of
course the man was arrested, had a ‘fair trial’ and is now doing
time in the penitentiary. In the meantime, his wife and little children
have been sent back East to her people. You see,” said Jones, smiling,
“this small rancher, both poor in purse and without influence, was
foolish enough to lose his temper because five or six hundred head of
Senator Greed’s cattle were driven by his cowboys over the rancher’s
land and the cattle incidentally, as they went along, ate up his crops.
Little thing to get angry about, wasn’t it?” and Jones laughed
sarcastically.
“Well, don’t the state conventions pass resolutions denouncing their
U. S. Senator for such cold-blooded tyrannizing methods?”
“If the state of Montana,” replied Grant Jones, “should ever hold
a state convention of its representative people—the bone and sinew of
its sovereign citizens, why, they would not only retire Senator Greed to
private life, but they would consign him to the warmer regions.”
“You surprise me,” replied Roderick. “I supposed that every state
held conventions—delegates you know, from each county.”
“They think they do,” said Jones, winking one eye, “but they are
only ratification meetings. The ‘Boss,’”he continued, nodding
his head towards Senator Greed, “has his faithful lieutenants in each
precinct of every county. His henchmen select the alleged delegates and
when they all get together in a so-called state convention they are by
pre-arrangement program men. The slate is fixed up by the ‘Boss’
and is duly ratified without a hitch. Therefore instead of being
a convention representing the people it is a great big farce—a
ratification picnic where ‘plums’ are dealt out and the ears of any
who become fractious duly cuffed.”
At Grand Island in the afternoon, during a stop while engines were
changed, Roderick left the train and stretched his legs by walking up
and down the depot platform. Here he saw Grant Jones in a new rôle.
Notwithstanding Jones was in rough western garb—khaki Norfolk coat,
trousers to match, and leather leggings—yet he was the center of
attraction for a bevy of young ladies. Two of these in particular were
remarkable for their beauty; both had the same burnished golden hair
and large brown eyes; they were almost identical in height and figure,
petite and graceful, dressed alike, so that anyone at a first glance
would have recognized them to be not only sisters but doubtless twins.
When the train was about ready to start, these two girls bade adieu to
their numerous friends and permitted Grant Jones with all the gallantry
of a Beau Brummel to assist them onto the car.
Later Grant Jones took great pains to assure Roderick that it was
a pleasure to introduce him to the Misses Barbara and Dorothy
Shields—“Two of our’ mountain wild flowers,” Grant said,
laughing pleasantly, “who reside with their people way over south in
the Wyoming hills, not far from Encampment, on one of the biggest cattle
ranges in the state.”
Roderick, already captivated by the whole-souled, frank manner of Grant
Jones, now found himself much interested in the beautiful twin sisters
as well. Hour followed hour in bright and sprightly conversation, and
soon the tenderfoot who had been inclined to condole with himself as a
lonely stranger among strangers was feeling quite at home in the great
western world of hospitable welcome and good comradeship.
At an early hour next morning Grant Jones, the Shields girls and a dozen
other people left the train at the little town of Walcott. They extended
hearty invitations for Roderick to come over to southern Wyoming to see
the country, its great mines and the big smelter. “If you pay us a
visit,” said Grant Jones, laughing, “I’ll promise you a fine
big personal in the Dillon Doublejack, of which mighty organ of public
opinion I have the honor to be editor.”
Roderick, with a bow of due reverence for his editorial majesty and a
bright smile for the sisters, promised that he likely would make the
trip before very long. Then he swung himself onto the already moving
train and continued his westward journey to Rawlins.