AT BREAKFAST table one morning Roderick noticed in the Encampment Herald
a 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, the Dillon
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 the Doublejack. 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
the Encampment 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 Brag-don’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.”