them, and Harley caught the dull-red glare of brick walls, showing
through the falling snow. He was ready to raise a shout of joy. This he
knew was Queen City, lying snugly in its wide valley. There was the
typical, single mountain street, with its row of buildings on either
side; the big one near-by was certainly the hotel, and the other big one
farther on was as certainly the opera-house. But nobody was in the
streets, and the whole place was dark; not a light appeared at a single
window, although the night had come.
"We're here," Harley said to Sylvia, "but I confess that this does not
look promising. Certainly there is nobody running to meet us."
She was gazing with curiosity.
"It's like no other town that I ever saw," she said.
Harley rode up by the side of the guide.
"The place looks lonesome," he said.
"Maybe they've all gone to bed; there ain't anythin' here to keep 'em
awake," replied the guide, with the old puzzling and derisive smile.
Harley turned coldly away. He did not like to have any one make fun of
him, and that he saw clearly was the guide's intention. Jimmy Grayson
was still thinking of things far off, and Mr. Heathcote, chilled and
shrunk, seemed to have lost the power of speech. "King" Plummer, for
reasons of his own, was silent too.
The guide rode slowly towards the large brick building that Harley took
to be the hotel, and, at that moment, the snow slackened for a little
while; the last rays of the setting sun struck upon the dun walls and
gilded them with red tracery; some panes of glass gave back the ruddy
glare, but mostly the windows were bare and empty, like eyeless sockets.
Harley looked farther, and all the other buildings--the opera-house, the
stores, and the residences--were the same, desolate and decaying. About
the place were snow-covered heaps, evidently the refuse of mining
operations, but they saw no human being.
The effect upon all save the guide was startling. Harley saw the look of
chilled wonder grow on Jimmy Grayson's face. Mr. Heathcote raised
himself in his saddle and stared, uncomprehending. Harley had been deep
in the desert, but never before had he seen such desolation and ruin,
because here was the body, but all life had gone from it. He felt as one
alone with ghosts. Sylvia was silent, her confidence gone for the
moment. The guide laughed dryly.
"You guessed it," he said, looking at Harley. "It's a dead city. Queen
City has been as dead as Adam these half-dozen years. When the mines
played out, it died; there was no earthly use for Queen City any longer,
and by-and-by everybody went away. But I've seen the old town when it
was alive. Five thousand people here. Money a-flowin', drinks passin'
over the counter one way and the coin the other, the gamblin'-houses an'
the theatre chock-full, an' women, any kind you please. But there ain't
a soul left now."
The snow thinned still more, and the buildings rose before them gaunt
and grim.
"We'll stop to-night at the Grand Hotel--that is, if they ain't too much
crowded; it'll be nice for the lady," said the guide, who had had his
little joke and who now wished to serve his employers as best he could;
"but first we'll take the horses into the dinin'-room; nobody will
object; I've done it afore."
He rode towards a side-door, but over the main entrance Harley saw in
tessellated letters the words "Grand Hotel," and he tried to shake off
the feeling of weirdness that it gave him.
The door to the dining-room, which was almost level with the ground, was
gone, and with some driving the horses were persuaded to enter. They
were tethered there, sheltered from the storm, and, when they moved,
their feet rumbled hollowly on the wooden floor. Sylvia, the candidate,
and his friends, driven by the same impulse, turned back into the snow
and re-entered the house by the front door.
They passed into a wide hall, and at the far end they saw the clerk's
desk. Lying upon it were some fragments of paper fastened to a chain,
and Harley knew that it was what was left of the hotel register. It
spoke so vividly of both life and death that the five stopped.
"Would you like to register, Mr. Grayson?" asked Harley, wishing to
relieve the tension.
The candidate laughed mirthlessly.
"Not to-night, Harley," he said; "but, gloomy as the place is, we ought
to be thankful that we have found it. See how the storm is rising."
He glanced at Sylvia, and deep gratitude swelled up in his breast.
Grewsome as it might look, Queen City was now, indeed, a place of
refuge. But he had no word of reproach for her, because she had insisted
upon coming. He knew that a snow-storm had not entered into her
calculations, as it had not entered into his, and, moreover, no one in
the party had shown more courage or better spirits.
The snow drove in at the unsheltered windows, and a long whine arose as
the wind whirled around the old house. The guide came in with cheerful
bustle and stamp of feet.
"Don't linger here, gentlemen and ladies," he said. "The house is yours.
Come into the parlor. We've had a piece of luck. Now and then a lone
tramp or a miner seeks shelter in this town, just as we have done; they
come mostly to the hotel, and some feller who gathered up wood failed to
burn it all. I'll have a fire in the parlor in five minutes, and then we
can ring for hot drinks for the men, a lemonade for the lady, and a warm
dinner for all. I'll take straight whiskey, an' after that I ain't
partic'ler whether I get patty-de-foy-graw or hummin'-bird tongues."
His good-humor was infectious, and they were thankful, too, for the
shelter, desolate though the place was. All the wood had been stripped
away except the floors, and the brick walls were bare. In the great
parlor they had nothing to sit on save their saddles, but it was a noble
apartment, many feet square, built for a time when there was life in
Queen City.
"I've heard the Governor of Montana speak to more than two hundred
people in this very room," said Jim, reminiscently. "He was to have
spoke in the public square, but snow come up, an' Bill Fosdick, who run
the hotel, and run her wide open, invited 'em all right in here, an'
they come."
Harley could well believe it, knowing, as he did, the miners and the
mountains, and, by report, early Montana.
At one end of the room was an immense grate, and in this Jim heaped the
wood so generously left by the unknown tramp or miner, igniting it with
a ready match. The ruddy blaze leaped upward and threw generous shadows
on the floor. The travellers, sitting close to it, felt the grateful
warmth and were content.
All the saddle blankets also had been brought in and piled on one of the
saddles. On these Sylvia sat and spread out her hands to the ruddy
blaze. To Harley, with the flame of the firelight on her face and the
glow of the coals throwing patches of red and gold on her hair, she
seemed some brilliant spirit come to light up the gloomy place. Here all
was warmth and brightness; outside, the storm moaned through the
mountains and the darkness.
"Do you know, I enjoy this," she said, as she looked into the crackling
fire.
"So Queen City ain't so bad, ma'am?" said the guide, with dry
satisfaction.
"Not bad at all, but very good," she replied, gayly. "Don't you think
so, Mr. Harley?"
"I certainly agree with you," replied Harley, devoutly, "but I'm glad
that Queen City is just where it is."
She laughed.
"Daddy has been many a time in the mountains without his Queen
City--haven't you, daddy?"
"Often," said "King" Plummer, looking at her with a pleased smile. But
he wished that she would not call him "daddy," at least before Harley;
it seemed that she could never remember his request; but she had warned
him.
"An old hand travellin' in the mountains always purvides for a snowy
day," said the guide, and he took from his saddle-bags much food and a
large bottle.
They drank a little, all except Sylvia, and ate heartily. The last touch
of cold departed, and the fire still sparkled with good cheer, casting
its comforting shadows across the stained floor.
"I've brought in the horse-blankets," said the guide, "an' with them
under us, our overcoats over us, an' the fire afore us, we ought to
sleep here as snug an' warm as a beaver in its house."
Sylvia was accustomed to camping in the mountains, and made no fuss, but
quietly leaned back against the saddle and the wall, and drew her heavy
cloak around her. She was soon half asleep, and the flames, moving off
into the distance, seemed to be dancing about in a queer, light-minded
fashion.
Harley walked to the window and looked out. The night was black, save
for the driving snow, and when he glanced back at the room it seemed a
very haven of delight. But the strangeness of their situation, the weird
effect of the dead city, with the ghost-like shapes of its houses
showing through the snow, was upon his nerves, and he did not feel
sleepy.
Muttering some excuse to the others, he went into the hall. It was dark,
and a gust of cold air from the open window at the end struck him in the
face. At the same moment Harley saw what he took to be a light farther
down the hall, but when he looked again it was gone.
It might be a delusion, but the matter troubled him; if a lone tramp or
miner were in the building, he wished to know. Any stranger would have a
right in the hotel, but there was comradeship and welcome in Jimmy
Grayson's party.
Harley's instinct said that all was not right, and, taking off his
boots, he crept down the hall and among the cross-halls with noiseless
feet. He did not see the light again, but he heard in another room the
hum of voices, softened so that they might not reach any one save those
for whom they were intended. But they reached Harley, crouching just
behind the edge of the door, and, hearing, he shuddered. A great danger
threatened the nominee for the Presidency of the United States. Such a
thing as the present had never before happened in the history of the
country.
And that same danger, but in a worse form, perhaps, threatened Sylvia.
It was not Harley's fault that a girl had then a greater place than a
Presidential nominee in his mind. He shuddered, and then closed his lips
firmly in resolve.
The door was still on its hinges, and it was still slightly ajar.
Harley, peeping through the crack, saw the eight occupants of the room
by the faint light from the window, and because the man who did the
talking, and who showed himself so evidently the leader, had red hair,
he knew him instinctively. It was Red Perkins and the remnant of his
gang, not scattered to the winds of the West, as Jim and everybody else
thought, but here in Montana, in their old haunts. And Harley, listening
to their talk, measured the extent of their knowledge, which was far too
much; they knew who Jimmy Grayson was, they had known of his departure
from Blue Earth, and they had followed him here; presently they would
take him away, and the whole world would be thrilled. No such prize had
ever fallen into the hands of robbers in America, and it would be worth
a million to them.
Harley was in a chill as he listened, because he heard them speak next
of Sylvia, and one of them laughed in a way that made the correspondent
want to spring at his throat. Sylvia and the candidate must be saved.
But Harley, thinking his hardest, could not think how. There were eight
men well armed in the room before him; the guide and Mr. Plummer,
probably, had pistols, but he had none, and he was sure that Jimmy
Grayson and Mr. Heathcote were without them. He paused there a long
time, undecided, and at last he crept down the hall again and towards
the great parlor. Then he put on his boots, re-entered the room, and
spoke in a low voice to his comrades.
The guide's fighting blood was on fire at once. "I've a revolver," he
said; "we kin barricade the room and hold 'em off. There are two windows
here, opening out on the snow, but they are so high they can hardly
reach 'em with their hands. We kin make a good fight of it."
"I've a pistol, too," said Mr. Plummer, "and we must make it a fight to
the death."
He spoke quietly, but with determination and a full knowledge of all the
danger that threatened. He glanced at Sylvia, who, coming back from her
half-dream, had risen to her feet. Then he walked to the door, because
the "King" was ever alert in the face of danger.
"What is it?" Sylvia asked of Harley. She knew by their manner that
something strange and terrifying had happened, and in such a situation
it was now an involuntary act with her to turn to Harley.
"Sylvia," he said--the others had followed "King" Plummer to the door
"you ought to know."
He noticed that, though pale, she was quiet and firm.
"If it is danger, I have faced it before," she said, proudly.
"As you will face it now, like the bravest woman in the West. 'Red'
Perkins's gang of outlaws are out there, and they mean to take Mr.
Grayson to hold for ransom, and you--"
Her eyes looked straight into his, and suddenly they shone with all the
fulness of love and confidence.
"They will not take me while you are here," she said.
"Not if we have to die together. Sylvia, I believed that your heart was
mine, and in this moment of danger I know it."
He spoke truly. In the crisis their souls were bare to each other. He
seized her hands, and the brilliant color flamed into her cheeks.
"Sylvia!" he exclaimed, in a thrilling whisper.
"Hush!" she said. "The others are about to come back."
She gently withdrew her hands from his, and when "King" Plummer turned
away from the door he saw nothing.
"There's not a shot to be fired," said Jimmy Grayson, "because I've a
better plan. How long do you think it will be before they come for me,
Harley?"
"About fifteen minutes, I should say; at least that is what I gathered
from their talk."
"And they have not examined the building or the town?"
"No; they merely came down the trail behind us and slipped into that
room, waiting their chance."
"Very good. Jim, you told me a while ago that the Governor of Montana
once spoke to two hundred people in this room; it was a fortunate remark
of yours, because I shall speak to as many people to-night in this same
room. Shut the door there, put the saddles before it, and then build
the fire as high as possible."
The candidate's voice was sharp, decisive, and full of command. The born
leader of men was asserting himself, and the guide, without pausing to
reason, hastened to obey. He shut the door, put the saddles before it,
and heaped upon the fire all the remaining wood except a stump reserved
by Jimmy Grayson's express command. The fire leaped higher, and the room
was brilliantly lighted.
Jimmy Grayson stood by, erect, calm, and grave.
"Now, gentlemen," he said, "you are a crowd come from Crow's Wing to
meet me here, and to hear what I have to say. I trust that you will like
it, and indicate your liking by your applause."
The stump was placed in the middle of the floor, and Jimmy Grayson
stepped upon it. His face at that height was visible through the window
to any one outside, although the others would be hidden. Just as he took
his place Harley thought he heard the soft crunch of a footstep on the
snow beneath the window. He felt a burning curiosity to rise and look
out, but he restrained it and did not move. The guide was staring at the
candidate in open-mouthed amazement, but he, too, did not speak. A few
big white flakes drove in at the open window, but they did not reach the
men before the fire that blazed so brightly. Harley again thought he
heard the soft shuffle of footsteps on the snow outside, but then the
burning wood crackled merrily, and Jimmy Grayson was about to speak.
Sylvia stood erect against the wall, her glowing eyes full of
admiration. Her quick mind had grasped the whole plan.
"Gentlemen of Crow's Wing," said the candidate, in his full,
penetrating voice, which the empty old building gave back in many an
echo, "it is, indeed, a pleasure to me to meet you here. The
circumstances, the situation, are such as to inspire any one who has
been so honored. I should like to have seen your little town, the home
of brave and honest men, nestling as it does among these mighty
mountains, and far from the rest of the world, but strong and
self-reliant. I appreciate, too, your kindness and your thought for me.
Seeing the advance of the storm, and knowing its dangers, you have come
to meet me in this place, once so full of life. I find something
singularly appealing and pathetic in this. Once again, if only for a
brief space, Queen City shall ring with human voices and the human
tread."
The candidate paused a moment, as if the end of a rounded period had
come and he were gathering strength for another. Then suddenly arose a
mighty chorus of applause. It was Harley, "King" Plummer, Heathcote, and
Jim, and their act was spontaneous, the inspiration of the moment, drawn
from Jimmy Grayson's own inspiration. The guide beat upon the floor with
both hands and both feet, and the other three were not less active.
Moreover, the guide opened his mouth and let forth a yell, rapid,
cumulative, and so full of volume that it sounded like the whoop of at
least a half-dozen men. The room resounded with the applause, and it
thundered down the halls of the great empty building. When it died,
Harley, listening again intently, heard once more the crunch of feet on
the snow outside, but now it was a rapid movement as if of surprise. But
the sound came to him only a moment, because the candidate was speaking
once more, and he was worth hearing. He only looked away to see Sylvia,
who still stood against the wall with her glowing eyes fixed in
admiration on her uncle. Once or twice she, too, glanced aside, and her
gaze was for Harley. But it was a different look that she gave him.
There was admiration in it, too, and also a love that no woman ever
gives to a mere uncle. In those moments the color in her cheeks
deepened.
As an orator Jimmy Grayson was always good, but sometimes he was better
than at other times, and this evening was one of his best times. The
audience from Crow's Wing, the consideration they had shown in meeting
him here in the dead city, and the wildness of the night outside seemed
to inspire him. He showed the greatest familiarity with the life of the
mountains and the needs of the miners; he was one of them, he
sympathized with them, he entered their homes, and if he could he would
make their lives brighter.
Never had the candidate spoken to a more appreciative audience. With
foot and hand and voice it thundered its applause; the building echoed
with it, and all the time the fire burned higher and higher, and the
merry crackling of the wood was a minor note in the chorus of applause.
But Jimmy Grayson's own voice was like an organ, every key of which he
played; it expressed every human emotion; full and swelling, it rose
above the applause, and Harley, watching his expressive face, saw that
he felt these emotions. Once he believed that the candidate, carried
away by his own feelings, had become oblivious of time and place, and
thought now only of the troubles and needs of the mountain men.
Harley's attention turned once more to the windows. He thought what a
lucky chance it was that no one standing on the ground outside was high
enough to look through them into the room. He blessed the unknown
builder, and then he tried to hear that familiar shuffle on the snow,
but he did not hear it again.
Jimmy Grayson spoke on and on, and the applause kept pace, until at last
the guide slipped quietly from the room. When he returned, a quarter of
an hour later, the candidate was still speaking, but Jim gave him a
signal look and he stopped abruptly.
"They are gone," said Jim. "They must have been gone a full hour. The
snow has stopped, and I guess they are at least ten miles from here,
runnin' for their lives. They knew that if the men of Crow's Wing put
hands on 'em they'd be hangin' from a limb ten minutes after."
Jimmy Grayson sank down on the stump, exhausted, and wiped his hot face.
"Say, Mr. Harley," whispered the guide to the correspondent, "I've heard
some great speeches in my time, but to-night's was the greatest."
The candidate spoke the next day at Crow's Wing, and his audience was
delighted. But Jim was right. The speech was not as great as the one he
had made at Queen City.
XV
WORDS BY THE WAY
Rumors of the adventure in the dead city had spread throughout the
little mountain town in which Jimmy Grayson made his speech the day
after the stop in Queen City, and when he began the return journey an
escort, from which all the bandits in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains
would have turned aside, was ready for him. It was a somewhat noisy
band, but orderly and full of enthusiasm, secretly wishing that a second
attempt would be made, and their devotion to Jimmy Grayson and his cause
found an answering sympathy in Harley.
They had passed the night in Crow's Wing, and the start was made when
the first sunlight brought a sudden uplifting of a white world into a
dazzling burst of blue and yellow and red. But no more snow was falling,
and those who knew said that the day would continue fair.
Sylvia Morgan had not been present at the speech the night before. Even
she, bred amid hardships and dangers, was forced to admit that her
nerves were somewhat unstrung, and she rested quietly in a warm room at
the hotel. Harley knocked once on her door, and received the reply that
she was all right. Then he turned away and went slowly down the hall,
thoughtful, and, for the first time in many days, thoroughly
understanding himself. To the world, when the world should hear of it,
the candidate would always be the central figure in the episode of the
dead city, but Harley knew that their adventure in the old hotel was
more momentous to him than it had been to the candidate. His doubts and
his hesitation were gone; he knew what Sylvia Morgan represented to him,
and with that knowledge came a certain peace; it would have been a
greater peace had not the shadow of "King" Plummer been so dark.
When Sylvia reappeared for the return there was nothing to indicate that
she had ever been tired or nervous. She seemed to Harley the incarnation
of fresh, young life, and there was a singular softness and gentleness
in her manner, all the more winning because she had let it appear more
rarely hitherto. She held out her hand to Harley.
"You see that I have passed through our adventure without harm to my
nerves," she said.
"I knew that you would do so," replied Harley.
He would have said more, but the armed escort, to a man, was bowing
respectfully, and making no very great effort to conceal its admiration
at the sight of a lady, young and beautiful, such an infrequent visitor
to their lonely hamlet. Nor was this admiration diminished by the fact,
known to them all, that she had taken the hazardous journey over the
mountains with Jimmy Grayson. They considered it a special honor and
dignity conferred upon themselves, and as the candidate introduced them,
one by one, the bows were repeated but with greater depth. Sylvia Morgan
knew how to receive them. She was a child of the mountains herself, and
without any sacrifice of her own dignity she could make them feel that
they knew her and liked her.
All Crow's Wing saw them off, and they rode away over the mountains in
the splendid red and gold of the dawn. Mr. Grayson and "King" Plummer
were near the head of the troop, and Harley and Sylvia were near the
rear, where they remained a part of the general group for a long time,
but at last dropped back behind all the others.
"Won't Mr. Churchill be shocked when he hears of our adventure in the
dead city?" said Sylvia.
"He will think that it is the climax," was the reply.
Harley laughed, but in a few moments he became grave. Yet there was an
expression of much sweetness about his firm mouth.
"Still I am glad that it happened," he said. "I saw a new illustration
of our candidate's powers, and I learned, too, much more than that."
She glanced at him, and as she read something in his face she looked
quickly away, and a sudden flush rose to her cheeks. Despite herself,
her heart began to beat fast and her hand trembled on the bridle rein.
Harley expected her to ask what it was that he had learned, but when he
saw her averted face he went on:
"I learned then, Sylvia, what I should have known long before, that I
love you, that you are the one woman in the world for me. And I do not
believe, Sylvia, that you care only a little for me."