the village square, with the mountains that circled about him as his
background. Sylvia Morgan was not among the listeners. Usually she
enjoyed these speeches in the evening, with the crowds, the enthusiasm,
and the encircling darkness. But to-night she would not come, nor would
she tell the reason to Harley or any of his friends. She merely said
that she wished to stay in her room at the hotel.
The audience was quiet and attentive, and Harley noticed here and there
on the outskirts the dark faces of the Indians. They interested him so
much that he left the platform presently to watch them. He was wondering
if they had any conception at all of Jimmy Grayson's words or of a
Presidential campaign. Nor did he gain any knowledge by his examination.
They listened gravely, and their faces were without expression.
The nearest of them all to the stand Harley recognized as the old chief,
Flying Cloud, whom Walker had kicked off the sidewalk. He seemed to have
recovered physical command of himself, and stood erect. There was a red
feather in his felt hat, and a shawl in brilliant stripes was drawn
across his shoulders.
The candidate spoke in a specially happy vein that night, and the
background of the mountains added impressiveness to his words. To
Harley, again the analyst, and seeking to put himself in the Indian's
place, there was a rhythm and power in what Jimmy Grayson said, although
he, as an Indian, might not understand a word. He could interpret it as
a chant of battle or victory, and such, he had no doubt, was the view of
Flying Cloud.
The chief, so Harley judged, was still half under the influence of
drink, but he was paying close attention to the speaker, and the
correspondent at last saw in his eyes what he took to be the stir of
some emotion. It was a light, as of memories of his own triumphs, and
the chief's figure began to sway gently to the music of Jimmy Grayson's
voice. They had built a bonfire near the speaker's stand, and by its
flare Harley clearly saw old Flying Cloud smile.
Hobart came up at that moment, and, Harley pointed out to him the
transformation in the old chief's appearance. Hobart's opinion agreed
with Harley's.
"It's a battle-song that Flying Cloud is hearing," he said. "It's Jimmy
Grayson that's stirring him up, though maybe the old fellow doesn't
understand it that way."
The speeches ended after a while, and the people began to leave.
Presently only a few were left in the square, and among them was
Harley, who felt no touch of sleepiness. He looked at the quiet town,
then up at the ridges and peaks, crested with snow and silhouetted
against the moonlit sky, and thought again of that little girl, alone
with her dead and in the night among the vast mountains.
The next moment he believed that it was a telepathic feeling, because at
his elbow was Sylvia Morgan herself, a red-striped shawl over her head
to protect her from the cold, and "King" Plummer, who had evidently
brought her from the hotel, not far away.
"Are they all gone?" she asked.
"No," replied Harley; "the Indians and a few more are left."
Harley, in the moonlight, clearly saw her shiver.
"I was restless, and I could not sleep," she said. "I came out for the
sake of the air. But I'll go back."
"No," said Harley, "don't go. Stay with us, please. Now what can that
mean?"
A wild, barbaric chant arose near the bonfire behind them.
"Come!" exclaimed Harley, keen to see and hear. "I think it's old Flying
Cloud, and he's ready to turn himself loose. We can't miss this!"
Sylvia was about to turn away, but as "King" Plummer came up on the
other side of her, and seemed to have a curiosity like Harley's, she
yielded at last, though with reluctance, and the three walked towards
the fire.
Harley's surmise was correct, as old Flying Cloud, jumping back and
forth, was singing some kind of war-song. There was a group about him,
and in it was Hobart, who Harley guessed had been a moving spirit in
this scene. Jimmy Grayson's fire and eloquence had done the rest.
The flames burned down a little, but they cast a weird light on the old
chief's face, bringing out like brown carving the high cheek-bones, the
great, hooked nose, and the seamed cheeks. The thin lips fell away from
long, yellow teeth, and heightened the effect of cruelty which his whole
expression gave.
Hobart came over to them, and said: "See how the old fellow is changing!
We've got him to sing one of his ancient war-songs, and I guess he
thinks he's beating Jimmy Grayson now!"
Sylvia Morgan shuddered, but she said nothing. She seemed to be held by
the fascination of the serpent.
The chief continued to make his queer little jumps back and forth, and
went on with his chant. As he had begun in English for his auditors, so
he continued, although he was now oblivious of their presence. Harley,
watching him, knew it, and he knew, too, that the chief's mind was far
back in the past. His was not the song of the broken derelict, but of
the barbarous and triumphant warrior, and as he sang he gathered fire
and strength.
The circle of white faces grew around the old chief. Every loiterer was
there, and others came back. Not one spoke. All were fascinated by the
singular and weird scene. The moon, low down on the mountain's crest,
still shed a pallid, grayish light that mingled with the fitful red
glare from the glowing coals, the two together casting an unearthly
tinge. But Harley's eyes never left the chief, as he saw his figure
continue to expand and grow with ancient memories of prowess, and the
eyes of Sylvia beside him, as she too listened, expressed many and
strong emotions.
Flying Cloud told of hunting triumphs, of the slaughter of the buffalo,
of fierce encounters with the mountain-lion, of hand-to-hand combat with
the grizzly bear, and then he glided into war. Now his voice rose, full
and prolonged, without any of the tremor or shrillness of age, and his
eccentric dancing grew more violent. His emotions, too, were shown on
his face in all their savagery as he told of the foray and the fight.
At first it was Indian against Indian, and never was any mercy
shown--always woe to the conquered; then it was the whites. An emigrant
train was coming over the mountains--men, women, and children. There was
danger in their path; a Ute war-band was abroad, but the fools knew it
not. They travelled on, and at night the children played and laughed by
the camp-fire, but the shadow of the Utes was always there. Flying Cloud
led the war-band, but held them back until the time should come. He was
waiting for a place that he knew. At last they reached it, a deep canon
with bushes on either side, and the train entered the defile.
Harley suddenly felt a hand upon his arm. It was the fingers of Sylvia
grasping him, but unconscious of the act. He looked up and saw her face
as white as death, and a yard away the eyes of "King" Plummer were
burning like two coals.
Flying Cloud's figure swayed, and his voice trembled with a curious joy
at the old memories. He was approaching the great moment of triumph. He
told how the warriors lay among the bushes, watching the foolish train
come on, how they looked at each other and rejoiced in advance over an
easy victory. Some would have fired too soon, but Flying Cloud would
not let them. His was the cunning mind, as well as the bold heart, and
he omitted nothing. The trap was perfect. The fools never suspected.
They stopped to make a camp, and still they did not know that a ring of
death was about them. They built their fires, and again the children
laughed and played by the coals. It was the last time.
The old chief was now wholly the wilderness slayer, the Indian of an
earlier time. His glittering eyes at times swept the circle of white
faces about him, but he did not see them, only that old massacre.
The narrative went on. Flying Cloud told each of his warriors to select
a victim, and fire true when he gave the word. He chose for himself a
large man who stood by one of the wagons, a man who had with him a woman
and a little boy and a little girl, and the little girl had long curls.
A groan burst from Plummer, and Harley saw his great figure gather as if
for a spring. But Harley, quick as lightning, seized the man in a
powerful grasp, and cried in his ear: "Not now, Mr. Plummer, not now,
for God's sake! Wait until the end!"
Harley felt the "King" quiver in his hands, and then cease to struggle.
Sylvia stood by, still as white as death and absolutely motionless. The
others, held by the old chief's song, did not see nor hear.
Flying Cloud's eyes were glittering with cruel triumph as he continued
his chant. The rifles were raised, the white fools yet suspected
nothing, but laughed and jested with each other as if there would be a
to-morrow.
Then he gave the word, and all the rifles were fired at once. The canon
was filled with smoke and the whistling of bullets. Most of the men in
the train were killed at once, and then the warriors sprang among those
who were left. Flying Cloud had shot the tall man by the wagon, and then
he sought the woman and the two children. He slew the woman and the
little boy, and he scalped them both. Then he sprang at the girl, but
the child of the Evil Spirit slipped among the bushes, and he could not
find her.
The old chief stopped a moment, and once more his glittering eyes swept
the circle of white faces, but saw them not. Then that fierce cry burst
again from Plummer. Suddenly he threw off Harley as if he had been a
child, and sprang through the ring of white faces into the circle of the
firelight. The tall, pale girl, still not saying a word, stood by, like
an avenging goddess.
"Murderer!" cried the "King." "It is not too late to punish you!"
He seized the old chief by the throat, but the white men threw
themselves upon him and tore him off.
Flying Cloud reeled back, gazed a moment at Plummer, and then drew a
knife.
"It was when there was war between us, and I will not swing at the end
of the white man's rope," he said.
So speaking, he plunged the blade into his own heart and fell dead,
almost at the feet of the woman whose kin he had slain.
"Whatever the red scoundrel was," said Hobart, later, "I shall always
use the old text for him, and say that nothing in this life became him
like the leaving of it."
But there were no such feelings in the heart of Sylvia Morgan. When
"King" Plummer sprang upon Flying Cloud, Harley turned involuntarily to
Sylvia, and he saw the pallor replaced by a sudden flush; then, when the
chief slew himself with his own knife, the flush passed, and whiter than
ever she sank down gently. But Harley caught her in his arms before she
fell, and in a moment or two she revived. It seemed to be her first
thought that she was held by him, and she struggled a little.
"Let me go," she said; "I can stand. I assure you I can. It was just a
passing weakness."
But Harley wished to make certain that it was not more than that before
he released her, and the friendly darkness and the interest of the crowd
centred on Flying Cloud aided him. A minute later Mrs. Grayson and the
wife of a local political leader, Mrs. Meadows, took her from him and
carried her to the hotel. Mrs. Grayson, who had heard the chief's chant,
understood the story, but Mrs. Meadows, who knew nothing of Sylvia's
relation to it, but who guessed something from the talk of the others,
was devoured by curiosity. However, she prevailed over it, for the time,
and was silent as she went with Sylvia back to the hotel, although she
made a vow which she kept--that she would find out the full truth in the
morning.
Harley lingered a little by the firelight and joined Hobart and the
crowd. The tragedy had cut deep into his thoughts--and he did not care
to talk, but the others had plenty to say.
"What a singular coincidence," said Tremaine, stroking his fine, white,
pointed mustache, of which he was very proud. "I call it very remarkable
that this savage should have told the story of that old tragedy the very
night when the only survivor of it was present."
"I do not call it remarkable at all," said Hobart. "It is not even a
coincidence in the usual meaning of the word. It came about naturally,
each chapter in the story being the logical sequence of the chapter that
preceded it."
"It may all be very clear to a man like you, one who makes a study of
crime and mysteries," said Tremaine, ironically, as he gave his mustache
an impatient tug, "but it is far from being so to me. I still call it a
coincidence."
"That is because you haven't taken time to think about it, Tremaine.
Your mind is entirely too good to accept such a theory as coincidence.
In the first place, Mr. Grayson is making a thorough tour of the West,
all the more thorough because these are supposed to be doubtful states.
Now what more natural than his coming to Belleville, which is one of the
most important towns in northern Utah, and, having come, what more
probable than the presence of the Indians at his speech, because such
attractions are rare in Belleville, and the Indian would come to see
what it is that stirs up so much his white friend and brother. Of
course, the Indian in his degenerate days, would take the chance to get
drunk, and, being in a whiskey stupor, he naturally supposed that Mr.
Grayson was chanting a chant of victory, and quite as naturally he
chanted in return his own chant, and also quite as naturally this chant
was about the deed that he considered the greatest of his life. So,
there you are; the chain is complete, the result is natural; any other
result would have been unnatural."
Tremaine laughed.
"You have worked it out pretty well, Hobart," he said, "but I have my
own opinion."
"You are entitled to it," rejoined Hobart, briskly, "but be sure you
keep it to yourself, and then you won't suffer from the criticisms of
the intelligent."
Tremaine laughed good-naturedly, and then avowed his concern about that
beautiful girl, Miss Morgan, who suddenly and under such peculiar
circumstances had been brought face to face with the slayer of her
people; he had perceived from the first her noble qualities, and he felt
for her the deepest sympathy. Tremaine, while a great lover of the
ladies, had in reality less perception than any of the others in affairs
of the heart. He was, perhaps, the only one in the group who did not
know what was going on, and for that reason he talked at length of
Sylvia, no one being able to stop him. He thought it a pity that Sylvia
should be wasted on "King" Plummer, who was a good man, a fine old Roman
soul, but then he had his doubts about Sylvia's love for him--that is,
as a husband. Mr. Plummer was too old for her. Tremaine, by a curious
inconsistency, never looked upon himself as old, and thought it
perfectly natural that he should carry on a mild flirtation with any
girl, provided she be handsome, although young enough to be his
daughter.
Harley was uneasy, and would have left them had not the act called
attention to himself too pointedly, and he was forced to listen to
Tremaine's rambling comment, knowing that all the others had him in
their thoughts as they heard. Fortunately, Tremaine did not require any
comment from others, preferring an unbroken stream of his own talk, and
Harley was able to regain his hotel in silence.
They were confronted the next morning by an announcement that sent
sorrow through the whole group. Mrs. Grayson felt that the events of the
night before were too much for a young girl, and unless she were
removed for a time to quieter scenes and a less arduous life they would
leave lasting effects. Moreover, the campaign was about to enter upon a
phase in which women would prove burdensome, hence she and Sylvia were
going to Salt Lake City for a stay of two weeks, and then they would
rejoin the party at some point in the Northwest.
It was with no counterfeit grief that they heard this news. The ladies
had added brightness and variety to a most toilsome campaign, and their
daily travel would seem very black indeed without them. Even Churchill
was loud in his regrets, because Churchill had some of the instincts of
a gentleman, and he never failed in what was due to Mrs. Grayson and
Sylvia. But he could not keep from making one nasty little stab at
Harley.
"Harley," he said, "do you know that they are going to have a very
stalwart escort to Salt Lake?"
"I do not," replied Harley, in some surprise. "I think they are quite
able to take care of themselves."
"Perhaps they are, but 'King' Plummer is going with them, nevertheless.
At his age it is well for a man to keep watch over a young girl whom he
expects to marry, or some husky youth may carry her off."
Harley was surprised at the strength of his desire to strike Churchill
in the face, and he was also surprised at the fact that he resisted it.
He accounted for it by his theory that Churchill could not help being
mean at times, and, therefore, was not wholly responsible. So he
contented himself with saying:
"Churchill, you are a fool now and then, but you never know it."
Then he walked carelessly away before Churchill had made up his mind
whether to get angry or to return a sarcastic reply. Churchill liked to
use sarcasm, as it made him feel superior.
But Harley was much disturbed by Churchill's statement. Sylvia was going
away, and her stay of two weeks might lengthen into months or become
permanent. And Mr. Plummer was going with her. Harley's own absence
would put him at a great disadvantage, and for a moment he suspected
that this stop at Salt Lake City was an artful movement on the part of
the "King," but reflection made him acquit Mr. Plummer, first, because
the "King" was too honest to do such a thing, and, second, because he
was not subtle enough to think of it.
While he was planning what he would do to face this unforeseen
development, a boy from the hotel handed him a note. Harley's heart
jumped when he saw that it was in the handwriting of Sylvia Morgan, and
it fluttered still further when she asked to see him in the hotel parlor
for a few minutes. He was apprehensive, too, because if she had anything
good to tell him she certainly would not send for him.
Sylvia was sitting in the parlor beside a window that looked out upon a
vast range of snow-covered mountains, rising like the serrated teeth of
a saw, and, although she heard his footsteps, she did not turn her face
until Harley stood beside her. Then she said, irrelevantly:
"Isn't that a grand view!"
"You did not send for me to tell me that," said Harley, with a certain
protecting tenderness in his tone, because what he took to be the
sadness in her face appealed to his manly qualities.
"No, I did not. I have been thinking over what we said to each other
when we were coming back from Crow's Wing, and I have concluded that it
was wrong."
"Why was it wrong? I love you, and I had the right to tell you so."
"No, you did not. You would have had were I free, but I am promised to
another. I was wrong to let you speak; I was wrong to listen to you."
"I will not admit it," said Harley, doggedly, "because Mr. Plummer is
going to give you up. He will see that he ought not to hold you to this
promise."
She smiled sadly.
"I must be loyal to him," she said, "and before starting for Salt Lake
City I want to tell you that you must not again speak to me of this."
"But I shall write to you in Salt Lake."
"You must not write of this. If you do, I will not open another one of
your letters."
"I promise not to write to you of love, but I make no promise after
that. You are not going from Salt Lake to Idaho? This is not an excuse
to leave us for good?"
Her eyes wavered before his. It may be that she had intended to abandon
the campaign permanently, but, with his straight and masterful glance
demanding an honest answer, she could not say it.
"Yes, I will come back," she said, and then, with a sudden burst of
feeling: "Oh, I like your group; I like all of you. This great journey
has been something fresh and wonderful to me, and I do not want to leave
it!"
"I thought not," said Harley, with returning confidence, "and I am glad
that you sent for me here, because it has given me a chance to tell you
that, while you mean to keep your promise, I also mean to keep mine.
Mr. Plummer will yet yield you up. You are mine, not his, you know you
are!"
He bent suddenly and kissed her lightly on the forehead, and every nerve
in her tingled at the first touch of the lips of the man whom she loved.
Yet with the sense of right, of loyalty to another, strong within her,
she was about to protest, but he was gone, and the first kiss still
tingled on her forehead. She felt as if he had put there an invisible
seal, and that now in very truth she belonged to him.
The two ladies under the escort of Mr. Plummer left an hour later for
Salt Lake City, and everybody was at the station to see them go. Mrs.
Grayson was quiet as usual, and Sylvia was noticeably subdued, a fact
which most of them ascribed to the tragedy of Flying Cloud and her
coming absence of two weeks from a most interesting campaign.
"You ought to cheer up, Miss Sylvia," said Hobart, "because you are not
half as unlucky as we are. You can spare us much more easily than we can
spare you."
"I am really sorry that I must go," she said, sincerely.
"But you will come back to us?"
"I have promised to do so."
"That is enough; we know that you will keep a promise, Miss Sylvia."
Sylvia at first would not look at Harley. His kiss still burned upon her
brow, and she yet felt that it was his seal, his claim upon her. And her
conscience hurt her for it, because there was "King" Plummer, strong,
protecting, and overflowing with love for her and faith in her. But as
she was telling them all good-bye she was forced to say it to Harley,
too, in his turn, and when he took her hand he pressed it ever so
little, and said, for her ear only:
"I am still hoping. I refuse to give you up."
She retreated quickly into the Salt Lake car to hide her blush.
When they saw the last smoke of the train melting into the blue sky,
Harley and Mr. Heathcote walked back to the hotel together. A strong
friendship had grown up between these two, and each valued the other's
opinion.
"A fine woman," said Mr. Heathcote, looking towards the silky blue of
the sky where the smoke had been.
"Yes, Mrs. Grayson has always impressed me as a woman of great dignity
and strength," said Harley, purposely misunderstanding him.
"That is apparent, but I was not speaking of her. I meant Miss Morgan;
she seems to me to be of a rare and noble type. The man who gets her,
whoever he may be, ought to think himself lucky."
Harley noticed that Mr. Heathcote did not take it for granted that
"King" Plummer would get her, but he said nothing in reply.
XVII
THE SPELLBINDER
An hour after the smoke of the Salt Lake train was lost in the blue sky,
the special car bearing the candidate whirled off in another direction,
deep into the wonderland of the mountains. Now white peaks were on one
side and mighty chasms on the other; then both chasm and peak were lost
behind them, and they shot through an irrigated valley, brown with the
harvest, neat villages snuggling in the centre. But always, whether near
or far, the mountains were around them, blue on the middle slopes, white
at the crests, unless those crests were lost in the clouds and mists.
The people in the car were more quiet than usual, the candidate absorbed
in somewhat sad thoughts, the state politicians respecting his silence,
and the correspondents planning their despatches. But all missed Mrs.
Grayson and Miss Morgan, who, whether they talked or not, always
contributed brightness and a gentler note to their long campaign. "King"
Plummer, too, with his loud laugh and his large, sincere manner, left a
vacancy. Every one felt that there was now nothing ahead but
business--cold, hard business--and so it proved.
Every campaign enters upon successive phases, in which the contestants
advance, through politeness and consideration, first to wary feint and
parry, and then to the stern death-grip of the battle which can mean
nothing but the victory of one and the defeat of the other. They were
now approaching this last stage, and great piles of Eastern newspapers,
which reached them in Utah, reflected all the progress of the combat.