BOOK IV

THE PREACHER OF CEDAR MOUNTAIN

A TALE OF THE OPEN COUNTRY

BY ERNEST THOMPSON SETON

FRONTISPIECE BY CLARENCE ROWE

Garden City New York

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

1917

_Copyright, 1917, by_

Ernest Thompson Seton

_All rights reserved, including that of

translation into foreign languages,

including the Scandinavian_

[Illustration: "'You must choose between us. Is it Belle or Blazing

Star?'"]

PREFACE

Most of the characters in this tale are from life, and some of the main

events are historical, although the actual scenes and names are not

given. Many men now living will remember Fighting Bill Kenna and the

Horse Preacher, as well as the Fort Ryan races. These horse races are

especially well known and have been described in print many times. I did

not witness any of them myself, but listened on numerous occasions when

they were described to me by eye-witnesses. My first knowledge of the

secret try-out in Yellowbank Canyon was given to me years ago by Homer

Davenport, the cartoonist, with permission to use the same.

But all of these more or less historic events are secondary to the

intent of illustrating the growth of a character, whose many rare gifts

were mere destructive force until curbed and harmonized into the big,

strong machine that did such noble work in the West during my early days

on the Plains.

ERNEST THOMPSON SETON.

CONTENTS

Preface

BOOK I THE CHILD OF THE STABLE YARD

I. The Home Land of Little Jim Hartigan

II. The Strains That Were Mingled in Jim

III. How He Lost His Father

IV. The Atmosphere of His Early Days

V. Little Jim's Tutors

VI. Jim Loses Everything

VII. He Gets a Much-needed Lesson

BOOK II THE CONVERSION

VIII. The Conversion of Jim

IX. Jim Hartigan Goes to College

X. Escape to Cedar Mountain

XI. A New Force Enters His Life

XII. Belle Boyd

XIII. Preacher Jim's First Sermon

XIV. The Lure of the Saddle

XV. Pat Bylow's Spree

XVI. The New Insurance Agents

XVII. Belle Makes a Decision and Jim Evades One

XVIII. The Second Bylow Spree

XIX. The Day of Reckoning

XX. The Memorable Trip to Deadwood

XXI. The Ordeal

XXII. The Three Religions Confront Him

BOOK III THE HORSE PREACHER

XXIII. Blazing Star

XXIV. Red Rover

XXV. The Secret of Yellowbank Canyon

XXVI. Preparing for the Day

XXVII. The Start

XXVIII. The Finish

XXIX. The Riders

XXX. The Fire

XXXI. Love in the Saddle

BOOK IV THE HORSE PREACHER AFOOT

XXXII. The Advent of Midnight

XXXIII. The Sociable

XXXIV. Springtime

XXXV. When the Greasewood is in Bloom

XXXVI. Shoeing the Buckskin

XXXVII. The Boom

XXXVIII. When the Craze Struck

XXXIX. Jim's Bet

XL. The Crow Band

XLI. The Pinto

XLII. The Aftertime

XLIII. Finding the Lost One

XLIV. A Fair Rider

XLV. The Life Game

XLVI. What Next?

XLVII. Back to Deadwood

XLVIII. The Fork in the Trail

XLIX. The Power of Personality

L. The Call to Chicago

LI. These Little Ones

LII. The Boss

LIII. The First Meeting

LIV. The Formation of the Club

BOOK V THE CALL OF THE MOUNTAIN

LV. In the Absence of Belle

LVI. The Defection of Squeaks

LVII. The Trial

LVIII. In the Death House

LIX. The Heart Hunger

LX. The Gateway and the Mountain

LXI. Clear Vision on the Mountain

LXII. When He Walked with the King

BOOK ONE

THE CHILD OF THE STABLE YARD

CHAPTER I

The Home Land of Little Jim Hartigan

A burnt, bare, seared, and wounded spot in the great pine forest of

Ontario, some sixty miles northeast of Toronto, was the little town of

Links. It lay among the pine ridges, the rich, level bottomlands, and

the newborn townships, in a region of blue lakes and black loam that was

destined to be a thriving community of prosperous farmer folk. The

broad, unrotted stumps of the trees that not so long ago possessed the

ground, were thickly interstrewn among the houses of the town and in the

little fields that began to show as angular invasions of the woodland,

one by every settler's house of logs. Through the woods and through the

town there ran the deep, brown flood of the little bog-born river, and

streaking its current for the whole length were the huge, fragrant logs

of the new-cut pines, in disorderly array, awaiting their turn to be

shot through the mill and come forth as piles of lumber, broad waste

slabs, and heaps of useless sawdust.

Two or three low sawmills were there, each booming, humming, busied all

the day. And the purr of their saws, or the scream when they struck some

harder place in the wood, was the dominant note, the day-long

labour-song of Links. At first it seemed that these great, wasteful

fragrant, tree-destroying mills were the only industries of the town;

and one had to look again before discovering, on the other side of the

river, the grist mill, sullenly claiming its share of the water power,

and proclaiming itself just as good as any other mill; while radiating

from the bridge below the dam, were the streets--or, rather, the rough

roads, straight and ugly--along which wooden houses, half hidden by tall

sunflowers, had been built for a quarter of a mile, very close together

near the bridge, but ever with less of house and sunflower and more of

pumpkin field as one travelled on, till the last house with the last

pumpkin field was shut in by straggling, much-culled woods, alternating

with swamps that were densely grown with odorous cedar and fragrant

tamarac, as yet untouched by the inexorable axe of the changing day.

Seen from the road, the country was forest, with about one quarter of

the land exposed by clearings, in each of which were a log cabin and the

barn of a settler. Seen from the top of the tallest building, the sky

line was, as yet, an array of plumy pines, which still stood thick among

the hardwood trees and, head and shoulders, overtopped them.

Links was a town of smells. There were two hotels with their complex,

unclean livery barns and yards, beside, behind, and around them; and on

every side and in every yard there were pigs--and still more pigs--an

evidence of thrift rather than of sanitation; but over all, and in the

end overpowering all, were the sweet, pervading odour of the new-sawn

boards and the exquisite aroma of the different fragrant gums--of pine,

cedar, or fir--which memory will acknowledge as the incense to conjure

up again in vivid actuality these early days of Links.

* * * * *

It was on a sunny afternoon late in the summer of 1866 that a little

knot of loafers and hangers-on of the hotels gathered in the yard of the

town's larger hostelry and watched Bill Kenna show an admiring world how

to ride a wild, unbroken three-year-old horse. It was not a very bad

horse, and Bill was too big to be a wonderful rider, but still he stayed

on, and presently subdued the wild thing to his will, amid the brief,

rough, but complimentary remarks of the crowd.

One of the most rapt of the onlookers was a rosy-cheeked, tow-topped boy

of attractive appearance--Jim; who though only eight years old, was

blessed with all the assurance of twenty-eight. Noisy and forward,

offering suggestions and opinions at the pitch of his piping voice, he

shrieked orders to every one with all the authority of a young lord; as

in some sense he was, for he was the only son of "Widdy" Hartigan, the

young and comely owner and manager of the hotel.

"There, now, Jim. Could ye do that?" said one of the bystanders,

banteringly.

"I couldn't ride that 'un, cause me legs ain't long enough to lap round;

but I bet I could ride _that_ 'un," and he pointed to a little foal

gazing at them from beside its dam.

"All right, let him try," said several.

"And have his brains kicked out," said a more temperate onlooker.

"Divil a bit," said big Bill, the owner of the colt. "That's the kindest

little thing that ever was born to look through a collar," and he

demonstrated the fact by going over and putting his arms around the

young thing's gentle neck.

"Here, you; give me a leg up," shouted Jimmy, and in a moment he was

astride the four-month colt.

In a yard, under normal kindly conditions, a colt may be the gentlest

thing in the world, but when suddenly there descends upon its back a

wild animal that clings with exasperating pertinacity, there is usually

but one result. The colt plunged wildly, shaking its head and

instinctively putting in practice all the ancient tricks that its kind

had learned in fighting the leopard or the wolf of the ancestral wild

horse ranges.

But Jim stuck on. His legs, it was true, were not long enough to "lap

round," but he was a born horseman. He had practised since he was able

to talk, never losing a chance to bestride a steed; and now he was in

his glory. Round and round went the colt, amid the laughter of the

onlookers. They apprehended no danger, for they knew that the youngster

could ride like a jackanapes; in any case the yard was soft with litter,

and no harm could happen to the boy.

The colt, nearly ridden down, had reached the limit of its young

strength, and had just about surrendered. Jim was waving one hand in

triumph, while the other clutched the fuzzy mane before him, when a new

and striking element was added to the scene. A rustle of petticoats, a

white cap over yellow hair, a clear, commanding voice that sent the men

all back abashed, and the Widdy Hartigan burst through the little

circle.

"What do ye mean letting me bhoy do that fool thing to risk his life and

limb? Have ye no sense, the lot of ye? Jimmy, ye brat, do ye want to

break yer mother's heart? Come off of that colt this holy minute; or

I'll--"

Up till now, Jim had been absolute dominator of the scene; but the

powerful personality of his mother shattered his control, dethroned him.

As she swept angrily toward him, his nerve for the time was shaken. The

colt gave a last wild plunge; Jim lost his balance and his hold, and

went down on the soft litter.

As it sprang free from its tormenter, the frightened beast gave vent to

its best instinctive measure of defense and launched out a final kick.

The youngster gave a howl of pain, and in a minute more he was sobbing

in his mother's arms, while one of the crowd was speeding for the

doctor.

Yes, the arm was broken above the elbow, a simple fracture, a matter of

a month to mend. The bone was quickly set, and when his wailing had in a

measure subsided, Jim showed his horseman soul by jerking out: "I could

have rode him, Mother. I'll ride him yet. I'll tame him to a finish, the

little divil."

CHAPTER II

The Strains That Were Mingled in Jim

Clearly one cannot begin the history of the French Revolution with the

outbreak of 1789. Most phenomena, physical and spiritual, have their

roots, their seeds, their causes--whatever you will--far behind them in

point of time. To understand them one must go back to the beginning or

they will present no logic or _raison d'être_. The phenomenon of James

Hartigan, the Preacher of Cedar Mountain, which is both a physical and a

spiritual fact, is nowise different, and the reader must go back with me

to some very significant events which explain him and account for him.

Little Jim's father was James O'Hartigan in Donegal. The change in the

patronymic was made, not by himself, but by the Government Emigration

Agent at Cork. When James, Sr. came forward to be listed for passage,

the official said: "Oh, hang your O's. I have more of them now than the

column will hold. I'll have to put you in the H's, where there's lots of

room." And so the weight of all the Empire was behind the change.

James Hartigan, Sr. was a typical Irish "bhoy," which is high praise. He

was broad and hearty, with a broad and hearty grin. He was loved and

lovable, blessed with a comely countenance and the joy of a humorous

outlook on life and its vicissitudes. You could not down Jimmy so low

that he might not see some bright and funny aspect in the situation.

This was not only a happy temperamental trait, but it also had a

distinct advantage, for in the moments of deepest self-invited

degradation he never forgot that somewhere ahead, his trail would surely

lead to the uplands once again.

He was what the doctors called "normal human," muscled far above the

average, heart action strong and regular. This combination often

produces two well-marked types--a high-class athlete and a low-class

drunkard. Often these are united in the same individual; or, rather, the

individual appears in the first rôle, until the second comes to

overmaster it. Such was Jimmy Hartigan, Sr., whose relation to the

Preacher may be labelled Cause Number One.

Those who knew her people said that the forbears of Katherine Muckevay

had seen better days; that the ancient royal blood of Ireland ran in her

veins; that the family name was really Mach-ne-veagh; and that, if every

one had his own, Kitty would be wearing a diamond tiara in the highest

walks of London importance. In ancient days, the Kings of Ulster used to

steal a bride at times from the fair-haired folk across the sea; maybe

that was where Kitty got her shining hair of dusty yellow-red, as well

as the calm control in times of stress, something the psychologists call

coördination, which is not a Celtic characteristic.

Of book learning Kitty had almost none, but she had native gifts. She

had wits, good looks, and a wealth of splendid hair, as well as a

certain presence which was her perpetual hedge of safety, even when she

took the perilous place of maid in the crude hotel with its bar-room

annex, whither the hand of Fate had brought her, an Irish immigrant, to

find a new life in the little town of Links. Kitty was Cause Number Two.

Jimmy did not chance to cross on the same ship. But the time had come;

and by chance, which is not chance at all, he drifted into the same

corner of Canada, and had not half a day to wait before he was snapped

up by a local farmer seeking for just such a build of man to swing the

axe and scythe upon his farm.

Farm life is dreary enough, at least it was in those days. It was hard

work from dawn to dusk, and even then the feeble, friendly glimmer of a

caged candle was invoked to win an extra hour or two of labour from the

idleness of gloom--hours for the most part devoted to the chores. The

custom of the day gave all the hired ones freedom Saturday night and all

day Sunday. Wages were high, and with one broad epidemic impulse all

these thriving hirelings walked, drove, or rode on Saturday night to the

little town of Links. Man is above all a social animal; only the

diseased ones seek solitude. Where, then, could they meet their kind?

The instinct which has led to the building of a million clubs, could

find no local focus but the bar-room. John Downey's "hotel" was the

social centre of the great majority of the men who lived and moved

around the town of Links. Not the drink itself, but the desire of men to

meet with men, to talk and swap the news or bandy mannish jokes, was the

attracting force. But the drink was there on tap and all the

ill-adjusted machinery of our modern ways operated to lead men on, to

make abstainers drink, to make the moderate, drunken.

If the life in Downey's stable, house, and bar were expanded in many

chapters, the reader would find a pile of worthless rubbish, mixed with

filth, but also here and there a thread of gold, a rod of the finest

steel, and even precious jewels. But this is not a history of the public

house. Downey's enters our list merely as Cause Number Three.

Those who study psychological causation say that one must find four

causes, accounting for place, matter, force, and time. The three already

given are well known, and I can only guess at the fourth, that referring

to the time. If we suppose that a sea pirate of a thousand years ago,

was permitted to return to earth, to prove that he had learned the

lessons of gentleness so foreign to his rapacious modes of thought, and

that, after a thousand years of cogitation in some disembodied state, he

was allowed to reassume the flesh, to fight a different fight, to raise

himself by battle with himself, we shall, perhaps, account for some of

the strangely divergent qualities that met in the subject of this story.

At least, let us name the ancient Sea-king as Cause Number Four.... And

conjunction of these four was affected in the '50s at Downey's Hotel,

when Jim Hartigan met Kitty Muckevay.

These were the strains that were mingled in little Jim; and during his

early life from the first glimpse we catch of him upon the back of the

unbroken colt, he was torn by the struggle between the wild, romantic,

erratic, visionary, fighting Celt, with moods of love and hate, and the

calmer, steady, tireless, lowland Scottish Saxon from the North who, far

less gifted, had far more power and in the end had mastery; and having

won control, built of his mingled heritages a rare, strong soul, so

steadfast that he was a tower of strength for all who needed help.

CHAPTER III

How He Lost His Father

The immediate and physical environment of Links was the far backwoods of

Canada, but the spirit and thought of it were Irish. The inhabitants

were nearly all of Irish origin, most of them of Irish birth, and the

fates had ruled it so that they came from all parts of the green isle.

The North was as well represented as the South, and the feuds of the old

land were most unprofitably transferred to the new.

Two days on the calendar had long been set aside by custom for the

celebration of these unhappy feuds; the seventeenth of March, which is

St. Patrick's Day, and the twelfth of July, on which, two hundred years

before, King William had crossed the river to win the famous Battle of

the Boyne. Under the evil spell of these two memorable occasions,

neighbours who were good and helpful friends, felt in honour bound to

lay all their kindness aside twice every year, and hate and harass each

other with a senseless vindictiveness.

At the time with which this chronicle has to do, Orange Day had dawned

on Links. No rising treble issued from the sawmills; the air was almost

free of their dust, and there were hints of holiday on all the town.

Farmers' wagons were arriving early, and ribbons of orange and blue were

fastened in the horses' headgear. From the backyard of Downey's Hotel

the thumping of a big drum was heard, and the great square piles of

yellow lumber near Ford's Mill gave back the shrilling of fifes that

were tuning up for the event. As the sun rose high, the Orangemen of the

Lodge appeared, each wearing regalia--cuffs and a collarette of sky-blue

with a fringe of blazing orange, or else of gold, inscribed with letters

and symbols.

The gathering place was in the street before the Lodge Hall, and their

number was steadily increased by men from the surrounding farms. The

brethren of the opposite faith, the Catholics--more often called

"Dogans" or "Papists"--were wisely inconspicuous. Had it been their day,

their friends, assembled from far places, would have given them numbers

enough for safety and confidence; but now the boys in green were, for

the most part, staying at home and seeking to avoid offence.

In the stable yard of Downey's Hotel, where Jim Hartigan--the father of

our hero--and several others of his Church were disconsolately looking

forward to a dreary and humiliating day, the cheery uproar of the

Orangemen in the bar-room could plainly be heard. James himself was

surprised at his restraint in not being there too, for he was a typical

Irish "bhoy" from the west coast, with a religion of Donegal colour and

intensity. Big, hearty, uproarious in liquor, and full of fun at all

times, he was universally beloved. Nothing could or did depress Jim for

long; his spirits had a generous rebound. A boisterous, blue-eyed boy of

heroic stature, he was the joy of Downey's, brim-full of the fun of life

and the hero of unnumbered drinking bouts in the not so very distant

past. But--two months before--Jim had startled Links and horrified his

priest by marrying Kitty Muckevay of the gold-red hair. Kitty had a rare

measure of good sense but was a Protestant of Ulster inflexibility. She

had taken Jim in hand to reform him, and for sixty days he had not

touched a drop! Moreover he had promised Kitty to keep out of mischief

on this day of days. All that morning he had worked among the horses in

Downey's livery stable where he was head man. It was a public holiday,

and he had been trying desperately to supply a safety valve for his

bursting energy. His excitible Irish soul was stirred by the murmur of

the little town, now preparing for the great parade, as it had been

stirred twice every year since he could remember, but now to the

farthest depths.

He had swallowed successfully one or two small affronts from the passing

Orangemen, because he was promise-bound and sober; but when one of the

enemy, a boon companion on any other day, sought him out in the stable

yard and, with the light of devilment in his eyes, walked up holding out

a flask of whiskey and said: "Hartigan! Ye white-livered, weak-need

papist, ye're not man enough to take a pull at that, an' tip the hat aff

of me head!" Hartigan's resolutions melted like wax before the flare of

his anger. Seizing the flask, he took a mouthful of the liquor and

spurted it into the face of the tormentor. The inevitable fight did not

amount to much as far as the casualties went, but what loomed large was

the fact that Hartigan had filled his mouth with the old liquid

insanity. Immediately he was surrounded by those who were riotously

possessed of it, and in fifteen minutes Jimmy Hartigan was launched on

the first drunken carouse he had known since he was a married man in

public disgrace with the priest for mating with a Protestant.

The day wore on and the pace grew faster. There were fun and fighting

galore, and Jimmy was in his element again. Occasional qualms there

were, no doubt, when he had a moment to remember how Kitty would feel

about it all. But this was his day of joy--mad, rollicking, bacchanalian

joy--and all the pent-up, unhallowed hilarity of the bygone months found

vent in deeds more wild than had ever been his before.

The Orangemen's procession started from their lodge, with three drums

and one fife trilling a wheezing, rattling manglement of "Croppies Lie

Down," whose only justification lay in the fact that it was maintaining

a tradition of the time; and Jimmy Hartigan, besieged in the livery yard

with half a dozen of his coreligionists, felt called upon to avenge the

honour of the South of Ireland at these soul-polluting sounds. Someone

suggested a charge into the ranks of the approaching procession, with

its sizzling band and its abhorrent orange-and-blue flags, following in

the wake of Bill Kenna, whose proud post was at the head of the

procession, carrying a cushion on which was an open Bible. The fact that

Bill was a notorious ruffian--incapable of reading, and reeling

drunk--had no bearing on his being chosen as Bible carrier. The Bible

fell in the dust many times and was accidentally trampled on by its

bearer, which was unfortunate but not important. Bill bore the emblem of

his organization and, being a good man with his fists, he was amply

qualified for his job.

But the sight of all this truculence and the ostentatious way in which

the little green flags were trampled on and insulted, was too much for

Jimmy and his inspired companions.

"Let's charge the hull rabble," was the suggestion.

"What! Six charge one hundred and twenty!"

"Why not?"

The spirit of Gideon's army was on them, and Jimmy shouted: "Sure,

bhoys, let's hitch to that and give it to 'em. Lord knows their black

souls need it." He pointed to a great barrel half full of whitewash

standing in a wagon ready for delivery next day at the little steamer

dock, where a coat of whitewash on the wharf and shed was the usual

expedient to take the place of lights for night work.

Thus it came about. The biggest, strongest team in the stable was

harnessed in a minute. The men were not too drunk to pick the best in

horses and harness. The barrel was filled brim-full with water and well

stirred up, so that ammunition would be abundant. Jimmy was to be the

driver; the other five were each armed with a bucket, except one who

found a force pump through which the whitewash could be squirted with

delightful precision. They were to stand around the barrel and dash its

contents right and left as Jimmy drove the horses at full speed down the

middle of the procession. Glorious in every part was the plan; wild

enthusiasm carried all the six away and set the horses on their mettle.

Armed with a long, black snake whip, Jimmy mounted the wagon seat. The

gate was flung wide, and, with a whoop, away went that bumping chariot

of splashing white. Bill Kenna had just dropped his Bible for the

eleventh time and, condemning to eternal perdition all those

ill-begotten miscreants who dared to push him on or help his search, he

held the ranks behind him for a moment halted. At this instant with a

wild shout, in charged Jim Hartigan, with his excited crew. There was

not a man in the procession who had not loved Hartigan the day before,

and who did not love him the day after; but there was none that did not

hate him with a bitter hate on this twelfth day of July, as he charged

and split the procession wide open.

The five helpers dashed their bewildering, blinding slush fast and far,

on every face and badge that they could hit; and the pump stream hit

Kenna square in the face as he yelled in wrath. The paraders were not

armed for such a fight. Men that could face bullets, knives, and death,

were dismayed, defeated, and routed by these baffling bucketfuls and the

amazing precision of the squirting pump.

Strong hands clutched at the bridle reins, but the team was plunging and

going fast. The driver was just drunk enough for recklessness; he kept

the horses jumping all down that Orangemen's parade. Oh, what a rout it

made! And the final bucketfuls were hurled in through the window of the

Orange Lodge, just where they were needed most, as Jimmy and his five

made their escape.

The bottle now went round once more. Shrieking with laughter at their

sweeping, bloodless victory, the six Papists saw the procession

rearrayed. Kenna had recovered and wiped his face with one coat sleeve,

his Bible with the other. The six dispensers of purity could not resist

it; they must charge again. Hartigan wheeled the horses to make the turn

at a run. But with every circumstance against him--speed and reckless

driving, a rough and narrow roadway beset with stumps--the wagon

lurched, crashed, upset, and the six went sprawling in the ditch. The

horses ran away to be afterward rounded up at a farm stable three miles

off, with the fragments of a wagon trailing behind them.

The anger of the Orangemen left them as they gathered around. Five of

the raiders were badly shaken and sobered, one lay still on the stones,

a deep and bloody dent in his head. The newly arrived, newly fledged

doctor came, and when after a brief examination, he said: "He's

dead--all right," there was a low, hollow sound of sympathy among the

men who ten minutes before would gladly have killed him. One voice spoke

for all the rest.

"Poor lad! He was a broth of a bhoy! Poor little Widdy Hartigan."

CHAPTER IV

The Atmosphere of His Early Days

There were many surprises and sharp contrasting colour spots on the map

of the "Widdy's" trail for the next nine years. With herself and the

expected child to make a home for after that mad Orange Day, she had

sought employment and had been welcomed back to the hotel where she had

ever been a favourite.

The little room above the kitchen which projected over the yard was her

only resting place. The cheapest, simplest of wooden furniture was all

it held. On a tiny stand, made of a packing case, was her Bible and,

hanging over it a daguerreotype of her husband--his frank, straight gaze

and happy face looking forth with startling reality. Outside and very

near, for the building was low, the one window looked upon the yard of

the hotel, with its horses, its loafers, its hens and its swine; while

just above the shutter's edge a row of swallows had their nests, where

the brooding owners twittered in the early summer morning, as she rose

with the sunrise and went about her work. A relief at first, the duties

Kitty had undertaken grew heavier with the months, till at last the

kindly heart of the owner's wife was touched, and a new _régime_ of rest

ensued.

Eight months after that fatal Orange Day, James Hartigan, Jr., was born

in the little room over the yard; and baby wailings were added to the

swallows' chirps and the squeals of pigs. Mother Downey, rough and

rawboned to the eye, now appeared in guardian-angel guise, and the

widow's heart was deeply touched by the big, free kindness that events

had discovered in the folk about her. Kitty was of vigorous stock; in a

week she was up, in a fortnight seemed well; and in a month was at her

work, with little Jim--named for his father and grandfather--in hearing,

if not in sight.

Then, quite suddenly, Mrs. Downey died. A big, gaunt woman, she had the

look of strength; but the strength was not there; and a simple malady

that most would have shaken off was more than she could fight. With her

husband and Kitty by the bed, she passed away; and her last words were:

"Be good--to--Kitty, John--and--Little Jim."

It was an easy promise for John Downey to give and a pleasant

undertaking to live up to. Before his wife had been dead three months,

John Downey had assured Kitty that she might become Mrs. Downey Number

Two as early as she pleased. It was not by any means the first offer

since her loss. Indeed, there were few free men in Links who would not

have been glad to marry the winsome, young, energetic widow.

But all her heart was on her boy, and until she could see that it was

best for him she would take no second partner. Downey's proposal was a

puzzle to her; he was a big, strong, dull, moderately successful,

unattractive man. But he had a good business, no bad habits, and was

deeply in love with her.

It was the thought of little Jim that settled it. Downey showed genuine

affection for the child. To give him a father, to have him well

educated--these were large things to Kitty and she consented. As soon as

the late Mrs. Downey should have been laid away for six months, the

wedding was to be and Kitty moved to other lodgings meanwhile. But

Fate's plans again disagreed with Kitty's. A few weeks after her

consent, the town was startled by the news that John Downey was dead. A

cold--neglect (for he did not know how to be sick), and pneumonia. The

folk of the town had much to talk of for a day, and the dead man's will

gave still higher speed to their tongues, for he had left the hotel and

all its appurtenances to Widdy Hartigan, as a life interest; after her

death it was to go to a kinsman. Thus, out of John Downey's grave there

grew a tree with much-needed and wholesome fruit.

Now Kitty was in a quandary. She was an abstainer from choice rather

than principle; but she was deeply imbued with the uncompromising

religion of her Ulster forbears. How could she run a bar-room? How could

she, who had seen the horror of the drink madness, have a hand in

setting it in the way of weak ones? Worst dilemma of all, how could she

whose religious spirit was dreaming of a great preacher son, bring him

up in these surroundings--yet how refuse, since this was his only

chance?

She consulted with her pastor; and this was the conclusion reached: She

would accept the providential bequest. Downey's would be an inn, a

hotel; not a bar-room. The place where the liquor was sold should be

absolutely apart, walled off; and these new rules were framed: No minor

should ever be served there, no habitual drunkard, no man who already

had had enough. Such rules in Canada during the middle of last century

were considered revolutionary; but they were established then, and, so

far as Kitty could apply them, they were enforced; and they worked a

steady betterment.

With this new responsibility upon her, the inborn powers of Kitty

Hartigan bloomed forth. Hers was the gift of sovereignty, and here was

the chance to rule. The changes came but slowly at first, till she knew

the ground. A broken pane, a weak spot in the roof, a leaky horse

trough, and a score of little things were repaired. Account books of a

crude type were established, and soon a big leak in the treasury was

discovered and stopped; and many little leaks and unpaid bills were

unearthed. An aspiring barkeeper of puzzling methods was, much to his

indignation, hedged about by daily accountings and, last of all, a thick

and double door of demarcation was made between the bar-room and the

house. One was to be a man's department, a purely business matter; the

other a place apart--another world of woollen carpets and feminine

gentleness, a place removed ten miles in thought. The dwellers in these

two were not supposed to mix or even to meet, except in the dining room

three times a day; and even there some hint of social lines was

apparent.

In former times the hotel had been a mere annex of the bar-room. Now the

case was reversed; the bar-room became the annex. The hotel grew as

Kitty's power developed. Good food temptingly served brought many to the

house who had no interest in the annex. Her pies made the table famous

and were among the many things that rendered it easy to displace the

brown marbled oilcloth with white linen, and the one roller towel for

all, with individual service in each room.

In this hotel world the alert young widow made her court and ruled as a

queen. Here little Jim slept away his babyhood and grew to consciousness

with sounds of coming horses, going wheels; of chicken calls and

twittering swallows in their nests; shouts of men and the clatter of tin

pails; the distant song of saw mills and their noontide whistles; smells

of stables mixed with the sweet breathings of oxen and the pungent odour

of pine gum from new-sawn boards.

And ever as he grew, he loved the more to steal from his mother's view

and be with the stable hands--loving the stable, loving the horses,

loving the men that were horsemen in any sort, and indulged and spoiled

by them in turn. The widow was a winner of hearts whom not even the wife

of Tom Ford, the rich millman and mayor of the town, could rival in

social power, so Jim, as the heir apparent, grew up in an atmosphere of

importance that did him little good.

CHAPTER V

Little Jim's Tutors

"Whiskey" Mason had been for more than three years with Downey. He was

an adroit barkeep. He knew every favourite "mix" and how to use the

thickest glasses that would ever put the house a little more ahead of

the game. But the Widow soon convinced herself that certain rumours

already hinted at were well-founded, and that Mason's salary did not

justify his Sunday magnificence. Mason had long been quite convinced

that he was the backbone of the business and absolutely indispensable.

Therefore he was not a little surprised when the queen, in the beginning

of her reign, invited him to resign his portfolio and seek his fortune

elsewhere, the farther off the better to her liking.

Mason went not far, but scornfully. He took lodgings in the town to wait

and see the inevitable wreck that the widow was inviting for her house.

For two months he waited, but was disappointed. The hotel continued in

business; the widow had not come to beg for his return; his credit was

being injured with excessive use; and as he had found no other work, he

took the stage to the larger town of Petersburg some thirty miles away.

Here he sought a job, in his special craft of "joy mixer" but, failing

to find that, he turned his attention to another near akin. In those

days the liquor laws of Canada provided a heavy fine for any breach of

regulation; and of this the informant got half. Here was an easy and

honourable calling for which he was well equipped.

* * * * *

It has ever been law in the man's code that he must protect the place he

drinks in, so that the keepers of these evil joints are often careless

over little lapses. Thus Whiskey Mason easily found a victim, and within

three days was rich once more with half of the thousand-dollar fine that

the magistrate imposed.

He felt that all the country suddenly was his lawful prey. He could not

long remain in Petersburg, where he was soon well known and shunned. He

had some trouble, too, for threats against his life began to reach him

more and more. It was the magistrate himself who suggested

contemptuously, "You had better take out a pistol license, my friend;

and you would be safer in a town where no one knows you."

In those early days before his dismissal by Kitty, Mason's life and

Little Jim's had no point of meeting. Six years later, when he returned

to Links, Jimmy was discovering great possibilities in the stables of

the Inn. Mason often called at the bar-room where he had once been the

ruling figure, and was received with cold aloofness. But he was used to

that; his calling had hardened him to any amount of human scorn. He

still found a kindred spirit, however, in the stable man, Watsie Hall,

and these two would often "visit" in the feed room, which was a

favourite playground of the bright-haired boy.

It is always funny if one can inspire terror without actual danger to

the victim. Mason and Hall taught Jim to throw stones at sparrows, cats,

and dogs, when his mother was not looking. He hardly ever hit them, and

his hardest throw was harmless, but he learned to love the sport. A

stray dog that persisted in stealing scraps which were by right the

heritage of hens, was listed as an enemy, and together they showed Jim

how to tie a tin can on the dog's tail in a manner that produced

amazingly funny results and the final disappearance of the cur in a

chorus of frantic yelps.

These laboratory experiments on animals developed under the able tutors,

and Jim was instructed in the cat's war dance, an ingenious mode of

inspiring puss to outdo her own matchless activity in a series of wild

gyrations, by glueing to each foot a shoe of walnut shell, half filled

with melted cobbler's wax to hold it on. Flattered by their attentions

at first, the cat purred blandly as they fitted on the shoes. Jim's eyes

were big and bright with tensest interest. The cat was turned loose in

the grain room. To hear her own soft pads drop on the floor, each with a

sharp, hard crack, must have been a curious, jarring experience. To find

at every step a novel sense of being locked in, must have conjured up

deep apprehensions in her soul. And when she fled, and sought to scale

the partition, to find that her claws were gone--that she was now a

thing with hoofs--must have been a horrid nightmare. Fear entered into

her soul, took full control; then followed the wild erratic circling

around the room, with various ridiculous attempts to run up the walls,

which were so insanely silly that little James shrieked for joy, and

joining in with the broom, urged the cat to still more amazing evidences

of muscular activity not excelled by any other creature.

It was rare sport with just a sense of sin to give it tang, for he had

been forbidden to torment the cat, and Jim saw nothing but the funny

side; he was only seven.

It was a week later that they tried the walnut trick again, and Jim was

eager to see the "circus." But the cat remembered; she drove her teeth

deep into Hall's hand and fought with a feline fury that is always

terrifying. Jim was gazing in big-eyed silence, when Hall, enraged,

thrust the cat into the leg of a boot and growled, "I'll fix yer

biting," and held her teeth to the grindstone till the body in the boot

was limp.

At the first screech of the cat, Jim's whole attitude had changed.

Amusement and wild-eyed wonder had given way to a shocking realization

of the wicked cruelty. He sprang at Hall and struck him with all the

best vigour of his baby fists. "Let my kitty go, you!" and he kicked the

hostler in the shins until he himself was driven away. He fled indoors

to his mother, flung himself into her arms and sobbed in newly awakened

horror. To his dying day he never forgot that cry of pain. He had been

in the way of cruel training with these men, but the climax woke him up.

It was said that he never after was cruel to any creature, but this is

sure--that he never after cared to be with cats of any sort.

This was the end of Hall, so far as his life had bearing on that of

James Hartigan Second; for Kitty dismissed him promptly as soon as she

heard the story of his brutality.

* * * * *

Of all the specimens of fine, physical manhood who owned allegiance to

Downey's Hotel, Fightin' Bill Kenna was the outstanding figure. He was

not so big as Mulcahy, or such a wrestler as Dougherty, or as skilled a

boxer as McGraw; he knew little of the singlestick and nothing of

knife- or gun-play; and yet his combination of strength, endurance and

bullet-headed pluck made him by general voice "the best man in Links."

Bill's temper was fiery; he loved a fight. He never was worsted, the

nearest thing to it being a draw between himself and Terry Barr. After

that Terry went to the States and became a professional pugilist of

note. Bill's social record was not without blemish. He was known to have

appropriated a rope, to the far end of which was attached another man's

horse. He certainly had been in jail once and should have been there a

dozen times, for worse crimes than fighting. And yet Bill was firmly

established as Bible bearer in the annual Orangemen's parade and would

have smashed the face of any man who tried to rob him of his holy

office.

Kenna was supposed to be a farmer, but he loved neither crops nor land.

The dream of his exuberant life was to be a horse breeder, for which

profession he had neither the capital nor the brains. His social and

convivial instincts ever haled him townward, and a well-worn chair in

Downey's bar-room was by prescriptive right the town seat of William

Kenna, Esq., of the Township of Opulenta. Bill had three other good

qualities besides his mighty fists. He was true to his friends, he was

kind to the poor and he had great respect for his "wurd as a mahn." If

he gave his "wurd as a mahn" to do thus and so, he ever made a strenuous

effort to keep it.

Bill was madly in love with Kitty Hartigan. She was not unmoved by the

huge manliness of the warlike William, but she had too much sense to

overlook his failings, and she held him off as she did a dozen more--her

devoted lovers all--who hung around ever hoping for special favour. But

though Kitty would not marry him, she smiled on Kenna indulgently and

thus it was that this man of brawn had far too much to say in shaping

the life of little Jim Hartigan. High wisdom or deep sagacity was

scarcely to be named among Kenna's attributes, and yet instinctively he

noted that the surest way to the widow's heart was through her boy. This

explained the beginning of their friendship, but other things soon

entered in. Kenna, with all his faults, was a respecter of women,

and--they commonly go together--a clumsy, awkward, blundering lover of

children. Little Jim was bright enough to interest any one; and, with

the certain instinct of a child, he drifted toward the man whose heart

was open to him. Many a day, as Kenna split some blocks of wood that

were over big and knotty for the official axeman, Jim would come to

watch and marvel at the mighty blows. His comments told of the

imaginative power born in his Celtic blood:

"Bill, let's play you are the Red Dermid smiting the bullhide bearing

Lachlin," he would shout, and at once the brightness of his mental

picture and his familiarity with the nursery tales of Erin that were

current even in the woods created a wonder-world about him. Then his

Ulster mind would speak. He would laugh a little shamefaced chuckle at

himself and say:

"It's only Big Bill Kenna splitting wood."

Bill was one of the few men who talked to Jim about his father; and,

with singular delicacy, he ever avoided mentioning the nauseating fact

that the father was a papist. No one who has not lived in the time and

place of these feuds can understand the unspeakable abomination implied

by that word; it was the barrier that kept his other friends from

mention of the dead man's name; and yet, Bill spoke with kindly

reverence of him as, "a broth of a bhoy, a good mahn, afraid of no wan,

and as straight as a string."

Among the occasional visitors at the stable yard was young Tom Ford,

whose father owned the mill and half the town. Like his father, Tom was

a masterful person, hungry for power and ready to rule by force. On the

occasion of his first visit he had quarrelled with Jim, and being older

and stronger, had won their boyish fight. It was in the hour of his

humiliation that Kenna had taken Jim on his knee and said:

"Now Jim, I'm the lepricaun that can tache you magic to lick that fellow

aisy, if ye'll do what I tell you." And at the word "lepricaun," the

Celt in Jim rose mightier than the fighting, bullet-headed Saxon. His

eager word and look were enough.

"Now, listen, bhoy. I'll put the boxing gloves on you every day, an'

I'll put up a sack of oats, an' we'll call it Tom Ford; an' ye must hit

that sack wi' yer fist every day wan hundred times, twenty-five on the

top side and siventy-five on the bottom side for the undercut is worth

more than the uppercut anny day; an' when ye've done that, ye're making

magic, and at the end of the moon ye'll be able to lick Tom Ford."

Jim began with all his ten-year-old vigour to make the necessary magic,

and had received Bill's unqualified approval until one day he appeared

chewing something given him by one of the men as a joke. Jim paused

before Bill and spat out a brown fluid.

"Fwhat are ye doing?" said Bill; then to his disgust, he found that Jim,

inspired probably by his own example, was chewing tobacco.

"Spit it out, ye little divil, an' never agin do that. If ye do that

three times before ye're twenty-one, ye'll make a spell that will break

you, an' ye'll never lick Tom Ford."

Thus, with no high motive, Kenna was in many ways, the guardian of the

child. Coarse, brutish, and fierce among men, he was ever good to the

boy and respectful to his mother; and he rounded out his teaching by the

doctrine: "If ye give yer word as a mahn, ye must not let all hell

prevent ye holding to it." And he whispered in a dreadful tone that sent

a chill through the youngster's blood: "It'll bring the bone-rot on ye

if ye fail; it always does."

It is unfortunate that we cannot number the town school principal as a

large maker of Jim's mind. Jim went to school and the teacher did the

best he could. He learned to read, to write and to figure, but books

irked him and held no lure. His joy was in the stable yard and the barn

where dwelt those men of muscle and of animal mind; where the boxing

gloves were in nightly use, the horses in daily sight, and the world of

sport in ring or on turf was the only world worth any man's devotion.

There were a dozen other persons who had influence in the shaping of the

life and mind of Little Jim Hartigan; but there was one that

overpowered, that far outweighed, that almost negatived the rest; that

was his mother. She could scarcely read, and all the reading she ever

tried to do was in her Bible. Filled with the vision of what she wished

her boy to be--a minister of Christ--Kitty sent him to the public

school, but the colour of his mind was given at home. She told him the

stories of the Man of Galilee, and on Sundays, hand in hand, they went

to the Presbyterian Church, to listen to tedious details that

illustrated the practical impossibility of any one really winning out in

the fight with sin.

She sang the nursery songs of the old land and told the tales of magic

that made his eyes stare wide with loving, childish wonder. She told him

what a brave, kind man his father had been, and ever came back to the

world's great Messenger of Love. Not openly, but a thousand times--in a

thousand deeply felt, deeply meant, unspoken ways--she made him know

that the noblest calling man might ever claim was this, to be a herald

of the Kingdom. Alone, on her knees, she would pray that her boy might

be elected to that great estate and that she might live to see him going

forth a messenger of the Prince of Peace.

Kitty was alive to the danger of the inherited taste for drink in her

son. The stern, uncompromising Presbyterian minister of the town, in

whose church the widow had a pew, was temperate, but not an abstainer;

in fact, it was his custom to close the day with a short prayer and a

tall glass of whiskey and water. While, with his advice, she had

entirely buried her doctrinal scruples on the selling of drink to the

moderate, her mother-heart was not so easily put to sleep. Her boy

belonged to the house side of the hotel. He was not supposed to enter

the saloon; and when, one day, she found an unscrupulous barkeeper

actually amusing himself by giving the child a taste of the liquid fire,

she acted with her usual promptitude and vigour. The man was given just

enough time to get his hat and coat, and the boy was absolutely

forbidden the left wing of the house. Later, in the little room where he

was born, she told Jim sadly and gently what it would mean, what

suffering the drinking habit had brought upon herself, and thus, for the

first time, he learned that this had been the cause of his father's

death. The boy was deeply moved and voluntarily offered to pledge

himself never to touch a drop again so long as he lived. But his mother

wisely said:

"No, Jim; don't say it that way. Leaning backward will not make you

safer from a fall; only promise me you'll never touch it till you are

eighteen; then I know you will be safe."

And he promised her that he never would; he gave his word--no more; for

already the rough and vigorous teaching of Bill Kenna had gripped him in

some sort. He felt that there was no more binding seal; that any more

was more than man should give.

When Jim was twelve he was very tall and strong for his age, and almost

too beautiful for a boy. His mother, of course, was idolatrous in her

love. His ready tongue, his gift of reciting funny or heroic verse, and

his happy moods had made him a general favourite, the king of the stable

yard. Abetted, inspired and trained by Kenna, he figured in many a

boyish fight, and usually won so that he was not a little pleased with

himself in almost every way. Had he not carried out his promise of two

years before and thrashed the mayor's son, who was a year older than

himself, and thereby taught a lesson to that stuck-up, purse-proud

youngster? Could he not ride with any man? Yes, and one might add, match

tongues with any woman. For his native glibness was doubly helped by the

vast, unprintable vocabularies of his chosen world, as well as by choice

phrases from heroic verse that were a more exact reflex of his mind.

Then, on a day, came Whiskey Mason drifting into Links once more. He was

making an ever scantier living out of his wretched calling, and had sunk

as low as he could sink. But he had learned a dozen clever tricks to

make new victims.

At exactly eleven o'clock, P.M., the bar-room had been closed, as was by

law required. At exactly eleven five, P.M. a traveller, sick and weak,

supported by a friend, came slowly along the dusty road to the door,

and, sinking down in agony of cramps, protested he could go no farther

and begged for a little brandy, as his friend knocked on the door,

imploring kindly aid for the love of heaven. The barkeeper was obdurate,

but the man was in such a desperate plight that the Widow Hartigan was

summoned. Ever ready at the call of trouble her kindly heart responded.

The sick man revived with a little brandy; his friend, too, seemed in

need of similar help and, uttering voluble expressions of gratitude, the

travellers went on to lodgings on the other side of the town, carrying

with them a flask in which was enough of the medicine to meet a new

attack if one should come before they reached their destination.

At exactly eleven ten, P.M., these two helpless, harmless strangers

received the flask from Widow Hartigan. At exactly eight A.M., the next

day, at the opening of the Magistrate's office, they laid their

information before him, that the Widow Hartigan was selling liquor out

of hours. Here was the witness and here was the flask. They had not paid

for this, they admitted, but said it had been "charged." All the town

was in a talk. The papers were served, and on the following day, in

court, before Tom Ford, the Mayor, the charge was made and sworn to by

Mason, who received, and Hall, who witnessed and also received, the

unlawful drink.

It was so evidently a trumped-up case that some judges would have

dismissed it. But the Mayor was human; this woman had flouted his wife;

her boy had licked his boy. The fine might be anything from one hundred

up to one thousand dollars. The Mayor was magnanimous; he imposed the

minimum fine. So the widow was mulcted a hundred dollars for playing the

rôle of good Samaritan. Mason and Hall got fifty dollars to divide, and

five minutes later were speeding out of town. They left no address. In

this precautionary mood their instincts were right, though later events

proved them to be without avail.

Just one hour after the disappearance of Mason, Kenna came to town and

heard how the Widow's open-hearted kindness had led her into a snare.

His first question was: "Where is he?" No one knew, but every one agreed

that he had gone in a hurry. Now it is well known that experienced men

seeking to elude discovery make either for the absolute wilderness or

else the nearest big city. There is no hiding place between. Kenna did

not consult Kitty. He rode, as fast as horse could bear his robust bulk

to Petersburg where Mason had in some sort his headquarters.

It was noon the next day before Bill found him, sitting in the far end

of the hardware shop. Mason never sat in the saloons, for the barkeepers

would not have him there. He did not loom large, for he always tried to

be as inconspicuous as possible, and his glance was shifty.

Bill nodded to the iron dealer and passed back to the stove end of the

store. Yes, there sat Mason. They recognized each other. The whiskey

sneak rose in trepidation. But William said calmly, "Sit down."

"Well," he continued with a laugh, "I hear you got ahead of the Widdy."

"Yeh."

"Well, she can afford it," said Bill. "She's getting rich."

Mason breathed more freely.

"I should think ye'd carry a revolver in such a business," said William,

inquiringly.

"Bet I do," said Mason.

"Let's have a look at it," said Kenna. Mason hesitated.

"Ye better let me see it, or----" There was a note of threat for the

first time. Mason drew his revolver, somewhat bewildered. Before the

informer knew what move was best, Kenna reached out and took the weapon.

"I hear ye got twenty-five dollars from the Widdy."

"Yeh." And Mason began to move nervously under the cold glitter in

Kenna's eyes.

"I want ye to donate that to the orphan asylum. Here, Jack!" Kenna

called to the clerk, "Write on a big envelope 'Donation for the orphan

asylum. Conscience money.'"

"What does it say?" inquired Bill, for he could not read. The clerk held

out the envelope and read the inscription.

"All right," said Bill, "now, Mason, jest so I won't lose patience with

you and act rough like, hand over that twenty-five."

"I ain't got it, I tell you. It's all gone."

"Turn out your pockets, or I will."

The whiskey sneak unwillingly turned out his pockets. He had fifteen

dollars and odd.

"Put it in that there envelope," said Bill, with growing ferocity. "Now

gum it up. Here, Jack, will ye kindly drop this in the contribution box

for the orphans while we watch you?" The clerk entered into the humour

of it all. He ran across the street to the gate of the orphan asylum and

dropped the envelope into the box. Mason tried to escape but Bill's

mighty hand was laid on his collar. And now the storm of animal rage

pent up in him for so long broke forth. He used no weapon but his fists,

and when the doctor came, he thought the whiskey man was dead. But they

brought him round, and in the hospital he lingered long.

It was clearly a case of grave assault; the magistrate was ready to

issue a warrant for Kenna's arrest. But such was Bill's reputation that

they could get no constable to serve it. Meanwhile, Mason hung between

life and death. He did not die. Within six weeks, he was able to sit up

and take a feeble interest in things about him, while Bill at Links

pursued his normal life.

Gossip about the affair had almost died when the Mayor at Petersburg

received a document that made him start. The Attorney General of the

Province wrote: "Why have you not arrested the man who committed that

assault? Why has no effort been made to administer justice?"

The Mayor was an independent business man, seeking no political favours,

and he sent a very curt reply. "You had better come and arrest him

yourself, if you are so set on it."

That was why two broad, square men, with steadfast eyes, came one day

into Links. They sought out Bill Kenna and found him in the bar-room,

lifting the billiard table with one hand, as another man slipped wedges

under it to correct the level. Little Jim, though he had no business

there at all, stood on the table itself and gave an abundance of orders.

"Are you William Kenna?" said the first of the strangers.

"I am that," said he.

"Then I arrest you in the Queen's name"; and the officer held up a paper

while the other produced a pair of handcuffs.

"Oi'd like to see ye put them on me." And the flood of fight in him

surged up.

He was covered by two big revolvers now, which argument had no whit of

power to modify his mood; but another factor had. The Widow who had

entered in search of Jim and knew the tragedy that hung by a hair, sped

to his side: "Now, Bill, don't ye do it! I forbid ye to do it!"

"If they try to put them on me, I'll kill or be killed. If they jist act

dacent, I'll go quiet."

"Will ye give yer word, Bill?"

"I will, Kitty; I'll give me word as a mahn. I'll go peaceable if they

don't try to handcuff me."

"There," said Kitty to the officers. "He's give his word; and if you're

wise, ye'll take him at that."

"All right," said the chief constable, and between them William moved to

the door.

"Say, Bill, ye ain't going to be took?" piped little Jim. He had watched

the scene dumbfounded from his place on the table. This was too much.

"Yes," said Bill, "I've give me word as a mahn," and he marched away,

while the Widow fled sobbing to her room.

That was the end of Kenna, so far as Jim was concerned. And, somehow,

that last sentence, "I've give me word as a mahn," kept ringing in Jim's

ears; it helped to offset the brutalizing effect of many other

episodes--that Fighting Bill should scoff at bonds and force, but be

bound and helpless by the little sound that issued from his own lips.

Bill's after life was brief. He was condemned to a year in jail for

deadly assault and served the term and came again to Petersburg. There

in a bar-room he encountered Hall, the pal of Whisky Mason. A savage

word from Bill provoked the sneer, "You jail bird." Kenna sprang to

avenge the insult. Hall escaped behind the bar. Bill still pursued. Then

Hall drew a pistol and shot him dead; and, as the Courts held later,

shot justly, for a man may defend his life.

It was a large funeral that buried Bill, and it was openly and widely

said that nine out of ten were there merely to make sure that he was

dead and buried. The Widow Hartigan was chief mourner in the first

carriage. She and Jim led the line, and when he was laid away, she had a

stone erected with the words, "A true friend and a man without fear." So

passed Kenna; but Jim bore the traces of his influence long and

deeply--yes, all his life. Masterful, physical, prone to fight and to

consider might as right, yet Jim's judgment of him was ever tempered by

the one thought, the binding force of his "wurd as a mahn."

CHAPTER VI

Jim Loses Everything

The Widow never forgot that her tenure of the hotel might end at any

time; and, thinking ever of Jim and his future, she saved what she could

from the weekly proceeds. She was a good manager, and each month saw

something added to her bank account. When it had grown to a considerable

size her friends advised her to invest it. There were Government bonds

paying five per cent., local banks paying six and seven, and, last of

all, the Consolidated Trading Stores paying eight and sometimes more--an

enterprise of which Tom Ford was head.

The high interest was tempting, and pride was not without some power.

Kitty was pleased to think that now she could go to the pompous Mayor as

a capitalist. So, creating with an inward sense of triumph the

impression of huge deposits elsewhere, she announced that she would take

a small block of stock in the C. T. S. as a nest-egg for her boy. Thus

the accumulations of ten years went into the company of which the Mayor

was head and guide. For a time, the interest was duly paid each half

year. Then came a crash. After the reorganization the Mayor continued in

his big brick house and his wife still wore her diamonds; but the

widow's hard-earned savings were gone. Kitty was stunned but game;

falling back on the strength that was inside, she bravely determined to

begin all over and build on a rock of safety. But fortune had another

blow in store for Jim. And it fell within a month, just as he turned

thirteen.

It was the end of the Canadian winter. Fierce frost and sudden thaw were

alternated as the north wind and the south struggled for the woods, and

the heat of work in the warm sun left many ill prepared for the onset of

bitter cold at dusk. Bustling everywhere, seeing that pigs were fed,

pies made, and clothes mended; now in the hot kitchen, a moment later in

the stable yard to manage some new situation; the Widow fell a victim to

pneumonia much as John Downey had done.

For three days she lay in fever and pain. Jim was scarcely allowed to

see her. They did not understand pneumonia in those days, and as it was

the general belief that all diseases were "catching," the boy was kept

away. The doctor was doing his best with old-fashioned remedies,

blisters, mustard baths, hot herb teas and fomentations. He told her she

would soon be well, but Kitty knew better. On the third day, she asked

in a whisper for Jim, but told them first to wash his face and hands

with salt water. So the long-legged, bright-eyed boy came and sat by his

mother's bed and held her hot hands. As he gazed on her over-bright

eyes, she said softly:

"My darling, you'll soon be alone, without friend or kith or kin. This

place will no longer be your home. God only knows where you'll go. But

He will take care of you as He took care of me."

For the first time Jim realized the meaning of the scene--his mother

was dying. She quieted his sobs with a touch of her hand and began

again, slowly and painfully:

"I tried to leave you well fixed, but it was not to be. The hotel will

go to another. This is all I have for you."

She drew a little cedar box from under the covers, and opening it,

showed him her Bible, the daguerreotype of his father and a later

photograph of herself.

"Jim, promise me again that you will never touch tobacco or liquor till

you are eighteen."

"Oh, mother, mother!" he wept. "I'll do anything you say. I'll promise.

I give you my word I never will touch them."

She rested in silence, her hand was on his head. When her strength in a

little measure came again, she said in a low tone:

"My wish was to see you educated, a minister for Christ. I hope it may

yet be so."

She was still a long time; then, gently patting his head, she said to

those around:

"Take him away. Wash him with salt and water."

* * * * *

Thus it came about that the hotel which had been Jim's only home and

which he thought belonged to his mother, passed into the hands of John

Downey, Jr., nephew of the original owner. It was Mrs. John Downey who

offered the first ray of comfort in Jim's very bleak world. When she saw

the tall handsome boy she put her arms around him and said:

"Never mind, Jim, don't go away. This will always be home for you."

So the lad found a new home in the old house, but under greatly changed

conditions. The new mistress had notions of her own as to the amount of

education necessary and the measure of service to be returned for one's

keep. Jim was able to read, write, and cipher; this much was ample in

the opinion of Mrs. Downey, and Jim's school days ended. The

understanding that he must make himself useful quickly resulted in his

transference to the stable. A garret in the barn was furnished with a

bed for him, and Jim's life was soon down to its lowest level. He had

his friends, for he was full of fun and good to look upon: but they were

not of the helpful kind, being recruited chiefly from the hostlers, the

pugilists, and the horsemen. He had time for amusements, too; but they

were nearly always of the boxing glove and the saddle. Books had little

charm for him, though he still found pleasure in reciting the heroic

ballads of Lachlin, the Raid of Dermid, the Battle of the Boyne, and in

singing "My Pretty, Pretty Maid," or woodmen's "Come all ye's." His

voice was unusually good, except at the breaking time; and any one who

knew the part the minstrel played in Viking days would have thought the

bygone times come back to see him among the roystering crowd at

Downey's.

The next three years that passed were useless except for this, they

gifted Jim with a tall and stalwart form and shoulders like a grown man.

But they added little to the good things he had gathered from his mother

and from Fightin' Bill. At sixteen he was six feet high, slim and boyish

yet, but sketched for a frame of power. All this time his meagre keep

and his shabby clothes were his only pay. But Jim had often talked

things over with his friends and they pointed out that he was now doing

man's work and getting less than boy's pay. The scene that followed his

application for regular wages was a very unpleasant one; and John Downey

made the curious mistake of trying to throw young Jimmy out. The boy

never lost his temper for a moment but laughingly laid his two strong

hands on the landlord's fat little shoulders and shook him till his

collar popped and his eyes turned red. Then Jim grinned and said:

"I told ye I wasn't a kid anny more."

It was the landlady's good sense that made a truce, and after a brief,

stormy time the long-legged boy was reinstated at wages in the yard.

At seventeen Jim was mentioned among the men as a likely "bhoy." Women

in the street would turn to look in admiration at his square shoulders,

lithe swing, and handsome head. But the life he led was flat, or worse

than flat. The best that can be said of it is that in all this sordid

round of bar and barn he learned nothing that in any sort had power to

harm his rare physique. His language at times was the worst of its lurid

kind. His associates were coarse and drunken. Yet Jim lived with them in

all their ways and neither chewed, smoked, nor drank. How or why, none

understood. He said simply that he "didn't feel like he wanted to." With

the liquor it was a different matter. Here it was a question of

principle and his word to his mother helped him where by nature he was

weak. So he grew up, hedged about with a dignity that was in some sense

a foreshadowing of his destiny. But there was much dross to be burned

away and the two great passions that stood between Jim Hartigan and full

spiritual manhood had their roots in these early years at Downey's.

Later he matched his strength against theirs and with that struggle, in

which no quarter was asked or given, these pages are ultimately

concerned.

CHAPTER VII

He Gets a Much-needed Lesson

Many a man has been ruined by a high, unbroken level of success.

Intellectually it makes for despotism and a conviction of infallibility.

In the world of muscle, it creates a bully.

Young Jim was far from losing his interest in the ring, and he was

growing so big and strong that there were few in town who cared to put

on the gloves with him. All that Bill Kenna had taught him, and more,

was stored as valued learning. Kenna used to say, in his Irish vein:

"There is twelve rules for to conduct yourself right in a shindy; the

first is, get your blow in first; and, if ye live up to this, ye needn't

worry about the other iliven rules." Jim accepted this as fundamental

truth and thereby became the aggressor in nearly every brawl.

His boiling, boisterous, animal nature grew with his body and he

revelled in the things of brawn. He responded joyfully when he was

called on to eject some rowdy from the bar-room, and begetting

confidence with each new victory, he began to have a vast opinion of

himself. About this time a powerful rival of Downey's, known as the

Dummer House, claimed attention at the other end of town. One was

located to catch the inbound from the west; the other, those from the

east. And when the owners were not at war, they kept at best an armed

neutrality.

John Downey had delivered himself of some unhallowed hopes concerning

the rival house, and Jim, as he passed the opposition Inn on a certain

evening, had the picturesque devastations vividly in mind. It so

happened that a masting team of oxen was standing patiently outside

awaiting the driver who was refreshing himself at the bar. A masting

team consists of six to twelve strong, selected oxen, yoked two and two

to a mighty chain with which they can drag forth the largest pines that

are saved for masts. Jim's too-agile mind noted the several components

of a new and delightful exploit: a crowd of noisy teamsters in a log

house bar-room, a team of twelve huge, well-trained oxen on a chain, the

long, loose end of which lay near him on the ground. It was the work of

a minute to hook the chain around a projecting log of the house. A

moment more and he had the oxen on the go. Beginning with the foremost

pair, he rushed down the line, and the great, heaving, hulking

shoulders, two and two, bent and heaved their bulk against the strain.

The chain had scarcely time to tighten; no house could stand against

that power. The huge pine log was switched out at one end as a man might

jerk a corn cob from its crib. The other end, still wedged in its place,

held for a moment; but the oxen moved slowly on like a landslide. The

log was wrenched entirely away and the upper part of the building

dropped with a sullen "chock" to rest a little lower. There was a wild

uproar inside, a shouting of men, a clatter of glass, and out rushed the

flushed-faced rabble, astonished, frightened, furious to see the twelve

great oxen solemnly marching down the street, trailing the missing log,

the fragment of their house, while beside them, running, laughing,

hooting, was a long-legged boy.

Jim's intention had been to clear out, but the trick proved so

screamingly funny that he stood for a minute to enjoy the scene. Shelves

had fallen and glasses had broken, but no person had been hurt. There

was a moment's uncertainty; then with an angry shout the enraged patrons

of the Dummer House swept forward. Jim discreetly fled. In the centre of

the town friends appeared and in the street he turned to face his

pursuers. Jim had already proved himself one of "the best men in Links"

and it was with a new burst of hilarity that he wheeled about among his

backers to give them "all they wanted." Instead of the expected general

onslaught, a method new to Jim was adopted. The teamsters of the Dummer

House held back and from their ranks there issued a square-jawed,

bow-legged man, whose eye was cold, whose step was long and quick. With

the utmost deliberation he measured Jim with his eye. Then he growled:

"Come on, ye ill-born pup. Now ye'll get what ye desarve."

The sporting instinct was strong in the crowd and the two were left

alone to fight it out. It took very little time. Jim had made a

mistake--a serious one. This was no simple teamster, guileless of

training, who faced him, but a man whose life was in the outer circle of

the prize ring. The thrashing was complete, and effective for several

weeks. Jim was carried home and ever after he bore upon his chin a scar

that was the record of the final knockout from the teamster's iron fist.

The catastrophe had several important compensations. The owner of the

Dummer House decided that the boy was punished enough, and took no legal

proceeding against him. On his part, Jim began to think much more

seriously before giving reckless rein to his sense of humour. On the

whole, his respect for the rights of others was decidedly increased. His

self-esteem shrunk to more normal proportions and if he thought of the

incident at all it was to wish very earnestly that some day, somewhere,

he might meet the teamster again on more even terms.

Unfortunately these salutory results were negatived some six months

later by an event that took place in Downey's bar. It was Jim's

birthday; he was eighteen and he announced it with pride.

"And here's where ye join us," said several.

"No, I don't care about it," said Jim.

"Ye ain't promise bound now, are ye?"

"No," replied Jim, "but----"

"Make him a sweet one with syrup and just a spoonful of the crather to

take the curse off."

Refusing, protesting, half ashamed of his hesitation, Jim downed at a

gulp a fruity concoction, much to the delight of the assemblage. It was

not so bad as he had expected it to be and the crowd roared at the

expression on his face.

"Ye're a man for yourself now, lad," said a woodsman clapping him on the

shoulder. "Come boys, another round to Hartigan's health."

It could not be said of Jim that he was normal in anything. In a rare

and multiplied degree he had inherited the full muscling and robust

heart of his folk in both lines of forbears. It was a great inheritance,

but it carried its own penalty. The big animal physique holds a craving

for strong drink. Physical strength and buoyancy are bound up with the

love of bacchanalian riot. Jim had given his word to abstain from liquor

until he was of age; he had kept it scrupulously. Now he had tasted of

it the pendulum swung full to the other side. That was his nature. His

world might be a high world or a low world; whichever sphere he moved in

he practised no half-way measures.

From that eighteenth birthday Jim Hartigan waged ceaseless warfare

within himself. During the early days he was an easy victim. Then came a

shock that changed the whole aspect of his life, and later one stood

beside him who taught him how to fight. But until those events took

place, the town of Links knew him for what he was, a reckless,

dare-devil youth, without viciousness or malice, but ripe for any

extravagance or adventure. His pranks were always begun in fun though it

was inevitable that they should lead to serious consequences. It was

admitted by his severest critics that he had never done a cruel or a

cowardly thing, yet the constant escapades and drinking bouts in which

he was ever the leader earned him the name of Wild Jim Hartigan.

After each fresh exploit his abject remorse was pitiful. And so, little

by little, a great nature was purged; his spirit was humbled by

successive and crushing defeats. At first the animal rebound was

sufficient to set him on his feet unashamed. But during the fourth year

after his coming of age, an unrest, a sickness of soul took possession

of Jim and no wildness sufficed to lift this gloom. And it was in

frantic rebellion against this depression that he entered upon his

memorable visit to the Methodist revival.

BOOK II

THE CONVERSION

CHAPTER VIII

The Conversion of Jim

There was much excitement in Methodist circles that autumn. A preacher

of power had come from the east. The church was filled to overflowing on

Sunday, and a prayer meeting of equal interest was promised for

Wednesday night.

The people came from miles around and there were no vacant seats. Even

the aisles were filled with chairs when the Rev. Obadiah Champ rose and

bawled aloud in rolling paragraphs about "Hopeless, helpless,

hell-damned sinners all. Come, come to-day. Come now and be saved." A

wave of religious hysteria spread over the packed-in human beings. A

wave that to those untouched was grotesque and incomprehensible.

"Sure, they ain't right waked up yet," said one of Jim's half-dozen

unregenerate friends who had come to sit with him on the fence outside,

and scoff at the worshippers. Jim was silent, but a devil of wild deeds

stirred irritatingly within him. He looked about him for some supreme

inspiration--some master stroke. The crowd was all in the church now,

and the doors were closed tight. But muffled sounds of shouting, of

murmurings, of halleluiahs were heard.

"They're goin' it pretty good now, Jim," said another. "But I think you

could arouse 'em," he added, with a grin.

Standing by the church was a tall elm tree; near by was a woodshed with

axe, saw, and wood pile. Jim's eye measured the distance from trunk to

roof and then, acting on a wild impulse, with visions of folk in terror

for their bodies when they professed concern for nothing but their

souls, he got the axe, and amid the suppressed giggles and guffaws of

his chums, commenced to fell the tree. In twenty minutes the great trunk

tottered, crackled, and swung down fair on the roof of the crowded

building.

The congregation had reached a degree of great mental ferment with the

revival, and a long, loud murmuring of prayers and groans, with the

voice of the exhorter, harsh and ringing, filled the edifice, when with

a crash overhead the great arms of the tree met the roof. At first, it

seemed like a heavenly response to the emotion of the congregation, but

the crackling of small timber, the showering down of broken glass and

plaster gave evidence of a very earthly interposition.

Then there was a moment of silence, then another crack from the roof,

and the whole congregation arose and rushed for the door. All in vain

the exhorter tried to hold them back. He shrieked even scriptural texts

to prove they should stay to see the glory of the Lord. Another flake of

plaster fell, on the pulpit this time; then he himself turned and fled

through the vestry and out by the back way.

Jim's following had deserted him, but he himself was there to see the

fun; and when the congregation rushed into the moonlight it was like a

wasp's nest poked with a stick, or a wheat shock full of mice turned

over with a fork. The crowd soon understood the situation and men

gathered around the sinner. There was menace in every pose and speech.

They would have him up to court; they would thrash him now. But the

joyful way in which Jim accepted the last suggestion and offered to meet

any or all "this holy minute" had a marked effect on the programme,

especially as there were present those who knew him.

Then the exhorter said:

"Brethren, let me talk to this heinous sinner. Young man, do you realize

that this is the House of God, which you have so criminally destroyed?"

"The divil an' all it is," said Jim. "Sure, ye ain't got the cheek to

call a Methody shindy hall the House of God. I think ye ought to be

ashamed of yourself to give a lot of dacent farmers the hysterics like

yer doin'."

"Young man, the spirit of the Lord is mighty, and cometh like a strong

wind on the four corners of the house."

"Then why in the divil did ye blame me for it?" was the answer.

"Oh, son of Belial! Hell fire and eternal damnation, a portion in the

pit that burneth with fire, is the lot of those that desecrate the

sanctuary of the Most High. I tell you it were better for you that you

had never been born----"

"But sure, I am born; and it's mesilf that's aloive yet an' going

strong."

"Oh, unregenerate blasphemer----"

But a sudden cry and commotion interrupted the preacher.

"Here, lay her down, get some water."

A little girl had been hurt in the crush and now she had fainted. The

threats of the men had roused Jim to his joyful, battle enthusiasm. The

onslaught of the preacher had stirred his sense of humour; but the poor,

limp, and seemingly dead form of the little girl, a child whom he knew

and had often petted, was an attack he was ill-prepared to meet.

"There, see what you have done. It were better that a millstone were

hanged about your neck and that you were cast into the depths of the sea

than that you should have harmed this little one. Her blood be on your

head."

The mother was kneeling by the child, unwisely holding up its head. She

was praying intently; the air was full of religious fervour. "Oh, God,

spare my baby. Oh, God, be merciful."

Jim heard the words and they entered his soul like a two-edged sword.

All the fun of the incident was gone, and all the cruelty, the

unkindness, the wickedness, loomed large and larger. With his intense

nature, subject to the most violent reactions, the effect was profound.

It seemed to him, as he stood there, that a veil dissolved before his

eyes and that he saw himself and his life for the first time. There had

ever been two natures struggling in his soul, the calm and wise one of

his Ulster blood of placid Saxon stock, and that of the wild and fiery

Celt from Donegal, ready to fight, ready to sing, ever ready for fun,

but ever the easy prey of deep remorse in even measure with the mood of

passion that foreran and begot it.

Smitten from within and without, utter humiliation, self-accusation, and

abasement filled his soul. Jim sank to the ground by the little girl,

and wept in an agony of remorse.

"Young man," said the exhorter, "if God in His mercy has sent me here to

save your soul from eternal damnation by this hellish deed of yours,

then shall I rejoice and praise the Lord, that out of fire and brimstone

He can create a golden pathway."

The little girl now opened her eyes and with a cry of relief the mother

sought to lift her up, but had not the strength. Jim's mighty arms were

eager for service, and with that soft, limp little body against his

broad chest, her head on his shoulder, his heart was filled with

inexpressible emotion.

"Bring her in here," and the remnant of the congregation reassembled in

the church. In the very front was Jim, sitting by the mother with the

little girl between them. His head was bowed on his hands, his elbows on

his knees.

Then the exhorter began again. Full of scriptural texts charged with

holy fire, abounding in lurid thoughts of burning lakes, of endless

torment; gifted with the fluency that sometimes passes for logic and

makes for convincement, he dwelt on the horrors and the

might-have-beens. He shouted out his creeds of holiness, he rumbled in

his chest and made graphic mouthings. He played on all the emotions

until he found the most responsive, and then hammered hard on these. The

big broad shoulders before him shook, tears fell from the half-hidden

face. Then the preacher chanced to strike on the note, "your mother,"

and Jim Hartigan's breakdown was complete. He sobbed, "Oh, God, be

merciful to me, a sinner," and rising, staggered to a place on the

upraised bench--the seat of those who dared to hope for salvation--and

wept.

Carried away by his own vehemence, the exhorter wept, too. There was no

human being in the hall who could stand the overwhelming surge of

emotion. The congregation wept. Then Jim arose and in broken voice said:

"My mother's dying prayer was that I might join the Church and be a

witness for God. As sure as she is looking down on me now I promise that

I will join His people and niver rest till I have been made fit to stand

among those who bear His message. I give my word as a man."

CHAPTER IX

Jim Hartigan Goes to College

Hartigan never walked in the middle of the road. He was either in the

ditch or on the high place. Having "got religion" it was inevitable,

with his nature, that he should become a leader in the fold. That vision

of himself as a preacher, fully ordained, which had burst upon him at

the revival, filled his mind. His mother's last wish resounded in his

ears with all the imperative force of a voice from the grave and he was

emotionally ripe for such inner urgings.

The difficulties in the way of such a course would have daunted most

men; but Jim was going strong for the moment, and to him impossibilities

were mere trivialities. The Rev. Obadiah Champ, with others who were

proud of the new convert, took him before the Board of Deacons and there

Jim made his ambitions known. He was illiterate, friendless, penniless,

and already twenty-three. He had no taste for study or a life of

self-control; meekness and spirituality were as much to his liking now

as travelling on a bog is to a blooded horse.

But his magnificent presence, his glib Irish tongue, his ready wit, his

evident warmth and sincerity, were too much for the reverend bearded

ones of the Board. They were carried away, as most humans were, by his

personal charm. They listened with beaming faces. They cast significant

glances at one another. They sent Jim into another room while they

discussed his fate. In twenty minutes he was brought back to hear their

decision. "Yes, they would accept him as a chosen vessel to bear the

grace of God abroad among the people. They would educate him without

expense to himself. He might begin his college career at once."

In the ordinary course, Jim would have set to work with a tutor in Links

to prepare himself to enter Coulter College at the next term. But life

seemed to order itself in unusual ways when it was a question concerning

Jim. He had no home in Links; he had no money to pay a tutor; he was as

eager as a child to begin the serious work; and his ardour burnt all the

barriers away. He became at once an inmate of Coulter, a special protégé

of the president's, admitted really as a member of the latter's family,

and bound by many rules and promises. In preparation for his formal

entry he was required to devote six hours a day to study, and those who

knew him of old had given the president a hint to exact from Jim his

"wurd as a mahn" that he would do his daily task.

In looking back on those days Jim used to revile them for their

uselessness and waste. What he did not understand until life had put him

through the fire was that the months at Coulter broke him to harness. It

was beyond the wildest imagining that a youth brought up as Jim had been

should step from a life of boisterous carousing in a backwoods

settlement into a seminary and find congenial or helpful occupation

among books. And yet the shock, the change of environment, the

substitution of discipline for license and, above all, the heroic

struggle of the man to meet this new order of existence--these were the

things, the fine metals of a great soul, which life was hammering,

hammering into shape.

What this period meant to Jim no one but himself knew. The agony of

spirit and of body was intense. He had given his word to go through with

it and he did. But every instinct, every association of his old life led

his mind abroad. Every bird that flew to the roof or hopped on the lawn

was a strong attraction; every sound of a horse's hoof aroused his

wayward interest; and the sight of a horse sent him rushing

incontinently to the window. At the beginning, the football captain had

pounced on him as the very stuff he needed, and Jim responded as the

warhorse does to the bugle. He loved the game and he was an invaluable

addition to the team. And yet, helpful as such an outlet was for his

pent-up energy, his participation merely created new tortures, so that

the sight of a sweater crossing the lawn became maddening to him in the

hours of study. He had never liked books, and now as the weeks went by

he learned to loathe them.

It is greatly to be feared that in a fair, written examination with an

impartial jury, Jim Hartigan would have been badly plucked on his

college entrance. But great is the power of personality. The president's

wife behaved most uncollegiately. She interested herself in Jim; she had

interviews with the examiners; she discovered in advance questions to be

asked; she urged upon the authorities the absolute necessity of

accepting this promising student. The president himself was biased. He

hinted that the function of examiners was not so much to make absolute

measurement of scholastic attainments as to manifest a discretionary

view of possibilities, and to remember that examination papers were

often incapable of gauging the most important natural endowments of the

candidate; that sometimes when it was necessary to put a blood horse

over a five-barred gate, the wisest horseman laid the gate down flat.

The admonitions were heeded, the gate laid flat, and the thoroughbred

entered the pasture. But to Jim, caught up in the wearisome classroom

grind, the days held no glimmer of light. Of what possible value, he

asked himself again and again, could it be to know the history of

Nippur? Why should the cuneiforms have any bearing on the morals of a

backwoods Canadian? Would the grace of God be less effective if the

purveyor of it was unaware of what Sprool's Commentaries said about the

Alexandrian heresy? Was not he, Jim Hartigan, a more eloquent speaker

now, by far, than Silas McSilo, who read his Greek testament every

morning? And he wrote to the Rev. Obadiah Champ: "It's no use. I don't

know how to study. I'm sorry to get up in the morning and glad to go to

bed and forget it. I'd rather be in jail than in college. I hate it more

every day." But Jim had given his "wurd as a mahn" and he hammered away

sadly and sorrowfully as one who has no hope, as one who is defeated but

continues to fight merely because he knows not how to surrender.

CHAPTER X

Escape to Cedar Mountain

It is generally admitted that a college offers two main things, book

learning and atmosphere. Of these the latter is larger and more vital,

if it be good. If the college lose ground in either essential, the loss

is usually attributable to a leading set of students. Coulter was losing

ground, and the growth of a spirit of wildness in its halls was no small

worry to the president. He knew whence it sprang, and his anxiety was

the greater as he thought of it. Then a happy inspiration came. Jim's

dislike of books had intensified. He had promised to study for one year.

According to the rules, a student, after completing his first year,

might be sent into the field as an assistant pastor, to be in actual

service under an experienced leader for one year, during which he was

not obliged to study.

To Jim this way out was an escape from a cavern to the light of day, and

every officer of Coulter College breathed a sigh of relief as he packed

his bag and started for the West.

It was in truth a wending of the Spirit Trail when Jim set out; as if

the Angel of Destiny had said to the lesser Angel of Travel: "Behold,

now for a time he is yours. You can serve him best." Jim's blood was

more than red; it was intense scarlet. He hankered for the sparkling

cups of life, being alive in every part--to ride and fight and burn in

the sun, to revel in strife, to suffer, struggle, and quickly strike and

win, or as quickly get the knockout blow! Valhalla and its ancient

fighting creed were the hunger in his blood, and how to translate that

age-old living feeling into terms of Christianity was a problem to which

Jim's reason found no adequate answer. He talked of a better world, of

peace and harps and denial and submission, because that was his job. He

had had it drilled into him at Coulter; but his flashing eye, his mighty

sweeping hand, gave the lie to every word of meekness that fell from his

school-bound tongue. He longed for life in its fullest, best, most human

form. He was fiery as a pirate among the wild rowdies he had lived with

yet he had that other side--a child or a little girl could bully him

into absolute, abject submission.

Whoever knows the West of the late '70s can have no doubt as to where

the whirlpool of red-blooded life surged deepest, most irresistibly;

where the strong alone could live and where the strongest only could

win. In the Black Hills the strongest of the savages met the strongest

of the whites, and there every human lust and crime ran riot. It was not

accident but a far-sighted wisdom on the part of his directors that sent

Jim to Cedar Mountain.

This town of the Black Hills was then in the transition stage. The

cut-throat border element was gone. The law and order society had done

its work. The ordinary machinery of justice was established and doing

fairly well. The big strikes of gold were things of the past; now

plodding Chinese and careful Germans were making profitable daily wages;

and farmers were taking the places of the ranchmen. But there was still

a rowdy element in the one end of the town, where cowboy and miner left

their horses waiting for half the night, by the doors of noisy life and

riot. This was the future field of pastoral work selected for the Rev.

James Hartigan by elders wise in the testing of the human spirit.

All alone, Jim set forth on his three days' journey from Coulter, by way

of Toronto, Detroit, and Chicago, to the West, and seldom has a grown

man had so little knowledge of the world to rely upon. On the train he

met with a painted woman, whose smirks and overtures he did not

understand; and some farmer folk of simple kindness. In the coach, where

all slept on their seats at night, he was like another brother to the

little folks, and when a lumberjack, taking advantage of his size,

sought to monopolize two seats, whereby the old farmer was left

standing, Jim's mild and humorous "Sure, I wouldn't do that; it doesn't

seem neighbourly," as he tapped the ruffian's shoulder, put a new light

on the matter; and the lumberjack, after noting the shoulders of the

speaker, decided that it _wasn't_ neighbourly, and removed his feet.

Most of the passengers said "good-bye" at Chicago, and the rest at

Sidney Junction, where Jim changed cars for the last leg of the journey.

He had no sooner transferred himself and his bag to the waiting train

than there entered his coach five new passengers who at once attracted

his full attention--a Jesuit missionary and four Sioux Indians. The

latter were in the clothes of white men, the Jesuit in his clerical

garb. They settled into the few available places and Jim found himself

sharing his seat with the black-robed missionary.

All his early training had aimed to inspire him with hatred of the

papist, and the climax of popery, he believed, was a Jesuit. He had

never met one before, yet he knew the insignia and he was not at all

disposed to be friendly. But the black-robe was a man of the world,

blessed with culture, experience, and power; and before half an hour, in

spite of himself, Jim found himself chatting amicably with this arch

enemy. The missionary was full of information about the country and the

Indians; and Jim, with the avidity of the boy that he was, listened

eagerly, and learned at every sentence. The experience held a succession

of wholesome shocks for him; for, next to the detested papist, he had

been taught to look down on the "poor, miserable bastes of haythens,"

that knew nothing of God or Church. And here, to his surprise, was a

priest who was not only a kindly, wise, and lovable soul, but who looked

on the heathen not as utterly despicable, but as a human being who

lacked but one essential of true religion, the one that he was there to

offer.

"Yes," continued the missionary, "when I came out here as a young man

twenty-five years ago, I thought about the Indians much as you do. But I

have been learning. I know now that in their home lives they are a kind

and hospitable people. The white race might take them as models in some

particulars, for the widow, the orphan, the old, and the sick are ever

first cared for among them. We are told that the love of money is the

root of all evil; and yet this love of money, in spite of all the white

man can do to inculcate it, has no place at all in the Indian heart."

Jim listened in astonishment, first to hear the dreadful savages set so

high by one who knew them and had a right to speak, but chiefly to find

such fair-mindedness and goodness in one who, according to all he had

ever heard, must be, of course, a very demon in disguise, at war with

all who were not of his faith. Then the thought came, "Maybe this is all

put on to fool me." But at this point two of the Indians came over to

speak to the missionary. Their respectful but cordial manner could not

well have been put on and was an answer to his unspoken question.

"Are these men Catholics?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not yet," said the priest, "although I believe they are

influenced strongly. They observe some of the practices of the Church

and cling to others of their own."

"Their own what?"

"Well, I may say their own Church," said the father.

"Church? You call theirs a Church?" exclaimed Jim.

"Why not? Their best teachers inculcate cleanness, courage, kindness,

sobriety, and truth; they tell of one Great Spirit who is the creator

and ruler of all things and to whom they pray. Surely, these things are

truth and all light comes from God; and, even though they have not

learned the great story of the redemption, we must respect their faith

so far as it goes."

"And these are the 'beasts of heathen' I have always heard about."

"Oh, yes," said the missionary, "they have many habits that I hope to

see stamped out; but I have learned that my Church was wise when it sent

me, not to antagonize and destroy, but to seek for the good in these

people and fortify that as a foundation on which to build the true

faith."

"Well, this is all a great surprise to me," said Hartigan; and again his

deepest astonishment lay in the new knowledge of the papist, rather than

of the Indian.

They were several hours together. The missionary and his Indian friends

finally left the train at a station nearest their home in Pine Ridge and

Jim was left alone with some very new ideas and some old-time prejudices

very badly shaken.

The rest of the journey he sat alone, thinking--thinking hard.

* * * * *

There was no one to meet him at the Cedar Mountain station when he

stepped out of the car--the last passenger from the last car, in the

last station--for at that time this was the north end of the track. All

his earthly belongings, besides the things he wore, were in a valise

that he carried in his hand; in his pocket he had less than five dollars

in money, and his letter of introduction to the Rev. Dr. Jebb of Cedar

Mountain.

In all his life, Jim had never seen a mountain, nor even a high hill;

and he stood gazing at the rugged pile behind the town with a sense of

fascination. It seemed so unreal, a sort of pretty thing with pretty

little trees on it. Was it near and little, or far and big? He could not

surely tell. After gazing a while, he turned to the railway agent and

said:

"How far off is that mountain top?"

"A matter of two miles," was the answer.

Two miles! It did not seem two hundred rods; and yet it did, for the man

on horseback half way there looked toy-like; and the distance grew as he

gazed. A rugged, rocky pile with white snow-ravines still showing in the

springtime sun, some scattering pines among the ledges and, lower, a

breadth of cedars, they were like a robe that hid the shoulders and

flanks of the mountain, then spread out on the plain, broken at a place

where water glinted, and later blended with the purple sage that lent

its colour to the view.

It was all so new and fairylike; "the glamour and dhrei that the banshee

works on the eyes of men," was the thought that came, and the Irish

tales his mother used to tell of fays and lepricauns seemed realized

before his eyes. Then, acting on a sudden impulse, he dropped his bag

and started off, intent on going up the mountain.

Swinging a stick that he had picked up, he went away with long, athletic

strides, and the motor engines of his frame responding sent his blood

a-rushing and his spirit bounding, till his joy broke forth in song, the

song of the singing prophet of Judea's hills, a song he had learned in

Coulter for the sweetness of the music rather than for its message:

How beautiful upon the mountains

Are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings,

That publisheth peace,

That bringeth good tidings of good,

That publisheth salvation,

That saith unto Zion,

"Thy God reigneth."

And when he reached the cedar belt he knew that the railway man had

spoken the truth, but he held on up the ever-steepening trail, ceasing

his song only when he needed the breath to climb. A cottontail waved its

beacon for a minute before him, then darted into the underbrush; the

mountain jays called out a wailing cry; and the flicker clucked above.

Sharp turns were in the trail, else it had faced an upright cliff or

overshot a precipice; but it was easily followed and, at length, he was

above the cedars. Here the horse trail ended, but a moccasin path went

on. It turned abruptly from a sheer descent, then followed a narrow

knife edge to rise again among the rocks to the last, the final height,

a little rocky upland with a lonely standing rock. Here Jim turned to

see the plain, to face about and gasp in sudden wonder; for the spell of

the mountain seen afar is but a little echo of the mountain power when

it has raised you up.

He recalled the familiar words, not understood till now:

"Thy mercies are like mountains great,

Thy judgments are like floods."

He gazed and his breath came fast as he took in the thought, old

thoughts, yet new thoughts, strong and elusive, and wondered what he had

found.

Crossing the little upland, he approached its farther end and stood by

the pinnacle of rock that, like a lonely watchman, forever looked down

on the blue and golden plains. A mountain chipmunk stared at him,

flicked its tail, and dived under a flat ledge; a bird whose real home

was a thousand miles off in the north faced the upland breeze and sang

in its unknown tongue. Jim drew still nearer the rocky spire, rounded a

ledge, and faced an unexpected sight. In a little open lodge of willows,

bent and roofed with a canvas cover, sat an Indian youth, alone,

motionless, beside him was a pot of water, and between him and the tall

rock, a little fire, from which a tiny thread of smoke arose.

Hartigan started, for that very morning he had learned from the old

Jesuit enough about the Red-men to know that this was something unusual.

On the rock beyond the fire he saw, painted in red, two symbols that are

used in the Red-man's prayers: "the blessed vision" leading up to the

"spirit heart of all things." A measure of comprehension came to him,

and Father Cyprian's words returned in new force.

The lad in the little lodge raised a hand in the sign of "Stop," then

gently waved in a way that, in all lands and languages, means: "Please

go away." There was a soft, dreamy look in his face, and Jim, realizing

that he had entered another man's holy place, held back and, slowly

turning, sought the downward trail.

It came to him clearly now this was one of the interesting things told

him that morning by the Jesuit. This Indian boy was taking his

_hambeday_, his manhood fast and vigil; seeking for the vision that

should be his guide, he was burning his altar fire beside the Spirit

Rock.

As he retraced his steps the wonder of this new world enveloped Jim. At

the edge of the cedars he paused and, looking out over the great expanse

of green plumage, he said aloud: "All my life have I lived in the bottom

of a little narrow well, with barely a glimpse of the sky, and never a

view of the world. Now I am suddenly brought forth to see the world and

the bigness of the heavens, and the things I dimly got from books are

here about me, big, living, actual."

He was himself so much, could he be also a part of this wonder-world? It

seemed impossible, so wholly new was everything it held.

CHAPTER XI

A New Force Enters His Life

Back at the railway station, Hartigan looked for his bag where he had

dropped it, but it was gone. The agent, glancing across and divining his

quandary, said stolidly:

"I guess Dr. Jebb took it. Ain't you the party he's looking for? He said

'J. H.' was the initials. You'll find him at that white house with the

flowers just where the boardwalk ends."

Jim went down the road with alert and curious eyes and presented himself

at the white cottage. He found a grave and kindly welcome from Mrs.

Jebb--a stout, middle-aged, motherly person--and from the Rev. Josiah

Jebb, D.D., M.A., etc., pastor of the Methodist Church and his principal

to be for the coming year.

A gentle, kindly man and a deep scholar, Dr. Jebb had no more knowledge

of the world than a novice in a convent. His wife was his shield and

buckler in all things that concerned the battle with men and affairs;

all his thoughts and energies were for his pulpit and his books.

Failing health rather than personal fitness had to do with Dr. Jebb's

being sent to the hills. But the vast extent of territory in his charge,

the occasional meetings in places separated by long hard rides, together

with the crude, blunt ranch and farmer folk who were his flock--all

called for a minister with the fullest strength of youth and mental

power. It was to meet this need that the trustees of the church had sent

James Hartigan to supplement the labours of the Rev. Dr. Jebb. Thus

these two, diverse in every particular of bodily and mental equipment,

were chosen to meet the same religious problem.

The evening meal was spread by Mrs. Jebb herself, for their meagre

stipend did not admit of a helper; and Jim, with his hearty, rollicking

ways, soon won his accustomed place, a high place in their hearts. That

night he was invited to stay with them; but it was understood that next

day he would find permanent lodgings in the town. Not a complex task,

since, to quote Mrs. Jebb, "his hat covered his family, and three

hundred a year simplified the number of rooms."

Jim rose at six in the morning, lighted a fire in the kitchen stove--for

this is etiquette in the simple regions where servants are not and the

guest is as a son--and put on a full kettle of water. This also is

etiquette; it assumes that the family will not be up for some time. Had

it been near the breakfast hour, but half a kettle would have been

correct. Then he left the house, stick in hand, for a long walk. This

time he struck out in the direction of the open plains. The flimsy

little town was soon behind him, and the winding trail among the

sagebrush, went reaching out to the east. The pine woods of his native

country were not well stocked with life; the feathered folk were

inconspicuous there; but here it seemed that every bush and branch was

alive with singing birds. The vesper sparrows ran before his feet,

flashed their white tail feathers in a little flight ahead, or from the

top of a stone or a buffalo skull they rippled out their story of the

spring. The buffalo birds in black and white hung poised in the air to

tell their tale, their brown mates in the grass applauding with a rapt

attention. The flickers paused in harrying prairie anthills and

chuckling fled to the nearest sheltering trees. Prairie dogs barked from

their tiny craters; gophers chirruped or turned themselves into peg-like

watchtowers to observe the striding stranger.

But over all, the loud sweet prairie lark sang his warbling yodel-song

of the sun with a power and melody that no bird anywhere, in any land,

can equal. It seemed to Jim the very spirit of these level lands, the

embodiment of the awakening plains and wind, the moving voice of all the

West. And all about, as though responsive, the flowers of spring came

forth: purple avens in straggling patches; golden yellow bloom, with

blots and streaks of fluffy white; while here and there, as far as eye

could reach, was the blue-white tinge of the crocus flower, the queen of

the springtime flowers, the child of the sky and the snow.

The passionate youth in him responded to the beauty of it; he felt it

lay hold on him and he would have sung, but he found no words in all his

college-born songs to tell of this new joy. "I didn't know it _could_ be

so beautiful. I didn't know," he said again and again.

At the seven o'clock whistle of a mill he wheeled about toward the town,

and saw there, almost overhanging it, the mountain, bright in the

morning, streaked with white, lifting a rugged head through the

gray-green poncho of its cedar robe, a wondrous pile capped by the one

lone tower that watched, forever watched, above the vast expanse of

plains.

Jim was nearly back to the town when a horse and rig appeared coming

rapidly toward him. He heard a shout and saw a man run from a house to

look. The horse was going very fast and shaking his head; something was

wrong. As it came toward him he saw that the driver was a young girl.

She was holding with all her strength to the reins, but the horse, a

tall, rawboned creature, was past control. Horses Jim surely understood.

He stepped well aside, then wheeling as the runaway went past, he ran

his best. For a little while a swift man can run with a horse, and in

that little while Jim was alongside, had seized the back of the seat,

and, with a spurt and a mighty leap, had tumbled into the rig beside the

driver. Instantly she held the reins toward him and gasped:

"I can't hold him; he's running away." Then, as Jim did not at once

seize the reins, she hurriedly said: "Here, take them."

"No," he said with amazing calmness, "you _can_ control him. Don't be

afraid. You hurt yourself pulling; ease up. Keep him straight, that's

all."

The sense of power in his presence and matter-of-fact tone restored her

nerve. She slackened a little on the reins. The horse had believed he

was running away; now he began to doubt it. She had been telegraphing

terror along the lines, and now she began to telegraph control.

"Speak to him, just as you would if he were all right," said Jim in a

low voice.

The girl had been pale and scared-looking, but she responded to the

suggestion and talked to the horse.

"Good boy, good boy, Stockings; keep it up," just as though she had been

putting him to his utmost.

There was open fareway straight ahead and little to fear so long as the

horse kept in the road and met no other rig. In a quarter of a mile he

began to slacken his pace.

"Will you take the lines now?" the girl asked shyly.

"No, it isn't necessary, and the horse would feel the change and think

he had beaten you."

"My arms are tired out," she said rather querulously.

"Then ease up for a while. Don't pull so hard."

She did so and was surprised that the horse did not speed away. In a

quarter of a mile more the victory was won. She gave the usual signal to

stop and Stockings came gently to a pause.

"Now," said Jim, "if you like, I'll take the lines. The battle is over.

You have won. From now on you will be able to drive that horse; but if I

had taken the lines he would have felt the change; he would have felt

that he could boss you, and ever after he would have been a dangerous

horse for you to drive."

In the struggle, the horse had got one leg over the trace. Jim got out,

spoke to the big, strong brute, and did the firm-handed, compelling

things that a horseman knows. The tall creature stood a little trembly,

but submissive now, as the man unhooked the trace, adjusted all the

leathers, and then, with a word or two, adjusted the horse's mood.

"Shall I leave you now?" he asked.

"No," she said, "my arms are aching. I wish you would drive me home."

As he mounted the seat again and headed for the village, Jim had his

first chance to look at the girl beside him. If fear had paled her face

at all it was wholly overcome, for the richest glow of health was in her

cheeks and on her brow. She was beautiful he knew, with her brown hair

flying and brilliant colour, but these things did not entirely account

for a charm of which he was delightfully conscious. Her hands were a

little shaky from the struggle with the horse, but otherwise she was

fully recovered and self-possessed and talked in an animated if somewhat

nervous way about the adventure. In a land where rasping voices were the

rule, it was instantly to be noted that her voice was soft and low.

"Stockings is not a bad horse," she said, "except in one way; the lines

get under his tail. That always makes him back up and kick; then he got

his leg over the trace, was frightened, and ran away. He's the only one

of our horses that we have any trouble with. I was bound I'd drive him,

in spite of Pa; but I'm thinking now that Pa was right." Then, abruptly:

"I'm Miss Boyd; aren't you the new preacher?"

"Yes."

"I saw you at the station when you came yesterday."

"Sure, I didn't suppose a human being took notice of it," he laughed.

"Here's where I live. Will you come in?"

"No, thank you," he said; "I'm late now for breakfast at Dr. Jebb's." So

he tied the horse to the post, helped her from the rig, and with a

flourish of his stick and cap left her.

"The Rev. James Hartigan," she mused; "so that is Dr. Jebb's assistant."

Then in Stockings's ear: "I think I like him--don't you, old runaway?"

CHAPTER XII

Belle Boyd

Belle had been in the express office signing some receipts for goods

consigned to her father when Jim stepped from the train. He appeared

framed in the open doorway; six feet four, broad and straight, supple

and easy, with the head of a Greek god in a crown of golden curls, and a

dash of wild hilarity in his bright blue eyes that suggested a Viking, a

royal pirate. He was the handsomest man she had ever seen and when he

spoke it was with a slight and winsome Irish brogue that lent new charm

to a personality already too dangerously gifted.

It seemed to her that Nature had given him all the gifts there were for

man; and he was even better furnished than she perceived, for he had

youth, health, happy moods, magnetic power in face and voice, courage,

and the gift of speech. And yet, with all these unmeasured blessings was

conjoined a bane. To be possessed of the wild, erratic spirit of the

roving, singing Celt, to be driven to all ill-judged extremities, to be

lashed by passion, anger, and remorse, to be the battle ground of this

wild spirit and its strong rival, the calm and steadfast spirit of the

North--that was a spiritual destiny not to be discerned in a first

meeting; but Belle, keen and understanding, was to discover it very

soon.

Belle Boyd was an only child. Her father was a well-to-do trader; he had

had just enough schooling to give him a high notion of its value, and he

resolved to equip his child with the best there was in reach. This meant

an Illinois college. She entered at seventeen. Here many vague

aspirations of schoolgirl life took definite shape, and resulted in some

radical changes in her course of studies. Her mother had but one

thought--to prepare Belle for being a good wife to some one. Her views

on many subjects were to be left blank, so that she might at once adopt

those of her prospective husband. Her tentacles alone were well

considered in the maternal method, so that she could cling ivy-like to

her oak, stay up with him or go down with him; but help him to stand

up--no, never and not at all!

But Illinois was seething with a different thought in the late '70's.

There were women who boldly proclaimed that sex and mind had little

bearing on each other; that woman should train herself to be herself,

and to stand on her own feet; that when woman had the business training

of men, the widow and the unmarried woman--half of all women--would no

longer be the easy prey of every kind of sharper. These new teachers

were, of course, made social martyrs, but they sowed the seed and the

crop was coming on. That every woman should prepare herself to stand

alone in the world was the first article in their creed. This

crystallized an old and shapeless thought that had often come to Belle,

and the pointed application that she made was to focus her college

studies on a business training. Bookkeeping, shorthand, and exact

methods were selected for specialization; and when at the age of twenty

Belle was graduated and went home to Cedar Mountain, she had, in

addition to her native common sense, a disciplined attention that made

her at once a power in the circle of the church. It was her own idea to

take a business position at once. Her mother was absolutely opposed to

it. "Why should her child be sent to work? Were they not able to keep

her at home? What was the good of parents giving years to toil if not to

keep their children at home with them?" Mr. Boyd was more inclined to

see things Belle's way, and at length a compromise was reached by which

Belle became her father's bookkeeper and secretary, and for a time all

went well.

Then a new factor entered the case, one for which the reformer has not

yet found a good answer. The daily routine of the desk was assumed as a

matter of course; and Belle quickly got used to that and found abundant

mental diversion in other things and in hours of freedom. But her body

had less strength than her mind, and the close confinement of the office

began to tell. Her hands got thin, her cheeks lost their colour, her

eyes grew brighter. Mrs. Boyd began to worry, and sent secretly to

Illinois for bottles of various elixirs of life, guaranteed to put

health, strength, youth, and brains into anything. She also made foolish

and elaborate efforts to trick the daughter into eating more at meals,

or between meals, without avail. At this juncture a very capable person

took matters in hand. Dr. Peter Carson, family physician and devoted

friend, was consulted; his views were clear and convincing: Belle must

give up the office for a year at least; she needed fresh air and sun;

the more the better. Every girl in the Black Hills rides as a matter of

course, and Belle was at home on a broncho; but now it must be, not an

occasional run, but a daily ride in the hills--off for miles, till the

vital forces had renewed their strength.

For a month or more Belle rode and browned in the sun. The colour came

again to her cheeks, and zest to her life; and there also came a strong

desire to be in a business of her own. But it must be something out of

doors; it must be something of little capital; and something a woman

could do. Belle studied her problem with great care and presently there

began to arrive at the post office sundry catalogues of extraordinary

hens with unbelievable records as producers of eggs and of rapid-raising

broilers. The result was that the acre of ground behind the store was

cut up into poultry runs for the various strains of stock that Belle

decided on and that spring Belle launched out on her career as a poultry

farmer. There were Leghorns and Houdans for eggs, and Brahmas in another

yard for mothers. Four things conspired to make her venture a success.

She was the only one in Cedar Mountain with thoroughbred poultry, so

there was a large demand for high-class eggs for setting. The eggs that

for table use brought fifty cents a dozen were worth two dollars and a

half a dozen for hatching. Her store training had taught her to watch

the market reports in the papers, which arrived twice a week, and her

college training taught her to study hen hygiene. Last but not least,

she got their food for nothing.

On closing her books that autumn Belle found that on her investment of

$250 capital borrowed from her father, she had cleared $250, and had all

the capital to render back intact. She realized that while it was

possible to make 100 per cent, on small capital, the rate decreased

rapidly as the capital increased. She estimated that ten times as much

capital would only produce about 25 per cent, because the possibility of

personal management of every hen and every detail would grow

proportionately smaller, and it was this personal touch which counted.

Next, the sovereign advantages of grass range and table scraps must

diminish with each additional hen; and if she had paid herself an

adequate salary the profit would have been wiped out. Last, and perhaps

the most important to her, she was absolutely tied to the farm. She

could not be away one week without suffering loss. It was with

ill-concealed admiration that her father listened to a summary of these

conclusions; later, with the remarkable common sense that characterized

most of her ways, Belle seized a chance to sell out and lodge her money

in the local bank. But the venture had been a success in two respects.

It had helped her to health and it had given her business experience and

confidence.

The winter was now on, and Belle's outdoor activities were somewhat

circumscribed, for there is a real winter in the Black Hills. But she

was in robust health again and she turned her energies more and more to

church work. She was depended on to get up the "sociables," to plan the

entertainments, to invent new and happy games that would take them as

near as they dared go in the direction of dance and stage without

actually outraging the old-fashioned Methodist conscience by getting

there. It was Belle who entirely refurnished the parsonage in one

harmonious style by copying a mission chair and table from a picture,

and then inviting each of the boys to make a like piece, and each of the

girls to make a "drape" to match it. It was a sort of Noah's Ark trick,

this gathering in of things in pairs, but it succeeded originally--the

ark was full--and it succeeded now, for the parsonage was full; and it

will always succeed, for it is built on the old fundamental pairing

instinct.

Belle also imported and put in practical working the idea of a daily

school 'bus, which gathered up the twenty-odd children for ten miles

along the winter road and brought them on a huge hay rack to the Cedar

Mountain School in the morning, and took them back at night to their

homes. But in all these multiplied activities there was a secret

dissatisfaction. She felt that she was a mere hanger-on of the church, a

sort of pet cat to the parson's wife. She was not developing herself

independently, and she began secretly to outline a scheme which meant

nothing less than leaving home to take some sort of position on the west

coast. She had no fear for her success, but she was restrained by two

things: the question of health in case she could not find an outdoor

enterprise, and the sorrow her parents would feel over her--to their

thinking, unnecessary--departure.

For some time both in her school and church work Belle had been much

associated with John Lowe, the schoolteacher. He was considered a

well-meaning person, a dozen years older than herself, and had certain

pleasing qualities, a suave manner--almost too suave--and a readiness of

speech. He was fairly well educated, a good worker, a member of the

church, and had no obvious bad habits. His history was not known; in

fact, no one's history was known in those days of beginnings. Every one

had to be taken as he was found and often on his own statement.

Lowe soon became a devoted admirer of Belle; and Mrs. Boyd, seeing a

chance to beguile her daughter into settling down, did all she could to

bring them together, never losing a chance of praising Jack. He was just

what Belle needed as an executive help to realize much that she had

planned. As a public reciter he had some little prominence; as a

schoolteacher he was just a step nearer the world of brains than were

the other possible men in town, and by that much more acceptable; and

the inevitable result of propinquity was reached. The engagement of

Belle Boyd and Jack Lowe was announced.

There was no ardent love-making on either side, and sometimes Belle,

when left alone, would wonder why she was not more elated each time she

heard him coming; rather, she seemed to feel weighted by the attachment.

She reproached herself for this and as she strove to reach a more

satisfactory state of mind she found herself thinking with a sigh of

that free career she had planned in the business world. Mrs. Boyd's

maternal hopes were too nearly realized to leave her with any

discernment and Belle's father was too much wrapped up in business and

small politics, to see even the mountains that were beyond his back

yard; but another frequent visitor at the house was gifted with better

eyes and more knowledge of the world.

Dr. Carson had never felt attracted toward Lowe. Instinctively he

disliked him. He knew at the beginning that the teacher was much older

than he admitted. The facts that the Boyds were well-to-do and that

Belle was their only child offered, in his frame of mind, a suggestive

sidelight. There were two other things that to Carson seemed important:

one, that Lowe had rather obviously avoided any reference to his

previous place of residence; the other that at one of the sociables he

had amused them all by some exceedingly clever sleight-of-hand tricks

with cards--not playing-cards, of course--they were unmentionable--but

with a few business cards marked in a special way. Carson was sure he

knew in what school such manual dexterity had been acquired.

The doubts in Belle's mind had not yet taken definite form when a new

and unpleasant circumstance obtruded. More than once lately Lowe had

come to the house carrying the unmistakable odour of drink about him. It

was smothered with cloves and peppermint, but still discoverable.

Belle's ideas were not narrow, but this thing shocked and disgusted her,

chiefly because Lowe had repeatedly and voluntarily avowed himself as

flatly opposed to it. She was thus drifting along in perplexity, taking

the trail that her instincts said was not her trail, ever prompted to

cut across to the other fork which meant developing herself, and always

restrained by the fear of breaking with her people, when in the spring

of that year the local press announced the coming to Cedar Mountain of

the Rev. James Hartigan. And on the day after her meeting with him and

their unexpected adventure with the runaway, the parson's wife gave a

tea to introduce the young man to the congregation.

Jim's eyes met hers the moment she entered Jebb's parlour. His greeting

was a joyous one and Belle felt the colour mount in her cheeks as

Hartigan drew her aside to talk. There was something very stimulating

about him, she found--a thrill in his voice, his eyes, and his presence

that she had never experienced with Lowe.

A little later, Lowe himself arrived. Belle, as she turned to greet him,

got an unpleasant shock to note the contrast between the frank, boyish

face of the curly-haired giant and the thin features and restless eyes

of the man she had promised to marry. Her conscience smote her for

disloyalty; but in her heart she was not satisfied. Vague, unspoken,

half-realized criticisms of past months rose to fill her with disquiet.

A cumulative unhappiness in her association with Lowe took possession of

her. And, as she watched with a little thrill the meeting between Jack

and the Preacher, she read plainly on the face of her fiancé the

disapproval that even his practised art could not conceal. For her, the

meeting was portentous; it marked a turning-point; and as she thought of

it later she took a slightly guilty pleasure in the fact that without a

clash of words there was at once a clash of personalities, and that the

Preacher had dominated the scene.

CHAPTER XIII

Preacher Jim's First Sermon

The Sunday on which Jim first appeared in the pulpit will long be

remembered in Cedar Mountain. The "grapevine telegraph" had been working

hard so that all the world of that region had heard of the new preacher,

and curiosity to see him was responsible, more than anything else, for a

church filled with critical folk.

The sight of all the riot and wickedness about the Black Hills, the mad

striving after sudden gold, and the total lack of real joy in its use

after getting it, suggested to Jim a sermon founded on the proverb:

"Better is a dinner of herbs and contentment therewith, etc...." But,

for once in his life, Hartigan was a little abashed by the situation

and, reciting the verses from memory, he managed to get them mixed and

rendered them thus: "Better is a stalled ox and contentment therewith

than a dinner of herbs with a brawling woman." It made an unexpected

hit. Realizing his blunder, he smiled broadly and added:

"Well, if you have any doubts about Solomon's statement, you can have

none whatever about mine."

He then went on to preach a most extraordinary discourse in which fun,

wit, and humour were occasionally interspersed with allusions to the

subject matter. No arguments, no logic, were discoverable; but there

were plenty of amusing illustrations, a good deal that might better have

been left out, and the audience was highly amused though wholly

unedified.

"And how did ye like my sermon?" was the hearty greeting Hartigan gave

Belle Boyd next day, as they met on the boardwalk of Main Street. She

glanced up with a faint flush, looked down, then meeting his eyes

squarely she said:

"Some parts I liked, but much of it I did not."

This was an unexpected reply; Jim had quite looked for a burst of

admiration. In answer to his questions, Belle gave an analysis of the

sermon, as they walked along, pointing out the clay and the gold, and

the total lack of form.

His attitude, at first, had been superior and his tone frivolous. For,

strange to say, the gallantry so strong in his Irish blood is ever mixed

with, or maybe it is a mere mark of belief in, the superiority of the

male. But, before Belle had finished two things had happened--he was

much less sure of his sermon and was a little in awe of her. There could

be no doubt that she was right. Yes, those two stories would have been

better left out; an early paragraph should have been at the end, for it

was the summing up; and the illogical conclusion, which had no promise

in anything he said before, was weak, to say the least. Hartigan felt

much as he used to feel when his mother had called him into a detailed

account of some doubtful conduct.

"What are you going to give us next time?" inquired Belle.

"I thought of beginning a series of sermons on the bad habits of the

congregation--swearing, drinking, gambling, horse-racing, smoking, and

spitting. Last Sunday, right by the door in church, two men were smoking

their pipes and spitting on the floor. It seems to me that Revelations

XI:2 is about the right medicine for such conduct. This is the text:

'And he opened the bottomless pit and there arose a smoke out of the

pit,' Or Psalms XXXVII:20: 'The wicked shall perish ... into smoke shall

they consume away,' Then there is a passage in Jeremiah VII:30: 'They

have set their abominations in the house which is called by my name to

pollute it,' With these I think we have a good scaffolding to build on."

Belle looked puzzled and said nothing. Hartigan was waiting for her

approval. He wanted it.

"What do you think?" he asked, a decided note of anxiety creeping into

his question.

"I would not do it," was the answer.

"Why not?" said Jim instantly on the defensive. "Don't they need it, and

aren't they awfully weak on these things?"

"Yes, they are," said Belle, "but----"

"But what?"

"Mr. Hartigan," she replied as she stopped at her gate, "if you wanted a

rich man to help a poor widow, and went to him saying: 'You miserable

old skinflint, I know you are as greedy as the pit, but I demand it as a

human right that you help this poor woman out of your ill-gotten

abundance,' how much are you going to get? Nothing at all; and the truer

it is the less your chance. On the other hand, if you go to him and say:

'Mr. Dives, you are one of the few men in town who have the power to

help this woman. I know she is well worthy of help, for she's having a

hard struggle. Now, you had a struggle once and know what that means. It

made a keen, successful business man of you; but I know you are

kind-hearted and generous and that all you want is to be sure that the

case is genuine. Well, I can assure you it is. Will you not help her

with the rent till strawberry time, when she expects to get a little

money?' That way you will get something. He _has_ to become generous

when you _say_ he is; and I think that you will get more out of these

people if you assume that they are something good. Later, when they know

you better, you can put them right on their faults."

Hartigan stared at her with frankly admiring eyes.

"Well," he said, "you surely have the level head. You are right and I

will do as you say. But I wonder why you take all this trouble with me?"

Flushed and happy over her victory and very deeply moved by the look she

had seen on Jim's face, Belle realized the full meaning of her success

and took a woman's pride in the fact that this great, powerful,

self-confident, gifted man should in two short encounters completely

change about and defer to her judgment. There was a moment's silence in

which she sought to get her voice under control. Then she added:

"Will you let me know what you decide to preach on?"

"I will," said Jim, his eyes still on her face.

They had been standing at the door of the Boyd home. In that instant of

his dependence upon her Belle had been conscious of a very sweet and

precious bond between them. Without turning toward him, she touched his

arm lightly with her hand and went into the house.

* * * * *

Jim's first effort had not encouraged Dr. Jebb to transfer much of the

pulpit service to the young man. Subsequently, he had a long talk with

him and pointed out some of the defects as Belle had done; also a number

of lapses which, though purely academic, he considered of prime

importance. Thus, more than a month elapsed before Jim was again called

to fill the pulpit.

Meanwhile, he had had many experiences of value in his widespread

congregation, among them the raising of a charitable fund for an

unfortunate neighbour, and he had become well acquainted with Jack

Shives, the blacksmith, a singular mixture of brusqueness and kindness.

Shives was a good citizen who did good work at the forge, but he was

utterly opposed to all creeds and churches. He made it a point to set

all the weight of his solid character against these, as well as the

power of his biting tongue.

As soon as Dr. Jebb asked him to take the pulpit, Jim called on Belle.

"Well, I'm to have another chance," he said, as with one hand he lifted

an armchair that Dr. Jebb could not have moved at all.

"Good," said she. "What is the subject to be?"

"I have three subjects I wish to treat," he began; "one, foreign

missions; the next is the revised version of the New Testament; and the

last is the secularizing influence of church clubs. Which do you say?"

Belle looked serious. At length she said:

"Maybe you can make something constructive out of these ideas. It

depends on how you handle them; but they seem to me far-off and

doubtful."

He looked the disappointment he felt and waited for her to go on.

"What was the _good_ thing that struck you most when you came among us?"

Hartigan gazed through the window at the round top of Cedar Mountain,

then at the frank face of the slim girl, and with a little outburst of

his real nature he cried:

"Bejabers, it was the kind way you all received me."

"All right, then; why not make _that_ your subject for the next sermon?

Let these people know that you think they are kind, and that they make

you feel it, and they will become kinder. Then, when you are established

in their hearts, you can talk about their faults. That will come later.

Since we must find a scripture text to hang your talk on, let's take

Ephesians IV:32: 'Be ye kind one to another, tender hearted, forgiving

one another even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you.'"

The sermon was duly outlined. The outline was brought for Belle to hear.

She was keenly interested because in some sense she was on trial; and

under the stimulating influence of her attention, Jim expanded the

outline to a whole sermon and preached it all to Belle then and there.

It was full of eloquent passages and wholesome lessons, but it was far

too long, as Belle insisted; and again there was a readjustment with the

result that on the following Sunday Hartigan delivered a brilliant

sermon on Kindness, the kindness he had received, the kindness that is

the heart of all true religion. The quaint humour, the vivid

presentation, and the every-day applications were new and true notes to

that congregation. It shocked some of the old-fashioned type, but the

reality it gave to religion was not lost, and the human interest and

sincerity of it held every mind. It cannot be given in full, but the

opening passages will illustrate Jim's theme and his method. After

reading the parable of the Good Samaritan, he said:

"Now, friends, I have selected the story of the Good Samaritan for

a starting point; and it's a good one, even if I never get back to

it through the whole length of the sermon.

"I want you to understand that here was a man who was a kind of

outcast; he didn't go to church and he didn't know or care a cent

about doctrines or creeds; his people were notorious for wine

drinking so that it's more than likely he was often drunk, and it's

ten to one he swore every time he got mad. But he was ready to lend

a helping hand to _anybody_ that had need of him.

"And I want you to note that the men who would not do a finger's

tap to help were a holy priest with a big salary and a highly

respectable church member in training for the ministry. So you see,

the Lord selected these three to illustrate this point then, now,

and for all time, that he had nothing but contempt for the

coldblooded holy-rollers and that the ignorant outcast infidel was

his sort because he had a kind heart.

"Now, friends, we've all three kinds right with us all the time.

Though I don't go much on mincing words, I won't specify the priest

nor the Levite right here in Cedar Mountain; but I will make

mention of the Good Samaritan.

"Ye see, it wasn't exactly a case of being held up by robbers; but

we had to raise enough to get the Hanky family out of their

troubles when Jack Hanky broke his arm, his leg, his buggy, and his

bank account all on one and the same unlucky day; and it was my job

to raise the wind to help him weather the storm. Well, I went about

as you all know, and got a little here and a little there; then

squeezed out a little more from some of the dry sponges, and still

was short. So I went to Jack Shives and he contributed more than

any one else; and then, on top of that, he put Hanky's buggy in

good shape without a cent of pay, and went down night after night

to sit at his bedside and help him pass the long hours away.

"Now the fact is, Jack Shives and I have had many a fight on

religious questions. He swears and drinks all he wants to, which

I'm bound to say isn't much. He jokes about the church and the

preacher and every one that goes to church. He pokes fun at the

hymn book and laughs at the Bible and every one that tries to

follow it word for word. Jack thinks he's all kinds of an infidel;

but he isn't. I have a notion of my own that he's a better

Christian than he allows, better than a good many church members I

could name. In fact, I believe if the Lord Jesus were to get off at

Cedar Mountain from to-morrow's noon train, the first thing he

would do would be to go to the post office and say: 'Can you tell

me where Jack Shives, the blacksmith, lives? He's a particular

friend of mine, he's done a lot of little odd jobs for me and I

guess I'll put up at his house while I'm in Cedar Mountain.'"

And so he talked for the allotted time, translating the age-old truth

into terms of to-day and personal application. A few of the older folk

thought he treated some very serious subjects too lightly; they

preferred the sing-song tone so long associated with scripture texts.

Others had their doubts as to Jim's theology. His eulogy of the

blacksmith was a little too impulsive, but none had any question of the

thrilling human interest of his words and the completeness of his hold

on every one's attention. It was wholesome, if not orthodox; it drove

home with conviction; it made them laugh and cry; and it was a

masterpiece of the simple eloquence that was so much his gift and of the

humour that was the birthright of his race.

From that day forth the doubtful impressions created by Hartigan's first

appearance in the pulpit were wiped out and he was reckoned as a new and

very potent force in the community.

CHAPTER XIV

The Lure of the Saddle

One of the needs that Hartigan very soon became aware of in his

far-flung pastoral work was that of a good saddle horse. An income of

three hundred dollars a year will not maintain very much in the way of a

stable, but a horse had to be got, and the idea of looking for one was

exceedingly pleasant to him. It needed but the sight and smell of the

horse leathers to rouse the old passion bred and fostered in Downey's

stable. He loved the saddle, he knew horses as few men did, and had he

been ninety pounds lighter he would have made a famous jockey.

For many days he was able to put his mind on nothing else. He eagerly

took every chance to visit likely stock; he was never so happy as when

he was astride of some mettlesome animal, interpreting its moods as only

the born horseman can do, and drawing on the reserves of strength which

are closed to all but the expert rider. He responded in every fibre of

his great physique to the zest of this renewed experience of a loved and

lost stable life, and yet the very passion of his enjoyment appalled him

at times for it seemed to be in some sense a disloyalty to the new life

he had taken up and to draw him away from it.

In those days there were motley bands of immigrants crossing the plains

from the East, making for the Black Hills as an island of promise in the

great open sea, and one of these wanderers from far-off Illinois arrived

one evening with the usual outfit of prairie schooner, oxen, milch cow,

saddle horses, dogs, and children. Calamity had overtaken the caravan.

The mother had died; the father was disgusted with the country and

everything in it; and his one idea was to sell his outfit and get the

children back East, back to school and granny. At the auction, the

cattle brought good prices, but no one wanted the horses. They were

gaunt and weary, saddle-and spur-galled; one young and the other past

middle life. It was the young horse that caught Hartigan's eye. It was

rising three, a well-built skeleton, but with a readiness to look alert,

a full mane and tail, and a glint of gold on the coat that had a meaning

and a message for the horse-wise. The auctioneer was struggling to raise

a bid.

"Will any one bid on this fine young colt? All he needs is oats, and a

few other things."

A laugh went up, which was just what the auctioneer wanted, for

merriment is essential to a successful sale.

"Here now, boys, who will start him at five dollars? And him worth a

hundred."

It was too much for Hartigan. He raised his finger to the auctioneer.

"There, now, there's a preacher that knows a horse," he prattled away,

but no second offer came, and the colt was knocked down to Hartigan for

five greasy dollars.

"A good clean-down is worth a bushel of oats to a horse," is old stable

wisdom, "and a deal cheaper," as Hartigan added. Within the hour Blazing

Star, as the new owner named him from the star blaze in his forehead,

was rubbed and curry-combed as probably he never had been in his life

before. He was fed with a little grain and an abundance of prairie hay,

his wounds were painted with iodine and his mane was plaited. He was

handled from forelock to fetlock and rubbed and massaged like a

prizefighter who is out for mighty stakes.

"They are just like humans," Hartigan remarked to the "perchers" at

Shives's blacksmith shop. "All they need is kindness and common sense."

Before a month had gone, Hartigan was offered fifty dollars for the

colt; and this in a land where twenty-five dollars is the usual price

for a saddle horse. In truth, no one would have recognized this fine,

spirited young horse as the sorry jade that landed in the town a short

four weeks before. But Hartigan, who had a trainer's eye, said to Shives

and the "perchers":

"Wait for two months and then you will see something."

And they did. They saw the young Achilles riding down the street on the

wonderful chosen steed of all the herd. There were perfectly balanced

life and power in every move of both, the eagerness to up and do, the

grace of consummate animalism. They had seen many a fine man on a noble

horse, but never before had they beheld a picture so satisfying to both

eye and heart as that of the Preacher on his five-dollar steed.

Five miles from Cedar Mountain is Fort Ryan and to the south of it a

plain, where every year in the first week of July the Indians gather in

their tepees and the whites in tents and prairie schooners for a sort of

fair, in which are many kinds of sin on the largest scale. Herds of

horses are there, and racing is a favourite sport. It was here on the

Fourth of July that an Indian on a rough-looking buckskin pony had won,

over all the field that year, a purse containing five hundred dollars.

The whites, who had their racers set at naught, were ready for almost

any scheme that promised them revenge, and they made an ill-favoured and

sulky lot as they sat on the shady side of the movable saloon that

lingered still on the racing plain. Their eyes were pinched at the

corners with gazing at the sunlight, and their ragged beards were like

autumn grass. A horseman appeared in the distance, and ambled toward

them. This was a common enough sight, but the easy pace was pleasing to

the eye, and when he drew near these men of the saddle found a

horseman's pleasure in the clean-limbed steed so easily ridden.

"Guess it's the new preacher," said one with a laugh. "He's come down

from Cedar Mountain to save us from Hell, as if Hell could be any worse

than this."

Hartigan drew up to inquire the direction to a certain cabin and when he

learned the way he rode on.

"Looks to me like he would have made a cowboy, if they had ketched him

young."

"Do you see that horse? Ain't there some blood there?"

"Yes, there is," said Long Bill, "and it strikes me it is worth

following up. Let's have another look."

The group sauntered to where the Preacher was making a call and one of

them began:

"Say, mister, that's quite a horse you've got there; want to sell him?"

"No."

"Looks like a speeder."

"Yes, there's nothing in Cedar Mountain to touch him."

"Say, mister," said cattleman Kyle, "if he's a winner, here's your

chance to roll up a wad."

Hartigan stared and waited. The cult of the horse is very ancient, but

its ways are ever modern.

"You say he's a great speeder; will you try him against Kyle's horse?"

said Long Bill.

Jim looked a rebuff and shook his head.

"Oh, just a friendly race," the man went on; "Kyle thinks he has the

best American horse in town." And as various members of the party looked

more critically at Blazing Star and felt his limbs they became more

insistent.

When Jim had joined the Church, horse-racing was one of the deadly sins

he had abjured. So while he refused to enter a race, he was easily

persuaded to ride his horse against Kyle's for a friendly mile. Whether

begun as a race or not, it was in deadly earnest after the first fifty

yards and it proved just what they needed to know: that Kyle's horse,

which had been a good second best with the Indian, was a poor second in

the race with Blazing Star. With this essential information, Kyle asked

if he could hire Hartigan's horse for a brush with the Indian.

Hartigan went through a most painful struggle with his conscience. But

clearly "this was not a regular race." It was "just a sort of speed test

with an Indian pony like the one he had had with Kyle." He was not going

to ride in it. He would only rent his horse for wages. "Sure, every one

hires out his horse when he has a good one." So Blazing Star was hired

out to Kyle, and a new though unimportant race was arranged, for a

stake, otherwise the Indian would not have taken the trouble to ride.

The Red-men's black eyes looked keenly on as he measured the new horse.

Then the unexpected happened. Blazing Star was not accustomed to the new

jockey, the gentle ways that had fostered his speed were lacking. The

rider's idea was whip and spur and go from the start. The horse got

"rattled" and the Indian pony won. The defeat stirred Hartigan to a rage

such as he had not experienced in months. The unrest of his conscience

over the affair, coupled with his contempt and fury at the bad

horsemanship of the rider, set loose from his tongue a lurid torrent

blended of Links, Scripture, and Black Hills.

"Here, you jelly-backed cowpuncher, let me show you how to ride. Will

you ride again?" he shouted to the Indian, as the latter put the roll of

bills in his tobacco pouch.

The Indian shook his head.

"I will put that up twenty-five dollars to nothing," and Hartigan held

up the twenty-five dollars he had received as hire for his horse. Again

the Indian shook his head. "I'll give you that if you'll ride." Jim held

up a ten, "and double it if you win."

With a gesture, the Indian consented, received the bill, and put it with

the rest. They rode to the starting post, were unceremoniously started,

and Hartigan showed how much a man could do for a horse. In spite of his

rider's great weight that splendid beast responded to every word, and

when on the home run Hartigan used the quirt, Blazing Star seemed to

know it was merely a signal, not an insulting urge, and let himself go.

The Indian pony, too, was doing his utmost, but Blazing Star swept past

his opponent and led at the finish by more than a length; the race was

won; and Hartigan wakened up as a man out of a dream to face the awful

fact that he, a minister of the gospel, had not only ridden in a horse

race, but had gambled on the same.

CHAPTER XV

Pat Bylow's Spree

At the time of the incidents at Fort Ryan, Belle was away on a visit to

Deadwood. Otherwise, Hartigan would surely have consulted her and

profited by her calmer judgment in the matter of the race. As it was,

his torturing sense of moral iniquity led him to preach a sermon in

which he poured forth all the intensity of his nature. Quietly to drop

the subject was not his way; he knew that every one was talking about

it, so nothing would do but a public denunciation of himself, and all

that followed the race track.

The text he chose was: "My wounds stink, and are corrupt, because of my

foolishness" (Psalms XXXVIII:5). Jim's thought was that once the sinner

is saved, all his sins become peculiarly and especially repugnant to

him. They acquire nothing less than a stench in his nostrils, and

henceforth are as repellent as once they were attractive, no matter what

they may be; and he enumerated drunkenness, swearing, gambling, and

horse-racing. At mention of the last a smile spread over the faces of

the congregation. He noted it at once, and said:

"Yes, I know what you are thinking. You are wondering how I came to ride

my horse in a race at Fort Ryan. Well, it was the devil laid a snare for

me, and I fell in. But this I will say: I promise you I will never do

the like again, and if each of you will stand up now and give me the

same promise about your own particular besetting sin, then I'll feel

that we have made a great gain, and I will be glad I rode that race

after all."

In this land of the horse no one was long inclined to take the matter

seriously. A nature so buoyant as his could not long be downcast, and

Hartigan's sense of sin for his part in the race was soon put behind

him. Then happened an incident that gave him a chance to score a

triumph.

In a remote part of the valley some five miles back of Cedar Mountain

was Bylow's Corner, a group of three or four houses near the road, the

log cabins of homesteaders. These men had, indeed, few pleasures in

life. Their highest notion of joy was a spree; and every month or two

they would import a keg of liquor, generally of a quality unfit for

human consumption. The word had been passed around that Pat Bylow had

got a keg of the "real stuff," and the rest of the Corner assembled on a

certain Saturday night for an orgy, which it was expected would last

about two days. Word of it reached Hartigan, too, and he decided that

here was a glorious opportunity to save bodies and souls at once.

Without consulting any one he mounted Blazing Star, and in half an hour

was at the Corner. Tying his horse to a tree, he went to the house that

was the known meeting place. There were lights in the window and

boisterous noises issuing forth. At the door he stopped and listened;

rough voices were grumbling; there was an occasional curse, a laugh,

then a woman speaking shrilly; a minute's silence, during which the

sweet song of a night bird was heard in the dark bushes by the stream,

whereupon a hoarse, brutalized voice shouted:

"Oh, hurry up and start that bung, you act like a schoolgirl."

The Preacher knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again and much

louder. There was a moment's silence. Then a heavy voice:

"Who's there?"

"It's me," was the unhelpful reply.

A man moved to the door again demanding:

"Who's there?"

"It's a friend who wants to join you."

There was some discussion, then the door was cautiously opened. The man

inside got a glimpse of the tall form of the Preacher, let off a savage

snarl and oath, and attempted to slam the door. But he was not quick

enough; the Preacher got his foot in and pushed irresistibly. There were

curses from within and others came to help. But the Preacher was too

much for them; the door went back with a clatter and he stood in the

middle of the room. The rude log cabin held five men, three women, and a

table on which was a small keg of whiskey and some glasses. The keg had

not yet been opened, and the glasses were empty.

"What do you want here?" growled the biggest of the men, advancing

threateningly.

"Sure, I am here to spill that accursed stuff on the ground and hold a

prayer meeting in the hopes of saving your souls," was the answer.

"Get to h--l out of this and mind your own business," he said, fingering

an ugly knife he had snatched from the table.

Hartigan did not move. As the big brute edged in, not at all quickly,

for the fight was scarcely yet on, Hartigan landed a swift football drop

kick under the hand that held the knife. The weapon was dashed up to the

ceiling and stuck shivering in the logs, while its owner stumbled and

fell with a growl of pain, one hand hanging helpless. Two other men

rushed to the attack. They had no weapons, and the Preacher man[oe]uvred

to take them singly. With two chops and an undercut he laid them on

their backs, and the remaining men refrained from declaring war.

"Sure now," said the Preacher, as he looked calmly around, "I regret to

have the meeting open so unrestful, when it was my intention to start it

with a prayer, followed by a hymn with all of you joining in. But you

seemed to want it this way and, of course, I had to humour you. Now I

will begin by pouring out a drink offering on the altar of God."

He stepped toward the keg. It was unopened. He raised it in his hands

and dashed it down on the floor. It bounded up unhurt. Realizing his

purpose for the first time, the men gave vent to savage oaths backed by

an assertion of property rights. Then, seeing that he was undeterred,

they set upon him with a rush.

Jim, it must be confessed, found a new joy in that new attack. It gave

him a chance to work off his superabundant energy. The confined space of

the cabin was in his favour. He blocked all attempts to encompass him,

while his mighty arms did terrific execution, and when the finish came

it showed the would-be revellers lying around in various positions

eloquent of defeat.

"Sure, it's mighty sorry I am, but I have to tend to my job."

Going to the fireplace, and picking up one of the bricks used to support

the logs, he smashed in the head of the keg and spilled the odorous

contents on the floor. The final splash he threw toward the fire,

expecting to see it blaze into a blue flame, but it acted as water and

the room was filled with an evil stench. The Preacher knew what it

meant; his contemptuous "Humph!" expressed it all.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, as the tallest of the ruffians moved

to the door.

"You mind your own business. I am going home," was the answer.

"Come back and join us, we're going to have a prayer meeting," and Jim

stepped over to the door.

"Now get down on your knees, all of ye," and he himself kneeled. The

little man and two of the women followed his example.

"Get down on your knees!" the Preacher thundered to those standing. The

big fellow had got a stick of firewood for a weapon and, despite his

crippled right hand, was disposed to fight.

"Oh, ho! shillelah play," chuckled Hartigan, "that's an ould, ould game

with me."

He rose and picked up a leg of the table broken off during the struggle.

It was not a heavy club, but it was in skilful hands. There is one move

of the shillelah that the best experts have trouble to parry, that is

the direct thrust. The slash right and the slash left, the overhead or

the undercut have a simple answer; but the end-on straight thrust is

baffling. Jim knew this of old, and a moment later the big woodsman was

on the floor with a bloody nose, a sense of shock, and a disposition to

surrender.

"Now come, every one of ye, and join in our prayer meeting. Come on," he

beckoned to the other two, "or it will be me duty to knock sense into

ye."

And so he gathered that graceless group around him. Kneeling in their

midst, he prayed for help to make them see that he wanted to be their

friend, that he was acting for their interests, that he knew as well as

they did the hankering for drink.

"O Lord, you know. And I know that anyway that stuff was not whiskey at

all, at all; that it would not burn in the fire, and I'll bet it would

freeze if it were put out of doors"; and having contributed these expert

remarks, he closed with, "Amen."

"And now we will sing a hymn," and he led them in "Come to Jesus." But

it was not a success, so he fell back on the praying, which was his

specialty, and more than once his congregation joined in with an "amen."

Sulky Big Pat had to be threatened again, for he was of fighting stock;

but the prayer meeting closed without further hostilities and the orgy

had been made physically impossible. As he rose, Hartigan said in his

inimitable way:

"Now, friends, I want to apologize to you all for seeming uncivil, but

there are times when a man has to be a little abrupt, and if I have hurt

your feelings or annoyed you in any way I am very sorry for it, because

I'd rather be friends. Let's shake hands before I leave, and I will be

glad to see any of you in church."

Then a strange thing happened. The little man had shaken hands

effusively, the big one sulkily, but there was one there who took the

Preacher's hand warmly and in a husky voice said:

"Mr. Hartigan, I want you to know you have made me think different. I am

coming to church. I know you are right." Then turning to a woman by his

side: "This is my wife--she feels as I do."

"Thank you for coming to-night," said the woman. "You _will_ pray for

us, won't you? We will try; only it is terribly hard, once you have

taken on the habit."

"Sure, it's myself that knows it," said Hartigan. "I've been through it

all, I tell you."

There was a brotherly warmth in the Preacher's handclasp and in his

words as he turned to go out in the calm and beautiful blue night. The

Black Hills' coyotes howled and Blazing Star whinnied a mild

remonstrance at the long desertion. The Preacher mounted and as he swung

lightly down the wagon trail, he had a sense of joy, of triumph, of

uplift that had seldom been his. Here for the first time he had put his

great physical strength to the service of the new life. It was a

consecration, so to speak, of his bodily powers. And overtopping this

was another happiness, which, he was just beginning to realize,

completely filled his thoughts these days: the prospect of crowning each

day's adventures by telling them all to Belle.

CHAPTER XVI

The New Insurance Agents

Woman's suffrage was a disturbing question in the West of the '80's and

it had not by any means passed Cedar Mountain by. There was more than

one fiery dispute among the "perchers" of Shives's shop, where Jim was

very fond of dropping in. Indeed the smithy was the public forum of the

town.

Hartigan had very strong views, of the oldest and most conservative

type, on the sphere of woman--notwithstanding the fact that his mother

had been the capable leader of men. He did not say much about this; but

he assumed that the absence of his father was the sole cause of his

mother's dominance. He was fond of quoting St. Paul: "Let your women

keep silence in the churches ... it is a shame for women to speak in the

church" (I Cor. XIV:34-35), and from this he argued that silence was

woman's only duty in all public matters of administration, because it

accorded with her limitations.

Shives, being twice as old, was much less certain. He could cite

Cleopatra, Catherine of Russia, Catherine de' Medici, and other familiar

names to prove the woman's power; to which Hartigan replied:

"And a fine moral lot they were! Was ever power put to more devilish

use?"

This was a jibe and not an answer. But it caused a laugh, and that

always counts in debate. Then, with singular blindness to the fact that

he himself was at the time being guided by a certain young woman, Jim

issued his challenge:

"If you can show me a couple that started fair and square together on

equal footing and didn't end with the man as head and leader in

everything to do with fighting the battle of life, I'll give in--I'm

licked."

Two mornings later, Dr. Carson was standing outside his office door,

when he heard a quick stride on the boardwalk and the gay voice of the

Preacher singing "Roy's Wife of Aldivallock."

"The top of the morning to ye, Doc," was his cheery greeting; and the

doctor answered:

"Say, Jim, come here. I've got a good one for you. This is a brand-new

one." They walked down the boardwalk to the place where most of the

offices were and there read on a newly placed signboard the legend:

"John and Hannah Higginbotham, Insurance Agents."

"How is that?" said Carson, as he lit a cigar.

"Well, I'll be--surprised," was the answer.

As Jim looked in astonishment the door was opened and a dapper little

man with a fuzzy red beard appeared.

"Good morning, gentlemen, good morning!" he said, in a perfectly good

Yankee twang. "Can I do anything for you to-day in my line? Step in,

gentlemen; I'm John Higginbotham." They entered and, behind the desk,

sighted a stout woman of medium size, middle age, and moderately good

appearance.

"Hannah, these are two of our fellow townsfolk, calling. Excuse me,

gentlemen, I didn't get your names." He was enlightened and prattled on:

"Oh, Reverend Hartigan and Dr. Carson. Good! Healing for the body and

healing for the soul, and my healing is for the estate--happy trinity,

isn't it? Sit down, gentlemen."

"Can we do anything for you in our line?" said the buxom lady behind the

desk, in a strong, deep voice; and now Jim noticed for the first time

her square jaw and her keen eye that brightened as she spoke.

"Not at present, thank you," said Jim. "We are merely making a

neighbourly call."

"The fact is," said Dr. Carson, "the thing that stopped us this morning

was your new signboard."

"There! There! I told you so; I told you it was good business," said the

little man. "The first thing in commerce is to have a good article and

the next is to win the attention of the public. I felt sure it was a

good move."

"You've got the attention of the whole town at one stroke," said Carson.

"If you have the wares to follow it up----"

"Wares! My company is The Merchants' Mutual. It is the----"

Realizing that he had injudiciously turned on a hydrant, Carson said

heartily:

"Oh, yes, yes; of course; I should have known. Why, every one knows that

The Merchants' Mutual is one of _the_ companies. How did you come in, by

rail or by the trail?"

At this point, Hannah rose and, passing out of the door, gave a

momentary glimpse of a kitchen stove with pots and kettles boiling.

John smiled blandly, raised a flat hand with an oratorical gesture:

"Ah, that is an important question, and bears directly on the signboard.

You see, we came from Bootlebury, Massachusetts. Hannah's father was

quite a man in that town, and I worked my way up till I had a little

insurance office of my own and married Hannah. Well" (he didn't say

"well" and he didn't say "wall," but there isn't any in-between way to

spell it aright), "if I'd got all the insurance business in Bootlebury,

it would not have been horses and cushions, but I didn't get half of it,

and Hannah says, 'John, I think we'd getter go out West,' for, somehow,

she didn't want to stay in a place where folks said she'd had a 'come

down.'

"We'd had about ten years of it, and I had just about come to her way of

thinking when her dad died and left her quite well fixed. An' Hannah she

had quite an eye to biz; she worked at my office desk as much as she did

at the cook stove; an' now she says to me, 'Here is where we get out.'

"Every one was talking about the Black Hills then, and that was why we

headed this way. Well, we figured out that the railway fares from St.

Louis 'round to Sidney and north to the Hills were so much higher than

the steamboat fare from St. Louis to Pierre, that we could save enough

to buy a team of ponies and a buckboard at Pierre, and then cross the

Plains with the settlers going in and be ahead by the value of the team,

which would be needed in our country business anyhow."

"Time didn't count?" interrupted Carson.

"Not much; and we wanted to see the country."

"By George! I wish I'd been with ye," said Jim. "If only it had been a

saddle trip it would have been perfect."

"Perfect!" exclaimed the little man; "I wish you could have seen us. The

farther we went up that endless river of mud the worse it seemed; and

when we landed at Pierre it did seem the last of all creation.

"I didn't have much heart to buy the ponies, but Hannah kept with me and

never once seemed to feel discouraged. But when we crossed the river

with our outfit and really set out on the blank, bleak plains, I tell

ye, we felt heart-sick, sore, and lonesome--at least, I did."

At this moment Hannah came in from the kitchen and took the lead in

conversation.

"Has John been giving you an outline of our policy in the matter of

lapsing premiums and residuary annuities?"

"Now, Hannah," replied John, "I think that is a little too much like

business for friendly callers."

"Business is always in order in the office," was Hannah's retort.

"I understand," said John, "that the Methodists are very strong in Cedar

Mountain."

"Well, we think so," answered Hartigan.

"Good," said Higginbotham. "I have always felt that it was wisest to

associate myself with the church that was spiritually strongest. I am

not in sympathy with narrow views." He did not mention the fact that in

Bootlebury he had associated himself with the Unitarians for the same

reason.

A loud sizzling in the next room caused Hannah to spring up heavily and

return to the kitchen.

Jim was more interested in their venturesome trip across the Plains than

in reasons for doctrinal affiliation, and he steered the conversation by

saying:

"How did you come out on the Plains trip?"

And John bubbled on with a mixture of fun, pathos, and frank admiration

for his wife that appealed strongly to both hearers. His gift of

language was copious without being varied or clever, but his homely

phrases carried the thought.

"I'll not forget the morning of our journey. It was raining by the

bucketfuls. 'Well,' says I, 'for a semi-arid country this is going

some'; and I felt so homesick and sore, I said, 'Hannah, let's not go

any farther'; and Hannah she just looked at me and said, 'See here,

John, I've come out so far to go to the Black Hills and I'm going.'

Then, when the weather let up a little, we started out; and, after a

couple of hours we stuck in a muddy creek and were all day getting

across. Next day a couple more gullies just as bad, and the rain came

down till ever hole in the prairie was a pond; and I tell you I wished

I'd bought a boat instead of the buckboard. And the mosquitoes, oh, my!

Well, we floundered around about three days and got all our stuff wet

and half spoiled. Then we found we'd missed the way and had to flounder

three days back again. I tell you, I felt pretty much discouraged. Then

we saw something a-coming. It turned out to be a settler going back. He

said there was nothing but pond holes and bogs, the mosquitoes were

awful, the boom was bust, and the Sioux on the war path. I felt pretty

sick. That was a finisher; and when that man says, 'You better come back

with us,' I was for going. But Hannah, she just boiled up and she says,

'John Higginbotham, if you want to go back with that bunch of

chicken-hearts, you can go. I'm going to the Black Hills, if I have to

go alone.' I tried to make her see it my way, but she got into the

buckboard, gathered up the reins, and headed for the West. I had to get

in behind as best I could. We didn't talk much. We weren't on speaking

terms that day; and, at night, as we sat eating supper, it started to

raining worse'n ever, and I says, 'I wish we'd gone back.'

"'I don't,' she snapped, an' we never spoke till the morning.

"Then she called me to breakfast. I tell you, I never saw such a change.

The sun was up and the sky was clear. In a little while, we were out of

the sloughs and had no mosquitoes. Then we got a bad shake. A band of

horsemen came riding right at us. But they turned out to be U. S.

cavalrymen. They put us right on the road, and told us the Indian scare

was just fool talk, and had nothing back of it. After that, all went

fine and in two days we were in the Hills.

"I tell you, I felt different as we stood there at our last campfire,

and I says, 'Hannah, you're a wonder. You are the best of the outfit. It

was your money we started on. It was your grit kept me going on when I

was for quitting, and you are in every deal I make. You bet I'll let the

world know we are partners.' So that's why that signboard went up. Not a

bad ad I reckon, for no one sees it without taking notice; so, if

there's anything in our line you need, let me know."

As Carson and Hartigan walked down the street, the doctor said: "Well,

what do you think of Woman Suffrage now?"

Hartigan shrugged his big shoulders, gave a comical glance back at the

signboard, and replied:

"You've got me!"

It was indeed a poser for Jim; a shock to a deep-set prejudice.

Notwithstanding the fact that his mother had been a woman of power, the

unquestioned and able head in a community of men, he had unconsciously

clung to the old idea of woman's mental inferiority. In college he had

had that notion bolstered up with Scripture texts and alleged Christian

doctrine.

This was not the time or place, he felt, to discuss the principle of it,

and his natural delicacy would, in any case, have kept him from a free

expression; but later, in the blacksmith shop, that neutral territory of

free speech, they had it out. Higginbotham was there and was ready and

able to fight with Scriptural weapons. He pointed out that all the texts

quoted, such as: "Wives be in subjection to your own husbands in

everything, etc.," were from St. Paul, who was believed to have had a

painful history in such matters; whereas, St. Peter, admittedly a far

better authority, said: "Likewise, ye husbands, dwell with them, giving

honour to the wife."

"Which may or may not be sound doctrine," said John, "but I know my wife

brought me out here, it was her capital that set me up, she has a hand

in all business, so why not say so on the signboard?"

Cedar Mountain had its fill of fun and there were many venerable jokes

about "wearing the pants" and others about a spelling of "hen-pecked."

"Wasn't it 'Hannah-pecked' now?" And some there were, even women, who

condemned the innovation as godless; but all of these hostile comments

died away when folk came to know the pair and realize how justly they

were represented on the signboard: "John and Hannah Higginbotham,

Insurance Agents."

CHAPTER XVII

Belle Makes a Decision and Jim Evades One

It was late on Wednesday afternoon. Belle was working at the sewing

machine in the back room of the Boyd home when there was a familiar

knock at the front door. She was not unprepared for it and yet she

dreaded this inevitable interview. Lowe had been pointedly cold for some

time. He had been to the house only once in the past month and he had

made it quite plain that Hartigan was the objectionable figure in the

horizon. Belle realized that their relations had come to a crisis. She

had not admitted frankly to herself what she would do when this talk

took place, but in her heart there was not the slightest doubt.

At the sound of his step and knock she went into the parlour, closing

the door into the rear room to insure some measure of privacy, and then

admitted Jack. His greeting had the obvious air of a man who has been

wronged. For a while, with characteristic obliquity, he talked of his

school work. Belle sewed meanwhile, asking occasional questions. After a

quarter of an hour of this the conversation languished. Belle was

determined that he should open the subject himself, and in the awkward

pause that ensued she busied herself basting up a lining for her frock.

At last, clearing his throat, Lowe began:

"Belle, I've got something else to say to you."

She looked at him squarely, the direct gaze of her clear, dark eyes in

striking contrast with his close-lidded, shifting glance. He went on:

"I think that you and the new preacher are going too far and it had

better stop now."

"Just what do you mean, Jack? What do you accuse me of, exactly?"

From the very beginning of their friendship he had always writhed under

the directness of her mental processes. He was ever for evasion,

indirection; she for frank, open dealing in all things. He tried to

retreat.

"I'm not accusing you of anything."

"No, but of _something_," she replied with a faint smile. "What is it?"

"There's a lot of talk about town--about you and Hartigan. It makes me a

laughing stock. If we weren't engaged----"

Belle interrupted:

"That's just what I want to speak about. I've been wanting to have a

frank talk with you for some time, Jack, and we may as well have it now.

"I have always liked you and you have been awfully attentive and helpful

to me. I thought I was in love with you, but you know that when we had

our talk a year ago, I begged you not to make an announcement and when

you insisted on telling a few friends it was agreed that I was to have a

year to decide finally. That was why I never wore your ring." She drew a

box from her breast and held it out to him.

"We have both made a mistake, Jack. I made the worst one when I allowed

you to over-persuade me a year ago; but we are not going to spoil two

lives by going on with it."

Lowe's mind was not of particularly fine calibre. For some months,

whenever he faced the truth, he had realized that he would never marry

Belle. He was fond of her to the extent possible in a nature such as his

and he was keenly alive to the financial advantage of becoming Boyd's

son-in-law. His past history would not bear close inspection and

latterly some of his youthful vices had come to light and to life. He

knew only too well what a marriage into the Boyd family would do for his

fortunes, financially and socially, and a dull rage of several weeks'

nursing burned in him against Hartigan. As he took his hat to depart he

was foolish enough to speak what was in his mind. He uttered a silly

attack on the Preacher. It moved Belle and brought the colour to her

face. His bitter comments on their own relations had not called forth

any response from her, but this shaft went home, as he meant it should.

She controlled herself and merely remarked:

"I would not say that; it might get to his ears."

And so he departed.

* * * * *

It was on that same afternoon that Hartigan had a new and, to him,

terrifying experience in the dangerous world of the emotions.

He had ridden forth to make a pastoral call at the Hoomer homestead, out

on the plain five miles northeast of Cedar Mountain. When first he

glimpsed the house among the low log stables, there were two women in

sight; when he came to the door and entered, there was but one, the

mother. Half an hour later, the daughter, Lou-Jane, appeared arrayed for

conquest. She was undeniably handsome, in spite of a certain coarseness

that made Hartigan subtly uneasy, though he could not have told why. She

was of the rare vigorous type that is said to have appeared in Ireland

after many survivors of the great Armada were washed ashore on the

rugged western coast. The mingling of the Irish and Spanish blood in her

had resulted in black eyes, black eyebrows, and red, or golden-red hair,

combined with a clear, brilliant Irish complexion. She was lively,

energetic, rather clever, and tremendously taken with the new preacher.

Jim was naturally shy with women, as most big men seem to be, and the

masterful Lou-Jane smote him with utter confusion. She prattled on about

the tea, about the church, the Rev. Dr. Jebb, the local people, the

farm, national politics, dry-farming, horses, cows and alfalfa, with the

definite purpose of finding out his interests. Getting the best response

on the topic of horses, she followed it up.

"You must come and see my pony. He's a beauty. I got first prize on him

as girl rider at the fair last year. I'm so glad you like horses."

She laid her hand on his arm a dozen times to guide him here or there;

she took his hand at last and held on, to his utter embarrassment, long

after he had helped her over a fence, and looked disappointed when she

got no flirtatious response. She led out her saddle pony and laughingly

said:

"Here, give me a hand."

Grasping her raised foot, he lifted her with a sweep to the pony's bare

back.

"My, you're strong," was her flattering comment, and she swung the

hackima and loped the pony round the field and back to the stable,

delighted to see in his eye a frank glow of admiration for her skill.

"Will you lift me down?" she said merrily; not that she had the least

need of help, but she liked to feel those strong arms about her; and as

he did so, she made herself quite unnecessarily limp and clinging.

Jim did not usually lack words, but Lou-Jane was so voluble that he was

completely silenced. At the stable, where Ma Hoomer was milking,

Lou-Jane delayed for a moment to whisper: "Stay here till I come for

you."

Then she tripped on with Jim at her heels. As they entered the house

Hartigan looked at his watch.

"Now please don't hurry," said Lou-Jane. "Ma'll be back in a few

minutes, then we'll have a cup of tea. Sit here; you'll find it more

comfortable," and she motioned to a sofa.

Sitting down beside him so that they were very close together and giving

the archest of smiles, she said:

"I wonder if I might ask you a question."

"Why, sure," said Jim, just a little uneasy at the warmth of the tone.

He had instincts, if not experience.

"Were you ever in love?" she said softly. Her arm, resting on the back

of the sofa, moved accidentally and lay across his shoulder.

"Why, no--I--no--I guess not," and Hartigan turned red and

uncomfortable.

"I wish you would let me be your friend," she continued. "I do like you

very much, you know. I want to be your friend and I can help you in so

many ways."

She leaned toward him, and Jim, being more terrified than he had ever

been, murmured something inarticulate about "not being a lady's man."

What he would have done to effect his escape he was never afterward able

to decide. A spell of helplessness was upon him, when suddenly a heavy

step was heard outside and Pa Hoomer's voice calling:

"Ma, Ma! Who's left that corral gate open?"

Lou-Jane sprang up, shook her bright hair from her flushed face, and

with a hasty apology went to meet her father. The Preacher also rose

with inexpressible relief, and, after a hurried farewell, he mounted and

rode away.

CHAPTER XVIII

The Second Bylow Spree

Woman to-day reverences physical prowess just as much as did her cave

forebears, and she glories in the fact that her man is a strong,

fighting animal, even though she recognizes the value of other gifts.

Belle was no exception to this human rule; and her eyes sparkled as she

listened to Jim's story of that unusual prayer meeting held in the Bylow

cabin. It was Hartigan's nature always to see the humorous side of

things, and his racy description of the big man with the knife, down on

his knees with one eye on the door and the other on the Preacher, was

irresistible, much funnier than the real thing. It gave her a genuine

thrill, a woman's pleasure in his splendid physical strength.

"Sure," he said with his faint delicious brogue, "it was distasteful to

have to annoy them, but there are times when one has to do what he

doesn't like."

Then he proceeded to a graphic account of the second ruffian smelling

the palms of his hands and squinting through his fingers, praying for

grace with his lips and for a club with his heart.

"I don't know what Dr. Jebb will say," she remarked at last, "but it

seems to me we must judge by results in this case."

Hypocrite that she was! Had she not that very week denounced the

opportunist doctrine that the end justifies the means? But in her

delighted eyes and glowing interest Jim found a vast reward.

Dr. Jebb was human and discreet. He smiled and said little about the

energetic methods of his assistant; and when next Sunday Charlie Bylow

and his wife appeared in church and later joined the group on the

anxious seat, he felt that the matter was happily ended as it had oddly

begun.

Exactly four weeks after the strenuous prayer meeting word reached the

Preacher in a rather pointed way that a keg of the "pizen juice" had

arrived on the evening train and was to be carried at once to Pat

Bylow's. Hartigan mounted his racer and sped thitherward at nightfall. A

half mile from Pat's house was Charlie's, and at the door was the owner,

apparently expecting to see him--though this circumstance did not

impress Hartigan.

"Can I do anything to help?" he asked.

Hartigan shook his head, laughed lightly, and rode on. At Pat's shanty

he tied his horse to the fence, stepped to the door, knocked, and,

without waiting, went in. A woman's voice shrilled:

"Pat, here's that ---- preacher again."

There were other voices, male and female, in the lean-to kitchen. Pat

came in and glared at the intruder. There was a rising fury in his

manner, but no evidence of drink.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Well, to be frank with you," said Hartigan, "I have reason for

suspecting an unhelpful indulgence is planned here for to-night, and I

was hoping that I might persuade you to reconsider it beforehand. And

sure we don't want to get agitated, and I don't want to use language

that might sound like disapproval."

He glanced around. There was no sight of any spree in prospect. A

glimpse of the kitchen showed only the preparations for an ordinary

meal, and Hartigan wondered whether or not there had been a mistake.

Could it be that he was the butt of a practical joke?

Pat was sulkily waiting, not knowing just what to say, when voices were

heard outside and heavy steps; then the door opened and in came three

men, the first carrying under his arm a barrel-shaped bundle. The

presence of the Preacher was obviously disconcerting to the new-comers.

"Gimme that," growled Pat. He seized the keg and was marching off with

it when Hartigan strode over in front of him.

"Hold on, Pat, let me see that."

Bylow exploded into a torrent of abusive profanity. Some of those

present had been witnesses of the previous affair, and realizing what

the pastoral visit might mean, they added their voices to the uproar.

The language was emphatic rather than concise. The women, too, gave free

rein to their tongues, but their observations reflected on their male

escorts more harshly than they did on any one or anything else.

However puzzled Hartigan might be by the complexities of the female

mind, the mental processes of the unlettered male were quite familiar to

him and he showed his comprehension by a simple challenge.

"Now, boys, I don't want to seem thoughtless or indelicate, but I want

you to know that I can lick the whole bunch of you with one hand tied

behind my back and the other in a sling. Not that I have any intention

of doing it, and I apologize to the ladies for mention of the subject,

but it may help us to an understanding. If you have not yet gathered my

meaning, I will put it simpler. I am here to stop this spree before it

begins."

At this moment there was a light shuffling step outside and the door

swung back revealing the small, familiar figure of Jack Lowe. A quick,

meaning look and some sort of indistinguishable signal passed between

Lowe and Pat, whereupon the latter at once placed the keg on the table.

"How do you do, Mr. Hartigan?" said Lowe. "I think we are here for the

same purpose."

"Maybe so," said Jim dryly, "I don't know. I'm here to remove temptation

from our friends, and before I leave I mean to spill that cursed stuff

on the floor."

"You are right," said Lowe, "absolutely right. Pat, let me have that

keg," and the schoolteacher proceeded to hammer around the bung, in the

way of the orthodox bung-starter. There were murmurs and strong words,

but he went on while Hartigan stood guard. The bung came loose, he

lifted it out, and put his nostrils to the hole.

"That's the real stuff, just as it dropped from the quill. Smell that,

Mr. Hartigan. Ain't that the real magollyon? But all the same here she

goes." He tipped the keg a little and some liquor spilled out.

"See that? You get the gold? I tell you, Mr. Hartigan, that green

rot-gut is poison, but you can tell when it's real by the shine. If it

is whiskey it shines yellow like corn, if it is vitriol it shines

green." He took a glass and filled it. "See the gold, and it smells like

corn tossel." He put it to his lips. "That's what puts heart in a man,

and makes him forgive his worst enemy.

"But here she goes." He spilled a little more on the ground. Then:

"You know, Mr. Hartigan, I am wholly in sympathy with this visit of

yours, but I don't go as far as you do. I've been talking to Pat and

he's a good sport. He realizes that you put up a fine fight that other

time and that you cleaned them up single-handed. He doesn't want any

further unpleasantness, but he doesn't see what right you have to keep

him and his friends from using a moderate amount of this keg. Is that

your idea, Pat?"

"An' what's the matter with it," growled Pat. "Why shouldn't I have one

or two drinks? No man gets drunk on that."

"There you are," said Lowe, turning to Hartigan, "that's in reason. Why

not have a drink all round and then talk it over?"

Hartigan was frankly puzzled by the turn of affairs. It seemed to be an

offer of peace, after a fashion, but he could not fit Lowe into the

scheme of things. He tried to read what was going on behind the

schoolteacher's shifty eyes, but the face was a mask. At last he said:

"If these men and women," and Hartigan let his eyes travel over the

faces about him, "could have stopped with one or two drinks I wouldn't

be here now. Ye take one or two, but that is only the beginning. I know

what drink is; I've been through it all, I tell ye, and there's no

stopping if it gets the hold on ye."

"Leave it to the d--d preachers and there wouldn't be nothin' left to do

in life," said Pat with a contemptuous sneer.

"Come now," said Lowe, eager to prevent hostilities. "You wouldn't

object to liquor if nobody took too much, would you, Mr. Hartigan?"

"No," said Jim with a grim smile, "but I'm not to be taken in by the

plausibilities of the Devil. That keg is going to be emptied."

"I'm with you to the finish there," said Lowe, "but what harm is there

in filling these small glasses so"; he emptied a moderate draught into a

row of tumblers set out upon the table.

"If Pat is willing to meet you half way and see this keg emptied on the

floor, you wouldn't refuse a small drink with him in his own house,

would you?"

Hartigan hesitated. He could not convince himself that the offer was

genuine. And yet if he actually saw, with his own eyes, the keg emptied

of its contents, what trick could there be? It seemed churlish to

refuse. Suppose the offer were made in good faith, by not refusing that

which in the male code is the sign of brotherhood and equality, he might

secure an influence for good with the elder Bylow. And Lowe seemed to

sense the thought, for he said, "If you take just a taste with these men

now, all will come to hear you preach next Sunday. Won't you, boys?" And

there was a grunt of assent. "All right; it's a bargain."

Jim was actually weighing the proposition--his old craving for drink was

not by any means eradicated. The sight of the liquor and the smell

roused an appetite that only an iron will had subdued. As he stood

uncertain, debating, Lowe said, "Hold on; we're a glass short. Never

mind, I'll find one"; and he hastened back into the lean-to kitchen and

returned with a glass, which was partly concealed by his hand till it

was filled with whiskey. Then he said, "If it was 'pizen juice' I

wouldn't let any one touch it; but this is the simple clear whiskey, as

you can prove for yourself. I wish we could send this to the hospital."

He offered it to Hartigan, who smelled it. Then Lowe said, "Well, here's

to the empty keg."

The seductive liquor was potent in his nostrils, even there it had

stimulation; and Hartigan, acting on a sudden impulse, drained the

glass, as the others drank in silence.

There said Lowe, "You see it is the mildest of the mild; it wouldn't

hurt a child." And he prattled away of truth and soberness, so that the

potion should have ample freedom for its work; till the planned and

subtle mixture should have time to dethrone Hartigan's reason, blind his

spirit, and unhinge his will. The ancient fury in his hot young blood

was all too ready to be aroused. Without a word, Lowe filled the glass

again and Jim, no longer his best self, but dazed and reckless, drank

with all the rest; then soon threw all restraint aside; and in the

bacchanalian orgy that followed fast and filled the night, he was the

stable-yard rowdy once again--loud and leading--but here let the curtain

fall--draw down the thickest, blackest veil.

CHAPTER XIX

The Day of Reckoning

The sun was high next day when the door of Pat Bylow's abode was opened,

and a man entered. The scene that met his eyes is better undescribed,

but to him it gave no shock. He came expecting to see it. In his hand he

carried a tin pail. There were men and women lying about the floor. He

stepped over them toward a tall form in soiled black clothes and knelt

beside it. Pouring some water on a cloth he laid it on the pale

forehead. The prostrate man opened his eyes and groaned.

"Mr. Hartigan," said the other. "It's me. It's Charlie Bylow. Won't you

be after having a drink of water?"

Hartigan raised himself on his elbow, peered out of his bloodshot eyes,

and drank eagerly. The cup was three times emptied.

"You better come over to my shanty and go to bed," said Charlie

seriously. The Preacher groaned:

"Oh! God what have I done? What have I done?" He clutched his throbbing

brow with both hands, as he rose and shakily followed Charlie.

"Oh! fool that I am. Oh, God! Ruined. All is ruined. I wish I were

dead!" he exclaimed. "Oh! God forgive me."

As they passed the fence where Blazing Star had been hitched, Hartigan

stopped and stared. Charlie said:

"It's all right, Mr. Hartigan, I took care of him. He is in the stable."

Coming to Bylow's house, Jim passed the entrance and went on to the

stable. With trembling hands he opened the door and hesitated. He half

expected Blazing Star to spurn and disown him. He was prepared for any

and every humiliation, but the long, joyous neigh that greeted him was a

shock, and a help.

"Oh! Blazing Star, if you only knew, you would not even look at me."

Charlie took the Preacher by the arm and led him to the house.

"Here, Mr. Hartigan, take off your clothes and go to bed. I will give

you a wet towel for your head and, by and by, I will bring you some

coffee."

"Oh! God be merciful, or strike me dead," and Jim broke down in an agony

of remorse. "This is the end. All I hoped for gone. I don't want to live

now."

"Mr. Hartigan, sure now I know how you feel. Ain't I been through it?

But don't be after making plans that are rash when you ain't just

yourself. Now go to bed and rest awhile," and his kind Irish heart was

wrung as he looked on the utter degradation of the manly form before

him, and the shocking disfigurement of the one-time handsome face.

Charlie and his wife left Hartigan alone. They shut the door and Charlie

went back to his brother's shanty to help the other victims of the orgy.

Jim tossed around uneasily, winning snatches of sleep, groaning,

talking, abasing himself.

"Oh, Belle!" he moaned aloud. "Will you ever look at me again? Oh, God!

And me a preacher."

Cedar Mountain was not so big but that every one knew everybody else's

business; and Mary Bylow understood when she heard the name "Belle." But

she didn't know just what to do. After an hour she again heard him.

"Oh! Belle, Belle, what will you say?"

Taking the hot coffee from the stove, Mrs. Bylow knocked at the door and

went in.

"Take this, it will make you feel better."

She hoped he would talk, but he didn't. He only thanked her feebly. Then

Charlie came back from his brother's shanty. He had remembered that, it

being Sunday, the Preacher would be missed and he saddled his horse to

set out for Cedar Mountain. As he left, his wife came out and said:

"While you are there, drop a hint to Belle Boyd," and Charlie nodded.

Arriving at Dr. Jebb's, Charlie explained the case to the pastor without

detail:

"Sure, Mr. Hartigan had a little accident at our corner last night and

sprained his ankle. My wife is nursing him, but he won't be able to

preach to-day."

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Well, it is all right, I will take both services,"

and the blind and gentle old man turned to his books.

Then Bylow rode to the Boyd home. Here, he realized, was a much more

difficult job. But he was determined to go into no details. It was Belle

who answered his knock. Charlie began:

"My wife told me to tell you that Mr. Hartigan got hurt last night. He

is at our house. He won't be in town to-day."

"What? Did he interfere in a spree?"

"Yes."

"Is he shot?"

"No."

"Is he wounded?"

"No, not exactly."

"What is the matter?"

"Only a general shakeup, he had a bad fall," and Bylow moved uneasily.

It was a simple matter to bluff a simple old clergyman, but it was

another thing altogether to mislead an alert young woman. Belle knew

there was something wrong--something more and different from what she

had been told.

"Is the doctor with him?"

"No."

"I will get the doctor and come at once."

"No, I wouldn't; at least, not till morning."

Bylow's manner roused Belle all the more to prompt action. Seeing that

all his explanations made things worse, Charlie abruptly left, mounted

his broncho, and went "rockity rockity" as the pony's heels went "puff,

puff" on the dusty trail around the hill and away.

The doctor was not to be found that morning and Belle found it hard to

await his return. In the meantime, some strange rumour must have reached

the town for in Sunday-school Belle met Eliza Lowe, the recently arrived

sister of the schoolteacher. The look on her face, the gleam in her eye,

were unmistakable. She had not yet learned of her brother's part in the

affair. Belle found herself avoiding the sister's gaze.

As the hours passed the conviction deepened in Belle that there was

something seriously wrong; she could feel it in the air. It was

something more than an accident to Hartigan. There was the indefinable

shadow of shame about it. The oppression became unbearable and on

leaving Sunday-school, she went down to the doctor's house. He had just

got in from a case near Fort Ryan and was eating a belated meal. Belle

went straight to the point:

"Dr. Carson, I want you to take me at once to Bylow's Corner."

"Why?"

"There's something wrong. Mr. Hartigan is in serious trouble. I don't

believe that he has fallen from his horse as they say. I want to know

the truth."

Her face was pale, her mouth was set. The doctor looked keenly at her a

moment and then, comprehending, said:

"All right, I will"; and in ten minutes the mudstained buckboard with a

fresh horse in it was speeding over the foot of Cedar Mountain on the

trail to Bylow's.

* * * * *

While Belle was fretting under the delay and marshalling her forces for

the trip to the Corner, Hartigan lay in the quiet Bylow cabin and under

the influence of cold water, coffee, and a more collected mind,

gradually acquired some degree of composure. He had risen and dressed

and was sadly musing on the wreck of all his life which that one fiery

sip had brought about, when the thought of Blazing Star came to him. He

went eagerly to the stable and as he rubbed the animal down he found

help in the physical action. He hammered the currycomb on a log to clean

it before putting it in the box, then gazing to the eastward along the

trail that climbed around the shoulder of Cedar Mountain, he saw a

buckboard approaching. In the Black Hills one identifies his visitor by

his horse, and Jim recognized the Carson outfit. Sitting beside the

doctor was a woman in a light-coloured dress with a red parasol raised

above her. It smote him as no man's fist had ever done. He turned into

the stable, put saddle and bridle on Blazing Star, swung to the seat,

gave rein to the willing beast and, heading away from Cedar Mountain on

the Deadwood Trail, went bounding, riding, stricken, too hard hit and

shamed to meet the eyes of the woman whose praise he had come to value

as the best approval he might hope to win.

The doctor's buckboard came to the door, tied up, and the two occupants

went in.

"Where is your patient, Mrs. Bylow?"

The woman pointed to the bedroom door, went to it, knocked, opened it,

and finding the room empty said:

"He was here a few minutes ago. I expect he is out to the stable."

Belle sat down. The nervous strain of the past hours was telling on her.

She felt unstrung and vaguely depressed.

The doctor and Mary Bylow went to the stable. The empty stall, with no

sign of saddle, bridle, or preacher, were enough. They returned to the

house.

In answer to Belle's look the doctor made a gesture, and said simply:

"Gone."

"Where?"

The doctor shook his head and pointed northward.

"Please tell me all about it, Mrs. Bylow," said Belle.

"There is times to tell lies," said Mary naively, "but this ain't. I'll

tell you the whole truth," and she did in a quivering voice, while tears

ran from her eyes.

"Trapped, trapped," was Belle's only comment. "Where do you suppose he

went?"

"Not to Cedar Mountain," said Carson, "that's sure. No one passed us."

Charlie Bylow, coming into the cabin, heard the doctor's last comment.

"He was heading due north and going hard when last we saw him," was his

contribution.

"Dr. Carson, he's headed for Deadwood, and I'm going after him to bring

him back." Belle stood up with sudden decision. The need for action once

more present, all her strength responded.

The doctor shook his head. "I don't think you should go. You know what

all the town would say."

"You are going with me," was the answer.

"When?"

"Right now."

"Better go home first."

"And have a fight with my folks? No, no! We go now. I have an aunt in

Deadwood, you know!"

"It's forty-five miles, and we can't get there till midnight, even if my

horse holds out."

"We may overtake him before that," said Belle, though she knew quite

well they would not, for Hartigan would ride like a madman.

It had not been difficult to enlist Carson's sympathies. A sincere

friendship had sprung up between the boyish preacher and himself and

their total dissimilarity had made them congenial. Carson was amused in

his quiet way to note how exactly Belle was moving as he thought best

and surest, so now he merely added:

"Deadwood it is," and with a farewell word to the Bylows they were off.

CHAPTER XX

The Memorable Trip to Deadwood

It was a long, hard journey, and it was one o'clock in the morning

before they reached Deadwood. Every public house that could get a

license to sell liquor announced itself as a "hotel." Those few that

could not, made a virtue of their failure and flaunted a sign,

"Temperance House." The "wet houses" were on the main gulch, the "dry"

ones in off nooks, or perched on breezy hills. To the best of these

latter the doctor drove, had the luck to find the owner still on duty,

and secured a room for himself. Then they drove to the home of Belle's

aunt, Mrs. Collins. One has to take a hotel on its rules; but a relative

may be called up and inconvenienced at any time.

"Well, Auntie, it's Belle Boyd. I want you to take care of me till the

morning. I will tell you all about it later," this to the inquiring head

that emerged from an upper window. So Belle was left and the doctor went

to his hotel.

Up very early next morning, Belle went at once to the stable of the

Temperance House. Yes, there he was, Blazing Star, in all his beauty.

Then she went into the hotel and mounted guard in the little parlour.

Dr. Carson came down and was sent to sit out of doors. At length the

sound of the foot she awaited came from the stairs and she heard the

landlady say:

"There's some one in the parlour waiting for you." For a moment there

was no sound; then the footsteps approached.

Belle was at the window looking out, partly hidden by the cheap lace

curtains. As the Preacher entered, she turned fully toward him. Her back

was to the light and he did not immediately perceive her. Then with a

gasp:

"Belle!" and, sinking into a chair, he covered his face with his hands.

She went to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and stood there in

silence. The great broad shoulders began to shake under that soft touch.

There was no sound uttered for long, then, brokenly, his one refrain:

"Oh, Belle!"

She sat down beside him, and took his hand--the first time she had ever

done so--and waited in silence.

He wanted to tell her all, but found no words.

She said, "Never mind that now. Tell me what you are here for."

He tried again but in a wild, incoherent way. The sum of it all was that

he was "ruined, degraded, and lost. He would go down to the Big Cheyenne

and get a job as a cowboy."

"Now listen, Jim," she said. "You have made a bad mistake; but a man may

make one big, bad mistake and still be all right. It is the man that

goes on making a little mistake every day that is hopeless."

There was a long pause. Then she continued: "What is it you of all

people admire most in a man? Is it not courage to see things through, no

matter how black they look?"

In his then frame of mind Hartigan had expected drunkenness to be

singled out as the worst of all sins; there was a ray of comfort in this

other thought; he nodded and grunted an inarticulate assent.

"Jim, I don't doubt your courage. I know you too well, believe in you

too much. I want you to drop the idea of the Big Cheyenne. Turn right

around and go back to Cedar Mountain at once; and the sooner you get

there the easier it will be."

He shook his head, and sat as before, his face buried in his hands.

"I--cannot--do--it." He forced out the words.

"Jim Hartigan cannot--isn't brave enough?" she asked, her voice a little

tremulous with sudden emotion.

In all his life, he had never been charged with cowardice. It stung. Of

all things he most despised cowardice, and here it was, brought squarely

home to him. He writhed under the thought. There was a dead silence in

the little parlour.

Then Belle spoke: "Is this the only answer I am to have--after coming so

far?" she asked in a low voice.

Oh, blind, stupid, cowardly fool that he was! He had not thought of

that. How much was she braving for him! He was rated a man of courage

among his friends, yet now he was yielding to miserable cowardice.

Then his impulsive nature responded. He blurted out: "Belle, I will do

anything for you; I will do anything you tell me to." It was an

unconditional surrender, and the wise victor gave the honours of war to

the vanquished by changing the subject.

"Then come to breakfast," she said in a lighter tone and led him to Aunt

Collins's house, whither the doctor had already gone.

A day's rest, a forty-mile ride in the wind, a change of scene, good

friends, a buoyant disposition, a flush of youth, and Belle, absorbed in

all he did and said--who would not respond to such a concentration of

uplifting forces?

Hartigan's exuberance returned. His colour was back in his cheeks. His

eyes sparkled and his wit sparkled, too. He won the heart of Mrs.

Collins. She said he was "the beautifullest man she had ever seen." Even

John Collins, a plough- and wagon-dealer by trade, was impressed with

the mental gifts and manly appearance of the young preacher, and Belle

knew that the thing she had set out for was won.

Instead of discussing plans she announced them as if they were settled.

The doctor wished to stay a day or two in Deadwood, but that did not

suit Belle at all. She was quite clear about it. Her aunt must drive

back with her at once. The doctor and the Preacher must come, too, but

arrive a little later in Cedar Mountain. So they boarded their

buckboards, waved good-bye, and set their faces to the south.

The sun shone as it knows how in Dakota. The great pine-clad hills were

purple in the lovely morning haze as the little party left Deadwood that

day on the buffalo trail for Cedar Mountain. The doctor drove first in

his buckboard, not without misgivings, for the good horse had had little

rest since that forty-five mile drive. Next came the horseman on the

gold-red horse that men turned to look after. Last, the prairie

buckboard of the house of Collins with Aunt Anna driving and Belle at

her side.

The prairie larks sang from low perches or soared a little way in the

air to tell the world how glad they were on that bright summer morning.

The splendour of the hills was on all things, and Jim on Blazing Star

was filled with the glad tonic. For five miles they ambled along, and

when the doctor stopped at a watering place--he had been told to stop

there--the others caught up with him. Hereupon there was a readjustment,

and their next going found the Collins rig leading with Blazing Star

behind, and Belle with Hartigan in the second buckboard.

That was a drive of much consequence to two of the party. In that second

buckboard the fates laid plans, spun yarns, and rearranged many things.

Hartigan opened his heart and life. He told of his mother, of his happy

childhood; of his losses; of his flat, stale, unprofitable boyhood; of

Bill Kenna and his "word as a man"; of his own vow of abstinence, kept

unbroken till he was eighteen. He gave it all with the joyous side alone

in view, and when a pathetic incident intruded, the pathos was in the

things, not in the words of the narrator. The man had a power of

expression that would have made a great journalist. His talk was one

continuous entertainment, and lasted unbroken to the half-way house,

where they were to stay an hour for rest and food.

How sweet it is to tell one's history to a woman who takes in every word

as of large importance! How pleasant it is to confess to a keen and

sympathetic hearer. The twenty-five miles passed far too soon. It was

short, but long enough for large foundations to be laid.

Belle was only twenty-two, but hers was a wise head. Hartigan had spoken

freely about himself and thus had conferred in some large sort a right

to advise. She had deliberately constructed a new mood for his thoughts,

so that the horrors of the Bylow cabin were forgotten. The questions now

for him and for her were, how to set him right with the church, and how

begin all over again. Hartigan's idea was to go openly before the whole

congregation with a humble apology, and publicly promise to abstain from

drink forever. Belle vetoed this emphatically.

"Never rub your head in the mud," she said. "You make your peace with

God first, then with Dr. Jebb, and the deacons. Pay no attention to any

one else. There will be some talk for a while, but it will die away.

"You don't know the Black Hills as I do, Jim. People out here don't take

things quite so seriously as eastern folk. Many a western preacher

carries a flask of brandy as snakebite antidote or chill cure. Not long

ago I heard of a minister up north who was held for horse-stealing. Yes,

more than once. And how he explained it, I don't know: but he is

preaching yet. I don't mean to make light of these things, Jim, but I

want to keep you from a kind of reparation which will be more of a shock

to the people than what they now know. We must have some sense of

proportion. Since there was no public scandal, you will find that the

whole matter will be overlooked."

Belle was right; he knew she was; and later events proved it.

Most men propose when they find "the one woman"; but some don't. Many

marriages take place without any formal proposal. The man and the woman

come together and discover such sympathy, such need of each other, that

they assume much that remains unspoken. Nothing was said of love or

marriage on that journey from Deadwood, but James Hartigan and Belle

Boyd were conscious of a bond that happily and finally became complete.

Thenceforth he made no move without consulting her; thenceforth she had

no plans in which he was not more than half.

They were ten miles from Cedar Mountain when the last change was made.

Those who noted their arrival some while later saw Belle ride up the

Main Street with her aunt, and tie up at her father's door. Twenty

minutes later Hartigan rode beside the doctor's rig to his home, at the

other side of the town.

CHAPTER XXI

The Ordeal

Jim went at once to Dr. Jebb's to report. Mrs. Jebb opened the door,

greeted him with a hearty handshake, and was more than usually cordial.

Dr. Jebb was kind, but embarrassed. He offered Jim a chair and began

nervously:

"There was a rumour--there--that is--we missed you on Sunday."

Jim, with characteristic directness, said: "Doctor, I'll tell you all

about it." Just then there was a timid knock and Mrs. Jebb reappeared.

"May I be present, Jim?" she said. "I understand that you have something

to talk about, and you know, you were always my boy."

Dr. Jebb looked puzzled. Jim said: "If I can't trust you, who is there

left to trust?" And then told the story of his fall. He painted himself

not quite so black as he might have done the day before, but black

enough.

Dr. Jebb looked terribly worried and distressed. "I don't know what to

say," he kept repeating. "All my heart is with you, but my judgment

condemns you. I don't know what to say."

Then Mrs. Jebb spoke. "Now, Josiah, you know perfectly well that your

affections always were a safer guide than your judgment. There was no

bad intention on the part of the sinner--for we are all sinners--this

was just an unfortunate accident, and Jim shows in every possible way

his regret. There has been no public scandal, and so I think you had

better drop the whole thing and forget it. I know enough about Jim to

know that he has made out the worst possible case against himself."

"That may be," said Dr. Jebb, "but I fear we must bring the matter up

before the deacons, at least."

"As long as you don't make it public by bringing it before the church,"

said Mrs. Jebb, "all right."

Thus it was that Dr. Jebb sent out a notice, to such of the deacons as

he could not see personally, that a meeting was to be held at his house

that night.

In the same afternoon another interview took place in Cedar Mountain.

School-trustee Higginbotham was sitting in his office when the

schoolteacher came up the boardwalk and into the insurance office.

"Hello, Jack."

"Hello, John"; and the visitor sat down. Higginbotham glanced at him and

noticed that his face was drawn and his eyes "like holes burnt in a

blanket." His fingers trembled as he rolled a cigarette.

"Say, John," Lowe began nervously, "in case any rumour gets around that

the Preacher and I were a little reckless at Bylow's, you can contradict

it. At least there's nothing in it as far as I am concerned. I think the

Preacher must have taken some before I arrived. He showed the effects,

but not much."

"Hm," said Higginbotham. "You got there late?"

"Yes, you see we--that is, both of us--went there to stop that

spree--and we did, in a way, but things got a little mixed."

"How was that?"

"Well, I went there to help him and I did what I could for him, but they

had had some already. We spilled the keg on the floor and the fumes were

pretty strong and affected him a little. Didn't amount to much. I did

what I could. It was strong enough to affect me--unpleasantly, too. I

thought I'd just let you know in case there was anything said about it."

As soon as he was gone, Hannah appeared. Apparently, she had overheard

the conversation. "Well, did you catch on?"

"Partly; how did it strike you?"

"I think he is trying to save his own skin by dragging in the Preacher."

"I think so, too; but all the same, I won't use his story if it can be

dispensed with. The less we dig into this thing the better."

A little later the notice came from Dr. Jebb, inviting Deacon

Higginbotham to a meeting at his house that evening, for important

business. As he walked across the village Charlie Bylow stepped out from

a dark corner near Dr. Jebb's house.

"Say, Deacon," he began, "I've been waiting to see you. I know what is

on to-night. I want you to know it was a put-up job. It was the

schoolteacher worked it. The stuff was doped all right. The Preacher

went there to stop it as he did the other time, but they fooled him and

trapped him."

"Yes, I thought so," said the little deacon, "and how was it worked?"

"Well, I don't just exactly know. I haven't been on good terms with my

brother since I joined the church, so I don't go to his house any more;

but I heard some talk about its being the 'slickest thing ever.' I know

the Preacher went there to stop it and that they trapped him and that it

was Jack Lowe did it."

"Will you go before the deacons of the church and tell them that--if it

is necessary?"

"No," replied Bylow uneasily; "at least I don't want to go before any

meeting. I only know that's right; that's the way it happened; and I

don't want any one to blame Mr. Hartigan." Here Charlie abruptly ended

and went away.

Higginbotham turned back to his house. Hannah listened with the keenest

attention and then said: "It's easy to straighten it all out. I'll see

Belle and tell her to go to Jim at once and keep him from talking. You

know what he is when he gets going. He'll talk too much and spoil it

all." Thus these two loyal friends laid plans to screen him.

At Jebb's house, Higginbotham took the earliest occasion to warn Jim.

"Now don't talk. Simply answer one or two questions when asked and as

briefly as possible. 'Yes' or 'No' is enough. You know we've got to

satisfy the old Deacon Blight crowd somehow." And Jim promised to obey.

Dr. Jebb called the meeting to order and, at once, Higginbotham arose

and said: "Mr. Chairman, I think it would be better for Mr. Hartigan to

retire to another room." So Jim went out.

Dr. Jebb then gave a brief and rather halting account of a "certain

rumour reflecting on the sobriety of his assistant." Before he had more

than outlined the facts, Higginbotham jumped up:

"Dr. Jebb, you have alluded to a rumour. I call it a shameful

fabrication, with no basis in fact. I have made a thorough investigation

and am prepared, with two reliable witnesses, to prove that Mr. Hartigan

went to the Bylow cabin to prevent a disgraceful spree, as he did once

before. They had prepared by getting a keg of whiskey. This liquid sin,

if I may so call it, Mr. Hartigan spilled on the floor; unfortunately,

it was in a small, close cabin and the fumes affected his head so that

he was temporarily ill. These are the facts; and to prove them I have

two reliable witnesses. Call in Charlie Bylow and John Lowe." He looked

with a pretense of expectation toward the door; getting no response he

said: "Humph, not arrived yet. Well, we won't wait. In the meantime, I

must say that to my mind altogether too much has been made of this

accident and I am satisfied to dismiss the subject if the rest of the

deacons consent."

"No, I don't consent; I don't think we should," said Deacon Blight. "We

can't afford to have a scandal about our spiritual leader. Let's prove

it or disprove it right now."

And, acting on the majority vote, Dr. Jebb called Jim Hartigan to

appear. Dr. Jebb was supposed to be chairman, but Higginbotham was

irrepressible.

"I want to ask one or two questions," he called out; and, without

waiting for permission, he began: "Now, Mr. Hartigan, I understand that

you went to the Bylow Corner last Saturday night to prevent a whiskey

spree, as we know you have done before; that in some way the fumes of

the liquor entered your head and so overpowered you that you were ill

afterward; and that it was a painful surprise to you, as one well known

to be a teetotaller. Isn't that so?"

"Well, yes," said Jim, in some perplexity; "but it was this way----"

"Never mind the way of it," said Higginbotham emphatically. Then,

turning to the others: "I don't see that we need go any further."

"Hold on, hold on," said Deacon Blight; "I'd like to ask one or two

questions. You admit being under the influence of liquor at Bylow's?"

"Yes," was the reply.

"Were you ever under the influence of liquor before?"

"I was."

"Once, or more than once?"

"More than once," said Jim. He would have said "many times" but for a

scowl from Higginbotham.

"Oh, ho!" said the deacon. "When was that?"

"Before I was converted."

"Never since?"

"No; except last Saturday."

Here Dr. Jebb interrupted. "It seems to me that we need not follow the

subject any further than to inquire into the mental attitude of the

brother who fell into the snare. I know it is one of absolute contrition

now, especially as the affair was of the nature of an accident during

the discharge of his duty. It seems to me, therefore, that we should

accept his expression of penitence coupled with a promise to abstain so

long as he is here with us."

Jim volunteered to abstain for all time, but Higginbotham's moderate

counsels prevailed.

Deacon Blight thought that the transgressor should be suspended from

office pending a fuller investigation. Deacon Higginbotham thought that

it had already been more than fully investigated. Deacon Whaup had never

heard of the affair until this evening, but thought that Mr. Hartigan

ought to retire during further discussion.

As soon as Jim was outside, Higginbotham, fully determined to stop all

further talk, said: "Dr. Jebb, I move we accept the promise Mr. Hartigan

has given and table the whole matter. It is absurd to follow it further

in the light of what we know--making a big mountain of a very small

mole-hill."

Blight, however, didn't think so. He argued for delay and for stern

measures. Dr. Jebb put the motion and it was carried with but one

dissenting vote; and so the matter was officially closed. As they

dispersed, Dr. Jebb reminded them that the deliberations of the Board of

Deacons were to be considered strictly confidential.

And Jim went forth with strange and mixed feelings. He was grateful for

Higginbotham's determined protection and yet he would have held the

Board in higher respect if it had punished him severely. Such was the

nature of the ardent Celt.

CHAPTER XXII

The Three Religions Confront Him

Jack Shives's blacksmith shop, off the Main Street of Cedar Mountain,

was noted for two things: the sound, all-round work it turned out in the

smithy line, and the "perchers," an ever-present delegation of village

characters that sat chewing straws as they perched on the shop lumber.

Most of them came to hear old Shives talk, for Jack was a philosopher

and no subject was out of his field. Hartigan liked Shives, enjoyed the

shop with its smoke and flying sparks, and took a keen relish in the

unfettered debate that filled in the intervals between Shives's ringing

blows on the anvil.

Dr. Jebb thought himself a very up-to-date divine. He had tried to have

a sort of free discussion in his study Sunday nights after meeting, but

the restraint of parsondom was over it all. He was really a painfully

orthodox old person; all his up-to-dateness was within the covers of the

catechism, and the real thinkers kept away. Dr. Carson had better

success, but he was a bitter politician, so that all who differed from

him on national or local politics avoided his house. The blacksmith

shop, however, was open for all, and the real discussions of the village

were there. Shives had a masterful way of assuming the chairmanship, and

of doing the job well, often while pounding the anvil; sometimes an

effective punctuation of his remarks came in the hiss of hot iron thrust

in the tank, and Shives enjoyed the humour of obliterating his opponent

for the moment in a cloud of steam.

Jim Hartigan, with his genial, sociable instincts, was found in Shives's

shop more often than in the tiny room which, with the bed, table, and

books, was all he had in the way of home. Dr. Jebb was afraid to take

any large part in these deliberations. They were apt to discuss what he

considered the undiscussable foundations of the Church. But Dr. Carson

was one of the most strenuous of the debators.

"I tell you, there ain't a bit o' use o' your talking," said Shives. "If

I stick my finger in that fire, I'm a-going to get burnt and all the

prayers and repentance I can put up ain't a-going to wipe off that burn.

I've got to suffer for what I do just the same, whether I belong to

church or not."

"Sure, now," said Hartigan, "if I see your point, there is little to it.

You are talking about sin being its own punishment, which is true; but

suppose a doctor came along and by his work and skill saved you from

losing the finger altogether and in the end your finger was little the

worse and you were much the wiser--what about your theory then?"

"That is not the point. If it was the same thing, when I hurt my finger

I would only have to say, 'I repent; the Lord will take my punishment,'

and at once my finger would be restored as it was before."

"Well, that may be your Church's creed, but it isn't mine," said

Hartigan; and they wrangled till the blacksmith halted in his raking of

the coals, turned to Hartigan, and beating in the air with his coal rake

like a band leader with his baton, he said with punctuated emphasis: "My

creed tells me I must suffer for my own doings just as surely as if I

lay my finger on this anvil and hit it a crack with the hammer, and no

man can save me from that, and if you tell me that God is a wild beast

and merely wants a victim to punish, no matter who, then I want to know

where the justice comes in. There is not any greater wickedness than to

let the guilty escape, except it be to punish the innocent; and that's

the whole sum and substance of your religion, which was neatly summed up

by old Blue Horse down at Pine Ridge. After he had heard the missionary

explaining it for about the thousandth time, he said: 'Ho, me see now;

your God is my devil.'

"I tell you there's only one sum and substance of all religion that's

worth while, and that is to be a kind, decent neighbour, do your work,

and help others to do theirs. You will find that set forth, straight as

a string, in your own textbook, where it says, 'Love your neighbour as

yourself.'" And the blacksmith drew the radiant iron from the forge to

pound, pound, pound, amid the laughter that proclaimed the defeat of the

Preacher.

Hartigan was never strong on theology. At college he had neglected the

chance to learn the cut and parry in that strangest of all games, and

the puzzle for which he had no quick answer was that of the burnt

finger. In the smithy debates the answer had to be quick, or it was no

answer at all. He had lost the chance and was mortified to see the

verdict of the crowd against him.

"Jack," he said, "I want you to come to church and see how simple it all

is."

"Church. Huh! I think I see myself," said the blacksmith.

"That's not fair," said Hartigan. "You condemn church without going to

see what it is."

"Oh, I've been there a-plenty."

"When?"

"Twenty years ago."

"Oh, pshaw! It's all changed since then."

"Is it? That's a good one. I thought God's religion was unchangeable for

ever and ever. I tell you, young fellow, if you keep on working and

thinking you will wind up with a religion of common sense and kindness

which, as near as I can make out, is what the man Jesus did preach."

"Then why don't you come to hear it?" retorted Hartigan.

"Because ye don't preach it."

"That's not a fair way to put it," reiterated Hartigan.

"See here," said Shives, "I will go to church next Sunday and right

along, _if_ whenever you get off some fool statement that every one

knows is nonsense, you let me or some one get up and say, 'Now prove

that, or take it back before you go further.'"

Hartigan was worsted. He did not retreat, but he was glad of the

interruption furnished by a wild horse brought in to be shod. Here he

took the lead and showed such consummate horse sense in the handling of

the animal that the blacksmith growled, "If you'd put some of that into

your pulpit, I'd go to hear you."

As Jim mounted Blazing Star and rode away at an easy swing, all eyes

followed him, and the blacksmith growled: "'Homely in the cradle,

handsome on the horse,' they say. He must 'a' been a clock-stopper when

he was a kid. Pity to waste all that on a pulpiteer."

Later, the Preacher had a full discussion with Belle. The blacksmith had

dented Hartigan's armour in several places. Where was the justice in

punishing one being for another's sins? Even if the sufferer was

willing, it was still wicked injustice. How could repentance wipe out

the self-brought injury? These were among the puzzles. Dr. Jebb was his

natural helper, but the Preacher brought them first to Belle. She had

gone deeper and further than he had. She dreaded doctrinal discussion,

but at length said:

"Did you never hear of the transfusion of blood whereby a man may give

of his strength and, by suffering, save a friend from death? Did you

never hear of a man tottering and almost down who was found by a friend

at the right moment, helped to greater strength by mutual suffering, and

so restored to his balance before he went down to ruin?"

And the fervent answer was, "Yes, I have."

* * * * *

New vistas were opened to them by this open-hearted talk--truly

communion--and as they rode through the gray-bloomed sage they followed

still the thought. Then he waved a hand and raised his face toward Cedar

Mountain with its column seeming small against the sky.

"I want you to see it, Belle. I want you to stand there with me and know

how much it means when your spirit is just right."

She swung her horse with his and they headed for the trail. He had

talked to her about it before, but he had felt a little disappointed

that her imagination was not stirred as his had been--that the mystery

and charm, the emotional awe, so easy for his Celtic blood, had not been

conjured up in her by his words. But he still had hopes that the feeling

of the far-up shrine would weave enchantment of its own; and he told her

of the second sight that the fay of his mother's land could give if one

sang a song of the one right pitch in the glen of the "very stone."

So they rode through the sage to the trailing cedar robe and followed

upward till the upper edge of the fragrant woods was reached. There they

tied the horses and climbed on foot to the upland. The grass among the

rocks was yellow now, and high gentians seized on the rare moment to

flaunt their wondrous blue against that perfect background. A flock of

autumn birds rose up and flew on, as the climbers, reaching the Spirit

Rock, paused and turned to look out over the golden plains to the east,

over the blue hills to the north, and into the purple glow that the

waning sunlight left on all the west.

Belle rejoiced in it for its material beauty and its wealth of colour;

and Jim, shyly watching her, said:

"Sometimes as I stand by this rock pinnacle and look over the plain, I

feel as if I were an ocean rover, high up in the lookout, peering over

the rough and tumbling sea. It possesses me with more than the power of

a dream." Then, after a pause: "See, here is where the Indian boy was

sitting as he kept his fast and vigil. I wonder what he saw. Some day,

Belle, I want to take that vigil. Do you remember that the prophets of

old always did so when they sought light? I am learning that the Indian

had some light, and to-day I have done as he would do, I have brought my

sacred medicine with me." He produced a little cedar box that his father

had made. He opened it and deeply inhaled its fragrance. "That is cedar,

Belle; it carries me back to other days when, under the cedar shingles,

my mother put her arm about me and prayed that I might find the Eternal

Guide."

He took out his mother's Bible, her photograph and the daguerreotype of

his father. These were his sacred relics, and with them was a bundle of

cedar twigs to keep the fragrance ever there--to keep continually with

them the power, through smell, to conjure up those days and thoughts of

her love. Belle took them reverently and gazed at the prim old pictures;

then she looked him squarely in the eyes, intensely for a moment, like

one who looks through a veil for the first time and sees a hidden

chamber unguessed before.

"Belle," he said, and his voice was a little husky; "if I had gone on to

the Big Cheyenne that time, I would have built a fire as soon as I had

the chance and burnt all these to ashes; and then what--God only knows,

for these were the vessels of my sanctuary; this was the ark of my

covenant, with the rod that budded, the tables of the law, and the

precious incense." She laid her hand on his in silent comprehension and

he went on. "All my life I have had two natures struggling within me;

and the destroyer would have won, and had won, when you turned the rout.

If you had not come to me in Deadwood I would surely have burnt these

relics. Now you understand. I couldn't speak about it down there; but up

here it is easy. Some time I may be missing for a couple of days. Do not

worry then; it will only mean I have gone up into my mountain. I am

seeking the light that comes from prayer and fasting and vigil in a high

place."

"I know those things as words," she said. "Just as we all learned them

in Sunday-school; but you make them as real as this mountain, a part of

my very life."

He replaced the relics in their cedar box and she realized that for the

first time she had had a glimpse of the deep and spiritual quality of

his soul.

BOOK III

THE HORSE PREACHER

CHAPTER XXIII

Blazing Star

The Angel of Destiny who had special charge of Jim had listed and

measured his failings and had numbered them for drastic treatment. The

brawling spirit of his early days, the proneness to drink, the bigoted

intolerance of any other mode of thought than his own, the strange

mistake of thinking physical courage the only courage, a curious

disregard for the things of the understanding--each was the cause of

bitter suffering. Each in its kind was alloy, dross, and for each the

metal had to pass through the fires and, purified, come forth.

Hartigan's love of sport was rooted deep in his nature and Fate gave it

a long fling. It took no cruel or destructive form, nor did it possess

him as a hate; but certain things held him in passionate allegiance, so

deep and so reckless that when their fever was upon him nothing else

seemed worth a thought. And the chiefest of these was his love of

horses. A noble thing in itself, a necessary vent, perhaps, for the

untamed spirit's love of untrammelled motion but it was inwrought with

dangers. Most men in the West in Hartigan's day--as now--were by nature

horse-lovers; but never, so far as Cedar Mountain knew, had there been a

man so horse-crazy as the Rev. James Hartigan. Already, he was known as

the "Horse Preacher."

It was seldom that an animal received so much personal care as Blazing

Star; it was seldom that a steed so worthy could be found; and the

results were for all to behold. The gaunt colt of the immigrant became

the runner of Cedar Mountain, and the victory won at Fort Ryan was the

first of many ever growing in importance.

You can tell much of a man's relation to his horse when he goes to bring

him from pasture. If he tricks and drives him into a corner, and then by

sudden violence puts on the bridle, you know that he has no love, no

desire for anything but service; in return he will get poor service at

best, and no love at all. If he puts a lump of sugar in his pocket and

goes to the fence, calling his horse by name, and the horse comes

joyously as to meet a friend, and with mobile, velvet lips picks the

sugar clean from the offering palm and goes willingly to saddle and bit,

then you know that the man is a horse man, probably a horseman; by the

bond of love he holds his steed, and will get from him twice the service

and for thrice as long as any could extort with spur and whip.

"Whoa, Blazing Star, whoa", and the gold-red meteor of the prairie would

shake his mane and tail and come careering, curvetting, not direct, but

round in a brief spiral to find a period point at the hand he loved.

"Ten times," said Colonel Waller, of the Fort, "have I seen a man so

bound up in the friendship of his dog that all human ties had second

place; but never before or since have I seen a man so bonded to his

horse, or a horse so nobly answering in his kind, as Hartigan and his

Blazing Star."

The ancients had a fable of a horse and a rider so attuned--so wholly

one--that the brain of the man and the power of the horse were a single

being, a wonderful creature to whom the impossible was easy play. And

there is good foundation for the myth. Who that has ridden on the polo

field or swung the lasso behind the bounding herd, can forget the many

times when he dropped the reins and signalled to the horse only by the

gentle touch of knee, of heel, by voice, by body swing, by _wishing_

thus and so, and got response? For the horse and he were perfectly

attuned and trained--the reins superfluous. Thus, centaur-like, they

went, with more than twice the power that either by itself possessed.

Fort Ryan where the Colonel held command, was in the Indian reserve and

five miles south of Cedar Mountain. The life of the garrison was very

self-contained, but Cedar Mountain had its allurements, and there were

some entertainments where civilian and soldier met. The trail between

was a favourite drive or ride and to Hartigan it became very familiar.

There was one regular function that had a strong hold on him. It took

place every other Saturday afternoon on the parade ground, and was

called general riding exercises, but was really a "stunt show" of trick

riding. After they began to know him, the coming of Hartigan with his

horse was hailed by all with delight. The evenings of these festal days

were spent in the gymnasium, when there was an athletic programme with

great prominence given to sword play, boxing, and singlestick, in which

Hartigan was the king; and here his cup of joy was full.

"Ain't it a shame to waste all that stuff on a preacher?" was the

frequent expression of the soldiers. Though what better use they would

have made of it, was not clear.

Many a dark night Hartigan rode home from the Fort after the evening's

fun was over leaving it entirely to his horse to select the road, after

the manner of the wise horseman. In mid-August there had been one of the

typical Black Hill storms. After a month of drought, it had rained

inches in a few hours. The little Rapid Fork of the Cheyenne was a broad

flood which carried off most of its bridges, including that on the trail

to the Fort. The rain had ceased the day before, but the flood had

subsided very little by Saturday night as Hartigan mounted Blazing Star

and set out for the fortnightly affair at Fort Ryan.

The sky was still blocked with clouds and at eight o'clock it was black

dark, so Hartigan left the selection of the trail, as a matter of

course, to Blazing Star. From the time of leaving the last light in

Cedar Mountain till they drew up under the first lantern at Fort Ryan,

Hartigan never saw the horse he was riding, much less the road he was

riding on: nor had he touched the reins or given by word or pressure of

knee any signal of guidance. The night was too black for his senses, but

he knew he was committing his way to senses that were of a keener order

than his own, and he rode as a child might--without thought of fear. He

could feel it when they were going down into the canyon of the Rapid

Fork, and at the bottom of the slight descent he heard the rush of

waters, and noted that Blazing Star lowered his head and snorted softly

more than once. He heard the tap of the hoofs on the timber of the

bridge, and then they ascended and came in a little while to the lantern

at the door of the gymnasium in the barracks.

"Hello, Hartigan! Where in the world did you come from?" was the cordial

greeting of Colonel Waller.

"Where could I come from but Cedar Mountain?"

"The deuce you did."

"Why not?"

"How did you cross the creek?"

"By the bridge."

"Oh, no, you didn't."

"I surely did," said the Preacher.

"Well, you didn't, because there isn't any bridge. It all went out last

night," was the Colonel's astounding answer.

"Be that as it may," said the Preacher, "I have come here direct from

Cedar Mountain. I left at eight o'clock and here I am, arrived by the

road at eight forty-five; and I crossed the Rapid Fork of the Cheyenne

on the bridge. I didn't see it. I didn't see my horse from start to

finish. I didn't see one inch of the road; but I heard it and felt it.

Anyway, I'm here."

That night the Preacher stayed at the Fort, but he was up at daylight.

So were the officers, for they had laid bets on this matter. They came

to the little canyon, the river, and the place of the bridge; the bridge

was gone; but, yes, surely there was one long stringer left. It had been

held by the bolt at one end, and the officer charged with repairing the

bridge had swung it back into place that very afternoon, and made it

firm to serve as a footbridge, though it was barely twelve inches wide.

There, plainly written in the soft earth, was the story of the crossing.

Blazing Star had descended the bank, and had missed the narrow stringer

by a yard. He had nosed along till he found it and had crossed over on

that with the delicate poise and absolute sense of certainty that would

have been destroyed had the rider tried to give a guiding hand. And the

end would have been sure death had Hartigan not trusted to his horse so

utterly. The best of steed and man had thus begot a creature on a higher

plane--in spirit and effect the centaur of the ancient tale.

CHAPTER XXIV

Red Rover

August was advancing with everything shaping for a great local event.

The Corn Dance of the Indians to celebrate the first of the new crop was

an old festival and brought hundreds of them together. In addition, the

government had selected September fifteenth for the semi-annual issue of

the treaty money. This was a coincidence of festivals that insured a

great attendance and at all such times horse-racing was the favourite

sport.

On the Fourth of July of that year the Indians had produced an

extraordinary buckskin cayuse which, in spite of its humble origin and

raw exterior, had proved speedy enough to defeat all opposition and

capture the big purse. Interest in the opportunity for revenge had grown

every day since, and the fact that each Indian family was to get one

hundred dollars in cash, enhanced the chances of a fat purse. A winning

horse was the first need of the ranchmen and they turned at once to

Hartigan and Blazing Star. They were much taken aback to receive from

him a flat refusal to enter or to let any one else enter Blazing Star

for a race. In vain they held out great inducements, possibilities of a

huge fortune, certainly of a big lump sum down in advance, or almost any

price he chose to ask for Blazing Star.

Hartigan's reply was an emphatic "No." And that was the end of it.

There was nothing for the whites to do but find another racer. There

certainly was no such horse as they needed in all the country; had there

been, they would have known it; and those who took the matter to heart

were planning a visit to Illinois or Kentucky even, where it was simply

a matter of money to get a blooded horse that would settle the issue.

While on a long hard trip for the spiritual help of brethren in the

South, Jim was left for a day at Chadron, Nebraska, a distributing point

for settlers coming to the Platte. With the instinct born of his Western

life, Jim made for the big horse corral, which is always on the

outskirts of a prairie town and where he knew he could pass a pleasant

hour or more. It was, as usual, crowded with horses of low and middle

class degree--some old and worn, some young and raw, many extraordinary

pintos, one or two mounts above the average of size or beauty, but

nothing to secure more than passing attention.

The scene in and about the corral held a great fascination for Jim.

There were cowboys and stable hands; farmers whose horses were in the

corral or whose homes were in the prairie schooners anchored on the

plain near-by; men were coming and going, and groups of children

rollicked about the camp fire.

As Hartigan looked on, a young fellow--whose soft, slow speech and

"r"-less words were certain proof of Southern birth--led from a stable a

tall, clean-limbed horse and, flopping into the saddle with easy

carelessness, rode away. As he passed, the horse's coat of bronze and

gold fairly rippled in the sun as the perfect muscles played beneath,

and the delight that Jim got, none but a horseman would understand. As

the lad cantered away to a camping group and returned, the Preacher had

a fair view. The horse might have been twin brother to his own, and he

did not need the rider's assurance that the steed was a "Kaintucky blood

all right."

In all the Western towns an interesting custom has grown up in the

matter of registering. The chief hotel is accepted as the social centre

and clubhouse, so that a man arriving in town, whether he puts up at the

hotel or not, goes to the register and enters his name. "Never fail to

register; it may be handy to prove an alibi," has become a saying. Jim

went to the hotel with an idea. He registered, glanced over the other

names and learned that Cattleman Kyle was then in town. It was easy to

find him in a place of this size, and after a brief search Jim hailed

him boisterously from afar:

"Say, Kyle, I've found what you are looking for."

"What's that?"

"A horse. A real horse. A winner."

"What? Are you willing to sell Blazing Star?"

"No!" was the forceful answer. "Come and see."

And Kyle did see. His eye kindled as he watched the glorious creature in

the sun.

"By jinks! He's all right. He's better than Blazing Star."

"Not on your life!" said Jim, with sudden heat, "but he's what you are

after."

They walked casually up to the young rider. Kyle began:

"Say, young fellow, is that horse for sale?"

"Yo' the fo'th pah'ty to-day to ask that," was the softly cooed answer.

"No, he ain't fo' sale."

"Looks to me like a Kentucky blood," said Kyle. "Are you going to keep

him in this country or ride him back?"

"Wall, I'm h'yah to stay, and I guess he stays with me."

"What are you going to feed him on? You can't get timothy or beans or

oats out here. He couldn't keep up on prairie hay; and, if you did try

it, he'd get the loco weed."

This was a good shot and the rider had no ready answer, so Kyle

continued. "How old is he?"

"Fo' last spring and sound as a bell; hasn't a fault," was the reply.

"Why don't you swap him for something that can stand the country?" said

Kyle. Then, as the Southerner did not reply, Kyle continued: "I'll give

you two steady young saddle horses raised in the country and proof

against pinkeye and loco weed."

"If you add about a thousand dollars, I might consider it," was the

response.

That was the beginning of bargaining, and the end was that the

Kentuckian got two native saddle horses and two hundred and fifty

dollars cash. Cattleman Kyle got the beautiful Red Rover and Jim

Hartigan experienced just a twinge of jealousy as he saw the new

champion and heard his praises sung. Kyle's intention had been to keep

Red Rover and rejoice in the beauty and power of the new possession; but

the problem of how to win the next race made every other consideration

secondary.

It is well known that a skilful trainer can knock twenty-five seconds

off a horse's mile time; or even more, if he can be trained on clean

oats and timothy hay. There were oats, hay and skilful trainers in the

cavalry barracks at Fort Ryan. There were none of these things at Kyle's

ranch on the Big Cheyenne; hence, after much debate, Red Rover was

transferred, without profit or loss, to Captain Wayne and was

thenceforth the central figure and chiefest hope of the Fort Ryan

stables.

Naturally, one of the first things to be done was to get a gauge on Red

Rover's speed by a race with Blazing Star. It was only a race "for fun,"

and Jim gave his place to a lighter man; but he watched with an

eagerness not easily expressed in words, and his heart swelled with

joy--yes, into his very throat--when it was made clear, that, while Red

Rover was good, Blazing Star was better.

All these things were events of the first magnitude to the horseman's

world that centred at Fort Ryan. The love of horses is common to most

men, but it is dominant in the West, and rampant in the mounted soldier.

The general interest of officers and men grew into a very keen and

personal interest as the training went on, and touched fever heat when

it was definitely announced that on Treaty Day, September fifteenth,

there was to be a race for a purse of one hundred dollars, as a nominal

consideration, and betting to any extent on the side. Meanwhile, word

was sent to the Pine Ridge Agency that the whites were not discouraged

by their defeat in July, but would come again with their horse in the

Corn Feast time for a new race.

Then, one fine morning in early August, a long procession of Indians

appeared on the hills, singing their marching songs, trailing their

travois and tepee poles. They set up their camp not far from Fort Ryan;

and soon, Red Cloud, with a few who were near him, rode in to call on

Colonel Waller. The latter received them on the piazza of his quarters,

and, after a smoke, learned that they had come to accept the challenge

to race their horses. When and where should it be? It was arranged that

on the fifteenth of September they should meet at Fort Ryan, and that

the race should come off on the two-mile course at the Fort. After

smokes, compliments and the exchange of some presents, Red Cloud

withdrew to his camp.

The following day, as his trainer was putting Red Rover through his

paces around the course, there was a group of Indians on their horses at

the racetrack; silent, attentive, watching every move. At dawn, the day

after, the sentry reported that a band of mounted Indians were on the

racetrack. From his window the Colonel watched them through a telescope.

He saw them studying the ground; and then a naked youth, on a spirited

buckskin, galloped round. It was easy for the Colonel to note the time

by his stop-watch and thus have a rough idea of the pony's flat speed on

the two miles. He was not surprised one way or the other. The time was

considerably over four minutes, which merely proved it to be an

ordinarily good horse. But, of course, he knew nothing of the handling;

was this top speed? or was the driver holding the horse in? In ten

minutes the Indians were gone.

The next day, a party rode out from Cedar Mountain to see the Indian

camp; and, leading the light-hearted procession, were Belle Boyd on her

pony and the Preacher on Blazing Star. It was not easy to see Red Cloud.

He was much wrapped up in his dignity and declined to receive any one

under the rank of "Soldier High Chief" (Colonel). But they found much to

interest them in the Sioux camp, and at length, were rewarded by seeing

the war chief come forth, mount his horse, and ride, with others, toward

the Fort. Turning aside, at the racetrack, Belle and Jim saw Red Rover

come forth for his morning spin. The Red men drifted to the starting

point, and just as the racer went away an Indian boy on a buckskin

broncho dashed alongside and kept there round the track. Whether it was

a race or not no one could say, for each rider was jockeying, not

willing to win or lose, and it had the appearance of a prearranged dead

heat. One of the officers called out: "Say, boys, that's their same old

buckskin cayuse. What do you make of it?"

It was the white jockey who replied: "If that's their speeder, it's a

cinch. I could have run away at any time."

A senior officer spoke up: "I kept tabs on it, and it's just the same

time practically as the Colonel took on his stop watch yesterday. We've

got them this time."

What the Indians learned was not revealed. But, next morning, Red Cloud

called upon the Colonel. He smoked a long while before he made clear

what he was after. "Did the Colonel want a fair race, or not?"

"Why certainly a fair race."

"Then send to Red Cloud a load of the white man's grass that has a tail

like a rat; and give him also some of the long white seed, a pile as

high as a man's knees, so that the pony might eat and be strong, and

make good race."

The Colonel's eyes twinkled. "Ho, ho!" he thought, "the crafty old

villain has been learning something."

Now though the Colonel of a frontier post has ample power, it would have

been very unwise of him to sell any stores to the Indian; he might,

however, without risk of censure, have given him the asked-for supply,

had he deemed it advisable. But why should he help the enemy's horse? So

he shook his head and said he was "not allowed to sell government

stores." And Red Cloud turned away, with an expression of scorn.

The next day, a minor chief tried to buy some oats from the stable man;

but, being refused, went off in silence; and, two days later, the Indian

Camp was gone.

The news soon spread abroad that the famous buckskin cayuse had been up

to go over the track, and that Red Rover had played with him. "It was a

cinch," they could win any money they liked; and then the betting became

crazy. The Indians have no idea of anything but an even bet, but that

was good enough. The day of the race there were to be fifty thousand

government dollars distributed among them; and every white man, soldier

or civilian, who could raise a little cash, was putting it up on a

certainty of doubling.

The days and all they held were a terrible strain on Jim Hartigan. How

he itched to be in it! Not once, but many times, he rode to Fort Ryan to

see Red Rover training; and more than once he rode around the track to

pace the Rover. His face, his very soul, glowed as he watched the noble

animal, neck and neck with his own fair steed. "The only horse that ever

had made Blazing Star let out."

Then, near the end, in very pride--he could not help it--he put Blazing

Star to it and let them see that while Red Rover might be good, he was

only second best after all.

"It wasn't racing," he explained to Belle, "it was just speeding up a

little. Sure, I want the white man's horse to win over that Indian pony.

It would never do to have the broncho win."

There seemed no probability of that; but there was one group of

interested white men who were not quite so satisfied. Cattleman Kyle and

all the ranchers on the Cheyenne wanted a sure thing; and there was no

way to make sure, but by a trial race that was a real race. So they used

the old-time trick of the white man who wishes to get ahead of the

Indian: they hired another Indian to help them.

There had always been war and hatred between the Crows and the Sioux.

The war was over for the present; but the Crows were very ready to help

any one against their former enemies. Enlisted by the ranchers the Crow

spies reported that the Sioux were training their horse not ten miles

away in a secluded secret canyon of the Yellowbank, a tributary of the

Cheyenne River. And thither by night, with all possible secrecy, went

Kyle with a dozen more. Among them was Hartigan. Why? Partly because

they wanted him along, for his knowledge of horses and jockeys, and

chiefly because he himself was mad to go, when he heard of it. The whole

colour of the adventure, the mere fact of its being an adventure, were

overpowering to his untamed twenty-five-year-old spirit.

They hid their horses in a distant valley; then, in the early dawn, they

followed their dusky guide to a little butte, where they made themselves

as comfortable as possible to await the sunrise.

"Well," said Jim, "considering I'm freezing to death an' mortal hungry,

and sitting on a bunch of cactus, and playing pick-pocket with another

man's secrets and ashamed of myself, I'm having a divil of a fine time!"

And they chattered and their teeth chattered, till a dog barked far

below, and they heard the coyotes singing back their long soft call; and

in the growing light they discovered an Indian tepee, with smoke issuing

from the vent hole. Near by was a rude corral. The smoke increased--then

grew less; soon sparks flew out; the light in the sky grew brighter; the

music of the coyotes died away; and, in a little while, the glory of the

sun was over the world.

Now they saw an old woman go forth to the corral and, following her, a

youth. Unfastening the rude gate, they entered; and the boy presently

rode forth on a beautiful buckskin pony, well made and spirited. Yes,

the very same one they had seen on the race track at Fort Ryan. They saw

him ridden to water; then, after a short canter, back to the corral.

Here they watched the old woman rub and scrub him down from head to

foot, while the boy brought in a truss of very good-looking hay from

some hidden supply. The old woman went carefully over the bundle,

throwing away portions of it. "She throw away all bad medicine plants,"

said the Crow. After half an hour, another Indian came forth from the

lodge and brought a bag of something for the pony. They could not see

what it was, but the Crow Indian said it was "white man's corn, the

little sharp kind that makes a horse's legs move very fast."

"Bedad, there's no mistaking that," said Hartigan; "they're training on

oats; an' that hay is too green for prairie grass and not green enough

for alfalfa. I wonder if they haven't managed to get some timothy for

their 'hope of the race!'"

The first important fact was that the cattlemen had discovered the

training ground of the Indian racer; the second that the Red men were

neglecting nothing that could help them to win. Now to be a complete

story of a good scouting, these watchers should have stayed there all

day, to see what the Indian methods were; but that would have been a

slow job. They were too impatient to wait. It was clear, anyway, that

the redskins had adopted all they could learn from the whites, and that

the buckskin cayuse was no mean antagonist. The Crow scout assured them

that every morning, an hour or so after eating, the pony was raced up to

"that butte, round and back here. Then, by and by, sun low, go again."

So, fully informed, the white spies retired; sneaked back to their

horses and in less than two hours were at Fort Ryan.

"Well, Colonel, we sure saw the whole thing," said Hartigan. "They are

not taking any chances on it. 'Tisn't much of a stable--nary a shingle

overhead--but they're surely training that buckskin; and it's

hand-picked hay they give him and sandpapered oats, worth gold; and they

don't neglect his coat; and by the same token it's out for a race they

are."

And now Kyle unfolded his plan to the Colonel. It was nothing less than

this: to send a half-breed trader to the Indian training camp with a

supply of whiskey, play on the weakness of the Red man till man, woman

and boy, and others if there were any, were stupid drunk; then have Red

Rover brought secretly, and at dawn, take the buckskin out of the

corral, put a jockey on each, develop the best speed of both horses

around the Indian training track, and so get an absolute gauge to guide

the betting.

At first, the Colonel demurred. "Was it quite honourable?"

"Why not? Didn't they come and run their horse against ours in a trial,

right here on the garrison track, without asking our leave? We are not

going to hurt the pony in any way."

The temptation was too much for human nature. The Colonel finally

agreed; and all that was needed was the working out of details. Hartigan

was eager to be one of the jockeys. "Sure it wasn't a real race in the

sense that stakes were up." The Colonel shook his head. "If you were

about one hundred pounds lighter we'd be glad to have you, but one

hundred and eighty pounds is too much for any horse."

It was no easy matter to get the right weight. The cavalrymen were all

too heavy; but an odd character had turned up, the second son of an

English baronet, a dissipated youth, barely a hundred pounds in weight;

an agglomeration of most weak vices, but thin, tough, and a born and

trained horseman. He was selected for one, and Little Breeches, a cowboy

of diminutive proportions, for the other. All the material was now in

sight for the scheme.

CHAPTER XXV

The Secret of Yellowbank Canyon

Lou Chamreau was of French and Indian blood, chiefly Crow Indian. For

twenty years he had been trading out of Pierre, Dakota, among the

western tribes. He spoke French and Crow perfectly, he knew a little

Sioux, and he was quite proficient in the universal Sign Language. Lou

had lost money on the July horse-race, and was quite ready to play the

white man's game.

On a certain afternoon in the latter part of August the trader might

have been seen driving a very rickety wagon along the rough trail

through the Badlands twenty miles to the eastward of Fort Ryan. Much

hard luck had pursued him, if one might judge by the appearance of his

outfit and from his story. In his extremity his teamster had left him

and he was travelling alone. It was just as he reached the

boulder-strewn descent into Yellowbank Creek that the climax came. The

wagon upset and, falling some twenty feet, was lodged between the

cutbanks in very bad shape. The horses were saved though the giving way

of the harness; and having hobbled and turned them out to graze, Lou

mounted a butte to seek for sign of help.

The sun was low in the west now; and across the glowing sky he noted a

thread of smoke. Within a few minutes it had been his guide to an Indian

tepee--a solitary tepee in this lone and little-known canyon of the

Yellowbank--and entering, he recognized an old acquaintance. After

sitting and smoking, he told of his troubles and asked the Red man to

come and help get the wagon out of the gully.

The Indian made the signs: "Yes, at sunrise."

Chamreau smoked for a time, then said: "I'm afraid I'll lose the 'fire

water' in that keg. It may be leaking under the wagon." To which the

Sioux warrior said:

"Let us go now."

The keg was found intact, and to obviate all risk, was brought to the

Indian camp. Chamreau deferred opening it as long as he could, so that

it was midnight before the "Cowboy's delight" was handed round, and by

three or four in the morning the camp was sunken in a deadly stupor.

According to the plan, Chamreau was to take a brand from the lodge and,

in the black night outside, make a vivid zigzag in the air a few times,

when his plot was obviously a success. But he became so deeply

interested in giving realism to his own share of the spree that he

forgot about everything else, and the rest of the scheme was omitted, so

far as he was concerned.

But with the dim dawn there arrived in camp a couple of horsemen, one an

Indian. The camp was dead. With the exception of a dog at the doorway

and a horse in the corral, there was none to note their arrival. The dog

growled, barked and sneaked aside. The Crow Indian hurled a stone with

such accuracy that the dog accepted the arrivals as lawful, and sat

down, afar off, to think it over.

The inmates of the lodge; man, woman, boy and Chamreau, were insensible

and would evidently remain so for many hours. The Crow Indian and Kyle

took brands from the fire and made vivid lightnings in the air. Within

ten minutes, a group of horsemen came trampling down the slope and up

the pleasant valley of the Yellowbank.

It was not without some twinges of conscience that Hartigan peeped into

the lodge to see the utterly degrading stupefaction of the poison, but

he was alone in feeling anything like regret. The rest of the party were

given over to wild hilarity. At once, they made for the corral. Yes,

there he was, really a fine animal, the buckskin cayuse that had proved

so important. And there, carefully protected, was a lot of baled timothy

hay and fine oats, brought there at great cost. It is not often that a

lot of jockeys and horsemen are so careful of the enemy's mount. They

handled that buckskin as if he had been made of glass, they watered him,

they groomed him, they gave him a light feed and walked him gently up

and down. Then, as the sun rose, he was taken for a short canter.

"He's pretty good," said the jockey as they came in, "but nothing

wonderful that I can see."

Meanwhile, Red Rover was also watered, fed, rubbed down, limbered up,

and after every loving, horse-wise care was spent on both animals, the

jockeys were given their mounts and headed for the starting point on the

two-mile course.

First they ambled easily around the track to study the ground. They

started together and ran neck and neck for a quarter of a mile, then

pulled rein, as this was a mere warm-up. Then they returned to the

starting post, and the cowboy jockey on the buckskin said: "Well, boys,

he's a good bronk, but I don't seem to feel any blood in him."

At the signal, they went off together, and behind them Captain Wayne,

the Preacher, and a dozen more white men who were interested. These

onlookers dropped behind as the racers went at high speed, but the view

was clear, even when afar. The tall sorrel horse was a little ahead, but

the buckskin displayed surprising power and speed. At the turning point

he was very little behind. And now, on the home run, was to be the real

trial. Would the bottom of the prairie pony overmatch the legs of the

blooded horse?

The spectators were assembled at the place half way down, to meet them

coming back, and follow close behind. It grew very exciting as both

horses developed their best speed, and as they came to the winning post,

it was clear to all that the buckskin had no chance in a fair race with

Red Rover. It was incidentally clear to Hartigan, and those near by,

that Red Rover had no chance against Blazing Star, even though the

latter bore a heavy load; but that was not the point of general

interest.

The serious business happily done, they tenderly groomed the buckskin

and returned him to the corral, gave him a good supply of hay and said

good-bye to the drunken Indians, the two-faced Chamreau, and the

glorious Yellowbank, with its lonely lodge, its strange corral and its

growlsome Indian dog.

CHAPTER XXVI

Preparing For the Day

They were a merry lot that galloped back to Fort Ryan that morning, and

a still merrier crowd that gathered at Cedar Mountain, when it was

whispered about that in a fair and square try-out the buckskin cayuse

was badly beaten by Red Rover. The white men had a dead sure thing. "Now

is the time, boys, most anything you like, raise money anyhow, you can't

go wrong on this. We've got the wily Red men skinned. Now we'll get our

money back and more." "Of course it's fair, anything's fair to get ahead

on a horse race." And as the tale was whispered round, it grew until it

would seem that Red Rover had cantered in, while the buckskin strained

himself to keep within a couple of hundred yards of the racer.

So the gossip went and one serious thing resulted: the training

slackened. Why bother when the horse was going to have a walk-over? The

Colonel was too much engrossed with other matters to do more than give

good advice. The trainer's laxity pervaded those about him, and Red

Rover was let down with all the rest. When they ran out of baled timothy

the shortage was not revealed till it occurred. This meant a week's

delay. The trainer, going to Cedar Mountain on a celebration, left an

underling in charge who knew no better than to stuff the horse with

alfalfa for a change, and a slight cold was the result. What the Colonel

said when he heard of it was not couched in departmental phraseology.

Gambling has always been a racial sin of the Indian. He did not drink or

horse-race or torture pioneers till the white man taught him; but gamble

he always did. And under the stimulus of great excitement and new stakes

the habit became a craze. Within a few days, Red Cloud appeared at the

Fort with a great retinue, a whole village complete when they camped,

and announced that he and his people had some fifty thousand dollars in

sight to stake on the race; which, of course, was to be a scratch race

for both. The soldiers, being very human, raised all they could--and

much that they couldn't, really--to cover this handsome sum. Red Cloud

then returned to his camp.

The next day he was back to say that, in case the whites had no more

money to bet, the Indians were willing to bet horses and saddles, goods,

etc., and thereupon a new craze possessed them. A government plough was

wagered against a settler's looking-glass, a hen and her chickens

against a buffalo robe, and many another odd combination. The Indians

seemed to go wild on the issue. At last the U. S. Indian Agent came to

the Colonel to protest.

"Colonel, I can manage these people all right if they are let alone, but

this horse race and the betting are upsetting everything. I suppose you

have a dead sure thing or you wouldn't be so reckless, but you are

making awful trouble for every one else, and I wish you'd put on the

brakes."

The Colonel either could not, or would not; for the excitement grew as

the day came near. As a last effort the Indian agent, one of the few who

were conscientiously doing their best for the Indians, went to Red Cloud

to protest and warn him that the whites were laying a trap for him and

his people and would clean them out of everything.

Red Cloud's eyes twinkled as he said: "Yes, they always do."

"I mean on the horse race; they will skin you; don't you know they've

had your horse out in a trial race with theirs, and that it's no race at

all?"

Again the Chief's eyes lighted up. He gave a little grunt and said.

"Mebbe so."

Hartigan suffered all the agonies of crucified instincts in this

excitement. He longed to be in everything, to bet and forecast and play

the game with them all. What would he not have given to be the selected

jockey, to smell the hot saddle every day, to hear the sweet squeak of

the leather or feel the mighty shoulder play of the noble racing beast

beneath him. But such things were not for him. He was shut in, as never

monk was held, from earthly joy; not by material bars and walls, but by

his duty to the Church, by his word as a man, by the influence of Belle.

She trembled in her thought for him at times, his racing blood was so

strong. She often rode by his side to Fort Ryan and watched him as he

looked on at the training of the Rover. His every remark was a comment

of the connoisseur. "Look at that, look at that, Belle. That's right, he

stopped to change his feet. He's a jockey all right. He ought not to do

that tap-tapping with the quirt--the horse doesn't understand it, it

worries him. I don't like to see a man knee-pinch a horse in that way;

it tells on a two-mile run. He's heavy-handed on the reins; some horses

need it, but not that one," and so on without pause.

Never once did his conversation turn on the Church or its work; and

Belle was puzzled and uneasy. Then, one day when she and Hartigan were

to have ridden out, he sent a note to say that he was in trouble.

Blazing Star was hurt. Belle went at once to the stable and there she

found the Preacher on his knees, in an armless old undershirt, rubbing

linament on to some slight bump on Blazing Star's nigh hock. A sculptor

would have paused to gaze at the great splendid arms--clean and white

and muscled like Theseus--massive, supple, and quick. Hartigan was very

serious.

"I don't know just what it is, Belle; it looks like a puff, but it may

be only a sting or a bot. Anyway, I'm afraid it's rest for a week it

means," and he rubbed and rubbed the embrocation in with force, while

Blazing Star looked back with liquid eyes.

This seemed like a misfortune, but it proved a blessing, for it kept

Hartigan out of the racing crowd for a week at a time when he was

skating on ice that was very, very thin.

As Saturday came, the Rev. Dr. Jebb received an unexpected call from a

very regular caller--the Rev. James Hartigan--to ask if Dr. Jebb would

kindly take both sermons on Sunday next. Blazing Star had a puff on his

nigh hock, inside, a little above the leg-wart; it might not amount to

much, but it required a good deal of attention every few hours, both day

and night, to prevent the possibility of its becoming serious from

neglect.

CHAPTER XXVII

The Start

September came, with all the multiplied glories of the Black

Hills--calm, beautiful weather in a calm and beautiful country. For days

back, there had been long strings of Indians, with their families and

camp outfits, moving down the trail between the hills, bound all for the

great raceground at Fort Ryan. Lodges were set up every day. Each of the

half-dozen tribes formed its own group. Ranchmen came riding in,

followed by prairie schooners or round-up wagons, for their camps;

motley nondescripts from Deadwood and places round about. There were

even folk from Bismarck and Pierre and, of course, all Cedar Mountain

and the soldiers from the Fort.

"Sure, I didn't know there _were_ so many people," was Hartigan's remark

to Belle, as they rode on the morning of the fifteenth about the camp

with its different kinds of life. Then, after a long pause and gaze

around, he added, in self-examining tone: "Faith, Belle, it seems to me

that, being a Preacher, I ought to get up and denounce the whole thing,

preach right now and evermore against it, and do all I can to stop it,

but--heaven help me if I am a hypocrite--I don't feel that way at all; I

just love it, I love to see all these people here, I love to see the

horses, and I wouldn't miss that race if it were the last thing on earth

I was to look on. Oh, I haven't been betting, Belle," he hastened to

explain as he saw the look of dread on her face. "I've kept clear of it

all, but God only knows what it means to me."

"Never fear, Belle," he went on, "I won't ride in a race, I won't bet;

I've given my word."

"Oh, Jim, you are a riddle; you are not one, you are two men; and they

fight the whole time. But I know the wiser one is winning and I think

the best friend you ever had was that big fellow that threatened you

with the 'bone-rot' if ever you broke your word. I believe in you more

and more," and impulsively she laid her hand on his with a warmth that

provoked such instant response that she smote her horse and swung

away--fearful of a situation for which she was not ready.

At three o'clock, an officer from the Fort rode over to Red Cloud's

lodge and notified him that in one hour the race was to begin. The

War-chief grunted.

At four, the crowd was dense around the track, and the country near

seemed quite deserted. Near the starting post, which was also the

finish, were a huge crowd and a small army of mounted men. Suddenly

shots were heard, and a great shout went up from the Indian camp; then

forth came Red Cloud, in all his war paint and eagle feathers, followed

by other warriors; and carefully led in the middle of the procession was

the famous buckskin cayuse, sleek, clean-limbed, but decorated with

eagle feathers in mane and tail, with furry danglers on his fetlocks and

a large red hand painted on each shoulder and hip. He had no saddle and

was led with an ordinary hackima of hair rope around his lower jaw. He

walked alertly and proudly, but showed no unusual evidence of pace or

fire.

Then a cannon boomed at the Fort, and from the gate there issued another

procession, soldiers chiefly, following their Colonel. First among them

came a bugler, the officers, then next a trooper, leading the white

hope--the precious Red Rover. His groomed and glossy coat was shining in

the sun; his life and power were shown in every movement as he pranced

at times, in spite of the continual restraint of his trainer, who was

leading him. On the other side, rode Peaches, the little English jockey.

It was a bitter pill to the Americans that they should have to trust

their fortunes to an English rider, but all their men were too heavy,

except Little Breeches, and, he, alas, had fallen into the hands of the

whiskey mongers. The ladies of the garrison rode close behind; and last,

came the regimental band, in full thump and blare. As they neared the

starting post, the band was hushed and the bugle blew a fanfare; then,

with the Colonel leading, the racer was taken to the starting post.

Red Cloud was there calmly waiting with his counsellors and braves and

the buckskin cayuse.

"Are you ready?" shouted Colonel Waller.

"Ho," said Red Cloud, and with an imperious wave of his hand he

indicated "Go ahead!"

The light racing pad was put on Red Rover, the jockey mounted and rode

him at a canter for a hundred yards and back, amid an outburst of

applause as the splendid creature showed his pace. Then the groom

approached and tightened the cinch.

The buckskin cayuse was brought to the front. Red Cloud made a gesture.

A sixteen-year-old boy, armed with a quirt, appeared; an Indian gave him

a leg up, and, naked to the breech clout on the naked horse, he sat like

a statue. Jim got a strange thrill as he recognized him for the

vigil-keeper of Cedar Mountain.

"Well," grumbled the Colonel, as he noted the jockey, "that's a

twenty-five pound handicap on us, but I guess we can stand it." Yet,

when they saw the two horses together, there was less disparity in size

than they had supposed. But there was something about the buckskin that

caught Hartigan's eye and made him remark: "It isn't going to be such a

walk-over as our fellows think." And the trainer of Red Rover, as he

noted the round barrel, clean limbs, and flaring nostrils of the

buckskin, had for a moment just a guilty twinge as he recalled how lax

he had been in the training after that run at Yellowbank Canyon.

But all was ready. The white men won the toss for choice and got the

inside track; not that it mattered very much, except at the turn. The

crowd was sent back to the lines, the riders held the racers to the

scratch and, at a pistol crack, they bounded away.

Those that expected to see something spectacular at the start were

disappointed. The English jockey leaned forward, touched Red Rover with

his whip, and alongside the Indian boy on the buckskin did the very same

thing. The Indian boy smiled and the Englishman responded, but in a

superior way. He felt it was almost unfair to run against such a child,

and in such a race, which wasn't a real race at all, in spite of the

heavy stakes.

Thus they rode side by side at a good pace for half a mile, during which

the buckskin drifted behind a little, now a length, now a length and a

half. Next the copper-coloured jockey touched him up and, before the

white man knew it, the bounding buckskin closed again and came right up,

but now on the inside track. If the Englishman had not felt so

confident, he would have stopped this well-known trick. It might not

have been easy, since there were no lines or posts except the turning

point, but it could have been prevented by deft man[oe]uvring. However,

the Indian was now abreast on the inside and as the Englishman watched

him he concluded that this child of nature was not so simple as he

looked. He comforted himself with the thought that the other would need

all he could get out of jockeying.

CHAPTER XXVIII

The Finish

The first mile was covered in good, but not remarkable time. Then they

came to the turning point. There was just the chance of changing places

here, for the inner horse had the disadvantage of the sharper turn, but

the Indian boy made sure by dropping back a half length and the turn was

made without a reverse. After them now with shouts of joy went all the

mounted men who had been waiting and rode in a thundering charge,

yelling and cheering. The white jockey knew now that he was not dealing

with a fool. The red boy, though not so well mounted, was just as good a

rider as himself, and twenty pounds lighter, besides being without

leathers, which raised the handicap to fully twenty-five pounds. In that

first half mile on the home stretch the buckskin still was head and neck

behind. Then the riders put forth all their skill and each did his best

to call forth every ounce of strength and every spurt of speed in his

mount.

The Indian boy let off his native yell and cried: "Ho,

Huya--Huya--Huya!" and the keen quirt flashed and the buckskin flew.

"Ho, Rover! good boy, git, git!" and the white man smote the shining

flank; and both the noble brutes responded as they had not done before.

The sense of play was gone. It was now the real and desperate race. The

gazing thousands ranged about knew that, and the mingled roar of all

their voices rose to a mighty booming sound.

"Ho, Rover! Run, boy, run!"

"Huya, Shunguna, Ho! Ho! Yeh! Yeh! Yeh!" and the redskin rider smote

hard those heaving flanks.

Flash, flash, those shadowy hoofs; thud, thud, upon the plain; the

buckskin's neck forged slowly on, now lapped the red-gold shoulder of

his foe. The redskin shrieked, the riding mob behind gave voice and rode

like madmen. The racers plunged and plunged, the riders lay down almost

to their necks, plying their quirts and shouting words of urge.

The buckskin still won inches on the race, but the Rover led. The last,

the final furlong was at hand. The riders yelled, the rabble yelled,

guns were fired in mad excitement, and all restraint was gone. It was

win--win--burst--die--but _win_! And never jockeys harder rode and never

horses better ran; the test was fair. Red Rover did his best, yet his

rival's legs in that last spurt moved as a rabbit's legs, a maze of

shadowy pounding limbs, and--sickening sight--the buckskin with the

copper rider forged still more ahead--a neck, half a length ahead--and

the race was _won_.

* * * * *

Peaches was in tears. "Colonel," he said, in a broken voice, "it was

that twenty-five pound handicap did it; it wasn't fair."

The Colonel growled something about "a lot of fools to let up on the

training after that Yellowbank trial."

Hartigan was standing near; gloomy, but not so gloomy as the rest; and

when there came a chance to be heard, he said: "Colonel, once I see a

horse close to, in fair daylight, I can always remember him afterward.

I've been looking over their buckskin cayuse, and it's _not the same

one_ we raced in the Yellowbank."

The Colonel turned quickly around. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely certain," was the answer.

"My goodness--you are right. I distrusted the whole business from the

start. You are right; they fooled us on a stool-pigeon; this whole thing

was a put-up job. The simple Red man!"

* * * * *

The "perchers" were gathered at the blacksmith shop next afternoon.

"Well," said Shives, "I've done fifteen dollars' worth of work to-day

and haven't taken in a cent." The audience grunted and he went on.

"Every tap of it was for broken-down bums trying to get out of

town--skinned by the simple Red man. Horses shod, tires set, bolts

fixed, all kinds of cripplements. All they want is help to get out, get

out; at any price get out. Well, it'll do you good, the whole caboodle

of ye. Ye started out to do, and got done--everlastingly soaked." The

blacksmith chuckled. "Serve you all right. I'm glad ye got it."

As Hartigan appeared, swinging a big stick and singing "The Wearing of

the Green," Shives asked: "Well, Jim, how much did you lose?"

"Nothing," sang Hartigan cheerfully; "I don't bet"; and he went on

singing, "'Tis the most distressful country this that ever yet was

seen."

"Lucky dog! All the sports round this neck o' the woods are ruined. They

say no gentleman will bet on a sure thing. H'm, maybe not. Well,

fellows, cheer up; no man ever yet was made, until he had been ruined a

couple of times; and all I hope is that the Reds will get up another

race and soak ye to the limit. Then maybe some o' ye will brace up and

be men; but I dunno."

"Guess they've soaked us to the limit now," was the general voice of

those assembled.

Poor Higginbotham had gone in rather strong for him, in spite of his

wife, and there was no blue sky in his world, or prospect of it.

Then they turned on Hartigan, who was going through the movements of

singlestick, on the open floor. "Was he white, or wasn't he? How could

he stand by and see the whole settlement skinned alive by Red Injins

when he had the game in his own hands? Why didn't he enter Blazing Star?

He didn't seem to take much interest in the affair, probably he wanted

the Red skins to win." The jibe stung Jim to the quick; he ceased his

exuberant exercise; the song died on his lips, and he strode away in

silence.

CHAPTER XXIX

The Riders

It is the continual boast of the cowboys that they are the best riders

on earth. It is the continual boast also of Cossack, Boer, Australian,

Gaucho, and all who live on and by the horse. And when we sift the claim

of each of those named we find that it is founded wholly on this, that

they can sit on the back of any steed, however wild, and defy all its

efforts to dislodge them. All their standards are designed to show the

power of the man to overpower the horse. But there is one very large

consideration that seems not to enter their consciousness at all, and

that is how to get the best out of the horse--to develop and utilize,

not crush its power. We undoubtedly find this idea best established in

the riding schools of Europe. In these grammar schools violence is

forbidden, almost unknown. For a man to fight with his horse would be a

disgrace; to abuse or over-ride him--a shame; to lade him with a

three-pound bit and a thirty-pound saddle--a confession of inability to

control or stay on. In every part of the world where the horse has been

developed, it has been in exact ratio with the creed of the riding

schools. No one that has seen both classes of riders can have a doubt

that the best horsemen in the world are those of Europe, who control the

horse with skill--not brute force. The cowboys are mere broncho-busters.

Hartigan had gathered not a little of true horse learning in his early

days, and he was disgusted now to see how lightly and cheaply the

westerner held his horse. "Break him down and get another" was the

method in vogue; and the test of a rider was, "Can he ride a horse to

death?" The thirty-pound saddle used was an evidence of the intent and a

guarantee of the result. As soon as he could afford it, Jim sent back to

Chicago for an English pad, the kind he was used to, and thus he cut his

riding weight down by nearly twenty pounds. Then there arrived at Fort

Ryan a travelling inspector, who spent a month teaching the men the

latest ideas in the care of horses. Among the tricks was the "flat

ambush." This is how it is done: With reins in the left hand, and that

hand in the mane at the withers, you stand at the nigh shoulder; lift

the nigh front foot in your right hand till the hoof is near the horse's

elbow; pull the horse toward you with the left hand in the mane; talk

gently; pull, and press. If your horse trusts you, he will gradually

bend over toward you; lower his body to the ground; and at last lie

flat, head and all, with the animal's legs away from you. Behind the

horse's body the rifleman may squat, shoot from cover, and have an ample

breastwork if the animal is trained to "stand the gun." It is a pretty

trick, though of less practical use than was expected. It is, however, a

quick measure of the horse's confidence in the rider; and it speaks well

for the 99th Cavalry that more than half the horses learned it in a

week. This was a new game to Hartigan, and he found a fresh joy in it as

an excuse for fussing around the stable and playing with his horse.

October came in with glory on the hills. The plains were golden in their

autumn grass, and on a wonderful day in the early part of the month

Hartigan and Belle went riding down the canyon.

Belle had a scheme for coördinating their church work with that of the

Baptists and Presbyterians, both represented now in their town of

fifteen hundred inhabitants. But before she could get it laid before

Jim, he was extolling the quick responsiveness of Blazing Star, and must

needs demonstrate the latest accomplishment the horse had learned. That

over, Belle resurrected her plan; but a gunshot at Fort Ryan switched

the current of his thoughts to the eventful race.

Belle changed the subject and unfolded a scheme for getting all the

Bylow children into the Cedar Mountain school the coming winter. They

had just come to a little twelve-foot cut-bank gully, and Jim exclaimed:

"Now, Belle, just watch him take it," and over they sailed, the

perfection of grace. "I tell you, Belle," he went on, "it was a great

idea to get that eastern pad. I've cut down my riding weight nearly

twenty pounds by dropping all that gear. Blazing Star can clear six

inches higher and go a foot farther in a jump, and I'll bet it gives him

one hundred feet in a mile run."

Again Belle harked back to the school project. "It could be done for

half the teacher's salary and every one of the neglected children might

get a chance. It all depends on the attitude that School Trustee

Higginbotham takes. My idea is to approach him through Hannah. She has a

mighty level head, and if you and Dr. Jebb----"

"Oh! look at this coyote!" ejaculated Hartigan. "I must give him a run";

and away he went. For half a mile there was an open flat, and the

superior speed of the horse reduced the distance, at a very rapid rate.

But the coyote reached a gully and disappeared with the quickness and

cleverness of its race. Hartigan came galloping back.

Belle was looking amused and also worried. "Oh, Jim," she said, "I don't

know what I am going to do with you. You won't talk Church, you won't

talk school, you won't talk shop. All your thoughts are centred on

horses, hunting--and coyotes," she added with a laugh.

"Sure, Belle, I never see a coyote run without thinking of a night I

spent on the Cheyenne, when that puling little English lord spent the

whole night shivering up a tree, to hear me and Little Breeches snoring

on the ground and he thought it was wolves eating us up, because a

little while before a coyote yelled in the bushes----" and again he was

off in a racy account of those thrilling moments.

"Jim," she said, "I am going to say nothing but 'yes' and 'no' for a

while, until you exhaust all your horse talk. Then I am going to make

one more effort."

"A jack rabbit, by the powers!" Sure enough, a big white jack leaped up

and darted away. A jack is speedier than a coyote, so Hartigan could not

resist. "Hi, Hi, Hi!" he shouted to Blazing Star; and with flat hand on

the croup, he raised the speed to top gear in a few jumps.

It was a fair sight to behold, and to many a cow-man it would have been

information. The jack rabbit, next to the antelope, is the speediest

quadruped on the plains. The cowboy does not try to follow the jack

rabbit, but the blooded racer did. In a quarter of a mile the horse was

nearly on him. He dodged like chain lightning--dodged as his life had

taught him to dodge before the coyote and the hawk. The horse slowed up;

the rabbit crossed a ridge; and when the rider reined upon the top, the

jack was no more seen.

But just ahead was a finer sight. A band of antelope sprang forward with

their white sterns shining. Of all the quadrupeds on the Plains, the

antelope is the speediest. The greyhound can catch the hare; but is left

a hopeless laggard by the swift-footed courser. No mounted Indian ever

dreamed of overtaking the antelope in open chase. In speed it stands the

highest in the West. Jim had often wished to match his steed against

these plains-born coursers; but, hitherto, although antelope were often

seen, they were protected by rough gullies or boulders or badger holes.

A band of antelope on a level, open stretch was a glorious chance.

Bending low over his horse's neck, he shouted: "Now, Blazing Star, go

it; ho! boy, go it!" and struck the flank behind for clear

interpretation. The horse sprang forth at speed. The bounding wild

things, just ahead, laid back their ears and went so fast that not a leg

was seen, only a whizzing, blurred maze. And Blazing Star took in the

thought and travelled faster and faster. The furlong start they had

began to shrink.

"Good boy!" the rider shouted in elation. "Go it! go it, Blazing Star!"

The antelope spurted--for a moment held their own; then, weakening at a

mile, they lost so fast that Jim yelled and swung his hat, and in a

little more the herd was overtaken. Fear seemed to rob them of power as

Blazing Star dashed in among them. The bright-eyed pronghorns swerved;

and the band split wide, and the horse dashed through. As he wheeled and

galloped back, he shouted: "You saw that, Belle? You saw it? It has

never been done before. In a fair race, on open stretch, they had two

hundred yards' start and I caught them in a mile. Now I know what

Blazing Star is. No creature on legs can beat him; no horse in the West

can match him."

In a little while the riders turned again to Cedar Mountain. Hartigan

led the way--and the talk. It was a stirring ride, but Belle's face wore

a worried look when he left her.

CHAPTER XXX

The Fire

Every new town in America has the same set routine of experience. It

springs up on land selected and laid out by a real estate speculator.

The flimsiest and most combustible of buildings are rushed up. When the

town has about five thousand inhabitants and these fire-trap buildings

are close enough to burn one another, a fire breaks out and sweeps the

whole thing away, destroying human lives, valuable stock, and priceless

records; after which begins the epoch of brick buildings and fire

prevention.

Cedar Mountain had not reached the size or compactness required for the

wipe-out when its baptism of fire took place. Hartigan was roused in the

night by a noise outside. Going to the window, he saw the sky filled

with the glare of fire. As quickly as possible, he dressed and ran

forth, becoming deeply agitated when he found that the fire was in the

hotel whose stable housed Blazing Star. It was with a dreadful heartsink

that he ran there. The stable was smoking, but not yet afire, and, with

a thankful heart, he hurried Blazing Star forth, got him away to a safe

place, and returned just in time to see the stable and all its immovable

contents go up in a ruddy roar as the hay and straw took fire.

There were no human lives lost; nor any dwellings other than the

hotel--for there was a clear space around that fire-trap and there had

been no wind--but it was a valid baptism of fire. It resulted in the

organization of a Volunteer Fire Brigade, and it also resulted in

Hartigan's determination to erect a stable of his own, where he could

have his horse under his eye, day and night. What he built was not a

large stable, only ten by twelve feet, of rough pine lumber, with

tar-paper weather-proofing and no floor, but he did it entirely with his

own hands at a material cost of twelve dollars; and he put his soul into

it. There were two stalls, one for Blazing Star and one for supplies.

There was much good-humoured jesting at the "Horse Preacher" while the

stable was building and the story went the rounds that he often used the

empty stall for a study, in preference to the silent little room in the

house. In any case, he hand-picked the hay to guard against the

poisonous loco-weed, and washed the oats, to shut out any possibility of

smut.

Immediately after the fire Higginbotham began to talk business to Jim. A

mutual affection had grown up and the little agent and his wife had

early become prominent in the church. As deacon, Higginbotham rendered

good service, although it was noted that his judgment was always best

after he had talked matters over at home. He was not averse to using his

church connection for business purposes. In fact, he had been heard to

say that the Church itself was chiefly a huge fire insurance company,

taking risks for the next world instead of this. On the morning after

the fire, he was up betimes to sail with the wind, to take advantage of

the stir-up that the public mind had got; and he secured a lot of new

business.

"Now, Mr. Hartigan, why don't you insure that horse of yours? Just think

where you would have been if you hadn't got him out in time last night.

Why, I knew a man who bought a horse for fifty dollars in the morning,

insured him for two hundred and fifty dollars at noon, and next night he

was burnt up. The very next day he got his check for two hundred and

fifty dollars. That's the way our company does business; all in

twenty-four hours."

The idea of a joyful profit out of Blazing Star's incinerated remains

was distinctly unpleasant, much like asking a mother to realize on her

baby, and Hartigan took out no policy, but it had the effect of making

him try to set a market value on the horse.

It was late in the season now, October was nearly gone; but still he and

Belle rode forth together.

"What is next Sunday's lesson?" was Belle's very usual question. "Well,"

said Hartigan, "I came across a text that filled me with joy. 'When

Amaziah, King of Judah, was murdered,' it says, 'They brought him upon

horses and buried him with his fathers in the city of Judah.'

"Brought him on horses. What a picture, Belle! Just think of that royal

stiff strapped square across the backs of four fine horses, all bridled

together, and then driven madly across the desert, through the land of

the freebooting Arabs, who would be more than apt to seize the corpse

and hold it for a ransom. What a race! You bet they had horses then!

They were Arab stock all right. I wonder no artist ever put that royal

funeral on canvas. How does it strike you, Belle?"

"Wild enough and picturesque enough for the Black Hills; but I don't

seem to get the lesson, I might almost add another text to your list: 'A

horse is a vain thing for safety.'" Then, suddenly, she said: "Have you

seen Colonel Waller lately?"

"No."

"Is it too far to ride there?"

"Not if you can stand it."

"I can; but I wish you'd tighten my cinch."

Jim was well pleased to be her groom; and, hauling on the strap, his hat

tipped off and his head touched her knee, she laid her hand on his head

and a thrill went through him. Belle knew the game and the risks, in

spite of her very old-fashioned parents. All along, she had held him

back to a certain line; even though it was clearly understood to both of

them and all their world that he was her avowed and accepted lover. She

gloried in his physical charm and power. She took a woman's pride in his

devotion, and maybe, most of all, in her sovereignty over him; she

realized more clearly than any one else, how completely he was her

plastic material. A mighty engine, indeed, he had need of a skilful

engineer. A splendid steed of rarest power and gift, his power and gift

were useless, even worse, without the deft control of the rider, who

should become in a sense his soul, as the captain is the soul of a great

ship. And Belle had come to know that the best work she could ever hope

to do was as the captain of this ship.

And what was to hinder? Belle knew; her soft brown eyes could see much

farther through the stone wall than could his piercing eyes of blue. She

estimated at its true potency the passion that now threatened to wreck

his career. A lover of horses always, an absolute worshipper of Blazing

Star, he was barely held in restraint by his promises and fears of

Church discipline, and Belle foresaw a time when his wild, impulsive

nature would break out. He would surely be swept away by the wild

currents of which the horse race is the vortex; and, having once lost

hold, he would go the pace, break all rules, and end...? She knew, but

dared not say.

Winter would soon be on them and, with that, the end of their happy

rides together on the plains. The different life enforced would put them

more apart--cut off these saddle _tête-à-têtes_, and with all the

happenings, past or future, in her mind Belle was ready for a woman's

game; the time had come to play it. That tightening of the cinch was not

by chance.

They rode a race for a mile and Jim gallantly held back his mount so

that she should keep the lead. They passed a slough along whose edge the

gentians still were blue; she wanted some, and when he brought them she

patted his hand, and gave the flowers an honoured place. Suddenly a

coyote appeared and she raced with him on its trail till it was lost to

view. She called forth all her horsemanship to match his, and make him

feel their perfect harmony; and as they rode side by side, she laid her

hand on his arm to call attention to some creature of the plains when at

other times she would merely have spoken. It thrilled and stirred him,

so he tried to follow up this willingness for touch. But she swung away

each time. Then at a later keep-your-distance hint she gaily held out a

hand to him and teased him by eluding his grasp. But not for long; with

a great spurt he swept upon her, seized the tantalizing hand now

accidentally bared, and the thrill of her touch, the joy of acceptation

in that tiny squeeze, went warmly kindling through him. His colour came,

his bright blue eyes grew brighter, he glowed in body and in spirit.

Never before had she seemed so absolutely fascinating; never before had

he felt how much she was to him, how wholly desirable and lovely she

was, how much his measure of all good things. But he was such a boy in

this side of life that he had never said one open word of love. He was

as shy as most youths are at sixteen.

They were half way to the Fort now, the level plain spreading for a mile

about them. There was no chance of interruption. Their horses had drawn

close together again. She said, "Look at the bruise on my hand from last

week's ride through the brush." He seized the hand; there was no bruise

to be seen, but he bent his head and fervently kissed the place.

"Jim, do you really care so much?" she asked, with a sidelong glance and

a little flush.

"Oh, Belle, you know--you must know----" And he choked.

"I wouldn't like to see you hold any other woman's hand that way." Their

horses' shoulders rubbed and she accidentally swayed toward him; she

seemed to lose her balance. In a minute his strong arms were about her;

a great emotion swept him and all his ardent soul was aflame. With

sudden abandon of all restraint, he showered on her lips a lover's

passionate kisses, and forced his unwonted tongue and lips to shape the

old refrain: "I love you; I love you; I love you better than my life."

She hid her burning face, but he held her tight, and the horses moved as

one.

"Will you, Belle? Will you be my wife? I can't do anything without you.

You have saved me from ruin. I can't do anything without you."

A jack rabbit sprang from under their feet, and Blazing Star, true to

his training, darted away; and so the pair were forced apart. But, in a

moment, Jim was back.

"Will you, Belle? Won't you take me?" He seized her hand and would have

sought her lips again, but she held him back.

"I will, Jim, on one condition. Will you promise?"

"Anything. I'll promise anything I have or can be. Tell me what it is,

Belle?"

"I will not tell you now; but I will before we get back to Cedar

Mountain. Now let us ride"; and she touched her pony with the quirt, and

led at a gallop which ended only at the house of Colonel Waller in Fort

Ryan.

CHAPTER XXXI

Love in The Saddle

"Here come Apollo and Psyche," said Mrs. Waller, as she glimpsed them

from the window. The Colonel was just leaving for his office and called

to them, "Good morning! Go on in; Mrs. Waller is at home. I'll be back

in half an hour."

Already there was a fire in the house, for the nights were chilly, and

when the Colonel returned, they were sitting around it in the parlour.

"I want to see the stable," said Belle, so forth they went together,

Hartigan with Mrs. Waller leading, and Belle with the Colonel. She

lingered till the others were out of easy hearing, then led up to the

subject of the horse race.

"It's a pretty sore subject yet," answered the Colonel. "Most of my men

are pinching their families on half pay to work off their debts to those

wily redskins."

"Do they have to pay?" said Belle.

"Well, these are debts of honour, you know, and in the man's code, that

puts them ahead of rent, clothing, food, or mortgages."

"I suppose the men have got a lesson that will cure them of gambling for

evermore?"

"Oh, no. Not at all. All they are thinking about now is where to get a

horse that can turn the tables."

"Seems to me like burning one's hand because one got a finger scorched."

"Well, that's the man of it," said the Colonel. "If we could get Jim to

run Blazing Star, the whole garrison would mortgage their lives for cash

to stake on it and win back all they had lost or risked."

"Well, he won't; I tell you that. But why don't you buy Blazing Star,

Colonel?"

"Because he won't sell. We've tried every way. I never saw a man so

daffy over his horse."

"What would you consider a fair price, Colonel?"

"Well, Jim gave five dollars for him, to begin with, and refused two

hundred and fifty dollars when he proved what stuff he had got. I should

say three hundred dollars would be a fair price, four hundred dollars a

good price and five hundred dollars an absolutely outside record

price--scaled wholly on the fact that he's the fastest horse on these

plains."

"Would _you_ give five hundred dollars?"

"Yes, I would. I'll give Hartigan five hundred dollars for Blazing Star

right now, in hard cash; but I don't say I'll hold it out very long.

Accidents will happen; winter is coming, and a bad wintering often ruins

a horse."

"Will you take the first chance to offer that to Hartigan? He'll refuse;

but say you'll leave it open for a week, and I think you'll get Blazing

Star."

The Colonel laughed a little, and wondered what was up. His wife, when

she heard of it, said: "Ho, ho! I know; they want to get married, and

that's the easiest way to raise the needful."

And thenceforth she took a motherly interest in the handsome couple.

Within half an hour the Colonel found the chance to make his offer; and

got what he expected, a flat refusal.

"Sure, Colonel, it would be like selling the hand off my arm or the soul

out of my body."

"Well, well," said the Colonel, "never mind. I won't take your answer

now; we'll leave it open for a week."

After the midday meal, Jim and Belle mounted and rode away. Jim thought

to take matters up where he had left off, but he found Belle inclined to

be shy and rather preoccupied. He made several ineffectual attempts to

get her to talk, but she always relapsed into silence. They were,

indeed, half-way back, when Hartigan began for the fifth time:

"You said you would tell me on the road back."

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me the condition on which you will have me."

He leaned over and put his arm around her. This time she did not elude

him. He clasped her and sought her lips and she allowed her head to sink

on his shoulder while he gathered the reins of both horses in his hand,

that they might not separate. She seemed content.

"You do care for me, don't you?" she whispered.

"Oh, Belle! I'd do anything for you. I'd give my life for you."

"You would? Anything?"

"Only try me."

"Would you give up the ministry if I asked you?"

"If--if--you thought it was right--I know it would be right. Yes, I'd do

it."

"Then I won't ask that. I'll put you to a smaller test. Will you face

it?"

"I'll promise now; I give you my word before you name it."

"Then this is what I ask--that you sell Blazing Star to Colonel Waller

right now, this very day."

"Oh, oh, Belle!" he said, feebly; "Blazing Star!"

"Yes, Jim, that is the condition. I love you, Jim; but you must choose

now between us. Is it Belle or Blazing Star?"

For a moment he seemed stunned but he tightened his arms about her, and

tense the answer came. "I can't do without you, Belle, I can't do

without you. I've given you my word. I take you on your terms."

"Oh, Jim!" and she broke down, passionately sobbing in his arms. "Oh,

Jim! You great, glorious, wonderful, blind Jim Hartigan, don't you know

that I love you? Don't you know I have thought it all out? Can't you see

where Blazing Star was taking you? It is not caprice; you will know some

day."

"I know, I know now. I'll do what you say."

"Then turn right around and go back to Fort Ryan." They turned; she led;

and they raced without pulling rein.

"Colonel, I've come to take your offer," said Hartigan.

"You're a wise man," said the Colonel. "Come into the office." He drew

up a check for five hundred dollars. Jim put it in his wallet and said

feebly, "He's yours. You'll be kind to him?" Then he covered his face

with his hands, and the tears splashed through his fingers to the floor.

"Never mind," said the Colonel, deeply touched. "He'll be treated like a

king. You'll see him in the race next summer and you'll see him win."

In all the blackness of that hour of loss that thought was the one gleam

of comfort in the realm of horse. Now he would see his racer on the

track. The Church held him, but held his horse no longer.

* * * * *

Then the Angel of Destiny as he downward gazed, said to the Angel of the

Fire--and his voice trembled a little as he spoke--"Rejoice, for the

furnace was heated exceeding hot and the metal is shining brighter, far

brighter than before."

BOOK IV

THE HORSE PREACHER AFOOT